A Little Life

Jaskier

It takes them longer to find him than he expected. He thinks Geralt might be proud of him, but then, he doesn't want to think about that anymore.

"He won't leave the bard, they are somewhere close." Ugly in Charge nods at the two soldiers holding Jaskier's arms (Reeking and Moley, he names them), prompting the third (Rotbreath) to land another punch in his gut. The little air he has left is a flame as it leaves him. Bile rises in his throat as he tries desperately to hold himself upright, dragging burning little breaths into his lungs.

"They went through," he wheezes, letting his head hang at last. He fixes his attention on little spots of blood that fall from him as they are swallowed up by the earth. "They have a horse. I couldn't keep up, he had to leave me."

Ugly's boots stomp into Jaskier's vision where he stares at the ground. A hand fists in his hair and wrenches his head up. Ugly looks him up and down, takes in his soaked trousers and the mud caked halfway to his knees, and seems to accept it as truth. Just as well, Jaskier thinks - that last bit wasn't even a lie.

"How long?"

Jaskier spits in his face as answer, which earns him a swift blow to the jaw. He falls to the ground in a heap, teeth clattering, and holds his precious breath when he hears Ugly order his men into the swamp. It doesn't take long at all for them to start screaming. The blurry sounds of alarm and hesitation rumble through the group still on dry land - about half, if Jaskier can trust his fraying senses.

"What is this?"

He is dragged up from the ground, slammed bodily back down by a hand around his throat. Nilfgaard's little frogs keep croaking in the moonlight.

"What is this? What have you done?!"

The screams are dying out like stars, the horrific constellation of them flickering and fading as Jaskier does when his head slams into the ground again and again. Jaskier laughs, and it is bloody.

**

Awareness comes back to Jaskier in pieces, dancing away from him as he claws his way back to consciousness. His own ragged breathing fills his ears first, filtered through the dizzying whoosh-whoosh of his pounding head. Then the earthy stench of dried blood mixed with putrid mildew. It knots in his stomach and-

"Oh, fuck, oh gods , fuck-" he groans as bile rises in his throat again. He clenches his teeth against it - a mistake, he realizes, when pain shatters through his jaw like glass. Jaskier thinks he might pass out again when a low chuckle from somewhere outside his aching head startles him. His eyes roll open as he jerks toward the noise and finds his wrists bound in front of him, secured around an iron post.

"Good, very good" a voice soothes. "I wanted you to be awake for this."

"Hello, Ugly," Jaskier replies, and gods he wants to be brave now but he knows his tone betrays the fear coiling in his gut. A hand grasps his jaw. He does not flinch as he is forced to look up - Ugly's mocking tone does precious little to mask the rage and hatred in his face, and all of it is directed straight at the bard.

Something flickers with movement at the edge of Jaskier's vision. When he drags his eyes down to find it, the hot coil in his stomach freezes, sends shards of terror from his gut to his throat, plunges his heart into black, endless ice. Jaskier has seen a lash before. He saw them rend and tear as he fled Bleobheris, shrank from where they hung on the walls in some of the less savory Redanian safehouses. They were even present at the estate in Lettenhove, though he was spared from them then. Any remaining snark, any effort to egg his captor on with wit or humor turns to ash on his tongue as the man laughs again beside him. The sound is mirthless, soulless, propelled by rage alone.