PSL Injuries and Patching up with Monsterbytrade

[whatupbuttercup]

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.

Comments

[monsterbytrade]

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.

[whatupbuttercup]

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.