Chapter Text
It’s eight in the morning under the clouds of Cintra.
Geralt Stonebrook heard his phone’s alarm resonate from his phone, groaning as he stirred out of his sleep. Snow drifted sparsely over the pastures on the Kaer Morhen Ranch.
He went to sit up in bed before a searing pain pulsed from his left shoulder. He let out an aggravated “Fuck” as he slowed his motion with it, turning off his alarm with his other hand. It took only a second longer for his eyes to glaze over in an urgent memory. His name being yelled by a woman echoed in his brain.
And suddenly, he was back in the town of Blaviken on that late September day watching his colleague fall away from him as he fell away from her. The pain from his shoulder amplified; his legs felt paralyzed, his right one more so than his left. Phantom sensations of his face and body bracing dirt returned, and the top beam of the country club that they were building together splintered into a thousand pieces. He remembered seeing everything but her head in the rubble several yards away, the blood pooling under her back and spilled from her thrown construction helmet.
They said that her head was crushed, that it killed her instantly, and that she didn’t suffer. He never saw any of that. Maybe that was for the best.
But he swore to protect her from men like their former project manager. That’s what immortals who were Witchers were trained to do.
And he failed.
He heard his name being called again, spoken softer by an older male voice this time.
Vesemir stood in front of him at the end of the bed, trying to ground him. It took all of Geralt’s scattered energy to focus on his father figure’s face looking at him with sympathy.
Silence passed between them before Geralt spoke. “...shit, it happened again.”
The elder witcher placed a hand on the younger man’s good shoulder. “It’s alright. You’re still healing. These things take time.”
Geralt shook his head. “It should have been me-”
“No. What happened to Renfri was an accident. You did your job to protect her from what she requested.”
The pain in his shoulder subsiding, Geralt didn’t object.
“I’ll continue to say that until you believe it,” Vesemir continued, his voice then losing its edge. “Take your time getting ready. Coen will start breakfast for you before our weekly meeting.”
Right. It was Monday.
Geralt nodded slowly as he determined the energy he needed to get up, trying to gauge how much pain he would be in on the way up. “My cane?”
Vesemir fetched the dark wooden cane with a silver wolf’s head on it, watching Geralt grasp the black rubber handle.
“Thanks.” The word didn’t feel forced out for once, since Geralt was averse to asking for help after the accident.
“Of course. And I mean it — take your time. Since it’s Harvest Week, we’ll have a fairly light schedule for the next few days.”
Geralt nodded again, hearing several pairs of footsteps in his kitchen in the adjacent room. “Understood.”
Vesemir gave him a nod in reply before exiting Geralt’s wing of the refurbished barn he now called home instead of the claustrophobic cabin on the ranch grounds he’d had before.
The white wolf of the Kaer Morhen Ranch did his best to start his day.
The Kaer Morhen Ranch was known for being the home of some of Cintra’s local witchers. These individuals were part normal mercenaries, part supernatural and magical bounty hunters — all of whom were born with what was commonly known as the “ignition” mutagen in their blood. If they chose to live a normal life, the mutagen wouldn’t affect them on a substantial level. If they chose to become a Witcher, however, there was a fifty-percent chance that the mutagen could fight the person’s body and eventually cause an early death. Those with the mutagen had until the end of their twenties to decide if becoming a Witcher was what they wanted to do or not, though they would still live a longer life than most others in their communities if they chose not to pursue the Witcher lifestyle and its trials.
Many who took on the bounty missions for the glory and money alone often found themselves getting their asses handed to them or killed outright if they were especially in over their heads. The witchers who thrived the most were those who had experience in many fields of work, forged networking connections, and learned how to pace themselves with their accelerated lines of work. For many in recent years, they didn’t become Witchers unless they had enough cockiness to assure themselves they could (but couldn’t), they were raised by an elder Witcher in their community, or they wanted to use the experience to become a better person and serve the communities they cared about.
Geralt, he supposed, was a combination of the second and third reasons. Vesemir had raised him since he was a toddler, being dropped off at the ranch by his mother. He wasn’t old enough to remember his mother, only that he had inherited her white hair color.
Eskel was raised alongside him, being dropped off at the ranch as a baby by a drunkard before Geralt moved onto the ranch. They were around the same age. The two met Coen and Lambert when they reached high school, and many more decided to join the four of them when they graduated and went straight to the Witcher lifestyle.
Out of Vesemir’s “band of fools,” as that class was often referred to for the majority of the class’s hubris, only the four of them and Lambert’s then-boyfriend Aiden managed to survive with their humanity intact.
Needless to say, Vesemir kept the five of them close to his chest, letting them live at the ranch without rent as long as they tended to the needs to keep the ranch’s farmland and residential acres.
Geralt had lived with Renfri before she died, staying on the couch in his apartment for the summer and helping her with rent. The only thing he had left of that place — other than the injuries and the trauma - was her utility knife that he kept in his desk.
But now he was home, leaving the rest of Blaviken far behind him but keeping the enormous amount of severance money close to his own chest in the bank.
He stepped out of his small, private bathroom after getting ready. He tucked his cane into a side pocket of his wheelchair, sitting in it soon after. In the distance, he can hear a guitar being played, easing into a familiar tune that he knew Vesemir loved. A deep, drawling voice began to sing from where Geralt had assumed was his living room:
Blame it all on my roots
I showed up in boots
And ruined your black-tie affair
He knew that voice: Kolgrim Wheatley, one of Vesemir’s friends and a witcher who just couldn’t be pinned to one place. Given how his music career was going, that wasn’t a surprise.
The last one to know, the last one to show
I was the last one you thought you'd see there
“Hey, big guy.”
As Geralt rolled out toward the exit of his wing, he turned to see Kolgrm’s daughter Rose sitting on his sofa.
The injured witcher smiled back at her. “What the hell are you two doing here?”
She stood up. “Checking on you for Harvest, of course. I convinced him to settle here until at least the start of the new year.”
And I saw the surprise
And the fear in his eyes
When I took his glass of champagne
Geralt raised an eyebrow. “You're kidding.”
“I swear. We’re staying here for a little while for the holidays. We’re here for you, okay?”
He nodded back to her as she placed her hands on the back handles of the wheelchair, letting her wheel him out into the main part of the renovated barn.
And I toasted you
Said, "Honey, we may be through
But you'll never hear me complain"
Kolgrim sat away from the piano bench between the living area and the kitchen, playing his guitar and singing.
'Cause I've got friends in low places
Where the whiskey drowns
And the beer chases my blues away
And I'll be okay
Coen and Vesemir were in the kitchen, the breakfast set-up well underway.
Lambert and Aiden were sitting on his couch and Eskel sat at the dining table, each of them holding a glass of whiskey as they sang along.
No, I'm not big on social graces
Think I'll slip on down to the oasis
Oh, I'vе got friends in low places
Geralt and Rose shared a fond look between them as they witnessed it all.
Well, I guеss I was wrong
I just don't belong
But then, I've been there before
The bard-witcher smiled a warm greeting to Geralt as he sang along, watching Rose wheel him over.
Everything's all right
I'll just say goodnight
And I'll show myself to the door
Hey, I didn't mean
To cause a big scene
Just give me an hour and then
Well, I'll be as high
As that ivory tower
That you're livin' in…
The sing-along devolves into off-key, out-of-harmony vocals as Coen and Vesemir took this time to set eight full plates on the table, one seat at the end of the table moved away for Geralt to eat in his wheelchair.
“Alright, get your asses to this table, now that you’re all alert and ready,” Vesemir told them as Kolgrim finished his impromptu performance. Thankfully, no one objected.