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The metal digs into his wrists, cutting and cold.
Broken and hoarse screams from throats too small to carry the volume of their anguish.
He thrashes against the splintered table, throwing strands of muddy hair across his face as he slams his cheek against the wood.
Hiccuped sobs only registered in the hazy in-between left by the poisons running through their veins.
He can’t see, there’s something covering his eyes, a sweat-damp cloth scratching at his brow.
A darkened room beginning to take shape under the wild gaze of eyes glowing newly gold.
A voice, echoing in the distance, he can’t make out the words, he fights harder against the binds. His wrists ache.
Exhausted lumps lying on sheet-less cots, too tired to do anything but breathe.
The smell of lavender and chamomile, cutting sharp through the mold and dirt and piss and blood.
Sweat coats every inch of his skin, everything is sticky, the air beats cold and sharp against his flesh.
“Geralt?”
All his pinprick pupils can focus on is the rabbit-quick rise and fall of their chests, vision bouncing and blurred.
“Geralt, are you in here?”
He checks them all, one after another, then back again, his mind races, unable to fall into a fitful sleep like some of them have.
“Geralt I’ve come to get you, so if you’d break your vow of silence for just long enough to tell me which room you’re in that’d be lovely.“
One of his brothers isn’t moving. He isn’t moving. His chest isn’t moving. He’s not breathing. He’s dead. One of his brothers is dead.
“I’ve nicked the entire keyring from the guard, I’ll unlock every cell if I have to, just tell me where you are you brooding oaf!”
Light spilling in from the doorway, candlelight that used to be soft and dim but now shines like the sun, he winces away.
Lavender and chamomile flooding his senses, the click of a key in a lock, the creak of heavy iron hinges, a gasp.
They scoop the dead one up and take him away, he doesn’t know where, he doesn’t know which of his brothers has died, he doesn’t know who will be next.
Fingers graze his temple, he snarls and kicks his head forward as far as he can, mashing his forehead against thin digits. A rabid dog lashing out against an affectionate caress.
“Right, right, should’ve said, I’m taking off the blindfold, don’t bite me.”
The burning instinct to getawaygetawaygetaway wont let him sit still, he thrashes against the gentle fingers that brush up against the sweat-soaked cloth tied too tight to his face.
The trials continue, undeterred by the loss of a child potential witcher. Back to searing agony and hazy in-betweens and scratchy throats.
Despite his frantic attempts to dislodge the grip on the cloth he can feel the hands grip it tightly, with a quick lift he can feel his pupils constrict to pinpricks to accommodate the new low light of his cell. This is not the trial chambers of Kaer Morhen, the man in front of him is not a mage, his brothers are nowhere to be found.
“Geralt? Everything all right in that gorgeous head of yours?”
He refocuses his gaze on the man in front of him, lavender and chamomile, gentle fingers with rough lutist’s callouses, lively green eyes, soft smile. He grunts an affirmation.
“Oh, back to grunts and hard eye contact, thank the gods, thought you’d become even less communicative, didn’t think that was possible ‘till now.”
There’s an almost hesitant edge to Jaskier’s voice, he’d seen Geralt wide-eyed and wild before in the aftermath of battles that had required the usage of certain potions but he’d never seen him quite so… off.
Geralt pulls his arm up, clanging against the metal binding as if to urge Jaskier to get on with it. Jaskier jumps back into motion at the noise, pausing in his thorough examination of the deep lines twisting his companions face into a practiced stoic expression to flick through the many keys on the guard’s keyring to find the match for the hulking metal binds.
While Jaskier looks for the correct key Geralt searches his memory, attempting to find the answers to where they are and why they’re here to no avail. It should concern Geralt more than it does that he can’t conjure up a single thing in regards to his apparent kidnapping, but as it stands all he wants is to be free of his binds, get on Roach, and let her take him far, far away from this godsforsaken place.
“Aha!”
Jaskier sounds off in victory as the cuff around Geralt’s left wrist snaps open with a click revealing a nasty looking bruise. What must be 7 different shades of yellow and blue and purple and red are painted across Geralt’s wrist. Jaskier winces a little under his breath at the painful tapestry but he recovers from the sight quick enough and moves on to the other cuffs.
“How long have you been down here anyways? I swear, I leave you alone for two minutes and all the sudden I’m on a wild goose chase asking everyone if they’ve seen a large scary-looking white-haired man brooding around anywhere.”
Geralt doesn’t reply, not even a hum of acknowledgment. Jaskier notices his furrowed brow and suddenly it becomes much harder to keep the strained levity in his voice.
“You do know how long it’s been right?”
Jaskier unlocks the last binding, Geralt avoids his eyes as he lifts himself up from the table with a barely noticeable tremor. Jaskier notices.
“Geralt can you tell me where we are?”
Jaskier’s voice is soft and tentative, as if he’s trying to coax a stray cat to take a piece of fish from his hands so it doesn’t starve or lash out with it’s claws. Geralt grunts noncommittally which Jaskier translates from Witcher-speak to mean a resounding “no.”
“Right, well, we’re in the cells below Lord Gribbyld’s castle, its a few hours past sundown and I first noticed you were gone when I miraculously managed to make it back to our room in the inn without falling over after my glorious performance at his lavish party two nights ago; but I was a bit distracted with all the alcohol and dancing and singing so…” Jaskier trails off, a sour feeling settles itself in both of their stomachs.
Lost time didn’t always have to mean something bad but it never meant something good; especially where witchers were concerned. Designed to withstand the weight of centuries of memories, Witchers were generally hard-pressed to find gaps in their recollections beyond the occasional overconsumption of white gull during particularly festive (or mournful) nights.
Clearly uncomfortable with the growing silence permeating the chamber, Jaskier clears his throat and plasters an obviously forced smile to his face.
“Well, I’m sure it’ll come back to you eventually. In the meantime, lets get the fuck out of here because it’s creepy and smelly and there might be some guards looking for us once they realize I’ve swiped their dungeon keys.”
Geralt can’t tell if the forced levity is supposed to be more for his benefit or Jaskier’s but he supposes it doesnt matter either way. Lifting himself up onto his legs, briefly wobbly from disuse, he lets Jaskier take the lead, following close behind.
Geralt can find his way out of the dungeons on smell alone, chamomile and lavender have painted the way for him quite clearly, but he prefers to let his mind wander outside of Jaskier’s watchful gaze. The bard always did have an eye for detail, wether it be the stitching on an expensive doublet or the slightest upward quirk at the corner of Geralt’s lips.
Besides, there was a kind of relief in giving up the leading role, in following chamomile and lavender out of the cell and through the halls to safety.
Jaskier throws mildly concerned glances back at Geralt intermittently as they traverse through down corridors and up stairs and through the doors where the outside world lies in wait for them. Never lingering enough so as to prompt a confrontation from Geralt, but often enough to tip the Witcher off to the full extent of Jaskier’s worry.
As soon as the two step foot outside Geralt inhales deeply, nostrils flaring as he greedily sucks in the smell of everything that isn’t stale dungeon air, he can see Jaskier watching him, can see the look of caring concern as he scrutinizes the heavy rise of Geralt’s chest.
Geralt forces himself to ignore the blessed smells of damp dirt soaked with rainwater and a rabbit that had crossed by maybe 30 minutes ago and chamomile and lavender.
“Roach.”
Jaskier raises an eyebrow at Geralt’s non-question, but indulges the Witcher with a response nonetheless, he’s never been cowed by Geralt’s lack of manners before and he doesn’t intent to kick up a fuss about the proper social etiquette about full sentences when Getalt’s been at best isolated and at worse tortured for a possible two days.
“Yeah yeah don’t you worry your pretty little head, she’s back in the stable at the inn we’re staying at. Made sure they treated her like royalty. Certainly cost me a king’s ransom, I mean have you seen this region Geralt? It’s positively teeming with greedy leeches just looking to squeeze every last drop of money out of people like me-“
Jaskier continues in his rambling, undeterred by Geralt’s unimpressed and frankly impatient stare. There’s a sort of warmth about it though, underneath the burning need to get as far away from this place as he can as fast as possible. Hearing Jaskier go on about the lengths he went to to ensure that his companion’s beloved horse was well taken care of eased the tension in Geralt’s stomach, if only a little bit.
If Geralt possessed all his memories of their business in this yet unnamed village he likely would’ve ignored Jaskier’s rambling and stormed off to whatever stable Roach was in by now, wary of the familiar warmth filling his chest and eager to return to his long-standing equine life partner.
But as it happens, he can’t even smell Roach on the light breeze.
“Just look at me Geralt, they take one look at my doublet and assume my coin-purse overflows with bounty,” He all but sings the phrase, “And then they have the nerve not to tip during my performances, really makes you wonder where they think I’m getting all those supposed riches from, certainly not from their stingy-assess I’ll tell you that much-“
“Jaskier.”
There’s no bite to it like there might have been if he was less exhausted, if he wasn’t lulled into complacence by chamomile and lavender. Safe.
“Right, you’ve had a long day,” he pauses on the last word, as unsure about the extent of Geralt’s capture as the man himself is. “Ah, speaking of ghastly expenditures!” Jaskier’s ramblings are back on track as he leads the Witcher presumably towards the inn they had been staying at. “The bath we order you when we get back is certainly going to rack up quite the tab and I know how you get all ‘Only necessary expenses, Jaskier.’ But trust me, dear friend, you need a bath.”
Jaskier’s nose wrinkles up almost comically and though every fiber of Geralt’s being screams at him to run out of this place on his bare feet if he has to, he can’t deny that he too is affected by the sour stench of sweat and grime rolling off him in waves.
Well, he can deny it, and in fact often does, but kind eyes and a crinkled nose-bridge breaks through his well-learned defenses, and Jaskier’s gentle calloused hands working chamomile into his tense muscles doesn’t sound all that bad at the moment.
Jaskier, undisturbed by Geralt’s typical lack of response, chatters as he leads them throughout the nearly empty village, the moon paints half his face in a gentle light, Geralt stares.
It’s maybe five minutes before they reach the inn they’ve been supposedly staying at. Geralt doesn’t recognize it. It seems both of them had hoped the inn might have sparked something in Geralt’s memory, if the worried glance Jaskier sends him is anything to go by.
The bard shakes it off quickly enough though and pushes his way through the door and into the candlelit inn where a tired-looking man stands behind a counter.
“Excuse me,” Jaskier ventures, “Could I perchance bother you to have a bath prepared for this fine gentleman accompanying me?” Jaskier plasters on the most charming smile he can manage. The innkeeper levels him with a hard stare. Usually it’s rather easy to spot when they’re being overcharged due to Geralt’s yellow eyes and distinctive swords, but this time Jaskier can’t quite tell if it’s that, the fancy doublet he’s wearing, or the atrocious hour that garners the man’s expectant silence. Jaskier lobs his coin-purse onto the counter, “I’ll pay extra.” Slowly, as though rising from the dead, the innkeeper gets up and shambles off into a room through a hallway behind the counter.
“Esmé, get a bath prepared.”
The pair can hear his gruff voice, lightly muffled by the distance, muffled for Jaskier anyway, Geralt can hear the man with perfect clarity.
“Really? At this time of night?”
A young voice answers the man incredulously, obviously roused from sleep only moments ago. Jaskier almost feels bad for having been the cause of her rude awakening, but he thinks of his rapidly dwindling coin and his grimy companion and can’t quite find it in himself to regret his decision.
The man comes back out to the counter and looks at Jaskier’s coin purse expectantly. Jaskier pulls the bag open and shakes out a hefty sum of coins into his hand. Pouring them into the man’s waiting palm. The innkeeper counts for a moment before deciding that he’s satisfied with whatever Jaskier has paid him. Geralt can’t be assed to try and count the coins clinking together in the man’s grasp.
“Bath is in the last room on the right,” he points down a hallway, “It’ll be ready in fifteen.”
Jaskier thanks the man and turns off down another hallway to what must be their room. Geralt follows, eager to be alone. With Jaskier.
They reach the room, if there was ever any doubt that it was the one they had rented it was gone now as the scent of Roach, no-doubt left by himself, and all the smell of Jaskier’s rosin and perfume floods his senses.
Geralt grunts softly and his eyes go half-lidded, he sits on the cot draped in a cheap, scratchy, blanket. It dips and groans under his weight, he can smell Jaskier on the sheets. Why waste money on a room with two beds when they were well-accustomed to sharing bedrolls while camping during the colder nights.
There’s no one around to leer at Geralt, no threat to keep a careful eye on. Thoroughly exhausted, he lets himself watch Jaskier retrieve his travel pouch full of knickknacks.
Among bottles of spices, packed, despite Geralt’s insistence that the space could be better used for essentials like rations or salve, are little bottles of liquids with varying pleasant aromas; Jaskier grabs one such bottle with confidence born of routine, he uncorks it, allowing Geralt to weigh in with his approval or disapproval of the scent. Geralt never declines chamomile, but Jaskier goes through with the ritual each time nonetheless.
Geralt hums his soft approval, Jaskier gives a minute nod and corks the bottle. Jaskier sets the chamomile on the windowsill behind him. He grabs one other bottle, sets it down next to the chamomile and begins to roll the sleeves up on his doublet, revealing lean forearms brushed with soft brown hair. Geralt allows himself this one indulgence, in the quiet comfort of their shared room, shielded from angry eyes, he allows himself to admire the gentle slope of muscle Jaskier has gained over years of their shared journeys.
Jaskier turns to grab a washcloth, meeting Geralt’s eyes. He raises an eyebrow but, surprisingly, makes no cheeky mention of his companion’s almost hungry gaze, opting instead to retrieve the chamomile from the windowsill, and make a diagonal line across the room to where their towel lies dry on a table.
Geralt moves his head to follow Jaskier’s movements, unabashedly drinking in the barely-there ripple of the Bards muscles with his enhanced sight as Jaskier wraps his fingers around the gray cloth.
Geralt snaps out of his reverie, there are footsteps coming down the hallway, light and unobtrusive, likely the girl the innkeeper had tasked with preparing Geralt’s bath.
Right on cue, there’s a tapping at their door.
“Bath’s ready.”
Jaskier looks warmly at Geralt, the footsteps in the hallway recede, Geralt’s spine relaxes a little out of it’s rigid posture. Jaskier takes the lead, opening the door and stepping out with purpose, trusting that Geralt will follow.
Geralt, muscles aching, hoists himself up off the cot. The promise of warm water and gentle hands lures him down the hall. He follows Jaskier like a zombie through the door where the tub sits in all it’s glory, light wisps of steam rise from the water.
Geralt looks away from the tantalizing bath and finds that Jaskier has been apparently watching him intently. Jaskier’s eyes dart down to Geralts clothes in a silent question, one which Geralt couldnt imagine himself ever denying.
Jaskier grips the base of Geralt’s sweat-stained undershirt and waits for Geralt to lift his arms before slowly but steadily pulling it up over Geralt’s head. The dirty fabric rustles against his skin before all he can feel is the air, humid from the warm water, collecting against his chest. The humidity rehydrates the dried salty sweat that had stuck to his skin and makes him acutely aware of how disgusting he feels at the moment. Jaskier makes quick work of the rest of Geralt’s undergarments, shamelessly peeling off Geralt’s braies and ushering him into the tub, “lest it get cold before you even get a toe in.”
Geralt lets himself be ordered around, it’s all worth it when Jaskier uncorks the chamomile, drips the oil onto his hands, spreads it around, and finally finally begins kneading it into Geralt’s arms. He works his way through every muscle he can find, reapplying the oil every once in a while when it becomes too diluted by bath water.
When he finally finishes massaging every inch of Geralt’s battered and scarred body, he moves to grab the soap, pouring a generous amount into his hands, and gently lathers Geralt’s hair, trailing his fingers into his scalp and working his way down through the long white locks.
Jaskier is much too focused on the gorgeous hair in his grasp to notice how Geralt’s eyes have slipped shut, his head tilted back to reveal his long slender neck.
Once Jaskier finishes getting all the dried mud out of the strands, he gingerly cups the back of Geralt’s head, guiding him down to be level with the water, pouring little handfuls of water over his soapy hair, careful not to let any drip into his eyes.
With that done, he guides Geralt to rest his head on the rim of the bathtub, gathering his hair and gently drying it with the towel he’d brought along. Jaskier gathers hair from the sections just behind Geralt’s temples, pulling them back into the Witcher’s classic style.
Finished with his ministrations, Jaskier sits back a moment, debating his next course of action. He could let Geralt sit and soak and possibly fall asleep if the relaxation clear on his face was anything to go by; or he could have Geralt get out of the tub and herd him back to their room to fall asleep and save Jaskier the trouble of having to wake him; or he could take advantage of the very expensive bath he had in front of him and the still-warm water.
After a moments deliberation, Jaskier began to strip, setting his delicate clothes on a little table nearby and easing his way into the pleasantly warm water. Sensing the displacement of water around him, Geralt’s eyes open slightly, registering the bard slipping into the water across from him.
Geralt drinks in the view under half-lidded eyes. Jaskier’s lean frame, shiny from the steam that has been circulating around the room, relaxes into the water. Not one to pass on an opportunity to wash up: Jaskier lathers himself with the soap under Geralt’s watchful eyes. There is an appetite under the exhaustion in those bright yellow eyes. Full pupils, accustomed to the low lighting of the room and locked onto the steady up and down movement of Jaskier’s arm.
Just as Jaskier begins to think that Geralt’s eyes are perhaps the only muscle the man is still capable of moving, the Witcher slowly pushes off the side of the tub with what looks to be great effort. Geralt’s eyes flicker from Jaskiers arm, slowing in it’s ministrations; to his chest, just above the waterline; to his pink lips, lightly parted in anticipation.
And up to his eyes, looking right back at him, questioning, hoping. Geralt tips his head forward, eyes flickering down and up and back down again. Jaskier’s nose touches Geralt’s, they can feel each other’s breaths on their lips.
Geralt doesn’t know who closes the space, all he knows is the feeling of plush pink lips on his and a hand carding through his hair, mussing up the work Jaskier had done minutes before. The kiss deepens, Geralts hands grip the rim of the tub, bracketing Jaskier. Jaskier pulls away with what seems to be great anguish, he settles his forehead against Geralt’s, cups his other palm on Geralt’s cheek.
“How about we continue this after you’ve had a little sleep?”
Geralt resists the urge to protest this, although it’s not that hard to restrain himself seeing as he can’t gather the energy to verbalize more than a resigned grunt.
The water begins to grow cool, Jaskier is the first to step out of the tub, drying himself off haphazardly. Jaskier turns around to see Geralt still in the tub, eyes closed, Jaskier taps Geralt’s shoulder, his left eye opens a crack, he sees Jaskier’s hand open in offering. Geralt grasps Jaskier’s hand, pulling himself up and out of the water with Jaskier’s help.
Droplets drip from Geralt’s hair into rivers trailing down his back; Jaskier mops up the water and helps Geralt slip into his nightclothes.
They shuffle back to their room, Geralt lumbering forward in whatever direction Jaskier leads him.
Geralt all but flops into the bed they’re to share for the night, the wooden frame creaks and squeals and for a moment Jaskier fears that Geralt has broken the planks that hold the mattress up. Thankfully, however, the bed is perfectly fine, if old and worn, and Jaskier’s coin purse will not be pillaged for the repair costs.
Normally, Geralt would be splayed out over most of the bed, stretching his long limbs overtop of Jaskier’s. Tonight, however, Geralt lies on his side with his knees pulled up slightly.
Jaskier quickly changes into his nightclothes and slips into bed behind Geralt, slipping his arms tenderly around Geralt’s middle and resting his forehead against the bend of Geralt’s neck.
Jaskier hears Geralt sigh through his nose soft and slow, the tension in him leeching out through the warm contact of Jaskier’s arms against his stomach.
Together, they slip into unconsciousness, leaving the who, how, and why of Geralt’s kidnapping for sunrise.