"Look, nobody expects to perform or anything. Just spend some time with us."
Jaskier lies on his bed, dressed in a shirt and soft breeches, and stares at the ceiling. There's a dark spot where someone must have squashed a mosquito. It's really not that interesting, but it's easier to look at than the girl in the doorway.
Priscilla means well, of course. They all do. And technically, he's well enough to get up. It's not his legs that have been injured.
"We could hang out a bit, and you could catch up on the gossip. Francis has a new boyfriend. You should meet him, he's really funny." He can hear the gentleness in her voice and it irrationally makes his throat swell up. That's what sympathy does to him these days, and he hates it. "Some company would do you good. You've been holed up here for weeks."
"Twelve days," he corrects her without averting his eyes from the ceiling.
She sighs. "Fine, so it's almost two weeks. But you get the drift."
"I'm not in the mood."
"The others have been asking for you. They're worried."
He lets go of a long breath. The truth is, his band are the last people he wants to see right now. Even thinking of them is painful. Their music, the good times they had. Looking at them would hurt worse, and he doesn't want to hate them for still being able to hold a cello, to play a flute. Sure, his voice has returned, but what is a bard without his lute?
"I'd rather stay here," he says flatly. "Thank you for dropping by."
He feels her hesitate.
"Have you seen a professional healer about your hand?"
He has. An acquaintance of Shani's. Cost him quite some coin too, not that it's done him any good. The answer has been just as he feared. It won't heal, not completely.
"I won't be able to play again."
He's surprised at how steady his voice is.
"I'm sorry."
She sounds like she really means it, and again, he feels his throat constrict.
"Yeah."
"Look, you can still sing. It doesn't mean we can't perform anymore. If you want to - "
"Please," he begs and risks a glance at her. There she stands, pretty as the dawn, slender hands wrapped around his bedpost. Perfect, smooth, hands that are able to play the violin like a young goddess. It makes his chest tighten and he swallows against the lump in his throat. "I really don't want to talk about this. Not today."
Her brows furrow with concern, and he looks away. The silence that stretches between them is hard to bear.
He knows what she wants to know. Will you ever perform with us again or should we keep an eye out for a new lead? Francis is still a student, living off his parents' money, but the others rely on the coin they make. He can't postpone the decision forever. It wouldn't be fair to them.
"Alright," she finally concedes. "Maybe tomorrow?"
He doesn't answer. He doesn't want to make promises he can't keep. Her eventual sigh is disappointment and relief at once.
"Right then. Get well soon." She pauses and adds, "We're at the Golden Crown in case you change your mind."
He hears her leave and closes his eyes. Tears prick behind closed eyelids, and he clenches his jaw. This is so fucked up. If only there was hope, but the last shred of hope died today. Apparently, there are things not even magic can cure.
It's not gotten infected at least, so he won't lose it. Shani has done a good job. But he has lost feeling in three of his fingers, and he can barely move his thumb. It's over. He'll never play again. The end of everything he has ever dreamed of. No more singing at crowded taverns or royal banquets. Well, singing maybe. But without his lute.
Maybe, he thinks, it's a good thing that Filavandrel's lute's been shattered to pieces. At least there's no instrument to tempt him. Maybe it's a sign or something. Maybe he's not supposed to walk this road anymore.
He can oddly relate to Yennefer now. Not that he wasn't able to sympathize back then, but it's one thing to imagine another person's suffering. Experiencing it is something else. His thoughts have returned to their conversation on the ship with persistence, and he's been playing it over in his mind ever since.
He had thought that a mage without magic was like a bard without his muse. He was wrong, he realizes that now. It's worse than that. Because the longing is still there, the desire to express himself, to put into song what he feels inside. But he is crippled now, unable to create what wants out. Just like Yennefer lost her ability to shape reality by sheer force of will, and it has been taken away from him forever. Consumed by the flames of a nameless sorcerer.
Burn, butcher burn.
The lyrics return to his mind of their own volition and he feels wetness on his cheeks although his eyes are still pressed shut. Maybe he has brought some curse upon himself by wishing this pain on another. On a loved one, at that.
He turns his head to cast a blurred glance at the flask on his nightstand. It's not time to take another dose, but he craves it nonetheless. He has soon found out that it doesn't just help with his physical discomfort, but also dulls the ache that churns in his chest. The kind of pain that doesn't let him sleep at night. That makes his thoughts go around and around in the same torturous circles.
If only he had never met Geralt.
If only he had never insisted on following him.
Maybe his songs would still stem from fairy-tales and whatever creatures his imagination could conjure up, but he would still be able to play.
He bangs his head back against the headboard. Fuck, why the hell is this so hard to accept? At least his hand is still attached. It's not like he will go down in history as Jaskier, the one-handed bard. Besides, he can still write and sing. He could find someone to play the lute for him. Or, if he chooses to really not be a bard anymore, he could find something else to do with his life. He could teach, maybe here at the University of Oxenfurt. Or he could return to Lettenhove and finally make his father proud.
Only he doesn't want that.
Outside his room, the floorboards creak under someone's weight. A knock on the door announces another visitor, a sound that is followed by the squeal of hinges.
"Could you please leave me alone," he says without looking up. He's not in the mood for Francis or Emma, or god forbid, a well-meant visit from the innkeeper's wife. It's too early for Shani, and honestly, he's not even sure he wants to see her today. If he has to bear one more sympathetic glance, he thinks he is going to explode.
"Jaskier."
The voice that comes from the doorway makes his heart skip a beat. It's so unexpected that for a moment, he thinks he's mistaken. Because he wouldn't come. Not for him.
But when he pushes himself up against the headboard, he sees that it's Geralt.
The witcher stands in the doorway, one hand against the doorframe. He hasn't changed one bit. Still broad-shouldered and raggedly handsome. Still the same inhuman eyes. The same white hair. His cloak is dusty from the road, and he puts down the leather bag that contains his swords.
Jaskier feels something twist in his gut.
"You," he croaks, his voice almost gone.
Geralt steps inside and closes the door behind him while Jaskier stares, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he is really here.
"What are you doing here?" Suddenly he is overly aware of how sorry he looks, the fading bruises on his face, his greasy hair and unshaven chin. Bathing is difficult when you're all banged up and everything hurts. Having only one good hand doesn't help. The sight of Geralt makes his chest tighten, the hurt of abandonment fresh again.
"I got your message."
"My message," Jaskier repeats.
He knows he is talking about the warning he had Shani send him. But he had never expected Geralt to actually show up. At least not to check if he was alright. That's something you'd do for a friend, not for the person you blame for everything that went wrong in your life. To him, Jaskier is little more than a piece of dogshit clinging to your boot, he has made that abundantly clear.
So, there has to be a different reason he is here today. Jaskier doesn't have to think too hard to realize what made him.
"You want details." Jaskier locks his jaw. He can feel himself trembling, dizzy with anguish and the effort of keeping himself together. Of course, he's worried about Cirilla. "Well, I'm sorry, but you already know all there is to know. I don't know why anyone would be after you or your child surprise."
Geralt doesn't respond. There's a crease between his brows and a hard set around his lips.
"You look like shit."
"Oh, well, thank you," he bites out. "I completely forgot about your lovely bedside manner."
"Who did this to you?"
"I don't know." It comes out more heated than intended but Jaskier can't bring himself to feel sorry for it. He feels raw. The past days have been a living misery, and all his pain just wants out. Seeing Geralt again after all this time, it doesn't make things easier. "And in case you're worried about what I told him – there wasn't much to tell."
Geralt opens his mouth and closes it without saying anything. The scowl on his face deepens. It's the look he wears when something really gets to him, and Jaskier feels tears sting in his eyes. These days, it seems like he can't stop crying. He hates himself for it.
"I'm sorry," Geralt says with more gentleness Jaskier has thought him capable of.
The words have tears spilling down Jaskier's cheeks and he presses his lips together to keep them from trembling. Damn him. He shakes his head, trying to keep whatever remains of his composure, and fails miserably. He is so fucking glad that Geralt has come, it feels like his heart is being wrenched out of his chest. It gets worse when Geralt finally crosses the distance between them and sits down on the edge of the bed. He feels a firm grip on his shoulder, and then
he is pulled against a broad chest. It smells of horse and leather and the road.
It smells like home.
"I'm so sorry."
The words are rumbled against the crown of Jaskier's head. He feels the warmth of Geralt's breath on his scalp, and just like that, he falls apart.
"Fuck you," he whispers wetly, pressing his head against Geralt's sternum. "You fucking bastard. You have some nerve showing up here." Geralt's arms tighten around him. He inhales on a hitch of breath and closes his eyes. "What on earth are you doing here?"
He makes himself pull from the embrace although he wants to cling. It's frightening how much he wants to hold on to him. One moment longer, and Geralt might have to pry him from his body like burr from his clothes.
Geralt doesn't answer. Instead, he pushes Jaskier's ragged hair out of his face and studies his features, then casts a worried glance at his bandaged hand.
It's then that Jaskier realizes that Geralt knows. Maybe the innkeeper told him, or Shani. Jaskier has never asked her what exactly she wrote in her message.
"He hurt your hand."
Jaskier lets go of a trembling breath.
"Yes."
Geralt's eyes don't waver.
"Show me."
Jaskier's eyes widen. It's not the reaction he expected, and it's certainly not something he wants to do. He's not even seen it himself. Up till now, he has not dared to look at the injury, has carefully directed his glance elsewhere when Shani changed the bandages or when the healer examined the charred and blistered flesh today.
He hesitates, but when Geralt gently takes his hand into his, he lets it happen. Methodically, Geralt loosens the strip of cloth that is wound tightly around the injured hand, and Jaskier watches entranced as layer after layer comes undone. He is scared of what he will see. He is so scared that for a moment, he even forgets to breathe, but somehow he is unable to pull his hand away from Geralt's grasp.
When finally the last bit of the bandage falls away, all he can do is stare.
His flesh looks red and black under the coat of salve and healing herbs, and there's barely a patch of skin left. He's lost three of his nails. The ones that are still attached are black and grossly deformed. Bile rises in the back of his throat. It's not that he hasn't been prepared for this. He knew it was bad. But looking at it makes it more real. He can't deny this anymore.
"This will never heal completely." Geralt states quietly.
"No."
Jaskier feels the overwhelming urge to throw up. He swallows hard against the nausea that pummels in his midsection and closes his eyes.
It takes a moment for the dizziness to pass, and he is aware of Geralt gently replacing the bandages. When he opens his eyes again, Geralt's face swims before him. He looks broken, like a father who has returned home to find his family slaughtered.
"This is my fault." The words come out slowly as if suddenly Geralt had forgotten how to talk. "I wish there was something I could do to make this right."
He can't. There's no way to undo this. But it's not Geralt who inflicted these wounds on him. He has hurt him, yes, but in a different way, and those wounds might heal yet. Jaskier is surprised at how much he wants to forgive him.
If only he could be sure he came back for good. Jaskier looks at him, wishing he could read his mind.
"I should never have left you on that mountain," Geralt says haltingly. "The things I said – fuck." He works his jaw, averting his gaze. "We'll find you the best healer there is. And then I'll track down the son of a bitch who did this to you, and I'll make him pay."
Jaskier sees the dangerous flicker in Geralt's eyes and knows he means every word of it. It is a balm of sorts. Even if it doesn't get him his hand back, the idea of taking action sounds good. At least, he won't have to sleep with one eye open anymore.
There won't be a magical cure though. Jaskier doesn't lend himself to that illusion, and he tells Geralt as much.
"No, there probably won't," Geralt agrees. He's never been one to sugar-coat the truth. It's something Jaskier has always liked about him, as painful as it is now. "But I won't have you suffer any more than need be. After what has happened, I should be heading to Ellander anyway. There's a priestess there at the Temple of Melitele who has saved my life more than once. If anyone knows a remedy, it's her."
"You want us to travel to Ellander?"
Jaskier can't hide his surprise. He's just begun to move around again. He doubts that he'll be able to make a journey like that anytime soon.
Geralt nods. "If you think you can. And if you want to."
The look on Geralt's face says that he doesn't necessarily expect him to. After all, there's still a lot left unspoken between them, and he hasn't been forgiven. Not in words.
Jaskier bites his lip. He isn't quite sure what holds him back. Geralt has apologized more than once, and he is sure he means it. Plus, he doesn't want Geralt to leave. So, really, the decision should be easy.
"I'll have to talk to Shani," Jaskier says after a moment of silence. He nods towards the flask on his nightstand. "I might need to organize some things first."
"Alright," Geralt nods. "In the meantime, I'll keep an eye out for the man who assaulted you. It was a man, wasn't it?"
Jaskier nods.
"Can you describe him for me?"
Jaskier hesitates. In the hours he has been at his captor's mercy, he's had plenty of time to memorize his features. The face is likely to haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.
Putting it into words though is more difficult than anticipated, and once more, Jaskier is appalled at how much he wants to cry. He lowers his gaze to avoid meeting Geralt's eyes, and to his surprise, he feels a hand coming to rest on his wrist. Geralt's touch is uncharacteristically soft.
"Jaskier?"
Jaskier shakes his head. His throat closes up and suddenly it's difficult to breathe. His chest is so damn tight, it feels like metal bands are pressing against his ribs. Why on earth is this so hard? What the hell is wrong with him? The hand on his wrist squeezes slightly.
"It's alright." Geralt's voice sounds soft. "Just take a deep breath. If you want, I'll use a sign to help you calm down."
Jaskier bites his lip, shaking his head. He doesn't want that. Geralt shifts slightly, and for a moment, he worries that Geralt might use his magic on him anyway. He is infinitely relieved when he finds a steady hand on his shoulder instead. It's warm and strong, and somehow, it helps him draw a deeper breath.
"I'm sorry," he gasps out, and Geralt shakes his head. He feels it more than he actually sees it.
"Don't be. Just take it slow."
The hand on his shoulder is comforting in its weight. Jaskier has rarely gotten a glimpse of this side of Geralt, this kindness, and finding it directed at him is almost surreal. He embraces it though. Somehow he feels protected. Safe.
"He was a mage." The words are whispered, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Geralt nod. Nothing more. He doesn't press on, just waits patiently. Jaskier licks his lips. "Shoulder-long, dark hair, a burn scar on the side of his face." He clenches his fist to keep it from shaking. "He snapped his fingers to summon the flames. His shirt -" He swallows hard. "Black and gold. That's all I remember." He lets go of a shaky breath. It takes all he has not to press his face into Geralt's shoulder. "Do you think he is still around?"
"He might." Geralt gently squeezes his shoulder. "If he is, I'll find him. Has anyone else seen him?"
"I don't know," he shakes his head. "One of the dockworkers might have. But it was night when he got me, and when he -," Jaskier feels his throat constrict and closes his eyes. "When we were in the taproom, we were alone. I'm sorry, it's not much to go by."
"It'll do."
Geralt stands and Jaskier has to keep himself in check to not grab for his hand. He doesn't want him to leave. Hell, he has barely just arrived, and he seems so calm about this, so in control. Jaskier wants to latch onto him and never let go.
"What if you don't find him?" Jaskier asks.
"Then we'll be on our way. Ellander is a week's journey at least, and I'd rather get there sooner than later." Once more, Jaskier feels Geralt's concerned gaze rest on him. "Besides, if he really is looking for me, he'll have to show eventually."
The thought has something cold claw at Jaskier's spine. He doesn't want to see this man again. The idea of Geralt getting rid of him sounds good, but the prospect of actually having to face him? He doesn't think he'll be able to take it.
His alarm must have shown on his face because Geralt's look softens.
"I'll protect you. Don't worry, he won't get to you again."
"What about your child surprise?" The thought appears from nowhere, but as soon as it's out, Jaskier realizes that it's a valid concern. After all, his assailant has been after her. "You should make sure she is safe as well."
"I know." A shadow passes across Geralt's face. "And I will. You just rest and make sure to get better."
He holds Jaskier's gaze, and there it is again. The furrow of brows, the worry. Everything in his demeanor says that he cares, and for a moment, Jaskier thinks he might reach out again. It's a welcome thought and he feels the world shake when Geralt just gives him a nod and bends to pick up his swords.
"Don't go." The words are breath only, so soft he can barely hear them himself, but Geralt hears. The look he gives him shakes Jaskier to the core. He looks guilty. Ashamed, as if the load of the world was on his shoulders.
"I can't find who did this to you if I stay here. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Jaskier watches him leave with a tight feeling in his chest. He needs him. He needs him now more than ever. It's a strange thing, what Geralt's presence does to him, the feeling of belonging, of being cared for. He remembers the time on the road when he slept like a baby because he knew that Geralt was looking after them. If he could have that again, he thinks he might be able to face that trip to Ellander. He thinks he might even be able to bear being around people again. Maybe, he thinks, he'll find a way to deal with this shit.
When the door closes, Jaskier absentmindedly rubs the spot where Geralt has touched his shoulder. It's still warm.
