**Shadows of Illness**

Prompt: Geralt.is sick but does not realise it untill he faints. Jaskier nurses him back to healt

Geralt of Rivia had seen many battles, faced countless monsters, and endured injuries that would fell lesser men. Yet, in the depths of his solitude, an enemy had quietly crept in: illness. The Witcher felt off, but he dismissed it as fatigue from his latest quest. After slaying a particularly vicious griffin, he had spent the night in a small village tavern drinking mead and regaling tales of his exploits. The warmth of the fire felt delightful against his skin, but soon he noticed a shiver stirring deep within him. It was no more than an annoyance, an itch beneath the surface he could ignore. For days after the hunt, Geralt moved through his routines with a growing lethargy. The once sharp edges of his vision clouded, and his usual strength began to wane. He would find himself leaning against walls for support and staring blankly at the road ahead. But each time he felt the weight of fatigue pushing down on him, he raised an eyebrow and grumbled to himself. "Beast-hunting is tiresome work," he would say, brushing it aside like a wayward strand of white hair. Jaskier, his incessant bard-friend, noticed the signs of distress. The minstrel's keen eyes caught the pallor of Geralt's face, the way his jaw tightened in concentration instead of relaxation, and the occasional tremor that passed through his broad shoulders. So, inevitably, it was Jaskier who had to step in. "Geralt, my friend," Jaskier began one overcast afternoon, leaning against the dilapidated doorframe of the Witcher’s temporary abode. "You look positively ghastly. Have you considered that perhaps you are not just tired but... ill?" Geralt merely grunted, tossing a glance at the bard as he sharpened his silver sword. "Illness comes from weakness, Jaskier. I’m not weak." The bard sighed, a fleeting moment of worry crossing his face. "Very well, but if you don’t wish to listen to reason, I suppose I can sing a few songs in honor of the illustrious Witcher and his unfortunate demise." This earned a smirk from Geralt, who was all too familiar with Jaskier’s penchant for melodrama. "You’d sing trash about my last breath, wouldn’t you?" "Oh, absolutely! I’d weave a grand tale of your heroism until the stars themselves shed tears for your passing!" Jaskier replied with an exaggerated flourish. "But dying is not an option today. Not even for an encore." Geralt returned his focus to his blade. Yet, as the days turned into a blurred montage of hunting and stumbling through villages, Jaskier's concern morphed into something heavier. Geralt’s laughter had dwindled; his usual wry humor replaced by a solemnity that hung in the air like a storm cloud. One evening, Jaskier prepared a modest supper—a far cry from his grandiose feasts but made with care. He laid it out on a wooden table, making sure to include a pot of thyme tea, an old remedy he hoped would lift Geralt's spirits. "Come, eat," Jaskier encouraged, his voice bright yet gentle. "A Witcher can’t slay monsters on an empty belly." Geralt pursed his lips, his stomach grumbling even as he bent over the food. He absentmindedly pushed the dish aside, “Not hungry.” “Not hungry? You usually eat like a bear after hibernation!” Jaskier’s tone shifted, concern tangling with frustration. But Geralt, stubborn as ever, waved him off. The next day, Geralt decided to venture out for a routine monster contract despite Jaskier’s earnest attempts to detain him. The monster—a wraith terrorizing a nearby village—was only a specter, but Geralt’s mind felt heavy like a stone. He gripped his sword tightly as he made his way into the woods, the green trees curving ominously as shadows cast themselves longer than they should. In the heart of the woods, the wraith emerged, chilling the air. Geralt steadied his breath, but as he lunged, suddenly the world turned dark. The shadows sharpened into jagged edges before dissolving into a comforting blackness. He fainted, collapsing to the forest floor with a thud. Back at their temporary home, Jaskier had begun to worry openly. For hours Geralt had been gone, and as night fell, fear gnawed at him. He donned his cloak, armed himself with a lute as if it could shield him from the unknown, and set out searching through the woods. “Geralt!” He called, his voice breaking against the silence. “Geralt! Where are you?” Just when he thought he’d lost all hope, he stumbled upon the Witcher lying unconscious among the forest ferns. Panic surged through him, and he rushed to Geralt’s side. Knelt beside him, he shook him gently, calling his name. “Geralt! Wake up!” With a groan, Geralt's eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding them. The world came into focus, revealing Jaskier's anxious face looming close. “Jaskier?” The groggy response was barely a whisper. Relief washed over the bard. “You scared me half to death! What happened? Where are you hurt?” “I’m not hurt,” Geralt protested, though the fight was weary in his voice. Jaskier grasped his shoulder, concern knitting worry lines across his forehead. “Then why did you faint? You are burning up, Geralt, I swear! We need to get you out of this damned place.” He tried to lift Geralt, but the Witcher resisted, his strength sapped. “I’m—” Geralt’s words faded as he swayed against the ground. “No, you’re not! You really are sick!” Jaskier proclaimed. “Can you manage to stand?” With effort, Geralt moved slowly, leaning heavily against Jaskier. Together, they made their way back home, the bard supporting more of Geralt's weight than he’d ever thought himself capable of. Once inside their shelter, Jaskier laid Geralt on the bed, a call to action sparking within him. “Stay still; I will get a warm cloth!” He rushed to gather supplies, pouring all his energy into caring for his friend. Hours passed, Jaskier tending to Geralt’s fever with cool cloths and quiet songs. He whispered tales of heroism and glory, weaving their bond into each note. Finally, as the first rays of dawn filtered through the window, Geralt’s fever broke. “Jaskier?” Geralt croaked, bewildered yet grateful. “You’re awake! Thank the gods!” Jaskier’s voice was a mix of laughter and tears. “We’ve been worried sick about you!” “Some more than others,” Geralt murmured, a hint of a smirk touching his lips despite the weariness still clinging to him. “You should have let me rest.” “And miss out on the chance to cuddle a grumpy Witcher?” Jaskier teased, pouring a gentle tea for Geralt. Geralt took a tentative sip, the warmth washing over him. As he returned to a semblance of normalcy, the weight of illness faded along with the shadows, and he realized how much he profoundly valued the companionship. “Thank you, bard,” he replied, sincerity anchoring his tone. Jaskier grinned, repositioning himself in the chair beside Geralt’s bed. “Just you wait. I’ll pen a ballad about today’s event. ‘The Witcher Who Knew Not His Own Fragility!’ Does that sound poetic enough?” Geralt chuckled weakly but felt a warmth bloom within his chest, interwoven with the comforting realization that he was not so alone after all.