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Summary
“Jaskier…? Jaskier, what’s the matter?” Geralt’s voice is muffled by their carpet, the soft, worn fibers blocking Jaskier’s cellphone speaker. He’d heard the soft thud that Jaskier’s phone had made when it’d hit the ground, followed by a long stretch of radio silence that absolutely could not be a harbinger of anything good—
“B-Blood.” Jaskier’s voice sounds foreign to his ears—it’s a tiny, wheezing thing, that is far more air than sound. He doubts that it’s loud enough for Geralt to hear wherever he’d fallen… “T-There’s so much… G-Geralt, I… I was only gone for f-fifteen minutes, not even—” His breath hitches in his throat as his brain struggles to make sense of the scene before him.
The couch where Ciri had been resting is soaked in blood.
Series
- Part 4 of Papa, Don't Preach
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