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Geralt hasn’t felt fear since the day he completed the Witcher trials. Before, he had been afraid every day of his life. Afraid that someone would notice that he didn’t have a daemon. Afraid his mother would finally decide she couldn’t look at her freak of a son another day and send him away. Afraid the day she left him in the middle of the road to be picked up by Vesemir. Afraid he wouldn’t survive training, and then when he managed that, afraid he wouldn’t survive the trials. Every day, a different taste of fear.
The trials washed all of that clean out of him. No more fear, no more concern for the lack of a daemon by his side. Nothing left but a single-minded focus to follow the Path and do what he was trained for.
But the old familiar taste of fear washes over his tongue as he wakes to see a lark perched on his saddlebags, staring intently at him with eyes an unnatural shade of blue. Across the clearing, Roach munches on grass, oblivious to her master’s swirling emotions. Geralt sits up slowly, never taking his eyes off the bird, so he’s able to watch as it lifts its wings and floats towards him. It lands just close enough that he could reach out and brush its feathers with his fingertips if he chose. The bird tilts its head, and he has the distinct feeling that if it were human, it would have raised an eyebrow at him.
“It’s about time, you layabout. I’ve been waiting all night for you to wake up!”
The unexpected, almost haughty feminine voice startles him, and Geralt instinctively reaches for his silver sword. The bird looks harmless enough, but long held instincts won’t allow him to let his guard down.
“What are you?”
“What am I!?” The bird puffs up its—her — feathers, looking more offended than a bird should be able to. She hops closer until she’s perched beside his knee. “Are all humans this ridiculous? Can’t you feel me?”
Geralt blinks, and even decades later he won’t be able to convey what it is that makes him turn his gaze inward, but he does. And strangely enough, deep inside…
Oh.
His eyes snap back up, meeting the little bird’s, and he just knows that she’s smiling.
“Oh, there it is. You can feel it. I am you, and you are me, Geralt of Rivia. My name is—”
“Nelmaria.”
The name comes from a place he can't define, but he knows that it's right. Somehow, it's a name he's known all of his life. Geralt can feel her pleasure pulsing in the back of his mind as she hops up onto his knee. The feeling is strange and otherworldly, but not unpleasant. He hisses a little when he feels the sharp point of her beak against his hand and lifts it without thinking, something like tears gathering in his eyes when she wriggles under his fingers and presses her back against his palm.
“How… this shouldn’t be possible. I was born alone. I shouldn’t… this isn’t possible.”
The little bird lets out a pretty trilling sound that he feels deep in his gut. Her feathers feel like silk under his sword calloused fingers, and he barely dares to move, afraid he might crush her tiny body in his clumsy hand.
“I have no answer for you. All I know was I opened my eyes, and there you were, asleep in the grass. And I could feel our connection. It doesn’t matter why, just that it is. We are.”
Geralt dares to gently run his fingers over the lark’s back, and as he watches her rustle her feathers at the sensation, he feels a matching shiver slide down his own spine.
“The Path is dangerous. It’s no place for a daemon. That’s why boys born alone are chosen to take on the trials.”
Nelmaria puffs up again, making the bright yellow feathers on her neck stand out. Geralt can feel her indignation simmering along his nerves.
“I am not a delicate little bird!” She spread her wings, hopping once to catch a breeze and circle around the clearing, then landing back on his bags where she had been when he opened his eyes. “I’m a representation of your soul, after all. And like it or not, Geralt, we are very much stuck with each other.”
“Hmm.”
Geralt holds out a hand, and his daemon drifts back across the space to land in his palm. His other hand comes up to brush over her feathers, and he watches as her eyes slip closed, the echo of her happiness filling him with warmth. Deep inside, in a place he thought hidden forever, the cage around his heart cracks wide open and desperate hope floods out.
18 YEARS LATER
Posada is as unremarkable a town as any other, especially as the sun sets and the streets go dark around them as they make their way to the inn. Geralt walks at Roach’s side, having long ago realized that he comes off as just slightly less intimidating when not on her back. It’s not much, and most people still shrink away from their presence. But, it’s something.
Nelmaria drifts a few feet ahead, going just far enough for both of them to feel a twinge over their shared connection before returning to perch on his shoulder. “There’s music coming from the inn. We haven’t seen a bard in ages, hopefully this one actually has some talent.”
“Hm. A bit of quiet would be nice.”
Geralt feels a tug on a strand of his white hair and tries to jerk his head out of reach of Nelmaria’s sharp beak, chuckling quietly as she grumbles at him. “Geralt, all we ever get is quiet sleeping on the road!”
“It hasn’t been quiet since the day you appeared, Nel.”
He swats gently at her when she nips at him again, catching his ear this time, before leaving his shoulder to perch on Roach’s saddle. Geralt can’t help the way his eyes follow her movements, a part of him still in awe that she’s even there almost two decades later. Especially when, despite her haughty and offended attitude, he can feel the warmth of her love for him deep in his chest.
There is indeed music drifting out from the inn when they arrive, but Geralt mostly ignores it as he gets Roach set up in the stable and goes inside to pay for a room. Once settled with the innkeeper, he takes his gear upstairs, Nelmaria on his shoulder while she observes the patrons in the room. He knows that she’s antsy to get closer to the bard just starting up in the main room below them, but she dutifully sticks by his side.
It only takes the matter of a few minutes to get his gear stowed, so it’s no time at all before they’re (reluctantly on his part) rejoining the other patrons downstairs. Geralt chooses the table in the very back corner, comforted by the shadows that mostly shield the booth from view. He orders an ale from the pretty barmaid, who shyly compliments the bright yellow coloring around Nel’s neck when she drops off the mug. The lark preens and puffs out her feathers, making the witcher roll his eyes fondly.
It’s not long before the bard really gets started, and although most of the small crowd scattered around the room seem rather unimpressed (Geralt included, though he isn’t really much for music of any kind), Nelmaria looks enraptured. He can feel the ghost of her excitement and awe in the back of his mind, and part of him is convinced she’ll take flight at any moment and start flitting around the young man’s head.
From where he’s sitting, Geralt can’t catch a glimpse of the singer’s daemon. It’s likely small, or a bird like his own that’s keeping out of sight somewhere on the bard’s person. Though he tries to drown out the sound, something keeps drawing his attention to the music. Most likely, it’s the rapt attention that Nelmaria is paying the brunette, but truthfully there is a small part of Geralt’s own mind that tries to focus on it. Not on the words of whatever bawdy tune the other man is playing, but on the sound of his voice. It’s almost… familiar. Like he’s heard it somewhere before.
The bard plays long enough that Geralt eventually loses track of the time, but it’s long enough that he’s able to make it through an entire bowl of whatever stew the inn has on offer. He’s nursing a second ale when the music finally dies down. And even staring straight ahead, his enhanced senses alert him as the bard approaches their table.
“I love how you just sit in the corner and… brood.”
It takes a good amount of self control not to roll his eyes or address the bard directly, despite the fact that his traitor of a daemon eagerly hops off of his shoulder and across the table for the younger man’s attention. But Geralt speaks before she can.
“I’m here to drink alone.”
Nelmaria turns her head to glare at him, quietly squawking in annoyance before turning back to the bard.
“Don’t mind my rude companion, master bard. That was quite the performance. You have a lovely voice!”
The young man smiles brightly down at his lark, and the sight of it makes something clench in Geralt’s stomach. Shock and something that might be fear (if witchers could fear, which they can’t) trickles down his spine, followed by amusement that can only be Nelmaria silently laughing at him.
“Thank you for the praise, my lady. But I’m no master yet. Just an aspiring musician fresh out of Oxenfurt. Hoping for inspiration.”
Eyes a shade of blue that Geralt’s sure he’s never seen in a human before drift from his daemon to himself, and for some reason that gaze makes him feel trapped in a way he hasn’t felt since the trials. But he’s careful not to show any indication of how he feels on his face. The bard cocks his head, seemingly studying him for a moment, before turning back to Nelmaria with another smile. When he speaks, he’s lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper.
“Your surly companion doesn’t seem to be as fond of the arts as you.”
The lark hops closer to the bard, not bothering to lower her voice.
“That’s because Geralt is an uncultured oaf. He wouldn’t know good music if the greatest musicians on the continent were singing specifically for him.”
The young man’s head snaps up, those eerie blue eyes meeting Geralt’s own again, and the recognition he sees there makes him want to hide for the first time in a very long time.
“Geralt? Geralt of Rivia, the witcher? Oh, I’ve heard of you!”
Geralt furrows his eyebrows in confusion as what appears to be awe and excitement, rather than fear, spreads across the bard’s face. The other man must be touched with madness if it’s excitement he feels at encountering the Butcher of Blaviken.
But the bard is in fact leaning across the table with a smile on his face, eyes bouncing between Geralt and Nelmaria.
“The only witcher with a daemon in existence. It’s quite the story! A story made for songs, really.”
Those blue eyes widen, and now they’re shining with a gleam that has Geralt deciding he’s officially done with this interaction. He doesn’t need some barely adult barker writing songs about him. And he doesn’t need to be responsible for the safety of a human. Worrying about Nel when he’s on a hunt is enough. So he stands, picking up his coin purse and slinging his sword pack across his back. Now is as good of a time as any to start on the contract he’d picked up when they entered the town.
“Let’s go, Nel.”
He can feel his daemon grumbling through their link, but he ignores it. She can complain later that he ended this conversation before she was ready. For now, he’s only interested in putting distance between them and the mad bard that seems more interested in a witcher than any human should be.
That was his plan, before he takes a step and nearly trips over the other man’s daemon. Up until that moment, he had assumed it was something small enough to be hidden in one of the pockets on the bard’s gaudy doublet. But it’s not.
On the floor on the bard’s feet, gazing up at Geralt with eyes the same unnatural yellow color as his own, is a pure white wolf. Seeing those eyes, it takes all of his self control not to immediately glance at the bard, because he now knows why his eyes had so unsettled him. And it’s something he’s not at all interested in analyzing. While he stares, the wolf stands slowly, shaking out her fur before pressing against her human counterpart’s leg, all while never taking her eyes off of Geralt. When she speaks, her voice is gruff but distinctly human.
“Are you going to hunt the devil? We heard some of the townsfolk whispering that it’s been stealing from the farmers. That is what you do, isn’t it? Hunt monsters and protect people?”
Protect people. No one’s called it protecting since before Blaviken. But this wolf and her bard look at him like he’s some kind of storied hero. And a hero is the last thing anyone in their right mind would call Geralt of Rivia.
So he turns away from them without responding, knowing Nel will follow before they get far enough apart to feel any pain. He pushes through the front door of the inn and rounds the building toward the stable to get Roach saddled to right out into the mountains where the alderman had said they suspected this devil to be hiding. When he picks up the sound of two sets of footsteps following close behind, his jaw clenches.
“Do you need a hand? I’ve got two! And Romy can be quite scary when she likes.”
“No.”
Geralt tacks up Roach silently, doing his best to ignore the bard and his wolf, who surprisingly stand out of the way as he works. But the brunette is a lot less silent, refusing to give up on convincing the witcher to let them follow.
“I could be your barker! And that’s not a dog joke. I know everyone’s heard the stories and rumors about witchers, and you especially after… well, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you. But your lot could probably use a refresh to your reputations.”
Leading Roach out of the stable and towards the road, Geralt tries to ignore the younger man. If the bard wants to put his life— and the life of his daemon— at risk by following Geralt into a potentially dangerous hunt that’s his decision, mad as it is. He’s not Geralt’s responsibility.
The bard and his wolf do in fact follow them up into the hills, and the younger man introduces himself as Jaskier, and his wolf as Andromeda, along the way. Something inside of his chest clicks open at the name, but Geralt ignores the feeling, pushing it out of sight in favor of focusing on the job he came out here to do. Nelmaria chirps out a warning to him as she floats past, letting him know that she’s only allowing it for the time being and they’d be discussing it in the near future.
A sound up ahead has him pulling Roach to a stop, a rustling that can’t be attributed to the wind. Nel lands on his shoulder as he dismounts, feathers puffing up in preparation for her own role in the potential fight ahead. As they creep slowly along the grass line, there’s a whizzing sound and something strikes him in the forehead. Nelmaria squawks and takes flight, circling around his head.
“Geralt, what was that? Looks like a tiny cannonball from a—”
There’s another whizzing sound, and another projectile flies through the air. This one strikes Jaskier in the head, and the bard drops like a stone. His wolf starts growling viciously, mouth full of teeth baring aggressively as she stands over her fallen companion. Geralt feels his own teeth form a mirror of the wolf’s snarl, and he whips around just in time for a horned humanoid creature to burst out of the tall grass and tackle him to the ground.
Geralt’s on his feet again in an instant, and the ensuing fight doesn’t last long. The creature looks young, and despite the vicious-looking horns he’s no match for a fully trained witcher. They wrestle to the ground, and the creature’s quickly pinned under the witcher’s bulk. Geralt’s shocked when the creature actually speaks, demanding to be left alone. He doesn’t want to kill something intelligent, and he has a feeling that the creature is only stealing because he’s hungry, and food isn’t exactly plentiful out in the barren hills.
But before he can tell the thing that he has to move on before more humans with less pity come in Geralt’s wake to claim his head, someone strikes him on the head from behind.
The last thing he sees before the world goes dark around him is Nelmaria screeching in fury as she takes flight to attack whoever had assaulted him...
Directly from the back of that pure white wolf.
Geralt wakes to the sound of voices arguing aggressively in Elder. There’s a pit of nausea in his stomach, a feeling he’s not used to. But long buried instinct tells him what’s causing it, and his eyes snap open. They find Nel across the cave they’ve been taken to, pinned down beneath a fox daemon to prevent her from attacking their captors. He can hear snarling and the sounds of two animals fighting just outside the mouth of the cave, no doubt Jaskier’s wolf and whatever daemon is attempting to pin it down.
He can’t tell who’s winning.
Behind him, the arguing voices get louder, and then his body jolts as whoever their captor is kicks the person tied to Geralt’s back. Jaskier, most likely. Nelmaria screeches, and Geralt can feel her rage through their bond. But it isn’t for him.
“Leave off, you pointy-eared bitch! He’s just a bard!”
His lark puffs up her feathers, wiggling underneath the fox and catching him with her beak and talons. The other daemon yelps as Nelmaria gets free and goes straight for the woman— elf — that had attacked Jaskier. A second later Andromeda comes bounding into the cave, a coyote at her heels.
And all hell breaks loose.
Geralt and Jaskier shout in unison, wiggling against the bonds that hold them together and in place. But they’re paid no mind as the daemons fight, and the she-elf tries desperately to stay out of the way of teeth and talons.
“ENOUGH!”
Everyone stills as another elf enters the cave, followed closely by the horned creature from the hills. The coyote slinks back to heel at the elf’s side. At Geralt’s back, Jaskier gasps and sits up straighter.
“You’re Filavandrel, the elf king.”
The newcomer scoffs, crouching down to check the she-elf for wounds. He pulls a rag from somewhere on his person, dabbing at the blood on her face.
“King. Not by choice. And what do you know of it, elfling?”
Elfling ?
He tries to look over his shoulder as he feels Jaskier stiffen, and the bard clears his throat once before speaking.
“My… mother. Told me stories. About the elves, how they were forced from their homes and disappeared into the hills and mountains.”
Filavandrel looks impressed as he stands and pulls the she-elf to her feet.
“Toruviel, cut the elfling and his mate free. I believe they mean us no harm.”
Geralt stares up at them in confusion as the she-elf cuts their ropes. Jaskier scrambles to his feet and rushes over to drop to his knees at his wolf’s side, sinking his fingers into her white fur and pressing his face against her neck. He’s visibly shaking. Geralt stands much slower, eyes flicking between the bard and the elves.
“What do you mean, mate? And why did you call him ‘elfling?’”
The elf king raises an eyebrow, looking at Geralt like he’s a particularly thick-headed child.
“Your companion has elf blood. You couldn’t tell? I knew the minute I set eyes upon him. No human has eyes like that. It’s an unmistakable mark of elf lineage. Are your senses getting rusty, witcher?”
Geralt hums, glancing at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. But the bard hasn’t looked up, and he can hear him speaking softly to Andromeda. So he turns back to Filavandrel.
“And the… the other thing. You called me his ‘mate.’ What the hell does that mean?”
This time the elf chuckles, shaking his head.
“You can’t really be that thick. Aren’t witchers supposed to be smart?”
Filavandrel waves his hand, first at where Jaskier and his wolf are crouched together, and then to where Nel has come to rest on the bard’s shoulder.
Geralt rocks back like he’s been struck at the sight. His daemon has never touched another human before, has never touched another living creature other than brief moments when she brushes across Roach’s back. Daemons aren’t supposed to touch others unless…
Unless there’s a connection between their human counterpart and the person they’re touching. His mind supplies a memory of the last moment before Toruviel had struck him on the head. Nel had been perched on the wolf’s back, seemingly watching over where Jaskier lay unconscious.
“There you go. Did you not notice that his wolf shares your eyes? Or that your lark has blue eyes unlike anything a bird could or should have?”
Geralt had noticed those things. But he’d pushed them aside, unwilling to analyze what his instincts were trying to tell him. That Jaskier was important. That he had something to do with Nelmaria’s sudden appearance eighteen years prior, despite Geralt spending decades and decades without a daemon as all witchers did.
Because when he’d looked in the bard’s eyes for the first time, he had tasted that old familiar fear. Fear that bubbles up inside of him now, screaming at him to get out, to run before he lets something (or some one) mean something to him again. Before Blaviken, before Renfri, can happen again.
But before he can even take a step, Nelmaria is hovering in his face and he holds out his arm for her to perch on without thinking.
“Geralt. I can feel you. It’s ok to be scared. But this is different. I can feel him too. I can feel them. They’re ours.”
Nel says ours like she had said I am you, and you are me all those years ago. And he had felt fear then, just like he does now. But he had also felt hope, spilling through his chest and warming him throughout.
That same warm hope is spreading now, and he can’t stop his eyes from straying to Jaskier and Andromeda. This time, those impossible blue eyes are staring back at him. And he can see an echo of that hope staring back at him. Nelmaria trills as she feels his hesitation give way, a pretty sound that means happy and love. She glides over to land back on Jaskier’s shoulder and he stares at her in awe before returning his gaze to the witcher’s.
“Geralt?”
Geralt only hums in answer, the sound layered with things he isn’t ready to give name to. He strides across the floor and holds out a hand.
“Let’s go, bard.”