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.