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Blood dripped and splattered onto the Witcher’s forearms, shoulders, face. Dandelion’s blood.
Geralt restrained himself from urging on the overexerted steed. Wind carried over only an echo of the fighting that clashed on between the Temerian camp and the Nilfgaardian light cavalry.
“Don’t sleep. I can’t hold you, bozo.” Geralt hissed as the troubadour, who was mounted in front of him, swayed dangerously in the saddle. The extended silence coming from Dandelion is unsettling. Geralt knew that something has to be serious enough to shut his talkative friend up like this.
As if the current situation wasn’t enough, guilt was beginning to creep in like crafty spiders with long legs.
We should have cut through the guards and take the shorter route along the border of the camp, Geralt thought and grimaced. No, I should have took the risk and nicked off the guard’s weapon when I had the chance. I should’ve held Dandelion tighter, have him mount in front of me so that the arrow wouldn’t have hit him.
Geralt gathered the poet with one arm and slowed the horse to a trot.
Dandelion was no longer bleeding and has fainted, the look of terror frozen on his dumbstruck face and slightly parted lips. Geralt drew the limp body closer and felt a slight vibration. Dandelion is shivering, terribly.
“Damn it, hypothermia.” Geralt cursed and carefully shook his companion, feeling Dandelion’s cold cheeks in his hand. He felt the skin of the man’s exposed neck and found a weak pulse. “Hold on…Don’t die…”
He unfastened his vest and felt around the pockets for vials or medicine. Unsurprisingly the effort was in vain. “Hold on Dandelion…hold on.” He undid his and Dandelion’s tunic and pressed their bodies against each other.
The night is cold. Moist air threatened to cling to their exposed skin. Geralt gathered the fabrics and tried to wrap them around the troubadour.
Geralt didn’t know how long they rode, following the winding branch of the Yaruga. The wind died down somewhat. The grasses made a rhythmic rustling sound. Geralt made an effort to keep himself warm but was cheered up slightly after noticing that Dandelion no longer trembled as hard.
As the horse jump over a fallen log, Dandelion’s golden head rolled across Geralt’s chest, his hair tickling the Witcher’s face.
It was the slightest movement, burrowing his face in the poet’s hair.
Amidst the metallic smell of blood, the scent coming from Dandelion was nice. It was familiar. For a second Geralt was lost in a pleasant feeling.
Even before Dandelion started to keep his hair long, he had soft hair, soft and wavy like those of domesticated pups owned by the daughters of wealthy merchants.
Geralt gave him another sniff and held onto his breath. It’s the smell of hearty fires in spirited taverns, of the refreshing smell of pine cones right after the rain. Or maybe Geralt is just reminiscing all the places he’s been with Dandelion, all the ballads, all the merriment and ventures.
Suddenly, Dandelion stirred in his arms. Geralt pulled back instinctively, but only for a second. Feeling heat escape between them, he hesitantly returned to cuddling up to the poet.
Afterall, he is just trying to save his friend’s life.
“Ohh Vespula…” Dandelion began to mumble and moan like a drunk man, “you’re a vixen, you’re sucking…on my lifeblood.”
Unfortunately Geralt could only make out the first part of the drunkard’s rave. A peculiar expression surfaced on the Witcher’s face.
Dandelion felt his companion withdrew with a jerk. Now the troubadour opened his blue eyes wide, fully conscious.
“Geralt? Thank goodness you’re here! I don’t remember exactly…why I have a terrible headache!” Dandelion narrowed his eyes as he saw Geralt buttoning up discretely. “Not so quick there, Witcher! I saw that—“
“You knocked on your head.” The Witcher snapped. “I mean your head was grazed by an arrow…whatever. Regrettably you couldn’t take the sight of your own blood and fainted.”
“Ohh.” The events leading up seems to be slowly setting into Dandelion’s brain. “Hmmph! But I demand you to continue. Don’t look at me like that! You’re the one who took advantage of my short break from reality. Come on don’t be shy! Show some love for the wounded.”
Geralt fixed him with an unbelievable grimace. “My dear friend, skin to skin contact is the quickest way to alleviate hypothermia. You were dying. I suppose it’s a serious matter.”
The wounded man only returned a jaunty smirk. Indeed, apart from his bandaged head, nothing might suggest that he was wounded at all.
“You really recover faster than a werewolf. Alternatively, your head might just be a sack of hay.” Geralt commented after a while. Dandelion had decided to snuggle up to him, with or without his permission. Not that personal space was an option given that they were on the same saddle.
“Say whatever you want. Truth is, you finally caved in.” Dandelion nodded self-assuredly as he secured one of Geralt’s arm around his waist and conveniently rested his head against the Witcher’s shoulder. “I’m simply irresistible!”
The Witcher pulled his face into a grimace but fought hard to keep the curious pleasant feeling in his stomach, glancing at Dandelion from time to time.
And they walked on like nothing happened, for it was all they needed in these turbulent times.