abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

Entry tags:

[ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

Who: Geralt + the Queen, Yennefer, Various
When: After Nov. 12
Where: Castle Thorne, Nott, Cadens
What: Geralt goes on an Adventure and has a great time
Warnings: Blood, violence, trauma

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[ The abrupt shift in the air is what strikes him first. The winter chill, giving away to warmth spilling over him, dry, with the lightest wind blowing. He squints, disoriented, but he gathers his bearings, does not trip onto his face. Where the fuck is—?

Shit.

He exhales. Of course. He should've known. The sorceress had warned him she could only transport him outside the border. He'd just been hoping she'd meant something marginally closer than this. In retrospect, that he's even near the Free Cities is a miracle. Could've dropped him into the sea, the Singularity's crater, the damn Feywilds. His vision cuts through the darkness under the moonlight. Mountains to the north—no bodies of water in sight. How far out is he? A few days? A week? Longer? Maps only tell him so much. He's never walked this path before, doesn't even know what lies between here and Cadens other than piles of dry grass. Dusty ground.

Possibly a nest of some basilisks looking to feast. Fitting end, wouldn't it?

Geralt digs through the bag Nadine had sent him off with, searching for one of her small glass vials. He pops the cork. They aren't as potent as his elixirs, but they do the job. There's a time for caution, for making sure he doesn't reopen any of his wounds, and now is not it. He only needs to not feel it, to dull the pain enough to stay on his feet and keep moving. If he needs to be fixed again afterwards, so be it. As long as he's breathing, he can be fixed.

He walks. He's not concerned, at least, about the direction. He's placed the mountains, the stars he's learned to read on this sphere. Whether or not he can actually make it to the city, though—no point in letting uncertainties worm inside. He will get there, or he will not. Until he collapses, all he can do is walk, so that's what he does. Somewhere along the way, his sutures tear. He feels it, the blood trickling down his back, his side. He thinks he sees the rising hills nearer, finds tracks from a passing wagon in the sand. He's close. He's also fucking tired. Exhaustion sinks into his bones, leaves him dizzy, his knees a breeze away from buckling. Two days recuperating in Nott has made him steadier when he's upright, but it isn't near the recovery he'd have needed to trek across a stretch of land. And he's bleeding again, which is. Helpful. Incredibly helpful.

It's here he makes his decision, one he's been avoiding, unsure of how much he's being watched from places unseen. From inside his own head. (He knows they aren't in there anymore, and yet. What do any of them know about these convenient magical messages?) But he thinks of Ciri finding his corpse in the desert, this near to the city walls, and he knows he can't do that to her.

The words Jaskier will see are roughly written, to the point, and devoid of the pressing desperation he has swallowed down for the past two weeks. ]

Past the gates.

Do not bring her.

Edited 2021-11-30 14:52 (UTC)

[When the message comes, Jaskier doesn't yell. Doesn't scream. Gods know he wants to. That this is real. That the trust he put into Julie and Nadine's hand -- the trust Ciri and he both gave them -- was justified. It was safe. His heart leaps into his throat as the words spill across the journal in his lap, his eyes catching a sharp pull.

It's Geralt.

But... do not bring her?

He closes the journal, placing his quill back in its well, gathering his lute up and placing it back in its case. After days upon days, weeks, even, of having not seen his friend, with no knowledge of what the fuck has happened to him... it is only with Julie's reassurances of Geralt's survival has he found it in him to touch his instrument again. The piles of baked loaves downstairs are the true testament to what he's been spending his time doing. The loaves and the flowering bushes in Cadens's cemetery. It was fortuitous he'd decided on sprucing up Alucard's living space before this fiasco, because the one certain thing he'd needed to survive was a project.

Jaskier, at first so sure this reunion would be an easy one, is now left unsure. Why wouldn't he bring Ciri? She wants to see him. And if Jaskier even tells her he's here, there's nothing he can do to stop her.]

I'm coming. Hold on, Geralt. [The words are simple, to the point, so nothing he's thinking can show in them. He shoves the new half-written song into his bag and gives his housemates a goodbye -- a trip to the market for a new quill, as his has broken. Nothing expensive, nor extensive.

And then he's running. Towards the stable, towards Roach. Saddle and tack on, a few berries for inspiration, and then the bard has mounted her (a rare state, honestly, but he's not going to fucking waste a horse when she's already there.)

Roach's hooves don't move fast enough for him, but it's not like he can tear ass through Cadens without catching even more attention. She snaps her head as he turns her towards the gate, flanks warming. The rhythm of something is wrong falls into the sound of her canter.] Come on, Roach! He'll want to see you more than me, I expect.

[His voice isn't as steady as it should be. Nothing is wrong versus something is very wrong. Once outside the gates, he whips her into a full gallop, or as fast as she can make it on the sand.

But there's no one out here. He expected to see the familiar hulk of his Witcher just past the gates. Where the fuck...?]

Where are you? How far? Blast it, Geralt, I thought you were right outside Cadens! If you don't answer me, I swear to Melitele herself, I'm going to rip your balls off. With my teeth.

Edited 2021-12-01 00:03 (UTC)

[ The words curve across the sand, spiralling off a boulder in the dirt. And because it's Jaskier, there are more words, many of them, and Geralt only half-processes what he's reading. He almost doesn't reply, not because he doesn't want to but because his head is spinning and he feels the distinct urge to vomit or perhaps lay down and sink underneath the dirt.

What Jaskier receives in return is: ]

North

[ The lines are heavy, weighted unevenly, but legible. Right outside Cadens. Yeah. Wouldn't that be convenient. He knows he can't be impossibly far, though, even if it feels that way. Half a day's walk? Less? Parts of his surroundings are beginning to grow familiar, the further he goes. There are tracks on the ground—signs of more frequent travel, which means he must be nearing Cadens itself. If he'd been riding, he imagines he'd reach it in an hour. Two hours.

He doesn't stop. But he is scanning the horizon while he walks, listening for hooves, a sound, something. Hopes that Ciri will not be with Jaskier. It isn't only that he doesn't want her to see him...like this. That's a secondary concern. His main concern is that right now, he doesn't trust the idea of anyone observing him with Ciri helping him back into the city, after he's only just run from Thorne a second damn time. Jaskier is a far safer choice—both as an initial guest of Thorne and someone they already know has been a close friend since the start.

Funny, that as far as he's made it, it's nothing at all that sends him to the ground. His knees simply buckle; it sends a searing jolt through the joint, and he realizes maybe he's been putting more strain on one leg than the other this entire time, accommodating for injuries he's long lost track of. Or maybe he injured it, too, back in Thorne, and it's only now flaring up again. He curses, bracing one hand under himself to get back up. Just—give him a minute. ]

[For the love of fucking --

Jaskier clenches his teeth, pressing his heels in against Roach's sides, leaning forward. She mirrors the movement, leaning her head down as her hooves dig deeper. It's only a benefit that Geralt is the only one who uses her, that she's been spoiled rich by Rinwell, that he feels the horse even has the energy to do so. Back into the desert. After she'd only just found her away out of it.

Something is wrong. Geralt is taciturn at the very best, but this was. Worse. It was ridiculous. North? North in the BLOODY DESERT?

He's a bard, not a bear tracker. (Wolf tracker, in this case.) He should've at least brought Alucard with him. (What if he gets killed by one of those bird things out here? What's he supposed to do with a journal and an ink quill --

Birds. That's it.]

I'm coming. Hold on. Hold onto whatever you have.

[Because if "north" is the best he's getting, the words uneven as they etch themselves into the brown of Roach's mane, then he can guess Geralt is losing consciousness. It's not like one needs experience in these mental letters.

There is no grand gesture when Jaskier taps into the magic that wells in him now. The desert sun scorches, but these birds are not affected by heat nor light. Though they may not be as complicated a spell as Red (and oh, how he misses Red now), they burst from his body in a wide-spread flock, the colors of shrubs and desert sand shining through their feathers. Songbirds of various sizes spread out in every angle north. The birds that had once watched over his and Geralt's rendezvous in Thorne. The ones who will find him now.]

I have my spies looking for you. If you hear a song, don't be alarmed.

[ It does not, in all honesty, occur to him Jaskier would require more, but he isn't thinking straight and north, to him, is plenty clear in direction. It's the damn barren desert, besides. What landmark is there? One of the hundreds of stiff shrubs and small trees?

In return, Geralt does not piece together what the fuck Jaskier means by spies. He also can't find the strength to puzzle any of that message out. Jaskier can do what's needed; either the bard will find him and drag him into the city or he will get there on his own. One way or another, he intends to reach those gates, and though it takes much longer than he cares to admit, he stumbles back to his feet. Something is stiff, swollen; part of him is afraid there's a fracture or a tear in a place that will not be easy to heal even for a Witcher. He puts it out of his mind. It could be nothing—he can't know until he has a chance to recover. He can't recover if he's dead.

The song drifts towards him distantly. A melodic twitter. Familiar. He glances up. The evening sun is bright: gently warm, not sweltering, as it begins to sink. Two birds circle overhead before taking off. They don't fly as quick as Red. Jaskier must be near, and he tracks the direction they go in as they return to their master.

Hazarding a pause, he eases himself on a boulder. He tugs a strip of cloth from the bag and wraps it firmly around his knee, to at least brace it for now. Not much to be done about the blood sticking against his back. He should keep going. He should, but the ground is swimming and he keeps losing his grip on the rock as he tries to get back up. ]

[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.

[ It isn't Jaskier that draws his attention first. It's his horse—a familiar sight and sound that's long been embedded into his instincts to seek when he's wounded. Then Jaskier is there, too: equally familiar (fuck, he misses him), worry etched into his face and saying. Something. He does not realize he's tipping forward until Jaskier has caught him. For a second, he takes a deep breath, then another. When relief threatens to spill over him, he pushes it back—unwilling to let his guard drop too soon.

His eyes are unfocused until they slide towards his friend. He frowns. Mm. His leg? What about it? No answer comes. Instead, without thinking, he reaches for Jaskier so he can stand. Whether Jaskier offers a hand or a shoulder or just lifts him up altogether, Geralt grips where he can, hauling himself to his feet. He doesn't want to be tended to here. He wants to get the hell back into the city, especially with nightfall looming. He limps towards Roach with the sort of dogged determination that says Jaskier can either help him or move aside. ]

Get me up. [ He already has one hand braced against Roach's saddle. He can't mount her on his own; he knows that much. Doesn't even bother trying. There's blood on his hands, some of it trickling down his back still, but it can all wait. The longer they linger, the higher his chances of just. Passing out. ] Jaskier.

Edited 2021-12-01 06:44 (UTC)

[Jaskier exhales the last huff of breath left in him, as he only barely catches the full weight of the Witcher. Like having the fucking wall of a fortress fall on top of him. He wraps his arms around Geralt's chest, maneuvering to under his shoulder to carry as much as he can. (Fuck. See he hasn't gotten any lighter, has he?)

He curbs the screaming in his brain, begging him to message Ciri. He can't do this alone. Carry Geralt onto the horse? All the way back?

Well. Fuck it. He has to.]

I know, you bloody lout, do you think I'm not fucking trying? [The words spit out, but there's hardly any venom left in him now. He digs the heels of his boots into the dirt, giving a countdown to three, two, one -- shoving his full strength upwards to push Geralt onto Roach's saddle, running to the other side to catch him before he can simply slide off the other side.

He hates it when Geralt says his name. It's always so godsdamn serious.] Quiet. You're on the horse, all right?

[But Jaskier isn't a fool. He pulls back the reins. Geralt is not staying on that saddle alone.] Stay. [He carefully lets go of Geralt, hands raised in the air as he takes a step back. Stable. Then he’s hopping onto Roach behind him, wrapping both arms around his friend. Tight. Taking his weight. The one thing he cannot do is let him go.

Because there's no way he can get him back on Roach without a thought in his head.] Good? Just lean your head back, Geralt. I've got you.

[Awkwardly, of course. The hold pulls on that scar on his arm, but he doesn’t let go. He picks up the reins again, turning Roach around. Back where they came from. His birds call out, but only in light chatter — or exclamations that he’s been found. He’s almost home.]

Edited 2021-12-01 08:02 (UTC)

[ This is not the first time he's mounted his horse injured—has actually done it more than he'd like over the past two weeks alone—but it never gets any more fun no matter how often he does it. He grits his teeth and pushes off once on his good leg as Jaskier shoves him on. His vision goes white and dark at the same time; if he made any sort of noise, he doesn't remember. Instinct has him finding purchase in Roach's mane: he grips it as he struggles to breathe and manages to stay planted on her back.

Good. Sure. He's doing brilliant.

He doesn't lean back. He hangs onto Roach instead. That's what he knows how to do, what has been hammered into him since childhood. He isn't thinking that maybe he can let go a bit or rest or that Jaskier will keep him steady. He's only thinking about staying on his damn horse while they ride. Her running gait combined with his fractured ribs is a shit combination, but they can't afford to go slow—he knows this area, what lives in it. When the sky darkens, that's when the nocturnal beasts emerge from their nests to hunt. Jaskier at his back is a solid presence, though, one he relies on more and more as they go. The birds flit ahead, shimmering magic.

He loses track of how long it takes before they reach the gates—might've lost track of a few spots along the path. When he blinks, the gates are suddenly there. Visible. He realizes Jaskier will want to take them home. That'd be where he'd go normally, but he's—who else is in their home now? Rinwell, Hector, Ciri?

No. That's too much attention, too many fucking questions waiting. He needs— ]

Sam. [ It is the only place he can think of. Despite the...complications that have arisen, Sam will not turn him nor Jaskier away. He knows Sam well enough to understand it will take a lot for Sam to turn anyone away. And right now, he doesn't care about any of what's between them. He needs as few eyes on him as possible, Ciri's included, while he sorts out how to explain what the hell happened. ] Take us there.

[Of course he doesn't take the offering, because when has Geralt made a single fucking thing in his life, or anyone's life involved with him, easier? He bites his remarks back, though there is something to be said for the ease in settling in anger instead of this sick, sick worry like a weight at the bottom of his gut. Wondering, because the circumstances are so different, if this is the one time Geralt doesn't make it --

Anger. Easier. Irritation? Perfectly suitable. He often settles in that feeling.

Jaskier grips Geralt tight, urging Roach back to the town with what energy she has left in her. Luckily she's become quite accustomed to the treats his plants offer, and she's much more willing to go after her last handful of berries. Jaskier remains uncharacteristically silent, all of his focus going to shifting his weight and moving his arms to ensure Geralt doesn't fall. His heart beats in his ears, the only sound he really hears anymore. If he goes down, they both will.

His birds call an alarm; Jaskier directs Roach to the east as they circumvent some shape in the dark, an unfamiliar sound similar to a scream calling out. Further on, the gates of Cadens rise, and Jaskier has taken to digging his teeth into his lip to outsource the strained pain in his arm from an hour of holding Geraly up.

The silence between them only breaks with Geralt's clipped order. Jaskier gives him a look, stiff with ache and sweat. Could he have another potion? Gods. That would be wonderful.] Sam's it is.

[Not much closer than their own home, but. A little. He directs Roach there, stopping her about as close to his door as they can get.

Fuck. If Sam isn't in... Jaskier sends a spell up to Red, to call for his attention.] Sam! Open up!

[ after finding alina's note, sam actually considers moving. part of it has to do with the concept that this two bedroom apartment is officially too big for him, and part because it's just too quiet. holds too many interactions, too many conversations, too many echoes of people who have either disappeared altogether, or just up and left. it's hard to be here, and while for a few days he decides to just busy himself, decides to try and take on more jobs to start making back the money that alina needed, spends a lot of time in the horizon just to be somewhere else, and pushes the idea of being in this empty place out of his mind. sleeping...does not come easy, but sam's accepted that much.

( does it make him hate the technological lack all the more? yes. because he can only spend his waking nights in the horizon watching the same fresh prince of belaire episodes over and over so many times. )

all this to say, it's actually a stroke of good luck that sam is in. a stroke of good luck that he's sitting on his couch, zoning out, wondering what it is he plans on doing to keep moving, when red startles. cries out. for the last few weeks, red had not been far from sam (and he half wonders if that's jaskier's doing, or red just being worried, after his last situation.) which means that now, as he cries out, sam is right there - starling at the sudden noise and energy. ]

Hey- [ he says, looking to the falcon. ] What gives? Are you-? [ but red is moving, flying across the small space of the apartment to the front door. sam, without really thinking, opens it and follows her down the stairs, out the nearest door. it barely takes five seconds, maybe less, which means sam hears jaskier's voice just as he's stepping outside - on guard, on edge. ] Jas, what... [ but any semblance of a question dies in his mouth when he sees roach, and on the back of roach, and curled over figure of... ] Geralt? What the- what happened? [ and then, at the sight of the blood, though he's unsure of how dried or how fresh it is- ] Jaskier, are you okay? Can you help me bring him inside?

[ because complications aside, whatever went down leading up to this, none of it is important in that moment. geralt is breathing, he can tell that much, but the rest of it...where has he been? what happened to him? there are of course questions, somewhere off to the side of sam's conscious, but at the moment sam is all action, all reaction, moving to reach up to help pull geralt off the back of Roach and from where jaskier had been holding him up, so as to start taking him inside. ]

[ Whether Sam is home or not, Geralt has half a mind to tell Jaskier to just break the lock and go inside and fix it for Sam later: they're already here, and he's no desire to ride anywhere else. He's barely hanging onto Roach as it is. Sam is in, though. He can hear the heartbeat, the footsteps, the flutter of Red's wings.

He knows better than to dismount on his own, waits until Sam is by the horse's side before he begins to ease himself off. It's a graceless tumble; his fingers grip someone's shoulder—Sam's or Jaskier's, he can't tell—and he lands awkwardly, but he lands. The truth is, he's fairly certain he isn't that injured. Maybe. Possibly. He's had far worse, far closer calls. None of his wounds are fatal. Nadine did a good job piecing him together, and all he needs is time to heal (perhaps to fix the stitches he tore), but he hasn't gotten that time since he left Nott. Hadn't gotten much of it before he arrived in Nott, either. He's expended every reserve he's had inside him and then some. His body aches in places he's forgotten exists, his head feels like it's been tossed in an ocean storm for a week. He's not ever needed sleep so fucking badly before. If he can plant his face onto Sam's couch, he'll be satisfied.

That's where he stumbles to, in fact: if either of them have the bed in mind, Geralt appears disinterested in walking the extra few feet to get to it. He falls onto the cushions. A jagged, heavy breath hitches in his chest. He props himself up on one hand. His arm burns, bone-deep. As Nadine's medicine wears off, the pain begins to creep back in.

He should say something. Ask about Ciri. Tell Sam about Mal. Everything feels excessively slow, sluggish. He blinks hard at his feet instead, willing the ground to stop wobbling. ]

Oh, thank the fucking gods. [Jaskier's voice is immediately relief and exhaustion knotted together, and he could kiss Sam for appearing (just as quickly, when he's so terribly needed, as before) but they have other things to take care of now.] I'm fine, I'll help. Come, let's go. He's moments from passing out.

[It's a guess, but a fairly good one; he hasn't missed that any brush against Jaskier's chest has left smears of blood across his front and left Geralt twitching. Together with Sam they slide the Witcher's weight off -- though it's more of a collapse than anything -- And Jaskier hooks himself under one of Geralt's arms when he's on the ground, groaning with the effort to keep him standing.

There will be time later, where he can apologize to Sam. For dumping another dying member of the Continent on him. (He's not dying, he reminds himself, only hurt.

Though to Jaskier's credit, he had warned Sam. He'd warned him he wouldn't want to get involved in all their shit.

But in the end, no matter what happened between Geralt and Sam, he can trust Sam to not leave him. And so does Geralt, apparently.

They make it to the couch, where Jaskier nearly collapses beside it as the weight moves off his shoulders. His arm is in searing pain, his shoulders pulsing like a bruise, every movement sore.

Keep going. He stumbles to his feet, moving automatically. Twenty-two years, and it's far from the first time he's seen Geralt in this condition. Not the first time he's been there to offer (force) his help.] Help me turn him over. It's his back. I think it's torn up.

[His body is shaking from still going, but he won't stop now. He can't.] I need -- we need thread. Needle. Both. That much blood, he's going to need stitches.

[Because as his back is revealed, so is a hint towards the vile things that have been done to him. Sliced open, raw as meat. And absolutely the work of men.]

[ sam is quite thankful that geralt apparently is in his right mind just enough to wait for sam to get to roach, in his right mind enough to at least try to ease off in the direction where sam is standing. and yes, sam does wait for jaskier to answer - i'm fine, i'll help - before his hands are all but under geralt's, grunting with some effort as the much larger of the three of them slips off the back of roach and lands none too gently. but he does land, still had some consciousness left to keep himself on his feet, so with jaskier under one arm and sam under the other, sam leads them inside and up to his apartment.

he barely even notices the weight, his focus on the blood, on the harbored breathing, on how far they have left to go.

honestly, he had been planning on getting geralt at least to one of the beds - it would give them more room, give them more space to work, for geralt to lay out more comfortably. plus, sam hadn't even taken his things off the couch, blankets and pillows strewn about half-hazardly (he still hasn't been able to bring himself to take one of the rooms, even now). but geralt has, apparently, made up his mind - pushing off just enough to give himself room to collapse onto the couch, trying to hold himself up, and jaskier nearly collapses beside him.

all this really means is that sam doesn't have room to worry about it, because the idea of getting geralt up again is impossible. instead, sam's hands get to work - checking what he can, looking over what he can see. geralt's back is obviously the worst of it, visibly, but he'd noted the limp in geralt's stride. the way his arm trembles where he tries to hold himself up. sam's eyes are checking over geralt when jaskier is talking again, stumbling to his feet, asking for help, and sam's mind is whirring.

wordlessly - sam helps jaskier turn geralt onto his chest to get a better look at his back, and god, god, something in his stomach turns over at it. but sam steels himself all the same, one hand going to jaskier's wrist - making a pointed effort to avoid the injured arm, not needing those memories making their way into the room just yet. ]

Hey- over in the kitchen. There's a box, near the basin. Inside are some bandages, soap, should have needles and thread too. Can you grab it? [ because sam is too much of a boy scout not to have as much of a first aid kit as he can manage in these medieval times. too much of a soldier not to be prepared. as he asks, sam squeezes jaskier's wrist once, glancing towards him and then to where the box is. if any of sam's calming magic seeps from him, it's unintentional on sam's part, before sam's attention is back on geralt and he's rolling up his sleeves and slowly moving to pull away at the ruined bandages, the clothing, whatever it is that is between him and the wound on geralt's back.

the smell of blood is thick, sharp, but sam swallows it back when he reveals the rest of what's happened. jaskier had been right, he'll need stitches, but he'll need a lot more than that, too. ]

Geralt? [ his voice is steady, as if in spite of how the two of them left things. in spite of sam's own tension, before, that right now is nowhere to be felt. as sam's hands start to coat with geralt's blood, trying to get down to the wound itself, to see what all is needed there, his eyes glance up to geralt's face. ] You still here? [ awake, he means. he wishes, again, for modern medicine in any form - anything to help with the pain, to disinfect, to make sure he doesn't put geralt through hell once again just to get it sewn back together.

his voice is suddenly a bit louder, while his eyes are on geralt, the words are meant for jaskier. ] Water too. Should be some over there.

[ He tips his head up. An inexplicable irritation rises inside him, both from Jaskier talking around like he can't speak for himself, like he's already unconscious, and from the fact that he's aware Jaskier is not entirely wrong, that he's hanging on by a thread. His brows furrow. ]

I'm right here. [ There's really no good position for him to be in; everything rather hurts somewhere. He puts up with it, bracing against the couch's armrest and one good leg tucked under him so that he isn't entirely sprawled on his stomach, where one side of his ribs is a giant bruise, though at least it remains wrapped tight. They can cut his shirt off. He's given up on the concept of lifting his arms. ] Stitched it once already.

[ The old sutures need to come out first; they're still embedded in his skin in places where it's torn open again. Despite how rough he looks, there are signs he's been tended to with a certain care at one point—someone with a steady hand, who diligently cleaned and closed up every open wound. Some remain sewn shut, but the lesion down his spine has undeniably split once more under the stained bandages. It's hard to tell what he earned during the fight, during the chat with the queen, during both his trip through the mountains and his walk here—but his back is obvious.

Geralt does not explain or say anything of it. He takes a breath, one after another. His eyes fall shut for a second or two before he forces them back open again. A tension coils through all of him. He knows he's safe here, but he just. Prefers not to be dead to the world while people are prodding at him and sewing him up, no matter how much he trusts them. Shit. Where's his bag? Jaskier must've brought it in from the horse—or has he? He needs it, either way, but it doesn't quite cross his mind to actually ask for it. ]

Edited 2021-12-03 18:26 (UTC)

[Jaskier nods at the question, getting himself to the kitchen. He has a moment where he wonders if Sam is asking him to do it to push him out of the room -- perhaps in fear he's never seen anything so terrible. He has. He's seen worse, too, and perhaps it's not about that at all. He knows Sam's kitchen well (the many meals they've had together, and when he would bring food over, or wine, to surprise him), and he finds the box easily with the supplies Sam's promised inside. A bowl of clean water, a cloth, and a cup of water, too. He balances them all and returns to their side, setting the items down.

He doesn't even know where to fucking start.

Cleaning. Automatic, thoughtless. He soaks the cloth and squeezes the excess out, setting it aside. The box has scissors. Geralt isn't saving this shirt, anyway. He cuts through it, revealing all of his back now.

Fuck.]

Stitched it how? [He stares, and then he does see it. There are stitches, broken but still clinging to his skin. And bandages. Right. Julie. Nadine. They'd done a good job.

And somehow, between there and here, it'd all gotten fucked up. What had he...?]

You work on the stitches. [He shoves the box over to Sam, plucking up the cloth to start scrubbing the blood off so they can see the damn wounds.] I have a healing spell. It won't do much to this, but... if anything's internal. [But no, he had to be a master of plants now, didn't he?] You don't have another of those potions?

[ for all the distance in geralt’s eyes, he does respond. does seem present, which is a good place to be, gives sam some assurance. even if geralt is obviously in pain, if he’s aware and talking, that can be of help. ]

Good. What else should we be focusing on? [ the words are firm, direct - like sam would have spoken to a fellow soldier, out on the field. they both know resources are low, just like they both know geralt will ignore quite of a few of these injuries. but sam doesn’t want to waste time - and if geralt wasn’t fighting the fact he was here, that meant some part of him was okay being here. wanted the help. and while sam and jaskier could waste a lot of time working on things that looked bad, if geralt was up and conscious, it could save them a lot of time.

geralt mentions stitches, and jaskier is there beside him - asking how, looking over the remnants left behind, and sam stills. he’s been taken care of, these stitches are well done, and while some have broken up and some of these wounds have been ripped back apart, geralt had been helped. stitched how? sam’s eyes are already following the lines, the breaks, the threads. he’ll need to clean it, need to pull out what was left of what geralt broke. his stomach steeled over a bit knowing what he’d need to do, nodding at jaskier’s direction. ]

I can help- with your healing. It won’t be a huge boost, but. It can be something. [ his eyes go from geralt, to jaskier, before away again - the question pulling a kind of look from him, a shake of his head, a feeling of guilt bubbling up in his throat. ] Just that one. But if we can get this settled- [ there’s a healer not far from here, sam can go- no. he can’t go buy a potion, or even services. not after alina cleaned him out. sam’s eyes scan back over geralt’s back, as jaskier starts peeling away fabric, rubbing at the dried blood around the edges. sam’s eyes go to geralt’s face, as if there might be something else there he needs to notice, before he takes another rag himself to help jaskier clean the wound. ]

Once it’s clean I’ll redo the stitches. [ because he can do that, at least. can do something. the lashes through his skin and muscle have started to heal, started to piece themselves back together, but they’re not quite there yet. ] And then you can heal the rest? As long as we’re not missing something. [ the last part is directed at geralt, a kind of look sent his way. speak now before sam dives back in with his own rag, washing away the dried blood. ]

[ "Stitched it how?" Geralt doesn't grasp what Jaskier means, and in the end, he doesn't ask. He can't take a look at his back himself, but it feels like it's just the largest of the wounds that's ripped. If any of the others have, they must be minor—or he simply can't feel it in the midst of everything else his body is protesting. ]

Nothing's internal. [ Nadine had sought the same, and his answer has not changed: if it has not felled him by now, then it will heal on its own, same as ever. And frankly, the day something internal needs critical attention, that's not a day he wants to see. He takes a moment to consider Sam's question; Sam is not wrong, in that Geralt responds to the directness more easily. Gives him something for his brain to focus on instead of trying to sort out all the extra words he doesn't need to hear. ] My knee. Heal that.

[ He'll take healing magic on that, if he has to choose one. It's a new injury, unlike his ribs, one he hasn't got a chance assess, and he. Prefers his knee intact. He needs it to walk. Something tells him the joint has merely been overworked, or he twisted it harder than he realized all the times he stumbled and nearly fell on his way to Nott.

What else? ] Supplies. In my bag.

[ Nadine's, but his own, too. Jaskier would understand, so he doesn't clarify. Jaskier has travelled alongside him, knows what he keeps on his horse at all times. ]

Edited 2021-12-05 00:41 (UTC)

[He looks up at Sam in confusion more than surprise. Help? No. It doesn't matter. He nods after only a moment of pause. Help is the one thing he is more than willing to take without further explanation. ] All right.

[He turns back to Geralt and rolls his sleeves up, getting them out of the way. The flash of his scar is a hot, curling ping of guilt he cannot afford -- the reminder that, if he had not been so particularly insistent he help Ciri, that there would be a potion for. This. All of this.

A knee is neither a fatal wound nor near as bad as his back, from what Jaskier can see, but he needn't argue. It's not a hard guess why a Witcher would favor it over scars across his back.]

Right. One second. [Supplies is all he needs. This song and dance is ingrained in him now. He leaves to recover the bag from Roach, his heart somehow turning steadier in his chest. Work. Work, that's real and physical and Geralt is here, that's fucking enough. Ciri is going to kill him later for doing this without her, but he will simply bear it.

There's a variety of medicines, bottles he can only assume are some sort of potions. Nadine and Julie had set him up for success, by the looks of things. (Nadine and Julie may very well end up killing he and Geralt both. Lovely.) And the bottles Geralt had bought for himself, when it was only just a hunt.

He uncorks a bottle.] Here then, tip your head up. For the pain, I assume.

[He doesn't have time for a declination. He only helps prop Geralt up enough to have him swallow the potion, then ease him back down.

Knee. Right. Jaskier kneels beside him, licking his lips. His magic is a great deal different than it'd been months ago, healing Geralt's leg. Perhaps it would be better now. Or worse.

A knee. He can fix that. He wraps both hands around said knee, both round the front and back, feeling it out. Swollen, for sure. He pulls his magic, staring hard at the body before him.

Hah. Now he's the only focusing on staying conscious. Great.]

Edited 2021-12-06 04:48 (UTC)

[ geralt catches on, which is good, sam is already taking the information and using it for the overall strategy. nothing internal, which is good, it means jaskier can focus on the more complicated parts of the wounds.it gives them a little more time, too, doesn't mean they need to rush to anything before geralt fully bleeds out. sam is already in the process of washing his hands, of wiping off as much of the blood from geralt's back as he can. honestly, he and jaskier work well together - making quick work of geralt's shirt and clothes, cleaning the larger gashes on the back, getting it so sam can at least see the stitching along the tissue of the skin.

it's intense, and if sam wasn't already in fix-it mode, it would probably flip his stomach a little more than it has. but for now, he doesn't have a lot of time to get sick over the skin and muscle and blood, and instead finds whatever utensil will best work as tweezers, needing something thin and sharp to work out the broken stitches before he can actually start on working them back together.

jaskier is moving - hopefully to get whatever supplies there are supposed to be, whatever geralt means when he says that, and sam leaves it to him - trusts jaskier to know, to make it work, and lets himself focus on the stitches themselves. ]

This is going to hurt a bit- [ is all the warning geralt is going to get, before sam starts at the threads - having to free all the broken ones, pulling back out from their patterns, before sam can even start on sewing him back together. it's not clean, and sam could probably be moving a bit more carefully, but the amount of blood is starting to worry him and he figures geralt would rather be done with this than worry about how small his scars will be.

he manages to just finish up with the last of the broken stitches when he catches jaskier moving, getting his hands around geralt's knee, and without thinking sam is reaching out to set a hand on the small of jaskier's back, letting this new magic he'd barely had enough time to practice flow out of him with as much intent as he can manage. he doubts it will do much, but something to help jaskier's healing is better than nothing, before he's pulling away to get back to his work, to the stitches, to the couple of places he needs to fix up. ]

Anywhere else? [ he asks, partially to test geralt's consciousness, and partially to see if there's anything else they should be worried about, as sam starts to tie off the thread and heat the needle. that little voice in the back of his head screams about germs, about infection, but sam's been getting better at ignoring those voices and just getting it done - his one hand set along the edges of the worst of the lashes, calming magic seeping out into geralt's skin in a desperate, almost attempt at a kind of balm. ] You've got a broken rib too, right?

[ Most of the vials in Nadine's bag will be empty—he burned through them getting himself across the desert; none of them had anticipated he would have landed entire days outside the city gates—but there's one left, alongside the rest of his own supplies on Roach. He lifts up on one arm with Jaskier's help, tries not to hiss, and tips the entire contents of a vial down his throat. What's left in the bag are oils and ointments, ones he's either bought from the apothecary or made from Jaskier's plants.

His fingers dig into a cushion as Sam starts to pull the sutures free. They might not have torn all the way down—he can't quite tell—but they do all need to come out, broken or not, for Sam to sew the gash back up. Jaskier leaving to retrieve his things gives him a little room, to not be so boxed in between two people reaching for him. It's taking real effort not to push either Sam or Jaskier away. He knows they're only doing what needs to be done, he's just—there's been a lot. Happening. A lot he's shoved beneath the surface. And he's almost never tended to by more than one healer at a time. The extra set of hands on him reminds him of something else, of mages holding him down in dark locked rooms. Jaskier's magic is warm, heated against his skin like the tendrils that once curled around him.

His chest tightens. He inhales, Jaskier's familiar scent grounding him some, and he manages not to shove his friend off. Sam's question goes unheard, unnoticed, but he does feel Sam's hand on his back. The tension that releases inside him is subtle, quiet. He doesn't fight it, just works on remembering how to breathe steady, on trying not to tip off the couch. When he closes his eyes, to take a minute to gather himself, they don't open again. ]

[Jaskier starts a bit at the touch of Sam's hand; not because it's him or because it's a touch, but because there is the slightest reaction -- a bit like a snap of air when he touches the wrong sort of cloth, the way things can make that slight bite. And as he lets his magic wrap around Geralt's knee, sinking into his skin, guided only be intent, he feels it. This must be Sam's influence. His magic is a trickle from a faucet, then a blurble; then there is a small pop and it's as if the magic runs thicker, easier. It flows.

His head snaps up.] A broken what? Geralt --

[He catches Geralt's weight as it sags, pushing him back deeper on the couch. Jaskier curses under his breath, the words sharp.] Does he not know what the fuck internal means? [He's still muttering as he jerks the bag towards him, going through the bottles. Uncorking, sniffing. He picks one out of the rest and offers it to Sam, wiping his brow with a wrist.]

Here. This one is for pain, I think. Though he's left us now. [It's rare that he sees the Witcher unconscious, but. There's nothing that can stop their work now, the tension that'd left his shoulders like knots now gone.] You said a rib? Which rib?

[ and there he goes. sam pulls his hand gently back away from geralt's back, realizing a moment too late exactly what it is he did and finding he doesn't, really, regret it. he'd meant to use the magic, yes, but hadn't realized to what extent it would be needed. geralt slumps, passing out where he'd been keeping himself up, and sam immediately is shifting to help pull him back to the couch - assisting jaskier where he pushes. ]

I think he took as it as dangerously internal. Broken ribs won't kill you, unless they puncture a lung. But they hurt like a bitch. [ sam says it in a calming, almost instructory manner. he doesn't mean to sound like he's assuming jaskier has never had a broken rib before, but his training kicks in and he goes with it anyway, turning his attention back to the mess of geralt's back.

when the open bottle is offered to him, sam looks up - one brow lifted, curious, before seeing the bottle and seeing jaskier offering it to him and, without even a second thought, he takes it. pours it along the worst of the gash - assuming how he's supposed to use it, what it's supposed to do. ] And it helps, even if he's out. Bodies remember pain better than brains do, sometimes. [ now sam just seems to be prattling, talking about easy, simple training tidbits as his hands move about his supplies, while he gets the rest of the sutures out and threads a new needle, settles his stomach and his breathing before he starts to stitch him back up again. it's with both his hands holding the two sides of geralt's back together that jaskier asks about the rib, and sam looks up briefly to him. just a glance. ]

What? [ broken rib...oh. right. sam gestures the best he can, pointing with his elbow to whatever side geralt had been keeping too much weight off of. ] There, down near the bottom, I think. Might be more than one. It's hard to tell when there's so much going on. [ he means geralt's wounds, the damage he's taken. he glances over to jaskier just to check to make sure he's alright - one lifted brow, a silent you good? - before he goes back to the stitches. ]

[Pushing the dead with of Geralt is enough. Enough. And then it's too much, holding him up so he doesn't slide to the floor. Ribs. How many ribs? He tries to think back to his anatomy lessons, but his head is clouded and, in frustration, he can't find the memory.

It's not Sam's fault.]

I know what he took it as! [Jaskier snaps, his brows hard, and he loosk away from Sam as his teeth grit. He knows exactly how fucking stupid Geralt is, how literal he can be, how he weighs and balances his wounds as if not every single one of them matters.

He would wilt under hearing his own tone turn so bitter in this moment if it wasn't possibly the only thing keeping him conscious right now. He glances back to Sam, hearing what he's saying. It's. Important. He pushes the search for the memory back and simply listens. As if the professor has started speaking, and it's time to take notes.

He looks back to Geralt.]

Sorry. [He moves his hand to the side of Geralt's body Sam indicated, running it gently over his skin to feel for... something. An angle that is incorrect, a pooling of blood. Blood. There's so much of it, stinking up his nostrils. Sour and cold. (Geralt isn't cold. He's still warm. Still here.)

He finds a place near his waist. There.] I'll try to fix them. Just... please, keep talking. If you can. It sounds like you know what you're talking about.

[For once, Jaskier is the one who needs to listen. To be distracted.

No. No. He's far from good right now, but he's here regardless.]

[ ah, there it is. sam isn't surprised by the snap in jaskier's tone. barely so much as reacts to it, as the other turns his attention to geralt's sagging weight. if sam wasn't mid-stitch, needle and thread already tugging together the pieces of geralt's back, he would be more of a help to push the weight away. to get geralt settled, fully, on the couch itself.

as it stands, though, sam just keeps his focus together. let's jaskier feel for the rib itself, let's jaskier heal, and he does his work as he can. after another moment, as jaskier mutters sorry and asks sam to keep talking and sam pauses in his work, glances over to the other man. ]

Hey. [ he says it to get jaskier's attention, his tone calm, somehow lighter than anything that's been said so far. there's no telling if it's sam's magic, having evolved to a point that it emits off him in the air, or just him that's bringing a stillness to the air, a calming, as he waits for jaskier to catch his eyes. ] He's okay. [ because that feels important, even if jaskier knows it already. ] And you're okay. We've got this. [ sam offers a small smile, then - reassuring, without being dismissive. there's a small amount of guilt there, too, knowing that he's part of the weight that jaskier's been carrying this whole time. but right now, they have to get through this - they have to fix geralt up and get him resting and then, probably, drag jaskier to bed as well if that exhaustion is anything to go by.

sam turns back to his work, then. he'll be done soon, he knows, so it's not hard to slip into jaskier's ask. ] Bodies are kind of crazy, though, in that way. I know you know it too, but I have no clue what the differences are between what y'all have going back home and how we've got it back home for me, but- [ and now it's his turn to fill space - easing into unnecessary conversations and stories - weird tidbits that happened to him, funny things that happened to friends, how he broke his arm falling from a tree when he was eight but didn't know it was broken until three days later because he was such a stubborn kid - light, easy things. he doesn't wait for jaskier to interject though there is of course plenty of places to, and he does what he can to distract.

it's a bit of time, later, before he's done - tying off the last of the stitching and running a washcloth over the skin and blood. the room stinks of it, of sweat and focus and so much blood - but sam swallows it all back. rubs his forehead with the back of his hand and moves to stand, his attention turning fully now to jaskier. ] I think we can let him sleep the rest of it off- unless you saw anything else?

[ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

jaskier.

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