Chapter Text
“Toss a coin to your witcher, o valley of plenty
O valley of plenty…”
There were two things wrong with the person singing. Firstly, he was flat and out of tune. Secondly, they always sang when they began their work.
It was all becoming a bit of a fever dream to Jaskier at this point. The constant singing of Toss a Coin, that made Jaskier ready to rip his hair out.
They would sing all day, then ask where Ciri and Geralt were. Jaskier’s answer was always the same. He didn’t know.
Jaskier never lied, he never told tales. Sure, maybe some of his songs were exaggerated but when it came to this question, Jaskier didn’t know.
“Are you ready to sing, Julek?” the main ringleader asked as he stepped out of the shadows. He held a long slender blade between his fingers. Jaskier’s stomach twisted inside him.
“It’s Julian. Or Jaskier. If you’re going to torture me, at least get my name right,” Jaskier muttered.
That earned him a backhanded slap. The blood tasted copper, staining his lips. It was all too much. But Jaskier had trained himself not to think about it anymore, to not think of the pool of blood in his mouth.
“Where is the butcher and the princess?”
“I am not their keeper.”
Another slap.
Someone was still singing Toss a Coin. Jaskier thought he screamed at them to stop; maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was crying, maybe he was vomiting. His wrists were tied down, his lute smashed in the corner of the room.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Someone told me, the butcher calls you Little Lark,” the man moved to sit in front of Jaskier, untying one of his hands and tracing the lines of his palm. “Let’s see how well you sing.”
Jaskier noticed that it was raining. That the sound of the rain hitting the tin roof could be heard. He remembered walking with Geralt in the rain, how the mud was up to his knees at some point.
Yet he always walked.
This was another walk that Jaskier would go on for Geralt. There was the chance he was not going to be saved. There was the chance that this was going to be what killed him.
“I was a butcher too, many years ago,” the man explained, his fingertips like feathers along Jaskier’s palm. “Our hands, they hold tendons and nerves. You need this one to play the lute, don’t you?” his fingertips stopped on the curve of Jaskier’s palm.
Jaskier had been educated, he knew anatomy. And he knew where the man was currently pressing was the center point of the nerves in his palm. Jaskier looked away but someone jerked his head back into position. “No, you’ll watch this,” the voice purred in his ear.
And like a master tuning an instrument, the ringleader plucked at every nerve and tendon with his long knife.
Jaskier let the darkness consume him.
*
It was morning, the sun cutting through the haze of the meadow from where Jaskier sat. He had found himself a rather lovely little rock to perch on, watching as Geralt moved through a set of exercises, swinging his blade at nothing but moving as a dancer did.
“I should write a song about your ass!” Jaskier called. He knew better than to interrupt Geralt when he was training, but he couldn’t resist. He would be doing an injustice to the continent if he didn’t spread the word on what a perfect little bum Geralt of Rivia had.
Geralt looked at him with a raised eyebrow, a scowl that said ‘really?’
“I’m just saying,” Jaskier muttered with a shrug. Geralt walked towards him, sheathing the sword and standing in front of Jaskier. There were beads of sweat on his forehead, his hair stuck to the skin.
“You need to wake up, Jask.”
“What?”
“You need to wake up,” Geralt repeated.
“But this dream is lovely,” Jaskier whispered.
Geralt leaned down, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier clenched his jaw, swallowing the lump of emotion in his chest.
“Don’t make me go back.”
“We will find you,” Geralt said firmly. “Soon, Jaskier, you need to run.”
“How will I know?”
“You’ll feel it,” Geralt assured him.
Jaskier watched as the witcher disappeared. Just as he had done on the mountain, just as he had done so many times before.
This time, Jaskier did not follow. This time instead he returned to his cell in the middle of nowhere.
*
Jaskier awoke as though he had been drowning, taking a gasp. The air burned his lungs, it was a few heartbeats later that he registered the pain in his hand.
Oh, his hands.
Years ago, when he was younger, his mother told him you can tell a lot about someone by how their hands felt and looked. His mothers’ hands had been lovely and smooth because she was a lady. His fathers’ hands were littered with scars from being a warrior, and his own was covered in callouses from the craft he had dedicated his life to. The odd scar from horses or life, but that was nothing compared to the state his hands were in now.
The sob bubbled in his chest and got choked on by the blood in his mouth. The liquid dribbled down his chin mixed with his tears as he looked at his hands. His fingers didn’t even straighten, the delicate lines that decorated them like artwork. He had no use for his hands now. He could feel it, or more he could feel the loss of touch.
His hands were his craft. His hands were his life. His hands were his everything. Jaskier needed them not just to play, but to feel. The touch of a lover, the feeling of a horse’s mane, tracing the spines of books. The world was made to be felt, not seen.
And now, Jaskier lost his touch.
The sob heaved again, bursting through him. He let himself choke on it, pain burning in his eyes.
“No,” he whispered, dropping his chin to his chest. “No, please,” he sobbed.
No more feeling the scars on Geralt’s hand, no more threading his fingertips through the Witcher’s hair before he braided it.
His hands were crusted in blood, swollen and they smelt. He knew there was an infection there. The smell was evident enough. In his head, Jaskier heard the continual echo of Toss A Coin. One of his greatest hits now made him want to die.
Jaskier closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a deep breath. There was no heaven here, while life on the road with Geralt had been rough, it had almost felt like heaven. Even after the mountain, even after the pain, Jaskier still had faith in Geralt. Jaskier’s life had been dedicated to studying Geralt’s life, to the man’s art and form.
What would Geralt do in this situation?
Jaskier was not restrained anymore. His wrists weren’t tied, nor were his feet. Above him, there was a window, a few stones on the ground, and loose rubble. Trying to breathe was like trying to drag a body through water, it was so heavy and made his limbs feel weak. But he did it. He forced himself to draw a breath, and then another as he stood and tried to climb through the gap.
His hands didn’t work. No matter how hard Jaskier tried to grab a shelf to pull, they couldn’t do it. His pain was turning into anger, and that was fuelling him on even more. Like a fire in the pit of his stomach.
“Get it together,” Jaskier said firmly. “Get it together.”
Jaskier bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to wake his body into some sort of awareness. Then he jumped, hooking his elbows over the ledge and pulling himself up with whatever strength he had left. His feet clambered at the wall; with luck, he found a slight ledge. It was enough for him to stick his toe into and with that, pushing himself fully out of the gap in the wall.
People often thought bards were stupid, that they had no sort of common sense. Well, this bard had not spent most of his life following a witcher to not learn how to escape.
Except, had this been Geralt. Geralt would’ve probably killed his way out. Or, Geralt would have landed on his feet and ran off. Jaskier did neither. Jaskier landed on his shoulder, and there was a sickening crunch as it took the impact.
The crunch made Jaskier’s vision go white. It took a few blinks before he regained the vision, and to Jaskier’s joy, he did not know where he was. There was nothing.
There was truly, nothing.
Jaskier gritted his teeth as he stood up, glancing down at his arm and frowning as he saw it hang at an angle that was not healthy. It was dislocated, but that was a problem for later.
Find a weapon, Geralt’s voice echoed in his head. Find something to protect yourself with. Aim for the knees or neck.
“Well, that’s helpful,” Jaskier muttered. Was he truly delusional that now he was talking to himself? With some reluctance, Jaskier walked across the yard and sighing when he found a long wooden pole. While it wasn’t a sword, it was something.
Someone many years ago told Jaskier to learn how to make his pain his weapon. To be the master, to be the sailor. That his pain was an ocean, and he was to sail it. He was to use it and discover new lands. Perhaps now, the new lands that Jaskier was to discover were safety.
That was the thing about explorers though. They always discovered things that were already there.
Jaskier took a step, pressing his back to the wall and counting to ten. Then moving through the shadows. It was that moment when the sun broke the sky into shadows and painted the earth red as she set before the moon climbed into the dark night sky. This often had been Jaskiers favorite moment of the day, because a poet could describe a sunset a million ways and never grow tired.
Now, he needed the shadows. He needed that to hide. Every step he made was quiet, as he crawled along the wall keeping himself as best, he could from view. Part of him felt sick, but Jaskier was quickly making his pain become his weapon.
Faintly, Jaskier heard a snort. He tilted his head in the direction, trying to source the noise. He heard a louder one the sound of a horse flicking its tail. Carefully, Jaskier moved in the direction of the horse, stopping at the tiny wooden gate. The pen the horse was being kept in was hardly big enough for a Shetland pony, never mind the horse that was in it.
“Hello,” Jaskier whispered. “Who are you?” he extended his hand but quickly jerked it back when the horse charged. His ears pinned flat, and his teeth bared. Jaskier moved out of the way and looked at the horses’ legs, he saw the remains of a rope burn, though no rope was on him. “You’re being tortured too?” Jaskier asked.
The horse grunted, flicking his head upwards and the whites of his eyes rolling slightly. Under a closer inspection, Jaskier could see the beatings the horse had taken.
“Listen to me,” Jaskier said, clicking his tongue. “Listen, I’m not going to hurt you. They hurt me too, see?” he held his hands out again for the horse to inspect them. He did that time, the warm breath on the open wounds made Jaskier flinch. There was a slight jerk from the horse at the sudden movement, but he kept one ear pricked forward.
“I’m trying to escape,” Jaskier whispered. “I think you want to as well, no?”
The horse grunted, shifting away to give Jaskier space. He silently prayed thanks to the Gods, swinging his leg over the gate and getting into the tiny pen. The horse shifted his weight impatiently, Jaskier could feel the restless energy.
“Easy,” Jaskier soothed, pressing one hand to the horse’s shoulder. The horse reared, making Jaskier stagger backward, his eyes wide.
When the horse landed, he looked at Jaskier. Truly looked at him and swung his head.
Jaskier had grown up with horses. He had at one point wanted to train them for the royal stables but gave it up to perform. Except now, Jaskier didn’t think twice. He kicked the gate open, then swinging onto the back of the stallion. Jaskier’s legs hugged the sides of the horse, his hands fumbling to grab a fistful of mane to keep himself centered.
They had barely made it when the horse stopped suddenly. Jaskier looked up and saw three of the men that had been torturing him.
“What do you think?” Jaskier asked the horse, his left hand hadn’t been as badly abused as his right. Jaskier wrapped the mane around his left hand as tightly as he could, sitting deeper on the horse's back. The wooden pole he found sat loosely in his right hand now.
Make your pain obey you, Geralt’s voice murmured. Do it. You’ll escape.
“I wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with if I hadn’t known you,” Jaskier muttered to himself. Jaskier pressed his leg against the horse to get him to turn and then taking a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”
Jaskier swung the wooden pole over his head and the horse lunged. At this point, Jaskier was beginning to think perhaps the horse was a little bit bloodthirsty, but at this moment of time, Jaskier wasn’t going to critique the horse. As the horse lunged, Jaskier swung the pole around to collide with one of the men. It hit him perfectly on the back of the head, and Jaskier watched as the man collapsed to his feet.
The horse trampled him, jumping to the next and kicking out. Jaskier hit the other one, twice and then throwing the pole down, digging his heels into the horses’ sides.
There was a bit of hesitancy in the horse’s stride.
They did not have time to hesitate, they didn’t have time to think. Jaskier pushed again, letting out a growl. The horse below him eruptted. He jumped into action, his stride quickly eating the earth up below him and soon the only noise that Jaskier could hear was the thunder of the horse below him. Soon, they were in the open, they were free.
Jaskier did not know where they were going, or how they would be found. All he knew was that he had escaped, he was free.
As the pair galloped towards something, the tears stopped running down Jaskier’s face. He could no longer feel his hands, and his shoulder was clicking in a way that made him worry.
We will find you, Jask. Geralt’s voice whispered.
Jaskier pressed his heels deeper into the horse's sides. Geralts voice lingered in his mind, like a jagged hook keeping him from an edge.
No. Geralt would not find Jaskier. Jaskier was done with needing to be saved. He would save himself this time around.