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viking-raider · 10 months

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Soothing A Wolf

Summary: Geralt recalls the memories of a troubled time in his life, while visiting a place that always brought him peace.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warning: PG - Fluff, Language, Loss, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Memories, Soft!Geralt, Character Death, Projecting, Farm Life, Light Domestic Bliss, Anxiety

Inspiration: This scene from Season Three of the Witcher! 😭

Author’s Note: I know I've already written this subject, with A Witcher's Soul, but I've become unhappy with it and decided to give it another try. I'm by far happier with this one. Hope you enjoy!

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I do remember bits of my life with her.

You had curled up for a late morning nap, after completing all of your morning chores. The sun filtering through the large window above your headboard. It was warm and pleasant, as you drew to the surface of the waking world. You tried fighting it, wishing for a few more moments of rest, before you had to rise and begin the task of the afternoon chores around your quiet, little farm. However, you were drawn out of your slumber, at the sound of someone's approach into your dooryard.

Sighing, you sat up, taking a moment to fix your hair and smooth your skirts, before standing and going out to find who had decided to visit you. You froze on the porch, watching a huge, black Friesian horse come charging up the well-worn path to your cottage. A muscular, broad shouldered man clad in all black clothing in its saddle, his silvery-white hair tied back in a Rivian style flowing in the breeze created by his haste.

“Geralt!” You called out, as the Witcher dismounted from the horse, Roach. “What are you doing here?” You asked, as he stamped through the drying mud towards you, his pale face pinched and set in an expression more agitated than usual, with a tint of something more you couldn't quite put your finger on yet.

The two of you had met nearly fifteen years prior, when you had heard of the White Wolf being in the area and enlisted his help to rid your property of a Graveir that had been threatening it. Not wishing for the alternative, which was moving off the property. You had little to pay him with, offering him the small amount of gold you had. Instead, Geralt had simply asked for a hot meal and permission to camp on your land for the night and use the water from your well, to bathe with after the bloody business of killing the monster.

Naturally, you agreed.

However, after he had killed the creature and washed up to join you for supper, a tension grew between you that popped before the meal ended. Leading to the pair of you being intimate. Ever since, when Geralt was in the area or was taking time off the Trail, he would come to spend time with you. But, you were surprised to see him now, knowing that he should be with Ciri, keeping her safe from Nilfgaard and the Wild Hunt that dogged their heels at every turn.

Instead, he mounted the porch steps towards you, catching you up into his arms.

She smelled like embers.

Geralt buried his face into your neck, taking a deep breath of your skin as he did, drawing in your scent. Your skin had a natural earthiness to it, accompanied by the fresh and calming, citrus-y snap of lemon balm and sweetness of licorice root. He wished many times on many occasions that he could bottle it and take it with him. Always finding comfort, calm and desire in your scent.

Like he had in almost no one else.

“What are you doing here, Geralt? I thought you were with Ciri.” You asked, breaking the silence as you embraced him, pressing yourself against his solid body, feeling the dampness of his clothing, from the sparse rains that had been occurring off and on all week.

“She's safe enough for now.” He mumbled into your neck, his strong arms wrapped tightly around you. “But, I needed to see you.” He said, pulling away from you, his hands grasping your shoulders.

“Well, here I am, my wolf.” You cooed at him, resting your hands on his sides and staring up into his face. “I didn't know seeing me was such an urgent thing.” You teased, pushing up on your toes to kiss him, knowing there was something deeper bothering him, but knew better than to press the Witcher for information.

Especially in the matter of his thoughts and emotions. He would tell you in his own time.

“Are you staying or are you riding back off again?” You inquired, looking towards Roach, who was grazing in the damp grass of your dooryard.

“I want to stay the night.” He told you, squeezing your shoulders. “If that's all right with you?” He added, softly.

“Nonsense!” You chuckled, slapping him on the chest. “You know you don't have to ask, Geralt.” You assured him, clicking your tongue. “Are you hungry? I was just about to make lunch for myself. I can add a plate for you.” You said, moving away from him, to go back inside.

She used her magic to create elaborate meals that we couldn't afford.

“I could eat.” Geralt replied, following you inside the cozy home, that always brought him peace. “Especially if it comes with a slice of one of your home-made sweets.” He added, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched you move towards the kitchen.

You looked at him over your shoulder, an impish sparkle in your eye. “I don't have any made.” You told him, coyly. “But, if you behave yourself, perhaps there'll be something after dinner.” You teased with a wink, before rounding the corner into the kitchen.

Going into the pantry, you grabbed a large, earthenware jug, carrying it out and set it on your counter, removing the cork. Taking a whiff of the contents that were inside, your nose was greeted by the sweet aroma of honey and blood-orange mead. You had brewed it yourself. You took down a cup and filled it, taking a wee nip for yourself, before taking it out to Geralt, who had made himself at home. He'd taken his shoes off, but stood before the fire, tossing a log into it.

“You don't need to do that, Geralt.” You frowned, holding the cup out to him. “I could have done it.”

“I know.” He answered, watching the strong flames catch the edges of the wood, before he took the cup from you, taking a deep gulp. “You really should sell your own spirits.” He commented, licking his lips and looking into golden liquid.

“Ha.” You chuckled, shaking your head at him. “I have enough to do around the farm, Witcher.” You quipped, going back into the kitchen.

Geralt chuckled at you, taking a seat before the fire, flexing his sore toes in the glowing warmth with a soft and tired sigh, while sipping his mead. He listened to you bump about in the kitchen. The opening and closing of the pantry, the thud of cabinet doors shutting, after you searched through their contents. He finished off his mead and set it on the table beside him, before standing and going to the threshold of the kitchen, knowing better than to go into your kitchen, while you were active in it.

You'd chased the Witcher out more than once, with either the rolling pin or a dish towel.

I would have done anything to make her smile.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” He asked, cocking his head around the corner to look at you, seeing you wielding a large knife to cut into a small wheel of cheese. “Do you need anything?”

“I need you to sit your butt down.” You answered, turning to look back at him. “You rode, god knows how far, to here. So, you need to relax.” You told him, adamantly.

And yet, the day she left me, she was sick. She needed water, so I went to get her some.

“But, I want to help.” Geralt insisted, crossing his arms over his chest.

You sighed softly, giving him a gentle smile. “All right, Geralt.” You conceded, nodding. “My other big brute needs to be fed. So, why don't you go out and do that for me, while I finish getting our lunch done.”

“I can do that.” He nodded, daring to step into the kitchen to kiss you on the cheek, chuckling as you popped him on the bum on his way out.

“That, man.” You giggled, smiling to yourself as you turned back to your task.

Geralt tugged his boots back on and went out, heading towards the small fenced off area to the right of your property, where the few farm animals you had lived. He found the bucket beside one of the fence posts and snagged it up by the rope handle, heading towards the grain storage that was around the other side, filling the bucket.

“Hey, Martigan.” He called out to the brown and white dairy cow, standing in the center of the pen, nibbling on a bale of hay with an expression of no care on his face, but twitched his ears to the sound of Geralt's voice. “And you.” Geralt huffed at the animal you had dubbed your other brute, a solid white goat with horns that nearly curved in on themselves, they were so long. “I see you, Goat-Bert.”

The Witcher called to the Goat, who stood clear on the other side of the pen, as he opened the latch to the gate. But that meant nothing, and Geralt knew it. He had dealt with this Goat-Devil before on your behalf. He had even considered taking one of his potions to increase his odds in dodging that swift, easy to anger, creature. Not even Little Bleater was a match for this fiend. So, keeping one golden eye on the Goat, Geralt moved towards the feeding trough and dumped the bucket of grain into it. It wasn't a split second later that Martigan let out a loud, agitated moo and Goat-Bert bleated with his evil intent, setting his head downward as he charged across the muddy pen towards Geralt's shins.

“Fuck!” Geralt barked under his breath, tossing the bucket over the fence and himself with it. “You damned Goat!” He cursed at him, fuming at Goat-Bert rammed his head into the trough, at full steam. But it was your howls of laughter from the porch that drew Geralt out of his choice words for the farm animal. “You find that funny?” He asked, picking up the bucket and moving towards you, as you grinned and giggled.

“I find it hilarious!” You wheezed, wiping tears from your face. “Watching a Witcher jump a fence to get away from a little goat!”

“Now, you know damn well, what mischief that demon can cause.” Geralt told you, but smirked at your amusement. “I don't need Lambert or Eskel busting my ribs, because I got a broken leg because of a wee goat.”

“Well, no harm done.” You said, catching your breath. “And lunch is ready and waiting for us on the table.” You told him, turning to go back inside.

Following you, Geralt was greeted by a laid out table, containing a round and fluffy loaf of bread with a blossom score on the top of its beautiful, caramel-brown crust. Beside the loaf, was a glass decanter of the mead you'd served him earlier, half a roasted and glazed ham hock, that glistened in the light of the fireplace, and a plate of the cheese slices you'd cut. There were other tidbits, to make lunch more pleasant and filling, as well.

“It looks delicious.” He commented, pulling a chair out and sat down.

You looked at him with soft surprise, cocking a brow as you sat beside him. “Ciri and Jaskier must really be leaning hard on your lessons.” You chuckled, picking up a knife and cut a slice out of the bread, laying it on Geralt's plate, before cutting another and putting it on your own. “Would you like a second piece?” You asked him, knife hovering above the loaf.

“Yes.” Geralt nodded, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth, before reaching for the decanter, pouring you both a tankard. “I appreciate this.” He said, watching you cut thick slices of juicy ham from the hock and set them on the edge of his plate, allowing him to build his own sandwich.

“Of course.” You answered, brow creasing as you placed the ham and cheese on your bread, closing it with the second piece, using your knife to cut it in half. “I can't let you starve, now can I? Silly Witcher.” You chuckled, taking a bite.

Geralt hummed, putting together his own meal and allowing the table to fall into a comfortable silence as the two of you ate. Nothing, but the pop and crackle of the fire with the occasional moo or baa of the farm animals outside filled the space. Neither of you moved, once you had your fill, but you watched Geralt, smirking as you saw his lids struggle to stay open and his chin from falling against his chest. You stood, causing Geralt to start and look up at you with wide molten-gold orbs, but you just offered him a sweet smile, as you started to clear away the table, putting things in the pantry, sink or scrap barrel.

Once you were finished, you moved to your bedroom, fluffing your pillows, fixing and folding back the blankets, then pulled shut the curtains, plunging the room into darkness. Satisfied, you returned to Geralt, smirking as you found he had lost the battle with his sleepiness. His breathing was slow, coming out in gentle huffs, arms crossed and chin resting on his chest. He looked so peaceful and relaxed, the muscles under the loose black material of his tunic were slack, making the various scars pull taut. Biting your lip, you moved around him and knelt, taking one of his booted feet in your hands, eyes still trained on his face. In case you startled him, knowing it could cause him to burst into defending himself, when startled awake.

But Geralt didn't stir, as you carefully pulled his muddy boots off, setting them in front of the fireplace. You stood, moving around him to open the knot of the string that held his silvery-white hair tied back out of his face.

“Geralt.” You whispered into his ear, resting your hands lightly on his shoulders. “Geralt.” You said, a little bit louder.

“Hm?” He hummed back, taking a deep breath and shaking his head, causing his loose hair to fall forward.

“Why don't you come lay down?” You suggested, patting his shoulders and kissing the back of his head. “You'll be so much more comfortable in bed.” You persuaded him, gently.

Geralt sighed, licking his lips and stretching his legs for a moment, before standing up and allowing you to guide him to your bed. He pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it into a chair in the corner and dropped into the bed, looking up at you, as you stood before him.

“Lay with me.” He cooed, resting his hands on your hips.

“I have chores to do, Wolf.” You smirked at him, cupping his neck and caressing his stubbly jawline with your thumbs.

“They can wait until tomorrow.” Geralt said, pulling you between his legs. “I'll do them for you.” He smiled, making you sit in his lap as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Before, I go.” He promised, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.

“Very well.” You conceded, breaking the kiss and rubbing noses with him.

“Good.” He rasped, laying down and pulling you against his chest.

And when I came back... she was gone.

Geralt woke up sometime later, feeling refreshed. He hadn't slept well or very long in the weeks since he and Ciri left Kaer Morhen, with the Wild Hunt and Nilfgaard after them, worried that every moment his eyes were shut, was a moment they'd come and take Cirilla from him. He reached out for you, wanting to feel you against him, but you weren't in bed any longer.

I called for her.

He got out of bed, calling your name, as he searched the house for you. The fireplace was still roaring, telling him you hadn't been gone long. But where could you be, that you wouldn't hear him calling. He yanked the front door open and stormed into the yard, uncaring that he had no boots on, yelling your name even louder, as he turned in circles. His only answer was the breeze through the trees, Goat-Bert, Martigan and Roach.

Not a peep or appearance from you.

But she was gone.

Geralt felt his chest grow tight and his slow heart skip a beat, then another. The dooryard started to spin and blur, a rock-like lump formed in his throat. He flexed his hands and shook his head, trying to get a handle on himself. He wasn't supposed to act like this. He wasn't supposed to show his emotions, let alone allow them to take control over him.

“Geralt!” You frowned, coming out of the treeline, a basket resting on your hip as you found him standing barefoot in the muddy dooryard. “What's going on?” You asked, setting the basket down and hurrying over to him, as you watched tears drip from his sharp jaw. “What's happened? Are you hurt?” You asked, looking him over, searching for a wound you felt you had failed to notice before.

“Where is it? Show me!”

“I'm not--” He rasped, swallowing at the lump and shaking his head. “You were gone.” He said, pressing his lips together and pushing his jaw forward, trying to bring up his walls against the raw feelings he was being crushed under. “I woke up and you were gone. I called for you.” He said, failing miserably. “But you didn't answer. I thought--” He choked, looking away from you.

You blinked up at him, confused and afraid, never seeing this side of Geralt before. “You thought what?”

He chewed on his lip, his face hardening as he slowly started to gain control of himself again. “I thought you left me.” He admitted, deciding not to shut you out.

“Left you?” You echoed softly, blinking up at him with surprise. “No, Geralt. I'd never leave you. I didn't leave you.” You told him, taking his hand in both of yours. “I just woke up from our nap before you did, and you seemed so tired that I didn't have the heart to wake you. So, I went out to pick some blueberries.” You explained to him, half turning back to where you'd set your basket, full of plump, indigo orbs. “I plan on using them to bake you a pie.” You said quietly, looking back up at him.

Neither of you said anything for a long while, before Geralt looked down at you, a sad look in his eyes.

“I'm sorry.” He whispered, bending his head to rest his forehead against yours.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” You assured him, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

Nodding, Geralt pressed his lips to your forehead and sighed, looking down at his muddy feet. “I'll rinse my feet off.” He said, moving away from you and towards the well.

Watching him go and drop the bucket into the well, you knew the Witcher didn't have the easiest of lives, that he had a lot of trauma in it. But, he would tell you what was bothering him, when he was ready. It seemed too raw, at the moment. So, you went back for your blueberries and carried them inside to the sink, so you could rinse them off, prepping them for the pie.

Deciding to be there for Geralt, when he was ready.

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irrlicht-writes · 11 months

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dandelions

“If ever I’d be reborn, I’d like to be a flower,” the bard says, while gently sitting in a field, picking flowers for no reason really. Geralt sits not too far from him, keeping an eye on Roach so that she might not eat too many flowers and sour her stomach.

“Hm,” the Witcher replies, not knowing what to say.

“Think about it,” the bard continues undeterred, “as a flower, I could waive in the wind, dance under the sun and sing of worlds yet to come.”

“You sing plenty now,” the Witcher reminds him, “why not sing of those worlds now?”

The bard laughs, and it’s a clear, bright sound, and it engulfs the entire valley.

“If I sang of those worlds now, darling Witcher,” he plucks another flower, deep violet, and adds it to his ever-growing bouquet, “they would all tell me to shut up and sing the coin song again.”

“We both hate the coin song.”

“Indeed we do! It’s the price of fame, although I’d wish they would have forgotten it by now. I haven’t even sung it in ages! I’ve written catchier refrains.”

The Witcher snorts. “You have? I must have missed them.”

The bard throws some flowers in the Witcher’s general direction but as flowers do, they all fall to the ground before ever hitting their target. “I am wounded,” the Witcher says tonelessly, for nothing but mocking purposes. The bard huffs and turns his attention back to his flowers.

“If ever I’d be reborn,” the bard says again, “I’d like to be a flower.”

“Hm,” the Witcher replies again, not knowing what to say.

“Think about it,” the bard continues undeterred yet again, “as a flower, they would not hear me sing at all. But if they could hear me on the wind, they would love me all the more.”

“They love you plenty now, hearing you sing already.”

The bard laughs again, like the Witcher does not understand.

“No, my love, they do not. Oh they love me, yes, my prancing and my singing, and my flirting, and my twirling, but me, they love not. If I were not to sing, not to prance, not to flirt, not to twirl, not to joy their hearts for coin – they would take no interest in me. Another washed up wanderer on the road, they’d say! Throw him some mouldy bread and hope he brings no plague with him!”

“I’ve not met a many washed up wanderers brave enough to follow me into the fray.”

The bard smiles then, a whispered little thing the Witcher almost did not see. Roach wanders around, sniffing the different flowers and yet, she had eaten not a single one of them.

A pleasant silence befalls them in the valley, as the bard continues to pick more flowers – who he is picking them for, the Witcher does not know. The bard does things sometimes that make no sense, because he wants to. The Witcher has learned to accept this, and this is a pleasant thing to do, a pleasant place to rest.

“If ever I’d be reborn,” the bard starts again, “I’d like to be a flower.”

“Hm,” the Witcher replies once more, because it is tradition now, not knowing what to say.

“Think about it,” the bard continues – as per tradition – undeterred, “as a flower, mayhap a dandelion, I could be carried by the wind, being carried to where I need to go.”

“You travel plenty now,” the Witcher says, “no need to be carried by the wind.”

“That might be true, dear heart, and yet! How limited are we, bound to the ground beneath our feet, the saddle of a horse? The wind! The wind knows no limit, crescending into a storm. And! Darling Witcher, how would we know where we’re needed? We can only travel so far, see so many places. What if we’d be needed in the other direction? How would we know?!”

“All we can do is move forwards, bard. We do our best where we can.”

The bard plucks his last flower and turns to the Witcher. In his arms, he holds all the flowers he picked – colourful and pretty, a plenty a piece. In his hand, he holds a dandelion, with its seed ready to be carried away.

“That we do, my love. That we do.”

He looks at the dandelion in his hand, and the wind plays gently with his hair.

Quietly, he blows and the dandelion seeds get picked up by the wind.

The Witcher and the Bard look after them until they are out of sight.

Then, they move on to the next town, and the bard plays music in the tavern. He prances, and sings, and flirts, and twirls, and they love him.

Many, many years later, Geralt comes across a field of flowers.

In it sits a boy, picking flowers.

He notices Geralt from a distance, and looks up, waves, and grins brightly like the sun. He wears a flower crown made of buttercups and dandelions.

“If ever I’d be reborn,” the bard whispers quietly, “I’d like to be a flower.”

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