The first thing Jaskier noticed when he woke up was that his head was throbbing. It ached like the worst hangover he'd ever had. It didn't come with the same nausea, thankfully, but it was bad enough on its own.
The second thing he noticed was the sunlight spilling on his face from a thin, high window in the corner. Which really wasn't a good thing, considering he had been attacked at night. How long had he been out? He almost didn't want to know.
Oh well. At least he could see where he was being held.
The walls of the room were made of wood planks. Below him was a smooth stone floor, and above was a thatched roof. It was about seven paces long, and maybe a tad shorter in width. The window was the only source of light, and a stray beam poured through it to cast a square of sun on a solid oak door. He could see the tops of grass near the window's edge, so he was more than likely in a basement, or perhaps a root cellar. Jaskier couldn't help wondering if it was Nik's actual home.
He turned his focus to himself. His arms were bound behind his back with a thick rope, though his legs weren't tied nor was he chained to the wall. Jaskier could see a loop through which he was sure a chain could be attached though, and he tried not to think about what Nik had done to his previous victims.
It was almost pointless to try the door, but Jaskier headed over to it anyway, maneuvering himself to be able to grab the handle backwards. But it was no use—as he'd suspected, it was locked, and it held fast. Jaskier kicked it in frustration then sighed. He walked back to the opposite wall and leaned against it. He had a feeling this wasn't going to be fun.
He hadn't been awake for long before he heard the lock click and Nik enter. Nik carefully closed the door behind him and locked it, slipping the key into a pocket. "Well," he said, a malicious smile dancing on his lips. "I see you're up."
"Why are you doing this?" Jaskier asked, trying to keep his voice steady. He didn't dare let Nik know how scared he was.
Nik shrugged. "I have to, I guess. The moment I saw you… I needed you to be here. To have you."
"Right," Jaskier said. He smiled as brightly as he could. "You didn't have to kidnap me, you know. We've been getting along so well! I'd let you do anything you want, with my permission, because I'm really fond of you." He wanted to vomit. Geralt would be on his way. He only had to hang on until then.
But Nik only laughed. "Sorry, bard, but that won't cut it. I can't help loving suffering. It's as if I can only be happy when someone else isn't. I hope you understand. This is just what needs to be done." He reached into his boot, pulling out a knife. A sunbeam glinted off the blade, and Jaskier could see it was wickedly sharp. He shivered involuntarily.
There had to be something he could do. His mind was racing like a rat trapped in a cage, verging on the border of panic but he couldn't give in to that, no, he had to focus, to think—
"I love you," he blurted.
Nik stepped back, confused. "You… what?"
"I love you," Jaskier repeated. "Has that ever happened? Have you ever been loved before?"
The knife was still clenched in Nik's hand, but he lowered it slightly. "I don't think—"
Before Nik could finish the sentence, Jaskier leaned in and kissed him. It tasted like copper and sweat, and it nearly made Jaskier recoil. He closed his eyes to keep from shuddering at what he was doing and prayed it would prevent Nik from hurting him.
And it seemed to pause him at the very least. Nik embraced it for a moment, then pushed him back suddenly, eyes wide open. "I," he said, "I—I should go." Without another word, he fumbled for the key and let himself out of the room. The door slammed behind him, and a few seconds later Jaskier heard the lock click shut again.
He let out a long sigh of relief. His plan had worked. Nik would surely be back soon enough, but he'd bought himself a little more time.
Now he just needed to make use of it. He began to scan the room for anything that could aid him in escape. There was a sharp-looking stone on the floor, and Jaskier sat down next to it. He grabbed it with one hand and folded his wrist so that it cut against the rope.
From there, it was pretty straightforward. Once his hands were free he could work on picking the lock, which he did with two sticks plucked from the thatch ceiling. The door swung open without a sound, and Jaskier silently praised whatever god had made the hinges not creak.
He wasn't sure where the exit was, but there were stairs at the end of the hallway, and since he was fairly sure he was in a basement, he headed towards them. He scaled them lightly, creeping along the side of the wall like a shadow.
The door to the house was in sight. On the other end of a long room, but visible, and—
Something pushed him. Jaskier landed on his side, feeling his wrist snap in a flurry of white pain as it hit the ground at an odd angle. He'd been shoved, tackled to the floor, and Nik leaned over him, hands digging into his shoulders.
He slapped Jaskier roughly across the face. "Didn't you just say you loved me?" he asked, his breath hot on Jaskier's lips. Jaskier turned his head to the side and didn't say anything, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out. "Huh," Nik said. "I knew I never should have believed you." He yanked Jaskier upright but didn't let him find solid footing before starting to maneuver him back towards the stairs. Jaskier tried to free himself, but his head hurt from the fall and his legs didn't seem to want to work at the moment.
Nik dragged him back into the room—cell was probably a more accurate word—and slammed him against the wall. Jaskier felt his skull smack the wood with a sickening thwack, and pain exploded at the back of his head. It sent a blinding flash of light to the backs of his eyes and wiped clear his mind of any coherent thoughts.
A chain was threaded around his wrists and into the loop on the wall that he'd noticed earlier. Each jostle sent a renewed wave of pain through him courtesy of his broken wrist, but Nik didn't seem to notice or care. Now unable to move, Jaskier was fully at his mercy. Nik, unfortunately, was well aware of this. He sent a well-placed fist into Jaskier's stomach, and it knocked all the air out of his lungs. Another blow followed it before Jaskier even had the chance to take another breath. He gasped for air and coughed weakly.
More punches found their mark all over Jaskier's body. The ones to his head were the worst, as each one made him black out for a second, but none of them were pleasant or even tolerable. Before long he couldn't even stand on his feet anymore, falling to his knees and leaning forward. His arms were still pulled up behind him from the chain, but the strain on his shoulders and his injured wrist was hardly noticeable compared to the pain Nik was raining on him.
With Jaskier sunk so low to the ground, Nik moved on to kicking, sending a boot right into the middle of Jaskier's chest. And then another to his stomach, and a punch to the side of his head, and it just didn't stop.
Over and over. Punches and kicks. Not being able to breathe and the snap of a rib and Jaskier was certain it wouldn't end, not ever, not until he was dead and—
A noise sounded from upstairs, and Nik paused. It was a knock, probably from the front door. A scowl crossed his face briefly, but he went to answer it, kicking Jaskier in the ribs one last time as he left.
It had to be from Geralt. Geralt had come, had found him, and would be downstairs in no time to sweep him off his feet and whisk him to safety. Because Geralt had to know he was missing. He had to be looking.
Unless… he had finally taken Jaskier's advice. He should have been in the basement now, having slain Nik and getting the key to the room. But he wasn't, and it made Jaskier nervous. How many times lately had he complained about Geralt interfering, telling him to leave him alone? What if Geralt had actually listened?
He could only hope that wasn't the case.
When Nik returned, uninjured and without Geralt, Jaskier felt his heart sink in his chest. "Was it Geralt?" he breathed, almost not wanting the answer.
"Yes," Nik replied, a self-satisfied smile on his face. "It was."
"It… was?" He had to be lying. He had to be lying. But deep down, Jaskier knew that sickly smug grin would only be there if he was telling the truth.
"He left. I told him that I didn't have you, and the half-brained beast believed me."
"That's not true," Jaskier whispered. "He wouldn't do that. Geralt wouldn't just let you go."
"You don't think so? I recall you annoying him a great deal. I told him you'd gotten fed up with him and left for Dorian. That you were probably already there. He accepted it and left without an argument." Nik scoffed. "I honestly can't blame him for moving on like he did. He was right, and you insulted him and told him he was wrong. All to defend me! Really, quite sweet of you. Too bad it didn't work out between us."
"You," Jaskier said, spitting blood onto the floor, "are a despicable human being."
"Am I?" Nik asked, a smirk forming on his lips. "I think I can be a lot worse." He took out his knife from his boot again, and traced a line with it following the contours of Jaskier's cheek. It left a thin trail of blood in its wake. He held it in place for a moment, pushing the point lightly into his jaw.
And then, without any warning, he moved the knife to Jaskier's ribs, slicing between them. It wasn't deep enough to hit any organs, but it hurt like a motherfucker, and Jaskier couldn't repress a scream of agony.
Nik responded with a backhand to the face. "Be quiet," he snarled. "It'll be easier for us both that way."
"Well," Jaskier said, voice quavering slightly, "Sorry if I scream when I'm stabbed." He never could help being snarky.
Nik slid the knife back into his boot. "Oh, I have ways to make you scream that are much more fun than stabbing you," he said. He reached around Jaskier's body to grab his tied wrists, unlocking them from the chains. For a second, Jaskier dared to hope he was being set free, but Nik just gripped them tightly and yanked Jaskier closer to him. It wasn't as if Jaskier was strong enough to flee at this point, anyway.
He slipped a hand down the front of Jaskier's trousers, and Jaskier's mind went numb. "No," Jaskier said softly. His voice sounded distant to his ears, like he was underwater. "No, please," he repeated, and before he knew what he was doing he was kicking, slamming the heel of his shoe into Nik's abdomen. The force of it pushed Nik off of him.
But the reprieve was only momentary. Nik responded by shoving a fist into his gut, and Jaskier doubled over, reeling. That was quickly followed up by another blow to his temple, and then a third against his cheek. He let out a broken cry and tried to curl up, but Nik grabbed him by the hair and forced him to his knees. He took a step closer so that his crotch was practically pressing into Jaskier's face. Then, still gripping him tightly, Nik began to unlace the front of his trousers. "I'll teach you not to fuck with me," he muttered under his breath.
Jaskier struggled, but there was no point. Nik was too strong, especially since Jaskier was already injured from the earlier beatings. He was firmly trapped in his grasp.
A sound thumped from behind Nik. It almost sounded like the door being kicked open, though Jaskier couldn't see past him to figure out exactly what had caused it. It had stopped Nik from undressing further, at least.
Nik didn't turn around, instead glancing over his shoulder out of the corner of his eye with no more than a head tilt. "So you're here," he said in a low tone.
"Let him go," Geralt said.
Geralt said. Jaskier perked up instantly, straining against Nik's grip to catch a glimpse of his friend. There he stood in the doorway, sword drawn, witcher's medallion showing plainly on his chest. A stray ray of sunlight bounced off of it, making him look for all the world like a knight in shining armor.
"No," Nik said, and Jaskier was snapped back to reality and his dire situation. "I think I'll keep him, actually." He glanced down at Jaskier and smiled. And then, in a moment, he whirled around behind Jaskier, grabbing the knife from his boot and pressing it to Jaskier's throat. "And if you'd like to contest that, he'll die."
"You would fall before you had the chance," Geralt replied, readying his sword.
"Oh, come on, witcher," Nik said, a sardonic bite to his voice. "You may be fast, but you aren't that fast. You know damn well you'd have a dead bard on your hands."
He pushed a knee into Jaskier's back, forcing his neck harder against the blade. From behind the searing edge of the knife Jaskier could feel hot blood begin to bead up and fall. He swallowed thickly, ignoring how the action cut him deeper. "Geralt," he said, his voice more hoarse than he had intended. "Don't—"
"Shut it," Nik hissed, pulling on Jaskier's hair. "Shut your fucking mouth."
Barely-contained fury raged behind Geralt's eyes, and Jaskier watched his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly. He didn't lower his sword.
Nik shifted. "So," he said. "You make a move, and both he and I end up dead. Tell me—what'll it be?"
