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Hunts were never straightforward. Jaskier knew this, he’d ranted about this in great depth to Geralt so many times on their travels that he’d lost count, and yet he never seemed to learn. If he was a smart man - and he liked to think he was -, he would have told Geralt to go on the hunt without him, that he would stay in town and try to make them a few Crowns. But what was it he’d said? “No Geralt, I’ll come too. Maybe I can be of some assistance...or I can watch from a distance and get inspired for our next song. Don’t you growl at me, I’m coming whether you like it or not, and if you leave me here I’ll just follow you and probably get myself killed along the way, and that’s just something you’re going to have on your conscience. Do you really want to deal with that, Geralt? Do you?”
He should have listened to Geralt’s grunting and stayed behind, he thought to himself now, as a thick black tentacle wound itself around his body and lifted him several feet above the swamp. It wrapped around him several times over, binding his arms to his side and effectively squeezing the fight from him. He could barely breathe, the pressure on his chest so tight that his lungs struggled to take in any air at all - he imagined bones cracking, imagined ribs grinding together beneath the skin. Just the thought of it made him nauseous.
Or perhaps it was the smell of the zeugl doing that. If he’d had the breath and if the situation was a little less terrifying than it currently was, he’d have joked to Geralt that it smelled just like him when he’d gone too long on the road with no bathing facilities.
As it was, he just screamed. Or, he tried to, anyway. The moment he was able to get out more than a squeak, he felt the tentacle wind tighter around him. It moved higher on his body, from his chest to his shoulders, and then began to wrap around his neck. That was when true panic kicked in, when the fight which had been squeezed out of him returned - he swung his legs wildly, kicking at what little of the beast he could reach. He thrashed and twisted, clawing at the part of the tentacle which encircled his waist, but with the binding so tight against his arms he could barely move his hands. And, before it tightened itself around his throat, he let out one final yell.
“Geralt! Fucking kill it already!”
He was barely able to finish his cry before the tentacle tightened around his throat like a slick, rancid noose, and what little oxygen he was able to take in was abruptly cut off.
Almost immediately, pressure began to build behind his eyes and in his chest as his lungs strained to take in air. He arched his back against the tentacle’s tight grip, his head thrown back as far as it would go as he fought for a breath which would not come. Fear gripped his heart and sent tears streaming down his cheeks, his vision going dark and blurred around the edges. He was going to die. He was going to die in a filthy, stinking swamp, strangled by a monster he’d only learned the existence of less than 24 hours before. And he was going to die with Geralt nowhere to be found.
He knew logically that the witcher had to be there somewhere - he had a contract to kill the zeugl, after all. But whatever he was doing, he was doing it quietly and out of sight. The zeugl didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned about another presence, all of its focus on choking the life out of Jaskier.
Jaskier’s ears were ringing now, and his head was thick and his thoughts sluggish. His struggles weakened as a lack of air began to truly take its toll, his body going limp in the beast’s grasp. The panic which had gripped him seemed to lessen, though, and was replaced by a sense of...not bliss, exactly, but acceptance. Acceptance that this was where he would die.
As the world grew dark around him, he was vaguely aware of a voice, but it sounded so far away that he could barely make it out and wasn’t entirely sure that it wasn’t some hallucination in his final moments. A tiny part of him insisted that it was important, that he had to focus on the voice and listen to what it was saying. But before he could strain his ears to listen, the tentacle suddenly tensed around him, bringing with it a fresh wave of agony as it squeezed him impossibly tighter.
In his final moments of consciousness, he was aware of the grip suddenly falling away, and of his body falling through the air.
He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
--
“-wake up!”
Jaskier jerked into awareness as a hand gripped his shoulder and gave it a firm shake, sending waves of pain across his body. His chest felt like it was on fire, and the violent shaking did nothing but intensify it to near unbearable levels. He let out a pained cry, throwing his head back as if to try and distance himself from the agony. But instead, the cry only brought further pain, this time in his neck - it was as if he’d swallowed shards of glass which were now slicing his throat to pieces.
Overwhelmed by the pain, tears welled in his eyes and he began to sob.
The hand on his shoulder abruptly vanished and for some reason, this only brought more tears. He hadn’t noticed until now - so overwhelmed by the pain - that the firm grip had been somehow grounding, had offered him something to focus on other than how horrific he felt. And now...it was gone.
“Geralt,” he tried to choke out, but could barely even get the first syllable out before he had to stop. So instead, he threw one hand out and felt blindly for the witcher, swatting and flapping at empty air. For several long, frightening seconds, he could find nothing, and his panic increased tenfold.
He was alone, and in so much pain that his eyes were clenched tightly shut and his entire body was trembling. He was alone and vulnerable and he was terrified, because what if the zeugl came back? What if Geralt hadn’t killed it and it came back to finish him off? He couldn’t help but imagine the tentacle wrapping itself around him once more, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until his ribs were crushed and his lungs were ruined…
A hand brushed his arm and he couldn’t hold back a flinch. This time the hand didn’t pull away.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said softly. “You need to breathe. Your throat is damaged, you need to calm down before you do more damage to it.”
Jaskier hadn’t realised that he was hyperventilating, but then that would explain the lightheadedness - and possibly the burning in his chest, although that could just as easily have been his ribs. He forced himself to breathe deeply, but cut himself off abruptly as it led to yet more pain - he just could not catch a break, could he? He really should have stayed back at the inn and taken advantage of the warm fire, flowing ale and patrons to serenade.
“Not too deep,” Geralt warned, as if Jaskier hadn’t already figured that out for himself. And while Jaskier wanted to snap at him, he couldn’t bring himself to let out so much as a squeak for fear of the pain it would bring. Instead, he nodded.
Slowly but surely, the pain began to fade to more manageable levels. His muscles loosened from their wound up state and finally he was able to open his eyes. Almost immediately, his gaze landed on Geralt looming over him, brow furrowed and jaw clenched. He was splattered in mud and what Jaskier guessed was the blood of the zeugl - it was black and ichorous, so thick that it clung to the witcher’s skin and hair in clumps. Jaskier almost threw up at the sight of it, only just able to catch himself before he heaved - his throat would not thank him for that, he reminded himself as he forced himself to breathe through his nose.
“Geralt?” he tried to say again, but flinched and gritted his teeth as his throat protested.
“Stop talking, bard. You’re just going to make it worse.” Jaskier wasn’t looking at the witcher as he said this, but he fully imagined a grin to accompany the words - Jaskier, who could talk for Novigrad, forced to be silent? It was Geralt’s dream, some peace and quiet after years of listening to non-stop rambling, singing, ranting and humming. But when he looked up, he found no such smile, just a hard frown and a look of...was that concern? Even after all this time, Jaskier was still so unused to seeing Geralt look like he cared. Seeing it now sent a pang through Jaskier’s chest that he couldn’t quite put a name to.
I’ll be ok, he wanted to say, not because he knew that for a fact - in fact, he was pretty sure that he’d be the opposite because a bard without a voice was no bard at all, not to mention that with how quiet Geralt was he was sure he was going to go mad -, but because he wanted to get rid of the worry on Geralt’s face. To spare his throat, and to prove that he was listening to the witcher’s advice, he offered a wan smile and rubbed at his throat with one hand - wincing as he put undue pressure on bruises. He placed his other hand on top of Geralt’s and gave it a gentle squeeze.
Surprisingly, Geralt didn’t pull away. He just stared at their joined hands as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the gesture - and because it was Geralt, emotionally constipated Geralt, he probably wasn’t -, then looked up at Jaskier and nodded once. “It’ll just be a few days,” he said softly, like he knew that Jaskier also needed the reassurance.
Just a few days, Jaskier repeated in his head. He could stay quiet for a few days. Definitely.
Probably.
...maybe.