Lord of the Forest - A Witcher Fanfic

The wind carried the songs of the druids through the sacred grove, their chants blending with the low rustle of ancient oaks. A fire crackled in the center of the gathering, its embers spiraling into the star-streaked sky. Above, the heavens displayed a rare celestial phenomenon: the Aurora Borealis, its rippling greens and golds illuminating the grove with an unearthly glow. It was the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year, and the air felt charged with magic—as though the forest itself anticipated something extraordinary.

Druids from all corners of Skellige had convened for this ritual. They stood in concentric circles around the roaring fire, their robes adorned with symbols of nature—leaves, vines, and the intricate runes of their order. At the head of the assembly stood the Ancient Druid, a figure both frail and commanding. Their staff, twisted from oak and crowned with a crescent of silver, reflected the shifting colors of the Aurora.

"Tonight, the veil thins," the Ancient Druid intoned, their voice rising above the chanting. "The earth and heavens align, and the wilds whisper truths yet untold."

The chants ceased, leaving the grove in expectant silence. The wind stilled, and the animals gathered at the edges of the clearing—wolves, foxes, owls—seemed to hold their breath. The fire's light flickered, casting shadows that danced like living things against the surrounding trees. The Ancient Druid raised their staff high, their eyes closed in deep concentration.

Then, it happened.

The flames surged upward, bright as the sun, and the ground trembled faintly beneath the druids' feet. A palpable energy coursed through the grove, as if the forest itself had awakened. When the Ancient Druid spoke again, their voice was no longer their own. It echoed, layered and resonant, as though the words came from the heart of the earth.

"When the longest night descends and the wild winds wail,

A child shall rise, born of two paths.

Rooted in the earth, yet destined for greatness.

Trials will shape him; sacrifice will define him.

When the Hunt comes for the living,

He will stand where others fall.

Keeper of the wild's heart,

Lord of the untamed."

The prophecy ended, but the forest's reaction lingered. The trees groaned as if exhaling a deep breath, their branches swaying despite the stillness of the air. The Aurora brightened, bathing the druids in its ethereal light, then began to fade, leaving the grove in near darkness. Whispers spread among the gathered druids, their voices hushed and reverent.

The Ancient Druid lowered their staff and staggered slightly, supported by a younger druid. Their face, lined with age, was pale but resolute. "The earth has spoken," they murmured. "The wilds have chosen."

News of the prophecy spread like wildfire across the windswept isles of Skellige.

Among the smaller clans, like the Tuirseachs and Brokvars, the prophecy ignited tensions. Druids claimed to have seen signs of its fulfillment in strange births or peculiar omens. Some clans sent their warriors to search for the prophesied child, while others grew paranoid, fearing that rival clans might exploit the prophecy for power. Rumors of newborns with unusual markings spread, and many mothers whispered prayers that their children would not be taken.

Far from Skellige, in the frozen peaks of the Amell Mountains, the School of the Bear received the news with a mixture of cynicism and curiosity. The witchers, hardened by centuries of isolation and brutality, gathered around their firelit hall as a messenger recounted the prophecy.

"Another chosen one?" one witcher sneered, his voice rough with derision. "The last one we heard of fell to a pack of drowners."

"They always fall," another muttered. "Fate likes its irony."

Thorolf, however, sat in silence, his bear medallion resting heavily against his chest. The words of the prophecy stirred something deep within him, a sense of foreboding he could not ignore. "Riddles," he said finally, his voice low and thoughtful, "but no less dangerous for it. If it's true, it'll draw blood—ours or theirs."

Years passed as the prophecy spread, the political landscape of Skellige began to shift. Alliances were forged and broken, with clans positioning themselves to either support or discredit the druids. Ailsa, living quietly in the sacred forest, became aware of these changes. Whispers reached her ears of warriors scouring the isles for signs of the prophesied child. She tightened the wards around her home, her heart heavy with uncertainty of what was to come.

It was during this time that Ailsa began to sense a change within herself. She moved slower, her body heavy with a quiet certainty. She placed her hands over her abdomen one night and felt it: a spark of life, fragile yet fierce. The realization brought tears to her eyes.

Months later, and Ailsa prepared herself for what lay ahead. She strengthened the protective magics surrounding her sanctuary and confided in the Ancient Druid, who vowed to keep her secret safe. Together, they worked to ensure that the child would be born far from prying eyes.

The sacred forest temple was quiet, save for the occasional crack of ice breaking in the nearby stream. Snow blanketed the ground, muffling the sounds of the world, yet the air was alive with an undercurrent of anticipation. Within the temple, druids moved with purpose, their robes swishing softly as they prepared for the momentous event.

Ailsa lay on a bed of moss and woven blankets, her breaths shallow but steady. Her dark hair clung to her damp forehead, and her emerald eyes were fixed on the temple's ceiling, where roots wove together like a protective canopy. The elder druids surrounded her, chanting softly in the old tongue, their voices a steady rhythm that filled the sacred space.

The labor was long, and the winter night stretched on. Yet when the child was born, the forest seemed to exhale. A light breeze swept through the temple, carrying with it the faint scent of blooming flowers—an impossibility in the dead of winter. Outside, wolves howled, their voices rising in a harmonious chorus that sent shivers through the druids' spines.

Ailsa held her son close, tears streaming down her face. His eyes, a piercing blue, blinked up at her with an awareness that felt almost otherworldly. "Eldric," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Eldric Freysson."

The druids murmured their approval, repeating the name like a prayer. One by one, they stepped forward to bless the child, placing their hands on his head or whispering words of protection. Finally, the Ancient Druid approached, his steps slow but deliberate. He knelt beside Ailsa, his gaze fixed on the newborn.

"Eldric Freysson," the Ancient Druid said, his voice thick with emotion. "The wilds have waited for you." They straightened, lifting their staff. "Great Mother of the Untamed, Keeper of Balance, I beseech you: bless this child. If he is to carry the burdens foretold, grant him your grace and guidance."

The temple fell silent. The air grew heavy, charged with unseen power. The fire blazed brighter, casting long, flickering shadows. The roots above began to glow faintly, their tendrils seeming to reach toward the center of the room. A gust of wind swept through the temple, extinguishing all but the central fire.

Then, a voice—soft, ethereal, and absolute—whispered through the air: "So be it."