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Jaskier was walking through a small town in Redania when he heard a rather interesting rumor.
“I heard Radwan caught a Witcher. He’s in their jail as we speak,” one villager said to the other.
“How dreadful,” the other replied. “Aren’t they afraid he could escape?”
“I heard they have him locked up real tight. And that’s not all. It’s not just any Witcher, it's the bloody Butcher of Blaviken!”
That was a name Jaskier hadn’t heard in a while. He thought his songs had been doing a good job removing that particular nickname from the Continent’s vocabulary. Still, even he wasn’t arrogant enough to assume that his music had reached every single village, much less changed every single person’s opinions on Witchers.
“Excuse me,” he approached the pair with a friendly smile. “I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about a Witcher.”
“Yes. Radwan, just down the road, actually caught the Butcher of Blaviken.”
Jaskier tried not to let his displeasure at the horrible name show on his face. He needed information, and the best way of getting it was being polite and sounding genuinely interested in what they had to say. “How did they do that?”
“I heard that he attacked a man, right in the town square. It took twelve men to take him down!”
That didn’t sound like Geralt at all. The attacking a man part. Needing twelve humans to take down a single Witcher was very believable. But Geralt wouldn’t just attack someone unprovoked.
Sure, his monster hunting profession sometimes included hunting those monsters that took the form of humans, such as rapists and slavers, and he would certainly defend himself, but he would never attack an innocent. He even tended to avoid self defense when there were witnesses around, all too aware of the prejudices that existed around him.
Jaskier had personally witnessed Geralt endure insults, jeers, punches, and even thrown rocks, all with a stony coldness and a refusal to become the violent monster the harassers saw him as. In those situations, Jaskier had taken to defending Geralt in ways he couldn’t himself. Hurling insults right back, and in one memorable instance, getting in a full on fist fight which Geralt had had to literally drag him away by the back of his doublet kicking and screaming like an angry cat.
But this time, whatever had happened, he wasn’t there to protect Geralt.
There was no point talking further with the villagers, any more information they had would be heavily biased and second hand. So he bid them farewell and hurried down the road to Radwan.
Once he reached Radwan, it was soon clear he would not need to ask anything at all. The townsfolk were chattering away amongst themselves enough to give him everything he needed to know.
Like most small towns, gossip was a key part of life. And having a Witcher in their jail was the most interesting thing to happen in Radwan in months, if not years.
Jaskier meandered his way through the town, trying to find where their jail was without drawing suspicion. Luckily, the townsfolk were too occupied with recent events to pay much mind to a random passerby.
Along the way, Jaskier was able to overhear enough snippets of conversations to piece together a version of events and Geralt’s current position.
“Poor Tobias. I hope his arm heals up in time to help with the harvest. Did you see the way that monster threw him off as easily as a horse batting away a fly? I swear he landed clear across the square.”
“What else would you expect from the Butcher of Blaviken? He slaughtered half of Blaviken and he would have slaughtered us if we hadn’t acted when we did.”
“I’ve heard tales of the monstrous nature of Witchers, but I never imagined it would be that horrible. Imagine what would have happened if it had gotten near my children!”
“I can’t believe we’re just letting him sit in a jail cell! He could escape at any moment and take his revenge! We should have killed him when we had the chance!”
“Oh, relax. He’s not getting out anytime soon. We’ve got him locked up tight. And anyway, did you see the condition we left him in? Witcher or not, I’d be surprised if he could walk out of an open cell door right now!”
“What’s taking so long? There’s no other choice to make than execution. It’s not like we can let him go, he’d kill us all.”
“The council still has to discuss before making their decision. They’re probably just deciding how to kill him by now.”
“What’s there to discuss? Hanging is for men. This thing’s no man. We should cut off its head like the monster that it is.”
The clearer the picture got, the more worried Jaskier became. There had clearly been a violent altercation, with both Geralt and several townspeople coming out injured. Geralt was currently locked up in jail while the town council decided his fate. Jaskier had no clue how long the council would take to reach a decision, but with how they were talking, he was worried the townspeople might decide to take matters into their own hands soon.
Long story short, he needed to get Geralt out of here. Now.
He found the jail, then milled about outside it, unsure what to do next. Fortunately, there was a crowd gathered outside of the building, so he didn’t look too out of place. Unfortunately, the crowd was currently chanting for the Witcher’s death.
Geralt was usually the one to stage rescues. Jaskier may have learned some things throughout their travels, but when it came down to it, he was still just a bard. He had no clue how to break into a jail, much less break back out with an injured Witcher in tow.
In the past, when Geralt had sprung Jaskier from jail cells–something which had, embarrassingly, happened multiple times–he had either bullied his way through with his sword, or talked the warden into letting Jaskier go. The first strategy was out the window, which left the second.
Still, there was a world of difference between convincing someone to let go of a man charged only with public indecency compared to allegedly trying to slaughter the whole town.
Think Jaskier, think.
Regardless of how he got in and out, they would need to have an escape route. He circled around the building. It didn’t appear to have any back exits or windows big enough to climb through, which made sense for a jail but was also exceedingly annoying because it meant the only way out was directly through the crowd that wanted Geralt dead.
He needed to get the crowd to disperse somehow. Some kind of distraction?
Then they would need a horse. Of course! Where was Roach during all of this?
He hurried back to the stable he had walked past earlier. Slipping inside he saw two rows of stalls, and in the third one on the left, a familiar bay mare.
“Roach, boy am I glad to see you.”
Roach nickered softly as he entered the stall, oblivious to the danger her master was currently in. She snuffled at the front of Jaskier’s doublet.
“Sorry, no time for treats right now. We’ve got to go save Geralt.”
To his relief, Jaskier saw that Roach’s tack and saddlebags were still there, undisturbed by angry townsfolk. Geralt’s swords and satchel were missing, no doubt on him during the incident. If he could, he’d grab them while he rescued Geralt, but if it came down to it, he’d rather escape with an unarmed Witcher than a Witcherless pair of swords.
He began to do up Roach’s tack. As he worked, he started to plan out his distraction.
He left Roach nearby the jail, close enough to get to quickly, but hopefully far enough away to not arouse suspicion. He tied her reins to a post loosely. Roach was trained enough to not wander away when tied, but if things went wrong she would be able to escape by pulling a little.
Before he left her, he pulled a rag and jar of beef tallow out of the saddlebags.
He then made his way to the edge of the town, on the opposite side from where he left Roach. Along the way he picked up a decent sized stick.
He had noticed that most of the buildings in Radwan were constructed out of wood. Some had thatched roofs. It was a decent design for the climate, but one disadvantage was that it made the buildings quite… flammable. Especially in a dry summer like this one.
Jaskier picked out a couple thatched houses that would work quite nicely. He wrapped the cloth around the end of his stick, then smeared it with beef tallow. He lit his new torch with his flint and steel.
He checked to make sure no one was inside the house–he was vindictive, not evil–then held the torch up to the edge of the roof. It caught quickly. He lit the second house, then the third.
He watched for a minute to make sure the fire was spreading properly, then hurried back towards the jail, making sure to take a roundabout way. Now he just had to wait.
It didn’t take long for the first person to notice the quickly forming smoke. From there, confusion turned to panic as they realized what was happening. Soon, the entire crowd had dispersed to go deal with the fire.
Jaskier took his chance and slipped into the jail.
“What are you doing here?” The single guard did not sound happy, standing up from the table where he had been rifling through a familiar looking satchel. Geralt’s swords and armor were also piled on the table.
Jaskier had to hold back a wince. Geralt always took immaculate care of his gear. Seeing it thrown haphazardly into a pile was just adding insult to injury.
“I heard you had a real Witcher. I’ve never seen one in person before, and I–”
“No one is allowed in,” the guard cut him off, gruffly.
“Please? I promise I won’t be any trouble. Just a tiny peek?” Jaskier inched closer to the guard as he spoke. Luckily, the guard had not seen fit to draw any weapons, obviously not seeing Jaskier as anything more than an annoyance.
“I said no. Now get out!” The guard stepped right into Jaskier’s face, trying to intimidate him. Perfect.
Quickly, Jaskier drew his knife and hit the guard over the head with the handle as hard as he could, just like Geralt had taught him. The guard dropped like a stone.
“Yes!” Jaskier couldn’t help but cheer. “I can’t believe that worked!”
With the guard unconscious, Jaskier hurried to the back of the building where there were several cells. The first two were empty, and the third–
When he looked into the cell, he couldn’t hold back a gasp.
Geralt was sitting against the back wall, arms pulled uncomfortably above him by chains. He had been stripped of his armor, left barefoot and dressed only in his undershirt and trousers.
The light from the tiny, barred window shone onto him like a spotlight, highlighting his white hair, at least what little of it wasn’t matted with blood.
At the sound of his gasp, Geralt’s head snapped up. His golden eyes shining in the light and locking onto Jaskier’s.
Jaskier had seen a man beaten to death once. He had been young and too afraid to get involved but too cowardly to look away. He had watched with horror as the man’s struggles weakened and then stopped completely. The murderers had laughed and jeered as they walked away, leaving the corpse laying there, every inch of exposed skin swollen and discolored.
Right now, Geralt looked terrifyingly similar to the beaten man. Though unlike the poor man, Geralt’s bruises had had time to develop, covering his pale skin with splotches of black, purple, and blue. Miraculously, despite the many bruises covering his face, neither eye was swollen shut.
“Geralt…” Jaskier found himself at a loss for words.
“Jaskier?” Geralt looked shocked to see him. “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? Rescuing you, obviously.” Jaskier jangled the door to the cell, only to realize he had forgotten to look for the keys.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself, then, louder, “Sit tight, I’ll be right back.”
Geralt shot him a look that clearly said “ what else am I supposed to do? ”
Jaskier scurried back to where he had left the guard. He had to roll the unconscious guard over to be able to reach his pockets, a feat which was more difficult than it looked. Unconscious people were heavy.
“Keys, keys, keys,” he muttered as he searched. After a few moments he found them. There was a single larger key presumably to open the cells and several smaller keys, one of which would hopefully unlock the manacles.
Then it was back to the cells again. “I got the keys,” he informed Geralt, though it was mostly for the sake of having something to say as Geralt could clearly see them in his hand.
He unlocked the cell door, hands trembling slightly as he tried to insert the key into the lock. Who knew staging a rescue mission was so nerve-wracking?
Geralt looked even worse up close. “Oh, dear heart,” he said, unable to help himself from placing his hand along Geralt’s swollen jawline.
Geralt leaned into the touch. It was no doubt the first friendly touch he had experienced since they had split up on the path almost a month ago.
“Let me get you out of here.” He gently grabbed the shackle around Geralt’s left wrist, wincing at the way that the metal cut into the flesh of his wrist, leaving small rivulets of dried blood trailing down his raised arm. His pinky finger was swollen and bent awkwardly. A quick glance at the other hand revealed more broken fingers.
It took a few tries to unlock the shackle. He had to try three keys before finding the right one, and even then, the lock mechanism was difficult to turn, likely crusted over with rust or dried blood.
Once Geralt’s wrist was free, Jaskier helped him to lower it slowly down to his side. He knew from experience that if a limb was stuck in one position for a long time it could be quite painful to move it.
The second shackle went faster, now that he knew the right key. After both of Geralt’s arms were resting in his lap, Jaskier moved onto the leg restraints. These weren’t as tight and Jaskier didn’t have to be quite as delicate to avoid hurting Geralt further.
“You’re all free. Think you can stand? As much as I’d love to carry you out of here like a knight rescuing a fair maiden, I don’t think my arms can hold your, well… bulk.”
Geralt huffed in annoyance at the question.
“Well excuse me for doubting your physical capabilities when you look like that .” Jaskier gestured towards all of Geralt.
That earned him a withering glare. The nerve to be so ungrateful towards his rescuer who was risking life and limb to save him.
Despite his attitude, Geralt did have difficulty standing up. Jaskier offered what help he could, and once Geralt was standing, draped the Witcher’s arm over his shoulder to help support him as they walked.
Their progress was slow. Even with the support Geralt moved very stiffly. Jaskier hoped he would loosen up more as they moved or else this would be a long walk back to Roach, taking up time they didn’t have. The townspeople would only be distracted for so long.
When they reached the table that held Geralt’s belongings, Jaskier realized they had another problem. How the hell was he supposed to carry multiple pieces of armor, two large swords, and a satchel, all while still supporting Geralt?
Geralt began looking through his satchel, soon pulling out two potion bottles. He downed them both, some of the tension easing from his shoulders as the Witcher potions took effect on his battered body.
“Help me put my gear on,” Geralt said, already grabbing his chest plate.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Jaskier protested. You are in no shape to be running out there and fighting anyone.”
“No,” Geralt acknowledged, “But how were you planning on carrying it all as a big pile? The easiest way to bring it with us is to have me wear it.”
“Oh. Good point.”
Geralt was already gaining back more of his range of motion from the potions, but he still needed Jaskier’s help fastening most of the buckles and straps. Though he tried to hide it, his face twitched slightly in pain as he moved.
“I assume you have some sort of escape plan?” Geralt asked, sounding more out of breath than a Witcher ever should from something as simple as putting on his armor. Melitele, Jaskier hoped his ribs were just bruised and cracked and he didn’t have a punctured lung or something.
“Roach is waiting for us nearby. She’s fine, by the way. I made a bit of a distraction earlier, so hopefully no one will be waiting for us outside.
Geralt frowned in suspicion at the intentionally vague description of his distraction.
Jaskier finished lacing up Geralt’s boots, helped him out his scabbard over his shoulder, and then they were ready.
“Ready to head out there?” Jaskier asked, starting to worry that he had taken too long and they might find an angry crowd on the other side of the door.
“Mhmm.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
They stepped outside to find a haze of smoke. It looked like the fire had spread even more than he intended. Oh well. Jaskier couldn’t find it in himself to feel sorry, not after what they had done to Geralt.
“Jaskier, what did you do?” Geralt was staring at the multiple buildings now fully ablaze in the distance.
“I told you I made a distraction. Now come on, Roach is waiting for us.”
Roach was right where he left her, though she was beginning to show signs of nervousness because of the smoke, pawing at the dirt in front of her.
Roach seemed happy to see her master, ears swiveling towards them as they approached. Geralt was equally as happy to see her.
“Hey, old girl,” he said with a smile.
It was an ordeal in of itself getting Geralt onto Roach’s back, involving a quite bit of effort and cursing from both of them. Finally though, Geralt was situated. Jaskier climbed up behind him and then they were off.
Once they were far enough away from the town and off the main path to avoid any angry mobs that might be sent out, they made camp. That is, Jaskier made camp. Geralt tried to help despite his injuries, but was swiftly scolded into sitting down and resting before he keeled over.
After he had a steady fire going and took care of Roach–Geralt had refused treatment until Roach had been properly untacked and brushed down–he set about treating Geralt’s injuries.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a lot he could do to help. He washed and put a healing salve onto all of Geralt’s cuts, including the head wound and both wrists, and splinted a few broken fingers. Beyond that, most of Geralt’s injuries were bruises of varying severity. There wasn’t much that could be done for bruises, except giving them time to heal.
Jaskier wished he could do more. One thing he could do was make dinner. He doubted they had fed Geralt while he was in that cell.
After they were both done eating, Jaskier turned towards Geralt. “So what really happened? ‘Cause I heard their bullshit version of the story and I don’t believe it for a second.”
Across the fire, Geralt hummed, then began to explain. “There have been multiple reports of harpies in the area. I went to Radwan to see if they had seen any that needed to be taken care of. At first the townspeople only glared at me, which isn’t unusual. The Alderman let me know in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t welcome there. So I was going to retrieve Roach and go. A crowd had formed to see me off. At first they were only throwing insults.”
Geralt shrugged, feigning indifference. Jaskier knew that despite his physical and emotional armor, Geralt actually cared deeply what people thought of him. He wouldn’t admit it, but Jaskier often suspected that the verbal abuse the Witcher suffered often hurt him more than physical wounds.
“Then they started throwing other things. Rotten fruit, sticks, stones. I was going to keep walking, but then a man drew a knife and lunged at me. I wasn’t about to get stabbed, so I disarmed him.”
“As you should,” Jaskier said. He really hoped that Geralt’s takeaway from this whole experience wouldn’t be “ next time I should allow them to stab me to avoid escalating the situation .”
“The moment my hand touched his was all the proof they needed that I was ‘attacking’ them. It didn’t matter that I disarmed him without hurting him at all, they just needed an excuse” Geralt stared into the fire, an unreadable expression on his face.
Jaskier felt physically sick. He knew whatever incident had prompted the violent arrest would be utter horseshit, but this was somehow even worse than he imagined. Hell, it couldn’t even be truly called an arrest, it was a mob-driven assault.
“They set you up,” he said, still trying to wrap his mind around the sheer unfairness of it all.
Geralt nodded.
“And then they beat you half to death.”
Geralt grimaced, though whether it was because he was reliving the assault, or simply annoyed at the fact that simple humans were able to cause so much damage to a Witcher, it was unclear.
“I couldn’t draw my swords,” Geralt stated flatly, “it would only have made things worse. I had to try and push them off of me so I could escape, but there were too many of them to fight unarmed.”
“They never gave you a chance. The moment you stepped into town they decided they were going to kill you. No matter what you did, they had already made up their minds that you were a monster.” Jaskier wiped at his eyes. “You know, I kind of felt bad about burning down some of their houses, but now I kind of wish I had burned down their whole fucking town.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt scolded. And wasn’t that just the perfect example of Geralt’s heart of gold. Even after being set up, beaten, and almost killed, he still didn’t approve of a revenge plot on his behalf. If only those bigoted townspeople could see even a fraction of what Jaskier saw.
Well, he decided, if more arson was off the table, then he would just have to work even harder writing his songs and changing minds across the continent. His next one should focus on Geralt’s kind heart.
Geralt was clearly done talking for the night, turning his body away from Jaskier slightly. Fair enough. It had been a difficult conversation for the emotionally reserved man, and Jaskier was quite proud of how well he had done. He wouldn’t push his friend any further tonight.
So, Jaskier sat back and grabbed his lute, plucking idly at it, lyrics for his new song already swirling through his head.