"When The Witcher readeth these words of mine, in the shoppe of mine descendant, then the final days are certes upon us. Open thine eyes to understand. Open thine eyes and rede, I do say, for thy ward doth grow strong."
- Prophecy 3819

Silver trails of burning incense twirled into the air and filled Jasmine cottage with a calming aroma. It was almost enough to mask the stench of the Witcher sprawled across her cot. Esmeralda's dress sleeves rolled to the elbow, her arms soaked with bloodied water.

The Witcher was nearly bare before her, his clothes discarded in a heap on the stone floor. It was necessary to gain access to his wounds, and as she dabbed at the raw skin around his wound, she had to refrain from grimacing. The Devourer had nearly ripped out his liver with its snapping maw, and it would no doubt take more than mortal medicine to save his life. Had he been entirely mortal, his spirit would have flickered out like a candle in the wind long before he'd reached her.

It was good that Esmeralda sent the children home, for this was a sight that could make even the most experienced healer queasy. Running through his wound was a substance as dark as midnight and thick as molasses. It oozed from every jagged teeth mark and exposed muscle.

Geralt was out cold, the only sign of life the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his claw-marked chest. The unbearable pit in Esmeralda's stomach that came only when a soul was slipping away had thankfully abated. Geralt would survive his wounds, and she knew that this was likely not the closest brush with death The Witcher experienced, nor would it be his last.

The truth was etched across his skin with every jagged scar. His marks would likely only be seen by a lover or a healer, as most were concealed by heavy armor. But now, bare save for undergarments, and a thin sheet pulled over his legs, Esmeralda saw the puzzle that was Geralt of Rivia. With every swipe of the cloth across his skin, he became more a man and less a beast. His long hair splayed about the pillow, soaked through with mud to the point that there could've been any color beneath.

He was handsome, but not in the way storybooks painted the clean-cut and pretty prince. Geralt was a sort of beauty that had been lived in and worn. The sort of beauty that came from pain, suffering, and perseverance. He reminded her of the carved statues depicting heroes of old -- strong and bold, imperfect, and all the more exquisite for it.

Esmeralda reached aside for the bottle of black liquid she'd pulled from a pouch on his person and popped the cork. Leaning across him, she tilted up his scraped jaw and parted his lips with the pad of her thumb. The potion poured down his throat until the entirety of the bottle emptied. The Witcher was smart enough to keep a healing potion with him at all times, but it seemed the Devourer had acted too swiftly for him to reach it before blacking out. Lifting his eyelids, she saw the telltale onyx sheen across his iris that meant the potion was working.

Esmeralda knew little about Witchers, despite all she did to gather information ahead of this meeting. Witchers were notoriously elusive and secretive. The outside world was seldom privy to the inner workings of their creation. There were no tomes in the libraries, no whispers passed down from mother to child, nothing beyond the tall tales of a heartless Witcher, preying on young children if they misbehaved. None of the stories she'd found made much sense, and she was inclined to think them all folly.

It wasn't until a bard came through Lyria spinning tales of a white-haired Witcher that she pierced the veil between legend and reality. A bit of flirting, a drop of truth potion in his pint, and the man laid his soul bare before her. His song was catchy, but it was nothing close to the truth. The name Geralt of Rivia was no stranger to her. It seared into her mind since the day she learned to read. Yet she had nothing but prophecy to tell her who this man was beyond what he was meant to do. He was important, and for whatever reason, Esmeralda was bound to him by destiny.

The Butcher of Blavigan. The White Wolf. The bard had recounted his journey alongside the Witcher with much theatrics. How he'd chosen mercy over bloodshed whenever possible, saved lives, broken curses, and sired a child of surprise. It was strange to look upon his face after all these years of anticipation. She imagined it under different circumstances and thought she'd be more than the woman she was now. She'd had twenty-nine years to run wild with speculations of what he would be like. Esmeralda wasn't disappointed, but she hadn't pictured him this way. It would take some reordering to place the stories with this face.

The storm peaked overhead, pummeling the roof and ground with a symphony of splashes and pitter-patters. Esmeralda found it soothing, the dull roar and the shallow breaths of the injured Witcher as she cleaned and wrapped his wounds. The potion hissed and sizzled as it hit the bloodied gashes across his stomach. It was a good thing he wasn't awake to feel the pain. It would speed the healing process and reduce the need for stitches.

When she felt satisfied that he'd been cared for, she draped fur blankets across his body and added a log to the fire. It was warm enough that he wouldn't catch an infection. Witchers were not as fragile as humans. From what the bard had said, Geralt of Rivia was nearly godlike in his resilience.

Esmeralda kept a close eye on him over the next several hours. She listened for his breath, watched for signs of pain, and felt for the steady thrum of life force purring beneath the surface of his skin. To temper the fidgeting of her fingers, she set to work cleaning the mess she'd made. What had once been a clean and well-prepared workspace was now a mess of bloodied rags, potions, and herbs.

She returned the bottles to their rightful places and dragged the Witcher's armor beside the door. It was muddy, bloody, and had chunks of devourer flesh stuck in its notches. It would need to be cleaned thoroughly in the morning. She debated throwing it out in the rain to be rinsed but doubted Geralt would appreciate that very much.

When all was back in order, she sat before the blazing fire and took a deep breath of burning sage. Her nerves were buzzing about like the honeybees in her garden. Esmeralda had lost count of how many times she'd rehearsed her speech over the years, but the time had finally come. Everything was beginning. Tucking her legs beneath her, she plucked a book from a teetering pile and flipped mindlessly through it.

She wasn't sure when she'd fallen asleep, but the excitement of the day must have finally caught up to her. When her eyes fluttered open again, the roar of rain had softened to a gentle drizzle. The fire had died to glowing embers, and her neck was aching from falling asleep in such a precarious position. A low groan of pain sounded from the cot behind her. With a start, Emerald stood from her chair and hastily began smoothing out the skirt of her dress with flat clammy palms.

"Um, hello." Geralt's eyes widened a fraction, and he struggled to sit up, clutching his side with a low groan. She hurried forwards with arms outstretched in a placating gesture. "I wouldn't do that. That Devourer nearly took your liver." Esmeralda approached him as one might a startled and wounded animal. She stepped slowly towards him, keeping her palms open and visible so he could see she was of no threat to him. Geralt gripped his stomach as the pain rushed through him and reminded him of the moments before he'd lost consciousness in the forest.

"What is this place?" His eyes scanned the cottage with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. He pushed himself upright with a groan, clutching his wound as if his insides would spill out had he not. If Esmeralda hadn't healed him then maybe that would be the case. She rushed forward, helping him into a safe position rather than trying to shove him back down against his will.

"Didn't you hear me? You nearly died. You need to rest." Geralt didn't seem to care much for the warnings of his healer and continued to take in his surroundings. The cottage was cluttered, organized in its own way, but now that Esmeralda saw his lingering gaze, she suddenly felt very self-conscious about her home.

"How did I get here?" Geralt a voice was hoarse and crackling and Esmeralda hastily supplied him with a cup of water. He thankfully gulped it down as she explained.

"A few of the village children found you when they were out playing. You're lucky they did. You might not have survived otherwise. They carried you to my cottage amid the storm."

"Children?" He looked as if she'd said that the village pigs had sprouted wings and took flight.

"Yes, they're quite useful when they want to be." Geralt shoved an arm into his tunic and lifting his arms above his head, gave an agonizing groan as his wound strained. A moment later, his freshly wrapped bandages bloomed scarlet. "Oh, now, look what you've done. I worked hard on those stitches. Sit down, and I'll fix it up again." Geralt began to protest, but with the slighted pressure of Esmeralda's palm on his shoulder he sat back in compliance. "The creature you slew has been plaguing these woods for quite some time. I'm thankful you came along, otherwise I might've had to take care of it myself. I may be skilled, but I am certainly no monster killer."

"You're a Mage." It was a statement from his lips, not an inquiry. Geralt knew a magic wielder when he saw one. Her cottage was awash with magical artifacts and ingredients that no average healer would keep in their stores.

"A witch," she corrected, once again gathering supplies for his wounds. "I wasn't formally schooled in the ways of chaos." Geralt narrowed his eyes and fought against his fatigued mind to put the pieces of this woman together.

"Yet you know how to use it. How is that?" His words were laced with suspicion, but Esmeralda paid no mind. It was to be expected given the circumstances and what she'd heard of his character.

"All my family have had occult powers going all the way back. There are more sources of knowledge than the Mages of Aretuza." Geralt eyed her curiously.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Esmeralda Device."

"Geralt of Rivia."

"I know." Her lips quivered with the beginnings of a suppressed grin. "I've heard tales of your adventures and those yet to come. You have become quite famous in these parts, you know." Using a knitted mitt, Esmeralda reached into the hearth and grabbed the handle of her steaming kettle. The boiling water instantly colored a light brown as the tea leaves steeped in their cups.

"Yes, I am aware." He grimaced, either from pain or the idea of his growing fame. She meticulously picked up two teacups and carried them to his bedside.

"Here, have some tea. It will help with the pain." Geralt eyed it dubiously but accepted it anyway. She waited until he had taken a few good sips before inspecting his wound. The stitches had indeed ruptured, and his blood-soaked the bandages further every time he shifted. "It's much less arduous to do this while you're out cold, but I don't have much choice."

Esmeralda poured a bit of alcohol over the needle and thread. The muscles of Geralt's abdomen rippled and stiffened as he prepared for the sharp prick. To his credit, he didn't flinch, and as the needle poked through the meaty flesh of the edges of his wound, he only clenched his jaw with discomfort. He stayed silent while she worked so as not to break her focus.

"You're awfully prepared for someone who wasn't expecting visitors." Esmeralda finished the final stitch with a practiced looping knot and a flourishing snip of her sheers. The blood had stopped oozing, and with a few dabs of wet cloth, his skin was clean and ready for dressing once more. She'd made these stitched much stronger than the last. She had a feeling Geralt of Rivia would not make a good patient.

"I didn't say I wasn't expecting you," she mused. "I've been waiting for this for a very long time." Geralt's brows furrowed as she stood, twirled, and strode across the room to snatch the emerald leather-bound text open on the table. "This book," she thrust the cover out between them like an iron shield, "contains three hundred years of completely accurate prophecies. The only one of its kind, written by my great great great great grandmother Agnes Nutter." Geralt scanned the cover in bewilderment.

"The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter?" He read aloud as a question. Then he met her earnest gaze with one of tired tolerance. "I don't believe in prophecy. Why are you telling me this?"

"Because," Esmeralda dragged her stool back to his bedside and plopped down. "I have been commanded by these prophecies to use all the wisdom and witchcraft at my disposal to hunt down the heart of darkness and do all that I can to destroy it before it brings upon the end of the world." She watched him with conviction, pleading for him to understand. Geralt gave a low rumbling hum as he pondered her words.

"End of the world, huh?" It was less a question and more musing.

"Yes," Esmeralda's brows knit together beneath the rim of her round spectacles gravely.

"I've heard three prophecies foretell the end of days. None of them have come to pass." He was far too calm to have believed her. There was no sense of urgency in his tone, no ponderings of morality in his golden eyes.

"This one will. That is if we do not stop it." She persisted, clutching the book to her chest like a teddy bear for comfort. In a way, her ancestral tome had become an extension of her very soul. It had been by her side through every phase of life and seen seven generations of Agnes's descendants live and die. There was no doubt in her mind that it would live beyond her lifespan as well. The right corner of Geralt's lips curled in mild amusement.

"That's what they all say until the sun on the supposed final day sets and our hearts continue to beat."

"Agnes has never been wrong, not once. I'm not inclined to believe any different now." She was beginning to grow impatient with this Geralt of Rivia. He was far less amenable in the flesh. Men were far more pleasant in writing.

"Unless you want to hire me, I really couldn't give a shit what your book has to say."

"You should." Esmeralda was fully aware of how much she sounded like her mother at that moment.

"Why's that?" He believed her no more than a con artist and a fool. His question lacked confidence as if he didn't expect her to respond with anything of substance.

"You're part of the prophecy." Plopping the book down in her lap, she flipped open the pages, looking for one of the pages she knew would be likely to convince him. "Look for yourself. She mentioned you by name on more than one occasion. Ah--here we are." Esmeralda shoved the book beneath his nose. Geralt looked up at her with a wan expression but decided to humor her and read the prophecy aloud.

"When the white haired Witcher readeth these words of mine, in the shoppe of mine descendant, then the final days are certes upon us. Open thine eyes to understand. Open thine eyes and rede, I do say, for thy ward doth grow strong." He stopped reading and met her expectant gaze. "Sounds like a bunch of pretty words saying absolutely nothing." A scoff slipped from Esmeralda's lips.

"She knew you would be here. She knew exactly when and how you would arrive."

"All of this is mere coincidence." He winced and took another plentiful sip of tea. "It only proves she knew my name and that I'd end up here. You orchestrated my arrival."

"Keep reading." Esmeralda pushed the book towards him again. "There must be something that can convince you."

"I don't believe in prophecies." He repeated himself, this time with more assertion. "We make our own paths, not this predestined bullshit."

"Give me that." Esmeralda snatched back the book with a deepening scowl and began flipping through the pages to find one of the countless mentions of the man before her. She stopped about a quarter through and pointed smugly to a passage. "Here, how about this one?" Geralt leaned forward to scan the page tiredly.

"The only thing that makes sense about that is our names."

"Fine," She threw up a hand with an exasperated sigh. Geralt continued to scan the page from where it rested on Esmeralda's lap facing him. He was likely looking for more evidence to debunk her claims of destiny and prophecy. Her opinion of him grew less favoring the longer their conversation dragged on. "I have no idea how I can convince you." In all her years of anticipation, she never thought he would be as vexingly skeptical as this. Just as she went to snap the book shut and commence another noble speech, Geralt's eyes flickered with recognition.

"Wait," his hand shot out to brush the pads of his fingers over a worn bit of text. The muscles of his face had tensed and pulled. His eyes darted over the words in rapid succession over and over again. Each time he grew more unnerved. "How do you know this?" Esmeralda turned the book to face her again with narrowed eyes.

You were in the market, covered in blood. You say you can't choose, but you had to, and you'll never know if you were right. Your reward will be a stoning, and you will run. You will try to outrun the girl in the woods, but you cannot. She is your destiny.

"Prophecy 2278, I could never quite figure this one out. My guess is it hasn't happened yet. Every descendant keeps a record of the prophecies fulfilled in their lifetime, and this one's still unaccounted for."

"Where did you hear this?" Geralt's expression had hardened, and his words were as sharp as a wolf's bite. Esmeralda's spine straightened in surprise. Something about this particular prophecy had struck a nerve within him. There was no implicit reasoning as to why. The passage made no mention of him or anyone he associates with. It was one of the vaguer prophecies in Agnes's collection, and Esmeralda had spent quite some time trying to decipher its meaning.

"Agnes wrote it. She predicted it centuries ago." It was a simple statement, a repetition of her earlier explanations, but it only irritated Geralt further.

"No, she didn't." He couldn't contain his venomous glare, and Esmeralda shifted uneasily in her seat. An angry witcher was not something one wanted to have in their home. "I know the lips those words came from, and they were not hers."

Geralt stood from the cot, ignoring the protests of his wounds and aching muscles. Esmeralda lifted her chin to maintain eye contact. He was massive, and it wasn't until now that she understood how terrifying a witcher could be. Swallowing her fear, she stood too, only reaching the height of his bare shoulder. They were almost chest to chest now, and Esmeralda refused to yield to his piercing gaze.

"This is the only copy in existence, so I doubt that." She challenged, and Geralt's mood soured further. 

"You're lying to me." He snarled, his lips peeling back to reveal slightly canine teeth. Before Esmeralda could do anything more, Geralt had shoved her back against the wall. There was a bang and a jolt of pain up her spine. Shelves of bottles rattled and clinked, but nothing fell from their place.

His body was a solid wall of heat against hers, pressing down like a stone crushing the air from her lungs. His right arm cut across her throat, his right bracing his still wounded body against the wall. Her eyes widened in shock and terror, and her hands slid between them to shove him back. Avoiding his freshly stitched wound, Esmeralda tried to pry his body away from hers but even wounded, Geralt was a force.

"I speak nothing but the truth you're too afraid to accept." Her voice was harsh and strained beneath the arm crushing her throat.

"How do you know that prophecy?" He practically spat the question, and his hot breath tickled her face.

"Agnes predicted it centuries ago. It's been in the book all this time. Whoever told you must've known somehow." Esmeralda squirmed against him. Any longer, and she'd have to take more aggressive action. If she could slide her hand just a little more to the left, she could jab him right in the wound she'd just finished closing. If that didn't work-- a bit of chaos. In a final effort, she softened her expression and stared straight into the blazing forge of Geralt's eyes. "Please, I swear I'm not trying to deceive you. I'm telling the truth."

"There is no possible way she could've known that." There was a moment where he pondered her words and scanned her face for anything less than sincerity. His conviction melted before her into resignation. With a jerk, Geralt pulled back and released her to slump down against the wall. Esmeralda clutched her throat, wincing as she rubbed at her tender flesh. If she didn't apply a healing salve within the hour, she'd look as if she'd survived the gallows come morning.

"You've heard it before." She muttered, watching as he ran a hand down his face. "Judging by your reaction, it must've come true." His lips pressed into a thin line as he finally looked at her again. There was a flicker of remorse when he took in her state, disheveled as a street cat after a fight.

"Yes," he admitted, the sorrow in his voice unmistakable. Esmeralda would do anything to see inside his mind at that moment. "A long time ago."

"Then you know I'm telling the truth." Esmeralda pleaded for him to listen. It was up to her and only her to set the Witcher on the right path. If she failed her duty, the world would pay with its life.

"If I believe you—" Esmeralda's face lit up with hope. "If I believe you, what does all this, end of days, nonsense have to do with me?" A relieved smile curled her lips, and Esmeralda straightened to her full height.

"The child of surprise. You must claim her."

NOTE

Finally another chapter! I've literally had half a chapter written for every one of my fics and no motivation to finish any of them. So I'm trying to force myself to write when I get a free moment which lately hasn't been often. So Agnes predicted Blavikan before Renfri and Geralt is a non believer. What do y'all think of it so far? Is Esmeralda being entirely truthful with Geralt or is there more to her mission?