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It started, as so many of their problems did, in a tavern. Not even a nice one, which would have gone a long way towards alerting Geralt to the actual problem. As it was, the grimy film on the table and suspicious hunks in their stew didn’t inspire much confidence in the establishment’s sterility. When the queasy feeling began in Geralt’s stomach he was surprised, but only for a moment. He looked at the mold growing between the joints of their chairs and acknowledged that if any place could succeed in making him sick, this one was a contender. It was a real pity considering how much he’d otherwise been enjoying the meal. For the company if not the food.
He excused himself, face impassive, limbs easy. If Jaskier found the departure odd he didn’t show it. Even witchers needed to use the restroom. Instead of questioning as Geralt half-hoped he would, Jaskier went back to sifting through his dinner, mouth twisting at whatever had just floated onto his spoon. Geralt slipped into the back.
He couldn’t be poisoned, of course. If a toxin existed that could fell a witcher it would be invented in an Elven lab. Or grown in the saliva of some mutated beast. The Trial of Grasses had made sure of that, pulling immunity from so many different species that sometimes Geralt looked in the mirror and couldn’t be sure what he was seeing anymore. Something warped and aberrant. A monster. But eliminating death as a consequence didn’t mean he couldn’t fall ill. It was rare, certainly. Almost unheard of given his second round of mutations, yet as Geralt bent over the pail provided to customers he recalled the potion Lambert had botched back at Kaer Morhen. The over-stewed holly and rancid drowner tongues had twisted his insides like nothing else, leaving him incapacitated for a good three days. They’d both been punished for that stunt. Lambert for taking his duties as an ally so lightly. Geralt for becoming incapacitated at all. It doesn’t matter what the world does to you, Vesemir had said, looking down at the shivering, spasming boy. A sick witcher is a dead witcher, so you don’t have the luxury. Get up.
He’d gotten up, completing all his training and chores during those seventy-two hours, slow and badly done as they were. It was a lesson learned well.
In comparison, this illness was a nuisance at most. A fly’s bite amid gaping wounds. Still, Geralt hoped that whatever refused to sit right would work its way back up his gullet. Better to purge now in privacy than risk doing it later in front of Jaskier. That image alone—down on his knees, face near the dirt, chucking up who knew what with smells that would attach to his clothes, following them for days—twisted Geralt’s stomach worse than the food had. The vulnerability. The inevitable disgust. Jaskier was a fastidious man who managed to keep his boots shined and his nails clean even while on the Path. More than that, he put stock in Geralt’s abilities. There was... trust there. Far more than Geralt deserved, but he was just selfish enough to want to keep what he had. If he were to become ill on their travels, even superficially, Jaskier might... he might...
With a gasp Geralt wrenched his whole body forward, hand moving to paw at the armor protecting his chest. It wasn’t nausea anymore, but a foreign feeling that was steadily moving upwards until it felt like it had settled in his lungs, each breath a ragged, panicky thing he only managed to draw with great effort. Far more effort than was befitting a witcher. Instinctively, Geralt ran through every respiratory symptom he’d had drilled into his head—none of which should be affecting him—even while he bent back over the pail, the urge to vomit still strong despite the change. He wanted to expel something but needed air to do it, and each breath drawn was akin to swallowing fire. No longer a fly, but a wyvern. A goddamn dragon. To his horror the sensations pulled a whine from between his teeth and even as he clamped down harder a dim, absurd part of Geralt hoped that Jaskier would hear. That he had followed to see what was taking so long, would rush in at the noise, a hand on his back and a spoken word, proof of—
It came up all at once, unexpected. Geralt had braced himself for the horrible slide of half-digested food. Instead, he felt something cool and slippery falling from his mouth, light despite the heaviness that still permeated his body. He couldn’t see what it was, eyes squeezed shut at the sensations, and there was no sound as it hit the pail’s bottom. This went on for some time, Geralt expelling something that he was both blind and deaf to, and when it was over he found that curiosity drove him to look as much as horror.
He’d expected... he didn’t know. Something that looked the part, a foreign, perhaps magical concoction that matched the pain he’d been in. Instead, Geralt looked down to find a half-filled bucket of yellow flowers.
“What?” he asked the empty room. His voice sounded raw. Overused. Geralt blinked, expecting the vision to change...but no. The flowers remained, some coated in a thin layer of saliva, but unmistakably beautiful. Geralt drew one out of the pail and twirled it between his fingers, letting the petals catch the moonlight. The urge to vomit was gone—for now—but something just as debilitating had taken its place.
With a curse he was up, wrenching open the window so that a blast of night air hit him full in the face. It did nothing to temper the heat that had settled in his chest, a scorch hitting his ribs each time he drew a breath, and with a growl Geralt took the pail and tossed the contents out into the street. It hurt, like he had chucked away his medallion or his swords, but he just ground his teeth and secured the latch. It was done.
A witcher had no need for beautiful things. Especially not a common weed.
You don’t have that luxury, Vesemir told him, wisdom imparted even from beyond the grave.
“No I don’t,” Geralt agreed and made his way back to Jaskier.
***
Of course, Vesemir had also taught him that ignoring problems was no way to solve them. The wound must be drained, Wolf, not left to fester. This was no quick-fix ailment though, a truth made clear over the next week as they made their way to Novigrad, Geralt having to stop at frequent intervals to cough up yellow petals in secret, green stems, sometimes entire bouquets that littered their path and no doubt confused any locals that later came across them. Each time he left a bit of himself behind Geralt made sure to ground it into the dirt, unrepentant. They were just weeds after all. Not even useful ones. Commoners might believe that taraxacum was good for infections of the kidney or bladder, but anyone with even a rudimentary knowledge of herbalism knew differently. They were a pest, an invasion, not fit for healing, or potions, or even adorning a side table. The beauty Geralt had admired that first night had been a mistake, clearly born of a sick mind. He didn’t even like yellow. It was the color of pestilence, urine, cowardice and betrayal, if you believed the poets. Madness too, which made as much sense as anything else. Because surely—surely—if such a curse had to befall him he would have been coughing up lilacs instead.
“Are you alright?” Jaskier asked. They were only a mile from the city’s outskirts and for the first time Geralt noticed that the bard appeared sick too. His skin was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes, no doubt a result of too much travel and too little sleep. After all, humans were fragile creatures. They weren’t fit for the Path. Had he been less focused on his own concerns Geralt might have noticed and taken better care of—
The thought caused heat to rise up into the back of his throat. His stomach churned, lungs seized, and Geralt coughed a few petals into the crook of his arm, catching them faster than the human eye could see. They were crushed and left as paste on the side of the road.
“Fine,” he ground out. “I’m always fine.”
Jaskier smiled and if Geralt had been paying attention he might have noticed how false it was. Nothing like the ones that had caused this situation in the first place.
“Right. Me too. I mean, immortal elves, giant kikimores, very angry sorceresses—which is honestly the scariest of the three. We’ve been through a lot together. Not like a few nights without decent food or a bed is going to bring the White Wolf and his faithful poet down. Though I admit the latter has done murder on my back.”
Geralt watched Jaskier stretch, body bent towards the rising sun, and felt flowers growing around his heart.
Food. A bed. Simple comforts that at any other time would have rejuvenated them both. Instead, Geralt rejected them the moment they stepped through the gate, leaving Jaskier staring dumbly in response to the flimsy excuse he’d just dropped. Later, Geralt wouldn’t even recall what reason he’d given for setting out alone. Perhaps something about upgrading his armor. Or an old contact that was too dangerous for Jaskier to meet. Whatever it was kept the bard off his heels so that Geralt was able to round the nearest corner and spew more petals into the alleyway. Their bright color shone against the grays of Novigrad, mocking him. When he was done Geralt looked up to find a woman staring out the window of the boarding house he leaned against, one hand pressed hard against her throat. He scowled at the sympathy, giving her a good show of werewolf teeth crammed into a human mouth, and got some measure of satisfaction from watching her stumble away.
Back out onto the main street. Moving towards the docks. Turning at the last moment to slip into a bookseller’s. Geralt had been here many times before in the last century, watching the knowledge pass from grandfather, to son, to cousin, the man now giving an exuberant greeting as he all but fell through the doors. Caelus' salesman tone was murder on his ears, but the dim lighting and covered windows made everything feel cool, a balm against his feverish skin. To protect the books, Vesemir had said, indicating Kaer Morhen’s own library, tucked two stories down beneath the earth. Direct sunlight will do as much damage as a vile of giant centipede venom. It’s just slower.
Geralt felt like that now. Like someone was boiling him at a low but consistent heat.
He was no fool, but Geralt didn’t proclaim to be wise either. Even the most practical of men needed a douse of denial now and again. It kept them sane. So in the last week he’d ignored every memory of stories he’d heard, lovers pining so long and strong that it eventually erupted into the world as a physical thing, that beauty a ridicule. The irony was that it was precisely the sort of setup Jaskier would have loved. Pure poetry arising out of pain. Too bad the result was always shit. No matter the region or the species, each met with the same. Coughing up flowers wasn’t nearly as poetic as it might sound.
Geralt knew his ending. Had for a hundred and sixty-eight hours, each minute increasing the burn in his lungs and the need to gag around flora crawling its way up his throat. He knew, yet he’d come here anyway, to hold the texts of ancient masters and let them present his death on a page. Always double check what you think you know. Another of Vesemir’s little lessons. So Geralt had and now there was no satisfaction in proving himself right.
That’s how Caelus found him, seated against the bookshelf with volumes strewn about, tiny petals stuck between their pages. To his credit, he was calmer than the woman had been. Geralt tilted his head and tried to smile at the man he’d met when he was just three months old.
“You’re going to outlive me,” he told him and this time Caelus flinched.
“That’s...” he began, but didn’t finish. Didn’t need to. How many people had reminded Geralt of his emotionless existence, the lie spit with both horror and envy? Now here he sat, dying from what he supposedly didn’t have.
“There are ways,” Caelus said instead, reedy voice picking up until all his words rolled together. “Toxins, master. Specialty potions made by mages in the far North. Even a few rumors about elves that can break such a curse—”
Geralt cut him off. “I’m a witcher. I break curses. Only one solution to this one.”
He watched Caelus swallow. The man appeared truly distraught at the thought of the witcher’s demise. They only knew one another superficially, passing knowledge back and forth or offering the occasional kind word in an otherwise harsh world. Geralt liked to think that he might have brought something worth missing into his life, or perhaps Caelus would just miss the rare tomes Geralt would bring back from his travels.
“And you’re sure?” Caelus whispered. “That this cure doesn’t exist for you?”
“Am I...?”
It started out small. A giggle, if one would dare to apply such a label to him. Soon enough though it turned into a full-blown laugh, louder and wilder than Geralt could remember experiencing in decades. Perhaps ever. It pushed his head into the spines of the books and echoed off the shop’s walls.
Geralt laughed until he’d driven Caelus away and petals pooled in his lap, spilling off his knees.
***
The walk back was a long one and still Geralt reached the inn too soon. They hadn’t needed to make plans before he’d left. He knew precisely which establishment Jaskier would choose and could rely on there being a room already secured for them, meals ordered and baths laid aside. The familiarity sent a whole collection of flower heads up his throat and for a long moment Geralt choked on the side of the road, listening to the guards mutter about early morning drunks.
It wouldn’t be long now.
He wouldn’t be able to hide it either. No more woods to scurry into. Geralt had considered picking a random direction and walking a straight path, continuing forward until the weeds finally strangled him. In the end though the thought of leaving the idiot bard was too much. There were still things he could do, paltry as they were. There were hideaways Jaskier needed to know about, stashes of coin that would give a poet a slightly easier life than he’d otherwise have. Favors too, debts that he could call in if the need arose. Geralt even thought about leaving messages for his brothers, but what he’d say to them he didn’t know. His medallion would have to suffice.
If Jaskier agreed to send it back to Kaer Morhen, that is. If he could stand to listen to him at all, spewing evidence of unwanted affection all the while. There was every possibility that he would take one look and run, fast as he could. Geralt wouldn’t chase him.
No, if it came to that he’d take the room for himself, one more selfish act to add to the pile. He could be the first witcher to die in a bed. The possibility gave him a grim kind of satisfaction.
He’d always been the odd one out.
You’re a different kind of wolf. That’s not always going to be a good thing.
No shit, old man. Geralt wiped bits of stem from his lips and pushed his way through the door.
Managing a conversation with the innkeep was a miracle, but Geralt succeeded in retrieving his key without dropping more than a single bloom on the floor. As he took to the stairs he saw a waitress bend to pick it up, brow furrowed.
Third floor. First door on the left.
More coughs were wracking his frame and this time Geralt held onto what he could, collecting a fucked up bouquet to present. He even tried for a smile, determined to get some sort of sick pleasure out of all this, as if that were possible. Hand on the knob, half his weight leaning against the door, Geralt tried to picture what Jaskier would look like when he opened it. Perhaps he’d be composing another song, head dipped over his journal with quill between his teeth. He might be polishing his boots again, humming some simple tune. Staring disapprovingly at their accommodations. Groaning at the prospect of a bath. Even sick, done in by the long journey and shit company. Geralt held all possibilities in his mind, wondering if a thousand of them could push out whatever horrible expression would twist Jaskier’s features. Once he realized.
He needn’t have bothered. Because out of the thousand—the millions—of ways he’d seen his bard, this was the one image Geralt had never been granted. Couldn’t have even imagined it.
Jaskier was seated on the bed with his head dipped low, but there was no journal in his hands. Instead he held a large plant adored with purple flowers. It was brilliant, the beauty somehow enhanced by the bits of blood dotting the petals. Numb, Geralt identified the specimen as high in nutritional value, a good find when food was scarce. Hearty as well as pretty. Lupine, the flower of the wolf.
They covered the floor of their room and dotted the few bits of furniture. A sea of purples, reds, and pinks. Geralt’s hand went slack, the dandelions he’d collected drifting down to mix and balance out the color pallet.
Jaskier looked up and something shifted. Geralt could hear the click in his mind, echoing his own. Like a sword slotting perfectly into its sheath. All at once he breathed easy.
“Oh,” Jaskier whispered and Geralt recalled the only bit of advice that had ever mattered.
Don’t be a fool, Wolf.
Geralt reached across the flowers to take Jaskier’s hand. He promised to try.