Chapter Text
Cold, tired feet trudged steadily down the road, four horse, two human and two witcher. Even when road-weary, Jaskier was strumming his lute, humming songs both old and new under his breath. It had been unusually rainy for this time of year; bright sun had made way for storm clouds and Geralt and Jaskier had been unlucky enough to be caught in it. And even now that the rain had passed, it had left a coldness in its wake as well as mud that seeped into Jaskier’s worn shoes.
Oh how Jaskier longed for a warm bed, a decent meal and a bath that wasn’t also home to a variety of aquatic creatures. He also needed to get his boots repaired, or maybe even new ones. He’d been travelling the Path with Geralt for years now, he was getting pretty good at telling when his boots were about to go from ‘well worn, full of holes but manageable’ to ‘sweet Melitele, everything that is meant to be outside of my shoe is now inside of my shoe!’ and his were balancing on the precipice.
Jaskier’s stomach grumbled. Did he mention a decent meal? Gods, did he ever want a decent meal. It had been a long time since they were able to stop for provisions and their supplies were running low. All they had was a handful of that terrible, dried up but somehow rubbery jerky that only Geralt seemed to like and a few things that they had managed to forage along the way.
Geralt and Jaskier were in the unfortunate situation of needing more than they could currently afford. Geralt hadn’t had much luck with contracts for a while now; either the towns and settlements hadn’t had any postings or they were run out before they could even look at the board. Not only was Jaskier determined to get what he wanted in the next town, but Geralt needed his steel sword and armour repaired. An unpleasant run-in with a griffin had left both in a rather sorry state; Jaskier wouldn’t be surprised if parts of the armour needed replacing. They also needed to visit an apothecary to pick up some of the harder to find ingredients for witcher potions. However, the payment from Geralt’s last contract would probably barely cover the cost of food. Jaskier would definitely need to perform at a tavern to earn some extra coin.
Hence the lute playing. Not that he needed an excuse to play, Jaskier had music in his bones and threaded into his soul. No, even though it came to him as easy as breathing he knew never to underestimate ‘The Power of Practice in the Pursuit of Perfection’. How else would he be able to play while blind drunk to a high enough standard to get paid? Not that he made a habit of performing drunk, but things can happen when you’re in a jolly tavern surrounded by beautiful barmaids and drink.
But he was getting off point. When they got to the next town he would head straight to the tavern and secure himself a performance. Where was the next town anyway? It felt like they had been walking for an age.
“It’s just up ahead”, grumbled Geralt.
Oh wow, it was a little spooky sometimes how Geralt seemed to know what he was thinking. Jaskier wondered if witchers could read minds. He felt like that would’ve come up by now.
“You’ve been talking aloud for the past two hours, bard.”
“Oh,” that sounded more like it. “Yes, I do rather enjoy a good outer-monologue.” Jaskier’s strumming turned into more of a happy plucking at the thought of the journey nearing its end.
True to his word, a town soon came into view. It was a sizable place and looked to be more well off than most of the others they had passed through. Upon entering they were met with some looks of distrust, but so far they hadn’t been chased off. It seemed like this town would tolerate the presence of a witcher. The pair made their way to the board, Jaskier babbling all the way about the potential contracts, but were met with a frustratingly familiar sight. Geralt spat out one of his preferred curses at the empty board.
“I mean, while I’m happy that the townspeople aren’t being terrorised by some sort of monster, good for them and all that, it is rather unfortunate for us, isn’t it?” commented Jaskier. “Worry not, good witcher, I shall secure myself a position playing my wonderful music and we will soon be making more coin then we’ll know what to do with!“
After finding the local inn, it took little to persuade the innkeeper to hire him. The innkeeper was actually very eager; the townsfolk loved music but it had been a long time since a bard had passed through. He was insistent that Jaskier play for as long as possible to make the most of his time in the town; not only would he pay him but he would also give them a room and a meal! Geralt and Jaskier decided between themselves that they would stay in the town for a week in order to replenish their coin and give Geralt enough time to get his equipment fixed. He didn’t seem too happy about Jaskier paying for his things, but he promised him that he would repay him after his next contract. Not that Jaskier minded, the thought of being able to provide for Geralt for a change made warmth bloom in his chest.
So that is how they spent their week. Jaskier felt at home with his lute in his arms and a song on his lips. The patrons at the inn genuinely enjoyed his music, he could even tell that his songs about witchers were warming them up to Geralt. After two full days of playing he gave Geralt his earnings to add to the last of their coin so he could take his sword to the blacksmiths to be fixed.
That’s when things started to get a bit tricky. Two days is a long time to play and he still needed to keep going for the rest of the week if he wanted to make enough money to pay for all of their things. By this point the tips of his fingers were starting to go numb and his shoulders were getting tired. But he was a professional, he’d been a musician for years and was familiar with feeling fatigued but pushing through.
And push through he did; after three more days he’d made enough money for Geralt to get his armour repaired. The numbness in his fingers had spread to his whole hand but he kept playing. If he didn’t play he wouldn’t get paid and if he didn’t get paid they couldn’t buy food. If he didn’t get paid, Geralt would be disappointed in him. He really didn’t want to let Geralt down. He only had to play for two more days then after that he could rest. Sure, having numb hands made playing the lute difficult, but Jaskier was nothing if not stubborn. He relied on muscle memory to keep his fingers moving, even if he couldn’t feel his muscles. Thank goodness for practice.
When the last two days had passed, Jaskier took his payment and together with Geralt, headed to the market to purchase the food and ingredients. Jaskier was thankful that they were leaving, the numbness in his hand now engulfed his entire forearm up to his elbow. He promised himself that he would take a few days rest from playing so that he didn’t cause himself proper harm. So when they had collected their things, loaded up Roach and headed out of the town, Jaskier’s lute stayed on his back.
Two days passed before he finally broke. To be honest it was a miracle that he lasted that long. It was mind numbingly boring not doing anything with his hands. Old songs burned to be played and new ones itched to be written down and it was torture denying himself the pleasure. Besides, a two day break from playing music was plenty of time to rest.
Except it wasn’t. The numbness had partially faded so Jaskier allowed himself to pick at his lute and write in his notebooks, but every time he did it felt like lightning shot up his arm. He tried not to be too concerned, he was sure that the feeling would pass as any other discomfort had done in the past. Surely a few hours of activity wouldn’t hurt his recovery, besides, the compulsion in him to play was stronger than his will to be still. A night's rest and I’ll be better, he tells himself, a night's rest and I can do it all again. But it never is. As the weeks passed with minimal change he grew more worried. His condition hadn’t gotten any better, he felt a constant numbness and pain in his right hand and wrist, even a twitch of a finger was enough to send that lightning sensation shooting through the appendage. He couldn’t even help prepare a meal or stitch Geralt up after a fight without his hand becoming alight with numbness. Not that it kept him from doing these things, he couldn’t have Geralt find out.
While he had tried to keep his condition a secret from Geralt, it was only a matter of time before he clocked on. Of course he smelled the pain on him, but every time he asked, Jaskier brushed him off, a court-worthy smile fixed on his face and a feeble excuse on his lips.
“I just stubbed my toe.”
“I was thinking about that lovely miller’s daughter I had to leave behind a few towns back.”
”Do you ever wonder if Roach wants more hugs but isn’t able to get them because she can’t tell us what she wants with words? Because I do and it’s heartbreaking!”
Geralt never pushed him to answer truthfully, for which he was thankful. Or he believed him, which seemed unlikely but one could never be too sure with Geralt. The real reason he didn’t want him to know was because he was a bit embarrassed about the whole thing; the witcher’s body had been through all kinds of abuse and he never seemed to get problems like this for long, but Jaskier just has to play the lute and all of a sudden he’s in a world of pain. He didn’t want to give him another reason to think that he was weak or that he shouldn’t travel with him. Jaskier always called the witcher a friend but the other wasn’t as quick to return the sentiment; sometimes, in the dark when doubt clouded his mind, he wasn’t sure where he stood with him. He didn’t want to give him another reason to not let him stay. If Geralt knew how much it hurt then he wouldn’t let him play, and if he couldn’t play then he wouldn’t be useful to him. What use was a bard who couldn’t write down your heroics and sing them to the masses?
It was when they were about to part for the winter that Geralt decided to confront him about it properly.
“Show me your arm,” demanded Geralt. Before Jaskier could protest or offer up the appendage, Geralt had it in his hands. Despite the gentleness with which he was held, Jaskier still winced as his wrist was bent and flexed. Geralt hummed disapprovingly.
“Everything alright?” stuttered Jaskier. He really didn’t want to have this conversation.
“You have a tendon injury,” said Geralt. “You’ve had it for a while, haven’t you?” His brows furrowed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I think you must be tired. I feel right as rain and I always have!”
Geralt scoffed at his attempts at deflecting. “Really? Is that why you wince when you play the lute? Or why you hardly write anymore?”
“Oh. I thought you hadn’t noticed.” He could have sworn he was being more careful than that.
“Damnit Jaskier.” Geralt let go of his arm with a huff. He made his way over to his saddle bag and pulled out a small packet. He took something from it before replacing it and heading back over to the bard. He placed the item in his good hand. “This is willow bark. It should help with the inflammation. Don’t use too much of it at once.”
Well, this was going better than he thought it would. He’d fully expected Geralt to get angry at him, maybe call him useless, but no. Instead Geralt had helped him. Maybe they were friends after all. Jaskier thanked him before putting the bark in his lute case. Geralt huffed again, though this time it seemed fonder. Or maybe Jaskier was imagining the fondness. He hoped not.
“If you had told me from the start I would’ve given it to you sooner.” He turned and walked back to Roach before mounting her. He levelled the bard with a serious look. “When you get to Oxenfurt seek out a healer. Do what they say and rest your arm. Properly this time. Strain injuries are common but they are still injuries. You need to let it heal or it could get worse.”
The thought of it getting worse scared Jaskier. Worse meant no playing ever, no writing ever. He hadn’t really thought of that before. He had to start taking it more seriously and he promised Geralt he would do just that. The two finally parted ways for the season. Hopefully when they met again in spring he would be feeling miles better.
This was the most bored that Jaskier had ever felt in his life.
The journey to Oxenfurt had been uneventful, for which he was thankful as he didn’t think he could defend himself in this state if he were to come across trouble. True to his word, he sought out a healer as soon as he had gotten settled in his apartment at the university. Just as Geralt had said, the healer told him he had injured his tendons. They gave him some lavender oil to take orally and told him to get lots of rest; under no circumstances was he allowed to play his lute or write with his injured hand. Jaskier took this advice very seriously; nothing was worth jeopardising his career.
And so followed months worth of tedium. He had never struggled so much to not do something; his usually poor impulse control was begging him to play, just for a little bit, but he managed to hold strong. He often found himself pacing in front of his lute, itching to reach out and grasp it, maybe play a melody or two, but he never gave in. The price to pay wasn’t worth the temporary joy. The mental effort it took to walk away was immense. Honestly, the whole ordeal was quite depressing, he was sure anyone would feel the same way if they were unable to do the things that brought them the most joy in this world. It felt like he had cut ties with everything that brought him purpose in this life, like he was just wasting time until the next day started.
Thankfully there were his winter lectures to keep him busy. Making money playing at court or in taverns was no longer an option, he had to financially sustain himself solely on his teaching now. He had a rather interesting time when it came to lecture notes; writing left-handed was difficult and often the result was illegible but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice. There were so many ink stains on his clothes from clumsy, non-dominant caused spills. He has taken to doing most things left-handed now. Shaving (now a much more dangerous endeavour), brushing his hair and his teeth, picking up heavy items and preparing meals were all done without using his right hand. It was as complete a rest as he could think of.
But he wasn’t getting better.
In fact, he would say he was getting worse. All the compensating he had been doing with his other hand had started to make it tired. Eventually his fingers started to go numb, quickly followed by the whole hand. It frightened him, of course it would; both of his hands were out of commission and he didn’t quite know what to do. It’s not like he could stop taking care of himself, he still had to eat and bathe and dress.
Pain became a constant companion. The lightning sensation happened less frequently but in their place is a constant, deep ache that was just as bad as the pain. He feels a numbness sometimes so intense that it feels like it’s radiating out from him in physical waves. He never knew that it was possible to simultaneously feel numb and like his muscles are supercharged with energy and tension. This sensation eventually crept up his shoulders and into his neck, wearing him down with how endless it all seemed to be.
His nerves aren’t the only thing that’s frayed. Over the months the pain had been playing on his mood, making him feel lower and lower. Every new pain and wrong sensation has him panicking and wondering if he’ll ever get better. Was this his life now? What is he without music? What is his place in the world if he can’t follow his calling? Will Geralt still let him travel the path with him if he is of no use to him? After all, he has often said that he isn’t the bard’s friend. He was just a burden, even more so now that he was less able to care for himself. Each new thought sent him spiralling further and further down into a dark place in his mind that he often found he couldn’t climb out of. Some days were better than others, but on the particularly bad days even the thought of getting out of bed in the morning seemed impossible. Often when he was spiralling he would have a sudden moment of clarity, realising what was happening and being aware of the hole he was falling into, but would be unable to stop it.
He doesn’t meet up with Geralt that spring.
He was rarely comfortable now; when he stood his hands felt like lead weights pulling him down, when they swung by his sides as he walked they would tingle with the promise of later numbness, and he couldn’t find a way to sit that didn’t make it feel like his shoulders weren’t burning. The only reprieve was when he was lying flat on his back in bed, although that too was soon lost to him as his oversensitive nerves kept finding all the lumps in his mattress. Less important tasks, like shaving or washing his hair as frequently as he would like to were done sparingly and with larger gaps of time between them. Holding a razor so close to his throat and keeping it steady was too dangerous a task to risk doing often and the motion of scrubbing his hair made his hands feel like they were being crushed.
His lute gathers dust. His inkwells dry up.
The University allowed him to continue his lectures past the winter, but not many and not forever. He taught without notes now, it had been that way for a while. He ambles along the hallways and through the gardens, no longer the bright and lively presence he used to be, but now more of a shadow of his former self, travelling to his classes in a well worn fashion rather than flitting from place to place and person to person as he once did. He’s not too sure what he would say if he stopped to talk with them, he can’t do much due to the pain so there isn’t much to talk about. The last thing he wanted was to bring them down with his struggles. A group of students, young and rambunctious, passed by him. He gazes after them and can’t help the deep void that opens up in his chest as he sees their brightness. They have the whole of their lives ahead of them. Jaskier can’t help but remember when he was them, looking forward to a future full of music and creation, not aware of what was actually awaiting him. He breaks his gaze away from the group and continues to his lecture.
When he’s not teaching, he is staring out of his window or off into the middle distance. There’s not much left to do but stare. He once found a respite from his despondent existence in reading but even the effort of holding a book open caused too much pain to tolerate. Friends and colleagues would sometimes come by trying to convince him to go out with them, to join them for an evening of drinking or to watch a performance at a tavern. Jaskier knew they worried about him but he couldn’t even stand the thought of watching another’s performance, it just reminded him of what was missing in his own life. He had gone out with them once to watch a bard perform but it had been too distressing to see someone else fulfil the same dream Jaskier had while he himself was no longer able to.
He always knew the day would come when he would no longer be able to play, he just didn’t think it would happen so soon. He thought that when the time came he would be older and more fulfilled. More content. But he barely got the chance to start.
Other than staring, Jaskier often found himself drinking, lifting a bottle to his lips with shaking hands to try and drown out the sorrow inside him. That’s how Geralt found him one early summer night, curled up next to the gutter.