Chapter Text
When Jaskier first found the place, he was running for his life.
He had known his date would turn out badly within half an hour of meeting Rience. Not in his wildest dreams, though, did he suspect that the man he was going out with was a half-crazy murderer with a side of pyromania. In his naivety, he thought a nighttime hike to see the full moon was a perfectly romantic idea. By the time he realized that he was in danger — around when Rience started to pull out knives and talk gleefully about bloodshed, fire, and sacrifices — they had hiked far enough that there were no city lights or cell reception, leaving him with no choice but to make a run for it.
He should have suspected something was wrong when Rience seemed utterly unconcerned about the fog rolling in, which concealed moon and star alike. Then again, he had never expected to fall prey to a serial killer. This whole situation was absurdly unlikely. He could excuse himself for being reluctant to assume the worst, perahps, but he would have very much preferred not to be running full tilt through a dark, fog-filled, and nearly impenetrable forest near the coast.
He was never going to use a dating app again.
“Jaskier,” called Rience from somewhere behind him, sing-song and sweet. “Come back, or you’ll miss all the fun!”
Jaskier ran faster, muttering increasingly panicked curses as he stumbled and smashed his way through the forest. He had no idea where Rience was; he had no chance of hearing anyone else’s footsteps over the racket he was making. He had only just moved to the area, so he had no clue where he had come from or where he was going.
He was not ready to die.
He tripped on a root and cried out. His hands were slippery with what he suspected was his own blood. His pants were torn — he liked these jeans, damn it — but he had no time to dwell on his misfortune. He scrambled back to his feet and kept going, making an effort to be quieter this time in case Rience was still pursuing him.
Fog surrounded him, flying in the biting wind that whistled in the trees. It obscured any starlight that might have made it through the boughs overhead. The only light was that of the full moon, and even that was weak and wavering.
Jaskier bit back a hysterical laugh. When he moved away from Lettenhove to find adventure, this was not what he had in mind. This situation felt like something out of a horror film, not a scene from the life of a mildly promising musician who spent most of his days working in a coffee shop.
As though in response to his thoughts, a large branch crashed down directly in front of him. He jumped back, barely managing to avoid being hit by the smaller sticks that fell with it. The wind seemed, somehow, to grow even more strong. It tore past the trees and Jaskier’s clothes alike. It sounded far too much like the screaming of a tormented voice for Jaskier’s comfort.
The fog thickened around him. He turned around in a circle. He had no idea where he had come from or where Rience was. All he could see were the twisted trees around him. Their branches reached towards him out of the darkness like skeletal hands. Behind him, something creaked. There was a rustling in the undergrowth. Jaskier whipped around just in time to see what looked like a vaguely humanoid shape moving through the fog. The wind howled like the screaming of a thousand wolves.
“Shit,” croaked Jaskier. “No. Fuck this.”
He refused to deal with a horrifying forest and a serial killer at the same time. One of the two was more than enough trouble.
He started to run again, this time in the opposite direction. The wind and the terrifying shapes were at his back, but he was still horribly aware of their presence. He ran faster. He was trembling hard enough to make coordination difficult. His heart was beating so loudly that it nearly drowned out the sound of his footsteps. He kept going. At one point, another gust of wind seemed to create a figure in the fog beside him. He turned his back to it and ran faster.
He didn’t know how long he was there, running through the dark, but it felt like hours before he finally found the trail again. There was no sign of Rience. Jaskier prayed that he had also become lost in the woods, but he did not wait to find out. He hiked as quickly as he could in what he hoped was the direction of the parking lot.
After a time, he started to recognize his surroundings. He continued and reached the parking lot. He found his car. He climbed in, shut and locked the doors, turned on all the internal lights, and stared blankly into the darkness around him. Then he cried on the steering wheel for several minutes.
When he pulled himself together enough to think of it, he called the police. Rience was still out there, after all, and Jaskier would never forgive himself if the madman attacked some other hapless hiker or started a wildfire. When he finished the call, he cried a little more. Then he took a deep breath, turned on his headlights, and drove back to his apartment.
He went inside. He locked the door securely and made sure all the windows were closed. He went into his bedroom and closed the door. He sat on the floor with his back to it for a few long minutes.
He eventually climbed into bed, still fully clothed. He tossed and turned for a few minutes but eventually his exhaustion was too great to be overcome. He fell asleep with the lights still on.
He woke the next day with a pounding headache and several concerned texts from his friends and coworkers. Essi had sent him a news article detailing Rience’s arrest the previous night. She knew Jaskier had been out with him and was understandably frightened when Jaskier had not responded to her calls. He called her to reassure her, then called in sick to work. He fed his mouse, Gordon, then collapsed onto the couch in a daze.
He survived an attack from a serial killer. He deserved a day of Netflix and ice cream.
~
Jaskier went back.
It might have been a bad idea to return so soon to the place where he almost died, but he had to see it again. He had to return without being attacked by either murderous humans or supernatural beings. He had to convince himself that going into a forest would not result in his death. He needed closure.
He went at noon on a bright, cloudless day. He brought a small knife that was meant for cutting cardboard but was nevertheless very sharp. He also brought lunch, because it was lunchtime.
He took the same trail as before. His breathing came a little quicker than normal, but he refused to let the panic spiral. He was alone. The forest was quiet. The day was warm, still, and bright. Nothing was going to hurt him.
After taking a deep breath, he left the trail at the same point as before. He doubted that he would get lost; if he could find his way back in the dark and terrified half out of his mind, he should be able to find his way now. He proceeded more slowly this time, avoiding branches instead of crashing directly through them.
The trees were tall and twisted, their limbs reaching for the sky like frozen dancers. The forest floor was carpeted with their leaves, some sharp-looking and slippery and others releasing a spicy-sweet smell as Jaskier crushed them with his feet. The bushes were thick in places and thin in others. Some of them had shiny red leaves which Jaskier almost wanted to touch, but he managed to restrain himself.
He reached what appeared to be the place where he turned back last time. The day was lovely and nothing had tried to eat or otherwise murder him yet, so Jaskier decided to continue onward. Only a few steps later, he stopped in his tracks. The ground dropped away steeply before his feet. If he had kept running much farther that night, he would have fallen down a steep and rocky slope. He shivered, suddenly realizing how lucky he had been. Instead of continuing forwards, he turned aside and made his way slowly into a small, hidden valley.
As he walked downhill, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. It felt like something was watching him. He shook his head vigorously as though to shake off the sensation and continued onward. He was not about to let his imagined fears stop him.
The trees became larger the further downhill he went, the elegantly twisted trunks from before becoming mixed with the tall pillars of kingly evergreens. After a time, the slope leveled out into a small area of flattish ground around the bed of a small creek. The trees were large, their leaves casting dappled shadows like stained-glass windows. The leaves on the ground were soft and the undergrowth was green with bushes and ferns. It smelled of water and earth and growing things.
Jaskier turned in a circle with a smile. This valley was a very nice place, all things considered. His lingering fear faded away the longer he stood there amid the greenery. He was glad he came today.
As he turned, he noticed something odd. Tucked in the back corner of the valley, just below a place where the hillside sloped up steeply and the creek came dancing down in little waterfalls, were the remains of what appeared to be a cabin. The roof was mostly fallen in. The stone walls were covered in vines. It seemed darker than the surrounding valley, somehow, as though a cloud were over it and not the rest of the valley. It looked delightfully mysterious, but Jaskier didn’t think he would dare to look inside yet. He did have some semblance of self-preservation instincts and being injured by a collapsing wall was not on his list of things he wanted to do today.
Ignoring the building, he found an agreeable tree to lean against. He took the lunch he packed out of his bag, congratulating his past self for his foresight, and passed a pleasant half an hour eating. By the time he finished, he almost regretted the fact that he had not brought his notebook. He had a feeling this would be a pleasant place to compose.
On a whim, he left a small pastry he had not eaten on a log nearby. Something about the place made it feel appropriate to leave an offering. It was silly, probably, but a raccoon might enjoy it even if the gesture was pointless.
Unable to suppress his curiosity, he cautiously approached the cabin. A cold breeze whispered up his neck and he shivered. Something about the building was unsettling. He had a very strong feeling that entering the building would not be worth the trouble.
He would leave that for another time.
The hike back was uneventful; no tormented voices or cracking branches made an appearance. By the time he returned home, he felt marginally better about the whole experience.
Rience had not ruined this place for him. The thought felt like a victory.
~
Jaskier kept going back.
It was a little bit like revenge. Rience had inadvertently led him to a beautiful place. Rience was the reason he could spend a weekend afternoon in a quiet, green glade, alone. It became a routine of sorts; when the dark thoughts of knives or fire or even his baseline anxiety became loud, he would make time to visit the valley.
He started to sing there. Something about the place made it feel appropriate. Originally, it was only to pass the time and keep his mind from wandering to dark places, but after a time it became one of the highlights of his weeks. He loved the way his voice melded with the quiet babble of the creek, the rustling of the wind in the leaves, and the occasional birdsong. Composing was easier, here; there was no one to judge him but the trees and the birds, and nothing to distract him but the way the dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves. He could ramble to himself for as long as he liked and no one would mind. Some days he became bored after a few minutes, but more often than not the time he spent in the valley was a treasured refuge of quiet.
Sometimes, felt that there was something magical here, something more than just the whispering of the leaves or the echoes of his old terror. He felt more creative here than he usually did alone in his apartment. Sometimes, he felt peacefully alone here, but other times it felt as though there was someone benevolent watching. He felt as though someone was smiling at him. It was a good feeling.
After a time, he started talking to the valley. It was much the same way he talked to Gordon, really; he rambled about whatever was on his mind and knew that no one would find it irritating. Sometimes he dared to say things here that he would not have voiced in his little apartment surrounded by neighbors, things about his fears and insecurities and the reasons he’d left home. Much of the time, though, he simply talked to the trees like he would to a friend; happy and careless and rambling. The trees, at least, could never be annoyed by him.
He refused to let bad memories keep him from this place. Time and time again, he returned.
~
The ninth time Jaskier visited the glade, his life turned irrevocably on its head.
It was slightly later in the afternoon than he usually visited and wind from the coast was making the trees above him dance. The first whisps of ocean fog wandered past overhead. Jaskier clutched his jacket a little tighter around him and wondered absently if the moisture would harm his guitar. He might have to return early or risk losing his way in the coming fog.
He started to play through the song he was composing, hoping to make the best of the time he had left. He closed his eyes, focusing on the music.
When he opened them again, the half-transparent figure of a man stood before him.
He cried out. The guitar made a discordant noise as he released it to scramble back. He stumbled to his feet and seized his guitar again, holding it by the neck like a weapon and brandishing it at—
Nothing. The figure was gone.
Jaskier stared at the empty space before him, panting. He turned around in a full circle and saw nothing but the same bushes and trees as always.
“Great,” he muttered to himself. “Now I’m hallucinating.”
It had probably been an oddly-shaped bit of fog. He had an active imagination. He had simply made up the encounter.
It had seemed very real, though. He was suddenly reminded of that humanoid figure he had seen in the fog when he was fleeing from Rience. Perhaps something strange was at play, here. Perhaps there really was something supernatural.
He shook his head at his own thoughts. That was ridiculous. Slowly, he sat down again. He picked up his guitar and strummed a chord. Nothing happened. He took a deep breath and started the song again.
When no ghostly figures appeared to molest him, he relaxed. He let the world fall away as he played, his awareness absorbed by the music. He finished the song with a smile and, finally, looked up.
The figure was back.
He gasped. The thing tensed. Jaskier did not move.
A moment passed. They looked at each other, both motionless. The longer Jaskier stared, the less he believed that he could imagine this. The figure — the ghost? — looked undeniably real. Its form was translucent and rather wispy in places, as though it were indeed composed of the fog that was beginning to surround them.
It was also absurdly handsome. Its hair was long and fluttered elegantly in the wind. Its jaw and muscles were chiseled as though out of marble. Its eyes were piercing and bright, even colorless as they were.
It might have wanted to kill him, but Jaskier was never very good at being logical in the face of danger. If the danger was handsome, he didn’t stand a chance.
“Hi,” said Jaskier.
The ghost said nothing. For a moment, they stared at each other in silence.
It didn’t look like it wanted to kill him. It didn’t even look angry. Its eyes were wide with something that might have been disbelief or might even have been hope.
“Ghosts aren’t real,” Jaskier informed the ghost. “I am imagining things.”
It frowned at him. Jaskier couldn’t tell if it was confused or amused.
“Oh, shut up.”
It blinked, looking faintly unimpressed. Or bewildered. Jaskier wasn’t sure.
“I apologize for calling you a figment of my imagination.”
Its expression did not change.
“Can you even understand what I’m saying?”
It nodded, looking slightly offended at the suggestion.
“Oh, good. Can you speak?”
It seemed to say something. Its mouth moved as though it was speaking, at least. No sound emerged.
“Ah. So that’s a no, then?”
Another frown.
“All right.”
The clearing is silent.
“Just so we’re clear, do you want to kill me?” Jaskier paused. “I suppose you wouldn’t tell me if you did want to kill me. Nevermind.”
The ghost shook its head.
“Does that mean that you don’t want to kill me?”
It nodded.
“Oh. That’s good.”
The silence began to feel somewhat awkward.
“Do you mind if I keep playing?” asked Jaskier, gesturing at his guitar. “It would be nice if I could get some composing in before I have to go.”
The ghost did nothing
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Cautiously, Jaskier picked up his guitar. He strummed a chord. The ghost seemed unbothered. Taking that as a good sign, he started to play. He sang through a song he knew as a warmup and, when that did not seem to annoy his supernatural companion, he threw caution to the wind and began to compose. It was somewhat awkward at first. He wasn’t used to composing with a human audience, let alone what seemed to be a magical and possibly undead being. After a few minutes, though, his confidence grew and he was able to compose more or less normally, keeping one eye on the ghost.
It seemed to enjoy the music, or at least not to mind. It stood nearby, listening, for many minutes. After a while, it wandered off. Jaskier tried to see where it had gone, but it seemed to have disappeared.
By that point, the fog was approaching in earnest. Jaskier was cold. Reluctantly, he decided it was likely a good time to leave.
“I’m going home now,” Jaskier called to the empty valley, feeling somewhat foolish but reasoning that it was probably best to be polite to ghosts. “Bye!”
Predictably, nothing responded.
“All right, then,” he muttered to himself. He picked up his things and began the hike home.
He hoped he wasn’t going crazy. It seemed uncomfortably likely.
~
When he returned home that evening, Jaskier wasted barely a second before opening his laptop. He searched for anything remotely related to ghosts. All he found were various clickbait-y articles of disputable repute, some overdramatic Youtube videos, and a few very old reports of hauntings in castles.
After a while of this, Jaskier closed his eyes, leaned his head on the back of his chair, and sighed. This was going nowhere. Either he really was losing his sanity, or he had encountered something that was very poorly documented.
He opened his eyes and looked mournfully at his mouse.
"Well, Gordon, it looks like we're really in it now."
Gordon looked at him with what Jaskier chose to believe was sympathy.
"Do you think I hit my head while running from Rience? Maybe this is an elaborate hallucination. Maybe there was something in that wine I had the night before the date. That would explain a whole lot.”
Gordon squeaked.
“Yeah,” Jaskier said with a sigh. “Exactly.”
He turned off the lights and climbed into bed. All questions about sanity and the supernatural could wait until morning.
~
Jaskier being Jaskier, he went back to the haunted glade.
At first, it was simply to prove his own sanity. A good night’s sleep had him nearly convinced that he had imagined the entire encounter, but he wanted to make certain.
Of course, when this resulted in another encounter with the ghost, he doubted his stability of mind more than ever, but that was not about to stop him from investigating the fascinating (and handsome) supernatural mystery before him.
The ghost seemed to have been honest when it told him it would not kill him. It always appeared more or less friendly, if a bit standoffish. It didn’t seem to mind when Jaskier talked or sang to it. It occasionally expressed its opinions on something with facial expressions or gestures, but for the most part, it seemed content to observe him without comment.
It didn’t always appear when Jaskier visited. When it did, it often appeared partway through one of Jaskier’s songs, listened for a few moments, then wandered off to attend to whatever other ghostly business it had. Jaskier found himself oddly appreciative of its company.
Slowly, he even began to think of it as a sort of friend. He enjoyed spending time with it. He visited the valley more frequently than ever.
And if he was indeed going insane and this was all simply a hallucination, well, at least it was interesting.
~
Five visits later, Jaskier first heard the ghost’s voice.
He was leaning against the trunk of a large tree with his feet up on a log, reading a book that Essi had recommended to him. The ghost was sitting nearby on the bank of the stream, looking out at the glade around them. Jaskier noted that somehow, much to his chagrin, even the back of the ghost’s head was handsome. He was doing his best to ignore that fact.
So far, Jaskier had found the book rather disappointing. As the protagonist made yet another dubious decision that would undoubtedly have irritating consequences, he looked up from the book and groaned in the ghost’s direction.
“Why am I supposed to care about this idiot?” he asked the ghost. “He hasn’t done a single endearing thing in the last fifty pages.”
“Why don’t you just stop reading, then?” said a voice.
Jaskier nearly dropped the book down the hill and into the creek. He looked around. There was no one in sight— except the ghost.
“No way,” he breathed.
The ghost turned to look at him, frowning.
“I thought you couldn’t talk!” said Jaskier.
The ghost froze.
“What?” it asked. It sounded almost hesitant.
Jaskier found that he was grinning. “You didn’t tell me you could talk! I’ve been missing out!”
The ghost’s eyes were wider than Jaskier had ever seen them. “You… can hear me?”
The tentative hope in its voice was more heart-wrenching than it had any right to be.
“I can hear you,” Jaskier confirmed.
"Oh," said the ghost.
Jaskier waited for it to continue. It did not continue.
"What's your name?" Jaskier asked eventually. "If you have one, that is. I don't presume to know how ghost culture works."
The ghost gave him a strange look. "Why do you care?"
Jaskier blinked. "Well, I've been talking to you for the last several weeks and I like you. Calling you 'the ghost' in my head is starting to feel rather impolite. Why wouldn't I want to know your name?"
"Hmm," said the ghost. It did not seem inclined to elaborate.
"I'm Jaskier, by the way. I don't know if I told you that before." He paused. "Well, technically my name is Julian, but I hate that name with a fiery passion so I'd much rather be called Jaskier. I'm sure you understand. You seem understanding."
“Hmm,” the ghost said again. It did not continue. Jaskier did his best not to be hurt. He knew his rambling could be a lot, and the ghost had been putting up with him for a very long time with no real way to tell him to be quiet. It made sense for him not to indulge Jaskier. Still, the echoes of old feelings of rejection stung more than he would have liked to admit. Then—
“Thank you,” said the ghost softly, and all of Jaskier’s self-doubt was abruptly pushed into the background.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he was being thanked for (for giving the ghost his name? For calling him understanding?) but he didn’t think it mattered much. Whatever it was, he had given it gladly and would give it again.
“You’re welcome,” he said, smiling softly.
There was a moment of silence where they simply looked at each other. After a moment, though, Jaskier found the impulse to speak again too strong to ignore.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’m intruding on your woods,” he said. “They’re very beautiful.”
He didn’t know what he’d do if the ghost disliked his presence here. His time here had become something of a lifeline in the anxiety that followed him like a shadow in his daily life.
“I don’t,” said the ghost, and Jaskier breathed a little easier. “It’s… nice.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
“Hmm.”
Jaskier smiled again. The ghost was oddly charming. With his anxiety abated, he found himself once more unable to hold back his curiosity.
“Oh! I’ve been wanting to know for ages: are you a ghost? I have no idea how to tell. It seems reasonable, but up until a few weeks ago I thought ghosts were imaginary, so I honestly have no clue what is going on with you. No offense.”
The ghost was silent for a long moment, frowning. Jaskier waited as patiently as he could.
“Geralt,” said the ghost nonsensically.
Jaskier blinked, bewildered. “What? Are you… a geralt? Is that some sort of category of thing?”
The ghost huffed, sounding amused. Jaskier thought that was rather unfair, given that he had given absolutely no context whatsoever for the non sequitur, but he couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed when the ghost’s faint smirk looked so handsome.
“No,” said the ghost.
“Then what is it?”
“My name.”
“Oh,” said Jaskier. All traces of his original question vanished completely from his mind. “Oh!” A grin spread across his face. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Geralt!”
The ghost’s — Geralt’s — face brightened, and Melitele, if he had been handsome when he smirked it was absolutely nothing to the sheer beauty that faced Jaskier when he was gifted with a real, genuine smile. That was it. Nothing could keep Jaskier from visiting this place now, not even if the gods themselves tried to tear him away.
“Geralt,” he said with a grin, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Geralt didn’t say anything, but his smile still lingered in his eyes.
They stood there for a long moment, looking at each other. Jaskier was still grinning.
“You should go,” said Geralt out of nowhere, and the happy dreams that had been floating around Jaskier’s mind suddenly crashed to a halt. Had he annoyed Geralt after all? Had he ruined his chances already?
“I thought you said you liked having me here,” said Jaskier. His voice came out more vulnerable than he would have liked.
“It’s getting dark,” Geralt clarified.
“Oh.” Jaskier blinked and looked around. To his surprise, he found that the sun had already begun to set. The wind was cold, and the first signs of fog were appearing overhead. Geralt was right — if he didn’t leave now, he might not get home safely.
“So it is,” he said. “Thank you.” He looked back at Geralt. “You won’t mind if I come back, though?”
Geralt only hesitated a moment before responding. “I won’t mind at all.”
Jaskier smiled. “Good. I’ll see you next time, then!”
Geralt nodded. Jaskier collected his things and shouldered his bag. Before he left, he turned back to give Geralt a smile and a wave.
“Farewell!” he said.
“Goodbye,” said Geralt.
Though Geralt faded away and was gone before Jaskier had even left the valley, Jaskier did not doubt that they would see each other again.
~
Deep in the woods, there was a valley. The only outwardly remarkable thing about it was the greenness of its trees. In the center of that valley, there was a cabin. The only outwardly remarkable thing about it was its state of disrepair.
If a mage or anyone remotely sensitive to chaos were to pass by the area, though, the very first thing they would notice would be the powerful magic that filled everything nearby.
If this mage investigated more closely, they would discover that the chaos was emanating from this unremarkable cabin. If they dared to open the door and step inside, they would have seen the very center of the magic. It was a wooden box, blue-gray and shaped almost like a book. If they had opened it — which even the boldest of mages might have felt rather cautious about doing — they would have found that it was empty except for one solitary object. Inside the box, they would have seen a silver medallion shaped like a wolf’s head.
If the mage had, at this point, stopped and listened with close attention to the chaos, they might even feel something that felt vaguely like a consciousness. They might feel, to their great surprise, very basic emotions.
If they had found the valley at any point in the last several decades, they would have felt a sense of smug satisfaction emanating from the box. They would have known that whatever magic, spell, or curse had a chokehold on the valley had exactly what it wanted. They would have known that it was content.
Now, though?
Now, for the first time in decades, the magic was afraid.
~
