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Jaskier can’t say what makes him think it. But, as they’re passing around the shallow bend of a ravine, something in his gut tugs, an instinct to stop and investigate. He’s generally prone to paying close attention to his gut feelings.
“Geralt.”
The Witcher stops, just slightly ahead, and turns to him, one eyebrow quirked in question. Jaskier pushes a hand through his hair, suddenly unreasonably agitated. He’s as unsure about why he’s anxious as he is about the urge to investigate the ravine. “We need to – there’s something. Down there.” He gestures toward the ravine.
Geralt’s brows raise and he looks over. “Smells like death,” he says, nostrils flaring. “And rot. Probably a dog, or a wayward sheep. No reason to go down and find it.”
Jaskier shakes his head. “No. I can’t smell something like that, but – there’s…something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” Jaskier hisses. He’s apprehensive and frustrated, something instinctual screaming at him. “I don’t. But we have to. If you won’t, I’ll go by myself.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, soft and warning all at once.
“Geralt,” Jaskier snaps back, slighting his lute onto Roach’s back. He starts picking his way toward the ravine.
Geralt follows.
Jaskier spots him easily. He’s a large, hulking man, and his armor is dark against the green and rot that blankets the bottom of the ravine. Jaskier can’t see the medallion, but he can see the chain it hangs on.
“Geralt!” he calls up. The Witcher hasn’t quite made it down the steep incline to the bottom yet. “It’s a Witcher!”
“Who?” Geralt shouts back. Anyone else would think him stoic, but Jaskier catches the panic behind the word.
“Not one of ours!” Jaskier assures.
He picks his way over to the Witcher, who is clearly unconscious if he’s not dead. When he’s near enough, he goes to his knees and reaches out. First to his throat, bared by the tip of his head, and then to his mouth, lips slightly parted. His pulse is weak, and slower than it should be, but there, and he’s breathing, though barely.
“He’s alive! Geralt!”
Geralt crashes to the ground behind him and rushes over. Jaskier turns just in time to see him take in the sight of the other Witcher.
He flinches and takes a step back.
“Geralt?”
“Jaskier, I….”
Just from the look on his face, Jaskier can tell where that sentence is going. “No,” he interrupts. “I’m not just leaving him here.”
Geralt looks deeply conflicted. “Letho of Gulet,” he says, softly, eyes begging Jaskier to make the connection.
He does, of course.
“Viper,” he murmurs, turning back to the man. “Kingslayer.”
Geralt is silent behind him.
“I’m still not leaving him,” Jaskier finally asserts, after a long moment of consideration. “He’s still a Witcher.” The rest of it goes unsaid, but Jaskier knows that Geralt understands it. I can’t let it a Witcher die on my watch. If It happens once, it could happen with you or one of the others.
Jaskier starts trying to get his arms under Letho’s body, but Geralt comes up behind and touches his shoulder. “I’ll do it,” he says. “You might be able to lift him, but you won’t be able to carry him up that incline.” He jerks his head back toward the top of the ravine. Jaskier has to concede the point, and he moves out of Geralt’s way.
“Go,” Geralt says. “Up at the top, about fifty paces north of where I tied Roach, there’s a decent place to camp. Go set it up.”
Jaskier pauses for a moment. Geralt huffs and turns to him, holding out a hand, and Jaskier takes it.
“We won’t let him die,” Geralt promises softly, lips pressed to Jaskier’s knuckles. “I’ll follow you up.”
Jaskier takes a deep breath and nods, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. Then he turns and begins the fighting climb back up to the top of the ravine.
He nearly has the camp set all the way up, just minus their tent and the fire, by the time Geralt stumbles into it, Letho across his back. Seeing Geralt carrying the man, he realizes that Letho is even bigger than he seemed at the bottom of the ravine.
If he were standing, he’d almost be a head taller than Jaskier, making him almost that much taller than Geralt, too. His entire body is wide and thick with muscle; at Jaskier’s best estimate, one of his thighs is as big as Jaskier’s waist.
And Jaskier is not exactly a waif of a man, as thin as he is.
Geralt lays Letho down on his own bedroll. “Help me get him out of this armor,” he says, and Jaskier scrambles across the camp to do so.
Usually, he wouldn’t dare undress a Witcher without explicit consent to do so. But this is a bit of an unprecedented situation; firstly, unlike that time with Lambert, he has no idea what’s wrong with Letho. There might be a wound beneath his clothes, something they can’t see or treat without the armor out of the way. And secondly, Geralt is with him. As much as Jaskier postures and argues, he knows that there are things Geralt knows better than him. What to do when a Witcher is found half-dead at the bottom of a remote ravine is likely one of those things.
Slowly, between the two of them, they get Letho down to just a tunic and his breeches. Geralt holds the man up while Jaskier pulls gently at the tunic, until it’s up and off as well. Neither of them touches the belt of knives around his waist. It’s unspoken, but Jaskier knows that it would be worse for Letho to wake up completely disarmed. If he wakes up, that is.
The wound is large, immediately visible cutting across Letho’s torso, from chest to gut. It should have been deadly. Jaskier gasps and nearly retches at the sight of Letho’s rib, just visible at the deepest part of the cut. And it is a cut; Jaskier isn’t sure if it could have been made during a sword fight, or if someone incapacitated Letho and then made it, but it’s too clean at the edges to have come from anything but a blade, and there's the tell-tale redness at the very edges that bleaches out into translucent white further away from it. He wonders if Letho dressed himself without caring for the wound, or if someone else did.
“Will you be alright?” Geralt asks gently.
Jaskier nods and wipes a hand across his mouth. He’s seen worse and kept a straight face, it’s just that he wasn’t expecting it.
“It’s not bleeding,” he points out. Geralt nods and leans down, close to Letho’s face, nostrils flaring.
“Not Kiss, but some kind of potion,” he says. “Taken somewhat recently, too.”
“So he took it, or someone gave it to him,” Jaskier deduces. “Geralt, that’s…,” he pauses and gestures to the wound, unsure if any of his words would even be sufficient, “I don’t know if…. He needs a healer.”
“We can’t take him to one,” Geralt says grimly. “No healer this side of the Yaruga would take him. Probably not any on the other side that would, either. He’s a Kingslayer, Jaskier, and a ruthless killer besides.”
Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Yes, well,” he mutters, standing and going over to the packs. He digs out all of their medical supplies; he has no idea what they might actually need. “The same might be said about you.”
“I don’t take contracts on humans,” Geralt snaps, and, well. That certainly shuts Jaskier up.
He brings all of the supplies over. “Tell me what to do.”
“We need boiling water,” Geralt says. He tips his head, clearly listening for something. “There’s a stream, about thirty paces to the southeast. There’s a tin in the pack with the rations, near the bottom. Go fill it, I’ll start the fire.”
“Alright,” Jaskier agrees, and does as he’s told.
The stream is exactly where Geralt said it would be – not like Jaskier expected anything different – and Jaskier quickly fills the tin. It’s bigger than a cup but smaller than a bucket. He wonders if Geralt carries it for this reason. They’ve always gone into towns, to inns or to healers, to properly care for his wounds. The ones that they haven’t, Jaskier’s disinfectant and Geralt’s mutations have been sufficient to manage, no boiling water or stitches or proper bandages.
He returns as quickly as possible, tin filled almost to the top. Geralt has started the fire, like he said he would; Jaskier notices it’s bigger than their usual ones, and has more than just a handful of rocks to denote its space. It looks more like a proper fire pit than what they usually set up to camp. He realizes it probably means they’ll be staying here for longer than one night, and his stomach twists uncomfortably.
They don’t stay in one place for long unless there’s a contract, or Geralt is too wounded to move on yet.
“Set it on that stone,” Geralt directs, just as Jaskier comes back into camp. He points toward a flat stone within the firepit, but not centered. Close enough to boil the water, especially in a metal container.
It’s a bit of a chore to balance the tin, especially being careful of the flames, but he gets it done rather quickly.
“It needs stitches,” Geralt says. “But we have to be careful with how deep it is. The only reason he’s still breathing is that potion – it will wear off, eventually. The bleeding will probably come back when it does.”
Jaskier takes a deep breath and nods. “There’s a needle and silk in that kit,” he gestures to it, “and disinfectant. The one you taught me to make.”
Geralt looks at it a little dubiously, and Jaskier tacks on, “It’s the same stuff I used to stitch Eskel up.”
The doubtful look clears from Geralt’s face and he nods. “Alright.”
Silence falls between them, tense while they wait for the water to boil. When it finally does, Geralt stands and, using a rag, grabs it. It probably still burns his hands, but he’s much better equipped to deal with it than Jaskier is, so Jaskier keeps his mouth shut. As much as he doesn’t want to.
He’s out of his depth, here, and he knows it. Even if he hates it, he can’t ignore the glaring truth.
“Use this rag to clean your hands,” Geralt throws him a too-hot rag. Jaskier ignores the small pain and does as he’s told. Geralt does the same with a different rag, then wets a third. “Clean around the edges of the wound, please. I’ll set the rest up.”
“What’s the chances he’ll survive?” Jaskier doesn’t exactly want to ask the question, but he finds he has to.
Geralt doesn’t reply for long enough that Jaskier can guess the answer.
“We’ll see,” he finally murmurs. “Let’s get the wound stitched up and make sure he keeps warm, and we’ll go from there.”
Jaskier nods. He carefully doesn’t look too closely as he cleans around the edges of the wound, focusing more on the dirt and sweat and dried bits of blood than the flayed skin and muscle. Despite that, he can’t help but notice that some of it has already started to knit back together on its own, new skin bright pink-white; it’s small, but present.
“He’s alive enough to start healing,” he comments.
Geralt crouches on the other side of Letho’s body and inspects the wound again. “Good,” he says. “That raises his chances.”
The rest of the process is silent. Jaskier stays close, holding the edges of the wound steady when Geralt needs; mostly he sits on his knees, careful to keep his hands from touching anything and becoming dirty, and stares blankly into the sky.
He…knows, mostly, why he couldn’t leave Letho in that ravine. But at the same time, he doesn’t. What does it matter if some random Witcher dies? Dozens, hundreds, more have done it already; Jaskier has seen their medallions in Kaer Morhen, stolen a precious few from lying, pompous knights. He’s heard of plenty, though only in passing – never from Geralt. Never named, just…rumors, really, so it’s never been real.
Maybe that’s it. This is real; Geralt is sitting in front of him, alongside this nearly dead Witcher. The reality of it is that it could be Geralt, unconscious and clinging to life, needing Jaskier to save him. Needing someone else to save him, if Jaskier wasn’t here.
That reality is apparently more important than the fact that Letho is not just a Kingslayer, but a regular callous murderer-for-hire, as well. It sits a little wrong in Jaskier’s gut, but overall, it’s easier to sit with than the idea of letting Letho die alone in the bottom of a ravine.
“Done,” Geralt murmurs. “In my potions bag, there’s a jar of salve. It’s green. Only touch the glass.”
Jaskier stands and goes to dig in the bag. There has to be some sort of organization to it, considering how easily Geralt can find his potions and anything else in it, but Jaskier has never been able to figure his system out. It takes him a bit of time to find the jar, but when he does, he’s careful to bypass the lid and grasp at the glass itself.
“What is it?” he asks.
Geralt shrugs one shoulder. Not an I don’t know, more of an I can’t explain it well enough to answer. Jaskier accepts the non-answer and hands it over. Geralt opens the jar and scoops a generous amount of the salve into his palm. Very careful of the stitches, he rubs it into the area around the wound, the redness from where the needle punctured the skin. Jaskier watches his hands work and tries to turn his thoughts off.
He’s almost successful.
“You need to rest,” Geralt murmurs once he’s finished applying the salve and wiped it from his hands. “I’ll keep watch.”
“Don’t we need to bandage it?”
Geralt shakes his head. “Not yet. Tomorrow, if he’s not awake. His temperature is fine right now, and his pulse. I’ll monitor them.”
Jaskier nods and shuffles over to his bedroll. He lies down facing away from Letho and Geralt. He finds he doesn’t want to look at either of them, and it feels like a stone sitting in his chest.
It takes a long time for him to fall asleep.
They spend the next three days in a sort of limbo.
Letho improves, but only in tiny increments; his pulse gets a bit stronger, some of his color starts to come back, the wound begins to heal just a little faster. Jaskier and Geralt take turns keeping watch over him. Geralt hunts to feed them and more or less lets Roach wander as she pleases. Jaskier mostly pretends to compose and frets in between compulsively checking Letho for signs of recovery and changing his bandages.
The fourth day, Letho’s eyes start to rove under his lids, and his hands twitch.
The fifth day, he wakes.
Jaskier is leaning over him when it happens, dabbing salve onto the wound – almost completely closed now, though still fragile, according to Geralt. He senses the movement before he sees it or understands it; Letho’s arm, laid to his side and under Jaskier’s chest, jerks up over their heads. Jaskier turns just in time to realize there’s a knife headed straight for his throat.
There’s a split second where it seems as if time slows, like Jaskier is unable to move while the knife continues to descend toward him. His body freezes alongside his brain, despite instinct screaming at him to move, to jerk away and not die at the end of a confused Witcher’s blade.
Geralt’s hand wraps around Letho’s wrist and jerks it back with a vaguely worrying crack. Letho drops the knife, and Jaskier is suddenly in control of his body again. Enough to scramble backward and collapse into the dirt a safe six feet away, at least.
“Letho,” Geralt says, something dangerous in his tone. “Calm down.”
“Geralt,” is all Letho says in reply.
Geralt doesn’t let go of his wrist. Tension like a concrete wall sits between the two Witchers as they stare at one another, Letho looking at Geralt upside down, Geralt crouched and glaring down at him. Jaskier tries very hard to keep his breathing under control.
“Let go of me,” Letho finally says, and Jaskier isn’t sure what changes, but Geralt does as he’s told and steps away. Toward Jaskier, between him and the other Witcher, though he doesn’t block Jaskier’s line of sight or Letho’s.
The tension remains, though a little less looming now. Jaskier swallows his heartbeat and asks, as steadily as he can, “What happened?”
Letho’s jaw clenches. He tries to sit up, but Geralt steps forward to stop him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t,” Geralt murmurs. “We’ve spent five days making sure you didn’t die. Don’t ruin the effort.”
Jaskier can just hear the sound of Letho’s teeth grinding. “I won’t accept owing you,” he mutters, finally. “I didn’t ask you to save me.”
At that, Jaskier’s anxiety finally dissipates. “What is it with Witchers and seeing everything as a transaction,” he mutters, standing and brushing dirt off of his breeches. “Don’t answer that,” he directs at Geralt, who has opened his mouth to say something sarcastic, Jaskier is sure. “We saved your life because no one deserves to die forgotten at the bottom of a ravine, Letho,” he continues. “The only thing we ask is that you don’t maim or murder us in return.”
“Jaskier – ”
“Geralt,” Jaskier interrupts his Witcher with a pointed look. Geralt doesn’t react outwardly, not in a way Letho can likely see, but Jaskier can see the way his fists clench, the not-quite-downturn of his mouth. It’s concession, but an unwilling one. He’s sure Geralt will let him know all about it later, whenever they’re free of Letho.
Stupid bastard struggles to use his words for average conversation, but he’s wildly good at berating Jaskier for what he considers poor decision making. As if he’s got literally any space to be judging Jaskier, really.
“I’m not going to be one of your pets, bard,” Letho snaps.
Jaskier turns to Letho with one eyebrow raised. He’s fully aware of the fact that Letho could – and probably would – kill him without so much as blinking, but he’s never responded well to that kind of tone directed at him.
Just ask Lambert.
“Pets?” he asks. “Are you implying – ”
The look on Letho’s face, something between a scowl and a self-satisfied smirk, answers the question Jaskier was going to ask, so he doesn’t bother finishing.
It’s ill advised. In fact, it’s downright suicidal, but Jaskier has, frankly, done stupider, and also, he’s fairly certain that while Letho could stick him with one of those knives, he won’t. Not with Geralt playing guard dog behind him. Jaskier knows exactly what face his Witcher is making without even turning to look. It is fairly intimidating...if you don’t see it twelve times a day.
He steps toward Letho, not quite within stabbing distance but nearly, and crouches down so they’re as close to eye-level as they can get with Letho propped up on a spare bedroll. “They aren’t my pets, Letho,” he says, voice as deadly as he can get it. He doesn’t pull out his dagger, but it’s more a deference to Geralt’s level of tolerance than his own preference. “And I’m not particularly looking to add a snake to the collection. It’s because of me that you’re alive right now, because if Geralt had been given the choice, he’d have left you in that ravine. So, I’ll repeat myself. I ask that you don’t maim or murder us in return for saving your godsdamned hide, and now, I’m adding this: keep your snide remarks about me or the Wolf School Witchers to yourself.”
“Or what?” Letho sneers. “What could you possibly do to me, bardling?”
That seals it, Jaskier does not like this Witcher. He’ll still make sure he makes it out of this godsforsaken forest alive, because he’s already halfway through, and even a morally grey Witcher deserves to know he’s cared for in some capacity. But he doesn’t like Letho at all.
Jaskier can practically feel the way Geralt tenses when he pulls his dagger out of his doublet and tips the point against Letho’s chin. “I’ll go back on my mission of saving you, don’t think I fucking won’t.”
He doesn’t flinch when Letho growls, and that’s what finally seems to give the Witcher pause. He tilts his head, pointedly careful of the tip of Jaskier’s blade, and just looks at him for a moment. Jaskier stares back, like always. He’ll lose a staring contest with a Witcher when he’s in his godsdamned grave.
“Hm.” Letho leans back as much as he can, away from Jaskier’s dagger. A yield.
“Great!” Jaskier flips his dagger and slides it back into its pocket, popping back up and absolutely ignoring the glare Geralt is lighting the back of his head on fire with. “Now, can I continue tending to your wound, or would you like to try and do it yourself?”
Letho blinks at him. “I’ll do it.”
Jaskier graciously hands him the salve and then busies himself across the campsite with his lute. Geralt squeezes his shoulder in a way that clearly says we’re talking about that later, but sits nearby to tend to his swords.
With Letho awake, able to eat and drink, he heals faster. Though the potion Geralt gives him when he can sit up is probably worth more than some almost-burnt rabbit and water – whatever it is, it’s viciously purple, smells like sour wine, and makes Letho pull a face like something is chewing on his balls. Jaskier doesn’t ask.
They remain for another four days before Geralt deems Letho healed enough for travel. Jaskier knows very well that means that they’ll be going their separate ways soon; Geralt was cagey before, but with Letho awake he’s been worse, downright agitated. Letho hasn’t been much better. Jaskier has been pointedly ignoring both of them, and their constant staring contests.
However, despite their glaring, and Geralt’s thinning patience, they spend one last meal together.
The fire has dwindled down between them – Geralt and Jaskier on one side, Letho on the other, as they’ve been configured since Letho woke, more or less. Jaskier is watching the embers sleepily. He knows that they’ll be travelling on soon, so he lets himself doze a little against Geralt’s shoulder. He’ll need to be alert if they’re going to traverse the forest at night, even if it’s just a few miles to a new campsite for the night.
“It was another Witcher,” Letho murmurs, looking at the remains of his meal. “Cat. Got something in my food, somehow, didn’t wait long enough to try and gut me. I managed to choke down a potion, get dressed, and stumble into that ravine before I blacked out.”
Jaskier hums in acknowledgment. Geralt, though, tenses as if Letho has spit some great insult and grits out, “Who?”
Letho snorts, and when he looks up from his lap, there’s a mean glint in his eye. “Wouldn’t you like to know, pup,” he says, teeth bared. Jaskier is suddenly very awake.
“Letho – ”
“Geralt,” Jaskier interrupts, heedless of the dark growl in Geralt’s voice. He’s heard worse, and scarier. Geralt twitches toward him, enough response for Jaskier to move on. “Letho, I think it’s time you go.”
“Do you think so, bard?” Letho sneers.
Clearly, despite having given in first last time, Letho is aiming for a repeat performance of their previous standoff. What makes him think this time will end any differently than last, Jaskier has no idea. At this point, he’s no longer afraid of the Viper, he’s just exasperated.
If Letho was really set to kill him, he’d have either tried more seriously or succeeded already.
It’s easy to get to his feet, to slide his dagger out of his doublet, to circle the fire until he’s just within reaching distance of the mountainous Witcher.
“Yes,” Jaskier says, deadpan and biting. Letho surges to his feet, putting them nearly nose-to-nose, and snarls. His teeth are too sharp to be human, sharper even than Geralt’s, and his breath reeks of roasted meat and that soured-wine potion still. Ignoring the low sound of Geralt growling behind him, Jaskier tucks the point of his blade against Letho’s throat and, when the bite of steel and copper tang of blood doesn’t make Letho’s snarl waver, he laughs.
And laughs, and laughs. It’s unhinged, bordering maniacal, and it’s a sound that’s sent more than a few hardened bandits scrambling away; a sound that makes even Geralt wince. Something he usually keeps tucked inside his chest.
Letho doesn’t run. He doesn’t wince, doesn’t even step back, but his snarl falters into a frown, and his eyes go wide. Jaskier sees the way his bicep shifts, imperceptible except that Jaskier has a not-insignificant amount of education in watching Witchers.
He ducks down and dodges to the side before Letho even grips the hilt of one of his blades, and the slice he leaves on the back of the Witcher’s calf will be gone in hours, probably hardly even stings, but it’s not injury Jaskier is aiming for. It’s proving a point.
That’s practically all he’s ever doing, when it comes to Witchers and their hopeless behavior: proving a fucking point.
Letho turns, knife in hand, but Geralt’s there to grab his wrist again, the same worrying crack from before echoing into the forest around them.
The tension lasts for a long, stretched out moment. Letho yanks his hand out of Geralt’s hold with another snap and shoves his knife back into its sheath on his belt. Without another word, or even so much as a grunt, he steps around Jaskier to grab his armor, slings it over his shoulder, and marches off into the woods.
Jaskier watches him go, still giggling slightly, and collapses down onto his back in the dirt. He doesn’t get to lie there long; it’s only a minute, maybe two, before Geralt is grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and dragging him up, up, until he’s in the air, held as if he weighs nothing at all.
Geralt’s scowl looks as if it’s been etched into his face. Jaskier dips his head and presses a kiss to the furrow of his brow. The tension snaps like an overtightened string, and Geralt drops him back to his feet.
“What the fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, and turns to begin dismantling their camp.
Jaskier cackles, shoves his dagger back to where it belongs, and does the same.
Surprisingly – or, maybe not – Geralt doesn’t bring it up again. Letho, or Jaskier’s poor decisions regarding him. They travel on, stop in the next town, and Geralt picks up a contract. After that, it’s business as usual. Weeks pass.
Weeks pass, and Jaskier and Geralt separate, as they do on occasion, and Jaskier has mostly forgotten their encounter with Letho.
Until, of course, he gets a bit caught in a scuffle between some wayward villagers and a group of overeager knights. For once in his life, he really is just in the wrong place at the wrong time – he doesn’t know any of these men, much less anything about their vendettas – but that excuse doesn’t amuse the knight that has him by the scruff of his neck.
It’s just as the knight kicks his legs out from under him and makes to let go of his neck, directly at the edge of a worrying cliff-edge, that everything goes spectacularly weird.
Which is saying something for a situation with the potential to turn into a proper skirmish.
Jaskier knows he won’t be able to catch himself – nothing to catch himself on til a good twenty feet down – so he prepares to roll, to hopefully reduce the amount of damage stray rocks and jutting tree roots can do to his body on the way down. But just as the knight lets go of his neck and his stomach swoops with the sensation of falling, his motion is halted dizzyingly. Someone has a hell of a grip on his shoulder, someone with a startlingly large hand. Jaskier sees the knight go tumbling over the cliff himself, what looks like an improvised crossbow bolt sticking comically out of his helmet.
He’s yanked backward, to safe ground, and spun around to face his rescuer. Letho.
The Witcher glares down at him, but there’s something different in his eyes now, an edge of…is that fondness?
“Bard,” he growls.
He jerks his head toward the woods, away from the village. A silent order that frankly, Jaskier is inclined to obey, with the chaos of small-time battle going on around them, but something catches his eye and he freezes.
Just under Letho’s jaw, there’s a livid pink scar, a little knot of overactive healed tissue.
He gapes for just a moment. He’d known he made Letho bleed, weeks ago, but he didn’t realize it would scar.
Letho growls again and shoves Jaskier toward the trees. “Geralt is already insufferable; you’re not going to die on my watch. Run, bard.”
Jaskier barks out a laugh, stunned and amazed, and ducks under the swinging arm of a villager to do as he’s told.
He thinks, as he runs, that Geralt will never believe him. The others likely won’t, either. But he knows, and that’s plenty for him.
Maybe he’ll rethink his position on liking Letho.
Later, though, he thinks as he hears the whistle of an arrow slicing through the air just to lodge itself into a tree mere inches from his left shoulder. He darts around the struck tree and deeper into the woods. Later.