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aifanfictions · 6 months

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Path of Valor

Chapter 1: The Hunter and the Witcher

In the heart of the Continent, where monsters and magic coexisted, there was a small village nestled on the edge of a dense, dark forest. The villagers led a simple life, sustained by the bounty of the land and the forest, but they knew that their existence was constantly threatened by the very woods that sustained them.

One fateful morning, (Y/N), a young woman with fiery determination in her eyes and a lithe grace in her step, embarked on a hunting expedition. Her village depended on her skills as a hunter, for she had a unique ability to track and subdue the most formidable of creatures. Her natural talent for hunting, combined with her knowledge of herbs and the healing arts, made her an invaluable member of the community.

As she ventured deep into the forest, her bow at the ready and her senses attuned to the slightest movement, (Y/N) encountered a trail of blood. It was a clear sign of a wounded creature nearby. She followed the crimson trail with caution, her footsteps silent as a shadow.

Soon, she came across the wounded creature, but it was no ordinary beast. Instead, she found a man—a Witcher—his long, white hair matted with dirt and blood, his eyes closed as he lay in the undergrowth.

Her heart raced as she knelt beside him, examining his injuries. The Witcher bore the unmistakable signs of a fierce battle with a monstrous foe. Gently, she cleaned his wounds with a poultice she had crafted from herbs she had gathered earlier.

It was a painstaking process, but (Y/N) knew the importance of tending to his injuries. She couldn't leave a fellow traveler wounded in the dangerous forest. Once the Witcher's wounds were cleaned and bandaged, she used a mixture of herbs to brew a potent healing potion. After carefully pouring it down his throat, she waited.

Hours passed, and (Y/N) sat vigil beside the unconscious Witcher. The forest was her ally, and the creatures of the woods, sensing her benevolent intent, allowed her to tend to her unexpected guest in peace.

As the first light of dawn painted the sky, the Witcher stirred, his eyelids fluttering open. His amber eyes met (Y/N)'s, and there was a moment of silent understanding that passed between them.

"You saved me," he rasped, his voice betraying both gratitude and curiosity.

(Y/N) nodded. "It's not safe to leave a wounded soul in these woods. What happened to you?"

The Witcher hesitated for a moment, his eyes darkening with memories of the battle. "I was tracking a griffin," he finally replied. "It fought fiercely, but I managed to wound it. It fled into the woods."

(Y/N)'s brows furrowed. "Griffins are rarely seen in this region. What brought you here?"

The Witcher's lips curled into a faint smile. "I heard tales of a skilled hunter who resides in this village. I came to seek your aid in tracking the griffin."

(Y/N) considered his words and realized that she was presented with an opportunity. She had always longed for more than the life of a village hunter. The Witcher's presence could open new horizons, granting her the adventure she had yearned for.

"Very well," she said, determination gleaming in her eyes. "I will help you track the griffin, but in return, I have a proposal of my own."

The Witcher raised an inquisitive brow, his gaze locked on (Y/N).

"I want to accompany you on your adventures," she declared. "I've seen the wounds you bear, and I know the dangers you face. With my skills as a herbalist, hunter, and healer, I can be of great use to you."

The Witcher, known as Geralt of Rivia, considered her offer. He knew the road he walked was perilous, but he also recognized the invaluable talents (Y/N) possessed.

Finally, he nodded. "Agreed."

With the deal struck, they gathered their belongings, and (Y/N) led Geralt to her village, where he could rest and recover further. The village welcomed him with cautious curiosity. Word of a Witcher in their midst had spread like wildfire.

As Geralt rested, (Y/N) couldn't help but wonder about his past, his scars, and the monsters he had faced. The other villagers watched him with a mixture of fascination and fear. But (Y/N) saw something more—the weary eyes of a warrior, burdened by the weight of countless battles.

In the days that followed, (Y/N) cared for Geralt's wounds, ensuring that he regained his strength. She mixed poultices and brewed potions, all the while observing his silent and stoic nature. Yet, in his moments of vulnerability, she glimpsed the man behind the Witcher's facade—a man shaped by trials, both internal and external.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the village came alive with the soft glow of lanterns, (Y/N) sat with Geralt by a crackling fire. She offered him a bowl of hearty stew, and they ate in companionable silence.

She finally broke the quietude. "Geralt, tell me about your world—the world of Witchers."

His golden eyes met hers, and he spoke, his voice steady. "It's a world filled with darkness, (Y/N), where monsters lurk in the shadows. Witchers are trained from a young age to hunt and eliminate those monsters. We're mutants, subjected to alchemical experiments that grant us enhanced abilities. But these gifts come at a cost."

(Y/N) nodded, sensing the weight of his words. "The cost of isolation and mistrust."

Geralt's gaze remained fixed on the fire. "Yes, Witchers are feared and often shunned by the very people they protect. But it's a life I've chosen, and it's a life that carries a purpose."

In that moment, (Y/N

) felt a surge of empathy for the Witcher, for the trials he had faced, and the choices he had made. She saw beyond the scars and the gruff exterior, recognizing the depth of his character.

"Your purpose has brought you to my village," she said, her voice soft and compassionate. "And it's a purpose I want to share. Together, we can face the monsters, the darkness, and the unknown. With your skills and my knowledge, we can make a difference."

Geralt studied her with those piercing golden eyes, as if assessing her sincerity. After a moment, he nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Very well, (Y/N). We'll be partners in this journey."

Their alliance was sealed, and the village, which had initially held its reservations, began to accept Geralt as one of their own. The skilled hunter and the enigmatic Witcher became a formidable team, combining their talents to protect the village and venture into the treacherous forest.

As the weeks passed, (Y/N) honed her combat skills under Geralt's guidance, learning to wield a sword and defend herself against the supernatural threats that lurked in the woods. In turn, she taught him the secrets of herblore and the delicate art of healing, using the very forest that had once been a source of danger to mend wounds and cure ailments.

Their partnership blossomed into a genuine friendship, and the bond between them deepened with each shared victory and challenge. (Y/N) admired Geralt's unwavering determination and the code of ethics he followed in a world where morality often blurred into gray areas.

One crisp morning, as they prepared to venture deeper into the forest, Geralt approached (Y/N). He carried a silver pendant, a Witcher's medallion, and handed it to her. "This medallion is a symbol of our partnership," he said. "It's said to react in the presence of magic and danger. Keep it as a reminder of the journey we've embarked on together."

She accepted the medallion, tucking it safely beneath her clothing. "I will, Geralt. Together, we'll face the unknown, and we'll emerge stronger for it."

Their path led them through dark woods, across dangerous swamps, and into haunted ruins. They confronted fearsome beasts and powerful sorcery, their unwavering trust in one another becoming their greatest strength.

One evening, under a sky filled with countless stars, (Y/N) and Geralt sat by their campfire. The forest was alive with the songs of night creatures, and a cool breeze rustled through the trees. (Y/N) gazed up at the night sky, her eyes bright with wonder.

"I never imagined a life like this," she admitted, her voice tinged with awe. "But I wouldn't trade it for anything. The journey, the adventures, and the bond we share—it's everything I ever longed for."

Geralt, the stoic Witcher, found himself sharing a rare smile. "I, too, have found something unexpected on this path we walk together. You've given me a glimpse of a different world, a world where trust and compassion are worth fighting for."

Their horses grazed nearby, content and unhurried, embodying the serenity of that moment.

With a warm expression, Geralt extended a hand to (Y/N). "Come, (Y/N), we have many more tales to write in this journey. Let's see what the world has in store for us."

She took his hand, feeling the calluses of his palm against her own. They rose together, leaving the campfire to smolder in the darkness as they mounted their horses. With the silver Witcher's medallion resting against her heart, (Y/N) and Geralt rode on, their hearts set on a horizon filled with promise and adventure.

The hunter and the Witcher, bound by fate and choice, had found in each other the missing pieces of their respective journeys. In the world where monsters and magic were a constant presence, they were two souls who would stand as beacons of hope, light, and unbreakable trust.

Their adventures were only beginning, and in each challenge they faced, they discovered not only the monsters lurking in the shadows but the strength of the connection that grew between them. Together, (Y/N) and Geralt would write a story of valor, friendship, and the enduring spirit of those who dared to walk the path less traveled.

NOTE! This story was generated by OpenAI

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winters-mistress · 2 months

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Cuddle pile

It's cold. It's so fucking cold that Ciri thinks she may honestly ask the gods to take her to the next world, because nothing can be as cold as this. She's got two pairs of leggings on, two pairs of socks, one of Geralt's tunics, her pair of gloves that Eskel had found for her, and she's buried underneath several blankets. Yet, she's so cold. She's so fucking cold.

The door opens, she can hear the squeak of the hinges. Footsteps come towards her, she can tell by the gait that it's Geralt, he's trying to be quiet, but he knows she's awake.

"Ciri?" she peaks out of her cocoon of blankets, one eye blinking up at him. His lip twitches, and he reaches towards her. "Cone here, it's too cold for you to be here alone. Especially with the fire refusing to catch."

She realises that the fireplace and the torches are dead. How many times has somebody came in and tried to warm her, only for the wind to blow it out?

Her thoughts distract her enough that Geralts breath upon her cheeks startle her, but she doesn't jump when his arks finally pick her up, blanket cocoon and all.

She makes a questioning noise, but never says no to Geralt giving her a hug. She's carried like a baby out of her room, out of the wing, down two flights of stairs, down another corridor, a third set of stairs, before they end up at the kitchens.

She makes a confused noise. It can't be breakfast time yet, the keep is pitch black to her puny human eyes.

"Why're we here?" she asks, rubbing her tired eyes.

"It's too cold, even for us. Gotta rest." Geralt says. Ciri blinks at him.

All in all, the witchers are good when it comes to her sleeping. When her nights are plagued with the horrors of her past and future, and she wakes up screaming with wet cheeks, the witchers let her sleep in whenever her rest finally turns peaceful and dark. They allow her afternoon naps after training and chores are done, and send her to bed when she stumbles into the dining hall with dark circles under her eyes. Early nights and late starts aren't punished, and as long as training and chores are completed at some point in the day, the witchers don't particularly care when it happens. Hell, shes been wrapped up like a baby by Lambert of all people when they had determined she needed a sleep.

Which is why it shouldn't be surprising when he turns the last corner and finds five Witchers laying a couple feet away from the cracking fireplace underneath the stew pot. They've got blankets and pillows and furs, and look rather comfortable. Laying all over each other, looking rather like a puppy pile. Even Aiden joins in with the snuggling.

"Pups." Vesemir rumbles when he sees them both. Geralt puts her on the floor, kneeling down next to her.

"Come here, girl, get comfortable. Gonna be making camp here for a couple'a days." Coën clarifies when he sees her confused face. Ciri blinks, but nods. These things make sense, and she's seen all the men here hug, but admittedly, this is the first cuddle pile she's been privy to.

She turns upon her side, feeling Geralt curl behind her, trapping her in with his arms, wrapping her in another blanket. She hums, wrapping her hand over his, before Eskel pulls them both close, and she smiles, closing her eyes, feeling the warmth seep into her.

And tonight, she will sleep sweetly indeed.

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thelittlecappucino · 5 months

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Realm of Shadows: A Mortal's Odyssey - Prologue

Inspired by The Witcher by Andrzej Sapkowski

Warnings: slightly depressing setting, hintings on mental illness

Word Count: 955

The Narrator

Amidst the towering structures that stretched toward the heavens and the cacophony of city life that echoed through the urban canyons, there existed a profound solitude that clung to the very air of the metropolis. It was a solitude that transcended the physical proximity of millions of souls, a quiet ache that nestled itself in the hearts of those navigating the bustling streets. In the heart of the city, where the skyscrapers loomed like giants and the city lights painted a kaleidoscope of colors on the pavement, she found herself wandering through the crowds, an anonymous figure in the sea of faces. The city, with all its grandeur and ceaseless activity, had a way of swallowing individuality. Each person became a mere speck in the urban tapestry, a solitary note in the symphony of sirens and footsteps. As she walked down the crowded sidewalks, she noticed how people brushed past her, their eyes glazed over, absorbed in their own worlds. Faces obscured by headphones, fingers tapping on screens, the city dwellers moved in a synchronized dance of isolation. It was a paradoxical loneliness, a loneliness amidst a multitude. The bustling street, with its neon signs and bustling traffic, offered no solace to the void that echoed in her chest. She decided to take refuge in a park, an oasis of greenery amidst the concrete jungle. The trees, though dwarfed by the surrounding skyscrapers, stood as silent witnesses to the quiet desperation that hung in the air. She found a bench and sat down, watching the world rush by with a sense of detached longing. The city, for all its vibrancy, seemed like a vast ocean, and she an insignificant island lost in its vastness.

In the quiet corners of her mind, a relentless dance played out, an intricate choreography that defined her daily existence. Her world was governed by patterns and unseen rules. Beneath the surface lays a silent struggle, a battle fought with invisible foes. Social interactions, the labyrinth of human connection, posed a formidable challenge. Clara navigated conversations with a practiced ease, a smile that masked the storm within. Every handshake, every shared joke, was a tightrope walk between the desire for connection and the fear of losing control. The dinner invitations she declined, the parties she avoided—they were not choices made lightly but calculated maneuvers to shield herself from the unpredictable.

She observed couples strolling hand in hand, their laughter drowned out by the distant hum of traffic. Reminding her of a once-shared path which ended abruptly as one chose the pursuit of success over their shared dreams. The fragments of their relationship lingered in the recesses of her memory, a reminder of love lost in the pursuit of individual ambitions. Families picnicking on the grass, their joyous chatter blending into the ambient noise of the city. Yet, for her, the park was not a sanctuary of connection but a reminder of his own solitude. The laughter, the chatter, the shared moments—they all served to underline the stark contrast between the communal existence of the city and his own isolated state.

The skyscrapers, illuminated by the setting sun, cast long shadows that seemed to stretch toward her, reaching out like ghostly fingers. The city, in its relentless pursuit of progress, had inadvertently erected barriers around its inhabitants. The loneliness wasn't just about physical isolation; it was about the disconnect that thrived in a place where everyone was constantly connected. The longing for a place unknown whispered through the rustling leaves of an imaginary forest, beckoning with the soft murmur of a stream whose waters had yet to reflect the traveler's gaze. It was a yearning that resided in the spaces between the known and the undiscovered, a magnetic pull toward a destination that existed only in the recesses of the mind. The yearning took root in the gentle sway of the willow branches, their leaves whispering secrets carried by the wind.

She closed her eyes, allowing her imagination to weave a tapestry of images—an ancient city with narrow cobblestone streets, a hidden valley embraced by mist-covered mountains, or a seaside town where the scent of salt hung in the air like a sweet memory. She found solace in the melodies that echoed through her headphones, tunes that carried the essence of a place she couldn't name. The music became a soundtrack to her longing, each note a step closer to the elusive destination. The lyrics, though in languages she didn't fully comprehend, spoke a universal language of yearning, of quests unfulfilled and horizons yet to be reached. Her longing was not merely a desire for a physical location; it was a quest for connection, a yearning to discover facets of herself mirrored in the landscapes she had yet to explore. It was the allure of the unknown, a siren song that pulled at the strings of her heart, resonating with the echoes of distant shores and unfamiliar languages. The longing became a companion, a silent partner in the dance of dreams, guiding her toward the promise of a place she didn't know yet—a place that existed in the realm of possibility, in the poetry of yearning, and in the boundless expanse of the human spirit.

As the evening descended and the city lights flickered to life, she rose from the bench, a lone figure against the backdrop of the urban sprawl. She merged with the flow of people, each step carrying her deeper into the heart of the city's solitude. The buildings rose like silent sentinels, indifferent to the individual struggles that unfolded within their shadows. And she, like so many others, became a silhouette in the night, navigating the vast expanse of the city's loneliness.

#the witcher #witcher fanfiction #witcherfanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geralt of rivia #witcher netflix #jaskier #yennefer #the witcher netflix #ciri #cirilla fiona elen riannon #cirilla of cintra #the witcher games #witcher #Realm of Shadows: A Mortal's Odyssey

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delusionalgirlwritingfanfic · 2 years

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Witcher prompts

# 1

"I vote for pajama day."

With raised eyebrows the white haired Witcher grunted, "We aren't going monster hunting in pajamas."

"I don't see why not, it's much more comfortable and has room for fighting in." She gave her best serious face attempting to reason with him.

He sighed, "I'd have to disagree armor is more protection, also you're less likely to get stabbed in it.

“And after, your nightgowns are ruined in monster guts, what will you wear at night?"

"I could wear nothing," A sum smirk creeped at the corners of her lips.

They reached the bard ahead. "Why is she pouting?" He inquired as the pair joined for breakfast.

"I wouldn't let her wear pajamas to a monster fight." The Witcher grunted.

The bard snorted and patted the girl on the back as the trio made their way into the tavern.

Traveling upon a long forgotten road, appeared, suddenly an archway covered in by a thicket with overgrown vines stretching across, the women in front ducked under beckoning her companies. Jaskier sent Geralt a curious glance looking up to see a towering gate that had been hidden behind. Jaisker watched as she waved her arms, the gates opened and they entered the vast property.

Side by side on stone, sat muscular creatures almost dog-like with massive build statures. As Jaisker approached he jumped, skeptical, almost as if he felt the creature's warm breath. He hurried to catch up. The girl looked back with a knowing smirk.

They stopped at the steps of the fairytale-like castle, and the woman flourished her arm. “Without further ado my humble home.”

Jaisker stared in disbelief, head tilted.

“Ah,” The man closed his mouth quickly, glancing at Geralt for confirmation.

“But, this is a castle!” He waved his arms. “This whole thing is yours?!”

She nodded her head. “Just you?” His eyebrows furred.

Suddenly the ground rumbled violently, Jaisker looked up in panic, tripping just barely getting by as a large beast plowed past him.

The girl animatedly rubbed his tummy as the creature rolled over and tumbled, knocking her about. The creature passed the girl's height.

“Were you good boys? Aaaw, of course you were perfect, always doing a good job protecting your home. Who’s a good boy!”

Jaisker double takes for the second time, looking back at the blank stone petit stole. “That is definitely not a dog!”

The girl’s lips pursed, “Their Hellhounds, they’re pretty much just big dogs.”

She scratched them behind the ear. “You’re just a big sweetie, aren’t you? Yes, you are!”

“I’m sure dogs aren’t the same size as a horse and have glowing eyes!”

He turned to Geralt, “I see now, why she likes you.” The Witcher gave him his classic pointed look.

"where did they even come from? How do you get them to stay?"

"You forget that I can control monsters?"

#witcherfanfiction #Persephone and Hades vibes

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supermanknows · 9 months

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#Witcherfanfiction, you're letting me down... I haven't seen a real indepth finished #Radovid #Jaskier fic yet...

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pinkatron · 5 years

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https://archiveofourown.org/works/16200242/chapters/42843758

New Chapter is up! Please pay attention to the tags!!!!! It’s a rough chapter this time... but ohhhh so good at the end.

*****

“Kill him Geralt. That vampire that stands beside you.” The Mage ground out her eyes fearful and wide as Regis’ turned black. “He is no better, he will kill you… he will kill us all.”

Geralt stood up dropping the knife and ran his hand along Regis’ face. Regis leaned into the touch automatically growling low in his throat.

“He is mine, and I am his.” Geralt purred grabbing Regis’ lower back and pulling their hips flush. “Why would I kill that of whom I owe my life to.”

Geralt leaned forward and kissed Regis.

He would remember this moment as the catalyst that started everything."

#Witcher #the witcher #Fanfiction #Witcherfanfiction #witcher geralt #geralt z rivii #emiel regis #regis #Vampire #Baptism in blood #geralt x regis

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spike368 · 7 years

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Sent out to gather the knowledge of the real world. A young scholar from the University of Oxenfurt finds a wounded Witcher on the steps to the inn where he was staying. So he starts gathering the material for his journals.

Rated T for language

Rated: Fiction T -

English -

Fantasy/Drama -

OC -

Chapters: 38

#witcher #fanfic #witcherfanfiction #witcher fanfic #witcher fanfiction

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wevolksbevolksen · 8 years

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My RWBY x The Witcher FanFic

So I’ve been working on this fanfiction thing with my friend Justin. It’s titled; Blake’s Mentor. It follows Blake’s journey to Vale to attend Beacon after leaving the White Fang. With the help of a wise old “Huntsmen” a tall, imposing “Huntress” and a “Huntsmen” who does smuggling on the side. Here is the link to the fanfic:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11681350/1/Blake-s-Mentor

#rwby #rwbyfanfiction #blake belladonna #thewitcher #witcherfanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #rwbyau

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winters-mistress · 3 months

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It all starts so quick, that's perhaps why Geralt is so frustrated with himself that he didn't notice it earlier. He's a witcher, for fuck's sake, he can hear a butterfly's wing from miles away, so why didn't he notice this?

He, Jaskier, Yennefer and Ciri had left the safety of Kaer Morhen after the girl was recovered from her fever and fainting, post Voleth Meir attack. Perhaps he thought she was okay, that she was healed? He hadn't even considered the fragility of a human child when graced with the almighty power that his daughter possessed. In truth, his denial makes the hole in his chest only deeper as he looks at her. He should have noticed sooner, they'd been riding on not-Roach together for days, he should have noticed the warmth of her skin and the haze of her eyes long before she'd fainted into the same arms that used to keep her so tightly bared in when they would ride, eager to keep his daughter safe from that who would harm her.

How hadn't he realised that there were so many dangers that didn't include Mages, Kings, Nilfguaard and the Wild Hunt?

Because his daughter, who was so strong and brave, was laying limply at his side, covered by cloaks and blankets and whatever Yennefer could conjure, her skin deathly pale apart from the two large blotches of red upon her cheeks. She looks so small, a folded blanket underneath her head to make a pillow, buried underneath a mountain of rags in an effort to break the fever that was simultaneously impressive and deeply concerning.

He didn't know what to do. Nilfgaardian soldiers that wishes to take his child? Simple, kill them. Mages? Yennefer can handle them. Kings? Jaskier can charm them as well as any courtesan, but this? Geralt had never felt more helpless than he did now, watching her lay there, large drips of sweat trickling down the sides of her neck. He listens to the wheeze of her breath, comforted by the confirmation that she's still here, still okay. That she's still with him, after all they went through.

The air is cold, because of course it is. It's January, they're in the North, inches of snow burry the four of them in, circled in a camp that Yennefer had cleared when they'd realised that the girl was unwell. Geralt can see the breath in front of his face, leaning back against the tree that mirrors his spine, glancing at his girl once again, before passing a glance at Yennefer and Jask.

The bard is sleeping loudly, snores echoing in the small orb of protection that Yennefer casts every morning. Are they invisible? Do any passers by see themselves, or just an echo of the woods.

Geralt had Axii'd the bard into sleep. He was exhausted, but worried enough to fight it with his worry of the girl he had grown fond of in their brief time in the witcher keep. The white haired witcher is a warrior, born and bread, and has the capability of staying awake for days at a time. The bard, as human as he was, was not, and all it took was a quick cast until the bard snored happily.

Yennefer is a different equation all together. The first few days, post betrayal, Geralt hadn't let ciri out of his sight, too worried that she would be taken away again. It's been almost three weeks, and Geralt still cannot find peace in sleep with Yennefer so close to his child. And now, with Cirilla being as vulnerable as she is, the last thing on Geralt's mind is to take rest. He had never felt a purpose like this, to protect his child with everything within him. The only time he had let her slip to being second in his heart, Yennefer had taken her away and was only stopped causing the girl's death by the girl herself. He would never make that mistake again. Asleep, Yennefer may be. Yes, she may have had a hand in defeating the demon and freeing his girl. But never again will he let his guard down when the sorcerers is so close.

He has too many thoughts of the girl being dragged from his arms, the scent of lilac and gooseberries high in his nose.

No. Geralt decides, clenching his fist, the other hand laying protectively on Cirilla's stomach, feeling it rise and fall. He will never let her be take from him again.

The girl's breathing changes suddenly, shuddering and stuttering like it does when she's trapped within the depths of her own mind, of the horrors she'd endured since the slaughter of her homeland. Her head moves to the side, sounds falling from her throat even in unconsciousness.

Geralt's full attention snaps to her, he shifts foreward to be on his knees next to her, the backs of his fingers sliding down her cheeks, accompanying the tears that fall.

Too hot. Still far too hot.

Her heat can rival his own, and it feels like a fist in his gut.

"Cirilla." his voice is gruff from lack of use, deep and raspy, while her own is choked and throaty, speaking of thirst and congestion. "Cirilla, I am here. Do not be afraid, little one."

Slowly, the girls jerking limbs cease movement, and she settles in her makeshift bed of rags and moss and bark. So much less than what she deserves.

Her breathing changes again, and she looks towards him, eyes still closed.

"Cub?" He asks, licking his lips. "Pup?"

Her breathing is shaky, her heartbeat slightly quicker. And much to his relief, she opens her eyes.

"Ciri," Geralt breathes. Thank Melitele. She's here, she's safe, she's with him still. A hand slides to her cheek, the other laying on her ribs.

Ciri says nothing for a moment, looking around at the dark woodlands, before she looks at him again.

"Gr'alt" she whispers. He smiles, relief flooding through him.

He knows, he should get Yennefer, wake her so she can whisper spells to heal the child, wake Jask so he can sleep without worry or magical influence, but he cannot bring himself to remove himself from her just yet.

"Ciri," he smiles. "Sweet girl, we've been worried."

Ciri says nothing, only shifts to sit up. He helps, a hand supporting her back, the other supporting the weight of her front.

She slumps against him, exhausted from sickness. Her head falls to her neck, and he presses a kiss to her sweaty hair.

"Gr'alt" she whispers again, tilting her face to meet her own.

"I'm here, sweet girl. I'm here." Geralt says, pressing his waterskin to her lips so she may drink the cold water.

Ciri does so with eagerness, although her sips are small, no doubt due to a sore throat.

She slumps against him again when she's done, a hand finding his.

It's a strange impulse he has, to kiss her fingers, but he does it anyway, because it must bring her some sort of comfort, right? People like that sort of thing.

"It's alright, pup. We'll get you feeling better soon" he says, pressing his hand to her brow once again. Too hot and clammy, but he can fix that with willowbark and lavender.

Ciri opens her mouth to speak, but her eyes flutter shut before she can.

"It's okay, Ciri. Just sleep, you must rest." He says, laying her back down in her nest.

Before he can turn to get her another wet rag for her brow, the witcher feels her hand at his wrist. Small, with the start of callouses from the blade training.

He looks at her, earnest.

"Papa." she whispers. "'nk you" she mumbled, before falling into sleep once again, her grip on his wrist going slack.

Now, Geralt's chest feels like it's going to explode for a different reason.

#witcher #post season 2 #sickfic #cirilla fiona elen riannon #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #fanfiction #witcherfanfiction #geraltandciri #dadralt #ciri is his baby #geralt is the best dad #worried geralt #geralt and ciri #the witcher netflix #witcher fanfiction #fanfic #witcher fanfic

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winters-mistress · 27 days

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Of gentle wolves and healing princesses

It's a slow process, all things considered. It had been impressive enough that Ciri had even woken up from her injury at all, let alone begun to heal from it. Vesemir tells the twice grassed pup that even fully grown witchers have fallen from injuries like that one. But still, the girl awakens.

Because of the fall, her head had been banged up pretty tightly, Eskel and Vesemir taking turns changing the bandages and boil washing them in their best bet to ward off infection. But as the days go by, Geralt watches Cirilla remain awake for stretches longer and longer, even starting to respond to stimuli and respond to questions at the end of the first week of bed boundness.

Coën takes to slowly maneuvering her limbs as she's in bed. Bending her knees and extending her arms and rotating her torso. It's to keep her blood flowing, he tells the wolves, before admonishing them for their lack of knowledge on the clotting of human blood. Not enough movement could still the blood and kill her just as easily as the fall or infection could. Geralt is just greatful the Griffin has the instinct to take such good care of the white wolf's pup, for his instinct is to still protect the girl fiercely.

Lambert is the least helpful when it comes to Cirilla's recovery. He drank himself into a stupor the first night she had fallen, and had his face pummelled in by Geralt on the second. It had taken all four of the other witchers to separate them both, the two growling witchers thrashing as they fought with fists flying instead of the wooden swords of their youth.

By the start of week two, Ciri can swallow broth and thin soups, can move her body after vials of pure poppyseed milk to stop the pain, and Geralt is relieved when the bandages come off that reveal a clean wound, sewn up and sealing over with scabs and iodine. They keep a bandage on there just in case, but nowhere as dramatic as the others she had been wearing all that week.

After the wound is closed, Eskel and Coën and Geralt wash Cirilla's hair clean of the multitude of fluids that maar the girl's pretty blonde hair. Vesemir took the time to brew up a soup with small cooked root vegetables, while Lambert was scheduled to make more healing potions thag wouldn't melt the poor girls insides.

By week three, Cirilla can wash herself with a flannel and eat thick soups of barley and potato. She can sit up by herself now and hold a slow conversation. Her words are slow, slurred and take a while longer to understand their responses. Lambert drinks himself into a bucket again, and Vesemir tans his hide for it.

Geralt is impressed as the girl begins to get restless in her bedrest and sees the spark returning as she tries to get up and explore. He feels like Vesemir when he tells her that she needs to walk before she can run, but will stay by her side as she steadies herself and holds her hands as she climbs to her feet.

The witchers are honestly mighty impressed that it takes them only a day to start walking the length and around Ciri's room, and only another fir her yo walk from one wall to the next without Geralt's hands to support her, even if she falls into them when she's scaled this hurdle.

Day by day, they walk a little further in the keep and Geralt carries her less and lesson their way back. Her words get quicker in speed and understanding and the promises of a visit yo the horses or the hunting dogs or the livestock keep Cirilla motivated when she cannot put one foot in front if the other anymore.

But they get there, one step at a time, a harem of large, mutated witchers and a pretty princess who has just as much strength as them.

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winters-mistress · 2 months

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"Come here." Geralt whispers, reaching forward towards her body as it lays in the brigade of furs and blankets.

Ciri makes a soft, miserable noise from the back of her throat. Her tongue peaks out, although it's hardly moister than the chapped lips she runs it across. She inhales a heaving breath as she's moved foreward, closing her eyes.

Geralt reaches his hands and forwards underneath her, pulling her into his arms. She shivers, her body slick with sweat.

Once he has her secure, he moves Ciri up from the bed Eskel had prepared for her and up to his bare chest. She looks so small in his arms, dwarfed by the muscles of his chest and arms. It feels like a twisting punch to the gut to see his girl who's so brave and fired devolved into this whimpering lump.

Geralt lays back in the bed, hearing it creak underneath their combined weight, but he bares it no mind. It won't break, it's a good bed. Eskel thought it appropriate that the little Queen of Cintra should have even a little bit of luxury, as fleeting as it was.

He wraps her into the blankets once again, this time laying face first against his chest. Vesemir told him that the best way to warm a pup was to hold them like a babe, and he would do anything to ease his girls' suffering.

She looks like him, he realised, both all bright hair and pale skin. Although he is equally as covered by muscle and scars, she juxtaposes him with her skinny frame and long limbs, still showing signs of weeks of malnutrition from her time on the road alone.

Her breaths rattle against his chest. He winces, able to hear the thickness in her lungs and the way her chest rattles. It wasn't a horrible ailment, he knows, she's just caught a bug from the first snowstorm of winter up in this drafty castle. Eskel and Vesemir had both seen to her when she started burning just as hot as all six witchers holes up in their winter home, and Aiden had given her a tea of honey and dried lavender for her sore throat. All he had to do was keep her warm to break the fever, and she would be fine.

Her hand leans over to sprawl across the side of his chest she wasn't laying upon. It's the only bit of skin he can see, with her wrapped up in furs, even though he can feel the skin of her torso laying against him. It's almost peaceful, laying with his pup with such unabashed tenderness and calm. If only she wasn't sick.

He looks down, and her eyes, a dark jade in comparison to the bright emerald of her healthy self, meet his.

"Geralt." She croaks. "Love you." She breathes, before her body sags in sleep.

His heart aches still, but for a good reason now, and he feels a smile tug at his lips.

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winters-mistress · 1 month

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The soft, grumpy Teddy bear

"You're sullying my reputation." Geralt grumbles as he walks with thr girl back to Roach.

Said girl was perched high on his back, her elbows perched on his shoulders while his arms are wrapped around the backs of her knees, carrying the small blonde girl pick-a-back.

"For your information, I'm improving your reputation." Ciri giggles, running her small comb for the last time through Geralt's hair, beginning to twist it into yet another braid. She giggles are he grumbles yet again, but he doesn't shake her off as Lambert did when Ciri had beat Lambert at gwent and their wager of him having to carry her around all day had finally expired.

Before too long, another braid is wound into the large, intricate design she's been winding for the last hour when he had offered to carry her back to the horse. "The white wolf is getting a bit old, don't you think? Why don't we call you the pretty wolf instead? Lambert would think it appropriate." Ciri laughs as he threw her up from his back in punishment, only to catch her, ducking his head down so she didn't chin him in the temple.

They were on their way back from a hunting trip, their three victims gutted and blood-let, tied to Roach and Astoria, as well as a couple sacks of winter vegetables Geralt had smelled on the way. They needed to clean off in the river, both of their arms bloody and giving away their position to any predators not in winter sleep just yet.

He growls at her, and Ciri giggles.

"Oh, hush, you're not scary." She leaves his hair alone to wrap her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "You're like a big cuddly bear."

Geralt growls and grumbles, but Ciri hears the lack of anger or annoyance. He's amused, somewhat pleased, but the big bad wolf has to maintain his image.

She lays ger head at the back of his neck, pressing into the warmth she feels there as the braids slowly come undone and fall over his shoulders once again. He can feel her smile against his skin, and she can feel the rumble of amusement he gives out.

The witcher carries the girl until they find the horses, and Ciri slips from his back and lands lithely on the snow, it crunches loudly underneath her, and Geralt snaps towards her, eyes bright.

"You tell Lambert about my hair and you'll be getting extra pendulum blindfolded sets for two weeks."

Ciri grins at his smirk.

"Cross my heart."

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winters-mistress · 2 months

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Soft, gentle wolves.

Geralt wakes up when he feels the warm body that used to be laying across his chest and abdomen suddenly shoot up. He gunts at the horrible chamge from warm softness to cold breeze, and opens his eyes slowly, looking up at the girl who's sitting next to him.

She shakes visibly, somehow managing not to jostle Coën, who's laying across her lap, and Lamb, who's head is upon her shin.

Her breathing comes in hard and fast, and she shivers despite the warmth of the group of witchers around her. Her hands tighten around each other, and he smells the difference between sweat and tears.

"Shh, Ciri." Geralt murmurs, reaching up to pull her back down to him. She shivers still, grasping tightly around his waist. Eskel is behind him, and the man wraps his arm around them both, even in sleep. "Shh, now. You're safe. Here with us." He mutters, pulling her face into the follow of his chest and neck, where she had burrowed when the nightmares were horrid on the road.

Her body stops shaking, and the tears stop flowing. He purrs, low enough not to take his brothers and father around them and above them. All the inhabitants of the Keep have made camp here for three days, for it was too cold for even the witchers to navigate normally. And a big priority was keeping the fragile human girl warm and fed, and in this moment, comforted above all else. They must look a sight, a couple dozen mutated monster hunters piled on top of each other like the sleeping pups Vesemir always called them. Marek, Kaspian, Everard, Gwain, Nikolai and Kolbi are somewhere in the pile, he can hear them rumble happily in their sleep, even as Lamb reaches over Aiden to smack at them for being too loud.

The vibrations and low note soothe his girl quickly, and she settles back into his arms and chest, closing her eyes, gripping his hand and settling back to rest once more.

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winters-mistress · 27 days

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security in simplicity

"Where's the little one?" Eskel asked Geralt in passing, licking his lips to get the last of the flowery oil Jaskier had insisted on piling them all with to defend against the winter cold, as he watches the younger witcher sharpen the blades of the armory.

"On the lake with Lamb." Geralt murmurs, the deep of his voice being felt more than heard. "He bet her ten pieces of that salty cheese she likes that he could stay on the ice longer than she could on skates. Needles to say, he's lost out on cheese and dignity." He rumbles, a smirk on his face when they both hear another bark of pain as thr youngest of the three takes another tumble on his ass.

The two make their way to the window, and sure enough, Lambert spins on the ice on his back, hands outstretched but gaining no grip as the girl stands atop him, laughing in merriment as she literally skates circles around him.

"You little shit, wait til I-" but Lamberts voice falls through as he slips again. Ciri laughs once more, and the brothers chuckle.

"Beaten by a girl, eh, Lambs?" Coën comes into view, holding two large mugs in each hand.

"Fuck off, you-" he spits at the frost spray lining his mouth, and cringes as he finally bumbles to his feet, snatching the hot coffee from the Griffin as Ciri's spins stop and she settles next to him.

"Another wager?" She grins at him. Lambert swipes at her.

"Fuck off, brat."

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winters-mistress · 11 days

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a wolf's care in the wolves' lair

The witcher winces at the painful tugging sounds emanating from Ciri's direction. He looks towards her, and finds her running a metal comb through her hair with a fury he would have thought that she would only save for the Nilfguaardian army. She's standing across the room, her arms held high above her head and bent at the elbows as she tries and fails to move the brush down her hair.

"By the gods, you trying to make yourself incognito by going bald?" He asks, getting up from the uncomfortable wooden bench and walking over towards his child of surpris,e, who is indeed struggling mightily.

"Shut up." She hisses, still unable to relieve her hair from its metal occupant.

"Come here, girl." Geralt touches her ribs and turns her around. "Let me have a go."

"Do your worst." Ciri sighs as ahe lowers her arms. "Not even nannies Emerson and Nivella could get it free when it got bad like this. Had to soak my hair in coconut oil for days. Grandmother wasn't impressed that the Duke of Sovingen couldn't meet the heir, he wanted to marry me, did you know that?"

"Hmm?" He humms, but he's not happy at those words. His voice is lower than usual, which is really saying something.

"Yeah. But he was older than grandmother. And she really wasn't happy about that. Tanned his hide and threw his bare arse out when they were both drunk on ale."

Geralt rumbles a laugh as he gets to work, slowly removing the comb, before making a fist towards the end of her hair, leaving only the ends free.

The comb slides through smoothly, and the higher up the golden hair he goes, the tighter his fist gets, and the gentler he is with the comb. His strokes are slow, humming every time Ciri stops speaking of Calanthe or Mouseack or Eist.

Geralt continues to brush her hair, taking his time when a large boulder of knotted hair requires him to bite down on the comb and undo the knot with his fingers. He tries his best to be gentle, knowing full well the pain of the scalp whenever Vesemir would roughly comb it and rip half of it out to get it into a band for training whenever he dodnt have full mobility.

He continues to brush her hair, feeling oddly comforted by the soft sounds that get quieter and quieter with every knot that gives way, until nothing remains but a head of long, slightly fluffy golden hair.

"Gods, how did you do that?" Ciri spins around to face him. "It barely hurt!"

"Patience. Patience and cunning." He rumbles, a smirk on his face as he hands the comb back. "Now, want me to braid it before we train?"

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winters-mistress · 2 months

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The wolf pups

Of all the things Cirilla expected to find when Geralt had taken her to his mysterious Keep, the dogs were the things she hadn't expected. The horses were obvious, pigs and sheep and cows, all livestock equally as expected. Housemice and cats, less so until she saw how dusty and dirty the Keep had become. But dogs? That had been the unexpected one.

They're somewhere between wolves and shepherds. Too big and fluffy to be just shepherds, but too obedient and faithful to be pureblood wolves. But they're beautiful and such a pro to the cold, windy keep that Cirilla couldn't help but squeak in excitement as she looked upon them all for the first time.

They're beautiful creatures, white, black, red and grey. Some are pure colour, some a mix of two, three or all four colours. Beautiful and fluffy and large, a mix of brood studs and breeding bitches, old dogs and young pups all together in the largest room behind the kitchens, warm even in the coldest winter weeks.

Geralt had told her that they're for hunting. Vesemir says they make good company in the months he doesn't stray far from the keep. Eskel says they make good friends with the sheep, give them good exercise so they don't get too fat to breed. Lambert says they're annoying, slobbery mutts who get in the way. Coën finds them charming beasts, often grinning whenever one of the dogs come close. Aiden took a bit longer to get used to them, and rather stays with the cats who find unusual places to sleep, but even he has been caught rubbing their fur and squishing their faces.

Ciri loves them, spending a lot of time with the bigger beasts who are permitted to roam the large keep, and the smaller pups who are confined to the room. They're so soft and fluffy and make perfect makeshift blankets when she lay at the fireplace and two large bodies splay over her, keeping her warm and weighing her down, keeping her in reality when the nightmares disturb her slumber.

Geralt finds her one day, giggling with the pups as they wrestle and climb all over her, running her fingers over the soft fur and kissing their gentle snouts. He grins as she laughs, a little tounge licking at her face. She deserves something nice after so many hardships.

He puts the shovel down. The stables can wait.

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