Chapter Text
“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”
Blinking his eyes against the tears gathering in then, Jaskier once more contemplated the memory that haunted him. The moment on that mountain when Geralt had spit his venom with his teeth bared, his face and hair still smudged with dirt and blood from the fight the bard himself had slept through.
He’d though t , up until then, that he’d known true heartbreak. That after all the love and loss in his life, after all the partners he had been with and adored, and had eventually left to follow his Witcher, there was nothing that he couldn't’ handle in the regards of the heart.
He had been incredibly, stupidly , wrong.
Nothing compared to it , the mind-numbing pain in his chest; t he burn in his chest with every breathe he took. He’d have to write a ballad about it, put into words the shards that seemed to have lodged themselves into every part of his being. It would be tragic, would bring tears to the eyes of noblemen and women alike. He’d pour everything he had into his song and hopefully, maybe, he would be freed of the shards bit by bit. Could breathe easily once again. Could prove to Geralt that fate could, for once, give him exactly what he wanted.
The rattling of the chains on his legs broke him from his thoughts.
Ah, yes. He’d almost forgotten.
There would be no more ballads from him, not as things stood. Chained up in a dark, dank room, covered in his own shit and piss; mixing with the blood from his wounds, the vomit he’d spewed when the pain had become too much too bare.
“Where’s the witcher?” They’d ask, and Jaskier would reply with a wheezed “Fuck off.”
Each time he did, they’d hurt him. Each time, he hoped it’d be the last. If his injuries wouldn’t kill him, surely an infection would. That’s if he didn’t starve to death first.
Gods, he hoped death wasn’t far off. Wasn’t forced to endure any more of the torture, the vile words, the laughter when his tormentors came in to find him in another puddle of his own making.
Moaning, the bard attempted to right himself, to at least sit up and face them in a less pathetic position. But his arms, covered in burns and open wounds wouldn’t hold his weight. His back, flayed open, caked in his dried blood, causing absolute agony , couldn’t support him long enough to stay upright. He’d wager he had a broken rib or two, judging by the rippling stab any movement elicited.
“A poor state you’re in bard.” He mumbled to himself, voice cracking and dying before he’d spoken the words.
He had no idea how long he’d been in it, either. With no window or crack in the wall to see the sun, there was no way to judge how many days he’d spent like this. Time passed only in dark hours spent alone, and hours of pain at the hand of the Nilfgaardian soldiers.
Heavy footsteps would alert him to their presence, and the door would open, and they would ask him once again.
“Where is the witcher?”
And even if he knew, even if Geralt hadn’t sent him away, hadn’t so thoroughly destroyed him; he liked to think he wouldn’t tell them. That he’d be strong, strong like Geralt , and take the information into the grave.
Blood dripped from his legs as a cough shook his entire body, tormented his bruised and battered body further. Surely, this couldn’t go on for much longer. Surely, he’d be granted the reprieve of death soon. Surely.
The door creaked open. Jaskier flinched, squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden assault on them by the bright light of a torch, help by a tall man, dressed entirely in black armor. So different than Geralts own, but still enough to remind him of the Witcher, that was his no more.
W ood scraped against cold stone, and when he finally opened his eyes again, a man was sitting beside him on a simple wooden stool, observing him.
“You’ve done rather well for yourself, bard.” The man said, words monotone and lacking any inflection. “No one expected you’d hold up to torture this well. Most of your kind are sniveling cowards; no use for anything but singing pretty songs and warming the beds of whoever they found willing that night.”
“Yes, well.” Jaskier replied, doing his best to muster some confidence, to sound cocky even when every spoken word was anguish. “I’m not like most of my kind. How wonderful of you to notice.”
His capture snorted, quirking a brow at his insolence.
“Perhaps I should have anticipated that. No normal man would travel beside a Witcher for a decade, sing the praise of a mutant killer.” The man hummed to himself. “Especially if that Witcher has done nothing but shun and abuse you at ever turn. It makes me wonder if, perhaps, the pain is something you enjoy.”
“What does it matter why I traveled with him, or why I sang his praises? I won’t tell you anything, not if you tortured me for another decade.”
Please let me die before they have a chance.
“Indeed, I can see that now.” Came the even reply. “Yet as I was contemplating this, another question came to me. Why would a Witcher, a man easily capable of dispatching monsters and men alike, not dispose of a bothersome fly like yourself?”
The man stood, moved away from the bard, hands clasped behind his back as he turned to face a stone wall.
“It is true that your songs have earned him a good amount of coin and, ah, goodwill from the people in need of his services. That does not explain why he was willing to keep you around him, for surely, a simple recounting of the tales would suffice for one of your little songs.”
Jaskier laughed. Or he tried too. What came out was a wheeze and another rush of blood carried by the resulting cough.
“You mean to imply.. You think he cares for me?” He asked, once he could force himself to. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“Perhaps.” The man nodded, once again turning to face him. “Or perhaps he has become.. accustomed to your presence. Mutants cannot feel affection, but it isn’t impossible he formed some sort of attachment to you. And if that is the case, if you are somehow worth something to him, then it would stand to reason that if he knew of your imprisonment, he would come to save you.”
“As enchanting a tale that would make, it wont happen.”
I want it to happen. I want to be saved. I want to matter.
“Time will tell.” The man moved to the door, opened it, called another soldier in. “It’s said Witchers have an incredible sense of smell. That they are able to recognize a scent they are familiar with from miles against the wind, can smell the very emotion in a mans scent. I don’t assume you’d be willing to confirm this, if you knew it to be true?”
Jaskier scoffed, steeled himself, knew exactly what was going to happen once he uttered the words.
“The only thing I’ll confirm is that you can all go fuck yourself.”
Not his best line, but it was all he had to offer.
“Hm, exactly the reaction I had expected.” The soldier sighed, nodded towards the man called into the room. “You’ve readied the letters?”
“Yes Sir. Its right here.” Came the reply.
“Wonderful. Break the bards hands, then bleed him onto them. We’ll send the letters out to anyone we know the Witcher has dealt with. With some luck, he will be made aware of the situation soon.”
They were going to break his hands. A sob ripped himself from Jaskiers throat, with no way to stop it. He’d had no real hope of escaping his imprisonment, and yet. Even if he did, even if by some miracle he’d be freed, what would he do without his hands , for surely they would not tend to him once the deed was done. Muscles and bone, tendons and nerves would be broken apart, torn to pieces within, would set and heal all wrong . He’d never play his lute again.
“Just kill me.” He finally begged as bile rose in his throat. “He won’t come for me, you won’t get your hands on him ever. Even if he receives your letter.”
“Oh, we will kill you, bard. Eventually. Once we are absolutely sure you are of no use to us.”
The door fell shut again, the second soldier approached; Jaskier prayed to all the gods.
Please just let me die.