Chapter Text
Geralt is making his way west when he spots a farmhouse up ahead. As he rides closer, he sees a young girl of maybe ten carrying a pail of water, tear tracks streaking her cheeks. He pulls on Roach’s reins, then calls out a greeting.
The girl looks up. Her blond hair falls into her eyes, her braid coming loose. Her small hands are dirty from a morning of chores.“A witcher?” She asks. Geralt nods. “Thank Melitele,” she whispers.
Geralt raises a brow. “What’s going on?”
“We lost another sheep. Agatha. She was my favorite.” Her voice is very small and sad as she speaks.
“I’m sorry.”
“The last one we lost, Hanna, she was taken around the same time last month. You know what that means.” She says the last part quiet, biting down on her bottom lip. She’s frightened.
“I do.”
***
Geralt follows the child’s instructions and heads towards town. It’s a backwater village, is hardly a town at all. There’s a total of one inn and four other shops, though the marketplace is busy enough. Geralt goes to seek out the alderman, wondering what type of payment a place this small can offer.
He stables Roach and finds the alderman’s lodgings, not that it was difficult given the scarce amount of establishments. He raises his gloved fist to the door, knocks three times.
The alderman is a short man with a nearly bald head. He looks up at Geralt over a pair of spectacles. “So Sofia told you about our werewolf problem.”
“She did. I could help.”
“I’m afraid I can’t offer you much, witcher. Would you do it for a hundred crowns?”
It’s really not much, but Geralt suspects that there isn’t much to spare. Still, he says, “One fifty.”
“One twenty, and you can have your swords sharpened and armor repaired free of charge, just let the blacksmith know I sent you.”
“Fine,” Geralt says. “What information do you have?”
“There’s been talk of a band of three, been living on the outskirts of town. A couple of the boys went out hunting in the northern woods and came back talking of a camp site filled with dead chickens. Last three months we’ve had livestock going missing from the nearby farms. Cattle, several pigs, and in Sofia’s father’s case, sheep.”
“Alright. I’ll take care of them,” Geralt agrees. The alderman’s relief is plain on his face. He holds out a hand for Geralt to shake.
The next full moon is in two days, he hasn’t got much time to prepare.
***
Geralt’s no stranger to werewolves. Sometimes he can get them to move along and leave town if he waves his sword around enough. But they’re a possessive, stubborn lot. And often enough, violent. He’s had to kill more of them than he cares to admit, but they’re pack animals, usually traveling in groups and therefore think they can take out a witcher if they all come at him at once.
They’ve all been wrong on that front so far.
Geralt goes to the northern woods, scents the air and looks for tracks. He finds a nest of dead rabbits and a smear of blood across a tall oak. They certainly haven’t left town yet, and the fact that they’ve been here for several months doesn’t bode well on the negotiation front. This is their territory now, or so they likely believe.
He readies his potions, makes two batches of cat and a batch of swallow. As the sun sets on the second day, he eats his fill of rations and drinks a skin of water. These wolves have been sloppy, unbothered that they have been seen, greedy in what they’ve taken from an already struggling town. Geralt doesn’t suspect they’ll be likely to agree to move on, but he does suspect they’ll be a easy enough to take out, though he doesn’t let himself believe it. That train of thought is what gets witchers killed.
***
Once the sun sets, the only light in the woods is from the moon. It’s large and full and milky white. And though it gives off plenty of light, Geralt still swallows Cat down. He’s not stupid enough to risk being caught off guard for even a moment.
He sets up two traps at the edge of the woods. He figures they’ll head towards one of the farms again to get an easy meal. If he can catch one, perhaps the others won’t want to leave one of their pack injured.
After setting the traps, he scents the air and then heads into the forest.
The air is oddly still and silent, like the forest itself knows its being hunted, can sense the predators in its midst. Every one of Geralt’s footsteps seem incredibly clumsy and loud, given the silence submerging the trees.
He walks slow and careful, trying his best to blend into the night. After about two hours of hunting, he hears a howl followed by snarling and a quick cut off yelp to his left. He takes off, no longer caring if he’s heard. It’s the first sign of life he’s heard all night.
Geralt finds a half eaten doe carcass, her ribs showing, her eyes black and glassy in death. He follows the scent of her blood, and the trail of blood that is a mixture of the doe’s and one of the other wolves. They must be fighting amongst each other.
The blood trail goes towards the tree line, leading south back towards the town which Geralt had anticipated. He runs fast, the scent of the werewolves getting stronger, as well as the smell of hot blood.
Then he hears a high pitched wail and a following whimper.
He finds the pack surrounding his trap, a large wolf with brown hair and big eyes baring its teeth at the others and then at Geralt, it’s anger at being caught and injured obvious. Its mouth is wet with spit and blood, frothing a bit. There’s a lick of fear in its scent as well, but it seems prepared to use its anger to defend itself. The other wolves turn their attention from their companion to Geralt.
The alderman had been wrong. There aren’t three. There’s four.
Fuck.
“I presume you’re the bunch feeding off what isn’t yours to take?” Geralt says, looking at each of them, assessing. There’s two brown wolves, one black and one grey. The grey wolf and the one caught in the trap are the largest, though they’re all fairly fucking big. Geralt’s taken on multiple wolves before, the time there had been a total of five had been the worst, but he’d only just survived that encounter.
From the narrowed, angry eyes and the way they’re all snapping their jaws and growling at him, Geralt imagines they aren’t exactly keen on listening to what he has to say. He draws his silver sword off his back. “Leave this town and its people now, and I’ll let you live. We don’t have to do this,” he tries.
The grey wolf steps forward, tilts its head all sly, like it’s amused by what Geralt is saying. It bares its teeth again, lets out a long growl and a throaty, deep bark: a warning.
“Fine,” Geralt says, taking his sword in both hands. “Have it your way then.”
The wolf lunges.
It slams it’s full body weight into Geralt, probably thinking that if it knocks Geralt down, he’ll drop his sword. That’s its second fucking mistake of the evening. Geralt is on his back, the full weight of the werewolf pressing him into the ground. It’s fucking heavy, it’s mouth smells of meat and blood and death, and Geralt can feel his armour bending under the weight of the creature. But he never lets go of his sword.
He presses his sword between the wolf’s ribs, then tugs upwards, cleaving the thing’s stomach nearly in two. It howls in pain, the sound base and terrible as it rings in Geralt’s ears. Geralt pushes it off of his body, grunts as his lungs struggle to access air again. He turns towards the other three wolves, leaving the grey to quietly whimper and bleed out. “Come on then!”
The two not caught in the trap rush at Geralt. He expected as much. The brown wolf latches onto Geralt’s right arm, and he’s lucky enough that his gauntlet holds through the long sharp teeth. The other goes for Geralt’s thigh, and had it landed its attack Geralt would be in a very sorry state. He moves quick though, and takes the beast’s head clean off, letting out a shout at the exertion.
The brown wolf releases Geralt, snarls fiercely, and snaps its teeth a mere inch from Geralt’s face. Its now rageful, vengeful. Geralt backs up, puts distance between them. His shoulder will be bruised to be sure, and he feels weak on his legs, all that weight coming at him. He takes a deep breath.
The werewolf pounces at him, jaws open and ready for Geralt’s throat and the spray of blood. Geralt parrys, and the spray of blood comes but not from Geralt. He brings his sword down the wolf’s middle, and hot blood pours out onto the side of Geralt’s face. He can taste it in his mouth, the scent of it overwhelming.
Geralt breathes heavy. He turns to the last wolf caught in his trap. “What should I do with you?” Geralt asks it.
***
The last werewolf watches Geralt with large blue eyes. It’s clearly young, its chestnut coat shiny and smooth in the moonlight. Its front foot is still caught in the trap Geralt had set, and the wolf licks at the wound, tries to free itself.
Geralt narrows his eyes, holds his sword steady.
The werewolf’s ears go flat against its head. It whines, makes itself small as Geralt comes closer.
Geralt lowers his sword. Its then that Geralt sees that the wolf is also bleeding from its left haunch. That wound hadn’t been Geralt’s doing. “You weren’t with them, were you?”
The wolf shakes its head, then whines again in pain, looks down at its paw. Its tail goes halfway between its legs.
Geralt sighs. “If I let you out, are you going to snap at me the second you’re free?”
Again, the wolf shakes its head. Geralt can smell the anxiety wafting off of it. It isn’t a threat that Geralt can see, so he kneels down next to the trap. The werewolf yelps, nerves getting the best of it. “Hold still,” Geralt says, then lifts his gloved hands and unlatches the trap. The wolf yelps again, but staggers a few feet away, limping as it goes. “Not so fast,” he calls out.
The wolf turns its head. It’s hackles go up, but it doesn’t bolt.
“Move on from this town. I can’t have more livestock going missing.”
The wolf grumbles like it’s annoyed, then nods. It turns away from Geralt again, begins limping off into the trees, only it stops a few yards up and then falls onto its side.
“Fuck,” Geralt mutters. This isn’t going to be pleasant.
***
Not even witcher strength would allow Geralt the ability to fully lift and carry a werewolf, and certainly not one of this size. Whoever this is, their human form must be tall.
Geralt doesn’t make it very far, but he makes it far enough that they’re away from the other werewolf’s corpses and far enough away from the road to safely make a secluded camp. He takes a claw and canine tooth from each of the wolves for proof of his job completed, and then he drags the shallowly breathing werewolf by its back feet, careful of the wound at its hip. Geralt goes through his packs and pulls out a cloak and a shoddy blanket and throws it over the wolf’s body. He knows the creatures like to nest, and as this one is injured perhaps this will provide some comfort. He thinks about trying to tend to the wounds but the last thing he wants is the thing snarling in his face if he touches it wrong, and besides, they’ll be easier to tend in the morning, when the wolf shifts back to its human form.
Geralt lays out his bedroll, and falls asleep the second he drops himself down onto it, exhaustion taking over.
***
Geralt wakes after the sun has already risen, which almost never happens. He looks around himself, sleep-stupid and still bone tired. There’s a much smaller lump under the blanket and cloak. Geralt can smell the man from his bedroll. There’s sweat, dried blood, and the smallest hint of rosewater. The man is still dead to the world, but his breathing is no longer shallow. His heart beats slow. Whoever he is, he made it through the night.
Geralt stands, goes to Roach, who has wide eyes and flaring nostrils, distressed at the strange presence in their camp. Geralt runs his hand down her snout, trying to comfort. Then Geralt hears a soft groan behind him. He turns to see the lump begin moving.
Out from under the blankets pops the head of a young man, no older than twenty-three or so if Geralt estimates correctly. His dark hair is a tossled mess, sticking up in every direction. He rubs at his face with his uninjured hand. “Melitele’s sweet, dripping cunt,” he says very loudly, groaning. Geralt snorts, and the sound alerts the other man of his presence. “Oh, hello tall dark and scary.” He wiggles his fingers at Geralt as a means of greeting, gives Geralt a large, toothy smile that is trying very hard not to be a grimace. His blue eyes are framed by long, dark lashes. He’s got a full mouth and a strong chin and Geralt clears his throat, averting his eyes when they begin to trail down to the soft chest hair that covers the man’s torso.
“Are you alright?” Geralt asks.
“I am now, thanks to you!”
“It’s my fault your hand is fucked up.”
“It’s actually those other bastards fault, for chasing me into the trap but I see your point.” The man lifts his left hand, inspecting. “It hurts like fuck but it’ll heal soon, probably won’t be able to play for a few days but I’ve had worse.”
The man looks and sounds so gentle, Geralt really can’t imagine he’s had worse.
“Play?”
“Yes, the lute.”
“A werewolf that plays the lute,” Geralt says. This day is very bizarre and it’s only just started.
“A werewolf that is a traveling bard. I’m Jaskier. I’m going to be very famous so you should probably remember my name.”
“Geralt,” he replies.
“Geralt of Rivia, you mean the Butcher of--”
“Finish that sentence and I’ll finish what I didn’t last night,” Geralt grunts out.
“Right. So, Geralt, that reminds me. Thanks for not lobbing my head off. And not leaving me alone in the woods. You really didn’t have to do that.”
“Don’t thank me. I don’t kill when I don’t need to.”
“Still. Happy to have my head. And all the rest of my anatomy.”
“What happened that you ended up in that mess?”
“Just your general, run of the mill arseholes. I hunted down a deer, they decided they wanted to take it and had to be real bastards about it. I might have been happy to share if they hadn’t tried to take the whole thing from me. When I’m shifted, it’s difficult to not get possessive, what can I say?” Jaskier sighs, shrugs. “That livestock problem wasn’t me by the way. I was just passing through. I always hunt my own food, as is right and proper.”
“Sure.”
“I really should have known better than to stop here. When I got to town I heard talk of werewolves but I stayed, figured if they were picking off livestock they wouldn’t bother me out in the forest. Obviously I was wrong. Ah well, I’ll just head back to the tavern to collect my things. Although. Oh bugger. Do you think if I go back into town just wrapped in the blanket they’ll let me into the tavern?”
Geralt huffs out a laugh. He rummages through his packs, throws an extra shirt and pair of trousers at Jaskier. “Here, take these.”
“Goddess bless you, sweet witcher.” Jaskier stands, uncaring of his nakedness as he pulls on the trousers. Geralt averts his eyes, though he can’t help but notice the sinewy muscle, the dark hair trailing down from chest to groin, the broad shoulders.
Geralt can see that the trousers are too big. He throws a belt Jaskier’s way. “Sorry about your feet, I haven’t got an extra pair of boots.”
“Not a problem, I think we’ve got all the important bits covered,” Jaskier says with a smile. “I do apologize though, I think I may leave a few blood stains on these.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Like that would be anything new.”
“Fair point. Well, Geralt, follow me back to town, then I can get my things, return your clothes to you, and we can all be on our merry way.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Geralt agrees. He packs up camp, and they make their way back towards town.
***
Once in town, Geralt stables Roach and then follows the barefoot Jaskier into an establishment called The Fox Den. It’s fairly quiet at the bar and in the dining area. As it’s summer, the windows are open and only the innkeep and his daughter are present. The daughter sees Jaskier and turns bright red, hides her face behind the glass she’s drying.
“Master Bard, what happened to your boots?”
“Had to drop them off to be fixed, while I was making my way back this morning a dog came up and bit the toes of the left one clean off. Can you believe? I also, and I am sorry to say this, locked myself out of the room. I think the dog ran off with the key as well.”
She laughs again, rolls her eyes. “Let me get the spare.” The girl walks to a back room.
“I see you have a fan,” Geralt says, raising a brow.
“Oh, Mathilda? Yes, she is a lovely creature. She kept me company for two nights this week, which was lucky given the timing.”
“Timing?”
“Yes. It’s a bit embarrassing but it’s a side effect of the full moon. Whenever I’m about to turn I feel the desire to take care of…baser urges more than usual.” Jaskier laughs lightly. “It’s usually not a problem, so long as I can find a bed partner. Otherwise it can be a bit frustrating. But I always manage!”
“I’ll put that factoid in my beastiary,” Geralt deadpans, which makes Jaskier laugh in full.
Mathilda returns with the spare key, presses it into Jaskier’s waiting palm.
“Thank you dearest,” Jaskier says, leaning close to her. “You know, when you leave later, you should watch for strays.”
Geralt doesn’t know if the girl believes his story about the dog or if she’s just so taken with Jaskier that she elects to ignore the absurdity of it. She only laughs, covering her mouth with her hand. Jaskier gives her a wink and then leads Geralt up the stairs towards his room.
Jaskier unlocks the door and Geralt follows him inside. He finds a lute and its case propped against the far wall, a journal along with ink and a quill on the desk, and clothes strewn across the bed. The window is also open.
“I planned on climbing back in at first light. That’s what I usually do, so that no one has to see my cock flapping about in the breeze. Of course, I don’t usually get injured.”
“How’s the hand, and the hip?”
“The hip is sore, but it stopped bleeding a while ago. Hand is…decidedly still healing. I heal quickly but your trap really gave me a run for my coin. Not that I’m blaming you, just doing your job of course. It’s really more of a compliment.”
“You talk a lot,” Geralt comments.
“I do, never been able to kick the habit,” Jaskier replies. Then, he begins to strip.
Once again, Jaskier is uncaring of his nudity. He pulls his smallclothes over strong thighs, buttons up a flowy silk shirt to hide his broad shoulders and chest hair. He ties up light blue trousers and a doublet to match, looking very much his part of a troubadour. He slips four rings onto various fingers, one with a crest engraved on it. The entire ensemble is ridiculous, not a single part of it practical. It also makes Jaskier look very good.
“Here are these back, thank you again. By the way, are you hungry? Gods I’m fucking starving. Shifting always makes me ravenous. Plus the blood loss. Healing is a lot of work!”
“I know what that’s like.”
“Of course you do. That said, could I buy you breakfast as a way to say thank you for not running me through with your sword?”
“You’ve already thanked me,” Geralt points out.
“Well allow me to thank you again! What do you say?”
Geralt really needs to collect his coin. He needs to pay a visit to the local blacksmith to patch up his armour where it took a hit from werewolf claws. He needs to get Roach rehooved and then he needs to be on his way.
Geralt’s also fucking starving, and he’s never passed up a free meal in his life.
***
Jaskier goes back to Mathilda, orders a breakfast of eggs, bread, and a double helping of bacon for both of them. When he pulls out his purse to pay, Geralt can’t help but see that it’s quite full. Add that with the expensive clothing, and Geralt can’t help but wonder who the fuck Jaskier is.
While they wait for their food, Geralt blurts “Who are you supposed to be?”
“What do you mean?”
Geralt gestures to the ring on Jaskier’s left hand.
“Ah, yes. My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove at your service.”
“So what are you doing slumming it? Shouldn’t you be playing banquets and balls?”
“Maybe I just like slumming it. And maybe I don’t like being around nobles all the time. So stuffy, where’s the fun?”
Geralt hums, assessing. A werewolf bard who is also a noble? Now he’s seen everything.
Mathilda comes by with two heaping plates. Jaskier thanks her, kisses her hand which makes her go red again, and then turns his attention to his food.
“Thank all the gods, I was about to keel over again.”
Geralt will admit that when he’s been outside of polite company for weeks, when it’s just himself, his rations, and whatever he can scrounge up, he doesn’t always eat in any way that could be called refined. When he’s with his brothers for the winter, meals are chaotic, messy. It’s fine. It’s just that Jaskier has moved about so gracefully, spoken with great flourish, comes across mostly as the little noble that he is. So Geralt really doesn’t expect the bard to begin eating like it’s about to be taken from him.
Jaskier doesn’t bother with utensils. He shoves two bacon strips into his mouth at once. He uses the bread like a spoon to lift the runny egg to his mouth, then goes back to shoveling bacon down his gullet. He hardly seems to chew .
Jaskier looks across the table at Geralt, sheepish. “Sorry,” he says. “Like I said, shifting makes me ravenous.”
Geralt blinks. He hadn’t meant to stare. “It’s fine. I’m just surprised.”
Jaskier licks bacon grease from his thumb. His lips are shiny. “Didn’t expect little old me to eat like a pig given its trough?”
“Not really, no.”
Jaskier laughs, begins using the remaining bread to sop up bacon grease. Geralt suspects that if he were alone, Jaskier would lick the plate.
“Well, be glad you didn’t see me eat my last meal.”
Geralt smiles at that, amused. “When’d you get bit?”
“Oh, never got bit. It runs in the family, lucky me.”
“So the Count is a werewolf too?”
Jaskier snorts. “No, my mother’s side actually. She did not disclose that fact when the marriage was arranged. I’m quite sure it never would have happened had my grandfather known.”
Geralt picks up a fork, begins to eat his own food. “So is your mother a werewolf?”
“No, skips a generation. Or at least it does for us. So me and my sister Tessa have it, but my brother Filip doesn’t. Not sure why. What about you? What’s a witcher’s family like?”
“Just a lot of brothers,” Geralt says, not willing to elaborate.
“That was probably fun growing up. Or maybe not. All those hormones when puberty hit, I imagine lots of black eyes and bloody lips.”
Geralt thinks about the trials, how one out of every ten boys survived their bodies were mutated. “Something like that.”
***
They finish their meal, and Geralt shoves his borrowed clothes back into his pack. Jaskier follows him outside, into the morning air. It’s already warm. Geralt isn’t looking forward to when the sun reaches it’s full height.
“It’s been wonderful to meet you, Geralt. Though it was under regrettable circumstances I am glad for it. And thank you again for not completely eviscerating me.”
“Stop thanking me for that. I already told you, I only kill when I have no other option.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jaskier says, waving his hand as though pushing Geralt’s comment aside. “And thank you for letting me camp with you. For letting me borrow your clothes. It was very decent of you.”
“It wasn’t a hardship,” Geralt grunts out. He doesn’t like being talked about in this way. It’s so foreign.
“Still. I won’t forget it. I shall sing of your heroics across the continent!”
“Please don’t.”
“I could be your barker!”
“I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
Jaskier laughs at that, then sticks out his hand. Geralt takes it, shakes it just the once.
“See you around, Geralt of Rivia,” says Jaskier. He turns to go back into the tavern. Geralt heads to the center of town to seek out the blacksmith.