Herbal Monographs

Chamomile

Chamomile is not only gentle and powerful, it seemingly does a thousand and one different things, from soothing the nervous system, relieving muscle tension, and addressing cold and flu symptoms, to promoting digestion and modulating inflammation.

Herbal Monograph on Chamomile, HerbMentor

Jaskier looked between the jars he'd pulled from Geralt's bag and frowned. One was a metal, battered thing with no label, its lid fitted with a simple screw top. The other, old wood with a wide mouth and cork stopper.

"Which?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Wood." Geralt grunted from the bed, his voice muffled by the pillow he'd collapsed on.

Jaskier set the metal container aside and dislodged the cork stopper. The scents of chamomile and lavender drifted out, and he nodded to himself. Twin oil lamps lit the small room Geralt had rented, holding the space in a soft yellow glow. It was enough to work by, so long as one wasn't reading. He shucked his doublet off and rolled the thin shirt underneath up past his elbows. He set the jar of salve on the side table and turned to give Geralt a more attentive examination.

"No wounds?" he asked.

"No."

Jaskier checked for himself anyway. Geralt lay on his stomach in the middle of the bed, naked and barely moving. If he wasn't wrong, the ribs were a little more visible than usual.

"Tell me again," he said gently and scooped enough salve onto his hands to make them slick. He pressed his palms to Geralt's left shoulder blade and took a second, letting the sensation rise before he started working his hands over the muscle.

A sound of discomfort ground through the witcher's throat, but the soreness needed tending.

"The cockatrice hen lived halfway up the mountain. It was only in the forest to hunt. I chased it. I killed it."

Jaskier pressed his lips together at the perfunctory lack of details. He moved his hands to Geralt's arm, massaging the muscles there and working his way toward palm and fingers.

"You ran yourself ragged," he said. "When was the last time you ate anything?"

Geralt was quiet for awhile as Jaskier moved on.

Eventually, "Potion or two," and the bard's expression darkened, though Geralt couldn't see. Potions were the opposite of food. Temporary enhancements that left the witcher weak from toxin after they were done.

He didn't say anything.

Geralt had come through the door of the inn barely standing upright and using his sword as a cane for balance--practically heretical. Jaskier got him up the stairs and out of his armor and through a bath by force of will. Even without any bleeding wounds, any a fool could see he was hurting by the way he moved, careful, stiff, and unsteady--like his limbs were made of iron.

There were treatments for that.

And so Jaskier focused on the body beneath his hands, trying to ignore the sensation of Geralt's skin. Like pins and needles, but warm instead of cold. It traveled through his fingers delightful and distracting, as if Geralt's body needed to be more distracting. He worked arms, then legs, and then because of the size of the bed, had to crawl up onto his knees and straddle the witcher's prone form to get a good angle on his back. He added a heavy layer of salve to his bare forearm and pressed it up the length of Geralt's back, like he was rolling out dough.

Geralt's muscles twitched and spasmed under the repeated gesture, while the man himself made no sound at all. Generally, people did. Many a skilled lady in the service houses in Oxenfurt had taught him that. It hadn't been the education the University promised, but it was part of the one he got nonetheless. And while their syllabus may have been focused on more carnal purposes. Well. One could just leave a few things out.