bakerstreet | ( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

Big Earl's gasp was gruesome in how slow it was. That cut ran deep and the eyes of the other highwaymen went so wide, so terribly afraid, that if they could have pissed themselves, they would have. Big Earl couldn't whine, not with his throat cut, but the panic and desperation on his face was transcendental.

It was Medium Ed, whose cock was still in the process of having a very shit day, who let out a shaky whine. He gasped and fumbled with words, tried to tell her directions, but his whimpering reduced him to gibberish. Very gradual gibberish. Little Ed, beside him, looked livid, like he wanted to spit, like he might've tried.

Ed, the regular one, swallowed and tried to twist. The broach was in his hand and he looked deeply apologetic.

"Didn't break his nose--didn't mean to--" The man was in pure panic, but he seemed remorseful...for a highwayman faced with a slow, terrible death, at least. "Back on the road, by the edge of the wood--left him in the shade we did--"

"Shut up!"

"Fuck, I don't want to die!"

Yennefer had the time now to clean the blade on Big Earl's shirt. The men were welcomed to piss themselves, not that it would do them a lick of good. "Are you truly of no help?" The broach was now the only other clue she had to where the poor bard was.

"And was he alive? Was he?" She moves to be able to give Little Ed a twist of his nose and a kick to the balls for good measure. The whole lot of them nasty, sniveling children. "Alive or dead, you left him all alone and in tatters to the elements. That sounds like a fair way to leave you too."

This was entertaining though not at all settling the panic. She could toy with these men for hours. Did Jaskier have any time like that? One more cold look at all of them she draws fire from the cast iron stove. What a sight. In one hand a dagger that tore open their largest comrade, the other a ball of fire.

"...there was a book. Where is it?" If--no, don't think like that Yennefer--when you find him, he will want his lute, his gold and his songbook.

Edited 2020-03-18 21:59 (UTC)

The men were too terrified to answer but, unfortunately, they didn't seem to have it on them. The songbook was a loss, cast aside as a piece of trash on the road, because books sell for little and empty books for less. The men had no idea where they'd lost it and, as they stared death in the face, could not muster the ability to recall.

It was just as well, they couldn't have directed her to it if they wanted to.

"No. No." They get to enjoy the shrill, unpleasant sound of her offense. She had the broach, the lute and the purse. She had taken one life. And for Yennefer of Vengerberg, fierce Sorceress of the Realm and Harbinger of Flame at the Battle of Sodden it was not enough. The dagger flies to bury itself in the smaller of the Earls. The ball of fire rolling from her fingertips to drop upon the table. The table was wood. And already it's begun to burn. The men cannot move any faster than before.

All of Jaskier's items are placed into a magic bag that manages to hold them all despite it's size. The only thing she holds now is her broach.

"If you survive, make better choices."

She wasn't going to bother waiting for a reply, another portal opened and she turns away without another word or glance.

Jaskier, left walking toward the crossroads, had not made it very far from the spot he'd been left in. Hours passed and his disorientation mounted, he was all but a walking corpse by the time the sun started to dip behind the tall pines. It would not be a challenge to track him...he left a very clear trail of blood in his wake.

And today had been so lovely?

It makes him bitter, the idea that he's going to die in the middle of nowhere, on a lovely road, on a lovely day. He hasn't even his lute to play as he passes into that grand goodnight.

"Damn it," he wheezes and, within a few steps, his foot connects with a stone and he is sent sprawling. He hits the ground with a sharp groan and it is all he can to to open his eyes and breathe. All he can see is dirt.

"Can't even die looking at the sky?" He complains in a breathy, distracted whine.

It figured.

Arriving to the scene of the crime was not at all reassuring. Yennefer was not the accomplished tracker that Geralt was. She recognized a scuffle. And there was a dribble of blood. That was what lead her. The sun was still in the sky. The birds were chirping. Cheery and sweet.

Damn it all. "Jaskier!" Yennefer's voice could carry. She still had to sprint and cover ground. The road wound through a grove of trees. "Jaskier!"

He was not a wayward pup. Still it made her feel better to do more than look with her eyes. The broach was not a perfect device. Next time she should just bloody well tell him that he cannot be without it. For luck. Somehow she hesitated to tell him it would mean she could always find him. Maybe he was like Geralt and did not want to be found?

Oh that would not mean he would want to perish or be alone in a time like now! "Jaskier!" seeing him sprawled on the ground she was at his side like lightning, taking to kneel in the dirt. "Ohh, you are unbelievable. I thought better of you!" It wasn't fair to scold him, that was the first thing that came to her mouth. "Did you even have a horse? Couldn't you have joined a merchant or trader caravan?" Babble is not becoming. She hopes he can respond to sound. Her hands shook as she carefully used chaos to turn him face up. Yennefer's hands are cool as they framed his face.

He doesn't hear her footsteps as she runs up, doesn't even hear her voice, until her shadow cuts across his vision and throws the sun-warmed dirt into shade. He blinks slowly and sucks in a sharp breath as she flips him over. She's yelling--something something horse, caravan? He tries to follow along but his eyes just dance, gradually, across her face.

He blinks hard and his pained grimace shifts, changing to a happy, besotted smile.

If he's going to die, he's glad he gets to see his friend before he does--she is truly gorgeous with the sun behind her, caught up in her raven hair. He wheezes as she leans in and presses her hands to his face. Is he crying or bleeding, he cannot tell what the wetness that trails his cheeks is.

"Hi," he greets dreamily, dazed from pain and blood loss. "Fancy seeing you here?"

He is terribly lucky, he decides, to have wandered to her. He thought this road was empty. If he'd just waited after breakfast, why, they could have walked it together. He should learn to hurry less. He coughs and--oh--that is a whole symphony of pain, he convulses without his own leave and nearly lurches into her, nearly smacking her in the face with his head.

He can't tell if he cried out or not. He thinks not, he lacks the breath for it.

"Sorry," he wheezes as he starts to relax again. "Probably dying, very rude of me."

"You insufferable fool," is what she can manage. Her throat feels tight and her eyes blink. Any blubbering really will not do. "You're not going to die today. If you missed me there are far better ways to get my attention."

She will tell him later that she was the one seeking him out. And maybe it is best that they not share a laugh. Breathing is an effort. Ohhh dear. The blue of his eyes was dulled. Obviously in pain for what must have been hours.

"Don't move. Please. Trust me." He didn't have a choice really when Geralt placed him in her care when they first met. Gods, she was indifferent for the most part then. Only out to get the power of the djinn losing the trust of the Witcher before spending the final wish was the worst of her worries. What irony now.

Yennefer lightly shuts her eyes and lowly breathes in as she taps into the chaos in her own veins. She cannot draw her own blood and give back what he has lost but she can will the worst of his open wounds to seal. The rest she must do herself. The strain of energy makes sweat bead on her forehead. Popping in and out with portals was not a waste of magic, it did mean that she will have to be very careful with how she chooses to exert herself. Healing took serious focus. This was not a bird with a broken wing. Jasker had been stabbed, what became of his leg and face were not pleasant. He could live with those. Bloodlessness was giving him such an unsettling pallor.

The feeling of magical healing defies description--he gasps, as best he can, and his body is reduced to a stuttering sort of shiver--not sure if it should pull away or how to manage it even if he desire to. The wound in his gut knits itself together and it is the strangest sensation--like the quick and tight pull of a scab, of a limb left to sleep for too long, all pins and needles and tension--it burns and feels impossibly cold all at once.

But it closes, entirely and utterly, and the radiating pain in his gut fades with it.

He sags with relief and can only grimace, just so, as she weaves his ribs together once more. That feels different, sharper--like her hand is pressed against the inside of them bracing them while she seams the outside in heavy, leaden strokes. He can breathe before long, but there is tenderness still there when the sensation of chaos fades.

Jaskier lacks both the wherewithal and the language to question what she's done, but while he feels faint and tired, so much pain is gone--so much of it was lifted clean away, and the tense lines of him relax like the ground is suddenly the world's softest featherbed. Oh--how lovely--how wonderful, the absence of pain.

His leg throbbed, his face was swollen, but Gods' above, he could breathe again. How he had missed it--

He stares up at her, dazed and in awe, and his smile spreads with slow certainty.

"This makes two--I think I owe you a debt of surprise by now."

Mortal flesh responds easily. The Rectoress compared it to butter because it will not resist a knife nor chaos. Enough pressing and melting and it will do whatever you want. At the time this knowledge was fascinating. Jaskier is not allowed to be any more of a puddle than this. The state she found him in was bad enough. The surge of power ebbs away. Yennefer swallows and she tries to catch her breath now.

The difference in his expression alone, what a relief. Cold fear and panic have gone away with the tension. Yennefer lets her fingers stroke his cheek. The grime there from the dirt, blood and his tears don't remove the sunshine and swagger now that he is more himself.

"Is there a babe somewhere you don't want?" Her laugh is dark, low and breathless. She hasn't told him what became of his precious lute. That could get her quite the prize. Right now having him smile is more than enough. "I will do more. Let's wait a moment." So she can catch her breath and figure a way to start on the other wounds.

Contrary to his reputation, Jaskier actually takes great pains to avoid leaving children in his wake. If there were one, he would travel with them already--the idea of granting one to Yennefer makes his heart lurch a bit--or perhaps that is the pain. He sighs and it is a thready sound not unlike a laugh.

"Ah, that I have a talent for, but there are none in waiting," Jaskier tells her apologetically.

She looks so tired now and he cannot help but feel a twinge of regret--and deep, fond appreciation. She has saved his life, he cannot contest that--and now she offers to do more.

"I will live--can we, if we can go elsewhere. I--" His thoughts are still sticky, muddy in his skull, but he is not afraid anymore. She is present, he has no reason to be mired in fear and doubt. He trusts her implicitly. "All I need now is sleep, Sweetling."

He needs a great deal more than sleep, even he can tell that, but he will not expire on this roadside and that is by far and away enough. His leg he will examine, his face will heal. She need not expend more of herself on his behalf. He would reach for her hand but his own is numb and moves dumbly when he lifts it. There is next to no chance that it will find hers with blind reaching.

Jaskier must be so very careful with his exploits. Yennefer knows of his exploits from the grapevine. So far it is only torrid and whirlwind affairs. No orphans or women left to care of a child without the father. With his dark hair, it would be easy to say that any wayward seed would belong to another. Though knowing the sensitive, poetic heart that beats beneath silks and crushed velvet, Yennefer knows he would not stand for such a ruse.

"I will obtain a proper thanks when you are well." For whatever that means, this was not because she was seeking a prize. Watching him lift his hand, she meets him half way. There was such a restlessness, such a panic. She could feel herself start to boil from the inside. Now stillness, quiet.

Her dear, dear friend. Yennefer clutches him more tightly and lifts their joined fingers to her cheek. "Don't fall asleep in the road, Jaskier. We will find grass and shade. Settle for--for a picnic." The kind where medical attention is administered. She has a full tea set and at least two sandwiches in her satchel. "After the picnic we'll rest and head back to town." No portals. On foot. Unless there is a fellow traveler with a wagon or carriage passing through. The weather is kind this day. Maybe they both can be even more lucky.

"A picnic, how sweet a suggestion--I am famished," Jaskier tells her and his hand tenses in hers as he draws a deep, tentative breath and forces himself up. He is braced for pain--but none comes. He is barely even sore, save for a sensitivity in his chest. His eyes fly open as he rises and they shift to Yennefer, wide with wonder.

"Holy shit," he declares, eloquently, and then seems to stutter as his thoughts catch up. His hand squeezes hers tightly and he laughs. He is still so tired--oh he might swoon with it--but his delight is too great to resist leaning toward her and drawing her in a sloppy, poorly angled hug.

He is certain he is smearing blood and mud on her dress and face. He will have to apologize later.

"You are a wonder!" He tells her earnestly. "I could dance," he declares and, as he shifts his legs, knows that is a lie. His gasp has him letting go of her and bending toward his leg--the bolt of pain has cleared his thoughts.He can feel blood pooling in his boot. Damn.

"Oh, perhaps not."

The brigands had stolen his bread. Of course he'd be hungry. Just as she was thinking of telling him that it would be best to not move so much Jaskier is showing that his health is for the most part restored by moving and talking more.

"Would you--wait--Jaskier, Jaskier." Yen would have been more authoritative if she hadn't give him a portion of her own strength. Still she cannot find a flicker of true anger in her. That messy, dress staining hug restores more hope and faith. He will be well again. This is not a tragedy. Hopefully they will be laughing about it before the sun sets the next day.

That tell-tale change means that she needs to see his leg. "Are you finished for now?" Because she has it in her to help him stand. "Please be very careful." The dress is not going to make it through the day. So much Lyrian finery. Alas. "Both hands." So she can pull him up.

He nods in answer to her question, an emphatic thing to accompany a grimace and grit teeth. She rises and holds her hands out to him and he takes what she offers. His hands wrap around hers and, Melitele he does try, but she is forced to lever her weight against his own and he nearly stumbles as he gets his good leg beneath him.

He cannot comprehend how he had walked on the other--the pain that shoots through it is excruciating--a thousand glittering, digging cuts and he cannot flinch away from them, trapped in his boot as they are. They grind against him, driving deeper and cutting along with the movements, and he hisses as he leans on her too keep his balance.

Fuck--he had put his flask in his boot. Distantly, he is livid. The man who had sold it to him had assured him it was shatter-proof. It had been such a lovely trinket, rainbowed glass with a thousand facets, curved to fit along a leg. Now each faceted shard was trying to carve out part of his calf.

"Lead the way, oh savior mine," Jaskier requests and gestures with his hand to the space before them. He is already out of breath--this will not be a quick trip.

If he can hobble, Yennefer can be his crutch. The collar, the front, the hem, all of her dress is just not going to make it. Though she can say that she was able to keep a friend. That is a priceless victory. Not that she would gloat openly. No, just a prized thing kept under lock and key in her chest. "Those cowards did not have to be so rough," is her off handed thought as she leads them from the main road. Thankfully the side of the road closest to them has the trees and a small ditch. Hardly a foot.

Wobbling together that hardly a foot almost takes them both out. "Take care, I've got you." Mostly. Okay. Success is theirs for the taking! Yennefer eases Jaskier to sit. She pulls the black leather satchel from her shoulder and pulls from it a blanket to sit on. Another blanket she can keep bundled as a pillow. A small box of bandages, potions and salves.

Magic assured that with all of the other objects squirreled away, the sandwiches were not crushed. One for Jaskier, the other for herself. They can share the apple.

Jaskier has no idea how she conjures so much from so small a satchel. He watches with awe as she assembles a picnic, as she sets out blankets and hands him a sandwich of all things. He takes it and stares at it in amazement. It's got fresh lettuce and sliced tomato.

There's a surreal moment, sitting there beneath the tree, in the gentle breeze...next to him is a dear friend, a paramour in anything other than name, who has saved his life, and wearied herself to knit him back together. She's brought a fine picnic--soft blankets and shade and her Lyrian gown is smudged all over in his own blood.

She has handed him a sandwich. A sandwich with fresh greens and tomato.

Not twenty minutes ago he had resigned himself to a painful, ignominious death on the road, bleached out by the sun and breathing only dirt and dust before he passed. He had reached such heights of pain he had all but welcomed death.

Now he had a sandwich.

A sandwich with lettuce...tomato...was that bacon?

His first laugh is sudden and sharp, barked out. The ones that follow are bubbling and rise from somewhere deep in his chest. It's almost manic, his laughter, his relief, and his smile threatens to split the gruesome mess that's been made of his face. Gods' how had he survived this long without a friend like Yennefer of Vengerberg?

The way the spell works it is the bag itself has been enchanted to hold anything she puts in it. It all hangs together like toys inside until she needs them and pulling them free makes them regular sized once more. This was extremely useful in travel for obvious reasons. It was part of how she was able to get a four post bed, a table, two kettle lanterns and a full length mirror to the mountain in Kovir. Why travel any other way?

There must be another few dresses inside that will save her from being a walking mess. Best to wait until after all of the first aid is done. Chaos could fix Lyrian craftsmanship, right now her energy is precious. That will have to wait.

She is half way to a bite, pausing to chew. The outburst startles birds and Yennefer to a degree. There is nothing and no one else around them.

"Are you well?"

As well as he can be, whatever happened in his boot is serious. She can and will attend to it. Something in her belly will help. Chewing a full mouthful and swallowing and he is still having such a laugh.

"I am not dead," Jaskier assures her, delightedly, and manages to calm his laughter for a moment. "In fact, I even have half of your sandwich."

He gestures to her with his half and smiles wider. His cheeks actually hurt with the strain of it. He chuckles again and takes a bite. It is the best thing he's ever had and, oh, he moans shamelessly around it. He chews and sags back against the tree and hums once his moan has trailed off around the food in his mouth.

"Today is such a ride, lovely, precarious, and lovely once more," he muses and takes another bite. "And now...now I have a delicious sandwich."

It's funny, yes? He looks sidelong at her, smiling as he chews, and there is a sparkle in his exhausted eyes. This amuses him too greatly to restrain himself. However tragic his losses, the loss of his lute, his songbook, his money? This is funny.

"Yes," oh wait, not yet done chewing. Give her a few more seconds. Ah. Yennefer dabs at her lips. "You are alive." And woe to any that try and take action otherwise. Given the setting, the circumstances, she is catching on and indulges in a slow spreading smile.

"I'll have you know that every ride with me is lovely," she is confident in her jest enough to grin just a little. The day is not finished. His safety is almost completely assured. "More bloodless, I suppose."

Her sandwich is gone and she opens the little kit. "Did someone stomp on your boot?" As though she didn't just see his attackers hours ago. "I'm going to take it of. You'll have something for the pain." Which will grant him that nap he so wanted lying in the middle of the road.

"I can't recall," he admits as he finishes his lunch, mirth still shining on his face. "I was, admittedly, a little distracted at the time."

They must have done--if they broke that flask clean apart. He shifts his leg, tests it, but has to stop as he turns his leg. The pain the movement causes is mind -ending and has him letting out a sharp, heavy hiss. Shifting it a little as made a path, apparently, and blood starts to trickle out the length of it.

"I think they broke my unbreakable flask," he admits and grimaces a bit sadly. All of his things are ruined or missing. What a sorry state of affairs this is. At least he has his friend and a delicious lunch.

Her lips curl in distaste as she pulls the boot from his foot. The glass clinks and rattles and she sets it on the grass before turning it over. "Oh," whatever was in the flask had sanitized to a small degree before being over wrought with blood. Since her dress is already a mess, she shields the blanket and uses it as a working station. It will be slow work but each and every shard of glass will be removed.

"I can fashion you a true unbreakable flask. To be cautious, I would still not put it in a boot." His knee gets a little tap. She can't remove his stocking just yet. Glass first. Crude and not wonderful to behold, the stocking is a sort of bandage. Yennefer's fingers are careful and steady. This would be faster with the aid of magic. Her energy is not up for it.

He is going to twitch and yelp. She sets a small vial close to his knee. "This is for you, I recommend taking it all in one go. It won't immediately bring sleep."

He grits his teeth as she pulls his boot free and begins picking the remains of his flask from his leg. It is gradual work and his leg is positively drenched in his own blood. He cannot quite stand to look at it, but he cannot quite bring himself to look away either. He settles for staring at the road somewhere past her shoulder, eyes fixed hard and grimace secure on his face.

He takes the vial without even looking down, unstoppers it, and drinks with no hesitation. Yennefer would not give him something suspect, of that he is absolutely certain--it tastes truly vile, as all strong medicine does, but he has drank worse for less pressing reasons. Only once he has consumed it whole does he look back at her face.

"What does it do? Apart from eventual sleep?"

Whatever kind of glass that the flask was made of, it came apart in large pieces. Still not what any glassblower would call salvageable. Progress is made a lot sooner than Yennefer imaged at first sight. Hand work is still so much slower than magic. Before she forgets, she shakes out the overturned boot. More glass fragments. A trickle of blood. A cobbler would not want to touch it now.

She underestimated his pain tolerance. No wiggling. There is no way it can feel pleasant, the poor dear. "You will feel numb where it aches. That is your foot and nose still, right? Colors become more brilliant." Her head tilts and lifts from his foot thoughtfully. "I don't believe this will make you hallucinate, you've had food." Half a sandwich, that's still something in the tummy. "...if you can stomach more, eat the apple."

Now, finally, she can remove his stocking. The fine embroidered florets and swirls grow more and more crimson the further down his foot.

His stocking, like his flask and boot, is entirely a lost cause. Fortunately, as she pulls it free, the myriad of small shards, little glittering splinters, pull free from where they'd tried to cut through and failed. He grimaces but, before long, the potion she'd given him takes its effect.

His head goes fuzzy and his grimace settles into a small, dazed sort of smile as he watches.

He floats a bit and glances aside at the apple--it is a lovely shade of red, flecked all through with yellow. It seems a shame to eat it and so he turns it over in his hands, a distraction from the wound she works at.

"I would agree," he muses as his leg bleeds messily over her dress. "But that was the only thing that wasn't taken, so clearly I must find a way to store everything in my boots."

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I am sorry this is short.

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