Chapter Text
The woman trembling before him barely resembled the conniving mage with the sick smirk that he enlisted to help about a year ago. She seemed smaller, her spine weighed down by sorrow and loneliness. Her eyes have lost every ounce of light in them. She was dirty and smelled awful. The dimeritium cuffs and the long months spent in prison took away her strength, so much that she could barely stand before him without collapsing.
Which made it all the more easier for Radovid to break her. Thalia was never like Philippa - she was a scheming mage with a dark mind, for sure, but she was a coward. That was why she backed off from their plan in the first place, because she was, after all, a weak woman who couldn't commit to anything. That cowardice, that weakness was what Radovid had to use: maybe Thalia could defy him back then, but she surely had no more willpower in her left.
“I'll release you immediately,” Radovid promised. He cupped Thalia's cheek, wincing a little inside when he felt the dirt on her skin. She must have been aching for some sort of human connection after being alone for so long. Indeed, she seemed to instinctively pull closer to the hand that provided him with that connection, at last.
“If you help me again, I promise you will never have to return to the dungeons. All will be forgiven.” He smiled. “We were a good team, Thalia, don't you think? Look what we have made together,” he gestured towards the sleeping Jaskier. “Look how happy is, how peaceful. And he's mine. Like you promised me he would be.”
Thalia sucked in a harsh breath. Her eyes drifted towards Jaskier. She immediately snapped her head away, as if she saw something she shouldn't have.
“Your Majesty,” she croaked, “I know why you're doing this, but remember what I told you. His brain cannot take anymore.”
Radovid sighed and shook his head. Clearly, all that time alone wasn't enough for this woman to realize the error of her ways. She was still as much of a coward, if not more. Radovid missed the fiery passion from her, the one that made her go along with Radovid's plan right away. The old, scheming Thalia with a lust for the forbidden, the darkest of magic.
Radovid reached into the pocket of his robe and slowly pulled his dagger out. Thalia's eyes widened in fear as Radovid lifted the dagger, holding it close to her face. She couldn't fight him off without her magic, and she was no match to him physically, either.
“I wish I could care about your whining,” Radovid tutted as he pressed the edge of the knife against Thalia's cheek, holding her by the hair with his other hand. Thalia tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but Radovid grabbed her tight, yanking her head back until she hissed from the pain. Her hands helplessly flailed inside the dimeritium cuffs.
“Now, you have two choices. I can either cut off half of your face, or you can suck it up and help me. Choose wisely, Thalia.”
She whimpered something. Radovid pressed the knife closer. He heard the squelching sound of the blade cutting through the first layer of Thalia's flesh. She let out another pained whimper, her eyes filling with more fear and tears.
A loud thud from outside made Radovid stop. Another thud, followed by more. It sounded like someone was running in the corridor.
Radovid stepped back from Thalia, inching towards the door carefully. Metallic sounds could be heard from outside, like swords swishing. Heart pounding in his chest, Radovid grabbed the handle of the dagger tighter.
He peered outside the peeping hole, trying to look for his guards. He didn't see anyone, except for a small pool of blood on the floor. Radovid's face went pale.
He was practically thrown away by the force that tore down the door. The door hit him right in the face. He fell back, groaning in pain. He dropped his dagger. Blood was trickling down his forehead. For a second, there was pain, throbbing pain inside his skull, then the world went pitch dark.
–
Ciri kept nervously pacing inside her cell. Something wasn't right. Thalia told her she had been kept in the dungeons since she refused to continue helping Radovid, and no one even seemed to care much about her fate until now, when suddenly, she was taken out of her cell and back to the palace.
Ciri had a terrible feeling about this. She still didn't know whether Thalia would actually be willing to help them, or if her old loyalties pushed her back to Radovid. She still felt helpless and terrified for herself and her family.
The unease inside her only grew when the door of her own cell opened, and a guard walked inside. He didn't even say anything, just stood there, watching her. The hairs on Ciri's arms rose.
“Can I help you?” she hissed at the guard. He still didn't say anything. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket.
Ciri immediately scrambled back, trying to get as far away from him as possible, but her options were limited inside her small cell. The guard kicked the door shut behind him as he pulled out a dagger.
The next few moments were spent in a blur. He jumped on her, and Ciri kicked out, doing her best to throw him off. Her hands were still tied together, and the dimeritium made her weaker. She still refused to go down without a fight. She headbutted the guard and used her cuffed hands as a hammer, hitting him wherever she could reach.
She was cut somewhere along the tussle. It hurt, but it luckily didn't feel deep. Even if she couldn't rely on her powers anymore, she could still use the training skills she's learnt from Geralt. She was the daughter of the White Wolf and the Continent's greatest mage, and the niece of the Sandpiper. She would fight for that family until her last dying breath.
Everything happened so quickly until it all slowed down, like the world was about to stop. The man grabbed her and shoved her against the wall. The dagger was inching closer to her throat. Ciri tried to keep him away with a knee pressed into his stomach, but the strength was slowly leaving her.
She thought about Geralt playfully ruffling her hair, Yennefer hugging her, Jaskier singing her to sleep. She imagined what it would feel like to see them all again, to be with them.
Suddenly, it felt like her strength has resurfaced, tenfolds. Something was boiling in her veins, filling up her every cell. A feeling that she's lost lately was pumping through her body, until it felt like it was going to break through her skin.
Chaos swirled inside her, fiery, renowned, and ready to destroy. It felt like she wasn't even inside her own body anymore as she sent the guard flying, his body slamming against the iron bars.
The dimeritium cuffs shattered off her hands. Ciri took in a deep breath, feeling the powers that she thought were lost return with full force. It felt like she has awoken at last, after a deep slumber.
She marched outside the cell, throwing everyone who crossed her path out of the way. She only had one goal now, to save Jaskier and reunite her family at last.
–
After Geralt and Yennefer separated so Yennefer could track down Philippa, and Milva went off to send some castle guards into their demise, Geralt relentlessly worked his way through the seemingly endless corridors. Even after the fight with the Nilfgaardian soldiers, his body did not feel weak: the sheer need to find the missing pieces of his family propelled him forward.
There was one particular room that was guarded the heaviest. Geralt believed that to be Radovid’s room - he was the king, after all, it only made sense his room would be protected by several guards at once. The more Geralt thought about it, the more he started to wonder if Radovid had something to do with his family’s disappearance. They suspected Philippa, but what if Radovid knew something? He could have had important information, or at least a hunch about his former lover’s whereabouts, at least. Geralt could only hope that the rumors of his madness were exaggerated, and there was a way to communicate with him at all.
After Geralt took down the guards at the door, he stood back up, every muscle in his body tightening when he smelled something - someone - familiar. The scent was faint, covered by several layers of rich perfume that twisted Geralt’s nose, but it was there. He would recognize that scent anywhere, even if fancy soaps and creams masked it heavily.
As soon as he caught a whiff of that scent, some sort of primal instinct to protect flared up inside him, one that made him kick down that door where he smelled that scent from behind with great strength. If his senses were still right, if it was really him behind that door, then there was a chance that what Geralt thought to be the reality in the situation, was actually much worse.
He barely even noticed Radovid unconscious on the floor, or the dirty, handcuffed woman pleading in the corner for her life. His peripheral vision ceased to exist in that moment as his eyes focused on only one person in the room. Through the tunnel that his shocked mind created he only saw the man sitting up in the bed, confusion and fear mixed in his eyes. His big, blue, all too familiar eyes.
Geralt’s grip on the handle of his sword loosened until he let it go unconsciously. The weapon dropped to the ground, the metal hitting the thick rug with a dull thud. Geralt wouldn’t have heard it anyways, even if it shattered the room into pieces. He couldn’t hear anything over the white noise filling his head.
He opened his mouth, but found he was unable to make a sound. He never thought that seeing him again after so much time would have this effect on him - but after all, the other half of his soul has disappeared, and it was finally here again. How could he react any other way, when the man that mattered so much to him, the person who he loved like no one else in this world, was ripped away from him by some unknown monster, and now he was here again, he was alive, and he was well? Geralt’s knees buckled as he slowly took a cautious step towards the bed, towards the light in the darkness, his hope, his one true companion, his best friend.
Jaskier stared at him with so much fear in his eyes, that it finally snapped Geralt out of his trance. He stopped halfway and looked back at him in confusion.
Jaskier changed a lot, so much, that if someone has only seen him in passing before, they wouldn’t have recognized him. But Geralt knew him better than he knew himself, and there was no fooling him, not with the clothes, the hair or anything else. It was still Jaskier, clean-shaven, with his hair reaching the middle of his back and his body well-rounded and plump, but it was still him. The same set of deep blue eyes, the same rounded little nose, the same elegant hands. It was the man who stumbled upon Geralt as a teenager and grew into a more mature man on his side - he looked like an amalgamation of all the life stages Geralt had known him before, with his smooth face resembling his young self so much, but with the gorgeous lines around his eyes that reminded Geralt of how much time they had actually spent together.
It was Jaskier, but there was something deeply wrong in the way he trembled and protectively pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them close. It was the same Jaskier, but at the same time, the lively fire was missing from his eyes, and his lips did not curl into a happy smile when he saw Geralt, like it always happened back then. He didn’t start his usual quips, didn’t make any silly jokes. He stared up at Geralt, mouth agape, and with those beautiful eyes devoid from anything that made Jaskier himself.
“How,” he whispered, his voice painfully choked up. There were tears in his eyes, and Geralt immediately realized they were not happy tears. His chest constricted painfully.
“This cannot be…”
His voice was the same silky soft, but the way he spoke so slowly, like a toddler learning how to pronounce his words, alarmed Geralt. He didn’t seem drunk, or under the influence of any sort of substance. There was something heavy in the air around him, something dark and nefarious that made the hairs stand on Geralt’s arms. His medallion tingled faintly, like it wasn’t even sure itself, what it felt around Jaskier. He seemed to sit there on that large bed, clad in expensive clothes surrounded by some fog that seeped from inside him, coating his mind.
“You’re okay,” Geralt said slowly, taking another step closer. Jaskier flinched on the bed. It made Geralt stop again.
“You only exist in my head,” Jaskier whispered. He took his eyes away from Geralt and stared down at his lap, shaking his head. The tears were streaming down his face now, shoulders shaking pathetically with his sobs.
“I’m going crazy, this isn’t real, I’m seeing things again,” he repeated desperately like a mantra. He grabbed onto fistfuls of his much longer hair and pulled on it, crying painfully. “I need my medicine!”
Geralt wasn’t the type of man who got scared easily, but now, icy dread filled him up to his very core. He wasn’t scared of Jaskier, of course, but was terrified of whatever disturbing force made him into this trembling, helpless shell of a person.
“Jaskier, it’s me,” Geralt said, trying to keep his voice even. “What happened to you?”
Jaskier just kept shaking his head. “You’re not real. Neither of you are. I made you up. You don’t exist.”
His voice turned panicked, eyes widening in fear. “Where is my husband? What did you do to him!?”
Only now did Geralt notice that absurdly large wedding band on Jaskier’s finger. The room started spinning around him.
“Your husband…?”
There was only one explanation now. The one Geralt has thought of for a second, when he noticed Jaskier was missing. That he came back to Radovid, after all - they had gotten married, it seemed. He lived his happily ever after, while Geralt was worried sick over him.
But no, Jaskier wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t do this, not like this. He didn’t seem like himself at all. There was something else going on, something that made Geralt’s stomach churn and his skin crawl.
He barely had time to react before someone threw themselves onto him and stabbed him in the shoulder with something sharp. Geralt yelped in pain and twisted around to throw off whoever was on his back.
It didn’t even come as much of a shock, more of an extremely painful disappointment on Jaskier’s behalf, no less, that it was Radovid, who attacked him. He stumbled back when Geralt threw him off, but he didn’t falter.
He, much like Jaskier, changed in ways that were almost surreal. Where Jaskier softened, he hardened, and instead of the strange naivety that was in Jaskier’s eyes, his gaze was sharp - and empty at the same time. He seemed to have only one goal in front of him, and that was mauling Geralt. He did not seem like the spoiled prince Geralt has seen before: he was snarling like a wild animal as he raised his dagger again.
Geralt grabbed his wrist to stop him. He was still much stronger than Radovid, but the king was surprisingly resilient. He wouldn’t budge, just kept growling up at Geralt, his face contorted into a sick mask. He was nearly foaming at the mouth.
“You’re not taking him away from me again,” he spat, his eyes thunderous, “do you hear me? He’s mine!”
“Radovid,” Jaskier sobbed from the bed, “please, don’t let him hurt me!”
That sentence was more painful than the feeling of Radovid’s blade entering his skin. It nearly made Geralt falter, but he bit down on his tongue and held his ground, shoving Radovid away.
“What did you do to him,” Geralt growled. Radovid stared up at him from the floor with bloodshot eyes. He was trembling with unadulterated anger, his hands balled into fists.
“I healed him,” he muttered. “And made him the happiest man, cleaned him from your rot.”
Geralt suddenly saw red. Whatever wrong was going on with Jaskier, this man was responsible for it. He wasn’t yet sure how, but he would find out. If he had to literally beat the answer out of Radovid, he would. If he had to twist his neck until he spat out what was wrong with Jaskier, he would. He would not stop until he got his answers.
He kicked the dagger out of Radovid’s hand, sending it flying across the room. He shoved him back against the floor when he tried to stand, and punched him in the face with his fist. Radovid groaned as his head snapped back from the force. Blood started trickling from his nose.
“What is wrong with him!?” Geralt howled. When Radovid didn’t reply, Geralt hit him again. He heard something crack. He broke his nose.
“Tell me, what have you done!”
“Stop it!” He heard Jaskier scream. He appeared at his side, and grabbed Geralt’s shirt. “Leave him alone!”
Geralt turned to look at him. Jaskier was sobbing as he clutched at his shirt, to protect the man who has done Melitele knows what that turned him into this. He was begging for Geralt to let Radovid go.
And as always, Geralt did as he asked him, and let the bloodied, whimpering bastard slip out of his hands and back on the floor.
Jaskier continued crying as he tried to wake the unconscious Radovid. Geralt fell back onto his knees, staring at the scene before him, his hands trembling.
“Dark magic,” he heard someone whisper weakly from behind his back. He turned around. He forgot about the woman in the room.
“What did you say?”
The woman looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “His memories are all gone.”
Before Geralt could further question her, two more people burst into the room. He looked up, and found himself unable to speak again when he saw his long lost daughter standing there, holding onto an injured Yennefer.
“It’s so good to see you again,” Ciri whispered, giving Geralt a weak smile, “but we need to get out of this place as soon as possible. More guards are coming.”
Geralt could barely breathe at this point. It was all too much, even for him, who has seen so much of the world. His family was whole again, after so much time, but his happiness was overshadowed by the whimpering coming from Jaskier. Jaskier, who had no idea who they were, who clung to Radovid desperately.
“We need to take him with us,” Ciri said, nodding towards Jaskier. Yennefer stared at Jaskier in disbelief, her face going pale.
Geralt let out a shaky breath. He tentatively touched Jaskier’s back who immediately screamed and scrambled away from him.
“Monster!” he sobbed as he tried to get further away from him, “you are all monsters!”
Geralt bit down on his lip and tightened his jaw to keep the tears in as he murmured a quick axii over Jaskier. Immediately, Jaskier’s eyes slipped closed and he collapsed. Geralt quickly reached under his head so he wouldn’t hit it on the floor.
“I can help,” the woman whispered, “please, let me come with you.”
Geralt sent her a suspicious look. How could he trust anyone in this place, anyone that had anything to do with what happened to Jaskier and Ciri?
Ciri gently touched his arm. “She might know how to reverse the spell on Jaskier. I’ll tell you everything. But we need to get out of here.”
Geralt’s head was reeling as he stood, picking Jaskier up. He was much heavier than he used to be, but Geralt refused to let him go. He would carry him out of this damn place himself.
His vision was blurred, from shock, from tears, he didn’t know himself. Yennefer was telling him something about how Philippa escaped, but he barely heard it. They ran into Milva in the corridor. She swore under her breath when she saw Jaskier, but didn’t push it any further. Ciri marched next to them, one arm holding that strange woman firmly in case she tried something. Metallic sounds could be heard faintly from the distance, as more guards were getting ready to ambush them.
Geralt got what he hoped for all this time: to find Ciri and Jaskier again. Yet, his heart was heavy, bleeding inside his chest. He never felt as confused and hurt as right now, as he held the peacefully sleeping Jaskier against his chest, the man who didn’t recognize him, who called him a monster. Geralt still held him just as gently, praying to whoever that the real Jaskier would return to him somehow.
They left the castle and its dark secrets behind, the monsters who hid in broad daylight along with their victims.
Anger, guilt, sorrow all swirled inside Geralt’s chest, the same chest he cradled a stranger named Jaskier against.