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Geralt won the battle with bruxae, four in total and two more than the villagers had paid him for. They lay dead at his feet. Their bodies lifeless and pale. His head was spinning from the potions. He’d drunk one too many and it was no longer his injuries that were killing him but the toxicity. It was a foolish mistake, one he should never had made but he’d had no choice. He would have died without it. The remaining bruxa would have continued to torment the village and those deaths would have been his fault.
Even in death he wouldn’t have wanted that.
Green swirls crept around the edges of his vision and his knees felt weak but he had to make it back the village. He had to find Jaskier. Jaskier would be able to tell the other witchers of his fate, carry his medallion back to Kaer Morhen to be buried in the grounds of his home.
“Fuck!” Geralt muttered as he stumbled towards Roach.
His heartbeat was extraordinarily fast for a witcher. He could feel it hammering in his chest. It was about all he could feel. The potions had numbed the pain, even if he could see the blood oozing from the wound on his chest. He was a dead man walking.
He looked up at the sun glistening in the sky. “I’m sorry.” He sighed, knowing that Vesemir wouldn’t be able to hear him. “I did my best.”
He couldn’t mount Roach. He didn’t have the energy but he slung his arm around her neck and they hobbled slowly back to the village. Each step was like walking through the thickest mud and he blacked out a couple of times along the way. It was the thought of Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes that kept him going. He’d known a lot of death and destruction in his lifetime but if the world owed him anything then he wished to see those eyes one last time.
So he kept going. Every time his consciousness began to slip he thought about Jaskier and his eyes. He imagined the bard yelling at him to just keep it together for a bit longer until he could find a mage or someone to help heal him. Looming death was kind to him. He could hear Jaskier’s voice as well as if the bard was standing right beside him. He could almost smell the soft chamomile scent that he used in Geralt’s baths. He could see his charming yet mischievous grin.
He tripped over the air and fell to his knees. “Shit!” He growled and looked up. The village was in sight but he was running out of time. “Jaskier!” He gasped out breathlessly. It was a useless waste of air and energy. Jaskier was safe in their room, but fuck he wanted him. Just one last time. He wanted him.
He coughed, blood splattering onto the dusty path. Roach whinnied and butted his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and stroked her muzzle. “I think I’m really dying this time, girl.” The words were broken and barely audible but the effort had him hacking up more blood.
He gripped the ground with his fingers, death looking over his shoulder, but he didn’t want this to be the end. He wasn’t ready. Not now. Not now.
So he prayed to the Gods he been ignoring for his entire life. It was the end and it wouldn’t hurt to try.
“I’m begging you to help me, please.” He managed to gasp, before collapsing onto the road, his blood staining the path.
A fitting end for a witcher, alone on the path.