just..not great things going on right now. have some fic, yeah?
Ch10 <- Ch11 -> Ch12 / Ao3
The storeroom behind Benny’s inn had never been meant for sleeping, but Eddie knew how to make himself small in places that were not meant for much at all. Barrels lined one wall, sacks slumped along another, and the sour tang of last year’s preserves lingered stubbornly in the rafters. The cold slipped in along the floorboards, but the room stayed dry. That alone made it kinder than most places he had slept.
There had been a winter once, two years back, when he had taken shelter under a bridge on the road to Kaedwen. Rain had drummed through the night, seeping down the stone pillars and pooling beneath his boots. His blanket had mouldered by morning. A merchant had found him there and kicked him aside as though he were just another piece of debris swept in by the flood. Eddie had left that city with a bruise across his ribs and a determination never to sleep under a bridge again.
This storeroom, with its crooked walls and vinegar smell, felt nearly welcoming by comparison.
Benny had pointed him toward the burlap heap without comment on the first night. Hopper had watched him, measuring his intent without a word. Dustin had hovered in the doorway with a sheaf of notes and a stare full of questions he had not yet asked aloud.
So Eddie stayed.
He rose with the kitchen fire each morning. Benny gave him chores without much explanation, and Eddie completed them without complaint. He had learned early that a man without coin survived only by making himself useful. That knowledge had come from a town farther south, where the tavern master had chased him with a broom after discovering Eddie had slept in the stable loft without permission. He had slipped out before dawn that day, hungry and humiliated, wishing for a place where people looked at him with something other than suspicion.
Hauekinge, unexpectedly, had not asked him to leave.
He played quiet songs in the evenings. They were simple things, shaped by winter breath and soft plucking. He played not for an audience but for the room itself.
Dustin listened with sharp attention. He corrected every inaccuracy with seriousness rather than mockery.
“That isn’t how their claws work,” he would say.
Or: “No, they don’t hunt that way.”
Eddie took the revisions without irritation. He almost found them comforting. The boy clung to accuracy like a lifeline, as though naming danger correctly could keep it from devouring what remained of his world.
Eddie had lived by stories once. He had traded them for meals, sold them for shelter. The farther he traveled, the less people cared whether the tales were true. Truth did not sell as easily as drama. Eventually, rumors began to twist his songs—whispers that he glamored beasts with music, that he summoned trouble wherever he went.
There had been a village where those rumors caught up with him. A contract had gone wrong. A fiend, half-starved and half-mad, had come down from the hills. Eddie had seen it first and shouted for the hunters, but they had taken too long to respond. A woman had died. The villagers had blamed him for the shout, for the fear, for the way they claimed his singing had brought the monster down the slope. He still remembered the pitch of their voices, the way a lie hardened into truth when enough frightened people repeated it. He had fled in the dark before they could decide whether driving him out was punishment enough.
He never returned to that valley.
Hopper watched him now with a steadiness that reminded him of the few men on the road who had offered warning rather than cruelty. Not trust, but fairness. Eddie did not take the scrutiny personally.
Snow deepened in the woods. Eddie gathered kindling most mornings. He felt the shift in the air before he understood it.
He stopped under the pines, breath misting faintly.
A shape moved in the trees. Its limbs bent oddly, its eyes gleamed too bright. Eddie knew the feel of wrongness. He had felt it years ago, on the night he heard a shriek near the Kaedweni border and found himself staring at a thing that had no business being alive.
That time, he had run.
This time, he held still. Running had gotten him far enough to survive before, but he doubted it would help now.
The creature stepped closer.
The blast that followed shook the clearing. Snow leapt from the ground. Eddie staggered backward, his boots slipping.
When his sight steadied, Steve stood just beyond the trees.
“You should not be out here alone,” Steve said.
Eddie’s throat tightened. He thought of the fiend in the valley, of the weight of a blame he could not outrun, of the fear that had clung to him for days afterward. His voice came out rough.
“Didn’t reckon I’d meet something like that.”
“Trouble does not care what you reckon.”
Steve checked the creature’s body with swift expertise. Eddie followed him back without question.
Later, inside the inn, Dustin’s raised voice startled him more than the morning had. Eddie heard the boy defending him, sharp and confident, as though Eddie’s choice to hold his ground meant something. Steve responded in low, measured tones. Eddie pretended not to hear.
By the time night settled, the tavern had quieted. Hopper remained by the hearth with a blade across his knees. Eddie sat with his lute, trying to tune it. His fingers trembled. The sound that came out was thin and hesitant.
He closed his eyes.
Another memory pulled forward—the night he had hidden behind a stone fence in Rinde, waiting for the sound of pursuit to fade. He had been accused of stealing coin from a lord’s messenger after singing at a feast. Someone else had done it, but the lord’s men were not interested in untangling the truth. They had chased him through the streets until he lost them, and he had spent the night freezing behind a wall, too frightened to light a fire. That fear had stayed with him for weeks afterward, jumping awake at any sound, unsure whether he was outrunning lies or the weight of being unwanted.
He breathed slowly now until the tremor eased.
A quiet melody formed beneath his hands. A tune shaped from memory, fear, and the strange relief of surviving something he hadn’t been sure he could face. Hopper did not comment. Eddie took the silence for acceptance.
He played until the shaking settled, then returned to the storeroom.
The cold pooled along the floor. The inn creaked beneath the night. Eddie drew the blanket up to his chest.
He thought of Steve then—of the way the Witcher had stood in the clearing without fear, without surprise, carrying whatever loneliness a life like his demanded. Eddie knew men like that. Men who walked from place to place with nothing to ease the weight they carried. Men who learned early that what the world took, it almost never gave back.
Eddie wondered how long a man could carry that kind of solitude before it began to wear through the seams.
The thought lingered as the tavern settled around him.
Outside, the high passes were beginning to soften beneath late-winter sun. Travelers on the Path would already be listening to the weather, reading the snow, and preparing for the long descent home.
Eddie felt a strange pull in his chest, something restless and expectant, a quiet sense that the world had begun to shift.
He closed his eyes, unaware of how close returning footsteps already were.
Though the pass had yet to fully clear, only softening enough to be newly dangerous and test a horse’s footing, Steve was homeward bound once more.
His left arm ached from the motion of the ride, and a cut across his knuckles had reopened, staining the reins red. He’d perhaps pushed too hard to finish the contract and return, taking risks he shouldn’t, but that secret would stay between him and the Path.
Snow melt ran in narrow streams through the stone as Beam picked her way through the last stretch with care. Her hooves caught the edge of a rock once but quickly righted herself. She knew the path well, and Steve barely needed to guide her.
He smelled the house long before he saw it, which surprised him. This early, the chimney shouldn’t be smoking. Still hours yet from dusk, with none who knew he was set to arrive; there was no reason for it, not unless someone was making themselves at home.
He quickly stabled Beam in the lean-to, dismounting and loosening the girth as she drank greedily from the half-frozen trough.
As he made his way towards the house, he cataloged more changes; the porch was swept, the broom stood neatly upright against the wall, and the latch didn’t stick when he opened the door.
It had been fixed.
On their own, these weren’t notable exceptions; however, altogether, they sharpened his suspicion.
Dustin typically avoided sweeping the porch, doing the bare minimum before tossing the broom aside to work on whichever topic or experiment he’d had set for the day.
The latch had been sticking for some time before he’d left. Hopper had grunted about it, mentioning he was waiting for the local smith to get a supply of iron nails in to repair it properly.
With the passes being as they were, it was strange that they’d managed to beat him here.
Though his senses were not warning him of any danger, Steve still was poised for a fight when he entered.
Inside, the fire burned low and steady, a pot hanging from the hearth hook, steam lazily curling from the lid in thin streams that showed it hadn’t been boiling long. The warmth sank instantly into his boots, making Steve bemoan the chance to take them off immediately.
The air was fragrant with the scent of familiar spices—Benny’s stew.
Dustin was at the table, head bent low over a scattering of notes. He looked up as Steve entered, giving him a wide grin that showed off his newly grown teeth.
“You’re back!”
Steve softened slightly. It had been years since Dustin toddled behind him and the others, but he still remembered every time the boy gave him that formerly gap-toothed grin.
“I got lucky. Wasn’t sure I’d beat the melt.”
A voice he didn’t recognize said, “You didn’t.”
He looked over and caught the shape of a man standing near the pantry shelves. Bootless, with sleeves rolled up and a cloth tucked into his belt, he seemed aware yet not tense.
Steve, however, was staying in his spot by the door, one hand flexing as if to grab a sword.
Dustin cleared his throat before making the introductions. “That’s Eddie. He’s staying at the inn.”
Eddie gave a short nod of greeting. ‘You must be Steve.”
Steve looked at the fire; someone had stirred the pot not long ago. The ladle was hooked wrong, backhanded, and side wet at the rim.
“You’re new here.”
“Well spotted! Delighted to see that your keen senses aren’t frozen over.”
Ignoring him, Steve looked at Dustin. “He’s a friend of Benny’s?”
Dustin shook his head, “No. He came in off the ridge during the first blizzard. Benny’s been letting him sleep in the storeroom.”
Steve exhaled once through his nose and keeping every movement slow and deliberate, uncoiled enough to hang his cloak. Snow melt dripped from the hem as the fire crackled merrily.
“You eat?” Dustin asked.
Steve shook his head.
Dustin shifted at the table. “I can get you a bowl if you’d like. Should be ready to eat.”
Eddie moved to get his boots, pulling them on. “I’m going to head back, just wanted to drop the stew off. Didn’t mean to be in the way.”
He pulled the door open and slipped out without waiting for a response. Cold air swirled in and vanished just as quickly as he did.
Steve didn’t watch him go, finally stepping out of his boots and taking a seat.
Dustin ladled stew into a bowl and handed it to him without a word.
It was over-salted, and the potatoes were cut too small, yet still the best thing Steve had eaten in too long.
After the stew was finished and the house was quiet, Steve rinsed the bowl and set it aside to dry. The pot hung idle now, steam and contents long gone.
The door opened behind him, and he turned.
Hopper stepped in, stamping the slush from his boots. Without speaking, he shut the door and then tugged off his gloves, moving close to the fire.
“You’ve returned late,” Steve commented.
“You’ve returned early,” Hopper replied.
That was the full measure of their conversation.
As Hopper sank stiffly into the closest fire-warm chair, Steve leaned back against the table, arms folded.
“Don’t remember an Eddie in the tales of Dustin’s new friendships,” Steve said, more than asked. “He new?”
Hopper nodded. “Benny, let ’em have the storeroom. Didn’t ask questions.”
“You didn’t either?”
Hopper rubbed his thumb slowly. “Watched. He’d come in during a bad storm, half-frozen. And Benny’s always been tender-hearted.”
When Steve didn’t argue the point, Hopper added, “He works. Carries the water, helps with the wood, doesn’t ask for anything beyond a meal and a place to sleep.”
“He talk?”
“Some. Says he’s a bard,” Hopper said. “Didn’t try to charm anyone though, no clever words. Dustin started correcting his songs. Monster lore. Detail stuff. He let him.”
Steve looked at the fire. Someone had shifted the pot hook back one notch. Eddie, probably. Right-hand dominant. Confident, but not trained.
“So Dustin adopted him,” Steve said.
“As much as he does anyone.”
“He’s not dangerous?” Steve asked.
“Not yet.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s not.”
The coals shifted. Hopper stretched his leg out carefully like it hadn’t stopped hurting in months.
Steve glanced at him but said nothing, choosing instead to focus on the fire like it held all the answers.
Despite the restlessness that skittered its way like static through his bones, Steve didn’t go far the next morning.
Instead, he split kindling into a pile too small to burn clean, checked Beam’s hooves for any damage from the trek, and reset the stacks of grain as if they’d been touched in the few hours since his return.
Nothing helped.
Dustin had left early, tumbling from their shared room in a flurry of mumbles and tugging on clothes, mentioning something about a delivery of salt. Steve didn’t stop him to clarify.
By midday, Steve had run out of even the barest of excuses and made his way into town. The square was soft with thaw, mud, and ash mixed into the corners, doing little to muffle the noise.
Steve stood just off the proper path, near the well, half-shadowed in its frame to avoid any who would think to greet him. Boots dragged mud across the square, and the wind moved unevenly through the alleys. He heard every change in weight, every gate latch.
He smelled the inn’s chimney first; peat smoke and barley bread. Something sour, too. Turnip stew.
Then he heard Dustin.
The boy’s voice carried unevenly in fast, clipped phrases. No edge. Steve tracked the movement—pacing, then stillness.
He shifted just enough to see.
Dustin was sitting on the back step of the inn, notes curled against his knee. Talking fast. Animated. His voice carried faintly—something about claw width, from the sound of it. Nesting habits. Probable regions.
Eddie didn’t interrupt. Just let him talk. Asked a question once, softly, Steve barely caught it.
Dustin answered like they’d done this before.
Dustin’s gestures had that edge they got when he cared too much, something Steve had remembered seeing often as he trailed the Alchemist or Hopper, describing some new lore or experiment he wanted to bring aboard.
Steve didn’t move.
He scanned their posture. The line of dust at the hem of Dustin’s cloak. The scrape of rock on the corner of Eddie’s boot, likely from the night he arrived. The faint brine of Benny’s stew on Eddie’s sleeve.
Nothing in their posture said intrusion. But everything in it said time.
Steve stayed in the shadow.
They’d never found out why the Keep had been attacked, but Steve knew it was the same story as told by many mouths. Men feared what they didn’t understand, what they couldn’t control.
And now one sat beside Dustin, bare-headed in the wind, smiling like the boy beside him had never scraped blood from a blade.
Dustin bumped Eddie with his elbow. Eddie grinned and flicked his page.
Steve turned before they noticed him.
His boots were damp by the time he reached the house.
Later, he found Eddie behind the inn.
Not far. Just past the rain barrel, where the stone wall still held some heat. Eddie was sitting on a crate, back to the stone, boots off, fingers quiet in his lap. The lute case was shut beside him.
He looked up. Didn’t smile.
“You get lost?” Eddie asked.
Steve didn’t answer.
He stopped three paces off, close enough to speak, far enough not to offer anything.
“You’re quiet for someone watching from across the square,” Eddie said.
Steve didn’t react.
“You always do that?” Eddie asked. “Track people like they’re prey?”
Steve’s eyes didn’t narrow, but they stayed on him.
“Only when I don’t know what they are,” he said.
Eddie nodded. Not defensive. “Fair.”
Silence.
Steve shifted. Not enough to show discomfort. Just weight, redistributed.
“You’re still here.”
“Snow hasn’t cleared.”
“You close with him?” he asked.
“Dustin?”
Steve didn’t respond. Eddie shrugged.
“He talks. I listen.”
“He talks a lot.”
“Not to everyone.”
The breeze shifted, and Steve caught the sour scent of sweat under Eddie’s collar, the old lute oil on the wood case, and the dried berry on his breath.
“You don’t belong here,” Steve said.
Eddie didn’t flinch. “Neither do you.”
More silence. The sound of a shutter creaking in the next alley. One loose hinge.
Steve’s hand curled against his side. Loosened.
“He corrects your songs.”
“They needed correcting.”
“You let him.”
Eddie’s gaze didn’t change. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Steve said nothing.
“You looking for a reason to ask me to leave?” Eddie asked. “Or just trying to find out if you can.”
Steve stared. Measured his posture, his stillness, his balance. No threat posture. No pull toward a blade. Just presence.
Steve’s hand flexed near his side. Then stilled.
“You don’t ask for anything,” he said.
“No.”
“You don’t leave either.”
“No.”
“Why.”
Eddie leaned back against the wall. Let his head rest there.
“Because no one’s told me to,” he said. “And the quiet doesn’t mind me yet.”
Steve stared at him for a long time. Then he turned and walked back the way he came, footsteps deliberate in the thawed dirt.
The door didn’t creak when he opened it.
Inside, the fire had burned low to gleaming coals. The pot was off the hook.
Steve stepped out of his boots. Hung up his cloak.
The air held the heat from the fire and the faint scent of vinegar from the clean bowl on the table. The kettle had been moved, and its base left a dry ring in the ash. Someone had lifted it left-handed.
His pack was still against the wall. He hadn’t touched it. No one else had either.
He sat, the chair creaked different than before, something had shifted in the joints. Slight, but new.
The parchment near the candle had Dustin’s hand—notes about anatomy in tight lettering as if he worried he would run out of space before ideas. The margin held a second set of marks. Ink darker, lines angled, clipped.
new chapter, yay!
looking back I realized its been nearly a year now since I first posted it, which is just a bit wtf.
I actually outlined! Lets see if it does anything!
I thrive on praise, so....feed me?
Bit of lore keeping:
The Braa is a river spanning the Kestrel Mountains to the North Sea. These mountains are the border between Redania and Kaedwan (where Kaer Morhen is located)
Huldra is the cow-tailed patron of livestock, feasting, and wellbeing. A real party animal,lol.
Henfors is the capital city of the region named the same, split into four quarters and some outskirt settlements. Its built around a waterfall that had previously stymied trade,with high wall along its canals to prevent invasions
Ch1 / Ch2 / Ch3 / Ch4 / Ch5 / Ch6 / Ch7 / Ao3
Chapter Seven
The days passed, weeks turning into months, and they began establishing a little life.
With little fanfare, the house became their new operations center. Dustin claimed his side of the room, which he and Steffan shared quite decidedly.
For all his grumbling about lacking the proper materials and lamenting the loss of specific texts, Dustin thrived with the uninterrupted time to tinker and experiment to his heart's content. He'd hardly complain when he had to muck out the lean-to or fetch goods from the market, especially once allowed to return to the keep.
There had been no real talk of formally returning to Kaer Morhen. Between the damage wrought and the suffocating memories, it was all but uninhabitable for extended periods.
After the first week and the initial success of his exploratory return, Hopper grudgingly allowed Steve and Dustin to make occasional treks back to the keep and salvage what they could.
Soon, the little garden plot boasted a fair yield of vegetables and herbs to supplement their living. Meals were often shared at the Inn, but Steffan provided at least one under their roof instead of leaning too heavily on Benny's generosity.
He'd often be found, if not tending the garden or Beam, working alongside Benny. Observing, he noted the little twists and tricks the man made to his daily offerings and how he managed the different guests without causing an additional fuss.
All told, Steve could easily let this be his routine forevermore. He'd never regretted becoming a Witcher, though honestly, it was all he had ever known, so he had little to compare it to until now.
Even after they had been living this new life for close to half a year, it was easy to imagine taking over the Inn after Benny. The man had even begun to make broad hints to see how that thought would land, well out of earshot of Hopper, who would shoot it down instantly.
The man himself hadn't stayed. As soon as the keep was cleared to the boys, he began making regular treks out of the village, seeking the Path. He was gone several days to a fortnight each time as he looked to complete contracts and glean what knowledge he could about the happenings in the world.
They'd never fully gotten an answer as to why or even who had attacked Kaer Morhen. In the pragmatic nature of a man who'd started over too many times, Hopper was inclined to leave that particular nest undisturbed.
It was not to be, however; the world was far from a state that could survive without the interference of Witchers.
Steve himself could no longer deny the Path. As much as he would like to assume the quiet life, it was not to be. Witchers were meant to be the barrier between monsters and men, not bake bread. With a heavier heart than he would admit, Steve began staggering his treks outward between Hoppers.
They would both be out if they still had the Keep, but neither wanted to risk Dustin or the town by leaving him unsupervised for any extended time. Eventually, he was able to get Hopper to stay in town more, citing the aforementioned peril of an un-monitored Dustin and perhaps teasing a bit about Joyce, a woman around Hopper's age, appearance-wise at least, who ran a market stall and got visibly flustered whenever he came by.
They made the Keep a meager headquarters; it was still too far damaged for continual habitation, but they could use it for small camps and allow anyone following them to lose the scent of their actual home.
So it was left now to Steve alone to walk the Path and seek out the terrible beasts that preyed upon humanity. The first time he'd gone out, he'd been shocked at the reception he'd received, not expecting such abuse to be aimed towards him.
Something or someone had been attacking traders as they traversed the Braa, seeking to peddle their wares in the regional capital, Hengfors. Most of the attacks had happened between Crinfrid and the outskirt quarters of the city, but the last had taken place too close for civil comforts in Little Aerdrin.
If they had stayed more towards Crinfrid, a city known mainly for its grease exports and dark dealings, it likely would have been chalked up to more of the same and not given much more note.
However, the latest incident claimed the life of Carol, the daughter of one of the Huldra priests on the journey back from visiting friends upriver in Barefield.
Grief-stricken, he had asked for justice in the next round of ministering and penned a notice to the temple board offering blessings and coins to anyone who could bring the perpetrator head.
That had led to an additional loss of three men, eager for the gold and clueless about the danger they faced.
Steve immediately knew it was a drowner as soon as he'd gotten wind of the request. Those slimy creatures lurked in the wet environment of rivers and even sewers. The monsters were drowned men, returned to inflict the same manner of death on others for little reason other than to share the torment of their death.
They were among the weakest to take on, only really posing trouble to a Witcher if in large groups. Steve was excited to start his first contract, and he'drode into the town in perhaps slightly higher spirits than appropriate.
Little Aedrin was adjacent to the Craftman's quarters and had been originally settled by many craft workers and families and so boasted a modest market and would offer Steve a prime opportunity to supplement Dustin’s makeshift alchemy lab with better options than they had scavenged or made.
He had encountered a few peasants on his journey in, and no sooner had they registered his distinctive appearance and the swords strapped to his back did they spit in his direction as he passed. Every face screwed up in fearful disgust, and he had one woman shield her child from him, as if the mere sight would infest and warp them into something terrible.
Hopper had always spoken of how the world viewed Witchers. As an unwanted but unfortunate tool required to survive, one they would break or discard in the hopes of never needing it again. He'd told them in no uncertain terms to always expect a contract to end with an attempt on their life from both the prey and the benefactor.
Perhaps he should have taken it closer to heart; the man had never been one for great exaggeration. He’d say Hopper was prone to brutal reality rather than understatements. The man firmly believed, and rightly so, that open, unclouded eyes were a key factor in survival.
Directions had been given briefly, and no one was willing to spend more than the bare minimum interacting. The contract had been completed swiftly, Steve not wanting to linger where he was unwanted.
Only his training allowed him to bear the disdain stoically. Although his heart flinched with every sneer aimed in his direction, he outwardly appeared unaffected. It worked in his favor, too, as they were handed out much quicker than the coin, and he did not even want to try and shop. He’d make it up to Dustin at a later date.
Tag list is currently anyone who interacted with previous chapters, or recent fics. If wanting to be removed/added lmk.
Tumblr posting for motivation and to share the love :)
Summary:
There have always been monsters, some have just been more suited to handling them than others.
Steve was a Witcher. He'd suffered and bled, for a world that spat upon him. Walking the Path he'd chosen, he soon finds himself with new company and challenges never before seen.
Notes:
Hooo boy! So very first fic for Stranger Things, or as a fusion attempt in general, so yeah really starting off easy here! Massively freaking out so be kind!
I originally tried to keep the names more aligned with the time and culture setting of the Witcher without drastically altering them.
I think that turned a lot of interest off, so have gone back and reverted everyone their real names
This will be a slower burn but the overall goal will be Steddie.
No beta, Grammarly only so please feel free to let me know any mistakes!
Also on Ao3
Steve couldn't really remember a time before Kaer Morhen. Objectively he knew that he'd been born elsewhere, and someone had made sure he'd lived long enough to be given to the Witchers, but they remained an unknown blur when he tried to think on them.
He knew he was a Child of Surprise, given as payment for a job. That his father, a lord of some small village, had thought he was getting away with a paltry sum, never expecting that he had a son and heir waiting. The fact that he had a child was news as he spent most of his time either in the city or away on hunting trips, with little interest in his lady wife or the management of the town. According to Hopper, the Witcher who had taken him in, he had flown into a rage, but there was nothing he could do. The Law had been invoked, and he was bound to comply.
These facts had been relayed to him with little emotion or care. This was simply the way it was, and Steve didn't mourn the life he couldn't remember. He'd been barely three winters at that point and, now nearing eleven, had spent more formative time with the School than in his past life.
That's not to say he regretted or hated his life now; he'd say he was rather content with the rough and tumble structure he'd been adopted into. Hopper was gruff, but he cared for the boys in his own manner, spending nights after practice going over their forms and giving them extra tips. He'd show them the best way to handle the scrapes and bruises the training left on them. Sometimes, late at night, long after the candles were meant to be snuffed, Steve would swear he felt a gentle caress on his forehead.
He and the others were set to start the Trials soon, he knew. His cohort consisted of himself and five other boys, ages ten to twelve. He was among the youngest, but thankfully not the baby. That dubious honor went to Dustin, an orphan brought to the keep some months ago. He was too young and weak at six to do much beyond trail after Steve and the others as they trained.
He'd been abandoned by his village, his mother dying from the flu, and they had ignored the poor lad with no father in the picture. Then, with his mother gone, and with it her limited protection, they took to calling him cursed or demon-spawn due to his front teeth not growing in. In addition, the slight deformity he had been born with allowed him to bend in odd ways, as if he'd had fewer bones than he should.
None seemed to phase him now; he was a bright and curious lad. Often, he was found in the lab chattering at the alchemists, asking a never-ending stream of questions about the process and potions they crafted. If he wasn't bothering the Alchemist, he was with Steve, who grudgingly allowed the shadow, huffing that he wasn't a nursemaid but never drove the younger boy off.
The other boys had been here for various lengths, some longer than Steve. First, there was Tommy, a freckle-faced youth the same age as Steffan. Hopper had found him on the side of the road a few years back, dirty and thin, huddled under the scattered remnants of his family's wagon. They had been en route to the city to start a new life and had been attacked by a wyvern when they strayed too far into its territory. Hopper had never found his parents. He suspected they had been digested long before he arrived.
Still, he dispatched the creature and offered Tommy a place, should he want. He was always partnered up with Steve in training and loved to boast to the others about their skills despite not showing much for himself. Following that were the younger boys, all just past ten from the same town, creating a smaller group within the adepts. They'd arrived as a part of a recruitment agency and left without any lingering harshness from their home. Andy, Jason, and Patrick all stayed to themselves, rarely joining the wider group unless directly ordered.
Steve had long given up any idea of being a part of their pack; they often made cruel remarks about the others. Despite being reared by a stigmatized class of people, they seemed to enjoy degrading the elder Witchers, their contemporaries, and even the occasional townsperson that braved the keep in search of aid. The oldest of the group, Daniel, was more closed off. He'd been there when Steve arrived, a sullen boy of about five. He'd been scooped up from an orphanage, the matron neither caring nor overly distressed to see him go. Steve’s arrival had barely registered to him; he was used to seeing new faces that never lasted. He hardly bothered to learn more than his name before dismissing him from his mind. They'd rarely interacted over the years, and Steve didn't know anything more about him than what he'd gleaned already.
But, circling back to the Trials, Steve could tell they were planning to start soon. While not the sharpest sword, he'd long had the time to study the men raising him and learned to read them as well as any Beastiary. Hopper had been getting increasingly gruff the last few days.
The evening meals had been tense as he seemed to glare at the nightly offering as if it had personally offended him. The Lab had been undergoing a flurry of activity as they prepped, and the Alchemist had practically barred Dustin from entry, which the boy took with great offense. Steffan knew what this added up to. All of the boys were now of age to make The Choice. This was the point of no return and the first step into becoming a Witcher proper. If they passed the initial rites, they would begin the mutations and go beyond weapon training. This meant learning herbalism, rudimentary Signs, alchemy, and monster lore to follow the Path.
So, when Hopper shook him awake one morning before the break of dawn with a brusque "Get out of bed, the others are waiting," he knew it was time. After that, they tended to let the boys govern themselves in terms of waking, understanding that if they fell behind or missed something, it was their burden to recover. Perhaps a harsh view, but there were much harsher ones to face once they left these walls.
He quickly rolled out of bed, shuffled into his clothes, and went to the hall where the others were gathered around their standard table. Tommy hovered at the edge of the group. He waved him over as soon as he came into view, excitedly linking arms and chattering in his ear about what could be going on.
Tommy was the only one who seemed to be viewing this positively. Dan was tucked into a corner of the table, curled up and watching the whole thing with a detached air. The "towners" lumped together in the middle, Jason between the other two, sneering slightly at Tommy.
Hopper came through the entryway holding a lantern in his fist, yet not dressed for the regular training they would start every morning. A lump settled in Steve’s throat, and he wanted to voice the question that trembled on his tongue, but like most curses, he feared what would happen if he spoke it into being.
The boys all straightened and looked toward the man, who gazed back with a dark, contemplative look. He seemed almost melancholy as he studied each boy, seemingly committing their features to memory.
"It's time. You have lived here and trained alongside each other but cannot progress without choosing. You must make The Choice; to follow the Path and adhere to the Witcher lifestyle. Know that this is not something you can change; once you decide, there will be no going back."
"I will not lie to you. This will not be easy. This test, like any other you have been given, will come at a great cost. It will not be kind or gentle. Failure means death. You may think there are better options outside these walls; if you were, you'd not be here now. But, on the other hand, if you go on, you will gain purpose and respect. Most of all, it will offer you the chance to survive, a chance you would not have otherwise. But, as I said, this is a choice. If you don't want this, we will part ways with no sorrow; you will be given a pack of provisions and taken to the nearest village to make your own way. Those who choose to continue will begin the Trials."
He paused here, letting the words sink in or allowing them to voice the desire to leave. Then, after a few moments of silence, he continued, "That was your last moment of hesitation; I ask you now to Choose. Do you wish to become a Witcher?"
With that, he turned and began going past the table towards the Laboratory. Then, without a glance at the boys still sitting frozen, he turned the corner. The flickering light pulled away with him, leaving only a few small sputtering candles illuminating the shadows that seemed to suddenly rush in and surround them.
No one spoke as they scrambled to their feet, rushing after Hopper with graceless speed. Tommy tugged Steve alongside him as they chased behind. All solemn-faced and barely jostling, they stayed in one group, none willing to break formation and be the first or last to appear.
It was only a few halls over, yet the trek seemed to stretch indeterminable as they approached Hopper's form waiting at the Laboratory steps. The staircase seemed fathomless, and the first few rays of dawn were barely peeking their way through the high window and did little to disperse the gloom.
They began their descent, lined up behind Hopper like ducklings, making their way down and into the larger vestibule that led into the Lab proper.
Hanging the lantern on a hook outside the door and extinguishing it, Hopper opened the door and motioned them through. The Lab was well-lit, with the various experiments and brews all in different stages working away. The Alchemist was in the middle, fussing with a tray of vials and other assorted instruments, with two rows of cots on either side. Steve wasn't sure he looked forward to any test that required him to lie down and nervously tried to read the Alchemist's face for any hint as to what would happen next.
Hopper cleared his throat, and the Alchemist swung his gaze around to see the gathered contingent. With a broad grin that seemed out of place within the circumstances, he clapped his hands and exclaimed, 'Ah! Splendid, what a great number to work with! I had expected to only get about half, so we are in luck! Yes, yes, alright! Alright, each boy, take a cot, and we will start momentarily!"
Glancing over at Hopper, who seemed to be grimacing deeply, Steffan selected a cot as far away from the Alchemist as possible without looking like he was afraid. Tommy plopped down beside him with a nervous smile, and the others quickly followed suit.
"Right! Right, well, let's get this moving!" The Alchemist nodded toward Hopper, and they moved cot by cot, grabbing straps that hadn't been visible before and tying each boy's legs and arms down.
"What are you doing?" Andy yelped as the Alchemist strapped him down. "Why are you tying us?"
Hopper paused from where he was buckling the tether around Jason’s ankle before continuing.
"This is to keep you from hurting yourself or us for that matter; some of the components cause…extreme reactions, and we rather you do not claw out your own eyes before the Trials start."
"What the hell? You didn't say anything about this! No, I changed my mind! I changed my mind!"
Andy started to struggle, and the Alchemist tutted before pulling out a vial from his robe. With the ease of many uses, he poured it down Andy’s throat, covering his mouth to make him swallow. His struggles began to slow and, within a few heartbeats, had ceased entirely. He stared up at the ceiling, blinking sluggishly but silent now, complacent.
The other boys looked on in horror, Hopper hadn't stopped, and all had been neatly restrained. Patrick stared, tears streaming down his face, and Dan seemed to have detached himself, not reacting at all.
With that, the Alchemist straightened up and clapped his hands. "Well! Does anyone else need some help, or can we move on?"
Anyway. I did end up reverting the names, maybe people will like it now.
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Steve wished he could say that things got better after that first contract but he abhorred being lied to, even if he was the liar.
He stayed on the Path, steadfast in his commitment to keep humanity intact from the darkness that lingered on the edges.
Lonely nights, hard roads, hateful sneers, begrudging coin; he endured all of it. Maybe if things had started differently it wouldn’t weigh on him so much, other Witchers at least had the luxury of a potential meeting of a peer to look out for.
With his brothers killed or good as dead, he had no one to really offload the aching hollowness in chest. Hopper could understand in the way that only another Witcher could, but he’d only be good for a drink and silence not companionship. Dustin was closer, but still too far removed from the active Witcher lifestyle and too engrossed in his work to properly empathize.
I think I’m going to rework Of Monsters and use the actual names instead of trying to keep it more Witchery version.
I feel like it makes it less accessible to people just wanting to read a stranger thing fic and also it’s kinda annoying to keep up with and don’t think it’s adding anything to the overall narrative
this is my (very possibly overly amibitious) arttempt to do a ST/Witcher fusion fic. mostly cause eddie is meant to be a bard and he could be a great dandelion. eventual steddie
maybe seeing some feedback here will motivate me to write? maybe idk.
fyi, i attempted to use more "witcher" sounding names without totally re-naming people but I think I managed it? Most are Polish or more older versions of the existing names.
Full fic to date: AO3
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The days passed, weeks turning into month and they began to establish a little life for themselves.
With little fanfare, the house became their new center of operations. Torsten claimed his side of the room he and Steffan shared quite decidedly. There had been no real talk of formally returning to Kaer Morhen. Between the damage wrought and the suffocating memories, it was all but uninhabitable for extended periods.
After the first week, and the initial success of his exploaratory return, Hopper grudgingly allowed Steffan and Torsten to make occasional treks back to the keep and salvage what they could.
Soon the little garden plot boasted a fair yield of vegetable and herbs to supplement their living. Meals were often shared down on the Inn, but mindful of leaning too heavily on Benny’s generosity, Steffan made sure to provide at least one under their own roof.
He’d often be found, if not tending the garden or Beam, working alongside Benedek at the Inn. Watching carefully, he noted the little twists and tricks the man made to his daily offerings and kept a mental note of how he managed the different guests with causing additional fuss.
All told, Steffan could easily imaging this being his life forevermore. He’d never regretted becoming a Witcher, though honestly it was all he had ever known, so had little to compare it to until now.
