Here is Part 3 :)
His skin was burning, his throat was dry and it felt like he was choking on his own blood once more. There was a malevolent djinn clawing at his neck rather insistently, sprinkles of magic clogging up his airway and he couldn't breathe! He couldn't br – He couldn't -!
"Jaskier?" Nothing, the world was painted crimson as he retched up his own blood in front of him, an unpleasant metallic taste lingering in his mouth long afterwards as his lips trembled. "Jaskier, wake up!"
He was shaken rather insistently, snapped awake at the unwelcomed feel of someone jostling his bad shoulder, his entire body wracked with tremors and drenched in sweat. Leaning over him was Geralt, silver brow creased, lines of worry Jaskier was guilty of putting there making his chest seize, and a hint of concern glinting in his lovely golden eyes.
"We're heading out after the elusive drowner shortly, thought I'd let you know."
It took a moment for Geralt's words to truly register with him, but once they did, Jaskier was left once again short of breath. Had Geralt actually said we? Was he… Actually asking him to come along? He was not some burden to him best left behind then? "You… You want me to come with you?"
"Would you rather stay here?" He deadpanned.
"No, no of course not!" Jaskier said, more careful as he sat up this time, fumbling around for his doublet and cautious as he slipped his injured arm in it. Geralt had the decency of at least turning around, gave him his privacy for the short while he'd needed it. It was still as awkward to button up, especially now that Jaskier had but one good arm to work with, but hoped he'd get the knack of it soon enough, he was not about to stoop so low as to ask the Witcher for help getting dressed, he was not some incompetent bairn.
"You all right?"
"I'm fine, Geralt." He breathed, turning to him once again once he was sure his pain was held at bay, yet Jaskier could not bring himself to look his friend in the eye, knew he immediately would waver under that withering stare of his were he foolish enough to try.
"You don't look fine." The Witcher countered, tilting his head, looking him up and down with a critical eye, and Jaskier knew he'd not last much longer were he to do nothing about it. As much as he usually loved basking in the rare times Geralt would openly show his concern for him, lord it over him for weeks after and remind him that yes, Witchers do have a heart, they do have feelings, and that it was all right to have emotions, he wasn't particularly up for it today. There was no reason for Jaskier to needlessly worry him so, or Geralt would soon be looking for more drastic measures than a genie to remedy his sleeplessness, he did not wish to even imagine what a disaster that would turn out to be. Jaskier still had nightmares about the bloody djinn by the idyllic riverside.
"I'm a little tired, just didn't have the best of naps. But I won't be a bother to you, I promise."
He turned to the door as he said it, leading the way out before this conversation veered far too close to the secrets he was trying to hide, thanked Melitele for the lack of waver in his voice and tried very hard to ignore Geralt staring a burning hole straight through his back.
He knew, Jaskier was certain the Witcher knew how much of a fuck up he was. He was just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to finally tell him to fuck off for good and break his heart while he was at it, for good measure.
As it turned out, Geralt did not go far, and Jaskier counted it as a small mercy as he limped behind him, arm a dead weight by his side. He would not forget to write him a song about his benevolence when it stopped aching, when the clouds of hurt and tremors of pain released him from their iron grasp. He'd be sure to include metaphors and hyperboles aplenty, the crowds always went wild for those, and if it happened to ruffle Geralt's heroic feathers a little, well it would be a price the Witcher would simply have to deal with for his name to go down in History. Heavy were the shoulders burdened with fame and adoration, after all.
He was not entirely certain as to where they were, exactly, nor how long they'd been walking – it felt like hours, but surely could only have been a fraction of that – or, for that matter, where they were headed. Jaskier came to the conclusion that the pain in his arm must have made him black out for a moment, lose his senses for a time – seconds, minutes, hours, he could not say which, and, somewhere, thought he ought to have been far more worried about it than he currently was – all he could do was trust that Geralt knew where they were going and do as best he could to follow in his footsteps. Try not to screw that up too.
His silver hair was a guiding light among the trees, a shining star for when Jaskier happened to stumble off track. Geralt had yet to comment on it, and he knew it would not be long now until his antics made him boil over – he knew, he knew he was fucking it up, something so simple as to walk behind him, it was a wonder his presence was still tolerated. And perhaps such thoughts weighed heavily on his heart, the very same heart Jaskier was certain he'd already wholeheartedly given to the Witcher, but it was too late now, let him be his judge, jury and executioner, let Jaskier die a broken-hearted man. Twas better to have loved once than never at all, he thought cynically.
Still, the pain in his arm made itself known every so often – too often, in Jaskier's mind- and keeping his shoulders straight and his eyes trained on Geralt's luscious silver hair was becoming increasingly more difficult.
"You sure you're alright?"
It took Jaskier another too-long minute to realize that Geralt was talking to him, and not some stray animal they may have stumbled upon in the forest. The Witcher must have thought him quite the idiot, as Jaskier merely stared at him, dumbly. No, he was most certainly not all right, and while it had taken a big hit to his pride to admit as such to himself, he was not about to debase himself any further and say so out loud to Geralt, the White Wolf may as well bury him six feet under to spare him the humiliation. His arm was like a furnace, there was cold sweat running down his back and his face was probably ashen at this point, Jaskier could feel the dark circles under his eyes as he blinked, and with the way luck seemed to have perversely avoided him as of late, if he awoke tomorrow to a burning fever or something equally as shitty, Jaskier did not think he'd even be surprised. He'd be of no use whatsoever to Geralt then, but what was he to say? He couldn't very well tell him the truth now, could he?
His throat was clogged, swallowing felt like grating his raw skin on sandpaper – decidedly not a pleasant experience – and he ached to relieve the pain in his shoulder, but with Geralt looking at him like that, succumbing to his weak and human desires would give away what Jaskier had previously invested so much in hiding, and he was not sure he was quite ready to face down the Witcher's fury. Such a frightfully intimidating emotion was generally what was told to naughty little children to get them to behave, and Jaskier had little desire to put his mother's sweet bedtime stories to the test. He'd bared witness to it on the rare occasion, the thunder of Geralt's ire, held no inkling whatsoever to be struck by it in person.
So he lied. "I'm fine, Geralt, really. Anyway, where is that drowner you're after?"
Geralt merely hummed, deigned not give answer to his question, and had Jaskier known him less, he might have been offended. This was far from the first time his friend hadn't bothered with his persistent inquiries, he'd grown used to it, by now, the initial sting of rejection having long ago faded away into nothingness. And, really, Jaskier supposed that, were he in the company of a person such as himself, he too, would probably chose to not entertain their annoying small talk. His voice, while certainly his primary way to make bread – and certainly boasting of a far superior quality than that of Valdo Marx, thank you very much- was rather burdensome, as he'd come to realize, and for him to impose it so often on someone as reclusive as Geralt was rather unfair. He'd have to work on that, in the future.
They walked – or, to be more precise, Geralt walked, Jaskier tried his very best to stumble along behind him and not fall face first on the ground and promptly pass out – in companionable silence, at a relatively slow pace, which was not exactly what Jaskier would have expected from Geralt if there was an elusive drowner out there to catch, until, at long last, Geralt came to a halt – and fuck. They were back at the little village again, Jaskier was positive that large building at the back was the inn they were currently staying at.
"Geralt?" He asked, hesitant, unsure as to what exactly this was all about.
"There is no second drowner, Jaskier."
That effectively did make him double take, because what the fuck was Geralt on about, exactly?
"Excuse me, what?"
"I lied." Geralt said simply, as he turned back to him, his earlier anger all but vanished. Jaskier ought to have been relieved, but there was something in the air that did not feel quite right, yet try as he might to listen out for it, the little something remained ever just out of his grasp, damn it. "The last drowner is long gone by now, it's not here."
Right, the drowner was gone, which meant that they were here for… what exactly? A rational part of Jaskier's brain – a part he could feel begging for a reprieve and some well-earned sleep with increasing persistence – said he ought to have been offended at Geralt deceiving him in such a way, be angry at himself for so easily falling for it, but, frankly, the bard was far too tired to muster anything much towards his friend's trickery. "You lied to me, huh. I'm wounded." The words sounded empty, even to his ears.
"So am I." Geralt shot back, but not a trace of ire was to be found upon his features either, instead, Jaskier thought he looked hurt above anything else. "You lied to me too."
That came as a surprise. Jaskier was no saint, he would have been the first to readily admit as much. He dabbled in sins of the flesh with whatever partner proved to be willing and, occasionally, coin, when times were tough and his stomach was empty, when stealing became a necessity, but Geralt had never made known any aversion to his lifestyle prior to this, it seemed a little late to put their friendship in question over his morality now. And he was pretty certain he'd have remembered lying to Geralt had he done so, right?
Geralt's golden eyes were ablaze, fires of distress and hurt burning a new hole in his shoulder and- ah, yes, his shoulder, that very same shoulder he'd tried and failed to mend, that very same shoulder Jaskier knew he was still lucky to have attached to his person.
That very injured shoulder he'd foolishly decided to keep resolutely quiet from the Witcher.
That shoulder. Of course, damn him, of course he should have known better than to think he'd be able to hide something like this from Geralt's highly-trained Witcher senses indefinitely when he was but a measly human, there was not much he was able to conceal from him on a good day, hoping that he would never catch wind of this truly was pushing the limits of possibility.
Ah well, ever the optimist, at least he'd tried.
"You've been uncharacteristically quiet as of late," Geralt remarked, his euphemism not lost on either of them, and when did he learn to use such a sophisticated turn of speech? Jaskier thought, if anything, he was the one who mastered the art of language, the Witcher that of the sword, grunts and hmmms. "Were you ever going to tell me about your arm?"
No, Jaskier had most definitely not intended to tell him anything. He knew, now, that it had been a rather idiotic decision to make, but after the djinn, he'd really not wished to put his companionship of Geralt in jeopardy, and an injury brought on by his own foolishness had seemed to the bard like quite the deal-breaker to whatever arrangement it was that he and the Witcher had. Perhaps it had been a stupid reasoning, but it had been enough for him, much better than face down his friend's wrath.
Which, surprisingly, had yet to rear it's ugly head. Geralt was still quiet, hurt dancing along his features in a show Jaskier had seen far too much of, and guilt coiled around him, threatening to choke him as it weighed upon him that this time, the affliction so clearly present upon the Witcher's features was there because of him. He'd not meant for this to happen, really, he hadn't. If anything, he'd wanted his silence to spare Geralt anymore pain and worrying on his behalf ever since they'd left Rinde, he'd tried to prove himself worthy of traveling by his side, this… Albeit misguided, probably, this had just seemed like the right thing to do.
"You're not angry?" He asked, hesitant, waiting for the other shoe to drop and bracing what little he could of his body against the impact. It would hurt, a lot, crumble the fragile shards he'd barely been holding together since Yennefer had magically mended his throat, but after lying so brazenly to Geralt, so obviously hurting him and probably ruining their trusted friendship, Jaskier supposed his anger was the least he could bear as penance for his sin.
He would much rather not be having this conversation at all, truth be told, would like to bury his head in the sand and continue on like things were. Yet the secret was out now, Geralt's feelings laid bare before him, and while Jaskier may well have been a coward and wished to flee his own apprehension, he thought he ought to do better by Geralt, his friend.
"I'm not angry," The Witcher said, his frustration and hurt so gentle it almost felt wrong, yet Jaskier supposed he ought not to have been surprised, Geralt was an oxymoron in and of himself – a Witcher with feelings, someone who deserved the wold and who thought of himself as the scum of the earth, who tried so hard to appear gruff and yet smiled the gentlest of smiles to his horse, enough to make Jaskier melt and his heart soar when he happened to catch sight of them from the corner of his eye. "I'm… Upset you chose not to tell me. I may be a monster, Jaskier, but I'd like to think even I'm not so cruel as to leave wounds to fester."
"You're not a monster, Geralt." He said back, with vehemence, because damn it, he wished his very best friend would cease to see himself in such a depreciating manner, Geralt was far more humanist a person than many a fellow he'd met throughout his (albeit, much shorter) life, and fuck if his hard work rehabilitating his image may indeed have been born out of a desire for those same pieces of scum to cease perceiving the Witcher in such a way, Jaskier nevertheless wished for Geralt to take his words to heart too. He meant them, every single one of them, his songs and poems were not all just empty entertainment, his heart and soul poured into every choice of word. "I'd have hoped my songs would have made that obvious, at least. Well, those and the whole, you know, being your friend thing. Well, I mean, I think you're my friend, but I understand if it's not the same way for you, really-"
"You are my friend, Jaskier." Geralt cut him off, and effectively shut him up – his words few but no less effective. There was an ocean of emotion behind them, Geralt vulnerable, looked at him with a tidal wave of feelings brimming in his eyes and threatening to spill over his quivering lips, "Which I why I'd thought you would have told me about your shoulder. I'd rather have found it out from you than from the innkeeper."
Ah, so the kind innkeeper had been the one to sell him out, Jaskier would have to have a word with the sneaky little bastard when they got back. At least, he thought he'd very much enjoy giving him a piece of his mind on matters of trust and keeping secrets and all that, but it might have had to wait a couple of hours, for right then, Jaskier was pretty certain he was about to keel over, the little black spots dancing at the edge of his vision with more insistence not about to go away anytime soon.
"Fuck." Seemed perhaps a little light, as answers went, but Jaskier did not think he could say much more. His hands were shaking again, his knees were trembling and, in front of him, the Witcher was naught but a blur of silver and black, two persistent dots of gold no longer enough to root him to where he stood.
"How bad is it?" Geralt asked as he took a step forward, arm outstretched, reaching for the material of his shirt, concern dripping at the tips of his fingers.
Jaskier licked his now dry lips, squeezed his eyes shut against another dizzy spell. "It's pretty bad." He croaked, and it was about all he managed to say before the world went black.