Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Listen, all I’m saying is that there’s no reason for us to be out here in the middle of the night. The voldi...vodna...whatever he is, the fish man is just as likely to attack in broad daylight as he is at night. You heard the miller, the last victim disappeared in the middle of the afternoon.”

There’s a contemplative pause. “Honestly our odds would probably be better during the day. At least we could see the viaduct before it kills us.”

“Vodyanoy,” Geralt corrects absently, lashing Roach’s reins to a nearby tree. “And the majority of the disappearances have happened at night which is why we’re here.”

Jaskier chuckles dryly. “Oh, no, I know what this is, you can’t fool me o’ mighty Witcher. This is your idea of entertainment, isn’t it? No, not the nice, warm tavern with all the pretty, buxom barmaids but a cold, dark swamp looking for a creature that loves nothing more than to ambush unsuspecting passersby and drown them. You truly know how to have a good time, my friend.”

“We’re not friends,” said Witcher counters smoothly although there’s much less sting to the words now than there had been months back when Jaskier first started inviting himself along on these kinds of journeys. He hasn’t gotten rid of him yet and by this point he’s stopped trying; Jaskier is harder to shake than a talkative tumor. “And no one forced you out here, Jaskier. In fact, I told you to stay in town.”

“And what? Rely on you to tell me the story once you came back? Hardly,” the bard replies, glancing longingly over his shoulder back down the path toward the town they had passed through. Honestly, he’d love nothing more than to be back down there instead of trudging through icy mud and brush searching for a murderous merman but he knew he’d get a better story if he was there to witness it himself.

The Witcher tended to be more tightlipped than a mute monk and relying on Geralt to fill him in on the details of his hunts usually involved a lot of grunting and sighs and not a lot of forthcoming information. It’s difficult to write a ballad composed entirely of “Hm” and “Fuck” (although Jaskier had tried with limited success) So, against his better judgement, he was out here in the dark, slogging through a frosty river basin with mud up to his knees all for the sake of composing an accurate narrative.

At least a dozen people had disappeared within the past two months, their bodies washing up along the riverbank and surrounding tributaries. Well, most of the bodies had washed up at least. The body of the first victim, a young woman, and a man from the neighboring town (the most recent victim) had yet to be found. Whether they had washed up somewhere further down the river or been scavenged by animals had yet to be determined but it didn’t change the fact that each of the victims died in or near the river which led to fears of an angry vodyanoy.

The traditional methods of conciliation had been taken, of course: offers of wine and tobacco and, when all that failed, the occasional animal sacrifice. But nothing seemed to quell the creature’s bloodlust and when the number of drowning victims continued to rise, more drastic measures were taken. The townspeople had lumped together quite a hefty reward for anyone who managed to find and kill the creature but to no avail. Those who went looking for the creature never returned and by this point no one was brave enough to test their luck at the water’s edge.

Geralt heard about it in passing when they were still a four day journey from the stricken town; apparently word of a monster travels quick when a Witcher was in the area. He was promised a fortune to kill the creature and rid the town of the threat and while that was all very appealing he less concerned with the payout and more focused on the fact that the vodyanoy had apparently gone rogue.

In his experience, vodníci tended to keep to themselves, lashing out at humans only when they felt threatened or slighted. That one was actively seeking out victims and attacking without cause was strange but also dangerous. An angry, violent vodyanoy was a deadly vodyanoy and the only solution then was extermination.

The townspeople had a general idea of where the creature could be found but not its exact location. ‘Along the river between the three twisted alders’ was about as precise as they could manage which left no small amount of guesswork when it came to narrowing down a good starting point. The fact that there were multiple twisted alder trees (the result of a strong storm which had pushed through the river basin a year or so before) complicated matters.

With vague, inaccurate directions, Geralt decided to simply walk along the riverbank until he caught sight of the creature and engage from there. It was a simple enough plan and Jaskier found it remarkably stupid.

“So we’re just supposed to wander around and hope we get attacked? Seems reasonable,” the bard mutters, swatting away a thin, drooping tree branch while keeping his eyes trained on the steady flow of the river.

“Would you prefer to be bait?” Geralt offers, tightening the sheath at his back; he can’t risk losing his sword if he gets pulled into the water. Vodyanoy were strong adversaries already but their slippery, algae-covered skin gave them an advantage underwater and made it nearly impossible to get a decent hold on them. As such, Geralt needed all the help he could get if he was about to face off with one in its element.

“Hah, very funny,” Jaskier says with a smirk which falls rather quickly a few seconds later. “Wait, you are joking, right?”

The Witcher rolls his eyes and looks out across the river. “If I was going to use you as bait I would have tossed you in the river already. Besides,” he continues, tying his hair back loosely. “The vodyanoy would throw you back the second you started singing.”

Jaskier balks at the insult and opens and closes his mouth a few times trying to come up with a retort, the expression remarkably similar to the fish swimming in the river just a few feet away. “Words hurt too, Geralt,” he snips back, ignoring the Witcher’s amused huff as he continues on his way. “It may not be a physical wound but they cut deep all the same!”

“Keep your voice down or I really will throw you in the river,” Geralt hisses back, shooting the irate bard a glare over his shoulder.

Jaskier makes a rude gesture at his back but stays silent. The river was the closest large water source for miles which meant that the vodyanoy probably wasn’t the only creature prowling along its banks. Actively seeking out a vengeful water spirit was hazardous enough and Jaskier didn’t want to think about the other potential threats that hid and waited just out of sight.

Geralt pushes forward slowly, stepping carefully over slick stones and protruding roots. Jaskier’s heavier, clumsier footsteps echo behind him, the bard not nearly as light on his feet despite his slight stature. With a huff, Geralt turns back and levels his companion with a sharp look. “Are you trying to ensure that everything within a two mile radius hears us coming or are you simply being more annoying than usual?”

“Oh, well excuse me, o’ mighty Witcher, but not all of us have superior night vision like you do,” Jaskier shoots back with a scowl. “You were the one who wanted to come out here in the middle of the night, not me. It’s a wonder I haven’t walked straight into the river by now.”

“Then go back and wait with Roach,” Geralt growls, irritation simmering just below the surface. “I’d rather keep the element of surprise on my side and I’ll have a better chance of finding the vodyanoy if you’re not slogging along behind me and practically announcing our presence to everything in the forest.”

Jaskier’s footsteps slow to a halt. “Listen, I’m just going to-”

“You’re going to get us killed is what you’re going to do,” Geralt snaps, turning back and closing the space between them in three quick strides. He raises one arm and points back the opposite direction. “Go wait with the horse,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument or protest. “I’ll be back when it’s over.”

Jaskier looks like he wants to argue for a brief moment before realizing that mouthing off to an angry Witcher would likely end badly for him. With a sigh he turns and trudges back down the riverbank toward Roach, leaving Geralt to his vodyanoy hunting agenda.

Geralt waits until Jaskier’s retreating form disappears almost completely in the darkness before turning back and continuing on his way. Disruptiveness aside, he’s not exactly keen on Jaskier joining him this close to the water’s edge. Vodyanoy were tricky and fast and a split second of distraction was all it would take for one to get the upper hand and drag an unsuspecting victim into the river. And Jaskier, who was almost always unsuspecting, was the perfect target.

True, the bard annoyed him no end and was all too frequently more trouble than he was worth but that didn’t mean he wanted anything to happen to him. Keeping Jaskier alive had damn near become a secondary occupation ever since the younger man started following him around and his track record for keeping the bard whole and breathing was miraculously unbroken. And as much as it pained him sometimes, he planned on keeping it that way.

Double checking the sword at his back one more time, Geralt pushes forward into the darkness.

OOOOO

Jaskier grumbles to himself and kicks another stone into the water, watching as it disappears beneath the surface with a soft splash. Roach snuffles through the river grass and undergrowth contentedly behind him, blissfully ignoring the muttering bard and focusing his attention on the tender vegetation.

“Stubborn ass,” Jaskier mutters again; it’s not the first time he’s uttered that about Geralt and certainly not the first time tonight. “He’s going to get himself killed one of these days, Roach, you mark my words,” he points vaguely at the Witcher’s horse behind him, the beast still ignoring him and snuffling at the grass.

“And then where will we be, huh? Alone, hopeless, likely deader for our troubles. And then the world will be down another Witcher, one of the few who can actually get things done.”

He sighs and flips over a stone with his foot, watching as it slaps into the icy mud. The river hasn’t frozen yet but it will in a few more months. The shifting seasons carried a touch of frost that seized and hardened the shallow water along the banks, leaving the mud crunchy and thick with ice in the early evening. All it would take is another northern storm to push the snow and wind this far into the valley and then the river would begin to freeze. Might solve the vodyanoy problem if the townspeople could wait and avoid the river for a few more weeks.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jaskier continues, glancing over his shoulder to the grazing horse. Roach is no more listening than the river in front of them but Jaskier keeps talking anyway. “Geralt’s a good man, one of the best I’ve ever known, but he treats death as his own personal plaything and one day things are not going to go in his favor.”

His rambling fades off as he looks around the darkened forest around them. “Like setting out to find a murderous water spirit in the middle of the night like that’s a completely reasonable and intelligent plan.”

Jaskier sighs and wanders over to a river-polished stone and sinks down onto it, resting his elbow on one knee. He grabs a stick and traces a lazy pattern into the soft, cold mud.

“Well if anyone can find it, it will be him. His ability to track and find these creatures, no matter how elusive, is uncanny, I’ll give him that. But just once it would be nice if the creature in question didn’t possess six rows of teeth or talons the size of scimitars. There’s never a need to hunt for the Wee People of the Glade or the Killer Rabbits of Caerbannog.”

“Hmm.”

“See, you understand where I’m coming from, don’t you, Roach?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier freezes and feels a chill ripple up his spine along with the cold, sickening realization that the humming is not coming from Roach nor is it coming from the wayward Witcher. He pushes himself off the stone quickly and whips around, squinting to see through the darkness into the trees. There’s a waning crescent moon in the sky high above, the silvery light casting just enough of a glow in the darkened trees to make out murky shapes and shadows.

“Is...is someone there?” Jaskier calls out into the darkness, immediately cursing himself for being so stupid. ‘Never give away your position’, that’s what Geralt always said and here he was practically lighting a beacon to alert everything to his location.

“Hmm.”

The sound is echoed and distorted, muffled like words passing through water. They’re coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once and Jaskier finds that the harder he searches for the source of the sound, the harder it is to locate.

Something shifts behind him, a ripple and a wave, and he spins to find a woman standing in the river.

For a moment he just stares, confused and dumbstruck by her sudden appearance. He’s relatively certain he would have heard her walking through the forest behind them and he definitely would have seen her before she made her way out into the water. There was only one path past the river and there was no way she could have crept past him between one moment and the next.

“Geralt,” he hears himself say but the words sound cottony in his ears like his head is filled with clouds and foam. “There’s a woman in the water.”

The woman stares at him with dark, bottomless eyes, her body pale and flawless in the dull moonlight. Long, dark hair spills over her shoulders like oil and cups her breasts in inky tendrils. A silver necklace hangs against her chest, a small, twinkling stone shimmering in the center. Her eyes are dark but her lips are red and she extends one long, silver arm toward him almost like an invitation.

Every ounce of common sense tells Jaskier he should leave, move away from the water and find Geralt but he can’t. Despite his fear and wariness, his feet are cemented to the icy mud along the riverbank and try as he might, he can’t move.

A surge of panic sweeps through him and he opens his mouth to speak, refuse, shout for help, he’s not sure, but then the woman is speaking and the words die in his throat.

“Come,” she says, at least he thinks she said it. The word is clear and crisp in his ears but he didn’t see her mouth move. She smiles at him, all dark eyes and desire, and it feels like her voice is the only sound he’s ever heard.

She hums again, the sound sweet and potent and it washes over him like a heavy wine. “Come with me.”

His thoughts become more and more muddled with each passing second; every thought, every idea, every word he’s ever known is replaced by her voice. It has a strange quality to it, like the jingling of grave bells or the soft scratch of sleet bouncing off frozen earth. It’s as if a human is speaking through the veil that separates life and death, the sound familiar and yet completely alien at the same time. She speaks and her words wash over him like a tsunami, cold, dark, powerful.

He takes a step forward.

The woman smiles and motions him closer, her dark eyes reflecting the moon deep into their depths. It feels like looking into a void and having the void look back. “Come with me,” she says again, her voice a song of sadness and sorrow.

Jaskier doesn’t feel the water slip past his knees or his hips or his waist. He doesn’t feel the sting of the water, the numbness that prickles over his skin as he pushes further into the river. When he reaches her, the river laps at his chest, it’s slow, gentle current tugging at him like a lover.

The woman smiles at him, a crooked, broken expression like the slashed mouth of a doll. Long, thin fingers slide up his arms and come to cup the back of his neck and head.

Jaskier has the vague, fleeting thought that it’s too cold here and they should go back to the shore.

“Stay with me,” the woman says, icy voice trickling, dripping, flooding into his ears and any other thought he might have had slips away. Her body is cold and smooth and she presses it flush against him. He thinks of nothing else.

She pulls him forward and presses her lips to his, soft and slow and hungry. Were his senses not muddled by her voice and the slide of her hands, he might have noticed that her skin was grey and decayed and that her dark, beautiful eyes reflected a cold malice not familiar to humans. The water around her turns brackish and putrid and her blood red lips split apart to reveal sharp, jagged teeth.

But Jaskier isn’t aware of any of that, he isn’t aware of anything at all. He thinks he might have heard his name, distant and lost miles away, but the woman’s arms are around his back and her hands are in his hair and when the water slips over his head he doesn’t hear anything else.

OOOOO

It doesn’t make sense.

Geralt grumbles to himself and pushes forward through the river reeds. Something has been nagging at him all night and he’s not exactly sure what it is except that this hunt doesn’t sit right with him. Vodyanoy do have the potential to be dangerous, he’s had experience with a few violent ones in the past, but they never actively sought out their victims. Usually when someone fell prey to a vodyanoy it was because of something they did, not because the vodyanoy hunted them down intentionally. They certainly weren’t harmless but they tended to keep to themselves and avoid humans if at all possible. Which is why it was strange that this one seemed so vindictive and predatory.

Perhaps it held a grudge against the townspeople for some unknown slight or it grew irritated with the town’s encroachment on the river. There had been talk about the construction of a dam a few weeks before the murders started; maybe that had served as the impetus for the violence.

Still, the situation seemed odd. Most vodyanoy, no matter how disgruntled, could be appeased but not this one for some reason. An angry, malicious vodyanoy meant the river was no longer safe and without access to water, the townspeople would be forced to either risk their lives (and the vodyanoy’s wrath) at the water’s edge or pack up and move elsewhere.

Geralt pauses and crouches low in the reeds, eyeing the water carefully. It was a slow river, deep and placid, and it was a shame that it had become such a source of trial and turmoil in recent weeks. At one time it had been a crucial artery for this part of the valley, boats and fisherman making their living on the calm, smooth waters. No one wanted to take that chance anymore, however, not when they stood just as good a chance of a decent payday as they did a watery grave.

The Witcher watches the water silently for several more minutes, listening carefully for any signs of movement. He thinks back to what the townspeople had told him about the victims. Twelve total as of a few days ago,although there’s always the chance that there were more that hadn’t been reported. None were linked aside from their ill-fated venture to the river; most of the victims had been from the nearby town but there were at least two from villages and settlements several miles away. Most of the bodies were found within a few days, bloated and decomposing but clearly drowned. There was no pattern with the ages nor the lifestyle, all the men had been born and raised in the-

Something catches his attention then, something he hadn’t thought of until just that moment. The victims, all of them except for the first, were male. Vodyanoy tended to be unbiased with their victims, male or female, it didn’t matter. But a creature that only sought out male victims, one that preyed exclusively on men, was not a vodyanoy at all.

The townspeople had been so convinced the creature was a vodyanoy that they never stopped to consider it could be anything else. And because of their certainty, neither had Geralt. Not until now.

He curses softly and spins on his heel, stalking back down the riverbank in the opposite direction. In order to prove his theory, he needed to be certain that all the subsequent victims past the first disappearance were male and that there was no possibility of any female victims as well. If he was correct and the creature responsible was what he thought it was, this job just became a lot harder.

He’s nearly reached the bend in the river where he’d lashed up Roach when he hears it. There’s a soft sound, like a whisper and a hum filtering through the breeze. It makes his thoughts feels hazy and dull, like he’s consumed too much ale in too short a time. It only serves as confirmation to the conclusion he’s already reached.

He clears the bend and stops, eyes narrowing at the scene before him. There’s a woman in the water, roughly thirty feet from the river’s edge. She’s nude and enticing and motioning seductively with one arm. Another figure is staggering toward her, footsteps heavy and clumsy in the cold current and fuck, of course it’s Jaskier.

“Jaskier,” the Witcher shouts, the name coming out as a sharp bark in the silence of the night.

The bard doesn’t hear him, completely entranced by the woman beckoning him forward. Only she’s not a woman, not anymore. The creature in the river looks like a woman in only the most general sense. Up close, her image fades and she becomes monstrous; her skin sloughs, her eyes bulge, the stench of death hangs around her like a cloud.

To Jaskier she looks like a goddess; to the Witcher she transforms into a ghoul.

Geralt is running forward already, desperate to reach the river and retrieve his stupid bard from the woman’s clutches but he knows he won’t make it in time. Her arms wrap around the bard’s slim back, cold and rotting, and pulls him against her.

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouts again, hoping the sound of his name might break the woman’s spell.

It has little effect and a second or so later, the woman slips beneath the water, dragging Jaskier down with her, and both disappear beneath the surface.

Chapter Text

Geralt is already plunging into the river before his brain has a chance to catch up to what he’s doing. As such, he’s not entirely prepared for how shockingly cold the water is and lets out grumbled curse before he dives into it. It stings like a slap as it closes over his head, dark and heavy, but he doesn’t care, his only concern is rescuing Jaskier. He surfaces just long enough to take a quick, deep breath and dives into the depths.

He curses his blindness as he pushes deeper into the water, mentally berating himself for not picking up the signs sooner. He should have known the creature wasn’t a vodyanoy from the minute they reached the river but he hadn’t stopped to consider an alternative until just now. Sure, an angry vodyanoy would have been bad enough but a rusalka...that was a different threat altogether. Had he entertained the notion of a rusalka he would have tethered Jaskier to the tree with Roach or forced him to stay in town because a rusalka was deadly on an entirely different level. They killed for sport, sometimes fun, but always because they wanted to. It would be easier to appease a seasick serpent than try to reason with a rusalka.

The riverbed disappears beneath him after a few feet, how far below he’s not sure. The current isn’t strong but it pushes against him solidly and he has to fight against it to make any kind of progress. He’s all too aware of his vulnerability and the fact that the rusalka could sneak up behind him, drag him further into the murky depths and bury him in the river mud below but that was a risk he was willing to take. Certain death or not, he’s not leaving without the bard; Jaskier had followed him this far and he wasn’t about to lose him now.

He pauses for a moment and hangs in the icy, black water motionlessly. He can’t see anything and he can feel even less but he can hear movement cutting through the currents and he just needs a moment to pinpoint the location. There’s a swish in the darkness somewhere off to his right and he reaches out blindly, fingers just barely snagging the rough hem of fabric. He tries to get a better grip, to latch onto the material he is sure is part of Jaskier’s sleeve, but it rips away from his hand.

All at once something crashes into him, hard and powerful like a cannon blast. A burst of air bubbles out of him and he inhales a mouthful of water before he can stop himself.

He kicks to the surface and manages to catch a single, deep breath just before long, shape fingernails pierce his leg and jerk him back under.

The world above disappears in a flash, dark and cold and fathomless, and Geralt finds the hilt of his sword in the darkness, the blade slashing through the water effortlessly. He doesn’t want to risk injuring Jaskier but he needs some kind of advantage over this situation. After all, he’s in the rusalka’s element and she’s much better equipped to deal with her prey than he is.

Sharp claws lash out again, raking across his body in the darkness and narrowly missing his throat. The very tip ends of her claws make contact with his skin and a sharp sting erupts along the side of his neck as the flesh splits open. Geralt lashes out blindly, his sword slashing through the arm closest to his, the blade sinking deeply into flesh and bone. There’s a noise like a shriek beneath the water and then she’s gone and Jaskier is gone with her. The rusalka is fast and ruthless and isn’t about to give up her victim without a fight.

Unfortunately for her, neither is Geralt.

He breaks the surface just long enough to gulp in another lungful of air before diving below again. He still can’t see in the murky gloom but he can hear, sound muffled and distorted but still recognizable. He follows the sound of bubbles and movement, minuscule waves and ripples forming beneath the surface. The rusalka is swimming with the current now, further down the river, and while Geralt doesn’t know where exactly she’s going, he follows her relentlessly.

The riverbed reappears beneath him suddenly and he finds himself beached on a sandbar before he knows what happened. He pushes his hair out of his face and looks around, cold and gasping. A darkened cove hollows out the river’s edge on the other side of the sandbar, a tangled patch of roots and buttonwood trees forming a living canopy. Knobby curves of tree roots protrude upward from the water like tiny gravestones leading into the cove. A low, animalistic hiss slices through the air and Geralt can see a murky shift of movement beyond the shadows. He tightens his grip on his sword and pushes past the sandbar and into the cove.

The rusalka is crouched and waiting within the ensconced limbs of the trees, her long, pale arms outstretched to either side like she’s blocking his approach. One decaying arm is flayed open from elbow to wrist, the wound deep enough to expose bone. If he’d been able to see any better underwater, he would have taken the arm off at the joint. Her black eyes lock onto him and she bares her teeth like a shark.

Geralt keeps his eyes on her but makes note of the still figure wedged in the trees behind her. Jaskier is crumpled and motionless in the shallow water of the cove, his upper body lodged between winding roots while his lower body remains submerged up to his torso. The rusalka remains firmly planted in front of him and clearly has no plans to give him up so easily; she offers a low, gurgling hiss as a warning.

“Give him back,” Geralt orders, pushing his way further into the cove. The rusalka gnashes her teeth at him again, long black hair falling across her face as a short, high-pitched screech tears from her lips. In his experience, rusalka don’t speak; their language consists of screeches, whines, and whistles. She may have started out as a human woman but there was little trace of humanity left in the creature before him.

“I won’t say it again,” he growls, raising his sword higher to drive the point home. The blade reflects a glint of moonlight and the rusalka draws her damaged arm to her chest and snarls like a trapped animal. She could easily lash out again, tackle him back into the dark, cold depths of the river and get two victims for the price of one. She was faster and stronger, the cold having no effect on her the way it did Geralt. She had already managed to draw blood once, the wounds in his leg deep and bleeding freely, and it would only take a split second of distraction for her to rake those claws across his throat and leave him to bleed out in the river.

But she doesn’t.

She watches him warily, black eyes impenetrable as she stares back. In the dull glow of moonlight she looks furious and cornered and...scared. He’s hunted enough monsters to know the look, to know when one is truly out of control and needs to be exterminated. There’s something different about this one though and he feels a muscle in his jaw tighten.

“You seek vengeance against the one who murdered you, is that right?” he asks, still pushing his way into the cove toward her but mostly toward Jaskier. He can’t tell if the bard if conscious, hell, he can’t even tell if he’s breathing, but he’s going to get him back or die trying.

The rusalka hisses and a dark, angry expression crosses her features. With her damaged arm still crossed over her chest, her pale, clawed fingers brush over a chain at her throat. The gesture is oddly human-like, an unconscious movement brought on by an unpleasant memory. Even in death she remembered who it was, who had inflicted the violence which turned her into this. It was someone she knew, someone she trusted, someone who had used that trust and killed her with it.

“Give me the bard,” Geralt says, eyes shifting to the motionless form of his companion before locking back on her. “And you have my word I will avenge you.”

The rusalka hisses again, sharp, broken teeth flashing in the darkness. For a long, tense moment she doesn’t move, continuing to block any further entrance into the cove. Her posture is hunched and still and it looks like she’s contemplating another attack. Geralt tightens his grip on his sword and prepares himself for whatever comes next.

Finally, as if realizing this is a fight she may not win, she eyes Jaskier once more briefly before slowly, cautiously pulling away in the opposite direction. She keeps her dark eyes locked on Geralt as the Witcher moves past her toward her intended victim, slipping soundlessly over the sandbar and back into the deeper water of the river. Her head is the only thing visible above the water for several seconds and then there’s a flash of white as her arm appears above the water and tosses something thin and metallic toward him.

Geralt braces himself, unsure of what she’s thrown, but all he’s met with is a soft rustle as whatever it was the rusalka had thrown catches in a drooping tree branch and swings loosely above the water. It’s the necklace she had been wearing, a thin silver chain with a small crimson stone attached, and it glimmers in the moonlight. The meaning is unmistakable: the man who had given it to her was the one who killed her; find him and avenge her. A trade, Geralt determines; justice for her life in exchange for Jaskier’s. He looks from the necklace and back to the water but the rusalka is gone, disappearing beneath the surface and joining the river once more.

He leaves the necklace where it is and sloshes further into the cove toward the root-bound bard. Jaskier still hasn’t moved, hanging limply in the roots like a marionette with tangled strings. His head hangs forward, dark, wet hair falling across his eyes, and his skin alarmingly grey.

The Witcher reaches him a second later and tries to wrestle the younger man free of the roots to no avail. They were tangled in his clothes and around his arms and Geralt is eventually forced to hack some of them away with his sword in order to free him. Jaskier tumbles forward when the last of the roots are pried away and Geralt is just able to catch him before he lands face first in the water, lifting him out of the splintered roots and pulling him up onto more solid ground. Jaskier is heavy and limp in his arms and Geralt tamps down to rush of fear that washes through him when he realizes he might have been too late after all.

He stretches Jaskier out across the wet sand and drops to his knees beside him, one palm pressed flat against the bard’s chest as he leans over him. He can feel a slow, faltering heartbeat beneath his palm but Jaskier isn’t breathing which is significantly more alarming.

“Fuck,” Geralt growls, sucking in a deep breath before leaning down and forcing it into the bard’s unresponsive lungs. He repeats the process a second time, feeling the bard’s chest rise slightly beneath his hand. It seems crude and ineffective at the moment but he refuses to quit as long as Jaskier’s heart keeps beating.

He lifts the younger man off the sand and drapes him over his knee, positioning his chest against the solid plane of his leg. Keeping Jaskier’s head lower than the rest of his body, Geralt strikes him hard several times between the shoulders with the heel of his hand. He’s aware that the process could easily break a few of Jaskier’s ribs but if it forces the water out of his lungs he doesn’t care.

There’s a deep, guttural gurgle a second later and suddenly Jaskier spasms against his leg, coughing and choking violently beneath the Witcher’s hand. Geralt loops an arm beneath his chest and lifts him up, holding him steady as the bard continues to cough and vomit up river water. The fingers of one hand dig into cold, wet sand while the others grip Geralt’s forearm tightly like a lifeline. It takes several minutes for the coughing to subside but eventually Jaskier is left wheezing and limp in the Witcher’s arms.

His blurry eyes drift to the river and he tries to push himself away from the water’s edge desperately, struggling against Geralt fruitlessly as he tries to get away. The sudden movement just makes him cough again.

“Easy,” Geralt tells him quietly, keeping the bard’s wiry frame presses against his own and holding him still. “Don't move, just breathe.”

“The woman,” Jaskier gasps which immediately leaves him gripped in another coughing fit. Geralt thumps him on the back again, much softer this time, until the coughing subsides.

“She’s gone,” he assures him, holding Jaskier tightly as the bard’s shuddering breaths slowly become more steady. “You’re safe.”

“She tried to drown me,” Jaskier groans, one hand coming up to clutch his chest as another deep, wrenching cough ripples through him.

“She nearly did,” Geralt informs him, forcing the image of Jaskier, limp, pale, lifeless out of his mind. He had come too close today, too close to losing the stupid, reckless bard and the gravity of that settles in gut like a sack of sand.

“I...t-told you this was a stupid plan,” Jaskier mumbles, trying to chuckle but coughing again instead. He gags and retches up another mouthful of water.

“Hm,” the Witcher responds, absently patting the smaller man’s bony back once more. He’s right, it was a stupid plan, one which nearly got Jaskier killed, and it was all because he was too headstrong and stubborn to agree with him. The night could have ended much differently, much worse, and it was only sheer luck that kept Jaskier from becoming yet another one of the rusalka’s victims.

Unfortunately their trouble isn’t over yet and Geralt is keenly aware of how perilous their situation remains. In order to get back to Roach and eventually to the town, they’ll need to make it back across the river and there wasn’t a functional bridge for at least another mile or more up the river. Staggering along the riverbank in hopes of finding another way to cross would waste more energy than he had and he knows for a fact he can’t make it a full mile up the river before collapsing from exhaustion. Their only option is to swim back across but even that seems daunting. Normally it wouldn’t be an issue but the frigid water coupled with the battle against the rusalka had sapped his strength and left him winded and stiff.

Jaskier’s condition is even worse than his own, the younger man’s strength and energy plummeting rapidly and leaving him shivering and barely conscious. He’s hypothermic already, lips tinged blue against ashen skin, and if he doesn’t get warm and dry soon then the river might kill him all the same.

They need to get to the other side of the river, while Geralt still has the strength to do so, but he knows it won’t be easy. In fact, if he’s completely honest with himself, the likelihood of them drowning before the reach the opposite bank is much higher than he’d like to admit.

“Come on,” he says, shaking the younger man gently and getting a flinch and a groan for his efforts. “We need to get back across the river.”

“N-no,” the bard mumbles, shivering violently against him. “C-can’t...get back in...t-the water. S’ not s-safe.”

“We’re safe,” Geralt tells him again, forcing Jaskier into a sitting position and keeping one hand gripped in the back of his shirt. “But we won’t be for long unless we get back to town.”

“C-can’t swim,” Jaskier counters, his teeth chattering so hard he can barely speak.

“I know,” Geralt says, loosening his belt and pulling it free. “Which is why I’m going to carry you on my back.” He grabs one of the bard’s bony wrists and loops the belt around it tightly to form something of a tether. He knows full well that Jaskier is too weak and exhausted to swim back on his own but their options are extremely limited. They could stay on this side of the river and freeze to death with no supplies or they could make it back to the inn they’d stayed in back in town and live to see another day.

Maybe.

Jaskier tries to shake his head but the motion leaves him unbalanced and his knees nearly give out from under him. If it weren’t for Geralt’s fist at his back, he would have fallen to the ground. “You’ll d-drown.”

“I’ll be fine,” the Witcher tells him, pulling him forward toward the river.

Jaskier staggers to a stop and plants his feet as much as he’s able. “I w-won’t let you die because o-of me. G-get Roach and j-just come back for me.”

“Stop talking.”

“Geralt-”

“I’m not leaving you here!” he snarls and it comes out much louder and more furious than he meant it to. So much so that Jaskier takes a wobbly step backwards and nearly loses his balance again. He sighs, the desperation of the situation leaving him irritated and on edge, and pulls Jaskier back toward him.

“I’m not leaving you here,” he repeats, cupping his hand against the bard’s cold cheek before dropping it down to squeeze the back of his neck gently. “We’re going to cross the river together and we’re going to be fine. Trust me.”

He doesn’t give the bard a chance to protest further as he loops his arm back around his waist and half-drags, mostly carries Jaskier back to the river’s edge. He pauses long enough to snag the rusalka’s necklace from the tree branch and tuck it into his pocket before clearing the sandbar with Jaskier still pressed against his side.

He slips into the water as carefully as he can, mindful of the current, and shifts the bard onto his back. Making sure his belt is still looped around Jaskier’s wrist, he ties the other end through a strap in his armor, cinching it as tightly as he can. “Hold on tight and do not let go until we reach the other side,” he tells him, feeling cold, numb fingers struggle to find a grip on his water-slicked armor. One hand manages to find a small notch behind Geralt’s left shoulder while the fingers of his other hand tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Do you understand?”

Jaskier nods, a jerky, uncoordinated motion that takes way too much energy.

“Good,” Geralt says, pushing off the sandbank and into the cold, deep water.

The swim back across proves to be much more of an endeavor than either of them were prepared for and it’s nothing short of a miracle that they make it back across the river at all. Between the cold and the current there were several times where Geralt felt himself slipping beneath the surface, river water rushing into his mouth and nose.

At times he had to stop swimming, letting his heavy, leaden arms go limp as the current pushed them along. When he felt a renewed wave of strength, he’d start swimming again, cutting through the water with long, powerful strokes. He kept his eye on the opposite shore and forced himself to keep swimming even when it felt like the riverbank was getting further away by the second. He refused to give up, refused to slow down. They’d come this far and he’d be damned if he gave up now.

He’s not sure how long it takes but eventually they reach the other side of the river and Geralt collapses against the icy riverbank. For several long, agonizing minutes all he can do is lay against the icy mud and struggle to pull cold, stinging air into his lungs. He’s freezing, shaking and breathless, and each breath feels tight and limited. Eventually he forces himself to his knees and untethers the belt looped through his armor, catching Jaskier clumsily as the belt comes loose. Jaskier is a limp, heavy weight against his back when he slides off and while he never lost his grip on Geralt’s shoulders, he’s clearly lost his battle with consciousness. He’s still breathing though, the sound soft and thin, but there nonetheless.

Geralt unties the belt from the bard’s wrist and scoops him up over one shoulder, slowly and carefully making his way back to Roach. It’s not a far walk but his legs are stiff and uncooperative thanks to the cold and it takes a lot more time than it should to reach his horse. By the time he locates his impatient horse, he’s barely able to walk.

He shoves Jaskier into the saddle first, draping the younger man across the horse’s warm back and hoping some of the beast’s body heat will seep into his frigid companion. He wonders if he should be concerned about the fact that Jaskier isn’t shivering but he’s too numb and dazed to think about it for longer than a few seconds. It takes some work but he’s able to climb up behind him, sinking into the saddle bonelessly and ushering the horse away from the river.

He takes one last look at the cold, deadly river, and turns away. “Get us home, Roach,” he croaks, keeping one hand on Jaskier’s back and the other on the reins as the horse obeys and leads them back to town.

Chapter Text

Geralt makes a fuzzy mental note to leave an extra coin for the innkeeper for the damage he did to the door. He hadn’t meant to crash into it as heavily as he did but considering he can’t really feel his legs anymore it seems a small sacrifice. The splintered wood bows inward noticeably and it’s only the weight of the door itself that keeps it closed; the frame is bowed as well, the solid beam on the left side of the entryway split all the way up the center. He doubts it can be repaired; full replacement of both the door and the frame is probably the only way to fix the damage. However, a damaged door is not a top priority at the moment.

Even though the town was only a few miles from the river it took them nearly an hour to get back to the inn. Geralt stopped twice because he became convinced Jaskier had stopped breathing again and he was prepared to drag the troublesome bard back to the land of the living whether he wanted it or not. By some miracle Jaskier was still alive every time he checked but he was teetering rather alarmingly between life and death and the chances of him slipping over that brink were greater than Geralt was happy with.

To make matters worse, he was fighting against his own body trying to shut down from the cold. He had long since lost the feeling in his hands and arms and it was only sheer determination that kept him from slipping out of the saddle and crashing to the ground in a numb, useless heap. He focused on the approaching lights of the town and pushed Roach forward with the stubborn refusal that they would get back to the inn even if it killed him in the process. When he lost what little sensation he had left in his legs, he lashed himself as tightly as he could to the saddle and kept one frozen hand fisted in the wet fabric at Jaskier’s back. He knew it wouldn’t be long before his own body shut down and he had no idea how Jaskier had survived this long or how much longer he could hang on but it wasn’t something he was willing to test.

The dismount when they finally reached the stables next to the inn was clumsy and painful and Geralt’s legs gave out the second they touched the ground. He made the mistake of trying to pull Jaskier down with him and the bard collapsed on top of him bonelessly, leaving both of them in a tangled heap on the ground. For a long moment the Witcher could only lay there and watch the small puffs of steam that hovered above him with every breath. The temperature had dropped significantly once the sun went down and he could physically see each breath. He found himself watching Jaskier carefully, measuring each short, shallow breath the bard took, and knew he needed to get them inside.

It took several attempts (and no small amount of cursing) before Geralt was finally able to pull himself up off the ground and scoop Jaskier up onto one shoulder. He didn’t bother securing Roach in the stable, confident the horse could take care of herself for the time being. The bigger question was whether or not he could make it to their room without ending up on the ground again.

Jaskier is limp and heavy on his shoulder when he staggers into the inn and subsequently crashes into the door to their room. His legs do not want to cooperate anymore, his arms less so, and it’s everything the Witcher can do not to drop himself and his unconscious companion to the floor but he somehow manages to keep them both upright.

The fire in the hearth has burned down to nothing but embers but the innkeeper had left a dry stack of wood nearby to refuel the flames. The nights get down to freezing in this part of the valley so stacks of dry firewood were a precious commodity to have on hand. The room is warm when they return but not nearly warm enough and an icy chill is still able to seep through the window shutters and taunt the two frozen travelers inside.

The short walk between the door and the bed saps what little strength Geralt has left and in spite of his best efforts he drops Jaskier rather unceremoniously onto the mattress before his legs finally give out and he crashes onto the floor in a messy heap.

For several moments he just sits there, wet hair dripping down his face and neck. He’s numb and breathless and spent, desperately gripping the edge of the mattress with what little strength he still has. It’s a herculean task to even consider moving again but he knows he has to. He growls and forces himself to his knees again, dragging himself across the floor to the hearth to toss more wood into the embers. A few moments later, a large fire crackles brightly in the hearth, driving away the bitter cold and casting long, dark shadows across the walls.

With a low groan, Geralt begins the arduous task of tugging off his waterlogged boots and trousers, dropping them into a heavy, sopping pile by the hearth. His armor and leathers gets the same treatment and eventually he’s left wet, shivering, and naked in front of the fire. Again, it’s oh so tempting to stay there, to let exhaustion take him and free him of consciousness for a while, but he doesn’t because in spite of how drained and weak he felt, he knows Jaskier’s condition is far worse.

The younger man is deadweight in his arms when he reaches up and tugs him off the bed and down into his lap. He’s limp and cold as a corpse and it’s only the very soft brush of breath against his collarbone that convinces Geralt the bard hasn’t slipped beyond his grasp.

He tries to be more gentle with Jaskier when it comes to divesting him of his wet clothes but his fingers are too numb to function properly and eventually he ends up just ripping the sodden fabric and tossing it across the room. The bard will likely raise all kinds of hell about his clothes being destroyed but Geralt is much more focused on keeping him from dying from hypothermia than salvaging his river ruined garments.

Once Jaskier has been stripped to the skin, Geralt reaches back and gropes across the bed with with cold, clumsy fingers until he finds the pile of blankets and furs the innkeeper had left for them. He tangles his hand in the pile and drags them onto the ground as well, cocooning them around himself and Jaskier and moving closer to the fire. He needs to get them warm, quickly.

The bard had stopped shivering a few miles outside of town and the grey wash of his skin mingled with his blue tinged lips does some very odd things to a Geralt’s peace of mind. He’d lost a significant portion of it when he watched the rusalka drag Jaskier beneath the water and then an even larger amount when he realized the bard wasn’t breathing. Now it’s all gone to hell because he’s not terribly convinced Jaskier will survive the night and any semblance of mental fortitude he still possessed was out the window. It was bad enough that he had grown fond of the troublesome bard but now the idiot was making him worry which was decidedly worse.

Every inch feels like a mile but Geralt is able to drag both of them as close to the fire as he can without crawling in the hearth entirely. The flames are hot and bright and the flickering light somehow makes Jaskier look worse. Geralt has seen enough corpses to know a fresh one when he sees it and that’s exactly what Jaskier looks like now. He curses softly and shifts the younger man in his arms a little higher, hovering over him until his ear is just inches away from Jaskier’s mouth. For a long, agonizing moment he hears nothing over the crackling of the flames.

He growls again and wrestles one heavy, leaden arm out of the cocoon of furs and blankets, wincing when it comes in contact with the cold, dry air outside. His fingertips are completely numb and he presses them to his lips briefly, breathing against them in an effort to regain the slightest bit of sensation. The explosion of warmth stings against icy flesh but he doesn’t care, pulling his frozen fingers away from his lips and pressing them against Jaskier’s throat.

It’s easy enough to find the pulse point but it’s not so easy to find the pulse. Jaskier’s skin feels cold and stiff and wrong on about one hundred different levels and what’s worse is that he can’t feel a pulse. The Witcher frowns and walks his fingertips down the length of Jaskier’s carotid, pressing into the skin deeply as he desperately searches for any sign of life. It’s a long wait, one which feels like hours, and just as Geralt is coming to the gut wrenching conclusion that it’s too late, he feels it: a very faint, sluggish thud against his fingertips. He doesn’t release the breath he’s holding until he feels a second beat a few seconds after the first followed by another. It’s weak and far too slow but it’s there and that’s all Geralt can ask for.

He sighs and closes his eyes, sagging slightly as the breath leaves his body. He moves his hand away from Jaskier’s throat and guides the bard’s head beneath his chin, his cold, damp hair pressed against his jaw. He cradles him close and carefully lowers them both to the ground in front of the fire, keeping the layers of fur nestled around them. Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier’s back and makes sure the bard’s bony chest is pressed flat against his own; the more direct skin contact the better. He throws one leg over the younger man’s legs and gathers him close until their bodies are flush. It’s an incredibly intimate position, one which might have been the subject of a cheeky comment from the bard had the consequences not been so dire. All thoughts of intimacy and self-consciousness tend to disappear when matters of survival are at hand.

The fire crackles and pops merrily in the hearth before them, a slow, gentle heat filling the room from one wall to the other. Geralt can already feel some of the sensation coming back into his arms and legs but with it comes an icy burn like his skin is being seared with a white-hot iron. It’s going to be a bitch until it passes but he can’t bring himself to care about that right now. He feels more exhausted in this moment than he ever has in his life; the entire Nilfgaard army could have traipsed through the inn and he wouldn’t even have the energy to bat an eye.

The cold has left him weary and drained to the bone and he feels himself slipping before he realizes it. Jaskier’s breath is thin and soft against the hollow of his throat and the slow, steady beat of his heart serves as a lullaby. Geralt watches the flames for a few seconds but eventually they disappear when he closes his eyes and then he dreams of nothing for a long time after that.

OOOOO

He’s going to find whoever is shaking him and rip their spine out through their kneecaps.

The return to consciousness is abrupt and with consciousness comes pain. Every muscle in his body feels like its been ripped out, reformed, and shoved back in at random and his joints are stiff to the point of paralysis. The wounds in his leg from the rusalka’s claws are throbbing, deep and persistent, and while he’s pretty sure they’re not bleeding anymore he’s not sure enough to be certain. Opening his eyes is a tortuous experience and it takes several seconds of squinting and blinking before he’s able to see anything with clarity. All in all, it feels like he’s been run over by a carriage and then kicked off the side of a mountain.

When his vision finally clears, he finds himself staring at the smoldering embers of the fire in the hearth. The warm, deep glow casts a small amount of light into the room but it doesn’t reach past a few feet beyond the edge of the hearth. It’s quiet outside, only a few quiet voices and the sounds of carts passing by the window making their way into the room. There’s no way of knowing what time it is but judging by the dim light filtering through the window and the absence of noise outside, Geralt guesses it’s sometime before dawn.

He frowns, still sore and exhausted, and wonders why he’s awake at all. Then he remembers that someone was shaking him. Or not shaking him, per say, but shaking beside him.

He becomes aware that Jaskier is shivering violently in his arms. The bard’s head is still tucked beneath his chin and his teeth are chattering loudly, the sound amplified by the close proximity. His muscles are tight and contracted as the tremors continue to work their way through him and his skin is prickled with goosebumps all over.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, his voice loud and intrusive in the still silence of the room. He has no idea if the bard is conscious or not but he figures it can’t hurt to try.

He’s met with a small, muffled sound for his efforts and Jaskier shifts restlessly in his arms. He loosens his hold just enough for his companion to squirm and fidget but he makes sure to maintain direct skin-to-skin contact. Jaskier’s body may have warmed slightly but his skin is still too cold for Geralt’s liking and while he may not have one foot in the grave anymore, he’s nowhere near back to normal yet.

“Where’re we?” Jaskier mumbles against his throat, his words clipped and choppy through chattering teeth.

“Back at the inn,” Geralt tells him, noticing how his own voice sounds thready and thin from lack of use. “We got back last night.”

“Wha ‘appened?”

The Witcher considers the question for a few moments before he answers. He’s not surprised Jaskier doesn’t remember much of the night before; from the time the rusalka pulled him under to the time they made it back to the inn the bard had averaged about ten full minutes of consciousness and coherence. Near drowning coupled with hypothermia tends to do terrible things to the memory so he accepts the confusion without a blink.

“You had an encounter with a rusalka,” Geralt tells him after a moment, debating on how much he should reveal. He doubts Jaskier wants to know the gorier details of the ordeal or just how close he’d come to being another victim. Learning all the details of one’s very close brush with death tends to be an uncomfortable topic so Geralt figures he’ll keep some of those parts to himself. “In the very worst way.”

“The woman in the water,” Jaskier recalls as a hazy sort of image forms in his mind. “She lured me into the river.”

The Witcher nods once, the bard’s soft hair brushing against his jaw as he does. His hair is still a little damp and it smells like river water and mud. Another round of shivers wracks its way through Jaskier and Geralt tightens his arms around the smaller man’s back in the vain hope of suppressing the shaking.

“She did, yes. That’s how they trap their victims; a song, a promise, an offer. They enchant you and by the time you realize it’s a trap it’s often too late. It was never a vodyanoy; I didn’t make the connection until...” he fades off, gesturing vaguely with one hand behind Jaskier’s back.

Jaskier makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and sags slightly when the wave of shivering dies down. He’s already so weak that just the act of shivering leaves him breathless and exhausted. It takes a second before he’s able to muster up the energy to speak again.

“You saved me.” It’s not a question, merely a statement of fact. Jaskier says it with such conviction and sincerity, like he never had any doubt Geralt would be there to save the day, that it makes something twist in the Witcher’s gut. Because yes, he had saved him this time, but next time he might not be so lucky. Next time he might be five minutes, one minute, thirty seconds too late and Jaskier would pay the price. Jaskier lives boldly in the knowledge that he has Geralt but Geralt lives more cautiously now that he has Jaskier. The encounter with the rusalka had been close, far too close for his liking, and he knew the image of Jaskier, pale and cold and limp in his arms would haunt his dreams for a long time to come.

He doesn’t say any of this of course; there are still appearances to uphold. Instead, he sighs softly and allows one of his hands to drift up and cup the back of Jaskier’s head, fingertips threading into river damp hair.

“You were right,” he muses after another moment of silence passed between them. “It was foolish to go hunting at night. We should have gone during the day.”

“Element of surprise,” the bard teases mildly, his voice muffled against Geralt’s throat.

“I’m serious.”

“Mhmm,” Jaskier hums but it cuts off a second later as another wave of shivers rattles through him. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, body going rigid in Geralt’s arms.

“Are you in pain?” the Witcher asks, frowning down at his companion as the smaller man continues to shake.

“Feels like there’s glass under my skin,” Jaskier grinds out after a moment, the words brittle and coming through clenched teeth.

Geralt frowns again and splays his hand across the bard’s shoulder blades, feeling the rigid muscles of his back and neck. His skin is still cool to the touch and there’s definitely still a greyish tint in his pallor which proves that although he’s not actively flirting with Death anymore, he’s still holding the calling card.

“Your body is trying to rewarm itself,” he explains, keeping one hand presses flat against Jaskier’s back while the other passes soothingly through his hair. “It will pass.”

Jaskier says nothing, he just burrows his head against Geralt’s throat and bites back a wince as the shivering continues. Although it’s exhausting and painful, the shivering is a good sign; it means his body is fighting to regulate its temperature after the drop from the night before.

It was much more worrisome when Jaskier wasn’t shivering at all.

Geralt waits until the trembling has almost stopped before he tries to move, keeping the shaken bard cradled close to his chest as he props himself up on one elbow and drags another chunk of firewood into the hearth. It takes a few minutes but eventually the embers begin to consume the newly added wood and a small, hot fire begins to crackle in the hearth.

He settles back onto the floor and repositions the furs and blankets around them to make sure they’re covered. Jaskier burrows against him immediately, soaking in his body heat like a sponge. It would probably be much more comfortable on the bed but Geralt doesn’t want to move Jaskier away from the fire just yet, not until a little more warmth and color has returned to the bard’s skin.

“Will you tell me the story?” Jaskier asks, the trembling beginning to ease as the fire burns brighter behind him.

“Hmm?”

“Of the rusalka. Considering I was unconscious for most of it, I can’t say I have much to go on.”

Geralt contemplates this for a moment before nodding slowly. Again he’ll probably leave out some of the more distressing details but he knows for a fact Jaskier will badger him to insanity if he doesn’t elaborate on the story. “Yes, I’ll fill you in on the details when you’re back on your feet.”

“Good,” Jaskier’s voice is softer now, his threadbare hold on consciousness wearing ever thinner. “‘M gonna write a song about it.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“Hmm,” comes the sleepy reply and then Jaskier goes silent again as he slips back under.

Geralt lays still and quiet for a long time, listening carefully to Jaskier’s breathing for any sounds of fluid or wheezing. He’s known of men who have drowned on dry land because they battled the water hours before and the water itself wasn’t ready to give up the fight. He’d fought hard to keep Jaskier among the land of the living and he wasn’t about to have the tables turned by something so obscure.

When he’s finally convinced himself the bard isn’t facing any kind of immediate peril other than exhaustion and temperature regulation, he allows himself to relax and close his eyes again.

He’s nearly asleep when he hears a soft, mumbled voice say, “Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

“Thank you for saving me.”

He says nothing, instead rubbing a small circle across the back of Jaskier’s neck with his thumb. Of course he saved him; as much as it pained him to admit, he cared for the chatterbox bard and it would be a cold day in hell before he let anything happen to him. He rests his chin against the top of Jaskier’s head and closes his eyes.

“Geralt?”

A low sigh. “Hmm.”

“Are we naked?”

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

The bard does as he’s told, slipping back under effortlessly.

Geralt is asleep minutes later.

Chapter Text

The sun is hanging low in the sky the next time Geralt opens his eyes. It’s late afternoon if he’s guessing which means they’ve slept for the better part of the day. Normally this would have bothered him, he doesn’t like staying in one place for longer than necessary, but this was an exception. Even without Jaskier’s health to worry about he knows he likely would have been incapacitated for at least half a day with his own injuries and recovery. The cold was crippling enough but the wounds in his leg from the rusalka were deep and would take time to heal; he knows he wouldn’t have been able to travel far even if he’d wanted to.

The fire has died down to embers again and aside from a single block of firewood nestled next to the hearth there’s nothing else he can feed into it to refuel the flames. He’ll have to get more wood from the innkeeper or find some in town if he wants to keep the fire burning (which is a necessity rather than a comfort at this point). There’s still enough of a biting chill in the air to make the idea of going without a fire wholly unappealing and with as weak as they both still were, it was likely extremely detrimental to their prospects of recovery.

The idea of getting up and moving is also wholly unappealing and he contemplates how long he can actually lay there before he’s forced to move. Knowing it will be worse the longer he puts it off, he resigns himself to his fate and comes to terms with the fact that he’ll have to pull himself up off the ground and venture outside and into town.

He sighs and stares at the smoldering embers for a few moments longer, trying to muster the energy to pull himself up off the floor (although mustering the energy to do much of anything seems impossible at the moment). Jaskier is still asleep against him and while he’s still alarmingly pale he looks better than he did a few hours before. At least now he looks freshly dead rather than recently dead which is a kind way of saying that while he still resembles a corpse at least he's on the upswing of the pendulum this time. Geralt takes great care not to wake him as he carefully extracts himself from the pile of blankets and furs, tucking them around the sleeping bard as he does so.

It takes several seconds to right himself once he’s up, his body stiff and unresponsive from laying on the hard, unforgiving ground for over twelve hours. They should have moved to the bed hours ago but that would have meant moving away from the warmth of the fire and that was unacceptable. He suppresses a groan as he straightens his spine and puts weight on his injured leg, biting back a hiss as the wounds throb in protest. He hadn’t had the energy to tend to them the night before and he knows he’ll have to do it now if they stand any chance of healing properly. Plus, hobbling around doesn’t exactly match his image.

He limps across the room and tugs out a few strips of bandages from one of his bags, dropping onto the edge of the mattress heavily and hunching over to examine the wounds. There are four gaping holes in his calf from where the rusalka had caught his leg and dug in. They’re not big but they’re deep, her claws piercing through layers of flesh and muscle, and she could have easily ripped the entire muscle free if she had wanted to. Deep, ugly bruising discolors the whole lower portion of his leg from where the blood had seeped and pooled into the muscle and the sting of swelling is beginning to join in with the persistent throb. There are a few shallower gashes across his chest and near his throat from where she’d slashed at him underwater but they’re minor compared to the wounds in his leg.

Luckily the cold and the water itself had stemmed the bleeding so he didn’t have to worry about the effects of continued blood loss to add to the equation. He doesn’t believe in miracles but it’s nice to know that the world isn’t always a steaming pile of shit and sometimes you catch a lucky break along the way.

He packs the wounds with an herbal salve and binds them tightly. It’s going to hurt like hell while it heals but he estimates the wounds should be mostly mended by the end of the week if he’s lucky. The wounds on his chest and throat are much less serious and aside from a quick cleaning he doesn’t concern himself with bandaging them.

He locates his clothing and leathers next to the hearth and tugs them on, suppressing a shudder as the cold, damp fabric clings to his skin. They’re drier than they were the night before but not much. Still, he can’t very well venture out into town in the buff so he accepts the cold, wet clothing and tugs on his equally soggy boots.

Once dressed, he makes his way back over to the hearth and slowly, painfully sinks down to one knee, gathering Jaskier into his arms as gently as he can and lifting him up off the floor. It takes some effort, his injured leg threatening to give out at any moment, but he manages to cross the short distance from their place on the floor to the bed and carefully lower Jaskier onto the mattress, tucking the blankets and furs around him securely.

He pauses for a moment before he pulls away, keeping the flat of his palm pressed firmly over the bard’s heart to reassure himself that he was still breathing and alive. He counts one breath and three heartbeats before he pulls his hand away, drawing the top pelt up to Jaskier’s chin and stepping toward the door.

He grabs the last piece of firewood before he leaves and nestles it into the smoldering embers. The fire will be small but it will keep the room warm enough until he gets back with more.

“Where’re you goin’?” a soft, muzzy voice asks from across the room. Jaskier’s eyes are barely open and barely visible behind the mound of furs on the bed.

“Gathering supplies,” Geralt tells him simply, leaving the rest of his itinerary out of the discussion. There’s something else he needs to tend to but it’s nothing the bard needs to concern himself with. “I’ll be back soon. Stay in bed.”

He doubts Jaskier could have followed him even if he wanted to; the younger man could barely remain conscious for more than a few minutes at a time, let alone jump and trail after his monster hunting companion. Still, he feels the need to add that last part for his own peace of mind. He leaves before Jaskier has a chance to respond, wedging the door shut behind him.

The streets are full when he steps outside, carts and wagons filling the dusty avenues while the townspeople bustle along the sidewalks lining the central road through town.

The cacophony of noise is jarring compared the comfortable silence of their room, the combination of people, animals, and vendors shouting deals for their wares filling the streets in a never ending drone of commotion. He can feel eyes following him as he makes his way through the crowded streets but no one bothers to approach or start trouble; either word had gotten around that he had been brought in to deal with the threat at the river or they were smart enough to keep to themselves.

He ignores the stares and whispers and makes hit way to a tailor’s shop at the end of one street. He’d all but destroyed Jaskier’s clothes the night before trying to get him out of them and there was no way of knowing when they would stop again for him to purchase some new ones. He knows his own clothing would be much too large for his smaller companion and he doesn’t have much to spare that isn’t ripped, tattered, or stained with blood or other questionable bodily fluids (both human and monster). They won’t be fancy or lavish but he figures he can at least spare a few coins to keep the bard dressed for the next few days until they reach another decent sized town.

The tailor doesn’t seem at all bothered by his appearance or his request, he just asks for the measurements and payment. Geralt doesn’t have the exact measurements but he’s been around Jaskier long enough to make a decent guess. A rough estimate will do, the tailor assures him, so he describes his lanky companion as well as he can and gives the man his best guess. The tailor makes a couple of quick notes as he speaks and accepts the set payment before setting to work gathering the material. He promises the order will be ready the next day and dismisses the Witcher from his shop with a wave.

The next part will be significantly more difficult and will involve asking a lot of questions that people may not be too keen to answer. He needs details and information but most of all he needs a name. He pulls the necklace from his pocket, the silver chain glimmering softly in the fading light of the afternoon. It’s a thin, tiny thing but the weight of it feels solid and heavy like the rusalka herself is hanging from his shoulders and pulling him down once again. He closes his fingers around the necklace and drops it back in his pocket; he made a promise and it was one he intended to keep.

It takes several hours of asking the right questions to the wrong people for him to find the right people to ask the right questions. The presence of the sword on his back had the usual effect of loosening lips when he approached and it wasn’t long before he pieced together the story.

The rusalka had been a woman named Anja. She was a sweet, beautiful girl, a bright glimmer in the a town facing the encroaching grey darkness of winter. Those who knew her described her as smart and capable but crippled with the dreaminess and naivety of a young woman in love. There had been a man, they said, a traveling merchant, and Anja had become smitten with him almost immediately. He was a stranger to their town, stopping in the valley for a few months to sell his wares while the winter winds blew through. He’d be gone by spring, off to the next town to seek his fortune, and Anja wanted to go with him. She was captivated by him, fascinated with his tales of travel across the continent, so much different from her dull, stagnant life in the valley. She wanted a life like that and she wanted to be with him and it had only taken a few days for her heart to belong to him and him alone.

It had become commonplace to see Anja with the merchant wherever he went, helping him sell his goods and learning all she could about the life she hoped to lead once they left the town. By all accounts the merchant seemed to feel the same way, serving as a patient teacher and partner while reveling in the beautiful girl’s love and affection. He had been the one to give her the necklace, a gift or a promise, who knows which, and she wore it religiously.

The merchant had been the one to start the rumor of the vodyanoy, claiming that his beloved Anja had ventured to the river to wash some clothes when the wicked creature leapt from the depths and pulled her under. It was a senseless tragedy, the townspeople told him, a devastation to the whole community.

It was also complete bullshit.

A rusalka is not a naturally occurring supernatural being; they aren’t born, they’re made. A rusalka brings about violence and destruction because she is a product of violence and destruction. Anja’s love story had ended in tragedy, she had been wronged and betrayed in the absolute worst way, and rather than kill the Witcher that had entered her river (which she could have done easily), she had all but pleaded for help.

Geralt wasn’t going to stop until he fulfilled his end of the bargain.

He finds the merchant in a tavern at the edge of town, already heavily in his cups even though the sun hasn’t fully set yet. It takes Geralt several minutes to wrap his head around the man’s appearance and several more to question what Anja ever saw in him.

His clothing and jewelry are the only things respectable about him, a fine embroidered jacket hangs on top of his narrow shoulders and several thin gold bands loop around many of his fingers. He’s a thin, slight man with narrow features and small, beady eyes. His hairline is beginning to recede and what little hair he has left hovers on top of his head in whispy, dark clouds that look like they could be blown away at any moment. A thin, patchy mustache outlines equally thin lips that peel back to reveal dull yellow teeth when he speaks.

All together, the man looks very much like a rat.

Geralt approaches him modestly enough, keeping his suspicions close at hand until he has reason to act on them. If he reveals how much he knows too early then the merchant might craft a lie to counter the accusation or try another means for an easy escape. It’s better to keep what he knows about Anja/the rusalka until he can use it to his advantage successfully. As such, he pretends that he’s returned from the hunt unscathed but unsuccessful and needs further information before he sets out again the next day.

The merchant listens, bobbing slightly in his chair as he struggles to remain upright, and seems buys the story from the first word to the last. When Geralt finished, he flashes a drunken yellow smile and slaps the table in front of him, ordering another ale for himself and one for the Witcher, his voice just a little too loud and grating to be acceptable.

“So,” the man slurs after the mugs are placed on the table in front of them. “No luck fishing today, eh?”

“You could say that,” Geralt allows, clenching his teeth slightly as the wounds in his leg ache and throb beneath the bandages. If he had had any better luck he would have been at the bottom of the river by now. “I need to know exactly where the first few disappearances took place so I can narrow down my search.”

The man (Oren, Geralt remembers belatedly; someone had mentioned the merchant’s name earlier and he immediately dismissed it because it was inconsequential) shrugs and somehow manages to slosh his ale in the process. “Hard to say,” he says, the words coming out as a garbled mess. “No one’s ever seen the thing up close an’ came back from it so t’ere’s no tellin’ where it s’actually hidin.”

He takes a sloppy swig and belches. “They’re slipp’ry like that, ya know? Slipp’ry little fishies.” The words fade off in a drunken chuckle and Geralt feels what small amount of patience he has wear to it’s frayed end.

“Tell me about Anja,” he says bluntly, watching as the dopey smile washes from Oren’s face like the river itself had a hand it in.

“Anja?” Oren repeats dumbly, beady eyes widening just slightly at the name. “Anja,” he says again, sighing and staring at the table as he runs the mug back and forth between his hands. “She was the firs’ to go.”

“Tell me about her,” Geralt says again, directing the conversation and keeping the merchant focused. He needs Oren to keep talking because, as drunk as he is, he’s going to slip up and the truth is eventually going to come out. “I’ve heard she was very beautiful.”

Oren nods slowly, his thin lips working in a spastic, twitchy way like he’s trying to form words but has forgotten how to make syllabals. “Oh yes,” he says finally. “She w’s a lovely, lovely girl. Had nothin’ to her name but dirt but she w’s a good one.” Something passes over his expression then, sorrow and regret but also remorse; he was practically broadcasting guilt and had no idea.

Geralt presses on.

“The day she went missing,” he says, keeping his eyes locked on the merchant’s face. “Were you with her?”

“No,” Oren answers quickly, too quickly. He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders back. “I mean no, I wasn’t with ‘er when she disappear’d but I was with ‘er at the river, ya know? River’s a dangerous place, not safe even without the vod-” he mumbles the rest, the word becoming more and more unintelligible with each new letter added.

“Hmm,” Geralt allows with a nod, slipping his hand into his pocket and retrieving the necklace. He places it on the table and watches as recognition dawns blunt and undeniable on Oren’s face.

“Now tell me,” he says slowly, watching as the man’s beady eyes bulge in realization. “Did you murder her on the riverbank or did you drag her into the water and drown her there?”

Oren opens his mouth and makes a croaking sound in the back of his throat and that’s all the confirmation Geralt needs. He reaches across the table and grabs a fistful of the merchant’s shirt and hauls him to his feet. “I think we should finish this conversation outside,” he says, dragging the man out the door before he or anyone else can protest the action. Aside from a few curious glances, no one attempts to stop them.

The drone of the tavern dies down instantly the second they step outside and there’s nothing but a cold, dark, empty street from one end of town to the other. Geralt keeps one hand fisted in the back of the merchant’s embroidered jacket and hauls him bodily into an alley behind the tavern, shoving him into the wall hard enough for a fine layer of dust to shiver out of the bricks. Oren bounces against the wall and tries to scurry away but finds his only viable escape routes blocked with a broken down wagon to one side and a furious Witcher to the other. He holds his hands up and cowers back pitifully. “Please, please don’t hurt me.”

“Dozens of men have died because of what you did to her,” Geralt growls, bearing down on the cowering merchant. “You didn’t just murder her, you transformed her into something hideous, something vengeful and dark and bloodthirsty. You turned an innocent girl into a monster.”

“I-I…” Oren stammers but nothing else comes out. Just as well, really; Geralt is in no mood for whatever excuse or explanation he has to offer.

“You betrayed her, broke her trust, and took not only her life but the life inside her as well.”

Oren croaks.

“She told you about the child before you killed her, didn’t she?” Geralt presses on, growing more irate with each passing second. “That was the cause of all of this, a child you didn’t want.”

“I had no choice,” the merchant sobs and it’s everything Geralt can do not to rip his tongue out. “She was meant to be a bed warmer an’ nothin’ more, a quick fuck for the few months I was here. But then she started talkin’ ‘bout a family an’ a house…” the words fade off and he lets out a desperate, angry huff. “And then the wretched little bitch started demandin’ that I take responsibility an’ help her raise the little bastard and-”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish because there’s a high likelihood Geralt broke his jaw. The merchant collapses to his knees, one hand bracing himself against the wall while the other comes up to cradle his jaw. Blood and a few teeth dribble out of his mouth and the Witcher glares at him darkly. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s impolite to speak ill of the dead?” he growls, grabbing a handful of the crumpled merchant’s shirt and hauling him back upright.

“I should drag you down to the river and let her have you,” he muses, the cascade of fear that tumbles over Oren’s face well worth the bluff.

“N-no, please,” he begs, the words garbled behind a mouthful of blood.

“But I won’t,” he assures him, never loosening his hold on the merchant’s shirt. “Because you’ve caused her enough pain and misery and she deserves some semblance of peace after what you did. She deserved to grow old and have a family and enjoy everything you took from her. I won’t take you to the river because she deserves better than you.”

For a brief moment, Oren looks relieved. But then the blood begins to dribble out of his mouth faster and his eyes go dull and blank as the Witcher’s sword passes cleanly through him and lodges its tip into the wall behind him. He sags against the blade and there’s a dull squelch as Geralt pulls it out.

“She deserves vengeance,” he mutters to the merchant’s corpse, watching as the body sags and collapses onto the dirty street. It was a kinder death than he should have given him, fast and painless compared to the slow, bitter struggle Anja had likely endured. The rusalka wasn’t innocent, there was no denying that, but her violence was a reflection of the violence inflicted on her and that, at least, Geralt could understand.

He wipes the merchant’s blood from his sword deftly and slips it back into its sheath, determined to clean it more thoroughly later and rid it of the man’s filth completely. He took issue with having bad blood tarnish good steel. With a grunt, he grabs a fistful of the merchant’s bloody jacket and drags the body further into the alley, dropping it next to the broken down wagon.

There’s a high chance someone will find it by morning and there’s also a high chance someone will remember Oren last being seen alive in the Witcher’s company. Word would travel fast in a town this size and it wouldn’t be long before the townspeople arrived en masse to drive him out. Ironic, really; they bring him in to kill one monster but when finds one worse suddenly he’s the asshole.

It’s never good when the monsters wear human faces.

He plans to be gone long before any of that happens; if Jaskier is able to travel by morning they’ll be one their way before anymore trouble can come of this.

He slips the necklace back in his pocket and walks out of the alley, leaving the murderous merchant’s corpse left with the rest of the trash and refuse in the alley. A cold, winter wind catches his back as he turns down the street and walks back in the direction of the inn.

Chapter Text

“Why am I not surprised to see you on the floor?”

“Why am I not surprised to see you covered in blood?”

“I told you to stay in bed.”

“You tell me a lot of things, Geralt, it doesn’t mean I’m required to listen to them.”

The Witcher sighs all the way down to his bones and shoulders the door closed behind him. It bounces open again because of the splintered wood and crooked frame and it takes every ounce of self control he possesses not to rip it from the hinges completely. Instead, he turns and shoves it closed with his shoulder, wedging it in place between the frame and the threshold. When it doesn’t pop open again, he turns his attention back inside the room.

He’d already dealt with a lot in the short time he was gone and coming back to a conscious, snippy bard was not something he expected. It was surprising enough to see Jaskier conscious and speaking but it was even more surprising to see him huddled on his knees in a pile furs in front of the hearth. True, it hadn’t been a far journey from the bed to the fireplace but he’s honestly surprised that Jaskier even had the energy for that. He’s still alarmingly pale but if he feels well enough to be a snarky little shit Geralt supposes he’s satisfied with the progress.

He slides his sword from his shoulder and rests it against the wall by the bed. There’s a dull shimmer of blood glistening along the polished edge but it will wipe away easily once he has the energy to do so. Next comes the burlap sack of food and firewood he’d gathered while wandering the town; they have enough for a week, probably more, and it will definitely be enough to get them to the next large-ish town.

He slips the bag from his shoulder and rustles around inside until he finds the sachet of herbs and marrow bone he’d purchased from the local apothecary. The man had assured him of the bundle’s healing properties and that stewing the mixture together into a broth was a marvelous cure all. True, he hadn’t necessarily believed the claims but he figured it couldn’t hurt.

He makes his way over to the hearth, casting an exasperated glare at the mouthy bard, and drops down to one knee. He wedges a few more logs into the smoldering embers of the fire and waits until the flames build bright and hot before grabbing a heavy iron pot and threading the handle onto the spit above the fire. He’d borrowed a large clay pitcher of water from the innkeeper on his way back and pours it into the pot, filling it to the edge. He drops the herb sachet and marrow bone into the pot and swirls the mixture around absently before turning back to Jaskier.

“What are you doing on the floor?”

Jaskier sits up a bit straighter, trying to regain some semblance of dignity, and fails miserably. “I was cold,” he says finally, blue eyes drifting over to the crackling fire. “The fire had mostly burned down and the only way I could get warm was to get closer to it.”

Immediately Geralt feels like an ass.

He should have rekindled the fire before he left but a small part of him was concerned about leaving his unconscious companion in the same room as an open flame so he’d aired on the side of caution. However now, seeing Jaskier shiver even with the layers of furs wrapped around him, he regrets his decision.

“You should have stayed in bed,” he says simply, poking at the fire to get the flames larger and hotter.

“Well if it makes you feel better I didn’t exactly make a run for it,” Jaskier retorts, shivering in spite of himself. “Collapsed pretty much the second my feet touched the floor.”

It doesn’t make Geralt feel better; in fact, it makes him feel worse. He knew Jaskier would have been too weak to do much of anything on his own and yet he’d left him anyway. The bard was by no means a fragile, wilting flower but a near death experience tends to drain away a significant amount of energy and with Jaskier still recovering from his brush with death the day before, he would be weak as a kitten for the next few days.

“Are you going to tell me about the blood?” the bard asks, indicating the dark streaks across his friend’s armor and leathers.

“It’s nothing.”

Jaskier offers him a wan smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You are a lot of things, Geralt of Rivia, but a good liar is not one of them.”

The Witcher sighs heavily, realizing Jaskier isn’t going to let this drop anytime soon, and resigns himself to his fate. “I’ll tell you if you get back in bed.”

“Probably going to need some help with that,” the younger man answers truthfully and Geralt doesn’t miss the flash of embarrassment that flickers across his face at the admission. Geralt has seen Jaskier downplay his own strength and endurance plenty of times and usually it’s to convince his companion to do something for him (and it works every time, dammit).

But this is different. This is Jaskier truly realizing he can’t do something as simple as walking and being incredibly embarrassed about it.

Geralt doesn’t bring any of this up, of course; he just nods and reaches out, slipping one long arm around the bard’s narrow waist and lifting him slowly and carefully off the ground. Judging by the fresh scrapes and bruises on his knees, it’s pretty clear that Jaskier’s attempt at reaching the fire was anything but graceful and elegant; it looks like he hit the ground like a sack full of sand and then dragged himself over to the hearth. Jaskier is nearly dead weight in his arms, the energy to even force himself to walk long gone, and he leans against Geralt heavily as they make the short walk from the hearth to the bed.

By the time they reach the bed, Jaskier is shivering all over again and looks very much like he wants to pass out. Geralt rolls his eyes and gives him a very soft, gentle shove which drops the bard back onto the mattress like all his bones have suddenly vacated his body.

“You should rest.”

“You should tell me about the blood.”

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

There’s a tense moment when neither of them speak, blink, or even breathe. Finally, Geralt sighs and rolls his eyes. “Fine, if I tell you will you shut up and go back to sleep?”

“Probably.”

The Witcher grumbled something unflattering in Elder under his breath and turns away from the bed, stalking over to grab a metal mug from one of his saddle bags and returning to the fire. He dips it into the broth simmering in the pot and walks over to the bed, shoving it into the bard’s fumbling hands. “Drink this and then I’ll tell you.”

Jaskier obeys wordlessly and takes a tentative sip, wincing at the heat, and looks back at Geralt expectantly. He was nothing if not stubborn.

Realizing the futility of resistance, Geralt lets out a sigh and sets to work removing his armor. “The creature that attacked you was a rusalka,” he begins, deftly loosening the straps on his armor and tugging the heavier pieces off. His shirt is still damp and pressed to his skin and he resists the urge to shudder when the cooler air comes in contact with it. “A vengeful spirit who lures men to their deaths.”

He props his armor against the wall near the hearth for it to dry and strips off his damp shirt and leathers, placing them next to the fire as well. “There was never a vodyanoy; that was a rumor which started in town and simply gained traction with each new disappearance. Considering none of the men who witnessed the rusalka survived to say otherwise, the rumor of the vodyanoy persisted.”

He walks back over to his saddle bag and grabs a spare mug from inside (he doesn’t know when he started hauling around a second one but it probably had to do with Jaskier) and then returns to the fire, scooping out some of the broth for himself. It’s thick and hot and coats his throat pleasantly when he takes a sip. “Most rusalka are driven by revenge and anger, lashing out because of a jilted lover.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen slightly. “Hold on, I can assure you I’ve never-”

“No, she wasn’t targeting you, specifically. Just as she wasn’t targeting any of her victims for a specific reason other than the fact that they were male. To her, each of the victims, including you, were stand ins for the man who turned her into a monster. She had been murdered, violently by someone she loved and trusted, and so every man who ventured too close to the water simply served as a reminder of the man responsible for her death.”

Geralt pulls the necklace from his pocket and holds it out for Jaskier to see. “I promised her vengeance if she spared you and I kept my word; I found the man responsible and killed him. Now that she's been avenged the murders should stop.”

For a long moment Jaskier says nothing. He gazes at the necklace soberly and shakes his head. “That poor girl.”

“She did still try to kill you.”

The bard waves one hand loosely. “Lots of people have tried to kill me and for reasons much more mundane and less tragic.” He takes another sip of the broth and turns his attention back to Geralt. “Did you learn her name?”

The Witcher nods once. “Anja.”

“Anja,” Jaskier repeats, his gaze going distant again. “I’ll name my next ballad after her.”

The barest hint of a smirk tugs at Geralt’s lips and he looks back at the fire. “I’m sure you will.”

A long moment of silence passes between them before Jaskier speaks again. “You know, you never cease to amaze me,” Jaskier tells him quietly, watching the Witcher with unusual intensity.

“And why is that?”

“All my life I’ve heard stories of Witchers, how they’re cold and distant and emotionless. Yet in the few months I’ve known you I’ve come to realize you’re one of the most noble and considerate men I’ve ever met.”

Geralt growls at the compliment. “You’re mistaken, bard.”

“Am I?” Jaskier challenges, completely undeterred. “You demand payment yet hardly ever take it, you sympathize with creatures others would murder on sight, and all because it’s the right thing to do. You don’t view the world in absolutes, black and white, right and wrong; you make your own determination and fight against Destiny harder than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“Because Destiny is bullshit-”

“And don’t get me started on your soft spot for women.”

This earns him a sharp glare which is easily ignored. “It’s romantic in a way, like a fairy story for children. If ever there is a woman wronged, distressed, or in peril, Geralt of Rivia will soon be there to mete out justice like a blood-soaked fairy godmother. You are a Woman’s Warrior, my friend, whether you admit it or not.”

“The cold is affecting your brain.”

“I can list four instances that have happened in the past eight months alone.”

Geralt growls again and goes silent, staring back at the fire crackling in the hearth.

“What I’m saying is that you’re a good man, Geralt,” Jaskier continues, watching as his friend continues to actively ignore him. “But you know I won’t ruin your reputation as a callous, cold-hearted bastard by putting it in song. I’ll sing of your exploits but keep your soft underbelly out of it.”

“Damn decent of you.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

Another silence falls between them, more comfortable this time, filled only by the crackling of the fire. There’s a shift and rustle of movement behind him and Geralt turns to see Jaskier shivering again. “Are you still cold?”

The bard bobs his head in a nod. “I just haven’t been able to keep myself warm,” he explains, tugging the outermost fur a little tighter around his shoulders. It’s not a ploy or a ruse; his body is still struggling to regulate its core temperature after the drop from the day before and Geralt isn’t surprised to see a chill still sweeping through him.

He sighs and sets his mug down on the floor and walks over to the bed. “Move forward,” he orders, watching as Jaskier frowns in confusion before doing what he’s told. His confusion grows more profound when Geralt settles onto the mattress behind him and pulls him back against his chest.

“You said you were cold,” he says by way of explanation, plucking the mug from Jaskier’s hands and setting it on the floor as well. He shifts them both further down onto the mattress, keeping the bard’s slim body encircled in his arms. He moves until they’re laying down completely, Jaskier’s back pressed flat against his chest with the top of his head tucked under his chin. He keeps both arms wrapped around him, bear-hugging him from behind, and gathers the younger man’s hands in his own, absently rubbing circles into the skin in an attempt to massage some warmth back into his hands.

Jaskier relaxes almost instantly, a long, relieved sigh whooshing out of him. The shivering slows to a stop a few seconds later and the tightly coiled muscles in his back relax. It’s the first time he’d felt warm since he woke up and he soaks it in as much as he can. Geralt is practically a furnace behind him and has body heat to spare and Jaskier is more than happy to let him.

It’s not long before he feels himself begin to drift, soothed by the soft crackling of the fire and the warm, steady heat behind him. In the hazy collection of his memories he knows this isn’t the first time Geralt has held him like this, using his own body heat to warm him, and he wants to thank him for it but he finds the speech portion of his brain shutting down faster than anything else so he manages to intertwine the fingers of one hand with Geralt’s and squeezes softly instead. He thinks he might have felt a squeeze back but he’s slipping under too quickly to know for sure.

Geralt listens as Jaskier’s breathing slows into the deep, even pull of sleep and watches the fire silently. He’s growing restless the longer they stay in this town but he knows Jaskier is still too weak to travel yet so he figures they’re here for at least another day. It would have been easy enough to simply strap the bard to Roach’s saddle and ride out at dawn but he can’t bring himself to do anything which might jeopardize Jaskier’s recovery.

His earlier words come back into his mind then, ringing around like a chorus of bells. Jaskier insisted he was righteous and honorable, one of the best men he’d ever met, and Geralt determines that Jaskier must not know that many people then. Because he’s not a good man, he’s violent and hardened and the opposite of everything the bard claimed he was which is why is still so surprising that he keeps following him around. Jaskier sees something in him, gods only know what, but he insists he’s a good man and will fall on that sword over and over if it gets the point across.

Geralt stares at the fire and sighs. “A good man,” he mumbles, his lips brushing against Jaskier’s hair as he speaks. “Hm.”

He keeps his arms wrapped around the bard and feels the slow rise and fall of his chest against his hands. They’re fingers are interlocked and he somehow doesn’t have it in him to change that. Instead he closes his eyes and allows sleep to wash over him again.

OOOOO

In spite of his best efforts it still takes nearly another full day before Jaskier is strong enough to stand and move around on his own. He puts on the new clothing the tailor delivered that morning and is surprised to find that they’re not only the perfect length but also that they fit like a dream. When asked about it Geralt just shrugs and goes back to cleaning his sword.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time they leave the inn, a few extra coins passed to the innkeeper for repairs to the door and any other resulting damage. There’s another village a few miles to the east that they can reach by nightfall if there are no other obstacles along the way. Also word is starting to get around about the discovery of the merchant’s body and the sooner they leave the better.

Still, there’s one last stop they need to make before they part ways with the town and Geralt can’t bring himself to leave until they do so.

Jaskier is understandably wary of the river when they return and opts to stay on Roach while Geralt completes his task. The river is smooth and calm in the cool afternoon light and it’s hard to imagine that it had been the source of so much death and destruction up until recently. It seems different now, though, calmer and more tranquil, and there’s a distinct sense that the malice which haunted the shores was no longer there.

Geralt stops once he reaches the riverbank and gazes across the placid water silently. He pulls Anja’s necklace from his pocket and runs his thumb over the small, shimmering stone in the center. It looks like a ruby, a precious stone given by lovers, and one which has a strikingly bitter connotation now. Anja’s fate was cruel and unjust but he hopes she’s found peace now that her death has been avenged. He mutters a few words in Elder over the glittering gem and casts the necklace out into the river, watching as it disappears beneath the surface instantly.

“Be at peace,” he mumbles, gazing across the smooth surface of the river for a few seconds more. He’s almost expecting to see one last glimpse of her but nothing breaks the water’s surface other than a few long waves or swirls from underwater currents. Anja’s spirit is gone now, he knows that, and it feels like closure.

Jaskier gives him a small, knowing smile when he returns and Geralt scowls. “Not a word,” he warns, leading his horse and his bard away from the river and in the direction of the next village.