**The Illness of a Witcher**

Prompt: Geralt is sick but trying to hide it and jaskier notices anyway

The autumn chill settled over the town of Blaviken, wrapping its cobblestone streets in a fog of mist and damp. Geralt of Rivia stood silently against the wall of a tavern, arms crossed and a contemplative frown etched onto his face. He had come here seeking respite after a long day of hunting monsters, but the weary heaviness in his limbs and a deep ache in his chest betrayed his bravado. With every inhalation, a trend of pain shot through him, but he dismissed it as merely fatigue—something all witchers dealt with from time to time. Witchers didn’t complain; they endured. It was a mantra etched into his very being, reinforced by years of battle and hardship. Jaskier, his closest friend and perhaps the most influential bard in the continent, was ambling through the streets, his lute slung across his back and a glint of mischief in his eye. A tuneless song escaped his lips as he approached the tavern, unaware of the storm brewing within Geralt. He stopped short upon spotting the silver-haired witcher, a mixture of concern and annoyance washing over his handsome features. “Geralt! You look like a corpse propped up against the wall,” Jaskier declared, his voice rising above the din of revelry from inside the tavern. “Is that the latest fashion in witcher attire? I must confess, it does not suit you.” Geralt shot him a glare, attempting to suppress the tugging sensation of irritation that Jaskier had a talent for bringing forth. “I’m fine,” he grumbled, pushing away from the wall and adjusting his leather armor, though he felt it clinging uncomfortably to his skin. “Of course you are,” Jaskier replied, his eyes narrowing skeptically. “A fine specimen of abnormality, exhibiting all the warmth of a drowned cat. Would it kill you to let me help you?” “Help?” Geralt scoffed, though a fleeting spark of interest flared within him. “With what? Complications of a hangover? I have bounties to collect, monsters to slay. That’s what I need, Jaskier. Not your incessant prattle.” “I’ll have you know my prattle is quite lucrative,” Jaskier retorted with a mock seriousness, leaning closer. “At the very least, it keeps your heart engaged. You, my friend, need something more than blood and steel. You need—food, rest, perhaps a warm bed.” Geralt resisted the urge to give in. He was a witcher, strong and resilient, but the dull throb in his forehead and the unsettling tremble in his hands told another story. “I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though as he lifted his hand to wipe the mist from his brow, he felt the weight of exhaustion pulling at him. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “You might be ‘fine’ in the most literal sense, but I think it’s more than that.” He stepped back and surveyed Geralt’s pallor, which did indeed reflect the sickly hue of a late autumn day. “You look ghastly.” “Words of sympathy would suit you better when I’m on my deathbed,” Geralt spat, even as he felt the words stick in his throat. He knew he should shake off this illness, but fatigue was becoming an unwelcome companion. “Deathbed? You think so little of your own condition? A witcher on his deathbed would hardly be so stubborn.” Jaskier folded his arms, his expression shifting from jesting to concern. “You need rest. Tell me what ails you so I may cast a ballad in your honor.” “An ailment of the throat. A common sickness going around. Nothing to worry about.” Geralt winced internally; it was a pathetic fib. He was far from a common man, and the fever blazing within him was anything but ordinary. Jaskier peeked at Geralt through the graying haze of mist. “If you were indeed afflicted with something as trivial as a cold, I wouldn’t dare pry. But you, my friend, have battled hydras and banshees without flinching. This—this is different.” “Spare me,” Geralt hissed, though the conviction in his tone wavered, betraying him in the shadows of his health. He began to turn, intent on entering the warmth of the tavern where he hoped distraction awaited him. But Jaskier’s hand caught his wrist. “Would it kill you to admit you’re not invincible? Is it so much to ask to admit when you’re hurt?” Jaskier’s voice softened, the flamboyant bard suddenly expressing a vulnerability that mirrored Geralt’s hidden feelings. Geralt sighed, weighing the possibility of stubborn silence against the action of self-revelation. “I don’t need more of your songs, Jaskier; I need to focus. I have responsibilities.” “The only responsibility you have is to yourself right now,” Jaskier replied, determined. “You need to rest before it gets worse. I’ll accompany you. I can sing songs that distract even the harshest illness.” Geralt hesitated, the offer hanging around them like the autumn fog. Finally, in a voice softened by fatigue and friendship, he replied, “Fine. I’ll take a break.” Jaskier grinned, a triumphant expression blooming across his face. “Then we’ll find a bed unoccupied by the burdens of loved ones. What say you to a night well spent, with ale and mirth?” “Ale sounds... adequate,” Geralt conceded, though he knew better than to expect any mirth while his body fought against him. His thoughts drifted to a cozy fire, losing himself in observation rather than struggle. Still, he couldn’t help but feel the warmth of gratitude for Jaskier’s unwavering support. “Then let’s find you a place to rest,” Jaskier exclaimed, his fierceness momentarily replacing the frivolity. Together they turned towards the tavern, easing their way into the warm embrace of laughter and light as the world outside grew darker. As light spilled from the door, Geralt felt strength earning its way back into his limbs, Chad never would admit it, but his friend’s concern had ignited a flicker of resolve in him. Sometimes it was the unexpected warmth of friendship that made even the hardest battles worth fighting.