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If there was one thing in the world Jaskier hated more than anything else, it was silence.
Ok, so that was probably a minor exaggeration - just a minor one, mind you - but the point still stood. He wasn’t the kind of person who could enjoy quiet, peaceful walks through beautiful landscapes. He couldn’t enjoy a meal if it happened in silence. Hell, he’d been told by several former suitors that even in his sleep he was prone to hums and mumbles. Silence was just...uneasy to him. When there was no noise, no conversation or music, he felt like he was doing something wrong.
To give Geralt credit, he was doing his best to compensate for the silence, offering up occasional stories or comments about their surroundings in the way Jaskier normally did. It was clear that none of this came naturally to him, in how long he was quiet between comments and in the awkward tone and wording he used when he did speak. But he was trying, and Jaskier loved him for that.
But eventually, after a few hours of walking, Geralt fell silent. He opened his mouth to say something, but then frowned, let out a grunt and closed it once more. He narrowed his eyes and glared at the ground as he walked, and no amount of Jaskier poking and prodding him from Roach’s back would make him lift his gaze. After a while, Jaskier stopped trying and was left to his own thoughts.
Thoughts which he’d been more than happy to ignore while Geralt was talking, and which now made his chest tighten as he could no longer block them out.
What good is a bard with no voice?, his mind asked. What could he bring to the table if not his music and wit? How could he be a voice for Geralt when the Witcher ran out of words if he could barely make a peep?
How could he fund them when there were no hunts? They could try and ration what money they had - he was no stranger to a few nights with no bed and an empty stomach, and Geralt could last even longer - but there was only so much they could do that because Geralt needed his ingredients and Roach needed to eat.
He was essentially useless, simply a burden, a second mouth to feed and back to watch. He wouldn’t be surprised if Geralt decided to -.
A hand grabbed the leg of his trousers and tugged on it. Jaskier’s head flew up.
They’d stopped on a road he recognised as being an hour or so outside the nearest town. Geralt had one hand on Jaskier’s leg and the other on the hilt of his steel sword, his eyes narrowed and his posture stiff with tension.
In front of them were five men, three armed with crossbows which they aimed - at him, Jaskier realised with a jolt.
“Witcher,” one man growled. His voice came across slightly muffled as each man had a piece of cloth tied around their nose and mouth, a peculiar choice and a strange disguise. “We’ve been looking for you.”
Jaskier resisted the urge to roll his eyes - how many enemies could one witcher have?
Geralt didn’t respond to the man, just walked forwards a few steps to position himself between Jaskier and the men.
The same man - the leader, Jaskier suspected - let out a rough laugh. “The bard doesn’t need to get hurt. Not if you do as we ask.”
Geralt let out a low growl. “What do you want?” he spat.
“Easy,” the man said, with an audible grin. “We want you to come with us to the man who hired us, and we want you to let him take your head.”
Bullshit, Jaskier snapped in his head. He opened his mouth to snap at the bandit, to tell him to fuck off because Geralt’s head was staying where it was, thank you very much. But before he could, he felt hands grab onto his doublet and pull. He couldn’t help but let out a yelp as he was dragged bodily from Roach’s back, grimacing at the pain such a short noise had brought. He struggled against meaty hands which manhandled him until he was held up by a fist in his hair, wrenching his head back so violently that he felt chunks of hair being torn from his scalp.
Fuck off, he wanted to yell, or perhaps, I hope Geralt makes your death a slow one. He wanted them to know he wasn’t afraid, that he’d survived worse than a bunch of hired thugs, but his throat was screaming and the pain was doing well to suck out any desire to open his mouth.
The leader of the bandits strode towards him. “This is the famed bard, right? The one who wrote those songs. Good to finally meet the person trying to make a monster sound less like a monster,” he said to Geralt, before turning to address Jaskier. “A thankless task, if you ask me. A shit is a shit even if you sing a song about it.”
Jaskier imagined punching the bandit, imagined wiping what he was sure to be a smug grin from his stupid, bigoted face. He fought against the hand in his hair, ignoring the stabbing pain as the grip tightened.
His struggles did nothing but entice the leader closer, the man clearly enjoying the effect his taunts were having. “Your witcher is an abomination. His head belongs on a wall,” he spat.
Jaskier saw red. He let his fist fly, colliding with the leader’s cheek and knocking the man to the ground. Jaskier made to follow up, tried to kick him while he was down, but a muscular forearm wrapped around his throat and tightened until he could no longer breathe.
For a few frightening moments, he was sure that it was the zeugl. He could smell its bitter stench in his nostrils, could feel its slime on his bare neck. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, could only stand there consumed by panic and memories.
“Leave off!” Geralt shouted, his voice breaking Jaskier from his flashback. He jolted back to awareness, his eyes darted around until they landed on Geralt standing with his hands held out at his sides. “He’s just a bard, he’s done nothing to you. Let him live and I’ll come with you.”
No! Jaskier tried to shake his head but couldn’t, tried to shout at Geralt, tried to do anything to tell him that he was being a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot and he had to stop that right now. But Geralt wasn’t even looking at him, his eyes fixed on the leader of the bandits as he struggled to his feet.
The bandit leader glared at Jaskier for several moments, his hands clenched into fists. He had hate in his eyes and Jaskier found himself tensing in preparation for an attack. But it never came, the leader turned away to address his men. “Prepare the witcher for delivery.”
Jaskier could only watch as the remaining bandits pulled out ropes and began to restrain Geralt. They took his swords and tossed them to the side, out of his reach. They pulled his arms roughly behind his back and secured them with rope at his wrists, elbows and biceps, forcing them to straighten uncomfortably. One of the men forced a length of rope between his teeth and tied it behind his head, keeping him silent. The rope was so thick that he couldn’t close his mouth around it, his lips held in an awkward sneer.
“What about the bard?” asked the man who still held Jaskier.
The leader looked Jaskier up and down, then spat a mouthful of blood. It caught Jaskier in the cheek, trickling slowly towards his chin. “Deal with him.”
Jaskier flinched as the forearm around his neck was replaced by the cold bite of steel. The sword pressed against the soft flesh just beneath his chin. He gritted his teeth as panic began to wash over him. For the second time in two days, he was sure that this was it, that this was the end. Geralt was restrained and he couldn’t even say anything to save himself. He had a flash of his own dead body abandoned on the side of the road, his throat slit and his lute stolen, imagined animals sniffing at it late at night. He felt tears begin to prick in his eyes but blinked furiously - he would not die with tears in his eyes.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and prepared himself for death.
“Wait!”
The sword dug into the smooth, bruised flesh of Jaskier’s throat as the bandit who held him paused before he could draw blood.
“He’s a bard,” one of the other men offered. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have our own personal entertainment? Killing him seems like a waste.”
The man who held Jaskier lowered the sword, but didn’t release his grip on the bard’s hair. He pulled on it, forcing Jaskier’s head back even further until the back of it rested on the bandit’s shoulder. “Well, bard? You gonna sing for your life? If you’re good, we let you live and we take you with us. If you’re bad, we slit your throat and let you bleed out in a ditch. Let’s hope you’ve had a warm up.”
Jaskier’s eyes widened and he pawed desperately at his throat, tugging away the collar of his doublet and indicating the bruises which stood out starkly against his pale skin. His fingers dug in painfully, but he was so full of panic that he couldn’t bring himself to be gentle. Please understand, he begged silently.
“What’s he doing?” asked one man.
“He’s pointing at his throat,” said another.
The bandit holding him dropped his grip from Jaskier’s hair and forced him to turn around. His rough fingers now grabbed Jaskier’s chin and forced his head upwards. He turned Jaskier’s head this way and that, studying the bruising with meticulous care. His eyes were narrowed in thought, his expression unreadable. Jaskier resisted the urge to squirm in his grasp, remembering the sword still held in the man’s spare hand.
He could barely breathe as the examination went on. Over the man’s shoulder, Geralt was glaring daggers and struggling against the thick ropes which held him prisoner. The man who watched him swung a fist at Geralt’s stomach, but the witcher barely recoiled despite what should have been a winding blow. Seeing that his attack had done nothing, the man hurriedly looked away, edging a few steps forwards to distance himself from Geralt.
The grip on Jaskier’s chin abruptly tightened, and he couldn’t hold back a gasp - the rough breath felt like broken glass in his throat, bringing tears to his eyes. The bandit glared at him, now looking thoroughly disgusted as if Jaskier’s mere existence was offensive. “What good is a bard without a voice? Useless. Worthless. Killing you would be a fucking mercy.” He lifted the sword until it hovered between them, inches from Jaskier’s face. “But that doesn’t mean it has to be fast.”
Jaskier barely saw the sword move before pain exploded in his head and his vision whited out.
He didn’t remember hitting the ground or curling into a protective ball, his arms held over his head. He barely registered the animalistic snarl or the yells of pain which filled the air around him.
His entire world was the pain in his head.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there, curled in a shivering, sobbing ball in the road. It could have been seconds or minutes or hours for all he knew, before hands were on him and forcing him to uncurl. He fought back weakly, swinging fists and elbows as his body was manipulated and straightened out. But he could barely keep it up, and it wasn’t long before he was exhausted and still.
He squeezed his eyes tight shut and awaited the bite of a blade.
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier kept his eyes shut.
“Jaskier!”
A hand on his shoulder gave him a rough shake and he forced his eyes open.
Geralt was crouched next to him, the remains of his restraints still wrapped around his arms. The rope gag hung around his neck, a sight which made Jaskier feel sick - or maybe it was the head injury, or a combination of both. He was splattered in blood, this time the bright red blood of humans.
The bandits lay dead on the road.
Geralt placed a hand behind Jaskier’s head and helped him to sit up. He poked at Jaskier’s temple, and only pulled back when the bard let out a hiss through gritted teeth. “No lump, but it’s gonna bruise. Better come up with a good story to tell.”
Jaskier couldn’t help but wince at those words. His throat was in more pain than ever and he’d never felt so helpless as he did then, unable to even speak to try and save himself. He wrapped his arms around himself in a loose hug and sighed softly.
“It’ll come back,” Geralt said softly. “It will. We’ll make sure of it. Come on, the town is close and they’ll have a doctor.”
Jaskier let himself be lifted to his feet, then onto Roach’s back. This time, Geralt climbed on behind him and let Jaskier lean against his muscular chest.
He really should have stayed in town.