Chapter Text
Geralt regularly tended to Jaskier throughout the day, giving him small amounts of water, making sure he was comfortable. Ciri did as she was told and kept away from Jaskier. Though it didn’t mean she didn’t pester Geralt about him after each time he checked on him. Geralt would patiently answer her questions, mostly giving the same answer each time.
The next morning when Ciri asked, there was a new response. “His fever has gotten worse. I need to try to bring it down.”
He sent Ciri to fetch some water from a nearby stream, a task which she was all to happy to help with, finally feeling useful. When she returned, Geralt was by their packs, pulling out some of his small glass bottles.
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to make him some tea. It should help bring down his temperature.”
“I thought your potions were toxic to humans.”
“They are. These aren’t potion ingredients, just a bunch of medicinal plants. You’ve probably had some yourself in the past. They’re very useful.”
Ciri sat quietly as Geralt poured some of the water into the pot and placed it over the fire. While he waited for that to boil, he took the rest of the cool water over to Jaskier. He sat by his side, wetting a cloth before wringing it out and laying it on Jaskier’s forehead, brushing his sweaty hair out of the way.
Even from across the camp, Ciri could see the deep pink colouring his cheeks. Geralt had pulled back his blanket, exposing him to the chilly air. His clothes were damp with sweat, sticking to his skin. He still looked like he was having to fight just to get enough air to breathe, struggling to take in a deep breath against the crackling in his lungs. He honestly looked and sounded terrible.
Geralt brewed the tea, carefully pouring it down Jaskier’s throat once it had cooled. It was a slow and careful process to make sure he didn’t accidentally choke. After that he removed Jaskier’s shirt, wiping him down with the remainder of the water, washing away the sweat and hopefully helping to cool him down. Ciri turned her back then, feeling like she was invading their private space.
Geralt had told her about Jaskier before they met him on the Path. She had asked if he had any friends, curious about the man who was now in charge of her safety. He had said then that there used to be one person, before he had driven them away. It took another few days for him to even tell her his name. Over the course of a few weeks, Ciri had pieced enough information together to gather that they had known each other for many years.
It was only when they happened to run into Jaskier, and after he agreed to join them, that she actually learnt exactly how long they had known each other. After hearing from Jaskier what had happened after a dragon hunt one night, she had stormed over to Geralt and demanded he apologise. Surprisingly, he did as he was told, though not without complaint, and the two had a conversation about it. There had been some raised voices from both sides but they at least had seemed to come to some kind of understanding. From then, ever so slowly, she could see the cracks in their friendship slowly mending.
Around midday Jaskier made a noise. It wasn’t the usual disoriented noise of someone waking up from a deep sleep, more of a pained cry. It got both Ciri and Geralt’s attention immediately. Geralt was by his side in an instant, mumbling soft words of reassurance to him. Ciri hovered uselessly, only able to watch.
For a moment, she thought Jaskier might wake. Instead, he began weakly struggling against Geralt. Geralt had to grab him gently to stop him hurting himself as his thrashing only became more frantic. He cried out again, a desperate sound Ciri wished she hadn’t heard.
“Hush, Jaskier, it’s alright. It’s just me. It’s Geralt.”
Ciri wondered if she was like this when she had nightmares. She had woken more than once to find Geralt holding her wrists, only for him to pull her into a soothing hug as soon as she stopped resisting.
Unlike with her, Jaskier didn’t seem to hear Geralt’s voice guiding him back to consciousness. He continued to cry out, fighting against the grip on his arms. Geralt was forced to use his body to pin Jaskier down, wrapping his arms around him to keep him still. It wasn’t that he was too strong, just that his wild flailing was becoming a danger to himself.
Eventually Jaskier did calm down, falling back into a deep sleep. Geralt released him, adjusting him so that he was once more comfortable and replacing the damp cloth on his head. “I need to cool him down faster,” Geralt grumbled.
He turned to Ciri, probably to ask her to fetch more water. Whatever words he was about to say died on his tongue. “Ciri, I’m sorry you had to see that.” He stood, walking over to her before pulling her into a hug. “There’s no need for tears.”
Ciri hadn’t even realised she’d been crying but now that he had brought her attention to it, she suddenly found herself unable to stop. She buried her face into Geralt’s shirt, giving in to her fears, letting herself cry. Geralt held her, patiently waiting for her to calm down, rubbing her back in soothing circles.
“Better?” he asked after a few minutes when she had stopped shaking.
Ciri only nodded, rubbing at her eyes as she took a step back from Geralt.
“He’ll be okay. I promise.” He offered a tired smile, but even she could tell he wasn’t certain of Jaskier’s future.
Jaskier stirred again just a couple of hours later. He didn’t struggle like before, instead clawing himself half-way to consciousness, desperately clinging on to Geralt, begging him to get rid of the monster in his chest that was apparently suffocating him. Geralt had to patiently assure him that there was no monster and that he was just very ill and should try to rest. After a minute, Jaskier tired himself out again and fell asleep.
“His fever hasn’t gone down much,” Geralt grumbled, more to himself than to Ciri.
“Is there anything we can do?”
Geralt shook his head. “I’ve done all I can. He needs a healer, but the nearest village is two days away and I don’t even know if there will be anyone there who can help. We’ll just have to keep him comfortable while his body fights whatever this is.”
Jaskier woke several more times as afternoon turned to night. He would wake frantically trying to escape whatever trap he thought himself caught in, begging Geralt to help him between gasping breaths. Sometimes he wouldn’t even be able to speak, air catching in his throat, sending him into a coughing fit. Geralt would reassure him they were safe and try to help him get his breathing back under control.
It was difficult to watch. Ciri would turn her back, trying to tune out his cries for help. Even she could tell he was getting weaker, his struggling easier for Geralt to control. It got to the point where all Geralt had to do was press his hand against Jaskier chest to keep him down. Ciri wished he would keep fighting.
She didn’t sleep much that night, constantly on edge, waiting for the next time Jaskier woke. Geralt no longer left his side, having set up his bedroll beside him. She couldn’t decide what was worse, Jaskier constantly waking up, crying and begging Geralt to help, or the prospect that he might not wake at all.