Chapter Text
Sunlight filtered through the trees, creating dappled shadows that swayed lazily across the forest floor. They crept across the scattered foliage and scurried across the gnarled bark of the trees. When the wind tired and died down, the once playful shadows settled as well. Geralt was grateful for the fickle weather. The wind was a welcome relief from the sweltering heat of the sun. The pleasant cool breeze swept through the chinks in his armor, cooling and drying the sticky sweat that plastered his shirt to the metal and leather that had become a sauna in the afternoon heat. But Geralt was less concerned with his comfort than the task at hand. The wind disturbed the foliage on the ground and pulled dried leaves from their weakened grip on their branches, scattering them to the floor. Every disturbance threatened to destroy the already threadbare trail he was attempting to follow.
With a disappointed groan he straightened, the sweat soaked clothing bunching uncomfortably across his torso. His group of Witchers had split up a few miles back when the trail had run cold. He hoped one of the other Witchers had found the trail. They had been on the road for weeks tracking the creature and the patience of the younger Witchers was wearing thin. Unused to the hard ground and tasteless food, their tempers ran hot and more than once this resulted in heated brawls breaking out as they trudged along. It had finally seemed like the end of their hunt was in sight when they had found splatterings of the creature's blood yesterday evening barely dry and unevenly coating the bramble bush it had run through. When they lost the trail this morning a gloom had settled over the group. Geralt couldn’t care less one way or another, he was more at home out in the woods than he was on the stiff throne back at the fortress anyway, but he was starting to develop a permanent headache from the incessant whining. They always silenced themselves when he leveled his glare on the bickering group but the set of their shoulders and the dragging feet spoke louder of their discomfort than their moaning did. Everything had changed so much over the past ten years.
With the war came an influx of monsters unlike anything the world had ever seen. The piles upon piles of blood soaked decomposing corpses drew in the filth from the night. The once starving creatures now gorged with the flesh of the fallen reproduced with astounding swiftness. As human civilizations fell, the magical creatures that had been beaten into submission rose once again, reclaiming their territory and slaughtering or driving out the few humans remaining. The Witchers, who had been slowly fading into non-existence, suddenly were over-run with requests, but with their weakened numbers they could not combat the influx of creatures that had swept over the land. Facing extinction they retreated to Kaer Morhen to regroup and plan.
The abandoned kingdoms sent droves of representatives to the Witchers, offering contracts and treaties, promising trade deals, food, gold in exchange for them sending a single Witcher back to their territory. This created a predicament among the Witchers. They had always operated as separate entities, each individually deciding which jobs to take or where to wander. The elite of the kingdoms, unused to dealing with Witchers directly, demanded a representative, someone to direct their requests to. The Witchers had ignored the summons to begin with, more concerned with addressing the root of the problem than catering to the individual needs of a particular kingdom. But the requests became more insistent, the promises more extreme as the war continued and bodies piled higher. After weeks of deliberation the conclusion was reached that they could no longer operate separately. A Witcher caught alone by the ever increasing monster hoards would be decimated. In order to survive they needed to begin hunting in groups. Of course, with this new development, hierarchical and structural changes were essential. Now that they were headquartered in one place should they begin farming? Who would decide which groups were sent out and which stayed behind to train the new Witchers? Who would deal with the requests from the other kingdoms?
Geralt tilted his face to the sky, breathing in the smell of fresh pine wafting off the trees. It had been too long since he had been on a hunt. These days his clothes had been splattered with ink more often than blood, much to his regret. While he recognized the necessity of the changes and the responsibilities of his new position, he missed the days where it would just be him and Roach alone on the road, the only burden laid upon him the request he clutched in his hands. The new “kingdom” had quickly grown in riches and notoriety and the newfound respect that was granted towards the Witchers was pleasant but rang false from the mouths of diplomats and traders.
Apparently it was uncouth for the leader of the Witchers to go out on hunts requested from the other kingdoms. Geralt had been counseled that to join a hunt would show favoritism toward whichever kingdom’s request he took. With each of the territories still at each other’s throats in war, this would have shattered the delicate neutrality the Witchers had constructed. That is what made this hunt so sweet. The creature had holed up in Witcher territory so Geralt was free to do as he wished, and he wished to hunt. The creature had wandered out of Witcher territory sometime late morning yesterday but with the numerous treaties and agreements Geralt had been signing the past few years, the Witchers were well within their right to enter any kingdom’s territory in the hunt of a monster.
He turned around and began to backtrack to where all the Witchers had split a few hours prior, wishing he had Roach with him to make the journey back faster, impatient to hear what the other Witchers had found. They had left their horses in the clearing. It would have been cruel to force the exhausted horses to follow them around as they carefully swept the ground for clues. He hadn’t gone far when he heard a cut off scream from the direction of the river. He hesitated, glancing up at the position of the sun, he was already running late. A cry of pain decided it for him, he pulled out his silver sword and ran toward the sound of rushing water, Eskel would make sure everything ran smoothly until he returned and they had set up precautions in case one of them became separated. The rough symbol language that the Witchers had developed over the past few years had made working as a group much easier. If they left without him he could just follow their markings.
He burst through the trees, startling the drowners that had been closing in on a small form curled against a tree. Their grotesquely bloated bodies twisted around and they hissed at him, spewing frothed saliva from their bloody lips. Ignoring their prey in light of the new threat, they left the shivering form to cautiously surround Geralt. One rushed towards him from behind, claws scrabbling against the worn river stones, Geralt smoothly turned and cut the creature from shoulder to hip. The two that were left were slightly more hesitant, circling him over and over, searching for an opening. He feinted forward then dodged to the side as they simultaneously leapt toward the dropped guard. He cut them down with ease.
He cursed as he briefly checked the sun again, hastily wiping his blade clean and sheathing it.
They must have left already. He crouched by the huddled figure, running a cursory glance over the form. The man was young, probably mid to late teens, his clothing looked expensive but undecorated, obviously not a pauper, a merchants son perhaps? A mop of brown hair hid his face from Geralt’s view but he could see a slight tremor in his shoulders. He didn’t have time to deal with this delicately. He roughly grasped one of the shoulders and gave it a hearty shake.
“Hey kid, get up, I took care of the drowners.” His haste made him careless and he jostled the boy a little too hard, shaking him loose from his position against the tree. Geralt immediately released his grip and regretted it almost instantly as the boy went down like a sack of potatoes. The boy caught himself against the ground, only tensing slightly at the sharp stones that pricked his palms. Geralt stood there, hand half outstretched, not really sure how to rectify the situation. The face that turned towards him was handsome, the features more delicate than one would expect, more suited to a painting than a lad, but it didn’t matter how pleasant a face was to look at, it would soon twist into an ugly thing, full of disgust at the sight of a Witcher.
The boy took one look at his shocked face and burst out laughing. The sound was light and jovial and utterly confusing. It washed over Geralt, more refreshing than the breeze coming up off the water. Laughter was rare among the Witchers, was actually rare everywhere nowadays. A laugh untainted by spite was a true gift. But Geralt had never been very good at accepting gifts. He stood there frozen in bewilderment while the boy tried to get himself under control.
“First of all, RUDE.” He gasped. “If this is how you go about rescuing damsels in distress no wonder people hesitate to laud you as heroes.” He shakily rose to his feet, leaning back against the tree again as he broke out once more in peals of laughter.
“I’m not a hero, I’m a Witcher.” Geralt replied dumbly.
“A Witcher you may be but unless you decide to shove me over again, I would say your actions today were pretty heroic.” The red rimmed crystalline blue eyes shone with sincerity as they warmly settled on his.
“But-” Geralt didn’t know why he was protesting, it just felt wrong for someone to misjudge him so badly, he was seriously worried about the kid’s ability to judge character. “But I’m...frightening?” Surely the kid had somehow missed the scowl, the scars that marred his face.
The young man gave him an unsettling look, a storm settled over his eyes, “No, no you are kind.” He looked like he was going to say more but his eyes slipped past his face and settled on something over his shoulder.
Stringy arms shot forward and Geralt braced himself, he was a little surprised at the delayed violent reaction but it wouldn’t be the first time he was pushed away in fear. People instinctively shied away from his kind and when there was no where to run, they would often turn violent, fueled by their fear. He was caught off guard when, instead of pushing him away, the hands latched onto his shoulder guards and pulled him forward. Geralt was thrown off balance and crashed into the slight form in front of him. A chill shot through his spine when he felt a rush of air across the back of his neck. He whipped around to see a big black beast on spindly legs looking down at its clean claws like it was surprised they were not drenched in his blood. This was the monster they were chasing. It was especially difficult to track as it’s main form of attack was stealth, which explains why Geralt didn’t sense it until now. The creature backed up, seemingly unsure of what to do now that it’s surprise attack missed. It turned to run just as the rest of the Witchers emerged from trees, blocking its path. It hissed in frustration swaying back and forth on its long legs folded down like a crickets.
Roach had diverted from the group and ran up to Geralt nickering softly before assuming a battle stance. Geralt could still feel both the boy’s hands grasping at his shoulders, they were shaking again. The boy had buried his head in Geralt’s chest and was shivering like a leaf. The creature turned its attention back to them, still weighing its options. Geralt gently pulled the boy’s hands from his shoulders, they were soft and smooth like the petals of a flower. He gathered the tense body up in his arms before hoisting it onto Roach. The boy let out a little cry in panic as something tumbled to the ground at the sudden movement. Geralt was just about to release his hands from the boy’s waist when the boy started struggling, trying to get off the horses back. What in the world was the boy doing?! Did he want to die? He gave the boy a shove to put him off balance for a second before patting Roach, signaling her to take off. He caught a brief glimpse of the young man’s face, full of despair, before Roach carried him out of sight. He lightly plucked his sword from its sheath and with a gleeful grin rushed into the fray.
It was only after the monster was well on its way to being picked apart that Geralt remembered the item that the young man had been reaching so desperately for. He moved back to the tree and picked up a case. He opened it carefully and inside was a lute, beautifully crafted, the wood a deep burgundy with intricate patterns etched into it. It would have cost a fortune if not for the large crack along the side. For a second Geralt felt guilty, his haste in throwing the boy onto the horse having destroyed such a treasure, but upon careful inspection he noticed the crack was old. There were no fresh splinters, the edges of the crack were worn smooth with time. If it held no value why had the boy looked so devastated at its loss? He looked up at Roach’s return, her back empty. He wasn’t surprised, she was trained to dump her burden at the nearest sign of civilization and return to the fight. The wood was smooth beneath his fingertips as he ran his hand over it once more before carefully locking the lute back in its unassuming case. His neck still tingled from the ghost of air that had so nearly been a killing blow. He thought back to that moment when the boy pulled him forward, his eyes had flashed with fear, but not at Geralt, the fear was for Geralt. What a strange notion, to have someone afraid for him was almost laughable. Those who didn’t know him were afraid of him and those he counted among his friends knew that he could take care of himself.
Eskel approached him, eying the lute case with curiosity but not saying anything about it.
“We’ve almost harvested everything valuable from the creature, are we to head back tonight?”
“Yes.” He looked down at the lute case with regret. Roach had been gone for nearly an hour, there is no telling where she went or where she dropped the boy off. He couldn’t leave the lute case here for the boy to retrieve either. The spray from the river would easily soak into the cheap case and damage the wood of the lute inside. With the exception of the large crack in the side, the instrument had been carefully cared for. He swung the case up over his shoulder, wrapping his cloak around it gently. With the amount of traffic the fortress got, surely someone would recognize the lute or have knowledge of the owner, in these dark times there were not many bards left.