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The campfire crackled, throwing long, skeletal shadows against the ancient trees on the path to Kaer Morhen. The air was biting, but the heat of the flames wasn't what had Geralt of Rivia’s heart hammering against his ribs. On a bed of furs lay Jaskier. The bard’s usual flamboyant doublet was torn, ruined by the claws of a stray griffin that had ambushed them an hour prior. Geralt had been fast; fast enough to cleave the beast in two, but not fast enough to stop the monster’s wing from clipping Jaskier, sending him flying into a boulder.
Now, Jaskier had a severe concussion. A dark, ugly purple bruise was blooming across his temple, and his eyes kept rolling back, threatening to plunge him into a dangerous unconsciousness. Geralt was panicking. It was a cold, unfamiliar sensation that clawed at the Witcher's throat. The thought of the alternative outcome, of finding Jaskier’s broken body too late, had completely melted the Witcher’s icy exterior.
"Jaskier. Look at me," Geralt murmured, his gravelly voice dropping to a rare, hyper-attentive tenderness.
He was treating the bard like a fragile, sick child, gently wiping a streak of blood from Jaskier's cheek with a damp cloth, his massive hands incredibly careful.
"You need to stay awake. Drink this."
"Ugh... Geralt, please," Jaskier groaned, his voice weak, devoid of its usual theatrical energy.
He tried to swat the cloth away, but he was too feeble.
"My head feels like an orchestra of drunken dwarves is practising inside it. Don't make me drink your terrible witcher juices."
"It's just water and willow bark. Drink," Geralt insisted, gently propping Jaskier’s head up on his knee.
"Talk to me. Keep your eyes open."
Jaskier blinked heavily, staring up at the White Wolf's uncharacteristically worried face.
A faint, weak smile touched the bard's lips.
"Look at you. All motherly. It's deeply unsettling, you know... but highly effective for my ego." He took a shaky breath, fighting the heavy fog in his brain.
"If I have to stay awake... you have to talk. Tell me a story, Geralt."
Geralt paused, rinsing the cloth.
"A story? I don't do stories, Jaskier. That’s your trade."
"Please. Just... talk about something," Jaskier pleaded, his eyes fluttering closed for a terrifying second before Geralt gently shook his shoulder.
"Fine, fine! I'm awake! Tell me about... Roach. Why are you all so utterly obsessed with that name? Because you boring, monosyllabic man, you name all your horses the same way. I'm inclined to believe it's purely out of a complete lack of imagination, and not some deeply interesting, mystical reason."
Geralt cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. His golden eyes reflected the firelight as he looked at the chestnut mare tethered nearby.
"It's not a lack of imagination."
"Oh? Enlighten me," Jaskier mumbled, his head lolling against Geralt's knee.
"But tell me something... not about monsters. We get quite enough of those in our everyday life. Ideally, I would like to hear a love story, but a Witcher wouldn't know one of those, would he? Tell me a fairy tale, Geralt. Keep the dark away."
Geralt was quiet for a long moment. He adjusted the furs around Jaskier’s shoulders, ensuring the bard was warm. Then, looking out into the dark woods, the Witcher began to speak. His voice was still low and gravelly, but as the story flowed, it took on a rhythmic, captivating cadence that Jaskier had never heard from him before. Geralt took a breath, his fingers rhythmically wringing out the cloth.
"Once upon a time," Geralt began softly, "I was a young witcher, newly wintered out of Kaer Morhen, travelling south in desperate search of a horse. In the first human village I crossed, I asked where I could buy a mount. The villagers showed me to the horse breeder's stables without avoiding to show their disdain for my kind. I was naive back then; I didn't realise that anything different is faced with cruelty after all. I thought people needed me."
"Once at the breeder's stables, I asked how much a trained horse cost, only to realise I was short of coin. The breeder laughed, pointing me toward the back, to a wild brown mare. Still unbroken, the beast was disobedient and was still fighting for a way out of the stables, neighing loudly and kicking its hind legs every time anyone approached." A small smile tugged at Geralt's lips.
"I took an instant liking to the horse. She was strong and muscular, but it was her unbroken spirit that called to me. I approached the animal, using my Axi sign to calm her down. The spell settled her, but it didn't go unnoticed by the breeder. He instantly spat on the ground, cursing under his breath about filthy mutants and foul magic. I looked at him, a look so intense and scary that it froze the poor man's blood in his veins."
'I'll have her,' I announced, handing over the coin. He didn't say another word, happy to get rid of me as soon as possible."
"And so," Geralt continued, "the witcher's journey began with his new companion. Our relationship wasn't easy at first, but with patience and kindness, I managed to train her into a perfect witcher horse. One day, while we were camping by a river, I was fishing for my lunch. The mare was in a playful mood, repeatedly pushing me with her head as I tried to stay still and catch something to eat. I called her to back off, to stay quiet, and soon I realised the horse had no name I could call her, other than 'hey' or 'psst'."
Jaskier let out a weak, raspy chuckle, keeping his eyes fixed on Geralt.
"Right at that moment, as I was trying to fish, I caught a small, unremarkable fish from the river. A roach. Looked at the fish, looked at the horse, and decided to give her that name because her brains were just as small as the fish's. I thought it was funny, actually. Roach seemed annoyed at first, but eventually, she got used to it. The two of us became close friends. Over the years, I often talked to her like a human, unburdening my mind when the road grew too lonely." Geralt’s voice dropped, turning darker as the firelight flickered.
"But then, we entered a dark forest that was pest-infested with monsters. The villagers living close by had given me plenty of money to get rid of the infestation. I tracked a Wyvern into the deep brush and killed it. But as the beast fell, a mysterious woman suddenly appeared. She looked half-elf, half-monster, and she released a terrible, soul-shredding howl upon seeing her monster child dead."
Jaskier shivered, pulling the furs tighter.
"With a dreadful voice, she asked why I had killed her child. Puzzled, standing over the carcass, I didn't know what to say. In my head, I frantically tried to figure out what my training at Kaer Morhen had taught me. I searched my memories for what kind of monster this woman was, but nothing in the bestiary would fit her description. There was only a fairy tale that Vesemir used to tell us when we were kids. A story about the mother of monsters, an Aen Elle, an old dark elf of the old world, going back in time during the Conjunction of the Spheres. Before I could draw my sword, she cursed me in an ancient elvish language, words partially unknown to me, tying my fate to the name I gave my companions." Geralt fell silent, the crackle of the fire filling the space.
"When the old elf pronounced the curse," Geralt continued, his gravelly voice dropping to a harsh whisper, "nothing visible happened at that moment. The woods just... fell dead silent." Jaskier leaned in, gripping the edge of his furs.
"What did she say, Geralt? What were the words?"
"I don't remember exactly," Geralt admitted, shaking his head. "It was an ancient dialect. But the meaning... it was something about making me know her pain. About making me lose someone I loved. But I was a young witcher. I had nobody at the time. No family, no friends. I was completely alone on the Path."
He paused, his golden eyes flicking toward the dark tree line. "Except for Roach."
"And the elf?" Jaskier breathed.
"She disappeared like thin air, leaving me bewildered in the clearing. I didn't wait around. I quickly mounted Roach and rode out of that forest without looking back. We travelled for hours until I found a clearing far away from the sighting, where we could finally camp." Geralt rubbed his face, the memory visibly making him tense, even now.
"I was still shaken, and I could sense that something had changed in Roach, too. The animal was entirely on edge. When we finally stopped, Roach did something unusual; she lay down on the grass. Horses don't do that unless they feel completely safe, or completely broken. I knelt next to her, petting her softly, trying to figure out what was wrong. But the exhaustion of the Path caught up to me. Sleep found me right there, resting my head against Roach's chest." Jaskier was motionless, barely daring to breathe.
"It was very early in the morning when I woke up," Geralt said, his voice tightening. "My medallion was vibrating violently against my chest, sensing a massive spike of magic in the air. I turned on my side to check on Roach... only to find a woman lying where my horse had been." Jaskier’s jaw dropped.
"A... a woman?"
"A woman," Geralt murmured, staring into the flames as if seeing her there. "She had long, untamed brown hair and wheat-colored skin. Even though she was asleep, her face was serene and calm. I shook my head, trying to chase away my sleep, thinking it was just some strange, vivid trick of the mind. But she didn't vanish. She was right there in front of me."
"What did you do?" Jaskier whispered, completely enthralled.
"After a few moments, she opened her eyes," Geralt said. "Big, beautiful chestnut-colored eyes. And she looked at me with total recognition. And something else... a quiet fondness. I reached for my gear, my voice low. I asked, 'Who are you? Where's Roach?'" Geralt let out a slow, heavy breath.
"The woman just looked at me, smiled softly, and said, 'I don't like that name very much.'"
"No..." Jaskier gasped, sitting up straight, his hands flying to his mouth.
"I asked her what she meant," Geralt continued. "And she looked right into my eyes and said, 'I don't like that you named me after a fish.'
'I whispered her name—Roach?—in total, utter incredulity, and moved backwards as the realisation hit me. The elf hadn't killed my companion. She had bound her soul into a different form, forcing me to face the weight of the only bond I had."
Jaskier stared at Geralt, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and absolute artistic shock.
"Geralt... by the gods. That is... that is the most spectacular, beautiful, tragic thing I have ever heard. A horse... a woman... the curse of the Aen Elle!" He looked over his shoulder at the chestnut mare currently munching on grass by the edge of the camp. The horse paused, tilting its head, looking directly at Jaskier.
"After realising what had happened," Geralt continued, his gravelly voice dropping to a soft, awe-stricken whisper, "I came closer to the young woman, to Roach, and looked at her in absolute shock. 'Is that really you?' I asked. She nodded, and something in that simple movement, the slight tilt of her chin, instantly reminded me of the way my horse used to communicate with me on the trail. 'It is you...' I breathed. Jaskier, I couldn't believe what I was experiencing. Nothing in my training at Kaer Morhen, none of Vesemir's lessons, had prepared me for this."
Jaskier held his breath, completely mesmerised, his head injury entirely sidelined by the sheer romance and strangeness of the tale.
"She looked up at me," Geralt murmured, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames.
"'I'm hungry,' she spoke softly. I looked around our sparse camp, my mind racing, frantically thinking about what might be appropriate for a transformed mare to eat. Then, I remembered I had a few red apples left in my pack. I reached for them and handed one to her, my movements completely cautious, hesitant, as if she might vanish if I moved too fast." A rare, incredibly tender smile touched Geralt's lips as he spoke.
"She ate it heartily, just like she always did. And when she finished, she gifted me with a wide, beautiful, sincere smile. It... it melted something deep inside me, Jaskier. A feeling I didn't think a mutant was capable of. I found myself smiling back at her. Seeing her shivering in the early dawn, I reached for my heavy blanket and gently covered her naked body, protecting her from the biting cold of the twilight hour."
"And what did she do?" Jaskier whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
"Grateful for the gesture, she pushed herself right into my arms," Geralt said softly. "She nuzzled her head against my chest, perfectly trusting, letting me bring my arms around her in protection. I sat there in the quiet of the morning, holding her. I could barely breathe from the sheer shock, the overwhelming warmth, and the utter quaintness of that gesture. For the first time in my life, the Path didn't feel lonely."
The clearing fell into a heavy, profound silence. Only the wind rustled the leaves above them. Geralt quietly reached over, placing a firm, heavy hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, gently encouraging the bard to lie back down on the furs. The fierce, terrifying panic that had gripped the Witcher earlier was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, protective calm now that Jaskier was coherent, safe, and distracted from his pain.
"Jaskier. Go to sleep," Geralt said softly but firmly. "The morning comes early, and we have a long ride to Kaer Morhen."
"But the story! Is it true?!" Jaskier cried out dramatically, though he let himself be guided back into the blankets, exhausted but happy.
"Will you let me sing it? The maidens of Oxenfurt would weep buckets!" Geralt met Jaskier's gaze, his golden eyes intense and unreadable in the dying firelight.
"Why must you torture an artist so?" Jaskier mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, the air grew even colder. The campfire danced, throwing faint orange light against the rock face where Jaskier sat propped up against his bedroll. He was looking much better; the colour had returned to his cheeks, and the swelling on his temple had gone down. But his eyes were wide, fixed on Geralt with an uncharacteristic, breathless silence. Geralt was sitting cross-legged across from him, sharpening his silver sword with a whetstone. The rhythmic shhh, shhh of the stone against metal was the only sound for a long time until Jaskier finally couldn't take it anymore.
"Geralt," Jaskier whispered, leaning forward. "The morning light. You said you held her until the twilight hour passed. What happened when the sun actually broke over the trees?"
Geralt stopped sharpening. He didn't look up, but his golden eyes softened as he looked into the flames, picking up the thread of the tale exactly where he had left off.
"We remained in each other's arms until the first light broke," Geralt said, his gravelly voice carrying a weight that made the bard hold his breath. "We didn't speak. We remained totally silent, the forest waking up around us, the dew settling on the blanket wrapped around her shoulders." Geralt took a slow breath, remembering the sheer weight of that silence.
"While she rested against me, my mind was racing through every possible scenario. I’m a witcher; I live by calculation, but this defied all logic. What was going to happen to her? To me? Will she disappear just as easily as she had appeared, leaving me with nothing? And practical matters, too. How were we going to continue our travelling without a mount? How do you lead a horse that is now a human woman down the dangerous paths of the Continent?" He set the whetstone down, his large hands resting on his knees.
"But worse than the logistics," Geralt continued, his voice dropping an octave, "was the sudden, terrifying realisation that ran through my head. I thought of all the stories I had told her. Every lonely night on the Path, every contract that went wrong, every ounce of my thoughts, my pains, my regrets... I had poured them all into her ears over the years. I had been completely, entirely vulnerable in front of Roach, always comforted by the knowledge that she wouldn't judge me. She couldn't respond to me." Jaskier swallowed hard, understanding the deep, agonising exposure a private man like Geralt must have felt.
"And now... she was a human. She had a human mind to process it all." Jaksier realised.
"Exactly," Geralt murmured. "People always had a bias against witchers. The world thinks we are heartless, emotionless mutants who enjoy killing, who feel nothing but the urge to collect coin. I wondered if she, now possessing human thoughts, would look at me with that same prejudice. But as the sun finally climbed above the horizon, painting the sky in gold, she pulled back just enough to look at me."
"What did she say?" Jaskier asked softly.
"Nothing. She looked at me with those big, chestnut eyes," Geralt said. "There was no fear. No disgust. Roach knew better than the rest of the world. She had been there when I bled; she had been there when I wept in the dark. She knew witchers could feel everything. She knew the heavy burden of the medallion. In her eyes, there was only a deep understanding. She didn't need to speak a word of our language to tell me that my secrets were safe with her." Geralt looked across the fire at Jaskier, whose eyes were shining with inspiration.
The panic Geralt had felt the previous night about losing his friend had fully dissolved into the steady comfort of companionship.
"The sun hit her skin," Geralt finished softly, "and the magic in the air flared one last time. My medallion vibrated violently, a flash of blinding light enveloped her, and when I opened my eyes, the blanket fell to the grass. Roach was standing there on four legs again, nudging my shoulder for another apple. So, after Roach left this world, I kept naming my horses in memory of that moment, of that bond." Jaskier sat in stunned silence for a long moment, completely overwhelmed by the emotional payoff.
"By the gods, Geralt... you are a poet, and you don't even know it. That is a masterpiece. The loyalty, the shared silence, the breaking of the bias..." He reached for his lute, his fingers itching to find the chords.
"Please tell me I can write a ballad about this. It's too beautiful to be kept a secret." Geralt picked up his whetstone again, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
Jaskier blinked, his eyes wide and remarkably clear now. The sheer shock of the narrative, delivered with such hauntingly perfect pacing, had completely driven away his drowsiness. He stared up at the Witcher in absolute astonishment.
"Geralt..." Jaskier whispered, his voice returning to its normal, dramatic pitch. "That was... beautiful. The pacing, the imagery, the emotional payoff! By Melitele’s robes, you have serious storytelling skills. You could be serious competition for my trade! The bardic guilds would be ruined!"
Geralt let out a low huff, looking away, a slight tint of colour hitting his pale cheeks.
"It's just a story, Jaskier. Don't write it down. Don't sing it."
"But why?" Jaskier whined like a child.
"Because," Geralt said quietly, the ancient witcher wisdom settling over the camp like a warm blanket, "there is a grain of truth in every fairy tale. And some truths are meant to stay in the woods."
Jaskier laughed softly, lying back against his bedroll, his heart full.
"Fine, fine. The woods keep the secret. But know this, White Wolf, when we reach Kaer Morhen, I am telling Vesemir you have a soft side."