The sun had already disappeared behind the trees when Jaskier spied the horse down the stream. In the twilight, he couldn't discern her features, but it had to be Roach. There was nobody else in these parts of the woods. As he approached, each step a soft crush of dried leaves, the mare raised her head and flicked her ears.

He felt a surge of relief at her sight. After long hours of traveling through the wilderness without catching so much as a trace of Geralt, he had worried that this whole venture might have been a mistake. Not only had he failed to find his friend, he was now facing the prospect of spending the night in this desolate place all by himself, and he hadn't forgotten about the woodland beast. The familiar sight of the horse was like finding water after a day in the desert, and he quickened his pace.

She didn't retreat, even took a step towards him and allowed him to touch her. His hands stroked down her back. She wore no saddle.

"Hey there," he addressed her softly. "Are you alright?"

His fingers laced into the bridle and gently turned her head towards him.

"Where is Geralt, huh?"

She nickered softly at his question, and his brows furrowed, worried. He noticed the loose end of her tethers dangling down her neck and ran his fingers down the leather cord to its severed end. He inquisitively stroked his thumb across the clean cut and frowned, not sure what to make of it. Why would Geralt cut her free?

Disquieted, he looked up to scan the area around him. It was quiet except for the soft gurgle of the water and the wind in the trees. There was no sign of the witcher, no wisp of smoke that bespoke a campfire. But he had to be nearby, he would never leave Roach behind.

"Geralt?"

No answer.

His eyes wandered across the dense thicket that extended on either side of the stream, taking in the giant pines and oaks, the thick tufts of fern and overgrown rocks. It struck him how incredibly old this part of the forest was - shocks of moss hanging from gnarled branches, tree trunks so large that they dwarfed everything else. Who knew what kind of beasts lurked in their shadows? He felt his skin prickle at the thought.

"Geralt!"

Again, his call was met with silence. The uneasy feeling in his stomach solidified. Whatever this meant, it wasn't anything good. Roach nudged him from behind and he absentmindedly patted her neck.

"You're worried, I get it. I'm worried, too."

She was a smart mare, he knew that. Sometimes, when Geralt talked to her, it really seemed like she understood. But Jaskier also knew she wouldn't be able to lead him to Geralt. He would have to find him himself, and with the day drawing to its end, he'd better be quick about it too. The sun had already disappeared behind the trees and the shoreline was shrouded in darkness. He really didn't want to prowl around this forest after nightfall. Firmly, he took a hold of her tethers and with a gentle tug, he urged her to come along as he continued to follow the stream downhill.

Geralt's campsite was easier to find than expected. He immediately knew that he had found the right place when he spotted a huge carcass a little further into the woods. The last rays of sunlight picked out a pair of antlers protruding from what looked like a heap of charred bark and twisted limbs. Although it was clear that the beast was dead, he approached with caution, caught in a state between timid curiosity and horror. Instead of a head, it sported a pale deer skull, cracked from what Jaskier suspected was the impact of a sword. Several slain wolves were scattered around the place. He counted six in total.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he slung Roach's tethers loosely around a branch and cautiously moved on, making his way across the clearing as if through a battlefield. The air was heavy with the stench of blood.

"Geralt?"

His voice was half raised only. There was no need to risk luring more beasts to the party when Geralt's augmented hearing would catch on to his presence anyway. That was, if he was close enough and capable of answering.

Unsettled by the silence, he made his way towards the remains of the campfire. He found the ashes warm to the touch and wondered at the empty kettle that was carelessly tossed aside. The bedroll was disturbed as if someone had walked over it, and Geralt's steel sword and armor had been kicked into the underbrush. The silver sword, however, was missing.

"Geralt?"

Louder this time.

Roach snorted and shook her head. Expecting the worst, he set down his belongings and hesitated only a second before pulling Geralt's steel sword from its scabbard. If there was still a threat nearby, he didn't want to face it with bare hands. Experimentally, he tested its weight and attempted a strike, which turned out to be more force than precision. He firmed his lips in frustration. Well, it was better than nothing.

He started to circle the perimeter, nervous eyes flitting across the dense trees and shrubs for any sign of life. Near the end of the clearing, the ground dipped slightly, and he came across another dead wolf, killed by a singular strike across its neck that had nearly severed its head. Its fangs were bloody, and there was a scrap of black fabric stuck beneath them. His gaze wandered past the carcass and settled on a dark form that lay in the shadows, slumped against a fallen tree. Even from the distance, he could make out the deep gashes across his chest, glistening red seeping through torn clothes, white hair lank with grime and blood.

His heart skipped a beat.

"Geralt."

He hurried towards the man even before the words were out. To his surprise, Geralt jerked up his head, a fraction only, but enough to reveal a hard glint of gold beneath half-closed eyelids.

"Stay away from me."

The words came out as a feral growl, almost inhuman, and Jaskier stopped dead in his tracks. Beneath the smears of blood, Geralt's face was distorted by naked terror and fury. It was the look of a wounded animal ready to fight for its life.

Jaskier swallowed.

"It's okay. It's me, Jaskier."

"Stay. Away."

Geralt's right hand jerked up to form a sign, shaking but still incredibly fast.

"Whoa, there. Easy."

He raised a hand that was meant to appease him, eyes transfixed on Geralt's outstretched fingers. The witcher could blast him to pieces if he chose to, could set him on fire. Jaskier had seen it happen a variety of times, to humans and monsters alike, and he wasn't particularly keen on finding out what exactly that would feel like.

Geralt's eyes were livid and devoid of recognition. He was completely out of it, he realized, caught in one of his terrible nightmares. Whatever he saw, whoever Geralt thought he was, it apparently scared the hell out of him. Jaskier didn't doubt for a second that Geralt would carry out his threat if he so much as moved a muscle.

Still, he had to move if he wanted to help him. He swallowed at the sight of the blood that soaked his shirt, the pallor of his skin. The way it looked, he might well be bleeding out, right where he had fallen.

He licked his lips.

"Okay," he offered as calm as he could. "I'm going to stay here, alright? I'm not going to come any closer."

Slowly, deliberately telegraphing every movement, he set down the sword, never taking his eyes off his friend. He noticed the way Geralt's chest was heaving in short, rapid gasps, the sheen of sweat on his face. The way he held his left arm curled against his chest, forearm at an unnatural angle.

"I want to help you."

Geralt tensed almost imperceptibly, a slight tremor shaking his frame. So far, he didn't seem too intent on blowing Jaskier across the clearing, which was encouraging.

"Okay," he mumbled to himself, keeping his distance as promised. His thoughts were racing. What now? He could wait until the man passed out, which might not take all that long, the way he looked. However, he didn't know how badly he was bleeding, so time might be an issue here.

Maybe he could talk him out of it. He could do that, he told himself. He was good at talking. At least he liked to believe that.

He sought out Geralt's gaze, desperately trying to form a connection as he lowered himself into a sitting position to get on eye-level. He figured that he was less threatening that way, not that he'd ever had to make an effort to appear even less threatening than he actually was.

"See?" He went on, voice pitched low. "Nothing to fear. I'll just remain over here. Too far away to do anything. You're safe." He tried to project a calm into his words he did not feel, ignoring the frantic voice screaming in the back of his head that this was suicidal. If Geralt decided to blow a fireball in his direction, that was it.

"Why don't you lower that hand of yours. It's a bit scary, actually, having you aim at me like that. Feels like staring down a loaded crossbow. No? Okay." He suppressed a sigh of frustration. "That's okay. If you feel better that way, that's okay."

Fuck, what was he even doing here?

"Can you even hear me, Geralt?" He asked tentatively. "Please say something."

The hand that was still aimed at him wavered slightly, and it encouraged him to keep up his soft chatter.

"Just focus on my voice. Can you do that? Whatever threat you think you have to deal with, it's not real. But I am real, and I've come to help you."

He just kept on talking, saying the same things over and over again. That he was safe, that it would be okay. It didn't seem to help much at first, but after long minutes there was a shift in Geralt's expression, barely perceivable. Like a fog dissipating at a gust of wind.

"That's it. Just listen to me. I'm right here."

"Jaskier?"

The whispered word was so uncertain and lost that it made his heart ache.

"Thank the Gods." He exhaled a sigh of relief, closing his eyes briefly. "Yes, it's me. Can you please lower your hand?"

Slowly, Geralt complied, staring at him in utter confusion.

"Thank you, that's good. Is it okay if I get up now?"

While he was waiting for an answer, Jaskier saw a sudden wave of pain wash across Geralt's face, and the witcher curled into himself with a groan, his good hand pressing against his ribs. He clenched his teeth, brows knitted tightly, and Jaskier, unable to watch any longer, got to his feet.

"I'm going to come over now," he said, trying hard to avoid any sudden movement that might push him back into the place he had just escaped from. "Just take it easy. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help."

He was surprised at the rubbery feel of his legs as he crossed the distance between them and knelt by Geralt's side. He was shaking harder now, nostrils flaring. His eyes were wide and panicked, following Jaskier's every movement, but thankfully devoid of hostility.

"What are you - " Geralt's forced the words out in between breaths, tensing as Jaskier lay a light hand on his shoulder, "doing here, Jaskier." He swallowed audibly. "Told you – to stay away."

"Yeah, well. You're not the only mule-brained idiot around here."

Even through the fabric of the shirt, Jaskier felt how cold he was. He wondered how long he had lain here.

"Do you know where you are?"

Geralt nodded, face deadly pale. Jaskier started to gently look him over, trying to get an idea what exactly they were dealing with, when an icy hand closed around his wrist.

"Geralt - ," he protested.

"No."

Golden eyes bored into him, glazed with pain, but otherwise astoundingly clear.

"Back to camp. I don't - ," he bit back a sound of discomfort and swallowed hard. "I don't want to spend the night here."

Jaskier furrowed his brows in concern.

"You think you can walk?"

A grim nod.

The suggestion was sensible. It wasn't far, just across the clearing, and the ground was already cleared. With the ashes still warm, it wouldn't take long to restart the fire. They both would be more comfortable than here in the oppressive darkness of the woods.

"Alright," he sighed, moving to Geralt's side. "Your call. Just let me know if you need to stop."

Mindful of injuries he couldn't see, Jaskier gently draped Geralt's good arm around his shoulders, then reached for his hip to pull the man against him. The witcher responded with an agonized groan but managed to keep his feet under him. Clumsily, he braced himself against the bard who shifted to support the weight.

"Shoot, Geralt, you're heavy," he panted, readjusting his grip to get a better hold of him. "Okay, let's get going."

It was a slow walk, the silence between them only interrupted by Geralt's pained grunts. With their bodies so close, Jaskier clearly felt the tremors that shook him, the twitch of muscle when a particularly vicious bolt of pain took his breath. Twice, Geralt's legs gave way, and it took considerable effort on both sides to get him back to his feet again. Jaskier was infinitely glad when they finally reached their destination, and Geralt all but crumpled onto his bedroll, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Jaskier dropped to his knees beside him, knowing that he had to assess his injuries before doing anything else. Not that he was particularly looking forward to it. Geralt's clothes were drenched with blood, and he was scared of what he might find when he removed them. He had to be careful about it, too, to avoid startling him. The prospect of Geralt slipping back into that dark place scared him more than he'd liked to admit.

He lay a gentle hand on Geralt's shoulder to get his attention.

"I'll have a look at you now, okay?"

Geralt gave a small nod but failed to open his eyes. He looked completely spent.

"It would be easier if you were sitting up."

Jaskier hated to make him move, but in order to examine his injuries, he would have to get rid of the clothes first. Geralt set his jaw. With a low groan, he started to push upright and Jaskier helpfully took hold of his shoulders to aid him along. Deftly, he tucked Geralt's shirt free and was about to push it up when his gaze fell on Geralt's bad arm, still curled tightly against his chest, and he hesitated.

"Knife's in my saddlebags," Geralt prompted weakly. Jaskier looked at him, uncomprehending. "Cut off the shirt. It's ruined anyway."

"Alright."

Only that his saddlebags weren't there. Geralt cursed softly when Jaskier pointed it out, and after a moment's hesitation, he jerked his head toward the carcass in the middle of the clearing.

"Should be somewhere over there. Tried to save it from the leshen."

Jaskier nodded. "Okay. I'll be right back."

It turned out Geralt was right. He found the bag easily enough, half-buried under the remains of the tree-like creature and sticky with a resinous substance that was probably its blood. It took some effort to pull it free as it was firmly lodged between massive roots. At a closer look, it actually seemed like the roots had grown around it, almost as if they had been trying to tighten their grip. Baffled, but lacking the time to give it much thought, he returned to Geralt, who had reached for his blanket and draped it around his shoulders. Jaskier mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it earlier. Of course, he was cold.

He settled on his knees in front of him and pulled the bag into his lap. It was good that he had been able to find it so quickly. Besides the knife, there were a lot of things in there that might be of use, Geralt's potions probably being on top of that list. Jaskier remembered when he had first learned about the effects of swallow after Geralt had been injured in an encounter with a wyvern. His wounds had literally disappeared overnight. If they were lucky, Geralt had one or two of those potions stowed away somewhere in his saddlebags.

His hopes were destroyed the moment he glimpsed inside. Carefully, he reached into the bag and retrieved a shattered flask coated with some residual blue liquid. He took out another one, also broken. By the smells of it, it must have contained some of the witcher's sword oil. Jaskier cursed softly as he realized what this meant.

"I guess we'll have to do without your potions."

Geralt's lips pressed into a thin line.

"What about the tea?"

Unceremoniously, Jaskier turned the bag over to dump its contents into the grass. It was a mess, the complete contents drenched with the various concoctions Geralt carried with him. He found the requested item without difficulty, a portion of dried herbs wrapped in linen. It, too, was soaked with stinking liquid. He held it up for Geralt to see.

"This?"

He placed it into Geralt's waiting hand and watched him unfold it a bit clumsily, fingers trembling from blood loss and shock. He sniffed its contents, then twisted his face in disgust. He tossed it aside, expression dark. The look in his eyes was deeply unsettling. Despaired. Helpless.

"Geralt, what is it?"

The witcher clenched his teeth, every muscle rippling with tension, then shook his head.

"Nothing. Let's just get this over with."

Tremors started to wrack his battered body again, and he looked so defeated, so completely drained that Jaskier felt the impulse to simply let him sleep. But he needed to see to his injuries first.

He fished Geralt's knife from the mess of glass shards and ruined food, then rinsed it thoroughly with water from the canteen. Only when he was satisfied that all possibly poisonous residue was removed, he turned to Geralt again. Gently, he slipped the blanket from his shoulders and then started to cut away the shirt, proceeding with utmost care whenever he found it stuck in a wound. Geralt remained silent except for the occasional sharp intake of breath that made Jaskier's stomach clench in sympathy.

It turned out that the damage was excessive. Kneading his lip, Jaskier inspected the deep gashes that marred his chest, the countless claw marks and extensive bruising on his back. The worst thing, however, was his left arm. He knew it would be bad, the unnatural angle of the forearm had given that much away but confronted with the bloody mess of mangled muscles and sinews, he could feel bile rise in the back of his throat.

"Shit, this looks bad."

The edges of the wound were jagged and torn, and there was blood, so much blood. From the mass of glistening red, he caught glimpses of white, which had to be splintered bone. Radius and ulna, his memory provided. Not that naming them was going to help him treat this.

"Geralt," he began in a small voice, unable to finish his sentence. He was no healer; he didn't even know how to begin to take care of this.

His eyes sought Geralt's, silently begging for help.

With heavy-lidded eyes, the witcher gazed down at his arm. He seemed oddly detached, almost zoned out. For a moment, Jaskier feared that he had slipped into that dark place again, where he was haunted by memories too terrible to put into words, but it seemed he was wrong. Geralt was still there. At least the analytical part of his mind was still functioning.

"Fuck," he rumbled hoarsely. "That is bad."

"It was the wolf, wasn't it." He remembered the shred of fabric stuck between bloody fangs.

Geralt nodded weakly.

"So, what do we do about it?" Jaskier urged on, an uneasy feeling in his stomach. "Do I need to set the bones?"

"No. Just splint them as they lie." He let out a sigh. "But you have to clean the wound thoroughly." He raised his gaze. Golden eyes bored into Jaskier's and the seriousness in them was terrifying. "And I mean thoroughly. Scrub it clean, get the dirt out. All of it. And we have to stop the bleeding."

Jaskier nodded, a lump in his throat but grateful for the instructions. He reached for his bag, looking for a clean piece of clothing and pulled out an embroidered shirt in emerald green. He noticed how much his hands were shaking and clenched his teeth in frustration. Get yourself together, Julian Alfred Pankratz, he reprimanded himself. Your friend depends on you. You can get all teary-eyed and nauseous when this is over.

Using Geralt's knife, he made short work of his shirt, folded it and pressed it against the gaping wound. Geralt tensed and Jaskier's eyes locked with his.

"Can you hold this in place?" He asked quietly. "I need to start a fire and boil some water."

Geralt gave a terse nod.

"Boil one of your shirts too. I really don't want this to get infected. Without my potions - " he paused, wincing, then added softly, "I don't want to lose this arm."

Jaskier nodded. He didn't want him to lose that arm either.

Or his life, for that matter.