Chapter Text
"Stay here and don't move," said Geralt, shoving Jaskier onto a boulder. "I don't want you attracting the attention of the kikimora. Which reminds me, no playing the lute either."
"But I need the lute to help me construct the perfect ballad! Look, promise you I won't even be loud with it. Quiet as a mouse, not even you with your witcher senses could hear me."
"Oh if I could only get that lucky. You wouldn't know how to be quiet if you had step-by-step instructions. No lute. No, Jaskier. Or that lute could be the biggest part of you I have to bury. This is as close as you get." To be honest, Geralt didn't know why he let Jaskier sit upon the cliffside anyway. Kikimora were lightning fast; if this one spotted Jaskier and went for him Geralt didn't know if he could stop it in time.
He twitched as thunder rumbled distantly overhead, unnaturally loud to his enhanced hearing. The clouds were thick, so grey they appeared almost black. Jaskier pursed his lips and looked nervously overhead. That was it.
"Nope, come on, I'm leaving you back at the inn." Geralt grabbed Jaskier under the elbow and hauled him up, flinching as Jaskier's yelp went off like a firecracker. "This was a stupid idea."
Jaskier fought out of Geralt's grip. "No, it wasn't! Geralt, I promise. Look, as great as 'Toss A Coin to Your Witcher' is, we need an epic ballad. One that shows just how heroic and capable you are. Your exploits need to reach as far as the remotest Skellige island. People will be throwing their money at you before you open your big scowly mouth to ask for it." He smiled, clapping Geralt on the shoulder. "Just go do your witchery things and leave me to my ballad. Besides, you're always so stingy on the details, what's better than being up close for your heroic deeds? Remind me, this kikimora has killed how many people?"
"Six. And if you're here, that just might make it seven."
"I promise you, I won't leave this spot or make a noise!" Jaskier even went as far as to mime zipping his lips closed and throwing an imaginary key over his shoulder, arching his brows as if to say, "See?"
Geralt sighed. There was nothing else for it, he supposed; the inn was a good forty-minute ride. By the time he dropped Jaskier off and came back, the storm would likely be well underway. It was bad enough to have to fight in a bog as is.
"Fine. Stay here, stay quiet, and write your stupid ballad. I'll be right back."
The villager who had to give up one of her prized cows for this fight would be grateful to know that the beast didn't die in vain; within two minutes of Geralt setting up the bloody remains as bait, the hungry kikimora showed up, rising from the murky depths of the bog.
And it was massive.
Geralt had never seen a kikimora this big; it was twice as tall and three times wider than the average for its kind, looming over him like a nightmare. He watched as it leaped twenty feet to the bloody cow carcass, front pincers clicking as it rent flesh from bone and devoured it in seconds.
That was the first bad feeling he got.
A fork of lightning shot down into the forest, accompanying a boom of thunder. Thick and heavy sheets of rain drenched him within seconds as the heavens opened up, chilling him to the bone. He heard Jaskier's gasp of surprise. Time to end this.
Geralt drew his sword. "Come on."
The fight was brutal and bloody. Geralt quickly lost himself in the battle, dodging the many knife-like limbs, slashing and hacking away at the kikimora's massive body. Any concern he'd had before was wiped clean from his mind as adrenaline coursed through his veins like ice water. It was just him and this kikimora, locked in a bloody battle to the death.
Geralt was confident he had the upper hand. Until he didn't.
One of the dozens of legs swept his feet out from under him, another seizing him by the ankle and throwing him into the side of the cliff. His witcher potions dulled what he knew would be searing pain in his back once they wore off. Grunting, he planted his sword into the muddy earth to lever himself up.
The kikimora charged with a deafening scream. He barely rolled out of the way in time, hearing it strike the rocky wall. Good. That ought to daze it.
Jaskier cried out. Geralt looked up. The impact had knocked him out from behind his hiding place. The kikimora cocked its head and, planting two of its spindly legs at the top of the cliff, levered itself up. It and Jaskier were suddenly, horrifyingly, eye-to-eye.
"O-oh my god," Jaskier stammered. "Geralt - Geralt, help!"
"Jaskier, get away!" Geralt howled. He slashed at the kikimora's back leg - not deep enough. It turned to him as if he were nothing more than an afterthought, shoving him to the ground. "Get to Roach!"
He heard Jaskier running away. With a click that almost sounded put-out, the kikimora gave chase. On its massive legs it cleared the cliff-face in a matter of seconds - Geralt plunged after it, stabbing it in the back, but it did no good. He'd have to climb up after it.
"GERALT!"
Over Jaskier's panicked shrieks, Roach screamed, stomping her hooves frantically, but Geralt had tied her too tight to come loose. This whole hunt was one bad thing after the other. He couldn't recall a time when a hunt had gone to shit so quickly.
In his own adrenaline-fueled panic, Geralt forgot the path he had used to climb down into the bog. He scrambled up the cliff-face, frantic fingers grabbing vines and knocking dirt loose to shower down over him and turn to sludge as the rain continued to pelt down from the sky. He counted Jaskier's gasping cries as a blessing; the kikimora had not yet killed him.
Jaskier was pinned against a tree, clutching his lute over his chest as if it would protect him from being stabbed through. Pale face bloodless, eyes as wide as dinner plates, he was close to passing out. The kikimora nudged him around, inspecting him. Playing with him. Having fun.
Geralt saw red. And charged.
Slashing and hacking, he drove the kikimora away from Jaskier, managing to slice off one of its limbs in the process. It tried to stab him through the shoulder; he ducked just in time, feeling the sting as it slashed his skin open instead. It roared and hefted itself onto its back legs. Geralt, confused (this was not normal kikimora behaviour; they didn't know how to stand up like this), was too late to react.
It body-slammed him to ground and pinned him underneath its girth. His sword arm was trapped against his side. He couldn't move. The kikimora clicked in satisfaction. A string of saliva oozed from its hideous mouth and onto his face, his neck. He tried wriggling but he couldn't move. Fuck, he was going to die here, fuck, fuck, fuck -
Jaskier screamed. He smashed his lute over the kikimora's head. Geralt squeezed his eyes shut against the shower of splinters. The kikimora shrieked deafeningly, its grip on Geralt loosening as it turned its attention squarely back to Jaskier, who was gaping as if he couldn't fathom what he'd just done. Seizing his chance, Geralt started wriggling free.
The kikimora stabbed Jaskier in the shoulder and threw him off the edge of the cliff so quickly it took Geralt a few seconds to process what had just happened. One minute Jaskier was there, then he wasn't. And it was a fifteen-foot drop to the bog below.
"Fucking cunt!" he growled.
His potions were running out now. If he was going to kill this thing - and he fucking was, he would not allow for anything else - then he'd have to do it fast.
If the fight was brutal and bloody before, it was nothing compared to now.
Three more legs were severed in sprays of blood over the course of the next few minutes. Geralt scored hits across its hideous face. But he himself did not come out unscathed; he felt his own bruises, cuts, and stab wounds more and more keenly as time went on. Not much time left -
A fourth leg went flying. There! His chance!
He stabbed it straight in the face, burying his sword to the hilt. It keened. Geralt ripped his sword free as it fell onto its side, remaining limbs twitching, before it succumbed to death. Geralt stared down at it, puffing and panting, swelling with pride at the victory until -
Jaskier.
"Don't be dead, don't be dead," Geralt muttered, rushing off to find his bard. "Please don't be dead."
He would never, ever forgive himself if Jaskier was dead.