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Geralt woke up in the middle of the night under a nearly-full moon, his medallion vibrating, up to his elbows in dirt.
2:
He was solemn and stoic and got the job done with no muss or fuss, and didn't cause any more trouble than could be helped by his very presence. He traveled alone, returned to Haern Caduch rarely, kept his head down, and did his job.
And then he met a bard in a tavern in a little town in the middle of nowhere, who changed his life.
Tags: mutations, hurt, witcher!Jaskier, the trials.Ā
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Julian opens his eyes in a field, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of buttercups. He gazes at the field, tries to catch his Witcher's scent, heartbeat, anything.
But Geralt is nowhere to be seen.
The thin long blades of the grass tickle his arms and he hears a childish laughter bubbling in his throat. He looks around, feels his body spin and and laugh, laugh, laugh. Everything seems huge; the trees, the grass, the flowers.
And he realises heās five again. Careless child, about to get claimed by a Witcher.
-
Julian is eight now.
Heās training ruthlessly hard in the unforgiving cold of the Amell mountains. Haern Caduch is his home now, as it is to dozens of witchers and hundreds of children.
He doesnāt know why heās here. They wonāt tell him. All he knows is that he misses his mum and that heās so sick and tired of the hours upon hours of physical training. Itās been a year since it started and he hasnāt been uninjured since. A black eye here, a broken arm there. He canāt count how many bruises he sports.
It hurts. Everything hurts.
He cries frequently and because he does they make him train even harder.
He learns to hide his feelings.
Brawls are encouraged here, they are expected of the young residents of the grand witcher keep. All the boys are older than him and they love to pick on him and fight with him because heās smaller. They tell him so. There is no one to call his friend there, only bullies and rivals.
-
Julian is nine years old when a new batch of boys arrives at the keep. Most of them seem to be around his age and when Julian asks his teachers about them, the man shrugs and says Horst bought them from a starving village.
The way he says the word āboughtā so casually makes Julianās stomach tumble and protest. Itās not right.
None of it is.
He wants to go home to Lettenhove. Ā
The boys are scared. And they should be , he thinks.
Just as the new boys move in the older boys are taken from their shared room and they never return. Julian hears whispers of trials gone wrong and a new mass grave and his heart beats uncontrollably in his chest.
What are they going to do with them? Why do they need so many boys? Why did they dig a new mass grave?
Did all those older boys die?
Did those ātrialsā kill them?
He cries that night but heās not alone this time. The newcomers cry with him, save one. A boy that introduced himself as Berholt -- Ber for short-- doesnāt shed a single tear. His green eyes dark with fury.
He knows. That boy knows something.
āIāve been here four winters,ā Julian whispers, reaching a shaky hand at Ber, whoās been trying to open the thick wooden door of their room for several hours now, āthereās no way out of this place. They locked us in for the night. They used to do that a lot when I first arrived, but they stopped after a while --they will stop after a while.ā
āWe must escape,ā the boy says with so much urgency it makes Julian anxious.
āWeāre high up on the Amell mountains. We canāt escape, weāll die if we try.ā
āYou donāt understand!ā Ber yells, grabbing both of Julianās arms, āThey are going to make us like them! They are going to make us witchers, mutants, freaks!ā
āWeāre going to be warriors,ā Julian tells him, ākill monsters for a living. I know as much.ā
āBut we arenāt going to be human,ā Ber sobs, the tears now welling up in his eyes threatening to spill.
āBut weāre going to be alive. And away from here,ā Julian instills his voice with fake courage. He doesnāt like the idea of not being human; itās scary. All of it is so scary. But he knows the ones who escape always die. Their bodies return to the keep mangled, broken, wrong.
He doesnāt want to die.
-
Julian is twelve when they take him away, strap him to a cold --so frigid cold-- metal table. Itās time to get his first mutations, they tell him. Time to start his new life as a witcher.
By this point, he knows thereās a very slim chance heāll survive the process. And if he does heāll be changed forever.
Heāll be a witcher. A mutant. A freak. His life an endless cycle of contract, hunt, payment. He has no illusions of noble deeds and heroics left.
His alchemy instructor together with a sorceress heās never seen before in the keep, start administering vile tasting concoctions to him.
He can feel every nerve on his body on fire. It burns, it hurts. He feels like heās melting, falling in a mould, his body reshaping itself one stabbing, agonizing ache at a time. He screams his throat out until he feels the taste of copper fill his mouth. He tosses and tugs against his restraints until deep blue and purple bruises adorn his limbs, his midriff, his neck.
Everything hurts.
It hurts so goddamn much.
He doesnāt know how long heās been strapped on that metal table so many before him have left their last breath on. All he knows is that each potion hurts more than the last. Every potion tearing his body apart more and more. He idly wonders if thereās anything of him left when the process is finished.
Twelve potions he counts.
He stays awake during all twelve potions. He fears if he lets the pain win, if he succumbs to it heāll never see the sun rise and set again.
He fears heāll be just another dead boy in a mass grave, his name lost in the void.
Only Ber, Markus and Julian survive the trial of the grasses.
-
Julian is seventeen.
His training is complete, medallion and twin swords acquired. Lady Spring has already made her grand entrance on the Continent, the days warmer and longer, the heavy snow that covers the Amell mountains and by extension Haern Caduch, thawing, melting, giving way to little plants and flowers.
Julianās itching to leave the keep. Heās itching to meet new people; people that arenāt his instructors or peers.
And finally, the day comes.
He wears his heavy armour, chainmail and leather intermixed. A layer of fur around his neck. He untacks his horse --a beautiful stallion he calls Pegasus-- and sets on the Path for the first time.
Heās confident, prepared. He knows what to expect, what monsters to kill, what potions to make. Ā
It takes him three days to reach the closest human settlement at the foot of the mountain. There are no contracts there --he knows thereās seldom any there, so many witchers passing through throughout the year. But thereās a tavern. There are people. Humans. Elves. Dwarves.
He enters the tavern without a momentās hesitation. It smells heavenly of various foods, alcohol and the sweet peachy scent of joy. A bard is playing a jaunty tune, her voice lovely and thisā¦ stringed wooden machine that seems to produces lovely sharp and mellow sounds is even better.
Julian sits in the most corner table --as instructed by his mentors--, his eyes fixed on the bard, a small smile forming on his lips. Ā
The barmaid approaches his table obstructing his view of the ongoing performance. But he doesnāt mind. Sheās around his age, if he can guess correctly, a warm smile adorning her beautiful flushed face.
Melitele, sheās gorgeous. Ā
āWhat would you like?ā she asks, her voice sweeter than honey.
āY- you,ā Julian blurts out and he feels his slow witcher heart escalate.
She winks at him --gods! She winks at him and whispers conspiratorially close to his ear, āMidnight, behind the tavern.ā
He waits patiently and when the moon is high on the sky he goes to find her. They share kisses under the stars, fast and rushed, hot and passionate.
That is until her father breaks them apart screaming and yelling all sort of imaginative profanities.
Monster. Mutant. Witcher. Scum.
Itās fine. He can take it. He knows what the good people of the Continent think of his brethren.
Itās fine.
But then the girl he was sharing sweet kisses moments before curses at him, spits at him. She accuses him of using magic on her. She would never touch mutant filth she vows.
And it hurts. It hurts so much.
He runs away, as fast as his horse can take him.
A day later bandits ambush him, demanding his silver sword and medallion. He acquires his first facial scar that day.
He makes his first kill that day. But itās not a monster heās learned all about it on the bestiary. No, itās not a monster. Itās a person.
His first kill is a person.
-
Julian is thirty years old when he decides to pay a visit to his hometown. Heās quite honestly tired of the Path and its accompanying loneliness. His only companion his horse --Fly, heās named this one-- and the gorgeous Magnolia, a simple 5-course lute he won in a game of Gwent.
Maybe, somebody out there will remember him.
Maybe, heāll get that short reprieve he longs for.
He knows Lettenhove lies somewhere in Kerack and he remembers his full name still. Julian Alfred Pankratz, son of Alfred Eric Pankratz viscount de Lettenhove.
A contract on a few sirens -- he gets his second facial scar there -- leads him straight to his ancestral home. Beaten and bloody, his lips permanently split, his face covered in uneven stitches, but still victorious he climbs the stairs to the mansion on the hill.
An unknown man, young, in his twenties, answers the door. Bright cornflower blue eyes meet Julianās golden and the rotten stench of fear fills the air.
āTook care of the sirens,ā Julian mumbles, the cut on his lips tugging, threatening to tear again. Damn his negligence, he shouldnāt have approached the sirens. Should have killed them with his crossbow, but noooooo . No, he wanted to hear them sing. And now he canāt fucking smile. Ā
The man leads him inside, their eyes never meeting again.
āFather, the witcher is here for his payment,ā the man says. Heās a relative then! Perhaps even a sibling! Oh, this is fantastic! When he reveals who he is they are going to have a good laugh and maybe even bond over a bottle of wine and music.
An elderly man rises from his seat and turns to face them. āJulian,ā he says and Julian feels his heart accelerate. He remembers him! His father remembers him! Julian opens his mouth to speak but his father speaks again, āI told you not to bring vermin into the house, Julian.ā
Vermin? Vermin???
His own father called him vermin? He can hardly fathom what transpired. Itās not only that he called him vermin, but itās also that he apparently decided to name another son by his name. His name!
Julian is furious but he wonāt let it reach nor his face, neither his voice.
āIām afraid you have my name wrong, sir,ā he says instead, āSee, my name is not Vermin but Julian Alfred Pankratz and I would very much like my payment for this contract as well as a visit to my mother Marion, thank you very much,ā he bows slightly, opening the burlap bag heās carrying to show the collected heads of the sirens.
His fatherās face pales, an ugly shocked expression settling in as he digests Julianās bold introduction. Good.
āMother has passed,ā the other Julian blurts out.
āOh.ā These are not news he wanted to hear. His mother was a good person. He canāt remember a lot but he remembers the warmth she radiated. So much warmth. She was a good person. She must have been. āIām very sorry to hear that,ā he finally says, his voice breaking. āWell then, keep your coin, I have to pay my respects to her.ā
He leaves the mansion, never looking back, his feet carrying him to the family graveyard that lies on the side of the hill.
He cries a lot that day. He tells his mother of the hardships of the Path, of the loneliness and the pain. And if someone, or several someones, are listening he doesnāt care. Heās not a monster. Not scum and certainly not vermin.
Heās a man that lost his mother.
He vows to return at Lettenhove to visit her at least once a decade.
-
Heās ninety-two when he acquires the moniker āJulian the Childslayer of Metinnaā. He gets his third facial scar. He spends months running for his life. He survives multiple trips to the dungeons, all the posh torturing techniques of the south and even once a hanging.
The marks will never leave his body.
He promises to himself to never venture below the southern borders of Nazair.
Never again.
Still, the nightmares plague him.
-
Heās a hundred years old when he buys the cursed bracelet from a backwater mage in a hovel in Velen.
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Heās a century old when he meets the Butcher of Blaviken. When his life as a human begins. When Jaskier is born.
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Julian is a hundred and nine years old when he claims the law of surprise in the Cintran banquet.
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Julian is one hundred sixteen years old. His best friendās ill-worded wish makes his throat hurt swollen like a melon. Hurt. Choke. Blood.
He survives it.
-
Heās one hundred and twenty-two when his heart breaks atop the mountain.
Jaskier dies with his heart.
-
Julian is five again. Careless child playing, laughing in a meadow full of buttercups. About to get claimed by a witcher.
