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At the top, the trees are bare, bone-white, dry and ready to snap. They turn dark and wet down where the watery mud of the swamp licks the trunks. In the moonlight and in the absence of foliage, the place proves much more difficult to navigate than it ought to be. Geralt has been walking for hours.
The thick, black liquid up to his thighs absorbs the bluish light and gives nothing back. No reflection, not even a vague shadow. No visible reminder that this isn’t a feverish dream. But he can feel a warm spot above his knee where blood has been steadily flowing out of his deepest wound for a while now, and that’s real enough.
Something shrieks. Geralt stops moving and looks up at the tall, long-beaked bird perched on the tree to his left. It’s the first living thing he’s seen since his earlier fight, and something feels wrong. He should have heard it long before it came into view — blood loss is depleting his senses. He stares at the bird, which tilts its head in response. That thing must be about the size of a six-year-old child, but the dead branch doesn’t falter under its weight. Everything is still and silent.
“You’re not getting any breadcrumbs,” he tells the bird.
His voice comes out low — lower than expected — and distant. He wonders if this place could absorb sound like it does light. Wonders what else might be absorbed if he stays here any longer.
He stops watching the bird and starts walking again, and the bird’s gaze follows him.
- - -
Half an hour later, he sets foot on dry land. His legs are numb and they won’t stop twitching. It’s almost strange not to have to wade through sludge.
His ears no longer feel clogged and his vision is back to normal, though he can tell his strength is exhausted and he’s on the brink of collapse. About an hour left before he passes out, he estimates. The viscid mud sticks to his shoes and clothes and skin.
He follows the distant smell of wood fire through a small patch of forest, and when he makes it out on the other side, he can see the orange-yellow light of torches piercing the blue-black of the night: the tavern where Jaskier waits for him, half a mile away. And so he walks on.
- - -
“Jaskier,” he grunts as he limps across the threshold of the door, and it sounds like a thud more than anything else because his voice is hoarse and his step heavy.
Geralt hears someone slam a drink against a table across the room, in a concealed corner, and Jaskier comes running, knocking a few chairs over on the way. When he sees Geralt, his face seems to spontaneously close in on itself; he shuts his mouth and frowns, as if jolted into focus. He takes one look at the blood pouring from thigh to floor, then quickly sneaks under Geralt’s arm, grabs his waist, and pulls him toward the stairs. “Come here,” he whispers.
Geralt will not let himself lean on Jaskier, he knows better. It takes them forever to climb the stairs. The wooden banister that Geralt clutches gets crushed under his hand whenever he steps on his bad leg.
“Roach,” he pants mid-step.
“She’s fine,” Jaskier replies, “she’s here.”
Geralt sighs and Jaskier keeps pulling him up.
“Bath,” Geralt pants again once they reach the top, because Jaskier is nudging him in the wrong direction. He can hardly keep his eyes open, but he has to wash the dark, viscous liquid off of himself.
The floorboard creaks loudly. He almost wishes Jaskier would start rambling on about nothing. This is too serious, too unnerving. But Jaskier remains quiet and focused next to him, steering him toward the bathroom as fast as he can.
Between the pain and the vertigo, nothing feels real save for Jaskier’s steady hands — one around his wrist, the other under his ribs.
- - -
The water is lukewarm, just shy of cold. Geralt pours an entire bucket on his thigh and grits his teeth. He watches the sludge leave the open wound. When it’s all gone, he shuts his eyes.
Jaskier is rummaging through drawers somewhere behind him. After a few minutes, Geralt feels a hand on his forehead.
“You’re burning hot,” Jaskier whispers.
“Hmm.” Geralt half-opens his eyes to stare at Jaskier’s frown for a second before closing them again. Jaskier’s palm feels fresh against his skin. It shouldn’t — witchers don’t get sick.
“Come on, let’s get you into bed.”
Getting out of the bath is even harder than getting in was. Geralt uses his last bit of strength to try to dry himself, but the towel keeps slipping between his fingers and he gives up halfway through. Eventually he lets his chin rest against his chest and lets Jaskier take over.
It feels like a short eternity, like three hours packed into thirty seconds. He hears water drops falling from the cold stool he’s sitting on to the wet floor. He feels Jaskier’s hands drying his shins, bandaging his thigh, dressing him.
“What’s this?” Jaskier asks as he holds Geralt’s left hand in his. He’s still speaking softly, in a murmur, as if saying something aloud would hurt Geralt somehow. They’re large wooden splinters from the banister.
Then it’s over, and Geralt lets Jaskier lead him to their room like a blind man.
The bedframe whines when he lies down. Jaskier tucks him into bed and leaves the room, and Geralt thinks of grabbing the hem of his shirt and asking him to stay, only he can’t speak or move his arms. But it’s fine, he thinks. He’s going to die in a bed instead of drowning in the swamp, and the townspeople will be grateful because he killed their monster.
Jaskier comes back a minute later. He sits down next to Geralt, grabs his hand, and starts removing the splinters in silence. It’s not a bad sensation, because Geralt can’t feel his palm anyway, but he can feel Jaskier’s thumb pressing against the inside of his wrist.
He wants to tell him there’s no need — if he doesn’t die, the splinters will heal themselves — but Jaskier’s hand is warm against his skin. The heat is gone now, and he’s beginning to shiver. He falls asleep like that: a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead, Jaskier’s fingers around his wrist.
- - -
Geralt wakes up with a dry throat in an empty room. Someone left a glass of water on the nightstand, and pain shoots through his sore arm when he reaches for it and drinks it down in one go. Outside, the early darkening of the winter sky is visible from the tiny window. His stomach growls. Now would be a good time for one of those royal banquets he usually despises.
Jaskier’s bed is made. Geralt can hear muffled conversations downstairs, and people coming and going as the wooden structure of the tavern creaks under their footsteps. Just as he thinks he should get up, someone comes up the stairs and the door opens on Jaskier holding a food tray.
“There he is,” Jaskier says loudly, “I knew you’d pull through. That should make a nice song, don’t you think?” He crosses the room and places the tray on Geralt’s lap, carefully avoiding the wound. “A humble bard heroically saves Geralt of Rivia’s life. Witcher and human allied for the greater good. He’s a friend of humanity, and humanity’s—”
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier stops singing and looks up.
“Thank you.”
“Right,” Jaskier nods. Geralt stares at him for a second longer before focusing on the food. He bites into a large piece of chicken, washes it down with steaming hot soup, takes another bite before he’s even done swallowing. He looks like a man who’s spent the past forty days in the desert.
“How’s your thigh?” Jaskier asks eventually.
“Won’t be able to ride Roach for a few days,” Geralt replies with his mouth full, “but it’ll be fine.”
Jaskier nods again. He watches Geralt eat for a minute. Then, without saying anything, he grabs Geralt’s left hand and proceeds to peel off the bandages he wrapped around the raw skin last night, when he was done removing the splinters and Geralt was fast asleep. Geralt only shoots him a glance before he resumes eating with his one free hand, slower this time.
He dips a piece of bread in the soup. It’s good, better than usual: the people don’t yet know the monster is gone, but they are grateful still.
From the corner of his eye, Geralt can see tiny, pale pink scars — his palm has healed already. Jaskier’s thumb traces along the biggest one. It’s sharply curved and closer to white, like the branches of the swamp’s trees.
“You know, when she came back alone — Roach, I mean,” Jaskier begins. Geralt looks at him and Jaskier looks at Geralt’s hand in his. “I really thought you might’ve died, for a moment. Well, not exactly a moment. Quite a few long, excruciating hours, actually. I must admit you really know how to build up suspense.”
“I thought I might really die, too, if that’s any consolation.” Geralt pauses. Jaskier has stopped tracing along the scars and his thumb is back on Geralt’s wrist, right where it was last night. “I’m glad you waited for me,” he adds.
“Right, yeah. Of course. Well, I should let you finish your meal.”
Jaskier places Geralt’s hand back on the covers like he’s handling a blade: slowly, firmly, only letting go of it at the last moment. He gets up.
“I don’t mind you staying.”
Jaskier grabs his lute and sits back down.
- - -
“Found your way back to Jaskier without me, huh?” Geralt says to Roach. Her fur has been cleaned of the mud and she seems happy to see him, whinnying softly as he pets her mane. “Good. That’s what you have to do, should anything else happen to me.”
Jaskier walks into the stable a minute later.
“You washed her,” Geralt acknowledges.
“Well, she’s a good horse, isn’t she? Not as beautiful as mine, but one would have to be heartless to leave her all dirty and sticky like that. Terribly sticky, by the way. God only knows what was in that swamp.”
Geralt hums and goes to sit on an old bench that creaks under his weight like everything else in this tavern. He stretches his right leg and sighs. Moving hurts; so does staying still.
Across the box stall, Jaskier whispers in Roach’s ear: “You’re more loyal than any lady I’ve ever met, you know that?”
She lowers her head and pushes against his chest as he scratches her between the jawbones. Geralt watches them for a moment.
“We’re going to be stuck here for a couple days,” he tells Jaskier.
“Oh, yeah, I talked to the innkeeper. He says we can stay for a short while, free of charge. These people are getting really close to worshipping the White Wolf, if you ask me.”
Geralt considers the statement. “There’s nothing in this town,” he says after a minute. “You’ll drive yourself crazy.”
“Me? Never. Come on, Geralt, I’ve got to work on my greatest song yet.”