Six Months Ago
It takes a while for Geralt to get used to walking on four legs. Most of the trip down the mountain is a struggle, tripping over his own feet and ending up face-first in the dirt. It's humiliating, and he's glad that nobody's watching.
At least, he hopes nobody is. He has a sneaking suspicion that Yennefer knows exactly where he is and is laughing at every misstep and frustrated yelp.
It takes nearly two days for Geralt to get back down to the inn where he'd stabled Roach. Unsurprisingly, she isn't there anymore, and instead the familiar scent of lilac and gooseberries hangs in the air.
That bitch.
Geralt huffs, sitting back on his haunches and looking around. It's nearing dinner time, and the scent of roasted meat floats out the front door of the inn, along with the sound of music. For a second Geralt thinks it's Jaskier, but the anxious hope in his chest dwindles as a woman starts to sing instead.
"Get away from there!" A shout draws Geralt's attention away from the inn and toward the man who's grooming the horses and glaring at him. Geralt's about to ask the man who the hell he thinks he's talking to when a growl rumbles through him instead. Oh, he thinks, looking down at his paws. Right.
"Don't make me get my crossbow," the man warns, grabbing a broom from the stall and holding it out in front of him. "Go'on, git."
Geralt snarls and takes a few steps toward the man, who yelps and backs into the stall, eyes wide. The terrified expression on his face is almost enough to satisfy Geralt's annoyance, so he snaps at the man once, then turns around and prowls off into the night.
Life as a wolf isn't much different than what Geralt's used to. He sleeps less, and tends to travel more at night, but all things considered it's very much the same. Sleep, eat, hunt, travel – except now instead of hunting monsters, he's hunting Jaskier.
At first, he tries to follow Jaskier's trail away from the Pensive Dragon. He manages to keep it until just outside the town, but after that, the scent is mixed in with too many other things. Geralt keeps going east, occasionally finding a hastily covered campsite or some familiar footprints, but he's never quite quick enough to catch up.
After that, he starts listening for news of Jaskier. People tend to talk about him – both praising his music and cursing his philandering – so Geralt picks up bits and pieces of conversation from people on the road. He's never able to catch up, though. Every time he finds a new town, Jaskier's already gone.
Weeks go by, and it gets harder and harder to remember. Some nights Geralt wanders aimlessly, only realizing the next day that he's supposed to be heading to the next town to find Jaskier. Other times he'll drift away from Jaskier's path to follow an unknown scent and end up lost in an unfamiliar forest for several days.
One evening, Geralt wakes up covered in snow. He grumbles, shaking the flakes from his fur and looking up at the grey sky. Something feels off, and there's a longing sensation that aches in his chest and makes him feel anxious.
He's supposed to be looking for something.
There's a flash at the corner of his mind – bright blue, a piece of a song – but he doesn't know why. Geralt growls, turning in circles and looking around the woods. Nothing is familiar.
There's a rustle in the bushes nearby, and the fleeting thoughts of music are gone, replaced entirely by hunger and the thrill of a chase.
Days blur together.
Eat, sleep, hunt.
Hunting rabbits, hunting deer, supposed to be hunting something else.
He's lost, and he lost something.
Eat, sleep, hunt.
Humans are dangerous.
They take and take, and chase and shout. There are words and he should know them, but they're just sounds. Angry sounds. But this time the sound is frightened, and something tugs at his chest, pulls him out of the woods and toward the road.
Men are there. Three of them, with sharp things that will hurt. Hurt him, hurt the other two who stink of fear. A woman, screaming – the frightened sound. Something in him whispers protect and then he's between them, snarling with a mouth full of blood and something pointed at him.
More shouts, sharp and angry, then a loud sound and pain in his leg. His own blood.
One of the men falls to the ground. Something appears from the trees – another man, quick and deadly. Stealing his kill. He pounces first, something cracks, he snarls and sinks teeth deep into skin.
After a minute he growls and drops the body, then looks up at the other man.
Blue eyes stare back at him and he tilts his head, curious. He knows the eyes and he recognizes this man's scent – light, like trees when it rains. Then the man says something, and the shape of the words fit into an empty space that wasn't there before.
He wants the man to touch him.
But humans are dangerous, even ones with eyes like the sky, so he turns and limps away, back into the forest.
The man follows him.
He snarls and backs away, giving in to fear instead of curiosity. Usually baring his teeth is enough to scare away anyone – even other wolves – but the man doesn't smell afraid. The man smells like home. A frustrated whine breaks out of him and he backs up again, pulling his injured leg close.
It becomes a game. The man says something, and he wants to listen but lets doubt pull him back each time. Sharp teeth and claws don't scare the man, and no matter how many times he's growled at, he won't leave.
Eventually the man tugs something out of his bag and holds it out to him. Food. He's not stupid. Food from humans is always a trap and he has the scars to prove it. But this man doesn't seem frightening or frightened, just sits down on the ground, hands out, offering him the meat. It's frustrating. He growls again but it does nothing.
Instead the man starts to hum.
Be honest. How's my singing?
His ears flick forward at both the flash of memory and the familiar melody. The man laughs, says something else, then tilts his head to the side and begins to sing.
It's hypnotic. The words don't make sense, but the voice is clear and soft, and suddenly it's as if he's somewhere else, somewhere dark and crowded, and deft fingers are moving over strings, and he's in the corner watching the man sing.
I was looking for you, he thinks. I'm lost. I lost you.
Before he realizes what's happening, he's limping across the grass, moving closer to the voice that's filling that empty place in him again. As he gets closer, the words start to take shape, and by the time he's close enough for the man to touch him, he realizes that he can understand them.
...this maiden so fair and the flower so rare
together they grew in the valley...
The memories keep coming in pieces – bright colors, soft fingers, loud laughter. Bits of a puzzle he doesn't understand. When the song comes to an end, he stays where he is, staring at the man and desperately trying to remember.
"Good boy." The voice is so, so familiar, and the man's eyes are so kind. The food is offered again, and he takes it carefully because his teeth are sharp, and humans are soft. "There you go."
I know you, he thinks. I know you, who are you?
He moves closer, sniffing at the man and nosing at his hands to try and jog the memories that are sitting right out of reach. "Oh, so now you want to be friends," the man says, laughing. "I don't have anything else. Let me look at your leg first, and then I'll go find us something to eat."
His leg. The pain had been pushed away by confusion before, but when he looks down at the sharp thing and the blood, it hurts again. The hesitation from before is gone, though. He knows the man. The man is safe.
"Why aren't you afraid of me?" the man asks. There are gentle fingers in his fur, and he nudges the man's hand. "Actually, the better question is, why aren't I afraid of you?"
The man should be afraid of him – other humans are. But this one is different, and when careful fingers find the bloody wound and he says, "Don't you dare bite me," the only response he gets is a soft woof.
I could never hurt you.
There's a sharp pain and a gentle pressure on the wound, and the man's voice keeps going, soft and soothing. "You're being very brave," he says, fingers moving through soft fur. "If I'd been shot with a crossbow – well, I was one time, and it wasn't pretty. First of all, Geralt was pissed..."
Geralt.
His name. That's his name. It hits him hard, and more memories start to appear in fragmented pieces – weapons and monsters and this man, always this man.
"... couldn't just say thank you Jaskier, you're so helpful..."
Jaskier.
Jaskier and Geralt.
"Better?" Jaskier finishes tying off the bandage and Geralt takes a second to inspect it. Then he licks Jaskier's hand, shuffling closer and wishing he could speak.
I know you, he thinks. I lost you and now I've found you, and I'm never letting you leave me again.
He still can't remember why Jaskier is so important to him, but the urge to save the humans earlier is nothing compared to the fierce protective urge that swells inside of him now. Geralt moves closer as Jaskier continues to scratch behind his ears, and eventually ends up with his head in Jaskier's lap.
This is right. He doesn't need to search anymore, because he belongs right here.
Jaskier is his home.
