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They had been traveling for six days when the farmer sought them out. There was a pack of werewolves terrorizing the village and had already killed several people. The village, which was in middle of nowhere, was small, consisting of not more than a hundred people. So it was stupid of the farmer to not have mention a seventeen year old girl looking to avenge her family.
After Geralt had left Jaskier, who had been complaining as usual —seriously, Geralt, you should know there is no point in telling me to stay— and had only given up when Geralt mentioned that they didn't exactly had enough coins for a decent meal tonight. Jaskier had given a reluctant nod —I forgot. of course you deserve a good meal after saving the day— he'd said.
The girl, Lorelei, had been excellent at hiding. Apparently, she started following him right after he left the inn. The forest, in which the werewolves lived was quite deep, the smell of blood was fresh. Geralt could sense that the wolves were close and they knew he was here so he sheaths his sword— the potion he'd drank earlier heightened his senses, his eyes sharp and blood pounding in his ears. Adrenaline flowing rapidly in his veins.
Suddenly, just behind him, he heard the rustling of leaves; a brief smell of meadows and horses, carefully concealed so the witcher in his normal form wouldn't have sense it— a human.
Geralt tried to get her to leave. That it was dangerous but she was determined and vengeful and the fire in her eyes reminded him so much of Renfri that he felt his breath stutter but Geralt didn't have enough time to convince her when suddenly the werewolves revealed themselves— big and vicious creatures. One was an alpha and the other three were betas, all powerful. Geralt had dealt with bigger packs before but today he had to somehow protect the girl.
The werewolves attacked, either side of him— snarling and hungry for his blood. All four of them pounced on him at the same time. He killed the first beta in just two minutes; that turned the other three werewolves more vicious and angry. The alpha aimed for his neck but Geralt quickly moved but his claws dug in his sides. Geralt roared and managed to severe another beta's head.
He was too late in noticing Lorelei running towards the only beta left and before he could even try to fend off the alpha, the beta tackled her to the ground and riped her throat out.
“No!” Geralt roared but it had been too late. He severed the alpha's head and succeeded in cutting the beta in half with vicious slash.
But it didn't matter now.
Geralt moved towards the girl's body but she was already dead— eyes wide, pupils dilated. “Shit.” Guilt was heavy on his soul.
He pulled out a scarf from his belt— the scarf Jaskier had gifted him. He tried to picture his beaming smile, his bright eyes. But he didn't deserve him, did he? He was a monster. Geralt laid the scarf on her torn neck, the blood instantly soaking it.
You killed Renfri. And you didn't save the girl. Both their blood is on your hands. You are a monster. Everyone had always been right about you.
The potion had already worn off; making him weak in the knees and the injuries he sustained were long forgotten as he picked the girl up and made his way towards the village. Geralt doesn't know how he had reached it— only one thought running through his head;
You couldn't save her.
Thankfully, the farmer was just there as he laid the girl's body down. “I—” he began but the farmer cut him off with a shake of his head.
“Since her family was eaten by those bloody wolves, she had been a lost cause.” The farmer rambled on how they all had seen it coming but Geralt didn't listen— instead, he continues walking towards the inn.
Walking away from the sour stench of the girl's blood.
“Witcher! Your coin!” The farmer yells but Geralt didn't deserve that anymore.
“Keep it.” Geralt says, gruffly and he doesn't know how he says it but he does and pretends that his hands aren't trembling.
Thankfully, the inn wasn't far and the bard was standing there in front, probably about to complain but as soon as their eyes met, Jaskier stops. Geralt doesn't know what he looks like. But whatever Jaskier sees is enough to make him understand. He is grateful but what would the bard do when he finally knows that he couldn't save the girl? That he had been too slow, too weak.
Jaskier doesn't ask anything. Doesn't speak at all. He just leads Geralt in the inn towards their room where he's already had a hot bath set up.
Geralt realizes that his body isn't responding to his mind. He's almost motionless— a puppet in Jaskier's hands as he helps him out of the armour and pulls him towards the tub. There are firm, lute calloused hands cleaning him up, cleaning his wounds— strong gentle fingers massaging his scalp but Geralt refuses to relax.
Geralt knows he hadn't felt like this since Renfri, and he knows that circumstances were different, that he had killed Renfri but he hadn't killed Lorelei— but he couldn't save her. And it was almost the same thing.
Jaskier is pulling him up and helping him get in his clothes and suddenly he wants Jaskier to stay away from him. He wants him to leave and never come back because how long is it going to be when it's Jaskier that he couldn't save? His sweet, lovely, wonderful Jaskier. And even the thought of it makes him sick and he jerks back from Jaskier's gentle hands.
“What—”
Geralt ignores the hurt look in Jaskier's cornflower blue eyes— regret builds inside him but he keeps his resolve.
“You should leave.” Geralt snarls, hoping he doesn't have to stand from where he's seated at the edge of their bed— and Jaskier's eyes widen slightly but he doesn't move, damnit.
“Geralt, what—”
“You don't understand! I couldn't save her!”
Jaskier's eyes soften but he still doesn't budge, still standing in front of him. “I know.”
And Geralt wants to yell, wants to roar that why haven't you left!, wants him to stop looking at him with kindness and wonder as if he's some kind of a hero— because he isn't. He's a monster, the Butcher of Blaviken—
Suddenly his vicious thoughts are cut off by firm, gentle hands that cup his face. “Geralt, it wasn't your fault.”
Geralt tries to shake off his hands, wants to stop looking at his bright blue eyes. But Jaskier's hands don't move. “I could have stopped her before—”
“No, you didn't know, darling. She made a choice. I saw her earlier, she had that wild look in her eyes and she wouldn't have stopped.” Jaskier rest his forehead against his and says firmly, “It wasn't your fault.”
And there is something in Geralt that just breaks. Witcher don't cry, but he is shaking and Jaskier's there, pulling him in— and Geralt buries his face in Jaskier's chest.
He knows that this probably won't be the end of this conversation. That he is going to get awful nightmares just like has of Renfri's. That the guilt isn't just going to fade away. That he would sometimes look at his hands and find them red with blood— with Renfri and Lorelei's blood.
But he also knows that Jaskier will be there for all of it. Wrapping him in his arms and making Geralt feel the most safe and secure he's ever felt in his life. His bright laughter, his careful understanding, his beautiful singing will probably get him out of any dark corner his mind will lead him to.
And then maybe, maybe he would understand that some things just weren't his fault.