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As Geralt guided Roach down to the firmer wet sand which would be easier for her to walk on, he breathed in the brine scent of the sea, listened to the waves’ rhythmic roaring, and could not help but grip the reins a little tighter to prevent his hands from shaking. Other than the noise of the water, it was quiet. Even the few gulls that were present stayed silent, merely standing at the ocean’s edge or sitting down in the sand. There was not even a breeze rustling through the yellow-green dune grasses.
Bobbing distantly in the water were a few fishing vessels and behind him, several small dots: other people, probably enjoying their time here more than he was; there were only a few clouds overhead and the sky was a piercing, flat blue. Somewhat unusually pleasant weather for this time of year. He stopped for a bit and watched the fishing boats, both out of curiosity and to ensure that nothing foul was lurking about. The witcher remained there for some time. Then, swallowing, Geralt shook himself and tugged on the reins to urge Roach onward.
He rode on until the fishing boats and the small dots of people were indistinguishable even to his witchers’ eyes. Once Geralt had found a good spot— at the base of a grass-covered dune, next to a smooth, sand-and-wind-bleached log, he dismounted and attached Roach’s reins to a long, thin upward-reaching bit of the driftwood. Then he sat in the dry, loose sand at the dune’s base, brought his knees to his chest, rested his folded arms atop them, and stared out at the ever-changing pattern of the sea.
There was a faint, sad smile on his face.
~ - ~
Letting out a gleeful whoop, the bard set down his lute, and tore off his doublet. “That water’s very cold!” Geralt called warningly after his companion. But Dandelion did not seem to care, for he proceeded to remove his undershirt as well, allowing the slight breeze to carry it gently to the ground, a few inches away from his doublet. He left behind a somewhat muddled trail of boot tracks, pounded deep into the ground from his eager running.
Somewhat exasperated— clearly the delicate clothing could not stay on the ground— the witcher dismounted, walked across the soft sand, and carefully shook out the fabric. He folded the shirts and placed them in the saddlebags. Then Geralt slung the lute across his shoulder, opposite the sword harness, and was glad that there was no one nearby to see it.
Another loud yelp had him looking up quickly in alarm, but it was just Dandelion being dramatic— despite the chilly autumn weather, the bard had dived head-first into the waves. His boots and pants sat by a grassy dune. As he watched, Dandelion resurfaced with a splutter. He doubled over, and was wracked with a coughing fit. But after a worrying moment, he shook his head, inhaled, and turned to wave cheerfully at Geralt. “Join me!” The request was shouted so as to be heard across the sand and over the sea.
Both amused and somewhat annoyed, the witcher shook his head, gesturing down at his armor. He’d already be paying for this excursion by having to deal with all the sand which managed to work its way inside his clothing later. Besides, someone had to make sure that they were not attacked by monsters, and it certainly was not going to be the (mostly) naked bard parading himself about in the sea. Pointedly, Geralt sank into the sand, tying Roach’s reins to a nearby log. He placed Dandelion’s lute carefully atop the pile of folded clothing. The only concession he made for his own comfort was to unstrap his swords, and use one of the bed rolls as a sort of pillow.
Then, contentedly, the witcher watched Dandelion amuse himself in the water. This mostly involved him leaping over waves (he’d retreated to shallower water after his initial dive), or running a few paces back and forth. Geralt tried not to pay attention to the way the bard’s soaked undergarments clung to his well-shaped backside, nor how appealing his wet hair and joyful demeanor made him. His efforts were aided by the fact that even from here, Dandelion seemed to be a bit thinner than he should be.
Frowning, Geralt made a mental note to serve the bard a more generous portion at mealtimes.
He must have fallen asleep after that. By the time Geralt woke, it was nearly dark, and the clouds had been dyed various shades of pink and red. Likewise, the sky had taken on a glowing, reddish-gold hue, eventually fading into a deep purple. The waves still crashed onto the shore, but the air had stilled. It was quiet. Peaceful even. Although the witcher knew that it must be colder now, he was not actually chilled.
It was then that he noticed the blanket covering him. Turning on his side, he saw Dandelion, wrapped in another blanket, drawing shapes in the sand with a long, thin stick. His hair was still damp, and curled slightly in loose strands. Between him and the bard was a crackling fire made of driftwood. Somehow, Dandelion had managed all this without waking him up. As he watched, the bard began coughing again. Deep, wracking, terrible-sounding coughs. He dropped his stick and destroyed some of his sand drawings as he drew his feet towards him.
Alarmed, Geralt finally sat up. “Dandelion—”
Surprised, the bard let out a final cough, and stilled. He took a moment to find Geralt’s black-clad form in the newly-dark night, and straightened up. “Ah, Geralt. I was wondering when you’d finally wake up; if I had known that the sea was so soothing to witchers, I would’ve insisted we come here years ago. Ahem. I’m fine, by the way— just inhaled a bit too much smoke.” He smiled reassuringly.
Geralt frowned briefly, for some reason doubting that. Perhaps it was that he did not smell much smoke, nor was there any breeze to blow the supposed smoke toward the other man. But then again, Dandelion didn’t have a witcher’s lungs. “Move upwind,” he suggested, pushing the blanket aside and getting to his feet. “The sea’s only relaxing when there’re no monsters in it; nothing pleasant about fighting something like sirens from inside a small, floating hunk of wood.” The witcher proceeded to brush off the sand which clung to his backside, annoyed that he hadn’t thought to remove his armor earlier.
Dandelion laughed weakly. A moment later, he also stood, dropping his blanket, and moved to help the witcher take off his armor. “I imagine that that would be alarming,” he agreed cheerfully. “Good thing I happened to pick a spot without monsters.” Geralt grumbled, but did not otherwise reply. He set aside his armor and opened their bags to retrieve the rations which would make up their dinner.
Surprisingly, the bard did not complain that because of the witcher’s overlong rest, they would now be forced to camp overnight on the beach. Come to think of it, neither had he talked about finding a small sea-side town to settle in for the duration of this trip. But then, Dandelion had raved about the beauty of the sea, in fact the whole costal landscape, for almost the entirety of their journey here. Perhaps he simply appreciated the novelty of beach-side camping.
The next day, they packed up their things and moved on, down the beach. Dandelion carried his lute on his back and his boots in one hand. His doublet was tied around his neck like a poor imitation of a winter cloak, and his pants were rolled up to his knees, revealing a shapely— if somewhat thin— pair of hair-covered legs. Most of the morning, they walked in silence, Geralt and Roach taking the firmer ground, the bard plodding through the loose sand. He thought several times about asking whether they were meant to eventually find a tavern-inn with an ocean view, but ultimately did not. Dandelion seemed happy as he was, and they had enough supplies to last for several more days of beach-front camping.
For breakfast, they found a small tidepool and boiled some of the fish and muscles which they caught, and Geralt made sure to give the bard extra.
Around midday, they encountered a narrow stream of fresh water which ran down the beach and into the ocean. Like the other spots they’d passed, this one was quiet. The bard stopped suddenly, and beckoned him closer. Dismounting, Geralt led Roach to his side. “I’d like to take another dip, I think,” Dandelion said, staring consideringly at the glittering, white-crested waves. He looked at the witcher for confirmation that this was agreeable to him.
After a careful glance around, Geralt nodded. He then removed their waterskins from the saddlebags. “I’m going to fill these up. Take care of Roach and shout if there’s any trouble.” With that, he passed the mare’s reins to the bard and turned around, stalking off into the dunes. As soon as he left, Dandelion inhaled shakily. This led to a brief fit of deep, hacking coughs. Roach whinnied, alarmed by the abrupt jerk on her reins as well as by his noises. Eventually, Dandelion straightened up, and spat.
The sand was splattered with red.
“Oh my,” the bard murmured, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He sighed deeply. “Shall we find a less defiled place to wait for your owner, Roach?” Carefully, he covered over the patch of red with one foot, and gently led the mare away. It seems that the diagnosis wasn’t incorrect after all, he thought ruefully.
~ - ~
“You know,” Dandelion said, reclining on his blanket. He’d set aside his lute and was now peering curiously at Geralt. “I haven’t asked how your immune system works— given that we don’t see each other over winter, it never occurred to me to.” As the line of questioning was unexpected, the witcher frowned. The bard added hurriedly, “I assume that, as with your other senses, you’ve an enhanced ability to ward off pesky things such as seasonal sicknesses?”
He hummed. While it was still a little puzzling that Dandelion had decided to ask him this now, Geralt supposed that it was not entirely unreasonable that he do so. After all, it was currently autumn, and they would soon part ways— temporarily— for winter. So it made sense that the subject would be on his mind; the bard certainly was not immune to illness, after all. Besides, Dandelion had always been curious, sometimes too much. “Witchers are immune, or have resistance, to most types of human diseases. There’s a risk with a few of the nastier ones, such as the Catriona plague, but even that is quite low.”
“Mm,” Dandelion acknowledged thoughtfully. “What about wasting illnesses— such as Consumption? I have been told by several acquaintances at Oxenfurt that chronic diseases may act differently from the rest.”
He considered the query for a moment. “I have never heard of a witcher contracting such a disease. Nor have I met many sickly witchers. Does that answer your question?”
Dandelion smiled, and for a moment, seemed inordinately relieved as his shoulders slumped and he exhaled slowly. Then the bard straightened up and pouted playfully. “You’re a lucky bastard to never have to deal with the bothers of colds or flu, Geralt. I find myself quite jealous of you witchers, for once.”
~ - ~
Two days later, they were lying on their blankets side by side, watching the clouds pass slowly overhead, blown about by an unfelt breeze. The bard smelled strongly of salt, and faintly of clean sea air, and sand, as well as his natural scent. He was wrapped in a spare blanket as his clothes dried by the fire which the witcher had built while the other man took another dip in the sea. They had stumbled across more tidepools, and had just eaten a hearty meal of seafood stew. Above them, a few gulls rode the wind and circled over the twinkling blue water, looking for their own meal. A few more squabbled noisily on the tidepool rocks. Roach munched on some of the dune grass behind them, tied to another driftwood log.
Despite himself, Geralt felt almost like dozing off. But he didn’t because today was their last full day at the Coast, and he did not want to miss any of it. He suspected that he wouldn’t find this sort of peace again anytime soon. So instead of drifting off, he kept his half-lidded eyes fixed on the sky, and asked, “Why are you so enamored with the sea?”
He sensed rather than saw Dandelion shift, and felt the bard’s gaze on his skin. Geralt shifted as well, and looked over. As expected, Dandelion’s familiar blue gaze met his thoughtfully. He frowned studiously, then sat up, drawing his blanket around his shoulders. It was a charming image, and the witcher was only distracted from it by Dandelion’s words.
“I suppose it’s because the sea is still wild, whereas the Continent is chock-full, growing fuller every day. Yes, there may be lesser-known parts of it, and certainly Brokilon is one of those, but none are truly mysterious anymore. If a bit of it has not been claimed by humans, then it assuredly has been by some other species. But not the sea. It’s poetic, you see.” The bard chuckled at his pun, then asked: “And you? Why do you like it here— I don’t believe I have ever seen you this relaxed.”
Geralt hummed, stalling for time; he could hardly say, ‘I am fond of it because you are fond of it’ after all. So instead, he sat up too, and glanced around pointedly. “Look around, Dandelion, and tell me what you see.”
The bard obliged, looking carefully one way and then the next. After a moment, he turned back to the witcher, a slight crease forming between his eyebrows. “I see water, sand, gulls… you, of course, and Roach. Why?”
“Precisely. There’s nothing here. It’s quiet.” And we’re alone.
Dandelion smiled, as if, perhaps, he understood what Geralt had intended to say after all. But he merely replied: “Indeed it is.”
~ - ~
As they ate breakfast that morning, Dandelion seemed to be in a bit of a somber mood. He was uncharacteristically quiet, even though Geralt had wandered further inland and found several untamed apple trees. He’d been a bit wary of stealing, but a quick search revealed that the orchard’s house was derelict, and had been for some time. So he’d taken the fruit and returned to their camp.
“What is it?” he asked.
The bard cleared his throat, sighed, and drew his knees to his chest. His wrists were pale, and a bit bony as they poked out of his doublet’s sleeves. “I’d forgotten quite how lovely the Coast is, and I’m sad that we’re leaving. No matter how many times I’ve been here, it never seems like I’ve stayed long enough.”
Geralt frowned, and bit down on his desire to say something harsh, but true, such as: ‘My world is nothing like the sea, save for its repetitive crashing against immovable barriers, bard, and you know that.’ Instead, he replied, “You can always come back; somehow I doubt that the sea will be going anywhere any time soon.”
Dandelion smiled at his awkward reassurance, and although he laughed, he still seemed a bit sad.
~ - ~
Winter passed as it always did: in varying spurts of speed, and long stretches of brutal cold and boredom. But this year, when it inevitably did pass, and Geralt headed to Oxenfurt to pick Dandelion up from the university, the bard was not there. Instead, when he finally asked after him at the university’s administrative center, he was told, “Master Pankratz? Why, he resigned just before the start of winter courses. Said that he’d finally been offered a court position too good to pass up. Promised to visit occasionally, perhaps send a donation or two. I do hope that you didn’t travel terribly far to find him.”
Geralt thanked the clerk for their time, and went to find someone else who would know where the bard had disappeared to— hopefully.
While Shani seemed unsurprised to see him, her body language read as terribly upset. This alarmed the witcher greatly. “Where is Dandelion?” he asked harshly.
She sighed, and opened the door. “You had better come inside, Geralt.”
~ - ~
After some time catching up, the issue of the bard’s disappearance could not be pushed aside any longer. “I know you know something,” he told the now-medical-professor; it had been a long while since he’d last been to Oxenfurt. “I simply want to know if he’s safe.”
Again, Shani was not outwardly reactive, although she did purse her lips at his near-plea. “I’m sorry, Geralt. He forbid me from speaking on that matter. However—” she held up a hand to quell his ire, and withdrew a starkly white envelope from within her vest’s pocket— “he did leave me this letter, and said that I was to give it to you. Perhaps you’ll find the answer in there.”
He took the envelope, which bore Dandelion’s wax seal, and stood, sensing that its contents were best read in private. “Thanks.”
~ - ~
My dear Geralt,
Firstly, I must acknowledge and apologize for the fright which you most definitely felt at my unexpected absence this spring. I know that punctuality and honestly are of great importance to you witchers; it is with great shame that I now admit I have been neither with you.
As I’m sure that you’ve already enquired after my whereabouts with the staff of Oxenfurt, let me reassure you that I am not in any trouble. Nor have I suddenly done an about-face and decided to retire to any court. As you once said: ‘Mingling with nobility is best done infrequently and only for short periods of time— very short periods.’ Even for someone who self-professedly enjoys the finer things in life, your sage, if tersely-worded advice rings true. However, I cannot give you my true whereabouts.
You see, Geralt, the crux of the problem is that I am sick, and have been for some time. Previously, I had imagined that there was a treatment, or cure, for my condition. I was wrong. Thus, the dishonesty: I did not tell you that I am sick, nor the severity of my illness. The truth is this, Geralt: I am dying. In fact, by the time you read this, I may be dead already (though that is unlikely). Of course for those who are not mages or witchers, death is inevitable, alarmingly so. Here I will tell you another truth— I hope that you will forgive me for it— I am scared, Geralt. And angry. I have no desire to die. But I have accepted that it is, unfortunately, unavoidable.
As a result, I have concluded that I do not wish you to watch me slowly wither away. Perhaps you wouldn’t have wanted to anyway— I could not have continued traveling with you for much longer. This is also where I must confess to another character flaw: vanity. I want you to remember me as I was, or at least as close to it as the illness allowed on our trip to the Coast. Lastly, because I know how you think, dear witcher, I assure you that there was absolutely nothing you could have done to either prevent this illness or to save me from its progression; I pursued sorcerous solutions for my mortality problem as well as ordinary ones. To no avail.
Again, I hope that you will not think less of me for my utter lack of courage. But I found it quite impossible to inform you of my prognosis. I simply couldn’t find the words for it— ironic, no? So I now apologize once more for this failing, and will hence move on. Your friendship has meant the world to me, Geralt. In fact, there are not words enough to describe how utterly dear you are to me. I have the upmost respect for you. Please do not let yourself shut down because of my passing, nor be pushed around by the fools who do not understand a witcher’s true value.
Yours, with affection always,
Julian
His eyes were hot and stinging, and there was an alarming dampness on his cheeks. Geralt clutched the letter tightly enough that the edges of it crumpled. Alarmed, he carefully smoothed out the paper. Then he read those terrible, gut-wrenching words once more. When he had, the witcher tucked the letter away in its envelope, collected his things, and rode.
~ - ~
Three days later, exhausted, dirty, feeling nearly hollowed-out, Geralt brought Roach to a halt, muttered a heart-felt, “Good girl,” and stumbled out of the saddle. He blearily passed her reins off to the young girl who approached him, muttered, “See that she gets taken care of,” and strode to the front door. He pounded on it hard. So hard it nearly rattled on its hinges. He continued doing so until it was answered. Geralt stormed past the irate butler, and marched through the house until—
“Geralt! What the bloody hell are you doing here? I thought I told you that I never wanted to see you again.”
The witcher blinked foggily at Yennefer, who looked quite furious, and retrieved the letter from his pocket. “Find him,” he said, not caring how naked the desperation in his voice was. “Find Dandelion. Please.” After that, he let himself be led to a soft armchair before a warm fire, and knew no more.
~ - ~
He was startled awake by the sound of muttering.
Geralt sat up, wincing slightly at the ache in his neck, his back, and the chafing which was a side effect of days of hard riding. A brief glance out the window told him that some time had passed since his arrival. When his gaze returned to the room, he saw that Yennefer was standing before the fire, Dandelion’s letter clutched in one hand. She was frowning deeply, and tapped one booted foot against the carpet. The witcher blinked as the awkwardness of the situation dawned on him for the first time.
Yen sighed, and sat in the armchair next to his. “How long ago did you receive this?” she asked stiffly.
“Three days. I’m not sure of the exact date it was written, but it was at least several months ago. Hence my concern.”
The sorceress frowned again, violet eyes roving rapidly back and forth as she reread sections of the letter. Ridiculously, Geralt wanted to snatch it from her, tuck it back into his pocket for safe-keeping. “Do you know what disease the bard had— has?”
Geralt scowled at the slip. “No. He never told me, obviously, nor did I…” he trailed off, swallowing as a wave of guilt crashed over him. If only I had been able to sense that Dandelion was sick, then maybe—
“No,” Yen said firmly.
“No?”
“No, you would not have been able to prevent his illness, Geralt. Even sorceresses cannot do such a thing all of the time. Human bodies are fallible, weak. Depending on the disease, even your bard would not have known that he was sick until it was far too late. At worst, you would have run yourself ragged looking for an imaginary cure. So Dandelion’s right: you cannot blame yourself.”
He felt his jaw clench, angry despite— because of— the logic behind those words. “Will you help me find him or not, Yennefer?”
She sighed again, looking perhaps as if she’d tasted something unpleasant. “Despite common sense telling me to do otherwise, I shall.”
~ - ~
It took a month of searching, nerve-wracking, terrible searching. During this time, Geralt rarely left Yennefer’s side— to both their annoyances. They bickered frequently, sniped at one another often, had several large arguments. But Yennefer still did as requested, and the more rational parts of his mind could tell that she was giving it her all. On days where it was hard to remember this, or after one of them had said something cutting once too often, too quickly, he retreated and reread Dandelion’s letter. By now, it was deeply creased at its fold-points, and worn at the sides. Somehow, he always felt calmer— if perhaps also slightly numb, left with an ache at his core which would not move— after.
When exactly a month and a day had passed, Yennefer found him outside in the stables with Roach. “I know where he is,” she said simply. Geralt dropped the horse brush he was holding and quickly followed her inside, heart pounding.
~ - ~
The building was large, and without decoration. But it was well-constructed, and had a timeless elegance about it. On its front were a series of large windows, and the land surrounding it was well manicured. The dirt path leading up to the large double doors was flat and wide; easy for sick people to use. Swallowing roughly, Geralt walked up it, and with one backward glance at Yen for reassurance, strode up the large stone steps. He wasn’t wearing his armor, or swords, but that wasn’t the only reason the witcher felt naked.
A priestess opened the door on his third knock, and squinted suspiciously at him from behind her cloth face-covering. “Yes?” she asked.
“I— I’m here to see a patient. By the name Julian Alfred Pankratz.”
The woman looked more pitying now. “I’m sorry, master, but we accept no visitors inside; too risky for the patients and you both, but I—”
“I’m a witcher,” Geralt interrupted impatiently, “I’m not susceptible to the disease.”
She blinked, seeming to take him in fully for the first time. “Well in that case… what did you say your name was? I shall have to check with my superiors, but I believe something might be arranged.”
“It’s Geralt. And thank you.”
~ - ~
Although he had seen many terrible things in his long life, walking through the halls of the building— called the Sanitorium of Melitele, apparently— the witcher reflected that this place might be among the worst. He repressed a shudder at all the pale, gaunt faces they passed, the sound of coughing which nearly echoed it came from so many lungs, the wheezing rattle of people struggling for every breath. He smelled blood, sweat, and sickness in the air. It was stifling.
Finally, he was led down a long hallway and heard the faint, halting sound of a familiar song being played on a lute. Geralt hesitated for a moment behind Zuzanna, the priestess who’d let him in, then stepped through the arched doorway. There, across the large room, was Dandelion, his same lute held in too-thin, pale arms. As he wavered over another note, the bard looked up, and his wide eyes— his dreadfully, dreadfully wide eyes— widened further as he took in Geralt.
~ - ~
“What are you doing here?” Dandelion hissed, slowly setting his lute in his lap.
Feeling wrong-footed, Geralt swallowed, and desperately tried to avoid staring at the bard. It proved to be very difficult, as he had changed drastically, awfully, in the few months since the Coast. “I got your letter,” he replied softly, “and I—” the witcher blinked, and swallowed roughly. “Did you really think that I could let you go so easily? That I wouldn’t want to be by your side every minute I could?”
This time, the bard looked unsettled. He opened his mouth to reply, but started coughing. The fit lasted for a startlingly long time and by its conclusion, Dandelion was left red-faced and panting. More concerning, Geralt smelled blood. As his friend wiped his face on a handkerchief, the witcher felt something which he rarely felt, and even less frequently at the level he currently was: fear.
Inhaling shakily, Dandelion finally managed to reply, “It’s about time for me to go outside anyway. How about we continue this conversation in private?”
~ - ~
Dandelion’s room was small, but full of the same airy light as the rest of the Sanitorium, and contained an abundance of warmth, soft textures, and familiar items— such as his quills and notebooks. The bard quickly grabbed a large thick woolen blanket and a spare handkerchief while the witcher leaned in the doorway and desperately tried to keep his hands from shaking. Absently, he noted that the aching, hollow feeling was back.
Once Dandelion was wrapped in his blanket, they proceeded to walk slowly out the front door, and down the steps. Geralt almost reached out to offer a supportive arm, but knew that the other man would not take this gesture well. Their progress was slow, and Dandelion often rattled, or had to stop to cough. It was directly after one such pause that Geralt blurted, “After I read your letter I went to Yennefer— she’s here with me.”
Dandelion blinked, staring at him with an indecipherable expression. “Is she now?”
“I- I know what you said, but—”
“Geralt—”
“Please, Dandelion. For me. Allow Yennefer to examine you. What harm could it do?”
“… Other than to my pride, little, I suppose. Very well. Let’s find that witch of yours.”
Something in him compelled Geralt to point out bluntly, “She’s not my witch any longer.” For that, he received a brief, curious glance, and an even briefer smile.
~ - ~
“Consumption,” Yen told him solemnly later. “Your bard’s got a serious case of it if ever I’ve seen one.”
“So what can you do about it?” he growled helplessly. It seemed that all the day had been filled with people telling him that there was nothing he could do. While Geralt was used to being told ‘No,’ there was usually some way he could take action. Not so now. Not with an invisible, intangible enemy. Not against this thing which was slowly draining the life from the man he loved Dandelion more assuredly than even a vampire could.
The sorceress sighed, seeming to understand his mood and frustrations. “I’m not sure; diseases were never my specialty. But I can consult with those for whom they are, and see what can be done.”
Here, Yen frowned again. However, it was not an angry frown, but rather a frustrated one. Her eyes were filled with sadness. A type of sadness which made him burn with anger. A desire to march out and take on a hundred of the worst, most blood-thirsty monsters imaginable and tear them to pieces with his bare hands. “Even if I find something, you should... Still prepare yourself. Illnesses such as Consumption are fickle things— at best, he could only gain months, or nothing at all. I’m sorry, Geralt.”
He nodded, too afraid that he wouldn’t be able to speak through the lump in his throat, the howling emptiness in his chest. “Thank you, Yen. I know that you’ll do your best.” She placed her hand over his own, trembling fist, and squeezed once. Then she opened a portal and was gone. Geralt took a deep breath and recalled Zuzanna’s directions to the nearest inn.
~ - ~
Time, which was once something he felt little about, was really impassive to, became an enemy after that. Days passed without his permission, and while most of the time Dandelion seemed to change little, others he would blink, and the bard had lost more weight, became paler, that much weaker. At some point, he no longer rejected Geralt’s assistance moving outdoors, or even walking around the Sanitorium, and so they spent most of their time pressed together, holding hands and wrapped in the same blanket to keep Dandelion’s sick body warm. It was rare for the bard to be able to pick up his lute, and when he did— when he did, a part of the witcher curled up in those notes and let himself be carried off. Those were the good days.
On the bad were near-endless coughing fits, fever, pale, damp skin. Bloody handkerchiefs. Weakness. Long periods of unconsciousness. Sometimes, Dandelion would snap at him, demand that he leave, or hurl his notebook across the room. Geralt never left, and always carefully retrieved the notebook. Much more rarely, the bard would cry silently, and his eyes would look especially wide and frightened. At these moments, the witcher would simply hold Dandelion in his arms, concentrating on transferring as much of his body heat to the bard as possible. More than once, they fell asleep like this.
Perversely, he enjoyed holding the bard. Monstrously, Geralt craved the days when they would hold hands, wrapped under one blanket. The times when Dandelion could sit in the grass, propped up by several pillows, and play his lute, inevitably smiling at him, those were most precious. He knew feeling such a way was wrong, terrible even, but he could not help it. It almost seemed as if this were his own special sickness— since he could not become sick the way Dandelion was, his fate was to be consumed in spirit, by his wanting.
When it was nearly unbearable, he would quietly retreat, and reread Dandelion’s words: “Your friendship has meant the world to me, Geralt. In fact, there are not words enough to describe how utterly dear you are to me. I have the upmost respect for you.” Afterwards, he usually felt better, and would be distracted by the odd sense that there was something more to the letter, something hidden behind the bard’s rueful and apologetic musings, something which he was missing.
~ - ~
Yen visited too, of course. After consulting her colleagues, she’d come up with several alternatives, and with the careful supervision of the priestesses, had been slowly testing them on Dandelion. As summer reached its height, the bard seemed to be better. Or to have at least reached a plateau. Some of his color returned, and because of the warmer weather he did not bundle himself up in blankets half so often. It was enough that had he wanted to, Geralt could almost have pretended that he wasn’t dying, that everything was normal, that Dandelion was not still too skinny, nor did he occasionally cough up blood.
Mostly he was the same, except there were still bad days. Days which showed that this was a bandage when what they needed was a suture.
Still, in those pleasant summer months, when Dandelion was feeling well, and the townsfolk had finally started warming up to him, Geralt felt happier than he had in a long while.
~ - ~
It did not last. He was called away for several weeks because a neighboring village had a monster problem. Geralt did not want to go but he made himself, because it was the right thing to do, because Dandelion would be terribly disappointed in him if he did not, because the witcher enjoyed the townsfolks’ friendliness, which would surely vanish if he refused to help. When he returned, he saw that things were not as he’d imagined they’d been. Dandelion was still losing weight, coughing less frequently but more intensely when he did, having increasing difficulty doing much of anything. He barely played the lute, or even picked up a quill. As the days shortened and chilled, it seemed that the bard wilted too.
On the first day of fall, Geralt felt the pull to head north to Kaer Morhen. Never mind that he had not done much witchering this season. Never mind that if he left now, Dandelion might not be here when he returned. He longed to go— at almost an instinctual level. Returning to one’s keep at winter was just what witchers did. He thought long and hard about it. Then, after consulting Yen, who was mostly busy these days producing large batches of the potion which had seemed to work so well for Dandelion, he crouched by the bard’s lounge chair and made his request: “Come to Kaer Morhen with me.”
~ - ~
“What’s the real reason that you never told me you were ill?”
Dandelion, bundled in no less than three blankets, stilled. He inhaled deeply— the witcher was pleased to see without an accompanying coughing fit— and replied evasively, “I told you, in the letter—”
“No,” Geralt interrupted, brushing back an errant strand of Dandelion’s hair so no part of him had to be exposed to the elements. They were sitting atop of one of the keep’s crumbling exterior walls; Dandelion’s treatment included frequent exposure to fresh air. He was terribly fragile these days, but mostly did not appear to be growing any worse. Still, the witcher had long lost hope of the other man recovering, and had quietly resigned himself to spending a prolonged amount of time here, however long it was until Dandelion—
“Geralt? Are you listening?”
“Sorry,” he muttered, realizing that the bard must have been speaking to him. Geralt took in Dandelion’s teasing, somewhat sad smile, and sighed. Every moment counts, he reminded himself, that’s why this is so important. “I don’t believe the reason you gave for not telling me you were sick, Dandelion. Excuse me for the doubt, but as you yourself said: witchers value honesty. So tell me why you really did it.”
The bard sighed, staring at him with his terribly wide, glassy blue eyes. Currently they were soft and affectionate. He smiled bitterly, and whispered, “Because I am fond of you, witcher. Terribly, terribly, deeply… fond of you.” He looked sad, for an instant, then cocked his head curiously, and waited.
Geralt blinked. Fond. He’s fond of— oh. “Oh.” He leaned forward slowly, and when Dandelion made no attempt to move away, gently kissed him. The witcher did his best to ignore the slight tang of blood he tasted in the bard’s mouth. If only we’d had more time. He forcefully shoved the thought aside, and focused on committing this kiss to memory.
~ - ~
They were in their room, or rather, in Dandelion’s room which had also become Geralt’s room after their kiss on the wall. The bard was dictating to the witcher in his raspy weakened voice. A fire roared in the hearth, and the bed was covered in no less than four furs and three pillows. Geralt found the room to be excessively warm, and had pulled back his hair to avoid sweating. Despite the discomfort, he was loathe to leave.
Realizing that Dandelion had been silent for too entirely long, he looked up. What Geralt saw made him throw down his quill, the notebook, and almost spill the bottle of ink. The bard’s face was ruddy, and one of his pale, thin hands was braced on the bed, the other reaching for his handkerchief. His breathing was so shallow that it was almost lost under the sound of the fire.
“Dandelion,” Geralt murmured, alarmed. He stood beside the bed, uncertain of what he could do. His friend inhaled wetly, and began coughing. He counted how long the fit lasted: a whole minute. When Dandelion finally stopped coughing, he leaned forward and spat and spat and spat, and it was all red. His lips glistened with it, for the moment he let Geralt see his face before he wiped it, and sweat beaded on his forehead.
What is this sensation? the witcher pondered absently. This tightness in my chest, the quickness of my pulse, the ice filling my veins, the churning of my guts. He noticed that he’d fallen to his knees beside the bed, that his face was pressed into the bard’s lap; one of the furs tickled his nose and mouth. The room was filled with an odd, repetitive breathy sound, sometime a near-moan. Geralt grasped Dandelion’s free hand tightly— probably enough to hurt— and his other gripped one of the headboard’s posts. The wood creaked slightly.
That alarming noise, one which mothers who’d lost their children to monsters made, was coming from him. Geralt attempted to control himself, but found that he could not, no matter how hard he tried. The tightness in his chest only grew, the ache stung that much more, and the distressed noises only increased as he bit his lower lip, trying to stop them.
Dandelion’s other hand had buried itself in his hair, and was slowly stroking it. “Geralt, Geralt, Geralt,” he murmured, “I’m here. It’s okay. Shh, dear, shh. Breathe. I’m alright.”
Gasping, he wrenched himself away from the soothing touch— the man’s pulse had spiked. Distantly, the witcher realized that he was probably the cause. When he finally did look up, the bard smiled sadly. There was blood on his teeth and tears in his eyes. It’s grief, he understood then. I am afraid to lose him. This is exactly what Dandelion was trying to prevent. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking uncharacteristically, “I’m sorry, Dandelion. I understand now... but I still love you.”
The bard cupped his cheek in one bony hand, and sighed softly. “I know, my dear. And I… love you too. We should— probably talk… about what happens after—”
He felt his heart shudder, instinctively shying away from those words now that their reality was so near. Now that death lurked in every shadowed corner of the keep. Now that he was that much closer to losing his bard. “Tomorrow,” Geralt interjected quickly. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. For now, you need to rest. And frankly, so do I.”
Eyes still glistening, Dandelion nodded. “Very— well, Geralt. We will talk… tomorrow.”
And they did.
~ - ~
“Do you… remember— our trip to the Coast?”
“Of course.”
“Did you know… that half th-the reason I… ran into the ocean— near-naked, was that… I hoped it’d catch… your attention?”
“It did.”
“Hah. I thought… it might’ve. So it was— worth it then, free-freezing my ass off.”
“What was the other reason?”
“The other… reason? So that I coul-could say… that I, bard extraordinaire— had ventured… into the last unclaimed thing… and returned, triumphant.”