whatupbuttercup | PSL Injuries and Patching up with Monsterbytrade

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PSL Injuries and Patching up with Monsterbytrade

Jaskier was not font of this particular hamlet, he decided. The lands were bleak, the people were bleaker, and there was a pervasive stench of bog that crept into everything. The sheets (the beds were fairly nice, he would give them that, but the feather mattresses all stank of bog water), the curtains, the wood, the people--everything smelled of still water and mold. It was enough to drive him to distraction.

He suspected it annoyed Geralt as well, but the Witcher had only given him a cursory grunt when prompted about it.

The town, apparently, had need of a Witcher to clear some terrible beast from the marshes nearby. Jaskier couldn't hope to pronounce the name of it so, until Geralt felt like describing the thing, he was out on a limb about whether to make a song of it or not. Apparently, it was dangerous enough that Geralt had actually deigned to request he stay behind, instead of just ordering it, and Jaskier had agreed without hesitation.

It was an unspoken agreement. Anything truly cataclysmic or terrible, Geralt would grit his teeth and be cordial about what he required and Jaskier would agree without argument. It was a nicety they both extended...unfortunately, that meant that Jaskier was left standing in the road, staring off into the night, pacing as he waited for Geralt to appear out of the darkness like a spectre of death.

He did not.

The night crawled on and Jaskier's pacing got a little antsier, a little less controlled, he started talking--to himself and to Roach, who waited patiently by the roadside. He bitched about Witchers, about whatever this thing was, about the town, about the smell, praised Roach for being a good girl, damned Roach for not being psychically connected to Geralt (that he could prove), and then sighed and just leaned his head against her neck as he waited.

It was just before dawn that the Witcher appeared on the road. He moved very, very slowly and Jaskier stared in horror as he watched him approach.

He didn't want to pry, to be more of a nuisance than he was wont, but Geralt didn't--that wasn't how he walked. He had brushed Jaskier off before, knocked aside hands and insisted he was fine when he was not...but the bard had never seen him move like that. Had never seen the way his legs seemed to drag, to move ahead only to catch himself. He was falling forward, repeatedly, more than he was walking.

"Damn it all," Jaskier cursed and abandoned Roach to run to the Witcher's side.

The stench of blood was--truly remarkable. It took him aback and that, alone, said something. His armor was destroyed, cut apart and gnawed free, and the dark splotches on his clothing--it was impossible to tell where Geralt's blood started and where the gore of the creature ended. He had one of his swords in hand, held in a tight immobile grip and in the other he held a grotesque severed head of something that resembled a mummified woman made of corn-husks and a layer of teeth stolen from children's heads. He nearly vomited at the sight of it.

Geralt kept walking, almost like he hadn't seen the bard come up, and Jaskier's hands fluttered as he considered how to--what to do.

"Geralt? My friend? Are you--oh you're looking a bit unwell--" His voice was very high all of a sudden. Was that a solid chunk taken out of him? Melitele's tits he could see through that hole in Geralt's side. Could see clear through him. That was very bad. There was a huge gash across his back, across his legs, he was a mess of holes and bites and Jaskier's heart felt very near to stopping.

He made a decision then and snuck himself under Geralt's sword arm. He drew the tense limb over his shoulders and lifted, took some of the Witcher's weight, and tried to lead him to Roach.

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What? Geralt was still huffing from the sudden influx of heat and hadn't even seen the soap proffered him before it was being used against his back. This time around things weren't so awkward aside from the injuries; whatever tone had been between them before-- whatever the hell had been wrong with Jaskier-- seemed to have passed. It was fine. It had been tiring. He was tired. "Water's already working," he muttered as he leaned, his eyes drooping. He meant drinking it-- he felt much improved.

He didn't fall asleep but he drifted, grunted at whatever Jaskier was saying. The turn of the soap across him was too soothing to fight, the wash of the water every time it was scooped up and poured over him. Geralt hummed. He didn't mind this. He never truly minded when Jaskier made a fuss about grooming him, though he'd never say it. Maybe he mumbled something about it. Perhaps. At some point the someone was trying to lift him... and then he went, gamely, one foot in front of the other. The pain was there but far away.

Perhaps he was actually asleep.

There was the vague sense of being lowered into bed, of warm hands on him and a lilting voice. Geralt felt warm. He might have smiled even though his body felt like it weights were attached to his limbs. He tried to reach out and hold onto the voice but he couldn't, quite, it slipped through his fingers. It slipped and then he sank into darkness.

When Geralt woke he knew two things: one, that the light through the windows was late morning and two, that he was ravenous.

It was still hard to move, to try and push himself up as he looked for water, for Jaskier, for anything.

Geralt drifted, comfortable and sleepy as Jaskier worked. The bard let him but, despite the Witcher not being able to answer him, continued to chat at him as he cleaned, as he carefully rinsed across his stitches, as he changed the bed linens, and peeled the soaked bandages from his side. By the time he had the Witcher settled in bed, spread out over a set of pink stained towels, he was talking about the weather in Oxenfurt during winter. It was the most inane conversation he'd ever had at Geralt, but speaking to fill the air felt correct and the Witcher, well, he wasn't aware enough to object.

He could tell when the man finally passed out--his body went perfectly limp, sank into the feather mattress, and even his breathing failed to catch as Jaskier tried to tend his exposed wounds. He gave it his best, rinsed them with clear water, cleaned the edges gently with clear alcohol, cleaned his tools as he worked, but he was hesitant to flush anything les he wake the Witcher up. When he'd done what he could (which was less than should be done, frankly), Jaskier wound a few rolls of fresh bandage around his legs, around his side--and that had been a trick to pull off, but with a bit of struggling he'd done it--and tucked the Witcher in.

Jaskier ran out of words by the time he was done--it was getting late in the day and he debated going down for food, for drink, but gave up on the idea as soon as it came to him. No, he settled for planting himself, face-first into the bedroll on the floor and was out the very moment he was horizontal.

He woke once before dark--the teenage boy he'd sent to look for Geralt's sword was standing over him, looking pleased as punch, holding--fucking shit--no, not a sword--that was the creature's head. The creature's half eaten head, peeled by crows and rats, brackish meat exposed beneath the surface of teeth and rot, was what greeted Jaskier as he woke. He would have retched but, thankfully, he hadn't eaten a bite. He congratulated the eager youth, paid him, and demanded he put that thing in a sack and put that sack somewhere else. The boy had agreed with relish and run off, coin in hand, to do as he asked.

It took a while after that to sleep again and, when he did, that stupid eyeless bag of teeth haunted his dreams. He did not wake before Geralt, even though he'd planned to, but he had left water nearby in the event the Witcher woke.

The water was found and (while his arm was shaking badly, it was managed) finished in its entirety. There was no dealing with the pitcher to get a refill and anyway, the first had winded him. So Geralt just lay back, panting quietly and happy that his stomach was not trying to rebel for being full while looking out the window onto a view that was not whatever this awful fucking life boasted for an afterlife. Seemed that destiny was not done with him yet.

After a moment, his gaze shifted to Jaskier. The man was hardly a pretty sleeper. Lips parted, limbs akimbo, hair askew. And yet... the soft curve of his cheek, the way his fingers curled loosely under his chin. It wasn't as if Geralt hadn't had more than enough opportunities to see Jaskier sleep over the years, he just never bothered. Sometimes the bard talked in his sleep (the lack of surprise when he'd discovered that had been astounding) and there was the one night that Geralt had literally dragged him into a lake to make it stop, but...

He'd never just. Watched him. There was always something to do. Always some pressing matter-- camp to wrap up, a monster to waylay, a road to get on. Now he couldn't get himself up if he'd wanted to, he ached from head to toe and had nothing better to do than to lay here and watch the crawl of the sun across the prone form of the bard, still in yesterday's clothes.

And then Geralt's stomach apparently finished parsing the water and gave a mighty lurch and yowl to remind him that it had been days since he'd eaten.

Ah, well.

Geralt threw the empty leather cup in his hand at Jaskier.

The leather cup smacked Jaskier soundly across the face. The bard, finally caught in tangle of sleep proper, didn't start awake so much as let out a plaintive groan and roll onto his back. But there was water on his face, and now his nose hurt, and the room didn't smell of that horrible head anymore--he smeared his hand across the dampness on his cheek and blinked, blearily, brows furrowed, into the morning light.

"What day is it?" he asked no one in particular and did not expect an answer. His brain caught up to his waking a split-second after he asked and he jolted upright. His head whipped back and--there was Geralt. Awake and deadpan and very much alive still--Jaskier was, quite abruptly, overjoyed.

"Geralt! Nice of you to join me!" Jaskier greeted and stood up, sleepy and unstable in a truly ungainly way. His hip was still asleep and that wasn't fair--he stumbled a bit but caught himself halfway to the bed.

"How are you feeling? Better? You look better--also smell better," Jaskier told him, rapid fire, as his energy returned. It was true, Geralt didn't look ready to die and that was nothing short of miraculous.

He didn't feel like he was ready to die-- aside from perhaps hunger-- and it showed in the way he dropped annoyed eyes to the tent in Jaskier's trousers, clearly as peppy in the mornings as the man himself, and simply closed his eyes with a groan. "Just stop... talking. It's the morning of whatever day it happens to be. I need something to eat." He'd thanked the man the day before, hadn't he? Then he certainly didn't need to do it again.

He opened his eyes slowly. "I didn't... say anything. About your singing last night. Did I?" Geralt thought he had dreamed about it, though nothing he could clearly recall. He'd been in Oxenfurt and it had been snowing, or else the song that he had been listening to was that awful ballad the bard had named Winter that was about nothing but the properties of love's tendency to freeze. Jaskier had spent almost a month of the road trying to write that; it had been a taxing month. But in the dream he'd definitely been in Oxenfurt.

Jaskier was torn for a moment, between delight and the realization that his morning eagerness had decided to make a show. He glanced down and palmed himself, a bit firmly, to try and crush the thoughts of that from his mind--it was an indelicate procedure, this, but necessary. He moved to the side of the bed, looked for the pitcher of soup--but that had been...fuck, two days ago? If it was here, it was congealed terribly.

"Right, right," he muttered and was distracted by Geralt's question.

"About my singing?" Jaskier repeated and tried to recall--no, Geralt hadn't said much of note. Some passing comments, his usual fare, a hum here and there. The bard was tired, but not so tired that he'd have forgotten either insult or compliment about his singing. He hadn't even sung to him, had he? That, he couldn't remember--it was entirely possible he had.

Fuck and he was still standing here palming himself like a teenager. Unsexy thoughts--ah! Speaking of!

"No, not that I recall," he admitted in a slightly strained voice and withdrew his hands to settle them on his hips. "But I did have some news--the boy I sent to look for your blade came back with the head of that...thing."

And that was an image that could kill an erection so quickly it was staggering.

Geralt took great pains to ignore the way that Jaskier seemed to want to idly hang onto himself-- as if he were wielding a club which he might be prone to begin bludgeoning an unsuspecting subject with quite suddenly-- until the man spoke up about the head. He shifted slightly so that he could see the bard. "A boy." Leave it to Jaskier to send a child to fetch a nightmare.

"At least there's that." Geralt tried to gather a large inhale and then winced as his side objected sharply. "We can find someone who'll buy it." He snorted and then cursed as his side objected that, too. "Hell," he said in more of a monotone once he could breathe again, "Yen might want it, and you know how she is about throwing money at things she wants. Maybe she'll crush all those teeth down into a face powder, or lotion." Now if he could just get out of bed. Geralt looked at Jaskier. "Two breakfasts," he said, determinedly working his way up the headboard into a sitting position. "And get something for yourself as well. The sleep hasn't improved your palor."

He would have objected to Geralt's assessment, that he had sent an actual child, but a teenager wasn't a far cry better. He held his tongue as the Witcher twisted and shifted to sit--thet he could manage that much was, in itself, a grand improvement but it had Jaskier glowering before long.

"Yes, yes," Jaskier agreed and, now that his cock wasn't about to be announcing him as he entered every room, he picked past the bathtub and headed for the door. He cast one last, assessing look at the Witcher--if he tore out any stitches, Jaskier would go positively feral, that he knew--before ducking out into the hall.

The innkeeper's wife gave him a terrified look when he came down, like he was being followed by some grim spectre, but dutifully nodded and went about cooking as Jaskier made his requests. The boy he had sent to fetch the head was downstairs, crowing about the whole experience with his friends--you'd think he'd fought the damn thing for how he spun the story. (Still, Jaskier was fond of tales of heroics and listened while he waited.)

When the innkeeper's wife finished, nearly half an hour had passed, and the plates she had piled up were heavy enough that he had to ask her to help him take them up. She declined, made some excuses about cleaning, but that boy jumped right to service and all but clamored up the stairs after the bard.

Jaskier returned with three plates, one with a whole stack of bacon and eggs, one with two loaves of bread and a bowl of butter, and one with cold smoked fish and hot slices of ham piled high--which so happened to be the one carried by his helper.

Geralt examined his stitches while Jaskier was gone. He folded back mercifully clean sheets to his stomach and pushed fingers lightly against the bandage-- stained, but not badly-- and then smoothed calluses over a long line of new stitches and pink, healing flesh in a line from his mid-stomach to near under his armpit.

(Nails like talons, curved ivory that had no moon to flash in and thus give themselves away; he hadn't felt the cut until the blood had stuck his jerkin to his skin and slowed him further.)

There was a slow breath given to the silent room. There were noises of life in the village outside the window and even the house itself but the Witcher didn't need any such sunlit reminders to banish things that crept in the dark. He'd been made not to feel horror the way normal people did. His fingers slowed on the stitches. Lucky him.

The stitches were small and mostly even. Those with no mind to be physicians who were thrust into the position often skewed one of two ways-- too few stitches, because they were scared, because they were sick-- or too many, out of worry. Geralt was proud to see that Jaskier had done neither and wondered if it was simply borne of the vanity in the man that had forced him to learn to mend his own clothes once he began following Geralt further and further from towns. Had repeated practice become muscle memory?

When the door opened, Geralt's hand slid back to the bed. That he was impressed by both the handiwork and the fact that Jaskier had actually given up expensive thread to mend him didn't need to be aired. The smell of the food filled his mouth with saliva and if his reflexes had been in tact he would have grabbed a herring off the plate as it passed him-- as it was his stomach growled. Loudly. The boy stared at his stomach and then at him.

"Boo," the Witcher said, wondering if he'd scatter.

The teenager wasn't squeamish, Jaskier had realized that much when he'd woken him up with that grotesque head in hand, beaming like he'd felled a prize buck. He did seem a little terrified of Geralt, though, which made less sense. He set the plate down on the stool by the tub and, when Geralt made a faint joke at him, actually did hustle out of the room.

It was a confusing reaction and Jaskier made no attempt to hide his feelings as the boy darted out into the hall. He looked back at Geralt as he set the other plates on the bed, and shook his head.

"I have no idea," he professed vaguely and it was half a sentiment. Whatever pep he'd awoken with had begun to fade as he waited for food. (Thirty minutes sitting in silence would do that, wouldn't it?) He was still tired--he'd probably feel tired for days. The smell of food helped, however, and he picked up a slice of ham the moment the plate left his fingers.

Jaskier didn't bother sitting on the bed and just resigned himself to plunking down on the floor next to Geralt. The side of the bed was a decent structure to lean against and this kept him closer to the ham and herring.

"If you need something, dear Witcher, do tell me," Jaskier requested as he idly ate his ham. "You're more thread than skin at the moment, and I'd rather not sully all of the sheets in this establishment. Not with blood, at least."

Geralt could reach far enough that for the time being he was fine helping himself. It took all his considerable will-power not to stuff the warm food into his mouth as fast as his weak arms would work and then swallow it whole. Instead, the opposite. He chose one thing at a time and chewed each bite until it was almost nothing at all in his mouth; it was maddening but created saliva and would help his stomach digest. Also, a side benefit, eating like this he was sure not to vomit everything back up. And so, for the better of a quarter hour, he just let Jaskier talk to the room as he methodically worked his way through three eggs and four fish, one ham, and several plain pieces of bread. Finally he wiped his mouth.

"Water."

Once he'd washed the breakfast down, he leaned back against the headboard and listened to his stomach groan. It was a good feeling, he decided. "They're scared of me." It was addressing both the woman last night, vaguely remembered, and the boy this morning. Jaskier seemed befuddled by it; this was the answer. "If I were human I should be dead and if not dead, then..." he grunted. "Comatose. Invalid. Certainly not taking breakfast. You're too used to me by half, Jaskier."

There was something nice in listening to Gertalt eat--it was mostly the part where th Withcher wasnt insensate and comatose. Jaskier ate much slower and much less and settled I to bread while the man above him had another bit of fish. He chatted, idly talked about a myriad of unimportant things--the name of the innkeeper's wife, that she was probably cleaning more sheets, the name of the boy and his story about finding that heat, the way his friends had roared with awe and delight--he had barely got through his bread when Geralt demanded water.

Geralt downed a pitcher nearly and Jaskier snorted.

"What? No, that's ridiculous," Jaskier objected to all Geralt's statements at once. He shook his head and reached behind himself to blindly grab for a piece of bacon. He managed it after some fuss.

"That boy strolled right in here last night and that woman helped me toss you onto that awful table," he said, as though either fact helped his case at all. "They're surprised, is all--why so much recovery would take a normal person weeks. They were just clearly ready for the long haul. They'll be elated when they see you up and about."

He twisted in place, then, and cast a look back at Geralt.

"You are welcome, by the way--" he said a bit haughtily and gestured at the Witcher as a whole. "--I stopped counting before I finished," he lied, because he absolutely had not, "but that's better than a hundred. You are a sight my friend."

Not including the ones he had added after the bath, it was four hundred and fifty seven.

Geralt just shook his head, took another fish, and listened to Jaskier's excuses. The man had a funny way of sidestepping anything put forward that might sound in the slightest bit detrimental to Geralt's nature, even if that anything only happened to make statement to what he actually was. Semantics were one thing but base fact was that he was not natural and truly, to deny that part of himself would be to say the pain of his childhood was for nothing and Geralt could not do that. So he let Jaskier do his dances and said nothing about it; the argument that would come of it would have seen no winners.

The proof would be when the lady of the House ushered them out the door as soon as Geralt showed signs of taking his convalescence out of the bedroom-- and even then it would stay a known quantity to Geralt and a mystery to Jaskier. No. Despite the fact of her having a son not too old to have been a target for the thing he had dispatched, her debt had been paid with room and board and blood on the alter of her kitchen. She would be giddy to see the back of them now.

He paused in licking a finger and raised an eyebrow as Jaskier turned. Teeth scraped the pad of his thumb and he gave the flesh on last suck to divest it of salt. "All that good silk wasted on my flesh. I suppose I owe you a doublet, at least, in some awful color."

He wanted, very much, to say something about how Geralt had ruined his last doublet, about how he used the thread for any number of repairs on the rags Geralt called clothing, but the moment Jaskier opened his mouth he said something else entirely. His jokes were gone, dried up, and the words that chased out of his mouth had a mind of their own. It came out with more vehemence than he intended, sounded more raw than he'd have wanted--

"Don't say wasted," Jaskier demanded--the fury in his voice was low and bitter and so unlike him that he actually choked on it a bit. He coughed and took up the pitcher of water and took a drink, swallowed around the tightness in his chest and coughed again as he set it aside.

He didn't want to scold Geralt, didn't want to make this strange while he was bedridden, but while he could withstand the Witcher's melancholia and his pessimism about the locals, he could not, would not, let him turn his casual dismissal on himself. Jaskier had spent too much time, too many sleepless horrible hours waiting to see if he died, to let him belittle this all.

"Don't you dare," he added, though the fury was more distant, more his regular flavor of irritation. He set the pitcher down a bit hard and leaned back against the bed more firmly.

"It took me twelve hours and three bottles of strong liquor, I almost ran out. I'm almost out now. It--"

He sighs.

"It wasn't wasted."

Geralt's face reflected nothing as Jaskier snapped the first three-word-answer out from between his teeth with a vehemence that was genuinely queer enough considering the source to raise eyebrows had he been in other company. As it was the Witcher merely watched the bard as he washed the sentiment back down with water and came at it from a different angle.

There was something low and warm that lodged oddly at the bottom of Geralt's windpipe as Jaskier went on, like heartburn. Too many fish, maybe. Geralt didn't say anything and all the words hung in the air between then for a moment. It wasn't wasted. They felt too big for the room, as if one of them should have opened a window to let the thing out instead of letting it hang around. Geralt's nearest hand twitched and fingertips slid across the back of Jakier's neck, just against the soft fringe at the nape.

Then he reached for another piece of bread.

"Are you done eating? Bring my bag over to the bed and I'll show you how to make a salve that works. I smell like a damn hothouse." It wasn't so bad, of course, but Geralt's nose worked better than most and the insult was something easy for equilibrium's sake.

There was apology in the light touch that grazed the back of his neck. It was quiet, without words or really action--it was a note of understanding and it meant everything. Jaskier's chest loosened a bit, with that brush of fingers, his shoulders sagged just so.

This was fine. Geralt was alive.

Jaskier sat for a moment, as content in the silence as could be expected. When Geralt broke it, sniffing in something like disdain, Jaskier craned and shot him a look of almost comically mock offense. The mood was broken just as quickly as it settled.

"Excuse me! I didn't hear you complaining!" Jaskier objected even as he dragged himself up and fetched the bag in question.

It took a moment to maneuver the emptied plates to the side, to find a spot on the floor where they fit, but he did. He set the bag next to the Witcher and then plunked himself down on the bed next to him.

"True, I may have added a bit of lavender for the sake of it, but bog herbs aren't fragrant, Geralt, and I have to sleep near you, you know."

"Oh, so it was for your tender sensibilities," Geralt prodded aimlessly, the words as rhetorical as they were comfortable. "Lavender does have general soporific effects, good for relaxing, deep breathing. Things like that." He opened the flap of the bag and started slowly rifling through the contents. His mixed elixirs were packed with care in a straw-lined hard-shell box, but the general ingredients that he had a habit of gathering as they rode ended up shoved into random places until he decided to organize them by qualities every few nights.

"If I hadn't been poisoned," by his own hand, in this case, "swallow is the best potion to use, by the way. I don't have any Drowner brains at the moment but other than that it's just celadine and Dwarven liquor. It's green, and clear." Geralt was pulling things out as he spoke, his words slow but clear. Strange, to be the one filling the silence as Jaskier watched him, and not the other way around.

Finally he handed Jaskier the small bundle of herbs he'd pulled from here and there and pointed to each in turn. "Comfrey-- an astringent. Good for keeping the area clear of anything that might cause inflammation. Goldenseal, but the leaf, it keeps infection down. The flower is useless." Geralt glanced at Jaskier, to see if it was following. "And Arnica." He pointed to the last, a small yellow flower and maybe the edge of a smile touched his mouth. "For lessening pain."

Jaskier watched as he sorted through the bag when, all of a sudden, this became a real lesson. He didn't know why he hadn't expected Geralt to teach him, the Witcher had just said that was the plan, but it was...unexpected. Jaskier's exhaustion is shoved firmly aside, all at once, and his blue eyes rivet to the movements of the items in the bag.

He has always been a dandy and a layabout, given to pursuits of pleasure just as keenly as the mind, but he hadn't earned a doctorate by faffing about. Geralt had never seen him working at Oxenfurt, but he did know how to pay attention and learn.

"Swallow has drowner brain in it?" Jaskier asked as Geralt explained. Jaskier been snapped at once or twice, over the years, and Geralt had mentioned that the potions he carried would kill a normal man (the knowledge that too many would kill him was new to this event), and...yes...that was starting to make a horrifying sort of sense.

He gamely resisted asking any more questions as Geralt went on, but he was nearly vibrating with the need to by the time he pulled out the Arnica. Jaskier sorted through the flowers in hand--tried to memorize the shapes of them. The Comfrey Jaskier knew, he'd gathered what felt like basket-fulls over the last few days, but the other two? The midwife hadn't mentioned those.

"Why not add willow bark? They had me peeling a dozen trees," Jaskier asked. "And no wormwood? The stuff is awful to deal with but I thought it was crucial. They told me it was--"

He hadn't the slightest doubt that Geralt's formulation was better. It was probably not poisonous to the touch, not if he was telling Jaskier how to make it, but everything he'd learned in the last few days was a bit at odds with this. Fuck, had they taught him some trade school ditties when he wanted musical theory? His face goes a bit annoyed at the thought, but he doesn't stop turning over the ingredients in hand.

"Willow bark?" Geralt shrugged one shoulder. "I would use it for localized swelling. An injured joint, something like that." As it became clear that Jaskier was at least able to discourse about such things instead of just sit and sop up dry information, the taciturn edge left his voice... and maybe, maybe there was a bit of amusement hidden beneath. The idea of Jaskier peeling willows was just too good. He wondered if whoever They were had just done it to keep Jaskier's undoubtedly nervous prattling out of the house.

"--told you it was what?" His head lifted at that, hair falling down in front of his shoulders and eyebrows knitting together. "Wormwood does promote..." he cleared his throat. "It draws blood to the surface, so technically it can help with healing and clotting, yes, but I wouldn't say that it's the thing that it's most known for." For a moment, Geralt puzzled on it, and then he realized; "the marshes. It grows like a weed in wet conditions. No wonder they'd use it over something else."

Jaskier made an offended sound in the back of his throat.

"I knew it!" They had been teaching him trade school ditties. He is furious for a moment, both at himself for not having this knowledge, and at that old midwife--but that fades quickly. She'd been very kind. It was possible she was just...not very skilled...or (more likely) that Geralt was just exceptionally skilled. Jaskier sighs and puts it out of mind.

"Nevermind, I'll toss out the nonsense I've got mixed and make something new--" he says and waves his hand at his mess of a pack in the corner. "Should I use tallow as the base, then? Or is that a second string fiction as well?"

He has an array of questions for Geralt and, despite his desire to keep the dire nature of Geralt's injuries largely secret (insofar as he can), each question sheds a bit more light on that first evening. He asks about packing herbs across gaping wounds, asks whether wormwood oil is a good plan atop stitches as he was told, asks about how best to dry and grind these things--though he does crow a bit about how smooth his current, lackluster salves are. (He could go into making toiletries, Geralt, he could--he explained--Why, maybe he'd even start making his own moisturizers.)

Jaskier listens, absorbs, and at one point actually goes to fetch his songbook and take notes.

Geralt was sure that whoever had told Jaskier to use wormwood and willow bark were only doing their best. Recipes varied by person and region and there were some cases in which he'd actually expanded his own stocks and recipes by talking to the women in the villages he'd passed through. Not always, but there had been times. "I prefer beeswax," Geralt said. "It's purer and doesn't smell. But tallow is fine." And, again, plentiful-- and no one needed deal with a beehive and it's lively inhabitants. Because so many plants served similar purposes, Herbology was at its best when the knowledge base of the practitioner as wide as it was deep.

Certainly they weren't going to get through it all in a day. When Jaskier started going on about the possibilities of his lotion line, Geralt's posture began to sag. By the time he'd fetched his songbook (which makes a subtle mark on the Witcher's backbrain, his songbook) eyes are only open when he himself was talking. "Just remember what you can for now," Geralt finally said, his head giving up the fight and turning to let the nearest pillow catch its weight, "there's time." Thanks to Jaskier. For the moment the lingering pain was all secondary to his full stomach and the heaviness of his body.

"Jaskier," he mumbled, "no wormwood on stitches. It's an aphrodisiac." Apparently it would be his final word on the subject; he was asleep.

Jaskier jots down what he can recall, which is a fair amount, and scribbles over some notes for a bawdy song about a sheep-herd and his lamb of a mistress. He watches Geralt sag against the pillows and sleep, and cannot help the bemused hum that leaves him as he finishes writing. He, perhaps, underlines the word aphrodisiac in conjunction to wormwood but that's neither here nor there in the mess of fine script that makes up his songbook.

Clearly just a tidbit to remember for the next bawdy song.

He leaves the book open, lets the ink dry, and goes about cleaning the room as quickly and quietly as he can. He piles all the spare food on one of the plates and leaves it in easy range of the sleeping Witcher, disposes of the other plates, of the frigid, dirtied bathwater, and fetches more to drink.

Unfortunately, he's awake now, mind abuzz with new learning. He decides, on a whim, to mix the concoction that Geralt explained to him and swipes the necessary supplies from the Witcher's bag so he can make the attempt. It's a bit rough, the leaves are too finely ground, the tallow is thick and sticky, but he has a tin of it done before he finds himself drifting again.

He isn't sure why he decides to crowd the Witcher on the bed--so he doesn't get another cup thrown at him, he decides--but he does. The bed is, by far and away, much more comfortable than the floor and Jaskier cheerfully settles into the space between Geralt's bulk and the wall. He's asleep almost as soon as he's comfortable and the last thought before he drifts is of flowers and herbs and first string violin concertos, oddly.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

PSL Injuries and Patching up with Monsterbytrade

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