Curse Meant to Be Broken | Geralt x Reader | Pt. 5
Summary: After facing your worst fear in battle and freeing your mother’s soul in the process, you travel with Geralt all the way to Kaer Morhen—but he has been hiding something.
Word Count: 2,416
A/N: Again, I know that this portrayal of a Noonwraith is not canon, but here we are.
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4
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Another Trial
“Kaer Morhen,” you breathe, eyes drinking in the sight of the old castle. There are places where the stone has crumbled, but it is still grand. Though, it does strike you in the way that old, deserted places do – with a sense of sadness and loss for what was once there. Though, Kaer Morhen holds no dear childhood memories for you, and so it is easier to bear that looking at your old hut in the village back home.
“Where I grew up,” Geralt nods in response. You sneak a look at his amber eyes, which seem to be searching the castle much the way yours are. You want to ask him what it looked like when he trained here, but you have no idea how long ago that was, and you don’t wish to pry.
“Why’ve we come?” You can’t help but ask the question that has been hanging on the tip of your tongue since you set off on the journey—or at least for as long as you’ve been conscious. After the first few days, the pain had gradually started to fade, even without the help of elixirs. You still took a milder potion, but it didn’t cloud your mind the way the stronger one did. You’ve seen much more of the Continent than you had ever hoped to.
Geralt looks at you with a twinge of guilt – regret. Your first instinct is to turn and run or cower in the corner. Has he grown tired of your company? Does he wish to dump you here, leave you with someone else so that he doesn’t have to deal with you anymore? All of these questions swirl in your head, making it impossible for you to voice any of them.
Finally, he speaks.
“I…” he begins, golden eyes shifting from your face down to the floor at your feet, “The wound on your back, Y/N.”
You don’t know what he is about to say, but you feel the need to cut him off. “It’s been feeling better every day!” you protest.
“Yes, but it’s only a matter of time before it…” He seems to have lost words again, and now you are panicking, heart thudding in your chest.
“Before it what, Geralt?” You can’t keep the shrill edge out of your voice as you speak, your nerves choking you. “What are you talking about?”
“There is a poison.” Geralt hangs his head, looking utterly defeated. “The wound will heal, but the infection will spread. This is the only place I know that will be able to help.”
You look at him, mouth hanging open in shock. You want to be angry with him that he hadn’t told you sooner, but the consuming panic is making it hard to see straight. Perhaps it was better that you hadn’t known this entire journey.
“W-What do you mean?” you stammer, taking a step closer to him, your voice still sounding shrill in your head. “She caught your arm as well… Does that mean…” You can’t even bring yourself to form the sentence. Somehow, the Witcher being in imminent danger is much more frightening to you than yourself.
The Witcher shakes his head, face growing more serious—more pained, by the moment. “No, Y/N. The poison doesn’t work like that on Witchers. Our mutations make us immune to disease, to infections.”
Your eyes momentarily widen as the whole world seems to blur out of focus. Your thoughts, however, somehow remain intact. If a Witcher’s mutations are the only thing that can stop the infection, and he’s brought you to Kaer Morhen, the old Witcher school, there can be no other reason than undergoing mutations yourself.
You are shocked that the prospect both excites you and terrifies you at the same time. Geralt’s face, on the other hand, betrays nothing but resigned desperation.
You know what the mutations entail—or at least, in a general sense. Nobody really knows how the Witcher mutations work save for Witchers themselves, and he is the only one you’ve met. Now you understand his unwillingness to talk about them. In the days spent traveling, he would change the subject each time it veered anywhere close to his childhood and the mutations he underwent. You only know that part of the reason his hair is white is because of extra mutations he underwent. You do, however, know that only three in ten boys made it through the mutations alive… Those are not god odds. But then, if what he is saying about the infection is true, those are even worse odds.
“The lesser evil,” you whisper, not sharing any of your other thoughts. You are sure he’s thought about it plenty.
He looks at you, taking a hesitant step forward and making your breath catch in your throat. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if there were any other way,” he says.
You trust him. But something is still nagging at you.
“I thought that only men could become Witchers.”
“It is the norm,” he says, “But it has been done.”
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, attempting to calm your nervousness but failing.
“I think,” he finally adds after an abnormally long silence, “There should be a way to use minimal mutations—only the necessary ones.” His face betrays a pain, long-repressed memories that had been shoved to the very back of his mind for decades.
“Visimir will know.”
You vaguely recognize the name. He has mentioned it a few times, if you are correct.
“He is… like a father to me.”
“Oh.”
Yes, you remember the name now. Geralt has mentioned him often. His father-figure and mentor, the keeper of Kaer Morhen who has been in charge since before he was born. You deduce that he must also be the Witcher in charge of the Trials; the Witcher who knows the correct elixirs and potions to turn an ordinary human into a Witcher… or Witcheress.
You look from the Witcher to the once grand castle behind him, the whole world blurred strangely. You are afraid, though you will not admit it to him. But, at the same time, the thought of the mutations—if you live—making you nearly invincible against those who had once wronged you is exciting.
“Y/N.” The Witcher’s voice brings you back to the moment, pulling you out of the fantasies playing through your head of returning to your shitty little town and teaching Stephic and his men a lesson they will never forget.
“Come,” he finally says, extending his arm. You grasp it without a second thought, perhaps pulling yourself a bit too tightly to his side. You are glad for the support, as your legs have turned into something akin to jelly, and your head is too muddled to follow directions. You are almost certain that you can feel a dull ache in your back where you hadn’t felt it before. You imagine it spreading like a virus through your veins—or a lit fuse with burning its way to inevitable destruction.
You walk beside him with unsure steps, eyes still taking in the wonder of this new place despite it all. It is a small price to pay, you suppose, to set your mother free. Besides, there were plenty of other ways you could have died back in that shit Nilfgaardian outpost of a town.
Slowly, your steps become more confident, your spine straightening and your head lifting higher. You survived a battle with a wraith, which could not be said for most humans. You’d survived the destruction of your entire village. You’d survived for years as the lowest ranking member of the staff for a cruel master. You can survive a few elixirs and mutations; you know you can.
When you walk through the massive front doors of the old keep, you gasp. Regardless of its state of disrepair, the hall is beautiful. You can only imagine what it had looked what it had in its golden age.
As the doors close behind the two of you, you hear the sound of footsteps echoing in the massive hall, growing closer. Your eyes move in the direction of the approaching steps, the image of a man with long hair, like Geralt’s. As he gets closer, you realize that he is older than Geralt—though it is impossible to tell how old. Witchers were rumored to live to all manner of ages, usually far longer than any average human.
“Geralt!”
The man smiles warmly, quite uncharacteristically – at least in your limited knowledge of Witchers – to hug your companion, who wraps his arms around the old Witcher.
“Visimir.”
“It’s good to see you, Wolf.”
“You too, old man.”
“Let’s not point out age,” Visimir says with a smirk.
A pause.
“And who is your companion?”
You want to open your mouth and answer for yourself, but you find that your mouth has gone entirely dry and it feels like your throat has closed up. You are not intimidated by the man; he seems warm and loving, at least the way he greeted Geralt. But still, you are in a new place where you never would have pictured yourself in an entire lifetime.
“Y/N,” he introduces you. “She helped banish a Noonwraith.”
A knowing look passes between the two men. You only notice it for a fraction of a second, but you notice it. You can’t possibly imagine everything running through their heads, but you can guess. You know that no Witcher school is currently creating new Witchers. There hasn’t been a Trial in years—even humans knew that. You wonder how long it has been, and why it has been so long.
Visimir looks at you and smiles warmly, despite the faraway look in his eyes. “Welcome, Miss, to Kaer Morhen.”
* * *
“What the fuck, Geralt?”
You are sitting with your ear to the wall, trying to pick up as much of the conversation going on in the next room over as possible.
“Lambert, you know I wouldn’t suggest this if there was any other way.” You feel a tightening in your chest upon hearing the strain in the Witcher’s voice; it is pained in a way that you never want to hear him.
“And what, you’ve tried everything?” Lambert counters, “Don’t the mages have some sort of cure? They sure are proud of their advanced magic.”
“Our magic is based on theirs, and apparently rudimentary at that,” Geralt continues, “Anything that they would do would be just as dangerous as this, if not more.”
You shiver, wrapping your arms around your knees and hugging them to your chest. You know for certain that you do not want to die; not when this whole new world has opened up to you.
But that would be my destiny, you think bitterly. To live only long enough to finally have something to leave behind.
“And what if it works?” a third, unfamiliar voice cuts in. “Will you start training her as a Witcher? No one in the society she’s from will give her work once she’s one of us.”
“Oh, why bother with pointless questions, Eskel?” Lambert’s voice is raised now, and you are certain you can detect a fear in it. “She won’t live. She will die an agonizing death.”
“Stop!” Geralt roars, drowning out the other voices. Silence envelopes the room, leaving only the sound of your labored breathing as you remain still, ear pressed to the wall.
“Well, Geralt?” Lambert breaks the silence, “Did you have something to say? Because I do.”
You hear no response.
“You care for that girl, I can see that.” His tone has changed somewhat, more pleading than angry now. “But trying to save her this way? You’re going to kill her, Geralt.”
More silence.
“The infection takes its victims quickly, in sleep. But to submit her to the Trial of Grasses? It’s cruel, Geralt. And selfish.”
“Not everyone regrets becoming a Witcher, Lambert,” Eskel says.
“But everyone regrets seeing people that we cared about, people that we loved die in front of us!”
You are buzzing with anxiety, anger, and words you wish you could speak. After all, it is your life that is currently being debated, very loudly, only a room over. The stone walls may be thick, but there are cracks, and it should be no surprise to the men that you can hear.
When silence has settled too long, you finally speak, loudly. You even slam your fist against the wall, as if it would help. Instead, it just leaves you with aching knuckles as you shout.
“All of these grand arguments and no thought to ask me what I want?”
You can’t hear it, but you can picture all three heads in the room turning to look at the wall. “Or does that not matter here?”
“Y/N—” Geralt mutters, and you hear a crash as someone quickly moves through the room.
You do not move from your place on the floor, even as you hear his footsteps echoing down the hall towards the door in front of you. He opens the door quickly, eyes searching for you for the briefest of moments before landing on you, huddled up against the wall, hot fury in your eyes.
He drops to his knees in front of you. You stare at him for a moment, not saying anything. He reaches out, placing a hand on each of your shoulders. But beyond that, he says nothing, does nothing, and it only makes the anger burn brighter – though you can’t quite place where that anger is directed.
“I want it to be my choice. And I choose the lesser evil.”
“Y/N,” he says, “It… You still have some time to decide, I would never force you to—”
“Geralt,” your gaze fixes intensely on his. “I want to live. I… You… I mean, a month ago, I had nothing to live for. Maybe my choice would have been different then. But now… I refuse to just let myself die, when you’ve finally given me a reason to stay alive.”
And, for the first time, you aren’t even worried about how he will react. Hell, you don’t care how he reacts. You just know that you want to kiss him, and so you do.
He reacts instantly, moving his lips against yours and pulling you against him, wishing that he could simply keep you pulled tight to his chest and protect you from all harm.
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