Chapter Text
Something’s off.
Geralt stopped at the door to the Chameleon - Dandelion’s beloved cabaret - and frowned. Triss Merigold was sitting at the table with Zoltan and Dandelion. That in and of itself wouldn’t be too alarming, but they all went quiet when he entered and turned to look at him.
The Cabaret was closed for the day, according to the sign on the door, so it was free of customers. Geralt walked inside, dropped his swords by the door, and raised an eyebrow expectantly.
“Geralt!” cried the poet, his eyes lighting up. “What a pleasant surprise!” He didn’t stand to greet him, which wouldn’t have bothered Geralt, except for the fact that Dandelion always stood to embrace him. Instead, the Witcher leaned over, giving his friend a rather awkward hug with one arm.
“How are you?” asked Triss, her smile slightly forced.
“Fine,” grunted the Witcher, dropping into a chair beside Dandelion.
“How’s the path, laddie?” Zoltan passed him a beer.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened!” said Dandelion quickly - too quickly - a broad grin on his face. “We’re all fine and well- nothing to trouble yourself over-”
“Dandelion,” Triss said softly.
The troubadour sighed. “We agreed-”
“We’ve agreed on nothing!” snapped Zoltan, shaking his head. “Only that something’s got to be said! And done!”
“Nothing can be done!” Dandelion’s voice had a sharp edge, one that Geralt wasn’t used to hearing.
“Does someone want to fill me in?” he snarled.
The three conspirators looked at one another. “I’ve got to look at the ledger,” Zoltan growled suddenly, jumping up from his chair and hurrying outside.
“I’ll help him,” Triss said, hurrying after him.
Geralt watched them go, then raised an eyebrow to Dandelion. “Why’s the ledger outside?”
“It’s not,” the poet moaned, giving a shake of his head. “They’re just abandoning me.”
Geralt folded his arms over his chest. “They want us to talk about something,” he said.
“Yes,” agreed the poet. He fiddled with his lace cuffs, then looked up at Geralt with sad eyes. “Geralt- oh I don’t know how to say it-” he shook his head. “Geralt, I’m dying.”
“You’re human,” Geralt said softly. It was something he’d been painfully aware of for years, ever since he’d first met the troubadour. Dandelion would die one day, and Geralt would be left alone.
“Well, yes,” Dandelion fretted, chewing at his lip. “But it’s not- Geralt, there’s something on my leg.”
“I’d guess pants, but you can’t seem to keep those on.”
“A growth! A- a-” he sighed, looking away, then whispered, “A tumor.”
Geralt tensed. “Tumors can be removed,” he said curtly.
“Triss has,” Dandelion replied. “Twice.”
The Witcher said nothing, his blood running cold.
“It’s come back. I told her just to take the entire limb, but- it- it’s too late for that.”
“Why?” he growled through gritted teeth.
“It’s spread into my hip and - most likely - my abdomen as well.”
Geralt was silent.
“Geralt? Talk to me Geralt.” Dandelion placed his hand on his arm, squeezing it gently.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I- I thought we could fix it without having to tell you,” Dandelion confessed. “Oh Geralt, are you terribly cross? I was only trying-”
Geralt shook his head. “I’m not upset, Dandelion,” he said softly. “Is there nothing else that can be done?”
“Well, Triss is looking into it, asking around, but-” he sighed. “We’ve tried everything, Geralt.”
His throat felt dry. “How long?”
“It’s spreading quickly,” the bard whispered. “A few months. Maybe a year.”
Geralt dropped his head to the table, taking deep breaths to calm himself. Dandelion leaned against him, letting out a soft sigh. “Geralt?” he whispered after a moment, his voice hesitant. “I- I- oh never mind.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t ask-”
“Dandelion.” Geralt pushed himself up, taking his friend’s hand in his own. “You can’t ask too much of me, you should know that.”
The bard swallowed. “I’ve seen people die of this before,” he said quietly. “Or- or similar things. If I’m gone- if I’m suffering or not me anymore-” blue eyes met yellow “I just want a quick death.”
Geralt’s jaw clenched and his stomach dropped. “Of course, Dandelion,” he said softly, reaching out to brush the troubadour’s hair out of his face.