Chapter Text
Jaskier was two days east of Novigrad when it happened.
It had been eighteen months since he started travelling alone, since the war ended… since Rivia. He’d written an entire song cycle worth of epics for his family, and he had just wrapped up the last stop on his tour of the northern kingdoms to perform it. The manuscripts were sitting comfortably in his pack, waiting to be archived in Oxenfurt just as soon as he arrived. He’d ensured that no one would forget Geralt or Ciri or Yennefer, at least not as long as the songs lasted (which if he complimented himself on his own talents, could be a very long time indeed).
After he reached Oxenfurt, well… he wasn’t entirely sure what he planned to do. He could keep travelling of course, perhaps even write a few more songs, but he wasn’t sure what he’d write. He’d poured every inch of his soul into his White Wolf cycle, he didn’t know if there was anything left in him anymore. Most likely he’d end up taking up a teaching post at the university again, if just to buy time until he felt less numb.
Little had he realised of course, that it wouldn’t matter.
It was mid afternoon and he was riding along a fairly well travelled path. There was frost coating the edges of the road, and a brisk chill in the air as winter approached. The weather meant the path was quiet, and he was almost grateful for the solitude and the silence.
He didn’t know what exactly it was, probably a deer, maybe a lone wolf, but something moved in the underbrush off to the left of the path and his horse spooked. Pegasus reared, tossing his head wildly such that Jaskier lost his grip on the reins, and then bolted. Jaskier managed to stay in the saddle, clinging on for dear life, for all of three seconds, before he hit his head on a branch and was catapulted backwards out of the saddle. His left foot got tangled in the stirrup and there was one brief moment of tension before he heard a sickening snap and he crashed to the floor.
Everything hurt, he was sure he’d have bruises down his entire side come morning, and a shallow cut bled sluggishly on his forehead. The air felt like it had been wrenched from his lungs, but the one thing he couldn’t ignore was the agony emanating from his ankle.
For a moment he just lay there, breathing deeply, trying his hardest not to panic. He almost didn’t want to look, he could already tell that it wouldn’t be a pretty sight, but he knew he didn’t have much of a choice. Slowly, arms aching, he pushed himself upright and looked down at his leg.
He actually couldn’t tell much just by looking. It was perhaps sticking out at a slightly unnatural angle, but nothing that would cause him any concern if not for the sheer amount of pain he was in. All further damage was hidden by his boot.
He considered trying to stand, he’d need to go and find his traitorous horse soon enough, but an attempt to flex his foot even a little caused his vision to blur with pain. He needed to take his boot off to get a better look.
“Fuck.” He breathed to himself. “Fuck, fuckity- let’s get this over with.
He started by slowly trying to wriggle the boot off of his foot, trying his best to grit his teeth as every slight jolt caused his ankle to scream out in agony. At one point his vision clouded over again so much, that despite being sat in the dirt already, he nearly passed out. After that he decided he’d probably be better off just cutting the damn shoe off, and pulled out his knife (thankfully attached to his belt rather than his horse) and got to work.
It probably took him close to twenty minutes to remove the shoe, but he managed. He peeled off the damp leather and then grimaced when he lay eyes on his ankle. It was certainly twisted at an odd angle, much clearer without the boot to hide things, and the whole foot was slowly swelling like a balloon. It had a dark bruise forming where the stirrup had caught it, and was bleeding slowly from a deep cut above the joint itself. Anxiously, he prodded at the wound, only to realise it had been caused by the bone itself, splintering and now sticking out of his leg.
Seeing it filled him with instant nausea, and he lasted all of three seconds before he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the path next to him. Doing so jolted his leg again and he fought the urge to scream.
“Fuck.” He repeated emphatically.
With no supplies or better ideas, he decided to wriggle out of his coat and vest, and then removed his shirt, ripping a strip off of it to press tentatively against his ankle, hissing in pain as he did so.
He’d spent enough years following a witcher with next to no self preservation that he had picked up some first aid skills in his time. He knew how to deal with all manner of lacerations, gashes, stab wounds and burns, at least well enough that he’d stay alive until he reached a qualified healer. He’d even reluctantly observed Geralt resetting dislocated joints often enough that he had some idea how to go about it. But he’d never seen a witcher with a break as bad as this one, especially in his leg, for the simple reason that if he had ever sustained such an injury mid fight, he wouldn’t have survived long enough for Jaskier to find him.
The only exception to that might have been his broken knee at Thanedd, but that had been long on the mend by the time Jaskier reached him, and his healing had been assisted by mages and dryads alike. It had also never fully healed.
Jaskier tried his best not to think about what might happen to him if he couldn’t find help soon, and instead wrapped his foot and ankle as securely as he could in the remains of his shirt, without knocking or shifting the bone any further. He pulled his vest and coat back on over his bare chest, shivering slightly, and then gritted his teeth and began the exceedingly slow process of dragging himself towards the side of the path without jostling his leg too much. Eventually, after what felt like years, he made it and leaned against a tree there, cursing under his breath in exhaustion.
After a few moments of rest he reached up and grabbed at the tree behind him, bracing his one good leg on the ground, and slowly trying to lever himself into a standing position. This was even more stupidly painful and difficult than getting himself off of the path, but it worked.
Gingerly he tested his bound and broken foot, resting it ever so gently on the ground to see if it would bear even the slightest bit of weight. It would not. It hurt too much just to rest it against the ground that he didn’t bother trying to shift his weight onto it. He stared out down the path where his horse's hooves had left tracks in the dirt, and fought the urge to cry.
“Pegasus!” He called helplessly. “Pegasus!” There was no sign the horse could hear him, not that he was trained to recall on command anyway.
In fact he knew that whilst Pegasus was a lovely horse and his only companion in recent times, he was also dumb as shit. Likely he was waiting just around the next bend, having calmed down from his panic and probably confused about where Jaskier had ended up, but he would never bother to come looking for him. If Jaskier was lucky no bandits would come across the horse before he could get him back, but he wasn’t holding out too much hope.
He sighed and lowered himself to the ground again, settling with his leg outstretched and his back against the tree. He had no real choice other than to wait and hope some generous passerby took pity on him.
The cold was seeping into his bones more incessantly now, but there was little he could do about it, he was so tired. He focussed on the pain in his foot in the hopes that it might keep him awake. Above him the skies opened up and fat raindrops started to fall, an annoyance at first, but one that quickly soaked into his skin, drenching him thoroughly.
He shivered uncontrollably despite trying so hard not to move for all the pain that it would cause him. He was definitely crying now, although it was hard to tell with the way the rainwater ran down his face.
He knew he’d said he felt empty. He knew he had no purpose anymore. He knew he had no family anymore. He knew that if this was his end it was unlikely that anyone would notice. He’d fade into oblivion, a fun mystery for future historians to puzzle over.
But he wasn’t ready to die just yet.
‘Congrats bard, only you could follow a witcher around for two decades and then fuck your leg up by falling off your horse.’ A voice in his head mocked him.
It sounded suspiciously like Geralt.