Chapter Text
Listen.
Everybody makes mistakes.
And Jaskier thought he did a pretty good job at bouncing back.
Jaskier tried not to get sick, but one could only do so much when they traveled for a living. Much less when he snogged so many of the people he met in his travels. So much less when they traveled with a witcher (who he also snogged…).
Even the witcher he traveled with didn’t always remember what would and wouldn’t make him sick.
Had Geralt once, early in their time together, added the wrong mushrooms to the stew?
Yes.
Had Geralt also demanded that he eat only overcooked meat one summer because Jaskier had gotten sick from undercooked meat in the spring?
Also yes.
But this time was entirely Jaskier’s fault.
It had been midsummer. Geralt and Jaskier had met Eskal and Lambert both in the south - there had been a post from Toussaint about an extensive vampire problem that required more than one witcher to face.
It had been a busy day for all of them as they each followed their leads.
Especially for Jaskier.
Jaskier had followed each in turn - Geralt around the castle after the initial report on the latest victim, Lambert to the cemetery for an impromptu exhumation, and Eskal to several wineries to gather eye-witness accounts.
They had only an hour to reconvene at the Cockatrice. There, as they examined their collective findings they realized where the vampires would likely strike: for the entire week of midsummer, each of the major wineries in the Beauclaire region would host a party.
Seven nights of royals and nobility - either sloshed at a vineyard or left alone in their mansions.
Queen Henrietta saw to it that they would be allowed at each. She also meant not to announce their presence anymore than strictly necessary, but, well, having the only bard known to travel with a witcher appear at your party was a bit of a giveaway.
As well as assuming three witchers would have gone unnoticed during the three days it took to cross the border, meet the Queen, and investigate the disappearances.
But no matter! It would all work out.
He procured a drink from the dark-haired serving girl - who poured him a slightly over-full glass with a smile - and took the stage.
The sun had set, and Jaskier had settled into an upbeat but easygoing set for the attendants at the vineyard.
He may have been playing some… possibly incendiary songs, if one were a vampire. There was the ballad about the time Eskel slew a katakan. Then the jig where Lambert out-shrieked an Ekimmara. And, his favorite of the bunch, the one about the vampire in Oxenfurt who was feeding on drunks - the one Geralt defeated by getting wasted, using himself as bait, and then beating the shit out of it. While still wasted.
The crowd liked that one, too, so he played it twice.
He was plucking his way through the next piece when he heard something in the distance.
Suddenly, a few shrieks went up across the court yard.
Then a few more - with an unmistakable edge of terror.
Jaskier’s stomach fell. Though he continued to play, his voice faltered, and tense murmurs swept the crowd.
Then a shrill, unnatural howl cut through the hum.
The crowd erupted into chaos.
Jaskier couldn’t see what happened, but he didn’t need to. Ten years of instinct had him seeking high ground — if not to get to safety, then to at least properly see the battle.
It was easy enough to get up onto the roof, onto a balcony where he could press his face to the slats and watch the fight below.
Geralt and Eskal were flashes of movement below, torchlight catching on the silver blades as they chased the shadows through the night. The shadows that, as they approached the light, took the form of a pale bruxa and two alps.
Just as Jaskier wished he could actually draw - not for the first time - a clawed hand gripped his shoulder. Another smothered his startled cry.
Dropping the dagger from his sleeve, he slashed at it with the silver blade.
The monster holding him - the dark haired woman from before - tore her arm away at the pain with a deafening shriek.
Jaskier reeled, thrown back by the strength of her arm on him, as well as the force of her scream. Suddenly, he pitched, and his reeling became falling.
Ten feet below, he landed.
Not on his neck, thank gods, but also not on his feet - but on his back. And, oh, he was not young enough to get up and run after that anymore. Gasping for breath, he could only watch as the bruxa descended on him.
Her nails clashed with a golden shell in a burst of light and a shower of shards.
Staggered by the explosion, the bruxa reared back - and right into Eskel's sword.
Before Jaskier could say anything, Eskel was on top of him, casting a shield over them.
And just in time. The other bruxa cried out in anger. The shockwave of it rattled the windows and knocked cups from tables. The shield held, but barely, and still left Jaskier’s ears ringing.
Still sore, Jaskier rolled onto his knees.
Only the one bruxa was left - the bruxa, and three witchers.
In a spectacular display, Geralt threw down yrden, trapping the bruxa. Lambert tossed a grenade in the ring, and then Eskal and Lambert lay two shields of quen over it all.
The bruxa screamed. Then the bomb burst, low and loud, and her scream pitched into a cry of pain, only to immediately fell silent.
The seconds after were deafening.
Then Eskel sighed, finally letting his near shattered quen fall.
So it was over. Looking around, Jaskier saw then the two other vampire corpses across the courtyard. Saw that the witchers were injured, yes, but unharmed.
Jaskier stood on shaky legs. He was going to need a hot bath for his back, and a lot of wine.
Now, Jaskier tried not to get sick. Jaskier didn’t actually get sick easily, either. But there were certain things that one tries not to do, just in case.
Like drinking strangers’ wine.
But it had also been a long night. So he might not have given it much thought as he snatched the closest drink and raised the glass, and then his voice for all the hidden patrons.
“Well, that was exciting! Thank you, lovely patrons of Toussaint, for definitely the most invigorating dinner party I’ve been to all year.”
And that was how he spent the next two days laid up in bed, sick with a stomach bug and missing half of midsummer in Toussaint.
.
.
.
Lambert pounded a fist on the table, the book at the end bouncing with the force of it. “BITCH, you were DYING.”
Vesemir looked over from where he sat by the fire, eying the poor, precarious book - one about vampires that they had pulled off the library shelf in order to argue a point sometime during Jaskier’s story.
From where he sat on Geralt’s lap on the furs in front of the fire, Jaskier sighed, put-upon but fond. “Oh, Lambert, Lambert. I didn’t have the heart to argue it back then, but really, it was just a stomach bug.”
From where he lay on the carpet next to them, Eskel rolled over and reached for Jaskier’s knee. With a very sober, serious look - and only a little slur to his words - he said to Jaskier, “No, Jask, really. You were dying.”
Jaskier pat his hand clumsily. “I’m sure I felt that way, but I promise, I wasn’t.”
Geralt squeezed him a little tighter and hummed.
Jaskier still seemed to understand. “Oh? How do you know?
Lambert jabbed his finger at the kid—
.
.
.
Lambert woke to the silver grey of twilight and the faint smell of sick.
It was early. Early enough that even the staff weren’t yet making the rounds to their end of the manor. It was early and he was tired and he should be asleep, goddamnit.
Lambert found Eskel in the hall outside Geralt and Jaskier’s room. He didn’t have to ask what was wrong - even through the heavy door, he could hear Jaskier’s strained whimpers and quick pulse, could smell the faint odor of sickness.
“Fuck,” Lambert grumbled. “How bad is it?”
“Geralt’s taking a look. Started a couple hours ago.”
From the other side of the door, Lambert heard the groan and dull splatter of vomit. He winced. “Someone drank too much last night.”
“Don’t think so,” Eskel said. “He didn’t have that much. Besides, the smell is off.”
The door opened and Geralt appeared, chamber pot to hand. He traded it for the empty one Eskel had been holding, and returned to Jaskier’s side to place it in his lap. Jaskier lay propped against the headboard, awake, but eyes closed and lips parted to heave for air.
Geralt pat his shoulder and let him know he would be back.
“What is it?” Lambert asked, not exactly wanting to sniff through fresh vomit. It stank of wine and bile, and a number of other things he couldn’t name but instinctually recognized as bad.
(He told himself it could be worse — it could be stale vomit.)
“Not sure,” Geralt said once he’d closed the door. “He said he grabbed someone else’s cup last night. Thinks it’s just a stomach bug.”
Lambert groaned. “But.”
Geralt nodded. “But.”
The three walked down to empty the pot and back as they retraced their footsteps for the last few days.
They stopped by the window down the hall, catching just a little more air before they braved the stench of Jaskier’s room.
While they quickly realized that Jaskier had managed to make a number of questionable choices in the last few days together — a fact that had Lambert baffled at how Geralt could put up with him on the path, not to mention how Jaskier was still alive — it was unlikely any of those things would have taken so long to affect him.
Whatever had caused this must have happened in the last day or so.
And Lambert knew exactly what that was.
“Cemetery wine,” said Lambert. “There was a wine offering in the catacombs, by the open grave we investigated. Fuck—!”
Assuming the wine wasn’t simply spoiled - which could hopefully be remedied by the medicine they were already giving him - Lambert had to act on the alternative: Jaskier was fucking cursed.
Lambert groaned. He really didn’t want to spend more time in a fucking cemetery.
“He drank—?” Eskel stared at him, the surprised look slowly fading to something like horror. “When we were at the Belmont Winery, he got to talking with the owners and… fuck, they had a new wine. An experiment. I was looking around, so I wasn’t there to stop him from drinking it.”
His own frustration forgotten, Lambert waved him on when he didn’t continue. “…and?”
Eskel shook his head. “I thought it was just a name. But it must have—! They called it archespore wine!”
Lambert barked something like a laugh. It was absurd. It was exactly the thing a fancy winery would try, and exactly the thing the dumb bard would go for.
Geralt glared at the two of them, standing still only as he was in the seconds before he launched himself at his prey. Lambert stilled, too - he was not about to get beaten down over Jaskier’s idiot choices.
Through the door behind them, Jaskier groaned and heaved into the spare chamber pot.
Then Geralt sighed, all anger gone.
“He is a handful, isn’t he…” he muttered, more resigned than anything. “One of the bruxa served wine last night. She might have poisoned it.”
“Well, shit.”
It took only a second for Lambert to throw up his hands. “Fuck it. Let’s do all of them!”
With that settled, they parted.
Lambert shot to the cemetery, a gated mausoleum on the south side of the city.
In the dark he traced his way back to the coffin. He’d need ashes from the grave, a name, then probably dig through his bag for dimeritium to quell the magic. There were some other things, he figured, but he couldn’t worry about that just yet.
He rounded the corner back to the room they had been and-
And FUCK if there weren’t three coffins it could have come from.
Three coffins with Jaskier’s scent lingering on them, the dust brushed away where his fingers had traced them. Whatever shadow the bottle might have left had been brushed away, too.
Lambert bit back a howl.
FUCK IT. He’ll make a cure with all of them! If three bitter, nasty potions didn’t teach the bard to stop touching shit—
Lambert kicked a stray vase, sending the spiders skittering.
Honestly, it’d probably only last a month. Lambert would put money on it.
By the time he shoved three cups of clay broth at the congested bard, he was ready to throttle him. (Had already throttled an unlucky door. And then a stray bucket for good measure. Still wanted to throttle him, though.)
They smelled bad. They’d taste worse.
He hoped they’d stay in Jaskier’s stomach long enough to work.
.
.
.
Eskel stood again at the gates of Beauclaire proper. Ergot seeds were uncommon so far south, so the simplest corse of action was to just buy them.
He turned, briefly, and looked back over the hills dusted in pale morning sun.
The Belmont Winery stood atop one of the rolling hills east of the city.
Just the afternoon before, they had stopped there to speak to a witness. Jaskier had charmed the owners in moments, easing the way for Eskel to do his work.
Eskel asked his questions, listened, and at some point, wandered off to check the perimeter under the guise of confirming that there were no more archespores growing in the fields.
The wine hands explained that they had an archespore in the field a few months back. Being without a witcher, they did the only thing they could think to do - burn the field.
And the winery had smelled of archespore, but only vaguely. More potent was the musk of fresh wine, and under that the char of burnt vegetation.
When this was over, Eskel would make sure to stop by the vineyard. Where he would tell them in no uncertain terms that they were never to sell that archespore wine, no matter how it got its name.
He met the herbalist outside her door.
“Oh, early today, aren’t you?” She said with friendly curiosity.
She let him in after her, unconcerned with his presence like many people in Toussaint. Eskel was sure he wouldn't ever get used to it.
He still couldn't bring himself to admit that his need for ergot seeds and maybe some water essence was actually quite dire.
He did bring himself to see something he hadn't the day before - which was how much the herbalist was flirting with him.
And he couldn't do anything about it.
Fuck.
Eskel weighed the bag of ergot seeds in his hand with the fast slipping time in his other.
Jaskier had two other witchers to dote on him (and Lambert did dote, in his own way), two other sets of potions, and a sorceress or three if things really got bad. Jaskier would not go uncared for if Eskel showed up last.
But Jaskier weighed more than a few hours of fun.
Eskel, with his best something or other, he excused himself, and promised to come by again before he left. Even if he knew that by then the moment would probably be long gone.
He rode back, fast as could and just a little sore at Jaskier.
Some of that went away by the time Eskel returned. The smell had worsened with the additions of Lambert’s potions, and now Jaskier looked actually green. He sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over the chamber pot in his lap.
Lambert sat next to him, rubbing his back in what might have been comfort, but what probably just reinforcing his threatening mantra of, “Don’t you fucking throw up on me.”
The two looked up at him as he entered.
Eskel held up his own antidote - a sickly sweet, but mercifully small bottle of bright yellow liquid.
Jaskier just groaned pitifully.
.
.
.
Six drowners, three scurvers, a panther, a peacock, and no less than seven archespores later, Geralt had found the river.
He waded through the thigh-high waters, looking for just one cluster of the sparse buckthorn that grew in the area. Very little grew this far south, and he had maybe half a day to find it.
All because he’d not taken the two seconds to find Jaskier’s cup and confirm he hadn’t been poisoned.
Vesemir would have smacked him upside the head and then had him run the wall. But Vesemir wasn’t here, and he was already running. The stench of sick clung to Geralt’s clothes, and that would be enough.
There was no telling whose cup Jaskier had drank from for his toast. No telling if they had gotten sick as well, at least not in the few hours he’d have to find them, or if it there had been poison in his original wine goblet.
Of course, to give an antidote, you generally need to know what poison you’re trying to counteract.
But he didn’t. So he had to guess.
Jaskier’s scent had taken on an acrid tone. And his vomit, under the color and ferment of all that wine gone sour in his stomach, carried the coppery tang of blood. That might have been from his throat going raw, or a blood vessel bursting in the back of his sinuses — or it could be something more serious.
Even in that, they had been lucky.
Most poisons that caused internal bleeding would have killed him already. Even if they were administered in a smaller dose, the bleeding should have been more severe, his suffering more acute.
This was likely not one of them, with as little blood as he’d coughed up.
That, and the fact that he had only begun to feel sick about 6 hours after the party, gave Geralt three reasonable options.
Of the three, he had the ingredients for the antidote for one.
Gods, he hoped he had it right.
.
.
.
And that was how Jaskier spent the rest of his day drinking the strange decoctions that were shoved into his hands.
He barely kept them down, even when Lambert axii’d him into holding it in.
Lambert still threatened a thrashing if he puked up all his hard work.
Geralt threatened him a little less.
By the time anyone realized Eskel had made himself scarce, Jaskier had collapsed back into the pillows, vowing never to drink ever ever again.
.
.
.
Lambert snorted. “You drank someone's Lebioda offering not two days later.”
"It was fresh!" Jaskier balked. He peeled himself off where he was pressed to Geralt's chest, sitting up to properly combat Lambert. "And it was Beauclaire White!"
"You'd be fresh dead if it weren't for us," Lambert chuckled, the edge taken out of his bite it seemed. He sat sunk low on the fireside chair - the one that wasn't Vesemir's.
Vesemir sat in his own now, thankful that the energy of the evening was finally starting to wane. He wasn't sure how many more stories he could take for one night.
Jaskier seemed determined to defy him, however. "There's nothing fresh about death, Lambert, otherwise you'd smell a lot better-!"
Geralt reached up and pulled him back down like a child might latch onto their favorite doll. Fortunately, it didn't seem like Jaskier was suffocating.
"Well," Vesemir muttered, standing to, if not corral his sleepy students back to their rooms, then at least get himself to bed. "If a few hard knocks can't stick this lesson to you, I don't know what will...."
And that included himself. He tried not to let that worry him.
"You say that like we could do anything about it," Lambert grumbled. "I mean... fuck, we don't want to go through all this bullshit... we can't just not."
Eskel snorted into his arms, where he'd pillowed his head as he lay on the floor.
Lambert scoffed at him. "Shut up. You know what I'm talking about."
"'M not talking."
Then Lambert shared a sidelong look with Eskel.
"You tell 'em," Eskel muttered, burying his head again in his arms.
Lambert kicked Eskel - or tried to. His boot didn't quite reach him across the floor. "Come on, princess. You were there, too."
"So was he." Eskel shot a look at Geralt.
Lambert kicked at Geralt, who was entirely out of reach. Not that it would have bothered him. "He is too fucked to tell anything."
"Hey, I was there, too!" Jaskier gasped, not to be left out, pulling himself off Geralt's chest just far enough to breathe.
With a sigh, Vesemir sat back down in the chair.
At least there was plenty of wood in the fireplace.