[It's far too long past his sending them out that a few of the birds come diving back towards him, singing their calls of discovery. Jaskier's heart is a drum thumping in his throat, a constant banging as it attempts to follow the rhythm the horse is setting.
The birds call and fly back out, watching for danger. For those desert birds, or the round, rolling things.
North. He could kill him.
Any spot of anger Jaskier still had in him evaporates when he spots a smudge of color in the distance. As he approaches, the rock rises from behind a hill bearing the Witcher upon it. Geralt.
Jaskier slips from Roach's saddle with a surprisingly fluid ease, his boots hitting the ground, turning on his heel, digging into the saddle bags for whatever he can find. (It's not the first time. Not the first time Jaskier has been the one there to stitch him up. It's not the first or the last time.) He finds a few articles for bandages, at least, that must've been kept in her bags, and some bottle of. Something. He's not sure, but he brings it to Geralt's side anyway, dropping it all to catch him before he slips off.
There is no time for relief. Jaskier's face hardens, and he swallows down his pulse.] What's worst? Your leg? Hey, hey. Talk to me. Don't you fucking dare pass out. I can't carry your sorry weight anywhere.
no subject
The birds call and fly back out, watching for danger. For those desert birds, or the round, rolling things.
North. He could kill him.
Any spot of anger Jaskier still had in him evaporates when he spots a smudge of color in the distance. As he approaches, the rock rises from behind a hill bearing the Witcher upon it. Geralt.
Jaskier slips from Roach's saddle with a surprisingly fluid ease, his boots hitting the ground, turning on his heel, digging into the saddle bags for whatever he can find. (It's not the first time. Not the first time Jaskier has been the one there to stitch him up. It's not the first or the last time.) He finds a few articles for bandages, at least, that must've been kept in her bags, and some bottle of. Something. He's not sure, but he brings it to Geralt's side anyway, dropping it all to catch him before he slips off.
There is no time for relief. Jaskier's face hardens, and he swallows down his pulse.] What's worst? Your leg? Hey, hey. Talk to me. Don't you fucking dare pass out. I can't carry your sorry weight anywhere.