Jaskier's attempt at standing fails; he's been too badly whipped for his legs to bear the weight of his own malnourished body. The bard trembles and falls with a short curse and Geralt reaches for him to try to slow his landing. Bruised knees are barely anything on top of all of the other injuries that he's got, but his-- the bard is already more bruise than not. His breaths are short and too quick, and Geralt worries that his ribs are cracked or broken. He presses his palms to each side of his ribcage, feeling for a telltale crunch or shift that shouldn't be there.
Taking Jaskier out of there is the least that Geralt can do for him. He intends to do more. This is his fault, both for the fact that Jaskier would never have been targeted if he hadn't sang Geralt's praises from one end of the Continent to the other, and because he would never have been taken if Geralt had been with him.
He should have been with him. It's a simple truth.
"I'll need to lift you."
This is all the warning that Jaskier gets before Geralt gets one arm under his legs and the other around his back and lifts, picking him up like he weighs no more than a child. Easily, even though they aren't far off in height, since Jaskier doesn't have anywhere near the same mass as a witcher and he's likely lost some while in captivity, besides.
He carries him out of the outpost, stepping over the bodies of fallen soldiers as he makes for the nearest exit. Once outside, he whistles for Roach and she comes readily at his call.
"You'll need to hang on," he says, hefting the bard into the saddle. Roach stands patiently, barely even shifts as Geralt deposits Jaskier onto her back. He directs Jaskier's hands into her mane, giving him something to grab on to and keep himself steady. "You won't hurt her."
Geralt digs briefly through the saddlebags until he finds his cloak, tossing it over Jaskier's shoulders and securing it at his throat; both to keep the bard warm on the ride as well as to conceal his injuries and tattered clothes. Walking into a city with a battered man would raise questions that Geralt doesn't have the time nor patience to answer. Then he swings into the saddle behind him, and when he grabs the reins, his arms are tucked securely up against Jaskier's sides. If Jaskier is to fall from the saddle, he'd have to take Geralt with him.
"Come on, Roach."
He spurs her forward. A slower pace would be easier on Jaskier, but Geralt can't be sure that there are no more Nilfgaardian soldiers in the area. They need to go to ground quickly and hole up somewhere safe until the bard has recovered enough to move on, and then...
Something. Geralt hasn't thought that far into the future yet.
He rides them up to Vizima; it's near, and it's a city big enough to get lost in. He locates an inn, one that's out of the way and looks clean enough that Jaskier won't catch something just by sleeping in the bed. The price for the room is exorbitant, even more than the usual witcher markup that Geralt is used to, but he pays it without complaint. Jaskier needs a bed and safety more than Geralt needs a heavy coin purse.
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Taking Jaskier out of there is the least that Geralt can do for him. He intends to do more. This is his fault, both for the fact that Jaskier would never have been targeted if he hadn't sang Geralt's praises from one end of the Continent to the other, and because he would never have been taken if Geralt had been with him.
He should have been with him. It's a simple truth.
"I'll need to lift you."
This is all the warning that Jaskier gets before Geralt gets one arm under his legs and the other around his back and lifts, picking him up like he weighs no more than a child. Easily, even though they aren't far off in height, since Jaskier doesn't have anywhere near the same mass as a witcher and he's likely lost some while in captivity, besides.
He carries him out of the outpost, stepping over the bodies of fallen soldiers as he makes for the nearest exit. Once outside, he whistles for Roach and she comes readily at his call.
"You'll need to hang on," he says, hefting the bard into the saddle. Roach stands patiently, barely even shifts as Geralt deposits Jaskier onto her back. He directs Jaskier's hands into her mane, giving him something to grab on to and keep himself steady. "You won't hurt her."
Geralt digs briefly through the saddlebags until he finds his cloak, tossing it over Jaskier's shoulders and securing it at his throat; both to keep the bard warm on the ride as well as to conceal his injuries and tattered clothes. Walking into a city with a battered man would raise questions that Geralt doesn't have the time nor patience to answer. Then he swings into the saddle behind him, and when he grabs the reins, his arms are tucked securely up against Jaskier's sides. If Jaskier is to fall from the saddle, he'd have to take Geralt with him.
"Come on, Roach."
He spurs her forward. A slower pace would be easier on Jaskier, but Geralt can't be sure that there are no more Nilfgaardian soldiers in the area. They need to go to ground quickly and hole up somewhere safe until the bard has recovered enough to move on, and then...
Something. Geralt hasn't thought that far into the future yet.
He rides them up to Vizima; it's near, and it's a city big enough to get lost in. He locates an inn, one that's out of the way and looks clean enough that Jaskier won't catch something just by sleeping in the bed. The price for the room is exorbitant, even more than the usual witcher markup that Geralt is used to, but he pays it without complaint. Jaskier needs a bed and safety more than Geralt needs a heavy coin purse.