Archive of Our Own

“I heard they’re the bastards of vampires-”

“They ain’t born you dolt-”

“Ain’t nothin’ except evil could make that kinda monster-”

Fiery amber eyes rose to fix on the group of gossiping peasants, dangerous even past the strands of dirty white hair that fell into the witcher’s face. One of the men glanced edgily into his darkened corner and caught the fierce gaze, hurriedly dropping his head and slapping the arms of those around them to urge them into silence. As much as they could be certain that a witcher wouldn’t kill them all over some ale-fuelled jibes, this one looked particularly feral; hulking body clad in torn and bloodied leather, straggly hair caked in filth and falling far past his clavicles, shoulders tight and lambent eyes darting from place to place at an unsettling speed.

Geralt, to his credit, did drop his glare after only a few seconds, settling for imagining how he would painfully dismember each of the smallfolk instead of standing to carry out said fantasy. The past months had not been kind, and he had realised very quickly how much he had taken for granted not having to deal with hostile receptions one to one. Jaskier had always-

He growled under his breath, slamming back yet another tankard of ale as he wrestled that train of thought off the rails and left it crumpled and desolate in the cold waste of his mind. He was here to focus, to gather information, to kill the monster, not drown his sorrows and pine like a child. Waving over the barmaid for a refill, he was forced to dig around in his coin purse and slap down a few crowns as she raised her eyebrows at him before finally refilling his tankard. That was drained just as quickly as the rest and the woman slammed the jug on the table in front of him with an annoyed huff before stalking off in the direction of the wine cellar.

Deciding to take it at a more reasonable pace, he chugged only several mouthfuls from the large jug before setting it back onto the table in favour of his food. Geralt eyed the broth with clear distaste but scooped some of the oily liquid and veg into his mouth nonetheless. He had already lost too much coin on it; it wouldn’t do to have it be wasted as well. He had left the majority of his coin behind with- behind, and was throwing himself into the hunt for the ‘woman in the woods’, not allowing the petty troubles of every superstitious farmer he came across distract him.

He tuned out as much of the background noise as he could, sinking further into the shadows and his own thoughts as he mechanically worked through his meagre dinner. He had enough coin for maybe another week in this town before he would be forced to set up base in the forest, unless he could hunt down a hefty contract for something standard like a griffin within the next day or so that is. So realistically he had the rest of this evening and the next day to collect all he could from the local rumour mill before continuing to another small settlement on the outskirts of the Greendale Woods.

“Geralt…”

His head shot up, ears already straining to hear the tumbling pulse and nose searching for the smell of fresh spring water that accompanied that voice, only to find the barmaid standing a short distance away eyeing the tabletop with contempt.

“You finished with’at?”

He grunted and shoved himself to his feet, brushing past the woman unceremoniously as he sought out a sign of her presence in the crowded tavern, still hearing her soft sigh ringing in his hazy head. Had she followed him? It wasn’t enough that she haunted his vaguely lucid dreams: she had to trail him into waking moments too?

As the prickle on the back of his neck and forearms gradually faded into a background hum and finally to nothing, Geralt became aware of the edgy looks and wary glares he was receiving from many of the tavern’s occupants. His hand tightened reflexively around the bundle stashed in his pocket before he cast a glance around the room and beat a steady retreat. Trudging out the door into the open air, he forced himself to ignore the cheers and jeers that erupted in the tavern behind him as he made his way towards the rickety outbuilding that housed a series of rooms for travellers looking for a place to spend the night.

Whatever reprieve he had been seeking died the second he opened the door to his room and the stench of stale sex and sweat greeted him, followed by the sight of a mostly naked woman with familiar features in his bed. But her hairline was wonky, her eyes set too close together, her nose was just a fraction wider, lips further down from said nose and fuller to boot, and the scent was all fucking wrong-

“Get out.”

“But ‘a thought ‘a could satisfy ya again Witcher… Won’t even charge this time-”

“Out.”

The prostitute pouted dramatically but she slipped out of bed and approached him, not even bothering to pull her thin slip of a robe fully around herself. She paused for a half second, giving him what Geralt supposed was meant to be a seductive look and a lip bite but evidently reading his stony expression decided to shrug past him with a slight sigh. His hand snapped out to grab her wrist, squeezing once in warning before she could make it into the corridor. She really did sigh this time, sounding put upon as she reluctantly lobbed the heavy silver medallion onto the bed then tugged pointedly against his grip. Geralt acquiesced with a final glare and then she was gone, no more than a collection of fading scents and the memory of a warm body to join all the others.

Absently he found himself approaching the bed, approaching the discarded medallion and scooping it up to swipe his thumb over the relief of the snarling wolf. As soon as it made contact with his skin the dreaded vibration kicked to life and he dropped the thing as if it had been white hot. He scowled and grabbed it by the chain, striding over to his pack and stashing it right at the bottom as it had been for the past few months. It had started the near constant vibration almost as soon as he had struck out on his own.

He had put up with it for the first few days, but eventually the faint buzzing that was just loud enough to be actively audible at all hours had driven him to the brink of insanity. That coupled with the ripples that spread through his chest and shoulders and back and set his teeth grinding and his hair prickling had been enough to force him to abandon his faithful medallion. If Vesemir had been there to witness its removal- He would probably have muttered something about it being a witcher’s best weapon before cuffing him round the head with the pommel of a sword. His neck still felt oddly bare without its hefty weight, the space where the wolf would usually weigh warm and comforting against his sternum now cold and bare.

Geralt pushed the odd feeling from his mind and went to sit at the small unstable table and chair set up in the darkest corner in the room where his journal and a flurry of scrawled pages were littered alongside a stubby guttering candle. Pulling the amulet from its pride of place inside his armour’s internal pocket, he examined the oxidised and tarnished ball of copper, allowing the warm candlelight to shine along the edges of the runes painstakingly etched into its surface.

Really, he was no closer to deciphering the spell now than he had been when he had first begun his research into magical runes and their purpose in black magicks, despite his painstaking trip to Novigrad for the books and scrolls he thought he would need. What he had been able to determine was that certain metals were oft used as magical vessels or traps due to their affinity for channelling or diverting large quantities of power; the greater or more heinous the magic, the more imperfections and faults the metal displayed over use until it was drained of all prior qualities.

Every feudal peasant and their newborn understood the power interwoven with blood magic. The use of blood, tooth, bone, flesh and hair had spawned many a cautionary tale from all reaches of the continent, warning of the control and unintended consequences such magic could befall unwitting victims and volunteers alike. It wasn’t hard to understand why the woman in the woods had used a copper casing along with her hair and the remains of the stillborn son of the woman she had been trying to possess in her first amulet: a way to channel her power, a physical link between her and her vessel, all imbibed with the emotional pain and horror necessary to keep her victim weak and pliant throughout.

But he had been less eager to crack open this second amulet to discover its contents. For one, the runes etched across the copper’s surface had not been present on the first talisman; it screamed of an older and deeper ritual than even arcane possession. Though to ensnare an ancient leshen as it had, it came as no surprise. However, he had no idea if breaking the magical seal on the thing would have negative effects. It was safe to assume so, as he vividly remembered the broiling violence in the magic that washed over him when his Quen shield caused whatever spell had been cast to rebound and shatter the first amulet all those months ago. Geralt could only imagine that this unassuming ball had the power to level an entire village.

Something else convinced him to keep the copper housing intact. A small coiling tightness in his chest, something hot and writhing and uneasy. Whether intuition or something else he wasn’t sure, but his gut feelings had yet to steer him wrong and so he did as bid. His fervour to transcribe the runes had unfortunately led him to dead end after dead end, and the only sense he could make of the intricate shapes were the vaguest impressions of power, caution, control, tracking and distance.

Any time Geralt tried to link any of the meanings his head would throb and he would suddenly find a rune in the sequence which somehow negated the ones before it, which only served to make his head fuzzier with frustration and sheer exhaustion. If only he knew what the little talisman contained- But he shrunk away from that though yet again and reluctantly let the amulet drop to the table, eyeing it apathetically as it rolled slightly and came to rest on the far corner of the table.

Maybe a short break would help – a few minutes or hours to meditate, to unwind, to force the stuffing and distractions from his mind before returning to the task at hand. So, he stood with a slight groan and popped the stiffness from his neck, pausing only to return the amulet to its usual pocket before sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. Perhaps in his meditative state the throbbing of the amulet would trigger something, allow something to slide into place so suddenly the bigger picture came into focus. At the very least it would be something to cling to when she eventually plagued his mind again.

So Geralt closed his eyes, rolled his neck once more before sinking into the flow of his breathing, the pounding of his heart, the rush of blood in his veins and the sickening pulse of the amulet that undercut it all.

<> 

It was the exact same tremulous thudding that plagued him now, riding through the woods of Greendale in the pouring rain on yet another scouting session. The amulet throbbed and twitched where it nestled downwind and left of his sternum, a fluctuating temperature making him tense and fidget uncomfortably in the saddle while his horse fussed and shuddered underneath him.

He was already in a shit mood, having been disturbed in the middle of the night by a group of men pounding on his door and demanding he leave the premises on account of an alleged attack on one of the staff. Geralt had ripped open the door with a snarl and a variety of choice words on his lips only to find the men armed and gathering a crowd of curious or vindicated onlookers. Among them had been the prostitute, who sobbed dramatically at the sight of him and brandished her bruised wrist in the direction of anyone who would spare her a second glance.

He could’ve killed them if he had wanted; a witcher against 5 untrained men was no real challenge, even armed as they were. But the ghostly whispers of “beware the Butcher” rang loud in his ears, and he had simply nodded and slammed the door in their faces in order to gather his belongings together. Upon his exit he was hailed with jeers and a smattering of stones from some of the more hot-blooded in the crowd, but Geralt kept his head down, allowing them to connect with his shoulders and back as he untied his roach and led him off into the night.

They had made it to the two closest villages before dawn, but were turned away in both cases. The man in the first had at least sounded apologetic when he informed the hulking witcher that they had no vacancies, but the innkeeper at the second had taken one look at the tell-tale amber irises before spitting square in his eyes and locking the door in his face. He had struggled to bite down the rage which bubbled up inside him, biting and vicious, but after a short pause and an angry huff settled for wiping his face clean, mounting his stallion once more and riding for the nearby road as dawn began to break upon the hill.

With the coming of the day, Geralt forwent the search for another place to settle down directly, instead intent to loop through the Greendale Woods to avoid the rolling hills between the last village and the next. It was a section of the forest he had yet to intricately map and reasoned it was better to do so before striking out for the darkest depths of the woodland. The outskirts were far more likely to reveal traces of monster activity than the inner sanctums where the leaf litter was thicker and fresher and animal traffic was more common and more likely to erase the presence of tracks or droppings. The last thing he needed was to stumble upon a chort while woefully unprepared and equipped only to deal with a witch.

The amulet gave another shudder and he finally gave in, reaching underneath his armour and ripping the offending item from its pocket to dangle it in the air in front of him with a fierce scowl, only to find the thing jolting around on its corded leather under its own power. It oozed the faintest red glow and the runes scribed onto the copper’s surface seemed to wobble and swirl with each jerky movement.

Geralt frowned at the thing, eyes narrowing as he tried to understand why exactly it was misbehaving all of a sudden. He pulled the black stallion he was riding to a harsh standstill, watching carefully as the ball of metal jumped and swung on its cord. Even as it swung in a sloppy circle it seemed to be making short aborted jumps to the left, away from the edge of the forest and deeper into the thick darkness of the trees.

A sense of stifled unease ran over his neck and arms but he ignored it, eyes locked on the amulet as he spun the horse to face the heart of the woods and watched as the ball shifted in turn to twitch ahead every few seconds. With a sharp jab of his heels they were moving forwards at an easy trot, the black stallion weaving between trunks and bushes unaided while Geralt watched the amulet, still held aloft at almost eye level.

And so they rode deeper and deeper into the forest, path corrected every so often according to the jumping of the amulet, destination subject to the tugging of strings as the talisman’s magic clearly responded to its source. His roach halted and whickered every so often, growing more and more uneasy as the foliage and canopy closed in around them. The woods had fallen to a perpetual twilight with only meagre scraps of daylight falling to the spongy forest floor.

The sound of birds and insects grew fainter and more muffled as they journeyed closer to the heart of Greendale, and when had the sounds of the animals disappeared entirely? The air became thick, almost tangible as they pushed ever onward. It was an awkward press on his skin, in his hair, worming between his layers and coaxing his heartbeat to increase infinitesimally. There was the creeping sense of something inhabiting the darkness: something alive and aware and distinctly angry, tasting of ozone and smelling of stagnation and antiquity.

Suddenly the horse stuttered to a halt, stamping and skittering uneasily as he whickered. A quick glance at the amulet showed it making even more violent twitches forwards, practically wiggling with the frequency of each movement, and Geralt was quick to dismount. He tied the stallion up to a tree to prevent the animal from bolting before removing his pack and slinging it over his shoulders. He might need the litany of potions and items stashed inside and was more than happy to grab his entire bag, leaving only food and water behind in favour of keeping his hands free and various pockets empty.

He cast one last glance at his roach and then set off, the intensity of the amulet’s dancing tugging at its leather cord so hard he felt every jump tug against his palm. After only a few minutes, he began to notice a faint tingle in his lower back: so faint at first that even on high alert he had almost missed it. Training had him casting around his surroundings first but his search came up empty. It was only after twisting to look behind him did the feeling peak for a split second before receding once his pack lost contact with his spine. He put a hand to the bottom of his bag and felt the buzzing ripple through his hand from the violent vibrations his medallion was emitting. As many times as the thing had acted up around various creatures or magic, it had never been this insistent, never sung with this much intensity-

The amulet gave a particularly hard jerk and the thing nearly flew out of his hand. Geralt shook himself and lost contact with his pack as he squared his shoulders and continued forwards, eyes scouring the gloom for any signs of life. His sword stayed firmly sheathed however, knowing that any aggressive approach would more likely than not end poorly for him. Besides, the majority of sentient beings always deserved the chance to be reasoned with; even if said majority did end up being put down when all was said and done more often than not.

By now the forest was entirely silent, the air and darkness equally as oppressive and pressing as the world seemed to compress around him. The previously twitchy amulet gave one last violent shudder before falling still at the exact instant ozone began to bleed into the regular woodsy smells that had kept Geralt company the past hour or so. The canopy above was so thick that it was impossible to accurately measure the passage of time however, and he had been too focused on this new development to pay any mind to tracking the minutes as they tumbled by him.

Since the copper ball had fallen suspiciously cool and still, the only real path was forward. The thick atmosphere had the uncanny feeling of hundreds of eyes roaming across him from the darkness but he kept his head fixed ahead. It would not do to become distracted and wander off into the encroaching blackness to encounter whatever creatures that lurked in its depths. That came accompanied with the distinct possibility that he would never find the witch or the way out of the woods again; after all, most cautionary tales were rooted firmly in truth no matter how fantastical their embellishments.

Not long later a low wooden building came into view, looming out of the half light not dissimilar to some great beast hunkering down amidst the trees. A warm glow spilled from the windows and the smell of some warm herbal infusion filled the air, a stark contrast to the rest of the scene. Geralt’s eyes narrowed but he tucked the bundle of metal and leather into its pocket and approached the hut. His eyes darted here and there, drinking in everything and nothing; the barren water trough next to the scummy pond, the clusters of aconite and mistletoe and pringrape and bloodmoss dangling the dirty window, the gaping holes in the timber thatch roofing, the front door that was ever so slightly cracked open.

He carefully pushed the door open, hanging back as he swept the interior of the shack: well furnished, well lit, unassuming, empty. When a few seconds of intent listening confirmed what his sight had determined, Geralt stepped into the room and took a closer look around. A large brass pot of something bubbled on the fire, a wide table in the corner was littered with all kinds of plant debris along with several books and candles, the roof was completely intact where there should have been gaping holes of rotted wood and everything smelled entirely benign. He had just taken a step towards the pile of books when-

“The witcher arrives at long last.”

He whirled, hand flying to his sword only to find an old hunched woman settled in front of the fire and stirring the large pot of whatever that herbal scent signalled. She gave him a crooked gap-toothed smile, eyes milky and sunken into her wrinkled pale face. A large faded shawl swathed her frame, covering her head and hair and trailing nearly to the backs of her knees over her equally drab and loose dress.

“The woman in the woods.”

“I suppose that is what the smallfolk would call me. If not witch, or sorceress, or evil, or blight. I would have you call me Jannis.” Her voice was oddly rich and smooth, unfaltering even as her deep breaths whistled through damaged lungs. The woman left the ladle in the pot, pale and frail fingers grasping for a wooden stick propped up on the wall next to her. Geralt watched dispassionately as she leaned heavily upon the cane while turning to face him fully. They locked gazes for a moment, although he wasn’t entirely sure the old woman wasn’t blind or only partially sighted. “Sit, Witcher.”

“Jannis-” He was cut off as the crackle of lightning seemed to cut the air between them and suddenly his head was thick and stodgy and he was seated across the room from her. How-?

“Ah, good. Now I believe you had some questions for me.” Jannis smiled again, as gummy and friendly as if he had just stopped by for a quick chat. He immediately made to stand and unsheathe a weapon but found himself rooted in place, only his head free to move while everything from the neck down seemed to be frozen still. “Quickly now Witcher, our window of opportunity grows smaller…”

“Why?” Geralt spat, frustration and what he refused to accept as fear burning blindingly hot in his sternum. “Why corrupt an innocent woman, why force her to kill for some sick ritual you could easily have completed alone, why go through the effort of ensnaring a leshen and sending it halfway across the continent to kill her?”

Jannis made a tutting noise as if disappointed, shakily inching a step closer to the table to run gnarled bony fingers along the binding of the books. He analysed her every move, noting the crooked slant to her limbs and digits, the pronounced tremble in her each motion, the weak fluttering push of blood through her carotid, the small circles her eyes moved in, the sickly tinge to her papery skin.

“It served me to do so. Surely that is not all?”

His thoughts whirled and spun, crashing together and trading places as he tried to process everything at once. Clearly this witch – Jannis – was at a severe advantage. Frail as she seemed, she was extremely powerful and had some sort of influence over him. There was some measure of time pressure, until what he had no idea, but that set him even more on edge than he already was.

Every plan he had prepared in advance immediately flew out the metaphorical window with the knowledge she could magically exert power over his actions and perceptions of time and or space; it was well known in particular circles that witchers were immune to most forms of magic, but clearly that wasn’t this case with this witch. He desperately needed answers, needed to figure who and what she was, what she wanted and why she wanted it, as well as how to get out of this mess and remove her from the picture permanently.

Stall, something inside him hissed, play for time, make her slip and spill something, anything!

“How did you do it-” He nearly tripped over his words in his urgency, eyes intently locked on the witch as she puttered about and rocked in place. “This is arcane magic; these rituals haven’t been common practise since the time after the Convergence- How did you harness this much power?”

Jannis cackled suddenly, the sound as strong and light hearted as if she had been 40 years younger. Even as she coughed and wheezed and spluttered, she segued right back into intense laughter as soon as it was physically possible. Geralt’s hair stood on end as his thoughts swum sluggishly and he was suddenly reminded of the full moon, a woman kneeling over him and chanting to the night sky even as she heaved and choked-

“Oh Witcher, oh ignorant little Witcher…” Jannis’s smooth voice only set his nerves further alight, swallowing hard as he watched the frail woman begin to shuffle closer. “Your time is slipping away, along with my patience. Two more questions, since I pity you so.”

“Why do you want her? She escaped, why couldn’t you find another girl to be the focus of your spell?”

“Ahhhh… Is the White Wolf concerned for his little rabbit?” His blood froze to ice in his veins as Jannis smiled, slow and sweet and sickening while her milky eyes bored into his own wide amber. “So absorbed with the risk of snapping his sweetling’s spine in his own jaws that he missed the fox scouting, the dogs salivating, the vulture circling: waiting for the threat to leave before swooping in to claim their meal. Such a succulent morsel too, so strong and fierce-”

“Don’t you touch her!” She screamed with laughter in the face of his roar and Geralt renewed his struggles, spittle flying from his mouth as he yelled and cursed and flung his head about, trying with all his might to rip free from his captivity. But he grew tired quickly, muscles becoming shaky and weak as they burned and throbbed uncomfortably, his mind becoming even foggier. He was forced to relax, panting for breath and glaring at the wizened woman as she finally chuckled her way into speech once more.

“This was far easier than even I expected. The tales of witchers, immune to magic, cold to feelings, incapable of love, with the shrewdest wit and most formidable senses and focus- And yet you stumble into my domain like a newborn foal, freely offering yourself to me. One more question little Witcher, dear old Jannis is nearing her end.”

“Her-?” And as the taste of lightning began to swim into the air once more and the foggy haze in his head grew, it all slammed into place to the soundtrack of the witch’s crazed laughter. The ritual, the amulets, the possession, the talk of vessels, the ancient magic and rune work used to contain great power, the use of blood magic, the parasitic nature of the spells, the dependency on deep woodland powers- Fuck, why hadn’t he seen it before?! “You’re a relict.”

“Finally, he understands!” Jannis – or the thing – crowed, smiling unnervingly wide as she, it, hobbled even closer and Geralt could suddenly smell the sickness and sweat and slow decay of flesh underneath the homey warmth of the shack and the bite of a storm. “First came the elves, with their need to harness the elements and bend the very world to their whim, and then came the filth who stole their power and harboured a need to control chaos. We were hunted, chased into the dark and the dank to die or lie dormant. The other three, the Crones, got off lightly but I was made an example of, ripped from my body and imprisoned as a formless entity in a cage!

“For hundreds of years I have been trapped beneath the ground, feeling the pigs claim my home piece by piece, polluting my power and spitting on my memory. Until sweet Jannis came along, wandering into the heart of the forest to find her missing daughter, disturbing the warding circle and setting me free. But she was weak, even before my presence aged and rotted her body from the inside out. I was preparing to venture out into the world beyond and find my next meat suit when your little rabbit stumbled her way to my doorstep.

“I could taste her power, raw and untainted and untouched, and I needed it. I still need it. But as you said, my morsel has bolted beyond my reach and I am unable to find her. But you dear Witcher… You know where my rabbit has made her burrow. And though your mutations may make the occupation- difficult, you’re plenty strong to get me to her. You might even survive the trip.”

Geralt could only sit frozen as the woman reached out to touch his cheek and suddenly his body lit up. He bellowed in pain as the amulet burned white hot and phantom roots began to burrow into his torso, pulsing and rolling sickeningly. Sweat poured down his face, his neck, his back, his brain felt as if it had been stuffed and was pressing against the insides of his skull and had he not been fixed in place, he had the distinct feeling he would have been writhing and thrashing on the floor by now. It was worse than any pain he had ever felt in his life and yet it seemed to ratchet up second by second.

“Luckily I don’t need to waste time asking your permission for this next part; we would have been here far too long. Besides, you let me in a long time ago. There were far too many moments when I feared you would realise what exactly was clouding your brain and drawing you to me… but no matter. I’ll make sure to give the little rabbit your love Witcher.”

Jannis shuddered violently and let loose a rattling shriek as a static charge ripped through the room, the heat and metallic tang of it overloading Geralt’s senses. There was just enough time to hear the old woman drop to the floor before he was in freefall, being flung backwards at great speed and he automatically tensed in preparation to smash into the wall, feeling the blazing pain reach a peak and he was certain he was dying-

And suddenly it was all gone. All of it. He couldn’t feel his link to his body yet he sat in the empty hut, now dark and cold and abandoned, no sign of Jannis or the relict’s presence or magic to be found anywhere. Geralt stood, surprised when his body co-operated and he found himself at standing height, but he hadn’t felt anything move. He looked down and saw himself as he had been but his heart was silent in his chest, the act of breathing non-existent, couldn’t feel any residual ache from the pain of the amulet, couldn’t feel the stretch of muscle and tendon as he clenched a hand into a fist.

“Mmmmmm, so strong.”

He startled at the sound of the relict’s disembodied voice, loud and echoing in the barren interior of the hut. As he looked around for the source, the view from the windows caught his attention. It seemed to be the shack as he had left it, bathed in firelight, distinctly lived in and well kept, and as the world tilted sickeningly to show more of the floor, he felt phantom muscles in his neck flex at the motion. The figure of Jannis sprawled out on the ground slipped into view and Geralt watched from his separate hut in his ghostly body as his real-world foot, which he couldn’t feel but yet instinctively sensed, moved to kick at the old woman. The contact made her head loll sickeningly, blank eyes staring unseeingly and breathing weak and ragged.

“As I thought… there’s nothing left of dear Jannis anymore. I do hope you won’t be such a disappointment Witcher.”

The fear and panic spilled over then and he screamed, drawing his steel sword and slashing at the windows, the walls, the dilapidated furniture, anything he could reach in an attempt to break free of the prison inside his own head. But the sharp blade simply bounced off every surface, leaving only the smallest scratches behind to mark any impact at all. His outburst faded into ragged panting and barely contained shaking, the rage and terror cutting him to the core in equal measure. It was over, he had failed, she would find them, hurt Jaskier, hurt her-

“Only if the little rabbit and her silly friend decide to put up a fuss.” The voice was mocking and smooth, the world outside his prison rocking with his long strides as his body was puppeteered out of the hut and back into the trees in the direction of his horse. “But I’m sure she will be more than happy to offer herself to me when she realises it will be your life lost at her benefit.”

Geralt roared in frustration and slammed his fist into the wall, mind racing as he tried to find ways out of this situation, anything to slow her down or regain control. But as hard as he strained to muscle his way back into the forefront of his mind, he couldn’t; he was entirely cut off, disconnected, alone and isolated in the depths of his own head while some archaic bitch took his body for a joy ride.

“Language Witcher, or I might not decide to treat this meat suit so favourably.” The ghost of a burning pain rippled through him, the core of his torso rippling uncomfortably at her frosty tone, the place where his organs would have been bubbling and rolling with the same unnatural burning that had filled his being as her magic burrowed under his skin. He gritted his teeth and braced himself up against the wall, growling under his breath as he rode out the feeling. As unpleasant as it was, at least he had something to work from now.

On a strange whim, he reached for the shutters hanging open on either side of the window and slammed them closed. Distancing himself from the lingering pain settling around his spine he circled the small interior of the hut, closing each and every shutter and curtain that was present. If he leaned up against the wood and squinted, he could make out a confused picture of the world beyond, but more importantly he could still feel every step echo through his phantom legs.

“Hiding are you, little Witcher? No matter. I grow tired of your scheming and screaming. You know as well as I that there is no escape. I suggest you conserve your strength. I’m sure your pitiful friends would be distraught to find you like our dear Jannis once I am done with you.”

“Fuck off.” He narrowed his eyes in thought, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement or response but receiving none. Geralt frowned, mulling over this revelation before moving back into the middle of the room to sit cross-legged on the floor to close his eyes and meditate.

He knew she could control his body, his pain, his reactions, and that he could feel it to a point. He still felt intrinsically locked away from his muscles and bodily functions, but his mental body could feel everything working in some distorted version of normalcy. Even without visual confirmation he could tell sweat was beginning to build on his back, muscles stretching in protest as he was swung into the saddle, both in echo of the pain which they had been subjected to minutes earlier and in clear rejection of the magic commandeering them.

Witchers were not meant to harbour magic of any kind, and suddenly his exhaustion and mental fog of the past few months made perfect sense when combined with this fact and the relict’s relentless gloating. His body at its very foundation, all the way down to each individual cell, was protesting. It was gradually tearing itself apart in rejection of this power and it would presumably age and sicken him as it had Jannis before leading to total organ failure; if he hadn’t simply broken and faded away before then. But rolling over and giving in wasn’t in his style. Sure, he could roll over and play dead, but Geralt was determined to spend every second he had conserving strength and using the six weeks journey to understand as much as possible about what was currently happening to him.

He just hoped that his body could hold together long enough to give him options should he be able to come up with them. And as the sounds and feeling of his stolen breaths filled the hut, he closed his eyes and drifted: content in the knowledge that at least he would see her once more before he died.

<> 

He did not have six weeks.

It was bad enough that he could hear her every passing thought as a ghostly echo in the hut, but in the short reprieves he took from his isolation, he could only watch as the witch ran his roach into the ground. But one night it had become too much for the poor beast to endure.

She had simply flung his body clear as the exhausted horse finally stumbled and crashed to the floor on a deserted dirt path in the middle of the night, breathing weak and shaky, flank sweaty and muscles trembling. She took in the pitiful sight of the beautiful black stallion crumpled in the mud with a broken leg and letting out weak shrills of pain, before turning and walking into the night. Only minutes later the horse’s death screams filled the air as a pack of wild dogs descended, slavering and baying, to rip the wounded animal to pieces.

As soon as they came to a settlement, she cut a horse loose before mounting and galloping on. This happened over and over without fail. Not stopping to feed or water the horse, simply goading it to the brink of death and its subsequent collapse before discarding the animal where it lay and finding another. The distance to their destination was obliterated under her methods, and what Geralt had been confident would be over a month of travel had taken less than a third of the time.

He had kept the shutters steadfastly closed as soon as he had realised what was happening, forcing himself to quell the nauseating panic that bubbled to life as he focused on his meditation. As badly as the relict had been treating the poor animals, she had been abusing his body just as awfully. Clearly food and water were a delay she would not accept and his condition under the onslaught of her possession deteriorated faster in response. There was a constant feverish ache permeating his joints, a faint tremble centring around his core and thighs from his fixed position in a saddle, a thick throbbing that had made its residence in the base of skull and stabbed out into his eyes whenever bright light would hit them directly.

So he sank gratefully into his own thoughts, calming himself with memories of Jaskier and his little rabbit: better times when his body was his own and warmth filled his chest instead of an ache and wheezing rattle. Afternoons spent riding in the balmy sun, serenaded by the bard’s ridiculous songs and her peals of joy and Roach’s comforting huffs and snorts. Evenings spent huddling under a tree and around a fire as rain pelted the ground around their little haven. Dawns spent listening to Jaskier’s snuffling snores, watching the sun break across her sleeping face and drinking in her radiant smile when she finally sat up to stretch and bid him good morning.

He remembered Jaskier, bright red and spluttering as he crashed through the underbrush back to camp after accidentally disturbing their female companion as she washed in the nearby river. He had avoided looking at her for the next two days. In fact, he had been too flustered to crack jokes or sing or insult Geralt, so for once they had enjoyed two days of blissful quiet. Geralt had been too stubborn to admit that he missed the bard’s stupid songs, but considering he might never hear another, he was at peace with now admitting how much he enjoyed Jaskier’s antics.

He remembered finding her crouched by the corpse of a ghoul he had killed, inspecting it with a mix of revulsion and curiosity on her sweet face. This had only intensified when he knelt to collect its saliva into a bottle already half filled with the viscous stuff, thick and cloudy. She had asked why he needed it to fight off infection if his wounds healed so quickly, and he had cocked his head in confusion. She rattled off all the properties of ghoul saliva when cleansed and used for healing balms, quick to mention that she had never tested these claims due to the ingredient’s rarity. After a pause he showed her the entry in his journal, citing its use in various poisons and potions and its danger to both humans and witchers in its raw form. The beam she gave him that night when he handed over her own blue glass phial of the stuff, sealed with a round topper and cooled wax, had warmed his chest for the rest of the evening.

Reflection on these moments gave him the time to be grateful of each one and mourn his past and future. It settled his emotions and gave him some comfort. And each day as he sat calm and patient he became more connected, more in tune with the feelings he had lost. He could feel the air flowing through his nose again, distinctly felt the pop in his right index knuckle as she tightened their grip on the reins and the joint protested at the motion stiffly, anticipated the twitch that started below his left eye as the throbbing headache grew ever stronger, enforced by sleep deprivation and poor nutrition. If Geralt was kidding himself, he could’ve sworn his attempt to mirror the action once in his real right eye had caused the faintest tremor of muscles in response.

But all too soon his time ran out.

His focus had been elsewhere, trying to empty his mind and sink into the feeling of his body, when the familiar smells reached him. The blend of trees and earth and rabbit and herb and bird and deer, the raw smell of tilled soil and animals, of people and smoky fires, now more concentrated and livelier than it had been when he was last here.

“Wakey wakey little Witcher,” the relict crooned, her tone mocking and sing-song. “We have arrived.”

As loathe as Geralt was to submit to any one of her taunting demands, he had to hear, to see, to know. So he rose and flung the shutters wide, blinking against the light and scouring the scene for a sign of his friends. He watched as the witch walked them closer to the settlement (he hadn’t realised that movement earlier had been her dismounting, but his body was so weak and shook with exertion so often now that he hadn’t paid attention to the slight spike in pain and tremors) eyes roaming among buildings and people. And suddenly the scent of pond flowers and sunshine washed over them and he had to close his eyes, floored by the warmth and familiarity and beauty in just that faint smell.

As the smell grew stronger he opened his eyes again, eyes flitting from face to face and then he saw her, kneeling in the grass and helping a small child gather some spilled apples back into the basket they were carrying, her expression open and sweet as she spoke and smile and laughed- And then she looked up, feeling eyes on her, and hers met his and he watched her face drop, eyes go wide, mouth fall open, heard her heart double in tempo, saw her mouth move.

“Geralt..?”

He couldn’t even absorb the witch’s self-satisfied chuckle, too focused on her shocked expression, the tears in her eyes as she suddenly scrambled to her feet and began to run for him.

“Geralt!”

“Run rabbit run…” The echoing voice was low and amused, and Geralt tensed as his body was forced forwards, slow steady steps clearly laboured and lumbering. She covered the distance between them quickly and the relict opened his arms to receive her as she flung herself into his chest, arms circling his thick torso and squeezing tight round his middle.

“Geralt, you- You’re here, I never thought-” She was sobbing and he felt his throat squeeze, fear and pain and guilt lapping at his heart even while he forced himself to remain calm and cold. Until the witch revealed her hand, he had to stay on guard, had to stay ready. He just hoped he could do enough to save her.

“’M sorry little one… But I’m here now.” The way she used his voice, used his emotions against her sickened him. Rage flared briefly before he forced that down too, hearing the ghostly chuckle bounce around the hut in response to his emotional reaction, smug as ever.

Geralt noticed the exact moment her shoulders and arms tightened, when her cries caught in her throat and were stifled but he forced it down, throwing himself into the intricacies of her scent and the feel of her body in his stolen arms for perhaps the last time. Rain and dry earth and warmth and bitter mint and softness and cold steel and a thrumming pulse-

She stepped back and looked up at them, eyes dancing across his face and bouncing between his own pair of amber, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows as her mouth pulled down in confusion. And then she began stepping away, shifting slightly to put her back squarely to the child some distance behind her and attempt to hide him from view.

“Little rabbit?” His body was forced a step forward and she scuttled back, arms out wide with her palms facing behind her, face suddenly cold. She knew, he realised, she knew it wasn’t him. The epiphany was powerful, a vindictive thrill that raced through him, a visceral pleasure, a burning pride that consumed him and would have split his face in a wide grin – all teeth and intent. “Ah… I suppose the fun is over.”

“Get out of him you fucking leech.” It was as poisonous as he had ever heard his little rabbit, usually so soft and sunny but now harsh and hostile, her voice as sharp as the crack of a frozen lake in midwinter. Another rush of pride filled him only to be doused by dread as he felt his arm lift, hand closing around the pommel of his steel sword.

“Now now, we wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt would we?” Geralt watched her eyes dart to the blade and back to his face, a small flit of indecision dancing across her face before it was hard and angry once more. Her hand went to her side and a sword he had missed was pulled from its scabbard secured to her waist. As small as she was compared to him, her arms did not waver as she rose the blade to point solidly at his head; a ready position he had taken many times. But she was no match for his superior strength and training even weakened as he was, never mind backed by the power of an ancient magical being.

“EVERYONE INSIDE!” Her voice was loud and demanding, clearly a signal that had been established as suddenly the clearing was a flurry of activity, people yelling and dropping their tasks immediately to grab their loved ones and return to the shelter of their homes. The witch allowed them to go, chuckling as he was forced to draw his own sword and sink into a coiled crouch.

“Silly rabbit… You have no hope of winning. You couldn’t hurt your precious witcher, couldn’t kill him to keep yourself safe; and I have no desire to damage my dainty little vessel or her friends. Put down the sword, accept me willingly: complete the pact we forged and you will both be spared.”

“So that’s your great plan? To hold him ransom until I sacrifice myself?” She began to slowly circle them, each step measured and steady as she kept her eyes on his tense figure. Over her shoulder and some ways to the right, he spotted the great willow with Roach grazing peacefully underneath and the house where Jaskier was frozen in the doorway, mouth open and panicked gaze darting from her to him in rapid succession. He cursed his shift in focus as the relict spoke up again, drawing on his thoughts.

“Or I could start with your little friend back there. Who runs faster do you think, a bolting rabbit or-?”

“Bitch!” Geralt just registered the angry shriek before suddenly they were flying backwards, the crackle of ozone in the air as they slammed into the ground. His body was wracked with pain and the witch struggled to pull them to their feet in the fluid movements he would usually have employed. Her pulse jackrabbited as her feet pounded away from them, towards the house, towards her potions and the things he had left behind- As the witch shook them off and broke into a run, slower than usual but fast enough to begin closing distance, he tore around the room and slammed each shutter closed, an idea forming and only solidified by what he heard in the half second before the last window was blocked. “Jaskier, the blue bottle!”

Moments later he was sitting on the floor of the hut, head bowed and eyes closed and he sank into the feeling of his body moving, legs pumping and heart thundering in his chest. He couldn’t see but he didn’t need to. He could still hear, still smell, knew the feeling of his body better than this invader ever would. Fuelled by rage and an unbridled instinct to protect, Geralt felt the moment the witch shifted his arms to raise the sword and slash forward. Slinking away from the action and the relict’s focus there, he strained as he imagined the change in each muscle as he shot his foot forwards to dig sideways into the earth and bring him to an abrupt stop.

What should have been a strong lunge led by the left foot faltered, the toe of his boot catching halfway and angling their body just wrong so the strong slash whistled through air instead of the soft flesh of a leg.

“NO!” The witch’s scream shredded at his ears and spine but Geralt stayed focused, listening to his little rabbit fly forwards across the ground, feet hitting wood as she leaped up the steps to the door which slammed shut and was bolted only seconds later. He felt as his body was forced into a run once more, following her to the door where he could faintly hear the scrabbling and frantic voices of the house’s occupants.

“Why are there so many bottles-!”

“It’s my job Jaskier, now find it!”

“Come out little rabbit! A flimsy door won’t save you or your precious friends!” He felt the strain of muscle and the pain on the sides of his fists as they were slammed into the door, the impact shaking the oak as well as the rest of the house. Again, the witch reared back and slammed their hands against the door, clearly intent on breaking through and cornering the pair. He clenched his jaw and sunk into the ache in his lower back, stiffening the muscles around his waist and sapping as much core strength from each strike as he could. He just had to buy them time, she had a plan and he needed to do everything in his power to see it through; at the expense of himself if need be.

Even with his interference the wood of the door began to groan and crack under the onslaught, buckling and splintering, and Geralt could mark the exact moment the holes began to appear: the sudden wave of woodsmoke and herbs and berries and spring rolling past from inside the house was now strong and thick where before it had muted and masked. With a sick feeling, he realised that if the witch intended to fight in close quarters he would have to see where his friends were at all times. One wrong move could mean a serious injury; and unlike witchers, his friends would not bounce back with the aid of some potions, abundant as they might be.

With an almighty crash the door gave and Geralt jumped to his feet, racing for the nearest window and flinging the shutters open in time to see the witch pulling them forward through the ruined wood; Jaskier was backing into a bedroom with a pained expression and his little rabbit stood in the centre of the room beside an abandoned sea blue bottle with its round topper laying further away, sword raised and dripping with- Relict oil, she smeared the blade with relict oil, smart but futile.

“Aw, Witcher’s little rabbit missed the mark. Your little oil won’t work on a mutant freak.”

Geralt watched the small flicker of confusion dance across her face and then her eyes widened in realisation, her eyes meeting theirs and a chill raced through his phantom body as if she was really seeing him past it all. But the witch cackled, misreading her surprise and gloating over his revelation.

“Yes, Geralt is still in here. He’s so disappointed, so afraid. He knows as well as I do that you won’t make it out of this. I’ve already won. Give in.”

“Like hell he’s afraid. He never once stopped fighting for me and I’m not going to let his efforts go to waste.”

“A pity.” The witch readied his sword and he kept his gaze pinned to his little rabbit, losing his thoughts in her smell and her heat and her pulse, drinking her in and hoping to keep their head fuzzy with the overload. “Your monster sends his love.”

They struck fast, lunging across the room with a sharp stab but she was already spinning away, the sharp sting at his side marking a deep slice she had managed to squeeze into the evasive manoeuvre. The witch hissed out a laugh and simply whirled round to strike out while she was still in range. The smell of blood filled the air and Geralt snarled as he watched her clamp her left hand over her right shoulder, blood spilling weakly between her fingers.

“I can scratch too little rabbit.”

“Then I’ll bite instead.” She lunged forwards, sword levelled at their chest and he had to choke down the panic as the witch simply deflected her strike with a shrill laugh, sending her careening across the room. But she didn’t give up, pressing them again and again and soon the witch stopped laughing, all too focused on reading each attack and blocking them while he did his best to shake her focus with whatever his heightened senses could pick up; the smell of Roach and the willow she stood under, Jaskier’s panicked prayers in the room adjacent, the crackle of the logs in the fire and the rich tang of blood.

The assault continued, both wounds dripping onto the floor, both hearts pumping furiously as they moved around each other, blood rushing to and from the injuries to heal the damage and fight infection. There was no doubt his little rabbit was in pain, her face tight and movements sloppy, but she was driven by adrenaline and emotion and as such she was unrelenting in her attacks. Geralt felt the slight fizzle in his side, knew exactly what it meant as it began to spread through his aching muscles, his burning chest, his throbbing head. He couldn’t help the thrum of pride that filled him as he felt his body begin to fail.

But the witch seemed to tire of their prolonged dance; she charged once more and before Geralt had time to readjust his focus, his dagger was being plunged into her side as she sidestepped their counterstrike. The hot sickly flush that bathed his body and head seemed to be banished by icy cold suddenly. He couldn’t make a sound, too focused on the little stutter in her breathing and the gap in her heartbeat, her warm fingers closing on the hilt of the blade as her sword hand blasted them back with a wall of power and the burn of lightning.

They smashed into the far wall but the witch recovered quickly, pulling them shakily to their feet and watching as she staggered backwards, hand still gripping the dagger as blood slowly began to seep into the cloth of her dress, sword hanging limply and then falling from her other hand. She leaned back against the far wall, using it to prop herself up while her body shook and her breathing stuttered, laboured by pain and the onset of shock.

“Accept me-” The witch rasped, unconcerned as they swayed when they moved to step forwards. “Let me in and I will heal you, heal your witcher.”

“No.” Her voice shook but her eyes burned as they moved from her stomach to up them. The witch growled and moved as if to surge forward, but their legs gave out and sent them crashing to the floor, vision suddenly spotting and swimming. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“What-?” The voice which had always been rich and smooth now quaked, shot through with confusion and fear as suddenly the failing of the body she inhabited became worth her attention.

“Ghoul saliva. You’re trapped in that body until someone else accepts you into theirs. If that body dies, so do you. But I won’t let that happen. I just need enough time to get you out for good.”

Their ears began to ring as their vision faded out completely, and even though Geralt could hear the witch screaming he knew it was inside their head. His body was slipping into some place between sleep and a coma, burning up in a fever as it tried to fight the poison coursing through his veins. He felt the heat and the sickening lurch but smiled, settling onto the floor of the hut and laying out calmly as he felt his own awareness begin to swim away from him.

The relict faded first, her wails trailing into silence as she retreated into the darkness. He felt pain, but this was nothing compared to the white-hot flames of magical possession. He should have felt panic, but he had made peace with his death days ago. Jaskier was safe, his little rabbit was hurt but she could heal herself, she would be safe too. If they failed to get her out then the witch would die with him and he had still protected them, had killed the monster.

He let the darkness and the heat lap at his mind but held on just a moment longer as the scent of rain and blood and flowers filled him from the inside out and a noise floated through the void, sending him off with a sense of serenity and love. He was down deep, somewhere where not even thoughts could reach let alone voices, but this one did. This one always would.

“Fight Geralt. Fight for me.”

He let go.