The White Wolf and His Pup
A/N: I have many one-shots of Geralt and my OC, Akela (the baby in this story) on Tumblr, and they always get a lot of love, so I figured I'd post them here, too. The timeline is pretty much all over the place, so each chapter is of a different stage in Akela's life. One chapter could be of her as a baby, and the next could jump to her as an adult! I'll let you know what age she currently is before each story starts. In this, she's about three days old.
If you'd like to read the reader versions of these stories, they can be found on my Tumblr: cas-kingdom
Enjoy, and please tell me what you think!
Summary: Geralt finds a baby girl in the woods, and for some reason, he can't quite let her go.
Of all the things to see in the forest at night, he could most assuredly tell himself that this was not one of them.
He had seen squirrels. Rabbits. Deer. Wolves. He'd seen dragons, for fuck's sake, and yet this was still almost too much for him to handle.
Because Geralt of Rivia was staring directly down at a baby.
His eyes were black. He'd only just returned from a hunt, stalking silently through the forest, sticky blood on his clothes and hands, sword hanging limply by his side. He was tired, frustrated, and in need of a bath and bed, and he'd had every intention of doing so until the soft, yet eerie cry of a baby rang into the night.
He'd stopped immediately, a look of pure concentration tinting his face. The forest followed his movements. He could hear every squirrel, rabbit, deer and wolf – no dragons, he hoped, or else his sword would be having another meal that night – stop in their own tracks and listen with perked ears. No doubt the wolves would be licking their lips, gathering their packs for the hunt.
The crying was coming from the East, and he was heading North, so what possessed him to turn on his heel and pick his way through the trees, he wasn't sure, but there was no time to dwell on it. He was swift, barely making a sound, simply following the cry.
And, here he was. Standing perhaps ten or so feet away from a tattered wicker basket, little arms and legs moving wildly about inside.
He frowned, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword and glancing around. He was well accustomed to traps. After a short while, the beady bright eyes in the darkness ahead were becoming more and more pronounced, and with that came a great deal of indecision on his account.
For, yes, he was a Witcher, but leaving the child to the merciless ways of the monsters in the woods would forever remain on his conscience, and he had enough of that already.
So, he stepped forward. Once, twice, slight hesitation, and again. He sighed inwardly and leaned down to peer at it. Or, rather, her, if her nakedness had anything to say about it.
She was a tiny thing, likely no bigger than his forearm, and yet she was left completely uncovered. Briskly checking his surroundings for danger, he removed his cloak and bent down. He wiped his hands free of as much blood as he could before gently reaching out and, with a peculiarly racing heart, picking her up. She instantly stopped screaming, wide teary eyes open and staring up at this strange man, but he was too intent on doing all he could not to drop the fragile thing to notice. Instead, he brought her close enough to wrap his cloak tightly around her, covering her from head to toe, and lifted her to hold against his shoulder. He picked his sword back up and held it tightly with one hand, the baby in the other, before turning and walking back through the forest, grip on either never once loosening.
That was how he found himself sitting in a tavern, a baby – crying once more – held close to his chest, eyes staring straight ahead as he, quite frankly, figured out what the fuck he was supposed to do.
"Please, quiet down," he almost hissed, glancing around. Thankfully, the tavern was loud enough that no one could hear the wailing baby in the arms of the Witcher in a shady booth in the corner, and were instead focused on their tankards of ale. However, that didn't help his case much. He was resisting the urge to place the child on the seat and leave without her, and who knew what would've happened had a new voice not interrupted his thoughts.
"You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" He snapped his head up and unconsciously drew the baby closer to him, expression turning guarded. There was a young woman stood by his table, the ale he'd ordered in her hand.
He watched as she placed it on his table but didn't move to walk away. "She's not mine," he told her gruffly.
The woman nodded. "I thought as much." She hesitated before speaking again. "You're one of those Witchers, aren't you?"
Geralt didn't reply. Instead, he reached for his ale and brought it to his lips, averting his harsh gaze. He hadn't come to be interrogated.
The woman correctly took the silence as unwillingness to answer the question. "Didn't think I'd ever see one of you… never mind one of you with a baby." She leaned across the table to peer at the crying child. "Where did you find her?"
He turned his head the slightest bit to look at her, the harshness in his eyes not wavering once. "In the woods," he told her, voice deep and unnerving.
The woman gained a sympathetic look. A sad smile crossed her lips. "Poor thing," she said. "Parents probably gave her up."
He knew that, and yet hearing it from another's mouth still caused a feeling of turmoil to settle in the bottom of his stomach. As it always had been, he wasn't one for emotions, but he was still unable to see how anyone could leave a baby – a creation supposedly born from love – alone in the middle of nowhere… for a malicious reason. He'd felt things once before. He remembered.
"I can take her off your hands, if you want," the woman spoke up. He looked at her. "Find her a home. I know a few couples looking to start families."
For a moment, he wasn't sure what to say. Studying the woman's features didn't help, either. She seemed serious. Besides, what could she want with a child apart from to do what she'd claimed? Surely, nobody could hurt her more than her parents already had. That feeling of not being wanted… it would doubtlessly follow her for the rest of her life.
Like he'd said… he remembered.
He turned his eyes down to the baby, whose little mouth was still open, wails spilling from her. He was quite surprised his ears hadn't fallen off from the noise, but he was used to the loudness of the world as it mindlessly spun around him. A hint of… something sparked in him as he looked at those little teary eyes and tiny balled fists.
"She's probably hungry," the woman said again, peering closer, but Geralt didn't move. He continued to stare for a moment before sighing internally and nodding once, taking a long drink from his tankard.
"Fine. Take her."
She smiled. "I finish here in fifteen minutes. Would you mind waiting until then?"
He shrugged and sat back against the seat, watching as the woman scuttled off, supposedly to finish her work. The baby let loose an extra loud scream and he rolled his eyes before standing to his feet and wrapping her back up in his cloak. He pulled his hood over his white head and shifted his way through the rowdy drunks, heading outside.
Surprisingly, the outside night air felt good, and he breathed it in the moment he stepped away from the stuffy tavern. It was almost too quiet, save for the small cries at his chest, but he took it gladly, walking a little way off and glancing down at the baby. "What is it?" he asked quietly, reaching a large hand over to her. Her little fingers immediately wrapped themselves around one of his, and he rose an eyebrow. "Perhaps you are hungry," he pondered. "Cold? Tired?" What else could babies be?
After a short while of aimlessly wandering around, dodging looks from any who happened to walk by and ensuring he was well hidden by his cloak and the shadows, the child's cries still weren't dying down, and he found himself slowly becoming at a loss for what to do. Strangely, irritation wasn't following that loss, which was only strange because he was one to become frustrated if someone chewed with their mouth open.
If he'd had any experience with children at all over his years, he would know what to do. And yet…
"I will rearrange the stars, pull them down to where you are," he sang as softly as the breeze was light, amber eyes staring down at the child in his arms, still covered by his cloak, "I promise, I'll do better." He didn't know where he'd pulled the song from. Maybe he'd heard it from somewhere. But it seemed to do the trick, because a second after the lilting, melodic words left his lips, the baby's cries stopped immediately. Her bright eyes stared up at him, tears clinging to her long lashes, little mouth partly open, fingers still entwined around one of his. "With every heartbeat I have left, I will defend your every breath." She hiccupped, and one corner of his lips drew upwards. "I promise… I'll do better."
"Sir, I can take her, now."
He spun on his heel, coming face to face with the woman once again. She was smiling, and yet, to him, she was only an obstacle. "What?"
She looked at him for a moment before nodding towards the – now totally quiet and still staring doe-eyed up at him – baby. "I can take her."
Oh. Geralt dropped his head. The baby in his arms now suddenly felt like a lifeline. He didn't know why, and he didn't know how that had ever come to be, but, for some reason or another, he wasn't feeling totally averse to that small fact.
She was beautiful. He could see it so clearly. A little round face with tiny wisps of hair, dark eyelashes still laden with tears, bright, baby orbs which seemed to bore into his own and place a hint of something akin to warmth behind them.
When had he ever cared for anything besides himself? He hadn't, and that was the vast truth of it. But who said that had to be for ever?
"I…" He couldn't quite believe the words were about to leave his mouth. "I'm going to keep her."
The woman's eyebrows shot up. She blinked. "You are? But… but you're a Witcher. You're not supposed to feel… well. Anything!" He gave her a look, and she had the good sense to shut her mouth. In a calmer tone, she decided to add a little more, stepping forward the slightest bit. "Do you know anything on how to be a father?"
Without taking his eyes off the baby, he answered her. "Does anyone know anything on how to be a parent before they become one?"
Her lips turned upwards in a small half-smile, and she nodded once in clear defeat. "I think they may be wrong about you," she told him softly. "Good luck, Witcher. Perhaps I'll see you both again." And, with that, she wrapped her cloak tighter around her and turned to head back through the night.
Geralt watched her go before the child shifted in his arms and he looked back down at her. His eyes widened the smallest amount as he realised what he'd just done.
Shit.
He now had a child. A responsibility. And a big one, at that.
What the fuck had possessed him?
The little girl gurgled, and he absently stroked a finger across her soft, baby-skin forehead. She sneezed, and he found that familiar warmth return to him once again.
A baby.
His baby.
He blinked, running over the words in his mind, all the while staring down at her, before humming and walking back towards the building to get himself a room.
Nobody had ever done it before, but somehow, this tiny smudge of a human being had. She'd wrapped her little paws around the heart he hadn't known was there and, on some odd grounds he didn't believe he'd ever understand… he couldn't find any reason to complain.
