Work Text:
“The wound has reopened, love.”
Yennefer forced herself to run through her options, fingers trembling as they lingered over his injury. They were rapidly running out of options and time.
Geralt murmured something under his breath, his lips barely moving. She bent close, straining to catch his words.
“What, Geralt?” She asked, her lips almost touching his cheek. But only incoherent sounds met her, words lost to blood loss and pain.
“You’re not making sense, love,” she said, pressing her forehead to his, willing him to stay tethered to her, here, in this moment.
If he heard her, he gave no sign of it.
His murmurs continued, a jumble of sounds, fragmented words slipping into quiet moans. Half the time, they didn’t even sound like words. Only faint syllables, half-formed and abandoned.
She dipped into his mind again, reading Geralt’s thoughts. But all there was in his brain seemed alien and strange. She only caught fleeting glimpses of his usually strong, steady spirit, now scattered and formless. She felt a rush of love and wondered if that was still what he was feeling, but there were no discernible thoughts. She might well have been projecting her own emotions.
Curse it all.
She was losing him. With or without her consent, he was slipping away from her, further and further, until she wouldn’t be able to reach him at all. The thought made the blood freeze in her veins.
Which would be perfect for Geralt. Ice magic was one thing she hadn’t tried. Maybe it would reach far enough into his body, deeper than her earlier attempts.
She placed her hands on his poor, abused skin, the bruise, the burn, the blood. Her fingers grew cold as she channelled the magic. She summoned the frost into her hands, letting it radiate outward until the chill seeped into her own bones.
If only she could reach deep enough to stem the flow of blood…
With a deep breath, she pressed her hands down on the wound, her magic pouring into him, the skin beneath her touch turning cold and rigid. She closed her eyes, concentrating on every bit of chaos she could summon, willing the wound to freeze, to hold, to give him a chance.
Something seemed to work. The blood slowed, dark and thick against his skin, congealing under her spell. She felt the faintest swell of hope, a desperate surge. She held her breath, refusing to believe it could be this easy, this miraculous. Oh, by all the gods she didn’t believe in, she’d give everything for this to work.
Geralt started to shake. When she looked up from her work, his whole body was shining with sweat, even though he trembled like he’d fallen through the ice into a fallen lake. She could feel the life slipping from him, drawn away by her own magic. His already wraith-white face turned a horrid shade of grey.
Like a corpse.
If she didn’t stop, she’d kill him herself, but what was the alternative? What if she did stop?
She screamed as she pulled her magic away, fingers now burning with the lingering echoes of frost.
Why?
Something so innocuous. How often had she sent him out to hunt for some beast or another? How often had they been in battle together? How often had he obtained worse, but somehow survivable injuries? This all seemed so innocent by comparison. All the things they had seen, all the enemies they had fought and this, this was supposed to be the end? A moulting half-bird of a monster? For no other reason than some lousy poison gland?
It was absurd, and she wanted to laugh, a broken, bitter laugh that came from the deep, dark pit of her despair. She’d seen him fight so much worse—ancient curses, dark sorceries, beasts that could level whole towns. This… this was nothing. It should have been nothing.
It wasn’t fair. But of course fate didn’t play fair; she’d known that her entire life. Fate had thrown obstacle after obstacle in their way, and each time they’d clawed their way through. They’d fought to carve a life for themselves despite the odds, loved each other in defiance of every curse cast their way. But now… now, it seemed fate was intent on claiming him in a final, senseless blow.
Damn fate.
She was still Yennefer of Vengerberg. She was still one of the greatest sorceresses to ever live. And he was Geralt of Rivia, her steadfast love, her companion through the many twisted turns of their lives. They had never accepted fate. She wouldn’t start doing so now.
“Not like this.” She leaned over him, her voice low, edged with fury. “You hear me, Geralt? You’re not leaving me like this.”
She took his hand, clutching it with her blood-slicked fingers, pressing it to her chest as if to let him feel her heart beating for him, willing him to draw strength from it. To know that she wouldn’t give up, that she wouldn’t let him go. Not now and not ever.