#i love this pair of unhinged halflings
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Angstober day 13: From Childhood
This will be a small one, I told myself. Barely a drabble, I told myself.
Well I'm a fucking liar, I guess.
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Luca was laughing. He laughed and laughed, and it made Leopoldo angrier and angrier.
“Ah…” Luca wiped the tears from his eyes. “Really, planting Enzo’s button under the cupboard was a stroke of genius. You almost got caught though.”
“I wouldn’t have had to do it in the first place if you hadn’t messed with the cake,” Leopoldo lashed out. It was scary, in honesty – if he got caught, Aunt Eloisa might have thought that he was the cake thief, and that would have been most unfortunate.
“Oh, come on, it worked out, didn’t it? He shouldn’t wear such fancy buttons, really. Or keep a better eye on his clothes.”
“Whatever,” Leopoldo grumbled. “Did you at least save me a piece?”
“Sorry!” Luca chuckled and whispered in his ear, “The great thing about stealing someone’s birthday cake is that you don’t have to share.”
And off he went, in search of new mischief. Leopoldo should have just let him get caught – but he didn’t. Couldn’t.
This was what big brothers were for, wasn’t it?
---
“Oh, will you stop nagging,” Luca waved Leopoldo off. “Who cares?”
“I care,” Leopoldo hissed, frantically hoping no one was listening at the door. “He was hurt, badly.”
“That was the whole point,” Luca pointed out. “Because he’s an asshole and he made fun of my hair. And I don’t like how he looks at Mamma.”
“That’s no reason to push a guy off the roof,” Leopoldo’s pleading fell on deaf ears. “What if he wakes up? What if someone saw you?”
“Nah,” Luca smirked. “I wiped his memory. Want to try, too?” He twirled the chain of his pendant around his finger, and goosebumps ran across Leopoldo’s back.
“Leave me out of your weird games,” he snapped. “Just… stay in your room. I’ll go check the roof.”
“Do you have to?” Luca rolled his eyes. “Won’t that just attract more attention?”
“You’re missing a button,” Leopoldo pointed out, jabbing a finger at the empty space on Luca’s waistcoat.
Luca looked down. “Ah,” he laughed softly, “so I am. What would I do without you?”
Indeed, what?
---
“You messed up.”
“Look, you don’t have to tell me that, I just need you to help me fix it.”
“If the police comes, there’s nothing I can do, Luca.”
“He heavily implied blackmail.”
Ah, of course. So much better.
They were walking through the dim streets, Leopold wasn’t sure where. He still didn’t know this town very well, and Luca’s absolute refusal to try and keep a low profile didn’t make things easier.
“Well, what do you want me to do? Beat him up so he doesn’t tell anyone? I hardly think that will work, besides, he’s twice my size.”
“Shut up and let me think.”
Luca had always considered himself the thinker in the family, severely underestimating the amount of planning that had to go into bailing him out of trouble – to say nothing of Leopold’s mental gymnastics to justify doing so.
They arrived at a small house, secluded enough that Leopold let himself relax a little.
“So, what now? Knock and try to reason with him?”
“No, no, we need to get in quietly. Can you pick the lock?”
There was light inside, and Leopold winced as he got the set of lockpicks out of his pocket. The lock itself wasn’t difficult, but he ran into an unfortunate problem once he finished with that.
“It’s bolted from the inside.”
“Can’t you do something with it?”
Leopold listened to the quiet of the nighttime street, already disturbed enough by the clinging of the picks.
“Not unnoticed. Look, just… let me talk to him, we’ll figure something out.”
Luca shook his head. Leopold was almost surprised he didn’t stomp his foot. After looking around, Luca suggested, “Can you get in through the chimney?”
“Are you an idiot?!” Luca shushed him, and Leopold continued in a quieter voice, “Unless you know some mumbo-jumbo to make me three times smaller and fireproof, that’s out of the question.”
Luca bit his lip and then his gaze finally landed on Leopold’s coat. His eyes lit up, “Those are ivory, aren’t they?”
He plucked one button off with surprising strength, and Leopold protested, “Oi, that was Dad’s!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, shut up.” Luca bit his finger until it bled, pressed it to the shiny white surface. Leopold watched, desperately suppressing his disgust, as the droplet of blood boiled on top of the button, grew and solidified into a fleshy impression of a four-legged creature, the original ivory barely visible on its forehead.
The creature was thin and ugly, barely resembling the pictures of elephants Leopold had seen in books. At the command of Luca’s finger, it climbed the wall as if it was a spider, then disappeared in the chimney. In a few minutes, Leopold heard the latch quietly drop, and pulled the door open as quietly as he could.
With another sharp flick of Luca’s finger the creature dropped to the ground, dissolving into the carpet and leaving behind the slightly dirty button. Luca picked it up and pressed it into Leopold’s hands with a wide, unnerving smile.
When Leopold pressed the edge of his rapier to the blackmailer’s throat, he thought the hard part was over. That was what Luca wanted him for – the sneakiness, the light steps, the ability to take someone by surprise to give Luca a chance to find the papers and burn them.
But then Luca turned away from the fire, face cast in moving shadows, and smiled.
“Don’t,” Leopold tried to say, but Luca interrupted him.
“You know, there’s been this one thing that I’ve been meaning to try on a person. Get some feedback. Maybe teach someone a lesson on snooping in other people’s affairs.”
He stroked the chain around his neck and his smile grew wider.
And then the man screamed.
He jerked, cutting his throat against Leopold’s rapier – not enough to kill him, but more then enough to bleed. Leopold drew back, jumped off the chair he was standing on to avoid being accidentally pushed off.
“What are you doing, stop!” he hissed at Luca, unsure why he was still trying to be quiet – the screams must have alerted everyone in the neighbourhood to their presence.
“Teaching him a lesson,” Luca didn’t take his eyes off the man writhing in front of him in agony. “Just in case he had the idea to try this again.”
“Enough is enough,” Leopold stalked towards his brother, getting more and more enraged. “This is how you get caught, don’t you realize?”
He tried to pull at the chain of Luca’s necklace, hoping it would interrupt whatever magic was going on. Luca leaned away, turned to him, and then –
Everything was on fire. His body was burning, every nerve ending screaming for the torture to stop. He fell to his knees, unsure if he wanted to try and fight whatever was causing it or beg for mercy, and then –
It was gone.
As quickly as it came, the pain stopped, leaving him gasping at Luca’s feet.
“Well, then,” suddenly, Luca was all business. “I suppose now he’s seen too much, and his neighbours have heard too much. An accidental fire, what do you say?”
Leopold didn’t dare do anything but nod, and Luca leaned down to him with a smile.
“I knew I could count on you. Get what you need ready. I’ll take care of him.”
---
“Did you have to kill him?”
“He’s the reason Grandma’s dead, don’t you have any sense of pride?”
It felt like the same conversation all over again. His voice argued, but his mind was already running through the possibilities.
It was a big party – hiding the body wasn’t a possibility, but they could make things confusing. Those detectives, their cousin’s friends – they were a danger, but one that could possibly play in their favour.
The study – Archibald had another key, didn’t he? It would be easy enough to stumble into him, slice off a button off his frock…
His eyes fell on the letter opener, and an idea came to his mind.
“You said these detectives know magic?” Luca nodded.
Leopold looked around the study. Ah, a letter opener – wonderful.
He stabbed it into the dead body’s chest and turned to Luca. “Make sure if they look, they see what they need to see. Can you do that?” Luca nodded. “Ah, and make sure we’re heard somewhere… downstairs.”
The parts of a plan were coming together, the reluctant perfection of cover-up.
“I knew I could count on you,” Luca smiles, and Leopold shivered.
“Anytime,” he echoed.
That was what big brothers were for, wasn’t it?
#angstober2023#masterofrecords angsts#masterofreocrds writes#day 13#i love this pair of unhinged halflings#though coming up with the whole complicated genealogy was... an experience
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Title: Mightier Than the Sword (Chapter Two)
Fandom: Witcher
Summary: A month after the events of “Rare Species,” Geralt slinks his way into an inn and is faced with the question of how an emotionless man apologies. (TV!canon with some details drawn from the books and Wild Hunt.)
Pairing: Pre-slash Geralt and Jaskier
Word Count (This Chapter): 1,962
Where to read it: Below or on AO3
The new inn, song, and passing of past friends arrived a mere three months later, on a day that was as bright as the first had been bleak. Alone on the roads, Geralt lifted his face to the sun and let it warm his cheeks. Whatever else life might take from him, he’d always have this—and he did not treat such gifts lightly.
In truth, the songs had come earlier. Just a few miles east of that night and Geralt started hearing new tunes sung by drunks and children alike. He didn’t like to admit that he recognized the style. It was true enough to claim that music wasn’t a witcher’s craft... but he recognized it nonetheless. There was no easy way to describe the sensation, only familiarity. Geralt watched a woman hanging clothes, singing a song she only had a handful of words to, and knew that it was one of Jaskier’s.
Something born of his notes. Gallant tales of slicing through wraiths and taking down bandits; surviving armies of neckers and doing right by the people. It was somehow both honest and fabricated, though Geralt supposed that was true of all stories. All he cared about was whether these new ballads meant something. Reconciliation? Forgiveness? Whether he could hope that Jaskier wouldn’t spit at his feet when he next saw him, as so many did? Geralt didn’t know. His memories of the bard’s words to Roach had gone fuzzy. He could no longer believe that he’d heard such kindness over the rain and if it weren’t for the weight of coin in his pockets—keeping him fed and sheltered over these last three months—Geralt would have thought it a dream all together. So no. He had no knowledge of such things... but he found himself hoping nonetheless.
Clearly destiny was a child. In his experience only children could orchestrate such ironic coincidences. For as he tilted his face to the sun and thought of Jaskier, Geralt suddenly heard his voice.
From the woods. Screaming.
He was through the first line of trees in an instant. Before he’d consciously decided to do so, long before any consequences could pop into his head. Geralt dropped Roach’s reins and replaced them with his sword. Through brush. Over boulders. Slipping against mud. With every yard he covered Jaskier’s voice grew clearer until Geralt was finally able to make out his words.
“Rumors!” he cried, causing Geralt to register brief confusion. Jaskier’s voice held the high-pitched string of panic though and that was all that mattered. “Surely the rumors exaggerate?”—Geralt vaulted a felled tree—“I mean, I’ve spoken with many so-called monsters in my time,”—slashed through particularly dense brush—“and they’re always more civilized than people claim,”—palmed a vial of Blizzard and shot the cork into the trees—“so if you lovely, ah... sirs would just hear me out, perhaps we could come to some sort of understanding? Something? Anything?!”
Geralt finally cleared the woods and saw him: bound to a stump at the beginning of the swamp, attempting to reason with a pack of drowners. It was simultaneously the worst and most absurd thing he’d ever seen and for a split second Geralt just stood in shock, useless as a child pre-Trial. It was in that moment that Jaskier’s eyes moved away from the creatures bearing down on him and happened—just happened—to catch sight of him across the way.
“You!” Jaskier said and reality came crashing back down.
He was too far. The drowners too close. With a growl Geralt bent the middle finger of his left hand and thrust outward, a gale bursting forth from his palm. Normally Aard was enough to blast even the toughest opponents off their feet, but Geralt knew from experience that drowners were a tricky bunch. They tended to tangle with the moss and weeds around them, blurring the line between creature and environment. They wouldn’t topple easy so Geralt aimed for the next best thing.
His Sign easily tore the ropes binding Jaskier and he soared away from his would-be killers, landing in a deeper part of the swamp. Geralt caught Jaskier’s indignant shriek right before he went under.
Advancing, a distant part of him hoped the bard knew how to swim. Then Geralt’s mind went blank as muscle memory took over.
That was the easiest way to deal with semi-sentient monsters. Just let his sword do the work, especially when other, compromising thoughts might distract him. So for three minutes Geralt knew nothing but the weight of steel and the pungent smell of creatures born of the mire. When it was over a collection of body parts floated around him, blood spreading outwards onto the water. Geralt sheathed his sword.
A few yards away Jaskier stood, dripping. He hacked up muck with a groan.
Well. If he was going to spit at Geralt, this wasn’t so bad.
“What the fuck?” Jaskier cried.
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m—? Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. I am not thanking you for any of this,” and he gestured to his entire self.
Geralt shrugged. “You’re not welcome then.”
“Yes. Precisely. Quite right. You keep ruining my clothes, Geralt, and I—” Jaskier’s mouth suddenly unhinged, a little more water dribbling out. He absently wiped it away. “I’m mad at you. That’s right, I’m furious, I—hold on. Where are you going?”
It had taken all his concentration to keep from smiling. Because yes, Jaskier was furious, but if he could complain about his outfit than he wasn’t furious enough. Enough to hate him, that is. Not yet.
Suddenly, that confirmation was worth wet boots and the lingering smell of decay.
Geralt turned and started heading back towards Roach. The small bit of warmth in his chest grew at the sound of frantic splashing behind him.
“Geralt? Geralt wait! I haven’t a horse!”
***
A few hours later found them seated around a fire roasting meat. Specifically, the meat of a wolf Geralt had killed after cleaning his sword of drowner residue. Jaskier stared at the white pelt laid out to dry, then pointed to the hunk Geralt was tearing his teeth into.
“Is that cannibalism?” he asked. Geralt grunted.
It would be cliche to claim that they were the first words he’d spoken. In fact, Jaskier had done nothing but talk during their walk back to the road and during all the chores since. It was nonsense though. Silly, rambling thoughts that danced around the conversation they were meant to have. Problem was, Geralt didn’t know how to start it and based on the insistent tapping of Jaskier’s foot, he didn’t know either.
So, more dancing then.
“Another wife?” Geralt asked. Across from him Jaskier was dressed only in his smalls and a blanket, his clothes drying next to the pelt. He looked vulnerable in the dying light. More akin to a child than a man. Geralt suddenly found it hard to reconcile this Jaskier with his cuckolder reputation. Though that grimace told him he needn’t have strained himself.
Jaskier snatched his own portion of the food and raised it for emphasis. “If only. Those drunk cads aren’t nearly creative enough to pull something like this off. You met that one in Cintra. They just want me to drop my pants and,” the spit came down in a chopping motion. “It’s all that and punching, yelling, you know how it is. Tying someone up and leaving them for...what did you call them again?”
“Drowners.”
“Because they...?”
“Drown people.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes with such violence Geralt feared they’d leave his skull. “What a pedestrian name. Honestly, could no one come up with better?”
“Some believe they’re called that because they’re born of men who drowned at sea.”
“Oh! Is that true?”
Geralt ate more wolf. After a long moment of silence Jaskier scowled.
“Fine. Be stoic and boring. I don’t need to know the truth for a good song.” He raised a hand only to realize that the notebook he carried was with his clothes, completely waterlogged. Jaskier finally took a vicious bite of his dinner. “Hmm. Right. Songs. That’s what did it.”
Geralt blinked. “You were nearly murdered over a ballad?”
“Not all of them are about you,” he shot back. “Apparently bigots are everywhere nowadays. Sing a few ditties painting halflings in a nice light and suddenly you’re getting knocked over the head and dragged out to the swamp. The barbarity! Thought they were poetic about it too. ‘Support monsters and you can be with monsters,’ or some such nonsense. I was still a bit groggy at that point, but... by all the gods what are you doing now?”
The same instinct that had Geralt charging into the woods made him put his food down now, standing and circling around Jaskier to get a look at his head. “You didn’t tell me you were injured,” he growled.
“You didn’t tell me you cared!” and Jaskier slapped Geralt’s hand away, glaring.
He could have said he did. Two simple words. An ‘I do’ and they could move on from this, but Geralt’s jaw felt locked shut and all he seemed capable of was glaring back.
Then Jaskier sighed. “Oh go on,” he said. “I’d hate to lose any of my brilliance to the back of a beer bottle. Consider this recompense. You owe me.”
Geralt slipped fingers into Jaskier’s hair and lightly searched. There was only a small lump, hardly worrying, and something in him loosened. “I just saved your life.”
“Ha! We’ll call that payment for your filling-less pie comment. Your little temper tantrum, however...”
His hands slipped away. “The notes.” It was all Geralt could manage, but Jaskier turned, his expression softening.
“Well yes,” he said. “But I had already given you coin.”
“Thought that was a gift.”
“And I thought you were trying to be less of an ass.”
Fair enough. Geralt returned to his side of the fire and his quickly cooling meat. It tasted sour on his tongue. Ridiculous considering that witchers cared little for taste.
Oddly though, his mouthful improved when Jaskier caught his eye. He tapped one finger against his lips, highlighting the smile there.
“Although... hypothetically speaking, if you did want to make things up to me—not that big bad witchers apologize or anything—but if they did you could always go get my lute.”
It was a shock the ran straight down to the soles of Geralt’s feet. How distracted had he been not to notice that missing bit of Jaskier? It was a worrisome realization. A hint that Geralt had been right the first time around: better to separate now.
Except that after the fire had burned low and Jaskier slept on Geralt’s mat, he snuck off in the direction of the nearest village. It wasn’t a long walk, the would-be murderers not willing to drag their victim far, but it was long enough for Geralt to come to still another realization, much to his chagrin.
The first time he’d saved someone she’d screamed, vomited, and passed out at the mere sight of him. Now Jaskier shrieked in rage, spat out muck, and passed out in his bed, not quite joking about the nightmares. Technically the same and yet so obviously different. What were the chances that he would be walking that road, at that time, precisely when Jaskier needed him?
If destiny existed, she seemed to be a mischievous little thing.
When he reached the village there was still late night life in it, though Geralt didn’t know who he sought and he wasn’t about to punish all for the sins of a few. Still, if he bared his teeth more than usual and refused to hide his eyes that was nothing of any consequence. Geralt found the precious lute behind the bar and a roomful of guilty looks. He had what he’d come for.
Despite that, before he left Geralt stole a new outfit. Sturdy shoes, warm pants, and a shirt of robin egg blue. A new book as well. He carried those apologies through the dead of night, his steps sure.
And if along the way Geralt strummed the lute a bit, committing those notes to memory... well, there were old sayings about trees and silence. If no one was around to hear him do it, who was to say it ever happened at all.
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