Imagine if Jaskier made a deal with a fae after entertaining her for three days. That the bard asked to never get sick throughout the year, except for the same three days every winter, where all sicknesses he would have gotten ravaged his body at once.
The fae, amused and intrigued by the bard’s request, grants him his desire. However, she rather liked the bard, had found his music quite beautiful, so she blesses him as she goes to make him a bit stronger. Not enough to be very noticeable, but enough for him to survive the foolish wish as long as the bard is even a bit careful.
Unfortunately, Jaskier is 24 and has only a teaspoon of self-preservation. But he, miraculously, learns to manage.
He preps the night before by grabbing water, broth, and any medicine he can get his hands on that he thinks will help. Usually that’s enough, and he spends three days absolutely miserable and struggling to breathe through a stuffed nose and horrible, hacking coughs. Other times…well. The one year he passed through a town with the plague, he’d survived through pure luck, having not even considered he might have been infected and never known. It was the first winter he questioned if he’d perhaps cursed himself to a horrible death alone.
He wondered if it was worth the blessing of never again being abandoned by Geralt at some inn because he was too sick to follow the witcher.
But it was fine! He was fine. It was easier this way, honestly, because at least he never had to worry about losing his voice to illness while traveling. Honestly, what a mess that would be, unable to even earn his keep. Geralt barely tolerated him as it was, and the witcher had shown if Jaskier couldn’t keep up, he’d be abandoned.
Except now he was stuck at Kaer Morhen, and realizing Geralt had never seemed to notice Jaskier hadn’t been sick in the past, oh, 18 years. He wasn’t sure if Geralt even knew how to care for a sick human, actually. Jaskier reminded himself to teach Geralt a thing or two now that he had Ciri before spring came, as he hunted in the kitchen for spare bowls. Sometimes, he was so weak or nauseous he wasn’t able to eat until the the fourth day finally hit, but it never hurt to bring some broth on the off chance he had an appetite.
It took him an hour or two, but he eventually got everything he needed set up inside his cold, small room. He stared at the fireplace for a moment, as well as the extra firewood he’d been able to scrounge up, and hoped this would be a time he had enough strength to feed a fire. There were years he’d not even been able to leave his bed, deliriously hallucinating all manner of things as he went in and out of sleep, and while that was fine for Oxenfurt he didn’t think it would work quite so well at Kaer Morhen.
Oh well, not much he could actually do about it. Now, Jaskier winced, came the hard part.
The hard part did not go well. Jaskier pulled the single fur he’d been able to find higher up his chest, feeling anxious as he waited for sleep to claim him or the sickness to do so first.
Honestly, he didn’t blame Geralt for not believing him when he told the witcher that he needed to keep Ciri away the next few days, because he didn’t want her getting sick. The other had looked at him, a flicker of—concern, maybe?—passing across his face, before his expression hardened at finding nothing wrong with the bard. Which, Jaskier realized in retrospect, was partially his fault. He should have at least tried to explain the fae deal, because then at least Geralt would know what to expect if he happened to hear the bard coughing up a lung.
Jaskier frowned, turning on his side, remembering how the witcher had told him this wasn’t Oxenfurt, that he needed to pull his weight around the keep. As if Jaskier hadn’t been helping where he could the past three weeks, preparing meals and cleaning the stables and doing laundry. It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault he didn’t have a witcher’s strength, that he didn’t have anything useful to teach Ciri like Yennefer did. And while, once upon a time, Jaskier might have given a great deal to have the chance to explore the secret wolf witcher keep, that didn’t change the fact he hadn’t exactly chosen to be here. That he had colleagues, if not exactly friends, he would have gladly spent the winter with if not for the bounty on his head because of Geralt.
Jaskier sighed, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. None of that mattered now. After three days, he’d wake up good as new, the stench of sickness and sweat-stained clothes the only sign the nightmarish experience had been real. He could try to apologize to Geralt for his absence then, maybe cook something more extravagant as an apology.
He forced himself to relax into the lumpy mattress, knowing from experience this would be easier if he could sleep as much of the three days away as he could.
Just three days, he reminded himself like always. You can do three days.
(And like always, he resolutely did not think of the possibility that he wouldn’t make it to the fourth.)
Jaskier woke to pounding in his head and lungs that refused to inflate. He tried to take a deep breath, suddenly desperate for oxygen, but found himself choking on air, wheezing. He was so dizzy he didn’t notice that the pounding hadn’t just been in his head, until—Yennefer?—came strolling through the door.
“Listen bard, Geralt said you were being stubborn—”
Her voice cut off abruptly, and Jaskier found himself wondering how poorly he must look to have caused the string of curses that came out of her mouth next. Suddenly, Yennefer’s face was floating above him, her dark locks almost tickling his face as her fingers reached for his forehead.
She was saying…something. Her brow looked pinched, two squiggly caterpillars crawling there, so no wonder she seemed upset. Jaskier didn’t like bugs on his face either, and he reached up to try to brush them off, but his hands weren’t working. Hmmmm…that was…why did that matter?
He blinked, surprised to find himself floating now. But the air was so thin up here, with the clouds, the ones he couldn’t see now. He frowned, where were the clouds, tried to breathe—
He wondered if the clouds had made off with the air as their loot. Loot, lute! And—look, his hands! Now—now if only those pesky black dots would go away—
“—not notice, Geralt?! He—”
“—in years, Yenn. I didn’t—”
“—please, Jask please, don’t—”
Jaskier stared at the light. It felt warm. He thought he could maybe like it here, if it wasn’t so quiet.
Jaskier had never liked the quiet.
And the light was nice, but it was too…white. Too harsh. Jaskier found himself searching for something softer, more golden.
But it wasn’t here, so he couldn’t stay here, he couldn’t—
Large, heaping lungfuls of air filled his mouth, his nose, as he stared into the bright golden light he’d been searching for.
“—just breathe, Jask, easy. You’re okay, you’re—”
Jaskier closed his eyes, felt the breeze ruffle his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead.
