Chapter Text
Julian is born in a field of dandelions.
The Pankratz family had been out foraging for enough plants and whatever else they could find to ensure no one went to sleep hungry that night. Given the recent dry spells and scarce vegetation, hunting for enough food to feed four hungry mouths required every family member to contribute.
That of course meant even pregnant women weren’t exempt.
It’s when the sun is highest in the sky that she falls to the ground with a shriek, rolling herself onto her back and screaming for her children as her water breaks. The sun shines gentle rays of warmth over the lush dandelion field his mother chooses as her birthing bed, tiny yellow petals scrunching under her white knuckled hands as she pushes and screams and cries.
The journey is long and taxing, though it is far from a new venture. They are too poor for the luxury of medicine to dull the agony of childbirth as Julian is brought into the world with lungs working around a deafening scream the second he is free from his mother’s womb, the sound akin to the noise a cat makes when doused with water.
His mother, who swore he was to be her last, quickly hands him off to his older siblings without a second glance spared at the newborn, grimacing at his wailing shrieks as she wipes her bloody, dirtied hands over the dandelions cradling her back.
“Why is he so loud?” Gretka, his youngest sibling, asks as she throws her hands over her ears with a grimace, leaning away from her new baby brother even as Aegal, the oldest out of the three of them, pulls a face and quickly begins wiping off the after birth mess from Julian’s face, doing his best to ignore the screams and be gentle with his newborn brother.
“Hell if I know,” their mother grunts, barely giving herself a moment’s rest before pushing herself up onto shaky legs and gathering the few berries she managed to pick before she had been forced to drop them in favor of giving birth. “Just shut him up. We can’t ‘ave him scaring away our dinner.”
*
The earliest memory Julian has is one that consists of his parents arguing.
Whatever it is they’re bickering about, their voices had raised in volume over the last few minutes until they were all but screaming at one another, their voices booming through the tiny shack they lived in and making Julian’s sensitive four year old ears ring.
It isn’t disruptive enough that he feels the need to interrupt them. There is little he or his siblings can say to extinguish the fire that runs through their parents veins in times like these without risking turning that heat onto themselves.
And besides; Julian has been on the receiving end of their ire far too many times to attempt to mediate.
Through his pounding headache and weak limbs, there isn’t much he can do to make them quiet down even if he begs. There is nothing to be done for his poor health that makes his lungs feel like rocks in his chest, for he and his siblings have tried everything within their young power to keep him breathing while their parents did nothing to help.
Julian rests just inside the door to the decrepit shack on the outskirts of town that his parents call their home. Splintered wood and the smell of rot permeate the air throughout the entire hut and the dirt that acts as their flooring isn’t the most comfortable to sleep on, but Julian tells himself he is content simply having his family with him.
At least he isn’t alone.
Aegal reminded him time and time again growing up that should he dare speak up against their parents, there is no doubt in his older brother’s mind that Julian will be left behind.
It’s a mantra he repeats in his head, over and over until he can almost drown out the sound of screaming and skin striking skin, his father’s voice yelping in pain from the back handed slap his mother no doubt bestowed him with.
Some days, days where he can barely manage to roll over onto his side by himself, his body so weak that simple tasks such as breathing become difficult, Julian dwells on the meaning of his brother’s words and turns to his only friend for comfort.
His friend is a mangy stray tabby cat who only creeps into his corner of the shack through the gaps in the rotting wood when his siblings and parents are gone for the day to forage, tempted into their home by small scraps of whatever Julian manages to squirrel away from his parents and siblings to give to her. She is the only one who doesn’t roll their eyes at him when his fever-addled warbling stops making sense, or when his coughing keeps everyone else up at night. Even Gretka, his poor sister who is only a few years older than him, quickly grows irritated with him and his waning health despite her insisting she doesn’t mind cleaning up after him when he loses what little they managed to scrounge up for breakfast in a bout of nausea.
She lays by his side as he hums songs to her, tries out different melodies and even a few words, more than happy with puzzling out her feedback by the way her tail swishes back and forth lazily behind her in contentment.
Julian loves the cat, whom he names Dandelion because of the time he caught her with dandelion petals stuck in her fur after a day filled with lazy cat naps in the fields, with every fibre of his being.
To him, her mangy and matted long fur is charming even as his hands get caught in it while petting her, and her half ear that obviously came from a tiff with another animal years ago gives her character. Deep gold eyes, pupils slitted in the way he assumes all felines must have, watch him as he whispers secrets to her as she eats scraps of berries and the occasional dead mouse she brings for herself. Her deep purr is a sound he looks forward to each and every day as soon as he is left alone in their crumbling home, lungs too weak to trail after his siblings to help provide for the family.
With Dandelion, Julian can forget about his body failing him and be happy.
*
Five moons pass during the summer of Julian’s fifth season cycle before he realizes Dandelion hasn’t come back.
Given her instincts, Julian swiftly comes to the conclusion that the matronly tabby simply got caught up hunting for mice or other vermin in the woods and lost her way. That, or she had been visiting while Julian was asleep, the midday rays of sun filtering in through the cracked glass of the windowsill lulling him into a soft slumber.
Julian tells himself he isn’t sad as Aegal and Gretka help him to the chunk of a fallen log in the main space of their home they use as a table, utensils whittled from pieces of bark placed in front of each member of the family just as his mother comes toddling into the hut with a dented pot steaming with something hot.
The pot makes a distinct ‘tink’ noise as she sets it in the middle of the table. “Now, yer father’s gone and got us a treat. Bagged an animal prowlin’ around last night. He’s gone to market to see what else he can get his hands on.”
Gretka’s stomach audibly growls while Julian feels himself salivating as the scent of freshly cooked meat fills their sad cabin and brightens it with the promise of a full belly.
Given the lack of weapons Aegal and their father own, meat is a rarity and a treat. The villagers about a half day’s walk North of them tend to over hunt the animals of the region, causing their numbers to dwindle to the point where they only manage to catch a deer once or twice a year, at most. Julian has heard his father and older brother gripe about that more than once, so he knows it’s not their fault when they come home empty handed.
Berries and other vegetation tend to make up their meals more often than not as consiquence.
“What did he catch?” Aegal pipes up from where he’s seated beside Julian, mindfully keeping a hand on his young brother’s back to help him sit straight. “I didn’t see any tracks earlier.”
Their mother simply gives her three children a tight lipped smile, her knotted muddy brown locks falling over her shoulder in a clump. “That ain’t important. Don’t worry yourself about it, just eat.”
No one has to tell them twice. Aegal quickly scoops enough of the stew into three separate bowls for himself and his siblings, all of which quickly dig in.
Not a word is said as everyone, including their mother, scarfs down the meal as though it is the last one they’ll ever have. Julian catches himself from moaning at the taste of meat, so seldom an option for them that the taste is still a novelty. In fact, when his crooked spoon scrapes the bottom of the wooden bowl in front of him, Julian finds himself wishing he could have a second helping when he hears his sister make a disgusted noise from where she sits across from Aegal.
“Momma, what’s this?” Gretka asks as she pinches something in her bowl of stew and pulls it out to show the table, her fingertips stained in broth and a chunk of something dangling from her grasp.
Julian almost ignores her to focus on debating whether or not he could get away with licking whatever else he can out of his own bowl before a flash of muddied orange catches his attention from the corner of his eye.
There, pinched between Gretka’s fingers, is a waterlogged tuft of familiar orange fur.
Whatever his mother says by way of explanation doesn’t register in Julian’s mind. All noise around him fades out as though he’s in the throes of a fever once again as his mind makes the connection that has his stomach cramping and bile rising in his throat. Aegal and Gretka don’t see it coming when Julian hurriedly reaches across the table and slaps the bowls out of their hands, the remaining stew splashing to the ground and sinking into the dirt below them. The pot is next, his mother too stunned at his outburst to catch him in time, the remains of their meal pushed onto the earth and soiled.
For a moment no one utters a sound. The room’s occupants simply stare wide eyed at Julian, whose frail body is shaking so badly in rage that his tiny fists tremble at his sides before the spell is broken as he falls to his knees and begins retching.
”YOU!” Julian hears his mother shriek a handful of seconds before he feels himself being tugged upright by his hair, his scalp stinging just as badly as his eyes as he continues to retch and heave, spilling sour smelling sick down the front of his clothes. “You ungrateful, weak, spoiled little boy!”
Aegal, who usually runs to his siblings aid when their parents take their aggression out on them, remains seated with his gaze trained on the harsh bark of their table, unwilling to meet Julian’s eyes as their mother drags him kicking and screaming out of the house.
*
A week after the stew incident, Julian is awoken in his corner of their shack in the middle of the night by the sensation of fingers running through his hair.
Short clipped fingernails gently massage his scalp as whoever had taken vigil by his side continued brushing his sweaty bangs off his forehead, the rush of cool air against his heated skin an absolute blessing. In fact, Julian feels himself begin to nod off quickly at the unfamiliar gesture, ready to escape back into dreamland when he hears his brother stifle a sob beside him.
Ah. that makes sense. Aegal and Gretka were the only ones to ever treat him with such tender care, and the last Julian checked, his sister’s voice didn’t crack like she had swallowed several frogs.
“Julian,” Aegal whispers as he continues stroking Julian’s hair away from his forehead and gingerly combing out knots in his short brown locks with shaking fingers. “Julian, I’m so sorry.”
That wakes Julian up. “Sorry?”
Aegal sniffles once again as he visibly tries to pull himself together before Julian turns around and catches sight of his red rimmed eyes and sore nose, a telltale sign the older boy had been crying for much longer than Julian had been awake.
Immediately, Julian doesn’t like whatever is causing his strong older brother to be so upset but is unable to voice his feelings when he feels himself being guided to rest his head on Aegal’s lap.
“I’m sorry.” Aegal repeats quietly as Julian carefully rolls over so his neck isn’t twisted in a weird angle, unwilling to ruin the sudden heavy atmosphere around them. The rough texture of his brother’s worn burlap trousers is unpleasant against the sensitive skin of Julian’s cheek but the warmth that radiates from beneath it is more than enough to make up for the minor discomfort. The torn fabric smells of dandelions and dirt, of sweat and of family.
It’s a scent Julian knows very well.
“I don’t know what you’re sorry for,” Julian mumbles around a yawn as he rubs at sleep crusted eyes, unaware of the way Aegal gnaws his lip to keep from waking their parents. “But whatever it is, it’s okay. I forgive you.”
That’s evidently what finally breaks Aegal as he crouches over his little brother and sobs, the sound ugly and choked as he tries to keep from waking the rest of their family. It’s as disturbing as it is saddening, and Julian isn’t immune to the pain he sees in his brother’s quaking shoulders, so narrow yet the burden of the survival of their family is placed upon them without a second thought.
Aegal’s pain brings tears to Julian’s eyes despite the confusion he feels. “Don’t cry,” He coos to his older brother as he raises a hand and cups his tear soaked cheek, rubbing away the droplets under his eyes with his thumb the same way Aegal would do to soothe him whenever he had a nightmare. “You’re too old to cry. I’m supposed to be the one who cries all the time!”
Julian’s forced cheeriness only seems to drag Aegal down further into whatever pit of despair he had fallen into. Long, slender fingers reminiscent of spider legs gently cradle Julian’s face as his brother presses a lingering chaste kiss to his sweaty forehead, uncaring of how dirty Julian was from sweating out a fever in the dirt. “No matter what happens, Juli, you need to promise me something.”
Julian gives an earnest nod as Aegal sucks in a shuddering breath. “Don’t let others make decisions for you, Julian. Don’t let yourself be fooled into believing your fate is entirely up to destiny; that you have no say in it.”
Julian’s confusion must show on his face because his brother breathes a sigh against his sweaty forehead before pulling back and glancing out the broken window Julian favored sleeping under when his lungs ached and his body throbbed with dull pains. “What I’m saying is... there isn’t always a right or wrong answer. Sometimes… sometimes, you just have to choose the lesser evil.”
And with that, Aegal makes a move to gently extract himself from beneath Julian’s head but pauses when tiny, dirt covered hands anchor themselves in the fabric of his trousers. “I don’t really understand, but… can you stay with me until I fall asleep?”
A soft smile breaks through the misery on Aegal’s face at Julian’s plea, whispered in the dark of night like a secret. There is a heaviness to Aegal’s gentle eyes, a dullness in those doe brown irises that speaks of knowledge Julian is not privy to, nor does he care to be when the moon is at the highest point in the sky and sleep tugs at his consciousness. “Of course, Juli.”
*
The next morning Julian is awoken by a growled command from his mother and is yanked up and out into the daylight, away from his empty sleeping spot devoid of any traces of Aegal from the night before. The strength of the sun feels like thousands of needles burning his eyes as days of puny meals weaken his already ailing body further but Julian keeps his mouth shut. His mother’s grip on his wrist is too strong for him to break and even if that was somehow managed, where could he go? Aegal had ignored him until last night when he cried and apologized for something Julian didn’t get an explanation for and Gretka simply followed along with whatever their older brother was doing, so she had been doing much of the same, ignoring Julian when he cried and pleaded for her to fetch him some water, too beaten and broken to get up and fetch water from the stream behind their house himself.
What was Aegal so upset about?
His mother gives a harsh pull on his arm when he trips over a rock in their path, the holes in the soles of his shoes causing pebbles to become lodged inside them, further scraping the bottoms of his feet. “You’re going to meet a friend.” His mother tells him as she pulls him past the field of dandelions that lay in front of their house right after the outcrop of trees that provide them shade in the summer months.
“A friend?” Julian parrots in disbelief.
Ever since Dandelion disappeared, there had been no one for Julian to confide in, no one to tell stories to. Gretka has a loud mouth and had tattled on him one too many times to be a trustworthy confidant, and Aegal was always too busy helping out their father or sharpening their few hunting weapons to pander to his childlike whims. He almost can’t believe his mother has finally decided to stop punishing him for ruining their meal and instead introduce him to someone he can call a friend.
His eagerness must show on his face, for his mother’s expression twists into one of disgust. It’s a look Julian has come to associate with his mother whenever she sees him. “Just keep yer mouth shut and let me do the talkin’.”
They walk for what feels like hours but is more likely only one until Julian’s mother stops them just outside the edge of the dandelion field and in front of a dirt road Julian has never seen before.
There, at the opposite edge of the dirt road paved between dandelion fields, is a man.
He appears to be around the age of Julian’s father, all broad shoulders and lean limbs, though the deep scar across the man’s forehead is distinctive enough for Julian to know his father doesn’t have anything like that on his own skin. Even so, the clothing the strange man wears is almost eerily similar to their own torn rags, just without the holes and in colors much more rich than the moth bitten fabric they patched together from potato sacks and whatever other scraps of linen they came across.
Julian could have mistaken him for a wayward villager if not for the two large swords strapped across the man’s back.
“I brought’ em just like ye wanted.” His mother calls out to the man just as he takes a step forward, sunlight catching on his eyes just long enough to catch Julian’s attention.
The color of them steals the breath from Julian’s lungs.
The man has eyes like Dandelion did.
Never before has Julian seen someone with eyes like that. He knows his own are a light blue similar to cornflowers, and his brother’s are a warm brown like their father’s. Gretka’s are more a mix of her siblings, a muddled blueish brown that Julian finds charming on his young sister. And, from the few other people he has seen in his long four years of life, Julian knows the man in front of them isn’t anything like the village people living North of them.
Slit black pupils dance in a sea of gold, the unnatural light from them nearly glinting off the medallion hanging around the rough man’s neck.
That hunk of silver, too, reminds Julian of Dandelion.
“I’ll give you one hundred crowns.” The rough cat eyed man grunts, giving Julian a quick once over that makes the boy's skin crawl in a way he recognizes as fear. What is this man talking about? Is he going to give their family money out of charity? The thought of his siblings not having to go hungry for at least a few days in their life has Julian beaming up at his mother even as she ignores him and tightens her ironclad grip on his wrist.
“That’s not nearly enough.”
“He is weak. I smell sickness in him. The Trials will likely not be kind to him, if he survives at all.”
“I don’t care. One hundred is not enough.”
The cat eyed man slides his gaze back to Julian for a moment before reaching behind himself to dig in one of his pockets. A clinking noise sounds from within the cloth bag the man pulls out and holds out to Julian’s mother, a lopsided grin pulling on the scars across his face and showcasing the sharp canines in the man’s mouth. “Fine. One fifty or I will search elsewhere. The war has left many orphaned children to choose from.”
The stranger barely has time to finish his sentence before Julian feels himself being pushed toward the golden eyed man, his mother firmly placing one hand between his shoulder blades and taking the offered bag with the other. She weighs the bag in her palm before tearing open the string tying it closed to rifle through the contents for a moment. Satisfied, she ignores Julian and gives the cat eyed man a grin full of missing teeth and cracked lips.
“Deal.”
*
Julian doesn’t like his new home.
The floors aren’t soft with grass and dirt. They’re cold under his feet and made from unforgiving slabs of stone, the temperature of them sending chills up and down his spine whenever he’s forced to wake and congregate with the other boys his age.
None of them are Aegal, with his soft words and gentle affections, and Julian has only seen one or two girls out of the forty or so other boys he’s forced to share a room with on a daily basis. He can only imagine the kind of fit Gretka would throw if she had to share with so many other children.
“Listen up.” Nazak, the man Julian remembers being the one to take him from his family, calls out into the courtyard of young children sniffling and huddling around each other for comfort. “You are all here for a reason. Whether your families didn't want you or you’re more physically capable of withstanding the mutations, it doesn’t matter. From here on out you will do as you are told.”
The clothing he wears is unlike anything Julian has seen before and is completely different to the outfit the man had worn when they were first introduced. Tight dark blue trousers hug the man’s legs and make them appear long and lean, while the belts around his waist boasting various bags give the illusion that his waist is trim and lithe. The boots appear to be made of a material more sturdy than anything Julian has ever seen. He wiggles his toes in his own shoes, taking note of the various holes in them. The vest - armor, he recalls it being named - covers Nazak’s chest and is held together with more straps and buckles down the front and sides.
The older man appears more elegantly put together than he had on the day of their first meeting, if a lot more terrifying now that he has an audience.
The only thing that has stayed the same is the cat medallion resting astride the man’s breast.
*
The ginger haired boy who cries and screams for his mother while he sleeps beside Julian at night is the first to leave their room and not return.
While his outbursts during the night keep Julian and the others up more often than not, the eleven year old boy is kind to him, almost brotherly in his mannerisms in the way Aegal is. They would share meals with one another during the day and huddle close to one another during the night, soaking up each other’s body heat as stone cold floors suck the life from their weary bones.
It’s around the second day after his friend’s departure that Julian learns what the golden eyed men are called.
Witchers.
Back home, his parents never mentioned anything about witchers. His brother and sister never said anything about yellow eyed men either, so Julian struggles to comprehend the fact that he is apparently destined to be made into one of them, one of the cat eyed men who wield two blades.
He is not the only one who knew nothing of witchers before arriving in the castle located somewhere in Ebbing.
Many of the boys are just as lost as he is, and Julian takes solace in that fact.
The same cannot be said for those other boys.
“That fuckin’ arsehole,” One boy spits vehemetly as their group hurriedly dresses in a rush to make it to breakfast before training is set to begin. “My ma’ done sold me to these pricks fer four cows. What kinda twisted game is this? Who sells their own kid?”
“Aw, shut up!” Another boy pipes up from where he’s fastening his trousers. “At least you had a mom for a bit! I stumbled upon this place while runnin’ from thieves and was taken without a second thought!”
The door creaks open as one of the older children sharing their room scoffs at them. “At least mine warned me about the children snatchers. My pa used to sing me to sleep with songs about witchers prowlin’ the woods in search of fresh meat. Good lot of luck that did me, though.”
*
“He’s dead.” A boy with short blonde hair announces that morning over breakfast. Julian pauses pushing around whatever concoction is on the plate in front of him to stare at the boy, taking in his bright green eyes and the spattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. It’s the boy who sleeps in the uncomfortable, creaky bed to Julian’s right in their group’s shared room. “I heard ‘em last night.”
“They said he’s dead?” Another boy, this one much older than Julian and the blond child, speaks up.
The blonde boy - Faras, Julian remembers - nods his head and puts his fork down with a sigh. “Heard the masters talking about it. Said they mixed something up in the alchemical formula and it didn’t take well to him.”
“No way, he’s totally fine! That slippery bastard still owes me a sweet roll for pissin’ the bed a fortnight ago.”
“Nuh uh, I heard ‘em say they had to ‘put him down’!”
“How do you know-”
Julian ignores the argument happening around the table as he picks up his plate and leaves the room, too sick to force food down his throat and too sore to have to inevitably throw it up when training commenced for the day.
*
As the days wear on, less and less boys return to their joint bedchambers for the night. The absence of the other children becomes so apparent that seeing the empty beds and sudden space the remaining boys have in their bedchambers invokes a dread so deep in his bones, so powerful and mind consuming that Jaskier finds himself struggling to force his burning lungs to draw in air more often than not.
Julian can count the number of boys he hasn’t seen in weeks if he truly tries. He knows them all by name, determined to remember them even if they never meet again. Days turn into weeks and then into months, and by the time Julian has reached the age of twelve winters, he is taken from his bed and brought to a room filled with tables adorned with an alarming number of belts, obviously meant for holding the subject down, but what really makes his limbs freeze and lock up where he stands is the blood.
The cots, if they can even be called that, are caked in dried, dark blood.
Echos of screams from rooms adjacent to this one ring in Julian’s ears as Nazak roughly coaxes him to lie down on the gurney and allow himself to be strapped in. The glowing eyes of the elder witchers simply watching the scene unfold in front of them invokes a burning sensation in Julian’s eyes and in his gut, fury at the fact they plan to watch him suffer and scream, and stinging betrayal at the knowledge that his parents had given him up to these monsters, these creatures who informed them of what was to happen to their youngest son.
His parents, who knew only three out of every ten boys survived what he is about to be subjected to against his will.
His parents, who were supposed to be his protectors. Who were supposed to love him the way he had loved Dandelion: fiercely and unconditionally.
His parents, who had sold him like cattle to a man planning to turn him into a killing machine.
“It ain’t so bad,” One of the elder witchers pipes up from where he has his back turned to Julian, various vials and bowls clinking together as he swiftly mixes something that fills the room with such a strong odor that Julian can barely keep his stomach from revolting. “The worst is the potion that gives you enhanced vision. That one hurts like a bitch. After that, everything else sort of pales in comparison.”
They are clearly meant to be comforting words. And to this man, perhaps they are, but to Julian, they are solely confirmation that, should he survive this, he will become so different to the boy he is now that if he ever sees his parents or siblings again, they surely won’t recognize the monster he’s become. “I-I don’t want to,” Julian begs in increasing panic as his hands are bound and the witcher holding the potions he is to imbibe turns to face him, a glint of something like insanity sparkling in his eyes.
“Oh, my sweet child… you have no choice. You will become more swift, more agile in all the ways a witcher is meant to be, but better. You will become strong, so strong that you will fell monsters several times your size. And, above all else, your emotions will be erased to make the Path easier. It is a trial every witcher of the School of the Cat goes through, and you, little one, are not an exception.”
As soon as the mixture is dumped into his eyes, Julian ceases processing the world around him.
*
The first contract Julian takes is a fairly simple one, all things considered.
It’s not his first time fighting a beast- there were plenty crawling around the outskirts of Stygga castle, more than enough monsters threatening their home to practice slaying to get the hang of it- but it is his first time feeling empathy for the creature he is paid to slay.
As far as contracts go, Julian knows this is one he shouldn’t have taken as his first one by himself. Maybe a bounty on a drowner’s head would have been a better idea, for the guilt that gnaws at his chest as he stares into the terrified eyes of a baby griffin huddled in the corner of its mother’s destroyed nest, clearly starving and too weak to fight.
As a witcher, Julian knows it’s his duty to walk the Path and take down monsters that threaten humanity.
As a man, Julian knows he can’t simply butcher an innocent creature no matter what the locals say. One cursory sniff of the nest is enough to prove the mother is lying dead somewhere close by, her scent long gone from the haphazardly assembled nest overlooking cliffs that might have served as a training place for the young creature to learn to fly. No griffin mother- especially a new mother- would leave her newborn’s side willingly for so long.
Guilt wars with resignation until Jaskier almost deludes himself into thinking he’d downed a witcher potion with the dizzying effect his emotions are having on his body.
“Today just isn’t your day, is it?” He says sadly as the fledgling griffin chirps a stuttered squawk at him in what Julian assumes is meant to be threatening but just makes him vaguely nauseous.
Still, he has a job to do. The chances of this fledgling griffin finding a way to survive into adulthood is slim to none, but there is still a chance. Griffins don’t tend to go near people; especially towns full of people, but given that he only had to ride for a fraction of the day to locate this nest…
The chances of the fledgling growing into adulthood and stumbling upon the village were too great to allow it to continue on its own. It would be a much crueler fate to leave it as it is- helpless and unable to fly. It’s as much a sitting duck as any other newborn no matter the species.
In the end, the decision is made for him when the griffin lunges toward him as though to attack. Sure, it’s a young griffin, but its size is still a bit larger than that of a full grown wolf. Julian swiftly lunges away from the sloppy attack and casts Axii without a second thought.
Bringing the head of the griffin to the man who posted the contract brings Julian no sense of accomplishment.
The coin he is given for the job burns like coal in his pockets.
*
The Path is long and full of blood.
Contract after poorly compensated contract, life blends into such a shitstorm throughout the decade that Julian doesn't even react to the spitting insults thrown at him as he passes through towns anymore, can’t even muster the energy to try and defend himself when he knows it won’t do him any good. Had he been his younger self, freshly mutated and full of righteous fury, he might have stopped to inform the villagers that he was no more a danger to them than the dirt under their feet.
But he is far from the green witcher he used to be, fresh on the road with goals in mind and a purpose beyond the witchering profession.
Time has taught Julian that humans are much more monstrous than half the beings he is paid to slaughter, and that belief continues to hold true with every act of atrocity he bears witness to. Humans treating each other like nothing more than cattle; men who beat their wives and children who are abandoned without a second thought only scratch the surface of the shit he’s seen. But no matter the reputation his kind have, no matter the threats of death and bodily harm thrown at him, assassination jobs are the only ones he refuses to take.
It is that exact ideal that has him camping a half day’s ride away from some backwater village in Vizima, his horse Pegasus a warm presence at his back as he leans against her considerable bulk and sharpens his swords. Her white and brown dappled coat is rough with sweat and grime as he blinks away the glare of his campfire for the night, the scent unobtrusive and grounding in its familiarity. “Bet you’re happy we’re not in Velen anymore, huh?” Julian teases the mare as he slips his swords back into their sheathes and fully leans back against her where she’s laying beside him, her long legs tucked away in favor of resting her other side against a fallen log.
She snorts at him before leaning down to nip at the ends of his hair. Julian lets her with a fond smile. “I know, I know. You hate that swampy shithole just as much as I do. I mean really; how can a single place be filled with so much mud and misery? It’s completely befuddling.”
Pegasus makes a sound that leads Julian to believe she agrees with him.
“Right you are, my fair lady. No more Velen for us- at least for a while. Might head to White Orchard for a bit, maybe poke around there and see what contracts are posted. You’d enjoy that, wouldn't you? All those trees full of flowers and I know the apples there are your favorite.”
This time the mare doesn’t respond. Instead she rests her large head against the grass and blows out a deep breath through her nostrils, a clear sign she wishes to sleep instead of listen to Julian’s ramblings. The sight brings a smile to his face as he rests his head back against her spine and heaves a sigh of his own.
“Alright, alright, I’ll let you sleep. Gotta get some rest if we’re going to make it to White Orchard.”
*
White Orchard is only a few days ride away when Julian hears it.
Pegasus is carrying him along a dirt path deep in the forest of whatever part of the Continent they’re in, content with the leisurely pace Julian has set for them when a sharp cry rings out from somewhere to their left. Had Julian not been in possession of enhanced senses, he surely would have missed it. Even Pegasus didn't react to the noise.
It doesn't sound like a monster. Hell, it doesn’t sound like any animal Julian has ever heard before.
No; it sounds like something altogether more frightening.
A child.
Pegasus evidently picks up on his shift in mood as she breaks into a gallop in the direction without Julian having to do much more than tap her sides with his heels and turn her reins in the right direction. Her great lungs heave as she darts around fallen tree trunks and scattered roots until she skids to a stop at the edge of a village Julian has never been through before. The sign hanging above the gate on rusted chains says ‘Kerack’; a town Julian has never heard of in all his years wandering the Continent.
The community is gated with thick, heavy and old looking wooden doors, though they’re not locked and Julian doesn’t waste any time in dismounting and pushing them open to find a rather lackluster village made up of dilapidated shacks shoved into the small space. It’s certainly far from being anything like Novigrad, that’s for sure. The scent of death and sickness is still nauseatingly similar though, and it’s that smell that has Julian pushing his way into the tiny village only to find the place’s inhabitants forming a circle around something in the muddy town center, throwing insults and spitting curses at whatever- or whoever- is in the middle.
That isn’t the unsettling part. The fact that nearly every villager is holding some kind of weapon makes the entire situation much more dire.
Public stonings were unfortunately not a rare occurrence, and neither were public hangings. This didn’t seem like either of the aforementioned punishments Julian had bore witness to in the past. There were no executioners reading out the wrongs the subject had committed and there were no stones being thrown.
Another cry rang out from whatever was in the center of the mob and pulled him out of his head. Julian found his feet carrying him forward on instinct, the hairs rising on the back of his neck and over his arms as the agony in that plea for help registered in his mind.
It’s a young boy of no more than seven years.
There’s a child curled up on the ground in the middle of the small circle of townsfolk in the center of town. Dirtied rags barely cover the young boy to protect his modesty and, if Julian’s nose is to be believed, there is not only dirt smeared onto the boy’s skin.
The combination of stale sweat, bodily fluids, blood, and fear coats the back of his tongue like he had taken a bite out of a rotting fruit, unable to shake the taste with the cold rage steadily building in him at the blatant mistreatment of the boy. “What is going on here?” He demands as he roughly shoulders his way through the crowd until he’s crouched beside the helpless child. Long matted blonde hair hangs over the boy’s shoulders and is plastered to the side of his face by a substance Julian refuses to acknowledge.
“He’s cursed,” An older man with a gut that attests to how many ales he’s had in his lifetime bites out, clearly unafraid of the witcher that has just stepped between him and the child, though a good number of other villagers take a step back.
“‘S no use keepin’ him around here any longer. Whoreson’s only good for one thing, and he can’t even do it right!” Another woman yells, her words sounding off due to her various missing teeth. Julian bares his teeth at the implication and watches in mounting horror as eyes peek out of half shuttered windows, families obviously hiding in their homes around the town square, aware of what is transpiring yet not doing a thing to stop it.
“And what could this boy possibly have done? How is he so cursed that you can justify spitting on him and treating him this way?” Julian demands as he gathers the boy in his arms, uncaring of the mud that cakes his leather trousers.
“Doesn’t matter.” Another man pipes up as he steps forward with a rusty longsword in hand. “You have no right meddling in our affairs, witcher. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and leave us be.”
Had Julian not seen the terror in the boy’s hazel eyes that reminded him strongly of his sister Gretka so haunted already by what has been done to him, he might have heeded the crowd’s words and stayed out of it. Nazak would berate him for getting involved, would lash out at him for choosing to meddle in affairs that have nothing to do with monsters or money.
That being said, Julian can’t ignore the silence of the medallion hanging around his neck. The words the villagers are saying are false; this boy isn’t cursed, hasn’t been afflicted with even a hint of magic.
This is simply just another case of a group of monsters picking a scapegoat for their problems, a victim to place their blame on to justify their misfortunes.
Briefly, a memory of a field full of dandelions and a cat eyed man flashes through his mind before the fury making his limbs tremble finally boils over and Julian finds himself making a choice.
One he prays is the right one.
“I won’t.” Julian says as the villagers collectively grip their weapons and close in on himself and the boy, their faces as hard as their wills to bring harm to the child behind Julian.
From there, the streets of Kerack run with blood.
Where men find the courage to challenge a witcher when those very same men cower at the sight of a single drowner, Julian doesn’t know, but as he cuts down the seventh assailant who makes a move at reaching the boy, he begins to realize this might not have been the right choice to make.
Witchers are agile, infused with mutagens from the very same monsters they are created to fight. Julian is no exception- hells, he has been told he’s faster than any of his brothers by Nazak many times- but those abilities amount to exactly nothing when faced with an enraged mob of peasants with weapons and the desire for carnage. Numbers that overwhelm aren’t something Julian is used to dealing with, and when the first slash of a broadsword cuts through the light armor on his left shoulder, he hisses and retaliates only to receive a dagger to his lower stomach.
”Kill him!” One villager shouts as three men charge Julian at once in an effort to overwhelm him, carelessly stepping over their fallen comrades to reach the bleeding witcher.
Agony clouds Julian’s mind in a fog of panic when he realizes there are still far too many villagers left standing and that his stomach wound is worse than he initially thought as his vision blurs. The three men are disposed of without grace as Julian comes to the startling realization that if he doesn’t get the child out of here, the both of them could well meet their end on the muddy streets of this backwater town. ”Run!” He shouts at the boy still seated in the mud behind him, furious when the child doesn’t move an inch at the command, simply watching the villagers rallying around him to take down the witcher.
Julian watches the boy take in his surroundings with a mask of indifference so unlike the panic pleas for help that had led Julian here. There is no scent of panic coming off the boy now; no wide eyes or tears on his face now.
Instead, cold hazel eyes stare at Julian as though he’s no more than an insect under the boy’s boot.
”Monster!” The boy screeches, his face still a blank slate, drawing the attention of the families in their homes avoiding the commotion. “This monster is slaughtering us! He’s gone mad!”
The boy’s cry seems to rally the remaining villagers who previously decided to stay out of the fray, men and women alike emerging from their homes with all manner of weapons in hand, from frying pans to daggers to wooden bats.
Nothing makes sense. Julian can barely hear his own thoughts over the war cries ringing in his ears and the rushing of blood in his veins, his body struggling to begin mending the wound in his stomach with the dagger still sticking out from his torso.
Julian doesn’t get even a second to try and digest the abrupt turn of events before a woman steps into his line of sight from his left and takes a slash at his face with a small knife. The gushing wound in Julian’s stomach prevents him from dodging the blow and as a result, agony rips through his spine as the blade makes contact with the skin of his face and tears a gash across his mouth from the middle of his left cheek to the corner of his right jaw, flaying his lips in a way that would surely need stitches.
That specific pain is what forces Julian to make the decision to flee.
He would not be the first witcher to die at the hands of a human, much less a mob of them, but he does not wish for this shitty backwater hellhole to be his grave.
Julian is barely able to dodge and sidestep his way out of the screaming army of villagers as they chase him to the village’s gates, parting around the stone faced boy like a river around a rock, some of them landing a few good hits with various weapons on his back and arms as Julian whistles for Pegasus, barely able to put enough space between himself and the raging humans to throw himself onto his steed’s back and push her around the village perimeter and make a run for it.
Blood coats his light armor and Julian can feel himself fading quickly. He can practically hear Nazak berating him for not stocking up on potions before setting out for the day, not having anticipated anything like this happening when he hadn’t seen any sign of humanity for a good few days.
Each strike of Pegasus’ hooves on the dirt path rattle the dagger sticking out of his stomach. Every second ticks by in agony as his mouth fills with blood and his sliced lips part weirdly around his tongue when he tries to avoid choking on his own blood. There is little he can do but place his trust in his horse and believe she will lead him where he needs to be.
It could have been minutes or hours, Julian honestly can’t tell, when Pegasus comes to a stop at a comely little hut at the edge of the wood. There is smoke billowing out of the chimney and a quaint garden sits in front of the home but Julian can’t bring himself to appreciate the scenery at the moment., can’t even take note of the patch of dandelions flanking the edge of the woods, the yellow weeds dull in the cover of night.
He barely makes it off his horse without falling flat on his face before he’s collapsing at the entryway and retching up the blood that had been filling his mouth and sliding down his throat the entire way there, the sounds of the angry mob faint but still audible as they no doubt followed his horse’s hoofprints in the dirt.
Pegasus throws her head from side to side in anxiety, the whites of her eyes showing and a cry about to be let out before the door swings open to reveal a woman in her early seventies, her pale face full of wrinkles and her emerald eyes wide in shock. ”Oh,” She breathes, frozen still for a moment in the entryway before she’s ushering Julian inside her hut in a hurry, her messy grey curls bouncing along with her movements as she flutters about, pushing Julian to lie down on a bed in the room right beside the door.
“Melitele above, what happened to you?” The old woman says in disbelief as she takes in the state Julian is in. “You look like you’ve coerced the entirety of Novigrad into battle!”
Julian can’t help but bite back a cry as his lips threaten to quirk up at the statement only to spread fire through his face as the action pulls at the wound on his face. “Jus’ an entire village,” He hisses out. ‘Need ‘elp. I ‘ave money-”
“Shush, stop talking. Your face is a right sight.” Julian shuts his eyes as he hears a few bottles clanking and liquid sloshing around in their depths before he feels a feather light touch on his chin. “Open up and swallow this. It’ll dull the pain and put you to sleep so I can work on that dagger in your guts.”
The rim of the glass vial is cool against his swelling lips. “My ‘orse,” Julian croaks, blinking burning eyes at the healer in front of him, “Villagers’re gonna kill ‘er.”
Understanding dawns on the healers face for a split second before impatience takes over. “My home is enchanted. They won’t find it or anything else on my property no matter how hard they try. You came from Kerack, yes? They drove me out centuries ago with pitchforks and everything. Right arseholes they are.”
Gods, does Julian owe this woman if he makes it through this alive.
“But enough of that,” The healer says in a stern tone as she upends the bitter potion into his mouth without warning before setting the vial to the side and gathering the items she needs to bring Julian back from the brink of death. “Honestly, I’m shocked you’re still conscious, though I suppose you witcher types are made of sturdier stuff.”
The potion is quick to take effect. Julian can barely catch the end of her words as his eyes close without his permission and he feels himself slip into unconsciousness with only soft humming to guide his way.
*
When he awakens four days later, Julian is hit with a wave of agony so strong that had he not been lying horizontally, he surely would have crumbled to his knees.
While it’s true witchers are rumored to not feel pain, to not have emotions, Julian knows it’s all hearsay. The sensation of his flesh tugging against thick stitches is a feeling he never could get used to despite gaining his fair share of scars.
The gasp he sucks in through his nose at the pain must alert his savior, for the elderly woman who evidently nursed him back to health comes hobbling into the room with a cup of something hot in her hand. “Finally awake, are you?” She says with a smile as she sets a steaming mug of an herbal tea on the nightstand beside Julian’s bed. “Was starting to think you’d never wake up, though your wounds have healed nicely from that witcher healing of yours. Still, they need to remain clean and freshly bandaged for a while yet.”
Julian can’t bring himself to do much else but glance down at himself and take stock of the state he’s in.
Stark white bandages wind around his chest and torso, some spilling onto his arms where knives or whatever else had caught him while retreating. The dagger that had been sticking out of his gut is gone, and though he can’t see his legs or hips under the dark brown blanket thrown over himself to keep his body warm during the night, Julian can hazard a guess as to what it looks like.
Those aren’t his main concern, however. His hand barely makes it halfway to his face before soft, weathered fingers wrap around his wrist and gently return his hand to the sheets. “Don’t touch it. I did the best I could but it’s going to scar even with your accelerated healing.”
Her words carry a heavy weight to them. Julian knows she isn’t speaking about the physical scar ruining his face.
She’s talking about the scar his actions have had on Kerack, on what consequences his choices will likely have on him.
Witchers from the School of the Cat already have a bad reputation as it is, the alchemical formula used to create them having unpredictable effects on their mental health. He doesn’t need the moniker of ‘Mad Cat’ following him around throughout the Continent as he tries to do what he has been created to do.
“You’d be well to lay low for a while. My informats tell me the boy you tried to save is spreading the word of what happened to other towns, convincing them you went mad and slaughtered the people of Kerack for selfish purposes.”
Julian’s eyes narrow at the memory of the boy he tried to save, how he went from defenseless and petrified to cold and calculated. What the woman is telling him doesn't make sense, but he can’t exactly refute her claims when he had seen for himself the strangeness surrounding the entire town. “Your informants?” He asks, wincing at the tugging of stitches across his lips.
A wide grin stretches the old healer’s lips as she takes a seat on the edge of the bed and waves a hand without breaking eye contact with him. Nothing happens for a few seconds. Then, Julian hears a scuttling noise as a tiny brown mouse darts out from one of the many shelves full of potions lining the walls and climbs over her lap to settle on her shoulders. “My informants.” She repeats.
Sorceresses aren’t something Julian has had the pleasure of meeting face to face before, though he doubts all are as kind as the one in front of him is. “You’re a sorceress.”
“Indeed.”
“You’re not with the Lodge?”
The old sorceress scoffs. “Left them a long time ago, though they’re still searching for me, surely. Couldn’t stand all the politics and brow beating when I could be using my skills to help people, to heal and make a difference in the world.” She explains. “The glamors were a pain in the arse, too. Who cares about appearances when wars are raging?”
She had a point, Julian muses. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of meeting such a beautiful sorceress such as yourself before. Especially one who is kind enough to heal a wayward witcher instead of smite them on the spot.”
The sorceress opens her mouth to respond when she’s cut off by the mouse on her shoulder making a squeaking sound and the sorceress frowns. “Pima says the villagers are still looking for you. They’ve banded up with neighboring towns to form search parties.”
All at once, any semblance of comfort is stripped from Julian’s body and cold dread replaces it.
The moment he leaves this property, he’ll be walking into a lynching.
“I would offer you a place here with me, but I know you cannot simply abandon the Path.” The sorceress begins as she pushes herself up from the bed, smoothing her ordinary peasant skirts primly before hobbling out of the room and into the one adjacent to the one Julian is in. He hears her mumble a few curses under her breath before she finds what she’s looking for and comes back into the room holding something small in her outstretched palm. “This should allow you to become unrecognizable to those you wish to hide from.”
The second the sorceress places a thin black band in his hand, Julian feels his medallion begin to vibrate madly against his chest. “What is this?”
“It’s a glamor.” The sorceress tells him as she gathers his soiled clothes and gives them a grimace. “You won’t appear as a witcher to others, not even to others of your own kind. It’s a very, very powerful glamor, but only works when you wear it.”
Julian stares dumbly at the ring in his hand and then back at the sorceress who tosses his destroyed witcher armor to the side and bends at the waist to rifle through a trunk at the foot of the bed, her old bones creaking when she straightens up and tosses him a pair of purple trousers and a lilac doublet, complete with a white chemise. “Your clothing, however, isn’t affected by the glamor. Wearing witcher gear will make you appear as a thief, or at the very least, out of your mind. These clothes belonged to another who unfortunately didn’t make it. I’m sure he would appreciate his clothing being put to good use. They should be about your size.”
There aren’t any flaws in her logic as far as Julian can tell, so he slips the ring onto his left middle finger and bites back a gasp at the tickling sensation that washes over him from head to toe. It’s… not exactly pleasant, but isn’t unpleasant either. Certainly beats the agony of nearly getting stabbed to death by a mob, though. “Do I look any different?”
The sorceress regards him for a moment before setting his boots on the bed beside him, the sturdy material having been scrubbed clean of blood and filth. “You look human.”
And, well. He hasn’t heard that in a very, very long time. Julian thinks, if he were able to, he would cry right about then. “I can’t pay for this. Why are you helping me?” Surely a glamor of this strength would cost half of the coin Julian has made in his entire career as a witcher, and he was not about to be indebted to a sorceress of all people, no matter how kind she is. Being tied to promises and debts doesn’t sit comfortably with him, his stomach rolling in unease at the very notion.
If his face shows what he’s thinking, the sorceress doesn’t show it. Instead she offers him a subdued, sad little smile, so at odds with the bright grin she flashed him when her mouse made its appearance. “I once was unable to help a witcher when he needed me. I will not make that same mistake twice.”
Trust a sorceress hiding out in a magical hut at the edge of a forest to be cryptic. “Surely there is something I can do for you. I can’t simply accept something of this magnitude without payment.”
The melancholy look on the sorceress's face melts into one of subdued resignation, as though Julian refusing to take her gift without payment was something she expected. “I don’t need your coin. But if you are persistent in demanding repayment, I ask of you this,” She pauses to take a deep breath, and Julian can’t help but notice the way she suddenly appears so much older, so much more weary in her lonely hut at the edge of a forest in the middle of nowhere.
“I ask of you,” She continues after a pause, “When you meet a White Wolf with a bite as strong as his heart, please tell him I am sorry.”
And with that, the sorceress rips the blanket off his legs and nudges the pile of lilac clothing at him with an impatient look. “Now, please do get going. Your horse is scaring the life out of my chickens and my goats are similarly terrorized.”
*
Julian dies in a field of soft yellow, dandelions gently swaying in the breeze as he sheds everything tying him to his name and forges himself into someone new.
Someone unforgettable. Someone who is worthy of companionship. Someone who would not be pawned off by their own family for a mere handful of crowns.
That day, in a field of yellow dandelions bearing witness to his transformation, Jaskier is born.