Haseo - The Price of Power - The Witcher SI

Synopsis:

Ever come across a fanfic inside a fanfic? No? Well, now you have.

This story is about a writer who wrote himself being inserted into his own story before he was then actually inserted into the very story he wrote. Now, he has to rewrite the same tale he created because it’s his ass on the line and not just the characters he so shamelessly made to suffer.

Making matters worse is his inability to take full advantage of the power he has because he already knows the downsides that come with it. After all, he wrote the fanfic and wanted to avoid making the same mistakes as his fictional counterpart.

That’s fine. It just means he gets to make all new mistakes!

AN:

I know what you’re thinking.

“Another one?!”

Hear me out. I’ve been planning this story for months and only recently figured out what I wanted to do with it. The updates likely won’t be frequent, but this is a premise I just couldn’t resist working on.

There are so many shenanigans I could get up to in the world of The Witcher.

I hope you guys enjoy this.

Cheers!

The frosty air nipped at Ciri’s nose, almost biting in its sting, though not at all surprising. It’s been getting colder the further north they went, yet not unbearably so. Burbling water by the shallows of the calm river not far from where she stood almost lulled her to sleep once more. 

She resisted, despite the temptation, having put up with worse deficits. Particularly compared to the misery she experienced only a few weeks past.

What truly irked the girl, however, was her companion’s seeming immunity to the chill.

Blearily watching as Geralt packed up their camp and scuffed what remained of the night’s fire, Ciri must admit some resentment at his stoic, non-shivering demeanour. She’d long stopped trying to match his countenance.

A waste of energy, it turned out to be.

For which mere mortal could compete with a Witcher in expressing no discomfort, at ease with the elements and nature’s indifference to humanity’s fragility? If it was going to be anyone, it certainly wouldn’t be her. Certainly not now.

Someday, perhaps. Someday.

“C’mon,” the white-haired monster slayer grunted by way of invitation. “Time to go.”

“‘M c’min’,” she mumbled, too stiff and sleepy to speak properly.

“You all right?” he asked, and for a moment, one could almost detect the concern in his voice.

One would have to listen very closely and actually look for it, though. Geralt isn’t a particularly expressive person, and as she’d learned since she started travelling with him, not fond of pointless conversations either.

“‘M fine,” she answered, staggering toward where the man stood by his horse.

He hummed thoughtfully. “We’re close to a village. It’s got an inn. You can sleep on a bed soon.”

“Praise Melitele,” she extolled with no small hint of exaggeration.

The sides of Geralt’s lips tugged upward at her words. Ciri was pleased.

Yet, before she could reach him, the winds howled so fiercely that gales threatened to make her stumble. Strong arms wrapped around her body then.

“Keep your head down,” came Geralt’s protective voice.

Ciri whimpered into his chest, fear coursing through her veins as lightning began to crackle across the sky. The same sky that had been clear but moments before.

“What’s happening?” she cried out.

“Don’t know,” he answered with deadened wariness. “It’ll be fine. Nothing’s gonna happen.”

As if to contradict his reassurance, the gale became a squall, and Ciri had to close her eyes lest they become awash with dirt and dust. Her arms tucked close to her body, fingers gripping Geralt’s leather jerkin tight.

Just as quick as it began, however, the tempest stopped.

What came next was a flash of light, and then a great, big splash in the river. Unable to help herself, she looked to the side just in time to spot the bob of a resurfacing form after it smashed into the water.

“Stay here,” her companion instructed.

“What?” she breathed numbly.

“I’m gonna see if he’s okay.”

He? That’s a he?

Geralt almost prowled toward the floating body before wading into the shallows. Reaching the unmoving shape, he dragged whoever it was to the riverbank. Only then did she note the odd clothes.

Ciri watched the Witcher place a hand on the drowned form’s chest, undoubtedly checking for life. Seeing him nod told her that he hadn’t just fished a corpse out of the rush.

Moments later, the stranger was lying on Geralt’s bedroll, covered in a cloak, sleeping close to the fire that was just rebuilt, and torso bare. His shirt needed to be removed, and he would’ve been stripped of his trousers had Ciri’s presence necessitated the preservation of at least some modesty.

Now, she was nibbling on a roasted leg of a hare that Geralt had just caught.

Their extended stay required him to hunt. Fortunately, the abundance of game meant he didn’t have to search far. He was barely gone before he was back.

“Why did you save him?” she asked.

Geralt regarded her with a blank stare. “You would’ve let him drown?”

“No,” was her hasty answer. “You’ve been really careful this whole time, though. Avoiding most people. Taking roads less traveled. It’s just strange.”

He sighed. “There’s a difference between caution and outright ignoring someone in need.”

She went quiet for a while, thinking on his answer. Eventually, she had to ask.

“Who do you think he is?”

“Probably an off-worlder.”

Ciri gaped at Geralt. “A what?”

“An off-worlder,” he clarified. “Someone who’s not from this world.”

“How… what… huh?”

It was difficult for her to form thoughts after receiving such a revelation. Far too many competing thoughts were bumping into each other, trying to come to the fore first. Of them, the most prominent question was, ‘Other worlds existed?’

Thankfully, the Witcher deduced what she wanted to know. “It’s obvious when you look at him. Skin’s too fair and smooth. Healthy complexion means he spent a lot of time indoors. Reasonably fit, but not through any means I could identify. Hands aren’t those of a soldier, farmer, or noble. His clothes and effects, though. Those were the biggest giveaways.”

Following that logic, Ciri could understand why he could have come to the outlandish conclusion. Still…

“Can’t he be a prince of some kind?”

“Stitches of his shirt are too fine and even. Material’s strange, too. Feels like cotton and silk, but it’s neither. Then there’s this.”

He held up a rectangular object that appeared to be encased in metal, with one side seemingly made of some reflective material polished to a mirror shine. Geralt pressed something to the side, and the reflective side lit up to show a portrait of some kind.

An extremely lifelike portrait.

“Then he’s a mage,” she argued.

“Medallion’s inert,” he countered. “If this were magic, it’d be shaking by now.”

Ciri opened her mouth for another rebuttal, but the stranger suddenly gasped, sat upright, and started looking around wildly.

“Calm down,” Geralt said. “You’re safe.”

“Wh-wha-who…”

“It’s all right,” the Witcher urged. “Take your time. Whatever happened before isn’t happening now.”

Rather than look reassured, however, the stranger’s eyes widened with shock and fear as he took in Geralt’s face. His gaze then landed on her, their horse, and, curiously enough, the river.

“Shit,” he cursed.

“How’s your memory?” Geralt asked. “Do you know your name?”

“I do,” the stranger said in a fretful tone. “But that’s not important right now.” Raising his hands, he began making bizarre gestures at the air in front of him, face screwed up in concentration. “Trouble’s coming, Geralt. You need to get your sword, right now. Your steel sword.”

The Witcher froze where he was crouched beside the stranger. “How do you know my name? Haven’t told you yet.”

“Same way I know about your swords,” the stranger said, his fingers tapping midair in some rhythm that Ciri couldn’t understand. “Same way I know the real identity of the girl with you. Now, stop arguing and get your sword ready. I’ll keep her safe, but I can’t fight for shit. The best I’ll be able to do is not die.”

“What are you talking about?” Geralt demanded, face twisting into a scowl.

Making one final tap, the stranger lowered his hands and turned to the furious monster slayer. “The Wild Hunt’s coming, and they’re after your ward. In a few minutes, they’ll arrive, and while they can’t kill me as I am right now, they can still take her. So, get your fucking sword and prepare for the fight of your life.”

Fuckity-fuck-fuck-FUCK!

This is happening. It’s actually fucking happening!

Why the hell is this happening?!

It was supposed to be a fanfic with uber-meta elements for extra points on uniqueness! So, how the fuck am I in my own damn story?!

My mind actually recalled the fall and subsequent blackout after I hit the water. That wasn’t just my imagination, no matter how much I’m currently wishing that it was. Nor could I afford to indulge in a little existential freakout because, if what I wrote actually came to pass, I’m about to get buggered to hell and back.

“The Wild Hunt’s a myth,” Geralt of Rivia, monster hunter extraordinaire, the legendary White Wolf, and all associated titles, pointed out with a blank face.

It was remarkable how his emotionless visage fit what I visualized when I was writing. The deadly gleam in his cat-like eyes, however, was no immaterial product of my demented mind.

“You wanna bet Ciri’s life on that?” I challenged.

Oh, yeah. There was her, too. Preteen Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, or just Ciri if you didn’t want to get kicked in the balls. No way was I letting her get taken and become a huge pain in the ass later, no matter how temporary.

I just had to add drama and friction right off the bat to hook readers, didn’t I?

Case in point, I was now dangling about a foot off the ground, with my neck in the Witcher’s grip. My brief panic as I was yanked into the air was quickly smothered by the precaution I had just finished activating.

As a result, I wasn’t nearly as pants-shittingly terrified as I should’ve been while the Butcher of Blaviken glared at me.

Damn. God mode console command coming in clutch!

I should also probably remember that this was book Geralt. Not TV or video game Geralt.

“Who are you?” he growled dangerously.

“Right now, I’m your only chance to get to Kaer Morhen in one piece.” 

My response was given in a normal speaking voice, not constrained as it should’ve been had the powerful grip actually been squeezing my windpipe. A fact that clearly surprised Geralt, as he immediately dropped me and backed away to stand protectively in front of Ciri.

For her part, the girl was gaping at me with those beautiful turquoise and aquamarine eyes.

I neatly landed on my feet when Geralt let go, likely as part of god mode’s functionality, which felt super weird. Honestly, I was just winging it when I set up the mechanics of this particular monkey’s paw, but the effects were staggeringly intuitive.

Knowing how little time we had left, however, I had to push those thoughts to the back of my mind.

“Look,” I began, meeting the Witcher’s suspicious gaze head-on, “you don’t know me, you don’t trust me, I get that. But we’re about to get pummeled by horse-riding heavy metal rejects with a thing for bone armor and ice. You can question me all you like later, Geralt. Hell, tie me up and keep me in a dungeon. I don’t care. Right now, all that matters is Ciri, and I swear, I would die for her.”

What I left out was how I’d suffer a fate worse than death if I didn’t prevent this particular kidnapping. Stupid escalating storylines to keep readers from getting bored.

“I’ll ask again,” Geralt said. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Connor O’Connor. Yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but that’s my name.” I saw no way around answering this particular question. Earning his trust depended on him knowing me.

“Heard stupider,” he grunted. “Why would you risk your life for Ciri?”

“Because my survival’s explicitly tied to her living a long, happy life.”

Geralt held my gaze a moment longer. “You’re telling me everything later.”

I nodded in agreement. “Later.”

The Witcher turned to his ward. “Ciri, you–”

“It’s all right,” she said, cutting him off, looking at me with serious eyes. Serious eyes that shouldn’t be on a face so young. “He means what he says. I can tell.”

No shit, she can tell. I basically made her OOC. Smarter than in canon. More observant. The internet doesn’t like children acting and talking like children, after all.

Geralt’s attention was on me again. “Hurt her, and I’ll spread your entrails for miles. Keep you alive while I do.”

Rather than fear, I actually felt satisfaction at hearing the threat. It was the same threat I wrote him saying, and it sounded as menacing as I imagined.

“I hear you,” was my reply. “But we should really focus on the Wild Hunt.”

“How long?”

“A few minutes to half an hour, no more than that.”

He grunted wordlessly before walking toward his horse, where he kept his blades. Geralt wouldn’t have needed either to kill me, normally. But I was currently a bit more durable than I should be. Speaking of which, I still needed one more thing, both to demonstrate my value and to pique his interest.

I probably looked silly as I began tapping on air, as only I could see the screen. The result, however, couldn’t be denied.

Ciri gasped as several items suddenly appeared midair, catching her protector’s attention. When the Witcher turned around, steel sword in hand, his eyes widened.

“Are those…?” he trailed off.

“Potions and bombs?” I finished for him. “Yup. With how many of the assholes are coming, you’re gonna need them. These are special, too. Probably not like the ones you’re used to.”

“What do you mean?”

I picked up one of the bottles. Red, approaching pink in color. “This is Swallow.”

“No,” he denied immediately. “It’s not.”

“Yes,” I corrected, “it is. Pop open the cork and smell it. You’ll see.” 

I threw the potion at him. He caught it, opened it, and began sniffing the contents. When he did, I saw the surprise on his face.

“This,” I said, picking up another bottle, “is called White Honey. I know you’ve never heard of it, but it basically clears your body of all toxins, including those you got from drinking potions.”

His eyes only grew bigger and bigger as I went through the list of potions that I made appear from nowhere. When I got to the bombs, he finally had to speak up.

“Where the hell did these come from?!”

“Part of what we’ll be talking about later. Right now, pay attention. This is Grapeshot. You throw this; make sure you’re not anywhere near the blast radius. A few dozen paces away should do. This is Samum. It creates a blinding flash that’ll disorient your enemies. Look away before it goes off. Try a few now so you’ll know the timing. This one is…”

I was speaking rapidly, knowing that Geralt’d hear every word. There wasn’t a lot of time left, and he needed to get used to the items I was bringing to the table.

“Ciri,” I called to the girl as the Witcher lined up to try one of the bombs, “cover your ears. These will be loud.”

Thankfully, she didn’t stubbornly disobey as she would’ve in the source material. Good thing, too, since even with god mode enabled, I could’ve sworn that my ears were ringing when Grapeshot went off in the river.

“By the gods,” the future Lady of Space and Time yelped, slowly lowering her hands. “That was like a thunderclap.”

I shot her a smug grin. “Should make for a deafening welcome to your would-be hunters. Just remember to keep your hands over your ears when the fighting starts.” I paused, looking up as the wind began to swirl. “Which should be in a few seconds.”

Both of them looked around as well, faces wary. Storm clouds were gathering, and even through my unfeeling skin, the drop in temperature was obvious.

“Got anything else?” I heard Geralt ask, and I looked at him seriously.

“Only if you promise not to use it on me until I can explain myself.”

“Done.”

I brought up the console screen again and tapped a very specific command. One that, when I wrote the fanfic, I wouldn’t have had access to for at least two years. Having my self-insert character struggle to actually earn his progression was good for the story, but I wasn’t even going to bother with that.

What dropped, point first, into the dirt was a hand-and-a-half sword. It ended up piercing the ground by a few inches, making it look like it was deliberately planted there.

Unlike in the games, the glyphs didn’t glow, but the runes inscribed all along its length were clear enough to see. The metal itself had a distinct bluish hue, featuring a small crossguard and a cylindrical brass cap.

Avid readers of the books would immediately recognize this sword from the descriptions alone, which is part of the reason why I chose it.

The other part has to do with the built-in limitations of the console commands in terms of cost and benefit. We already had genocidal super elves to deal with. I didn’t need the world pushing back with giant monsters to make this shit sandwich even shittier.

Geralt and Ciri both looked at the blade with wonder, and I couldn’t blame them. The moment it appeared, I felt my jaw drop.

It really was a beauty of a weapon.

“You made that?” the girl whispered.

“No,” I said, looking them both in the eyes. “Geralt was always meant to have this blade. I’m just giving it to him a bit earlier. Trust me, it’ll carve through the bone patrol like a hot knife through melted cheese.”

“Don’t you mean butter?” she asked in confusion.

“I know what I said.”

The Witcher wasn’t paying attention to us, though. He walked to the buried Runic Sihil, grasped it by its twelve-inch lizard-skin-wrapped hilt, and pulled it out of the ground. After giving it a few experimental swings, he transitioned to a flurry of twirls that was way too fast to keep track of.

When he stopped, the sky had well and truly darkened, with the tops of the trees swaying wildly.

“Mahakam-forged,” Geralt observed once he was done with his impromptu practice.

“Yep,” I said, bending down to pick up two items I effectively summoned.

“D’you even know how to use that?” he asked, looking at the mace and shield.

“I don’t need to,” was my response. “My job’s to keep Ciri out of the Wild Hunt’s grubby paws. Your job’s to kill them. Should be about a dozen, in all. With the potions, the bombs, your new sword, and your own skills, I’d be surprised if it takes you more than five minutes to kill them all.”

He gave me a pointed look. “Yeah, we’ll definitely have that talk later.”

“Later,” I agreed, before barking out a warning, “Portals opening. Might want to throw Dimeritium bombs into those.”

Geralt didn’t answer verbally.

Instead, he held his new sword at the ready in one hand, with a glowing sphere in the other. As for me, I stood in front of the trembling Ciri, shield raised.

“Why aren’t we just running away?” she asked in a quivering voice.

“Wouldn’t work,” I told her quietly. “Even if you two left me behind, they’d run you down, and Geralt would have to fight tired. At least here, we’ve prepared the battlefield and Geralt’s well-equipped for what we’re facing. Just stay close. You’ll be fine.”

When the first sparks of reality tearing signalled our enemies’ arrival, a stray thought came and went.

Gaunter O’Dimm was gonna pay once I got my hands on him.