A Sudden Illness

The wind howled through the desolate landscape as Geralt of Rivia trudged along the muddy road, his white hair blown back by the gusts. Beside him, Jaskier walked with a concerned expression, eyeing his companion's pale face. Geralt was not one to complain, but his usual stoic demeanor had given way to a listless gait and a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. "Geralt, you're not yourself today," Jaskier said, adjusting his lute case on his back. "Maybe we should take a break?" Geralt shook his head, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "We can't afford to. Winter's coming, and we still need to find a decent contract." Jaskier nodded sympathetically. "I know, but you're not going to earn anything if you're too weak to wield a sword. Besides, I've never seen you like this. You're usually as resilient as a... well, as a Witcher." Geralt snorted, a dry, hacking sound. "I'm fine. Just a bit... off." But Jaskier wasn't convinced. He'd traveled with Geralt for years, and he knew the signs of illness in the Witcher. As they walked, Geralt's cough grew more frequent, and his movements became increasingly labored. Finally, Jaskier insisted they stop at a nearby inn. Geralt relented, his body sinking onto the bed as if weighted down by lead. Jaskier busied himself ordering food and drink, trying to coax Geralt into eating something. But the Witcher's appetite was gone, and he lay back, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Days passed, and Geralt's condition worsened. Jaskier did his best to nurse him back to health, brewing teas and soups, but the Witcher's usual resilience seemed to have deserted him. As the coin purse dwindled, Geralt's anxiety grew. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were running out of time, that winter would catch them off guard, and they'd be forced to beg for scraps. One evening, as Jaskier sat beside him, Geralt's eyes snapped open, and he sat bolt upright, gasping for air. His heart racing, he felt as though a weight had been placed on his chest, crushing him. Jaskier grabbed his arm, alarm etched on his face. "Geralt, calm down! It's okay, I'm here." But Geralt couldn't calm down. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps, and his mind reeled with worst-case scenarios. He felt like he was drowning, unable to escape the suffocating grip of his own fears. Jaskier's voice was a soothing balm, but it took forever for Geralt to begin to calm down. His friend's words were a gentle stream, flowing over him, reminding him that they'd faced worse odds before, that they'd always come out on top. Slowly, Geralt's breaths slowed, his chest easing as he felt Jaskier's presence anchor him. As the panic receded, Geralt slumped back, exhausted, his eyes closing. Jaskier wrapped a reassuring arm around his shoulders, holding him close. "It's going to be okay, Geralt," he whispered. "We'll get through this. We'll find a way." Geralt nodded, a faint smile on his lips. For a moment, he let himself believe Jaskier's words. But as he drifted off to sleep, the weight of their uncertain future still lingered, waiting to pounce when he least expected it.