Chapter Text
Geralt doesn't remember when or how he managed to build a campfire. He only remembers how, wounded and exhausted after the last fight with leshen, he almost crawled towards the camp. But the crackling sound and the sharp contrast between the cold behind him and the heat in his feet tells him that he is at the fire. Slowly his eyes opening to discover himself leaning against a fallen log, his armor caked in blood and dirt. The bitter taste of elixirs lingers in his mouth, the toxins dulling the pain but leaving his mind fogged and sluggish.
When he first sees Gaunter O’Dimm’s face, he’s not even sure the man is real. The Man of Glass sits across the fire, tending to a small iron pot, stirring something that smells... warm, savory, almost comforting. Gaunter looks as calm and composed as ever, yet something about him is different. He is wearing his usual attire, but stripped down, as if on respite. No crossbody bags, no leather-hooded collar—just a simple yellowish tunic with familiar, striking blue stripes circling his biceps and wrists.
Geralt blinks, his vision swimming. He’s not sure how long Gaunter’s been there. He doesn’t remember inviting him.
“Didn’t ask for a company,” Geralt mutters, his voice gravelly from fatigue.
O’Dimm looks up from the pot, his smile faint but sharp. “Oh, come now, Geralt. Would you prefer to bleed out alone, or let that monstrosity’s poison take you? Besides, I thought we were past such formalities after our last... adventure.”
Geralt grimaces, his hand tightening around the empty flask of White Raffard’s Decoction at his side. “What do you want?”
“What do I always want?” Gaunter says, almost cheerfully. He dips the spoon into the pot, tasting the soup. “To talk, to share, to... help, of course.” His eyes flick to Geralt’s wounds. “But for now, you should eat. You’ll heal faster.”
Geralt eyes the soup warily, suspicion flickering in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t argue. He’s too tired to argue. When O’Dimm presses the bowl into his hands, the warmth of it seeps into his fingers, grounding him. He takes a sip. It’s rich, savory, almost comfortingly good. Still, he doesn’t let himself relax entirely.
Before Geralt can take another, Gaunter gently plucks the bowl from his grasp, dipping the spoon into the broth. “You’ve lost enough blood already,” he says softly, almost chiding, as though scolding a careless child. “Let me help.”
The spoon hovers before him, and for a moment, Geralt grimaces, his mind flashing to the image of the man in the tavern, a similar wooden spoon lodged deep into his eye socket. Freezing time. O’Dimm’s shameless show-off.
Yet here he is now, feeding him as though tending to a wounded pup.
Geralt’s jaw tightens, his pride sparking faintly, but he doesn’t resist. The soup touches his lips, warm and savory, and he swallows. Gaunter watches him with an expression so soft, so disarmingly gentle, it unsettles him more than any of his usual smirks.
In the firelight, Gaunter’s features seem softer, almost… kind. Deceptively pleasant. Like the glow of embers hiding a far greater heat.
Geralt stares at him for a long moment, before muttering hoarsely, “Your face… is it random? Or did you borrow it from someone?”
Gaunter’s spoon pauses mid-air, and his lips curve into a slow, amused smile. He sets the bowl back on the edge of the fire with deliberate care, his movements precise, almost too smooth.
“Borrow?” Gaunter repeats, the word rolling off his tongue as if tasting its weight. “What an elegant way to phrase it. No, my dear witcher, this face is mine—at least as much as anything can belong to one such as me.” He moves closer and gestures toward Geralt’s arm. “But if you’re truly curious about faces, let’s ensure yours stays in one piece, hm? That gash won’t heal properly if you keep neglecting it.”
Geralt tenses as O’Dimm kneels beside him, a clean cloth and a small glass vial appearing in his hands as if conjured. The witcher starts to pull back, but Gaunter raises a placating hand, his smile softening into something that, disturbingly, looks almost kind.
“Come now, Geralt. Let me help. You’d hardly want to waste those potions on an infection when I’m here to make it all better.”
His leather armour lies in the grass, when did he have time to take it off? The cold creeps deeper under his bare skin. Geralt exhales sharply but relents, his body too battered to argue. He watches warily as Gaunter dabs the cloth in the liquid, the sharp scent of alcohol wafting between them. The first touch against his skin stings, and he grits his teeth, but Gaunter’s hands are steady, precise, unnervingly gentle.
“You never answered,” Geralt mutters, his voice low as his eyes stay fixed on Gaunter’s face. “Your face. You said it’s yours, but you didn’t say how.”
Master Mirror tilts his head slightly, a faint smile curling his lips. “Ah, but isn’t that the charm of it? A little mystery keeps things interesting.” He dabs the cloth against another wound, wiping away the blood with an efficiency that feels practiced. “But since you’ve asked so earnestly, perhaps I should indulge you. Let me tell you a story, Geralt. A tale of a man… and a face.”
He pauses, his gaze lifting from Geralt’s arm to meet the witcher’s eyes. In the glow of the fire, his expression shifts, becoming thoughtful, almost wistful. “But first, do me a favor: close your eyes for just a moment.”
Geralt frowns but doesn’t move. “Why?”
“Trust me,” Gaunter says softly, his voice losing some of its usual sharpness. “I want you to see it properly. To feel it. Stories, my dear witcher, are best experienced, not merely told.”
Geralt hesitates, his instincts screaming against the idea. But the exhaustion in his body, the pull of the elixirs, and the strange, dreamlike quality of the moment wear down his resistance. Slowly, reluctantly, he closes his eyes.
“Good,” O’Dimm murmurs, his voice like velvet. “Now... listen.”
“Once upon a time there was a man, a simple glassmaker by trade. Let’s call him Gaunter, for simplicity’s sake. He was no one special, really—skilled with his hands, yes, but far from remarkable. He had a workshop, a wife, and a daughter named Lena who was the light of his life. Not wealthy, but happy. Content. A rare thing, contentment. But as you know, Geralt, happiness is as fragile as glass.”
Geralt shivers, the warmth of the fire struggling to chase away the chill that’s seeped into his bones. His eyes remain closed, his mind hazy from exhaustion and the lingering toxins of his elixirs. He barely notices the touch at first, until something soft and heavy drapes over his shoulders.
A blanket. Woolen, thick, and warm.
Geralt’s eyes twitch under his lids, a flicker of awareness bubbling up, but he doesn’t protest as O’Dimm tucks it around him. The motion is deliberate, almost tender, Gaunter’s fingers brushing against his neck briefly as he adjusts the edges.
The thought flutters through Geralt’s fogged mind: Like a cocoon.
The comparison lingers, sticky and unwelcome. A spider wrapping its prey, soft and methodical, the illusion of care disguising the ultimate trap. But Geralt is too tired to fight it. The warmth is too soothing, and the phantom weight of Gaunter’s voice pulls him deeper into the web.
“You’d have liked him, I think,” Gaunter continues, his voice taking on a wistful edge. “A good man, by most standards. Honest. Hardworking. He loved his craft, shaping glass into goblets and panes, delicate and beautiful. He loved his family even more.”
The words wrap around Geralt like the blanket, the cadence of the story sinking into him as his resistance ebbs. The fire crackles softly, filling the brief pause in Gaunter’s tale.
Geralt shifts slightly, the blanket rustling against his shoulders. He doesn’t respond, but his breath slows, his body unwinding reluctantly under the combined weight of warmth and words.
“But as with all good things,” Gaunter says, his voice dipping lower, almost conspiratorial, “it didn’t last. You see, his wife, the anchor of his little world, was taken by a sickness he couldn’t fight. He buried her himself, promised to stay strong for Lena.He worked his craft, shaping glass into delicate goblets and shining panes, and he poured every ounce of love he had left into that little girl.”
There’s a pause, and Geralt feels a strange tension in the air, a pull that feels almost physical, drawing him further into the story.
“But happiness, Geralt,” O’Dimm says softly, “is not just fragile. It is fleeting. And one day, while he was away selling his wares, tragedy struck again.”
The words weave through Geralt’s mind like threads, binding him tighter into the moment. Gaunter’s voice is a rhythm, a pulse, lulling him deeper, the warmth of the blanket and the fire so overwhelming it dulls even the memory of his wounds.
“Yes, it was on that very day, the day he left her alone—her, so sure of herself, insisting that at ten years old she was old enough to manage on her own in a village where everything had always been peaceful—it was on that day that the marauders came to his home. Cruel men, the sort who delight in taking what they don’t deserve. When the glassmaker returned, he found... well, let’s just say it wasn’t a happy homecoming.”
The fire pops, and Geralt flinches, his eyes tightening against the sudden noise. He doesn’t see Gaunter’s faint smile as he leans closer.
“Close your eyes,” Gaunter murmurs again, his voice like velvet. “Listen closely. Do you hear it, Geralt? Do you see it? The moment the glass shattered?”
And Geralt does. In his mind, in his soul, he sees the shards begin to fall.
The first thing Geralt notices is the smell—sharp, metallic, the unmistakable stench of blood mingled with ash. He stands in a workshop, though not his own. Glass panes line the walls, some shattered, their jagged edges glittering in the dim light filtering through a broken window. Tools lie scattered on the ground, splattered with something dark and wet.
His heart pounds—not his heart, the man’s. The rhythm is erratic, panicked, as though it might burst from his chest. His hands shake as he steps forward, his boots crunching on broken glass.
“Lena?” The voice, rough and trembling, freezes him. It isn’t his voice—but he knows it. He’s heard it before, smooth and silken, laced with confidence and menace. This voice is different—broken, choked with fear. It’s Gaunter O’Dimm’s voice.
No. Not quite. It’s a man’s voice, before it became the voice of something else.
The sound sends a shiver through him, cutting through the fog of his elixirs. The panic in the voice, the anguish—it is alien to him and yet disturbingly familiar. He tries to pull away, to blink, but the vision holds him fast.
The workshop is eerily silent, the kind of silence that screams louder than any sound. And then he sees it—a small hand, pale and lifeless, sticking out from behind the workbench. Time slows as he staggers forward, his legs heavy, unwilling, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream.
“Lena…” The voice again, hoarse and trembling, cracks in the middle of her name. It doesn’t belong to the Gaunter O’Dimm Geralt knows—but it is him. Before.
He rounds the bench, and there she is. Lena. Ten years old. Her dress is torn, stained with blood, her hair matted with dirt. Her wide, unseeing eyes stare at the ceiling, her face frozen in a silent plea for help that never came.
The man—Gaunter, before he was Gaunter—falls to his knees beside her, his hands hovering uselessly over her small body, afraid to touch, afraid not to. A sound escapes his throat, raw and guttural, a keening wail that echoes in the broken space.
“Lena, no, no, no…” His voice cracks, the words tumbling out in a desperate, incoherent stream. He cradles her head, the weight of it too light, too still. His tears fall on her cheeks, streaking the dirt but doing nothing to wash away the horror.
The glassmaker’s grief pours into Geralt like a flood, drowning him. He can feel the agony twisting in his chest, the way the man’s very soul seems to fracture under the weight of it. It is a pain unlike anything Geralt has ever known—deep, consuming, endless.
His breath hitches, shallow and erratic, as though the grief itself has stolen his air. Geralt tries to wake up, move, to shift his arms, to break free from the invisible weight pinning him down. But the soft, smothering warmth of the blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon only deepens the sensation of being trapped. His fingers claw weakly at its edges, seeking escape, but his body refuses to obey fully, heavy with exhaustion and elixirs.
With effort, he forces his eyes open. The glow of the campfire swims into view, hazy and flickering. The sharp bite of cold air against his face reminds him where he is—or at least where he’s supposed to be. His heart thunders in his chest, the phantom ache of another man’s sorrow lingering in his ribs.
Across the fire, Gaunter O’Dimm sits calmly, his hands still stirring the pot as though nothing has happened. His expression is serene, the faintest curve of his lips betraying a quiet satisfaction.
Geralt blinks the tears back, his voice rasping from his throat. “What...?”
“Don’t fight it,” O’Dimm interrupts gently, as though soothing a restless child. “Grief is meant to be felt, Geralt. Even when it isn’t yours.”
Geralt’s teeth clench as he shifts against the log, his body uncooperative. The blanket clings to him, too warm, too heavy, and yet he can’t bring himself to push it off. O’Dimm’s voice, soft and low, cuts through his muddled thoughts.
“Ah, the gods,” Gaunter murmurs, almost wistful. “Of course, he called for them. How could he not? They were all he had left. Their names fell from his lips like a litany, each more desperate than the last. He screamed until his throat was raw, his fists pounding against the walls and the shattered remains of his workshop. The jagged edges of broken glass bit into his skin, leaving his knuckles raw and bleeding. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t care.”
O’Dimm’s voice lowers, almost tender, though his words remain sharp as glass. “He promised them everything—anything—if only they would listen. But they didn’t. They never do.”
The fire popped, embers rising into the air like fleeting stars. Gaunter leaned back slightly, his tone softening, though the words carried a weight that seemed to press against the very air.
“So the man’s voice grew quieter. His words turned inward, toward the void that lingered in the spaces between the gods and men. He called out to the darkness—the shadows that creep in when the light fails. And the shadows... they always answer.”
The firelight played across Gaunter’s face, illuminating it in flickering bursts. He turned his gaze back to Geralt, his smile widening faintly, as though savoring the taste of the tale. He didn’t say more, letting the weight of the words settle in the silence.
Wrapped in the heavy warmth of the blanket, Geralt could only stare, the lingering chill of that final sentence crawling across his skin despite the fire’s heat.
“You,” Geralt muttered finally, his voice hoarse, his eyes narrowing. “It was you.”
O’Dimm raised an eyebrow with unhidden satisfaction. “Me?” He tilted his head, his tone almost teasing. “Would you like to see by yourself?”
Geralt wrinkles his nose; he isn't sure he wants to be plunged back into an all too real picture of the past. His first fleeting reaction seems to disappoint the Man of Glass. Still, curiosity... the very thing that would one day finally kill the witcher, curiosity certainly gets the better of him.
O'Dimm continues without waiting for a hesitant reply. “And then they came—the shadows. No grand arrival, no flash of light or thunderous roar. Just a creeping... presence, crawling into the edges of his mind, spilling into the room like smoke.”
Geralt feels it, faint and unsettling, like something pressing against the edges of his senses. He shivers, and the cocoon of the blanket suddenly feels like a cage.
“They spoke without words,” Gaunter continues. “A whisper in his thoughts, curling around his despair, promising what he’d begged for. Time. A second chance. A way to save her.”
His lips part slightly, the flicker of the firelight catching on his teeth, making them glint almost predatory. “It wasn’t even a question. The man’s heart was too broken, his mind too clouded. He didn’t ask how. He didn’t ask why. He only asked, ‘What must I give?’”
“Let me guess,” Geralt mutters, his voice hoarse but steady. “The price was his soul.”
“Of course,” Gaunter replies smoothly, his tone carrying an unsettling ease. “But that wasn’t all. There was a very important point.”
Geralt blinks, his breath catching as the firelight blurs and shifts. The weight of the blanket grows heavier, the warmth stifling, and before he can fully process the change, the scene collapses around him.
The darkness swirls, rising from the shattered remains of the workshop like smoke, dense and suffocating. It moves with unnatural grace, not drifting but crawling across the floor, climbing the walls, bending toward the man who kneels over his daughter’s lifeless body.
“You have to let me in,” a voice whispers, soft as silk but cutting through his mind like a blade. It doesn’t come from the air around him but from within—coiling through his thoughts, digging into the cracks of his grief.
The man—the glassmaker—lifts his head. His tear-streaked face twists in agony, his lips trembling as he whispers back, “I’ll do anything. Take whatever you want. Just bring her back.”
The darkness moves faster now, surging toward him in a tide that engulfs the room. It wraps around him, pressing against his skin, seeping into him. At first, it feels cold—a biting chill that spreads across his face, his hands, his chest. But then it pushes deeper.
It forces its way into his throat, choking him as it floods his mouth, heavy and acrid like ash. His body convulses as it snakes through his nose, down into his lungs, filling him from the inside. The pressure builds, unbearable, as it forces its way into his ears, the whisper now a deafening roar that drowns out his screams.
And then it finds his eyes. The glassmaker’s eyelids flutter, his pupils dilating as the darkness pours in. It burns as it spreads across his vision, turning the world into a swirling mass of shadows and flickering light. He claws at his face, his fingers trembling, but it’s already too late.
The shadows aren’t just invading from the outside—they’re spilling through his skin. The sensation is impossible to describe, like needles pricking every pore, burrowing into his flesh. His body feels like it’s on fire, each nerve screaming as the darkness consumes him.
Pain courses through him in waves, relentless and consuming. But beneath the agony, there’s something else. A strange, alien satisfaction. It slithers through his veins, creeping up his spine, an intoxicating sensation of power blooming within the torment.
He gasps, his body arching as the final threads of the darkness plunge into him. And then, for a moment, there’s nothing. Silence. Stillness.
The Man of Glass collapses onto the floor, his chest heaving as he gulps for air. His hands twitch at his sides, his fingers digging into the bloodied floorboards. His vision swims, his mind teetering on the edge of consciousness.
But he feels it. The darkness is there, inside him. Moving. Coiling. Watching.
His lips part, and a sound escapes—half-sob, half-laugh. His voice is his own, but it carries an unfamiliar edge, a resonance that wasn’t there before. The pain has faded, replaced by something deeper, heavier.
He pushes himself to his knees, his hands steady now, his breath evening. Geralt stares down at his trembling fingers, watching the shadows beneath his skin ripple like oil on water.
And then they smile.
Geralt jerks awake, his chest heaving as the vision fades. His hands clutch the blanket, his knuckles white, his pulse pounding in his ears. With a desperate grunt, he finally wrestles himself free, arms flailing helplessly as he throws the suffocating cocoon off. Like a rambunctious babe tearing out of swaddling, he sits up, his torso bare save for bandages wrapped tightly around his wounds.
His skin glistens with sweat, heat radiating off him in waves as the firelight flickers across his flushed face. He runs a trembling hand through his damp hair, his breaths coming sharp and ragged. To his displeasure he finds the uncomfortable tightness in his leather pants, an erection completely out of place.
Across the fire, Gaunter O’Dimm looks up from the pot, with a sly grin. “Well, well,” he says, his tone playful, his eyes glittering with mischief. “I’d offer you another blanket, but it seems you’re already way too hot. Should I be flattered?”
Geralt glares at him, his teeth clenched. “Don’t push me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Gaunter replies, his grin widening as he stirs the pot. “It’s just... fascinating. I didn’t realize my little story would leave you so... affected.”
Geralt exhales sharply, his hand gripping the edge of the log as he steadies himself. “Shut up.”
Gaunter chuckles softly, his voice like silk. “As you wish, dear witcher. Though I must say, you wear desperation quite... handsomely.”
Geralt swallows hard, his throat dry, and forces his gaze back to Gaunter. “What happened next? Did you help him?”
He tries to push himself up, his hands gripping the ground, but his legs betray him. His body is heavy, uncooperative, the lingering heat from the fire and the vision making his movements sluggish. He collapses back against the log with a frustrated grunt, his cheeks burning—not from exertion, but embarrassment.
Gaunter notices, of course. He always does.
The Man of Glass rises smoothly, the motion unhurried. He steps around the fire, the glow of the flames casting long, flickering shadows. Before Geralt can protest, Gaunter settles behind him, his hand resting lightly on the witcher’s shoulder in a gesture that feels more possessive than calming.
“I did,” Gaunter exhales into his ear. His fingers slowly travel down along the old scar. “As I can help you.”
“No need,” Geralt spits, his voice sharp despite his weakness. He shrugs off the hand, but Gaunter doesn’t seem bothered.
“Ah, such fire,” Gaunter says, chuckling softly as he sets both hands on Geralt's shoulders, starting gently massaging his muscles. “But all he needed,” he continues, as though Geralt hadn’t protested, “was to rewind time. Just a little. Enough to make the right choice. To get to the right place. To be on time.”