Blaviken has left its mark on Geralt.
The wounds are etched deeply beneath his skin, leaving behind more than mere scars and he finds himself wondering why he’s still haunted by this nightmare. He lies down under a starless sky and all he can see is Renfri’s face, all he can hear is Stregobor’s voice, all he can feel is pain and agony, bone-deep and cold. He sees Marilka’s expression, feels stones against his skin and hears the callous insults ringing in his ears and wishes dearly for an escape from this torment.
Though the hatred is nothing he hasn’t experienced before, nothing he hasn’t heard before, it’s this new moniker, the Butcher of Blaviken, which has made his life inexplicably worse. He’s turned away from towns and villages, chased out of taverns and he’s paid a pittance for the contracts he takes. He loses shelter, food, crowns – all he has is exhausted desperation to keep him going, the survival instinct beaten into him by Vesemir’s stern teachings.
The witcher can’t remember the last time he has successfully fallen asleep though, can’t remember a single night free from memories and ghosts, can’t even mediate without hearing screams and tasting blood – so… he resorts to magic, for alcohol makes things worse and he’s not desperate enough for fisstech. He avoids mages and oneiromancers, for he doesn’t want another being to enter his mind, so he tracks down a djinn instead.
He knows they’re mischievous, knows that they have a habit of twisting wishes to cause mayhem, but they don’t cause harm and they don’t kill their masters – still, it’s a battle to tame them, regardless of their temperament, but once under control, they’re little more than petulant spirits.
Geralt knows what it’s like, being powerful and strong and having to submit to those who are lesser, weaker, yet still maintain an air of superiority.
His pity is in short supply though because he hasn’t slept in days, in nights, he cannot even tell anymore – time has blended together and Geralt finds he’s missing hours of his life. There’s blood on his clothes, his face, his weapons and he can’t even remember who it belongs to.
Witchers can last for days without rest, but even they need a moment to themselves.
They aren’t invincible and their bodies are as susceptible to sleep-deprivation as any regular human.
It takes him a while before he manages to track a djinn down – he chases loose ends and half-rumours, finds broken amphoras and empty pitchers. Djinn that have already been freed, been recaptured, been killed or had their magic sapped from them.
The desperation grows thicker and Geralt almost considers running away to Kaer Morhen, to hide from the world and lick his wounds in peace – Vesemir would never allow it though, Eskel wouldn’t give him peace and Lambert would only make matters worse with his vitriol-coated concern.
So, he traverses the continent and tries hard to survive each toiling day.
His journey eventually guides him to Velen for the seventh time, his ears pricked and ready for any viable lead. It’s during this seventh visit, as he passes through a quiet town, that his prayers are finally answered. It comes in the form of a children, playing near a rickety stable which acts as Roach’s shelter for the evening.
“I would wish for more wishes!”
“You can’t ask for more wishes!”
“Yes I can, I’ll prove it!”
“Mummy says there’s a genie in the temple, so, so, so I’m going to find him and ask for a million wishes, that’ll show you!”
Oh, out of the mouths of babes.
Geralt is quick to bid Roach farewell; he feeds her slices of apple amongst fresh oats and locks her stall door tightly. The witcher checks his satchel for Dimeritium bombs, slicks his silver sword with oil and heads out. He nods as he passes the children and heads towards the only temple in the area – although temple is a generous word for the crumbled elven ruins which resides on the mountainside.
The ruins lead to a cave, dark and dank, with winding tunnels and nekkars hiding around every corner. Deep in the heart of the cave rests the amphora hidden amongst thick dust and fragile bone. Geralt takes his silver sword out and holds up the amphora, feels the energy vibrating within the stone. He casts Yrden and throws the stone in the centre – he gets into position, ducking low with his sword poised for attack.
The stone goes still before it shakes and quivers – Geralt blinks and the dark ruins are illuminated by a glowing blue light. Crackling smoke fills the tiny room and the witcher swallows as he tastes the magic on his tongue – it fizzes on his tongue and races down his throat, curling in his stomach and lighting his veins on fire. It astonishingly feels like… arousal, honestly. A feeling he typically gets in brothels or in the presence of succubi – it’s strange, but the adrenaline is heady and powerful.
He’s ready for fight, he almost looks forward to it.
A spherical ball of light slowly emerges from the smoke with a glowing face set within it – the face isn’t particularly notable, for the features are coated in light and barely discernible. Lightning crackles as a noise which sounds like self-righteous fury fills the cavern. Geralt can hear the screeches of fleeing nekkars and absently feels relieved that they’ve finally ran off – the less distractions during this fight, the better.
The djinn screeches once more and Geralt is ready for the lightning sent his way – he quickly tucks into a forward roll, bringing his sword up into a slicing motion against the sphere’s surface. He has to leap to the side to dodge an oncoming bolt of lightning, has to dart in quick to take advantage of the opening with a burst of Axii.
The lightning grows muted as the djinn concentrates on breaking free of the magic – Geralt swings his swords against the sphere, landing solid blows to weaken it and tire it out. Axii soon wears off and he has to roll backwards to avoid the unleashed power – lightning flares across the air as the djinn screeches indignantly.
Geralt grits his teeth and throws Yrden onto the ground once again, watching as the lightning fizzles out, leaving him safe to land a few more heavy blows. The witcher’s eyes focus on the djinn’s glowing face – it looks vastly infuriated with its magic straining against the trap. His sword whistles through the air as he continues to land solid hits to the surface of the sphere and contemplates using a Dimeritium bomb – the fight is slowly slipping from the creature however, so the witcher leaves them in his pouch.
No use wasting weaponry against a creature who is close to giving up.
Residing in a dank cavern has clearly left it rusty and weakened – and sure enough, after several rounds of Axii, followed by a series of slashes and blows, the djinn eventually slackens. It’s glow dies down and the lightning is reduced to mere fizzles of light.
The creature recoils away from Geralt’s next swing and instead, plasters itself against the wall of Yrden’s magic trap. The witcher breathes heavily, his glowing eyes tracking the djinn’s every movement.
The creature flickers and wavers as it floats towards him, tendrils of magic slowly growing once more but its presence is entirely nonthreatening and, truth be told, it seems more sullen than anything else.
“Congratulations,” the djinn utters, in a voice which echoes around the room, a voice which is both masculine and feminine, which is light and low, soft but with a hardened edge, “you are now my master – what do you want?”
Geralt arches a brow – he’s never met a creature who could utter words in such a sulky tone before. He knows that djinn are begrudging creatures at best, but certainly not petulant. He sheathes his sword and Yrden slowly fades away – he approaches the djinn with his hands held up, keeping his body language as nonthreatening as possible.
The leashed djinn simply hovers before Geralt, glowing with a soft cornflower-blue light, watching and waiting as its new master comes to stand in front of it.
“My first wish,” Geralt states hoarsely, straightening up – creatures as impish and unpredictable as djinn require unshakeable resolve and clear instruction, “I wish to sleep for eight hours, upon which I shall awaken well-rested. Nothing shall harm me, no creature shall come upon me, I won’t find myself misplaced, nor will my mind be used against me.”
There’s silence – reigning loud and heavy in the cave. Geralt thinks over his wish, knows he’s managed to avoid the most dangerous loopholes which could have been manipulated and exploited.
Before him, the djinn glows steadily, “I can’t tell if you’re clever, master,” it finally says, almost impressed with the detailed wish, “or irritatingly stupid.”
“I wish to begin my sleep now,” Geralt replies, refusing to dignify the creature’s words with a response.
“Very well,” the djinn replies, its glowing face watching him steadily, “sweet dreams, master.”
A mark appears on his arm, quick and painless and it's the only warning he gets, for with no preamble, Geralt finds himself sinking to the floor as slumber sweeps through him. The world darkens and slips away – the last thing he sees are glowing blue and crackling white.
His body relaxes for the first time in months
Darkness greets him, shrouds him in gentle arms and curls around his aching body – peace slowly filters through his pores, sinks deep into his bones and he releases a breath which unravels every stressful feeling curled up tight within his muscles.
His breathing evens out as his limbs grow heavy, his mind slipping to blank nothingness and—
“Hello master,” a voice calls out, echoing and unending, reverberating around the hollow emptiness. The witcher’s eyes snap open and before him is the djinn – spherical and crackling, with glowing fog filtering from it’s illuminated face.
“I said I desired a dreamless sleep,” Geralt says firmly, closing his eyes pointedly, “I did not want my mind to be used against me.” Irritation sparks hot and fast; Geralt tries to force himself to ignore the djinn, but it’s difficult to drown out the sound of lightning, especially when it bursts into life on his tongue.
“This isn’t a dream, nor am I using your mind – I’m merely visiting,” the djinn corrects, floating around the space curiously, “I’ve never come across a witcher before, so colour me fascinated by your kind.”
Geralt sighs at the loophole the creature managed to find and shakes his head at himself.
“Fascinated?” the witcher echoes, arching a brow, “truly? Although it makes sense that you haven’t met another witcher before, seeing as you’ve been stuck in a hole in the ground.”
“I wasn’t always stuck in a hole in the ground,” the djinn corrects.
“No?” Geralt asks, cocking his head, “still sounds like you were stuck somewhere in the world.” He pauses and crosses his arms as he regards the djinn with steady eyes, “how about we make a deal – you leave me to a peaceful sleep and I’ll release you from my ownership.”
“Shocking how the monster hunter knows so little about the monsters he hunts,” the djinn trills, voices growing loud with merriment.
“Oh?” Geralt utters, arching a brow.
“Not every djinn gets to be wished free,” the creature replies, “some of us need to grant all three wishes before being forced back into their little prison, resting until the next pair of clammy hands grope at us and force us to do their bidding.”
The witcher snorts, “how wonderful – so much for an all-powerful genie,” he says, turning away, “can’t be wished free, can’t give me a peaceful sleep, what can you do?”
The djinn’s glow pulsates sharply for a moment, “more than you will ever comprehend. Still, sweet master, whatever doubts you may have of my powers, you will awaken more rested than you have ever felt before,” it says, before it reaches out with thin tendrils of smoke, “which will probably do wonders for your glowing personality.”
Geralt blinks and arches a brow as he tosses the djinn a shrewd look.
“Careful,” he utters approaching the djinn, “I kicked your ass once – could always do it again.”
The djinn snorts – it actually snorts – and regards Geralt with unreadable eyes, “I let you win,” it says, before it circles the witcher playfully, “there’s something rather… fascinating about you, made me curious enough to submit to your authority.”
“Really?” the witcher asks dryly.
“Really,” the djinn replies, before it drifts closer, close enough that Geralt can sparse a pair of inquisitive eyes amongst the glowing light, “but enough chatter – you have some much-needed beauty sleep to catch up on—”
“—'til you need me again, master,” the djinn says, before it pauses for a heavy beat of silence, “or when I need you.” Then it disappears in a puff of billowing smoke. Geralt blinks, feeling incredibly unnerved with how events had unfolded, but he doesn’t question the odd creature’s ways, for djinn are unpredictable at best and erratic at worst.
If anything, he’s rather relieved that his djinn is quite civil and amenable to polite conversation – though, there’s still that sharp spice to it, which mingles amongst the sweetness of its power, which has Geralt acutely aware of the creature he’s dealing with.
Still, he doesn’t need to deal with it now – because for now, the only thing he needs to concern himself with is the serene unconsciousness which rapidly sweeps over his body…
When Geralt finally awakens, he’s pleasantly surprised to find himself more rested than he can ever remember. His eyes flicker open and he finds himself not forcing himself to rise to his feet for once. Energy flows through his veins, stress melts away from his muscles and his bones don’t creak as he stretches out.
The cavern is empty and dark, but his torch still burns by his feet – next to it lies the amphora.
He considers, just for a moment, leaving the djinn behind, but— loneliness is difficult for anyone, even a creature made of pure energy and power. Plus, he still has two wishes left and it would be quite handy to have such power with him should a hunt go wrong.
Or if he ends up crossing paths with Stregobor again.
So, Geralt takes the amphora and meanders back out of the caves – he traces the engravings in the stone, feels the coldness as it seeps through the thick leather of his gloves. It almost feels empty, but he knows that the djinn slumbers within the cracks.
He wonders why the creature hasn’t manifested yet, wonders why it isn’t demanding an escape from its leash, urging him to make his two other wishes so it can return to some semblance of freedom – but then he remembers how the djinn called him fascinating.
It’s strange how it sounded like a compliment tied up in an insult, but the witcher chooses to not pay much mind to it. Instead, he arrives back at the village and slips the amphora into the saddlebags hanging by Roach’s stall.
His ears prick up and focus on the discomforted rumblings of the locals, their mutterings of hatred, of distrust. They don’t like the fact that there’s a mutant in their village and they especially don’t like that the fact that he clearly overstayed his welcome.
The voices grow in volume and number; Geralt sighs and turns to Roach.
“Time to hit the road,” he says to her, grabbing her equipment to tack her up quickly, “before they burn down another stable with us inside.”
She chuffs and knocks against him – she clearly concurs.
Geralt doesn’t take the prejudice to heart, for it’s difficult to bear the brunt of hatred on his shoulder when they feel so loose and relaxed. With newfound energy blazing through his veins, the witcher finished tacking Roach and mounted her, eager to escape this village and take on the continent with newfound life in his lungs.
He has a reputation to recover, after all.
The weeks pass and the witcher almost forgets he has the djinn in his possession.
The amphora remains in Roach’s saddlebags, silent and cold.
Geralt takes contract after contract, hunts beast after beast, working hard to earn his crown and to better his reputation. It’s hard and he has to lower his standards for the jobs he takes – he hunts down wayward horses, protects sheep from wolves, hunts down runaway brides. He picks off drowners for a handful of crowns, slays wraiths for a loaf of bread.
His life has never sunk to such depths before, but this time Geralt feels like he can survive, for this time he can sleep. It’s practically bliss, as every time he places his head down to rest, he instantly slips away to a deep, dreamless slumber.
The djinn doesn’t speak to him once.
Near enough three months go by and Geralt’s moniker of the Butcher of Blaviken doesn’t appear to be fading away anytime soon.
Occasionally he gets called witcher, freak, mutant, etc… though, when he travels to Toussaint, he finds himself being referred to as White Wolf once again; more often than not, he’s still bitterly greeted as butcher. There are sly remarks of astonishment that the streets haven’t turned to rivers of blood upon his arrival, that populations haven’t vastly decreased upon his leaving of towns and villages – they are easily ignored though.
What’s harder to ignore, to forget, is Renfri’s face.
Her brooch is mounted to his steel sword, as a reminder to not turn into the monster, to quell his burning rage and stave off any fantasies of revenge. Stregobor will eventually piss off the wrong person, so it’s certain that he will meet his dreary end… just not by Geralt’s sword.
During moments of silence, when the world leaves him in peace, the witcher finds himself thumbing over the brooch, tracing the lines with wistful eyes.
“Who were they?” it asks, light and free of judgement.
The witcher is honestly startled when the djinn softly blossoms from Roach’s saddlebags, appearing before Geralt with graceful slithers of smoke.
Geralt furrows his brow, “I did not summon you.”
“Yet,” the djinn replies, “here I am.”
The djinn is more powerful than he realises if it can summon itself; if it can control its own manifestations to suit its own needs without waiting for its master’s instructions. It unnerves the witcher, having such an unpredictable creature with him and he doesn’t feel as in control as he ought to be…
“Are you certain I can’t wish you free? To send you on your way?” Geralt asks, folding his arms across his chest.
“How adorable,” the djinn almost sighs.
“You are,” the djinn replies, “thinking you know more about djinn than myself – an actual djinn.”
Well fuck – of course, he had to find the one djinn with a wry tongue and a sharp mind. He almost feels bad for attacking a sentient creature so aggressively, but the djinn doesn’t appear to be holding it against him…
“I know you lie, for djinn don’t need all three wishes to be granted in order to be released, I know that you don’t actually grant wishes but inflict mischief, I know to keep an eye on my back lest you sink a sword into it,” Geralt states, stepping closer to the creature with every uttered word, “I know to watch my language, before you twist my words into—”
“Are you always like this? So suspicious and monotonous and irritatingly condescending?” the djinn interjects, sounding inexplicably affronted.
“Suspicious and condescending? Maybe, but monotonous? Hmm, I don’t think I’ve ever been called boring before,” Geralt comments, almost amused by the djinn’s words.
“I would never call you boring,” the djinn stresses, “you’re just in need of some excitement.”
“I’m a witcher – excitement is part of the job description.”
He feels rather than sees the djinn’s judgemental stare, “master, you’re wading through a swamp looking for evidence of a water hag.”
“And seven months ago, I took down two warring gangs of werewolves,” Geralt tells him firmly.
“Oh?” the djinn trills, “tell me about them.”
It doesn’t escape Geralt’s notice that the creature doesn’t ask, but rather tells.
The djinn bobs above the murky swamp, lightning flickering around the sphere in an almost irritable fashion. “What do you think I do all day?” it asks, “what do you think I’ve done with my past life? Travel the world? Explore deep seas and high mountains? No, master, I’m trapped inside that pretty little stone you carry in your satchel and though your mare is a rather fetching creature, she is a tragically poor communicator. Now, tell me about your quaint little battle with a group of glorified puppies.”
“Have you ever met a werewolf?” he asks.
“Darling, I haven’t even met a puppy,” the djinn complains.
Geralt pauses and feels his heart stutter slightly, “darling?” he echoes, feeling oddly faint.
The djinn floats gently, bobbing over the surface of the water, “it suits you; don’t you think?”
The witcher swallows, “I wouldn’t know – I’ve never been bestowed such a nickname before.”
Tendrils of soft light reach across the air and stroke across Geralt’s reflection in the water – the witcher is inwardly glad that the djinn chose against touching him. Though, there is something which moves him, seeing how reverent the djinn treats his reflection.
“Good,” the djinn says, staring at Geralt’s reflection, “that makes it mine.”
The witcher blinks and somehow feels that they’re not having the same conversation. He opens his mouth and wonders what he ought to say in response but inwardly decides that he isn’t quite ready to broach that topic, not just yet.
Instead, Geralt wets his dry lips and makes his way deeper into the swamp.
“So,” he says, “about those two factions of werewolves—”
“Oh, tell me everything,” the djinn gushes, glowing brightly as it chases after the witcher.
Geralt makes a point of carrying the amphora around after that conversation.
He doesn’t think the djinn notices, but the stone does feel warmer in his pocket.
Not heavier, mind.
“This brooch belonged to someone special, yes?” the djinn asks, staring at the steel sword on Geralt’s back. Tendrils of smoke revolve around it, its glowing face fixated on the gold brooch with intense enchantment.
“Don’t touch it,” the witcher says firmly.
“It carries such pain, such betrayal, loss,” the djinn says, slipping away from the sword to float before Geralt’s face, “it holds the story behind your poor reputation, yes?”
The witcher sighs and frowns, “good deductive skills.”
The djinn’s light flashes, “I can take away the memories – take away the hatred. I can make you famous and beloved,” the creature says, “I can mend the damage wrought by your past.”
“No,” Geralt states, quick and ardent, “it’s important that you don’t touch those memories. I… I need them. I don’t care about being hated, about being famous. I need to keep my past to help me mend my own reputation – it’s important, understand?” It’s not a lie, not all of it, but he hopes the creature cannot sparse the falsehoods from the truths if they’re entangled enough.
The djinn hums and bobs around Roach’s head – the horse doesn’t startle at its presence, not anymore strangely enough. If anything, the horse seems rather fond of the sphere.
“I don’t understand it at all, darling,” the djinn sighs, “you’re such a strange thing – most would demand that I make their lives perfect, but you seem to thrive amongst how awful yours is.”
“It’s not thriving,” the witcher denies, “it’s motivating – it drives me, keeps me going.”
“And where are you going? What are you driving towards?” the djinn asks, “survival? The dawn of another day?” Geralt’s nape prickles irritably as he rolls his shoulders back defensively.
“What’s wrong with simple wants, easy needs?”
“They’re hardly ambitious, are they?”
Geralt shrugs and looks away, “witchers don’t get to have ambitions, surely you would understand that.”
The djinn falls silent before it slowly shifts and slithers towards the pouch which hides the amphora. It moves slowly, cautiously, almost like it’s sulking or thinking hard about Geralt’s words.
“No,” it finally responds, stubborn and firm, “I don’t understand.”
Then it slips back inside the amphora and the rest of the journey is oddly silent.
The witcher can honestly say that he’s never met a creature like this one before – it’s not inherently malicious, nor does it try to slit his throat whilst he sleeps. It’s not like other djinn either, for it doesn’t get pissed off about being bound to Geralt, doesn’t try to break free or demand that he finishes making his wishes and it… well, it whispers within his mind.
Straight from the amphora.
“The drowners are working with a water hag,” it hisses softly, the voice slipping from his pocket to seep through his ears, “she tells them to jump, they ask how high.”
“Drowners aren’t that clever,” Geralt replies automatically, before he pauses and steps out of the swamp with a sour expression, “and how are you speaking to me right now?”
“You quaint thing,” the djinn replies, sweetly amused, “I’m a djinn darling, why wouldn’t I have the power to project my voice?”
“And I’m a witcher,” Geralt throws back, “this is my area of expertise.”
“And how many djinn have you come across, exactly?” the djinn replies archly.
The witcher pauses, falling silent because, well—
“Just as I thought,” the djinn says smugly, “now follow those tracks to that cave, there’s a good witcher.”
It’s rather interesting, Geralt finds, having a verbal companion on his travels.
Roach is a fine friend, but now he has someone to voice his theories to, who openly debates with him and contests his entries in Vesemir’s bestiary. It’s comforting and it makes the harrowingly lonely world that touch less cold – though, he isn’t so foolish to call the djinn his acquaintance, much less a friend.
Especially when carrying such a creature around with him comes with some rather unfortunate consequences – the magic which radiates from the amphora draws in mages and elves and monsters.
For a man who thrives on being a lone wolf, he finds the extra attention… overwhelming, to say the least.
“Hello wolf,” a hooded figure purrs, “coming my way?”
He’s in Novigrad, in The Bits, trying to hunt down a man who can get him across the sea to Skellige. Instead, he’s batting away unnecessary attention from more than a few brothel workers – elves approach him with large eyes, mages beckon him with coy fingers, and it took him longer than necessary to even reach Novigrad’s gates with the amount of beasts chasing after him.
“Your magic,” one passing elf gasps, “it tastes exquisite!”
“This must be how Eskel feels,” Geralt mutters to himself, for the magic which resides in Eskel’s veins is too strong to be muted and calls out to any mage who wanders past him. Sorceresses found his brother’s presence to be delightfully enticing, with his magic luring them in with pleasant vibrations, “harassment at every corner.”
“Does he complain as much as you?” the djinn asks quietly.
The witcher hums and considers Eskel’s stories, “no,” he says with a smirk, “the idiot enjoys it, probably projects his magic on purpose.”
The djinn laughs lowly, “your Eskel sounds more fun – you should palm me off to him once you’ve finished with your wishes.”
Geralt doesn’t quite know why, but the mere notion of that happening has his hackles rising.
“Not even remotely.”
Fuck, why the hell would he be jealous?
What would he even be jealous of?
It’s just a damn djinn.
“What does your Eskel look like?” the djinn asks, floating next to him as he bathes.
Geralt sighs irritably as this has been the fifth time the creature has asked about his brother, “what does it matter?”
“I want to know,” it says, insists even.
“And I’m saying it doesn’t matter,” Geralt says, sinking deeper into the bath, “besides, I’m known as the pretty one.”
The djinn hums and glows – the witcher gets the distinct notion he’s being laughed at.
“Well then,” it says lightly, “I suppose I made the correct choice then.”
“Barely a choice,” Geralt mutters, though something pleasant squirms in his gut and he finds his hackles settling for the first time in days, “you were mine the moment I gripped your amphora.”
The djinn simply stays quiet and glows softly – it’s telling, in its own way and as the evening passes in comfortable silence, Geralt gets the feeling that this will be the last time the djinn asks about his brother.
“Have you considered your next wish yet?”
“No. I don’t want to waste them, need to make them count.”
“I think you just want to keep me around.”
“Don’t be mad, I think it’s adorable.”
Not all conversations are entirely civil, however.
“I wish—” Geralt grits out as he picks off the pack of wraiths swarming upon him – they almost seem unending, just waves upon waves of angry spectors swinging lanterns and swords.
The amphora pulsates in his pocket, “you wish?” the djinn asks, his voice filtering through his mind.
“Nothing,” the witcher mutters, casting Yrden to trap the wraiths in place – he finishes them off quickly, desperately, his back aching as his swings his silver sword through the body of one advancing creature. His anger bubbles over and for a man who has always been taught and told that he cannot feel, it’s vastly difficult to swallow it back down.
His irritation cannot be hidden and the intent behind his words is as clear as day.
“You wish you never found me, is that it?” the djinn asks sharply.
Geralt swallows and picks off the last wraith, “not exactly.”
“I see,” the djinn utters, before the amphora grows silent and cold.
The silent treatment stretches on two days and three nights.
Geralt doesn’t sleep – the djinn doesn’t speak.
The amphora stays cold in his pocket.
Geralt had forgotten just how cruel silence could be – how suffocating loneliness can taste.
He still takes the amphora around with him, just in case.
“Have you thought about your second wish?” the djinn asks one day.
It’s slithered free of the amphora, blindingly bright and floating by Roach’s head. It seems that boredom has outweighed pride, but there’s still enough spite within the creature to keep the grudge alive as it firmly keeps its gaze averted.
Well, two can play at that game.
“Trying to get rid of me?” Geralt asks humourlessly.
The djinn’s aura sparks and flashes, which spooks Roach and has her whinnying and throwing her head back in fear. The djinn shrinks away, its tendrils retracting into its sphere out of shame – Geralt is quick to cast Axii, settling her scattered mind with a simply wave of his hand.
He takes a moment to focus on her, before his gaze slowly drifts above her head – the djinn still refuses to look at him, but its glow is softer now, not as harsh or as blinding. It slowly slinks back to Roach, careful and aware of her reactions to it.
“It is you who wishes to be rid of me,” the djinn replies sullenly. The witcher blinks and realises that it isn’t rage which festers within the smoky clouds but hurt. His words have cut deeper than any blade and for that, Geralt feels remorse blossom bitterly on his tongue.
“I don’t – not really. I was just…. frustrated,” Geralt replies quietly, brushing Roach’s hair and hushing her with nonsensical croons, “I can’t… words are hard, sometimes I just feel… feelings, and they just do the talking for me.”
The djinn hums and slowly drifts closer, “I see,” it says, keep its steady gaze on Roach’s face, “I have more to learn about men than I first anticipated.”
“Not just men,” Geralt corrects, “witchers.”
“Right, witchers,” the djinn says, almost amused, before it pauses and sends a flickering look at Geralt, “so… you don’t regret meeting me?”
The witcher doesn’t even need a moment to consider the question, for he quickly shakes his head. “No. For most of my life, my only constant companion was Roach,” Geralt murmurs, sweeping a hand down her back, “I appreciate the extra company, to be honest.”
The djinn hums lightly.
“Roach is your only friend?”
“Constant friend, I have other friends – ones that even talk back,” Geralt replies, “that being said, I fear she must be my favourite version of Roach. I do not want to imagine a life on the road without her – I would very much like to keep her with me always.”
“It is done,” the djinn replies, the sphere flashing brightly for a moment. Lightning crackles, Roach whinnies and Geralt gazes at the creature with horror stark across his features as a second mark appears on his arm.
“What have you done—”
He’s cut off by the whistle of an arrow, hurtling through the air towards him – he easily avoids it with a neat side-step and curses when he sees a small band of bandits descending upon his small camp. The djinn’s flash of light must have alerted them to his presence and Geralt throws the creature a sharp glare as he runs to scoop up his steel blade.
The witcher turns just in time to block an oncoming attack from an axe – he twirls his sword around, disarming the bandit, before kicking the man in the chest to open up some space between them. He swings his sword up and slices the man from hip to shoulder.
“Kill the mutant!” is a chant which is familiar with him and it echoes around the campsite as the bandits attack him. The djinn swiftly slips away, hiding back in the amphora before its seen by the deplorable cretins.
With the first one picked off, the witcher scans the remaining three with focused eyes. Two had swords, one had an axe and a crossbow strapped to his back – Geralt inwardly vows to divest the man of his bolts, for he’s running low and he needs as many as he can grab when he finally tracks down the griffin he’s hunting.
The bandits rush towards him as one unit – the witcher ducks quickly and throws out Aard to send two of them flying away. He clashes with the third and blocks a series of blows with practised ease – when he senses the man has tired, Geralt kicks out and brings his sword down in an arching blow. It catches the bandit across the chest, but it’s not deep enough to end a life.
To retaliate, the bandit unleashes a sharp cut to the witcher’s side – Geralt neatly dances out of the way and catches the man on the back. With this new viewpoint, he sees the two other men gather themselves up and rush towards him with weapons held high.
Geralt curses lowly as he dodges one blow and quickly blows a second – he throws a look over his shoulder as he sees a third bandit advancing upon him quickly, but the man is quickly dispatched by a bolt of lightning.
The two remaining bandits freeze alongside the witcher as the djinn reappears – power crackles and singes the grass beneath the sphere. The bandit with the axe yelps out a curse and tries to flee, but the djinn is quick to act and sends out a beam of light, incinerating the human instantly.
The witcher uses the moment of distraction to his advantage and pushes away the bandit who had attacked him – he throws Aard at the man and quickly rolls to chase after the flying body. Once it lands, Geralt is quick to sink his blade through the man’s chest into the ground.
Blood bubbles and curdles out of the bandit’s mouth and Geralt sighs and withdraws his weapon, flicking away the gore clinging to the steel with an irritated flick of his wrist. He glances across the campsite to see the djinn checking the perimeter, sending out warning bolts of light against any who would think themselves brave enough to do what their comrades could not.
The woods remain quiet bar the rustling trees and the skittering of animals – the witcher sighs and sheathes his sword.
“It’s over,” he reports, before his nose takes in the sharp, bitter scent of fear – it doesn’t come from a human though. The blood which filters through the air doesn’t taste human, it tastes— “oh, fuck.”
Roach lies on the ground, an arrow deep in her throat.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the witcher chants, sinking to his knees and holding a gentle hand over Roach’s fluttering pulse as heartache wracked throughout his body. He’s had many horses throughout his life, but each death is like a cold blade sinking deep between his ribs and bursting through his heart. He watches as Roach’s eyes grow dull and he feels himself overcome with sorrow and regret. She had always been patient with him, never gave him much trouble and she always took to every new stable like it was her home.
Over his shoulder, the djinn blossoms into view and reaches out soft tendrils of light to brush through her main. Geralt watches and grits his teeth as fury ignites, hot and fierce, blazing through his veins and taking over his senses in one fell swoop.
“What the fuck?” he demands, rising to his feet to face the djinn properly, “not only did you get her killed, but you also wasted a fucking wish on a lie!”
“What lie?” the djinn replies calmly, unfazed by the rage being unleashed upon him.
“You said she would be with me always!” Geralt snarls, before he gestures to Roach’s body, “does this look like she’s with me?”
“Darling,” the djinn begins consolingly, threads of light circling around the witcher’s body – not to touch, but just to keep the man steady; for once, the nickname grates on his nerves, but Geralt allows the creature to finish, “you must understand – it would be unfair to keep a single animal alive for so long. Plus, you never asked for immortality, just to keep her with you.”
“How is that not immortality – how is this not keeping her with me?” Geralt demands again, feeling as lost and as frustrated as child, being brought to the gates of Kaer Morhen, “she died!”
“But her spirit will live on in every new stallion, gelding or mare who takes your fancy,” the djinn states, “you shall never taste the rotten fruit of loneliness again, for she will keep life sweet for you.”
The pain in his heart gives way to a small sprout of hope, but the witcher has had hope before – has known it so briefly before becoming acquainted with the feeling of it being shattered beyond repair.
“I know I made a mistake, bringing those bandits upon us,” the djinn says, continuing to speak with a soft, delicate tone, “but I promise you – your wish was not made in vain.”
Geralt blinks and furrows his brow when the djinn drifts closer, “you promise it?”
“I promise it.”
“I’ll never be lonely again?”
The djinn’s magic brushes against his cheek and for a moment, it feels warm and loving – a kiss, chaste and delicate. The witcher leans into the touch as it coils around his face, flowing through his hair and gathering at the nape of his neck.
The witcher swallows and feels… exhausted. He’s once again surrounded by death and loss, but the djinn sounds so desperately sincere. It’s a disconcerting notion, trusting this creature who belongs to him, but Geralt knows he owes the djinn a semblance of trust.
After all, it could have left him to die – but it didn’t, it saved him and helped him to fight off the invasive bandits. Freedom had been within its clutches, but the creature chose to stay by his side and protected him instead. For a fleeting moment, Geralt wonders if it’s simply a matter of not wishing to be stuck inside the amphora again, but then he would be doing this sentient being a disservice.
So, the witcher sighs and glances down mournfully at Roach.
“I’m still mad at you,” he says.
“You’ll forgive me, darling, I know you will,” the djinn whispers, tendrils withdrawing away from Geralt, but lingering for just a moment longer, “but I do honestly apologise for what happened – I was rather fond of that horse.”
“Yeah, she was rather fond of you too,” Geralt says fondly, ducking down to brush the mane out of her face.
“Do we,” the djinn pauses and for the first time, the sharp wit falls blunt as the creature awkwardly says, “burn her? Or bury her?”
“I honour every horse with an appropriate cremation,” Geralt explains, “it’s a ceremony befitting any witcher.”
“Would you allow me to partake in it?” the djinn asks lightly.
“I suppose I could… but don’t think this means I forgive you.”
Geralt forgives him three days later.
Still, the djinn is overtly smug about it, but Geralt can’t be too irritated, for the creature did assist him in finding a new Roach. The mare has a chestnut coat with a white diamond. She’s patient but tends to buck when near water – it’s nothing terrible and a habit which can easily be trained out of her.
The djinn adores her instantly.
It’s not always the djinn who begins conversations.
Often, Geralt finds himself burning with curiosity and cannot rest until it’s satiated – he’s never been given the chance to explore with a creature before, especially when they’re open to indulging him with his questions. His bestiary is littered with notes and amendments, as the djinn enjoys flipping through it with him, altering the text and embellishing the pictures.
Most of it is helpful – the anatomically incorrect genitals added to the necrophage? Not so much.
“What was your last master or mistress like?” he asks one day, as the sun slowly sets over their tiny campsite. It’s a question he’s always considered asking but one he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask. Not until now, not when he has Sodden Mead flowing through his veins.
The djinn hums as it plays with the rising smoke of the fire, teasing the wood and chasing after wayward sparks. Geralt watches as he takes in another mouthful of warm mead and has to stifle a smile when the creature dances through rising flames – it’s oddly carefree and something about it just melts the walls around his heart.
Though, that could also be the mead.
“She was an elven warrior with pitch-black hair,” the djinn finally answers, ceasing its play to focus on the witcher.
“An elven warrior?” Geralt echoes, for it has been an age since he’s seen elven warriors – at least, in the official capacity. Guerrilla warfare probably wouldn’t consider hunting down djinn to assist them in their ambitions…
“With pitch-black hair,” the djinn says, its voice growing distant and airy, echoing with fond, nostalgic memories, “and her eyes were deep brown and full of sorrow. She fought fiercely to protect her family, but humans ravaged her village, her life. Left her with nothing but heartbreak and a thirst for vengeance.”
“Did you help her achieve it?”
Geralt nods thoughtfully.
“What of her other two wishes?”
“She asked for a glass of the finest wine the continent had to offer,” the djinn says, softly glowing and emitted an almost mournful aura, “then… as I watched her drink the last drop, she made her last request. She wanted to return to her family, not to resurrect them, for she was certain they were at peace. No, she wanted to pass on and live her eternal life in their embrace.”
“And… you just gave it to her, no strings, no catch?” he asks, suspicion threading his words together.
The djinn pulsates momentarily before a strand of blue light reaches out and curls underneath Geralt’s chin – the witcher quells every instinct which screams at him to recoil and bare his teeth, to unsheathe his swords and protect himself from the attack. He’s seen the djinn reach out with strands of smoke before, but never used them to touch him.
It feels different to the warmth of its magic… the tendril feels like a whisper, just a soft brush against his skin, light and sweet. It doesn’t hurt, though the crackles of lightning has his hair standing on end – it just feels nice.
“She had suffered enough – she did not need my mischief to further complicate her life,” the djinn says quietly.
Geralt cocks his head as he taps the bottle of mead.
“How noble,” he says.
“That’s quite the compliment coming from a man who rescues children from trees, who saves kittens from the clutches of ghouls, who once carried a godling across a swamp because she did not wish to ruin her new skirt—"
“Alright, alright,” Geralt interjects, almost pained, “cease, before someone overhears you and ruins my reputation further.”
“I’m just saying,” the djinn replies, “you’re a good man.”
Geralt snorts, “a man desperate for coin will take any job if it pays well.”
The djinn pulses with light and magic – for a moment, it’s almost as if the creature is laughing at him.
“Interesting, for two of the three jobs I mentioned had all notions of coin turned down,” the djinn says, “now what do you say to that?”
Clever little shit.
Geralt sighs, “I’d say I’m not drunk enough for this.”
“You ought to be catatonic,” the djinn reports, floating near the empty pitchers pointedly, “you’ve consumed nearly seven bottles.”
“Yeah, nowhere near drunk enough.”
“You know, it makes sense that out of all the djinn I could have encountered, it had to be you,” Geralt says, watching as the djinn plaits Roach’s mane with careful threads of light, “that was a compliment, by the way.”
“Oh, I had assumed as much,” the djinn replies airily, “and you never know - maybe our encounter was destiny?”
The witcher throws the djinn a withering look as he crosses his arms.
“Then again, maybe you just got extra lucky,” the djinn corrects with a slight purring drawl.
Geralt snorts, “I got extra something, that’s for damn sure.”
“You’re welcome, darling.”
“What would you wish for?” Geralt queries one day.
It’s an idle morning, with the sun hanging high as the forest around them buzzes with life. He’s picking the bones free from a salmon he’s caught – though he can digest them, he really doesn’t enjoy how they scrape down his throat. The djinn floats nearby, watching quietly as Roach grazes the fields around them – he’s become rather fond of her, protective, even.
He had even rebuked Geralt for leaving her vulnerable and stranded during his hunts, to which Roach had chuffed in agreement, knocking her head against the sphere softly. The witcher truly doesn’t appreciate this relationship growing between them, especially as it leads to the pair ganging up on him.
“A solid, physical form,” the djinn finally replies after an eternity of silences – it glows as it turns to face the witcher, beady eyes focusing on the fish caught between calloused, wet hands, “I think I would like to taste, to breathe, to touch—”
“—to fuck,” the djinn finishes, its eyes moving to stare steadily into Geralt’s golden gaze, “I’ve seen many a master and mistress indulge in carnal pleasures – I think I would like to taste flesh, to create pleasure, to feel hands and teeth and lips upon my being too.”
The witcher blinks, “interesting wish,” he utters, because he can appreciate the desire to be touched, to have affection freely poured upon nude skin, to taste sweat-damp skin and hear the cries of pleasure echoing around a darkened room. He swallows down a piece of fish and shifts uncomfortably on the ground, “what kind of form? Elven, human, man, woman?”
“I think I would like a form I’d be able to change, depending on the situation,” the djinn pauses and drifts closer to the witcher, “though, I’m finding the male form to be quite… fascinating. Yes, I think I would choose to be male, predominantly.”
Geralt snorts – though the djinn is scentless, he can still decipher arousal from the dropped pitch, the slow drawl, “you’re not the first to find me fascinating.”
“No,” the djinn agrees, “though I suppose I would be the first who wishes to keep you.”
The witcher pauses and glances up, genuinely surprised, “what does that mean?” he asks, because he’s never encountered the idea of someone… wanting to keep him before. Visenna never wanted to keep him. The witchers at Kaer Morhen only kept him until he was old enough and skilled enough to be thrown out to the continent. Vesemir may welcome him back, Eskel and Lambert too, but only for winter and even then, they tend to respect each other’s space. Renfri kept him for one night, though it could have been longer had Stregobor not been involved.
Now this creature wants to keep him?
The djinn reaches out a glowing tendril of smoke and tucks a loose lock of hair behind the witcher’s hair, “it means that I am bound to you, darling – you just don’t understand how deeply.”
Geralt straightens up, “and… when did our bond grow so deep?”
“When you began to carry me around,” the djinn replies simply, “no master nor mistress of mine has ever listened to me before – nor cared enough to actually indulge me.”
“I see,” Geralt says.
The djinn hums and glows, “no, you don’t,” it— he replies, “but you will, soon enough.”
Geralt soon finds himself referring to the djinn as if it were a person, even inwardly in his mind. The djinn takes on a whole new character and slowly, Geralt even begins to imagine a human form – it’s just an outline, nothing too in-depth, but the most important detail is the eyes. They’re bright and blue, clear and shining, with an almost soft glow which radiates from them.
He keeps this little habit to himself though, for he’s not sure he won’t be ridiculed for indulging in such fanciful ideas.
It’s not the only habit Geralt has developed, for he also takes to carrying the amphora around on more than just hunts – he sleeps with it beside his head on a pillow and even allows it to rest beside his tub as he bathes. The djinn whispers to him, stories of other people who owned him and the wishes they had made – how he twisted them and made playful pranks out of desperate desires.
The djinn continues to call him darling rather than master – it never fails to render his heart a stuttering mess, his throat to catch and his mouth to slacken with surprise.
He takes to watching quietly as Geralt bathes, tipping oils and herbs into the bath like a naughty cat – he reminds the witcher to clean behind his ears and to be thorough in every nook and cranny. He’s not sure when the djinn took it upon himself to act like this, but he supposes it’s a sign of their deepening bond.
Still, it’s the most intimate Geralt has ever been with anyone or anything.
“You know, it’s strange…” the djinn begins one day, as they trek through the woods for suitable firewood. Roach has been left behind with the tent, tethered to a tree near a patch of fresh grass.
“What is?” Geralt asks, his eyes scouring the ground for dry wood.
“I don’t believe I have ever seen you smile, not even when I granted you your wishes.”
“What are you talking about? I smile all the time, I’m the walking personification of sunshine,” Geralt deadpans, before he shrugs, “if you really want to give me something to smile about, how about you get me a drink.”
“Are you… are you propositioning me?” the djinn asks, softly awed as tendrils of blue light thread out and curl around Geralt’s body, “didn’t realise witchers went for monsters.”
Geralt shrugs, trying to hide how nervous he truly felt beneath his calm façade, “succubi, dragons, a werewolf or two,” he reaches up and gently plays with pulsating smoke, “what’s a djinn, in comparison?”
“A formless entity for one,” the djinn says, and the witcher can honestly say he’s never heard such an ancient creature sound so sulky – not even godlings pout this much, “can’t exactly hold you, nor can I touch you properly.” Geralt grins and steps further against the floating sphere, allowing himself to be completely surrounded by light and mist.
“No,” he says, before he tilts his head, “but you can watch.”
The djinn is silent for all but a moment and Geralt thinks he’s overstepped an invisible boundary; thinks he’s offended the creature by his crass invitation… after all, the creature sleeps with him and watches him bathe, surely this is one more step in their ‘deepening bond’, right?
Regret grows in his throat, thick and hard, making it hard to breathe and swallow as his nerves prickle irritably – he keeps his gaze averted and opens his mouth to apologise, but—
—he soon finds such doubts to be unfounded, for the djnn explodes in a burst of lightning and energy, swarming Geralt with its power and intent – the witcher barely has time to blink before he finds himself pinned to a tree with warmth flowing across leather and skin.
“Will you,” the djinn asks, again and again and again, “will you show me? Will you let me watch? Will you let me help?” Geralt finds himself grinning despite himself as he bats at the smoke which billows out across his body, brushing across buckles and bristles, arching against him most ardently.
It’s as if the djinn is trying to compensate his inability to hold Geralt, by trying his hardest to sink deep into the witcher’s pores, to burrow beneath skin and occupy every tiny facet of Geralt’s being.
“Give me a chance and I’ll do more than show you,” the witcher says, pushing back against the fluttering beams of light and reaching down to unlace his pants, wriggling his hips to shuck them down his thighs. He shivers when the tendrils of smoke reach down to curiously flutter against his flaccid cock, coiling around the shaft and tracing the foreskin.
“Men are strange creatures,” the djinn reports, watching with glowing eyes as the witcher grips himself firmly and begins to slowly pump himself. His cock plumps and hardens, growing fat with desire and swollen with need, “but I shan’t ever deny their beauty.”
“Beauty?” Geralt echoes, a tad breathless as he leans against the tree. He arches into his touch, his head falling against rough bark as his hands glide along the shaft – he purrs when the djinn’s tendrils trace thick veins and help to spread the glistening seed which beads at the tip. It’s wonderfully messy and he’s achingly hard – his cock feels like steel, wrapped in velvet and slick like morning dew.
“Yes, darling,” the djinn says, his voice growing thicker and echoing stronger as it concentrates on assisting Geralt in his endeavour – the sphere floats back up to gaze up into his eyes and Geralt finds that the extra attention just stokes the burning fires in his gut, “beautiful.”
“Shit,” the witcher curses, his hips thrusting into his grip with erratic jolts – his grip tightens, his thumbs at his leaking tip and gently tugs at his foreskin, pulling it back with every pump. He feels the pleasure crash into him, waves upon waves of bliss sweeping through his veins, flooding him with unadulterated desire, “you just gonna watch?”
The djinn floats before him, before tendrils of silken smoke wrap around a swollen cock, dipping to cover tight balls, before a curious thread reaches further back to press against the sensitive skin tucked just behind them – for a fleeting moment, Geralt thinks the djinn is going press inside him, but the creature stops just short and seems quite content with just stroking over him.
“Feel good?” the djinn asks, his voice so very close and so incredibly soft. He sounds like a lover, soothing and loving as he helps Geralt to chase his pleasure.
“Very – you feel so good,” the witcher utters, his words gentle but rough with the edge of lust.
“Better than a succubus? Than a dragon?” the djinn demands, insistent and firm, “than a werewolf?”
“Than a whole pack of werewolves,” Geralt says breathlessly, his hips rocking quicker into his hand as he coaxes himself to the very apex of ecstasy – he whines on needy pants, his fingers tracing pulsing veins as more seed spills over his hands and drips down his thighs. The djinn’s tendrils chase after stray trickles, smearing the seed across straining muscles, “please, give me more?”
“Am I not giving you enough?” the djinn asks, almost sounding amused.
“Greedy, greedy man,” the djinn purrs softly, “making demands when you could be making wishes.”
Geralt huffs out a breathless chuckle, “you’re not doing this because I demanded it of you – you wanted this,” he grits his teeth as he thrusts quicker into his leather-bound gloves – normally he appreciates his own bare calloused fingers, but he finds he might enjoy the lingering scent of his own spilled seed on the material… would give him something to remember the djinn by when he…. when it… when…
“Yes, let me see,” the djinn growls, drifting closer as Geralt’s eyes flutter shut – he feels a soft brush of air against his cheek and he desperately leans into it as he feels his pleasure crest and crash. His balls draw up, his stomach tightens and his cock reddens and fattens, the tip weeping readily, “let go, I wish to see it, darling.”
Geralt moans as his cock pulsates in his hand, his seed spilling freely over his hand, through the djinn’s tendrils and splatters across the ground. The pleasure tears through him, melting his spine and ripping through muscle – he’s never experienced such overwhelming feelings before, so overpowering and thick. The soft musk of sex filters through the air and Geralt can hear nothing bar the quiet vibrations and crackles of the djinn’s energy. Rolling his shoulders back, the witcher pants, reedy and pitched – he leans heavily against the tree, his eyes slowly fluttering open. He blinks blearily when the djinn cups his face between soft, supple beams of light.
“Just as I said before,” the djinn murmurs, brushing against the witcher’s plush lips with ardent need, his tone almost mournful, wistful, “beautiful.”
Geralt hums and opens his mouth, allowing the djinn to slip threads of light inside to rest gently against his tongue…
He feels altogether loved and at peace.
“Do you regret anything?”
“Regret not finding you sooner.”
Geralt finds that he rather enjoys awakening with the djinn’s soft touch coaxing him free from slumber’s seductive clutches and he finds that he thrives in falling asleep once his body has been wracked with pleasure and made exhausted by a curious djinn’s attentions.
His dreams are never empty, and he’s never had found himself tormented by nightmares of Blaviken – rather, he’s been thoroughly entertained by visions of the djinn enacting creative acts of revenge on his behalf. He’s especially imaginative when it comes to removing body parts from Stregobor and having them dance a merry jig as life drains from the mage’s eyes.
It ought to be horror-inducing but Geralt has never, not once, felt endangered by the creature – if anything, the djinn is incredibly protective of him and that has him feeling something, a something he has never felt before or can even name.
His coin purse is also heavier now that he no longer needs to visit brothels as much – sometimes, the djinn enjoys watching Geralt in action with another body, or two, or even three. Women and men, with tongues and teeth and limbs tangling up. The djinn especially enjoys seeing Geralt with other men – the sphere floats above the bed, behind the man who drives deep into the witcher’s body, glowing eyes firmly fixed upon Geralt’s flushed face and slackened, wet mouth.
Geralt has invited the djinn to press inside him, to reach deep into his core and claim him thoroughly, entirely – the djinn always rejects his offer though, distracts him with sweet touches elsewhere on his body. He doesn’t take it to heart, but he can’t help but wonder why…
He also finds himself questioning how quickly he’s become accustomed to the djinn’s presence… and a voice which sounds alarmingly like Vesemir reproaches him for allowing such an unpredictable creature to take liberties with him.
It’s hard to pay attention to his inner-Vesemir though – not when his inner-Lambert loudly proclaims to fuck what the old man says and to have as much fun as he desires.
He really needs to question why he has an inner-Lambert, but truthfully, it’s the least of his worries. The witcher still has one last wish to make and he’s not sure what will happen if he makes it…
He’s not sure what will happen if he doesn’t.
“I wish I could taste your seed,” the djinn murmurs to him, in the middle of a busy fucking village.
Geralt clears his throat pointedly and subtly adjusts himself – he’s not sure if it’s magic, or if there’s something else going on, but the minute the djinn speaks to him in that rolling, deep purr, his body just… reacts.
“I wish I could taste the sweat as it gathers at the nape of your neck, in the small of your back, as it drips against your hole and down your cock,” the djinn continues and Geralt picks up the pace, practically dragging Roach to the nearest stable.
“Enough,” Geralt whispers when Roach yanks her head back irritably.
“Never enough – I am a greedy, demanding djinn and I won’t be satisfied until I have you beneath me, pinned and gasping for more,” the djinn replies, in a tone almost bratty, “I wish to have a form – to have you latch onto my nipples, devouring my mouth, perched on my cock… or perhaps you’d rather drink from a cunt?”
“Shit,” Geralt chokes, as he finally slips inside the stables, waves away the stable-hand and leads Roach to an empty stall. It needs to be mucked out, needs fresh hay, needs to be properly—
“Cease thinking about horses – think about my fingers as they clutch at your body, my tongue as it coats your cock with attention, my lips as the suck the bliss free from your body,” the djinn murmurs, voice growing louder and more demanding as Geralt shuts the stall door behind him.
He leans against it heavily and throws Roach and sour look, “don’t watch,” he says, not wanting to see her disappointed and judgemental look. He waits until she dutifully looks away and Geralt is quick to unlace his pants and shove a hand down his pants.
His cock is hot, aching, wet and needy – it pulses in his hand and his back arches as he roughly pumps and squeezes, spreading the seed over the head for a smoother glide. His balls feel heavy, his cock is red and straining in his hands. His mind focuses on the voice in his mind as it echoes louder and louder – there’s no form to imagine, just a soft voice and glowing blue.
“Yes, give it to me, give it to me,” the djinn murmurs, the amphora growing hot inside his jacket – it beats against his chest, matching his heart, pulse for pulse, “I want it – I wish I had a name for you to scream, but knowing you’re reaching bliss on my voice alone is enough. Now, climax for me darling – now.”
Geralt whines, helpless and breathy, choking on a curse as it punches out of his lungs. Bliss coils and tightens in his stomach before it bursts and scatters across his body like stars in the sky. Seed spills and splutters freely, hitting the ground and staining his pants – again.
“Do you… are you okay in there?”
“I dare you to invite him inside,” the djinn whispers impishly.
Geralt rolls his eyes, “I’m fine – just tidying up. Leave me be,” he utters out roughly, though he’s pretty sure the stable-hand has left to spread rumours about the freak witcher who fucks horses. Damn djinn is gonna get him ostracised from even more towns in this continent.
The djinn whispers wicked things during the day, croons sweet nothings during the night.
Geralt isn’t sure which he prefers – he just wishes the damn creature would behave during fucking hunts.
“I told you to keep fucking quiet!” Geralt snaps out, roaring above the sharp screams of sirens.
“How was I supposed to know they were sleeping!” the djinn replies petulantly, throwing a crackle of lightning to the nearest beast, sending her flying through the air on burnt wings.
“You knew I was on a fucking hunt!” the witcher snarls back, ducking and rolling when a siren swoops down with snapping teeth.
“I can’t help it!” the djinn protests, throwing a bolt of magic towards the monster, incinerating her one the spot, “you look good covered in blood when it’s not yours for once!”
Geralt sighs as he uses Igni to throw a blast of fire towards two oncoming sirens.
“Are you really flirting with me right now?” he asks incredulously.
“Darling – how can I not flirt with you right now?” the djinn throws back, curling smoke between Geralt’s legs, “look at you! You’re bloody gorgeous!”
“And you’re incorrigible!”
“Now who’s flirting?”
Geralt’s only had a taste of happiness – the flavour reminds him of breakfast with Visenna, of dinner with Vesemir, of sharing stolen honey with Eskel, of tasting cinders after Lambert’s first successful Igni.
It’s always been fleeting, darting into his life before scurrying away without a farewell.
Now though… now happiness tastes fresh and fizzes sharp. Happiness is smoky and soft, glowing and light – it leaves him eager to sleep and eager to awaken. For a lone wolf, he never expected to thoroughly enjoy the company of another so much.
Which is why it hurts… thinking about his last wish.
The djinn doesn’t bring it up though.
He’s not sure why, but Geralt knows he must make the first move – otherwise they’ll be stuck in this awkward dance forever and nothing, not even this, really lasts forever.
“You’d wish for a form,” Geralt murmurs in their tent one evening, “what of your other two wishes?”
He’s in the middle of hunting down a werewolf who feasted one livestock – a noble diet choice, but one which is inconveniencing the local village and their livelihoods. It’s a simple hunt, but the werewolf seemingly comes from far away in an attempt to cover her tracks.
“I would wish…” the djinn muses, floating above Geralt’s nude body with reverent eyes, “I would wish to retain my magic.” Little tendrils sweep over scars, coil around marks and bruises – Geralt had once asked if the djinn wanted to erase them, but the creature had been adamant that he would never erase such signs, such overt symbols, of the witcher’s strength, his survival, his story.
The djinn adores hearing his stories.
“And your last wish?”
“I would like to sing,” the djinn says, as delicate as silk, “I’ve heard many musicians in my life, listened to their songs and I… I want to join them. They always sound so free, so beautiful. I’ve always wanted to belong to them, to art itself.”
The witcher nods – he doesn’t quite understand, for he’s never paid attention to bards or bands, much less artists as a whole, but he understands wanting to be more.
“Those are good wishes,” Geralt says, running his fingers through glowing smoke.
The djinn hums – the sphere flashes softly, as it drifts to settle just to the side of the witcher’s head. Geralt turns over, takes in the smoke and the lights and the crackling energy and wonders why this powerful creature would be so enamoured with him, for there is nothing creative or gifted about him – not in the artistic sense, at least.
“You still have a wish left,” the djinn says quietly, “do you know what you want?”
Geralt blinks, slow and considering as he mulls over his choices – the djinn won’t be free of his leash until the witcher uses all three wishes. For a moment, fleeting and selfish, Geralt finds he doesn’t want to make another wish, doesn’t want to undo the bond which tethers this creature to his soul. He’s never met a djinn so sweetly impish, who lacks the rotten taste of malice – who twists his wishes and makes them better.
He gazes at the soft shadows, the slowly blossoming mists, the coiling scents of buttercups and dandelions – he thinks about his life before coming across the djinn and wonders if he can so easily return to such solitude, with only Roach by his side. He loves her, he truly does… but somehow this creature has seeped deep into his soul, making itself a home out of his heart and laying claim to every beat which pulses through his veins.
His thinks about his final wish – thinks about a life with the djinn and his life without. He thinks about all the times he’s been leashed by employers, had a collar choke him and trap him, had his freedoms taken away until his done his duty.
It’s a lonely, suffocating feeling, being caged and ruled by another being and though he selfishly adores having the djinn by his side, he knows… he knows that forever is a harrowing notion, that pure freedom may scare some, but it doesn’t compare to being completely controlled.
Still… loneliness is terrifying most of all.
Empty, hollow, frightening loneliness.
The witcher sighs as conflict clasps his heart in a stone-cold grip – he stares into glowing blue, steady and soft, and hums under his breath as he considers his last wish. He thinks long and hard, doesn’t quite keep track of how much time passes, before he lifts himself up on his elbow and gazes at the djinn’s glimmering face.
“There is one thing I want,” Geralt murmurs.
The djinn pulses gently, “oh?”
Geralt nods and leans in closer, brushing his lips against the sphere and shivering as he feels the crackle of lightning beneath his lips. Smoke shrouds his face and he leans into the wisp-light touch – the djinn is silent, waiting patiently for the witcher to speak…
When he does, it’s quiet and hidden, for his words belong to the djinn and the djinn alone.
Four weeks pass and Geralt is once again surprised by how silent the world can be.
It’s just him and Roach now, which is fine but not really enough, not anymore. So, the next time he feels the sharp blade of loneliness sink into his heart, he finds himself straying towards the nearest town, the nearest tavern, the nearest flagon of alcohol. He leaves Roach tethered in the stables, kisses her face, and breathes in the familiar scents of hay, earth and fruits. She’s the third mare he’s had since making the wish and though each reincarnation of his horse has had different coats and sexes and temperaments… she still has the same soulful eyes, the same patience, the same loving acceptance of everything about Geralt.
The cold feeling of being stabbed grows deeper and heavier as he leaves her behind and enters the tavern. He keeps his hood up, ducks his head low and approaches the bar on swift, silent steps. The barmaid tilts her head with eyes that are dark with suspicion, but she still reaches for a bottle of Redanian Lager and pours him a hefty amount – he tips her several crowns extra and leaves to take over the furthest corner of the tavern.
His ears prick up as he takes in the muttered slurs, the murmurings of humans who wish to chase him out and the fluttering heartbeats which inform him that they’re too craven to follow up on their threats. Instead, he nurses his beer, traces the three marks on his arm and fingers the cold amphora in his pocket – the creature has long since left him, but Geralt still finds himself touching the stone, tracing the engravings with reverent fingers.
He wonders if the djinn is out there, laughing at his sentimentality – deriving great joy out his yearning heart and lonely thoughts. He can’t imagine the creature would waste longer than two moments thinking about him, for a beast as old and powerful as a djinn would not be invested in the life of a witcher…
Still, the selfish part of him wishes he had been special enough for just one last visit, one last conversation and one last lingering touch… just one small sign which would let him know that… that he was as special to the djinn, as the djinn was to—
“I love the way you just sit in a corner and brood.”
Geralt looks up at the familiar voice, shivers at the way his heart bursts and blossoms. He takes in tawny hair, a lean-muscled body and the sharp bone structure. What really steals his breath, however, is the eyes.
Bright and blue, clear and shining, almost glowing with unadulterated love.