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henry-cavill-baby · 4 years ago

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Mark of the Witcher ┃ 1

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Original Female Character

Warnings: Little Violence

Length: 3k~

Summary: It was legend amongst the Witcher’s of Kaer Morhen, and not one had donned such a thing for centuries. Some thought it had come from the Conjunction of the Spheres, or perhaps a cruel sorceress out to end the Witcher line.

Unfortunately, Geralt dons the Mark on his left shoulder, and for only when the first born of Pavetta enters the world, does it begin to all make sense. He doesn’t really understand what it means, or really know where his destiny lies, but with Jaskier at his side, he will find the girl who lies within the Cintran walls and is meant to be his.

And not even Queen Calanthe can stop him… right?

Through the halls of the Cintran Castle, Pavetta wailed as though she were dying, and in truth, that is how she felt.

They had all known this day would come to pass, that the child would have to be born, but as Duny paced outside his wife’s chambers, biting the quick of his nails, he did not think he could bear it for one moment more.

It seemed as though the entire castle and its people were put on hold; those outside pressing their ears to the walls, wanting to hear the first cry of the new child.

Calanthe, the Queen of Cintra, gripped her daughter’s hand. “Push, my sweet. Bring my granddaughter to this world.”

But sweat continued to pour down Pavetta’s face, her tears staining the silken sheets below. I want my husband, please, bring me Duny.

She’d wept her pleas, but they went ignored. Men were not welcome during birth, and this time would be no different.

When another painful feeling went through Pavetta, she screamed, and her cries shattered the bedroom walls. The nurse patted a damp rag on her clammy skin, but it did little to help. She felt as though she were being torn apart from the inside, her organs and intestines ready to slip out with the child.

“You’re close,” Calanthe insisted. “Just a little longer.”

But Pavetta squirmed against the soft sheets on the feathered bed, whimpering, “I—can’t. It hurts—I can’t.”

The Queen gripped her daughter’s hand, “You can, Pavetta. You’re almost there, just push, darling, keep pushing.”

After what seemed like an eternity, Pavetta gave one last push followed by a weak cry, echoing her child’s fierce wail. My child, she looked between her legs at the nurse cleaning off her baby, my sweet Aleira.

The small pruned child wept for her mother’s arms, and Pavetta was all too ready to accept her to her breast but the pain of birth ceased her consciousness, and the handmaiden worked to clean off the unconscious woman—wiping away the sweat and tears of birth, but saving the placenta for later consumption.

It would no doubt be baked into a sweet meat pie for Pavetta’s first meal as a mother.

One of the handmaids gingerly cleaned off the child of muck and gunk, bundling her up in a fresh blanket and carefully placing her into the arms of the waiting Queen. Calanthe’s eyes were misty as she gazed down at the squirming child.

There were no physical deformities on the girl—not a toe missing or a finger out of place, both eyes unseeing with mirth and curiosity. It was the perfect child, one of the blood of Cintra, and the granddaughter that would be the lioness of Cintra. She held perfection in her hands.

As Pavetta slept off the pain of birth, Calanthe ran her hands along the child's back and shoulders, brow wrinkling at the wrinkled skin she felt underneath her fingertip.

It was quite small but noticeable to a keen eye,, and even worse, it was a mark that dropped her heart to her stomach.

To most it would mean nothing if not a birthmark, but she knew more than most. She was vaguely aware of one of the handmaidens questioning if the child could be returned to the sleeping mothers arms, but Calanthe drearily walked to the door. The handmaiden might have said something, but it was null to her ears.

The door pushed open with ease, and Duny shouldered past to see his wife.

“Ah, what a lovely child, my queen.” Mousesack said with a smile, trying to get a glimpse of the little one, “Has she been named?”

The frightening glare that was shot in his direction was enough of an answer to follow Calanthe to a separate chamber.

He made sure to shut and lock the door as soon as it closed, and made his way to the near trembling Calanthe.

“What troubles you, my queen?” Mousesach eyed the child.

Calanthe kept her voice steady, “Take the child, Mousesack.”

He was quick to take the small girl into the crease of his arms, watching her look around the world with a sense of amazement and wonder. Her eyes were bluer than the waters of old, and her round full lips would hold the heart of any man who dared gaze upon her. A beautiful child indeed.

“Should we not return her to Pavetta?” His eyes looked to the locked door, and back to Calanthe with confusion.

"Her shoulder, Mousesack.” Calanthe’s voice grew harsh. “Look at it.”

The harshness in his Queen's voice was concerning, and his heart thudded to the dungeons of Cintra as his gaze landed on what had caused the Queen such anguish. It was small for now and would no doubt grow with age, but his knowledgeable eyes knew exactly what it was, and he knew his Queen did too.

It was the mark of a Witcher.

The blade sliced through the final Wargs head with ease, dropping to the floor with an undesirable thump.

Blood poured from the severed head, and Geralt sneered at the still twitching body of the Warg that had been terrorizing the small town. It had fed on three children before a poor butcher had called him, of course with coin as a guarantee if he did indeed bring back the head of the creature.

“Is it dead? Geralt?” A voice whispered from seven trees over and a brown tuft of hair with blue eyes peered around the oak. “Is it safe to come out now? Should I be running?”

Geralt turned to glare at the bard that was like a thorn in his side, yellow orbs glowing with irritation. “It’s dead, Jaskier. It won’t bite.”

“Ha!” Jaskier spat. “You say that now, but I think you’re forgetting that little sea maggot that you said was dead and then tried to take my head off.”

Jaskier scolded as he skirted out from behind the tree and made his way to Geralt. “Is that all of them? I thought the Butcher said there were three or four.”

“He was wrong.” Geralt grunted. “The pups died from starvation days ago. It was just trying to feed them.”

“Oh, well alright then.” Jaskier rocked on the balls of his feet as Geralt made to clean off his sword. “Where to now?”

He gestured to the direction of the town. “I bet once we deliver the head we’ll have enough to get a room and— ooh , a nice bath perhaps. I think the both of us smell a bit riper than normal.”

Geralt grunted and lifted the bloody head; “I’ll get my coin at sunrise. We'll camp here.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whined, “Come on, a fresh bath sounds so much better than sleeping on the hard floor with bugs and dead things.”

Geralt grunted. “Hm.”

Jaskier sighed and dropped his lute onto a particularly soft piece of moss, mouthing ‘stay there’.

Setting up camp was never a feat for the bard and Witcher, but Jaskier saw it before Geralt—

“Did that thing scratch you? Seriously, Geralt? What happened to telling me these things so we can fix them before you get an infection and die and I have to take your place as savior of the Continent?”

Geralt lightly patted his side and red was indeed blossoming under his armor.

“How would you live without me, Geralt? Honestly.” Jaskier scolded the big bad Witcher as his nimble fingers cleaned up the cut with a little of this and that, trying not to gawk at the shirtless Witcher under his fingertips.

Jaskier had seen Geralt’s scars before; there were ones that he’d seen him get first hand, others older and more faded. Some were obvious bite marks from creatures much larger than any human, and others Jaskier knew not to ask about.

Well, except about—

“What’s this one?” His fingertips skimmed over the Witcher’s left shoulder. It wasn’t raised or held any ridges meaning it couldn’t have been a scar. It looked far too detailed to be a scar anyhow.

“Hm?” Geralt grunted, head turning slightly to show Jaskier had his attention.

“This one doesn’t look like a scar.” Jaskier slowly said. “It looks more intentional, you know? Where’d you get it?”

“Nothing, bard.” He only called him bard when the topic was one Geralt wasn’t fond of.

“But what does it mean? Is it like a tracker or sorts? Does it ever burn? Oooo, does it glow?”

“Shut it, Jaskier.”

“Stop fidgeting, it’s going to scar if you keep moving.” Jaskier reminded his Witcher companion, trying to effectively wrap the slightly less bloody cut.

“It’ll heal on its own.” Geralt grunted.

“But it could heal—alright, I guess we’re done for now.” Geralt grunted with a glare and took his place on the other side of the low fire, sneering into the flames.

An injury was a sign of weakness, it meant he was getting slower—more likely to get himself or Jaskier killed. It made him feel almost human.

“Soooo,” Jaskier hummed in a jolly tune, “You going to tell me about that scar?”

“It’s not a scar, bard.” Geralt sneered, “And it’s none of your business.”

“But what if I want it to be my business.” Jaskier smiled like a cat that’d caught the canary. “Come on, Geralt. I share all of my secrets with you and you can’t share one measly little detail with me. Just picture it, a new ode to the scar on the Witcher’s back.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier glared with friendly mirth at his disgruntled Witcher, “Come on, Geralt, and how bad can it be?”

Only a honeyed glare was the response, and they both stared into the flames, waiting for the spit-roasted rabbits to become charred and brown with smoky flavor. It was a meal much needed for the Witcher, and his fingers twitched against the caked red on his pants. Ominous howls resonated through the dark woods, and Jaskier chuckled nervously.

“Do you think there’s more Warg’s out there? I think they’d be better company than you—“

“It’s a soul mark.”

Jaskier shut his gaping mouth at his white haired friend, sputtering, “Soul Mark? What—what does that entail, Geralt?"

This would make for a new epic in the White Wolf’s name.

He sneered at the red flames with tired eyes, “It is common lore amongst Kaer Morhen. No other Witcher has bore one in centuries.”

“I always knew you were a special one, Geralt.” The low growl from the rough chest across the fire had Jaskier smiling sheepishly, leaning forward on his seat on the log.

“Is there a reason no other Witchers have this mark? Not that I’ve ever met another Witcher aside from you, but do you even know why you got it?”

“If I knew, Jaskier,” he huffed, “I’d have gotten rid of it by now.”

“Are you not curious, Geralt?” he spoke with mirth and utter curiosity. “I’m going to assume that you share that mark with some other lonely soul walking this plane, and that person, Geralt, could be your destiny.”

Geralt took a swig of his water jug, “Destiny is for fools, Jaskier. It only ever disappoints the hopeful.”

“Are you not hopeful that someone out there is meant to be beside you until the end of days? Not just myself of course.”

askier hummed, “I am assuming all of this, of course, seeing as you are outright refusing to tell me exactly what your little mark entails—are you sleeping?”

“Shut it, bard.”

“We could cut it off before Pavetta wakes.”

Mousesack glared at his Queen, questioning her sanity.

“Oh yes, we’ll return the future princess of Cintra bleeding out from the shoulder, no questions asked.”

The child in his arms squirmed for a better position, mouthing at the buttons, little belly craving her warm mothers milk. Her little toes wiggled in earnest as she watched her grandmother pace the room with fury.

“I’ve had enough of these fucking Witchers,” she snarled with unaltered rage, startling Mousesack.

“He already called the Law of Surprise like a fool, and now his claim on that child is near unbreakable. Have we not been punished enough, Mousesack? It will destroy Pavetta to know that her daughter will live out of her days with—with…”

“Geralt, of Rivia, my Queen.” He absent-mindedly rubbed the child’s belly through the soft cloth. “He is not as cruel as you seem to believe.”

“All Witchers are the same, Mousesack.” She spat with bared teeth, “I’ve read the texts, and I’ve seen enough of them to last a lifetime. They do not feel, they do not love, and they are creatures meant to be slayed.”

Mousesack furrowed his brow, allowing the babe in his arms to grip his fingers with strength belying a newborn babe. “I do not wish to speak out of turn—“

“Then do not speak.” She snapped while waving a frivolously dramatic hand through the air. “No one can know about this, Mousesack. Not Pavetta, not Duny, no one.”

The air in the room felt tight and cold, the child yawning and snuggling into the gold of his robes. The silk was softer than a cloud, and it rubbed against the smoothness of the baby's skin.

The black mark stood stark against her fresh pale skin, and he lightly fingered the soft curve of the wolf's head that ended in the center with sharp teeth.

It was a mark he’d seen donning the silver necklace that Geralt was never seen without.

Turmoil boiled in his gut at the thought of Geralt taking away the granddaughter of Calanthe; it would destroy the Queen, just as it was now, to know that soon Geralt would feel the pull of the mark and make his way to Cintra to claim what was his.

To claim the lioness of Cintra as his partner in life.

“What shall you have me do, my Queen?”

His steps were soft across the room, gliding to her side and watching with pursed lips. The distress on her face was broad and clear, and the impatient knock on the door jolted them back to reality.

“My queen?” he begged over the banging door, “Your choice?”

Calanthe stood and smoothed down her golden dress, lips twitching with barely repressed disgust for the child in his arms.

To go from utter adoration to putrid disgust so fast made her head spin, and she tried to gingerly take the dozing babe in her arms, staring down with watery ways.

“We shall be patient, for now.” Her hand rubbed the fat of the child’s cheek, a cracking smile breaking as blue eyes opened to gaze with amazement.

Mousesack opened the door and allowed Duny to race in, gazing at his daughter with loving eyes. Calanthe handed her off with a smile, watching the father leave with words of adoration spilling from his lips.

It came in bursts—flashes of light behind his honeyed eyes—images of himself with a woman.

Geralt looked down and saw his bare feet resting in hoards of purple lilacs, as far as the eye could see. They lingered in the air—floating before his eyes and suffocating his keen senses—but the aroma of the freshest peaches lingered in the back of his mind.

Salvia pooled under his tongue as the temptation to bite into the wettest, softest fruit flooded his thoughts. Fruits of tender flesh were hard to come by in these times but this was one that was to die for.

His legs moved on their own, stumbling through the soft field of lilacs with no mind in any actual direction. This was a place that was strange and new, and a call rang through his heightened Witcher senses.

“Geralt.”

He must’ve been dead—that Warg must have bitten on his head and this was truly heaven—and the voice calling for him was an angel. It was ethereal and haunting at the once, and desperation to find the voice and hold it close grew stronger.

His stumbling grew more desperate for the voice, running through the field and coming to a halt.

It was a woman indeed; she was far away in the naked flesh in a field of purple. Her back was turned to him and he nearly fell to his knees at the sight of her full buttocks and flesh back. It was flesh that he could see himself marking with his teeth, his nails as they rutted against one another.

The desire to nibble and suckle on the sweet flesh, to mount and fuck was startling to the normally tame Geralt. Who was this sorceress, casting a spell on me?

The golden eyes of the Witcher zeroed in on his mark donning her shoulder; wanting to touch and make sure it was real. It couldn’t have been . The wind blew her short dark locks and exposed a pale neck, small ears that looked positively edible.

He was immobile, stuck to the floor and only a spectator as her head turned to gaze at the fallen Witcher. Blue eyes akin to the waters of plenty, red lips softer than the petals of a rose.

His voice was desperate and hungry. “Who are you?”

Her body turned and he fell to his knees. His golden orbs took in her perky round breasts with dusty thick nipples, the soft fat of her stomach that would no doubt hold the children he could never sire, the thick thighs that would be best wrapped around his head as he feasted on her most desirable parts.

Who was this enchantress?

“Find me, Geralt. Before it’s too late,” she whispered, vanishing into the air.

Part 2 Soon!

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