Chapter Text
“Geralt, while your arguments are most convincing, and I do sympathise with your broken armour-thing… Let me insist once again, how gravely important my reasoning is. Primo , I’ve never, not even once in my long and turbulent life, been to Mahakam. Secundo , I’ve never had the pleasure to lay my eyes on the majestic mountains. And imagine the breathtaking views, the snow-capped peaks, the trees climbing the giant mountain ridges...” Jaskier strummed his lute, eyes growing unfocused. Geralt snorted at that.
“There are no trees that high up in the mountains, Jaskier. Not in these, anyway,” he corrected. Jaskier ignored him, and went on.
“ Tertio … Imagine the amount of monstrosities hiding in the mountains, deep in the caves… or whatever’s up there… and the dwarves probably pay well, don’t they? Don’t tell me this isn’t a good plan.”
“Dwarves don’t need to hire witchers. They make do without us,” Geralt sighed, but didn’t elaborate why. “Also, I’d rather not wander into the mountains so close to winter snows. Mountain landscapes do lose their charm if your entire bottom freezes over, so I’m afraid the majestic village of Krywe it is, for now.”
Jaskier visibly sagged in his saddle, out of counterarguments and hugging the lute forlornly.
*
They arrived at Krywe shortly before sunset. It was a small settlement with all the charm of the middle of nowhere: unpaved roads and wooden households. So they rode in, searching for an inn, as their horses’ hooves squelched tiredly in the fresh mud. First hearing the typical uproar of an inn rather than seeing it, they directed their horses towards the source of the noise.
*
“What can I do for you, my good sirs?” Inquired the bearded innkeeper, a stout and red-cheeked man with a forced smile that got probably permanently etched into his face as he wiped the counters and poured ale day in, day out.
“Two pints of your best ale wouldn’t go amiss, for starters,” ventured Jaskier before Geralt opened his mouth. “And two of all the warm victuals for supper that you can bring us, whatever goodness you’ve got there. And some bread with that!” Jaskier dropped a few coins on the table with a flourish, punctuating his order. Enough to afford a supper and a warm bed, but still not enough to mend Geralt’s fractured armour. Hopefully, some lucrative contract would come up this evening. The innkeeper’s eyes glimmered at the offered coins as his carefully masked wariness of strangers ebbed away. “Right away, my good sirs, right away!” he retorted merrily, promptly turning on his heel to fetch the food.
The inn was not as full as the noise might have suggested from the outside. All the commotion came from a small group of men gathered around one long table towards the other end of the room. The rest of the tables were mostly unoccupied, a few locals nursing a pint here and there. Three women silently and intensely conferring over steaming soup and gesticulating with pieces of bread. Each wearing plain and fatigued working garments, clearly back from a day’s work in the fields. At the table closest to them sat an old and hunched man with a long white beard and dark green cloak that hooded his features. Scanning the room, Geralt took off his sword harness and carefully laid them out next to him on the bench. Rustic life.
“I suppose this could be worse,” Jaskier mused from the bench opposite Geralt, strumming his fingers on the table. He undid two of the topmost buttons of his doublet, clearly already feeling the heat of the room. It was in stark contrast to the chill of the last week spent sleeping under the stars. Geralt’s eyes lingered for a moment on Jaskier’s fingers twisting around the buttons, as he slowly considered a reply, but another movement behind the bard caught the witcher’s attention. Someone other than the innkeeper was walking towards them with two pints.
“Good evening to you, master witcher,” greeted the woman, her eyes travelling between the swords and Geralt’s face. “And to you, master bard,” she added after a moment, catching the glimpse of Jaskier’s lute next to the bard. She was tall and broad in the shoulders, clad in breeches and jacket from comfortably snug dark leather, only a peek of white shirt sneaking over the collar and from under the cuffs. Her hair was cropped short and it curled around her temples. She sat down, next to Jaskier on the bench. Addressing Geralt again, she went on, “My name is Jagna and you just might be a gift the Gods sent us in these unfortunate times.”
Geralt raised his eyebrows at this, incredulously. Not the usual greeting for a witcher. “And a good evening to you as well. My name is Geralt. And why is it that I’m a gift from Gods?”
“I am the chief of the woodcutting company of Krywe. Evil befell us, honest working folk, and we cannot continue earning our living as it lingers here. We are a woodcutting village and if we cannot do it, we are sure to starve. The woods are afflicted with some evil that started hunting people who wandered off too deep. Can you help us, sir? We can spare some coin, if you can rid us of whatever lurks there, for good.”
It turned out that a few woodcutters disappeared after going into the woods and no trace has ever been found of them, despite the efforts of a few search parties. Geralt listened patiently to Jagna’s tale of woe, interrupting about the details. “Did you change anything in the routine of your work before anything happened? Have you ventured into a new part of the woods, perhaps?”
Jagna nodded vigorously at that. “Why, yes, master Geralt! A few more joined our company, so we figured we should redouble our efforts and branched out towards the western part of the woods. It was there that poor Kajtek was seen last, yesterday. He never got back.”
“And you’re certain there’s no one among your own people who would wish your company ill?”
“Quite certain, we haven’t had any problems of such kind in recent times. Too much energy goes into work every day to have any left for brawling and holding grudges. Not with the winter looming so close.”
“Alright, I’ll have a look at the woods and see what I can do for you, Jagna.” At that, she inclined her head and left them to their pints.
*
Later, after a full performance from the bard, both Geralt and Jaskier retired for the night to their shared quarters. As he reverently propped his lute on the chair, Jaskier asked, “So you probably have an idea about what that mysterious evil in the woods might be?”
“A few.”
“And those are…?” Prompted Jaskier, stifling a yawn. Geralt sat on his bunk and slowly worked on removing his armour, taking his time with the reply.
“Unless it really isn’t one of the villagers or an outsider kidnapping the woodcutters and possibly also murdering them, it might be a couple of forest-dwelling creatures. From the scant details that I got, there’s not much to go on without seeing the place myself.”
“So adventure awaits us!”
“Not really, if it’s merely a bloodthirsty villager and we find a pile of corpses in the middle of the forest.”
“But it could be a bloodthirsty basilisk, for all we know! Or a…” Another yawn interrupted Jaskier’s guesswork. He removed his plum bonnet and dropped it on the floor. Then promptly fell onto the bunk without removing anything else. “Or a giant mutated pigeon!”
“Or neither. Basilisks don’t dwell in forests.”
“But what about a pigeon?” Mumbled Jaskier, burrowing in the nest of blankets on his bunk and right after his inquiry, a soft snoring came from the depths of the blankets, where Jaskier’s face was hidden.
You’d still concoct a ballad about it, wouldn’t you , thought Geralt and sighed, fondly eyeing the mop of brown hair that fell in disarray around the sleeping bard. And everyone will know it by heart by next spring. Geralt put out the candles and soon afterwards, dreamless slumber took him.
*
The Grouncherry Forests, between Sodden and Angren in southern Temeria, were what was left of the once sprawling forests of ancient Caed Dhu. Clearly, a lot of trees here were recently cut off with tree trunks arranged in neat stacks.
“What do you mean this was once part of the Caed Dhu?” Frantically whispered Jaskier. He tried to keep up as they approached the edge of the forest next morning. “If I correctly recall the maps I saw years ago, there’s at least twenty leagues from here to the druids in Angren.”
“It is, yes,” murmured Geralt. “But the humans who settled in Angren a few hundred years ago hastily got rid of both the elves and most of the old forest. Precious oak wood, et cetera, et cetera. Now hush, if you want to tag along.”
They approached the line of trees and Geralt stopped abruptly, scenting the air. His medallion didn’t stir. Nothing yet. Fully alert now, he stepped into the forest, walking under an oak arch, as though an entrance. He heard Jaskier behind him blow a raspberry and say, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here. Oh, Geralt, this is ironic. I’m the poet in this duo and yet it is you who’s guiding me to hell”.
Geralt snorted quietly. “Don’t be dramatic, Dante. This is hardly the inferno.”
“But there’s a man-hunting demon there.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
They wandered in silence for a while, keeping to the well-trodden path until they were deep enough into the forest to get off it. Geralt’s medallion stirred almost imperceptibly, alerting him to some faint magic nearby. He cautiously stepped into the undergrowth and tied a red ribbon to the lower branch of a small oak. He tied more ribbons to mark their way back as they continued walking for a while, Jaskier uncharacteristically quiet behind him, only jumping slightly at the crackling branches underfoot. After travelling so long together, he was now overly familiar with the less heroic side of Geralt’s craft—the quiet and oftentimes boring hours of waiting, sneaking, and tracking the monstrosities in the wild. It was difficult to tell the time so deep into the forest, but Jaskier’s stomach started to growl, which indicated that it was a good few hours since they ventured into the dark trees.
“Aha,” Geralt murmured out of nowhere.
“What’s that?” Jaskier’s whisper was right behind Geralt’s ear, which startled him a bit, despite having heard Jaskier approach.
“This,” the witcher pointed to the bone weaving with a deer-like skull on top, shaking himself from the goosebumps that sprinkled his neck at the proximity to the poet. “Is a leszy totem.”
“Leszy?”
“Leszy, leshy, leshen, leshii, lessun, sometimes spriggan, but that’s technically a subspecies,” elaborated Geralt. “Forest god, forest spirit. There are many names for this being.”
“Like the Devil Boruta!” exclaimed Jaskier, apparently recalling the old tale of a shape-shifting man from Łęczyca. And also livening up at the thought of this particular devil, a rather benevolent trickster.
“Yes, but this one is somewhat more of a traditional forest spirit, apparently less inclined to dwell in castles,” Geralt replied as he circled the totem. “And more inclined to obliterate humans. This explains why there are no remains of the vanished woodcutters.”
“What do you mean?”
“Leszys are extremely territorial. They rarely resort to assaulting humans, but as their habitats shrink—and they inevitably do, with the growing human settlements—they fight for their scraps of forest tooth and nail. They obliterate their prey, leaving nothing behind, no carcasses, no bones.”
Jaskier shivered at that. “It’s not going to jump us, is it, Geralt?”
“Unlikely. Unless we start hacking off the trees or destroy the totem, we’re fine.”
Jaskier sagged in relief against the nearby oak, but perked up promptly, his blue eyes sparkling at Geralt. “Are you going to fight it here and now?”
“No fighting yet. I need to talk to the rest of the woodcutters before I decide anything.”
*
They headed back towards where they left the path, but Geralt’s ribbons were nowhere to be seen.
“It knows we’re here. We wandered straight into the heart of its lair. Jaskier, take off all your garments,” Geralt ordered, as he went on to strip his armour.
Jaskier furrowed his brows at that. “And our bare arses will confuse the leszy off our track? Or do you just want to ogle me?” The bard was smirking at Geralt, despite the faint scent of fear radiating off of him.
“Nudity is not the point. Turn everything inside-out and put it back on,” instructed Geralt, swiftly working on the buttons. “This will confuse it.”
“Does it not have any object permanence, or what?”
“It’s a shape-shifting relic, so there definitely isn’t any permanence to it per se, but other than that I have no idea.”
“Terrific,” exhaled Jaskier, taking his boots off. He lost his balance and fell on his arse.
*
Barefoot and with all their garments inside-out, they walked straight back east without bothering with the path any more. The leszy didn’t reveal itself to them in any form, Geralt caught no worrying movements and his medallion remained still against his sternum once they wandered away from the totem. Jaskier seemed less and less tense, now that they kept walking through the thick undergrowth—Jaskier with boots hoisted over his shoulder, Geralt with both his armour and boots draped over his shoulder as well. Apparently, armour also counted and that couldn’t be turned inside-out in any fashion.
“Have you ever defeated a leszy?”
“Only because it was a young one that couldn’t be reasoned with.”
“Reasoned with? Can you talk to them?”
“They sometimes appear as old bearded men. Usually when they’re benevolently inclined towards the intruders.”
“And will this one talk to us?”
“Hopefully.”
Jaskier nodded to himself and proceeded to quietly whistle.
*
“No, master witcher, we ain’t seen anything like it ‘round where we’re cuttin’,” one of the woodcutters named Zbyszko told Geralt as he looked intently at Geralt’s drawing of the totem in the dirt. Geralt knew there were more of them than just the one they found earlier in the forest, usually four in total marking the perimeter. And there must have been something done to them that triggered the leszy’s wrath. That and the very fact that they were cutting trees within the perimeter of the leszy’s territory.
Another woodcutter came closer and squatted, looming over the drawing. He scratched his head and asked, “Are these antlers, sir?”
“They are. Have you seen it anywhere near your place of work?”
“I found a deer skull near one of the oaks I cut off, but if there were any more bones, they must have shattered as I cut the tree.”
“What does it mean, master Geralt?” Asked Jagna, who listened to the exchange with crossed arms. “Do you know what evil this is?”.
“You managed to piss off a very ancient leszy. Your expansion towards the west breached its territory. There’s good news and bad news in this situation, Jagna,” Geralt explained with furrowed brows. “The bad news is that your comrades are definitely dead and there’s nothing left of them to bury, we won’t even retrieve their boots. The good news is that the leszy can be persuaded to cease its attacks.”
A burly woodcutter stepped out of the crowd. “Persuaded? Have you taken leave of your senses, master witcher? Can’t you hack its head off and be done with it?” Shouted the man.
“If need be.”
“Explain. We don’t follow,” ventured Jagna, before the man started shouting again. She was listening, but Geralt knew it took one wrong word to turn the gathering into an angry mob. Murmuring overtook the crowd.
Here goes nothing, thought Geralt.
“To protect your community or defend my own life, the hacking off—as you very aptly pointed out—can always be done. However...” Geralt scanned the heated faces around him. “Our code forbids us witchers from slaying intelligent beings. Leszys are sentient and highly intelligent. They are eternal forest-dwellers, spirits of the woods, and while bloodthirsty if offended or challenged, they could become very powerful allies if treated rightly.”
Leszys could exist in symbiosis with human communities and Geralt knew to emphasise how beneficial their powers could prove to the entire village. Slowly, the crowd’s mood turned and quite a few heads started nodding at Geralt’s tirade. The witcher knew that dwelling on the more ethical and philosophical side of the matter wouldn’t help his—or rather the leszy’s—case in the slightest. These were practical people requiring practical and immediate solutions.
How fitting, Geralt mused as Jagna took the crowd to the side and talked with them intently. How fitting that it is I, a relic in his own right, who fights this useless fight to save another relic.
*
“Did they try to stone you when you suggested befriending the forest demon?” Jaskier asked later, over the steaming bowl of goulash they were having for dinner in the inn.
“Hmm,” grunted Geralt over his own bowl. “Not yet.”
“Ha! Thus our tryst with the leszy is tomorrow, I take it?” Jaskier said quickly and immediately started exhaling through his teeth, apparently having underestimated the temperature of the mouthful. His parted lips glistened with the greasy sauce. Of course, he would be excited at the thought of the adventure , at whatever turn of events that wouldn’t be hours of tracking or patiently waiting for anything to happen. Of all the things one could say about Jaskier, he wasn’t stupid. He certainly played a fool and at times behaved like one, but it was all a calculated front, as fate doused him with an unhealthy amount of recklessness and desire of danger. That’s why it took Geralt quite a while to figure out Jaskier’s odd amalgamation of fear and excitement that radiated off him in dangerous situations, confounding the witcher’s enhanced sense of smell. Jaskier’s body reacted to danger half like any other human would—an adrenaline spike, heart thrumming—and half unlike most of them, pushing towards danger not just with curiosity, but with excitement nonetheless.
“Are you going to serenade the spirit god?” Geralt smirked from behind the double mead tankard that accompanied the supper.
“Depends on the size of its… bones?” Jaskier licked his lips and tilted his head at Geralt. “What does a leszy look like anyway?”
“It’s a polymorphic bastard of a creature. The older they get, the cleverer and more skilled at adapting with various shapes and personalities they become. Its true form is a bipedal and humanoid tree-like body, crowned with a deer skull. Just like the one on the totem.”
“Charming,” mused Jaskier, clearly envisioning it vividly.
*
Following morning, they entered the forest once again through the ominous oak arch. Technically, everything was still the same as on their previous walk. However, the knowledge of the still incorporeal and lurking leszy now made all the difference as the two men anticipated its presence at every crack underfoot, every whistle of the wind in the oak branches. Geralt’s medallion remained deceptively still. He knew that this could backfire spectacularly and turn violent very swiftly in case the leszy was not particularly inclined to parley with humans. It was also a given that Jaskier would tag along, despite the possibility of being attacked by a polymorphous demon. Any attempt at making the bard stay behind would always fall on deaf ears, even further endangering the whole business. Somehow Jaskier would then try to sneak up on Geralt in the least expected moment and draw unnecessary attention from whatever creature of chaos was usually trying to rip Geralt into pieces. This way, at least a modicum of control over the situation could be salvaged. And today might really go either way, but with a bit of luck, the worst would mean that their trip to the forest would extend into the next day in case the leszy needed some encouragement to interact.
They wandered in companionable silence, save for the occasional hum from Jaskier. Then several things happened at once. Geralt’s medallion started frantically twitching under his shirt. A flock of birds took off from high up in the trees, their collective movement loud in the otherwise silent forest. Jaskier tripped, but didn’t fall over, saved by Geralt’s reflexes. Then, they both stood up abruptly as a tall hooded figure approached them, materialising from thin air. The sight seemed familiar to Geralt, but he couldn’t pinpoint from where, exactly. The figure slowly shook off the hood, revealing a lined face almost textured like tree bark and of similar shade, too—warm shades of green with a cascade of spots and freckles, starkly contrasting with all-white eyes under grey and bushy eyebrows. And a beard so long that almost touched the ground. A very non-threatening figure, save for the unsettling eyes and the fact that Geralt’s medallion almost vibrated now from the magic crackling in the air. It was clear that the leszy needed no bait, for the creature stood before them now, in the shape of an old man. An old man from the inn , Geralt remembered at last.
“You are trespassing,” said the figure without preamble, its voice flat. Not a question, not yet a threat.
“Merely sightseeing…” started Jaskier, but Geralt silenced him abruptly with a firm push to make the bard physically back off from the conversation.
“We are messengers,” Geralt said, bowing his head slightly. “Spokesmen for the villagers.”
“The murderers!” Exclaimed the leszy and pointed a long and branch-like finger at them. “Thiefs!”
“We mean you no harm and desire to speak to you in good faith. Will you honour our request, ancient one?” Geralt put both of his hands in front of himself, demonstrating to prove his intentions and bowing his head again towards the creature. “For what we suggest, you may find agreeable and beneficial for yourself.”
“Have the humans not sent you to murder us like they murdered so many of our children?” Inquired the leszy, albeit slightly appeased at the witcher’s words.
“They are willing to honour your eternal ownership of this part of the forest. They are also willing to honour you, ancient one, and give you thanks for your protection of these lands, for they are mere mortals whose lives are fully dependent on your mercy. Would you consider such an arrangement?” Geralt continued, at the same time feeling Jaskier vibrating with the need to interrupt, but containing himself to commit as much of the scene to memory as possible.
“We have demands,” replied the leszy after a beat of silence.
“We assumed you would. Name them, we are listening.”
“Offerings from the humans, fruits of their labour. Respect to our children,” the leszy spread its hands, indicating its oak children in the forest. “No more cutting on our lands. We seal the bargain with our blood exchanged at the entrance to this forest.”
Gerald inclined his head. “We shall relay your demands to the community and come back with a representative to cinch the deal. May we leave in peace?”
The leszy regarded them both with a piercing gaze, focusing his iris-less eyes for a few beats on Jaskier’s expressive face. Then the creature nodded back at Geralt and as it stepped away from them, it turned into a dozen crows taking flight up into the trees.
Once Jaskier snapped out of his astonishment at the transformation, he looked at Geralt. “I presume there won’t be any need to strip today, will there?” He ventured with a grin. Geralt exhaled, tension leaving his body once the ominous figure left them.
“Unless you soiled yourself from encountering an ancient forest god, no. We absolutely won’t need that,” Geralt smirked and headed towards the entrance. Jaskier waggled his finger at Geralt, not taking the bait this time.
“Brilliant. I still have blisters from walking across the entire forest barefoot.”
*
“A blood pact?” Jagna’s eyebrows were nearing her hairline at the leszy’s request. They sat under an apple tree outside the inn, Jaskier napped on the other end of the yard with his bonnet over his face. “With whom?”
“The village alderman, perhaps. But I think it should be you instead, Jagna.”
“I’m no administrator, merely the woodcutting chief.”
“Which makes you perfect, since it is your company that most grievously offended the leszy. Fitting that the pact will recognise you as a symbolic spokeswoman of the community. After all you did say that woodcutting is the foundation of this community, true?”
“True, indeed. Master Geralt, I swear on the sharpness of my axe, never in my life would I have thought that a witcher would help us converse with the terror of the woods. We hoped you’d dance with your swords deep in the woods and deliver us the creature’s head”. She shook her head and went on: “Tonight then, we ride to the entrance to the woods?”
“Best not to waste time.”
“I shall bring the crops and food for the offerings that you requested.”
*
“I honestly thought they might be slower to accept that a literal blood pact with a forest demon is a superior choice to simply chopping its head off,” said Jaskier as they approached Jagna at the village gate later that evening.
“Hmm,” grunted Geralt. “Sometimes people do surprise you”.
The leszy immediately sensed their presence as all three arrived at the forest entrance with the offerings. Jagna pulled the fully stacked wheelbarrow as though it weighed nothing, which Jaskier couldn’t help but stare at the entire time they walked towards the edge of the forest. Geralt said nothing, but smirked in the dark.
“We greet you, ancient one,” Geralt said to the once again hooded figure. He instructed Jagna on how to address the leszy without offending it on accident and how to approach it to show respect. All three of them bowed their heads slowly and awaited the reaction.
“Welcome, mortals,” the leszy’s voice reverberated oddly in the dark with only the trees behind it. The gifts were offered, the blood was mixed—mortal with immortal, human with chaos, nature with civilization. Jaskier’s head was spinning at all the symbolism, which he didn’t hesitate to tell Geralt once they parted ways with Jagna.
“It’s poetic, Geralt, what you did for this tiny Temerian village.”
“It was a transaction, Jaskier. Both parties will benefit. What’s the poetry in that?”
“For such an old and wise witcher, you’re sometimes so incredibly stupid, you know?”
Geralt rolled his eyes. “Enlighten me, oh minstrel.”
“Gentleness and understanding triumphing over violence and conflict? Humans reconciled with nature? The old bound with the new, for years, possibly centuries to come?” The bard enumerated, counting on his fingers. “Need I go on?”
“Spare me, Jaskier.”
“I know that your legendary witcher code is a load of bullcrap, but honestly, I think Jagna figured it out within the first five minutes that your long-winded explanation of ‘co-existence’ and ‘intelligent beings’ meant something much more than a mere transaction,” at which Jaskier grabbed at the air where his lute would have been over his shoulder. He left the instrument in their lodgings in case things turned sour earlier this evening. “What a glorious ballad that will be, Geralt! The inferno is lush green, the devil has a long beard and laughs like the rustling of leaves. No hope is ever lost! ‘ The poet leaves hell and again beholds the stars .’”
“It’s cloudy tonight, Jaskier. And the leszy never laughed.”
“Shush, don’t spoil the moment, Geralt.”