Chapter Text
“Professor Pankratz?”
Jaskier blinks slowly and shakes his head, realising he’d dozed off while preparing for his upcoming classes. It’s getting late, the sun is set and the candles on his office desk have burned lower than he usually lets them. The room, thankfully, is still warm with the fire burning bright in the fireplace. He can hear the wind howling outside his window.
“Yes?” he answers, trying not to sound sheepish. Jaskier turns to face the source of the voice, and is surprised to find one of the guards who works as security for Oxenfurt Academy. “Belvyn, was it?”
The man nods briskly and looks over his shoulder. He’s dressed with thick sheepskin clothes over his armour, and his cheeks are ruddy from the cold.
“Captain of the guard sent for you, professor,” says Belvyn, “said it was something we needed your expertise for.”
“My… expertise?” Jaskier repeats dubiously. Sure, he’s an expert in quite a few fields, thank you very much. But nothing that the captain of the guard for the university should have need for. He rubs the tiredness from his eyes and pushes himself to his feet. “Fine, lead the way.”
He’s always been too curious for his own good.
Belvyn shifts on his booted feet, making a bit of a mess with melted snow and dirt on the stone floor. “Might want to grab your cloak, sir.”
Jaskier barely withholds an exasperated sigh. It’s hardly a week to Imbolc, which means it’s cold as tits outside. The wind is howling, and earlier today it had snowed enough to make most people avoid going out at all. Jaskier included.
Oxenfurt in winter is familiar. It’s where he comes to when he wants to fill both his purse and his mind. Creativity, like a well, needs a season to refill once in a while, even with a muse. Spending a winter or two as a guest in one court or another is exceedingly flattering, of course — but sometimes Jaskier just wants to experience university life for a while. It makes it easier to shove aside things he prefers not to think about. Things like heartache and dragons and mountains of doom.
“Fine. Where are we going?” he sighs, pulling on his heavy fur-lined cloak and the wool mittens Shani gifted him for Yule.
“Barracks by the city gates.”
Jaskier freezes. “Why?”
He’s not stupid. He knows the political climate lately is tense, and while the war hasn’t reached Redania just yet — the streets are rife with political unrest and fearful folks. While he’s sure he won’t be in any immediate danger, it’s dark outside and Jaskier is well-known for being a loudmouth bard. He also hasn’t been very quiet about his own political opinions on the matter of Nilfgaard and non-humans. As in all areas of his life, Jaskier is either loved or hated — and he’s come to learn that his own measurement for such sentiments is damaged.
Case in point: heartache and dragons and mountains of doom.
Before he can pester Belvyn for additional information, the guard beckons Jaskier to follow him out of his office. They walk at a brisk pace, each step increasing the unease in his gut.
“What’s this about, Belvyn?” he tries again.
“Well, you see,” Belvyn begins when they finally exit the university building and walk through a courtyard, “the city guards found someone in the ditch near the gates. They left him there, thought the fella must be dead in the snow. They went back before sundown, and turned out the fella wasn’t dead. Turned out — wasn’t a fella at all.”
They walk down the main path from the university, snow and ice crunching loudly under their boots. There’s now another sort of tight coil in Jaskier’s gut. If this fella-not-a-fella made the guards decide it required Jaskier’s presence and not that of a medic…
Could it be…?
“Very well,” he says instead of all the questions dancing on the tip of his tongue.
They bustle through the city and by the time they reach the barracks, Jaskier’s chest feels tight from the cold air and he can’t feel his cheeks. Belvyn knocks a specific number of times on the door, and it swings open to reveal a large, grizzly man with an impressive moustache.
“Get in,” the man says gruffly. From the livery on his breast, Jaskier decides he must be the captain of the city guard, not the university one.
Once inside the little reception office, the presumed captain of the guard eyes Jaskier from head to toe. Somehow, Jaskier feels like he leaves the captain wanting, and a hot rush of shame creeps up the back of his neck.
“Well?” he asks with all the authority he can muster. He isn’t a spoiled student anymore — he’s a bloody professor, master of the seven liberal arts! He’s a world-famous bard! He juts his chin in the air. While the captain is obviously larger than Jaskier, Jaskier is actually taller. Hah!
“Professor Pankratz? Julian Pankratz?” the captain asks dubiously.
“Yes, and you are?” he can’t help retorting, defensive.
The captain grunts and turns on his heel, as though polite introductions are beneath him. “Henselm, captain of the city guard,” he throws over his shoulder. He continues down the badly lit hallway, clearly expecting to be followed.
Jaskier grinds his teeth and follows the captain, annoyance bubbling over his insatiable curiosity. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear captain. Surely there is an explanation for all this secrecy? Why not call one of the city’s many medics for this poor frozen fellow? Surely a humble bard and esteemed professor such as myself is ill-equipped for such a situation?”
Behind him, Belvyn snorts.
“Your reputation precedes you, professor,” says the captain, “and I’m not about to go wastin’ a medic’s time on him.”
They finally stop at one of the closed doors, and Henselm unlocks it before ushering Jaskier inside. Belvyn stands guard outside, for whatever insane reason.
There, in the corner of the room, lies a mountain of a man. Next to him are two swords and a very, very worn leather bag. And on his chest —
“A Witcher?” he scoffs, though it comes out strangled to his own ears. A little more high-pitched than he’d intended. “You called me out into the coldest night of the bloody winter for a rogue Witcher?”
The words don’t sit right on his tongue, and he wishes he could swallow them back. But his heart, it bleeds as though the wounds are as fresh as they had been when he’d stumbled down that stupid fucking mountain on his own, months ago. Despite himself, he takes a few steps towards the Witcher.
He already knows it’s not Geralt. This Witcher is twice the White Wolf’s size, his limbs like trunks and his chest like a barrel. There’s a deep scar that runs over his scalp and ends on his forehead in a v-shape. And his medallion is that of a Viper. But it’s his skin that immediately worries Jaskier: it’s awfully pale, and he’s sincerely terrified the Witcher’s extremities might have turned blue.
“I’ll have Belvyn help you carry him out of here,” Captain Henselm says, breaking the heavy silence. His tone suggests it’s an act of extreme charity and Jaskier wants to snarl and bare his teeth at him.
Even if it’s not Geralt, even if it’s a Witcher from one of the Schools he’s been told to run away from, he can’t just… can’t just leave him here. There’s no doubt whatsoever that if Jaskier doesn’t take the Witcher with him, Henselm will… dispose of him, half-dead or not. While Jaskier’s songs have done a great deal towards tolerance for Witchers in the past two decades, most men haven’t lost their deep disdain and hatred of the monster hunters.
Jaskier returns his attention to the Witcher. Indeed, his reputation precedes him. No one is more famous for being a friend to Witchers than Jaskier the Bard. Friend. The word tastes sour in the back of his throat.
“Fine.” He sighs and approaches the Witcher. “Might need a cart.” His fingers brush against the Witcher’s forehead, finding it so cold that if it wasn’t for the rattling breaths, Jaskier would assume him to be dead.
“Had to use one to haul his arse all the way here,” Henselm grunts, clearly irritated by the extra work this appears to have created for him in the last hours.
“Is this all he had with him?” Jaskier slides the leather bag over his shoulder and carefully takes the two swords.
Henselm only hums in affirmative, which makes Jaskier think the guards who found him and discovered their not-so-dead-fella was in fact a Witcher got sticky fingers and liberated the Witcher of valuables.
Gods above but humans can be such arseholes.
Belvyn and another guard whose name Jaskier doesn’t know pick up the Witcher with great difficulty, leaving the sodden blanket behind. They put him in a cart like he’s nothing but a sack of flour, undignified and vulnerable. It boils Jaskier’s blood but there’s nothing he can do about it for now; he’ll take care of this Witcher once they’re in the safety of his private quarters at the university residence.
He piles all his furs on the Witcher, and stuffs the bed with special heated stones he warms up in the fireplace. It’s so hot in his rooms by the time he sits down, sweat trickles down his forehead and the back of his neck. There’s enough food in his larder to last him a week, but he knows Witchers can eat just about his weight in food when given the chance. Thank the gods he has the funds to feed them both until classes begin after Imbolc.
Exhausted and too hot now to bring himself to work on his class plans, Jaskier takes out his old trusted bedroll and sleeps next to the Witcher, on the floor.
The next day, the storm outside is even worse. There’s frost on the windows and he receives a note warning him that the water in the pipes has frozen and won’t be available until the city’s mage has thawed the pipes into compliance. Thankfully, he has some water and can prepare a quick breakfast of porridge and tea.
The Witcher sleeps on, and now that he’s no longer cold as death to the touch, Jaskier decides he should check for other injuries. Under normal circumstances, he would never divest a Witcher of their armour, just like he would never touch their swords. But these are extenuating circumstances, and if the Witcher is severely injured — if there’s infection —
“Calm down, you daft bard,” he mutters to himself. “He’s out cold. He won’t clock you. This could save his life. This isn’t anything more.” Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “One piece at a time. You could oil it for him, or at least fix it. Storm’s going to last days, you know.” He looks down at the Witcher’s expressionless face. “Would that be alright, Master Witcher? Or should I call you Viper? Snakeling? No, no, you’re not small by any measure of the word…”
He continues to fill the silence with meaningless chatter as he removes the weathered armour. It’s been patched up many times, he can tell; in some areas, the leather’s so worn that he could stab a quill through it! It breaks his heart. No Witcher should face monsters wearing such terrible armour. Then again… no Witcher worth his hide normally keeps roaming the Continent once winter settles in.
Once the bracers and greaves are unlaced and placed in a careful pile, Jaskier works on the boots. The laces are calcified together, so he regrettably has to take a knife to them in order to pull them off the Witcher’s feet. The boots are made of sturdy leather, though, and are salvageable. It’s the same story with the socks: he has to carefully peel them off by sawing through the wool with his knife. His hands are steady despite his racing heart, and he somehow succeeds in this tricky endeavour without nicking the Witcher’s skin.
His feet, though… There’s some severe frostbite on a few toes. Jaskier swallows thickly and moves onto the next part. He’s no medic, and certainly no surgeon. He can suture wounds just fine — but he has no idea if some of those toes can be saved. All he knows is that he can’t waste any time figuring it out.
The rest of the Witcher’s armour comes off more easily, and he finds more severe frostbite under the gauntlets which he also has to saw through to remove. He’ll buy the Witcher a new pair. Gods, but he’ll do everything he can to save this mysterious Witcher. To think the city guards left him in the snow and ice for hours longer than necessary. Hot tears of anger burn his eyes, and he lets them fall when they refuse to recede.
Mid-day, he takes a break and writes Shani a letter. It’s only pure luck that she’s still in Oxenfurt this late in the winter; normally, she goes to her family’s home to celebrate Imbolc. He hopes to all gods above that the Witcher’s fingers can be saved. How could a Witcher survive any length of time on the Path with missing fingers? He shudders at the thought.
And at the reminder of what Geralt had told him about retired Witchers.
Before he returns to his self-appointed task, he summons a courtier, tips him triple the regular fee, and sends him off with the letter to Shane’s townhouse. He can only hope his friend can come over today or tomorrow at the latest.
The Witcher’s linen tunic and under-tunic are in terrible condition, and are more likely to break down to shreds if he even attempts to wash them. The trousers are salvageable, but they’ll need a long soak to remove the old blood stains. Jaskier doesn’t want to violate his companion’s privacy by removing his braies, but he has to be sure there’s no injury there either. There are nasty bruises that he can recognise as broken ribs on his chest, awfully recent. They’re still purple, and not healing to a normal Witcher-y speed. Jaskier takes a slow breath.
“I wish I were doing this under better circumstances, my dear,” he whispers to the unmoving Witcher. “You’re woefully handsome, you know? All muscle and brute force, but I can tell it’s been a hard winter for you. Don’t you worry, darling. I’ll have you know I’m an excellent cook and I’ll fatten you up before you even know it.” Jaskier keeps up the chatter as he removes the Witcher’s braies and investigates his skin as clinically as possible.
He tries very, very hard not to drop his jaw at the sight of the Witcher’s prick, because good gods above. Viper indeed.
There’s bruising on his pelvis, though, and when he touches it lightly, it feels hotter than the skin around it.
“I’ll give you a good wash before I slather my best salve on you, dear. You’ll heal in no time. No time at all.”
The rest of the afternoon is spent washing the Witcher with a flannel and warm water, with a special soap he knows doesn’t irritate hyper-sensitive noses. Jaskier is extra gentle with the frostbitten digits, and by the time he’s done and the Witcher mostly dressed again in a change of clothes — Jaskier’s, so everything is rather tight — he’s quite sure some toes won’t make it. The room smells of lavender and basil, the prominent herbs in his special salve.
Should he try to feed the Witcher some of the potions in his bag? Jaskier debates the question for less than a minute: Swallow can work miracles, maybe it can save his Witcher’s extremities.
Just like Geralt, this Witcher doesn’t label his potion bottles. But Jaskier knows what Swallow should smell like, so he has no trouble finding the right bottle. The only trouble is that there’s less than half a dose left.
“Fuck,” he curses, tightening his grip on the bottle. “Don’t worry, Witcher dearest,” he murmurs, “I’ll brew you more.”
It’s risky, and he really should wait for Shani — but he doesn’t know when she’ll be able to come. Jaskier stumbles to his feet and carefully uncorks the potion, angles the Witcher’s head, and holds the potion under his nose briefly.
“Smell this, my dear? That’s right, it’s exactly what you think it is. Be a darling now and swallow it for me?” he pleads, hoping that even unconsciously, the Witcher can recognise the smell of Swallow. When he tips the potion into his mouth, he nearly whoops when the Witcher swallows all on his own. “Oh good, very good, you’re doing great my dear.”
And if he pets the Witcher’s head as he coos more praise, well — no one needs to know.
He replaces the heated stones and covers the Witcher with all his furs once more. It’s too late in the evening to brew Swallow, but tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll continue to take care of his Witcher.
The next morning, he’s woken up by Shani banging on his door. Jaskier’s never been happier to be woken up at the arsecrack of dawn in his life.
“Julek!” She exclaims when he opens the door. “Where is he?”
“Bedroom.” Jaskier looks up and down the hallway of the professorial residences just to be sure no one’s watching. He locks the door once Shani is inside, and takes her hand to bring her to his room.
Now that she’s here, he’s terrified. What if he hasn’t done enough? What if he’s condemned this poor Witcher to a fate worse than death? His hands shake when he pushes his friend through the door of his bedroom.
“Oh gods,” Shani whispers, “how long was he out there?”
Jaskier tries to look at his Witcher with new eyes, with a medic’s eyes. He’s got no experience in those sorts of situations, so he really doesn’t know how bad the Witcher truly looks in Shani’s perspective. But now, at least, the Witcher’s skin isn’t deathly pale and there’s a bit of sweat on his forehead.
“I don’t know,” Jaskier finally says as they approach the bed. “They found him, thought him dead, and only came back for him much later. Then they came to get me.” He runs a hand through his unkempt hair. “I’m worried about his fingers and toes. They were… almost black.”
Shani hisses and shakes her head. “No matter someone’s constitution, even Witchers can lose body parts if they’re in a stage of necrosis.”
Jaskier doesn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?” He tries to imagine a Witcher with missing fingers, missing toes. What Witcher would thank him for keeping them alive if that is the result?
“I’ll do everything I can, Julek,” Shani turns to give him a serious look. “But if I say those digits can’t be saved, then they can’t be saved. They’ll poison him if I don’t amputate them.”
“Alright. Alright,” Jaskier swallows. “Did you bring the ingredients I asked you for?”
She tosses her satchel to him, which he catches with one hand. “Yes. Do what you have to, and I’ll do the same.”
It’s all they can do, really. Jaskier gives Shani directions on where to find clean linen and other supplies she might need, and sets up an improvised brewing station in the kitchen.
Humans have no business knowing how to brew Witcher potions. Alchemy is dangerous and deadly when handled incorrectly, with inexperienced hands. Mages and Witchers are, technically, the only people allowed to know the exact ingredients and properties of potions like Cat and Swallow and White Honey. But Jaskier travelled with a Witcher for over two decades, and there were times when Geralt was too wounded to brew his own potions. Where he had to give grunted directions to a shaken Jaskier in the middle of the woods after a hunt gone horribly wrong.
So yes, Jaskier knows how to brew Swallow. But no one else needs to know that. Especially when he has to keep thinking about his time with Geralt, and the horrible pang in his chest the memories elicit.
Shani’s reserves of drowner brains is a bit dry, but it’ll have to do. He grinds the ingredients with mortar and pestle, moving his wrist in the smooth circular motions Geralt taught him so long ago. He’s careful not to actually touch the ingredients and regents once they begin to interact with each other, and he uses the Witcher’s empty potion bottles — those shaped like half-globes, specifically meant for Swallow. Sweat drips down his forehead and he’s had to tie his hair in a knot atop his head; even with the window open, the kitchen is hotter than a boiler room.
At mid-day, he takes a break and prepares some lunch for himself and Shani. When he knocks at his bedroom door and enters his room, Shani has a mask of sorts on her face and she’s bent over the Witcher’s foot.
Suturing an amputation.
At a quick glance, Jaskier deduces there are two toes missing. The other foot, neatly wrapped in linens, has a bit of blood seeping through already.
“His hands?” he dares to ask.
“Right hand, his sword hand, is fine.”
Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath. “Fuck. Thank the gods.”
“The left one, I applied some ointment that utilises a human-safe version of Swallow as base. The little finger and index have me worried, but I’m hopeful that they’ll be alright once the ointment has had time to sink into the skin. Witchers absorb everything faster than humans, which means we should know in about two hours.” Shanni finishes the stitches and carefully sets the needle aside, then dabs another ointment on the fresh stumps.
Jaskier sets the tray on the desk by the window and sits next to it. “And his other foot?”
“The big toe,” she winces as she says it. “It’ll impact his balance.”
She finishes wrapping his foot and washes her hands in a bowl of water.
“Do you think he’ll thank us?” Jaskier asks idly, not sure he really wants to hear her answer. “Witchers don’t retire.”
“Maybe,” Shani says, shrugging, “but you saved him. Even if he doesn’t thank you, even if he resents you — you did the right thing, Julek.” She clasps his shoulder with a strong hand, catching his eye when he tries to look away. “Do you know him?”
“No.” He finally looks up at her, and he really can’t hide the depth of his misery from one of his oldest friends. “I don’t know him, and I promised myself I wouldn’t get tangled up with Witcher business after Geralt…”
Anyone in Oxenfurt with two ears knows about Jaskier’s break-up songs. Anyone with a brain knows who he’s been singing (screaming) about in those harsh lyrics.
Shani only hums, though, and drops on the only chair in the room. “Still did the right thing, Julek. I’m glad I could help.”
They eat in silence for a while, Shani reaching over to check the Witcher for any physical signs of a fever breaking.
“Give him Swallow,” she says as she glances at the candle clock on the desk.
Jaskier returns the empty tray to the kitchen and brings back a bottle of Swallow. He uncorks it and just like yesterday, hovers the potion under the Witcher’s nose in case he can actually smell it. It appears to work still, because the Witcher swallows it all when Jaskier pours it into his mouth.
The effects are almost immediate: the Witcher begins to breathe more easily, some of the tension disappears from his mountainous body, and the crease between his brows eases.
“Good,” Shani murmurs. “I’d never have pegged you for an alchemist.”
Jaskier huffs. “I’m not.”
She shakes her head and jostles his shoulder gently. “Let’s wait for the potion to run its course. In one hour, we’ll know what needs to be done for his hand.”
Shani sits on the rug by the fire while Jaskier stokes the flames and adds a new log. They wait.