Jaskier exists only between moments of pain.
His shoulder is the worst – sharp edges, blood spilling into the back of his throat and making it hard to breathe. Any time he tries to speak, the words dissolve into a wet gurgle. The pain pulls him in and out of consciousness, everything fading and dissolving around him and then reappearing, hard and dark and terrifying.
At one point, Geralt appears. The terror recedes into relief for just a second, and then his eyes are the wrong color and his skin ripples away and he has too many teeth. The reprieve descends back into terror and tears, and Jaskier wishes he could scream.
Geralt takes care of the wolf-beast easily, driving his sword through its skull and kicking its twitching corpse into the water. It's easy to see the path the creature took through the forest and Geralt sprints along it, jumping over tangled roots and ducking under low branches. He calls Jaskier's name again, throwing all caution to the wind. If something wants to attack him, it can damn well try.
The sun has risen and the mountainside is already warmed by a soft yellow light when Geralt finally sees it. A tiny hut, barely more than a ramshackle lean-to, tucked in between a large tree and a rocky bluff. The sharp tang of blood is back, and there's a sound that's almost a sob, and before he can think, Geralt's across the glen and kicking down the door.
Something large and angry turns to him, hissing in a language he doesn't recognize, and he doesn't even look at it, just swings in its direction and feels a sharp sense of satisfaction when there's a wet squelch and its head tumbles from its shoulders.
The relief is short-lived.
"Fuck," Geralt whispers, dropping to his knees next to Jaskier. He's barely sitting up, propped against the wall with his hands bound in front of him and a blank expression on his face. "Hey," Geralt says softly, dropping his sword and reaching out to touch Jaskier's face. "Look at me."
Jaskier's gaze drags slowly over to Geralt, but there's no recognition in his vacant gaze. The soft blue of his eyes is overwhelmed by the dark of his pupils and Geralt curses, pressing his fingertips to Jaskier's cheek.
"You're safe now." Geralt's voice is rough and he tries his best to soften it, unused to being gentle or reassuring. "You—"
"Nnnn." Jaskier jerks away from him slowly, not reacting to the dull thunk of his head hitting the wall behind him. His lips move but nothing comes out, and Geralt's eyes drop to his neck.
It's torn open from the edge of his jaw to the middle of his shoulder, skin maimed and missing in some places. Geralt's heart skips when he picks out the white of Jaskier's collarbone through the mangled skin. It's still bleeding sluggishly in some spots, but mostly it's messy and ragged and makes Geralt feel sick.
"Shit," Geralt whispers, hands hovering uncertainly over the wound. He can't touch it, but he can't not touch it either because he needs to stop the bleeding.
"Hgnnmmnn," Jaskier tries again, lips moving without making words. The movement tugs at the wound and he gasps, tipping his head back and screwing his eyes shut in pain.
"You're gonna be fine," Geralt says gently, keeping his voice as soft and reassuring as possible. "You're—it's okay, we can…" He grits his teeth in frustration. Jaskier doesn't heal like he does, and Geralt's been on his own for so long that he has no idea how human bodies are supposed to knit themselves back together when they've been damaged.
Jaskier's pretty sure this isn't real.
He knows it's Geralt – white hair, golden eyes, lips moving, but Jaskier can't hear it because he's made of nothing but pain. He groans, letting out another sharp, anguished breath, and blinks hard to keep himself from passing out again. Geralt isn't disappearing this time, isn't changing into a monster, and Jaskier can feel gentle fingertips on his cheek.
Not real, he thinks, trying to pull away. He's not coming, he doesn't know where I am, it's just the monster, I'm going to die, I want to die, please, please, ple—
"I'm so sorry."
Soft, rumbling words break through the voice in Jaskier's head and he slowly opens his eyes again, taking a ragged breath.
"This is going to hurt, but you have to trust me, okay?" A hand slides down his arm, touch barely there, and then there's an arm under Jaskier's legs and he's shifting, moving into the air, crying out in pain.
"Shhh, I'm sorry, I know it hurts." It's Geralt's voice again, and Jaskier's starting to think that maybe this is real because the beast with too many teeth isn't here, and nothing's changing, and there's a warm, steady heartbeat behind all the pain.
Geralt doesn't stop moving until they're at the bottom of the mountain and he's found Roach. It takes nearly half a day and Jaskier's heavy in his arms – he passed out not far from the cabin, delirious with pain – but Geralt's not going to complain.
He's never going to complain about Jaskier again.
"It's okay, girl," he murmurs as Roach nickers at him, nosing at Jaskier. "He's gonna be fine. Let's get him to town."
It's awkward, but he manages to get both of them on the horse, with Jaskier held between his arms, limp but breathing. Geralt shifts him so that Jaskier's face is tucked into the crook of his neck and he can feel each soft, uneven breath that means Jaskier is alive.
"We'll find a healer," he murmurs, keeping both arms wrapped around Jaskier and pressing his face against his hair. "You'll be okay. I promise."
He's not sure who he's reassuring, but he keeps talking – soft, quiet words that feel so unfamiliar but necessary all the same. Roach doesn't need his guidance to pick her way down to the flatland, and from there it's a straight shot down the trail and back to town.
As soon as Geralt sees a farmstead, he nudges Roach off the road, stomach twisting as he sees the suspicious glare of the man out front. Even with the songs and Jaskier's exaggerated tales of their adventures, there are still people who spit on the ground when they see Geralt coming. People who cast the sign against demons, who cross the road, who hide their children from him.
He's never cared until now.
"Please," Geralt says, gesturing at Jaskier, and the blood, and the way he's barely breathing. "I need—he needs help." The man doesn't move and Geralt bites back the urge to strangle him. "Please, I have coin, I can pay. He's badly injured."
A woman, round-faced and kinder looking than the sallow man, peeks her head out the front door. "Bring him here," she says immediately, pushing the man out of the way and whispering something to him angrily. "Inside, come, bring him in."
Geralt dismounts as carefully as possible, keeping one hand behind Jaskier's head and the other under his knees.
He's so light. Humans are so fragile.
"Right here," the woman says, moving several plates off the kitchen table and gesturing for Geralt to lie Jaskier down. When she sees the wound in his neck, she gasps. "What in the hells happened?"
"I don't know what it was," Geralt says, brushing Jaskier's hair out of his eyes and staring desperately at the slow, uneven rise and fall of his chest. "I've never seen one before. Like a wolf, but—"
"A barghest," the woman says, clicking her tongue and moving over to the fire where a pot of water is already boiling. "Strong, but no poison. Unbind his hands."
Geralt stares at her for a second, then looks back at Jaskier, realizing with a start that his hands are still tied in front of him. A quick flick of his dagger easily parts the leather strap, and Geralt winces when he peels it back from the bloody mess of Jaskier's left wrist. It's torn apart, just like his throat, skin ripped away down to the bone.
An image of Jaskier strumming his lute and humming under his breath by the fire surfaces in Geralt's mind, and the guilt hits him tenfold. "Can you help him?" he asks.
"I can try," the woman says, bringing over a bowl and a damp cloth and gingerly touching it to the ragged wound on Jaskier's neck. His breath hitches but he doesn't wake, and Geralt's glad for the unconsciousness that's taken the pain away.
"Can I—what can I do?" he asks, hovering uncertainly next to the table as the woman keeps rinsing the wound, watching as the water in the bowl slowly turns darker and darker red. He wants desperately to make this better, to fix what he broke, but his hands are clumsy and far too rough.
They're made for killing, not saving.
"Stay next to him," the woman says gently. "In case he wakes and I need you to hold him down."
Geralt nods, sliding Jaskier's uninjured hand into his. You're going to survive this, he thinks desperately as he runs his thumb across Jaskier's bloody knuckles. You have to. I need you.
