So, there's this scene in season 2 that really got under my skin. I tried to get it out of my head, and this story was the result. You can already tell by the summary that this is going to be pretty dark, but rest assured, there will be comfort as well. I hope you'll enjoy the ride.

A huge thank you to the lovely Sammys_Girl for betaing this. They are the best and deserve a medal.


"Hey pal, are you still alive?"

The voice barely penetrates the fog of pain that clouds his mind. It sounds vaguely familiar, gravelly, and thick, but the words don't make any sense to him. They fall heavy, a rumbling echo in a cave, and their meaning is lost in the darkness. A shadow falls across his face, but he doesn't open his eyes. He's afraid of what will happen if he does.

He has lost count of how many times he has passed out, but by now he knows what will happen once he comes to. Always, there's more pain to come. More skin to be broken, more flesh to be burnt. There's not a single fiber in his body that doesn't hurt, and his left hand throbs with an agony he has never thought possible.

How long has he been here, tied to this god-awful chair? Hours? Days? He can't remember. Dimly, he is aware of daylight behind his closed lids, but that doesn't mean anything. He had been taken in the early morning hours. Maybe he's been here a short while only.

A hand touches his face and he flinches.

No more, he thinks. Please. I don't know anything. He tries to form the words and fails miserably, his tongue too swollen to cooperate. All he manages is a weak moan. Something wet drools down his chin and he tastes blood on his lips.

"Shoot, you're in a bad way, aren't you?" The voice is closer to his face now and he can smell eggs and booze on his breath, along with a characteristic smell of tobacco. Walt. The name of the innkeeper forms in his mind as recognition sets in. "Who did you piss off this time? Told you to stay away from the married girls at least. Wait, I'll get you out of this chair."

There are hands fumbling with the ropes, and he feels a painful tug on his wrist that makes his stomach lurch. He whimpers when his bad hand is pulled from its bounds and he feels like he's going to pass out again.

"Maggie? Get in here!"

Blood roars in his ears, but he manages to stay coherent somehow. Ragged breaths come from his lungs, his ribs protesting with every inhale. It doesn't take long and his right hand is free as well. He instinctively reaches for his injured one and cradles it to his chest. Damn, how can something hurt so badly? He is afraid of even trying to move his fingers.

"What's taking you so long? Get in here, dammit. It's Jaskier. I need your help!"

"The bard?" A female voice answers. "What's he still doing here?"

"He's run into some trouble, it seems."

There's the rustle of feet, followed by a curse.

"Sweet mother of tears, the poor soul! Is he still alive?"

"Barely. Help me get him to his feet."

Hands grab around his biceps, pulling him to his feet, and the motion sends spikes of pain through his battered body. He gasps, feeling his grasp on reality slip.

"He has a room at Clarice's, just across the street."

It's the last thing he hears before he passes out.

He dreams of flames licking against his palm, ropes biting into his flesh. His skin is chafed raw, and his sweat burns in the shallow wounds. He writhes, desperate to get away.

"Easy, just take it easy."

There are hands on his shoulders, pinning him down, and he can't shake them, no matter how hard he tries. Tears gag him. He wants to beg them to leave him alone and doesn't even manage that much.

Desperately, he clutches his bad hand against his chest. It hurts so damn much, and they want to try to pry it from his grasp. He fights them.

"Just let me have a look at it. I'll be as gentle as I can."

No, he thinks. Please, no more. He tastes old iron on his tongue and realizes that it must be his own blood.

"Please, Jaskier. I'm trying to help you."

He realizes that it's a female voice this time. Not Maggie, someone else.

Geralt, where are you? The thought makes his throat constrict. Why haven't you come to save me?

A sob trembles through him, and the face of Yennefer appears before him. Another one who hasn't come to his rescue. He hopes that she is safe on her ship across the Yaruga.

Again, there are voices, but he can't make out what they're saying. Then he feels his head being tilted up, and something bitter is coaxed down his throat. He swallows reflexively, but some of the liquid ends up trickling down the wrong way. He coughs, trying to clear his airway. His ribs protest, and for a brief moment, pain consumes his vision, turning everything bright red.

"Easy now. You'll be alright." A hand on his brow. He is strangely aware of the fresh scent of soap but the sensation passes quickly. When darkness starts to pull him under, he lets it take him.

When he comes to, there's the soft rasp of cotton under his cheek. Fingers press under his jawbone, and he feels the presence of a body sitting close to him. His eyelids flutter.

"Jaskier," someone addresses him softly. "Can you hear me?"

He takes a deeper breath, wincing at the pain it causes him, and tries to pry his eyes open. His efforts are rewarded with a red-tinted vision of a girl leaning over him. Auburn hair, green eyes. He thinks he has seen her before but he can't put a name to her face.

"Hi there." A small smile appears on her lips. "I'm glad you're awake. Don't try to move, okay? Somebody's worked you over pretty good."

It's an understatement, in his opinion, but he doesn't have the strength to argue. Right now, he is barely hanging on to consciousness.

The fingers disappear from his throat.

"I'm Shani," the girl says. "I live next door. You've probably seen me before."

He has. Now that she mentions it, he remembers to have seen her among the crowd at the tavern. Usually in the company of two other girls. He licks his lips, trying to find the strength to speak. He is hurting all over, and his body doesn't seem to like the idea of staying awake. Still, he hasn't been raised in a barn, and he feels like he should express his gratitude at least.

"Thank you," he rasps, and he winces at the sound of his voice. It's raw from screaming. "Are you a healer?"

She looks awfully young.

"Me?" She smiles and lowers her head, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "No. I'm still a student. I helped out at Master Dariel's practice though. But he was half elf, so -"

She doesn't finish the sentence, and she doesn't have to. Jaskier can fill in the details. By now, almost everyone with elven blood has left the city, and with them, a lot of healers. He is lucky that there's someone left who is capable and willing to treat his wounds.

"Walt sent for me when he found you in the taproom. How's the pain?"

She addresses the issue directly. No vague questions about how he's feeling, which must be pretty obvious. Right now, he all but craves to go back to sleep. His face is a swollen mass that puckers with heat, his chest hurts with every single breath, and his hand – he doesn't have words for that. His gaze falls to where it rests beside his head on the pillow, swathed in bandages.

She must have guessed his thoughts because she says, "I tried my best, but you might want to see a real healer eventually. The burns are extensive."

Her voice becomes small on the last syllables, the words barely discernable, and he feels something cold constrict around his heart. It's a pain that momentarily drowns out his physical comfort.

"Will I be able to play again?"

The expression on her face scares him but not so much that he doesn't want to know. He sees her hesitate and repeats the question.

"Please," he says with some effort. "I need to know."

She casts her eyes down, avoiding his gaze.

"The tissue of the hand is largely destroyed." She licks her lips. He can see the conflicted emotions on her features, the crease that deepens between her brows. When she continues, her voice is thick. "I doubt that you'll regain full movement of your hand. Actually, you'll be lucky if you don't lose it."

He stares at her, the meaning of her words slowly sinking in. She shakes her head in apology and places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

There's no air left in his lungs. He feels dizzy, dimly aware of his right hand clutching the sheets.

This fucker has beaten the living daylights out of him. He has made him scream until his throat hurt, has mocked him, seared his flesh, and reduced him to a shivering, sobbing mess, and now he has taken his music as well? He might as well have killed him. Why the hell hasn't he just killed him?

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I wish I could do more."

She gently squeezes his shoulder, and he brings up his gaze to look at her. He wants to curse, to scream, hell, he wants to cry his heart out, but his body disagrees. He is firmly locked in a numb state, unable to catch up with the information. All he manages is to shake his head, a mute expression of denial.

"I cleaned the wound as well as I could, and I'll do my best to prevent infection. But my abilities are limited. I know how to help with the pain though."

She reaches for something beyond Jaskier's field of vision and retrieves a small flask.

"Poppy sap," she offers in terms of explanation. "A few drops will suffice to numb the pain and help you rest. Okay?"

He has heard of it but has never been sick or injured enough to need it. It sounds good though. He is too exhausted to face this right now. He is hurting too damn much, and he can't face his future in ruins on top of that. All he wants to do is to forget and sleep. He gives a small nod and she pours some water into a cup and mixes it with a couple of drops from the flask.

"Can you sit up?"

He manages to lift his head enough so he can drink, and she slips a helping hand under his shoulders to steady him. He almost gags at the bitter taste.

When he lowers his head back against the pillow, he feels himself drifting already. He hopes he will fall asleep soon.

"Thank you," he rasps. He is appalled by how broken he sounds, how small.

He feels her hand on his wrist, and he reaches for it. He should feel ashamed of needing the touch of a human so badly. He doesn't even know this girl, but he can't bring himself to care. She is here, and right now, she is all the comfort he has.

It doesn't change that he wants a different hand on his arm though. One that belongs to a man he thought he has gotten over. Now, it becomes painfully clear that he hasn't, that all this time, he has not even gotten close to getting over him. Knowing that ultimately, he has been the reason for his suffering doesn't make it any better.

Wrath coils deep in his gut at the thought, hot and tight, and it mixes with the bitter taste of something he can't put a name to. But Geralt needs to be warned, and he needs to warn the girl as well. The child of surprise that he only knows by name.

"Can you do something for me?" He asks, wincing at how much it hurts to speak. "It's important."

"Of course."

The smile on her face is genuine, not the fake one a healer might give a patient to reassure them.

"Get a message to Geralt of Rivia. You'll have to find a mage for that, I don't know where he is. There's coin in my bags." He manages a weak nod towards his travel sack. "Take whatever you need. For your services as well."

He pauses, takes a moment to catch his breath, then continues.

"Warn him." A rush of warmth flows up his spine and pools behind his eyes. It takes the edge off the pain, and he feels like he's drifting away, almost as if floating out on sea with the tide. It is a strange feeling, and it comes with a numb fuzziness. Another wave of warmth washes over him and the searing heat in his hand decreases into a dull throb.

It won't be long now. He can feel darkness encroaching. He hasn't finished though. Not yet.

"Warn him," he repeats, his gaze interlocked with hers. "Someone's after him and his daughter. Can you remember that?"

She nods.

"I'll make sure he gets the message." She hesitates, then says, "It's probably none of my business, but - " She wets her lips. "What happened to you, it happened because of him, didn't it?"

He feels tears prick in his eyes but his gaze doesn't waver. She's a smart one, figuring that out just by his request.

"Who is he to you?"

A friend, he thinks immediately. At least he used to be a friend. But after the mountain, he doubts that Geralt ever really felt that way. So maybe he's just an acquaintance. A guy he used to know. One he wrote songs about. Still, he's someone he cares about, as much as he has hurt him. But he can't tell her that.

"He's a witcher," he finally says, and she nods.

"Yes, I know. I've listened to your songs more than once." She looks at him thoughtfully. "Well, I'll try to find a way to get the message to him. Meanwhile, you just rest. Try not to think about your hand. Remember, I'm just a student."

One who cared enough to help out, no questions asked. He doesn't say it out loud though. He is already half asleep.