Recap for game-only readers: Geralt and Dandelion went fishing, accidentally unleashed an angry djinn, and Dandelion got throttled. Geralt is trying to get him to help in the nearest city, which is where he'll eventually meet Yennefer.
Dandelion is dying.
Geralt knows it. He also knows that thought is going to turn into the past tense if he doesn't find help before sunset. The bard gives another hacking cough, spraying blood over the horse's mane as he hunches over in the saddle, then he moans horribly and turns utterly limp. He'd drop like a stone to the floor were it not for Geralt supporting him.
This is my fault, thinks Geralt. As much as he wants to blame Dandelion's own idiocy, a witcher armed with a silver sword ought to have been able to protect him, fight off the djinn sooner and they'd both be riding on contentedly now bemoaning the lack of breakfast. But Geralt had let it get too close, and now Dandelion is paying the price.
I can't lose him. Yes, he's annoying, and insufferable, and kind of a narcissist, and often acts like a far greater idiot than he actually is, but…
He's my friend.
For all Dandelion's flaws, he truly is. Geralt can't quite imagine returning to the path without ever again hearing Dandelion's clumsy footsteps following behind him, lute strings strumming and humming along while he adds half-finished lyrics to the melody. Geralt needs that smile, that often-infuriating cheer and optimism to drag him out of his bouts of melancholy, and that shamelessness and unwavering loyalty to keep him company. He won't let Dandelion die.
In his arms, the bard shivers, and Geralt grips onto him tighter. There's nothing he can do but ride and pray they'll find help in time. There are half a dozen healing potions in his pack, and all of them fucking useless. Geralt grits his teeth and resolves to save his friend some other way.
Some time before midday they come upon a village. They'll find no help here. Dandelion needs a physician or a sorcerer from the nearest city, but there's a well with clean water, and aside from Geralt's own thirst, something to drink must surely do the bard good.
Dandelion can barely swallow it. For all Geralt's coaxing and pleading, all he does is choke on the water and cough it back up stained pink, chest heaving horribly as he retches. Geralt stops trying before he accidentally lets Dandelion drown.
Not long after the stop by the well, Geralt hears the weak, strained rasp of Dandelion's breathing fall silent altogether. He halts the horse, his own heart skipping a beat as he wonders if that's it and his friend is truly gone. With the damage to the bard's neck and throat, Geralt fears to even feel for a pulse. Instead, he hones his senses as he's been trained to do, and listens.
The relief Geralt had thought he'd feel upon hearing it isn't quite there. Dandelion's heartbeat is weak, racing altogether too fast in his chest, and Geralt feels an icy dread that if he continues to listen for long enough, he'll eventually hear it stop. It's only a slight comfort when he feels the rattle and shudder as Dandelion's breathing returns.
Rinde is still half a day's ride away. He'll never make it before nightfall.
Geralt spurs the horse on and tries anyway.