Notes:

Head cannon is as follows: Geralt has slight fangs that are just inhuman enough to be called such; Jaskier can be quite feral and scrappy but it breaks his artist's heart to cause pain to any creature, human or otherwise; Geralt refuses to call the bard his friend to protect him; silver isn't just for monsters and steel isn't just for humans; Jaskier's personality is mostly pulled from the TV show, Geralt's facial scars deserve a better backstory than a cockatrice; who knows how old Jaskier really is and why.


There was something very different about the Leshen across the clearing.

Most of the time, they were voracious hunters, true monsters, living only to kill any who breached the forest wall. They would destroy anything intruding in their realm with a vengeance, often bringing their rage against all things unlucky enough to get in the way. Between their strength and the very wildlife and trees that responded to their calls, not much could stop them from painting their spikes and antlers with blood and gore.

Which is why the Leshen he faced was so very strange.

It could have attacked him ten times already. It could have made root and beak and tooth drive into his skull. It could have disappeared into a pillar of smoke and vanished, out of sight and out of range.

It did nothing.

In fact, it had barely moved since Geralt had stumbled across its lair like a blind child. It seemed to stare at him from the cavernous maws that made up its face, the grotesque deer skull cocked to the side, almost curious but for the sheer malice that tainted the air. Gritting his teeth, the Witcher kept his silver blade loosely crossed in front of him and ignored the vibrations of his Wolf's Head against his armor. He was growling at the pendant nearly as much as his quarry, annoyed. He knew there was magic here, something deep and welling from the relict staring sightlessly at him.

Or at least, he was fairly certain there was.

The silver medallions were themselves not fully understood. Cast with magic and forge, their uses were primarily to identify the Guild and School Witchers hailed from, and mostly vibrated in the presence of sorcery and chaotic power. The slight shift was usually enough to warn even the most distracted Witcher that there was something dangerous nearby.

Not always, though.

He'd carried the medallion long enough to know it could do more. Silver and enchanted, the chain and pendant itself protected his throat from monstrous attacks. Relics lost to memory and time would emit a soft glow as he walked past, the emanations just visible to his enhanced eyes. And in the rarest of cases, it would vibrate when he found himself at a crossroads, morally or otherwise, warning him that there were consequences unforeseen surrounding him.

Fickle, the thing was, and he had no idea what was causing it to tremble against his chest now.

When the Leshen lashed out with roots like whips, he found himself unable to ponder the situation further. It only took one of his slow heartbeats to sink into a familiar pattern. It wasn't the first time he'd fought one of these creatures – far from it, as he'd brought down two in the last season – but it was the first time he'd engaged in a battle with another pulse pounding in his ears. The rapid thud came from only a few dozen meters behind him, almost drowned out by hitched breaths, and Geralt cursed loudly.

It was an accident, finding this Leshen. There was no contract here, nothing more than the utterly humiliating fact that he'd finally given in to his companion's constant nagging about returning to their room at the inn. He had decided to cut through the forest instead of sticking to the paths, eager to return, as well, if only to ensure Roach was safely where he'd stabled her. The jaunt into the wilds had been for nothing more than hunting game, a pastime that had saved them a bit of coin on food. The fortunate side effect of temporarily escaping the townspeople's racist and near-violent attitudes was a bonus. Their song hadn't changed even after Geralt had dealt with the horde of drowners and rotfiends which had taken up residence in the nearby bog. So they'd hunted – rather, Jaskier had sat tuning his lute while Geralt dressed a young buck who'd fallen to his trap – and eaten their fill, selling the rest on the road to a hungry farmer and his family. The sun was still high enough that he didn't much fear anything in the woods this close to the village.

He was a fool.

They had let them go too easily – he knew that. He knew there was something beyond the usual anger and distrust towards his kind. It was obvious in the deep frowns of the men, the pinched faces of the women, the old fear in the children hiding behind skirts. There was terror in the village, yes, but not solely of him or the necrophages he'd dispatched. And it was old, a multigenerational shadow that had settled firmly over the small village of Ursten. Not even their relative proximity to Novigrad or the enthusiasm and optimism of the Witcher Ballads that fell from Jaskier's mouth could sway that fear. He should have known at that point that there was something considerably more ill in the wilds than the necrophages.

Twice a fool, then.

So Jaskier was with him, pressed against a thick birch's trunk at the edge of the clearing, nothing more than a simple silver dagger in his hands for protection. That flimsy thing wouldn't do anything against the Leshen itself, provided no protection against the ravens flocking overhead, and wouldn't defend well enough against the wolves that were circling them restlessly. The bard couldn't run – they would catch him – and he couldn't ride a horse that was two leagues away. And no matter how much he valued Roach's insistence on responding to his whistle even across oceans, he didn't doubt the reality of the fact that the mare would not be coming this time.

He'd fucked up.

The unfamiliar sensation of shame was flooding him. His armor was made of thickened leather and steel, a master craftsman ensuring it was light but strong, allowing him economy of movement and speed. But he still felt weighed down by it, his steps almost stumbling through the thick grass. He bit out a harsh curse as he jumped back almost too late, preoccupied but avoiding a clawed hand that sought to topple his head from his shoulders. Inside his gloves, his palms were slick. There was an uncomfortable prickle as sweat beaded on his forehead and slipped down his face. The sun wasn't terribly warm, but it still felt like hellfire beating down on him.

Anger caused this, an emotion he well knew.

The breeze of a passing attack soothed his skin for a moment, the long hair on the sides of his head almost drying in the wake of the miss. At the base of his neck, the gathered locks stayed bound in its tie, thankfully remaining out of his face, and he grunted as he parried an extrinsic attack. Two ravens fell in pieces, one sharpened toe slicing through him easily. A waterfall of blood dripped over his right eye and he grimaced against the startling sting. A sudden snap of jaws and claws from the side took him to the ground, the bracer on his right arm taking the brunt of the attack. It took him a moment to twist enough to get his sword into the warg's gut, and by the time he stood, there was another new bite of pain on his face across the bridge of his nose.

The Leshen hesitated for a moment, and Geralt exhaled heavily, shifting his blade from his right hand to his left. The burning throb in his forearm proved his fear – the bones were cracked, though not fully broken – and he ground his teeth at the abrupt weariness that swamped his system. He'd been fighting for an hour, now. It didn't seem that long; gods knew he had suffered more extended fights. But the Leshen was growing stronger as daylight waned and twilight began to creep upon them. In other fights, any other situation, he was able to move without much strategy beyond self-preservation and drawing more blood than his enemy. Now, that was impossible.

It was obvious that there was a modicum of intelligence in the monster. It had tested his defenses at first, checked his reach, and then dipped towards the human at the edge of the woods with an otherworldly chirp. The brutal attack Geralt had launched at that point had surprised both himself and the bard. Even as the Leshen began to backpedal, the Witcher had stayed close to the other man, glancing at him over his shoulder to ensure his welfare.

That act had set the tone for the entire fight. He knew it would, knew he'd fucked up yet again. But even Vesemir's shouted warnings in his memory couldn't stop him from keeping himself between the human and Leshen for the rest of the fight. It was a decision he regretted, if only for the need. The bard had followed him for years, now – protecting him was as secondary an act as breathing. And Jaskier wasn't entirely incapable himself. During some less monstrous, more ordinary attacks, he'd successfully defended his life from bandits and highwaymen with his lute as a shield and his sharp dagger dancing like a silverfish in the air. He never killed, though. He left that painful decision or task to Geralt, once it was determined if sparing their attackers wouldn't conversely enable their own demise. And then there'd be either some sullen silence as the romance of travelling died a little more, or a loud and boisterous cry regarding his ruined clothing.

But this was nothing Jaskier could handle, nothing he could survive, and so the decision made was one stood for wholeheartedly.

Geralt blew out a sharp breath between his teeth. His side was aching from one particularly vicious hit he hadn't quite managed to deflect, but he forced himself to acknowledge it. Pain was easy – it was something he could predict and compartmentalize and control, so long as it was addressed. But his fr-, no Jaskier, he had no such training.

The only way to make sure the bard came to no harm was to finish the fight quickly. But against this creature, he wasn't confident he could do so without help. He was competent enough to recognize that he was gradually being pushed back and overwhelmed by sheer force and numbers. So when he had pressed the Leshen back to a stagger, his hand darted to the pouch on his hip that held a selection of small vials. Clutching three in a tight fist, Geralt tore the corks off with a flash of his fangs and poured them down his throat with abandon, almost choking on the instant burning.

Shrike. Rebis' Blizzard. Tawny Owl.

It was a dangerous combination, an emergency grouping he'd only used once before. The Shrike shared pain between combatants, an aggravating discomfort to him but debilitating to the Leshen, while the Blizzard brewed with Rebis boosted his reflexes and speed. The Tawny Owl increased his stamina, allowing him to suffer the effects of the other two potions while staying a half step ahead of the detractions they forced upon him. The mix forced the toxicity in his blood to the top of his threshold in two breaths.

Dangerous.

Dangerous, but necessary.

Senses heightened, eyes like midnight and skin like snow, Geralt snarled at the molten steel crawling through his bones and veins. Lunging forward with his silver sword, he spun through a flurry of attacks and dodges, one ear ceaselessly trained on the human behind him. It was more difficult than he remembered to push through the Shrike pulsing through him, and he cursed himself his weakness. This would be too close, and he couldn't afford close. The taste of defeat, he was acquainted with well enough. He did not succeed in every contract he accepted. He had scars upon his skin that were due to miscalculations and mistakes. He could survive losing this fight, so long as he was able to retreat. But he couldn't retreat. Not successfully, not while hauling the bard along with him. There was winning, or dying. There was no grey area.

Nothing prepared him for the sudden gasp of shock behind him.

No vibrating medallion or Witcher senses or supernatural prediction could have warned him it was coming. Nor could he have done anything to adequately prepare himself for the sight he whirled upon.

Jaskier was no longer huddled in the relative safety of the shadow of the birch. Instead, roots had snaked up and out of the ground, twisting around his ankles and arms, pulling him down and into the lowering light of the clearing with no gentleness. There were barbs along the wooden limbs, and they sliced along his skin effortlessly, flaying open his arms and shoulders as they climbed higher towards his throat.

The silver dagger laid forgotten in the grass.

The bard's blue eyes were wide and terrified, his mouth hanging open in shock, and he managed to raise one constricted arm slightly, reaching for the Witcher.

Who was frozen, voided eyes glittering, hand loose around the hilt of his sword, as he watched the bard – his friend, he so often refused to acknowledge – grow covered in thorned wood.

What burst forth from the White Wolf's chest was a howl eerily reminiscent of his namesake, followed by a dangerous open mouth roar that promised blood. Even nearly feral with fear and rage and toxins, Geralt's mind focused on the problem cleanly.

Kill the Leshen, erase the danger.

The ferocity of his movements was nearly tactile, a force of nature on its own, and he lashed out at the relict with bared teeth and flowing anger. But even as the seconds ticked by and his blade cut into the creature again and again, it wasn't enough.

Behind him, he heard Jaskier's breathless scream, the sound raising the hairs on the back of his neck like a dog's hackles, and he pushed himself harder. He switched his sword back to his dominant hand – he was strong in both, though he had a firmer overhead with his right. When the blade crashed into the solid wooden form before him, the bones in his right arm audibly snapped. Hissing in pain, Geralt jerked back, almost dropping his weapon. He shifted it to his off hand again, instead, his forearm coming up of its own volition to press against his chest to try and protect it. Through the disorienting haze of overwhelming focus in a dizzy world, he heard the damned thing laugh. The monster before him was something older than an age, he realized far too belatedly, and born of magic. It was ancient, powerful, and, worst of all, vindictive.

As this revelation cooled his senses for a moment, the Leshen raised a stocky wooden arm and cast a fucking spell.

Dodging the shadowy waves of unknown sorcery, Geralt immediately realized his mistake. He had been trying to protect Jaskier. By placing himself between Jaskier and the Leshen.

Driven by instinct and training and the potions in his blood, he dodged.

Time slowed.

Spinning on his heel, Geralt's midnight gaze stared at the ripples of energy and chaos crossing the glen. They were unerringly aimed. Beyond them, unable to move, Jaskier's struggles against the vines and limbs holding him had stilled, a low whimper of fear echoing through the still air. He was nearly entirely bound now, more blood sliding down his skin, and as the wave of energy crawled through the air towards him, he fixed his eyes on Geralt.

The trust there broke the Witcher.

He remembered one particular exchange with the bard, not too long before, in an inn that had shit beer and tepid water, yet the memory nevertheless warmed something deep inside him.

"I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me."

"And yet, here we are."

Here they were, indeed.

Enhanced reflexes meant he could move fast, nearly faster than the eye could track. So he took full advantage and growled at destiny and fate and every bullshit thing in the world that dared to try to wipe the bard's music from the world. He wouldn't let it happen. Not today.

Geralt stabbed his silver sword into the ground before him and raised both hands in asymmetrical movements. Fingers crossed into Signs, the act as ingrained as a heartbeat, and with a hoarse shout, he threw his palms forward. Normally, he could only cast one Sign at a time, the pull at his core too strong to handle more, the recovery afterward varying depending on how much effort he'd expended upon it.

But now he had Shrike provoking his adrenaline, Blizzard allowing his hands to move quicker, and Tawny Owl deepening the well of his core to blue-black depths.

His right hand thrust towards the Leshen, a powerful blast of Axii stunning it long enough to be consumed by the absolute firewall of Igni that engulfed it immediately after; he didn't even feel the grinding crunch in his bones at the motion. He didn't register the sucking heat as the whole of the forest behind the monster lit up like old hay in a lightning storm. His left hand threw a circle of Yrden directly in front of the bard while a sun-bright Quen shield phased into immediate existence overtop his skin.

His fingers still moving, he performed an inverted Aard and shoved both hands forward with a strained shout, something inhuman, feeling and ignoring the nauseating sensation of something in his chest cracking.

"Brother!"

He didn't know if he said it, or Jaskier, or both of them.

The malicious spell slowed, skimmed through the purple trap with another stagger, and it crashed upon Jaskier with less power, weakened by the Yrden on the ground.

But Quen was never made to defend against magical attacks. It was a chaos shield against physical blades and fists, but would wink out at the first touch of magic.

Geralt's other choice was to let the bard die without a fight.

And that wasn't an option.

When the black magic shattered the combat Sign, Jaskier screamed.

The clearing flared with light and sound.

Waves of power echoed through the forest.

And everything was still. Far, far too still.