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Jaskier is almost to the bottom of Holopole Mountain when it finally sinks in. Geralt’s words, his voice, the withering look in his eyes—each one another shard of glass embedded into Jaskier’s pincushion heart.
In all the years they’ve known each other, Geralt has never looked at him with such disdain—such raw and unrefined hatred. Certainly, he has been annoyed in the past, and exasperated, and even furious on one or two rare occasions wherein Jaskier did something particularly stupid, but all of that pales in comparison to the painfully honest mix of emotions roiling in Geralt’s golden glare.
Hurt. Heartbreak. Resentment. Loathing.
It is this look—more than the anger, more than the yelling, more even than the biting words accompanying it—which truly cements for Jaskier the reality of the situation.
It’s over. They’re done. After years of fighting and traveling and fighting some more (usually monsters but sometimes each other), of casual touches gradually welcomed instead of tolerated, of faint smiles and a fragile, flourishing friendship, Geralt has finally decided that Jaskier is not worth the trouble he brings with him, not worth the situations he always seems to land them in. Not worth saving, time and again, from dangers he ultimately brings upon himself.
So consumed is he in these crushing realizations that Jaskier does not notice the sound of approaching footsteps, nor the swish of metal sliding against metal. He does, however, notice when a gleaming sword is leveled at his throat, glinting in the mid-afternoon light.
“Where is the witcher known as Geralt of Rivia?”
The question comes from a man—no, Jaskier corrects himself, eyeing the impeccably polished armor emblazoned with a vaguely familiar crest, he must be a knight—who sits astride a horse, his features entirely hidden underneath his helmet, his arm outstretched to brandish his blade at the bard.
Jaskier sighs internally. Of course they want to know about Geralt. Everyone wants to know about Geralt these days, though he cannot blame them. Even in the wake of such a fraught parting as theirs, Jaskier still yearns to ascend back up the mountain, if only to know where Geralt is; what he is doing; what he is thinking.
Does he regret his words? Jaskier thinks not, for Geralt is not one to say things he does not mean. Perhaps he regrets the delivery, harsh as it was. He is not a cruel man, no matter what the stories say, and Jaskier would like to think Geralt had planned to let him down more calmly, if not more kindly, than he did, before the choice was taken from him by emotions he pretends not to feel.
Jaskier does not know this for certain, however, and that is what frustrates him most.
It is in his nature, this desire to know, to learn, to understand. It is what pushes him to always ask for details about monsters and hunts he knows Geralt will not give. It is what compelled him, once, to approach a fierce and lonely conundrum of a man with white hair and a heavy set to his shoulders in a small bar in Posada many years ago. It is what drove him to follow that man halfway across the Continent and back despite harsh glares and gruff responses, to prod at that little bud of companionship and nurture it into something like friendship, delicate as a spring flower.
Now, all that remains of that flower are wilting petals and a bleeding, hacked-off stem.
Jaskier has been silent for too long, a fact made apparent when he feels a rough shove at his shoulder, forcing his wandering, wistful thoughts back to the present.
“You are to speak when addressed by His Lordship,” says a nasally voice from behind him, and Jaskier cranes his head to identify it. He only now realizes he is surrounded by a group of about twenty or so guards, all clearly lower in station than the knight seated atop the horse but still leagues above a common thug, and they each have their weapons drawn and pointed in his direction.
Well, fuck.
Summoning what he hopes to be a charming yet harmless grin, Jaskier raises his hands in surrender.
“My sincerest apologies, my lord,” he says with as much of a bow as he can manage while a sword hovers inches from his precious vocal chords. He forces the sarcasm from his tone as he continues. “I’m afraid I do not know the whereabouts of Geralt of Rivia, but you are likely to find him if you wish to continue up this mountain.”
The knight does not drop his blade, but it wavers for a moment.
“He is not with you?”
Unable to keep a note of bitterness out of his voice, Jaskier responds, “Why would he be?”
At this, the knight lowers his sword completely. Jaskier cannot see his face, but he gets a distinct impression of puzzlement underneath that metal barrier.
“Are you not his companion, the bard Jaskier, who followed him into the lair of the fearsome beast terrorizing these lands?”
“I am he,” Jaskier admits, fighting to keep the smile plastered on his face, “but alas, mine and the witcher’s paths have parted since the resolution of our great adventure. I am off to compose my newest ballad, and he to another land in need of his services, if I were to guess.”
The knight pauses in careful consideration. Jaskier wants to take the opportunity to slip away, but though their leader has lowered his weapon, his guards still stand at the ready.
“Hm.” Finally, the man gives a decisive nod from atop his stallion. “Very well, then. You are to come with me.”
Jaskier steps back in alarm, holding his arms out and shaking his head as the men around him shift closer.
“Well, now,” he stalls, searching desperately for a way out, “you see, I really would love to, but I have some very pressing…uhm…business to attend to.” He continues backing up, seeing no gaps he could dart through to escape. “Yes, business! Away from here. Far away from here. So if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I really must be…going…”
Jaskier trails off as his back collides with something firm and unyielding. Looking back, he finds the biggest man he’s ever seen glaring down at him, arms crossed to flex biceps that could surely crush a man’s skull. Jaskier squeaks.
“If you will not come willingly,” the knight says, drawing his attention once more, “I’m afraid force must be utilized. Men, seize him.”
Before Jaskier can protest, he is shoved forward hard. Hands grab him tightly, and a blow to his temple with the hilt of a sword sends him to his knees.
As his vision fades to black, Jaskier cannot help himself from calling out. It is instinct, by now, and perhaps foolish desperation which grips his vocal chords in those final moments of panic.
“Geralt!” Jaskier cries, just as he has so many times before—always with the assured knowledge of imminent rescue, no matter the danger. This time, however, he knows—as surely as he knows his own heart—that no help is coming.
The witcher cannot hear him, not from this far away, and he likely would not answer even if he could. His feelings on the matter of their former acquaintanceship have been made abundantly clear.
Geralt will not save him. Not this time. Possibly never again.
He will not come.
He will not come.
Jaskier is not worth saving.
He knows there is something wrong as soon as he claws his way to wakefulness. He cannot move his arms freely, and it takes the many long moments spent fighting his way into a seated position to remember what had happened. It all comes flooding back, however, when he looks up, because across the room stands the man who ordered him captured.
The knight has his helmet off now, holding it loosely under his arm, and his impassive features tug at something in the back of Jaskier’s hazy, jumbled mind. The slope of his nose, the proud arch of his brow, the coldness in his eyes—it is all frustratingly familiar. However, it takes his eyes sliding down to the crest on his chestplate once more for things to finally click.
“Eyck,” he mutters, more to himself and not entirely of his own volition as realization battles through his muddled thoughts.
The knight—Eyck, Lord Eyck, for the resemblance is unmistakable now that Jaskier has made the connection to that stuck-up, dickish Sir Eyck he had the displeasure of making the acquaintance of on their way up Holopole Mountain—Lord Eyck inclines his head at his family name, and Melitele have mercy, Jaskier cannot deal with another one of them.
“Listen,” he begins, trying to wrestle his stupid, uncooperative thoughts into something actually resembling speech. “Listen, my lord, whatever you’ve been told, it’s probably not what you—”
“Silence.” Jaskier’s stomach drops, and he realizes, with a feeling awfully like dread, that for all their physical resemblance, this man shares none of the late Sir Eyck’s foolishness and all of his righteous fury. Lord Eyck steps closer, anger burning in his gaze. “My brother is dead. Do you deny this?”
Jaskier shakes his head.
“Of those who ascended the mountain with him, only two teams returned,” he continues. “The dwarves are already in conference with the king, but I sincerely doubt they could overpower my brother.”
“So you think the dwarves could slay a dragon but not Sir Eyck?” Jaskier asks, never able to keep his mouth shut.
The lord does not rise to the bait. Calmly, he states, “Someone must pay for the death of my brother.”
Suddenly, Jaskier understands. It does not matter who actually killed Sir Eyck of Denesle. It matters that someone is held accountable, else the family’s honor is on the line.
With a heavy sigh, Jaskier mutters, “And that person is me.”
Here, Lord Eyck actually laughs. It is a mulish sound, one which Jaskier ardently wishes to never hear again in his life.
“No, of course not,” the lord says, like Jaskier is a particularly slow child. “You are not nearly strong enough to best any of the Eyck family; not only would no one believe it, but we would become a laughing stock.” Jaskier rather thinks they are already something of a laughing stock, or Sir Eyck was, at the very least, but he wisely chooses to keep this to himself.
“Then why the hell am I here?”
“Well,” says Lord Eyck, “clearly the blame must fall on the witcher, for he is the only one with both the capability and the lack of moral character to commit such a heinous act.”
Jaskier’s blood runs cold. Fuck, of course they’re using the perfectly presented scapegoat right in front of them. It doesn’t matter that Geralt is more honorable than any of the Eycks could ever dream to be; he’s a witcher, so everyone will accept the most unthinkable claims about him.
The only silver lining is how obvious the plan is, and the knowledge that it will not, under any circumstances, work.
“So let me guess,” Jaskier bites out, trying to keep his voice level, “I’m the bait?”
“Indeed. When he comes to save you, I intend to hold him accountable for his crimes.”
Jaskier gives a hollow laugh, unable to help himself. “Well then, my lord,” he says, refusing to let the wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes coalesce into tears, “I’m afraid you will be sorely disappointed.”
Lord Eyck scowls.
“And why is that, pray tell?”
Jaskier shakes his head, refusing to say more. Lord Eyck looks like he wants to press further, but instead he simply says, “Hm. I must…I must consult with my mother.”
With that, Lord Eyck turns on his heel and strides away, a troubled look on his face. The heavy metal door slams shut behind him, and it locks with a crushing sense of finality, plunging the room into darkness.
Left alone, Jaskier takes stock of the situation as best he can. There are no windows here, and the only wall sconce in the room is empty, the torch having departed along with Lord Eyck. Visibility is greatly limited, but from what he’d seen earlier, the room is completely bare save for a chamber pot and a straw mat to sleep on. The walls are made of stone, the door of thick iron.
Jaskier resists the urge to cry. How in the hell is he supposed to get himself out of this? He has never been a master escape artist, nor does he have any particular skills which would lend themselves to his ultimate goal of continued survival. If he ever wants to see the sunlight again, however, he has to figure something out. There’s no one coming to save him.
Standing on shaky legs, Jaskier assesses himself next. His temple throbs, and he can feel blood crusting in his hair and drying in a trickle down the side of his face. His hands are bound tightly behind his back, wrists chafing against the rough material and shoulders aching at the prolonged strain.
Jaskier tests his range of movement. Heavy manacles encircle his ankles, joined together by a thick chain long enough for him to shuffle around, and he takes a few cautious steps, leaning against the wall for support. Connecting his leg restraints to a ring in the wall is another length of chain acting as a sort of leash, which allows him to traverse about half of the room, at his best guess.
Fearfully, for he is essentially navigating blind, Jaskier steps away from the wall. He knows he won’t be able to reach the door, directly opposite to where his tether is anchored, and it’s not like he could do anything to it even with full control of all his faculties, but what else is there to do but try? Sit here and waste away, that’s what.
Jaskier nearly stumbles when he reaches he reaches the edge of his radius, stopping himself just before his balance tips him forward. He does stumble when the door slams open, flooding the room with torchlight and effectively blinding his dark-accustomed eyes.
“Who the fuck are you?” Jasker sputters from where he’d landed unceremoniously on his ass. He squints at the blurry figure in front of him as his eyes adjust, but before he can make out any defining details, a sonorous, poisonous voice answers him.
“Lady Wilhelmina Eyck,” the figure states, finally resolving into the shape of a tall, stately, and frankly terrifying middle-aged woman. Jaskier gulps.
There is nothing particularly intimidating about her at first glance, save for the arching of one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and the thin line of her pursed lips. However, danger seeps from the way she holds herself—poised, completely still, ready to strike—and the steely look in her dark eyes promises pain if she doesn’t get her way.
“M—My lady,” Jaskier stutters, struggling to rise with dignity while lacking the use of his hands. Lady Eyck glides around him sedately, unhearing or uncaring of his nervous rambling. “A pleasure to meet you, certainly, but under erroneous circumstances. I can assure you it was not Geralt of Rivia who slew your son. He is a good man—”
The world tilts sideways as the ground is pulled out from under his feet. Jaskier yelps, flailing, until he falls flat on his face with a deafening crunch. He rolls onto his side, blood gushing from his nose, to stare in confusion and mounting horror at Lady Eyck.
Lady Eyck, who has Jaskier’s tether still grasped, daintily but firmly, in one hand. Her face is carefully, completely devoid of any emotion, and Jaskier is petrified.
“Do not speak to me of the virtues of Geralt of Rivia.”
The words are spoken calmly, quietly, but they may as well have been screamed for the vitriol burning in her eyes.
“Your son—”
“My son,” Lady Eyck interrupts, though her voice barely raises in volume, “was a fool who got what was coming to him. I do not care what happened to him; I am only surprised it did not happen sooner.”
“You—what?”
“The boy couldn’t accept that his brother inherited their father’s title after his passing, so he decided to go on some fool’s errand of a quest to earn a vassal state for himself.”
Jaskier is so incredibly confused right now, not to mention in quite a lot of pain and discomfort. With no way to staunch it, blood from his nose has now soaked the front of his shirt, and he is scared to get up for fear of the same thing happening again.
“Why are you trying to get justice for him, then?”
“Please,” Lady Eyck answers, somehow giving the impression of rolling her eyes despite her face remaining perfectly blank. “I would never lower myself to such a task. My elder son is the one who decided to take this up as his cause. It just so happened that his goals…aligned with mine, shall we say.”
It takes Jaskier longer than it should to piece together what she means.
“You want Geralt.”
Lady Eyck’s lip curls in disgust, the first emotion she has let slip past a wall of disinterest.
“I want Geralt dead,” she hisses, and oh, this must be where the Eyck boys got their temper from, “and you are going to help me with that.”
Jaskier wonders if this is the universe’s idea of a joke, or if he is meant to be the case study for dramatic irony. He has just had his heart ripped out by the man he considered to be his closest friend, and now he is apparently fated to die at the hands of one of said individual’s vengeful past lovers.
In some strange way, it makes looking at Lady Eyck seem almost like looking at himself through a warped and shattered mirror. The idea makes Jaskier shudder, to see anything of himself in her, or she in him, but perhaps it is this inexplicable, uncomfortable thing which loosens his tongue, for his next words are more honest than he intends them to be.
“Believe me, my lady,” Jaskier sighs, “I understand more than you realize. As I already told your son, however, keeping me isn’t going to work.” He bites his lip forcing himself to utter the words, to speak the truth. “Whatever affection there was between Geralt and I, it is gone now. He will not come for me.”
Silence. After a long moment of it, he dares to meet the eyes of his captor. Instead of the rage he expects after shooting down her grand plan, Jaskier is surprised and rather unsettled at the strange, curious look he receives instead. He feels much like a lab specimen being carefully dissected upon a tray.
“He has scorned you, too,” Lady Eyck observes with interest.
Jaskier simply shrugs, suddenly exhausted and wanting very much to just be done with this conversation. “I thought him my friend,” he murmurs, not caring whether she hears him or not, “but it turns out I was mistaken.”
Lady Eyck scoffs.
“Witchers do not have friends,” she sneers. “They have allies; they have tools, and when they are done with us, they throw us away.”
Jaskier is tired, so very tired. He cannot find it in himself to argue, to defend witchers, to defend Geralt. All he asks is a single question.
“Then why are you so sure he will rescue me?”
Lady Eyck smiles, and there is nothing but bitterness in the expression.
“Because Geralt absolves his guilt by playing the hero, and what is more heroic than saving someone who would do anything to keep him safe?”
Time passes in a blur after that. The only other people to enter the room are his guards, and Jaskier learns to dread their visits. They leave bruises on his jaw from forcing him to eat and blood on his clothes if he pretends to be asleep. Though he knows he should be doing something to escape, the thought gets buried deeper and deeper the longer he stays, and eventually it is all but forgotten under the weight of exhaustion and pain.
After many days—he cannot say how many, for food comes at random intervals, and it has been so long since he has seen the sun—Jaskier is stirred by the screech of metal hinges. The sound means pain, he knows it does, but he cannot muster enough willpower to care.
Everything hurts. His whole body is too weak to do anything more than curl his knees up to his chest. His left side is cold and numb where it is pressed against the floor, but to change positions would be to move, and he does not have the energy for even that.
Already drifting again, heedless of some distant alarm bell in his brain, he barely even registers the soft, cat-like footsteps entering the room, so unlike the guards and their loud clanging. They stop sharply just in front of him, almost seeming to falter, before moving to his other side.
He feels hands fumbling with the ropes around his wrists, and he groans at the rub of coarse fiber against raw, bleeding skin. The hands do not stop, though, and he finally blinks open swollen eyes to figure out what’s happening.
Squinting blearily through the low light, Jaskier cranes his head to peer over his shoulder. He sees a flash of white hair, but that cannot be right, because he knows, he knows it cannot be him, and yet it is. Jaskier’s throat is so choked with emotion he can hardly find the words he wants so desperately to say.
“You came.”
It is a statement, not a question, which leaves Jaskier’s dry, cracked lips in barely more than a croaking whisper.
Geralt pauses in the process of undoing Jaskier’s restraints. His hardened amber eyes ease ever so slightly around the edges, and his expression softens into something beautifully, terrifyingly genuine.
“You called.”
He says nothing more, but Jaskier feels his entire worldview shift, his mind rearranging everything he thought to be true in order to accommodate this new piece of information.
Oh, he thinks as Geralt picks him up ever so gently, never speaking a word but with something unspeakably tender written into every motion. Oh. I think I understand now.
Later, they will have a conversation, when Jaskier is sufficiently recovered and Geralt is insufficiently placated by reassurances of, “I’m fine, really, stop hovering like a mother hen!”
Later, there will be tears and confessions—Jaskier’s—and stilted words of worry and regret—Geralt’s—and awkwardness and making up and care, so much care, too much to express.
For now, though, there is this:
Geralt carries Jaskier in his arms like he is made of glass, like he is terrified of breaking him, and Jaskier knows, as surely as he knows the heart beating against his ear, that Geralt will always, always save him.
Jaskier knows, finally, that he is worth saving.