Work Text:
Witchers don’t have emotions. They get in the way. A machine built for slaughtering monsters doesn't need to feel regret for those he couldn't save, doesn’t need to feel anger for how he was spat at by townspeople, doesn’t need to feel the fear of losing those he cared-
It was dangerous to let any feelings slip through the cracks, for even one distraction could lead to death. Death of a witcher led to more death, from people killed by the creatures that lurked in the night, killed without thought, violent on instinct. More death, and more, and more. A never ending cycle of blood and grief, and pain and-
That was why witchers didn’t feel emotion. So why did it hurt so much?
Geralt didn’t express to Ciri how it felt at the time, he couldn’t. The girl had enough to worry about as it was. He needed to stay strong for her. It was a clear mission, a set goal. He could turn his mind off and focus on keeping her safe. Alive.
When it happened, they were still in danger. Geralt’s priority was killing the monster and protecting his child surprise, that was his job, as both a witcher and a guardian. He kept it together, even when he knelt down as his companion lay in a growing pool of her own blood, and he did what had to be done. He raised his knife and-
Roach was more than a horse. More than a friend. A companion. Geralt knew he wasn’t much of a talker, years of conditioning to hide his emotions was to blame for that, but Roach never had expectations of him. She held no judgement, when one day seemed tougher than the last. She was always present, wherever the Path took them, in whatever challenge they had to face, whenever he needed to vent.
If Geralt didn’t know better, he may have scoffed at himself for feeling like this, like a piece of his heart was missing, because of a single horse. But Geralt wasn’t so far gone that he would try to deny what he was feeling, to reduce it to nothing.
The hollowness in his chest, the tight ball in his stomach, were constant, physical reminders of what, no, who, he had lost. Something gone in a flash, something he could never get back.
A witcher is a solitary being. Why bother surrounding yourself with people who would easily be killed by whatever monster of the day you were hunting? Despite this logic, Geralt had changed his stance regarding this ‘rule’, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Losing a companion had brought his thoughts back to the countless others he had lost. Yennefer, gone so suddenly and killed before he could fix what had started and then broken between them. Eskel, his brother, killed in a place he should’ve been safe, surrounded by expert monster killers who couldn't do a damn thing to save him. Jaskier.. Well. There wasn't anyone but Geralt to blame for destroying his relationship with the bard. And every single time, every single loss, it hurt him even more.
However, even after everyone and everything he had lost, he managed to gain something truly incredible. A child of his own, a girl he could see blossoming and changing before his very eyes. Someone he felt endless pride at watching succeed, and bottomless fear at the mere thought of losing her too.
As he placed the final rock marker in the clearing surrounded by wildflowers and untamed grass, a perfect memorial site for an unforgettable mare, Geralt allowed himself to break. He allowed himself to relive every painful memory he gained over the course of his long life, every moment of happiness, of fear, of anger, of helplessness. Of love. He let them take over, let himself be weak, vulnerable, just this once. Where no one was watching, and no one could judge. It was pointless to deny it. How could he, when it was perfectly obvious?
Witchers don’t have emotions. Except for when they did.