Chapter Text
Geralt woke up in his boat. Well, "his" was a bit of an exaggeration, as he had "borrowed" it from no one in particular at Ard Skellig about a week before. He had needed it for a contract, and he was fully intent on returning it to its unknown owner once he was back. He was not yet back on High Skellig though.
Having hacked off the head of a water hag for a trophy and a proof of successfully completing the Witcher contract, he had thrown the said head into the boat, and decided to stay out at sea. He was not sure what exactly had come over him, if it was just the time spent on Skellige working its magic on him, but he had felt the irresistible allure and pull of the open sea. He had had to go out there, steer the boat jolting over the waves, icy water spraying in his face, and the sun, having broken through the clouds the next instant, warming him with its gentle rays, as if rewarding him for braving the waters like a true Skelliger - brave and fierce and honest. It had indeed felt empowering: catching the wind in his sails, avoiding the traps of shallow waters between small islets, diving for smugglers' caches, and fighting off sirens to get to hidden treasures.
His little adventure had turned into days and days of scavenger hunting at sea. He had sailed, fought, swam, fished, fought again. He had been wet more than dry, and his lips were chapped, and his knuckles raw as he had filled the boat with trophies, and treasures, and all kinds of loot.
He would say he had turned back because the boat was near overburdened. But if pressed - though there were few who would venture to press a Witcher into answering unnecessary questions - he would admit he had realized he was not a true Skelliger after all. It was not that the charm had worn off, but he had had enough. The weather had turned sour two days back while he was too far out at sea, and he had been drenched ever since, unable to start a fire to warm himself. He had had enough of sleeping on the rocking boat as the rough seas were tossing him about like a toy, rattling the swords, armour and trinkets he had collected. He had had enough of his long white hair being plastered to his face or his neck all the time. The fact that the lower part of his head was shaved did not help in the least, and he had been forced to tie it in some sort of a bun with a piece of cord, just to get rid of it before it drove him mad. Must have looked utterly ridiculous and undignified. He sighed. The relief of being on dry land again was palpable.
He jumped out of the boat, stretched his legs and cracked his neck and his back, turning from side to side. Suddenly remembering the undignified business of his hair, he dug his fingers into it, crouching slightly for some reason, as if that would make him invisible for the locals going about their business in the harbour. He quickly untied the cord, freeing his tangled up hair and, annoyed, tried to tie it back into a decent pony tail. The attempt resulted in relative success. He sat on the stones, suddenly tired, and sighed, pressing his elbows onto his knees.
"I don't want to know what Yen would have to say to all this." He wondered if she knew. He was in fact never sure how far the sorceress' power extended.
The Witcher got up to his feet, picked all the most valuable items, shoving them into a sack, and used some canvas to cover the rest of the loot in the boat. Not that he had much trust in the effectiveness of such measures, but it seemed the right thing to do. He knew he had to be on Spikeroog island, a supposedly quiet place, and few people he had seen in the harbour showed no hostility. On the contrary, as he started out, hauling a sack behind his back, towards the closest village, some fishermen greeted him heartily.
The men told him the village was that of Svorlag, and that it was complete with an inn and a shop, and even boasted its very own blacksmith and an armourer. The fishermen lamented the limited level of service he could get from the smith, but praised the local brew in the inn. They parted on friendly terms, Geralt promising them a pint of the said brew if they happened to meet in the tavern.
He would find the blacksmith first and try to sell the swords and whatever else he was willing to take off Geralt's hands. The smith turned out to be quite young, but with big strong hands that had clearly seen both craft and battle. He was hammering a simple sword on his anvil, letting the sweat drop from his brow. When he noticed Geralt, the man stopped and wiped his forehead with his forearm. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, so the only effect he achieved was that of smudging the sweat over his arm and the soot over his forehead. He smiled openly.
"Welcome! You look like someone who knows a thing or two about weapons." The smith gestured at the hilts of two swords showing behind Geralt's back. "I'm Hjalvar." The Witcher nodded and shook the young man's extended hand, wondering if the joke was intentional.
"Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher. Thought you might be interested in some things I'd like to sell." He lowered the sack to the ground with relative care and undid the ties. The smith ploughed through the contents with his huge hands, at times nodding approvingly, and at other times squinting at Geralt curiously, but never commenting aloud.
Hjalvar bought most of what Geralt had, overjoyed about a few runes and plates of various metals that he would be able to melt down and use for reforging. The man suggested his colleague, Bronan the armourer, might take interest in the almost complete set of Nilfgaardian armour he himself had not chosen to buy.
"Do you know if there's any work for a Witcher around here?" Geralt enquired, tightening his now fatter coin purse. Hjalvar scratched his head as if in doubt and finally answered with a shrug of his bulky shoulders.
"There might be," he sighed before continuing, avoiding the Witcher's gaze, and looking preoccupied with the dirt beneath his feet for a moment. "You'll have to ask Bronan. He's been blaberring about ghosts and necrophages and whatnot. I'm sure it's rubbish. Nothing a couple of strong lads can't solve. But you might want to check," he shrugged again, facing Geralt.
"Don't seem to like Bronan much, do you?" The Witcher felt he had hit the tender spot when Hjalvar widened his stance and crossed his arms on his chest. Despite his quite formidable bearing, the smith's face showed a vulnerability. Geralt's Witcher senses picked up the vibration of pulse on the young man's neck as his heart started racing.
"There's this lass," Hjalvar started. "I don't dislike Bronan. But we're both trying to win her favour."
"Ah, I see," Geralt nodded. "Good luck with the lady. You seem a fine lad. Don't see why she won't choose you." The blacksmith visibly appreciated Geralt's praise and well wishes. He stuck out his chest a bit more, and extended his hand for a parting handshake.
"Thank you, Geralt. See you around if you decide to stay a bit. Maybe have a drink, or play a round of cards in the inn tonight." The Witcher nodded, squeezing his hand.
"I think I'll be staying a while."
His next destination would be the inn - he wanted some freshly-cooked food at a bench by the hearth to warm his bones. He was dry now, but he still felt the chill in his bones born of the worst kind of cold - the wet one. A good fight would fix that, but just now he much preferred a warm meal in a warm tavern.
It was his lucky day - he would not have to eat fish, which had been his staple and also exclusive diet for the past week at least. The innkeeper had slaughtered a sheep that morning, and Geralt was enjoying a thick stew. He wanted to savour it, he truly did, but he found himself gobbling it up, working the spoon at an impressive speed, and burning his tongue in the process. He ordered another portion right after he finished the first bowl. A cheerful serving girl nodded and smiled with understanding.
Now that he had another steaming bowl of stew with meat cooked so well it fell off the bone, carrots and potatoes peeking out of the broth, Geralt could relax. And so he did. He sat, resting his elbows on the table, breaking off small pieces of freshly baked hot bread, allowing steam to escape from the middle of the loaf. He pressed the soft bread between his fingers, shaping it into a cube or a ball, and then sent it flying into his mouth. He smiled softly, remembering how he used to make bread figures with Ciri when she was little, against all Vesemir's warnings not to play with food.
The fire in the hearth made of stone slabs was warming, he was full, and the quiet atmosphere of the tavern with few patrons speaking softly between themselves began to lull him to sleep. He shook his head, catching it before it landed in the bowl, and stood up. The innkeeper waved at him with a big smile as he was leaving - he paid well and made no trouble - a good customer by all accounts.
Outside, he stood with his legs wide and his fists tucked into his hips, and took a deep breath. This village on the craggy coastline was a beautiful place - cradled between the plentiful waters of the bay and the rocky mountains capped with snow, with pine trees dotting the place with emerald green. The Witcher looked around, taking in the view, and set out down the dirt-and-stone steps towards the harbour. He had been told that was where he would find the notice board - the hub of the village, where both locals and travellers gathered to share all their news. The notices people left comprised all aspects of life - there were announcements of the villagers' woes and celebrations, losses and achievements alike. He had been told there was a Witcher contract notice from Bronan.
The wooden boards skillfully decorated with carvings of what looked to Geralt like Gods of the Sea the locals venerated besides Freya, were filled with notes. Skimming through the parchments flattering in the wind coming from the sea, he found out, among other things, that the Druids asked the locals to refrain from fishing for tuna until the spawning season ended; and that a certain Fjola had had enough of menfolk whistling after her, and promised to punch the next one to do so in the gob. Bronan had turned out to be a wordy fellow. His notice was a long list of his suspicions about monster activities, his suggestions on how to act on the above-mentioned, and finally, the times and places of his usual whereabouts, should "a professional Witcher" find himself among the readers. For he wished to discuss the details personally. Geralt wondered what else the man had to say after such a seemingly complete report.
Having pocketed the notice, Geralt decided to stay right there, considering his potential contract giver was bound to appear in the harbour in the next couple of hours, if his given schedule was to be believed. The weather was nice enough, and he really could use some rest. He wondered if it was a sign of getting old - this needing rest thing. He exchanged a few words with a clan Brokvar guard, and having received his permission, moved two crates aside under the pine tree, and positioned them apart. He sat on one, leaning his back against the fragrant tree trunk, and settled his feet on the other. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed contentedly. The guard nodded at him, and continued to lean on his huge double headed battle axe. Geralt returned the gesture and closed his eyes, nodding off the same instant.
He woke up when the sun was warming his right cheek, telling him he had slept for at least two hours. He was still in the same position, and even though his legs felt a bit stiff, he did not move. He did not even open his eyes yet, for what had woken him up was not the sun. It was a noise - a low grunting and a soft scraping - that was coming from the direction of the notice board. It sounded like a child, but Geralt could not fathom what it was doing. Allowing his eyes to open out of curiosity, he saw a small boy, not older than 5, climbing one of the poles that held the notice board. He grunted with effort, reaching for a parchment, the one on top, grabbed it, darted a look around,and quickly hid it inside his shirt. The boy got down quicker, spurred by the excitement of his successful mission.
As soon as his bare feet were on the ground though, he had to double check, and dove his hand into the opening of his shirt to take out the parchment. That was when Geralt coughed gently right behind him.
"Hey, kid." The boy with mussed dark hair startled, shoved the notice back, and looked at the Witcher from below, his eyes shifty and his cheeks ruddy. "Why did you take it down? Were you told to?" The boy gave no answer, only kept biting his lower lip and looking at Geralt from below his furrowed little eyebrows. The Witcher sighed and crouched next to the child, extending an arm towards his shoulder. "Look, don't be afraid. I just thought it strange a kid would take down a notice, so I..."
He did not have a chance to finish, as the boy saw his opportunity in the Witcher's less stable position, swirled around from under his arm, and started running.
"You litlle..." Geralt muttered, as he got up to his feet. The kid was fast, but now the Witcher had to know what was going on, and he leapt after him. Of course, the kid ran up the hill, but that was not so much ill fate as just a matter of fact - the whole village lay on the hills, each next street up above. Shouting to stop obviously did not work, so Geralt just tried to keep up. Behind the last bend, he lost the boy for a moment, but his Witcher senses prodded him in the right direction. He saw the boy disappear behind a door of a house standing almost on a cliff edge. He caught his breath, and knocked on the door. No answer came, but the Witcher's hearing proved there was one person inside, breathing - panting.
"I'm coming in. I'll do you no harm. I just want to know what's going on." He creaked the door open a fraction, and when nothing happened, he pushed it ajar.
"This is my house," a small but fierce voice said from behind the barrels stacked in one corner, "you can't do anything to me here." Geralt stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed.
"I'm not going to. Come out, I just want to talk," he tried to make his voice sound friendlier. It took the boy a whole minute to come out. He had probably been hoping the strange man would go away, but that was not going to happen. Not before he found out what it was all about.
"Hi," he said, "I'm Geralt. What's your name?" The boy stared at him stubbornly for a while longer, then went to the table, sat on a bench on one side and gestured to one on the opposite side.
"Take a seat and be welcome in the home of Otryg an Brokvar. My name is Holgar." Geralt took the invitation.
"You are a good host, Holgar. Your parents taught you well. Where are they?" The boy's lips thinned, though at the praise or at the question, Geralt did not know.
"Our mother died, and da went to find Eist and bring him home."
"Hm. Are you alone here then?"
"No, he is not, stranger." The words were spoken as a threat. Even through the threat was coming from a young girl, about 13, who had Geralt' head at the point of her arrow. She was standing in the door he had left open. Geralt slowly lifted his arms, turning to face her fully.
"I apologize for the intrusion. I mean no harm. I'm here to talk. I'm Geralt. Holgar and I've just met." The girl darted the eyes the same colour as her brother's from the man to the boy, and when Holgar nodded, she lowered her bow, but did not put it away. She shut the door, came to sit at the head of the table, and placed the bow on the bench next to her. She looked confident, which meant she could probably have it up and drawn with an arrow nocked in a second.
"What are you doing here?" The girl asked without an introduction. She was a more cautious one, an older sister likely currently being the head of the family. The responsibility a child of her age should not have clearly showed on her face. Geralt held his empty hands on the table, in plain view.
"I followed Holgar from the notice board. He took down a parchment, and didn't want to answer why, so I thought he stole it. I wanted to find out." The girl pursed her lips and gave her little brother a warning look. She seemed aware what it was about, as she was not in the least surprised, rather slightly annoyed Holgar had been caught. The boy looked at his sister, then at Geralt, then stuck his slightly shivering chin out, and pulled the parchment from his shirt. He set it on the table and drilled his dark eyes into Geralt's yellow slits.
"We need it. I took it, but I'll put it back. We always do," he sad half daring, half indignant. Geralt raised his eyebrows. He did not understand. This did not seem like a prank, but he could not get to the meaning of this borrowing the notices.
"What do you need it for?" The boy unwrapped the parchment almost with veneration and pressed it open, holding the opposite sides with his hands. He stared at the scribbles, and his mouth started moving soundlessly. As if catching himself, he suddenly stopped and looked at Geralt again.
"Birna's teaching me to read." His sister shushed at him, apparently cross the boy had disclosed her name to the stranger. "We have no books and no money to buy them, but I want to know how to read. I already can, too. I take notices, the longest ones, but it ain't stealing. We read them, and I learn my letters, and I take them back. Well, Birna does. She's taller and she can put them back up when no one's looking."
Geralt felt a pang in his chest. The stories about Witcher mutations leaving them bereft of all feelings were not quite true, not in his case anyway. He thought of Ciri again, as a child. He wanted, no, he needed to help these kids. He looked at the sister, giving her a tentative little smile as an offering of friendship.
"That's a nice thing you're doing for your brother, Birna." The girl just stood, half-nodded, and disappeared behind the barrels. She came back a moment later with some apples and nuts she put in a bowl in the middle of the table. Holgar grabbed an apple and immediately sank his teeth into it, crinkling his nose at its apparent sourness. Birna pushed the bowl towards Geralt, and their eyes met. She held his gaze without fear or fierceness now. She was not exactly friendly, but at least no longer hostile.
"You're a guest. Help yourself." She crossed her arms, as if daring him to refuse. The Witcher thanked her and took the greenest apple. The juice sprayed him in the eye as soon as he bit it, and damn was it sour. He chewed nonetheless, to the accompaniment of the children's ringing laughter at him trying to comically blink the juice out of his eye.
"I like sour apples," he straight out lied, bracing himself not to shiver because of the taste. "Look," he tried to change the topic, "when is your father coming back? He's a fisherman, right? I have a deal to offer him." Geralt had noticed the nets hanging outside the house, and the rods and hooks on the wall inside. Birna bristled anew.
"What kind of deal would that be?" Before giving him a chance to answer, she went on. "Or are you gong to say it's a grown-ups' business? Da's not coming back just yet anyway, so you can't speak to him. If you have a deal, speak to me." There she was - vulnerable, daring, gutsy young girl, who possessed the acceptance of responsibilities that should not be laid on her yet. She was worth admiring.
"Fine," agreed Geralt. "I need a job done, which might take more time than I can stay here. I thought of asking your father, but you two might be able to help me. See, I have a boat here with some...things. Loot." He realized he had to speak openly with these kids. They knew the raiding too well not to realize what those things were. "It's nothing stolen, I promise, no one will come for it. If I left it with you, would you try to sell some for me? You'd keep some money as a reward, of course. And I could get you some books, too." Holgar was near to bouncing in his seat with anticipation, while Birna eyed Geralt cautiously.
"We need to see it first, and we need to agree on the sum beforehand. Do you have any books in your boat?"
"There should be one or two, if they survived. It was all pretty wet after the storm hit. But I'll gladly help you get others, as thanks for your help." The girl still did not look convinced it was a fair exchange. She must have had an inkling he was trying to help them without hurting their dignity, and she seemed to be in conflict with herself about whether to accept it or not. She finally nodded.
"Yes!" Holgar beamed at them both, dangling his feet happily under the table. "Shall we go now? Or shall we read this one first?" He pressed the parchment with his palm carefully and hopefully.
"We need to go now, but reading will have to wait today, Holgar. I have to milk the goats and cook some dinner. You understand, don't you?" She brushed the boy's hair above his ear, lingering on his cheek for a second in a motherly gesture. He nodded, saddened, but understanding.
"I can help Holgar with reading, if you like," Geralt suggested, having cleared his throat, and looking at each child in turn. "I don't have anything else I need to be doing right now, and this notice seems quite interesting." Birna pinned him with a long intent look, and when he did not falter, she finally stated.
"On two conditions. You will show us your swords first, and stay for dinner." Geralt grinned at them.
"Gladly."