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Geralt’s head dropped onto his chest. Only for a moment before he pulled himself together and looked straight ahead again. But Yennefer saw it.
“Geralt? Are you alright?”
He clearly wasn’t. And he’d probably lie about it because there wasn’t anything bad enough to make a witcher admit he was in pain. His stories had illustrated that.
He smiled, but it was a small, fleeting, shaky thing. Yennefer held her breath.
“Don’t be mad,” Geralt said. “It’s alright.”
It’s alright. Not I’m alright.
“What—” The question died on her lips as she looked down at where Geralt was pointing. He slowly moved his legs to reveal—oh gods… gods…
He was sitting in a pool of blood.
“Geralt! No, what…” She scrambled to put him down flat on his back again, to extract herself, to kneel next to him.
“The griffin…”
Had his breathing always been so shallow?
There was so much blood.
She made most of his clothes disappear with a wave of her hand. So much blood. It was a sharp contrast to his wraith-white skin. She couldn’t even see where it was coming from until she cleaned it off.
The wound itself wasn’t big. She’d seen Geralt with much larger wounds. But it bled. Blood started to run down his thigh again immediately. The wound was right at his groin, very close to his torso.
Yennefer pressed her hand against it. Hard.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have…”
He tried to smile again, but it couldn’t quite mask the grimace of pain. Any normal man would probably have screamed.
“I won’t pretend…” He had to stop and gasp for air. “That I didn’t think… the wound was… that bad.”
“Then why didn’t you—”
Her hand slipped, slick with blood. There was still blood. So much blood. Why did it not stop? She pressed down on his leg again, harder.
“It’s alright,” Geralt repeated. “Every witcher knows his… last monster… will come.”
“What are you talking about? This isn’t…”
Oh gods, but what if it was? No, no, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
“It’s… too deep. Leave… it.”
“I’m not going to. If I let go, you’ll…”
He put his hand on top of hers. Had it been cold earlier? Was it only cold in comparison to the fresh blood that now coated her hands?
“I don’t want our… last moments… to be filled… with panic. I’m… glad to be… here… with you. I… love you… Yen.”
“Why? If you’d told me earlier, I could have…”
“It’s too deep… you cannot… do anything. I… I know… It’s not your fault.”
But she hadn’t realised. He’d hidden a wound and she hadn’t realised. And why was he wounded in the first place? She should never have dragged him here, never have made him fight these archgriffins. It was her fault. And she would make it better.
But this wasn’t working. He was right about that. The flow of blood didn’t stop. But she had options.
She tore a broad strip of fabric from her skirt, grabbed a sturdy-looking stick and fashioned a make-shift torniquet.
It was a struggle to get it high enough on his leg to reach the wound. She slid the fabric as high up as she could and turned the stick to make it tighten across the wound.
“It’s too… high up.”
Damn him for being right. His blood still flowed freely.
“What do I do?”
She hated the sound of her voice. She wasn’t helpless. She was one of the most powerful sorceresses of the Continent. She wasn’t going to watch the love of her life die.
“Sit… with me.”
If at all possible, Geralt had paled further. His face was covered in sweat.
“Geralt, I can’t sit with you. I’ve been sitting with you for hours while you’ve distracted me with stories!”
“Not… distraction. You want… to know… about my life.”
She stared at him. Yes, yes, she had wanted to know more about him for ages. She was glad he shared those parts of himself. But she never…
“I don’t want your stories as deathbed confessions.”
“Not confessions, just… I want… promise me…”
“You’re not dying, Geralt.” She twisted the torniquet again and he flinched. “You’re not having any last wishes. Not on my watch.”
There it was again, that fleeting smile.
“Humour me… two things… promise me…” There was a pause as he clearly gathered his strength. “No new witchers… never new witchers… don’t make anyone… not this life… please…”
“Oh Geralt…” She took his face in bloody hands and kissed him on the mouth. “I don’t want any other witcher. I’ve only ever wanted you.”
“No child should… promise me…”
“No new witchers. I promise you.”
Was that the reason he had been so candid? He put himself through what must have cost him so much of his fading strength to tell her of the horrors of a witcher’s life? Her eyes were tearing up.
“Second thing…” Exhaustion was dripping from every word and the pauses when he tried to catch his breath were getting longer. “I was so… lucky…”
He was bleeding out on some gods-forsaken plateau amidst the corpses of griffins and he spoke of being lucky…
“I had you and Ciri… Jaskier, Triss, the hansa… so many friends, so much… love. My brothers… are not… so lucky… Show them… they are good men… Show them they… they are loved…”
His head dropped to the side as he gasped for air.
“Love…” Yennefer shook his shoulder urgently. Dull golden eyes opened slowly. “Stay with me, love. I’m going to stop the bleeding. You can love on your brothers all you want. You can show them yourself. You’ll be there for them. I promise.”
He held her hand in his own clammy one.
“It’s alright… I… love you, Yen.”