Chapter Text
The first thing Jaskier feels when he comes to is pain. Throbbing through his entire body, each heartbeat is accompanied by the horrible feeling of a gush of blood pouring from between his ribs on his right side.
He's alive, barely, but he is alive. Every bone aches, his skin is too cold and too hot all at once, burning agony searing from his fingertips up to his shoulder. He can't move. He's no longer tied, but his body is tired and sore and overwhelmed, pushed far beyond the limits of his pain threshhold.
A boot into his stomach makes a gout of blood pour from his mouth.
"Awake, bard? Ah, but I suppose you won't be a bard anymore."
That voice.
Low and amused, his eyes widen in fear as the memories of what is happening force themselves back to the front of his mind.
"Wanted you awake when I sealed the wound shut. To make sure you'll be okay." The low chuckle tells him that that is, in fact, not the case, and his head is wrenched back to the floor by the man crouching above him. Fire springs back to life in the man's palm.
"What? You aren't going to thank me?"
Jaskier parts his lips to snarl a 'fuck off', but all that comes out is a choked gurgle.
"Suppose that'll do. Try not to pass out this time, won't you? It's no fun when you're asleep." The fire approaches and Jaskier tries to move away but he can't, he's pressed too tightly to the floor - and the flames are at his throat.
His vision goes white with the pain of it, he trashes but the hand wrapped around his neck keeps him in place. He feels every second of it, every agonizing spec of time his flesh is singed without him even being able to scream.
When he is finally released he sobs into the floor, curling slightly to his side despite the pain.
"There we are," the mage stands, "Don't say I never did anything for you. Enjoy what remains of your pathetic excuse for a life, former bard." With another solid kick into Jaskiers ribs the mage vanishes - and Jaskier cries.
-----------
He's not sure how he pulls himself off that wooden floor. Not sure how he makes it to that window - that brief moment of seeing Yennefer - before he is being hauled away by guards. Everything blurs. He has no idea how long its been, his skin aches with every movement. But with his clothes on he doesn't look injured. He can tell that much by his reflection in the spoon. A split lip, yes, but otherwise unharmed to the common eye.
Still, when he moves, he can feel his ribs shift uncomfortably. Can her the crackle of bone catching on broken bone. He reeks of burning, reeks of blood. It's dizzying, and upsetting, and when the guards ask him questions he can't even answer them. Can't even sing to entertain himself. He's sore, he's cold, and he's exhausted.
The one time he allows himself to attempt sleep he is immediately brought back to that moment;
"Fire is a forbidden source," a flicker of a flame, "Because it consumes the ones that use it. Unless they are very talented."
"I don't know anything, please."
"Your song list would suggest otherwise."
"No, no, no, please listen to me. I am a bard. I am brilliant. He grunts, I tell stories. He mentions a Witchers keep and I invent a magical, mystical fortress in the mountains. He doesn't share. He doesn't have friends. He doesn't have weaknesses."
"It's not nice to lie," The stench of burning flesh, and sound of Jaskiers own screams.
"Please! I swear, I don't know! He wouldn't- ahhh, fuck- he wouldn't tell me!"
"You know. Now tell me, unless you'd like to lose your skin."
Jaskier catches his breath.
"I swear. I swear, please. Read my mind if you want, I swear I don't know."
"A pity you never want to play your lute again." As fire consumes his arm in its entirety. Jaskier screams, he writhes, he pleads.
"Stop! Please!"
"Tell me where the Witcher is."
"I would! I don't know!"
He wouldn't. And he won't. Jaskier is perfectly aware of where the Wolf keep is, but he won't breathe a word of it if it kills him.
"Fine. You don't know. But since you won't use your voice for anything useful, I suppose you don't really need it, do you?"
Jaskier blinks, horrified, looking up at the dark haired mage looming over him.
"What?"
"Well since you won't share anything useful and don't have anything helpful to say," He shrugs, "I'll just make sure you never speak again." Seeing the look in Jaskiers eyes, the mage laughs, "Don't worry little bard, I won't kill you! I'm just going to take away the only thing you love!"
He snaps out of the dream with a gasp, pleased that intakes of air at least make noise still. His fingers come to rest on the blue silk scarf he's tied around himself - and he waits. His hopes dwindle, he is going to rot here.
-------------
He finds that music only makes it hurt more. Even with the clatter of metal spoons together or hit against a metal tray as though he were playing very loud drums, it all only makes him hurt more. And yet he finds that the ever increasing annoyance of the guard is the only thing able to lift his mood even slightly. He chuckles soundlessly into his cell as he is once again yelled at to shut up. It reminds him of Geralt, oddly.
That thought tears at him more than he would care to admit, so he pushes all thoughts of the Witcher away until it is impossible to do so, until the white wolf himself is standing in the doorway to his cell looking down at him with those golden honey eyes.
"Jaskier," He says, head tilting curiously when the bard doesn't stand immediately. Jaskier attempts to push himself to his feet but he winces when his ribs shift and he stumbles up onto his feet. Geralt reaches out to steady him with a quiet "Careful," But Jaskier shoves him away with a very pointed glare.
Geralt stares and blinks, apparently waiting for Jaskier to speak and very confused when he doesn't say anything.
"I uh... I missed you?"
Jaskier rolls his eyes, trying to make the movement as obvious as possible in case Geralt misses that too. He then swirls his left hand in the air, indicating for Geralt to keep talking or explain.
"I need your help."
Jaskier rolls his eyes again, this time limping forward and pushing past Geralt out into the hall where he begins to gather his things from the chest nearby.
"Are you... are you okay?"
He shoots an incredulous look at the Witcher, shoving his bag onto the larger man's hands and pushing him rather forcefully towards the exit.
"Jaskier? Why aren't you talking?"
Jaskier just pushes him again, giving an annoyed huff of breath.
"Are you agreeing to help? I don't understand what's happening."
Jaskier rolls his eyes again, oh this is going to be fun. Being forced to communicate without a voice. At least he had some words with the stupid Djinn thing now he has nothing. He nods when Geralt looks back at him though. Of course he would help. He would always help, as long as it was for Geralt. And Geralt doesn't complain about being forced to carry his bag, not that Jaskier could carry it if he wanted to, but it's nice to see the Witcher put in work for him for once.
"Alright... are you going to be silent the entire time?"
Jaskier nods again.
"That isn't necessary, Jaskier. I'm... sorry I yelled at you before. You don't need to shut up."
Jaskier just makes a taunting talking motion with his left hand to mock him, accompanied by a sneer that he hopes gets the point across that he is angry. He is hurt and angry, and even if he had his voice, Geralt doesn't deserve to hear it.
Geralt gives him a confused glance but doesn't say much more, instead they make their quiet escape into the woods nearby.
It's all a blur from there, meeting the dwarves, traveling with them. Jaskier staggers along next to Geralt and Roach. He can feel the Witchers eyes on him but he adamantly looks away. He tries to make himself appear as normal as possible but the bruising down his sides, his legs and ove his ribs and sternum makes every step feel like he is being crushed. The burns chafe against his shirt and jacket, and though he tries not to curl the injured arm into himself he knows he has to be tender with it. At some point during their trek, maybe a mere 20 minutes in, the stab wound between his ribs tears itself back open and he hisses a breath between his teeth but simply shakes his head and keeps walking.
At least until Geralt is off of Roach and standing next to him.
"Jaskier, you're bleeding."
He glares, and when Geralt tries to reach out to touch him Jaskier finds himself slapping the hand away - not missing the flash of hurt in Geralts eyes at the response.
"You're hurt." Geralt tries again. Jaskier shakes his head. "Jaskier, at least let me treat your wounds. You could get an infection," He reaches out and Jaskier slaps him away more forcefully exhaling an annoyed breath from his nose. "Will you at least ride Roach?"
At this Jaskiers head tilts curiously. Geralt has rarely, if ever, allowed him on his horse. He's not sure if the movement will be safe for his cracked ribs but still, lips pressed into a firm line, he nods. Geralt wordlessly helps him up onto Roach, no doubt noticing the way the bards eyes scrunch in pain as he moves too much. Jaskier takes a deep breath, pushing through the pain.
This is nothing, he thinks. This is nothing compared to:
"If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands."
The words echo, still in his mind, and as they begin to make their way forward again, Geralt leading Roach by the reins, he lets his head hang forward, salty tears pooling in his eyes and dripping onto the saddle below him.
He clutches at the leather, letting his eyes shut for a few meets to try and will away the tears, and when he does so visions of that room flash through his mind. He still smells like his own burnt flesh. He wonders if Geralt has noticed it. If he even cares. The images dig into his mind, his eyes, his heart, his throat - and they get stuck there. A lump as his eyes snap open in his increasing panic. It hadn't seemed quite real before. He didn't have to believe it because really he had no need to use his voice, he could pretend he was still keeping his secrets from the people holding him.
But that's not the case, and quietly, unnoticed by anyone, he folds slightly despite his pain and sobs silently. He feels Geralts eyes on him, it's nothing new, Geralt has seen Jaskier cry many times over the years for all assortment of reasons. But this is different. They both know it. This is broken. This is irreparable, and even though Geralt doesn't know why Jaskier is crying, he still gets the sinking feeling it is something he can not fix.