**A Bitter Chill**

Prompt: The story is about a sick geralt and a caring jaskier

The frost crept into the small tavern cabin like a shadow, wrapping around the wooden beams and settling into every crack and crevice. Outside, the wind howled a mournful tune, while inside, a fire fought valiantly against the encroaching cold. In one corner of the dimly lit room, Geralt of Rivia slumped over a worn table, his silver hair tousled and his usually piercing yellow eyes dull. He was anything but the fearsome Witcher the world knew: he was feverish and weak, with a pallor that suggested he had faced an enemy far worse than any monster. Jaskier, his loyal bard and friend, bustled about the cramped space. He hummed a lighthearted tune, an attempt to lift their spirits, but it fell flat against the oppressive atmosphere. With every small movement, he glanced at Geralt, who was still uncharacteristically silent. The Witcher sat hunched over, his head resting heavily on his arms, the only sound he made was the occasional weak cough that echoed through the stillness. “Geralt,” Jaskier began, his brow creasing with concern, “you really should drink some more of that broth.” He held out a bowl filled with steaming liquid, its savory aroma a stark contrast to the chill in the room. “I made it just for you…from scratch!” Geralt lifted his head slightly, the flicker of the flames reflecting off his pristine features, but he didn’t raise his eyes to meet Jaskier's gaze. “I’m not hungry,” he croaked, his voice raspy, a far cry from the steady baritone that usually filled the room with confidence. “Oh, come now! You can’t expect your body to fight off whatever illness has overtaken you without proper sustenance!” Jaskier chastised, his tone half-mocking and half-pleading. He set the bowl down upon the table and folded his arms, managing to look both adorable and distressed at once. Silence lingered between them as Geralt winced, a particularly harsh cough making him clench his jaw. Jaskier’s brow furrowed deeper. “You need to fight this, Geralt. If you fall ill, what will happen to all your monster-slaying duties? Or… or my music?” He attempted to coax a smile from Geralt, but the Witcher only offered a labored sigh. “If you keep talking, I might just fall sick from your incessant droning,” Geralt muttered, though the whisper of a smirk tugged at his lips. It was a weak attempt at humor, but Jaskier seized on it like a fisherman on a fresh catch. “See! There’s the Geralt I know, lurking beneath all that illness! You’re stronger than this!” He reached out to touch Geralt’s hand, the calloused skin contrasting with his own soft fingers. “Let me take care of you. You’ve fought for me countless times; let me help you now.” The sincerity in Jaskier’s voice broke through Geralt’s haze of fatigue. The Witcher allowed himself to meet Jaskier’s gaze, and within the depths of the bard's blue eyes, Geralt saw not pity, but loyalty. It was enough to rouse a bit of strength within him. With a defeated sigh, he sat up straighter. “Alright, I’ll take the broth. But only if you promise to stop with the speeches.” Jaskier’s face lit up with relief, and he beamed with a smile that was contagious. “Deal!” He lifted the bowl again, grinning like an imp who had just stolen a pie. Geralt accepted it—the warmth emanating from the broth was welcoming, and he dared take a tentative sip. “It’s… not half-bad,” he conceded, though he could still taste the remnants of herbs over the more potent bits of foul illness that clung to his throat. The bard chuckled, looking triumphant as Geralt continued to drink. “There’s a recipe from my mother’s family, you know. A secret!” Jaskier explained brightly, eager to share. “I’d teach you how to make it if you promise never to hunt marsh creatures again after I concoct it. It’ll be your signature dish—Witcher’s Broth!” He twirled dramatically, as if he were on stage, drawing the firelight into his performance, the shadows of his fervor dancing in the room. “Enough theatrics,” Geralt interrupted, stifling a laugh that morphed into a fit of coughing. That laughter felt good, despite the lingering soreness in his chest. “What’s next? You’ll serenade me while I eat, too?” “Why not!” Jaskier declared, plopping down into the seat opposite Geralt, his quill and notepad appearing as if conjured by magic. “I’ll pen a new ballad about the great Witcher Geralt of Rivia and his glorious—albeit unfortunate—battle with an unknown foe!” The bard’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Geralt couldn’t help but roll his eyes, even as a small smile crept onto his lips. As Jaskier began to scribble frantically on the page, casting glances at Geralt as he created his tale, the Witcher felt a comforting warmth resonate in his chest. This illness may have weakened him, but it could not dampen the bond they had forged through their adventures, the companionship so often forged in fire and blood. For hours, they sat in that tavern, the wind still howling outside, but within the cabin, laughter and warmth grew. Jaskier regaled Geralt with exaggerated tales of their past encounters, filling the room with tales of monsters and witches that bordered on the outrageous. Each chuckle and smile released a little more tension in Geralt’s weary body. By the time the fire had dwindled, and the wind outside had calmed, Geralt felt a flicker of gratitude that rose gently, warming the chill within. Jaskier’s unwavering support was like the fire in the hearth—an unrelenting source of warmth in even the coldest of nights. And though the world would forever remember Geralt as the monster-slayer, tonight, he was simply a man—touched by the tender care of a friend against the bitter chill of the world.