Chapter Text
This was a new low, even for him.
Being dragged through the sewers underneath Tretogor by a scrawny human bard while he was too injured to even stand properly? Horrible. Mortifying.
I should be healing faster than this. There must have been poison on one of the blades.
“Oh quit your growling,” the bard commented as he continued to drag them further into the tunnels beneath the city. “You’re lucky I was in the area. Most of the guards tend to avoid these tunnels, for obvious reasons.”
He was of course referring to the smell, but it might also have to do with the lack of light, and the telltale sounds of things scurrying about in the dark, just on the edge of his hearing.
Whoever his rescuer was, he was confident of his footing in the dark. He didn’t have a light, but he knew exactly where he was heading, and the added weight of Geralt didn’t seem to be slowing him down any. He didn’t even need to adjust the lute on his back.
As they walked, Geralt found himself grimacing at how quickly this had all gone south.
Vesemir was going to kill him.
Then Yennefer was going to revive him, just to kill him again.
And Eskel was probably going to give him sad eyes like a kicked puppy for making him worry-
“Here we go,” the bard spoke as they entered a small hidden chamber that had to have been carved into the stone.
He hadn’t seen what mechanism the bard had used to open it, and it had been near soundless when he did, but the room inside thankfully didn’t smell nearly as bad as the rest of the sewers, especially once the door closed behind them. There was a faint buzzing in his medallion. The door must be enchanted.
“Give me just a moment,” the bard commented, leaning Geralt against a wall as he flittered about the room, setting down his lute and grabbing a few odds and ends before striking a flint and lighting a candle, letting Geralt see clearly. “There we go. Home away from guards.”
Geralt blinked a bit at the strange underground room, finding it reminded him a lot of Kaer Morhen.
Stone all around, the door out blending almost seamlessly into the rest of the wall. There was a single bed on the far side of the wall, along with a chair and a desk that the candle was resting on top of.
“Here, let me help,” the bard said as he came to Geralt’s injured side once again, helping him from the wall and walking him over to the bed. “I have to admit you’re rather ballsy, getting this far into Redania when they’ve fully banned Witchers.” The bard helped Geralt onto the bed, and he tried not to groan as his injury was jostled.
“Trying to find someone,” he managed, and the bard nodded.
“Mmm. Well, whoever they are, your search for them nearly got you killed- ooof, that looks nasty- hold on, I’ve got a potion for that paralytic they use.”
Then the bard was out of his eyesight, and Geralt was forced to lie in the bed, his head resting on a pillow as he stared up at the stones, trying not to smell what was right outside the door.
Strangely, it wasn’t hard to do. The room itself had a faint smell of lavender and roses, unexpected in this sewer. The bard must spend a lot of time down here to care that much.
Then he was back, with a potion in hand. “Here, this should help you move about a bit more, then I can work on stitching you up.”
Geralt debated whether to swallow the offered potion or spit it out, but it smelled safe enough, and the bard hadn’t lied yet.
He nodded as the bard approached, and the bard slid a hand beneath his head, tilting it up and gently pouring the potion into his mouth so he could swallow it.
It tasted right, even if that was awful, and once it was all gone the bard was holding up a waterskin.
“It’s just ale,” he promised, “and weak stuff at that. Just to get the taste out.”
It was appreciated, and once that was gone too the bard set his head back down on the pillow.
He could already feel it working to relax his stiffened muscles, returning his movement to him.
“I must admit, you seem like you were already fighting that paralytic off better than most would,” the bard commented, taking a seat on the bed so he could stare down at Geralt. “Now, my dear muscular friend. Let’s take a look at that stab wound.”
The bard’s fingers were gentle as he pulled back the fabric, and Geralt tried not to wince as the dried blood pulled painfully at the rest of his skin before tearing away.
“Oh that doesn’t look good,” the bard commented, deft fingers pressing gently against the skin near the stab wound, and then he was gone again.
This time Geralt could tilt his head to watch what the bard was doing, and see that he was opening drawers in the desk to pull out needle and thread, along with other healing ointments.
“You’re lucky I was passing through,” the bard commented as he returned, cleaning the needle and threading it before he began wiping off the blood, getting a clean look at Geralt’s injuries. “Usually I’d have been here earlier, but…” there was a sudden spike of old pain and hurt in the bard’s scent, and he grimaced. “Well. I got interrupted.” He cleared his throat. “Which means I was passing through just in time to see you wipe out those guards. Why did you decide to kill them, instead of just letting them escort you out-“
“They weren’t going to let me go,” Geralt rasped. “They didn’t report to the king. At best they would detain me for longer than I have to spare. At worst I’d have ended up an experiment for whoever they worked for.”
The bard grimaced. “Yes, that does sound quite likely… I’d wager Dijkstra’s men are at it again. He’s been trying to get ahold of a Witcher for years now.” Geralt did his best to keep the pain off his face as the stranger stitched him together again, his fingers skilled where he pressed the needle into Geralt’s skin. “So. Do I get to know the name of the Witcher I’m stitching back together?”
“Eric,” he finally settled on.
“Sandpiper,” his possible savior lied.
He eyed the bard dubiously. “I gave you my name and you can’t give me yours?”
“Ah, but you didn’t give me your name. ‘Eric’. Temerian. Old, Temerian. Now I can’t speak towards your age, but with hair that white you were definitely born before the warlord rose to power and united the schools. And with a medallion like that- you’re a wolf Witcher. A Witcher born in Temeria would become a…. Crane? Bear? I’ll admit, I’m not as familiar with the other schools as I’d like, but you wouldn’t be a wolf if you were from Temeria.”
After several painful moments, Geralt spoke up again. “Witchers choose our own names. They’re not the ones given us by our parents, given that our parents tend to have been the ones to abandon us.”
Sandpiper winced as he finished stitching Geralt up. “Mmm, I’d know a thing or two about that. Well then. I’ll apologize. If I’m wrong.” After a moment of silence, Sandpiper’s casual smile grew into a full grin. “Well then. You keep your fake name, and I’ll keep mine.”
“You’re clever,” Geralt commented as Sandpiper began wrapping a bandage around his torso.
“I’m alive,” Sandpiper corrected. “Around here they’re the same thing. Or lucky. And between luck or wits? Right now? You need the latter.” He leaned back, tilting his head as he looked Geralt over. “Right. I don’t imagine you’re going to be able to move for the next day or so, and either way they’re going to be combing through this place more thoroughly than they usually do with a stunt like that, so you’re going to want to stay put.”
“If by stunt you mean fighting for my life,” Geralt commented.
Sandpiper nodded. “Fighting for your life, killing the king’s men, same difference. They’re not going to be happy. So: there’s rations in the desk, along with a few skeins of water- I’ve had to hide down here for a few days at a time before so I know for a fact they can’t find you in here. Stay, rest up, and I’ll be back once it’s a little safer.”
“Why did you help me?” Geralt called before Sandpiper could leave through the door, his lute back in his hand. “You gain nothing by it, and if any of the guards saw you, you could lose a lot.”
Sandpiper paused, and swallowed. “…Because I couldn’t just leave you there. No one deserves that fate. Now rest up, there’s books if you get bored.” Then he was gone.
Geralt lay back down fully, wincing at the pull of his stitches.
Sorry Ciri, he thought, looks like I’m going to be a bit late.