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The cat’s eyes are green. Geralt can’t remember the last time one of these creatures let him get so close, at least without a hiss and a set of extended claws aimed in his direction. This cat, however, sits placidly and watches him with those wide, green eyes. Something about it is almost unnerving. The urge to reach out hits him, to see if the animal will allow him to stroke its fur, but it passes quickly. There’s no way.
“You’re looking for me. And who might you be? My father send you?”
The voice is crisp, confident, and angry. Back to business.
Outside the building again, his answers gotten, Geralt can’t stop thinking about that cat. It must’ve been a fluke, a one time thing. Maybe it had been sick? He pauses to watch a ginger tabby cat that is sitting on a window ledge nearby, basking in the sun. It’s orange fur glistens in the light. As if it senses his stare, the cat opens its eyes and hisses, arching its back before leaping from the ledge and bounding away. Definitely a one time thing, Geralt decides with a resigned sigh.
~~~~~
He knows the cats eyes are green, even though from this angle and in this lighting he can’t see it. The sight of the animal has distracted him just enough so he almost fumbles his lines, just barely recovering in time. It has to be the same animal. He looks up again, meeting it’s solemn gaze for a moment before the play requires his attention once more.
After the performance is finished, Geralt looks for the cat, but it has disappeared.
~~~~~
The scent of fire is strong in his nose as he strides up the path. Flickering light is now visible before him, flames engulfing the manor house as he approaches. By chance he glances down, and sees a cat run across his path. It turns its head for a moment, and Geralt meets a pair of green eyes, then it vanishes into the dark. For a startlingly long minute, he’s tempted to follow it, to see for himself that it’s the same animal, but then duty reels him back. He has things to do.
~~~~~
He sees the cat again and again, outside the Alchemy, on the pathway to the von Everec estate, in front of the gate that leads to the wedding— everywhere, in fact. Each time he sees it, the animal regards him with nonchalant, vague interest, nothing more, nothing less. It’s quite strange, after so many years of being violently rebuked by the entirety of feline kind, to see a cat that doesn’t appear to hate him on sight.
One night in a small tavern, it jumps up beside him on the wooden table, sitting and neatly wrapping its tail around itself, watching him with those bright green eyes. Without thinking, Geralt reaches out and gives the cat an absent scratch beneath its chin. It closes one eye, leaning into the touch.
“You’re a weird one,” Geralt mumbles, returning to his tankard. He’s been thinking hard since the wedding. It has become crystal clear that he’s managed to once again get in way over his head, but at least his path is relatively clear. The question now is whether or not he can survive that path.
“The house of Maximilian Borsodi now,” he says into his tankard. “This is gonna be a mess.”
The cat meows as if in reply.
~~~~~
It’s been several weeks since he faced Gaunter O’Dimm in his nightmare world and managed to beat the man at his own game. He has dreamed of nothing but that twisted landscape since then, his sleep filled with darkness and the mocking sound of O’Dimm’s echoing laughter.
But time passes, as it does. Events occur and fade into the recent past, and before he knows it, he finds himself caught up in yet another whirlwind of fate.
~~~~~
It’s the same one, Geralt thinks, deeply distracted from the task at hand. It’s a poor moment to be distracted, and a blade picks that very second to whoosh past his nose. Forcing himself to focus on the bandits instead of the gray tabby cat, Geralt fights on, and when the battle is over, the cat is nowhere to be seen.
It strikes Geralt as a bit odd. It’s the first time in months since he’s seen the animal. Maybe it was just his imagination?
~~~~~
Something lands beside him on the bench with a soft thud. Opening his eyes, Geralt looks down, and is unnerved to meet an unwavering, bright green gaze.
“How on earth did you get here?” he asks softly, reaching down to run his hand over the animal’s furry head. A low, rumbling purr sounds from inside its small body. Suddenly, Geralt is young again, a young boy, meeting a stray cat in a village. The animal vibrates beneath his touch, startling and delighting him. He feels an overwhelming surge of fondness.
Geralt blinks and the scenery around him is the inside of a bank once more.
“You’re probably not supposed to be inside,” he tells the cat, standing and preparing himself for another attempt at the teller window. The cat meows quietly, and leaps off the bench, heading for the door. Geralt watches it for a moment, then shakes himself and heads for the nearest clerk.
~~~~~
The smell of herbs hangs around him like an aromatic curtain. He breathes deep, trying to slip into meditation, but the mindless, relaxed state won’t come. He’s too occupied with his current job; it’s eating at him. He can tell that there are going to be many crossroads during this contract, each of whose forks lead to very different endings. He feels faced with one such decision now, and can’t for the life of him figure out what to do about it.
A soft meow startles him into opening his eyes. Before him, sitting in the dirt, is a grey tabby cat with green eyes.
“You again?” Geralt asks disbelievingly. “Cats are supposed to be scared of witchers. Are you cursed or something?”
The cat meows again. It stands, walks forward, and climbs into Geralt’s lap. Geralt is stunned. He freezes, unsure of how to react as the animal curls up and seems to fall asleep. Slowly, carefully, he runs a hand over its soft fur. A rumbling purr begins to resound from the animal. Calmed by the sound and the softness beneath his hands, Geralt closes his eyes, and meditation comes easy, even as his fingers continue to stroke over the warm body in his lap.
~~~~~
Blood paints the streets. Bodies lie in pieces on the cobblestones, and the gutters run with gore. Vampires screech and hiss, their keening cries grating like nails in Geralt’s ears. Sword drawn, he runs down the street, senses alert, ready for attack. What they aren’t ready for is for him to see a grey tabby cat sitting on a window ledge, watching him intently. He only catches a glimpse of the animal before a shrill cry fills his ears and he has to dodge away from a set of monstrous claws, but the image of it stays in his mind. Why does he keep seeing that same cat in so many places? The oddness of it floats around in his head like fog as he repels yet another vampire, but he does his best to shove it down and not dwell on it. Dwelling on something other than his current objective could get him killed, especially at this very moment.
~~~~
Geralt stops dead in his tracks. The fantasy world illusion sparkles around him, yet beside the road, sitting on the rock wall there, is a grey tabby cat.
“Do you see that?” he asks, his voice just a little unsteady. Syanna follows his gaze, then scoffs.
“There are plenty of cats in this illusion, why would you get worked up over one that doesn’t even glow or talk?”
The witcher scowls and doesn’t reply, but he keeps his eyes on the animal until they walk past it. Even then, he glances over his shoulder twice to see if it has disappeared. Both times it’s still there, still watching him.
~~~~~
The moment Geralt steps out through the prison gate, he sees it, the same cat, the same exact one. Unable to help himself, Geralt walks over to it, crouching in front of the animal. He examines it carefully, but it does nothing but look up at him with its bright green gaze.
“Are you really just a cat?” he asks it softly, reaching out to scratch it under the chin. “Maybe you’re a cursed human, like the wight.” He pauses for a breath. “I hope you’re not something worse.”
“Geralt?” someone calls from nearby. The witcher looks up, and sees Regis.
“Geralt, what are you doing?” the vampire asks, approaching cautiously. “I thought cats hate witchers.”
“Usually they do,” Geralt replies, standing to clasp forearms with his friend. “I have no idea why this one seems to have taken a shine to me.”
Regis stares down at the cat, and for a moment he looks puzzled.
“No matter,” he says finally. “I’m pleased to see that Dandelion managed to spring you from that place.”
“Me too. Come on, I’m starving. We can talk on the way back to Corvo Bianco.”
~~~~~
“This is a bit surreal,” Geralt says, talking to himself as he sits on a bench in one of the gardens on his estate. He sips from his wine glass. “Everything has been wrapped up. Almost unnaturally so.”
Scratching his beard, he looks around, and is almost unsurprised to see a gray tabby cat approaching from the distance. It reaches the bench and jumps up beside him. He gives it an absent scratch.
“Something is still bothering me,” he tells the cat. “I can’t quite figure out what it is though. Some sort of unfinished business, an untied end…” he trails off, thinking hard. What could it be? The cat meows, and suddenly he sees flames, a burning manor house. He smells flowers, hears laughter. Dark, twisted trees dance before his eyes, and though the laughter persists, it becomes echoey, mocking.
“Oh,” Geralt says, feeling his stomach lurch. In the chaos that had led him all over land of Toussaint, he had completely forgotten about—
“Gaunter O’Dimm,” he breathes. He couldn’t have possibly gotten rid of O’Dimm permanently. Creatures like him weren’t the kind who bowed to the laws of mortality. He is sure to return eventually, and Geralt knows that he very well might have to face the full brunt of his displeasure.
“And so you finally remember me. I’m honored.”
If there is one sound that is the last thing Geralt wants to hear right now, it’s the sound of that particular voice. He’s on his feet before he can think, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword that isn’t there.
“Come now, Geralt,” the voice says, words touched with scorn. “You should know better by now.”
Geralt can’t tell where the voice is coming from. He casts warily around, but can’t see anything out of the ordinary. Then his eyes fall on the cat.
“It can’t—” he begins, but in the time it takes for him to blink once, the cat vanishes, and in its place sits a man whom Geralt has partly been hoping he would never have to see again. The other part of him squirms oddly, but he squashes it without mercy. He stares, lost for words as the impact of this appearance finally registers in his mind.
“You— the cat—” he whispers, and without warning he is filled with a boiling mixture of fear, fury, and what can only be betrayal. He had been growing quite fond of the cat, and had even begun to almost expect its strange appearances, but now as his brain whirs like a trapped insect, it all begins to make sense.
“You were watching— the whole time?!” Geralt snarls. He can’t understand why this is making him feel so strangely, so violently angry. Am I embarrassed? he thinks wildly. He’d unwittingly showed this man a vulnerable side of himself, unwittingly asked him for advice on personal problems, on his own moral dilemmas.
“I’m surprised you hadn’t expected that,” Gaunter says, crossing his legs and folding his hands over his knees. He is smiling his favorite curved, cat-like smile. It makes Geralt even angrier to think of the expression that way now, and for a long moment he can’t breathe, can’t form the words to express the pandemonium inside him.
“Why?” he finally manages. “Why did you do this? Were you playing some sort of sick mind game with me? Earning my trust as an animal? Is this your way of paying me back?”
“I can assure you, witcher, my intentions were nothing of the sort, though your anger is indeed quite gratifying.”
“Then why?”
Gaunter stands, unfurling his body with languid grace. He stretches and strolls toward Geralt, who is ardently wishing that he had some sort of weapon on his person, even though it probably wouldn’t be of much use against this particular foe. The man stops in front of him— way too close —and scrutinizes Geralt’s twitching, grimacing face with something akin to pleasure written plainly across his features.
“It’s good to see you again, Geralt of Rivia,” he says, his voice quiet.
“I don’t think I can say the same,” Geralt grits out. The scent of spices on the man’s breath is incredibly distracting. Gaunter chuckles and shakes his head.
“You fail to surprise me,” he says, still smiling.
“So sorry,” the witcher retorts, still pushing the words through gritted teeth. “I’ll try harder next time.”
Gaunter’s eyes flash.
“Again, predictable,” he says. “Where is all your lovely, unpredictable impulsiveness? Your quick wit, your sharp mind? Have you gone soft in my absence?”
Geralt stares down at him, then his rage abruptly dwindles, vanishing altogether. All he is left with is a deep-rooted sadness, one that tugs at him in a way that makes his heart ache.
“I used to love cats when I was a boy,” he says quietly. “Then after the mutations, they wouldn’t come near me, or if they did it was to attack.” He sighs. “I suppose I should’ve known better than to believe that this was anything other than a trick.”
“Perhaps,” Gaunter replies. Something that isn’t the usual, casual friendliness or mockery crosses his face for a brief moment. “Or perhaps it was something else, entirely.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Gaunter blinks slowly, his dark eyes suddenly thoughtful, almost confused.
“What indeed,” he finally says, then he turns and walks away.