Chapter Text
The trouble with men, Yennefer thinks, is that they never remember those around them. The man tied to her back is a wonderful example of this.
He hadn’t been able to keep his head when he’d seen her get hit with a weakening spell when the mage they were hunting realized he was being followed. It was a minor weakening spell, not a death curse, but no, the fool had had to run in between her and the mage right as she threw a dimeritium sphere at the bastard they’d been hunting for weeks, earning himself a fresh dusting of dimeritium powder of his own. It wouldn’t have been the end of the world, except that in the chaos of the ensuing fight the idiot had gotten hit with a poisoned dart before landing the finishing blow, one apparently highly effective against witchers. Granted, the predisposition of men to be highly oblivious to those around them had worked in her favor when she'd been able to drag herself up behind the mage and slit his throat while he'd monologued about his “really quite fascinating” research into poisons effective against mutants, but overall, she’d rather have a fully-cognizant Geralt rushing her to the nearest healer rather than a barely conscious partner making it entirely too difficult to stay on Roach as it fell to her to deliver them both to the closest healer’s hut.
Nudging Roach once more to encourage her to continue to gallop regardless of the shifting load on her back, Yennefer pushes her own weakened body to stay upright. The mage’s spell had taxed her chaos reserves which were still recovering from the debacle at Sodden, and what little she had left went to keeping herself awake and Geralt from succumbing to the poison’s potency. She’d fed Geralt the remainder of his golden oriole an hour ago, a temporary measure against the strength of whatever concoction was running through his veins, aiding her own failing magic against the invader wracking Geralt’s body with sweat and chills. While she’d tried to get the majority of the dimeritium powder off of Geralt before hauling him up into the saddle, time was of the essence and she could tell there was still some powder left affecting her magic’s ability to heal Geralt’s ailing body. The only true blessing from this was that the remaining powder should keep whatever tracking spell the mage was blathering about Fringilla casting from finding them.
Just as Roach starts to falter, they round a bend in the road and come upon the healer’s hut Yennefer had hoped still existed, praying her memory of the area rang true all these years later. Geralt had listed to the side half a mile back after letting out a wracking cough and he’d had difficulty ever since supporting even a fraction of his own weight. Yennefer wouldn’t consider herself the type to worry, but, she might admit, if only to herself, that Geralt’s current state is worrisome.
Gathering herself for the coming effort as Roach slows her gait, Yennefer guides Roach to the water barrel in the sideyard of the hut. Sliding from Roach’s back, Yennefer forces her hands to move to catch Geralt as he slides to the side as if to follow her.
“Geralt!” Yennefer whispers. “Geralt, come on, are you still with me?”
Blurry eyes look up at her, Geralt’s body mostly limp in her arms. Thankfully, his words are clear, if a little more gravelly than usual. “Yen. It’s poison, not blood loss. The golden oriole is still working, if poorly.”
“Good.” Yennefer keeps her words crisp, fighting the wave of relief hitting her strong. “It’s been long enough since I’ve visited this healer that I don’t know her stance on the war. We’re too far south to tell. You’ll need to use Axii on her once she’s opened her door.”
“It’s not to be used for frivolous matters, Yen.” Geralt says.
“Frivolous, he says,” she mutters. “Unless you want me to knock her out, Axii is our best bet. We’ll pay her for her troubles and leave an apology note if that’s what worries you.”
“I might not be able to hold it long.” He admits.
“Well, hit her with Axii to confuse her long enough for me to hit her on the head. Let’s go.” She replies, already dragging Geralt along with her to the front door.
Banging on the door, Yennefer impatiently leans her weakened body against the closest door jamb, taking as much of Geralt’s weight as she dares. Candlelight flickered to life through the nearest window, slow enough in its approach that she hits the door harder.
“Wait a damn minute, why don’t you!” A creaky voice yells from behind the door, still slowly approaching. An eternity seems to pass before the door latch is undone, the door finally swinging inward to show the aged visage of her old acquaintance. It rather had been a lifetime since her foray into finding a cure for her infertility, hadn’t it?
Before the now-old woman could ask them to state their business, Geralt’s Axii takes effect. The woman’s face relaxes and her body softens its defensive lines as Geralt intones from Yen’s arms, “Help us inside. We are travelers in need of your healing room.”
“Yes, of course. I’m happy to help.” The healer says, guiding Yennefer and Geralt through her living quarters and into the adjoining room. Yennefer is guiltily grateful for the help, however small, in carrying the hulking bulk of muscle in her arms. The mage’s spell may have been laughably feeble for a weakening spell, but adding it onto weeks spent living on the bare necessities in their hunt for the rogue mage working on unearthing lost elven secrets for Nilfgaard, she is weaker than she’d like to admit.
“Now, leave us be and go back to bed. Your help is appreciated.”
“Alright.” The old lady says, turning to leave with doddering steps. “If you need anything else, feel free to call for me.”
Yennefer silently watches her leave, the door swinging closed behind her. Judgmentally, she states, “Didn’t want me to waste the effort to knock her out, then?”
“I could tell you’d have hit her if I waited for you to handle it.” Geralt says dryly.
“Yes, and?” she hurriedly replies as she nigh drags Geralt’s unresponsive body inside.
“She’s an elderly woman, I’m not sure how well she’d heal from a punch of yours.”
Yennefer sniffs as she says, “I’m certainly older than her, there’s no need to get your knickers into a twist.”
“Hmm.” Geralt muses as she rolls him onto the worktable in the center of the room.
Yennefer moves to inspect the apothecary cabinet, leaving Geralt to rest where he lies. They'll need a steaming bath and the herbs to make a panacea cure and hope for the best.