Dear Fellow Traveller

The first time Geralt had met him was in a tavern. The witcher had moved to the back corner, furthest away from the entrance. That's where he had been. Geralt turned to leave but was stopped by the stranger's soft voice.

"You are welcome to stay."

Geralt halted for a moment before resigning himself to a drinking partner and sitting down.

"Geralt," was his short greeting.

"I am called Thorongil in these lands."

The witcher raised a brow but said nothing further. If this Thorongil wanted to keep his identity secret, he might as well. It was none of Geralt's business.

They talked little that day and Geralt never got a good look at his face. All he had seen, in a passing flash of moonlight, were Thorongil's bright blue eyes.

—

The next time Geralt met Thorongil, he had gotten his side sliced up killing his last monster. He was stumbling towards the inn owned by his client but was beaten to the door by a cloaked figure.

The other man opened the door and looked back at Geralt, blue eyes widening when he saw the red stains on his clothes.

"What has happened to you?"

It was the melodic voice that Geralt recognized.

"Hmm," he pushed past what he assumed to be a ranger and got himself paid.

"Come with me," Thorongil insisted when he came back out, "You need help."

"I'm fine."

"Let me be the judge of that."

With a grunt, Geralt let Thorongil lead him out of the town, where a band of rangers had set up camp.

"Liltar will fix you up," Thorongil said confidently.

Geralt said nothing as a red-headed ranger went about cleaning out his side and stitching it up.

"You're not a ranger, are you?" Liltar asked.

"No, I'm a witcher."

"What's that?"

"I kill monsters and protect those who need protecting."

"Doesn't seem too different from being a ranger."

"Hmm."

"You would be welcome to travel with us for a while, if you wish," Thorongil offered.

Geralt didn't answer him that evening but the next morning when the rangers packed up their camp he stood with them, "I will follow you."

Thorongil grinned, "Excellent. You can ride with me for now until we can get you a horse."

"No need."

Geralt whistled loudly and within minutes his mare approached him. The rangers seemed surprised at the horse's sudden appearance but Geralt merely took her reigns.

"This is Roach."

Thorongil seemed less than impressed at his naming skills but merely lifted a brow before wordlessly mounting his own steed.

—

In the following years, Geralt would often ride with Thorongil's rangers when asked and sometimes even just with the man himself but he never stayed for very long.

This time, they met in a tavern in Bree-Land.

Sitting in the back corner of a tavern, Geralt looked up at the hooded figure that approached him.

"Strider," said Thorongil, sitting down, "That is what they call me here."

"Hmm."

Similar to the first time they met, the two men talked little as they drank, both often in their own heads. Over the years, however, they had grown quite comfortable in each other's presence, though neither of them ever sought to mention it.

They shared a room in the inn overnight–neither of them was made of money and sharing was cheaper–and rode off in the same direction the next day.

—

"You have a new horse."

Nearly a decade had passed since they last saw each other and yet neither of them seemed to have aged a day.

Geralt looked up at Strider with a hum, petting the neck of his mare, "Her name is Roach."

"I see your naming skills have not improved."

The witcher shrugged, "She doesn't mind."

Strider raised a brow, "Has she told you that?"

There was a small grin on the witcher's face, "She has."

At the ranger's surprised look, Geralt chuckled lowly before explaining how he had once drank a potion that came with the side effect of understanding his horse.

"That sounds wondrous indeed," said Strider.

"Too bad it would probably kill me if I consumed it more often."

"Yes, too bad."

The two of them made camp within a thicket of trees, the only light on them that of the moon. They were not far out from the elven town of Rivendell.

"Have you ever been there?" Strider asked, seemingly having the same thought as he motioned westwards towards the town.

"No," Geralt admitted, "My last run-in with elves didn't go very well."

Strider looked at him questingly.

"Got stuck with a bard afterwards."

Here Strider laughed, "A bard?"

"Hmm, insists he's going to do wonders for my reputation. Now I can't go anywhere without people singing that stupid song of his about me."

The ranger laughed at his plight but finally admitted, "I too have had poetry made about me. Though I am quite fond of the composer. It helps, of course, not to go by your true name."

Geralt grunted, "Spent too long coming up with the name to change it now. And most just know me as Witcher anyways."

He motioned to his cat-like orange eyes, "Hard to hide that part."

Strider made an agreeing hand motion before the two fell into a comfortable silence, the ranger eventually pulling out a pipe.

"I grew up there," he said eventually.

Geralt raised a brow, looking in the direction of Rivendell, "You a half-elf or something?"

"Or something," Strider grinned.

The witcher huffed, "Been wondering how it is you don't age."

"I could ask you the same thing."

"I'm a witcher."

"I wasn't aware that that came with immortality."

"It's part of our mutations," Geralt explained and left it agt that.

Once again they fell into a comfortable silence and remained that way for the rest of the night, save for when they woke each other up to take watch in shifts.

Geralt supposed it was strange. He hadn't trusted another person at his back like this (outside of his brothers) in many years.

Then again, Strider had always been different from most.

—

Whenever Geralt rode with the rest of the rangers, he spoke less than he did when it was just him and ("Here most know me as Telcontar" "How many fucking names do you have?") the ranger he had first met.

He supposed this was the closest he would get to working with a group of witchers-though a group of witchers was not something that happened, really.

When meeting Telcontar alone, he always seemed more similar to Geralt himself: quietly brooding in the back corner of taverns.

Around others, however, he became more outspoken and laughed easily (not that he didn't laugh with Geralt, he just seemed more merry amongst groups).

That was the difference between them, Geralt supposed, Telcontar was made to be with people, whereas Geralt was more often than not alone.

Still, over the years there had been a few humans that stuck around in his life. One of them was the bard that haunted him, the other was Telcontar.

While Geralt had grown reluctantly fond of the bard, Telcontar was the only human that he had truly chosen to keep around.

What that meant, Geralt didn't want to think about.

They made rest that night and most of the rangers made themselves comfortable with their pipes when Telcontar spoke up.

"I fear I won't see any of you for a long time to come."

He was met with questioning looks.

"The wizard Gandalf has asked for my help in matters I am not to speak off."

A ranger next to him patted his shoulder, "We will wait on you. May we meet again."

Telcontar repeated the sentiment with a nod before his eyes shifted towards Geralt.

"See you then," was all the witcher offered.

The ranger nodded at him in return, his eyes strangely melancholic.

—

Aragorn thought often of the witcher during his time with the Fellowship.

They had fought side by side in battle against fell beasts numerous times and he had often had to catch himself from turning towards a tall presence next to him after killing an orc. He knew no one would be there.

Then, one thing had led to another and suddenly he was living in Gondor, preparing to be crowned king.

He was staring down at the beautiful city from his balcony when Arwen entered their shared room.

"You are thinking hard, my love." the elleth spoke in her native tongue.

Aragorn didn't answer at first.

He loved Arwen, he did. She was beautiful and wise and he had loved her since he was a young man. Still, a part of him could not forget the witcher that had grown so dear to him.

His dreams, as of late, had been haunted by cat-like eyes and grey hair that contrasted a young face.

Finally, he turned to his love, "It is nothing to worry about."

He took her into his arms and the two of them looked out at Minas Tirith. The darkness of the sky had lifted after the War but they both remembered it when looking up at the blue.

—

"Come on, Geralt!"

"No."

Jaskier put his hands on his hips. "It's a coronation of one man for two kingdoms! I have to see it! Think of the ballads I could write!"

"No one's stopping you from going."

"And how do you suppose I get there?"

"By horse."

The bard looked less than impressed, "Haven't you been to Gondor before?"

"I have."

"Then take me!"

Geralt gave a long-suffering sigh and gave in.

The two took multiple weeks to travel to the White City of Gondor but made it in time for the coronation.

And then there he stood.

Cleaner than he had ever seen him, Thoronghil, Strider, Telcontar, now Aragorn, stood in front of the crowd, his back turned to them.

"I thought he'd be taller," Jaskier said from beside him but Geralt barely paid him any mind.

Aragorn turned to face the crowd after the crown was set upon his head by the white wizard. He was King Elessar now.

There was a small smile on his face as he looked upon the people around him. Then, slowly, he made his way through the crowd, greeting those around him with small nods and began to sing in Sindarin.

Geralt did not understand his words but he saw the moment Aragorn noticed him in the crowd.

—

Unable to halt, Aragorn continued his song. When he was done, the first to greet him was Legolas.

He greeted the elvish prince with a smile before turning to find the witcher again.

As he looked around, all he could see was a colourful bard where the witcher had stood. The bard winked at him but Geralt was nowhere in sight.

For the rest of his life, Aragorn would wonder about the fate of the witcher. He wondered if what he had once told him was true ("Witchers don't retire, they grow slow and die.") but deep in his heart, he knew that he was still out there somewhere in the shadows.