For the Witcher Monster MAYhem 2023 alt. prompt Toss a coin.
"Cahir?" Carefully, Geralt rolls the young man over. His face is covered in blood and blood is still gushing from his nostrils in scarlet rivulets. He moans, then blinks his eyes open with an effort.
"Gods, are you alright, brother?" Geralt asks, worried. Cahir grunts and struggles into a sitting position, then suddenly leans to the side and starts to vomit violently. Geralt quickly puts his arms around his friend's trembling torso and holds him up while he is puking his guts out.
"Feeling better?" the Witcher asks when Cahir is done. Spitting out one last time, he nods faintly and tries to get to his feet. He is so shaky though that he has to lean heavily on Geralt to stay upright.
"What happened, Cahir?" Geralt inquires, picking up his friend's sword with his free hand. The torch has gone out. "Are you hurt?" Except for the heavy nosebleed, he has not detected any other signs of a serious injury on his companion. However, he might have overlooked something. Perhaps not all of the troll's blows missed their intended target?
"No, don't think I'm hurt. Just dizzy. Damn—" He doubles up once more, holding his stomach while retching up mostly bile and the very last remnants of his lunch. "Gods, I feel like shit," he murmurs when finally the heaving has stopped.
"Why don't you sit over there with the horses for a moment while I finish up here, and then we get you back to the inn and a nice soft bed?" Geralt suggests. Cahir does not answer, but, supported by his older friend, he shuffles his feet forward. Although it is not far, he is panting badly when they arrive at the oak tree. He flops down against its trunk with a groan.
"Shit, why's my nose bleeding?" he asks, trying to wipe away the blood with the sleeve of his shirt.
"You killed the troll, you remember that, don't you?" Geralt says, sitting down on his haunches next to Cahir. He hands him back his sword. The silver-coated blade is dripping with the dead beast's blood.
"Hm, ugly, stinking bastard, that," Cahir mutters tiredly.
"True. And you did great. Like a real Witcher," Geralt praises with an appreciative smile. "Then something unexpected happened. A second troll appeared out of nowhere. You cast Quen to protect me from it. And it worked. Over an astounding distance, too. Then you must have fainted from the strain."
"But that's not possible," Cahir says, shaking his head in disbelief. "I can't cast Witcher signs, I told you that much."
"Guess you were wrong. And luckily so. If not for your shield magic, I'd be as dead as those trolls."
"I don't think I remember."
"Too bad. Your Quen was amazing. And incredibly powerful, even for a Witcher. That boulder bounced right off it."
"Last thing I recall's how fucking scared I was that I wouldn't be able to pull Vesemir's sword out of those troll guts before the troll went down. Silver swords are delicate. Might have gotten damaged." He looks at the blood-covered sword in his lap, relieved nothing has happened to it.
"You might have gotten damaged if the troll had fallen onto you. What do you think Vesemir - and I - would have been more upset about? Well, guess he'll be very pleased to hear about your Quen, though."
"And make me practise Witcher signs every day for hours," Cahir groans, wiping at his nose again. "But it won't work, I know it."
"Hm, perhaps it only works in an emergency?" Geralt says with a frown. "It's not impossible. But I'm not an expert on magic. Yennefer is, she might have an explanation for this. We can ask her as soon as she returns." Geralt rises to his feet. "Time to collect those troll heads. Will you be alright? I'll be back in a few minutes."
Cahir nods and closes his eyes. Completely exhausted, he has fallen fast asleep even before Geralt has grabbed the big burlap sack from his saddle bag that he usually takes with him on a hunt for the trophies in case the beast is too big to bring to the contractee as a whole, which happens ever so often. It was meant for just the one troll head, but it should be big enough for two. With their primitive brains, a troll's noggin is disproportionately small, after all. Perhaps he ought to take a hand or foot, too, so the villagers will not get a wrong impression of the actual size of a troll? And try to beat down the price. It has happened before. They will surely refuse to pay for the second troll as it was not included in the contract, but he will not leave the village without the promised double pay, no way. Cahir deserves a fucking good horse. The very best Geralt can find in all of Kaedwen. No, in all of the northern kingdoms.
It takes more than a few minutes to cut off the two trolls' heads, of course, and some extra time for a hand and a foot. When Geralt has finished his grisly task and, lugging the heavy, blood-soaked sack after him, returns to the oak tree, Cahir has slumped to the side and is still sound asleep, shivering slightly in the chilly air of the late summer night. Geralt does not like to do it, but it cannot be helped, he has to wake him up and get the unnaturally drowsy young man onto his horse. No better he gets him onto Roach. Totally depleted as he is from the inexplicable, powerful display of magic, he might drop off in the saddle and fall off. They can ride double, they have done it before after Cahir caught that axe in the head in Belhaven. Yennefer's black can carry the sack. There is still plenty of time before midnight, they do not need to hurry along but can ride at a slow trot. It is not far, anyway.
They make it to the village alright and on time. Wrapped up in Geralt's cloak, Cahir is half asleep leaning heavily into his friend's back but he is awake enough to hang on to the Witcher and not fall off the horse. News of their return spreads like wildfire and within minutes, the entire village is on their feet to meet the heroic troll slayers. Open-mouthed, their eyes big with horror and fascination, the villagers point at the blood-dripping sack attached to the black horse's saddle and cheer and almost dance around the successful monster hunters. Geralt keeps a grim expression, as befits a Witcher, while he steers Roach and the other horse through the narrow street and toward the little square in front of the inn. Cahir blinks once or twice, but is far too tired to appreciate the cheering and applause. With all the blood smeared across his face and his nose still dripping big drops of the red fluid, the peasants seem to assume that Cahir is badly injured and several of them hurry to help him from the horse when they come to a halt in front of the inn. It is a good thing, too, as he can hardly stand on his shaky legs and almost collapses.
The mayor and the inn-keeper are waiting in the open door, applauding the two heroes loudly and beckoning them in. Geralt dismounts and hands the horses' reins to a young man who seems to have approached him for exactly this purpose.
"Nobody goes near the horses, you hear that?" Geralt says, addressing the crowd, "I'll be back shortly."
"I can show you to your room," the inn-keeper's daughter offers breathlessly when she has squeezed through the door past her father. "I can get the barber-surgeon, too."
"No, the room will do, thank you. It's nothing a good night's sleep won't cure. And some warm water to wash, if you don't mind." Putting a strong arm around Cahir's waist, Geralt takes over from the peasants. The young man looks so pale and dead on his feet, joining the mayor for the promised feast is out of the question. A pity, as Geralt can already smell the appetising aroma of roasted meat and onions. He is dastardly hungry, too. But first things first. He has to make sure that his comrade is okay.
Supporting his barely conscious friend, he follows the redheaded girl up the stairs and into a big guest room. A fire has already been lit in the fireplace and it is nice and cosy inside it. There is only one bed, but it is huge and looks comfortable as hell. Cahir collapses onto it and closes his eyes, far too tired to undress or wash or eat. All he wants to do is sleep. Preferably for several days, or weeks. Geralt removes his friend's black leather boots and tucks him in.
"Will you be alright?" he asks for the third time that day. There is no answer. Cahir has already drifted off. The nosebleed has finally stopped and he is breathing regularly and deeply. His heartbeat is strong and steady as well. No reason to worry too much. Nothing but a bad case of magical exhaustion, Geralt has seen it before with Yennefer. He just needs to sleep it off. If he checks on his friend from time to time, there can be nothing wrong with having some food and a drink or two downstairs in the taproom. The mayor and the villagers are surely waiting eagerly for him to tell their tale, too. And then there is the extra payment he needs to collect. Not to forget the two trolls' heads that need to be taken care of ...
So, after having washed up a little, Geralt steps out of the inn's door. As expected, the crowd is still there, aquiver with anticipation. It has even grown considerably as many peasants have woken up and brought their children to see the spectacle. When the Witcher pulls not only one troll's head from the blood-soaked sack but two, plus the hand and foot, the cheering finds no end. The mayor hands over the second moneybag in exchange for the bloody body parts with no attempt at haggling. To Geralt's utter surprise, he even tosses a big hand full of golden coins to the Witcher for the second troll. Either he does not care about the money indeed, or he is too drunk to be aware of how many Ducats he has just given away. Well, it is his money, and it was a though job that could easily have gone wrong. So Geralt does not object, on the contrary. He grins broadly and bows to the more than generous mayor. Then it is time for the well-deserved feast. After all, killing a troll is hungry and thirsty work. The waitress has kept her word and the table of honour is laden with all kinds of delicious stews, roast meat, sausages and pies. As the mayor is not stingy with neither food nor ale, Geralt, for once, is not stingy with the details of the story. In contrast to Jaskier, he does not embellish the tale of how Cahir and he killed the two trolls, but the story is more than exciting enough as it is. The mayor and the villagers seem to agree, as they applaud and cheer so loudly, Geralt fears they will bring down the house, or wake up Cahir. But his companion is sound asleep when he checks on him. It is long past midnight, when, filled to the gills and pleasantly tipsy, the Witcher finally collapses into bed next to his softly snoring comrade. Satisfied with a job well done, a much better payment than expected and, for once, with a whole village full of grateful customers and admirers, Geralt falls asleep almost immediately.
When, at first light, and before the mayor can change his mind about the payment, the two monster slayers leave the inn, their saddle bags stuffed with cold meat and pies, they can see the trolls' heads mounted on two long pikes in front of the inn. In big, red letters there is a new name, too: Trolls' Heads Inn. To his day you can find the inn there in the small village in a valley not far from the Blue Mountains and, when asked about the peculiar name, the older patrons will tell you the tale of the two Witchers, the older, white-haired and the young, quiet one with the big scar across the face, who slew the man-eating creatures for two sacks of gold.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Yennefer arrives back at Kaer Morhen several days after Geralt and Cahir. And indeed, she has an explanation for Cahir's equally surprising as life-saving display of magic when they tell her the story. A rather simple one as it turns out.
"Cahir, have you ever heard the name Assire var Anahid?"
He frowns, then shakes his head. "I don't know. I might, but I'm not sure." The name sounds a bit familiar, but there is no memory whatsoever of the woman.
"She has a black cat named Merlin," Yennefer adds.
"Merlin?" The name rings a bell. Suddenly he recalls something. An image. The sun shining on the cat's perfect, black fur. Merlin purring loudly as he was walking up and down a window sill and rubbing his head against Cahir's face, trying to comfort him when he was feeling really bad. Why he was feeling shitty like this he has no idea, though. He shudders in spite of the summerly warmth. "I - I think I remember him," he finally says. "Vaguely."
"Assire var Anahid is your grandmother's sister. I met her the other day. She's a sorceress in Nilfgaard."
"A sorceress? But if Cahir's grandaunt is a sorceress, that would mean—" Geralt begins, furrowing his brow.
"—that there is an affinity to magic in his family passed down from his mother's side, yes," Yennefer finishes the sentence. "Your mother's ancestors, Cahir, were originally from the north. I've suspected that there must be some magic along your bloodline for a while. Totally non-magical people don't have visions, but you - like Geralt, whose mother is a sorceress - had those dreams of Ciri. And then there is the Witcher blood. Add this to the diluted, latent magic in your genes, and voila, it is not surprising at all that you can cast a simple Witcher sign when under high emotional stress. And I'm very glad you could." Yennefer gives him a big smile. "I don't want to imagine what would have happened if your Quen had not worked. Both of you might have ended up dead."
"We could have," Geralt says, "but we didn't."
"And you better make fucking dead sure it stays like this, too, Geralt," Yennefer urges. "No monster hunt is worth getting one of you - or the both of you - killed."
"Those trolls were murdering and eating humans. It's a Witcher's job to protect people from monsters," Geralt responds. "It's not only a job description, it's our life, our reason to exist. Cahir has a choice, of course, whether or not he wants to do it, but for me the question does not even arise. You know that, Yen. Anyhow, the trolls were definitely worth the trouble," he adds with a secretive smile, "and not only because killing them might have saved lives. That mayor tossed a pretty coin at us Witchers. There is a surprise for you, little brother, in the stables. Care to have a look?"
Cahir does not need to be asked twice. He almost jumps up from the wooden bench they are sitting on in Kaer Morhen's courtyard. A surprise in the stables can only mean one thing ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"Cahir, meet Thunder, your new steed," Geralt says, grinning broadly at his friend who is standing in the entrance to the Kaer Morhen stables like thunderstruck, hardly believing his eyes. For the black stallion is magnificent. Young and spirited, perfectly proportioned, his fur flawless and shiny, his mane and tail like black silk. The long, white blaze forms the shape of a thunderbolt.
Yes, those trolls were worth the trouble, he thinks, and every drop of blood, no doubt about that.
The end