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There’s . . . Something.
Jaskier can feel it in the back of his mind. Like an itch that needs to be scratched, like a wound that burns and festers, heated from infection. A feeling Jaskier is all too familiar with.
Sat in a dank prison cell, his fingertips still vibrate with pain, of fire held too closely until it made his skin bloom raw. The burns on Rience’s face, his screams and melted skin, will haunt Jaskier for the rest of his life. But the look in Rience’s eyes as he pulled each sweet scream from him will stay with him, a second shadow the bard couldn’t shake.
Yes, that’s what it felt like. That feeling in the back of Jaskier’s mind like there was another’s presence in a room that should only have Jaskier in. Idly, Jaskier scratched his neck with the spoons the guard’s gave him with what Jaskier didn’t believe had ever been a living animal for food. His eyes flickered down to Gordon and his band of mice. They always said great songs came from experience. Well, no time like the present.
Shaking off the feeling, Jaskier began to murmur softly, the lyrics coming to him as he cast his eyes about the cell.
“Go fuck yourself, you whoreson, cos you’re -
“Hello, Jaskier.”
Jaskier stuttered the last words of the song, head snapping up. Black hair framing scarred skin and burning eyes stared back at him. Rience stood in front of him, a cruel smirk on his face.
Outside the cell, Jaskier heard the guard mutter but it melted into the blood roaring in his head. Had Rience opened a portal to get here? Fear pinched his skin and Jaskier clutched the spoons for dear life. He couldn’t do much harm with them unless he wanted to offer Rience half of his meal. That stuff could probably knock a grown man down.
Silent as a cat, Rience crouched in front of Jaskier. At eye level, Jaskier could see the full extent of damage Yennefer had inflicted. Half his face glazed over and red with burns and his eye now an unseeing blue. Despite it, Jaskier didn’t miss the rage burning in their nor the malice dancing on his lips.
“Are you finally going to tell me where Cirilla is hiding?” The mage asked, voice almost gentle and this must be a dream, an hallucination, anything than the reality that Rience was there.
And Jaskier, the fool that he was, started to sing again. If Rience wanted him to speak, he’d speak but it would be on his terms.
“ — you’re doing fucking with me!” Not taking his eyes from Rience, he began again, “altogether now and —“
The cell door swung open with a shriek. And Geralt - Geralt! - strides in and Jaskier is now convinced that his whole situation is the result of a liquor induced dream beaches Geralt is here. But it isn’t a dream — it’s a nightmare. Jaskier hasn’t seen or thought of Geralt since the mountain (that was a lie, of course he thought about Geralt, more often than what was probably sane). Anger rose in Jaskier’s chest, all those years of being ignored, of being treated as less, but one look at Geralt and it went. Jaskier could almost laugh at himself, at his pathetic infatuation.
Geralt explains it all and Jaskier already know his answer before Geralt even asks. When they leave, Jaskier turns back to where Rience had been. But there is nothing in his place, only the faint smell of burning.
To say everything goes to hell in a hand basket was the understatement for the century. Blood stains for floors of Kaer Morhen, medallions are scattered like coins tossed to the wind.
Ciri was swept away to the safety of the keep, shaking like a leaf. Jaskier wished he could offer some comfort but he knew she needed to be around those she loves, those who are safe to her. And Jaskier isn’t one of them.
Though Jaskier wanted nothing more than to admire the beauty of the keep, though his fingers itched to write a new song about the place (one he knows will be a hit) he cannot shake the look Voleth Meir gave him. Wearing Ciri’s face, she had regarded him coolly with glowing green eyes and a frightful smile that told Jaskier she knew something he didn’t.
Pain ached along Jaskier’s fingers and he hissed quietly, dropping the brush he was using to scrub the floors of blood. His fingers, still burned raw, flared up from time to time.
“What’s wrong, bard? Not use to the hard work?” Lambert called from where he was picking up debris from Voleth Meir’s attack - stupid Witcher strength. Quiet laughter from the others followed Lambert. Even Ciri’s lips quirked in a small smile and Jaskier felt he could take any insult, be the butt of any joke as long as Ciri could smile again. The poor child had been through enough.
Still, even as Jaskier picked up the brush again to scrub, he couldn’t shake the feeling of someone stood near him, someone who shouldn’t be there. He cast a glance behind his shoulder and froze. For a moment . . . For a moment he thought he saw the outline of someone, too hazy to make out. Jaskier swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He was tired, he tried to convince himself. Just tired. There was no one there.
The pain was too much to ignore. It started off like a pinprick, growing with every passing minute. The skin was red, blisters bloating. It felt like his skin was being pulled, his hands being turned inside out until all his nerves were exposed.
Rience’s torture seemed to follow him, an unwanted shadow. He hasn’t been able to stay in a room with a fire in since, dreading the hiss and pop of red flames. Instead, he’s secluded himself, feigning a headache when invited to the great hall to distance himself from the growling fire.
Even in his own room, Jaskier had stamped on the fire until it had quietened, its cruel laughter smothered. That’s how Geralt finds him. Any other time, Jaskier would be touched that the Witcher had sought him out. However, Jaskier can barely feel anything other than the throbbing pain of his fingers and numbing cold seeping into his body.
“When was the last time you slept?” Geralt asked, gently applying a salve to Jaskier’s burned hands. Jaskier wasn’t sure when Geralt noticed the burns nor when he thought to treat them. He can’t even remember Geralt opening the door.
He couldn’t remember the last time he slept since he got to Kaer Morhen. The itch, the feeling of someone in the room with him when know one was was growing. Every time Jaskier closed his eyes he thought the presence moved closer to him and he didn’t want to find out what would happen if it came too close.
“You know me, Geralt, can’t sleep when I’m writing,” he replied lightly, nodding absently to a desk covered in paper. Not that Jaskier had actually been writing anything. Every time he turned his back he swore there was someone creeping closer to him. Not that Geralt needed to know this.
Geralt gave one of his customary grunts in response and Jaskier sagged in relief even as the pain in his fingers increased when Geralt bound them with careful hands. He didn’t ask about the torture, no doubt Yennefer had told him already but there was a light in his eyes, one that told Jaskier he would listen. But Jaskier couldn’t find the words. They felt too big on his tongue, trying to push out all at once until he felt like he was choking.
Geralt eventually left him alone when the silence became too much.
Funny, Jaskier thought, he never felt alone. Not with prickling sensation that someone was stood in the room with him. Not when he swore he caught the silhouette of a someone standing in the corner.
Burning. He’s burning up from the inside out. A scream clawed it way from Jaskier’s throat, scratching to get out. The smell of burning skin is strong, making him gag. The pain becomes excruciating, flames travelling from his fingers to his arm. And all the while, there is a whisper of sound. Calling him. Begging him to answer. It’s soft and gentle, almost tender despite agony of his arm that climbs higher and higher —
Jaskier bolted up in his bed, the room freezing, the fire empty. He wished it felt like that in the room but there was someone - he knows there is - in here with him. A flicker of shadow, a curl of laughter has Jaskier slipping from his bed and throwing the door open.
He doesn’t know if he’ll be safer in any other room in the keep but he doesn’t want to stay in his room, not when the crawling sensation of being watched was back.
Bare foot and dressed only in a night shirt, Jaskier stumbled along the halls. Turning down one, he stopped dead. The figure of a man stood down the corridor, cloaked in darkness. At first, Jaskier thought it was one of the Witchers until a familiar snap cracked the silence. Flight flared from Rience’s fingers.
No. No, no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. Rience was far way. He didn’t know how to find them. Had Jaskier let their location slip in the throes of pain?
Footsteps echoed. The snapping of fingers resembled breaking cones and Jaskier couldn’t move as Rience stalked closer to the bard.
The fire illuminated Rience’s face, a sinister smirk on his lips. “All this trouble. All this pain. All for someone who threw you away the moment you weren’t useful to him anymore.” His voice was like oil, filling the crevices of Jaskier’s mind. But the words he spoke were true, weren’t they? Geralt only ever wanted Jaskier when he needed help, as evident when the Witcher had rescued him from his cell.
Jaskier snapped out of his thoughts when his back hit the rough wall, the stonework digging into his back. Rience towered over him, flame lit between them and Jaskier flinched at the sight of it, at the heat radiating from it. Would Rience burn him like before, until his skin melted away to bone, until there was nothing left but a pile of ashes?
Rience’s scarred face grinned at the bard. “Where are you?” Was the question the mage asked. The calmness of his voice was worse than any screaming. Jaskier bit his tongue and pressed himself further into the wall, hoping it would swallow him up before the fire did —
“Hey, bard!”
Jaskier almost collapsed with relief at Lambert’s voice. He opened his eyes, wanting to see the panic on Rience’s face — but the mage was nowhere to be seen. Frantically, Jaskier looked around the hall but there was only him and the red haired Witcher. The other regarded Jaskier with a raised brow and Jaskier swallowed the growing fear threatening to climb out.
“You . . . You didn’t see anyone, did you?” He hated how much his voice shook, at the slight tremor he knew Lambert would be able to pick up on. The Witcher didn’t say anything. Surely, with his advanced senses, Lambert would be able to smell the burning, heard the voice that did not belong in this keep. But it seemed that Lambert hadn’t. He focused on Jaskier, taking in his appearance, the nightshirt and bare feet. Jaskier felt himself shrink under his gaze until Lambert placed a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him to Jaskier’s room.
“Sometimes,” the Witcher was saying in an equally gentle voice, “it’s hard to tell between what’s real and what isn’t. We have to focus on something we know is true, something we can hold onto, to stop ourselves from slipping.”
Jaskier frowned at the words. Did Lambert think he had a nightmare? Yes. That must have been it. Rience couldn’t know where they were, even Jaskier hadn’t before he’d set foot in Kaer Morhen. It had been part of the nightmare he’d had, his over imaginative mind working overtime.
He nodded along to Lambert’s words. It had all been a dream, he told himself when he returned to his room later that night. It would go away soon.
Jaskier was use to being watched.
It came with being a bard. He was use to the prying eyes of the audience, of voyeuristic ones depending on which brothel he visited. He knew he was being watched now, by concern from Geralt, from Yennefer and the other Witchers. He wondered if Lambert had said anything about last night, how he’d found the pathetic bard shivering in the middle of the hallway, terrified by nothing more than a nightmare.
But this feeling of being watched, of being followed felt . . . Wrong. Every time he felt it, Jaskier would whip round only to find either nothing or another Witcher who would frown at him in confusion. It was as if Jaskier’s mind was playing tricks on him, his body creating phantom illusions of burning pain.
It wasn’t real, Jaskier told himself again and again as he studied the books in the library, trying to calm his racing mind. He had excused himself from breakfast early, barely eating the food in front of him. Something in his mind told him he shouldn’t be eating, shouldn’t be wasting valuable food to people who didn’t even consider him anything more than a surprise guest.
A fire burned low in the library. Jaskier stayed far away from its red glow. He chose a quiet seat near the window, overlooking a snowy landscape that resembled glass. The book Jaskier chose slipped from his grasp when the feeling intensified. He cast his gaze around the library, despite knowing it was empty. Swallowing, Jaskier picked up the book but when he looked back up two eyes met him.
Rience stood before him, his figure set aglow by the fire.
“This seems so familiar,” the mage crooned, gesturing towards where Jaskier was sat, “except last time you were screaming. I think I like that better than your singing.” Fear squeezed Jaskier’s throat, locking him in place. This wasn’t real. This was a nightmare. He’d wake up soon. He had too.
“Tell me where you are, Jaskier,” Rience demanded, his fingers snapping. Light danced on his fingertip and Jaskier began to shake in his chair. It was too similar to last time, where Jaskier had been left bloodied and battered.
“You’re not real,” Jaskier hissed from behind clenched teeth. That only made Rience’s smile grow into a grotesque thing. He snatched Jaskier’s hand — and it was real, Jaskier could feel the heat from his skin, could feel the calloused flesh. All the air left Jaskier’s lungs. Rience was here, Rience had found him. He didn’t realise Rience was burning him until his skin began to sizzle like fat in a frying pan, until all he could feel was agony —
“Jaskier!”
His name pulled at Jaskier and his eyes snapped open — when had he closed them? The room spun into view. He was crouched by the fire, his hand thrust into the flames. Someone dragged him back and he toppled to the floor. Purple eyes met his frightened ones.
“What the fuck were you doing?” Yennefer demanded. “I come in here to get a book and find you trying to fry yourself.” Her eyes bore into him, her brows drawn together in confusion and — could that be concern?
Jaskier couldn’t find the words to explain to her without making him sound crazy. He had thought it had been Rience burning him but it was the fire. Nothing made sense. Instead of answering, Jaskier scrambled to his feet. Perhaps the mage was still here, lurking in the shadows. It had all felt so real, his hand clasped tightly around Jaskier’s.
His breath came out in short pants, his chest hurting. When he looked down at his hand, he saw that his nearly healed fingers were burned raw, the pain making his vision swim.
A cool hand gently touched his wrist. Murmuring followed and the pain receded. The panic began to fade until his breathing returned to normal. He glanced at Yennefer but couldn’t bare to see the questions in her eyes, the clear worry painted on her face.
“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” She asked softly. Jaskier wanted to laugh. What wasn’t wrong with him? He was having hallucinations — painfully real ones — about his torturer. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, not without the voices in his mind telling how much of a burden he was, how useless he was to the others. He couldn’t go anywhere without being followed by things unseen.
“Can we just talk about this tomorrow?” Jaskier mumbled instead, suddenly feeling so very tired. He stood on unsteady legs and when Yennefer didn’t try to stop him. He could feel her gaze on him as he left the library. For some reason, he didn’t mind it.
Ciri bid goodnight to everyone in the great hall. Her eyelids were becoming heavy when Geralt suggested she retire for the night. Spending all the day training with the other wolves, Ciri didn’t have the strength to argue.
Wandering to her room, she paused when a noise sounded up ahead. Tiredness fled her and in its place her senses prickled with unease, tension seeping into her bones. She crept carefully towards the noise, alert for any threat.
Swinging open a door to her left, she peered into the darkness, cursing herself for leaving her weapon behind when she spotted a familiar figure.
“Jaskier?” She called, stepping into the room. The bard was on his hands and knees, rummaging around in a cupboard. Hearing Ciri, Jaskier jumped and hit his head on the cupboard. The princess stifled a laugh as Jaskier clambered to his feet, rubbing his head. His eyes widened comically upon seeing her.
“Ciri!”
She couldn’t help the smile spreading on her lips. “What are you . . . ?” She trailed off when she saw the bottle clasped in Jaskier’s hand.
“I just wanted to find something to help me sleep,” Jaskier whisper shouted in a conspiratorial tone. Judging by the numerous empty bottles littered in the room he was already on his way to sleeping. Not that it looked like he had been getting much. Dark circles eclipsed his eyes. His face was gaunt, hollowed eyed. So far from the vibrant bard she had been told about. She had seen the worried glances the others gave Jaskier. It was an act of concern but if anything it seemed to fray the bard’s nerves even more. He was jumpy as if there was something lurking in the shadows. His mind wandered constantly, pulled like a bowstring until he snapped back, blinking back to reality in confusion.
Carefully, Ciri guided Jaskier out from the room. He stumbled and nearly fell if she hadn’t been there to catch him. Steadying him, Ciri steered the bard to his own room. The first thing she noticed was how cold it was. No fire had been lit and she shivered against the bitterness in the room. Once she set Jaskier down on the bed, she struck a match and after searching around, found a candle.
“You look so much like your mother.” Jaskier’s voice sounded from where he was laid, eyelids drooping. He clutched the bottle to his chest. Ciri’s chest ached at his words and she felt tears prickling in her eyes. She went to go but Jaskier moved so violently she thought he would tumble off the bed.
“Could you take the candle, please? He might come. I don’t want him to be here.” His words came out as a whisper but Ciri could still hear the fear in them.
She frowned. “Who, Jaskier?” But his eyelids had slid closed, his chest already rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. Ciri left as quietly as she could.
She took the candle with her.
“Found this for you,” Vesemir said, placing the lute gently on the table in front of Jaskier. The bard didn’t know how long he had been sat in the great hall, food untouched. He had been trying to ignore the feeling of being watched, of someone stood behind him. Jaskier kept telling himself that everything would be fine if he didn’t turn around, if he didn’t look.
Blinking, he refocused his gaze and saw the old Witcher looking down at him, the other wolves trying to subtly glance over as if gaging for Jaskier’s reaction. Geralt and Yennefer sat with Ciri, trying and failing to hide their concern. Jaskier brought his gaze back to the lute and swallowed thickly, tracing his fingertips over the fine wood.
Was Vesemir wanting him to play? Was he not doing enough to help the others? Maybe he needed to do more. He was a burden, nothing more than a useless —
Above, Vesemir cleared his throat. “I thought you could play for us.” He spoke so earnestly this Jaskier couldn’t refuse even as his fingers screamed at him when he plucked at the strings.
“Any suggestions?” He asked and cringed at the sound of his voice. It was hesitant and unsteady, croaking from disuse. He cleared it as Lambert piped up, “How about the one celebrating our very own White Wolf?” A glare from Geralt and laughter from the other wolves had Jaskier smiling.
“Very well!” He announced and strummed the strings of the lute. The familiar notes danced in the air. Jaskier pushed down the feeling of being stared at, at eyes lingering on him, crawling up his skin like spiders.
“When a humble bard
Graced a ride along
With Geralt of Rivia
Along came this song.”
Jaskier’s fingers quickened on the lute, falling back into its comforting embrace.
“From when the White Wolf fought
A silver-tongued devil
His army of elves
At his hooves did they revel.”
Twirling around the room, raising his voice, feeling the sound vibrating through his throat.
“They came after me
With masterful deceit
Broke down my lute
And they kicked in my teeth
While the devil's horns
Minced our tender meat
And so cried the Witcher . . .” Jaskier paused and looked expectantly at Geralt. The Witcher sighed but a small smile quirked at his lips.
“He can't be bleat,” Geralt grumbled. Laughter and applause erupted from the others. Even Jaskier felt lightened by it. He spun on his heel, continuing the song.
“Toss a coin to your Witcher
Oh, Valley of Plenty —“
“Such beautiful singing.”
Jaskier’s hand stumbled over the strings. The others didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in joining in with the song. Rience stood in the entrance of the great hall. His steps slow and careful, as if he had all the time in the world. The others didn’t see him as he walked up to the group, hand trailing over the table and leaving burn marks in his wake.
He wasn’t real, he couldn’t be real —
A dangerous glint lit up Rience’s remaining eyes. “Oh but I am real,” the mage said. The lute nearly fell from Jaskier’s grasp, his body shaking violently.
“Perhaps I’ve been going about it all wrong,” Rience muttered almost to himself. His smile stretched. “You don’t seem to hold your well-being in high regard.” Jaskier nearly laughed at that. “But you do for others.” Rience stopped in front of Ciri, who was otherwise oblivious to the fire mage in front of her. “Maybe you need a little more of a push to tell me where you are.”
He raised a hand, fire flickering in his palm, towards Ciri who was frowning now but not at Rience.
In that moment, Jaskier finally found his voice. “Get the fuck away from her!”
“Get the fuck away from her,” Jaskier cried, dropping the lute. It smashed to the floor just as Jaskier lunged towards Ciri. Geralt was on his feet instantly, grabbing hold of Jaskier. The bard flinched but he clawed at Geralt, kicking and screaming at nothing that was there. Ciri stepped back but that made Jaskier worse.
He cursed and seethed. Geralt nearly lost his grip, surprised as he was by the sudden burst of violence from his friend.
The other Witchers shook themselves from their shock and helped pin Jaskier down. Lambert swore when the bard bit his arm. Despite his lean build, Jaskier put up a fight. His limbs thrashed frantically, kicking his legs out. He tried to twist out of the Witchers grip but they held him fast. Jaskier was crying, screaming at them to “stop, stop, stop. He’s here! He can’t know where we are!”
Geralt frowned but he didn’t have time to think about what Jaskier was saying. Yennefer darted from her seat and placed a hand on Jaskier’s forehead, muttering a spell.
Instantly, Jaskier’s body seized up before going limp in the Witchers grip. Yennefer snatched her hand back as if she had been burned, brows drawn together in concern.
“We need to get him to the infirmary,” Yennefer said, eyes never leaving Jaskier. Geralt didn’t like the worry in her voice as he picked Jaskier up — fuck, he was so light, when had he last eaten anything? — and took him to the infirmary.
Light flickered behind Jaskier’s closed eyes. Whispers sounded above, hushed and urgent. He peeled his eyes opened. Taking in his surroundings, he found he was in the infirmary. What had happened? He remembered singing. He remembered the lute in his hands and the fear, the smell of burning flesh and —
“Jaskier?”
The bard turned, frowning when he saw Geralt sitting beside his bed. Jaskier was sure there had been others in the room. How long had he been asleep for? Judging from the concerned frown on the Witcher’s face, it wasn’t good.
“Where’s Ciri,” he croaked out, remembering her in the great hall, Rience barely a foot away from her. “Rience didn’t take her —“
“She’s safe,” Geralt reassured him. “Rience was never here, Jaskier. He’s never set foot in the keep.” The seriousness on his face, the surely in his voice made Jaskier want to laugh, to joke and reassure that he was fine but the words turned to dust on his tongue when Geralt reached out and placed a hand on his.
“I . . . We noticed you weren’t acting right,” Geralt said after a long pause. Jaskier barely heard him over his rapidly beating heart, over the white noise in his head. Geralt opened his mouth again, frowning then seeming to think better of it and sighed. Jaskier waited for him, patient, always patient.
When Geralt looked at him, Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. “I should have done something sooner but I was afraid I’d push you away. So I kept my distance.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, his throat sore and dry. As if from screaming. “What happened?”
The Witcher sighed, holding Jaskier’s hand tighter. “When you were tortured,” he spat the word out, teeth flashing in a growl. “The mage did something to you. Made you paranoid, made you see things that weren’t really there.”
Jaskier stared. It had all felt so real, all of it. The pain, the looks he felt trailing on his skin, the sensation that he was being followed. All of it felt real.
“Why?” Jaskier managed to rasp out.
Geralt swallowed, his hand never leaving Jaskier’s. His silence was enough to answer Jaskier; Rience had wanted to hurt, to terrorise Jaskier until he was out of his mind.
The feeling still remained, of unseen eyes watching him. Nausea swept through Jaskier, goosebumps prickling on his skin. He tightened his grip on Geralt’s hand. The Witcher noticed, facing Jaskier.
“Yennefer is trying to find a way to get rid of the spell, it’ll take some time —“
Jaskier did laugh at that, the noise sounding hollow in his own ears. “How will I know what’s real? If Rience comes back . . .” He didn’t dare finish that sentence.
Geralt clenched his jaw, amber eyes alight with determination.
“He won’t come back, Jaskier,” Geralt told him determinedly. “We’ll be here for you . . . I’ll be here for you, taking one day at a time.”
Jaskier lessened his grip on Geralt’s hand, somehow finding the strength to launch himself at Geralt in a hug. The Witcher wrapped his strong arms around the bard and Jaskier breathed in his familiar scent. His thoughts wondered back to what Lambert had told him, to focus on something that was true, something that was real.
And being here with Geralt, that was true enough for Jaskier.