"It's a sword," Geralt growled-- and oh, he managed to find a little pep there even if his fingers were white-knuckling the edge of the tub-- "it doesn't bend." He tried to even his breathing as Jaskier prattled onward and most of the words slipped in one ear and out the other as the edges of his vision went a little black. His pulse was thick and loud against his eardrums.

Jaskier was right, of course, he could have another sword made. But they needed money for a sword even if they happened to have base materials to forge, which they didn't, didn't have either. And without a silver sword it would be twice as hard to get either. "My fault," Geralt muttered, shoving the flare of anger back where it belonged. "You had enough to deal with." That wasn't even forgiveness, or thanks-- just a statement of the facts. Jaskier was not responsible for Geralt's sword, Geralt was. If there was any blame to be had then it was his own. He should have sheathed the damn thing. He should have been more prepared so that he wouldn't be in this position in the first place.