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Jaskier shudders, and not for the first time today. Fuck this bloody weather, together with this endless river-ride, and Nilfgaard, and the North!
Yet, if he is honest, he doesn't feel chilled to the bone because he is wet and clammy from the rain, or at least this is not the main reason for him being cold and shivery. No, it is the fog. It's so dense, he can hardly see his hand in front of his face, and his comrades are mere silhouettes, greyish shadows in the suffocating whiteness. Silence has fallen, the fog muffling even the occasional sound of their oars dipping into the water. Or have the others stopped rowing altogether? It doesn't make much sense anyway, Jaskier has to admit, the current is taking them downstream fast enough. Where to? He has no idea. The future seems as elusive and shrouded in uncertainty as the invisible landscape around him. But not even this is the worst of it. The worst is that the fog reminds him of Ysgith. Of the images he saw while underwater in the swamps, paralysed by the spell of the Rusalka. He hasn't told anybody about his vision, not Regis, not Geralt, and maybe he never will. For there isn't much to tell. Still the images haunt him at night, and now by day. Eerie images of a silent lake swathed in silvery mist, and of a ghostly black barge gliding away from the shore, slowly, silently disappearing into the vast whiteness of the fog. A cold shiver runs down Jaskier's spine. Although calm and peaceful, those images, this vision, filled him with utmost dread. They still do, and he cannot even explain why.
Jaskier swallows hard and shakes his head repeatedly to drive the disturbing images away. This here is not the barge from his dream, it's an old ferry; they are on a river, not a lake; and he is not alone. Regis, Milva, Zoltan and Cahir are with him, just a few armlengths away. And Geralt. Jaskier sees him clearly in his mind's eye, the tall, white-haired Witcher in his ridiculous black leather jacket with the silver studs as he is standing at the bow, his back to Jaskier, erect, broad-shouldered, oar in hand, his eyes fixed at a distant point ahead of them, hell-bent on finding and saving his daughter, even at the price of his life. And he will save her, Jaskier is certain of it. He can feel it in his gut, and in his heart. But will they get the long, nice happily-ever-after they so much deserve, like in his favourite stories? Jaskier has no way of knowing what will happen, he is neither a prophet nor a fortuneteller, and Geralt would say it's all horseshit anyway. However, he knows his underwater vision says no. And it lets the blood freeze in his veins, his heart constrict with panic, his fingers tremble with fear. He takes another shuddering breath and clutches the oar harder, the only thing that feels real in this never-ending fog, this ghostly-white nothingness that seems to swallow the world. But he will not let this world be swallowed. No. Never. There must be a happy ending, for him and for his friends.
Jaskier clears his throat.
“Anybody fancy a song, so we know we’re still alive?”
