#it’s actually surprising that when geralt frees her from her shackles

[hanzajesthanza]

geralt is also a most real depiction of good quality fatherhood and great girldad representation because EVEN THOUGH witchers don’t even experience aging at the same rate as non-GMO humans, EVEN THOUGH it would be “biologically impossible,”

geralt having had been raising a pre-teen girl for maybe a few months to a year already “gave the impression of having aged,” his “face slashed by wrinkles.” the emotional toll on this man from raising she-devil ciri

and this is only the very beginning of the saga. BEFORE everything goes to shit. the wrinkles have set in

[king-finnigan]

Unchained Melody

What A Wonderful World Masterlist. Also on AO3!

Day 1 of Whumptober! On the menu today is ‘Waking up restrained/shackled/hanging.’

~~~

When he finally blinks awake, Jaskier is, more than anything, confused. A throbbing ache in the back of his skull tells him something might be terribly wrong, and when he shifts and his shoulders scream out in agony, his suspicions are confirmed.

He clenches his teeth, ignoring his rapidly rising heartrate in favour of focusing on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Don’t panic, Jask. He takes one final, steadying breath, ignoring the pain in his chest for now, before he starts mentally checking his body bit by bit.

His head hurts, the pain splitting and dull at the same time, spreading heat across his skin and down his neck – though that might also be blood, he’s not sure. He furrows his brow as he tries to remember what happened.

Inn room. Waking up in the middle of the night. Three dark figures standing around his bed. One of them raises an arm as Jaskier tries to scramble away. A loud thud echoing through his head, half a second of searing pain, before darkness overtakes him.

That doesn’t really tell him much about why he’s here or who took him. So, he moves on. His shoulders are stiff, and when he tries to move them, he nearly screams in pain. It takes him a few seconds to realize his hands are shackled above his head, the chains rattling loudly when he shifts a bit. His fingertips feel numb, and he wonders how long he’s been here like this, and how much longer until the lack of blood will make his fingertips die off.

He doesn’t like that thought very much.

He’s shirtless, too, and wherever he is, it’s very cold, sending shivers down his spine, making his ribs scream out in pain as well as his shoulders.

Ribs. He takes a deep breath in and out, and indeed: some of them must be broken. Or at least bruised. He doesn’t know – he’s tended to Geralt’s broken and bruised ribs plenty of times, but he’s never been on the other side of injuries, like he is now.

Geralt. He wonders if this has something to do with the Witcher. He’s heard rumours that Geralt was seen with his Child Surprise and that Nilfgaard was looking for the girl, so it wouldn’t be a long stretch to say that Nilfgaard might have taken Jaskier in hopes of finding out where Geralt is through him.

Ha. Jokes on them – Jaskier hasn’t seen Geralt in years. Not since the mountain. Not that he wants to see Geralt, of course, and obviously Geralt doesn’t want to see him either. He’s made that much clear.

Though, Jaskier wouldn’t exactly be very unhappy if Geralt were to barge through the door and free him from these cursed shackles – and gods, he can’t even move his fingers anymore. This is bad. This is really bad.

Thank sweet Melitele, the door opens right at that exact moment. There’s a man, standing there in the doorway, his face clad in shadows, the light from the hall behind him hurting Jaskier’s eyes, making him squint. That’s not Geralt.

The vision sways in front of him, before doubling, and Jaskier has time to think that he might have a concussion, actually, before the man walks forward, grabbing Jaskier by his hair and yanking his head backwards in a swift, harsh movement.

Jaskier cries out, gasping for air as his ribs protest loudly, the chains rattling as he sways from them, his bare toes barely touching the ground. Tears gather in his eyes, and he tries to blink them away, only managing to make them spill over and down his cheeks.

“The Witcher,” the man says, and Jaskier can’t help but chuckle as his suspicions are confirmed.

“Don’t bother,” he wheezes out, his voice raw, throat dry, lungs constricting as he desperately tries to pull in air. “Haven’t seen him in years.”

“Liar!” the man shouts, hand clenching more tightly in his hair, making the already sharp pain gain a numbingly hot edge. “You know exactly where he’s taking the girl,” he hisses.

Jaskier blinks, the image of a lone castle on top of a snowy mountain flashing through his mind. Kaer Morhen. He banishes the thought away, desperately conjuring up half-finished lyrics and nonsensical rhymes, in case the man is a Mage and can read his mind.

Toss a coin to your Witcher- Fishmonger’s daughter badabada- Eeny meeny miny moe, catch a selkie by the toe-

He pulls a face and tries to shrug, barely managing to hold in a scream of pain as it jostles his stiff shoulders – though it comes out as a pathetic whimper instead. “No idea what you’re talking about,” he says, the cold air like sandpaper in his throat.

The man scoffs. “Suit yourself, then, bard.” Jaskier’s eye catches on the glint of light on steel, before his head is whipped to the side, breath knocked from his longs in shock. It takes him a few seconds to feel the pain in his cheek, the warm dribble of blood spilling down his neck and across his chest.

“Where is he?” the man asks again, the tip of his knife dangerously close to the wound in Jaskier’s cheek, ready to dig in. “I can do this all day, bard. All week, if needs be. Just tell me where he is and this will all be over soon, you get to go back to that dingy little inn and forget this all happened.”

He can’t help but laugh at that, the fake mercy in the man’s eyes gaining a hard edge, his soft smile turning into a scowl. “Now who’s the liar?” Jaskier asks. “You’re never letting me go.”

It’s quiet for a while, as the man grinds his teeth together, glaring at Jaskier. “No,” he finally admits. “But it’ll be a lot easier for the both of us if you talk now.”

Jaskier nods, hesitantly, taking a deep breath, ignoring the protesting of his ribs. He whispers something noncommittal, and the man frowns, taking a step closer. “What?” Jaskier whispers again, causing the man to get closer once more. “Speak up, bard.”

“I said,” Jaskier mutters. “Go fuck yourself.” He gathers what little blood has run into his mouth, and spits it into the man’s face, making him stumble back. With his last remaining effort, he lifts his legs, shoulders and wrists screaming from the strain of the shackles, and kicks forward, square against the man’s chest.

He laughs as he watches the bastard fall flat on his arse, a stunned and furious expression on his face. He knows the man will make him regret it soon enough, but for now, he lets himself have this.

A door slams in the distance, and Jaskier turns his head, though he’s well aware he won’t be able to see anything that isn’t happening directly in front of the door to his cell.

The sound of metal clashing against metal, distant shouts and cries ending in the tell-tale gurgling of someone choking on their own blood. Then, a scream, loud and ear-piercing, making the walls shake around him.

He cries out, pressing his upper arms against his ears in a futile attempt to block out the sound, the pain in his shoulders taking a backseat in favour of trying to make the pain in his eardrums go away. It doesn’t help much, and by the time the screaming stops, he’s dizzy and delirious, his vision spinning before his head lolls backwards, his eyes now trained on the stone ceiling.

The noises grow closer and closer, and he hears someone unsheathing a sword right in front of him – probably the man, gods, Jaskier had forgotten about him. He tries to raise his head, he really does, but his attempts only result in the light-headedness growing worse, the ringing in his ears distracting him.

Running footsteps, coming to a halt in front of his cell. The clang of metal on metal, a few grunts here and there as small hands try and fail to reach up to his shackles, momentarily appearing in his field of vision before the person gives up and clings to his arm instead – a steadying presence, though he still feels himself slipping away more and more.

Finally, the wet sound of a sword going through flesh and bone, before being pulled out and dropped to the ground, metal on stone.

“Jaskier.”

“’S me,” he garbles, vision blinking in and out of darkness. “D’you want?”

Large, familiar hands bring a key up to the shackles, and before he can realize what’s going to happen, he’s already falling. He braces for impact, but two arms catch him, using his momentum to gently lay him on the cold, stone floor.

Two faces appear above him, both of them familiar, though he feels like one of them shouldn’t be. “Pavetta?”

The girl’s face twists into something pained, before she shakes her head. “It’s Ciri.”

“Oh. Hello.”

Her smile might be the sweetest thing he’s ever seen, and he feels as though, under different circumstances, he would’ve huddled her up in a blanket, sat her by a fire, and told her the most embarrassing stories about Geralt he could think of.

Speaking of- “Hi, Geralt.”

“Hey,” his Witcher whispers, rubbing one of Jaskier’s hands in both of his, and Jaskier notices that the tips of his fingers are tinged blue.

“That doesn’t look good,” he mutters, as the world starts spinning again.

“It’ll be fine, Jask. You’ll be fine.”

“You look like shit.” Geralt does look like shit – his hair a mess of tangles and, strangely enough, a few twigs, the length of his stubble hovering between ‘just long enough’ and ‘would be avoided like the plague if seen in a dark alley’, the shadows under his eyes speaking of many days – if not weeks – without a proper night’s rest.

If anything, Geralt looks like a man on the run. Makes sense.

“Thanks for saving me,” he whispers. “I really appreciate it.” The ceiling above him spins, and he swallows down the urge to gag. “But I think I’m going to pass out now.”

Geralt grins at him, the relief evident in his eyes. “Alright, you do that.”

“Alright, goodnight.” His eyes slip shut.

“Goodnight, Jask,” he swears he hears before blessed unconsciousness finally overtakes him.