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Death was something that Geralt had never been afraid of. Witchers were afraid of very little, a helpful side effect of the mutagens. Still, now that he was staring death in the face he couldn’t help but feel that prickle of fear on the back of his neck. He was numb and his vision was blurred with black spots. The potions he’d drunk were burning through his veins but they weren’t enough; not this time.
The contract had been a relatively simple one. The wraith had been returned to her grave and her body burnt along with the tie to the land of the living. Geralt had taken his trophy from her remains and returned back to village. He’d been ambushed in the town. He hadn’t been prepared for it. The townsfolk had been welcoming on his arrival but they’d played him and now death was his reward.
His knees gave way underneath him and he fell to the ground. “Fuck!” He cursed as he coughed up blood onto the path below him. His fingers found the wound in his gut, courtesy of a pitchfork, and he hissed as pain shot from the wound through his body. Not even the potions could numb that one.
He might have had a chance if the villager hadn’t torn the pitchfork out of stomach. It could helped to staunch the bleeding but as it was there was very little he could do. He was alone and no one could help him.
And he was afraid.
Not of dying. Dying was easy. He was afraid of the bridges he’d burned throughout his lifetime. The chains he’d crafted link by link as he fucked up time and time again, pushing his loved ones away until he’d been left alone and cold on the cruel path. A witcher’s life, he’d thought, but now what he wouldn’t give to take back every lie that had led him to this fate.
If only he’d been honest with Yennefer after he’d bound them together. If only he’d found Ciri sooner….
And Jaskier.
Kind, loyal, reliable bastard that he was. If life could give him one more blessing then it would be to take back everything he’d said on that mountain.
Geralt’s head span and he rolled onto his back, staring up at the sky. In one of Jaskier’s poems it would have been nighttime. The stars would have been twinkling and the moon would have been full, but this was real life. It was the middle of the day and it was pissing it down with rain. Geralt was shivering from the cold that he never usually felt and his hair was wet, sticking to his face. The path below him was turning to mud; a fitting grave.
“Geralt?”
Geralt closed his eyes and sighed. Jaskier. Of course it would be Jaskier’s voice that came to him in his last moments. His most loyal friend, the man whose heart he’d broken so cruelly, and the most beautiful voice on all the Continent.
“Jaskier.” He slurred, willing himself to stay conscious just a little longer so he could enjoy these last moments.
“Oh, my dear, what the fuck have you gotten yourself into this time?” He felt Jaskier’s fingers on his cheek, a ghostly touch that was barely there.
“Pitchfork. Humans.” He muttered as lips brushed against his, a dream, he reminded himself. It was only a dream.
“Fuck, Geralt.” Jaskier sounded distraught. Geralt opened his eyes and there was Jaskier staring back at him. The sun was shining behind him now and he looked like he belonged to some higher realm. He was heavenly.
Geralt reach out weakly to grip Jaskier’s hand but he couldn’t. He couldn’t touch him. A dream. He reminded himself. “Jask….”
Jaskier sighed and tilted his head. “I could’ve saved you, you know.” The bard’s smile was almost cruel.
“Jaskier.” Geralt begged his friend but it was too late, the dream was turning into a nightmare.
Jaskier brushed his lips against Geralt’s cheek. “"I could’ve saved you.” He repeated and turned around, fading into nothing as he walked away.
And Geralt was alone once more.