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The nights are dark quickly; fistfuls of air were harder to swallow down, feeling sharp as ice. The bard has never been one for traveling late into the year, but something is charming about the way his misery feels at peace with no hearth or sun ablaze. His hands are cramping and dry, and he almost regrets not buying a pair of wool gloves when he’d last had the funds to afford simple luxuries with winter looming.
Jaskier blows lukewarm air onto his hands, and it does nothing to loosen his joints. It’s been some months since the mountain, that fateful, wretched day, and he’s loathed to keep track of the days he’s lost to his mourning. The only thing he’s kept half a mind to watch was his dwindling pouch, mouth dry with the stale taste of alcohol lingering. Taverns and inns no longer hold the same kind of whimsy that they used to, offering company and warm bellies, but there comes the point where you can’t have choices of your own to make. His fingers are numb as they trace along with the building’s stacked stone at his side, debating if he can stomach this.
He wasn’t this bad about it, at first. In the beginning, the shock hadn’t quite settled into his core, and he still had hope. A hope that Geralt would come down the mountain sometime after him, grumpy as usual and ready for a hot bath at the nearest inn. That they could put things behind them, and he could forget the tormenting words he’d said so easily in a few breaths. Hope has abandoned him, and he fears the one thing he’d always prided himself in for all these long, arduous years--being the White Wolf’s bard. Thinking about it makes him nauseous. Jaskier has made a name for himself in courts and Oxenfurt, but to the commonplace, he’ll never be anything more than the bard that sang a Witcher’s praise. The question always comes up in the most inevitable sense, and twenty-two years of heartache sit comfortably in his throat.
The numbers mock him coldly for spending so long on a Witcher that claimed he was the cause of all of his problems. His feelings don’t matter here; it’s cold, he’s almost made it to Oxenfurt, practically on the outskirts, and he merely…needs enough coin to keep moving forward even if it hurts to hear it.
Opening the inn door, his senses are flooded with the smell of stew and ale and the sound of rambunctious laughter. Jaskier flinches; it’d been a while since he’d seen a crowd so lively. The innkeeper lights up upon seeing him and his lute strapped to his back, waving her rag in his direction. He bites down the sigh he wants to release, hand gripping tightly on his strap as he closes the door behind him to keep the cold from sinking its claws any deeper. It’s necessary, he reminds himself, you’re so close.
“Bard! We’ve been in need of one of youse. How much for your time?”
Straight to the point. “How about lodging and a meal, if I live up to your crowd’s expectations? I’ll earn my wage in tips if that’s alright with you?”
“That’s fine by me, dear. We’ve plenty of rooms tonight with this dreary weather. Not at all surprising, winters have been harsh around Hagge and these parts the last few years. They’re all hopped up on mulled wine, so have at them.”
And things are fine, the first few hours. It’s pitch-black out, but he knew it had just been afternoon a few hours before his arrival there. His coin pouch is filling enough to where his worries start to simmer away from dread. The crowd is happy with his bar tunes and sea shanties, no one asking for a single of his songs. He won’t jinx it; it’s the most peace he’s gotten in a while.
It never lasts.
It’s a younger lad that’s a few drinks in and a step away from tipping right over and under the table that asks, “Sing one of the White Wolf’s songs!”
Expression screwed in mock delight, he’s careful in reacting, but it’s too late. The crowd has connected the dots on what songs he is asking for, and they jeer with him, asking for one of his originals. At least they don’t seem to recognize who he is, so he treads carefully. He tries to sing one of his songs that he didn’t write while traveling with Geralt, but they boo almost immediately. Jaskier bites down a sigh as he relents, knowing that his peace is short-lived. They don’t want any of his older songs like Toss a Coin to your Witcher, which is mildly surprising, so he tentatively plays Her Sweet Kiss. He ups the beat to something jauntier and livelier for the small crowd, but his lyrics remain forlornly and bitterly meant.
Jaskier is halfway through the song when he notices the front door open slightly and close, but not enough to take his attention away. He shivers a bit with the slight cold making its way in. What is enough is the way the innkeeper’s face sours like she’s bitten into a prune and how some of his crowd’s attention is drawn away with the sound of her voice, jarring against his. He looks up, squinting across the way to the front of the room. It tells him nothing at first; it’s just a man, but her voice raises.
“We don’t serve your kind here.”
His stomach drops uncomfortably, and it feels awfully familiar to hear. It’s not Geralt, considering the lack of ashen white hair, but a man with dark hair and a red coat. It tells him nothing until gold eyes meet his own across the room, and his chords almost falter. The man regards him for what feels like a lifetime in one sitting, and he finds that he doesn’t want to look away. Gulping between lyrics, he keeps going the best that he can with his voice threatening to waver. The Witcher speaks softly, hands up like she’s a spooked creature, eyes finally tearing away, but the innkeeper is relentless, “We’ve not any rooms for the night. Take your filthy coin els’where.”
It takes him a moment to process her words, but the Witcher is already out the door by the time he has. He stops in his tracks, and the crowd groans because he hasn’t finished the song. Fixing them with a sharp glare that shuts them up quickly, he grabs his coin pouch and pulls his lute case over his head after hastily putting his instrument back in. His things are up in his room and safely tucked away.
“Bard, wh’-“
Jaskier points a swift finger her way the moment she speaks, “I’ll be back to deal with you.”
She’s stunned into silence as he braves the icy weather, rolling his aching hands as he tucks his pouch away. He has to readjust his eyes to the worsening darkness, a fantastic feat in of itself, but he can hear footfalls falling quiet as they move out. Jaskier cannot tell which way he’s gone or if there’s a stable nearby where a Witcher would put his horse companion--if he even has one, so shuffling one way gets frustrating when the noise gets quieter.
“Witcher!” He bites out. He doesn’t know any other Witchers besides Geralt by name; he had never divulged such information. He knows they exist, but nothing else had ever been said to him. The street is dead quiet now; only the dimming lanterns provide low light to see.
“Bard?”
Startling, he turns in the opposite direction to see the Witcher again, who slows his approach once he’s seen like he’s cautious of his reaction. The way he’s keeping his distance strikes Jaskier as horribly familiar, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from shivering at the cold settling into his bones, “Where are you going to stay?”
The Witcher’s head cocks as if he didn’t hear him correctly, “Sorry?”
“It’s one of the darkest nights of the year; I might freeze my balls off standing out here--nevermind yourself, and you just got kicked out for something you can’t help. Where are you going to stay?”
His golden eyes glow faintly, but they pull tight in a furrow as he grimaces, “I’ll make do.”
“You shouldn’t have to. Inside, come on. Do you have a horse; did anyone let you stable it?”
His expression is properly stunned in a way he’s never seen on Geralt’s face, gold eyes searching his own face, “I-yes. The stable boy took him around the corner.”
Jaskier nods, and he gestures for the Witcher to follow him in as he opens the door. The innkeeper’s expression becomes sour once more on seeing him, but Jaskier blocks her view, so she’s unable to regard him unkindly.
“Room for the Witcher, madam.”
She sniffs, “There are no rooms left, bard. He’ll have to find somewhere else to lay.”
Squinting at her works certain miracles to make her look slightly guilty about her actions against the weather-worn Witcher, and she has half a mind to duck her head.
“No more rooms? Here I'd thought you'd mentioned having plenty.”
She keeps to her silence, jaw muscle straining as she keeps her word on it.
“Look, bard. Thank you, but-”
Turning to look at the Witcher that cuts himself off, Jaskier’s lips pressed into a thin line before he turned back to her, “I’ll share my room with him. In fact, I’ll pay for a bath. Complaints?”
The woman huffs in what sounds like defeat to his ears, hands flat against her counter, “You speak for him, then?”
“I didn’t write about the White Wolf for twenty-two years just to watch you kick out a Witcher with a bald-faced lie.”
Her face pales in recognition. His reputation must be known in these parts, from the way she lifts her hands defensively, “Master Bard! I apologize, I did not realize-!”
Jaskier grimaces at her quick penance as he pulls out a few coins to push over, “That’s the point. You shouldn’t have had to realize to be kind to someone. They do the work no one else wants to do, don’t you agree? Unless you'll be telling me now you also shovel monster guts yourself.”
Her face greens at the mere idea of doing that herself, and he refrains from feeling smug about it.
“Yes, yes, sir.” She takes the coin without further complaint, her face still slack as she reels in her faults, “I’ll send up a tub right away.”
“Much thanks, my lady.”
The crowd is even quiet and quite shamefaced, but he ignores them in favor of his new bedside companion, “Come on, I’ll show you to the room. I’m rather done with entertaining for the evening.”
The Witcher is quiet next to him as they go up the stairs together, his boots thudding against hollow wood, and Jaskier lets him go first inside of the room. It's a decent room for an inn near Hagge; the bed doesn't quite look as if it can hold two fully grown men. Though from all of his times sharing with Geralt, he's certain that they will make do.
He doesn’t expect the Witcher to be chatty with his prior experience with them, but he’s proven wrong when they’re both in the room, and he shuts the door behind him. The lantern lights lick on without being touched, and he marvels at them; Geralt never was one to use his magic often around him.
“You’re Jaskier, aren’t you?”
Looking up in surprise, he looks at the still-unnamed Witcher, “Oh, yes. I apologize; I got ahead of myself. Jaskier, Master Bard. You are?”
“Scars didn’t cue you in?”
Jaskier tries to not show his surprise at his teasing tone, finally looking more intently at his face. It's bittersweet that his only reference to Witchers is Geralt, and now he questions if they're all like Geralt, or maybe Geralt alone acted the way he did. The mountain scorns him, and he ignores the pain resounding in his chest. He’d noticed the scarring, sure, but he was never one to pay much attention to them anymore. Three scars dragged along the right side of his face, and he smiles politely, “Geralt wasn’t one to talk about his home. I knew there were other Wolf Witchers, but--he was keen on his privacy, I guess.”
The Witcher’s face falls, and he wonders if he’d said something wrong, “Oh, that’s unlike him.”
That earns a flinch again out of Jaskier; of course, he would be the outlier.
He shakes his head and reaches out with a gloved hand, “Nevermind that. I’m Eskel. Thank you for helping out with that; you didn’t have to.”
“Oh, trust me, I had to. I wouldn’t have felt right about it otherwise.” He takes the offered hand with a shake, “I apologize that it’s only one bed; I hadn’t been expecting company.”
Eskel shakes his head, letting go, “Please. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
Jaskier makes a noise at the back of his throat as he sets his lute case down, “Absolutely not, the bed is big enough for both of us.”
The Witcher doesn’t protest, and he’s grateful for it; it’s too cold to put up a fight about something this little in the grand scheme of things, “Anyways, I’m sure you’re in need of a bath. If you’d prefer, I can go back downstairs, so you have your privacy?”
“Don’t tell me Geralt cared about that too, or else that’s not who you traveled with.” Eskel smiles, the scar on his lip pulling with.
Jaskier huffs out a small laugh, “No, he didn’t care. I had to make him care if anything. His hair was a mess.”
“Wait, you’re why his hair looks better? He used to break brushes over that damn hair.”
“He would sit around with monster guts in his hair; something had to be done about it!”
Eskel laughs, eyes crinkling, Definitely my brother.”
He hums in response before stilling, “Brother?”
His red coat is coming undone, and his weapons are laid out by the edge of the bed already when he furrows his brows, “Geralt and Lambert, I call them my brothers.”
Jaskier bites his tongue on asking who Lambert is; annoying his bedside companion wouldn’t do him any good right now. Eskel must have read it plainly on his face, “He really didn’t tell you much, did he? We’re the last of us, up at Kaer Morhen. Besides Vesemir, who’s the oldest out of all of us. He’s...like a father figure to us. Kaer Morhen is where we stay for winter, usually.”
He regards the chill settling right at home in his core and the darkness outside, “Where’s Kaer Morhen, if I’m allowed to ask?”
The Witcher has stripped down into his plain shirt and his pants, and Jaskier wonders what the holdup with the tub is, “Yeah, uh. Kaer Morhen is up north in the mountains, so that’s where I’m headed. How about you, where do bards head for winter?”
His worries are for nothing when there’s a knock at the door, so he smiles slightly and answers to let the men in to set the tub down in the room, and it’s a quiet endeavor to allow the women behind them to fetch water. It’s not very hot from the lack of steam coming from it, but he doesn’t fault them with the weather. It’s a generously sized tub for an inn that isn’t in the most popular place, so he wonders if it’s a personal tub—all the better. Eskel lays out his toiletries next to the side of the tub when they’re between fetching.
When the door shuts, footsteps fade, and the tub is filled considerably, he answers the Witcher’s inquiry, “Oxenfurt. When I’m not a traveling bard, I teach. Though it’s been a few years since my last time.”
Eskel pulls his shirt over his head in a swift motion, and he carefully keeps his gaze contained where it is as those hands move to his breeches. The swell of magic is still a marvel to watch, even with a pale bottom in plain view. The tub produces steam now, but not at the rate he recalls Geralt would almost put it to boiling. The Witcher grunts as he dips a leg in, and he sighs as he sits in the water completely.
His eyes are shut, so he thinks that the conversation is over, but he’s proven wrong when he hums, “There’s enough room for both of us. Do you want to join?”
Jaskier is taken aback by the offer. Sure, there are times where he and Geralt had shared, but Geralt had never been the one to offer to share his. Nothing wrong with that--peace is peace. His throat itches at the painful memory that tries to worm its way in, “Oh, um. Sure.”
He undoes his doublet with precision and gets out his bath oils, finding the ones easy on Witcher’s senses. The small bottles haven’t been used in some time, still filled almost to the top. He holds them to his chest, pulling out a slip while he’s thinking about it to change into. Jaskier undoes his chemise and fiddles with the binding around his chest to untie the knots keeping it in place. He’s freezing enough to pull down his breeches and smalls in one go, folding them clumsily onto the bed.
Going to touch the water to see if it’s not boiling beyond reason, Eskel reassures, “The water is good. I don’t set it too hot that it gets uncomfortable.”
The bard pulls his hand away, taking his word for it as he steps into the water instead. Compared to the chilled air, the heated water is perfect. He sighs contently, sitting down on the other edge of the tub, “Is it just Geralt then who keeps setting his water to practically boiling?”
A snort. “Yeah, pretty much. Something about not enough chances for bathing himself, so Geralt makes it as hot as possible for a Witcher to handle. Which is fine, I guess, but I’m not that big on boiling myself clean.”
Jaskier laughs softly, shaking his head as he runs his wet hands over his hair, soaking strands up generously. He grabs the oil he’d set out to the side, uncorking it, “This smell okay?”
The Witcher inhales the air around him, opening his eyes to look at the small bottle, “Smells good. Rose oil?”
“Yeah, but I have chamomile if you prefer that?”
Eskel cocks an eyebrow at him, “Choose whatever you prefer, please. It won’t bother me.”
It strikes him warm in his belly to have his own choice, and that neither smells would bother this Witcher, so much so, he doesn't know how to handle it, “Oh. Do you want to use one of the oils then?”
“If you’re offering. Next, you’re gonna ask if you can wash my hair.”
Jaskier smirks, “Only if you want me to.”
“If you’re up to it.”
“Oh, always. Come ‘ere, duck your head down.”
Eskel is pliable in his hands, quickly dunking his head down into the water and letting Jaskier pop open the small bottle and lathering the sweet-smelling rose into his brown locks. He massages his fingers into his hair, and the Witcher goes slack to the touch and closes his eyes, obviously enjoying it. Finishing off by getting him to rinse it out, he moves to work on his own hair when Eskel gestures to take the bottle.
He blinks a few times, confused, until he speaks, “I can wash your hair, if you want me to, that is.”
“Oh,” Jaskier hands it over without a second thought, letting him take it, “Yeah, if you want to.”
He’s not sure what he had been expecting, but he had not expected gentle hands massaging into his hair and getting the oil worked in. Calluses softened by the tub water; he melts into the feeling. It’s been some time since someone else had touched his hair that wasn’t himself. Eskel guides him to dunk his head back down so he can wash out the excess oil, and a yawn escapes him out of the sheer comfort.
They move on to washing their own bodies next, and Eskel talks again, reflecting on their earlier conversation, “Oxenfurt. Is that where you’ve always lived?”
“Hm? Oh no, I, uh, I come from Redania, yes, but uh. Lettenhove in particular. Viscount de Lettenhove, though I’m not entirely sure if I still hold that title. I haven’t been that far north in years.”
“Not fond memories?”
“Unfortunately. It’s fitting--it was always quite dreary even on a good day.”
The silence is peaceful and welcomed when it occurs, and even Jaskier can shut his eyes and relax back until Eskel startles him out of it by taking one of his hands, “Sorry, you’re starting to prune up, so I think we should probably start getting out, hm?”
He looks at his hands and finds that he’s right, but he finds, knowing how cold it’s going to be when they get out, “Maybe I should’ve said no on the bath thing.”
Eskel snorts in response, getting out first to wipe himself down and free of water. When Jaskier does stand up, he hands over a free towel. They dry off quietly, though Jaskier picks up the pace as the cold starts to seep back in. The slip doesn’t provide warmth as he figured it wouldn’t, but his doublets don’t feel like the right clothes to wear to sleep and expect to stay warm. Eskel is dressed by the time the employees come back to empty the tub and take it out of the room, and Jaskier tips each of them a few coins as they leave the room. With the door opening and closing, the cold has settled back in, and he crawls into the bed. The sheets are flimsy, and the blanket looks as if it has seen better days.
The Witcher joins after he brings the lanterns closer to the bed, providing a small amount of warmth for the both of them, and he squints, “Does the cold not bother you as much?”
He gets a smirk in response, “Not as cold as you seem to be. Not a fan of winter?”
“Winter is fine. Winter without the proper garments? Absolutely not.”
That earns him a chuckle, and he brings the blanket right up over his shoulders nonetheless before asking, “How cold are winters up in Kaer Morhen?”
“Colder than this, I’d say. But like you said, proper garments help. Fireplaces too, at that.”
Jaskier groans as the Witcher joins him in the bed, “Oh god, fireplaces...sounds like a dream.”
“Oh please, does your place back in Oxenfurt not have one?”
“I mean, yes, but I haven’t been back since last winter.”
Eskel moves onto his side to look at him, and Jaskier curls further into himself, “Were you traveling with my brother? I haven’t seen him yet.”
The bard’s expression falls before he can help it, but Eskel’s face tells him that he’d caught that, “Um. I haven’t seen Geralt in a few months. We...we had a falling out, I guess. No big deal, I probably deserved it.”
“If it’s still bothering you, maybe it wasn’t deserved, Jaskier.”
His eyes threaten to water, and he looks up at the headboard to keep himself from reacting emotionally, “Maybe, maybe not.”
“Jaskier.”
He bites back a response; a warm hand rests on his shoulder forces him to look at him. Eskel reaches forward before hesitating, but when Jaskier doesn’t pull back, he swipes under his eye to clear a tear from his cheek. Jaskier leans into the warmth of his hand instinctively, sighing softly as his eyes flutter shut.
“Whatever happened between the two of you, and I won’t ask, but it’s obviously hurting you. You deserve better than bitter words said out of anger.”
His lip quivers, and he can’t help the laugh escaping him, “You barely know me. Maybe I did deserve it.”
Eskel hums in agreement, “You’re right, but I’d like to get to know you better. Would that be alright?"
Tears start to roll helplessly, and it feels ironic, the way he can’t feel the cold chill anymore as his tears cloud his senses, “Why are you doing this? Being so...nice?”
Eskel looks at him, searching his face before sighing, “Come here.”
The Witcher moves closer, and Jaskier sniffles as he realizes what he’s trying to do and relents, letting the man pull him into a warm embrace. The tears feel unstopping, and he hiccups into his collarbone, trying to hold himself together. Muscled arms wrap around his shoulders, his own arm slotting in by Eskel's armpit. His tears stain Eskel’s shirt, and he gives up on trying to hold himself together as he melts into him.
Few beats of quiet pass, “I’m sorry. I...I still haven’t quite had the chance to cry about it, I guess. I didn’t think I’d still be this upset; I feel silly.”
A large hand rubs up and down the surface of his back, “You’re not silly. It's human to cry. ”
He nods, wiping at his face with his free sleeve, a staggering breath leaving him in a fit, “We...we should sleep. I don’t want to keep you up; I’m sure you have an early start in the day so you can make it home?”
“I have time, Jaskier. It’s okay.”
-
The morning light hits in sunbeams through grey clouds, forcing him into wakefulness. It is a struggle to get past the haze of not remembering when or even how he fell asleep, but he realizes that he is not alone. Eskel’s weight pressed on top of him gently, the bigger man still deep asleep at his side, holding him there like an anchor at bay. He blinks blearily, eyes feeling heavy as he focuses on the way large clouds roll past and give way to an equally cold morning. Jaskier clutches at the Witcher's shirt and can’t help the way he smiles, pressing further into the sleeping man. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge, just this once. He snores quietly on him, and for the first time in months since that day, Jaskier thinks that everything will be alright.