No.

The denial was quiet. Unspoken. Lost amongst the panic as he watched Jaskier clawing at his throat, and in the roar of his heartbeat as he rushed to him. It wasn't a denial about what was happening, what he might have done with the words that he knew had hit home more than he had intended to. The bard was good at deflection, but it rarely worked on him, especially after all this time together, and Geralt had seen the words hit home. The pain. The hurt. It had been almost painful to see, and yet it was nothing compared to this, paling in the face of the blood now speckling the bard's lips as he gasped and choked and scrabbled at his skin. No, it was a denial of the other feeling, the one stirring beneath the panic. The reason for the panic, the fear of losing something that wasn't his, but was.

The fear of wanting and longing.

The fear of destiny.

Quiet, and yet louder than anything. It was there as he supported the shorter man, coursing beneath his skin, a burning where Jaskier leant against him. No. It was there, louder now, a roaring in his ears as he pushed and shoved the bard up onto Roach's back, and really that told him everything because never before had he let anyone else on his horse. And, while he had entertained it with Jaskier on more than one occasion, usually when the bard's grumbling and complaining had faded, giving way to real exhaustion. He would never have done it, but today he hadn't even hesitated. Hurry. He knew better than anyone how quickly a life could be lost to the creatures he sought and fought, had seen it happen far too many times, but he had always distanced himself, not hiding from it but not letting it close for fear that he would crumble under it.

This was different.

He couldn't hide from this. It was as though the world had spun on its axis, as though in a single moment, he had become a completely different person, everything focused on the bard in the saddle. Why? Why do I care? No, I don't care… The lie was weak even in the privacy of his own thought, and he wasn't sure which of them he was trying to protect by lying. Himself? With his fear of caring, of letting people and destiny close. Or Jaskier, loyal and annoying, caring when he should have run in the opposite direction long ago? He didn't know, but then that summed up the entire course of their relationship, and this moment, when words he hadn't meant but spat in irritation had caused harm, he would never have wished for but had.

I did this.

Usually, that realisation would have had him retreating, locking himself behind a blank mask and the reputation of Witchers, but that wasn't an option here. Not with the bard lurching forward in the saddle, blood on his lips and chin, eyes wide and frightened. Or, with his heart beating a painful tune in his chest, a rising drumbeat as he swung himself up into the saddle behind Jaskier, wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him close as he kicked Roach into a canter. As though that would be enough to anchor him in this world.

As though Geralt was enough.

It felt as though he was holding a butterfly between trembling fingers as they raced into the camp, Jaskier shaking and fighting for breath in his arms. He'd done that as a child, chasing the insects in and out of the trees until he caught one, remembering how delicate it had been, how fragile. He'd crushed one once. Too enthusiastic in his triumph at capturing it, and his grip loosened for a moment, unwilling to risk that again. But there were trembling hands on his and a gasping, wordless protest that held him in place as instead he called for help.

"Is there a Doctor here?"

Relief at the positive answer, bled into fresh terror as he helped Jaskier from the horse. A lifetime of shed blood – both his and the monsters he'd killed hadn't prepared him for the sight of the bard, stumbling and threatening to fall, his front splattered crimson. Not enough to kill him, not yet at least, but there was a shadow in the frightened eyes that met his, Jaskier looking far too young in that moment, and his hands tightened. Protective. Possessive. Guilty. Practically carrying the bard towards the tent they were pointed towards, trying not to focus on just how much Jaskier was leaning into him, the pained noises bubbling up with each stumbling step, time trickling beneath his fingers even as he kept him pressed into his side.

The Elf Doctor is immediately there, lowering Jaskier into a seat and Geralt must fight the urge to cling to him, as though his touch is enough to keep the bard grounded in the world with him. It's the knowledge that he can't help, that he's a killer and not a healer, that makes him let go and step back. He knows that he must have explained what had happened, but the exchange passes him by, lost in the sound of Jaskier's ragged breathing and the pained noises that are now little more than whimpers. He doesn't have time for small talk, or the Doctor's attempt to soothe them both. All he cares about is seeing the bard healed, and back to his usual annoying self, and his voice is a wolf's snarl as he demanded. "Can you help him?" A roaring filling his ears as he waited for an answer, tense, as he watched the healer leaning in close, praying to something although he doesn't know what and feeling as though the world itself is about to crumble around them when he hears the Doctor's soft exclamation.

The earlier panic had been quiet and cold. Now, it was loud and burned through him, terror and rage, and guilt blurring together. "What?" He could barely look at the bard as he stared at the Doctor demanding answers, violence simmering under his skin, the words slamming into him with the force of a physical blow. Magical damage, he knew better than anyone what that could mean, and it was clear from the terrified noise from the bard that Jaskier had heard enough tales to at least appreciate the damage, Geralt would give anything to stop him from knowing just how bad that could be.

"I can help with the pain" – relief, albeit short-lived flooded him then, and he glanced at Jaskier just in time to meet his frantic, terrified gaze as more blood bubbled up. He didn't have the right to reach out and touch, but not doing so was unimaginable, and he stepped forward, catching Jaskier as he lurched forward, supporting him and absorbing each flinch and whimper, even as his eyes tracked the Doctor as he bustled around. "That damage might be irreversible". He wasn't sure which of them flinched most at that moment – Jaskier twisting to stare up at him, pleading and desperate, somehow still trusting him to have the answers. To protect him. Geralt recoiling at the trust that he didn't deserve, the raw, careless words that he had spoken lying like lead in the pit of his stomach. I did this, he was trembling, hand pressing on the bard's back as Jaskier doubled over, coughing and retching, more blood splattering down his front.

He was still listening, although only half-heartedly, his attention riveted on the man beside him as Jaskier leant into him, seemingly forgetting that he was the reason for this mess. His skin burned where the bard pressed against him, guilt gnawing at him and yet he pulled him close, not knowing what else to do, helpless in a way he had never been before and it took a second for the Doctor's words to register. "…He could die." The cold, rational part of him had known it was a possibility from the second he had seen the first bubble of blood at the corner of the bard's mouth, but it was different hearing it now, and his grip tightened as Jaskier went rigid, clawing at him, desperate for comfort as his rising tower consumed him.

"F-fuck…Geralt…" It must have been agony for him to force those words out, blood dripping and pooling with each syllable, and it cut through the white noise of panic that had been threatening to consumer Geralt, and for the life of him, he wasn't sure how he managed to sound almost calm as he pulled Jaskier close again.

"Yeah, we won't let that happen…"

I can't let that happen.

There was a promise in those words, as binding as the careless words he'd said that fateful night in Cintra, but this time he knew what he was saying. He knew the weight of his words, the cost he might need to pay to keep it, knowing what Mages could demand from him in return for the bard's life. He didn't hesitate, holding Jaskier's gaze, and feeling the promise take root. It was different from destiny but far more potent, and beneath the pain and terror, he could see belief and trust. Jaskier accepting his word, trusting him to keep the promise. To save him. More binding than any nebulous destiny that he had spent a lifetime escaping, and when he moved to lift Jaskier, his hands were steady and his eyes clear – this was a path that he had to follow. That he would follow willingly to whatever end, as long as it saw Jaskier safe.

A destiny of his own choosing.