Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaskier,

I can’t bear to keep things the way we left them in Novigrad. I didn’t mean what I said. You bared your heart to me, and I wasn’t even brave enough to be honest with you. Well I want to be honest with you now. I care about you too much not to. I’ve never been able to use words like you do, but if you could just give me another chance, I think I could get it right this time.

Meet me back in Novigrad in the Spring. I may not be able to tell you how I feel, but if you let me, I could show you.

Please,

Geralt

The letter was creased and worn from being folded and unfolded a hundred times, tucked and untucked from the lining of Jaskier’s doublet, and poured over for the last three months. The longest winter of Jaskier’s life. Those three months of winter were nothing though, compared to these first few weeks of spring.

Jaskier spent them wandering the streets of Novigrad, right where Geralt had left him brokenhearted back in autumn, getting his hopes up every time he thought he saw a glimpse of white hair or black armor. It was torture. He should be here by now. Jaskier had given him plenty of time to come sulking back down the path from Kaer Morhen, tail between his legs, to return to Novigrad like he’d promised, and fix things. He’d said he wanted to fix things, so where was he?

***

The trials Geralt endured as a child at Kaer Morhen had bestowed upon him a fair number of things. One of the most useful of these was his skill in combat. Geralt didn’t have to worry about the countless men who’d prefer him dead, because there was very little any of them could do about it. A fight one-on-one was suicide—in fact, it would take closer to a dozen skilled fighters to take him down, and in his experience, those men would sooner kill each other fighting for leadership than they’d coordinate a successful attack to kill him. No. Geralt wasn’t worried about being attacked.

Maybe he should have been.

He hadn’t considered the people who wouldn’t need to engage in any combat to take him down. He was in good standing with most of the mages, so he thought, and his medallion would at least give him a bit of warning if one of them turned their magic against him. Geralt wasn’t paranoid enough to sit down and think of all the ways a person might get around these disadvantages. He’d relied too heavily on his strength and his status. He fancied himself invulnerable.

It was almost too easy for someone who knew the right herbs to use to pay the innkeeper to slip them into his drink. By the time he realized what the ale had been laced with, he didn’t even have time to kick himself for his stupidity before the room was spinning around him.

Then it was just a simple matter of tying him up and dragging him off to wherever the hell he was now.

Where was he now?

Figuring out where exactly he was being kept would be the first step in getting out. And he was determined to get out. He might have let his cockiness get him captured, but he’d be damned if he let it be the thing to kill him.

The room was pitch black, underground Geralt guessed, but thanks to his heightened senses he could see just as well as if it were fully lit. It appeared to be clean enough, but small. There was enough room for a bed pushed against the wall and little else. Geralt was chained to the opposite wall, but he could get up and lay in the bed if he wanted to. If he could stand. He suspected the chains had been enchanted in some way, because he felt impossibly weak. Either that, or the alchemist had really known what they were doing with the herbs they’d given him. Maybe both.

Geralt felt awful.

He forced himself to crawl, in pain and ashamed, over to the bed and pull himself clumsily onto the straw stuffed pallet. His muscles didn’t want to respond. If it came down to a fight now, he’d be bested in minutes. Probably less. Maybe that was their plan, to weaken him and put him in a corner so they’d have the joy of slaughtering him without worrying about him fighting back. He’d be no good in a fight now, that was for certain. He’d been stripped of his weapons and his armor; it was all he could do to fight the fear and shame which threatened to overtake him.

The fear and the shame and the pain.

His head ached fiercely, and the little energy he’d had to exert getting himself onto the bed made him feel dizzy and out of breath. He worried he might be sick, but he also felt profoundly empty, like if he gave into the nausea there would be nothing to bring up. This was especially unsettling. He’d been eating when the innkeep had slipped the herbs into his ale. How long had he been asleep?

Geralt laid down on his back, trying his best to get comfortable around the chains, and took a couple deep breaths. Each new revelation brought more panic. He needed to calm down.

He made himself keep taking deep breaths, despite his sore muscles, until he got his heart rate back down to its usual slow steady beats. Then he focused on his muscles one section at a time, evaluating the pain and forcing them to relax.

Once he was completely relaxed, Geralt felt the pull of exhaustion creeping back into his body and mind. He tried to fight it, but in forcing himself to relax he’d given up the edge he’d gotten from the adrenaline. Whatever he’d been given was still in his system. He told himself that his body would work through it faster if he let himself rest. What if the person who’d drugged him came back though? He must have been brought here for a reason. He wanted to be awake when that reason became apparent.

It was a losing battle.

Keeping track of the time was impossible, but Geralt doubted an hour had passed since he first woke when he finally succumbed to the poison, and let himself sleep once more.

Chapter Text

Geralt forced himself to stand when he heard his captor approach. It took a lot of effort and caused a fair amount of pain, but he refused to give the impression that he was going to be cooperative.

He tried to gauge the footsteps in the hall. The first thing he noted was the echo. Wherever they were it was vast, and Geralt’s room was likely a very small part of it. Listening past the echoes, he tried to detect the sound of armor, or weapons. He didn’t hear any, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Nothing about the footsteps sounded menacing. He presumed the person was of average weight, and they walked slowly and leisurely. Nevertheless, he tried to stand in as dominant a stance as he could manage while working around the chains.

He heard keys rattle in the door.

With how the room was set up, he couldn’t reach the door before the chains stopped him. They fact that even though his captor must know this, they had locked the door anyway, did not do anything to help set Geralt’s mind at ease. While they didn’t sound like they were particularly physically daunting, they were clearly intelligent, and that was leagues more dangerous.

“Oh good, you’ve woken. That’s a good sign.” The man who entered was neither familiar nor particularly intimidating. Geralt wondered if this person knew he’d woken earlier, and he wanted to know what this was a good sign of. The man’s demeanor didn’t suggest he had come to hurt him, but Geralt didn’t let this lower his guard. He stood out of Geralt’s reach, but the Witcher remained on edge, ready to jump at any opportunity to seize the upper hand.

“Say something,” he commanded. “I want to make sure the decoction I gave you hasn’t affected your cognitive ability. I had to do a bit of guesswork. You’ve grown since I last saw you.”

Geralt hadn’t intended to do as the man ordered, but this last sentence caught him so off guard that he spoke without thinking.

“I’ve never seen you before.”

“Oh come on, Geralt.” A shiver ran down his spine when the man said his name. “Think back.”

He did, and still he could find no recollection of this person in his mind.

The man gave Geralt a few moments to think before giving up. “I suppose you don’t remember much from back then,” he sighed. “I was one of the less prominent people in your upbringing, at least when it came to face to face encounters,” the man explained. “But I promise you, I was one of the most influential.”

“Just tell me who you are,” Geralt growled. He didn’t want to play games.

“My name is Viscardi Delacroix,” the man replied.

The name meant nothing to Geralt, and the fact that it should made him uneasy. He racked his mind trying to connect this name with anyone he’d ever known. He said he’d known Geralt as a child, but he clearly wasn’t a Witcher. If he knew Geralt before Kaer Morhen, then he doubted the memory could be uncovered by any amount of prompting from Delacroix.

“More likely you remember my work,” he continued. “From what I hear, the Trials seem to be a fairly memorable experience.”

Geralt worked hard to keep his expression neutral. The Trials were ‘fairly memorable’ in the same sense that someone would likely remember being tied to a table and having their bones broken one by one.

“What use do you have for me now?” Geralt asked.

If Viscardi had wanted to kill him, he’d have done it already. The mages at Kaer Morhen had all been incredibly powerful. Vesemir had told him they’d all been killed in the sacking of Kaer Morhen, so if Viscardi was alive, he must have been one of the more powerful ones. Powerful and clever.

“There’s no point in being so grim, Geralt,” Viscardi teased. “There’s no reason we can’t work together.”

Whatever this mage wanted to get done, Geralt was certain he’d have no part in it. Not if he had any say in it. Unfortunately, Geralt doubted he’d be getting a say.

“Are you going to keep me in chains?”

“Of course not,” Viscardi assured him, smiling. “As long as you promise to stay until our work is finished.”

“So you aren’t going to let me leave?”

“You won’t want to once you hear about my plans.” The grin on his face made Geralt’s stomach turn.

“If they’re so exciting, then why did you have to kidnap me and keep me in chains?” he spat.

“I thought it might take you a little while to come around to my vision, but I promise you, Geralt, it’s going to be revolutionary.”

“Out with it then,” Geralt said, “I’ve had enough of your sales pitch.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Delacroix asked. “I’ve brought you here so we can finish what we started.”

“I finished my training decades ago,” Geralt replied.

“I don’t intend to train you,” Viscardi said. “I plan to continue with the mutations.”

Geralt felt like all of the blood had been drained from his body. He didn’t really think he was going to put Geralt through the Trials for a third time. He’d barely survived the first two rounds, and that had been when he was a child. His body was worn now, and long since finished with its development. More Trials would kill him. What did Viscardi think he would gain from this experiment?

“If that’s your plan then why don’t you kill me now?” Geralt asked. “Summon up a ball of lightning to strike me down. That would be less painful than what you’re proposing, and would save us both a lot of time.”

Viscardi looked at him. His expression was sad, as if Geralt had just said he didn’t want to be his friend. This man was insane. Geralt would have to kill him if he ever wanted to see daylight again. The question was how.

“You’ve had a long day,” he told Geralt. “I should have waited until you rested a bit more and had something to eat before I told you my plans. I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t wait. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to take this journey with you.”

He kept talking before Geralt had a chance to tell him exactly how much he wanted to break out of these chains and wring his neck.

“Everything else can wait till morning,” he continued. “For now, I’ll leave you alone to rest.”

Geralt didn’t want to rest, he wanted to get the hell out of this madman’s prison. It seemed like he’d have a couple hours now to try and figure something out.

He needed to use them wisely.

Chapter Text

Jaskier had been in Novigrad for two weeks when he finally crossed paths with a Witcher.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t his Witcher.

“Eskel,” he called out across the busy street. The Witcher’s head snapped up, picking up on Jaskier’s voice easily, despite the crowds. The throng parted for him as he crossed the street to where Jaskier stood.

“Jaskier.” Eskel embraced him. “What are the odds?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Jaskier replied. “Let’s go somewhere a little quieter.”

Jaskier didn’t wait for him to agree before he started down the street, leading Eskel into a small tavern. It was more crowded than Jaskier would have preferred, but it was better than the busy street outside. Eskel followed obediently, sitting down at the table across from Jaskier and looking at him expectantly.

“What are you doing here?” Jaskier asked. Surely this couldn’t be a coincidence.

“I came here to meet Geralt. I’m surprised he isn’t with you,” Eskel answered. “Is he out for the day?”

Jaskier gave him a puzzled look.

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him,” Jaskier said. “He said he’d meet me here, but he never showed. I was hoping you’d have a better idea of where he might be, because I’ve been in Novigrad for a fortnight now and I haven’t seen any sign of him.”

“Huh.” Eskel looked at him, stumped.

“Did he spend the winter in Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier still hoped Eskel might have some information which would explain Geralt’s absence. For a moment he worried Geralt might be avoiding him, but then he brought his hand up to his chest and felt the slight stiffness of the letter tucked into his doublet. No, Geralt had been the one to suggest they meet here. Something had gone wrong.

“He was with us all winter,” Eskel told him. “We had plans to spend a while in Skellige this spring. I had some business in Ard Carraigh though, so Geralt and I split on the journey back down from Kaer Morhen,” he explained. “He should be here by now.”

It was the same sentiment which had been repeating in Jaskier’s head for the past week.

“You don’t think…” Jaskier trailed off. He couldn’t imagine Geralt could run into trouble on such a familiar journey, but who knew?

“It’s hard to say.”

Eskel’s response did not inspire optimism.

“What should we do then?” Jaskier asked.

“Wait for him to get here, I guess,” Eskel offered with no confidence behind his words.

“I’ve been waiting here for weeks already,” Jaskier reminded him. “If he was going to come, he’d be here.”

“What are you suggesting?” Eskel looked at him, suspicious. “You don’t think he changed his plans.”

Jaskier wished the solution was that simple, but he couldn’t imagine his Witcher deciding to just go somewhere else—not with the letter he’d written. This and his plans with Eskel were enough to convince him that something had gone wrong. “If his plans have changed,” Jaskier began, “I don’t think it was because Geralt wanted them to.”

Eskel took a moment to think about this, during which the weight of Jaskier’s own statement hit him like a bag of rocks. Geralt was missing. These past weeks Jaskier had been comforting himself with anger and insecurity, upset with Geralt for not doing what he said he would, and worried he might not want to meet up with him after all. It had been painful enough to keep him completely distracted from how sinister his absence might really be.

It was more painful than it ought to have been.

Jaskier wasn’t sure whether or not he should tell Eskel this, but he had his suspicions about what Geralt had wanted to talk about when they met up in Novigrad. They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms in the fall.

Ever since he’d met the Witcher at eighteen, Jaskier had harbored a huge crush on him. It was good fun, and Jaskier fully expected he and the Witcher would grow apart, or he’d get older and his feelings would fade. They hadn’t faded in the slightest though, and now, years later, they were stronger than ever. Much too strong.

During their travels the previous summer Jaskier had finally garnered the courage to tell Geralt how he felt. In hindsight it was incredibly foolish, but at the time he’d been sure that Geralt cared for him too. The conversation had gone poorly, to say the least, and it had resulted in Jaskier leaving, heartbroken, expecting never to hear from the Witcher again.

That was until he received this letter two months after their split.

It had sparked countless daydreams of Geralt coming and professing his love for him, of them finally being able to be together in the ways Jaskier had been desiring for years. Because what else could that letter mean? It seemed clear to Jaskier that Geralt wanted to profess his own feelings, but this meeting with Eskel, along with Geralt’s absence, had him rethinking everything. Maybe this was just him letting his poet’s mind run away from him again.

“I think there’s only one thing to do.” Jaskier finally shook himself from his thoughts and broke the silence. “We have to find him.”

He expected Eskel to shoot down his idea, and Jaskier was incredibly relieved when he didn’t.

“It won’t be easy.”

Of course it wouldn’t be easy, but it was better than sitting around in Novigrad waiting for a meeting which would never happen.

“We can start by going up to Ellander,” Eskel suggested.

“What’s in Ellander?” Jaskier asked.

“The Temple of Melitele,” he explained. “Geralt would have passed through on his journey from Kaer Morhen. If he was injured at all, he would have stayed there and let Nenneke tend to him.”

“Alright,” Jaskier agreed.

“We can ask about him in the towns we pass through on the way there.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure how likely it was that Geralt was holed up in Ellander, but this was a start. He was just glad he didn’t have to do this alone.

Chapter Text

“I’d like to start by establishing a baseline.”

A few minutes ago Viscardi had retrieved Geralt from his cell, unchained him, and led him down a long stone corridor and into this larger, but still definitely underground, room. The fact that Geralt wasn’t put in chains again when they arrived didn’t inspire confidence.

“They let me perform the extra Trials, but I didn’t get to stay with you long enough to see how my handiwork turned out.” He looked genuinely upset by this. “I’ve spent the last decades wondering if you still had all of the potential I saw in you as a boy,” he mused. “No matter, I’ve got you now. It’ll be better since you’ve reached maturity anyway.

Geralt didn’t appreciate being spoken about like some sort of specimen, but he refused to give Viscardi the pleasure of a response. Unfortunately, Viscardi seemed more than happy to monologue.

“I’ve heard tales of your exploits, and they’re spectacular, truly, but I’d like to do a few tests of my own, just so we can get some more exact figures,” he explained. “Forgive me for being so scientific, it’s my nature,” Viscardi added.

Visardi was going to have to ask his forgiveness for plenty of things other than his scientific nature. Geralt tried to convey this with the nastiest glare he could conjure up, but Viscardi was, as he always seemed to be, unfazed.

“And anyway, our final results will be all the more spectacular if we have something to compare them to.”

If Geralt played his cards right, the final result would be a dead mage and a Witcher walking free. This baseline exercise might work in his favor though, because it seemed like Viscardi was going to let him have his sword.

“We’ll start simple,” he said, handing Geralt his weapon. When he held it in his hand, Geralt felt a glimmer of hope for the first time since waking up in this godforsaken dungeon. “I’d like to test your reflexes.”

Before he had the chance to say anything else, Geralt lunged, trying his best to utilize the element of surprise. The tip of the sword should have plunged into Viscardi’s chest, but the mage waved a hand and the blade was diverted, pulling Geralt off to the side with it. He was powerful, and he seemed to be expecting this. Geralt had to fight to keep his balance.

Viscardi made the kind of disapproving sound one might give a dog who had peed on the floor.

“I know you’re smarter than this, Geralt,” he scolded. “I’d hate to have to restrain you for this—it’ll affect the test results.”

Geralt gripped the sword, ready to fight if Viscardi tried to take it away.

“Now are you ready to begin, or would you like to keep fooling around?”

He would like to take another swing, but he figured he wouldn’t be let off so easily this time. He’d hate to get on Viscardi’s bad side.

“Fine,” Geralt growled, resisting the urge to spit on the mage. It would probably just end up on his own face though, and Geralt was already grappling to maintain his dignity.

“Alright.” Viscardi smiled. “Let’s begin.”

***

They spent the whole morning—Geralt assumed it was morning; there was really no way to know—testing and gauging his abilities. It started with the basic things, like how fast he could run, how far he could run before his heart rate elevated past a certain point, how strong each muscle group was, and how far he could leap. Then they moved on to things like agility and how quickly he could think and act on his feet. Viscardi would conjure up horrifyingly real illusions of animals and monsters to test Geralt’s reflexes and responses. It was exhausting work. He was tempted to half ass it, but he had a feeling Viscardi would be able to sense this and he didn’t want to have to start over.

When it was over, at least he got a hearty meal. It was the first food he’d gotten since arriving here, and he gorged himself on meat and bread, not caring if he made himself sick. He was too tired and too frustrated to care about much of anything. He knew this apathy was dangerous—that he’d never get out of here if he wasn’t always on the lookout for opportunities to escape—but he also knew that he was exhausted.

He thought this meal signified the end of their work. Geralt couldn’t imagine he’d get anything done now with as tired as he was, but of course Viscardi had more plans for him.

“Don’t worry Witcher,” he told Geralt. “The afternoon won’t be nearly so taxing.” He led Geralt back into the cavernous room where he’d performed the morning’s tests. “This afternoon all I want to do is test your regenerative abilities.”

Geralt’s blood ran cold.

“You’re an incredible physical specimen of course. This morning has certainly proved that. But I was always more interested in the Witchers’ ability to heal themselves.”

He saw now that Viscardi had conjured up a chair equipped with wrist and ankle straps.

“Of course this may hurt, but I assure you, it will all be worth it in the end.”

He motioned for Geralt to have a seat.

Geralt stood. He may have rolled over this morning and done what Viscardi asked, but this was crossing a line.

“Oh dear, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this.” The mage waved his hand and Geralt felt his muscles go weak. He wouldn’t be able to stand for much longer, so he let himself fall to the floor, but this didn’t seem to hinder him either. Nothing did.

“‘M gonna fucking kill you,” Geralt spat through gritted teeth as Viscardi lifted his limp body like a puppet, maneuvering him through the air and into the chair, fastening the straps around his wrists and ankles. Geralt had truly never known a mage like this before, and he was horrified.

“Nonsense,” Viscardi chuckled. “Once this is all over you’ll be thanking me. I promise.”

Chapter Text

Now I’ve given this a lot of thought,” Viscardi continued.

Geralt was still paralyzed and limp, and he was starting to panic. He couldn’t move; it was all he could do to track Viscardi’s movements with his eyes.

“And I don’t relish hurting you.”

Geralt willed his muscles to clench. He’d be able to break out of the straps if he could just move his body.

“My initial curiosity was vast.” He said it like he was a bard, spinning a tale to an eager crowd. For one horrible moment he remembered Jaskier, and for another horrible moment the emotion this memory brought sparked enough anger in him that he managed to wiggle his toes. Viscardi waved an absentminded hand at him, sending another wave of limp numbness over his body.

“And my curiosity remained vast,” he said, “but I think we can get the information we need without spending too much time on this, admittedly rather unpleasant test.”

‘At least he had a conscience,’ Geralt thought, ‘even if it is wickedly skewed.’

“I think we can manage just fine measuring skin, muscle, and bone.” Viscardi pulled a dagger from his belt. “I’ll just have to extrapolate organ data from what we get here. It’ll be imperfect, but for our purposes it should do fine. Organs are harder to track anyway.” He brought the knife closer. “I’ll save you the trouble of having to un-rupture a kidney, or reinflate a lung.”
How generous.

The wave of adrenaline triggered by Viscardi bringing out a weapon gave Geralt enough strength to push against his restraints with all four limbs. Geralt was surprised and invigorated to see Viscardi furrow his eyebrows—showing an unpleasant emotion for the first time since they’d met. Invigorated, Geralt tensed again, this time hearing the leather start to creak. Viscardi looked downright angry now, and the hand wave he gave Geralt this time did much more than leave him limp. His restraints tightened, joined now by an invisible one around his throat.

He gasped for breath and it tightened, leaving him trying, impossibly, to wriggle free from this threat. He coughed, and was unable to suck any air back in. Already his lips were beginning to tingle.

“You should be thankful we measured how slow your heart rate is, Geralt,” Viscardi scolded. “Now I know exactly how long I have to do this before you suffocate.” He raised the dagger. “I’ll just be making an incision here.” He dragged the blade across his arm with enough pressure to sink it nearly deep enough to cross his bone. “And then of course the break.”

Geralt was hardly able to register what he had said before Viscardi was placing a hand over the other end of his forearm, right above his wrist, and saying an incantation. He couldn’t make out what the mage had said over the resounding, simultaneous cracks of both of the bones in his arm breaking. The energy Viscardi had pulsed into him had split them clean through. He could see the bend where they were broken.

All of this seemed to have drained Viscardi of his energy because he took a step back and all of the magical restraints seemed to fall. Geralt used the energy from this brief moment of release to channel all of his strength pulling his unbroken arm free from its strap. He managed it just in time for him to lean forward and vomit up all of the food he had just eaten onto the stone floor. He alternated in between gasping for air due to his near suffocation, and retching and convulsing due to his body’s immediate need to empty his stomach. He felt dizzy and horrendously nauseous. This awful nausea kept him heaving and gagging for several long, torturous moments after he’d thrown up the last of what was in his stomach—the bile hot and bitter in his mouth as he fought to throw up what little remained.

He shouldn’t have eaten so much of his lunch. He should have known his body had been without food for long enough that he ought to exercise caution. He should have known this afternoon would be unpleasant. This nausea combined with the always unpleasant feeling of his blood pumping hot and thick out of his body and running down his arm, the disorientation of being robbed of his bodily autonomy, and the searing pain, made him feel like he would never be able to eat again.

Viscardi recovered himself before Geralt did.

“Now I am sorry about that,” he said, sounding almost bashful. “But I promise this is all I’ll ask of you today. You’ll have a few days to rest now; all I need to do is track and record the speed of your healing.”

Geralt spit on the floor, and then looked up at the mage, unable to form any words past his upset stomach and aching throat.

“Come on.” He undid the rest of Geralt’s restraints. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He stood, clearly expecting Geralt to follow. He did, only because he was in pain and he wanted his arm bandaged and set, and because he wanted to get changed out of his bloody, puke spattered clothing. He stepped around the pool of vomit on the floor, silently hoping Viscardi would let him have a bath. Geralt was afraid of how complacent he was already becoming. He was just so exhausted.

“Now would you normally stitch a wound like that? Or is it faster to let it heal on its own?” Viscardi asked as they walked down the corridor to a smaller room filled with herbs, and medical instruments.

Geralt spat again, and cleared his throat. He was too tired and in too much pain to keep up his anger at the mage now. He just wanted these wounds dealt with, so they could start to heal. When he spoke, Geralt’s voice was so raspy his words were near intelligible.

“Stitches,” he said. “With this depth.” The blood still poured freely, leaving a trail on the floor behind him.

“Interesting,” Viscardi remarked, sounding genuinely excited by this information. “I still have so much to learn.”

Chapter Text

“Where are my things?” Geralt asked. Surely Viscardi had taken his stuff when he’d taken Geralt. Right now Geralt wanted his healing kit, so he could deal with this wound.

He didn’t understand why Viscardi had decided to perform his experiment like this. Growing up at Kaer Morhen, the young boys had been led to believe that these mages were geniuses. It was the only way to keep the children from panicking when they were being subject to a trial with a seventy percent fatality rate.

“Don’t worry, Geralt. I have everything we need.” The mage sat down and pulled out a clean needle and thread.

Geralt had managed to survive those trials twice, and he’d always attributed this to the hard working mages just as much as he attributed it to his natural strength and constitution. But Viscardi seemed utterly mad, and Geralt couldn’t believe this was the most efficient way to study his healing abilities. The cut on his arm was deep, nearly deep enough to have severed a tendon, and the break, while clean, was pretty nasty as well. Geralt was no scientist, but he thought Viscardi could have taken some less drastic measures and gotten similar information. Especially since all of his wounds healed differently. This data wasn’t going to be applicable to every injury he’d gotten in the past, or would get in the future.

“This shouldn’t take long,” the mage encouraged. The stitching and splinting might not take long, but these injuries weren’t going to heal overnight. How much time did he intend to spend on these torturous assessments?

Geralt sat when Viscardi motioned for him to, but it was mostly because he was starting to feel lightheaded, and he didn’t want to have to let down his guard. What he really wanted was to be left alone so he could stop wasting energy on pretending like he wasn’t as weak, and sick, and in pain as he felt. “I can deal with this on my own just fine.”

“But you don’t have to.” Viscardi didn’t relinquish the needle. “I know how this must feel, Geralt, but I really am doing this all to help you. Let me help you.”

“I can help myself just fine.” He was still losing blood though, and soon he’d been too unsteady to stitch the wound.

“I don’t want to have to restrain you again, Geralt,” Viscardi warned. “That wasn’t pleasant for either of us.”

Perhaps, but it had been a lot less pleasant for Geralt.

Viscardi spoke again before Geralt could think of a compelling argument for why he should get to stitch and set his own arm. It wasn’t because he was the only one who could do it. His mind flashed back to all of the times he’d sat in their camp, or at an inn while Jaskier stitched him up, and once again the memory triggered a flash of pain in his chest. Viscardi must have thought his grimace was due to his injuries, because his concern seemed to grow—his own determination along with it.

“Why don’t you let me patch you up, and then I’ll get you a bath and you can relax for a while,” he suggested. “Maybe a little time to think will help us align our goals a bit more.”

It most certainly would not, but he had found Geralt’s weakness. There were few things he wouldn’t give for a bath in this moment, and Viscardi was going to capitalize on that. So Geralt sat still, and allowed the mage to start the work of stitching the wound on his arm, and setting the broken bones in a splint.

“How long does something like this usually take to heal?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Geralt growled, becoming more irritable by the second. The mage was focusing on the task at hand, and Geralt wondered if Viscardi was distracted enough that he could try to hit him again. He was by no means an intimidating physical specimen. Without his magic, knocking him unconscious wouldn’t be a difficult task, even if he could only use one arm. He only needed one good hit.

Geralt thought of the bath though. He felt so unwell, and it promised to be the first real comfort he’d gotten since arriving here. And there was a good chance that striking him would cause Viscardi to drive the needle into his wounded arm, and at the moment it just didn’t seem worth it. Geralt was still determined to break out of this horrible underground workshop, but not today. He’d need his strength, and today the only thing he had the strength left to do was take his bath and go to bed.

“I’m going to set the splint now, would you like something to bite down on?” He asked it like he was inquiring what kind of tea Geralt preferred.

“Can’t you just do it with magic?” Geralt growled. He’d been lucky enough to get mages to mend his bones on a few occasions, and it was highly preferable to shifting them by hand and hoping they healed correctly.

“The purpose of this is to learn how your mutated body heals itself, so we can track the improvements as we make them.”

Geralt’s blood ran cold, just as it had the first time Viscardi had mentioned his regenerative abilities. He didn’t plan on doing this regularly, did he? It didn’t matter, Geralt reminded himself, because he was going to be getting out of here before the evil mage had the chance to break any more of his bones.

“This will only take a moment.” He gripped Geralt’s broken bones with both hands, and Geralt worried for a moment that he might be sick again when he pushed the bones back into place, but then the pain began to fade, and the nausea along with it. “There we go.” He wrapped the broken limb up tightly before securing it, and beginning to put his things away.

He was going to get out of here. Geralt repeated the thought like a mantra. If only he could figure out how.

Chapter Text

“You don’t think something could have happened to him, do you?” Jaskier asked Eskel. It was the question that had been buzzing around his head ever since he’d met up with the other Witcher in Novigrad, and the buzzing grew louder the further they traveled without any news of Geralt. Jaskier feared they would begin to sting if he didn’t get his thoughts under control.

“He’s probably just holed up somewhere with an injury,” Eskel answered. “I bet we find him with Nenneke.”

He was more optimistic than his brother.

They didn’t find him with Nenneke though, or anywhere along the way, and Jaskier was starting to lose hope. He could tell Eskel was as well, although he tried to hide it. Nenneke hadn’t heard from or about him since before winter, and all of the other people Jaskier and Eskel were able to get in contact with said the same.

“Well what are we supposed to do now?” They’d been on the Path for two weeks now, with nothing to show for it. “We can’t very well search the entire Continent for him.” Jaskier was frustrated and scared, and Eskel’s calming presence wasn’t enough to keep his panic at bay anymore. He couldn’t shake the image of Geralt dead in a cave somewhere, or in the bottom of a lake. Citizens rarely noticed or cared when Witchers went missing, and they were running out of people who had any ability or desire to help them. Perhaps they’d come through a town where he left an unfinished contract, but they couldn’t very well travel the entire Continent on horseback, asking every townsperson whether or not they remembered anything about a white haired Witcher who’d left their town with unfinished business.

No. They’d need something a bit more efficient. If only Jaskier could figure out what.

He felt a bit envious when Eskel was the one to come up with a good idea. Or well, an idea.

“I know someone who might be able to help.” He broached the subject over dinner at Melitele’s Temple, where they were staying to try and regroup after Nenneke told them she had no idea where Geralt could be.

“I’m down for anything,” Jaskier replied, perhaps a little too quickly. “I’m ready to sleep again.” Ever since the realization that Geralt could very well be in some real trouble, Jaskier had found it difficult to relax. He always felt like he should be doing something, and the dreams about finding Geralt dead—or perhaps even more painful, the dreams of finding him alive—kept his sleep short and fitful. Even a lead as to where Geralt could be staying might be enough to get him his rest back at least. If they actually found him, he’d be in debt to this mage forever.

“She’s a mage,” Eskel began. “I don’t know her well, but she knows Geralt. I’m sure she’d be willing to help us.”

Jaskier wondered why Eskel hadn’t brought up visiting the mage sooner. Had he only thought of the idea now, or would visiting this mage come with a price? Jaskier didn’t ask. He didn’t care if there was a price.

He was prepared to do anything.

***

The journey to the mage wasn’t far.

She lived in Wyzima, so it was only a quick backtrack from Ellander. They’d passed through here on their way to Nenneke, and Jaskier wondered why, if Eskel had known about her, they hadn’t stopped here on their initial trip across Temeria from the coast. Jaskier tried to get a bit more information before they met with her. He was desperate for this to go well.

“You said this was a friend of Geralt’s?”

“Friend isn’t the right word.” Eskel contemplated his question for a little while longer before giving a real answer. “Her name is Triss. She works as an advisor to King Foltest. I’m not sure where she and Geralt met, but it’s been years.”

“But they aren’t friends?” Jaskier tried to clarify.

“He doesn’t talk about her much,” Eskel replied. “The only reason I remembered her now was because of something Nenneke mentioned in passing about Foltest.”

Jaskier got the distinct impression he was being lied to, but he let Eskel continue, certain the best way to figure out why Eskel was being so evasive was to just let him keep talking.

“I met her a few years ago, on a hunt with Geralt in Temeria,” he admitted. “And she certainly seemed…fond of him.”

So they had been intimate. Jaskier was surprised by the strong flare of jealousy these words incited. He had to reach into the lining of his doublet and run his fingers over the paper of Geralt’s letter, worn soft by time and touch, to ease it.

“Well hopefully her fondness is enough to make her want to help us for free.” Jaskier attempted to lighten the mood with a joke, but there was little lightness to be found in any part of their situation. It had been weeks since he’d met Eskel in Novigrad, and they were no closer to finding Geralt now than they had been then. There was a high likelihood that Geralt was dead. He was solitary, of course, but it wasn’t like him to disappear so completely like this.

On top of all of that, he and Eskel were nearly out of money. If they wanted to keep on like they had been for the last few weeks, they were going to have to start picking up work to fund their search. That would slow them down significantly, and Jaskier feared they didn’t have much time left.

Jaskier pulled himself from this spiral. He was letting his fears get away from him. Geralt was the strongest person Jaskier had ever met, physically or otherwise. It would take a lot to end him, and Jaskier clung to this thought like a lifeline.

“Let’s go speak to her then.” He shook himself from his thoughts before they could turn irretrievably dark. “No point in wasting any more time.”

Chapter Text

Geralt had gotten to know Viscardi Delacroix well in the past two weeks. Well, he thought it had been two weeks, it was hard to keep track. There was no sunlight down here, wherever he was being kept, and although Viscardi kept him on what felt like a normal schedule, Geralt knew there were days he’d lost. Days when he’d been so wrapped up in his misery that he didn’t realize how much time had passed. It seemed to crawl, but no matter how much time he had, he was no closer to finding a way out of this prison.

And it was a prison.

No matter how the mage tried to spin it, how fervently he tried to convince Geralt that they were creating something incredible together, he could never get Geralt to see past the horror of it all. It was hard to agree to something when it involved enduring seemingly endless torture.

Viscardi had spent the last weeks testing him. Geralt thought the first day had been overly involved, but it turned out that was only the beginning. He was given time to heal, as Viscardi had promised, but after his arm had fully mended itself, and the process had been thoroughly documented, the mage moved on to other tests. He devised ways to test things Geralt had never even thought of—what kind of substances his body could endure and how much, how long he could go without oxygen before he fainted, even intellectual assessments, like memory tests and ability to perform increasingly difficult arithmetic problems.

It was clear he was, throughout all of it, still trying to stay Geralt’s friend, and that honestly made things worse. All of the nice meals, and hot baths, and time to rest just reminded him of all the lengths Viscardi would go to keep him here. And how much time he thought they had. He was clearly taking his time, and every time he considered this, Geralt felt sick to his stomach.

It was a similar feeling to the dread which blossomed in his stomach when he saw Viscardi enter his room on the morning of what he thought to be his fifteenth day trapped here. The mage looked excited—more excited than he’d looked since the first day Geralt had woken up here.

Instinctively, he stood up, not wanting to allow the other man the upper hand, and waited for him to speak. What plans did he have for today? Was he going to stretch Geralt out on a rack to see how much tension his joints could take until his limbs were torn from their sockets? Was he going to start pulling Geralt’s teeth to see if his body could grow more?

“I have good news.”

Geralt swallowed hard, trying to keep the terror from his face. Whatever news he had, Geralt was sure it wasn’t good. The only good news would be that he was letting Geralt go, anything other than that promised to be nothing more than another round of torture.

“We’re done testing,” Viscardi told him.

That did sound like good news, and it might put Geralt at ease if it didn’t open up the possibility of the mage introducing a whole new type of torture.

“We’ve got all of our baselines recorded and we’re ready to move onto the next stage,” he said. “This is what we came here for, Geralt.”

He looked giddy with excitement.

“I didn’t come here,” Geralt reminded him, his voice the most intimidating growl he could manage with his sprit as beaten down as it was. “You brought me here, and you’re keeping me like a caged animal. Unless the next stage is you letting me go, or me finally getting to wring your fucking neck, I don’t want to hear it.”

“I think you do though,” Viscardi teased. “Or you should. In my experience, the attitude going in has as much to do with the success as the physical specimen.”

Geralt’s blood ran cold, and his legs nearly went out beneath him. He had to lock his knees to keep himself upright. He couldn’t let Viscardi see how terrified he was. He had known this was coming. Viscardi had told him his whole plan on the first day, but Geralt had blocked it from his mind. It was the only thing he could do. If he thought about it for even a moment he would start heading down a path of fear and despair that he knew he wouldn’t be able to return from. And he needed to remain hopeful and vigilant if he ever wanted to find a way to escape this place. But he couldn’t avoid it any longer. It was here now, and staring him in the face. There was no way he could handle this—no way he could survive.

“I’ve been waiting eagerly for this day,” Viscardi continued, as if Geralt didn’t already know this. “Ever since I worked with you as a child, I’ve been thinking about it. There were many years I spent angry and resentful that they took the opportunity from us. Then I realized I could take it back.”

There was a wicked gleam in his eyes which increased Geralt’s terror tenfold. He wanted to stumble over to the bed, he wanted to puke, he wanted to cry, but he just stood there, frozen.

“I spent a long time looking for you, Witcher, and a long time preparing, and now we can finally get back to what we started all those years ago.”

“Please.” Geralt was hardly able to force the words from his mouth. “I’m only a man.” It was a phrase Geralt had never said before, and one he hadn’t believed until this moment. “If there was a time for this, it’s over. I barely survived before.”

“Oh, you’re too modest,” Viscardi said, as if he was giving Geralt some high praise, not sentencing him to death. “You performed incredibly before, and I’m certain you will again,” he told him. “We’re creating something beautiful here, Geralt.”

The only thing Viscardi was creating was a horribly mangled corpse, but Geralt didn’t say that. The panic had overtaken him now. All he could do was stand and stare and pray to any god who was listening to strike down Viscardi before he could do this. Before he could subject Geralt to the Trial of the Grasses for the third, horrible, agonizing time.

“Let’s get started.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier shouldn’t feel jealous.

It was a waste of his energy, he knew, but the feeling was hard to shake.

Geralt was missing, and although Jaskier refused to let himself entertain the idea, he could very well be dead. His feelings about a woman who he had slept with who knew how many years ago—a woman who couldn’t mean too terribly much to him since in all their years of travel he’d never once mentioned her—were irrelevant. Triss and Jaskier were not competitors; if this meeting went well they would be allies. And Jaskier needed this meeting to go well because as much as he hated the idea, she might be the only one able to find Geralt.

“Eskel!”

The Witcher had been right not to worry about whether she'd agree to see them. She looked thrilled, pulling him into an embrace that suggested Triss might have more of a history of intimacy within the school of the wolf than Eskel had initially indicated. When she broke the embrace she kept hold of both of his hands and regarded him with something Jaskier could only describe as awe.

“It has been far too long. I’ve been meaning to come visit Kaer Morhen one of these winters but I’ve been terribly busy, and you know better than most how difficult the journey can be.”

So she’d been to Kaer Morhen. Not many could say that. Jaskier had to remind himself not to get caught up in this thickening plot. This wasn’t why they were here. Before he could try and steer things back toward their quest to find Geralt though, Triss shifted her attention to him.

“And you must be Jaskier.” She lifted her hand and Jaskier’s noble upbringing took over, leading him to kiss her hand before he could be once more overtaken by both his jealousy and impatience.

“It is an honor to meet you,” she continued. “I’ve admired your work for years now, and I’ve been looking forward to when the Temerian court would finally host you and your music. Will you be singing for us today?” She looked at him with bright, expectant eyes.

Jaskier bowed, still letting his noble training lead him and keep his emotions in check. “Madame Merigold, nothing would bring me more joy than to perform for you and Foltest’s court, but we come here today with different, and more urgent business.”

Triss nodded somberly and ushered them over to two plush armchairs, sitting across from them and looking at the Witcher and the bard expectantly.

“I hope I am able to help.”

Finally, they were able to get to what was important. Jaskier was glad Eskel took initiative and dove into the story. Despite it being their sole focus during these past weeks, they avoided actually sitting down and talking about it as much as they could. It was painful and Jaskier wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his emotions in check if he had to be the one to relay the tragic tale.

Triss sat and listened quietly, seemingly enraptured, although it was hard to tell if it was the story or Eskel himself which kept her so focused. Jaskier decided he didn’t care. All that mattered was her willingness to help, no matter the motive.

And to Jaskier’s great relief, she seemed incredibly eager to help.

“I can’t believe this has happened.” Triss wrung her hands, looking genuinely upset. “I’ve never known someone to attract trouble like Geralt, but this is bad even for him. And you said you spoke with Nenneke? I know he often disappears there.”

“She hasn’t heard anything from him since last year,” Eskel answered. “Nobody has. We’ve been traveling for weeks now and not a single person we’ve spoken to has heard anything from or about him since he left Kaer Morhen. It’s like he’s disappeared off the edge of the Continent.”

They all sat looking at each other for a long moment, pondering the seemingly impossible task in front of them.

“So can you help us?” Jaskier asked, unable to bear the silence for a second longer.

Thankfully, Triss nodded.

“Locating someone is no small task,” she began warily, as if she was afraid to get their hopes up. “But there is a ritual we can try.”

“What will you need for it?” Eskel jumped on her suggestion. “When can we perform it?”

“We can do it today if you’d like,” she said, still wary.

Her tone didn’t inspire confidence, but this was the first lead they had, and Jaskier was ready to cling to it for dear life.

“If you have something with a trace of him on it we can do it now.”

Jaskier and Eskel both thought for a moment. For two people closer to Geralt than perhaps anyone else on the Continent, they had precious little to show for it.

“I’m not sure if—”

“Would this be—”

They spoke at the same time and then both stopped short. Triss directed her attention at Eskel, and he continued.

“I’m not sure if this would work.” He fingered his medallion. “But our medallions are cut from the same stone and imbued with the same magic. They connect all Witchers to one another through chaos.”

Triss held her hand out for it and Eskel slipped the chain over his head. Then they both turned back to Jaskier.

He felt suddenly very nervous. This was private and he didn’t relish the thought of revealing it to Geralt’s brother and his former lover, but if it could help find him then Jaskier would be a fool to keep it to himself. He was willing to endure much more than a little breach of privacy if it meant they could find him.

“I’ve got this.” Jaskier pulled the letter from his jacket. “I’m not sure if any traces remain.” It had traveled far and been handled much. “But he wrote it.”

Triss held her hand out again and Jaskier reluctantly passed it to her.

“We’ll try them both,” the mage asserted.

“You said we can do it now?” Eskel asked. “There’s nothing else you need?”

Triss shook her head. “I have everything else we need.”

Jaskier’s stomach turned and he clasped his hands together to keep them from trembling.

“Unless you can think of a reason we should wait,” Triss continued. “I think we should proceed without delay.”

Chapter Text

Triss wasted no time in preparing for the ritual. She cleared a space on the floor and then retrieved a large bowl and put several bunches of dried herbs into it before lighting them into a small smoking blaze. It filled the room with a scent that was both acrid and sweet, leaving a slight burning sensation in his sinuses and throat. For a moment Jaskier feared she would put his letter in the fire and turn it to ash, but then she waved her hand and whispered an incantation, turning the yellow orange flames to a pale blue. When she placed the Witcher’s medallion and then the letter into the bowl, they did not burn.

She led them over to the cleared space and sat them in a circle, joining the three of them together with their hands.

“Are you ready?”

Jaskier and Eskel replied in unison. “Yes.”

***

“Are you ready?”

Geralt responded without hesitation. “No.”

He would never be ready for this. Could never be. His mind of course, urged him away from the danger—sent him into a panic, alerting him to the danger he was already all too aware of. His body wasn’t ready either, and he doubted there was anything he or Delacroix could do to get it back to the place it had been when he’d undergone the Trials for the first and second times. His body was fully developed now, long since set in its form, no longer malleable with puberty and young. He hadn’t been primed with training and hormones. Last time the Trial had felt like someone ripping his body apart and then forcing his muscles and bones and cells back together in a new, stronger configuration.

This time he feared it would rip him to pieces.

***

“I want you to focus on him,” Triss instructed. “Try to feel the connection you have with him. Make it as solid as you can.”

Jaskier shut his eyes and tried to imagine it, a cord connecting Geralt’s body to his own, pulling at his chest.

Pulling him to Geralt.

***

“Just focus on breathing, Geralt. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Viscardi took a thick cord and wrapped it around Geralt’s chest, pulling him down into the mattress. He was limp again. This time the mage hadn’t even given him the chance to fight back before he stole his ability to move. He knew that Geralt’s survival instincts would lead him to take any measures, no matter how desperate, to prevent this from happening. To save his own life. Except that wasn’t it. He was past the point of survival now, just trying to shield himself from the exceptional suffering this venture promised. If given the chance, Geralt would slit his own throat before he let Viscardi do this to him. It was most likely too late to save his life; at least then he would be able to spare himself some of the pain.

Viscardi tightened the cord around his chest. It dug painfully into his ribcage, but they couldn’t take any chances with letting him free now. He needed to be securely tied to the bed for when the thrashing began. Thrashing and straining and seizing. Viscardi wouldn’t be able to restrain him with magic once the Trial began. The mage might have little regard for his pain and suffering, but he at least knew that subjecting his body to magic when it was in that state would certainly kill him.

And his death was almost certain already.

***

Jaskier kept his eyes closed while Triss began to chant, a nervous energy building in his stomach as he tried to figure out what he should expect. He wished he’d asked Triss to give a more detailed description of what the ritual entailed, but he hadn’t expected to be an active participant.

A flash of light pulled Jaskier from his concentration and he opened his eyes. The fire burned much brighter now, and it was producing copious amounts of smoke—much more than it ought to be able to. It filled the room, blocking out the light and raising the temperature. Jaskier resisted the urge to cough, terrified of disturbing Triss.

The chanting had increased alongside the flame, and even though Jaskier wasn’t focusing anymore, he could still feel the cord connecting him to Geralt.

The room was hot now, and Jaskier could feel sweat beginning to drip down his face. He glanced over at Eskel and was relieved to see that he was sweating too. The Witcher looked calm though, starting stoically into the fire, seemingly unbothered by the ritual’s proceedings. Jaskier tried to match his calmness, but he was rapidly becoming panicked.

There was so much smoke, Jaskier could hardly breathe, and his connection to Geralt was starting to feel less like a cord tied to his chest and more like someone wrapping a hand around his sternum and pulling hard. He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to bear it.

Triss showed no sign of slowing.

***

“There’s no need to panic, Geralt,” the mage chided. Once the cord was secure, his hand drifted up a few inches to rest over Geralt’s thudding heart. The feeling of the mage’s hand on him made Geralt’s skin crawl. “This won’t be like the first times,” Viscardi continued. “There are no other subjects to tend to. All of my focus will be on you.”

If his tending could have any effect on the success of the Trial then Geralt might be comforted, but this battle was wholly internal. Viscardi could do little more than lay cool cloths on his forehead and try to keep him from inhaling his own vomit.

The mage lifted his hand from Geralt’s chest and turned to retrieve the syringe.

When Viscardi brought the needle to the crook of his elbow and started pressing with two fingers to try and find his vein, Geralt’s heart went from thudding to racing.

The mage tsked. “You really ought to try and calm down. Panicking will only make this more unpleasant.”

Describing the Trials as ‘unpleasant’ was like describing a dragon as ‘unsafe.’ The word applied, but it did nothing to convey the weight of the situation.

“Relax.” The needle pierced his skin and Viscardi injected the serum. “You’re going to be alright.”

***

“He isn’t anywhere I can reach.” Triss’ chanting ceased and she looked to Jaskier and Eskel, panting. “He’s gone.”

Chapter Text

“What?” Jaskier breathed, fighting hard to make his breathing even once more. “What do you mean?”

“Is he?” Eskel asked, wary. “Is he gone?”

“I don’t know,” Triss admitted. She stared into the bowl, the flames extinguished and any hope in her expression gone with them. “I couldn’t sense him anywhere. There was no trace of him anywhere I could reach. If he’s alive he’s well hidden.”

“And if he’s.” Jaskier’s stomach turned. “Not?”

“I still should have been able to sense him. If he’s been killed then his body has been destroyed.”

Jaskier was surprised at how much more upset this made him. He couldn’t bear the thought of Geralt being dead, but the thought of never even being able to say goodbye? It was unfathomable.

“Well, is there anything else we can try?” Eskel asked the question Jaskier couldn’t, his voice not wanting to work anymore.

Triss shook her head. “Without any detectable connection to him it would be like searching for a single coin in the entire ocean.”

“What do you mean by a connection?” Jaskier asked, fighting hard to find the words.

“We would have felt it during the ritual,” Triss told him. “Like something pulling you towards him.”

Jaskier perked up, afraid to let himself get too hopeful, but unable to restrain himself. “I felt him,” he asserted.

“What?” The doubt was obvious in Triss’ voice, but Jaskier wasn’t going to let this stop him, not if there was a chance this could still work.

“It was like a cord in my chest connecting me to him. It was pulling me.” Quite painfully actually—Jaskier was convinced this hadn’t been a product of his imagination. He wasn’t sure why it hadn’t been the same for Triss and Eskel, but he was too desperate to get this ritual to work to care much about them.

“Could you tell where it was pulling you?” Triss asked. “Did you get any glimpses of him?”

“Well,” Jaskier faulted. “No, but I could definitely feel the connection. Can’t we try the ritual again?”

Triss shook her head, and Jaskier felt a flare of anger and disappointment nearly as potent as the pain in his chest had been. “If it didn’t work the first time, it won’t work the second.”

“But we have the connection,” Jaskier argued. “There’s nothing we can do with it?”

Triss opened her mouth to speak, but then snapped it shut, pressing her lips together.

“What?”

“It’s nothing,” she lied. “It wouldn’t work.”

“Which is it?” Eskel stepped in. “It’s nothing, or it won’t work?”

“It’s a bad idea,” Triss tried to convince them.

“I don’t care,” Jaskier blurted out. An idea was an idea, and he was willing to try anything.

“The chances of it working are slim to none, and the chances of it working without being torturous or lethal for you are even slimmer.”

At this Jaskier was rendered silent, a pit forming in his stomach and threatening to pull in his heart and lungs.

“What’s the ritual, Triss?” Eskel asked, cool and calm compared to Triss and Jaskier’s strong, evident emotions.

“It’s not a ritual,” Triss answered. “It’s a curse.”

“And what does it entail?” Eskel continued, speaking the words Jaskier was unable to force from his mouth.

“Simply put, it solidifies and intensifies the connection between two people.”

“How is that torturous?”

Triss turned from Eskel to Jaskier, directing her attention at him despite his silence.

“During the ritual we just did,” she began. “What did that connection feel like?”

Jaskier’s mouth was dry, and he had to clear his throat in order to get his voice to work. “It felt like someone had tied a rope to my ribs,” he repeated, “and they were pulling on it.”

“I’m sure that didn’t feel pleasant,” Triss tried to bait him into agreeing with her. “This would be much more painful than that.”

“The pulling?” Jaskier was fairly certain he could learn to cope with it, if it really could pull him to Geralt.

“More than that,” Triss told him. “This curse would set that connection in place, yes, but it would also give you glimpses into the emotions and sensations the other person is feeling. In the past this curse was often placed on women whose husbands were at war, forcing them to feel all the terror and pain their husbands were experiencing in battle. It would lead you to Geralt, yes, but if he’s suffering it would do so by intensifying the torture the nearer you got to him.”

Jaskier’s whole body went cold and he felt like he might be sick. “But if I could endure it,” he began, his voice shaking, “we could learn where he is?”

Triss sighed. “Yes, in theory, but that’s assuming it didn’t kill you first. We have no idea where Geralt is or what’s being done to him. His status as a Witcher allows his body to endure much more pain and stress than a normal man. It could very well kill you before we got close enough to surmise where he actually is.”

“Couldn’t you just lift the curse?” Eskel asked. “If it looked like it was becoming too much for him to handle.”

The mage shook her head. “It can only be lifted by the person on the other end of the connection.”

“True love’s kiss?” Eskel asked, the only one in the room relaxed enough to laugh at his joke.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Triss replied, no sign of jesting in her voice. “Which just exemplifies how great the risk is. If Geralt’s connection to you isn’t as strong as your own or stronger then the curse will remain until it is severed by death.”

At this, a blanket of silence covered the group as they all considered the implications of everything Triss was saying.

“Truly,” she finally broke the silence, “the risks outweigh the benefits to an unfathomable degree. I shouldn’t have brought it up,” she implored him. “We’ll find another way.”

“There is no other way,” Jaskier said, his voice flat and cold. They all knew it was true. He was the only one with a connection, and that connection was the only tool they had to lead them to Geralt. Without it they’d just be combing the Continent, and Jaskier and Eskel were already all too familiar with how fruitless of an endeavor that was. “I’ll take on the curse.”

Chapter Text

“Do I need to do anything?” Jaskier asked.

“I think the victims of curses aren’t typically active participants,” Eskel said.

“He’s right.” Triss looked unhappy as she prepared the spell. “You just need to sit there. Try and stay calm.”

“Okay.” Jaskier squirmed, adjusting the way he was sitting and trying to appear calm.

“This will likely be unpleasant,” Triss warned. “It’s different for each recipient depending on the nature and strength of the connection. If I were you I would brace myself.”

Jaskier wished she would just get on with things. He couldn’t think of any way to prepare himself, so he sat on his hands and waited for her to begin.

As soon as she did begin Jaskier wished she would stop. The cord refastened itself to his breastbone, seemingly tangled in Triss’ hands, pulling as she moved them in a complicated dance, chanting as she went.

It started out as simple discomfort, but it grew with every passing moment. He tried to stay calm. Jaskier took a deep breath to try and manage what was quickly becoming pain. At the apex of his breath though, Jaskier doubled over and cried out. It felt as if someone had sunk a knife between his eyes, and he pressed them shut.

When he opened them again, he was no longer in Triss’ chambers.

The pain in his chest was gone, replaced with pain everywhere else, and he no longer felt bound to Geralt, but instead to the table beneath him. Instinctively he tried to fight against his restraints, but when he went to move, his limbs refused to respond. The cry that escaped his mouth was not his own.

The pain was deep and penetrating, spreading through muscles, bones, and organs indiscriminately. Jaskier had never felt pain like this, and he didn’t think he would survive to feel it again.

“Triss stop.” The voice sounded like it was coming from a long distance, but the panic was evident. “He can’t handle it, stop!”

“I’m not doing anything anymore,” a second voice said. “The curse is set. It’s out of my hands.”

Jaskier cried out again, his body which wasn’t his body fighting against his restraints. He could already feel himself fading.

“Hey, you’re okay.” It was the same voice as before. “Jaskier!”

The pain was constricting around his lungs. His whole body began to tremble, trying uselessly to thrash.

“Fuck, Triss. Do something!”

“I can’t!”

Jaskier's head smacked hard against the table, and for a moment Triss’ chambers came back into focus. He took the opportunity to reach out and grab Eskel’s arm, as if the Witcher could pull him away from wherever he’d been transported to.

“Hey, you’re okay. It’s okay.”

Jaskier clung to him, panting. He focused only on Eskel, and slowly the other scene faded, the pain fading with it, leaving only panic and exhaustion in its place. Jaskier collapsed onto the floor and Eskel dragged him over so Jaskier’s head was resting on his thigh rather than the floor. He rubbed Jaskier’s shoulder and continued his comforting sentiments.

“It’s alright. You’re okay.”

And he was okay, for now at least. But it was clear now, that Geralt was not.

***
“It will be over soon, Geralt. It will be worth it.”

For the first time since his capture, Geralt heard fear in Viscardi’s voice. It was nothing compared to Geralt’s own fear. Already the elixir was taking over his body, the pain all encompassing, blinding him. The room slipped out of focus and Geralt’s muscles fought reflexively, uselessly, against his restraints. It would only get worse from here. An hour from now he would wish his pain was the level it was now, this pattern continuing to escalate until his current pain would seem like nothing more than slight discomfort, each hour bringing more pain, more horrors. It would continue like that for five, six, seven days. There was no way of telling, and Geralt could not convince himself that he’d live long enough to see the pain start to decrease.

The fighting turned to thrashing, Geralt’s control over his muscles completely gone. They constricted so violently he was afraid his bones might break.

“Hey, you’re okay.”

It wasn’t the mage. It was his brother. Geralt whimpered, for a moment brought back to his childhood in Kaer Morhen, when he’d had Eskel at his side enduring the first trial with him, and helping him to fight through the second round, tethering him to the world, keeping him from giving in fully to the pain, keeping him from giving up. This wasn’t his brother though, just another cruel side effect of the Trial.

“Jaskier!”

For a moment, he could feel the bard in the room with him. For a moment, a spark of happiness cut through the agony.

Jaskier.

The muscles in Geralt’s neck contracted then, smacking his head hard against the table. Then Jaskier was gone. Blood began to trickle from his nose and he fought to keep it from his lungs, coughing. This too, brought up blood and he began to choke.

In what was possibly the first intelligent decision he’d ever made, Viscardi released Geralt from his restraints. He was far too weak to escape now, the least the evil mage could do was try and keep him comfortable.

The second he was no longer held flat Geralt crumpled, nearly falling off the table as his muscles continued to thrash. He was no longer fully aware of what was happening around him, but either the table was turned to a bed underneath him, or the mage had transported him into one. He tied Geralt down once more, but this time just to keep his body from throwing him onto the floor.

Geralt forced his eyes to come back into focus and he saw the mage stooped at his bedside, looking afraid. Seeing Viscardi’s unwavering confidence fail sent a chill down Geralt’s spine and his stomach turned. He sent a flood of bile and blood splattering onto the floor. If not for the agony and terror which threatened to drown him, he might have been pleased to see the vomit splattering Viscardi’s robes. It was the least he deserved.

He coughed and choked, the vomit still being brought up by his heaving stomach and the blood now pouring from his nose threatened to cut off his air flow completely. Viscardi reached out with a rag to wipe his face, achieving little more than getting more puke on his robes while Geralt’s muscles continued convulse. His rag would do nothing. The puking wouldn’t stop, neither would the blood from his nose, and the tears from his eyes which would soon turn to blood too. Already he was drenched in sweat, his clothes stuck to his body only adding to the feeling of being suffocated.

No, nothing Viscardi could do would help now. He’d gone too far, and there would be no turning back from here.

Chapter Text

Geralt tried to meditate.

He still tried to convince himself that it might be easier this time. He thought he might be able to use the very thing that was killing him—his cursed, torturous, Witcher’s experience—to help him go out a little easier.

If he could slip into a meditative state, like he’d done thousands of times during his years as a Witcher, maybe he could ease some of this pain. Even just getting his thrashing muscles to relax would be a great mercy. Geralt didn’t let himself hope that he might be able to regenerate faster than the Trial tore him apart. That was too lofty a goal. To ask the violent attacks of the alchemical reactions to soften enough to let him go quietly seemed impossible enough.

And the attacks were only getting fiercer.

His muscles had gone from contracting spasmodically, leaving him limp during the times between, to locking up completely, growing tighter and tighter as the endlessly long minutes passed.

His hands were clasped into fists, and his palms were slick with blood from the eight ever deepening wounds where his fingers met flesh. A sharp crack sounded, like someone had stepped on a twig, as the first of his fingers buckled under the pressure and snapped. Geralt could barely feel it past the pain of everything else, and the panic about what might follow. Which bone would be next? His femur? His spine? His jaw? Already he could feel the sharp grit of his back teeth being cracked and ground in his mouth.

He had to relax. If he could just meditate.

Geralt had to force his eyes shut, some primal part of him keeping them open, afraid if he let them shut his vision wouldn’t be returned when he opened them again. Once he got his eyes close, Geralt poured all his energy, fighting through the inescapable onslaught of misery, into relaxing enough to take a breath. He sucked in the deepest breath he could manage and he let the memories of the exercise he’d spent years practicing lead him into a second deep breath.

“Yes, that’s it. I knew you were strong enough. I knew we could do it.”

He didn’t know shit. The mage’s encouragement broke his concentration, but Geralt kept his focus on his breath and Viscardi’s voice faded away.

Another voice came to him then and Geralt feared for a moment that he’d slipped out of his meditation and was once more being subjected to Viscardi at his bedside, but no. This wasn’t the whining drone of Viscardi Delacroix. This voice was rich and deep and warm.

Eskel.

The hallucinations must be beginning. It seemed too early for this, and Geralt wondered if more time had passed than he’d thought—if he was closer to mercy than he’d let himself imagine. He dismissed this thought though. The gods would never be so kind to him. He still had an eternity to endure.

So he clung to the image of his brother that his mind had conjured for him in his meditation, hoping he might carry him through once again.

Geralt’s eyes opened without his permission, and then he was there. He was laying on the floor now instead of on the table, and his brother hovered above him. Eskel held his hand in his lap, cradling it as he repeated soft encouragements.

“Hey, breathe, you’re okay.”

It would be a relief if the pain had gone anywhere, but it had followed him here into this lovely hallucination, digging his heels into the floor beneath him and constricting his lungs.

“Relax. It’ll pass. It’s going to be alright.” Eskel’s hands caressed his cheeks, rubbing the muscles in his cheeks until his jaw relaxed. “There you go.” Eskel sounded relieved. “That’s it.”

He sucked a deep breath in and in that moment he was snapped back to the present, to Viscardi’s lab. To unimaginable torture.

The hallucination must have been kinder than he’d thought because this current pain felt so much worse than anything yet.

Geralt tried to take a deep breath, to slip back to that other, kinder scene, but his breath caught and he began to choke. His throat filled with bloody foam from his lungs. He needed to clear his mouth, to breathe, but his jaw was clamped shut so tightly that all he could manage was to force the suffocating metallic foam out of the corners of his mouth and in between his teeth.

His body was in full panic mode now, even though rationally he knew that choking to death would be getting off easy. Still, as much as he tried to suppress it, there was a part of him left that was afraid to die. Especially here. All alone.

Viscardi swooped in then, no doubt desperate to keep his experiment going a little while longer. He pried Geralt’s mouth open with both hands, wedging something between his cracking molars to keep Geralt from biting his fingers off as he stuck them into his mouth in a desperate attempt to clear his airways. He scooped the pink foam and bits of teeth from Geralt’s throat. It didn’t help him breathe, but it did trigger his gag reflex.

Geralt vomited a fountain of blood.

He convulsed with the force of it, pulling against his restraints as the vomit surged from his mouth and nose, and he was able to get half a breath in before his stomach lurched again, bringing up another torrent of blood. His organs were turning into soup. He imagined them dissolving inside of him, creating more and more blood for his stomach to bring up until his insides were all laid out for Viscardi to study on the floor of his lab. He coughed, and he felt one of his ribs slip out of position before the next heave.

“Breathe, dammit!” Viscardi yelled, hitting him on the back. All this did was push his rib farther out of place, pressing it into his lung.

Geralt tried to do as he said though, tried to get himself back to the place he’d been before. He pictured Eskel’s face in his mind, and for a moment he thought he could feel his brother’s hands on his face, wiping the tears from his cheeks. For a moment he thought he might be able to get through this.

And then he heard a woman’s horrible, bloodcurdling scream.

Chapter Text

Jaskier made no move to stand up.

He was still panting and his whole body was shaking as he lay on the floor of Triss’ chambers, his head in Eskel’s lap. The Witcher continued trying to comfort him, but it was clear both he and the mage were concerned.

Eskel brought his hand to Jaskier’s neck, holding two fingers up to the pulse point just below his jaw. “Your heart’s racing,” he remarked. “Can you take a couple of deep breaths for me?”

Jaskier hesitated. He’d been taking deep breaths when he’d been pulled into that other, terrible scene. What if there was some sort of correlation? Eskel must have been able to feel his heart rate spike at this thought because he took his hand off Jaskier’s neck and went back to gently rubbing his arm.

“Take your time,” he said. “We’re not in any rush.”

Weren’t they though? After what Jaskier had just seen, they should be in even more of a rush than before. He realized then, that they didn’t know what he’d just seen.

“Geralt’s hurt,” he said, unable to find any more elegant way to put it. “They’re hurting him. We have to go.”

Eskel held him by the shoulders now, not restraining him, but making sure Jaskier knew he really ought to lay down for a little while longer.

“You saw him?”

Jaskier looked up at Triss when she spoke, nodding. “Kind of. I think I was him, if that makes sense.”

She pressed her lips together into a tight line for a long moment before she spoke. “The connection manifests differently for everyone,” she told him. “But that makes sense.”

When she spoke about the connection Jaskier felt the cord tug at his chest and he tensed up, pushing his body farther back into Eskel, as if the Witcher could do anything at all to protect him from this awful curse.

Jaskier had to remind himself why he was doing this. And who he was doing it for.

“What’s happening to him?” Eskel asked. He was keeping his voice calm, but Jaskier knew enough about people to be able to tell how terrified he really was.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier admitted. “It hurt.” Eskel and Triss looked at him expectantly. Of course it fucking hurt. He needed a better descriptor. He tried to focus on the memory, to not shy away from it, but as soon as he accepted it and let it back into his mind, he was there again, on the table writhing and fighting just to breathe.

“Fuck, hold him still.”

“I am, I am.”

The voices sounded like they were coming from a long way off, and Eskel’s hands holding him steady felt like nothing more than a ghost of the earlier embrace.

“Hey, breathe, you’re okay.”

He wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay at all. The pain was worse now, somehow. He could feel his bones and joints being pulled into positions they couldn’t maintain, creaking and splintering under the pressure. And Jaskier was powerless to do anything about it. His body was thrashing of its own accord, whether in this scene or in Triss’ chambers he didn’t know. He didn’t care. All he cared about was getting out before his ribcage collapsed inside of him and punctured his lungs or his heart. Although maybe that would be a mercy. Maybe that would hurt less.

Eskel’s voice came through again, a little louder this time. “Relax. It’ll pass. It’s going to be alright.”

Jaskier tried to do as he said, but he couldn’t regain control of his body. It was as if his bones were sentient, and fighting against his muscles to try and escape the burning building that was the rest of his body—his dying organs, twisting and bleeding inside of him.

He felt his collarbone crack and Jaskier screamed. Or he tried to. All he could manage was a strangled cry, swallowed up by his ever tightening throat and clamped jaw.

It was only when Eskel started to massage Jaskier’s jaw muscles—loosening them so he could open his mouth—that he realized he’d stopped breathing. He began gulping air greedily, tensing as he anticipated the next surge of pain.

The pain didn’t come though, and slowly Triss’ chambers came back into focus, the agony fading along with the other scene.

Jaskier’s whole body was trembling as he whimpered in Eskel’s lap, unable to stop while he continued to take in desperate gasps of air like someone who had just narrowly avoided drowning and was still being tossed in the waves. He brought a hand up to his collarbone and pressed gently. It gave no indication of being broken.

“It’s over now. You’re okay,” Eskel told him.

This only made him cry harder. “They’re killing him. We have to do something!” Jaskier was still laying on his back and he could feel the snot and tears running down his throat. He coughed, fighting hard to continue even though he was too shaken to do much more than repeat himself. “Please, we have to help him.”

“We’re going to,” Eskel assured him before looking up at Triss. “Can you get him a blanket?” he asked. “I think he’s going into shock.”

Triss nodded, eyes still wide. “Of course.”

They weren’t listening. He wasn’t the one they needed to worry about. They needed to worry about Geralt. They needed to find him before it was too late!

Triss brought him a blanket and Eskel helped him sit up, holding him steady and wrapping it around his shoulders. It did nothing to ease the tremors racking his body, but Jaskier didn’t care. He wasn’t concerned about his own condition in the slightest.

“We have the connection now,” Jaskier said, working hard to collect his thoughts. “I saw where he was. Can’t we use that to find him? Isn’t that the whole point?”

“I can try a similar spell as before,” Triss offered hesitantly. “But using you instead of the letter and the medallion.”

“Could that work?” Eskel asked.

“It would have to be during.” Triss looked at Jaskier with a look so pitying he nearly started crying again. “It would have to be during an episode.”

Jaskier swallowed hard and tried to get himself to stop shaking—tried to convince himself that he could survive another one. “Okay.”

“So we just wait?” Eskel looked wary. He was probably wondering, just like Jaskier was, how often these ‘episodes’ as Triss put it, were going to happen. So far there had been two in the span of about fifteen minutes. Even if they somehow got to Geralt tomorrow, that would still be countless more. He understood now why Triss had said he might not be able to bear it. Might not be able to survive it.

They didn’t have to wait long.

Jaskier relaxed like he’d done before. He thought maybe being able to anticipate it could help him better prepare. If he could just keep his right mind and know that it was temporary it might not be so torturous.

“Maybe you ought to lay down,” Eskel suggested. Even though he wasn’t the one enduring the torture, he looked like he was dreading it just as much as Jaskier was.

Jaskier took the advice though, resting his head on the Witcher’s lap once more.

“You’re going to be okay. You’re going to get through it.”

Eskel’s voice was already fading though, the pain approaching in a massive, unavoidable, deadly wave.

Jaskier was choking. There was something obstructing his airway, and something pressing into his lungs, cutting off his breathing from both sides. The suffocation, along with the terrible, all encompassing pain made him feel sick to his stomach, and he could feel something hot and slick and metallic already in his mouth. He’d been vomiting. Or Geralt had been anyway. And Jaskier could feel that he wasn’t finished.

Somebody hit him on the back, hard, achieving nothing other than causing the pain to spike and his chest to constrict further.

“Breathe, dammit.”

“Do it now, Triss. We don’t have time.”

The voices overlapped each other, twisting and distorting as Jaskier was pulled between the two scenes. His stomach turned and he vomited, the bile bitter in his mouth, and the movement pushing his mangled ribs even further out of place.

The disorientation escalated when, although he could feel his body was strapped to a table, Eskel turned him over onto his side. He heaved again, but the noise of his retching and vomit splattering onto the floor was completely drowned out.

The entire room was filled instead with the shrill, piercing sound or Triss’ scream.

Chapter Text

The first thing Jaskier noticed when Triss’ chambers came back into focus was the look on the mage’s face. She looked as terrified as he felt. In the moment, Jaskier had been too lost in his misery and pain to put the pieces together, but he realized now that she had been the one who was screaming. In the time it took for him to pull himself out of Geralt’s body once more she’d collected herself, but still she looked like she’d just watched someone get murdered.

Well, maybe she had.

The second thing Jaskier noticed was the vomit. He’d thought maybe this had been like the collarbone, and it had only happened on Geralt’s side of things, but no. Even though his body wasn’t actually being subjected to the breaking bones and thrashing muscles, it was still responding to the sensations. It was the same reason why he couldn’t seem to slow his heart rate down, or stop the tremors, which were more violent than ever.

“Triss, get a bucket,” Eskel ordered, helping Jaskier sit up so he was no longer laying in a puddle of his own sick.

Triss didn’t listen though, and at the feeling of the warm liquid soaking into his clothes Jaskier felt his stomach turn again. Eskel held him steady, mercifully unfazed as he finished emptying his stomach onto the floor of Triss’ chambers and himself. His stomach heaved in a relentless rhythm, and he retched loudly, bringing up several more mouthfuls of bile and half digested food until his stomach was completely empty and he was coughing in an attempt to stop the horrible retching.

“That’s it. Get it all out. Take a breath. It’s alright.” He repeated these calming sentiments until Jaskier was finally finished vomiting and he could turn his attention back to the mage. “Triss!” Eskel practically shouted at her.

She was looking at them, but she didn’t seem to be registering the scene in front of her at all. It was like she was looking through them at something else. Something horrible.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Eskel reassured him for the thousandth time that day. Jaskier didn’t believe him. “Just sit tight.” He stood up, leaving Jaskier to sit there alone, shivering and covered in his own vomit.

He walked over to Triss and put a hand under her chin, turning her head, forcing her to look at him. Then he put a hand on each shoulder and leaned in close. Jaskier couldn’t hear what he was saying to her, but by the time he finished she looked much more collected. She directed her attention towards Jaskier then. He expected her to speak, but instead she waved a hand and all the vomit disappeared from the floor and Jaskier’s clothes, leaving him still shaken, but thankfully clean and dry.

After she did this Eskel returned and half led, half carried Jaskier over to one of the chairs where he curled up into the tightest ball he could manage, still wrapped in the blanket, as if he might be able to keep himself from falling apart, still looking expectantly at Triss. Eskel stood behind him, one hand on his shoulder, the other gently rubbing his back, and they both waited for her to speak.

“I saw him.” Her voice was thick, and she looked like she might start crying.

Jaskier had to wonder how terrible he had looked to make her seem just as shocked as Jaskier, who had actually felt his pain.

“What are they doing to him?” Jaskier was glad to hear Eskel ask the question on both of their minds. He didn’t think he’d regained the ability to speak just yet.

“I don’t know,” she said. The vacant look returned to her eyes, and Jaskier worried she’d fall silent again, but she kept speaking. “It was terrible.” Her voice cracked and a tear ran down her cheek.

“What was the room he was in like?” Eskel prompted, no doubt trying to ease her into talking about what really mattered.

“They had him strapped to a bed,” she answered. “It looked like he was underground.”

“Good,” Eskel encouraged. “Was there anybody there with him?”

Triss nodded, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath. “A mage, I think. It was hard to tell. He was nobody I’ve ever seen before, but he had chaos about him.”

“And what was he doing to Geralt?”

“Nothing,” she replied, hiccuping and wiping a tear from his face. “Whatever he’d done had already been set in motion.”

Jaskier was afraid she’d succumb to the crying now, but she fought through it.

“He’s been poisoned or something. He’s hurting badly, but it’s not from any injury.”

“How can you tell?”

“There were no wounds,” she said. “But he was covered in blood.” Her voice caught and Eskel actually left his side to go stand next to her, rubbing her shoulder and encouraging her to keep talking. “It was everywhere,” she continued. “He was bleeding from his nose and eyes. It looked like someone had poured it all over his face and down his front. He was vomiting blood and something else. I think it may have been bits of his throat and stomach lining and these huge horrible blood clots.”

At this, Jaskier’s stomach heaved again, and he retched, but there was nothing left to bring up, so he was just left coughing and shaking in the chair, trying to keep himself together as he connected the dots between what he’d been feeling and the scene Triss was describing.

“Jaskier was right,” she said, either not noticing or not caring about the dry heaving. She looked at him, but he couldn’t help but feel like she was still picturing Geralt in her mind, just as he was. “They’re killing him.”

“It’s worse than that,” Eskel spoke up. All day he’d been the calming presence, the voice of reason keeping Jaskier and Triss from giving into the horror and agony of it all. Now though, he looked just as terrified as the two of them. “They’re putting him back through the Trials.”

Chapter Text

“It doesn’t matter how quickly we find him,” Eskel said. “There’s nothing we’ll be able to do to help. Whether he survives them is up to him.” He said it casually, but it was obvious that the words hurt him deeply.

“So you think we shouldn’t look for him?” The shock of seeing Eskel look so defeated brought Jaskier back to his voice.

“No,” Eskel rushed to clarify. “We’re going to find him, even if all that means is being able to give him a proper burial.”

Triss was crying again, and Jaskier felt like he might burst into tears as well.

“And to murder whatever evil bastard thought he could get away with this.”

“I think I’ve got an idea of how we can find him,” Triss spoke up, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “This mage, whoever he is, has his dwelling well warded, but these wards are mostly focused outwards. When I was on the other side of the wall, so to speak, I felt better able to penetrate them.”

“So you know where he is?” Eskel asked.

“Well, no,” Triss faltered. “But I got the general idea when I tapped into Jaskier’s connection.”

“So if you keep slipping behind the wall so to speak,” Eskel continued you might be able to get a more accurate location.” He glanced at Jaskier with a pained look on his face, knowing what this plan would cost him, but he averted his gaze when Jaskier met his eye.

“Yes, I think I could.”

“So what then? We just stay here until you get enough information to portal us there?”

Triss shook her head. “The wards are too powerful to portal us inside, even if we know exactly where he’s at. I could portal us a bit closer but.” Now it was her turn to give Jaskier a pained, pitying look. “It’s very hard on the body to travel that way.”

“So what do you propose we do then?” Jaskier spoke up, wanting to at least try to appear like someone who didn’t need pity.

“I have access to Foltest’s resources. I think we ought to set out in a carriage. It’s a gentler way to travel and if need be we can always abandon it and portal from there. This way though, we can at least start setting out in the right direction.”

“How long will it take you to collect the necessary supplies?” Eskel asked.

“A few hours,” she answered Eskel’s question, but looked at Jaskier when she said it. “Until then, I think you should try and rest.”

Trying to rest ended up being much easier said than done. Triss led Jaskier to a very comfortable bed chamber, and he was glad when Eskel remained there with him, but these comforts could only get him so far.

“How are you feeling?” Eskel came and sat next to the bed where Jaskier was now curled up under the covers. “Any lingering pain?”

Jaskier shook his head, once again unable to muster the energy to speak. The only remaining discomforts were the soreness which came from thrashing around on a hard floor, and the nausea from violently throwing up everything he’d eaten today.

“Do you think you’ll be able to get some sleep?”

Jaskier shrugged. He honestly didn’t know, but he wanted to try at least.

“Well if there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

His first attempt at sleep was disastrous. Like before, as soon as his mind was clear it was pulled back to the other end of the connection.

Geralt’s own awareness must be fading, because the only information he got was pain. No vision, no hearing, just all encompassing agonizing pain. It didn’t even feel like he was in a body anymore. He was nothing but a mass of broken bones and twisted, bleeding organs.

It took much longer to pull himself back this time, and when he finally was able to wrench himself out of Geralt’s tortured mind he was panting and sweating.

When he came to, Eskel was holding him upright, rubbing his back a bit rougher than was typical, and trapping Jaskier’s now limp body against his.

“There you go.” When he realized Jaskier was conscious he led him back down on the bed. “You’re alright.”

He wasn’t alright though. He needed to rest.

“No luck, huh?” Eskel looked at him with a pained, sympathetic expression.

Jaskier didn’t need to answer. His failure couldn’t have been more obvious.

“If the connection works like Triss says, I’m not sure how well you’ll be able to manage regular sleep.”

“What do you mean?” Jaskier asked, his curiosity temporarily winning out over his complete and utter exhaustion.

“Well I think it’s hard to draw conclusions so early on,” he began cautiously, “but it seems to me that the connection has a stronger hold on you when your mind is relaxed. Does that sound like it could be right?”

Jaskier nodded.

“And it’s impossible to sleep without relaxing your body and mind.”

An astute observation, but a mostly useless one. Eskel seemed to be thinking out loud just as much as he was talking to Jaskier at this point though, so Jaskier let him keep going.

“So maybe you need something a bit stronger to push you past the phase of awake relaxation and all the way into sleep.”

Jaskier would absolutely love to get wasted and pass out for about twelve hours, but he knew there was no way he’d be able to hold anything right now, let alone liquor. Apparently though, this was not what Eskel had in mind.

“I might be able to use a Sign to help keep you calm,” he said. “But only if you want to try,” he rushed to add. “I completely understand if you don’t want any more magic performed on you today. If you just want to try sleeping again, I’ll help you do that in any way I can.”

“Do it,” Jaskier said, his voice pained and rasping. He was desperate for some rest, and he knew that just trying again would bring the exact same result.

Unfortunately, this tactic was even more of a failure than the first.

He woke up on the ground, with Eskel’s hands on his chest, forcing air into his lungs. Jaskier took a gasping breath which quickly turned into violent, unrelenting sobs. This time instead of comforting platitudes, Eskel was repeating apologies.

“I’m sorry, I had no idea that would happen. I should have been more careful. I’ll never let that happen again. I’m so sorry.” He sounded panicked. “It didn’t work how I thought it would. I think it just kept your body asleep while your mind was tortured, and all of that energy trapped inside a paralyzed body, well—” He didn’t finish. It was obvious enough what had just happened. “I am so sorry.”

He held Jaskier, rocking gently back and forth for a couple of minutes until the sobbing ended and he could help Jaskier back up onto the bed.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “I think it’s safe to say I’m not an authority on this. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“It’s fine,” Jaskier told him, although as he said it he noticed how badly his throat and chest ached. “You had no way of knowing that would happen.” He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t have it in him anymore to do much of anything anymore, but it was important to him that Eskel didn’t take this upon himself. Jaskier would have already given into the pain and despair of it all if not for him. He couldn’t lose him now. “Can you just distract me?” he asked. “I don’t care about sleeping anymore, I just can’t go back there.”

“Of course. What do you want me to do?”

“Can you tell me a story?”

Jaskier curled up under the blankets once more as Eskel began to speak. The story was about something inconsequential—a contract Eskel had taken when, although he’d set out to kill a monster, he’d ended up rescuing an orphaned duckling, and a baby raccoon. He killed the monster too, of course, but Eskel didn’t focus on the violent parts. He told Jaskier about how he’d carried the duckling in his pockets for three days on his way back to town. Eskel even brought a smile to his face, talking about how the raccoon would hold the food he gave it in his little hands and wash it in the stream before he ate every piece.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He hadn’t even been trying, but as he listened to the lighthearted account of Eskel and his two little traveling companions his eyelids grew heavy. And Jaskier fell into a peaceful sleep focusing on the deep, soothing sound of his voice.

Chapter Text

Geralt was lost. He could no longer feel the bed beneath him, or the cool air entering his lungs. Maybe it had stopped. Maybe his lungs had finally failed. Maybe this was the end. But no, he could still feel his heart beating, sending pulses of pain through his body much faster than it ought to. Soon it would tire itself out.

He laid and let the pain overtake him, bringing him to the place he’d only been to twice before—the other two times he’d been subjected to this torture. It was a place in between living and dying with the worst parts of both. He was aware enough to feel his organs shutting down, but not aware enough to think. He couldn’t tell himself this would be over soon. He couldn’t find a reason to keep going. All he could do was stay in that terrible inbetween and try his best to bear the unending, indescribable pain.

Every so often he was pulled to one side or the other. When he was close enough to the living side of things his brain brought him memories, telling him that it had been this way before. He could remember the sudden discomfort of being put back into his body and feeling the slick sweat on his skin, taste the vomit in his mouth, and recognize that his bones were no longer configured in the way that they ought to be. The pain became sharper then, but it wasn’t all bad. His mind replayed his memories, giving him hopeless hallucinations of Eskel sitting there at his side, wiping him down with a cool rag, carefully uncurling his broken fingers and splinting them, as if it might be able to make a dent in the all consuming pain. It was a rare kindness, but it also reminded him of how bleak his reality was. This time around, all that waited for him in life was Viscardi and the only thing his presence did was spark anger. Geralt didn’t have the energy to be angry.

So he willed himself back into the inbetween, searching for some respite, a place in the middle where he might not hurt so badly. But this only resulted in him being brought too far the other way, to the cold, slow pull of death. He wanted to embrace it, but a part of him, deep down, was still too afraid; some natural survival instinct still remained, keeping him suspended in his agony.

Yes, the hallucinations were a mercy.

There was no way of knowing how much time was passing while he was lost in the pain of the Trial, but Geralt felt like he’d lived in this place for years. His most frequent visitor was Eskel, a best friend and brother in both life and death. He had been the one present with him during the two times he’d endured this before, the first time as a fellow sufferer, and the second as a caretaker. There was nothing Geralt wouldn’t give to have him at his bedside now, although he wasn’t sure how much difference it would make. Everything was blurred, and Eskel was starting to feel as real as Viscardi. And he wasn’t the only one. Geralt was haunted with visions of his mother, his adoptive father, Vesemir, and of course the evil mage who had done this to him. It was impossible to tell which images of him were real and which were constructs made in Geralt’s tortured mind, but neither brought anything good; they only left him confused, unable to tell anymore what was real and what wasn’t.

This was what made Jaskier’s appearance so difficult to comprehend.

***

Jaskier woke from his nap, panicked and in pain.

Sometime during his sleep he’d slipped back into his connection with Geralt, and while the dream wasn’t as violent as being forcibly pulled out of his body while conscious, it was still agonizing. At least this time it hadn’t lasted long. Eskel was sat dutifully at his bedside, and he woke Jaskier as soon as he noticed the bard was distressed.

Jaskier sat up, rubbing his chest where he could still feel his connection to Geralt.

“Do you think he can feel it too?” Jaskier turned to Eskel.

“Feel what?”

“Me,” Jaskier answered, “the way I feel him.” He wished they knew more about this connection. He wished he knew how to utilize it better.

“I’m not sure,” Eskel said, mirroring Jaskier’s own feelings

He wasn’t sure either, but a part of him hoped Geralt was linked to him too. A part of him thought the pain would be worth it if it meant Geralt was close to him again.

***
Jaskier felt real.

He had a presence, an energy, unlike any Geralt had ever encountered. It was vibrant and unique. His bard never ventured close enough to touch him, to hold him, to speak to him, but he was there, undoubtedly. Their energies were intertwined, and for a moment Geralt felt a relief from the pain. He leaned into it, desperate for a respite, however brief. The closer he got, the more real Jaskier became. He could feel the unmistakable beat of Jaskier’s heart next to his and he let the familiar rhythm calm him. Except something was wrong. Jaskier was hurting too. He heard his brother’s voice then though and he was sent spinning off into confusion once more. So this was a hallucination; he could stay a bit longer. But then Viscardi was there, stroking his forehead and telling him how well he was doing, and Geralt was snapped back to reality. Or was it reality? He couldn’t tell anymore.

All of the different experiences were blending together now, overlapping each other. His brother’s voice mixed with the pain, which mixed with the disgusting mage at his bedside, which mixed with brief but sharp intrusions of the bard alongside him.

And it was getting harder and harder to decipher which presences were good, and which meant to cause more suffering.

Chapter Text

They set out as soon as Jaskier woke.

He wished he’d gotten a little more time to rest—his couple hours of sleep had done absolutely nothing to make him feel any better. His body still felt battered and bruised, his head ached and so did his chest where Eskel had pressed with the heels of his hands to remind his heart what it needed to do. Jaskier wanted to lift his shirt and examine the bruises, but he couldn’t figure out how to manage it without looking strange, and the last thing he wanted to do right now was draw more attention to himself.

Triss led him and Eskel through the halls at a pace almost too quick for Jaskier to handle. He panted, and took the longest steps he could manage just to keep up. She was either unfazed by or unaware of the physical toll the curse had already had on him. How had they gotten to this place? Where resuscitation was so casual that it didn’t even delay their travel? How long until it happened again? His body couldn’t handle this kind of mistreatment for long.

Jaskier let Triss bring him and Eskel down to the stables where a carriage had been prepared for them. He was grateful, at least, that he wouldn’t be expected to do any of the driving. Small mercies. He could sit and wallow in his own misery as much as he wanted.

“Which way are we headed?” Eskel asked, not taking his eyes from Jaskier.

“North. I’ve got warm clothes down in the carriage for both of you.”

Jaskier felt cold just thinking about it, but if today had taught him anything it was that there were much worse feelings than cold. Still, when they reached the carriage he accepted the cloak and gloves. He wrapped the cloak tightly around his shoulders, his eyelids heavy. He wanted some more sleep, but he was afraid. How long would it be until they were able to pinpoint Geralt's location? How much longer would he have to endure this curse? What shape would Geralt be in when they arrived?

Jaskier remembered what Eskel said about Geralt’s situation being out of their hands—out of anyone’s hands—but Jaskier couldn’t help but want to rush. Maybe he was selfish, but he thought he would be able to help, even if it just meant sitting at his bedside until the torture was over. It occurred to him then that Triss hadn’t told him what would happen if Geralt died before the curse was broken. Would it kill him too? She had said the curse might be fatal, but today had proven that well enough. It had the power to end his life before the Trial ended, but what would happen if Geralt died during one of his episodes? Jaskier knew his physical condition didn’t translate over—Geralt’s broken bones didn’t leave Jaskier’s broken too—but he couldn’t imagine surviving such an experience. He didn’t want to.

“Up you go.” Eskel took Jaskier’s hand and helped him up into the carriage. It was nicer than any Jaskier had been in before, but he had no capacity to enjoy luxury right now. He curled up on the seat, wrapping his arms around his chest, trying to keep himself together. “We’re going to find him,” Eskel assured him. “It’s going to be okay.”

With the amount of pain he’d endured, and the amount of pain this journey promised Jaskier found it hard to share his optimism, but he tried his best.

He nodded. “I just hope we find him in time.”

***

They traveled until sunset, when Triss found them a good place to camp and went to set up a tent. It was better accommodations than Jaskier had ever gotten traveling with Geralt, but Jaskier couldn’t help but feel annoyed. He didn’t want to stop. He wanted to travel through the night, and then the next night and the night after that—as many as it took to find Geralt. He wasn’t the one driving though, and anyway, the horses needed to rest. He only wished he’d be able to rest too.

“You hanging in there alright?” Eskel asked.

Jaskier gave him a halfhearted nod.

“Why don’t you go lay down,” he suggested. “I’ll get us some dinner.”

Jaskier had spent most of the day laying down, but he didn’t protest. He didn’t have the energy to do much of anything else.

He went over to one of the beds Triss had conjured up and curled up in a ball. His chest ached fiercely with the bruises and with the phantom pains he just couldn’t seem to shake. Every time he remembered the pain of Geralt’s collarbone breaking, his hands clenching so hard while he tried to endure the pain that his fingers snapped, the all consuming agony of the Trial, he remembered that Geralt wasn’t taking breaks like Jaskier was. Jaskier had only endured it a few minutes at a time. Geralt had been subject to this without any respite for who knew how long. Jaskier had to watch Eskel for a few minutes to remind himself that it was survivable. He did still stand a chance.

Eskel brought him a thick slice of bread with cheese, along with an assortment of nuts and dried fruit. This too was better fare than he ever got with Geralt. Jaskier wished he had an appetite for it. He accepted the food though, and sat up, wanting to be a part of the dinner conversation.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Eskel asked. “Just keep going north?”

Jaskier shivered at the thought.

Triss nodded. “We still have a ways to go before I’ll need more specific information.” She gave Jaskier a sympathetic look.

He didn’t like either part of that statement.

“Until then I think you should just try to rest and relax.”

He couldn’t relax though, not when he knew how much pain Geralt was in. And not when he knew he would share that pain as soon as he let his guard down.

Chapter Text

Because Jaskier’s first attempt at sleep had been nearly fatal, Eskel and Triss decided he would need constant supervision. They set up shifts, so someone would be awake with him throughout the whole night, and after Triss sat with him for a few hours while he pretended to rest, it was Eskel’s turn. Triss roused him and he walked sleepily over to Jaskier’s bedroll, blanket still draped across his shoulder, and sat down. Jaskier didn’t pretend to sleep for Eskel, too lonely and anxious to try any more. He felt bad, if Eskel was going to have to watch over him for the next few hours, the least he could do was sleep, but he just couldn’t manage it. He wasn’t sure whether it was his anxiety about Geralt, his pain, or his fear of being sent back into the terrible hallucinations his connection with Geralt brought on, but sleep eluded him.

Eskel sat a few feet away, slowly whittling a chunk of wood he’d found into a little figurine. It looked like some sort of animal, but it was too dark to see with his weak, human eyes. Maybe there was something Eskel could do to help him.

Jaskier remembered how he’d helped before, even though he’d still ended up hurting in the end, and he figured it was worth a try. Anyways, it would be Triss’ turn again eventually, and Jaskier assumed the two of them would just sit in silence until morning. Maybe she’d have some magical solution, but after the trial and error he’d gone through earlier with Eskel, Jaskier wasn’t sure if he had it in him to try anything new.

“Eskel?”

He looked up from his whittling. “What’s up?” He scooted closer to Jaskier so they could speak easier. The faint glow of his golden eyes in the dark sent a pang through Jaskier’s chest. They looked just like Geralt’s.

“Can you just talk for a while?” Jaskier asked, bashful for no reason at all.

“Of course.”

Filled with a sudden burst of courage, Jaskier asked him something else. It was a selfish sort of courage though, because he knew it would hurt. But he asked him anyway.

“How did you do it?” Jaskier asked. “Get through the Trial, I mean.” When Eskel didn’t answer right away Jaskier rushed to fill the silence. “It’s just, I’ve only experienced a few minutes of it, and to live through that for days on end.” He faltered, unable to figure out how he could possibly ask Eskel to relive that. He remembered then that this was the third time Geralt was going through them, and he selfishly continued. “How can a person go through that much pain and survive?”

Now that he was sitting closer, Jaskier could make out the shape of the figurine Eskel still held in his hand. It was a wolf emerging from the pale block of wood.

“I’m not sure how much is in your control,” Eskel began cautiously. “The boys who died.” Eskel swallowed hard. “They weren’t weak. They tried to get through it, I know they did, but the way the Trials change your body—some people just aren’t built to endure it. They way it rips you apart from the inside out; it’s a miracle anyone survives at all.”

Jaskier wrapped his arms around his aching chest, eyes still trained on Eskel. The Witcher was looking somewhere else though, looking into the past, at sick beds and graves. He kept speaking, even though Jaskier could see the shine of tears in his golden eyes.

“Geralt’s body took it better than mine. That’s why they put him through them again, and no doubt why he’s being put through them now.”

Jaskier knew this fact, but something about hearing it from Eskel after getting a taste of the pain for himself made him realize just how miraculous it really was that Geralt had survived at all. How unlikely he was to survive again.

“It’s some sort of sick experiment. When I find the mage who’s doing this…” He trailed off, but Jaskier wasn’t done being selfish.

“When you were in it,” he asked, watching the memories of the pain flash through Eskel’s eyes, “was there anything you did to make it any easier? Or are you just completely subject to it?”

“I could still think, if that’s what you mean,” he answered, “although it probably would have been easier if I was totally lost to the pain.”

“What did you think about?” Jaskier was desperate to find some way to make this survivable—to reassure himself there was something Geralt might have learned back then which would help his chances.

“My brothers,” Eskel answered simply. “They put us in groups when we were brought to Kaer Morhen,” he elaborated, “to study and train with. When I woke, Geralt was the only one left. He was at my bedside, half dead, waiting for me.”

Jaskier could feel tears forming in his own eyes at the thought of the two of them, so young, being the only ones left for each other.

“That’s why I stayed at his side when they put him through it again. I wanted him to know there was someone waiting for him to wake up.”

Jaskier hiccupped, swallowing a sob before it woke Triss.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel rushed to comfort him. “That’s not what you wanted to know. I shouldn’t put that on you, I’m sorry.”

Jaskier let Eskel pull him up into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around him while Jaskier cried into his shoulder.

“You’re going to be okay. I promise you’re going to be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

But Jaskier wasn’t crying for himself. He could see now that his pain truly was so little compared to what Eskel had endured, and what Geralt endured now, and in the wake of that he found it very hard to feel sorry for himself anymore.

No, he was crying for Geralt. Because he was alone. Because there was nobody waiting at his bedside this time.

“He’s all alone,” Jaskier wept as quietly as he could. “He doesn’t know.”

“We’re going to get to him,” Eskel assured him. “We’ll get to his bedside, I promise.”

“You swear it?” Jaskier asked, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

“I do,” Eskel said. “On the graves of my brothers, I swear it.”

Chapter Text

They traveled like this for another two days before Triss decided she needed another look from behind the mage’s enchantments. Jaskier had slipped into his connection with Geralt a couple of times during their travels, but those episodes weren’t as painful or drawn out as this promised to be. During the times when he’d either fallen asleep, or relaxed and let his concentration slip, he fought hard against the pain, and Eskel or Triss was quick to pull him back, but with this he had to focus on making the connection as strong as possible, and he had to hold it until Triss got the information she needed.

Jaskier hoped that since a few more days had passed, the pain might have started to fade, but when he delved back into Geralt’s consciousness it was still just an agonizing blur. It felt as if his muscles and organs and bones had turned into molten rock, burning and pulling him apart from the inside out. He was lost in it, the pain so all encompassing that he forgot himself completely. He couldn’t remember his own identity. He couldn’t remember Geralt. He couldn’t remember where he was, how he’d gotten there, or why this was happening to him. The only thoughts he could conjure was a wholehearted longing for this to end. He didn’t care how.

***

Everything was twisted in Geralt’s mind. Waking and sleeping, pain and respite, reality and illusion. How long had he been under? Three days? Ten? A hundred? He had no way of knowing. It felt like he’d been here forever, and the glimpses of the outside world were becoming more and more unintelligible.

He couldn’t differentiate the feeling of Eskel’s warm, soft hand on his forehead in his hallucinations from the cool spidery hands of Viscardi trying uselessly to make the Trial more survivable from his bedside. The relief of cool water on his skin or dripping down his throat was indistinguishable from the flames which licked his body. The feeling of Jaskier’s energy beside him, coming and going during the thousand hours he’d spent in this hell, felt no different from the anger he felt at the injustice of it all. Geralt’s mind had been so mangled, that his attempts to keep his head straight as the Trial progressed had only left him more broken and confused.

The few bits of comfort he’d managed to find for himself were gone. He could barely gather his thoughts at all, and when he did, all that they consisted of was the unending desire to be free of this pain.

***

When Jaskier returned to himself, it felt like he’d been gone a long while.

As usual, Triss and Eskel were hovering over him, ready to help him and get him anything he might need, but Jaskier didn’t know what he needed. He felt disconnected from his body, from everything. It was like every time he tapped into the connection with Geralt, he left a little bit of himself behind, and he was beginning to feel like there wasn’t much of him left to give. More than that, it felt like every time he returned he brought a bit of Geralt’s pain back with him. It was getting harder and harder to shake.

He laid on the floor, staring up at the ceiling of their tent and feeling the waves of pain pulsing through him weaken with every heartbeat.

“Jaskier.” Eskel knelt over him. Jaskier could only see him in his periphery, still focused on the subtly rippling fabric of the tent, but he sounded concerned. “Jaskier.” He said it a bit more forcefully this time. “Can you hear me?”

He could hear him, but his brain didn’t register that this meant he wanted a response.

“Triss, get a blanket. He’s shaking.” Was he? Jaskier hadn’t noticed.

He didn’t move as Eskel wrapped him up in the blanket, dead weight in the Witcher’s hands.

“What’s wrong with him?” Triss asked.

Nothing, Jaskier thought. If they would just leave him alone. He could feel the shaking now though. His whole body trembled violently even with the blanket wrapped around him. He curled up on his side, reaching blindly for Eskel. The Witcher pulled him close, helping him sit up. Maybe there was something wrong with him after all. His limbs didn’t seem to want to cooperate. As soon as he was sitting up he collapsed into Eskel’s chest, exhausted by the effort it took to stay even semi-upright. His eyelids were heavy, and they threatened to close without his permission. That wouldn’t do at all. If he let himself be pulled into unconsciousness then he’d succumb to the connection again, he was sure of it.

The panic this thought incited was enough to bring him closer back to his senses. He looked up at Eskel.

“Help.”

He couldn’t communicate more than that, but after a bit of trial and error he and Triss were able figure out what he needed. Eskel kept him upright, talking to him all the while, and Triss made him a cup of tea. Eskel had to bring the steaming drink to his lips for him, but thanks to whatever herbs and magic had been brewed into it, the warmth, and the time it took to drink, Jaskier was mostly back to himself by the time he’d finished it. He could sit up on his own at least, and he could wiggle all his fingers and toes.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he admitted. Despite all of his improvements, the shaking still hadn’t stopped. By now it was a product of fear as much as it was a side effect of experiencing the Trial. “The pain was one thing, but this…” He trailed off.

He felt selfish even saying it. He should want to do anything, endure any pains it might take to get to Geralt. He loved Geralt, and he’d agreed to do this for him, but the longer it went on, the more he feared these effects would be irreversible. Jaskier knew he should be ready to accept the pain or paralysis or any of the other side effects if it meant that Geralt would get home safe, but he was having trouble thinking rationally right now. He was terrified.

“You won’t have to,” Triss told him.

“Huh?” Eskel looked as confused as he was.

“I know where he is,” she continued. “It won’t be much longer now.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier begged Triss to portal them to Geralt.

“I have no idea how far out the mage’s power extends,” she explained patiently, as if trying to convey a complicated topic to a small child. “It’s a miracle I was able to get his location at all. He clearly has some strong magical barriers up, surely he has security measures in place as well. If we go in there with a portal he’ll no doubt be alerted. If we want to get Geralt out, we’re going to need all the advantages we can get.”

Jaskier didn’t care. There were three of them and one of him. Well, that was being a bit generous. Jaskier wouldn’t be much good in a fight right now, or ever for that matter, but Triss was a mage, and Eskel could fight too. He had the speed and strength of a Witcher, and he was a more powerful magic user than even Geralt. They were going to have to fight him eventually to get to Geralt. Why did it matter if he knew they had arrived?

“We’ll keep going with the carriage,” Triss told him. “I promise it will only be a few more days.”

Days? Jaskier felt tears welling in his eyes. He needed this to be over. He needed to be reunited with Geralt. He needed the curse to be broken, and to know that he and Geralt were both going to be okay. Triss wasn’t budging though, and Eskel remained silent, not disputing any of her points. The traitor. It wasn’t until she got them all back in the carriage and went back up into the front that Eskel finally spoke up.

“At this point, taking a little longer won’t make much difference,” Eskel told him. “If we get there and he’s still undergoing the Trial, we’ll have to wait just the same as his captor would. There’s no stopping it, and based on what you’ve told me, he’s still going to be under for a few more days, Jask.”

Jask. That had been Geralt’s name for him, and hearing it from Eskel ignited a flash of anger and he had to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out. He had such little control over his emotions nowadays. Anger and sorrow always seemed so close to the surface.

Eskel pulled him in close, and Jaskier was too tired to keep himself from leaning into the Witcher’s side, even if he was still upset.

“Just a few more days,” Eskel repeated, rubbing his shoulder, trying to force some warmth into him. “We can make it through a few more days.”

As they continued on their journey north though, this became harder and harder to believe. Jaskier stopped sleeping, and the few times he did nod off, only to be pulled into Geralt’s consciousness, he woke more tired than he’d been before. The pain lingered longer and longer each time, settling behind his eyes and in his joints. He felt sick all the time, and he lost any interest in food not long after he quit sleeping.

At first Triss and Eskel had tried to coax food and tea into him, but after a few failed attempts resulting in them all having to stop so Jaskier could throw up on the side of the trail, they gave up. It was obvious enough what was happening. It was the same reason why Jaskier couldn’t ever seem to get warm, no matter how many layers he wore, or how close he was to Eskel’s body heat. The blood slowly retreated from his hands and feet until his fingers and toes turned white, and then gradually faded to a pale blue. His body was shutting down.

If Jaskier had any doubts of that fact, they disappeared when he overheard what Triss and Eskel thought was a private conversation. Jaskier had put a fair bit of effort in pretending to be asleep to try to assuage some of their worries, and he was rewarded with words much more candid than the ones they said to his face.

“And you’re sure we can’t portal even a little bit closer?” So Eskel wasn’t quite as patient as he’d have Jaskier believe.

“Maybe a few miles,” Triss said hesitantly. “But it’s not worth the risk.”

Jaskier assumed they were talking about the risk of being detected by Geralt’s captor, but their next words had nothing to do with the mage keeping Geralt.

“You really think his body couldn’t take it?”

“It could,” Triss answered. “He’s got a strong disposition,” she said, “or else he wouldn’t have made it this far, but I do worry about the strain. If it was just the one portal that would be one thing, but once we get Geralt, we might have to leave in a hurry, and I think portaling twice is pushing it. His organs are already under so much strain. Just that little bit of stress could be enough to stop his heart or his lungs completely.”

“But if we find Geralt, won’t the curse be broken?” Eskel asked.

“It has to be broken by Geralt himself,” Triss answered. “If he’s unconscious there’ll be nothing anyone can do, and once they’re that close to each other the connection will be impossible for Jaskier to fight anymore. I don’t want to sound defeatist, but there’s a good chance both of them will be completely incapacitated.” Or dead, Jaskier thought to himself, but Triss was either too kind or too afraid to admit that out loud.

“And we’ll have to portal them both back to Kaer Morhen,” Eskel finished her thought, successfully interrupting Jaskier’s defeatist line of thinking.

Jaskier could feel himself growing tense under the weight of all of this information. His chest was tight and his stomach churned. A part of him was desperate to have this curse lifted, unable to bear the thought of living with it for a single second more. Another part of him though, felt certain this pain would be with him forever, cursed or not.

At least he’d have Geralt, he told himself. That too seemed like a dream though. He’d suffered so much, he couldn’t imagine the reward for it would be anything other than more suffering.

“There are things at Kaer Morhen that can help him, right?” Triss asked.

“Yes,” Eskel replied, but he wasn’t sure if they were talking about him or Geralt.

It was hard to believe anything could help him now. Anything other than Geralt.

Chapter Text

Jaskier could tell they were getting close by the way Eskel and Triss hovered over him. He didn’t think it was possible for them to tend to him any closer than they already had been, but on their final day of travel it was as if they were just waiting for him to collapse.

And for good reason.

The closer they got to where Triss said Geralt would be, the harder it became to fight the pull of their connection. The tugging of the cord on his ribcage was ever present now, and he worried that if he so much as blinked he’d be pulled into Geralt’s consciousness. Already he could feel the pain creeping higher and higher, even when he had full control over his mind. What would happen when they arrived? Jaskier had dreams of going in and pulling Geralt out of the evil mage’s clutches, but he could see how irrational these fantasies were. He’d be lucky if he was still able to walk by the time they reached Geralt.

He refused to consider the consequences could be worse than that. And he refused to be left out of things, no matter how unwell he’d become.

By now they’d pretty much stopped taking breaks from traveling, Eskel and Triss switching out every few hours so they could continue on through the night, but every now and then they’d stop to stretch and eat a bit of food, and at the first chance he got Jaskier took this as an opportunity to talk to both Triss and Eskel.

If everything Triss had told him about this curse was true, his condition was only going to worsen, and there were some things he wanted to work out before it was too late.

“When we get to Geralt,” Jaskier began, fighting hard against the brain fog to put what he was thinking into words, “what will my role be? What’s really going to happen when we get there?” He couldn’t imagine how they could possibly know much more than he did, but if there was any reassurances they could offer Jaskier wanted them. And if there was something he could do once they arrived to help, rather than being just one more thing getting in the way, he wanted to know.

Jaskier watched as Triss shot a look to Eskel before focusing back on him. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended by the obviously forced expression of kindness she gave him.

“There are some protection spells I can leave on the carriage,” she told him. “You should be safe.”

Perhaps it was the brain fog, perhaps it was the shocking coldness of her statement, but Jaskier didn’t realize the implications for a few moments, confused as to what the carriage had anything to do with their plans for rescuing Geralt.

“I’m sorry.” He shut his eyes, thinking hard. “You’re leaving me?”

This time when Triss gave Eskel that look, it incited a white hot rage in him. It was the most awake he’d felt in days.

“We have to think—”

“No.” He didn’t want to hear what she had to say. He didn’t want to hear about how in her mind, rescuing Geralt meant abandoning him. “You said so yourself, we’re going to portal out as soon as we get Geralt…” he trailed off, considering the implications.

“We would never leave you.” Triss rushed to try and placate him. “But thinking logically, it’s going to require a lot to get Geralt.”

Tears welled in Jaskier’s eyes, and he fought to keep them there, terrified of losing what little leverage he might have over Triss.

“It’s probably going to take all Eskel and I have to get in there and to get Geralt. I would hate to see you caught in the crossfire.”

“No, I’m going,” he insisted past the lump in his throat. “Eskel, tell her I’m going.”

The Witcher had been so kind, throughout all of this. He’d been Jaskier’s rock, keeping him going—keeping him alive. Would he betray him now too?

“I’m not really sure if we should leave him alone. Won’t this be the hardest bit for him to get through? Being this close to Geralt is bound to have some effect on his condition. I don’t want him to be alone for that. What if something goes wrong and his heart stops? That’s not a risk I want to take.”

What if Geralt needs me and I’m not there? What if you leave and take him to Kaer Morhen and aren’t able to come back for me? What if something happens to him in there and I never get to stay goodbye? His heart stopping again was the least of his concerns. Jaskier could think of a thousand more questions, and a thousand more reasons he should stay, but he held his tongue. If this was what Eskel thought would get Triss on his side, then he’d go along with it. He’d do anything.

“But what if we bring him with us and he’s incapacitated when we need to be focusing on Geralt?” Triss countered.

“Oh.” They both looked at Jaskier when he said it. Their expressions made him wonder if they’d forgotten he was here.

“I don’t care,” Eskel told her bluntly. “I want to rescue my brother more than anything, but it’s not worth another life,” he said. Jaskier could feel the tears spilling over and running down his cheeks. “I’m not in the business of trading lives, and neither are my brothers. Geralt wouldn’t want to be saved if it meant losing Jaskier.”

This pushed Jaskier over the edge entirely. He didn’t have nearly enough energy for a good, hearty cry, but as it was his breath caught in his throat, and he had to wrap his arms around his middle to keep himself together. At the center of it all he felt his connection to Geralt.

“I’ll carry him if it comes to that. I don’t care,” Eskel repeated. “We’re going to go in and kick that mage’s ass and Geralt is going to break the curse and then we’re all walking out of there.” He looked directly at Triss. “Together. “

Chapter Text

The mage’s lair was nothing like Jaskier was expecting.

Well, it didn’t seem to exist at all, at least not to the naked eye. When Triss stopped the carriage and announced this was the closest she could get them, Eskel didn’t oppose her, so Jaskier just trusted that there was something going on here that he wasn’t quite aware of yet.

It was the very early hours of the next morning when they stopped, and all three of them decided it would be best to not waste any more time. If they got lucky, they might be able to catch the mage while he was still asleep, but they’d all been through too much to put any faith in luck.

“And you’re sure he won’t be able to sense us coming?” Eskel asked. “You said he had strong spells securing where Geralt was.”

“I can’t be sure of anything,” Triss admitted. “But I’ve given us the best protections I can. This is as undetectable as we can get.”

Seeming satisfied with this answer, Eskel turned to Jaskier. “And you’re sure you’re ready for this?”

Jaskier nodded, even though every part of his body was screaming for him to say no.

The morning was cold, and his whole body trembled, his teeth chattering as his muscles contracted against his will. He tried to tell himself he’d warm up when they got moving, but if Jaskier was being honest with himself, he hadn’t been warm in days.

On top of that, in preparation for their rescue mission, he’d gone under for what he’d hoped was the last time to get one final look behind the wall. Jaskier had passed his tolerance for pain so long ago by now, he couldn’t tell if Geralt was getting better or worse. All he knew was that he was still alive, still in pain, and still a prisoner.

“Well then I guess there’s no point wasting any more time.” Eskel put a hand forward, as if ushering Jaskier into a ball, or onto a stage, not to what might very well be his death. “Lead the way.”

And lead the way he did.

Although Triss told them she was certain this was where the mage was keeping Geralt, there was nothing here. Jaskier had been expecting a fortress, like some evil version of Kaer Morhen, or at least something made of stone and well protected, but the place where Triss had stopped them looked exactly the same as the woods they’d been traveling through for days now.

It was up to Jaskier to get them to the actual entrance.

Triss said this was the closest her magic could get them, the final bit would have to be done by Jaskier relying on his connection to Geralt to let them know how they could actually get inside. If they could get inside.

“Just worry about finding the door,” Eskel encouraged. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall.” He put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, and he shut his eyes.

He could feel the cord tugging at his chest, and he tried to focus on it as closely as he could without lapsing into another episode. It tugged him forward, and Jaskier took a step. He would’ve tripped over his own feet if not for Eskel holding him steady, and after that first step he put a second hand on his other shoulder.

“I can feel it,” Jaskier assured them. “I just need a minute.”

“Take all the time you need,” Triss said.

She could tell him that all she wanted, but he knew as well as anyone that the longer they were wandering out here the more likely they were to be caught.

He took another step forward. This time he noticed the pain in his chest where the connection sat faded ever so slightly. “Not this way.”

Jaskier kept on like this for another few minutes, walking in little circles with Eskel and Triss trailing behind him, until he arrived at a little patch of snow. It didn’t look any different than the rest of the ground they’d walked over, but here it felt as if the cord was pulling him down instead of forward.

“It’s here.”

“Are you sure?” Triss asked.

Jaskier pressed his eyes shut, scrunching up his face and putting all of his focus on the connection point. An image flashed in his mind, a warped picture of a wall, or maybe a ceiling, blurred and twisted—then a tidal wave of pain.

When he came to, he was on the forest floor. More than gravity kept him there, he could feel it. The connection was trying to drag him under the ground.

“Yeah,” Jaskier answered, panting. “I’m sure this is it.”

Triss hooked her arms under his and dragged him out of the way so Eskel could clear away the snow and reveal the doorway that must lie beneath. Jaskier didn’t have the energy to get up just yet, and neither of them kept him from laying down in the snow, sweating and shivering while Eskel unearthed the door.

He tried his best not to think about what would happen if he stayed in the carriage like Triss had suggested. He had to remind himself what waited for him down there. It wasn’t only pain—it was Geralt too. If not for that, Jaskier thought he might stay here laying in the snow for a while longer. He missed sleeping.

“Okay, up you get.” Eskel lifted Jaskier up on the ground and stood him upright. “Alright.” He looked at the two of them, adjusting the swords on his back. “Let’s get this done.”

He pulled the door open, revealing a drop down into an empty stone hallway. Jaskier’s heart broke thinking Geralt had been stuck underground this whole time before he realized that not seeing the sun had probably been the least of his woes.

Eskel lowered Triss down first, before taking Jaskier by his bony wrists and dangling him over the floor. It was a drop of several feet, even with all of Jaskier’s body hanging through the door. Jaskier winced, imagining his already weakened bones snapping when he hit the floor, but it wasn’t like he had any choice.

He let go, and Triss was the only thing that stopped him from ending up in a heap on the floor. Eskel dropped down a few seconds later with a level of grace that made Jaskier angry. And reminded him of Geralt. Nobody else he knew could move in such smooth silence, no matter the venue.

Once they were all in the hall, Eskel put his hands back on Jaskier’s shoulders, ready for him to lead them the right way through this underground maze. Jaskier knew the two of them could protect him just as well from behind as they could from any other direction, but still he felt nervous going first. Again, the thought of Geralt was the only thing able to cut through the fear and get his muscles to unlock and take him forward, deeper into the mage’s lair.

He expected to spend a long while trying to navigate the lair and find exactly where Geralt was, but the cord pulled him forward almost of its own accord, keeping them moving. The pain increased with every step and Jaskier fought to stay conscious, although he wondered if at this point—with how hard it was pulling him—if the connection wouldn’t keep propelling him forward, awake or asleep. Alive or dead.

He also expected traps or guards or spells to keep them out, but nothing appeared. Not when they took the first turn, or the third, or the twentieth.

Not even when they stopped in front of a thick wooden door.

Jaskier looked over his shoulder at Eskel. Even without the cord pulling him, he’d be certain Geralt was on the other side of the door. The look on Eskel’s face was enough to tell him that.

He waited for one of the other two to step in front of him to turn the knob, but before any of them could, the door swung open on its own.

An old, wiry man stood on the other side looking pleasant, almost excited, as if he was welcoming close friends into a party. Past the friendliness though, Jaskier could see the malice in his face. This was their mage—he was certain. He smiled wickedly, standing in the doorway and blocking the view inside. The view of Geralt.

“Welcome.” His voice was sickly sweet, and it sent a chill down Jaskier’s spine. “I was wondering when you would arrive.”

Chapter Text

“Get down,” Eskel barked, putting a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and forcing him onto the floor, drawing his sword in the same movement. He stepped back into the hallway, Triss at his flank, drawing the mage out and away from him. “Stay put.”

Jaskier didn’t think he could do anything other than stay put if he tried. He’d hit the ground harder than Eskel was intending, his face smacking hard against the cold stone floor. His head spun, and this combined with the pain of the curse was enough to render him paralyzed.

The mage stepped over him, ignoring him completely. Jaskier was relieved, of course, since by now the mage could probably kill him just by looking at him wrong, but when he realized why his blood ran cold. He wasn’t even enough of a threat to stomp on as he left. The mage assumed he was already incapacitated enough that he didn’t even need subduing.

And he was right.

The pain was causing his vision to go dark around the edges, and his chest was tight. Whether it was the panic or the fall, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t move. He lay there and watched the fight begin, praying that Triss and Eskel came out on top. They’d have to if he ever wanted to leave this place, and by now even that was an optimistic view of things.

He couldn’t catch everything happening, but from his place on the floor Jaskier could see Eskel right up close with the mage, alternating between swinging his sword and forming signs. Eskel was the most powerful Witcher when it came to using Chaos, but most of the spells flying were coming from the mage, and from Triss casting them from a ways behind Eskel. To his horror, Jaskier could see the only signs Eskel was performing were defensive ones. Even without a weapon, the mage had the upper hand in the close combat.

Jaskier watched a spell from Triss hit the mage in the chest, forcing him back a few steps, only then was Eskel able to successfully touch him with his blade. He opened up a shallow gash on the mage’s chest, and Jaskier watched, horrified, as the wound closed up moments later. There wasn’t even any blood on his robes.

“You’re going to have to do a little better than that Witcher,” he told Eskel, a wicked grin on his face.

“Triss,” Eskel called over his shoulder, frantically casting Quen as the mage took a step forward toward him.

“I know! I’m trying,” she called back. There was no confidence in her voice, and Jaskier was starting to feel faint. This wasn’t happening. They outnumbered him; they should at least be able to land a blow, but this fight was starting to look horrifically one sided.

The mage took another step forward, waving his hand and leaving a trio of gashes on Eskel’s chest. His didn’t heal like the mage’s had, but they also didn’t seem like they were slowing him down in the slightest.

“Too easy, Witcher,” he chided. “This is why I endeavored to find a way to strengthen your kind.” He took another step and raised his hand once more.

“You fucking bastard,” Eskel roared, the sound echoing down the long hall. He lunged forward with what should have been a killing blow, but the mage swiped it away with another brush of his hand.

Where was Triss? If she was doing anything to help, it wasn’t evident to Jaskier. She’d have to do something though, because it was clear Eskel wasn’t going to be able to hold his own.

“I am helping you,” the mage insisted. “Your brother was first, yes, but with what I’ve learned from what we’ve been doing here, I think I could change things.”

“How could you?” Eskel’s voice cracked as he swung his sword with all his strength. “You sick fuck. How could you put him through that?” He swung again, and this time the flat of the blade hit him in the chest, with enough force to collapse a normal man’s rib cage. Needless to say, it didn’t have this effect on the mage, but Jaskier did see him stop in his tracks, a pained expression on his face.

Jaskier’s heart was beating out of his chest. Was this when they were going to pull ahead? They had to pull ahead. He’d known going in, rationally at least, that it wouldn't be an easy fight, but no part of him had ever thought they’d lose. Maybe it was all his years traveling with Geralt, but he’d been conditioned to know that no matter how dire it seemed, his Witchers would always end up okay. He couldn’t fathom seeing one of them fall. Maybe he’d built them up too highly in his mind.

Maybe he was setting himself up for disappointment.

No. Jaskier could hardly move, but he pressed his cheek into the floor, grounding himself with the pressure. He needed to focus. This wasn’t over yet.

Eskel swung again. This one connected too, not where Eskel had been aiming, but at this point any contact was a win. Jaskier prayed the mage was getting tired. It could be just the product of Jaskier’s wishful thinking, and his poor focus due to the ever growing pain he felt laying there on the floor, but he thought Eskel and Triss might be getting closer to taking the upper hand. The mage deflected Eskel’s blow with another swipe of his hand, but it still slashed the mage’s arm. Jaskier could see bone, and this one was far slower to close.

The mage looked down at his injured arm, seeming annoyed. Eskel tried to take this moment of distraction as an opportunity for another charge. Without looking up though, as casually as one might shoo away a fly, he lifted both arms.

“I’m finished.”

Jaskier thought for a brief, ecstatic moment, that this was a surrender, but then the mage looked Eskel directly in the eyes and swung his hands sharply down toward the floor.

Eskel fell faster than Jaskier thought possible, his head hitting the stone floor with a loud, sickening crack.

“I’ve got other things I need to see to.”

Chapter Text

Geralt. He was going to see Geralt. He was going to take Geralt and portal him out of here, and then he’d be lost. They would never be able to find him twice, and even if they did, how would they best the mage? This was their only shot to beat him—their only shot to save Geralt.

A chill washed over Jaskier when he realized what this really meant. He was their only shot to save Geralt.

Triss was still fighting the mage, throwing herself into the battle with everything she had, but it wasn’t enough. She was holding her own for now, but how long could she last? And Eskel. Jaskier couldn’t bear to think about Eskel. He couldn’t tell from here whether the Witcher was still breathing, but he had a sick feeling that he didn’t want to know. He’d fallen so fast, dead weight long before he hit the ground.

Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to look for any longer, and it didn’t matter because there was nothing more he could do for him. And anything he might be able to offer Triss would do nothing but tie her hands. But it might not be too late for Geralt. He could feel the connection still tugging, pulling him back into the room behind him.

He was still in pain, too much pain to bear, but the pull remained. Jaskier couldn’t stand, but maybe he could crawl. He pulled his eyes from the battle happening in front of him, and focused instead on the room behind. If he could just get to Geralt.

The pain spiked when Jaskier tried to pull himself up to his knees, and the blackness encroached at the edge of his vision. It was flickering now; images of himself flashed in his mind as the connection tried hard to pull him into Geralt’s consciousness. He pushed it away, needing full control if he was going to get his body to move. The images gave him a burst of energy though. If he could see Jaskier then he was awake. He was alive.

“Almost there,” he mumbled, fully turning his back on the battle. Unable to get himself up onto his knees, Jaskier dragged himself, pulling his body across the dirty stone floor by his elbows until he reached his destination.

Geralt lay in a bed against the back wall of the room. He must be conscious, since Jaskier had seen himself through his eyes, but Geralt had his eyes shut again, and he looked horrible. His face wasn’t just pale, it was white as chalk, the veins on his neck and forehead standing out as distinctly as if they’d been drawn on with ink. Jaskier couldn’t see much else from his place on the floor. He’d have to stand if he was going to free Geralt. Jaskier wasn’t sure if it was even possible, but he could hear the battle between Triss and the mage from behind him, and it didn’t sound like things were going well for them. Jaskier listened for a moment, hoping he might hear Eskel. It was hard to believe there was nobody coming to bail him out.

He would have Geralt though, if he could just get up.

Jaskier reached up and grasped the bedpost, using all of his strength to drag himself up off of the floor. He balanced precariously on two unsteady feet, and stood before his Witcher.

“Jask.” Geralt’s voice was raspy, and nearly too low to hear, but still it made Jaskier’s heart flutter. He thought for a moment it might stop.

“Just a moment, Geralt,” Jaskier said, fighting to get air into his lungs. “I’m going to get you out.”

He nearly fell leaning down to get the dagger in his boot. Eskel had made sure it was on him before they entered the mage’s lair, but it had been Geralt who’d given him the blade. He would use it to free him now.

Geralt was tied down by his wrists and ankles by thick leather straps. Jaskier tried to ignore how badly they’d dug into his skin, even drawing blood in places. He would have time to mourn Geralt’s treatment later though. Right now he just needed to get them out. It took more effort than it ought to, but Jaskier managed to get through the straps.

Jaskier thought Geralt had only been barely conscious, if he’d been awake at all, while he freed him, but the second the last strap split he sat up. It caught Jaskier off guard. He’d been trying to work through the brain fog enough to figure out how to tell Geralt he needed to break the curse, but before he could get a single word out the Witcher was standing, moving Jaskier to the side with one huge, steady hand.

Jaskier had no business being upright. Even as he watched Geralt walk toward the door he could feel his legs getting ready to give out underneath him. He kept walking though, unsure if it was the adrenaline or his connection to Geralt keeping him going, but he didn’t care. He was alive.

Geralt spanned the space between the bed and the door in a few long steps, and Jaskier had to scramble to keep up, desperate to see what would happen next.

The Witcher entered the battle as casually as a man might walk into a tavern. He stepped over his brother, unmoving on the floor, and approached the mage. This was enough to get him to stop short. Jaskier willed Triss to take the opportunity and deal the killing blow, but she looked as taken aback as the mage did. As all of them.

“Geralt,” the mage said, awe evident in his voice. “You’re glorious.”

“You bastard,” Geralt spat. “How could you do this?”

He didn’t give the mage the chance to answer. In a movement nearly too fast to see, he took the mage’s neck in his hand, and the next thing Jaskier knew the villain was on the floor, bleeding from his mouth and nose, clearly dead. It was horrifying, or it would have been. It meant they were safe though—that they’d done it.

Jaskier let his feet and their connection drag him to his Witcher, not able to get there fast enough.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said. “You have to help. The curse,” he panted, waiting for Geralt, unable to do more than stand and stare at him in desperate admiration.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. It wasn’t likely Geralt would be able to guess what he had to do, but Jaskier still expected him to make a move—to embrace him, to speak to him, to do something.

All he did though, was extend a hand, his fingers already arranged to cast a sign.

Jaskier didn’t register what he was doing until the spell was already cast. And then it was too late. He didn’t even have the chance to cover his face before he was overcome with, white hot, blinding pain.

Chapter Text

After that, Jaskier’s memories came in short, disjointed bursts. He’d become aware for a moment or two, only to be pulled back under as soon as the pain once again became too much to handle.

He couldn’t remember hitting the floor, but he could recall someone grabbing him by the arm and dragging him. He remembered screaming. The hand on his arm felt like a branding iron. He was burning. He could see the flames. His vision was wrong, blurred and fragmented, but the orange flicker of flame licking his skin and reducing his clothes to ash was unmistakable. Why weren’t they putting it out? The smell of burning flesh filled his lungs, choking him. The coughing was so violent he feared his lungs might actually be ripped from his chest. He wanted to vomit, to get this horrible acrid smoke out of his body, but before he could have the chance, he was being pulled under again.

He saw flickers then, from another angle, his connection with Geralt still strong as ever. He watched himself burning, and writhing on the floor, before everything was submerged in dark, cool, merciful blackness.

The flashes of memory after that didn’t make much sense. Someone was dragging him still, but then they were falling, plummeting through pitch black. He couldn’t tell which way was up or which way they were falling. He couldn’t tell if where they were was actually dark, or if his eyes had stopped working completely.

He couldn’t tell if he was alive anymore. He seemed to fall forever.

But then everything was stopping abruptly, the fall punctuated by his whole body slamming into the ground and back into unconsciousness.

***

Geralt thought he was free. For one shining moment he’d thought he was free. He should have known it had been too easy. He’d been so overcome by the bliss of killing the mage he hadn’t thought. He’d never thought, at least not the right thing. From the very beginning, he should have seen this was bigger than just him and Delacroix. It wasn’t until the evil mage’s work began in earnest that he saw what was really going on—how deep the betrayal went.

He’d spent so much time dreaming of killing that vile mage, and so overcome with the bliss of feeling Viscardi’s spine snap between his fingers that he hadn’t thought to keep his guard up.

Admittedly, he’d assessed the threat before he’d moved, but it had been a sloppy assessment, and that’s what had done him in. The bard looked half dead already, barely able to stand, and even at his prime he never would have stood a chance against Geralt in combat. And that was the old Geralt. His brother too, was out of commission, in a heap on the floor.

But he hadn’t accounted for the witch. He hadn’t expected her to be here—hadn’t known there was another traitor.

If he’d seen her, he was certain he’d have been able to best her too, but he’d foolishly allowed his quest to get rid of the bard distract him. She must have harnessed chaos then, cursing him in the same moment he’d cast igni on Jaskier, leaving the two of them to burn together.

And then they were falling.

That damned witch. Geralt had always hated traveling by portal. It felt torturous in the best of times but now, as he burned, it was nearly too much to bear.

The portal spat them out a moment later, and Geralt was momentarily too stunned to move, allowing the witch to get to her feet before he could get ahold of the pain enough to stand. What had she done to him? He saw no flames, and no injuries, but still he burned.

He watched her take flight down the hall, screaming for help as she went.

This was enough to get him to his feet. He took a few deep breaths and he became better able to handle the pain. It hadn’t gone anywhere, but if his time with Delacroix had taught him anything, it was how to bear pain.

His nose was bleeding from where it had collided with the floor, and Geralt wiped it with the back of his hand, pushing the cartilage back into alignment haphazardly. He could already feel it mending.

Then he took off after the witch.

Her red hair was still visible at the very end of the hall, and he had no doubt he’d be able to catch up to her. Somewhere in the distant past, he could remember doing tests with Viscardi, figuring out how fast he could run. Even though he’d only been in his post Trials body for a short while, and he’d spent most of that time in horrible pain, he knew he’d be able to run much faster than before. Much faster than her. Faster than anybody.

He set off at a sprint, and in what felt like only a few steps, he caught up, reaching the great hall only a couple of moments after the witch, her red hair flying behind her. Geralt reached out, feeling the ends brushing against his fingertips before he was able to grasp it, stopping them both short.

“Vesemir!” she shrieked. “Help!”

Geralt pulled her back by her hair, putting her in a headlock. “What did you do to me?” he growled into her ear. It had faded a bit with the adrenaline, but he could still feel himself burning.

The witch didn’t reply, sobbing hysterically and screaming for help. He clapped a hand over her mouth and she fought harder against his iron grip, but before he could continue questioning her, someone appeared in the doorway.

“Geralt!”

The sound of his father’s voice stopped him short. It was his undoing. He could have taken them both. It would be nothing to snap the witch’s neck, only a twist of one hand, and the old man wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight either. The shock of seeing him there though, realizing he too was in on this betrayal was enough to grant them a moment’s pause.

And they didn’t waste that moment.

He felt the dagger in his thigh first. He hadn’t even noticed the weapon strapped to her waist. He let go of her, stumbling back in shock. Then came the second dagger, sinking into his shoulder, thrown by his father.

He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t understand why they would turn on him in the first place. He couldn’t fathom how deep this betrayal went.

And he couldn’t believe he would ever escape it now.

Chapter Text

Jaskier didn’t want to be awake. He wanted very badly not to be awake.

When he woke up, in a bed with most of his face and torso wrapped in bandages, the first thing he felt was confusion. He’d expected to wake up in the carriage, or maybe in a camp, still traveling with Triss and Eskel. It wasn’t until after he was fully conscious that he remembered they’d reached their destination. He remembered the mage then too, and the battle. And Geralt.

That was when the pain hit him.

For a long time after that, the pain was all he could think of. It was all encompassing, inescapable, and agonizing. It wasn’t like he’d never been hurt before—he’d spent the majority of the last month in horrible pain—but this was different. With broken bones, he at least got the brief moments of respite between throbs. With the pain from the curse, at least he knew that eventually he would come back to himself and once again be spared from the worst of it. But this? This was unlike anything he’d ever imagined.

Burns covered his body. He didn’t need to look under the bandages to know how mangled he was. He could feel the skin, melted and charred. It felt like the fire was still there, burning under the cotton dressings.

After what felt like days, hell it could have been days, of laying there, slipping in and out of consciousness with no regard for the passage of time, unable to pull his mind away from the agony, other feelings began to surface. Confusion mostly, and betrayal.

Because Geralt had done this. Somehow Geralt—who Jaskier loved more than anyone, who Jaskier thought loved him too—had done this. The exact moments of the incident were blurred in his mind, too clouded over with fear and pain, but one image remained sharp. Geralt looking at him, meeting his eyes with his fingers poised to cast igni. Jaskier couldn’t fathom why.

“Jaskier.”

Someone said his name in a deep and rasping voice. His mind, already thinking about him, went straight to Geralt hoping he was the one at his bedside, just waiting to explain himself.

“Jaskier, can you hear me?”

Already the hope was fading. He saw how this voice could be mistaken for Geralt’s, but this wasn’t his Witcher. It was Vesemir.

All Jaskier managed in response was a weak and broken groan, more of a feeling in his throat than an actual sound.

“Triss has had her hands full, but she spent most of yesterday here with you, trying to heal the burns. It’s difficult work, but she did her best. We won’t know until you heal a bit more, but she’s hoping the scarring won’t be too extensive.”

So he would be scarred. Of course, he could feel how badly he’d been burned, but the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, too many other things fighting for the little bit of attention he could spare.

“Triss was a bit worried about how your head and neck fared,” he continued. “She wanted to see if your eyes and ears had been damaged badly enough to affect your senses.” Vesemir faltered. “And your voice.”

Unsure of whether it was to prove to himself that his voice was still there, or simply an expression of the deep pain he felt in his chest at the thought of losing it, Jaskier whimpered.

“I’d like to test them.” There was pain in Vesemir’s voice now too. “But if that’s too much I can put you back under. I know you must be in pain.”

Terrible pain. Agonizing pain. But maybe he would feel better if he knew his eyes and ears were in working order. He wasn’t sure about his voice yet. He didn’t think he wanted to know, afraid of what might happen to his already fragile state if he had to come to terms with losing it.

When he didn’t answer, Vesemir reached out and took Jaskier’s good hand, one of the few parts of his body above the waist that wasn’t covered in bandages.

“Squeeze my hand once if you’d like to be put under,” he instructed, “and twice if you’d like to stay awake a bit longer to try and assess your condition.”

How many squeezes to get Vesemir to give him something stronger to deal with the pain? How many squeezes until he told Jaskier what was going on? How many until he explained how this had happened? How this was fair.

Jaskier squeezed once. Even though this part of his body wasn’t burned the movement still sent waves of pain through his torso. Vesemir was patient with him though, and he waited unmoving until Jaskier squeezed for a second time.

“Okay,” he responded to the movement, “all I want to do for now is make sure both eyes and both ears are in order. Then if you’re feeling up for it, we’ll see about your voice.”

Jaskier appreciated the consideration. Vesemir seemed to be able to tell how much more sensitive the subject of his voice was than any other part of him.

He could feel his other hand had been badly burned along with the rest of his chest, and perhaps it was the pessimism which came with being hurt this badly, but he found it hard to believe he’d ever be able to use it for lute playing. Maybe someday he could go back to the simple songs he’d learned in childhood, but the complex playing he used to do, the stuff he was known for, felt lost.

“Are you ready to start?”

Jaskier squeezed twice.

“Good.”

Vesemir’s calm demeanor, soft voice, and endless patience was all that kept Jaskier from breaking down. This shouldn’t be difficult. Vesemir was doing everything he could to keep it from being too difficult, but the testing took longer and hurt more than Jaskier thought—even though all it involved was letting Vesemir hold his own hand in front of Jaskier’s eyes and then squeezing his hands to indicate whether he could see his fingers or not, and then again to tell if the image was blurred or clear.

They decided after what felt like hours, but was more likely only a handful of minutes, that Jaskier’s vision was intact when he was looking at something right in front of him, blurring quickly when Vesemir’s hand got farther than a foot away from his face.

The hearing test was easier. All he had to do was listen as Vesemir clicked his fingers on one side of his head and squeeze his hand when it was too soft to hear. He started with the ear on Jaskier’s good side, and Jaskier was so relieved when he could hear even the quietest click that he didn’t think to prepare for the other side.

Didn’t think about what would happen when he realized he couldn’t hear anything.

He squeezed Vesemir’s hand once, holding as tightly as he could for as long as he could, praying the Witcher would understand the message—that he wanted to be put under. He wanted out.

Chapter Text

Hey y’all, if I’d known I was going to be gone for four months I would’ve left a note, haha. It’s been a rough spring, and I just haven’t been able to find the energy to give this story the attention it needs. School is over now though, and I am fully intending to jump dive headfirst back into this story over the summer. If you’re still here after all this time, thank you so so so much for your patience. I promise there will be new chapters soon<3

Chapter Text

The next time Jaskier woke it wasn’t Vesemir at his side, but Eskel. He didn’t look well. Certainly he’d fared better than Jaskier had, but he’d come out of their battle with his fair share of injuries too. One side of his face was colored with deep red, black, and purple bruises, his eye nearly swollen shut. There was a bandage over his forehead, and he had one arm wrapped up tightly and in a sling.

“Hey, kid.” Eskel grinned when he saw that Jaskier was awake, but Jaskier couldn’t help but notice how lopsided it was, the corner of his mouth on the bruised side barely lifting at all. He wondered if he’d been paralyzed or if it was just due to the pain. He reached out and took Jaskier’s good hand in the same way Vesemir had. “How are you feeling?”

“Shit.” The word was little more than a barely audible hush of air and a voice crack, but it was better than he’d been able to do before.

Eskel gave him another lopsided smile. “Yeah, I don’t doubt that,” he said. “Do you feel better than when you were last awake, or no?”

Jaskier squeezed once, not wanting to strain his voice. Already his throat was protesting its little bit of use.

“Good, I’m really glad to hear that.”

And Jaskier was really glad he’d understood. Because he did feel a bit better, still awful, still in agonizing pain, but better.

“Triss has been in here every minute she can, working on those burns,” the Witcher continued. “She says it’s slow going, but they are healing. She thinks she’ll be able to prevent it from scarring too badly. And Vesemir has been keeping us stocked up on potions to help deal with the pain. Hopefully you’ll be through the worst of it before long.”

He’d mentioned everyone now—all but one.

“Geralt?” Jaskier rasped. It was a garbled mess, but Eskel understood. No doubt he’d been waiting for this question.

His face fell.

“He’s safe, if that’s what you mean.”

That was only part of what Jaskier wanted to know, and he hoped his pleading expression was enough to get that across.

“We’ve got him in dimeritium,” Eskel explained. “In the dungeon.”

That was exactly what Jaskier was afraid of. This hadn’t been some sort of horrible misunderstanding. Geralt really had hurt him intentionally, and he was still dangerous enough that he had to be locked away. What had that evil mage done to him? Where was the Geralt that Jaskier loved? Where was the Geralt that loved Jaskier?

“From what I hear it was the curse that saved us. If he hadn’t been dealing with the pain from the burns he gave you, I’m not sure what Triss and Vesemir would have done.” Eskel must have seen the despair in Jaskier’s eyes because he rushed to try and to soften this blow. “But it’s alright.”

It wasn’t alright though, and acidic tears welled in his eyes and ran down his cheeks, leaving burning tracks down his wrecked skin.

“Triss and I are spending time down there with him every day, trying to get to him. Vesemir thinks this is some sort of trauma response from whatever that mage did to him, but he doesn’t think it's hopeless. Our Geralt is in there somewhere, probably scared and hurting, but he’s not gone.”

They were nice words, but it was hard to believe them. These were just guesses—dreams for a future where Geralt returned to them. Jaskier could remember the look in his eyes in the split second before he’d cast igni though. And the coldness he saw there felt much realer than these conjectures. It was hard to believe his Witcher existed anywhere behind those eyes.

***

Geralt sat on his cot, shackled to the wall with four sets of cuffs. There was one each of steel and dimeritium around his wrists and ankles, keeping him chained to the wall on a very short leash. His captors had done their work thoroughly. They’d used the short time he’d been unconscious to haul him down to the dungeon and lock him up tight. Neither his magic nor his strength would get him out of this damned keep, even though he knew if it came to another confrontation they’d be hard pressed to get the better of him again.

The witch and the Witcher had been able to overpower him once they got two blades in him, along with whatever curse she had cast. The wounds had healed completely by the time he woke, but the curse persisted. He could feel it weakening him, and each time he tried to rest the burning would return. It wasn’t nearly as debilitating as it had been before, but every so often it would flare, once again leaving him unable to do anything but sit and try to bear the burning and the horrible weak feeling which accompanied it until the episode passed. Between this the general ill feeling he got from the dimeritium, and the discomfort of being shackled to a wall, he couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Was this their strategy? To exhaust him into submission? Well if it was they were going to have to try a lot harder. Anyway, they were still feeding him, so he wouldn’t be weakening enough for them to overpower him again any time soon.

As if summoned by his thoughts of them, one of his captors opened the door at the far end of the hallway where they were keeping him. He could hear each step with clarity, and he could use them to identify who had come to see him.

His brother.

This betrayal had hurt the worst. For a short while Geralt thought the other Witcher might still be on his side since he hadn’t helped to put him in these chains, but he’d been there at Delacroix’s too, and since being back at Kaer Morhen he had done nothing to free him.

He stepped into Geralt’s room, a steaming bowl of something in the hand which wasn’t wrapped up in a sling. He didn’t move with the same fear as the other two, but this must just be his tactic to try to get him on his good side.

Eskel walked all the way up to him, just out of kicking distance, and handed him a bowl of what smelled like plain broth and grain.

“I remember how overstimulating things can be after the Trials. Thought you might want something bland.”

Geralt accepted the bowl, but didn’t look his brother in the eye. He almost wished he’d just set the food on the floor and left. Hell, even spitting in his face would hurt less than this—this false kindness from someone he now knew he could no longer trust. Someone he thought he’d always be able to trust.

Eskel stayed for another minute, but when Geralt refused to answer his questions or even look at him he left him to eat his dinner alone.

He didn’t eat though, not yet at least. Instead he set the bowl aside, covered his face, and wept for all of the injustices he’d been subject to. For the pain of the curse they had put on him, for the horrible loneliness of this damned cell, and for the sharp sting of betrayal that Geralt couldn’t imagine would ever fade.

Chapter Text

Jaskier was surprised at how quickly his brain adjusted to his newly wrecked body. How soon it was before he stopped trying to use his burned hand to reach for things. How without thinking he found himself tilting his head when someone spoke to him to favor the ear still capable of hearing. He was healing well, or so they told him.

He didn’t have enough of a frame of reference to tell. He’d never had injuries like these—ones that were never going to fully heal. Without the goal of painlessness to compare his progress to, he felt lost. This pain was going to last forever, so spending any amount of time trying to figure out how much it would fade in how much time did nothing but upset him.

But Triss, Eskel, and Vesemir remarked often how his injuries were improving. It was difficult to believe them, especially since he was still in constant, horrible, unbearable pain when he wasn’t heavily drugged or sleeping.

His sleep, as it happened, was a big reason why he was healing so well. Or at least that’s what the others hypothesized. He was never alone nowadays, still too feeble to be left to his own devices even while unconscious, and all three of them had brought up this theory at some point.

Eskel had said it first though, and his explanation had been the simplest.

When Geralt had been undergoing the Trials, Jaskier was slipping into his consciousness every time his brain relaxed at all. Certainly every time he slept. It stood to reason then, that he was still doing the same. After all, the curse hadn’t gone anywhere. Geralt wasn’t in pain anymore though.

According to Eskel, his mind was still confused, and his emotions were still twisted, but his body was in good health. Perfect even. They hadn’t been able to get close enough to do a thorough physical exam and figure out what had changed after this last round of Trials, but the other two Witchers hypothesized that his body had changed just as drastically as it had during the first two rounds.

“So if you’re slipping into his consciousness while you sleep,” Eskel had said. “You might be able to escape the pain completely. I’d bet you’re getting a lot more restful sleep that way.”

“Does that mean he’s feeling my pain then?”

Eskel’s optimistic expression faded then, and he dropped his gaze. “It’s hard to know,” he admitted. “He doesn’t speak much.”

Jaskier had asked multiple times to go down and see him, and each time they had given him an excuse about how they didn’t think they could get him down to where Geralt was without hurting him, or at least seriously setting back his recovery. Jaskier doubted this was the whole truth, but he also doubted there was anything he could tell them that would change their minds.
So he let them tend to him up here in his room, but all the while his mind was down there with Geralt, wondering how he was, willing his pain to fade for both of their sakes.

He thought about what Eskel said about the connection, and tried to remember everything he and Triss had decided about it earlier. If he was still connected to Geralt then there must be some way he could reach him. They were so much closer now, and neither of them were dying. How hard would it be to get through to him?

He started experimenting. The connection was still there; he could feel it tugging on his chest when he focused. He could do this.

It would be much easier if his own mind was clearer, not so constantly in pain or drugged to near incoherence, but he didn’t let that stop him.

At first he just tried to keep the connection in mind when he felt himself drifting off to sleep. Before that had been the easiest way to slip into the connection—too easy. It had seemed to suck him in if he so much as let his guard down, but now it seemed to be the opposite.

Each time he felt himself drifting off to sleep he would be out cold before he could even try to tap into Geralt’s mind. He supposed he was still making the same shift, but now instead of waking him up, torturing him, Geralt’s mind was a sedative. He hoped that this was how it had been for Geralt during the Trial. He hoped he’d been able to bring him some relief.

That didn’t change the fact that he’d need to change his approach now. If he and Geralt had switched roles, like he guessed, then he reasoned that he’d have to be the one in pain. The problem was: he was already in pain. Apparently not enough. Not to counteract Geralt’s newfound physical perfection.

He considered this problem for a few days, continuing on with his original strategy while he tried to work out another one. All the sleeping seemed to get him though, was long, tiring dreams of wandering around the Mage’s lair which were just as likely to belong to him as they were to be from Geralt’s mind.

After he decided on a new strategy, it took him another few days to build up the courage. He had to feel pretty certain it was going to work before he’d try this new idea, and he didn’t feel certain about much of anything anymore.

Jaskier was as impatient as ever though, and soon he felt ready to start experimenting again.

He waited until it was Vesemir’s turn to stay with him overnight. The oldest Witcher slept deeper than his other two companions, and he’d need some privacy if he was going to pull this off. If they knew what he was going to try, they’d certainly try and stop him.

They were oblivious though, and that night, after Jaskier had stayed up to make sure Vesemir was soundly asleep, he began.

Jaskier too, was exhausted. He’d had to feign sleep for a long while before he was sure the coast was clear. Several times he’d nearly drifted off himself. It was just too easy to slip into the blissful, painless rest he got from Geralt, but he forced himself to keep at it.

He wanted something else from Geralt tonight.

Chapter Text

This promised to hurt no matter how Jaskier did it. This had to hurt in order to work. But he wanted to try to limit the damage as much as possible.

After some careful consideration—well, as carefully as Jaskier’s muddled brain could consider anything anymore—he’d decided that his forearm would be the best place. He could wiggle his fingers under the gap in the bandages at his elbow and hopefully any extra damage there wouldn’t leave him unable to play his lute. He hadn’t yet had the wherewithal to accept the fact that his lute playing days were over. He barely had the wherewithal to do this.

Jaskier used his good hand to pull apart the bandages at his elbow enough to reveal a few square inches of skin. If it could even be called skin anymore. Jaskier tried not to look whenever his bandages were being changed. He’d yet to even look in a mirror. In his mind he still looked the way he always had. This view of his arm was a painful reminder that this was no longer the case.

It was about to get a lot more painful.

He couldn’t watch.

Ignoring the part of his brain yelling at him not to do this, pleading with him to just slip into the sweet, narcotic sleep of Geralt’s consciousness, Jaskier dug his fingers into the healing burns. He was surprised at how quickly blood started to well around the indentations, but he didn’t let it stop him.

Still gripping his arm, he shut his eyes and tried to tear his attention away from the pain and over to the tugging at his chest. He was getting lightheaded now from the pain, and his grip slackened. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up.

“Come on Geralt,” he willed, reaching out with his mind. All the while the pain further scattered his thoughts. “Come on. Please.”

Jaskier felt like he was being pulled down into the bed, his body heavy as lead. Even with his eyes shut, he could feel them wanting to roll up into the back of his head. He had seconds of consciousness left, if that.

And then he was there.

He could still feel the bed underneath him, the warm wetness seeping into his bandages, but he could no longer hear Vesemir’s slow, deep breathing next to him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw a bare stone wall and a locked door.

An anger that wasn’t his blossomed in his chest, and the cord pulled, not like it was tugging him toward Geralt, but instead like they’d finally linked only for Geralt to push them apart.

Jaskier’s fear had been true then. Geralt must be feeling his pain, wanting it gone. He’d probably be able to do it too. Jaskier would have to work quickly.

He tried to project his thoughts to Geralt. Tried to let him know how sorry he was, how much he missed him and wanted to see him, how he still loved him after everything that had happened since they’d last spoken.

If it had been hard to form cohesive thoughts before, now that his consciousness was split it was near impossible. All he was able to meet Geralt’s anger with was a deep, penetrating sorrow. Then he felt a shove, a sharp, painful tug on his rib cage, and he was back in bed again.

Jaskier was wailing, from the emotional pain as much as the physical pain, and Vesemir sprung into action.

He grabbed Jaskier’s wrist in a way that caused his fingers to go limp, so he could pull them from his burned arm without tearing any more of the delicate skin. Jaskier hadn’t even noticed he was still holding on, too wrapped up in everything else to have even a single rational thought.

The crying verged on screaming, and he could once more feel the pull of unconsciousness. This time he fought harder against it. He couldn’t go back there. He couldn’t feel that anger again—that anger that was so clearly Geralt’s, and so clearly aimed at him.

Geralt was never angry with Jaskier, not when he messed up and got someone angry with them, or lost their money, or got himself hurt. Not even the time or two when he’d landed them both in danger. But he was angry now.

“Eskel, I need you to hold pressure,” Vesemir barked, sounding like he was miles away, so much quieter than the sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat and his own sobs in his ears. “I’ll need to get this bleeding to stop before we can assess the damage.”

If he focused he could feel the pressure of Vesemir’s hands against his open wound, and then a release and a rush of blood before another pair of hands took their place.

“What did he do?” Eskel asked. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know,” Vesemir replied. “But he’s hurting badly.”

“He needs to calm down. He’ll hurt himself worse crying like this.”

“No,” Jaskier protested, hardly able to form the single syllable. “No, no, no, no.” If he calmed down he would fall unconscious and if he was unconscious then Geralt might feel his pain again, and that would just make him angrier.

The thought of him down there all alone in the dungeon, locked up like a prisoner, was torture enough. But the thought of Geralt down there hurting and thinking that Jaskier was doing this to him on purpose was unbearable. It would kill him.

“Give him the potion,” someone urged. He could no longer differentiate between Vesemir and Eskel over his wailing, shrieking sobs. They both sounded like Geralt.

“I’m trying, but if I time this wrong it’ll end up in his lungs.”

“I can’t get him still enough. The bleeding isn’t going to stop until the crying does. He can’t go on like this much longer.”

No. He couldn’t go on like this. Not for another second.

This was far too much for anyone to bear.

Chapter Text

Geralt heard the wailing. He shouldn’t be able to. It was coming from the other side of the keep, and up at least one flight of stairs, but to Geralt it sounded like he was just down the hall. It was Jaskier. That much was obvious. What wasn’t obvious was why. He sounded like he was being tortured. Who knew, maybe he was? Geralt didn’t pretend he could predict anything anymore, not after what he’d just been through.

He could hear other, quieter voices too, but couldn’t make out the words. So apparently he still had limits. He must, if they were able to keep him prisoner here.

Days had passed, and nobody had made any indication that he’d be let out of his dimeritium chains any time soon. No deals had been made, no offers for leniency, no conditions set, nothing. He was delivered food three times a day, and they often tried to make conversation with him—Eskel more than the others, although all three had made unsuccessful attempts—but they always spoke to him as if he were a stranger.

He wasn’t strange. He’d changed, yes, but those changes had been put upon him without his consent. And they had been in on it. They were the ones who had changed—the people he’d thought he’d known wouldn’t have ever allowed someone to get away with performing such horrible, inhumane, experiments on him. Not only had they allowed it, but they’d been in on it.

At first it had been hard to know for certain. His memories after the Trial began were hazy, but their presences were as obvious as Viscardi’s had been. Well, he remembered Eskel and Jaskier for sure. Bits of pieces of Triss, and very little from Vesemir. He’d thought for a while that they were just products of the serums, and his tortured mind, but they had been too tangible. Eskel at his bedside this time had been just as vivid, if not more vivid, than when he’d sat at Geralt’s bedside the last time. And Jaskier. He had been there more than anyone.

Right at Viscardi’s side.

Even if it had been just him and Eskel, Triss and Vesemir had both played a part in locking him up down here. And now they were treating him as if they didn’t know him anymore—didn’t trust him. He refused to speak to them, but if he did the first thing he wanted them to know was how truly evil it was to turn on him like that, take advantage of him in the most horrific way imaginable, and then act as if he was the villain, as if he would have ever hurt them if not in self defense. It wasn’t fair.

They didn’t deserve that honesty though. Not until they started giving him some of their own. They didn’t even try to make excuses for themselves. The utter loss of trust made him feel sick even to see them.

The only person who had offered any sort of genuine sentiment was the one who hadn’t come to see him yet—hadn’t shown his face since the betrayal at Viscardi’s. Jaskier.

He didn’t know what to make of it.

Jaskier had invaded his mind. He’d been thrown back into the Trials when he felt Jaskier’s presence in his mind, remembering a similar feeling through that all too thick haze of pain and confusion. And it had hurt. The sadness, and the sorrow felt so real. It came right from Jaskier’s core; the connection had been too deep for anything else. The signals he’d gotten from Jaskier had come from a place so deep down, he was certain they couldn’t be a lie. But that didn’t explain the pain.

It was the same pain he’d felt when he’d tried to keep Jaskier away back at the mage’s lair. He must have some sort of defense spell on him. Geralt hated to consider the fact that it might have been done in offense instead. It didn’t make sense for him to hurt him so badly, while apologizing so genuinely. It must just be another mind game.

Genuine or not, the interaction had been agonizing, and he felt Jaskier had known that. None of it made sense, and it hurt to think about. So many thoughts were crossing over each other in his head, contradicting each other, and capitalizing on fears whenever they could. All of this combined with the memory of all of the pain he had endured, made him feel sick to his stomach. Would this body even get sick? He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

What he wanted to do was sleep, but he was afraid to let himself. He’d been asleep when Jaskier had invaded his mind, and he worried if he let his guard down it would happen again. Anyway, he had a feeling there were things going on, things being done to him, which he might not know about. He wasn’t sure how, and he found it hard to believe it was just the Dimeritium making him feel so ill, but he had a suspicion they might still be hurting him intentionally. They’d taken his medallion during the brief time he’d been incapacitated, so he couldn’t tell if chaos was being used against him, but he had a feeling.

He had lots of feelings actually, and none of them were good. He was in more pain than he ought to be. He’d checked and rechecked his body during the long hours he spent alone down here, and every time it proved to be in perfect condition—faster, stronger, and more impermeable than ever—but still he hurt. And every time he tried to sleep, he woke feeling less rested than when he’d drifted off.

Yes. This must be some sort of torture, something to wear him down until—until what? He still had no idea why they’d done this, why they were keeping him here, or what they wanted from him.

He worried he didn’t know anything anymore. Nothing true. All he knew was that he wanted out.

Chapter Text

Jaskier lay on his back on the bed, jaw set, staring at the ceiling.

He ought to be paying better attention, and engaging with the conversation, but even though Triss, Eskel, and Vesemir had said they wanted to meet so they could figure out the best way to go forward, he knew his behavior had been the catalyst. They would have been happy carrying on like they had been—trying their best to heal Jaskier, and ignoring Geralt until a better way to deal with his trauma fell into their laps—if not for Jaskier forcing their hand.

It was hard to blame them for the inaction. He hadn’t been the only one damaged by their journey to, and time at the mage’s lair, and he knew they were just as scared and clueless as he was, but he seemed to be the only one willing to do whatever it took, however damaging it might be, to get this all sorted out as quickly as possible, so he could maybe someday get his Witcher back. He didn’t let himself consider the alternative, in too much pain mentally and physically, to ponder such an agonizing ending.

“I think the best way to go forward is to hear what Jaskier learned when he tried to communicate with Geralt,” Eskel proposed.

Jaskier was surprised, so far he’d only been scolded for his actions, and warned of the physical and mental side effects that might result from trying something that dangerous again. He figured they were afraid that he would interpret their curiosity as a good reason to give it another go. They shouldn’t be worried. Jaskier wasn’t sure he’d live through trying again, even if he wanted to.

“Jaskier, do you feel comfortable sharing?”

He considered this for a long, silent moment, and then after he decided to contribute he spent so long trying to collect his thoughts that he worried they’d give up on him and move onto something else. They waited patiently though, and when he finally did begin to speak, they listened intently.

“He’s angry,” Jaskier began cautiously. “I’m hurting him.” His throat closed around the last words. If he kept going, he was going to start crying.

“It’s not your fault,” Eskel comforted him. Jaskier continued to stare at the ceiling.

“I chose the curse.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I cursed him.”

“We wouldn’t have found him,” Triss added. “This is an unfortunate side effect, but we had to take desperate measures.”

Unfortunate was an insulting understatement. They should be taking desperate measures now. Jaskier shouldn’t be the only one willing.

“We’re going to get this curse broken,” Vesemir said, sure of himself. “It’s just a question of how. That’s what we’re here to discuss. I think it’s safe to say our current course of action is not getting us the results we would like, so what do we need to do to move forward?’”

“Geralt has to be the one to break the curse,” Eskel said. “This isn’t going to end until he understands what’s going on enough to help.”

“I’ve tried explaining things, but he refuses to listen,” Triss replied. “Any time I talk to him, even about the simple stuff, he just stares at the wall.”

“I’ve gotten similar responses,” Vesemir added. “He doesn’t have any interest in talking to us.”

“I just wish I could see into his head,” Eskel said. Foolish. Jaskier had seen into his head, and all it had achieved was pain for both of them. “That way I could figure out what’s got him so turned around and explain it to him. I know if he understood what all happened, he wouldn’t be acting so hostile.”

“Yes, but we don’t even understand everything that happened,” Triss pointed out. “We need to be able to talk with him and work everything out together.”

“I agree, but I think Eskel’s right about starting out by getting him our side of things,” Vesemir said. “He isn’t going to want to even acknowledge us until he believes we aren’t trying to hurt him.”

“It’s a stalemate then.” Eskel actually looked frustrated for once, an emotion he didn’t often let show. “We’re going in circles. We can’t fix anything without his help. He won’t acknowledge us until he trusts us, but we can’t convince him to trust us until he acknowledges us. We’re stuck.”

“What if someone else came to talk to him?” An idea formed in Jaskier’s head. Thankfully this one wasn’t nearly as painful as his last idea. “Someone he already trusts.”

“Do you have someone in mind?” Triss looked at him, confused. “Is there anyone left?”

“I’m not sure,” Jaskier answered truthfully. “But I think she would be more than happy to come help us find out.”

***

Geralt was on high alert before the door at the end of the hallway even opened. Right now was around the time they usually brought him a meal, but this wasn’t one of his usual jailers. He could hear Eskel’s soft, rhythmic footsteps, but there was someone walking with him.

He shut his eyes and focused hard, wanting to use every bit of advantage his newly sharpened senses afforded him.

It was easier once the door opened, not only because there was one less barrier between them, but also because Eskel didn’t enter with them. He turned around and went back up the stairs, leaving the mystery visitor to continue on their own.

If he had to guess, he’d say they were a woman, but it was hard to tell by steps alone. He’d be able to hear their breath soon, and that would help, but they walked slowly, giving him lots of time to consider who they might be.

They were small, whoever they were, but not a child. No, this person was older, he could hear it in the almost hesitant way they chose their steps, their feet scuffing the floor every so often. It never threw off their gate though. Old, but in good condition physically, and they were close enough now to be certain she was a woman.

He had an idea who this could be, but he didn’t let himself get his hopes up until they’d actually reached his door.

Geralt opened his eyes, and for the first time since before being taken by Delacroix, he felt actual relief.

“Nenneke.”

Chapter Text

Nenneke unlocked the door to his room and stepped inside, acting as casual as if this was just his chamber, not his prison.

“Geralt.” She smiled, and he nearly burst into tears. When was the last time someone had smiled at him? When was the last time he felt true warmth from another person?

These nice thoughts only lasted the first few moments though, before Geralt was back on high alert. He’d used to think he could trust the other people in the keep. Could he trust Nenneke? She wasn’t there with Delacroix, or here at Kaer Morhen when he’d returned, and that made him think he could. He wanted to. Desperately. But someone had brought her here. She couldn’t have come here of her own accord. The mage must have portaled her here.

“Are you with them?”

Geralt had his body pressed up against the back wall of his cell, as if he didn’t have a clear physical advantage, chained up or not. He wasn’t sure he could hurt Nenneke though, even if he needed to. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

“They brought you here,” he pressed, trying to sound matter of fact, rather than anxious. “What did they tell you?”

“They told me you’d been through a lot, and you could use someone to see to you, and make sure you’re alright,” she explained. “Since you didn’t feel comfortable with them, they thought it would be better to bring someone you might feel a bit more comfortable getting help from.”

Geralt wanted to believe her. He wanted so badly to believe her.

“Will you let me help you?”

His knee jerk reaction was to say no, to tell her to leave and not come back, and get herself out of this tangled mess. Whether she really was associated with Delacroix and the rest of them, or she’d just somehow gotten herself mixed up in this, it wasn’t where she should be. She didn’t deserve to have to deal with this.

Geralt didn’t realize how long he’d been looking at her without speaking, face twisted up with confusion, until she smiled again, and he absolutely melted.

“Please,” he said, more desperation in his voice than he’d intended. “I would like that.” He said each word carefully, as if his sentence could at any moment turn into an incantation that whisked her away from him, leaving him alone again.

“Good.” Her smile got even wider. “Do you mind if I give you a good once over? I’d like to make sure you aren’t hurt.”

He wasn’t hurt. All of the wounds he’d sustained when he got here had healed completely—there weren’t even scars—and the pain that remained, the curse they must’ve put on him, left no physical marks. He’d checked.

“Yes.”

He wanted her to be close. He didn’t realize until now how badly he needed to have somebody close. And she didn’t hesitate. She showed none of the fear, or disgust, or suspicion that she ought to, and Geralt didn’t have it in him to keep her at a distance.

He let her help him out of his shirt, and took her time checking all of his muscles, and bones, and joints, running a warm hand across his skin, unreasonably gentle. She listened to his breathing and his heart, not remarking on how much slower it beat now—sometimes less than ten beats per minute. Geralt had spent a lot of time listening to his new heart beat, having little else to do. He didn’t like it. It made him feel even less human than he had before, more like a monster.

All Nenneke said though was that it sounded steady and strong, before moving on to check his hands.

“What happened here?” She took his right hand in both of hers.

The difference in size would have been comical if not for what she was looking at. This was the one part of his physiology that was less perfect than before he’d done the third round of the Trial. His fingers were crooked, the joints gnarled in a way they hadn’t been before.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Nenneke asked, squeezing his first finger to feel the bones underneath before moving on to the next.

“They broke.”

“All of them?”

“Uh-huh.”

Several times some of them. That was one thing he remembered from the Trial, squeezing his hands so hard that his fingers broke, and then healed and then broke again. He still had no sense of the amount of time he’d been out. He might’ve broken them all a hundred times. There was no way of knowing.

“If they’re causing you trouble, I’m sure we’d be able to re-break, and splint them, but if their function isn’t impaired then I don’t see any reason to.” She continued on without waiting for an answer. “Otherwise you look to be in perfect health,” she decided.

“Thank you,” he replied, unsure of what to say to her, and assuming she would leave now that she’d finished checking him. That was probably why they’d brought her here, to get better information about his post Trial body, so they’d be able to find a weakness. Well he wasn’t going to give them any more than they’d gotten already.

And to his great surprise, she stayed, even after she’d finished her examination. He hated how relieved he felt. They were using this to get an upper hand, he knew it, but he just couldn’t bear the thought of telling her to go.

“How are you feeling, Geralt?” she asked, genuine care and curiosity in her voice.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.” She didn’t press. “Is there anything else I can do to help you?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. I get the feeling things are a bit confusing right now, is that right?”

“Yes.” That was quite possibly the biggest understatement he’d ever heard.

“Well we don’t have to get into all that now. There’s no need to get overwhelmed.”

“Are you leaving?” he asked, suddenly afraid this was the end of his short respite from the mind numbing loneliness and boredom.

“Not unless you want me to,” she replied. “I do have one more question for you though.”

“Oh?”

“How would you like to take a hot bath?”

Chapter Text

Jaskier laid in bed staring at the ceiling, impatient. This was how he spent most of his time nowadays, but today was different. Today he was waiting for something, and he was starting to feel antsy. He wished he could get up and pace, but he was still far from being able to walk. So instead he lay, and stared at the blank stone until his eyes crossed, and thought about what was going on down in the dungeon right now.

Nenneke had arrived this morning, retrieved by Eskel and Triss, and all five of them had shared a long conversation about the best way to proceed before Eskel had escorted her down to Geralt’s quarters.

Anything could be happening.

Geralt might be giving her the same treatment as all of the others and just ignoring her. Gods forbid, he might have tried to attack her, like he’d done to the rest of them when they’d first rescued him. The third possibility though, was the one Jaskier couldn’t get out of his mind.

What if she’d done it? What if she’d gotten to him? What if she had laid everything out for him from start to finish, and explained how nobody had ever wanted to hurt him, apart from Viscardi, and he’d accepted it? What if things were finally fixed?

The mix of anxiety and anticipation was miserable. It made him so agitated that at one point Eskel had offered to just sedate him, but Jaskier had declined. He refused to miss out on anything by being asleep. And by some miracle of Melitele herself, after what felt like days, the waiting finally ended.

“Nenneke!” He would have sat bolt upright in bed if he could. As it was, he watched her intently until she reached his bedside and sat down next to Eskel in the second chair. “How is he? Is he okay? Did he let you talk to him? I just really—”

She held up a hand. “I promise I will explain everything. But I don’t need you working yourself into a frenzy, Jaskier,” she chided.

“We should probably have Vesemir and Triss here,” Eskel pointed out. “If we’re going to be sharing information.”

“I’d like to have another talk with everyone tomorrow morning,” Nenneke replied. “But for now, I would like to speak with Jaskier in private, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course.” Eskel stood up and ceded the chair nearest to the bed to her.

“Thank you.”

“Nenneke, please,” Jaskier said as soon as the door shut behind Eskel. “I need to know.”

“I know you do,” she said. “And I’m going to tell you, but I’d like to set some expectations first. You and Geralt are linked. This means your healing and his are linked as well, and you have a stake in this that none of the others do. I don’t think I’m going to be able to help him if I don’t have complete honesty from you as well.”

“I’ll tell you anything,” he rushed to reply. “Whatever you need me to do I’ll do it. I don’t care if it—”

“That’s the part I’m worried about,” she cut in. “I can see that you’re healing, and I know that you’re strong, but no part of this endeavor is for the faint of heart. Can I trust that you’ll tell me if things get to be too much? I refuse to do anything to hurt either you or Geralt in this, but with the way you’re linked it’s going to be a delicate line.”

“I promise I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

“Do you really mean that?”

Jaskier swallowed hard, aware of how impossible it was to lie to Nenneke, and knowing that she meant what she said.”

“I do.”

“Alright.” Her stern demeanor relaxed. “Then I’ll tell you what you want—”

Jaskier didn’t even wait for her to finish speaking. “How is he?”

“He isn't well.”

Jaskier fought to keep his expression neutral, afraid she might stop if she thought he was upset.

“He’s very confused. He’s scared. And he feels less human than he ever has before, and that is deeply upsetting to him.”

“He told you all that?”

Nenneke shook his head. “It’s clear enough without saying,” she said. “He’s acting like a caged animal.”

“Well did he at least let you help him?” Jaskier asked, fighting past the lump in his throat.

“He did. He let me check him over, and I got him a hot bath. A clean body and fresh clothes were able to get him feeling a little more human, but he’s got a long road ahead of him.”

“Did you explain to him about the rest of us?” This was the part he was really anxious to hear. “Were you able to tell him that we never wanted to hurt him? Did you try to get him to understand that we’re still on his side?”

“He knows that you all endeavored to get me for him, and the fact that he still accepted my help while knowing that gives me hope that he isn’t fully set in his delusion about you all being against him.”

He’d been set enough to burn Jaskier, and from the way she told it, he’d been about ready to kill Triss before she and Vesemir had subdued him. Jaskier still tried to take comfort in her claim though.

“But I didn’t try and explain everything to him today.”

“Why not?” Jaskier replied. “If he could understand, then we’d be able to get the curse lifted and he won’t be in pain anymore and—”

“I need to know I have his trust,” she said, her calm, slow sentence in stark contrast to Jaskier’s stumbling rush to get as many words out as he could. “Until he feels absolutely certain I’m not part of the same scheme that he’s convinced the rest of you are pulling against him, I’m not going to even bring up that day at the mage’s lair. Today he trusted me enough to let me give him a check up and a bath, and that is a good first step.”

Jaskier sat quietly, processing the realization that this all could take a very long time.

“This isn’t going to happen overnight, Jaskier. It’s going to take a while to build his trust again.”

“Yeah.” Jaskier looked down at his hands, feeling foolish and small. “Okay.”

“Good.” She smiled. “Because with enough patience, I think it can be done.”

Chapter Text

“I think we need to re-evaluate the way you all are treating your prisoner.”

Nenneke, Eskel, Vesemir, and Triss all sat in a half circle around Jaskier’s bed, ready to debrief about the day before’s fresh tact with Geralt.

“The way you’ve got him now is in no way conducive to your goals,” she said. “In fact, I’d be surprised if you weren’t moving backwards the longer you hold him in chains like this.”

“We didn’t have any other option,” Triss cut in. “He was ready to kill me, he nearly killed—”

Jaskier went cold and Nenneke put a hand up, stopping the mage in her tracks.

“I understand that this was your only option at the time,” she replied. “I hate that this was the case, but I don’t want to presume the immense difficulty it took to get this far. I have full confidence that you all did what you felt like you had to, but you brought me here because your tactics weren’t working. Are you going to let me help, or aren’t you? Because continuing on like you have is not an option. We all know this. It’s why I’m here.”

“Right.” Triss looked down at her hands like a scolded child. Jaskier felt secretly pleased. They were finally making progress, however slow.

“As I was saying,” Nenneke continued. “You’re not going to make any progress until both camps are on equal footing. I can assure you he isn’t eager to find it in him to listen compassionately to the woes of his captors. This place needs to be his home again, not his prison.”

“I was hoping you’d bring this up,” Vesemir replied. “I’ve been thinking the same. He shouldn’t be kept in the dungeon, but considering just how much more powerful he is than us, I haven’t been able to think of an option as safe as dimeritium and strong locks.”

“Well the dimeritium for sure needs to go. I don’t think the effects are nearly as strong on him as they would be for a mage—Triss, if you know otherwise please speak up—but it does carry with it some unpleasant side effects. The longer he wears those shackles, the more likely he is to start feeling them if he hasn’t already.”

“What do you propose we do then?” Triss asked.

“The more freedom you give him, the sooner he’s going to trust you.”

“What are you proposing?” It was hard to tell, but Eskel seemed as pleased as Jaskier did to be seeing Geralt freed.

“I think he should be just as free as the rest of you.”

This sparked immediate questions from the other three. Jaskier wasn’t quite clear-headed enough to follow the threads of these miniature arguments, but a minute later Nenneke had them all quiet again.

“This is his home. He should be able to move freely, but that’s not to say we can’t still take precautions. You can lock up Jaskier in here as tight as you’d like. He isn’t going anywhere anyway, at least not for a while. If you want Geralt’s door to be locked at night, everyone else should have to lock their doors at night. I cannot stress enough how important it is that everyone gets on equal footing.”

“But he’s so much more physically powerful now,” Triss replied, hesitant, as if afraid of being scolded.

“Yes, but he is aware of that. If you arm yourself while walking around the keep, I think I can get him to understand why. And all of these things are just going to make you seem kinder in his mind, and this boy has been seriously lacking kindness lately.”

Hearing her talk so gently about Geralt made Jaskier feel like crying. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear those words. For the first time he actually believed they were going to get him back.

“I’ll stay with him until things are understood between both parties. He won’t be going around unattended or unsupervised,” she amended. “Now, does anyone object to moving Geralt into his new quarters this afternoon?”

Nobody spoke.

“Good.” She stood up. “Now all that’s left to do is find him a suitable room and get it ready for him.”

***

Geralt waited patiently for Nenneke to return.

So far, seeing her had been the only nice thing to happen to him since being taken by Delacroix. Now that he’d gotten a taste, he was finding it much harder to just sit and stare at the wall. And it hadn’t been easy before.

He felt unwell. Before he hadn’t thought it was possible to feel sick in his new body, but between the dimeritium, the lack of sunlight and exercise, the utter absence of restful sleep, and the deep, penetrating sorrow he’d yet to figure out how to cope with, he felt downright ill. His body ached, his head more fiercely than anything, and his brain was foggy. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect he was running a fever, but it was probably just the combination of his aching bones, and the damp chill of his dungeon room. They’d given him plenty of blankets, but they too had grown cold and damp like everything else. It was cruel, boring, mind numbing torture, and he couldn’t fathom it would ever end.

Instead of dwelling on that unpleasant assumption, Geralt passed the time wondering what Nenneke might say this time, what she might be able to do for him. Last time she’d gotten him a hot bath. What would she bring him today?

It was hard to think of anything in his current situation. The possibility of something nice at all seemed false, but a day ago he wouldn’t have considered a hot bath a possibility, and she’d made that happen with seemingly little difficulty.

By the time she arrived he’d come up with a couple of, admittedly weak, ideas. He reminded himself that the kindness might already be over, and he shouldn’t expect anything at all.

What she presented to him was something he wouldn’t have even thought to consider. It was something beyond the realm of possibility.

Wordlessly, she unlocked his dimeritium shackles, took him by the hand, and led him out of the dungeon.

Chapter Text

Geralt walked silently next to Nenneke, allowing her to lead him through his own home, up from the dungeon and into one of the bigger chambers on the east side of the keep. This was where the mages used to live, back when he’d been a boy, before he’d gone through even the first round of Trials. They were some of the nicest in the whole keep. He wondered if Nenneke knew this.

He wondered a lot of things.

His mind, like his body, had gained an incredible amount of speed during this last transformation. Unlike his feet, which he knew would remain sure and steady no matter how fast he went, his mind was just as likely to take him around in dizzying circles until he could no longer put two thoughts together and he was forced to lay down, and meditate, and clear his head. Times like this though, it was hard to stop it. During their short trek from his cell to his quarters it raced, leaving him confused and panicked.

Where was everyone else? Why were they letting him out? What had changed? If he ran right now would he be able to get to them? Would he be able to take them out before they organized their forces? Could he just run out the front door and not look back?

If his thinking was a little slower, and a little clearer, he might have been able to follow one of these questions to its natural conclusion, and maybe figure out a way to free himself, but as it was, Nenneke was leading him into his quarters and shutting the door behind them before he could even try to make a plan.

“I’m sure you have some questions,” she said, standing in between him and the door.

That could not be more of an understatement.

“Why did they let me out?” he asked. This was the most pressing question. If he got the answer to this one, he might be able to figure some things out for himself. “Aren’t they afraid I’ll go after them?”

“Are you going to go after them?”

As always, Nenneke knew exactly what to say. If she’d told him he would regret going after them, or that he wouldn’t have any success if he tried, or even that she knew he wouldn’t, he very well might’ve gone and done it just to prove her wrong. No, she realized that the only thing she could convince him of was that she was on his side. If he wanted to go out into the keep, and hunt down Eskel, Triss, Vesemir, and Jaskier, there was nothing she could do to stop him. She wasn’t on their side at all. They had brought her here, and they thought she would help them, but really she was here for him.

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” Nenneke said when Geralt didn’t reply. “It would make helping you a lot more difficult, and certainly complicate things.”

“Is that the deal then?” he grumbled. “I get a nicer prison cell if I promise I’ll stay put? I bet they’re putting spells on the outside of the door right now. I bet I’m even more trapped than I was before,” he said, both the speed and viciousness of his tone increasing with every word.

“This is not your cell,” Nenneke spoke calmly and slowly, in direct contrast to Geralt’s agitation. “Nobody is coming to put any spells on the outside. I can’t promise they haven’t put spells on their own rooms, but nobody is going to keep you here.”

“So I could just leave?” Her comment about their spells was enough to discourage him from going after the others, at least for the moment. He still felt like there were things going on that he wasn’t in on. “What’s stopping me from walking out and not coming back?”

“Nothing.”

Geralt stared at her, his head swimming with confusion and alarm.

“I’m hoping you won’t though. I’d like for you to stay.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to help you,” she offered.

“You did help me,” he told her. “You got me out. What’s the point in keeping me here with those people?”

“Those people are the ones who brought me here,” Nenneke reminded him. “There’s more going on here than you understand.” She spoke cautiously, able to tell that it wouldn’t take much for Geralt to leave the keep and never look back. “I want to make sure you have all the facts before you decide what you want to do, so you don’t end up doing something you’ll regret.”

“I know the facts,” Geralt insisted.

“There’s nothing left that you’re confused about? Nothing from your experience coming here that nags at you, because it doesn’t make sense?”

This triggered a flare of anger in Geralt’s chest. She was using his confusion against him, as if he didn’t already know enough. Did she know what he’d been through? What they’d put him through?

“I know enough to know I’m not safe here.”

“Do you really think the people here want to hurt you?” Nenneke’s eyebrows furrowed. She looked genuinely sad.

“They did hurt me,” he said. “They’re still hurting me. They cursed me, and stabbed me, and shut me up in the dungeon.”

“I’m sorry that they did that to you, Geralt,” she replied. “I wish that hadn’t happened, but they were only doing what they thought they had to, the same way you thought you were doing what you had to when you attacked Jaskier and Triss.”

“You don’t know what they did to me, Nenneke. They were working with Delacroix. They want to hurt me.” The agitation was growing again, along with his desire to push past her and out into the hallway.

“Nobody here wants to hurt you.”

“That isn’t true!” He was yelling now, and more confused than ever. She was on his side. He knew that. So why was she defending them? If she was on his side, why did she want to keep him here, where he was in danger? Was she really on his side at all? Was this all part of the others’ plans to finish what Viscardi started? “They did hurt me. They’re still hurting me.”

“If they wanted to hurt you, they could’ve done it while they had you in Dimeritium,” Nenneke pointed out. “Why would they let me bring you up here if they still wanted to hurt you?”

“I don’t know.” His head was spinning, and his throat grew tight. None of this was making any sense, and it was leaving him too angry and frustrated to function.

“You are safe here. I promise.”

“I’m not.” Geralt was mortified to feel tears forming in his eyes. One spilled over and rolled down his cheek, hot and wet. “It isn’t safe here, Nenneke. I don’t know what they told you, but it is not safe.” His breath hitched.

“Do you trust me, Geralt?” She held out her hand to him. “I can sort everything out for you, but you have to trust me.”

There was nothing to sort out. Either that, or there was too much going on to ever be sorted out at all. There was nothing he, or Nenneke could do to change that, and no matter what she told him, he was convinced now that they’d put spells on his room. Nenneke couldn’t possibly be telling the truth about all of this. How did he know she hadn’t been lying about that? He was every bit as trapped as he’d been before. Probably more. This was probably all a ploy to get him in even stronger shackles. The fact that he could no longer see them must all be part of the trick.

There was no way he could keep himself safe, so instead he resigned himself to his fate. Nenneke was still talking to him, but the brief relief he’d felt at being moved from the dungeon had been replaced by complete and utter despair, and it was drowning out everything else.

Geralt walked over to the bed, collapsed into a heap, and began to sob.

Chapter Text

Jaskier, Vesemir, Eskel, and Triss all sat in Jaskier’s chambers, looking at Nenneke expectantly, impatient to hear her report from the night before. She could tell how eager they were, and began without delay.

“He’s moved into his new quarters,” she told them, “over in the east wing, and I told him that there were no measures in place to keep him here.”

“And he stayed?” Jaskier asked, praying this was the case. She would’ve told them already if he was gone, right?

“Unless he’s left during the time I’ve been in here with you, he’s still in his room.”

“He hasn’t left,” Triss said. They all turned to face her. “I put a spell on the perimeter of the keep.” She looked almost sheepish. “It can’t stop anyone from leaving. It just lets me know when someone passes through. It’s completely harmless.”

Nenneke had been very specific about the precautions she thought they should and shouldn’t take, and he half expected her to scold the mage, but Nenneke pressed on.

“Yes, well. That answers that.” She didn’t seem terribly pleased.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Jaskier asked. “I mean, he knows he can leave and he’s still here. Some part of him must want to work things out.”

“Yes and no,” she replied. “I definitely do think there is a part of him somewhere deep down that knows his interpretations of events might not be accurate, but I think at the moment that part of him is being so heavily outweighed by confusion, and paranoia, and fear, that his staying isn’t because of that,” she explained.

“Why would he stay then?” Eskel asked.

“Because of the things I mentioned before. He’s confused, and paranoid, and afraid. He’s staying because he doesn’t trust that you won’t hurt him if he tries to leave. He still feels trapped.”

“Can’t that be enough for the time being?” Triss said. “I know it isn’t ideal, but he isn’t going to trust us until he knows we never wanted to hurt him, and he can’t know that if he runs off. Maybe it isn’t the best reason for staying, but it’s working, and I think that might be the best we can ask for.”

“Is it working?” Jaskier turned to Nenneke.

“Again,” she sighed. “Yes and no. I agree that he has to be here if he’s ever going to work through this, but I’m not sure if you understand just how twisted up he is about everything.”

“What do you mean?” Jaskier knew Geralt was upset. Was it worse than that?

“I tried to introduce the idea to him last night,” she told them. “I told him he was free to leave, but I hoped he wouldn’t, and nobody here wants to hurt him. He started talking about how you had hurt him, and how you had been working with Delacroix, and after that the paranoia spiraled until he broke down and started to cry.”

“Oh, gods,” Eskel breathed. Jaskier looked over to see tears glistening in his eyes as well, his heart, like Jaskier’s, aching for their lost brother and friend.

“So what do we do then?” Vesemir spoke up, looking emotional himself. “How do we proceed from here?”

“All we can do is keep reminding him of how he’s safe, with words and with actions, and continue on trying to slowly convince him of everything else,” Nenneke said. “All you need to do is wait.”

And wait they did.

Vesemir and Eskel spent their time working on and around the keep. Triss passed long hours alone in her chambers, working on something magical no doubt. Jaskier’s time, though, was wholly dedicated to healing.

The other three continued to take turns tending to him, and during the short spans of time Nenneke spent away from Geralt, she often came and offered her own healing expertise. She gave Jaskier gentle movements he could do in bed to try and maintain as much of his muscle mass as possible without damaging his delicate skin. She mixed up salves to help with healing and soothing, and she directed Triss on how to use her magic more efficiently. Still, his healing moved at a snail’s pace, and he pretended not to hear when the others mentioned how this pace probably wouldn’t be changing any time soon.

Neither would Geralt’s, as Nenneke reminded him every time they met.

Every morning they would gather and she would give them all updates on how the previous day had gone with Geralt. Most days the meetings were short, with a lot of the same news. Sentiments along the lines of, “I think we’re getting closer, but it still might be a while before we see any results.”

Other days they got more interesting news. Sometimes it was good. “Geralt and I went down to the kitchens today to make a meal together, and it didn’t result in a paranoid breakdown,” or, “I reminded him that nobody here wants to hurt him, and he didn’t start yelling at me about how I’m wrong, and we’re both in danger.”

Sometimes it was less good. Things like, “Geralt talked more about leaving yesterday,” or, “he’s still shutting down any time I mention having a meeting to talk through things with one of you.”

And then one day, after several weeks of meetings, they got the news they’d all been dreading since the beginning.

The meeting didn’t start any differently than the others. There was no sense of emergency, or panic. Jaskier could feel a tension in the air though. Triss looked like she was about to burst into tears.

Jaskier’s heart began to thump harder in his chest, speeding up at an alarming rate. With every passing second he was more certain that something was wrong. By the time Nenneke actually spoke, the question in his mind wasn’t, “did something happen?” It was, “how bad is it?”

“Geralt wasn’t in his bed this morning.”

Jaskier’s heart stopped beating entirely for a very long, silent moment, before resuming its racing.

“He’s gone.”

Chapter Text

“We have to go after him.” Eskel shot up from his seat, but Vesemir grabbed him and pulled him back down.

“We have to consider this,” the older Witcher replied. “Rushing out isn’t going to help anything.”

“It’s going to help Geralt! He isn't in his right mind. He doesn’t have a horse, or any food, or money.”

“While I do agree that we ought to be worried about Geralt,” Nenneke agreed, I think his survival is one of the lower things on my list. At least not his survival in the wilderness. His body is better equipped than any to survive harsh conditions, but I agree we need to try and get him back here.”

“Where is he even trying to go?” Triss asked.

“Anywhere but here,” Jaskier mumbled.

“I’m not sure. If I had to guess, I’d say he hopes to just live out in the woods. I can’t imagine he’d be eager to be around other people. His distrust of you all runs deep, but I don’t think he has much trust for anybody. I think he wants to be alone.”

“But he doesn’t have to be alone,” Eskel argued. “We’re here, we love him, we want to help.” He too looked about ready to cry.

“I know you do,” Nenneke comforted. “This isn’t over, we just need to adjust our strategy.”

No, they needed a whole new strategy. They needed to figure out how to get him back. He was so much stronger and faster than any of them though, and he could be anywhere. Hopefully the others would have some good ideas, because Jaskier was at a loss. He couldn’t even get himself out of bed. How was he supposed to get Geralt back? Even if they somehow managed it, nothing would change. What’s to stop him from running off again?

“We need to go after him,” Eskel insisted. “There are spells on the stables. He can’t have taken a horse. If we set out now we can—”

“You can what?” Triss cut in. “Catch him and bring him back here like a trapper? Hunt him down like a wild animal? How will that help?”

“Well we have to do something! Nenneke?” Eskel turned to her.

For once, she looked at a loss.

“Nenneke?” he repeated, this time in a voice barely over a whisper.

“We can’t go looking for him,” she decided, speaking in a slow, cautious tone. “If we go after him he’s going to feel unsafe, and he’s going to want to leave even more. Even with horses, I don’t think we could catch up with him if he doesn’t want to be followed, and even if we somehow got him back here, he’d never trust us again. He would go back to being a prisoner, and we’d be worse off than we were before.”

“What do we do then?” Jaskier felt like crying, and his throat was tight.

“We need a way to communicate with him,” Nenneke told them.

Silence fell across the room. It was an impossible task.

“Maybe we could leave letters out in the woods, and down the Path?” Triss finally broke the silence, with a frankly terrible idea, but the only one they had.

“How do we know he’d find one, and how do we know he’d read it if he did? And what could we possibly put into a letter that could achieve what weeks with Nenneke couldn’t?” Eskel pointed out.

“Is there any way we could use magic to make the message more likely to get his attention?” Vesemir asked.

They kept doing this, bouncing ideas off of each other, and Jaskier began to tune them out, lost in his own thoughts. In his own pain. It never went away. He couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t in pain.

He thought about his own letter, the one he’d gotten from Geralt to meet him in Novigrad. He didn’t feel anything like the person who had read that letter. That man could not even imagine the pain Jaskier had experienced. It almost made him want to try and remember what he’d felt like before any of this had happened—to re-read the letter.

The letter.

“I could try talking to him again,” Jaskier said. He didn’t look up. The room went silent around him. “Like I did before.”

He could still feel the place on his arm where his thumb had dug into the damaged, papery skin. He was scarred everywhere, but the one forming under that bandage was shaping up to be one of the gnarliest. He’d do it all again though, if it got Geralt back on the right path.

“Were you really able to get through to him before?” Eskel asked. “I remember last time, how upset you were.”

He’d been absolutely hysterical, and probably would be this time too, if they decided to try, but again, it was a sacrifice he wanted to make. He had to make.

“I was able to feel some of his emotions,” he explained. “I think he was able to feel mine.”

Jaskier shuddered when he remembered that transfer, how potent those emotions had been, and how devastatingly painful.

“Would that be enough to bring him back?” Triss questioned.

It almost certainly wouldn’t be, but her voice gave him an idea.

“What about that spell you did the first day we started looking for Geralt?” Jaskier turned to her. “It was to strengthen the connection, right? What if we did that again? Since we’re both conscious this time, it might work well enough to actually get a real message across.”

He didn’t know anything about magic. He very well might be suggesting something completely impossible, and if Triss didn’t want to do it, then there would be nothing any of the others could do to take her place.

“We did that before you’d bound yourself to him,” she pointed out.

“But wouldn’t that make the connection even stronger then?”

“Yes, and it might stay that way.”

“Oh.”

It was no secret that Jaskier was being eaten alive by his guilt about hurting Geralt through the connection he’d placed. To increase that pain would be unthinkable, but did they have any other option?

“To what spell are you referring?” Nenneke chimed in. “What process did you go through?” They’d told her about the connection between Geralt and Jaskier, but apparently not the specifics of how it came about.

Triss took her time explaining in great detail to Nenneke, who nodded as if she understood perfectly, which she probably did despite most of it going over Jaskier’s head. Instead of trying to understand, he waited patiently for Triss to stop talking so he could learn what Nenneke was thinking. He couldn’t read her expression.

“Do you think it could work?”

She didn’t answer at first, and they all sat in tense anticipation for a couple of very long moments before she finally spoke. “I’m not sure,” she decided. “But it’s the best plan we’ve got. I think it would be foolish not to try.”

Chapter Text

Geralt sprinted full tilt through the woods, his senses on high alert to everything around him. The sounds of the woodland creatures fleeing to clear out of his path, the steady, rhythmic pounding of his feet against the ground.

Why hadn’t he done this sooner?

He’d been too caught up in the details, and in his fears. He’d worried Nenneke had been lying about not taking any measures to keep him here. He worried there were traps lying in wait, but the farther he ran, the smaller those worries became. His ears ought to be almost totally filled by the sounds of his breaths and his pounding steps, but those were a distant background to everything else going around in these woods. Geralt could hear everything, from the sound of a bear splashing in the river to the east, to the hive of bees he’d run past in a few moments. The forest was alive with sound, and Geralt felt alive with it.

The more rational fear of being out in the wilderness without his weapons or gear was absent though. Even unarmed, Geralt doubted anything he encountered would be able to put up much of a fight. And with his senses so attuned to everything around him, he didn’t think it would be possible to stumble upon something dangerous by accident.

He was the most dangerous thing in these woods.

This realization only spurred him to run faster, the ground solid beneath his feet. He could already feel his boots starting to protest against what he was asking of them. He also knew he would be able to run just as well without them. Maybe better. He should’ve done this sooner.

Geralt had no idea where he was going—no idea where he could go that someone might take him in—but he didn’t stop running for a long while. He was nearly all the way down the mountain by the time he stopped. He could have kept going for who knew how long, but his throat was dry, and he wanted to stop and think for a moment. The Keep was far enough away now, there was no way anyone would catch up to him in the time it took to quench his thirst.

There was a lovely little creek here, an offshoot of the Gwenllech, and he knew from experience that the water which ran down these mountains was some of the most refreshing on the entire Continent.

He took deep gulps of the fresh spring water, and realized for the first time that he really was free. How long had it been since Delacroix had poisoned and captured him? How long had they held him at Kaer Morhen? The real question was, how long had he spent letting them keep him there when he didn’t have to? He tried not to dwell on it, worried it might ruin the high he was feeling at finally being on his own.

He tried not to dwell on anything, in fact, not where he was going, or what the people he’d left behind would do when they realized he was gone. Nenneke said they’d agreed to not try and keep him at Kaer Morhen against his will, but he doubted they’d be happy he left. He didn’t think about what he would do tomorrow, or even later this afternoon. All he thought about was how nice the fresh air felt, and how refreshing the cool water was.

Geralt took his time at the creek. He drank as much water as he could hold, unsure when he’d stop next, and washed the sweat from his face. Then he took his boots off and examined them. Sure enough, he’d worn holes through both soles. He walked them back to the main path he’d been running on and set them out in plain view, underneath one of the towering evergreens.

He ought to get them resoled, but that would involve going into a town and speaking with someone, and anyway he didn’t have any money. He doubted anyone would want to hire an unarmed Witcher, especially one who didn’t even have boots to wear. More importantly, did he even need them anymore? The skin on the bottoms of his feet was thick and tough. There were no blisters, although if he’d run for so long in torn up boots before his feet would have no doubt ended up a bloody mess of torn up flesh. It didn’t seem like he needed them at all anymore.

Maybe that was the answer.

What was the point in trying to go back into a town at all, if he could survive on his own? He’d felt more monster than human for years; now that he no longer had Jaskier, and the other Witchers to keep him grounded in his humanity, what was stopping him from just letting go? Giving up and giving into his monstrous nature? Viscardi had seen some value in it—otherwise why would he have gone through so much trouble to draw it out of him—maybe this was how he was supposed to exist now.

It certainly seemed easier.

He returned to the creek and knelt to take a few more drinks, thinking about what he would do next. He wouldn’t have any trouble catching a rabbit, or some other fare to eat, and he was more than capable of making a fire for himself, even without any flint. He could just run until he was hungry, eat until he was full, and then sleep until he woke. There were worse ways to live, Geralt could see now. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Geralt decided he would keep running south, and then stood up, but before he could move, he was overtaken by a wave of dizziness, which forced him to kneel to keep himself steady. He’d seen this happen every once in a while to Jaskier, or one of the other humans he’d used to spend time with when they’d stood up too quickly, but never once had it happened to him.

He tried to brush it off as a fluke thing, but when he tried to stand for a second time he was met with the same result, this time paired with a white hot pain running across his skin.

“Geralt.”

It sounded like someone was speaking right next to him, but he couldn’t turn his head to look, too incapacitated by the dizziness and the pain.

“Geralt please. You have to listen. I’m begging you, please listen.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier felt incredible.

There was a cool breeze on his cheeks, the scent of fresh air in his nose, and the most incredible of all, a deep, innate strength he’d ever experienced before. Was this what it felt like to be Geralt? To be free?

He had spent so long trapped not only by the walls of the Keep, but also by the new limitations of his body, he’d forgotten what it was like to be standing out in the fresh air, the entire day ahead of him, and the ability to do anything he chose. He almost let the good feelings overtake him. It would be so easy to just melt into them, to let himself be absorbed by Geralt’s consciousness, and kept far away from the pain he could never escape.

Even now he hadn’t escaped it completely though. The vast majority of his pain had evaporated into the fresh, cool air, but a bit of it remained. This might be the only thing tethering him to his mission. That and the reminder of who was bearing the rest of his pain now that it had been momentarily lifted off of his shoulders.

“Geralt.”

He reached out with his mind. Before he had been such a mess. The connection had been forged through his own, agonizing pain. Today though it was bolstered by magic. It was almost too easy to reach out to his Witcher with his mind. Unfortunately, he had no way to control whether or not he would respond.

“Geralt please. You have to listen. I’m begging you, please listen.”

Nothing.

He felt earth under his bare feet. One hand rested on the ground, nestled in a carpet of soft grass. He shouldn’t be able to feel it at all. That hand had been badly burned. The nerves had been damaged deeply and irreparably; he shouldn’t be able to feel the delicate softness of each blade of grass, but this wasn’t his hand. It was Geralt’s.

“Geralt. All I’m asking is that you listen,” he cast the thought out into the void of their connection. “I want to explain things to you. They’ve kept us apart, but they can’t hear what we say here. I’ll tell you everything.”

Again, he was met with no response. Not ready to give up, but not convinced that pleading would be the thing to get through to Geralt, Jaskier waited. While he did, his mind wandered back in time, to the Geralt he’d known before any of this had happened.

He thought all the way back to when they’d first met, at the inn in Posada. Jaskier had just been a kid, and Geralt had gotten his attention as soon as he’d walked in, before Jaskier even realized who he was. He felt that same captivation, and admiration now, and then the memory shifted forward.

He thought about all the times Geralt had swooped in and saved him, usually from trouble he’d gotten into all on his own. Nevertheless, Geralt always made sure he got out okay.

The memories were coming faster now, flowing through the connection without Jaskier’s permission. It was like a dam had broken. Now he and Geralt both got to witness the flood.

Flashes of Geralt in battle showed up in the memories, of course, but so much more often the moments that stuck in Jaskier’s mind were the ones that took place far from the battlefield.

Geralt sitting and carefully measuring out ingredients for his elixirs, or mending a hole in one of his shirts, focused entirely on the delicate task. Geralt washing his hair in the river, the white shining so bright in the sunlight that he looked other worldly in his beauty. Geralt sitting across the tavern while Jaskier sang, brooding in his corner until Jaskier caught his eye and a flash of joy appeared behind his stoic mask.

And each memory was accompanied by a whole host of emotions. Admiration, happiness, gratitude, awe, but most of all love. Love for the things he did, and how he did them, and for all of the complex thoughts that went into each of his actions. Anyone who considered him just a simple Witcher was so wholly mistaken. Anyone who refused to see the value in him, and chose to fear him instead of adore him the way Jaskier did was a fool.

Jaskier’s memories seemed to go on for years. They might have, if not for Geralt’s response.

If Jaskier’s offering to him was the flood of a breaking dam, Geralt’s was a single raindrop. One solitary memory, not shining like Jaskier’s, but dark and shadowy.

They were in Delacroix’s lair. Geralt was strapped to the bed, as he had been for an eternity beforehand. There at his side was Jaskier.

Jaskier was taken aback by his own appearance in the memory. He looked half dead. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes were bloodshot with dark circles ringing them, and his face was so pallid it looked gray. There was a determination in his eyes though, and he watched himself pull the dagger from his boot, and free Geralt from the straps keeping him tied to the bed.

Geralt’s singular recollection dropped onto the lake of Jaskier’s memories and emotions, and from there, it began to create ripples. He felt Geralt’s hatred, and his fear. At first it was centered on Delacroix, but it was all consuming. Everything the mage touched, and then on and on, further and further until everything Jaskier saw was soaked in a red haze. Eskel, Triss, even himself. Then he felt as it spread out from the memory and into the things around it.

His fear of Vesemir, of the Keep, even the nagging fear that Nenneke wasn’t really on his side. Jaskier struggled to stop these memories before they picked up speed like his own had. Before everything was saturated with hatred and fear.

Jaskier located the one memory he had which might explain to Geralt that he didn’t need to be afraid, and he focused on casting it out as clearly as possible.

He made sure to project his emotions out as strongly as he could along with the images, knowing they were the thing that would get through to him. It was the moment before everything had gone wrong. He heard his own croaking voice in his memory. ““Geralt. You have to help. The curse.” But he wasn’t the focus. What came next was the important part.

Jaskier focused on the deep, fundamental, unshakeable love he felt for Geralt before he cast Igni, and covered his body in burns.

And then the love he felt for him after, accompanied by fear, and confusion, and pain, but still as strong as ever.

Jaskier didn’t know what he expected in response. He wasn’t sure what to hope for. Another memory? A wave of that horrible anger Geralt had cast on him the first time he’d tried to communicate like this? He had no idea.

What he didn’t expect was seven words, heard as clearly as if someone was standing next to him and saying them directly into his good ear.

“I want to speak with you. Alone.”

Chapter Text

Geralt was determined to get answers. And he wanted them from Jaskier.

He was more confused than ever after what Jaskier had shown him, but for the first time since Delacroix, he got the distinct impression that he was not being lied to. Every other interaction, even with Nenneke, was woven with doubt, and fear. He had no idea what the things Jaskier showed him meant. He had no idea if Jaskier was still the man he had once known, but he was confident he was telling the truth.

It was time to see where that confidence would get him.

From the start, the circumstances seemed bent on proving to him this was a bad idea. The walk back to Kaer Morhen was not a pleasant one. The pain he’d felt during the vision he’d shared with Jaskier didn’t retreat back to its usual levels. His body was still as capable and strong as it had been before, but each movement incited a burning pain.

He didn’t want to think about the implications. He didn’t want to consider what connections might lie within this pain, and the vision Jaskier had shown him. The one of Geralt engulfing his body in flames.

Despite the pain though, he took his time. Before he’d been running, but now he walked at a slow, human pace. He wanted to give them time to prepare for his arrival, and arrange the conditions Geralt had set. If there was anybody present but Jaskier he was determined to turn around and walk out without saying a word.

His slower pace also allowed for him to decide to back out long before he ever got that far.

***

The only people left in the keep were Jaskier and Nenneke.

Geralt had specified that he see Jaskier completely alone, and after an exhausting argument, Jaskier and Nenneke convinced the others that the best thing they could do to help—the only thing they could do—was leave the keep completely.

Jaskier had tried to convince them that Nenneke should go too. He was worried this breach of their agreement would result in Geralt taking his offer back, and Jaskier had to speak with him. He had the distinct impression that this was his last chance. If he messed this up, he feared Geralt would return to the woods, and Jaskier might never see him again. He didn’t want to find out whether this gut feeling was accurate.

He couldn’t be left alone though. After all of this time, and all of the healing Triss and Nenneke had helped him achieve, he was still too weak to be left to his own devices. They would just have to count on him making an exception for Nenneke. She would leave when Geralt arrived. Until then, all the two of them could do was wait, and hope Geralt followed through on his end of the deal.

“Can you tell?” Nenneke broke the silence. “Does the connection give you any sort of information about whether or not he’s getting closer?”

Jaskier shut his eyes, and focused on the tug in his chest. It was definitely still there, but it didn’t feel any stronger than before.

“I don’t think so,” he told her. “Maybe when he gets a little closer.”

He must be far though, or taking his time, because they waited for hours—much longer than the time he’d spent running away.

They spent most of that time in silence. Nenneke still made Jaskier do all of his usual care tasks for the day. She offered to let him skip his exercises to save his energy for the conversation, but he declined. Any distraction was welcome.

Few came though, and by the time the sun set, Jaskier and Nenneke were both avoiding stating the obvious.

“So do you think he?” Jaskier asked, unable to speak the words out loud, lest he somehow will them into existence. “It’s just he didn’t spend this much time before.” Jaskier trailed off.

“Today, you single-handedly made more progress with Geralt than Vesemir, Eskel, Triss, and I have in his entire time here,” Nenneke told him. “Whether he comes or not, he considered it, and that is more than anyone else has gotten from him.”

“But if he doesn’t come, it’s all for nothing,” Jaskier pointed out.

Geralt would disappear completely, he was sure of it. This might be the first real progress. It could also very well be their last.

“And the sun is already down.” Tears welled in Jaskier’s eyes. How long would they wait before Nenneke gave up and told him to sleep? She’d have to drug him. If Geralt was out there, Jaskier was going to be here, awake, and willing him to appear. He didn’t care if that meant he never slept again. All he cared about was Geralt.

“Give him some time,” Nenneke encouraged. “He never specified when he would be here. It’s possible he’s just taking his time.”

“How much time?” He didn’t care that he sounded like a petulant child. He already knew Nenneke had no idea, and no amount of desperation on his part would change that.

“This is a big step,” she replied. “It might take him a little while to make the journey.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t want to come into the keep.” Jaskier's mind was already spiraling to other possibilities to try and placate the anxiety that all of his hope earlier had been for nothing. “Maybe he’s wanting me to go meet him. He might not know I’m hurt. If I could get outsi—”

“You aren’t in any condition to move,” Nenneke reminded him as gently as possible.

It still stung, and the tears that had been welling in his eyes spilled over and rolled down his cheeks.

“If he hasn’t come to us by midday, then we’ll call the others back and maybe try and figure out how to get you to Geralt.” She didn’t sound hopeful.

Midday? That might as well be a lifetime away. How could he be expected to wait until midday?

This last decree from Nenneke was his final straw. One too many injustices; Jaskier felt the sobs forming in his chest now, blossoming and readying themselves to break free, violently and painfully most likely, but not more painful than the emotional hurt today had inflicted.

Before he could give into the sobbing though, both he and Nenneke were stopped short by a sound outside the door.

And then three loud knocks.

Chapter Text

Geralt knew from the moment he stepped into the keep that Jaskier had not held up his side of their deal. He wasn’t alone; he and Nenneke were together. Planning an ambush? Setting a trap? Hard to say, but knew he’d been lied to.

What Geralt didn’t know was why he kept walking.

He had steeled himself, promising that he would only speak with him if there was complete transparency between them. Jaskier had failed on the most basic level, yet Geralt kept walking. Was it curiosity that drove him up the stairs? Simply a desire to know more about what was going on? It didn’t make sense. He didn’t want to be here doing this. He wanted to be by himself out in the woods where he didn’t have to worry so much about horrible human concepts like truth, and blame.

And still he kept walking.

All the way up to a side of the keep he hadn’t visited since before everything with Delacroix happened. Down the hall, following the sounds of life behind the big wooden door where he stopped short. They were speaking.

Immediately Geralt’s mind jumped to paranoia. They knew he was here. They were feeding him lies so they would be better able to manipulate their conversation. It took considerable effort from the small rational part of his brain to keep him from turning on his heel and going back out into the woods.

There was no way they could have heard him coming. He moved in complete silence now, and their human ears were no match for even something like Eskel or Vesemir’s.

But what if they had set up a spell to notify them when he entered the keep?

He would’ve sensed that though. As part of her bid for his trust, Nenneke had granted him back his Witcher’s Medallion, more proof that their plan wouldn’t center on trapping him with hidden spells.

But anything could be part of their long game. Geralt needed to be two steps ahead of them, yet still he had the distinct feeling he was lagging behind. And the only way to close that gap, he decided, was to get more information.

He turned his ear toward the door.

“But if he doesn’t come, it’s all for nothing,” Jaskier said. That certainly made it sound like they had some sort of plan in place. Nothing about what it might be though.

“And the sun is already down.” Jaskier sounded genuinely upset, and Geralt found himself leaning in closer to the door, even though he could already hear perfectly fine from where he stood.

“Give him some time. He never specified when he would be here. It’s possible he’s just taking his time.” That was Nenneke, and she sounded calm. Although Nenneke always sounded calm.

After that, they went back and forth a bit, debating about the time. The next thing to really catch his attention came from Jaskier, who by now was sounding frantic. What did he have riding on this? What stakes could make him so upset?

“Maybe he’s wanting me to go meet him. He might not know I’m hurt. If I could get outsi—”

So he was hurt. Rationally, Geralt had known this. He had seen the memory, and he’d been there when it happened. He’d been the one to do it. He hadn’t considered that Jaskier, being human, would take more time to heal. For the first time the pit in his stomach shifted from fear and anxiety, to guilt.

“You aren’t in any condition to move. If he hasn’t come to us by midday, then we’ll call the others back and maybe try and figure out how to get you to Geralt.”

That brought Geralt back to what mattered—why he was here. He wanted answers, and the others would be back tomorrow. He still wished to talk to Jaskier alone, but if what they said was true, this was his only chance. Anyway, if it came to it, neither he nor Nenneke would prove a challenge for him.

He raised his hand, and knocked three times on the door.

“Come in,” Jaskier called in a nervous, strangled voice.

Geralt tensed, wanting to be prepared for whatever waited on the other side, and opened the door.

What he found was simultaneously exactly what he could have deduced, while also being startling, shocking, and upsetting. The memory Jaskier had presented him didn’t come close to revealing the severity of his injuries. Most of his body was covered with blankets or clothing, but the skin that Geralt could see was a mess of scars, and burns which had yet to heal. It almost appeared melted in places. He looked unrecognizable to that famous bard he had known a lifetime ago, but Geralt could never mistake those bright blue eyes which had somehow escaped the burns intact. Escaped him.

His own pain flared when he stepped inside, but compared to what he saw on Jaskier it was hardly a twinge. He hadn’t realized…

He shook himself. This wasn’t why he was here. He was here for answers. Anyway, the emotions seeing Jaskier had evoked might very well be another part of their plan to subdue him again. He needed to stay focused. He needed to unravel the lies he’d been told. He needed to figure out the curse they had put on him. And most importantly he had to learn why?

Why had they done this all to him? Especially when it was clearly done with a great cost.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed. The emotions on his face were indiscernible. Geralt made sure to keep any emotions off his own face completely. “You came.”

“You didn’t keep your side of the agreement,” he growled, looking between Nenneke and Jaskier.

“I tried. I mean, I wanted to but—”

Nenneke cut in. “I’m sure you can see, Jaskier is in no condition to be left to his own devices. I’m only here to tend to him. Nothing else.”

“I’ll only speak to him alone,” Geralt reminded them. “I haven’t changed my mind.” It was important he didn’t let them think he was willing to cater to them. He wasn’t. He did want answers though, and having Nenneke in the keep was certainly better than any of the others.

“I’ll go wait in my quarters,” she conceded. “I trust you’ll come get me when you’re finished. I don’t want you leaving him to fend for himself.”

Geralt gave her a single, solemn nod and she stood.

“I’ll leave you to your conversation then,” Nenneke said. “I think you’ll find there’s a lot to discuss.”

Chapter Text

Hey, y’all. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry—I don’t know when I’ll be updating again. I had all these plans for finishing stuff and writing Christmas fics, and that was already maybe too ambitious anyway. But now my physical health has taken a dip, and my mental health has absolutely crashed bc of it, and I’m supposed to be preparing for an overseas move. I’m rambling now, but yeah. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be back eventually, im just not sure if it’ll be tomorrow or June. I’m sorry, I love you all so much and I love these stories but I just can’t right now.

Chapter Text

A silence settled over the room after Nenneke left.

For months Jaskier had been thinking about what he was going to say to Geralt when they finally saw each other again, but now that the moment had arrived, he had nothing.

Geralt stood against the back wall, the finer details of his face dimmed by the evening shadow. He was the one to break the silence.

“Why did you show me those things?” His voice betrayed no feeling, as cold and emotionless as people had always claimed he was.

“I needed you to know I still love you,” Jaskier replied past the lump in his throat.

“Hmm.”

He didn’t believe him.

“What will it take to convince you?” he asked.

Geralt responded with a question of his own.

“Why did you curse me?”

Jaskier dropped his gaze. That was a question he had every right to ask, but Jaskier wasn’t sure his answer would be enough to convince him. He wasn’t sure of anything with Geralt anymore.

“We never meant for it to hurt you,” he began, racking his brain for a way to explain it that would get Geralt on his side. The Witcher interrupted before he could continue.

“So you admit that you cursed me?”

Jaskier decided honesty was the only way forward.

“Yes.” He waited to see if Geralt would turn around and leave. He didn’t. “It was the only way to find you. Triss tried other locating spells but you were hidden too deeply. She said she could strengthen the connection we already had with each other, but it would be painful.” He shuddered, remembering just how painful it had been. “I thought it would be worth it if it helped us to find you.”

“I don’t follow.” Geralt’s voice was gruff. Jaskier worried he was losing patience. If he decided to leave, there would be precious little Jask could do to stop him. Maybe cry. “You knew where I was. You were there.”

Jaskier shook his head, wincing when it pulled at the still fragile healing skin. “We didn’t know, I swear. Not until the day we come to get you.”

“You were there,” he insisted, looking truly agitated for the first time. “I felt you there, all through the trial. You and Eskel both.”

He shook his head faster, ignoring the pain, desperate for Geralt to understand. “That was just the effect of the curse.”

Jaskier hadn’t been certain whether Geralt could feel him when he’d been sucked into his consciousness, during all of those torturous episodes throughout the trials. Knowing he’d felt Jaskier there with him, and Eskel too, made him want to break down crying. If they had known, would they have been able to reach him? Let him know they were coming to save him? That they loved him? He’d figured it out eventually, but what would’ve happened if he had known that from the beginning? Maybe if they had, Geralt wouldn’t be so confused right now. Maybe they’d have been able to avoid this.

“It was helping us find you, showing me where you were, what you were feeling. I didn’t know it would go both ways.”

Geralt didn’t look convinced.

“We weren’t there until the day we rescued you. I swear it.”

This was met with a long, agonizing silence while Geralt tried to work through this new information. Jaskier still wasn’t sure he believed any of it.

“Why haven’t you lifted it?” Geralt finally broke the silence. “If you were using it to find me, it’s served its purpose. Why do I still hurt?” For the first time, his voice betrayed some of that pain.

Jaskier thought back to the pain of the burns Geralt had inflicted. If he’d been thinking they’d inflicted that pain right back onto him, of course he would be wary. If he would just see reason.

“Feels a lot like I’m being kept on a leash.”

“We wanted to lift it as soon as we got to you, but then…” he trailed off. Then everything had gone up in flames.

“You’ve had plenty of time since then,” he pointed out, “locked in that damned dungeon. Why—”

“I never wanted them to put you in the dungeon. You have to know that.” It wasn’t the most important thing right now, but Jaskier found himself desperate for him to know. “I wanted to talk to you, but after what happened at the mage’s lair, the others—”

“Why haven’t you lifted the curse?” he pressed.

“Because we can’t,” Jaskier admitted, letting his gaze drop. “Only you can.”

Geralt straightened up at this. “How?” he asked. “Tell me how. Then I can go.”

“Don’t go, please.”

“How?”

Jaskier sighed. If letting Geralt leave was part of breaking the curse, if it was the only way to spare him from more pain, Jaskier would tell him. He wished he didn’t have to choose.

“An embrace,” he began. The phrase true love’s kiss ran through his head. There was a time when a kiss from Geralt was the best thing Jaskier could imagine—the only thing he wanted. If only things were still so simple. “In order for the connection to break it has to be reignited.”

Triss had explained it to him. It was particularly cruel, since the curse was made well known by being forced upon women whose husbands had gone to battle. It could not be reversed if the husband died, even if she could embrace him in death. It wasn’t enough to be reunited, the love must be there.

“That’s why I showed you those things,” Jaskier repeated. “I wanted you to know how much I still love you.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t what happened next.

Geralt approached him, crossing the room in a few long strides until his face was only inches from Jaskier’s. He didn’t anticipate the tenderness with which Geralt would hold his face. No matter how gentle it was though, and how badly Jaskier wanted this—had wanted this for years—it still hurt against his damaged skin. He pressed his lips to Jaskier’s no emotion behind the action. Both of them winced at the pain, and at the disappointment. The connection remained, and the pain lingered.

“Hmm.” Geralt pulled back, his expression downright icy as Jaskier felt hot tears well in his eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

Chapter Text

Geralt knew Nenneke was waiting for him in the entry hall. He could hear her from across the keep.

It would be easy enough to avoid her. He could have left through any other exit. Hell, he could’ve jumped out of a window if he wanted to, but whether by conscious or unconscious choice, he found his feet carrying him downstairs.

It could be that he wanted another person to be upset with, someone not so fragile at which he could justify getting out some of his anger . He might want to remind her once again of how she’d violated the terms of their agreement, and further justify never coming back to this damned, haunted place.

Most likely though, it was the scent of hot food which had caught his attention as soon as he left Jaskier’s room. He didn’t need to eat. He would probably be able to go for days if he wanted to, but perhaps whatever little bit of humanity that may remain in him would always crave the comforts of a hot meal.

Nenneke waited in front of the door, as if she might be able to keep him from passing through it with her old, frail body. As if she could stop him.

“I made you a meal.” She held out the still steaming plate to him. “To give you strength for your journey.”

“You know as well as I do that I have no shortage of strength these days,” he replied. “What’s this really for? Another trick to get me to stay? Have you poisoned it? Are you going to drag me back down to the dungeon?”

“You know as well as I do that your senses are sensitive enough to tell if I had,” she replied. “And I’ll remind you that the first thing I did upon arriving was release you from that dungeon. If you want to be angry with me, fine, but at least let your anger be just.”

It was all true, but Geralt lifted the plate up to his nose just for good measure.

“Nobody wants to hurt you, Geralt,” she reminded him.

“Hmm.”

“Now are you going to eat standing up, or can I interest you in a trip to the dining hall?”

As tempting as it was to eat the meal with his hands here by the door, and then walk out the door, he allowed Nenneke to lead him through his own home—what used to be his home—to a table in the dining hall, where more food sat, along with a jug of White Gull.

“Do you intend to get me drunk?” he asked, peeking into the jug.

“I’m not sure if you can get drunk anymore,” she replied. “But you’re welcome to try. I just wanted to make you feel at home, and taken care of.”

“You wanted to bring me here so you can convince me of something.”

“I won’t deny that,” Nenneke admitted. “But can I not do both?”

Geralt gave another noncommittal hum, and then took a bite of the food. It was delicious, and still warm. He would give her credit for that, but he remained on guard. He didn’t want to be tricked into anything. He knew Nenneke was weaker, and had no special talents with magic, but she had her ways. She’d been kind to him when he’d been staying here. It was kindness he had received against his will, but kindness nonetheless.

“Out with it then,” he said after his second bite. “Whatever you want to pitch me, get on with it.”

This earned him a half smile.

“You’ve always been stubborn.”

Geralt decided he was done speaking. If she wanted to speak to him then so be it, but he had stayed for the food, and intended to enjoy it.

“So you really plan on leaving, just like that? One failed attempt and you’re gone?”

“How do you know it failed?” he replied, immediately breaking his promise to himself in his confusion.

“I can still see it in your eyes,” she answered. “The pain. His pain.”

Geralt grunted, putting another mouthful of meat and potatoes into his mouth, filling it sufficiently to keep him quiet for another few moments, not wanting to give her the satisfaction.

“It’s not going to go away, you know,” she continued when he didn’t respond. “If you leave here, that pain is going to follow you for the rest of his life.”

“He’ll heal,” Geralt muttered, first annoyed, and then surprised when she shook her head.

“Triss has done what she can, but there are limits to what her healing magic can do. He’s made an incredible recovery so far, and he may yet regain some of his mobility. Some of his scars may fade, but he will be in pain for the rest of his life. Both of you will.”

Geralt dropped his eyes and kept eating, unsure of what to do with this information.

“Unless you stay.”

Okay, he’d had enough of this. There was manipulation, and then there were downright lies. If the mage couldn’t fix him, then what the fuck did Nenneke expect him to do? She seemed to sense this was where his mind had gone, or maybe the scowl on his face had grown a bit more pronounced, because she went on.

“The connection you two share,” she said. “The curse. Triss and Vesemir both believe that it could hold the key to healing him. You may be able to transfer some of your healing through to him.”

“Bullshit.” More lies.

“Most likely, yes,” Nenneke agreed, once again surprising him. “But if you leave now, we’ll never know, and that boy will never know peace,” she warned. “For more reasons than one.”

Geralt had finished eating by the end of her speech, and he was tempted to set down his fork and walk right out of the keep, away from the people manipulating him, from his confusion, from everything. Except his pain. Their pain.

“I’ll leave you to decide.” Nenneke stood up. “It’s time I go check on Jaskier.”

Geralt stood as well, cursing himself for waiting to let her finish what she had to say.

“The bed in your old room has been made up,” she told him. “The choice is yours.”

Chapter Text

Geralt stayed down in the dining hall for a long while. He sat at the table, unmoving except to bring his cup to his lips. He hadn’t touched the White Gull until Nenneke left, and had considered leaving it alone completely, but her comment nagged at the back of his mind.

Could he even get drunk anymore? Was this just one more aspect of humanity he had left behind?

He poured himself another cupful, and before he knew it he’d drunk half of the jug. It was hard to tell whether the slight buzz he felt was real, or just his brain doing what it thought it ought to—what it had done in the past.

Suddenly very annoyed, with the drink and with himself, he stood up. Leaving the White Gull but taking his plate, he left the dining hall and went to the kitchens. He was still hungry, yet another thing he was having to get used to. So far he had survived well enough of the rations he’d been given here, full if not generous portions, but he never felt completely satisfied. Geralt figured if he ate as much as his body would like to, he’d find it was much more than he’d eaten before.

Already the little bit of a buzz, real or imagined, was gone. There was plentiful food in the kitchen though, and he fixed himself another plate, this one just of cold pieces of meat, bread, and cheese.

He ate it standing up, trying hard not to think about what Nenneke had said to him, but unable to get his mind to focus on anything else.

If only the damned Gull had done its job, he thought to himself.

No doubt he could’ve stayed there, wandering the kitchen and eating until morning, but something in the pantry caught his eye.

Ah, yes, if anything could get him drunk it was this. He took the jug up to his room with him. He would stay for tonight. If nothing else to test his theory.

***

Part of him didn’t expect the Black Gull to do anything, and after the first shot it didn’t. He took the second and third in such quick succession that he didn’t have time to gauge how they affected him.

They burned going down his throat, but it was a welcome sensation, satisfying like pressing on a bruise. It was a pain that was familiar, expected, and mild. More than anything though, it was his.

After the fourth shot, the burning sensation had spread from his throat to his skin. This might mean that it was working. It made sense that the more his mind was dulled, by drink or placebo, the less he would be able to resist the connection.

Geralt didn’t resist it at all. He welcomed this too. He took a fifth shot, letting it ignite him from the inside out. He flicked a flame from his finger, the sign easy to perform despite not having taken his elixirs in months. Did he even need them anymore? No, all he needed was more Gull. He drank a sixth.

Realizing then that the feeling wasn’t in his imagination, Geralt took himself to bed, knowing that’s where he wanted to end up. He brought the Gull with him.

By now he had lost track of how much he had drunk. All he knew was that he was glad it was working, and wished it would do even more.

The bed called to him though, dragging his body down to the mattress. He let it. Another drink.

The jug was nearly empty now. Geralt poured himself one more from the dregs, and lay down with it. Before he had the chance though, he was pulled into unconsciousness, the glass tipping out of his fingers and then shattering on the floor.

***

Geralt was a beast.

The White Wolf, finally a reality instead of just one of the many monikers he had never asked for.

He bounded through the woods, barefoot, the forest floor soft as a cushion underneath his feet. It was just as he’d imagined earlier. He’d let go of his humanity, and the weight it took off his shoulders was so significant he was sure if he tried to bound right into the air he would’ve been able to.

As it was, the woods were a blur around him, and when he looked down at his own body he found it was a blur too. Skin going to fur, nails going to claws. His teeth felt long and sharp in his mouth. He wanted to tear into something. He wanted to take advantage of this new body—this new life.

It wasn’t long before he got his wish.

A stag crossed his path, beautiful and majestic, fur glistening in the sunlight and antlers reaching toward the treetops. Geralt didn’t break his stride, tackling the animal and then ripping into it. He pulled out entrails, going for the meat, not caring about the blood pouring out of his mouth, over his hands, soaking into the ground.

The heart was still beating when Geralt got to it, pulling it free before bringing it up to his mouth as well, savoring the tenderness. It was divine. Unlike anything he’d eaten before. And he was so hungry.

Geralt let his eyes shut, lost in the ecstasy of the stag. He didn’t open them until the blood on his hands was cold, and his hunger was finally satiated, but when he did he was met with a jarring scene.

The stag was gone. In his place lay Jaskier. Not the man he’d seen earlier, but beautiful and glowing as he once had been. His face was perfect, untouched, although the death glaze over his eyes cast a shadow over their usually brilliant blue. The rest of his body though.

Entrails spilled from his belly, marks in his flesh from teeth and claws. Geralt’s teeth and claws. Ruined.

That was when he woke, drenched in sweat laying on the bed. He scrambled to get to the window. Glass crunched under his bare feet, and he was just able to wrench the window open before he vomited up all of the Black Gull, along with everything else he’d eaten in three horrendous, bilious heaves.

He half expected his vomit to be bright red on the ground far below, but no, the blood on his hands wasn’t nearly so easy to see.

Chapter Text

Geralt left his room in a hurry, still wearing the clothes he had fallen asleep in and leaving blood spots on the floor from the shallow glass cuts on the bottoms of his feet until they healed a few moments later. He had to get to Jaskier. He had to figure this out. Cure or no curse, friend or foe, it was clear now that he wasn’t going to know any peace until all of this business was resolved.

In his rush, he nearly ran over Nenneke, who was walking down the hall by Jaskier’s room, looking troubled.

“Oh, Geralt.” She looked startled, but not surprised to see him. “Sorry, I meant to come speak with you this morning, but Jaskier has needed all of my attention.”

“What? Why?” Geralt’s voice was rough, from the drinking and vomiting as much as it was from sleep.

Nenneke sighed. “His sleep was fitful all last night. He’s been running a low fever, so I expect that’s what did it. I thought he might finally be getting to sleep but then he started vomiting.” She shook her head, disappointed. “I know setbacks are to be expected in healing like this, but it’s always frustrating.”

Geralt’s stomach turned, and the pit of dread he felt there had nothing to do with the Gull. Just like he knew Jaskier’s problems didn’t stem from the fever. Everything at Viscardi’s aside—it was all still too confusing to touch—he knew this was nobody’s fault but his.

“Can I see him?”

Nenneke’s brow furrowed, and the creases on her forehead deepened. “I don’t know about that. He can be pretty excitable, and what he needs right now is rest.”

“I think I can help,” Geralt said.

Her eyebrows raised. It was rare that he saw Nenneke truly surprised. “I’m going to brew him some tea to help settle his stomach. I’m afraid that’s all I can do at the moment. If you can think of something better, be my guest.”

Geralt moved towards the door, but Nenneke put a hand on his chest, stopping him before he could open it.

“But if you make him feel worse, I swear to the gods.” It wasn’t an empty threat.

“I won’t,” he promised, although that wasn’t a promise he had any business making.

When he entered, he was shocked at how much worse Jaskier looked compared to yesterday. Then, he’d thought things couldn’t get any worse. He’d been taken aback by the injuries and the scarring, but at least Jaskier had seemed in relatively good spirits.

Today the contrast between the raw, pink, new skin, and the pallor of the rest of him was stark. The circles under his eyes were so dark it looked like he had been punched in the face, and his breaths were shallow and uneven.

Nenneke had made an effort to prop him up in bed, and now he sat slumped over, good arm curled around a basin which rested on the bed under his mouth. Nevertheless, he looked up when Geralt entered, and a shadow of something resembling happiness passed behind his eyes before once again being drowned out by exhaustion.

“Oh, it’s you.”

Geralt bristled, still unsure how to interact with him. “It’s me.”

“You were in my dream last night,” Jaskier told him.

“Oh?”

“Uh-huh,” he replied, his eyes shutting for a long moment before he continued. “Well, it was a wolf, really, but it was you,” he explained. “You know how dreams are.”

Geralt nodded, and Jaskier appeared to be trying to catch his breath. He put up one finger, indicating that he would continue once he was able.

“You don’t have to,” he stammered. “I don’t need you to.”

“I want to,” Jaskier assured him. “Just need a minute.”

Silence descended upon the room. Geralt waited.

“We were walking through the woods,” he finally began. “Forever it felt like. And there was nobody else there. No animals or anything.”

Without permission the image of the stag appeared in his mind, and his stomach turned again. Jaskier went green, but kept talking.

“You were starving,” he said. “The farther we went without seeing any other life, the more I knew I had to do something.”

He was so pale, and so exhausted, Geralt almost asked him to stop, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. His curiosity burned, even as Jaskier began to shiver.

“I started cutting off pieces to feed you. Fuck.”

Geralt watched, horrified, as he leaned over the basin and brought up a few meager mouthfuls of bile. He could hear the way his poor, weak heart fluttered with the effort. He wanted to help, but he feared anything he might do would just make things worse.

“Sorry,” Jaskier mumbled. “It’s not you.”

But it was him. All of this was him and that damned Gull. How had he been so foolish?

“I think you ought to go now.”

Geralt started, so distracted by Jaskier that he, impossibly, hadn’t heard her approach. To both of their surprise, Jaskier was the one to speak up.

“No, please,” he told her. “If he doesn’t want to.”

Nenneke turned to him. “Do you want to?”

Yes. He wanted to run away. From the boy in the bed, from the confusion scrambling all of his thoughts, from the sick feeling in his stomach.

Geralt shook his head. “I think I can help.” Then he surprised everyone, himself included, by walking over to the bedside and taking Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier’s was cold, sweaty, and limp in his. Geralt feared he would hurt him if he held too tightly.

Overwhelmed by everything—the boy beside him, Nenneke’s harsh eyes on his back, his own unintelligible, confusing thoughts—he shut his eyes and tried his best to focus. He knew how to meditate. He could do this. He focused on the connection.

Healing. What he needed was healing. So he shut out everything else, and focused on his own pains: the lingering ache in his head, the nausea in his stomach, and all of the other effects of the Gull he hadn’t quite managed to shake yet. His skin began to burn, but Geralt didn’t let this stop him. This meant it was working, right? The connection was getting stronger? He focused harder, and he didn’t open his eyes until he heard Nenneke sigh behind him. A wave of disappointment washed over him. It hadn’t worked. There was nothing he could do. He’d made things worse. But when he opened his eyes again, he realized it was a sigh of relief.

Jaskier was fast asleep, the slightest bit of pink on his pallid cheek, and the ghost of a contented smile on his face.

Chapter Text

Once they were sure Jaskier was really asleep—really alright, Geralt got up to leave the room. It was too confusing in here. His thoughts were bees buzzing around his head, disorienting and often stinging. He needed to get somewhere he could think.

“Where are you going?” Nenneke whispered, stepping between him and the door.

“I’m finished here,” he replied. “I did my job. He’s asleep.”

Nenneke looked at Jaskier, as if to verify his claim, and then back at Geralt. “I’d like to speak with you.”

“Nothing to say,” he grunted.

“You don’t have to say anything. I’ll talk for both of us.”

Annoyed, but unable to think of a good excuse to refuse, he let Nenneke lead him down the hall into an empty room, sitting down and motioning for him to do the same. Geralt refused, standing stiffly by the door. This didn’t stop Nenneke.

“I think we can both agree that you just made some significant progress,” she began.

“All I did was get him to sleep,” Geralt countered. “Probably just because I lessened his pain for a few minutes. That’s nothing new.”

He ignored how he’d felt the fever recede, attributed the respite from vomiting to just an effect of the overwhelming tiredness he was feeling. He ignored how his own hangover had disappeared as well.

“Regardless, you’ve shown that your presence is good for him,” Nenneke continued. “Does this mean you’ll stay?”

Geralt grunted. The idea of staying appealed to him in ways he didn’t understand. The idea of leaving, however, held a cold reality that made perfect sense to him. He couldn’t shake the dreams about the White Wolf though. Would that be what he became if he left? Would that really be such a bad thing? Jaskier’s comment about cutting off pieces to feed the wolf nagged at him, and he shoved them to the back of his mind.

“Whatever you believe Jaskier did to you, you’ve seen the consequences he’s faced. Do they seem fair? Even for a villain?”

Geralt thought about Viscardi, and anger flared in his core. There was no punishment cruel enough to make up for what he’d done. And Jaskier had been there. Geralt remembered that vividly. In what capacity though, he couldn’t say anymore. If he hadn’t been on Viscardi’s side…

“Some part of you wants him healed,” Nenneke reasoned. “Even if it’s only for your own comfort. You wouldn’t have stayed last night, wouldn’t have come to his room this morning, if you wanted to leave him to suffer.”

“What are you getting at?” he asked, annoyed.

All her reasoning was doing was make him more confused. He wished she would speak plainly or leave him alone. He hated the feeling that there were things going on which he didn’t understand. It made him feel uncomfortable, and vulnerable in a way that shouldn’t be possible anymore.

“My question is simple,” she told him. “Will you stay here and pursue healing for him? Or will you leave?”

Geralt’s mind continued to buzz uncomfortably.

“I’m done trying to convince you either way. I just need to know what you’re planning on doing.”

Jaskier’s sleep was starting to tug at Geralt as well. He very much wanted this conversation to end so he might get some rest himself.

“I’m staying.” The words escaped his mouth without reason or permission, but he let them stand. He could always change his mind.

Nenneke nodded solemnly. “Then I have one last question for you.”

“What?” He snapped, harsher than he meant to be. He needed to control his tongue. It was going to get him into trouble. A large part of him feared it already had.

“I’d like for the others to return. Eskel, Triss, and Vesemir.”

“No.” He didn’t have to think about that answer. Extending the benefit of the doubt to Jaskier, powerless and bedridden, was one thing. Allowing a mage and two Witchers who had—Geralt had absolutely no uncertainty about this—wounded and shut him in a dungeon, was a whole other thing entirely. “Absolutely not.”

“They’re the ones who are knowledgeable about the curse,” she replied. “If you want to stay and try to make progress on your own then so be it, but I won’t be any help to you. I have neither the skill nor the power to help you along.”

“I don’t care.”

She shocked him then, by standing up and approaching him, putting her hand on his cheek like she had used to do so many years ago. He’d been younger then. He had known who he was.

“Geralt,” she spoke, keeping her hand on his cheek, and holding his gaze. “I know you feel like you can’t trust these people, but you must know that you can trust me. When have I ever done anything to hurt you, here or anywhere else?”

He stood stiff, but didn’t push her hand away.

“I want to help you. I want to help Jaskier. Can you please trust that I can facilitate both of these things without putting you in harm’s way?”

“Fine,” he bristled, stepping back, breaking the spell of her warm, familiar hand on his face. “But I want them unarmed and in Dimeritium. And I retain the right to leave whenever I choose. No measures will be taken to keep me here. ”

“That’s fair.” She raised her hands in a sign of surrender. “I’ll see it done.”

“Hmm.” Geralt grunted, displeased and put on edge by this whole conversation. Yes, he had agreed to these things of his own free will, but he couldn’t help but feel like he’d been tricked. The all too familiar, sickening confusion was descending again, and Geralt needed to go somewhere he could think without fearing Nenneke would come find him and talk him into something else.

When he’d been in Jaskier’s room, the decision to help had been simple. Geralt could see the immediate problem he had caused by drinking the Black Gull, and he had figured a way to remedy it. Anything more complicated than that made his head spin, and incited that confused, defensive anger in him. If he didn’t know better, Geralt would call it fear.

He turned briskly, and left the room without another word.

Chapter Text

Geralt lay floating on his back in the large cavern underneath Kaer Morhen. He didn’t think Nenneke knew how to get down here, and Jaskier certainly couldn’t. Maybe now he could get some damn peace.

It was warm in the water, and quiet. He didn’t realize how tense his muscles had been until he let them finally release. How long had it been since he’d done so? Not during his previous stay at the keep, and certainly not when he’d been with Viscardi. How many months had passed with his muscles corded and strained? He hadn’t realized how uncomfortable it was until he’d gotten down here, and finally allowed himself to let his guard down.

A thought passed through his mind—it must feel nice for Jaskier to have him down in the hot spring too—but he pushed it aside. He had come here to get those types of thoughts out of his mind, to leave the miserable politics of the keep behind him.

So of course, they soon sought him out.

“Oh, sorry.” It was Eskel, reaching the bottom of the stone staircase and disturbing his already fragile tranquility. “I didn’t realize you were down here.”

“Yes you did.” Geralt moved so he was on his feet, and backed to the far edge of the pool. “Don’t lie.”

These caverns walls sent echoes like no other. Even if his senses weren’t as keen as Geralt’s, he certainly would’ve sensed his presence before he reached the bottom of the staircase.

“Fine.” Eskel raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, Dimeritium chain clinking as he did. “You caught me.”

“Already you’re leading with lies,” Geralt pointed out. “It’s like you don’t want me to trust you.” Which would be ideal, because Geralt didn’t intend to.

“Oh come on,” Eskel replied genially. “Just a little white lie, and only because I couldn’t think of any other way to break the ice,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to talk to you anymore.”
With that last sentence, all of the lightheartedness left his voice.

“I miss my brother,” Eskel added.

Geralt did too, but he worried neither of those brothers existed anymore. Maybe they never had.

Eskel walked over to one of the benches roughly hewn into the stone wall and sat down. He looked tired and unwell, no doubt a product of the Dimeritium. Geralt didn’t regret his decision to put him in chains.

“What did you come down here for?” Geralt wanted to get straight to the point. He hated being in conversations where he felt like he was missing half of what was really going on. If Eskel wanted something from him, he’d have to speak plainly, or Geralt might just choose not to listen entirely.

Eskel shrugged. “Nothing in particular. Like I said, I miss you, and I wanted to see you. I wish you were feeling better.”

‘Feeling better,’ what funny words to describe how Geralt felt, as if his confusion and pain were some flu he might get over if they gave him a warm bowl of soup.

“Did you miss me while you had me locked in the dungeon?” Geralt challenged.

Eskel didn’t take the bait though, just nodded sadly. “I hate that we did that to you.”

“Hmm.” He wasn’t convinced. “Everyone seems to, yet still you did it.”

“We were so afraid you would run away,” Eskel explained. “We did what it took to keep you here. We wanted to help you.”

“You hurt me.”

“You hurt Jaskier and Triss,” he countered.

A flare of anger flashed in him, but a part of him was relieved. This at least, he knew was true.

“We were all just doing what we thought we had to,” he continued. “I wish you would understand that.”

“You were there with Delacroix.” If he was going to make accusations, he might as well get it all out on the table.

Instead of refuting the claim, as Geralt suspected he couldn’t, he replied with a question of his own.

“How much have they told you about the spell that binds you and Jaskier?”

“Enough.”

Eskel shook his head. “I don’t think they have.”

“I know it enables me to share his pain, and I knew he felt mine, but that doesn’t explain how you were there. I felt you with me, both of you, while I went through the Trial. I hold no magical connection to you.”

Eskel shook his head again, but this time with a knowing look on his face, as if he’d anticipated this line of reasoning.

“Jaskier didn’t only share your pain,” he added. “He was able to see through your eyes. That’s how we were able to find you. He saw where you were. He saw Delacroix.”

He remained stony faced and silent.

“So it would only make sense that it went the other way.”

Geralt’s silence didn’t hamper Eskel in the slightest.

“You know, I was hoping you’d be able to feel me there with you. As soon as Jaskier described what he felt the first time, I knew exactly what he was doing to you. It killed me to think of you going through the Trials without me by your side.”

Without his permission, Geralt’s mind flashed back to the Trials. His first ones, all the way back when he’d been just a child. The second round, which leeched the color from his hair and the hope from his body and soul. And these final ones. They had been the most painful of all. It was cruel and unfair that Viscardi had done that to him. But then again, wasn’t it cruel and unfair that it had been done in the first place?

“Do you remember your second round?” Eskel said, as if reading his mind.

Before he realized what he was doing, Geralt found himself nodding.

“I stuck right there by your side the whole time. Do you remember how I brought you those cool cloths when the fever hit? Wrapped you in a blanket and kept the fire burning when the chills began?”
Geralt did remember. Through the haze of trauma and pain, he remembered flashes from all three rounds, and in all of those flashes was Eskel, there at his side in one capacity or another.

“I didn’t leave your side for a minute the entire time. Didn’t sleep a wink. I cleaned up the vomit and the blood, did my best to keep you clean and as comfortable as possible. I held your hand.”

“What are you getting at?” Geralt forced himself not to be pulled back into those agonizing memories.

“Do you remember feeling me hold your hand this time? Wipe your face? Wrap you in blankets?”

Geralt didn’t reply. They both knew the answer was no.

“If I was there at your side again this time. Even if I had been working with Delacroix, do you think after what we had been through together, I would’ve been able to help but do the same?”

Chapter Text

Jaskier lay in bed, floating in that place between waking and sleep. It was nice. His pain wasn’t too bad today, considering how awful he had felt last night and early this morning. Until Geralt had come.

That was the thing that felt nicest of all.

Geralt had been here. He hadn’t been angry. He had held his hand and taken away his pain. He had sat with him until he fell asleep.

It was the kind of thing Jaskier had dreamed of even before all of this had happened. It gave him hope that his old Witcher was still in there. That made him feel better than anything.

And in another turn of good fortune, the others had returned. Only Triss and Vesemir had come to see him so far, but he was sure Eskel would appear soon enough.

He dozed with these thoughts in his head, and maybe that was why he kept thinking he heard Geralt and Eskel speaking in low tones next to his bed. Every time he opened his eyes he saw he was alone. He might be upset if he didn’t feel so nice. His blankets cradled him, and the bed seemed to rock ever so gently in his dozing state. For the first time in who knew how many weeks, he felt safe. There was no edge of panic lurking in the back of his mind.

There was a sadness there though that he couldn’t quite place.

He was sure it would go away when Geralt came back. And with that thought he fell into a deeper, sounder, much needed sleep.

When he woke again the golden light of evening shone through his window. Geralt wasn’t at his bedside, as he’d hoped, but he got the next best thing.

“Eskel.” Jaskier’s face lit up, the uninjured half of his mouth widening into a smile. “I missed you. I’m so glad you’re back.” Sleep still tugged at him, slurring his words ever so slightly.

“I know, I’m so happy everyone is back together.” He reached out and took Jaskier’s ever-cold hand in his rough, warm one. It felt almost like Geralt’s. He couldn’t overlook the fact that it was now in chains. “How have you been doing? I’ve been worrying, but you sound good.”

“Thanks to Geralt,” he told him. “You should have seen me before he got to me this morning. I was wrecked. Fever dreams, chills, couldn’t even keep down water,” he rambled, almost high on his feelings of happiness and contentment. “He fixed it all,” Jaskier finished with a yawn.

“That’s so good to hear,” Eskel replied. “I actually had a conversation with him a little while ago, before I came up here.”

“He talked to you?” Jaskier raised an eyebrow. Last he’d heard, Geralt had been more apt to spit on his brother than have a civil conversation.

Eskel chuckled. “He didn’t want to. Had to back him into a bit of a corner, but I think it was for the best.”

“What did you talk to him about?” Jaskier was enthralled. Any development with Geralt was beyond exciting news. “How is he? Do you think he’s doing okay?” The questions tumbled out one after the other so quickly Jaskier’s tongue stumbled on them. He couldn’t help himself.

“He still seems really confused and upset, but he doesn’t have that angry, agitated look about him anymore.”

Jaskier could feel that as well, like a weight had been lifted off of both their shoulders.

“He was willing to listen, at least,” Eskel conceded. “I tried again to convince him that we don’t want to hurt him, and that we weren’t there working with the mage.”

“And?”

“He seems relatively okay with the first bit. Again, not so much like a caged animal, but that probably has as much to do with these as it does with anything I said to him.” Eskel rattled his Dimeritium cuffs with a tired laugh.

“I understand why he’d want that but…” Jaskier trailed off, eyes on the cuffs. It was hard to see them like this, Triss, Vesemir, and Eskel with dark circles under their eyes, the undercurrent of pain and nausea visible on their faces. “It’s not fun to see. Can’t imagine it’s much fun for you either.”

“Nothing compared to how awful it was to see him when he was locked down in the dungeon in probably double this Dimeritium. He didn’t even look like himself at that point. He was more like a wounded animal. Miserable and dangerous.”

This brought to mind images of the Wolf from Jaskier’s dream, and he flinched away from the unwelcome thoughts.

“We talked about that today too,” Eskel continued. “I told him how much I hated that we’d done that to him. Not sure if he believed me.”

“What did he believe?” Jaskier asked. “Any of it, do you think?”

“It’s tough to say. He’s so guarded. Nenneke has seemed to have some luck with him, so I was pretty hopeful going down. I guess it could’ve gone a lot worse.”

“What happened?” Jaskier listened with rapt attention, all tiredness set aside.

“Well, he didn’t want to talk to me at all, but when I started he listened at least. I asked him to think back to the Trials. I hate that I made him relive it, even a little bit. It’s painful enough for me to think about and I only did them once.”

From what Jaskier had felt of the Trials, painful didn’t even come close to describing the horrors he’d experienced.

“I reminded him about how I was there for him the first two times, and he told me he remembered me being there the third time too,” Eskel continued. “That’s where things got kind of dicey.”

“Did he get angry?” He’d been so soft with him this morning. He should have known it was too good to count on.

“Not angry exactly.” Eskel considered the question carefully. “More confused than anything. I tried to explain how the connection between you too had extended past just your bodies, and that’s how he’d been feeling me there with him. I tried to convince him that I would’ve been there right at his side the entire time if I had been living with the mage.” He was picking up speed as he went. “I asked if he’d felt me hold his hand, and then he sort of shut down.”

“What do you mean?”

“He got really quiet,” Eskel replied. “He went really still. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I probably would’ve thought he was angry, and maybe he was, but I don’t think that was it.”

“What do you think it was then?” Jaskier’s heart beat quicker in his chest. They seemed to be so close to getting somewhere with him, if only they could figure out how to bridge that gap.

“I do think he was agitated,” he conceded. “Because I think more than anything he’s just really fucking confused. I don’t think he can sort out his thoughts from that time, and because of the way things went with the curse, he thinks we were all way more wrapped up in the mage’s plans for him than we were.”

“How can we convince him we weren’t. I mean, we’ve told him. What more can we do to get to him?” Jaskier would do anything.

“I have no idea,” Eskel admitted. “But I’m not going to stop trying until we figure it out.”

Chapter Text

They fell into a strange sort of stalemate after that.

Eskel, Vesemir, and Nenneke continued to try and have productive conversations with Geralt, but the more they pushed, and the more they told him, the more confused and withdrawn he became. Sometimes he would stay shut in his room for days, refusing to attend meals, or speak with any of the other occupants of the keep.

During the times when Geralt would interact with the others, he was often pushed into meetings in Jaskier’s room, while Triss and Vesemir debated how they might be able to further Jaskier’s healing through the use of his and Geralt’s connection.

These times were Jaskier’s favorite.

He didn’t have much to contribute, and they didn’t seem to make much progress, but whether or not Geralt’s presence was actually healing or not, Jaskier always felt better when he was around. More often than not, he ended up falling asleep, just how he liked—with Geralt’s hand in his.

He tried to keep awake and listen to their conversations about his healing, offering up whatever helpful information he could think of, or even just sit and appreciate how nice it was to have Geralt there next to him, but he still had lots of trouble sleeping past all of his lingering discomforts. When Geralt was so close, and holding so much of his pain for him, the pull of sleep almost always became too strong to fight against.

“I still worry it isn’t achieving anything other than a sedative effect,” Triss said during one of the few meetings Jaskier was conscious to listen to.

“At this point, isn’t restful sleep as healing as anything?” Vesemir countered. “It’s certainly not nothing.”

“No, of course,” Triss replied, barely acknowledging his theory. “It’s certainly not going to hurt him, but I just think there’s only so far his healing can go.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure he appreciated her speaking like that, but Geralt’s hand felt so steady and warm in his, he couldn’t find it in him to be upset.

“He helped,” Jaskier spoke up. “When I was ill.”

At this, Geralt diverted his already distant gaze even further, as he often did when Jaskier brought up the miraculous way in which his Witcher had spared him from the discomfort of tossing and turning, slipping into fever dreams between bouts of vomiting. No doubt out of modesty, Jaskier thought.

“See, that’s the thing,” Triss seized upon this point. “He was ill. Geralt was able to bring him back to the threshold I’d already gotten him to with my healing before. I think Geralt can keep him there, but I don’t know if he has the power to take him any further.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure if this was a genuine belief on the mage’s part, or just a defense of her own, admittedly vital healing. Either way, he wasn’t ready to give up hope, and neither were the others.

“What do you think, W—Geralt?” Vesemir asked, nearly slipping up and calling his son by his former nickname, a sure way to make certain he was even grumpier than normal.

“I don’t know anything,” Geralt replied, as if he were being interrogated. “Like I’ve told you.”

Even if all Geralt could do was help him sleep, Jaskier wanted him there to do it for the rest of time. Hell, even if all Geralt could offer was his presence, Jaskier would take it. He hadn’t realized just how potent, how painful, his despair at losing Geralt had been until he’d gotten him back, even in this small capacity.

Jaskier yawned, fighting hard against the tug of sleep. It was like the warmth of Geralt’s hand had engulfed him, and was now lulling him into a restful slumber.

“I think there are more things we can try,” Vesemir insisted.

“What things?” Triss asked, getting irritated. “What else is there to do?”

“I don’t know,” the older Witcher replied. “But we’ve barely begun, and even what little we’ve achieved has been a serious improvement for Jaskier.”

He hummed, letting his eyes shut. An incalculable improvement.

“For now I say we let the poor boy rest.”

They ought to rest too. Nobody complained, but it was obvious the Dimeritium was hard on them, Triss moreso than anyone, which was why Jaskier didn’t take it too harshly when she came into these meetings with such a defeatist attitude. He knew how hard it was to function when you were exhausted and in pain, and he wasn’t even being expected to contribute anything. No wonder they’d yet to come up with any real solutions. He imagined those shackles made it pretty difficult to think.

Nenneke insisted she was making progress with Geralt, and any day now he’d allow the shackles to be removed, but he figured she was saying this to keep morale up more than anything else. He couldn’t blame Geralt either, after what they’d done to him. What a mess they had all landed themselves in. Jaskier at least wasn’t expected to do much other than lay in bed.

“Sleep, bard,” Geralt growled after the others had left. It was the closest thing he got to affection anymore, but still it made his heart flutter.

Jaskier remembered then, how he had used the connection to reach out to Geralt’s mind. Now that they were on, albeit not very chatty, speaking terms, he hadn’t needed to use this method of communication, but Jaskier tried again to employ it now.

He projected a memory. It was another time when Jaskier had been ill, what felt like lifetimes ago.

They’d gotten caught out in a days long rainstorm traveling down the highway between contracts. There had been little respite from the cold and wet for the better part of a week, and by the time they made it to town Jaskier was burning so badly with fever, Geralt had to hold him up in the saddle in front of him to keep him from falling off of Roach headfirst into the mud.

He had brought him to the inn, and carried him up the stairs in his arms. He didn’t know what he’d have done without his Witcher there—died perhaps.

The fever spiked dangerously high, and stayed there for days. Geralt hadn’t left his side for a moment. He’d brought tiny spoonfuls of broth and tea to his lips intermittently, and kept cool cloths on his head and neck, even climbing into the bed with him when the chills got bad enough to rack his body with tremors.

Jaskier didn’t know if these thoughts were getting through, until he was startled from them by the Witcher’s growling voice once more. “Sleep, bard,” he repeated. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier did sleep. He slept soundly for what felt like days, Geralt’s promise ringing through his thoughts even in unconsciousness. “I’ll be here when you wake.” They were the sweetest words he’d heard in a long time.

Several times he bordered on wakefulness, but when his eyes fluttered open and landed on the Witcher at his bedside, he would feel so comforted and safe that he’d drift back off. This was the kind of sleep he needed badly, and rarely got.

When he finally did truly wake, it was slowly. At first he thought he was having a dream. If it was, it was a very strange one. He was looking at himself from a few feet away, sleeping in a bed much like this one. But he didn’t look the same. The mess of scars was gone. His skin was tanned and soft, his lips symmetrical and slightly parted, and his hair thick and shining.

Jaskier didn’t want to see this. He willed himself to wake, and in that moment realized this wasn’t a dream at all. It was a memory. Geralt’s memory.

He opened his eyes to find the Witcher looking down at him. For the first time since their reunion, his attention was unwelcome. Jaskier’s eyebrows furrowed, and he pulled his hand away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you—”

Of course he didn’t. Nobody did. No one talked with Jaskier about his scars, and even Jaskier himself tried not to think about it. He tried to focus on other things. If he could focus enough on Geralt, and fixing their relationship, that might lead to healing. He might be able to have it all: his lute, his voice, his looks, and his Witcher.

He’d never admit, to himself or anyone else, that this was what he’d been counting on, but facing him now, Jaskier knew that was the truth. The Witcher at his bedside was the reason he didn’t spend every hour of the day dwelling on the real implications of his injuries, past their immediate pain.

Unable to bear his gaze for a single moment more, Jaskier turned over and brought the blanket up over his head, hissing at the pain the movement elicited. It flashed the image in his mind of a monster hiding from the sun, serving only to upset him even further.

“Jaskier, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Geralt told him in a low, measured tone.

He didn’t move. They both sat in silence for a long, painful moment. Jaskier worried he was going to leave, unsure of whether he wanted that or not. He was starting to have some more sympathy for the confusion Geralt was experiencing. It was easy to be upset with him, yet also, so horribly difficult.

“Will you please talk to me?” he asked. “I’d like to explain myself.”

Any other request and Jaskier might’ve ignored it, but they’d all been fighting so hard to get Geralt to talk to them. Better or worse, it would hurt his progress to say no to him now, and for many reasons, some of which Jaskier didn’t want to examine, that progress was very important to him. He reluctantly peeked his head out of the covers.

“You were remembering,” Jaskier said, trying not to sound too accusatory. “What I looked like before.”

Geralt nodded, not denying anything.

“I was.”

“Why?”

“It wasn’t your looks I was trying to remember,” he explained.

“Why do you say trying?” This particular phrasing caught his attention, along with the fact that Geralt was showing any vulnerability at all.

“It’s hard for me.” The words were disjointed, as if he didn’t quite know what he was saying. “To separate what’s true, in my mind.”

“Well that is what I looked like.” Despite his attempts otherwise, he sounded spiteful. “Before.”

“It wasn’t the looks,” he insisted.

“What was it then?” Jaskier’s skin burned, and his chest ached. He saw the pain on Geralt’s face as well.

“The feelings,” he replied. “My feelings. About you.”

“Oh.”

“They’re all twisted up,” Geralt continued. “I wanted to try and remember the way I felt when I watched you sleep before any of this happened.”

The pain in his chest switched abruptly to a gut wrenching sadness.

“And?” Jaskier asked, hopeful.

“It feels like another life,” he said. “Like two different people.”

He could understand that. He too had often felt that he and Geralt today had nothing in common with the traveling pair they once had been. They were hurting, certainly, but it didn’t have to be wholly bad. They were connected now in a way they never had been before. They had the potential to come through this stronger than ever if Geralt would just trust him.

“I don’t think those people would’ve hurt each other.” Just saying the words sounded like they hurt him. Jaskier ached for him. For both of them.

“I don’t think so either.”

“But they did,” the Witcher insisted.

“I never wanted to,” Jaskier said gently. He was shocked when Geralt met his admission in kind.

“I don’t think I did either.”

It felt like the bed had dropped out from under him.

“Then why did you?” It was the question that had been eating at him, burning on every possible level ever since this had all begun.

Geralt wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I don’t know.”

Jaskier didn’t reply. What could he say to that? Did he apologize to Geralt? Wait for Geralt to apologize to him? In the end, after a long silence, Geralt made the decision for him.

“I think I changed down there,” he told him. “I don’t feel like that man anymore—the one who used to watch you while you slept.”

More than just watching. Jaskier had felt the emotions alongside the memory too—the ones Geralt was trying to sort out. Appreciating. Adoring. Desiring. Knowing what they’d had just made this all hurt worse.

“Well what about this man?” he pressed. “Here. Now. Does he want to hurt me?”

“I don’t know.” He spoke the words so low Jaskier had to strain to hear them with his one good ear. “I don’t think so.”

Chapter Text

Their progress stalled after that, on all fronts.

Nenneke told Jaskier not to worry that Geralt didn’t seem to want to talk to anybody anymore. “I think you did a lot of good with the conversation you two had,” she assured him. “I think he’s just working through things. He’ll come around.”

He still came to Jaskier’s room at least once daily, and sat in stony silence, relieving his pain and helping him to sleep. This, however, continued to be all the Witcher could do for him.

Triss maintained that this was all he would ever be able to do for him, and Jaskier found it more and more difficult not to resent her for her pessimism, whether it was caused by the Dimeritium or not. When Jaskier brought up Geralt healing his fever and nausea, she insisted he’d done this simply by relieving the stress his pain and exhaustion imparted upon his body. Jaskier wished he had more evidence to prove her wrong, other than his own memories, which felt starkly different from the relief he normally received from Geralt’s touch.

Soon enough though, unfortunately, they were able to test her theory.

Two steps forward, one step back. Nenneke had told him this time and time again, but Jaskier couldn’t help but start to panic when one of the steps back happened. And they happened often enough. Once every week or two a bit of food wouldn’t agree with him and he’d spend the night vomiting, or he would spike a fever for some reason unknown to him and spend a few days sweating and shivering. This time it was a cold Triss had brought back to the Keep after going to the nearest village to trade for some much needed supplies.

“It’s these chains, I swear. They’re killing my immune system.” She sat sniffling at his bedside after Nenneke had called her in to try and figure out exactly what had gone wrong. “I never got ill before. I couldn’t.”

This time Jaskier had absolutely no sympathy for her. What had manifested in her as a stuffy nose and a mild sore throat, had left him miserable and barely able to breathe. When he’d woken this morning, his head was completely congested, making breathing through his nose impossible, and his throat was sore and swollen, leaving him wheezing, barely able to sip his tea past the pain. Sleep was out of the question entirely. If these discomforts hadn’t been enough to keep him awake, the fever would’ve been. It was the highest he’d had in a while, and he was switching between too hot and too cold at a dizzying rate.

“Okay, Triss. You can go get some rest now,” Nenneke told her with thinly veiled annoyance. “I’m going to go fetch Geralt.”

Usually they waited for him to come to them on his own terms, but today that wouldn’t do. Jaskier was desperate for him. Thankfully he arrived only a few minutes later.

“What’s going on?” He rubbed sleep out of his eyes. Jaskier couldn’t blame him. It was still early, and he’d feel bad for waking him if he had any sympathy to spare at the moment. “Are you all right?”

Even in his current state, seeing Geralt concerned for him made his chest flutter. A sign that maybe he cared.

“He’s caught a cold,” Nenneke explained. “Last night it was just a tickle in his throat, but this morning he’s sick as a dog. I’d really rather not let this go any further.”

Without questioning, Geralt took his seat at Jaskier’s bedside and reached for his hand. It wasn’t enough.

As it always did, Geralt’s touch took a fair bit of his pain away, and—it was a knee jerk reaction at this point—made him feel sleepy. It didn’t fix anything though, like it had before. He still struggled to breathe through his swollen throat. His blocked head continued to pound, and his stomach turned when he realized he wasn’t going to get the relief he needed so badly.

Unable to stop them, tears welled in his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” This time it was Nenneke who asked. “Is it helping?”

He shook his head, hot tears spilling over and rolling down his cheeks. She dabbed them away with a handkerchief.

“What’s going on? Can you talk to me?” She sounded very concerned now, only upsetting him worse. “How can I help?”

“I’m sorry. It is helping.” His voice was nearly gone, and between that and the congestion he was barely able to make his words understandable. “Just not enough.”

“What do you mean by that?” she pressed. “I’m sorry. I know it must hurt you to speak, but the more we know the better we’re able to try and help.”

“I know,” he squeaked in reply, taking in a long, shuddering breath and trying to steady himself before he was strangled by his own tears.

“How is it helping?” Nenneke asked once he’d collected himself, and got the tears to stop, at least for the moment.

“The usual way,” Jaskier replied. “Hurts less. Sleepy. Just not better.” He did his best to explain, and Nenneke seemed to understand. She nodded somberly, as if she’d been expecting this.

“Well it’s a start at least,” she said. “Here, let’s sit you up a bit. That might help you breathe a little better. And try another sip of tea. The herbs should help soothe your throat.”

She fretted over him, propping him up on his pillows and bringing a spoonful of tea to his lips. He swallowed dutifully, and then winced.

“And what about you, Geralt?” She turned to the Witcher. “What are you feeling?”

“All of it, I suppose,” he answered. “Sore throat. Sore head. Bit feverish.”

She put a hand on his forehead. “Not sharing the fever though.” If only that told them anything.

“Maybe more contact would help.” Geralt surprised them both by coming up with his own suggestion.

“What do you mean?” Jaskier couldn’t help but respond, even though every word hurt.

“Maybe I get into bed with you.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier was in heaven.

Before all of this nightmare had happened, he would’ve considered lying in bed with Geralt to be a dream come true. Now it was the closest thing to bliss he could think of. Geralt’s arms were warm and steady, holding him against his chest. It almost made Jaskier not care about how difficult it was to breathe, how the fever made his fragile skin prickle. The pain was still there, and the congestion and inflammation, but so was Geralt.

He started to doze almost immediately, no doubt snoring and drooling on Geralt’s shirt, but if he was bothered by it, he didn’t say anything. Well, Jaskier didn’t think he did.

It was clear enough he was going in and out, but every now and then he would catch bits and pieces.

“Is it true?” Geralt’s voice floated to him across his fevered dreamland.

“Is what true?” The other voice sounded like Nenneke’s, but it was difficult to tell. Nothing was as clear as Geralt’s being, cradling Jaskier against his chest.

“This. Is it my fault?”

“The illness?”

“Yes.”

They were both silent for a long moment, and when they spoke again Jaskier felt like he’d been asleep for a long while, but the conversation seemed to pick up right where it had left off. Time was different here, in this sleepy fever realm.

“Was Triss speaking the truth?” Geralt asked. “Did she get ill because of the Dimeritium?”

“Perhaps. There’s no way to know for certain.”

“I know,” Geralt asserted. “This happened because of me.”

Jaskier felt a disconnected pang of emotion in his chest. Was it his pain, or Geralt’s? Perhaps it was both. This wasn’t his fault though. He must know that.

“I’ll allow the Dimeritium to be removed,” Geralt conceded. “If this is the price, it isn’t worth it.”

“Trust will help us all,” Nenneke assured him. “In more ways than one.”

“It won’t heal him though,” Geralt said, defeated. “If I had trusted him to begin with, none of this would’ve happened.”

***

It had happened slowly, the trust.

For a long time Geralt thought it wasn’t happening at all, but looking back he could see how far he had come—how much progress he had been making while he thought he had been resolutely standing still. It was hard to deny now, with Jaskier asleep in his lap, that he didn’t trust them all more than he had at the start.

Hell, at first he wouldn’t even speak to them, but somewhere along the line, willingly or not, he had begun to place more trust in the people sharing the keep with him.

Most of it had happened unwillingly.

Even now, Geralt didn’t want to trust them. He didn’t want to have to open himself up after being hurt so badly. The wounds Delacroix had left in him ran deep, and he feared they may never fully heal. But now he also feared the same for Jaskier. When had he begun to care like this?

There was another reason the trust came so unwillingly though, and Geralt still had trouble breaching it, even only in his own thoughts. Because if he cared about whether or not Jaskier healed, then he must also care about how he had been injured in the first place. About who had injured him.

That was where things got twisted. His thoughts darkened, each one a knife sinking into his mind, and the more he thought, the deeper those wounds became. The memories were still fogged with pain, and confusion, and betrayal, but his thoughts right now were not. His feelings for Jaskier here, as he slept against his chest, were not unclear or confused, as they once had been. So logic would follow that he ought to be able to see that dark day clearly. If he wanted to.

All of those hurt, primal, animal parts of himself that Delacroix had coaxed out wanted to keep it in the dark, to avoid pain at all cost. But it wasn’t fair to Jaskier to ignore the pain he had caused.

He was the one who had burned him.

Those flames came from his fingertips, and no matter how much Geralt might regret them now, he hadn’t for a second at the time. He was trapped, simultaneously not wanting to be that man, and fearing he might remain that man forever. How could he go back after doing such a thing?

Jaskier seemed ready and waiting to forgive him, but how could Geralt forgive himself? And how could he share his life with the bard—the one he had spent so many years and been through so many trials with—when he was the one who had ruined it?

Jaskier may never sing again. He may never play the lute. He may never even walk. And how was Geralt meant to live with himself when the blame for those things landed squarely on his shoulders?

Geralt didn’t realize he was crying until he saw the tear fall onto Jaskier’s cheek. He hastily wiped his face and slowed his breaths, but it was too late. Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused for a few moments before meeting his.

“Hey,” he said, his voice still congested and cracking, but stronger than it had been before. He reached up with a tentative hand to feel the wetness on Geralt’s cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Geralt hastily assured him.

“Are you in pain?” Jaskier asked, sending a knife through Geralt’s chest when he did it. “Is it too much? I could—” He moved as if to shift off of his lap, but Geralt put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him where he was.

“I’m not in pain,” he lied. He was in less pain than he deserved. “I want to help. Is it helping? I can—”

Jaskier interrupted him by putting his hand on top of Geralt’s, holding the two of them tightly together.

“It is,” Jaskier said. “Truly, I think it is.”

Geralt sighed and the two of them relaxed into each other. Thank the gods. He was finally helping.

Chapter Text

By that evening Jaskier’s fever had broken. By the next morning the awful cold was nothing but a bad memory. Everyone was grateful, Jaskier more than anyone, but the question was: how had he done it?

Geralt sat awkwardly at Jaskier’s bedside, Eskel, Triss, Nenneke, and Vesemir in a circle around them, all hands on deck to try and solve the puzzle of Jaskier’s mysterious, miraculous healing.

“Maybe he just needed more time,” Eskel began. “It makes sense that more time and contact would mean more healing.”

“It does make sense,” Jaskier agreed, his hand, as it always was nowadays, holding Geralt’s. “But I don’t think that’s it.”

“Why is that?” Nenneke asked.

“Well.” He had to think about it. “It’s happened twice now, and both times once it started, it seemed to happen all at once.”

Nenneke nodded. “I remember the first instance. It took hardly any time at all.”

“This time it took a while to start, but once it did I was feeling better pretty much right away.”

“Okay,” Eskel said, “so the question is: what triggered it to start? Was there anything you did?” he asked Jaskier. “Did you feel a certain way?”

Jaskier shook his head. “The first time I just laid there. The second time I was asleep.”

“So it would seem like the key lies with Geralt,” Vesemir decided. They all turned to look at him, and Geralt immediately shrunk at the attention.

Jaskier knew he didn’t like being here. To his intense relief, Geralt didn’t seem to mind spending time with him. They spent most of their days together. And he liked Nenneke well enough, but it was clear he still wasn’t really comfortable with the others. He certainly wasn’t comfortable speaking. He hardly ever spoke at all, to Jaskier or anyone else.

He would have to, though, if they were going to make any more progress.

“Is there anything in common between both times?” Jaskier squeezed his hand. “Anything you can remember?”

Now it was Geralt’s turn to shake his head. His eyes darted self consciously around the circle, so Jaskier kept talking, hoping if he kept his attention on him, Geralt might not be so reluctant to speak.

“Let’s just think about the first time then,” he prompted. “How were you feeling that morning?”

At this Geralt dropped his gaze entirely, and he would’ve dropped his hand if Jaskier hadn’t been holding it tight.

“Do you remember?”

Geralt nodded. “I felt ill,” he admitted.

“Were you feeling my illness?” Jaskier asked, a bit confused.

“No.” He didn’t speak for several long moments, and the whole room waited silently for him to continue. They weren’t going to let him back out of this. “I think you might have been feeling mine.”

“Why do you say that?” Nenneke asked, her voice soft and gentle. She was the only other one who had seen him that morning.

“I didn’t tell you because I felt guilty,” he elaborated. “Ashamed. I hadn’t considered how it might hurt you.”

“How what might hurt me?” Jaskier tilted his head, confused. “Geralt, I promise I’m not angry with you. Whatever you did.”

He bristled, his back stiffening and his eyes once again darting to the others in the room.

“I think I’d like to discuss this privately.”

To Jaskier’s immense relief, the others stood up without question or hesitation. Geralt was making great strides in his progress, but still sometimes he needed accommodation. Jaskier was glad he wasn’t having to fight for it. He didn’t speak again until the two of them were alone.

“The night you got ill.” Geralt’s voice was low, as if sharing a secret. “I drank Black Gull. I didn’t know whether or not it would affect me, and I didn’t think about whether or not it would affect you,” he explained. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not upset, Geralt,” Jaskier reminded him. “This is just more information for us to go on.”

Geralt still wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Well you didn’t have any Black Gull the second time,” he soldiered on. “So I think it’s safe to say that isn’t what did it.”

“I can’t think of anything the second time had in common,” Geralt said. “Truly.”

“Let’s think about it separately then.” He thought back to that moment—when he had woken from his sleep feeling a thousand times better than when he’d drifted off. It hadn’t been the feeling that had woken him though. “You were crying,” he remembered.

“I was.”

“Why?”

“Jaskier, I really don’t think that matters—”

“Everything matters,” he interrupted. “But if you don’t want to tell me…”

It looked at first like Geralt really wasn’t going to tell him, but finally, after a long silence, he spoke. “I was thinking about you,” he began. “About how you ended up with the injuries we’re all trying so hard to heal,” Geralt swallowed hard. “About how I can’t really deny anymore, that it was me who gave them to you.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier’s heart broke for him. He couldn’t imagine how horrible that guilt must feel. Horrible enough to make him cry—a sight Jaskier had rarely seen.

“For so long I wouldn’t let myself think about it,” he continued. “I couldn’t think about it. Those memories were too painful, for so many different reasons. I let myself give in to the betrayal I’d felt in that moment. I let myself truly believe it. To make you a villain was the only way I could go on, but being with you now.”

Despite the pain in Geralt’s voice, Jaskier’s heart soared. This was what he had been waiting so long to hear, the progress he had been desperate for. If only it didn’t hurt Geralt so badly. Again, there were tears welling in the Witcher’s eyes.

“There’s no way I can uphold that belief,” Geralt said. “You aren’t a villain. You never were. It’s been me the whole time. Jaskier, I am so sorry.”

The elation Jaskier felt was inappropriate, he decided. He shouldn’t feel so joyous while Geralt was hurting. But then he realized why he felt so unreasonably happy. It wasn’t just his relief at the progress they were making with Geralt’s emotions—he was making progress too.

His pain was receding.

It wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t just numbed because Geralt was taking it for him. This time it felt like Geralt was truly taking it away. He looked down at his hands, the one in Geralt’s, and the burned one. They looked more similar than they had in weeks. The scars were still there, yes, but Jaskier swore they were fading.

An idea appeared in his mind, blossoming as the pain receded.

“I think I know what the two times had in common.” Three times now.

“What?” Geralt gave him a confused expression, and Jaskier’s face broke out into a smile.

“I healed, because you were healing with me.”

Chapter Text

“How do we do this then?” Geralt looked down at Jaskier. “So far it’s only been by accident. How do I heal on purpose?”

The first time was simple enough, fixing a hangover. The other times were much more elusive though. He wasn’t sure what he had done, and he had no idea how to reproduce it.

Jaskier chuckled. “I think you’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

The laughter put him on the defensive. He didn’t like thinking Jaskier knew exactly what was going on while he was still in the dark.

“I’m serious, Jaskier. I don’t know what I’m doing.” He had made progress, yes, but that didn’t mean his thoughts weren’t twisted anymore—that his memories weren’t painful and confused. “I don’t know what you expect me to be able to do here.”

“You could start by getting back into bed with me,” Jaskier suggested.

“I thought we decided that wasn’t part of it,” he replied, surly.

“I know, but it felt so nice. Geralt, don’t you see?” He smiled. “We figured it out. We did it. We’re done.”

Geralt dropped his hand. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but he was overwhelmed, and the thought of the connection on top of everything else was too much. He felt naked, and vulnerable, and stupid.

“No, you figured it out,” Geralt said, more rough than he meant to. “I didn’t figure out shit.”

Jaskier was right, he was done. All he had to do was lay there and let Geralt heal him, but Geralt was still barely sure what that meant. He had no idea how he’d managed it the first time, and now Jaskier was acting as if he should know exactly what to do. As if he was exactly the same man as he’d been before, ready to just take him to bed, to hold him, and to fix everything.

It would be nice. But it wouldn’t be that easy.

“I’m sorry, Geralt.” He sounded hurt. “Did I say something to upset you?”

“No.” He put his head in his hands, frustrated.

“Aren’t you glad we know what we need to do?” Jaskier asked.

“We don’t know what we need to do,” he snapped. “You say I’m supposed to heal, but I don’t know how to do that. Everything I’ve done here has been forced on me by you and Nenneke. You’ve told me everything and just hoped I understood. Well I don’t understand.”

“Geralt, I—”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, and now you’re expecting this of me,” he continued, working himself into a frenzy. “Something in me broke down in that damned lair, and now I’m meant to just heal it? I don’t even know if I can. If it’s possible.”

“You’re right.” Jaskier’s voice was low and steady in stark contrast to Geralt’s panicking ramble. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like it’s simple. I’m just so happy we figured out how the connection is working.”

“Hmm.”

“But you’re right. We don’t have everything figured out,” he conceded. “We have the next step figured out though, so will you take my hand so we can take the step together?”

Geralt let Jaskier reach out and take his hand again.

“You say I’m supposed to heal,” Geralt said, voice barely loud enough to be heard. “How do I do that?” he asked. “I wasn’t doing it on purpose before. I was just upset. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“What were you upset about?” Jaskier replied. “Why don’t we start there?”

He thought back to what had brought tears to his eyes, what pain he’d been feeling—or healing from, perhaps.

“I was upset about hurting you,” he answered after a long pause. “At Delacroix’s.”

“Were you upset at the time?” Jaskier looked up at him, no anger in his eyes at the memory, just care and genuine curiosity. “When you did it?”

“Yes, but not about the same things.”

“What were you upset about then?” he pressed.

Geralt wanted badly to just shut down. The idea of healing Jaskier was appealing, of course, but the thought of facing everything he’d been through with Delacroix—of talking about it, of healing from it, if such a thing were possible—terrified him. He thought back to when he’d been considering a life in the woods, leaving humanity altogether, and it didn’t seem so unappealing. If not for the man in the bed beside him.

“I was upset that I’d been put through the trials again.” That was true, but it was also the easy answer. “And I was upset that you and Eskel had betrayed me.”

“Why did you think we had betrayed you?” Jaskier prompted.

“Because I didn’t know about the connection.” They’d been over this, but if Jaskier thought it would help, he’d go through it all again. “I thought that I had been feeling you two near me because you were working with Delacroix. Seeing you there in the lair with him when I woke up was enough to convince me.”

“Do you think that realizing we weren’t there to hurt you healed some of what broke when you were with Delacroix?”

“I do.”

“So do you think you understand then, what I mean when I say you’re healing here too?” he continued.

“I do, but I still don’t know what I need to do to keep healing,” he insisted. “All of these conclusions I’ve had to be led to. I don’t know how to find them on my own.”

Jaskier sighed, and was silent for a few long, stressful moments.

“That’s just the thing then, isn’t it Geralt?” he sounded frustrated. “You don’t have to find them on your own. You’re not on your own anymore.”

He dropped his gaze again, ashamed.

“I should be able to figure it out on my own though,” he admitted. “I didn’t need any help causing all of the damage. I shouldn’t have to be spoon fed every new thing in order to fix all of the things that I fucked up.”

“Well, maybe the part of you that feels like you have to do this on your own needs a bit of healing then too.”

Chapter Text

Geralt lay in his bed, looking at the ceiling of his room. This was where he spent much of his time. If Jaskier had his way, Geralt would have already moved into his room with him, but Geralt kept his distance.

It wasn’t that he disliked spending time with Jaskier, but things were moving quickly now, and he got overwhelmed easily. He spent most of the day at Jaskier’s bedside, talking and healing, or sometimes just sitting in each other’s company, letting Jaskier enjoy the narcotic effect of his presence even when he wasn’t actually healing.

And he’d done a lot of healing. The changes weren’t obvious yet, but Nenneke could point out the ways his scars were fading, and the way his skin was getting stronger and thicker where it had been burned away. She assured him that if they kept going more visible changes would come soon, and she often reminded him of all the things going on under the skin that they couldn’t see.

Geralt could sense some of them though, the way Jaskier’s heartbeat was stronger and steadier than it had once been, the way his lungs expanded farther and filled easier. It was all very encouraging, and Geralt knew if he let himself get swept away in it, he might soon dedicate all hours of the day and night to furthering their progress. He also knew how detrimental this could be.

For Jaskier, the healing was blissful, easy, but for Geralt it was hard, grueling work. He had to look deep within himself to find answers to questions that only a few weeks before he’d been too afraid to even voice out loud. He worried if he let it go too far too fast, he’d end up right where he’d started, burned out, confused, upset, and of no use to anyone.

So he stayed in his room. He enjoyed the quiet. He meditated as often as he could, banishing thought altogether. Sometimes the thoughts were too insistent though, as they were today.

This morning, his brain was plagued with one thought in particular: he needed to talk to his brother.

Up until this point, the healing sessions had mostly consisted of Geralt and Jaskier by themselves, Jaskier facilitating the discussion and Geralt just doing his best to follow along as well as he could. Nenneke would appear regularly with food and to check on Jaskier’s progress and general health, but other than that, nobody was allowed in.

The meeting with everybody had made Geralt feel naked and overwhelmed, and he had no desire to feel that way again, so he had banished everyone else from the sickroom, at least while he was there, but today he had a nagging feeling that someone else needed to attend the healing session.

His brother had been trying to have healing conversations with him since before they knew that was the way to heal Jaskier, but each time he tried Geralt had shut him down, or withdrawn. He needed to give Eskel his chance to help.

And Geralt needed to apologize.

He found Eskel down in the dining hall, sharing breakfast with Nenneke, Vesemir, and Triss. Geralt was aware they all ate breakfast together. He could hear them in the mornings if he strained his ears, although nowadays he could hear just about anywhere in the keep if he strained.

“Geralt!” His brother looked genuinely excited to see him. He usually ate breakfast when Nenneke prompted him to, bringing up food for him and Jaskier without giving him much say in the matter. He never came down to eat in the dining hall. “There’s plenty of food. Sit down. It’s still hot.”

He went so far as to stand up and usher Geralt over to the table, dishing up a heaping plate of eggs, meat, and what smelled like freshly baked bread. He took a bite and his suspicions were confirmed. It was still warm, and melted in his mouth. It was never quite this fresh by the time it got up to him and Jaskier.

“It’s so good to see you,” Eskel continued, sitting back down and resuming his own meal. “How are you doing? Nenneke says the healing is going well.”

Geralt nodded, filling his mouth with a big bite of eggs and meat to give him an extra few moments to think before he had to respond.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, after his mouth was clear.

“Oh?”

“I was wondering if you might come with me today.”

Eskel didn’t hesitate. “Of course. I’m happy to help. Is there something you needed me to do?” he asked.

Once again, Geralt felt exposed having a conversation with so many eyes on him. He was grateful he’d long since lost the ability to blush.

“Just want to talk.”

After breakfast, Eskel followed Geralt out of the dining hall and over to Jaskier’s room. Throughout the entire meal, Geralt had been thinking about all the things he ought to say to him, the things he needed to apologize for, and the things he still needed explained.

“Anything I should know going in?” Eskel stopped in front of the door. “I want to do everything I can to help, okay? You just need to tell me what to do.”

Geralt surprised both of them then, not by speaking, but by pulling Eskel into a tight hug. Eskel didn’t hesitate to return the embrace.

They stayed like that for a long moment, arms around each other, Geralt’s chin on his shoulder, the way they used to hug when they were younger. Eskel wasn’t the first to pull away, but he was the first to speak after they were facing each other once again.

“Everything okay, Geralt?” he asked, chuckling. “Are you sure there’s not something I need to know about?”

Geralt shook his head. “No.” Eskel was confused, it seemed, but so was he. Geralt didn’t realize what was going on until the words were already out of his mouth. “I’ve just really missed you.”

Chapter Text

“So how does this work?” Eskel asked.

Geralt had taken his spot, hand in hand with Jaskier at the bedside, but today there was another chair, forming a little circle with the three of them.

“What do I need to do?”

“Usually Geralt and I just talk,” Jaskier answered. “See where the conversation takes us. Mostly about his time with Delacroix, but sometimes about his time here afterwards, or our lives before any of this happened,” he explained.

Geralt was glad to let him do the talking for a bit. As it was, he was usually the one who facilitated everything. Geralt just did his best to follow along and be honest—with Jaskier and with himself.

“We just try to get everything out in the open, and all of our thoughts sorted out,” he continued. “Geralt was the one who asked for you to come today. So I assume he has some things he’d like to sort out with you.”

He nodded, thankful when Jaskier kept going, not forcing him to pose the first question. He was much better at this than Geralt was.

“You and I talked some about the trials when we were traveling together,” he said to Eskel before turning to Geralt. “Do you want to talk with Eskel about the trial you went through at Delacroix’s?” he asked. “I know we’ve talked about it, but I’ll never understand it in the way you and Eskel do.”

He considered this. Did he want to talk about the trial? He ought to have given this some thought beforehand, but his decision to bring Eskel here hadn’t been one based on anything specific. It had been born of a childlike feeling deep in his chest. He missed his brother. After weeks of holding him at arm’s length, he wanted him close again.

“I remember wanting you there with me,” Geralt began after several long silent moments of Jaskier and Eskel looking at him expectantly, patiently waiting to hear his thoughts. “That was one of the most painful parts, I think.”

“Not having Eskel there?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt nodded. “Except then he was there, sometimes.”

That part was blurry even now. Eskel’s presence had always been a vague amorphous thing, but it had been distinct enough to leave him aching and confused. He figured that was the part of him that needed fixing, so he leaned into it.

“That was what hurt the worst, I think,” he continued. “I wanted so badly to have him there comforting me, but when he was, it led me to believe he was working with Delacroix. The mage took everything from me. Even the comforting things brought pain.”

“I hate that I wasn’t actually there at your side,” Eskel told him. “And I’m sorry that the help I was able to offer did as much harm as it did good.”

“It’s not your fault,” Geralt mumbled. It had been his fault, for letting himself get so confused.

“It isn’t your fault either,” Jaskier reminded him, as if reading his mind. “It’s Delacroix’s fault.”

They had been working on that a lot lately, just the two of them. Taking all of the things Geralt still blamed himself for—the way he’d treated everyone after coming to Kaer Morhen, the difficulties he’d had knowing what was true and what wasn’t, and yes, the injuries they were still trying to heal—and reassigning it to Delacroix.

“Right,” he agreed, halfheartedly.

This work was always tiring, but Geralt hadn’t anticipated how much more tiring it would be with someone there other than just Jaskier. He was grateful when Eskel took over speaking for a bit.

“After the first time Jaskier tapped into the connection,” he said, “I knew immediately what the mage had done. I was disgusted. I couldn’t believe he would do something so horrible as putting you through the trial again.”

Over the past days he’d spent with Jaskier, Geralt had started to be able to pick up on what the healing felt like. It was still vague, and sometimes more noticeable than others, but it helped them tell when they were on the right track. And right now Geralt felt it distinctly, but this time it wasn’t because of something he had said, or something Jaskier had led him to. It was because of those simple words from his brother.

“I can’t imagine how difficult and horrifically painful that must have been, going through it alone and confused. I know my presence didn’t really help, but every part of me wishes I could have been there—really been there with you. I know it wouldn’t have changed anything, but the thought of you there by yourself. It keeps me up at night. Geralt, I am so sorry that he did that to you.”

“Thank you,” Geralt replied, his voice strained. “I wish you could’ve been there too. I think it would’ve helped.”

“The only thing that kept me from losing myself to despair during the days we spent looking for you was thinking about what I would do to him when we found you,” Eskel said. “I regret that we can’t kill him again. He got off easier than he deserved.”

Geralt remembered that moment too, striding over from his sick bed, in his new, even stronger body, seeing the look of awe on Delacroix’s face as he took it all in, and then seeing the light leave his eyes when Geralt killed him a moment later.

For a long time Geralt had clung to that moment.

It didn’t matter if the people he had once loved had actually betrayed him. It didn’t matter that his body had been broken beyond repair and then rebuilt into a form that he could hardly recognize. It didn’t matter that nothing would ever be the same as it had been before, because at least he had gotten to dole out the punishment that Delacroix deserved. At least he would never lay a finger on Geralt again. At least he had gotten to watch that evil bastard die at his hands.

He thought nothing could be more satisfying, more healing than that.

Until he sat here, and heard the sincere apology come from Eskel’s lips, his words not fueled by vengeance or malice, but simply by a desire to acknowledge what Geralt had been through and how horribly unfair it had all been. It was more healing than any vengeance could be.

Geralt wondered if he knew anything about healing at all.

Chapter Text

Geralt was happy to do the work.

No matter how difficult and exhausting it was, he was more than willing to sit down every day and talk through what he had gone through, and how he felt about it, and try to work out the tangled mess of thoughts and ideas Delacroix had left him with. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t thrilled to begin Jaskier’s next stage of healing.

After several weeks of simply talking and thinking, crying and resting, Nenneke made an announcement. She thought that Jaskier’s body had healed enough to begin working on regaining his strength. While any healing of his lasting wounds would have to be done by Geralt, since she and Triss both agreed they’d done all they could, that didn’t mean there weren’t other things they could do.

Spending all those weeks in bed had left Jaskier’s body weak, his muscles atrophied, and his heart and lungs far from the shape they’d been in before. Now they could begin building that strength and those muscles back, while Geralt still did everything he could to heal the wounds.

Today, this meant they would be going down to the hot springs.

Jaskier was still far too weak, and in too much pain to try walking on his own, but the warm water in the pools below Kaer Morhen provided the perfect venue to begin his rehabilitation.

Geralt carried him down in his arms, and Jaskier trembled, whether from the cold of being out of bed, the physical effort, or anticipation he didn’t know. When they got down to the springs, Geralt set him down on the edge of the pool, helped him undress, and then lowered him down into the water beside him.

Jaskier hummed.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked. He was on high alert, having Jaskier out of bed. He would hate for him to end up hurting.

“It feels nice,” Jaskier replied. “Just don’t let go yet, okay?”

Never.

Nenneke had given them a list of exercises they could try, but at first they just sat there in the water, Geralt holding Jaskier close. He was so relieved that Jaskier was out of bed without being in terrible pain, but it didn’t keep him from worrying. What if something went wrong?

“Do you want to try walking?” Geralt asked after a long, comfortable silence. The water was deep enough to support him, but Jaskier shied away from the idea.

“I’m not sure if I’m ready,” he admitted. “What if my legs don’t work right anymore?”

Geralt couldn’t see why that would be the case. On the whole, his legs had been damaged less than his upper body, and while laying in bed would have allowed the muscles to atrophy, it shouldn’t have caused any more damage. Not with how well he’d been looked after. He was also aware that Jaskier was entitled to some irrational fears after all he’d been through. Anyway, why would Jaskier expect Geralt to understand something like that? His body worked better than any other on the Continent.

Instead they tried some of the other exercises Nenneke suggested, kicking his legs, floating on his back, and making slow, careful movements with his arms. Jaskier insisted it wasn’t too difficult, and that the warm water felt good, but still before long he was exhausted.

He went back to clinging to Geralt, and after spending a little while rubbing his muscles in the warm water to try and encourage circulation, and help prevent too much soreness, Geralt decided it was time to get out. Jaskier was out of breath and trembling again, despite the heat in the cave.

Geralt set him back on the edge of the pool, and hurried to get out himself so he could pick him up again. The effort of staying upright was using the last of his strength.

The shaking increased tenfold as soon as he was out of the water, and didn’t stop even after Geralt had him wrapped up in a blanket and back in his arms.

“Are you doing okay?” Geralt asked, suddenly very worried this had been a horrible idea.

Jaskier nodded though, and he wasn’t too tired to reply, although his eyes had drifted shut. “I’m alright,” he said, teeth chattering. “I’d like to go back to bed now.”

Of course. Geralt wasted no time getting him back up to his room where Nenneke was waiting. With her help, they had him dried off and back under the covers in a matter of minutes, but Geralt feared the damage had already been done.

“Go put another log on the fire,” Nenneke instructed. “Jaskier, I’d just like to give you a once over. Can I do that?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed weakly.

Geralt did as he was told, and then waited anxiously at the bedside for Nenneke’s report.

“I didn’t consider how much the changes in temperature would affect him,” she admitted. Although Jaskier must be asleep by now, he still shivered.

“Will he be okay?”

Nenneke smiled when she saw how worried he was. “He’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Just perhaps a little more tired than we anticipated. Can you keep him warm while he rests?”

Yes, that was certainly something Geralt could do. He didn’t hesitate taking off his shoes and climbing into bed with the bard.

Jaskier surprised him by snuggling right up to his side as soon as he was under the covers. He was still awake, if only barely.

“Much better,” he mumbled.

“Are you in pain?” Geralt asked.

“Hmm.” Jaskier seemed to consider this. “Not anymore.”

Despite his and Nenneke’s reassurances, he still worried. And he couldn’t help but marvel at the way his thoughts had changed. Not long ago he’d been unable to worry about anyone but himself. He hadn’t been able to conjure anything but fear towards Jaskier. Fear and shame. So much had changed since they’d started working through things together.

He imagined, between Jaskier’s work and his own, how many changes were still to come. What would the two of them look like once this was all over? He let his mind mull this over as Jaskier fell asleep nestled into his side.

Without realizing, Geralt fell asleep soon after. Perhaps it was the stress of the day, or perhaps he was sharing Jaskier’s exhaustion. Either way, Jaskier followed him into his dreams.

He saw them together, back in Novigrad, where he’d asked Jaskier to meet him all those lifetimes ago. Jaskier walked at his side, talking animatedly. His lute was on his back, and the scars were gone from his face. They were happy.

When Geralt woke a while later, he couldn’t help but wonder, was this an image of the past that had never come to be? Or was this a vision of their future?

Chapter Text

Of all the advancements they made with Jaskier’s recovery, the day he picked up his lute again was the most joyous of them all.

Triss had needed to go on a special mission via portal to retrieve it from where Jaskier had stowed it before setting out on his quest to find Geralt. When she returned the others had all gathered in his room to listen. Geralt was secretly pleased when Jaskier asked everyone to leave. He would get to have this moment all to himself.

“What if I still can’t play?” Jaskier asked in a voice just above a whisper, as if he feared even saying his concern out loud might cause it to come true.

“Then we’ll just know you need to wait a little longer,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier didn’t look convinced, and he eyed the lute with a mixture of fear and desire. Geralt knew this had been the most upsetting result of his injuries, and that ever since first waking up with his burns he’d feared they might spell the end of his barding.

“Nenneke says your skin is stronger now, and we’ve been working on your muscles,” he reminded him. “But if today isn’t the day, that just means this milestone is a little further down the road. We don’t have to do this now if you don’t want to.”

“No, I do,” Jaskier rushed to clarify. His voice dropped off. “I’m just afraid.”

“You have nothing to be afraid of.” Geralt took his hand and squeezed it, pointing out to him just how much sturdier it was than it had been a few weeks ago. “Now are you going to play me a song?”

He started out with a simple scale. Perhaps it was just to ease himself back in, but Geralt suspected it was to soften the blow if he ended up unable to play. The notes came slowly, very unlike the way his fingers used to fly across the strings, but they rang out clear and accurate. It was quite possibly the most beautiful thing Geralt had ever heard.

And it remained the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard until a few minutes later, after deciding he was proficient enough with his scales, when Jaskier began to sing, plucking the strings along with an old familiar tune.

His voice was rasping, and he struggled to get to the higher notes, but the longer he sang, the clearer and more confident his notes became.

It brought Geralt back to the last time he’d heard Jaskier play, before he had any idea what would happen to them—that it easily could’ve been the last time.

The show had been in a tavern, nothing special, just a way to secure their food and lodging for the night. But to Jaskier, every show was special. He saw singing on the side of the road to be as important as playing for a king. He never gave less than his all.

Jaskier had been pink cheeked and grinning, interacting with the growing crowd, accepting their offerings of coins and praise with a grace Geralt could never even begin to share.

Watching Jaskier now, his cheeks going pink with the effort, beaming at his own success, Geralt felt the same feelings stirring in his chest as he had that night in the tavern.

The feelings he’d shied away from. The ones he’d been too afraid to reciprocate when Jaskier had shown Geralt his own feelings on that day so long ago in Novigrad. The ones that might’ve changed everything, stopped this whole mess from happening, if he’d just been brave enough to admit them.

Romance.

His relationship with Jaskier had become so much more intimate during his time spent healing, but that intimacy was different. It was the intimacy of letting someone see you at your worst. They’d spent a great amount of time in bed together, but that was for healing. Everything they’d done had been for healing—to right Geralt’s wrongs and give back to Jaskier everything he’d taken from him. They’d been trying to get back to where they’d started.

Now, for the first time, Geralt wanted more.

***

“Ouch, fuck.” Jaskier pulled his hand away from the lute, wincing when one of its strings split the skin on the pad of his finger open. “Well, I guess that’s the end of that.”

He was disappointed, of course, but he felt good too. He’d done better than he’d thought he would, and even though today’s playing was over, he now knew that it wasn’t over for good. This was the beginning of what he suspected would be a long road back to the level he’d been playing at before, but at least the road was open to him.

Jaskier went to put his bleeding finger in his mouth, but before he could, Geralt caught it and brought it to his own. He pressed it against his lips with a surprising softness, and Jaskier felt the skin knit back together.

“Thank you,” he said, setting the lute aside. “I should probably call it a day.”

Geralt hummed, still holding Jaskier’s hand.

“You have blood on your lips.” Jaskier wiped it away with a thumb, and Geralt surprised him once more by pulling him close, bringing their faces together with a gentle hand on the back of Jaskier’s head.

For a moment Jaskier nearly lost himself.

How long had this been exactly what he wanted? How long had he thought it was an impossibility? How long had he spent thinking he’d lost Geralt forever? This was beyond his highest hopes.

Jaskier regained his senses just before their lips met, their faces only centimeters apart, Geralt’s breath warm on Jaskier’s already flaming cheeks. He pulled away, leaving a little piece of his heart behind with Geralt.

“Oh.” Geralt broke his heart even further by taking a step back from where he’d been sitting on the bed. He stood there with a hurt expression on his face. “Okay. I understand.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to,” Jaskier rushed to assure him. “But we can’t.” He delivered the news as gently as he could. “It would break the curse.”

Chapter Text

“I want to do something for you.”

Jaskier lay with his head on Geralt’s chest. Everything seemed to be about him and his healing lately. Even when Geralt was the center of attention, it was still a part of Jaskier’s healing. When was the last time they’d done something just for him?

“I don’t need anything,” Geralt assured him. “You don’t need to push yourself.”

“Oh, enough with that,” Jaskier brushed him off. “I haven’t even told you what I want to do.”

“Fine, what do you want to do?”

He wanted to do a lot of things, to be fair. He was getting out of bed more lately, but still not often. And when he did, it was only to go down to the hot springs to build up his strength in the water, or to lay on a couch in another room for a change of scenery.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” he admitted. “But I want to do something nice.”

“What inspired this, Jask?” Geralt asked, absentmindedly petting the soft downy hair which was finally growing back in on the burned side of his head.

The kiss. Or rather, the not kiss. A few days had passed since then, and neither of them had said anything about it, although Jaskier thought about it almost unceasingly. It was too painful to bring up though. Jaskier wanted it too badly, and he couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that he was the reason Geralt couldn’t have what he wanted. It was a cruel twist of fate that Jaskier had to deny Geralt what he himself had been desperate for since long before any of this had happened.

“You’ve just been working so hard to help me get better,” he explained. “I want to pay you back, even if it’s only in a small way.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he replied. “I’m the reason you got hurt to begin with.”

Jaskier’s expression soured, but this didn’t stop Geralt.

“I’ll never be able to make up for what I did to you,” Geralt continued. “I certainly don’t need repayment.”

“That isn’t fair and you know it,” Jaskier pouted. “It’s not like you hurt me on purpose, and you’ve put so much work and time into fixing things. Is it really so bad that I think you deserve something nice?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier nuzzled his face against Geralt’s, rubbing their noses together. They may not be able to kiss, but ever since Geralt had tried, Jaskier had taken it as his cue to initiate intimacy in other ways. Geralt hummed again, this time sounding satisfied instead of dismissive.

“I just want to be close with you,” Geralt admitted. “I don’t need anything else, okay?”

Maybe he didn’t, but Jaskier couldn’t help but want more. For both of them.

***

The next night, Jaskier went down to eat dinner with everyone else in the main hall. They brought in a couch he could recline on, since sitting upright in the hard wooden chairs was still too painful and tiring. It was nice to be a part of things though, even if it was only on the periphery.

He was able to feed himself now, and he was happy to sit and slowly make his way through his meal while he listened to everyone else chat.

At the end of the evening, Geralt scooped him up to carry him to bed, and immediately Jaskier nestled into his chest.

The Witcher had partaken in a few servings of white gull at the meal, and while it wasn’t near enough to get him drunk, Jaskier swore he got a little bit of a buzz off of him when their skin touched. Maybe Jaskier was just drunk on being close to him. Even after all this time practically glued to him, the effect still hadn’t worn off. He doubted it ever would.

“You’re so beautiful.” Jaskier brought his hand up to rest on Geralt’s cheek as he walked, painfully aware of just how stunning his perfect skin looked next to Jaskier’s scarred and healing hand.

Geralt turned his face and pressed his mouth to Jaskier’s palm.

“You sound sleepy,” he observed, avoiding the compliment. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“Come to bed with me.”

The Witcher spent most nights in his own room. It wasn’t that he didn’t like being with Jaskier, but he knew Geralt needed time to himself to unwind and process his thoughts. He’d always been that way, and Jaskier respected his need for space. Anyway, a strange side effect of the connection caused them to have, and share, much more vivid dreams when they slept together. The rest was important for them both, but tonight Jaskier didn’t care. He didn’t want to stop looking at Geralt until he physically couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

Geralt didn’t argue.

He brought Jaskier back to bed and helped him undress before taking off his own clothes and climbing under the covers beside him.

When they did their exercises in the hot springs they were both undressed, but this was different. Jaskier was able to press himself up against Geralt’s bare torso, feel the outlines of his more than human muscles, and the impossibly slow, strong beats of his heart, contrasted starkly by Jaskier’s own fluttery pulse. Geralt pulled him close.

Still feeling a little bit drunk, Jaskier draped his body across Geralt’s chest, pressing his ear above his sternum so he could hear his heartbeat up close.

“What are you thinking about?” the Witcher asked, his voice more vibration than sound.

“How much I like being here with you.”

“Hmm.” The sound was so resonant, the vibrations tickled.

“Why hmm? Is it so hard to believe?” Jaskier propped himself up on one elbow to face him.

“Yeah, sort of,” Geralt admitted. “After everything I did.”

“How many times do I have to say it?” he replied, exasperated. “I’ve forgiven you. It wasn’t your fault. The situation was out of both of our control, and I don’t hold it against you.”

When Geralt said nothing, Jaskier took it as his cue to continue.

“How long are you going to hold it against yourself?”

Chapter Text

They dreamed together that night.

Since connecting themselves via magic, they’d always been closest during sleep. It was expected that they’d slip into the other's consciousness if one slept while the other was awake, but when they slept at the same time, they often found themselves falling in and out of strange dreams side by side. If they were touching while they slept, as they were now, wrapped up in each other’s embrace, the tandem journey was almost inevitable. They were able to predict the strange shared consciousness dream, but were never sure what the dream itself might entail.

Tonight, at first Geralt didn’t realize they were dreaming at all. It felt so real. So good.

The two of them were laying in a bed almost identical to the one in Jaskier’s room. Jaskier’s head was nuzzled into Geralt’s chest, soft and warm against his bare skin.

“Hmm.” Jaskier yawned and stretched, eyes fluttering open and finding Geralt’s. “Good morning.” A sleepy smile broke on his face. “How did you sleep?”

How did he sleep? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t get his brain to work right, looking down at Jaskier who appeared utterly angelic in the morning light streaming through the window. All he could say was he’d never felt better in his life.

Any further attempts at speech were dashed when Jaskier put a hand on his sternum and used it as leverage to reach up and swing one leg over Geralt’s waist, the blanket hanging off him like a cape.

Geralt realized then that the scars were gone. All his hair had grown back, new muscles adorning what before had been just bones. There was a layer of fat across his bare stomach, and unable to help himself, Geralt took him by the waist and pulled him down on top of him.

He reveled in the implications.

Jaskier was healed. They’d done it. The endless, impossible task was finished. They could finally have each other.

As if reading his mind, Jaskier leaned down for a kiss. Geralt didn’t hesitate to kiss him back, unable to believe they’d finally done it. Euphoric in their success. After all the work they’d done, all the hardships they’d endured, they’d earned this ten times over.

There was no feeling of severance or emptiness when they kissed. Instead there was a blissful sort of union as they each came back into themselves. They were choosing each other—living their own lives, and sharing them intentionally, rather than by force—and that felt so much better than the hazy, tangled web of pain they’d been in before.

“I can’t imagine a better way to wake up,” Geralt continued, pulling away for only a moment.

He pressed his forehead against Jaskier’s, gratified when he leaned in for another kiss.

“Let’s stay here all day,” Geralt told him, morning voice deep and gravelly.

Let’s stay here forever.

Before Jaskier could reply though, Geralt felt a sharp pain in his side. Confused, he looked to Jaskier, whose eyebrows had furrowed. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to be separate. Who had been hurt, and why could both of them feel it?

They were supposed to be healed.

All at once the scene collapsed in on itself. Instead of the golden light of morning, the room was dark and cold. Jaskier lay beside him on the bed, holding his chest and crying.

“What happened?” He asked, panicked. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

It took nearly a full minute of Geralt asking what was going on, and Jaskier fumbling his way through explanations punctuated by sobs, before he gathered that Jaskier was not crying because of the pain.

He was in pain, yes, but that was such a common occurrence nowadays—he’d rolled over in bed and irritated something, nothing to worry about. No, this pain was emotional.

“I want it,” Jaskier told Geralt, tears and snot running down his face. “I want you so badly.”

Geralt held him close to his chest, tucking Jaskier’s head into the crook of his neck so the bard wouldn’t see the couple of tears that welled and then rolled down his cheek. He wanted it too. More than anything.

Well, almost anything.

“Your healing is what’s important,” Geralt said once he was certain his voice would come out even. “Someday, Jaskier, but not right now.”

Jaskier pushed himself away from Geralt’s chest so he was sitting up in bed, facing him.

“Don’t you care?” He accused, wiping the back of his hand across his face, achieving nothing but spreading the tears so his whole face glistened in the moonlight of their room. “Don’t you want me?”

“Of course I want you,” Geralt rushed to reassure him.

This was all the encouragement Jaskier needed.

“Have me then.” He all but threw himself onto Geralt. “I’m healed enough,” he insisted. “I’ll heal on my own. I’d rather have you like this.”

“Jaskier, I—”

“Being so close to you like this hurts worse than the injuries I have left.”

It broke Geralt’s heart to have to turn his face away from Jaskier’s. Another tear welled and rolled down his cheek in the few seconds before he turned back.

Jaskier was just staring at him, looking as heartbroken and desperate as Geralt felt.

“It’s my body,” he insisted. “I’m ready, please let me have this.”

“Let’s not make this decision tonight,” Geralt stalled. This was all happening so fast. He hoped if Jaskier had more time to think, he would realize he wanted to keep healing. “Let’s talk about it in the morning.”

Jaskier shook his head. “I can’t sleep here with you then,” he decided. “It hurts too badly. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Geralt carefully extracted himself from their entangled position on the bed. “I’ll go.”

He left the bedroom, the stone floor icy on his bare feet, not looking back even when he heard the next sob break from Jaskier’s chest.

His own tears returned in full force as soon as the door shut behind him. It was a long time before they slowed, and he prayed Jaskier hadn’t fallen asleep and witnessed this. They were both hurting enough.

Chapter Text

Jaskier was confused for a few moments when he woke the next morning cold and sore, the bed absent of any sign of Geralt. Dried tears pulled at his cheeks, his head throbbed, and his body ached in the way that it only did when Geralt wasn’t around. He was supposed to wake up comfortable, wrapped in his Witcher’s arms. What was this?

Then he remembered.

The dream. The kiss. The absolute rapturous joy of being close to him like that again, and the devastation in waking.

He shouldn’t have kicked Geralt out. That had been the wrong move. It had hurt them both worse, but in the wake of that dream it had felt like nothing could hurt worse than lying there in bed beside him, with the curse building a wall between them.

Already though he could feel that very same curse pulling him towards Geralt.

Or maybe that was just the effect the Witcher had always had on him.

For better or for worse, he couldn’t exactly get out of bed and go looking for him. Either Geralt would come find him, and they’d pick things up where they’d left them last night, or Jaskier would have to ask someone to go fetch him so they could finish this.

There was a bell on Jaskier’s bedside table. It was loud enough that even the non-mutated residents would hear if he rang it. Someone would come, but it wouldn’t be Geralt. Jaskier didn’t reach for it.

Instead he pulled the covers tighter around him, buried his head in his pillow, and resumed his crying from the night before.

It wasn’t anywhere close to how loud the bell would’ve been, but it summoned someone regardless. Less than half an hour had passed when a knock came at the door. With his trained, musical ear he could tell the person on the other side wasn’t Nenneke (a solid knock, not as sturdy as the Witchers, or as soft as Triss).

“Come in,” he called, fully aware of how pitiful he sounded, congested and mopey like he was ill.

Sure enough it was Mother Nenneke who greeted him with a cheery good morning that Jaskier didn’t even try to match. He barely had it in him to exert the energy it took to rub the tears and snot from his face with the back of his hand.

Naturally, Nenneke was immediately concerned.

“Oh dear.” She came to sit on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong, Jaskier?”

Just the acknowledgment that something was wrong was enough to push him back over the edge, and the absence of Geralt stung deeper the longer the morning went on. The fact that Nenneke was able to calm him down at all should be considered a miracle, despite taking her the better part of the hour.

“And then just waking up next to him right after that, and knowing—” he explained past the last remaining tears.

“So he left?”

Jaskier shook his head, wincing and whimpering when it sent a shot of pain down his neck. He must’ve slept wrong.

Sleeping without Geralt always felt wrong anymore.

“I told him to leave,” he explained after a long, measured breath.

“How about I go find him then,” she suggested.

“No, please.”

“You have to talk about this eventually,” Nenneke reminded him. “The longer you wait the harder it will be.”

Jaskier’s bottom lip trembled, and his breath caught.

“I can’t.”

***

Geralt didn’t go down to breakfast the next morning. He didn’t have it in him.

Jaskier probably wouldn’t be there. He usually took breakfast in his room. But Geralt didn’t want to risk it. He couldn’t bear to be turned away by Jaskier twice. Last night had been painful enough.

After leaving Jaskier’s bed, both of them in tears, it had taken Geralt a long time to get back to sleep. Never once though, had he considered going and asking to be let back in.

If Jaskier wanted Geralt, he’d have to send for him, because there was too much pain at stake for the both of them for Geralt to risk going himself, no matter how strong the pull may be.

So instead, he went in the complete opposite direction: out to the stables.

He’d hoped for a morning alone with the horses to think while he cleaned out the soiled hay, but before long he had company, as he knew he would.

“Geralt, I’m surprised to see you out here this morning.” Eskel came inside, knocking the worst of the snow off of his boots before entering Roach’s stable, where Geralt was currently shoveling. “I was going to come out and do this, but I guess you beat me to it,” he said. “I figured you’d be with Jaskier.”

Instinctively, Geralt wanted to close up.

Rationally, he knew that everyone here loved and cared about him, but it was hard to shake what had been hammered into his mind at Delacroix’s.

Eskel can help, he told himself. If you just let him.

“Yeah, he um,” Geralt began warily. “He asked me to leave last night. I’m not sure if I’m welcome back yet.”

“Oh shit.”

He didn’t push, but over the course of the morning—as they gave the stables the most thorough cleaning it’d had in a long while—Eskel got the whole story out of him.

“So you don’t want to sever the connection?” Eskel asked.

“No, it’s not that. Of course I want to be close to him. Jaskier knows that,” he explained. “I just didn’t think last night was the right time, when we were both already upset.”

“I s’pose that’s fair.”

“I’m just worried that Jaskier’s going to keep being upset until we break the connection.”

“I’m not sure if there’s anything you can do to change that,” Eskel replied. “He’s allowed to be upset. You both are.”

“But what if we go through with it, and then he’s upset because he hasn’t healed more?” Geralt pressed. “I’m so terrified he’s going to regret not getting the most out of our connection. He’s still hurting, I know it, and I just want to help.”

Geralt wasn’t used to speaking so freely. His desperation for advice was, for once, outweighing his desire to remain closed off.

“You don’t get to decide whether or not Jaskier is going to regret his decision,” his brother reminded him. “All you can do is support whatever decision he makes.”