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“I swear to Melitele, bard, if you don’t shut the fuck up I’m going to make you.”
“My bones ache, Geralt! And my head,” Jaskier protests from behind him.
The witcher exhales harshly. It’s nearing sundown and the bard hasn’t stopped complaining since they woke up this morning. My head hurts, Geralt. My joints ache, Geralt. Can’t we slow down, Geralt? I’m thirsty. I’m tired. I’m cold. It’s enough to drive a man mad. He’d never thought he’d say this, but he actually misses the bard’s songs and even his usual inane chatter. Anything is better than this.
“Jaskier,” he growls, “for once in your life, be quiet.”
He can feel the man’s glare on his back. “You’re not the one who has to walk,” he complains. “Up there on your mighty steed. Well maybe Roach wants a break, has that possibility ever crossed your mind? Besides, Geralt, something isn’t right. I feel—”
“If we stop to camp for the night, will you shut up?” Geralt brings Roach to a halt, swinging around to face the bard. There’s so much relief in Jaskier’s expression at Geralt’s words that it gives the witcher pause. He ignores the fervent “Yes!” and studies his friend’s face, taking in the glassy eyes and slight pallor.
“Hm.” Perhaps Jaskier is getting sick. Human bodies are so fragile. He dismounts and starts for the trees lining the road they’ve been following, the bard trailing behind him, mercifully silent.
Setting up camp is a quiet affair. It’s…more unnerving than Geralt had anticipated. He values his peace, but with Jaskier by his side the stillness feels wrong, somehow. The bard is a lively travelling companion. Geralt is quickly coming to the realization that his friend just isn’t meant to be quiet.
During dinner Jaskier is drawn and pale, picking at the rabbit Geralt had caught for a while before finally offering it to the witcher and retreating to sleep early. Geralt watches him set up his bedroll rather closer to the fire than normal, something stirring in his chest that he might say was worry, if he didn’t know any better.
Jaskier seemingly falls asleep quickly, and Geralt, left with nothing to do except tend to Roach, sets up his bedroll soon afterward.
It seems like Geralt has just fallen asleep when he’s startled awake by a presence looming over him, and he’s halfway to his swords before he realizes that it’s just Jaskier.
“What are you doing?” he asks as he squints up at the bard, annoyed. Jaskier doesn’t answer, but Geralt soon realizes what’s wrong as he hears the other man’s chattering teeth and too-fast heartbeat. The smell of sickness hangs heavy around him.
“Fuck,” Geralt curses, standing and tilting Jaskier’s chin up for a better look at his face. His cheeks are flushed and his skin is damp with sweat, his eyes hazy and bright with fever.
“I’m cold, Geralt,” he moans. “Can I lie with you?”
The fever is still rising, then. Geralt isn’t experienced in playing nursemaid, but he has some basic understanding of how the human body works. He guides Jaskier to lay in his own bedroll, removing one of the furs he had been sleeping under. It’s further away from the fire than Jaskier’s, and the last thing the bard needs right now is more heat.
“Stay put,” he instructs, grabbing his flask to fill with fresh water from the stream he hears flowing nearby. When he returns he’s dismayed to find that Jaskier’s temperature has risen enough to send him into a state of delirium.
“Do you see that, Geralt?” the man breathes as he stares into the trees. “Something is watching us.
“There’s nothing there, Jaskier,” the witcher says. He feels rather unequipped to handle this situation, but he has some ideas. Hydration. Rest. Maybe something to bring the fever down, if it gets much higher.
Geralt settles onto the ground next to Jaskier and holds the flask to his lips. “Drink,” he says, but Jaskier turns his head away, fever-bright blue eyes alight with fear.
“I’ll drown,” he whispers.
“You won’t. You need to drink.” Geralt persists, placing his hand firmly on the bard’s cheek when he tries to move again, holding him still. The skin burns beneath his palm.
“Please,” he begs weakly. “I’ll drown. Won’t you let me live, Geralt? I promise I’ll be quiet.”
Something in the witcher’s chest twists uncomfortably at Jaskier’s pleas. He’s never heard him sound like this before, never seen him so afraid. It makes his heart ache in an unfamiliar way.
“I’m making sure you live,” he says. “Drink.”
Jaskier stares at him, something like resignation in his gaze. He parts his lips just slightly. Geralt seizes the opportunity to trickle the water into his mouth, tilting his head up so that he doesn’t choke. He sputters but swallows, and there’s such betrayal in his glassy eyes that Geralt’s relief is muddled with guilt.
“Why do you hate me, Geralt?” The question, barely audible, sits heavy in the witcher’s gut. Does Jaskier truly believe that? He wants to think that it’s the fever talking, but he can’t be certain.
“I don’t,” he answers, lowering Jaskier’s head gently. He brushes at the hair near his temples, stiff with dried sweat. There’s no sweat now, only dry, scorching heat. The fever is rising so fast. This time there’s no mistaking the worry squeezing in Geralt’s chest.
Jaskier shivers. “I’m so cold,” he breathes. “Can’t I move closer to the fire?”
“No,” Geralt says. “You’re not cold. You’re burning.” The fever is dangerously high now, he knows. He needs to go to the stream, needs to collect water so he can cool Jaskier down, but he’s loathe to leave him even for a few minutes.
To Geralt’s chagrin, tears begin to trickle slowly down Jaskier’s flushed cheeks. “Please,” he whispers, his voice anguished. “Please, Geralt. I don’t want to die.”
“I’m not going to let you die.” Geralt stands, his mind made up. “I’ll be back shortly.”
He retrieves a small metal basin from his pack, forcing himself to ignore Jaskier’s desperate calls of, “Don’t leave me, Geralt, please! I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet, I swear!” He needs to do this.
“Watch over him while I’m gone,” he murmurs to Roach, stroking his hand down her nose. She huffs, hoofing nervously at the dirt. “He’ll be okay,” he says firmly. He’s not sure if he’s trying to convince the horse or himself.
He can’t pretend he doesn’t know where Jaskier’s idea that Geralt wants him to be quiet comes from as he makes his way toward the stream. He scowls as he fills the basin with the chilled water, wondering again if Jaskier truly believes that quiet is what Geralt wants from him. He’s going to have to clarify a few things when the bard is thinking straight again.
He walks back to the camp, careful not to spill any of the water. As he nears the fire, his heart skips a beat when sees the bedroll empty. He looks around sharply and soon spots the bard stumbling toward the tree line.
“Fuck.”
Still taking care to keep all of the water, he sets the basin down well away from the fire so it will stay cool, and then follows quickly after the bard. He hadn’t expected that Jaskier would have the strength to sit up, let alone stand and walk.
“Jaskier,” he calls as he nears the bard. Jaskier turns to face him, staggering to a halt. Geralt sees the moment his strength fails him and hurries to catch him before he can hit the ground.
“What were you doing?” he asks lowly, supporting most of Jaskier’s weight as he leads him back to the bedroll.
“Will-o’-the-Wisp,” he replies with wonder, no traces of his earlier fear. “You were gone for so long. I was afraid they’d gotten you.”
“The Will-o’-the-Wisps?” He keeps his tone mild as he tucks the bard under the thin blanket, knowing that it will be easier to cater to Jaskier’s delusions than to try to convince him of reality.
Jaskier shakes his head, eyes wide and glazed with heat. “The women with the black eyes,” he says so ominously that a slight chill rushes down Geralt’s spine. He collects his bag and resumes his place on the ground at Jaskier’s side.
“Hm.”
“I’m afraid,” Jaskier whispers, reaching out toward Geralt. The witcher takes the hot hand into his own, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“I won’t let anything hurt you.”
Jaskier shakes his head once more, the sincerity in his gaze almost childlike. “For you.”
Geralt’s heart squeezes against his ribcage again, making him frown. Why is he feeling this way? He doesn’t understand.
“I’m not the one frying in my own body heat,” he says gruffly, letting go of Jaskier’s hand and rummaging through his pack for a clean linen. He soaks the cloth in the bowl of cold water, wringing it out and steeling himself for the fight he knows is about to come.
“You won’t like this,” he warns before pressing the damp cloth to the bard’s fevered skin.
Jaskier gasps and jerks away. He pushes weakly at Geralt’s chest and then attempts to pull the linen out of his grasp when he can’t budge the witcher. Geralt catches his wrists, trying to be as gentle as possible, trying to keep Jaskier from hurting himself in his panic. Jaskier thrashes, turning his head from side to side as he attempts to get away from the wet cloth.
“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. He holds the cloth firmly against the bard’s forehead, moving as Jaskier moves. It warms quickly beneath his hand. “Keep still.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” Jaskier moans breathlessly. If he didn’t know any better Geralt might think that the bard was being tortured. He scowls against the guilt trying to cloud his mind.
“If I don’t do it you’ll die,” he snaps, the words slipping out unbidden. The full weight of the situation settles over him as he struggles to cool Jaskier down. Geralt may not know much about human illnesses, but he does know that if this fever doesn’t break within the next few hours Jaskier won’t live to see the morning.
The fear that Geralt has been trying to fight since Jaskier woke him is solidifying in his gut. He’s out of his element and the stakes are so high. If only he could lower Jaskier’s temperature just a little bit, if only he could get him to sleep for a few moments. Then he could gather the herbs he needs for the fever remedy a healer had once taught him, many years ago. If only Jaskier would calm down. Geralt soaks the now-warm linen again, and the bard begins to thrash more violently as he tries to lay it against the side of his neck, begging him to stop. The Witcher clenches his teeth in frustration. His fear getting the better of him, he drops the cloth and takes hold of Jaskier’s tunic, leaning in so that his nose nearly brushes against the other man’s.
“Listen to me, bard,” he growls lowly. Jaskier stares, wide-eyed and motionless for the first time. “I know you can understand me somewhere in that fever-addled brain of yours. You will let me do this. If you don’t hold still I will knock you unconscious and dunk you in the river. You are going to live, damn you.”
Geralt releases Jaskier’s shirt and straightens, regaining his composure. He grimaces at Jaskier’s stricken expression. It’s not often that he loses control of himself so completely. Still, the bard doesn’t move as he wipes the cloth over his face again, and Geralt thanks the gods for small mercies.
Even with Jaskier’s cooperation, the damp cloth isn’t doing much good. He makes the bard take another few mouthfuls of water, thankful when this time he doesn’t protest. It’s not enough. He wrings out the linen once more and lays it across Jaskier’s forehead before releasing his hold on his wrists. The bard doesn’t try to move the cloth. Geralt lets out a small breath of relief.
“I’m going to find some herbs,” he tells Jaskier. “For tea. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Do not move.”
“No,” Jaskier pleads. “Stay. The beast in the woods will get you. Can’t you hear it?”
The forest is calm. “No harm will come to me, Jaskier,” he says, holding the bard’s gaze. “I promise you.”
Damn, he thinks when Jaskier begins to cry again. “Please, Geralt,” he says. “I can’t bear to lose you.”
Geralt closes his eyes, his heart fluttering. For a moment he says nothing. He takes a long breath.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he repeats, and turns away before he can see Jaskier’s terrified face.
The witcher gathers a few strips of willow bark and a handful of yarrow and even finds an elderberry bush. He picks a few bunches of flowers, and after a moment of thought several berries for the taste. He already has some chamomile. He thinks he remembers seeing a jar of honey in Jaskier’s bag. A quick stop by the stream finds his flask refilled.
He makes his way back to the camp with his finds and fills the iron kettle over the fire with the fresh water before dropping the herbs in to steep. As he turns to retrieve the chamomile and honey, he sees Jaskier lying deathly still and his stomach feels horribly as though it’s been filled with ice.
“Jaskier,” he barks, his voice rough with dread as he moves toward the bedroll. But as he gets closer he can hear the bard’s thready heartbeat and ragged panting, and he nearly sags with relief when he realizes that Jaskier has just fallen into a fitful sleep.
He sits and continues to pass the linen over Jaskier’s flushed skin as the tea brews. There’s still so much heat. Geralt feels his hope dwindling as the bard tosses and moans—he doesn’t know how to fix this, and Jaskier is running out of time. After a few minutes he takes the kettle from the fire and pours some of the steaming tea into a wooden cup he found in Jaskier’s bag, praying to Melitele that this will work. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it doesn’t. He’s run out of ideas.
Geralt blows over the cup, trying to cool the brew a bit. He’s hesitant to give Jaskier anything hot, fevered as he is, but he knows that it won’t work as well if it’s cold. Still, he doesn’t want the bard to burn himself.
“Jaskier,” the witcher murmurs, shaking his shoulder gently in an attempt to rouse him. He moans again, face creasing in what looks like fear as he breathes out, “No, no, please…”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says more firmly. “Wake up.”
Jaskier startles, and when he looks at Geralt there’s no recognition in his eyes. “Please, no more, father,” he begs, cowering slightly away from his friend. “I can be better.”
Geralt’s jaw clenches at the implication. He’d known that Jaskier’s father hadn’t been kind to him, but the bard’s delirious ramblings spin a rather darker tale than the one he’s been told.
“I’m not your father, Jaskier.” He slips a hand under the other man’s shoulders to help him sit up, ignoring his flinch. “You need to drink this.” He presses the cup into Jaskier’s hand. The bard takes it automatically, and when Geralt sees how much his hand is trembling he wraps his own around it and guides the cup to Jaskier’s lips.
“Geralt?” Jaskier whispers after he’s taken a drink. His eyes search the witcher’s.
“Yes.”
Jaskier shivers. “I’m cold, Geralt.”
“This will help.” He lifts the cup back up to Jaskier’s mouth and is relieved when the bard swallows without protest. He continues helping Jaskier drink until the cup is empty and the bard is listing against him.
Geralt lowers him to the bedroll again, scanning his face for…what? He doesn’t know. Some sign that the herbs are working. Some assurance that his friend will still be with him when the light of morning comes.
There’s no change. Jaskier has slipped back into an uneasy slumber, his breathing shallow and labored. Geralt has a sinking feeling that he will not see the bard’s eyes open again.
Feeling strangely hollow, Geralt shifts away from the bedroll, moving to lean back against a tree stump a few feet away. He closes his eyes. There’s nothing more he can do, and he can’t stand to watch Jaskier die. His heart is heavy as he listens to the weak cadence of Jaskier’s heartbeat, letting it fade into the background along with his ragged breaths.
Some time later, when the black sky is just starting to lighten to deep indigo with the early morning, Geralt is startled out of his not-quite-sleep by a sudden change in the smell of the air around him. There’s a new scent, acrid and tanged with salt. The witcher is at Jaskier’s side in a second.
He’s sweating. His hair and tunic are wet, and his skin glistens in the low light of the dwindling fire. He’s sleeping more deeply, breathing more freely. When Geralt lays his palm against Jaskier’s damp cheek it’s still unnaturally warm, but not scorching as it had been. Finally, finally, the fever has broken.
Geralt feels weak with relief. He exhales sharply, passing a hand over his face. It looks like he won’t have to bury the bard after all. Jaskier’s words echo in his head as he wets the now-dry cloth again and begins to wipe at the sweat on the man’s face.
Please, Geralt. I can’t bear to lose you.
The witcher pauses, studying the sleeping bard’s face. His complexion is waxy and there are still spots of red high on his cheekbones. Geralt thinks he’s never been so lucky in his entire life as he is in this moment, with Jaskier lying beside him, alive.
“Nor I you.”
When Jaskier wakes, it’s to a pounding head and a throat so dry it feels like trying to swallow cotton. He pushes himself up onto his arms and is surprised to find that he’s weak as a newborn foal. Geralt’s flask is lying next to him—he snatches it with a shaking hand and gulps the water inside, little though there is. It catches in his throat, making him cough so hard that his wobbly arms give out and he collapses back into his bedroll with a groan. Suddenly Geralt is looming above him, brow creased and looking more exhausted in the dawn light than Jaskier has seen him in a long time.
“Where did you come from?” he croaks, startled. “I’ve drank all your water.” He feebly brandishes the empty flask. “Sorry. But I think I hear a stream nearby—I’ll fill it as soon as I—”
“How do you feel?” the witcher interrupts. He’s staring at Jaskier with the most peculiar expression on his face. Almost like—concern.
Jaskier lets his arm drop and studies Geralt. “You look like you could do with a rest,” he says. Geralt scowls at him. “I feel—not so good,” he admits. His whole body aches and he wishes he had more water. He also feels incredibly drained despite the fact that it looks like he was the only one who got any sleep last night. What happened?
“You had a fever,” Geralt tells him as though he’s read his thoughts.
Ah, that explains it. Now that the witcher mentions it, Jaskier can vaguely recall jabbering on about drowning and Will-o’-the-Wisps and—gods, had he said something about his father?
“The fever was very high,” Geralt says. His expression is unreadable
“Well, I haven’t died yet, have I?” he jokes. “Seems as though you’ll be stuck with me for a while more.” Something passes through the witcher’s eyes that makes Jaskier think he may have chosen the wrong jest. “Geralt—”
“You know I don’t want you quiet.” The blunt statement startles a laugh out of Jaskier.
“Ah, see! I knew you liked me all along, Witcher,” he chuckles.
The corners of Geralt’s mouth quirk up. “Don’t flatter yourself, bard.” He picks up the empty flask and walks away, presumably to get more water. Jaskier is grateful.
He settles into the blankets and tries to remember more of what happened through the night. It’s hazy, fear and cold water and Geralt’s frustrated golden eyes. He remembers telling Geralt that he can’t bear to lose him, and he would be embarrassed if he didn’t also remember the witcher’s response, murmured low like a confession.
Nor I you.
Jaskier smiles, warmth blooming in his chest.
Witchers don’t feel emotions. Ha!
What a load of bullshit.