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Jaskier shudders as he rouses from the darkness of sleep. The last thing he can remember is a cold rush of air, a twisting in his gut as he was wrenched from the arms of his witcher. It wasn’t a portal, he knows that much. One doesn’t spend as much time with Yennefer of Vengerberg without learning a thing or two about portals. No. This is something completely new. As he looks around, fear creeps along his spine. The woods are dark and menacing. A low howl in the distance confirms Jaskier’s instincts. He’s right to be afeared.
“G-Geralt?” he calls even though he knows in his gut that the witcher isn’t here.
The moon beams down through the tree, shimmering and full. Normally, Jaskier would be glad for the light, but the shining sphere of silver taunts him. Without Geralt by his side, werewolves are a very real threat to a travelling bard with no weapon. Jaskier isn’t sure why, but he knows that the howls in the woods are monstrous. There’s just something about a werewolf’s cry that chills him to the bone; self preservation perhaps.
He stumbles to his feet, knowing that despite the pounding in his head, he can’t stay here much longer. If he stays still then he’s a sitting duck, and Melitele help him, he wants to survive the night. There are so many things he hasn’t done, hasn’t said.
Geralt.
Gods. Oh, Geralt. Jaskier has never told the witcher he loves him, and he refuses to die with that weighing heavy in his heart.
Another howl calls on the wind, eerie as it cuts through the otherwise silent forest. It’s louder this time, closer. Jaskier has to move. He has to run, but the world spins as he takes his first step. Whatever magic that brought him here left him disoriented and weak.
“Bollocks,” he groans, leaning against the nearest tree as tries to catch his breath.
A sharp bark draws his attention and he spins, locking eyes with a large black dog. Silver eyes narrow and the dog barks again, lunging forward to tug at his clothes. Teeth sink into Jaskier’s leg and cries out, falling to the ground. The dog growls and begins to drag him across the ground. It hurts. Blood is already seeping through into the turquoise silk of his breeches, tears stream down his cheeks.
Jaskier just wants to go home. He wants to curl up against Geralt’s chest as they huddle for warmth by the fire. He wants his lute, sturdy and familiar beneath his fingers. Lillit, he even longs for Valdo’s scathing insults and scratchy melodies. Anything would be better than whatever hell he’s found himself in.
“P-please,” he whines stupidly. “P-please let me go. I just want to go home.”
The dog, as if it can understand Jaskier, whines back, but it doesn’t let go. Whatever mission the dog is on, it isn’t giving up so easily, and just when Jaskier thinks it can’t get any worse, a rat scampers over his chest, squeaking at the dog. Jaskier could swear the pair are having a conversation but that’s impossible.
Isn’t it?
He just about loses his mind when the werewolf breaks through the tree line, followed closely by a magnificent stag. The hart is bloody, wounded from the fight with the wolf. It has strange markings around its face, almost like it’s wearing glasses, but most importantly, it seems to be trying to stop the wolf from getting to Jaskier.
Gods, he needs a stiff drink, or a bottle or two of Est Est; safe and warm in his rooms at Oxenfurt.
A wave of magic washes over him, tingly against his skin. The dog shifts and changes until a man is sitting in front of him in its place.
“What the bloody hell?!”
“No time for questions. Can you apparate?”
“Can I what now?” Jaskier cries. It’s madness. That’s the only logical explanation, he’s going mad. This dog turned man is talking in riddles and Jaskier is near hysterical.
“Fuck. Prongs, he’s muggle. I’ll get him out of here. Keep Moony busy!”
None of the words made any sense to Jaskier and he whimpers as the man grabs his wrist. The sickening twist in his stomach comes back and the forest pops out of view once more. The building they land in… unlike anything Jaskier has ever seen. The lights on the wall seem to glow without magic or fire. There are all sorts of weird contraptions, and silky smooth paintings draw on some kind of parchment hung from the walls.
“Where, who… oh fuck…” Jaskier babbles, falling to the floor.
Everything hurts, nothing makes sense. It all feels like some horrible nightmare.
“London. Sirius Black. Let me have a look at your leg, sorry about that by the way. I thought you’d prefer dog bite to werewolf dinner.” The man, Sirius, has the audacity to wink at Jaskier. He pulls a stick from his robes and waves it over Jaskier’s wounded leg, muttering a spell. The flesh starts to knit itself back together, and with another wave of what Jaskier assumes is a wand, the blood vanishes from his breeches as they too repair themselves.
“Thank you,” he whispers, still feeling a little sick. “You were a dog.”
It’s a dumb thing to say, a rather obvious thing, and yet Jaskier has to point it out. The only other person he knows that can change into an animal is the mage Philippa, and she’s the exception. As far as he’s aware, no other mage on the Continent has her skill.
That makes this Sirius Black an incredibly powerful wizard, and oh Melitele does that make him feel weak at the knees. He’s always had a bit of a thing for people that could ruin him, ever since he was a boy.
He did fall in love with the first witcher he met after all.
“Yes, I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell anyone about that,” Sirius chuckles. “We didn’t exactly do it by the books.”
“We?”
“James, Peter and I. James was the stag and Peter-”
“Was the rat?” Jaskier guesses.
Bloody hell, three of them.
“Got it in one. Remus was the brute we were trying to save you from. You caught him on a bad night. Normally he’s pretty cuddly.” The smirk that crosses Sirius' face is unfairly handsome, and Jaskier can’t take his eyes off the mage’s hand as he runs his hands through his hair. “I should probably get back. Prongs needs my help and Moony would kill us if we let him get out of the forest. What were you doing in there anyway?”
Now that’s a question Jaskier would love to find the answer to, but alas, he’s clueless. So he shakes his head. “Not a bloody clue, scared the life out of me though. Thankfully, I am but a humble bard, resourceful and rather brilliant at surviving these sorts of things. No doubt this will make a fantastic tale! Geralt won’t know what hit him.”
“A bard?”
“Oh I’m sorry, did my fabulous clothes not give it away?” Jaskier feels himself relax. Now he’s safe and uninjured, he can slip back into the persona of the flirty and carefree bard, winking at the mage in front of him. “Although, I must say, I love what you’ve done with all this.” He waves at the fancy robe ensemble the mage is wearing. “Very fancy.”
Sirius raises an eyebrow and cocks his head. “You nearly died tonight, bard, and you’re flirting with me?”
Pouting, Jaskier puts a hand on his hip. “Well, you did save my life, and I must say I’m intrigued by the whole turning into a dog thing. What’s that like?”
To his surprise, Sirius barks a laugh. “Tell you what, bard. Let me go rescue my friends, and then you can ask all the questions you want over a glass of firewhiskey.”
Before Jaskier can protest, Sirius pops from the room, leaving Jaskier all alone and feeling rather drained from the experience.
“Fuck it,” he sighs, flopping down onto the sofa, ready to settle down for a nap. He’s sure Sirius won’t mind.