A little oneshot I just had to write out. It's only about 1k words long.
I hope you enjoy it!
The trainers grew frustrated with Geralt after he'd finished his trial of the grasses(both of them), as he'd slowed down on the obstacle courses.
He used to run the trainee courses with the frantic reckless hope that all the trainees did. Pushed, as they were, by their trainer's harsh words and expectations.
He now plodded through the advanced courses, pausing on every obstacle to watch how the next moved, even after having completed the same courses over and over again. The trainers had tried shouting and beating and bribing and threatening and cajoling and scorning, but still he crept through each course.Â
The trainers went to Vesemir, as he was leader of Geralt's Cohort, and Vesemir tried to encourage a bit more confidence into Geralt; he knew that Geralt could run those courses just as fast as any of the other trainees, if he'd just apply himself.Â
But still Geralt refused to speed up.Â
There came a day that Vesemir was headed to the library and, while crossing a walkway, spotted Eskel running the third advanced course. Curious, and knowing the trainees rarely went anywhere alone, he stopped to see what they were up to.Â
The trainees weren't forbidden from running the courses independently, but they rarely chose to in the rare bits of free time they had.Â
Eskel seemed to be trying to improve on his speed record, sprinting as hard as he could through the obstacles, and getting summarily swatted off for prioritizing speed over caution.
Vesemir winced as Eskel tucked into a hasty roll to break his fall and crashed into a support pillar of the neighboring course,
"Doing better, Keli." Came a soft rasping voice,Â
"Yeah," came a more acerbic voice "Last time you took way longer to fall from there."
Vesemir looked over and wasn't surprised to find Geralt and Lambert stood nearby, they were a trio none had seen pairing up, but they hadn't yet had a spat bad enough to permanently split them.Â
Geralt was tallying up the marbles from the counter; a contraption of turning gears and popping ropes the mages had put together to accurately time things. Marbles dropped out of it at specified intervals, the more marbles, the more time had passed.Â
The record for the third advanced course by a full witcher was set by Naumir at eight marbles, the trainee record was fourteen. Eskel seemed to have run about three fifths of the course in eleven, which was about where he should in his training.Â
Eskel groaned as he disentangled himself from the pillar and pushed himself to his feet, the many scuff marks and skids of dirt on his clothes showing that he'd been at this for a while. Lambert looked to be only a touch cleaner, so the pup must have given it a few tries as well. Vesemir studied Geralt, hoping for even the smallest smear of dust, but was dissatisfied to find he showed no signs of having fallen from the course.Â
Vesemir didn't know where the boy's sudden fear of falling had come from, it wasn't a large fall, and he didn't seem to fear heights when climbing or running the walls, but still he refused to take any risks on the obstacle courses.
Vesemir shook his head and began to walk away, but paused when he heard Lambert pipe up through Eskel's plotting and self chastising,
"Will you run it, Geralt?"
Vesemir turned back and watched Geralt study the course with a pensive look in his eye, he seemed about to decline when Eskel spoke,
"Would you? Show me how it's done, Wolf"
Geralt gazed at the course for a moment more then tilted his head to eye his brothers, Eskel and Lambert stared back with pleading eyes, and Geralt finally nodded a slow agreement. Lambert broke into cheers and Eskel clapped him on the arm with a beaming grin.
Vesemir watched with trepidation, and a small amount of hope, as Geralt clambered to the start of the course and stared it down while he waited for Lambert to shove all the marbles back into the counter and Eskel to set everything moving again.
"Ready… Go!" Shouted Lambert as he pulled loose the starting cord of the counter.
Vesemir felt his heart sink in his chest, when instead of launching forward Geralt slid into a crouch, his eyes unwavering from their lock on the course's first obstacle.Â
Vesemir might have left then, but there was something about this that felt different, so he stayed and watched his boy watch the rhythm of course.
For the first time Vesemir was able to have his full attention on Geralt as he faced a course and he realized that the gleam in Geralt's eyes wasn't fear, but a fierce calculation.
Geralt's head started a small sway in time with the first pendulum and then, all of a sudden, he was off.
Vesemir felt his jaw slacken, he'd never seen a trainee run this course that fast, or that fluidly. It was as though Geralt knew exactly what was going to happen an instant before it did, he swung around pendulums, under bars, leapt gaps, and dodged spikes without a single toe misplaced. Not a move was wasted.
Vesemir found himself holding his breath as Geralt approached the final stretch, it was designed to force Witchers to use their signs, the obstacles unnavigable without them.Â
Geralt threw himself into the fray without a single beat of hesitation. His fingers flowed through his signs, but he left them half powered, giving them the bare minimum of the strength that was needed to let him eel through the great moving pieces, that could and would break any limbs they caught.
Geralt was nearly out when a piece moved a touch faster than he'd anticipated and clipped his heel, sending him tumbling madly into the last set. Vesemir wouldn't be surprised if he left an exact imprint of his fingertips in the balustrade he was clutching, with how tightly he was strangling it.Â
Geralt bounced off one clapper into another, and kicked off a third to tumble desperately over the finish line and, blessedly, off the obstacle course.Â
Only then did Vesemir register Lambert and Eskel's screaming whoops and howling. Geralt's brothers rushed to congratulate him and Vesemir sagged to the floor of the walkway.
As he calmed, Vesemir began to make out words over the thunder of his heart in his ears,
"TEN!" They were screaming "TEN! GERALT!" and Vesemir felt a grin creep onto his face.
I do have more on this, so if you have any questions feel free to ask!
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I’m no lore expert, but I do think that Witcher canons that leave out The Choice trial miss a critical piece of how the wolf boys view their lots.
For those unfamiliar, The Choice is said to be the first trial that trainees must pass through. As best I can tell, it only appears in book canon. It happens when the boys are around 9 or 10 and is the first, least deadly (relatively speaking), round of enhancements. The boys eat a special diet of mushrooms and herbs and start the really grueling physical training.
The key thing about The Choice is that it’s presented as just that, a choice. In theory, the boys can say no. They could head back down the mountain and seek their fortune elsewhere.
Now, there’s of course a million complications with that. They’re children. They’re unwanted. The world is cruel and they’re just as likely to end up dead if they’re sent out on their own. The Choice isn’t much of a choice at all.
But I think, as humans, we rely strongly on the illusion of choice. Did someone really choose to work a certain job when they applied to a hundred places, heard back from two, and one paid twice as much? In some ways, no. But in other important ways, you sent the applications and you made a selection. It might have been a choice where the alternative was not feasible, but it was a choice. And as a human having some level of agency, any level, is important.
So let’s apply that idea to our boys.
First there’s Geralt. By all accounts he’s been with the witcher’s the longest, to the point where he has barely any memory of the outside world. Kaer Morhen is his home, being a witcher is his destiny. Sure, that’s no choice, but in the same way we have no choice in the family we are born into. We may at times look at other families who seem to be happier, kinder, richer, and wish that ours were different, but there’s rarely a fundamental feeling that someone fucked us over. As Geralt would say, destiny is a bitch. But there’s no one on this mortal plane to direct that anger at, so most of the time we don’t bother.
And what’s more, Geralt has no comparison. Nothing to be angry that he doesn’t have, because being a witcher is all there is. And, other than the likely horrible death, it probably even sounds pretty cool. I’d bet you good money that the fully grown witcher’s wintering in the keep aren’t sharing horror stories while deep in their cups. Not in a culture that values toughness and traditional masculinity. Nope, they’re bragging about their heroics and the best kills of the season. It’s no wonder Geralt has such romantic notions about his own life.
So sure, Geralt was presented a choice. But he didn’t need it, because just like you’ve always been your mother’s child, he’s always been a witcher. Sometimes that sucks, especially later in life when you start to know other mothers, other options, and can compare. But some things are so fundamental to you as a person that if you made any other “choice” and you wouldn’t be you at all.
Next is Eskel. Steady and sure.
From what we can tell, Eskel came to the witcher’s at a normal age, probably around six or seven. Late enough that he knew his family, he knew his town, he knew a little of life outside the keep. We don’t know much about his background other than he was Hillfolk and presumably dirt poor. But he knew a before and he knew an after; he could compare.
So for Eskel, The Choice was, in an important sense, a choice. If he had said no we don’t know what he would be going back to - probably a short life on the streets begging for scraps. But he knew a little of the outside world, knew in a very tangible sense what it was to be human, and he said yes, okay, I’ll give that up.
And I think that a really important factor in why he’s so content with his lot. It might often be six metric tons of shit, and he might sometimes wonder what might have been, or what the hell he was thinking when he said yes. But he said yes, so who is there to blame really?
And then Lambert. My darling angry rat man Lambert.
He came to Kaer Morhen late. Much later than the other boys. He knew damn well that the outside world was shit, but it was his world. His to hate, but his. He never wanted to be a Witcher and he damn well didn’t choose this life.
And this is me stepping out on a limb, but I think it’s really likely he didn’t choose. Not just in a metaphorical sense, but also as in the trials. If The Choice happened around age 9 or 10, Lambert would have missed it entirely. I think it’s really likely that the instructors skipped it altogether, just started shoving mushrooms down his throat as quick as possible, because the older the boys have lower rates of survival and he needed to be put through The Grasses as soon as possible. So even at the most basic level, stripping away any philosophical discussion about what is choice, really, when all your options are shit? Lambert didn’t choose.
Lambert got dealt a shit hand in a game he never wanted to play. No wonder he’s pissed.
So I had my dog at agility tonight and he fell off the dog walk, which is a 1 foot wide bridge. I caught him, he’s fine, but the reason he fell off is that he literally forgot he had an ass and turned to look at what another dog was doing and his ass fell off.
Which got me thinking. Â
Witcherlings, fresh from the trials, trying to run an obstacle course they did just fine before the trials, but now they’ve had this huge growth spurt and their feet aren’t where they expect so they just like fall off ladders. Trying to jump across a gap and oops they fall down the next one because their legs are too long and they overshot.
Clumsy baby witcherlings, all lanky and skinny and an absolute fucking mess.
And Geralt did it twice.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
A strange little tale I spun for @continentcakeshop, with huge thanks to @major-trouble for beta reading for me!
A witcher adept's final trial is the Trial of the Veil. This trial brings them to the brink of death, so that they may understand the magnitude of their role as death-bringers. A peek behind the Veil means strange visions, whether showing what has been, what will be, or what might not come to be.
Or, if you are of a more cynical view, they might only be the hallucinations of an oxygen-starved brain.
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Jaskier had been an average sized human. By the time he was old enough to actually undertake the trial of the grasses, he was the height of an average adult, human man. And he knew that would change. Even at sixteen years of age, he and the other trainees were made to feel like dwarves around the fully mutated manticores that returned to the keep every winter. Large, strong, men and women towering over them all and infantilizing them immediately. He hated being made to feel lesser, so he looked forward to his trials if only for the height boost.Â
He wishes, now, that he hadn't been so eager as his bones shatter and his joints pop, his wrists and ankles being pulled on a cinch to elongate his body. The vertibrae in his back burst and his skin tears with a sickening sound and Jaskier screams and screams and screams but still they pull and pull and pull upon his body. The trials sing through his blood in cacophanous harmony, burning him from the inside out and fattening the toned muscles from years of training. His teeth fall out and grow back in, awkward and heavy in his mouth and he tastes blood upon his tongue.Â
Agony rips through his skull as the bone cracks and reshapes, pushing through his skin and twisting upwards into small horns. His fingernails are split as the tips of his phalanges burst out of his fingertips, forming claws of bloodstained bone. His vocal cords are shredded from the sounds being forced out of his throat, his lungs crying for more air and expanding into the larger chest cavity that the stretching creates. It feels like he's crying, and there's a pressure behind his eyes that doesn't fade as it increases in intensity.Â
The trials end as suddenly as they began, the pain fading into a dull throb. After two days, Jaskier is allowed to stand, his bones having healed enough to support his new weight and the first thing he does is look in a mirror.Â
and geralt/eskel, if you're inspired :3 it's ok if you're not!!! for 19 - kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing
here it is. i hope you like it! <3
Geralt is repotting plants in the greenhouse when Eskel comes in. Looking up as the larger witcher-in-training swings open the door, Geralt soon finds himself returning his attention to the task he’s set himself as the other simply lingers without saying anything. Some of the potted monstrosities had started snaking their roots out of the drainage holes in their vessels, so it was clearly time for them to be relocated to slightly more spacious homes. Geralt likes working with plants; they don’t require much of him and they allow him to get his hands dirty without a good portion of the mess being blood and guts, like so many other aspects of his training. Just rich, dark soil beneath his nails and his shirt clinging to his back with the sweat of simple hard work.
Of course, if there is one thing that can distract him from the tranquil headspace of gardening, it’s Eskel brushing a light kiss to the back of his neck as his fingertips dance along the line of Geralt’s shoulder blade.
Geralt turns his head to look, but the other witcher-in-training is already slipping back, out of his peripheral vision. Letting out a quiet huff, Geralt checks on the root-bound plant he has soaking and ignores Eskel’s lurking behind him. It has still been less than a month since they both finished recovering from the Trial of Dreams, Geralt faster than Eskel in a way that had continued to peak the mages’ interest in him; a little strangeness between them is to be expected, and maybe even necessary right now. So little and yet so much has changed.
It’s when he’s tucking the last of the soil around the plant in its new pot that Eskel makes his next move. His forehead comes to rest against Geralt’s shoulder, one hand wrapping around his bicep, before he tilts his head up and softly presses his lips to Geralt’s cheek.
He’s moving away again before Geralt can catch him, but he stays within eyesight this time, retreating to perch on a clear spot left among the plants strewn across a nearby workbench.
Geralt turns his concentration to the dilemma of a large hellebore plant overgrowing its pot. Eventually he decides it would either need to be planted outdoors somewhere or turned into two separate plants. He’s got both arms elbow-deep in soil, trying to loosen the roots and the dirt enough from the vessel to shake the plant free, when Eskel rises from his perch and stalks over, leaning across the table to press his fingers to the back of Geralt’s neck and tug him forward into a gentle kiss. He willingly lets himself be moved by the other’s touch.
Pulling back, Eskel looks at Geralt in the lantern light, dim enough that he would’ve struggled more to see only a few months ago. Verdant leaves coming up from the plant between them brush against the skin of his neck and Geralt’s eyes are molten gold, his chin-length chestnut locks curling around his handsome face. Eskel finds himself wondering if Geralt feels the same dangerous familiarity he does, seeing those similar slit-pupiled, amber-hued eyes looking back at him from Eskel’s face now. He wonders if it’s part of what gives him nightmares too. He leans in to bring their lips together again and it’s a little more desperate between them until Geralt sighs and pulls away, because he’s still up to his elbows in dirt.
“Eskel. I’m in the middle of repotting the hellebore.”
“I can see that. It’s also the middle of the night. I could ask why you’re up doing the gardening, instead of resting your pretty head in bed.”
“And I could ask you the same about why you’re up and wandering.”
They both fall silent. Neither of them want to ask the question and neither want to answer it; it’s not as if they need to speak to know each other’s answer, anyway.
The table edge pressing into Eskel’s hip is growing slightly uncomfortable. He lets out a long exhale and presses his forehead to Geralt’s, eyes sliding shut. Following in kind, something in Geralt’s posture seems to loosen slightly.
“Come back to bed with me? We can just sleep, like when we were boys,” Eskel murmurs.
Breathing in deep through his nose, Geralt savors the familiar scents of woodsmoke and leather and cedarwood. He bumps their nose tips together, saying wryly with the slightest tinge of regret to his voice, “I really should finish what I started with the hellebore. You… you go ahead. I’ll join you when I’m finished here.” Geralt opens his eyes again to find Eskel has done the same and is squinting at him suspiciously. The corner of Geralt’s mouth quirks up into a subtle smile. “I promise,” he adds on, and Eskel’s look becomes slightly less skeptical, though only just.
“You better,” is the answer the larger seems to decide on, his palm warm against Geralt’s neck as he presses one last kiss to his forehead, the other witcher still pliantly leaning into his touch. Eskel only lingers a little bit longer before leaving the greenhouse, the door clicking shut near-silently behind him.
Geralt turns his attention back to the twisted roots he has finally freed from fired clay and finds himself almost wishing he had let Eskel pull him away, even if it meant more sleepless hours staring at the ceiling as his brain buzzed ceaselessly behind his ears. But no; he’ll let the rich smell of soil and the sweet, fresh aromas of the plants calm the beehive in his skull before attempting to return to bed, and then maybe he can fall asleep easily with his face pressed to the nape of Eskel’s neck and his pulse beneath his palm instead of restlessly tossing and turning and keeping them both awake.
 It’s as he hoped, close to an hour later, when Geralt cracks open the heavy wooden door to Eskel’s chamber. He strips down to his smallclothes, sliding between the covers. Eskel comes half-awake as Geralt curls in close behind him, reaching a hand backwards to grasp his wrist and pull his arm to wrap over his waist. Allowing himself to be tugged towards the other’s warmth, Geralt places a kiss between Eskel’s shoulder blades where the fabric of his thin linen shirt is stretched taut by the breadth of his torso. Letting out a pleased grumble, Eskel pushes back into the touch and Geralt tucks the smile that brings to his face against the back of his larger bedmate’s neck. Sleep is easy to find when he reaches for it, nestled as he is, with clean hands except for the dark remnants of dirt beneath his nails and the noise of his mind quieted to a background hum beneath the sounds of Eskel alive against him. If any further dreams stir Geralt’s slumber that night, they slip from his memory and leave him undisturbed. He hopes his own presence brings the other witcher something like the same sort of peace.
