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BEING ROACH
By Senashenta
She hadn’t always been known as “Roach”. She had started out life with a much more fanciful name, given to her by fate and her mother, and when she had left home On Search at the age of eleven, she had intended to keep it—it was her name, after all. But over time and along the way she would eventually learn the unimportance of such trivial things.
When she left home—Haven, Valdemar—she followed the pull in her mind northeast, spending the next several months making her way to the border, then into Iftel and crossing that entire country before passing into Tolmassar and continuing on from there. The journey was tiring and arduous, only made harder by the formal tack—complete with bells, whose brilliant design idea had they been, anyway?—that she was wearing.
When she reached the end of Tolmassar she found herself at the edge of the Icepack Sea, the farthest that the map of Velgarth reached, and stared out across the endless water knowing that she needed to cross it somehow. That was where the heavy, noisy, impractical saddle and tack finally came in handy.
~*~*~
First, she traipsed herself up and down the coast until she found a shipping port. Then she put out the smallest tendril of thought, searching around until she located an honest ship’s captain (a harder feat than she had anticipated; the search took nearly two days.) Target acquired, she then carefully made her way down to the docks, ignoring the googly-eyed looks she was getting from people who had no idea what a Companion was, and presented herself to said ship’s captain.
Then she broke the Companion’s cardinal rule: she Bespoke him, a stranger, a man who was not and would never be her Chosen. She would probably catch hell for it later, but for then it had to be done.
Explaining her predicament to the rather overwhelmed-looking middle-aged man, she offered her saddle and tack—which were trimmed and plated in high quality silver and decorated with dozens of pure silver bells, all of which could be sold for a good amount of coin—as payment for a place on his ship and food for the journey when he next set out across the sea. (Something in the back of her mind whispered that her Chosen, the one she was trying so hard to reach, wouldn’t appreciate the fancy saddlery, anyway.)
After some humming and hawing the captain agreed, and she was divested of her saddle and tack, which was honestly a relief after wearing it traveling for so many months already. If she’d had a rider she would have had saddle sores. As it was, her hide was sensitive where the saddle had been biting in a bit around the edges.
:Better to have lost it, then, a saddle can be replaced.: Rolan reassured her when she expressed fleeting guilt at bartering away her tack the way she had. As the Grove Born, he was the only Companion with the mental signal strength to still reach her, as far away as she was. He was her last tie to Valdemar.
And so, much lighter and less jingly, she waited around for the next few days until “her” ship was ready to set sail, at which point she boarded along with the crew and supplies for the trip and hoped to the Gods she gained her sea legs sooner rather than later. Considering she had never even seen a boat before arriving there, that was probably a futile wish.
She was shown to the hold where a loose box stall had been readied for her, alongside another containing a handful of sheep—later she would learn that the sheep’s fate were to be dinner along the way, so she shouldn’t get too attached. She wished someone had told her that sooner; the sheep were cute and gave her something to talk to rather than just herself all the time.
Very quickly after they set out, she became glad that she was physically unable to throw up. The icepack sea was rough waters, and while she could lock her knees to keep from falling over, there was nothing she could do to keep the queasiness from setting in almost immediately. It took a couple of days for her to become accustomed to the rocking of the ship and for the nausea to fade.
~*~*~
The next couple months were monotonous and so boring it was mind-numbing at times. She stayed in her box stall, ate when the crew brought her hay and oats (and the occasional apple or sugar cube), and had very one-sided conversations with the slowly dwindling number of sheep next door. The captain did come down to visit with her whenever he had the time, though, which was nice because he was the only one who knew she could “talk”. To everyone else she was just a pretty horse—to the captain she was a person, and she could chat with him for a few minutes here-and-there, at least.
She spent a lot of time dozing, and just as much bothering Rolan back home just for something to do. There were times she thought she might go mad from sheer boredom. When they finally docked at the other side of the sea, she was in a definite hurry to get off the ship and onto dry land.
One final conversation with the ship’s captain and she learned that the land they now resided in was called simply “the Continent”, and contained a number of countries and kingdoms, which the captain rhymed off easily but she couldn’t commit to memory that quickly. She figured she would just have to learn them herself along the way.
And so with a final thanks and a parting farewell, she left the captain and the docks.
~*~*~
The first and most immediate problem with being in a foreign land was that no one had a bloody clue what a Companion was. For all intents and purposes she just looked like a very pretty, white, blue-eyed horse wandering about loose on its own. More than one person tried to tempt her close with carrots or apples and kissy noises, trying to lure her in while all she was trying to do was follow the insistent pull in the back of her brain that was directing her to the person she was supposed to Choose.
Finally, after the sixth Companion-napping attempt, she stole off into the woods for some peace and to Search the area for Nodes she could tap into. She knew they were there—all of her magical energy was dependant on them—it was just a matter of finding the bloody things. So she let her mind wander, following ley-lines until she located a decently-sized Node.
That done, she gently tapped into it, syphoning off a little of its’ energy—just enough to cast a lasting glamour on herself.
It was a simple one, just enough to make her appear to be a normal horse to anyone who saw her, but still quite a feat. Most Companions couldn’t perform arcane magic. But sometimes one was born who could—usually one who had a higher purpose, or for whom the magic could help their Chosen. She had never thought of herself as a “higher purpose” type of Companion, but now, more than halfway across the world… she was starting to wonder if she had been wrong.
~*~*~
Her journey continued on from there, now under the guise of a black-and-white paint horse, and for the first time when someone attempted to catch her, she allowed herself to be snagged.
To her way of thinking, in a land as foreign as she now found herself, it might be better to allow someone to lead her around for a while, rather than just wandering off by herself—even if being lead around meant a bridle with a bit in it. She very quickly learned that she hated bits. (Companions’ tack consisted of a bitless bridle, always, as they didn’t need directing to know which way to go.)
The first person to “catch” her did so by luring her with sugar cubes, which was entirely too simplistic but, hey, she got some sugar cubes out of it. He seemed a nice enough man, if a little dull, and after a couple of days she found herself hitched to a wagon and traveling the roads between markets where he sold his wares, all the while paying very close attention to the niggling pull in the back of her mind.
After three weeks of pulling the wagon, she decided she needed to change it up, so she slipped her tie-out in the middle of the night and shifted her glamour to one of a palomino, then headed off again to look for someone to try to catch her.
This went on for some time. She had many “owners”, most good, but one or two bad; one so terrible he actually attempted to beat her, and did beat his other horses. She had bucked and kicked her way free of that man, then broken his other two horses out as well, sending them running with a little psychic nudge before taking off behind them. It served him right; he didn’t deserve to own livestock if he was going to treat them that way.
She had continued on her way after that without a single glance backwards.
~*~*~
Finally, she found herself in the guise of a plain bay mare with a white mark striping her nose and forehead. The woman who owned her that time had captured her with the intention of selling her, which was fine as far as she was concerned—being traded would still get her around the territory.
That said, it meant a lot of time standing around at markets, tied to a post, waiting for someone to purchase her. It was boring, even when someone showed interest, listening to her owner haggle before always ultimately turning down the other party’s offer was just… well. She spent a lot of time chatting with Rolan over those days, to say the least.
Until he arrived.
She Felt him coming before he came into sight, the pull in the back of her mind intensifying, pulsing demandingly, and if she hadn’t been tied to a post she would have gone to meet him, the one she had come so very, very far for. As it was her head came up and began to swivel, sharp eyes scanning the crowd for—what? She didn’t even know what he looked like. But she would. She would know him when she saw him, she was sure of it.
“How much for the horse?”
She jerked, startling at the voice, and her head whipped around as she tried to figure out how he had managed to sneak up on her like tha—
Oh.
He was tall and muscular, with long white hair and the most astonishing golden eyes. Wearing leather armor and carrying swords on his back. Much older than most Chosen when they meet their Companions, but that was fine. And something about him… wasn’t entirely human. Witcher, her mind supplied when she reached a tentative thought tendril out toward him. Not that she knew what a Witcher was.
Either way, he was definitely the one she was there for. She paid very close attention to his interaction with the woman who was selling her. Surprisingly, he didn’t haggle, just paid the price she was asking, handing over the coins with a wave of his hand before unhitching her from the post and leading her away.
Something told her dropping her disguise and Bespeaking him immediately probably wouldn’t go over so well, so she followed along silently instead.
~*~*~
They headed down the road to the local stables, where he—a bit more gentle mental prodding told her his name was Geralt—set to purchasing her a saddle and the proper tack. She watched his interactions with the stablemaster with interest, ears perked and flicking, gleaning any little bits of information that she could from the conversation.
Geralt was a gruff man. He spoke shortly and to the point, and, she observed, others seemed to be giving him a wide berth. That, she was sure, had something to do with him being a Witcher, even if she was still unclear on what that entailed. The tentative link that she was already establishing between them was still too new and weak for her to simply pluck the information she wanted from his thoughts.
The stablemaster went off to gather the things Geralt had requested, leaving the imposing man to himself—and she was surprised when he began petting her nose, the touch gentle and affectionate. She got the feeling he would be good with animals, herself notwithstanding. “Roach,” He told her after a moment, “we’ll call you Roach. What do you think?”
In that moment, her Valdemarian name was cast aside and she became Roach.
~*~*~
They travelled together for years, and through experience Roach learned just what a Witcher was and what Geralt did. His profession was dangerous, and he was often injured, but he always made sure she was safe. And over time Roach decided not to drop the glamour she had cast on herself; Geralt couldn’t afford to be riding around on a shining white horse. It would make him even more of a target than he already was. No, she would keep her secret and keep him as safe as possible by doing so, just as he did with her.
~*~*~
Geralt was surprisingly protective of her at times, not wanting others to touch her or her tack, and yet at others he was disturbingly crass. “Don’t judge me,” He had said to her once, whilst temporarily bartering her for a room he couldn’t afford. She had wanted to reply :whyever would I judge you, Chosen, when you’re trading me for a bed and a whore?: but she kept her thoughts to herself, as always, and eventually he returned with the coin to pay for her freedom. (He always returned for her, no matter the circumstances.)
~*~*~
He never questioned that she never went into season like a normal mare regularly would have, and Roach, of course, never offered an explanation. Companions didn’t have seasons like horses did, and it wasn’t as if she could—or would—fake it. One time a probably-good-meaning stablemaster offered Geralt the services of his one of his stud horses for Roach. Geralt’s response was to almost grin and inform the man “good luck with that, she’ll dock his tail with her teeth before letting him touch her.” And Roach had thought damn straight! because she would never allow an ordinary horse to breed her like that. But then she also wondered, had she gotten so snippy over the years that Geralt could tell what her reaction would be that easily? Maybe his personality was rubbing off on her down their not-quite-Bond a little.
In any case, Geralt had gone to the tavern that night to chuckle into his ale over the entire mental image while Roach psychically scowled in his general direction.
~*~*~
People said Witchers had no emotions, or so Roach had been hearing, but that wasn’t true—at least not for Geralt. No, Geralt felt things—deeply, truly deeply, perhaps, she thought, even more deeply than the average person did. He was just better at masking his feelings than most, and felt like he always had to, except, sometimes, around just her. Because who was a horse going to tell, anyway?
He liked to talk to her while they travelled from town to town, to fill the silence; telling her tales of battles he’d been in, beasts he’d bested, his brothers—the other Witchers from the school of the wolf—and Kaer Morhen, where he had grown up and trained—the keep he called home, where they spent their winters, out of the biting cold. She had been there, of course, each winter since he had purchased her at the market.
Roach learned a lot about Geralt on the roads between towns, but mostly she learned that, maybe, he craved company more than he was willing to admit or let on.
~*~*~
She liked the bard, when he came into their lives. Jaskier was lively and entertaining, and his songs were often lewd and made her snort-chuckle to herself under her breath, almost making her break her own cover once or twice. He also shared apples with her frequently, which was nice. But mostly, he was bloody lifebonded to Geralt, even if the two of them were too thick-headed to figure out that they were soulmates. (Though, to be fair, from what she could gather, in this part of the world there was no concept of “lifebonds”, so why would either of them think of it? Still, it was frustrating as hell and made Roach want to scream on more than the odd occasion.)
~*~*~
Jaskier was a terrible, horrible flirt and kind of a slut on top of that—Geralt’s term, not Roach’s, something she’d gleaned from the edges of his thoughts on the nights when he sat in the taverns, watching Jaskier flounce around the place with his lute, hitting on anything that moved—and getting hit on in return. Half the time the bard ended up spending the night in someone else’s room, and that irritated Geralt to no end, though he couldn’t articulate why. Roach knew, of course, but couldn’t out and tell him: it was hard to watch your lifebonded with someone other than yourself.
Geralt dealt with that frustration by snapping at Jaskier and going to brothels, sleeping with women who didn’t care he was a Witcher as long as he had enough coin. Jaskier just continued on as he always did, hitting on Geralt as a matter of course and getting nothing in response. Roach wished the two of them would just get their act together already, all the drama was starting to give her a headache.
And that was before the djinn and Yennefer of Vengerberg coming into the picture.
Roach didn’t hate Yennefer, but she didn’t particularly like her, either. Mostly she didn’t trust the sorceress, because every time they met, Yennefer had a habit of looking at her like she was looking through her—and it made Roach check her Shields and double-down on her glamour spells every single time. Yennefer made her feel like the gig was up, and she didn’t like it, not one bit.
She also didn’t like that Geralt had a penchant for fucking Yennefer when he should have been fucking Jaskier instead. Honestly, what kind of a land had magics but didn’t know what lifebonds were? It was still irritating and probably always would be, judging from the way Geralt and Jaskier were avoiding the subject; Geralt more than Jaskier, who, of course, continued to flirt as a matter of course.
~*~*~
Often times, when he went on his hunts, Geralt forced Jaskier to stay behind—in town, or at the campsite, with Roach—somewhere safe. He usually, rather gruffly, informed Jaskier that it was to keep him from getting underfoot, but Roach knew it was more that he didn’t want the bard to get hurt than anything else. Usually Jaskier listened. Sometimes he didn’t. Occasionally he got hurt despite Geralt’s efforts—and Roach could Feel Geralt’s pain when that happened, too, though the Witcher never said anything about it. He treated Jaskier tenderly at those times, even if he wouldn’t admit as much later.
~*~*~
Carrying monster body parts strapped to her back was one of her least favorite parts of the job, especially given that they were usually oozing or dripping something—blood, slime, some other type of gore or bodily fluid—and typically smelled atrocious. Roach’s nose was better than that of an average horse, so the smell part was probably the worst. She couldn’t imagine training a normal horse to do the things she did without having the animal panic at the scent alone, but again, Geralt didn’t seem inclined to question it, and she wasn’t inclined to explain. Some day, though, they were going to have a conversation about how many severed heads she had carried around for him over the course of the years.
Thankfully, Jaskier was of the same opinion re: monster body parts as she was, so Roach felt somewhat validated by that, even though they both knew Geralt only kept them to sell for much-needed coin and no longer than he absolutely had to.
~*~*~
Roach could not for the life of her make sense of the Law of Surprise. She didn’t get it and didn’t think she ever would. Especially when Geralt accompanied Jaskier to a party in Cintra as a bodyguard only for the party to devolve into an outright battle, and for him to come out tied by destiny to a child that didn’t even exist yet. Thankfully—or possibly not thankfully, Roach couldn’t decide because going against destiny was never a good idea in her humble opinion—Geralt, in his infinite wisdom, had refused the idea outright and left the remnants of the party immediately thereafter.
Something told Roach that wasn’t the last she would be hearing about the Child Surprise.
~*~*~
:You know,: Rolan mused conversationally, and Roach knew that tone. :If you would just get on with Choosing him properly, you could talk to him when things like this came up. It’s awfully handy when your Chosen knows you exist, Mi—:
:Roach. It’s Roach.: She interrupted. Rolan knew, of course, he just sometimes forgot and called her by her previous name. She didn’t hold it against him. He’d had a lot of names to remember over the centuries, after all. :And he knows I exist, he just doesn’t know… what I am. He thinks I’m a horse. And I don’t know how he would take the news if I suddenly started Speaking to him out of the blue.:
:Roach,: Rolan sighed, :it’s been years.:
:I am painfully aware of that, Grove Born. But while I would love to be able to complain to him about how he treats Jaskier at times, or prod about the school of the wolf, or even enquire about that whole Child Surprise business—things here aren’t the same as they are in Valdemar. It’s not as if anyone here even knows what a Companion is. It’s complicated.: Roach gave a kind of mental shrug, :it took a while, but I’ve gotten used to it.:
Every now and then Rolan tried to convince Roach to “properly” Choose Geralt, and each time she rebuffed the idea. She didn’t think there was a “proper” way to Choose a Witcher, and besides, doing so would be putting herself on the line. After so long with Geralt, she secretly feared rejection if her secret got out. The idea of not having him in her life was downright terrifying.
Rolan seemed to hesitate before his Mindvoice took on a resigned tone; :do what you think is best, then, and keep taking care of him.:
:I will.: She could do no less.
~*~*~
The events on Dragon Mountain were a colossal fuckup for everyone involved, except maybe the dragons.
Roach didn’t witness them firsthand, she had been left at the foot of the mountain path with the rest of the horses, but she certainly Felt them and Heard them; the explosiveness of Geralt’s temper, directed toward Jaskier, the words he shouted at the bard in absolute fury. Roach wanted to rip her reins from the tree she was tied to and find her way to where they were just to tear a strip out of Geralt for saying such hurtful things to Jaskier—but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t have physically made it up the trail.
A while later when Jaskier came stumbling down the mountain alone, muttering to himself and tears in his eyes, she just watched sadly as he wandered off the way they had come. It was a long, long time before they saw the bard again, and even though he had been so angry to begin with, after a brief period of what Roach would almost have described as respite, Geralt quickly moved on to guilt. It gnawed at him almost constantly for months, leaving Roach to worry over him and Jaskier both.
~*~*~
Time passed at a crawl for what felt like years. Geralt went back to hunting monsters the way he always had, and Roach continued to secretly worry for him—especially when he got hurt and had no one to patch him up afterward.
It was after one of those times that he met Cirilla for the first time; he had been injured protecting a civilian, and that man had loaded Geralt into his wagon, tying Roach to the back of it, to take him back to his home, presumably to be treated for his wounds. Geralt was hallucinating the entire way, and Roach could only try to soothe his whirling mind the best she could—which wasn’t much. She felt helpless and she hated it.
But as soon as they arrived at the farmstead, Geralt stumbled out of the wagon and off into the woods. Roach made an alarmed sound and jerked her head, trying to free herself from where she was tied to the wagon with no luck.
Somewhere out in the sea of trees, Geralt stumbled onto Princess Cirilla.
Roach had known they hadn’t heard the last of the Child Surprise.
Geralt had tried, before, to stake his claim over the Law of Surprise, for the sake of the Princess—only to be imprisoned by Cintra’s Queen. That had been just before Nilfgaard had attacked. Geralt had escaped in the chaos, but had no way of knowing what had befallen Cirilla. For the most part he had put it out of his mind, at least as far as Roach could tell.
Then he came out of the woods with Cirilla tucked into his side and Roach couldn’t help giving a snort of surprise. She hadn’t been expecting that.
Geralt brought her over and stood her next to the wagon, then reached to untie Roach from the wagon, surely intending to get her tacked up and be on their way, despite the fact that he was still injured. Roach glared at him from the corner of her eye while at the same time Sending disapproving feelings down their half-Bond.
He just frowned and continued what he was doing, the stubborn bastard.
~*~*~
Ciri traveled with them, riding double with Geralt or walking alongside him when he decided Roach needed a rest (Roach never actually needed a rest but she didn’t say as much) and learning what he could safely teach her. She was a fast learner, an astute student. She impressed both Roach and Geralt, though he never actually said as much, only offering the occasional good job “hmm” or pat on the back.
When fall began turning to winter, Geralt turned them in the direction of Kaer Morhen, where they always spent winters, along with the other wolf Witchers.
The journey there was long and tiring, and Ciri was ready for a rest when they finally arrived, just as the first snow was beginning to fly. Geralt spoke to Vesemir, got Ciri situated—but then, once Roach had finished a good meal, turned around to leave again, much to the protests of the rest of his pack. No wolf spent the winter out in the cold.
He ignored them and left anyway—and Roach knew why. There was someone he needed to find.
~*~*~
They roamed the bitterly cold Continent for weeks. The longer they were out in the freezing winter weather the darker Geralt’s thoughts turned, despite Roach’s attempts to keep a steady stream of optimism going from herself to him.
Then one day, what felt like years later, they stumbled upon the bard in an inn tavern. Or, Geralt did—Roach was out in the stables, but as soon as she figured out what was going on she tuned in to her connection to Geralt to eavesdrop, eager for the entire debacle to be over with. (She just hoped Geralt didn’t somehow manage to screw things up even more.)
Geralt had paid for a room and the stabling for Roach before going inside to the tavern for food and drink—only to stop in his tracks just inside the door. There was music playing. Familiar music, and a familiar voice, and it all made the guilt he’d been carrying around for the last however-long ache in his chest. Made him want to turn around and leave. Roach Sent soothing feelings along their quasi-Bond, along with wordless urges for him to go inside already.
Finally, after a great deal of procrastinating, Geralt continued inside, skirting the edges of the room to find himself a table in the corner. When a serving girl came over he slid some coins across the table and in short order he had an ale and a bowl of stew in front of himself. He ate while watching the performer at the front of the room; while watching Jaskier.
At some point between songs, Jaskier looked around himself—and nearly dropped his lute when he spotted Geralt in the corner. He fumbled to catch it, set it gently by the edge of his stool, then, with a determined look on his face, stood and marched himself across the room to stand in front of Geralt’s table.
“What do you want, Geralt?”
Out in the stables, Roach could only wince.
“Food. A room.” Geralt told him shortly, jaw ticking lightly.
“In this inn, of all places?” Jaskier sounded dubious.
“Apparently.”
They fell into frustratingly awkward silence.
There was a divide there; Geralt being gruff and curt as always and Jaskier countering with his own brand of wounded defensiveness. They weren’t getting anywhere. Roach finally reached out the smallest tendril of thought to Geralt’s mind when the stalemate had gone on long enough—apologize to him, she urged gently, in feelings more than words—and it seemed to work, because Geralt finally heaved a sigh and offered, “sit down. We should… talk.”
To be fair, Jaskier did most of the talking—well, ranting, really, though he did take a seat, rambling at Geralt and waving his hands in animated gestures to go along with what he was saying. Geralt mostly reciprocated with “hmm”s interspersed here-and-there in the other man’s monologue.
What it basically boiled down to, on Jaskier’s part, anyway, was how could Geralt have been such an absolute ass to him? To him? His dearest friend??
Geralt, maybe surprisingly, didn’t argue those points. Instead he just looked into his ale and muttered an apology.
Jaskier, who had been right in the middle of chastising him further, stopped mid-sentence, blinked—then scooted his chair closer, reached to tilt Geralt’s face up and leaned in to kiss him, only a hint of apprehension in the action. “You’re forgiven.” Just like that. Roach should have expected as much.
Golden eyes blinked and Roach could feel the shock radiating off Geralt. But then he shoved his ale out of the way and yanked Jaskier in for another kiss. And then another. And another. It was like a dam had broken, and after a brief moment of surprise Jaskier responded in kind. The lifebond between them was practically vibrating.
Roach thought she might sing to the heavens because fucking finally. Of course, while she was grateful the pining and procrastinating would (hopefully) be over with, Roach was also glad she was in the stables where she could reinforce her Shields for the night and not have to See everything the two of them were about to do to one another when they stumbled up the back stairs to Geralt’s room. (She was not so lucky on some other occasions later on, when they were camping out or when Geralt’s mind was particularly loud.)
When Rolan next checked in a couple of months later, she was able to rather gleefully inform him that her Chosen and the bard had finally gotten their heads out of their asses and started fucking on a semi-regular basis. Then Rolan asked what she meant by “fucking”—and Roach backpeddled quickly, offering up “bedding” in exchange, which Rolan more easily understood. Sometimes she forgot that she had picked up Geralt’s language over the years, and not all of it translated to Valdemarian. Even if it had, Rolan probably would have told her off for swearing so much. It turned out Geralt was a bad influence, even if he didn’t realize it.
~*~*~
They went back to Kaer Morhen for the rest of the winter, this time heavy one bard. When the other wolves got a whiff of Geralt’s scent all over Jaskier, they all suddenly understood why Geralt had left in the middle of winter the way he had: he was tracking down his mate.
~*~*~
Ciri and Jaskier got along possibly too well. When they got back on the road after winter came to an end the two of them had already bonded and were thick as thieves. This made Geralt’s life… difficult. Especially since he adored the both of them, but of course steadfastly refused to admit that fact. They both knew anyway. Roach found the entire situation hilarious.
Unfortunately, the good times didn’t always last for long. Some people still took poorly to Witchers, regardless of the company they kept.
One minute they were fine, having fun; they had just arrived in a new town and located an inn, and Geralt was tying Roach to the post outside its’ doors, Ciri busy plaiting a braid in Roach’s mane while Jaskier joked about doing the same in Geralt’s—only to be met with a disapproving “hmm” that made him laugh. The entire scene almost—almost—tugged a smile to Geralt’s lips.
But then that minute was over, and the next men were appearing from nowhere, seeming to come out of the woodwork, all of them armed and focused on Geralt. These were villagers, carrying swords to fend off a Witcher. People who believed the darker rumors about Geralt’s kind and wanted him gone from their town. For his part, Geralt didn’t look up from Roach’s rein, but the almost-smile very quickly left his face.
“Oh dear, we’ve only been here a few minutes, this is rather excessive, don’t you think?” Jaskier began, even as he was skirting around to grab hold of Ciri’s arm and tugging her off to the side, out of the way of whatever was about to happen, “honestly, you really don’t want to do this, it’s a terrible idea, you should all rethink your life choices and—oh. Oh, well, you’re ignoring me completely, aren’t you? That’s unfortunate.”
“He’s going to kill them all, isn’t he?” Ciri asked conversationally.
Jaskier hummed a contemplative noise. “Not necessarily. Try not to get in the way, just in case.”
Roach watched the scene unfolding around her uneasily, ears flicking back and forth. It always made her uncomfortable when Geralt was in danger, even something as relatively minor as this. He would, of course, survive this encounter—these were only humans, after all—but it could still get ugly before all was said and done. And there was Jaskier and Ciri to consider, as well. She worried about them just as much.
Still, as much as Companions were known to be excellent fighters, she was tied to a bloody post so there wasn’t much she could do to help.
Finished with Roach’s reins, Geralt straightened up with a heavy sigh, looking around himself for a moment before finally drawing his sword. There was a brief pause then, just a tick of time during which no one moved—then Geralt made a little ‘are we doing this or what?’ kind of gesture with his free hand and all hell broke loose.
Three men were on him within the space of a breath, but they were shoved back easily. The fourth came at him from behind—a mistake. Geralt spun his sword in his hand and jammed it backward into the man’s chest, the first kill of the fight, then ripped it out again and turned back to the oncoming mass of men.
Slashing and hacking his way through the crowd, Geralt managed to cripple or maim but not kill most of them. Most because a few had the terribly bad judgement to turn their attention on Jaskier and Ciri, something that Geralt would not tolerate. Those men died quick and painful deaths as Geralt waded through the groaning casualties of the afternoon.
He was standing there, facing Jaskier and Ciri, chest heaving only slightly from the exertion, when Roach spotted one last danger approaching from behind; an already-wounded man who got up and stumbled forward, sword at the ready, toward Geralt’s turned back. Roach’s ears went back and she judged the distance for a breath before bucking abruptly, kicking out harshly. The blow landed at the man’s lower back and pitched him forward onto the ground. He didn’t get up again. Roach gave a satisfied little whuff and went back to chewing at her bit absently.
Jaskier peered around Geralt and waved one hand lightly. “Thanks, Roach. Good girl.”
Geralt turned around to survey the damage. After a minute he moved to untie Roach from the post. “Let’s go. Looks like we’re camping out tonight.”
~*~*~
Jaskier was over by the fire thrumming quietly on his lute, Ciri was whittling a little figure out of a piece of wood with a knife Geralt had given her back at Kaer Morhen, and Roach had been divested of all but her bridle and rein while Geralt groomed her out, the long, firm strokes of the brush leaving her feeling sleepy and a touch muddled. “That kick,” Geralt muttered after a while, making her flick an ear toward him, “it was unnecessary. I had the situation handled.”
Roach wanted to roll her eyes because honestly. Instead she flattened her ears back and groused, :~‘thanks for the help, Roach, I appreciate it, Roach,’ ‘oh, you’re welcome, Chosen, it was really no problem at all!’~: —the words all but dripping sarcasm. It wasn’t until the brushing abruptly stopped and she tilted her head to find Geralt’s intense gaze pinned to hers that Roach realized that, in her sleepy-minded stupor, she had said that out loud, effectively outing herself after years of keeping everything secret. Her head and ears came up sharply and she floundered for what to do before finally deflating and managing simply,
:Fuck.:
Geralt looked smug, the bastard. “Indeed.” And then he just started grooming her again, as if nothing had happened.
That was when she realized: :You knew! You’ve known all this time!:
“Hmm.” He agreed in a low hum, “you think I can’t feel a glamour when I’m around one? My medallion started singing like a minstrel as soon as I got near you. I knew you weren’t a normal horse. Why do you suppose I chose you at the market that day?”
Roach gave a rather indignant snort, stomping one front hoof in the dirt. :You chose me?? I Chose you!: (…technically not yet, but it was the principle of the matter!)
“That’s not the way I remember it. I paid good coin for you.”
:Well I was worth more.: She grumped.
“Geralt,” Jaskier called over, still absently strumming away at his lute. He tilted his head to glance in their direction, amusement all across his face. “Are you talking to your horse again? Honestly, darling, some day she’ll surprise you and talk back.”
Roach and Geralt both snorted at that.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said, even as he started taking Roach’s bridle off (and thank the Gods the bloody bit was out of her mouth, even if it was only temporary), “come here.”
Jaskier gave him a puzzled look, but still stood, set his lute on the ground, and meandered over to stand next to him. He reached absently to pet Roach’s mane. “What is it, love?”
“Say hello to Roach.”
The bard offered a dry look. “Yes, very funny Geralt. Roach and I are already well acquainted, you know that.”
Geralt rolled his eyes. “Roach?”
Roach perked up, turning to look directly at Jaskier. :Hello, Jaskier!:
And then, when Jaskier stopped petting her mane and blinked at her blankly, she let her glamours drop.
Rather than the brown horse they were accustomed to, they were confronted with the Companion she was—white as snow with piercing blue eyes, deep with human intelligence. Over by the fire, Ciri gasped and dropped what she was doing to scramble to her feet and hurry over. That was the usual reaction of children to Companions. Roach lowered her head to let Ciri stroke her nose, even while she spoke to Geralt and Jaskier:
:Geralt and I have a few things to talk over,: she told the two of them cheerfully, :and then the three of us are going to have a discussion about lifebonds.:
END.
