liars and thieves you know not what is in store
Radovid stares down at Vissegerd's prone form on the forest floor. Dim moonlight filters through the treetops, barely bright enough to illuminate the crimson splattered on the man's golden armor and the spreading stain darkening the blue cloak laid out beneath him. A cold wave of indifference sweeps through Radovid at the sight.
The old man rasps out a plea for help that can't be mistaken for anything other than a command and Radovid feels the cold indifference running through his veins prickle with anger. How dare he.
"You hurt him."
Radovid thinks his voice should quake or waver with emotion as he speaks but it's steadier than it's ever been.
"W-what?" A look of utter confusion passes over Vissegerd's face. "Who?"
Radovid bristles further with anger at the Marshal's confusion and takes a step toward him then another and another until he looms right over him.
The old man had still been strong despite his age. Radovid hadn't been close enough nor fast enough to stop Vissegerd when he had grabbed Jaskier and ripped him out of the chair he'd been forced into in the first place and questioned in. By the time he did reach them, Vissegerd had already pushed Jaskier away from him and had angrily stalked out of the tent at the behest of a messenger with news from a patrol.
He can still remember the sound of Jaskier's wheezing breaths in the aftermath. He can still feel the way that Jaskier shook in his hands as he tried to help steady him. He can still see the livid red marks that stood out on Jaskier's neck from where Vissegerd's hands had been wrapped around his throat, strangling him.
"You and your soldiers."
Jaskier had already been injured when he'd been brought to the camp. He'd seen the bruises and abrasions and the flecks of dried blood on his wrists from where the rope binding his hands together had dug into his skin and rubbed it raw. He'd run his fingertips over the nearly healed scabs decorating Jaskier's stomach and legs from where he'd been dragged by horses, though; thankfully not long enough to threaten his life or cause any permanent damage. But it was still long enough to have caused him pain nonetheless.
It had been Cintran soldiers that hurt him. Cintran soldiers that had brought him to the camp. Not Redanian. Radovid didn't allow cruelty especially just for cruelty's sake in his forces and from those under his command.
"You were going to hang him."
They'd only had one night together. Less than that. A few hours at best. Full of whispered words and accusations. Apologies and regrets. Understanding and, eventually, forgiveness. Low murmurs and gentle laughter that gave way to passionate kisses and soft caresses. They'd fallen together again so easily just like that first night.
Once again, just like that first night, he'd fallen asleep with Jaskier held safely in his arms. But unlike that first night, he had no intention of leaving Jaskier's side.
That's how Vissegerd had found them—how they'd awoken—when he'd stormed into their tent late into the night. He'd taken one look at them, utter contempt flashing across his face, before calling for soldiers.
There'd been chaos after that. Both he and Jaskier scrambling to put their clothing on. Vissegerd bellowing with rage. Soldiers flooding into the tent. He had been yelling at everyone to calm down, stop, to just wait a moment.
But for all that he was king and the power that should come with that—which, honestly, didn't amount to much for him as he was often little more than a figurehead with all of Philippa and Dijkstra's machinations behind the scenes—Radovid was not the one in command of the army even if his forces were part of it. In the end, Jaskier had been ripped away from him and dragged off while Vissegerd had gloatingly proclaimed that he'd hang Jaskier—and the Witcher—at dawn.
He would've killed Jaskier for nothing. Nothing. Nothing but his own ego and spite. A show for his army's dwindling confidence in him and their cause and to serve as a warning to anyone even contemplating desertion. For no better reason than to use Jaskier as a scapegoat to take all of the blame for Cirilla running, or falling, into Nilfgaard's hands. As if Jaskier performing at Pavetta's betrothal and taking the Witcher with him somehow directly led to that happening. As if he alone were the cause of every subsequent event that stemmed from just that one.
Not that Radovid would have let him. He might not be in command of the army, but he was still a king and that did still come with power. If he had to come up with some royal decree to save Jaskier or threaten to pull his forces for his freedom or even smuggle Jaskier out of the camp himself, then that's what he'd do. Even if it came to truly desperate measures and he had to beg Philippa for her help and swear to do everything and anything she and Dijkstra wanted from him without any further protest or question, then he'd do that, too.
He'd been in the middle of trying to come up with such a solution to the dire situation Jaskier was in when Nilfgaard had attacked the camp.
"You shot him."
Anger seeps into his voice this time; a quiet rage in his whisper. He doesn't even know if Jaskier is alive at this moment—whether from Vissegerd's arrow or a Nilfgaardian's sword or something else.
He shouldn't have even been able to spot Jaskier in the melee that followed in the first place. He hadn't even known Jaskier had escaped when he went into the fray. Yet he had seen Jaskier—and Vissegerd—and he saw the moment that the Marshal's arrow struck him. Somehow over the din of the battle, he's sure he heard Jaskier's cry of pain at the impact.
But they'd been so far apart and by the time he made his way to the edge of the forest that Jaskier, his Witcher, and their horse had disappeared into, they'd already been gone. Radovid had still followed, regardless, but he hadn't found a trace of either of them.
Only a trail of dead bodies.
And Vissegerd.
By now, the man knows who he's talking about and where before his face might have reddened with anger and rage, he turns as white as a sheet. "That whor—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. Radovid pulls his sword from Vissegerd's throat. Blood gurgles and foams from his mouth and the wound as he sputters and coughs and chokes on his own spittle and blood. Radovid watches it all with the same cool indifference as before. He stays completely unmoving—and unmoved—by the sight until it slows and then stops altogether.
It feels like the world should be silent in the aftermath of what he's done, but it isn't. Distantly, there are the sounds of the still ongoing battle. Eventually, Radovid straightens and looks around. There's no one in the immediate vicinity nor anywhere near as far as he can tell.
By the time Radovid mounts his horse and makes his way out, dawn has already started to break and the remaining Nilfgaardian forces have either been killed or driven away for the most part. It isn't a struggle to make his way back to the camp, much to the relief of both factions of soldiers.
He's alone in his tent later that night after a long day of endless meetings and briefings and reports when a soldier—one of his own—comes to him with news.
"Your majesty," the man addresses him.
"Mmm, yes?" Radovid asks absentmindedly, far more entranced by the necklace he holds in his hands rather than whatever the soldier is about to say. "What is it?"
He'd found the thing in his tent when he'd gotten back. Jaskier's tuning fork necklace. It had just been sitting there on his desk, completely untouched. He has no idea if Jaskier had some kind of foresight and left it for him—a token, perhaps, of the foolish promises they'd made to each other that night and as a vow that those promises might be kept if they both made it through the war—or if Jaskier had simply lost it in the confusion.
"We've found Marshal Vissegerd," the soldier says. "He's dead."
"Is he?" Radovid asks, rubbing the necklace with his fingers and twirling it between them, not bothering to feign interest nor any kind of shock let alone grief at the news. He sighs. "A pity," he says and slips the necklace over his head and tucks it into his shirt, close to his heart where he can keep it safe.