Witcher Gonna Do

The introduction left Vesemir unusually contemplative, his sharp eyes flickering to Kakashi even as they settled down to eat. The hearth crackled steadily, casting the room in warm, shifting light that seemed to dance across the battered walls of Kaer Morhen’s dining hall.

Jaskier was already deep into his plate and performing a half-remembered tale of some alleged escapade involving an irate alderman and a well-timed serenade. His voice filled the space, melodic but ultimately background noise to the room’s weightier undercurrents. 

Geralt leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the fire. The warmth seeped into his muscles, but the air around the table felt cold, weighted with unspoken thoughts. Vesemir sat across from him, knife slicing through meat with precision. Though his movements were deliberate, Geralt caught the flickers of thought—eyes narrowing, the faint pause before bites.

Vesemir sat back, his hands coming to rest on the arms of his chair after he’d eaten enough, his demeanor deceptively relaxed. But Geralt knew better. That slight furrow in Vesemir’s brow, the way his fingers drummed once on the wood before stilling—it was the equivalent of shouting from anyone else.

Kakashi was sitting straight, his posture almost prim despite the easy rhythm of his eating. His hand moved methodically, cutting his food with the efficiency of someone who had been taught to waste neither motion nor time. The boy’s one visible eye appeared to follow Jaskier’s gesticulations, engaging with the bard’s story at appropriate times. On the surface, he appeared indifferent to the incoming conversation focusing instead on the story. But the slight tilt of his head betrayed his keen focus on Vesemir and Geralt. The kid was observing the flow of tension to prepare for what was coming. Geralt had to admire the kid’s perceptiveness, though it didn’t make things easier.

The scrape of Geralt’s fork against his plate broke the momentary silence, and Vesemir’s gaze snapped to him. A glance—small, weighted, questioning.Well? it seemed to ask. Geralt didn’t answer, not yet. He let his shoulders ease back against the chair and allowed the warmth of the fire to sink into his skin. He wasn’t stalling—not exactly—he simply wasn’t ready to speak yet.

Vesemir’s curiosity pressed down on him. The reality of Kakashi’s existence, a Witcher child that should have been Impossible and newly made in all the ways that mattered, was inherently hard to explain. Especially when he had fuck all on the kid’s background and a bare basics understanding of how it had come to be. Vesemir knew it was complicated, even if he hadn’t said the words aloud. There was no way for something like this to be anything but complicated. Vesemir had likely been able to sparse out some possibilities on his own by now and wanted confirmation. 

Geralt saw it in the way the old man’s eyes lingered on Kakashi’s too-young face, his sharpened features. Witchers hadn’t been made in decades; the sacking of Kaer Morhen had seen to that. All of it—the alchemy, the Trials, the means to create more of their kind—had been destroyed, and with it, the end of their kind had been sealed. Or— should have been sealed. There hadn’t been any word from any of the schools about new generations or even a successful mutation. If there had been, Vesemir would have been the first to know it. And yet, here sat Kakashi. Looking barely into his teens and bearing their mutations without a doubt.

Geralt finally met Vesemir’s eyes, his jaw tightening. He shifted slightly in his chair, fingers drumming once on his plate before picking up his fork again. A shrug followed by a glance towards Jaskier, subtle but clear: Not here. Not yet.

The seconds stretched. Kakashi remained a quiet observer, while Jaskier, sensing the lack of attention from the other half of the audience, began punctuating his tale with exaggerated flourishes. “And then! The harpy—wings outspread—dove straight for me! Of course, I had my wits about me—” He glanced around the table, his enthusiasm faltering against the grim silence between the witchers but refocusing on Kakashi and his seemingly unbroken attention. 

Jaskier leaned towards Kakashi, openly deciding to focus on his only audience member not currently visibly preoccupied. “I almost took a wickedly sharp claw to the gut before I tripped on my lucky boots and tumbled out of harm's way!” Jaskier whispered conspiratorially. A wide grin split his face as the bard detailed the close call and how Geralt had charmingly come to his rescue only moments later. Jaskier had taken the hint from the rest of the table’s silent glaring to shift his little distraction to the end of the table, giving the big boys room to talk.

Geralt’s lip twitched—a flicker of amusement quickly hidden behind a swig of ale. Vesemir finally broke the silence. “So,” he said, his voice rough but steady, “you said you’d explain after dinner,” His eyes flicked to Kakashi—briefly, like a blade sliding out of its sheath—then back to Geralt. Vesemir’s brow lifted slightly, his tone measured. “It’s after dinner.” The ‘What are we dealing with?’ coming across loud and clear.

Geralt paused, a clear hesitation as he wracked his brain for where to start. He knew it was time to explain, to tell Vesemir what he’d figured out so far, but he didn’t exactly have a full timeline for the kid. Figuring out where to start was… Difficult. Geralt would let Vesemir lead the conversation here. Vesemir was quick to pick up the hesitation. The older man’s eye twitched and his thumb twitched as he picked his utensils back up. “He’s too young to have been made before the fall.” Ah, they were going to start there then. Geralt caught Vesemir’s eyes, the silent conversation continuing. Your move. 

Geralt stabbed his fork into a chunk of meat, his movements unhurried. He didn’t look up immediately, letting the question linger in the space between them. With a sigh, he set his fork down, meeting the unspoken demand head-on. “Experiments,” he said simply, his tone flat, watching the word land like a blade. It was the only piece of information he had gotten out of Kakashi in ways of explanation on the kid’s origin. The only actual way for Kakashi to exist with the current complete lack of inheritance of the original formula, was through experimentation. Vesemir would know that well enough, given the man’s own obsessions.

Vesemir’s knife froze mid-cut. His gaze sharpened, lips pressing into a thin line. “Who would dare?”

Geralt held his gaze before tipping his head toward Kakashi in a faint gesture. The boy didn’t react visibly, but Geralt caught the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly at the next word. “His father,” Geralt said after a beat, the words as heavy as the air between them. “A private effort. Reviving the old methods. Likely wanted a personal army.” He let the lie hang there, calculated, waiting to see if Kakashi would bite. It’d worked once and Geralt was hoping to pull out a bit more information from the boy’s reaction this time.

The words hung heavy in the air. Kakashi’s grip on his knife tightened perceptibly, his visible eye darting toward Geralt with a glare. Vesemir caught it, leaning back slightly as he folded his arms. Play along.

Vesemir grunted low in his throat, the disdain clear. “Madness.” His words came clipped, but his eyes were on Kakashi, weighing the boy silently. At a glance it looked like he was weighing the danger Kakashi posed, but with Geralt’s familiarity he could see the careful consideration. Vesemir was waiting for a response, a confirmation or denial. Time to crack open the truth?

Geralt didn’t answer—didn’t have a chance too. Instead, Kakashi’s voice sliced through the quiet, sharper than steel, colder than the wind howling outside Kaer Morhen’s walls. “No.” The word hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. His visible eye burned, a smoldering defense of something deeply personal. “He didn’t.” Each syllable was deliberate, cutting, as though daring anyone to challenge him.

With both Vesemir and Geralt watching, the boy’s eye blazing, Kakashi set his utensils down with deliberate care. “My father—he died when I was six. He wasn’t…” Kakashi’s hands clenched briefly before he forced them flat against the table. “He didn’t experiment with something like that. He would have never had the chance to.”

Geralt gave Vesemir a sidelong glance, the old man’s eyes wide as he weighed the boy’s words. He remained quiet, letting the room breathe under the weight of Kakashi’s admission. Vesemir’s head tilted slightly, his gaze narrowing. His fingers tapped once against the table, a deliberate gesture: Then who did? But Kakashi’s focus slipped back to his plate. His gaze was hard as he stared down at the table, clearly unwilling to delve into whatever happened after his father’s death. The room settled back into an uneasy quiet. Geralt had no intention of filling the gap with his half formed theory until they were in private, he didn’t want to incense the boy more than he already had. By this point, Jaskier had finally figured out that Kakashi’s attention wasn’t as undivided as he had originally assumed.

Jaskier, now visibly uncomfortable, poked at his food, his gaze flitting between them. “I see we’ve entered the brooding portion of the evening,” he muttered, though his usual humor was tempered by unease.

Vesemir’s voice softened, hopefully enough to prevent Kakashi from clamming all the way back up, ignoring Jaskier’s remark. “Whatever the case,” Vesemir said, his tone sharper now but carrying no less weight, “it’s reckless. Without the right training, the mutations are a death sentence.” And they were. Mutations marked one as a target for monsters and without proper training, death would follow swiftly. His eyes flicked to Geralt, one brow raising slightly. Did the boy ever receive the Path?

Geralt shook his head slightly, feeling the weight of his next words. “It’s not the same process.” He glanced at Kakashi, whose gaze had shifted back to his plate, though Geralt knew he was still listening intently. “Strength, instincts, reflexes—they’re all there. But he’s missing… everything else. No training with signs, no knowledge of monsters. He’s lethal, but less trained than a pup.”

At that, Vesemir leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing and fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes flicked to Kakashi’s hands briefly before returning to Geralt, an unspoken command clear. Explain.

Geralt huffed, reaching for his tankard and taking a slow swig before answering. “He needs the Path, same as any fresh trainee.”

Geralt pushed his empty plate away, leaning forward. “That’s why I brought him here. If anyone can help with this, it’s you.”

Vesemir stilled, the drumming of his fingers stopping entirely. gaze shifted to Kakashi, who had returned to eating in silence. The old Witcher’s frown deepened, though he said nothing for a long moment. It had been many long decades since the witcher had the chance to train a new kid. Geralt knew it was something Vesemir longed for more than anything. To have new youngins to train would mean there was a chance for their race to have a future, to experience more than just the slowly dwindling numbers of an inevitable extinction. Vesemir’s breath left forcefully as the understanding settled.

Vesemir looked back at Geralt, his eyes narrowing with a mix of frustration and understanding. “You’re dumping this on me.”

Geralt’s lips twitched into a smirk. “I knew you’d understand.”

Vesemir shook his head but didn’t argue. He glanced back at Kakashi one more time before standing and moving toward the fire. 

“Tomorrow,” Vesemir said at last, his voice slightly fragile and warm with hope beneath the gruff exterior. “We start tomorrow.”

Kakashi glanced up, his visible eye flashing with something Geralt couldn’t quite name. Acceptance, or determination maybe.

Beside him, Jaskier, who had been enjoying the drama like it was some grand play, let out a low whistle. Successfully breaking the tension. “Well,” the bard said, leaning back theatrically. “That’s about as cheerful as a wake. Nothing like a good existential crisis to end the day. Anyone fancy a song to lighten the mood?”

Kakashi’s lips twitched faintly, and when he spoke, his voice carried a faint lilt of humor. “Maybe one about a man who didn’t know when to stop talking.”

Jaskier flinched, then barked a nervous laugh. “Oh, very good. Very clever. I’ll just… tuck myself into my room now. I’m wondering if maybe I should sleep with one eye open,” he muttered with a nervous chuckle. “I feel like I might have crossed one too many lines with our resident Witcher lad on the way up.”

Geralt almost snorted, but Kakashi beat him to it. The boy’s lips quirked, and for the first time that evening, a glimmer of humor danced in his eye. “Don’t worry,” Kakashi said smoothly, his voice suddenly lighter. “Even with an eye open, you’d never see it coming.”

Jaskier froze, his eyes widening slightly before a nervous laugh escaped him. “I… think I’ll just keep to my own room tonight, then. Or better yet!” Jaskier turned to Geralt, a plea in his eyes and a request on his lips. “Geralt! My dear friend and companion, shall I bunk with you? Like old times!” The bard quieted, the next part a conspiratorial stage whisper. “With a side of protection of course?”

Geralt let out a low chuckle, the tension in the room easing just a bit as Kakashi’s unexpected joke settled over them. Vesemir shook his head, a faint smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. For now, the weight of Kakashi’s situation was momentarily set aside, but Geralt knew there were deeper conversations yet to come.

“Welcome home, Kakashi,” Geralt chuckled, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the boy’s face.

“Welcome home, indeed,” Geralt muttered to himself, watching as Jaskier defended or, well, attempted to defend his previous actions while Kakashi playfully bantered back and forth with the bard. All of which was watched by a content Vesemir, who was watching Kakashi like he couldn’t decide if the boy was a treasure or a menace. There were still far too many questions, and they’d have time enough to dig into them. But for now, they could let the flames burn a little brighter, a little longer. It was a similar warmth to what he felt each year he came back. 

It was the warmth of home.

Geralt led them through Kaer Morhen’s labyrinthine stone corridors, his steps steady and slow. The sound of his boots echoed against the ancient walls, a low rhythm beneath the occasional crackle of firelight from the sconces. Jaskier trailed behind, his curiosity palpable as his wide-eyed gaze darted over every detail—the vaulted ceilings, the worn carvings etched into stone pillars, and the faintly visible scars of long-forgotten battles. 

The bard’s leather shoes produced a lighter tap and occasional scuff that beat out of time with Geralt’s. The mismatched pattern was accompanied by seemingly random pauses or squeaks as Jaskier paused to gawk at the surroundings, nearly tripping every so often. Kakashi’s were noticeably absent. Soundless, and weightless, a stark contrast that reminded Geralt of the boy’s original stated profession.

“This place is… bigger than I imagined,” Jaskier muttered, his voice hushed as though he feared disturbing the silence that had settled over the Keep. Even as quietly as he’d spoken however, the words still found their way echoing off the towering ceilings and porous stone walls. The sound had a way of lingering in the cold air, as though the liquid in the air reverberated the disturbance.

Geralt glanced back briefly, giving a noncommittal grunt in reply. The bard’s awe was understandable; it was his first time in Kaer Morhen, after all. But Geralt wasn’t quite in the mood to humor it. He’d be having a few more conversations before the day was up and his speaking quota for the day was already overfilled. 

Jaskier stumbled as his boot caught the edge of a loose stone, his arms flailing briefly before he caught himself. “Oh, for the love of—” He shot a glare at the floor, then straightened his doublet with an aggrieved sigh. “How do you lot live like this? It’s a death trap waiting to happen!”

A faint twitch of Geralt’s lips betrayed his amusement, but he said nothing. It was only a death trap for the clumsy. Although saying that out loud might result in him getting punched. The desire was strong though.

Ahead of them, the firelight flickered, casting long, uneven shadows along the walls. The air carried a faint chill, tinged with the smell of old stone and ash. They reached a smaller corridor that branched off the main hall, and Geralt stopped in front of a wooden door, its surface worn smooth from centuries of use.

“Here,” Geralt said simply, his voice low as he pushed the door open.

The room inside was modest but not without comfort. A single bed was tucked against the far wall, piled high with furs that looked thick enough to ward off even Kaer Morhen’s harshest winters. A small, unlit hearth stood in one corner, and the faint scent of dried herbs lingered in the air, likely from Vesemir’s occasional attempts at keeping the quarters livable.

Kakashi stepped inside first, his movements cautious but purposeful. His gaze swept over the room, his single grey eye lingering briefly on the bed before shifting to the shadows in the corners and the lone window, which was fogged from the cold. The kid’s eye lingered on the window for a long moment and Geralt, remembering the attempted escape in the mountain pass, logged it as a possible escape point for the boy. 

It would be good to keep an eye out though whether Kakashi’s intent was flight or simply vigilance remained unclear. Kid already had several attempted escapes under his belt and Geralt would like to avoid another. There was a wariness to Kakashi still, a quiet tension that hadn’t fully left since the dinner altercation. Kid would relax eventually, Geralt thought, hopefully in time to get the full story before it came round to bite ‘em in the ass.

Jaskier entered behind him, his expression softening as he took in the boy’s hunched shoulders and the faint droop to his posture. “Well, it’s not exactly a king’s chamber,” the bard said lightly, “but it’ll do. Come on, lad. Off to bed with you. You need rest before all that grueling Witcher training starts in the morning,” he half-teased, though his voice carried genuine care.

Kakashi’s eye narrowed slightly as he glanced over his shoulder at Jaskier, his lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, it seemed like he might argue, but then he turned back to the bed with a sigh, pulling the furs aside and climbing onto the mattress with quiet reluctance.

Jaskier followed, his teasing tone giving way to something softer as he tugged the blankets up over Kakashi’s shoulders. “There. Snug as a bug in a rug.” He patted the furs with exaggerated care, earning a faint, exasperated huff from Kakashi.

“Sleep tight, lad,” Jaskier murmured, stepping back with a smile. Kakashi didn’t respond. His gaze had shifted to the ceiling, his expression deep in thought—guarded, even in repose.

Geralt’s eyes lingered on the boy for a moment longer before he motioned for Jaskier to follow him out. The door creaked softly as they closed it behind them, leaving the room to its silence and shadows. Kid deserved the rest.

Geralt motioned for Jaskier to follow him into a room slightly down the hall, the door creaking softly as he pushed it open. Inside, a much larger bed dominated the space, its thick furs piled high against the cold. The hearth in the corner held the dying embers of an earlier fire, casting faint, warm shadows that danced along the stone walls. The faint scent of old wood and smoke lingered, a familiar comfort amidst the fortress's chill.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Jaskier turned sharply, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “So, what’s the kid in for?” he demanded, his voice low but intense. “What kind of training are we talking about?”

Geralt leaned his weight against the wall, the cold stone pressing against his back as his arms folded tightly across his chest. His golden eyes locked with Jaskier's for a long moment, a flicker of contemplation in their depths, weighing the question before he spoke. "Witcher training," he said, the words blunt, unvarnished, and purposeful. "Starts with the basics—swordsmanship, balance, reflexes. He needs the groundwork first." He glanced briefly at the floor, considering the best way to explain this. "Then it’s endurance. Runs up the mountain, carrying weights, building muscle, strengthening his heart and lungs."

Geralt’s brow furrowed briefly, his mouth tightening as a shadow of thought crossed his face. "We have to figure out where his current limits are," he added, his tone quieter, almost reflective, "and work from there."

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not all, is it?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

Geralt gave a curt nod. “There’s more,” he continued. “Meditation—controlling his breathing and his heartbeat. It’s critical for focus, whether he’s in the middle of a fight or trying to stay hidden. Then there are the signs. Basic magic. Aard, Igni, Quen. He’ll have to learn to wield them with precision. They’re essential tools for a Witcher.”

Jaskier let out a low whistle, his gaze flicking toward the door that led to Kakashi’s room. “The poor lad’s going to be utterly knackered,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“He’ll be fine,” Geralt replied, his tone flat but firm. “He’s tough. But it won’t be easy.”

The bard hesitated, worry flickering in his blue eyes. His usual flamboyant demeanor seemed muted, replaced by something quieter. He then looked back toward the door that led to Kakashi’s room. “Do you think he’ll make it?”

Geralt didn’t answer immediately. His eyes lingered on the faintly glowing embers in the hearth, their light casting fleeting patterns on the floor. Kakashi’s resilience was undeniable. The boy had endured the mutation experiments that would likely have shattered most others given their historical success rate. But Kaer Morhen’s training was brutal, designed to forge survivors out of the strongest candidates—and even then, not all made it through. While the mutations were a deadly process on its own, the following training had claimed many of Geralt’s brother’s lives, as long ago as that was.

“He has to,” Geralt said finally, his voice low and edged with a quiet resignation. “If he wants to survive out there, he has to.”

Jaskier frowned but didn’t argue. He crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumping slightly, letting out a tired sigh. “Right, then,” he said with forced levity. “I’ll be here to record it all in a grand ballad.” He paused, glancing at Geralt with a faint smirk. “Maybe something a bit more… uplifting this time? A stirring ballad of perseverance and revival, perhaps?”

Geralt’s lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. “Good luck with that,” he grunted.

The bard chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You have no faith in me, do you? Ah, well. I suppose there’s a first time for everything.” He stretched out on the bed, folding his arms behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. “Although, between you and me, I’d rather not witness the lad collapsing from sheer exhaustion. Try not to run him into the ground too quickly, will you?”

Geralt grunted noncommittally, his gaze drifting toward the door. His thoughts lingered on Kakashi, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. Tomorrow would mark the beginning of something grueling—something Kakashi needed to survive if he was going to live as a Witcher. But Geralt would be there—to guide him, to push him, and, if necessary, to catch him if he fell.

He straightened, his movements fluid yet deliberate, and eyes temporarily glued towards the bed. The weight of the day’s conversation hung between them like a shadow. “Get some sleep, Jaskier,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, as he began to pull off his boots. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

Jaskier shifted to make room on the large bed, watching Geralt with a mixture of curiosity and weariness. “You’re actually going to sleep?” he asked, though the teasing lilt in his voice lacked its usual energy.

“Yeah,” Geralt muttered, kicking his boots to the side and unbuckling his sword belt. He placed his weapons within arm’s reach before sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. “We both need it.”

The bard let out a soft hum of agreement, already lying back against the piled furs. His eyes drooped, and his breathing began to even out, though he murmured one last thought. “Try not to snore…”

Geralt snorted quietly, shaking his head. As he stretched out beside Jaskier, the warmth of the furs and the steady crackle of the hearth began to seep into his tired muscles. But his thoughts remained sharp, focused on Kakashi. Tomorrow would mark the start of a grueling journey—Kakashi would be tested—and Geralt would make damn sure he came out stronger for it.

Geralt’s gaze lingered on the flickering shadows along the ceiling before he finally let his eyes close. Whatever came next, he’d be there to ensure Kakashi survived it. No matter what.

Jaskier would kill him if he didn’t.