Chapter Text
“Toss a coin to your witcher…” Jaskier started in a quavering voice, holding out his cap.
“Oi, buy something or shove off! Won’t have you disturbing my customers with that racket!” The lady under the awning snapped, waving him away. “Go on! Or I’ll call the guards, I will!”
Jaskier reluctantly moved away from the small fire the apothecary had been using to brew something and pulled his woefully inadequate jacket over his shoulders, shivering in the cold. He picked at the bandages wrapping his fingers and peered down at the wound beneath. It had been only a ragged but small cut a week before, and he hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Now the skin was starting to turn blue, and it wasn’t from the cold.
He cast a last angry glance at the apothecary and the lean, powerful, white-haired man she was now serving and trudged off. He sighed and shivered, fingering his lute. Without his fingers, he couldn’t play, and without his music, he couldn’t sleep…or eat…or drink…or do anything that made life enjoyable, really. He’d probably have to sell his lute for a warmer cloak before long.He glanced up at the gray sky.
And to top it all, it looked like rain. Fantastic.
He tugged his jacket tighter about his shoulders and cursed himself for buying it. He should have known the fabulous magenta coat was too cheap, even though he’d spent most of his monthly wages buying it. Though he had to admit this cold snap was particularly early and particularly brutal. Sure, he supposed he could be blamed for not replacing his raggedy old winter coat earlier, but he hadn’t expected to need a replacement one for another month.
He sighed. He’d stick it on the list of things he couldn’t buy.
“Looks like rain.”
Jaskier looked up. The white-haired man had fallen into step beside him. Jaskier startled at his features. The man’s face was strangely unmarked by age, but even more surprising were his eyes: bright, clear gold with a slit pupil like a cat’s.
“You should get inside.”
“Master Witcher.”
The witcher hummed.
“I’d love to get out of the rain, but alas, I can’t pay the rent.”
“Bard like you has a fine voice. Can’t see you having trouble finding work.”
“Normally I don’t, but my hand…” He raised his bandaged fingers. The witcher’s nose twitched.
“You need to get that looked at.”
“I can’t. Apothecaries don’t work for free.”
“Let me see.”
Jaskier hunkered in on himself, not entirely sure what a monster hunter would be able to do about an infected wound. Still, free help was free help. “Uhm…all right…” He waited until they couldn’t see the apothecary, then offered his hand.
The witcher took his fingers and carefully unwrapped them. Jaskier bit his cheek as the blood began to pound through his hand. The infected wound wept pus and blood, and Jaskier could smell the faint, fetid stench of lurking decay.
“Hm.”
“Can it be fixed?” Jaskier asked.
“Maybe. You’re not going to like it, though.”
“And if it can’t be fixed?”
“You’ll have to cut it off. I’ve seen this before; it’ll kill you if you don’t take care of it.”
Jaskier gulped and cradled his wounded hand. He’d never play again.
“I can do it. I’ve tended my own wounds enough.”
Jaskier eyed him. He didn’t seem to be missing any fingers or toes.“I don’t have any money.”
“Don’t worry about that for now.”
Jaskier cast a nervous glance at Geralt. The first drops of rain began to fall. The witcher frowned slightly and rewrapped Jaskier’s hand.
“You’ll get soaked out here. Come on. I’ll take you back to my camp.”
The witcher’s camp was on the outskirts of the town, in a small patch of trees. The man had stretched a waterproof square of canvas between a few trees and laid a bedroll beneath it. A horse grazed in the long grass near a ring of charred earth.
“It’s not much.” The witcher flicked a hand at the burnt-out fire, and flames crept from the ashes like hatching snakes.
“That’s a neat trick.”
“Hm.”
“What do I call you?”
“Name’s Geralt of Rivia. ”
Jaskier grinned. He’d heard of the stories. “What, the White Wolf?”
Geralt shrugged and tossed some more branches in the fire. “Yeah. You?”
“I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount De Lettenhoove, though most people just call me Jaskier or Dandelion.”
The witcher glanced up at him. “Dandelion?”
Jaskier shrugged. “It stuck.”
“Hm.”
The witcher set up a small tripod and hung a kettle over the fire, then added some dry ingredients to the water.
“You should eat before I tend to your hand.”
“ Won’t I just sick it back up again?”
“You’ve got to get something in your stomach. Besides, I’ve got something to make before I try anything. Food’s in the saddlebags. Stay out of my bottles, though; there’s enough poison in them to kill a horse.”
Jaskier pulled a face and went to find something to eat, avoiding the bottles like the plague. The witcher didn’t seem to notice.
“So, what’s in the pot?” He asked, gnawing on a strip of dry beef. It tasted like salted shoe leather and did little to soothe his roiling stomach.
“Something for your pain.” Geralt tossed in some other desiccated bits and stirred. “Witcher-strength medicine will kill a human.” He sat back. “Now we wait.”
“‘Witcher-strength’, you say? I’ve read a thing or two about witchers. Never anything that talks much about their biology, though. It really is different then, eh?”
“Skip the medical inquiries.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend. I’m a scholar at Oxenfurt.”
“You don’t have anyone traveling with you who will help you out? No one at the university you can go to?”
Jaskier shrugged. “I mean, I keep correspondence with them, but I’ve never traveled with anyone because they despise my spending habits. Besides, we’re only just colleagues.”
“Mmh.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. The rain intensified, pelting the canvas and horse, who paused in its grazing and looked at them with reproachful eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that, Roach. There’s not enough room.”
“You talk to your horse?”
Geralt poked the fire with a stick. “Before you came along, I didn’t have anyone else.”
Jaskier shivered. “Sounds lonely.”
“You’re freezing. Here.”
Geralt wrapped a blanket around Jaskier’s shoulders.
“Thanks.”
Geralt shrugged and got up to stir the medicine. It was starting to smell bitter.
“Reckon it’s about ready. Let’s get this done.”
“Uhm…so how does this work?”
Geralt looked up from spooning some of the medicine into a bowl. “Never had this done before?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Lucky you. Ignorance is bliss.” He handed Jaskier the steaming bowl. “Take that.”
Jakier tasted the liquid tentatively and pulled a face. “Eugh.”
“Good thing you're not me. You need a strong stomach to keep our potions down, and that-” he nodded at the bowl, “-isn’t a witcher’s potion.”
“And no taste buds, apparently. This is bad enough.”
“Best take it all at once then.”
Jaskier waited for it to cool enough, then gulped it down with a shudder. Geralt’s expression broke into a grin, pulling at the scars on his face.
“C’mon, bard. It’s not that bad.” He crossed to Jaskier and knelt.
“I don’t know how you can see anything in the dark like this,” Jaskier complained.
“Witcher vision.”
“Ah, yes. The magical witcher senses.” Jaskier gritted his teeth as Geralt unwrapped his hand again, sending blood rushing through his infected finger. “Ow. Doesn’t that medicine work?”
“It’ll work, don’t worry. Just give it some time.” Geralt examined his hand closely, then pulled a knife from his boot. Jaskier recoiled, snatching his hand back. Geralt stood up.
“The blade’s septic anyways. Need to make sure it’s clean first.”
He set the blade on a stone encircling the fire. Jaskier watched him with trepidation, though a curious fatigue had crept up on him. Jaskier didn’t mind too much, though; the fatigue seemed to be leaching the pain out of his body.
“Lay down.”
“So are you going to press that directly onto my wound, then?”
“Don’t think about it. Just lay down.”
Jaskier did so. He was tired anyway.
“Feeling any better?”
“Sleepy. No pain.”
“Good. Means it’s working.”
Jaskier’s eyelids felt heavy. He peered at the witcher through a gathering mist, watching the grass around Geralt’s boots swaying hypnotically. “Gonna…close my eyes for a second.”
“You do that.”