The Oak Knight: A Witcher Fan Tale

Oak Knight: A Witcher Fan Tale

The yellow cat-like eyes could perfectly trace the curves of the sorceress lying naked beside him. He delicately drew waves on the white skin of her back, down to the shoulders engulfed in black curls perpetually scented with lilac and gooseberries. The sorceress's hand held the hand of the witcher, feeling the skin rough as unworked wood.

— Did I wake you, Yen?

— No... — she whispered, gazing her violet eyes on the wolf medallion — I didn't sleep; I was thoughtful... reminiscing... — her voice faded in the middle of the sentence.

The sorceress opened her hand, still bearing some scars from the sacrifice she made for Ciri. She got up, magically lit an oil lamp, and walked around the room, followed by the floating light and the slitted eyes of the witcher.

— Bonhart... — she said with regret as she poured a glass of wine — This medallion you wear, like Ciri's cat medallion, he said he got it after killing witchers.

Geralt sat on the bed, somewhat uncomfortable with the topic, his scars standing out in the golden light of the flame.

The sorceress approached gently and stood before her lover, looking into his eyes seriously.

— Is it possible for an ordinary human to kill a witcher, Geralt? In a fair fight.

The witcher hesitated for a moment.

— No, Yen. I don't believe so.

Yennefer twisted her lips, disappointed.

— Geralt... You know I can read your thoughts.

— I know. — said the witcher, making room on the edge of the bed for the sorceress to sit.

— Do you want to tell me what you really think? — she said, handing the glass to the witcher and crossing her legs.

The witcher shook the glass, watching the wine dance as he delved into memories. As the drink twirled in the silver cup, Geralt saw his blade, adorned with glowing runes, whistling through the air and striking a green shield with the Bleobheris oak in the center. Then another defended attack, and another, and another...

— Geralt, — Yennefer said softly, pulling the witcher from his thoughts.

The witcher glanced at the sorceress's foot, swaying restlessly in the air, then sighed heavily.

— Once... a long time ago. You and Ciri were in Vilgefortz's custody, and I was trapped in the snow in Toussaint...

— Fucking Fringilla.

— Yen.

— Apologies, continue.

— We were using each other, you know... Anyway... — He took a sip of wine and handed the cup to the sorceress. — I believe that even a witcher, if imprudent, can be defeated by a mere mortal, — he said evasively, avoiding the eyes of his beloved.

— Why is it so hard to answer that question, Geralt?

The killer's fingers drummed on his knees.

— Let me tell you a story, — the witcher said, causing the sorceress's eyebrows to rise amid her sip.

— Please, witcher, entertain me.

⬤

In the middle of a winter afternoon, the sun cast its golden rays over the freezing landscape of Toussaint, highlighting the peculiar beauty of the duchy. Snow covered the roofs in thick layers, sparkling like crystals in the daylight. The streets, normally bustling in the heart of Beauclair, Toussaint's capital, were now filled with a festive and expectant march.