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leighsartworks216 · 1 year

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The Viper: Rewritten

Chapter Three

Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7

Jaskier x gn!Witcher!reader

AO3 - I recommend reading it there

Warnings: blood, violence, death, mentions of killing animals + children, grief, a lot of angst in this one boys

Word Count: 4059

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“You would have killed him.”

The gentle clinking of buckles stopped. Within the silence, footsteps approached, heavy and self-assured. Geralt stood like a disapproving parent at the door to the stall.

Determined to avoid his burning stare, you continued saddling up your horse for the long ride ahead. Bayard, a dark brown horse, speckled with white and grey on his flank, bobbed his head at the Wolf.

Your answer went unspoken, and yet was quite clear to him.

“Why?”

Even as you said it, it felt wrong. “Because it’s what I was hired to do.” It left a sour aftertaste in your mouth. Bitter, ugly guilt.

He said nothing. You were young, younger than most Witchers he knew. You were practically an infant still learning the harsh realities of the world and a Witcher’s place in it. He’d made mistakes in his own time - it was guaranteed you would make some, too.

You grabbed the bridle off the wall and slipped it over Bayard’s head easily. You were fortunate to have a horse that enjoyed riding so much. He was a gift, after all; you could not simply leave him behind.

“What happened?” you asked after the silence stretched too long.

Geralt sighed, crossing his arms and leaning against the wooden frame of the stall. “Duny,” he enunciated the strange name, “insisted he needed to repay me for saving him. I called the Law of Surprise.”

“Didn’t learn your lesson, then.” The tease fell flat as he shook his head.

“Pavetta’s with child.”

You stared at him with wide eyes. He studied your horse to avoid your gaze.

“You… So you’re going to claim the child?”

The Witcher grumbled, displeased at the idea of raising a little one of his own. It was no wonder why. All Witchers were ill-suited to family life. The constant traveling, the emotional distance, the contracts they had to take - their whole lives were like a warzone for younglings.

“Mousesack is staying, to look after it.”

“‘It,’” you mimicked, half-amused. “You should have asked for money.”

He hummed, agreeing, as you guided the Appaloosa from the stall. Bayard followed your movements easily, as though he knew precisely what you would do next. You could drop his lead and he would walk to the open doorway of the stable and wait for you to get on his back. You ran a hand down his neck affectionately.

Geralt’s eyes shifted down to your other hand. The cut he made to get you to drop your weapon was wrapped neatly with a fresh bandage. It would heal.

“Where will you go now?” he asked. Word spreads fast, he was really saying. The humans will try killing you before they let you help. You understood nonetheless.

Nilfgaard would be more trusting than the North, since you were one of their own. Your thoughts returned to the Viper Keep, flashes of your brothers bickering and the expansive library held within its walls. It eased your heavy guilt, golden eyes mellowing at the memories.

He followed you most of the way down the stables, but stopped by a separate stall with a brown mare inside. With a foot in the stirrup, you hoisted yourself overtop Bayard and adjusted yourself in the saddle, all the while turning your steed so you could better see the Wolf.

“Home.” Pride swelled and simmered in your gut. You swallowed it down to admit, “I still have much to learn.”

He said nothing, but hummed in silent agreement and commendation. It was hard as a youngling with enhanced abilities and magics to admit when they have done something wrong. At least you could own up to them.

You tilted your head respectfully to the other. “I’ll see you on the Path, Wolf.”

After a week in the saddle, you were overjoyed to be home at last. Nights of sleeping on cold, dirt ground and slicing down pesky beasts that got too near to the road would all be worth it to wander the grand halls and fall back into your old, worn-out cot. The time it took to ride up the mountain was over in a brief moment as excitement lifted your spirits-

No.

No, no, no.

Please, no…

Your blood ran ice cold as you bore witness to the horror in front of you. Flames billowed out of windows, banners turned to ash carried along the wind, blood covering every inch of worn cobble.

Bayard snorted and whinnied, anxiously moving his feet as the heat of the blaze hit him.

A body lay prone on the bridge from the Keep. Without thinking, you slid off Bayard's back and rushed forward. The stone scraped your knees as you fell hard by the corpse’s side, but you could not feel it. You didn’t care. Shaking hands turned the scrawny, scorched body over.

A sob ripped from your throat as the face, wide-eyed and mouth agape in terror, came into view. Oalvir. The idiot didn’t pass his final test when you did; he was forced to stay behind and continue training until he could. If he had just killed that stupid ferret, he could have- He wouldn’t have…

It didn’t matter.

None of the scenarios you could dream up would change the outcome. It could not bring back your brother. Hot, fat tears blurred your vision and fell onto his singed clothes. Dead, empty eyes stared into the smoldering sky as you closed his mouth and pushed his eyelids down. Your chest heaved and throat ached as another sob forced its way out. You tried to fight it. You were a deadly assassin - you shouldn’t be crying.

You shouldn’t…

It was useless. You wrapped your arms around him and held his body against your chest, and pressed your face against his silenced pulse, letting your emotions take over as your home was reduced to ash and burnt rock.

“Hey!”

Your head shot up, a flicker of hope igniting in your heart. The scratch of blades being drawn snuffed it out.

“It’s another Witcher!” the man called behind him. He was haloed by the fire pouring from the doorway of the Keep. Your tears blurred him until he was merely a moving smudge of black.

Three men, clad in the armor of the Nilfgaardian, advanced on you. You gently laid Oalvir back on the stone, crossing his arms. May he find rest in a merciful and kind afterlife.

As you stood, you wiped away your tears on the back of your wrist. They would serve you no longer. Dual blades were pulled silently from their leather sheaths. The soldiers held their blades up.

“Stay where you are, Viper,” the first spat. Your very existence repulsed them.

Good.

You rushed forward, reckless, at the man in front. Your steel blade collided with his, pushing him back with the force. With his attention on one hand, your other reached past the interlocked weapons and sliced his throat. He gurgled on his own blood as he collapsed.

The other two hesitated. They did not expect their friend to go down so quickly. The one to your right charged forward with a battle cry. You rolled under his wide swing and came to your feet behind him. Your steel dagger swung in a wide arch behind you and slotted itself under his helm. His body froze as shock took hold. You ripped the blade out. He fell atop the first, a sticky pool of blood stretching out like tendrils as it flowed along the cobble.

The last soldier backed away as you approached. Your steps were calculated and unafraid. You had nothing to lose - your brothers were dead, the mentors were dead, Ivar Evil-Eye was dead. Stuldweck was dead. Everything you held dear was ripped from you. You could walk into the Abyss and face down scores of demons without flinching.

“Stay- Stay back!” he cried. His voice trembled. You did not stop. His foot caught on the uneven stone and he fell backward, helmet flying off with the blow. One arm held his sword up as the other helped him crawl back. “Please! Please- I have a family!”

In one flowing movement, you shoved his sword away and sliced off his hand at the wrist. He screamed. You stepped on his chest and pressed down against his sternum to keep him in place. His hand clawed at your boot, desperately trying to shove it off him. You leaned forward, elbow resting on your knee, until you were nearly face to face with him. He groaned under the pressure.

“So did I,” you hissed. He whimpered. You scowled as his blood tainted your boots. “Who ordered this attack?” He sputtered and pleaded for his life. You pressed your dagger to his throat, an obvious warning. “Tell me, else I’ll cut off all your fingers and toes, your ears, your-”

“Alright! I’ll say! I’ll say!” He sobbed, resigning himself to his fate. You would kill him either way. His chest shuddered under your foot as he inhaled. In his last moments, he wanted to be thinking of his wife and kids. “The Usurper. He ordered it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know!” he cried. Tears poured down his face to the stone below. “Please, that’s all I know, I swear.”

You studied his face for a moment, then sighed. “Rest easy.” His eyes met yours, confused, before the light faded from them. Your dagger lodged itself in his heart, through the tough leather of the armor. A quick death.

You looked up at the school. Memories of kinship and growing up went up in flames with the scrolls and books you studied. Loss and grief filled the hole. Your eyes flicked to the spot in the courtyard where you completed your final trial to become a Witcher. The dark blood against the snow, melting it with its heat. Your precious steed, dead at your hand. You had cried for a week in Stuldweck’s arms.

If you hadn’t killed Bayard, you would not be here to mourn Oalvir’s death, nor the death of all your fallen comrades. You would have fallen with them; side by side, one last time, with your family.

There was nothing left for you here.

You exhaled shakily. Your limbs felt heavy. Your soul felt heavier.

You retrieved your dagger from the soldier’s ribcage and wiped both clean on the cloth of his pants. Bayard watched from the start of the bridge as you slowly trudged back to him. He pressed his nose against your body, sensing your sadness. You only managed a slight pat on his neck. His hooves against stone and the crackling of the great fire followed you back down the mountains.

These woods were supposed to be quiet. It was late at night - the moon was high in the sky, and crickets were singing their sad songs. The next village wasn’t for several miles yet. Not only that, you knew there were no individual huts or shelters nearby.

So why did you hear music?

Your first thought was bandits. It wouldn’t be unusual for them to camp out in the woods, waiting for unsuspecting travelers to jump. But, if it was bandits, why would they draw attention to themselves by playing an instrument and singing? It was a lute, or something stringed, by the sound of it. The carefully plucked notes hid a tentative voice. A bard, perhaps?

Then came the second round of questions. Why would a bard compose his music in the woods? Surely, he would prefer the luxuries of an inn or even a brothel, should he desire company.

You couldn’t imagine this being a camp of the men you were after. The village never mentioned any inclinations towards music, nevermind that they ran away several days ago. They would not linger this close to the town they were running from for so long. No, this was something else entirely.

Curiosity took its hold as you slipped off Bayard’s back and led him off of the dirt road into the trees, opposite of the bard’s music. Satisfied he was hidden enough from anyone traveling late at night, you crossed the path and made your way through the underbrush. Only the wind and stars knew of your presence.

Leaves and twigs whispered your whereabouts as you stepped upon them, or as they snagged onto the fabric of your riding cloak. It seemed to blend in to the breeze that rustled the trees. This, after all, is what you had been trained for.

The orange glow of a fire guided you like a beacon through the dark forest. As you creeped ever closer, you were surprised to find the bard from the banquet, alone. He sat propped up against a log, lute cradled in his lap as he seemed to speak to himself. Wasn’t Geralt supposed to be traveling with him? Surely the Wolf hadn’t abandoned him out in the wilderness.

You tensed, your whole body becoming rigid as cold steel touched your neck. As slow as you could manage, you turned in your crouched position to see who your attacker was, hand farthest from them coming to rest on the blade at your hip where they would not see. A tall, hulking brute of a man stood over you, white hair glowing in the moonlight. His eyes were hidden by the shadows of night. Your face was hidden by your hood; all he could make out was from the tip of your nose down. Two strangers ready to strike at any moment.

Quickly, you pushed his sword away with the back of your hand against the flat edge of the blade and stood, gathering a safe distance. Distantly, the singing stopped.

You each stood there for a brief moment, assessing and waiting for the other to make a move. Your dagger glinted in the firelight as you flipped it around in your hand. He stepped forward and swiped at you with his sword. You easily deflected the hit, using the momentum to guide it along your dagger and away from your body. He recovered too quickly for you to attack within the opening, and struck again.

It was a dance amongst the brambles. You deflected or dodged his every swing, and he shut down every opportunity you could find to attack him. It felt oddly familiar. Everything about the man’s fighting style was reminiscent of the fight you had months ago, within palace walls and along polished floors.

You were briefly distracted by the thought. He swung his blade in a motion that would easily cut off your head at the shoulders. You backed away just in time for it to avoid your neck and catch the skin of your cheek instead. It did not hurt, as adrenaline was pumping through your veins, but you could feel the warm ooze of blood as it slipped down your face.

He seemed… relieved to have cut you, as though you could have been a mere figment of his imagination. The fact you could be hurt only grounded you into reality. You used the opportunity to lunge forward and slice at his belly in a wide arc. Your blade was mere inches from his body, stopped only by the shout that pierced the haze of battle.

“Geralt!”

It was not the fact someone shouted that kept you from reaching out those few more inches - pleas for mercy often fell upon deaf ears. It was the name.

The arc of your attack stopped short as you rapidly backed away. The man you were fighting stood still and tense as he studied your actions. The bard stood just before the underbrush, blocking the firelight as he looked back and forth in horror.

You squinted into the dark; it was almost too thick for your enhanced senses to peer through. Sure enough, as the man turned his head toward the bard (perhaps to tell him to back away and stop being an idiot), the orange light of the flames caught his yellow irises.

Your dagger lowered as realization set in. “Wolf?”

He stopped and stared. You lowered your hood with one hand, revealing your face to his enhanced vision. The bard couldn’t make out any features.

“... Viper?” His sword fell uselessly to his side.

You huffed as you sheathed your weapon and stepped closer to punch him in the shoulder. As you stepped into the light, the bard recognized your eyes and the face they belonged to. You effectively saved his life that night; he wouldn’t dare forget your complexion for the great kindness you did for him.

“You son of a bilge rat!” you cursed, pulling him back to the present. “You should know better than to sneak up on people like that!”

He huffed a laugh. “Look who’s talking.”

You rummaged through Bayard’s saddlebags for herbs. He snorted and playfully reached back to nose at your shoulder. You couldn’t fight back the smile as you shoved him away. All the while, Geralt tended to the campfire and the bard talked his ear off.

“This is the Witcher that protected me that night!” he exclaimed in a hushed voice he thought you would not be able to hear. He went on in dramatic fashion. “It’s just as I said: a table, carried by the powerful winds of love, came hurtling toward us! In a flash, they covered me just as it slammed into the wall, shooting splinters in all directions!”

“I was only repaying the favor,” you added on as you joined them by the fire. The bard seemed startled at your input. You expected him to flinch as you leveled your yellow eyes on him. But just as he had months ago, he wasn’t afraid, merely fascinated. “It was you who protected me first after I slammed into the wall and had the air stolen from my lungs. It can’t have been easy to remove all that glass from your hair.”

Geralt looked to the bard, a hint of a smirk on his lips. The bard flushed and nodded his head to the side. “Yeah, well… The selflessness of a hero.”

Geralt scoffed. ‘Selfless’ was not a word that could be used to describe his traveling companion in a thousand years.

You picked apart the herbs you retrieved - celandine and white myrtle petals - and dropped them together into a mortar. The soft grinding sound filled the air. “I don’t think I ever caught your name, bard.”

“Oh, my sincerest apologies!” He stood and bowed deeply, still holding his lute in one hand. “I am Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, but you may call me Jaskier.” When he rose, Jaskier’s face was split in a brilliant smile.

He sat back down, waiting for you to introduce yourself. Geralt couldn’t help noticing the way your face fell, your eyes distant and unseeing, before you focused back on your herbs. After a moment, you cleared your throat.

“Viper,” you answered. You forced a strained smile at the bard. “You may call me Viper.”

Before Jaskier could ask questions (having missed your constrained emotions), Geralt changed the subject. “Where are you headed?”

Your body relaxed into the new topic. They watched as you set the mortar on the log next to you and drew a blade. The reflective surface, although not perfectly clear, helped you to see where the cut on your face was. With one hand holding the dagger by your face like a mirror, the other scooped up some of the makeshift salve and brushed it overtop the inflamed skin.

“I picked up a few contracts.”

“Monsters?” came Jaskier’s voice, hopeful.

The White Wolf stayed silent.

You shook your head and stood to return your new ointment to your saddlebags. You pulled two flyers from the pouch and held them out for the other Witcher to take. “Deserters,” you explained. “They ran away a few days ago; were headed out this way. Seen them?”

Jaskier leaned over, pressing against Geralt’s side, as they looked over the ink faces.

WANTED

50 CROWNS

DEAD OR ALIVE

“No,” the Witcher grunted.

You sighed and took the papers back. “It’s no matter. If they’re smart, they’ll be heading for Novigrad.”

Jaskier sat up straighter. “How come?”

You stuffed the flyers back into your bag. “Novigrad is the best port to take if one wishes to get to Kovir and Poviss,” you said. You sat back down on the log. “Kovir is bound to strict neutrality; it’s unlikely anyone would search for them once they get there.”

You look at Geralt. He was focused on stoking the fire once again. “Where are you off to, then?”

He hm’d. “Next town over to look for work.”

“Have you ever fought a djinn by any chance?” You and Geralt turned to the bard. He seemed to flounder under the attention. “I just m-mean, uhm, we happened to encounter one recently and I wondered if you’d ever dealt with one before.” Jaskier strategically avoided making eye contact with Geralt, who glared so intensely at the bard he could feel it burning his skull.

“Once, with one of my brothers,” you admitted.

Your eyes darkened at the memory of Oalvir laying on the bridge.

“What happened?” he pressed, fingers resting on the lute’s strings.

You swallowed down the past. “A woman was bringing up water from a well when she found its pitcher. When she realized what it was, she wished for it to grant her freedom from her husband. From what we gathered, he was a right bastard. Nobody liked him.

“It twisted her words. That night, she was hypnotized into killing her husband where he lay. And it forced her to kill her children, so she no longer had any ties to the man. She was distraught with grief at what she’d done. We found her body in the well.

“My brother and I worked to send the genie away before it could latch onto any of the other townsfolk. The only way to get rid of a djinn is to have it grant three wishes. It was a bloody mess when we finished.”

Jaskier’s eyes were wide, mouth agape in awe. He stumbled over his words and himself as he rushed to his own bags to grab his journal and pencil. “Tell me everything. This is- Geralt never tells me details!” You almost laughed at his enthusiasm. “Start at the beginning. How did you get the contract? Where was this?”

“I would love to stay and have a glorious ballad written of my exploits,” you mused as you stood and worked to untie the knot in Bayard’s lead. “Unfortunately, I must be on my way.”

“You’re traveling at night?” Geralt spoke up.

You hummed. Free from the tree he was tied to, he followed as you led him past the campfire and toward the road. “It’s better for my work if I do,” you said. “Most travelers, deserters, bandits, what have you - they travel during the day. Less monsters that way. But at night, they’re stationary. It’s easier to catch up to them this way, and there’s less traffic.” You grinned slightly at the bewildered way they stared at you. Your methods confounded and amazed them.

“Wha- When do you sleep?!”

“When the job is done.” You turned to guide Bayard through the trees, but stopped. You took a hesitant breath and looked to Geralt, watching with attentive eyes from the fire. “Wolf…” Your mouth opened, ready to tell him of everything that happened to the Viper Keep. To warn him that if Gorthur Gvaed could fall, he should be wary of the same thing happening to the Wolves. But no words came out. The wound was still too fresh.

Your face was one of pure concern and seriousness. He couldn’t see the child you were as easily anymore.

“Stay safe out there.”

His brow furrowed, but he asked no questions. He nodded; a silent promise. “You, too.”

Satisfied, you walked with Bayard through the trees and underbrush, back to the dirt road, worn down from decades of travel. Your steed bobbed his head and kicked up the dirt, excited to ride and run once more. You were barely in the saddle before he took off in a gallop.

Back on the road. Back to your contracts, to your job. To your life.

As the last Viper.

---

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