At first, Geralt had assumed the bard wanted what everyone else seemed to want from a witcher. A story.
There was no shortage of people fascinated by witchers from the safety of taverns and marketplaces. They wanted to hear about monsters slain beneath moonlight, impossible odds overcome through skill and luck, silver flashing through the darkness. They loved the legend of the White Wolf, provided they never had to witness the blood, the exhaustion, or the loneliness that followed every contract.
Jaskier, Geralt had decided, was no different. Louder, certainly. Far more persistent. Infinitely more irritating. But driven by the same curiosity all the same.
The bard wanted songs. Adventure. A famous witcher at his side made for excellent material. Soon enough, Geralt had thought, the novelty would wear off.
Humans always left eventually.
The monster had been faster than he'd expected.
He remembered claws. He remembered silver. He remembered pain exploding through his ribs as something sharp tore beneath his armor, followed almost immediately by the unmistakable burn of poison spreading through his veins.
Only fragments remained. Roach bolting into the trees. His sword slipping from numb fingers. The sky.
When Geralt opened his eyes again, he was lying exactly where he had fallen.
The forest was quiet. Almost unnaturally so.
His armor felt impossibly heavy, pressing him into the earth beneath him, while dried blood glued leather to torn skin. Every breath scraped through his chest like broken glass, and when he tried to move even a single finger, his body refused him completely.
The poison had done its work well. Above him, sunlight filtered lazily through the leaves.
Or perhaps it was evening. He couldn't tell.
Minutes might have passed. Hours. Possibly even a day.
Time dissolved when every heartbeat required conscious effort.
His medallion lay cold and still against his chest.
No monsters nearby. Only silence.
Geralt let his eyes drift shut again.
No one knew where he'd gone.
No one would come looking.
This was simply how witchers died. Not in glorious final battles. Not surrounded by grateful villagers.
The voice floated faintly through the trees. Too faint. Too familiar.
The poison was beginning to cause hallucinations. It wasn't unusual.
Someone was crashing through the undergrowth with absolutely no concern for stealth.
Geralt forced his eyes open.
Jaskier stood frozen at the edge of the clearing. For one long heartbeat, he didn't move. His eyes were fixed entirely on Geralt.
On the blood soaking through battered armor.
On the sword lying discarded several feet away.
On the fact that Geralt, who never stayed down, wasn't moving at all.
The color drained from the bard's face.
The word barely existed. Then suddenly Jaskier was running.
He dropped to his knees so hard beside Geralt that the impact echoed through the clearing.
His hands hovered helplessly over Geralt's wounds, darting from one injury to another without touching any of them, as though terrified that the wrong movement would somehow make everything worse.
Geralt tried to answer. His lips barely moved. "...Poison."
Recognition flashed across the bard's face. Then panic. Real panic.
His breathing became quick and uneven.
He looked wildly around the clearing as though expecting someone else to appear.
A healer. Another witcher. Anyone.
His gaze returned to Geralt.
His hands were shaking so violently now that he curled them into fists against his own knees.
"You can't..." His voice broke completely.
Geralt watched him quietly. He had seen this before.
The exact moment fear overwhelmed people.
Villagers who found loved ones buried beneath collapsed roofs.
Soldiers staring at dying friends.
The instant before reason disappeared entirely.
For one terrible second, Geralt expected Jaskier to break.
Instead, the bard squeezed his eyes shut.
He inhaled. Slowly. Deeply. Held it. Exhaled.
When he finally opened his eyes, they were still bright with fear.
His hands still trembled. But the panic no longer controlled him.
His voice remained quiet.
Another steadying breath.
"...first we get you somewhere safe."
The bard looked impossibly young. Barely more than a boy from Oxenfurt.
Someone whose hands belonged wrapped around a quill or resting against polished maple, coaxing melodies from strings.
Not making life-or-death decisions in the middle of a forest.
He should have run. Any sensible human would have.
Instead, Jaskier rolled up his sleeves. "Come on."
His eyes moved carefully over Geralt's body.
He slipped his arms beneath Geralt's shoulders and pulled with everything he had.
Geralt moved perhaps an inch. Jaskier nearly fell backward.
He laughed once. A strained, breathless sound born entirely from disbelief.
"What exactly do they feed witchers?"
His boots dug furrows into the dirt.
His arms shook violently.
Each failure left him breathing harder than before, sweat dripping from his forehead despite the cool shade of the forest.
Yet every pause lasted only long enough for him to think.
Another angle. Another grip. Another attempt.
Geralt watched in growing disbelief.
How was this frightened young bard finding the strength to keep trying?
He had seen seasoned mercenaries abandon companions whose wounds looked less severe than this.
He had watched knights freeze in battle.
Yet somehow this boy from Oxenfurt, who complained whenever rain ruined his boots and grumbled dramatically about sleeping outdoors, simply refused to surrender.
Eventually, through stubbornness more than technique, Jaskier managed to drag Geralt upright.
The movement sent agony lancing through Geralt's ribs.
Jaskier slipped beneath one armored arm, wrapping it across his own shoulders before bracing himself.
The instant Geralt's full weight settled against him, Jaskier's knees buckled.
He staggered. Nearly collapsed.
Another desperate effort.
For one awful moment Geralt was certain they were both about to hit the ground.
Instead, Jaskier planted his boots, tightened both arms around Geralt's waist, and with a noise that sounded suspiciously like pure determination made audible, forced himself upright.
Every muscle in his body trembled. His breathing had become ragged.
Still... He took one step. Then another.
"Honestly," he muttered through clenched teeth, "reckless bloody witchers..."
"...always insisting on nearly dying in the most inconvenient places."
"You couldn't pick a roadside inn?"
"...the middle of a forest."
Despite everything, Geralt almost smiled.
The complaints were familiar. Comforting. Yet beneath every muttered word lay something else.
Jaskier wasn't scolding him. He was talking because silence terrified him.
He was terrified that if Geralt stopped hearing his voice... Geralt might stop listening altogether.
The journey to the nearest village should have taken little more than an hour.
With Geralt leaning heavily against him, it lasted until sunset.
Jaskier stumbled more times than Geralt could count. Each time he nearly fell, he somehow found the strength to stay upright.
He stopped every few dozen steps only long enough to catch his breath before forcing himself onward again.
He talked constantly. About Oxenfurt. About ridiculous nobles. About a pie he'd once eaten that had nearly made him cry with happiness.
About absolutely anything.
Geralt realized, eventually, that none of the stories were for Jaskier.
They were for him. To keep him awake.
To remind him there was still someone beside him.
To give him one more voice to follow through the haze of poison.
By the time they reached the village, Jaskier looked ready to collapse.
The healer barely glanced at Geralt before naming a price.
Jaskier emptied every coin from his purse onto the table. The healer counted. Then looked up.
Silence settled. Slowly, Jaskier reached over his shoulder.
His fingers rested on his lute.
Geralt had never seen him let anyone else hold it. He had protected that instrument through storms, tavern brawls, and monsters alike.
Without another word, Jaskier unclasped the strap.
The healer turned it over thoughtfully before finally nodding.
Jaskier didn't even watch him carry it away. His attention had already returned to Geralt.
When Geralt woke again, sunlight streamed softly through the window.
The poison no longer clouded his thoughts.
Across the room, Jaskier sat asleep in a wooden chair beside the bed, still wearing clothes stained with dried blood and mud.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes.
The healer noticed Geralt watching him.
"Your friend finally fell asleep this morning," the old man said quietly. "Spent three days refusing to leave your bedside. I was beginning to think I'd have another patient."
Geralt almost corrected him.
Instead... He remained silent.
Jaskier woke sometime that evening with a sleepy blink.
The moment he saw Geralt sitting up, relief spread across his face so openly that it almost hurt to witness.
Geralt studied him for a long time. "...Why?"
Jaskier frowned. "Why what?"
"You were gone too long."
"You couldn't exactly walk."
"You gave away everything."
Jaskier looked genuinely confused.
"As opposed to... letting you die?"
The bard glanced briefly toward the empty corner where it should have been. A flicker of sadness crossed his face. Then it disappeared.
Silence stretched between them. Finally Jaskier shrugged, smiling with that same effortless warmth Geralt had never understood.
Geralt lowered his eyes. "...I'm not your friend."
The words came automatically. They had protected him for decades.
Jaskier considered that for a moment. Then smiled wider.
"Well," he said simply, "you are now."
Geralt looked at him. Really looked at him.
At the young man who had searched an entire forest because a witcher had been gone longer than expected.
Who had panicked, then mastered that panic.
Who had carried someone far stronger than himself until his own body threatened to give out.
Who had surrendered every coin he owned and the instrument he loved most in the world, without once expecting repayment.
For the first time in many years, Geralt realized he had been completely wrong about someone.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
This time... He didn't argue.
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