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Chapter Text

“Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!”

Heads looked up from their plates of meats and their goblets of ale, searching for this “mighty Witcher”. Lords seeking to marry Pavetta, claim a throne and a bride in one night, had heard the songs of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, who fought elves at the Edge of the World. To be in his presence would be a tale worth telling of.

You scoffed. Of course, the White Wolf would be more sought after than just any old Witcher. Not that you were unheard of.

The Viper of Nilfgaard.

Vipers are isolated, and extremely deadly. They strike when their target least expects it, dealing fatal blows with twin blades laced with poison. And Vipers do not just hunt monsters.

After the Usurper destroyed the Viper keep, you had no choice but to wander the lands. All Vipers had been banned from the larger cities of Nilfgaard. There was no point staying in the south.

That is how you found yourself in the company of the Cintran queen, Queen Calanthe. She hired you as extra protection from any beasts, monster or not, that may wander in. Of course, she had been vague on what you were to look for. There were plenty of monsters here that had been invited to lay down their case for marrying the princess. You were content to circle the outskirts of the party and keep an order that her guards wouldn’t, though you kept an eye on the door and an ear open for any commotions.

“There is another Witcher here you should meet.” Your ears picked up the familiar tone of Mousesack’s voice.

“Another Witcher?” The man he was with had a deep, gravelly voice. So that was Geralt of Rivia. “Another Wolf?”

“No, no no,” the druid dismissed.

He opened his mouth to explain to his Witcher friend who and what you were, when he was startled by your presence in front of them. You had been so silent, even the White Wolf’s superior hearing hadn’t picked up your footsteps. Mousesack grinned widely at you, moving from his friend’s side to yours, slinging his arm around your shoulders.

“Ah, as silent as ever, Y/N.”

“It’s not polite to talk about someone behind their back, Mousesack.”

He chuckled. “My apologies.” He looked to the Wolf, gesturing between you both as he made introductions. “Geralt, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Geralt.”

Geralt was large and stocky, with muscles trapped under an awfully neat display of clothing. You would have laughed and pointed it out, had you also not been forced to wear garments suited to the occasion. Leather armor didn’t tend to fly at big events like this. His hair was a bright white, and his yellow eyes pierced back into yours. You caught sight of the medallion hanging from his neck.

“So you’re the mighty White Wolf?” Your tone was almost teasing, hoping to get a reaction from him. Most Witcher schools didn’t agree with one another. The Wolves only hunted monsters, while you were raised and taught not to discriminate between contracts. This, of course, usually led to some tension between Witchers.

He hummed, low and knowing. “You’re a Viper.” It wasn’t a question. He had seen your medallion, too. “I didn’t think Vipers came this far north.”

“We usually don’t,” you agreed.

Mousesack stepped into the conversation to explain. “The Usurper destroyed the Viper school and banned Vipers from most everywhere in Nilfgaard. I suggested Y/N come up here where their services would be put to better use.”

“Killing kings, lords and ladies, you mean?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, scowling. “Better coin than a bruxa or kikimore can get you,” you retorted.

You turned your head as you heard an accusatory lord and a stammering bard. Geralt seemed to hear it too, rolling his eyes and sighing as you both made your way over to the issue.

“Drop your trousers,” the lord commanded.

“What?”

“I didn’t get a proper look at the little shit’s face, but that pimply arse I’d remember anywhere.”

The bard, backed up against the wall, stammered and stuttered until he finally caught sight of the Witcher. “Ah, Geralt!”

You smirked at the Wolf beside you. “So, I take it that’s your pimply arse.” He scowled at your comment.

“Forgive me, my lord. This… happens all the time. It’s true, he has the face of a cad and a coward.” You bit your tongue to withhold a laugh as you watched the bard nod along only to stare at the Witcher when he was insulted. “But, truth be known, he was kicked in the balls by an ox as a child.”

The bard looked even more scandalized. “Well, that’s-!” He seemed to remember he had to lie if it meant getting the lord off his case. “Tr-true.”

You nodded to the lord respectfully as he paid the “eunuch” and walked away. It was hard not to notice the way he kept glancing down at all three of your crotches.

“First of all, you hog all the fanfare, then you go and ruin my courtly reputation- Oh, hi there.” The bard quickly reverted from scolding Geralt to finally acknowledging your presence. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I am Jaskier, here for all your needs.” He winked.

This time you did laugh, sharp and short. The bard, Jaskier, seemed confused and hurt by it. “Thank you, Jaskier, for the offer, but I have bigger things to tend to tonight.”

“Such as?”

Fanfare sounded throughout the hall, catching the attention of everyone attending. A herald called out, “All rise for Her Majesty, the Lioness, Queen Calanthe of Cintra!”

You smirked at the two men, winking as you backed away. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Chapter Text

“You should have asked for money.”

Geralt sighed, brushing coming to a stop as he turned his head to look at you. You looked smug, but not outwardly so. Rather, it seemed as if you were just as disappointed with the night as he was and you were trying to hide it.

“After that shitshow?” he grunted. He turned back to his horse who became restless with the lack of attention. He sighed, stroking the bristles down Roach’s neck. “Maybe.”

Your boots scuffed the hay-covered floor of the stables, still so quiet that Geralt had to strain his ears to hear it in the silence. He could only assume it was part of your training as a Viper. You were an assassin after all, trained to kill monsters, humans, and all other races on the Continent, regardless of their position of power. It even seemed like you were emphasizing your steps; trying to make yourself louder than usual.

A horse nickered and bobbed its head a few stalls down from him as you approached it. It was a deep, dark brown color, much darker than Roach, almost black in the limited torch-light of the stable. The horse immediately responded to your touch, pressing its nose into your hand and snorting in a sort of contentment.

“I didn’t get paid either,” you told him, “if that’s any consolation.”

He hm’d. “Your contract…”

An irritable sigh escaped your nose. “My contract became null when I neglected to stop ‘Duny’ from entering when the guards failed, causing a scene, asking for Pavetta’s hand, claiming the Law of Surprise, et cetera, et cetera.”

With a hum and another annoyed sigh, silence filled the stable once more.

While Geralt took on the role of protecting Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald, along with Eist, you had stayed back in the shadows. The Queen had glared at you several times while Duny made his case for Pavetta, and probably cursed your entire existence as you turned to protect the crowd of suitors and musicians from the chaos. Your neutrality in the affair cost you a healthy sum that would have bought plenty of new armor and weapons, and perhaps something for Bayard, your horse.

You draped a blanket over Bayard’s back. With a few adjustments, you were sure it was in the right place. He jerked his head upward as you moved to grab the saddle, excited for the ride to come.

“You’re leaving?”

The stirrups and saddle fit right into place. You took your time tightening up the straps, giving your steed plenty of reassuring pets and pats as you did. “I have better places to be than a party I’m no longer welcome to.” You met his eyes over the barriers between stalls, almost challenging him to stop you. He said nothing. “Afraid you’re going to miss me?” you teased with a smirk.

He grunted, rolling his eyes as he looked back at Roach. He’d much rather watch the repetitive movements of his brushing than the taunting look on your face.

You chuckled as you grabbed the bridle off the wall, turning back to your own horse with a self-satisfied grin. Within moments, your horse was ready to ride. You attached your saddlebags and monster hook, and grabbed the lead. Geralt’s golden eyes followed you as you guided Bayard out of his stall and toward the stable entrance. Now that he could get a better view of your horse, he could see the white patch on its behind and the speckles of dark brown and grey that broke up the bright fur. You swung your leg over the saddle easily, settling into the worn leather with ease.

You started to urge your horse forward before stopping yourself. Instead, you turned to meet the Witcher’s golden eyes. “Will you claim the child?”

First Mousesack, now you. How many more people will ask him this same question?

“Goodbye, Viper.”

“Hm.” You studied him for a moment longer, turned forward, and pressed your heels into your horse’s sides to urge it to move. “I’ll see you on the Path, Wolf.”

-

These woods were supposed to be quiet. It was late at night, the moon was high in the sky, and the crickets were singing their sad songs. The next village wasn’t for several miles at least. Not only that, you knew there were no individual huts or shelters nearby.

So why did you hear music?

Maybe it was bandits, but that thought left rather quickly the longer you listened. Bandit camps usually had 5-8 men, oftentimes more depending on the size. You couldn’t hear more than 2 - one who was playing an instrument and singing, and another who growled at each chord. You also couldn’t imagine this being a camp of the men you were after, as the village they were wanted in was much too close for how long they’d had to run off and hide. No, this was something else entirely.

You slipped off Bayard’s back and led him off the dirt road into the trees, opposite of the camp you were listening in on. Satisfied he was hidden enough from anyone traveling late at night, you crossed the path and made your way through the underbrush. Only the wind and stars knew of your presence.

Leaves and twigs whispered your presence as you stepped upon them, or as they snagged on the fabric of your cloak. It seemed to blend in to the breeze that rustled the trees. This, after all, is what you had been trained for.

The orange glow of a fire guided you like a beacon through the dark forest. As you creeped ever closer, however, you were surprised to find one man, alone. He sat propped up against a log, an instrument in his arms as he seemed to speak to himself. Somehow, he seemed familiar…

You tensed, your whole body becoming rigid as cold steel touched your neck. You slowly turned in your crouched position, one hand finding the curved dagger on your waist as subtly as possible. A tall, hulking brute of a man stood over you, white hair glowing in the moonlight; yellow eyes shimmering in the glow of the fire. You were prepared to strike - use everything in your wheelhouse to get out of this corner you’d been backed into and gain an advantage.

In one swift movement, your blade was unsheathed and stabbed into your assailant's ankle. He groaned and stepped back on instinct, his sword letting up from your neck. In the opening, you distanced yourself and stood, drawing your other blade and holding it defensively in front of you. Distantly, the singing stopped.

The man pulled your blade from his leg, and, using it as a secondary weapon, moved in to strike with his sword. You deflected the attack, using your blade to guide his strike along the dagger and away from you. He was undoubtedly much stronger than you were - larger, bulkier; his movements were perfectly crafted for strength, not speed.

With this, you could get the upper hand.

Keeping low to the ground, you waited for him to strike again. When he did - his right arm swinging back from where you directed it previously, arching to slice at your chest - you rolled through the brambles to avoid the blow and sliced up toward his left hand, but he was faster on the draw. Instead, he sliced you with your own dagger, catching you on your shoulder.

You and the man were about to clash again, now both having spilt blood, when a voice called out nearby.

“Geralt!”

Normally, pleas of your targets and their beloved would fall on deaf ears. However, it was not the fact someone was pleading, but rather the name they called.

You seemed to flinch as you stopped your attack. The man you’d been fighting and the man who was singing earlier both watched as you straightened up some and lowered your blade, your head tilting with question.

“Wolf?”

Now it was Geralt’s turn to lower his weapons. “Viper?”

With a relieved sigh, you fully dropped your arm to your side, ignoring the pain that shot up through your shoulder as the movement. “You son of a bilge rat! You should know better than to sneak up on people like that!”

He huffed a laugh. “Look who’s talking.”

-

You picked apart the herbs from your saddlebag, dropping them into an old, worn mortar. “What are you doing out in the middle of nowhere so late at night?” you questioned. Your wrist moved in a fluid motion to grind the Celandine petals and leaves into a paste.

When you winced as each movement jostled your injured shoulder, Jaskier moved from his spot around the fire to your side, soft hands with calloused fingertips landing on your wrist to stop the repetitive movements you made. “Let me do that,” he offered. You wanted to argue, insist you could do it yourself, but it would be easier to let this one go.

You sighed. The mortar and pestle were handed over to the bard, who sat down nearby. He struggled even handling something so simple as grinding herbs; it was almost endearing how hard he was trying for your sake.

“Could ask you the same thing.” You met Geralt’s eyes over the fire. It was harder for him to trust you, whether it be because of your training from the Viper school, or his own training from the Wolf school.

You leaned over, one hand on your injury, to dig through your saddlebag once more. When you’d called Bayard over after your fight, he found himself content to stand by Geralt’s own mare, Roach.

“I picked up a few contracts.”

“Monsters?” came Jaskier’s voice, hopeful. No doubt he wished to write a tale about you.

Shaking your head, you pulled out the papers you’d snagged from the last village’s notice board - two wanted posters with sketches of the criminals, with a sum for their heads at the bottom. “Deserters.” You stood and crossed the camp to give the flyers to the Wolf. “Seen them?”

He looked at the posters, studying the men’s faces and names. He grunted, “No.”

“Damn. They’ve been on the run for a week, at least. Could be anywhere by now.”

The grinding of herbs stopped. “Then why go after them?” He held out the mortar, offering up the sludgy substance left inside. You sat back down beside the bard and held the mortar in your lap while you dug through your bag, searching for the final ingredients you needed to make Swallow. “If you knew they ran away a week ago, why not take a different contract? You don’t even know if they’re going this way!”

You scoffed and pulled out several things from your bag - a vial, a bottle of Dwarven spirit, and the brain of a Drowner. Jaskier’s nose wrinkled in disgust. If he shifted to be slightly farther away from you, well, only Geralt saw it happen.

“Not all of us have the luxury to pick and choose our jobs.” You carefully scooped the Celadine into the vial and poured some of the alcohol in after it. “Even if I hadn’t taken the contracts,” you began grinding the Drowner brain in the mortar; Jaskier didn’t offer to help this time, “people know me, my face. Know I’m a Witcher who doesn’t discriminate between monsters and humans. Word would get around, the Ealderman or Lord would hear, and I would be hired to track them down anyway.”

It was silent as you poured the gooey remains of monster brain into the vial with the other ingredients. Conjuring Ingi, you carefully heated the bottom of the vial, cooking the contents and watching as they blended together into a red liquid. You were sure Jaskier gasped as you threw back the contents like a shot. Almost immediately, you felt the potion taking effect as it began to seal together your skin and heal your wounds.

“Where are you off to, then?” You met Geralt’s eyes again as you put away your things.

He hm’d. “Traveling to the next town over for work.”

“Have you ever fought a Djinn by any chance?” You and Geralt turned to Jaskier at his sudden question. He seemed to flounder under the attention. “I just m-mean, uhm, we happened to encounter one recently and I wondered if you’d ever dealt with one before.” Jaskier strategically avoided making eye contact with Geralt, who glared so intensely at the bard he could feel it burning his skull.

“Not in a while,” you admitted. “Though, I wasn’t the one it was granting wishes to. Far as I remember, the woman that found it wished for freedom from her husband. The genie hypnotized her into killing him, and her children, so she had absolutely no ties to the man. She killed herself once she saw what she did. I had to drive it away from latching onto any other townsfolk.”

Jaskier’s eyes were wide, mouth agape in awe. He stumbled over his words and himself as he rushed to his own bags to grab his journal and pencil out. “Tell me everything . This is- Geralt never tells me details!” You laughed at his enthusiasm as he sat right next to you, his hip right against yours. “Start at the beginning. How did you get the contract? Where was this?”

“I would love to stay and have a glorious ballad written to me…” You stood, patting Jaskier’s shoulder as he stared up at you in shock. “But I have places to be.”

“You’re traveling at night?” Geralt’s gruff voice spoke up.

You grabbed your saddlebags and worked on attaching them back to Bayard’s saddle. The horse snorted, bobbing his head as you worked. “It’s better for my work if I do,” you said. “Most travelers, deserters, bandits, what have you - they travel during the day. Less monsters that way. But at night, they’re stationary. It’s easier to catch up to them this way, and there’s less traffic.” You grinned over your shoulder at the men. They both seemed bewildered by your methods.

“Wha- When do you sleep?!”

“When the job is done.” You untied Bayard’s lead from the tree it was tied to and turned him so he faced the road. With a teasing sort of bow, and a playful “ Gentlemen ”, you were heading back to the road; back to your contracts, your job. Your life.

Chapter Text

“The hunt begins at sunrise.”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait.” Jaskier gestured anxiously as he spoke, eyes flicking back to Yennifer nervously. He could still remember precisely how his last encounter with the sorceress had gone. “That’s only four teams. You said there’d be five.” The bard looked to Geralt for confirmation, or even just someone to back him up at all, but the Witcher’s golden eyes were stuck on the witch.

“Ah.” Borch Three Jackdaws sat back on his bench. His hands were intertwined and resting on the table, fingers fiddling with the handle of his ale. “They won’t be arriving until tomorrow. So I’ve heard, it’s a knight from Temeria.” His wise gaze turned to the distracted man before him. “They say he has a Witcher with him, too.”

Geralt was brought back to attention instantly.

“Another Witcher?”

Borch nodded, humming.

Jaskier perked up as well, leaning closer as if a secret was being shared. “Do you know what they look like? Or-Or what medallion they’re wearing?”

The man shook his head. “No.”

Jaskier turned to Geralt, hand on his shoulder and eyes wide. “Do you think it could be Viper?”

Geralt didn’t answer.

-

“What’s got your goat?”

“Someone’s stolen my pack.” The Dwarf glared past Jaskier at another team, who was already glaring right back. “PROBABLY THOSE FUCKIN’ REAVERS!”

Jaskier jumped at the shouting and decided it may be within his best interest not to be in between the two teams. The Dwarf, Yarpen, walked beside him, his team of Dwarves following him with their bags and packs in tow. “Aye, well… three days’ journey and only one route to the top. Leaves plenty of time for me to PISS IN HIS GREUL!” The Dwarf cackled coarsely back at the Reavers.

“You needn't shout so much.”

Jaskier nearly pissed himself at the sudden voice that spoke up, flinching and turning toward the cloaked figure now standing at his side. Yarpen frowned in a way only a belligerent drunk could.

“An’ who the fuck do ya think you are?”

You removed your hood. Jaskier almost gasped with recognition. Yarpen, admittedly, stepped back a little once he saw your face, and the glowing yellow eyes that stared back at him.

“I’m the Viper of Nilfgaard,” you said, “and your yelling is hurting my ears. My advice? Keep your mouth shut. Making enemies on a lone pass with a reward this grand only paints a target on your back.”

Yarpen grit his teeth, lips curling like he wished to swear at you in all the languages of the Continent for talking to him that way. But he just cursed you under his breath (though still loud enough you could hear) and continued down the trail with his men.

“Wow.” You and Jaskier stopped on the path, watching as the Dwarf introduced himself to Geralt. Blinking himself back to reality, he turned to you, hands out as if he wanted to hug you. You stepped away from the idea of contact. “Gods! It’s been months! How’ve you been? Did you, erm, catch those deserters?” You opened your mouth to answer, but he interrupted, “Wait, nevermind. Who’re you here with?”

You chuckled. “I’ve been hired to guide Yoran of Temeria through the mountains,” you informed him. You looked toward your employer, who stood off to the side with his horse, gathering supplies in bags and preparing his swords. “He has no experience hunting monsters; thought it would be better with a Witcher to help him along.”

As if he could feel two pairs of eyes on him, Yoran turned and waved you over. “Viper! I need your assistance!”

You sighed softly through your nose, but smiled at Jaskier anyway. “I’ll catch up with you later.” You began to step away, stopped and turned back to him again. “And I will answer all of your questions, I promise.”

Despite the gruff, aggravated voice calling for him, Jaskier couldn’t help himself from watching you walk away. Already, lyrics were brewing in his head; words battling each other over how he would describe a particular monster.

-

Yoran complained your ear off the entire trek. You would have welcomed the ache in your legs from inexperience, or the dull stinging in your back from carrying so much. Unfortunately, you were well traveled, and none of what Yoran complained about was getting to you.

“Mighty fine lord you’ll be,” came a sarcastic voice from in front of you. It was one of the Reavers. He looked like an image straight out of a wanted poster, with crooked teeth and skin yellowed from months of unwashed dirt and mud. His dark eyes, filled with emotions you wished not to know, turned to you. “And you, freak? What’ll you do if this prick slays the dragon?” Before you could get a word in, he offered up his own. “Become his little monster-hunting consort?”

“Why do you wish to know?” you bit back. “Looking to fill in an application?”

His grin became a grimace as he spat at your boots. You were grateful he missed - his saliva was probably as acidic as a Basilisk’s poison, and you quite liked these boots. “Fucking mutant.”

You stared ahead blankly for the rest of the hike to camp.

-

“Are you alright?”

Pulled from your revelry, you looked away from the fire and into the blue eyes of the bard next to you. Jaskier looked you over with concern. The emotion took over his entire face, spilling over to his body language.

“I’m fine. Why?”

His eyes traced over your face, making sure you were telling the truth. Having found what he was looking for, his posture relaxed. “I heard what the Reaver said to you earlier. Just wanted to, you know, make sure. Not to mention, it is extremely late and you’re still sitting out here. Alone.”

Ah. You must have been deep in your thoughts not to notice everyone else going to bed. And yet, you couldn’t recall exactly what it was that occupied your thoughts.

You shrugged and poked at the dying fire with a stick. The distraction was welcome. “What he said isn’t the worst I’ve been called,” you assured him. Well, it was supposed to be reassuring. Instead, he seemed to become more panicked.

“What’d’you mean?”

You quirked at eyebrow at him. “You’ve been traveling with Geralt for how long? I’m sure you know of his title as the ‘Butcher of Blaviken’. For us, Witchers, I mean, we’re considered mutants, freaks - all number of horrible things. It’s… It’s part of the job, I suppose.”

The crickets seemed to chirp louder in the silence. The dying embers of the fire faded out, allowing true darkness to set in. The moon and stars took over in lighting you both - the last two fools awake on this mountain pass.

“It shouldn’t be.” His voice was determined, disgusted with the treatment of you and his adventuring partner. “I’ll write a thousand ballads if that’s what it takes to-”

“No number of fancy words will change their minds, Jaskier.”

His throat dried up, closing at the defeat in your voice. The fire in his chest was stifled in in instant. He looked helpless.

“We’re a dying people, anyway.” In the dark, your golden, cat-like eyes focused on him. “Don’t waste your pretty words on us.”

-

“You said you’d answer my questions,” Jaskier reminded you. He was breathless from jogging to catch up to your brutal pace. You were just doing your best to stay ahead of Yoran so you could avoid his ceaseless complaining. “About the deserters?”

You slowed down just slightly for him as you hummed, reminded of the contracts you took on months ago. “I caught them in Novigrad, trying to sneak on a ship headed to Pont Vanis in Kovir.” You pulled yourself over a large boulder and helped Jaskier up after you. “Offered me money to let them go. I refused, naturally - the reward for their heads was more than what they could offer - and they each bolted off the ship and in different directions. Pain in the ass to catch them both again.”

Jaskier and you stopped a little bit ahead, keeping an eye on the boulder as teams helped their own members get up. Yoran, Borch, Geralt and Yennifer were a bit further back, but the Dwarves and Reavers were already there and spitting insults back and forth as they tried to get ahead of each other.

“What then?”

You looked over to the bard with a tight smile. Despite his travels, everything he had been exposed to, you would hate to be the one to reveal the dark nature of the world to him. Especially when his eyes shone with so much life and hope…

“What about you and Geralt?” you changed the subject. “Asked me about a Djinn last time we met, but you never explained why.”

Jaskier’s eyes only seemed to glow brighter as he unfolded for you the tale of the Djinn, their encounter with Yennifer, and of a blooming romance between the Witcher and the Witch.

-

You once again found yourself awake late at night, long after everyone else had slipped inside their tents and their cots, ready to sleep. Tonight, however, instead of poking at the fire, you situated yourself on a rock atop a small hill. You had a perfect view of the entire camp and much further.

Jaskier, who once again insisted on staying up late with you, gazed up at the stars as if they had become his next muse.

“What’s it like… becoming a Witcher?” The question was quiet, hesitant. Geralt never spoke of the trials it took to become what he had. He saw, in the way your chest rose with a deep breath, and fell back again in a sigh, how hard it was to talk, or even think about, what he was asking. “You don’t have to answer. I don’t need to know.”

Your lips quirked up at how quickly he backpeddled on his question. Jaskier was always curious; he fed on new information like a starved man ate stew. But he never pushed or pressed. Any other person, anyone curious enough to question a Witcher, didn’t let up until they were sure Witchers were the mutated freaks like the stories said.

“It’s alright, Jaskier. It’s just…” You sighed again and turned on your rock to face him. He now looked at you, with those same wonder-filled eyes that had picked out constellations mere moments ago. “It’s difficult to go back to that place. My whole childhood, my entire life…”

His head tilted, as if he was trying to better see your face in the darkness. “You don’t need to tell me, Viper.”

Yellow and blue eyes stared at each other, studying one another. The night was quieter this time. The higher up the mountain you went, the less trees and birds and crickets you encountered. It felt too still, now. Too quiet.

“One day.” You turned back toward the moon, eyes scanning the tents all laid out in the clearing. “I promise, Jaskier. One day. Just… Not tonight.”

The bard stood from his rock, pebbles shifting under his feet and crunching at the weight. “Take as long as you need.” He descended the hill alone. He stopped at the door of his tent and looked back up at the hill, but you were gone. His sleep was restless that night.

-

"You should eat something."

You glared at the carcass roasting over the fire, lips curling in a disgusted scowl. You watched as Eyck cooked and ate the Hirikka, so proud of himself. It turned your stomach. The head of the Hirikka, severed and resting on a spear just behind the knight, didn’t help matters.

"I'd rather starve."

Jaskier studied your profile, face pulled taught with concern and understanding. Your outrage… Even now, the words you threw at Sir Eyck rang clear in everyone’s minds as they sat around the fire.

“I knew you were a coward masquerading as a knight, but murdering an endangered creature that posed no threat to us? That’s a new low.”

Bards were empathetic - they had to be. But everyone here felt the hatred and rage boiling inside of you when you'd screamed at Eyck. Even Yarpen did not spew anger and ire as you did. And, despite the fear he experienced when that creature stood to its full height, he understood. If they had handed over the berries Jaskier picked, perhaps even a scrap of bread, it would have left them in peace, unharmed.

"Please." Soft hands, calloused at the fingertips, lifted your hand from its place on the makeshift log bench. They peeled your fist apart and placed something within. You did not need to look to know they were the berries he picked earlier.

In a flash, you were dropping the fruit back in his hand and rushing off to your tent with hardly a word to your employer. Jaskier watched, helpless, cradling the berries he was left with, as you disappeared for the night. He wished to rush after you; toss the berries in the fire and comfort you with ballads and poems and tales all through the night. But he caught Borch’s gaze, and, at least for now, the thought died.

He did take great pleasure watching Sir Eyck hobble away, all hunched over, gassing uncontrollably after he ate some of the Hirikka. Once the talk of politics, of Nilfgaard taking over the North, began, the sweet taste of karma was soured, and Jaskier excused himself. However, instead of going to his own tent, he wandered over to yours. He tried to make it seem casual - looking down to his boots and the ground as though they were more interesting than anything else; kicking pinecones and meandering around - until he was in front of your tent door.

“Uhm.” He awkwardly patted against the fabric. “Knock knock?”

It was quiet. Jaskier glanced over his shoulder toward the fire, making sure no one was watching him.

“Who’s there?” a voice came from the other side of the flap. He felt himself grinning at the mere sound of it.

“Hope.”

“Hope who?”

“Hope you’ll let me in.”

Quiet again. Perhaps he didn’t think this through enough. Was it scandalous for him to be let into your tent? Should he have just gone to his own and left the issue alone? Maybe you wanted to be left alone for the rest of the night. Maybe you didn’t want to see him.

Before he could stumble out an apology or an excuse, the flap of the tent was pulled aside. You stood just inside, without your cloak or weapons, and gestured for him to come in. He didn’t glance back at the campfire. He didn’t see Borch grinning at the interaction. He didn’t see how the older man leaned over to Véa and Téa and whispered things about young love. He simply stepped inside.

“Erm, thought you’d like to know that the Hirikka made Eyck sick.”

“Good.” You shut the tent back and followed Jaskier inside. Your tent was much like his own - bare with a single cot, a foldable chair, and a small table. Your bags were tossed aside into a corner, undoubtedly filled with strange herbs and monster bits. A few candles sat on the table, lighting up the room and providing a sense of warmth and comfort. He sat down on the corner of your bed, looking over the daggers, bottles of potions, and other Witcher-y things laid out on the cot. “Bastard deserves it.”

Jaskier reached out and carefully picked up one of the bottles, turning it over and over to watch the black liquid slosh around. “What’s this do?”

You frowned at the question, looking at the potion in his hands. “Geralt doesn’t tell you about them?” You picked up one of your daggers, one specially crafted out of silver for dealing with monsters, and a whetstone. The scraping sound of metal against the whetstone filled the tent as you sharpened your weapon.

The bard scoffed, watching with a thinly veiled mask of fear as he watched you expertly sharpen your blade. He liked to think you were close enough acquantences now, perhaps even friends, where you would never even think of using a blade like that on him. But he couldn’t be too sure. “No,” he said. “He won’t even tell me what he had for breakfast, let alone about a monster he just slayed or what any of this,” he gestured to the other bottles, “does.”

“Okay, well, the one in your hand is called Blizzard.” Jaskier, eager to learn, held the bottle close to his face so he could peer into the container better. None of the ingredients that went into making a concoction like this were decipherable from appearance anymore. “We take it before we fight monsters. It improves reflexes and, it may sound silly, but it feels like time is moving slower. It’s particularly useful for fast beasts.”

He set the bottle back down on the bed and picked up a familiar red one. “What about this one? You made it last time we saw each other.”

You set your silver dagger back on your bed and picked up your steel one. You didn’t expect to need it on a contract like this, when you were only hired to kill monsters, but one could never be too careful with characters like the Reavers around.

“Swallow,” you answered, “named after the bird and the coming of spring. It helps us heal faster for a time.”

He turned the bottle over, nose scrunched up as he recalled precisely what you put into a brew like this. Then his turning slowed, until it stopped. “Wait…” He looked up at you. “You had to make this that night, after fighting Geralt. You even turned down his potion! Did you not have any on you?”

The scraping of the whetstone over the blade slowed at his realization. You hadn’t said anything that night, nor had Geralt, but the White Wolf had a knowing look in his eye then. “No.” You sighed, meeting his concerned blue eyes with hardened yellow ones. “Please, don’t worry for me, Jaskier. You have far better things to do with yourself than that.”

He opened his mouth as though he wished to argue, but then shut it again. You knew how to handle yourself. You were trained to be able to survive in the harsh wilds of the Continent. Still, something niggled at the back of his mind at the thought of you wandering the harsh countrysides and mountains without such a useful potion, especially at night when you preferred to travel.

With a stern look and a sigh, he let it be.

“So, a dragon,” he changed the subject. He continued, however, to pick up different potions and look at them. It gave him something to do with his hands for the time being. “Why did so many people sign up for a quest for something that’s not, you know, real?”

“Dragons are real.”

He gave you an incredulous look. You gave one right back, dropping your dagger to your bed with your whetstone.

“Dragons are real, Jaskier. Treasure hunters and poachers have hunted them to near extinction, but I’m sure many exist, hiding away until their numbers recover. The one we’re after, a green dragon, is the most common. Red dragons are rarer. Then black dragons. And, finally, gold dragons, the rarest of them all. No one knows if those are real; nobody’s seen one in ages.”

Slack-jawed in awe, he seemed to have stars in his eyes at all the info he was getting. As if coming to his senses (what little he had of them), he dropped the vial on the bed and grabbed his journal from an inner pocket on his jacket, along with a pencil. He wrote down everything you told him of dragons. He continued to ask about other monsters, and potions, and even the swords and herbs you used in your trade; any and all information he could never pry out of the White Wolf he travelled with.

It became so late, and Jaskier, distracted by his endless questions of monsters and Withcers, became so tired that he fell asleep where he sat. You laid him down on the bed, covered him with your warmest blankets, and set his journal to the side. For the night, you slept in the chair, covered only by your thin cloak, and watching over the curious bard as he snored away until morning.

Chapter Text

Screams flooded the drab and dreary halls of the Viper keep. They echoed around every corner, every dead end, every twist and turn, stairwell, bed chamber. No place was safe from the agony that poured from the innocent child's mouth.

And then silence.

How many was that now? A dozen? Two? More? It was hard to keep track.

A young boy dragged himself across the cellar floor until he was right by your side. He was shaking. You couldn't tell if it was from fear or from the cold that bit at your own fingers. Something was different about him from the last time.

"What's going to happen next?" he asked. His voice was still high pitched and innocent.

Your breath came out in warm puffs of air. "I don't know."

His eyes were transfixed on the wooden trapdoor keeping you all trapped down there. Ah, that's what it was. His eyes were blue this time. Why was that?

Suddenly, those shock-blue eyes were staring at you. They were wide and watery.

"W-What's your name?"

"Y/N. What's yours?"

His voice came back muffled and distorted. No matter how hard you strained your ears, you couldn't make out any clear syllables.

The cellar door opened. Dozens of wide, young eyes stared up at the towering silhouette that peered down, backlit by a warm sun. A large hand reached down and grabbed another child that kicked and screamed as they were dragged away. The cellar door shut.

You both moved closer to each other. Cold hands grasped each other in the darkness, tiny bodies pressed as close as possible to stay warm and assure the other that they were there.

"We'll make it through this." His voice wavered. Yours would have, too.

"I want to see my ma," you whimpered. "My pa."

His hands gripped yours tighter.

"Me, too."

You fell asleep to the distant sound of screams. Cold, but not alone, you woke up. You turned to look at the boy in the darkness. He-

"Viper!"

You shot up in the chair, hand automatically falling to your waist where a blade would have been. You were met with wide, blue eyes.

"Finally!" Jaskier groaned. His hands fell from your shoulders in a huff. "Eyck is missing and Yoran, he's... well..."

"He's what, Jaskier?" You rubbed sleep from your eyes. Where the hell were you? Oh, yeah, that's right. Jaskier slept in your bed last night and you slept in the chair. No wonder you were so disoriented.

The bard sighed. "Someone killed him."

Your eyes snapped up to meet his. There were no lies to be found in the sympathetic look he held. You jumped up, pushing past him and out of your tent, to see for yourself what had become of your employer.

Sure enough, when you burst through the tent flap, Geralt was already there, kneeling by the Temerian man who lay dead in his cot, neck sliced open. His yellow eyes looked to you. They held just as much sympathy as Jaskier's.

"Oh, fuck." Yarpen came up by your side, keeping his distance from the blood that pooled around the cot. It soaked through the soles of your boots. You didn't care.

"Was bound to happen eventually." You didn't have to turn to know it was a Reaver talking. He stood just at the tent opening, peering inside with a grimace. His dark gaze turned from the corpse to you. "A Nilfgaardian guiding a Temerian?" he scoffed. "Like a rat fucking a hag."

You ignored just how Yarpen stepped away from you; carefully, as if you would slit his throat open next.

-

"Our people used to mine these mountains. We know a shortcut that will take half a day off our journey.” The Reavers were far ahead, by now. The rest left behind slowed down to listen to Yarpen. “Let the Reavers take the long way around. We’ll nab the treasure before they even set foot in the cave. We’ll watch each other’s backs until we reach the next peak, then every man for himself.”

Two bodies were found that morning. Yennifer's escort, Sir Eyck, and your own. Nobody else suspected Yennifer of killing Eyck. You on the other hand…

All morning, you had trudged along far behind everyone else. Still, they glanced and peered over their shoulders to make sure you weren't about to make a move against them. The only few who trusted you - Borch and his guards, Jaskier and Geralt - could not sway the minds of the Reavers and Dwarves. Yennifer, you suspected, did not trust you for your title as a Nilfgaardian alone.

“What say ye?”

“Let’s go!” Borch answered.

"Only thing: that murderer can't come," Yarpen spat, turning to Geralt.

The White Wolf's lips curled into an offended snarl, brow furrowed and eyes burning with a fire only reserved for monsters. But before he could say anything, your hand was on his shoulder, turning him away from the Dwarf to face you. The flaming eyes of the Witcher met with your own, gleaming with the warmth and comfort of an amber mead after a long day.

"I'll meet you at the top."

You both just stared at each other, as if speaking with your eyes. At some point, the scowl faded from Geralt's lips.

"Fine." The word was grit out between clenched teeth. Even as the group began moving, he lingered for a moment longer, as if searching your eyes to make sure this was alright. They gave nothing away.

The groups split in two: the Reavers headed on the main path while Yarpen and the Dwarves led everyone else to the secret pass they knew. You stood still at the crossroads, watching as you were left behind; left to follow the group that framed you for the murder of two innocent lives.

Jaskier seemed to notice when you did not come with them. He began following at first, but then he glanced back and saw you, and he stopped.

"Aren't you coming?"

A weak half-smile lifted the corner of your mouth. "I'm afraid not," you said.

He stepped closer with the most concerned look on his face. He was making a habit of being worried for you, wasn't he? "Why not?"

"Yarpen doesn't trust me." You looked over his shoulder. He would be left here too if he didn't hurry up. "I'll be fine, Jaskier. Just..."

He cocked his head to the side. "Just what?"

Another weak smile. "Just tell me all about it when we meet back up at the top."

He grinned, eyes lighting up with that sparkle that meant he was undoubtedly preparing another ballad or poem. "I won't leave anything out, I promise."

-

The green dragon lay curled around her egg. The protectiveness of a mother over her still unborn child made your soul ache. It made you wish for that kind of love and protection from your own parents. Instead they tossed you away.

Téa and Véa had threatened you when you stepped inside, initially. All you could do then was stare at the “monster” behind the guardswomen as you mindlessly removed your blades from your belt and tossed them down at their feet. You remember whispering a promise not to touch the egg, not to near it or they had your full permission to kill you right there. They just watched, blades readied, as you sat by the dragon mother’s head and gently stroked her cold snout. That is where you stayed as Geralt, Yennifer, the Zerrikanians, and Borch - in his full, golden dragon form - fought against the Reavers.

In a haze, once the sound of fighting had moved outside of the cave, you stood and grabbed your daggers once again. As floods of more Reavers came, you joined the fight.

Your blades, sharpened and coated in Basilisk venom, sliced down man after man. But you fought messily. You were fueled by anger and rage at what the King and his men had done, at the hunt that was put on, at the Reavers who fought to kill the dragon within the egg. Your senses were heightened and dulled all at once. You could hear the footsteps of men, hear blades scraping and ricocheting off each other and armor, feel the tension against your arm as you plunged your weapons through flesh and muscle. And yet, you were deaf to the sounds of their blades cutting through your own flesh, or the pain that shot up your nervous system. You felt nothing but fire within your soul as your silver blade stabbed into a man’s jugular, or as it ripped out as you swung around to slice open another man’s stomach with your steel dagger.

It was only when silence fell, when all the Reavers lay dead at your feet in puddles of blood and innards, that your senses came back.

“You have fought valiantly.”

You turned quickly, blades held up in a weak defense. But Borch, now in his human form, did not look at all threatened by your actions. You sighed, dropping your arms back to your sides.

You were covered in blood - yours and that of those you’d just slain. You couldn’t even pinpoint where you were injured. All you really knew was that you were injured; every breath made your ribs ache.

The older man drew near, stepping over fallen enemies, and placed a warm hand on your shoulder. His smile was as warm as a hearth in winter. “Thank you for protecting her.”

You opened your mouth. Your mind tried to think of what to say. Instead, coming up with nothing, you just bowed your head at the man. He seemed to understand. Rather than pander you for a response, he gave your shoulder a light squeeze, and let you go. You glanced upon the green dragon one last time before you left the cave.

“Well, you look like shit.” Jaskier entered your vision. He was dirty and unkempt, but he was such a welcome sight. His little grin at his joke fell when you did not grin back. “What’s wrong? What happened?” His hands floundered around, hovering over your arms and shoulders as he tried to figure out just whose blood was where.

“I’ll tell you later.” Your voice was so quiet. It was only ever this quiet at night, when you would both stay up late together.

His brows knit together in concern, but he nodded nonetheless. He made a motion, trying to find the words. “Uh, uhm, potion- Swallow. Do you have any…?”

You nodded. On your belt with your daggers was a section that held a few bottles. You lifted your arm and tried to reach for one, but Jaskier stopped you when you winced.

“Here, let me.” He didn’t touch you - as much as he could avoid it, anyway. He found the red potion tucked into the front-most slot and carefully wedged it out of its holder, uncorked it, and held it out to you. He did not grimace in disgust as you drank it this time.

-

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

The words echoed through the mountain valleys. Jaskier’s fingers rubbed together, itching for anything to fiddle with as the insults sank into his chest. His throat felt tight. His eyes burned. Someone he had considered a friend, someone he could trust, depend on, only thought of him as a burden, wreaking havoc on his life.

“You fucking bastard.” Geralt’s eyes shifted from glaring at Jaskier to where you sat up on the hill. You grunted as you forced yourself to your feet, shuffling down the rocks to stand protectively in front of Jaskier. “No one asked you to claim the Law of Surprise, or make that wish with the Djinn. You only have yourself to blame.”

The Wolf’s lips curled into a sneer. “If he hadn’t dragged me-”

You scoffed, stumbling further down the hill to stand directly in front of Geralt. “No one forced you to go! Friend or not, you could have declined, you pompous git! You did this to yourself! No one else!” You stepped back. Despite being injured, far more than Geralt had been in that fight, you still stood with your shoulders squared. You were ready to fight again, at a disadvantage, just to protect Jaskier from Geralt’s misdirected anger. But Geralt’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. He would not be fighting you. “Congratulations. Your blessing has been granted.”

You took another few steps backwards, eyes watching the Witcher to see if he would do anything. Instead of gearing up for an attack or trying to argue again, he just huffed and turned to gaze out at the view. Your shoulders eased.

You turned to look up at Jaskier. The bard was wide-eyed and speechless. His blue eyes shifted from Geralt to you - one a look of hurt and betrayal, and the other a look of awe and amazement. You placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him away from his old traveling companion.

“C’mon, Jaskier.” You kept your hand on his shoulder as you both walked back to the Dwarves’ temporary camp. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be halfway down the mountain by nightfall.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier was quiet. He’d hardly said a word since Geralt blew up on him. His fingers would rub against each other every now and again, as if he wished to pluck the strings on his lute, but he did not reach for his instrument, even after you settled down in a makeshift camp for the night. Instead, he just stared into the fire, thinking. He only came back to his senses when you were holding a roasted hare on a stick in front of his face. He took it with a brief, weak smile, but even then he just seemed to look at the meat with a frown.

“You need to eat something,” you urged. “You won’t have the strength to make it down the mountain if you don’t.”

“I didn’t even have the strength to stand up for myself!” he cried. The energy from his outburst vanished into the night immediately after. “Sorry.” His nimble fingers picked at bits of the hare. You watched as he pulled off a bit and ate it. It eased your worry slightly.

Once he began eating, you did, too. You ripped off small pieces much like he did. Your eyes didn’t leave the bard. “So you learn how to.”

He looked up. “What?”

“You learn how to stand up for yourself, for next time.”

He sighed. His whole body was hunched over, closing himself away from the harsh world he found himself in. “Next time…” He stared back at the fire. It reminded him all too much of those nights spent with Geralt, chasing after some beast and freezing in bedrolls when they didn’t have coin for an inn. “Next time, I’ll tell him to shove it up his arse.”

You chuckled. He lightened up a bit at the sound. “That’s a good start.”

You missed the sound of the chirping crickets not found at the higher elevations of the Continent. They filled the night with their songs, a sign that danger was not around. And, oh, the owls. As trees became more frequent, so too did birds. You could hear owls in the distance - their silent wings carried them in the air as they searched for mice to eat. Bats, too. The high-pitched clicks not perceived by humans were easily picked up by your sensitive ears as they hunted mosquitos and other small insects.

“Thank you, by the way.” Pulled from the sounds of the night, you turned back to Jaskier. He looked at you with soft blue eyes, worn out from the day's events. “For, erm, yelling at Geralt, like that.” The gratitude came from him stiff and stumbled, but it was genuine.

You smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

He grinned, too.

-

Even as you traveled in front of him, you could still hear Jaskier’s boots slipping on the uneven gravel and rocks of the mountain. Sure enough, when you looked over your shoulder, he was holding an arm out to balance himself as he slid, clutching to the strap of his lute so it did not get damaged. Some steps he took were accentuated with grumbles and winces, undoubtedly from sharp points of rocks poking through the thin soles.

“After all this time traveling, you never thought to get better boots?”

“Ah, well, I thought about it.” He reached even ground and came to a light jog by your side. “Never had the extra coin to actually get any.”

You did not need to see his face to know just how exasperated he felt when another slope came into sight. Before he could start for it, however, you placed a hand on his chest and stopped him.

“What?”

You looked around, eyes scanning the rocky terrain for something in particular.

“What is it? Did you hear something?”

Shaking your head, you made your way to a boulder and sat down. Jaskier watched, astonished, as you began removing your boots.

“Now, wait- Hang on!” His boots scraped along as he rushed to stand in front of you. His hands waved all over, trying to stop you without actually touching you. “You’re going to need those! Viper, wh- You don’t even know what size I am! Your boots might not fit! Or my boots might not fit you !”

His arguments fell on deaf ears as you slipped your feet out and rested them on the uncomfortable gravel. You pressed your boots to his chest as you stood, giving him no choice but to hold on to them and accept the gesture.

“Put them on. We’ll worry about new boots when we get into town.” You stepped out from in front of him, raising an eyebrow and waving a hand to the rock. “C’mon, Jaskier, my feet are hurting.”

He glanced down, realizing fully that you were barefoot up on a rocky mountain. He rushed to sit down and take off his boots so you’d have something to walk in. All the while, his mind ran rampant.

Had Geralt ever done anything this nice? Had Geralt ever done anything to help Jaskier? Anything that didn’t involve the bard’s near death, that is. The White Wolf never even let him touch his steed, no matter how long he had been walking or how much his feet ached. But you! You just took off your boots and gave them to him like it was such a simple thing. You didn’t even think twice about it, no matter how many complaints he brought up. Hell, he hadn’t even complained about his boots! You just noticed !

Another voice, less astonished but just as bitter toward his past companion, spoke up. They are not Geralt.

He handed over his boots, still in a daze by your altruism, and watched as you slipped them on without even sitting back down. You kicked the toe onto the ground, as if measuring how much space you had, before giving him a nod.

“Better?”

He slowly nodded. The boots felt odd on his feet, but he could already tell they were built for traveling. His, well, they were mostly for appearance.

“Good. Let’s keep going.”

-

Your feet were hurting by the time you reached the base of the mountain, but sweet relief was found in Bayard. The speckled horse had greeted you both with loud whinnies and dramatic head bobbing. Truth be told, the bard had no idea how to act around your horse; he had only really been on a horse once, and that was when he was dying from a genie attack. But once you saddled up the playful mount, you simply pulled him up on behind you, and off you went to the capital of Caingorn: Hengfors.

The first stop was to the first armorsmith you saw. You almost slid off the saddle before Bayard even had a chance to stop.

Once you were both saddled with new pairs of comfortable traveling boots (“You shouldn’t have to pay for my own boots, Viper!” “Please, Jaskier, it’s not like I’ll be done in by some shoes .”), you were falling back into one side of the large bed the single room provided. In fact, the boots cost more than anticipated. You were lucky to have a larger bed at all.

“Oh ho ho ho! You beauty!” Jaskier’s voice came from the corner of the room. You raised your head to see just exactly who, or rather, what he was praising. In the corner was a large bathtub, tucked away behind a screen divider for privacy. Steam wafted from the basin, already filled with hot water. “I have not bathed in days ,” he groaned. He rushed to his bags and pulled out various bottles of oils. He practically dumped all of their strongly perfumed contents in.

You huffed out a laugh at his enthusiasm and dropped your head back to the bed. When was the last time you had a soft bed? Hm. Your eyes closed as you tried to recall. The water shifted and sloshed as Jaskier lowered himself in, all content hums and satisfied groans.

“Is that sandalwood?”

“Mhm.” He sighed, spreading out in the water and resting his head on the edge of the tub. “And vanilla.”

You were just glad he wasn’t beating himself up over Geralt, at the moment. “It smells nice.”

His head shifted to look at you. You looked quite peaceful, sprawled out on the bed where you landed. “You think so?”

You hummed, nodding. “I don’t get much chance to smell something sweet on my travels.”

“Hm.” He thought about something for a moment, but it truly did not take him long to come to a decision. “Feel free to use it then, if you’d like.” You heard water shifting as he gestured. “Wash away all that Witchery-ness.”

You grinned. It was sleepy. The soft, warm bed sheets were beginning to draw you in. “I wouldn’t wish to waste your expensive oils,” you said. “I would only squander them trying to cover up the stench of monster guts.”

“Besides,” you sat up with a yawn, dragging your body further up the bed until your head hit the pillow with a dull thud. You curled up onto your side, ignoring how uncomfortable your armor felt pressing against you. “I think it smells much nicer on you.”

You were asleep by the time he remembered how to speak.

-

Cold, but not alone, you woke up. You were back in the cellar. You turned to look at the boy in the darkness. Your hands were still desperately intertwined, fingertips blue and numb. His striking blue eyes were hidden behind pale eyelids. Something deep inside you knew already.

You squeezed his hands. They didn’t respond at all. Your hands slid out of his too easily. His hands remained open. Still. You cupped his face and turned it to you. His head was limp and heavy. Your hands, shaking with cold, felt warm compared to his skin.

The cellar door opened. The man didn’t even look around. The cellar was empty save for you and the cold corpse of the boy. He didn’t say anything. He just grabbed you by the back of your raggedy shirt and dragged you to the door. You kicked and screamed with what energy you had. Your fingers curled around the boy’s shirt. Your fingernails clawed into his pale skin. His body fell over the further you were pulled away. The man grabbed your wrists and ripped them away from the boy. You were crying. The cellar door shut.

The trip through the keep was a blur. In mere seconds to your child mind, you had gone from that dingy cellar to being strapped down to a table. All manner of things were fed and injected into you. You screamed just as loud as the children before you. Unlike a majority of them, however, you survived.

You woke up to a dark, empty room. Jaskier and his lute were nowhere to be seen, but the smell of sandalwood and vanilla lingered in the air. Sleeping in your armor may not have been the best idea, as the leather had dug lines into your skin and made your body much stiffer than it would have been normally after a nap.

You found yourself studying the darkest corners of the room.

The door slowly opened, creaking on its rusty hinges. Jaskier poked his head inside, but stopped trying to be sneaky once he saw you were awake.

“Ah, good! I,” he sang the word with pride as he sauntered inside, dropping his lute to the bed, “have just earned enough money for dinner.” To accentuate his point, he dropped a full coin purse onto your lap.

You opened the bag and looked inside. It was so full, coins pressing so tightly against each other, they barely made any noise. You raised an eyebrow at the amount. “And drinks.”

He waved his hands about. “Yes, well, I may have stopped by a few of the taverns around town.”

You looked up at him. He cracked under the pressure.

“Or, maybe, all of them.” He sighed, dropping to sit next to you on the bed. He gestured to his new boots. “You spent all yours on boots and a bed! I felt bad!”

You cinched up the purse and tossed it back over. “You go on without me. I’m not hungry.”

“You sure?”

You hummed. He stared at you, waiting for any reasons or excuses. You didn’t offer any. He sighed dramatically. “And what about all that ‘You need to eat, you need your strength’ talk?!” His lame impression of you had you grinning, even as your mind lingered on the past. “C’mon, Viper, just let me buy dinner! Or at least an ale!”

He was too damn persistent for his own good. But his dramatic enthusiasm was welcome. You rolled your eyes and agreed, with the half-baked excuse that you would only go for a drink and to look for contracts. You ended up eating more than you had in perhaps months.

Chapter Text

You didn’t sleep that night. The lingering fear of what you may see, be reminded of, kept your eyes open. Between the stars and Jaskier’s snoring, you were left all alone to your mind. Flashes of memories arose against your will. And that boy… All night, you fought to remember his name, but all that came up was the sight of his corpse on the cold cellar floor as you were dragged away.

“So,” Jaskier began, once the sky was above the horizon, and you both sat with full bellies from breakfast, “where to?”

You just gave him a funny look. “What do you mean?”

He seemed just as caught off guard by your question. “Well, I’m sure you’re going to be traveling around, looking for contracts, and, uhm,” his fingers fiddled with the handle of his mug, “well, I need a guide to Oxenfurt. If you’re heading that way, that is. I don’t wish to… impose.” His eyes glazed over for a moment. You knew exactly what he was thinking about.

“You wish to Winter there?”

Snapping back to the present, he nodded, emboldened by the question. “Yes! I have a small little place there, and I teach at Oxenfurt University over the winters.”

You nodded, slowly, trying to picture a route from Hengfors in Caingorn all the way through Redania.

“You don’t have to!” He stumbled over his words, trying to figure out an alternative plan if you said he couldn’t go with you. It turned toward mumbling the more uncertain he became. “I can follow the trails well enough, and stop by towns. I don’t know how spaced out they are from each other, though… I don’t know how to start a fire, hm. Maybe I could rent a horse? Do they do that? Rent out horses?”

“You’re welcome to come along with me, Jaskier,” you said. His eyes lit up, but you were still apprehensive on the whole matter. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? After everything Geralt said…”

His eyes dimmed once more. You both stared, silent, as patrons ate and chatted and prepared themselves for the day ahead around you. He gauged his own feelings, searching within himself to figure out if he really was ready to go on another adventure with another Witcher. You searched his eyes for any hints as to what he was thinking.

He knew, rationally, you weren’t Geralt - you’d proven that fact to him over and over again on your short trip down the mountain alone. But with a new Witcher, who had different morals, different teachings, came different issues and obligations. You were not Geralt.

After a deep breath in, the bard nodded. “If you’ll allow me the honor of traveling with you, Viper, I promise…” He swallowed, brow furrowing. “Things will be different.”

-

Your head remained on a swivel as you and Jaskier wandered the market. He was rambling a mile-a-minute about a romantic interest he once had who cornered him in a market stall once and wouldn’t let up until he bought her flowers - from her own shop no less. You would have asked how the relationship went after that, but your mind, admittedly, was a little hazy.

It’s been three nights since you last slept properly. The most rest you had was a few hours during short naps, all of which ended with waking in a cold sweat and flinching at the sight of Jaskier’s eyes. Why did they have to be so blue?

Your fighting style was different from most Witchers. Instead of going straight in for a kill, attacking from the front as Geralt would have done, you were taught to be nothing more than a shadow, sneaking up on your prey until the only knowledge they had of your presence was your blade slitting their throat open. Such was not the case in your current state. You’d been careless and messy. You were running out of ingredients for your potions.

That was not exactly why you were here, however. No, you were here for- Aha.

“This way, Jaskier.”

The bard followed with blind trust as you led him to a small hut. He only paused once you reached the door, to read the sign hanging above.

“An alchemist? What d’you need an alchemist for?” You knocked. He raised an eyebrow. “Is this for a contract?”

You sighed impatiently, foot tapping as you waited. “No, this is for me.”

He did not know of your nightmares. Or, if he did, he was very good at being quiet about it. Jaskier opened his mouth to ask another question when an elderly lady opened the door. She gasped at the sight of your eyes.

“Oh! A Witcher! Come in! Come in!”

The hut was quaint, but homey. Shelves of herbs, spices, liqueurs, and monster parts filled the space, crowding guests toward the alchemy table in the main room, where the lady led you both.

“Oh, where are my manners? Would you like some tea? Or something to eat, perhaps? My granddaughter, bless her heart, baked a fresh loaf of bread early this morn.”

“No, thank you.” You smiled, but even Jaskier could see it was anxious. “I’m here to request a potion.”

“Of course, of course!” The woman pulled up a couple of worn-down chairs for you and Jaskier to sit in. The bard lowered himself into one uncertainly, eyes constantly flickering between you and the woman. You stayed standing. The alchemist rushed around to her shelves. “What kind of potion is it you’re wanting, dearie? I’ve not had Witchers stop by in a while, but if you need blade oils, I can make ‘em in a pinch.”

“No.” Something about the woman’s motherly nature put you on edge. Jaskier wondered why. “I need something for keeping away nightmares.”

The woman hummed, shifting glass bottles and jars around with little clinks as she looked for what she needed. “Sure thing, dearie. I can have it ready in a couple hours for you to pick up.”

“You can’t have it done faster?”

She chuckled, wrinkled cheeks rosy and warm, as though she had been asked such a thing a thousand times before. She turned to face you with several bottles in her arms. “I’m afraid not, hun. I would if I could, believe you me.” The bottles she grabbed were dropped unceremoniously onto the table with a clatter, and she scurried over to another large shelf to grab more. “Best busy yourself while you wait. Time doesn’t move any faster when you stare at the sun!”

You sighed. Your shoulders sagged. But there was no fighting the old woman. You nodded your head at Jaskier, who stood and left with you. You made a beeline for the town’s notice board, hoping someone may have something interesting for you to do in the meantime.

“You’re having nightmares?”

You hummed. You lifted up a paper asking for sugar to read the note below it. Another Gwent challenge, identical to another paper at the bottom corner of the board.

“What about?” Jaskier scrunched his nose up at a paper beckoning ‘pretty girls’ for a good night. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Something inside you screamed. It longed to shout what was plaguing your nights. It ached to rip open your soul and bare it to everyone who thought all Witchers were monstrous mutants. It scratched and clawed at your ribs, at your lungs, at your heart, pleading for a release. For you to tell someone, anyone about the hell you endured as a child to be the creature you were now.

You swallowed thickly and bit your tongue. You would not let that feeling win out today.

“Hm.” You ripped a paper off the board. Jaskier read it over your shoulder. “Sounds like Drowners.”

-

The potion sat heavily in your hand. You wanted to drink the entire bottle and pass out, fall into an exhausted state of unconsciousness for days. But that fear lingered.

What if it didn’t work? What if this potion, brewed to suit a human’s needs, wasn’t strong enough on a Witcher? What if you saw him again…?

Jaskier looked up from his scribbled notes. The fight against the Drowners had passed by so quickly - and he had never been privy to such an event before - that he had rushed to get down every single thought he had in the moment. Unfortunately, now he was left with the terrible endeavor of translating his own words. He’d been at it for almost 30 minutes now. And all you’d done is sit there, thinking about taking the concoction.

“What are your nightmares about?” he tried again. His voice was soft.

Perhaps he caught you in a moment of weakness, or you were just so distracted with your thoughts, you did not notice the sad look that came over your features. “Awful things,” you whispered. You grimaced. And then you came back to your senses. In mere moments, the contents of the bottle were gulped down, and the empty vial was tucked safely away into your bags.

You cleared your throat and looked at him for the first time in several hours. “How was your first Drowner experience?”

A tight smile crossed his face. “I didn’t realize they were quite that ugly,” he joked. Barely a flicker of amusement in your eyes.

“Wait ‘til you see a Rotfiend.”

He sat up straighter, eyes aglow with curiosity. “A Rotfiend?” he enunciated. “What’s that?”

“They’re horrid,” you scowled. “Imagine a walking corpse, bloated, with skin sloughing off. Where one is found, more are sure to follow, to feast on dead flesh. The worst part, though, is when they die.”

Jaskier leaned forward, eager to learn more even as his face curled in disgust. “What happens?”

“They explode.”

He fell back against his tree, scoffing. “Now you’re just messing with me.”

“No, I’m not!”

“They explode?! Like-” He motioned his body exploding, starting from his chest and leaving him in an outward burst. “Explode-explode?”

You nodded.

He shook his head. He refused to believe something as vile as you were describing did something like blow up. “You’re messing with me.”

“They do! They explode and release clouds of poisonous gas!” You were grinning now as you tried explaining the monster to the bard. He was relieved to see you smiling again. “The good news is that one explosion can cause a domino effect on the others - one after another, all bursting into red clouds. I once had five of them die that way.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

-

Fuck.

You were back there. Again. Back at Gorthur Gvaed.

This time, though, you were freshly pulled from your mutations - the Trial of the Grasses - into the waking world. You were fighting with your newly enhanced vision, and powerful senses.

You remember everything being so loud when you woke up, but not like this. This was agony. It was like people were banging pots and pans together right next to your head, ringing bells in your ears, shouting, screaming, clapping, stomping. You cried and cried for it to stop. You couldn’t even hear your own voice.

And then the touching. Hands. All over your body. Clawing, grabbing, groping. Their touch burned , like a thousand fires under a hot sun. Everywhere they touched, the blistering, stinging pain followed. You tried fighting against it. Tried to push them off, kick at anybody else who came near. But they would just hit you if you did.

They held things under your nose. They need not have done so, for you could smell it across the room. But they did. Rotting meat and scented candles. Curdled milk and roses. Awful mixed with good, all blending together into a stench like no other.

You were one of the only children to survive; the mages who performed the mutations were curious to know what had become of their new bastard offspring. They would find your limits and push you to them, all so they could use you for their fucking schemes. You hated to think how they succeeded.

You woke up with a jolt. You could still feel their hands, smell their concoctions, hear the clanging. Never before had your nightmares left you feeling so helpless when you awoke. Everything felt out of your power.

You roughly pushed off your blanket and stood, running your hands over your arms and through your hair, over your face. You had to know no one was touching you. All the while, you paced around the camp. The sound of your footsteps amidst the silence of the morning forest was grounding. You counted how many steps it took for you to make it around the camp one time, and again, and again. You breathed in deeply the cool air. It smelt like pine trees and nuts, distant berries, the burnt out fire from last night, sandalwood and vanilla. Nothing smelled of rot or disease, and each scent had its own place in the woods.

Okay. You were okay.

“Viper?”

You fell into a sit back onto your bedroll, continuing to take deep breaths and rub your arms. You didn’t wish to look at Jaskier. You escaped those eyes for one night, and you wished to keep it that way for a little longer.

“Viper, are you okay?”

He was becoming worried now. You could hear it in his voice, in that slight warble in the back of his throat.

You nodded. Your hands slowed to a stop. The friction was beginning to burn your hands. “Just a nightmare.” Your voice was coarse and soft, as if you’d been sick for months. “It didn’t work.”

Jaskier sighed. He’d only been privy to a few of your nightmares - the soft whimpers in your sleep, or waking covered in sweat - but he had never woken you then. Now it was even worse than that. The alchemist’s potion didn’t work, perhaps even made things worse, and you were miles away from the next town where someone might have another solution.

“What are they about?” he asked again.

You just shook your head, face morphing into a pained grimace.

“It might help if you talk about it.”

“Please.” Your voice was so small. A plea. You shook your head again. “I can’t.”

He sighed, but backed off of the matter. Instead, he began picking up the camp, giving you the time and space you needed to recover from whatever it was you saw. Once you were back on the road, it was as if nothing ever happened.

Chapter Text

One minute, you were riding atop Bayard, listening to Jaskier compose his next masterpiece. Carefully plucked chords filled the air, oftentimes repeating themselves over and over again as he muttered lyrics to himself. The song sounded sad to your untrained ears. The next, a crossbow bolt was imbedding itself in your shoulder and you were on the ground, surrounded by bandits. Bayard whined and whinnied at his fallen rider, and Jaskier frantically tried placating the situation.

Your anger was boiling in your soul, bubbling like a pot of stew over a fire. You watched with gritted teeth - from pain and rage - as they clasped you and Jaskier in stolen handcuffs and forced you to your knees around the fire. Jaskier was a rambling mess, trying to talk you both out of the situation and begging for them not to mess with his lute or your horse. You were silent. Blood dripped down your arm, leaving a warm, sticky trail in its wake.

It was your fault you were in this mess. You were so tired lately. So fucking tired. Bayard’s gentle rocking had put you at ease like a babe in a cradle. You let your guard down. You let Jaskier down; let him get pulled into whatever your captors had planned. The guilt ate away at you almost as much as the anger.

One of the bandits - the leader, if his attire and attitude were anything to go by - knelt down in front of you, studying the yellow eyes that glared back at him. “I know just who you are.” His voice was a gravely hiss. All birds seemed to go silent when he spoke. “You’re Nilfgaard’s prized Viper.”

He raised a gloved hand and grabbed your medallion. The metal turned over in his hand once, twice. Then, a sharp pain at the back of your neck as your school’s icon was ripped off, the sudden motion dragging your body forward with it. His other hand caught you, however, gripping at your throat. Not tight, but a clear, silent threat, as he leaned in with a repulsive grin.

“I wonder if Nilfgaard’s whore has fangs.”

“Leave them alone!” Despite trying to sound tough, Jaskier’s shout only came out weak and whiny.

The leader’s face didn’t move. It stayed sickeningly close to yours, and only his eyes shifted to look at the bard on his knees right next to you. “And who’s this?” he asked. It was clearly directed at you. “You also get yourself a pet?” His lips curled around yellow and brown teeth. “A boy toy?”

“Touch him and I will cut off your fingers and shove them so far up your arse, you’ll have to chew with your fingernails,” you hissed. Jaskier had only seen your eyes burn with that fire once before, up on the mountains of Caingorn.

“Hm.” The gloved hand moved your head, as if to appraise you from different angles. “All that venom for what? A bard?” When you said nothing, he backed away. His hand released your throat with a shove as he stood.

Dirt scraped beneath his feet as he walked a few paces to stand in front of Jaskier. “You, sing us a song.”

He floundered for a moment, his mind racing to find a tune. “ Toss a coin to your- ” You fought to stand and kill the leader, wishing to make good on your threat. Hands grabbed your shoulders and forced you back down, even gripping your hair, keeping you steady to watch the abuse they would put him through. Jaskier coughed, hunched over as he recovered from the hard kick he got to his stomach.

“Not that fucking tripe.”

You were powerless to watch as Jaskier sat up straight again with a shaky, gasping breath. He was too young for this.

“Sing us a real song.”

With little to go on, he thought of another song - any other song - in his repertoire. He would sing a small snippet of one, and then be kicked or punched or slapped, and told the same request as before. He was whimpering, begging for any other “hints” to go off of. The bandits gave him nothing. They just laughed at his plight. When blood dribbled out of his nose, you saw red.

You fought against the bandits holding you. Bolt in your shoulder be damned, you were fighting them with everything you had.

A burst of fire ignited from your hands in a conical radius, burning the bandits holding you. As soon as you were let go, you redirected that fire to your shackles, hands burning with the power of the Witcher sign. The white-hot chain broke.

The men came at you with swords and axes. All you had to fight with were your signs (which were especially draining with your lack of sleep; already you were feeling the effects of the Igni blast), your mutated strength, and the adrenaline keeping you on your feet.

You fought and ducked your way across the camp on fists and dropped weapons alone until you could reclaim your daggers. The fight went much faster after that. Still, it was chaotic and messy. You took more blows than you should have. Your shoulder was a target for everyone, and halfway through the fight you could no longer use it. The pain was too overwhelming.

Men lay sprawled across the camp, covered in their own blood, their comrades’ and your own. Only one remained.

The leader, still clutching your medallion in a tight fist, crawled away from the light of the fire. His fingers dug into dirt, desperately dragging him across the cold forest floor. He cried out as a boot landed on his leg, right atop the injury he sustained fighting against you alongside his men.

You released him, only to kick him in the stomach and shove him onto his back.

“Mercy! Mercy!” he pleaded. His face was contorted with agony and fear, covered in blood and dirt. He couldn’t even look at you through eyes full of tears.

You kneeled beside him. Your arm hung limp at your side, knuckles brushing against dirt and pine needles. The other rested on your knee, loosely holding your dagger.

Your eyes, warm in color but cold in emotion, scanned over him. They held no remorse for the man. They focused on his face again.

“You hurt my bard,” you reminded him. He whimpered. His hands clasped together as if praying to Melitele. “I have no mercy to give.” Your dagger raised and fell, and the camp was silent. The only sound was your unsteady breathing and the rapid heartbeat of Jaskier, hiding behind a tree for protection.

Protection from you , your mind helpfully added.

Your fingers let go of the handle, blade sheathed firmly in the man’s throat. Blood oozed out around the metal. You pried your medallion from the man’s still warm fingers - the shiny metal was stained with blood. You could not tell whose it was. You tucked it away as safely as you could and searched his pockets. The jingling sound of keys filled the air as you dug them out. You didn’t unlock yourself.

Instead, you stumbled over to Jaskier. You couldn’t tell what he was feeling. Usually, his emotions were written all over his face. You couldn’t be sure if your guilt for allowing him to get hurt was affecting how you perceived them. As far as you were certain, he was uncomfortable from the amount of carnage he found himself in.

You freed him as quickly as you could with one hand, glaring at the red marks on his wrists from the cuffs. “Are you alright?”

He nodded.

“C’mon.” You helped him to his feet even as you leaned against the tree for support. “The next town isn’t too far.”

“Wh-What about…?” He glanced over at the bodies and the dying fire. You steered him away from the scene and toward Bayard, who was tied to a tree a little ways away. For the most part, they left your speckled steed alone. All they did was take your saddlebags, intending to keep the goods for themselves. You helped him up before yourself, even as you strained and bit your cheek to hide your pain.

“I’ll come back for it later.”

Neither of you said anything more as you urged Bayard to move, guiding him to follow the path you had been on before. Jaskier seemed hesitant to hold onto you, as you were covered in blood and open wounds. He moved past his fears as you began to lean back into him; one arm wrapped securely around your waist as the other carefully took hold of the reins. Your body fell heavier and heavier against his chest as time slowly passed until he supported all of your weight. He kept you upright and steady on Bayard’s back, leading the horse where he needed to. When he had a chance to glance at your face, covered in grime and gore, your eyes were closed.

-

Your dreamless sleep was interrupted by a sharp pain in your shoulder. Your nerves were on fire, burning down your arm and up your neck. There was a dull ache in your sides and legs, but nothing as red-hot as this.

“Don’ try ta move, dearie.”

Everything was blurry. This voice wasn’t familiar. It wasn’t Jaskiers. It wasn’t comforting. Your head drifted from one side to the other, eyes blinking to try to disperse the haze within them, to see who spoke. But the results were lacking.

“Stay still.”

This voice was familiar. It was like a sweet nothing being whispered to a spring breeze, like a lullaby cooed to children. This was Jaskier. You fought harder to find him, to see him through the mist.

“Shh.” Had you been speaking? A warm hand brushed hair from your forehead. A figure formed itself in your eyes. “Relax, Y/N. It’s alright.”

Y/N… That was… Right. That was your name. The last time you heard it was…

Another sharp pain burst from your shoulder. All you could do was whimper. A hand gripped yours. It was soft and warm.

“It’s alright, dear. It’ll stop hurtin’ soon. Jus’ go ta sleep.” That unfamiliar voice again. A healer?

Jaskier’s voice floated into your senses once more. You couldn’t put together what he was saying. You could see his blue eyes. Your fingers curled around his as your eyes fluttered shut.

-

Beams of light streaked across your face, blinding you as you tried opening your eyes. Everything felt sore. Muscles screamed as you forced yourself to sit up, stitches pulling at torn skin in your sides and arms. Your bones felt like lead, heavy and pulled by a powerful gravity to the bed you laid in.

Your feet landed with thuds on the wood floor. It was cold. Goosebumps ran up your legs and arms at the temperature shock. You weren’t wearing your usual attire - leather armor and dark undershirt replaced with a loose white tunic. The front was untied, letting in more cold air that brushed uncomfortably against your exposed wounds. The blankets were still warm. You tried to reach back and wrap them around yourself. A sharp pain jolted up your shoulder. You forced your arm to rest in your lap, grasped onto the affliction, and willed it to pass.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Footfalls crossed the room from the door to reach you. The bed shifted under the weight of the newcomer, who did his best to carefully remove your hand from your shoulder. Nimble fingers pulled back the soft fabric of the tunic and revealed the angry wound it hid. He sighed at the sight of the bled-through bandages.

“I had to get a healer for this,” Jaskier hummed. There was a playful undertone to his voice, as if he was scolding you for getting hurt in a way he couldn’t help. Cuts and scrapes he could handle. But a bolt through an arm? Well… “At least it didn’t go through bone.”

He began busying himself with gathering supplies from around the room. A cup of water was placed in your hands as he sat back down with bandages, a bowl of water, and a cloth in hand. “How do you feel?”

Soft hands with calloused fingertips began tenderly peeling away the dirty bandages, revealing the black-and-blue shoulder underneath. The hole where the crossbow bolt had punched through was sewn up, but blood continued to seep between the stitches.

“Numb,” you decided after a moment. You still didn’t feel quite awake or aware. You remembered getting on top of Bayard after the fight and then… “Where are we?”

You looked around where you could. The room you were in seemed scarce, containing mostly bare essentials - the bed beneath you, a chair tucked away in the corner, and a window that continued to let in too much light. You couldn’t see what was behind you.

Jaskier dipped the cloth into the clean water of the bowl and began gently dabbing away the blood on your skin. His face was leaned in quite close; he was intently focused on the job at hand. At first he only hummed to your question. Once he pulled away from your wound, however, it seemed to register. “We’re in Tridam. You passed out on the ride, so, well, I followed the road to the next town.” He wet the cloth again and went back to cleaning the stitches. “I snagged us a room at the inn here - paid a little smidge extra for a bath since,” he gestured vaguely, but you recalled all the blood and grime that covered you before. You remembered the blood that trailed down his face, too.

“You bathed me?”

Jaskier floundered immediately. Words spilled out before they were fully formed sentences, trying to keep some of his honor. He visibly relaxed when he saw the little smirk on your face. He huffed indignantly. “I had a maid help. Besides, you were dirtying the sheets.”

You looked down at the cup in your hand. You were thirsty, but the thought of moving at all felt like an impossible task. Sitting up had been challenging enough as it was. Even as you held the cup, you could feel your fingers loosening their hold. Jaskier must have noticed when it began to tip precariously, as he grabbed it and set it to the side.

Something else was missing as you looked down. It took a while to register. You stared at the sight of your bare chest, exposed in the loose shirt, wondering why it felt so wrong to be this bare. Then you realized it was not the lack of clothing.

Your golden eyes, still glossy with a haze of exhaustion and lethargy, looked to the bard for answers. “My medallion. Where…?”

“Oh!” This time, he pulled away from cleaning your wound immediately. He dug through his pocket, muttering to himself, before revealing your School’s icon, safe and sound. And free of blood. “I didn’t want you to drop it while we were riding. And, well, the chain is broken, so, I thought the safest place for it to be would be with me - until we can get it fixed, that is.” He placed the metal symbol in your hand, closing your fingers over it and making sure you wouldn’t drop it.

“And!” He pointed over to the door, where your saddlebags and sheaths lay, neat and ready to be taken on another adventure. “I went back and got your daggers for you. I, uh, took them to the blacksmith to be cleaned. Hope you don’t mind.”

Your eyes widened, staring at Jaskier as if he had just sprouted a second head. “You didn’t have to do that,” you chided. “I said I would.”

He shrugged, not quite understanding why you protested, it seemed. “It’s no big deal,” he dismissed, rinsing the cloth in the bowl. “It was only a couple crowns to clean them, really-”

“Jaskier.”

Blue eyes shot up from his task. Your brow was furrowed, a frown staining your face. Yellow eyes, however, did not hold disappointment for his actions, nor his misunderstanding. They held concern.

“One of them was in his throat.” It was a near whisper, like you couldn’t believe it either. “You shouldn’t have seen any of that- experienced any of that. They hurt you and-”

“They hurt you, too.” His eyebrows raised slightly, as if asking you to challenge him.

“That’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“You’re a bard , Jaskier. I’m a fighter, an assassin. I should have stepped in before they even had a chance to- before they even jumped us!”

“Viper.” Despite the stern tone in his voice, his hand grabbed your arm gently. “I’m okay. I’m a little sore, but I would be a lot worse off if you didn’t do anything. You saved me. That has to be worth something.”

It was quiet. A flame of guilt subsisted within you. “But I shouldn’t have had to,” you continued to argue. “If I could just stop having these stupid nightmares, then I wouldn’t be so tired. And I wouldn’t have been caught off guard and you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Before you could continue rambling, Jaskier squeezed your arm and tilted his head to catch your eyes. “You still haven’t been sleeping?”

You sighed. “They just keep getting worse.”

Jaskier wrapped up your shoulder. Once he finished, he covered it back up with the shirt. No matter what his reputation was, he did not look at anything you would not want him to see. He stood once more to put the bowl and cloth away, somewhere behind you. You didn’t bother to look. When he came back, he grabbed your cup of water once again, and helped you hold it so he could help you drink. You saved him from hours, days, possibly weeks of torture at the hands of those bandits. He wanted to repay you, even if you didn’t think you deserved it.

“What are they about?” How many times had he asked? He would’ve asked more if he was aware you were still having the nightmares, if you had not elected to keep that little detail a secret from him. “Whatever is troubling you, continuing to carry the burden alone isn’t going to help. Viper, let me help.”

Your bright eyes studied him, searching his face for answers he didn’t know the question to. You swallowed. He helped you raise your cup to your lips and drink some water. It cooled the remaining doubts that lingered in you.

“I keep… You have to understand that our schools, they- They take us when we’re little kids. Some of them paid off our parents or found us in orphanages, but we were all just little kids.” You sighed. Jaskier could see the heavy emotions that weighed in your eyes, in your body language. He had no idea what he just got himself into.

“When we first got to Gorthur Gvaed, the Viper Keep, they put us in a cellar under a trap door. And in my dreams, I keep going back there.” You let out a shaky breath as you pictured exactly what you saw every night when you deigned to rest. “There’s screaming. In the distance. Most of us don’t- didn’t survive the Trials, the, um, processes we go through to become Witchers. And I’m in the cellar, with a bunch of kids, listening to the screams. We all know that’s going to happen to us. And none of us know if we’ll survive.

“The screaming stops and we just… know. A little boy, maybe, like, six, comes to sit next to me. His eyes were brown, I know they were. But in my dream, they’re blue. A-And he talks with me. He asks for my name, and he tells me his, but I can’t understand it. It’s all garbled and echoey. I can’t make it out. Someone opens up the trapdoor to the cellar and grabs one of the other kids, and we just have to watch as they’re dragged away. And-And he holds my hand and we huddle up together and it’s so cold.

“But when I wake up, he won’t move.”

Jaskier is afraid to touch you. He’s scared that holding your hand would send you into further hysterics. Already your breaths were staggered and unsteady, and your eyes were becoming glassy. Still, he feels like he needs to do something . So he rubs your back and encourages you to take another drink. It slows you down for a moment.

“He died from hypothermia,” you murmur when the cup is pulled from your lips. It’s almost emotionless compared to how you spoke just seconds ago, as if you had practiced this line to yourself for years. “Then, a, uh, man came and grabbed me. I tried to hold on to the kid - I tried so hard, Jaskier… After that, all I dream about is the Trials. It’s not much more pleasant.” You offer him a wavering smile, weak and fake. You were sparing him the details, protecting him from the scene within your head.

“It’s not your fault,” he told you. A tear slipped down your cheek at the certainty in his voice. “You were just a kid, Y/N.”

Your body crumpled in on itself as a sob ripped its way out of your lungs. It sounded strangled and agonizing. “I know,” you choked out. Jaskier did not hesitate this time to wrap his arms around you and pull you close to him in a hug, being mindful of your injuries all the while.

He shushed and whispered and cooed. With every whimper and wail, he only held on tighter.

Chapter Text

Hot water cascaded down your back. The warmth seeped into your muscles, easing any lingering tension being held there. Jaskier couldn't stop his eyes from studying the canvas of injuries your skin held - the long scar that spanned from your shoulder blade down your spine, raised skin from wounds that never quite healed properly, a freshly stitched up cut just below your rib cage almost gracing an old injury where a creature's claws appear to have nearly ripped open your side.

He allowed himself the briefest moment to imagine just how many more scars littered the rest of your body. How many swords and claws had torn at your chest to tear open your rib cage? How close to death had you come in the decades - perhaps centuries - you were alive? How many bruises and bumps were from villagers terrified of your existence alone?

"I can feel you staring."

His eyes snapped to look at the back of your head, dripping wet with water you poured over yourself with a cup. Blue met yellow, warm and twinkling with some sense of mischief and teasing, despite the red rimming them. It still shocked him how fast you went from wailing into his shoulder, weeping in his arms, to requesting he help you undress for a bath.

He cleared his throat and tore his eyes from yours. The words in his little journal filled his vision instead. “Sorry,” he muttered. He ignored the sloshing of water as you continued to wash yourself. He ignored the smell of sandalwood and vanilla that filled the air. Fingers tensed on specific chords, just barely tugging the strings that would release the notes into the air.

After being - he still didn’t know any better way to describe it than ‘abandoned’ - by Geralt, the bard had attempted focusing his song-writing energy toward songs that did not involve the White Wolf. This did not work out well. Despite several attempts to write about his long-time muse, the Countess de Stael, or his few adventures with you, his mind kept finding its way up the mountain.

Just as you dreamt of your stolen childhood, he dreamt of his lost friendship. Even when his mind wandered, he remembered the way Geralt yelled at him. His words…

He hummed quietly, no words as of yet filling in the sad melody he strummed. What would he even say to Geralt if their paths crossed now? Something within him withered at the thought of ever having to face his old friend.

“That sounds sad.”

You were turned in the tub, chest facing him but hidden behind the wall of the tub. He was grateful he could not see more of your injuries. One arm laid resting on the rim while the other, the one previously speared by a bolt, simply held your wrist for support.

He grinned weakly. “It is sad.” He plucked a few more strings, continuing the depressed melody that seemed to source itself from his soul, before sighing and resting his hand over the wires to silence it.

You hummed, thoughtful. “Who is it for?” It was almost a redundant question. Who else would a sad song from Jaskier be for? The rest of his repertoire (as much as you had heard, anyway) was upbeat and usually strayed toward scandalous topics. When his shoulders slumped inward, and his eyes dimmed, falling to his journal of late night rants, you were certain of the cause. “Geralt.”

A scoff suddenly tore from his throat, bitter and upset. “Of course it’s Geralt,” he bit. “It’s always Geralt. He’s the hero! He’s the one throwing himself in front of monsters and then yelling at me for trying to help. He always has to work alone, otherwise…” He growled in frustration, cutting himself off. His foot tapped the floor irritably, fingernails following a similar rhythm against the wood of his lute. “And I’m just the useless bard.”

“You’re not useless,” you defend immediately.

“Oh, really?” His eyes bore into you, full of distrust and incredulity. “And how have I helped you, hm? I can’t start a fire, I can’t tell a-a poisonous berry from something edible. I can’t even fight! I can’t even defend myself from the husbands of past affairs - Geralt had to save my ass, and now you probably will, too!” His eyes were glassy by the end of his rant. He panted, breaths ever so slightly shaky to your trained ears as he fought not to cry - not to be weak - in front of you. “All I’m good for, Viper, is sleeping around and writing songs.”

His fingers pulled on discordant strings. The harsh harmonies filled the air like the tangy iron of spilled blood, before stilling with a metallic twang that both of you winced at. He glared at his notebook as if it held all the answers. He wished, for the briefest moment, he could burn away all the memories hidden inside.

Burn…

With a frown, he tested a few more strings, softer this time. His voice hummed along like a whisper, before quiet words formed on his lips.

“Watch me burn,” he paused, more tears flooding to his eyes, “all the memories of you.”

Before he could recover, swallow the lump in his throat and wrap bandages around his heart; before he could write down the new lyrics he uncovered from the deep recesses of sorrow and betrayal he swam in, a dagger, handle held toward him, appeared in his vision.

Wide eyes followed the blade up the arm to its owner. Your yellow eyes were soft and mellow, like warm honey, or the flowers the bees collected them from. You were still wet from the bath. The clothes - his clothes, actually - clung to your frame, soaking up what leftover moisture stuck to your skin. You nodded toward the weapon, gesturing for him to take it.

Slowly, as if he was unsure this is truly what you wanted him to do, his hand that had previously rested on the strings of his lute wrapped around the handle, taking the worn and well-loved leather into his grasp. You let go of the blade and removed a second dagger from your waistband, before moving to stand in the middle of the room.

“If you want to know how to fight, I’ll show you.”

His eyes lit up. “Wh- Really?” He tossed his lute onto the bed as he got up, eagerly scrambling to meet you in the center. His gaze suddenly fell to your shoulder, still red, black, and blue as it healed. “What about your arm?” His shoulders fell along with his hopes.

You scoffed, holding your blade up defensively. He held his up, too, albeit with the wrong grip and with more uncertainty than you. “I’ll teach you what I can right now - just enough to defend yourself against vexed husbands and disgruntled bar patrons.” You lowered your stance and moved closer to correct his. “Now, hold it like this...”

-

The bard danced and pranced around the tavern, weaving between merry, drunk patrons with practiced ease. All the while, his fingers plucked and strummed every perfect chord upon his lute. His voice, warm and bright, belted out a tune all the patrons clapped along to. You were content to simply watch the display and sip your ale.

The folk of Crinfrid were welcoming enough. The people of Tridam were fine, at first, until they decided they didn’t quite like having a Witcher around so close to Blaviken. After a rushed breakfast, you practically lifted Jaskier onto Bayard, injured shoulder be damned, just to avoid the callous glares and prevent being chased out of town with stones to the back. The road still had not been kind. Two nights of heavy rainfall and three days of trudging through mud, to finally land here.

You simply hoped the villagers would not turn against you, as the last ones had. Though, perhaps, as a Witcher, it couldn’t be avoided. Even now, as tankards sloshed and patrons laughed with red cheeks, you could sense the glances sent your way, burning with distrust.

Jaskier finished his last song with a flourish, bowing deeply and circling the tavern with an empty mug to collect crowns. He plopped down across the table from you with a satisfied sigh and a wide grin.

“Have fun?”

His eyes gleamed, airy laugh filling the air as he reveled in the post-performance euphoria. “Like you would not believe!” he emphasized. Brought back down to earth by the cup in hand, he eagerly dumped it out onto the table. Crowns clattered against the already scuffed wood. His mood deflated, the joy leaving him with a sigh. Ten crowns. It was just enough to pay for your drinks. He scooped up the coins into his coin purse, tucking it away quickly.

“So,” he began, turning from his disappointing collection to a tankard of ale you saved for him, “where to next?”

You hummed, imagining the Continent’s layout in your mind to find the best route to Oxenfurt. “We could head for Troy, a three day’s walk from here, but from there we would have to make a week’s journey to Denesle…”

The bard seemed to think for a moment, and then winced. “Ah, slight problem. I may or may not have… gotten around… a bit, there…” He shifted uncomfortably under your yellow stare. “It would probably be safer to avoid Troy.”

“It truly is a wonder you have survived this long.” Before he could chime in with his offense, you sighed and pulled out an old tattered map. The paper was aged, ink writing over it in places where new towns had sprung up over the ages. Jaskier stared at the upside-down cartography with awe, tracing mountains and rivers with his eyes. “We could try to go to Vartburg,” your finger rested atop the town on the map, “but it would take us farther away.”

Jaskier leaned out of his seat, further over the map. His eyes followed your finger and studied the writing around it. “What about Tretogor?”

You considered the option. Sharp, snake-like eyes traced the invisible trail from Crinfrid to Tretogor to Oxenfurt, before lifting from the paper to consider your traveling companion. “It would be two weeks on the road,” you informed him. He sat back down in his seat, meeting your gaze. “Not to mention, the weather will continue to be… unideal as we slip into autumn.”

He huffed, reminded of the rain. For the most part, after his grumbling and complaining began, you allowed him to ride on top of Bayard. It didn’t stop him from being any less miserable, but it brought you peace from his constant whining about scraping the mud off his boots. Once you set up camp, though, there was no escaping his bellyaching.

For a brief moment you wondered how Geralt put up with it, but the thought quickly turned sour and was discarded. Despite the trouble Jaskier brought with him, you never wished to call him a burden. He was far from it, in any case. The thought that Geralt could travel on and off with the bard for years to simply discard him instead furthered your resolve not to become like the Wolf.

“If you think it’s the best path…” He stared at the map, frowning. Though, you knew his mind was only thinking of sleeping on the wet ground.

“Unless you wish to travel two weeks straight through the countryside to Rdestowa Laka, then yes, I think for now it is our best option.”

He sighed, but nodded. You spared the map no secondary glance as you began to fold it back up as you had a thousand times before when the bard interrupted you. “Can I look?” He gestured to the paper. You opened it back up and spun it around to face him.

Jaskier took in the entire page. The edges were singed in some places and torn in others. The ink itself had faded over time, kept alive by your own efforts to write over the original text. A few notes not originally written in also found themselves a place on the parchment. Most of which, he noticed, were reminders of locations to find rare ingredients. He found himself quite appalled at the age and state of the map, a question slipping from his lips before he even processed he was asking it.

“How long have you had this thing?” He winced at the incredulous tone in his voice, but when he looked up you seemed unfazed by the question.

It took you a moment to think about it. How long had you had it for? When did you get it? Who gave it to you? The questions all circled back to one place. “I think since I finished training,” you hummed. Your face was tugged into a contemplative frown. “Some of us stayed at the Keep - the Viper school - to study, but those of us who decided to leave and face the world were given maps.”

The Keep… Oh, Geralt mentioned something similar once, hadn’t he? A place for Witchers to rest for the winter. “Where is the Viper school?” His eyes traced over Nilfgaard. The large expanse of land took up half of the paper. At some point, he noticed as his eyes traced over the faded ink of words you wrote in yourself, it would have been the most detailed portion of the Continent. And yet, no matter how many times his eyes followed the rivers or mountains, he did not see anything at all resembling a school. “It’s not marked anywhere.”

You scoffed. “None of them are. The Schools were designed to be hidden away and kept secret. If everyone knew where they were, it would be chaos.”

Setting your ale aside, you leaned out of your chair and onto your elbows, hovering over the map. No matter how long you had been away from it, your eyes still followed the pass of mountains along the map’s edge as if drawn by an invisible force. Your finger landed where the feeling drew you in, to the unmarked location of the school.

“There,” you said. Your voice sounded at once dim and wistful, void of emotion and yet nostalgic. “Deep in the valleys of the Tir Tochair mountains.”

His eyes roamed the map, following an invisible path. “Would we be able to go there?” Bright blue eyes stared up at you, full of curiosity and wonder.

A frown morphed your face. Your brow creased, yellow eyes instantly dull at the mere thought. You swallowed thickly, falling roughly back into your seat. You did not look at him. Instead, the mountains you once called home held your gaze. “It doesn’t exist anymore.” It was barely a whisper, as if you were afraid to admit it to yourself. A heavy weight settled in your chest.

You quickly folded up the paper, tucking it back in its place. Jaskier did not stop you. He simply watched, eyes fogged over with concern, as you downed the last of your ale and pulled out a few coins to pay for the drink you ordered.

“We should leave soon, while the sun is still up. I’ll make sure we have enough provisions.”

Your chair scraped loudly against the floor, but no eyes were drawn to the sound, everyone too focused on their own company. The bard wasn’t spared a glance as you made your way through the patrons and out the door.

It was going to be a long week to Tretogor.

Chapter Text

"What do you do during the winter?"

Jaskier's fingers toyed with the strings of his lute, on the edge of the next notes of his song. It seemed he was struck by the sudden question, ripped from the trance he fell into any time he played his lute, all other functions shutting down as he processed the question.

"In Oxenfurt, I mean," you clarified. Across from him, you busied yourself with repairing tears in your armor. Although you had no official contracts, you still found plenty of troublesome monsters along the path. "Do you have a house there, or something?"

The bard shook his head at the mere idea of a house in the busy city. "Not as such, no." Soft notes played in the air as he just barely strummed his beloved instrument. His eyes seemed to glaze over as he thought about Oxenfurt - of the cobbled roads and brick buildings. Bards around every corner; barkers at stalls trying to entice the folk into buying their wares. "The university there usually asks me to teach. I lecture for the newest generation of artists, and they allow me a dorm to stay in until the semester is over."

"Professor Jaskier?"

He chuckles. "No, Professor Pankratz."

"Pankratz?"

"Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove," he introduced himself. His hand left his lute in favor of producing a mock bow, resting on his chest as he bent down. "At your service."

Your lips quirked up at the playful action. "How does a Viscount become a traveling bard?"

He waved the question away, playing a few notes. "It's a long story and really not worth getting into."

"Must be bad if you of all people don't want to tell it," you teased. He simply tilted his head from one side to the other, agreeing with the statement with a half-formed grimace.

Changing the subject, Jaskier's blue eyes focused in on you. "What about you? What do you do in the winter?" As if realizing something, his brow furrowed with confusion. "You don't have a Keep to go back to..."

You shook your head, bittersweet emotions taking over your features. "I find it much easier to keep working during the season," you admitted. "Some monsters enjoy the cold weather. While other Witchers rest, I have ample opportunity to earn some more coin."

"Don't you get tired, though?" Your hands paused their stitching, thread half-pulled through the leather as you stared at him in befuddlement. "All the others have a season to heal, but you keep going all year round. When do you rest?"

Those blue eyes bored into your soul, searching for an answer. Why didn't you rest?

It was easy to say because you had nowhere to go. Witchers were protective of their Keeps. It would be unlikely for a Wolf to let a Viper within their walls, due to the natural distrust that stemmed from the separation of schools to begin with. Different ideals, different teachings; the conflicting views of a Witcher that killed monsters and humans within the home of Witchers who only hunted monsters would only make for a poor winter.

Or perhaps you didn't rest because it was easy to forget what going against monsters was like when you trained against wooden dummies. Staying active during the winter kept you trained and ready for the warmer months. The practice on icy, soft terrain helped to prepare you for thawed ground and solid dirt.

And the cain! During the warmer months, what few remaining Witchers left were competing for contracts, fighting to get the better ones first. But once the cold seasons came around, they all went away, leaving plenty of contracts unattended to. It was all too easy to bounce from town to town, killing monsters, humans, and non-humans, and filling your purse with Crowns along the way.

But, deep down, you knew the real reason. It was true, you had no home. Crossing the border to Nilfgaard just to go to a destroyed school was too risky, and too foolish. And every moment you were not breaking your back, laboring to survive, that thought was all too loud in your mind. You could picture the Wolves in their keep, around hot fires, discussing their best contracts - and their worst. The brotherly camaraderie as they trained against one another and broke bread together. And it tore you apart.

You recalled when you had a home. When you had siblings to train with and tease like a family. When you huddled around fires and ate hot stews, and chucked stale bread at the heads of the others when they made a terrible joke. And every time, you remembered they were dead.

You produced a weak grin, something to ease the concern in Jaskier’s brow. “At times like this,” you said. “Fixing armor, brewing potions…” You looked into the fire. Flickers of memories were held in the burning embers, reflected in your animalistic eyes. When you looked back at the bard, he could still see the distant memories held in your irises. “This is all the rest I need, honest.”

-

The rain finally caught up to you on the second day of your journey. It would have been fine, if the drops were not as large and heavy as they were. Sheets of precipitation drenched you and your faithful bard in seconds. The water and chilly air made for a dastardly combo, resulting in frozen fingers, chattering teeth, and more things for Jaskier to complain about.

Already, after the struggle that was packing up camp, you had heard him complain about water in his boots, wet socks, how hard it was to keep his lute dry, and a further multitude of endless things that did not seem to be going well for the bard. The best antidote for an overly aggravated bard, however, was quite simple, all things considered. All one needed to do was shift the conversation so he would talk about himself.

“So,” you interrupted another complaint, nearly shouting over the endless barrage of rain, “how did you get the name ‘Jaskier?’”

“Ah!” His steps squelched in the muddy dirt road as he caught up to walk right alongside you, albeit on the opposite side of Bayard. He peered at you from under a woolen hood that nearly hid his bright eyes. You could just make out wet strands of brown hair matted to his forehead. “An excellent question! As it so happens, Jaskier means ‘buttercup!’ Like the flower. Little yellow- you know.”

You nodded.

“I figured, most bards have stage names they go by. If I was going to become a traveling troubadour,” he made a wide gesture, as if to represent his travels all over the Continent, “it only made sense to change my name.”

“But why buttercup?”

“Hm?”

“You’re such a romantic, why not something to do with roses or, I don’t know, something that’s not poisonous?”

He scoffed, catching your eye overtop Bayard’s bowed head to ensure you were witness to his incredulous look. “A rose? As a symbol of romance it’s far overplayed.”

Of course, likening Jaskier to a mere rose would ruffle his feathers. “Okay, fine then. A dandelion.”

If anything, that only set him off further.

“A dandelion?!”

“Yes! Buttercups are hard to find; they only grow in forests in the perfect conditions. You’re a bard - you thrive everywhere! Like a weed.”

His nose scrunched up in a scowl, but it softened as the conversation tapered off. “You may have a point.”

“That is to say…” Jaskier met your eyes again, blue eyes flickering to look at the grin teasing your lips. “I quite like ‘Jaskier.’” You did not see the way his cheeks reddened through the downpour.

-

The rain washed out the forest floor. Trying to start a fire was a futile fight against nature. In an effort to prevent Jaskier getting sick, you built two small shelters out of any woolen fabric you could find. One covered Bayard, who, despite the situation, seemed understanding. He bumped his nose into you several times when you were covering him in blankets and checking his hooves.

The other formed a small tent, just large enough for one person to fit inside comfortably. Despite its size, both you and Jaskier sat underneath the mouth, pressed as close together as possible to preserve what little warmth you had. For the first time in several years, you despised your Witcherness. Your slow heart rate kept your body just warm enough to survive, so you lacked any excess warmth to share. To combat this, you conjured a small Igni flame in your palm. The bard’s cold hands didn’t hesitate to hover over the fire and soak up every ounce of heat it offered.

After a short while, however, the spell drained you of too much energy and the flame flickered and died. You were plunged into darkness once more.

“Sorry.” Your voice bordered on a whisper. Had he not been right next to you, Jaskier was sure he wouldn’t have heard you speaking at all. “I can’t hold signs for very long.”

Torn from your reliance on vision, your other senses were heightened. If you strained to listen over the rain, you could hear two heartbeats surrounding you. One was beating slower, but you could hear the loud slosh of blood circulating through it. That was Bayard’s. The other beat faster, even skipping a beat as a loud boom of thunder cracked the air.

Clothes rustled beside you. Hands, warmer than yours though not by much, found yours in the dark. Nimble, calloused fingers tangled with yours, holding tight, and offering what warmth they could.

“You’re freezing.” The hands rubbed against yours. Friction left brief glimpses of heat behind.

You hummed noncommittally. “Slower heart rate, colder body. I don’t need to be as warm as you to survive.”

“It can’t be comfortable.”

“Comfortable?”

He pulled your hands over to his side, tucking them with his own to rest inside his doublet, just over the thin shirt underneath. You could feel the waves of heat radiating from his body, being sucked up by the weather and lost to the cold.

“What’s comfort got to do with it?” you ask again.

He sighed, a bit dramatically. “Nothing, nothing. Except I’m freezing my balls off and you’re about as warm as a block of ice.”

Despite the teasing in his tone, his words struck a sour cord in you. You pulled your hands from his, away from his warm chest, and cradled them into your own. “I’m sorry,” you spat. “I can only hold a sign for so long before it starts to affect me. It’s not my damn fault the weather is shit, but I’ve done a hell-of-a-lot more than gripe about the rain.”

Water hammered against the makeshift tent. It slapped against the saturated ground, turning it all into a malleable clay that oozed and formed puddles. No other life could be heard through all the noise. The crickets were silent. No birds sang. It was just you and Jaskier and Bayard, stuck out in the cold, wet damp of the world.

“I know,” he breathed. “I’m sorry.”

You tried peering at him from the corner of your eye, but it was so dark. Without a Cat potion, trying to make out any defining features was near impossible. The most you could see was his silhouette. An ill-defined blob that stared out across the “camp” and tugged his thin blanket closer.

“Me too.” You sighed. With no way to see the moon, it was difficult to make out the time, but you could tell it was late. Your muscles ached. The whole world felt heavier. “You should get some sleep.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll keep watch.”

You could feel his eyes on you, searching in the dark for something. You wished you could see his eyes.

“I’ll sleep if you sleep.”

“And if we get attacked in the middle of the night?”

He scoffed. “In this weather? Besides, what do we really have worth killing us for?” Getting on his knees, he shifted further into the tent. He laid down and repositioned himself until his back was against one of the woolen walls. “There should be room for both of us if we squeeze in.”

You frowned back into the darkness. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, positive!” You heard him patting the ground next to him. The ground beneath the bedrolls he laid on was soft from the mud. “C’mon, I can keep you warm.”

After a moment of contemplation (no other excuses found a way into your mind to avoid the situation), you crawled into the tent. It was tight. Laying on your sides, you were nearly chest to chest. You could feel every breath he took landing in soft puffs against your face, and the beating of his heart near yours.

Jaskier, however, was not content with the small gap between you. In one motion, he was pressed right up against you and his blanket was draped over you. You could smell the faint traces of sandalwood and vanilla that lingered on his skin.

An arm wrapped around you. You shivered at the contact, but he just drew you in closer.

“There,” he breathed. “Nice and cozy.”

It was too dark to see, but you knew, mere inches away, his face was directly in front of you. You could imagine the bubbly look on his face at convincing you to squeeze into the tent with him. The smug teasing look that hinted about his prior romantic experiences.

“Goodnight, Viper.”

You swallowed the lump formed in your throat and the tense, uncomfortable thoughts that came with your position, so close to the bard.

“Goodnight… Dandelion.”

Chapter Text

The distant trill of birdsongs flooded the morning air. A cool mist hung low to the ground, concealing a world further beyond the trees.

Your eyes opened slowly. Your limbs felt detached and distant. Your body was warm and comfortable.

At first, it was hard to place where you were. You could hear a low growl right next to your ear, but instead of seeing an animal, your vision was filled with blue ruffles. It shifted slowly. It rose up… and then fell back down, in a repeated motion. It smelled very faintly of vanilla.

Carefully, you moved away from the growling blue frills, until your brain finally processed what was happening.

The blue fabric was Jaskier’s doublet. He didn’t remove it, as a means of preserving heat. And the growling was not an animal, that was true. Rather, it was the sound of the bard’s snores. Your head had been on his chest, right next to the sound.

But why?

You don’t recall falling asleep like that. The only contact you recall sharing with him was his arm draped over you. Now it seemed both of them were circling you, holding you close. Not only that, beneath the thin blanket, your legs were woven together, booted feet knocking against each other.

You imagined for a brief moment what it would be like if he awoke at this very moment. Blue eyes fluttering open, droopy and dull from sleep, landing on your face, staring back into your own slitted pupils. It felt like all too much. Fortunately, his face remained still, eyelids shut and fluttering with a dream he would most likely share with you later over breakfast.

With careful, slow movements, you worked to untangle your legs and the arms around you. It was difficult to completely remove yourself from his grasp, as he would keep trying to hold on tighter and tighter to you, fingers loosely gripping the fabric of your cloak and undershirt. Once you were fully free, his arms wrapped around his own body, you escaped out of the tent.

- 

“Do Witchers believe in anything?” Jaskier asked. He rode behind you atop Bayard as you urged the horse to a trot, arms holding on to you as the animal jostled its riders. Without mud clogging up the roads (or Bayard’s hooves), it was the perfect time to make up lost ground. “Like, Melitele or something?”

You hummed, thoughtful. “Nothing so… religious, as far as I’m aware.” You glanced over your shoulder. He looked at you with curiosity, urging you to go on. “Perhaps the closest we get is in our devout search - or research, rather - of the Wild Hunt.”

You could imagine the furrow in his brow as he questioned you further. “The Wild Hunt? Like, those stories about phantom riders that fly across the sky, abducting people?”

“It’s a bit more nuanced than that, but yes. I don’t know much about the other Witcher schools, but the Viper school was built to study the Hunt. Well, that and a disagreement as to who and what a Witcher should take contracts for. All my time growing up there, between lessons on beasts and potions, we would study the Wild Hunt, until we could recite all of the scrolls collected there backward and forward.”

“How many schools are there?” He tried to look over your shoulder and meet your eyes. “There’s Wolves and Vipers - are there more?”

You hummed, nodding. “Quite a few more, actually.” He watched as you thought about the other schools, mentally ticking them all off an imaginary list. “The Wolves have the most Witchers left, as far as I know. But there’s a Cat school, a Griffin school, Crane, Bear, and, uhm… Manticore.”

“There’s… seven schools?!”

“Well, some disbanded, or their Witchers have died out… As far as I know, I’m the last Viper left.”

Jaskier was quiet behind you. The last time the topic of schools came up, you got this distant look in your eye. He still wasn’t quite able to place what the look was. Perhaps a mix of grief and nostalgia, of longing and loss. He wished he could take those feelings away.

“But you don’t know for sure,” he tried. He scanned your face as best he could from the awkward angle he placed himself in, searching for any emotion aside from the careful neutrality you usually faced the world with. “Some might have escaped, or maybe they’re hiding-”

“It’s not worth dwelling on, Jaskier.” You sighed. It was sad. “If they did escape the destruction of Gorthur Gvaed, they would have to hide and fight their way out of Nilfgaard. And even in the North, a constant mark would be placed for their head.”

His face morphed with confusion. “There are people out to get you up here?” It was hard for him to believe. Witchers performed a vital task normal villagers weren’t willing to: slay monsters. They protected civilizations from the fiercest of beasts. And people wanted to kill them? Destroy the only source of protection from Drowners, Ghouls, and Kikimore?

“There will always be people against us,” you explained. “To them, we’re just… soulless monsters.”

“But you fight the monsters! How…?”

“It’s just how the world is, Jaskier.”

He huffed, leaning back. “Well, that’s just completely unfair.”

During the silence that persisted for the rest of the ride, you swore you could hear him muttering under his breath and humming tunes you hadn’t heard before.

-

“Oh ho ho! Yes!” Jaskier barely waited for Bayard to be at a complete stop before he was sliding off and rushing to the creek. He almost ripped the expensive fabric of his doublet as he scrambled to take it off, draping it carelessly over a tree branch before he began wading into the water.

Almost instantly, his whole body tensed up, his arms flapping in the air as he finally comprehended the temperature of the water. “Fuck! It’s freezing!”

Despite the exclamation, Jaskier continued to wade into the running water. He hissed and breathed quickly to fight through the cold until he was waist deep. A violent shiver ran through his body, but he continued to remove his undershirt, exposing his hairy chest to the autumn breeze.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” you chided from the riverbank. Nimble fingers worked on tying Bayard’s lead to a tree, considering it could be a while before Jaskier decided to get out of the water.

He chuckled, the sound of water splashing followed his movements as he cupped water in his hands and poured it over his body, scrubbing the muck and grime and stench off as best he could without his fancy soaps or oils. “Better than smelling like a stable that hasn’t been mucked out for weeks,” he countered.

You sighed, but argued no further. Besides, you were making good enough time; a little detour like this shouldn’t affect the journey much. In a couple of days, you’d be in Tretogor. Perhaps you’d even reach Oxenfurt before it began to snow.

“C’mon, wash up!” his voice lilted from the water. With a playful grimace, he added, “You don’t smell too good yourself, you know.”

He had a point, despite the teasing. The last time you bathed was when your shoulder was recovering. Now it was fully healed, and you were covered in dirt, mud, and most likely monster blood. A quick bath wouldn’t hurt.

You undid the straps of your leather armor, pulling off the protection piece by piece. They dropped to the ground unceremoniously in a pile next to Bayard. Even he snuffed at the smell coming from you.

You pulled off your boots and socks (something Jaskier neglected to think about before recklessly trudging forward), and began the slow walk into the cold water.

“Melitele’s tits!” Your whole body tensed as the freezing water touched you, finding its way through the fibers of your clothes to caress against your skin. Goosebumps rushed up your arms and down your back with a shiver; you almost couldn’t feel how cold your legs were. You groaned and tugged at your shirt. “Quick wash, and then we’re building a fire.”

Before you could even see Jaskier nodding in agreement, you were turning your back to him and pulling your shirt off over your head. The wordsmith was struck silent by the sight before him.

He’d seen some of your scars before, though it felt rude to linger on them too long while you were injured and out of it. But this…

A long, jagged scar ran from your shoulder blade to your mid-back. Claw marks from a large animal, now scabbed over, traced just under your ribs, but they began on your stomach where Jaskier couldn’t see. Marred skin over old sword wounds. Raised, improperly-healed scratches. Injuries, new and old, littered your back. It was… horrifying, but not in the way that Jaskier was disgusted by the wounds. Rather, he was scared to imagine how close to death some of them brought you, or what fights you got into over the long span of your life.

You must have felt the burning gaze on your back, or maybe you just noticed the dead silence, because when you looked over your shoulder, you didn’t seem the least surprised or shocked he was staring.

Your yellow eyes, or maybe the movement of looking at him, shocked Jaskier back into reality. He cleared his throat and looked away, down to his shirt that he clumsily began washing. He whistled. “These stains,” he began. “I didn’t think mud could stain something like this. I mean, wow! They’re really stuck in there!”

“You’re allowed to look,” you assured him through a chuckle. “Ask about them, if you’d like - I’ve nothing to hide.” A cool breeze blew through the trees, kissing your exposed skin with shivers. All your muscles tensed, waiting for the wind to leave before you could relax them again. “ After we make a fire.”

-

Jaskier reached out and just brushed one of the marks littering your back before quickly pulling away, as if burned by the rough texture of the scabbed-over injury.

“It’s okay,” you were quick to assure him. “I don’t mind.”

Hesitantly, calloused fingertips touched your skin again. They were rough and warm, and gentle. You almost couldn’t feel the way his hands moved to feel every last bump and scrape, every old injury that healed over.

A fire crackled and snapped nearby, eating away at the wood you fed it. Bayard snorted softly as he pulled up what little living grass remained and munched on it. The log beneath you, that originally sat several feet away before you moved it further into the clearing, was rough on your behind, with bark and nubby limbs pressing into you. But his hands… It was difficult to fathom how they could be so soft for someone who traveled - lived, even - on the roads of the Continent.

Jaskier had a similar thought. As his eyes and fingers traced every scar, brushed against marred, ugly skin that didn’t heal as it should have, he wondered how you weren’t rough and ragged, too. You had just about as many scars and scabs as Geralt, yet you were soft and patient and kind. How did you remain so soft, even as the monsters and beasts, human or otherwise, tore you apart over and over again?

“What about this one?” His fingers outlined a particularly nasty mark - the scar that ran from your shoulder blade down your spine. He would begin at one end and follow its shape the entire length, carefully feeling each ridge and bump, before going back over it again.

You thought for a moment, and hummed. “A training exercise, I think.” Truth be told, it was hard to remember.

Your whole life was filled with being battered and broken; when you healed and got hurt again, it was difficult to remember exactly what caused what. Had that scratch on your shoulder been from a Drowner? Or perhaps that scab on your leg was from a Dwarf. Melitele knows at this point.

“Hm, yeah… We were sparring, practicing with our daggers for the first time. Real daggers, not the wooden ones we’d been using. I got cocky, I think. I tried spinning around to dodge a move, or maybe I was just trying to be fancy with an attack, and Jefer took the opening to attack. But, we weren’t used to having real blades that could slash and cut; we were used to wood that bruised or splintered at worst.” He could see a faint smile on your lips. “While I was being bandaged up, my teacher gave me an ear full.”

He chuckled lightly. “A quick way to learn, I suppose.”

You murmured a quiet agreement, but said nothing more.

Jaskier turned back to the canvas before him. He traced tiny scratches that were more superficial than anything. Fingertips drew along the outline of blotchy skin, seemingly burned.

“And this?” He ran his finger along the rim of the skin again, following a vaguely circular pattern. “Were you burned?”

“Ah, sort of? I turned my back to a dying rotfiend. It exploded next to a torch. And when rotfiends die, they release a toxic gas.” You gestured with your hands. “The fire lit the gas, it exploded again, and the blood from the beast landed on my armor and burnt all the way through.”

“It burnt through leather?!” Jaskier found his eyes searching for your armor, as if he could still see the hole left behind.

“Yup. Exceptionally easy, too. I couldn’t take care of the burn right away, either, as I was dealing with the rest of the rotfiend’s nest.”

He frowned at the thought. Had you screamed in agony while you worked to dispatch the rest of the monsters? Or did you grit your teeth and bear it, as he was accustomed to Geralt doing?

Your face fell into something akin to a pout. “I had to buy a whole new set of armor. Used up all the coin I got for the contract, and then some.”

His eyes and fingers roamed once more, searching for another interesting wound and another interesting story. He traced along the old training injury once again, still entranced by it. However, he quickly caught sight of another scar. The claw-marks that wrapped around your side, following the curve of your lowest rib. Without thinking, he followed it, his whole hand almost holding you as it followed the curve. When he brushed against your side and you jolted slightly, he pulled back.

“That’s from a werewolf.” Your voice was quieter than before. After a moment of arguing with yourself, it seemed, you turned to show him the full reach of the lacerations.

They began at your back, came along your side, before tapering off near your navel. The marks were sharp and clear, but it was also obvious how the claws had torn apart your flesh. Jagged, irregular edges, stitched back together long ago in such a way the skin simply didn’t line up. He could just imagine your side, torn apart, skin loose and hanging.

“A werewolf?” he pressed.

You began tracing the mark yourself. Jaskier was mesmerized by the way you followed them to your side, before running along all three long scars in the motion the werewolf would have taken to make them.

“It’s a bit of a blur, really,” you admitted. “I… promised to protect this young girl through her first transformation. She was scared and desperate… But when the time came, she was much larger than any other werewolf I’d dealt with, and I was caught off guard… I think… she swatted at me, hit me into a wall. But I don’t truly remember much after that.”

“And what about her?” He was enraptured. Geralt wasn’t much of a talker, much less a story teller. But you were explaining everything perfectly, and he was caught up in each tale, adjectives and poetic verbiage circling his mind. “Did she run off or…?”

You frowned, thinking. “I don’t know.”

Your fingers traced back and forth, over and over the claw-marks. Jaskier rested a hand over yours, stopping the repetitive motion with a soft smile. “Thank you for telling me.”

This close, you could see the way his irises were darkest blue on the outer rim, and how they faded toward his pupil into a greenish-hazel. Whereas before they seemed entirely one shade of brilliant blue, now you knew they held honey and ferns within them.

Jaskier was just as mesmerized with your eyes. They were yellow, sure, but they had flecks of gold scattered throughout. The edges were brown, like a warm ale. They reminded him of the sunsets during fall, as gold sunlight coated the Continent. Or of fire, crackling in a hearth, just contained enough to be somewhat safe. Embers reaching out for more tinder to consume.

And then it was over. You smiled and pulled your shirt back on. Your eyes no longer studied his, but looked to the sky. The sun was already beginning to fall, casting long shadows and spewing its last, golden rays for the day.

Chapter Text

“Come at me.”

Your eyes gleamed with a burning fire, excitement and determination dancing behind the slits of your pupils. You stood with your legs slightly apart, knees bent just so. Despite wearing no armor, you stood wide open, arms to either side and hands empty.

Jaskier, who wielded one of your blades, was understandably hesitant to just stab right at you.

“Are you sure?” He dropped his own stance slightly. “I mean, I’m holding a very sharp and dangerous knife and you,” his eyes studied your clothes, lingering for a second on the bit of skin peeking out behind your black undershirt, “you’re… exposed.”

You scoffed. “You’re too afraid of hurting someone. Which, I suppose, is to be expected. But you can’t be.” You gestured for him to strike again. “Imagine I’m a bandit.”

“And what, exactly, would you be stealing?”

“I’m not going to stand around and play make-believe.”

“Oh, come on! I can’t imagine you as a bandit when you’ve got snake eyes and enough muscle to strangle a goat just by looking at it!”

“Ugh, fine.” You glanced over Jaskier for barely a second. Even while training he insisted on wearing one of his colorful doublets. “I’m going to steal your fancy clothes, for one thing. They’re probably worth a few crowns. And then I’m going to knab your lute and break it on a-”

He lunged forward, knife moving toward your heart. And then, he found himself empty-handed, stuck on the business end of your weapon. Even through his surprise, he looked affronted.

“You threatened to break my lute just to- to disarm me?!”

You huffed. “You insisted on playing pretend.” The knife flipped in your hand, handle facing him once more. “Now, do it again, slowly.”

“Why are you showing me how to disarm, anyway?” He pouted as he grabbed the blade back from you. “Shouldn’t you be teaching me how to, ya know, stab?”

“I’d rather you not kill anybody.” You adjusted his stance slightly, making sure he was safe and sturdy; ready to fight. “No offense, but the most action you will likely see as a bard is a bar brawl. And the best way to get out of those alive is-”

“To disarm a bunch of drunks from their tankards?” he teased.

“No.” You returned back to your spot in front of him. “It’s to find a corner so nobody can get you from behind, and avoid any actual fighting.”

His face scrunched in confusion. “Then why…?”

You sighed. “Because if you do get in a bar fight, it’s likely some of them will have weapons of some caliber and knowing how to gain the upper hand by taking their weapons is a good idea.” You got into your stance again, gesturing once more for him to attack you. “Now, again, but slower.”

-

People stared and whispered to each other as you guided Bayard through the town, searching for a stable. Jaskier seemed mostly unbothered by the… less than welcoming folk. He was rather busy trying to explain the on and off romance he had with the Countess de Stael.

Tretogor wasn’t really much to look at. A muddy, downtrodden town built on agriculture and animal husbandry. Wooden, rickety buildings lined the road. Uneven, split-rail fences blocked in yards that contained drying clothes and barking dogs. From the steps of one house, a voice called out.

“Oi! Witcher!”

You stopped sharpish, Jaskier almost bumping into you. The older, scraggly man faltered under your piercing stare. Still, he stepped forward to meet you in the middle of the road.

“‘Ave a request ta make of ye.” He glanced to the bard.

“What is it?” you urged.

“Ah, we been ‘avin’ some attacks ‘round ‘ere. First it were te cattle. But now some folk’ve gone missin’. Me an’ some ‘unters found a nest up te hill.” He pointed past one of the small buildings that populated the town. “Is in some ol’ ruins, by te graveyard.”

You turned from the hill back to the man. He flinched at the cold yellow. “What’d it look like?”

The man scratched his hand, looking away. “I don’ know, I neva seen it. But,” he perked back up again, pointing down the way, “Oskar might’ve. ‘Is son was taken by te beast.”

“How much?”

“Ah, ‘course.” He pulled out a small purse, but it was light. “I ‘ave 50 now, b-but I can get te boys ta pitch in.”

You nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

The man lit up, hands clasping in prayer as he nearly fell to knees in relief. “Bless ye, Witcher!”

You simply nodded and continued walking, only glancing over your shoulder to make sure Jaskier was following.

His eyes followed the man for a bit further down the road. “What do you think it is?”

You sighed. Your entire body eased slightly, relaxed. Jaskier only saw you so tense and terse with the Reavers back on the mountain. He killed the rest of his thoughts of the mountain before they could fruit into self-loathing and disdain.

“It’s hard to say right now.” You looked toward the graveyard. “If its nest is in the ruins, it could be nocturnal, but that doesn’t narrow it down very far.”

You led Bayard into the stable by the tavern, removing his tack with ease and brushing down his side as you left. But, instead of going inside, you passed Jaskier your saddlebags and some coin.

“Ask for a room. I’ll go find Oskar.”

He nodded, fumbling with the bags to drape them over his shoulder as he’d seen you and Geralt do before. It didn’t look nearly as natural or cool, but it made you grin ever so slightly, so it was worth it.

-

“What is a cockatrice, exactly?”

You rummaged through your saddlebags, pulling out ingredients - plant seeds and flowers, a container with a fatty white substance, a bottle of alcohol, and another bottle that seemed to glow. As you began mixing different ingredients in bottles and grinding some in your mortar, you answered anything the bard was curious about.

“Well, it’s said to be the result of the egg of a rooster that was incubated by a toad.” Jaskier’s face morphed into a confused grimace. “They’re hard to find, and fighting one is tricky.”

“How come?”

“They usually try bludgeoning you with their wings and tail, and they’re ridiculously fast. So getting close enough to one to attack it without being beat up is,” you sighed, “interesting.”

His fingers rubbed together subconsciously, itching to write down all the info you were supplying him with. “What are you making?” He lifted the small container of fat and sniffed it, before scowling and immediately setting it back down. You huffed a laugh at his reaction.

“Draconid oil and Golden Oriole.” You hummed, shaking up a potion. “I should probably make some Blizzard, too, if I have the stuff for it.”

“Blizzard… That’s the one that makes everything feel slow, right?”

“You’re catching on.” He allowed himself a proud little smile.

“What do the others do?”

You dropped the finished bottle onto the bed. Jaskier picked it up and began turning it over and over to watch the ingredients inside float around. “What you’re holding now is the oil. Witchers apply specialized oils to their weapons to help take down monsters faster.” You scoffed, “Though I knew a fair few who absolutely refused to use them. They said it made the fights too easy, the idiots.

“Golden Oriole,” you poured some alcohol carefully into your tiny potion bottle, “is a sort of buffer. Cockatrices are poisonous, and using this will help so I’m not as easily affected by it.”

His eyes glanced from the potion in his hands to the bottles lined up at your hip. He nodded toward them. “How many can you take at a time?”

You hummed, thinking, as you mixed ground up flowers with a splash of the glowing bottle’s contents. “That’s a bit complicated.” Your eyes met his as you shook up all the ingredients. “Witcher potions are toxic to humans, but we’re not immune to that toxicity. If it builds up to a point we can’t stand it, the effects can be… unpleasant.”

His eyes looked over all the potions again. “How many will you be taking?”

Conjuring a small Igni flame in your hand, you began heating up the Golden Oriole so the contents would mix better. “Not enough to worry about, I assure you.”

He wasn’t very comforted by the dismissive answer, but he let his shoulders relax and didn’t press further. You would know best, anyway. You were a Witcher, after all. He was just a bard that tagged along.

You slipped the oil and Golden Oriole into the holder at your hip. You quickly checked your blades, running a thumb just along the edge to test they were sharp enough. After a moment’s pause, you took the sheath containing your steel dagger and handed it to Jaskier. “Try not to get into any fights while I’m gone, Dandelion.”

He smiled, a flicker of playful mischief in his eye. “No promises.”

Your lips held a grin as you tucked away everything back into your saddlebags and donned your cloak.

“Be careful.”

You caught his eye again, a hint of mischief sparkling within. “No promises,” you mimicked.

You turned and disappeared through the door into the night. He watched you through the window, following your cloaked figure as you walked off toward the hill.

Chapter Text

You stumbled down the hill. Hard earth came to meet you as your foot caught a rock. You rolled the rest of the way down, panting and grunting the whole way. The scratches and bruises meant nothing - were nothing - compared to the bite on your shoulder that slowly oozed blood. You pressed a square of fabric torn from your undershirt over it, but already you could feel the warm, wet stickiness soak the cloth through.

Everything burned. Your insides boiled with each breath. Reaching for potions was useless - nothing you had could stop the fire within you, and you were out of Swallow. No, you had to keep pushing on.

Villagers up late, staggering home drunk from the tavern or otherwise passing through town, stared and watched as you forced each step, biting your tongue in agony, until you reached the tavern door. Either Bayard sensed your presence or saw you, as he whinnied and snorted. You ignored him.

You rushed to the bar, not caring for the eyes on you nor about the drips of blood that slipped between your fingers and to the floor. "Bard. Which room?"

The barkeep stared at you, eyes wide with shock. You slammed a hand down on the wooden bartop. He jumped, blinking several times. The whole bar was silent.

"Which room is the bard in?"

He stuttered and stumbled, but eventually got out the directions. Up the stairs, third door on the right. You grunted and trudged as fast as possible up the steps, wincing and gasping the whole while. The barkeep was simply happy not to have your eyes burning into him anymore.

The wall became your crutch as you lumbered down the hall. An inferno burned within now. It was so hot. You reached the door and hit it with your shoulder.

The door swinging open nearly sent you to the floor, but you caught yourself. Some part of your brain registered Jaskier on the bed, but you couldn't focus on him. Instead, you went to the corner, knocked the privacy screen down trying to push it aside, and dove right into the tub.

"Wha- Hey!"

Water slashed over the sides of the basin, soaking into your armor. The only equipment spared from the scented oils and cold water were your swords, which you'd dropped to the floor just moments before.

Jaskier watched, slack-jawed and wide-eyed as you positioned yourself into a sit. Your eyes were closed, and you were panting as water dripped off your skin. Perhaps he was more surprised how fast the water stained pink and red.

Your eyes fought to stay closed even as you peered up at him. He couldn't decide if it was because the bath was that good, or if you were that tired from your contract. Breathless, you weakly gestured a gloved hand toward your saddlebags. It took him a moment to catch on before he was bringing them over to you.

"Basilisk." You pulled out a vial of Swallow. "Poison fucking burns." The water was almost completely red now.

“I need-” You groaned and pressed harder on the bite. “Gotta make Oriole.”

“Golden Oriole?” He dropped to his knees, digging through your bags for everything he saw you pull out before.

You grunted and draped a hand over the tub. You pointed toward some flowers.

“These? O-Okay, what do I do with them?”

“Grind.” Your hand limply made the motion of a pestle grinding things in an invisible bowl.

He nodded and frantically pulled the tools out of your bag. More ingredients fell out into the puddle of water. He ground the flowers into a mush as fast as he could. He cussed and muttered about his wrist cramping, but he didn’t stop until it was done. He held the bowl so you could see, but your eyes were barely visible under your heavy lids. “Viper?” He shook your arm. Your eyes opened halfway. “Viper, what next?”

Your brain swam through an ocean of fog and misdirection. Jaskier’s voice came in waves, echoing and fading. What was it you needed again? A nap? A nap sounded nice…

His hand grabbed yours and tugged, drawing you to wakefulness before you could fully slip under. “Just- Just point! What do I need next?!”

Your head tilted, opening the wound further, as you studied the ingredients on the floor. At the very least, your bleeding was beginning to slow down.

“Alc… ohol…” You gestured rather than pointed at the bottle of Dwarven spirit. He grabbed it and dumped some into the bowl. He watched with wide eyes as he mixed the two ingredients for you to point at what else. “That…” You pointed to another bottle, the one that glowed faintly from within your bags. “Heat…”

He lunged forward, nearly sloshing the bowl in his hands, and dumped some of the liquid into the bowl. He mixed it more, swearing each time the mixture sloshed out. “Heat?” He looked to you for confirmation, but your eyes were closed. You were limp within the cold water. His heart jerked.

“Fuck, fuck!” He rushed to a nearby candle. He held the flame under the bowl, watching for any sign it was reaching the potion at all. He damned the stupid basilisk, the stupid poison, and prayed- begged Melitele for this to work.

At the first sign of boiling, he mixed the brew a final time and nearly skidded to his knees on the floor behind the tub. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!” One hand tilted your head back and poured the mixture down your throat. “Please, fucking-” A sob tore from his throat. He just swallowed the lump that formed down. “Wake up,” he whimpered.

The water was still. Raucous laughter came through the floorboards. He wished they would all shut up. Drops of water from your hair fell to the floor, landing against his knees and the puddle he sat in. His eyes searched for any sign of life. He listened over the laughter for any hint of a breath. His hand relaxed around your neck, clutching with shaking fingers onto your hair.

His vision blurred. His eyes stung. Heavy tears slid down his cheeks, joining the puddle. His shoulders slumped in. He carefully rested his forehead against your wet hair, closing his eyes and praying and hoping and begging for you to wake up.

At first he thought the shaking breath was his own. But then the water stirred with the next one. He’d never lifted his head so fast, fighting against the tears blurring his sight to watch with bated breath for you to move again.

Another shuddered sigh left your parted lips, and your hand that was limp outside of the tub crawled back into the water, wrapping around your middle. “‘S cold…”

Jaskier laughed despite himself. “Okay.” He cleared his throat, ridding the sorrow from his voice. “Okay, let’s get you warmed up.”

He slipped his arms into the water, sliding them under your armpits and lifting you out of the water. Your teeth chattered as air hit your wet clothes and skin. Your legs tried to find purchase on the ground to help the bard as he dragged you to a chair. Neither of you said anything as Jaskier removed your armor and underclothes. Nor as he helped you into some dry spare clothes of his own. He didn’t look at anything you wouldn’t wish him to. Truth be told, he was in a daze, so overjoyed that you didn’t die, that he didn’t even process getting you undressed and dressed until he was helping you in bed and tucking you into the covers.

And when he removed the cloth against your neck, stuck there by dried gore, the blood had stopped. He did his best to cover it with clean cloth; you would be better suited to treating it. But this would help until morning.

His eyes lingered over you as you fell asleep, watching to make absolutely sure you were breathing and well. As often as he dared to take his eyes off you, he wrote in his journal. About you barging into his room and splashing into the tub. About the potion you guided him through making. And about how utterly relieved he was that you survived. Once he finished writing, he laid down on the other side of the bed, watching you through red, dry, tired eyes, until sleep finally overwhelmed him.

Chapter Text

Hi!! I know it's been a bit since I last updated. I just wanted to update you guys a bit

I am not abandoning this fic. I really love the ideas I have and I can't wait to share them with you. I am planning on rewriting this fic, though.

Nothing fundamental will change. I'll add a chapter or two to give Viper some backstory/background. And I also wanted to let myself be loose with the timeline of the show. As the fic is right now, I feel like I have to keep following with the episodes, so rewriting will (I hope) help me stay truer to the story I want to tell and not the one already being told. As far as I can tell, the chapters already up will stay mostly the same with perhaps some minor changes to characterization and the like.

I'll also probably start another Work to post that, so I don't confuse or clog up this one. The title will stay the same, I'll most likely just add "(Rewrite)" to the title as well.

I have no idea how long it will be before I actually post it. I'm already planning out a timeline, I just need to, ya know, write it lol

Thank you for being so patient and sharing your love. I have so much in store and I can't wait to finally be able to share it all <3

Chapter Text

Hi!!! If you are following this story and still want to read more, you can!!!

A while back I contemplated rewriting this story so it flowed better/gave MC more characterization other than "brooding and mysterious". And I decided a bit ago, too, to actually go through with it!

As of this post, I have four chapters up on the work titled "The Viper: Rewritten". It is NOT a sequel or AU or anything like that (even though the title makes it sound that way lol)

It has one chapter to flush out some questions about the MC's/Viper's past - what their home was like before the mutations, their life at the Viper School, etc. All other chapters after that are edited/flushed out versions of the original chapters. And then the story will continue (roughly) where it left off!

I am updating every week (on Fridays) and as far as the foreseeable future, this will not change anytime soon.

Also! Inspired by wrathkitty, I have started putting Lore/References/Easter Eggs in the end-chapter notes! It allows me to infodump/explain some of the lore of the series (game and tv show-wise) and point out some things you may not have noticed (like quotes or hints toward other series)

Thank you all so much for reading, commenting, leaving kudos. It's because of fabulous support from everyone that inspired me to improve this series and actually make it mean something more than just following the tv show along episode-by-episode. Again, from the bottom of my heart, thank you <333