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Sweet Chaos

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Geralt sits upon a tree stump. He can smell the grass beneath his boots. The birds chirping nearby seem to make the sky bluer. The untied section of his grey hair slowly drifts with the wind as he ties the top portion in a half ponytail. 

His angular face is framed with light, golden sunshine. He wears worn out garments. Don’t ask why.

His days starts the way it ends. Quiet, peaceful, and the only semblance of noise is nature.

But then his ears twitch at the sound of light footsteps behind him. There is a stalking figure to his back, undoubtedly armed. The footsteps are steady and persistent. Had he not the senses he had; it would’ve been undetectable. Clearly the assassin is trained. But then again, surely no untrained moron would try to attack him.

Witcher rests his forearms on his thighs and shuts his eyes.

Decades of pain, of monsters and men—he knew it would to be good to be true—to finally live in peace. There was never really true silence in the world anyway. No where he could hide where he would not stir up trouble and tempt the hands of killers.

He’s had about enough.

His lips part and he intakes in aroma of wildflowers around him. If this is how I die, he sighs, then so be it.

The assassin in upon him.

The least Geralt does for himself is brace for impact.



To the side, really? I thought I taught this fool better than to--

“Oi! Young man, what did I tell you about hitting people with a stick.”

A high-pitched giggle fills the air. 

Geralt looks over his shoulder and beholds a boy, so pleased as if he’s eaten all the sweeties in the world, clearly just woken up, crouched in delight with his little hands holding onto a stick about as long as he is. His cheeks were rosy, dainty freckles embellished them.

He tilts his head down, as if to taunt the witcher, and looks at him through his thick lashes. The creature is not even taller than he who is sat down on the low stump. He goes for another blow. It hits Geralt’s shoulder. And another. It hits the same place.

Geralt thinks it’s an extremely inefficient way to die. 

After the fifth blow, he is exasperated. He turns on his bottom and faces the boy, “I told you: if you want to kill someone,” grabbing his stick before he could hit Witcher any further, “aim for the head, hard.”

The boy pouts and furrows his dark brows. The same scolding tone a distance warns not to use the dirty stick again. Geralt throws the stick off to the side, “I’d listen to your mother, boy.”

The said boy shakes his silver-blonde hair and glares at him with golden eyes, “Am notta boy, am an assassin!” 

With that, the child forward leaps and actually surprises the witcher. He grunts at the loss of his balance. Regretfully, he falls back on the ground with a rock digging in his spine.

The loud rascal almost flies past him and breaks his face. He catches him however, making certain he crashes into his chest. The boy giggles gleefully, “Again!”

Geralt groans, “right, it’s all fun an games to you until you kill me.” Please kill me. He groans and picks the stone behind his back and sits himself up with the small assassin still in his arms.

The child suddenly sees no use of him and pushes him off to scare a chicken. 

Geralt is relieved. But twas in vain, as surely the boy’s accomplice is who caught hold of him, pulling him tightly by the hair. “Time to pay princess! You promised when the sun shines and the chickees cuckoo you’d play!” 


Geralt whines and twists down to the height of the tiny female. “Yes, my heart, daddy promised.”

He grips her small wrist and swivels to his knees, kneeling—succumbing, to his fearsome captor. She releases him in mercy and throws her short arms around his broad shoulders. She steps her soles on his lap. She is weightless to him. She beams with her violet eyes and pink lips. She nuzzles her small face in the crook of his neck, giggling warmly, “I love you daddy.”

Geralt wraps his arms around her delicately. This is it. Cause of death: heart explosion.

“And I love you.”


The same boy giggles behind him. The girl pulls back, her raven black hair fluttering with her as she too giggles. “We gottchu, daddy!” she says with so much excitement as she hops off him.

Geralt is appalled and does the theatrics to show it. Swiftly, he turns back, causing his assailant to halt his next blow. His eyes are wide and his lips forming a small circle due to surprise and recognition of imminent danger.

“You monsters. How could you do this to your own father?” Geralt barks, grabbing the stick and throwing it so hard it reaches, safe to say the edge of the world.

The children shriek in excitement. “Daddy, we are not monsters!” the girl defends. “We’re assassins!” the boy continues, cueing their joint sibling attack.

The old man releases a fair share of palm punches and close-fisted slaps. With some foul play in and when a good amount of grunts and moans leave his mouth, he bursts, “That’s it.” He grabs the children, throwing the girl over his shoulder, bottom up, and carrying the boy he would a bag by his torso. “Go to your mother, or no supper for the lot of you.”

It seems though that his words fall deaf to their ears. That, or their laughter was too loud for his threat to be heard.

He marches to his stone house. The wooden door flies open.

You look out to the man and immediately find amusement in his expression. “My, my, Witcher. What have you ‘ere for me today?”

“Two assassins, milady. I suggest to starve them.”

You bubble into a chuckle, finishing halfway the crust of your pie, “my word. I see.”

Geralt releases the two and props them on their feet. You halt your work and turn to them who stand on either side of their now crossed armed father.

You raise a brow, “Now, I saw everything through my kitchen window.”

The instant response is the children turn to their feet. Geralt smirks to himself. This’ll teach you to fear the witcher.

“Now I saw everything through my kitchen window,” you tilts your head to the direction of the said thing, “what ye have to say for yourself?”

“It was a just a bit of fun, mummy. We weren’t actually going to assassinate daddy,” the boy speaks as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You sigh, “yes, well, when I was your age, I couldn’t even begin to comprehend what assassinate could mean.” You give a look to the towering man directly in front of you. He cocks his head simply in reply and you shake your head to it.

Your daughter crosses her arms and shakes her head. She scrunches her faces up, as if in disappointment, “He’s too old to be assassinated, mumma!”

You burst into laughter. “Go on then, be good to your daddy. He’s really old, yeah.”

The two then bolt away in giggles. Off the hook for comedy. Geralt watches, “Only they would dare attack me, disrespect me, and live to tell the tale.”

You roll your eyes and huff out a chuckle, “Oh please. Quit being a drama queen. It’s you who keeps doing this to me.” You purse your lips and place a hand on your hip.

The witcher steps forward and falls to his knees once more. He caresses your grown belly. He presses as kiss on the apron that covers it. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


You chuckle, a playful glint in your eye, “you sure about that, darling?”

There is a loud gallop of quick feet headed your way.

Geralt is about to answer you, but ends up pacifying his daughter as she rips his head back with a fistful of hair. Again.

“My love, I told you not to pull your father’s hair.”

She releases and turns to you with a pout, “Sorry, mumma.”

“Why are you apologizing to her?!”