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Philippa's Grace	By : ArizonaIceT Category: +S through Z > Witcher 3: Wild Hunt Views: 8358 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Witcher, this is purely for fun, and not profit

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“WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME WITCHER?”
The Witcher carried Philippa on his back, running toward town. He could run faster, but given Philippa’s groans of pains and fits of vomiting, he didn’t want to jostle her too much.
Philippa felt sick.
She hadn’t felt sick in hundreds of years. Sans having her eyes forcibly removed of course.
No, this was different. In this moment, her body felt foreign to herself. Like it was rejecting itself. It felt as if her guts were shifting around in her stomach. Her torso was aflame, she was sweating, nauseous, and her legs felt like jelly. She was once again, truly caught off guard. If she survived whatever this was, she would need to make sure it didn’t become a habit.
“What did you dooo?” She repeated again in a whine.
“I don’t know.” Geralt said honestly as he continued running.
“Y-you gave me some disgusting Witcher disease!”
“Witcher’s can’t catch diseases.”
“You-”
“Eilhart, focus. I need to know where I’m taking you. Is there another herbalist in this village? Or a common doctor of some sort?”
Philppa just groaned, and was sick over his shoulder again.
“Philippa, please-” Geralt tried. He wasn’t sure why he was being so delicate with her. By all accounts, he should be livid at her, but Geralt was never one to leave a woman helpless, even one as grating as Philippa Eilhart. “You need to point me in the right direction.”
Philippa groaned, but responded “On the south edge of the village...there’s a man...used to be a doctor.”
Geralt nodded and picked up the pace slightly.
Philippa tried not to vomit.
___________________________
Geralt and Philippa arrived at the “doctor’s” residence. It was a small decrepit farm, and smelled of it too. Geralt was skeptical that a doctor could live here.
“Have it in you to turn back to your disguise?” Geralt asked over his shoulder. Philippa groaned, but morphed back in Tomira.
“Is anyone here?” Geralt yelled out.
“If you’re a Nilfgaardian, piss off! You’ve already done took all my animals except my goat!” Came a voice from inside the shack.
“We’re not Nilfgaardians.” Replied Geralt.
“If I owe you money, also fuck off!” Yelled the voice again.
“We’re not here for that either. Look I have a sick woman out here, and I’m told you’re the only one with any medical experience.”
The doctor didn’t reply immediately. After a minute, Geralt heard shuffling around in the shack, before the door swung open. Out walked a short, rather portly man, with a greying beard, and a balding head. He looked Geralt up and down, obviously never seeing someone like him before. His eyes then shifted to Philippa on his back, or as he knew her, Tomira.
“That Tomira on your back?” The doctor asked, taking a step closer.
“Yes. Can you help?” Geralt asked, feeling Philippa stir on his back.
The doctor went silent for another minute, before stepping to the side, allowing the two into his home. Geralt placed Philippa down on the doctor’s bed.
“I don’t know who told you to come here, but I ain’t done no doctorin’ in years.” The doctor remarked.
“She did.” Geralt replied, looking at Philippa.
“Hmh. Must be desperate, if the healer needs a healer. Alright, let’s have a look at you.”
He goes over to Philippa, and carefully sits her up. She groans in pain as she does. He pressed the back of his hand to her head.
“No fever. That’s good I suppose.” He said simply. “Alright lass, tell me what’s wrong.”
Philippa answered by being sick all over his pillow.
“Well, I guess that answers my question in a way” He said with a sigh.
“It feels….like my stomach is on fire. Like something isn’t supposed to be there.” Philippa answered weakly.
“Eat anything strange lately? Maybe spoiled?” he asked.
“No...never.” She answered. Philippa was very meticulous about her diet. The food at the tavern was…..questionable at best, so she cooked for herself most of the time. While not to the qualitative standards that she was used to for most of her life, it was serviceable, and she made sure that nothing she bought or found was low quality.
“Done any strenuous work lately?” He followed up.
“No.” Phillipa answered. Well now, that wasn’t completely true was it? One might find being thoroughly fucked by a Witcher to be strenuous.
“Wouldn’t have happened to go and get yourself cursed now? Because that’d be outside my area of expertise.”
“No.” Philippa replied, getting annoyed with his relaxed attitude to all this. Couldn’t he see she was obviously very sick?
The doctor grunted and walked over to a chest in the corner of the room. He rummaged through it, and pulled out a small sack, containing an orange powder.
“What’s that?” Geralt asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“This is freshly ground fielder root.”
“The ingredient for a sedative? How’s that going to help?” Geralt asked.
“My, looks like you know your stuff as well. Maybe you should be the one looking at her.” The doctor said curtly. Geralt raised his hands up relenting, and allowed him to continue. “While yes, fielder root is used in some sedatives, it has some properties that most city folk don’t know about. Here, smell this.” He said to Geralt. Geralt did, giving him a confused look.
“What does it smell like?” the doctor asked.
“Nothing.” Geralt answered.
“Right.” He said. He crossed the room, and presented the powder to Philippa.
“And you, what does this smell like to you.” He asked.
Philippa leaned forward and smelled the root, and gagged loudly. She recoiled back and covered her nose.
“Gods! That smells foul!” Philippa yelled. Geralt looked at her strangely.
“What are you talking about? It doesn’t smell of anything” He stated.
“Aye.” Said the doctor, “That’s because we’re not pregnant.”
Philippa’s eyebrows shot to her hairline, and her mouth dropped open like a gasping fish. Philippa must have misheard him. Whatever was wrong with her was affecting her inner ear, or causing her brain to malfunction. Because she could’ve sworn he heard him say-
Pregnant
“I beg your pardon?” Philippa scoffed.
“Pardon.” the doctor said.
“You said I was pregnant. That’s impossible.”
“Not what the root says. See fielder root is used for a lot of concoctions due to it being mostly harmless in its natural state. It can be consumed and even cooked with. Couldn’t imagine why though, it tastes like you’re chewing on a bit of tree bark. Goats love em-. ”
“I know what fielder root is.” Philippa said tightly.
“I’m sure you do, little miss herbalist.” The doctor started again. “But what most people don’t know is that there’s one side effect to it. It’s harmful to pregnancies. Can cause miscarriages. Nasty bit of work. Luckily when something is pregnant, the root smells like a boot that’s been worn all day. Don’t know why exactly, but it’s true. Breeders would use it to check which of their livestock and horses were pregnant. Has the exact same effects on people.”
“Well I’m not a goddamn mare, and I don’t care what your backwoods science says. It’s impossible for me to be pregnant.” She scowled.
“Why? You a maiden or something?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No I’m-.”
Philippa stopped herself before she gave away too much information about who she truly was. But this ‘doctor’ had to be mistaken. She couldn’t be pregnant, in the most literal way. She was infertile. Magic did quite the number on the bodies of sorceress’ and mages. Most could not have children even if they wanted to. Like all things, there were exceptions to this, and a very select few maintained their fertility while practicing magic. But even in those cases, most magical schools mandated that all wizards go through a sterilization process regardless; the most prestigious school, Aretuza, especially. Proctor Tissaia de Vries was adamant about the choice: Being a wizard, or having a family. No one is born a wizard, she always said.
“I just can’t be pregnant.” She finished. “Your little folk medicine is faulty.”
Philippa attempted to stand, but her legs were still weak. The doctor attempted to help her by grabbing her arm, but she snatched it away from him. She had initially been too weak and distracted to properly cast a diagnostic spell, but now she had a little more energy. With her back turned to him as so she wouldn’t see, she cast a small diagnostic spell, attuned to look for pregnancy. She had done the spell a few times before, using it on court noble women while in Redania. It was a simple spell, one which even in her state, was impossible to mess up, like knowing one’s own name.. She would lay this ridiculous claim to rest. She might not have known what was wrong with her, but what she did know is that she was not…
She was not…
She was…
Pregnant.
Philippa was pregnant.
Philippa let her hand drop to her side limp, and she just stood there, face slack. She stood there silent, as her mind began to question everything she knew about magic. She was the most powerful sorceress of an age, intelligence boundless, but now, in this moment, her mind could not complete a coherent thought. It was all a cloud, all a haze. Her chest felt tight, as if her ribcage was squeezing in on itself. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. It was all she could hear.
How could this have happened? It was a statistical anomaly, near astronomical odds. What had happened. What-
Wait.
Her potion.
She knew something was wrong with it. It wasn’t the color it was supposed the be. The lighter shade, the glow. She didn’t make a potion to regrow her eyes. Somehow she made an EXTREMELY powerful fertility potion. One that fell right onto Geralt. And Geralt passed it onto her. The thing she worked so hard on over the last few months, completely screwed.
“I’m pregnant.” She found herself whispering.
“What?” Geralt asked behind her, but she didn’t hear him, not really.
“I’m pregnant.” She repeated louder this time. Angrier this time. Geralt stepped forward, reaching his hand out. Philippa spun around, face contorted into an angry grimace.
“You.” She said, voice low and deadly. Geralt felt the hair on his neck stand at her voice. He knew Philippa was a dangerous woman to anyone her wrath was pointed at. He just didn’t understand why it was pointed at him. He looked around the room and noticed various items were now floating in the air. The wooden boards on the walls were creaking and splitting, and magic was crackling along Philippa’s form. The doctor looked around, confused and scared.
This wasn’t going to be good.
“You need to calm down.” He said to Philippa, taking another step toward her.
“Do NOT TELL ME TO CALM DOWN.” She yelled, voice booming with magic. Geralt was pushed back by it, knocking him off his feet and crashing through the shack’s door. The contents of the room swirled around in the air like a tornado. The doctor cowered in the corner covering his head.
Geralt stood, dusting the dirt off of him as the livid sorceress stepped out of the shack breathing heavily. In her rage, she dropped her Tomira form, and was standing before him as Philippa.
“You need to control yourself. Now.” He demanded. “I know this is a shock, but you can’t take it out on this man’s farm, and you sure as hell can’t take it out on me.”
“This….this is all your fault.” She seethed.
“Don’t see how.” Geralt replied.
Philippa gave a humorless laugh.
“You really are a stupid, STUPID bastard, aren’t you Geralt.” She said. “Do you think I was going around, fucking every villager I saw?”
“I mean-”
Geralt narrowly avoided a plank of wood that was thrown telekinetically at him. Obviously that was the wrong thing to say.
“You’re the only person I’ve slept with in the last 6 months. Hell, you’re the only man I’ve slept with in YEARS.”
Geralt just stared at her, mind wrapping itself around her words and what she was implying.
“What are you saying Philippa?” He asked, voice suddenly hoarse.
“YOU impregnated me, you fucking idiot.” She ground out.
Geralt was a pale man already, but his complexion nearly went as white as his hair at her words.
“That’s impossible. Witchers are sterile.” He said, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself more than her.
“So are wizards, but I guess we’re both learning much we didn’t fucking know today, now aren’t we?” She replied, voice scathing.
His brain was moving a mile a minute. The first thing to come to his mind, the first inclination he had, was to turn heel, and just RUN. To just remove himself from the raging sorceress and this fucked up scenario he found himself in. He wasn’t sure where that voice came from in his mind. It was against his nature, and he felt a bit of shame the moment it passed through his mind. But what else could he feel. This was not a scenario he ever envisioned himself in, even in the wild tale that was his life. Children were not an option for Witchers by design. It was hammered into his head that he would never sire children, and here he was, in front of a sorceress claiming to be carrying his.
Yennefer
Oh Yennefer. What would she think of all of this? What could he even say? That he somehow defied nature and managed to knock up a fellow sorceress, one that she hated no less. This was all fucked up. He was a man who had been through alot in his life, many stressful and dangerous situations, but this was just completely foreign to him. A child
His child.
The thought scared him. It really did.
Philippa was still seething in front of him, magic whirling out of control, causing damage all around. Even in his admittedly panicked state, he needed to get a handle on this situation before it drew any unneeded attention.
“Philippa, please-” He tried, trying to placate her. “You need to calm down. We can...talk about this.”
“Talk? TALK?! What makes you think I want to talk to you? Do you know what you did to me? You...you...Dammit!” She screamed in frustration. Geralt showed his hands, and took a small step toward Philippa, as if he was dealing with a cornered animal.
“Calm down. Just breathe. I know this is a lot to take in. I can hardly believe it myself. But please, relax. You can’t draw attention to yourself.” He tried soothingly. Philippa’s breathing started to slow.
“Calm.” She said strangely.
“Calm” He mirrored.
“I’m calm. I’m calm.” She started to say. “I’m...pregnant.”
And with that, she fainted. Geralt was able to catch her before she hit the ground, cradling her head in one hand as the other wrapped around her back, gently lowering her to the ground.
The doctor slowly emerged from his now ruined shack, looking around nervously.
“Uhm sir.” The doctor asked. “What the fuck just happened?”
“Nothing.” Geralt said simply. He grabbed his gold pouch from the Griffin bounty, and tossed it at the doctor, who clumsily caught it. “For the damages.”
Geralt then scooped Philippa into his arms, not entirely sure what to do next.
_______________________________________________________________________________
Vesemir was having a lovely day.
With Geralt out doing whatever (or whomever), Vesemir took the day to just relax before they hit the path again. His body was fully healed, and he enjoyed the nature of White Orchard. It really was a lovely village, despite the Nilfgaardians. Places like it reminded him why he went back on the path time after time, even as he got into his old age.
Vesemir entered the inn, waving hello to the innkeeper. Lovely lady he thought. He went up to the room, planning on taking a nice nap, waiting for Geralt to return from his “visit”. When he opened the door, he was met with the sight of Geralt already being there, sitting in a chair with his head buried in his hands. He was also met with the site, of an unconscious woman in his bed.
Well the lovely day was nice while it lasted.
Vesemir quickly closed the door behind him, getting Geralt’s attention.
“Ves..” Geralt said quietly, with vulnerability Vesemir hadn’t heard from him in a long time.
“What is it wolf? What’s going on?” Vesemir asked in concern. “Who is this?”
“Philippa….Philippa Eilhart.”
“The sorceress? The wanted Sorceress?”
“The very same.”
“Well what is she doing HERE? I thought you went to visit that herbalist, Tomira?” Asked Vesmir. Geralt frowned deeply.
“This IS Tomira.” Geralt answered, voice bitter.
“Ok, so you slept with a Polymorph. Happened to the best of us. But what is she doing HERE?” Vesemir pushed. Geralt was not one to do things without reason, or foolheartedly.
“She’s….pregnant Vesemir.” He answered slowly, looking at the floorboards.
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Vesemir stated. Geralt looked up at him, eyes almost pleading.
“I got her pregnant.” Geralt said simply. Vesemir just stared back at the younger wolf...and then laughed. A full belly laugh, as if he just heard the funniest yarn in the world. His laugh echoed slightly in the room, and he was sure they could hear him downstairs.
“What? Did you hit your head while out?” Vesemir chortled. Geralt did not look amused.
“I know how it sounds-” He began.
“It sounds impossible.” Vesemir interrupted.
“-but it’s true. It’s goddamned true.” Geralt said gloomily.
Vesemir gauged Geralt's reaction, and did not find a hint of humor in it. His smile dropped as it dawned on him-
“Wait, you’re serious aren’t you?” Vesemir questioned. Geralt just nodded his head. “How do you even know she’s pregnant? You wouldn’t sense any signs for weeks.”
“Smell her.” Geralt said simply.
“What?” Vesemir asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Smell her.” Geralt repeated.
“Wolf, I’m not going to-”
“Just do it.”
Sighing, Vesemir moved toward Philippa and inhaled her scent. A Witcher’s nose was one of their most powerful tools. A well trained one could smell disease in a person. They could even smell…
Pregnancy.
Vesemir smelled her again, just to be sure. And there it was. She was pregnant.
“Huh, well I’ll be damned.” Vesemir admitted. He looked back at Geralt, whose head was back in his hands.
“That still doesn’t explain the obvious question. How?”
Geralt eyes closed tightly in concentration.
“There was this potion there. It wasn’t like anything I’d seen before. It spilled on me while...you know. It made me lose sense of myself. It made me feel different. I think It might've changed me?” Geralt explained.
“Somehow made you fertile?”
Geralt just nodded.
Vesemir stared at him for a moment. And then he began to laugh again. This time, it wasn’t at Geralt though, rather with him, although once again, Geralt didn’t seem amused.
“Gods Geralt, only you could somehow inadvertently solve the age-old issue of Witcher sterility.” Vesemir said, shaking his head and chuckling slightly.
“You believe me?” Geralt asked, unsure.
“Eh, why wouldn’t I? You’re not a liar or an idiot, and destiny seems to have a propensity to screwing with you.” Vesemir stated a matter of factly. “So, what are you going to do?”
Geralt looked at the floorboards again, face pulled back in discomfort “I-I don’t know? I just don’t know Vesemir. This is not something I ever expected to happen. This isn’t something I ever wanted to happen. This life, my history...I’m not made to be a father.” Geralt finished miserably. Surprisingly, for a third time, Vesemir laughed at him.
“Not meant to be a father? You have to be taking the piss.”
Geralt looked at him with a mixture of confusion and anger.
“Wolf, I’ve seen you go to the ends of the globe, to death's door and back for a girl that’s not even your blood.” Vesemir explained. Geralt looked contrite.
“Ciri is different.” Geralt tried. “She was older.”
“Nevertheless, She’s your daughter.”
Geralt’s mouth went into a firm line. ‘Daughter.’ He never used that word to describe Ciri, at least not outloud, but Vesemir was right. Geralt took care of her and loved her like one, blood be damned.
“Well look how well that turned out. I haven’t seen her in years, and she’s gods know where.” Geralt retorted. Vesemir just shrugged at him.
“So you didn’t get it completely right the first time. Who does? Maybe this is destiny giving you a second chance.” Vesemir replied. He then looked over to Philippa’s still unconscious form and frowned a bit. “Though, I wish you had more restraint in your partners. Seriously, what is it with you and dark haired witches?”
“Oh gods, what am I going to tell Yennefer?” Geralt mumbled into his hands
“Why tell her anything? You don’t owe anything to that sorceress.” Vesemir said hotly.
“Ves, don’t you start.” Geralt said, cutting off an impending rant. Vesemir harrumphed, but stepped forward, lightly placing a supportive hand on Geralt’s shoulder.
“You’ll figure it out Wolf.”
________________________________________________________________________________
Philippa’s eyes slowly opened, her head killing her.
“Hm, you’re awake. How bout’ that.” Came a voice to her side. Groggily. Philippa sat up, and got her bearings. She looked around then looked at Vesemir, who was sitting, elbows rested on his knees, staring intently at her.
“Where am I?” She asked.
“The inn.” Vesemir replied, still staring at her. “Geralt brought you here, after you apparently destroyed some poor man’s farm.”
Right. The farm. It was all coming back to her. Everything. The rage, the confusion that she felt. She was still angry, and pregnant.
Philippa stood from the bed, intending to leave without as much as speaking another word to Vesemir.
“Is it true?” He suddenly asked, voice flat.
“Is what tr-”
“Do not play dumb with me sorceress. I got enough of that from Yennefer.” Vesemir said, suddenly standing. “You know damn well what I’m talking about. IS. IT. TRUE?”
In the past, Philippa had struck down men for taking this tone with her, and for much less, but something told her that that wouldn’t go well with Vesemir.
“Yes.” She answered simply.
“Hm” Vesemir grunted, slowly returning to his seat. “So, what now for you two?”
Philippa looked absolutely affronted.
“Us two? There is no ‘us two’.” She barked out.
“The baby growing in your belly says otherwise. Like it or not, you two are irrevocably tied together.” He scolded, as if talking to a child. In reality Philippa was likely slightly older than he was.
“You know nothing of the matter.” She snapped. “You know nothing about me.”
“You’re a sorceress who happens to complicate Geralt’s life. Believe me, you’re less special than you think.” Vesemir shot back.
“You WILL watch your tone with me, Witcher. I’ve turned men inside out for less.” Philippa seethed.
“Hm, I’m sure you have.” Vesemir said, not at all impressed with her threat. She just frowned at him. Who was this man to talk to her like this? To judge her like this.
“I don’t have time for this. Any other asanie questions before I wash my hands of all of this?” She asked sarcastically.
Vesemir just smiled slightly. “No, no. Think I stalled you long enough for Geralt to get back up here”
“What are you-”
Before Philippa could finish her sentence, the room’s door swung open. Philippa turned, and was met with a face full of Geralt’s chest. Geralt looked down at her, eyes unsure.
Vesemir stood from his chair. “Well, you two obviously have alot to discuss, so I’ll leave you to it.”
With that, he slipped past the pair out the door.
The pair stood in silence for a while.
“Can we talk.” Geralt asked suddenly. Philippa just folds her arms and frowns slightly, but nonetheless walks back and sits on the bed. Geralt enters the room and sits in a chair across from her.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
The two fell silent again.
“So, what next?” Geralt questioned.
“Your lovely partner just asked me the same dull question.” Philippa scoffed. “There IS no next. You continue on your little adventure after Yennefer, and I go somewhere, pretending you never came and ruined everything I had going for myself up until now.”
“You KNOW it’s not that simple.” Geralt said through a frown.
“And why can’t it be? You don’t like me, and I don’t have any particular fondness for you. Why complicate things.”
“You’re my responsibility now.”
Philippa let a bark of humorless laughter.
“I’m NOBODY’S responsibility.” She replied tightly, anger rising.
“You’re with my child.” He snapped back.
“I’m with your burden.”
Geralt opened his mouth, then closed it again, not sure how to respond to that.
“You don’t have to play noble. The….child you put in me. It wasn’t a part of either of our plans’. You and I both know that. You want to reunite with your Yennefer, and I want to live my life free, preferably not ending up on a stake. There’s no reason those thing’s can’t still happen.” She explained.
Geralt stood there silently, letting her words sink in. Logically, she was right. He could just go on about his merry way, to Vizima, into the arms of the love he hadn’t seen in years. Philippa was always clinically logical like that.
“What does that mean for our child?” He found himself asking.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” She replied.
No, he didn’t. He knew what she was implying, what she meant, but he didn’t know if he actually wanted her to say it.
“I can’t let you do that. This is not a decision you can make on your own dammit” He said, standing. He couldn’t. Despite everything, despite who she was, his child was in her.
His.
Philippa almost gave him a sad smile.
“That’s your first mistake. Thinking a man has ever LET me do anything.”
Suddenly, a portal opened behind Philippa, in the wall of the room. Geralt tried to reach out for her, but it was too late. One moment she was there, one moment she wasn’t. She was gone.
________________________________________________________________________________
Philippa teleported to her hut outside of the village. She had to act quickly. She already suspected that Geralt was on his way there to stop her from what she planned to do. What she needed to do. She rooted around her workstation and cabinets, looking for what she needed.
Fielder Root.
It smelled like death to her, but she supposed that was the point. She placed it in her mortar, and ground it into a fine powder. She mixed it in some water, making an orange, foul smelling beverage. The mixture should suit her needs. To get rid of the baby inside of her.
She didn’t ask for any of this. It was all a mistake, one big mistake in a long line of mistakes she’s made over the past few months. All the control she had her whole life was slipping. She was slipping, but this, this she could control. She could take control of her body, do things by her own will, by her own wants.
Least that’s what she told herself.
It dawned on Philippa that this was no small act she was taking. The baby growing inside of her….it was something unique. Something special. The child of a Wizard and a Witcher; who’d have ever guessed it to be something possible. But she didn’t ask for it. It was a burden among many others. She had to focus on getting her eyes back, her station in life back, reform the Lodge of Sorceresses. To her, the child was nothing but a distraction.
Philippa’s life was goal oriented. It always has been, ever since her days at Aretuza. Her teachers always told her it was a great characteristic of her’s, to always look forward, to always look at the bigger picture, the foreseeable and unforeseeable future. So for her, a child was just an anchor. An anchor pinning her to a moment in time. Just like stagnant water, it was hazardous to her. Something she just couldn’t abide by. Did she want to do this? No. She needed to.
Well….at least that’s what she told herself.
She brought the mixture up to her lips, ready to drink it down, when suddenly, a vision came upon her.
She found herself in a field of high grass, grass coming up to her hips. A field that seemed endless. She looked up, and the sky was gray. Not gray as if rain was to come, but gray, no, silver. Silver like a newly minted coin.. She couldn’t see the sun, but she knew it was there looking down on her. She looked around the endless field and spotted a solitary tree in the distance. Out of place. Out of time. She walked toward the tree, and although it seemed far away, she got to it in only a few steps.
The tree was small, young. It had small, weak looking branches, and the trunk was narrow. A sapling, freshly grown from a seed. But it was a tree with so much potential. The kind that could grow to be the tallest anyone had ever seen. The kind that could be great.
As long as no one cut it down before it’s time.
Philippa was brought back to the present, and her hut. She shuddered, and found herself gasping for air. She drew down the mixture, and sank down to her knees.
A vision.
She hadn’t had a vision that detailed, that vivid since her time with Ciri.
And like Ciri, the vision was telling her something.
Telling her to do something that was against her nature, her perceived better judgement.
It was telling her to keep the child.
She didn’t know what to make of it. What to make of what destiny, the energy of the universe was telling her to do. The direction her magic was pulling her in. She didn’t like not knowing. This was all so wrong. She was in control. She was. Why now, in the most tumultuous time in her life, did everything seem to work against her, to work against what she knew, or thought she knew. Work against the ideals she built for herself all these centuries. Why?
Philippa sat there on her knees for a while in silence, just thinking. Trying to come to terms with the universe, and what it was trying to tell her. She inhaled deeply, and looked up, at nothing in particular and said-
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
She didn’t know if she was speaking to herself or destiny itself. Didn’t matter either way. The message was clear.
Ping
Her proximity ward. That must be Geralt.
Ping
He must’ve brought Vesemir.
Ping Ping Ping
Philippa frowned. No, that wasn’t right. That’s five. Five people.
Shit.
Philippa’s door was kicked in, shards of wood splintering all over the place. Before she knew what was happening, several men stormed into her hut, grabbing her. She fought and struggled, but they caught her off guard, not allowing her to properly perform a spell.
“Get your hand off of me!” She screamed as she struggled.
“Have you got her?!” She heard one man say.
“I got her! Quick, slap those special shackles on her.” Another said.
Philippa felt the all too familiar sting of Dimeritium shackles being placed around her wrists. Her magic was cut off.
“Alright” She heard a voice say.” Drag her outside.”
Philippa was pulled out of her hut, and thrown to her knees on the dirt.
She recognized the men from the village, five of them, all armed with pitchforks and small weapons.
“This her?” One of the men asked.
“Gotta be. She’s just like that old coot of a doctor described. Pigtails, bandaged eyes.” The man next to him confirmed. Philippa swallowed, not daring to speak.
“First the Nilfgaardians, now it turns out we have a fucking witch in our village!”
“We should burn her! Tie her to a stake and burn her!”
“That’ll take too much time. Let’s just lob her head off, so we can go looking for any other witches. I suspect the butcher’s daughter might be one too!”
Philippa’s heart was racing. This wasn’t. This couldn’t be happening. This shouldn’t be happening. She can’t die like this. Not here, not now.
“Gentleman please, if you let me explain, you’ll see this is all one big-”
Philippa was cut off by a hard strike to the face.
“Shut up cunt! You won’t be talking your way out of this one. We took you into our village, treated you like one of our own, but you turned out to be a sorceress in disguise!”
“She probably also spies for the Nilfgaardians!”
“Yeah!”

“We should also pay those Witcher’s a visit too. I never trusted those freaks.”
“You don’t have to trust me-” Came Geralt’s voice suddenly. All the men looked, and saw The Witcher walking towards them, seemingly out of nowhere His face was contorted in a deep scowl. “But you damn sure need to fear me.”
The villagers all looked around nervously, fidgeting and gripping their weapons tightly. One man, whom Philippa presumed was the leader, stepped forward.
“Begone Witcher. This doesn’t concern you. Leave now and you leave with your life.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. This concerns me more than you could ever know. So how about this? Let the woman go, now, and I won’t run you all through.” Geralt threatened menacingly. He drew his sword, taking a defensive stance.
No one was backing down.
So be it.
Two villagers lunged forward, one armed with an axe the other with a pitchfork. Geralt hated pitchforks, so he dispatched him first, side stepping the man, and slashing him across the back, cutting to the spine. The man with the axe swung at Geralt’s head, but he ducked effortlessly. He stood quickly, using the momentum to slash upward, from the man's groin to his shoulder. He fell in two parts.
The remaining three men stood there, shaking, watching two of their friends killed in a matter of seconds. Geralt stood there, hands still as stone.
“Last chance. Run. Now.” Geralt said, voice as cold as ice. Two of the would be witch hunters, wised up, and ran like they saw a demon. The leader however dragged Philippa to her feet, and pressed a dagger to her throat.
“S-step back! Don’t come any closer or I swear I’ll end her.” The man rambled. Geralt just stared a killer glare, gripping his sword.
“Do you hear me?! Another step and this bitch dies!” The man yelled desperately
“Geralt, just kill this bastard already” Philippa said.
“Shut up bitch! And I’m warning you! I’ll cut her, I swear I wi-”
The word never escaped the villagers mouth, as Vesemir’s sword impaled him from behind.
The man dropped to the ground dead. Geralt walked forward to Philippa.
“Are you alright?” He asked while unshackling her. Philippa actually smiled at him.
“Yes...Yes I’m alright, thank you….The baby is too.” She said. Geralt’s eyebrows shot to his hairline in surprise. A small smile spread across his face.
“While this is a sweet moment I’m sure, you two need to get the hell out of town. Those men are likely going to come back in force.” Vesemir stated. He was right. Nothing good would come from them staying there.
Geralt looked at Philippa with pleading eyes.
“Will you come?” He asked, extending his hand to her. Philippa looked down at it.
Philippa could teleport anywhere she wanted, but to what? She had no allies, no home, no plan. She would be alone, with gods knowing how many people after her. Right now, Geralt was her saving grace. Her knight. She didn’t like relying on others, men especially, but for now, Geralt would do.
“Yes.” She said, taking his hand.
They went to the horses. Geralt helped Philippa up on Roach, before climbing on himself.
“I’ll misdirect the locals. You two head toward Vizima.” Vesmir said.
“Thank you Vesemir.” Geralt said earnestly.
“Take care of each other, you two.”
With that, Philippa wrapped her arms around Geralt’s midsection, as they raced out of White Orchard.
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Philippa's Grace