The brook water was so cold it almost hurt, but Jaskier welcomed the icy chill. He was bone-tired, and the sensation washed some of the weariness away. Crouching at the waterside, he splashed a couple of handfuls into his face and rubbed his neck, then raked his fingers through his hair. Before him, sunlight sparkled merrily on the water's surface, and shreds of fog veiled the foot of the trees along the shore. It would be a beautiful day. Under different circumstances, the view would have inspired him to a song or a poem. However, the way things were, the poet in him was utterly silent.

Jaskier sat back on his haunches, suppressing a sigh while Roach beside him drank her fill. It wasn't only the physical exhaustion that was getting to him. The long night of watching over his sick friend had left him emotionally drained as well. It had been terrible to watch Geralt slip from nightmare to nightmare, crying out either in pain or terror, and not being able to help. Jaskier had spent endless hours kneeling by his side, cooling his brow with water from the brook and keeping up a constant low chatter, hoping that somehow his mumbled reassurances would penetrate the wall of fever. It hadn't seemed to do much good.

In the end, it had been exhaustion that had put Geralt to sleep, and the witcher hadn't woken since. When Jaskier had checked on him earlier, he had been out cold, and the bard had decided it best to let him rest. There was a long journey ahead of them, and he needed all the strength he could get. They both did.

As he refilled the canteens, Jaskier noticed a stain of blood on the sleeve of his tunic. Distractedly, he rubbed at it, knowing full well it probably wouldn't come out. Gods, he wished he were a healer. There had to be something he could do, some plant in this godforsaken forest that possessed healing properties. But the only plants he knew were the ones he could gift to a lovely lady and the ones he could order at an inn. Beside him, Roach snorted and he shot her a tired glance.

"You're right," he sighed. "Time to get back to camp. You're probably hungry, aren't you?"

She nickered softly as if she understood, and he smiled wanly, letting her nuzzle his palm. No wonder Geralt liked to talk to her. If one lacked human company, she was quite a comfort indeed. Seemed it all depended on the state of mind you were in. He patted her neck.

"I guess it's time to check on Geralt then. See if we can't rouse him."

He picked up the canteens and took hold of Roach's bridle, gently leading her along. Truth be told, he had no idea what to do if he couldn't wake him. There was no way he could hoist an unconscious man into the saddle, and considering Geralt's injuries, he didn't even want to consider tossing him across Roach's back like a sack of potatoes. It would be hell on his broken ribs, not to think of the deep slashes across his chest.

Jaskier was still pondering on it as he reached camp and was caught by surprise when he saw a woman kneeling at Geralt's side. She was slender, her face hidden under a mass of dark curls as she leaned over him. At his approach, she looked up and nodded her greeting.

"You must be Jaskier."

Stunned, his grip tightened around Roach's tethers. He had never seen her before, but considering that she had literally appeared out of nowhere, there was only one explanation he could think of. She was a sorceress. She looked like one, too. Her face was ageless in a way one associated with mages, and beneath her gray traveling cloak, she wore a shimmering green dress whose fabric alone must have cost a fortune.

"Triss Merigold."

She introduced herself before he could ask. Foltest's mage, he mentally added. The sorceress that Geralt had spent so much time with. Relief flooded him at the realization. With things being as they were, this was a fortunate turn of events.

"How did you get here?" It was the first thing that came to mind, his mouth working before his brain kicked in. Instantly, he chided himself for asking such a stupid question. She was a mage. The answer was probably magic. "Not that I mind," he rambled on. "Your presence is more than welcome. Although I might add, it would have been great if you had shown up a little earlier."

He instantly regretted his last sentence when he saw her lips press into a thin line. Only now did he notice the shadows under her eyes, the stricken expression on her face. It was a look he knew all too well from Geralt, when the witcher had failed to finish a contract to his liking. When someone had gotten hurt.

"I portaled here once I found out."

Her voice was level, but Jaskier caught the wet shimmer in her eyes. Quietly, she turned her attention back to Geralt, who lay pale and unresponsive. Beads of sweat glistened on his skin. Jaskier tethered Roach and approached hesitantly, suddenly scared to find out how he was really doing. What if he was dying?

"How long since he was last awake?"

She didn't look up, merely moved her hand to his throat, feeling for a pulse.

"A couple of hours," Jaskier replied, shifting nervously. "Depending on how you define awake. He's been in and out of it for the better part of the night."

She nodded, taking in the information.

"He's only found rest in the early morning hours," he went on, feeling the need to fill her in. He didn't want to risk her missing something important. Something that might help. "I didn't try to wake him. Thought it might be better to let him sleep."

"He isn't sleeping," she said softly. "Not really."

Looking at Geralt's face, Jaskier could see what she meant. Pain ghosted across Geralt's features, his eyes darting back and forth under closed lids. There was a slight twitch of brows, a shallow breath hitching in his chest.

"He's having another nightmare." Jaskier unnecessarily said it out loud. "Can you make it stop?"

"I've tried to." She shot him a glance, giving him a sad smile. "I really have. But he is too far gone. I can't reach him."

She brushed her hand across his forehead in what looked like an attempt to smooth the frown from his face. He noticed the gentleness of the gesture, the hurt in her eyes, and then it clicked. What the fuck, Geralt. You told me there was nothing between the two of you.

"Then wake him."

"I can't. And even if I could, he probably wouldn't even know us," she said bitterly. "When did he receive these injuries?"

"Just yesterday."

She peeled back the bandage around his chest to inspect the slashes beneath, then gently probed his ribcage to feel for cracked bones. When she removed the dressing on Geralt's arm, she bit her lip. The wound looked exactly as bad as the day before, if not worse. He saw the swelling, the angry red of the gaping wound, the pale glimpse of bone. You didn't have to be a healer to see the signs of beginning infection.

"I cleaned it the best I could," he said helplessly, feeling utterly inadequate. "He told me not to try and set the bones."

"Good advice," she retorted, examining the wound. "No offense, but this is not how you splint a broken arm."

Jaskier felt his throat close up. Of course, he'd done it all wrong. If only Geralt had been awake to talk him through it – but he had been completely out of it. The pain from cleaning the wound had done him in. He kneaded his lower lip, watching as her skilled hands repositioned the splint and wrapped the arm in a fresh bandage.

"I'm sorry," he said, devastated.

She looked up, noticed the look on his face and sighed.

"No, I'm sorry." She shook her head. "I shouldn't have said that. You did the best you could. This isn't your fault."

The smile she offered did little to ease the load from his chest, but he tried to believe her. Suddenly he realized that he had to be making a pretty weak impression here, bags under his eyes, ruffled shirt and everything. Self-consciously, he ran a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to fix that much at least.

"Will he be okay?"

"I don't know. His arm needs surgery, and even with a good portion of magic, there's still a chance it might not heal properly. As far as his mind is concerned - " she sighed. "I just don't know."

She turned to look at the contents of Geralt's saddlebags that lay on the ground nearby, a heap of broken flasks and soiled food.

"Where's the tea?" She asked, carefully inspecting the mess.

The tea. Jaskier instantly remembered the small package of dried leaves soaked in witcher potions and sword oil. Geralt had tossed it aside, it still had to be somewhere around. Jaskier quickly spotted it in the grass, just a few feet away, and handed it to Triss.

"It's ruined," he told her unnecessarily, watching as she sniffed it and pinched her face at the stench. "Must have happened during the fight. What is it for?"

"It was meant to help with the remains of the curse. Doesn't look like he used it much. Can you tell me when he had the last cup?"

He raised his shoulders.

"I don't rightly know. He brewed one when we first made camp, spilled half of it if I remember correctly. I don't know if he had any after that. I only found him again yesterday evening."

"You parted ways?"

"Well, it's more like he parted ways with me. Sneaked off in the middle of the night." He paused when he realized how angry he sounded and took a deep breath before continuing. "When I found him, the fight was already over. He didn't even know where he was, or who I was, for that matter. Threatened to blast me right across the clearing."

Her brows furrowed.

"Did he hurt you?"

There was honest concern in her voice, and his remaining anger dissipated. He hadn't expected her to care.

"No. No, I'm okay."

She tilted her head, gazing at him inquiringly, and he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. Mages could read minds, couldn't they? She probably saw right through him. Saw the exhaustion, his worry, everything. Then again, one probably didn't have to be a mage to notice.

"Alright," she said at length. "Let's get him out of here. Can you pack up? I'd like to leave here as soon as I can."

His hands were bloodied from banging against the walls.

He could not see it in the darkness, but he felt the warm stickiness on his knuckles, tasted the copper in the air. He did not know how long he had been here, slumped in a corner of the too-small room, staring blindly ahead. He was not used to complete darkness, his mutated eyes always revealing something, catching on to the slightest shimmer of light, but not in this place. There was no door, no window. Just cold stone and blackest night.

Sometimes he heard voices from beyond the walls, whispering into the deafening silence. They were voices that mocked him, taunted him. They spoke of Renfri dying at his hands. Triss choking under his grip. They spoke of all the wrongs he had done, the people he had failed to save. Sometimes he heard Celaena's voice, listing the names of those he would kill for her yet, the crimes he was still to commit.

Not real, he mumbled, pressing his hands against his ears. This is not real.

But he didn't believe it anymore. He remembered Celaena kneeling by his side in the clearing, remembered her touch on his head. I have come to take you home.

He had been here ever since.

He pressed his hands harder against his ears, pleading for the voices to stop, and sobbed in frustration when it didn't help. Not real, he repeated to himself. Not real. Not real. In a spell of desperation, he slammed his head against the wall, and the pain drowned out the taunting voices for a moment. It was a short respite. When they returned, he did it again, harder this time. Pain shimmied down the back of his skull, spreading down his shoulders and into his arm, setting his ribs on fire. It almost took his breath, but he embraced it. It was grounding.

He had never thought that he'd welcome physical pain like that. He clung to it like a drowning man, grateful for every beat of silence it brought. Dimly, he was aware of Vesemir's voice, his low rumble penetrating the wall of hurt. It was full of contempt. He called him a failure, a disgrace to his kind. Directing his sword against innocents like that. Visenna's voice chimed in. That's why I left you. You were worthless to begin with. You deserve to suffer every remaining moment of your life.

A sound of misery hitched in his throat. Once more, he flung his head backwards, desperate to make them shut up. Needing to make them stop, to finally leave him be. He was prepared for another burst of pain to rip through his skull and was surprised when the wall wasn't there. Instead, he found his head connect with something soft, gentle hands taking hold of his face to keep him still.

"Easy, you're hurting yourself."

Triss? It couldn't be, she had left for Aretuza. But it was her touch on his face, her smell that enveloped him. He tried to reach for her but could barely lift his hand, couldn't even open his eyes. He felt his head tilted up a little, the rim of a cup press against his lips.

"Drink," she admonished. "Slowly."

Something bitter was coaxed down his throat, one small sip after the other. He knew the taste, this particular mixture of herbs. Valerian, hop, passionflower. He swallowed instinctively, and when the cup was removed from his lips, he found himself shivering, exhausted.

He felt her hand brush a strand of hair from his face. She was talking to him, he realized, but he was unable to make out the words. The voices were still there, mean and spiteful, the darkness looming. Helplessly, he turned towards her, searching her, and when her hand returned to his cheek, he pressed his face into her palm. She was here. Her scent, the warmth of her touch. It was really her. He was vaguely aware of the blanket being tugged a little farther up his shoulders, the weight of a hand on his shoulder.

Sleep.

He did, and this time, he didn't dream.

When he woke, he found himself looking at a wooden ceiling. Daylight fell in beams through narrow windows, casting bright rectangles onto the walls. The air was thick with incense and medicinal herbs.

He blinked, confused at his new surroundings. He distinctly remembered lying in a clearing, hurting fiercely, packed earth beneath his back. He was hurting less now, the mattress under him nice and soft. Other glimpses of memory came back to him – Jaskier's eyes, clouded with worry. Triss's tea, soiled beyond helping. His arm, mangled and bloody, bone protruding from a gaping wound.

Looks like you're gonna lose that arm.

Anxiously, he felt for his arm and was relieved to find it still there, expertly bandaged and immobilized against his chest. Touching it hurt though, and he grimaced, a groan sitting in the back of his throat. Whatever pain medication he was on, it wasn't anything strong.

"Geralt?"

There was noise to his right, a chair screeching. Soft footfalls approached, and then Jaskier's face appeared in his field of vision. Geralt could smell the remains of lavender-scented soap on him.

"Hey, glad to finally see you awake." The joy on the bard's face was heartwarming. "How are you?"

Disoriented, he cast a glance past Jaskier, still trying to make sense of his surroundings. This was not Triss's place, and by the lack of noise, it was not an inn either. He licked his lips.

"Where am I?"

"Vizima. The temple of Melitele." He frowned in confusion and Jaskier went on to elaborate. "Your broken arm needed surgery. It was too complicated for Triss to do all by herself. But I'm told it went well."

Geralt shook his head, trying to remember, and failed.

"I don't recall any of that."

"Well, you were mostly out of it." The brightness in Jaskier's eyes dimmed. "I hope you're feeling better now. At times, I thought you were losing it."

He still felt like it. Disconnected, as if all this was just a dream. Even the sight of Jaskier felt strangely surreal, like an illusion brought on by an evil spell. For the glimpse of a moment, he was back in that black prison, and he put his hand to his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. Voices rose in the darkness, and he could distinctly make out a single voice, her voice, mocking him.

"Geralt?"

He took a measured breath, trying to center himself, and winced when the pain in his ribs flared up, threatening to take his senses.

"I'm okay," he ground out.

"Well, you don't look like it. I'm gonna go and get Triss."

The words barely registered, drowned by the roaring in his head. He felt the world around him fading, reality slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers. He didn't even hear him return, just felt the mattress dip as someone sat down on the edge of the bed. A hand came to rest on his brow, accompanied by the scent of jasmine.

"Geralt, can you look at me?"

Her voice sounded clearly in his head, and the witcher medallion hummed against his chest. Magic seeped through him, permeating his mind and slowly dissolving the darkness that clouded his vision. The taunting voices faded. Within moments, he felt more grounded, more awake, more here. Unfortunately, it also brought back the pain of his various injuries, and he clenched his teeth, pinching his eyes shut.

"Fuck."

"I'm sorry," she sighed. "I know you're hurting. But it seems the pain medication dulls your mind, and right now that means you descending further into chaos."

He gave a curt nod, understanding. He didn't want that. If presented with a choice, he'd rather suffer every waking moment in pain than returning to that dark place that suffocated his very being.

He opened his eyes to look at her and she gave him a small smile. The golden touch of daylight flattered her complexion. It seemed like forever since he had last seen her although he knew that it had only been days. It had been only days, hadn't it?

"How long - ?"

His mouth was dry and he swallowed, unable to finish the question.

"Almost two days. I would have liked to put you in a healing sleep, but I didn't dare to. It would have meant to leave you to your dreams." She paused, studying him. "It's gotten worse, hasn't it?"

He nodded mutely. There were no words. Apparently, they weren't needed, as he felt her hand wrap around his, pressing his fingers.

"I could sense your suffering, but I couldn't reach you. Melitele, I am so sorry."

He frowned, bewildered. What would she be sorry for? His eyes traveled to Jaskier who was lingering at a short distance, obviously feeling the need to give them some space but unwilling to leave. When he saw his questioning glance, the bard raised his shoulders.

"You were right about this," Triss admitted brokenly. "Your nightmares, your anxiety. Everything. It's the anchors in your mind. The remains of chaos are like arrowheads in a wound causing infection. And I told you, they wouldn't harm you."

He saw her chin tremble and reached for her face, unable to find the words to soothe her. If not for her, he would have already been dead. Worse, he might have suffered the end of his days as a slave, unable to command his own body. She had done all she could, to the best of her abilities. Not for a second, he had doubted that.

It's not your fault. It was strange how he couldn't say it out loud, how his lips were sealed shut at the hurt expression on her face.

Silently, she reached to place her hand on his.

"Please forgive me."

"Um – should I leave you two to yourselves maybe?"

She froze, lips firming, and turned around to glare at Jaskier.

"You're still here?"

"Why – yes, of course, why wouldn't I?"

"Well, would you have the decency…?"

"Yes. Yes, of course, I'm waiting outside. Not that this is any of my business, being his friend and all."

He shot her a glance that spelled complete indignation and made for the door. As soon as it fell shut, Triss turned to him again. Whatever sentimentality there had been in her eyes was gone. Her mask was back in place, her demeanor still gentle but more composed. He was talking to a healer now. It was a relief of sorts, and it encouraged him to address the topic that was weighing on his mind.

"You have returned from Aretuza," he said slowly, almost afraid to ask. "Does that mean you have found a cure?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "There is a way to remove the anchors from your mind. You won't like it though, and if I'm honest, neither do I."

Her evasiveness was unsettling.

"It can't be worse than this."

He meant it too. A couple of days ago, the words would never have passed his lips, but after all, he had been through – the hallucinations, the nightmares, the experience of completely losing touch with reality – whatever needed to be done, he was okay with it. If she had to enter his mind, he would bear with it, even though the thought of a mage prodding around his thoughts still scared him in a way that was bordering on painful.

"It's risky," she said reluctantly, "and I won't be able to do it without your help."

He didn't even have to think twice. If there was any chance to make this go away, he would happily go for it.

"Triss, whatever you need to do - "

He didn't finish the sentence when he saw the look in her eyes. She was dead serious about this. There was no sugar-coating, she meant every word exactly as she said it.

"Do you know what an elven mind meld is?"

He shook his head.

"No."

She nodded, having expected that. He looked at her expectantly, wanting her to go on, and she let go of a long breath.

She spelled it out for him then. The way it exceeded the connection of common telepathy. How it would grant her access to the deeper levels of his subconsciousness where the curse had been anchored. What was likely to be stored there. She talked of suppressed memories resurfacing, fears being forced into daylight, hopes and desires stripped bare. She talked of the risks it bore for the both of them. How she would learn about him and he about her. That they would both be vulnerable, mentally and emotionally. That they would have to protect one another to make it as safe as possible.

When she finished, he felt cold, his heart constricting in his chest.

"You will see everything," he said slowly, his eyes searching hers. "Triss, you have no idea what you're asking for. The things I've been through. The things I've done - " He shook his head. "I cannot ask you to do this. I won't."

"I have thought it through, and I have made my decision," she said calmly. "My offer stands."

"No."

After all his suffering, he would have gladly jumped at any chance to make it go away. But this? He would rather die than have her slip into madness because of him. Hell, some of the things he had experienced had almost pushed him over the edge, and he was a witcher. He had a mind of steel. A lot of his training had been aimed at mastering emotion, honing his will. Plus, he'd spent a lifetime dealing with his dark memories. If she carried through with this, she would have to face them all at once.

"I'm not going to try and save my sanity at the cost of yours."

"What makes you think I will not be able to deal with this?" She retorted. "I'm a sorceress, I've had my share of misery, and I am just as trained in meditation and harnessing my emotions as you are."

"You're not a witcher."

Her lips firmed.

"No."

She sighed, frustration sounding in her voice, and Geralt could see the wheels turning behind her eyes as she tried to find a new angle.

"Look, Geralt, I'm not sure if you grasp the gravity of your condition. I barely managed to bring you back from that mental prison. This will get worse pretty quickly. If we don't act soon, I don't know how much time you have left."

It didn't matter. If anything happened to her during the mind meld, he would never be able to forgive himself. Enough people had suffered because of him, he wasn't going to add another one to that list.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, finality in his tone. "But the answer is no."

The expression on her face was so lost that it almost hurt. She had hoped this to go different, he realized, and faced with his answer, she didn't know what to do. Silently, she shook her head, eyes desperate as she searched for the right words, something to sway his mind. She was a sorceress though, perfectly able to read his mind. She knew that he had made his decision.

When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse.

"Well, it's your choice. I won't make you do this."

His mouth was dry as she touched his arm and stood, avoiding his glance. He noticed that her hands were shaking.

"I've left some tea on your nightstand. You are to drink three cups a day, it should slow down the mental decline. Buy you some time. I'll check in on you in the morning."

"Triss - "

He didn't want her to leave like that. He needed to explain, make her understand that this was not about him refusing her help. This was about protecting her, making sure that she didn't come to harm. She met his glance, waiting for him to speak, and when he didn't, she sighed softly.

"Please give it some thought. I need to prepare in case you change your mind. Jaskier will keep you company."

Her smile was forced.

"See you tomorrow."

When she opened the door, she almost bumped into the bard who took a hasty step backwards to let her pass. He looked after her, startled, then cast Geralt a questioning glance, but the witcher just closed his eyes, clenching his jaw shut. This was not something he wanted to talk about. This was between him and Triss, and Jaskier didn't get to have a say in it.