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Jaskier is five, frolicking through the garden and dodging shouts of “don’t ruin your new clothes” and “be careful” the first time he feels his throat swell up. Suddenly, he’s wheezing, on his knees, tears pouring down cheeks round with baby fat. His friends have stopped running and singing, staring at him in silence, and adults are sprinting over to him. He’s hoisted to his feet, and then into the arms of his mother, who begs him to tell her what’s wrong. He tries to, fights so hard against the vice grip in his chest, but the words barely come out between gasping breaths. This should be easy - all he does is run his mouth, or at least that’s what the grown-ups in his life tell him. His terror at this realization only makes it harder to breathe.
“Julian, sweetheart, you have to tell me what’s wrong,” his mother urges him. They’re in the house now - when did that happen? - and his usually familiar home feels blurry. All he can do is cough and wheeze in return, grasping at any shred of oxygen he can take in.
“I’ll run for the healer,” he hears his father say, but he can’t see him. His mother whispers something in response he cannot hear before carrying him to his room. Once on his bed, it feels like he’s floating, adrift at sea, and - is this what dying feels like? It’s a big question for such a little person. Time distorts strangely, too slow and incredibly fast all at once, and then there’s a healer hanging over him. The man asks questions and his mother answers them; he recognizes their voices but the words they use carry no meaning.
“Julian, I need you to put this in your mouth and take a big breath,” the healer instructs him, and suddenly he’s hauled into a sitting position and there’s a vial being pressed into his numb fingers, and he searches around the room feverishly for some sense of understanding. His eyes meet his mother's, and she’s trembling, silk handkerchief dabbing away the tears welling in the corners of her eyes.
“You have to listen to him, honey,” she pleads, and he nods even though he’s not sure what he’s agreeing to. He brings the vial to his lips with shaking hands and sucks in the deepest breath he can manage, choking on the fragrant fumes of the herb within. And then the weight on his chest lessens, and though he sputters and gags, he can feel his lungs swell with air again. Panting, he lets himself fall back against the pillows. Lulled by the voices of adults talking around him, he drifts to sleep.
Jaskier is ten, and he doesn’t want to have asthma anymore. The attention and sympathy he earned from it had vanished after a few years. All he was left with was terrifying attacks of breathlessness and playtime lost to recovery. Each of the many healers he’s been paraded to suggested something different to prevent attacks - eat this, stop eating that, do this, stop doing that. Each recommendation was closely followed for a few days, or weeks, or however long it took until it became obvious enough to his parents that it didn’t work.
Jaskier is ten, and he hates the fact that there are days he can’t sing because his lungs won’t cooperate. Jaskier is ten, and every time he gets sick he dreads the inevitable wheeze and cough that develops and hangs over him like a thick fog long after his peers have recovered. Jaskier is ten, and his tutor has to rush to inform his parents, it’s happening again.
Jaskier is ten, in his father’s strong arms, desperately inhaling the ephedra herb that, for the first time, isn’t working. His mother is pacing the perimeter of the room, teary-eyed, and he recognizes this is bad through the haze clouding his thoughts. The healer is coming, someone had informed him, but he doesn’t know when. It’s been going on for days, at first a fever and the slightest of coughs, eventually a constant tightness in his throat, and tonight it’s worse. He’s old enough now and versed enough now to know how this goes, and the fear that used to overwhelm him is replaced with resentment towards his own body.
The healer comes, rubs some unfamiliar salve over his bare chest, watches him carefully. Helpless and exhausted, constantly coaxed back into wakefulness by his worried parents, he wonders again if this is what it feels like to die. The fever breaks first, followed by the congestion in his chest. As daybreak begins to approach, he can breathe again.
Jaskier is seventeen, and the last thing he needs is an asthma attack. Especially not mid-performance. And least of all with his Oxenfurt peers, Valdo Marx included, watching. And yet, just his luck, that is exactly what he gets.
He knows he shouldn’t have gone on with the performance, should’ve politely excused himself under the explanation of illness, however mild it might’ve been. But Jaskier is nothing if not stubborn, and his professors have said it themselves - the show must go on. So, even though he knows exactly what will come next after the sore throat the evening before and the insistent irritation in his chest that morning, he takes the stage.
To his credit, Jaskier sounds good. Despite the occasional cough buried under the thrum of lute strings, or the way his breath occasionally caught in his throat, he pulled off a good show. And, had he quit whilst he was ahead, that would’ve been the end of it. But the crowd was cheering, and the chant of encore! rose up, and he couldn’t very well say no, could he?
And that was when everything started to unravel. That suffocating feeling settled deep into his chest as he started to choke on the words in his mouth. The room wobbled in his unfocused gaze, the audience ebbing and flowing with it. And then, before he can wrap things up, thank everyone and duck offstage, he's sputtering and heaving on his hands and knees, and all the oxygen seeming to have left his lungs, and, fuck , everyone's staring. There's a clamor - people he vaguely recognizes are calling his name and offering their support, but he doesn't want it, he wants to hide. His professor is shooing people away, and he can see Valdo, that bastard , leer at him as he leaves, and if Jaskier could, he'd melt into the floor.
"Julian, breathe," his professor is compelling him. He's propped against the wall, slumped precariously forward. His eyes search for the source of his voice but the effort makes him dizzy. He gestures vaguely to his discarded lute case, and the professor must get the hint, because his vial of ephedra is being pressed under his chin. He inhales shakily, relaxes as his heart slows. He thinks about death again, not because he's afraid of it, but because it seems almost a less painful fate than having to face his peers again.
Jaskier is twenty, on the road with the Geralt of Rivia, and having the time of his life. Traveling with a Witcher is not easy on any human, let alone one with asthma - loathe as he is to even admit he has it. At least Jaskier isn't a complete idiot this time, or at least that's what he hopes; he's packed plenty of herb and tincture and salve, tucked deep in his pack and never, ever unveiled in front of Geralt.
Jaskier has many talents, and excuses are one of them. He "has to use the bathroom", and wanders as far from Geralt as he can safely manage, inhaling the herb tucked in his pocket well out of view. He "just needs some fresh air" - to clear his thoughts before he sings, of course - and he's shimmying out of the tavern to catch his shuddering breath in peace. His feet are "sore and blistered", which is why they very much need to stop and rest now , and "why don't I go fill the water skins this time" and "Geralt could you please find something to cook tonight".
The presence of a human - a bard, no less - already threw the Witcher off path more often that Geralt liked. If he knew about the asthma, Jaskier was certain he'd be promptly deposited at the next inn and left behind. And yet, despite his best efforts, despite his deep-seated fear, Geralt comes far too close to catching him far too often.
He awoke gasping for breath in the middle of the night, eyes darting around frantically in the firelight. Geralt, mercifully, was asleep, so he staggered off to inhale his herbs and collect himself. But when he returned, Geralt was upright in his bedroll, staring at him. A bad dream was his excuse, and in the darkness he couldn't tell if Geralt believed him.
They were sprinting from a group of decidedly not-so-friendly townsfolk when Geralt questioned the slight wheeze that escaped him. He was out of shape, he joked. Geralt offered to train him.
Geralt was concerned about the cough that lingered long after the fever and congestion had left. He begrudgingly agreed to see a healer at the next town, but firmly required Geralt wait for him outside. Modesty, he calls it.
He thinks, at first, it's an asthma attack, and he's left surprised by just how quickly it came on, and out of nowhere no less. But then he's coughing up blood, and choking out Geralt's name, and for a moment, before the gravity of the situation has the opportunity to sink in, he's almost relieved that the source of his wheeze is decidedly magical this time.
Jaskier is older than he'd like to admit, and alone. The mountain air is thin, and through hitching breaths desperately holding back the floodgates, it tugs in his lungs far more on the way down than it had going up. He knows what's happening - it wouldn't be the first time his emotions drove an attack - but he doesn't care. He's not sure what burns more, his throat or his legs, and he wants to stop and rest but more importantly he wants to put as much space as possible between himself and Geralt, and this gods-forsaken mountain, and the memory of that day. Each step becomes more difficult and each breath more pained as the day wears steadily towards dusk.
By the early evening, he can't breathe. He's hyperventilating, sucking in air through a straw, the corners of his vision blinking dizzily in and out. He needs his ephedra, but that's still in his pack, on the back of Geralt's fucking horse. So he stops, shuffles his lute off his shoulder, and lays down to wait for death.
Death doesn't come, but Yennefer does, so close enough. He's curled on his side, arms folded over his head, when he feels the prodding against his side. He tightens in on himself reflexively, grumbles something he hoped resembled words between shuddering and shallow breaths. The poking continues, and a familiar voice speaks words he doesn't process. Frustrated, he unfurls, rolling onto his back and squinting against the sunset at the mage looming over him.
"Fuck off," he growls, or at least tries to; his voice is breathy and low. Just leave me alone so I can die in peace, he wants to add, but that would take more air than he has in him. Unfortunately, she doesn't appear to be going anywhere anytime soon.
"Did he hurt you?" she asks, and he finds himself oddly defensive of Geralt suddenly. He shakes his head, regretting it as silver stars threaten his vision. "Are you hurt?" He doesn't move, afraid another shake of his head will pull him under. "Ill?" He manages a small nod, a tiny squeak that might've been perceived as affirmative. "Work with me, bard." She's lingering over him, taking him in, and if his lungs would cooperate he'd roll away from her right now. He coughs, harsh and barking. Her brow furrows in understanding. "Chronic, isn't it?"
"Asthma." He barely manages to force the statement out past gritted teeth. His eyes feel heavy, and he lets them slip closed, ignoring the "fuck!" that escapes Yennefer. He feels hands on him, maneuvering him, and he lets himself sink into them.
When he opens his eyes again, the sun has entirely set and he's tucked underneath his discarded doublet. Most importantly, he can breathe easier. He pushes himself into a sitting position, wincing at how winded the endeavor leaves him.
"There you are," Yennefer remarks. She's sitting besides a fire Jaskier didn't remember being started, watching him carefully. He groans.
"You saved me with magic, didn't you?" He hates how hoarse his voice is, how weak he sounds.
"Wasn't going to leave you to die, if that's what you're asking." There's an uncomfortable mix of sarcasm and sincerity in her tone. He doesn't like it.
"Why?" He asks simply, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. She laughs.
"It wouldn't be fair." He's not sure he entirely understands what she means, but he likes the sentiment nonetheless.
"Thank you," he mutters, leftover cough cutting him short. He offers a small smile as he catches his breath. "Now what?" The question had been weighing on his mind since Geralt asked the universe to take him off his hands, even heavier now that there's air in his lungs again.
"We'll figure that out in the morning," she assures him. He lays back down, pulling the doublet around him. "Just rest now, bard."
Jaskier is even older now, and, thank the gods, back on the road with Geralt. The Witcher had apologized - actually said the words "I'm sorry". But, more than one conversation, Geralt seemed to apologize every day through his actions. He was gentler towards Jaskier, more forgiving of his constant chatter. And frustratingly more aware of him.
Jaskier wasn't sure what precipitated it, but an attack was starting nonetheless, and he was quickly searching for an excuse to escape for a moment with his herbs. He's so caught up in his reeling mind and swollen throat that he doesn't notice Geralt stop, nearly walks straight into Roach's backside. A firm hand on his shoulder stops him.
"You're unwell." He peers back up at Geralt, meeting concerned amber eyes, and shakes his head.
"I'm fine," he insists with the wave of his hand. "Just a little out of shape, what with not traveling for so long." He can see the regret flicker across Geralt's face, and he feels almost guilty for even mentioning their time apart. Either way, the waver in his voice betrays him.
"And I'm a milkmaid," Geralt quips back, and Jaskier lets out a breathy laugh because, did Geralt just make a joke? But laughing is a mistake because now his chest feels tighter and his head is swimming and Geralt just needs to leave him alone so he can run off and inhale his herbs and be done with this.
"It's nothing," he retorts, but it comes out weak, flimsy. That awful cough comes, doubling him over and leaving tears streaked down his face. Before he can understand what's happening Geralt is easing him to the ground, tucked against a tree. He crouches in front of him, brow set with worry, and lifts a palm to Jaskier's forehead.
"No fever," he hums, looking equal parts relieved and concerned. "Tell me what you need, Jaskier." Geralt's voice is subdued but firm, insistent. Jaskier averts his gaze, stares to the side at the rustling trees.
"In my pack," he mutters, tugging at his fingers in his lap. "Ephedra, in a vial." Geralt disappears, and returns with the herb. Jaskier takes it with a shaking hand, lifts it to his mouth, and takes in a rattling inhale. His throat clears and he pants out a sigh of relief. After a few moments, Geralt rises again.
"We have to keep moving." Jaskier stumbles back to his feet, legs trembling beneath him. He was always a little shaky after an attack, between the lack of oxygen and the herb itself. But he could keep up, had done so plenty of times before. "Here," Geralt grunts, tugging him by the collar, and he nearly pitches forward with the sudden movement. Geralt is lifting him from beneath his arms, and he fumbles to grasp his shoulders before being ultimately deposited onto Roach's back. Geralt must see the way his mouth is hung open in surprise, because he explains, "It'll be faster this way."
"You only let me ride her when I'm dying," he chokes. "I'm not dying. I'm fine, Geralt." Maybe if he can still get up and keep walking he'll be able to prove that he's still worth keeping around, that Geralt doesn't need to leave him at the nearest town and abandon him again. He tries to swing off the horse but Geralt's hands stop him.
"Stop it," he commands, and Jaskier obeys. He runs his fingers through Roach's fur. "What has gotten into you?" Jaskier gapes at him.
"What?" He knew exactly what had gotten into him, but how was he supposed to explain to Geralt how completely terrified of being left alone again he was. He blinks a few times, realizing how tightly he's grasping at Roach's fur. "It's--" he lets out a shaky exhale. "Sorry." He knows this is a conversation he won't be able to avoid for much longer, but mercifully the Witcher just grunts and commands Roach onward.
He's half-asleep on his bedroll, watching Geralt mill about their camp aimlessly, appreciating the air that flows in and out of his mouth easily. He's even more exhausted than he already is most nights, even despite having spent a solid hour or two on Roach.
"You gonna tell me what happened earlier?" Geralt asks, and he barely has the energy to lift his head slightly. He hums quietly, putting on his very best Geralt impersonation, and lets his eyes slide shut in the hopes Geralt will drop it. No such luck. "What are you hiding from me?"
"Mm? 's nothing," he grumbles into his blanket. Geralt is squatting in front of him, cast in silhouette by the fire. And he doesn't move. Finally, with a dramatic sigh, Jaskier picks his head up a little. "Asthma," he mutters.
"Asthma?" Geralt repeats, and he buries himself deeper under his blanket. There's a moment of silence, in which he secretly hopes Geralt's left him alone. He has no such luck. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you'd never let me travel with you." His words hang in the air for a moment, bookended by even more silence.
"I'm not going to stop letting you join me," Geralt's carefully-chosen words finally fill the air. Jaskier blinks his eyes open and finds Geralt has returned to his own bedroll. "I just need to know how to help you." Jaskier hums again, because words are an endeavor too taxing at the moment, and Geralt lets him drift to sleep.
Jaskier is getting way too old for this shit, he starts to consider, and now his travels have found the addition of Geralt's child surprise. And on this particular journey, she got sick. No matter how minor the illness, Jaskier was too compassionate for his own good sometimes, and he pampered Ciri like his life depended on it, even carrying her on his back when she started to drift off on Roach.
So he should've known it would only be the natural progression of events when he fell ill with whatever it was she'd had. But he's surprised nonetheless when he wakes up to a pounding head and wet cough.
"Can't we stay a little longer?" He can't help but smile as Ciri pleads with Geralt on his behalf. She'd make a good courtier, he muses. She's snuggled up next to him, scarcely enough room on the bedroll for the both of them.
"Another hour, but then we need to get moving." Ciri gives him a wide grin, the sort that lights up her whole face. Geralt kneels beside them, runs a hand across Jaskier's forehead with a low hum. "We can stay at the inn when we get to town."
"Thank you." His voice is rough and still thick with sleep. Geralt disappears again, presumably to prepare breakfast or shine his armor for the dozenth time or just brood for all he knows. He mouths a thank you to Ciri as well.
Their lion cub returns his caretaking tenfold, preening over him, insisting he eat and drink. When he lags behind, she slows to walk beside him, and when he starts to stumble she demands Geralt let him ride Roach. Geralt kept a watchful eye on him, and he knew why.
The arrangement when they reach the inn is simple. They'll stay for a few days, Geralt will take a couple of contracts, and Jaskier and Ciri will stay behind and look after each other. No one besides Geralt is particularly keen on his plan, but they need the coin, and Jaskier knows it'll drive Geralt crazy if he doesn't have anything constructive to do.
Geralt hasn't made it back yet the first evening, Ciri was panicking, and Jaskier couldn’t breathe. He was on the bed, propped against the wall, head tilted back and breathing shallow while Ciri paced the room in an anxious loop.
"Can you…" he trailed off with a harsh cough caught on the inside of his elbow. "Herbs," he tried again. "In my pack." She nodded resolutely, burrowing into his bag and retrieving that familiar vial, brandishing it to him from across the room. "That's it." She watched nervously from the other bed as he inhaled intently, relaxing against the wall as his breath evened out. Finally, he was able to take everything in, the bedcovers kicked off the bed and discarded on the floor, the contents of his pack scattered, and one very teary-eyed Ciri.
"Are you okay now?" She asked quietly from the opposite bed, arms wrapped around her knees. She looked rattled.
"I'm okay. Here, pass me that, it's okay," he tried his best to sound soothing despite the gravel in his voice. Ciri wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and gave a small nod, retrieving the lute leaning in the corner. Jaskier patted the bed next to him, and she crawled in, passing over the instrument. "What do you want me to play, princess?" He asked, and her tear-streaked face lit up.
"Geralt's song," her answer comes immediately. He smiled back, settling the instrument in his lap.
"Now, you know I can't sing right now, okay?" She nodded again, curling against his chest with a yawn. He cleared his throat and started plucking out the familiar melody of Toss a Coin. He doesn't need his voice, anyway; this is Ciri's favorite song, and she sings it by heart. Eventually, her voice dropped off, and he reached over to set his lute on the floor before joining her in sleep.
When Geralt finally returns that night, it's to a fast-asleep bard and his daughter stirring slightly in his arms. He deposited his swords and armor in the corner of the room before shuffling over to the bed, hushing her as she tried to whisper-explain what'd happened.
"Shh, you're both okay. I'm here." She scooted to the side, and Geralt slid in beside her, wrapping one arm around her and snaking the other behind Jaskier's shoulders.
Jaskier is getting too old for this, but when he wakes up draped in morning sunlight to Geralt and Ciri still asleep beside him, he knows he's right where he's supposed to be.