oOo

Witchers don't die in their own beds.

Geralt of Rivia, Gwynbleidd, the White Wolf, and a knight of Lyria did not escape the old saying, even with all the experience, talent and titles he held. Their kind took contract after contract, after all, and they all were dangerous – and even the best witchers made mistakes.

And so he left the world, a silver sword in one hand and a potion of Swallow in the other.

Now, Geralt wasn't a man who held any grudges or regrets, so becoming a ghost or specter was unlikely. He doubted anyone would find his body, even – maybe Yennefer, but they were accustomed to being apart for long times, and she wouldn't think much of his absence. No, it was most likely that nature would take its course and his body would lay there until it rotted away. Maybe someone would look for him, find him and his bones and bury him. Yen would light a candle, weep a tear or two, and move on in her life.

Geralt himself could move on and find peace in death.

Or so he had foolishly hoped. It seemed that peace didn't want to find him.

Geralt had died before –the Rivian pogrom of 1268– so he thought he knew what to expect. A void; no thought, no sentience; only non-existence. But waking up in a body of a newborn child? That he did not expect.

But while his body had changed, his mind had not – he still was the same firm, resolute witcher who had faced evil in forms of monsters and humans alike, worked with sorceresses of the highest regard, and fought even the devil himself. That wouldn't change no matter much he seemed like a helpless infant in the beginning of his new life.

When Ciri had talked of different worlds, of places where ships flew in the air and people fought war not with swords and arrows but with lightning and fire, he hadn't given much thought to them. Now he had to, for this world was different.

There was magic, yes, but of the subtler kind. No sorceresses nor sorcerers around, as far as he could tell. The magic was imbued to old relics, to the air, to some people, even, but it was never present. Asking around the orphanage about sorcery only brought him curious looks, so he didn't bother.

There were monsters, too. But these monsters were nothing like the ones at home. No strigas, leshens, or shaelmaar; no ghouls, alghouls or even ever-present nekkers. No, these creatures were very much not alike those – some of them sounded even fiercer.

"Geralt," called out a voice outside his small room. People rarely entered it without permission anymore, after a moon whistle had accidentally poisoned himself touching his alchemy equipment. He couldn't brew proper witcher potions anymore, but old herbal remedies were universal, it seemed. "We're leaving for the Abyss in a few minutes. Get your gear ready."

The gear being a pickaxe, a rucksack, a helmet and a length of rope. He would've preferred a length of silver with a pinch of quality armor, but the orphanage he was housed in had no funds to buy what he wanted, and the little he earned from peddling his medicine he saved for the future, for some rainy day that would no doubt happen.

And with the Abyss, well. Rainy days were always bound to happen.

What was so alluring about that vast, seemingly endless hole in the ground? Why did people flock towards it like wraiths to a haunted house? And most importantly, why did he feel it whispering to himself?

Come down, it murmured. You need to see what lies here. And I'll be here. I'll be waiting. Down here.

At the bottom of the Abyss.

Geralt grit his teeth, shaking off the lingering whispers that plagued his mind too often. Being cursed was not a pleasant feeling, never was and never had been. But this one was even more insidious than the others – it was subtle, made him want to enter the Abyss, with all its dangers and monsters, only to go down, down and down until there was nothing left to descend—

And he could see himself doing it. Hell, he already was doing it.

In the end, what else could he do?

"Yeah," he answered to the Leader. "I'll be ready."

oOo

"Have you heard?"

"Of what?"

"The incident in the first layer of the Abyss, of course! A Crimson Splitjaw had flown up-"

"Get outta here. Those things don't fly that high."

"Well this one did, and get this – it comes by a group of unsuspecting red whistles and their teach!"

"…Damn. Why you do you gotta tell me that? Now I lost my appetite."

"Heh, well, you shouldn't. They drove that beast off, that they did. Can you believe it?"

"You're pulling one over me, aren't you? There's no way."

"No way, I swear. Saw the ones who got back myself. Mind, there weren't that many left of them, but…"

"A damn fine feat, that one. How'd they manage that?"

"No idea. But there's word on the streets that – and I'm not lying, I'm just repeating what I was told – it was one guy."

"One guy who came up with a plan?"

"One guy who drove that fucker away."

oOo

Sharp eyes peered at him behind the wooden desk. With the lighting in the room being as dim as it was, the look could even be called intimidating by an average person. Of course, Geralt was not an average person, and so he held the gaze unflinchingly.

"I suppose I should commend you, to begin with," started the orphanage matron after a few seconds. Her eyes never left his. "I've been told your actions resulted in driving off that beast. And as such, you saved quite the amount of lives."

"Thanks."

"However," continued the woman. "Your actions have also raised questions. Questions I have no answer to. Questions like: How does a ten-year-old, who has never been delving in the Abyss nor has any known experience in fighting against the beasts found there, fight and nearly kill a Crimson Splitjaw?"

Silence reigned for a moment.

Geralt could tell her; tell her of the life he had lived before this one. Being a monster hunter for trade was a good reason for his talents in this new world. But while they could believe him, they could also not – and he wouldn't risk the chance of being deemed a madman on such a small thing.

"I've always been good with animals," he offered instead, breaking eye contact to look outside the window. The sun was setting in the city of Orth.

"Tch." He could feel the matron's glare intensify. She clearly wasn't happy. "Keep your secrets, then. It doesn't matter what you're hiding. Bring profit to the orphanage and I won't stand in your way."

The message was clear. Geralt could understand the orphanage owner's want for money, and didn't judge her for it. Surviving required coin, and he could bring it on the table.

"Can I leave?" he said, inching away from the chair. He had work to do.

The owner raised her hand. "Wait. I heard from Leader Iga that you wanted an actual weapon, rather than a pickaxe, to delve with."

"You heard right," Geralt answered, raising his eyebrow. Generosity was something the matron had little of, and swords weren't the cheapest of weapons.

"Catch." she said, throwing a key at him. He caught it. "When you've done your chores today, go the cellar floor. The key unlocks the first door to the left. You might find something that interests you there."

He nodded. "I'll do that."

"Good," the matron said, and her eyes softened slightly. "I have high hopes for you, you know. We all do, here."

He knew. He knew how the other kids whispered of him in awed tones, or how Leader Iga had lately been praising him in everything he did. In their eyes he was only a red whistle, an absolute beginner, yet he was strong, quick-footed and intelligent. After the failure of a dive, he became somewhat of a hero. And while in his past life he had never cared much for the insults against witcherkind, being treated well in his new life was oddly satisfying.

And, well. They held such high hopes for him, so really…

He didn't want to disappoint them.