This chapter was inspired by the Whumptober 2022 prompts:

No. 5 Hyperthermia
No. 9 Tossing and turning / Caught in a storm
No. 11 What's your emergency?
No. 19 Head lolling
No. 20 Going into shock
No. 22 Toxic
No. 31 A light at the end of the tunnel / Bedside vigil

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Of temperatures and tempests

In the middle of the night, Angoulême started to toss and turn, mumbling and moaning softly in her sleep. Another nightmare about the lake monster? Or is her hand giving her trouble? Regis approached the sleeping girl, knelt down at her side and gently put his hand on her brow. It felt unnaturally hot and clammy. Not just a nightmare then.

"What is it?" Geralt, with his enhanced hearing abilities, had, of course, woken up and glanced over at the barber-surgeon worriedly. As he had been the one who had saved Angoulême from the noose and permitted her to come along with the rest of their hanza instead of staying with Jaskier in Beauclair where she would have been safe, he felt responsible for the girl's well-being.

"Must be the glowworm bite. Our dear girl feels quite hot to the touch, 39.85 degrees celsius, I'd say."

"Fuck," Geralt cursed quietly so he would not wake up his human companions. After having been acquainted with Regis for about half a year now, the fact that the higher vampire was able to measure the sick girl's body temperature with an accuracy of two digits after the decimal point did not astonish him in the least.

"What can we do?"

"You, Witcher, can pass me my satchel, if you please. And keep calm. Nothing to worry about just yet."

Regis carefully removed the bandage around Angoulême's right hand, the one the huge glowworm larva had attacked in the cave under the mountain. It looked bad, even in the faint glow of the little campfire he had lit. Not that he needed it as he could see perfectly in the dark and was totally indifferent to temperature. However, he reckoned that his human friends would appreciate a little warmth and light if they woke up. Which, now, was obviously the case. Both Milva and Cahir were stirring, sitting up yawning and rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

"Anything wrong with Angoulême?" the archer asked as soon as she noticed what Regis was doing.

"The poor girl's hand is badly swollen and the swelling has spread to the forearm. I fear that bite was more toxic than I thought. It seems to be the cause for the hyperthermia, too."

"The what?"

"Her body temperature is elevated quite a bit."

"Why don't you say it's a fever then? Like everybody else who isn't a bloody professor!"

"Dear Milva, I don't call it a fever, because it isn't one. It might be a not too well known fact and the science behind it has still not been completely and conclusively understood, however, it is a distinction that can be of the highest importance. As the treatment of hypothermia differs from the one for fever," the higher vampire explains, or rather lectures. "While in a normal fever the body temperature's set point - which can, presumably, be found in the pre-optic anterior hypothalamus of the human brain - is elevated to help the immune system fight viruses and bacterial infections, in hyperthermia this set point remains unchanged, only the patient's ability to thermoregulate is compromised. Which leads to the higher temperature. You see, different causes, similar effects."

"Did you get a single word of what the vampire just said?" Milva looks at Cahir and the Witcher, rolling her eyes.

"Hm, perhaps not every single word, like the part about the hypothalamus, but enough to understand that Regis is right," Geralt says while thoughtfully stoking the fire.

"Actually, it isn't that difficult. It is why, with fever, you need to keep the person warm and only apply cold compresses to the forehead and legs, if at all, while with hyperthermia you cool down the whole body as quickly as possible. At least that's what we do where I come from."

"And how are you so knowledgable in the field of medicine all of a sudden? I thought you were a soldier, not a doctor!"

"A commander has to take care of his men. In our warmer climate hypothermia caused by heatstroke is not such an uncommon thing, especially not when the men exercise or fight wearing armour."

"How come, then, that you oh-so-knowledgable men are still sitting here talking high-faluting balderdash instead of taking that blanket off of her? And the hat and sheepskin coat?"

"Right, Milva, how stupid of us. All the knowledge in the world is worth nothing if it is not applied properly," Regis smiled through pursed lips while removing the woolen blanket covering Angoulême's overly hot body. With the help of his comrades, the girl was soon stripped of most of her clothes and a cold, wet kerchief had been placed on her brow. To the companions' dismay, Angoulême had not woken up during the procedure, only given several soft moans. She must be really sick.

Really sick she was, and it did not get better, on the contrary. The swelling was still spreading, and, by dawn, had already reached the elbow region. Although her body temperature had not gone up, neither had it gone down in spite of all the efforts to cool her. Somehow the toxins in the venom seemed to speed the girl's metabolism up, generating large amounts of heat beyond the body's ability to regulate. Things did not look good for Angoulême.

"We have to do something."

"Yes, Geralt, we do, and quickly so, I fear." Regis sighed. "Angoulême needs a healer. A proper one, not just a simple barber-surgeon like me. Preferably an elven healer."

"Caravista," the Witcher decides. "It's a two days ride from here. They will have healers."

"We have only the two horses and a mule," Cahir said, furrowing his brow. "We will be too slow if we all go together."

"True. We'll have to separate, then."

"I don't like it. Remember the last time we split up, Geralt? Cahir almost died while we were chased by bandits and almost ended up in the druids' wicker basket burning to ashes together with them."

"I know, Milva, but there is no other way. You know it too."

"I do, and I still hate it."

Without another word, the companions break camp. Together they help get the still sleeping and softly moaning Angoulême onto Roach in front of the Witcher. Regis hands his friend a small leather bag with salves and tinctures and fresh bandages, then Geralt gallops off along the little mountain stream and down the ravine toward the Sudduth valley as fast as the uneven terrain and the skittish mare allow. Milva, Cahir and Regis gaze after him for a brief moment before they, too, mount their one horse and the mule Draakul to follow the Witcher.

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Damn it. The girl was going into shock, and they were still at least an hour away from Caravista. Caught in the middle of a goddamn tempest. Just his shit luck again. He had found shelter for them and the horse in an abandoned, dilapidated barn seconds before the deluge-like rain had hit, and ever since they had been trapped here. It was not the worst place he had ever found shelter in, not by far, however, the girl's condition was rapidly deteriorating. If he did not get her to a healer fast, she might not make it. Geralt could not let that happen, no. Rather would he perish in the storm. He could hear the full-blown gale rage outside the barn, making its doors, shutters and shingles rattle. The roof was leaking badly but so far it had withstood the powerful forces of nature. It was only a question of time, though, for how much longer. It would cave in eventually. Preferably not while he was still inside with the sick girl who had reminded him so much of Ciri when he had first seen her. Now she might be dying because he had dragged her along on this mad quest to find the the one she was not, his true daughter. He should never have allowed it, ever. It was bad enough that Regis and Cahir were following him, but at least those two had a good reason for doing it, even if it might cost them their lives in the end. Milva and Angoulême had not. They might not exactly be innocent or saints, but they did not deserve to die in a foreign land for somebody they had not even met. Just because they foolishly wished to follow him, a mutant Witcher. But Angoulême would not die here and now, Geralt would not allow it. He gathered the girl into his arms, her head lolling against his chest. She was as white as a sheet in spite of her elevated body temperature and breathing shallowly, her heart rate far too quick. They could not stay in the barn any longer. Time was of the essence, and it was running out. He had to chance his luck with the storm, whether he liked it or not.

Roach was not happy at all with Geralt's decision to leave the shelter and ride out into the lashing rain and wind. When the Witcher had pushed the door open with an effort, the mare whinnied and baulked, but her rider was as relentless as the howling storm. So, finally, the animal gave in. Within mere seconds, horse and both riders were drenched with rain. It was still pitch dark, not much past midnight, and the storm and rain made it even more difficult to see anything, made it difficult to breath. If the Witcher did not have a super-human sense of direction, he would surely have lost his way, but, even without the sun or stars to navigate by, he knew, or rather sensed, where to go, however slowly. A lot more slowly than he wished. The girl was shivering violently in his arms now, her teeth chattering. But she was still breathing. Maybe the rain and the storm would finally help cool her down? Perhaps they were good for something after all? A tiny silver lining, a light at the end of the tunnel?

When, drenched and chilled to the bone and dead on their feet, respectively hooves, Geralt, Roach and Angoulême arrived at the city gate, it was still closed although it was not pitch dark anymore, but the grey light of dawn was filtering through the heavy clouds racing across the leaden sky. Geralt banged the iron knocker powerfully against the wooden entrance to the small town of Caravista where they might find Guy de Bois-Fresne, his friend Reynart's cousin. And where they would, hopefully, find an elven healer. He knocked again, then started to shout and swear. Finally, a small, rectangular window slid open in the door and the stubbly, sleepy face of a watchman appeared behind it.

"What's your emergency, sir?"

"I need a healer for the girl, now!" Geralt barked at the still half-asleep soldier. "And don't worry, it's not contagious. Snakebite."

"In the middle of winter?" the watchman asked, astonished.

"Yes, in the middle of winter. Now open that gate and take us to a healer or I'll bite your head off, also in the middle of winter." Geralt's yellow mutant eyes were ablaze with anger. So much so that the slow and probably dimwitted man did not dare to object. He let Geralt enter even without asking for his name or business and pointed him to a house further up the road. An old and narrow but well-kept house with a sign on the door that indeed promised the services of an experienced healer, an elven one. Geralt breathed a sigh of relief. Then all was not lost, there was a chance that Angoulême might actually survive this. He operated yet another metal knocker, and, loo and behold, the door opened immediately.

"What's your emergency?" asked a middle-aged woman with the pointed ears of an elf. Seemed to be the formal greeting formula in Caravista. However, Geralt did not even need to open his mouth to explain. When the elve's eyes fell upon Angoulême, she gasped and ushered the Witcher with the sick girl in his arms into the house.

The woman, for she was the promised healer, was indeed an expert. Less than an hour later, Angoulême was lying in a nice and clean bed fast asleep, her hand treated with elven medicine and wrapped in herbs and fresh bandages. She looked pale still, but her heart rate was almost back to normal, as was her temperature, and she was breathing evenly and deeply. Geralt was sitting by her bedside keeping vigil, a big mug of steaming tea in one hand, a big wooden spoon in the other, and an equally big bowl of creamy white porridge in his lap. A true silver lining. Now he only needed to find Reynart's cousin and wait for his comrades to meet him there. If they had survived the storm. However, Geralt was pretty confident that they had. What was just one more little storm in comparison to the many hardships they had already weathered together? Nothing more than a tempest in a teapot.

Before looking for Guy de Bois-Fresne, though, he would first make sure that Angouleme was alright. He would sit with her until the girl woke up. The others would certainly not arrive in Caravista before dusk. Plenty of time, then. Geralt yawned heartily. He finished his porridge and emptied his mug. After having checked on Angoulême once again, making sure that she was sleeping peacefully, Geralt leant back in the comfortable armchair, sighed a heartfelt sigh. The light at the end of the tunnel indeed, at least at this part of the long, long tunnel.