The Witcher x King Alfred

The Witcher x King Alfred

Robyn aka DxTURA just made a dream come true: he wrote this awesome fanfic in which The Witcher meets King Alfred, for which he used my translation of the first story as well as my own fanfic about King Alfred. Yeah! What a great way to start the new year! ^_^ Thank you so much, Robyn.

They called him the White Wolf. Rivian Trash. The liar. The thief. The one who wouldn’t rest until every nook and cranny he traveled through was plagued with one curse or another.

One moment strangers would treat him with kindness, and the next moment they would shout obscenities and throw all sorts of glassware, weapons, and other miscellaneous objects in his direction. Women would pull their children close while men would make sure to leave a cut or three on him.

They believed he was there to cause problems, when – in truth – he was looking for answers of his own.

Geralt. That was his name, not like anyone cared. He was by no means an old one – unless, of course – one judged by the soul. His hair was white, laced up under the neck and on the shoulders. He always walked on foot and by the bridle, usually leading a heavily packed horse although after today’s bout? Not much remained.

Snow tangoed with the wind that blew against the frosty trees. He could see his own breath, and his body trembled – part in cold and part in wounds. He had wrapped some clothes around the wounds he sustained, and decided it would be best to walk a path that wasn’t well-traversed at this time of night. He feared, with his hometown making the rounds, he would be spotted and ambushed on site.

He was sure he could take them. He just didn’t want to.

Each slow step he took crunched against the small amounts of snow and grass. He put a break in his movements, however, upon hearing quick, clattering movements coming from in front of him.

He unsheathed his sword and pointed it forward. Blurs of browns, silvers, and blacks formed into easier shapes. People. People in robes and armor. People that were coming toward him. So people did still use this route.

The trio of horsemen stopped dead in their tracks, although one – presumably the leader – took a few more steps forward.

They and Geralt stared at one another, although the White Wolf only pointed his sword further forward. It was that alone that made the person laugh a short and soft laugh. A man’s voice.

The man pulled his hood off and began speaking at once. “Well. This is certainly a greeting I’ve had many a time before. Come now, good sir. There’s no need to prepare for battle in quiet times like these.”

Geralt eyed him from head to toe. It was a man wearing a circular, golden piece of headwear. His hair was a precise brunette curtain, swept over a broad forehead. His nose was thin and sharp. His eyes were brown, and somehow expressed sadness and hope simultaneously.

Geralt eyed him from head to toe. It was a man wearing a circular, golden piece of headwear. His hair was a precise brunette curtain, swept over a broad forehead. His nose was thin and sharp. His eyes were brown, and somehow expressed sadness and hope simultaneously.

He kept his sword out, but set it to his side. The other merely nodded in response, though his expression narrowed soon after.

“You’re hurt.”

Geralt blinked, but said nothing.

The man turned to the others; he must be of great import if they were dressed the way they were. How interesting.

“Set up camp in the trees nearby. We will stay here for tonight.”

“Sir.” The two responded in unison and began unpacking with haste.

He turned back to Geralt, who – honestly – if he kept boring his eyes into the others like that, he just might burn them off the surface. He extended a hand out to them.

“Those wounds will get infected if you don’t tend to them.” He was smiling. Had he been smiling this entire time? “You look like you need a rest, too. Come. Stay the night with us and recover.”

Geralt finally spoke out. “That won’t be necessary.”

The regal stranger sized him up again. That accent wasn’t anything he’d heard before. Similar to some, but not exact.

“The winter is deadly, you know. Something tells me you’re not going to last long in your travels like this.”

Geralt pursed his lips. They weren’t wrong; his horse had slowed and constantly tilted his head towards him as if searching for some sort of sustenance. They had torn apart his goods and ransacked him in the previous town.

Any longer and he might just have nothing but his weapons and flesh.

The man came closer with a torn piece of his robe in his hands. Geralt gripped his hilt, ready to slice him down if need be.

Yet, all they did was gently touch his arm and wrap it around a cut that had blood trickling down the shoulder. When did that one get there?

“Alfred, king of Wessex.” He uttered softly, “We were making our way back home and felt the long way around would’ve made for a nice scenic trip. We should have expected the snow, though.”

Geralt tensed and didn’t move. How long has it been since such kindness graced his presence?

“From where do you hail, good sir?”

Geralt didn’t respond to that.

“Far off, huh? No matter. Explains your accent.” The way Alfred pointed it out wasn’t volatile by any means. Did he not know of Rivia? “Come, come. We’ve packed enough food to share with others as well. My men won’t hurt you.”

“Most kings would send their men to smite on the spot.” Geralt finally mustered a response. Alfred had finished wrapping the wound up and stepped back.

“Well. I’m not like most kings.” He smiled, “Being honest, it is not everyday we see a man such as yourself walking about like this. It is a death wish. A death wish that makes me want to learn more about yourself.”

He turned his back to Geralt and shuffled over to the trees the small smoke was coming from. His horse had already been taken by the others while they were chatting.

“Geralt.” Alfred stopped in his tracks.


“Geralt.” He finally sheathed his sword and was right behind him not long after. “Geralt of Rivia. You have my utmost gratitude.”

Alfred’s smile grew wider, and he extended his hands out. “A pleasure. Come. Let’s talk more after we warm and stuff you silly.”

Republished with the author’s permission.

My name is Martine and I am writing my PhD about the Cyborg Mermaid. On this website, you’ll find blogs about autism, cyborgs, fan fiction, King Alfred of Wessex, mermaids, music & musicology, martial arts, (neuro)psychology, video games, and random nerdiness.

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