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Geralt didn’t remember the exact moment the odds had turned against him. He remembered entering the town, sure, the fleeting moments of peace before all hell broke loose (including the drugged drink), even a few blurred glimpses of the fight. But the rest of the morning escaped him.
Geralt supposed he should be worried by how easily the memories disintegrated his grasp.
Maybe the concussion was worse than he thought.
Or maybe it was the poison.
It had honestly been stupid of him to ignore the off-tasting ale.
It had slowed him just enough…
Geralt let his mind drift, not having much else to do. It was better than focusing on the pain (which he could, again, do nothing about, not even shift into a more comfortable position).
His arms were bound behind him, more for show than anything, and his numb feet were tucked underneath him in a forced kneel. Even with the wooden pole his arms were bound to keeping him upright, he sagged noticeably to the left. His head hung limp, chin touching his chest in a way that strained his already aching neck (he was pretty sure he had some whiplash from the final blow to the head).
The sun had begun to lower in the sky already, and Geralt was relieved that the sunset seemed to be behind him. His eyes were thoroughly sensitive to light, and he had no doubt that his pupils were completely dilated.
He took another slow, wheezing breath. His chest was tight, the paralytic having apparently affected more than his voluntary movement. His resistance to poison could only do so much, but at least he wasn’t dead… yet.
He had gotten himself into many similar situations before, and there was always one fact looming over him: No one was coming.
There was only him. Only him and whatever he could do to survive.
Geralt wondered how long it would take the drugs to wear off, and whether the villagers would be some bored of him before that. They didn’t seem to have gotten tired of gawking at him, but the rain of stones had ceased (it wasn’t fun to torment something that didn’t react, even if it was conscious).
Although normally being humiliated and pelted with rocks wasn’t something he would hope for, Geralt knew that he was living on borrowed time. The longer the villagers spent staring, the more time he had for the poison to wear off, for him to escape before they slit his throat or smashed in his skull.
But all he could do until then was wait.
Wait for his fate to be decided, wait for his muscles to respond, wait for anything.
He let his half-lidded eyes fall shut. There was no reason to stare at the dirt anymore, and even when he did manage to lift his gaze from the ground, Geralt could barely see anything with how unfocused and blurred the world was.
A slight breeze danced over his face, cooling the blood drying in his hair. It was the last sensation he felt for a while.
###
Geralt came into consciousness violently, and to the feeling of hands on his face.
He tried to jerk away, but found his muscles still uncooperative. Unable to escape the person’s grasp, Geralt did the next best thing: He bared his teeth and snarled.
Well, tried to. His face was still numb, and all that came of his efforts was a strangled groan and a twitch of his lips.
“Shh.” A voice hissed, the hand gently moving a thumb over his cheek. “You’re alright. We’re getting you out of here.”
Jaskier?
It took far too much energy to peel open his eyes, but the witcher managed, trying his hardest to focus his gaze on Jaskier’s face.
“That’s it,” Jaskier whispered encouragingly, “just wake up.”
He was.
Jaskier didn’t seem to realize that though. His frown only deepened as Geralt simply stared dazedly at him, unmoving. The bard tapped Geralt’s cheek. “Hello-o, anyone home?”
Geralt remained limp.
“Um, alright…” Jaskier murmured, voice tainted with thinly veiled panic. “You hit your head didn’t you? Yes that would explain your… this. Alright, I can deal with that. I can deal with that.”
Geralt closed his eyes, listening to Jaskier’s hushed, nervous ramblings. Why was the bard even there, he wondered. They had arranged to meet in the next village over (not this backwater hamlet), and it wasn’t even time yet. He had at least another week. So why was Jaskier here, untying his wrists and catching his sagging form as he fell to the side.
Jaskier grunted slightly at his sudden armful of witcher. “You do realize this would be a perfect time to wake up, darling. I know there’s dramatic timing and all that, but I’d really rather not wait until the good scumbags of this town converge upon us in an angry mob. The cover of darkness is nice, but I’m not sure it’ll keep us from being spotted by any stray insomniac.”
Geralt did realize this, which made him all the more frustrated at his still-useless limbs. He gave another strangled groan (this time in frustration).
Jaskier broke off from his quiet rambling monologue. “Geralt?”
The bard waited a moment.
“Alright then… I guess I’m on my own on this one. You know, this would be quite a bit easier if I had a horse. I may have been blessed with an angelic voice, but I am sorely lacking in the ‘muscle mass of two-and-a-half oxen’ department, which is what I would need to carry you out of here. Imagine that though, me carrying you all bride-like, saving the big bad witcher in distress. I would- I have a horse!” Jaskier jumped slightly, as if the very idea had struck him like lightning.
Jaskier didn’t raise his voice, but somehow managed to yell while still whispering. “Roach! In the stable! She’s a horse!”
If Geralt was a bit more conscious (and in control of his muscles) he would have rolled his eyes at the obvious statement. As it was, he simply forced open his eyes again, staring blearily up at Jaskier in a way that he hoped radiated unenthused sarcasm.
Jaskier didn’t notice Gerlat’s attempt at a withering glare, instead gently lowering the witcher to the ground, laying him on his side as he whispered. “Just, er, stay here. I’ll go get Roach, and then we can get out of here, alright? We’ll be just fine.”
The bard stood, taking one last look at the unmoving man before turning and dashing (as quietly as he could manage) out of Geralt’s field of vision.
He closed his eyes.
###
The next time Geralt opened his eyes he was slumped on Roach’s back, leaning against Jaskier (who was pressed up in the saddle behind him). Roach was walking at a steady pace, and Geralt’s head lolled against Jaskier’s shoulder with every bump in the road.
He shifted slightly, actually managing to move. Jaskier immediately noticed.
“Geralt? Are you actually awake this time?”
The witcher gave an affirmative grunt, before deciding to test out his ability to speak. “‘m awake…” He murmured.
Jaskier gave a relieved sigh. “Oh thank Melitele! You know, I’m not sure how those half-wit people managed it, but you were in quite a state when I found you. I had to fight off near an entire village, well, it was really only one person, but it could have been the entire village! But, anyway, I managed to get you out of that awful place, and I’m expecting proper thanks once you no longer look like you’re about to pass out. You’re extremely heavy, I’ll have you know, so it was no easy task carrying you. Don’t worry, all of your things are safe too. You can have your swords back in a moment, but for now Roach is in charge of them…”
Geralt let himself smile.
No one was coming for him…
How he was glad to be proven wrong.