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He was cold.
That was the only thing he could really think anymore.
He was cold. It was dark. He hurt all over.
He could hardly even remember how they’d got there in the first place.
Geralt had got a new contract, one that wasn’t even that difficult. Jaskier could have been only five feet away from him during the battle and he would’ve been fine. He thought so anyway. So, they set off, ready to stop the monster.
Then the bandits had attacked.
At least, Jaskier was pretty sure they were bandits. He couldn’t get a good look at them before he got knocked out.
And when he woke up, he was here. Alone in a cold, dark cell.
He heard a loud exhale behind him. At least Geralt was here as well, he guessed. It would probably be better if he wasn’t, but the companionship was… it was nice, not being the only person around.
Jaskier shifted, whining slightly at the pain.
“How bad.” The voice came from the other side of the wall. Geralt.
“’M fine” Jaskier mumbled in response. No, he wasn’t, but they’d been here for who knows how long and his definition of ‘fine’ had changed a lot since then.
“Jaskier. How bad is it?” He couldn’t see the witcher, couldn’t see the emotion in his face, but he could still hear it. Still hear the concern dripping in his words.
He swallowed, trying to force himself to think clearly and catalogue his injuries or-or something, but his mind kept wandering back to-
Pain, it was sharp, and twisting in his gut and oh god, it hurt it hurt so fucking much.
The blade stuck through his gut was finally-finally-withdrawn. Jaskier exhaled in relief. Thank god, it had stopped. It had stopped and soon-
He cried out as more pain blossomed in his shoulder. Shit, had he been stabbed again? At this rate, they might kill him and he didn’t even know what they wanted and why were they hurting him why did he matter-
“Jaskier!”
He blinked, and he was back in the cell, still lying with his back to the wall, still there, still safe. He felt his heart racing and when had it got so fast what had happened what-
“Jaskier, are you alright?” Geralt growled through the crack in the wall. Right, yeah, Geralt had asked him about his injuries.
“I-I’m okay, Geralt. Just… thinking.”
The witcher gave an unconvinced hmm in response.
He sighed, hissing as the small movement put more pressure on his wounds. “Geralt?” There was only silence in response, but that wasn’t exactly unusual, so Jaskier continued, “Do you think we’re ever going to get out of here?”
It took a while for Geralt to respond, or at least it felt like it did. Jaskier’s sense of time had all but disintegrated with the time they’d spent there. “Save your strength, Jaskier.”
So that was a no then. His breath hitched painfully in his throat as he thought about the idea of staying in this hellhole for the rest of his life. However short that may be.
In the opposite corner, there was a series of tally marks etched into the wall that Jaskier had noticed when he was first flung into the cell. He had counted them all. What else could he do anyway except shrivel in self pity and pain? There were 45. Someone else had survived in here for 45 days, at least.
Jaskier wasn’t even sure he would make it that long.
Geralt probably would, though. He felt slightly comforted by that, at least, as he heard grunting on the other side of the wall.
He swallowed, clearing his throat for his already weak voice, “What do you think they do with the bodies-what they’ll do with us-when they’re… done?”
Silence. Of course Geralt wouldn’t answer him. He wouldn’t answer this one fucking question. Typical. He chuckled, turning his face further towards the floor as the sounds quickly became sobs. Oh god. Oh god, he was going to die here in this stinking piss shithole and no one would even know. No one except Geralt and their captors. He wouldn’t place bets on either of them spreading news of his departure from this mortal coil. He supposed that he didn’t really have any other people in his life who were important to him, which only drove him to another fit of sobbing, reigniting the stabbing pain of his wounds, but he couldn’t stop.
“Maybe,” He started when the pain and tears had died down enough for him to speak, trembling fingers tracing the grooves of the stone floor, “Maybe the ghosts will just… take us away.” His eyes landed once again on the tally marks. That would be… nice. At least they would understand. They wouldn’t do anything… untoward with them after-
After they were gone.
The thought made Jaskier feel numb. Of course, he knew that he would die at some point, but he’d never thought it would be so soon. There were so many things that he wanted to do, places that he wanted to go to, songs he wanted to write, which he just… wouldn’t be able to. What hurt more than that, though, was the idea of Geralt disappearing in the same way. Jaskier had always accepted that the witcher would outlive him, he wasn’t human after all, and he’d taken comfort in the idea that Geralt would continue to wander the world, saving the general populace from the threats of monsters. The thought of that stopping, of Geralt being struck down now, and here of all places, felt like a lead weight had been dropped in the pit of his stomach.
The bard was so lost in thought, and his mind so addled with the pain of his injuries that he barely registered the sound of a door creaking open. For a moment, he thought it was the one leading to his cell, and scrambled into a sitting position as quickly as his injuries would allow him to. He slumped in relief when he realised it was Geralt’s cell instead, his wounds screaming at him.
Wait.
Oh god, Geralt.
He had to see what was going on, had to help Geralt however he could, even if all he could do was yell at the guards. Even if that would only earn him more torture.
He tried to pull himself up to the crack in the wall, limbs shaking with the strain he put on them, but his body protested. His vision flashed white and then he found himself lying on the floor again, body screaming in agony. Shit. He couldn’t just leave Geralt to-to whatever they had planned. Wheezing, he pulled himself up as far as he could manage.
“Geralt?” He tried, voice straining with the pain.
No answer.
“Geralt!” He shouted this time, then was hit with a bout of coughing. He could taste copper on his tongue. Never a good sign.
Still no answer.
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. They’d taken Geralt away. They’d taken him away and they were hurting him. They were stabbing and hurting and beating and burning and choking and slicing and breaking and poisoning and drowning and and and his hands were shaking why were his hands shaking oh god poor Geralt he needs help he needs you and you can’t do anything and he’s hurting he’s hurting he’s hurting just like Jaskier was hurting and he couldn’t do anything-
He didn’t see the person entering his cell until they were nearly nose to nose with him, and oh god they’re going to hurt him again not now why now-
“Jaskier.” The person’s voice was gentle, like they were worried he’d break. He blinked, and his vision focused on the figure in front of him and thank fuck.
It’s Geralt.
He’s okay.
He’s covered in blood, but he’s okay, they’re not hurting him, he’s okay.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says again, and he sounds so concerned, “We need to move. Can you walk?”
“I-I don’t know.” He’s staring, he knows, but it’s been so long since he’s seen someone who doesn’t want to hurt him. With that thought comes the memories, but he swallows, pushes them down to deal with later.
“Okay,” The witcher says. He swallows, eyes searching Jaskier’s body for the numerous wounds, and Jaskier swears that he sees a flash of anger in his eyes, but it melts away as quickly as it appears, “Okay, I’m going to carry you.”
Jaskier nods, too tired, too relieved, to argue. He closes his eyes and feels Geralt carefully, oh so carefully, wrap his arms around him and lift him up. The wounds on his body sing in agony and Jaskier is tempted to join them, but for now he settles for hissing at them.
Geralt walks. He takes them out of the cells, out of the damned dungeons, and past the many, many, oh gods there are so many bodies. So many of them, but still not enough to take down a single witcher.
Jaskier stays awake long enough, breathes through the pain long enough, to leave the fortress still conscious, but as he sees the sky once again, as he hears the birds sing around him, as he feels the rush of wind in his air, he lets go and falls into blessed unconsciousness.
They're free.