It's definitely a werewolf.
"Son of a bitch," Jaskier hisses as he ducks behind a ruined piece of the barn, reloading his crossbow as quickly as possible. Geralt, who is crouched behind him and growling softly, sniffs his arm where it's bleeding shallowly.
"I'm fine," Jaskier reassures him in a soft whisper. "It barely nicked me." Geralt whines in disagreement and licks at the wound, then headbutts Jaskier gently.
Jaskier peeks around the shattered wall he's hiding behind, keeping his breathing as quiet as possible as he scans the darkened rubble. Dagond the farmer, who had been completely useless on Geralt's whereabouts, had directed Jaskier up the hill to this lovely derelict building where he'd counted himself lucky to find only one werewolf.
"I've only got one left after this," Jaskier murmurs, running his fingers along the silver bolt in the crossbow. When Geralt whines at him, he sighs. "Look, I wasn't planning on fighting werewolves, was I? This really isn't my job – stupid Geralt and his stupid…" He trails off when Geralt tilts his head. "Not you, the other one."
There's a low snarl from the other side of the building and Jaskier quickly pulls back, motioning for Geralt to be silent as he shifts onto his knees. He's still not the most competent with a crossbow – before he'd met Geralt he'd never even held one, but he's used it a few times now, especially for hunting. Never for killing monsters, though.
Jaskier closes his eyes, exhaling quietly and trying to focus on the sound of the werewolf moving on the other side of the room. It's huge – nearly eight feet tall, with teeth longer than wolf Geralt's and claws that are razor-sharp, if the wound in Jaskier's arm is anything to go by.
A wooden beam on the other side of the room snaps and Jaskier's eyes fly open, tracking the bright, full moonlight across the room and catching the edge of a shadow.
"Gotcha," he hisses, pushing himself up from the crouch and taking aim, then loosing the bolt and praying it hits. He grins and looks down proudly at Geralt at the wet, squelching sound of the bolt sinking into the werewolf's fur, but the smile quickly turns sour when the beast lets out an ear-splitting roar.
"I think we just made it angry!" Jaskier yelps, ducking a piece of debris that's thrown their way and gesturing for Geralt to follow him through the hole in the wall and around the back of the building. Several abandoned farm implements in various stages of disuse are strewn here, and Jaskier quickly hops over the rusted pieces, scanning the area for anywhere to hide. Not that it'll be much use – the werewolf can smell them, and the only way Jaskier's going to take it down is with another crossbow bolt, or the silver knife strapped to his calf. He'd really rather not get close enough to use that, though.
The wall behind them explodes out in a shower of splinters and rusted nails, and Jaskier curses when he trips and stumbles to his knees, dropping the silver bolt. The werewolf snarls at him, backlit by the bright white light of the moon, and Jaskier's stomach fills with a cold, tight dread.
How the fuck did I manage to end up here? he curses, scrambling backward and feeling around for the crossbow bolt. The werewolf stalks toward him, teeth bared in a snarl, eyes wide and red. It lunges toward Jaskier and he reaches quickly for his dagger, but the werewolf never touches him. Instead, a deep growl is followed by a large, white body, and Geralt throws himself at the beast, knocking it backward and going for its throat.
"Be careful!" Jaskier shouts, pushing himself up and looking around for the bolt. It's nowhere to be seen and he tosses the crossbow down in frustration, drawing both his sword and the dagger.
Geralt snarls, teeth sinking into the werewolf's shoulder, and a chilling howl fills the air as blood starts to stain Geralt's muzzle. The werewolf shakes his head, then grabs at Geralt's neck with its unsettlingly humanoid hands, raking its claws down his back. Geralt yelps in pain, letting go of the werewolf's neck and kicking at it with his hind paws.
"Let him go!" Jaskier shouts, charging forward and ducking behind the beast. He drives his sword into its left leg, earning himself a pained roar. It has the intended effect, though, and the werewolf lets go of Geralt, throwing him away and turning to face Jaskier. "There you go, you ugly beast," Jaskier says, panting with exertion and adrenaline. "C'mon, let's see what you've got."
Geralt growls in pain, pushing away the searing ache along his back and stumbling to his feet. The werewolf's claws tore through his fur, and he can feel himself bleeding, bright red staining his white fur. He snarls, baring his teeth and shaking his head to clear his vision.
Something pulls at his mind and he whines, trying to push it away to focus on the fight. There's a deep, unsettling sense of wrongness to this all, and he can't quite figure out why. This is familiar. He knows this, he's done this before, but something's not quite right.
Jaskier's not quite right.
"There you go, you ugly beast."
Jaskier's voice rings out through the night and Geralt stumbles forward, following it back toward the fight. Jaskier is standing in front of the werewolf, leather cuirass stained with blood, curled hair matted and sweaty and pushed away from his face. Something about the way his jaw is set in determination strikes right at Geralt's core.
If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.
Suddenly he's not here, he's on a mountain far away, and Jaskier is staring at him with wide, sad eyes as the determined look on his face fades to disappointment. The faint echo of anger courses thought Geralt, muted by the memory.
Right.
Right, then.
In the memory, Jaskier's words are soft and sad, and Geralt's heart aches at the broken look in his eyes.
I did that, he thinks. I said those things. I was…
He's pulled back to reality by a pained cry, swaying unsteadily as memory after memory washes over him. This isn't right. He's supposed to be in Jaskier's place, with a sword in his hand and blood dripping from his face, eyes black as he keeps Jaskier safe. Instead he watches helplessly as the werewolf's claws drag deep red marks down Jaskier's side.
No.
Geralt snarls and charges forward, leaping onto the beast's back and biting down on the place where its neck meets its shoulder. It howls, pushing Jaskier away and trying to reach back and grab Geralt instead. Geralt refuses to let go, sinking his teeth deeper until he feels bone crack and sinew tear.
The werewolf stumbles backward and falls to its knees, and Geralt quickly jumps over it, landing in front and lunging for its throat this time. Its furious shriek turns to a gurgling whine as Geralt's teeth hit their mark. Red colors Geralt's vision as the werewolf thrashes beneath him, motions becoming slower and weaker until it shudders and goes limp.
Geralt drops the beast, noting the silver knife sticking out of its chest, directly through its heart.
Jaskier, he thinks, as more memories come back to him. Evenings spent by the campfire, teaching Jaskier about monsters. Showing him how to use the crossbow; pretending to be irritated when he missed the target over and over again. Sparring with practice swords that Geralt carved from tree branches, then with the real thing, Jaskier's blows becoming stronger and more precise with each passing day.
"Geralt…"
Jaskier's voice is weak and Geralt turns to it immediately, padding over to where he's lying on his back in the debris. The front of his cuirass is torn open, and blood drips through his fingers where he's pressing against the wound.
No, Geralt thinks, looking around desperately for something to help. He whines at Jaskier, nudging his cheek and wishing he could speak. I'm here. I'm supposed to keep you safe.
"Thank you," Jaskier manages, trying to catch his breath. Then he exhales shakily as his eyes close and he goes limp. Geralt noses at his cheek, relieved to feel a soft breath on the side of his face. He's still alive. Geralt can still make this right.
He grabs at Jaskier's cloak with his teeth, tugging on it until the fabric tears. Then he settles it over the wound and moves to lay beside Jaskier, pressing himself up against the fabric to keep the wound from bleeding out.
Yennefer, Geralt thinks, trying his best to feel for his bond with her as he looks up at the full moon. It's difficult – buried deep – but as soon as he feels a sliver of connection, he latches onto it. Yennefer, he cries out. Jaskier's hurt. Please, I need your help.