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Jaskier was curled up on the cold stone floor, his arms ached from where he’d been strung up and questioned by the thugs that Nilfgaard called sorceresses. His mouth was dry and his lips were chapped and bleeding. His skin was taut over his bones after days, weeks, months of being a prisoner, but he never gave in. Despite everything that had happened between them on the damned mountain, he never gave in. The bard that never stopped talking. Hah! Nilfgaard must be furious. Jaskier still never stopped talking but he was incredibly skilled in talking about nothing at all, much to the displeasure of his captors. Of course, it helped that he didn’t actually know the information they were asking for. Geralt had never trusted him enough to invite him to the elusive witcher keep.
All he had was a name.
And he refused to give that up. It was all he had.
Yennefer coming to rescue him had been a surprise. The pair of them had never really seen eye to eye, he’d always resented her relationship with Geralt and she… well, he wasn’t entirely sure why she’d always hated him so much. Jaskier used to dream that it was because she’d seen somewhere in Geralt’s mind that the witcher was in fact in love with Jaskier.
It was a foolish dream, and he was but a fool.
Still it made the lonely nights a little warmer, and it kept him sane during the worst Nilfgaard threw at him. Yennefer being captured during her rescue attempt had been the end of his hope. It wasn’t like Geralt would save them. They’d both burned bridges there, and if Geralt came then… well… Jaskier didn’t even want to think about that. So he hugged his arms around his chest and tried to fall back asleep, the moonlight was still streaming through the gap in the wall and he’d need all his strength come morning.
Sleep didn’t come easy. He was exhausted but the ache in his muscles and a throbbing pain in his head stopped him from falling. Jaskier wanted to cry, but he had no tears left to give. He was ready to scream but he didn’t want to give Nilfgaard the satisfaction.
“No!” Yennefer moaned, rolling over, the dimeritium chains jangling as she moved.
Jaskier sat up, rubbing his eyes wearily, and peered at Yennefer. Her wrists were red raw from where the cuffs had chafed against her skin. Usually flawless raven locks were knotted and messy, matted with blood and dirt just like his own.
“Yennefer?” he asked, crawling weakly across the floor. They hadn’t bothered to chain him up which was a blessing and maybe a little bit insulting. He wasn’t even considered a threat, and well, they were fucking right.
He’d managed to do shit all.
“Get off me,” Yennefer slurred, tossing and turning, pulling at the chains that dampened her magic and kept her captive.
She was having a nightmare. Jaskier’s brow furrowed, unsure whether to wake her or let the nightmare run its course. He couldn’t remember which was better, but as she got more and more distressed, he decided he couldn’t just sit and watch anymore. He gripped her shoulder, shaking gently. “Yennefer? Wake up, Yen,” he winced at the nickname. Only Geralt ever called her Yen but it had just slipped out.
“Geralt?” she asked wearily.
Jaskier laughed bitterly. What a bloody mess he’d found himself in? It was the djinn magic. That’s all. It was always the bloody djinn magic. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a shaky breath. “No, not Geralt. It’s Jaskier, a poor second choice, I know.”
“Oh fuck,” Yennefer groaned as her violet eyes finally fluttered open, the whites of her eyes red and the normally piercing expression was glassy. “I was supposed to rescue you.”
Jaskier scoffed, absentmindedly taking her hand. She looked so weak but still she refused to back down. It was this strength that Jaskier had always admired in her. “You had a nightmare.”
Yennefer just closed her eyes. “Seems like I haven’t woken up from it either.”
“Do-do you want to talk about it?” Jaskier asked with a cock of his head, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know, but it seemed like the polite thing to ask.
Yennefer sighed. “Can you actually shut up long enough for me to tell you?” she quipped but her tone lacked the usual bite.
Jaskier smirked, made a gesture of locking his lips shut and then waved at her to continue. So she did. She spoke of the horrors of her childhood, how it had morphed into dreams of Aretuza, the feeling of her own legs turning into a long slimy tail of an eel, lightning crashing, racing through her body, full of power but still helpless. Bound and tied to a witcher, trapped by her own love, love that wasn’t even real.
The girl who wanted everything and yet the world seemed to take and take and take and she couldn’t get free. She could never get free.
Jaskier’s heart ached for her by the time she had finished, but he didn’t speak. He just kept hold of her hand, mindful of where the cuffs had cut into her skin. Yennefer didn’t cry, Jaskier wished he could say the same. He wiped away the tears with his free hand, and when Yennefer was finished talking he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a hug. The sorceress had asked him not to talk, and for the first time in his life he actually obeyed. It felt important, it felt right. After everything she’d said and everything she’d trusted him with. It wasn’t his voice that needed to be heard.
He decided that if he survived this, if they both survived this then he would tell Yennefer’s story. No, he would try his best to capture it, but it wouldn’t be him that sang it. He smiled softly as a lilting melody already began to weave like ivy in his mind. He would give this song to Priscilla, with Yennefer’s permission of course. He’d been cruel with “Her Sweet Kiss” and he knew now that his friend was far more than he’d ever realised.