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Art by im_fairly_whitty, text by death_frisbee
“Jaskier doesn’t seem like the kind of name for a Witcher.”
It took a great deal of effort for Jaskier not to give a full-body eyeroll at that. If he had a coin for every time he’d heard that, he’d be able to give up monster hunting for good. He glanced back at his…well, he didn’t want to say companion, because that would imply he invited the boy to join him as opposed to finally barking that he knew Geralt was following him and he might as well stop sneaking about.
“Well, it’s my name and I’m a Witcher. So it’s a Witcher name.”
“But it…I don’t know. It sounds like springtime.” There was a song in that, Jaskier could tell, and if he weren’t so annoyed at the young “bard” following him, he’d let him know. Instead, he just glared over his shoulder, walking a bit faster as he tugged Pegasus’s reins just a touch tighter to get him to move quicker. He did not move any quicker.
“Look, you can take or leave the name. Preferably leave it. Or, actually, you can just leave.”
Geralt grinned at him, flicking a dark curl out of his face and acting like Jaskier was joking. Instead, he picked up his pace.
“Do you think it’s really a forktail?” he asked. “If the man in the inn was right, that’s the closest thing to a dragon we’d find out here.”
“I don’t really care if it is or isn’t. I find it, I kill it, I leave.” He glanced back again, brow furrowing as Geralt pulled a pencil and notebook from his pack. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to take notes.”
Jaskier blinked, then shook his head. “No. Noooononono. It’s bad enough you’re following me, but I don’t need you scribbling like a…” He went silent, head turning as he heard an odd rush of wind up ahead. “Actually, stop talking.”
“I’m not…”
“Shh.” Jaskier looked back at Geralt, face tense. “Listen to me. Listen hard.” He waited until Geralt was practically quivering in excitement, blue eyes wide and wholly focused on him. “I. Need you. To wait. Here.”
Geralt’s expression shifted to something much less enthusiastic, but, to Jaskier’s great surprise, he stepped back to Pegasus’s side. “If it is a forktail…”
“It’s not going to be a forktail,” Jaskier said brusquely, pulling the silver sword from its place on Pegasus’s saddle pack. “It’s probably just particularly grumpy griffin, so just stay here until I say it’s safe. If you need something to do, keep Pegasus from running off.”
He glanced into the forest, grimacing as the dying sun left very little light up ahead. He sighed as he pulled a thick black potion from his bag. He hated using it—the world was already too sharp and overwhelming to his senses—but it was a necessary evil in this case. He stalked forward into the wood, glancing back to make sure that Geralt was, in fact, staying put before he delved through the trees.
This was an awful lot of work for an extermination, but if he told the innkeeper that it was, in fact, a forktail he’d fought, he might be able to get a decent amount of gold out of it. And maybe some of that could be used to convince young Geralt to buzz off. Jaskier paused as he heard another whoosh, then pulled the cork from his potion bottle out with his teeth before gulping it down.
The world came into sharp, bright focus as he shook his head, pulling his silver sword from its sheath. It sounded like the bastard had been getting closer, so if he just waited another moment…
The trees above him shook, and he heard the great flap of wings just a moment before his target swooped into view, with claws, wings, and a long tail with two…
“Shit.”
Jaskier rolled out of the way just as the two-pronged tail swung at his head with deadly force. The forktail gave a shriek before doubling back around. Jaskier braced himself, trying to think as he dodged tail, claws, and teeth. If he could lure it down close enough for one good slice, that would be that. But dragons (draconids? He could never remember) could fly just about as long as they wanted to, and the animal certainly wasn’t stupid; it’d want to stay far away from any harm Jaskier could give. With a little growl of frustration at his lack of preparation, he swung his arm as high and hard as he could. Ah, he caught its heel!
Oh. That just made it angrier.
The draconid gave a screech that set Jaskier’s teeth on edge, getting him just off-balance enough that he fumbled his dodge and hissed as the claws grazed his shoulder. It’d heal soon enough, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. He stumbled up, just in time to see the forktail twist around for another hit. Oh, gods, he couldn’t do this for much longer. He’d trip up soon enough. But he might as well try one last time. He raised his silver sword, letting out a shout to match the forktail’s as it started to careen down toward him.
Wait, it wasn’t going toward him. It was just careening down, the wind showing a massive tear in its wing. Jaskier’s brow furrowed, but that was all the curiosity he was going to allow himself. He threw himself toward the forktail, using its distraction to drive his sword straight into its chest before jumping back. A spray of blood followed, making the ground sizzle where it fell. The forktail gave a final thrash of life, then went limp. Jaskier’s heart pounded as he stepped back, breathing hard enough for two people. Wait, no...that was someone else’s breath he heard.
He turned. Geralt stood just a few feet behind him, crossbow still held in his shaking hands. His chest heaved with each breath; Jaskier could hear the excited pound of his heart, smell the adrenaline-laced sheen of sweat on his skin. The boy looked up, blue eyes as wide as they could be, and wet his lips before he spoke.
“You...you need a projectile to take down a forktail,” he said, finally lowering the weapon.
Jaskier blinked. “Where did you get that ?”
Geralt looked down at the crossbow. “It was on Pegasus. I was going to bring it to you, but...I shot it instead.”
“Yes, I can see that. And you...what are you doing? Hey!” Jaskier bolted forward as Geralt strode over to the forktail, setting down the crossbow as he did.
“I’ve never seen one up close,” Geralt said, pulling a notebook from his pack.
“And you don’t need to see one now!” Jaskier growled, following after him. His head was starting to ache as the potion’s effects wore off; the last thing he needed was some idiot child poking around a corpse with blood that could melt his face off.
“It’s dead, though.”
“And? The job is done, so that means we go back to the town and…” Jaskier saw the body twitch, just a moment before Geralt leaned forward.
He wasn’t quick enough.
The forktail’s clawed foot shot out, and the hot, metallic tang of blood filled the air as Geralt stumbled back. The forktail’s whole body thrashed, but this time Jaskier wasted no time with thinking. He rushed at the creature’s head, bringing his sword down onto its neck. Then again. And again. And again. He paid no mind to the way his armor sizzled or his skin stung.
This thing wasn’t going to hurt anyone again, not if he had anything to do with it.
Once the neck was more or less a pile of mush, he whirled around, eyes locking on Geralt. He was still alive—Jaskier could still hear his heart and his labored breath—and he’d pulled himself up to lean against a tree, gripping his arm. Three deep, jagged cuts were embedded into it, blood soaking his sleeve and the notebook still in his hand.
Jaskier sucked a sharp breath through his teeth, pulling a small flask from his belt. Geralt just barely managed to open his eyes to look.
“Is that...potion?” he gasped.
“Well, cordial, but close enough.” Jaskier flicked the top open. “This’ll hurt. Brace yourself,” he said, before dumping the contents straight onto the wound.
To his credit, Geralt kept his cry trapped between gritted teeth, though whether that was to keep any other beasts from finding him or his own vanity, there was no way to tell. Jaskier took the boy’s free arm, easily ripping off a chunk of his sleeve and tying it tightly around the cuts. There. They’d have to find a healer immediately, but that’d hold for now.
Jaskier let out a breath, surprised at how it shook, then looked up at Geralt. He was still breathing hard, but he looked at Jaskier with a look that was frighteningly close to awe. Jaskier’s stomach clenched uncomfortably, and he gripped Geralt’s face perhaps a little tighter than he should have, leaning in close.
“Never do that again,” he growled. “The only reason you’re not dead is because some god smiled on you today, and that won’t happen again.”
And it wouldn’t, Jaskier knew. Boys like Geralt, Witchers like him, they died all the time. There might be one or two lucky breaks, but all it took was one bad bit of judgement, one day of bad luck for hearts to stop, for eyes to stop seeing, for life to be snuffed out. And how long would Geralt have after this? Another day of traveling with him before a kikimora sliced him open, a year of following some other monster hunter around before some opportunistic bandit slit his throat? Normal humans like him died so easily.
Well, this one wouldn’t. Not if Jaskier had anything to say about it.
He finally let go of Geralt’s face and grabbed a hold of his good arm, heaving the boy up. He pulled him to lean against him, guiding his shaky steps back toward Pegasus. The horse nickered irritably at them (as if he couldn’t have run off if he’d really been scared), and huffed as Jaskier hoisted Geralt up onto the saddle.
“Are we going back to the farmer?” Geralt asked, voice rasping as he cradled his arm.
“First we’re getting you to a healer, then we go get our pay,” Jaskier said, then looked up at Geralt with as serious a face as he could. “And then you’re going straight to Oxenfurt.”
“Oxenfurt? ” Geralt’s head tilted, looking as offended as one could when in obvious pain. “There’s nothing there but the school.”
“Exactly. You’re a rotten excuse of a bard, and four years there might just make you half-decent.” Jaskier took Pegasus’s reins, walking him back toward the town.
“But I don’t actually want to be a bard. I want to be a…”
“Then you can find something else to study,” Jaskier said firmly, shooting a hard stare up at Geralt (which, he knew, was helped along by his blacked out eyes—the only real benefit from the potion, in his opinion.) “This isn’t up for negotiation. They owe me a favor there, and a student’s the least I could ask for.”
Geralt went silent, though whether that was from pain or from pouting Jaskier couldn’t tell. But he wasn’t about to budge. Oxenfurt was safe, and he personally would do a great many horrible things for the chance to go. But more importantly, four years there might get this monster hunting nonsense out of Geralt’s head, and he could fondly recall the time he was foolish enough to follow a Witcher like they were friends.
It was better that way.