Fighting, Honour and Valhalla || Vikings x The Originals x TVD

Viking and The Witcher: Year 2

Geralt sat on his heels near the dock, his hands resting on his knees, eyes scanning the busy port around him. The shouts of sailors and merchants, the creak of ropes, and the slap of waves against wooden hulls filled the air. He waited for the ship's captain to inform him of their readiness to depart. It had been a week since the ship he had been traveling on had sunk, and there was still no news of Thorfinn or Arwyn.

He wasn't worried, not yet. The pair had proven themselves resourceful over the past months, surviving worse odds than this. The ship had gone down near the mouth of the Mediterranean, and Geralt had assumed they would make it to the lifeboats, just as he had. By the time he realized they weren't among the survivors, the ship had already split in two, vanishing beneath the waves. A day later, the survivors were picked up by a passing vessel and brought to a port city in southern Portugal.

If Thorfinn and Arwyn weren't here, it was likely the currents had carried them in the opposite direction—to the North African coast. Geralt frowned slightly at the thought. He had traveled there a few times and knew the land well enough to recognize its dangers. The terrain was harsh, the sun unrelenting, and water was scarce for those who didn't know where to look. It was a place that tested even the strongest.

He adjusted his swords on his back and exhaled slowly. If they were alive, they would survive. He had seen enough of Thorfinn and Arwyn to know that they could adapt. Thorfinn's sheer grit and Arwyn's instincts would see them through. The only question was how long it would take them to find their way to Constantinople.

As his thoughts lingered on Thorfinn, Geralt's hand brushed against the medallion hanging around his neck. He remembered the first time they met, the way his medallion had vibrated. It had been so intense that he thought it might crack under the strain. Few things had ever caused such a reaction—creatures of immense power, witches of extraordinary skill, or cursed artifacts. Even then, the medallion rarely reacted this strongly.

There had been exceptions. Geralt recalled a spear a man had claimed was the one used to pierce the ribs of Jesus Christ. That artifact had produced a similar reaction, though it hadn't lasted as long. And then there was the small model ship Thorfinn carried, the one he had shown Geralt during their training. The moment the ship had been revealed, the medallion had nearly leapt from his chest. Over time, Geralt began to piece together the truth. Thorfinn's abilities weren't just the result of natural talent or training. There was something deeper at play. Geralt had noticed the gradual but undeniable changes in him. Each week, Thorfinn grew faster, stronger, more resilient. His endurance seemed boundless, his injuries healed faster than they should, and his ability to channel magic was growing.

It wasn't just the physical changes that stood out. There was something about Thorfinn's presence, an aura of power that couldn't be ignored. During their training, Geralt had pushed Thorfinn harder than he would have pushed any other pupil. He had sent him and Arwyn to hunt creatures that even experienced Witchers would hesitate to face. The fight with the Bruxa had been a calculated risk. Normally, he would never have sent them to confront such a creature without his direct involvement. Bruxae were among the most dangerous monsters in existence, capable of rivaling a newborn vampire in power. But Geralt needed to see what Thorfinn was truly capable of when pushed to his limits.

Geralt's instincts told him that Thorfinn was no ordinary man. His suspicions were confirmed the more time he spent with him. The Gods were a mystery to Geralt, but he had heard tales of their offspring—beings born of divine and mortal blood, walking the earth with the strength of gods and the mortality of men. Thorfinn was one of them.

A demi-god.

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A week of wandering with no direction. That was what Thorfinn had faced since waking on the edge of this vast desert. He had heard of places like this but had never thought he would see one himself. At home in Kattegat, the world was covered in snow and ice, the air cold. This place was its opposite. Sand stretched endlessly in all directions, the heat constant. There was no shade, no trees, and no shelter from the sun. Even the insects, few as they were, burrowed into the sand to escape the heat. For the first three days, Thorfinn had stayed near the shoreline, hoping to find Arwyn, Geralt, or any other survivors from the wreck. The sea was calm now, its waves lapping at the shore as if mocking him. He searched the beach, looking for signs of life—footprints, broken planks, anything—but there was nothing. Just sand and water.