Chapter Text
Jaskier actually isn't expecting to wake up at all, much less in a very nice looking room on a very nice feeling bed with a very beautiful woman hovering beside him.
"Keep still," she says softly, eyes bright and kind. "You're very injured."
His mouth is full of dust, his brain full of cobwebs. But he's reasonably certain he passed out in the freezing mud not... wherever this is.
Jaskier manages to lick his lips, wincing when his tongue sticks. Everything's a bit blurry at the edges still. He focuses on the auburn curls bouncing over the woman's shoulders as she moves and tries to ignore the numb, burning fire climbing up his left leg.
"The girl," he manages, eyes sliding closed again despite his best efforts. "Is she all right...?"
Her name isn't Fiona, Jaskier knows that much. But she is young and was afraid and Jaskier couldn't, wouldn't leave her in that dark dungeon to rot any more than he could leave any of the others. Any more than he could leave her out in the snow with her twisted and swollen ankle while the slush and rain fell in freezing sheets around them.
She told him her name was Fiona when he asked. Insisted on it a bit too firmly. Jaskier let her have it as he hauled her up on his back and started the long, painful journey through the woods with a seven year old (that he does believe, if she's any older than seven he'll find a hat just to eat it) on his back. He knew before he took his first step that he wouldn't make it very far with his injuries, with the fever and infection burning through him, with his leg screaming in pain and wanting to drag every time he moved.
But he couldn't leave her.
She was so small and scared, bright green eyes huge in her pale face.
"I live near the blue mountain range," she'd told him. Jaskier didn't know how far from the mountain range they were, or if they were even in Kaedwen at all and wasn't entirely sure he could get her there but he would do his damndest to get as close as he could before his body gave out.
He could barely walk better than her in the slightly too big boots he'd stolen off a dead guard, the massive cloak he'd also snatched barely doing anything to ward off the chill. But he had boots and the cloak was big enough to wrap around them both at night, Fiona curled up, exhausted and shivering in his lap.
"She's okay. You're both okay."
Jaskier forces his eyes open again. "Where... am I?"
The woman lowers her hands- hands, Jaskier belatedly realizes, that are glowing- and gives him a soft, kind smile. "You're safe in the halls of Kaer Morhen. You brought Ciri home."
Oh. That's good then.
Safe. She's home. He knew her name wasn't Fiona but it doesn't really matter. He's been telling everyone his name is Jaskier- and he supposes it is now.
The name tickles at the back of his mind, information that he should know sinking just out of his grasp when he reaches for it. He's so tired and his leg hurts so very much.
"Thank you, my lady," he whispers, feeling his body giving in to the need for rest.
"Triss." He feels a hand brush against his forehead. The fingers are cool against his feverish skin. "You're welcome. Rest now. You're safe here."
The next time he wakes, he's alone. The room is warm, lit by a few sconces and a crackling fire somewhere to his right that jolts him to full awakeness when one of the logs splits.
Did that pretty woman from before say he was in Kaer Morhen? Home of The Warlord of the North, The White Wolf, the most powerful witcher that's ever lived and current ruler of a solid third of The North, Geralt of Rivia?
...did she say Fiona's name was Ciri?
As in... no. No, can't be. Jaskier's been in a dark hole in the ground for a month. He has a raging fever and more wounds and scars than he cares to know about. Clearly, obviously, his mind has been scrambled and he's confused about a few things.
More than a few things. If he's in an infirmary it's the nicest, smallest one he's ever been in. It's a room with a large bed, a big fireplace, and a table filled with potions and salves and rolls of bandages nearby. He risks raising his head a bit and glances around.
Not only is he alone he's in the only bed in the place.
He's not sure if this is a good thing or not.
If he really is in Kaer Morhen, home of The White Wolf and his army, stronghold of the Witchers... he needs to leave and fast. It can't be safe for him here once they find out who he is- was, he corrects himself. He has no doubt his family has already struck his name from the books out of sheer embarrassment.
Being a Viscount of an enemy territory who's being tended by The White Wolf's medics is probably going to get his head removed from his shoulders once said lineage becomes common knowledge.
"You're awake."
Jaskier blinks until the fuzzy shape in the doorway forms into a woman. Beautiful, curly hair spilling down her back and the air of magic about her. Definitely a mage.
"Triss," he remembers. His throat clicks with the effort of speaking.
She smiles, setting a tray down just out of his reach and offering him a goblet. "Water. Just a few sips now. You've been out of it for the better part of two days."
The water is cool heaven on his throat and he savors every drop.
"Thank you. I- you said... she called herself Fiona but, she's really okay?"
Triss's smile can get kinder. "She is. She's with Yennefer and her father right now. She says you saved her life."
So he hadn't misheard after all.
Jaskier takes a minute at that. He knew, of course, that the White Wolf had a daughter. He's heard of her, little Princess Cirilla living high in the mountains, deep in her father's lands and well guarded by several hundred Witchers. Rumors even have her possessing magic of some sort, talents that span far beyond her years.
How did someone manage to kidnap the White Wolf's daughter?
She'd been so small and scared, shaking and shivering in Jaskier's lap when they stopped and tried to sleep, nearly silent on his back when he carried her through the woods, avoiding the roads and people as best they could.
He tried to talk, to fill the silence and distract them from the grime and cold and snow but after so long in that dungeon, in that cell, Jaskier's words failed him. So he hummed. He sang. Breathless, off-tune songs he only half remembered and could barely get out through the pain. His leg burned with every step, his back screamed from the weight of the child, his shoulders and ribs ached when he slipped his arms under her knees and carried them both forward.
They stopped when the pain got to be too much. When the world spun and spun, white and endless around Jaskier. When his knees quivered with the strain after a month of abuse, of disuse. When Jaskier simply collapsed, breathless but somehow still singing while his leg spasmed and screamed.
Fiona- Ciri would scramble around to sit in his lap, her small body curling up against his for warmth. The stolen cloak was big enough to wrap her up completely and block her from the worst of the wind's bite. They'd sit, shivering, breathless and rest for as long as they dared, the snow and mud soaking into Jaskier's thin pants. After a while he couldn't even feel it anymore.
Then Jaskier would stand. He'd help the girl onto his back and take a step. Then another. Then another. He'd gather air into his weary lungs and sing, old songs he learned years ago. Songs he always meant to write. Old lullabies and fairytales he used to tease his sisters for loving.
"You have a lovely voice," she said once, voice low and hushed.
"Thank you," he'd croaked back. "I used to be a bard."
"Used to be?"
"A long time ago." A lifetime ago. When he was young and stupid and didn't care what went on in the world as long as he had a song in his head and a warm body in his bed. But now he has a dirty, scared, cold child on his back who is so far from home and that is all that matters. "Let's get you home."
Fiona... Ciri had nodded against his back, her tiny, trusting, freezing hands tightening their grip on his filthy shirt. And Jaskier took another step forward. Another. And sang.
He sang and talked and hummed. She laughed once, giggling against his shoulder when he bounced her in tune and pretended his leg wasn't boiling cold, like his feet sliding around in the too-big boots weren't burning coals and he couldn't feel the fever burning through him and stealing what little of his strength was left.
"Someone found us," Jaskier recalls. He doesn't move as Triss bustles around him, checking the bandages littering his torso, lifting the blanket to examine the thick salve slathered on his leg. He can't feel his feet.
That's probably a good thing.
"Geralt and Yennefer," Triss confirms, bending to carefully lift the gauze and examine underneath it. "We've been crawling all over the continent for four days looking for Ciri. The keep was half empty with everyone out looking- Geralt nearly lost his mind. You're lucky they found you when they did. You very nearly lost your leg to this infection." The gauze is exchanged for a fresh pad. "It's going to take a few days for us to clear it completely and even longer for you to be up and walking again."
Jaskier would jump out of his skin when the door opens again but he's mostly numb and heavy- from either the healing or the exhaustion- and not even the White Wolf at the door is enough to get him to move.
"Speaking of." Triss offers the Warlord a smile. "Geralt. I figured you'd be here soon."
Jaskier's reasonably certain that he hasn't been healed and tended to for two days if the White Wolf was just going to execute him.
Gold eyes snap to his and pin him in place.
"You're awake."
Jaskier's... fairly certain he hasn't been healed just to be executed.
Maybe they don't know who he was just yet and that's why he's being tended to.
"Awake. Yes. I am. I think."
Triss gives his hand a comforting pat. "I'll fetch some broth for you. You should eat. Not too long, Geralt. He needs rest." And then she leaves him.
The White Wolf shuts the door behind her and crosses the room in three quick strides.
"Ah," Jaskier manages, throat suddenly terribly dry. "My lord. I, um. I suppose I owe you thanks."
"Do you?" Settling into the chair beside him, the Warlord tilts his head. "I rather thought I owed you thanks for saving my daughter's life."
Okay so. Probably not about to be executed then, maybe even let go after they figure out who he is. Was. That's a relief. He's not sure what he'll do or where he'll go once he's got his feet under him again but he'll at least be alive. He's even still got both of his feet, useless as they are right now.
"I couldn't leave her there."
"We found the keep that housed the dungeon. We burned it down," the Wolf informs him.
That relieves him more than he thought it would. It was just a building, just an ancient keep on the outskirts of the Warlord's lands but no one will ever be harmed in there again. "Can't say I'm sorry to hear that."
Jaskier is given a long, steady stare. "Why were you in the custody of The White Flame's men?"
Jaskier knows better than to even try and lie to a Witcher. Lying to the Warlord of the North would not only be monumentally stupid, he'd basically be signing his own death notice. And honestly the only thing he has left to lose is his life.
It's not even worth that much.
"Suffice it to say I... opposed him and everything he does in a way that didn't meet with approval." Startled by the pain in his palm, Jaskier forces his suddenly clenched fist to relax. "He- I'm from Lettenhove. It's been a stronghold for The White Flame's army for years- even before he outlawed non-humans. I didn't like that and I got annoying about it. Disrupted his supply lines. Smuggled goods in and out of the country under the army's nose. They took great offense to that."
"Hmm."
Jaskier risks a glance over. Manages not to flinch when those gold eyes settle right on his. "My name was Julian Alfred Pankratz. I was the Viscount's youngest son."
Like he hoped, the Warlord hones in on one thing. "Was."
"Pretty sure getting arrested for treason against Emhyr var Emeris, the mighty White Flame is enough to get me officially disinherited. Especially considering my parents turned me in themselves."
He's always been a disappointment to them, his high and mighty and better-than-thou parents. His lifestyle, his choices, the way he breathes has never been good enough for them and they've never made any secret about that. But he'd never thought- never even thought to think that they could- that they were even capable of-
But they were. They are.
Jaskier's spent years trying to pay for his family's sins any way he can. He knew they would be angry if they ever found out but turning him over to the White Flame army without batting an eye, barely even pausing...
"They'd do anything to keep in the White Flame's good graces. He pays them too well, keeps them in too good of a life for them to ever betray him."
"Including handing over their own son." Anyone else would sound incredulous, and maybe he does a little bit, but the White Wolf leans back in his chair, crossing his massive arms to give Jaskier a hard stare.
There's no disbelief in that gaze, merely questions and the knowledge that Jaskier would do well to answer them.
"They have more sons," Jaskier says wearily. He has the distinct feeling he's being assessed and he's too tired to even worry. What can he do about it anyway? He's completely helpless and entirely at the White Wolf's mercy at this exact moment. "Better sons. Sons who are smarter, sons who are loyal and don't... how did they put it... aid in treasonous rebellions against the right and powerful king. I was disowned right before the White Flame's men took me."
Dragged out of his family's home in chains and shoved into a dark carriage and promptly knocked out with a well-aimed boot to the head. He doesn't know how long they rode for, how long they kept him unconscious but he woke up in a cell missing his shoes, his hands chained to the floor in front of him and the sounds of other people screaming echoing off the walls.
It took him over twenty days to escape. To squirrel away old nails and bits of metal that he could use to pick the locks on his cell door. On his neighbor's. On the next cell. On Ciri's.
"You picked the lock on her door and through her chains with a nail."
"It might have been that stray hair pin I nicked from one of the guards." The details are a little fuzzy.
Actually everything is a little fuzzy. All warm and soft and glowy. He grabbed the hair pin off the guard with the long hair while said guard was introducing his fists to Jaskier's ribs. Doubling over in pain was a convenient way to conceal the thin metal in his waistband.
Triss is back now, bustling in with a steaming bowl. Jaskier watches, truly astonished and fascinated when she shoos the White Wolf out of the chair (and he goes without protest) and takes his place. She offers Jaskier the spoon.
"Eat," she orders, and he does.
Simple beef broth, barely any flavor to it and it nearly brings tears to Jaskier's eyes. His stomach quivers and rumbles, unsure if it can accept the food after days, weeks of the stale bread that was forced down his throat with rancid water. He swallows it anyway and forces himself to look the Warlord in the eye.
"Some of the others were caught. Some fought, some ran." He cautiously accepts another spoonful when his stomach doesn't reject the first one.
"But you escaped."
Nodding is a bad idea. Jaskier has to wait for the world to settle before he can speak again. "Knew better than to go to the front. I tried to tell the others but they just... they were desperate. Some of them had been there for months. Fio- Ciri was small enough that I helped her slip out a hole in the wall. She opened a grate for me."
The grate had always been the plan. Nothing more than a chute for the dead bodies to be dumped out of easily and it opened from the outside but there had been another prisoner that was small enough to fit through the hole Ciri had wiggled her way through. But he got out and instead of reaching over to unlatch the grate for everyone he ran.
Jaskier doesn't exactly blame him- desperate, blind panic makes people do all sorts of things- but it had certainly put a damper on his plan. The other prisoners rushed the front gate, hoping beyond hope to get past the guards with sheer surprise and number despite Jaskier's protests. They killed the guard on the stairs and ran and the sound of fighting erupted around him.
In all the chaos Jaskier crept around the dungeon hoping to find a weapon or another way out and stumbled across Ciri, alone and unguarded but manacled and chained to the floor and looking very, very afraid.
The last bit of metal in his hand got through the lock on her door. It broke on her chains but the lock still fell away.
"Let's get out of here," he'd said, offering her his hand. She took it and stood on shaky feet, wincing when she put pressure on her right foot, the joint swollen and red from more than just the bite of manacles.
He stole the boots of the dead guard on the stairs and the cloak of the one from outside. Kneeling hurt but it enabled the child to climb onto his back without aggravating his ribs too much even if it did make the wounds on his back flare with fresh pain. And then they stumbled, shuffled and limped their way through the snow and into the woods, putting that awful crumbling place behind them.
"So really," Jaskier finishes, feeling heavy and full after just a few mouthfuls of broth, "we saved each other."
"Enough for now," Triss announces, setting the bowl aside to pick up the water. "He's weak still and needs rest. That fever nearly killed him." She helps Jaskier raise his head enough for him to drink. "Slowly," she reminds him.
"Ciri called you Jaskier."
"She called herself Fiona," he can't help but point out. "And I'm not Julian anymore. He died the moment they slapped chains on me." He supposes Julian might have died years ago, when he learned what exactly his family was capable of just to keep their comfortable lifestyle.
When he saw with his own eyes what they did to those different than them. Julian began crumbling away when he was barely twenty-two. Still young in some ways but older than he should have been. How could he have been so blind? How could he sit by and do nothing when they did such horrible things? When they ordered the terrible things to be carried out and then stood by and watched it happen?
So. He did something. For five years he atoned the only way he knew how. It was his land and he knew it well. Knew every ship that came to port, the merchants that set up shop. He knew where to find outlawed books and which merchants would buy dwarven goods at fair prices. He knew which dwarves would meet with him and trade and which ones wouldn't.
He knew how to get into the city undetected and even better, how to get out.
He took that knowledge and kept it close and used it to help, to fight back, to do whatever he could whenever he could. He disrupted supply lines meant for the White Flame's army and rerouted them to refugee lands. He created false trails of illegal non-humans for them to chase that led them astray and let the people escape.
And eventually, after five years, he was caught.
He can feel the fatigue pulling at him and fights to keep his eyes open. If he is going to be executed he'd rather meet it awake and head on. He'd like to be able to see the blow coming.
"Whatever your name, I owe you a debt that cannot be repaid."
Just how drugged is he because surely the White Wolf did not just bow to him.
"You brought my daughter home."
At a sincere loss of words, Jaskier can only blink at him.
"Rest now, Jaskier," The Wolf orders. "We can talk more when you're feeling better. But know that as long as you are in my keep, you are safe."
Maybe he's actually already dead. Is this a drug-induced hallucination? He's imaging all of this. Maybe, he thinks blearily, the world fading to black around him, he's asleep and this is all just a very weird, lucid dream.
It takes a few days for him to get and keep his wits about him. Jaskier is weak and helpless as a newborn kitten right now, unable to move from the bed or even sit up without assistance. His chest is wrapped from hip to armpit, his back still a burning mess of wounds he hasn't even seen yet, ribs still aching and screaming if he so much as breathes too deeply. Triss is in and out of his room constantly, bringing food, water, bandages, more salve, fresh clothes that she helps him change into.
Normally when someone gets him out of his clothes Jaskier is more involved in the process but the most he can manage to do right now is lift his arms- a victory, he couldn't do that yesterday- so she can replace his sweat soaked shirt.
He hears people milling about outside the door but not many of them come in. Servants bring him food on trays ("You are not going up and down the stairs right now," Triss informs him) and reappear to take the trays back later after his weary body nods off from such simple meals. Broth with vegetables and warm bread and fresh, clear water, all nearly too rich for his stomach but he eats it. He needs to get his strength back and figure out what the hell his next move is.
First thing's first, he needs to be able to walk on his own. He's managed to sit up today, leaning back on a mountain of pillows but the effort of pulling himself upright leaves him breathless and dizzy and he nearly collapses right back down again.
And then he gets a good look at his left leg and almost gives into the urge to just sink back into oblivion.
He knew he'd have wounds and that they'd be nasty but this... even with Triss's healing efforts his leg is never going to be the same. It's thin, almost skeletal but puffy and bloated at the same time. Livid bruises have burst along his skin like rainclouds, black and purple and yellow, nasty and grizzly looking. The skin itself is yellow in some places- from the infection that nearly cost him the limb, he assumes.
Near his ankle, right where the guards liked to dig dirty knives into his skin, a weeping raw wound is covered by strips of cloth soaked in herbs and dripping with salve. He's under strict instructions not to touch it until they can close it fully.
It itches like hellfire. Jaskier misses the numb sensation he had before; at least then he didn't have the urge to try and claw his own foot off to get rid of the itch under his skin.
"Wow, you're upright and everything," a new voice says from the doorway. A new impossibly beautiful woman stands there, draped in all black. Her eyes are the most striking shade of violet. "Still look half-dead though."
"Better than fully dead," Jaskier tells her, wondering idly how many sorceresses are in the keep and if they're all more beautiful than the last.
"Don't scratch at your wounds. Triss spent a lot of time and energy putting you to rights and I won't have you undoing all her hard work."
Jaskier shoves his hand under his thigh to stop his fingers from reaching down for a scratch.
The woman nods once sharply, satisfied, then reaches back into the hall to take someone's hand. "Brought you a visitor," she says, and pulls Ciri into the room.
She's okay. Jaskier knew, logically, that Ciri being home would mean that she is okay but he hasn't seen her for himself since before he woke up in Kaer Morhen. It's a relief to see her clean, her pale face and hair unmarked by dirt or tears or grime. Green eyes blink up at him unafraid and she smiles when she steps fully into the room.
"Just a for a few minutes, Cub. He's still recovering."
Ciri huffs out an affronted breath. "I know, Aunt Yen." She plops herself into the empty chair at Jaskier's bedside, bouncing a little on the seat. "I just want to say thank you. I'm not going to bother him."
"Bother me?" Jaskier opens his eyes comically wide. "We hiked through snow and rain and mud together. Nothing you say can bother me, Princess."
Ciri giggles a little, eyes lighting up. "You saved me. You sang to me."
"Oh now. I really think we saved each other. You were very brave going through the wall to open that grate for me."
Her nose wrinkles. "It smelled."
Like dead bodies. "It certainly did. Utterly disgusting, honestly. And I had to crawl through that. You're lucky you're so small- I couldn't fit through the hole you got out of."
("Run," he'd told her, pushing her through to the outside and praying all the fighting stays at the front of the keep long enough for her to escape.
"But how will you get out?"
"I... I'll be all right.")
"I'm not always going to be this small," Ciri informs him. "One day I'll be big like Papa and powerful like Aunt Yen and then no one can take me if I don't want them to."
Oh if that doesn't make his heart just clench. Ciri very well might be as big as her father one day- Jaskier has no idea how Witcher genetics work but he would be entirely unsurprised if their children (though he didn't think they could have children but what does he know) wind up sharing their parents' massive size. But right now she's so very small and young.
And someone had taken her. Had chained her, locked her up and left her in a dirty cell.
Why? She's the White Wolf's daughter and that comes with risks to be sure but she's so young. Not to mention whoever grabbed her must have gone through a couple Witchers to get her in the first place. That's a lot of trouble for just one child- and more trouble would have come down hard on whoever took her once her father got his hands on them. If he hasn't already.
What purpose could taking the Warlord's daughter possibly serve other than getting people killed?
"No one is going to take you ever again," the sorceress promises the princess, eyes fierce. "We'll make sure of that."
Jaskier flicks a curious gaze to this Aunt Yen but holds his tongue. He's fairly certain this is Yennefer of Vengerburg, formerly of Aretuza and he's not about to start asking questions he's probably not allowed to ask. He might get turned into a toad for his troubles and that would just undo most of Triss's work.
"I'm glad you're safe now, Princess Cirilla."
Now her entire face crunches. "Just Ciri," she says with a regal tilt to her chin.
He can't help himself. "Not Fiona?" he asks with a raised brow.
Ciri grins. "Papa says it's okay to lie about my name if I ever need to."
Honestly that's probably very smart. Ciri looks like her father- all pale skin and nearly white hair but there's no reason to confirm her identity to strange people unless she absolutely has to. Jaskier grins, holding out a hand. She takes it without hesitation.
"It's very nice to meet you, Ciri."
"Papa says your name really is Jaskier."
"It is," he confirms. "It used to be something else but it's not anymore."
"What did it used to be?" Ciri wants to know. "Why did you change it?"
"I was called Julian, once." Swallowing a bit, suddenly very tired, Jaskier squeezes and drops Ciri's hand. "I... decided I like Jaskier better," he says and hopes to all the gods that Ciri can't smell lies like Witchers can.
Yennefer gives a thoughtful hum, purple gaze all too knowing when she leans over to examine his leg. But she lets him keep the lie. It's a soft one after all, meant to spare himself and Ciri from the bigger, messier, uglier truth.
"I like Jaskier too," Ciri decides, bouncing to her feet with astonishing grace.
"Didn't you have something you wanted to say to him?" Yennefer asks, poking ruthlessly at the wound hidden under his bandage. Jaskier does his best not to flinch.
Ciri all but skips to his bed, raising up to her tiptoes to gently wrap thin arms around his neck. Stunned, pleased, Jaskier cautiously raises a hand to pat between her shoulder blades.
"Thank you for saving me," she breathes into his neck.
"Ah," Jaskier manages, swallowing what tastes like tears. "I... you're quite welcome Prin- Ciri." He clears his throat awkwardly and tries his best to blink the film from his eyes. "But you know, I think I should thank you too."
Ciri straightens but doesn't let go of him. "Really?"
"Really. You got me out of... of that horrible place too, and you were so very brave. So thank you."
("I... I'll be all right."
"NO. No, you're coming too," she said. And stubborn and limping, she stepped over two dead bodies, days old, and unlatched the grate. "Hurry, before they come back.")
Beaming, flushed with pride, Ciri skips back over to Yennefer and takes her hand. Jaskier knows it's too much to hope that she didn't see too many horrors in that hellhole. He doesn't know how long she was in there, chained and frightened and not knowing what was going to happen. Jaskier hadn't even known she was there until he saw her.
"Papa says he's going to find the people that took me," she informs Jaskier, swinging to and fro in Yennefer's grip. Yennefer doesn't seem to mind, happy to have one hand on the girl and the other hovering over the worst of Jaskier's injuries. The urge to claw his skin off to rid himself of the itch starts to fade the longer she keeps her hand there, magic flowing from her and into him. "He says he'll find them and make them pay."
Of that Jaskier has absolutely no doubt.
"Only very dumb people cross your father," he tells her and Ciri grins at him, wide and unbothered.
"Will you come down for dinner?"
"I'm afraid I'm not quite up to walking just yet." He tried yesterday, Triss on one side, a tall servant on the other and nearly landed flat on his face even with them both gripping him. His left leg is weaker and less steady than a baby deer's right now, the muscles spasming and shaking whenever he attempts to put any kind of weight on it.
He misses being able to get himself to the privy and back. He'd like to be able to stand on his own two feet sometime soon, even if it's just to walk ten feet to the right before he collapses back into the bed.
How long has he been here now, a week? Longer? The first several days were a blur of pain mixing together with the smell of medicine, the feeling of magic and several pairs of hands on him. But even with all the time and rest and magic and salve he's still not fully himself.
Jaskier's still faintly amazed that he's allowed to stay in the keep. The Pankratz's have always been loyal to the White Flame and the White Wolf does not get along with the man that creates refugees every time he snaps his fingers and sends his men to burn another town to the ground.
Emhyr is the reason the Wolf's lands are so full of elven refugees, his iron fists and ridiculous laws making it not only legal but encouraging his subjects to hunt anyone different and dispose of them: elves, dwarves, anyone of mixed blood, anyone who opposes him and his rule.
Anyone who's even the least bit different.
His family was a part of that. They offered rewards to their people for turning elves over to be shipped off or hanged or... Jaskier cuts the memories off, offering the princess a smile instead. Whatever small bit of peace there was between the White Wolf and the Emhyr is most likely very much over with now in the wake of Ciri's kidnapping.
"As soon as I can manage to stand without falling over, I'll join you for dinner," he promises.
Ciri considers this. "Maybe... I could join you for dinner?" She turns to Yennefer, tugging on her hand. "Can I? Can we? It must be very lonely eating in here by yourself all the time. I don't want him to be lonely, Aunt Yen."
The most powerful sorceress in all the land softens right before his eyes, her hand trailing down Ciri's hair. "I think we can manage that."
So Jaskier has company for dinner: Ciri, who chatters nonstop about the keep, the Witchers (apparently she has several uncles), her magic lessons and the various creatures that inhabit the mountain around them. Yennefer stays as well, conjuring up two chairs for her and a pleasantly surprised Triss to sit in when Jaskier extends the invitation to her as well.
It's more talking that Jaskier's done since he got here but he tells Ciri about some of his childhood misadventures- the scar on his wrist he got from falling out of a tree his oldest brother dared him to climb when he was eight, the time he got bucked off a horse and right into the pond in front of the crush he was desperately trying to impress (he got a kiss out of it anyway), that time he ripped his favorite doublet dancing with a duchess and she laughed at him in the middle of the dance floor.
"Rude," is Ciri's opinion.
"I quite agree."
He falls asleep in the middle of Ciri telling him about her favorite mud puddle with a smile on his face, satisfied that she's not terribly traumatized, that she is indeed home and safe and well protected once again.
He wakes to the sound of his own screaming, the nightmare clawing at him from the inside of his eyelids. He jerks and bucks in the bed, expecting to feel chains that are no longer there around his wrists, leg flaring when he clenches the muscles. His mouth closes with a click, teeth clacking when he bites down to stop the whimper that wants to crawl out of his throat.
He's soaked in sweat, a shivering, aching, terrified mess but he's okay. He's alive. He's safe and warm and weak but alive. Triss grips his hand, murmuring soothing words that break through the panic thrumming under his skin.
"Ah," he wheezes out, a trembling hand coming up to rub at his clammy forehead, his own pulse thundering in his ears. "Well, fuck."