Chapter Text
Jaskier was a buzzing hive of excitement all night. You’d spent the rest of the day explaining ingredients, brewing techniques, effects, all while he scribbled notes into his little journal. Too exhausted to get into brewing anything, you said you’d tell him more tomorrow. And yet, he’d awoken you several times - accidental and on purpose - to ask more questions.
You threatened to use Axii to put him to sleep if he didn’t stop, and you slept until midmorning without any more rude awakenings.
With the burden of four mouths to feed, two human and two horses, your coin purse was entirely emptied. Before the sun was at its zenith in the sky, you were on your horses and riding down the path to Crinfrid.
Once he was sure nobody else was around to hear it, the questions started once more.
“So Swallow is made from Drowner brains?”
“Yes.”
“Do you taste that when you drink it?”
“I wish I didn’t.”
“The flower petals and alcohol don’t cover it up?”
“Not enough.”
“Who figured out how to mix these together?”
“Not my area of expertise.”
“What is your area of expertise? Aside from killing things.”
You sighed, turning to give him an exasperated look. “Jaskier, can we please talk about anything else until we make camp?”
He blinked, but nodded several times as he put his journal away and readjusted himself. He cleared his throat. “What, uh, what do you want to talk about?”
For a solid few minutes, the main sound was the horses’ hooves on the matted dirt road. Birds twittered on with little care, flitting past every now and again. A traveler leading a donkey-drawn cart passed by with strange looks thrown at you both.
“What do you do during the winter? In Oxenfurt, I mean.” You lightly tugged on Bayard’s reins, coaxing him to slow down until you and the bard rode side by side. Bayard snorted at being slowed. You could feel his restlessness, his desire to race as fast as possible across the land. You pat his neck.
“Ah, well, the university’s been pestering me to lecture to their newest students,” he shrugged. He looked into the distance like he was seeing the city. The cobbled roads, the brick buildings. Trollops on every corner, barkers trying to entice folk into buying their wares. “Usually I just go to the taverns, play my piece, collect the spoils, get drunk, find a paramore for the night…”
You couldn’t help smiling at that. That sounded very much like the Jaskier you’d met long ago. Getting cornered by lords after bedding their wives. “Sounds… quaint.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, well, I’m not a badass monster-killer.”
You tried to picture it. What it would mean for you to live in a city like that, with such a simple daily routine to follow. No getting by on scraps between contracts, or sleeping in the stables. Flickers of chasing insects and frogs crossed your mind. Such a thing felt further away than it ever had before.
“What about you? What will you do during the winter?” Jaskier asked. He looked at you with an open worry.
You shrugged. “The same as always, I suppose. Wander the land, find some contracts, kill monsters; rinse and repeat. Besides,” you continued, “some monsters enjoy the cold. While other Witchers rest, I have ample opportunity to earn some more coin.”
He hummed. “Don’t you get tired, though?” You looked across at him. His hands picked at the leather reins out of pure habit, without him even realizing. He gestured out to the world beyond the path. “All the others have a season to heal, but you keep going all year round. When do you rest?”
Ever since Gorthur Gvaed was burned down, you’d been trying to figure out what to do when the snow finally comes. As true as what you said was, it was an easy excuse to avoid thinking deeper about the topic. For all intents and purposes, you were an orphan, with no home, no family - nothing to go back to.
To go back to Nilfgaard would be a completely foolish notion. The bandits mentioned your head having a price, no doubt that reward would only be known well enough in the south. Nordlings would be less keen to try crossing the border to turn you in, regardless of the reward. No, it was safer to stay up here.
You focused on the road ahead.
“You could stay with me, if you’d like.”
You snorted reflexively. “I don’t think anyone else in Oxenfurt would be too happy to have a Witcher in the neighborhood. I’m ill-suited to city life, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“But you have nowhere else to go,” he insisted. “Stay with me, stay for the winter. Rest properly, heal, do- whatever it is Witchers do to relax. Just for the season.”
When you glanced over, he had this sad, pleading look on his face, like a pup begging for scraps. You sighed, turning your head away to spare yourself from its influence. He was about to go on a spiel about what he could provide if you stayed with him, but you cut him off before he could utter a syllable.
“I’ll think about it,” you said. It wasn’t a promise. And really it relied much more on the people of the city’s attitude toward you that would influence the decision; more than you’d like to admit. But it was the best you could do for now.
-
When the sky started to dim, you found a spot off the path to make camp. It was more wild than Jaskier was used to; trees were packed rather close together, there was very little space to lay out a bedroll. But you kicked brush aside, tossed what you could into a fire, and tried to make the ground soft enough for him.
He worked on finishing one of his songs, one he’d been trying to put together since before the Mountain. Even from your cursory knowledge of Yennefer and Geralt’s encounter, you could tell they were the primary influence. Though, from what he told you of his many encounters with the Countess de Stael, maybe it was really about her.
Once you’d both eaten, Jaskier was eager to get back into potion-making.
You pulled out a mortar and pestle that had been worn down over time, some glass bottles, a small sack of flowers and herbs, a bottle of alcohol that he eyed with interest, and a container that sloshed wetly around.
“Please don’t tell me that has brains inside it.”
You snorted and jokingly knocked it toward him. He startled back on reflex. “What else am I supposed to keep them in? Just be grateful they’re already ground down for you.”
He wrinkled his nose as he nudged it back in your direction. “And just what exactly about this causes a healing effect?” He turned white and looked at you with wide eyes. “Don’t tell me normal medicines have Drowner brain, too.”
“Relax. It’s purely a Witcher thing.”
“Oh, thank fuck.”
He took the mortar and pestle as you passed them over. Inside the small bowl was a smattering of yellow petals. “Grind those into a paste.”
He began crushing and emulsifying the flowers. “Isn’t this in that- that salve you have?”
“Mhm. I’m not really one for flowers, but I recognize the ones good for alchemy.”
“My name is from a flower, you know.” He stopped his task for a moment to puff his chest out and gesture grandly. “Jaskier, the greatest troubadour to grace this land and the next!”
You laughed. “What kind of flower is it?”
He went back to his task, pleased that he could humor you so. “It’s a buttercup. Little, yellow, grow on the side of the road.”
“It’s an odd choice.” You cracked the seal on the alcohol, and pulled out a smaller knife to dig out the cork. “You’re such a romantic, why not something to do with roses, or, I don’t know, something else poetic.”
“Roses are so overplayed as symbols of romance,” he scoffed, shaking his head vehemently.
“Okay, then, have you considered a dandelion?”
“A dandelion?!”
“Sure. Buttercups can be picky about the conditions they grow in, but dandelions grow everywhere, regardless of how much sense it makes for it to.” You gestured toward him with the knife. “Like a bard, usually thought to be stuck up and sleep only in the finest of conditions” - you gestured to the bedroll he sat on - “sleeping in the wild, chasing the next best story.”
His nose scrunched up in a scowl, but it softened as the conversation tapered off.
Once the flowers were thoroughly ground into a paste, you showed him how much alcohol and brain-goo to add to the mixture. The process of transferring the contents into a bottle and heating them up until the chemicals inside reacted and turned a bright crimson. He hadn’t wasted much time before taking the last dredges of the alcohol for himself.
“Dandelion translated would be…” He took a thoughtful sip. “Mniszek lekarski. And Jaskier just flows off the tongue so nicely. Jaskier, see? Easy even to pronounce by any drunkard from any backcountry hole.”
You hummed. “I do quite like ‘Jaskier.’”
He watched you pack away the newly-brewed vials of Swallow, tucking them into your belt or safely in your bag, with the mouth of the bottle resting against his lips.
-
The rain had rudely awoken you both in the wee hours of morning. It was a slog, full of tired grumbling and dulled dexterity, to get your things gathered and packed onto the horses. Bayard had rudely nipped at your shoulder when you saddled him up. Adhara paced restlessly in the mud. Jaskier had presented you with a creative string of swears and descriptions that you’d never heard elsewhere before.
It was a gloomy trek. You and Jaskier guided the horses along through the sheets of water that fell. No amount of layers you could have thrown on would have saved you from the onslaught; you were soaked to the bitter bone.
The worst of it came in the night. There was no reprieve, no way to escape it. Not only had you trudged through however-many-miles of muddy roads, or eaten soggy food, or slipped more times than was worth counting, but now you had to go back to sleep in it, too.
You did your best to make do with what you had. You took the woolen blankets you had and built two shelters. One was only just big enough for two horses to fit under. You’d given them both extra food to make up for nature’s wrath. The other was just big enough for you and Jaskier to squeeze under. The bedrolls lined the bottom, but they did nothing to cover up the slick, gooey damp of the ground.
In an effort to keep Jaskier from getting sick, you’d relinquished your own cloak to him. You held a small flame in your hand for as long as you could withstand it, until you no longer had any more magic-reserves to feed into it. It was barely long enough to soak up any warmth. A mere ten minutes.
Jaskier grumbled as the orange glow left his face. He tried pulling all his layers tighter around himself, with little effect.
“Sorry,” you spoke quietly into the dark space. Your eyes adjusted quickly to the lack of light, just enough to make out his vague shape and movement. “I held it for as long as I could.”
The earthy, humid scent of the land reminded you of its presence in the absence of clear sight. It had followed you all day.
The almost rhythmic beating of rain on the shelter seemed to pound on your eardrums. It drowned out the frogs croaking in the brush, and nearly obscured Jaskier’s heartbeat from you. It was only as clear as it was because of his proximity; if he sat a few more feet away, you’d not have heard it. It beat solidly, against the rhythm of the rain.
Clothes rustled beside you. Hands, warmer than yours, though not by much, found yours in the dark. Nimble, calloused fingers tangled with yours, quickly engulfing them in soft palms and holding tightly.
“You’re freezing.” The hands rubbed against yours. Friction left brief glimpses of heat behind. They faded just as fast as they came.
You smiled at the effort, despite the exhaustion mounted in your body. “Slower heart rate, colder body. I don’t need to be as warm as you to survive.” You pulled your hands from his hold and traded the positions. “It’s more important for you to stay warm right now.”
“It can’t be comfortable.”
“Hm?”
“Being so cold all the time,” he explained. Your fingers brushed his wrists and he shivered.
“I don’t notice it much anymore,” you admitted.
He huffed. “Well, I do. You’re as warm as a damn block of ice.”
You squeeze his hands together one last time before letting him go. “You should get some sleep.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll keep watch.”
“Do you really think anything would want to be out there tonight?” You saw the brief motion of him nodding out into the rain. Getting up onto his knees, he shifted further into the tent and laid down. It took a minute for him to spread your cloak out on top of himself. “C’mon, I can keep you warm.”
You looked out into the rain, straining your ears. Just as before, you could only make out the rain hitting the makeshift tent and the frogs singing their songs. Nobody would want to go out into this, regardless of the rewards there may be.
So, you relented. You slipped further into the tent and slipped under your cloak. Laying on your sides, you were nearly chest-to-chest. You could feel his every breath, the brushing rise and fall of his chest, the thud of his heartbeat on the edge of your senses.
Jaskier, however, was not satisfied with the small gap between you. In one motion, he was pressed right up against you, arm wrapping around your side and back to keep you close. You could smell the faint traces of sandalwood and vanilla that lingered on his skin, pushing through the petrichor.
“There,” he breathed. It fanned across your face. “Nice and cozy.” It was too dark to know for sure, but you could imagine the bubbly look on his face, pleased he could convince you to let down your guard for one night.
It would be better like this, anyway. You wrapped an arm around him in return, trying to spread what little warmth you had to him. His heart spiked for a second. He swallowed before speaking again.
“Goodnight, Viper.”
You brushed away the fear of bandits and monsters creeping in the dark. You closed your eyes with a sigh.
“Goodnight… Dandelion.”