#brucewrites

[lamentingpat]

Be My Date?

“And why am I the one who you’re asking?”

It’s not like he wanted to. There were a million reasons why Matt shouldn’t be here, and shouldn’t be asking Frank Castle to be his fake date. He didn’t have a choice.

-

Matt needs a plus one for a wedding. He's fresh out of choices so he asks someone... Unconventional.

Warnings: None Relationships: Frank Castle/Matthew Murdock Rating: Teen Word Count: 6801

Read on Ao3

This was a @marveltrumpshate fill for @rufferto9 !! Fake/Pretend Relationship :)

[lamentingpat]

im in my car after work but here is the link! ty johnny for bearing with me  https://archiveofourown.org/works/48664435

my piece for @batfam-big-bang !!

thanks to @zannakai & @lamentingpat for writing -- go check out their works!!

[lamentingpat]

Frank Castle + Consent

I’ve been thinking really hard about this as I’ve read through the Punisher Max series, more specifically the works done by Garth Ennis (Jason Aaron’s stuff is just. bad, so I’m ignoring it).  A very brief summary of how Frank’s own consent and autonomy is handled: poorly.  So I’m going to break it down with sources! Below the read more will contain sensitive issues like: sexual assault, rape, and suicide. Nothing will be graphic, and I will warn before I go over each subject so you can skip ahead/skim as you see fit. 

Basics first! 

- What is consent? An enthusiastic, and verbal yes that’s not influenced by substances or an outside party by able adults. 

This is something very commonly disregarded in adult comics like Punisher Max, especially when it comes to the male leads. This is especially true because repeatedly Frank shows disinterest or outright turns down those who make advances on him. 

Now why is that? 

A core part of Frank’s origin story is the loss of his family, which includes his wife Maria. He was married to her at the age of 18, and loves her greatly. The loss of her and his children changed Frank in many senses, one major factor being his interpersonal relationships. 

Even after he loses his wife, that devotion to her is still there (as seen in the panel below from Punisher Max Issue #4). He’s talking to a neighbor/acquaintance right after his family has been killed, and is being told that his neighbor was leaving his wife (and assumed good life) for the woman he was having an affair with. 

[id: Screenshot of a panel from the comics. On the right is Frank’s face, obscured by shadow. He is looking downward. In a text bubble he says: “I lost my wife.” In the text bubble connected it continues: “And you threw away yours like she was nothing.” /end id] 

Here’s a few examples of him turning down women who flirt at him! 

Punisher Max Issue #29 (This one is more of a dry joke he makes, but it’s pretty true!)

[id: Close up screenshot of Frank from the shoulders up in a diner. His face is somewhat bandaged. In a text bubble he says: “I’m not really dating right now.” The rest of the conversation is cut off. /end id] 

Punisher Max Issue #62 (This is weirdly worded by the writer, and is implying the woman wants to sleep with him as an exchange for his help in their town.He wanted to help even before this and even turned down money. 0/10 very weird.)

[id: A screenshot of two comic panels. Four people are in a hotel room. One man says in a text bubble: “I would be honored if you’d stay in my bedroom.” Another man says in a text bubble: “She will help convey our gratitude.” In the next panel a man looks shocked and the is woman in in the background. Frank says: “No thanks,” as he is leaving with his duffle bag over his shoulder. /end id]  Punisher Max: Get Castled (Outright turning down a proposition.)

[id: Frank is leaving a car towards an empty barn, a duffle bag over his shoulder. A woman sits in her convertible in the foreground. In text bubbles the woman says: “Old farm shed like that, it’ll get awful cold. I could always come...” Frank responds in his text bubble: “Go home to your mother.” /end id] 

‘But I know this guy fucks!’ 

I’m not saying he doesn’t! Canonically he does, I’m not denying that, but often he just uses his own ability to consent and what sex appeal he has as a tool rather than for his own pleasure.  

Here is some of that in action: 

Punisher Max: Little Black Book (He sleeps with this woman - she’s a sex worker -  in order to gain access to her book of high profile clients that Frank is trying to take out.)

[id: A woman is reclining in bed, a blanket covering most of her nude body. The room she is in with Frank is nice, composed of basic brown and black geometric designs. Frank stands at the end of the bed buttoning up his white shirt. There in a text box of the woman’s thoughts reading: “I thought I could work my magic, put him on a leash.” /end id] 

Punisher Max: #69 & #70 (The first two are from #69, the last one is from #70. Frank actively changed his mind from turning this woman away, to seemingly consenting in order to kill her. Important to note: In the last panel she is under the impression that Frank can’t move at all, since he is recovering from a poison. She believes she is making a move on a man who cannot move even if he changes his mind, so its dubious consent.) 

[id: Frank is leaning up against a closed door, his face lumpy and somewhat red. A blonde woman is leaning on his chest, getting close to his face. They are making eye contact with each other. In text bubbles she says: “I used to read about you in high school, you know. There was this cool paperback, by some guy-- And they had a few grainy pictures of you in the middle. Always thought you were hot.” /end id] 

[id: Frank and the blonde woman, Deirdre, are very close to each other, their faces only a few inches apart. They are lit up pink, the background behind them is a light dusty yellow. Frank’s face is still beat up and lumpy. A little blood is coming from his nose and his split lip. He looks indifferent as he says in text bubbles: “You can kiss my ass. Deirdre.” She looks shocked as she responds in a text bubble saying: “Ohhhkay then.” /end id] 

[id: Frank is laying down in the back of a truck, only being seen from the navel down at an angle. Deirdre is partially seen, her hand on the waistband and belt of Frank’s pants. In text bubbles she says: “You know... Ever since I read that book about you.. I’ve always wanted to see it.” /end id] 

Is there a time he consents without ulterior motives? 

Yes, but it’s also complicated. Frank doesn’t initiate it, rather responding in a way that can only really be summarized as “Sure, I guess.” It’s very passive, and he over all seems uninterested. It’s there, he participates, but it’s not something he often, seeks out for pleasure.  We really only see this with the character Kathryn O’Brien, but her role in Frank’s life is very brief. 

Punisher Max #23 (Note: Sure ≠ Yes. In no way are his responses good examples of clear consent.) 

[id: There are two panels. In the one of top, Frank is shirtless and you can see him from the collarbone up. His eyes are closed and expression is neutral. His shoulder is being sewn up by O’Brien, who sits to the right inside his van. She asks in a text bubble: “I’ve been in jail for eighteen months. When we get through here, you want to go jump in the back?” In the panel below that we still Frani shirtless, but his eyes are open and teeth gritted. He says in a text bubble: “Sure.” /end id]

Punisher Max #39 (Once again O’Brien is the one initiating. Frank only takes agrees once the idea has been put out there.)

[id: There are three comic panels. The one on the top is of O’Brien and Frank in tactical gear, eating from cans. O’Brien his hunched over her can while Frank his moving food towards his mouth. In a speech bubble O’Brien asks: “You lonely?” Frank responds in his own speech bubble: “No.” In the panel below to the left O’Brien looks into her can, fork raised. She asks in a text bubble: “You want to jump my bones anyway?” The panel to the right shows a close up of Frank’s face as he’s chewing. He responded in a text bubble saying: “Sure.” /end id] 

Punisher Max #54 (This is a retrospective look Frank takes, and it calls into question his motives to consenting to having sex with her. He never comes to a concrete conclusion, but it shows that even Frank doesn’t exactly understand why he did what he did.) 

[id: An dull colored desert background with two figures walking to the right, carrying various supply bags. Black boxes with white text on the left display Frank’s internal dialogue stating: “Did I like O’Brien? Or did I go through the motions to convince myself-- the response demanded of the human being I once was?” /end id] 

But has Frank’s consent ever been violated? 

Unfortunately, yes. Both times are brushed off, and one is a ‘cavity search’ mainly angled as a joke, while the other he is assaulted and doesn’t protest (an argument could be made that he consented, but not without being influenced) and in that case he couldn’t physically stop her even if he wanted to. 

Sexual Assault, Rape, and Suicide Warning for the next few panels. 

I’ve cropped most of the graphic material and left out some of the more triggering panels. If you wish to look up the full context uncensored that’s totally up to you. 

Punisher Max #49 (Frank is handcuffed to the bed by a woman who had previously been helping him. After using his supplies and symbol to kill people who had wronged her and who Frank had been hunting, she returns and forced herself onto Frank. He initially protests but then gives in. While on him, she kills herself and Frank is unable to stop her, only breaking free right after she shoots herself. This entire part of the comic made me feel sick.) 

[id: On the top panel we see a close up of Frank’s face at an angle, his head is on a pillow. The panel below we see his full face as his head rests on a pillow. His left hand is also visible and curled into a fist as he is cuffed to the bars of a bedframe. /end id]

[id: A cropped panel of Frank laying down shirtless, attempting to sit up but his left arm is cuffed to the bed. There is blood on his face. The background is that of a plain bedroom. An arm with blood on the rist is entering the image on the right holding a gun and a bedsheet. In a text bubble Frank says: “What are you--” /end id]

[id: A cropped panel showing a bedside, bedframe, and the top of Frank’s head. His handcuffed arms his shown breaking one of the screws, freeing Frank. To the far right there is a small amount of blood in the panel. /end id]

Punisher Max: Naked Kill (While trying to infiltrate a snuff ring as a janitor, Frank has to submit himself through rigorous security, including a body cavity search. While he technically consents to this, body cavity searches are still extremely violating no matter the situation. In this case he really doesn’t have much of a choice.)

[id: A plain light green background with Frank in the center. He is angled as if he is bending over, expression neutral or displease, wearing plain clothes. On the right of him is a security guard looking off to the right, holding up one arm as he puts on a long glove. On the left there is a white box with a light blue echo stating in quotations: “Full body cavity searches alert us to any soft weapons hidden inside the body.” /end id

Conclusion 

Frank’s relationship with consent is complicated! His individual right to consent is often obscured by Frank himself (as he doesn’t often think about his individual rights as a person, or that he even is a person) but also by his writers. Things that wouldn’t be considered really consensual are considered that, because Frank is a burly and tough man who can get ladies despite being described frequently as ‘pug-ugly’ and carrying around a huge amount of trauma and baggage. 

It’s pretty reflective of the time it was written, and I just hope that the way his consent is treated changes, or at the very least is addressed with the weight it deserves. 

[lamentingpat]

Keeper of Kaer Morhen

After the battle, Eskel becomes the new caretaker of Kaer Morhen. He's content with his life there. Well, that's at least what he tells himself when he's alone again for another winter. 

Warnings: None Relationships: Eskel & Geralt of Rivia & Lambert Rating: Gen Word Count: 1549 

Read on AO3 

In a way, Eskel was glad that he was the new head of Kaer Morhen. At least nowadays there wasn’t any worry about humans making their way up to the keep, most knew that it was all but abandoned. The trails leading up to it covered by Eskel himself whenever he caught wind that someone was nearby. He only ever saw people when he ventured down into the nearby villages to pick up contracts and restock supplies, only ever going as far as Ard Carraigh.

Those times were rare now, especially now when the chill of autumn was turning to the cold bite of winter. He had just stocked up on the last of what was needed for winter, planning, well, hoping, that Lambert and Geralt would be joining him this year even if the weather told them they likely wouldn’t. They hadn’t the past two years, which was fine, Eskel handled being on his own just fine. He knew Lambert was traveling with Kiera and Geralt had sent word about being in Toussaint for a long-term contract, so he understood. Life as a Witcher was unpredictable at best and they all had to adapt to it, even though Eskel desperately wanted to cling onto anything stable.

The everyday tasks he did helped with that, but at times it felt almost mindnumbing. On the Path, there was so much to do and see, nothing was ever wholly the same, not like it was at Kaer Morhen. At the very least he could boast about how much he had repaired of the keep, some walls he had patched hadn’t been touched in decades. Well, he would boast about it if he had anyone to talk to other than Lil’ Bleater and the rest of the livestock he had gathered, they already heard enough of his mindless rambling when he fed them in the morning.

The only other ‘people’ he talked to were Leo and Vesemir. He made the effort to visit their graves at least every few days as long as the weather held, sometimes bringing spare flowering herbs to set near the headstones. He would sit and talk like old times, even if it was painfully one-sided. It’s not like he ever got conversation similar to this even when he was in villages, he was still a Witcher and a heavily scarred one at that. He was lucky if they even looked him in the eye half the time.

Eskel couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh as he thought about it. He sounded like a sad hermit, and it wasn’t exactly wrong to call him one. He set down his trowel, deciding that he was done with work for today. This mindless work was sending Eskel down a spiral of thought, and as he continued it was getting worse. It was unfortunate, the sun was still low in the sky, so many hours were left in the day before he could use the excuse of going to bed a bit early to silence his spiraling thoughts. The section he was working on wasn’t dire before the first big snow, which he knew was near, it wouldn’t surprise if it hit tonight based on the looming clouds on the horizon.

His hands were mostly clean, but he would do a preliminary wash before he went up to the library. He had started to reorganize it on a whim the other day, taking his time to read some of the more palatable books as he went. Eskel was slowly working his way through some of the personal journals that had been recovered from rooms in the keep as well as from the Path, although the latter was much rarer. Most had been left in rooms for safekeeping once they’d been filled out, left to decay when their creator never returned. It was a mixed bag when reading them, the contents ranged from shittily written erotica to detailed documentation of contracts, needless to say, Eskel was never bored when he went through them.

His steps echoed in the empty halls, making it seem even more empty than it already was. If he weren’t a Witcher and if the keep was more accessible, it would have been possible for multiple people to live there without ever running into the other, but that wasn’t the case here. Eskel was alone. Alone and talking to his animals and graves for company. A bit pathetic honestly, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, it would have just been rubbing salt into an open wound.

The library of Kaer Morhen was big by many standards, but that meant it was also drafty. No matter how many times you tried to fix it, it never really worked. It used to drive Lambert crazy in the winter, as they often retreated there to brush up on their bestiary knowledge or just to play Gwent under the guise of being productive. In an attempt to combat it, Eskel started a small fire in the fireplace even though it wouldn’t do much, but at least it wasn’t too cold out.

Out of the remaining journals he chose a small leatherbound one, the cover scratched and worn from use and time on the Path. It looked at is the Witcher who used it had bound it himself, the spine a bit wonky but usable and sturdy. Eskel couldn’t blame him for making his own, journals were expensive, and most didn’t have much excess coin laying around for something like that.

When he opened the journal he was surprised to see the all-too-familiar scrawlings of Lambert. Eskel didn’t even think he had ever kept a journal, it wasn’t really something Lambert had ever really been a fan of even though plenty of instructors had tried to talk him into keeping one for the first few years he was on the Path. The journal didn’t look more than ten years old given the state it was in, and Eskel hesitated as he decided whether to read it or not. It was different than the others. As far as he knew, Lambert was still alive unlike the others, and it was recent. It felt like an invasion of privacy but in the end, Eskel’s curiosity got the better of him and he began to read, although with some difficulty due to Lambert’s poor penmanship.  

                                                           ⋯

Before he knew it, Eskel had read the entire journal, feeling more melancholy than he had previously. Lambert at one point had a friend, a Cat witcher, with who he had been close. He’d never told Eskel about him, and it hurt a bit even though Eskel understood why. He wished that he could have at least met him before he had been killed, but there wasn’t anything they could do to change the past. Did Geralt know about him? Eskel doubted it, Lambert held so much close to his chest it was unlikely he had ever told Geralt, and if he did it was probably when both of them were blackout drunk.

Eskel let out a sigh, setting the journal on the shelf with the other he had read. He wasn’t exactly surprised that Lambert had made a friend on the Path, even though it was unconventional. Geralt had done that too. Eskel felt a bit like the odd man out, the only one of the three who traveled almost exclusively alone except for Scorpion. He was more reserved than either of them, and it’s not like he actively looked for friends. Being a Witcher made it difficult, but being one with gnarled scars across one half of his face made it even more so. He was content enough with the villagers tolerating his presence and accepting his coin, it was a safer bet than trying to make friends. He had his brothers and that was enough for him, but he knew his brothers had others, ones they cared about.

The normally large library suddenly felt stifling, so Eskel left in a hurry, not worrying too much about the fire. It would burn itself out, and they had known better than to put anything flammable near the fireplace when setting up the library. His feet guided him out, his brain too wrapped up in thought to really think as to where he was going. He desperately tried to convince himself that he was important to someone, even though his brain was telling him otherwise. His brothers had been there for him after Deidre, they had been with him while he healed. But that was the past. He hadn’t seen them in two years. Two years he had spent alone in Kaedwen, only hearing from either rarely if at all.

He was only jolted from his thoughts when he felt something cold brush against his neck. Eskel was outside, snow coming down fast and thick as the storm he had seen finally began to roll into this section of the mountains. He knew that it would be a good idea to go back inside, but he couldn’t bring himself to, instead leaning against one of the walls, watching the gate as if he expected one of his brothers to walk through it any second.

But he knew they wouldn't. Eskel would be spending another winter alone.

[lamentingpat]

When the Coward Speaks

In six months, Stede has grown a beard and obtained a proper ship again. His goal? To find Ed. And to apologize to him, even if it means that he'll get a sword through the gut again. 

Warnings: None Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet Rating: Teen Word Count: 2085

Read on Ao3   A/N: Here’s a playlist for the fic! 

Half a year it took for Stede and his crew to cross paths with the Revenge.

Half a year it took them to gather the funds to get ahold of the funds for a new ship, along with the usual threat of force. It was the only way to get a good deal these days, and it wasn’t as if they could rely on Stede’s wealth anymore. It was all burnt and gone, just like the past life he’d had. Both of them.

It didn’t take long for the Revenge to spot them too, and with the rumors that swirled around these days about Blackbeard being worse… Stede wasn’t about to take any chances, not when he needed to talk to Ed. “Hoist the white flag! I know you all are likely mad with him and his crew, but talking about our feelings is the best way to get this smoothed out. We’ll be aboard The Revenge in no time!” The grumbling protests of the crew were very much audible, but he opted to ignore them. They had the right to be mad, having been dumped on an island by Ed and his crew and separated from those they cared about. Oluwande had been acting different, as had Black Pete, both of them missing their partners, their fates unknown. The pirate life was dangerous, and both could easily be dead by now…

The white flag waved high above, The Revenge approaching rapidly with every second that passed. Stede’s heart was in his throat, hiding behind the angled edge of the fo’c’sle. He’d run through this scenario through his head so many times, and yet he wanted nothing more than to throw himself overboard instead of facing Ed. What was he going to say? ‘Sorry I abandoned you after confessing my love, I felt guilty about the wife and kids I left behind.’ Yeah, that wasn’t going to cut it.

Stede wanted to think his bravery had gotten better since he’d spent some time in his old family home, seeing that he had done a decent job at the fuckery that was faking his death. And the whole, accidentally threatening Doug after drinking far too much. But this… He had to face up to his mistakes yet again.

But before he could chicken out of the confrontation, Ed’s crew stormed aboard, knives and swords raised. A blade was being held against his neck in a second, the edge almost cutting into his skin. Stede turned his head slightly to see who was holding it to him but had to heavily rely on his peripheral vision.

“Izzy–”

“You’re lucky I was told I couldn’t kill you now, you bastard.”

“Nice to be in your company again too,” Stede retorted despite the fact that the sword was pressed even more into his neck, to the point that he knew only a little blood was being drawn. Brave face, Stede.

So that’s where Izzy was, but where was the rest of the crew? All of his own save for Oluwande were face down on the deck, easily wrangled to the ground by the competent crew Ed had assembled.

No, Oluwande and Jim were practically melded together with how close they were, guns being pointed at the both of them if one were to make a move. Stede was just glad they were reunited, they seemed to love each other deeply, enough that even half a year apart seemed to be like nothing when they saw each other again.

Frenchie was there too, but a knife was held to his chest by Fang. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together and assume his position on the crew (as well as Jim’s) wasn’t voluntary.

But where was Lucius? And Ed?

“Finally decided to show you face, Bonnet. Turns out you still wanted to be a pirate after all,” Ed’s voice came from outside Stede’s field of vision and it sounded wrong. The light-hearted nature, the friendliness, the love that it usually carried, gone in the wind like a feather in a windstorm.  

It didn’t take long for Stede to finally see him in his full glory, pushing Lucius forward with a knife tight to his throat. Black Pete looked terrified from where he stood with the rest of the crew, worried that he would lose Lucius again, but more permanently.  “You see, I tried to get rid of your pets half a year ago, only now did I find this stowaway. And I thought, ‘man, what a good way to welcome Bonnet back’! Finishing the job I thought was over after you left.” He bit out the last part, the pain and anger in his eyes clear to Stede even from where he stood. This was worse than he thought. “Ed–” “Blackbeard!” He was corrected immediately, and Stede could see the knife being pressed close to Lucius’ neck, who only seemed to keep his own speech in check from paralyzing fear. Izzy’s sword cut a little deeper into his own neck too.  

“Blackbeard, your grudge, your anger, it’s for me, not my crew. Let them go, but you can do whatever you like to me,” Stede could feel himself sweating bullets, his stomach flipping. Did Ed really want to kill him? Did he… Not love Stede anymore, not like how Stede still was enamored with him? “Please. Let them go.”

The strong stance and persona Ed had been putting on wavered, if only for just a moment. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t just kill you now.”

“Because I was in the area looking for you! I’m here to explain why I left, why I left you at the dock!” Stede started out strong in his conviction, desperate to be heard, to make sure his crew wouldn’t be killed. But he tapered in intensity towards the end, realizing that his plea could very likely be ignored, and this would finally be the true end of Stede Bonnet. But… Ed would listen to him, right? And Izzy was ever following Ed’s orders… “It wasn’t the guard you talked to who woke me up. It was Badminton, he reeked of alcohol but marched me out, pistol to my back. Before he was about to shoot, he said I was a monster who ruined beautiful things. Which– It meant you. You shaved your beard, abandoned the pirate lifestyle, all because of me. I was the one responsible for ruining Blackbeard, for ruining Ed. And it also meant my family.”

While Stede’s original crew didn’t react, it wasn’t a secret to them that he had left his family to be a pirate, Ed’s crew was surprised. It hadn’t been something he ever discussed openly, the guilt of leaving them weighed so heavily on his conscious that to speak about it would make it even more palpable.

But they didn’t dare speak. It was still Stede’s time.

“I was married at a young age to Mary. We weren’t in love, actually, we had never met until we had to get married. It was arranged, my family wanted her acreage, and her family wanted my inheritance. We… never did see eye to eye, never falling in love like some people did in arranged marriages, but we had two beautiful children. I– I never felt comfortable there, and on our anniversary, I revealed the idea for all of us to travel on a ship. This ship.

“Mary shot it down immediately. So… that night I left them. And I thought–” He stops, wanting to scrub a hand down his face, but couldn’t due to the fact that he was being held in place by Izzy’s sword. He would just have to continue. Stiff upper lip Stede, you owe Ed that at the very least.

“Badminton, he was so drunk he tripped and ended up shooting himself. I… was convinced he was right. That I had ruined you, and my family. So I went back to them to try and fix what I had done, to leave you to go back to the glory that you once had. Little did I know that they had flourished without me, and my wife she… She found love as I had. My kids, they had moved on. It took too long for me to realize that I didn’t fit in there anymore. So with their help, I faked my death, I relinquished my claim to my family’s wealth, and went to find you, and my crew. “I’m sorry, Ed. I really am. I don’t expect you to forgive me for leaving you on that beach but– I love you. I love you and I take full responsibility for what I did. I know that I hurt you.”

The anger on Ed’s face began to crumple, but the hurt remained. Stede knew that it likely wouldn’t leave for a while. But the knife that was pressed against Lucius’ neck clattered onto the deck, the man getting shoved over to the rest of the crew. Ed turned away from Stede, he couldn’t see the expression that always sat there plain as day. Neither Lucius nor Black Pete spoke above a whisper as they both had their hands all over the other, checking for any injuries or changes.

Something Stede longed to do to Ed, to touch him, to check him over carefully to see what had changed in the sixth months since they parted. But he couldn’t. “Let him go,” Ed finally croaked out. Though the black eye makeup obscured the areas around his eyes, the way it had begun to run down his cheeks was telling. Ed was crying.

Izzy hesitated, not moving his sword. He didn’t want to let Stede go. It was a predictable action, given his known hate for the man their captain had been enamored by, and maybe still was.

“Let him fucking go!” Ed roared after a few seconds of hesitation. It was terrifying, the true anger of Blackbeard that most of Stede’s crew hadn’t witnessed in person. Izzy seemed to stay cool under pressure though, finally dropping his sword and pushing Stede forward, sending him stumbling. He recovered his footing narrowly, nervously messing with his newly grown beard instead. Hopefully it looked good. Before his crew had lied to him before about things looking good, but he took their opinion this time at face value. It was hard not to be nervous as he looked now at Ed, who gave a sniff that further confirmed the fact that he was, or at least had been, crying.

“Did you mean it? When you said– When you said that you love me?” Ed’s voice was rough, cracking halfway through his question but had pressed on. He wanted to know. He still wasn’t sure that Stede was being genuine.

“I did. I’m unarmed, and I willing found you, even though it risked death for myself. Would I do that if I didn’t? You are worth that to me. I love you, Ed.”

That seemed to be the final straw, Ed rushing forward. Stede willed himself not to tense up, not to flinch away even though he wasn’t sure what Ed was about to do.

But it turned out he didn’t need to. Ed pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, and Stede was sure he could feel his ribs move but he was too relieved to care. Stede hugged him back just as tightly, feeling Ed’s face find its place in his shoulder. Surely his eye makeup would stain his shirt, but what did it matter? A stained shirt could be fixed and reused for something else.

“I missed you,” Stede murmured, something just for them to hear. “Every day when I was at my old home, I thought of you. Of the second life I had left behind. And… Once Mary and I were able to talk, properly talk, I asked her what it was like to be in love. She said it felt easy, and it was then I knew. I was a coward, and I won’t pretend that I’m not one now but this I couldn’t be a coward about.”

Ed sniffled into his shirt, only lifting his head enough so that his own voice wasn’t muffled as he kept the quiet tone. “I love you too. I’m still fucking mad at you… But I love you.”

“That’s ok. I deserve your anger, I’m just glad you didn’t stab me.”

“It’s still on the table if you leave again.”

A sigh.

“That’s fair.”

[lamentingpat]

A little delayed due to my health but here is the fic to go with Kartsie’s art! I had a great time working on this :) https://archiveofourown.org/works/48558202

One of my pieces for @batfam-big-bang feat. Jason and Tim being brothers with fic written by @lamentingpat

I had such a fun time with this and I’m so excited for everyone’s works!

[lamentingpat]

Family Traditions

After all is said and done, Ciri is about to head out the Path as a Witcher. However, her family brings up an old Witcher tradition that challenges her initial expectations. She wouldn't be leaving alone. 

Warnings: None Relationships: Coën & Eskel & Geralt of Rivia & Lambert Rating: Gen Word Count: 1901 

Read on AO3 

a/n: This was a late Hanukkah gift to a friend!  There is some mentions of drinking near the end, but all characters are of age!

The snow was finally beginning to melt on the mountain, all of the occupants of Kaer Morhen growing antsy, though for very different reasons. This year would be Ciri’s first official year on the Path, and all were excited, but some nervous, about how it would go.

Geralt especially was. This was his daughter, and though she was grown and could take care of herself, he worried about her. What she knew about Witchering was still not what it used to be. Things had changed over the years in an attempt to adapt to their lower numbers and the changing political climates.

He wasn’t good at hiding it either, double and triple-checking the saddlebags Ciri had left in the main hall, claiming they were all packed. It took both of his brothers to wrestle him away from the bags, claiming they both needed help making dinner for all of them. None of them were great in the kitchen but combined it was always a mixed bag of something barely edible or pretty decent. The idea that food was fuel had been drilled into their brains and long ago had learned to tune out the taste of what they ate. Ciri and Coën however weren’t so lucky.

“This has to be one of the worst things you’ve all made,” Ciri’s face was wrinkled in disgust, though she continued to eat the food. Long ago she had given up on turning down food that would be labeled as bad. Food was often too precious just to give up, no matter what it tasted like.

“She’s right, I don’t know how you managed to make these noodles overcooked and raw at the same time,” Coën said between forkfuls, grimacing a bit while doing so. His tastes were still average perhaps compared to Ciri, but even he knew it was bad.

Eskel, Lambert, and Geralt were all eating it without even so much of a second thought. Eskel and Geralt seemed to accept that their cooking was shitty, expressions even or even amused but Lambert…

“If you two are so good at cooking, then you two can handle meals until spring,” Lambert snarked back at them, shoving the food into his mouth in defiance as if it was good. Whether it was through spite or just practice, Lambert didn’t so much as flinch as he ate. It was honestly probably just a mix of both.

Ciri rolled her eyes. “How old are you again? You’re acting like your seven though you’re like… eighty,” Which earned a mock gasp from her uncle.

“You wound me! You think I’m eighty?” One of his hands flew to his chest to emphasize his fake shock. Overemphasizing his expressions, Lambert practically flopped onto Coën, who sat beside him. “Did you hear that Coën, the kid thinks you’re eighty!”

Now it was Coën’s turn to roll his eyes, but he didn’t shove Lambert off of him. “I can hear just fine, and she was just calling you eighty. Think all that hair grease has aged you a decade,” Sticking his hand into Lambert’s gunky hair and messing it up with his hand. Coën then quickly wiped his hand onto Lambert’s trousers, getting the hair grease on them before Lambert was the one shoving him away.

“Play nice, we’re still at the table,” Eskel finally spoke up, setting his fork onto the now empty plate. Years ago it would have been Vesemir keeping the order at the table but… He wasn’t there anymore. Someone had to step up for that position, and since Eskel got into the least amount of fights it meant that he was the one who did.

Though he ceased his shoving, Lambert stuck his tongue out at Coën, Ciri, and then finally at Eskel for stopping his roughhousing. With one hand he attempted to get his hair slicked back again to no avail, the other hand going back to shoveling his food back into his mouth to finish. His antics put him as the last one still eating, an abnormality in their usual routine.

No one was scrambling to leave though, they really didn’t have much to do this late, and all of them were a bit sore from the practice drills they had done earlier today. The cleaning of one of the old wings didn’t exactly help, but they all were still amped up after practice and needed something to keep themselves busy. Plus, they were able to find some more spare potion jars for the upcoming year, which was always a good thing. More often than not they ended up getting broken or lost and were a pain in the ass to replace while on the Path.

Not to mention that all the elder Witchers had come to an agreement earlier, still not yet having shared this new change in plans with Ciri. They knew she wasn’t going to react well to it, at least not at first.  

Geralt was the one who finally decided to bring it up, not waiting for Lambert to finish eating yet. It was the best way to keep them all at the table, especially to ensure that Lambert wouldn’t immediately fuck off once Ciri got mad or if it got awkward.

“So, this will be your first year on the Path,” Geralt starts, idly twirling his fork in hand. He hesitated to look Ciri in the eyes, rather looking in her direction instead. “And, well, we’re going with you.” The room quickly became tense, the feeling hanging around everyone like a thick Skelligan fog. Both Coën and Lambert’s eyes flitted between Geralt and Ciri, waiting for her to respond while Lambert still continued to chew his gross noodles.

The slamming of Ciri’s palms on the wooden table was enough to confirm she was pissed. She was now standing, hands splayed in front of her as she looked down at her father. “I’m an adult, I don’t need the four of you to go with me. I’ve been on my own before, I can handle it–”

“No one said you couldn’t, Ciri,” Eskel stepped in quickly before it escalated any further, hoping to curb the fight as much as possible. “It’s not because of you, it’s because of Witcher tradition.”

“Why, ‘cause I’m a woman?” Ciri all but snarled at Eskel, still not calming down. Eskel flinched slightly as he realized how what he said was easily misconstrued.

“No, it had nothing to do with the fact you’re a woman,” Geralt stepped in again, having seemed to recover from the initial shock of Ciri’s reaction, as expected as it had been. He always tried his best not to upset her like that, she’d been let down by enough people in her life. Geralt wasn’t going to add himself to the list. Though Ciri was the first female Wolf Witcher, she was hardly the first woman Witcher.

“It really is tradition. Back in the Golden Age of Witchers, certain schools would travel in groups. It was the best way to ensure our own safety, meant we could take on larger contracts without the risk that would come with doing one alone. Eskel and I got to do it before the tradition was disbanded due to our numbers. Lambert and Coën were too young, they only have walked the Path alone. We can split up later on if you really don’t want to travel with us, but at least let us travel down with you to Ard Carraigh,” Geralt finished, leaving everyone else quiet for a moment.

The anger that had been clear as day on Ciri’s expression quickly petered out as she realized it was more old men being sentimental rather than overprotective. Sure, part of it probably was to be able to make sure she’d be ok, but that’s kinda what family did, right? She may have had chaos, but in terms of her physical advantages, the other Witchers had a leg up on her.

Yes, she had eaten the mushrooms in the time she had spent at Kaer Morhen, but as for their ‘trials’, she hadn’t gone any further. Geralt would rather throw his life away than put Ciri through that hell, going through them twice had been enough to convince him of that long ago.

“Kid, it means you get more experience actually using our shit, it’s a good thing. Best way to avoid getting your ass accidentally kicked ‘cause you mixed up your Draconid oil and your Wraith oil,” Lambert finally butted in, having finished his food.

“Well, I know that now,” Ciri leaned over and shoved Lambert’s shoulder light-heartedly. “Fine, we can travel together to Ard Carraigh and I’ll decide then. Who’s going to look after the Keep though?” It probably could be left alone for a bit but until next season? It would be in a sorry shape.

“I’ll be going with you all until Ard Carraigh, there’s stuff I have to pick up there for Kaer Morhen. Decided I should be the one to take care of it since Geralt’s got his vineyard to worry about,” Eskel was smiling a bit, but that didn’t stop Ciri from feeling a bit bad. Eskel would be alone for the rest of the year, while the rest of them possibly traveled together across the continent. Ever the perceptive one, Eskel seemed to pick up on this. “Don’t worry too much about me Ciri, no one forced me into this. We probably would have just rotated who took care of the keep every year.”

It helped a bit, but Ciri would still miss traveling with him. Hopefully Lambert would be able to get out more of his energy while on the Path so he wouldn’t need to start wrestling matches nearly every day to get it out. It had been fine at first but with the restless energy, they all had they’d been getting more and more violent. Lambert still had to fix that chair he broke by throwing Geralt into it.

“I think this is a good reason to bring out the booze!” Lambert declared, getting up from his seat, leaving his dirty plate with Coën, who’d been slowly collecting everyone’s soiled cutlery.  

Geralt sighed and shook his head, Eskel chuckling at his younger brother’s antics. “Only if you clean up the dishes come tomorrow. Know you, you’re going to give us all awful hangovers with your hooch. And you can’t leave them to Coën, he’s still our guest here.” “You’re just being a tightass about it ‘cause you’re a lightweight, Eskel. Coën’s practically one of us now, Griffin or not,” Lambert was already halfway to his stash, shouting behind him back to Eskel.

“Can’t say I didn’t try,” Eskel sighed, picking up his glass of weak mead and taking a sip. “Just have to make sure we don’t accidentally switch mugs again.” Ciri rolled her eyes at her uncle. “I’m not eight, I’ll be fine. You need to worry about not falling asleep. I take back what I said about Uncle Lambert being old, I think you’re the oldest here.” “Eh, technically he is,” Geralt added with a shrug, finishing off his glass of mead so that he could fill it with the hooch Lambert was bringing back with some White Gull.

“And you wonder why I chose to stay,” Eskel mumbled into his mug, though he couldn’t easily hide his smile from the rest of them.

[lamentingpat]

Dust

After the Battle of Kaer Morhen, Lambert doesn't return to the keep for a few years even after he split from Keira due to differences in goals. He never thought that his return would be like this.

Warnings: Major Character Death Implied Relationships: Eskel & Lambert Rating: Teen Word Count: 1641 

Read on AO3 

Fuck this. Fuck this goddamn shithole in the middle of nowhere. Fifty crowns. Fifty fucking crowns for a mated pair of Griffins. Even as he worked his knife through bone and cartilage, it didn’t help mitigate his growing anger. He was still shit on the world’s shoe even though Witchers had saved it, now barely scraping by like he always did. Why would he be living any other way? It’s not like he had much of a choice about what he was and how he made his living at this point. Fucked over by too many people and hurt just as many to live peacefully.

He should have stayed with Kiera, but he wasn’t fucking Geralt and there was no way he was going to get mixed up with all the political shit she wanted to do. Wasn’t finding the cure for the Catriona plague enough? Lambert would rather die than admit it but he should have followed Eskel’s advice, but getting mixed up with a sorceress was never a good idea, even if they did save your life. It was stupid of him to think something like that would last anyways, everyone always left just like they had warned him back in the early days when he had decided that shoving everyone away first would be the way to protect himself. It was his fucking fault, he let Kiera get too close, just like he had with Aiden and now he was paying for it until something finally killed him.

At least when he was alone he didn’t have to worry about being dirty. He was covered in a disgusting mix of entrails, blood (both his own and the Griffins’), and what he thought was dirt but wasn’t completely sure. It’d come out fine when he would dunk himself into a stream later, but he couldn’t be assed to do it before he got payment. Maybe it would help him actually get paid the fifty crowns, Lambert didn’t need to be skimped on pay twice in the past few days. Hell, he would even go down to Toussaint if it meant he was paid what he was due and he hated it there. The last thing he needed was to be in a place that sung praises about his brother, he heard enough of it already. Pretty boy was everyone’s favorite, but that isn’t really surprising is it?

With the heads safely tucked away in an oilskin bag, he started on his way back to town, fists clenching and unclenching with each step he took. One of the poor trees near his campsite was definitely getting a beating by the end of this. The release would be worth the sore knuckles for the next few days, Witcher healing was good but it wasn’t that good. He could already hear his brothers’ comments about it being reckless, and he didn’t give a shit. They hadn’t seen him since the funeral, so what did it matter? They weren’t going to see him in the next few days and it wasn’t like he was going to spill all his secrets to them if they did finally cross paths. Geralt had his secrets, Eskel has his own, and Lambert could have fucking his, bruised knuckles or not.

It’s not like he was hiding anything important. Destiny had dropped his ass as soon as he’d been spirited away to Kaer Morhen all those years ago. At least Lambert has to balls to admit he was bitter about Destiny, it was glorified enough by everyone else but he fucking wouldn’t. Not when he had seen how it had marred his brothers’ lives in so many ways. Destiny hadn’t been there when Eskel had been hurting after Deidre, Lambert had. No, it was content with ripping people away and open and was even crueler by making Eskel stay in that goddamn keep in his own.

Sure, free choice and all that bullshit, but Lambert couldn’t think of a worse torture than being stuck in that old ruin. You could practically smell the pain and fear in some of the rooms even centuries after the Trials had finally ended, the smell alone had almost made him vomit when he was hit with it. The keep was a shell that still held those awful memories, and if Destiny had actually been kind it would have wiped it from the face of the earth already. Witchers were a thing of the past.

                                                           𝌀

Lambert got his fifty crowns. The townspeople had stared and shrunk away from his filth but he didn’t care. He spent half the money on what rations he could get, although obviously the prices were hiked even more steeply for a Witcher. Didn’t matter, he couldn’t skimp on food. Sure, he could hunt and fish just as well as his brothers but there were only so many days in a row he could eat deer jerky without eventually getting sick of it.

At times like this, he missed traveling with someone else. Lambert could cook, he could, no matter what anyone else said but that didn’t mean he liked it more than when others did it. Years ago Coёn had complained how his noodles were lumpy, which he wouldn’t deny they were, but he would give anything to have those now instead of the hardtack he was choking down.

The white gull helped with downing it, but he only allowed himself a little. He may be camping in the woods, alone except for the stray squirrel but he didn’t have the luxury to deplete his gull that much. He would have to stock up at the next herbalist’s shop, the fall chill was already decimating the Arenaria blooms that survived the summer heat. They were already scarce in Velen, but now it was near impossible to find.

Really the best place he could get it would be Oxenfurt or Ard Carriagh, and neither was ideal. Oxenfurt was full of sniveling brats from families with too much money, flaunting about proclaiming to be one of the best scholars in the continent but couldn’t tell you the difference between a wolf and a warg. Not to mention the prices were fucked since rich kids had no concept of how much a crown really cost. Ard Carraigh was better, but the thought of somehow running into Eskel made the burn of the white gull in his mouth go sour from guilt. It would cost less but put him closer to Kaer Morhen than he’d been in years. He didn’t have much coin to throw around, so Ard Carraigh it was.

                                                        𝌀

He hadn’t planned on wintering at Kaer Morhen. Without a horse, travel took him longer, Witcher stamina or not. It didn’t exactly help that he got caught up on a contract, because Lambert, of fucking course, took the one where they actually wanted to cure someone. Thank Melitele’s saggy tits that he had been able to, but now he was all but trapped in the Blue Mountains as a snowstorm was beginning to roll in.

It didn’t take him that long to get to the keep. He didn’t stop, didn’t really need to. Walking everywhere had its perks, he was in better shape since he didn’t spend most of the day with his ass on a horse like his brothers did. It fucking sucked, but he was finally back at Kaer Morhen. Not willingly, but he could put up with the swarm of feelings that festered in his chest until the pass cleared.

When he got to the gate he was surprised to see that the hole in the gate still hadn’t been patched. Guess Eskel was working on something else, or gods forbid, he was getting lazy. Lambert would never let him hear the end of it if Eskel was truly slacking, he’d heard enough of his brother’s bitching through the decades about Lambert’s own work ethic. He pushed the speculation aside as he walked in, going through the empty corridor to the outer courtyard.

Oddly enough he didn’t see any of the goats, which Lambert swore were at least some part Chort from how viciously they consumed one of his good pairs of breeches years back. The weeds that sprung through the old brick looked like they hadn’t been culled by the goats in a while, which was the first indication that something else was going on. The goats usually rotated the areas they were in, and there’s no way that this courtyard would fall into such a state of disrepair with Eskel here.

Lambert broke out into a sprint, scaling the walls with ease from experience, his years away doing nothing to dampen the muscle memory he had of running the walls every winter. He only picked up speed the main courtyard when he saw the training swords sitting on their rack, rusting. It only made his thoughts race even faster. Had Eskel left? Did Geralt ever come back?

He all but crashed into the main doors, stumbling into the large table they used for meals. Everything was covered in a layer of dust, untouched for an indeterminate amount of time. Lambert’s panic morphed into dread when he saw something familiar hanging off one of the chairs that had been dragged from the remnants of the library.

There sat Eskel’s red and black gambeson, covered in the same layer of dust that coated everything else. The sheath of his silver sword sat on the cushion of the chair, the sword gone. He never would just up and leave without either of those unless-

Eskel was gone. Like Voltehre. Like Coën and Leo. Like Vesemir. Even Aiden. He would likely never find Eskel’s body.

A Witcher never dies in his bed. Lambert was a fool to think that any of his brothers would be an exception to that rule.

[lamentingpat]

Silence in a Vacant Room

Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia is dead, leaving Reynard alone to look back on his feelings towards her, and how he's spent decades of his life. 

Warnings: Referenced/Implied Character Death Relationships: Meve/Reynard Odo (one-sided) Rating: Gen Word Count: 1453 

Read on AO3   A/N: This is based on the song 'I Saw Her as She Came and Went' by Ann Mayo Muir and other artists! You can listen to it here

Reynard Odo was loyal to a fault. That was a fact well known in the high society circles, and at times it had been seen as a weakness. Reynard thought it showed he had an actual backbone. He stuck to his morals, his values , and offered guidance to Her Majesty based on them. It was the best he could possibly do in his situation. So he had taken steps to avoid compromising that once his feelings had gotten involved.

He’d started working under Reginald young, young enough that Reginald still hadn’t yet married Meve. But he still remembered the first time he had seen her.

It hadn’t been his place to be involved in Reginald’s decision to marry. No, the first time he saw the future queen was on her wedding day.

She… hadn’t looked very happy. At the time he’d wondered if it was because of the dress. While beautiful, it didn’t look comfortable, but Reynard had no frame of reference. He’d never worn a dress, especially not one of that caliber either. Her hair, though neat, seemed like it was just barely being tamed by the style. The dress left her arms exposed and he was surprised to see bruises and scrapes, ones that he was all too familiar with from sparring.

Soon he found out it wasn’t just that the dress could have been stiff. Reginald and Meve came into conflict often early on, Meve resenting the traditional roles that were put on a wife, especially that of the king. Though she acted them out dutifully, there seemed to be no love between the two of them. Reynard had heard that was common among some nobles when a marriage was arranged.

But it was bad enough that Reginald had turned to Reynard in an attempt to get more advice after a few failed attempts at reconciliation, though Reynard had little to no experience with women at this time. His guess was likely to be worse than Reginald’s.

After thinking about it for a while, Reynard made a suggestion. He had remembered seeing the sparring bruises and scrapes. Though he had little interaction with the Queen, he thought that perhaps maybe she enjoyed battles and fighting more than they had thought. She was related to the Lioness of Cintra, distant as it may be. Reynard suggested a suit of armor. Beautiful, fitting for the young queen, but effective in protecting her if she were to ever accompany Reginald to the battlefield or even alone.

Despite it feeling like a shot in the dark, Reynard’s suggestion had worked. It was a turning point in Reginald and Meve’s relationship. The tension felt in the castle lessened, and soon all but dissipated with time.

Soon after Reynard was sent to Rivia on behalf of Reginald, most of his time was spent in Lyria with Meve, though he did see them that winter when they traveled down to the castle.

She was pregnant then, with their first son, heavily so. He had also heard it was a difficult first pregnancy, apparently common for many when it’s their first child. Reginald was… distant at times but affectionate from what little Reynard saw. It wasn’t unknown that Reginald wasn’t a faithful man, but at the very least he was devoted to his wife.

Reynard knew also that he had rose-tinted glasses on when it came to the king. He’d saved Reynard’s life, and for that, he was eternally in his debt for his forgiveness. All he could do was hope that Reginald was as kind to her as Reynard thought he was.

Later that winter a baby boy was born, rosy-cheeked and healthy. They named him Villem, and now they both had an official heir to the throne, as small and defenseless as he was. Though his care was often relegated to the nursemaid, Meve spent plenty of time with him too. One would think motherhood would soften a woman like Meve, but that’s where you would be wrong. She was just as much of an imposing figure and having a baby resting on her hip didn’t do anything to soften that.

Villem’s birth kept them in this castle longer than either monarch wanted, but once he was a few months older, they traveled back up to Lyria together. Reynard stayed in Rivia until the following year. It… had been a lonely year.

That felt like a lifetime ago to Reynard. Villem was all grown up now, sewing chaos along the border with Nilfgaard. He had only just started doing so again, assigning Reynard to hold the administrative side together while he finished his work. He had returned to the castle only momentarily, enough time to grieve and be crowned before he went back.

Years ago Reynard would have been worried, but he’d seen how Villem had grown since his initial poorly made political decisions, and at the very least Reynard was still there to assist…

He had promised Meve to look out for her son, just as Reginald had asked him to do the same for Meve decades earlier.

In what little free time he had, Reynard found himself standing aimlessly at the window in his chamber. It overlooked the garden, which had gone grey during the winter months. It reflected the mood he was in, feeling like a shell of what he used to be.  

Meve had been younger than him by a few years, and her family tree was known to be a long-lived one, and yet… She had passed before him.

Reynard had left so much unsaid. In truth, he had loved Meve.

He had loved her more than he was even willing to admit to himself but never had he confessed this to anyone. How could he? It was his job to be there for the crown, regardless of his feelings, and to jeopardize that would have been breaking his personal oath.

So instead he loved her from afar. Reynard was her ever-present companion through thick and thin, supporting her, and in turn the kingdom, in any way he could. Even if it was just over small matters, he was always willing to be there for her.

He never sought to marry another. How could he? His life was entangled in the constantly busy political affairs of a kingdom. Reynard barely had any free time save for the few moments he got alone, often shorter than any other would like. But that was his life. It was to serve the throne.

It made it all the easier to explain why he never wed. Yes, earlier in his life it had just been due to disinterest, but as he had gotten to know Meve… It was now due to his love for the Queen that truly held him. But he was ok with that, content to just be around her. Her presence was enough of a balm on his aching heart, and for him, that was enough.

And now that was gone. Now he stood mourning at his window, not just for the love he had lost or the Queen, but for his friend, close confidant, and anchor. Reynard felt a bit adrift, moving through the same motions since the funeral had happened.

It had been a solemn affair with a large attendance, probably one larger than Meve would have expected. Her impact on the kingdom and those surrounding it had been large, for better or for worse.

Even Dandelion had come, whether it be out of respect to her or just the amount of coin he had been offered. Nevertheless, he’d performed, and the sad ballad still haunted Reynard’s thoughts.

"I come again and in her place

A silence and a vacant room

And in my heart a sudden gloom

That I no more shall see

No more shall see her face

There was a word I might have said

But what it was I do not know

I let the days fly by and now

Now I must say it to

Must say it to her dead"

Reynard was not ashamed to say he cried during her funeral and the song. A mark of a good soldier and man was to admit his weaknesses and fault, and that vulnerability had shown through. Nothing he could do about that now. All he could do now was push forward, even though the love he still held onto felt like an open wound. Only time could heal that, however long that may be. At the very least he didn’t feel any regret at his actions. He could live with the pain, in his life being friends with Meve had given him more than enough joy.

He only hoped he had brought Meve some too.

[lamentingpat]

Day at the Orphanage

Alone once again, Geralt settles in at Corvo Bianco, living a life he never imaged himself having. One day he passes by a local orphanage and ends up spending time there and bringing things for the kids. He can't help but reflect on his life, past and present, and whether he deserves the life he's living. 

Warnings: None  Relationships: Geralt of Rivia & Original Character(s) Rating: Gen Word Count: 1321 

Read on AO3 

a/n: During my playthrough of the Blood and Wine DLC, I realized there was an orphanage not too far from Corvo Bianco, and it spawned this ficlet! (Only did I learn later that it serves a purpose in the story depending on your choices, but I'm not going to spoil anyone.)

Witchers never die in their beds. That was a line that Geralt had heard since he was young, young enough that it still echoed in his head almost a hundred years later. He was still here. He had lived through everything, he had even raised a daughter, which had probably been the hardest thing he had ever done.

It’s not as if his work was ever truly done, there were only so many Witchers out there still and just as many monsters, but he knew he was slowing down. Whenever the weather began to turn his joints ached, adding to the pain he already felt in his knee and sword arm almost daily. He was lucky, even though he was in pain, he was still alive, and that was what mattered.

Those like him never got good endings, Geralt knew that painfully well from seeing so many of his brothers die, but a small part of him hoped he would, grasping onto the notion firmly. That’s why he found himself at Corvo Bianco most of the year, doing work in the surrounding area of Toussaint. At times he was embarrassed that he was allowing himself something like this, the comfort of a home and warm bed every night, but the easing of the dull ache in his chest when there overpowered his embarrassment by miles. It felt right, spending time with B.B. and Marlene, checking in on the other vineyards, living as close to ‘normal’ as he could.

What felt most right was when he visited the Orphanage. He hadn’t originally planned to visit, but one day when he was riding back to Corvo Bianco he recognized what the plain building was when he heard the delighted screams of children as they played in the almost barren yard. The next thing he knew, he was donating his extra crowns to the woman in charge, having seen the poorly fitting clothes and some thin-looking faces.

Soon he was visiting near every week as long as there was no contract, food and gifts for the children in tow. Their enthusiasm and bright eyes were a nice sight, it reminded him of when Ciri had been much younger and training at Kaer Morhen. He hadn’t been back there since the battle, and he hadn’t seen either of his brothers since. Maybe it was shame that kept him from going back, or maybe it was grief. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he returned one winter to find that he had another buried brother, so in Toussaint he stayed.

Geralt picked up hobbies. He had never had time for those before. Soon the children were getting hand-carved items, starting out crude and slowly growing more refined over time. Little Colve carried hers with her everywhere, showing off the cat with a notch in its ear that Geralt had modeled after one of the tabbies that meandered around Corvo Bianco. It was nice to feel appreciated, even if the girl didn’t realize who he was, what he was. The people of Toussaint were kinder to Witchers, but even the best places had pockets of poison towards those not fully human. Most places were okay, but Geralt never could shake the fact that he wasn’t human. He never would.  

Even in his happier moments, he was reminded of it. “Sir, why are your eyes like that?” A curious voice had asked him one day. Geralt looked up from the log he had all but collapsed on, his now lighter satchel sitting on his lap. The boy looked no older than ten, although Geralt couldn’t be sure. His grasp on human aging was ok, but not that precise. After a while, certain age groups tended to blend together. The boy was new to the orphanage, and from what he could tell, was one of the quieter ones. Maybe he was still adjusting, but Geralt wouldn’t know, he barely remembered what it was like when he arrived at Kaer Morhen or what the other boys had been like. His memories before the trials were… sparse at best.

“I’m… I’m a Witcher,” He answered after he had processed his initial shock. In years past his hair had been an indicator of his inhumanness, but Geralt wouldn’t deny that he was getting old, so having white hair wasn’t exactly unexpected. His muscles tensed, waiting for fear, or even anger from the boy but he just kept staring. Surely he knew what a Witcher was? For hundreds of years, they had been the source of tall tales used to keep children in line, because what child would want to be spirited away by a monster with cat eyes that almost looked like a man.

“But sir, you’re too old. You have white hair,” The boy finally said, staring at him in confusion. Did he really look that old? Sure, Geralt had never been big on the whole ‘taking care of yourself’ thing, but most Witchers weren’t. It always boiled down to just surviving and that took up most of their effort. Not all of them were reckless, well, mainly Eskel. If Geralt had learned anything over the years, it was that he was more reckless than he thought he was but was too stubborn to admit it out loud. Especially not around his family, he would have never heard the end of it if he did.

“I’ve had white hair since I was young,” Was the best reply he can muster, breaking eye contact with the boy. Geralt had never been great at eye contact, but now he couldn’t bear to keep it up as his thoughts churned in his head worse than his stomach after too much White Gull. He couldn’t look that old, he’d been told plenty of times that he still looked relatively young by human standard… “Witchers don’t get old, that’s what my Pa used to say,” Which… was not entirely false. Few of them had the luxury to live that long. Vesemir had been one of the few, and Geralt had even thought at one point that he would end up being the one Witcher to finally break the old saying. He’d been wrong, foolish really, to think that Vesemir wouldn’t die in combat.

“And why did he say that?” Geralt asked before he could stop himself, his curiosity winning over his better judgment. He knew better than to ask about peasant rumors related to Witchers, it usually was all just lies that ended up causing more harm than good. It was still hard to look at the boy, but Geralt did, giving him the proper attention as he explained what he had been told. “Witchers fight monsters and monsters are strong,” The boy stated what he knew proudly and Geralt gave him a small forced smile. The boy was old enough to know what death was. But, he was still too young to know that what he said was technically true, even if the monsters that killed them most were the ones they were supposed to help protect. A cruel irony, really.

“Monsters are strong. This is from one,” He gestured to the left of his face, referencing the large scar that carved through his forehead down to his cheek. The boy’s face lit up in excitement, realizing that Geralt wasn’t lying to him about being a Witcher. It wasn’t a new reaction, Geralt had seen many kids get excited when meeting a Witcher, usually the younger ones. They didn’t yet understand why people were afraid of them, since how can someone who fights the monsters be bad?

“Can you make me a dragon?” Geralt had completely forgotten the wood he had in one of his hands until the boy brought up the dragon. Right. Carving. He could do that. Much less complicated than what he’d been thinking about previously. “Sure. If you sit with me I’ll tell you how I met one.”

[lamentingpat]

I finished this late last night, and what better month to start promoting my writing than pride month!