Actions

Work Header

Hours That Float Idly Down

Summary:

Having taken his leave from Dandelion, Geralt finds himself abandoned and dying in a wintery wasteland. As his life flees his body, he reflects on what he might like to have done with his remains after he has departed them.

Meanwhile, Dandelion watches midnight come and go.

Notes:

The title for this piece is taken from "Blizzard" by William Carlos Williams, and was written to incorporate several different prompts from the Whumpay 2021 list on Tumblr, to be written in three parts.

I promise, things do get better.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The sun was long past setting, for what little good it would have done. Even at its zenith, it had been nothing more than a light, reflecting off the icy particles and making Geralt’s eyes ache ferociously. It offered no warmth, no protection from the barren wasteland in which he had found himself. Though, he had been offered little choice when it came to being here in the first place. They were bereft of coin; Dandelion’s fingers being too numb to pluck at his lute and his voice still cracking from the fever and cold that had caught up with him in the wilds. The poet was able to do little more than rest, tucked away in an inn back in the village, though he was much stronger now, Geralt was loathe to drag him back out into the icy winter air before he had completely recovered his strength. Inns, however, did not come for free, and without the bard’s playing to subsidize their income, Geralt had been forced to spend nearly all his days in this thrice-damned town hauling himself through waist-deep snow. The contracts had begun with simply hunting drowners and wraiths, and, as though the universe simply wanted him to suffer, elevated to a displeased water spirit that had poisoned the village’s wells. Which brought Geralt to his current predicament, lying next to shards of ice that impaled the snow beside his body. There was blood beneath him, melting the stinging snow, and there were shards of ice protruding from his chest, slowly melting thanks to his dwindling body heat. The water spirit was dead, what remained of her scattered in a bloody smear across the white ice of the lake. But Geralt was dying. He could feel it with each birdlike pulse of his failing heart. There was a shard of ice pressed against it, and it was stuttering against the foreign invasion, fighting a losing battle to pump blood through his icy limbs, only for it to end up in the snow beneath his cooling body. He had long ago lost the ability to shiver; the trembling made his muscles burn and scream, and his body had given up on trying to keep him alive anyways. It was a matter of time now, and Geralt had always been patient.

 

This was always the way he had expected to die. Impaled by a hideous creature on the banks of a lake too far removed from society to even be given a name. Perhaps without ice melting into his veins, and without snow beneath his back to soak up the blood, but Geralt had been born in the snows of Kaer Morhen. It seemed almost poetic to die in them. Briefly, he wished he had told Dandelion where the witchers’ keep was located. Surely, the poet would have been delighted amidst his grief to learn that Geralt had exited this world the same way he had entered it, icy and broken and with foreign substances flooding his veins. Though, from what he could recall, he had cried out during his trials. Now, he hadn’t the energy left to groan in pain, let alone shout. He was slipping away, gently being carried away by the land and the silence, to slowly become a part of it. Perhaps Dandelion would leave his body here, where he had fallen. It would only be right. It was so rare for witchers to leave enough of a body behind to bury, and even rarer for their contractors to do them such a courtesy. Left to become one with the land, to sink away into it and allow the birds and beasts to feast on his remains, to let himself fertilize the earth come spring, that seemed like the truest way to bring himself closer to his brothers in his final moments. Though it was likely, unfortunately, that Dandelion would demand a hero’s funeral for him instead. Something with music and drinking and overwrought emotions. Geralt was glad he wouldn’t be there to see it. Funerals were for the living. Decomposition was for the dead.

 

After a while, snowflakes began to fall. The moon was high in the sky, what Geralt could make out of it, anyways. His vision shifted and split, sometime double, sometimes too blurry to make out more than a faraway light shining down coldly onto the snow, unforgiving of the fact that he had yet to die. What snow did fall, strange in that it came from a cloudless sky, stopped melting on his face after a while. It crystalized over his skin, only fading away a bit where stuttering breaths still made their way past cracked and bloody lips. The snow became one with the ground, and one with his body, even the ice impaled in his flesh slowing its melting to barely more than a trickle. In a detached way, it occurred to Geralt that he was freezing. His body becoming one with the snow, instead of the other way around. He wondered why he wasn’t cold. Death had always seemed frozen to him, something that took you as you shivered and quaked. But he could barely feel his mind’s connection to his body anymore, let alone any pain or cold in his limbs. It was as though he was floating above himself, staring down as his blood painted the snow, fanning out from a broken body. His legs were crooked and bent sideways, one arm reaching out towards his blade, which had fallen several paces away from his body when he and the spirit had broken the surface of the icy lake. At one point, he must have tried to reach for it. Even the thought of such a thing was long past his comprehension now. The weight of the air and the snow was incomprehensively heavy, settling above his lungs and making each breath more and more difficult to draw in. There was ice congealing about his lashes, nose, and mouth. Soon, he would be nothing more than a frozen part of the land, blanketed with snow and covered in ice. It was a comforting thought.

 

The stars began winking out next. That was when Geralt truly knew he did not have long. The sky was bright between the pine trees obscuring his view, but he could no longer make out the pinpoints that lit it up. The shadowy figures of the trees danced above him, and he heard voices. Nenneke’s, and Vesemir’s, and Visenna’s. Renfri’s as well, mocking him. He was cold, now, as she had once been. Cold with no one to hold him as he died. It was oddly fitting, and she whispered as much, her dead breath dancing over his failing ears and mouth. Her lips fit to his in a kiss, as they had once shared beside a stream on the morning of the day that he had rent her throat in two. Her lips felt warm, though he knew they would have been cold had he not been freezing himself. The shadows continued to dance. Geralt found himself wishing to hear Dandelion’s voice one more time. The poet had sung to him several times, on nights when the horrors were too near, when he had been torn from his sleep gasping and shaking and drenched in sweat, hands clenching at the blankets and bloodless with fear. The poet had never mentioned it in the morning, and neither had Geralt, but it had been comforting and familiar. If there was anyone he would want by his side as he took his final breaths, it was Dandelion.

 

Suddenly, the shadows began shifting more energetically above him. There were no longer just the trees that slipped dizzily in and out of focus, but something else as well. Geralt thought it was the spirit, or perhaps a different creature attracted to the scent of his death. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Perhaps his medallion would still be found after this new abomination tore his flesh from his bones. There would be something by which to memorialize him, at least. For those who cared.

 

However, the pain of being torn apart never came. At first, Geralt wondered if it was simply because he had lost the ability to feel any part of his body. But then he realized he could still feel pressure, the pressure of his wounds and the ice digging into the muscles around his heart. And there was no pressure from the tearing of skin. Just something softer, something gentle accompanied by a musical voice that made him want to close his eyes and fall asleep. Dandelion.

 

Geralt tried to form some sort of sound, something to warn the poet to turn tail and run. Surely, scavengers would be convening to feast on his corpse. He didn’t think he could bear his final moments if they involved witnessing the death of his dear friend. However, no words passed through his frozen lips. He couldn’t even move, could barely blink his eyes when a hand that was burning hot passed over his face, coming to rest gently on his cheek. By the Gods, it hurt. That hand was burning him alive, stinging and aching and all too painful. He must have made a small keening sound, because it pulled away and he felt his vocal cords rasping painfully against each other.

 

“Hush now,” the voice sing-songed, as though it were lulling him off to sleep, not holding him as he died, “You’ll be well soon enough. We’ve just to get you warmed a bit.”

 

How could Geralt tell him that warmth, at this point, was pointless? There was more ice water than blood flowing through his veins, and the snow and ice on his body had stopped melting altogether. He hadn’t the heart, nor the energy, to explain this. Instead, he allowed himself to go limp, wondering how much longer he had to endure the painful heat of Dandelion’s warm body so close to his own before he slipped away.

 

The bard picked him up, cradling the top of his torso like that of a small child. There was a piercing whistle, one that burned at Geralt’s ears and caused him to flinch violently, or as violently as he was able. The shard of ice by his heart shifted uncomfortably, scraping against the inside of his body, painful and raw and suddenly far colder than he was capable of enduring, having tasted warmth after so many hours. He wanted to scream in pain, at the discomfort of his fluttering pulse pushing against a foreign object that was so very cold. He could feel a pricking at the back of his eyes, and he was so damnably uncomfortable that for a moment he considered giving in and letting himself sob at the pain of it all. His heart ached. There was ice in his blood. He could feel every shard of it shifting with the slow movements he was being guided through.

 

Next, a sudden jolting movement nearly sent Geralt hurtling towards the unconsciousness that he had felt lurking at the edges of his mind for what must have been hours now. He could feel himself being sat upright, legs swung over something that was far too hot and shifted dizzyingly beneath him. Roach, the small, reasonable voice in his head supplied. Though why Dandelion would bother to saddle up Roach in these conditions, to go plowing through the droves of snow in the farmers’ fields, was beyond him. Surely, though the troubadour was no horse man, he knew better. Perhaps the fever was still addling his friend’s brain. Geralt couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed he was not being left where he had fallen. Surely, Dandelion had known him well enough suspect he would have preferred to lie here, becoming one with the very nature that had once sustained him when he had been nothing more than a little lost boy at the side of the road. He did not need or want to have his body taken for some grand memorial full of crocodile tears and highborn ladies hiding their dry faces behind handkerchiefs, staring pityingly at one another as they discussed the musician who had held vigil for a monster.

 

Dandelion didn’t appear to be nearly as despairing as Geralt had suspected he would be. Granted, he was not gone yet, but by now, it was all but a sure thing. The witcher’s eyesight was also almost gone, the bard’s shining brown head little more than a dark blur against the lighter blur of the starless sky. He blinked, trying to clear his eyelids of their stinging dryness. His vision flickered some more.

 

“Ah, there you are. We really must stop meeting like this.”

 

Geralt wanted to argue that this was hardly true; he had never been truly dying before, and furthermore, they were hardly meeting, considering he had left Dandelion at the inn this very morning, not months ago. One only met another person after a prolonged absence from one another, not just a few hours. However, his stuttering heart and weakened breaths couldn’t form the words, nor could his mind comprehend how he might go about this. And underneath it all was the strong assurance: he was dying. It was only a matter of hours now, if not minutes. And Dandelion mustn’t have realized that. The bard was still carrying on as though he expected Geralt to rally and get to his feet after a good night’s rest. This, above all else, haunted the witcher. He would let Dandelion take his body, if it only meant that his friend was offered some sort of solace that he had not realized sooner that Geralt’s wounds were fatal. Geralt knew he would blame himself. He wanted to offer some sort of comfort, a reassurance that he would have died all the same, by ice or by blade or by claw made no difference to him. And that Dandelion mustn’t blame himself for what had happened. It was the way of the world.

 

“Do you hurt? You aren’t trembling the way you normally do when something is causing you pain and you hope I don’t notice. It certainly looks bad enough, though.”

 

Geralt couldn’t do so much as grunt. His energy had left his body, leeching out through the icy cuts along with the red blood that had once flowed within him. His hands felt heavier than lead.

 

“…silly of me, I know. To expect you to answer when you look as though you can barely keep your eyes open. Just try to relax, lean back against me. I don’t want you falling off and hurting yourself more. And I haven’t the strength to pick you up for a second time. Recovering from illness and whatnot has taken a frankly alarming amount of my strength.”

 

Dying has taken all of mine, Geralt thought wryly, thinking that he still had the ability, he would have smiled a bit. His head lolled back against Dandelion’s shoulder, which was still burning hot. Geralt wanted to tremble from the heat, but he was too tired. He could only slump bonelessly against it as it ripped through him, rending his icy body and frozen veins in two. He hurt so terribly, while also feeling no pain. It was most alarming, as though his dying mind was doing its best to construct a reality of what it might have felt like, had he survived. The pain he would be enduring now, atop Roach and burning alive against Jaskier’s skin as the bard carted him off to some dingy inn room to heal. He couldn’t bear the idea, suddenly, of his mind trying to fool him into not panicking. Geralt was a witcher. He would not panic or cower in the face of death.

 

However, unbidding, Geralt’s heart sped up, forcing the last of his blood through his atrophying veins. His breath began to come faster as well, shallow pants issuing forth from dry lips as he failed to calm himself. For he was dying. Really and truly, permanently and irreversibly. He had a few more moments left before the lights of the world winked out, as did his soul, his essence, the very centre of him. Geralt was not so prideful as to believe that the world was better with him in it. But suddenly, in the final moments before his entry into a vast emptiness of not being, he couldn’t bear to leave his life here behind. Couldn’t bear the thought of not existing anymore, of not feeling or seeing or hearing or thinking ever again, to lie and freeze and thaw and rot amongst the corpses of forest flora and fauna. It was all too much. He trembled vigorously, heart thudding wildly and fearfully against his breast. It was his final gasp, the last attempt at life before the doors to the world of the living shut permanently.

 

He struggled. His heart beat. And then it ceased, and the very last lights in Geralt’s mind winked out.


Dandelion had woken early that morning, in time to see Geralt going through his things and removing those necessary to take on yet another contract. He sat up in bed, rubbing at his eyes to alleviate the painful pounding that had yet to be ousted from its temporary residence in his forehead. He snuffled tiredly, and Geralt looked up, seemingly caught unawares by the bard’s wakefulness.

 

“Morning,” Dandelion muttered sleepily, swallowing back a burgeoning yawn, “No chance I’ll get to keep you to myself today, hmm?”

 

Geralt’s cheeks did not redden, but the gruffness in his mannerisms told Jaskier everything he needed to know. Though the last few weeks in the icy snow had done little to help their failing friendship and burgeoning romance. He missed the feeling of waking to Geralt’s arm nestled in the curvature of his waist, even when he had been too chilled and sick to register it. The witcher had not laid a hand on him other than when it had been necessary since they had come to stay at the inn. Though it was probably nothing more than a simple case of fear of persecution by local people, it had still worried Dandelion beyond measure. His hands twisted in the sheets as Geralt grumbled at him now, endearingly flustered.

 

“Rooms don’t come for free. One of us needs to be making some sort of a living. And my trade is the more lucrative.”

 

“Ha. Wait until I break out on the Oxenfurt stages. They’ll be singing my praises from dusk ‘til dawn.”

 

“And I’ll share a drink with you when they do.”

 

Grimacing at how quickly the conversation had turned against his favour, Dandelion fell back dramatically against the pillows, placing one hand atop his still-aching, sweaty brow. Geralt raised one of his own, and did nothing other than poke at one of the bard’s feet that had escaped the bed linens, as though examining for signs of life. Dandelion made an irate noise when his finger connected with particular force to a sensitive blister on the sole of the musician’s foot.

 

“Hmm. Fever broke yesterday. Don’t play the fool with me, bard. I’ve been laid out by fevers more often than you’ve celebrated namedays.”

 

Dandelion shot him an unconvincing glare through a baleful, half-closed lid.

 

“Don’t mock the ill. It’s in poor taste.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

Calmly, Geralt seated himself at the head of the bed and took out his whetstone, drawing long lines up the blade with a metallic shuffling that pierced Dandelion’s sensitive ears. He glared harder, knowing that the witcher was more than aware of how the sound grated on his nerves.

 

“Haven’t you a contract? You know, since I’ve been too ill and weak to do more than piss in the chamber pot and lie here like a sweating invalid whilst you bathed my fevered brow and spoon-fed me broth?”

 

“Wasn’t here. I was taking contracts, so we wouldn’t be kicked out into the blizzard, as you’ve so kindly elucidated.”

“Come now, Geralt, don’t be offended. It was partly in jest. Though I would feel in more of a joking mood if you’d stop that infernal noise.”

 

The shrieking of the whetstone against the blade stopped abruptly. The witcher leaned forwards, the palm of one hand braced against his knee and a wicked glitter in his eye that only ever appeared when he was feeling in the mood for banter.

 

“Perhaps you’d rather do it yourself. Take on the contracts, sharpen the swords. I can stay here, swigging ale and bemoaning my deplorable condition to the locals so they buy me food and drink and keep me propped up with a blanket before the fire.”

 

Dandelion swatted at him, knowing he was jesting. Though there was an undertone of truth to his words, in that the poet would gladly fight several men if it meant Geralt didn’t have to fear being turned away and mistreated while wounded. He had seen one too many examples of humanity’s cruelty towards those they perceived as different. Geralt just leaned back, easily dodging the blow, a smile twisting at his lips.

 

“You’ll be well, Dandelion. Take the day and rest. Curl your hair with those ridiculous tongs you insist on carrying with us everywhere. I’ll be back before midnight, and the night promises to be chill. I should like to come back to a warm bed.”

 

Dandelion tried his best not to wiggle seductively under the sheets, and failed, though Geralt didn’t appear to notice anyways. He harnessed both swords to his back, tightening the belt that crossed his chest, and slid a small blade into a sheath strapped to his leg. Then, shaking out the great fur-lined cloak that had rested on a chair, he buckled the thing about his neck, looking for all the world like an irate wolf peering out from its depths, yellow eyes glinting in the candlelight.

 

“Do be careful, Geralt. I shouldn’t like to have to go out hunting for you in this cold. Dry air and chill winds are terrors on the throat.”

 

“You won’t have to,” the witcher stepped over to him and palmed his forehead, seemingly checking for a fever once more before he departed, “Like I said, I’ll be back before midnight. The lake is barely two miles outside town, and even without Roach, I’ll make good time.”

 

“Lake? You never said anything about a lake. Geralt, what is it that you’re going to hunt?”

 

“Water spirit. Not sure what type. They’re rarely dangerous, though, in more than the conventional sense. I’ll be back before midnight.”

 

Dandelion might have said more, the idea of Geralt traipsing about a lake in weather cold enough to freeze the mucous on the inside of your nose being less than appealing to him, but the witcher withdrew abruptly, turned in a dramatic swirl of black cloak and furs, and vanished. He shut the door softly behind him, which the bard appreciated. He was feeling anxious enough without sudden loud noises setting him further on edge.

 

The rest of the day he spent in a distracted monotony. He tried strumming his lute, but it held little appeal in the chill of the room. He stoked the fire, tried to read some, and found himself nodding off shortly after a maid brought in a bowl of stew that Geralt had apparently paid for before leaving in the morning. He slept for an hour or so, waking up refreshed and with new anxieties. There was snow swirling outside the window, enough to confuse even Geralt’s excellent sense of direction. Drawing the curtains, he went downstairs to read and visit with the barkeep, determined not to spend his afternoon pining after Geralt, who was both exceptionally capable and most likely fine. There was no point in worrying himself before there was cause for worry. So his mother had always said.

 

The evening dragged on, though, and there was still no sign of the witcher. Dandelion kept count of the hours, and asked a rich-looking fellow to see his pocket watch at what he estimated was about an hour after midnight. Sure enough, it was nearing on thirty minutes past the first hour of the morning. The curling anxiety that had sat in the poet’s stomach all day suddenly became a ravenous beast, twisting his guts into knots and conjuring dark images to his mind. He winced, tried to turn away, only to remember that there was no turning away from the fears that lurk inside you.

 

“I shall have to go after him,” he muttered under his breath, “He was most clear he would be back before midnight, and I’ve given him more than enough time. Something must have happened out there.”

 

Geralt had said not to take Roach out in this snow. But Dandelion was still weak from his sickness, and whatever the witcher had encountered by the lake must have wounded him badly enough that he could not make it back to the village under his own power. So, Dandelion saddled her all the same, led her out into the cold and breathed soft, soothing words onto her velvety nose when she tossed her head in complaint. Geralt would never treat her so poorly. The poet only hoped that his friend would be well enough to be wrathful about it.

 

Strangely enough, when Dandelion stepped outside, the howling winds and swirling snows of earlier were gone. In their place was a distinct absence of noise, the blanket of peaceful silence that one only finds directly after a storm, when all the earth is covered in snow and the sky is starry and cold. The moon’s watery light glinted on an endless plain of white that stretched all the way to a bank of trees, standing like sentinels in the distance. Dandelion cursed. The snow was abominably deep, for all its beauty. A few snowflakes were still falling, fat and lazy, as though they had simply been too slow to wreak havoc with the storm. They plopped on his swiftly reddening nose and melted there. Behind him, Roach whuffed and pawed at the impassible ground.

 

“I know, Roach. But we can’t just stay here if something’s happened to him. I know you love him too much to abandon him to such a fate.”

 

She blinked, warm brown eyes appraising him with the quiet wisdom that Dandelion had learned was an acquired trait of being a witcher’s travelling companion. Her nostrils flared, breath steaming warmly before her, and he breathed in the sweet scent of straw and dry sweat that came with it. It was familiar in a land where everything was icy and impersonal. Not even the welcome sounds of the inn could perforate the silence.

 

They took their first step together, Dandelion’s boot resting for a moment on the surface of the snow before it cracked beneath him and sent him tumbling up to his knees. Roach plowed ahead, and he ended up trailing by her side, making his way along the tracks she forged. He could see a break in the forest about two miles away, where the mountains opened into a basin where there was most likely a lake. Having not had the wherewithal to ask for directions before he left, and with the snow having covered any tracks Geralt might have left, Dandelion knew his best bet was to navigate towards it. There weren’t many lakes hereabouts; the sheer mountain faces and cirques rising high above them made sure of that. It was likely one of the only sources for the river that ran through this valley. No wonder the locals had been so desperate to get rid of whatever spirit had taken up residence there.

 

The going got a bit easier once they reached the forest. The trees were mainly old pines, with branches up high enough that Dandelion and Roach had no problems passing under them. The snow had not managed to penetrate the needles, so only a thick blanket of detritus and the occasional patch of melting ice barred their way. The whole place smelled of earthy decay mixed with burning cold snow, and the ground crackled beneath them, echoing into the empty space. Old man’s beard grew and dangled from the trees, swaying ominously in the wind like so many scalps, wizened and dried with age. Dandelion suppressed a shudder and pressed on.

 

Occasionally, the poet thought he heard a cry or growl in the distance. He dismissed them as a mere figment of his imagination, trying to focus on the more imminent problem of his frozen hands and feet. Geralt had warned him against going out in the cold before he was fully well again, and he was beginning to wonder if he ought to have listened, to have summoned a search party from the village instead. Every inch of him was trembling, and his toes felt numb and strangely disconnected as they bent in his boots. His nailbeds were blue, and his teeth chattered even when he buried his head in Roach’s mane, trying to escape into her sweet smell and pervasive warmth for even a moment. Hardly bothering to watch where he was stepping any longer, he trusted Geralt’s mount to lead the way. She had an uncanny sixth sense when it came to the whereabouts of her master, and Dandelion knew she would not fail to find the safest trail up to the lake. He nuzzled into her mane, putting one clumsy foot before the other, clinging to her to warm his frozen hands. When she stopped, he kept going for another several paces before jerking upright, realizing that his support had abandoned him.

 

Opening his tired eyes, the bard looked ahead. They were still surrounded by trees, but there was a murky blackness beyond them to the left; a clearing. In these parts, where no loggers dared venture, it could only mean they had reached the lake.

 

“Oh, good girl,” he crooned softly, scratching between Roach’s ears, and wishing he had something better to offer her besides the frozen air and the good likelihood that something terrible had befallen her rider, “Leading us here all by yourself. Geralt will be so pleased with you.”

 

He chose not to include the thought that was echoing far too loudly in his frozen head. If he’s alive was always questionable with Geralt, such was the nature of his profession. But as Dandelion stepped away from Roach, the silence in the air was so heavy and fraught he felt that he could have sliced through it like a side of raw meat. His heart pounded loudly in the vacancy where there should have the snarls of a wraith, or Geralt’s sword singing through the air. Even the sound of the other man drawing breath would have been preferrable to this awful emptiness. Dandelion tottered forwards on legs so frozen they no longer even caused him pain.

 

“Geralt? Are you there? It’s just me, come to see if you’re alright after you didn’t deign to come back to the inn at the appointed time. And while I’m sure you’re fine…”

 

Whatever Dandelion might have wanted to say next died in his throat, words perched on his tongue, where they mingled with the foul flavour of dread. As he stepped out of the forest and into the clearing, a scene that could only be described as bloody carnage met his eyes. The moon shone its watery light over a small lake, mostly covered in ice. However, on the side nearest to Dandelion and furthest from the backing of several high mountains, the ice cover had been shattered and spewed up over the shoreline in great shards. It left a dark, gaping hole in the snow-covered peace of the lake. And in the midst of it all lay two dark shapes, no more than amorphous figures in the shivering light of the pale stars. But Dandelion would have known one of them anywhere, evens surrounded by blood, arms splayed out beside him as though he had been grasping for something.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Thank you so much for all your lovely comments and kudos on the last chapter. I promise I am getting around to responding to them all; this chapter took me far longer than I expected to conceptualize and I still worry that it feels too rushed. It was written for the prompt "forced to their feet" from the list of Whumpay prompts on Tumblr.

Enjoy!

Chapter Text

“Geralt! Gods, what’s happened to you?” Dandelion lowered his voice as soon as he spoke, wincing when he realized there might still be a threat lurking about, one that Geralt had not been able to kill before whatever wounds he had acquired had dragged him into unconsciousness. The bard looked about anxiously, but nothing moved. He could hear the wind whistling on the high mountain peaks above, and the gentle lapping of the water at the shore, where the ice was broken and it could breach the surface. There was nothing here but him, Geralt, Roach, and whatever the other shape was, presumably the spirit that Geralt had been contracted to kill.

 

He crept closer to the witcher’s disturbingly still frame, heart pounding. Geralt was pale and surrounded by an ungodly halo of his own blood. The effect left Dandelion unwillingly reminded of a piece of stained-glass art he had once seen in a church in Novigrad; a man ringed by the light of the Holy Fire. As far as the poet could recall, the man in question had eventually been consumed by his blessing, burnt up and turned into the first pyre to which people directed their prayers. He shuddered and banished the thought as quickly as he could. This was blood, not fire. Nature, not religion.

 

“Geralt,” he knelt just outside the circle of frozen blood, and placed a hand on the witcher’s deathly-cold cheek, “My dear witcher, can you hear me?”

 

The pale man gave no response, but his chest was rising and falling slowly, a stuttering staccato beat that Dandelion knew could not be sustained for long. Upon taking in his injuries, the poet immediately realized that their situation was dire.

 

Geralt had been impaled by the flying ice shards from the surface of the lake. It was clear they had begun melting upon encountering his body heat, and then frozen again as he slowly grew colder and colder, leaving him with gaping wounds and frozen stalactites protruding from his chest. There were three main wounds, one dangerously near to his heart and the other two impaling him in a perpendicular fashion above his waist. Blood leaked from all of them, though it was long since frozen to the frost-encrusted leather of Geralt’s armour. The witcher’s lips were blue, and Dandelion knew from that alone that the other man was close to death. Witchers ran hot. It was an advantage when they were tracking creatures that lived in the frozen wastelands of the world. For Geralt to have cooled to look as hypothermic as he did now, he had to be near death.

 

“Ye Gods, I’ll never understand how you’ve survived as long as you have,” Dandelion’s tone was joking, but his tremulous voice betrayed him, “It seems you go looking for death at every turn.”

 

He clasped Geralt’s arm, one of the only parts of him that wasn’t encrusted in ruby-red frozen blood. The limb was cold and damp, but when he squeezed it, Geralt stirred, wincing ever so slightly, and a whispery noise passing through his lips. It might have been a groan, had he possessed the strength. It was a wanting sound, though, and Dandelion carefully pulled the witcher into his lap, wincing as every movement seemed to send Geralt nearly toppling back into unconsciousness. He wasn’t shivering, but he looked miserable and cold.

 

“Hush now. You’ll be well soon enough. We’ve just to get you warmed a bit.”

 

It was paltry comfort, Dandelion knew. Geralt looked beyond uncomfortable, nearly delirious with pain and cold. His eyes kept drifting from the bard’s face to the sky above, starlight reflecting against his gruesomely blown pupils. It gave him a glassy-eyed stare, as though he was already dead. The poet could hardly stand to behold it, tremors wracking through every inch of him as he tried to imagine a way in which this wouldn’t end with Geralt’s death.

 

Unsure of what to do next, Dandelion eased Geralt upright the smallest amount, trying to ignore the way he winced. He whistled for Roach, who had been keeping her distance, shy of the smell of blood and violence. She plodded over, eyes rolling, ears pinned back, and Dandelion placed a hand between her ears and kneaded gently, the way Geralt had taught him. It would calm her, he had said. If only it were so easy to calm his own racing breath. To pretend that he couldn’t feel every flutter of Geralt’s pulse against a half-melted shard of ice that was sitting against his heart.

 

Roach let her knees buckle; instinct and training served her well now. Steeling himself, Dandelion lifted Geralt’s lifeless body into the saddle. Every inch of the witcher went from too slack to taut and quivering. A weak noise passed through his lips, a sort of strangled whimper which was made all the louder by the stillness of the mountain air. His black-gloved hands clenched and grasped at nothing, and Dandelion had to keep himself from simply putting an end to it all and helping Geralt to lie back down in the snow. But the witcher’s eyes were blinking, trying desperately to focus, and this gave him hope that perhaps Geralt’s fate was not sealed in stone quite yet.

 

“Ah, there you are,” he said gently, trying to pull a watery smile onto his discombobulated features, “We really must stop meeting like this.”

 

It was a weak joke, Dandelion knew, but Geralt’s breath huffed out in what might have been an attempt at a chuckle. He smoothed the hair back from the witcher’s icy, pale face. His eyes were flickering shut again, and he appeared to be lost in the depths of his own mind.

 

“Do you hurt? You aren’t trembling the way you normally do when something is causing you pain and you hope I don’t notice. It certainly looks bad enough, though.”

 

A weak grunt. Dandelion supposed it had been an idiotic question. Of course Geralt was hurting, he had simply lost the strength to tremble, and his body was probably too shocked from the cold to keep on shivering. He sighed, and realized his lips were moving still, a burbling brook of nonsense escaping his mouth and probably driving his usually taciturn companion to near distraction, even as he danced on the edge of consciousness. He snapped his mouth shut before he could do any further damage and pulled himself up behind Geralt on Roach, urging her through the trees on the tracks that they had made in coming to the lake.

 

The trees seemed much nearer from atop Roach. Old man’s beard dragged its ragged fingers across Dandelion’s cheeks, and needle-encrusted branches kept catching in his and Geralt’s hair. He eventually gave up and allowed Geralt to slump forwards onto Roach’s neck; he had wrapped the witcher’s injured midsection in a cloak and hoped for the best, and it seemed that he was more comfortable reclining forwards, despite the pressure it placed on his abdomen. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, and by the time they reached the edge of the eerily quiet forest, the sun was cresting over the mountaintops. Its orange rays of light pierced the darkness of the fir trees, and suddenly it no longer seemed like such a forbidding, frightful place. Lichens gained colour; green moss was made apparent on ancient tree trunks. Even the needles under Roach’s hooves were no longer a carpet of darkness, but a rich, rusty red, interspersed here and there with a pinecone hidden away by an industrious squirrel. It was beautiful, in the dawn. The sight filled Dandelion with hope, and he spurred Roach on a bit faster, eager to return to the village and put the whole frightful night behind them.

 

However, the coming of the dawn also shed a light on Geralt’s truly ghastly condition. In the orange sunrise, his colour seemed to have improved slightly, but the poet knew that this was little more than a trick of the light. He was smeared in his own blood, and his lips moved, mouthing words audible to no one. He had not started up shivering, and his skin was icy to the touch. A thin tendril of blood was working its way out of his nose, and when Dandelion checked his pulse, it was erratic and terribly weak; a caged bird beating its wings against the cage of his ribs. Nothing like the strong, slow, steady beat that the poet had laid his head against sometimes, late at night, when Geralt let his guard down.

 

“We’re nearly there,” he whispered, knowing that Geralt was beyond his reach for the time being but still wanting to offer some sort of comfort, “See the smoke in the distance? There’ll be a nice warm fire waiting for us, and a healer to stitch your wounds, and some bread and broth for when you’re well enough. And I’m sure the villagers will give you a hero’s welcome for having slain their beast.”

 

Dandelion realized he had forgotten to take a trophy off the dead spirit, and kicked himself for it. Hopefully he had read the nature of these people correctly, and was right in assuming they would be tolerant and forgiving, given Geralt’s sorry state. Grimacing and trying to keep his idiocy from the forefront of his mind, he spurred Roach onwards, towards the tendrils of smoke and the warmth that they promised.


Geralt had not expected to wake. His fate had been set in stone from the moment he had been impaled, ice melting away into his veins and chilling him down to his very bones. There were no second chances, not for witchers. Certainly not for him, grievously wounded on a contract that had taken him to damned near the middle of nowhere.

 

However, wake he did. It was unpleasant, and his chest burned and ached. There was someone unfamiliar leaning over him, he could smell it, and he tried to push himself away only to find that his arms were barely stronger than well-dried twigs. Panic flared, a tightness in his chest that left him gasping, and someone placed a hand on his head. It was too hot, too uncomfortable, burning against his aching forehead. He wanted it to stop; it hurt terribly and there was an abrasive, continuing motion that left him feeling raw and vulnerable. But no sound passed through his parted lips, just breathy gasps of air that left his lungs feeling more bereft than they had mere moments ago. He struggled, and the touch receded, a voice replacing it.

 

“Hush, you’re alright. We’re just stitching your wounds, and then I’m afraid we’ll have to warm you up some. Your body’s turned to ice, Geralt. It’s a wonder you’re still alive at all.”

 

That, Geralt could agree with. He didn’t feel like he should be alive. Especially considering that his most recent memories involved preparing for his imminent demise on the banks of a frozen lake. Whatever had happened to bring him here was beyond his comprehension, and he wasn’t sure the intervention was entirely welcome. He had been ready. Death had come to claim him. It felt as though he had cheated, ripped himself from the clutches of an all-too-certain fate at the very last moment. Part of him wanted to go back. It had certainly hurt less to be dying. His skin tugged as sutures were pulled shut and blood was dabbed away from his chest.

 

He couldn’t be sure if he lost time after that. Someone helped him to sit, and bandages were wrapped tightly about his chest, packed with pungent herbs that left him dizzy and reeling. A voice, which he had come to identify as Dandelion’s, whispered in his ear, comforting him, but it did little to assuage the pain of the poet’s burning hot hands on his body. He might have whimpered, puncture wounds throbbing and burning as he sat up. He felt like a block of cheese he had once encountered in an Oxenfurt market, riddled with holes and burning away in the hot summer sun. The thought made him snort, though it came out as more of a wet cough. Dandelion patted his back sympathetically before pulling away as he winced at the shockwaves of pain it sent through his body.

 

“There, the healer’s left. Now, shall we get you into a warm bath? She said to warm you in increments, and that it would likely hurt, but you’ll feel better for it in the end, I promise. You’re colder than the snowbanks outside, and I’ve never seen your lips so blue.”

 

That was curious. If he were truly dying, his body wouldn’t be wasting energy on sending enough blood to his lips for them to be blue or red. Perhaps he was better off than he had assumed. Though the presence of a healer was enough to affirm this. Normally, village wise women did not waste their time on lost causes, and Dandelion would have had almost no coin with which to pay her anyways. Geralt let his head rest back on Dandelion’s shoulder. He was too tired and in too much pain to think. Every breath did nothing to satisfy his burning lungs, and his head was spinning like a weathervane in a gale, unpredictable and wild. He couldn’t even gather himself enough to nod, just let the bard pull him up off the bed.

 

The moment Geralt’s bare feet came into contact with the gritty wooden floor of the inn, one that had probably not been swept in months, his knees buckled and he let out a strangled sound of agony as his chest seemed to implode. He reached for it, trying to claw at the bandages even though the logical part of his brain told him this was unwise, but Dandelion held him back, restraining both of his wrists in one hand and keeping the other firmly about his waist.

 

“Come now, on your feet. I know it hurts, but it’ll hurt more the longer we stay here, and I can’t get you across the room all on my own. My body’s nearly given out after hefting your body about those woods, and I’m still recovering my own strength.”

 

This, if nothing else, forced Geralt into motion. He had forgotten the poet’s erstwhile illness, and he wondered how Dandelion had managed any of this. His last memories of the other man saw him still listless and pale, sleeping far past the sunrise while Geralt prepared for the contract he had taken on to pay off their debts. The bard must be absolutely exhausted. Steeling himself, Geralt got his feet beneath him, knees knocking together and ankles turning inwards. He had no strength, but perhaps he could provide stability while Dandelion forced him to his feet and across the room. He couldn’t even see a bathtub, and his whole body was trembly and icy feeling.

 

“There you are,” Dandelion said, a hint of a smile on his voice even though Geralt couldn’t be bothered to lift his head enough to see the bard’s expression, “Not so hard, is it? Now, let’s get you warm. Holding you is like clinging to an icicle.”

 

Deadly, freezing, and moments away from shattering into a million pieces. The imagery was apt, though Geralt was sure it was not what Dandelion had intended. He focused on his shaky, weak legs instead. Clearly his mind was addled and exhausted.

 

When they came to a stop, Geralt kept on trying to move forwards for a moment, Dandelion catching him with a curse and a great deal of fumbling as he tried to maintain his grip. Geralt wanted to apologize, but his mouth simply wouldn’t form words, and he was panting too hard for it anyways.

 

“Can you manage lifting your leg? It may aggravate some of the wounds on your hips, but it’ll only be for a moment to step over the rim of the tub, yes?”

 

Geralt couldn’t, wouldn’t have been able to if Dandelion had offered him all the coin in the world, but he found himself unable to articulate this. Instead, he leaned into the bard’s chest, even though the warmth burnt at his frozen skin, hoping that would get the message across. It appeared to, and Dandelion eased his leg into the bathwater instead, muttering to himself as he tried to both keep Geralt upright and get him settled without the whole tenuous operation ending up face-first in the tub. Geralt let himself slump, shaking with the pain of the bathwater the moment it touched his toes. It burned, far worse than Dandelion’s body heat did, as though every nerve ending was being set on fire as it was submerged. The pain raced up his legs and into his torso as he was sat back, and he realized he was shaking so violently that his head was smacking repeatedly against the rim of the bath, arms and legs spasming and splashing water everywhere. He might have whined a bit, breath stuttering in his chest. Instead of getting better, the pain seemed determined to only get worse. Geralt could feel his back arching with the pressure of it, streaks of fire rippling through his whole aching body and aggravating his newly stitched wounds. Dandelion grasped his hand, and Geralt realized he was still talking, the constant monologue he often delivered when he was nervous falling from his tongue like heavy raindrops in springtime.

 

“…you’re alright, you will be in just a moment, you’ve done so well, and I know this must be horrible for you, but it’s to get you better. And oh, I know you’d smack me if you could understand what I was saying to you. You’d tell me to stop coddling. But what’s friendship for if not to look to your comfort and bathe your fevered brow when you’re wounded? Or, in this case, frozen? Goddess, my mind is spinning in circles. Just breathe, ignore me talking, it won’t do you any good to hear my carrying on. You do tell me that all the time. I’m not sure if you say it in jest or not, half the time. I know I must drive you to distraction.”

 

He didn’t. At least, Geralt didn’t think he did. He couldn’t remember who was speaking to him, or why they sounded so shocked and concerned for him. But he didn’t feel irritated, just in a great deal of pain and very much wishing that something could be done to ease his discomfort a bit. Why was he so damned hot? And damp? All while being so frozen he felt like he would simply shatter away? Nothing made any sense except the agony, the way his spine felt it would simply bow and break in two from the pressure of arching against the pain.

 

“There, now, you look like you’re feeling a bit better. Shall I wash some of the blood out of your hair? You made a bloody great mess up on that mountainside. I’m sure the local fauna will be most disappointed I removed you before they had their say.”

 

Hmm. There must have been an accident. Outside. Why did Geralt have blood in his hair? He could feel it with the hypersensitivity brought on by a sudden temperature change, cracking in the skin of his scalp and tickling him where it had peeled away. He shuddered, tried to raise a hand to scratch, only to find himself restrained by his own weakness.

 

There was also the blatantly false comment about his feeling better. He felt awful. His back was still arched in pain and every inch of him was trembling. If his legs were no longer spasming, it was simply because he had lost the strength to do so, not because the water was burning him any less.

 

Something scratched at the back of his scalp. With it came great relief and a burst of fresh agony as Geralt’s sensitive skin prickled and burned under the pressure. He tried to pull away, and the touch gentled a bit to a soft tugging at his hair. The faint smell of lavender wafted about the room, and he remembered being treated with this before. Vaguely, he remembered an explanation of lavender’s supposed pain-relieving properties as well, though he couldn’t connect it to an event. Just that he hadn’t believed it at the time, and didn’t believe it any more now.

 

“Better? Come on, come to bed. The linens are fresh, and they smell of the outdoors.”

 

Geralt wanted to wince until he realized that his approximation of “smelling like the outdoors” (blood, piss, guts, sometimes mixed in with body odour and fir needles) was probably not what the speaker meant. He let himself be manhandled upright, sagging, and hearing a worried sort of clucking noise often made by hens.

 

“Your blood is still soaking through these bandages. They’ll need changed soon, I’m sure, so try to get some rest when you can.”

 

Geralt hummed tiredly as his legs buckled underneath him. The person who had been speaking eased a button-up cotton shirt, not one of his own, around his shoulders. It was terribly soft, and smelled of rosin and sweat. He sighed contentedly as the buttons were done up for him, the gentle tugging almost lulling him into a sort of meditative trance. The wounds that he couldn’t remember getting were throbbing and sore, and each heartbeat tugged at his new stitches. Even the thick bandages and lavender couldn’t hide that sort of pain. But he felt a bit less exposed, and much less cold, with something to cover his chest.

 

The shirt was lifted briefly, as the bandages underneath were inspected. He hissed when the person pushed on them lightly, and a litany of apologies fell from somewhere above him and to his left. Then, the blankets were pulled up to his shoulders and he was left to drift, in too much pain to sleep and having lost too much blood to stay awake.


The next day found Geralt much more lucid, and in a great deal more pain. He was exhausted, but once he had woken for the morning, he simply couldn’t get back to sleep. He was too cold, shaking and shivering so hard that his teeth clattered. Even Dandelion, pressed up against him and fast asleep, did very little to assuage the aching chill that seemed to penetrate right down to his veins. He clenched at the blankets helplessly, trying to ride out each fit of shivers as best he could, though he could feel blood trickling down his side, soiling his bandages worse than they already were.

 

It must have been the noisy clicking of his teeth that finally woke the bard. Dandelion sat up, rubbing at his eyes sleepily with both fists, and looking very muzzy and confused. He yawned and stretched, as though this were simply another morning on the path, before looking over at Geralt, as though wondering why the early-rising witcher was still abed. His bright blue eyes widened and he cursed viciously, hands bracing Geralt’s shoulders and trying to keep his shaking under control.

 

“Goddess, Geralt, how many times must I tell you that you can just wake me if you’re wounded and in pain? I don’t want a repeat of Belhaven, do you?”

 

Geralt, lucid enough to access his memories today, shuddered at the thought. They had been in Belhaven for the witcher to serve as a guard to a local nobleman having some problems with a succubus. Only, the succubus had not been a succubus and the nobleman had not been a nobleman and the whole affair had ended with Geralt nearly having his fingers severed and limping back to their inn on a broken ankle, trying to sew together the bone-deep cuts by firelight. Unfortunately, his blood loss had been severe, and Dandelion had woken to find a nearly dead witcher slumped in a pool of his own blood next to the hearth the next morning. The bard had been traumatized and horrified that Geralt had done all that out of a simple refusal to wake him from a well-deserved sleep. He had made Geralt promise to never do such a thing again. Which he had, begrudgingly.

 

“Wasn’t…bleedin’ out.” The effect was rather ruined by the sleepy slurring of his words. Dandelion looked like he wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or go find a healer.

 

“Just because you’re not actively in the process of dying doesn’t mean you don’t need help. Besides,” here Dandelion reached over and pulled up Geralt’s shirt, ignoring the way the witcher glared at the violation, “It seems you are in the process of bleeding. Not bleeding out quite yet, but with you it’s always a near thing. Come on, onto your back. I need to check your stitches.”

 

Geralt complied. There was a certain fiery heat radiating off the bard that only occurred in moments of passion or extreme anger, and Geralt was feeling far too weak to deal with either. His limbs felt limp and hot, even though he was shivering. His hands were red and swollen, his body’s desperate attempt to return blood flow and heat to his overwrought limbs. If he wasn’t careful, he would be feverish by nightfall. Leaning back, he recalled a time when he had been caught in a bad snowstorm and nursed back to health by some kindly villagers who had found him half-frozen by the side of the road. They had given him ice chips to suck on once he had been well enough to begin overheating. Filing the information away, he resolved to ask Dandelion to bring him a bowl of snow when he was feeling a bit more up to the task of eating it. Currently, his stomach was rolling like a ship at high tide.

 

Dandelion muttered and cursed to himself as he pulled back the heavy layer of bandages to reveal the skin beneath. Geralt propped himself up, craning his neck to see the damage and wincing when he got a good look.

 

There were three main wounds, all stitches together with heavy black thread; two that sat directly above the crest of his hips and a third directly adjacent to his heart. The aching pain suggested that the stitches were not only on the surface, but that whoever had sewn him together had been forced to repair his insides as well. It would be a long while before he was well enough to sit up, let alone take contracts. And with Dandelion still recovering, they would have no way to pay their room and board. Geralt took a shuddering breath, trying not to let the anxiety and desperation of their situation overtake him. He had been a right fool for allowing himself to become wounded when he was the sole provider of their already limited income.

 

“’M sorry…”

 

Dandelion looked up sharply, a dark eyebrow raised in askance.

 

“Whatever for?”

 

“No coin…they won’t let us stay.”

 

“My dear witcher,” Geralt tried to ignore the way the bard’s voice was quivering with exhaustion and worry, “The villagers paid you most handsomely for eradicating the spirit, and offered the both of us room and board until you were well enough to move on. You’ve restored their only source of drinking water. They owe you a great debt.”

 

“Owing and paying…rarely the same thing.”

 

“And yet, here we are.”

 

Geralt was cut off when Dandelion ripped back his bandages with a bit more force than was strictly necessary, making him groan and clench his hands in the rough, handmade quilt that covered him. The bard apologized, but he seemed distracted, running his long musician’s fingers over the raised and reddened tissue of the stitched wounds.

 

“You’re lucky we’ve been offered a place to stay here. You won’t be able to sit up for days yet, not with this sort of damage so close to your waist. And they feel hot. Are you feverish?”

 

A palm was slapped against Geralt’s forehead, and he tried to brush it away before lowering his hand, realizing he was much too weak to lift it.

 

“No. Warming up. You’ll need…t’keep me from getting too warm.”

 

“Yes, the healer did mention something about that. I’ve got some ice water here, and some ice from the innkeeper’s cellar for when you might feel up to it. I’m afraid you’re looking a bit nauseated at the moment.”

 

Geralt couldn’t deny the logic of this. He certainly felt nauseated. Nauseated, and like an ice pick had bored a hole straight through his middle, leaving him hollow and cold and in so much pain. He supposed it wasn’t that far off from the truth. Wincing, he leaned back, revelling in the grounding sensation of the stitches pulling, skin adjusting to being a little tauter, a little more swollen, a little more broken. It was familiar and kept him from getting lost inside his own head; baseline pain meant that he had lived, had beaten the odds one more time. And surely, that was enough to celebrate for one day.

 

“Dandelion?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

The bard had been leaning against Geralt’s trembling leg, his cheek pressed into the witcher’s skin, the coarse hair leaving reddened marks on Dandelion’s cheek. He looked dishevelled, still more asleep than awake, and so very worried.

 

“How did you find me?” Geralt needed something, anything to distract him from the burning pain tearing through his insides.  His breath and heart rate were picking up, and he hoped his discomfort would escape the bard’s notice, allow him to drift back off to sleep. He was still recovering from his own illness, and the dark circles under his eyes belied how much he still needed to rest. Guilt panged in Geralt’s chest, in tandem with the aches from his physical injuries.

 

“Geography, my dear. One most commonly finds a lake in the bottom of a dip between three peaks, such as the one where you went. I also assumed that the villagers were so eager to get rid of the spirit because the lake is this town’s only water supply, so there couldn’t have been another lake nearby. It was quite the hike, but it seems it was more than worth it. And nothing that I’m not used to, of course.”

 

Geralt felt something like pride spring forth in his chest. The way of identifying the location of a lake based on topography was his strategy, one he had imparted on Dandelion when he had been fairly sure the bard hadn’t been listening. It made him feel a bit better to know that he had been.

 

“Hmm. Smart.”

 

“It was rather clever, wasn’t it? Of course, I would have found you some other way if that hadn’t worked. I certainly wasn’t going to leave you in that frozen wasteland to die.”

 

There was no point in elucidating that it had been a very near thing. That if Dandelion hadn’t followed the most direct route, or if he had chosen to track the river instead of traversing through the forest, Geralt would likely have been dead by the time he had arrived. There was no point in dwelling on the pain. Besides, Geralt had a feeling that Dandelion already knew, the tremor in his voice and forced lightness in his words betraying him.

 

Geralt fell asleep to those thoughts, and the feeling of the bard’s hand stroking idly up and down his too-sensitive thigh.

Chapter 3

Summary:

Geralt begins to get well again. The ordeal comes to an end.

Notes:

I apologize for how tardy this is! I'm currently working on an original work, and it definitely stole my muse this week! I know this chapter is also a little shorter than I usually post, but the end seemed to be an appropriate place to leave our boys to their musings, so I went with it!

Thank you all so much for reading and commenting and leaving kudos! I have another prompt coming up for @do_androids_dream who's one of my favourite authors so I'm very excited to fill a prompt for them; keep an eye out for it if you'd like to check it out :)

Chapter Text

The door opened very slowly, creaking on its hinges in the way that overused inn doors always did. Geralt was awake in a moment, blinking and reaching for his dagger before a pinching, twisting pain in his hips stopped him dead in his tracks. He took in a sharp breath, frozen in place as his body was wracked with unexpected pain, mind scrabbling to explain what the source of his agony was. His breaths stuttered, and footsteps echoed on the squeaky wooden beams.

 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” a familiar voice rang out guiltily, “You need your rest. Go back to sleep, imagine I never disturbed you.”

 

But Geralt was awake now, and he was confused and hazy and in far too much pain to simply roll over and go back to sleep. He clenched his fists and screwed his eyes shut, wondering if he simply tensed up all his muscles for long enough if he would pass out again. It had been a common trick practiced amongst the boys of Kaer Morhen when he had been young; clenching your muscles and holding your breath made you lose consciousness. Geralt had been convinced it was going to be the only thing that got him through the pain and shock of the trials. Of course, that had been before he had realized that the pain would be far too great to employ such a strategy. His wits had left him barely moments after he had been strapped down to that damned table, the last of his innocence stripped away.

 

“Goddess, you look a fright. Come, if you’re going to stay awake, at least let me know you’ve still got your wits about you.”

 

Geralt managed a strangled grunt, which tore at his throat and made him regret surviving whatever had done this to him. He was shaking so badly that Dandelion had placed a hand on both of his shoulders, pinning him back to the bed.

 

“That’s better. Can’t have you losing what little sanity you’ve managed to maintain after all those years wandering the wilds alone. Honestly, Geralt, I travel alone for a few weeks and I feel like a madman when I come across civilization. I’ve no idea how you manage it.”

 

There was a forced levity to the poet’s voice that Geralt did not like. Dandelion only ever spoke like this when there was something truly wrong, when he was trying to mask his concern with the humour and easy conversation that came so naturally to him. He frowned, and Dandelion squeezed his shoulder gently.

 

“I went out to find something better for the pain. I’m not sure how you’ll react, but it should at least keep the worst of the discomfort at bay until you’ve healed a bit more.”

 

Geralt didn’t have the energy to nod, but it seemed that Dandelion was set on his task regardless. There was the too-loud sound of a cork popping out of a bottle, and then a sickly-sweet smell wafted under the witcher’s nose, making him jerk his head back. Sounds, smells, even the scratchiness of the sheets, it was all too close. He felt like he was suffocating on it all, and the cloying scent that seemed to stick to the insides of his nostrils did nothing to alleviate the sensation. He wanted to back away, press himself up against the headboard and bash his head against the wall until he lost consciousness.

 

The taste, when Dandelion put the bottle to his lips, was even worse than the smell. Like overripe peaches and flowers that had been left out on a hot summer afternoon; it stuck to his mouth and coated it with a rich, creamy aftertaste that made his head spin. He retched, and must have thrown up, because when he finally deigned to open his eyes, he was staring into a wooden bowl that was swirling with a creamy white substance and the last vestiges of the stew he had eaten before setting out on the hunt. The sight of it made him gag again, and for what felt like hours he could only feel Dandelion’s hand on his chest, keeping him from falling headfirst into his own vomit. Every contraction of his chest muscles pulled at the newly stitched wounds, and Geralt felt terribly unwell and dizzy, blinking furiously as his vision greyed in and out but consciousness refused to abandon him entirely.

 

It felt like hours, though in reality it was probably no more than ten minutes. Every muscle in Geralt’s abdomen was pinched and convulsing of its own accord, and he was doubled over with pain, mouth dripping like a wild thing. Part of him wished that Dandelion would leave him to his misery. It was not the first time he had held himself together through such an incident alone in an inn, and he was sure it would not be the last. The poet’s presence made it all feel more real; a witness to remember this even when it had passed and Geralt wanted nothing more than to erase its occurrence from his mind. Having someone else here made it real, and, pained and weak as he was, Geralt thought he could hardly bear that. He groaned, propped up entirely by Dandelion’s shoulder for what could have been hours or minutes before the bard finally set the bowl down and took to stroking the witcher’s back tenderly, trying to ease some of his suffering.

 

“Are you finished, do you think? I daren’t put this away until you’re sure; the innkeep’s been kind, but I doubt even he would be happy to have to scrub bloody vomit off his floors after we’ve departed.”

 

Geralt blinked and eyed the substance in the bowl. Sure enough, it was tinged with blood, and he felt a cold thrill of fear run through him. He craned his neck at Dandelion in askance, wondering why the bard seemed so unconcerned over this development.

 

“Ah, yes. It’s probably just that you’ve damaged your poor throat with all the hell you’ve put it through. There was no blood at the beginning, and it’s bright, not dark like you would expect from bleeding inside of you. I doubt you’ll have much of a voice for the next few days, but you needn’t concern yourself about my having missed an injury.”

 

Geralt wondered how Dandelion knew these things, before a detached part of his mind reminded him that the poet had been educated in Oxenfurt, where he must have been required to take some basic anatomy and medical courses. He shrugged it off, for the moment it was not important beyond the fact that Geralt was not bleeding out. He nodded weakly up at the bard, who set the bowl down on the bedside table and covered it with a cloth before it upset Geralt’s already sensitive stomach again. He looked very sympathetic, brows furrowed with concern and a dark line etched out on his forehead. That line only ever presented itself when he was worried or deep into a composition, and Geralt found himself wondering if he was truly as well off as Dandelion was trying to make out.

 

“Now, shall we try that medicine again? The woman I bought it from said it was very strong, I’m sure it’ll send you straight to sleep if you can only keep it down long enough for it to do its work.”

 

Geralt wanted to ask the poet to dilute it with some tea, anything to get rid of the cloying taste. Even the thought of it set his stomach rolling again, and if his hip hadn’t hurt so much he would have been inclined to hunch over to ease himself a bit. But he knew the bard was right; his voice would be too wrecked to be comprehensible. And the sooner he managed to keep the concoction down, the sooner he could sleep. He felt so damned tired.

 

Dandelion propped his head up and poured the concoction into his mouth. If he hadn’t been so focused on controlling his suddenly hyperactive gag reflex, Geralt would probably have spared the energy to scowl at the bard. There were soft platitudes rolling from his tongue, perhaps in an effort to calm himself. Normally, Geralt would have taken offense to it, to being treated like he was a child with a broken arm. But he had no energy, and the meaningless babble of Dandelion’s words pressed through the pain like a balm, distracting him with noise that he could make neither heads nor tails of.

 

Belatedly, Geralt realized that whatever the bard had given him was very strong. His thoughts were disjointed and sleepy, and he felt miles better, the pain nothing more than a distant ache, as though it were pushing at him through a cushion. He let his lips curl up into what felt like a tired smile, but based on what he could see of Dandelion’s face he wasn’t entirely successful.

 

“’S good…,” he heard himself slur, his mind no longer in control of his words, “I feel…warm.”

 

There was a strangled laugh, and suddenly Dandelion’s face was swirling much closer to his own. The bard’s expression wavered somewhere between sad and relieved, and Geralt must have said as much, because a comforting hand was placed on his shoulder.

 

“I’m just glad you feel good. Try to get some rest, and when you wake, I’m sure you’ll feel miles better. No point in worrying over me when you’re the one laid out flat on his back and full of more holes than a round of Cintran cheese.”

 

For some reason, this approximation was unbearably funny, and Geralt snorted. Immediately, Dandelion was at his stomach and hip, pressing against wounds the witcher could no longer feel, concern evident in his face.

 

“Right, right, I shouldn’t have made you laugh. Dammit, this is bleeding again. Hey, Geralt, stay with me…come on, you insensitive oaf, don’t fall asleep while you’re bleeding…”

 

Dandelion’s speech filtered away again, leaving Geralt bereft and floating somewhere high above his own body. He knew he should stay awake. He was bleeding again, Dandelion had said, and he didn’t want to fall unconscious while what little blood remained to him leeched out of his seeping wounds. But he couldn’t help it. Whatever the bard had given him was very strong, and he was floating, unmoored, in a sea of haziness and doubt. Nothing made sense. The boards of the ceiling above his head slid in and out of focus, bobbing and tipping as though he were on a ship. Dandelion was still speaking, but it was so distant that Geralt couldn’t be bothered to concern himself with it, not anymore. He was so tired. Tired and hurt, couldn’t the bard just let him sleep?

 

He lost his remaining consciousness by degrees. Senses filtered in and out, sometimes he could see and hear, sometimes he could only smell. There was a harsh tugging of what felt like more sutures being knitted into his flesh, but it didn’t hurt. The roughness of the sheets pressed against his bare back and legs, and suddenly there was a great clamour, a rushing sound, and then everything faded to a pinprick of black.


After Geralt’s stitches tore, Dandelion spent hours at his bedside, fretting. Fearing the witcher would roll over in his sleep, or would have one of his frequent nightmares and rend himself asunder like a ship broken over a reef. He stayed awake through several nights, waiting for his friend to wake and dosing him with more milk of the poppy as soon as he did. It was for the best to keep him under until his skin began to knit back together. Best for him to not feel the extreme pain of his grazed heart stitching itself over with new flesh, and best for Dandelion, who feared he would not be able to match Geralt’s strength if he woke and did not know where he was or what had happened.

 

So they remained that way for several days and nights, Dandelion scarcely daring to sleep, one of Geralt’s sweaty palms clasped in his own. The witcher had been taken by a fever, an irony after so long spent in the frigid wilderness, and even the milk of the poppy could not keep him still. Eventually, ridden with guilt, Dandelion tied his arms and legs to the bedframe, keeping them from jerking and ripping out the carefully placed sutures. Tears leaked from Geralt’s eyes when he did, and he groaned, begging over and over to not be put through the trials, not again, not without saying goodbye. It tore at the bard’s conscience more than he could bear, and as soon as the fever lessened, he removed the bonds, vowing never to speak of them to his friend again.

 

Geralt woke in fits and spurts over the next day, weak and sick and very confused. He could barely keep his eyes open and slept as soon as Dandelion soothed him and let him know that all was well. He barely ate, and most of his nutrition came from broth that the bard dripped through his lips by way of a dampened rag. It was clear that his hip and chest pained him very much; there were creases of pain in his eyes that not even sleep could entirely eradicate.

 

However, he did improve. Slowly at first, and then all at once, to the point where he was able to sit up and carry on a conversation for most of the day. It was at this point that Dandelion was nearly driven to distraction, exhausted and frightened and strung out on the thought that his dear friend had nearly died. Geralt was in a frightful mood; being confined to his bed and too weakened to stand without help did not agree with him. He claimed his back ached, and that Roach would be suffering under the inattentive care of the stable boys without him.

 

“Gods, Geralt, the reason your back aches is because you were nearly impaled by several shards of ice. Your insides are shredded, it’s no wonder you’re feeling a bit sore. I suppose being laid up flat on your back hasn’t helped much, either.”

 

“Precisely. I should like very much to get up.”

 

“And lean on what? Walk using what? You wouldn’t get past the end of the bed without help.” Dandelion’s tone was derisive to the point of causing Geralt a small, snapping pain in his chest. There was no slice there other than the cut of the poet’s words.

 

“Sorry,” Dandelion sighed, slumping back and pulling a fur about his shoulders, “I think perhaps I’m a bit overtired. I certainly didn’t mean to snap at you so viciously. Just enough to cause a bit of a sting.”

 

He reached out and jabbed at Geralt’s thigh affectionately, and the witcher gave him an irritated glare behind which there was no heat.

 

“I didn’t mean to place you in such a situation. You’re still recovering from your own illness.”

 

Dandelion looked almost surprised, and Geralt realized with a small pang of regret that this was the second, perhaps third, sincere apology he had ever given the bard. Perhaps a little more grace was in order, he thought to himself. After all, Dandelion had not abandoned him by that lake to die. He had not run when he thought there was a chance he could be free. Perhaps it was true that there was something more to the poet’s infatuation with him than a thirst for the exotic and some very well-developed acting skills.

 

“All is well, my friend. I’m simply glad I found you before your blood froze you to the ground.”

 

Geralt winced and pushed himself upright rather tenderly, breaths shallow to keep his healing ribcage from jolting uncomfortably. Dandelion slid a pillow behind his achy back with a deep breath that said he was not nearly as irritated by Geralt’s complaints of soreness as he had made it seem. He looked tired, but not angry. There were dark lines painted beneath his pale eyes.

 

“Glad you found me too. I doubt anyone would have gone out for me until the following morning.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Any animosity between the two of them was set aside then, and Dandelion curled his head against Geralt’s shoulder in a manner that eliminated any suspicion the witcher might have had about the poet travelling with him for fame or notoriety. His eyes were closed, and eventually Geralt shifted over gingerly on the bed and let the bard climb up next to him, the both of them nearly asleep. Dandelion roused, checked the angle of the sun shining in through the bedroom window, and sat with a gasp and a start.

 

“It’s far past dinner time. Pox, Geralt, and you’re meant to be recovering your strength.”

 

Still mostly asleep, Geralt brought up a hand to cradle his bandaged abdomen. He let a grimace cross his features, not feeling nearly well enough to eat anything solid quite yet. His guts were twisting themselves in knots, a side effect of the milk of the poppy he had been taking rather liberally since his injury.

 

“’S fine. I’m sleeping.”

 

There was a small chuckle, and Dandelion right himself and stood, leaving Geralt feeling very cold below the covers.

 

“Come now, don’t shiver. I’ll build up the fire and get you something light to eat, and then I’ll get you some boiled water in a skin to keep you warm. Dammit, you’re feeling worse again, aren’t you?”

 

Geralt wasn’t sure. He was cold suddenly, but he felt that that had much more to do with Dandelion’s sudden absence from beneath the covers. His stomach was hurting, as was his banged-up hip and sore chest. He felt like one enormous bruise, certainly not well enough to be eating anything but broth. Not that he would ever admit to it. It was not becoming of a witcher to admit that they felt unwell.

 

“I’m fine.” His voice was stronger than he felt, but it would be the only way to convince the bard that nothing serious was amiss. “If you’re hungry, you should eat. Don’t waste your money on me, though. I’m not sure I could stomach it.”

 

Sympathetically, the bard laid a hand across Geralt’s still mildly warm forehead, and brushed away a sweaty strand of his hair.

 

“As I said. You’re meant to be recovering your strength. If your stomach is still aching, I’ll bring you up some broth, and then change out those bandages. They look like they itch.”

 

Geralt couldn’t deny that they were causing him a good bit of discomfort, and shrugged away the mention of broth, trying not to picture himself as an invalid. He felt miserably tired, and as soon as Dandelion turned to go, he curled back around his injuries protectively and let his eyes fall shut.

 

As soon as he did so, the bard turned about with a soft expression in his eyes. He rubbed at a shoulder idly, watching the witcher sleep. Then he shut the door silently, and slipped down the stairs to procure the two of them some dinner.

Notes:

Toss a wee comment to your nervous writer?

Series this work belongs to: