Viking and The Witcher: Year 2 1.1

(AN: So guys I've already completed Year 2 and Year 3 for this but both chapters are 30,000 words each totalling at 60,000. I can't post 30k on one chapter on here, I think the max is 20k. so I'm breaking these up into maybe 3 chapters each depending on how the flow is.)

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.

At least he still had his pack. When the ship had gone down, he had managed to keep it strapped to his back. Without it, he would have had nothing. His food supply was limited—some dried meat and bread—and his water skin was half full. He rationed carefully, knowing he would need every drop and bite if he was to survive long enough to find help. The days that followed were harsh. The desert's heat was like nothing Thorfinn had ever experienced. In Kattegat, the sun never burned like this. Even during the summer months, the warmth was mild compared to this. Northumbria had been warmer, but its winds had tempered the sun's strength. Here, there was no escape from the heat. The sun burned his skin, made his eyes sting, and left him drenched in sweat by mid-morning. His clothes clung to him uncomfortably, the fabric rough against his skin.

By noon each day, the heat became unbearable. Thorfinn had to stop and search for shade. There was little to find. Sometimes, he crawled beneath overhanging rocks, pressing himself into the shadow they cast. Other times, he dug shallow pits in the sand to shield himself from the sun. The air was still, offering no relief, and every breath felt heavy and dry. At night, the desert transformed. The heat gave way to a chill that seeped into his bones. He wrapped himself in his cloak and huddled against the cold, staring up at the sky.

His food dwindled faster than he liked. By the fourth day, the bread was gone, and he was down to a few strips of dried meat. The water was worse. No matter how sparingly he drank, the canteen grew lighter with each passing hour. He had started chewing on the leather strap of his pack to distract himself from the dryness in his throat. The desert offered no mercy. Each step became harder, the sand shifting beneath his boots and sapping his strength. His muscles ached, his skin burned, and his head throbbed from the sun. His thoughts turned darker with each passing day. He questioned whether he would ever find Arwyn or Geralt. He wondered if he would die out here, alone and forgotten and never seeing Rebekah or Freydis again.

...

Thorfinn trudged forward his body leaning forward as if the weight of the air itself was trying to drag him down. The sun sat high above him, offering no mercy. His water skin swayed against his side, the precious drops inside barely enough to wet his lips. His throat was too dry to eat, even if he had the strength to lift food to his mouth. Each step felt heavier than the last. His boots sank into the hot sand, his mind felt hazy, his vision blurring slightly. A dune rose ahead of him, taller than the last. He placed one foot in front of the other, dragging himself upward, only for the loose sand to shift beneath him. His balance gave way, and he tumbled down the other side.

He rolled to a stop at the base of the dune, the world spinning around him. Sand clung to his face and clothes. His arms trembled as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. His head drooped, and for a moment, he stayed still, catching his breath.

Then he heard it.

"Thorfinn."

His head snapped up, his heart racing. He blinked and looked around, but the dunes were empty, the horizon stretching endlessly in every direction.

"Thorfinn," the voice called again. It was soft, familiar. He turned his head toward the sound, and in the distance, he saw her—Rebekah. She stood atop a dune, her figure shimmering in the heat. Her hand was outstretched, beckoning him.

"Rebekah!" His voice cracked as he shouted. He tried to run toward her, his legs dragging through the shifting sand. "Wait!" he called again.

The sand made each step harder, and his body resisted his efforts. He stumbled and fell forward, catching himself with his hands. His breathing was ragged, and when he looked up again, she was gone. "Rebekah!" he shouted once more, his voice carrying a desperate edge. He pushed himself up and staggered forward, scanning the horizon. There was no sign of her.

The days blurred together as Thorfinn continued. His water skin ran dry, the last few drops swallowed in a futile attempt to quench his thirst. His tongue felt swollen, his lips cracked. He walked aimlessly, the desert stretching on with no end in sight.

He saw her again. Not Rebekah this time, but Hild. She stood farther away, her back to him, her long hair swaying in the breeze.

"Hild!" he called out, his voice hoarse. He tried to run toward her, but his legs gave out. He fell forward, landing hard. When he looked up, she was gone. His head sank into the sand, his shoulders heaving.

"Thorfinn," a mocking voice whispered.

He raised his head, his teeth clenched. Dahlia stood before him, her expression one of cruel amusement. She smiled, her eyes gleaming with malice.

"You're weak," she said, her voice calm but laced with venom. "Is this the great warrior who sought revenge? Who sought to defy me?"

Thorfinn growled, reaching for his sword. He drew it with trembling hands and stumbled forward, swinging with all the strength he could muster. The blade cut through empty air. Dahlia was gone. His momentum carried him forward, and he tumbled down another dune.

He groaned as he hit the bottom, rolling onto his back. His eyes shut tightly as he let out a shaky breath. His body felt broken, his mind frayed. He turned his head, spotting a rock that cast a small shadow. With what little strength he had left, he crawled toward it. Reaching the shade, he collapsed, rolling onto his back.

His breathing was shallow, each inhale scraping against his raw throat. His thoughts were heavy, slow. He realized this was where it would end. The desert would take him, his revenge unfulfilled. Hild would never be avenged. Morgyn would never be found. He would never marry Rebekah, never see Freydis grow.

"You look like death," a voice said.

His eyes opened slowly, his vision blurry at first, but he forced himself to focus. Eowyn knelt beside him, she held a cloth in her hand, dabbing it across his sweat-soaked brow.

"Why are you here?" he rasped. His voice was dry and cracked, barely above a whisper.

Eowyn's expression didn't change. "I should ask you the same," she said, her tone even. "Is this where you thought your path would lead?"

Thorfinn swallowed, his throat aching. "I thought I'd see vengeance before I died," he muttered. "Not this."

Eowyn tilted her head slightly, studying him. "Vengeance has led you here, is this what you wanted?"

Thorfinn glared at her. "I don't regret my choices."

She raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his defiance. "Don't you? Then why am I here? Why do I exist in your mind at all?"

He tried to sit up but fell back, the effort draining. "You're a ghost," he spat. "A trick of the desert or my failing mind."

"Perhaps," she said softly. "Or perhaps I'm the part of you that you've been running from."

Thorfinn clenched his fists, his gaze hard. "I don't run. Not from my enemies, and not from you."

Eowyn leaned closer, her voice quieter now. "You don't run, Thorfinn, but you bury. You bury everything—your guilt, your fear, your pain. It's why you've survived, but it's also why you're here, alone, dying in a desert."

His jaw tightened, and he turned his head away. "I don't need guilt. Guilt doesn't build kingdoms."

"No," she said, her voice unwavering. "But it destroys them."

Thorfinn was silent for a moment, his breathing heavy. "What do you want from me, Eowyn? To confess? To apologize?"

Eowyn shook her head. "I don't want anything from you. Maybe it's not me who needs something."

He looked back at her, his eyes narrowing. "I've done what I had to do. I've taken what was mine. That's how the world works."

"Is it?" she asked. "Or is that just what you tell yourself?"

"I don't need to justify myself to you," he snapped. "I took you because you were mine to take. I killed your family because they stood against me."

Eowyn didn't flinch. Her gaze stayed on him, steady and searching. "And did you feel nothing? Not even when I died?"

Thorfinn hesitated, the memory of her burning flashing through his mind. He forced it away, shaking his head. "I didn't kill you. The Druids did."

"And you never stopped them," she replied sharply. "You didn't make it in time, you let me and your child die, were you afraid of them? why didn't you come?"

His throat tightened, and for the first time, he struggled to find words. "I was not afraid! They were cowards," he said finally. "It wasn't supposed to end like that."

"No," she said, her voice softer now. "It wasn't. But it did. And you've carried that weight ever since, whether you admit it or not."

Thorfinn closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "What difference does it make? You're gone. Nothing changes that."

Eowyn leaned closer, her voice quiet but firm. "The difference is what you do with what's left."

He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. "And what if I don't care?"

"But I don't think that's true. Not entirely. You cared for me once, didn't you?" She asked.

Thorfinn's face hardened, but there was a flicker of hesitation. "I don't know," he admitted finally. "Maybe."

Eowyn nodded slowly. "I wonder if perhaps things were different I would've joined you with my sister, and right now you'd be holding your child instead of dying under a rock."

Thorfinn considered that possibility, he had done so many times after her death, about the child he'd never have, maybe even the love that he lost. He stared at her, his mind racing. "What happens next?"

"That's up to you," she said, standing. As she stepped back, her form began to fade. Thorfinn reached out instinctively, his fingers grasping at the air. "Eowyn," he said, his voice hoarse.

Her voice echoed as she disappeared. "Don't bury this, don't bury me. Face it."

He lay there for a long moment, staring at the sky. Slowly, he forced himself to sit up, his body aching. He groaned as he pushed himself up from the rocky ground. His arms shook under his weight, but he forced himself upright. Sand stuck to his sweat-soaked skin as he swayed on unsteady legs, looking out across the desert. The rock's shade had given him only a brief reprieve, but it wasn't enough. The air burned in his lungs with every breath, but he still got up, he refused to let this be where he died.

He began walking again, dragging his feet through the dunes. His throat was raw, each swallow painful as he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible.

"Freyr, gefðu mér styrk. Gefðu mér kraft til að halda áfram. Gefðu mér tækifæri til að hefna mín og vernda fjölskyldu mína."

(Freyja, grant me strength. Grant me the power to continue. Grant me the chance to seek vengeance and see my family again.)

The words were constantly spoken even when his vision was blurring. His hands shook, gripping the straps of his pack as he forced himself to keep moving. Every step felt heavier, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. After some time, he noticed a glint in the distance, a flicker of light that danced across the dunes. His cracked lips parted slightly, hope flaring for the first time in days. It had to be water. It had to be.

He stumbled forward, his pace quickening despite the burning in his legs. The glint grew brighter, the promise of life driving him forward. "Water," he muttered.

But as he neared the source, his hope shattered. The glint of light wasn't water but the reflection of sunlight off something unnatural. The surface shimmered, blending with the sand and sky. His eyes squinted as he tried to make sense of the sight.

The ground beneath him shifted, and before he could react, the sand erupted. From the dune rose a massive scorpion, its body covered in scales so clear they reflected the world around it. The creature's pincers clicked loudly, and its towering stinger loomed over him like a spear poised to strike. Thorfinn's eyes widened. He jumped back instinctively, his footing slipping on the unstable dune. He tumbled down the slope, rolling to a stop at the base just as the scorpion's stinger slammed into the spot he had stood moments before.

Gritting his teeth, Thorfinn drew his sword. His hand trembled as he raised it, his grip unsteady. The scorpion clicked its pincers again and advanced, moving with speed that belied its size. Thorfinn's breath came in short gasps as he circled, trying to keep his distance. The scorpion lunged. Thorfinn ducked beneath the swipe of its pincers, swinging his sword toward its leg. The blade glanced off its hard scales, barely leaving a mark. The creature retaliated, its tail whipping toward him. He rolled to the side, sand flying as the stinger struck the ground where he had been.

He tried to counter, slashing at the creature's exposed underbelly, but his strikes were weak. His arms felt heavy, and his vision swam. He staggered as the scorpion's claw caught his side, throwing him back into the sand. The impact knocked the wind from him, and he struggled to rise. The scorpion loomed over him, its stinger raised high. Thorfinn gritted his teeth and tried to lift his sword again, but his arm felt like lead. The stinger came down, piercing through his shoulder. He let out a guttural cry as pain exploded through him. He fell to the ground, his sword slipping from his grasp. The world blurred around him as he lay there, his body refusing to move. The venom from the sting burned through his veins, and he could feel his strength leaving him. The scorpion raised its stinger again, ready to finish him off.

Suddenly, a spear flew through the air, striking the scorpion's eye. The creature let out a shrill screech, thrashing violently. Another spear followed, embedding itself in its body. The scorpion convulsed, its tail lashing out wildly before it collapsed onto the sand, its movements slowing until it was still.

Thorfinn groaned as he tried to push himself back, his body screaming in protest. His vision darkened at the edges as he fell onto his back. The last thing he saw was a figure approaching, their voice calling his name before everything went black.

(AN: Yeah anyway full chapters are on my Pat if you wanna read them, or wait idm. Anyway hope you enjoyed it.)

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