Chapter Text
Geralt gritted his teeth, keeping himself from hissing or grunting in pain as the cart hit another bump in the rocky road. The sack that had been tied over his head smelt strongly of dampness and rot, but he kept his breathing as steady as possible. Ahead of him, Rience barked out a hard laugh.
“Still alive back there?”
Geralt kept his jaw clenched. He stayed silent.
Rience laughed again. Geralt heard him beckon the horse to increase its gallop. The long cuts and deep burns down his arms and chest ached against the filthy, soiled fabric of his black shirt. He could not recall the last time he had eaten or slept. But no matter how sleep tugged at him, neither himself nor Rience would allow him to be pulled under. Whatever Rience had planned, Geralt forced himself not to pass out from the pain or exhaustion. No, that was one thing he would not surrender.
The battle between the witcher and the mage had very nearly gone in Geralt’s favor. A couple of wrong moves, a miscalculated swing of his sword, and the mage had gotten the jump on him. Just barely, just enough. Rience had thus far kept their destination a mystery, though he sometimes would favor Geralt with a small, snarky comment that hinted that it would lead only to his humiliation. It was, Rience had consistently reminded him, to be his revenge for Geralt's killing of Vilgefortz - Rience's master.
He kept his breath as even and calm as he could within his filthy sack, which smelt strongly of damp and rot and his own blood.
He would not fall asleep. By the gods, he would stay awake.
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Jaskier's vision had long since gone blurry from the haze of wine. Despite the relatively early hour of the evening, the tavern was already alight with boisterous laughter and overlapping voices; no thanks in large part, Jaskier liked to imagine, to the numerous rounds he had purchased for the house. He blinked rapidly as he tied to clear the bleariness from his eyes and placed his fingers on his lute.
My good people,” Jaskier called over the most drunken guests of the tavern, failing at first to catch their attention. “My good people! Please lend me your ear as I serenade you with perhaps the finest melody I have written to date.”
A chorus of groans and chuckles echoed through the tavern. Jaskier, unperturbed, cleared his throat and straightened his back. He opened his mouth to begin before descending briefly into tipsy chuckles, prompting more disgruntled noises from his reluctant audience. He shook his head out, his brown bangs flopped over his slightly sweat-damp forehead.
He paused before plucking out the first notes on his instrument, straining to keep his mouth from re-curving up into a grin.
“It's been a long time travellin'
On roads that lead to nowhere
With hopes and dreams that always rot…”
The crowd began to shift, clearly wary of the change in mood. Jaskier tiled his head back, allowing his eyes to flutter closed.
“Sometimes it takes a prison cell
The tricks and tales, the traitors' tell
To help you see that freedom is all you've got
If I had to do it over, I'd do it all again
The wind don't cower to powerful men…"
Just as a few frustrated, annoyed chatterings reached Jaskier’s ear, he opened his eyes and began to play more fervidly.
“So lock me up and sock me up
And throw away the key
Go fuck yourself, you whoreson
'Cause you're through fuckin' with me
You learn the more you live
They say ‘don't settle for your lot’
Opinions are like arseholes, which еverybody's got!”
The crowd, finally, swayed in Jaskier’s favor. The laughter and cheering reached a fever pitch as he lept off the stage, his voice only slightly wavering from the movement.
“So lock me up and sock me up
And throw away thе key
Go fuck yourself, you whoreson
'Cause you're through fuckin' with me
Oh, lock me up and sock me up
And throw away the key
Go fuck yourself, you whoreson
'Cause you're through fuckin' with me!”
He held the final note as long as his lungs would allow him, ending the song with a flourish of his lute. His finale was nearly drowned out by the loud, drunken applause of his audience.
“Ah, you have been the most wonderful crowd, my dear friends. I’d say that has earned another round, wouldn’t you agree?” he called, gesturing to the barman.
The cheering began anew as Jaskier’s laugher shook his torso. He was breathing heavily as he blinked and rubbed at his eyes, a sudden weariness moving through his body.
He swallowed, his brow furrowing, and his gaze shifted out toward the window. It was only then that he realized the sun’s low position in the sky. His eyes widened again, fear echoing within him and driving out nearly all the effects of the wine within moments.
How had he not noticed the time?
“Shit,” he hissed.
He kept his grip tight on his lute, pushing through his no longer attentive audience. His entire body began to flush as he squeezed himself past the heavily crowded tavern before finally making his way toward the door. The dusk air hit him in a humid, cool wave as he threw himself out into the street before picking up his pace into a run - sprinting back toward the old stone castle that loomed just over the horizon.
He did not stop moving for even a moment, his entire body damp with excursion sweat by the time he reached his destination. He tried to quell his panting as moved through the back side of the keep. He kept his steps as light as possible as he made his way into the servant’s quarters and toward the kitchens. He pressed himself up against the stone wall as he started to hear the quiet conversations of the cooks, peering to watch as the servants continued to chat - clearly unaware of his presence. He waited until all backs were firmly turned away from him before tip-toeing past them and moving toward the stairs. He took them two at a time, relief flooding him in a wave.
He had just reached the top of the stairwell, turning the corner toward his room, when he suddenly slammed into another body. He grunted and stumped back slightly, an apology already forming on his lips, when he took in the sight of the man before him. His words died in his throat, cold terror taking its place.
“Father,” he managed to squeak out, “I - I was just on my way…I…my clothes had a - ah - a stain, and now its…gone. So…I was just on my way to change and -”
His father held up his hand, and instantly Jaskier’s stammering was silenced. He sighed long and slow, looking Jaskier up and down. Jaskier’s impact had slightly jostled his father’s bejeweled regalia and heavy cloak. He smoothed down his apparel before reaching up to straighten the almost imperceptibly askew golden crown that adorned his head.
“You’ve been drinking. I can smell it on you.”
“I -” Jaskier started, attempting to chuckle. “Well, one’s birthday is a time for celebration, is it not?” He forced the shaky smile to remain plastered to his face.
His father brought his hand to his forehead, rubbing at the creases there. “Julian…I cannot handle a humiliation. Not now, not today.”
Jaskier’s heart clenched before dropping. “No. No, of course not. I would never dare -”
“Just get changed,” his father growled. “And wash your face. You’re as flushed as an old whore.”
Jaskier’s smile faded as he pursed his lips and gave a curt nod. “Yes, majesty.”
He kept still as his father moved past him, his pace smooth, his jewels clanging together before he disappeared down the long, dark hall. Jaskier allowed himself another few moments of silence before swallowing thickly, dragging himself back toward his room.
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Jaskier’s crown was less than half the weight of his father’s; though still golden, and covered with jewels. It was a large, substantial weight over his head - but it may well have been the only thing keeping him awake as he sat perched on the chair next to his father’s throne. His jewel-encrusted robe was stifling and painfully hot - but he dared not move or adjust the garment.
The throne room, draped with the Pankratz family crest, was filled with lines of other high-born aristocrats, but the conversations below him were too quiet for Jaskier to hear. In a steady stream, the nobles presented his father with gifts; expensive trinkets and bobbles that Jaskier’s father regarded with only mild interest. The short, practiced speeches that accompanied the offerings were not aimed at Jaskier, though he did provide a tired grin for each one. Only a few regarded Jaskier with any interest, and even then it was only a passing one.
The evening, which had been seemingly endless, was suddenly interpreted by a commotion from just outside the throne room. Jaskier’s drooping eyelids were cracked open and he blinked rapidly, turning his gaze toward his father. The king did not look back at him, keeping his eyes fixed on the closed, guarded door that led toward the belly of the castle.
The raised voices began to catch the attention of the crowd, who threw glances at one another and then at Jaskier’s father. Jaskier’s posture stiffened, and he opened his mouth to say something to his father before he thought better of it and clinked his jaw shut again.
His father gestured at the waiting guard at his side, who moved swiftly toward the door. It took two men to creak the wooden entrance open, and only then did the argument that was taking place in the hall begin to echo into the throne room. Finally, a guard made his way back toward Jaskier’s father, kneeling before him with a fist over his chest.
“Majesty,” the guard began, his head bent down. “There is a man who demands your audience. He claims to have come bearing a gift of great value.”
Jaskier’s father took in a deep breath through his nose. “Did he receive an invitation?”
The guard shook his head. “No, majesty.”
Jaskier’s eyes fluttered back and forth from the guard to the king.
“Does he say what this gift is?”
“No, majesty. He says it is for your eyes and judgment alone.”
His father’s brow quirks up at that.
“Very well,” he says, his voice low. “Tell the guards to keep their sword arm warm and at the ready, and he lead him through.”
Jaskier swallowed as the guard stood and bowed deeply. “Father -” he began before he was again cut off by the raising of a palm. His cheeks reddened with embarrassment before he looked away.
The man who entered, flanked by guards, was clearly not of the noble stock. His clothes, dark and dirty and covered in grime, were in sharp contrast with the finery which filled the throne room. It was only when the man began to approach the throne that Jaskier’s breath was caught and lodged in his throat.
He was roughly leading another man with a torn, bloody black shirt and a sack over his head behind him. A deep fear ran through Jaskier as he watched, unbreathing, while the two men, one bound at his hands and stumbling slightly, and the other leading him, approached until they were before Jaskier and the king. A few endless moments passed as the rest of the crowd watched. Jaskier realized that, at some point, his lips had parted and his eyes had widened. He knew that he should regain his composure, but he could not bring himself to do so.
“What is this?” Jaskier’s father asked, some of the unease he was clearly feeling slipping into his voice.
“My lord,” the dirty man began. “I am called Rience. I come with a gift for your son, on this, his 25th name day.”
“What gift is that?” his father asked.
Rience forced the bound man harshly onto his knees. Jaskier watched as he slumped down slightly, his chest heaving.
Then, with no warning or further pomp, Rience pulled the sack hood from the kneeling man’s head. Jaskier, taking his first breath in what felt like ages, watched as white hair fell down his shoulders and over his face. He bent his head down further, the snowy hair concealing his expression.
“I bring to you Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Butcher. A witcher, your majesty - the last of his kind.”
The crowd's muttering increased, and Jaskier was unable to quell the short gasp that escaped him.
Jaskier could not remove his gaze from the sight before him. His black shirt, torn around the chest, revealed bloody wounds around his tightly muscled torso.
Jaskier’s father paused for a moment before humming, and then asked Rience, “The White Wolf? I’d heard he had slain in Blaviken.”
Rience shocked Jaskier by chuckling. “Not quite, majesty.”
Geralt's face was still hidden from Jaskier, though he continued to watch him; watched the strained rise and fall of his bloody chest.
Jaskier's father shifted in his seat. “And this is your gift?"
“It is, majesty.”
“What place would this man have in my court?”
“Ah, majesty, don’t be fooled by his current state. He is still a force to be reckoned with; a mighty beast at your disposal to defend your keep.” Rience said, his chin tilted upward and a grin on his face.
Jaskier’s father was quiet for a moment before calling out, much to his surprise, “Julian?” Jaskier was pulled out of his trance, dumbly turning his gaze toward the throne next to him. His father stared at him, a small, smug grin on his face. “What say you?”
Jaskier blinked. “What?”
“What say you?” his father repeated. “The Wolf will be yours to tame, so, what say you?”
Jaskier faltered, his eyes flickering back and forth between the kneeling man and his father. “I - I don’t -"
“If you have no need of him, I will dispatch him now. Animals need masters, and I will not have an unattended beast running about my castle.”
Jaskier began to shake his head. “Father…please I -”
“Speak up, boy,” his father growled, his tone hardening. “Make a choice. Make it now.”
“I don’t…I don’t know -”
“Guards,” his father called, “swords at the ready.”
In a flash, the guards had pulled out their weapons, the one nearest to Geralt bringing his sword to his throat and forcing his strong jaw upward.
It was the first time that Jaskier had really seen his face, the first time he had seen his eyes. They were bright; shockingly bright even in his broken state. Jaskier had never seen a stronger hue of gold.
“Well? Julian?”
Jaskier did not turn to look at his father. He just stared into the gold, which would not stare back.
“I…yes,” he finally breathed. “Yes, yes. Alright.”
“You will take him then? You accept the gift?”
“Yes. Yes, I will.”
Geralt’s head dipped back down as the sword at his throat was lowered. Before Jaskier even knew what he was doing, he was moving out of his seat and toward the white-haired man before him. The crowd’s mutterings grew at the action, but Jaskier could not find it in him to take his eyes off of the witcher. Without thinking about it, he knelt down before Geralt, putting a hand on his cut-up arm before Geralt grunted and jerked himself away.
Jaskier winced. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
It was then, for the first time, that Geralt's golden eyes lifted to meet his. His gaze was cold, shuttered, his lips pursed in a sneering frown.
“By the gods, you must hate me,” Jaskier muttered under his breath.
“Guards, take him to the dungeons - give him the finest cell we have,” Jaskier’s father’s voice suddenly called down.
Within moments, the guards had hauled Geralt onto his feet and forced him roughly through the throne room and back out into the hall. Jaskier stayed down on his knees, breathing heavily, his gaze remaining fixed to the empty space before him that Geralt had occupied.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jaskier hovered just before the largest cell in the dungeon; where he knew the guards would have stored Geralt. His hands, trembling slightly, carried a basket of medical supplies, a change of clothes, and a bundle of fresh food along with a cantine of water. His breathing was uneven and unsteady, and a persistent nausea curled within his stomach. He took a few steadying breaths before pushing himself forward. He inhaled slowly, using the key he had swiped from the sleeping guard at the other end of the dungeon.
The cell door creaked open, and Jaskier pursed his lips as he slowly moved into the heavily shadowed room. He could not see Geralt, but he heard his labored breath coming from the back of the cell.
“Sir…um…Witcher?” he ventured unsteadily. “I just…have some things for you.”
The rattling of chains accompanied Geralt as he stumbled out of the shadows and toward him. The moonlight that spilled through the barred window of the cell hit his white hair first, then illuminated the rest of his injured face. His veiled golden eyes lifted to meet Jaskier’s. His mouth was still turned down into an angry frown - his brow was furrowed.
Jaskier’s eyes fell to the iron shackles that were cuffed on his ankles and wrists. He hissed sympathetically, moving to place the supplies on the cold, dirty floor below them.
He moved for Geralt, who took a minute step away from him, to unlock the restraints with a key from the ring he had stolen from the guard. Geralt grunted as the irons fell away into Jaskier’s grip, revealing the reddened skin beneath.
“Here, I’ll at least clean the worst of it,” Jaskier muttered, reaching for the medical supplies on the ground.
Just as he was able to begin, Geralt roughly pulled the aid from his hands, startling Jaskier slightly.
“I can do it myself,” he growled. It was the first time Jaskier had heard him speak. His voice was a low, thunderous rumble that, even when utilized softly, filled the space around them. Jaskier tried not to be reduced to jelly over it.
“Right,” he chirped awkwardly. “Sorry. Right, of course.” He bent down, offering Geralt the clean clothes and fresh food he had brought him. “I…I’m afraid I don’t know what you like to eat, so I just grabbed whatever I could carry from the kitchens. I’m sorry it’s too late to arrange a room and bath, but you have my word that I’ll see to that first thing tomorrow.”
Geralt did not respond, but he tentatively took the proffered items from Jaskier’s arms, eyeing him with what was clearly suspicion.
Jaskier, suddenly without a clue as to what to do with himself, allowed his arms to fall ungracefully to his sides. “Um…well, I imagine you’re quite exhausted. I’ll, just, leave you to it then.”
He stiffly turned on his heels before heading to the cell’s entrance.
“Shall I close this?” He asked, his hand on the barred door. It took him a moment to realize how ridiculous the question was as Geralt cocked his brow. “Right. Sorry. I’ll need to return the keys to the guard before he realizes they’re gone.” His gut soured with guilt as he forced the creaky cell door shut; wincing at the loud noise it made. “First thing tomorrow I’ll get you out of here,” he said to the still-watching Geralt. “I promise.”
With a rigid bow, and then an eye-roll at himself for his awkwardness, Jaskier quickly stepped out of the prison cell and back into the castle proper.
He did his best to ignore the way his heart pounded furiously in his chest, the flipping of his stomach, the sudden weakness of his knees as he forced himself to get back to his room in one piece. He shut the door behind him, leaning against it once he was alone.
His mind was swollen with images of the brightest, yellowest hue of gold he had ever seen.
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Geralt remained still for some time after Jaskier had made his way out of the dungeon.
Julian Pankratz - Prince Julian Pankratz, to be exact. He had been pledged to that waifish, birdy, strange little lord who had knelt before him in front of his father - his king - and all his subjects to touch him and look him in the eye.
He had been given as one would a war dog.
Geralt began to pull off his ruined shirt and filthy pants, wincing as some of the cuts on his flesh were reopened as the fabric pulled at them. He opened the medical supply bag. He almost felt the urge to grin at the sheer overabundance of aid Jaskier had provided. Instead, he furrowed his brow and frowned.
Why? Why had Jaskier done any of this for him?
Geralt's reputation had gone from making strangers wary to instilling earnest, potent fear within the recent years. Whatever Path had been laid out for him; a witcher, hunter of monsters, and defender of the common folk, had long since been replaced with tales of his brutality. Tales that had only been amplified with the deaths of Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir nearly a decade ago with the destruction of Kaer Morhen - of which Geralt had been the only one to emerge.
Geralt never corrected curious villagers when asked about his bloodlust, which had, according to rumor, claimed the lives of the only family he had left, and he had long since learned to ignore the fearful, frightened looks that he so often received as he pasted through towns to try and find contacts.
The Butcher. He did not know exactly where or when the term had originated, though he quickly came to find that it had come about from the long, sharp swords he always carried on his back and from the carnage he so often left behind. He had forgotten what it felt like to be called that to his face, and he paused in his work on his wounds. The word sat heavy in his gut.
Butcher.
He blinked slowly and went back to work.
But what was a butcher without his tools? Who was he without his swords? Without his armor? What was a wolf without his pack? He sighed and allowed his eyes to press shut.
He was a feral dog. Beaten, bloody, broken, and left to the mercy of his new master.
He opened his eyes.
His wounds were clean, though they would ache for some time. His very bones felt bruised from the journey in the back of that cart, but he had survived worse. Much worse.
He put away the medical supplies before changing into the clothes Jaskier had brought for him. They were soft; made of finer material than he was used to. Finer material than he had ever owned, in fact.
He stiffened.
This was not his. He owned nothing in this castle, not even the thread from the stitches which he had used to sew his sliced-up flesh. Like all dogs, his world was his cage, and all he owned was the bloody meat his master opted to throw him. He fought the urge to growl to himself. He cast his old clothes, which had been reduced to little more than rags, onto the ground, before remembering the bundle of food and waterskin left on the floor. He uncorked the waterskin first, pouring down his dry throat. He was almost panting by the time he finished, his attention shifting to the food. He unwrapped the napkin Jaskier had placed them in, placing the bundle onto his lap before sitting on his wooden cot.
He paused for a moment as he looked down at the food before him.
Jaskier had brought him jerky, bread, some dried slices of fruit…and jam.
Jaskier had thought to bring him jam for his bread.
He swallowed, shaking himself out of his haze, and began to break apart the bread, pouring the jam in slowly.