"Geralt!" Jaskier and Cahir shout almost simultaneously, shocked to see their friend go down. The huge, winged beast must have got him somehow. They both run toward him as fast as they can. Hopefully, it is nothing serious, nothing a Witcher potion and perhaps the one or other bandage cannot fix.
Cahir is first to reach him and kneels down by his comrade's side. Lying supine, Geralt looks ghastly pale underneath all the blood, but his eyes are open and he is breathing. Good.
"Geralt, what's wrong?" he asks, scanning his friend's body for visible injuries that might have caused his collapse. However, with all the monster blood on him, it is difficult to tell if he is injured and bleeding himself. As far as Cahir can see, there are no obvious tears in his shirt or pants, or gaping wounds.
"Got me with its tail, left shoulder," Geralt grunts through gritted teeth.
"Venom?"
Geralt grunts again. It sounds like a yes. Fuck. Cahir has a closer look at the beast. It is huge. Definitely bigger than the wyvern he killed just a few days ago. At first glance it looks quite similar to the black ornithosaur. A wide open, menacing maw full of sharp white, conical teeth in a narrow, triangular head, the purplish forked tongue lolling onto the blood-covered stone. It also has a long, snake-like neck and enormous, bat wings. But the wings' membrane as well as the beast's scales are of a very light, slate blue colour, not so much different from the surrounding rock. They reflect the sunlight so strongly, the creature's contours are blurry and it is hardly possible to look at it for longer than a few moments without feeling blinded. Cahir blinks. The tail, what does its tail look like? He forces himself to glance at the dead monster again, squinting and shading his eyes with one hand. The tail does not end in the wyvern-typical trident but bears one single, stiletto-like sting protruding from a bulbous structure. A venom bladder? Like in the tail of a scorpion? Cahir has never seen anything like it in the books about dragons and other draconids. Is it something new that has arrived to the continent via the monoliths? Damn it. Hopefully, it is not lethal, at least not for a Witcher.
"Which potions do you need?" he asks Geralt. There must be one that will help. It is better to ingest the elixirs before a fight, of course, but many can also be used as healing potions in case of a serious injury or poisoning.
"Golden Oriole," the Witcher pants, "and Lion's Mane. In the holster."
Cahir has not studied Witcher potions as much as monsters since he is not a real Witcher and would die if he took any of them, but from what he knows about the requested potions, they make sense. Lion's Mane works as a general pain killer while Golden Oriole is an elixir used by Witchers and mages to both prevent and treat poisoning from many sources, such as corpse-venom from a graveir, common snake and spider venoms, the venom of wyverns, basilisks and of numerous other monsters. He goes through the several potions vials strapped to Geralt's thigh. The flask with the Golden Oriole is easy to recognise by the potion's golden colour. Another one filled with a whitish liquid sports a lion's head on the stopper. Must be the Lion's Mane. Cahir takes both vials out of the black leather holster and, while Jaskier supports Geralt's head, holds them to the Witcher's pale lips. Grimacing, Geralt downs the content of the Lion's Mane and half of the Golden Oriole. Then he lies back down with a groan.
"I'll have a look at your shoulder now," Cahir warns and carefully turns his friend over a little. "Jaskier, hold him like this."
While the bard keeps Geralt in position, Cahir draws a dagger from his belt and cuts open his friend's blood-soaked shirt at the back of the left shoulder. There is a small puncture wound in the muscle directly below the glenohumeral joint. The tissue around it is puffy and irritated, however, besides this, the injury looks pretty harmless. Too bad it obviously is not, otherwise Geralt would not have dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Cahir pours the rest of the Golden Oriole over the wound. There is a sizzling sound and a yellowish vapour rises from the injured spot. Geralt moans, biting his lips. After only a minute, the wound looks much improved, though. It does not even need a bandage as the ugly hole in the skin has closed up almost completely. Gently, Jaskier lets Geralt slide back onto the rocky ground, breathing a sigh of relief. The potions seem to help. Not only has the wound healed surprisingly fast and nicely, but Geralt does not appear to be in as much pain as before. His jaws and fists are not clenched in agony anymore like when they found him. Nevertheless, he has the feeling that something is wrong. The white-haired Witcher is becoming increasingly short of breath and does not make any move to stand up.
"What else do we do?" Jaskier asks worriedly and takes his friend's hand in his. It feels awfully cold and clammy. Fuck. Geralt does not look good at all despite the potions.
"I'm sorry," Geralt rasps softly, struggling for air. He closes his eyes. "Should have - listened to you."
"What are you talking about? Geralt?" Jaskier's shakes his friend's shoulder when he fails to react to the bard's question. "Geralt!"
With effort, the Witcher opens his eyes again.
"Seems they do exist. Your monsters," he gasps. "The flying drake—"
That will fill you with horror. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Geralt's eyes close again and he heaves a wheezing breath. His lips have taken on a bluish tinge. The cold hand Jaskier is holding in his goes limp as the Witcher loses consciousness.
"Geralt, don't you dare—" No, Jaskier cannot say it, he must not even think it, not for a second. This is not how the story is supposed to go. The Witchers always slay the monster and survive, no matter how hard the task, how evil the beast. They might look a bit worse for wear after the fight, sometimes they are injured, too - Jaskier has cleaned more than enough bite wounds and sewed up plenty of cuts and gashes over the years of travelling with Geralt - but there has never been a situation like this. Ever. A situation where Geralt himself seems to have given up, accepted his fate. Accepted to die. No, no, no, the White Wolf cannot do this. He cannot do it to Jaskier. Geralt cannot die. No major character death in this story. This is not a tragedy. It's a fluffy friendship romance about two best friends - soulmates - having a nice little almost-anniversary adventure together in the exact same place where they met for the first time. Geralt might not be aware of Jaskier's feelings for him, he is a bit slow with the emotions and relationship stuff - 28 years slow to be precise - but it is never too late. It cannot be too late.
"Cahir, do something!" he pleads, desperate. "There's an anti-venom, right? Another potion that'll help? A Witcher sign? Tell me that there was something in those many books you read. Please?" Jaskier looks at his Vicovarian friend, his eyes brimming with tears.
Slowly, Cahir shakes his head. A flying drake was never mentioned in any of the books except in a collection of dubious folk tales the authors of the more scientific works denigrated as cock-and-bull stories and fairy tales. Damn the idiots! But this cannot be the end. Geralt cannot just die like this. There must be something they can do to save him. Alright, keep calm and think, Cahir tells himself. Problems are there to be solved, and even if there was nothing in the books, this here is just another problem, a hard one to crack and frighteningly deadly, that's for sure, and not exactly in his or Jaskier's field of expertise. But there must be a solution. Hell, if only Regis were here. From what Geralt told him about the higher vampire, he would know what to do immediately and without fail. Tragically though, the barber-surgeon died at Stygga together with Milva and Angouleme. So, it is just Jaskier and him. They have to come up with something, and quickly so, or it will be too late. What would Regis, the higher vampire barber-surgeon, do if he were here? First, he would not panic. Then, as every healer, he would examine the symptoms and act accordingly. The symptoms, right. Start with the symptoms.
Cahir takes a deep breath to calm himself and feels Geralt's pulse. It is far too fast and faint for a Witcher, and starting to become increasingly irregular. Shit. The biggest and most life-threatening problem, however, appears to be his friend's inability to get enough air into his lungs. His chest is still moving up and down, so the muscles of the rib cage and diaphragm function like they should. Contrary to other venoms, this one does not cause convulsions or respiratory paralysis. Why then can Geralt not fucking breathe? Perhaps an allergic shock reaction to one of the constituents of the venom? That would result in the death of the drake's prey? Cahir has read of several monster venoms that work like this. The victims' windpipes swell shut until no air can pass into the lungs no matter how much the animal or person fights for breath. Eventually - with some venoms within as little as a few minutes - they asphyxiate. But this will not happen to Geralt, no, not on his watch.
"Jaskier, the lakeside. Get me one of those reeds, quick!" Cahir says, pointing in the direction of the shore and pulling his silver knife from his bootleg. Jaskier stares at him, confused by the strange request. Tears are rolling down his cheeks.
"Go!" Cahir urges in his stern commander voice.
Startled into motion by his friend's order, the bard releases Geralt's cold hand and jumps to his feet, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Cahir must have a plan. Admittedly a very strange one, and scary with the knife - what is he going to do with the knife? Does he even want to know? - but a strange plan is better than no plan, right? He runs toward the lake as fast as he can. The reeds grow high into the air, higher than Jaskier is tall. He draws his dagger. Will just any stalk do? Cahir has not specified anything. He picks the very first average looking one he can easily reach and cuts it off just above the surface of the water. Holding the long, hollow stem like a spear, he sprints back to where the dead flying drake is lying - and his suffocating best friend.
When he approaches, Cahir is bent over Geralt doing something. To his neck. With his knife. Whatever it is, Jaskier definitely does not want to know. And see it even less. The thought alone of what Cahir could be doing makes him feel faint and sick to his stomach.
"Give it to me," Cahir commands, not looking up.
Jaskier does as told. With two swift cuts of his own dagger, Cahir fashions a tube of about the length of a handspan from between two nodes in the midsection of the reed's stalk.
"Now extend his neck and hold his head," he then orders. "He must not move."
Fuckety fuck, Jaskier curses inwardly while squatting down next to Geralt's head. He is supposed to assist in whatever crazy field operation Cahir is performing on his best friend. In the midline right below his Adam's apple, Jaskier can already see a vertical incision in the pale skin of Geralt's throat, the breadth of three fingers long. A few drops of blood trickle down the sides of his neck, the bright red colour a stark contrast to the ghastly white skin. Bile rises to Jaskier's mouth. He has a vague idea now what this might be about. And the idea is all but comforting. Perhaps, if they were experienced medics and had all the necessary equipment to perform the procedure, it might work. But how on the continent can the two of them do it here, in the middle of the wilderness, without killing the patient? With neither expertise, nor the appropriate tools? But then, if they do nothing, Geralt will die for sure, right? And maybe, just maybe there is a teensy-weensy chance that he will survive the surgery after all? Jaskier has to cling to this tiny sliver of hope, no matter how scant and foolish it is, to not go crazy.
"Jaskier, now! I need to make the cut. There's no time to lose!"
One glance at Geralt's face is enough to convince him that Cahir is right. His friend's skin has taken on a horrible, bluish, waxy colour. As if he was dead already. The sound of laboured breathing has stopped completely and Jaskier cannot see any movement of the Witcher's chest. What if they are too late already? If Geralt has silently died on them? No, no, no, Jaskier, stop it, don't go down that rabbit hole, he berates himself. Just do what Cahir tells you to and try not to freak out. With both his hands, he clutches the sides of Geralt's head and pulls it back toward him, overextending the neck. Cahir places the index finger of his left hand into the incision and moves it side to side. Jaskier swallows audibly.
"Melitele's tits, what are—"
"Feeling for the cricothyroid membrane. Think I've got it."
Although Jaskier has no idea what Cahir is talking about, it sounds like he knows what he is doing. Which is somewhat reassuring. And especially so as now he removes his finger and starts to make a horizontal cut into Geralt's throat. Just a small one, perpendicular to the first incision, but a lot deeper. It looks scary as hell. Then Cahir flips the blade of his knife and extends the cut in the opposite direction. He takes a deep breath before rotating the blade, then inserts his index finger once again to dilate the incision. High time to put the makeshift tube into place.
It is not easy, but the tapered at the end piece of reed is both sufficiently firm and bendable and, eventually, Cahir manages to push it down Geralt's windpipe through the cut in the cricothyroid membrane, just between the thyroid cartilage and the cricothyroid cartilage. A strange, soft wheezing can be heard as Geralt's chest starts to expand, sucking in the dearly needed air. Gods, it is working. More and more air is flowing in and out through the tube protruding from the Witcher's throat. It is not a pretty sight, quite on the contrary, but it does not matter. Geralt will live, they have saved him, Jaskier is suddenly sure of it. He could hug and kiss his Vicovarian friend, even the whole continent, but not now. Now he concentrates on Geralt, on how, slowly but steadily, the bluish colour of his lips and face disappears, on the wheezy but regular breathing sounds, and on the thought that everything will be fine.
"Can you hold it in place for a moment?" Cahir asks all of a sudden. Jaskier gazes up from his friend's face. Cahir looks pale under his summer tan, almost greenish. Is he going to be sick? Without looking too closely, Jaskier quickly grabs the end of the reed tube with one hand, taking over from his friend, who just so manages to climb to his feet and disappear behind the dead body of the flying drake before he starts to retch.
"Sorry, not used to doing stuff like this a lot," he apologises when he is done and reappears at the still unconscious Witcher's side. "Do you want me to take over again?"
"No, it's fine." Bravely, he looks at Geralt's neck more closely. There is quite a bit of blood and the reed inside his throat looks just wrong and creepy as hell, but he can do it for his best friend, for the man he loves most in this world.
"How did you know how to do this?" he then asks his comrade.
"There was this book in the library, on emergency field medicine. The illustrations looked interesting."
"That's it? Just a few illustrations in a book?" Jaskier asks in disbelief.
"I have a good memory for maps. And pictures of human anatomy are not that different, I suppose."
Although his comrade's fascination with maps is very foreign to Jaskier and why somebody would voluntarily study drawings of the insides of people totally eludes him, he is more than glad of Cahir's special interests. Well, not everybody can be a poet. And if they could, being a poet would not be anything special anymore.
"So, what do we do now?" Jaskier inquires after a moment of silence.
"We wait. Until the swelling in his throat goes down and we can remove the tube and sew up the incision." It sounds easier than it will be, Cahir is aware of it, but they will manage. They have already come so far. "Witchers heal quickly and aren't susceptible to infection," he continues to explain. "He should be alright in a few hours, I suspect."
"Have I ever told you that I love you, Cahir, son of Ceallach?" Jaskier beams at his younger comrade.
"Yes, you have. Hardly more than an hour ago," Cahir replies with a smile.
"Right, the sausages. How could I forget. Feels like an entire lifetime ago, not just some sixty minutes or so."
Cahir hms in agreement, his hands still a little shaky in the aftermath of the emergency operation. So much could have gone wrong that, in hindsight, the whole operation appears completely foolhardy and insane. But it worked. At least thus far.
Suddenly, Geralt starts to stir. Together, Jaskier and Cahir hold him down firmly as his eyelids flutter open. Dazed and confused, he tries to form a word, but, of course, with the air not flowing through his glottis, no sound can be heard. Which must be terrifying, like in a really bad nightmare.
"Don't speak, love," Jaskier says, pressing Geralt's hand reassuringly. "And don't fret or panic. This here might feel frightening as hell, but you'll be alright, I swear. Just breathe in calmly and don't move, dear heart. We've got you, Cahir and I. You'll feel as good as new in a few hours, I promise."
While Jaskier continues to shower the injured Witcher in soothing words, the initial panic in Geralt's eyes lessens and, eventually, he falls into an exhausted sleep. His two friends stay by his side, making sure the tube remains in place and he is breathing alright.
"How do we know when to remove the tube?" Jaskier asks after a while.
"No idea. The pictures didn't say," Cahir answers truthfully. "But from what I know about Witchers, I'd assume that it won't take as long for the swelling to subside as in normal humans due to their enhanced metabolism. The allergenic component in the venom should degrade much faster. I'd wait a couple of hours to be on the safe side. But we need to do it before nightfall to be able to see enough."
Jaskier nods. It sounds reasonable and he trusts Cahir's judgement. Although, come to think of it, he would prefer not to see that much at all. But his friend is right, of course. He sighs. It will be a long couple of hours ...
