The untempered force of that backhand was enough to jar Jaskier's thoughts as surely as his skull. He gaped for air, sucked it down with a ragged gasp, and then the darkness of the room, the luxury of their material surroundings, the droning of the waves, all of it was eclipsed by an explosion of pain across his face. Lights and spots danced in front of his eyes and the taste of copper flooded his mouth.

Geralt had punched him before, in frustration or irritation, but it had never--he had never hit him so hard that it--

This wasn't Geralt.

Jasker blinked hard, dazed and livid, and stumbled forward as he was hauled up by his doublet. The fancy scrap of silk and satin creaked--a seam twisted too tightly and popped--and Jaskier struggled to get his feet under himself. Geralt's weapons were here, if he could get free, he could snatch them up, he could kill this thing and find Geralt--

An old, ingrained terror stole his focus with a fresh stab of fear--if he fought back again, it wouldn't be just a backhand that he suffered. If he went for a weapon he'd end up bloodied and bleeding out on the floor. It was best to endure it, the old voice assured him, to just give it what it wanted--surely it didn't want him dead, right?

That though sounded thin--thinner still as the door was all but blown through the wall. (That--that had been a sign hadn't it? His ear was ringing and his vision was swimming but that--that looked like Witcher magic.) Jaskier thrashed as he found his footing, twisted and heard the silk of his doublet whine as it tore. He stumbled back and away as he was hauled out into the dark hallway, tangled in the torn fabric but free enough to wriggle and slip it off.

He was nothing if not nimble.

He scrambled back, away from whatever the fuck this Geraltesque monster was, and took off at a blind run.