Had Jaskier tried to pick up Geralt's head like he was an invalid, Geralt surely would have found the strength to disabuse him of that notion even had it meant every muscle in his body going into spasmodic paroxysms.

The trickle was good, now, his throat wet just enough from the last terrible attempt to be able to take the small amount of water with only a small, repressed cough that was not enough to stop the hungry swallows. When the bag was tilted higher Geralt gave it a few large mouthfuls before pushing his fingers into Jaskier's leg and then gulping for air when the bag was pulled away. When he lifted his arm carefully to wipe the corner of his mouth, it trembled and was returned to his chest instead of the bed. "Enough." More would only see him vomit it all up again. As it stood his stomach was lightly cramping with the liquid, but he was sure that it would pass.

His veins were almost normal in color again and his scars were white, as was normal. The dark circles under Geralt's eyes were nothing but natural. "How long?" he asked, his eyes on the window and then Jaskier. He knew that whatever the answer was, it wasn't good.