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Oscar slings the remains of a drowner over his saddle, tightening it down as the wind picks up. Because it’s just his luck that rain is coming, and he can’t go one day without soaking wet leathers, the fear of a rusted sword, and rainwater collecting in his boots.
Black blood drips from his hair. The rain will wash out some of it, but hopefully the coin he gets from clearing out the drowner squad will be enough for a room and a bath tonight. The grit and ooze from battle practically make for a second layer of skin, and while this isn’t an unusual experience, he’s spent enough days wading through the swamp and its mirk. He’s eager to wash it away.
He trudges his way back into the village. Haggles tiredly with the village alderman for far longer than he wants, and who ends up grossly underpaying him, as per the norm. Doggedly makes his way to the local tavern, and thinks of nothing but putting his mare, Mikklarin, up in the stable, and cleaning rainwater off her saddle before it has a chance to work through the oils protecting the leather. Then, he’ll feed her an apple he’s been saving, and finish his own night off with a nice fire, deliciously warm water, and a relatively clean bed.
Of course, this means his wishful illusions are dispelled immediately. Witchers, in unknown laws written by the universe, fundamentally cannot have nice things — it’s something he learned long ago, and he’s not sure why he sometimes still forgets.
He hitches Mikklarin in a clean, dry stall in the tavern stable. Several horses are already there, and light pours in through the windows from the tavern itself, the sound of commotion reaching him even through the walls and the rain. He pinches his nose and sighs deeply, giving Mik a small pat for courage before heading inside.
He stands in front of the door, and takes a deep breath. Pushes it open, steps in.
He walks straight into a brawl.
━━━━
Lando's day has been lovely.
It starts with sunshine pouring through treetops in the early morning, birds singing in excitement, a gentle breeze running through his curls. He wakes, stretches out on his bedroll, and smiles at the newly-blossomed dandelions surrounding the clearing he slept in.
Once he packs and starts moving, he finds a peaceful patch of river on his way into the next village, and takes some time to sit on the bank and wash his hair. Lavender sways gently by the edges, shocks of purple against the calm landscape, and at one point a particularly loud frog jumps over his hand. Contentment warms his chest, alongside the midsummer sun.
He wanders into the nearby village in late afternoon, with plenty of time left to hunt down the local tavern and bargain a show in return for board. Once that’s completed, he sets off about town, ultimately settling by the well, and pulls his lute out to play. He strums it softly as children frolic around, their mothers out and about. Small round daisies crawl out of nearby cracks, reaching for the sun.
One young girl watches on in awe, and he catches her eye; winks at her with a soft smile, as if sharing a secret. She giggles, and runs off with a few flowers cradled in her hand.
Once she disappears, he gently tucks away his lute and stands, choosing to preserve energy for tonight's performance.
He wanders the stalls, picking up something here, touching something there. He makes a few purchases, pets a fluffy dog, flirts with a handsome matron who owns a fruit stall. Flirts with her son five minutes later, wiling away time until he can make his way back to the tavern to play. As he walks, music begins to thrum through his fingers in anticipation.
He cannot imagine his life without playing.
His parents did their best to believe that their son was not meant for music, was not made specifically for notes to hum deep underneath his skin, was not made to tap beats into anything within reach. That he was not made to keep his music confined to his heart, was not made to build, to connect, to live without expressing any of it.
Not for the first time, he thinks his parents are fools.
Yarrow flowers bloom across a nearby wall.
━━━━
Oscar looks on in resignation at the fight in front of him in full swing, hands thrown left and right along with the occasional mug or bowl. He observes with the air of a man who hasn’t been paid much, but certainly not enough to deal with this.
He sighs. Stares at the ground for a moment, then lifts his head and walks through the door anyway. He’s not about to turn down a warm meal just because the locals happen to be brawling.
He’s ate through worse. This, after all, barely tips the scale on one of Logan and Max’s dinnerside fights. Mark isn’t even here, looking on in disapproval.
He steps foot out of the entryway into the main room, and the noise hits him all at once, filling his ears with a cacophony of yells and hoarse screeching, his nose wrinkling at the smell of sour ale and sweat.
He looks over the crowd, calculating his chances of making it to the bar without getting dragged in. Two men stop long enough to stare at him as he does, and their pause is just enough to form a slight gap into the crowd. Oscar gets a glimpse into the heart of the melee, and his eyes sharpen as he focuses on who seems to be one of the main instigators.
It’s a rather garishly-dressed man, who’s perched on another man’s shoulders, wielding a broken chair leg with gleeful vengeance. A brilliant, violent grin covers his face, curls spilling into his eyes from underneath the wide brim of a hat as he swings back and forth in the crowd, an orange amaryllis tucked into the hat’s band with care.
Oscar is intrigued — against his will, common sense, and better judgement.
The two men who paused when Oscar first entered have been eyeing him distrustfully, and more have stopped and turned to stare at him, too.
He knows he cuts quite the figure. Turns out witcher mutations aren’t the best indicators when attempting to establish trust: pale white hair, brilliant yellow-green eyes, and imposing black armor don’t tend to make for a reassuring presence. Not to mention he’s still covered in blood, dirt, and sweat, and reeks to high hell.
He takes a step into the room. Everyone nearby takes a step back, path quickly forming as they scramble to get out of his way. He walks down it, eyes forward as always. Someone hisses, spits in his general direction. He ignores it with an ease born of unfortunate practice, continuing his way to the bar.
He speaks, voice still low and hoarse from battle. “Got any rooms for the night?”
The matron of the house turns, nose twisting up at his appearance as she gives him a disgusted once-over. Her eyes linger on the sword strapped to his back and the medallion on his chest, both items condemning him further as if the hair and eyes didn’t already do the job. He shifts back onto one foot underneath her gaze, preparing for the derision, the backlash, the orders for everyone in the room to turn on him. Like they all hadn’t already, in their minds.
She sniffs. “We do. I suppose ya’ll be wanting dinner with that too, then?”
He nods, trying his best to appear grateful. “Yes, thank you. Could I get a tub with the room as well? I’ll carry the water up myself.”
She nods back, slightly mollified by his offer to do most of the work. “Aye. Do us all a favor and get a wash. I’ll have one of the girls bring a bowl along.”
He nods again. “Thank you. I’ll be out of your way by sunrise.”
She turns away, wiping her hands on her apron, done with the conversation. “Ya had better be.”
Oscar turns away from the bar, trying to find a spot where he can sit removed from everyone else. The fight’s basically died off by now, and everyone is clearing out, a witcher in their midst having come along to spoil their night and turn it sour.
Well, everyone except the garishly-dressed man. He really is an eyesore, with his swooping hat and orange-russet doublet. He’s currently stuffing bread into his pockets, and Oscar begrudgingly admires the opportunism. The man spins around, trying to spot more, and Oscar sees a lute slung across his back.
So the stranger’s a bard, then. Not surprising.
Oscar turns away. Finds a seat.
━━━━
Lando’s humming to himself, one of the old Oxford ballads he and Daniel used to hum back and forth to each other, deep into piles of schoolwork in their dorm on cold nights.
He misses Daniel. Wonders where he’s fucked off to. Hopes he’s warm and safe and full, not having to scavenge for bread people have thrown during bar fights, much like Lando himself.
Oh, well. His luck will change. The yellow chrysanthemums he saw growing by a fence before walking into the tavern this evening foretold it — he just has to look for a new perspective. Stories can be told anywhere, anyhow, after all.
He raises his eyes, glancing around the room, taking in the sparse crowd that’s left. That’s when he sees him — inspiration. His next song.
He bounces on his heels. Makes his way over. Finally, a break.
━━━━
Oscar’s halfway through his bowl of watered-down stew, heightened senses finally having settled a bit when someone clears their throat, off to the side.
He looks up over his spoon, not quite glaring but something rapidly approaching it as he takes in the figure, standing there nonchalantly.
It’s the bard.
He’s leaning against one of the wooden pillars holding up the ceiling like that’s his occupation, arms crossed lazily and mouth twisted up into a little grin. Oscar blinks, disgruntled, waiting.
The bard speaks a moment later, thoughtfully, but with an undercurrent of amusement. “I love how you just sit in a corner, and brood.”
Oscar blinks again. Scowls deeply, a moment later. That’s all the bard had to say? He wills the man to vanish in his mind — he’s trying to eat here, damn it.
The bard, of course, doesn’t read the mood, and speaks up again. “I know what you are.”
Oscar puts his spoon down, heavily. Pinches his nose in exasperation. No shit, the bard knows who he is — everyone here does. Gods above, he really just wanted to eat tonight and then take a bath in peace. The universe truly cannot let him have one thing, can it?
The bard takes a step closer, not fazed by Oscar’s heavy mood or off-putting stare. He squints his eyes, curious, inquisitive.
“Is that drowner blood in your hair?”
Oscar’s eyes fly open in surprise from where they had been shut in resignation, ready for harsh words and derision, maybe even the man picking a fight.
How does a bard, especially one who’s dressed as fine as he, know what drowner blood looks like — let alone be able to identify it positively from swamp selkie or moor wraith?
The bard must see the question in his gaze, because he chuckles lightly and takes a step back, lounging against the wooden beam, one hand waving in the air lazily and brushing the subject aside. “Oh, simply a hobby. A defenseless bard must look out for himself somehow, no?”
Oscar grunts noncommittally. This bard is intriguing, he’ll admit that, but there’s no use giving him more information and time than he’s worth. He’ll move on quickly enough. They all do.
The bard chooses this moment to yank out a bench and sit down across from him. He digs out a piece of bread from where it’s stuffed down his doublet and offers Oscar half of it without a second thought, even though Oscar saw him earlier scrounging for it.
He debates for a moment. The bard’s hand never wavers, bread still extended like an offering, and, well. Oscar’s never one to turn down free food, let alone something fresh.
He takes it.
The bard smiles, something softer than the toothy grin Oscar’s only seen up until now. He bites down on his own piece, humming happily, content for the moment.
Oscar lowers his head. Smiles back, just a little bit.
The bard glances up, eyes sparkling in the dim candlelight of the room. His voice is tinged with mischief when he speaks. “I’m Lando, by the way. And what do they call you, oh mighty witcher?”
Oscar chews thoughtfully. Debates in his own head again. What is it with this man and making him second-guess himself? He sighs, finally, and gives it up.
“Oscar.”
The bard’s eyes catch the light even more as he leans forward, sharpening blade-quick as he chases a story. “Ooo, not the Oscar of Rivia, surely? The Butcher of Blaviken, the Princess Slayer?”
Oscar stiffens, muscles going rigid as his mood drops, defenses thrown up with just the mention of Blaviken.
Of course the bard knows him by that name. It follows him everywhere. He cannot escape it.
He doesn’t want to hear either of those titles ever again. There’s no glory to be found in killing a woman, in killing a princess, in killing — her.
The other man, to his credit, clocks this immediately, realization flashing across his face. He backs off. Taps his fingers against the table in an instinctive, thoughtless rhythm.
Oscar’s almost grateful as even he stands, now eager to leave the conversation. It’s been a long time since someone has read him half as easily, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. No one’s read him this naturally since — well.
The bard stands too, locking eyes with him from across the table. He catches Oscar off guard with his next words, a jolt of surprise running through his limbs when he hears them, a sensation he doesn’t think he’s felt in years.
“Let me accompany you when you leave.”
Oscar freezes, then slams a hand down on the table. The empty bowl and spoon rattle. He cuts off that path of thought before the bard can even start down it, an unnameable fear crawling up his throat, response immediate. “No.”
The bard crosses his arms. Huffs, like a fucking child. “Why not? Seems to me like we both get something out of it — I get stories, inspiration, you get exposure. Positive exposure, because you have none, my friend, and I can help with that.”
Oscar turns to leave, irritation rising even as exhaustion hits him with force like a winter wind. “No.”
“Come on! I’ll stay out of your way, you won’t even know I’m there. Let me accompany you, please. I need new inspiration, and you, sir, are brimming with it.”
Oscar walks towards the stairs, hoping desperately that the bard doesn’t follow him.
The bard follows him.
“Please, sir witcher, Oscar of Rivia. Let me pen epics and ballads in your name!”
And upon hearing that, Oscar’s had quite enough. No one wants to listen to tales sung about a witcher, let alone want to write it — there’s no glamour or glory to be found in destroying monsters. As for ballads and romantic sagas, that’s even more ludicrous; no one is dying to hear a love story with a witcher cast as the savior, the hero.
He turns around and backs the bard up against a wall by the stairs, pinning him in place with just his presence. The bard looks at him with surprise, mouth open, eyes wide.
He leans in. Lowers his voice. Makes sure the other hears him this time.
“I said no.”
The bard swallows, heartbeat jumping in his chest and fluttering in his throat as Oscar watches, the faint scent of the amaryllis flower still tucked into his hat tickling Oscar’s nose, notes of sunwarmed honey and wildflower meadows after rain threaded through it like resolve.
He pulls away. Walks towards the stairs again.
This time, the bard doesn’t follow. And as he climbs the steps and makes his way down the hall, exhaustion settling in, he doesn’t question why his own chest aches — something low, quiet, but twisting away all the same.