Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters of the witcher. Those are property of Mr Sapkowski and I using Netflix series canon mixed with the books.

Warning : Description of burns, blood and body marks. Some violence (nothing too graphic). Mostly anxiety and depressive state. Swearing. Humiliation.

The whump continues with... tears and tears.

Chapter 3 - Day 2 - Tears

When he woke up again, the sun was up and he was seemingly alone. The first thing he noticed was the strong smell of pee and the residual wetness of his pants. Bloody hell, why couldn't I spare himself more humiliation ?

The only good point in his miserable situation was that he didn't need to get up quickly to pee in a corner. All done. He tried to silently joke. The fact that it was almost dry though could mean that he slept for a long time. Maybe it was afternoon or something. He couldn't tell.

Everything still hurt but without moving this was tolerable. His left eye had definitely swollen shut and his lips and tongue were very dry. He needed to drink urgently. Yeah ! Refill the tank for more pee !

He turned slowly his head in the general direction he remembered the pitcher of water was. He found a plate on the ground near him. Three tiny mice were feasting on the dry bread plunged in what seemed to be a carrot puree. The guard certainly gave him food while he was sleeping.

He was not very hungry even if technically his body demanded food. He missed approximately a whole day and a half. The first cause of his lack of appetite was his global situation. He was like dead meat on the ground of a crappy prison, with a law man making within hours connections he had hoped would take days to make. They were cute but seeing the mice on his food, eating his part, probably pissing and shitting on it, was mixing a lot with his appetite. Upon that, his painful mind was the main source of his lack of desire.

To prevent being sick again, he sat very slowly. The mice fleeted instantly even if he didn't move fast. He broke a sweat but he kept control over his breathing. His chest was still hurting badly but less than the day before. If he took shallow breaths he could manage. His hand was still a problem but he decided not to look again. He knew perfectly in which very dark place in his mind it would lead him. If he wanted to survive he would need to stay sharp. So this peculiar issue would need to wait.

In place, he decided to finally assess the damages done to his torso, which was incapacitating him grandly. With his good hand, he pulled his shirt and looked down. He grimaced as large purple marks were already forming on his chest where he's been hit repeatedly. The creep really didn't hold back.

He'd been beaten before. With a stick, at the temple first and at the academy then when he was naughty. He was a very recalcitrant student and the only response they knew to his behaviour was violence. He'd been beaten by angry husbands or brothers sometimes when he was caught with a lady that he wasn't supposed to be with. Or with Geralt, on unfortunate encounters. But this was the very first time he had been afraid to actually lose his life from it.

He'd never been exposed to torture before. A pain made to break the mind. He could tell he was mentally shaken. Very shaken... And the fact that he had to endure this for the sake of Geralt made every blow more painful. It was like life telling him : "You are not allowed heal from this. You will never forget him. You will never be able to get over it. You have no right to turn the page."

This made the words on the mountain more unfair. He had the feeling he was already paying enough. He had twenty two years of a meaningless life to carry... Now he had to suffer hours in the hands of a psycho and was half broken in a prison, ready to be ripped off his last glimpse of light, because he had lived that meaningless life. A cruel reminder of how shitty his existence was.

He let his shirt fall largely open on his chest and just blankly stared at the wall in front of him. He was losing his battle to keep the light in him, submerged by the crushing irony of what his situation meant. Because the last two years had been the darkest of his life and the most rewarding also, but they would soon mean nothing more than the rest of it.

He let his painful memories take him out of his cell but it was not better...

The first few months after the mountains were hellish. For the fist time, he had thought seriously about ending his life. He resisted with everything he had. He found a muse in his own pain to survive. Nobody, except another artist, would understand how brutal it was to loose a muse as strong as Geralt. Nobody would understand that he really wished to die because he couldn't write or sing. But as stubborn as he's always been, he didn't let go... Alas, he crawled back from the darkest pit only to fall in another. Bleobheris was one of the biggest shocks of his life - the first of a long series - sending him in his actual alcoholic phase or more rightly, setting it as strong as it was now. Meaning severe...

Alcohol was the only thing that prevented him from breaking under the pain of his heart. He couldn't bear the suffering of the elves. He couldn't bear his own broken heart. Everything was crushing him. Some people were growing insensitive because of that, but he didn't have this option. He was made to feel emotions in every way possible and he couldn't choose to ignore it. He had to find the strength in him to make something of this unbearable pain. So he chose to become the Sandpiper. It was a hard role for someone like him but he was so proud to achieve something right. He was turning his meaningless life into something, at least. Yes, emotionally he hurt like hell but had purpose.

Every day he was suffering in silence, witnessing the horrors perpetuated by his race against the others. Every night he was hiding his pain with smiles and laughs for the audience. His job was to bleed his old muses out of his destroyed heart under the applause of a joyful crowd. His job was to keep smiling while every word and every note was killing him. His show distracted the masses from the noise underneath their feet and the shadows at the windows. And then, when everyone left, he would join the elves hidden in the basement and run with them the dark till he secured them into boats for their freedom. Then he used to return to the tavern to drink his fears out until the sun was up and he slept when he could.

He had terrible nightmares from Bleobheris, or just about what he would see in the streets of Oxenfurt. He would sometimes spiralling into those twenty two years of illusion, remembering how he believed he was happy and cry for hours until exhaustion won. This was no sleep. This was just shutting down.

He knew his current life was destroying him but he was proud to burn all he had for something good...

He made a great effort to quit his dreamy state to connect with reality. He already knew how it would end if he didn't. I need to stay sharp.

He looked down at his plate, near his right foot, when he saw movement in his peripheral vision. The mice were back, feasting once again. He observed them a few minutes. A sad smile stretched his mouth a little bit. There were definitely cute.

Then he searched for the pitcher. If he didn't have any appetite, he was thirsty. Fortunately the pot was not to far. He grabbed it and drank. The water tasted really bad but he continued until his mouth was less dry. The mice didn't flee this time. They surely considered pretty quickly that he was no threat. One of them was looking at him, sniffing the air.

- "I probably smell very bad, even to you, little rodent." He said with a cracked voice, before drinking some more water. He put the almost empty pitcher on his lap and sighed. "You look like a Gordon to me. Hmmm, what do you think ? Gordon ?"

The mouse turned round and joined the others on the plate.

###

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he remembered very clearly what nightmare woke him up. The fire mage again. He already knew he would burn everytime he would try to rest for quite some time now. One more nightmare to add to the pile of his sleep deprivation.

He knew he won't get over his burnt hand easily. It meant too much for him. He resisted the urge to look, even if the incomfort - to say the least - was hard to ignore. He focused on getting his heartbeats under control and to keep breathing without soliciting to much his damaged ribs. If he could avoid the panic attack that would be a small victory.

Alas he had this habit to rub his fingers when he was stressed. He didn't know why it helped him to calm down. Except this time it had the very opposite effect. Because he realised pretty soon that he couldn't feel the tip of his fingers at all, on his right hand and the rest was strangely numb.

He took the pitcher on his lap and plunged his hand in it, like he did before. But he had drank almost everything and the very little water left had warmed up with his body heat. He bearly felt the liquid on his skin. He removed carefully his hand from the jug and looked at his hand. His heart sank.

It was worse than before. Like on his torso, the bruises had extended spectacularly. Before he came to the fire, the mage hurt him the old fashion way. Even if he didn't break any bones, he hit his hand several times. But the thing that worried him the most was the red flesh, almost bloody. Was the fire magic still active in his body ? Was he still burning ? Was that the reason he could still feel the heat under his skin and he was losing every other sensations ?

He needed more water, urgently. He got slowly on his feet, scaring the mice once again, and he walked to the door, nursing his damaged hand. The bars made it easy to look outside. The guard was sleepy on his chair on his left.

- "I need some water, please." He said as loud as he could. The guard jerked awake.

- "Wha... ?"

- "I need some water, please." The bard repeated.

- "You don't need nothing, asshole. You would need to shut up and to stay away from me. You smell like shite."

- "My hand is hurt, I need to..." He continued trying to ignore the remarks, but he was cut by the man who angrily got on his feet and grabbed him by his collar though the bars. He slammed him against it. Jaskier gasped. His body protested but the jolt to his chest was what cut his airways suddenly.

- "I need medical attention." He forced nonetheless with a raspy voice before the guard would insult him.

- "You are a prisoner, soon sentenced to death. You don't need anything." The man replied before pushing him. Jaskier stumbled backward. "Dehydrated, sick or hurt, you will hang on the rope as good as any corpse."

Jaskier glared back at him.

- "Look at you, with your teary eyes and you pants full of piss. Who would have imagined at more pitiful end to the most renowned bard. It's not like any of you epic tales." The guard spat at his feet.

Suddenly Jaskier connected two dots. That was the same man who humiliated him by making him walk through the city. His words hurt him but to the game of who used them better he had an advantage. He summoned all the theatrality he could display in his poor state and smiled at him ominously.

- "You know, you simply could have given me some water to help me control the curse."

- "What curse ?" The guard seemed alarmed.

- "The one that is spreading on me." He showed him his damaged hand from afar and pulled his shirt with his good one to reveal the worst of his bruisings. "You see ?"

- "Don't be silly. It's bruises." The man laughed nervously. Jaskier's acting was getting him.

- "Are you sure ? I never said who really did this to me."

He approached slowly. His heart was beating fast and strong against his ribs. He knew the next move who be painful but he had not much to loose anyway. The guard was still near the bars. As soon as he was within his reach, he grabbed the man by his wrist and pull with all his strength. He was taken by surprise and slammed hard against the door like himself did just before. Jaskier put his burnt hand against the face of the man. It didn't last long as he was kicked in the stomach through the bars, but this was all he needed for his play. He had anticipated the blow but the pain was still too much and his legs gave out instantly. Yet he didn't let go of his act and continued smiling like a mad man.

- "Did you feel the heat on your skin ?" He asked between pantings. The fear was growing in the man's eyes.

- "You've been burnt. That... That's normal."

- "Well this is what you believe. Since when burns look like that ?" He produced again his damaged hand. "But guess what... you are right, a corpse is a corpse. But when your flesh will decay too, you will asked yourself if it was worth it."

A coppery taste was invading his mouth. The kick wasn't that hard but he was about to puke blood again. Now Jaskier was sure. His inside was pretty severely touched. He smiled with probably reddened teeth. His wounds were not made to kill as the judge said... they were not made to kill on the spot he should have specified. The internal tears were taking him down him very slowly. That was the reason he was weakening progressively.

- "What did you do to me ?" Asked the guard touching his face, cutting his morbid thoughts.

- "Do you know that curses often transalte by a simple touch." He replied while his mouth filled with blood.

He saw pure horror in the man's eyes so he laughed weakly. Then he laid slowly on the ground in the middle of his cell and closed his eyes again. Soon, he felt something hot against his cheek. He knew it was a mixture of blood, saliva and tears. He heard the guard scream and run. So he smiled once again in his fleeting consciousness. Well done, Jask ! You did it...

He may have pushed it too far this time, but at least he had made a final big impression. His mind drifted to emptiness.

###

He opened his eyes - well the one that could. Something was odd and too familiar. He was a sitting on a chair with just his shirt on. His arms and legs were secured by ropes. He was not in his cell but in a dark room with no window and a single door in front of him. One single torch on his right was giving him light. He knew this nightmare very well. The chair. The mage. The questions. The blows and then the fire. He guessed.

His fear spiked when he saw someone emerged from the shadows. But it was not who he thought it would be. The judge approached with a gloomy smile. It sent fearful shivers down his spine.

- "Well done with your guardian." The man said. "But you clearly overdid it."

He kneeled in front of him. The side light played with the angles of his face. Then without a warning, he placed a hand against his belly and pushed hard. Jaskier moaned painfully and blood rushed back in his throat.

- "You're dying from internal injuries. You know that right ?"

- "What do you want from me ?" He whispered.

- "To play with someone's toy to discover what is the game he plays." The man pressed harder. Tears filled Jaskier's eyes.

###

He jerked awake. He was in his cell, lying in a heap against the wall, blood dripping slowly from his mouth and nose. He was crying silently. He was so cold and weak... Was his fearful memories from the dark room real or just a construct of his mind to tell him he was dying ? Maybe both. He couldn't tell.

He heard male voices whispering outside of the cell. Then steps. Then silence. He drifted again, his eyes locked on his burnt hand, stretched almost in front of his face. Why was there blood on it ?

What's real, what's not. You will find out in the next chapter. Especially, in what troubles he really is.

Oh I forgot the most important thing : he met his friends, the mice.

See you soon...

PS : I want to write about Bleobheris too...