Geralt glances at the faded bloodstains on the floor, a tight feeling in his chest. The wood is scrubbed clean from the dirt, but the rusty brown splatters still show. There are scratches where a chair has scraped over the floorboards in what must have been a violent struggle. He clenches his teeth when he thinks about what happened here.

"This is where we found him," the innkeeper says from behind. He's a round man in his fifties, his belly hanging over his belt like a sack of flour. Geralt has caught him sweeping the taproom, and he now leans on the broomstick, brows furrowed as he recalls the events. "Tied to a chair, more dead than alive."

Geralt makes a low sound in his throat as his gaze settles on the indicated chair. The armrests bear the same brownish marks. There are also areas of charred black, where flames have kissed the wood. The marks are innocuous enough, but the images that form in his head are not. He has seen a lot of shit in his days, some a lot worse than this. Still, he feels it crawling under his skin. This is personal.

"I usually come down around mid-morning to clean up the place," the man continues, "get things ready for the day. If I'd known what was going on down here, I'd have come sooner."

"You live above the tavern?"

Geralt's voice sounds even rougher than usual. He sees the man nod. "My wife and I. Don't need much space now that my daughter's married."

"And you didn't hear anything?"

"I know it's hard to believe. But neither did the neighbors. It's a bit of a mystery, isn't it?"

"Not really." Geralt lets his finger trail over a fiber of rope that is stuck in a crack of the armrest. "He was a mage."

"Oh, you think he used spells or something? That makes sense." Geralt feels the man step up to look over his shoulder. Curious like a cat. He'll probably pass on every detail as soon as he gets the chance. Taverns are a hub for information and come tonight, half the town will know that a witcher has arrived to ask questions. Geralt doesn't mind. It'll likely work in his favor. The more people know who he is looking for, the better his chances of finding him.

"Why do you think he came here to –," the innkeeper hesitates. "You know? I mean, he could have chosen any place to do what he did."

Geralt stands, his eyes sweeping the place. It's a tavern like any other, if somewhat on the smaller side. His gaze travels over mismatched furniture and burnt-down candles. The random decoration on the walls, the various bottles stacked on crooked shelves behind the counter. It's exactly the kind of place Jaskier would feel comfortable in. Before his mind's eye, he can see him move between the tables, singing, a flirty smile on his lips while the audience follows his every movement, captivated by his energy.

"Why my tavern?"

The bartender repeats the question and Geralt shoots him a quick glance. It's a valid question, given that Jaskier was attacked by the docks. Why not drag him into some dark alley or one of the warehouses? Why make the effort of carrying him through half the town when there are plenty of other options available?

Deep down, Geralt knows the answer. Because this place is where Jaskier feels safe. It's his comfort zone, his home. The place where he can be himself. And the mage deliberately took that from him. Just like he deliberately burnt his hand until all that was left was a useless, black piece of flesh.

And then he left him to live with it. He didn't kill him although Jaskier had seen his face. It's not a smart move, but it speaks of a kind of cruelty that Geralt hates with all his being. Some creatures don't know better than to hurt. Demons, wraiths. They are driven by their nature. Humans, however, have a choice, and deliberate malevolence like this, it makes him want to puke.

Still, it means that the mage knew about Jaskier. He knew where he performed and when. Which means that he was among Jaskier's audience, maybe even the night it happened.

"Actually, I think he was one of your patrons." Geralt stands and dusts off his breeches. "Do you remember a man with shoulder-long black hair? Fancy shirt in black and gold. A burn scar on the side of his face."

"Well," the innkeeper creases his brow. "He's definitely not one of my regulars. You know, there's a lot of folks traveling through. Jaskier is something of a celebrity around here, and most nights, there's quite a crowd." He smiles regretfully. "Too bad he won't perform anymore."

"Yeah." Something dark settles on him when he realizes that he will never hear him play again. "You sure you don't remember the mage?"

"Well, my wife usually waits on the patrons. Why don't you talk to her?" He nods towards the door. Against the brightness of the windows, Geralt can see the silhouette of a woman sweeping the porch. "And if she doesn't, you should come back tonight and ask around. A man looking like that, someone's bound to remember him."

Geralt nods his gratitude.

"Would you ask around as well? I'll pay anyone who can tell me about this mage's whereabouts."

The innkeeper gives a half-smile. "Sure, will do. Where can I find you?"

Geralt shakes his head. He hasn't found a place to stay yet.

"I'll be back tonight."

Jaskier shivers in the cold. The taproom is full of people. He sees their shapes in the darkness, hears them shuffling. Watching. An audience waiting for his performance, only he can't make out their faces. He only feels their gaze resting on him.

"Play," someone demands, and he dutifully makes to reach for his lute, but he can't move. His heart spikes, cold fear clutching his throat. He can't move.

Frantically, he yanks his hands, feeling the rough bite of ropes against his wrists, and he looks down to find them tied to the armrests. He's in a chair, and he is completely naked. His eyes dart up to look for his clothes, and he locates them lying in a heap in the middle of the room, right where the light fades into darkness. His wine-red leather coat and hat, the vest with its flowery pattern. His lute is there, too. Filavandrel's gift. The candlelight catches on the beautifully carved neck and intricate inlays in ebony wood.

He tenses when a heavy hand presses onto his shoulder. A voice whispers next to his ear.

"Burn".

There's a snap of fingers and his lute and clothes burst into flames. It's so bright it hurts his eyes. He smells the fire, tastes the soot in the air, and feels wetness run down his cheeks when the delicate instrument wilts into something charred and black. A glistening trail of lamp oil leads up to his chair and his eyes widen. No, he thinks. Gods, please no.

"Ladies and Gentleman, welcome to the famous Jaskier's last performance. Give a hand to our beloved poet!"

The fire grows rapidly, lighting the room, and Jaskier can make out the faces of his band among the crowd. Priscilla, Francis, Violetta. Flames sizzle over the floorboards, painting a fiery way to the stage where he sits. In a few seconds, they will consume him. His heart beats so fast that he can feel it in his throat, and he strains against his bonds. To no avail.

"Sing for me, Jaskier," the voice demands.

The flames lick up his chair and he screams.

His eyes fly open.

He lies on his bed, drenched in sweat, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The ceiling is shrouded in shadows, the dim flicker of candlelight just outside his field of vision. Vaguely, he is aware of a hand resting on his shoulder, and he turns his head to glance at a pair of familiar golden eyes. He squeezes his lids shut with a shaky exhale of air.

"Oh fuck."

The hand on his shoulder squeezes before letting go. He feels the mattress shift, hears the clink of glass touching glass, and when he opens them again, a cup of water wavers before his eyes. He pushes himself up on his elbows, then back against the headrest. The flare of pain in his ribs brings him further back to awareness. He feels the drink being pressed into his shaky hands and gulps the water down gratefully. It helps to soothe the tightness from his throat, and gradually, the grip of panic eases. When he has finished, Geralt puts the empty cup on the nightstand.

"Thank you." Jaskier gives a wan smile. He feels Geralt's eyes rest on him, scrutinizing him. Worry flows from him in tangible waves, but he doesn't ask about Jaskier's dream. Jaskier feels strangely glad about it. "You're back."

He slides a little further up the mattress, sitting up more straight, and his gaze travels past Geralt towards the window. It's dark outside. "What time is it?"

"Approaching midnight."

"Shit."

He rubs his eyes, which are still swollen and sticky from sleep. He still feels shaky, the images of his nightmare vivid in his mind.

"Would you light some candles?"

"Sure."

Geralt stands and sets about the task. He finds some fresh candles in the cabinet to replace the ones that are burnt down and uses the small candlestick from the nightstand to light them. Bit by bit, the oppressing darkness lifts, and by the time Geralt returns to sit on the mattress, Jaskier has calmed down a bit. He notices the bag with Geralt's swords leaning against the wall and the empty plate on the table by the window. A question forms in his mind.

"How long have you been here?"

"A while."

The thought of Geralt sitting here, watching him sleep, doesn't sit quite right with him.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"I tried. You were pretty out of it."

Again, there is a worried expression on Geralt's face, and Jaskier averts his gaze. He remembers now. Shani had been here for her daily visit, but she couldn't stay as long as usual. She just changed his bandages and promised to bring a new flask of medicine tomorrow. Once she had left, the world had crashed around him. Hopelessness had swept over him like a tide, the events of the day taking their toll. The healer's prognosis, the look of his hand. All he had longed for was to forget, and he had taken a stiff dose of poppy sap and allowed the drug to pull him under.

Apparently, he had slept most of the day.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "My sleep schedule has become quite erratic recently."

He fidgets a little under the witcher's eyes. Geralt's face remains unreadable, and Jaskier isn't sure how much he is condemned for his weakness, for spending the day in bed when his injuries would well allow him to move about. Send his clothes to be washed, clean his boots. Get everything together for their upcoming trip.

"Did you find the mage?" He asks, more to move attention away from him than in expectation of answers.

Geralt shakes his head no. "But I know his name now. Rience."

The name doesn't ring any bells. "Never heard of him."

"Yeah, me neither. But he was among the crowd at your last performance. Apparently, he tried to hit on one of the girls and she remembered his scar. It looks like he left town though. Nobody has seen him since the night you were assaulted."

Jaskier nods, taking in the information. His thoughts are sluggish. He feels that Geralt is implying something but he can't follow.

"So, what's the plan?"

"I'd like to leave Oxenfurt as soon as you're ready. Tomorrow, if you think you can."

"So soon?"

He doesn't like the idea. Shani won't have a new flask of medicine till the afternoon, and he doesn't think the little he has left will last him till Ellander.

"I have to think about Ciri too. With a mage like that trying to track her down, I don't want to risk anything."

Princess Cirilla. Of course, Geralt worries about his child surprise as well. But one day won't make much of a difference, right?

"The day after tomorrow," Jaskier offers. "I told you I needed some time to get things ready."

Geralt doesn't look too happy about it, but he inclines his head. "Okay. I'll try to find a ship that will take us Vizima. It'll save us a week on the road and you can rest up a bit. From there, we'll continue on foot. That sound okay?"

By ship. The prospect of spending a week penned in with a bunch of coarse sailors and no quiet place for him to withdraw to makes his throat close up. He doesn't want to suffer a breakdown in front of strangers, doesn't want them to witness his tears or his nightmares. Even the thought of their glances makes him want to curl into himself, and he hates himself for it. He knows it's a sign of weakness. He's never had fears of contacts. Hell, he used to thrive in the presence of others, controlling an audience with no more than a few notes and a flirty smile. He hates what he has become. He's even ashamed of it.

But Geralt is right, of course. He doubts that he'll make good pace in his current condition, and the last thing Geralt needs is someone to slow him down. So the ship it is. Although he's not sure if he has enough coin left for a journey like that.

"I don't know if I can afford it," he says, casting his eyes down. He won't even be able to repay him in due time. With his hand useless, he doesn't know how to make a living from now on. Maybe he will have to beg his father for money.

"Let me worry about that."

Geralt's voice sounds soft. When Jaskier looks up, he sees regret and guilt written all over his face. It's not what he was hoping to see, but it'll have to do.

"I'm sorry," Jaskier says, and Geralt frowns.

"What are you sorry for?"

"For being such a burden." He licks his lips. "You know, after you sent me away in Caingorn, I was heartbroken. I knew it was because you were just dumped by your girlfriend, and you were angry and hurt, but – there was more to it than that. You hated how often I got you into trouble, and you hated how I slowed you down. How useless I was at times. Like that you couldn't rely on me to watch your horse because I didn't know how to use a sword." He lets go of a long breath, his throat threatening to close up once more. "And now I don't even know how to take care of myself. Shit." He shakes his head angrily. "I'll find a way to repay you, okay?"

Geralt rests his hand on Jaskier's arm. The sincerity in his eyes is almost frightening.

"Jaskier, I'm doing this because I want to." He holds his gaze as if to make sure that he is really listening. "And I'm sorry for the things I said. I missed you. Okay?"

It's as close to saying I'm your friend as Geralt has ever come, and Jaskier can feel his eyes fill with sudden tears. He lets himself drop forward, arms closing around Geralt, and relief washes over him when the embrace is returned. Just like this morning, Jaskier feels the urge to cling, to bury himself in Geralt's scent, his solidness and warmth, but this time, he doesn't let go. He pushes his face against Geralt's chest, closing his eyes, wanting to pull him even closer.

Geralt is his stronghold against all the misery that threatens to drown him. He is the only person who can carry him through this, and he is willing to do that for him. It doesn't matter if his behavior is partly motivated by guilt. He said he missed him.

The man he has been desperately in love with for years said he missed him.

"Fuck, I missed you too," Jaskier breathes against Geralt's shirt.

The hand on his back rubs small circles, and Jaskier feels himself relax into it. Geralt has never done that for him, but he doesn't mind or question it. It feels good. Right now, that's all that matters.