[ The story set Geralt's amber eyes alight, intrigued, and he leaned forward a little, this time taking only a distracted sip of wine to wet his mouth when it had gone suddenly dry. ]
Did you get--
[ Geralt had been about to say 'justice', but paused. Maia was as slender and slight as Ciri. Looked to be about the same age.
He imagined the figure across the table walking through a grand hall like that of Emhyr var Emreis, unaware that the polished stones beneath his feet had been the headstones of his enemy's enemies.
It made his heart lurch a little. ]
Are you safe, at least? Insomuch as you can be?
[ But the rest was familiarly calming. He puffed a low chuckle of a laugh. In his deep chest, it rumbled like the threat of distant thunder. ]
I'm not brave. Any more or less than any other man, I figure. Just old enough to have the benefit of experience.
[ But there was a cant to his smile, a gleam in his eye that acknowledged the compliment, and was grateful, before his attention twitched briefly away. The shadow which passed over his face was swift, there and gone again as if a bird had been wheeling overhead. ]
I... you're right. We can't. But you can't... save everyone. You can't protect everyone, however much you try. There will always be times that you're just too late. That all your best efforts just... aren't enough. People usually only seek my help after someone's perished. More often than not, I come back having found more bodies. Or worse, saying there's nothing I or anyone can do, and they need to flee their homes or perish.
[ He waved a hand and shook his head, brows furrowing as he considered how best to clarify. ]
I'm.... it's not really.... hm. It's more complicated than that: I never had a choice. I'm a Witcher. Bear with me; I'll explain what that means.
[ He took in a deep breath, and spread his hands, clearly trying to give the elaboration a thoughtful but honest treatment. ]
When I was a child, I was a human. When I was young, maybe at four or five, an older Witcher helped my mother, or her family. Instead of taking the coin that was his due, he took me. By an ancient laws writ in blood and magic, Witchers may do this from time to time, because they are all by nature sterile. More of their kind are made, not born, through great pain, and grim magic.
I was kept with a gaggle of other boys in a stony keep built into a mountain, months' travel from all civilization. We were taught to fight, and how to eat moss and lichens and bugs. Stripped down to animal instinct and hunger, to help blot out all memories of the past. Some die; and then the training gets harder, 'till a group of ten or twelve are whittled maybe to four. The things you eat, they're all hallucinogens, so you're never certain what's... what's real. At some point, when only one or two of the strongest are left, you're bound down in a ceremonial chamber, and changed. Like someone bleeding you dry, just to pour scalding magic through your veins instead. So you can see spirits of dead things drifting through moonlight and speak their tongue; so you can taste the sweat of different men on the air from a mile away. So your bones don't break like a normal man's when a werewolf bites your shoulder and shakes you like a little girl's doll. Keeps your teeth sharp enough to bite back.
I don't hunt like men hunt deer, or hares; for food or the joy of it. I hunt like the sun rises, like the wind flows, and like rain falls. It's what I am, more than what I do. It's what I was made to be, no different from how a bridge is made, or a building, or a sword. To serve a purpose. I can stop, maybe even for as long as a few weeks, try to put down roots--
But my feet will always lead me away. Long enough between, and it becomes... maddening. Like an obsession, or a hunger you can never be rid of, forever gnawing at the inside of you, 'till you can't think two thoughts in your own head in peace.
[ His mouth twisted ruefully, made a crooked smile, ]
no subject
Did you get--
[ Geralt had been about to say 'justice', but paused. Maia was as slender and slight as Ciri. Looked to be about the same age.
He imagined the figure across the table walking through a grand hall like that of Emhyr var Emreis, unaware that the polished stones beneath his feet had been the headstones of his enemy's enemies.
It made his heart lurch a little. ]
Are you safe, at least? Insomuch as you can be?
[ But the rest was familiarly calming. He puffed a low chuckle of a laugh. In his deep chest, it rumbled like the threat of distant thunder. ]
I'm not brave. Any more or less than any other man, I figure. Just old enough to have the benefit of experience.
[ But there was a cant to his smile, a gleam in his eye that acknowledged the compliment, and was grateful, before his attention twitched briefly away. The shadow which passed over his face was swift, there and gone again as if a bird had been wheeling overhead. ]
I... you're right. We can't. But you can't... save everyone. You can't protect everyone, however much you try. There will always be times that you're just too late. That all your best efforts just... aren't enough. People usually only seek my help after someone's perished. More often than not, I come back having found more bodies. Or worse, saying there's nothing I or anyone can do, and they need to flee their homes or perish.
[ He waved a hand and shook his head, brows furrowing as he considered how best to clarify. ]
I'm.... it's not really.... hm. It's more complicated than that: I never had a choice. I'm a Witcher. Bear with me; I'll explain what that means.
[ He took in a deep breath, and spread his hands, clearly trying to give the elaboration a thoughtful but honest treatment. ]
When I was a child, I was a human. When I was young, maybe at four or five, an older Witcher helped my mother, or her family. Instead of taking the coin that was his due, he took me. By an ancient laws writ in blood and magic, Witchers may do this from time to time, because they are all by nature sterile. More of their kind are made, not born, through great pain, and grim magic.
I was kept with a gaggle of other boys in a stony keep built into a mountain, months' travel from all civilization. We were taught to fight, and how to eat moss and lichens and bugs. Stripped down to animal instinct and hunger, to help blot out all memories of the past. Some die; and then the training gets harder, 'till a group of ten or twelve are whittled maybe to four. The things you eat, they're all hallucinogens, so you're never certain what's... what's real. At some point, when only one or two of the strongest are left, you're bound down in a ceremonial chamber, and changed. Like someone bleeding you dry, just to pour scalding magic through your veins instead. So you can see spirits of dead things drifting through moonlight and speak their tongue; so you can taste the sweat of different men on the air from a mile away. So your bones don't break like a normal man's when a werewolf bites your shoulder and shakes you like a little girl's doll. Keeps your teeth sharp enough to bite back.
I don't hunt like men hunt deer, or hares; for food or the joy of it. I hunt like the sun rises, like the wind flows, and like rain falls. It's what I am, more than what I do. It's what I was made to be, no different from how a bridge is made, or a building, or a sword. To serve a purpose. I can stop, maybe even for as long as a few weeks, try to put down roots--
But my feet will always lead me away. Long enough between, and it becomes... maddening. Like an obsession, or a hunger you can never be rid of, forever gnawing at the inside of you, 'till you can't think two thoughts in your own head in peace.
[ His mouth twisted ruefully, made a crooked smile, ]
But that's pretty damn grim dinner conversation.