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It had been unseasonably hot that day.
It was the kind of heat that made Jaskier feel like he couldn’t breathe, that drenched him in sweat which soaked his hair and stung when it dripped into his eyes. The kind of heat that made the air shimmer, so Jaskier almost felt, while trudging along beside Geralt and Roach, that he was in a dream - a nightmare, perhaps, except that instead of terror there was boredom and repetition and a hint of nausea lurking underneath it all.
To be fair, Geralt had been walking as well, for much of the day. It was too hot on the dusty roads even for Roach to carry a rider for long. Geralt (and Roach) had even allowed Jaskier to ride her for about an hour, that afternoon, after Jaskier had fallen behind and hadn’t been able to catch up even after Geralt had slowed his pace. It had been such a relief to sit and watch the world pass him by while Geralt led the horse, and even to close his eyes for minutes at a time and hold on to the saddle. That had been when he’d finished off the last of the water in his pack. He’d tried to make it last, but eventually the waterskin was empty.
Now, though, the shadows were getting long, and Jaskier could tell the sun’s setting would soon chill the air. It was already much cooler than it had been. Geralt had found them a campsite safely off the road, deposited Jaskier there, and set about preparing the site for the night. Jaskier, tired and still sticky with dried sweat, held in a shiver as he sat hugging his knees. Usually he tried to make himself useful when they camped, but tonight he just watched as Geralt cared for Roach, kindled a small cooking fire, and strung the light hunting bow he sometimes used for small game.
Jaskier only realized he’d closed his eyes when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Watch the fire,” Geralt said in his ear, and melted silently into the trees.
Jaskier gazed into the fire, as instructed. His mouth tasted strange, sticky. He thought the cooling air should give some relief from the heat of the day, but somehow it only made it worse. His core was too hot, still: unsteady and jittery and wrong. His arms and legs were covered in goosebumps that kept making him shiver despite himself. And he was so, so thirsty.
But his water skin was empty.
I hate the heat, he thought, then, Watch the fire. Geralt said. Don’t close your eyes. Watch.
He closed his eyes.
***
Everything was worse when he woke up.
For a moment, disoriented, Jaskier wondered if he’d been drinking. The headache was there, as well as the feeling that his stomach had risen into his throat and could rebel at any time. The slightest motion of his head sent the world into nauseating loops, bursts of yellow light with pink-black blotches. He set his hands on the ground on either side of him to hold himself up.
He took a deep, steadying breath, and realized he smelled meat cooking. The scent teased at his nausea, and he took another couple of deep breaths, trying to suppress the urge to vomit. As he concentrated on his breathing, Jaskier looked up and realized Geralt was looking at him, though he couldn’t see Geralt’s face in the flickering firelight. He was cooking some small game on a makeshift spit over the fire, and had a pot sitting over some embers to one side of the fire. The two of them gazed at each other for a long moment. Then Geralt asked, “Are you alright?”
“Hm,” was all Jaskier could manage. He was afraid he’d lose his battle with his stomach if he opened his mouth to speak.
“I think that’s my line,” Geralt said drily. “Are you overheated? It was a hot day. You shouldn’t sit so close to the fire.”
“No,” Jaskier croaked. He tried to shake his head, but the motion sent the world in spirals again. He closed his eyes as he continued, “‘m… cold. Thirsty.”
He heard Geralt sigh, and felt him move closer. A large, callused hand fell onto his cheek, then the back of his neck, and then left him. “Do you have any water left?”
“No.” Jaskier took a breath. “Since afternoon.”
Geralt cursed and stood. “You could have told me,” he said, his voice moving away toward where they’d stacked the gear. A moment later, something landed in his lap - Geralt’s waterskin. Jaskier glanced up at Geralt, questioning - didn’t Geralt need this? But Geralt just shook his head. “Drink,” he said. “I found water while hunting. It’s not safe to drink from the source, but I’m boiling some now, so we’ll have more soon.”
That was enough for Jaskier, who now eagerly uncorked the skin and drank from it. The water tasted amazing - rich and sweet. The skin was less than a quarter full, far less than Jaskier craved, but he drank greedily until Geralt pulled the skin away. Jaskier whined wordlessly, but Geralt shook his head again. “Not too fast,” he said, “you’ll make yourself sick.”
And, indeed, the water sat less comfortably in Jaskier’s stomach than he would have liked. He put a hand to his stomach and grimaced. Geralt, ever-watchful, must have noticed, because Jaskier felt a hand settle on his upper back. “Breathe through your nose,” the Witcher murmured. “Deep, slow breaths. Good. Close your eyes, just breathe.” Gradually, Jaskier’s stomach settled, as Geralt rubbed his back. “Feel better?” Jaskier nodded minutely. “Good. Keep drinking that - slowly.” He stood and walked away; Jaskier’s back felt cold where the Witcher’s hand had been.
Soon enough, Geralt returned to Jaskier and the fire. Jaskier watched as Geralt glanced at the pot, fiddled with the cooking meat - rabbit, perhaps? - and set a few things down on the ground between them, a metal cup and a few small bags of the kind used to carry spices and herbs. Geralt poured powders from two of the bags into the pot on the fire, then pulled some dried leaves from the last bag and crumbled them into the pot as well. He stirred for a few minutes with their old wooden spoon, scraping the bottom of the pot occasionally. Then, he dipped the cup into the pot and handed it, now full of steaming liquid, to Jaskier.
“Let that cool a minute,” Geralt told him, “then drink.”
Jaskier gazed into the cup, steaming and clear with a few bits of dried leaf floating on top. A potion? he wondered. Doesn’t look like any type of potion I’ve heard of. “What is it?” he asked aloud.
“You’re too dry,” was all Geralt said. “The tisane will help.” His attention returned to the campfire, where he examined the cooking meat. Apparently satisfied, he removed the spit from the fire and pulled some of the meat off the stick with his fingers, eating what he pulled, methodically devouring one of the two creatures he’d cooked. Jaskier watched him. Usually he’d be ravenous at this time of night, and would eagerly help Geralt to eat what he’d hunted. But tonight, though his stomach was now capable of the small sips of water he was feeding it, the sight and smell of the meat still seemed revolting.
Geralt looked up and, seeing that Jaskier was looking at him, grunted. “You can have your share when I’m confident you won’t vomit it up and waste my hunting,” he said.
“No arguments,” Jaskier said faintly, looking away at the meat. He tried another pull at the waterskin, but found it empty.
“The cup,” Geralt reminded him. Jaskier looked down at the still-steaming cup that sat by his knee, then picked it up and tasted it. It tasted strange, but…good? Perhaps? He took another sip, and, slowly, another.
As he drank, Jaskier slowly began to feel more settled, more present. The dizziness receded, and left behind it a deep achy tiredness. After the last sip, he set the cup back on the ground and closed his eyes, ready to rest for the moment. Geralt, though, was not satisfied; he dipped the cup back in the pot and set it back on Jaskier’s knee. “Don’t complain,” he said when Jaskier sighed. “Finish that cup, have a few bites to eat, and then you can go to sleep.”
Sleep! It sounded heavenly. Jaskier picked up the cup and drank - the taste was becoming less palatable as he drank more of it, but the mention of food didn’t make him want to retch, so Geralt’s potion must be working somehow.
As he continued to drink the second cup, he watched as Geralt cared for Roach, set up their bedrolls, and banked the fire—tasks that usually fell at least partially on Jaskier. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, once Geralt was sitting next to him once more.
“Hm?” Geralt asked, frowning. “Why?”
“For getting sick,” Jaskier said. “For not helping tonight.”
“As you should be,” Geralt said, but his glower didn’t have any of the force it usually did. “Next time, tell me when you’re running out of water. We could have found some earlier, or I could have shared with you.”
Jaskier shrugged as he looked into Geralt’s potion, feeling uncharacteristically shy. There was just a bit left, and he drained the last of it in one gulp, avoiding Geralt’s gaze. “Done,” he said. “Is it a potion that goes bad quickly, or something? It doesn’t taste as good as it did at first.”
“Once it tastes bad, you no longer need it,” Geralt said, and traded the cup for a small dish: Jaskier’s share of the meat he hadn’t wanted before. “Here - there’s more if you want it, but you should at least have this before going to sleep.”
Jaskier picked up a morsel with his fingers and ate. Geralt had given him a small portion, and Jaskier believed he could finish it despite his lack of appetite. The nausea, at least, had left him entirely by now, but he was too tired to eat more than this, or even to drink more delicious lovely water.
After the meat disappeared, the plate did as well, and a handkerchief appeared in his hands. Feeling like a child, he wiped the grease off his hands and face, then laid down where Geralt had set up his bedroll. He felt his face burn red as Geralt spread the blankets over him, but he was too tired to acknowledge the embarrassment of being cared for.
He closed his eyes and slept.
***
By the angle of the light, he knew when he opened his eyes the next morning that it was still fairly early. Geralt was up already, crouching by the fire and feeding it kindling. He looked over at Jaskier when the bard moved to sit up. “Feeling better?” he asked.
Jaskier hummed. “Yes? A headache, still, but it’s much better.”
“Nausea? Dizziness?”
Jaskier shook his head.
Geralt grunted. “It should rain today,” he said, looking briefly up at the clouds covering the sky. “So it won’t be as hot. And we won’t be in want of water.”
Jaskier nodded.
“And,” Geralt added, glaring at Jaskier, “I want your promise that you will tell me when you run out of water. Or when you need something else. Don’t hide it from me.”
Jaskier hunched his shoulders. “I promise,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t trying to hide anything, I just…” He trailed off, remembering the night before.
“I’m not a human,” Geralt said. His voice was uncharacteristically soft. “I can’t always anticipate your needs. If you don’t tell me, I won’t know.”
Jaskier nodded dumbly.
“You’re a… you’re a…helpful…travel companion,” Geralt continued, now staring at the fire. “I’m not used to… I’ve…traveled alone for a long time. I don’t…you’re helpful. Sometimes. So…” Geralt pressed his lips together.
Jaskier stared at the witcher. Was Geralt blushing?
…Well. It was possibly the closest Geralt would ever come to acknowledging their friendship. Suppressing a smile, he patted the witcher’s shoulder gently. “Thank you,” he said simply.
Geralt cleared his throat and stood abruptly. “We have waybread to break our fast,” he said, looking down at Jaskier, “and the rest of the rabbit from last night, if your stomach will handle it.”
Jaskier nodded.
“And you will drink the last of the tisane,” Geralt added, walking away to the supplies.
Jaskier groaned. “Ugh, that stuff - what’s in it, anyway? You wouldn’t tell me last night. Is it some secret?”
“No,” Geralt said, rummaging in a pack. “Water, salt, sugar. I added mint to calm your stomach.”
“Oh,” Jaskier said. “I thought it was some potion, maybe.”
Geralt shook his head, coming back with the waybread and the familiar metal cup. He handed a piece to Jaskier. “It helps, when you’ve been without water, or when the weather’s hot and you sweat all your water out. The sugar gives you energy, and the salt holds the water inside you.” He dipped the metal cup in last night’s pot, still on the fire, and handed it to Jaskier. “Switchel helps, too,” Geralt added, “but I don’t carry it. Perhaps we should pick some up, at the next market or inn.”
Jaskier grimaced: switchel was a vinegary drink his mother had made him drink when he was a child. Good for the constitution, she would say. “I think I prefer this, odd though it is,” he said, and took a sip.
Geralt gave him a small smile. “It’s not meant to taste good,” he said.
“It does, though, rather, doesn’t it? When you’re thirsty, anyway.” He took another sip.
Geralt nodded, and they sat together in silence for a moment.
“You said it would rain today?” Jaskier said, changing the subject. “Will we travel?”
Geralt nodded. “There should be a town a half day’s journey from here,” he said. “I’d like to give Roach an easy day, but she can carry you if need be. If we must, we can spend the day here, but it may be unpleasant once the rain starts.”
Jaskier nodded. “I think I can walk a half-day,” he said. “I do feel much better.”
“Good,” Geralt said seriously.
And they ate their breakfast, and prepared for the day, and went on down the road together, Witcher and Bard.