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elderbloodlore · 4 years

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Calanthe was not a racist homicidal tyrant: a useless and bitter rant of someone whose favourite character ever got mercilessly butchered.

WHY ARE YOU WRITING THIS?

Well, let me give you a little bit of a backstory. I first read the Last Wish and the Sword of Destiny in 2012, when I was 14 years old. I instantly connected with the character of Calanthe, and after her death, it took me nearly a year to be able to pick up the saga itself. Ever since, she remained my favourite fictional character ever. As a little girl in misoginistic Poland, I was so lucky to have her as a role model. Because she fought for herself, she took no shit from anybody, she had love and respect of the people around her, and yet she had such tenderness and kindness about her that many strong woman-trope characters are missing these days, and that is exactly what happened to Calanthe when she was being translated to the screen. In 2015 The Wild Hunt was coming out and there were rumours of Ciri being included, so you can imagine my absolute glee and the hope I was filled with to have some more content with that one woman that meant so much to me growing up. And you can imagine my disappointment when all we got about her were a couple tiny mentions, even though the events of the Wild Hunt happen not even a decade after her death. Then the show by Netflix was announced and, once again, I had super high expectations. I wanted to see the wise, kind, beautiful Queen brought alive. December 2019 rolls in, and my hopes are being steamrolled. So here I am, 22 years old and crying over a fictional character, because one of the best written female characters ever (in my opinion) entered mainstream as a bullish, racist, homicidal tyrant. So let me address the biggest changes the show made to my beloved Calanthe Fiona Riannon, the Lioness of Cintra.

THE LOOKS

That was obviously the first thing that threw me off. I was quite enthusiastic when the cast was announced, but then as the first promo pictures were released, my enthusiasm was slowly dying down. In the books, Calanthe’s looks are adressed very often:

“As before, the queen wore emeralds matching the green of her dress and her eyes. As before, a thin gold crown encircled her ash-gray hair.” Sword of Destiny.

I tried to convince myself that Jodhi May won’t be a bad Calanthe so hard that I actually made this poor ass EDIT to feed my delusions and cheer myself up. In comparison, HERE is my personal favourite art of Calanthe that I find is the most accurate to the book portrayal.

Even when the first trailer dropped I was still trying to convince myself that even though she has none of her Elder Blood features or her iconic emerald green, that she wore exclusively in the books, she couldn’t be that bad. Right? Wrong.

THE DEMEANOR

This is probably the biggest change. Calanthe was one of the wisest, most gracefully-written characters in the entire saga, and I really hoped to see that on screen. She was quick-witted, calculating, but at the same time caring enough to let her daughter choose her own destiny in the end (even if it was to be with a hedgehog-headed man twice her age). Her smiles were said to always be full of kindness, she was acting very proper and clearly cared about her image. I’m not going to be getting too much into it with my own words, let these examples speak for me:

'Ah, Geralt,' said Calanthe, with a gesture forbidding a servant from refilling her goblet. 'I speak and you remain silent. We're at a feast. We all want to enjoy ourselves. Amuse me. I'm starting to miss your pertinent remarks and perceptive comments. I'd also be pleased to hear a compliment or two, homage or assurance of your obedience. In whichever order you choose.' [...] 'Hochebuz,' said Calante, looking at Geralt, 'my first battle. Although I fear rousing the indignation and contempt of such a proud witcher, I confess that we were fighting for money. Our enemy was burning villages which paid us levies and we, greedy for our tributes, challenged them on the field. A trivial reason, a trivial battle, a trivial three thousand corpses pecked to pieces by the crows. And look - instead of being ashamed I'm proud as a peacock that songs are sung about me. Even when sung to such awful music' Again she summoned her parody of a smile full of happiness and kindness, and answered the toast raised to her by lifting her own, empty, goblet. Geralt remained silent. The Last Wish.

'Aha,' said Calanthe quietly, clearly pleased. 'And what do you say, Geralt? The girl has taken after her mother. It's even a shame to waste her on that red-haired lout, Crach. The only hope is that the pup might grow into someone with Eist Tuirseach's class. It's the same blood, after all. Are you listening, Geralt? Cintra has to form an alliance with Skellige because the interest of the state demands it. My daughter has to marry the right person. Those are the results you must ensure me.' The Last Wish.

‘Very well then. As queen, I shall convene a council tomorrow. Cintra is not a tyranny. The council will decide whether a dead king's oath is to decide the fate of the successor to the throne. It will decide whether Pavetta and the throne of Cintra are to be given to a stranger, or to act according to the kingdom's interest.' The Last Wish.

'Pavetta!' Calanthe repeated. 'Answer. Do you choose to leave with this creature?' Pavetta raised her head. 'Yes.' The Force filling the hall echoed her, rumbling hollowly in the arches of the vault. No one, absolutely no one, made the slightest sound. Calanthe very slowly, collapsed into her throne. Her face was completely expressionless. The Last Wish.

Guards, armed with guisarmes and lances, ran in from the entrance. Calanthe, upright and threatening, with an authoritative, abrupt gesture indicated Urcheon to them. Pavetta started to shout, Eist Tuirseach to curse. Everyone jumped up, not quite knowing what to do. ‘Kill him!' shouted the queen. The Last Wish.

CINTRA, RACISM AND MURDERING HER OWN PEOPLE

In the books, Cintra was often mentioned to be obiding by the rules of the elves:

‘Dear child,’ said Vesemir gravely, 'don’t let yourself get carried away by your emotions. You were brought up differently, you’ve seen children being brought up in another way. Ciri comes from the south where girls and boys are brought up in the same way, like the elves. She was put on a pony when she was five and when she was eight she was already riding out hunting. She was taught to use a bow, javelin and sword. A bruise is nothing new to Ciri—’ Blood of Elves.

There were many elves and dwarves living peacefully within its borders. Calanthe’s two names - Fiona and Riannon, come from her ancestors that are respectively a quarter and a half elf, and known to be that. Calanthe was the one who taught Ciri that non-humans are not dangerous:

‘I’m not afraid at all!’ Ciri suddenly cried, assuming her little devil face for a moment. ‘And I’m not parrotised! So you’d better watch your step! Nothing can happen to me here. Be sure! I’m not afraid. My grandmamma says that dryads aren’t evil, and my grandmamma is the wisest woman in the world! My grandmamma… My grandmamma says there should be more forests like this one…’ Sword of Destiny.

There was no actual reason nor basis for the showrunners to make her racist and make her murder elves. Having her walk into her own daughter’s birthday party, bathed in elven blood, while she knows that the same blood flows in her own veins, at least partially, was completely unnecessary. Even in the polish version of the show from 2001 Calanthe said:

RELATIONSHIP WITH GERALT

This probably hits me the most on personal level, because I feel like Calanthe had a huge impact on Geralt’s growth as a character, and with such a drastic change to their relationship, I’m unsure as to he will now proceed to develop. Calanthe was, in large, one of the first people in the books that treated Geralt as anything more than a mutant. Here are some of my favourite scenes between the two, in comparison with how their relationship was portrayed in the show:

"At times, no, for years at a time, I deluded myself that you might forget. Or that for other reasons you might be prevented from coming. No, I didn't want anything unfortunate to happen to you, but I had to take into consideration the dangerous nature of your profession. It is said that death follows in your footsteps, Geralt of Rivia, but that you never look behind you. Then... when Pavetta... You know already?" "I know," Geralt said, inclining his head. "My sincere condolences..." "No," she interrupted, "it was all long ago. I no longer wear mourning clothes, as you see. I wore them for long enough.” Sword of Destiny.

He slowly pushed the cup on the table so that the clink of silver on malachite would not betray the uncontrollable trembling of his arm. "You don't deny it?" "No." She bent to seize his hand with vigor. "You disappoint me," she said, giggling prettily. "This isn't voluntary," he responded, laughing as well. "How did you guess, Calanthe?" "I did not guess." She did not release his hand. "I said it at random, that's all." They broke out in laughter. Sword of Destiny.

"I will not take it. It is too great a responsibility, one that I refuse to assume. I would not want for this child to speak about you the way... the way I..." "You hate this woman, Geralt?" "My mother? No, Calanthe. I doubt that she was given a choice... or perhaps she had no say? No, she had, you know, enough formulas and elixirs... Choice. There is a sacred and incontestable choice of every woman that must be respected. Emotions are of no importance here. She had the indisputable right to make such a choice. That's what she did. But I think about meeting her, the expression on her face then... it gives me a sort of perverse pleasure, if you understand what I mean." Sword of Destiny.

A rosebush grew next to the gazebo. Geralt plucked a flower, breaking its stem and then knelt, his head bowed, presenting the flower in his hands. "I regret that I did not meet you sooner, white-haired one," she said, accepting the offered rose. "Rise." He rose. "If you change your mind," she went on, sniffing the flower, "if you decide... Return to Cintra. I will wait for you. Your destiny will be waiting for you, as well. Perhaps not advitam aeternam, but for some time, no doubt." "Farewell, Calanthe." "Farewell, witcher. Look after yourself. I... I sometimes feel... in a strange way... that I am seeing you for the last time." "Farewell, my queen." Sword of Destiny.

FALL OF CINTRA AND CALANTHE’S DEATH

We were robbed of so many epic scenes that truly took away from Calanthe’s millitary accomplishments and showed none of the strength and determination she originally had:

"The Nilfgaardians dealt the first blow," he began after a moment of silence. "There were thousands. They met with the armies of Cintra in the Marnadal valley. The battle lasted all day: from dawn to dusk. Cintra's troops valiantly resisted before being decimated. The king died, and that's when the queen..." "Calanthe." "Yes. Seeing that her army had succumbed to panic and scattered, she gathered around herself and her standard any who could still fight and formed a line of defense that reached the river, next to the city. All the soldiers who were still able followed." "And Calanthe?" "With a handful of knights, she covered the troops' crossing and defended the rear. They say she fought like a man, plunging into the thick of the battle. She was impaled by pikes when she charged against the Nilfgaardian infantry. She was then evacuated to the city. What's in that flask, Geralt?" "Vodka. Want some?" "Well then, gladly." "Speak. Continue, Dandelion. Tell me everything." "The city wasn't properly defended. There was no headquarters. The defensive walls were empty. The rest of the knights and their families, the princes and the queen, barricaded themselves in the castle. The Nilfgaardians then took the castle after their sorcerers reduced the gate to cinders and burned down the walls. Only the tower, apparently protected by magic, resisted the spells of the Nilfgaardian sorcerers. Even so, the attackers penetrated inside four days later without making camp. The women had killed the children, the boys and girls, and fell upon their own swords or... What's is it, Geralt?" "Continue, Dandelion." "Or... like Calanthe... head first, from the battlement, the very top... It's said that she asked to be... but no-one would agree. So she climbed up to the crenelations and... jumped head first. They say they did horrible things to the corpse afterward. I don't want... What is it?” Sword of Destiny.

I understand that this happened because of limited screen time, probably, but the whole Fall of Cintra had been squeezed into what seemed to be a single day, a crushing defeat for Calanthe’s forces, and probably in some way, punishment for her pride.

AFTER CALANTHE’S DEATH

While reading the rest of the saga, these little snipits of people talking about Calanthe, mentioning her, often with respect and reverence, mentioning how her people mourned her and swore revange for her, truly kept me going through. I wished that, at the end, Ciri would find it in herself to return home and liberate it, as back then I had no way to spoil myself the ending. In the books, you can really feel the outrage almost all of Continent feels after the murder of Calanthe:

[...] Cintra is a symbol. Remember Sodden! If it were not for the massacre of that town and Calanthe's martyrdom, there would not have been such a victory then. The forces were equal — no one counted on our crushing them like that. But our armies threw themselves at their throats like wolves, like rabid dogs, to avenge the Lioness of Cintra. Blood of Elves.

[...] Bear in mind that these men left their homes and families, and fled to Sodden and Brugge, and to Temeria, because they wanted to fight for Cintra, for Calanthe’s blood. They wanted to liberate their country, to drive the invader from Cintra, so that Calanthe’s descendant would regain the throne. Baptism of Fire.

In the show, there is none of that. In fact, people seem to be full of disdain and hatred for her, saying things such as:

which, in turn, fills me with dread for the upcoming seasons, because I can already feel all the further butchery coming my beloved Queen’s way.

IN CONCLUSION

In all honestly, there is very little the Calanthe from the show has in common with the one from the books, the one I originally fell in love with. Which is not to say that Netflix’s Calanthe is not a great character in her own right, because who doesn’t love a badass sword-wielding Queen, but as a portrayal of the greatest ruler within the Witcher universe, and one of, in my opinion, best written female rules in literature, she falls flat, and that’s what pushed me to write this useless and slightly bitter rant, in hopes to maybe interest more people in the original version of Calanthe and maybe, just maybe, prompt some of you to read the saga or, at the very least, the short stories.

#Calanthe fiona riannon #queen calanthe #anti-netflix #rant #ask to tag

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discopiratetanis · 4 years

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Prompt: 12. I think I love you

Words: 5012

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Ko-fi

This prompt it’s longer than I expected to be, it got out of hand. But I am happy that I could write this much! So @leavemeintheocean this is for you, I hope you like it and it is romantic enough! ♥️♥️♥️

There are some musical references but I’m not an expert, so I’m sorry for any mistake about it.

(Again I have no beta for this 😔)

The ballroom was full of couples dancing. The music was so lively and vibrant that even Geralt of Rivia, the lonely and gruff witcher, was keeping up the rhythm tapping his fingers on his crossed arms and goblet of wine. It was unconscious, he wanted to thought, but the truth was that he was enjoying the music because it was Jaskier who was playing it.

The bard was in his element, confident, cocky, arrogant. Geralt could say he had smiled twice in half a minute when Jaskier had won a music duel for the fourth time that evening. Maybe his friend couldn’t do magic properly said but he could enchant an entire court of nobles used to the most refined songs in all the North Kingdoms only with his voice and chords.

If real magic didn’t exist, then that would be magic.

Geralt was leaning on one of the marble columns, almost hidden in the shadows under the gallery arches that surrounded the room. It didn’t matter how many times Jaskier dragged him to those parties, he never fully liked it. It wasn’t his territory, it was Jaskier’s. If he was there in the first place was only because the queen of Lyria and Rivia wanted to show him off, make herself look more important than she really was because a famous witcher chose her kingdom’s name as last name years and years ago. She was lucky his master didn’t let him use the first name that he came up with.

At least you’ll have food and drinks for free, Jaskier had said when they arrived at the castle, patting his arm, trying to encourage him.

At least, yes, he didn’t want to be sober all night.

A few ladies, the bravest or the most pretentious, he couldn’t tell the difference, had tried to get him to dance time to time but he always declined their proposals with a polite apology. They always pouted but left him alone after two or three negatives masked with flattery. After all the ladies’ attempts, Geralt always glanced at Jaskier, finding out that the bard was also looking at him, with a funny smile spread on his lips and almost laughing.

Every fucking time.

And Geralt always reacted to that smile with a resigned frown and a sip of his wine, just because that made Jaskier laugh in the end. And one of the few things that could help Geralt endure what was left of the party was to see Jaskier laughing. To see his bright, pure and precious smile even if it was at his own expense.

He could say he didn’t know when he had started to think like that, and it would be a blatantly lie. He knew that one day he had woken up, (and Geralt would always deny it, but he remembered that day perfectly.) he had seen Jaskier smile during breakfast and had felt something. Something that made him take a deep breath and look at him in silence when Jaskier was distracted. Something that made him softer around him, something that made him lend Jaskier all the blankets at night (because Jaskier was human and…), to put a hand on his forehead if the bard had nightmares and use Axii to calm him down.

Something that made him want to make Jaskier smile and laugh, want to make him feel safe and sound. Appreciated. Admired. Respected.

Loved.

Geralt grunted, drinking all remains of his wine and gave the goblet to a maid that was passing by. His head was fuzzy already, buzzing with all those thoughts.

The last song was a fast and wild string strumming, the sixth or seventh duel between bards. Of course, Jaskier the Songbird was the winner. Again. The crowd, including the royal family, burst into thunderous applause and shouts. Geralt hissed and frowned a little, overwhelmed by the commotion. That was partially the reason he always was a distant bastard in parties, as much as he could and as much the social code allowed him to be without looking an ungrateful guest. He watched Jaskier bathing in praises and compliments, in claps in the shoulder and gifts from some of the court’ ladies, and licked his teeth. He began to feel that something again, warm and cozy, before it transformed in somewhat much more green and monstrous.

Geralt had to take a long breath and close his eyes. He took another breath and exhaled it slowly, thinking on that day, that winter morning when Jaskier smiled and he felt that something for the first time. When he opened it, the bard was walking at a steady pace towards him, making his way through the dancers and the musicians who were still congratulating him. Jaskier was radiant, and Geralt thought he was beautiful even if he was heated, had his forehead pearly with sweat and his cheeks red. The something warm ate the somewhat green and monstrous, and made Geralt curved a slight smile while watching Jaskier almost rushing to him.

“Geralt!” Jaskier was breathless. He had his lute well held under his arm “Have you seen it? Gods, I thought I was going to run out of air.”

Jaskier tugged his doublet’ collar and untied three buttons. Geralt slid his eyes down his neck, tilting his head a little.

“I saw it, and I heard it,” he said. Jaskier huffed. “Good job, Songbird.”

Even with all the noise, with all the sounds surrounding him, Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heart beating faster than before and smell his happiness. Jaskier smiled and looked away from a second. The witcher knew there was coy in his eyes. If Jaskier was radiant before, now he was glowing like the sun at his summer’ zenith.

“Thank you,” Jaskier replied, looking up at Geralt, and frowned a little with guilt. “I know you don’t like being at these parties.”

Geralt felt how his own expression went soft.

“Well,” he said. “It’s not that terrible. As you always say there’s free food, free drinks, sometimes good company…”

“Oh?”, Jaskier raised his eyebrows and looked around. Geralt bit his inner cheek while Jaskier wasn’t looking and shook slightly his head with denied. His face went flat and serious when Jaskier looked at him again, this time suspicious. “But I’ve seen you rejecting all the ladies who wanted to dance with you?”

It was Geralt’s turn to raise his eyebrows, letting Jaskier try to figure out what was he had meant. Jaskier stared at him for a moment, then blinked, confuse. He parted his lips.

"You–”

“Jaskier!”

Jaskier turned around. A woman with a fiddle in her hands approached them, also heated and exhilarated. Geralt threw her a look, smelling her enthusiasm. She was young, long blonde hair, big green eyes, freckles… She was more girl than woman actually, with her cute golden dress that matched with all the other bards’ golden clothes.

“Lena,” Jaskier greeted with a smile.

The girl, Lena, glanced at Geralt, curious (and he noticed that curiosity was genuine and had no malice), but looked at Jaskier immediately after. Geralt watched them in silence, waiting.

“Prince Marek wants us to play The Sun and Moon Waltz so he can dance it with his wife, we need you to guide us.”

Jaskier snorted, smiling.

“You need me or you wanted me to?”

“Well…”

Geralt snorted too. The girl looked like she was caught drinking ale when she was told not to do it. Suddenly, Geralt thought Lena must have been a few years older than Ciri, and that thought made him feel… remorseful. Only a little. Only for a moment.

“Please?” Lena begged, almost hugging her instrument. “You are the best of us, no one can play music and sing as you do it.”

Jaskier turned towards Geralt, inflated with pride.

“See? Someone knows the truth, Geralt of Rivia,” he said, triumphantly. Geralt rolled his eyes. Lena didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or not. “I don’t know, darling,” he said to her. “I think I need a break, at least for the next half hour.”

“Oh, but–”

“You can ask Betricze, she’s the composer, no?”

“Betricze is the one who wants you to lead us, in fact. She said that you would want to inflate more of your ego.”

Jaskier groaned and Geralt thought it was an excellent imitation of his own grunts. He couldn’t help to smile.

“Of course she said that,” Jaskier mumbled. Then he sighed, resigned. Geralt didn’t need his witcher senses to know his friend didn’t want to return with the other bards yet. “Give me a moment, I–”

“Tell that lady that Jaskier will not play that song with you.” Geralt interfered, his voice low and harsh but calm. He straightened and took one step ahead slowly, circling Jaskier’s waist with his arm. He felt the bard going stiff, his heartbeat faster than before, his scent spiced with nervousness. Geralt held his breath. “Tell her that the witcher wants his bard with him after all night waiting and if she has a problem with that she can go fuck herself.”

Lena blinked, gripping her fiddle, and nodded with no words, flustered, face red. Geralt wanted to laugh. The girl turned on her heels and trotted to the gang of bards that were watching them from the other side of the ballroom. Geralt watched them in return with that scary face he knew he could do, pressing Jaskier back against his chest.

“Uh, Geralt–” the bard mumbled.

“Wait,” Geralt hissed.

He located that woman, Betricze, and locked eyes with her. She was older than Lena, mature. Geralt smiled fiercely when she frowned and huffed at him in the distance, starting to prepare the rest of the bards.

The somewhat green and monstrous barked a laugh and retreated.

Then Geralt realized that Jaskier was trembling. And he let him free.

The something warm didn’t want him to do it.

“I’m sorry if I got you in trouble. I felt you didn’t want to go with them,” he murmured.

“Hm, yes, well, you are right,” Jaskier cleared his throat, fiddling with his collar and the fourth button, not looking at Geralt at all. “Thank you. But I’m afraid now they’ll think something that it’s not true.”

“I don’t care about what some bunch of bards thinks about us while that doesn’t affect you.”

Jaskier grinned and when Geralt saw that pretty little smile in his lips, that something warm roared victoriously.

“That’s very kind of you, Geralt.”

Jaskier looked up, looked at him, and Geralt lost himself in his blue eyes, his pretty bright eyes full of passion and untold feelings. It was a moment but he felt it like a century as if time has stopped, with Jaskier in front of him and Geralt ready to set that something free. But then a soft melody began to sound and Jaskier looked away, distracted.

Geralt sighed.

The guests gradually moved away from the center of the room to form an oval space, wide enough for a couple could dance. Geralt saw the prince, a young man with black hair and blue and silver clothes, taking his wife, a very elegant woman with a long and puffy dark blue dress, to the center of that space. They bowed to each other and started to dance, slowly. The song was only instrumental, and only with strings instruments.

The crowd watched the couple dancing in a silence broken with sighs and aws of joy.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt noticed Jaskier had left his lute on a table near them. The bard was much calmer now and had caught his breath finally. But he was still blushing.

Tell him, tell him, said the something warm.

“The song?” Geralt asked.

“Yes, of course the song, Geralt,” Jaskier chuckled and threw him a doubtful glimpse.

“I suppose, yes,” Geralt replied. “I’m not an expert.”

Jaskier crossed his arms then, smiling.

“Well, it’s not only beautiful, but it’s also brilliantly written.”

Geralt knew that Jaskier wanted to be asked about it, so he indulged him.

“How’s that?”

“It’s not for the technical aspects, though I could tell you about all the details of it if you want. It has wonderful arrangements and the harmony it’s a masterpiece itself.”

Geralt chuckled. In the oval area, the prince made his wife turn on herself two times, then he took her hand and moved two steps to the right, and turned around with her after. They were smiling, and giggling sometimes. They looked happy, comfortable with each other, in love.

In love.

Geralt slightly licked his lips and felt… strange, as if his guts had shrunk and something tightened his throat. It felt as if he had a big rock on his back, a sword sunk in his chest. He swallowed and felt it as if he had a heavy lump stuck.

“I think I’m not the best person to appreciate those things,” he mumbled, and in some way, he sounded a little sad.

Jaskier looked at him with a tiny sweet smile and said:

“Don’t worry, that’s not the most interesting. Not for the no bards, at least,”

“Then?”

“There are two main melodies, one played by a lute, the other played by a fiddle and each of them has a cortege of the same instruments playing their respective chorus behind.”

“They wanted you to be the main lute, right?”

“Yes, in fact, it’s the true main instrument. It represents the Moon in the story.”

“Oh?” Geralt tilted his head a little, still watching the couple dancing. “So, the fiddle it’s the Sun.”

“Yes,” Jaskier nodded. “The two melodies are entangled, its harmony it’s the same, but the lute plays in a minor key and the fiddle in a major key.” Jaskier went silent for a moment. Then he spoke again, and Geralt sensed a melancholic note in his voice. “The story tells you that the Moon was in love with the Sun, but the Sun never noticed, so the Moon started to appear in the sky when it was daytime, glowing with part of the Sun’s shine to attract its attention.” Geralt looked at Jaskier and saw his distant and sad look. The sunken sword in his chest hurt him more. “The Sun continued no noticing the Moon was there, day after day after day. And the Moon felt despair and disappear. Then, during a sunset, the Sun finally thought: ‘Where is the Moon? Why isn’t it here with me?’, and felt despair too.”

Geralt swallowed once more, hard. He felt as if a claw had removed the sword and stuck in his chest, trying to tear his heart out.

“How it ends?” he asked in barely a whisper.

He sensed Jaskier beside him getting tense, his heart beating fast again, and that even he almost had tears in the corner of his eyes. The bard cleared weakly his throat.

“The Sun went on a long journey to search for the Moon– Oh, they are playing that part now, look.”

Geralt threw a glance at the couple. The princess, with her puffy dress floating like a cloud, was dancing alone near one of the extremes of the oval space. The prince, dancing alone too, was slowly approaching his wife with short and errant steps, pretending being lost without her. Then, when they met, the music exploded in a new sweet fanfare and the dancers turned on themselves without an inch between them, without tearing their eyes from the other. The prince made his wife turned around three more times. The princess took two steps back, two steps ahead, to her husband. The music began to fade. The couple slowly stopped dancing. They bowed to each other again, then they started clapping. The crowd imitated them.

“So the Sun found the Moon and they were happily ever after?” Geralt said while all the nobles and guests surrounded the bards to congratulate them. Jaskier nodded without words, smiling, but Geralt knew it was a weak and fake smile. “And it’s brilliant because… ?”

Jaskier snorted, then he shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied.

“It’s important to you, don’t you,” Geralt faced Jaskier.

Jaskier looked at him, his smile vanishing bit by bit and said:

“You are indulging me a lot lately,”

Geralt shrugged. The claw tore flesh. The something whimpered.

“Do you want me to be the grumpy witcher as always?” he replied.

Jaskier shook his head, again with no words. Geralt watched him in silence too, knowing the bard wasn’t going to tell him why the song was beautiful and brilliant in his opinion. And he knew it was because Jaskier thought the Sun hadn’t noticed him.

But that wasn’t true.

The bards began to play another song, one much more lively, and some of the nobles began to dance it. Jaskier looked away and picked up his lute from the table, clearing his throat for the third time.

“I should go back. If the queen catches me wandering so much she won’t pay me,” he said with a resigned and tired sigh. He didn’t look at Geralt. And Geralt felt bad. “See you later?”

He was about to go when Geralt grabbed his arm softly. Jaskier looked up and blinked, confused. Geralt frowned, also confused, and parted his lips as if he was going to say something. The witcher hesitated.

“Geralt–”

Just for a second.

“Don’t. Wait,” he said. No. He begged. “I… I have noticed you.”

Jaskier blinked again, still confused.

“What are you talking about?” he said, frowning too.

Geralt held his breath, dragging his fingers along Jaskier’s arm until he touched the wrist. He wasn’t good with words, Jaskier was. It wasn’t fair.

“I… “ he mumbled and closed his eyes for a second, indecisive.

Tell him, TELL HIM, groaned the something warm and cozy, now afraid, terrified. He opened his eyes. Jaskier was still looking at him, now somewhat skeptical. Geralt gulped and felt the lump bigger than before, the rock heavier than ever. Jaskier sighed.

“Geralt, let–”

“I think I love you.”

It was as if the time had stopped again. Or as if he suddenly went deaf. The music, the chatter, the voices, the laughs, all of it faded away gently. There was a loud heartbeat in all that silence, and Geralt knew it was his own. It was slow, agonizing, desperate. Jaskier tilted his head, surprised, and then said something that Geralt never thought he could say to him after he confessed somewhat like ‘I love you’.

“Geralt, are you drunk?”

Geralt felt the rock crushing him, the claw finally ripping out his heart, the tip of the sword at his neck. He let out a deep breath and released Jaskier’s wrist. He didn’t know emotions could hurt so much.

No. He did know but he blatantly chose to ignore it for years.

“Maybe,” Geralt grunted, suddenly feeling tired, suddenly wanting to be really, really drunk. “Forget it,”

Then the witcher turned around and walked away through the gallery, also feeling stupid and an idiot. Behind him, Jaskier’s voice rumbled with a perplex echo along the corridor, calling him.

But Geralt didn’t listen and didn’t stop.

* * *

The gardens were empty, with all the guests inside the castle in general and the ballroom in particular. The moon was in its first quarter and shed a pale silver light over the trees and the small lake that was surrounding the fortress. Geralt thought it was ironic that it was him the one contemplating that view, the flowers on the shore, the ducks in the water, the fireflies floating everywhere as if he was a damsel with a broken heart because her beloved did not return her feelings. But he was not a damsel, nor his beloved did not correspond his feelings.

That was what pissed him off the most.

Jaskier, in fact, did return his feelings. Geralt was aware of how the bard looked at him, how he smiled at him, and he knew why he sang those songs about him, why he touched him with so much care, why he followed him with such insistence despite the danger of the witcher’s life, why he helped him the way he did.

He knew why.

And he understood why Jaskier thought Geralt must be drunk if he was saying that he loved him. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt anyway.

I suppose I deserve it, he thought, that was reckless and stupid, and out of time and–

Geralt let out a deep sigh. He was sitting near the lakeshore, in the shadow of the castle, with an almost empty bottle of wódka stoled from the kitchens. He wanted to be drunk, wanted to forget his stupidity, but his metabolism burned the alcohol before it could take effect. He thought about Jaskier, who probably was having fun without thinking or worrying about what had happened. He thought (no, he knew) that they probably will not talk about it in the morning or in the several following days.

Not if it depended on Geralt.

And that pissed him off too.

Geralt drank the last remains of the wódka and left the bottle on the grass and clicked his tongue with a grunt. Suddenly he heard the steps, distant and careful steps, and the whispers. Three persons, one male, two females. He could smell them, they were nervous. At first, Geralt thought they were nobles who wanted to have fun behind the bushes, but then he smelled the buttercups and the daisies and…

And there was music too.

Geralt looked back and saw Jaskier walking towards him. He had his doublet unbuttoned. Geralt frowned a little, more confusing than angry. Behind the buttercups, the daisies and the nervousness, he smelled hope. He got up slowly, just when Jaskier reached him. The bard had a cautious and eager expression. His eyes were of a deep blue that resembled the blue of the water illuminated by the moonlight. Geralt blinked, not knowing what to say exactly. Jaskier offered him his right hand. Geralt sighed.

“Jaskier…”

“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier mumbled, and Geralt smelled guilt. He took his hand, feeling it warm and a little sweaty. Geralt put his own right hand on Jaskier’s waist while Jaskier put his left hand on Geralt’s right shoulder. Something inside Geralt melted and whimpered. Jaskier held his breath and swallowed. “Do you remember the dance?” he asked, again with a whisper.

For a second, Geralt didn’t know what he meant, but then he listened to the music and recognized it.

It was that waltz.

The Sun and Moon Waltz, specifically the part where the Sun was looking for the Moon and then they met again. Geralt shook his head weakly, feeling his gut hot, like a wasp’s nest. Jaskier smiled, softly.

“It’s alright, you have seen it once,” he said. “I didn’t expect it.”

Jaskier began to dance. Geralt followed his lead. Well, actually saying that they were dancing was saying a lot. They were swinging more than dancing, slowly, sometimes clumsily.

But it was enough.

He had Jaskier in his arms, it was more than enough.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, after minutes and minutes of heavy silence. “I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously before. I can’t believe you told me what I had been wanting to hear for so long and that I disdained it that way,” Geralt squeezed his fingers gently. “I’m so dumb…”

“You are not dumb,” Geralt sighed, in a mutter. “You had the rights to think I was drunk,” He licked his lips slightly. “I’m sorry I storm off like that.”

“No, no, it’s okay, really,” Jaskier wasn’t looking at him directly. “If it had happened the other way around, I would be walking in circles whining like a child, and I would be thinking of writing a thousand songs about my broken heart.”

Geralt huffed with a tiny smirk.

“Well, I was not thinking about writing songs, but I was here trying to get myself true drunk if that comforts you.”

Jaskier looked at him finally. Geralt saw and smelled guilt again, saw the tears in the corner of his eyes.

“It doesn’t comfort me… I’m sorry,” Jaskier said.

Geralt knew Jaskier was about to cry. So he released his hand and stroked his cheek with his thumb.

“No, no, my little bird, don’t cry.”

Jaskier leaned into the touch, smiling, and put his free hand on the other shoulder, almost circling Geralt’s’ neck. They were still swinging slowly, pretending to be dancing the waltz. Geralt breathed in.

And then he heard them.

But idiot, just kiss him already

Please, ma’am, he is going to hear us

I don’t fucking care, girl, I’m tired of men incapable of doing romance properly

I think they are doing it right?

He stopped dancing.

And when he did it, the music faded, Jaskier huffed and hid his face in Geralt’s chest. Geralt patted his head.

“Alright, you can go out, you two!” he called.

Instantly, two figures appeared from behind a tree not so far, one carrying a lute and the other carrying a fiddle.

“Lady Lena, lady Betricze.” he greeted.

He saw how Betricze wrinkled her nose.

“Oh, don’t call me that, witcher,” she replied, clearly disgusted in general with the situation.

Beside her, Lena looked much more satisfied and happy. Geralt gave her a tiny nod. Jaskier huffed again and moved aside him, looking undignified and resigned.

“Thank you, Zeze, for breaking the moment, very professional,” he said, bitterly.

Betricze gasped and frowned.

“Oh, excuse me, Pankratz, but I haven’t been the one who screwed up anything, it has been your lover and his… ridiculous hearing.”

Geralt could see her face going red. He wanted to laugh but he snorted, repressing it. Jaskier looked at him in disbelief.

“Geralt, it’s not funny! She promised she would play all the waltz for us, and she didn’t do it.”

“Oh, come on, you weren’t even dancing,” Betricze grunted. “My song was being profaned with those pathetic moves.”

“Oh, yes? I’ll show you something very, very, profaned,” Jaskier began to roll up his sleeves.

Geralt caught him by the waist with one arm and made him stepped back.

“Alright, ladies, I think you can go now, thank you for the music, I owe you a favor,” he said.

Jaskier squirmed in his arm. Betricze smiled triumphally and turned around, going away. Lena sighed and began to follow her.

“Don’t, Geralt, you don’t owe her anything!” Jaskier exclaimed, frustrated.

Betricze made a rude sign to him and laughed. Jaskier grunted. Lena, still following the older woman, looked back and shouted:

“I think you make a great couple!”

Jaskier rolled his eyes but grinned a little.

“Thanks, Lena!” he replied.

“Can I write a song about you two?!”

Geralt snorted again. Jaskier grumbled.

“No, Lena!”

Geralt knew that No, Lena had an implied He is mine, don’t sing about him. For some reason, he thought that was cute. He let go of Jaskier gradually.

“What if I write it with other names?!”

“Go away, Lena!”

Lena giggled in the distance and ran behind Betricze. Jaskier, shaking his head, put his hands on his hips, still annoyed. Then looked at Geralt, who seemed about to laugh finally.

“What?” Jaskier inquired, displeased.

“Nothing,” Geralt replied, amused. “Bards.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Geralt didn’t respond. He cupped Jaskier’s face with both hands, gently, and kissed him, also gently. Jaskier whined, kissing him back, circling his neck with his arms and pressing, almost rubbing, himself against the witcher. Geralt let out a harsh groan, a rough grunt, and bit Jaskier lower lip carefully, making him moan against his mouth. Geralt pulled away just enough to breath and rested his forehead on Jaskier’s. Jaskier was panting a little and had his pupils wide and huge. He smiled, laughing softly after. Geralt smiled too, kissing his forehead, kissing his temple.

“Can I ask you something?” Jaskier asked, whispering.

“What is it?” Geralt murmured against his skin.

“Since when?”

Geralt knew he would do that question someday. He didn’t expect it so soon. But well, he couldn’t blame Jaskier after all.

“I don’t remember what day exactly, but I know it was late winter, and we were far away from any village,” he said thinking back about that. “I was doing something beside the fire and then… “

“Then?”

Geralt kissed near his left eye and straightened up, looking at him, and his expression was soft and calm.

“Then I looked at you, I don’t remember what were you doing either, but… I looked at you, and you were smiling, and I thought: I want him to smile like that forever. I want to make him smile like that always.”

“Geralt…”

“And the day after it was something else as if suddenly I could notice all the little things I like about you that I didn’t notice before.” Geralt slid his fingertips alongside Jaskier’s jaw and neck, making him shiver with pleasure. “And then I didn’t know– No, I didn’t want to acknowledge it was something more than ephemeral, after all these years, that it was…”

Geralt frowned a bit, hesitating, looking for the right words, looking for good words. Jaskier stroked his jaw, watching him with all his sweetness, listening patiently, knowing that talking about emotions was difficult for Geralt.

“It was… ?” he encouraged him.

Geralt took a deep breath, hearing the precious heartbeat of Jaskier, smelling his scent made of buttercups and daisies, gazing at his beautiful, bright and radiant blue eyes, and felt that something finally taking shape in his mind.

“It was love,” he whispered.

And Jaskier breathed in deep too, before grabbing Geralt’s shirt collar and kissed him, trailing his hands and his fingers for all his chest, touching the medallion with devotion. Geralt kissed him back, slow again, feeling the heartbeat going fast, smelling Jaskier like buttercups and daisies but also like fire, wood and oil.

And Love sighed with relief, finally free, finally… at home.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #angst + fluff prompts #my fanfiction

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