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a-kind-of-merry-war · 3 years

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The Beast in the Woods

It’s Christmas Eve for both me and my giftee, so here’s my @thewitchersecretsanta Geraskier fic for @dont-touch-the-phlebotinum 💖 I hope you have a wonderful day! Stay safe & happy holidays ⭐

Geralt, finding it too late to head North for the winter, decides to finally take Jaskier up on his offer to attend the Winter Bardic Competition. But when he arrives in Oxenfurt, Jaskier has vanished, and there’s rumours of an awful beast stalking the lands. Geralt must set out to find him - before the flighty bard finds himself in the jaws of a monster.

13k words, contains: Jaskier injury/illness, creature!Jaskier, fairy tale themes, Geralt taking two decades to admit his feelings. Rated T.

Geralt looked down at the body of the werewolf at his feet. At least: it had been a werewolf, moments ago, when he’d driven his sword through its chest. Now, lying on the leaf litter in a spreading pool of blood, the wolfish figure was melding and melting back to what he once was: a man, just a man.

Guilt bit at Geralt. It hadn’t needed to end this way. Lycanthropy could be cured, if you caught it soon enough or the victim was willing. But he’d arrived too late.

The chances of bringing them back, of making them human again, dropped with every kill. Human blood sealed a curse like cement in a wall. After enough of it, the only way to get rid of it was to tear the whole thing down.

People were running from the village. They must have heard the fight: the werewolf had led him away from the forest towards the farms on the edge of the settlement. It was part of the reason why Geralt had been forced to slay the beast rather than save it: he couldn’t risk any more deaths. As the villagers approached, seeing the scene in front of him, there were gasps and shouts and cries - clearly they knew this man.

He was about to sheath his sword and go to find the alderman amongst the huddle of people when there was a cry - a wail. A woman pushed her way through the crowd, her eyes red-rimmed. She spotted the body at his feet, and cried out again.

“You killed him!” She screamed, extracting herself from the others, “You fucking killed him!”

She collapsed next to the prone body, grabbing at the dead man’s shoulders with her hands, sobbing. The man was bloodied and torn, but she didn’t care, blood on her hands.

Geralt didn’t need to watch this. He knew what happened - knew this scene all too well. He turned, but she shouted at him, her voice cracking through the clearing like a whip.

“Witcher!” She looked up at him from the bloodied dirt, spittle flying from her mouth. “Is that it, then? You kill him and you leave?”

Geralt didn’t respond.

“Oh, but you’ll be paid first,” she spat, “I know you take your payment. You’ll leave here with a bag of someone else’s silver. What about us, Witcher? What about the ones you leave behind, the ones who have to put the pieces back together when there's a part missing? What are we paid?”

Geralt gripped tighter on his sword, taking a step back from the corpse at his feet. The woman continued to shout, snot and spit and tears mingling on her face.

“Where’s my payment, Witcher? What will you pay me, for the cost of a life lost? For the life of my husband? Will you pay me in blood? The knowledge that you’ll never know what it’s like, to be a monster—”

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt growled, “You think I don’t—”

“I know you don’t! You don’t know what it’s like to love someone who everyone else thinks is a monster, who people send men like you after!”

“It’s not—”

The woman continued, stepping over the corpse and stalking towards him.

“Maybe I should take the payment of your kind. Your fucking law of surprise. Tell me, Witcher, what do you have that you don’t know you possess?”

“This is over,” said Gerat, turning away, “It’s over. My job is done, here.”

“He was just a man!”

Geralt whirled around. “He killed all those—” He squeezed his eyes shut, gathering himself. It was always like this, one way or another. Always this same. Two evils: greater, lesser. “This conversation is over,” he said, voice terse and clipped.

The woman continued to shout at him - her voice rising to a high pitched scream - but he walked away, sheathing his sword as he went. The alderman would pay him regardless, he knew: always better to be rid of a monster than tolerate one when the wellbeing of hundreds of people fell under your limited power. Her words were just borne of fury and rage and, more than that, the impotence that so many like her felt: powerless to save, powerless to cure, powerless to do anything other than watch and wait for someone else to die.

Geralt had suffered such insults before, such cries. He knew more than most what it was to never leave a job truly finished, for there always to be something left behind. But it was just that: just harsh words, nothing but hot air and venom. He wouldn’t carry those words with him for long - and if they did come back to haunt him, on long lonely nights or midway through a difficult hunt, he’d push them back down.

He was well practiced in ignoring their bile, now.

It was just words, he thought, with a sad shake of his head. Just hot air.

There’s a storm crackling through the air above the Oxenfurt Academy of the Arts. It’s unusually warm as the seasons change, summer melding into autumn, and the hair is hot and humid, pressing against the city dwellers and artists like tepid water, filling their lungs and making them sweat. Creativity is near-impossible under such conditions, and the Basement Bar - cool and shadowed beneath one of Oxenfurt’s many brothels - finds itself packed with students keen to escape the heat.

As they drink and gossip and boast, the storm builds outside, and none of them notice. The air is thick and heavy, the clouds low and dark, obscuring the sunset and then curtaining the moon. When the bar closes and the crowd of people finally stumble into the still-warm street outside, it’s pitch black - aside from the flashes of lightning that occasionally light the sky towards the North of the city.

Thunder rumbles above, and the stone buildings shake.

A bard - drunk and happy - stumbles into the room he’s staying in and tosses his blue doublet, brand new with deep green trim on the cuffs and collar, onto the fraying armchair in the corner of the room, quickly followed by his lightweight shirt and his boots.

He falls backwards onto the bed, his messy brown hair sticking in slick strands to his sweaty forehead, and huffs a quick, too-hot drunken breath before struggling out of his trousers, leaving them puddled on the floor next to the bed.

He pulls away the covers - it’s too warm for them, right now - as a flash of lightning illuminates the small room, sending sudden weird shadows dancing on the furniture and his face. The storm must be right above the building, right overhead, teeming and reeling like an ocean trapped above him.

It isn’t raining. He doesn’t even notice. He winces as the lightning flashes and the thunder roars, sending shockwaves through his already pounding head, then collapses down onto the pillow.

He’s still, for a few moments, taking deep breaths as he wills the room to stop spinning around him. After a minute, one of his hands sneaks up the soft cotton sheet and slides beneath the pillow. He searches - grabs - and pulls something out from under it.

Balled up fabric, wrinkled where it’s been tucked so haphazardly beneath the pillow. Fabric that was once black but is now nearly grey through wash and wear. The bard curls his hand around it, rubs his fingers against it. He brings it to his face and inhales - just once - and makes a noise so quiet that it’s drowned out by another crack of thunder as the sky splits above him.

Soon, he falls asleep, and the storm rages on.

It was a cool, crisp winter morning as Geralt led Roach carefully through a small, half-frozen stream. She trudged carefully through the water as Geralt walked by her side, leading her on. Her breath fogged the air in hot puffs.

They were heading to Oxenfurt.

No - Geralt reminded himself. They weren’t headed to Oxenfurt. They just happened to be near Oxenfurt, and would be visiting the city while he was following leads about something stalking the nearby countryside.

It was nothing to do, of course, with the winter bardic competition that Jaskier had invited him to every year for the past five years and he had, like clockwork, brushed away with a convenient excuse. Typically, he could say that he was heading North for the winter - returning to Kaer Morehn - but he’d taken too many contracts too far south too late into autumn, and by the time he reached the mountains the way through would be totally frozen.

This year, it was an excuse that brought him to the heavy iron gates of the city: he was in the area anyway. Might as well attend, finally. And Jaskier had always told him that if he ever did choose to remain South for winter that they could ride out the season together, offering him a place to stay and a warm hearth. He mentioned it every year, in fact, since they’d started travelling together.

Geralt doubted that Jaskier truly wanted him around for the full three months of snow and ice and unbearably dark evenings, and suspected that the offer was one given with the understanding that Geralt would always refuse. Now, with fewer contracts and nowhere else to go, he would have to finally take him up on it.

He wouldn’t demand Jaskier’s space, especially not in Oxenfurt where Jaskier’s reputation as a bard outweighed his own as a witcher. He would instead ask if Jaskier knew somewhere he could stay - somewhere cheap, ideally - where he could wait out the worst of the weather until the start of spring.

Geralt hadn’t seen Jaskier since they’d parted ways more than six months ago. When they first began travelling together, they could go a year or longer without seeing each other. Now, six months felt like an oddly silent age. Jaskier would be pleased to see him - especially in attendance at what he had been told was “one of the top six events in the Academy’s calendar!”

And - in truth - he was looking forward to seeing Jaskier too. His thoughts had been dark and cloudy since the disastrous werewolf contract, and the widow’s words still tugged at him. Jaskier, all brightness and laughter and constant chatter, would clear those clouds somewhat. He hated to admit it, but it was good knowing that there was always someone who’d be pleased to see him.

The idea of spending a long winter with Jaskier, sharing stories over hearty meals and strong wine, felt almost as appealing as spending it in the keep with his brothers - but distinct in a way he was trying not to dwell on.

The competition wasn’t for another two days, so he stopped at a village half a day’s ride from the city where he would spend the night, if the innkeep was trusting of his kind, and ask around about the beast. He reminded himself, not for the first time, that the creature and the inevitable contract on its head was the reason why he was there - not for the competition, and certainly not for the flighty bard that was continually occupying his thoughts.

He’d heard the first whisperings that something awful was afield nearly four days ago. It was rare for mere rumours to reach so far, so he’d been immediately intrigued, but the merchant who’d been excitedly talking about a mysterious monster just outside Oxenfurt had been unable to tell him more than a vague story about a shadow in the forest and a couple of dead sheep. As far as he could tell, the so-called monster hadn’t even killed anyone.

It wasn’t much - and usually, Geralt would opt to ignore the story as just another man trying to make himself seem more interesting and get a few free drinks - but there was something about it that made him stop. Geralt had learnt after countless years on the Path to trust his gut instincts, and this story hooked into him like one of Jaskier’s fucking songs. Perhaps there was more to it than just rumour.

The little village he’d chosen to rest in seemed friendly enough, and soon Roach was fed and stabled and he was enjoying a good meal in the tavern, seated at a shadowy corner table. The room was otherwise empty, save for a man leaning against the bar, his head bent low over a bowl of cheap-looking broth. A farmer, judging by the dirt on his hands and the sun-bleached cap he had pulled low over his ears. When Geralt had entered, the man had peered up at him, eyes wide.

The farmer was still hovering by the time Geralt had finished his meal, eyeing him nervously. This wasn’t unusual - many folk were afraid to approach a witcher directly. He returned to the bar, acquired a pint of suspiciously pale ale and turned to the farmer.

“I’ve heard stories that there’s something in the woods nearby,” he said, sipping at his pint and keeping careful eye contact. “Know anything about it?”

The farmer paled as much as the beer.

“Aye,” he said, quietly. “But they’re no stories, witcher. They’re true. There’s something out there.”

“What sort of something?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s big. Real big.”

“I heard there’s been no attacks? No deaths?”

“No human deaths.”

“Meaning?”

“Sheep. A few cattle. Not many. I just… there’s not been a kill in a week or so. But I know there’s something out there. I can’t go looking for it myself, witcher. I can’t leave Anje to look after Miriam alone, and the boys, and the farm...”

“You’re worried it might return?”

“I am. Gods help me, I am. It only took one of our cows, but we can’t afford to lose another. It took a few sheep from Boris, about a mile away, and a couple more from down the road.”

Geralt sipped at the disgusting beer, thinking. The man was desperate - and terrified.

“You actually saw it?”

“I saw something.”

“Describe it.”

“It was on the edge of the forest. I thought it was a shadow, at first, when it moved… huge, it was. Taller than me. Covered in dark fur.”

Geralt frowned. “A werewolf?”

The man shook his head. “Pardon, Witcher, because I’ve not seen a werewolf before, but I’ve seen pictures and… I don’t think it’s a wolf. It’s the wrong shape for a wolf, and there’s been no howling. And…”

“Yes?”

“Well. Werewolves. I’ve heard they leave a… a mess. They destroy the things they kill?”

Geralt thought back to the things he’d found in the wake of his last contract with a werewolf. He nodded, silently.

“This… this one don’t. The stuff that got killed… it was like it took a few bites from them and left them. Not torn to bits like you might expect.”

“Hmm.”

That was strange. The sorts of beasts Geralt hunted weren’t often known for clean kills, especially not things described as huge and hairy.

“Look, sir,” the man reached a hand across the bar, then immediately retracted it. “It’s been a few weeks. We might be safe. And I don’t… I don’t have much to pay you.”

Geralt sighed. He was getting soft.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, gently. “Although it might not be much. I need to move on tomorrow, but I’ll be back in a few days, maybe a week.”

Hopefully with help, he thought. Perhaps the addition of a chatty bard might loosen the lips of some of the other villagers who were too suspicious to talk to a witcher.

The man nodded. “Thank you, witcher,” he said. “Thank you.”

By the time Geralt had left the tavern and bartered a room for the night at the inn next door, it was already growing dark - the winter evening quickly setting in. The village was quiet, so he used the last of the daylight to quickly scout the edge of the forest, a short walk from the last farmhouse.

It was an imposing sight, especially in the dark: the trees tall and closely packed, blocking what little light there was. He stalked the edge, feet crunching through half-frozen leaves, his senses honed. There were the usual signs of life - the droppings of prey animals, the occasional scent rubbed against a tree, the sounds of owls and foxes screaming from the depths of the woods.

But nothing like a monster. He’d been hoping, at least, to find a splash of dried blood - but the most he came across was the remains of a rabbit, clearly the victim of a fox or cat.

Soon, night had truly set in and the moon was a thin sliver in the sky - useless for lighting up the ground around him. He only had a couple of vials of Cat left, and using one now, before he was even sure there was something to hunt, seemed a waste.

Empty handed, and with no more to go on than when he’d left, he returned to the village.

Geralt awoke early, before the sun had risen, a thick layer of frost still on the ground. Dawn wouldn’t be for another few hours, but he was keen to arrive in Oxenfurt with enough time to find both somewhere to stay that wasn’t too crowded as well as Jaskier. It was an easy ride, and this early in the morning so deep into winter he was the only one on the road, making quick time with his thick, fur-lined woolen cloak pulled tight around his shoulders.

He soon found himself approaching the Eastern Novigrad Gate, the recognisable structure looming from the early morning fog. The sun was finally up, casting a pale, cool light over the stonework and making the water beneath sparkle.

There was something almost like anxiety squeezing in Geralt’s chest. He thought of Jaskier, no doubt still asleep, almost certainly hungover, sprawled in his bed, totally unaware that Geralt was mere minutes away.

And then another thought. His bed, or someone else’s? Would Geralt’s sudden appearance be seen as an intrusion to Jaskier’s more amorous pursuits in a city filled with lovers and romantics?

An unpleasant little twist of jealousy snaked its way around the anxiety. Geralt pushed it back. Jaskier was allowed to have other… friends.

Dismounting Roach, Geralt led her the rest of the way across the bridge. The guards leant sleepily against the walls, barely registering his approach, and aside from a few suspicious looks he entered without any difficulty.

After booking a room in a cheap inn right on the edge of the town and a quiet stable for Roach, he stashed his swords and the heaviest of his armour inside and headed into the heart of the city, towards the Academy.

Even this early it was bustling with life, and as he approached the Academy he noticed several students glancing at him, hurrying away, sharing whispers behind hands with their friends. This was nothing unusual: people were always pointing at the witcher.

He turned the corner towards the group of buildings that comprised the Academy itself, pushing his way through the growing crowd of busy students. A stage was being erected in the central courtyard, surrounded by people at work - nailing things down, hanging decorations, prancing about on the wooden boards. This was where Jaskier would be, he knew: right in the middle of it all. He approached the group, scanning them.

“Geralt?”

He spun around. There was a young, pretty woman standing behind him with a shock of long, blonde hair and a ridiculous feathered hat. In her hands she held a tangle of red and gold coloured bunting.

“It is Geralt, isn’t it?” She continued.

“I… yes.” Geralt blinked. “How…”

“Oh, Jaskier’s always going on about you. You’re pretty recognisable.” She looked him up and down, and Geralt felt like he was being appraised. “He wasn’t wrong. I was expecting him to be exaggerating, to be honest.”

“Exaggerating wha—”

“Anyway,” she rearranged the bundle in her arms and stuck out a hand. “I’m Priscilla. Wait, shit, no,” she giggled, “Callonetta. Sorry. Still getting used to stage names.”

Geralt shook her hand as she grinned at him.

“So,” she continued before Geralt could say anything, leaning to look behind him, “Where is he?”

Geralt frowned. “Where’s who?”

“Jaskier. We figured he was with you.”

Geralt hesitated.

“I came here looking for him,” he said, slowly. “Thought I’d… surprise him.”

“Shit,” she looked worried, “that’s… we all thought he was with you. Shit.”

“When did you last see him?”

She shook her head. “Early autumn. He was here for a few weeks then he just up and left. I mean, that’s what he usually does, he gets bored and buggers off without any proper goodbyes, but…” she chewed on her lip. “When did you last see him?”

“A while ago. Seven or eight months.”

She looked truly worried, now. “He always comes to the competitions. We thought he was just late because he was off with you, but if not…”

“Maybe he’s just busy,” said Geralt, trying to reassure himself as much as Priscilla. “You know what he’s like, probably fallen in love with someone and gotten distracted.”

She peered at him, and he couldn’t read her expression. “No,” she said, finally, “I don’t think it’s that.”

“Hmm.”

“Do you think… d’you think he’s alright?”

“He’s probably—” Geralt cut himself off before he could finish the lie. “I don’t know.”

Priscilla paled. “Can you find him?”

He didn’t need to be found. Jaskier was perfectly capable of looking after himself. He didn’t need Geralt traipsing after him, worrying about him, getting in his way.

“I can find him,” Geralt said. “Where was the last place he stayed? Maybe I can start there…”

“He’d gotten a room in the Stag,” said Priscilla, “I’ll show you. But he left so long ago, I’m not sure if you’ll find anything…”

The bundle of bunting still gripped in her hands, Priscilla spun around on her heel and began to stalk away. With nothing else to do, Geralt followed.

Fucking bards.

The Stag turned out to be a sizable, if slightly out-of-date inn a ten minute walk from the Academy. The small room on the ground floor was mostly full of faded, mismatched furniture along with a creaking bookcase, full of leather-bound works. A long counter ran along one side, behind which was a door leading to a shadowy back room.

“Elisa?” Priscilla leant over the counter, dumping the bunting onto it, calling into the back room. “Hello?”

“Just a minute!”

There was a crash, and then a tall, plump woman appeared from the doorway, her dark hair pulled into a messy top-knot on the top of her head with a cleaning cloth in her hands. She spotted Priscilla and grinned, then her eyes fell on Geralt. She was immediately intrigued, that much was clear, her eyebrows shooting up.

“Well, well,” she said, her voice honeyed, “who’s this, Pris?”

Priscilla placed one elbow on the counter and joined the woman - Elisa - in assessing Geralt. He felt pinned beneath their twin gazes, awkward and out of place.

“This,” said Priscilla, after a suitably long pause, “is Geralt.”

“Good Gods,” Elisa said, eyes going wide, “Geralt? The Geralt? Never thought I’d actually meet you.”

Geralt felt a little odd, being so well-known to all these people.

“I don’t—” He began, but Priscilla cut him off before he could continue.

“The Geralt,” she said with a smile.

“Well,” Elisa breathed in apparent awe, “What can I do for you?”

“It’s Jaskier.” Priscilla leant back, folding her arms across her chest.

“What’s he gotten himself into this time?”

“That’s the thing, we don’t know. We don’t know where he is.”

Elisa frowned, and turned to Geralt. “I thought he’d be back for the competition...”

“So did I,” Priscilla sighed. “We both did.”

“And you’ve not seen him either?”

Geralt shook his head. “No. I think this is the last place he stayed. Did he tell you where he was going? Or did you see anything in his room… maps, plans, even clothes… anything would be useful.”

The jolly smile was gone, and now the woman looked just as worried as Priscilla.

“No, he just paid and left one evening… I thought it was odd, but, ah, you know Jaskier. He’s always off somewhere or other.”

“Odd how?” Asked Geralt, quickly.

“He was acting strange. Quiet. Quiet for Jaskier, anyway.” She started to fiddle with the cloth in her hands. “He didn’t say where he was going. Usually he’s all chatter about where he’s off to next, some adventure… but he just paid and left.”

“Did he take his things with him? All of them?” Geralt swallowed, trying not to give in to the growing fear in his stomach. “His lute?”

“All of them.” Elisa paused, her brows furrowed in thought. “Wait, now, there was one thing. He left something behind. I remember, I got one of the girls to put it aside for when he came back…”

She vanished back through the door. Geralt and Priscilla glanced at each other but said nothing, waiting.

“Ah! Here we are…”

She reappeared, a bundle of black fabric neatly folded in her hands.

“We found this when we were cleaning out the room,” she said, passing the bundle to Geralt. “It was in the bed, under the pillow. He must have forgotten it.”

He took it from her with a frown, then unfurled it.

“A shirt?” Priscilla shrugged. “He’s always leaving stuff like that behind, that’s nothing unusual.”

Geralt swallowed. “This…” Fuck, he didn’t even know these women. “This is my shirt.��

They stared at him, and very quickly he wished he hadn’t said anything. Before either of them could respond, he bundled the shirt into his satchel and took a step back, towards the door.

“I’m going to find him,” he said, leaving no room for argument. “I’ll bring him back here when I do. Is there anyone else who might know where he went?”

Priscilla shrugged. “He didn’t tell anyone he was leaving,” she said, “we just thought he was being impulsive. Like I said, we thought he was with you.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “We were talking about him just last night, saying that he was so late…”

“I will find him,” Geralt said. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince, but Priscilla smiled at him, a little sadly.

“I know you will,” she said.

Geralt rode back through the city gates and along the eastern bridge. He was thankful that he’d only paid for a night’s lodgings in the inn - it meant that he could afford to lose the coin when he’d returned and told the innkeeper he was leaving right away.

Fuck. He really could have stayed - a single night was unlikely to have made much difference considering no one had seen Jaskier for six weeks or so - but doing so felt wrong. He needed to set out. Jaskier wasn’t in Oxenfurt: that much he knew. So he needed to keep moving.

It was still light, but the darkness was coming on earlier each night and he knew he didn’t have many hours of sunlight left. Even if he was forced to stop somewhere before properly beginning his search, at least he would have started.

Geralt had left Priscilla with a worried smile on her face and the reassurance that he would manage to find Jaskier. He’d probably just gotten lost, or distracted, he said. Perhaps he’d pissed off the wrong people and was waiting for someone to bail him out. There were dozens of ways a man like Jaskier could become waylaid, he said to her, trying to convince them both that Jaskier would be fine.

He had failed to share with Priscilla the awful little thought that had been prickling at him since learning Jaskier was missing. It would only worry her more.

He thought of the rumours of the beast stalking the empty miles around Oxenfurt, and spurred Roach into a canter.

He remembered what the terrified farmer had said in that tiny village outside the city: that the beast hadn’t killed any people, just animals. But would anyone have truly noticed if the creature had killed a stranger that no one expected to be there? A wandering traveller who hadn’t passed through any of the villages could be eaten alive and no one would ever know: especially if the creature had a habit of killing its victims as neatly as the farmer had described.

Geralt’s instincts - honed and poised - had told him there was more to the rumours of a monster outside Oxenfurt than he would usually assume. Perhaps this was why.

The further he travelled, the more convinced he was that the farmer had got it right. Perhaps, bored of waiting and uninspired by the competition, Jaskier had set out alone, looking for adventure. And flippant and flighty and friendly as he was, he could have easily heard the stories of a beast hidden in the woods. It would not have come as a shock to hear he’d gone looking for it himself, just to catch a glimpse.

At the crossroads before the village, Geralt stopped. He was struck with the image - sudden and viscerally real - of Jaskier, head in the clouds and lute strapped to his back, being hunted down by something large and wild and deadly.

He reached into his satchel, fingers grasping around the shirt that Jaskier had left behind. He pulled it out and looked at it, twisting the thin, wrinkled fabric around his gloved hand. And then - in a movement more unconscious than deliberate - he lifted the shirt to his face, inhaling its scent.

It hit him like a punch, winding him. It had been seven months since he’d last seen Jaskier, but that smell - so utterly him - made it feel like he was right there beside him, singing away, strumming at that infernal lute.

Geralt shoved the shirt back into the bag and veered left, heading towards the wood, ignoring the darkness growing around him.

There was something unsettling about the forest - the closeness of the trees, the broadness of their trunks. Travelling deeper into it felt like sinking underwater, silence closing in around him. The sinking sun, which had been threatening to blind him before, was almost completely blocked by the thick canopy of leaves.

He moved slowly, riding Roach and then dismounting to better guide her over fallen branches and hidden roots. As he slid from her back, he unsheathed his sword. It was easy to believe that there really was something hiding here, lurking in the dark.

There were no paths here, no well-worn trails, not even those left behind by animals. He slid between branches, in and out of shadows, around entire toppled trees and ponds masked with fallen leaves. With no clear scent to follow or traces to track, Geralt was following instinct alone. He walked for hours, quickly losing track of both direction and time. He should have rested, he knew, at least to meditate for a while, but urgency spurred him on.

He couldn’t stop. Not yet. He’d rather walk all night through this cursed forest than stop.

So walk all night he did.

Instinct led him to a clearing, swathed in darkness. The trees were sparser, here, the ground moist beneath his feet. Perhaps he’d finally reached the edge of the forest. He headed forwards, hoping there might be something beyond the thicket of trees, any kind of indication of the creature he was looking for.

The light, little that it was now the moon had hidden, grew steadily, and soon Geralt found himself stepping from the treeline into an enormous clearing. And at the very edge of the clearing, partly obscured by trees and sprawling, creeping vines, were the remains of a partially destroyed castle.

The structure jutted weirdly from the ground like broken bones. The centre of the castle was largely intact, but the paired towers flanking it had tumbled, the enormous stones cracked and faded where they lodged in the soft earth like gravestones.

In front of the building was a stone courtyard, weeds and bushes and even small trees forcing themselves through the cracks in the bricks, leading to a wide door.

Geralt suppressed the shudder that ran down his back. If there was something hiding in the woods, this was where it would be: of that much he was sure.

The space around the ruins was wide and empty, and Geralt knew he should take the opportunity to rest and eat before exploring the castle itself. He left Roach stamping nervously beneath a tree on the edge of the clearing, then began to search through her saddlebags for food, the sword still held in one hand.

Something moved in the trees to his left. Quick, four-legged - darting between shadows. Then again, behind him. He spun around, sword raised, ready to strike.

A low growl came from the woods beside him.

The wolf was quick, but Geralt was quicker. It leapt, jaw snapping, and Geralt swiftly side-stepped out of the way, bringing down the hilt of his sword against its body as he did. The wolf was thrown off balance, skidding across the ground, before leaping back to its feet.

Geralt danced towards the centre of the clearing as the wolf advanced once more, the cloak still fastened around his neck swirling as he did. Roach squealed and Geralt spun to see a further four of the huge animals creep from the trees. They were enormous: larger than the wolves he typically dealt with, their fur tangled and matted, teeth dripping with saliva.

Ghouls and kikimores and drowners were nothing compared to a starving, desperate wolfpack. There would be more hidden out there, of that he could be certain, and as soon as these few had the advantage over him the rest would advance for a quicker, easier kill.

The nearest one snapped at him, then jumped forwards. He took a quick swipe with his sword, taking a step back, then hit back with a blast of Aard. Two of the wolves got caught in the shockwave, staggering backwards with twin barks, but the remaining three began to circle, cutting off any chance of escape, trapping him between them.

There was a howl in the forest, far too close for comfort.

And the wolves attacked.

It was a blur of fur and fangs and steel. Geralt doged and rolled, skidding across the wet ground, ducking away from deadly teeth and dirt-clogged claws. It was near-impossible to land a blow when he was being attacked from so many directions, only able to jump out of the way and block where he could. He managed a few quick catches - the steel swiping shallowly through fur - but nothing that would bring the beasts down.

Shit. He was outnumbered and exhausted. He spun, arm aching, and caught the nearest wolf across its back. With an anguished howl it dropped, but there wasn’t time to rest as another took a leap at him.

He swung at that, too, but his aim was wide and the wolf crashed into his chest, throwing him to the ground. As he fell, his sword spun from his hand, and the wolf pinned him to the mud, its snarling maw inches from his face. Geralt struggled, trying to push it off, but the beast was too heavy.

The wolf’s breath stank, made even more noxious by Geralt’s heightened senses. He shifted beneath its weight, and the wolf took the opportunity, suddenly jerking down, its teeth slipping towards his neck.

And then it was gone, pulled away with a sharp yelp.

Geralt rolled over and scrambled to his feet just in time to see -

Fuck.

The creature was real.

The wolf looked tiny in the jaws of the beast that tossed it aside like it weighed nothing at all. It was a good three foot taller than Geralt and twice as broad, covered in coarse, dark brown hair. The body was bear-like, huge and powerful, with a jaw and snout more reminiscent of a wolf. Its huge arms ended in long, lethal-looking claws.

Its eyes were blue.

Geralt had never seen a creature like this with such blue eyes before.

But the monster was distracted - more interested in the wolves than Geralt - rushing quickly at the next animal to throw itself at them. Geralt pirouetted out of the way as the creature met the wolf head-on, grabbing it in its claws as the wolf dug its teeth into its neck. Geralt took the opportunity and shot an Igni fireball towards two of the approaching wolves, sending them skittering back. He ran forwards, determined to either kill them or force them to flee, firing another flash of Igni towards them.

They howled, the smell of scorched fur filling the clearing, turned tail and ran back into the forest.

Geralt took a moment to catch his breath, turning just in time to see the creature pull the wolf from around its neck, dropping it to the floor. The wolf twitched, twice, then stilled. The beast twisted to face Geralt, blood on its snout, its eyes flashing. Geralt’s fingers squeezed the hilt of his sword, ready to fight again.

The creature took a step forward. Geralt reacted instinctively, darting out with his sword, bringing it down in a wide arc as high as he could reach on the towering beast.

But instead of attacking, or even countering the blow, the creature fell backwards, stumbling over its own too-large feet with a roar.

“No!”

It was more of a bark than a word - a growling, shuddering sound that exploded from its throat. Geralt hesitated. He could have just imagined it, fear and exhaustion clouding his reason. He kept his hand wrapped around his sword and took another step forward.

“Geralt!”

That was unmistakable. He lowered his sword.

It really was like nothing he’d ever seen before. The farmer had been correct: it was no werewolf, that he could be sure of. Geralt had spent years studying creatures in the library of Kaer Morhen, and even longer encountering them on the Path, but this was something new. Something different.

The inky blackness of the night sky was fading, turning purple as the sun finally began to rise. The creature - part wolf, part bear - staggered back up to its feet, looking over Geralt’s head towards the smudge of colour streaking above the trees.

And then a single streak of bright, early morning sunlight burst over the canopy.

The creature growled. The growl became a choke - a cough - and then the fur began to slough away, like it was being washed away by invisible rain. It dropped to its knees with a shudder, the snout shrinking, the claws retracting slowly back into the paws. Paws which were quickly becoming hands.

Its face was changing shape, nose shrinking, the eyes sliding into place - and even before the transformation was truly complete Geralt knew, knew the face that he’d come to recognise as much as any of his brothers’ faces, as much as his own.

Jaskier.

With a rattling gasp, Jaskier slumped forwards, his hands lunging out and digging into the mud. The last of the dark fur fell from his shoulders and he looked up, a dazzling ray of dawn sunlight splashing across his face.

He looked awful. His face was thin, with huge, dark circles beneath his eyes. His hair was unkempt and sneaking past his ears, his chest skinny. There were puncture marks in his neck where the wolf had attacked him, little trickles of blood edging towards his clavicle.

Geralt could see his ribs.

Unthinking, he fell to his knees, unclasping the cloak and sweeping it over Jaskier’s shoulders in a single, swift movement.

“Jaskier,” he breathed, tugging the thick fabric around Jaskier’s naked form, “What happened to you?”

Jaskier coughed, shuddering beneath Geralt’s hands. He smiled, showing off bloodied teeth.

“I don’t know.”

Geralt poked at the fire roaring in the huge, dusty hearth. He’d scraped away Jaskier’s previous, rather pitiful attempts and with an armful of dried logs and a powerful burst of Igni he had soon managed to get a real fire going.

Jaskier shuddered, pulling Geralt’s cape closer. He’d dressed quickly when they’d entered the room from a heap of worn clothes - but had kept the cloak on, wrapped around himself like a blanket. Geralt didn’t ask for it back.

The huge room that Jaskier had made his hiding space had once been a dining hall, or perhaps a ballroom. The ceilings were high, the walls coated in flaking paint. Along one wall were several tall, thin windows, through which Geralt could see the trees and the bright morning sun. The drapes which had clearly once hung there had been torn down, and were now piled in a kind of nest in front of the fireplace, along with perhaps half a dozen old, moth-eaten blankets and sheets.

This was where Jaskier had been sleeping. He’d let himself fall back onto the soft pile as soon as Geralt had gotten him back inside, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

As the fire warmed him, colour started to return to his face, and he let go a little of the cloak, his fingers twitching and fiddling with the furry edge. The bite marks on his neck had stopped bleeding, the skin around them purpling with a quickly-spreading bruise. The creature was clearly more sturdy than Jaskier was.

“Jaskier…” He reached out, then suddenly thought better, letting his hand drop uselessly to his side. “What happened?”

Jaskier peered at him, and again Geralt was struck by how sick he looked.

“Nothing,” he said, finally. “At least… I did nothing. Geralt, you know me. If I’d brought this upon myself I’d tell you…” He sighed. “It just… it just happened. The last time I’d been near a magic user was the last time I saw you.”

“When was the first time?”

He shrugged. “Weeks ago. Two months, longer. Autumn. The first time was a full moon. I thought…” he laughed, the sound hollow, echoing from his chest, “I thought I was turning into a werewolf. It was just one night. I was so scared, Geralt, I ran… I woke up in an empty warehouse near the docks. I was so worried I’d killed someone… I ran, naked, back to the Academy and spent the whole day asking around - if anyone had heard about any attacks, any accidents. But nothing.”

Geralt watched him, staying silent, letting him speak.

“And then the next time it happened two days before the full moon,” he continued, “and it lasted till two days after. By then, I’d left Oxenfurt. I couldn’t bear the thought of…” he swallowed, gripping the blanket tighter. “I stayed away from villages or towns. Kept to woods, forests. I was like that for five nights, but it was only at night. I had to steal clothes that people had hung out to dry, Geralt, just so I could beg for food in a tavern.”

“It was the fifth day that I found this place,” he gestured up at the high stone walls. “Someone in one of the villages mentioned it offhandedly, and I thought it might be safe. Safe for me, safe for everyone else.”

“But then it got worse. It wasn’t just the full moon, it was every night, as soon as the moon was up. Then it was when the stars were out. As soon as it was dark. Twilight. Dusk. Suddenly I was more it than me. At one point I thought of coming to find you, I thought you might know what I was… but it was too dangerous. And, gods,” he ran his hand through the tangled nest that his hair had become, “I didn’t know where you fucking were. By the time I found you, it could have been…”

He drooped his shoulders.

“Could have been what?”

Jaskier’s chin crinkled, his lips twitching. His eyes, already red, shone with tears.

“Too late,” he said, voice cracking.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true, Geralt. It’s not just the changing. It’s not just becoming a monster as soon as the fucking sun sets. It’s…” He sighed, the breath wheezing from his chest. “The first time, it felt…ah, Geralt, I felt strong. Like I was energy and muscle and power. I thought - Gods - I wondered if it was how you felt. But every time it’s less. Transforming hurts, and turning back hurts, and it was only a few weeks until all that power was gone. It’s exhausting. I’m so fucking tired, Geralt. And not just when I’m it, when I’m human too. I can barely leave this room.” He finished, quietly.

Geralt resisted the urge to simply pull Jaskier into his arms, to hold him. He seemed so much more fragile than the last time they’d been together: not just because he was clearly sick, but in himself, too. He’d never known Jaskier to give up like this.

“I should have come sooner.”

“How? You didn’t even know anything was wrong with me. I—” He stopped himself, peering at Geralt with a critical eye. “How did you find me?”

“There’s rumours,” Geralt said, “In the villages. A monster in the forest. A farmer asked me to find out what was killing their animals.”

“Fuck.”

“Was it you?”

Jaskier looked guilty. “I was so hungry. I stopped going into villages when I was me, because I was terrified of what might happen. So, one evening, after I’d changed…”

“You went after animals.”

“Fuck.” Jaskier rubbed at his eyes. “It was awful. All… blood and viscera. When I turned back a few hours later I was sick. But it helped, for a while.” He paused. “There’s a contract on my head, then? A bag of coins for the… the beast?”

“Not quite. Just a couple of desperate farmers asking for help.”

“So why go looking?”

“It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“I was in Oxenfurt.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “What? Aren’t you supposed to be in Kaer Morhen for the winter?”

Geralt shook his head. “I took too many contracts in the South. Couldn’t make it back in time. And…”

“And?”

“I was looking for you. You always invite me to the Winter competition. Thought I’d show up, for once.”

“Oh Geralt.” Jaskier looked pleased. For the first time since finding him, the smile that split his face actually reached his eyes. Geralt could sense the happiness on him - the faint smell of honey beneath the more overwhelming musk of fur and dust. “And the one time you actually show up I wasn’t even there.”

“Everyone’s worried about you, you know.”

“What?”

“I met a woman in the city. Priscilla. She thought you were with me, I thought you were at the Academy. It’s why no one had tried to find you already.”

“She asked you to find me?”

“She did. But I’d have done it anyway. I’d heard about the monster near the city, and…” He faltered, struggling to finish that thought.

“You thought it had killed me. That’s why you were looking for it.”

“I thought it had killed you and nobody noticed.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Not yet, anyway.”

He said it with a certainty that made Geralt’s blood run cold. Before he could placate him with empty reassurances, Jaskier had grabbed his hand.

“Geralt, I need to know,” he said. “Do you know what this is? What’s happening to me?”

Jaskier’s gaze bore into him, and he couldn’t bear it. Geralt looked back towards the fire, letting it blind him.

“No.”

It was all there was to say. He heard Jaskier’s breath hitch, but couldn’t turn to look at him, couldn’t risk seeing the expression on his face.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

Another breath - another stuttering, silenced sob. Geralt finally shifted, meeting Jaskier’s broken gaze.

Fuck. It was like he’d signed his death warrant himself, like his blood was on Geralt’s hands. Jaskier had been clinging to the hope that Geralt would know what to do - strong, dependable, experienced Geralt - and he’d smashed that hope with a single word.

“But we can fix it.” Geralt said, squeezing Jaskier’s hand.

“How? You said it yourself: you don’t know what it is.”

“Not the specifics. But… this is a spell, or a curse. It’s magic. We just need to find a mage, and—”

He was cut off by a hoarse chuckle from Jaskier. “Where do you propose we find a mage?”

“Perhaps in Rinde, or Novigrad… ”

“Both four days ride away. Longer, as I can only travel during the daylight, and longer still considering I can barely walk from one end of this room to the other.”

“You can ride Roach, I’ll walk.”

Another laugh with no life behind it.

“What a privilege. I only get to ride her when I’m dying.”

“You’re not—”

“Hate to disagree with you, Geralt, but I rather think I might be.”

“No. I refuse.” Jaskier raised his eyebrows, but Geralt continued. “You need to rest. We both do. Later, I’ll find us something to eat. Perhaps eating while you’re human might help, a little… And then as soon as the sun’s up tomorrow we’ll leave.”

“But—”

“I’m getting you help. I can’t fix this, but there are people out there who can. We’re going to find one of them.”

Jaskier just smiled at him. It was clear he didn’t believe him.

“We should sleep. You need to conserve your energy for tomorrow.”

Geralt had brought his things, sparse as they were, into the dilapidated building with him, leaving Roach in a well-sized building outside which might once have been a stable - or perhaps a drawing room. He took his bedroll and blanket and added them to the pile - the heap that Jaskier had been sleeping tangled up in. He settled beneath the blanket, then looked across at Jaskier, still sat awkwardly with the cloak wrapped around him, shivering slightly.

“Jaskier.”

“What?”

“Are you still cold?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your teeth are chattering.”

“Sorry. I’ll stop. You sleep, Geralt.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Even cursed and weakened, Jaskier was stubborn. He lifted his arm, beckoning for Jaskier to join him beneath the blanket.

“Come here.”

For a moment, he thought Jaskier was going to comply, but he held himself back, his expression pained.

“I can’t, Geralt.”

“How many beds have we shared, Jaskier? How many bedrolls? Why now are you being—”

“It’s not that.” Jaskier cut him off, looking down at his hands, his dirtied fingernails. “I can’t… what if I hurt you?”

“You won’t.”

“But what if I change, and attack you? What if it takes over, and I can’t stop it…”

“You saved me earlier. You’ve not attacked anyone, we both know that.”

“Not yet. But what if I do? What if I don’t even know I’m doing it…”

“You won’t. Jaskier, I saw you like that. You were in control, even if you didn’t realise it. And anyway,” he gestured again to the space beneath his arm, “I’m a witcher. You couldn’t take me down if you tried.”

Jaskier smiled softly at the barb - the familiar tease.

“You know, I’ve not…” He began to twist his fingers around each other once more, “I’ve not shared a bed with anyone since that first time. This is the closest I’ve been to another person in weeks.”

Geralt paused. To spend so long without the constant chatter of others, without unnecessary smalltalk and pushing bodies and infuriating closeness, seemed ideal to him. Seven weeks of solitude sounded like a dream.

But this was Jaskier, Jaskier who was obsessed with other people, with gossip and story and talking till his throat hurt. Jaskier who was always reaching out, always touching, always grabbing - softly casual touches, embraces, kisses on cheeks and lips, a new bedfellow every other day.

For him, it must have been a nightmare.

Geralt finally lowered his arm then stood, grabbing both the blanket and bedroll and dragging it over to where Jaskier was sitting.

“Geralt, what are you—”

“No arguments. Lie down.”

“But—”

“Jaskier.” He looked at him, cautiously. The smell of fear prickled from his skin. “You won’t hurt me. Even if you tried, you couldn’t. It’s fine.”

Jaskier seemed to be aware that there was no point arguing, and finally unclasped the cloak as he scooted closer, letting Geralt wrap his arm and the heavy winter blanket around him. Even through layers of clothes, Geralt could feel how cold he was, and bit back a gasp as his cold feet connected with Geralt’s leg.

He lay there stiffly between Geralt’s arms, clearly unsure, and Geralt could hear his heart quietly pattering. He leant forwards till his lips were nearly pressed against Jaskier’s ear.

“Relax,” he whispered.

Jaskier made a soft, startled noise, then finally let himself soften, his muscles loosening, melting into Geralt’s touch. Geralt pulled him closer, sliding a hand down his side to rest against his stomach, and Jaskier sniffed.

“Even if you can’t cure me…” Jaskier pillowed his head on Geralt’s arm, his back flush against Geralt’s chest. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Geralt didn’t say anything, just held him tighter and waited, hyper-aware of the sound of his breathing and the fluttering of his heart, until he fell asleep between his arms.

Bright sunlight was spilling through the high windows, illuminating the floating specks of dust that danced through the air. Geralt shifted, waking slowly, feeling warm and comfortable. For a moment, it was like nothing had happened. It would have been easy to believe that he was in some inn after a hunt, or even on the floor of a forest, Jaskier sleeping peacefully, pressed close against him.

He opened his eyes unwillingly, taking in the room around him, the sunlight pooling on the pile of curtains and blankets where they’d slept.

Careful not to wake the bard, Geralt slowly sat up, pulling his now numb arm out from under him. Jaskier wriggled, but didn’t wake up. The fire had shrunk, and Geralt quickly restocked it, feeding the flames with Igni before grabbing his cloak from the floor.

When he turned, Jaskier was awake, staring at him from beneath Geralt’s blanket.

“I’m going to find something to eat,” Geralt explained, pulling on the cloak. “I shouldn’t be long.”

Jaskier blinked at him sleepily, then sat up, hair mussed.

“Geralt.”

Geralt knelt beside him. His expression was tired and lost and so horribly sincere. “Yes?”

He smiled. “Try not to get eaten by wolves.”

Geralt let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. “I’ll try not to. Go back to sleep.”

Geralt left Jaskier gently snoozing in the pile of torn-down drapes and blankets and headed out into the forest. The presence of a monster clearly hadn’t frightened any of the wild creatures still living in the woods - perhaps because Jaskier had been too cautious to actually try and catch any of them. He had vague intentions of bringing down a deer with his crossbow - something large enough to last them several days.

It worried him how thin Jaskier was. He’d promised him that they’d get help, and it was becoming clear that they didn’t have time to waste. They’d eat well this evening, take some meat with them, and the rest he could cook and cure overnight on a low fire. It might last them a week or so. He hoped it wouldn’t take them much longer than that to find a mage. He wished that he knew where the hell Yen was.

He made his way over the ruined courtyard into the thick forest beyond. The winter sun was bright - it was probably still early afternoon - but the space beneath the trees was already bathed in shadow. For all his fear, Jaskier had at least chosen a good place to hide - only a fool would be brave enough to creep through here. Geralt picked his way under branches and enormous felled trees, their roots jutting haphazardly into the air like broken fingers, keeping his body low and his breathing quiet.

Here and there were signs of life - scent trails rubbed against a tree, scraps of fur, droppings and footprints. He pulled the crossbow out and squatted against a tree, his back pressed to the bark, and waited.

It took longer than he had expected for something to cross his path. A doe, several meters away, picking her way between the trees. As silently as he could, he clicked the bolt in place, and aimed.

As Geralt made his way back to the ruins, the deer slung across his shoulders and the sun truly set, it began to snow. Lightly at first, but by the time he’d reached the courtyard the flakes were falling thick and fast. He pushed aside the broken door and shook the snowflakes from his hair as he trudged the long corridor towards the room Jaskier had made into his home these past several weeks. The structure that had once been the kitchen was totally destroyed, so he’d have to skin the deer elsewhere. Probably in the corridor, or the central room itself.

His mind full of the intricacies of properly skinning and treating game, he made his way into Jaskier’s hideout, the orange light from the fire flickering through the empty doorway and across the cold stone floor. He dropped the deer and headed towards the pile of blankets where he’d left Jaskier gently sleeping a few hours ago.

Jaskier had tangled himself up in the musty fabric, buried beneath a thick bolt of cloth, and Geralt tugged it back. Sometime during his absence, Jaskier had changed again - probably just before the sun had completely set. The clothes he’d been wearing to sleep were torn and tattered around him, destroyed by the transformation. As Geralt pulled back the cloth to better see him, he twitched, wriggled, and opened his eyes. He looked tired.

“Grl’t—”

The noise came low, rumbling and hoarse as Jaskier tried to sit up from the nest of blankets. His chest was rising and falling too quick. Something was wrong. Geralt dropped the blanket and bent lower, listening to the erratic thumping of Jaskier’s heart. It sounded strained.

Fuck. Of course it did. That would be why Jaskier was so weak, why each transformation left him feeling worse: his heart couldn’t cope with the constant state of flux. This wasn’t like any curse he’d seen before - despite the changes, Jaskier was still human, at his core. Fragile and easily broken.

Fear gripped at him, making his blood run cold. What if he really was too late? What if the damage was already too much, and Jaskier wouldn’t even make it a few days on the road?

With a groan, Jaskier leaned up on his enormous arms. Geralt got the distinct impression he was being careful not to loom over him - not to emphasise his new monstrousness. Even rising from the makeshift bed seemed to tire him.

“How do you feel?” It was a stupid question: Geralt could see how he felt, could hear it in his stuttering pulse, smell it in the fear seeping from him.

“Bad,” Jaskier said, simply, his voice emerging from the mouth of a monster. “Just… bad.”

“I got a deer,” said Geralt, as if that might help. “We can eat some tonight, keep some for the journey…it should last us a week, maybe longer.”

Jaskier peered at him, his eyes heavily lidded. It appeared they were both thinking the same thing - that a week might be too long.

“It’s snowing,” said Geralt, far too casually, trying to skirt the subject. “Just started as I headed back.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s expression dropped. “I’ve not seen snow in… in years. I’m going to miss it.”

“It’ll be there tomorrow,” said Geralt, quietly. “And the day after, probably. Looks like a storm.”

“Geralt—”

“You’ll be fine. We’re going to get you help.”

“Geralt.”

Geralt allowed himself to be silenced.

“I don’t… Geralt, what if we don’t… what if I don’t make it till then?”

“You will. You will, we just need to wait till you turn back and we can go.”

Jaskier shook his head. “It’s like… It’s like I can feel it in me, like a shadow.” He sighed, the sound so loud Geralt could feel it vibrating. “Thank you for trying.”

The fire still roared in the grate beside them, the crackling flames accompanying Jaskier’s harried breaths in harmony. For a moment, Geralt said nothing - didn’t know what to say.

“Let’s go outside.”

“What? Geralt, I’ll—”

“You want to see the snow?”

“Yes, but—”

“You can wrap a blanket around you, pr my cloak. Jaskier, I can’t… if you’re right, and I can’t help you…” he willed his voice not to crack, “it’s the least I can do.”

He rose to his feet, and extended a hand. Jaskier paused - just for a moment - then took it, allowing Geralt to pull him to his feet. He staggered, a little, and Geralt caught him, tucked beneath his arm as he guided him to the wall where he could lean without fear of falling. He quickly dug through the pile and pulled out the largest blanket he could find, and helped Jaskier tug it over his shoulders like an oversized cape.

His strength seemed to return a little as they made their way outside, and by the time they reached the courtyard he could walk without leaning on Geralt. The snow was falling thickly now, and the stone yard was already blanketed in a soft, white carpet.

Geralt watched as Jaskier - the creature which Jaskier had become - tottered around the snow. There was something in his gait, the way he placed his feet and the way he held his arms by his side, that was so unmistakably him. Geralt felt a hot little stab of guilt - one that kept niggling at him - at how close he’d come to simply dealing with the problem like the farmer had begged him to, like his profession demanded. He was glad he hadn’t.

Jaskier unsteadily walked across the uneven ground, staring up at the thick flakes of snow falling from the sky. The moon, high and bright and pinned to the velvet sky, reflected in his huge eyes.

They were still blue. Even out here, in the dark, Geralt could see how blue they were.

He grinned - showing off rows and rows of deadly looking teeth - then opened his jaw and extended his tongue - catching snowflakes on the tip, laughing as they melted in his mouth.

Geralt smiled to himself. He remembered the first time he’d seen Jaskier do this: they’d travelled together further into winter than they usually had, and had found themselves nearly snowed in in a shitty little town nestled next to the mountains. Jaskier had said that it almost never snowed in Lettenhove, and Geralt had rolled his eyes. They were never wanting for snow at Kaer Morhen.

He’d watched as Jaskier had danced about in the fluffy flakes, giggling like a child, catching them on his tongue. He’d thought, all those years ago, what an idiot he was. But even then, there wasn’t that much malice to the thought.

And now he watched as Jaskier, transformed and irrevocably weakened - repeated that gentle, carefree action in the courtyard of the ruined castle, arms outstretched.

There was a hot little ache in Geralt’s chest, stuck between his ribs.

Gods, he thought, sudden and slow and inevitable, I love him.

In the centre of the courtyard, Jaskier slipped with a short, sharp gasp. It looked like he’d just stepped on a patch of ice, but as he tried to right himself he stumbled, a clawed hand grasping at his chest. He gasped again, his breathing short and heavy, great plumes of steam rising from his gaping mouth and mingling with the falling snow.

Jaskier collapsed, the woolen blanket falling around him, obscuring him from view. Geralt ran forwards, his own feet skidding on the icy stone floor, and Jaskier cried out - a low, terrible howl.

“Geralt!”

Geralt was there, dropping to his knees and skidding the rest of the way.

No, no no - not now, please - not now -

Jaskier moaned beneath the cloak, tugging it closer. Geralt grabbed him, placing his hands on the huge expanse of his back. Even through the thick fabric he could feel heat radiating from Jaskier’s body, and the snow began to melt in a lopsided circle around them, revealing the wet stones beneath.

“Jaskier—”

The only response was a strangled sob, a noise laced with pain. Geralt couldn’t do anything, couldn’t fix it, couldn’t help. He could only watch, listening to Jaskier moan, curling in on himself.

And then it stopped. Jaskier suddenly went still, rapidly cooling beneath Geralt’s hands.

“No, Jaskier, no—”

Geralt tugged at the blanket, pulling him upwards, trying to see him. If he could get to him, maybe he could stop this - bring him back -

There was a choke. A coughing, wheezing breath. The bundle beneath Geralt’s grabbing hands moved, shifted, rose -

Jaskier clutched the blanket around his shoulders in pale, shaking hands. He puffed out a steamy breath from between pink lips, teeth chattering. The snow stuck in his shaggy brown hair and clung to his long eyelashes.

“Jaskier…”

The bard - once a man, then a beast, now miraculously a man once more - frowned at him.

“Geralt?”

He shivered in the cold air, eyes darting around Geralt’s face. He peered down at his hands, the long fingers that dug into the wool. He made a little noise - partway between a shout and a sob - silent tears spilling down his cheeks.

“Fuck, Geralt!” He lunged forwards, and Geralt grabbed him, wrapping his arms around his shaking shoulders and pulling him towards his chest. “What did you do?” He mumbled, words muffled against Geralt’s shoulder.

“I don’t… I didn’t do anything, I was just standing here…”

Jaskier shifted in his arms to better look at him.

“You must have done something, Geralt. What were you doing? Exactly?”

Geralt could feel the blood threaten to rush to his face. He forced the emotion down, happy for the cold breeze on his cheeks.

“I…” Fuck, could he tell him? Could he tell Jaskier what he’d been thinking as he stood there, watching him in the snow?

Jaskier frowned, eyes narrowing.

“What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

Shit.

“I… I was watching you.”

“And?”

“I realised…” He swallowed, and held Jaskier tighter. “Fuck, Jask. I realised I love you.”

Jaskier’s mouth opened and shut in silence. When he finally found his voice, it came out in bursts.

“But…. I - you - Geralt, what?” He blinked, eyes huge. “You… shit, Geralt, you love me?”

“I… yes.”

“And you didn't think to tell me earlier?”

“I didn’t know! I was just… watching you, and then… I knew.”

Jaskier laughed - short and sharp - and slumped his head back against Geralt’s chest. The laughter grew, and when he pulled back, shaking his head, there were tears in his eyes.

“You fucking… a fucking love spell, Geralt? And neither of us fucking realised what it was…” he gave an exaggerated huff. “You know, other people get grand declarations beneath balconies, or heartfelt admissions in the pouring rain, or true love’s fucking kiss, and what do I get? A brief moment of silent self-reflection. Bloody hell, Geralt, but you’re so… you’re so fucking you, you great git.”

Geralt was about to respond - to perhaps apologise, or defend himself - when Jaskier surged forwards, pulling the blanket with him as he wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and kissed him.

It was sudden, and unexpected, and wonderful. Jaskier kissed like he might die if he stopped, like there was nothing left in the world but them, and the way their lips danced together. Geralt clung to him, his fingers digging into his back through the fabric of the blanket, letting Jaskier pull him closer. Jaskier’s hands wound about his nape, tangled in his hair, desperate and eager like he might vanish at any moment.

When Jaskier finally pulled back his eyes were wide, lips shining.

“I love you too, of course,” he said with a little grin, “obviously.”

“Obviously?”

“I’m amazed you didn’t figure it out, really. I’ve never been exactly subtle.”

Geralt felt very stupid. “Fuck.”

“We can get to that later,” said Jaskier, pulling the fabric back around him. “I’m fucking freezing. And I’d like to point out that I’m not exactly dressed beneath this thing.”

Geralt peered down, then immediately looked back up, the flush creeping up his neck completely uncontrollable. Jaskier smirked.

“Let’s get back inside,” he said.

Jaskier pulled the blanket back around himself and together they rose, Jaskier a little unsteady, swearing as his bare feet touched the icy ground. He leant against Geralt as they headed back inside, although his strides were surer than they’d been before - his back straighter. Geralt focused his hearing, trying to pick out the sound of Jaskier’s heart beneath the violent chattering of his teeth.

It sounded strong. Not, perhaps, as strong as it once was - not as strong as it had been seven months ago - but stronger than even an hour ago, stronger than it had been when he’d found him, transformed and wild.

He was okay. He would be okay.

“Here.”

Geralt rummaged through his bag, then threw a shirt towards Jaskier - the one he’d been given by Elisa only a few days ago. Jaskier caught it easily, looking pleased, then suddenly realised what he was holding.

“Ah—”

“When I was looking for you, I spoke to a very nice woman in Oxenfurt named Elisa. She said you left this behind.”

“Fuck.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows as Jaskier flushed, still gripping the shirt, the blanket wrapped rather haphazardly around his shoulders, hardly even covering his nakedness.

“You can put it on,” he prompted, “it’s fine. I was wondering where that shirt had gone.”

Jaskier tugged the shirt over his head, messing his hair even more.

“Like hell you were, Geralt. I know what sort of care you take with your clothes. You’d never notice a missing shirt.”

“Which is why you stole one?”

“Precisely.” Jaskier smoothed out the fabric - barely long enough to cover his arse - and blushed even deeper. “I… sorry, Geralt. I just saw it hanging out of your bag before we parted for the last time in that inn and I… grabbed. Couldn’t help it.”

“Perhaps if I’d known you were wearing my clothes I’d have figured everything else out, too.”

“Wearing?” Jaskier laughed, then stalked towards Geralt and began to rifle through his bag, “I didn’t wear it, Geralt. A-hah!”

He pulled a pear of old breeches from the bag and tugged them on, Geralt deliberately looking away.

“Then… what?” He said, staring steadfastly at the crackling fire.

“Promise me you won’t freak out and leave me here.”

Geralt spun around and stared at him. “What the fuck were you doing with it?”

“Nothing weird!” Jaskier threw his hands up, “I, ah… slept with it. In my bed. Under my pillow, usually, to keep it safe.”

“Why?”

Jaskier shrugged, and the shirt slipped from one of his shoulders. “It smelt like you.”

Oh. Geralt remembered the crossroads just beyond the forest and the way he’d gripped the shirt - smelling so much of Jaskier - to his nose.

“You’re not… cross?”

“No.”

“Good,” Jaskier grinned, “that means you won’t mind swapping it out for a fresh one when we part ways.”

Geralt froze. Jaskier peered at him.

“What is it, Geralt?”

“When we part ways?”

“I mean… we always do, eventually. I just assumed…”

“Do you want to… to part ways?”

“No!” Jaskier took a quick step forward. “No, I… never, really.”

Geralt sighed, and closed the gap between them, pulling Jaskier close. Jaskier leaned into the touch, his hands sliding up Geralt’s chest.

“I left you for six months,” said Geralt, kissing Jaskier’s forehead, “and you were transformed into a beast and nearly died. I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.”

“It was more like seven months, actually.”

“Jaskier.”

“Alright, alright. But… you won’t get sick of me?”

“I won’t get sick of you.”

Jaskier smiled, trapping his lip between his teeth before surging forwards, giving Geralt another quick kiss.

“I’m not sure I’ll get used to being allowed to do that,” he said, grinning.

When Geralt was completely sure that Jaskier was human - that he wasn’t about to keel over in front of him - he finally set to work at skinning and cooking the deer. Now that they didn’t need to worry about travelling by daylight or keeping hidden, it felt less important to ensure there was enough to last, and he chopped and roasted it more haphazardly than he’d been planning to.

The room was soon full of the smell of cooking venison and the sound of sizzling fat.

Even desperately hungry, his mouth covered in grease and his hands filthy, Geralt couldn’t help but stare at Jaskier. Of course he was in love with Jaskier - of course he’d been in love with him for all this time. How could he not have been?

And even when transformed, even when Jaskier had become one of the monsters he was sworn to hunt, he’d still loved him, still would have moved mountains to save him.

When he was a monster...

“Fuck, Jaskier. I’ve been so stupid.”

Jaskier was sucking at his fingers happily, completely unaware of Geralt’s revelation. “For not realising how inherently lovable I am? Don’t feel too bad, darling, you’ve time to make it up to me now.”

“No. Not that. Weeks ago, I took a contract for a werewolf… it was nasty. I had to kill him. But there was this woman, his wife... ”

“What about her?”

“I think… Jaskier, do you remember the first time you transformed? The first night? When was it, exactly?"

Jaskier frowned. “It was in the autumn. The full moon in September, it must have been.”

“Fuck.”

“Are you going to tell me your grand realisation,” said Jaskier, pulling off another chunk of meat from the roasted deer, “or are you just going to sit there and swear?”

“It was her.”

“What was her?”

“The woman. I thought she was just shouting at me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“After I’d killed him, she came out with the rest. But she was screaming at me. She was distraught, I thought it was just grief. Shit. It was her all along.”

“What did she say to you?”

“She asked… she asked if I knew what it was like. To love a monster.”

Jaskier froze, his hand halfway to his mouth. “Oh."

He scooted across the floor, threading a hand around Geralt’s arm and leaning against him.

“I fucking cursed you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier squeezed his arm. “She cursed me. It’s not your fault. Anyway…” he let his fingers drift up and down Geralt’s arm, softly playing with the folds of his shirt. “You said you didn’t realise until tonight.”

“I must have known. Deep down. Just… afraid to admit it.”

“Didn’t she say anything else?”

“She demanded payment. For the ones left behind. She talked about the law of surprise, just another jab at witchers…” He sighed, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “She asked me for what I had, but that I didn't know I possessed.”

He felt Jaskier’s body shake beside him. When he looked down, he was laughing.

“What?”

“Well it’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

“No!”

“You didn’t curse me, I fucking cursed myself by being such a bloody coward all these years.”

“Meaning?”

“Geralt, honestly. What do you have, but you didn’t know you had it?”

Geralt blinked at him, and Jaskier rolled his eyes, giving him a nudge.

“It’s me. If we’re being awfully poetic about it: my heart. Of course it’s yours, you foolish man. It’s always been yours.”

Geralt wasn’t sure what to say. “...Always?”

“Give or take a few years,” Jaskier shrugged, “when you were being particularly brick-headed.”

Geralt grunted at him.

“Look,” Jaskier continued, thoughtfully, “if I’d told you I was in love with you, the curse wouldn’t have done anything. You’d have already known. So don’t feel so bad, okay? I should have gotten over myself and kissed you years ago...” He nudged him again with his head, then pressed a quick kiss to his jaw. “And you uncursed me too, which I feel is more important, considering.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway,” Jaskier wiped his hands messily on his shirt - on Geralt’s shirt, “I accepted a rather long time ago that travelling with you meant I was bound to get into some sort of magical bind at some point. Seemed inevitable. Best to get it out of the way, I say.”

“But…”

“If you’re about to say something cruel about yourself, Geralt, I would recommend you keep your mouth shut. I’m sure that awful beast is still in me somewhere, don’t make me unleash it on you.”

Geralt laughed. “Hah. You couldn’t.”

“Is that so?”

Jaskier suddenly launched himself at him. Startled by the movement, Geralt toppled backwards onto one of the discarded drapes, finding himself pinned. He could have easily pushed him off, especially now he was thinner and lighter than he’d been when they last saw each other, but something stopped him.

Jaskier’s hands gripped Geralt’s wrists above his head, his knees either side of his hips, straddling him. There was a hot pit in Geralt’s chest, sinking lower. He swallowed as Jaskier looked down at him, an expression akin to greed on his face.

“Consider it unleashed.”

He leant down, pressing his lips to Geralt’s in a hot, heavy kiss. Geralt responded with equal enthusiasm, his body reacting instinctively to the touch. He pushed himself from the floor, the kiss breaking as Jaskier gasped against his lips, now perched precariously in his lap.

Geralt nuzzled into Jaskier’s neck, keen to get at the soft skin there, wondering what he’d taste like beneath his tongue.

And then he was hit with the smell.

“Fuck, Jask,” he said, pulling back. “When did you last bathe?”

Jaskier’s already pink face flushed even deeper. “Um…”

“Jaskier.”

“I’ll have you know there’s a stream nearby here that I definitely had a, ah, quick dip in…”

“When was that?”

Jaskier looked terribly ashamed. “A couple weeks ago.”

“Melitlte’s tits.”

“I’ve been cursed, I’ll have you know! It’s not like I had access to running water.”

“Right.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.”

“And you don’t have witcher senses. I may love you…” Jaskier grinned at that, and Geralt’s stomach did a little flip, “but I refuse to do anything more than kiss you until you’ve had a bath.”

“Fine, fine!” Jaskier removed himself from Geralt’s lap with a little huff. “Where, oh master witcher, the finest smelling man in all the land, might we find a bath suitable for your standards?”

“There’s an inn in the village that sent me here,” mused Geralt, “but it’s small. Probably too small for a bath. Or we can head back to Oxenfurt.”

“How far away are they?”

“The village… it took me a day to get through the forest. Oxenfurt will probably be two, if we’re travelling together.”

“The village it is, then,” said Jaskier, eyes shining. “We may as well try there first, hmm?”

Geralt grinned. “We may as well.”

#witcher secret santa #the wicher #dont-touch-the-phlebotinum #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #my fic #secret santa gift #in which geralt finally figures it out #and jaskier has a small problem

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