Chapter Text
Witchers didn’t have daemons. They weren’t fully human, they didn’t feel, they didn’t have daemons. All the rumors and stories stated this as fact.
Of course it was only half correct. Witchers started out as humans, so they had daemons; if they didn’t, they would have died just as surely as any other human.
**
The Trial of the Desert was one of the final and most difficult hurdles that a witcher trainee faced. The barren scar through the earth that no daemon could pass through was one of the witchers’ most closely guarded secrets. In the early days, they had tried to cut away the daemons completely, sure that would create fearless warriors, but those who survived were listless and too empty to be allowed to travel on their own. Too likely to fall prey to the creatures they hunted. Now the bond was stretched, the daemon abandoned on one end of the desert while the witcher crossed alone. Once completed, the witcher could travel any distance from their daemon. The bond was weakened, and it was easy enough to send the new witcher out, while the daemon was kept at the school. Monsters were just as likely to target a vulnerable daemon as they were to attack the witcher. It wasn’t worth the risk.
**
Geralt had been gone for many years when Lilura found her chance to escape. It wasn’t her first attempt; even though the bond was weakened, she could still feel the pain that Geralt suffered, and she needed to get to him.
**
It took months of travel for her to find him. He had changed in the years, bigger and stronger, more settled into his skin. She had changed as well, settling the day that he left. She approached cautiously, creeping through the undergrowth until she was just outside the circle of firelight, close enough to catch the scent of her other half. Elated, she stepped forward; Geralt looked up with a start, staring with a blank lack of recognition.
“Geralt,” Lilura whispered.
Geralt blinked, golden eyes meeting her own. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Lilura took another step closer. “Yes, I should. We are meant to be together.”
“No,” Geralt snarled. “You need to leave.”
“Nobody is going to make me leave. We can travel together,” Lilura started, but Geralt cut her off.
“I don’t want you.” His voice had lost its venom, but the wave of hatred that radiated through the bond caused Lilura to stumble away. Geralt turned, refusing to look at her.
Lilura felt the pain of the trial anew, a feeling like her heart was being torn out.
**
Lilura didn’t leave, couldn’t. Even if she had been able to tear herself away, she wouldn’t have anywhere to go. She did stay out of his sight, keeping an eye on him from a distance until she became another part of the rumors that surrounded him, the white wolf.
It was many more years before anything changed. Blaviken was a nightmare; the vicious attack took Geralt by surprise. For once, Lilura couldn’t hang back and watch; she dove into the battle with a ferocity that rivaled the witcher on his best day. She had torn out the throats of two daemons before she felt the surprise and confusion that radiated from Geralt when he noticed her. She didn’t have time to acknowledge that, leaping to catch the sparrow daemon of the man attempting to sneak up on her witcher.
As soon as the battle finished, she slipped back into the woods, not giving Geralt time to say anything.
She stayed closer than usual after that, as rumors of the Butcher of Blaviken started to circulate and Geralt was met with more hostility than usual. She was close enough that she knew Geralt had seen her a few times, but he never made any effort to reach out.