Dappled colors swirled through the air above him. He blinked slowly, watching as a pane of stained glass came into view. Soft light streamed through, catching little dust particles drifting lazily through the air.

He groaned and started trying to sit up, but his aching muscles didn’t respond. Why couldn’t he move properly?

“Are you awake?” a soft voice asked. Something shallow and smooth was held to his lips, filled with a warm liquid.

Nestor tried to lean away with a low groan of protest. The warm liquid was withdrawn and he listened as a set of footsteps retreated.

He had to leave before they got back. Forcing himself to roll onto his side, he found himself face to face with another stained glass window. He frowned. How had he ended up here? Had the constables found him? That girl…had she turned him in? He groaned, of course she would. She probably thought she was turning in a violent criminal.

“He’s waking up,” that same voice said from somewhere below him.

Nestor fought his way into a sitting position, but the room spun out of focus. What had they done to him? Drugged him?

The low groan of wood scraping against wood sounded and Nestor froze, aware that he was trembling, but unable to stop it. Could he fight at all in his state?

Two figures seemed to grow out of the floor, both slightly out of focus. Nestor did his best to glare at them.

“Nestor, it’s good to see you up finally,” a familiar voice said. Relief flooded him as Geralt took a step closer. He hadn't been turned in. The crew must’ve found him somehow. “You look awful.” His friend told him.

“How…where?” Even his words felt sluggish.

“I was hoping he’d calm down if he saw you,” the first voice said. With a start, Nestor realized he recognized it as well. The girl from earlier stepped into a pillar of multicolored light streaming in from the domed stained glass panes all around them.

“Where am I?” Nestor managed. He had to lean back against the wall as his head spun from the effort of focusing on them. Still, the relief he felt at not being in a prison was amazing.

“You’re in the attic of my shop,” the girl said. She offered him a bowl of something steaming and he hesitantly took a sip of it. Broth. “I brought you here after you fainted.”

“The whole crew’s been worried about you, Nestor. What happened?” Geralt had moved to lean against one of the supporting beams, standing just outside the beam of dazzling light. It was a mark of their profession to stick to the shadows, but right then Nestor wished that his friend would move just a bit closer. With every passing second he seemed to blur into the beam itself.

“Nestor?” Geralt prompted, head tilted in concern.

A lump rose up to Nestor’s throat. “The Captain’s dead,” he said softly. The finality of those words hit him harder than anything had in a long time, but he managed to swallow it back. Geralt deserved to know. “The buyer killed him.”

Grief went through Geralt’s eyes, but he nodded slowly. “We figured something must have happened after you and him didn’t come back. Morgansen managed to hide the ship, but we think he was watched.”

“The rest of the crew is ok then?” The heavy dread that had settled over him dissipated slightly. Maybe the buyer wouldn’t go after the whole crew, maybe they were safe.

Geralt nodded. “Yeah, but we’re lying low. It’s really good to see you up again.”

“Finally,” the girl agreed. She straightened her goggles and backed a few paces away from Nestor, becoming blurrier with every step. “I can’t believe I brought you up here.”

“Thanks again for that, Sylvie” Geralt shot her what Nestor was sure was one of his winning smiles. “He’s not much of a charmer, but he’s family.”

Nestor stared at them. Sylvie? How did Geralt know her name? How had she even found Geralt? Or had he found her?

“How…how long has it been?” He asked. His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears and he tried to clear his throat.

“A couple of days.” She glanced over at Geralt. “You had a fever, it only broke last night.”

Nestor swallowed, finding that his throat still ached even after the sip of broth he had been given. “The mist,” he realized. His voice came small and weak, but the idea of trying to clear his throat was agonizing.

“Mist?” Geralt asked. “It’s been clear skies for the past week.”

Nestor shook his head and let his friend slide completely out of focus. It was easier that way.

“That man that was chasing you,” Sylvie started. “He did something to you, didn’t he?”

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“Not--not the one you saw,” Nestor choked out. “The buyer--” he cut himself off, starting to tremble. “The buyer had some sort of poisonous mist he used to kill the Captain.” The image of the man who had basically raised him, hunched on the floor flashed through his mind and Nestor had to swallow down sharp bile. It didn’t help and his body forced a cough, causing an exhausted groan of pain to escape him before he could catch it.

“Did you breathe it in?” Geralt asked, starting to look worried.

“I don’t know…probably?” Nestor let himself lean against the wall, closing his eyes against the barrage of colors swirling in the light. If neither of them were going to bother standing where he could see them, he didn’t see the need to bother trying.

“I’ll find a healer,” Sylvie decided. “They’ll know what to do.”

Nestor forced his eyes open, sudden adrenaline chasing away his exhaustion. “No!” he choked out. Painful coughs wracked him and he watched Sylvie’s eyes widen in alarm through watering eyes.

“Whoever that man was, he saw my face. Getting other people involved will just put us and them in danger.” His voice came easier, but still pained. .

“And I have you in my attic,” Sylvie muttered. Had she gone paler?

“It’ll be fine,” Geralt said to Sylvie. “Just give him a couple of more days to rest and we’ll sneak him out of the city.”

“I don’t know if you should do that,” Sylvie said. “If he’s right, then they’re already looking for him. You can’t let him be seen.”

“We could always use a mask,” Geralt said. “Nestor, did you get yours repaired? I can go--”

“Right, because dragging him half dead through the gates won’t raise any suspicions,” Sylvie snorted. “Look at him, he can’t even sit up straight!”

Nestor tried to lean away from the wall before realizing she was right. To be fair, she had turned into just a blur to his eyes.

A loud thump sounded from below them and Sylvie raised a finger to her lips. “Stay quiet,” she urged. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Geralt slowly settled down across from Nestor. Trying to track the motion left him feeling sick and he finally slid down to his bed roll, pulling the soft blanket back over himself.

“Why…why is she worried?” he muttered.

“We’re in her shop,” Geralt whispered. “Don’t worry about it. It’s probably just a customer.”

Nestor nodded, or tried to. Any motion of his head made the rainbows on the floor spin and his stomach climb to his throat.

“The captain…” Nestor said softly. He had let him die. He…

“Nestor, stop,” Geralt said, his voice still a whisper. “He would’ve been proud of you. Just rest.” His blanket was pulled further over his body and he let himself sink into the warmth.

“Us and the crew, we’ll take care of each other, just like we always have. You just rest.”

The next time Nestor woke up, Sylvie was leaning over him, offering another bowl of broth to him.

“Thank you,” he murmured after he took a sip of the warm broth. It was surprisingly rich, or maybe he was just starving.

“Thank me when you’re not sick,” she told him. Her blonde hair had been tied back in its customary braid, but a few strands were loose, hanging limply around her face.

Nestor started to sit up, but the swaying of the room and Sylvie gently pushing him back down convinced him to give it up.

“You didn’t turn me in,” Nestor pressed.

“You threw up on me. It was very much a response of shock.”

Nestor was briefly mortified before Sylvie laughed and pushed the bowl at him again. Another savory sip and he attempted to sit up, this time managing it although the room swayed slightly. The rainbows from the stained glass were gone, replaced with the light from a lantern in the middle of the room. There was one other thing missing from the room.

“Where’s Geralt?” he asked. His voice still sounded wrong to his ears. Far too weak, as if his vocal cords would rip under the pressure of merely trying to form words.

“He’s with some of your other crewmates. He doesn’t normally stay here.” Sylvie hesitated, glancing at the trapdoor she had disappeared down originally. “But I’m sure that if you wanted, it wouldn’t be hard to convince him to stay.”

Nestor shook his head. “No, I don’t want to force him.”

“He cares for you as a brother, I doubt he would feel forced.” Sylvie settled down beside the lamp. “Made that quite clear when he tracked me down.”

“Yeah,” Nestor agreed half heartedly. Amos had been as much of a father to Geralt as he had been to Nestor. And Nestor had found a way to ruin that too.

“What’s it like?” Sylvie asked. She was staring at her lamp, watching the faint flickering pattern across the floor boards.

“Pardon?”

“To be free to wander the world. You answer to no one but yourself, see distant skies, every day brimming with adventure! What’s it like?”

Nestor stared at her, trying to gauge what she was saying. “I’m not sure you understand who I am,” he trailed off, his heart rising to his throat. He had gotten lucky this far, what was he doing?

“Oh please, I know you're a pirate,” Sylvie said dismissively. “That much is obvious.”

“Did Geralt tell you?” It wasn’t like his friend to be so trusting towards a stranger, but then, what choice would he have had?

Sylvie snorted. “Of course not. But what else could you be with an airship you have to hide? Not to mention whatever did this to your mask.” She drew out a very familiar copper mask in the shape of a fox.

“Where did you find that?” Nestor started patting himself down. What else had he lost?

“It was in your jacket. I found it when I dragged you here.” She handed it to him and he accepted, relief washing over him at the touch of the familiar metal.

“You fixed it,” he said, looking at the muzzle. It was a little softer than it had been originally, maybe a little more doglike, but still his mask.

“It felt wrong to give it all crushed like that.” Sylvie shrugged. “It wasn’t hard to repair.”

“Thank you,” Nestor said. Hesitating, he tried it on, relieved to find that the fit was right.

Something crashed from below and he stiffened, instantly pulling off the mask and tucking it behind him.

“Another customer?” he whispered.

“No,” Sylvie murmured back. “That would be my uncle.” She scooped up her lamp and moved for the trap door.

“Sleep well,” she said, her voice much softer than it had been. “I’ll be back in the morning.” With that she started down the ladder, leaving Nestor to pull his blanket further around him. He listened to the soft murmurings of words being exchanged until those faded and he was left to slip back into sleep.