Summary: Akela breaks her leg.
"Hear my heartbeat? Just focus on that."
Akela's hand was white where it was wrapped tightly around Geralt's arm. Her chest hurt, but her leg hurt more. She tried to ignore it, to focus on her ragged breathing and Geralt's heartbeat, just as he'd said.
He had his back to a wall, she had hers to his chest, her legs stretched out before her, Triss bent over the left one, which was throbbing and stabbing and aching and every other synonym for agony.
"How does it look?" Geralt directed this question to Triss, and Akela was glad for it, because things were starting to get hazy.
"Quite bad," Triss replied. There was a touch of concern in her voice. Her hands were cold against Akela's legs, and every time she prodded a little too hard, she'd whimper and push her face into Geralt's arm, leading him to soothe her once more.
"Can you stop her pain?" There was urgency in his, and irritation. If there was one thing that could rile him, it was seeing his child hurt.
Triss glanced up and nodded. "I will put her into a medicinal sleep," she said, reaching for a vial of something behind her. "Then I can set the bones and properly bandage it." She came to kneel beside Akela. The girl was seeing black dots. It was taking all she had to not pass out there and then, but for some suffocating reason, she felt as though if she did that, she wouldn't wake up. This of course lead her to flatly refuse the vial's contents as it was gently pressed to her lips. She groaned and moved away as much as she could.
Geralt's hand found her forehead, and his thumb rubbed at her temple. "Drink it, 'Kela," he said softly. "You'll be okay, don't be scared. I'll be here when you wake up."
That was enough to change her mind.