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His teeth were bare his growling low

The bloodied ice caked in his hair

Yet still her radiant smile did glow

The white wolf and the maiden fair!

His jaws had killed and rent and torn

But she walked freely to his lair

Her arms were warm his heart forlorn

The white wolf and the maiden fair!

His eyes were hard her hands were soft

They-

“Jaskier.”

The last defiant twang of the lute strings were the only protest his demand received and Geralt sent the bard a withering stare in response. He could feel the stifled laughter from the body in front of him and he had to resist what must have been the thousandth eyeroll of that day as her voice rang out after a small throat clearing.

His eyes were hard her hands were soft

They left the town without a care

Through wooded land to claim a toft

The white wolf and the maiden fair!

“See Geralt, at least someone appreciates my genius song smithy! Also, I might have to steal that one from you, it has a certain charm to it-” Jaskier carried on strumming as he walked, half humming half mumbling lyrics for future verses under his breath. Geralt knew a lost cause when he saw one but was remiss to give up so easily.

“Hm.” Satisfied with his input to the song crafting process, Geralt lightly flicked Roach’s reins and goaded her into a swift trot. It was the bard’s fault if he couldn’t keep up when Roach decided to stretch out her legs. Had nothing to do with him whatsoever.

“He’s just trying to break up the boredom you know,” came the soft whisper moments before she turned her head to look back and up at him. He met her gentle gaze briefly, grunted, then turned his eyes back to the trees.

He wished he could justify sitting in the front of the saddle with his human cargo stowed behind him and safely out of his sightline. But the lack of manoeuvrability made his skin crawl pre-emptively; it was far easier to slip backwards off Roach’s back to fight than trying to swing himself off when wedged between his mare’s neck and the new addition. A previous blunder into a nest of rotfiends had only proved this fact.

“On the bright side, at least you found a bard with talent.” The woman mused, his rough dismissal slipping off her like blood from an oiled blade. “Even I couldn’t have tolerated the wailing of any average bard for very long.”

“Talented- Geralt, Geralt she said I’m talented, ha!” Jaskier was positively giddy, beaming up at the pair as he effortlessly pranced forwards to catch up. “See, this is why I suggested she stays with us: she can cook better than either of us, knows how to brew your smelly potions better than you do, Roach loves her and so do I!” As if in agreement, Roach let out a soft whicker and tossed her head, immediately calming when small dainty fingers brushed down her muscled neck.

Geralt frowned at the back of the horse’s head. “Traitor.”

“I only figured out that she likes green apples more than the red ones-” Her attention was absorbed by Roach, giving her all the attention she could manage while penned in by the witcher’s huge body, legs and arms.

“I’ve been saying that for months and Geralt never believed me!” The bard’s outraged cry grated on Geralt’s already high-strung nerves and he let out a sharp exhale, hands tightening on the creaky leather in his hands. Before he could even take a breath to speak however-

“It’s alright, I’ve fed her enough of them the past few days to make up for however many months she suffered.” Her tone was clearly light and placating, catered to Geralt’s stiffening posture while also getting a fond chuckle from Jaskier in the process. He simply huffed again and straightened in the saddle, turning his face away from the cloud of hair and skin and rain and horse sweat polluting the air so he could take a measured inhale of the scent carried towards them on the breeze.

“Not far now.”

The mood grew decidedly more mellow in the span of only a few seconds and he could feel the young woman wilt in the saddle, her slumped shoulders and lowered head registering before the blossoming of cold rain and rotting wood in her scent. He kept his eyes resolutely fixed on a point between Roach’s ears, trying and failing to block out Jaskier’s morose sigh and now melancholy strums of his lute.

Geralt forced himself to close his ears and heart mind to the sorrow of his companions. They had all been aware of circumstances. Nothing had changed. A few weeks on the road had seen them getting along better than anticipated, he could accept that, but that should not and could not keep them from their goal. Not after all they had gone through to make it to this point. He had never been the type to half ass a task; contract or personal.

As their journey through the trees continued, Geralt felt a building sense of something settling over him. It was cloying and pressed around his head and chest like a musty blanket, sent ripples of a chill across his forearms and set his eyes aimlessly scouring the foliage around them. He took a deep breath to clear his head and instead found himself drowning in hazy afternoon air flavoured with the choking sorrow of a spring downpour.

He had never been more pleased to hear the nearing sounds of people and spurred Roach forwards, paying no mind to Jaskier who was now trailing in their wake as they surged forwards towards a thinning in the trees, emerging in a small clearing where the skeleton of a community was in the process of being constructed. There were a few wooden daub and stone huts, some sort of barn tucked further back into some trees, and a small hunting outpost where some crude weapons and tools were piled. He urged Roach into the centre of the construction where an area had been left clear for a communal gathering place which for now housed a large firepit and a series of tents.

Geralt heard Jaskier shouting and complaining from some ways behind them but ignored the bard, slipping off Roach’s back and holding a hand up to help his fellow rider to the ground. She simply sent him a weak smile back and slid down unaided, stepping away to round to Roach’s front and murmur softly to the mare while stroking her nose. He reached instead for the bags hooked to the saddle, unclipping them perhaps slightly rougher than he needed to, double checking each sling’s contents before reattaching his and Jaskier’s possessions; leaving the packs filled with fresh clothing, herbs and coin piled on the floor at his feet.

“What- What was that for?” Jaskier wheezed, staggering up alongside Geralt and propping himself up on Roach to take some steadying breaths. The mare sidestepped cleanly and only Geralt’s hand snapping out to yank him upright stopped Jaskier from tripping face first into the dirt. “Thank you- But honestly Geralt, you tore off like wyverns were on our tail-!”

“Be thankful they weren’t; you would have been lunch.”

“Oh, well, that just makes me feel so much better doesn’t it-?!”

“Good.” Seeing both members of the group occupied with pointless petting and whining, Geralt picked up the bundle of bags and stalked over to a small cluster of people who had gathered a short distance away and were watching the newcomers with a wary sort of curiosity.

“Good day stranger! How migh’ we help you?” The oldest man in the group seemed to volunteer himself spokesperson at Geralt’s approach, eyes roaming over his appearance in thinly veiled confusion. The witcher was too focused to realise that the man hadn’t even greeted him as such.

“That woman, the one by my horse-” He kept eyes and body forward, focused on any minute change in body language or facial expressions from the group. “She lost everything she knows some weeks ago. Needs a fresh start. We heard about this new community from the innkeep some towns over, Jonn. She is a healer of a sort, cooks well, sews- She wouldn’t be a burden. We have coin if you desire it.”

There was a short pause while the three men and two women shared a somewhat incredulous look. Geralt didn’t falter, eyes fixed on the elder man with the dirty cloth cap who glanced from the towering man in front of him, to the woman in question and back again.

“She’s welcome to join us, and to keep ‘er coin. She’ll be treated like any one o’ us, I assure you tha’. All’re free to stay the nigh’ if it so pleases you. She can have the house by the willow.”

Geralt nodded in thanks before casting around for the house in question. He spotted it at the far edge of the settlement and began to make his way over, whistling once sharply. Roach was quick to follow, turning from the distractions of affection to follow Geralt as she had been trained. He patted Roach’s neck as she caught up to him just outside the quaint house, leading her to the willow tree by the bridle and lightly tangling her reins in its branches so she couldn’t wander off. A small glance back saw the people of the woodland settlement crowding around the two newcomers, bright smiles fixed on both faces as they were warmly welcomed.

He turned his back and entered the house, finding the interior small but cosy, dark but smelling cleanly of the forest and earth. Dumping the bags on the floor by the hearth, he moved to open the hinged windows which let soft light spill into the main room. The hearth stood on the left wall at the centre of the building, modest wooden furniture took up some space along the walls but for the most part the room was open and free to be used as the owner saw fit. Two doors led off the main space on the right of the hearth, presumably leading to bed or store rooms. Geralt was no expert in what made a good house, or what this house’s particular occupant would favour, but it had the essentials. It was safe, warm, a place to call her own, and had more than enough room for herself and any future items or company she might acquire.

Catching himself and smoothing his wrinkled brow at the approaching footsteps, he turned in time to see the door open with Jaskier waving his newest friend into her new home ahead of him. Both smiling and laughing, looking considerably more relaxed than Geralt had ever seen either of them.

“Well Geralt, I think we nailed this one. Everyone’s getting along marvellously!” Jaskier ambled past, slapping the man’s shoulder jovially on his way to sit down. Her laughter filled the room again and the bard’s smile grew in response.

“They’re very friendly. Said they’ve been trying to find an herbalist or healer for weeks so they were more than happy to hear I’m skilled at both.” Her smile was radiant, eyes wide as she finally registered the interior of her home and spun in a circle to take it all in. “This house is so big! I don’t even know what to do with all this space- Oh, and are these bedrooms-?” She flew past him to investigate, the faint gust of her passing fluttering the mouth-watering scent of waterlilies and spring grass under his nose. She was happy here at least.

Geralt found himself watching her explore, the image in front of him making a stark difference from his first impression of her merely weeks ago. Her hair was clean and shiny, her skin held a healthy glow and her eyes sparkled every time she beamed. This dress now fitted her far better than when they had bought it, conforming to curves and angles she had gained as she filled out from the state of near malnutrition she had been in when he found her. The most drastic change was her mood.

From a timid and broken shell, reeking of pain and storms and death to a woman whose personality and energy shined in her every movement, leaving the traces of soothing rain and sunshine and flowers and life everywhere she went. It wasn’t often he felt a distance from himself and the creatures he hunted, but helping this woman had done just that. She made him feel that for once, just once, he had made a difference; touched a person’s life, changed it, and they had come away from the contact more than just unscathed. The witcher had never felt the acute squeeze in his chest at the thought before, but banished it with a brief dismissal. He had no right to feel anything in this case. He had just been doing his job.

“Geralt-” He was brought to the present once again by her words, hinting at tears and he blinked to find her standing in front of him, eyes the same as her voice while soft warm hands rose to hold his face. “I know I have no way to thank you but I’ll do it all the same. You had no need to do any of this but you did and I’ll forever be grateful. If ever you need anything, you or Jaskier or Roach, my door will always be open.”

Because that was how it had to be. They would rest the night and then they would be on the road once more, back to a life of danger and destruction and death while she faded into the distance behind them, exiled first to memory and then to the void of oblivion where everything found its end. Willing or not, by sparing her from the fate that concluded her dark path he had coaxed the embers of her life back into a steady flame and he would not be the one to witness them be extinguished.

“No need.” His voice was quiet but rough, hands gentle but firm as they closed around her wrists and lowered her arms. Her eyes dulled and her smile slowly started to fade as she nodded slightly and took a small step backwards. Even with added space, his enhanced senses detected the stutter in her heartbeat and the change from waterlilies to stagnant pond scum, bitter and thick. Fuck.

“Well, at least let me make us all dinner one more time- You shouldn’t set out this close to dark anyway, you can spend the night and leave in the morning surely? You can stock up on food and I can replenish your potions, or you can if you’d rather-”

“Fine…” He cut through her rambling and noticed her shoulders sink in relief, another shaky smile taking the place of the one he had so effectively killed with only two words. He had to convince himself that the tightness easing in his chest was simply relief at the thought of another hot meal and a night spent inside four solid walls.

“Is there anything I can do to help? Chop vegetables, unpack Roach, provide some scintillating background music?” Geralt let no reaction show outwardly although the sudden chime of Jaskier’s voice had come from nowhere: almost forgetting they had not been alone in the room.

“You can help me with the fire Jaskier.” Her laugh made a reappearance, light and sunny as she smiled over her shoulder at the dark-haired man. Geralt grunted and turned, heading for the door with no preamble.

“I’ll hunt.”

The thud of the door masked whatever wisecrack the bard had come out with at his exit and as he walked away from the building, he heard their bright laughter ring out into the late afternoon air. He veered off course just long enough to remove the rest of Roach’s saddlebags and give her a parting neck pat before stalking out into the forest.

The sun was starting to dip below the horizon, sending streams of golden light weaving between the trees as Geralt strode on. He drew his steel sword and dagger, the movements as clean and silent as his footfalls while he tuned his senses into the wildlife around him. His eyes catalogued any movement automatically, ears trained on the slightest sign of breathing or the rustle of leaves disturbed by passage, nose sifting through the muddle of trees and earth and rabbit and herb and bird and deer that seeped into the air from all around him.

He stopped at several points to unearth wild potatoes and garlic, a few handfuls of edible and alchemical mushrooms and herbs and the odd bundle of flowers or moss. He had just knelt to gather a pocketful of moleyarrow when a rabbit ambled out of the cover of a bush. With a near instant reaction, his smallest blade whistled through the air to impale the animal through the head: dead before it even hit the floor a foot away from its original position. It was swiftly hooked to his belt even as blood coated his hands and began to smear across his hip and thigh, but Geralt continued unphased. He had been covered in the substance and much fouler too many times to be bothered by it now.

After another half hour of prowling through the trees, he finally found a kill worth bringing back. A large fallow buck, well past his juvenile stage if the heft of his antlers were anything to go by. Powerful and streamlined, downy fur a rich brown with lighter dappling. Geralt froze, eyes tracking the animal as it ambled ever closer, nosing calmly at the grass and leaves it passed clearly not satisfied by their quality. Just as it rose its great head and those warm placid eyes met narrowed amber, he struck. Launching forwards with a grunt of exertion, he spun under the initial panicked swipe of antlers and sunk his sword hilt deep into the body of the deer.

It staggered and sank with a fading cry, followed by the sound of his does scattering in the trees beyond but that didn’t matter. He slowly slid his weapon free, wiping the majority of the blood clean on the grass and handfuls of leaves before a final swipe over his left arm saw the sword fit to be placed in its sheath once more. He stood and waited til the gush of blood from the buck slowed to a sluggish trickle before crouching and hoisting the dead weight over his shoulders, arms slung over the body either side of his neck.

Geralt grunted as he pushed to his feet, muscles singing as he had to bear the weight of the bulky animal. It wasn’t heavy enough to send him stumbling through the trees or trudging along at a snail’s pace but the act wasn’t entirely effortless, mostly due to the awkward bulk and poke of the deer and its branching antlers.

He set off back along the path he had travelled, now less aware of his surroundings and instead losing himself in the even flow of air through his lungs and the rapid thuds of his heart, the stretch and clench of muscle as he took long strides through the trees. He found himself in no real rush to be back at the house, sure that dinner would be an otherwise pleasant affair spoiled by singing and laughing and familiar touches and flirtations. Geralt would have to be blind and stupid not to see the looks Jaskier would send their newest companion after she had laughed at a particularly unfunny joke, or untangled him from a thatch of brambles he had caught himself in, or when she sent a particularly sunny smile his way.

Aside from all that, the bard had been happier these past few weeks than Geralt could ever remember him being. Borderline intolerable as always, but happy. For all he bitched and complained at Jaskier’s antics, he had never meant to make the man miserable… Perhaps he was a bigger ass than even he had thought himself to be. But surely Jaskier knew he didn’t really hate him-

But did he?

Jaskier, who jumped at every opportunity to help and was subsequently shot down just as often. Jaskier, who doted on Roach and always made it his job to wash and feed her if Geralt seemed even slightly preoccupied, never searching for gratitude and hardly ever receiving it. Jaskier, who had kept him company all this time with his never-ending chatter and singing, only to receive silence on the best days and the brunt of Geralt’s impatience on the worst ones. Jaskier, who was always ending up in harm’s way no matter how hard Geralt tried to protect him and keep him away from the fuckery that was his life.

Jaskier, who was finally happy and relaxed and could be safe, deserved to be safe away from all of Geralt’s shortcomings as a witcher and friend.

And she… She deserved the life that had nearly been stolen from her. Whether that be with Jaskier or any other man she so chose. Geralt was in no place to suggest or expect otherwise. Despite being the only person aside from Yennefer and Jaskier who had made him feel anything in his long lonely life, he had no claim upon her, her life, her time.

She sang just as much as Jaskier, if not more; mindless and wordless tunes that made the forest air bright and warm, reminded him of days long gone. She always had a smile on her face, when talking to him or Jaskier, when washing Roach free of mud, when foraging in the pouring rain, when dealing with particularly hostile townsfolk in order to secure them all one room for an uneasy night’s rest.

She trusted him. Even after that first night when she had shot up screaming from a night terror, and he had shot across the burning embers of the fire, sword drawn eyes burning teeth bared poised to strike- She hadn’t recoiled from him, hadn’t run screaming, hadn’t even flinched. Merely sobbed and reached for him, looking for protection from the monsters in the dark… oblivious of the one right in front of her.

Geralt had felt the thaw that started that night, felt the weakness, the attachment as he sat by her side while she slept and he guarded her from her fear. As she treated him like any other person, not a witcher, not a killer, not a monster, but a man; eager to help and attempting to keep him safe just as much as she did Jaskier. As she crept over during the night, thinking him asleep, to check his sloppy bandaging and apply salves and poultices to the burns or gashes in his already ruined skin; but she touched his ugly scarring as easily as she did any other part of him, not repulsed by the monster gunk or blood or swamp muck he tended to be saturated in more often than not.

And then the time he had come back from clearing out a particularly stubborn nest of nekkers and found her crouched over the fire, nose crinkled sweetly as she scraped alghoul bone marrow into a bubbling pot of putrid liquid which was swiftly followed by four stiff and swollen drowner tongues. She had barely stifled a retch but diligently leaned forwards to stir the potion and the witcher had felt comething inside him crack at the sight. He had paced over, struggled not to cave instantly as she looked up and met his eyes, an expression of guilt and abashed remorse on her face, mouth opening to explain and apologise-

“Add the berbercane fruit once it starts to smell like rotting fish.” She had blinked up at him in surprise, having expected to be chewed up and spat out for touching his precious ingredients but she merely smiled and turned back to the potion, taking an experimental sniff and pulling a face with a spluttering laugh.

“You mean it doesn’t already?”

Even the fleeting memory of the moment had a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but he crushed the reaction instantly. Lingering on the unattainable had never served anybody, least of all a witcher. Geralt could never afford to forget what he was: a freak, steeped in blood and death and pain until that’s all he had become. For his kind there was no room for longing, for emotions, for friends, for normal.

A haunted roar ripped through the ever-darkening forest and Geralt stopped dead, heart solidifying in his chest. He cast around in the twilight, every sense on high alert as he tried to determine the origin. He needn’t have bothered. A giant crash reverberated through the trees a distance ahead of him, accompanied by shrill terrified screams and a sound he could have gone the rest of his life without hearing, a sound that sent ice shooting through his veins and his heartbeat skyrocketing.

“Geralt-!”

“JASKIER!” He was sprinting through the trees before he realised it, buck long discarded on the forest floor as he flew towards the bard’s strangled shout. His blood thundered in his ears, lungs seizing as he huffed and snarled for air, silver sword in his hand in a flash. He raced back to the clearing faster than he had ever moved in his life, crashing free of the trees in time to see a woman go flying through the air only to smash against the trunk of a thick oak where she dropped to the ground and didn’t move again. Not her.

A raspy hollow voice filled the clearing, the ancient words sounding as if the forest itself had come to life and Geralt’s eyes honed in on the hulking form in the centre of the glade as his heart sank. Standing over 12 feet tall, cloaked in hide and bones, fungi and lichen, long limbs formed from mossy and dried branches and boughs, the huge span of the arcing antlers marking the head as the empty skull of a fallow deer, gaping eye sockets burning with a red smoky hatred; an ancient leshen.

Geralt cast around frantically, cataloguing the seven eight nine rabid wolves closing ranks around the leshen as he searched desperately for his friends- And there they were, Jaskier crouched behind a tent and presumably trying to protect the more vulnerable of the duo. They met gazes and the blind panic in Jaskier’s sent a chilling calm racing down his spine. Making sure Jaskier had his full attention, he looked pointedly at the saddle bags piled under the willow by Roach, and mimed an explosion with his clenched left hand. It took a few seconds but the bard nodded quickly before turning to relay the message.

“Now!” He wasted no time and charged towards the creature, smelling the hatred and rot and decay slam into him and he raised his sword as lightning sparked in his mouth- Geralt barely gathered himself in time to dive away from a wall of spiked roots that erupted from the ground, catching his weight on his left shoulder, carrying the momentum forward to roll to his knees and slam his sword into the chest of a wolf with a snarl and a sharp twist to free the weapon. One.

He rose with a violent lateral slash twirling into a reverse grip stab behind him; the wolf that had leaped for his exposed back choked and whined its dying breaths, impaled to the hilt on his sword while the animal in front had been near beheaded from the merciless strike. Three. Geralt wrenched his sword free and with a skilled flick of his wrist righted his grip in time to cleave another brave wolf in half before its teeth could meet his neck. Four. The last five remained at a distance, heads low and eyes wary as they circled him.

“Behind-!”

But he was already moving, leaping aside with a grunt of exertion while the powerful swing of the leshen’s claw tipped arm whistled through his white hair and missed his head by inches. Using the momentum and speed of his dodge, Geralt managed one fatal slice and a wounding stab to two more wolves. Five. The injured animal couldn’t move fast enough as another wave of sharp roots punched up from the ground and was skewered with a scream of pain. Six. Again moving halfway through his avoidant roll he flung his arm towards the ancient leshen, casting Igni and sending a stream of fire rolling towards the guardian and its minions.

There was a hollow screech as the desiccated material of the leshen caught in the face of the blaze, two wolves becoming shrieking bundles of flame and burning fur and flesh as they streaked off into the darkness. Eight. The last made a desperate dive at him, catching him just as the temporary adrenaline dump from casting the Sign fuzzed his vision. It collided with his chest and Geralt had to wrestle with the thing as it snarled and slavered and snapped at his face, claws digging gouges into his arm and legs. Nine. He growled back with just as much feral anger, snapping its neck with one giant heave of his arm before pushing free of the corpse only to blunder into another of the leshen’s weighty melee strikes.

He roared in pain as the wooden claws sliced across the back of his thigh, warm blood gushing from the wound and spilling down his leg to puddle in his boot and coat the grass below. Having the foresight to always have a potion on hand, he hurriedly stumbled back out of the leshen’s range to guzzle the small vial of Swallow tucked into his belt; gritting his teeth against the burn as it concentrated around his injuries and sent his sensitivity skyrocketing. The whimpers of the petrified people hiding in the treeline, the gleam of his blood catching the last faint light of the dying day, Jaskier’s curses as he rifled through bags, the taste of wet wood and decay and lightning from the leshen, the jackrabbiting of the heart he could pick out from a crowd of thousands, closer to him than anything else he could sense-

Geralt had no time to turn around before a great surge of flame went tearing past him, crashing into the leshen and concentrating around it, pressing in in in burning brighter and brighter and brighter. His panicked gaze snapped to her, eyes wild and skin pale and clammy as she focused all her attention on the wailing relict behind him; hands clawed as if squeezing around a thick neck.

“Go!” Her shriek was desperate, that one syllable wobbling and pitching with terror and exhaustion and even in the second it took him to start sprinting to Jaskier he heard her heartbeats gutter painfully. Dropping to his knees and skidding to a stop, he found Jaskier fumbling with a pile of bombs and spirits, sweat pouring from his face and a sallow grey tint staining his cheeks and lips.

“Which… I don’t- Geralt-?!”

“Get her and yourself to safety.” His voice was gruff, thick with pain and anger and determination as he slapped Jaskier hard on the back to snap him out of his fright and show his own stunted form of support. Wasting no more time, Geralt gathered together an eclectic mix of alcohols, Moon Dust, and dimeterium bombs. If he had had the time to search the bundles of belongings for relict oil he would’ve, but time had already run out.

There was an echoing bellow before a scream cut the thick night air and Geralt whirled, seeing the flaming leshen bearing down on her, crumpled in the grass, weak and shaky, arms over her head in a futile attempt to protect herself from encroaching death-

Red filled his vision and with a guttural roar and a speed he had never before achieved the witcher had bridged the distance between them, crashing into the ancient leshen and sending it flying backwards. He was quick to follow up with a bottle of dwarven spirits and a dimeterium bomb, teeth bared in visceral pleasure as its hollow screech filled the clearing while it succumbed to the alcohol fuelled blaze. Geralt spun and scooped her into his arms, running her back towards the willow tree in the small respite his counterattack had provided.

“Geralt-” Her voice was small and croaky, a feverish hand reaching up to graze at the black veins pulsing sluggishly under his eyes. He suddenly tasted burnt skin on the air and his teeth clenched together, groaning under the pressure of his jaw while he carefully deposited her on Roach’s back just as Jaskier hacked her reins free from the tangle of branches.

“Into the trees, go!” He saw Jaskier flinch back at the violent rage in his voice before he was turning and racing back to confront the leshen, hearing Jaskier hurriedly swing into the saddle and urge Roach away from the fight. Just as the ancient guardian staggered back to its feet the two creatures clashed, Geralt growling and whirling like a feral beast, silver sword a glowing streak through the dark as his pummelling strikes landed each and every time; he drove the leshen back in the face of his wild flurry, sinking into the rhythm of the splintering crash as sword and wood connected. His dark grin stayed fixed on his face, black eyes burning like scorched coals as the red haze settled in his head, throbbing and hot-

And then his swing passed clean through a cloud of dark roiling smoke, his momentum carrying his distracted body hurtling forward, unable to counter balance before he went sprawling in the dirt, spitting out clods of bloodied turf. The faint whistling of air through rotted wood was the only hint Geralt received and he instinctively rolled to the side, feeling the impact of the leshen’s club like limb crashing into the ground reverberate through his skull. He tasted lightning again and caught a glimpse of the sickening red pulse in the gaping sockets of the deer skull as it slammed its free hand into the ground.

In a flash he was rolling forwards, coming up between the leshen’s bowed legs and driving his sword up vertically through its torso as yet more roots and tendrils ruptured the earth where he had been laying. He dove forward as the relict screamed, leaving his sword wedged in the avatar as he whirled and flung another dimeterium bomb at it.

Geralt readied a Moon Dust in his left hand and circled the ancient being, reluctantly drawing his steel sword and eyeing the gleaming silver blade sticking out through the main trunk of the leshen’s flaming body. His eyes were drawn to a heavy metal talisman strung around the creature’s neck, and the sharp stab of lightning in the air suddenly made sense. He continued to prowl around the burning figure, the flames gradually dwindling as a plan rapidly coalesced in his mind. Waiting until the leshen had just regained its senses, still smouldering like the embers of a furnace and off kilter from the roaring blaze, he dove forward and angled himself as if to drive his second sword upwards alongside the first.

As predicted, the leshen vanished into a cloud of swirling smoke and Geralt was ready; sheathing his steel sword just as the silver blade dropped free, grasping it and leaping to his feet just in time to see the figure of the leshen becoming tangible once more. The Moon Dust vessel was already flying through the air, exploding upon impact and showering the forest guardian in a fine mist which forced it assume physical form. He masked his charge with an aggressive burst of Igni, cutting through the flames to whale on the leshen with renewed ferocity.

In the middle of the struggle Geralt reached up and ripped the hot ball of metal from around the creature’s neck, jumping away and spinning back in with a powerful sweep of his blade only to meet empty air. The ancient leshen had stumbled backwards, the light dying from its eyes as it let loose a somewhat haunting croak of… confusion? Its body gave a violent shudder before disintegrating on the spot, wood and bones collapsing in an ashy decayed pile with the skull carved with runes and symbols sat intact on top.

Pulse thundering in his ears, his injured leg finally gave out in the aftermath of the past few minutes and he dropped heavily to his knees, sword and talisman still clenched in either hand as his head swam and his veins burned. His harsh breathing and the scorched scars cut into the ground were the only evidence of the fight beside the forlorn pile of organic matter that marked the avatar the leshen had inhabited. Geralt was unsure how long he knelt there under cover of darkness before the woods slowly came alive around him; first the insects, then the birds, then the people.

“Geralt!”

Her voice cut through the din and the witcher raised his head sluggishly just in time for a small soft body to collide with his, arms wrapping round his neck and sweet-smelling hair shoved under his nose. He blinked, dazed, and had to actively focus on the mumbled words being spoken into his shoulder.

“I thought- It went quiet, we couldn’t hear you, you didn’t come to find us… But you’re alive-”

“’M alive…” His voice was thick and he couldn’t stop himself from taking a deep breath, burning the scent of her into his head before rubbing her back weakly and drawing away from her embrace. “Jaskier?”

“Here, Geralt…” The bard stood a small distance away holding Roach’s bridle and staring at his feet, looking ruffled and dirt smudged and slightly shaky but no worse for wear. Geralt heaved himself to his feet, ignoring the startled squeak of ‘your leg!’ and limping over to Jaskier. He looked up, dewy eyed with an apology on his lips which met a swift death as he was pulled in for a sweaty, reeking, one armed hug. It was over as soon as it had begun, and Jaskier was left gaping as Geralt turned slightly to display the ball of tarnished copper dangling from a leather cord.

“Recognise this?”

“But that’s- How did she follow me here?” Her voice shook, eyes round with disbelief and the beginnings of fear as she glanced first to the witcher then around at the encroaching darkness of the night as if waiting for another attack. Geralt opened his mouth to reply but another burning stab shot through his thigh and he buckled slightly. Both companions lurched forwards to steady him but he brushed them off with a pained grunt. “Come on, you need to lay down so I can look at you-”

“Wait.” He trudged back over to the pile of leshen remains, sifting through the crumbling mulch to gather a small tumour like lump indicative of creature mutagens as well as several chunks of bone and hardened timber that had survived mostly intact. He was just about to stand when suddenly she knelt beside him, small hands which were shiny with the red of fresh burns reaching forwards to cradle the deer skull, turning it towards her and tracing the rune carved into its brow bone.

“I don’t understand… This- These markings are for Firnan…”

“Firnan?”

She sighed, eyebrows drawn together in confusion as she studied the skull more closely. “There were stories of a leshen in the woods around my hamlet… We never ventured in alone or after dark, and we left offerings at a shrine mounted with a skull carved just like this- I could be wrong, I never paid much attention to the other markings… but I’m certain this angular shape right in the centre is the same, though it couldn’t be this far from its forest so perhaps not.”

“And perhaps it was Firnan.” She looked up at the confidence in his voice, eyes falling to the talisman when he raised it in his clenched fist. “Leshens build bodies for themselves with old magic and scraps of the forest and animals they protect. This far away from its source not even the leshen’s anger or magic could hold it together-”

“…which is why it needed the talisman.” She looked distinctly ill as she finished his sentence and Geralt simply nodded firmly, pushing himself up to his feet once more. “Geralt… What could be powerful enough to possess a forest guardian and send it halfway across the continent to find me..?” He had no answer and she seemed to curl in on herself, head down and arms wrapped around her middle as she stood beside him. “We should get to the house… I need to look at your leg and make a soak for Roach too…”

He quickly turned to assess his mare, realising she was favouring her right hind leg where the fetlock seemed slightly swollen and bloodied. Stepping forward he relieved Jaskier of her care, patting Roach’s neck and murmuring soft praises as he allowed himself a moment to relax and absorb that they were safe, he had protected them all and taken the brunt of the damage alone. But a dark pit was gnawing at his insides and he made a start towards the house before either of the others had a chance to read the unease in his expression.

Jaskier encouraged him to leave Roach at the door, promising to bring their bags inside before sitting outside to keep watch while Geralt got cleaned up and bandaged. He didn’t argue, merely grunting before shuffling inside where he was further corralled into what seemed to be the main bedroom where he was left with a small basin of water, soap, a rag, a fresh set of underclothes and boots, and stern instructions to clean and dress himself as carefully as possible.

By the time she entered with an armful of potions and salves and clean cotton bandages he was sitting on the bed, mostly presentable as he examined the large gash that was in the process of knitting itself together. She tutted and smacked away his prodding fingers, kneeling before him to inspect the wound herself and determine what treatments were necessary.

“You’re hurt.”

She glanced up in confusion to find his black eyes, empty sucking voids even in the low candlelight, trained on the redness of her fingers and hands which crept up her forearms and faded just before her elbows. Shrugging, her attention turned back to his leg where she tested the jagged slash for any bleeding before gently dabbing a soothing ointment over the angry red tissue, followed by a green brown paste that began to tingle somewhat pleasantly as she applied pressure and began bandaging his upper thigh.

“You used magic.”

“Yes, Geralt- You needed help and I knew I could. I can’t explain it… I could always do small things, encourage healing, drive out infection, that’s why I became a healer to begin with. But that talisman, that magic… Something’s changed. It’s a little ball inside me, it feels wrong and dark, and the power- It’s sharp and angry, and when I used it earlier it felt like right before a storm, like-”

“Lightning.” Geralt nodded solemnly and she gave him a shakily relieved smile, dipping her head to focus on her wrapping once more, tugging at certain points to ensure the bandages would be tight and not too bulky under his tight leather breeches.

She stood once she had finished her bandaging, swiping a touch more ointment on the already pink ropy scarring from the wolf’s claws for good measure before gathering everything into her arms once more and making to leave. He was just about to stand when suddenly she was there again, hair hanging sweet and soft around her face, eyes gentle and vulnerable as she leaned in and pressed her chapped lips to his rough cheek.

“I’m glad you’re safe Geralt.” And then she was gone in a swirl of skirts and summer rain and wildflowers, the door closing with a gentle thud behind her. He gazed blankly into the space she had just occupied, the warmth of her still tingling at his cheek, her fluttering heart still audible through the wall now separating them. Something in his chest clenched painfully, calling after her and wailing at the witcher’s stubborn inaction while the pit in his stomach yawned wider, deeper, calling and taunting him, purring in content as his thoughts withdrew from the light and entered the shade once more.

Delayed and distracted, Geralt stood and dressed himself in his breeches and loose shirt, pulling on his leather armour and weapon sheaths after only a moment of deliberation. His boots were last before he lay back on the bed in order to meditate and speed along his already accelerated healing.

He was still aware even as he drifted, hearing the low mumbling of conversation in the front room, the creak of the front door as Roach was tended to by one or both of the two left awake, the smell of stew as Jaskier entered with a steaming bowl and set it on the small table by the bedside before leaving again, the pattering of that heartbeat, the smell of her skin as she checked on him and lingered on the threshold. Geralt fought the roiling chasm in his stomach and had just gathered together the courage to open his eyes when she was gone, more than space and the wood of the door settling between them in the silence that followed.

The empty maw in his stomach claimed him, pulling him below the surface and replaying every moment of danger that had occurred tonight and the nights before. He was forced to acknowledge the close calls, the pain, the suffering, the near death he had subjected his friends to. Geralt tried to look past it, tried to justify that without him death would not have been a possibility but a certainty, but deep down he knew that wasn’t true.

If Jaskier had never met him then he would still be in some far-flung tavern at the edge of the world, singing songs of the adventures of dead men and charming women to his heart’s content. And even if he had been around to save this strange woman who had changed everything, all he had done since had simply put her into increasing amounts of danger, because he had become soft and distracted and he had let the monster live. The White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, the witcher had left the job half finished and as always, he wasn’t the one to pay the price.

Never again.

A few more hours passed until everything had settled into a still calm, only the sound of soft breathing and steady hearts and the forest around them reaching his ears. So he sat up, alert and energised as he silently stood and shovelled down the cool stew that had been left for him. Even in the pitch darkness left behind in the wake of the candle’s burnout Geralt could see the stash of bags at the foot of the bed containing his ingredients and potions and gear.

It took a few moments of cautious rifling to find the thick leather-bound notebook he had been looking for, and even longer to find a small carved feather, broken and battered in the depths of his bag along with a miniscule pot of dark ink. He tore a worn page from the back of the book and began to write, head bowed and shoulders taught with regret. A few minutes and frustrated huffs later he deemed his attempt passable, shoving the items back into their bags and gathering them together before slinging them over his free shoulder and heading for the door.

The creak was as quiet as he could’ve managed and as he stepped into the main room, he allowed himself to relax as its occupants stayed sound asleep. His eyes fell first upon Jaskier, sat up against the wall by the fire with his head back and mouth gaping open as he snored softly. Geralt’s face softened slightly at the sight, glad for once that the bard’s knack for sleeping any and everywhere was finally paying off.

His guard dropped entirely as his glowing eyes shifted to her. Curled up in a chair, head lolling to the side as she breathed softly, swaddled in a thick blanket and angled to be facing the bedroom he had just vacated. Even in sleep her heart was ever so slightly too fast, tripping over itself to perform its sole function. Her face was soft, only a slight wrinkle between her brows as she shifted slightly and muttered words too low and loose for him to make out. Geralt could not fight the urge to approach, though the cavern in his gut rankled and protested at the motion, crouching silently in front of her.

“Goodbye little rabbit…” He took one long look, allowed himself one last moment to soak in her scent, one last second to memorise the pattern of her heart, one small brush of his knuckles against her cheek, one fleeting chance to succumb to the pain before he straightened; his face blank and empty as he dropped the messy page to the ground at her feet and finally strode from the house.

Roach stood under the shelter of the willow, head lowered as she slumbered. The mare blinked and shook herself sluggishly at her master’s approach but he shushed her quietly and gently stroked along her nose, another painful stab of remorse making itself home in his chest alongside two others.

“Look after them for me Roach.”

With one last affectionate pat, Geralt turned and walked away from his horse, away from the house, away from his friends. As the moon shifted from behind a swell of clouds and its light bathed the clearing just so, the sloppy words on the battered page on the floor of the house became visible for the briefest moment.

Jaskier, little rabbit

I didn’t want

To my closest

Don’t follow me. I promise you will both be safe. It’s better this way. Take care of Roach, she deserves green apples until the day she dies. I couldn’t do that for her. For you. Enjoy what you have. Thank you for all of it.

Geralt

For the briefest moment the witcher paused, hair fluttering like spun silver in the breeze, chest tight as he debated turning, walking back inside, burning the page, settling in to sleep and then leaving together in the clear morning air with Roach’s fussing and Jaskier’s singing and her smiles-

But then the moon was swallowed once more and before the light had even faded from the glade, he too had vanished into the night.