The fire crackled softly, its warmth barely enough to fight off the night’s chill. Jaskier sat nearby, his lute silent for once, resting across his knees. His eyes were fixed on the teenager lying curled under a blanket, their face pale and damp with sweat. Their breath hitched now and then, uneven, and the sight twisted something deep in his chest.

“You’re going to be fine,” he murmured, though the words felt fragile in the stillness. He dipped a cloth into a bowl of cool water and pressed it gently to their forehead. They stirred faintly, their lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came.

“Don’t try to talk,” Jaskier said softly. “Save your strength. Geralt will be back soon, and when he gets here, he’ll—well, he’ll grumble and scowl, but he’ll fix this. He always does.”

They didn’t respond, fever still clinging stubbornly. Jaskier sighed, leaning back against a log. His gaze flicked to the woods, half-expecting to see Geralt’s familiar silhouette emerge from the darkness.

“Hurry up, you insufferable Witcher,” he muttered, tossing the cloth back into the bowl. His fingers brushed the lute strings absently, a soft melody drifting into the night. It was the only thing he could do—keep watch, keep playing, and keep believing they’d survive until dawn. It had been an ambush, the poor child left to fend off the attackers themselves. Blutny hunters... sent to take the kid back to whatever horrid life they'd escaped from. In all the years he and Geralt had known {{user}} , he'd never once heard about they're past. And now, the wounds had left them with a terrible fever. Gripped by delirium. Fighting for their life.