Chapter Text
Irony had always been fond of Geralt of Rivia. It followed him like a curse—persistent, unavoidable, and faintly mocking. So it was only fitting that on this particular day, the sky was brilliantly blue, the sun warm, and the breeze mild.
A perfect autumn day. Painfully normal.
Geralt rode atop Roach, the ever-faithful mare trotting at an unhurried pace, her hooves striking the dirt in a steady rhythm. Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop. A sound as reliable as a heartbeat.
Naturally, Jaskier filled the silence.
The bard strummed his lute, sang half-finished verses, and chatted as if the day itself had personally invited him to perform. At last, he threw his arms wide, nearly losing balance on the path.
"It's such a nice day!" Jaskier declared. "We should stop—have a break. Maybe a picnic?"
Geralt glanced down at him. "You wanted to stop yesterday because it was too rainy," he said dryly, a hint of amusement in his voice. "And the day before, because it was too windy."
Jaskier crossed his arms and pouted. "Well, excuse me for wanting to enjoy life with my good friend."
Geralt opened his mouth to argue—I'm not your friend sat ready on his tongue—but something nagged at him. That familiar, insidious itch in the back of his mind that surfaced whenever Jaskier was involved. He shut his mouth instead.
"If you want a break," Geralt said at last, "you're free to take one. I'm not stopping you."
Roach chose that moment to neigh sharply, tossing her head as if personally offended. The sound was loud, insistent—almost accusatory.
Geralt sighed. "Traitor."
A small town nestled between jagged mountains and the edge of a vast forest, hinting at secrets waiting to be uncovered. The kind of place people didn't stumble into by accident.
Since Jaskier had begun singing ballads about the White Wolf, requests for Geralt's services had become more frequent—and more specific. Sometimes, they even came with coins worth the trouble.
"Charming," Jaskier murmured as they entered town, eyes flicking over the townsfolk who had paused to stare. The trees lining the road burned with reds and golds. "Nothing says welcome like being openly judged."
Geralt dismounted near the inn's stables. "They hired a witcher. Hospitality isn't usually part of the arrangement."
A short, stout man approached them, wringing his hands. The alderman. He extended one shakily toward Geralt. "It's a pleasure to have you here, Witcher."
Geralt clasped it briefly. The man's fear was palpable—whether of the murders or of Geralt himself, it was hard to tell.
"The pleasure's ours," Jaskier said smoothly, stepping in. Geralt didn't protest. Letting Jaskier talk usually meant better prices—and fewer headaches.
"And less talking for me," Geralt muttered.
"We tried to hide the bodies," the alderman continued as he led them toward the woods. "Best we could."
"Bodies," Geralt repeated. "Plural."
The alderman swallowed. "First, the baker and his wife. Found in their oven. We thought it was a tragic accident—stress, you see. They'd been trying for a child."
"What happened to the bodies?" Geralt asked.
"Nothing left but ash and soot." The alderman stopped beside what looked like an abandoned garden. "But then we found poor Eira like this. That's when we knew we needed a witcher. Specifically—the White Wolf."
Eira lay atop a flat stone, dark hair spread like ink against pale skin. Peaceful, at first glance. Almost.
An apple was lodged in her throat.
The alderman turned green. "I'll… leave you to it." He fled before Geralt could reply.
"What do you think?" Jaskier asked, watching Geralt kneel. "A wraith, maybe? The baker comes back for revenge?"
"Bodies were burned," Geralt said. "A wraith wouldn't form."
The ground was damp from recent rain. Geralt studied the mud.
Three sets of footprints.
His.
Jaskier's.
The alderman's.
None belonging to Eira—or anyone who might have carried her.
"Then what is it?" Jaskier asked, climbing onto a low stone wall for a better view.
"I'd know," Geralt said without looking up, "if you stopped talking long enough for me to think."
Jaskier huffed but obeyed—briefly. Then his eyes widened. "Oh."
Geralt glanced up. "What?"
"It's Snow White," Jaskier said brightly.
Geralt stared at him as though he'd sprouted another head. "What?"
"You know. Black hair, white skin, poisoned apple. Evil stepmother?" Jaskier grinned. "Didn't they teach fairy tales at Kaer Morhen?"
"No," Geralt said flatly. "Shockingly."
Jaskier paced along the wall. "True love's kiss saves her."
Geralt doubted Eira was awaiting a prince.
Suddenly, Jaskier slipped.
"Jaskier!" Geralt lunged—but he was too far away.
Before the bard hit the ground, a pair of arms caught him.
"Whoa there," said a man with a laugh.
Jaskier blinked, then smiled. "Thanks. I prefer my bones unbroken."
"Luka," the man said. "And I'd remember someone as beautiful as you."
"I'm Jaskier."
Geralt approached, expression dark. "You can put him down."
Luka did, brushing dirt from Jaskier's sleeve. "Named after a flower," he said. "Fitting."
Jaskier blushed.
Geralt scowled.
Irony wasn't done with him yet.
"Right," Jaskier said, brushing off his doublet and flashing that disarming smile—the one Geralt knew could loosen purses and lips alike, the kind that could probably start wars. "Thank you again. I'd hate to die tragically before finishing my next ballad."
"You're a bard?" Luka asked, curiosity bright in his eyes.
Jaskier's face lit up. Any opening to talk about himself was irresistible. "Oh, indeed! Quite a famous one, if I may say so. I write songs… about witches, and witchers. Mostly witchers, if we're being honest."
He spread his arms with the flourish of a peacock displaying its feathers.
"I look forward to hearing you sing sometime," Luka said, extending a hand.
Before Jaskier could reach for it, Geralt stepped forward, a living barricade. Broad shoulders squared, stance immovable. No one touched his bard without his say-so.
"Why are you here?" Geralt asked, his voice low, teeth bared in warning.
Luka stumbled back, hands raised. "I… I live outside the town. Sometimes I take walks."
Geralt's eyes narrowed. "Around the same time, a body was found?"
A sharp smack on his arm made him glance down. Jaskier stood there, face set in that expression he always reserved for when Geralt growled at stablehands mishandling Roach. "Don't be rude," he whispered, mock severity in his tone.
Turning back to Luka, Jaskier softened. "Did you know her?"
Luka's gaze flicked to the lifeless girl. "I've seen her around… mostly kept to herself."
"Did you know anyone who might want her dead?" Geralt pressed.
"Eira?" Luka shook his head. "No… I can't think of any reason."
A silence settled, heavy and unspoken, with Geralt's glare cutting into Luka like a knife.
"Well… I'll be off," Luka said at last, rubbing the back of his neck. With a casual nod toward Jaskier, he added, "I hope to see you around, bard."
Geralt and Jaskier watched him leave, each absorbed in their own thoughts.
Good, Geralt thought. He preferred it when it was just the two of them. But of course, Jaskier had other ideas.
"Did you have to be so rude?" Jaskier asked, a frown tugging at his lips.
"I don't trust him," Geralt said simply.
"People shouldn't talk to me?" Jaskier countered, half in jest, half in indignation.
"You don't trust most people," Geralt muttered.
"He seemed nice!" Jaskier protested, though even he could feel the weight of suspicion lingering in Geralt's gaze.
Geralt knelt by Eira again, tracing the unnatural tension in her hands. The apple lodged in her throat was a cruel touch. Nothing about this felt natural.
Jaskier, ever sensitive to tension, fiddled with a loose thread on his shirt. "So, Witcher," he said, voice light but probing, "what's next? Examine the corpse? Search the forest for monsters? Sing her a lullaby?"
Geralt's look was sharp enough to cut glass. "No singing."
Jaskier pouted. "Ah, but a lullaby could calm the spirits."
"No singing," Geralt repeated, final.
Jaskier sighed, long and dramatic. "Alright, then. What's the plan?"
Geralt stood, shifting Jaskier aside. "I work. You go back to town."
Jaskier blinked, clearly stung. "Back to town?" he echoed. "So I just… wait? While you poke around? What about my songs?"
Geralt's jaw tightened. "Really? You're looking at a dead girl, and you're worried about your music?"
Jaskier bristled. "Of course I care about her! But I'm a bard. My job is to write songs—about things. About you."
Geralt's hands didn't stop their work. He didn't answer immediately.
"I can't just sit around!" Jaskier insisted, stepping closer, his voice softening. "I'm useful! I could—"
Geralt cut him off. "Go get ready for Luka's bed. I'm sure he'll pay you plenty."
The words hit Jaskier like a whip. He froze. No secret that he enjoyed… company, yes, but to hear Geralt reduce him to that? Painful.
"Screw you," Jaskier spat, storming off in a huff.
The next morning, the town awoke to a gray, choking fog that seemed to seep from the forest itself. Even before Geralt stepped outside, he sensed it.
An uneasy feeling in the air. Jaskier wasn't around, so the bard had left a note that he was still in town, just doing some shopping.
At the moment, Geralt didn't expect to see the bard anytime soon.
There was nothing more for Geralt to do until the alderman came running. "Another," the alderman's voice cracked. "Another body."
"Where?" Geralt asked, as the alderman led him towards the next victim.
"Brothers," the alderman swallowed. "One was the baker, another was the butcher, and the youngest was the carpenter. They're arranged." He trailed off, unable or maybe unwilling to keep going.
Geralt frowned, taking in the alley where the bodies lay. His eyes swept over the grisly tableau: three men, each grotesquely staged. One's head had been smashed against a brick wall as if a wolf had huffed and puffed, another was pinned beneath a collapsed wooden frame, and ropes had strung up the last, slumped against a straw-filled cart.
The horror was clinical, almost theatrical, and yet something about it pressed in on him—not just death, but message, intent, and something darker.
Crouching again, Geralt's fingers hovered inches from the nearest corpse. He didn't touch it, not yet. Geralt's witcher senses were too busy screaming.
The smell was wrong.
Blood, yes. Fear, certainly. But beneath all the layers of grime and blood, there lay something sharper. This metallic and acrid taste filled Geralt's mouth. It was like burned copper.
This was magic. Something old and powerful.
The alderman wrung his hands behind him. "Is it… is it the same thing as before?"
Geralt closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, letting the witcher medallion at his chest guide him. It trembled—not violently, a steady, ominous pulse.
Like a heart beating in rhythm.
"No," Geralt said at last. "It's worse."
The alderman's face turned green. "Dear gods."
The next thing Geralt knew, the alderman ran off, most likely to go throw up somewhere. This was probably for the best. Geralt could work alone, and the alderman wouldn't puke on the crime scene.
Geralt rose, surveying the scene with a colder eye. The positioning wasn't random. Each man's death mirrored something.
There was a story pattern.
Right now, Geralt really wished Jaskier were here. The bard was good at these kinds of stories, and Geralt liked having Jaskier around.
"Arranged," Geralt muttered. "Like props."
Geralt exhaled through his nose and stepped back, hands moving to a small leather pouch at his belt, reaching around until he grasped the Xenovox.
At the edge of the town, Geralt stood watching as the air around him changed, as a portal opened.
"You'd better, or that bard better be dying," Yennefer of Vengerberg said.
"I need your help," Geralt replied.
Yennefer's violet eyes scanned Geralt up and down, that calculating gaze. "I see."
After a few minutes of explanation, Geralt told Yennefer everything about the murders and the strange ways the bodies were arranged. Then, finally, Geralt explained to Yennefer that Jaskier had commented on fairy tales.
"Where is the bard?" Yennefer asked. "I'm surprised to hear him squawking."
Geralt didn't speak at first. "Jaskier's not here."
"Having another marital spat?" Yennefer sighed. Hopefully, if she was lucky, she could remove herself from the area before anything became too melodramatic.
Geralt looked at Yennefer with eyes that could only be described as a kick-the-puppy " look. "We're not married."
The raven-haired witch sighed as she rolled her eyes. She considered that when this was all done, she should cast a spell of some kind, maybe even a curse. The kind of magic that would finally make Geralt get over himself and take the bard.
It wasn't like Jaskier would be unwilling.
"Alright, where are we going?" Yennefer asked, ready to get this over with. She didn't bother to wait for Geralt to answer before she started walking.
"The town," she said, a fallen leaf crunching under her boots. "Is wrong."
Falling in step beside her, Geralt replied. "I noticed."
Yennefer shot him a look. "No, Geralt, not wrong as in 'people are scared, and something is killing them.' Wrong as in their choices aren't theirs anymore."
Geralt frowned. "Explain."
Yennefer lifted a hand, her fingers twitching as faint violet sparks flared and died. "There's a spell layered over the entire settlement. Compulsion, illusion, probability manipulation. Fate, if you were a certain poet we know." Her mouth twisted. "Someone's nudging people into roles. Encouraging them to make very specific decisions."
"Like normally cautious people walking down a dark alley alone," Geralt said, the witcher piecing things together.
"Like falling asleep in the ovens." She corrected. "Or eating a clearly poisoned apple."
Geralt's medallion thrummed harder the deeper they walked into the woods. He could feel the woods pressing down around them. Branches tangled overhead, covering the sky except for little bits of light peeking through.
"Fairy tales," Geralt muttered, thinking back to what Jaskier said.
Yennefer nodded. "Someone with a flair for dramatics and far too much ego."
They walked in silence for a time. The air was growing thick; in the back of Geralt's mouth, he could taste something, a mix of sweet and rot all at once. Magic hung heavy here, old, saturated, clinging to the bark of the trees and the moss underfoot.
Then Geralt stopped.
Looking over, he could see that Yennefer felt it too.
"There," he said quietly.
At the end of a path stood a cottage in a small clearing, half-swallowed by ivy and thorn. Its roof sagged, windows dark and unwelcoming. The place reeked of magic, which made Geralt's bones ache.
Yennefer smiled with a hollow expression. "Well. Isn't that charming?"
Geralt drew his sword. "I'll go first."
"Obviously," she said, already getting ready to cast a spell. "Try not to bleed on anything cursed. I'm running low on patience."
The door made a low groaning sound as Geralt opened it.
There was a warmth to the cottage as they entered. It didn't feel welcoming; instead, the warmth felt smothering. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth.
"It's cold," Geralt said, putting his hand near the untended fire.
Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with jars of ink, bones, and pressed flowers. There were scraps of clothes and even a few strands of hair. Different colours of hair.
At the center of the room, a table stood. A book lay open; it was large, bound in dark leather that pulsed faintly as though breathing.
Yennefer stepped beside him. "Oh," she said, half-curious and half-nervous. "That's not good."
Geralt's fingers moved to turn the pages. They were thick and yellowed, each covered in elaborate illustrations.
Grotesque in content.
First was a drawing of a man and a woman inside the oven. Under it, in a looping script:
Once upon a time, two wished too hard for more.
The page turned.
A young woman with black hair and pale skin lay in a forest clearing. An apple lodged in her throat. Her eyes were drawn closed.
They would have looked peaceful, if not for the context.
"Snow White," Yennefer muttered.
Geralt's jaw tightened.
The next page came faster. Three pigs crushed beneath collapsing walls. A man hanging from ropes like a broken marionette. Each illustration was more vivid than the last, each face unmistakably matching the dead.
"This isn't just recording the murders," Geralt said. "It's directing them."
Yennefer's eyes darkened. "A narrative spell. The book decides the story, and the townsfolk obey."
Geralt reached for the next page. Once it turned, he froze.
A red-hooded figure stood in a forest path, a lute slung over his back. In the trees, yellow eyes glinted.
Little Red Riding Hood.
Only the face—those familiar cornflower blue eyes—staring back at Geralt. "That's Jaskier," the witcher said hoarsely.
Yennefer leaned in, expression sharpening. "Well, that's not good."
Geralt's hands trembled as they hovered over the page. "He's not a child."
"The spell doesn't care," Yennefer said. "It cares about roles, and it's decided Jaskier makes a good protagonist."
Geralt slammed the book shut, dust rising in clouds.
"No," he said. "Not him."
Not Geralt's Jaskier. Never his bard.
The cottage shuddered, magic rippling outward like a disturbed nest of insects.
Yennefer grabbed his arm. "Geralt," she warned.
"I'm ending this," he growled. "Now."
"You can't just burn it," she snapped. "This kind of enchantment is complex. If the story's unfinished, we don't know what it would do."
"Then we rewrite it," Geralt said. He needed to save Jaskier.
Yennefer stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. "You're impossible."
She brought her hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "You realize," she said carefully, "that trying to rewrite a living narrative spell is the equivalent of wrestling a god while blindfolded."
Geralt was already moving. "Then I won't be blind."
The witcher turned toward the door. "If the book has marked Jaskier, it won't stop until it has him."
Geralt paused. "I can't lose him," the witcher finally whispered.
When Geralt reached the town, dusk had started to fall. It was moving faster, as if the sun were being dragged down by an unseen hand. Lamps flicked to life one by one, their light warping the world into too-yellow hues, casting long shadows that bent unnaturally.
Geralt walked into the room where he and Jaskier had been staying.
Before Geralt even entered the room, he could smell Jaskier. The bard was comforted by the smell of ink, wine, and parchment, with hints of wildflowers and honey. It was a familiar warmth that tightened something in Geralt's chest.
Protect him, Geralt's mind screamed.
Jaskier sat alone on the bed, writing in his notebook. That's not what made Geralt's blood run cold.
On the chair beside Jaskier was a fresh cloak as red as blood.
Geralt crossed the room in three long strides. "We're leaving." He hooked his hand around the bard's arm to try to pull him toward the door.
Jaskier wriggled free. His gaze hardened. "Funny. That sounds like an order."
Geralt stopped himself from grabbing Jaskier again. "You're in danger."
Jaskier laughed, sharp and brittle. "Oh, now I am? Not earlier, when I was busy being a whore."
The words hit Geralt like a hammer, but he couldn't say he didn't deserve it.
"I was angry," Geralt said.
"You're always angry," Jaskier shot back. "At me, and I don't know how to make you like me."
"I do like you," Geralt replied.
"Well, you sure have a funny way of showing it." Jaskier's laugh was hollow as he spoke.
"Maybe if you weren't so busy flirting with everything that moved," Geralt countered.
In frustration, Jaskier threw his hands up. "Really?" the bard yelled. "I was being nice. I'm nice."
"But why?" Geralt asked. "Why do you always need other people's attention?"
"You think I should only talk to you?" Jaskier asked, poking Geralt in the chest. "That I should just wait around until you decide to talk to me?"
Then, without missing a beat.
"Yes," Geralt answered. He wanted that. He wanted Jaskier just for himself. If Geralt had his way, he would keep Jaskier locked away, where no harm could ever reach him.
Jaskier flopped onto the bed. "I flirt with you all the time. If you really liked me, you could have just said something."
Geralt's eyes widened. "You flirt with me."
"Do your other friends rub chamomile oil on their beautiful, perky bottoms?" Jaskier asked.
Geralt thought about that for a second.
The answer was no.
Well, there was that moment as a teen. But that was mostly because Geralt had fallen into poison oak.
"I really care about you," Geralt said, sitting beside Jaskier. "And I didn't want to admit it."
The heaviness of the air felt like it was lifting.
"Then kiss me," Jaskier whispered.
"What?" Geralt asked.
Jaskier leaned forward. "Kiss me," the bard repeated. "We'll figure out everything later, but for now, just kiss me."
Later that evening, Geralt and Jaskier lay in bed together. The bard's head sat comfortably on the witcher's chest.
"You know," Jaskier said, playing fingers over Geralt's chest the same way he would play a piano, "if I'm meant to be Little Red Riding Hood, then who's the wolf?"
"The wolf?" Geralt asked.
"The big bad wolf," Jaskier replied. "The one who tries to eat Little Red Riding Hood."
Geralt sat up. There was clearly more to this than the witcher originally thought. "Where did you get that cloak?"
The witcher pointed toward the red cloak; the more he looked, the more he could tell that the cloak wasn't even something Jaskier would buy.
"Luka gave it to me," Jaskier said.
The final puzzle piece fell into place for Geralt.
"It's him," Geralt said. "He's the mage."
Jaskier's back became straighter. "He's trying to kill me."
Geralt was already moving toward the door. "Stay here. Keep the door locked until I come to get you."
At this point, Jaskier didn't have to be told twice.
Geralt didn't wait for an answer. He was already halfway down the stairs when Jaskier called after him, his voice tight but steady. "Geralt."
The witcher paused.
"I will listen," Jaskier said. No hints of sarcasm or bravado. For a second, it was like Jaskier the bard was gone. Instead, it was Julian. "I promised. I'd rather not be eaten by a wolf," Julian said.
Geralt looked back, just once. Golden eyes catching in the lanternlight. Something unspoken passed between them.
Jaskier nodded. "Be careful."
Fog thickened around the night. Jaskier looked out the window, seeing the milk-white nothingness. Sound seemed to dull itself. As time stretched, Jaskier sat on the bed, his lute across his knees.
Listen, he told himself. For once in his life, Jaskier needed to listen.
A soft crack echoed from downstairs.
Jaskier froze.
Another sound followed. Crunching. It was wet and sticky.
Carefully, Jaskier slid off the bed and crept to the door, pressing his ear against the wood.
"Hello?" Jaskier said.
Nothing came back.
Jaskier swallowed. "Nope," he muttered to himself, stepping away from the door. "Absolutely not."
Footsteps climbed the stairs.
Crunch. Crack.
A shadow stretched beneath his door. Wracked and jagged. It smelled sweet. Burnt sugar and spice.
The handle turned.
"I said," Jaskier's voice trembled, "go away."
The door burst inward.
The thing that stepped inside was nearly human-shaped, but wrong in every other way. Its skin was baked brown and fissured. What looked like frosting piped traced veins along its arms, and its eyes were hard black currants pressed into a grinning face.
A living gingerbread man tilted his head. It made a groaning sound, as if it were trying to speak.
Jaskier screamed, and the bard tried to make it toward the window.
The creature moved faster. Too fast for Jaskier's liking. Sticky fingers wrapped around Jaskier, lifting the bard.
"Let me go!" Jaskier screamed, his legs kicking at the walls, knocking over a jug of water.
"Shhh," the gingerbread groaned, like Jaskier was some unruly child.
The last thing Jaskier saw was red fabric whipping through the air as the creature dragged him backwards.
Toward the woods.
The fog swallowed Geralt as he walked deeper into the woods. The leaves on the ground muffled the witcher's footsteps. His medallion vibrated so hard he could feel it in his sternum.
A frantic warning that Geralt really didn't need now.
Magic coiled in the air, tugging him forward like a leash.
The cottage waited.
Its windows glowed, a warm trick to invite Geralt in. Light spilled onto the forest floor like honey. Smoke curled from the chimney.
It was domestic, almost ordinary.
Geralt kicked the door open.
"Ah," a voice purred. "Right on time."
Luka sat at a table, his boots propped comfortably atop it. His fingers steepled beneath his chin. The mage looked exactly as Geralt remembered.
Nothing out of place. Almost too perfect.
Geralt looked forward to kicking Luka's teeth in.
Across the room—
"Geralt!"
The witcher turned to see Jaskier tied to a chair. The red cloak was wrapped around the bard.
The cloak swallowed his shoulders; it shimmered faintly with enchantment, embroidery stitched in symbols.
A basket sat overturned at Jaskier's feet. Apples rolled across the floor.
Geralt's vision went red.
"You touch him," Geralt growled, sword already half-drawn, "and I will flay you until nothing can recognize you—not even Death itself."
Luka chuckled. "Such devotion."
Geralt stepped forward. The air resisted him, thick as tar.
"What did you do?" Geralt demanded.
"Oh, I—" Luka gestured lazily around the room. "I merely helped the town embrace a story. It was already dying to tell. People crave narrative, witcher. Meaning. Structure. Someone to decide who they are."
Jaskier strained against the bindings. "Geralt, don't listen to him."
With the flick of his wrist, Luka moved an apple, shoving it into Jaskier's mouth. A makeshift gag.
"But you should listen to me," Luka said lightly, the same way one discusses the weather. He rose, pacing toward the book. Its pages fluttered as if sensing Geralt's presence. "Because you, White Wolf, were always part of this."
Geralt's grip tightened on his sword. "Careful."
Luka opened the book. There was a new page. Still Jaskier as Little Red Riding Hood, but this time, the wolf could be seen.
Geralt was the wolf.
On the page, Geralt was about to devour Jaskier.
"No," Geralt whispered. As Luka got a wicked grin across his face, he started to mutter something.
Jaskier spat the apple onto the ground. "Geralt!"
The witcher arched his back; something changed in the air. Luka used magic to undo the binds. Jaskier stood up suddenly, first rubbing his wrists, where slight purple bruises already bloomed.
Jaskier tried to remove the cloak, only to find it stuck. "Geralt, I would very much like to leave."
Suddenly, Geralt shot up. The witcher's eyes now held something animalistic, something hungry.
Clearly, it was something hungry for Jaskier.
"Run, little bard," Luka whispered.
With no other choice, Jaskier took off into the woods. Geralt followed quickly after.
It was time for the big bad wolf to hunt Little Red Riding Hood.
The forest twisted as Jaskier ran.
The bard's breath came out heavy as he ran. Branches clawed at his sleeves, yet it did nothing to break the costume. The red cloak dragged behind Jaskier like a bleeding wound.
Jaskier's legs felt heavy, and his lungs burned as he ran. But Jaskier knew he couldn't stop.
Behind him—
A snarl.
Low and wet. It made something in Jaskier curdle with terror.
"Geralt!" Jaskier shouted, ducking behind a tree to try to hide. "Geralt, please listen to me!"
The woods answered with a crash as Geralt burst from the fog. Except it wasn't the witcher Jaskier knew and loved.
It was the wolf.
Geralt moved like a predator, his eyes fixed on Jaskier. A hunger that would only be satisfied with Jaskier's flesh.
Predator.
Prey.
Inevitable.
Jaskier stumbled over a branch, hitting the ground with a loud thud.
"Okay, okay, this is very bad," Jaskier gasped, scrambling backwards. "This is not the kind of roleplay I agreed to."
Geralt prowled closer, his lips pulled upward to bare his teeth. Saliva dripped onto the forest floor.
Geralt pulled at Jaskier's legs until the bard was under him. Whatever birds remained in the woods scattered into the sky as Jaskier screamed when Geralt held his wrists.
"Geralt," Jaskier whispered. "You have to listen to me."
Moving his head down, Geralt smelled the bard.
Something in Jaskier broke, and he smiled. "I love you."
Jaskier knew that this was likely going to be the end for him. Some part of Jaskier wondered if Geralt was still in there somewhere. Jaskier knew how much self-loathing Geralt suffered from every day.
Julian didn't want Geralt's last memory of the bard to be one of terror.
"I love you," Julian said, tears pricking his eyes. "Okay. No matter what, remember that I love you."
Magic pricked the air.
"ENOUGH!" Yennefer's familiar voice boomed.
The red cloak around Jaskier crumbled away from Yennefer's counter-magic. Geralt's eyes went back to normal. Like something sharp had hit the witcher, he moved back.
"Jaskier," Geralt whispered, moving forward to check the bard over for any injury. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The words kept falling out. "I didn't want to do it," Geralt said, looking Jaskier in the eyes. "I never want to hurt you."
Gently, Jaskier moved his hand to rub Geralt's back. "I know," Jaskier whispered.
Yennefer walked up toward the two. "Well, this is sweet." Yennefer's voice was a mixture of genuine happiness for the two idiots finally getting their romantic feelings together and half-annoyance. "I found the counter-spell."
"We can end this," Geralt said, getting to his feet before helping Jaskier up. "But first, I need you to get Jaskier far away."
"What?" Jaskier said, moving to argue. "I can help."
Geralt's voice shook. "I need you to be safe."
Jaskier was about to say something else, but stopped himself. This was something the witcher needed. Yennefer's hands twitched as she opened a portal.
"Come now, bard," she said. Geralt watched as Jaskier and Yennefer left.
Back in the cottage, Luka sat at the table, flipping through the book. Wondering what story to tell next.
In town, there was the cobbler's daughter—a perfect Cinderella.
Or a pair of twins would make a wonderful Hansel and Gretel.
A cold wind blew through the cottage; each candle flickered out.
"Hello?" Luka said, fear inching its way closer. A loud thud caused Luka to turn toward it.
In the shadows, yellow eyes looked back at the mage.
"Boo," Geralt whispered.
That was the last time anyone ever heard of Luka.
Winter came early in the mountains.
Snow dusted the path to Kaer Morhen in pale layers, softening the jagged stone and muting the world until even the wind seemed hesitant.
Geralt rode ahead, Roach's breath steaming in the cold, every step crunching against frost-hardened earth.
Behind him, Jaskier trudged along on foot, wrapped in furs far too practical for his taste.
"This," Jaskier announced, breaking the long stretch of silence, "is barbaric."
Geralt glanced back at his lover with a faint smile. "You'll live."
"Yes," Jaskier said, tightening the scarf around his neck. "But at what cost?"
Geralt snorted.
They reached the gates just before dusk. Kaer Morhen loomed as it always did—ancient and broken, yet stubbornly standing.
Jaskier stopped short to stare up. "So this is it," he murmured. "Your mysterious fortress."
"Home," Geralt answered.
Jaskier looked up. "It's beautiful," the bard whispered.
Geralt moved his hands until they found Jaskier's. "I'm glad you came," Geralt said.
Jaskier smiled back at Geralt. "Me too."
For once in Geralt's life, it seemed like his story was going to end happily ever after.