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“Don’t you dare… don’t you dare die on me, Geralt.”
“It’s… alright…”
“It’s not. I’m not letting you go. I’m a sorceress. I’m not going to watch you do this to yourself just because you have decided that this is the end. You might be fine with that, but I’m not.”
Yennefer cleaned the wound again, cleaned her hands. She had to see. She’d never specialised in healing magic, but she mastered chaos at a level way beyond that of most mages. She could do this.
She held her hands over the wound and channelled her chaos. She could mend the torn flesh. Bring it back together, make it heal… She felt his life flicker under her hands. His poor, exhausted spirit in his poor, exhausted body.
Tears were running down her face.
She had to. This had to work. She wasn’t ready to let go of this brilliant, formidable man.
Her hands started to shake from the power of her spell. Tissue was mending but tearing open again as soon as it healed. The wound was deep, so deep, and it was still oozing blood.
She fell back, heart hammering in her chest.
She couldn’t. Her magic was not enough to heal this wound.
She should have learned. Should have focused on healing rather than destruction. She should be better at this, should be better for him…
“Red to red… yellow to yellow… white to white… Shani says…”
Geralt could barely master the energy to utter the words.
“I’m trying to focus here,” Yennefer snapped. “I don’t need to hear about some student medic you once bedded.”
She regretted it immediately. What if this had been his last joke? His last attempt to cheer her up?
A small smile flitted across his blue lips.
“It’s not working,” she told him. “I cannot heal the wound. I have to try something different. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m… not. I… don’t regret… anything. I… love you.”
“I love you, too, Geralt. And I’m not ready. I can’t let you go.”
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She’d fight with every fibre of her being, channel every ounce of chaos… But there was so much blood… And what else could she do? The damage was too great. The griffin’s talon must have severed his femoral artery when it gripped him. That sort of injury was a death sentence. She knew that, but that didn’t mean she’d accept it.
Men had their limbs amputated for less. Amputation… That was it! She didn’t have the tools, nor the magical skill to take off his leg. Not here in the wild. But she could do what she’d seen surgeons do after an amputation. Because that artery was severed when they sawed through the bone. But not everyone bled out on the operating table.
She ripped her obsidian star from her neck.
“I’m so sorry, love.”
She kissed Geralt again. His lips were ice.
She put the obsidian on the wound and started to chant an incantation.
Geralt groaned. If he’d had the breath for it, maybe he would have screamed.
The sharp scent of burning flesh stung Yennefer’s lungs.
Geralt convulsed and then his muscles slackened.
Yennefer magically amplified his heartbeat. It was weak, but it was there. But fast, way too fast for even an ordinary human, much less a witcher. But he had a heartbeat. He was unconscious, not dead.
As her concentration on the spell waned, the obsidian star fell from Geralt’s leg. It left behind a dark mark of charred red skin.
Cauterisation. It certainly wasn’t pretty, but it had closed the wound.
She kissed Geralt. His face, his hands, the soft, white skin of his groin, just above the new scar. It was horrible. There was no finesse in her healing, no beauty, only the brutality of the obsidian returned to the volcanic heat of its origin. On anyone else, that burn would have been ugly. But not on Geralt. She’d branded his skin with her star like they both had long ago branded each other’s hearts.
“Everyone will know that you’re mine,” she whispered. “My love. My life. Mine to bring back from the brink of death.”
She lay down next to him, her hand on his heart. She was exhausted. The strong spells had taken all her energy. She felt light-headed. But it was worth it for Geralt. This wonderful, impossible man she loved so much she couldn’t imagine ever being without him. Her wonderful, impossible man who had cheated death once more. Who would go on to live and love and fight and drive her mad with longing, lust, anger, and admiration.