A/N: So, a friend and I decided to watch Dragonheart a couple of weeks back, which, turns out, is really Witcher-y? Bowen and the monk are basically Geralt and Dandelion, and I can totally see Geralt striking up a friendship with a dragon like that (he practically does in the books tbh). So, I decided to write a fusion AU based on TW2. This is the scene from Iorveth's path where you save the dragon knowing (spoilers) it's Saskia, except Geralt actually gets injured here. Which lbr is far more realistic if you watch how he gets thrown about then walks it off like it's nothing.

Bracing for the impact doesn't help.

There's a violent shudder as the dragon hits the trees and Geralt is thrown forcefully from her back, unable to protect himself as hurtles towards the ground. He crashes through the branches, barely managing to keep hold of his sword, then lands hard on the forest floor and pain erupts through his entire body. The air is forced abruptly from his lungs as he bounces, rolls, then eventually lands face down, and it feels like the armour that's meant to protect him will crush him with the sudden force of stopping.

Nearby, the dragon roars, skidding as she collides with the floor and hurtles out of control. The motion ends abruptly when the pointed trunk of a tree impales her through the chest.

Geralt winces and gets unsteadily to his feet. He's still trying to catch his breath, and with the first deep inhale a sharp pain suddenly blooms through his chest. It's not the pain of blunt force trauma. It's something else.

Startled, Geralt glances down at his own body, and staggers as he sees the steel hook he'd thrust into the dragon's eye socket is now embedded between his ribs. It looks unreal, like that can't really be his body the spike is driven into. Unless he breathes, he can't actually feel it.

As if testing the theory, Geralt reaches up and tugs at the hook in an attempt to dislodge it, and is rewarded with a fresh burst of pain and the first gush of hot wetness soaking into his gambeson. Shit. Don't move it. If it comes out, he's gonna bleed to death.

Geralt raises his head, vision swimming, and stares at the dragon helplessly trying to free itself from the spike. Oh. Looks like that's both of us.

Barely maintaining his grip on his sword, he stumbles closer, though he's hardly made it ten paces before his fingers go numb and he collapses to his knees. It's my heart, he realises, feeling the weak, panicked thudding in his chest. Shit, that's my heart…

The irony isn't lost on him as he fumbles for the dagger Philippa had instructed him to plunge into Saskia's heart, though he's hoping it won't come to that. He doubts he'd even have the strength now if he tried.

He's shaking as he drags himself closer, actually leaning on the dragon's snout for support as he hauls himself to his feet and holds the dagger towards her forehead. He's dreading it won't be enough, that he isn't going to be able to save her, but as he feels a vibration beneath his fingers and a warmth spreading along his otherwise cold arm, he realises the magic worked.

A halo of light glows briefly around the dragon's head, spreading out over her body, and then fades. She snorts, and then, with great effort, stands upright and hauls herself off of the tree driven through her chest.

At the same time, Geralt clutches the spike in his own chest and wrenches it free. He drops, the hook tumbling from his fingers and his head hitting the ground hard, but he doesn't even feel it. The wound is going to kill him. May as well get it over with.

Still in her dragon form, Saskia gazes down at his body and reaches out a claw to touch his chest. Geralt might have been afraid, might have wondered for a moment if the spell had failed after all and she's about to gore him, but his eyes are half closed and he isn't aware of anything.

He's dying, Saskia thinks. She can feel it, see it, hear it. His heartbeat is weak, fading rapidly, though each contraction of his heart is still enough to push more precious blood from his body and stain his armour crimson.

He's dying, and I owe him my life. That's twice now, once after the poison, and now he's freed her from Philippa's spell. She knows there's something she could do, but the magnitude of it is unspeakable, something so rare even among golden dragons that it might be a myth. Saskia knows it isn't.

If a dragon chooses, he can share his heart, her father had once told her. The two halves of a dragon's heart need not occupy the same body. They can sustain two people for many centuries, if needed. If you ever choose to save a life this way, Saskia, make sure it is worthy.

If anyone's worthy, it's Geralt. Already she's weak, and maybe sharing her heart would slash her own lifespan in two, but a debt is a debt. She can't just leave him to expire.

The blood is gurgling in Geralt's throat. It's the only sign of life left in him now, shallow, blood-drowned breaths and a barely-there pulse. She has to act fast.

Saskia reaches up a claw to her own breast, finds the hole left by the tree that's yet to begin healing, and reaches in. She finds her heart, miraculously intact even after the impalement, and divides it.

Half she pulls from her chest, a glistening ball of red pulsating with magic, and reaches towards the witcher. He's too far gone to even notice when she uses her other claw to split his armour, and then slices even deeper to widen the hole rent between his ribs. His heart shudders. Saskia places the half of her own alongside it, and then feels the sudden rush of magic as it takes root in his body, strengthening it, healing, and then with a glow of red his wound closes up. Geralt draws a deep breath, free of any rattles or gurgles, and she hears a strong, powerful thump from within his chest.

With another glow of light, Saskia transforms back to her human form, and then collapses down beside him.

They lie like that for several minutes, both regaining their strength, until Geralt gives a groan and blinks himself awake. He groans, turning his head towards Saskia and frowning in confusion. "It worked?" His voice still sounds hoarse.

She isn't sure why that stands out to her. He always sounds hoarse. "Yes. You saved me."

Groaning, he gets to his knees, placing a hand on his chest and staring in bewilderment. He looks like he isn't sure if he remembered correctly or if his brain just made the past few minutes up, but the state of his armour is unmistakable. "What happened?"

"I repaid the debt," Saskia says, kneeling herself. "Your heart was pierced. You wouldn't have survived another minute, so I gave you mine."

His eyes widen, and he stares at her, his new heart thumping harder. "You can do that?"

"Half of it. It's one of the gifts of golden dragons. It should keep you alive, witcher, as long as you don't damage it again."

Geralt's in shock. He's silent, listening for a moment as he hears the powerful thumping inside him. He can't distinguish it from Saskia's. Isn't sure if there's even anything to distinguish. "So now we're bound, you and I?"

"I'm not a full golden dragon like my father. The bond won't be as strong," she answers. "I doubt it would be enough to save you from another mortal injury, but, yes."

He stares at her, sees the blood soaking her own chest, and wonders how much of it is from the impalement and how much from what she just did to herself. "Why, Saskia?"

"I told you. I owed you my life."

Geralt doesn't know what to say. Many people have owed him their lives. Few would ever have done anything so selfless.

He grunts, gets to his feet, and holds out an arm to help her up. They're both equally unsteady. "You think you can make it back to Vergen?"

"I've always healed quickly in the past. I expect this time will be slower, but as my strength returns, so should yours. I think I can make it." She grimaces slightly. "What will you do, Geralt?"

"Head back to Loc Muinne. I need to help Iorveth. You have him to thank too for this. Without him, I never would have been able to break Philippa's spell."

"Tell him I'm grateful," she says, but the words seem laboured.

"Don't think he'll be too happy you gave me your heart. I think he was rather hoping for it himself."

"Well, his chances of that happening haven't changed," Saskia says, and it takes him by surprise. "If it's any consolation to him, he never would have had it."

"No?"

"I could never be with someone like him. Let's be honest. He's a terrorist. I'll not lie about him nor whitewash his deeds."

Scathing, for someone who'd relied so strongly on the Scoia'tael commander as an ally. Geralt raises an eyebrow. "Did you intend just to use him?"

"Geralt, Iorveth has killed more humans that you've eaten chickens," she retorts. "He's not one to be used. It's not that simple."

"Iorveth has done and would do anything for you," he points out, but stops short of asking what she'd do for Iorveth. He doesn't need to. If that had been Iorveth lying there with a spike through his chest, he already knows she wouldn't have done the same.

Saskia sighs and shakes her head. "Like I said, tell him I'm grateful. You should get back to the city, Geralt."

She's right. He should. "Thank you, Saskia. I shan't forget this."

"No, Geralt. You shan't," she agrees, as if there could be any way for them to forget now, sharing a single heart between them. "Our paths will cross again. Farewell, witcher."