#witcherfic

“Why’ve we come?” You can’t help but ask the question that has been hanging on the tip of your tongue since you set off on the journey—or at least for as long as you’ve been conscious. After the first few days, the pain had gradually started to fade, even without the help of elixirs. You still took a milder potion, but it didn’t cloud your mind the way the stronger one did. You’ve seen much more of the Continent than you had ever hoped to.

Geralt looks at you with a twinge of guilt – regret. Your first instinct is to turn and run or cower in the corner. Has he grown tired of your company? Does he wish to dump you here, leave you with someone else so that he doesn’t have to deal with you anymore? All of these questions swirl in your head, making it impossible for you to voice any of them.

Finally, he speaks.

“I…” he begins, golden eyes shifting from your face down to the floor at your feet, “The wound on your back, Y/N.”

You don’t know what he is about to say, but you feel the need to cut him off. “It’s been feeling better every day!” you protest.

“Yes, but it’s only a matter of time before it…” He seems to have lost words again, and now you are panicking, heart thudding in your chest.

“Before it what, Geralt?” You can’t keep the shrill edge out of your voice as you speak, your nerves choking you. “What are you talking about?”

“There is a poison.” Geralt hangs his head, looking utterly defeated. “The wound will heal, but the infection will spread. This is the only place I know that will be able to help.”

You look at him, mouth hanging open in shock. You want to be angry with him that he hadn’t told you sooner, but the consuming panic is making it hard to see straight. Perhaps it was better that you hadn’t known this entire journey.

“W-What do you mean?” you stammer, taking a step closer to him, your voice still sounding shrill in your head. “She caught your arm as well… Does that mean…” You can’t even bring yourself to form the sentence. Somehow, the Witcher being in imminent danger is much more frightening to you than yourself.

The Witcher shakes his head, face growing more serious—more pained, by the moment. “No, Y/N. The poison doesn’t work like that on Witchers. Our mutations make us immune to disease, to infections.”

Your eyes momentarily widen as the whole world seems to blur out of focus. Your thoughts, however, somehow remain intact. If a Witcher’s mutations are the only thing that can stop the infection, and he’s brought you to Kaer Morhen, the old Witcher school, there can be no other reason than undergoing mutations yourself.

You are shocked that the prospect both excites you and terrifies you at the same time. Geralt’s face, on the other hand, betrays nothing but resigned desperation.

You know what the mutations entail—or at least, in a general sense. Nobody really knows how the Witcher mutations work save for Witchers themselves, and he is the only one you’ve met. Now you understand his unwillingness to talk about them. In the days spent traveling, he would change the subject each time it veered anywhere close to his childhood and the mutations he underwent. You only know that part of the reason his hair is white is because of extra mutations he underwent. You do, however, know that only three in ten boys made it through the mutations alive… Those are not god odds. But then, if what he is saying about the infection is true, those are even worse odds.

“The lesser evil,” you whisper, not sharing any of your other thoughts. You are sure he’s thought about it plenty.

He looks at you, taking a hesitant step forward and making your breath catch in your throat. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if there were any other way,” he says.

You trust him. But something is still nagging at you.

“I thought that only men could become Witchers.”

“It is the norm,” he says, “But it has been done.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, attempting to calm your nervousness but failing.

“I think,” he finally adds after an abnormally long silence, “There should be a way to use minimal mutations—only the necessary ones.” His face betrays a pain, long-repressed memories that had been shoved to the very back of his mind for decades.

“Visimir will know.”

You vaguely recognize the name. He has mentioned it a few times, if you are correct.

“He is… like a father to me.”

“Oh.”

Yes, you remember the name now. Geralt has mentioned him often. His father-figure and mentor, the keeper of Kaer Morhen who has been in charge since before he was born. You deduce that he must also be the Witcher in charge of the Trials; the Witcher who knows the correct elixirs and potions to turn an ordinary human into a Witcher… or Witcheress.

You look from the Witcher to the once grand castle behind him, the whole world blurred strangely. You are afraid, though you will not admit it to him. But, at the same time, the thought of the mutations—if you live—making you nearly invincible against those who had once wronged you is exciting.

“Y/N.” The Witcher’s voice brings you back to the moment, pulling you out of the fantasies playing through your head of returning to your shitty little town and teaching Stephic and his men a lesson they will never forget.

“Come,” he finally says, extending his arm. You grasp it without a second thought, perhaps pulling yourself a bit too tightly to his side. You are glad for the support, as your legs have turned into something akin to jelly, and your head is too muddled to follow directions. You are almost certain that you can feel a dull ache in your back where you hadn’t felt it before. You imagine it spreading like a virus through your veins—or a lit fuse with burning its way to inevitable destruction.

You walk beside him with unsure steps, eyes still taking in the wonder of this new place despite it all. It is a small price to pay, you suppose, to set your mother free. Besides, there were plenty of other ways you could have died back in that shit Nilfgaardian outpost of a town.

Slowly, your steps become more confident, your spine straightening and your head lifting higher. You survived a battle with a wraith, which could not be said for most humans. You’d survived the destruction of your entire village. You’d survived for years as the lowest ranking member of the staff for a cruel master. You can survive a few elixirs and mutations; you know you can.

When you walk through the massive front doors of the old keep, you gasp. Regardless of its state of disrepair, the hall is beautiful. You can only imagine what it had looked what it had in its golden age.

As the doors close behind the two of you, you hear the sound of footsteps echoing in the massive hall, growing closer. Your eyes move in the direction of the approaching steps, the image of a man with long hair, like Geralt’s. As he gets closer, you realize that he is older than Geralt—though it is impossible to tell how old. Witchers were rumored to live to all manner of ages, usually far longer than any average human.

“Geralt!”

The man smiles warmly, quite uncharacteristically – at least in your limited knowledge of Witchers – to hug your companion, who wraps his arms around the old Witcher.

“Visimir.”

“It’s good to see you, Wolf.”

“You too, old man.”

“Let’s not point out age,” Visimir says with a smirk.

A pause.

“And who is your companion?”

You want to open your mouth and answer for yourself, but you find that your mouth has gone entirely dry and it feels like your throat has closed up. You are not intimidated by the man; he seems warm and loving, at least the way he greeted Geralt. But still, you are in a new place where you never would have pictured yourself in an entire lifetime.

“Y/N,” he introduces you. “She helped banish a Noonwraith.”

A knowing look passes between the two men. You only notice it for a fraction of a second, but you notice it. You can’t possibly imagine everything running through their heads, but you can guess. You know that no Witcher school is currently creating new Witchers. There hasn’t been a Trial in years—even humans knew that. You wonder how long it has been, and why it has been so long.

Visimir looks at you and smiles warmly, despite the faraway look in his eyes. “Welcome, Miss, to Kaer Morhen.”

* * *

“What the fuck, Geralt?”

You are sitting with your ear to the wall, trying to pick up as much of the conversation going on in the next room over as possible.

“Lambert, you know I wouldn’t suggest this if there was any other way.” You feel a tightening in your chest upon hearing the strain in the Witcher’s voice; it is pained in a way that you never want to hear him.

“And what, you’ve tried everything?” Lambert counters, “Don’t the mages have some sort of cure? They sure are proud of their advanced magic.”

“Our magic is based on theirs, and apparently rudimentary at that,” Geralt continues, “Anything that they would do would be just as dangerous as this, if not more.”

You shiver, wrapping your arms around your knees and hugging them to your chest. You know for certain that you do not want to die; not when this whole new world has opened up to you.

But that would be my destiny, you think bitterly. To live only long enough to finally have something to leave behind.

“And what if it works?” a third, unfamiliar voice cuts in. “Will you start training her as a Witcher? No one in the society she’s from will give her work once she’s one of us.”

“Oh, why bother with pointless questions, Eskel?” Lambert’s voice is raised now, and you are certain you can detect a fear in it. “She won’t live. She will die an agonizing death.”

“Stop!” Geralt roars, drowning out the other voices. Silence envelopes the room, leaving only the sound of your labored breathing as you remain still, ear pressed to the wall.

“Well, Geralt?” Lambert breaks the silence, “Did you have something to say? Because I do.”

You hear no response.

“You care for that girl, I can see that.” His tone has changed somewhat, more pleading than angry now. “But trying to save her this way? You’re going to kill her, Geralt.”

More silence.

“The infection takes its victims quickly, in sleep. But to submit her to the Trial of Grasses? It’s cruel, Geralt. And selfish.”

“Not everyone regrets becoming a Witcher, Lambert,” Eskel says.

“But everyone regrets seeing people that we cared about, people that we loved die in front of us!”

You are buzzing with anxiety, anger, and words you wish you could speak. After all, it is your life that is currently being debated, very loudly, only a room over. The stone walls may be thick, but there are cracks, and it should be no surprise to the men that you can hear.

When silence has settled too long, you finally speak, loudly. You even slam your fist against the wall, as if it would help. Instead, it just leaves you with aching knuckles as you shout.

“All of these grand arguments and no thought to ask me what I want?”

You can’t hear it, but you can picture all three heads in the room turning to look at the wall. “Or does that not matter here?”

“Y/N—” Geralt mutters, and you hear a crash as someone quickly moves through the room.

You do not move from your place on the floor, even as you hear his footsteps echoing down the hall towards the door in front of you. He opens the door quickly, eyes searching for you for the briefest of moments before landing on you, huddled up against the wall, hot fury in your eyes.

He drops to his knees in front of you. You stare at him for a moment, not saying anything. He reaches out, placing a hand on each of your shoulders. But beyond that, he says nothing, does nothing, and it only makes the anger burn brighter – though you can’t quite place where that anger is directed.

“I want it to be my choice. And I choose the lesser evil.”

“Y/N,” he says, “It… You still have some time to decide, I would never force you to—”

“Geralt,” your gaze fixes intensely on his. “I want to live. I… You… I mean, a month ago, I had nothing to live for. Maybe my choice would have been different then. But now… I refuse to just let myself die, when you’ve finally given me a reason to stay alive.”

And, for the first time, you aren’t even worried about how he will react. Hell, you don’t care how he reacts. You just know that you want to kiss him, and so you do.

He reacts instantly, moving his lips against yours and pulling you against him, wishing that he could simply keep you pulled tight to his chest and protect you from all harm.

For all the poverty he’d passed through in this town the inn at least was holding its own. The horse hair plaster did little to warm the space, but the many bodies and roaring fire made up for the lack of insulation. The room was otherwise dark. Comforted in the soft chatter and the simple blessing that, though they might growl, no one was inclined to approach him. Geralt took a moment to merely sit, listening to the drip of water from his cloak and the clink of spoons against bowls. The latter made his stomach ache something fierce and with a sigh Geralt stood, approaching the bar.

The innkeep took one look at his threadbare clothes and went back to cleaning his nails. Geralt slid what little coin he had across the counter.

“Oats,” he said. “For the chestnut mare outside.”

“This look like a ploughing stable to you?”

“Does this metal look fake to you?”

Geralt spoke of the coin. Might have meant his sword. Either understanding worked just fine. The innkeep pocketed his meager offering in a flash.

“Doesn’t get your bitch much,” he said, but moved to the back regardless, presumably to make up a pail. Geralt traced his movements just long enough for reassurance before heading back to the fire. His knuckles creaked and when he grimaced the skin of his lips split.

As he sat that hole in his stomach grew wider, deeper, pulled him down stronger than gravity herself and Geralt had to plant his feet against the wave of dizziness that hit. Even witchers were susceptible to starvation. Obviously he would have preferred food for both himself and Roach, but work hadn’t been kind to him these last few weeks. Oh, there were plenty of monsters, just few people willing to pay for their demise. As he’d once told Jaskier, the two rarely went hand-in-hand.

...must be the hunger addling his brain. Geralt knew of no other reason why he should think so much on a bard who was no longer bound to him. He’d severed that tie himself, over a month past.

“Endings,” Geralt said. To Roach, really. The conversation had picked up enough to cover his voice and he knew his horse was just beyond the wall, sheltered beneath the hanging roof of the inn. “It was bound to happen eventually. Best to do it on my own terms.”

If pressed Geralt might have admitted to catching that snort. As if Roach had heard, understood, and had more than her fair share to say about that claim. But he held his ground. Jaskier would have left, and all the better for it. Over the last few weeks Geralt had pictured the man lying prone on Yennefer’s bed. Thought over the advice he’d given about heading to the coast. Become antsy during the long stretch of silences and could only admit now that he’d grown used to Jaskier’s singing. The memories of his songs had settled in the back of his mind, rooting there with a determination that fit their author. More than once Geralt had caught himself humming a tune when there was no one else to hear it.

Yes. There were things he... missed. But better to miss them now while they shown bright in his memory. There would have come a day when Jaskier would no longer ask to accompany him to far off places. Where his songs would warn of a witcher’s violence and treachery, rather than simply lying through his teeth. There may have even come a time when he fell and no sorceress, not even one of Yennerfer’s skill, could save him. Geralt knew this as surely as he knew the weight of his own sword.

Jaskeir would have grown to hate him whether he’d held his foolish tongue or not. That was a destiny Geralt could believe in.

He’d just resolved to meditate until the phrase ‘Toss a coin to your witcher’ finally left his head—its repetition had certainly not brought the command into reality—when a plate was dumped in front of him, steaming meat and crispy potatoes. A bit of relish dotted the top, specific to the region as Geralt didn’t recognize the spices. The smell was enough for him to draw a sharp breath though, swallowing it like that might fill the hole in his stomach. He forced himself to look up into the eyes of a plain woman and kept his hands away from the table's edge.

“I didn’t order this,” Geralt said.

The woman smiled. “I know.”

Hmm. “You misunderstand. I don’t have coin to pay for this.” A drink was set beside the plate. The smell of steamed milk had Geralt briefly closing his eyes.

The woman chuckled. At his longing or whatever game she played, he didn’t know. Perhaps both. Though Geralt had an inkling that he had misjudged her when she pushed the plate closer, a chipped nail tapping its edge.

“It’s you who’s not understandin’” she said. “Coin’s already in the pocket. Mine, not my lout of a brother over there.” Her head jerked towards the innkeep. “Pretty bard was in here just a mo’ ago. Went pale as milk when he saw ye. Thought the poor boy was gonna faint! But he recovered, sure as anything, and gave me a handful of silver before slippin’ out the back. Had stern instructions that I get you a hearty dinner so now here I am, doin’ jus’ that. You won’t catch Sinah goin’ back on her word, no sir. So go on. Eat your fill, witcher. More where that came from if you’ve a mind to have it,” and Sinah inched the plate ever closer.

Geralt’s gaze was on the hearth though. He stared at the flames and tried to ignore how the smell of meat had gone sour. “A bard?”

“Aye. As said, a pretty thing. More dolled up than we’re likely to get ‘round these parts. Sang a bit for his own meal before settlin’ in the back. Quiet. Fidgety. Like a mouse before the cat. Specially when he caught sight of that hair o’ yours. Thought he might be a monster himself—one of those dopple things, if you know my meaning—up until he asked me to serve ye. Odd that. I’ll not have my cookin’ go to waste though. I’ll take it back if—hey now!”

But Geralt was already up and on the move because he’d heard it. Muttering something about saving his plate, he was across the room with a dexterity only a witcher could manage, dodging legs, chairs, spilled drinks, all in near darkness. Throwing himself out into the gale that sound grew stronger. No one else would have heard it above the storm, but Geralt followed it like a clear, melodious bell.

Someone was speaking to Roach. Jaskier was speaking to Roach.

A little ways down the path to avoid a small river forming, around the corner of the inn. Geralt slipped into the shadows created by the overhang and blinked at the sudden assault on his vision. Jaskier was dressed entirely in purple and pink, a beacon amid the grays of the night. Geralt’s first thought upon spotting him was that his clothing was a monstrosity all its own and he would happily accept a contract to dispose of it.

Then, ears perking like a wolf’s, Geralt focused on the conversation.

“—hardly deserves it,” Jaskier was saying, using Roach’s neck to hide from a particularly sodden gust of wind. His mare put up with it, long familiar with the man’s proximity. “Though I suppose that you could technically make an argument for reciprocation. If I am owed a ten percent cut of whatever work he secures thanks to my genius ballads, then perhaps I owe him ten percent of whatever I earn thanks to his heroics. Yes, yes. I know I’m not supposed to be touching you, but I’m not see? I’m touching your saddlebags. Geralt can’t get mad about that, can he?”

He could, yet astoundingly Geralt found that he was not. How could he be when the light of the moon showed Jaskier slipping coin into the side pocket where Geralt was sure to find it? Shivering, drenched to the bone, Jaskier continued to give up his riches, smiling all the while. Geralt could see it even from the shadows. Noted the melancholy grip on its edge. He looked away—again—and this time told himself that it was so his shining eyes didn’t give him away. The excuse sounded weak even within his own head.

“Just a bit to tide him over,” Jaskier said, continuing to pour more than “a bit” into various pockets. “And you of course! No need to tell him I was here, but you should make sure he buys you plenty of carrots. You need more than these wet oats... oh by the gods those look disgusting. I’m sorry, girl. I’d sneak back in to get you something as well but... ah.... not sure ‘sneaking’ and ‘White Wolf’ go well together. Our King of Brooding would spot me for sure and then where would I be? Suffering another punch I’d wager. And given our last meeting I don’t think Geralt would settle for aiming at my gut. Sorry, girl, but this face is just too beautiful to risk.”

Another sliver coin glinting from the shadows. An endless wave of prattle just under the rain. Geralt listened as Jaskier told Roach all about his travels over the last month, how audiences were growing weary of the ballads he had, demanding new, exciting tales. Jaskier had nothing to give them. Though that was fine. Grand even! Challenge and limitation, the bread and butter of an artist. He would find a way and until then he’d help others find there’s. Even grumpy witchers.

“I’m his friend, after all,” Jaskier said. It came out quieter than all the rest. “That’s what the foolish man doesn’t realize. Hardly matters whether he’s my friend. Doesn’t stop me from being his. Really, all those mutated brains and he’s dumb as a goat half the time. He’s lucky he’s gorgeous.” Roach tossed her head, knocking into Jaskier’s and drawing a chuckle. “Knew you’d agree with that, girl. There now. All loaded up? Excellent. I’m going to go dry off now. I will not allow this storm to ruin my new outfit,” and he did a little twirl, showing off the decorative stitching. “Stunning? Why yes, I’m quite aware. Never hurts to hear it though. Thank you, darling.”

Jaskier planted a quick kiss on her muzzle, whispered not to tell, and with a wink slipped away. Geralt took note of the house he was renting a room from and then returned to the inn.

He found Sinah in the back removing a man’s hand from her waist. She followed him to his seat, the meat and potatoes now cold. Geralt shoveled forkfuls down regardless.

“You said the bard’s coin would get me more?”

Sinah inclined her head. “Aye. Wanting a second plate, do you?”

“No, but I’ll take paper and quill if you have it.”

If she found the request odd she didn’t show it. Sinah left and returned with the speed of a wraith, depositing pulpy parchment and a vile of ink heavily watered down. It was enough. Geralt inclined his head in turn, the most respectful gesture she’d seen all day, and the two parted with satisfaction on both sides. Geralt put aside a third of his meal for Roach before finishing the rest with a speed that would have choked a human man. Done, he set about composing a list.

He was no poet. Geralt hadn’t the words to describe his contracts with anything other than the blunt language spoken by all witchers. Still, he made an effort to include details. He wrote about the noonwraith he’d dispatched three towns over, only to find that the residents had but an eighth of the coin they’d originally promised. Geralt had looked at their own sunken cheeks, taken half of that eighth, and been on his way. After that had come the drowner colony, but no one cared to pay for what amounted to a pest—even a dangerous one. There were the men who’d succeeded in both putting a hole in his cloak as well as forfeiting their lives. The young woman who looked much like Sinah but had none of her honor, attempting to lure Geralt into a robbery through false tears. The ghoul whose liver he'd eaten when he couldn’t sell it. The curse he’d lifted for a roof over his head. The nekkers that had managed to drain the rest of his energy before he’d finally collapsed here. It was all common work. The witcher equivalent of doing one’s chores. It was only Jaskier’s voice in his head that told Geralt any of this might interest another.

The whole thing filled five pages and took the length of time required to dry his socks. There was no signature. The writing was splotchy and the paper now smelled of rain. Geralt folded it with all the care he’d give to cleaning his sword.

It wasn’t an apology because witchers didn’t do apologies. Geralt wasn’t even sure he’d know how to give one if required... though this was probably as close as he’d get. He would not think on what Jaskier had done to earn the attempt.

Instead, Geralt planned to sop up the remaining juice on his plate and lick his fingers clean. He would return the inkwell to Sinah and, when the rest of him was dry, he’d ruin it all by going back out into the storm, across the weeds, into the room where Jaskier slept with lute and clothes as flamboyant as a peacock. Geralt’s notes would look like a pauper’s trifle next to the rest of his belongings, but perhaps Jaskier could spin them into something grand.

Indeed, perhaps someday soon there would be another inn, a new ballad, and this time Jaskier would choose to stay. Geralt wouldn't deserve that, but he found himself thinking on it nonetheless. Treacherous thoughts that circumvented destiny and warmed him far better than the fire.