Chapter Text
Witchers knew more about blood than anyone else. Whether it be monster or human, it was familiar. They were often coated in it, literally and figuratively. Blood became a calling card of the Witchers, the iron scent clinging to them.
The creation of Witchers was also steeped in blood. A mere three in ten boys survived the mutation process known as The Grasses, the rest dying in unimaginable agony. Those who did survive would never be the same.
While blood was inherently familiar to Witchers, family was not. The Grasses made each boy sterile—or at least that’s what they had been told. There was a single exception to the general rule: one Geralt of Rivia. Like the rest of his brothers, Geralt had never expected to become a father.
But he had. Twice.
Cirilla of Cintra, his daughter of Surprise. Milek of Rivia, his… son. Also a surprise, but one not handed to him by Destiny.
Geralt’s bard, Jaskier, once told him that he was a quarter fae. “On my mother’s side,” he’d said proudly, as if that were supposed to mean something. It hadn’t meant much at the time, but when the pair reunited five or so years after their split on King Niedamir’s mountain, it suddenly meant a whole lot more.
Give or take ten fingers and ten toes more.
When Geralt found Jaskier in a small village near Bremervoord, the ever care-free young man, not an ounce of responsibility to his name, had been holding the hand of a child. A little boy.
A little boy with wide green eyes, bright with the innocence of youth as he stared up at Geralt. His dark hair was curly in a way that Geralt knew all too well. It was his hair before the Trials stripped him of everything it meant to be human. When the little boy turned to look at Jaskier, Geralt caught sight of a single white curl of hair behind his left ear.
Both Geralt and the child stared at each other in awe for a while. The boy was a miniature version of a familiar straight nose, expressive brows, lips parted in wonder.
It reminded Geralt of the very first time he had met Jaskier.
The boy blinked up at him, skin fair and yet unmarred by the harsh reality of life on the Continent. Of life next to a Witcher. In his hands, a stuffed horse that was made to perfectly resemble Geralt’s mare, Roach.
“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice was tight as he stepped protectively in front of the child the Witcher knew was his.
But Geralt couldn’t tear his eyes away from the boy.
“Papa?” the tiny voice asked, eyes lifting to Jaskier.
The bard swallowed, hand tightening around his son’s as his gaze remained locked with Geralt’s. He took a deep breath. “It’s okay, flower. This is Geralt. He’s your daddy.” And there it was. Out in the open. Said so simply, so matter-of-factly. Geralt had almost expected that Jaskier would deny the undeniable truth, deny Geralt of his son. But he didn’t.
And Geralt wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.
Jaskier let go of the boy’s hand as he peered excitedly around the bard’s legs. “Daddy?”
Geralt couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know what to do. Did he turn and run? Scream? Brandish his sword like a maniac? Turn it on himself? Laugh hysterically?
But a tiny hand grabbing his own pulled him violently from his thoughts. Geralt looked down, looked into the sweet little face, and cracked. “Yeah,” he said, voice a rough whisper as he lowered himself to the boy’s height on shaky knees. “Yeah, I’m your daddy.” Geralt had never seen a more blinding smile, nor heard a sound of such elation.
“Go on, sweetheart,” Jaskier encouraged tenderly. “Introduce yourself.”
“I’m Milek!” the little boy announced happily, still clinging to Geralt’s hand as he looked into the Witcher’s eyes without fear. “Papa named me after a flower, just like him!”
Jaskier’s expression was one of raw adoration, something Geralt had never seen on the bard before. “Show him how old you are,” he said softly.
Milek held up his hand, all five of his little fingers on display. “Five!” he said proudly. “How old are you, Daddy?”
It was such a simple question. One Geralt found himself struggling to answer. Not because he didn’t know his own age, no. He knew exactly how long he’d been on this cursed planet. But somehow, he still couldn’t find the words, his brain short-circuiting at the small voice again calling him daddy.
The silence between them stretched on. “Geralt?” Jaskier looked worried now, stepping forward as if to pull the boy away from the Witcher in case he was going to snap.
Geralt’s free hand shot out, held up to stop the bard. Jaskier did pause, though his expression remained concerned. The Witcher slowly turned his gaze to meet Milek’s eager eyes. “I…” he cleared his throat. “I’m eighty-seven.”
Milek giggled, so innocently amused. “You’re old!”
There was nothing but awe in Geralt’s eyes. This little boy was not afraid of him. No, he was laughing in the face of the Butcher of Blaviken. If Geralt had any doubts that this boy was somehow impossibly his, they would be quashed for good.
And, right. How this child was his was something he and Jaskier needed to speak about—like, yesterday. But in that moment, Geralt just smiled.