Archive of Our Own

“Damn it Jaskier. Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days it's you shovelling it?”

“That's not fair.”

“The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

“Right. Uh... Right then. I'll get the rest of the story from the others. See you around, Geralt.”

The words he had shouted, and Jaskier's crestfallen voice when he had muttered his reply and good-bye, still resonated through Geralt's mind. Now, hours after Yenn had left, after Borch had retreated to the dragon's lair, after he had sent Jaskier away with a snarl, he admitted to himself what an idiot he had been. And how unjustly he had treated the bard.

Nothing of what he had shouted at him had been Jaskier's fault. Even though Jaskier had dragged him to the feast at court, it had been his decision to ask for the Law of Surprise, not Jaskier. He could as well have asked for a pouch full of ducats as reward. And the djinn? He had been looking for the djinn's bottle, not Jaskier, and if he hadn't said such nasty things to the bard, the bottle would never have broken and Jaskier would not been hurt and Yennefer would have stayed away from their lives for good. They'd never met. No, Jaskier wasn't to blame for what had happened, or for his sour mood. He had brought all this upon him himself.

In the past hours, he had not once thought about the fact that Yennefer was gone but all the more about how he had hurt Jaskier with the things he had said. It dawned on Geralt it had not been him who had tried to bind Yennefer's and his destiny together in the first place. He had acted under her spell.... When she was around, his heart longed for her, his body lusted for her, his mind was filled with her scent, stopping him from thinking straight.

Now he realised that if she was not around, he didn't waste much thought on her. Jaskier, on the other side.... He knew for sure that Jaskier had not cast a spell on him, at least not one that stemmed from magic.

His ire from before rekindled. How could Yennefer accuse him of having manipulated their feelings with his wish, when it had been her who had deceived him in the first place? Had his mind not been clouded from her magic, he might have used that wish for something else entirely. Angrily he rose from the rock, gazing at the horizon where the sun started to settle. Time to find Jaskier and make amends.

Determinedly, Geralt strode down the path they had been coming up earlier in the day. If he was lucky, the bard would saunter down and he would catch up with him before they had reached Roach.

“You fucking bastard, you white-haired, tone-deaf moron!” Jaskier shouted at the top of his lungs, his cry ending in a groan. “Damn it, Geralt, that's all your fault, you... you---” He had called the Witcher names for the last half hour or so, and now it seemed he had spent all insults he could think of. “You butcher!”

He leaned on the rocky cliff, looking up for the umpteenth time, wondering if he would have been able to climb up again if his foot had not been injured so badly during his tumble. Probably not, he had never had a gift for sport. He looked down at his swollen ankle and useless foot. He wasn't sure if something was broken or not, but it sure hurt like hell. He slid along the wall, sitting down again.

“Don't you dare let me die here wretchedly, Geralt. It's all your fault, now you could at least have the good grace to come and save me from this predicament,” Jaskier muttered. Saying it out loud, however, didn't help to convince himself that the Witcher was not already miles away, probably still cursing him. Geralt would not spare a thought about him, he had been so furious and angry, Jaskier was sure it would take at least a decade before Geralt might consider giving him a friendly nod should their paths cross again.

He huffed and most certainly did not feel like crying. He looked up again along the wall of rock. The good thing was, at least, that here on this ledge he should be safe from any monsters lurking in the mountains. None of them would climb down to get at him. Or not?

Geralt reached Roach, glad to see that the horse and his saddlebags still were where he had left them. What was not there, was Jaskier.

Damn!

He had followed the bard's faint scent all along down the path, hoping he would soon catch up with him. Sometimes, the scent had been so overlain by the dwarven stench that he had had problems picking it up again, but he had never lost track of it. Jaskier must be somewhere ahead of him.

Sighing, he stowed away his bags and mounted Roach. He hoped Jaskier had caught up with the dwarves and returned to town with them. He didn't like the thought of the bard walking through the forest at night all on his own.

A quarter hour later, he came across the group of dwarves who had, for whatever reason, decided to camp there, instead of in the clearing they had used to leave horses and carts on their way up the mountain.

He nodded to them by way of greeting. “Have you seen Jaskier?” he asked gruffly.

Yarpen, the leader of their merry band, stood up. “You mean the bard who was following you? Unfit for dragon hunt and other adventures?”

Geralt grunted.

“No, haven't seen him since we left the mountain top. He didn't look like he would be capable of surviving all on his own, though. I hope you haven't misplaced him?” Yarpen guffawed. “His singing was nice, but he looked like a peacock in heat. Not really our cup of tea.”

Yarpen was joined by his dwarven companions who roared with laughter, and Geralt had heard all he needed to know. He clicked his tongue and urged Roach to move on.

“Good luck!” Yarpen called after him.

Geralt set up camp a good hour away from the dwarves and left again when the dark sky started to turn grey in the east. On mid-morning he reached the town and headed to the tavern where Borch had hired them for the dragon hunt.

The tap room was already half full, and Geralt headed to the counter where the innkeeper was busy pouring out ale.

“Is the bard here?” Geralt asked with a glare, lest the innkeeper planned to simply ignore him, busy as he was.

“What?” the man asked absent-mindedly.

“The bard who was here with me three days ago. Have you seen him?”

Now the man looked at Geralt, squinting, apparently thinking about the Witcher's question. Suddenly, his face lit up. “Oh, you mean the bard with the flamboyant clothing?”

Gerald nodded.

“The short one with the soft features? Who sings the songs of the White Wolf?”

“Hm,” Geralt grumbled.

“No, haven't seen him since he was last here with you,” the innkeeper said, shrugging his shoulders. “You want an ale? Breakfast?”

Geralt glowered at the innkeeper, contemplating the man's answer. And question. He nodded and took a seat on the stool. Maybe he would be lucky and Jaskier would return to the inn soon, he might just have missed him on his way back from the mountains. Deep inside, however, Geralt knew that this would never happen. Jaskier was gone.

He finished his breakfast and ale and put a coin on the counter. “Do you know of any monsters around here? Anyone who needs the service of a witcher?” he asked the innkeeper, shouldering his pack.

The man pondered the question before answering. “I've heard of kikimore plaguing the folks in Etterville. Maybe you can ask there, it's a good two days ride south-east of here.”

“Thank you,” Geralt grumbled, and set off.

Jaskier woke, blinking against the light. Even before he was fully awake, he felt pain pulsating up his leg, spreading in his torso. And he was instantly reminded of how thirsty he was.

“Ah, heck, at least I've survived the night,” he muttered to the lone dandelion that shared the ledge with him. He stretched his arms to shake off the stiffness. “I'm really disappointed with Geralt. I've not wronged him, not once, I've constantly raised his fame, secured him contracts, and yet he cast me aside as if I had never called him friend. I'm really, really disappointed. I had hoped even his stubborn witcher pighead would see reason. It's not that I expect an apology, I'm not that forward, oh no. But at least look if the poor bard has made his way down, hale and hearty? Is that too much to ask for? His terribly dangerous, monster-infested way down, mind you! Pah! No, not the great Geralt of Rivia. Shame on you! Who needs him anyway? Certainly not me. Phfff... I'm really disappointed.” It was as lie, he was not disappointed, he was heartbroken, but no one needed to know, and the dandelion stayed as quiet as it had been all night while he had turned and tossed and groaned with pain. The flower would not betray him.

At mid-day he was really hungry and the thirst almost unbearable. As was the pain in his leg, though it had receded to a constant throb that pulsed through him with every heartbeat. His head was nearly splitting with a headache, and there was no shade from the unrelenting sun to ease the pain. He stared at the dandelion and really considered plucking it and sucking the milky sap from its stem, just to quench his thirst. But it would be less than a drop in a bucket, and he was reluctant to kill his only friend who had so willingly listened to all his wailing. And not abandoned him. Like a specific other.

“Oh, what I would give now for a cup of Cintrian ale, cool and rich. Or a bucket of water, fresh from the fountain.... I should probably spare what little spit I have left and keep quiet but that doesn't come naturally to me. Never did.” Jaskier squinted at the dandelion. Had it grown? He closed his eyes, letting his head rest on the rocky wall. He was so exhausted. “That's why Geralt cast me aside like a well-worn pair of shoes. It's easy to part with shoes once they start to have holes, though I don't have holes in me. Just a damaged foot. Ack, I should shut my mouth. Should have done so every time he asked me to. Should have done so more often, then I wouldn't have got into such a mess. Geralt wouldn't have ended up in such a mess.” Jaskier trailed off, he was pretty sure he was blathering, but it was hard to tell when something was trying to chisel open his head. From the inside. What monster was this and how had it managed to slip into his head?

Oh, he wished Geralt was here. The Witcher knew how to get rid of monsters. He could have helped.

Geralt had travelled a decent distance until he stopped to let Roach graze at the bank of a shallow stream. He lay in the shadow of a big pine, cleaning his silver sword. He hoped he would find a job in Etterville, preferably one with the need to make thorough use of his sword. He craved to chop something into very small pieces. When Roach was satisfied and rested, he mounted, leading her away from the stream. The heavy scent of pine and moist forest soil and meadowsweet reached his nostrils like an olfactory mace and suddenly he froze.

The scent!

He quickly became aware of the fact that while he had followed Jaskier's scent down the trail and back to the tavern, the scent had changed along the way, and he had not realised what it meant. He had thought the dwarven stench was just so much stronger than Jaskier's inherent scent, but he had been wrong! What he had thought of as just being a change in the intensity of the various scents had actually been the sudden disappearance of Jaskier's scent! What he had followed back down was the scent Jaskier had left when they had come up the mountain together!

Shit!

He turned Roach and spurred her on. How could this have slipped his attention? He hadn’t just sent Jaskier away with a most unnecessary tantrum, he'd also missed the fact that the bard had never returned from the mountain. Somewhere along the way down, Jaskier had vanished from the track, and Geralt could only think of one explanation. Two, actually, he corrected himself. Either Jaskier had been snatched and devoured from one of the monsters that inhabited the mountains, but then Geralt would have smelled blood and guts in the vicinity. Or Jaskier had lost his footing and fallen. And now lay somewhere, injured, helpless and unable to climb up again.

It wouldn't be easy to find the exact spot where the scent had vanished, but he had a vague image of where it had been. He just hoped he wouldn’t arrive too late. Whatever it was that had kept Jaskier up on the mountain, away from the main path, it had already been two days and a night that his bard had spent there on the mountain, unprotected and alone.

“Come now, Roach! I have walked this earth for so long and now I have no time!”

Jaskier woke to a stunning sunset.

It was so beautiful he couldn't help but admire it. His headache had eased, either the monster slept or had buggered off in search of someone else it could torture. The dull pain in his leg had neither turned worse nor gotten better, so much for that.

“It's too bad no one will make a song about me, the bard who fell victim to the mountain while being on a dragon hunt along with dwarves, Reavers, a sorceress and Geralt of Rivia, whose fault it is that I'm here!” He shouted the final words, fresh anger rising. Oh, he was so done with the Witcher! If he survived this somehow, and their paths crossed again, he would so have a word with Geralt, and then never ever again deign to look at him! Never again would he sing a single song of praise about the White Wolf!

“Nonsense,” he muttered, viewing the dandelion. “I would ask his forgiveness and follow him as long as he would let me.” He sighed, watching the last rays of sunshine flit across the treeline. “But he'll not come, my brave little dandelion. He sent me away and will not have spent another thought on me. My foolish little heart was wrong, Geralt cares for no one. Except for that damned sorceress, apparently.” His fingers lightly skimmed over the strings of his lute. It was a wonder the lute had survived the fall down the cliff undamaged, contrary to its owner. If he'd had the energy, he would have picked it up, but now he just hummed a melody that came to his mind.

“Meek little Dandelion
Groweth more fair,
Till dies the amber dew
Out from her hair.
High rides the thirsty sun,
Fiercely and high;
Faint little Dandelion
Closeth her eye”

His voice had choked on the amber dew, and it had most definitely nothing to do with the amber eyes of a certain witcher. “Sorry,” he said, addressing the dandelion beside him. “But if it's any consolation to you, I'll be gone before you.”

Geralt had reached the foot of the mountain at dusk and urged Roach onwards through the fast darkening forest. When he entered the clearing where they’d previously left their horses, it was pitch dark. He dismounted and ordered Roach to stay. He dared not tie her somewhere. If monsters or other foes showed up, she would at least be able to flee.

Leaving most of his baggage with Roach, he headed uphill. He had not gone far when he stopped dead in his tracks, listening carefully. He'd heard something, and he could have sworn it had sounded like the bard calling his name.

He hastened on.

Driven by hunger and thirst, Jaskier had again tried to climb up the wall of rock he had fallen down, regardless of his injured foot. He had never gone further than half a body height, then he had lost his grip and fallen back onto the ledge, adding more cuts and scratches to his already maltreated body.

“Geralt!” he screamed desperately at the top of his lungs. If anyone, the Witcher was the only being who would be able to save him from certain death, if he was still, somehow, somewhere nearby. He doubted it, but hope dies last and so Jaskier clung to this shred of hope. “Geraaaalt” he screamed once more and then slumped to the ground. Well, he had tried, but he was neither a ranger capable of climbing vertically nor a mage who could get itself up on the top of the cliff by magic. And he had no energy left inside him to try again. He closed his eyes, humming the melody of the White Wolf's song.

When he heard small stones hitting the ground beside him, he opened his eyes and looked up.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt called down to him, his head peeping out at the top of the cliff.

Jaskier got up. “Yes, I can't climb up, my foot is hurt.”

“Stay,” Geralt grunted.

A moment later a rope was thrown down and it wasn't long before the Witcher came climbing down. Though the ledge was not big, they had both enough space to stand face to face. Geralt's boot crushed the dandelion, but Jaskier was willing to graciously ignore that.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, grabbing the bard’s shoulders. “I'm so sorry for what I said to you up on the mountain. I meant nothing of it. Can you forgive me?”

Well, that went swimmingly, Jaskier thought, determined to keep Geralt on tenterhooks for a bit longer. “Your words hurt me, Geralt.”

Geralt's eyes glowed like amber coals, and suddenly there was so much want and lust shining in the Witcher's eyes that Jaskier caught his breath.

Geralt's arm came up, cupping the bard's cheek with his warm hand, and he pushed Jaskier back, pinning the bard between his body and the rock wall. “I'm sorry,” Geralt said hoarsely, softly caressing the bard's cheekbone with his thumb. “I would never stand losing you.”

When Jaskier saw Geralt's wanton look catch on his lips, his mouth went dry and his crotch came alive. Heat spread from toe to ear, sending a shiver down his spine, and he shuddered.

“Geralt,” he stuttered, not exactly sure if he wasn’t misreading the situation.

“Are you cold?” Geralt rasped.

“Yes,” Jaskier breathed, because his mind was blank and he couldn't come up with something else.

Geralt moaned, closing the distance between his and Jaskier's lips, hard and fast.

Jaskier closed his eyes, completely surrendering to Geralt's plundering, ravenous mouth and returned the kiss equally fiercely. It was exactly how he had imagined a witcher like Geralt would be if sexually aroused, taking feral and wild what he lusted for, and yet it was so much better than his imagination.

Geralt’s arms came around him, hugging him so hard to the Witcher's body that he was not able to breathe any more. He felt the Witcher's arousal rubbing against his hips, and his own bodily reaction to it. His head started spinning...

Jaskier came awake with a start, gasping for air. It was dark around him, but he could make out some stars above him, and just then the moon that had been hidden by clouds, broke through, sending its pale light down onto the earth.

Jaskier blinked.

Shit!

He groaned, realising he was still hurt, trapped and close to dying of thirst. If destiny had taken pity on him, it would at least have let him finish his wet dream before throwing him back into the cruel reality!

He touched his lips. It had felt so real....

He heard something from above, a faint crunching of stones, a distant snapping of branches. Fear gripped him.

“Jaskier!”

He leaped up to his feet. Geralt!

Geralt knew he was near the spot where the scent had changed, and he could still make out the distant smell of the dwarves, and of Jaskier. On his way up, even his mutant eyes had had problems seeing clearly in the dark, he had lost sight of the track twice, but now the moon came through, bathing the forest around him in silvery light.

“Jaskier,” he called, stopping to listen for any reaction.

There!

From afar he heard the bard calling his name. Almost simultaneously he picked up Jaskier's scent, stronger than before. Different from before. The scent of blood mingled with fear, and pain. And something else. He started running.

“Jaskier,” he called again when he was near the cliff edge that dropped down almost vertically at this point. “Are you there?”

“I'm here, Geralt! Here!”

Geralt climbed up a bit further, and now the scent was so heavy he knew, even before Jaskier called out again, that this was the point where Jaskier must have slipped off the edge.

“Geralt, are you there? I'm down here, I can't get up!”

Geralt dropped to his stomach and pushed forward until he could look over the rim. He spotted Jaskier a good ten yards below him, standing on a small ledge and staring up at him with wide eyes. He looked miserable.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asked.

“No, what do you think you dimwitted moron! I fell down this cliff and hurt my leg and can't get up and I've not had--” Jaskier's voice cracked.

“I'll get down to you,” Geralt grumbled and crawled back.

“Geralt? Geralt! Don't leave me! Where are you going?”

Jaskier's panicked tone made Geralt crawl back again. “I'm here. I won't go.” Then he pushed back from the edge and rose. Looking for a tree, he uncoiled the rope he had brought with him as a matter of prudence.

“Geralt?” Jaskier called again.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, knowing quite well his grumble would probably not carry all the way down to the bard. He tied the rope around a Cembra pine that looked sturdy enough to hold both his and the bard's weight. Forcefully, he tugged at the rope a couple of times to see if the knots would hold. Then he returned to the edge.

“Watch out,” he shouted, throwing the rope over the ledge.

“I can't reach it!” Jaskier called, sounding even more miserable that he had before.

“You don't say,” Geralt murmured. “I was not about to let you crawl up on your own!” he added, louder than before. “I'll come down.” He swung his legs over the edge, firmly gripping the rope. Pushing off the rock wall with his feet a couple of times, he was down in no time. Before he let go of the rope to close the distance to the ledge's floor, he checked for small crevices in the rock wall that would allow him to reach his rope again once he had hopped down.

When he stood opposite the bard, he looked Jaskier up and down, mentally cursing himself for letting two days pass before realising that Jaskier might be in trouble. “You look terrible. Are you hurt?”

“Am I hurt? Am I-- You ask if I'm hurt?” Jaskier sputtered. “Look at me, how do I look? Like I'm lounging here on this ledge to admire the view? My foot is sprained or broken, my head is cracking open from the inside, I've not had anything to drink for--”

“Jaskier,” Geralt softly interrupted the bard's ramblings, soothingly putting a hand on the younger man's shoulder. “I can see it. And I'm sorry. Let's get up where I can take a look at your wounds and you can drink.” Reassuringly, he squeezed the bard's shoulder.

“Oh, well, yea. That's the least you could do, really. And, actually, I won't talk to you, just so you know. And-- Oi! Watch out!” Jaskier grabbed Geralts' arm. “Don't trample the dandelion. It's my only friend. It kept me company and served me well while I was here, and... waiting for you.”

Baffled by the bard's words, Geralt looked down to the plant clinging to the rocky ground. His gaze returned to Jaskier, and suddenly his throat felt constricted. The guilt about how he had wronged the bard flared up without warning, leaving a hot knot in his guts. He had no idea if he would ever be able to set this right again.

“Right,” he grumbled. “Let's get up.” He grabbed the bard's arms with both hands, left and right, once again looking him over. “Where else are you hurt beside your foot? I mean seriously hurt, cracked ribs or broken shoulder?”

Jaskier blinked at him. “Ah, I don't think there's more, I mean, that's broken or sprained. Just cuts and bruises and my head is...” He trailed off.

“Good,” Geralt grunted, throwing Jaskier over his shoulder. The bard yelped, but from the sound of it it was more out of surprise, and not because he was in pain.

In astonishment, Geralt noted how light the bard was, too light probably for a man of his height and age. For the first time he wondered if Jaskier got enough to eat when he was travelling with Geralt. Or when he was not travelling with him.

On the spur of the moment he grabbed the lute, slinging it over the opposite shoulder from where Jaskier was fidgeting. Reaching for a small crevice, he hauled himself up, his right foot instantly slipping from a small ledge, but he steadied himself a moment later. Grunting, he reached for the rope and got hold of it. Relying on Jaskier not slipping from his shoulder, he let go of the bard and used both hands to pull himself and Jaskier up the rope. On reaching the top of the cliff, he gave Jaskier a shove with his shoulder so the bard came to lie on the cliff's edge, then Geralt followed him over the rim.

As soon as Geralt was on his feet, he pulled Jaskier up, once more throwing him over his shoulder. “We should return to Roach, there we can check your condition. Hang on!”

As fast as he dared with Jaskier dangling from his shoulder, he hastened down the trail. Jaskier groaned and moaned, and every time it sent a shiver down Geralt's spine. He was more than relieved when they finally reached the clearing where Roach was peacefully grazing. She neighed at the Witcher when they entered the glade.

Carefully, Geralt laid Jaskier down on the ground. In the silvery moonlight the bard's face looked unnaturally pale, dark circles under the eyes intensifying the skin's paleness. Gently, he pushed a strand of hair from Jaskier's brow, revealing a nasty cut. “Now, where are you hurting?” he asked softly.

“Everywhere,” Jaskier groaned. “But above everything else, I'm parched. Please tell my you have water or ale or anything drinkable in one of Roach's saddlebags!”

Geralt rose and retrieved his bags, hanging the lute up on the saddle. He had two waterskins, and both were full. It would last until they were back in town, though he reminded himself to make sure Jaskier didn't drink too much at once. Otherwise he would throw up every drop of what had gone down his throat before.

“Here,” he said, helping Jaskier to sit up. He put the waterskin to Jaskier's lips and it didn't even feel awkward treating the bard like a baby. Jaskier gulped down the cool liquid, but Geralt quickly removed the waterskin.

“Come on, please, Geralt!” Jaskier whined. “I'm parched! Does your nastiness towards me never end?”

Geralt glowered at Jaskier. “It's a kindness. If I'd let you drink as much as you want, you'd throw up everything in a minute. So you'll get more later.” He put the waterskin down, out of Jaskier's reach. “I'll take off your boots now and take a look at your foot, but you will probably need a healer.”

“I've no money for a healer. If I may remind you, we didn't get paid anything for the dragon hunt. The dwarves got all the praise and glory and reward, and all I got was being kicked in the ass for my efforts.”

Geralt's hands came to a halt. He looked at Jaskier. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did. Nothing of it was your fault, my words were unjust. Will you forgive me?”

Jaskier's jaw dropped open and he stared at Geralt, disbelief written all over his face.

Whatever Jaskier might have expected from him, this had obviously not been on his list, Geralt mused. It was, however, apparently a safe way of silencing the bard, at least for a while, and he would keep this in mind when Jaskier grated on his nerves again.

“You, well, yes,” Jaskier stuttered. “You. Right. You said very nasty things, and I'm... And I--- I forgive you,” he sighed.

Geralt smiled lightly, carefully palpating Jaskier's ankle. “I can bandage this, but you should see a healer for it. I can pay,” he added quickly. Even though he had only a few crowns and orens left in his pouch, he would find a way to pay for a doctor. “Where else?”

“My head. A tiny monster has taken residence there, trying to crack my skull open from the inside. Really,” Jaskier whined. “I can feel its tiny chisel pounding and pounding and pounding. Please Geralt, you know monsters of every fang and claw, make it go away!”

The bard sounded so pitiful and serious, Geralt stifled a smirk and nodded. “It could be a concussion, if you hit your head when you fell, and going without water for a few days would only have made it worse. Another reason to see a healer as soon as possible.”

“All right,” Jaskier replied with closed eyes. “Though I had really hoped you could do something about it, monster slayer and all. Hm. I'm rocking. Is the ground rocking?” he opened his eyes, looking inquiringly at Geralt.

“No, the ground is not rocking.” Geralt scrutinized the bard, then he got up and returned to Roach and his saddlebags. He rummaged through them for a moment until he had found what he was looking for.

“My head, Geralt!” Jaskier groaned. “The monster must've heard me calling you monster slayer, it's trying to carve its way out. Ouch!”

Geralt heard the bard gag. With three strides he was back at his side, helping Jaskier to sit up. “Here, drink this. It will help with the headache and the dizziness.” He held one of his vials to the bard's lips, making sure Jaskier swallowed half of its content. He didn't dare give him more. He grabbed the waterskin and held it out to Jaskier. “Drink some more, but not all.”

Jaskier greedily swallowed the water, but he didn't fight back when Geralt took it away again.

“Lie down. I'll bandage your foot and when the potion has taken effect, we'll ride back into town.” He helped Jaskier to recline and reached for his extra shirt to rip off some stripes of fabric for a makeshift bandage.

Geralt could see the moment when the potion started to make an impact on the bard's neural system; he felt how his limbs grew heavy and his heart rate slowed. His scent changed.

“Did I ever tell you that I love you, Geralt?” Jaskier said, looking up at the Witcher through half-lidded eyes, a dreamy smile gracing his face. “I really do.”

“Hm.” Geralt knew this was the potion's effect talking, not Jaskier, though he was sure the bard's words bore more truth than Yennefer's ever had. Fondly, he looked at the bard.

“It wasn't true. The dandelion, it wasn't my only friend. You are. I know you sent me away, I'll go if you insist, really. And I know I'm talking too much. Always, without end. But, but, you're my friend, Geralt. My one true friend....” Jaskier had started to slur his speech and trailed off now, his eyes fluttering shut. A moment later, his breath evened out. He had obviously fallen asleep.

Geralt leaned over Jaskier, assuring himself that he had dosed the potion right and that the bard's breath was constant and strong. “I love you, too, Jaskier,” he murmured, gently brushing the bard's forehead with his lips.

He rose to stow away the things he had used, then he picked up the bard. He struggled a bit until he had mounted Roach with Jaskier in his arms, but Roach was patient and finally he held his unconscious companion in front of him. “Come, Roach, back to town, Jaskier needs a healer.”

While Roach carefully made her way downhill, her hooves surefooted on gravel and roots, Geralt ruminated.

He had meant to use his last wish differently, but when he had realised he was the one with the wishes, two of them had already needlessly been wasted. What he really would have wished for, if he had not been under Yennefer's spell, if the situation had not been so pressurised due to the djinn almost destroying the sorceress in front of his eyes, would have been to bind his and Jaskier's destiny together. But for that, he had needed a second wish to grant the bard a prolonged life, otherwise it would just have hurt when Jaskier had died long before him. In the end, he persuaded himself, it had been right to forgo that wish altogether, it would only have ended in heartbreak.

It didn't stop his heart from regretting things hadn't turned out differently, though.