"It's me," he says quietly, struck by the huskiness of Jaskier's voice. He should have brought water, he didn't think of it. "Radovid." Comma, King, he doesn't add, because he doesn't really want to joke about this. He pulls his hood back so Jaskier can see for himself, his blond hair curling against his cheeks. Radovid looks tired, dark shadows deep under his worried eyes.
"Jaskier, are you hurt?" he whispers urgently, stepping closer so he can slip his arm through the bars of the cell, reaching into the darkness for Jaskier's hand. Perhaps it is unwise, he realizes, to come so close to a man backed into a desperate corner. Jaskier could hurt him. He has before, though only with his words, not with his hands. He persists still, his other hand coming to rest against the bars, the keys he's holding clinking against the metal.
no subject
"Jaskier, are you hurt?" he whispers urgently, stepping closer so he can slip his arm through the bars of the cell, reaching into the darkness for Jaskier's hand. Perhaps it is unwise, he realizes, to come so close to a man backed into a desperate corner. Jaskier could hurt him. He has before, though only with his words, not with his hands. He persists still, his other hand coming to rest against the bars, the keys he's holding clinking against the metal.