Chapter Text
"G-geralt?" Jaskier woke from his sleep to a hand pressed on his waist. The only other person who had a key to their room must have returned home… Until he realized-
His thoughts quickly dispelled as he came back to consciousness to find an empty inn room, the moonlight illuminating everything in sight. He was alone. Of course, he was alone. It had already been a full month since he had walked down that mountain on his own. Since his friend of two decades had thrown him away with yesterday's trash.
He curled up around himself in his empty bed. A bed that would stay empty for a while as he nursed his broken heart.
Tomorrow was another day of false smiles and chipper performances; he needed all the sleep he could get to keep himself going. It had taken everything from him not to drop to his knees and beg for another chance; the numbness that spread over his body was unlike anything he had experienced before.
Instead, he simply walked away, body aching and his eyes dry of tears. Even his lute felt heavy in his hands. He didn't want to write, didn't even want to try. What would he even write about. His livelihood came from writing about the great tales of the White Wolf. The spark of motivation seemed to leave with him for now. It would return; it always had. This was far from Jaskier's first heartbreak, but it was also by far the worst. He had never felt it physically in the tired ache of his legs or the sleep-hazed eyes he watched out of. It had always been a few days of sulking and writing to get his feelings out and then he would move on. This wasn't the first time he was told he was unwanted, so why had it sunken so deep no?
Maybe Geralt was right…
Maybe Geralt had always been right.
Every snapping word or harsh glare. Every biting shout or shove. Every time the witcher had grabbed his lapels or got into his face. Looks of disappointment and anger that laced every single one of their interactions. The constant threat that he would wake up to an empty campsite with the witcher long gone.
But he never did. Geralt had tired early on. Evidently not very well, but he made a show of letting Jaskier know that he could ride away if he wanted. Maybe Geralt was just lonely, and Jaskier was good for filling the space. God knows he was good for filling the silence.
But it had evened out. Honestly, those twenty years had been the best of Jaskier's life. Every biting word came with a hearty joke or a slight smile when he made a dumb joke. It came with Geralt pulling him by the scruff out of danger and begrudgingly getting him out of trouble with angered parents or siblings. All of the time spent telling Jaskier to quiet down came with its own small moments to make up for it. For fucks sake the man had saved his life more than an insignificant amount, that had to count for something... right?
Honestly, that made it hurt all the more. Made each one of the sweet memories sat around a campfire tinged with the sour anxiety that Geralt had always been looking for an excuse to send him away. All he would have really needed was to say that he was going with Yennefer again. It was usually the excuse he used when he stopped being able to stand Jaskier's presence.
She would call him, and he would go running. Those anxieties of being left behind were only realized when she came around. That's why he was here, right? She had come around looking for a one-in-a-million fertility cure, and Geralt had dogged after her just like he always did. Tongue out and tail wagging. Jaskier rolled his eyes. He wanted to ask why he was so loyal to someone who treated him so poorly, but… glass houses and all that.
The sun crested over the horizon, and Jaskier thought it was about time to get up. There were people who needed him now, and he had things to do. Time on the path had conditioned him to get up with the sun and work until he dropped. He had spent the last week and a half in and out of a bottle between performances and smuggling runs. The headache that currently twinged behind his eyes was an unwanted reminder of that. He ingnored it, there was hardly a monrning when he wasn't waking up with a headache so why should it matter this time.
He dressed quickly in a loose shirt and pants, donning his belt and satchel, before heading downstairs to eat. He had no permanent residence. There was no point. The fresh smuggling business kept him on his toes these days. It served as a good distraction. Made him feel wanted as fucked as that was, he needed it. Needed to do something good now that his music career was basically all reruns. It didn't really matter how he much he used the lives of those who needed help to feel better about himself, it was far from a worrying ulterior motive.
So he worked, worked, and spied and lived. Geralt's harsh words would not be the end of him. It was more spite than anything else. Refusing the give the man the satisfaction of ruining him so thoroughly that he couldn't bounce back. He could, he could keep living, no matter how incompetent and useless his former companion had insisted he was. He knew how to fight dirty, and now one of the elves he was working with was teaching him proper sword technique.
Speaking of…
Sitting in the common area, he was working out of, Arden appeared from behind the bar. He was short for an elf but came up to just under Jaskier's height. Short dark hair and equally dark eyes. His hair curled tightly to his head, which set to show off as much of his dark skin as possible. He wore the nice-looking vest and pants that he always wore while working behind the bar. He was a full blooded elf, mom and dad both elves, but they had taken it upon themselves to round his ears before he was even old enough to ask what they were doing. When Jaskier had first heard his story, he had felt sympathy for the man having that part of him stripped away but Arden never seemed to be bothered by it. Apparently it was a semi-common practice now, which only set of harden the bard's heart further.
"Jaskier! Fair morning." His voice was deep and gravelly as he began to set the bar up for the day. They had come to know a strained camaraderie in the couple of weeks that Jaskier had known the man. Arden had been the one to find him passed out drunk in the alley outside the tavern. As it turns out, he recognized the bard and offered him a place to stay if Jaskier would perform once he was sober. Jaskier has heard the tale several times, but he doesn't remember it. He doesn't remember much from those first two weeks.
His determination to live had not always been there. No, those first few weeks he spent half dead on the cheapest poison he could find or throwing himself into as many bar fights he could pick. It wasn't hard to find someone who was willing to punch him to the ground for the rumors surrounding him and Geralt. Where they had seen the witcher whore, Arden had seen a pity case. Not that Jaskier was complaining. The man demanding a performance had been the first time he had sung since the mountain.
It didn't fix him, but it was enough to snap him out of his drunken state long enough to be embarrassed about it. Not that his embarassment lasted long enough to keep him from the bottle but it had done enough to start.
"It is my friend." The bard answers as he goes to sit at the bar in front of the man.
"Can I get you some breakfast?" Jaskier nodded. They had long since established this alliance, Jaskier was fed and housed as long as he would perform for the tavern, and he lived the rest off the tips of patrons. It wasn't ideal, but as long as the Sandpiper was needed in Oxenfurt, then Jaskier would take it.
He didn't hate the nickname, so to say, one of the younger girls he helped on one of his earliest runs had called him that after she had heard him sing. He had no doubt that she didn't actually know what a sandpiper sounded like, but the high-pitched tweeting seemed to fit his chipper music just as well. Arden had taken to it immediately, clapping him on the back and calling him songbird. It wasn't the first time that Jaskier had smiled since the mountain, but it was the first time it had felt real. One of the only happy memories he could hold on to since then.
It was first time he had felt any sort of hope for the future, where his determination born of spite had sparked. Geralt couldn't take this from him. Jaskier would hold onto the joy the elven girl had given him like a vice to his chest and never let go. It was his. No one else’s. No matter how many times the witcher had made him feel like a burden, he could look back at this moment and prove to himself that he wasn't. That he deserved to have this. Sometimes he didn't always belive himself those times, but it helped.
Arden set down a warm plate in front of him and joined him on the outside of the bar. It was quiet in town these days, and the bar wasn't open yet. This was the time they used to discuss the day and, more importantly, the night.
They both sat in comfortable silence as they ate. A familiar ritual that had forced Jaskier to get up and start the day. He didn't know if Arden had done it on purpose, and he didn't care. He was grateful not to be alone through all of this.
"Lida will be out this morning; she's replenishing the stock, but she'll be here for the performance." Arden broke the silence with his cheerful tone. They often spoke like this. The Stock rather than our stock, The performance rather than your performance. Two different collections, two different events.
"Hm, she missed the last one, so I hope she enjoys it." Jaskier felt the tension crawl under his skin as he forced himself to take another bite of the gruel Arden had served him. They had just finished with a run yesterday, and Lida hadn't been there to help them. Because of this, they had come dangerously close to being caught. Today, they will start prepping for the next one. In his hidden words, Jaskier was telling his friend that he needed to figure out exactly where she was and what she was doing.
He didn't know Lida as well as Arden, but Arden seemed to trust her, so there was a good reason for concern for her abcense. Still, it didn't keep him from being slightly annoyed at the woman. It had taken a lot of smooth talking and even flirting with one of those disgusting bastards to get through the night.
Jaskier could still feel the rough hand caressing over his own. He shivered dramatically as if to shake off the feeling and took anthother bite.
"I talked to her last night, she said she can't wait. Arden responds and Jaskier pauses. He talked to her? That means she is likely okay, okay enough to speak anyway, which is for the better, he supposes. Arden eyes Jaskier's clenched fist and gives him an equally annoyed look. It's clear he is also pretty upset about the wrench thrown in their plans.
"Well, then I'll have to catch her in the audience." Jaskier hops off the stool with a huff as he finishes his meal. Taking his and Arden's plates, he begins to clean and dry them. The elf eyes him the entire way to the sink. Jaskier can see in his face that he's trying to see the real intention behind his words. He seems to come up satisfied because he gets up with a sigh and takes the two dried plates from the bard, putting them away under the bar.
"Well, that's me then, I'll see you tonight." Jaskier throws in a playful wink to insinuate that he's flirting, but they both know what he really means. Arden gives him back a smile and a wave, and Jaskier leaves through the front door.
He rarely leaves the tavern with his lute these days. Doesn't even keep it in his own room; it's too valuable to him now to have it that open. So it stays in the back room with the supplies they give to the elves who pass through. He feels much better about it there. His entire livelihood on a single leather strap. He doesn't have the funds to buy another one, probably wont for a long time at this rate. Most of the coin he earns goes toward the Sandpiper's needs, not Jaskier's.
He'll go to the market today, find clothing he thinks will be suitable for travel. His eyes always water when he has to buy children's clothing. The cruelty of the world had shocked him when he ran away at sixteen. It had scared him when he met Geralt at nineteen, and now it just saddens him. He tries not to remember their names so that when he sees them on tombstones, he doesn't spiral. They need him to be strong, so he is; they need him to be ruthless, so he is.
He still does of course. A bard is made for the people, and he loves his people. He'd likely recognize every face he's seen cross the plank to the boat. Not by his own choice.
The Market isn't busy just yet, but there a quite a few people walking around. Oxenfurt is a miserable little place, and the markets reflect that. This is not the type of city that has streets lined with in-building shops with little storefronts. Not this city was made up of houses on houses, taverns and bars, and all manner of places to pay for sex. It was half the reason he ended up here in the first place. Two weeks into his planned year-long bender, Arden had found him and offered him one jig. Just one. Then one became two, then two became 'as long as you're getting me coin'. Then that became drinking buddies and late-night confessions, Arden eventully revealing his elder blood.
Now here he is, a month without his witcher, and people rely on him. People care if he's late home or drinking himself stupid. It's not a content feeling, it's not even satisfying, but it's something. He needs something. The last song he wrote went up in a wildfire of cheers, mostly from broken-hearted women in the audience. Some small part of the bard still hoped that it would reach the ears of his witcher. Wished that Geralt would hear it and come for him with an apology on his tongue and a sorrowful heart.
But as one month turned into two, turned into three, then four… He stopped wishing. Stopped caring if his music had any impact on the man. Jaskier was done. He had a fine job. An important one. Sure, it wasn't as glamorous as traveling the continent looking for monsters, but he still felt it was more impactful. If Arden still had to pull the bottle from his hands some nights, then that was between him and his kidney; a bard was allowed to wallow a little bit.
It's not like Geralt was here to see it; he had no shame to hide nor any other distraction. Throwing himself into the bed of anyone who looked mean enough to hurt him certainly hadn't helped; he just needed… something. Something that no amount of half-done songs or scribbled lyrics could help with.
Jaskier had always poured himself into his songs; they were his heart and soul. A diary with more emphasis. But now he had a different way to show himself to the world, or to those the world has left behind. It wasn't all that different from what he was doing for the witchers, although he could see the direct aftermath up close now. Every action and decision held so much weight that, to not do anything, directly resulted in the deaths of many.
"Come on bard, I think you've had enough." Jaskier was pulled out of his thoughts by the bartender. He looked up to the slightly disappointed face of Arden looked at him as he rested his head down on the table. The room swam as he lifted up to look at his friend. He felt nauseous and disgusted, wanting to hide away in his room and never leave.
It was just one of those nights.
He had woken up fine, got through most of the day fine. The nights were always rough and this time he just couldn't. Arden let him have drinks free while he performed but made him pay for all of the ones outside of that. He had once joked that it was because then Jaskier would drink the place dry and never look back. He had looked so kind when he said it and Jaskier knew exactly why he had done it.
It wasn't often that he needed to be cut off but some nights were harder than others. Something would set him off and he would relapse.
There had been a witcher in town today. Jaskier had heard from some of the patrons talking about a man with yellow eyes and two swords. Despite himself, his heart had soured with possibility. Every excuse he had made up in his head rushed to the forefront as he hoped beyond hope that his friend had come for him. That he had just needed time, that maybe he didn't know where Jaskier was and was looking for him. Anything and everything he could tell himself he did. He barely even needed an apology at this point, just happy to fantasize about his knight in shining armor coming to rescue him from his own thoughts.
"Ar' Jus- 'on more." He knows he's beyond remembering the night now, everything hurts and his mind is already swimming with thoughts that are hard to grasp a hold of. It doesn't even occur to him how pathetic he looks; his mental state is too far hopped up on poison. Arden is at his side, taking the bottle from his hands. He lets it go as his hand fails to do what he tells it. Needless to say, the witcher in down had not been Geralt, hadn't even been a wolf, not that Jaskier would recognize them. It had been a viper by the name of Letho. Thats about all Jaskier knew of him.
He looked mean, hardened by the world in the way that Geralt always pretended to be but could never commit to. Jaskier hadn't exactly kept his distance, but once he had seen the man, he felt a lot less motivated to actually meet him.
"No Jask- let's get you to bed." Geralt used to call him that, but no matter how many times he had snapped at Arden for it, the man insisted on using it. He used to hate it, feeling the anger bubble up every time the man had thrown even that in his face. But now, now it doesn't mean anything to him. It's just what Arden calls him. It's not Geralt's voice that mocks him and demeans him when he hears it off Arden's tongue. It's just Arden, calling him a nickname.
Sometimes, on nights like this. It's just another thing this man hasn't let Geralt take from him.
"t-ank you Ar'en." He clutches onto the older elf as Arden guides him upstairs.
"Yeah yeah yeah. Thank me by being up in the morning hm?" Arden might be smiling, he might be grimacing. Jaskier isn't really looking. The floor looks too far away, and everything is moving. He's just trying not to twist his ankle as his feet move oddly.
They never talked about it. Not that Jaskier remembered anyway. He knows he must have said something at some point because Arden seems to know when the bad days are, but he's never said Geralt's name out loud. He doesn't want to. It tastes like ash in his mouth and makes his heart clench painfully. But still Arden seems to know everything. Jaskier supposes that's his own fault, could never keep his damn mouthshut when he was drinking. He's sure that once night when Arden had come to his resue once again he had just blurted it all out and now his freind has to deal witht that too. Jaskier might even feel sorry for it, if he ever remebered doing it.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands
Those words played over and over in his head like a mantra. Like motivation to keep going. They fueled his spite at the best of times and his drinking habit at the worst of times. The latter more often than the former.
"Here you are." The words stabbed through his already severe headache, and a wave of nausea crashed through him as he was unceremoniously dropped onto his bed.
"And this." Something cold was lifted to his lips as he sputtered through water in protest. Arden just kept tilting the glass, forcing himself to drink the only water he'd had all day. He hated the man for being the kindest thing he'd ever known. He hated him for wasting his time with a bard who couldn't even keep his head on straight most nights. He hated him for the way he forced Jaskier to live and be better, and he hated him for how damn effective it was.
Tomorrow, Jaskier would wake up late and be embarrassed, apologize, and Arden would ignore it. He'd tell him all the things they needed to do for the week, and Jaskier would listen with intent, ignoring the throbbing headache as he tried to regain the ability to be a person again. He'd perform and hope the audience couldn't tell how broken he was. He'd look at Arden in the back and smile and wink just like every night, and Arden would roll his eyes and wink back. He might hear news of another witcher in down a few weeks later but it would never be Geralt.
So he stopped looking. Stopped turning his head when he heard of a man with yellow eyes and two swords, and stopped checking the board for any recently taken contracts. Stopped watching the door of the inn as he performed with that slight hope of seeing a familiar face.
When the first year passed without a single qualm, Jaskier almost felt happy. No big world-ending events, no near-death experiences. Days pass almost domestically, aside from the highly illegal elf smuggling. The tensions are rising day by day, but Jaskier manages to keep a steady head when he needs to. In front of the people who need him, he can. It's harder when he's alone, but then Arden is there and he's never alone for long.
Today was the anniversary, or as close as he could get to it. But he wasn't drinking yet. He was doing better; he had to be doing better. He'd even started writing again. They were small pieces, not meant for the public, and they had no lyrics to go with them, but seeing his notebook fill even that much more had him feeling slightly better. Arden stopped giving him those pitiful looks when he sat down at the bar because he was no longer there to drown out every waking thought with alcohol.
"Jask." Arden greets him with a nod.
"Hey Arden, how'd you like the show?" He waggles his eyebrows at the man, and Arden laughs.
"Too many clothes, you'd get more money with less on." He snarks back as if chastising Jaskier for daring to hide his body. Jaskier feigns flustered fanning.
"I'm not a common whore, Arden, you have to pay at least." Arden hums with the remnants of a smile. The bustle of the tavern quickly drowns out their polite conversation. It's a good night, a fine night.
It's a fine night, and there are enough distractions that keep Jaskier busy. Enough people talk to him to keep him from walking off the ledge accidentally. Enough talk of music and the rumors of the town. Enough petty gossip mixed with the chatter of tavern goers to keep Jaskier awake for the night.
It's fine. The night is fine, and Jaskier makes it through without even touching a tankard. He doesn't even regret it… that much. Not even when he takes his lute up to his room rather than storing it in the back because it's the only thing that reminds him of all the happy nights spent around a fire or in a warm tavern with his friend. He doesn't grit his teeth and bite through the back of his hand, trying to keep the tears from falling for a man who couldn't even care long enough to check in on him after abandoning him on a mountain. He doesn't even curl around the instrument like it's the last thing keeping him tied to this world. He doesn't.
Jaskier is left alone for the rest of the night to struggle through sleep. He struggles. He struggles more than the last few months combined. His words play in his head. Jaskier can hear Geralt's voice in his ear, can see the spit fly from his mouth as the only person who stuck by him for twenty years dumped all of his shit on Jaskier's head.
If he wasn't gritting his teeth before, he is now. It hurts like it did that first night. The tightness in his chest is overwhelming, and his head hurts from dehydration. His pillow is wet, but he doesn't feel the tears. It's shit. It's all shit, and he can't bring himself to breathe properly. He doesn't deserve it. He hasn't done enough. It's never enough to make up for the years he wasted on nothing. Jaskier swings hard into self-disgust. For everything he hasn't done. For everything he has done. Even for the damn lute in his hands.
Jaskier doesn't let go. If anything, he holds tighter, hoping that maybe it will make him feel better.
It doesn't.
The next year is better. If you can count it as better.
Jaskier does better. He thinks about it less, and he buckles down harder. There is a small pride in the way Arden looks at him. In the way they all look at him. The resistance grows faster than Jaskier can keep track of. There are more people who hang around the tavern after hours, and there are more and more elves pouring in each night. The place can hardly house them all. They have to expand into the sewers. It's not pretty, but Jaskier does his best.
His performances feel more real, and his heart aches less. It’s easy to get lost in the politics as his role for Vizimir grows bigger. He wants to think that it's because he's been so helpful against Nilfguard, but he knows better than to overestimate his worth.
Still, it pays passage for as many people as he can fit on trade ships at a time. The longer he can drag out his disappearance, the more people he helps. Day by day is all he has the energy for now, and that's enough. He helps behind the bar sometimes too, he's learned elder over the two years, and so his face is the first safe one that elves see when they enter. He can vet them or just let them know that they made it to the right place.
'The Sandpiper's den'. The name has been thrown around faster than he can really get a hold of it, and the others aren't all that happy about it. Neither is he, but some of them have started to talk about moving the operation. The more time they spend here, the more opportunity it gives the guard to find out exactly what is going on. Jaskier is against this. He knows the risk, but he also knows that if they move, ditch the small tavern that Arden has put his life into, then there will inevitably be some poor soul who comes here looking for salvation, only to be caught and caged faster than they can even get the word 'help' out.
As far as he's concerned, that's their responsibility. Every single person who has heard of the Sandpiper's den in passing could be an enemy, but so far… there hasn't been an issue. Jaskier wants to drag it out as long as possible. The king is closing in on him too, and he's running out of time anyway. What's another deadline? He will help every single elf out of this place or be caught first. He owes it to the people he's dedicated himself to. For the kids who pass through his halls every day in fear that they will end up in chains next to their parents, if they are lucky, that is. There are plenty of tales of guards who don't even give them the mercy to stand… or live.
Jaskier winces as he steps up to the stage. Right now, all he has to do is sing. The crowd is lively tonight anyway, and it's always fun when they are half drunk. He introduces himself with flourish to a cheer and begins. It's the same as every night. A rambunctious crowd full of new and old faces, interacting and egging him on. A few frivolous winks to the maidens closer to him get him a few laughing, blown kisses back.
He doesn't notice the man sitting in the back of the tavern nursing a glass of something. Doesn't notice the heightened guard around the tavern or the way the place breathes with a different air tonight. He belts and prances in the laps of those willing to indulge him and plays like he does everything, with his soul.
The night drags on as song after song takes the wind from his sails. A tankard gets him back on his feet, but the repetitive song and dance takes it’s toll nonetheless. It isn't until someone requests that song that he really starts to slow down. He hasn't played it in a year, he won't unless asked, and it seems not many people are brave enough to break the chipper attitude of the tavern for a song about a broken heart.
He warns the man who requests it, a man in the back with long dark hair and a shaky smile on his lips. The drink in his hand clinks against his ring when he talks, and Jaskier warns him that the song isn't a lively one. The man simple nods like he understands and holds his glass up as if to say 'go ahead'. There is something about the gesture that makes Jaskier want to turn him down, but he doesn't.
It starts slow, just like it always does. His breath stays even as much as he wills it, and his chest stays open no matter how wrong the words feel on his tongue. They scrape against his teeth like metal, filling his mouth with a sour taste. He pushes through, not wanting to disappoint a fan.
By the end of it, he feels flayed open and left to rot. No one moves to comfort him, which he is grateful for. If Arden were here, he'd be giving Jaskier that look. The one that says he really shouldn’t be singing that song anymore and he’s right but who is Jaskier to deny a fan. He finishes quietly with the last 'burn' still hanging on his lips before snapping back to the crowd.
The bard sighs and stands, not wanting to end on a bad note, he gets up and gives a winning smile; trying to convey that it was all an act. He jumps back into a rendition of Toss a Coin and gets the crowd laughing and clapping again. He hopes the bastard who requested the song is happy with his performance; it'll cost him the nightmares for the next few days.
When he glances back to where the man was sitting, he's gone. Half drunk glass of mead is still sitting on the table. Jaskier holds in his eye roll as he continues with his last song. It's late and he has a mile to go before he can sleep. There was another run tonight, one of the biggest yet. Near two dozen elves hidden in the sewers right now. Likely huddled together in the cold of the night. Just that thought, the images of people too young to know the danger they were in, was enough to force him to finish the set with a bang.
Arden waited for him in the back once the patrons had trickled out. The show was over and gone from his mind as soon as it had come. Pleasure became business, and he had a job to do.
Passing out blankets and food as they all waited for the cover of night. Changes of clothing and replacing some essecial items is about all they can manage for these people but it is helpp nonetheless. It was a straight shot to the docks and they had Lida looking out for guards tonight. It was easy, just as it had always been. Still, the nerves crawled over his skin like nothing else. That sticky feeling in the air clung to him as he threw his lute over his back. Now, in the little time before he sent them off, it was time to take stock. Trade stories and update what he knew about the guard. What people were saying about the Sandpiper, and how much everyone knew about the whole situation. Tending to wounds and feeding hungry mouths. All part of the process.
It was a trade at the most base form, although with a little more music and a lot more laughter. They took the joy where they could and let Jaskier figure out the rest. There was a big adventure ahead as they were on their own once on the boat. The Sandpiper gave them a way out, but there wasn't much he could do afterward. So for now, there was time for a little calm.
Jaskier peeked out of the back door to the tavern, Arden behind him with everyone else. He spotted Lida crossing the silent street in a casual manner. She was good at her job despite her rather flighty personality.
"You have five minutes, go." That was all she said before slipping into the building beside him. From watching the street to watching the tavern. Jaskier wasted no time responding. He was out with Arden on his tail without a second thought.
Crossing the paths and turning to the docks, a flood of bodies caught up and over took him. Everything they could carry in their arms and stuffed bears clutched tight to young chests. This was always the hardest part. Sending them into the unknown. He prayed they all made it, they all got out. To somewhere safer if not safe.
The Captain caught him and pulled him aside. That look in his eyes of a tired and beaten man that Jaskier had never seen him without. He paid the man with a sorry smile and began to help them load up. Arden was going with them now. The guards were closing in, and Jaskier hadn't been able to convince him that they had more time. He understood, of course. In Oxenfurt, there were still people who knew his heritage, and he wasn't safe. Some part of the bard wanted to follow him to the new world as well. The irrational and impossibly loyal part of him. The part he had tried to stomp out two years ago.
Arden walked up to him and embraced him hard, careful of his lute but still hard enough to bruise. Jaskier returned it. He would miss the man, but every day he saw the way he tensed under the shadow of the guard, the way he fought not to cower in gazed held too long. The way he scratched at the scars on his ears when he thought too long about it. Jaskier saw all of it. He knew this was a long time coming, but still his heart ached for it. Another loss in this world, humans was determined to destroy.
"Be well." Jaskier's voice wobbled as he spoke. Taking the man who had dragged him kicking and screaming out of hell and given him life once more. He'd follow, once there was nowhere else to go, he would follow.
"I've locked the liquor cabinet." Arden smiled that knowing smile, and Jaskier laughed.
"Jask. I'll be seeing you." He said it with such confidence, the bard couldn't help but believe it.
"Of course." And then they were gone.
Jaskier stood on the dock for as long as time would allow. Watching the waves carry away twenty four lives reborn. He felt hope, strangely, rather than loss. Hope that his friend's words were true, even if they did seem far-fetched in this free-falling world.
He slipped back into the shadows with a look of determination, the warmth of Arden's hands still clinging to his body.
That is where Rience found him.
The man from the tavern crawled from the shadows as Jaskier turned. His face held that shaky smile that looked all the more menacing in this light than it had in the tavern. Jaskier startled as the man advanced and tried to run but Rience was on him faster than he could get away. A shove to the ground made him feel the crunch and snap of broken wood. The strap was ripped over his head, and before he could get more than a shout brought hard down against his head.
Hope fled with the fading light as the dark-haired man stood over his rapidly failing body. His arms up as if to block another blow fell to the ground with their own weight. The world darkened around his eyes as he tried to make them focus. Nothing was left behind of the warmth he felt from his friend, only that cold and sneering chuckle of a man wishing to do him harm.
When he woke again, it was to the throbbing pain in his head and an ache in his back. He was slumped forward in a chair, hands and legs tied down, and a thick rope wrapped around his gut. He blinked at his surroundings with a groan. The sleep haze refused to leave him and he had to force his eyes to focus to make the room stop spinning.
Once it does, he blearily recognizes the room. He's in the tavern. Tied to one of the chairs that were supposed to be stacked up against the side of the place. It's dark, the middle of the night, and there is no one around him. Not that he can see anyway. Lida is supposed to be here, but she isn't. He sighs as he realizes what's happened. He's been kidnapped by someone. No, not someone. That man from the performance. Jaskier grits his teeth as he turns his head to get a better look at the room.
"Uh- Hello?" He calls out into the dark. There is no response.
"You should know I don't discuss my work with anyone!" He cries out again, unable to keep the fear from reaching his voice. He's scared, terrified. This could be any number of things that have finally come to bite him in the ass. The thought at the forefront is that Vizimir has finally found a reason to have him killed, and this is just the steps leading up to it. So yes, he is absolutely shitting himself. That and regretting the fact that he didn't follow Arden onto the boat.
There is a click from the end of the room, and a lantern attached to the wall lights up. Jaskier flinches hard as his fear gets the better of him. His whole body aches, and there are several sharp pains in his back and legs. It feels like he was dragged a few streets on the gravel path.
There is another click, and Jaskier calls out again. No response and another lit lantern. He can feel himself shaking now, his eyes dart around the room at the slightest hint of movement. He waits for his death in an utterly helpless situation.
There is another click, and suddenly, out of the dark, the man's face appears. Jaskier wrenches back in an effort to get away from him and Rience's smile grows .
"Hello Jaskier." His tone draws out in a satisfied smirk. Jaskier looks at him with wide eyes, flicking between the flame dancing on his hand and his face. He keeps his mouth shut for the time being, just trying to anticipate what this guy will do next.
"I have a few questions for you, and you're going to play nice and answer them for me." Jaskier's skin crawls as he talks, like he's coaxing a child to give back the sweet they stole.
When the bard doesn't answer, Rience frowns and flicks out the light. He'll get what he's after and then leave. It really doesn't matter to him what happens afterward.
"Where is your witcher taking the girl?" Jaskier's heart stops in his chest. His witcher. Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blavikin. His witcher. And what girl? Could he be talking about Yennefer, most people would refer to someone that old as a woman, though.
"M-my witcher?" His voice shakes, and he hates himself for it.
"Geralt of Rivia and his child surprise." What. He- when did… A million thoughts flood Jaskier's mind as he struggles to retain the information through the very likely concussion he's sporting. He didn't even know Geralt went back for her. That was years ago, a decade at least. He'd heard that Cintra had fallen, but not once had he even thought about the child that was supposed to reign there. C-could that be true? Could Geralt have gone back for his child now that she was older?
Something bitter in him resented that fact. That Geralt had decided the child he shoved in Jaskier's face as a blight was also the same one Geralt cared enough to go back for. He wasn't angry at the child, no. But an entirely new fury raged inside him for the witcher.
"I don't know." That was all he managed to grit out. Rience's face turned up in annoyance. Jaskier had less than a second to brace before that ringed fist came down against his jaw; he felt his teeth bite into his tongue and the acrid taste of iron fill his mouth. His face stings and there are several opened cuts where theose rings split his skin.
"I DON'T!" He shouted again, trying to convince the man in front of him that it was true. He got another hit for it. This time, square in the nose. It crunched under the weight, and something warm dribbled down over his lips. Rience let his head hang as he watched his blood drip into his lap.
The mage wasn't done with him. Far from it, but at least this reprieve was nice.
It was short-lived as he felt a hand grip into his hair, yanking his head back and up at an odd angle. The crick in his neck flared as he tried to maintain eye contact.
"Tell me where they are going." His voice was cold and unamused now.
"I told you…" Jaskier gulped in air around his blood and spit.
"I. Don't. Know." He flinched reflexively, but the strike never came. Rience only let go of his hair, letting his chin fall back to his chest. He felt a wreck now as he waited for something else to happen.
That something else was answered when Rience pulled up another disused chair to sit down in front of the bard. He leaned over on his knees and caught Jaskier's eyes where they rested on the ground. The mage's face was a picture of understanding and serenity. Jaskier squirmed uneasily.
"Let's try another method hm?" He leaned forward, his palm skating over the back of Jaskier's hand in a smooth circle. Jaskier just watched it. Then with another click, Rience's finger was alight. Jaskier's eyes widened in horror as Rience gripped his hand, forcing it to stay outstretched as he brought the small flame to the tip of the bard's pointer finger. It didn't touch yet, but Jaskier could feel the heat on the pad of his finger.
"Now, tell me what I want to know about your witcher." Jaskier recoiled at 'your', Geralt wasn't his anything anymore. Geralt wasn't even his muse; wherever this man had gotten his information had been clearly very wrong.
"I- I haven't even seen Geralt in years- I don't- no- no.." Rience just gives him a disappointing look and brings the flame closer. Until their fingers are just about touching.
The flaring, white hot pain that boils under his skin is immediate. Jaskier's eyes black out as they lose focus from the pain.
He screams.
He screams until Rience takes the flame away, still holding his trembling hand. Jaskier comes back to reality, crying and whimpering as the residual pain still aches in his hand. He pants hard as his mind tries to catch up with the intense physical sensation of being burned.
"Ready to tell the truth now." Jaskier's whole body shakes with the pain and the bleary vision. He can barely make out the man's shape as he feels like he might pass out with any effort put into focusing his eyes.
"I- I can't- I" Rience doesn't like that answer and brings the flame back up. The bard screams again. The wordless shriek echoed around the well-insulated tavern. There is no way anyone would hear him unless they had their ears pressed up against the door. He was alone with this maniac, and Arden wasn't coming back, Geralt wasn't coming back. Sooner or later, this mage would realize that he really didn't know anything and kill him. Honestly, the best he could hope for was something quick. Although it was looking more likely that the man would just set the place on fire and leave all the evidence to deal with itself.
He passes out from the pain this time. As the fire is dragged along his pointer finger and back. His eyes roll back into his head, and he slumps forward, body still trembling but no longer screaming.
Rience lets up after that. Sitting back in his chair for a moment before leaning in and slapping the man hard across the face. Jaskier jolts and starts back awake, much to his satisfaction. Blood drips from his lips and nose, and his whole body is sweating. He looks terrified and exhausted, and the night has only just started.
The Mage gets up now, standing as he watches Jaskier regain his sense of consciousness. He wants to try dirtier methods to get what he wants. It's clear the bard has little in the way of experience with torture, and he doesn't want him to break before Rience is ready for it.
"You're very tight-lipped about your witcher friend." He states coldly. It takes a second for Jaskier to be awake enough to realize the words are for him.
"I'm not-" He swallows the spit and blood in his mouth before continuing.
"Really, I'm not, ask anyone." He pleads as Rience looks over him with something close to disinterest.
"I don't know anything about a child surprise, I only met her once, while she was still in the womb. So please-" His voice drops to a harsh whisper as he speaks the ending plea.
Rience doesn't respond, just lets him stew in his fear.
Once the mage has decided that's a long enough rest, he sits back down, leaning back against the chair with a glint in his eye. The sun is starting to rise, and he has yet to make any real progress. If this doesn't work out, then he'll have to find another lead, and he really doesn't want to have to do that.
He stays leaned back and clicks his fingers again. Jaskier flinches and stares at the flame.
"See, fire is a forbidden source." He says with a smile, pride evident in his tone as he brags about his accomplished talent. After all, Jaskier is in the presence of a very accomplished mage.
"Because it usually consumes those who draw from it." He goes on to explain. Jaskier's eyes focus and refocus on the light as he tries to keep his head up. Everything is buzzing, and everything hurts.
"… Unless you're… very talented." Rience begins to reach for his hand again, and Jaskier starts to shake his head, eyes not leaving the flame. He hates it. He wants to scream, and he knows he will once Rience makes good on the promise his other hand is currently making.
"Then the body can withstand it…" The bard's eyes flick to his, and he meets the man with a pleading gaze, pain already pulses though his entire body, but he knows it can get worse.
"…But it consumes the soul." Rience smiles at that little bit of information. It was so ironic, wasn't it? After all, what good is a soul in the face of all this power? Jaskier just whimpers.
He tries to pull his hand away again, but Rience's grip is unwavering.
"P-please! I don't know anything!" The first honest to god plea of the night, and Rience only smiles. It's music to his ears, much better than the racket of the lute. Now broken and bloodied in the street. Likely to be kicked to the side come morning.
As soon as the words leave his mouth, the mage pulls away, and Jaskier takes in a ragged breath.
"No? The songs in your catalogue suggest otherwise." Rience sneers, and Jaskier pales even more if that's possible. Before the bard can get another word out, the flame is back against his skin, and his lungs force another scream. His voice is going hoarse with the effort, and it scratches on the way out.
"Listen to me! Please! Please listen to me!" Jaskier screams through the pain, trying to get his message across through any means necessary. Thankfully, Rience stops, and Jaskier seizes the moment to keep talking. It's his job after all.
"I- I'm a bard. I am- Brilliant. This is what I do. He grunts. I tell stories. He mentions a witcher keep, and I turn it into a magical, mystical hideaway in the mountains- So please, listen to me when I tell you this-" His voice wavers between whimpers, and he can feel the tears warm on his face. The pain thrums heavily, and he uses everything he can to get his captor to see his desperation.
"-He doesn't share details." Rience's hand wavers, and Jaskier's voice does too.
"He does not have friends." He never has, and even if he did, he had never counted Jaskier among them.
"and he does not have- weaknesses-" His voice cuts off as his throat rips through another scream. Rience, clearly having had enough of the talking and much preferring his ragged and half-choked screaming instead.
When he pulls away again, Jaskier doesn't look up; tears fall freely from his face, and blood stains his pants. His hair is greasy with sweat, and his entire body shakes in pain; even his breathing is labored. Rience just looks on in disgust as he pulls Jaskier's head up by the hair once again. He searched for any sign of a lie and clenches his fist when he came up empty.
This bard is telling the truth. He doesn't know where Geralt and Ciri are. Then a wicked idea came to him as to why. He smiles something dreadful, and Jaskier shudders in his hold.
"Is that why you wrote the song?" His grin spreads even wider when Jaskier winces and tries to pull away.
"How long did you say it had been since you'd seen him?" Jaskier sighs, and his lip trembles.
"t-two years…" Finally, some information he can work with.
"Right around the time that Cintra fell? So what, he ditched you in search of his promised child?" Jaskier flinches, and Rience knows he's stuck gold.
"That's why you don't know anything, he didn't think you were worthy enough to tell. Maybe what you said was true, you aren't exactly tight lipped… He just didn't trust you enough to tell." Jaskier goes numb in an instant. It feels like someone has taken an anchor to the carefully built layer of protection he had constructed for himself. All the questions he had asked and asked in his own head were dredged up by a single sentence. He hasn't stopped crying since the fire, but now they are different tears. Even this bastard knew how much Geralt had hated him. Put up with him. Cause he was kind, cause he needed someone to yell at. At the end of the day, it didn't matter why Geralt had allowed him to tag along for two decades.
"Maybe there is some truth to that rumor huh… witcher whore." Rience watches carefully as Jaskier's face falls and falls from one of terror to one of resignation and self-disgust. He clicks his fingers, and Jaskier doesn't even flinch. He stares at the ground unblinking, and Rience just smiles. It's a beautiful sight. A barbed wire muzzle clamped tightly around this songbird's beak.
"That makes you useless to me, too." He stands and walks around the back of the chair, his flamed hand trailing up Jaskier's arm, burning away the clothing where he touches, but no further until he reaches Jaskier's neck. The bard is all bent forward, the back of his neck displayed and unprotected. Rience takes that as encouragement. His hand lighting up in flame as he cups Jaskier's nape, forcing him to bend further as he screams one last time. He only leaves once the screams die down and the bard is out once again.
Leaving him beaten and bloodied, tied to a chair in the middle of the tavern he owned. A handprint forever marking him as the mage's plaything. Rience smiles the whole way out. Stepping through the portal, he opened and saying goodbye to the caged songbird.
He would have died there.
He would have starved or bled out or given up right then and there. If the guard hadn't chosen that perfect moment to come and raid the place under the suspicion that they were hiding elves.
They find him like that.
His clothing is stained and in tatters as he sits unconscious in the center of the room. The men surrounding his body sneer and mock that this is supposed to be the Sandpiper. None of them are as careful as they cut open his bonds and take him into custody. The bare minimum of medical attention is given to the burns before he is thrown into a single cell with nothing but a shit bucket and a few mice for company.
He's barely awake then and all he can think are those words. His words. Playing over and over in his head.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.
Geralt wished him dead for daring to be there. For daring to look him in the eyes when he asked if he was okay. For daring to not be Yennefer when he stuck around.
For daring to be anyone to him at all.