A Little Life

Jaskier

Jaskier is shaking and it hurts, it hurts, but someone told him to be quiet. No, that's not right. Someone is shaking Jaskier . He cracks an eye open, then another, and painfully focuses on the face in front of his - cool silver studded with two points of bright gold. Geralt, he names the shape. Something very important swims right up to the surface of his mind but doesn't break through. It swims away again and Jaskier smiles, thinking of the colorful fish his sisters kept in the estate gardens in Lettenhove.

Geralt is asking him a question.

"Jaskier, tell me what hurts."

Had he said that aloud?

"Everything," he answers, earnest. "Everything." Jaskier remembers the way his body aches and twists and fights against him, but it isn't bothering him anymore. It seems to bother Geralt, though, because the witcher makes a terrible sound at him - like the time Jaskier saw him get smacked by a wyvern's tail during a hunt and it took all the breath away from both of them. Jaskier frowns. That must not have been the right thing to say.

"Tell me what hurts most ," Geralt tries again, and it suddenly becomes very important for Jaskier to do it right, so that Geralt won't make that dreadful noise again.

"My arm," he replies, obedient. That dancing thought comes back - something he needed to tell Geralt - and is gone again. "And- and my leg. That one."

"What happened to your leg?" Geralt is making a sour face at his boot, where he can feel his heartbeat in the mangled, swollen curve where his foot meets his calf. Jaskier thinks he might say the wrong thing again, so he lowers his voice to a whisper and places a hand on Geralt's shoulder to gentle him.

"I wasn't supposed to run."

Geralt whips his head around to spit a curse at something behind him and Jaskier follows his gaze blearily. The sight of that obsidian armor, blacker than the night behind it, cuts through even his dulled senses. He scrabbles back, trying desperately to find purchase in the dirt to pull himself away. Geralt is there at once, gripping the back of his neck to force his focus.

"Peace, Jaskier. Look at me. It's alright."

Geralt is speaking to him so softly, so kindly, the way he talks to animals and children when he thinks no one is listening. Jaskier stops moving immediately, though the burning fear stays curled in his gut and his eyes stay locked on the soldier looming behind the witcher.

"It's alright," he whispers back, and doesn't know why. His face is wet again.

"You can't walk like this. I need to help you, and you cannot fight me."

Geralt squeezes the nape of Jaskier's neck until his gaze slides to meet yellow in the dark. Jaskier nods and keeps his attention fixed on those lighthouse eyes as Geralt slips an arm under his shoulders, another under his knees, and lifts him from the ground. He chokes on a sob as the movement rips the fabric of his shirt from where it sticks to his flayed back - you have to be quiet. You cannot fight me - and instead turns his face to pant into Geralt's shoulder.

**

There is a terrible warmth where the witcher holds him. It grows and changes as they steal through the dense forest, licking at his shoulders and stabbing at his spine until he begins to writhe.

"Geralt," he heaves, his voice sounding more like his own as the pain returns. "Geralt stop, please-"

The witcher slows, but does not stop.

"We can't-"

"Geralt, let me down, " he begs, and another voice joins in reluctantly.

"His back, Vatt'ghern. "

Geralt sets Jaskier on his feet and he crumples instantly, landing hard on his knees. The fire reaches its way into his stomach and finds nothing, pulls it up anyway. He is curling his fingers into the earth to find coolness while, somewhere above him, Geralt curses and paces.

"I can't," he gasps, punctuating his violent retching. "I can't. Geralt, listen to me."

He drags his eyes up to meet Geralt's, and that hurts him, too. He holds up a shaking hand.

"Don't fucking Axii me again, please, listen. You have to go-"

Geralt's half-formed protest dies in his throat when Jaskier pins him with a look. He crouches down and gods, even now, even burning, the bard's foolish heart catches in his chest.

"You can't help me." Black spots dance at the edges of his vision. "I'm covered in tracking spells. I can't go with you."

Geralt frowns, and Jaskier wants to reach out - to smooth the crease in his brow. He clutches at the earth again instead.

"But you're not. Jaskier, I can't sense any chaos. My medallion-"

"You'd wager your life on your medallion? And what about..." he interrupts himself, casting a glance at the figure looming awkwardly behind Geralt, "what about the others? The other lives you are responsible for?"

"I am responsible for you, " the other man grunts.

"You aren't," Jaskier says softly, and now he does reach out. There is no fight left in him but he's fading - faded - and has this one final chance to keep his family safe. "My dear, you aren't. Please go. I want you to go."

" We are going."

Jaskier fights the pitch-black heat reaching in to claim him. He buckles toward the earth, but Geralt's arms are waiting.

"If you don't leave me, they will come for you. Anywhere we go, they will come." Let me be brave. Let me be good.

The last thing he hears as Geralt gathers him into his arms, gentle as anything, is the promise in his own ear.

"Let them."