Chapter Text
“Fuck!”
Geralt knew he had totally misjudged the whole situation in the second before the basilisk's claws hit his right shoulder with such force that he was hurled to the far end of the cave where he crashed against sharp rock, the impact almost knocking him unconscious. The pain from where the monster's claws had ripped open his armour, leather and the skin on his chest was so sharp he nearly yelped. He still held on to his silver sword, but the pain and venom numbed his arm and he couldn't get a firm grip on the hilt any more.
He realised he wouldn’t be able to get up in time to face the basilisk again. The creature soared into the air to descend on him, jaws wide open, deadly claws and talons aimed at Geralt's face and body.
He felt the monster's venom spreading in his veins, robbing him of his strength, making him dizzy and slow. He knew he would not survive this, but he wouldn't let the basilisk survive this either, he would at least take the beast down before he died.
Geralt let go of the sword and raised his hand to cast a burst of Igni at the monster, just as it came down on him. Despite what his witcher brothers in Kaer Morhen thought, the best and most effective way to fight a basilisk was with Igni, not with a sword.
He should have used it when he had still had enough strength to survive the encounter, but apparently his hubris had led him to miscalculate his odds against the basilisks. Or maybe he just didn't like to be weakened by using magic instead of physical strength even though obviously in the end it didn't make any difference...
The basilisk shrieked deafeningly when hit by the flames, crushing Geralt's left side a moment later, but the Igni had caused the claws and talons to clench up and spare the Witcher its deadly effect. But the monster's sharp beak ripped open skin on his cheek, spitting some acid onto it in the process.
Geralt grabbed his silver sword again. Mobilising all the strength that was left in him, he dealt the beast a deadly blow by piercing its brain with a well-aimed stab through the left eye, and shoved the body off of him. He could feel the life running out of the monster, sensed its heart stutter and stop with a last twitch of the body. Then finally the basilisk was dead.
Largely immobilised by the creature's venom, Geralt closed his eyes and tried to get his breath back. He had been caught off guard by the second, smaller basilisk suddenly turning up at the far end of the cave. He'd never before heard of basilisks sharing a den or hunting together, nor had he ever encountered it. Geralt guessed it might have been the bigger basilisk's offspring, for after he had fought both simultaneously and finally killed the smaller one, the remaining one had gone berserk, more than a hunting basilisk normally did.
The monster's talons and claws had left gaping wounds on Geralt's body which would turn out to be deadly if not treated soon and thoroughly, but that was not what worried him. Even though he had drunk a vial with an antidote before the fight, the wounds and the acid in the basilisk's spit had weakened him in addition to the venom, and if he didn’t quickly drink at least another one of his potions to mitigate the venom's effect it would be too late.
And there was the crux of the matter. For reasons he couldn't understand now, he had left his potions along with his other belongings with Roach. And Roach was waiting for him outside the cave, too far away from him. Even if he tried to crawl, he wouldn't be able to get to his horse in time.
What a shit!
Geralt sighed. “Well, there are worse ways to go,” he muttered. “And I've always known it would end this way.” He thought of Roach and regretted having tied her to a tree. She would wait for him and only start trying to get free when all the grass in her vicinity had been eaten or when she got thirsty. He hoped she would find her way back into town so someone could relieve her of the saddle and bridle and take care of her. Maybe even the bard, if he had not already left after the witcher hadn't shown up.
The thought of Jaskier made Geralt smile, despite the pain. Somehow, the bard had managed to worm his way into the Witcher's heart and make himself at home there with all his constant chatter and blatant persistence and general likability, and Geralt almost regretted he would not be able to properly part ways with the troubadour. He was sure Jaskier would weave the Witcher's parting from this world into an epic song, once he learnt of his death. Too bad he couldn't deliver some details to make it more realistic, Geralt mused, thinking of how Jaskier would sing the praise of Geralt's heroic battle with two blood-curdling, man-eating, overall atrocious basilisks.
He let out a deep, rattling sigh and opened his eyes to look around the twilit cave, but his eyes were already failing and playing tricks on him. The cave's low ceiling suddenly stretched into a dark endlessness, and shadows of monsters Geralt knew weren't there scurried across the walls. His strength was dwindling fast and he felt himself hovering at the edge of unconsciousness. Grunting, he tried to push himself up but failed. Thin, spidery arms reached out for him from the shadows on the wall, and suddenly his hearing was filled with a low swoosh. His fingers and toes convulsed and he knew that soon other parts of his body would follow. He sighed and let himself get sucked into the burning void that would soon end his life.
“Geralt? Geralt! Hellooohh? Geralt, are you there? Why don't you answer me? I know you're here, I've seen Roach outside, and she doesn’t look happy. Geralt?”
Geralt's eyes shot open. He knew how fever dreams played with one’s mind, but the bard's voice sounded so damn real. Was this really just an illusion? He had made it clear quite early in their travel arrangement that the bard had no place in the Witcher's monster slaying business. If they travelled together, his place was at their camp or in a tavern, duly waiting for Geralt's return.
“Jaskier,” he croaked, not sure what he feared more: the bard really being here or his mind just playing tricks on him.
“Hello? Geralt? Where are you? Unless you're dead it's quite rude to not answer me and I know that you never end up being dead after fighting monsters. So. If you want me to go back to town just say it. Or grunt it. But I'll take Roach with me, there's no way I'll walk that distance back again in these shoes. Oh,” Jaskier gasped.
Geralt turned his head. Indeed, there he was. Jaskier, sans lute, but with a horrified expression on his face, stood before him.
“Are you hurt? You didn't come back and I thought it was a bit long and you might be in trouble and that I should maybe come looking for you since you said you'd be back no later than afternoon and I thought--”
“Jaskier,” Geralt panted, cutting off the bard's rambling. “Shut up. I need my saddle bags. There are potions. Now!”
Jaskier made a move to reply something, his mien changing from stunned to worried. Then he turned and dashed off without another word.
Geralt closed his eyes, uttering another rattling sigh. He would still have a go at the bard for ignoring his instructions to never follow him to any of his fights against monsters, but now he only felt relief and was glad Jaskier was so resistant to obedience and overall good judgement. Another point he should add to his list of good reasons to not like the bard so much. Who says I like him? a voice whispered in his head, and Geralt's mind was so muddled, he couldn't work out if it was him thinking or someone else planting another’s thoughts in his head. Why was he thinking of the bard again at all?
“Found it,” Jaskier called from the cave's entrance, his voice and footfall echoing from the walls.
Ah, that's why...
“Is that a basilisk? I hope it's really dead, wouldn't like it to come to life again with you out of order at the moment. I've never seen one before,” Jaskier prattled while making his way to the Witcher.
Geralt tried to get rid of the mist clouding his mind and shook his head, which only nauseated him more and caused a pounding headache.
He groaned.
Jaskier dropped the saddle bags on the ground beside Geralt's head and started rummaging through it as soon as he had knelt down at the Witcher's side. “What do you need? There are so many vials there. Which one is it?”
Geralt heard the panic in the bard's voice. He knew it had to mean something, but he couldn't grasp what. “There's one with a golden liquid, it's one of the bigger vials,” he grunted. “And then there's a small, bulbous one with a black liquid, I shall need that, too. And look for a little tin with lilac grains. If I lose consciousness which should happen soon, ground and mix them with water or wine. Or I can just swallow them, if--” Geralt trailed off; he had lost his train of thought. Why was he giving instructions to the bard? A spike of pain in his belly brought him back to reality. The venom!
“This one? Is it this one?” Jaskier asked, holding a small vial with golden-brown liquid in front of Geralt's eyes.
If Geralt wasn't mistaken, the bard’s hands were shaking, but it could just as easily be his body already spasming from the effects of the venom. He couldn't focus on the colour of its contents, a dark veil was clouding his eyes. “Is it golden?”
“I don't know! It looks golden to me and I can't find a bigger vial,” Jaskier replied, sounding harried, searching with his other hand for another, similar vial in the bags. “But I'm no expert!”
“Give it to me!”
Jaskier put the vial to the witcher’s lips and let its contents run into his mouth.
Geralt swallowed and coughed. “Now the other one,” he rasped. “And there should be a green one, put its content on the wounds.” He tried to focus on Jaskier, who had turned into a dark shadow, his head reaching up to the roof of the cave, his fingers long and greedy, stretching out to him. Geralt wasn't sure any more if he had just made it up that Jaskier had come to his aide, or if the bard was really there. It was probably just a figment of his imagination. Or maybe a wraith that haunted the area?
He couldn't feel his legs and arms any more and fire was painfully eating its way up his throat, burning him from the inside. His mind pulled and tugged and screamed to be set free. Geralt had forgotten where he was and why he was there and what he should even hold on to. He decided to give in to his spirit's yearning and leave his hurting body. Letting out a last breath, he let his mind sink back into the dark void.
“Geralt! Don't leave me here alone! Wake up!”
Rudely, Geralt was pulled out of merciful unconsciousness. He struggled to gather enough strength to focus his mind and open his eyes while he was shaken relentlessly.
“What?” he grunted, glowering at the bard through half-lidded eyes.
“I don't know what to do! You must stay awake and tell me what you need. The lilac grain you spoke of, I can't find it! And you're bleeding everywhere. We need to treat the wounds! They need stitching! We should take you back to town. Can't you get up?” Jaskier was speaking so fast, it was hard to understand single words in his panicked flow of speech.
Fighting against the pull of unconsciousness, Geralt grabbed Jaskier's arm with a last mobilisation of strength. He was probably hurting the bard because his fingers cramped and he couldn't control his muscles, but it would only underline what he had to say.
“Go! Take Roach and return to town. You can't help me any more, the venom has spread. Get to safety before it's too late. Soon...” He trailed off. He couldn't remember what he had meant to say. Soon he would be dead? His mind swirled and the darkness returned to pull him down.
*******
Jaskier stared at the Witcher. He would most definitely not panic now, even though he felt fear slowly crawling up his spine, spreading a coldness that settled in every bone. He panted for breath.
“Calm down, Jaskier, he is not dead yet,” he muttered to himself, even though he had no idea if that was true. With shaking fingers, he reached for Geralt's hand that had left bruises on his arm from the force with which the Witcher had grabbed him. He wasn't even sure where exactly he could feel for a pulse but he was determined to find out.
His heart sank when he couldn't feel any pulse on the Witcher. He had tried and found his own heartbeat and could clearly make it out at his own neck and wrist. He detected nothing when he felt the same spots on the Witcher. Panic started to rise again. This just couldn't be!
In a last effort, he lowered his head and put his ear on Geralt's chest, careful to not let his skin touch the bleeding wounds. He thought he heard a steady heartbeat, but it was probably only his own blood he heard pulsating in his ears. But he realised something else. The Witcher's chest was slowly but constantly rising and sinking with Jaskier's head pressed to the body. Someone who breathed must also have a heartbeat!
Sighing with relief, Jaskier rose and suddenly remembered what Geralt once had let slip while travelling. Witcher's heartbeats were much slower than a human's, which was probably the reason why he wasn't able to detect any pulse rate. He decided to feel reassured by this fact and ignore any lack of detectable pulse rate or overall vital signs.
It was almost dark now in the cave. What little light still managed to filter through the small opening was not enough to illuminate the basilisk's lair. Jaskier shivered. He had close to no knowledge of basilisks, and how could he be sure Geralt had been able to slay them all? The stench of the lair and the slain beasts was so heavy that Jaskier had problems suppressing the bile he felt constantly rising up this throat. He needed to get out of the cave where he could make a fire and look after Geralt and have a means of escape. And where Roach would be, the faithful soul.
Well, that was the plan, but Jaskier had no idea how to see it through. Geralt was all muscle and no fat and it wasn’t necessary to have to see him half-naked to know he easily weighed twice as much as Jaskier. He sighed. He would definitely not be able to throw the Witcher over his shoulder and swagger out of the cave!
“Damn it, Geralt!” Jaskier shouted. “Why are you doing this to me? Don't you dare die on me!” He suddenly remembered the lilac grain and green potions Geralt had mentioned and knew he needed to hurry. He hadn't been able to find them earlier and with the light almost gone, there was no way he would be able to find it now. He needed to get them out of the cave, start a fire and tend Geralt's wounds.
He eyed the entrance of the cave, judging the distance. His only chance would be to try to lift Geralt’s upper body and drag the unconscious Witcher along behind him. He just hoped it wouldn't cause more wounds and pain to the man than he already had.
Jaskier grabbed the crossed leather strips on Geralt's chest that strapped the big silver sword to the witcher’s back. Grunting, he pulled and lifted Geralt's upper body a couple of hand's breadths from the ground. It was just enough that his head would not drag along the floor, but even with all the will in the world, Jaskier wasn’t able to lift Geralt's body any higher. He went around Geralt again, pulling the upper body with him so that he was now able to walk backwards, dragging his friend’s body with him.
When Jaskier reached the entrance, he was bathed in sweat, his back was hurting like hell and Geralt had started groaning, probably from the hurt the dragging and pulling had caused him. Jaskier laid Geralt carefully down on the ground and stretched his back. Then he hurried back into the cave to pick up the saddlebags and bring them outside to where Roach was watching the drama unfold.
Outside, there was still enough light left to enable him to spread out the saddlebags' contents and look for the grain and other medicine or potions. He wondered if Roach would be able to help him. Maybe if he led her up to the entrance and heaved Geralt on her back, she could carry him to a clearing where they could set up camp.
“Bollocks!” Jaskier cried. “Stupid, stupid bard! How could I get him up on a horse when I'm not even able to lift him more than a couple of hand's breadth from the ground? It took what felt like an hour to drag him from the end of the cave to the entrance.” He turned to Roach. “He should have taught you to haul him to safety when he isn't able to do so on his own. I'm certainly the most inept person to be of any help in such a situation.“
Roach nickered, shaking her mane.
“Are you laughing at me or agreeing with me?”
Roach pawed the ground, bowing her heard a couple of times. Then she took as many steps towards the cave as the reins allowed her to.
Jaskier's gaze returned to the cave. “Shit!” He was standing here complaining to Roach while Geralt needed help. He hurried back and resumed his task from earlier, dragging the Witcher's heavy body outside.
Half an hour later he had managed to set up a make-shift camp far away from the entrance to the cave and, in his eyes, sufficiently shielded from possible dangers. He had started a fire, tied Roach to a spot where she could nibble on moss and fern, provisionally bandaged Geralt's wounds with one of the Witcher's spare shirts and spread the contents of his bags on the ground. Going through all the vials and tins and jars he wondered if he should ride back to town, look for a healer and bring him back here. He had virtually no idea how to treat a venomed and injured witcher. This certainly called for more knowledge than rubbing chamomile on Geralt's sore bottom!
“You are no help at all!” Jaskier lectured Roach, eyeing the content of two small tins. “How can Geralt expect me to know what he needs? For all his continual emphasis on the special relationship you two have, you're as useless as me at the moment.” Jaskier grabbed a vial, holding it up to the firelight so he could look at its contents. “Shit, look at this!” He turned to Roach. “This is golden, isn't it? This is the golden liquid Geralt had asked for, the one I gave him was much darker!” He felt panic rise. Again.
“Should I give it to him or could it make things worse? And what about the one I gave him? Does he only carry strengthening potions and antidotes, or also poisonous ones? What if I only made things worse?” Jaskier looked to and fro between the vial in his hand and Roach, who was grazing unheedingly. “You're no help!” he repeated in frustration.
Turning to Geralt, he took a deep breath. “Okay. I can do this. He's a witcher, I'm sure he has survived worse, and I don't think any of his potions are meant to or able to kill him.”
Geralt moaned and started tossing about and Jaskier hastened to kneel beside him. “Here, drink!” he said, holding the vial to the Witcher's lips.
Geralt opened his eyes and stared at Jaskier, though his eyes were unfocused as if he was looking to something far behind the bard's head. He grabbed Jaskier's coat, pulling him down.
Jaskier yelped. “Geralt, please, you must drink this. I think I gave you the wrong potion, this looks much more like the golden liquid you mentioned. And it's a big vial as well.”
As quickly as Geralt had grabbed Jaskier, he released him, his head sinking back to the heap of moss Jaskier had piled up as a make-shift pillow. A moan escaped the Witcher's lips and Jaskier took the opportunity to pour the potion down Geralt's throat. Then he returned to the things he had spread on the ground and stared at the two tiny tins he had found. Both of them contained grain, and both of it looked lilac. Did Geralt have two identical portions of the same herbs or were they different? One was a lighter shade of lilac and the grain was a bit smaller, but how should he know which one was correct? Cursing under his breath, he opened Geralt's waterskin and poured some of it into a bowl he had found along the Witcher's belongings. After a moment of contemplation, he chose the darker grain which had a more pleasant smell and he dropped half of the tin's content into the bowl. For want of mortar and pestle Geralt would have to swallow the grains unground, but Jaskier couldn't care less at the moment.
He returned to Geralt, lifting his head with his left hand. The Witcher's skin was covered in sweat and Jaskier could feel heat radiating from him. Geralt had developed a high fever within less than half an hour.
“That's not good, not good at all,” Jaskier muttered, trying to instil the water and herbs into Geralt. Luckily, even unconscious, Geralt swallowed most of the bowl's content without choking on it or spilling too much.
Jaskier put the bowl down and laid his hand on his friend's brow. It was burning hot. He considered how much effort it would cost him to strip Geralt of his armour-like leather garb without hurting him. Or me, he thought, not sure if he would stand a chance if Geralt started struggling against it.
He sighed. It couldn't be helped, he needed to get him out of his clothing, at least the heavy outerwear.
While he peeled off layer after layer of Geralt's clothing, Jaskier once again pondered if he should take Roach, ride back to town and return with help. Again, he dismissed the idea. He didn't want to leave Geralt alone here, unprotected and probably dying, and there was no certainty that he would find a healer or someone else who was willing to help him save a witcher. Even though the alderman had been willing to pay a witcher for killing the nearby monster menace, he had made it quite clear what he thought of witchers, mutants and mages in general. They had not been welcome in town, and Jaskier doubted anyone there would even so much as lift a finger to help him or Geralt.
“Come now, don't be so unmanageable, I'm only trying to help here,” Jaskier cursed, trying to unbutton Geralt's shirt. The Witcher had struggled and groaned while Jaskier had stripped him of his leather straps and belt, vambraces, gloves, pauldrons and jacket, and he was now bathed in sweat as much as the Witcher was. “I know you're hurting and I can think of a thousand things more pleasant than this but I have really absolutely no idea how to treat you or help you. But I think it's definitely best if-- Argh!!”
Geralt had grabbed Jaskier forcefully, halting the bards fumbling and was staring at him with wide, feverish eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Um, I, erm,” Jaskier stuttered, trying to wriggle out of Geralt's painful clutch. “I'm just trying to help. You're hurt and you have developed a high fever and maybe you can give me instructions which of your potions might help? I've no idea if the things I instilled into you are helping or not. And do you have a salve I can put on the wounds? They already look inflamed at the edges and that green water or oil or whatever it was didn't really help.”
“I know you,” Geralt rasped, cutting off the bard. “I know your face.”
“Of course, I'm Jaskier. I'm your friend! I came to look after you when you failed to show up. I started to worry, you know, and – Ouch! Stop it!”
Geralt had intensified his grasp on Jaskier. “I don't trust you! What have you given me?”
Jaskier tried to get away from the Witcher's painful grip. “Nothing! I mean, I gave you the vial with the golden potion you asked for. And a black potion. And then I found another golden one, and gave that to you as well. And, and,” Jaskier stuttered, starting to wonder if it was such a good idea to reveal to Geralt that he might have given him the wrong potions and herbs, not the ones he had asked for, and that he might quite unintentionally have poisoned him further.
“My bag!” Geralt grunted, finally letting go of Jaskier. “Give it to me!”
Jaskier jumped up like a spiral spring, taking a couple of steps away from the Witcher. “I've emptied your bags to look for things I can use. It's all spread over there. Tell me what you need.”
Geralt glowered at Jaskier, then his gaze moved from Jaskier to something behind the bard, and the Witcher's eyes widened. “Why are you here?” he rasped.
Jaskier turned to see what Geralt was looking at. Was he speaking to Roach? But his horse was on the other side. “Erm, well, Roach waited for you outside the cave.” He turned back to Geralt, cautiously taking a step towards the Witcher. “You don't look good, Geralt. You have a high fever and I'm worried you'll be unconscious or delirious soon. Please tell me what I should do! What potions or herbs do you need? And I'll have to re-bandage the wounds, they’re already starting to look infected.”
Geralt's gaze returned to the bard. Confused, he stared at Jaskier, then a flash of recognition flitted over his face. “Jaskier,” he panted. “It's not safe here for you after dark. Why didn't you stay back in town?”
Jaskier took another step closer to Geralt. “Because you didn't come back. You need help,” he said urgently, trying to cut through the fever-induced haze that apparently clouded the Witcher's mind. “Tell me which of your potions you need or what I should do. Maybe you can get up on Roach and we can ride back to town and....” Jaskier trailed off.
Geralt's head had sunken back to the ground, his eyes rolled back in their sockets and his whole body was seized with cramp. He groaned pitifully.
“Geralt!” Jaskier crouched down beside the Witcher. “What should I do? Please, don't leave me hanging like this!"
Suddenly, Roach neighed and started prancing around, tugging at her reins. Behind her, in the dark forest, branches snapped and there was rustling in the underbrush.
Staring into the dark forest with wide eyes, horrified by whatever it was that was coming their way, Jaskier felt his heartbeat quicken. The noise made by the unknown foe increased, and an abominable grunting filled the air.
“Shit!”
He looked down at Geralt who was still struggling with cramps. This time, there would be no help coming from the Witcher, he was all on his own. Jaskier grabbed the big silver sword but dropped it immediately. He could hardly lift it with both hands, there was no way he would be able to wield it against someone or something. Instead, he grabbed the dagger Geralt usually carried in his boot and ran over to Roach. He untied her so she could follow her instinct and flee if the situation went south.
“Easy, Roach, sshhh. If at all possible, please don't leave me, but if you can't, flee. Return to town and bring some help, will you do this for your Witcher and me?”
Roach blew hard through her nostrils, broke free from Jaskier and reared. Then she turned and fled.
“Great,” Jaskier huffed. “So much for that.”
He returned to Geralt, planting himself in front of the delirious Witcher, the dagger raised in front of him. He was scared stiff but was determined to defend his unconscious friend to the death and not back down from the creatures that were coming.