I was sincerely, genuinely, nervous when posting the first chapter of this fic, but you guys . . . you really brought it, and I cannot say thank you enough. Like, you don't understand unless you write crossovers, but this story was at over 65 reviews before it had even reached 1k hits (which if you're at all familiar with the ratio of readers to reviewers in the fanfic community, you already know is a huge deal), and for most writers, that's a lot of reviews for a single-fandom story, let alone a crossover. So, sincerely, thank you for making me feel like I made the right choice by going ahead with writing this. *big heart (since FFN doesn't let us leave less-than-three)*
Two of my friends who are fanfic writers & readers have their own Hermione/Geralt crossovers in the works. I know a lot of readers are itching for more fics of them (I did find one other such fic on FFN, it's a 10k+ word one-shot entitled Abandonment by Galadhwen Ainion [which, according to publish dates is actually the first Witcher/HP crossover, how cool is that?], because after enough 'I've been waiting for this kind of fic' reviews, I had to go look for myself, as I couldn't believe they were in such limited supply, but as it turns out, there are only 22 fics on FFN, 24 on Ao3 [some of which are simply dual-posted] for this fandom-crossing). Anywho, when those lovely ladies post their fics, I will provide the titles and their pennames (as well as sharing the links on my FB fanfic page) so you lot can go love on their works. 😊
It is a personal creative decision to refer to Lower Aedirn as the ashlands. I based it on the description of the area, which tells of every village and region having been ransacked, and the land reduced to ash by the Nilfgaard troops.
Chapter Two
His eyes opened in the nighttime dark of his grubby room in the equally grubby inn. It had been a place to wash up and rest, so he hadn't needed more than that. It was still a bit exhausting—if not at all unexpected—that with all he'd done, there was still those, especially in these smaller villages that hedged more formal and distinct towns, who cowered at the sight of him, who whispered the name Butcher as he strode past, as though he could not hear. He'd stayed out of Lormark proper, for there was a good chance that suddenly every second person who'd ever heard a bump in their cellars after dark would decide they needed the services of a monster hunter.
If Yennefer's insistence was to be taken seriously, he simply did not have the luxury of time.
Sleep. He needed to get back to sleep so he could be up and out of here early in the day. Turning on his side, he smashed his fist against his pillow. Dropping his cheek down against the worn fabric, he forced his eyes shut.
It had bothered him that the alchemist, while finding the bizarre creature indeed intriguing and more than happy to part with a hefty bag of ducats to have Geralt hand over her 'prize', did not seem able to tell him anything useful about what the animal might be. He was not one to believe in coincidences—whenever he'd let himself consider that incidents which appeared connected due to odd timing had nothing whatsoever to do with one another, he soon enough found himself unpleasantly surprised by those unconnected things suddenly presenting themselves as links of fate—and that an unidentifiable monster happened to be in that place at that time exactly as he, a monster hunter, was happening through and only being in this area because he had been told he 'had' to get to a place beyond it, struck a little too much of the word coincidence for his comfort.
He had asked if she had perhaps heard rumor of beasts that might've somehow survived in the ashlands to the south and found their way across the Dyfne. The alchemist had provided no answer for that, either, but had blanched at the prospect in a way that made him think perhaps she did have some suspicion about the matter. Some of these small village folk were superstitious in regard to speaking of Lower Aedirn at all, which perhaps made it surprising she hadn't shown him the door the moment the words left his lips.
Instead, he simply took his pay, asked which of the local area's inns would be least likely to turn him away—a ducat was a ducat until it came from the coin purse of a witcher, then it might as well be a bloody pebble he was handing over—and departed.
The question of the creature's very existence had troubled Geralt the rest of the evening. As he'd eaten, as he'd mindfully ignored the wandering gaze of one very eager barmaid—he found he was in no mood for such company tonight—as he'd bathed, as he'd bedded down for the night. He was not in the habit of killing monstrous-looking things simply because they were monstrous. His frame sagged against the mattresses, the misunderstanding weighing on him as it always did.
What most humans did not know—typically because they did not care to know—was that for such creatures, mere existence was agony. Every moment they drew breath, they suffered. That was why he killed them. It was a mercy, hence why he avoided killing something if it was possible. When they attacked, lashed out, behaved precisely as one expected a monster to behave, it was very often out of that mindless, maddening suffering and a violent desire to find an end.
Oh, certainly there were evil creatures in the world, monsters that should truly be feared, but in his experience, those dread beasts usually wore the faces of men. Yet, he understood. It was far easier to justify fear, to justify a lack of willingness to understand, by pointing a finger and declaring a thing painful to look at as 'evil.'
What troubled him now was his original notion that if this creature had been made, then it was almost definitely not alone. Others were likely out there. In pain, wishing for the sort of peace that only came with death. Worse, if he were right, someone was behind these abominations. If that was, indeed, the truth of it, they would not want to be found. Though he refused to open his eyes, one silvery brow arched high on his forehead. Logic would dictate that such a person would hide somewhere overlooked because no one saw a purpose in going there.
Somewhere like the ashlands.
He let out a rough, angry breath. His exhalation erupted almost disturbingly loud against the quiet of his rented room.
He could be wrong, of course. This could be simply one creature with the misfortune of being born so mangled and misshapen—he ignored the question of how such a malformed thing could have survived so long, on its own and unseen, because stranger things happened every day.
Yes. He could absolutely be wrong. The ashlands could hold nothing at all.
This could all be a coincidence . . . .
Golden eyes snapping open, his gaze locked on the window in the wall across from where he lay. The night sky had clearly done something to warrant the witcher's wrath, because he met the moon and stars with a glare.
"Fuck," he grumbled the word under his breath as he sat up. So much for sleep.
It was quiet when Hermione came to. There was no moment of disorientation as she tried to recall what had happened, because the completely ludicrous series of events which had let to her current circumstances were strangely clear and ordered in her head. That was despite the terrible, throbbing ache in the back of her skull, of course.
She carefully cracked open one eye to look about. The fire that had initially drawn her crackled still in the hastily dug pit, but its flames were dwindling a little, and three men lay around its perimeter snoring off and on. Well, that explained the knot on the back of her head, as she had only seen two men earlier. Yet, the one who'd seemed to be in charge was nowhere to be seen.
At least not from this vantage point.
Her wrists were bound, as were her ankles, but strangely she was covered in a blanket? Or maybe it was a cloak? They were trying to keep her from falling ill due to exposure despite that she was clearly being held against her will. Very odd treatment for a prisoner . . . but maybe not so odd, she realized with a shock of cold through her stomach, for a commodity.
A dozen terrible stories of the Dark Ages—and far more recent, yet equally horrific, history, for that matter—ran across her mind, stories of people being treated like things to be bought, sold, or traded. They planned to sell her, or at least use her for something that required she remain in good health. The knot on the back of her skull notwithstanding, of course.
She had to find a way out of this mess. And quickly.
Hermione turned her head by increments, listening for any indication that her movement had been noticed by parties unseen. There was nothing to be heard save for crackling wood, the nearby lap of the water, and the hushed snores of her slumbering captors. The witch gauged her surroundings as she looked for the group's leader.
The boat was unfortunately of no use to her, as she didn't know the first thing about sailing, but the pair of horses tied not far off and currently dosing showed promise. She could ride . . . not well, but decently. Just within sight, settled on the floor of the boat against the side . . . against the wall? She truly didn't know anything about boats, but she could see these men, whatever they were here for, had come prepared for the desolate landscape this side of the river; there were baskets of what appeared, from where she was, might be food . . . dried meats, maybe fruits or vegetables. She felt stupid for that first thought that these were fishermen. They had clearly planned to be here, in this place with no obvious civilization in which to barter, or wilds in which to hunt, for some time.
What could they possibly be doing here?
She shook her head, forcing her wandering attention to refocus on her situation. What did she have?
Okay, transportation? Check. Hell, she'd run out of here on her own two legs if the horses were too stubborn—hadn't she already surmised that the narrowed section of the water here would be passable on her own? Well, provided she didn't get swallowed up by some mythical sea creature, of course, which seemed not entirely unlikely, given what had happened to her so far within just the last half a day, alone.
Destination? Check. For now, she'd aim for the treeline across the water. She feared that if she traveled openly on whatever roads, she might get herself captured again. Best to remain hidden until she neared civilization enough that she could observe the people, assimilate the local fashion, and then blend in. This was all so taxing. She just wanted her bed at home so very badly.
After clearing the water, she'd dismount and travel by foot. Certainly a horse was more ideal in terms of speed, but it would be easier to find cover for herself in a pinch if she were alone than if the very visible presence of a horse signaled curious parties that someone might be near by.
Wait. That daft man and his companion only turned on her after spying the medallion 'round her neck. She couldn't see from where she was without moving too much, but they'd probably taken it. It was thick, fine silver, after all, and probably worth quite a bit. Just now she couldn't worry about this Butcher nonsense they'd muttered about. For all she knew, their actual local butcher had a similar necklace, though she very much doubted their reaction was on account of anything so simple.
God, Hermione, stop sidetracking.
Supplies? Check. She'd nick one of their packs and stuff what she could grab from one of those baskets in on top of whatever might already be in there, since it was likely to be more supplies—of the travel-ready variety, and of course the cloak they'd generously provided her.
Now she only had to worry for getting herself untied, which would be simple if they left her wand on her . . . . She pressed her forearms together to feel for its shape and was not at all surprised to find her wand holster empty. She doubted they knew what it was, but she carried it as one would a weapon—concealed, yet easy to draw—hence removing it from her person was a precaution. Not as dumb as she'd hoped, given they'd left her unguarded. Maybe that was not a question of intellect, but instead of underestimation? Because she was a smallish, slender female with no overt weapons on her?
Then again, when she finally spotted the group's leader, she though perhaps she was overestimating them. He sat just a little away from the rest of them, examining her wand as a caveman might a rifle.
He clearly knew it was some sort of weapon, and she thought he should be very grateful she hadn't had a firearm on her when she'd picked up that damned portkey—and that wands did not work for Muggles—because if she had, then the bloody fool would've just shot himself in the eye with the way he was looking at it.
She supposed there was some relief in him not recognizing a magic wand when he saw one. Perhaps there were no witches in this place?
Her left eye open just that small sliver, she kept herself still. He had to nod off some time. Hermione considered trying to talk him into handing over her wand so she could pretend she was going to show him how it worked, but she couldn't risk that he might not be as dumb as she was hoping. If he saw through such a ruse, he'd wake his crew and then she'd never have an unguarded moment.
It felt like hours later, she was nearly in danger of nodding off, herself, by the time the stubborn man stowed the fanciful bit of carved wood he'd taken from her person inside the pack beside him. He laid down, pillowing his head on it.
Her features tightened in an angry scowl. Okay, getting the wand would prove tricky, but she thought it was at least doable.
Once his snores filled the air to mingle with those of his crew, she sat up. Moving quietly as she could manage, Hermione tore at the rope binding her ankles. Luckily, they were neither fisherman nor sailors, and the knot was difficult, but not completely unmanageable.
Her ankles unbound, she felt a rush of adrenaline, but tried to keep the giddy jitteriness which accompanied it at bay. This was no time for anxiety. Yesterday, when she'd wished to be back in the thick of her own more exciting-than-paperwork personal history, this wasn't the sort of thing she'd had in mind.
Climbing to her feet, she moved on carefully placed footfalls to where the leader rested. Her fingers felt icy and her gut clenched, the weight of the very air around her seeming to press down on her as she lowered to one knee. Throat suddenly dry, breath held, she reached out, delicately slipping her hand into the opening of the pack, just below the sleeping man's head.
Just as she fought her anxiety, she fought a useless, distracting wave of relief as her fingers closed around the end of her wand. She didn't have a full grasp on it, but she was in contact, that was enough. Muttering a reversal charm, she watched as the knot at her wrists unwound itself and the ropes fell away.
Yet the sound of them hitting the damp, thick sand was not as muffled as she'd hoped—it was perhaps the noisiest part of her entire escape attempt thus far—and the man stirred. Wincing, her hand still in the pack, she toward his face.
His eyes were open. He opened his mouth to shout as he reached for the sword at his hip. Hermione fell backward, her wand clasped in her hand as it came free of the pack, and she launched her foot toward his face. Her heel connected hard with his jaw, silencing him. He was still conscious, if disoriented a moment, still pulling his blade from its scabbard.
"Petrificus Totalis," she hissed out in a shouting whisper.
He stilled, and she quickly turned where she lay, aiming the same spell at his sleeping companions. She couldn't kill them. Partly because she wasn't a killer, except in self-defense, and while they had taken her captive, they hadn't really harmed her or done anything nefarious while she'd been unconscious—she had undisturbed clothing and an ache-free, aside from her headache, body to attest to that. Partly because she didn't know if they were part of some larger group and that others might not come looking for them. A mystery girl who'd simply escaped captivity was less worthy of pursuit than a mystery girl who'd murdered one's fellows. Granted, the magic she'd just used on them might raise her worthiness on that, but then it might also make the idea of going after her seem just dangerous enough to not bother.
There was a cold weight against her chest and she glanced down. The silver wolf stared up at her, glinting clear under the moonlight overhead. They hadn't taken it? Frowning, she wrapped her free hand around the chain and tugged. She had wanted to keep it with her, but after their reaction to the sight of it, she thought keeping it visible was probably not the best idea. Yet, the chain held tight. Okay, sturdy. Her frown deepening, she tried to pull it off over her head, but suddenly the chain behaved as though it was simply too short to make it up over her chin or nose.
Letting it fall back into place, she measured the chain's length with her fingers. It should certainly be long enough to get over her facial features—it was the same way she'd put it on, after all, by simply dropping it over her head. The only possible answer was that it was spelled. Bewitched, these men would probably say. Fantastic. Oh, well, she could hardly waste time sitting around here trying to remove a seemingly irremovable necklace. She settled for concealing it inside her shirt.
Climbing to her feet, she looked about the hastily assembled campsite. Alone with their incapacitated bodies now, she took their weapons from them, tossing them into the water, stoked the flames in the pit so they'd not freeze to death during the night whilst unable to move for the sake of warming themselves. One Levicorpus later, the leader was settled around the fire with his men.
There, she'd been as merciful as she had time for—and certainly more than they probably deserved. Returning to where he'd originally lain, she hefted up his pack and checked its contents. Canteen, good, change of clothing . . . . She kept the tunic, but tossed the trousers, way too big for her. Her trainers were hardly ideal for the environment she eyed across the water, but her captors feet were all too big for her to steal anyone's boots. A hunting knife—probably a spare blade, as she imagined that aside from his sword, he likely had a knife hidden somewhere on his person within easy reach.
Buried at the bottom was a leather pouch heavy with coins. Well, that was helpful, as she imagined even if she'd had any Wizarding money with her—she'd literally planned to drop by the Malfoys and then return home to crawl back in bed, so she'd carried nothing but her wand with her—it would be more of a shiny curiosity here than valued as currency. Unable to help herself, she opened the pouch, eager to get a look at the coins, hopeful they might tell her something.
Hermione vaguely recognized it from some home-schooling history lessons her parents had seen to providing as a supplement to her formal education before she'd received her Hogwarts letter. She didn't know the names on it, but it looked like a ducat. So this was the Middle Ages. That only made her more puzzled. She dropped the coin back into the pouch and replaced it in the bottom of the pack. Portkeys only traveled in distance, not time, so how on earth had Lucius Malfoy pulled this off? And why had he done this in the first place?
Aware she could've pick-pocketed each of them, she decided to leave them whatever else they had, instead sticking to her original plan. The cloak secured around her shoulders, and the pack stocked with as much of the food they'd brought with them as it could carry without becoming cumbersome, she approached the horses.
Those petrification charms would wear off eventually, after all.
Staring out across the water toward the ashlands, he frowned. It was just near enough that he could see the dusky grey landscape in the darkness. Just far enough that the light of a fire on the distant shore looked like a smudge dot of flickering orange, and a boat shored nearby made for a larger, darker dot of indeterminate color.
What the hell could possibly . . . ? A sound of rapid splashing met his ears and Geralt turned his head toward it. A horse galloped through the water where the river bowed some distance to his right. If he didn't know any better, he'd think the rider didn't have complete control of the beast, though they leaned close to the neck, braced against the wind and speed of the animal's hoofbeats, so they weren't a complete novice.
Whoever they were, they were fleeing Lower Aedirn as though a host of demons followed in their wake. Looking back toward the smudgy orange dot, he thought he had an idea of what was going on. Clearing the waters of the Dyfne, the rider reined the horse to a halt and hopped down. Removing its tackle, they tossed aside the bridle and saddle before feeding it something from their pack.
Sparing a moment to look back toward the ashy shore across the water, the figure bolted into the nearby treeline. Clearly they were soft-hearted, as they were trying to let the animal free. He had sudden misgivings about how far the person was going to make it through the forest on their own, were that the case.
The ashlands. Some reason he needed to be here. Strange, unnatural creatures roaming the wilds. And now this.
"Fuck," he said for the second time that night and started off toward the last place he'd seen the mysterious rider.
At least, it seemed, he was getting a new horse out of this.
