Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Professor Pankratz?” 

Jaskier blinks slowly and shakes his head, realising he’d dozed off while preparing for his upcoming classes. It’s getting late, the sun is set and the candles on his office desk have burned lower than he usually lets them. The room, thankfully, is still warm with the fire burning bright in the fireplace. He can hear the wind howling outside his window. 

“Yes?” he answers, trying not to sound sheepish. Jaskier turns to face the source of the voice, and is surprised to find one of the guards who works as security for Oxenfurt Academy. “Belvyn, was it?”

The man nods briskly and looks over his shoulder. He’s dressed with thick sheepskin clothes over his armour, and his cheeks are ruddy from the cold. 

“Captain of the guard sent for you, professor,” says Belvyn, “said it was something we needed your expertise for.” 

“My… expertise?” Jaskier repeats dubiously. Sure, he’s an expert in quite a few fields, thank you very much. But nothing that the captain of the guard for the university should have need for. He rubs the tiredness from his eyes and pushes himself to his feet. “Fine, lead the way.”

He’s always been too curious for his own good.

Belvyn shifts on his booted feet, making a bit of a mess with melted snow and dirt on the stone floor. “Might want to grab your cloak, sir.”

Jaskier barely withholds an exasperated sigh. It’s hardly a week to Imbolc, which means it’s cold as tits outside. The wind is howling, and earlier today it had snowed enough to make most people avoid going out at all. Jaskier included. 

Oxenfurt in winter is familiar. It’s where he comes to when he wants to fill both his purse and his mind. Creativity, like a well, needs a season to refill once in a while, even with a muse. Spending a winter or two as a guest in one court or another is exceedingly flattering, of course — but sometimes Jaskier just wants to experience university life for a while. It makes it easier to shove aside things he prefers not to think about. Things like heartache and dragons and mountains of doom. 

“Fine. Where are we going?” he sighs, pulling on his heavy fur-lined cloak and the wool mittens Shani gifted him for Yule. 

“Barracks by the city gates.” 

Jaskier freezes. “Why?” 

He’s not stupid. He knows the political climate lately is tense, and while the war hasn’t reached Redania just yet — the streets are rife with political unrest and fearful folks. While he’s sure he won’t be in any immediate danger, it’s dark outside and Jaskier is well-known for being a loudmouth bard. He also hasn’t been very quiet about his own political opinions on the matter of Nilfgaard and non-humans. As in all areas of his life, Jaskier is either loved or hated — and he’s come to learn that his own measurement for such sentiments is damaged. 

Case in point: heartache and dragons and mountains of doom.

Before he can pester Belvyn for additional information, the guard beckons Jaskier to follow him out of his office. They walk at a brisk pace, each step increasing the unease in his gut. 

“What’s this about, Belvyn?” he tries again. 

“Well, you see,” Belvyn begins when they finally exit the university building and walk through a courtyard, “the city guards found someone in the ditch near the gates. They left him there, thought the fella must be dead in the snow. They went back before sundown, and turned out the fella wasn’t dead. Turned out — wasn’t a fella at all.”

They walk down the main path from the university, snow and ice crunching loudly under their boots. There’s now another sort of tight coil in Jaskier’s gut. If this fella-not-a-fella made the guards decide it required Jaskier’s presence and not that of a medic… 

Could it be…? 

“Very well,” he says instead of all the questions dancing on the tip of his tongue. 

They bustle through the city and by the time they reach the barracks, Jaskier’s chest feels tight from the cold air and he can’t feel his cheeks. Belvyn knocks a specific number of times on the door, and it swings open to reveal a large, grizzly man with an impressive moustache. 

“Get in,” the man says gruffly. From the livery on his breast, Jaskier decides he must be the captain of the city guard, not the university one. 

Once inside the little reception office, the presumed captain of the guard eyes Jaskier from head to toe. Somehow, Jaskier feels like he leaves the captain wanting, and a hot rush of shame creeps up the back of his neck. 

“Well?” he asks with all the authority he can muster. He isn’t a spoiled student anymore — he’s a bloody professor, master of the seven liberal arts! He’s a world-famous bard! He juts his chin in the air. While the captain is obviously larger than Jaskier, Jaskier is actually taller. Hah!

“Professor Pankratz? Julian Pankratz?” the captain asks dubiously.

“Yes, and you are?” he can’t help retorting, defensive. 

The captain grunts and turns on his heel, as though polite introductions are beneath him. “Henselm, captain of the city guard,” he throws over his shoulder. He continues down the badly lit hallway, clearly expecting to be followed.

Jaskier grinds his teeth and follows the captain, annoyance bubbling over his insatiable curiosity. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear captain. Surely there is an explanation for all this secrecy? Why not call one of the city’s many medics for this poor frozen fellow? Surely a humble bard and esteemed professor such as myself is ill-equipped for such a situation?”

Behind him, Belvyn snorts. 

“Your reputation precedes you, professor,” says the captain, “and I’m not about to go wastin’ a medic’s time on him.”

They finally stop at one of the closed doors, and Henselm unlocks it before ushering Jaskier inside. Belvyn stands guard outside, for whatever insane reason. 

There, in the corner of the room, lies a mountain of a man. Next to him are two swords and a very, very worn leather bag. And on his chest — 

“A Witcher?” he scoffs, though it comes out strangled to his own ears. A little more high-pitched than he’d intended. “You called me out into the coldest night of the bloody winter for a rogue Witcher?” 

The words don’t sit right on his tongue, and he wishes he could swallow them back. But his heart, it bleeds as though the wounds are as fresh as they had been when he’d stumbled down that stupid fucking mountain on his own, months ago. Despite himself, he takes a few steps towards the Witcher.

He already knows it’s not Geralt. This Witcher is twice the White Wolf’s size, his limbs like trunks and his chest like a barrel. There’s a deep scar that runs over his scalp and ends on his forehead in a v-shape. And his medallion is that of a Viper. But it’s his skin that immediately worries Jaskier: it’s awfully pale, and he’s sincerely terrified the Witcher’s extremities might have turned blue.

“I’ll have Belvyn help you carry him out of here,” Captain Henselm says, breaking the heavy silence. His tone suggests it’s an act of extreme charity and Jaskier wants to snarl and bare his teeth at him. 

Even if it’s not Geralt, even if it’s a Witcher from one of the Schools he’s been told to run away from, he can’t just… can’t just leave him here. There’s no doubt whatsoever that if Jaskier doesn’t take the Witcher with him, Henselm will… dispose of him, half-dead or not. While Jaskier’s songs have done a great deal towards tolerance for Witchers in the past two decades, most men haven’t lost their deep disdain and hatred of the monster hunters. 

Jaskier returns his attention to the Witcher. Indeed, his reputation precedes him. No one is more famous for being a friend to Witchers than Jaskier the Bard. Friend. The word tastes sour in the back of his throat. 

“Fine.” He sighs and approaches the Witcher. “Might need a cart.” His fingers brush against the Witcher’s forehead, finding it so cold that if it wasn’t for the rattling breaths, Jaskier would assume him to be dead.

“Had to use one to haul his arse all the way here,” Henselm grunts, clearly irritated by the extra work this appears to have created for him in the last hours. 

“Is this all he had with him?” Jaskier slides the leather bag over his shoulder and carefully takes the two swords. 

Henselm only hums in affirmative, which makes Jaskier think the guards who found him and discovered their not-so-dead-fella was in fact a Witcher got sticky fingers and liberated the Witcher of valuables. 

Gods above but humans can be such arseholes. 

Belvyn and another guard whose name Jaskier doesn’t know pick up the Witcher with great difficulty, leaving the sodden blanket behind. They put him in a cart like he’s nothing but a sack of flour, undignified and vulnerable. It boils Jaskier’s blood but there’s nothing he can do about it for now; he’ll take care of this Witcher once they’re in the safety of his private quarters at the university residence. 

He piles all his furs on the Witcher, and stuffs the bed with special heated stones he warms up in the fireplace. It’s so hot in his rooms by the time he sits down, sweat trickles down his forehead and the back of his neck. There’s enough food in his larder to last him a week, but he knows Witchers can eat just about his weight in food when given the chance. Thank the gods he has the funds to feed them both until classes begin after Imbolc. 

Exhausted and too hot now to bring himself to work on his class plans, Jaskier takes out his old trusted bedroll and sleeps next to the Witcher, on the floor. 

The next day, the storm outside is even worse. There’s frost on the windows and he receives a note warning him that the water in the pipes has frozen and won’t be available until the city’s mage has thawed the pipes into compliance. Thankfully, he has some water and can prepare a quick breakfast of porridge and tea. 

The Witcher sleeps on, and now that he’s no longer cold as death to the touch, Jaskier decides he should check for other injuries. Under normal circumstances, he would never divest a Witcher of their armour, just like he would never touch their swords. But these are extenuating circumstances, and if the Witcher is severely injured — if there’s infection —

“Calm down, you daft bard,” he mutters to himself. “He’s out cold. He won’t clock you. This could save his life. This isn’t anything more.” Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “One piece at a time. You could oil it for him, or at least fix it. Storm’s going to last days, you know.” He looks down at the Witcher’s expressionless face. “Would that be alright, Master Witcher? Or should I call you Viper? Snakeling? No, no, you’re not small by any measure of the word…” 

He continues to fill the silence with meaningless chatter as he removes the weathered armour. It’s been patched up many times, he can tell; in some areas, the leather’s so worn that he could stab a quill through it! It breaks his heart. No Witcher should face monsters wearing such terrible armour. Then again… no Witcher worth his hide normally keeps roaming the Continent once winter settles in. 

Once the bracers and greaves are unlaced and placed in a careful pile, Jaskier works on the boots. The laces are calcified together, so he regrettably has to take a knife to them in order to pull them off the Witcher’s feet. The boots are made of sturdy leather, though, and are salvageable. It’s the same story with the socks: he has to carefully peel them off by sawing through the wool with his knife. His hands are steady despite his racing heart, and he somehow succeeds in this tricky endeavour without nicking the Witcher’s skin. 

His feet, though… There’s some severe frostbite on a few toes. Jaskier swallows thickly and moves onto the next part. He’s no medic, and certainly no surgeon. He can suture wounds just fine — but he has no idea if some of those toes can be saved. All he knows is that he can’t waste any time figuring it out. 

The rest of the Witcher’s armour comes off more easily, and he finds more severe frostbite under the gauntlets which he also has to saw through to remove. He’ll buy the Witcher a new pair. Gods, but he’ll do everything he can to save this mysterious Witcher. To think the city guards left him in the snow and ice for hours longer than necessary. Hot tears of anger burn his eyes, and he lets them fall when they refuse to recede.

Mid-day, he takes a break and writes Shani a letter. It’s only pure luck that she’s still in Oxenfurt this late in the winter; normally, she goes to her family’s home to celebrate Imbolc. He hopes to all gods above that the Witcher’s fingers can be saved. How could a Witcher survive any length of time on the Path with missing fingers? He shudders at the thought.

And at the reminder of what Geralt had told him about retired Witchers. 

Before he returns to his self-appointed task, he summons a courtier, tips him triple the regular fee, and sends him off with the letter to Shane’s townhouse. He can only hope his friend can come over today or tomorrow at the latest.

The Witcher’s linen tunic and under-tunic are in terrible condition, and are more likely to break down to shreds if he even attempts to wash them. The trousers are salvageable, but they’ll need a long soak to remove the old blood stains. Jaskier doesn’t want to violate his companion’s privacy by removing his braies, but he has to be sure there’s no injury there either. There are nasty bruises that he can recognise as broken ribs on his chest, awfully recent. They’re still purple, and not healing to a normal Witcher-y speed. Jaskier takes a slow breath. 

“I wish I were doing this under better circumstances, my dear,” he whispers to the unmoving Witcher. “You’re woefully handsome, you know? All muscle and brute force, but I can tell it’s been a hard winter for you. Don’t you worry, darling. I’ll have you know I’m an excellent cook and I’ll fatten you up before you even know it.” Jaskier keeps up the chatter as he removes the Witcher’s braies and investigates his skin as clinically as possible. 

He tries very, very hard not to drop his jaw at the sight of the Witcher’s prick, because good gods above. Viper indeed.

There’s bruising on his pelvis, though, and when he touches it lightly, it feels hotter than the skin around it. 

“I’ll give you a good wash before I slather my best salve on you, dear. You’ll heal in no time. No time at all.” 

The rest of the afternoon is spent washing the Witcher with a flannel and warm water, with a special soap he knows doesn’t irritate hyper-sensitive noses. Jaskier is extra gentle with the frostbitten digits, and by the time he’s done and the Witcher mostly dressed again in a change of clothes — Jaskier’s, so everything is rather tight — he’s quite sure some toes won’t make it. The room smells of lavender and basil, the prominent herbs in his special salve. 

Should he try to feed the Witcher some of the potions in his bag? Jaskier debates the question for less than a minute: Swallow can work miracles, maybe it can save his Witcher’s extremities. 

Just like Geralt, this Witcher doesn’t label his potion bottles. But Jaskier knows what Swallow should smell like, so he has no trouble finding the right bottle. The only trouble is that there’s less than half a dose left. 

“Fuck,” he curses, tightening his grip on the bottle. “Don’t worry, Witcher dearest,” he murmurs, “I’ll brew you more.” 

It’s risky, and he really should wait for Shani — but he doesn’t know when she’ll be able to come. Jaskier stumbles to his feet and carefully uncorks the potion, angles the Witcher’s head, and holds the potion under his nose briefly.

“Smell this, my dear? That’s right, it’s exactly what you think it is. Be a darling now and swallow it for me?” he pleads, hoping that even unconsciously, the Witcher can recognise the smell of Swallow. When he tips the potion into his mouth, he nearly whoops when the Witcher swallows all on his own. “Oh good, very good, you’re doing great my dear.” 

And if he pets the Witcher’s head as he coos more praise, well — no one needs to know. 

He replaces the heated stones and covers the Witcher with all his furs once more. It’s too late in the evening to brew Swallow, but tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll continue to take care of his Witcher.

The next morning, he’s woken up by Shani banging on his door. Jaskier’s never been happier to be woken up at the arsecrack of dawn in his life. 

“Julek!” She exclaims when he opens the door. “Where is he?” 

“Bedroom.” Jaskier looks up and down the hallway of the professorial residences just to be sure no one’s watching. He locks the door once Shani is inside, and takes her hand to bring her to his room. 

Now that she’s here, he’s terrified. What if he hasn’t done enough? What if he’s condemned this poor Witcher to a fate worse than death? His hands shake when he pushes his friend through the door of his bedroom. 

“Oh gods,” Shani whispers, “how long was he out there?” 

Jaskier tries to look at his Witcher with new eyes, with a medic’s eyes. He’s got no experience in those sorts of situations, so he really doesn’t know how bad the Witcher truly looks in Shani’s perspective. But now, at least, the Witcher’s skin isn’t deathly pale and there’s a bit of sweat on his forehead. 

“I don’t know,” Jaskier finally says as they approach the bed. “They found him, thought him dead, and only came back for him much later. Then they came to get me.” He runs a hand through his unkempt hair. “I’m worried about his fingers and toes. They were… almost black.” 

Shani hisses and shakes her head. “No matter someone’s constitution, even Witchers can lose body parts if they’re in a stage of necrosis.” 

Jaskier doesn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?” He tries to imagine a Witcher with missing fingers, missing toes. What Witcher would thank him for keeping them alive if that is the result? 

“I’ll do everything I can, Julek,” Shani turns to give him a serious look. “But if I say those digits can’t be saved, then they can’t be saved. They’ll poison him if I don’t amputate them.” 

“Alright. Alright,” Jaskier swallows. “Did you bring the ingredients I asked you for?”

She tosses her satchel to him, which he catches with one hand. “Yes. Do what you have to, and I’ll do the same.” 

It’s all they can do, really. Jaskier gives Shani directions on where to find clean linen and other supplies she might need, and sets up an improvised brewing station in the kitchen. 

Humans have no business knowing how to brew Witcher potions. Alchemy is dangerous and deadly when handled incorrectly, with inexperienced hands. Mages and Witchers are, technically, the only people allowed to know the exact ingredients and properties of potions like Cat and Swallow and White Honey. But Jaskier travelled with a Witcher for over two decades, and there were times when Geralt was too wounded to brew his own potions. Where he had to give grunted directions to a shaken Jaskier in the middle of the woods after a hunt gone horribly wrong. 

So yes, Jaskier knows how to brew Swallow. But no one else needs to know that. Especially when he has to keep thinking about his time with Geralt, and the horrible pang in his chest the memories elicit.  

Shani’s reserves of drowner brains is a bit dry, but it’ll have to do. He grinds the ingredients with mortar and pestle, moving his wrist in the smooth circular motions Geralt taught him so long ago. He’s careful not to actually touch the ingredients and regents once they begin to interact with each other, and he uses the Witcher’s empty potion bottles — those shaped like half-globes, specifically meant for Swallow. Sweat drips down his forehead and he’s had to tie his hair in a knot atop his head; even with the window open, the kitchen is hotter than a boiler room. 

At mid-day, he takes a break and prepares some lunch for himself and Shani. When he knocks at his bedroom door and enters his room, Shani has a mask of sorts on her face and she’s bent over the Witcher’s foot.

Suturing an amputation. 

At a quick glance, Jaskier deduces there are two toes missing. The other foot, neatly wrapped in linens, has a bit of blood seeping through already. 

“His hands?” he dares to ask. 

“Right hand, his sword hand, is fine.” 

Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath. “Fuck. Thank the gods.” 

“The left one, I applied some ointment that utilises a human-safe version of Swallow as base. The little finger and index have me worried, but I’m hopeful that they’ll be alright once the ointment has had time to sink into the skin. Witchers absorb everything faster than humans, which means we should know in about two hours.” Shanni finishes the stitches and carefully sets the needle aside, then dabs another ointment on the fresh stumps. 

Jaskier sets the tray on the desk by the window and sits next to it. “And his other foot?”

“The big toe,” she winces as she says it. “It’ll impact his balance.” 

She finishes wrapping his foot and washes her hands in a bowl of water. 

“Do you think he’ll thank us?” Jaskier asks idly, not sure he really wants to hear her answer. “Witchers don’t retire.”

“Maybe,” Shani says, shrugging, “but you saved him. Even if he doesn’t thank you, even if he resents you — you did the right thing, Julek.” She clasps his shoulder with a strong hand, catching his eye when he tries to look away. “Do you know him?” 

“No.” He finally looks up at her, and he really can’t hide the depth of his misery from one of his oldest friends. “I don’t know him, and I promised myself I wouldn’t get tangled up with Witcher business after Geralt…” 

Anyone in Oxenfurt with two ears knows about Jaskier’s break-up songs. Anyone with a brain knows who he’s been singing (screaming) about in those harsh lyrics. 

Shani only hums, though, and drops on the only chair in the room. “Still did the right thing, Julek. I’m glad I could help.” 

They eat in silence for a while, Shani reaching over to check the Witcher for any physical signs of a fever breaking. 

“Give him Swallow,” she says as she glances at the candle clock on the desk. 

Jaskier returns the empty tray to the kitchen and brings back a bottle of Swallow. He uncorks it and just like yesterday, hovers the potion under the Witcher’s nose in case he can actually smell it. It appears to work still, because the Witcher swallows it all when Jaskier pours it into his mouth. 

The effects are almost immediate: the Witcher begins to breathe more easily, some of the tension disappears from his mountainous body, and the crease between his brows eases. 

“Good,” Shani murmurs. “I’d never have pegged you for an alchemist.” 

Jaskier huffs. “I’m not.” 

She shakes her head and jostles his shoulder gently. “Let’s wait for the potion to run its course. In one hour, we’ll know what needs to be done for his hand.” 

Shani sits on the rug by the fire while Jaskier stokes the flames and adds a new log. They wait.

Chapter Text

Everything is a blur of pain and frigidness. 

Letho dreams about soft hands and a softer voice. No one’s ever whispered such placating nonsense to him before, promising him warmth and comfort. He doesn’t believe this beguiling voice for one second — but it’s hard to keep track of his own thoughts when he keeps slipping under. At least he’s not so cold anymore. 

It was stupid, he knew that from the beginning, to try and travel back south so late in the season. But then the duke who’d hired him as private security for winter — not a rarity in the past, but definitely rare now — decided he preferred to use Letho in ways he hadn’t agreed to. He’s never shied from a willing bed; a body’s a body, and he doesn’t give a shit about who he shares it with. 

But then there had been the subtle poison — thorn apple — one so delicate that he hadn’t even picked up its fragrance in the food the duke stuffed him with. It had been nothing but forgetfulness for days, until Letho made himself retch in the middle of the night as he’d forced himself out of the duke’s bed. 

Turns out keeping a Witcher as a pet is something of a novelty. Especially the Kingslayer. 

He left just after Yule — or was it before? He wandered, halfway out of his own mind. The poison lingered in his blood, which he thought was odd. Witcher metabolism meant he’d have required constant dosage for it to remain so stubbornly inside him. He had no idea where he was by then, stumbling through the woods and along rarely travelled roads. It’s a miracle he didn’t lose his swords and his potions bag.

He only had a bottle of Swallow left. No White Honey to purge the toxicity. Too weak and disoriented to hunt and forage for ingredients, he sipped his Swallow only when he couldn’t make it up to his feet. Or when he couldn’t remember why he was travelling like this at all. 

When he comes to awareness, some indefinite amount of time later, he’s less cold. His entire body is stiff with it though, his muscles bunched up and his heart too slow as it tries to preserve energy. Gods damn and bless Witcher mutations; he’s still alive, somehow. The soft voice lulls him to consciousness and he smells Swallow twice — the second time, it doesn’t smell quite like his own, but it’s still recognisable enough that he feels safe taking it. Anything to make the pain and cold stop. 

For a while, there are two voices. They sound worried, and they smell sorrowful and angry. There’s another smell in the room, blood (his own) and healing salves. Lavender and basil, too. Letho inhales deep and slow, trying to figure out why he’s bleeding. His hands and feet hurt, but he can’t make himself wiggle his extremities to figure out what’s wrong with him. 

It hardly matters, though, because he slips back under whenever he tries to make out the words the two humans — fast heartbeats, clean sweat — are sharing. 

The first time Letho resurfaces to consciousness and feels capable of taking stock of his body, there’s a gentle humming in the room with him. A stringed instrument, too. He listens carefully, and determines there’s only one human with him. The voice is similar to the voice from his dreams, but he doesn’t know how trustworthy those memories are. He wiggles his toes—

“Oh!” comes the voice. “You’re awake!”

Is he? Letho rather feels like he’s in hell or some variant of a painful afterlife. It takes him a moment to realise the high-pitched hissing comes from him. He bites on his tongue and tries to relax his toes but the pain doesn’t stop—

“Shh, you’re safe, but you have to relax, Master Witcher,” the voice continues. “Please don’t kick me, alright? Here, let me…” 

Letho doesn’t want to let this man do anything to him, but surprisingly strong hands — human-strong, not Witcher-strong — press into the cramped muscles of his calf and the tendons in his foot. He should be mortified by the whine that escapes his throat, but he’s too busy trying to figure out what the fuck is happening. 

“Shani told me this could happen,” the man babbles, though Letho has no fucking idea who this Shani is, “and that you’d try to flex your extremities upon waking up.”

“Guhh,” Letho gargles in response. “Fuuhh…”

“I know, dearest, I know.” He sounds apologetic and his scent changes from soothing bay leaves to sour, rotten cabbage… misery? “I’m so sorry, darling. We had no other choice. That’s it, try to relax for me.” 

Letho isn’t trying to do anything, but the stable pressure of those fingers into the meat of his calf and the arch of his foot is helping. Before he can wrap his mind over what’s happening, the man unwraps something — a bandage — from Letho’s foot. The smell isn’t putrid, at least. It smells like healing flesh and Letho’s blood. 

“That’s it, darling, you’re doing great,” the man murmurs. It’s oddly soothing — bay leaves —, and even though Letho doesn’t want to trust this man, the gentle cadence of his voice lulls him into relaxing his body further. “I’m going to apply some ointment on your feet, alright? It might sting a bit, but it won’t take long.” 

Letho grunts. It’s probably nothing, and his body is only this out of sorts because of the lingering effects of that fucking poison, and from being out of it for so long. 

But then… something is… wrong. He feels the man’s careful fingers over… where his big toe should be. It takes a significant amount of effort not to flex his muscles again. Because… where the fuck is his toe?

“I’ll explain everything once you’re a bit more aware, Master Witcher,” the man whispers. “I promise.” 

The man wraps his foot again, and gives the same treatment to his other foot. Here too, there are… anomalies. Letho tries to pry open his eyes but his body is refusing to obey him. When his second foot is wrapped back up, the man rubs his calf and the arch of his foot. Letho is boneless and a lot more relaxed by then, and the man helps Letho sit up and lean against the pillows. With a gentle hand — so gentle, nothing like Letho’s ever experienced before — the man wipes Letho’s face with a warm and wet flannel. 

“Something in your body kept secreting from your eyes,” the man says, sounding unsure, “but I didn’t know what to do about it except clean it away. Here, you should be able to open your eyes now.” 

And Letho does exactly that. His pupils take a brief moment to adjust to the low light in the room. He’s immediately grateful for it. When he can focus on the man next to him, he doesn’t recognise him at all. 

“Who’re…” he rasps, then has to stop in order to cough. Coughing, a Witcher! He snarls, but before he can work himself up in self-recrimination, the man offers him a cup of tepid water that smells like honey. How can he accept this drink when he spent the weeks before — after? — Yule being poisoned? Letho presses his lips in a tight line.

The man sighs, his scent turning to the petrichor of sadness. “Master Witcher, I promise it’s safe to drink. Witchers can tell when humans lie, no? Look.” He takes a small sip of the drink. 

He isn’t wrong… Letho bares his teeth and reluctantly accepts the drink — petrichor replaced by bay leaves. It tastes of nothing more than water and honey. Once the cup is empty, the man takes it away and sits on the chair near the bed. The dark circles under his eyes are prominent, and his clothes have too many creases in them, like he hasn’t changed in a few days. His hair is lank and oily, but his eyes are bright, alert. They’re… so blue. 

“I’m sure you have many questions,” the man begins, hands gesturing nervously around. “Let me answer the obvious ones. I’m Professor Julian Alfred Pancratz, better known as Jaskier the Bard. I teach musical theory and— ah, well, not important for now.” He clears his throat and taps his fingers against his thigh. “You’re in Oxenfurt, more precisely in the professorial residences of Oxenfurt Academy. You were found near the western gates of the city, in a ditch. They…” Now he purses his lips, anger and outrage radiating from him. “They left you there for a while, thinking you were already dead. Then when they brought you in, they called on me to sort you out.”

The man, Jaskier, blows out a heavy sigh. 

“I don’t know if you had anything valuable in your bag, but when I came to sort you out, you only had your swords and your potions bag. I’m sorry.” He rubs his face.

Letho doesn’t glance away, but he still feels a pang of loss at the man’s words. The School of the Viper’s keep is long gone, and Letho hasn’t had a place to call home in decades — if not centuries. He isn’t a materialistic Witcher, but he did carry a few mementos from his fallen brothers. There’s only him, Auckes, and Serrit now. To know that someone’s robbed him of such precious belongings… 

The man kindly gives him a moment before he continues. “You were nearly frozen to death when I brought you here. I did my best to warm you up. You’ll find some heating stones in the bed, I figured they would help. They say body heat is best for hypothermia, but I didn’t want to violate your space.” Jaskier scratches the beginning of a beard on his jaw. “I had to undress you and clean you up, though. I hope that’s alright. The bruising has finally begun to go down, but because of the frostbite, you weren’t healing as fast as we’d hoped.” 

“We?” Letho rasps before he can stop himself. 

“Ah, my friend Shani, she’s a medic. She came yesterday to see you. She would have come earlier, but this snowstorm’s been awful.” Their eyes meet again and Letho briefly feels like Jaskier can see straight through his very soul. “I won’t hide this from you, Master Witcher. You were in bad shape. We had to amputate two of your toes on the right foot, and the big toe on your left foot. They were poisoning you.”

“Hmm.” That explains the awful pain in his muscles, then. He isn’t so taciturn normally, but words appear to be out of his reach for the moment. What can he say, thank you for chopping off my toes? No, best to remain silent for now.

“We almost had to remove two of your fingers on your left hand,” Jaskier continues in a soft voice, so soft it grates on Letho’s frayed nerves. He doesn’t need to be coddled. “But Shani is friends with a mage, and she had this healing salve that is similar to Swallow. She rubbed it on your skin and it saved them. I’m afraid the discoloration is permanent, though.” Carefully, Jaskier reaches for Letho’s left hand and peels off the bandages. 

Indeed, his pinky and index are an angry red. The skin has an oily sheen from the salve, and Letho hisses in pain when he tries to flex them. There’s no stretch in the skin, which will make grabbing anything difficult. Jaskier wraps him up again and leans back into his chair. 

“So, that’s all I have for you, my dear. Gave me quite a fright.” Jaskier fidgets with the edge of his tunic before jumping to his feet, suddenly thrumming with nervous energy. Although he hasn’t really stopped moving even while sitting. “You should eat. I’ve got some thick broth for you — I’ll be right back.” 

Letho watches him leave. 

His body has its fair share of scars and long-term aches. It’s a part of being a Witcher; their flesh scar, their bones break, their bodies heal a little wrong sometimes. But these injuries, he sustained them through a fight — against monster or man. He’s not ashamed of his scars. But these new injuries… they make him weak. Because he wasn’t quick enough to realise he was in danger. Because he accepted to winter somewhere too cold. Because he was so fucking stupid. And now he’s maimed and these pieces of him will never grow back. He tries to be grateful for his remaining digits — thank the fucking gods he has all his fingers. 

But toes are crucial for one’s balance. Especially the big toe. How can he be a proper Witcher with missing toes? Letho closes his eyes and sighs. He’s so tired already… 

“Here you go,” Jaskier whispers, settling close to him with a large mug full of warm, hearty broth. 

Letho didn’t even hear him come back. 

Without being asked, Jaskier raises the mug to Letho’s lips and lets him drink at his own speed. It tastes amazing, truth be told. The broth is rich and easy on his sore throat. It warms him from the inside out, and before he’s even finished drinking, his head is drooping. 

“Rest now, darling,” says Jaskier, running a light hand over his head. “Before you go, may I have your name?” 

Letho grumbles and sinks back into the bed with Jaskier’s help. He hates being so weak, unable to remain conscious for longer than an hour. “Letho.” 

“Letho of Gulet, hm?” Jaskier hums, but his scent doesn’t change. He doesn’t immediately begin to smell of fear which… Letho realises just now.

Jaskier has an unknown Witcher in his bed and he isn’t afraid. And now that he has Letho’s name, knows of him at least — he still smells the same. No longer like misery or sadness. It’s… soothing — bay leaves — and different. 

Maybe that’s why Letho falls asleep still thinking about that light, gentle touch to his head.

The next time Letho comes to, Jaskier is changing the bandages on his feet. His touch is gentle and careful, nothing like anything Letho’s experienced from a human before. Even whores are loath to touch him with anything but mild revulsion or disinterest. But Jaskier doesn’t smell anything like that. In fact, the only smells in the room are unwashed bodies, old sweat, and lavender and basil from the salve on his body. 

He doesn’t move or otherwise indicate that he’s awake. At least today, his body isn’t as sore and his throat isn’t scratched raw. He doesn’t try to wiggle his toes or stretch, too mindful of the blinding pain this had caused before. However, he does notice now that his clothes are rather tight when Jaskier manoeuvres his legs from under the furs. Where are his clothes? His armour? Letho swallows back the groan of pain that threatens to spill when Jaskier slathers ointment on the stump of his big toe. 

Clearly he doesn’t do as good a job at it as he thinks, because Jaskier squeezes his ankle. In… reassurance.

“Sorry you had to wake up to that, dearest.” 

Instead of finishing it off right away, Jaskier rubs his tensed muscles. Strong fingers reduce the pain until it’s more than bearable. Letho hadn’t even noticed how cramped his legs and feet were until now. The man doesn’t go above his knees, and Letho deeply appreciates that. When he inhales, he picks up the familiar scents of the ointments and salves, bay leaves, and their sweat.

Jaskier finishes his ministrations and wraps Letho’s feet back up with fresh linens. “How are you feeling today? The bruising’s mostly gone on your pelvis, and the ribs seem to be healing nicely. But I know you Witchers do that thing where you can check up on your broken bones.” 

Letho forces his eyes open and narrows them at the man. “How?” 

“How do I know?” Jaskier chatters back, seemingly unconcerned by Letho’s glare. “I travelled with another Witcher for the better part of two decades.” The sour smell of rotten cabbages — misery — fills the air briefly. “We’ve parted ways now, though.” 

Something slots into place in Letho’s mind. He must really have been out of it before for not even recognising Jaskier the Witcher's bard. He’s usually not so daft under normal circumstances.

“You’re Geralt’s bard,” he mumbles. 

The smell of misery intensifies. “Not anymore. I’m my own bard.” 

There’s certainly a story behind that, but Letho can’t be arsed to ask right now. He sighs heavily and closes his eyes again. Indeed, Witchers can slip into a sort of meditative state to assess internal injuries. His ribs are healing correctly, but the bruising is extensive. He detects the remains of Swallow — it knitted his kidney back together. His pelvic bone is bruised and he’d have a hitch in his step if he were made to walk, but that too is healing properly. 

“‘M fine.” 

Jaskier huffs in disbelief and pats his knee. “Sure thing, darling. Give me your left hand, please.” 

Obediently, Letho offers his hand. It would be ridiculous for this bard — or was he a professor, now? — to harm him after going through so much trouble to heal him. Besides, while he has no fondness for the Wolf Witcher, he knows enough about him to decide that Jaskier is no threat to him. The man has been singing the praises of the famed White Wolf and Witchers in general for twenty years. It doesn’t mean Letho trusts him, but it makes it easier not to tense all over when Jaskier applies the healing salve on his frostbitten fingers. 

“Shani told me the skin on your fingers will be tight for some time, and a lot more sensitive to temperature shifts.” Jaskier dabs the salve on his pinky. “I was so scared we’d have to amputate those too. The callouses aren’t as prominent as on your right hand, but you’re clearly ambidextrous.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Always so eloquent, you Witchers,” Jaskier mutters. 

“What date is it?” Letho let himself be pulled up into a sitting position, ignoring Jaskier’s comment. He sure as fuck is typically more eloquent, but he’s too off-kilter to bother with the social niceties of idle chatter.

“It’s Imbolc tomorrow,” Jaskier says slowly, his brows drawing together in a frown. “I didn’t want to ask before but you sound lucid enough. One moment.” He disappears for a minute or two and comes back with a bowl of steaming broth. It smells divine. Jaskier holds the bowl and hands Letho a spoon. He resumes as though he hadn’t paused at all. “What’s a Witcher doing out during winter? Don’t you all have a secret lair to recoup your resources during the season?” 

“Hmm.” Letho uses his right hand to hold the spoon and drink the broth. It’s the same as the day before, but it doesn’t make it any less delicious. “Vipers don’t. We typically winter down south, though.” 

It doesn’t answer Jaskier’s question, but the man shrugs as though he’s used to evasive answers. If he travelled with the famously taciturn Witcher, Letho isn’t surprised. So he decides to give him a bit more. For some reason, he doesn’t want Jaskier to think of him as an identical copy of Geralt of Rivia.

“Usually I get a seasonal contract with some lofty lord or another. In the south, while there are no monsters, there’s always work for a Viper or a Cat Witcher.” 

There, that should disillusion Jaskier about him. He’s not a noble Witcher from the School of the Wolf or Griffin. He’s the bloody Kingslayer. This human shouldn’t be so fearless when faced with him — it leaves Letho feeling too raw, too wrongfooted. 

“Oh, I see.” Now that the bowl is almost empty, he places it on Letho’s lap. Jumping to his feet, Jaskier cleans up around the room, seemingly just to have something to keep his hands busy since he hardly really cleans at all. “So what, some rich nobleman arse decided to cheat you out and you ran away, in the middle of winter? Just before the last big snows of the season?” 

Letho does not need to be reprimanded, thank you very fucking much. He scowls and finishes his broth. 

“What’s it matter to you, bard?” he says with a sneer. 

But it bounces right off the man like his words carry no weight. Instead, he looks at Letho like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle, head tilted and lips pursed pensively. 

“He did something to you then.” A shadow flashes over his bright blue eyes. “Is that why you were so fucked up? No Witcher worth his hide would have left himself so vulnerable in the middle of the road. Were you drugged?” His gaze is sharp and dangerous, and Letho understands all at once the kind of human it takes to follow a Witcher on the Path for two decades.

What dignity does he have left, anyway?

“Yes,” he grits out, looking down at his hands instead of meeting Jaskier’s eye. Shame curls hot and vicious in his gut and heats the back of his neck. “Thorn apple. It was too subtle to be picked up by scent alone. It was during… or after Yule when I left.” 

“I understand.” Jaskier hands him a cup of water. “It’s how they get away with poisoning each other. Grind the herbs up, dry them, and mix them with spices. Your super-nose is good at picking up subtle smells, but it’s also your vulnerability — too many scents gets overwhelming, and makes it easier to miss something.” 

Letho opens his mouth to — what, deny? Jaskier is right, of course, but he’s never met a non-Witcher who understood the particulars of their mutations. 

His next question slips out before he can swallow it back. “Why did you help me, then? It’s clear there’s no love lost between you and the White Wolf.” 

“Pah!” Jaskier gestures dramatically at himself. “As if I could let a Witcher, no matter who he is, die of his wounds if it’s within my power to help him! Gods know very few people would go out of their way to help those who exist to protect us.” 

“So you expect something in return?” Letho challenges. He refuses to believe anyone would go out of their way, like this, for a Witcher. 

… for Letho, in particular.

“Expect? No. My only expectations are for you to heal and adapt to your new, ah, physical situation. I’ve got a teaching position here for the next few seasons. The second half of winter and the beginning of spring is our busiest term. You’re welcome to stay here until then. Or until you feel ready to go on your own. I’m not your gaoler, Letho.” 

Which means until Beltane. Three months, give or take. Letho works his jaw and ponders his options. The problem is his lack of funds. He can’t repair or replace his armour, he can’t restock his alchemical supplies. He’s a pauper.

Jaskier brushes his hand lightly against Letho’s shoulder. “If you’re worried about coin, please don’t. It’s not a burden to host you until you’re right as rain. And it’s no debt either. Consider it a gesture of kindness, and the only payment I ask is for you to pay it forward when you have a chance.” 

“Pay it forward?” He scoffs. “People don’t want kindness from Witchers.” 

Jaskier hums. “You’d be surprised.” 

There he is, that delusional bard again. Letho shakes his head and decides it’s not worth arguing. He’s too selfish to refuse this man’s hospitality, no matter how odd it is. 

“I need to piss,” he says with a small amount of embarrassment. Surely Jaskier helped him take care of his bodily functions before now, but Letho was either too out of it to notice, or simply unconscious. 

“Of course! Here.” Jaskier pulls out a chamber pot from under the bed, then helps Letho twist on his side. “I’ll wait outside, hm? I can help you back in bed after. The only thing I must request of you, my dear, is to avoid putting any weight on your feet. Shani will have my hide if I fuck up your stitches.” 

Letho huffs, but Jaskier only graces him with a cheeky grin before leaving Letho to attend to his personal needs. While his kidney took damage and is still healing, he doesn’t piss any blood. It’s a fucking relief, because internal injuries like that are always a pain to fully heal. 

For the first time, he takes stock of his body. These clothes aren’t his, and they’re awfully tight. The undershirt is a mess of patchwork, like Jaskier sewed two of his own shirts together to accommodate for Letho’s bulk. The trousers suffered the same fate, but they’re still a bit on the tight side. He doesn’t mind — it’s rare as shit for him to find any clothes that fit him, and he’s had to improvise with his meagre tailoring skills most of his life. One would think he’d have gotten the hang of it by now, but he simply isn’t skilled at it. 

The bruises on his chest and pelvis are fading to a blue-green, and they smell of that gentle lavender and basil salve. There are a few healed cuts here and there on his hands and arms, but nothing to fuss over. The only thing that makes his heart sink is how much weight he’s lost, both in muscle mass and in healthy fat. 

He struggles to recall the exact date he left that arsenoble’s estate. A week after Yule? Or before? There’s almost a month and a half of lost time, of which he can’t remember shit. Of course he knows it’s because of that fucking thorn apple plant — it causes forgetfulness, amongst other things. Suggestiveness. If mixed with the right herbs, it could even be used as a truth serum. And Letho was doped up on it for weeks. 

“Fuck.” 

He rubs his face roughly. Once spring comes, that arsenoble duke will have what’s coming for him. Letho will creep back into his keep, scale the fucking walls like a Cat, and slit—

… Wait a fucking minute.

What was his name? What did he look like? Letho was forced into his bed for weeks, surely he’d fucking remember this. 

Does he even remember where this duke’s keep was? 

“Fuck, fuck!” He swears and throws himself back onto the bed. His body shakes and his breathing comes with difficulty. Cold sweat rapidly covers his skin, and he’s so bloody cold. He's forgotten, lost his memories, and he knows there's no gaining them back, and— 

“Letho? Letho? Are you alright?” Jaskier knocks at the door of his own bloody room, like a fucking idiot. But Letho can’t make his wooden tongue work, so Jaskier does as any nurse would do and peeks inside the room. “Letho?” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck! 

“Shh, it’s alright my dear, I’ve got you.” Jaskier sits next to him, and somehow succeeds in pulling the furs over Letho’s body. He pets Letho’s head a few times before catching himself, but when he goes to pull away Letho makes a soulfully embarrassing sound. “Oh, dear love, you’re safe here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” 

He resumes petting Letho’s head. It should be too much, too… intimate. But it calms the shivers wracking his body, calms his spiralling mind. To his horror, he begins to purr. 

Letho hasn’t purred in… a very, very long time. 

“Sweetheart, that’s it.” Jaskier coos and leans over him protectively, as though the world will have to go through Jaskier himself before he lets anyone get to Letho. It works, because Letho purrs louder. It’s less frantic, less self-soothing. 

Jaskier continues to murmur soft words to him until his heart beats its slow Witcher speed. Until he no longer feels frozen with cold and the absence of his memories. Letho doesn’t know how to be vulnerable, it’s beaten out of them from their trainees days. Vulnerable Witchers are dead Witchers. Yet, stripped of his armour, his dignity, his swords, his autonomy — Letho feels a little bit like the boy he used to be before the Trials. He hasn’t felt like this for two centuries. 

They stay like this for an indefinite amount of time. Letho has his eyes closed, his knees up, and his injured hand curled protectively against his chest. Jaskier’s fingers continue to run over his scalp, lightly tracing the huge v-shaped scar. Sometimes he’ll press his knuckles into the knots of Letho’s neck and shoulders. Letho feels safe, in the care of this human. It probably won’t last; as soon as the novelty of a fucking purring — distressed — Witcher wears out, Jaskier will see the truth of who and what Letho is.

“Are you back with me, my dearest?” Jaskier whispers, his lips brushing against Letho’s shoulder. 

Letho inhales deeply and forces his body to cease purring like a lost kitten. “Yeah,” he croaks after a minute. 

“Want to tell me what happened? Did you hurt yourself?” 

“None of your business!” he snaps, but immediately deflates. His energy has been sapped by this… moment of weakness. “They had me on a fuck ton of thorn apple. Everything is hazy, more so than I initially believed.” 

Jaskier manages to squeeze Letho tighter. It should be uncomfortable, but it’s another one of those School of the Viper quirks — they love being held tightly. It’s the only reason why Letho admits to the extent of his failure. 

“The duke’s name, face, estate… I don’t remember any of it. He had me in his bed once the plant began to affect me. That much I remember, because I don’t make a habit of bedding my employers.” Letho forces his eyes open and stares at nothing in particular. “Mixed with the right ingredients, it can be used as a truth serum. I left around Yule. It must have been sewn into my clothes, because no matter how far I went, the effects only diminished when I took a sip of Swallow.” 

“Gods, what a fucking wretch of a bastard. Fucking whoreson,” Jaskier spits, shaking in outrage. 

“Nothing but to wait till spring,” Letho says, though he isn’t sure who he’s trying to soothe with these words. “My brothers…” he trails off. He doesn’t normally discuss Witcher business with humans, but perhaps Jaskier can be an exception for this. Perhaps Letho can trust him. But he won’t sell out his brothers’ names. “I would have told my brothers where I’d be going for winter. Then I’ll pay the duke a nice little Beltane visit.” 

Jaskier pets his head and nods in agreement. “As you should,” he whispers with vehemence. 

Letho blinks and turns his head to catch Jaskier’s eyes. “I’m surprised,” he drawls, an eyebrow arched. “Aren’t Wolves all about that noble and turn-the-other-cheek shit?” 

“Oh, they are,” Jaskier agrees with a grimace, “and it’s to their detriment. Letting people treat you a certain way is basically giving them permission to continue doing so. But Geralt never listened to me…” 

His scent turns sour again, so Letho does the first thing that comes to his mind: he takes Jaskier’s hand with his uninjured one and squeezes it. 

“Thank you.” 

The words, like magic, sap the remainder of his energy. He’s bloody exhausted, and with Jaskier still wrapped so tightly around him… 

“Sleep, my darling Viper,” he whispers, still holding Letho’s hand. “I’ll watch over you.” 

A ludicrous claim, but somehow — Letho believes him. 

Letho wakes up to Jaskier setting up an altar at the desk by the window. He’s never been a very religious or spiritual Witcher, and with Nilfgaard’s imperialism, it’s difficult to be anything but a worshipper of the White Flame. The bard isn’t someone he’d have expected to be a practitioner of the old Northern religion, but there he is. He’s placed a straw doll dressed in a misshapen blue dress next to fresh snowdrops woven in a circle around a bright red candle. 

“Give me strength for the new year, o great goddess. I honour you, I invoke you. Please hear my prayers.” Jaskier whispers his prayer, likely unaware that Letho is awake. He lights the candle and sits on his knees, head bowed and palms turned skyward on his lap. 

Letho watches him for a long moment, wondering what exactly Jaskier is hoping to achieve from this ritual. His medallion doesn’t vibrate, so it’s not like there is any magic in the room. Gods don’t bother with the likes of them, too busy doing whatever it is gods do beyond indolent existence. No amount of scented candles, effigies, and symbolic flowers will summon them to this plane. Letho closes his eyes, idly wondering why Jaskier bothered to do this here instead of another room where he won’t be bothered by Letho’s presence.

But then Jaskier begins humming. It’s soft and light, and doesn’t grate his ears. A few times, he switches to whistling instead, and he sounds so much like a wren that Letho expects to hear a second, much quicker heartbeat. But no — it’s just him and Jaskier. He isn’t humming or whistling any song Letho knows. Instead, it’s just a little tune that he repeats over and over, until it lulls Letho into a half-asleep daze. 

“Will you show me my path, o great goddess?” Jaskier murmurs. His voice is so melodious, it doesn’t jerk Letho into full consciousness when he speaks. “I promise I’ve tried, o great goddess, to begin anew. But the past, it has its claws in my heart. What if I…” 

A strange coil tightens in Letho’s chest. On the floor, Jaskier tosses something on the ground — dice? divination bones? — and resumes humming. Letho imagines him leaning down to read the results of his hand, divining their meaning even if the meaning is total rubbish. Somehow, he thinks Jaskier knows it’s all a bit rubbish — it’s all superstition and confirmation bias. 

But, perhaps, even the strongest of humans need something of the divine to believe in, sometimes. 

… When did he begin thinking of Jaskier as one of the strongest humans? 

The bard sighs heavily, then, pulling Letho out of his thoughts. “Thank you for your presence, o great goddess. I will heed your words, this time.” 

This time? What had happened last time? Unable to continue pretending to be asleep, Letho opens his eyes again and shuffles around the bed just enough to make a bit of noise. Jaskier’s back straightens and he throws a small smile over his shoulder. He turns his attention back to the altar and returns his dice or bones into a small silk bag. After a few more murmured words that Letho doesn’t catch, Jaskier circles back towards Letho and—

Crawls into bed with him. 

He doesn’t know what comes over him, but Letho raises his arm with the furs and silently invites Jaskier into his bundle of warmth. The bard only hesitates for a breath before slithering in close. 

“Is this really alright?” he asks quietly. 

“Yes.” Letho pulls Jaskier closer still, until their chests are pressed together. Jaskier’s heartbeat spikes but his scent doesn’t turn acrid with fear. “Didn’t take you for the Pagan kind.” 

Jaskier huffs, his breath tickling Letho’s neck, and shrugs. 

Hesitantly, Letho reaches up and slides his fingers through Jaskier’s hair to pet it the same way the other man had done for him before. It’s oily, left unwashed for days now. Too worried about a sick Witcher in his bed, most likely. But Letho doesn’t say a word about it. He doesn’t care — Jaskier could be covered in dirt and monster guts, and he would still hold him like this. 

He isn’t so annoyed at himself this time when he begins to purr. 

There’s no doubt that it’s for Jaskier’s benefit. Some instinctual part of Letho is trying to soothe the bard, make him feel safe. He doesn’t want to question it, because questioning those things never leads anywhere useful. Instead, he continues to pet Jaskier’s hair and hold him against his rumbling chest. The scent of salt — warm, human tears — fills the air between them. 

“You’re alright,” Letho says, repeating the words Jaskier offered him since he’s been here. “I’m sorry you have to spend Imbolc with me.”

“It’s not that,” Jaskier mumbles, voice hoarse. “It’s my pleasure to spend Imbolc with a Witcher as handsome as yourself.” He sniffles but doesn’t try to hide or stop his tears. “I lost something very important to me in the past months, and I’ve been trying to convince myself that I never had it to begin with. It's not going very well.” 

“You can’t rewrite memories,” Letho says, understanding. “People are shit and they do shit things. But you’re a good man, Jaskier.” He slides his thumb down Jaskier’s temple and swipes away some of his tears. The candle’s scent is lulling him back towards sleep, and even Jaskier’s breathing warns him that he’s close to slumber too. “Little wren, singing so prettily for the great goddess. She’ll guide you, I’m sure.” 

Jaskier sighs, bone-deep, and settles properly into Letho’s embrace. “You’re kinder than I was ever led to believe, Viper.” Lips brush against the slow thump of his pulse in his neck. “Thank you, dear heart.” 

Letho smiles despite himself. Dear heart… no one’s ever called him that before. 

And just like the Viper Witcher he is, he squeezes Jaskier tightly and lulls them both to sleep with a deep, rumbling purr.