Chapter Text
Lights and colours whirl past as his body drops out from beneath him. He’s not sure where he lands, but he might be throwing up. There’s noise overhead, all around, and the ground below is blissfully solid.
He’s going to throw up from all of this rocking and jolting.
He can feel his limbs again, only by the way they burn with cold.
Breathing burns at his nose and throat.
He feels warm all over. There’s heat at his back.
When he wakes, properly wakes, the hearth is on the wrong side of the bed. He blinks the fuzziness out of his eyes. The hearth is on the wrong side, because he’s not in the bed of his latest inn. The floors here, wherever here is, are broad slate tiles not found within the backwater establishments he haunts of late.
He’s tucked under no less than four blankets, and finds himself both thoroughly comfortable and deeply confused. There are trinkets and pocketbooks laid across the mantle – only sparsely, but enough to know he’s in someone’s home. And as he casts his eyes over the room, he realises there’s another person in it with him.
It’s not an unfamiliar situation; waking up in bed with someone (or more) he doesn’t recalling falling into bed with, but usually he has some recollection of night before, or even the stale taste of alcohol on his gums to jog his memory. There’s nothing but a pounding behind his eyes when he tries to remember.
This person is a witcher, easily deduced from the shining medallion over his chest and the luminous eyes glinting in the backlight of the fire. It's an unnerving scene to find a witcher in, all things considered. He finds himself thinking that at least the witcher is watching him from an armchair by the hearth, and not from the other pillow. Those mornings always go worse.
Well, they’re both just looking at each other now, may as well move this little farce along, “I’m Jaskier, the bard,” he has to break for a cough. “I seem to have found myself completely deserted by my wits rather embarrassingly. Would you be so kind as to remind me of your name?” He tries not to cringe at the croak of his ill-used voice.
A smile breaks over the witcher’s expression as he speaks. “No need for the formality. Name’s Eskel, of Kaer Morhen.”
“I’m ashamed to make such an impression, but I must’ve had a bit much to drink last night, and...” he trails off, finding that he doesn’t usually have to say the embarrassing part aloud if he tilts his head just so and plasters on a sheepish expression.
The affect must be lost when he’s lying down, because the witcher only tilts his own head in response.
He buckles. “...I’m not sure where I find myself?”
“We’re in Kaer Morhen, if you –”
The syllables click into place.
“Kaer Morhen!” He chokes, so he’s now rude in addition to dull and awkward. “The witcher keep?”
He’s not ignorant to the amused tone in Eskel’s voice, “Indeed.”
He boggles. “You’re Geralt’s friend!” He looks over this Witcher, Eskel, who he’d once been alit with nervous excitement to meet. He’s big, bigger than Geralt, with a gentle expression torn and twisted with scarring. His dark, dark hair doesn’t help matters, giving him the look of a fellow you wouldn’t want to find yourself in a dim alleyway with.
He’s also Geralt’s dearest friend and seasonal bed mate. He’d dreamt of asking Eskel for stories about their youth, what he liked to read, how he –
“And you are his bard.”
“Well,” he goes to clarify, then thinks better of it, “...I’m feeling rather on the back foot.”
“Shall I explain, now?”
Properly cowed, he asks, “Please.”
“The story isn’t long – I found myself across some slavers and someone with delusions of being a mage around Flotsam. You and a few others were their cargo. You’d been spelled and drugged, and riding to the nearest town the rest were locals and some of the folks recognised you. So I put you over Scorpion, and brought you back to Kaer Morhen to recover.”
“Oh,” he says. There’s a casualness with which Eskel describes it – not out of cruelty, but because these things are just so standard to witchers. Eskel’s still looking at him, “Thank you.”
Even smiling, Eskel’s face is fierce. He shakes off the praise, “I couldn’t very well leave you behind, the White Wolf's bard and all.”
“Well, um – I know this might be unexpected, but I must be honest in this instance. Geralt and I... haven’t been in contact for some time.”
“The path takes its twists and turns,” Eskel acknowledges.
“We weren’t on good terms when we parted, I mean.” He can’t meet Eskel’s eyes, but knows his staccato heartbeat has long since been audible to him.
Eskel blinks guilelessly. “You and Geralt? But you’d been travelling together for decades, hadn’t you?”
“Yes, had been.” If he ignores the weird choke in his voice, Eskel can ignore it too. Looking up at the ceiling is at least helpful in that it doesn’t encourage tears to fall.
“I didn’t know it was a sore spot. I’m sure -”
The words leap from him, “Is he here?”
“At Kaer Morhen? No.”
“When will he get here?”
“He won’t. The passes are closed for the winter, now.”
“Oh,” he says again, like the master wordsmith he is. It’s a weight off his heart and onto his mind. The paths – closed. That’s a breakdown for another time. He scrubs at his face. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?” His response is just as mild and measured as all of the previous.
A million and one reasons come to mind – for his outbursts, for hurting his dear friend, for receiving his aid only through his relationship to Geralt which was understood under false pretenses, for having to share the winter with them when the person they undoubtedly want is Geralt.
“Nevermind me, and thank you for your kind help, Eskel. Does that mean ... is Geralt alright?”
“Truthfully, none of us never know unless we see each other in the flesh. But I know he’s OK; he’s missed returning for the winter in the past, and he missed last year also.”
“That’s good,” he hears himself reply only distantly.
Eskel hums, then, “How about we get breakfast?”
He takes stock of his body – he is hungry, actually. There’s some immature part of him, that he likes to think he’s outgrown, which rankles against Eskel’s easy charge over the situation. He wants to say no, just to have it be his decision.
And then he remembers, he’s alone with a stranger, countless miles and days away from civilization. If he says no out of spite, who’s to say when the next time he eats might be?
He nods, “I am, can we?
Trying to sit up makes him reevaluate if he is actually hungover. It’s like the worst of his festival recoveries all rolled into one – his muscles won’t cooperate, there’s a swooping in his stomach, and the thick throb of a headache around his ears and in his eye sockets. He’s pretty sure he loses sight at one point, and while everything is still specked with motes of lights there’s a, “Shit, are you alright?” and deliciously warm hands on his shoulders. He hadn’t even realised he was cold. “Shouldn’t move so quickly, you were out for a long time.”
“Right.” Even his tongue feels leaden.
“I’ll help you up.”
Eskel props him against some pillows, looking him over.
“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, at length, and tries swinging his legs over the side of the bed to stand. He gets about a third of the way, and concedes when Eskel silently helps him the last of the way over.
Eskel goes so far as to pull some slippers onto his feet and he realises, looking down at his lap, he doesn’t recognise a stitch of the clothing he’s wearing. A question and breakdown number two for later, he thinks.
Eskel takes his arm for the walk – and he tries not to think about how sorely it’s needed. It takes most of what focus he does have to suppress the roiling nausea and throbbing in his head such that when Eskel presses him down to sit on one of the benches littering the dining hall, it’s a surprise to find a solid surface beneath him.
“Doing alright? You got a bit pale there,” Eskel asks, keeping a warm hand still resting over the round of his shoulder.
“Just catching my breath,” he agrees. “I’m alright.”
Eskel watches him for a moment, then stands, “I’ll get some food, wait here.”
Here, as it happens, must be the grandest hall in the keep. Not the finest, perhaps, for the use it wears, but it carries tapestries along the longest walls and plenty of scones to keep them lit. There are a few breaks for windows, which show nothing of the exterior and only glow with daylight. It’s easy to imagine it filled with people, witchers all lining the benches in their housewear.
Scents of yeasty baking bread waft from the door Eskel left through, and he returns alongside them laden with a few bowls.
“Vesemir is finishing up, he said he’ll join us soon.” There’s porridge, toast, eggs, some preserves. Eskel places the porridge in front of Jaskier, and the rest of the food goes to his side of the table. Jaskier must not hide his moue very well, “I’m on strict instruction to only give you simple foods, until you’re steady.”
“Steady,” Jaskier wonders, nevertheless picking up his spoon. He decides not to mention the headache which, as of yet, hasn’t abated. He eats.
Vesemir brings with him some hot, spiced tea and even places down a mug in front of Jaskier. He doesn’t speak, just looks over Jaskier from where he sits.
“Thank you, good morning Sir,” Jaskier manages.
He nods, pleased at something. “We both know well enough of each other, but it’s still good to put a face to name. Nice to meet you, Jaskier.”
“It’s my pleasure, truly.”
Vesemir breaks the stare, and starts buttering some toast. Jaskier lets his shoulders relax, but not drop, from the neat court posture he’d instinctively taken.
“Eat up, I hear you’re not feeling well,” Vesemir says, cutting a glance at him. “We don’t stand on ceremony, as you know.”
Jaskier wraps his hands around the mug.
“Of course,” he agrees, and realises Eskel’s had an eye on their interaction. They make eye contact, and Eskel smiles – only just the barest upturn of lips, but enough to be reassured that he isn’t making a fool of himself.
Eskel picks up the conversation from there, talking with Vesemir about some local matters he’d heard about on the trek returning to Kaer Morhen. It’s not much Jaskier has any context for, but it gives him the opportunity to watch Eskel and Vesemir talk in return. It’s startling, how easily he can imagine Geralt sitting just off to the side when they sound as similar as they do.
“Jaskier?”
He looks up, from where he’d been staring into the depths of his mug. Vesemir and Eskel are both eyeing him, “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”
“I was asking what you were up to, before this,” Vesemir prompts.
“Oh, nothing terribly interesting – just following where the wind took me to play.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. The nomadic lifestyle can be difficult to keep company with,” he says, hopefully with enough charm that he comes off as commiserating. He still feels as if he’s wading through water just to grasp at the right sounds to vocalise; there’s no natural bardic charisma to be spun up, he fears.
“Where had you passed through?”
“A little bit of Gheltbol, a nearing up to Hengfors. I was heading out from Oxenfurt, where I’d spent some time last year.”
Vesemir nods, “It’s no surprise Eskel stumbled upon you, then – those are his usual trails.”
“Ah yes, you each have your own regions you patrol around? In years past, I’ve worked the bardic circuits properly, going to all of the festivals and attending court and such. It was a change of pace to get out of the cities.”
Eskel sips at his tea, “Cheers to that.”
“Hear any rumours about monsters, or otherwise, in your travels?” Vesemir asks.
He tries to thinks on it for a moment, until the searing heat of the headache behind his eyes becomes blinding. He presses thumb and forefinger each side of the bridge of his nose as if the pressure will alleviate the pain, “Yes..." It’s hard to hold onto the thoughts, like they’re slipping from his fingers and tangling themselves into a knot.
There’s noise, the sound of a voice. He lets it drift by, focuses on just the cool air prickling his neck and the heat of his own breath against his palm.
When he’s able to breathe easily again, he drops his hand to find both Vesemir and Eskel watching him. Vesemir, with a dissatisfied twist to his mouth, and Eskel gently frowning. “Headache?” He asks.
“Yes.” He looks to Vesemir, “Sorry about that, what were we talking about?”
“Never mind that,” Vesemir waves it off. “Eskel has told you the pass is closed for the winter?” Jaskier nods. “I won’t lie so far as to say it’ll be an exciting residency, but it’s only a few months and it’s comfortable enough. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, so focus on resting and when you get bored of it, we’ll find you some projects.” With that, Vesemir stands and starts collecting his dishware. “Eskel, take as long as you need to get Jaskier settled.”
He departs for the kitchen with Jaskier’s, “Thank you, Sir!” behind him.
“If you can, you should eat a bit more,” Eskel says, and Jaskier stops watching the departing gait of Vesemir to realise he’s got half of his bowl left.
He agrees, and tries for a few more bites as Eskel likewise finishes off the last of his breakfast.
Still, Eskel’s faster than him. “After this, we’ll head to the lab. If you’re well enough, we can do a tour after that, but it might be best saved for tomorrow,” he says.
His grand expectations of feeling better after breakfast don’t eventuate. He finds himself lent against Eskel for the slow walk over to what he calls the lab – unsure why they’re going but Eskel had mentioned they both needed to, and he’s already been such an inconvenience.
Getting winded from a short indoor walk is surely cause for concern, but it’s overshadowed by them walking into the lab to find another person, another witcher, already working inside. He doesn’t hide that he’s watching them walk in. He’s the slightest of all so far, with a dense scruff of beard and three neat scars on the same side as Eskel. These poor wolves, he thinks, as Eskel again guides him to sit at one of the scattered tables.
“For fuck’s sake, are you going to tote the human around for the entire winter?”
Well, it’s definitely Lambert. His body feels heavy, even as his mind is able to keep up better now – might just be post-meal lethargy, he’s hopeful.
Eskel takes it well in stride, “Morning to you too, Lambert. Jaskier, this is Lambert, don’t mind his attitude.”
“Fuck you too,” Lambert mutters, turning back. He eyes Jaskier again even as his body’s faced away.
“I told you I’d need your help, should we come back later?” The appropriate window for greeting Lambert himself has already passed, so Jaskier just resolves to bite his tongue.
Lambert sighs loudly, then speaks still with his back turned, “No, you’d just piss me off again.”
“Great,” Eskel says, and leaves Jaskier’s side to hand Lambert some slip of paper. Their heads bow over it between them, and even though they’re just across the room Jaskier can’t make out the words though he can see their side profiles talking.
The room is packed with enough strange implements and alchemical equipment to goggle at that Jaskier doesn’t think he’ll bore, even if they talk for a half hour. It’d be nice if he felt up to walking around, so he could get a better look, but he’s not sure if his stomach could take a closer look at the jars of preserved beasties anyway.
It’s ... surreal, now that he’s got a moment to breathe. Being invited to Kaer Morhen was always a delicate hope of his, guarded in his heart in the same spot he kept wishes such as Valdo Marx dying of tonsillitis, and now he’s seeing the interior of one of their most guarded secrets. It’s kind of beyond belief, enough such that he feels like he’s woken from a stupor – is he actually in Kaer Morhen? He’s known much more complex arcane tricks than some play of the mind.
But it’s hard to entertain the thought for long when he can feel the dimpled texture of the worn stone tabletop, can hear and smell and see with such clarity. Even the small things, like the walk through the halls revealing no rugs nor wall hangings nor side tables – somehow this helps settle the reality of it; any facsimile would’ve been made with the idea of what a keep should look like, how to impress a guest, how to make the place feel lived in. This is the home of people gone for three fourths of the year, who pride themselves on the mastery of their bodies and how they serve as weapons. Though he might not be able to say definitively, he doesn’t think he could be blamed for being fooled.
About an hour passes as Eskel and Lambert round up an array of tins, jars, and bottles as they talk and he thinks.
At last, Eskel peels off with an armful of the containers to a row of scales, and with some fright he realises Lambert is stalking straight towards him.
“You don’t come in here alone, and you don’t touch anything without one of us telling you to. If you try to use anything in here, ingredients or equipment, I won’t even have to threaten to cut your balls off. But I will anyway though – don’t touch my shit.”
After a moment of taking all that in, Jaskier nods, “Got it.”
Lambert scowls down at him, “You sure? You’re a bard, right? Should I be threatening your hands instead?”
Jaskier can’t gauge the situation from Eskel’s body language, because he’s hidden behind Lambert. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m indeed a bard, what use would I have for monster powders? My unmentionables and my hands are the tools of my trade, I have no reason to endanger them.”
He sees Lambert mouth unmentionables with some incredulity as his eyes go flinty. He spins on a heel and leaves Jaskier in his wake. “Shoulda just let you bleed out your ears.”
He’s tempted to apologise, for what he’s not sure, but knows from what limited snippets he heard about Lambert that breaking first is likely ill-advised. So he lets himself relax into the middle distance once more.
Eskel approaches some time later, “Hey, doze off?”
“Mhm, no, just resting my eyes.”
“We’ve got some tonics and such for you to take, some things which might tell us more about what that mage-like was up to.”
That perks him up a little.
“Let’s do these first.” Eskel motions for him to sit back, then leans in a little closer, cupping Jaskier’s neck in a broad palm. It’s so hot, he can feel where each of Eskel’s fingertips press into his skin.
“What,” he swallows, “What are you doing?”
“Taking your measurements beforehand.” He nods to the array of glassware he’s brought.
Jaskier’s deeply confused, and yes, maybe shaking off a little sleep – “Witcher alchemy is poison to humans, though?”
“Usually yes, but that’s what I was getting Lambert’s help for. These are all safe for you.” He relaxes back into the chair – Eskel’s hand follows him.
There’s a satisfied hum, and Eskel withdraws only to take one of Jaskier’s arms and rolls up the sleeve. He procures something like narrow spatula and spreads a few pastes over Jaskier’s skin, each an inch apart. It’s cold, and Jaskier jerks at each new application. “Don’t touch, just keep that there for a minute, now.”
Eskel’s evidently counting the time in his head as he jots down some notes, then after Jaskier is just about ready to complain from the cold, Eskel wipes his arm clean with a damp towel and all that’s left behind are Jaskier’s goosebumps. Eskel meets Jaskier’s eyes with a light smile, “Going good.”
He jokes half-heartedly, “Is it time for the drinks menu?”
“That it is,” Eskel says, picking up two glass bottles. They’re just enough to hold a double shot – Jaskier is very familiar with them. “But I can’t say they taste great, and you’ll have to sit for a few minutes again after taking them so we can be sure.”
Jaskier nods and accepts the first of the bottles Eskel passes him, tossing it back.
The liquid feels as if it doesn’t come out anywhere near fast enough, bubbling through the narrow neck until Jaskier’s palette is absolutely soaked in the stuff. It burns and tingles, a mouth puckering experience. He hears a laugh from Lambert, no doubt from his scrunched expression. He swallows a few more times even after it’s done, trying to coax more saliva down his throat to wash the taste.
“Ugh,” he says, at length. He blinks his eyes open to see them watching him, again. The weight of that stare is near physical. “Next?”
Eskel only crowds him again, hand returning to cradle his neck. “Not just yet, will let his one settle first,” he says, voice low for the proximity. Truly – the awful aftertaste of that tonic can’t be overstated, but even with it it’s hard to suddenly ignore the deep rumble of Eskel’s voice when they’re so close. If he breathes a little deeper, he’s just trying to flush out his airways.
He survives the ordeal, somehow, and after a time Eskel pulls back with satisfaction when Jaskier confirms he feels alright.
Eskel hands over the second, the less said about that one, the better – including Lambert’s cackle.
“Done?” He shudders to ask. Eskel nods.
He tries to distract himself from the horrid aftertaste by watching Eskel put the lids back on all of the jars and tidying up. Once finished, he turns back to Jaskier. “Feeling any different?”
“Like I could be sick,” Jaskier confesses.
“From the taste?” He asks, and Jaskier grunts. “Unfortunately, that’s good news.” He places a small wrapped bundle on the table, “For the aftertaste. Don’t tell Ves.”
It’s a pastry with some kind of jammy filling. He says a grateful thank you, and doesn’t hesitate to enjoy it.
He looks down at the empty bottles “So, what did all that do?”
Eskel’s already wiping down tables, “A few different things. All checking your health and any possible disturbances from magic or disease.”
“Am I, er, in good health?”
He ignores an unintelligible mutter from Lambert, somewhere in the storage shelves. Because it’s just within the range of his hearing, he knows it’s deliberate.
“Yes, just fine,” Eskel confirms, and having completed returns to Jaskier’s side. He’s a little peeved Eskel just ignored Lambert’s comment; he wants to know what was said. “Feeling up to anything else?”
It’s rather considerate of him – all he’d done was eat breakfast and sit around as Eskel and Lambert had done their experimenting, but truly he is tired and wanting some time alone. He’d known Geralt to work without sleep between two and three days, so feels quite kind for Eskel to give him the decision.
“If there’s nothing else pressing, I’ll retire for now. I just can’t keep my eyes open.”
“No worries, I’ll take you back,” Eskel says, standing near as Jaskier presses to his feet. Again with the dizziness and head rush – it’s getting rather rote.
As they leave, Eskel calls, “Thanks Lambert, appreciate the help,” which receives only an emphatic piss off already in response.
Eskel escorts him once more, back to the room he’d woken up. He just about collapses into the divot he’d left in the bedding in the morning.
There’s a noise which may or may not be Eskel laughing at him, then his slippers are pulled from his feet and the covers settled properly over him.
“Don’t worry about him, by the way – he’s all bark and no bite. Anyway, get some sleep. I won’t be far. If you need any help, just yell. The keep’s quiet, one of us will hear you,” are Eskel’s parting words before the door creaks closed.
He has a proper breakdown planned – tears, anger, shock, nausea, he’s had all of the hits prepared since about the moment he woke up.
Instead, he passes out.
Eskel leaves Jaskier to sleep for a few hours. It’ll help him settle to sleep without somne or axii for a time, so while he’s so tired to be dead to the world there’s no harm in it. It’s useful for him, too, to get used to Jaskier sleeping in his bed – the extra pulse and sigh of breath on the air.
By the time Jaskier does stir, it’s into the evening and Eskel’s long since dressed down to his own sleepwear. Jaskier huffs in his sleep, heart rate beginning to stir out of slumber, and Eskel shapes axii from his place reading by the hearth. “Rest, you won’t remember this.”
Jaskier’s figure stops shifting under the covers, axii taking hold.
He leaves his book and slips under the covers alongside Jaskier at last. He’s just a little cool, so he wraps an arm around him, rubs his unscarred cheek into Jaskier’s hair, taking a deep breath of his scent intermingled with his sheets. “Tell me your thoughts about today.”
His voice is slow with the dregs of sleep, “I’m confused, and scared. Nothing feels real. I wish Geralt was here.”
He’d expected as much – he’s woken up in a new place with new people, the only thing distinguishing them from strangers being that which he’d heard of them from Geralt in what must’ve been sparse snippets over the years. He's got courage, or at least bravado. Hearing Geralt’s name, though, is a good sign. He’d tried to brush past the conversation so quickly earlier, he wasn’t sure what might’ve been anger, fear, sadness, or otherwise in Jaskier’s waking reaction. “What would you do if Geralt was here?”
“I don’t know.”
He trails his hand, which feels so broad against Jaskier’s frame, over his back. “What did you think of me?”
“You’re kind, like Geralt’d said. I don’t understand why, though, and it makes me feel like I’m missing out on the joke, and you think I’m a fool.”
This sweet pup, Eskel thinks. And soft-hearted Geralt. A soft-hearted idiot he’s annoyed with, but his nonetheless.
Jaskier is missing out on the joke, it’s true, but he doesn’t think him a fool. At least he has the good sense to be suspicious – he’ll have to keep those kinds of ideas in check, lest Jaskier start picking at the seams of the story.
“And of Lambert and Vesemir?”
Neither of them had been impressed with Eskel when he’d arrived with Jaskier’s somne’d body in tow. Had been even less impressed when Eskel told them of his plan and asked them to respect it. They’d agreed to not interfere only after many hours arguing the point, and Eskel supposes he can see their discomfort in how they treat Jaskier – Vesemir, close to doting with how he wanted to ensure Jaskier’s waking comfort, and Lambert, not engaging.
“Lambert doesn’t like me, which hurts, but I guess is normal enough. I thought Vesemir would be less accepting of me in the keep, and I was scared to see him, but he was nice. I’m embarrassed, feeling so weak in front of them.”
He mulls on this for a time – yes, naturally Lambert has a distaste for the human man suddenly introduced into his home, it’ll be a matter of how much time he needs to acclimatise before Eskel can get them sociable. Too soon and Lambert will go off like a firecracker and too late and he’ll be uninterested in someone already part of his Kaer Morhen winter routine.
“Alright, go back to sleep now. When you wake, you’ll have no memory of this conversation.”
Jaskier’s breathing lengthens and he relaxes into sleep once more. It’s really quite nice being able to hold him like this – the trek to the keep was tense with ensuring his health, and Eskel had kept him as rugged up as possible. Now he can feel the lip of his shoulder blade, the expansion of his rib cage. Having bathed him upon their arrival to the keep earlier, there’s no new sensation from his roaming hands, but it’s pleasant all the same. Having someone in his arms, just to hold, always feels a luxury.
He can understand why, for all of Geralt’s apparent protests, they stayed together for as long as they did even with the will-they-won’t-they confusion. Jaskier really is quite well-tempered, with an easily bruised heart and a rumoured playfulness he hopes to see sooner rather than later. All in all, he’s glad he took him – it seems like he’ll be a dear pet.