Archive of Our Own ^beta

Aiden is woken by a dull ache - a throbbing in his skull that slowly, steadily grows as his consciousness returns to him. His mouth is dry.

The pain in his head flares bright and burning - he tries to remember where he is but the last thing he remembers is -

Fuck… the fight with Lambert.

How long ago was that? It seems like it was recent but his entire body is so sore he must have been walking for a long time. He tries to lick his lips but his mouth and tongue are dry. When was the last time he had water? It must have been a while.

His face twitches, he tries to move his hand up to move something off his face - it’s tickling him. A leaf from a tree that fell while he slept, probably.

Did he get drunk last night? His limbs are too heavy to move and he slumps back against the hard surface on which he lays. He has to get up. He has to find Lambert and apologize.

Wherever he is, it’s astonishingly quiet. No sound but his own ragged breath and struggling heart. Strange, why is he out of breath?

Why is his mouth so dry?

He fades out again, his consciousness like sand through his fingers. His dreams - if they can be called that - are slow like taffy and seeped in blood. He thinks he sees the face of someone he knows, someone he can't place, someone who wants to hurt him.

When he finally forces his eyes open some several hours later his breath is more wheezing, and he feels dizzy somehow. The air feels so thin, and the pitch black of the night that greets him does little to comfort. He squints at the sky above and tries to make out the stars - figure out where he is. Gods, it reeks of blood.

Blood.

His blood.

His attention snaps into focus, he becomes acutely aware of every stinging wound on his body. He can’t remember what they’re from but he can feel the way his skin is split across his torso in three long gashes, the nicks and cuts up his arms - the blood matted into his hair, still pooling up from something - there’s something lodged in his skull. Something piercing into the bone next to his eye socket. It hurts. He makes a keening kind of whine as he becomes aware of it all and his senses are overwhelmed with agony -

He jerks, panicked, hand lifting up and smacking into something just above him. He still can’t see, and he realizes the sensation from earlier if his body being too heavy wasn’t from exhaustion, but compression. The weight of something heavy on top of him - nearly crushing.

He licks his lips again, attempts to wet them, attempts to stave off the panic - there’s dirt in his mouth and he has to force down the sob that threatens to wrench from his throat as he realizes where he is - what’s happened to him.

He still doesn’t know where he is, nor how he came to be here, but there is no mistaking that he has been sealed in a stone tomb of some kind.

Trapped.

He suddenly no longer cares about his injuries and flails out with arms and legs, making contact with every surface surrounding him. The rocks above him shit a bit as he does, and he concludes that he’s been buried. Likely in a shallow grave, only deep enough for the rotters not to come for him. That would have to be about four feet down. It’s a long way when you’re trapped under that much heavy rock. He can barely move as is with the pain - he’s either very lucky or very unlucky that the way whoever buried him happened to stack the rocks left him a little air pocket. An air pocket that is quickly running out. He has no idea how long he's been here - how long he has until that little bit of air runs out. It would have run out already where he not a Witcher and slower with his breaths.

His heart races, cold sweat beads at his temples as he tries to force himself calm - he has to be calm to hold his breath. He doesn’t have time to dawdle or second guess himself, he has to get the fuck out, and to do that he has to make room to shift the rocks around.

The process is slow and painful.

He tries to keep his breathing steady as he digs and claws at the rocks, shoving them down towards his feet where he uses them as steps to push himself to sitting, then continues to tunnel his way out. The air is so thin it barely does anything when he lets out the breath he's been holding only to gulp down a new one. His head spins, his movements slow. His body jerks with a sob as tears pour down his cheeks.

He's going to die here He's going to suffocate in a shallow grave and Lambert will never find him - might not even look for him after the shit Aiden pulled the last time they were together.

Fuck.

He's going to die without ever getting to tell Lambert he loves him.

He makes a pitiful little choking noise, desperate and --

His hand breaches the grave to the air, bloody, nails torn away and fingers shaking with pain and cold. He sobs out his relief, pulls his hand back in, and blasts the remainder of the rock away with an aard as strong as he can muster. There’s a sound nearby that he can’t quite place, but he no longer has the energy to care about noises.

The first breath of fresh air he gets is like – well, a breath of fresh air. He gulps it down and scrambles to push himself closer to the surface.

With great effort, he hauls himself from the grave and onto the dirt, panting.

He’s never felt quite so grateful for fresh air.

“Oh gods,” a voice wavers nearby, “Are you- an undead?”

Aiden gasps in air, coughs - wet dirt and rock are hacked from his lungs and onto the ground.

“Not dead,” he answers - rasps. He's not dead. He's alive. He's going to live.

"A necrophage, then?"

"Not last time I checked."

“They buried you alive?” The stranger asks, sounding horrified.

“Guess so.” He falls to his back, it’s daylight too, he notices now. The blue sky through the clouds and trees is a most welcome sight, still, he can’t keep his eyes open, exhausted as he is.

There’s some shuffling nearby, then steps getting closer, and the stranger is kneeling next to him, “Here, you must be thirsty.”

He’s right. Aiden’s mouth is so, so dry.

He cracks one eye open to finally set eyes on the stranger, a bright-blue-eyed man with russet hair and a very flowy shirt, who is offering him a waterskin. The man’s eyes widen as soon as he sees Aiden’s, “You’re a Witcher,” he breathes.

Aiden expects the offer of water to be revoked, instead, the man shuffles closer and gently lifts his head from the forest floor with a muttered, “Sorry, I know you must be in pain. Have a drink and I’ll see to your wounds after.”

Aiden wants to ask why he would bother. Why he would help a Witcher. He can’t bring himself to, he’s only got one thing left on his mind now. Only one priority. He lets the man carefully feed him some water, then asks, “Where is Lambert?”

“Not sure who that is, dear, sorry.”

Aiden frowns, “Wolf Witcher.”

“Oh. Well, maybe he’s with Geralt. We could ask.”

Geralt…

Aiden thinks he’s heard Lambert mention that name before. He’s family, if Aiden recalls correctly.

“Geralt,” Aiden mutters, trying to formulate a thought, but his head hurts too much and his mouth is still so dry.

The man next to him hums, stringing a needle with thread, “I was just on my way to meet him in Oxenfurt, you could come if you’d like. Was just waltzing through the first looking for water when BAM! Out of the ground you came. You gave me quite the start, you know! Oh, where are my manners, I'm Jaskier.”

Aiden thinks this man is very insane, offering some random Witcher to travel with him even if Oxenfurt is only a two-day ride… at least he’s pretty sure. He’s still not exactly certain where he is or how he got here.

“Need to see Lambert,” Aiden mumbles, head going fuzzy as the panic and adrenaline fade, leaving him exhausted. The man smiles gently down at him, pats him on the shoulder.

“Rest, Witcher. I’ll take good care of you.”

Aiden isn’t quite sure why he believes him.