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Event #20 - Dream
[John is not normally a worrier. He and Geralt are both practical, capable adults. More than capable, especially where Geralt is concerned. He knows the other man is intelligent and well-trained, fast and strong. John does not know the full story behind Geralt’s Witcher blood and perhaps he never will, but he knows that it gives him a resiliency beyond that of the average man at that.
As hours go by and their appointed meeting time comes and goes, however, as John’s message of inquiry reaching out toward the other man is met with silence in return, the worrying begins.
He tells himself there is nothing to be concerned about. Geralt must simply have met with trouble on the road that delayed him. A wayward traveler in need of assistance, perhaps?
His worrying reaches a crescendo when at last on the path before him a figure appears in the distance. Roach. Relief leaps into his chest at first until he realizes there is no figure seated upon the saddle strapped to her back. That is when the true panic sets in.
John is not the tracker that Geralt is, but he does not need to be in the end. The recent rains have left the road thick with mud and Roach the only horse to have walked down the road in some time now. Following the prints of her hooves, John reins his own mount forward.
He tries to reason with himself, keep his head about him, try not to panic — up until Roach’s prints lead to a clearing, a tangle of bodies splayed haphazardly about on the ground. The metallic smell of blood is thick in the air, and beneath it the smell of death. John cannot explain it any other way, though he knows these bodies are fresh. The smell of bowels split open on the ground. Men reduced to cooling meat.
And there on the edge of the tree line lies a lone man, dressed in familiar leathers. John does not remember moving, suddenly he is out of the saddle by his side. There is blood, so much blood, John does not know at first where it is coming from. He lets out a sob of a breath, frantically running his hands over chest, legs, arms. Geralt’s skin is cool to the touch, his breathing shallow, his golden eyes glazed with pain when at last they open to blink up at him.]
Geralt— [John chokes out. There is a large slash across Geralt’s thigh and another across his shoulder, but it is the rattling of his breathing that leads John to find the hole in his chest.]
Jesus, god…! [He does not know which wound is worse, where to begin. He presses his hand down against the wound his chest first, blood oozing out between his fingers almost instantly.] Hold on, just. Hold on! Let me—
[A hand closes around his own. Fingers he knows well. The grasp is weak, squeezing once and then simply resting limply atop John’s. Both their hands sticky with blood.]
John. [Geralt’s voice, normally deep and gruff, now barely louder than the sound of the pounding of John’s heartbeat in his ears. Geralt shakes his head, only the slightest of movements. The look in his eyes softens, the pain deepening, if such a thing is even possible.] Stop.
What? No — you can’t… Geralt! [He presses harder for a moment as if in protest and Geralt grunts, his eyes moving to slip shut, his breath stuttering. More blood bubbles out with Geralt’s breaths despite his best efforts, and John still has yet to figure out how to address the leg. Maybe he can work out a bandage with his jacket somehow, maybe he can—]
Please. [Geralt’s fingers squeeze against his own, his voice barely above a whisper.] John. Please.
[John wants to argue with him. He wants to yell, to scream at him. No, he needs to try, he needs to…! His own breath coming out in a sob, he shifts his hand to grasp Geralt’s in his own, bending to kiss him softly, the taste of the salt of his tears mingling with the blood on Geralt’s lips. John is not a fool, nor is he a magical healer. He knows their time has come, try as he may to prevent it.
Laying himself on the ground beside the other man, he holds him in his arms, listening to the rasp of his breathing grow shallower and shallower, until at last there is nothing but silence.]
As hours go by and their appointed meeting time comes and goes, however, as John’s message of inquiry reaching out toward the other man is met with silence in return, the worrying begins.
He tells himself there is nothing to be concerned about. Geralt must simply have met with trouble on the road that delayed him. A wayward traveler in need of assistance, perhaps?
His worrying reaches a crescendo when at last on the path before him a figure appears in the distance. Roach. Relief leaps into his chest at first until he realizes there is no figure seated upon the saddle strapped to her back. That is when the true panic sets in.
John is not the tracker that Geralt is, but he does not need to be in the end. The recent rains have left the road thick with mud and Roach the only horse to have walked down the road in some time now. Following the prints of her hooves, John reins his own mount forward.
He tries to reason with himself, keep his head about him, try not to panic — up until Roach’s prints lead to a clearing, a tangle of bodies splayed haphazardly about on the ground. The metallic smell of blood is thick in the air, and beneath it the smell of death. John cannot explain it any other way, though he knows these bodies are fresh. The smell of bowels split open on the ground. Men reduced to cooling meat.
And there on the edge of the tree line lies a lone man, dressed in familiar leathers. John does not remember moving, suddenly he is out of the saddle by his side. There is blood, so much blood, John does not know at first where it is coming from. He lets out a sob of a breath, frantically running his hands over chest, legs, arms. Geralt’s skin is cool to the touch, his breathing shallow, his golden eyes glazed with pain when at last they open to blink up at him.]
Geralt— [John chokes out. There is a large slash across Geralt’s thigh and another across his shoulder, but it is the rattling of his breathing that leads John to find the hole in his chest.]
Jesus, god…! [He does not know which wound is worse, where to begin. He presses his hand down against the wound his chest first, blood oozing out between his fingers almost instantly.] Hold on, just. Hold on! Let me—
[A hand closes around his own. Fingers he knows well. The grasp is weak, squeezing once and then simply resting limply atop John’s. Both their hands sticky with blood.]
John. [Geralt’s voice, normally deep and gruff, now barely louder than the sound of the pounding of John’s heartbeat in his ears. Geralt shakes his head, only the slightest of movements. The look in his eyes softens, the pain deepening, if such a thing is even possible.] Stop.
What? No — you can’t… Geralt! [He presses harder for a moment as if in protest and Geralt grunts, his eyes moving to slip shut, his breath stuttering. More blood bubbles out with Geralt’s breaths despite his best efforts, and John still has yet to figure out how to address the leg. Maybe he can work out a bandage with his jacket somehow, maybe he can—]
Please. [Geralt’s fingers squeeze against his own, his voice barely above a whisper.] John. Please.
[John wants to argue with him. He wants to yell, to scream at him. No, he needs to try, he needs to…! His own breath coming out in a sob, he shifts his hand to grasp Geralt’s in his own, bending to kiss him softly, the taste of the salt of his tears mingling with the blood on Geralt’s lips. John is not a fool, nor is he a magical healer. He knows their time has come, try as he may to prevent it.
Laying himself on the ground beside the other man, he holds him in his arms, listening to the rasp of his breathing grow shallower and shallower, until at last there is nothing but silence.]