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We Warned You, Bard

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He should’ve stayed away. Both Geralt and Yennefer had warned him not to go with them but he didn’t fucking listen and now he’s experiencing the worst pain imaginable. Or at least he assumes it is. He had tried to move from one hiding spot to another to better witness the fight against a rogue mage. He had spotted him and immediately flung a spell or curse or whatever the fuck it was at him. He couldn’t do anything before there was suddenly a spike through his abdomen, striking him with enough force to go all the way through and pining him to the wall behind.

His awareness had greyed out, but he was pretty sure he heard Geralt roar before attacking with renewed resolve. All Jaskier could do was clutch uselessly at the spike keeping him in place. He knew he shouldn’t try to remove it unless he wanted to immediately bleed out. Not that he thought he'd be able to anyway .It was roughly two inches across and red blood was running down his fron, soaking into his chemise.

Suddenly Geralt was in front of him, one hand hovering uselessly around the wound and the other on his face, trying to get him to look at him. Jaskier belatedly realised Geralt was saying his name, his mind feeling hazy with the intense pain. “Hurts,” he said.

“I know. Gods, Jask, why couldn’t you just listen to us for once.”

“’m sorry,” he gasped.

“Yen! Get here now!” Geralt called behind him.

There was the sound of hurried footsteps before Yennefer came into his field of view, which had narrowed down to little more than Geralt at this point, black creeping in at the edges.

“Shit,” she muttered, “Move, let me see.” She practically shoved Geralt out of the way to look at where the spike had gone through. She spared a quick look at his back, only confirming he was pinned in place. “Geralt I need you to get him down.”

“I don’t-”

“Do it now, or I won't be able to do anything for him.”

“I’m sorry, Jask,” the witcher said, stepping as close to Jaskier as he could so they were practically chest to chest. He wrapped one arm around his upper back, the other gripping the spike emerging from his back. With a swift jerk, the spike, and with it Jaskier, came free of the wall. Jaskier screamed with the pain but blacked out again briefly as the next thing he knew, he was lying on his side on the floor. Yennefer knelt in front of him, seemingly talking to Geralt who was somewhere behind him. He felt himself being moved slightly and realised Geralt’s hands were on his back, keeping him from rolling over.

“-get him somewhere safe,” Geralt’s voice drifted into his consciousness.

“Look at him, Geralt. We don’t have time for that,” Yennefer snapped.

“Wha’s go’n on?” Jaskier mumbled.

“Hush, Jaskier,” Yennefer said gently. “We need to take the spike out of you before you bleed to death. There’s a lot of internal damage.”

Jaskier tried to reply but only managed a groan. Yennefer turned back to Geralt, steel in her voice. “We’re doing this now or he dies.”

“Fine,” came the gruff reply.

“On three. One, two, three.”

Jaskier felt the sickening slide of the spike moving through him. He cried out but it was cut short as his voice was stollen with the sheer force of the pain as it pulled at the jagged edges of his very being. He was only vaguely aware of Geralt tossing it to the side, clattering to the ground. Yennefer’s hands were suddenly on him, pressing over the wounds on both his front and back. He could feel himself growing weaker by the second as his blood pooled around them. Yennefer began chanting in elder. Jaskier couldn’t quite catch what she was saying but suddenly a violet light surrounded her hands. Her touch began to burn and he screamed again.


He woke to find himself in a bed. That was unexpected to say the least. He cracked his eyes open to try and figure out where he was. His vision was blurry, but he eventually realised he was in the infirmary at Kaer Morhen. It seemed he was alone for the time being but he was sure that wouldn’t last long.

Sure enough, after a few minutes both Geralt and Yennefer came in. Geralt noticed he was awake first, immediately rushing to his side. “Jaskier. Thank the gods you’re awake.”
“Miss me?” he croaked; his voice rough from disuse. He wondered how long he had been out for.

“Fuck, Jaskier! You almost died!”

“But I didn’t.”

“This time,” Yennefer chimed in. She was standing just behind Geralt, arms crossed and trying her best to appear indifferent.

“Maybe I’ll listen next time.”

“You fucking better,” Geralt growled. To most, he would seem angry, as though Jaskier almost dying would have been just an inconvenience that the witcher would have to deal with. Jaskier knew him better of course. He knew this was usually how the witcher showed concern. And judging by how many “fucks” he’d said so far, he must have been near terrified.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you like that. Just wanted to see the fight.”

Geralt let out a frustrated huff. It seemed like he wanted to say something but he simply couldn’t find the words.

It was Yennefer who broke the silence that had fallen over the room. “I managed to heal the worst of the damage. You’re not about to die but that spike tore right through you so you need to take it easy. Strict bedrest for at least two weeks.”

“Is- is there a scar?” he asked, needing to know but afraid of the answer.

“Yes. It doesn’t look too bad but it’s big. Both on your front and back,” she said with a sympathetic wince, her voice softening ever so slightly.

“We’ve got some ointment here that can help with the scarring,” Geralt offered.

Jaskier only hummed in response, suddenly feeling exhausted from simply being awake. Both Geralt and Yennefer noticed this. “You should get some more rest. One of us will bring you some food later,” Yennefer said.

“Thank you, Yen.” He hoped she knew he meant more than just the food.