Comfort.
(I have not written in ages, but this art is an inspiration. I’m indebted to you, @tishawish, for the spark.)
Lift your head.
Geralt can’t identify the voice he hears, knows he doesn’t have to. Pain and exhaustion weigh him down, but he’s not so far gone as to think someone is really speaking to him. Jaskier has been quiet since Geralt stumbled back to their room, allowing him space and time to recover from both his wounds and the potions effects.
Perhaps it is Vesemir, speaking words of encouragement.
Lift your head, lad. Raise your chin. You have only yourself, but that’s not nothing.
A second voice, low and musical, offers a rebuttal. You have me, it whispers.
Perhaps it is Eskel, speaking words of loyalty, of brotherhood.
Lift your head. It’s not so bad. We’ll meet again in the winter.
The second voice replies, I’ll meet you in the spring. I’ll meet you in the summer, the fall, anytime you wish. Only say the word and I’ll be there.
Perhaps it is his instructors, older Witchers long dead by the claws of beasts or the blades of humans.
Lift your head. Show no weakness. If you falter for a moment, it will be your last.
The softness of the second voice is laced with strength. I will protect you.
Perhaps it is his own.
Lift your head, monster. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve comfort or love or the gentle touch of someone who gives a damn.
The second voice huffs in indignation. Like hell you don’t. And I give far more than a single damn, you ridiculous man.
A chuckle squeezes past Geralt’s cracked ribs. The arms around him tighten.
“Geralt?”
He hears that second voice again. This time it graces his ears as well as his mind, and his lips part to release his grateful answer.
“I love you.”
A short intake of breath and the hands on his skin tremble. He should say it more often.
“I love you, too, dearest. Always.”
Geralt hums, the sound cradled in the space between them, the space he leaves when he does not lift his head.
