Archive of Our Own ^beta

“So, griffon problem?”

The man’s eyes widened as he saw Geralt approach. “Ah, yes- but I must apologize, I've already contracted another witcher!” He said. “Never thought I'd see two in a day,”

“Another witcher?” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Would I know him?”

“Ah, he didn't give a name. I'll point you in the same direction, but I don't know how you witchers feel about splitting pay.” The man pointed down the road into the forest. “‘Last attack was a little ways down West."

Geralt nodded, walking back towards Roach. On her back, it was not that long to find the bloodstained ground.

“These wounds… definitely a griffon,” Geralt mumbled to himself. “Didn't take anyone… protecting territory, then. Roost must be nearby-”

A high pitched scream cascaded down the mountain, followed by an avian screech. Geralt drew his silver blade and ran up the rocky terrain towards the commotion. 

The ledge littered with old blood and bones was being splattered with more as an angry male griffon tore at a crevasse, a wounded shoulder spraying blood. A silver sword lay discarded- more likely disarmed- across the way. 

The griffon screeched angrily as it pulled away its wrist, a steel sword now poking out of it. Panicked swearing sounded from the crevasse as the other witcher lost his other weapon. 

Geralt wasted no time, driving his silver blade through the griffon’s neck while it was distracted. He pulled away and dodged the collapsing monster before looking into the crevasse it had been attacking, not entirely expecting what he saw. 

He failed to withhold a grunt of surprise as he laid yellow eyes on the ‘witcher.’ It was a child, at least by his standards, but the boy did have two scabbards. 

“You stole my kill,” he said, trying to appear angry as he stood. Yet, he couldn't hide the shake in his voice and the wetness on his cheeks. He was very emotional for any witcher Geralt had seen, but judging by his eyes constricting back to slits after they had dilated in fear, he had clearly undergone his mutations. While it was hard to study him fully with the long cloak and hood, his frame was thin and his face was painted with hunger and caked with dirt and blood, old bandages included. 

“Come on,” Geralt huffed, ignoring the boy’s comment. “You need a bath.”

“Rude,” The boy mumbled, though he did not disagree. 

“What's your name?” Geralt growled as he started down the mountain. 

“What's yours?”

Geralt raised his eyebrows, and the boy sighed. “Yeah, yeah, stupid question, you're Geralt of Rivia.” He huffed. “Do you have any idea what it's like growing up as a witcher apprentice while having light hair?! Nobody can even be creative about it! ‘Geralt of Rivia if he was lame.’ It's annoying!”

“You didn't answer my question,” Geralt reminded. 

“It's none of your business,” 

“School, then?” The older witcher asked. “I don't see a medallion.”

“It's under my shirt,” The boy answered. “To keep people from asking questions.”

“Well, now I'm asking questions.” 

“Trust me, if it was out, there'd be more questions.”

“So you're a Cat, then.”

The boy scowled. “I didn't say that,”

“You didn't deny it.”

“And if I did?”

“I’d call you a liar.”

The boy huffed and didn't say anything more. 

~~~

The boy ravenously shoveled the soup into his mouth. 

“So- name?”

The boy glared at Geralt from over his bowl but sighed. “Thorne,” he said during a brief break in his meal. 

“So, Thorne,” Geralt repeated. “Do you mind sharing how a witcher ends up crying when afraid?”

“I wasn't afraid! And I wasn't crying!” Thorne yelled. “It's windy up there!”

“Sure…”

Thorne looked away, embarrassed. “It's just…” he finally said quietly. “Cat School mutations… we have a different formula. It’s supposed to make us have stronger feelings of anger and whatnot, those adrenaline-producing emotions, to make us better weapons.” Thorne sighed. “But it’s not just rage. Makes us erratic, unpredictable. You know the stories.”

“Plenty.”

“Everything else is normal though,” Thorne insisted firmly. “I- uh- Thanks. For the food.”

He quickly stood up, tightened his robe, and darted out of the tavern before Geralt could say anything. 

~~~

It didn't take that long until Thorne’s belly had started to growl again. 

He looked in his coin pouch- he still got two thirds of the contract reward since he had done most of the work tracking and killing the thing. He counted silently, taking into account what he’d need- he needed new boots, heeled to hide his paw-feet- he needed new herbs and materials, and needed to replace his canteen and fill it with fresh water. That didn't leave much for more food. Such was his life- starving until he got a meal, only for his body to immediately take all the calories and leave him hungry again. 

He let out a soft whistle and a cat came trotting to him from the bushes. His companion, Ivory, crawled into his lap as he slipped her some leftover jerky.

“I thought cats hated witchers,”

Thorne startled, pupils blowing into circles, but didn’t move much more than that. The only person who could sneak up on a witcher was an older, more experienced witcher.

“Most do. She’s different.” Thorne agreed softly. “Why did you follow me?”

“You ran out.”

“Because I have places to be,”

“You are, notably, not in those places.”

Thorne huffed. 

“Trying to escape a hard conversation?”

Thorne could feel his ears flatten in their hiding spot underneath his hair and hood. His stomach growled again, and he blushed in embarrassment. Embarrassing , all of it.

Geralt heard the sound and sighed, dropping the other third of the contract’s pay at Thorne’s feet. “I’m not the richest, but at least I can buy food and a dry bed tonight. Here,”

Thorne grabbed the pouch on instinct, but still spoke up. “Why? You killed it,”

“You did most of the work. It was already badly injured.”

Thorne stared at the muddy ground. “No, it’s because you’re treating me like a child!”

“You are a child.”

“I’m not a child!” Thorne stood up, though he didn’t come close to Geralt’s height. “I’m a witcher, I passed my trials, sorry I don’t compare to Geralt of fucking Rivia!”

Thorne would have stormed off, but he had cornered himself when choosing this hiding place, so he just stood there awkwardly.

“Do you need a room for the night?” Geralt finally offered, and Thorne angrily nodded.

~~~

Thorne glared at nothing in particular as he finished fastening his tunic lace. This is why he didn’t talk to people any more than he needed to- his intensified emotions made him impossible to be around. Usually, he was ruthless like the rest of his school, but the damn griffon made his brain choose flight over fight one time -

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Thorne looked into the mirror and gazed upon his own full glory. The white fur of his catlike tail was matted and dirty, even after his bath, but he didn’t have time to care for it when he was pretending like it didn’t exist. His long ears, though fluffy, could be mostly written off as his half-elven ancestry, but a tail could not. He loosened his waistband and slipped the extra limb down his baggy pants, settling it next to his right leg. The paws were harder to hide, but oversized boots with some personal modifications could hide them.

Witchers were already freaks, everyone knew that. But Thorne wasn’t just that, he was a freak witcher.  

He was supposed to be the best of them.

~~~

Thorne knew the Trial of Grasses was going to hurt, and it probably was going to hurt more than he thought it was going to hurt, but something was wrong.  

He hadn’t been able to keep track of any kind of time, but he had been told afterwards that he screamed for days, way longer than other children, and was seizing and unconscious for longer too. But that wasn’t the worst part- it couldn’t have been. He woke up, a miracle, but while other survivors got sharp eyes and senses, he was a monster. An actual monster.

He had over-mutated. His mutations. mutated.  

He had woken up, yes, but that didn’t mean he could move for days. His feet had elongated so that he could only walk on his toes. His tailbone had fucking grown to half his body length and split into vertebrae. 

When his masters finally re-taught him how to walk, the moment he was up and about he was hit by what could only be described as sensory hell. What everyone else had gone through, he had to deal with on top of his new… everything. Every sound was too sharp, every light too bright, every touch too painful, every smell too nauseating.

It was a miracle that he was able to even make it to the other trials, much less actually earn his medallion.

~~~

Thorne sighed and finally curled up on the second bed that had been so graciously offered to him, cradling his aching body in furs. 

Maybe he was a child.