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thedreamlessnights · 1 year

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Accismus - pt. 3

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Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: The path to Novigrad proves dangerous as you and Geralt are forced to shelter in a cave. You learn more about the man behind the ballads.

Warnings: Mentions of blood, corpses and death, and retching. Graphic descriptions of a monster death, fire and smoke, and being choked (not in a sexual way). Lots of sexual tension, though.

Word Count: 11.8k

A/N: Sorry for the long wait in between chapters, this bastard chapter simply would not end. Apparently, this fic has also decided to be really long, seeing as it's now over 20k and barely into the story. Anyway, hope you enjoy. Comments and reblogs are incredibly appreciated!

You don’t remember how you got here - this decaying old house.

You don’t recognize it. It’s drafty and creaking and smells of rot, and yet… you know it, somehow. There’s an old fireplace in the kitchen. Molding food sits on the table. Something at the back of your mind is screaming for you to leave, but where will you go? It’s snowing, after all. Can it really be winter already?

Your knees bend of their own accord to tend to the flame, the way you have for years. In this place, your body has a mind of its own, seeking your survival.

Warmth, that’s what you need. A full belly and a warm place to sleep. But there’s no kindling in the fireplace - only a long, heavy knife resting in the old, grey ash. You stow the knife on your belt. It’s bound to come in handy later.

A shame about the fire, though. Any wood from the snow will be soaked through. Your knees creak as you rise. It seems you haven’t stood in years.

You open the door to find that everything outside is covered in a layer of white, but the smell of it is all wrong. Snow is crisp and clean and good. This is… bitter. Fermented. Putrefied.

The substance crunches under your feet, but the sound is wrong, too. It crackles - akin to dead leaves at the end of autumn. The thick heaviness of snow, trodden into the soles of boots - it is simply not there.

On impulse and nothing else, you reach down and brush the tips of your fingers to it. It’s hot to the touch.

Something is so very wrong about this place, but you can’t decipher exactly what it is. Everything is off and crooked and distorted from where it should be, but your memory is a fuzz and you can’t remember what things are right.

You really should get back inside now.

Which way did you come from again? You can’t recall. Nothing looks familiar. Everything is just white. You close your eyes for a moment and breathe. The bitter fragrance of the false snow is still there, coating the inside of your mouth like soot.

There’s no wind. No sound. Stillness, emptiness - that’s all this place is. You open your eyes again ever-so-slowly, as if what you might see is better left unseen. But there’s nothing.

Nothing but a house directly behind you - how could possibly you have missed it? It’s not the one you just came from, though. This is your house, with the warm sheets you’d saved up so long for, and warm, fresh bread on the table, and smoke so thick it chokes your breath.

This is your house, and it’s on fire. Your hands are burning, but you don’t know how. You’ve kept them close to you all this time, haven’t you? Haven’t you?

An answer never comes. Smoke is now your world, and it’s starved. Smoke eats away the air, and your lungs, and your flesh. It takes your bones, your body, your still-pounding heart. It chokes you, scalds your throat, chars your esophagus all the way down to your stomach.

Smoke is indigestible. Your stomach won’t take it. It retches it back out and you choke up bile alone. Tears burn at your eyes.

You can’t see, and you can barely hear. The world is just heat and smoke and hunger and gasping breaths and your damaged airway, and the smoke can only do what it knows how to do: consume.

Hands are around your neck, cold and cruel. A knife is heavy in your hand. A man is choking on his blood. A woman is still in your arms, and it’s your fault. You loved her, but you can’t remember her name.

And all of the world is just smoke. You’ll join it, soon. You’ve spent so long trying to get out, but you’re so tired now. Your muscles have gone to dust. Your bones have crumbled. Everything is so dark…

Your hands. Your hands are burning.

Your eyes shoot open with a start, and you inhale clean, good air through working lungs. When the blur of sleep fades, you find nothing but the golden glow of soft light through cracks in the wood.

No smoke. No fire. No snow, even. Just a dream, like all the others.

Another terrible fucking dream.

The memories seem cursed to follow you forever. They give you no mercy in your sleep. Your hands are stinging again - it must have been what woke you up.

Little by little, the fears and pain begin to dull.

The inn. Slowly, it becomes a silent mantra for yourself. You’re at the inn. You’d slept here, and now you’re awake again, and there was no fire, or smoke, or ash. Even the flame that once roared in the fireplace last night is gone, orange embers flickering in its absence. The room is still warm, though.

You turn to look for Geralt’s sleeping form, but find nothing in his place. The bed next to you is empty. Geralt is nowhere to be found.

Panic jolts through you like ice through your veins. No, no, no, you think. Your eyes dart around the room over and over, as if he might appear out of nowhere. But he’s not sitting at the table. He’s not in the bath. He’s not in the bed. Even his things are gone.

You don’t know what to do. You numbly sit up and stare blankly around the room, pondering whether or not you’re still dreaming. But no, this is no dream. Your skin stings when you pinch it, and your mind is alert and responsive - this is all much too real.

How’d he gotten past the djinn’s protective field? Had he found something on djinns in his reading, and somehow managed to break the wish? But why wouldn’t he have woken you? That’s the thing you can’t get past. Why had he left you sleeping and alone? Even after a day, it doesn’t seem like him.

Gods, what now?

Should you stay in town, attempt to make a living somehow? That money won’t last forever. You could take your horse and look for someplace to go, but where? You have no home to return to. No friends, no family. All your possessions are with you - coin, some clothes, and food.

No, something must be wrong. Surely Geralt would have told you he was leaving. He hadn’t even said goodbye. Did something happen? Was there a struggle? Is he—

You suddenly bolt to your feet, bracing yourself for the sight of blood, or worse - but find something else entirely: Geralt.

Alive and well, from what you can see, and asleep on the floor.

Your breath escapes you in a burst of sheer relief. Of course. It should have been your first guess, but… well, your mind isn’t fully awake yet, and you’re far more accustomed to things going wrong than them going right. Why’s he on the floor, anyway? Had he fallen off?

You can really only see his legs from where you’re standing: his trousers, instantly recognizable. But despite everything logically telling you otherwise, you’re still scared he’s somehow gone - so you risk a careful step further to take in his sleeping form.

Geralt’s eyes are closed and he’s laying on his side, left arm tucked underneath his head. Some of his hair is loose around his face, stray strands disrupted by his sleep. The rise and fall of his chest is soft and even, and he looks much younger while asleep, more relaxed. You’d wager that most people do. Maybe even you.

He’s next to a scattering of papers and his armor. His boots sit on the floor at the front of the bed, along with the rest of his things.

You can’t help watching him for a moment, taking in his features in a way you’d never be able to do when he’s awake.

There are some scars on his right arm, lines of raised skin that aren’t covered by his shirt. He must have more. How many?

You picture what it would be like to run your fingers over them, lazily tracing along each line. Your cheeks slowly heat with guilt, but his skin looks so very soft. You know from the experience of his touch that his hands are callused, but the rest of his skin looks velvety and smooth.

His hair, too. In the wake of last night’s bath, it’s clean and shiny. You’d like to run your hands through it. You’d like to trace down, over his cheeks, following the scar above his brow. The small one on his nose.

You’d… you’d like him to touch you, too. To study the feel of your skin, and gently graze his knuckles against your cheek. To lean in, and cup your jaw, and –

Enough. You shouldn’t want that. You shouldn’t be thinking about that. Why is Geralt on the floor?

Another glance at him reveals the sight of a blanket tossed over his lower half - one of the soft, fur blankets from the inn’s bed.

He hadn’t fallen off, you realize with a sudden pang in your chest. He’d slept on the floor on purpose.

The familiar feeling of guilt returns, clenching in your chest. Had you talked in your sleep? Kicked him? As far as you know, you don’t do either of those things. Or… you haven’t done it before, at least. Had he simply felt uncomfortable sharing the bed? In that case, you would have gladly taken the floor, and wouldn’t have minded it a single bit.

As quietly as you can, you sneak back into the bed, lay down, and close your eyes.

Sleep doesn’t come again, and you don’t search for it. Time passes - an hour, maybe more? Your mind races over and over, wishing that you could go back in time, that Geralt hadn’t slept on the floor, that you’d offered to do so first. Your hands are stinging something fierce.

When he finally stirs: the sound of a long inhale, the shifting of the blanket - you stay where you are, eyes closed, rolled onto your side with your back toward him. He sits down on the bed and starts putting his armor on again. You can tell he’s trying to be quiet.

So a moment later, you let yourself move, faking the dregs of sleep, and Geralt pauses for a moment.

“Morning,” he says. His voice is hoarse with drowsiness, making heat flutter under your skin. He resumes the donning of his armor, slightly turning his head toward you as he speaks. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” you murmur. “You?”

“Can’t complain,” he says.

Liar, you think, almost smugly. Really, you’re glad you aren’t the only one.

“Better head out soon if we want to get you those gloves,” he continues. “Market’ll start crowding up before long.” His voice is soft, and the remnants of sleep have faded from it. Once he’s got his chest armor on, he stands, moving to the front of the bed for his boots.

You watch him for a moment, then give a nod he doesn’t see. “Alright.”

It doesn’t take you very long to get ready. You don’t have much. A little food in your satchel, your clean and dirty clothes, your coin. You’re ready to go before he is.

When he’s finished, you swing your satchel over your shoulder and the two of you head out. You can only hope it won’t be as bad as it was yesterday.

The market is crowded, even this early, and you’re downright elated to leave this town - though you’ll surely miss the comforts of the inn. People won’t stop giving Geralt strange looks and jabbering out insults they don’t even bother to soften. Some of them look downright hostile at the very sight of him being there. He pays them no mind, but you find yourself antsy and scrambling from place to place in an effort to get out sooner. More food, more drink, and better gloves - they’re not hard to find.

Then comes more riding.

The pain is less than yesterday, and the pace is slower. You feel much more comfortable around Geralt than you had - knowing him more, knowing he’s patient. All of that is better.

But it’s hot, even more than it had been. There’s a mugginess to the air, brought on by dark clouds that seem to endlessly border the sky, blocking out the sun but not the heat.

Sweat trickles down your neck and forehead and back, and you have to fight to avoid giving a groan - at this rate, your clothes will be just as filthy as they were yesterday.

The riding gloves you’d bought at the market bring huge amounts of relief from the torture that was yesterday’s ride, and it’s much better to give your horse more rein like Geralt had suggested - but the wounds still hurt. The bandages make your hands stiff, too, and it’s harder to grip anything.

Then it starts to rain.

It comes on slowly at first, a soft drizzle, barely noticeable. It’s even pleasant as it continues, cool and sweet on your skin against the terrible heat of the sun. You start to hope it’ll rain for the rest of the day.

Your wish unfortunately seems to be granted, because it gradually begins to pour. Droplets hit your head and slowly dampen your clothes. Water starts to trickle down your face. It doesn’t stop, and it doesn’t slow - it continues until it’s soaked you and Geralt through, down to the very bone. Your thighs begin to chafe against the saddle, painful friction from the wet fabric of your clothes against leather.

The sky darkens until everything is grey. The combination of the wind and rain becomes painful, stinging against your skin as it hits. The dirt beneath Mead’s hooves becomes mud, slick enough that she’s slipping, and Roach is, too. Geralt mutters soft words of comfort to keep her calm. You don’t trust yourself to speak. You just pat Mead’s neck and hope she won’t buck you off.

As the rain relentlessly comes down, Geralt’s pace - and subsequently, yours - becomes nothing more than a canter, then a light trot. Any faster, and you’ll both end up in six inches of mud.

You can’t stop shivering, teeth clenched as you ride. But there’s nowhere around here to stop, nowhere for shelter, so the two of you are forced to go on.

Geralt checks in on you every so often, asking if you’re alright. If you weren’t feeling the need to lie through your teeth, you might appreciate it. You aren’t alright, but there really is nothing Geralt can do about that. He’s undoubtedly in the same boat that you are: drenched, miserable, and hungry.

Just as it’s starting to thunder and spook the horses, the two of you come upon a cave. The sight of it seems like a miracle. The sky is only getting darker, Roach and Mead are only getting more anxious, and the rain is so thick you can barely see Geralt in front of you. But you know what he’s thinking when he stops, eyes raking over the cave, hesitantly stalling his hands on the reins.

The two of you have no idea what’s in that place. If any danger comes, you’ll have to be within ten paces of him. You’re no witcher, you’re unarmed, and in there, there could be bandits, trolls, drowners - or worse.

“Gotta get out of this rain,” Geralt finally decides. “The horses won’t take much more.”

And so, the two of you head off the road.

The ground at the entrance is flat, making for a good place to bring Mead and Roach in for shelter. The cave’s beginning consists of a large, open cavern, and nothing inside seems to be alive, aside from a few patches of puffballs. Some animal skeletons lay on the ground, but they look well-aged. Nothing recent. No rotting carcasses.

Somehow, that fact doesn’t comfort you.

Further in is a tunnel - one neither you nor Geralt seems particularly eager to go near. Instead, you make camp where you are.

There’s no wood in here, and the pieces you’ve brought in from outside are soaked through. You gather some loose moss for kindling, but all it’ll do is smoke.

For a moment, your dream flashes in front of your eyes. You shut them and shake your head, willing the image to vanish. After all that’s happened, it isn’t the flame that scares you. It’s the thick, heavy smoke that once choked your lungs. That seared from the inside out.

Ignoring the echoes of memories, you stack some wet logs and attempt to light them. They don’t take. Fuck, you think. No fire. A damp, freezing cave, no bed or blankets, and no fire. At least you’re alive.

But Geralt comes up from behind you, simply flicks his fingers in the direction of the logs, and a roaring orange flame starts in the small pit you’d made.

You can’t help staring at him in awe. Magic. It has to be. You weren’t aware witchers used magic. Or maybe they don’t, and it’s just him? In any case, you cozy up to the warmth, and Geralt does too, taking a seat across from you and resting his hands on his thighs.

The shadows of the flame paint him with harshness and distortion - hollowing out the bones under his eyes, under his nose and cheeks, sharpening and accentuating his features. It only makes you want to stare at him more.

Everything does. Every small detail.

You look away, but there’s not much to look at in here, and your eyes eventually roam back to him. He seems lost in thought, gaze intently focused on absolutely nothing. Hesitantly, you allow yourself to take in a little more.

He’s soaked to the bone. Stray strands of his hair cling against his forehead. In the light, his eyes are almost molten - even more gold than usual, reflecting the dancing flames in front of him. They stay solely aimed at the fire, at first.

Then they slowly move up to your face.

You’re staring.

With a jolt, you look away and start rummaging through your bag for some food. Geralt doesn’t move, doesn’t even look away. He just stares at you, waiting. You can feel his gaze scanning over your features.

When your resolve finally breaks and you meet his eyes again, he lifts a brow. Does he know? Does your face give that much away?

“I didn’t know witchers could start fires,” you say. A feeble attempt to cover for your actions.

“Igni,” he says. “Basic magic. Every young witcher is taught to use it.”

“Handy.”

He hums in agreement, and his eyes finally leave your face as he turns toward his things.

It’s not cold enough for hypothermia, but it is cold enough to be very uncomfortable, and you’d be a fool not to appreciate Geralt’s fire. You take off your gloves and wet boots and socks, try to rub warmth into your feet, then try to warm your clothes by sitting in front of the flame. Your shivering lessens. Your clothes become damp instead of soaked through.

Geralt, meanwhile, pulls out some supplies and starts to make some sort of potion over the fire. You don’t recognize it. An unidentified spirit, some berbercane fruit, and mysterious bits of some form of tissue. From what you can see, you’d guess it’s a tongue, but it definitely isn’t human. Too long. Differently colored. From what species, then?

You decide halfway through watching him that you don’t want to know.

When he’s finished, he pours the liquid into a vial and hooks it onto his belt. Is it you, or is it getting colder?

“Better get some sleep while you can,” Geralt says. “I’ll keep watch.”

But you don’t want to sleep. You’re sore and wet and cold, and you know what you’ll see and what you’ll feel. You’re exhausted to the bone and ache from head to toe, but you’d still rather drag yourself around like a heavy sack than go through those nightmares again.

“I’m not tired,” you murmur. “You can sleep, though. I’ll keep watch, wake you if anything-”

Your words cut off as Geralt suddenly goes tense, muscles drawing tight as he freezes in place. His eyes focus on a point behind you, and his head turns the slightest bit to the side, as if he’s honing his hearing in on a distant sound.

After a long, anxious moment on your part, he moves. His hand slowly reaches behind him - fuck, he’s grabbing for his blade, should you start moving? But instead of drawing it, he keeps his hand still on the handle, eyes darkened and narrowed.

When you muster up the courage to turn around, heart thumping so much it seems to crash against your ribs, you see nothing. Just the cave, and the long, dark tunnel.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice barely over a whisper.

“Something’s coming.”

He stays still a moment longer. Then his sword slides out of its sheath with a hiss of metal - a fluid motion, faster than you can blink.

You’re on your feet immediately, still barefoot, hands empty. Anxious to do something, anything. You find yourself moving behind Geralt, feeling frustrated and antsy, hair standing up from the nape of your neck down to the skin on your arms.

“Know how to use a crossbow?” he asks.

“No.”

His brows rise - more for himself than you. “Huh. Hope you’re a fast learner. Should’ve taught you sooner, really.”

Surely he must be joking, he can’t really want you to shoot, but - no, he’s serious: pulling the bow off his back, loading it up in a flash, and shoving it in your hands. They’re better than yesterday, but they still hurt.

“Trigger’s here, at the bottom,” Geralt says. “Only use it if you have no other choice. Aim first, then press the trigger.”

You gawk at him, but he’s already turned away from you. “Any other useful tips?”

“Sure. Don’t point it at me.”

“Thanks. Very helpful.”

He hums in response, but the sound is distracted. His fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword as he rolls his shoulders.

It’s definitely colder now. You’ve started shivering again. The horses buck and whinny as fog starts to roll into the cave. Thunder crashes overhead, shaking the ground, and the crossbow feels slick in your hands.

“Geralt?”

“Yeah?”

His voice is tense and distant: distracted.

“Don’t die.”

He huffs, smiling a little. “Not planning on it.”

More fog is rolling into the cave - a grey, dirty fog accompanied by a terrible, inhuman snarling.

“Shit,” Geralt says. “A foglet. Stay back as much as you can.”

You back away from him in horror. That fucking djinn couldn’t have allowed you twenty steps instead of ten? What kind of shitty protection puts you in more danger?

The snarling finally comes closer, and Geralt makes a movement with his fingers. A purple circle of light forms on the ground beneath him. More magic.

Your heart pounds so fiercely that you feel it might take a year off your life.

Then, to your left, comes a vicious growl as a creature appears out of the mist. It moves too fast for you to get a good look, but it’s clearly not there to have a friendly chat. It creeps toward Geralt, hops behind him, and swipes.

Geralt smoothly dodges the attack, disrupting the fog as he takes a defensive stance with his blade, circling around the foglet. It swipes at him again, and again, he dodges. Your vision fuzzes. He’s too far. You take a couple steps closer, and the feeling fades.

Geralt is fast: ridiculously so. Faster than your mind can truly take in, darting from one place to the next. Each step the foglet takes, Geralt is with it - jumping out of the way, calculated, graceful movements that you can barely follow. Every so often, the wish pulls at you and you’re forced to follow, tense but fascinated.

The foglet snarls, striking out and missing as Geralt dodges then counter-attacks, flitting in close. His sword comes down in a glint of silver and strikes the creature’s shoulder. Blood splatters near your feet.

The creature howls in pain, then it’s… it’s gone.

Wait, - no, not gone. Invisible. There’s still movement. The fog follows where it goes, and Geralt is tracking its actions with his eyes, waiting. A predator, tensing for his prey.

Then, just as the foglet reappears, Geralt dodges. It’s jumped at him again, but in missing, made a misstep and landed straight in the middle of the purple circle Geralt made earlier.

Lavender light wraps around the monster like a cocoon, trapping it in place. It snarls and hollers and lashes out in vain, but doesn’t seem able to leave the circle.

Thank Melitele.

Geralt goes to hit it again. Your whole body goes tense. Half of you wants to turn away and the other half of you is completely unable to do so. You’re frozen.

But in terrible luck, the circle dissolves just as Geralt moves, fading away into dust. The creature instantly goes invisible again.

“Shit,” Geralt says, slightly panting.

The hair on your neck stands up. A cloud of fog is spreading again, and this time it’s not coming toward Geralt. This time, it’s headed for you.

Your instincts kick in like you’ve been struck; your feet start moving, skidding away from that thing as fast as you possibly can and toward Geralt, careful not to press down on the crossbow’s trigger because Melitele forbid you accidentally shoot him right now.

The foglet reappears in a flash and follows behind you with surprising speed, but it’s wounded and bleeding and just barely slower than you are, hissing in either anger or pain.

The moment you’re behind him, Geralt’s fingers thrust out toward the foglet, this time in the shape of a different sign - one that shoves the creature backward like it’s been hit with an invisible force. Ripples of leftover air carry over to you, and the magic disturbs the fog enough for you to see the foglet knocked to the floor.

Geralt stalks over to where it lays and strikes down without hesitation - a single, powerful jab into the abdomen. It lets out a last growl, then goes still.

The fog slowly begins to dissipate. Your heart rate returns to normal. You let the crossbow point down toward the ground, panting.

There’s foglet blood splattered on your feet. It doesn’t even phase you.

As you catch your breath, you watch with a muted fascination as Geralt removes his sword from the foglet and wipes it down, sliding it back into his sheathe. Then, you step closer to the corpse.

As it turns out, monsters bleed like anything else.

Dark liquid pools out from the deep gashes Geralt left, diffusing a metallic note into the air. When you inch closer, wrinkling your nose at the putrid stench of it, you find a gaping maw in the foglet’s chest - and not one put there by a sword.

The rib cage is open and exposed. The abdomen is hollowed out all the way to the sacral vertebrae.

The thing is, it’s not bleeding. The two sword wounds are, but not the exposed inner tissue - which should be bleeding. A lot.

No, you realize, recalling how it’d looked as it ran toward you, the rib cage was open the whole time - as if it wasn’t an injury, but designed to be open.

Medically speaking, having the entire spinal column exposed is asking for all kinds of trouble. But then again, the thing has no visceral organs and had sprinted around even with a large, bleeding hole in its shoulder, so… clearly, it has different capabilities than a human.

Gods, what are you doing? Trying to judge a monster’s design on the basis of human anatomy - you’re wasting your time.

Making your way back to your things, you gently set the crossbow down with the bolt pointed away from anything but rock, and wipe the blood off your feet with a loose rag from your belongings.

Geralt is watching you. You can feel those eyes on the back of your neck, as hot as the memory of his touch. When you turn to look at him, he’s staring at you - an unreadable expression on his face.

“What?” you ask

“Dunno,” he says with a shrug, shaking his head. “People aren’t usually this calm after being chased by a monster. Or eager to analyze them.”

A chill runs down your back, and you shiver.

“I’ve met a lot of monsters out there,” you say, settling next to the fire again - away from Geralt’s burning gaze, which seems to be endlessly fixed on you. You squeeze your eyes closed, then give a small shake of your head. “That thing wasn’t so bad.”

With agonizingly slow steps, Geralt approaches from behind and sits down right next to you, resting his hands on his knees as he looks at you expectantly.

“Ever gonna tell me how you got that djinn?” he asks.

He’s too close. Too close to you. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his skin from where his knee almost brushes yours.

And you can smell the forest on him. Earthy, sharp, fragrant… bark from the trees, the tang of leather, mud and rain. A hint of the herbal soap from the inn last night. It makes you want to bury your face in his shirt and breathe him in. Damn him.

You used to be a good liar. A great one, actually - habitually mixing half-truths into conversations to avoid what you didn’t want to discuss. It was rare for you to ever have the lower hand in a conversation.

If you wanted people to tire of you and leave, they would. If you wanted people to notice you, you’d flash a smile their way and draw them in with a charismatic hook. If you wanted them to lose their round of Gwent, you’d twist your face to look like you were nervous, get them to waste their cards - then, afterward, lay out your winning hand with a shocked, almost guilty face.

I won? Really? I was so sure I’d lose!

And maybe… maybe you’re still able to do all those things. Maybe, if you went out into that rain and found someone else to talk to, you’d be able to lie as easily as you breathe.

The problem is Geralt.

Geralt - with his deep, endearing voice, his ridiculously attractive face, and bright, attentive eyes that don’t miss even the smallest of details. The problem is that he has heightened senses, while around him you seem to have only a weakened disposition.

You hate handsome men. Not the random pretty face on the street, but someone truly handsome, someone like Geralt, whom you can barely look away from. Someone who fills your thoughts with foolish scenarios that you know will never come true but never get driven away by any amount of logic or reasoning.

Handsome men drive you weak in the knees, dull the sharpness of your wit, exploit every chink in the armor you’ve so painstakingly put up.

If he were anyone else, and if you didn’t want him the way you do: if he didn’t crowd up your mind with thoughts of the way it’d feel to touch him, to lean forward now and kiss him… well, you’d bet all your coin that you’d be able to lie circles around him, and he’d never even know.

But he knows now; sees right through you and your excuses, and doesn’t seem to have any issue with calling you on it.

Ever gonna tell me how you got that djinn?

His expression is so damn smug that it makes you angry - makes you want to make him angry, too, or at the very least, frustrated. You might be a bad liar around him, but your resolve remains solid as steel.

“I already told you how I got the djinn,” you reply. “Don’t you remember?” You cross your arms and wait to see how much he’ll press you. Maybe he doesn’t even remember your words.

“Yeah,” he replies gruffly. “Said it was given to you.” He raises a brow - gazes at you pointedly. “Not exactly a common gift. Never, actually. Don’t know anyone willing to give up three wishes of their own accord.”

Your heart starts pounding. “Are you asking me if I stole it?”

“Can’t say I’m not.”

His eyes aren’t accusatory. They’re warm and curious, fixed on your every move. You hesitate in your response, fingers stiffly curling into loose fists, then releasing. A nervous habit, hindered by the bandages on your fingers.

Gods, he smells good. He’s so close. You can barely think, much less decide what to say.

“I took from someone who took from me,” you finally answer. “But - I’m not a thief.”

Your words turn his curiosity into mirth - the barest hint of a smile, the crinkling of his eyes. “Worried I’ll report you to the guards?” he asks.

“Not unless you intend on serving the sentence, too,” comes your retort. “Can’t exactly get away from me, can you? And I imagine you don’t want to go to prison.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Not really.”

“So, no,” you say with a shrug. “I’m not worried about you reporting me. I guess….” You pause, weighing the words of your thoughts on your tongue, then finally letting them fall. “I guess I just didn’t want you to read me the wrong way. You don’t know me very well, and I think we both know you don't exactly have the best things to go on.”

It’s become hard to meet his gaze again.

“Pretty harsh on yourself,” he says softly.

“I have to be. I’m the whole reason you’re here, aren’t I? I - I can’t act like it didn’t just put both of us in danger. It keeps you from contracts, and your friends, and...”

You almost bite off your tongue trying not to say Yennefer.

“Everything,” you finally manage. “You’re wet and trapped in a cave in the middle of Velen, and it’s my fault.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean you have to punish yourself, though. You’re stuck here, too.”

You give a lighthearted scoff. “This conversation is hardly punishment, Geralt.”

“Not what I meant,” Geralt says. His eyes trail down to the bandages on your hands. Your cheeks go hot in shame.

“That wasn’t punishment,” you immediately insist. “It was just…” You can’t find the word, and it doesn’t help that Geralt is waiting for your answer. “It was rationality,” you finally decide on. “I knew we needed to ride, and I knew there was nothing you could do to change the situation. Any breaks only would have prolonged the pain. I was just being rational.”

There’s a long pause where Geralt just sits and stares at you, and you attempt to meet his eyes but quickly fail. Your gaze turns over to a nearby patch of mushrooms.

Useful things, puffballs. You’d once used them to dye your clothes. More often than not, though, they were used to supplement meals. At least Oxenfurt taught you something useful - edible plants.

“Do something for me,” Geralt asks, finally breaking the silence.

When he doesn’t continue, you hesitantly glance up at him. “What?”

“Act as if I’m on a contract. You’re paying me to be here. I’m here of my own free will.”

“I can work with that,” you say, fumbling for your bag. “How much would you charge for something like this? Finding a djinn?”

“Hold on,” he says, holding up a hand. “Not gonna take any more of your money.”

“No,” you say instantly. “I won’t accept it, then.”

“Can’t force me.”

You stare at him then, in a blinded sort of defiance - trying to think of some way he’s wrong. But you can’t. He’s stronger and faster and almost certainly smarter than you, and he’s right. You can’t force him.

So, after a long moment, you turn to another method - your best attempt at a pleading moue.

“C’mon. Don’t give me that look,” he says, but his expression is pained. “Won’t change my mind. Listen - already told you, you aren’t forcing me to be here. Don’t blame you for that, so stop blaming yourself. Don’t need to impress me, either.”

“Impress you? I’m not trying to.”

He gives you a look.

“I’m serious. You’d know if I was.”

“Let me guess,” he says dryly. “You’d steal a djinn from me.”

You shoot him a glare, anger and attraction flaring in your chest and mixing so much you can barely tell them apart. This damned wish is suffocating you. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t relax. Can’t even decide what you want.

You want him to stop looking at you like that, but you also want him to keep doing it so much that your chest aches. You want to make him angry, but you also want to press your lips against his - see if those stories about him and his vicious appetite are true.

“Funny,” you snap. “Very funny. You should tell your bard friend that he forgot to put your sense of humor into his famous ballads.”

“Already tried. Dandelion has a flair for the dramatic.”

You ignore his words and continue staring pointedly at a rock near the cave’s entrance.

Geralt shifts. “Sorry,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Wasn’t serious. Didn’t mean to upset you.”

To his credit, he does sound genuinely remorseful. Unfortunately, that just makes you feel worse. It’s not his fault you’re feeling like this - even you don’t know why you’re really upset.

Maybe it’s the mention of the djinn. You can barely think about that djinn without feeling nauseous, much less laugh about taking it.

“It’s fine,” you murmur. “Don’t worry about it.”

When you look back at him, his expression has gone solemn. He’s studying you.

“Djinns are pretty valuable,” he says. “The person you stole from - are they after you? That why you wished for protection?”

“No.” The word is harsh and pained, tearing through your throat without a second’s thought. You swallow hard, turning your face away. “I… I didn’t - it wasn’t… No. Who I stole from, he won’t be coming after me. Ever.”

You’ve said too much. Your chest heaves with emotion before you exhale it out, trying your best to mask your expression. There’s a pause as Geralt observes you. He’s searching your face again. His gaze suddenly sharpens.

“You were pretty damn calm seeing that blood,” he murmurs. His words are slow and careful - bordering on hesitant.

The weight of his statement sits heavy in the air. Your hands begin to shake.

“If you don’t mind,” you say curtly, reaching for your bag, “I think I’ll take that sleep after all.”

“Hey,” he says. His tone has turned soft, reassuring. “Don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Not judging you. Just curious.”

You swallow hard, closing your eyes. Your voice is shaky when you speak.

“Does it make a difference if I tell you he deserved it? That he didn’t give me much of a choice?”

“Yeah. Figured as much,” he replies, leaning forward and resting a hand on his thigh.

You try very hard not to stare at that hand. His gaze hasn’t let up on your face.

“What you said at Crow’s Perch,” he continues. “Just doesn’t seem like the words of a cold-blooded killer.”

You don’t know what to think about that. You want to take his reassurance, bask in it, tell yourself you aren’t awful. But Geralt doesn’t know the whole story. Surely he’d hate you if he did.

The two of you sit in silence for a long while, listening to the patter of the rain outside. After you’ve tired yourself out with your own thoughts, your gaze flicks back to the foglet corpse. It’ll start stinking soon. What if there are more of them?

“What you said about the crossbow…” you say.

Geralt’s attention perks up, and you continue.

“Did you mean it? Are you really going to teach me?”

“I should,” he replies. “Be safer if you learn.”

He stands, stretching, then nods for you to join him.

“Not so sure about that being safer,” you mutter under your breath. Your mind won’t stop supplying you with visions of you accidentally shooting Geralt in the back. Then again, maybe he’d take pity on you if you shot him and finally let you pay him.

“Heard that. C’mon, up.”

Getting to your feet, you flex your fingers and wince. The effect of the celandine has long since faded, and your hands feel raw and painful.

“Hang on,” Geralt says, taking a step closer. “Better change your bandages before we start.”

The thought of his hands gently tending to you again is far too much to take. You want it so badly that you can’t possibly let yourself accept it.

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “They don’t hurt.”

He stares at you, unimpressed. “Pretty bad liar, you know that?”

Only around you, you think.

“No, I’m not.”

He takes a step closer. “Heartbeat gets faster when you lie,” he says. “Dead giveaway.”

The blood drains from your face.

“You - you can hear my heart?”

“Yep.”

Your heart, already pounding, speeds up. Geralt raises a brow as if to emphasize his point. “Part of the witcher mutations,” he says. “Heightened senses.”

You know that. He’d heard the foglet coming when you hadn’t heard a thing, and you’d known then that it was because of his mutations - but what your brain had failed to consider was the fact that he could hear more than monsters: he could hear you.

Melitele, your heart speeds up every time he touches you. No wonder he seems to see straight through you. You don’t trust yourself to get any closer to him when he’s looking at you like that.

“You couldn’t have told me that sooner, or - I don’t know, given me a warning?” you ask.

He gives a light shrug. “Sorry. Thought you already knew. Wasn’t expecting you to be a compulsive liar, either.”

The ghost of a smile he wears tells you that he’s teasing you, but you shoot him another glare.

You start to think of - well, everything, and dread pools in your lungs. Every moment you’d thought you had some sort of shield for your emotions, your heart had given you away. Hiding your face hadn’t even helped, not even a little, not when he could hear your heart pounding in your chest like an admission of guilt.

“Alright,” you mutter, swallowing hard. “I’m a bad liar. My hands do hurt. How’s that?”

“Real enthusiastic, aren’t you?” His tone is practically dripping with sardonicism. “Now sit down.”

He gestures toward a nearby rock that’s about half your height. You hesitate, trying to think of some way to get out of this, but when nothing comes to mind, you give in and take a seat. As you watch him prepare the bandages again, you try your best to keep your heart rate slow.

Deep breaths, that’s all it is. And he’ll just think you’re breathing like that because it hurts.

But his touch is as gentle and warm as you remember. He carefully peels the old bandages away, pausing for a moment when you wince, then continuing on. Your heart rate wanes and rises over and over like a wave, and all you can do is breathe through your nose and try not to think.

Most of the blisters have popped now. All that’s left is of them itchy, dead skin and the seeping rawness of the healing wounds below. Your hands jerk when Geralt touches them - an automatic spasm, more itch than pain - and he simply holds them still and continues on.

That hold is so firm you couldn’t squeeze out of it if you tried, and he’s barely applying any pressure. Is this the work of mutations, or is it a developed strength from years of swordwork? Perhaps a mix of both?

How ironic that someone called the Butcher of Blaviken is bandaging your hands so delicately. How strange that it was him assigned to you, and not someone else - someone that might have been crueler, might have been impatient. Another witcher. Another being. Why Geralt, of all people? Why is he here with you?

Despite your best efforts, the erratic rhythm of your pulse won’t soothe. Heat builds in your skin and spreads lower and lower. You desperately try to push the image of Geralt away. His scars. The way he looked when he was asleep. The way he’s kneeling in front of you now, brows furrowed as he concentrates. Oh, gods…

Trying to find any way out of your current train of thought - anywhere but here and now - your mind frantically turns back to the ballads. To his dozens of names. Anywhere but here and now. Dandelion. Roach. Yennefer.

That’s right, Yennefer. The thought of her takes you out of danger for the present moment. You think of her with fierce intent. You mull over The Last Wish.

Dandelion’s tales have always been a sort of guilty pleasure for you - ways to pass the time in between everything else. Some of them seemed too far-fetched to ever be possible, but others rang with an element of truth that seemed hard to deny.

But Geralt isn’t like you’d pictured him. The Butcher of Blaviken hardly seems appropriate for a man so… morally bound. Everything about him reflects someone with real emotions, someone who’s known real consequences - the kind that weighs down on his shoulders in quiet moments.

Not that you don’t know the story of Blaviken: how he’d apparently massacred innocents in the street and fled. But you can’t imagine him doing a thing like that. Ever. Maybe it was just as fanciful of a tale as every other falsity.

You ache to ask him about it, but a certain fact halts your tongue: despite everything, aside from his mention of killing the guards at Crow’s Perch, Geralt’s hardly told you anything about himself. His words are never focused on personal matters.

You, on the other hand, have told him far too much, and not wanted to.

But would he tell you if you asked? You want to know - not only about Blaviken, but about why he calls his horse Roach, and whether all those ballads are true. You want to know about Dandelion, and Yennefer, and if Geralt really bound himself to her on the first day they’d met.

You want to know why he was in Skellige, if it’s true that he killed Foltest, and if he also had a hand in killing Radovid like they’ve been saying on the street.

You want to know all of these things and a hundred more, but by the time the courage starts to come to ask him, Geralt’s already done bandaging your hands.

“There,” he says. “Ready? Not hiding anything else?”

You shoot him a glare. “For example?”

“Dunno. Blisters in your boots, maybe?”

You rise to your feet and pray you won’t shoot him - accidentally or on purpose.

“No.”

“Good. C’mere.” He grabs the crossbow off the ground where you’d left it, still cocked. “That patch of moss on the rock. See it?”

You do. It’s almost a perfect circle.

With practiced hands, Geralt aims the bow forward and shoots. It hits the moss dead center.

Showoff, you think.

“Your turn. Show me what you’ve got.”

He hands you back the bow, then steps behind you - placing a bolt in your empty hand.

He’s close. Close enough you can feel the warmth of his chest brushing against your back. The smell of him is driving you mad. Leather, bergamot, sandalwood. A hint of herbs. Resinous. Addictive. Dangerous. You’re in so much danger from your own actions that you’re trembling.

“Gotta hold it away from you, always,” he starts. “Don’t load it until you need to.”

You can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck. You shiver and grip the bow and try not to think at all.

Geralt pauses. “You’re shivering. Heart’s pounding. Sure you’re alright?”

“Just… cold and nervous. I’ve never shot a crossbow before. I’ll be fine - keep going.”

It’s a miracle your words come out sounding believable, even if they have truth mixed into them.

“Alright,” he says. “Pull the string back until it’s locked on the catch.”

Your bandaged fingers don’t have much dexterity, but you manage to do as he says. Your heart is still pounding, but Geralt doesn’t mention it.

“Bolt goes in the groove, there,” he says, coaxing your hand into the right place. Your lungs run out of oxygen. You can’t seem to breathe.

“Now,” he continues, “raise it and aim. Don’t rush, though. When you’re ready, press the trigger.”

Your hands are still shaking. Your mind is too polluted with Geralt to concentrate - the heady smell of him, the pleasant heat of his body, the sharp handsomeness of his face, his rough, callused hands, his gentle, burning touch. You raise the crossbow to your eye, aim, hold your breath, and shoot, and—

Well… completely miss the target. The bolt strikes the rock wall and pitifully clatters to the ground.

“Not bad for a first shot,” Geralt praises. “Try again. Remember to breathe. Make the shot while you’re breathing out - you’ll think clearly that way.”

Not bad? you think. He really is just as much of a liar as you are. Who would’ve thought the White Wolf had such a bleeding heart? You’d taken forever to load up the bolt, taken even longer to aim, and still hadn’t even gotten close to the target.

Practice makes perfect, though. You hadn’t been expecting to hit it anyway. This time, you really do want to make the shot - not only because it’s humiliating to miss, but because knowing how to use a crossbow is a pretty damn useful skill.

At this point, it’s almost a guarantee that the two of you will come across something dangerous again - and next time, it might not go as smoothly as the foglet had. You need to learn to shoot.

You breathe steadily and stare at the patch of moss - the one that still has Geralt’s arrow in it. You can do this.

Hands a little steadier than before, you tug the string back into the catch. Then, trying to keep your mind on nothing but the weight of the bow in your hands, you slide a bolt into the groove.

Geralt is silent behind you, but if you know him in any way, shape, or form, you know he’s watching you. Catching every detail.

It feels more natural to raise the bow to eye level this time. You breathe in. Focus on the target. Carefully, you ready your hand on the trigger. Exhale.

Shoot.

The arrow pierces the target - not quite in the center like Geralt’s, but you’ll take it.

“Good,” Geralt says. “Try it again.”

Don’t get cocky, you instruct yourself. You aim as carefully as you had before, breathing in deeply. Something inside you seems to click. The hair on your arms rises in anticipation, and there’s a sudden stillness to your thoughts that feels almost like you’re underwater. You keep that feeling in your lungs, your hands, your every move. Then, you press the trigger again.

The bolt pierces straight through Geralt’s arrow.

You stare at it in complete and utter shock, so stunned you’re unable to move. Then you blink, thinking your eyes are playing tricks on you. Was that… some kind of freakish beginner’s luck?

Biting back a smile, you turn to look at Geralt. There’s something in his face you can’t identify, something quizzical and… warm. He studies you for a long moment, the way he seems to do constantly these days, then raises his brows.

“Again,” he instructs.

Your next shot misses the center arrow by a mere inch. Not bad for your third try. Your parents had always talked about finding things, hidden talents that just came naturally to them, and you’ve had a few things like that yourself. Maybe this is another one of yours.

“Don’t go celebrating just yet,” Geralt says, interrupting your thoughts. “Moss is one thing - a moving target is another.”

He’s right, of course. No sentient creature is going to stand unmoving while a crossbow is being aimed at them.

“Alright,” you say with a shrug. “What are you going to do about that, then? Throw a piece of wood and get me to hit it mid-air?”

“Not a bad idea,” Geralt says. “Get ready.”

“You have to be joking,” you say quickly. “You can’t - you can’t think I’ll hit that?”

Geralt, who is squatting down to grab a piece of wood, tilts his head. “Got a better plan?”

“Yes, I do. Don’t die or pass out. Then I won’t have to use the crossbow.”

He rises to his feet, lightly tossing the wood into the air. His hand comes up in a graceful flash to catch it again. Somehow, he manages to make all of this look effortless.

“I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to defend you at all times,” he says softly. “That’s the preferred scenario, sure, but I can’t guarantee it. Besides - thought you wanted me to teach you.”

“I do,” you sigh. “But not - like this. Not by throwing pieces of wood and having me shoot at them.”

“This isn’t Kaer Morhen,” he chides. “Wish it was, but it isn’t. Gotta use what we have. Don’t trust me?”

“I do trust you, but… I - oh, Geralt! I’ll look ridiculous.”

He smiles impishly. “Got something better to do?”

“Yes. Sleep.”

“Funny. You told me you weren’t tired,” he reminds you. “I know you’re stalling. C’mon. Get ready to shoot.”

“Unbelievable,” you grumble, but you pull back the string and ready another arrow. Geralt waits for your signal, then throws.

The wood passes and hits the ground before you’ve even pulled the trigger.

“That was too fast,” you protest. “How am I supposed to hit that?”

“Think a drowner is gonna stand still to let you shoot it? A bandit? A ghoul? Try again.”

Another block of wood flies past. Your arrow is much, much too late.

Geralt must throw those blocks of wood fifty times, and you still don’t even come close to hitting any of them. So much for a hidden talent of yours.

Halfway through, you have to start reusing bolts. Luckily, a large majority of the ones you used are undamaged, but even then, you continue to hit nothing. Your patience begins to wear thin.

“This isn’t doing me any good,” you eventually insist, letting the bow go slack in your hand. “Any monster or human is a much bigger target than a piece of wood.”

Geralt squats down to grab one of the fallen blocks. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we haven’t got any practice dummies here. You’re learning to follow the movement, anticipating where it’ll end up. Useful skill.”

You give him an exasperated look.

“What? Doubting my training?” he asks.

“Have you actually trained anyone before, Geralt?”

Your words are meant as a joke, but something deepens in his gaze - the slightest shift in expression, the faintest falter in his composure. Not anger. Something else: maybe some kind of aching, or regret, or grief.

The look on his face: it’s how you feel every time you think about home.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I have. Had a little help, but… yeah.”

You open your mouth, to apologize, maybe - but with a small shake of his head, your mistake is gone. Geralt is smiling.

Completely lost in thought, but smiling. Not a faint smile, either, like the ones he gives for your jokes, but a full, fond smile as he thinks about something, or… someone.

“Can’t take much credit, though,” he says. “She always wanted to learn. Couldn’t have stopped her from training if I tried.”

He clearly isn’t talking about Yennefer.

You watch him for a moment and decide you’ve told him enough about you that you can finally press just a little, a single word that slips from your lips before you can regret it.

“Who?”

Geralt finally looks up at you, brows furrowed. His lips part and he hesitates, clearly trying to think of what to say.

Shit. You shouldn’t have asked.

“Sorry,” you blurt. “None of my business, you don’t have to -”

He gently cuts you off with another shake of his head. “Her name’s Ciri. She’s my…” He pauses for a moment. “She’s like a daughter to me. I raised her by choice, trained her at Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt has a daughter?

That’s news to you. The fondness in his gaze when he’d thought of her - he clearly cares about her, clearly misses her. Was that what he was doing in Skellige? Had you ripped him away from her?

Gods, you very well might have separated him from his family, and… you’re sitting in a cave, complaining about the way he’s training you - something you’d asked for. Trying to keep the both of you safe.

For a terrible moment, emotion almost overwhelms you. You swallow it down and breathe. Geralt might be able to hear your heart, but he can’t read your mind.

“Thank you,” you say, taking a seat on a rock a few feet across from him and setting the bow down next to you.

Your words seem to catch him off guard. His expression flashes with quizzicality, then settles on a slight sort of trepidation. “For what?” he asks.

“For… telling me about Ciri, and bandaging my hands. And the crossbow training, of course.”

The wariness in his face melts away. “Don’t need to thank me for any of that.”

“Well, I am. Can’t force me not to.”

He huffs, letting out a low, grumbling noise deep in his chest. You give him a small smile in response. A brief, comfortable sort of silence falls over the two of you, and you bask in it for a moment.

The rain is still pattering outside, but it sounds a little lighter. Hopefully, by tomorrow the two of you will be out of here. It must be nightfall by now - it seems even darker out there.

“Out of curiosity,” you say suddenly, “can Ciri shoot a piece of wood mid-air with a crossbow?”

Geralt’s brows pinch as he thinks about it. “Don’t know, actually. Witchers - not really ones for crossbows, usually prefer swords. Didn’t exactly teach her.”

“Is it even possible?”

His gaze falls to the bow. “Huh. Asking to see me do it?”

You give a shrug, feigning indifference. “Well, if you can’t, I definitely can’t.”

He rises and takes the bow from you. “Gotta throw a piece of wood for me, though. High and straight, no cheating.”

“Me, cheat?” you ask. “Never.”

You briefly consider giving him an awful throw, but ultimately decide against it. You want to see if he can actually do something like this.

Grabbing a block, you carefully step out of the way of the bow and prepare to throw. When he nods that he’s ready, you give it your best toss.

You almost can’t believe it after all of your failed attempts, but Geralt hits it. The arrow pierces the block in a flash of silver and it roughly impacts against the wall, splintering into pieces.

In one try. Lightning-fast.

You stare at him, stunned. “That’s… impressive,” you manage to say. “Have you ever done anything like that before?”

Even after pulling off something like that, he somehow manages to look humble. “Shot a lot of drowners underwater,” he says, setting the bow down. “Sirens, too. Once, uh, shot apples off someone.”

“Shot - what do you mean, off someone?”

Geralt rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking extremely bashful. “Well…”

The sight of this famous witcher, looking so incredibly embarrassed about this apple-shooting event, draws a sharp, surprised laugh from your chest.

Geralt’s face softens. “You laughing at me?”

“Only with good reason,” you tease. “You should see your face. Let me take a guess: you were drunk?”

“Nope.”

“Then… you did it as a dare?”

He shakes his head.

You take a seat a few feet away from him and give him an expectant look. “Alright, I’m intrigued.”

“Not much of a story, honestly,” he says. “Probably disappointing.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Geralt huffs again, seeming to mull it over before he gives a light shrug. “Can’t hurt.”

Bringing your knees to your chest, you lean in closer, and you don’t miss the brief, lovely flash of a smile that crosses his face. Then he hesitates, brows furrowing.

“Don’t even know where to start.” He thinks for a moment, sitting forward and propping his hand on his thigh. “Was, uh… recruiting people… had to get into this - place. Needed people with certain skills.”

You scowl at him. “You know, you can just say you were planning a heist, Geralt.”

His shoulders slump in defeat. “Astute of you,” he says. His brows lift. “Sure you aren’t a thief?”

You narrow your eyes. “And here I thought you could tell when I was lying. What’s my heartbeat saying, master witcher? As I’ve already told you - I’m no thief. The djinn was a special circumstance. Go on?”

His expression turns sullen. “Gonna have to stop talking if you’re gonna keep using my words against me.”

“Why? You’ve done the same thing to me. Fair’s fair.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment. You cross your arms. He does the same.

“Pretty stubborn, aren’t you?” he finally says. “Figures. Yeah, it was a heist. Sounds stupid, but I didn’t have a choice - needed something that was locked up in an auction house. Long story short, I found someone who had a plan to get in, but we needed some extra help to execute it. I went out to recruit a girl named Eveline - a circus performer. She agreed to help. Needed me to help her first.”

He glances at you to see that you’re following, then continues.

“Turned out, the man who was the last act in her show had gone blind. Already spent all the money from the tickets, though - couldn’t refund them - so she asked me to stand in for him. Her business partner balanced apples on his head, a leg, and his arms. I, uh, shot them off of him. Surprised I didn’t hit him, actually. I wasn’t sure if he’d come out alright.”

The thought of Geralt using his crossbow to shoot apples off a stranger is so entirely bizarre and ridiculous that you find yourself laughing again.

“A very good story,” you tell him. “I see now why Dandelion uses you for his ballads.”

He tilts his head. “Why’s that?”

“Well,” you drawl, “from what I hear, you seem to find yourself in very interesting situations. Frequently.”

He huffs. “That’s one way to put it.”

“What would you call it, then?”

His gaze stalls on a point behind you. All at once, he looks a thousand miles away. Run-down. Exhausted.

“Guess I’d say I’ve never been drawn to things that are comfortable,” he murmurs. He shifts, looking down at a rock near his boots. “Got a tendency for getting into trouble. Following people into it, too.”

“Like Dandelion?”

His eyes crinkle. “Yeah, gotten into a fair amount with him. The stories are exaggerated, though.”

“I figured they might be,” you admit. “Some were… a little outlandish.”

He nods. “Like I said, Dandelion’s got a flair for the dramatic. Changes details, shifts things around to make himself look better, or….” He pauses, letting out a slow breath. “He makes things sound simple, easy. They’re never that way. Not for a witcher.”

His tone is pensive and somber. You wonder which one of the stories he’s thinking about.

“I see what you mean,” you tell him. “You don’t like Dandelion’s ballads, then?”

“Wouldn’t say that, exactly,” he responds. “It’s… strange, having people recognize you, know things about you that are better left private. If it were up to me - I’d rather not have everyone know the intimate details.”

You can’t imagine what it would be like to be recognized by people you don’t even know. To have them hear about your relationships, your experiences. To have them be shifted for the sake of a better lyric.

A part of you feels guilty for having read those ballads so eagerly. You’ve spent hours with him in silence, wondering about things and people and details of his life he hadn’t even mentioned to you. You’d always assumed the stories were told with complete permission, but looking at it now, it feels, well… like an invasion of his privacy.

Not to mention, not everyone views him as positively as you do now. You’d thought him a brute before you met him. People at the inn spat at his feet. Called him a freak, a mutant. People at the market had made a point to show he was unwelcome there, loudly blathering about how witchers are a curse of nature.

All of that must be incredibly exhausting.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” you eventually tell him.

“Gotta stop saying that,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

His words don’t stop the twisting sensation that’s coiling in your gut. Silence falls again, and you wring your hands in your shirt as you try to think of something to say. Nothing comes.

After a long while, Geralt straightens up.

“Rain’s stopped.”

Sure enough, the patter of the rain on the mouth of the cave has gone quiet. Does he plan on riding again? You wouldn’t be opposed to starting off now - in fact, you hope for it. No sun to scorch your skin. Cool wind against your cheeks. Stars as your view.

You’re both exhausted, but… still. You could rest at the next inn, get away from the heat of the day.

“How far are we from another town, do you think?” you ask.

“Couple hours, maybe,” he says. “Can’t ride tonight, though. Too much mud.”

You swallow hard. “Oh.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. He leans back against the rock wall of the cave, settling his hands behind his head. “It’s not much longer to Novigrad. Hopefully, we’ll find a good lead, but… odds are, we’ll spend a few days there at the least, get some rest.”

You give a sharp nod. “And you’re sure this friend of yours won’t mind having us?”

“This friend of mine happens to be Dandelion,” Geralt ruefully informs you. “Saved him more times than I can count. Doubt he’ll begrudge us a room.”

“Wait - we’re… we’re meeting with Dandelion?”

Geralt smiles wryly. “Starstruck?”

“No, no,” you say quickly. “Just surprised.”

“That’s good. His ego’s big enough as it is.”

You hum softly in response, distracted by your thoughts.

Every time you think of Novigrad, you get a pit in your stomach - and for good reason. It’ll be the determinator for a number of things; questions you haven’t dared asked, questions even Geralt doesn’t know the answer to.

Neither of you have brought it up, but surely he must be thinking about it - the odds of you two finding another djinn are simply not in your favor. Djinns are incredibly rare and incredibly valuable. Who knows if you’ll be able to find one, much less make it there safely.

And if you don’t find one…

You try to brush away the thought. There must be some way.

Giving a glance to Geralt, you find him still in his laid-back position, eyes closed now. Good - hopefully he’ll sleep for a while. It’ll give you some time to think in peace.

You’ve never been to Novigrad before - never strayed very far from the university when you were attending. In the remnants of the war, you’re hesitant to enter the city. You’ve heard that the witch hunters were burning mages and non-humans, and you’re not very keen to see what’s left of that in the aftermath.

Maybe it won’t be all terrible, though. Soon you’ll sleep in a warm bed. Not to mention, you’ll be meeting one of Geralt’s best friends (or at least, you think he’s one of Geralt’s best friends). You aren’t quite sure what to make of Dandelion from what you’ve heard, and you haven’t the slightest clue how he’ll view you.

Oh, gods - how will you ever explain the situation to him? Traveling with just the two of you isn’t so bad, but what will Dandelion say when you and Geralt have to share a room? And what about Yennefer, will she be in Novigrad as well?

The more you think about Geralt’s friends and family, the uneasier you feel. You’ll be so incredibly out of place among them. These are the kind of people who end up in ballads and on Gwent cards. You hadn’t even managed to graduate from Oxenfurt.

And once it’s over, you’ll likely never see Geralt again.

A familiar ache settles in your chest. In between everything that’s happened lately, you’ve grown completely careless. You’ve allowed yourself to make too many mistakes, to grow too relaxed here. You’ve told Geralt too much about you - enough that he was able to derive one of your biggest secrets in the span of just two days. Once this djinn business is done, you’ll go your separate ways.

No more, you tell yourself. You’ll be friendly with him, but no more soul-baring. No more asking him questions. No more facts about yourself.

“Hey,” Geralt says suddenly. You’re so startled by the sound of his voice that you jump, heart racing as you turn to look at him. His eyes are open again, and he’s sitting forward with his hand placed on his thigh.

“Sorry,” he says. “Just realized - I don’t know something about you. Something pretty important.”

I can’t tell you, you think, but you don’t know how to word that in any decent way. You swallow hard and stare at him instead.

“How important?”

“Very.”

Is he going to ask you about the djinn again? Oxenfurt? You can’t tell him about those - you won’t.

“What is it?” Your heart is racing again.

He raises a brow. “Your name,” he says. “Never told me your name.”

His gaze is warm and expectant on your face, and a strange sort of heat flutters in your gut. He gives you a small smile.

Your name.

Well, you think. Maybe you’ll tell him just this one thing.

tags: @henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #game!geralt #geralt x you #geralt/reader #geralt of rivia x you #mywriting

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the-babygirl-polls · 4 months

Text

Babygirl Polls Lineup: Week One

Hello everyone! Here we have the lineup for the first week of the Babygirl Polls! Thank you so much for all your submissions!

Klarion Bleak (Young Justice)

Dante Sparda (Devil May Cry)

Ace Ukiyo (Kamen Rider: Geats)

Bro Strider (Homestuck)

Michael Schmidt (Five Nights at Freddy's)

Cole Brew (Rhythm Doctor)

Peppino Spaghetti (Pizza Tower)

Negan (The Walking Dead)

Todd (Not Me: The Series)

Dan (Not Me: The Series)

Sound (My School President)

Nuengdiao (Never Let Me Go)

Adolin Kholin (The Stormlight Archive)

Xue Yang (The Untamed)

Aaron Warner (Shatter Me)

Jean Descole (Professor Layton)

Curt Mega (Spies are Forever)

Klavier Gavin (Ace Attorney)

Ghost (Call of Duty)

Emperor Belos/Phillip Wittebane (The Owl House)

Wen Kexing (Word of Honor)

Miles Edgeworth (Ace Attorney)

Taichi Hiraga-Keaton (Master Keaton)

Akk Pipitphattana (The Eclipse)

Dean Winchester (Supernatural)

Bruce Wayne/Batman (The Batman (2022))

Kenzo Tenma (Naoki Urasawa's Monster)

Jason Todd/Red Hood (DC)

Usami Tokishige (Golden Kamuy)

Char Aznable (Mobile Suit Gundam)

Harry Du Bois (Disco Elysium)

Vegas (Kinnporsche: The Series)

Barry the Chopper (Full Metal Alchemist)

Khatha (Midnight Museum)

Ronald Lynch (Home Movies)

Ballister Boldheart (Nimona)

Rex Dangervest (The Lego Movies)

Emmett Brickowski (The Lego Movies)

Knife (Inanimate Insanity)

Nickel (Inanimate Insanity)

Balloon (Inanimate Insanity)

Nona (Locked Tomb Series)

Laudna (Critical Role)

Ryu Suyeol (Bad and Crazy)

Paul Matthews (Hatchetfield)

Gregory House (House MD)

Ingo (Pokemon)

L (Death Note)

Elijah Volkov (Camp Here and There)

Kevin (Welcome to Night Vale)

Yuma Kokohead (Master Detective Archive: Raincode)

Alex Horne (Taskmaster)

Vash the Stampede (Trigun, Trigun Maximum, and Trigun Stampede)

Greg Davies (Taskmaster)

Byron (Pokemon Diamond/Pearl/Platinum)

Shang Tsung (Mortal Kombat 1)

Garry (IB)

Homelander (The Boys)

Cardan Greenbriar (The Folk of The Air Trilogy)

Omega (Mega Man Zero)

Clive Rosfield (Final Fantasy 16)

Cassian Andor (Star Wars)

Ted Spankoffski (Hatchetfield)

Tang (Lego Monkey Kid)

Tomura Sigaraki (My Hero Academia)

Liam de Lioncourt (Monster Prom)

Matthew Patel (Scott Pilgrim Takes Off)

Ethan Winters (Resident Evil)

Kim Dokja (Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint)

Waver Velvet/Lord El Melloi II (Fate Series)

Dave (Dave and Bambi)

Yoo Joonghyuk (Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint)

Envy (Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood)

Akira Nishikiyama (Yakuza/Like A Dragon)

Eddie Diaz (9-1-1)

Simon Petrikov (Adventure Time and Adventure Time: Fionna and Cake)

Sanji (One Piece)

Adrien Agreste (Miraculous Ladybug

Romeo Montague (& Juliet)

Luz Noceda (The Owl House)

Lance Dubois (& Juliet)

Francois Dubois (& Juliet)

William Shakespeare (& Juliet)

Chesed (Lobotomy Corporation)

Cesare (Bigtop Burger)

Morris (Stardew Valley)

Kinger (The Amazing Digital Circus)

Estinien Varlineau (Final Fantasy XIV)

Frederick Chilton (Hannibal)

Leon S. Kennedy (Resident Evil)

Jaskier (The Witcher)

Geralt of Rivia (The Witcher)

Radovid (The Witcher)

Trafalgar Law (One Piece)

Zagreus (Hades)

Shadow The Hedgehog (Sonic)

Sepiroth (Final Fantasy)

Vegeta (Dragon Ball Z)

Charlie Kelly (It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia)

Reverend Rod Putty (Moral Orel)

#poll lineup #week one #the babygirl polls

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irrlicht-writes · 1 year

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little, useless words

“Who are you,” she whispered and it wasn’t even really a question. “I’m nothing, love, just a little crumpled flower.” “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Don’t worry, darling.” He reached out his charred hand – when had it burned? – and plucked the flower from the ground. The breeze picked up and he let the flower go. It flew beautifully in the wind and Ciri tracked it with her eyes before it erupted into flames and burned away. Not even ashes remained. “Sometimes,” the man said, “the best thing a flower can do for us, is to die.” “No,” Ciri whispered tonelessly. She stood back up; eyes still transfixed on the spot the flower had burned. The flower – the dandelion. Her stepping on it had been an accident. It hadn’t needed to die. “Maybe,” the man said unbothered, “the flower gone is a blessing.”

Chapter 1 of 3

Ciri knew it was a bad idea.

She knew they wouldn’t give her anything, but she was so hungry and frankly, she was sick and tired of roots and berries and whatever else she could forage in the woods. The market stalls were closed already and even if they had been open still, there wasn’t a chance she could’ve stolen more than a singular apple anyway.

But she thought the innkeeper might be willing to give her a hot meal in exchange for dish washing. She never considered that the inn might have enough dish-washers already. And now she stood here, bargaining. One hot meal for free wouldn’t ruin the inn now, would it? After all, she’s been running for so long. Plus, she was a child. Surely, the innkeeper would have mercy? Honestly, Ciri would be kind of happy if she could just sleep somewhere warm too.

But that didn’t seem to be on the horizon. Everyone was running from the war, he said. Nobody had anything to spare, he said. Ciri blinked against the tears. She glanced at the people sitting in the inn, but nobody seemed to pay them any attention. At least this was good. If Nilfgaard would come here, nobody might remember her. She looked down and turned to leave. There was nothing for her here.

Back outside, Ciri looked around. She’s been running for so long already and still – still, she hadn’t found this Geralt of Rivia anywhere. And Rivia was so far away... and what if he wouldn’t even be there? She didn’t know what to do. Only thing she knew was that it couldn’t keep going on like this. At this point, it was far more likely she’d run into Nilfgaard than this Geralt. She didn’t even know what he looked like!

The man from her dreams... The one with the yellow eyes. She hoped it was Geralt. But she didn’t know. And Yennefer... she didn’t know who that was either. Ciri withheld a sob. Grandmother would be so cross with her if she bawled in the street like a baby. Ciri was all that was left of Cintra. She had to be strong. She was the Lion Cub of Cintra, she couldn’t be weak! But oh. Oh, how she wished.

There were steps behind her and she twirled around. She had no weapons and she didn’t want to scream; but Grandmother always taught her to face dangers head-on.

The man approaching her didn’t seem threatening – at least from what she could tell but she knew looks could be deceiving. Oh, how many men had underestimated her Grandmother just because of looks? She knew she couldn’t let her guard down.

The stranger stopped a good distance away from her. He didn’t make any moves toward her but he also he didn’t say anything. Ciri didn’t know what to do. She could run, but that would only exhaust her. She didn’t know the village she was in, so there was no way she could slip away either. No matter what, the stranger would always catch up to her.

No.

No, there was no point in running away.

She would face this stranger with all the strength of her grandmother.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

Whatever stupor the man had been in, this seemed to get him out of it.

“My apologies,” he said. “But I must ask – the name Pavetta, does it mean anything to you?”

Ciri almost startled. This man knowing her mother’s name – that didn’t mean anything. Everybody had known her.

“What, the dead princess from Cintra? Of course I know her name, what do you want?”

Ciri didn’t like being so harsh but if she could make him go away with it, and then it was a necessary evil. It upset her quite a bit that the man was wearing a hood so she couldn’t even tell if her words had hit the mark.

After the man responded with nothing, Ciri added: “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go.”

Without waiting, she turned around, and started to walk. Not running, that was important. Never make it look like you’re running away from something.

“Nilfgaard was seen in the village east from here.”

Ciri pulled to a full-stop. East had been where she planned on going. But if Nilfgaard was truly in that direction, then that was way too risky. But Rivia was east. Oh no. What was she supposed to do?

“You’re looking for Geralt.”

The man had started to approach her again. Ciri was panicking. What was she supposed to say? How did this man know this? No, more importantly, how much more did know? What was she supposed to do?!

“If you’ll let me, I’ll take you to him.”

He was so close now. With a start, Ciri whipped back around and tried to hit him. He didn’t seem to even try and stop her, but gently touched her wrist when she pressed her fists against his chest. Her thoughts were racing. She had to get out of this somehow; had to throw him off in any way. And yet, she feared her reaction might’ve given her up already.

“Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t. But trust me, dear – if you continue like this, you’ll be caught before long.”

Ciri blinked and looked up at him, heaving. He was right, she knew. Hell, she thought that before. But then she hadn’t expected to run for so long. She was so lonely. Sooner or later, she’d slip up and then Nilfgaard would be right there. For all she knew, Geralt wasn’t even looking for her – or worse, he’d already be dead. In her dreams, he seemed to be alive, but then how could she know that this was the present? What if those dreams were things long past and nobody was looking for her?

“Come with me,” the man said. “Even if you wish not to travel with me, let me give you a bed for the night and a breakfast tomorrow. If you wish to part come morn then I shall not stand in your way.”

Ciri blinked against the tears. She shouldn’t trust him. Being closer now, she could see his face a bit better. She didn’t know him. She’s never dreamed of him. For all she knew, he could be Nilfgaardian, just trying his best to get her to trust him. Ciri was ashamed to say that he seemed to succeed. A warm bed and some food? She couldn’t say no. It’d be insane. So she nodded.

The man didn’t smile, he simply stood up and beckoned her to follow him. She did.

They re-entered the inn, the innkeeper zero-ing on her again.

“I already told you no, you mongrel!”

She wasn’t sure why, but she pressed closer to the stranger.

“She’s with me, good sir. If you may, I’d like it if you served her a proper meal.”

The innkeeper grumbled but went back into the kitchen.

“Come,” the man said, “let’s go into the corner.”

Blindly, she followed. At least this man had promised food. Grandmother would be so upset that Ciri sold her freedom for some scraps of food. But Grandmother wasn’t here. Grandmother would never be here ever again. Ciri wanted to cry, but she pulled herself together. She couldn’t show any more weaknesses in front of this stranger.

“How do you know Geralt?” she burst out as they sat down. The man had removed his hood as they re-entered the inn and now Ciri could see him better.

The man sitting next to her struck her as a hollow man. He had deep rings under his blue eyes, and his cheeks were fallen in. There was the beginning of a beard on his face and Ciri thought that this man didn’t smile very often.

The man shushed her. “Not here,” he said, “too many ears.”

Ciri plopped her mouth shut. She didn’t like to wait but she had to admit he was right.

“What’s your name, then?”

“Why not call me Dandelion, darling.”

The meal had been so good. It had just been some lukewarm stew but it had been the best food Ciri has had in months. They were in Dandelion’s room now and Ciri sat on the bed. She was anxious. This man could do everything to her and she’d be helpless to stop it. She could scream, yes, but then everyone would be able to tell Nilfgaard that she had been here.

“Geralt,” she just said, demanding. Dandelion simply nodded.

“You’re his Child Surprise,” he said, “and I can take you to him.”

Ciri blinked. He knew. Mousesack always told her that nobody outside of the Royal Family knew. So how did he – had he been there? Had Geralt told him?

“Just tell me where he is and I’ll go myself,” she said.

Dandelion smiled at her, but it looked sad.

“I could,” he answered, “but I’m afraid you won’t make it there in one piece.”

Ciri tensed. “I can fight,” she lied.

Dandelion just shook his head. “That, I don’t doubt. But darling, someone is going to see you. And eventually, someone will sell you out. Be it only to save their skin, or to gain money from it, I do not know. But eventually, someone will remember you when Nilfgaard comes knocking.”

She gulped and blinked at him. He was right. She’d been surprised it hadn’t happened yet.

“It’s not like you could protect me,” she said.

“I can’t,” he said, “but I can help you hide. I can help you run. I’ve always been good at running.”

She looked around the room. The man seemed to have no possessions. The room was empty; par a tiny satchel which she presumed held a change of clothes.

“I – I don’t...”

“Hush, dear. Get some sleep now. I’ll get us breakfast for the road tomorrow and if you truly don’t wish to travel with me, I shall point you in the right direction and then part ways with you.”

“Fiona,” she said, “call me Fiona.”

She knew he knew she was lying. Yet he just nodded his head.

“Sleep then, dear Fiona. I shall be here tomorrow morning.”

Ciri blinked at him. She was afraid. But she was also tired. The girl hoped the man wouldn’t lie with her in this bed. She lied down to sleep, and yet it took a long time for sleep to find her. The man never tried to move close to the bed. Ciri tried to slow her heartbeat down. Even with Dandelion here, she was safer in this room than she’d been in months out in the woods.

Eventually, her exhaustion caught up to her and she fell asleep.

She dreamt of Geralt. He was stumbling across a burning stretch of land, calling for Yennefer again. Ciri wondered what happened to Yennefer – who she was. She hoped the woman was fine. Was Geralt looking for her still? Ciri could not help but wonder. All these years, Geralt had never made himself known to her. Did he care even? What if he wouldn’t? What if she found him, just for him to reject her? What would she do then?

No.

Geralt wouldn’t reject her. Geralt wouldn’t abandon her. She knew.

But what if he did? What if he did? What if he did? What if he did what if he did –?

Ciri woke with a start.

Panting heavily, she couldn’t remember where she was. She was inside. How was she inside? Did the innkeeper let her stay? She couldn’t have had the money.

“You’re awake,” a male voice said and Ciri jumped in her bed.

There was a man standing at the foot of her bed. Dull blue eyes bore into hers and she remembered. It was Dandelion. Ciri could only gape at him.

“Geralt,” she said and she didn’t know whether it was a demand or a wish. And maybe she was mistaken, but Dandelion’s shoulders seemed to sink the tiniest bit.

“I’ll deliver you to him, just as I’d promised. Do you still wish to travel with me?”

Ciri clutched her blanket to her chest. She had to stay weary of this man. He could be working for Nilfgaard. He could also be just a liar. But if he did know where to go – could she really let that chance pass her by? And – there was safety in numbers.

She had to try.

With courage in her heart, just like her grandmother had taught her, she nodded.

“Come then,” Dandelion encouraged her to get up, “let’s go get breakfast for the road.”

“How far away is Geralt?” Ciri asked once they left the village behind.

“If everything goes smooth, we should arrive in about two months.”

Ciri gasped. Two months! That was forever!

“Where is Geralt?”

“... I don’t know where he is. But,” he continued before she could interrupt him, “he will always return to the Witcher Keep. So that’s where I’m taking you.”

“All the Witcher Keeps were destroyed in a siege forever ago. Are you really expecting me to believe you?”

The location of Witcher Keeps was secret, she’s been taught. She didn’t like to admit it, but if this man truly knew where the Keep was, he might have not lied about knowing Geralt. She still couldn’t trust him, of course. Trust was too precious just to hand out to strangers. He’d have to earn it. Dandelion might’ve also only passed Geralt by some day. She’s never seen this man’s face in her dreams or heard Geralt call out to him. So, whoever he was, he couldn’t be that important to Geralt anyway. So why would Geralt tell this random traveller where his home was?

“Kaer Mohren still stands. I don’t know how well it’s faired, but it’s where Geralt goes every winter. Chances are he’ll return to the Keep to get help from his brothers if he can’t find you. And then there’ll you be, intercepting him.”

“How do you know of this Keep? Did he ever take you?”

“No.”

Ciri blinked at him. Up until now, Dandelion’s voice has held a certain melody to it. He had sounded like every phrase he said was a phrase sung by bards in courts, every word like he plucked it from a poem itself. But this curt answer – it felt like a birdsong rudely interrupted. It had sounded like the painful twang of an instrument that was forced to stop abruptly.

She wondered why.

“So why should I believe a word you say?!”

“Do or don’t, little princess. I have a direction for you to follow. Even if it turns out to be a bust, isn’t this better than to wander aimlessly? Nilfgaard is looking for a lone little girl. Their eyes might just pass over you if you’re with me.”

He had stopped and looked at her. His eyes were sad, tired and hard. She’s never met the man before but she didn’t think that he should look like this.

She bit her lip.

“I’ll go with you,” she said quietly. It wouldn’t be smart to get him angry at her so early on in their journey.

Dandelion sighed.

“I meant not to get loud with you, dear, I am sorry. I am simply weary from my lonesome travels on the road. You do not know me; and therefore, naturally, you do not trust me or the words I say. You are being very smart, love, and I am being very stupid, as usually I am. Geralt never came to you; so of course, he couldn’t have ever told you about silly old me! Not that he would have, but you get the gist of it.”

He went down on one knee, getting level with Ciri.

“You must fear that I am in league with Nilfgaard or their ilk. I have nothing to offer you other than my word that I am not. And you not trusting me is probably the best thing you can do. Still, I ask you that you try. If you feel unsafe, I shan’t stop you from running off. We are heading to Kaedwen and I fear it’s quite a long journey. Kaer Mohren is in the mountains, and there’s a village at the base of it. From what Geralt has told me, as begrudgingly as he was, the village is quite familiar with the Witchers. If some passed through already, they will tell us. I’d reckon they might even let us stay until more either come through or descend again from the mountain. Do you think this is sufficient information for now?”

Ciri searched his face. She didn’t think he was lying to her. His face was not an open one, but he didn’t seem malicious. So, she nodded. Her trust, he would still have to earn, but right now, she felt more at ease.

Dandelion smiled his sad smile again and stood back up.

“Very well then, onward we go! Let’s use as much daylight as we possibly can.”

He turned back to the road and Ciri ran after him.

“How did you meet Geralt?” she asked eventually. Dandelion hadn’t really proved himself to be the chatty type.

“Well, dear, it must be an odd twenty years or so ago now. I had just started my travels, and saw him brooding in the corner of a dingy tavern. Let me tell you, our Geralt is quite the brooder! The silent and stoic hero type, I assume. Anyway, I simply attached myself to his hip and he had never been successful in shaking me off.”

She wondered. Dandelion didn’t really seem like a fighter. Had he been a simple wanderer maybe? Ciri speculated as to why Geralt had let him stay. However, Dandelion must’ve been just as helpless back then as she was now which was great news. Geralt probably wouldn’t send her away then, if he had let Dandelion stay.

“Why aren’t you together then?”

Dandelion stopped for a moment before he resumed his walking. Maybe it was just Ciri’s imagination but had he clenched his fist?

“We – well, it had been mutually beneficial for us to split up, you know? And then the whole war started and we simply haven’t had the chance to reunite. I’m sure he’s fine though. While he is absolutely terrible at washing, he’s been keeping himself alive for long before I came along and –“

He suddenly stopped talking but he kept walking, albeit a bit faster than before.

“Dandelion? Are you okay?”

He turned his head and smiled at her.

“Of course, darling. Forgive me, my thoughts just wandered. Tell me if I’m walking too fast, yes? I wouldn’t want to accidentally lose you.”

Ciri nodded. She wasn’t stupid. She knew Dandelion had cut himself off before, she just wondered why. Had he just realised something and hadn’t wanted to say it? She didn’t want to pester him about it.

“What’s Geralt like?”

She asked mainly to keep him talking. It was nice, hearing him talk. It reminded her that she wasn’t alone. Dandelion smiled at her and started talking. Apparently he had written a dictionary for all of Geralt’s favourite way of communicating: grunts. Ciri snickered.

“If we keep walking like this, we should reach Rinde sometime tomorrow. From there, we’ll follow the Pontar for awhile until we get to Murivel.”

They had made camp for the night. Ciri had watched Dandelion struggle with the fire for a bit before she had taken over.

“Is it a long walk still?”

Dandelion nodded: “Yes, I’m afraid so. It’d be faster if we had horses, of course, but we can’t afford them. Maybe we can get a Mule if I save up enough.”

Ciri bit her lip. “I can help with money,” she offered.

“If we stay at an inn, and they can use a dishwasher, sure. But Fiona, you must understand, you’re still a child. They won’t want to give you a quick job. But don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I’ll earn as much money as I can and we’ll be fine. There might be refugee camps along the road too, they might take us in for a bit, share their food with us. We’ll see.”

Ciri took her mushrooms from the fire. Dandelion had removed the hood of his cloak and his hair looked a bit greasy. Ciri hoped he could get a bath once they reached Rinde.

“But first things first: a haircut and dye for you. Also a new cloak while we’re at it.”

Ciri startled and almost dropped her dinner.

“I like my hair! And this cloak is from my grandmother! You can’t take it away from me!”

She wouldn’t let him. It was all she had left from Cintra. She knew the cloak would fetch a pretty penny but she could not part with it. Dandelion shook his head.

“We’re not going to sell it, Fiona. But someone might recognise it, yes? And they’re looking for a pale blonde child. If your hair is short and a darker colour, then they’ll overlook you. Hair grows, you know? It’s just until we reach Geralt.”

His logic was solid, but she still didn’t like it. He was right. It would grow back. And while she loved having her mother’s hair, she could have grandmother’s hair for a bit, right? So she nodded.

“Splendid! Don’t you worry; you’ll get used to your new hair in no time. And I’ll buy you a satchel and we’re going to put your cloak at the bottom of it. So it’s always with you, yeah? You’ll see, dear, everything will be just fine.”

True to his word, they reached Rinde sometime tomorrow. There wasn’t much to it, Ciri thought, but maybe that wasn’t bad. If this was just a tiny hobble, then Nilfgaard might overlook it for the moment, perhaps thinking Ciri would stick to the big cities to disappear. Which, truthfully, had been her plan before meeting Dandelion.

“Will we stay long here?”

Dandelion shook his head.

“No. We’ll stay a day at best; at most we’re staying two. I’ll try and scrounge up some money, we do your hair and we’ll be on our way again.”

Ciri flicked her eyes to Dandelion’s hand. Some part of her wanted to grab it, but she restrained herself. She’s known this man what, three days? It just felt weird to suddenly have a distinct goal in mind.

“Do you think I could look at a map?”

Dandelion blinked at her, then nodded.

“Yes, you can. It might be good to plot the route a little bit better. I know the way, but what if we get lost, hm? The shop ought to have one we can look at. Come on, then.”

Ciri hurried behind him.

Their first stop was the inn. Ciri really hoped they could get a bath with hot water. Washing in the river was fine, but it was so cold.

“No, one bed is enough,” she heard Dandelion say and she clenched her jaw. He hadn’t tried to do anything, but what if he did now? She’d have to be careful. But she could do that. Grandmother taught her how to sleep with one eye open.

“Can we have baths?”

The inn keeper looks at her and shrugs. “Sure but that costs extra.”

“No, we’ll make do, thank you.”

Ciri huffed in anger, but Dandelion shoved her up the stairs. Once behind their door, she complained: “I just want a real bath, is that so much to ask for?”

Dandelion looked at her and sighed. “Yes, darling, it is. A bath is a bit out of my budget at the moment. Look, we’ll get what we need first and if we have leftover money, we’ll get you a bath, ok?”

Ciri averted her gaze. He was right. Necessities were more important than some hot water. She just missed it. She missed all of it. She missed her own soft bed, her nice set of clothes she could change every day. She missed the guaranteed meals, the time spent with her family.

She missed playing knucklebones with the kids.

She just missed all of Cintra.

“Come with me to the market, love. Keep your hood up, and you’ll be fine.”

She just nodded and followed him out of the door.

Ciri wasn’t happy, but she knew she would have to get over it. Her home was gone, and she didn’t have the time to be sad about it.

“Is nobody going to remove that woman?”

While trailing behind Dandelion, Ciri overheard two women chattering.

“She’s been there for what, a week? Let the dogs have her at that point!”

“Are you crazy? What if they get sick and go mad? No, no, someone oughta remove her properly.”

“I swear, that witch is only causing us problems!”

Ciri pressed closer to Dandelion. That woman must’ve fled from the war, and nobody had wanted to help her.

“Dandelion,” she asked, “that woman they talked about – I know we can’t help her, but could we look if she’s still alive at least? If she is, can we take her back to the inn? Just for the night! I’d share my food with her.”

Maybe she could help at least one person. Dandelion didn’t look at her and instead stared at the chattering women. Then he sighed.

“Yes, we can look. But if she’s dead or gravely ill we shall leave her there, alright? It’d do us no good if either of us caught sick.”

Ciri nodded eagerly. That was fair.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Dandelion interrupted the women. “This woman you’re speaking of, where is she?”

“Why do you care? She’s dead at this point, I’m sure.”

Dandelion smiled. “Might be so. However, we’ve lost someone during the war and we agreed to meet her. I fear it might be her, but I want to make sure. So, where is she?”

“Someone? You know that wicked witch?”

“Ladies, this is truly no way to talk about someone’s wife, is it? I’m the only one allowed to call her a witch. And I’d really like to know whether or not I still have the chance to do so. So, where is she?”

Ciri could see how uncomfortable the two women had gotten, because they didn’t even answer Dandelion verbally and just pointed in a direction. He smiled and nodded.

“Come, Fiona,” he said and she hurried to follow. Behind them, the women started whispering again.

They didn’t have to go far. When they turned the corner, Ciri could see a lump lying on the ground. She wanted to start running and check on the woman, but Dandelion held her back.

“Let me,” he said and walked in front of her. She wasn’t sure if he wanted her to stay here, so she followed after him. He didn’t complain.

He kneeled down next to the lump of old clothes and poked it carefully.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

There was no response and Ciri deflated. They’ve been too late. The poor woman was dead, Ciri hadn’t been able to save her –

“Why is it always you who plagues my nightmares, you wicked witch?”

Dandelion had turned the body around.

“Ciri,” he said, “be a dear and run back to the Inn, tell them I need water. And towels. She isn’t dead, dear, we weren’t too late. Run along, I’ll be right behind you.”

Ciri nodded and turned around as Dandelion was gathering the woman up in his arms. It went completely above her head that he had called her Ciri.

Ciri was busy rearranging the bed for the woman. They would save her. At least this woman wouldn’t be another victim of the war.

She turned around when she heard the door being pushed open and she ran over to help Dandelion in. He had the woman from the streets safely in his arms and he stumbled over to the bed, dropping her on it somewhat unceremoniously.

“Careful!” Ciri chided him and Dandelion grunted.

“I’m gonna tell her how heavy she is. She’ll be so mad, it’s gonna be great.”

Ciri blinked in confusion. Dandelion arranged the woman on the bed and then turned to her.

“I need you to watch her. Dribble some water into her mouth, alright? Also keep her under the covers, and don’t forget to change the wet cloth from time to time. I’m going to go and get a healer here. Also, I still need to buy our necessities. I’ll send the healer ahead, and I’ll tell the innkeeper so you don’t have to worry.”

“She’ll be okay?”

Dandelion smiled at her shaky question.

“Oh, she’ll be, yes. A pain in my ass she’ll be, and she’ll be okay. I’ll be back before you know it.” He stopped for a moment.

“This, my darling, is Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

Dutifully, Ciri did as she had been told. She kept tucking the woman – Yennefer – in, and changed the wet cloth on her forehead probably too often.

So, this was Yennefer. The Yennefer from her dreams, the one Geralt had been looking for. That meant, if Ciri stayed with her, Geralt would find her too. She looked to the door. She hoped she could convince Dandelion to let Yennefer travel with them. Ciri let out a heavy sigh and put her face on her hands. It would’ve been nice if they had found Yennefer not half-dead. But at least with Yennefer in hand, there was no doubt that Geralt would be finding her now.

There was a knock on her door and Ciri had to remind herself that Dandelion had gone to get a healer.

“Hello? My name is Casimir, I’m the town’s healer. May I come in?”

“Yes, the door is open!”

The door swung open, and in stepped a middle-aged man with a warm smile. There were several grey streaks in his hair, and the wrinkles on his face were just starting to get deep.

“You’re Fiona, right? Your father told me that it’s thanks to you I can help the woman here.”

Ciri blinked. Her father? He must mean Dandelion, but that wasn’t her father. It was on the tip of her tongue to protest, but she thought better of it. Dandelion still wanted to cut and dye her hair. Pretending to be father and daughter would make Nilfgaard look the other way even more. So she just nodded.

“Can you help her?”

“Well, let’s have a look, shall we? Care to help me?”

Ciri cared to.

Hours later, Dandelion returned. In truth, Ciri had been a bit worried about him, but also hadn’t wanted to abandon Yennefer. Casimir had been very nice and Ciri hoped she could visit him again before they had to leave town.

“Dandelion! Where have you been?!” She demanded to know as soon as he had closed the door. He smiled at her apologetically.

“Apologies, dear, but an opportunity for some coin presented itself to me, so I had to delay a bit. Casimir has been by at this point, yes? How’s the verdict, is the witch going to live?”

Ciri nodded. “Yes, he left this medicine for her. She’s supposed to take this every four hours for two days.”

“Every four, eh? Well good thing I already worked a bit today, then. Alright. I got the hair dye. Come now Fiona, it’s time for your hair to get cut.”

Ciri took a deep breath and nodded. She had prepared herself for this. It was for her own safety. It was only until they found Geralt. Ciri turned around and closed her eyes when she heard Dandelion take out the scissors. Maybe she should’ve asked him if he had any hair-cutting experience. Well, too late now, she guessed. It’d be alright, she just had to believe. Hair grew back, just like he had said.

Later, when Dandelion shoved a mirror on her face, declaring he was done, Ciri braved herself. She prepared herself for the worst, so when she opened her eyes, she was quite surprised. Her hair – actually looked rather good. It was way shorter than she’s ever worn it herself, and in a colour similar to Dandelion’s – which made sense if he had decided that they’d pretend to be related. Ciri almost didn’t recognise herself.

“Do you like it?”

She blinked and turned around, grinning at him. “Yeah!”

He looked surprised, but returned her smile brightly.

It’s been two days and Yennefer was supposed to wake up soon. She had woken in the past, but she hadn’t really been here. Dandelion was out for work again. Ciri wasn’t sure what it is what he was doing but it did bring coin back. Maybe he was doing odd jobs around the village? Ciri sighed and almost missed it when Yennefer’s eyelashes fluttered.

The woman groaned loudly, instantly drawing Ciri’s attention.

“Yennefer!” she exclaimed, happily.

The woman in question blinked at her lazily. “I – yes?”

“You’re awake! I’ve waited so long!”

“I – what, where...? Who are you?”

Yennefer seemed confused, but then Ciri realised that she might not even know. And she did just wake up and all.

“I’m – I’m Ciri, but you should call me Fiona! I’m – I’m Geralt’s Child Surprise!”

“You’re –“

Yennefer didn’t finish her thought and instead tried to sit up. Ciri rushed to assist her. If Yennefer was feeling fine, they wouldn’t have to visit Casimir again.

“What happened?”

“Well, we passed through here and I overheard some women talking, so I wanted to investigate! When we found you, I thought you were dead, but then we got you here and Casimir the healer gave you this medicine and now you’re well again!”

Yennefer blinked. “I – I see. Thank you. Where – where is he?”

Ciri looked at the door. “He went out to get some money, but he’ll be back soon. I dreamt about you, you know?”

“You dreamt of me?”

“Yeah! Well, maybe not you specifically, but I dreamt about Geralt looking for you and calling out your name. So I’m real glad I found you!”

“He –“, Yennefer started but didn’t finish. Then she nodded. “Tell me about yourself, Ciri.”

Ciri grinned and did just that.

#the witcher #jaskier #ciri #yennefer #fanfic #fanfiction #dandelion #yennefer of vengerberg #angst #hurt/comfort #hurt jaskier #writing #irrlicht writes

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dhwty-writes · 1 year

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whatever a sun will always sing - chapter 4

Welcome to the "horny Jaskier" AKA the "Fabi tries to write sexual attraction" chapter. I'm sorry, I'm very ace and tried my best. This is also more of a filler chapter, I hope you’ll enjoy it regardless. I'll be back tomorrow with more plot (and more Jaskier lyrics)!

Written for the @witcher-bows-and-arrows event.

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Jaskier was an admirer of a great many of things. He was an admirer of women and wine, of men and mead, of fine fabrics and finer arts. He adored the flowers that budded in spring as much as he cherished the leaves that danced in autumn rains, loved the summer sun as dearly as the winter winds. He admired his fellow bards and their works (with perhaps the exception of Valdo Marx), the innkeeps and tavern owners that put a roof over his head and food in his belly, the adoring audiences that filled his pockets with gold.

And not least among those, he considered himself to be an admirer of Geralt of Rivia. Professionally so, one might even say.

Could he be faulted for that? Geralt of Rivia was hardly a difficult man to admire. For starters, there was his witcher strength with which Jaskier had seen him break entire tree trunks with bare hands, to say nothing of his fabulous sense of smell that could sniff out a perfumery from a mile away, or date a fine vintage up to three decades past. He was kind if he allowed himself to be and funny if he wanted to. And he was easy on the eyes, too!

Jaskier was not ashamed to admit that in the beginning, his admiration had mostly consisted of attraction. Horniness, even, if one must be so crude. Then again, he had been eighteen and the road to Posada suffered from a criminal lack of brothels, so what could have been expected of him? In any case, he was older now, much wiser and more mature, and no longer troubled by such trivialities as lusting after his best friend.

He had fantasised more than once about taking the witcher to bed (Or for a roll in the hay. Or being fucked against a tree, really, he wasn’t picky) but as incredibly dense as he could be, he picked up on Geralt’s disinterest soon enough, with how his friend ignored any and all of his advances. Whether that stemmed from a disinterest in Jaskier or men, or people entirely, he could not say, and in the end, it made no difference, so it hardly mattered.

Soon, his earnest flirtations turned into a staple of their friendly banter. Jaskier made dick jokes and Geralt snorted and that was just the way it was, just as much as Jaskier played the lute and Geralt slew monsters. Although sometimes his witcher would reply with something just as lewd. That made Jaskier guffaw and Geralt hide his lovely smile when he earned that reaction and Jaskier knew that he was... well, if not loved, at least cared for.

Love he could get from the masses.

Care was for someone special.

Although even for witchering and lute-playing the lines weren’t as clear cut as all that. Over the years, Jaskier had slain a total of one drowner, three sandcrabs, and a rabid dog when they had wandered into their camp and Geralt was far away on a hunt. And Geralt had played the lute, albeit only once.

It was, oh, perhaps five years into their friendship, when Jaskier asked if Geralt knew how to play any instruments. “Just imagine, we’d make twice, if not thrice the coin!” he dreamt. “People would travel across the continent to see the monster-slaying musician and we could retire to grow fat and old.”

“No,” the witcher growled from where he was stoking their campfire. “Never had the time.”

Jaskier sat up abruptly, silly daydreams gone from his mind. “Would you have liked to?”

“It’s useless,” he grunted and thrust the charred tree branch so forcefully into the coals that a few embers tumbled from the neat ring of stones and sparks danced all over the clearing. After a moment, he amended: “For a witcher, I mean.”

“Not all things have to be useful, not even in a witcher’s life,” Jaskier replied with carefully practised carelessness. “I could teach you, if you want. A simple song, the first one I learned.”

“Hmm.” They had travelled together long enough for Jaskier to know that to mean alright.

“Well then, get your arse over here, you big grump, I am not moving any closer to that smoke cloud you just created, thank you very much.”

With another grunt, Geralt complied and sat down almost silently on Jaskier’s bedroll next to him. It was a marvel how he controlled every muscle of his body whenever he moved; Jaskier did not think he had ever seen him relax. Well, except for that one moment in Beauclair when he had told him he’d missed him, before he had realised his mistake and frozen up again. But that had been so brief, Jaskier hardly thought it counted.

“Alright, take the lute.” Geralt looked at him sceptically. “You’ve travelled with me long enough; you know how to hold a lute.” In fact, his posture wasn’t half bad, once he finally accepted the instrument, although he nearly dropped it with how delicately he was touching it. “You won’t break it,” Jaskier promised and his witcher seemed to believe him at least on some level and tightened his grip.

Jaskier went ahead and explained to him the different strings though judging by the look on Geralt’s face, he might as well have told him he was able to grow wings and soar above the clouds. ‘I had already mastered the flute and have been reading sheet music for three years before I ever touched a lute,’ he reminded himself, ‘Geralt has no clue that a C can be anything other than the ocean.’

“Alright, that was a poor attempt on my part,” Jaskier apologised. “Let me try something different. You know Toss a Coin to your Witcher?”

The stare Geralt levelled at him could have killed a lesser man. “Very funny, bard.”

“Right, hum it for me, if you please.”

It took a bit more convincing for the witcher to actually do so, but in the end, he complied. ‘He has a lovely singing voice,’ Jaskier thought and he had to remind himself for a moment how wise and mature and how absolutely not attracted to his friend he was.

“Good,” he replied cheerily and ignored how his voice cracked at the beginning. “You see, the first note of that song is an F. And if you put the fingers of your left hand here—” He arranged Geralt’s hand on the neck of the instrument. “—and then pluck one of those strings, that’s how you get that note. And all the notes that are used in music are somewhere on those strings, depending on how you move your fingers. Try it!”

This time, Geralt plucked at the strings himself, once, twice, thrice, his frown deepening every time. “It doesn’t sound the same. As what I sang.”

“Well, yes.” Jaskier shrugged. “Your voice is deeper than mine, so you started out a little deeper as well. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed by re-tuning this lovely lady, though. Anyways, let’s move on to another song.”

“Couldn’t you teach me Toss a Coin?” he asked, frown deepening even more.

Jaskier’s cheeks were burning. “Well, ahh— Hmm. Let’s not do that, it’s not what I’d call beginner’s friendly.”

“What would you call it?”

“A pretentious error.” The words slipped out of his mouth and could not be swallowed down again. “I was a fool who had just graduated Oxenfurt and wanted to write a masterpiece that turned out a mess, lyrically as well as otherwise. So, let’s just leave it at that and not make it the first song we attempt to learn, hm?”

Jaskier had to endure another ten minutes of friendly ribbing — it’s your most famous song, Jaskier, the people love it, Jaskier, why are you blushing, Jaskier — before they could finally move on and attempt to learn a lullaby that he had once learned for his baby sister.

It went rather well, all things considered, though they wasted some time figuring out how he could correct both of Geralt’s hands at once — he attempted to put his arms around his witcher from behind, but his turned out to be too broad for that, even though Jaskier was by no means a small man, and the position was incredibly distracting to boot — and some more arguing about how the notes sounded different when Geralt played them compared to when Jaskier did — Jaskier maintained that they didn’t, but had to admit that even perfect pitch was no match to a witcher’s hearing.

In the end, their lesson lasted nigh to an hour before his witcher grew frustrated and thrust the lute back into Jaskier’s arms. “I’m fast enough to evade a basilisk but for some fucking reason I can’t move my pinky from one string to another in time,” he growled and stomped over to his own bedroll.

“It takes time and practice,” Jaskier tried to soothe him. “How long did it take for you to grow quicker than a basilisk?”

“About a fortnight,” came the bitter reply, but this time he refused to feel bad for bringing up sour memories. His witcher was being obtuse on purpose and they both knew it.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he chided and put about securing the lute in its case. “I am well aware how long knights train to be proficient with their arms; my father tried to turn me into one. With bards, it’s the same, though our weapons may differ. But I assure you, we both did our due in the training yard to become as good as we are now.”

Geralt didn’t dignify that with and answer, which was just as well for him. They both completed their evening toilet in silence, but his witcher still wished him good night, so he couldn’t truly be hurt. He only spoke up again once they had both settled into their respective bedrolls: “Did your father really attempt to train you to be a knight?”

“It’s late, Geralt,” was all Jaskier yawned as a reply, “ask me again tomorrow.”

Geralt never asked again and Jaskier wasn’t about to complain.

It was one of their unspoken rules that had developed over the years spent travelling together. Just like Jaskier wouldn’t meddle with Geralt’s potions or follow him to a hunt, Geralt didn’t touch Jaskier’s notes for new songs or asked the same question about his past twice.

Which did not mean the witcher was completely ignorant to Jaskier’s life before becoming a travelling bard. Rather, Geralt knew what everyone knew: a distorted truth shrouded in the garb of a thousand colourful tales, each a little bit too genuine to be called a lie, each a little bit too grotesque to be taken at face-value.

He had begun doing this even before his graduation in an attempt to cultivate an air of mystery around his person. Though since everyone at the Academy had known his birth name, he had largely failed at that.

After leaving Oxenfurt and taking on the sobriquet he was now so famous for, it had become a lot easier to spin his tall tales in order to seduce beautiful ladies or impress strapping lads and Jaskier had found himself enjoying deceiving his audience as much as entertaining them. It also provided a nice degree of anonymity, should he ever need to retire after all and raise Julian Alfred Pankratz from his final resting place.

With Geralt, the deception had gained a particular thrill; in the beginning he just wanted to see if he could lie to the witcher. It rapidly became apparent that no, he could sniff those out as easily as Jaskier’s fear or joy, though he never quite learned how. Then, it became a game, to see what kinds of reactions his fables could elicit from his friend.

His claim to be part-fey only got a derisive snort, his account of how his parents had been important ambassadors at the court of Redania raised an eyebrow at least. When he invented a thrilling saga of how he was a former student of Ban Ard who had failed his final exams and was on the run from a former lover, all he received for his troubles was a “No, you’re not.”

It was fun.

Now, years later, he was much wiser and older and more mature, so he could admit that maybe fun had not been the only reason for his game. Perhaps there had been a small part of him that might have been afraid of Geralt’s reaction. He had long grown used to the fact that many people who were perfectly amiable at first grew distant and tended to grovelling once they found out you were nobility.

It was silly, of course, since his noble descent was among the things Jaskier could not hide; his speech betrayed that as much as that he hailed from Redania. Geralt also knew that he had graduated Oxenfurt, though if he ever went looking through its archives for his name, his search would prove to be a long one, for Jaskier had been born outside the Academy walls on a whim. He also knew the relationship between Jaskier’s family and him to be tense if at all existent, but he never questioned that.

Not that he thought Geralt was the kind of person to grovel. Melitele’s tits, in half his tales he was a noble on the run. It had been a silly thing, almost as silly as it was to still not talk about the truth ten years into their friendship. There was a reason for it, surely, though perhaps Jaskier wasn’t ready to face that yet.

Geralt, on the other hand, preferred not to speak of his youth at all. That was a bitter lesson for Jaskier to learn, four years after Beauclair. He had known his witcher to be especially taciturn when it came to that period of his life, of course, but he had was stupid. He pressed him for more tales to put into his songs and pushed too far. Geralt shouted at him if he also unearthed corpses from their graves, since he could not seem to grasp that what lay buried must remain in the earth and when Jaskier woke the next morning, he was alone.

That was also the year in which he returned to Oxenfurt triumphantly, after news had reached him, that Valdo Marx had left to seek his fortune elsewhere. He spent the winter at the academy and most of his time that wasn’t allocated to teaching, getting drunk with old friends and getting laid by the very same, he spent researching witchers.

Most tales he came across, appeared to be fables and fairy tales to get little children to behave, rather than truthful accounts, for the witchers in those were more akin to beasts and behemoths than the people Jaskier knew them to be. But others appeared to be more credible: brief histories about the creation and the purpose of the schools, as well as their decline. The documents were incredibly vague and all his attempts to learn more about the founding of the School of the Wolf proved fruitless.

The documents about the end of the Golden Age of witchers were more numerous. Jaskier remembered vaguely from his history lessons that they had been hunted almost to extinction about a century ago and that the decline of some of the schools had been due to infighting. Most were diminished by angry mobs, however. Brushing up on his dusty knowledge of the matter, he was horrified to discover that it had been Geralt’s school who had suffered that fate, since the first attempt at subduing the Wolf School had left too many members, who had been out on the Path at the time, alive.

A year or two prior to his research, Jaskier had asked jovially where exactly it was that Geralt vanished to every winter. “It’s better if you don’t know,” was all he had gotten in response, which had confounded him back then, but he began to understand now. Still, he wondered, ‘better for whom?’

Scribbled in the margins of one chronicle he discovered some remarks about the alchemical trials witchers underwent to achieve their superhuman strength and senses, cross-referencing scientific notes of the attempts at recreating those. Jaskier was nothing if not a thorough researcher, so he hunted those down as well.

Alchemy had never been his speciality and he could make neither head nor tail of most of what he read, much less testify to the functionality of the process, but he understood the notes about the reaction of the ‘test subjects’ well enough, though that was not necessary to comprehend the damning results. The poor souls chosen as cannon fodder for magecraft had been in abject agony from the mutagens and spells trying to warp their flesh, although the period of time their suffering lasted differed. Those who made it past the three-day-mark had been seen as promising, though none survived a week. Jaskier found himself gripping the book tightly with fury thinking of the twenty-seven lives that had been wasted for this madness. He barely curbed the urge to retch upon reading the final remark of the report:

Though critics may consider a toll of 27 subjects too high, it is important to remember that even during the Golden Age of witchers, the mortality rate of those undergoing the trials was never below 60%. I am certain that with enough time, resources, and patients, I can provide similar results, especially if given younger subjects, since no witcher to survive the trials, is known to have been older than fourteen.

‘Children,’ Jaskier thought horrified, ‘they were putting children through this.’

There was no name attributed to the report, but whoever had written it, Jaskier hoped they had died a horrible and gruesome death. After that, he never brought up the topic of Geralt’s youth again.

So, the years went by and they both learned that one did not need to know a person’s past to recognise them as one would their own reflection. By the end of their summer in Toussaint, they were so familiar in their routines, neither need to talk to set up a camp. Two years later, Jaskier could cook Geralt’s favoured meal blindfolded with one hand and Geralt knew if his bard was in town as soon as he passed a city’s walls. They also developed a queerer set of skills to decipher each other’s peculiarities: by the eighth year of their acquaintance Jaskier had become fully fluent in Geralt’s mannerisms and by the time a decade had passed, he could have written whole dissertations about the intricacies of his witcher’s hums. Geralt, on the other hand, developed a particularly keen ear for when a lute string was about to snap as well as reflexes for catching said instrument should its carrier stumble suddenly.

All that did not mean they were glued to each other’s sides. They always spent their winters apart, except for the winter 1251/52 when they were beset by early snowfalls and Geralt had no hopes of reaching whatever hideaway he normally snuck off to, so he stayed with Jaskier in Oxenfurt instead. By the time spring arrived they were so sick of the other’s presence they didn’t meet up for two years afterwards. But even aside from the winters, their paths entwined as much as they led to different destinations. Sometimes they shared the road for a scant few days, sometimes for weeks or months (and sometimes Jaskier wished they did not have to part at all, though he’d never tell his witcher that).

This was another one of their unspoken rules: neither had the right to monopolise the other’s time.

It was, perhaps, Jaskier’s favourite rule, for it was this that truly set this relationship apart rather than some paltry lack of shared sexual experiences. Geralt, apart from Priscilla, was the first person with whom Jaskier felt like he could truly be himself without fear of judgement, without fear of suffocation.

And while he did not dare call it anything but that, he admired his witcher for his trust.

The summer of 1255 was a beautiful one, that Jaskier spent in Novigrad, enjoying the seaside air in the hopes it might get his creative juices flowing. He had spent enough time with Geralt the year before to have material for a hundred ballads, though for some reason the words stubbornly refused to put themselves into the right order the entirety of winter. ‘Perhaps,’ he had thought, ‘a balmy ocean breeze will thaw this dam in my creative tide. Or I might even find another muse.’

The second task was much easier accomplished than the first. He indeed met a lovely lady named Vanka, with copper ringlets that bounced whenever she laughed and freckles spreading from her cheeks to the tops of her breasts, where constellations hid and waited to be found. The kisses they shared even managed to dislodge his writer’s block somewhat.

He was going for a refreshing stroll along the Pontar and was halfway through the second stanza of a sonnet to Vanka’s beauty when he heard a voice behind him: “You! Bard!”

‘Oh no,’ he thought as the blood froze in his veins. Over the years he had grown far too acquainted with that tone of voice, even if it had been a few years since he last heard it. He ventured a glance over his shoulder and sure enough was assaulted with the sight of a balding man built like a bull, dragging Vanka behind him by the wrist.

“Who, me?” he said as innocently as possible.

“Yes, you, dammit,” the man growled, let go of his daughter and stomped even closer. Jaskier gulped when he spotted the dark stains on his leather apron that looked suspiciously like blood — after over a decade of knowing a witcher one grew accustomed to the sight. “Are you the son of a whore who fucked my daughter?”

“Good sir, there has been a grave misunderstanding,” Jaskier tried to defend himself as he laughed nervously. “I was merely admiring—” Quickly he raised his hands as the butcher procured a meat cleaver from the gods knew where.

“You can admire your own prick when I serve it to you on a silver platter,” the man bellowed and Jaskier had no doubts that was a promise he intended to keep.

“No, thank you, good sir, I still need that,” he hastened to say, turned heel, and fled as fast as he could. Unfortunately, that wasn’t very fast; it had been some time since he had last run from an angry father or cuckolded husband and he was also clutching his lute as if his life depended on it. He sprinted off the promenade along the Pontar, taking the stairs leading up the bridge two at a time, and as if his day was not bad enough already, when he turned right and skidded onto a crowded thoroughfare, he was almost trampled by some careless rider who did not look at where his horse was going.

He yelped and leapt out of the way, grateful for the additional barrier between him and his pursuer that the horse provided. A hand caught him by the scruff of his neck, preventing his further escape. “Jaskier,” a familiar voice growled. “What’s going on?”

“Geralt!” he squeaked and twisted around as far as he could with the chokehold his friend had on his very expensive doublet. It was Geralt, sure enough, though the horse was new. The new Roach might be a bay mare as always, but she had no blaze on her nose as the last one had. On her back sat his old friend, in just a black shirt and pants with no armour in sight.

From the other side of the bridge, Vanka’s father shouted: “Witcher! Hold onto that bard for me!”

Jaskier grimaced. “The gods exist and are good if they sent you my way. You see, I appear to have, er... stored my sausage in the wrong pantry, if you catch my meaning, and that lovely gentleman over there with the large knife means to serve it to me for mine own dinner.”

He snorted. “Serves you right,” the witcher said with an iciness that made a snowstorm look like a balmy breeze, but they knew each other long enough for Jaskier to recognise the playfulness underneath.

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he said dispassionately: “Please, oh most gracious and noble of my friends, rescue me of my fate brought upon me by mine own stupidity and the inability of choosing eligible bedmates. I will be forever in your debt, sing odes to your glory, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Didn’t make the ranking, but I suppose it will do.” To his surprise, Geralt leaned down and extended one hand. “Get on up.”

Jaskier balked. “What, on Roach?”

“Unless you want to sup on your prick. I hear it’s quite a feat to brag about if you can shove it into your own mouth.”

“Only if it’s still attached to your body,” he huffed, but accepted the hand that hauled him onto the horses back. Jaskier held on tight as they sped out of the city, the shouts of the butcher dying in the dust behind them.

Once they had crossed a fair distance and slowed to a more leisurely pace, Jaskier spoke up again. “My thanks for the daring rescue. You know, if not for wearing the opposite colour, you could be the dashing knight in shining armour that I always dreamt about.”

“I’m not wearing any armour,” Geralt stated the obvious.

“I know,” Jaskier whined, missing the annoyed tone he was aiming for by quite a margin, instead landing on ‘desperately trying to hang onto the last shreds of my dignity as I can feel every muscle of your torso through that sorry excuse for a shirt, since you don’t even have the decency to hide them behind a doublet, you arse’. “I said almost. Besides, it was only a stupid, infantile fantasy.”

“Hmm?” he hummed. Go on.

He sighed, as if incredibly inconvenienced by the request. “I was a child and a fool and a foolish child and I had just discovered the concept of romance, if you must know. But I used to dream that one day a knight would appear, who’d carry me off on his white destrier to a magical kingdom far away. There he’d bring me to his ensorcelled castle, where he would lay me on a featherbed of roses and we’d live happily ever after.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said and snorted. It sounded bemused.

“So, where were you headed, before I interrupted your leisurely ride with my silly troubles?”

“Oxenfurt.”

Jaskier beamed and hooked his chin over Geralt’s shoulder, poking the other side of his face in an attempt to get the witcher to look at him. “Why, my dear friend, don’t tell me you were on your way to seek me out! Could it be that you have missed me after your winter spent on some lonely, cursed mountain?”

“Hmm,” he replied when he meant to say: you’re a menace and lucky that I like you.

“I have missed you too, dear heart, and am so glad to see you once more.” He hugged his friend tighter again. “And that is a yes to returning to the Path with you. Alas, I have to admit all my belongings still remain in the Kingfisher. I could buy new ones, but I know what you think about wastefulness and my favourite shirt is among those trinkets as well, but—”

Jaskier yelped as he was all but shoved from Roach’s back, barely catching the saddlebags tossed after him. “Go set up a camp,” Geralt growled as he turned Roach around. “I’ll be back within the hour.”

Jaskier grinned widely and hoisted the saddlebags onto his shoulders. “I love you too!” he shouted after his witcher, although he received no answer. He did not fully realise what he had said until he was halfway through setting up a camp. By then, as always, it was far too late to put the words back into his mouth.

#geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #witcher bows and arrows #whatever a sun will always sing #my writing #geralt/jaskier #waswas

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the-lady-of-vengerberg · 2 years

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theclashofqueens · 4 years

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The Witcher Appreciation Week | Day six: favorite quote

#witcherweek #the witcher #calanthe #geralt of rivia #ciri #series: the witcher #char: calanthe #edits #tw #twn

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rolandtowen · 3 years

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[ID: a colored digital drawing of Sokka, from ATLA, wearing Geralt of Rivia's armor from The Witcher. The drawing shows him from the waist up in black armor against a blue background. The armor consists of padding covered in silver studs, with a black shirt underneath and black gloves on his hands. He looks at the viewer from the side, holding his meteor sword out parallel in front of him, and has the black strap of a back sheath across his chest. He is in his twenties, his hair having grown out to jaw length, the top still pulled back into a wolf-tail. Highlights show a light source coming from the off-screen right, illuminating the armor. Sokka is smirking as he holds his sword. an artist's mark reads: RTO. End ID.]

so this may be a very niche crossover, but this idea popped into my head today and I HAD to sketch it out. click for better quality, obv.

you can tip me on ko-fi!

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myfriendgoo94 · 3 years

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#the witcher 3 #the witcher #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla of cintra #char edits

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zacksnydered · 1 month

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HENRY CAVILL as GERALT OF RIVIA Netflix’s The Witcher ‧ Bottled Appetites

#henry cavill #hcavilledit #henryedit #cavilledit #the witcher #thewitcheredit #geralt of rivia #geraltedit #filmtvedit #netflixedit #cinemapix #mine.#edit: gifs.#show: the witcher.#char: geralt of rivia.#fc: henry cavill.#vortexoffate

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banardboy · 4 years

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‘ I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m stating the facts. ’

the last wish meme // accepting // @skjebne

“it’s not in the facts you’re stating, it’s in how you’re stating them. you’re being purposely fatalistic,” istredd argued. he’d been around geralt long enough to know when the man was being a bit… dramatic. “this is not the end of days, geralt. you know that as well as anyone so as you once said to me, ‘get over it’.” the darker man shook his head and looked up to the ceiling. who would have thought one day their positions would be reversed?

#skjebne #( char. ) do you know whose skulls these are ☄ geralt of rivia #( interactions. ) every glyph has a clue ⚔ meme replies

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ratofthemedievalsewers · 2 years

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The Fire I Breathe Shall Burn You Too - Part II

*NOTE: YOU DON’T NEED TO KNOW ANYTHING OF SKYRIM FOR THIS WORK - Any lore will be explained within the story itself, you don’t need to know any details of Skyrim.

Inspiration from @fanficsforheartandsoul , thank you for all the support!!

*****

Geralt of Rivia x Male, Dragonborn Reader

THE COMPLETE WORK

Word Count: 3.1K

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Canon typical language

"Sizaan... You will lose yourself, Dovakinn... Hi los ont vod... Just as all dragons do." Parthunaax's voice was soft as it travelled along with the breeze, he spoke as if trying to calm a screaming babe.

The scene before Y/N was one of a victorious battle; The ground damp and congealed with heavy precipitation and the warriors' blood of both Skyrim and the Empire. The mud was trodden and kicked up by sturdy leather boots and iron sabatons. The weapons of fallen soldiers stand tall and challenge the sky, while others lay beside their owners - fingers reaching out and almost scraping at the hilt, their eyes wide open in fear, while no light shines within them.

The Dragonborn can smell thick, dreadful smoke; It's pungent as the fog strengthens and carries it through the field, the charred remains of vegetation and overturned carts still burn a dim amber, the fire holding onto whatever source of fuel it can, refusing to be snuffed out.

He closes his eyes and he can hear it. The harsh, ear-piercing sound of clattering metal; steel hitting iron, hitting silver, hitting corundum. The cries of men and women fighting for their lives and their land sung in the background, a voice occasionally shrinking into silence as the holder fell dead.

Y/N opened his eyes again and he saw the bodies once more, painted in dread as their gaze lay straight ahead, looking at nothing but their end.

He glanced down at his hands as he felt a sticky substance cracking and flaking, while simultaneously damp and congealing. Y/N's arms were painted in brilliant shades of deep red and muddy brown, his skin colour peaking through the creases of his palms and joints where the blood had dried and cracked in the folds of his skin.

None of it was his own.

The Great Dragon within him purred at the sight and the smells, curling around the feeling of triumph within the Drangborn's chest.

"Your legacy, Dovakinn, is coated in... sos... blood... and reeks of dinok... death." The disembodied voice of Parthunaax grew louder as it grew stronger with passion, the rumble of anger within it raising the hairs on Y/N's arms. "Vennesetiid fen du hi... destiny is your enemy."

The Dragonborn sat straight in the wooden cot of the Inn. The room still bathed in soft candlelight, highlighting the perspiration dripping down his forehead and onto the coarse cotton covers.

It took a moment or two to calm his breathing once more, his head hurting from how loud the voice had been in his dream.

Parthunaax was dead, or at least his body was lost, destroyed by the Emperor's son. He had been a great ally during the Dragonborn's battle against Alduin, yet Y/N is the reason he is now gone.

Some nights, when these dreams plague him, he wonders if the voice he hears is real. Whether Parthunaax's soul has been able to reach him across such deep and far waters. Part of Y/N dares to hope, but not enough for the dragon, his friend, to forgive him for what he had become.

*****

"So... Please enlighten me... Why are we going after a dragon?" Jaskier was pacing in front of the table where Geralt and Y/N sat, bouncing on his heels with anxious energy. Some of the other patrons turned their heads to briefly glare at the commotion the bard was seeming to create just by existing. "I mean... it's a dragon."

"It would make for an excellent song though." As it was only morning the tavern was fairly quiet, with only a few patrons save for an amused Dragonborn, an indifferent Witcher and a somewhat distraught bard.

Jaskier raised his finger as if to protest, but behind his eyes, you could watch as the cogs of his mind turned. "It rather would, wouldn't it." Y/N wiggled his eyebrows at the bard, an amused smile playing on his lips.

"So..." Geralt broke the atmosphere, "What do we know?"

"Its arrival here must have been recent, no more than a month, but no less than a week or two going by how the bogland was almost completely clear. Despite their ability to fly, dragons are slow to migrate, especially in new territory. They usually have a home base, one to fly out from and then return whenever they please. But if that home is lost then so are they. They become disorientated."

"That's a good thing, right? It's not its home turf so we have the advantage?" Jaskier leant against the table, both hands holding his weight.

Y/N grimaced, "Not necessarily. They'd become desperate, like when you tried to pet that feral cat. Everything is a threat, so they'll be on high alert and lash out at anything and everything."

"And that's why we have to kill it?"

"Imagine if they stumbled onto Cintra, a dragon of that size and of that mindset would destroy it. Even if they managed to neutralise it, hundreds of men, women and children would be killed."

"Ah... not good."

"If we follow the line of "disturbances"-"

"Like the Kikimore."

'-like the Kikimore, then it'll create a path straight to the dragon, then it's just a matter of slaying it."

"You make it sound like killing it is the easy part."

"That's because it is." Geralt smacked Jaskier on his shoulder blade, a "friendly" gesture, soft as to not hurt the bard, but brutal enough to send him stumbling forward from the force.

Y/N stood from his seat, the others following suit as he placed a small pouch of gold on the table; Enough to pay for their drinks and their night's stay, with a little bit extra for hospitality.

Roach dug his front, left hoof into the ground in front of him, the boredom of waiting for Geralt resorting him to kicking up the dirt of the stable floor. Brynjolf, a broad, dark-coated stallion stood by roach in the same stall; Considerably more behaved yet held an air of arrogance about him.

"I still think it's a dumb name for a horse," Jaskier commented, leaning against the wooden support of the stables as the other two prepared their horses - The bard was yet to find a mount of his own, for now, he would pester his two companions for a ride on either of their horses, more often than not it was Y/N that gave into his winging of sore feet and tired legs.

"He's named after a dear friend," The Dragonborn repeatedly moved his hand down the strong snout of the stallion, while his other hand tested at the straps of the saddle, "Its a better name than 'Roach' at least."

"Hey." Geralt spoke up, a false look of anger on his features that made Y/N smile.

"A dear friend? Pray tell, who is this Brynjolf that tamed the heart such a strong, cold warrior?" Jaskier waved his hand up in a flourish, before letting it fall back over his chest where they both lay crossed.

"He was a thief, commander of the Thieves Guild to be exact after I... dealt with their previous leader."

Jaskier furrowed his brows before his eyes widened along with his mouth at the realisation. "Oh, so you..." He pulled his finger across his neck in a slicing motion, while making an exaggerated cutting noise.

"In fairness, he was trying to kill us too, besides he was a bit of a cock."

"I don't think that warrants-"

"Oi! mutant! We don't want your kind 'round here, all you bring is trouble." Jaskier looked somewhat offended at being interrupted. Just to the side of him stood a man, most likely a smith or a leatherworker; his clothes were ragged, fraying at the edges with the seems barely holding the pieces of fabric together. Like his clothing, the visible skin of his arms is covered in dirt and grease, the gradient getting darker when the stains reach his hands.

"Oh, piss off," Y/N kicks him, hard, in his lower stomach. He falls to the ground, groaning in pain, before retching and coating the floor with that morning's breakfast. The three other men not dissimilar to the now downed man looked between themselves, before running off, leaving their fallen comrade, that held as much grace as a newborn deer, behind. "...What?"

Y/N looked between his two companions, eyes flickering to each of their faces as he tried to read their rather perplexed faces. Geralt shrugged, more to himself, before mounting Roach. Y/N followed, climbing on top of his own horse. Jaskier adjusted the strap of his satchel on his shoulder before clutching to the hand Y/N outstretched to him and used it to pull himself up to settle behind the other man.

"You see Geralt, this is called being nice," Jaskier threw his arms out wide, "Not once have you offered to give me a ride."

"You've been on Roach before."

"Now you see... that doesn't count, because I was dying."

The sun sat directly overhead the forest canopy, those travelling beneath it shielded from the warm rays, yet the leaves acted as a blanket, encompassing the forest with a gentle warmth. Despite the source of light being blocked, it was bright with the leaves' flourishing greens and rich yellows, even the bark of the birch trees seemed to glow as they soaked in the midday air.

It was a moment of peace that someone such as a Witcher or a Dragonborn rarely got to relish in.

Jaskier let out a loud, obnoxious sigh.

Thankfully, that peace would soon be broken.

"So... Y/N... Just Y/N, where are you from, exactly?" Jaskier broke the soothing silence. Geralt let out a sigh of his own, only his was quieter and did not disturb the local wildlife.

"Are you trying to make small talk?" Y/N turned his head slightly to glimpse at the bard from the corner of his eye.

"Maybe," Jaskier sat hunched over to one side as to avoid Y/N, his chin sat in his hand as he held it up from his elbow on his thigh. "I'm bored and my ass hurts. Geralt has never been one for good conversation so I was hoping you might be."

"We could play a game?"

"What game could we possibly play on the back of a horse? It better not be Eye Spy, I've beat sour puss over there too many times for that to be fun anymore."

"No, it's called 'Who can be quietest the longest?'"

"Hah, I'm not falling for that one... again," For a blissful moment, Jaskier was quiet, "I don't even know where we're going."

"Somewhere not even the flies and maggots could find you," Geralt spoke up for the first time since the Inn. His tone was its usual low cadence, but the hint of a smile played upon his lips, out of view of the other two.

"Har har, very funny. You're as bad as each other, a match made in heaven."

"He could be entirely serious," Y/N turned his head again to give a slightly wicked smile to Jaskier, "I don't even know where we are."

Geralt let Jaskier stew for a moment, a faint look of horror slowly ghosting over his features. "There's a rock clearing up ahead. Old dragon territory from when they still thrived on the continent."

It wasn't too much further until they reached the clearing.

They each climbed down from their respected horses, tying the mounts to a grand birch tree close to the entrance.

It was almost entirely encased in tall, basalt columns, save for a naturally formed archway acting as an entrance. Dotted around the expanse were clusters of the basalt columns, some were thin and reaching tens of feet high, while others were stubbier, just slightly taller than an average man. Several cave entrances lay empty around the circumference; the opening directly opposite the archway being the grandest.

The history within this place thrived and burned hot. The Dragonborn could feel it gently pulsing in his veins, trying to pour out, silently screaming with the history of his kin.

The dragon within him could feel it too; "Zeymah... Briinah."

Y/N took in a breath; nothing back in Skyrim could compare to this kind of sight. It was rather astonishing. He traced his fingers across the closest of the rock walls, his fingers dipping in and out of the rivets made by the hexagon shapes of the rock. When he pulled his hand away the skin was coated in black soot that spread when he massaged it with his thumb. Y/N brought the hand to his nose and sniffed at the substance.

"These scorch marks are fresh," He muttered, more to himself but loud enough for the others to hear.

"Can you smell that?" Geralt called out, crouched down and surveying the ground.

"Horse shit?" Jaskier said but was swiftly ignored.

"Sulphur." Now mentioned the smell became more pungent. Y/N repeatedly brushed his hand on the material of his trousers, removing the majority of the soot, some specks stubbornly remaining in the creases of his skin. "We'll set up camp close by tonight and follow their trail in the morning. If we end up coming across them tomorrow then we'll need to be well-rested to face them."

Despite the clear skies overhead, they took refuge in one of the smaller caves on the edge of the clearing. The night air would be cold and a small fire would lose its heat almost instantly, so the walls of the cave were a comforting change, blocking from the harsh, freezing winds.

The fire that had sat at the mouth of their temporary accommodation had now withered into nothing more but a few dull embers, glowing red against the colour of the night. The outline of the basalt columns was highlighted by the full moon; The Dragonborn traced them with his eyes, finding himself often getting lost in the structures.

He could not sleep, as he found most nights, but the quiet (save for Jaskier's snoring) was welcome. He daren't let himself think, knowing it would either be a winding path to salty tears or burning hatred over a home he had been forced from so unjustly.

Could he have called Skyrim his home? While he fought for that land and its people, in the end, he also apparently fought against it. He couldn't even be certain he was born there or was even raised there. So many uncertainties, yet the only answer that remained clear was that he could never return to Skyrim.

"Can't sleep either?" Y/N jumped, reaching for the hidden dagger in his boot, so enwrapped in his own thoughts he didn't hear the other man come up behind him.

"Can't say I find rock a comfortable bed." At the reply, Geralt sat beside Y/N, fidgeting for a second to make himself more comfortable, which failed.

"Jaskier seems to have managed," At the mention of the bard they both turned to watch him, the sleeping man none the wiser and coincidently letting out another loud snore. Y/N rolled his eyes and a small smile played on his lips as he turned back to face out against the cave mouth. "I could practically hear you thinking. What's keeping you awake?"

"The man at the inn called you a mutant?"

Geralt could sense the deflection from the question, but humoured Y/N, he pulled a face before giving his answer. "Witcher's were once human, but... now changed." He let out a sigh took a moment, thinking over what he was going to say, "We're taken in as children, and forced to undergo a series of... trials. Some of those trials include alchemic processes and mutagenic compounds... Not everyone that goes through it survives. It remakes us, takes away the parts of us that are human."

"Some would say that's a good thing... removing the human parts."

"But it takes the good, not just the bad," Geralt lent forward, resting his forearms on his knees, avoiding eye contact. "They say Witcher's are unable to feel emotion. Not joy, nor happiness, not even hatred... only animalistic desires."

Y/N let a dim smile play on his lips, "That's the truth of it all though. People only ever say, they never actually know. They tell themselves stories to make themselves sleep sounder at night... It's easier to think you're asking a beast to fight for his life than it is a man."

"And what are you, beast or man?" Geralt faced the Dragonborn head-on, not allowing the other to face away as it would be submitting to the challenge. "You speak of dragons like they are wolves easily slain. You hold your chest high in the dens of creatures that could rip an ordinary man to shreds. If you were just a man you'd be a fucking idiot."

Y/N huffed a laugh before lightly chuckling, Geralt quietly joining in. "In all honesty Geralt, I could not tell you what I am... I can only piece together fragments of what I could be from other peoples' reality... If I am a man then I am nothing, just a figment of a lie, but if I am a beast then I am no better than what you and I put down with the metal of our swords."

A beat of silence.

"Why did you leave Skyrim?"

Y/N took a moment to ponder his answer, "My departure was what was best for everyone."

Not a lie, but a veil over the truth instead.

Deciding not to push the matter, Geralt stood. "Get some rest." He slapped the shoulder of Y/N, a friendly gesture, as he walked back into the mouth of the cave, leaving the Dragonborn to the peace of the clearing in the night.

While not yet tired, he let his eyes fall shut as he sat, falling into a peaceful meditation. He brought himself back to the dream from the night before, the battlefield of fallen soldiers, drying blood and charred wood.

Those words; he could hear them again. Yet this time, they spoke on the wind that brushed through the basalt pillars, whistling in high pitched tones.

"Vennesetiid fen du hi."

He opened his eyes; Pupils misshapen into two black slits, sclera and pupil now a blazing gold the same as a roaring fire. Scrutinizing the air in front of them, picturing the owner of the voice that dare haunt him.

"Zu'u los ni sahlo... I make my own path, fate has no hold on me, wuth fahdon."

*****

Rough translations for those who are interested:

"Sizaan" - Lost, to lose

"Hi los ont vod" - You are already gone

"Sos" - Blood

"Dinok" - Death

"Vennesetiid fen du hi" - Fate will devour you

"Zeymah." - Brother

"Briinah" - Sister

"Zu'u los ni sahlo" - I am not weak

"Wuth fahdon" - Old friend

#geralt x male reader #male reader #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia fic #the witcher x male reader #the witcher netflix

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rebrandedbard · 3 years

Note

Number 16 - “It could be worse.”

My writing method is just chucking prompt phrases into a mixing bowl with Cool Historical Artistry Facts, a pinch of aesthetic, and a dash of lore, baking it in a pressure cooker and seeing what we get and I love that you encourage this.

16. “It could be worse.”

wc: 1738

Thunderstruck

Geralt and Jaskier come face to face with a violent lightning storm and hide out in a cave. Jaskier is afraid of thunder and lightning. Geralt helps him through it.

Zeniths were a spectacle. To be present in the height of a storm, to be in the midst of its power and bear witness to its thrall is a mighty thing, even in its horror. It served as a reminder of one’s insignificance, and what a magnificent blessing it was to be thus. Jaskier stared out at the storm in awe. He jumped back from the mouth of the cave with a shriek as a bolt of lightning crashed down, splitting the bark from a tree not fifty paces away. Strong arms reached out to catch him as he went stumbling backward.

“It could be worse,” Geralt joked.

The thunder’s echo still rumbled through the cave’s walls, dying under the crash of another, and another, the cave never silent. Jaskier covered his ears and scowled at Geralt. “Oh really?” he asked, raising his voice against the deafening noise. “I feel I’m inside a war drum! I’m jumping out of my skin!” There was a crackling in the atmosphere that stood his hair on end. He’d never experienced anything more frightening in his life, and he’d had to drag Geralt from the edge of death with a mad nightwraith on the prowl.

He shouted and buried himself under Geralt’s arm as another bolt of lightning touched the earth, the sound following not a fraction of an instance after the light flashed. “Why is it touching the ground?” he panted, heart racing in his chest like a frantic horse. His skin was pale in the darkness, almost white, illuminated by the flash of lightning. He shook, his eyes wide with fear. “It’s so close. I swear, a god is trying to smite us, Geralt.”

Another crash outside and Jaskier tucked his head, hands flat against his ears. He whimpered, and Geralt had never known him to show such fear. The fear he knew was comical at times, more urgency or discomfort than any true terror. But this—this was a fear Geralt knew in others. Jaskier reeked of it, and it burned to breathe it in.

Geralt wrapped an arm around Jaskier, leading him back into the depths of the cave where Roach waited. He set to work making camp, removing the saddle and setting out their bedrolls. With a tug, he pulled Jaskier down onto one, then positioned Jaskier so he lay with his head against his arm. He placed his own hand over Jaskier’s other ear so the sound was twice as muffled.

“Close your eyes,” Geralt said. He then made a sign with his hand and a bright purple glow spread over them. The storm seemed to disappear, only the low bass rumbling through. It sounded distant as if their heads were under water.

Jaskier opened his eyes, blinking in the odd glow. He slowly pulled his hands away from his ears, squinting at the pulsating barrier in a dome around them. “Is this …?”

“Quen,” Geralt answered. “It … dampens the noise.”

Jaskier turned his head to look at him. “You used a sign for me? But you said using signs outside of battle was frivolous.”

Geralt did not meet his eye. He shrugged, putting his hands over Jaskier’s ears once more. “It’s a precaution. In case the storm collapses the cave,” he grunted.

“And covering my ears as we lay together?”

“Would you rather I cover your mouth?”

Jaskier managed a nervous laugh. His heartbeat began to slow—cautiously—and his trembling to cease. He closed his eyes once more. To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier rolled over, tucking his head beneath his chin. Geralt’s hand fell over his shoulders, cradling him.

For a moment, Geralt felt uncertain. But as Jaskier nestled, breathing gently against him, he wrapped his arms more securely around his form. Though there was little need with the barrier in place, he flattened one hand over Jaskier’s exposed ear and used the motion to tuck his head closer. They lay together until the storm passed, the hours fading into sleep.

Geralt followed the faint hum of his medallion in the early dawn. His boots crunched over the splinter of charred wood. The fragments littered the area, and the tree had collapsed in the night. He found the place they’d been camping before the rain broke over their heads. The wood of their campfire now lay in a soaking pile, barely blackened. Beyond their camp lay the sandy shore of the lake, and it was there that his medallion led.

Upon the yellow sands he crouched. He brushed the sands carefully as he searched. It was something he’d read about before, something left in the wake of powerful storms when the sky reached down to touch the earth. In the old tales, it was meant as a gift from the gods; a promise that no storm should ever again harm the one blessed with it. The stories were so old, he thought they had no true merit, but the medallion made him rethink his position. He felt a solid bump on the surface of the sand and dug around it. As he dug, a strange tendril emerged. Then another, like the root of a tree in its shape.

Geralt dug the lightning from the earth, made solid and harmless. The glass was explosive, its many branches reaching outward, smooth in places where the lightning melted the sand best, grainy in others. He turned it in his hands, struck with wonder. Touching the thin ends of one branch, the glass snapped free. Upon examination he found that it was hollow within; the lightning had escaped its vessel.

Fishing out his dagger, Geralt selected a wide tendril and scored one end. He tapped it with the handle of his dagger and it fell free in his hand with a clean line. He scored it again, tapped, and a ring fell from the glass. After a bit of searching in his bag, he found a sanding block, pasted with dogfish. He sprinkled a pinch of sand over the block and rubbed the sharp ends of the glass ring over the abrasive surface, smoothing them away.

He washed the ring in the lake and tested its edge carefully. When he was sure the edge was dull, he fished a length of leather cord from his bag and looped it around, tying off the ends. He wrapped the rest of the glass in his spare clothes and carried the lot back to the cave.

By this time, Jaskier was beginning to stir.

Geralt tapped his shoulder. “Hey,” he coaxed. “Wake up, I’ve brought you something.”

Jaskier turned over groggily. “Is it breakfast?” he asked. “If it is, you can leave it by the fire. I’ll get to it. Just … twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes indeed. Geralt chuckled and pried one of Jaskier’s eyes opened. “It’s not breakfast. It’s something rare. Something I think you’ll find fascinating.”

“Can’t I be fascinated in the late morning for a change?” Jaskier complained. But in spite of the early hour, he sat upright and rubbed his eyes. “Alright, I’m up. What’s so rare and fascinating? Are we off to see some nigh-extinct bird that only comes out at dawn in this isolated range of the mountain? Some magical fish that walks on land two days of the year during mating season?”

“Give me your hand,” Geralt said.

Jaskier squinted at him in suspicion. “Geralt of Rivia, I swear: if you’ve woken me up to put a bug in my hands, I will spit in your eye.”

Geralt sighed as he reached into his bag. “It’s not a bug. Will you just do it?”

Cautiously, Jaskier held out his hand, still keeping it rigidly close to snatch away should he spy any hint of a creepy crawly thing, whether by leg or antenna. Geralt rolled his eyes and pulled his hand forward. He dropped the ring into his palm, letting the cord drape over the side.

Jaskier’s eye widened and he picked up the ring, inspecting it in the early morning light. The glass was a marbled yellow and white, speckled with flecks here and there of brown and tiny black particles. “Oh,” he whispered in admiration. “Oh, what is it?”

“Fulgurite. Lightning glass.”

“Lightning glass?”

Geralt nodded. “When lightning strikes sand, it melts it into its shape. There are stories of it, though I’d never seen it before. In some stories, the lightning becomes trapped in the glass, released only when it is broken; a punishment from the gods for those who wished to claim their power of nature for themselves.”

He opened his bag and removed the hollow glass for Jaskier to inspect. “There are friendlier stories,” he explained, “wherein the glass is a blessing. After difficult storms pass, a mass of fulgurite is left behind. He who finds it and carries it with him is blessed with fair weather all his days. The hollow in the glass is the eye of the storm, the one place of calm amid the chaos.”

Jaskier poked a finger through the eye of the ring. “Fascinating doesn’t begin to cover it. Song worthy better hits the mark.” He passed Geralt the ring as he packed away the glass once more, but Geralt stopped him, closing his hand around the ring.

“I want you to keep it,” he said. “To protect you. Lightning will never strike near you so long as you wear it.”

Jaskier stared down at his fist, opening it slowly to reveal the cold glass ring within. “I thought you didn’t believe in stories like that,” he replied.

Geralt picked up the ring by its cord and lowered it round Jaskier’s neck. “Some stories—some superstitions—are facts forgotten by time. Whether or not it truly will guard you from storms, we’ll learn in time, but I can feel that there is magic in this. There are charms in this world, if you know where to find them.”

Jaskier pressed the tips of his fingers to the ring, a small smile tugging his lips. It rested against his collar with a comforting weight. When he looked at Geralt, his eyes were bright and crinkled at the corners.

“Thank you, Geralt.”

He stood up, one hand on Geralt’s shoulder for balance. As he did, he leaned in and pressed a grateful kiss to his cheek in passing, then went to see about getting breakfast started.

Geralt knelt frozen on the spot.

Thunderstruck.

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pillage-and-lute · 3 years

Text

An Ever Fixed Mark (Part 2)

Part 1, (here) Part 3, Part 4 , Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,

Read it on Ao3 HERE

Just three days after the first installation and 4,000 words? That’s right baby! Because I run on validation and whew! Y’all provided. The courting gift scene based on a recommendation from @tempered-char. Also with a hint of Geralt’s Delicate Sensibilities, as inspired by @valdomarx +Thicc Eskel as a bonus

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“Come in.”

It was soft, but not nervous, and Geralt pushed open the door.

Geralt wasn’t a romantic. He didn’t believe in love at first sight. From what he’d seen of the world he wasn’t so sure he believed in love at all. He could imagine, however, that if he were a painter or a poet he could have fallen in love right there.

The room was a tiny, dusty study, and standing in front of the window was, presumably, Julian. The light haloed him, dust mites floating down. Grey-blue doublet and slightly darker pants brought out clear, bright eyes, rimmed with thick lashes.

He had a rounder jawline, the sort that was in style with painters at the moment. It leant a softness to his face. Maybe that was the fact that he was...nineteen? Geralt couldn’t remember.

He realized he was staring and bowed. It was awkard, still holding his gift and the gift from the countess. He looked up, Julian was smiling.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lord Julian,” Geralt said. “I am Geralt of Rivia.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Geralt, and please, call me Jaskier,” said the young man. He stuck out his hand. Geralt quickly shifted the gifts to one hand and shook.

The hand was soft but not uncalloused, at the fingertips and base of the thumb. Long fingers, good for playing the lute that sat, gleaming and well cared for, in the corner.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, tasting the name. It was a good name, bright and pretty and a deadly poison if treated incorrectly. “I have a gift for you, and her ladyship gave me a gift but I haven’t opened it yet.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and sat on a plush chair, gesturing Geralt to one opposite. “I have my own gift for you,” he said. “Father and Amaria didn’t think I could get my own courting gifts.”

Geralt decided to give up on subtlety. He wanted answers and he hoped this young man, Jaskier, was willing to give them.

“They want rid of you,” he said. It was a question but without the inflection at the end. “Enough to marry you off to a witcher.”

Jaskier sighed. “Just father, Amaria doesn’t have much to do with anything these days.”

“She seemed...” Geralt trailed off, not wanting to be disrespectful.

“It’s all about heirs,” Jaskier said, standing and beginning to pace. “Suitable heirs, which I’m not.” He sent Geralt a bitter little smile and flopped back down. “My father is not a nice man, you see. He’s never taken kindly to disagreements, and to him there’s only one ‘right’ sort of man. Men like him, manly and strong who kill first and don’t bother asking questions later. I questioned him, maybe three years ago, I didn’t think he should raise taxes again. He doesn’t forgive that sort of slight.”

Jaskier leaned forward, elbows on knees and stared at the ground for a second.

“I think he’d decided long before that, but he wants me struck from the family tree.” Jaskier looked up at Geralt. Some of his confusion must have been showing on his face.

This world of heirs and court intrigue was far from anything Geralt knew, and seemed more complicated than necessary.

“Follow me,” Jaskier said, rising and stretching out his hand again. “You can leave the gifts, we’ll be back.” Geralt set dow the gifts and hesitantly stretched out his hand, unsure if the gesture was figurative or if he was actually supposed to take it. Jaskier took him gently by the wrist and led him from the room.

“The halls are a maze,” he said, letting go a coridor later. “Follow close behind me, you could get lost.” Geralt did so. He couldn’t imagine anything more embarassing than having a footman fetch him from one of these little stone tunnels.

They emerged in yet another dusty hall, lined with tapestries. Jaskier stopped in between two, and in front of a large, painted wooden panel. It had a tree.

A family tree.

“My father,” Jaskier said, tracing his finger along dusty, painted branches. “Finds it very important that the next Earl be his direct blood, and also his kind of man.” He looked at Geralt significantly. “That meant ridding himself of Amaria’s sons from her first marriage, by the laws of our country, he could have been heir. That also means getting rid of me.”

This explanation did not help Geralt’s bafflement. Jaskier sighed again, although he didn’t seem to be doing so at Geralt.

“Amaria had two sons, both manly and well suited to my father, but not his direct blood. And they were older than me, set to inherit the role of Earl first. They met with horrible accidents.” A shadow passed of Jaskier’s boyish face.

“Strange coincidence, how a large rock managed to tumble from the ramparts on to Isak not even a week after the same thing happened to Tomas. Especially since there’s not rocks up there. I checked.”

“Your father,” Geralt said, a little numbly. “Had his stepson’s murdered.” He knew nobility could be nasty but still... “And we’ve made a deal with him.”

Jaskier patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry too much about it, Father mostly doesn’t do too much harm these days, and Filip, that’s my half brother, seems like he’ll turn out okay. Then again, he’s only seven.”

“Is he going to have you killed?” Geralt asked, knowing as he did that the Earl was trying, by way of marrying Jaskier to him.

“Not exactly. I don’t know if it’s because I’m blood or just because another ‘accident’ would look suspicious, but there’s an easier way.” Jaskier pointed to a name circled in blue. “That’s my aunt Matylda, father’s older sister. She got married, which officially makes her part of her husband’s family tree, not ours, and she can no longer inherit,” Jaskier paused. “If she weren’t already a woman, I mean.”

“But we’re both men,” Geralt said. “I could just as easily become part of your family tree and then your father’s problem.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, “In theory, but of course that isn’t how he played it. I’ll be an honorary witcher, and my name,” here he tapped some fine script. “Will be circled in blue and removed from the line.”

They both looked at the tree, looming darkly for a while.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt offered, although he supposed it wasn’t worth much.

“I’m sorry too,” Jaskier said. “You shouldn’t be roped into all this.”

Geralt privately considered that, yes, while he would have preferred to avoid all this intrigue and politics, Jaskier didn’t seem too bad.

Jaskier led him back through the stone rabbit warren that made up the bowels of the castle.

“Is her ladyship...like that, because of the death of her sons?” Geralt asked when they paused at the top of a staircase.

Jaskier cocked his head sadly, and then continued walking. Aftr a few more paced he said, “Yes, mostly. She wasn’t always...present, I suppose before but when they died so close together, and in such an awful way-- there’s nothing nice about a block of stone dropping on you from four stories up--something broke. She’s a nice lady, just happier living in her head, I think. Maybe she goes somewhere else, where her boys and her first husband are alive, I hope.”

They arrived back at the study without another word.

They sat.

“I, um.” Geralt said. “Hmmm. I got you,” he proferred the package, not knowing what to say and begging Jaskier to save him from trying to figure it out.

Jaskier took the package and pulled the string so that it fell open. The doublet slithered out. Vesemir had sent a letter asking for measurements as soon as Geralt had told him the idea.

“It’s basilisk leather,” Geralt said. “Witchers, um, our Path, it can be dangerous, so you should have this.”

Jaskier held up the fabric, watching the colors, deep blue and green, shift across the slick material. Privately, and for no reason Geralt could really guess at, he was very pleased, both that the doublet was in what seemed to be Jaskier’s colors, and also at the awe struck look on his face.

“It’s as light as silk,” Jaskier said, passing the fabric between his fingers. “And you said it’s leather?”

“Basilisk leather,” Geralt said. Monsters. They were talking about monsters, which he knew about. Thank the gods. “It’s like armor, and it won’t burn or get wet, water just runs off.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing as basilisk leather,” Jaskier said, holding the doublet up. “Where did you get it? It’s incredible.”

Geralt coughed modestly, and tried not to puff his chest. “I killed the basilisk. Making the leather needs different skills than normal tanning, it’s more like potion making.” He remembered that most people knew little about witcher skills and needs. “All witchers know some alchemy, and we make potions for combat so I...I tanned it. My brother Lambert drew up the design, I don’t know much about clothes.”

The tailor had nearly cried when they’d presented him with the fabric, exclaiming about it’s luster and the ‘glorious smooth hand’, whatever that meant.

Geralt watched Jaskier’s face anxiously. It wasn’t a courtly gift, no crown of pearls or whatever nobles expected, but it had taken him two months to turn the basilisk skin into leather. It would have taken him half the time but he’d had to do it on the road. Lambert had fussed about the design for almost a week too, and it had been Eskel’s idea to ask for the buttons to be little black pearls like that.

Vesemir had smiled at the team effort, calling it the wolves gift to their new pup.

Jaskier looked up at him, face like a sunbeam.

“Can I try it on?”

Geralt just nodded, and looked away modestly as Jaskier divested himself of his previous doublet before buttoning the basilisk leather.

He twirled, and in the light from the window the fabric seemed to glow, shifting and turning with each movement.

“And it really will keep me safe?” he asked, looking down at himself, beaming.

Geralt nodded. “It would take a battle axe a dozen tries to pierce it.”

Jaskier smiled at him again, and it made Geralt’s stomach tingle, although he had eaten some suspect meat on the ride to Lettenhove. Then Jaskier threw his arms around his neck.

Geralt wasn’t old fashioned. He could move with the times, whatever Lambert said, but manners had been stiffer sixty years ago and Geralt was just thankful that Jaskier wouldn’t be able to see the tips of his ears going red.

“It’s beautiful,” Jaskier said, pulling back. “Thank you.”

Geralt shrugged uncomfortably. Jaskier smelled like soap and some sort of oil. Linseed maybe, probably for the wood of his lute.

“I have a gift for you, it’s not as lovely, but I hope you like it.”

Geralt carefully took the package. It was wrapped much prettier than his had been. “The countess already...”

“That was from her,” Jaskier said dismissively. “And maybe even from Father, although I doubt it, he wouldn’t waste money on me. But this gift is from me.” He sat forward eagerly. “Go on, open it.”

Geralt wasn’t about to refuse that eager, open expression, so he pulled at the ribbon, feeling rather like a bear trying to tie a shoelace.

The bright paper just fell away and there was a stiff paper box. He opened that too.

Three glass bottles sat inside, nestled in paper. The paper was only there to keep them from clinking because as he pulled one out he saw the telltale dark sheen.

Brimstone glass. It was unbreakable. Sometimes witchers carried their more noxious potions in it but rarely, it was frighteningly expensive, usually only mages could afford it.

“How?” he said. How did you afford it? How did you know it existed? Did you know witchers use potions? He looked up at Jaskier, who looked nervous.

“Are they alright?” he said. “Only I won them off a sorceror in a pub. He told me they were indestructible and threw one at the ground to prove it. I thought they’d be useful...Was it a trick?” He looked so upset at the prospect.

“These, Geralt said, “Are Brimstone Glass, they are indeed indestructible and very, very useful.” Jaskier’s face split into a grin again.

“Thank you,” Geralt said. It didn’t seem like enough, but if he hugged the lad like Jaskier had him he would kill him.

“Should I open the box from the countess?”

“Do,” Jaskier said. “I want to know what it is.”

The latch flicked easily under Geralt’s hand and the lid popped open.

Jaskier gasped.

“It’s my mother’s ring,” he said. “I don’t remember her well, but I remember her hands...”

It was a beautiful ring, opal, if Geralt was any judge, but Eskel knew stones better than him. Silver wound around the stone, with smaller gems studding the setting to either side.

“I will use it in the ceremony,” Geralt said, offering it to Jaskier. “If it fits.”

“It won’t fit,” Jaskier said sadly. “Mother had very small hands, but it’s a nice thought.”

Geralt looked at the ring and Jaskier’s left hand. “Try it?”

Jaskier did, sliding the ring onto his finger easily. He looked at it in amazement.

“Amaria must have had it enlarged,” he said.

“A good gift,” Geralt said, although not sure who the gift was really for.

There came a polite knock at the door, interupting the moment, whatever sort of moment it was.

“My lord, it is time for supper.”

Damn.

Jaskier slipped the ring back into the box and Geralt looked away as he changed into his regular doublet. He didn’t look away fast enough and caught a scandalous glimpse of collarbone and soft chest hair where the chemise got pulled down a little. The air felt a little stuffy suddenly.

The gifts, and Geralt was proud to see that Jaskier folded the doublet carefully back into the paper, although nothing could have harmed it, were handed to a footman to be taken back to their respective rooms.Geralt offered Jaskier his arm, like he’d seen the nobility do, and then Jaskier led him to the dining hall.

To his relief, the hall wasn’t packed. They were what Lambert would call ‘fashionably late’ (and what Vesemir would call a reason for three extra laps) and all the guests were seated. A table held Lady Amaria and a man who must be the Earl, although there was little visible resemblance to Jaskier. They were seated with perhap half a dozen other nobles, as well as a red headed boy of about seven, Filip, probably, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. There was another table of presumably more minor nobility, and then a small table with the wolves, two seats still empty.

All eyes turned to look at the pair. Jaskier bowed deeply, and since his arm was still linked with Geralt’s he was made to bow too, or else risk having his arm pulled from its socket. Then they made their way to the smallest table.

Geralt pulled out Jaskier’s chair for him and saw Vesemir’s approving nod, as well as Lambert’s smirk. He didn’t see the swift kick Eskel delivered below the table, but caught the way Lambert’s eyes watered suddenly, and smiled at his brother in thanks for the retribution. Then he sat.

“Julian,” Vesemir said, reaching over the table to shake hands. “I am Vesemir, Geralt’s teacher. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“I am happy to make your aquaintance, Master Vesemir,” Jaskier said, and Geralt was impressed that he only winced a little bit as Vesemir inadvertently crushed his knuckles in a grip that could moor a boat. He did, however, gently shake out his fingers under the table once he’d been released.

“If you please, however,” Jaskier continued as if nothing had happened. “I prefer my nickname, Jaskier.”

“Jaskier it is, then,” Vesemir said, moustache twitching up at the corners. Geralt suspected he was thinking the same as he had done. Buttercups, pretty and poisonous.

“You were educated at Oxenfurt, is that correct?” Eskel said.

“Yes, in the fine arts, although I specialized in music composition and lute performance. I didn’t catch your name...?” The most delicate question mark was added to the end of the statement. Eskel blushed, Jaskier wouldn’t know it, but Geralt could see the back of his neck reddening.

“Eskel,” he said quickly. “And the asshole who’s snickering is Lambert.”

Jaskier didn’t look even a little intimidated by either of Geralt’s brothers, which was impressive, because Lambert could scowl like it was a contest and Eskel, although only an inch taller than Geralt, was naturally hugely muscled in a way even the mutagens hadn’t managed for Geralt. His chest and arms looked like they’d withstand a siege weapon.

Jaskier turned a smile on Lambert, who was sputtering indignantly at Eskel’s entirely fair description.

“I’m told you helped with my beautiful courting gift,” he said. Then he turned the smile on all of the wolves. “A team effort I imagine.”

This stunned all three brothers, and made Vesemir smile. Lambert shrugged uncomfortably. For all his prickliness, he couldn’t take a compliment.

“Eskel’s idea for the buttons,” he muttered, and Geralt knew he’d been entirely won over.

“The buttons are beautiful,” Jaskier said, smiling warmly at Eskel now, who looked like he’d rather be facing a mountain troll.

“Was Vesemir that got your measurements,” he said, looking down at the tablecloth. Jaskier beamed at the whole table then.

“Truly a team effort, thank you all, it’s beautiful and I cannot wait to wear it.” With that the whole table was well and truly won over by Jaskier. Geralt couldn’t help but brag a little.

“Jaskier gave me Brimstone Glass bottles as a courting gift,” he said, and preened slightly under the others’ slightly jealous noises of amazement. Jaskier flushed a very pretty pink.

“I just thought they’d be useful,” he said, although his smile was pleased.

Serving girls entered the hall with trays and the chatter in the hall expanded excitedly. A plump young woman set a tray down at their table and Eskel hummed in appreciation.

“It smells delicious,” he said. She smiled at him, looked him up and down, and then winked.

“Oh doesn’t it just, I could just eat it all up,” she said, not looking at the food even as she lifted the cloche from the appetizers. Then she winked and disappeared back into the kitchen. Another girl appeared and filled the goblets but the witchers hardly noticed for laughing at Eskel’s face.

“Seems Mabel took a liking to you,” Jaskier said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Through his own laughter, Geralt watched Jaskier’s father glaring at their table. Good. The old fuck could choke on it, he didn’t look like he’d ever laughed a day in his life.

“Careful though,” Jaskier was saying. “She looked ready to take a bite out of you.”

“But,” Eskel gestured, baffled to his face.

“Oh pish,” Jaskier said, taking a swig of wine. “Nobody cares about that sort of thing, do they? Plenty of ladies around here like a few scars, makes men look rugged and dangerous.”

“Rugged?” Eskel rubbed his hand over his face, contemplating.

“Definitely,” said Jaskier, nodding. He took one of the appetizers. Geralt moved a few to his own plate and slowly their little table descended into a quiet contentment. The appetizers were good, hors d'oeuvres , Geralt remembered Lambert telling him once. They were little bits of paste, meat and vegetable mostly, inside pastry casings.

He smiled when he noticed that he and his brothers were all looking between Jaskier and Vesemir to make sure they hadn’t missed any manners. Eskel swiped Lambert’s elbows off the table.

Eventually the appetizers were replaced with soup. The saucy kitchen girl, Mabel, Jaskier had called her, made a positively salacious remark to Eskel. Something daring about him licking everything clean. Eskel smiled faintly and turned redder than the beet soup.

“You should flirt back,” Jaskier said, once Mabel was gone. “If you’re actually interested, I mean.”

“It’s not that I’m not. Interested I mean,” Eskel squeaked. “But I can’t offer her anything, no marriage or security.”

Jaskier looked at him. It was definitely a look, although not a nasty one. “She asked you to lick her clean and you think that was an invitation to marriage?”

“I wouldn’t want to defile...”

“Oh shut up Eskel, sex doesn’t defile anything. It’s natural and normal and if you think it some how ‘decreases the value’ of a woman than you aren’t the man I thought you to be.” Lambert cut in. “Have some fun, maybe she can remove the stick you’ve lodged up your ass.”

“You’re right, of course,” Eskel said. But now Jaskier was looking worried.

“It won’t be a problem, right?” he asked Geralt. “That I’m not, um a virgin, I mean?”

“No,” Geralt said, probably missing the mark on reassuring, but doing his best. “Unless you mind that I’m not one either. And there is no fidelity clause, and no consummation, you needn’t sleep with me, and you’re free to see other people.”

Jaskier looked at first relieved and then impish, licking the soup from his spoon in a way that made significant parts of Geralt’s brain go numb. “I dunno,” he said, leaning towards Geralt and bumping him with a shoulder. “I can’t imagine consumation with you would be such a chore.”

Melitele’s great gauzy veil, this boy would be the death of him.

There was a pause between soup and the main course, but when Mabel picked up the dishes Eskel leaned towards her and asked if he’d licked it clean enough, to the woman’s obvious approval.

They sat and chatted, Jaskier, Eskel, and Vesemir debated over some old literature that Geralt had never heard of, and then they were interuppted with a cough.

The earl stood, face like stone, beside their table.

They rose. Vesemir bowed.

“My Lord,” he said. “It is a pleasure to make your aquaintance. I am Vesemir, of the school of the wolf.”

Lord Pankratz inclined his head. “Greetings, Master Vesemir,” he said. “I wish to discuss some of the terms of the contract with you.”

He snapped his fingers and a footman brought him a chair, without waiting for Vesemir’s response.

The wolves sat, feeling wary. Jaskier was looking down at his hands, shoulders shrunk in.

They sat in suspense as Vesemir and Lord Pankratz hashed out details of the legal protections. The main course appeared and the earl stood, and bowed.

“Why don’t we continue this after desert,” he said, smiling smoothly. And it was a very smooth smile. Like an oil slick.

Dinner after that was subdued, despite Eskel returning Mabel’s flirtations. Jaskier looked down at his plate most of the time and the witchers picked up on his unease.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” Geralt whispered.

“I don’t know, but he’s planning something, and I don’t like it.”

Then coffee was served after dessert, and the Earl de Lettenhove sat at their table again.

“Now, for what I really wanted to discuss, I know political marriages can be...challenging,” the earl said in a voice like a snake. “But I wanted to make it clear, should either member express a wish to anul the marriage, the contract will become void.” Here he squeezed Jaskier’s shoulder so hard he winced. “I couldn’t bear for my dear Julian to be unhappy, you see. He’s high maintainance I know, but I wish him the best.”

The earl smiled a despicable little smile. “Now, I think you two shouldn’t really see more of each other before the wedding, yes? Bad luck and all.”

The earl then hauled Jaskier away by his collar.

“What a cunt,” Lambert said.

“I figured that was in the contract anyway,” Geralt said. “Isn’t that normally how it works?”

Vesemir nodded. “Indeed, it’s how these marriages go. But I expect the earl is betting that the two of you wont be able to stand eachother, and so he gets rid of his son and doesn’t have to help witchers all in one go.”

“Yes, Jaskier explained things.”

And then Geralt told his family what Jaskier had told him. The suspicious accidents, the laws, the family tree.

“I agree with Lambert,” Eskel said. “What a gigantic fucking cunt.”

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What’s with my thing about clothing descriptions and fancy cloth? I’m a fashion design major, that’s what.

We’ve got answers about Amaria, and the reason for the engagement, but what’s the wedding going to be like? oooh, cliffhanger, but not too much so I hope it makes up for last time when I was so bad to you all.

Tag List! @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @aziz-the-fangirl @mordoriscalling @bastardofmothman @negativenuggetz @morte-mistrata @hayleynzlive @filledepluie @bygodstillam@sociowithatardisachevyandawand @faery-god @honeysuckletook @theflurtifly @saibowtie @werevampiwolf @frywen-babbles @the-kewlest@innocentbi-stander @1stbonesfan @aqueenrisesintheeast @marauders-fan-account @ineffable-lasagna

@ailorian @toothhurtyam I’m having trouble adding you, I can’t tag if this is a password protected side blog or if you have Allow Blog to Appear in Search Results off, I think.

#geraskier #the witcher #arranged marriage #arranged marriage au #its part two y'all #and the earl is a slimy sob

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