Chapter Text
There was a ringing in the air, like the chiming of many bells. It seemed to be coming from everywhere. Jaskier stood in the middle of the woods and slowly turned a full circle, unable to pinpoint the sound, but knowing it was important that he did so. Around him, old growth trees towered and blocked out the sun. It left the forest floor littered with twigs and leaves, pine needles and moss, but very little other plant life. Lichen clung to the bark of the huge red cedars and hemlocks, giving them a look like they’d been dusted with a paintbrush.
As he moved carefully between the trees, the ringing intensified, sounding now like it was above him, swaying through the branches of the trees. It changed pitch until it became a chorus of sound, breaking in and out of harmony in a wild flight of notes before dissipating into one clear, continuous peal that sounded straight ahead.
He picked up his pace until he was running towards it, something telling him that if he didn’t reach it before it stopped, he would be lost here, in these darkening woods. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he realized that that was more true than he realized – there was a blanket of mist following behind him, eating up his view of the woods as he fled before it.
Jaskier picked up his pace.
The bell-like tone began to fade.
Just as he thought it would disappear completely, he saw the edge of the treeline. He reached out his hand, tears rising unbidden to his eyes as he tried to run faster. The breath seemed to catch in his throat as his feet tripped on the roots now rising from the ground. A sob lodged in his chest as the ringing stopped and the mist touched the back of his neck, chilling him instantly.
He shook his head and grit his teeth, heedless of the way the forest seemed to be closing in around him now. The edge seemed to be fading from his view and panic made him leap forward, tumbling out into the wide field that lay beyond it.
It was a meadow, lit by the sun that couldn’t reach the forest floor behind him. He hit the ground hard on his knees, skidding forward and losing his balance, rolling onto his side as he slid to a stop. Behind him, at the very edge of the forest, he glimpsed a great black shape, red eyes and sharp teeth, distorted by the mist that surrounded it like a mantle, but when he blinked it was gone.
When he blinked again, he was staring up at the ceiling of his apartment. He squinted at it, confused. He knew it was his – the collage of posters obscuring the huge water stain above his bed had been there since he’d moved in – but he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. When he tried to sit up, his entire left side lit up like a particularly painful Christmas tree. Bright red bursts of pain followed by yellow flashes of nausea.
He decided it wasn’t worth it and laid back down.
Carefully, he turned his head to take in the rest of the room and his heart nearly seized in his chest as the shadow from his dream rose from a chair near the door. Now heedless of the pain lancing down his side, he flailed backwards across the bed, slipping off the far side and landing on the floor in a tangle of limbs and sheets. Thrashing wildly, he managed to unwrap himself from the sheet only to look up into wide amber eyes as the dark figure rounded the end of his bed, palms up in a placating gesture.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, stepping closer but stopping as Jaskier quickly moved backwards until he hit the wall.
“Yeah? That’s what the last guy said and then he bit me in the fucking arm!” Jaskier retorted, voice rising as the pain throbbed through him. He stared at the man, taking in the details slowly as his brain tried to filter out the red, red, red of the horrible ache in his arm.
Amber eyes. Pale blonde hair. Biker jacket? Scars. Oh. Oh.
“You’re the guy from the bar,” he whispered.
The man grimaced. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you. But you’re bleeding again. And if you aren’t careful, you’ll rip the stitches out, if you haven’t already.”
Jaskier considered this for a moment, his attention suddenly taken up entirely by the screaming agony that was his arm and shoulder. When he twisted his head to look at it, he could see the bandage wrapped around him and the red slowly bleeding through.
“That – that might be a good idea,” his voice came out shakier than he intended. But he still shrank back on himself when the other man offered him help and Jaskier waited until he backed away, hands still held up in supplication. Slowly, he pushed himself up off the unforgiving hardwood floor with his one good arm, struggling briefly as he got his balance back and his feet under him, and sat back onto his bed.
As he sat there, contemplating his life choices, the other man slowly stepped forward, still looking at him with concern and trepidation.
“How much do you remember from yesterday?” His voice was cautious, careful, like he was trying not to spook Jaskier too much.
He frowned. That seemed like a loaded question.
“That seems like something you'd ask someone you either hope forgot everything or you're about to tell really bad news to,” he answered, staring up at the amber eyed, blond stranger standing in his bedroom. “Which is it?”
The man frowned, an expression that looked permanently etched on his face, given the easy way the lines creased around his mouth and between his eyes. Jaskier had the irrational urge to reach out and try to smooth them away.
Instead he flared his nostrils, breathing in deeply and picking out the different scents swirling through the air. Leather and blood. Cinnamon and burnt sugar. Anger and sorrow.
What the fuck?
“It’s an instinct,” the man said, breaking into Jaskier’s suddenly wildly spiraling thoughts. “You’re going to notice them happening more.”
“What the entire fuck does that mean?” Jaskier asked, voice on the edge of hysteria. When the other opened his mouth to answer, he shook his head. “No, no, let’s start again. Who are you and why are you in my room?” He frowned, jagged shards of memory breaking free to stab at his consciousness. “And who were the other two - Lambert and… and Eskel? And why did they know my name?”
He could feel his breathing getting more erratic, but he couldn’t stop it. All at once he could hear them again, arguing about breaking the connection and him dying. And then the horrible, wriggling sensation under his skin, like something was trying to crawl out or break free from inside of him.
Warm hands were on either side of his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks in a measured rhythm while a deep voice resonated from somewhere beyond his unfocused vision.
“Jaskier. Jaskier! You need to slow down - breathe deeper. You’re going to pass out. Come on, follow my breaths.”
He tried, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut and concentrating on the slow touch against his face. Eventually he managed to slow his breaths so they weren’t coming in sharp, painful pants that made him feel light-headed. When he opened his eyes, amber ones stared back at him, the lines around them now creased with concern, a lock of that pale blond-white hair fallen down over one eye.
“Geralt,” the man said after a long pause. “My name is Geralt.” He stood back up, taking the warmth of his hands with him and Jaskier felt momentarily bereft. “My packmates knew your name because we overheard your coworker say it at the bar.” He looked away, down at the floor, at the wall, out the window, anywhere but at Jaskier. “It’s my fault you got hurt.”
Jaskier snorted. “I highly doubt that. We don’t even know each other. Besides,” he waved a hand between them. “Just because I flirted with you doesn’t make you special. I flirt with a lot of people.”
But no one special. No one who would keep me, he thought, but didn't say, the yearning and hope an old hurt that he had long practice keeping bottled up and ruthlessly sealed away.
He watched as Geralt’s hands flexed, balling into fists before relaxing, over and over, like he was trying to express some emotion he didn’t know how to name.
“That’s… not exactly true,” he finally said, still staring out the window at the slowly brightening day. “So, the question is actually important.” He blew out a breath, lips twitching in what might be generously called a smile. “What do you remember?”
Jaskier considered Geralt for a long moment as he prodded at the memories that he had been unconsciously shying away from. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the door behind him flew open, bouncing off the wall and nearly smacking the newcomer in the face as they entered.
Both Geralt and Jaskier turned to stare at the intruder, though Jaskier gasped in pain as the movement jostled his shoulder, reminding him that he was still bleeding and injured. He clutched his arm closer to his chest in an effort to stem the wave of red hot pain that rolled through him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” an angry Lambert blurted out as he stepped forward, hands raised in much the same way as Geralt’s had been when Jaskier woke up. “He’s fucking bleeding again and you’re just standing there like a fucking idiot!”
Before Jaskier could correct him - or say anything else, for that matter - Lambert was already pushing him back against the headboard, rough hands gentle as they unwound the stained bandages. He frowned at the still sluggishly bleeding wound. Jaskier turned his head away, the smell of his own blood almost overwhelming in the enclosed space. He glanced over at Geralt who’d picked up a clean roll of bandages and gauze and was patiently holding them out to Lambert as he re-wrapped the injury.
When he was finished, Lambert sat back and glared at Geralt. “You had one job, dumbass.”
Geralt rolled his eyes and gestured to Jaskier. “Yes, but he wouldn’t let me. And unlike some, I respect people’s boundaries.”
Lambert scowled before looking momentarily stricken. “Uh. I uh,” he started.
Jaskier took pity on him as the pain subsided and he relaxed back into the mountain of pillows he kept on his bed. “It’s okay. Geralt startled me, is all. I wasn’t expecting a stranger in my room and I freaked out.”
“Hmm,” Geralt added helpfully.
“So…” Lambert dragged the word out, looking between the two of them as he stood back up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed to wrap Jaskier’s shoulder. “Uh. Did he - does he…?”
Jaskier looked back and forth between them as Geralt shook his head.
“Do I what?” he asked.
There was a moment of what seemed like an almost embarrassed silence, before Lambert spoke again.
“Well I’m not going to tell him. This is why we sent you in.”
It was Geralt’s turn to scowl.
Jaskier decided this would be funny if it wasn’t also so ominous.
“Well one of you is going to tell me what the fuck is going on before I just make something up.”
Geralt’s lips twitched again as Lambert actually barked a laugh out loud. They stared at each other a moment more, seeming to communicate through narrowed eyes and slight frowning before Geralt sighed and nodded.
“You’re… being hunted. Or you were. Maybe you still are, we’re not sure,” Lambert started, glancing uncertaintly at Geralt. “But we thought we could get to you first.”
“That obviously didn’t happen,” Jaskier muttered.
Geralt grimaced. “We tracked him from the bar to the cemetery - the man who hurt you - but we should have been following you. Should have kept you safe.” He turned eyes full of regret on Jaskier. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and it was almost a whisper. “I’m sorry for what’s about to happen.”
An uneasy feeling started to curl in Jaskier’s gut.
“What’s going to happen?” he asked cautiously. “You said… wait. You said it was an instinct. What does that mean?”
Again the two men - Witchers some part of his brain hissed - had a conversation with only their eyes and slight twitches of lips. Jaskier would have been more frustrated if he wasn’t so fascinated.
“He tried to use you. Tried to bind you to him so we couldn’t hurt him. Eskel broke the connection.” Geralt shrugged like that made any sense at all.
“What does that mean?” Jaskier could feel the scream building behind his teeth. Did all Witchers talk in riddles?
“It means,” a new voice said as Eskel entered the now crowded room. “That it is our duty to protect you. Like it should have been from the start. He’s changed you - set lose the magic inside that would have remained dormant without his interference - and tried to use it for himself.”
Jaskier felt himself reeling a bit from the strange tale they were telling him. “All right. But what, exactly, does that mean? Who was that guy? Why do I have this dormant magic in the first place? And why does anyone - especially you lot - want me?” The thought sent an unpleasant shiver through him. How long had he wanted to be wanted? Was this better or worse?
He looked over at Geralt, who was now looking even more guilty, though Jaskier hadn’t the slightest idea why. Eskel sighed.
“It’s… complicated.”
“Then explain it in small words.”
Eskel grinned faintly. “Your bloodline contains the abilities of lycanthropes - werewolves. But more than that, it’s one of the dynastic families. And to those who know how, it’s very powerful and can be exploited in very powerful ways.”
“But… but I’m just some guy,” Jaskier tried.
Lambert snorted. “Some guy with the dormant ability to make people immortal.”
Jaskier felt like someone had sucker punched him in the chest.
Eskel cleared his throat, an uncomfortable sound that made Jaskier look up. “There’s a bit more to it than that.”
“Okay?” Jaskier asked, his voice weaker than he thought possible. This was a lot to take in, but he had asked, after all.
It was Geralt who spoke next: “In order to break the connection to the person -”
“Asshole,” interjected Lambert.
“- who tried to bind you. We had to redirect the bond. It’s not as strong, and we don’t know exactly what the consequences are, but it was the only way to keep you from dying. Or something worse.”
“Is this - is this why I can smell better? Why anger has a scent?” Jaskier asked, almost absently.
“Yes,” Eskel answered, sounding cautious. “If it’s happening already, if it’s that strong already…”
“I know,” Geralt growled, anger and helplessness seeming to radiate from him. He turned back to Jaskier. “Your lycanthrope blood is pushing forward, it’s waking up and changing you.”
But that’s not what Jaskier was thinking of. He was turned inward, pushing through his own thoughts and feelings, trying to find any remnant of that horrible, crawling, worming sensation that had made his skin stretch too tight. Everywhere he concentrated, there was nothing - no trace of it - and it was only at the very back of his mind, in a tiny, neglected corner, that a tentative little spark flickered like the embers of a campfire.
He looked up, staring into amber-coloured eyes, framed by white-blond hair. Geralt looked back at him.
“You. The bond. It’s you.”