Chapter Text
“Ya owe me money, bard.”
This was not the first time Jaskier had been cornered and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“Ah, well, I think maybe you’ve got the wrong person,” he commented, eyes watering at the man’s stench and trying desperately not to wrinkle his nose. That’d get him stabbed for sure. Goddamn it where was Geralt when you needed him?
“Are ya tryin’ to mock me bard?”
Jaskier swallowed as he felt the cool steel blade lightly rest on his exposed throat and he tried for a smile that felt like more of a grimace. Evidently it wasn’t convincing because the knife pressed harder.
“Oh God, use your words, Bill, use your words!” he gasped.
Bill paused, matted brow furrowing for a minute before apparently deciding that that was an insult and pressing the knife harder against Jaskier’s skin.
“Don’t patronize me, ya Witcher friend ain't around to help you out for this one.”
“Ah, yes, Geralt is being rather late right now, so you better start running and get a head start!” Jaskier retorted, edging further up against the brickwork, a reminder that he was most definitely trapped. Bill laughed humorously and Jaskier felt blood running down his neck. Bollocks. “Bill, come on, that’s going to scar, and wouldn’t you forgive an old friend for his errors -”
“I ain’t ya friend.”
“Yes, well -”
“And I’m going to kill ya now, bard, unless you cough up.”
“Don’t be so hasty Bill -”
“Fucking hell Jaskier, what have you done now.”
Relief crashed over Jaskier at the low cadence of Geralt’s voice.
“You’re late.”
“Hmm.”
Bill’s scraggly face had gone deathly pale under the inch of grime as he beheld the famed Witcher, but, nonetheless, the knife pressed deeper and Jaskier visibly flinched this time. But that new-found conviction lasted about up until Geralt made to draw his sword and Bill gasped, dropped the knife, and fled into the darkness. Jaskier took a step forward, some clever retort on his tongue and Geralt’s irritated face looking down at him - before his legs buckled and his knees painfully struck the cobblestones. Jaskier felt himself falling again, but this time he felt rough linen, not stone, catch his skin as Geralt lowered the bard to the ground.
“G-Geralt?” Jaskier gasped as the village started to spin and, disoriented, he clutched the Witcher’s forearm desperately.
“That blade had poison on, you fool,” Geralt growled, roughly inspecting the wound, and avoiding Jaskier’s eyes that had widened at the repressed flash of panic on Geralt’s face. The sudden pain was a band of burning iron clamped around his throat and he screamed, high and loud. The agony washed over him, his hands moving to claw at the skin, before they were slapped away and roughly bound together.
“Geralt!?” the bard moaned through ragged breaths and wails of pain.
“I’m here Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle as Jaskier writhed as he was carefully lifted up, before another bout of pain crashed over him and he stopped thinking at all.
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Shit, shit, shit. Geralt spurred Roach on through the dense, snow-laden trees, feeling Jaskier’s limp body being thrown about with spasms of coughs every time he breathed. Something like panic was edging into Geralt’s mind but he firmly shoved it away and narrowed his attention to the bard’s rasping breaths that were growing weaker and weaker with every exhale.
“You are not dying on me,” the Witcher snarled and tightened his grip on the unconscious bard. The snow was falling so thickly now that Geralt barely noticed the gleam of torchlight through the trees. Narrowing his eyes, he urged Roach on, following the lights of the far-off village. The slick snow under Roach suddenly slipped and she stumbled slightly before regaining her footing. The torches of the community were glaring now as Geralt slowed Roach and they entered the silent village. A door opened, light and warmth spilling out into the snow as a rather haggard-looking man poked his head around the door, brow furrowed - before noticing the famed Witcher and his eyes widened, in fear or surprise Geralt didn’t care.
“Healer?” He bellowed and the figure pointed up the village mutely before retreating and slamming the door. Pressing Roach onward, Geralt felt Jaskier stir in his arms, moaning with pain.
“Fuck... Gerald… hurts.”
“I know Jaskier, I know. Hang on, we’re going to get you to a healer,” but Geralt knew that before he had finished Jaskier had slipped back into unconsciousness.
“Fuck!” Geralt growled, and, holding the limp bard in his arms, he slipped off Roach and made for the healer’s hut. Throwing open the heavy oak door, he placed Jaskier gently on the first surface he saw and unbound his hands from the thick rope that had been stopping Jaskier from clawing his own throat out from the pain.
“Healer?” he snarled, starting forward towards a doorway before a small, mousy woman appeared, a shock of red hair sweeping across her shoulders and freckles peppered across her skin. Geralt slammed down the poisoned knife that he had scooped up from the ally floor.
“He was poisoned. By this. Fix him.”
The woman widened her eyes at the Witcher, but made her way over to the table, and inspected the knife before moving onto the bard.
“Well?” Geralt demanded, panic beginning to creep in again at her flat expression.
“It’s snake venom - don’t worry it’s fairly common around here, I can cure it. It’s just good you got him here when you did. Another few minutes and he’d be dead.”
Geralt resumed pacing the room, his hawk eyes never leaving the healer as she powdered herbs and plastered a murky-looking salve onto the swollen knife wound at his neck.
“Support his head,” the woman snapped, her fear of the Witcher melting under the more urgent need to take care of her patient. Geralt blinked at her tone, but started forward and held Jaskier’s head in his calloused hands. The woman bent over a flask of blue-silver liquid, muttering something rapidly under her breath as the substance glowed slightly, before she snatched it up and strode over to the unconscious bard. Gently, the healer tipped the liquid back into Jaskier’s mouth. Almost immediately the bard’s breathing began to ease and the woman released a shaky sigh.
“Right,” she said, “That’ll be fifteen crowns - and you better sleep here tonight, he’ll be out until morning.”
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Geralt opened his eyes, waiting for them to adjust in the half-darkness. The sound of muffled muttering came from Jaskier’s bed and the Geralt sat up, glancing over and realizing what had woken him. The dark shape of the bard was shifting about, fighting against whatever drug the healer had Given him. Rubbing his eyes, Geralt stood up and made his way over to Jaskier just as he opened his eyes groggily, and before they widened in panic as he beheld the hulking shape of the Witcher leaning over him.
“Who the bloody hell are you?!”