Geralt rose and fell away a few dozen times over the next day. Mostly he was insensate, his eyes would open and he would stare and he wouldn't react to Jaskier's face as it dipped in front of him, wouldn't respond to words or the touch of his hand on his face. He would drift away, after that, each time, but he was awake and that--oh, that was something.
They moved Geralt to one of the rooms above the pub, the one they'd paid for when they arrived. The mattress was soft, if stinking, the sheets were passable, and the sun didn't rise directly across the bed. Jaskier was in and out, flitting from the bedside to the bedroll on the floor, to their packs, to visit Roach, to speak to the alderman and the pub owner.
The midwife had accepted his apology (with an unbearably fond look) and had taught him to mix a crude painkilling salve, himself. He spent the better part of a day out in the swampy bogs around the town picking ingredients and gathering flowers. He returned and, for the first time in quite a time, Geralt spoke.
Jaskier didn't even mind that it was a cruel criticism of his pungent odor. (He did bathe, thereafter, and made certain the room had sprigs of lavender to drown out the remaining, muggy stench of damp.)
He mixed his salves, spread them over Geralt's stitches, tended to the man as best he could, and waited. Geralt was growing thinner and Jaskier didn't relish the day he'd have to figure out how to feed the man--it would be soon, tomorrow if not today, and he'd gone to talk with the pub owner's wife about making something that wouldn't choke him if they poured it down his sleeping throat.
When he came back, the room stank of vomit and bile and Geralt was hunched over the edge of the bed. Jaskier dropped his tray, a pitcher of grassy smelling soup and the bread for himself, and rushed over without another thought--there was a racket as that all hit the floor but he couldn't hear it--he pressed his hands into Geralt's shoulders and tried to lean him back. To resettle him on the bed.
"Geralt?" he asked, quietly, hopefully. The Witcher's eyes were closed as Jaskier pressed him back, so he simply stared and waited.
ONLY 390 ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED.
They moved Geralt to one of the rooms above the pub, the one they'd paid for when they arrived. The mattress was soft, if stinking, the sheets were passable, and the sun didn't rise directly across the bed. Jaskier was in and out, flitting from the bedside to the bedroll on the floor, to their packs, to visit Roach, to speak to the alderman and the pub owner.
The midwife had accepted his apology (with an unbearably fond look) and had taught him to mix a crude painkilling salve, himself. He spent the better part of a day out in the swampy bogs around the town picking ingredients and gathering flowers. He returned and, for the first time in quite a time, Geralt spoke.
Jaskier didn't even mind that it was a cruel criticism of his pungent odor. (He did bathe, thereafter, and made certain the room had sprigs of lavender to drown out the remaining, muggy stench of damp.)
He mixed his salves, spread them over Geralt's stitches, tended to the man as best he could, and waited. Geralt was growing thinner and Jaskier didn't relish the day he'd have to figure out how to feed the man--it would be soon, tomorrow if not today, and he'd gone to talk with the pub owner's wife about making something that wouldn't choke him if they poured it down his sleeping throat.
When he came back, the room stank of vomit and bile and Geralt was hunched over the edge of the bed. Jaskier dropped his tray, a pitcher of grassy smelling soup and the bread for himself, and rushed over without another thought--there was a racket as that all hit the floor but he couldn't hear it--he pressed his hands into Geralt's shoulders and tried to lean him back. To resettle him on the bed.
"Geralt?" he asked, quietly, hopefully. The Witcher's eyes were closed as Jaskier pressed him back, so he simply stared and waited.