Jaskier is wounded, hurt. It isn’t a novel phenomenon. Trouble smells his presence from a mile away. Monsters, witches, rival bards. “Bait,” Geralt said once,  “that’s what you’re good for.” Jaskier had laughed. Geralt doesn’t see the joke in it anymore. 

Because it was alright before. He got hurt— he got fixed up, end of story. There is danger to be expected traveling at a Witcher’s side, and Jaskier took the risk with that knowledge at hand. There were moments where Geralt wished him to be gone— to not have come with him, to stay out of the way, stay safe — but it was alright, because Jaskier is stubborn, and would likely find many more dangers on his own accord. At least Geralt could keep him in sight. At least he would be aware of what lay ahead and could prepare for it. There are dangers to wandering with a Witcher, but there is safety too. A sword and unnatural senses, keeping the worst of the world at bay. 

So he should’ve seen it coming. 

There is nothing to blame— no monster, no wild hunt plot. Jaskier had not gone off the path, followed him despite warnings, or otherwise played the fool and got himself into danger. They had not even been on contract. Just passing through, on their way to a nearby village. 

It had been a beautiful summer day and it ended in blood. There is nothing and no one to blame but Geralt. 

Jaskier’s head twitches slightly. His breathing hitching once and then again. A soft rumble of a cough. Geralt can see it hurts him— his face contorting in an open way only unconsciousness would allow. But he doesn’t wake from it. Geralt holds still, arms crossed, pressing them against his own chest to keep himself there. He wants to— he wants to go over and check. One more time. Just once. He shouldn’t. He should leave— for a little while. Thank the innkeeper. He doesn’t remember her name. 

Geralt stands at the door, stuck and watching until night falls. 

Jaskier doesn’t wake. 

So he checks. Just once. 

A hand laid gently on Jaskier’s cheek. Clammy skin warns of fever. 

“It will cool soon,” Geralt murmurs. He lets his finger trail the red blush, feels the shape of it as it pulls in air. In and out. “Just rest, Jaskier. Rest and be well.”

A knock, sharp on the chamber door. Geralt pulls back as if burned. He reaches for his sword, swearing under his breath. Distracted, again. Unaware, again. 

“Can I enter?” 

The innkeeper. 

Geralt takes a breath, sheaths his sword. “Be quiet, he is sleeping.”

She takes it as permission, even though Geralt isn’t sure he meant it that way. The idea of another person here, while Jaskier lies vulnerable, makes his skin itch. Even if she was the one who helped him. As if she is any danger. 

The door opens as silently as it can, but the squeaking noise doesn’t stir Jaskier. She pushes it closed with her hip— hands full with a tray of food. 

Geralt frowns at it, conflicted. “He’s sleeping.” 

The innkeeper frowns back. “This is for you.” 

Her words are final. Geralt says nothing. He’s not the one that needs care, but explaining that to her seems a waste of time. He’ll save it for when Jaskier wakes. It shouldn’t be too long now. 

“How is he faring?” she is saying, while rounding the bed to put the tray on the side table. Hands freed, she reaches out to pluck on Jaskier’s bandages. 

Geralt almost growls at her for it, but he swallows it down. He grits his teeth and says, “Fever coming.”

“Hmm.” Now her fingers are on Jaskier’s face. “Some wet rags will do him well. I’ll get them for you.” 

Geralt manages to speak only when she finally steps away from the bed. “Thank you.” 

She turns and then looks at him— eyes flicking up and down with a quick intensity — and puts her hands on her hips. “And when I return, you will go wash yourself—”

Geralt is already shaking his head. 

“—in the river.” She dips her chin and adds, “This is not an argument, Master Witcher. I allowed your entrance because it was an emergency, but I do not want you tramping dirt and blood all over my establishment. I will watch him while you’re gone, if that is what you’re worried about. Not that he’ll be going anywhere.” 

Geralt swallows, his jaw twitching. He wants to refuse, but there is nothing he can say that isn’t I can’t bear to leave him now. There is nothing that she would understand. And he should go. He shouldn’t allow himself to indulge in this. That heavy, sluggish feeling that has been growing within him for months now. The one that rose and rose, filling him up from the inside so that nothing else would fit beside it— not even the sound of a bow being drawn, an arrow being loosed, until it was too late. He should leave it here, sticky and dark, rip himself from it so that his mind is uninhabited by useless thoughts that hold his attention and keep it there like an anchor to a ship, stuck, heavy, impossible to drag along unless the chain is cut through. 

So he nods, and steels himself.

The first steps feel like molasses. His ears are yet filled with the sound of Jaskier’s breath, but once he nears the door the volume lessens and with it his chest tightens. He has to check— he must check, just once— but he continues. Pulling himself out of the room, cutting the chain. Until he can only see the slightest hint of Jaskier’s form and then that is gone again. 

It hurts to continue walking, but Geralt is used to doing exactly that. So he pushes through until he’s left the inn— left Jaskier— far behind. 

New sounds fill his ears. The river, trickling between rocks; nightingales, singing up to the moon; the wind, blowing between leaves and grass. And yet somehow Geralt barely hears any of it. Jaskier’s breathing might be gone, but other sounds take up their place; the clang of sword against sword, the cursed orders of the leading brute, Jaskier’s gasped “Geralt!” just before he slumps to the ground. 

Geralt lets them haunt him while he washes. Jaskier’s blood swirling in the crystal clear water. He watches it go and then sits, for just a moment. 

Another memory— earlier, just before. Another sound. Laughter, like a chime. Geralt doesn’t remember why anymore. 

But it had been beautiful— a beautiful summer day, traveling together. Just passing through. The feeling had been there— everywhere, warming him, being called forward by that laugh until he was filled with it. Geralt had been focused, attention anchored, to Jaskier’s joy. 

He hadn’t heard them coming. 

It was a simple trap, really. Only a small trench covered by bushes, enough to fit seven men if they laid on their stomach. Bandits, the garden variety. The kind that is exactly stupid enough to attack a Witcher and expect to live. 

In all likeliness, the arrow was meant for Geralt. He’d been the true threat— they would have expected Jaskier to co-operate easily. But something had gone wrong, or their bowman just could not aim. And it had hit Jaskier instead. 

The laughter cut silent at once. 

Geralt had killed all of them, of course. They had attacked together and Geralt had taken them out one by one and then dropped to his knees by Jaskier’s side. 

For one endless moment, he’d seen the blood spreading over Jaskier’s chest and thought, It’s his heart. They hit him in his heart. 

But it wasn’t. The arrow had struck him, but got stuck on his fucking journal— the foolish words a blessing for once. The blood was coming from slashes that he’d gotten in the fight— Geralt not fast enough to protect him. He’d been hit over the head and knocked out cold. He was bleeding profusely but it wasn’t his heart. There was a chance. 

The thing inside Geralt had roared and grown several more sizes in the time it took to reach the village with the unconscious body of Jaskier in his arms. By the time he got him inside, there was a moment where he almost couldn’t let him go— couldn’t stand to put him in the bed. But he had to, so he did. 

Geralt breathes in and steps out of the river, pushing the memories away. That was long enough. It is time — he needs — to go back.