Chapter Text
There's a little house by the coast.
Geralt has heard about it. He can never go there, he knows, but his brothers speak of it often.
There's a little house by the coast where Witchers are always welcome with open arms. It's out of the way, a little worn down and very small. Yet, the owner always has a bed ready, clean and comfortable. The food is good, and the music even better, Eskel says.
There's a little house by the coast where the host never turns you away. You can show up beaten up, covered in blood and entrails, but there's always a warm smile waiting for you and an even warmer bath. There's always leather to repair your armour, clean clothes laid out, and medicinal herbs to heal all your ailments, Lambert says.
There's a little house by the coast where you can rest when nowhere else will welcome you. There's a clear patch of grass in the middle of the garden, facing the ocean, that is perfect for meditating. The place is quiet and peaceful. The man never asks for money, only stories to pay for his company, Vesemir says.
There's a little house by the coast where Witchers are always welcome. And yet Geralt is afraid. After all he's seen, after all he's done, he's paralysed by the idea that the man who owns a little house by the coast will turn him away, just like he himself did so long ago. So Geralt turns away, turns his back to the coast and rides as fast as he can, towards danger, towards monsters, towards the war slowly creeping in the land.
There's a little house by the coast that Geralt longs to visit. He can never go there, he knows, but every time he still looks back toward the little house by the coast and its owner. One day, he thinks, one day when everything is done and said he would be welcome again in the little house by the coast.