#letho x geralt
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last week's fics got revealed for the witcher flash fic challenge, which means I can finally publish mine here! i chose to write about letho, gaetan, and geralt having a threesome on a roof while they're all smoking that Wizard Weed. hope somebody enjoys this other than me; rarepair hell is more fun with friends!
E, 5.7K, Letho/Geralt/Gaetan. Warnings for inconsistent mishmash of Witcher canons, consensual drugged sex, recreational drug use (weed), top Letho, and established Letho/Gaetan. if you want to know more about the specific consent warnings relating to drug use, i put additional details in the end notes on AO3. enjoy!
also on AO3 if you prefer!
-
Geralt’s first clue that something is wrong is that, by all appearances, nothing is wrong.
The town is lovely, if not noteworthy; on his ride in he sees verdant pastures with fat livestock grazing happily on plentiful vegetation. When he stops to harvest some extra herbs nobody calls out ‘thief’ or anything worse. In fact, everyone he passes greets him with either a smile or a nod, nobody seeming too bothered by the presence of a witcher. This bothers Geralt immensely.
He reaches the epicentre; a small town square that smells sharply of a spice or herb he doesn’t recognize. There are bards playing soft music and carts heaped high with pastries, fruit, and charms for tourists. Geralt, technically a tourist, looks over the charms— they are all crudely fashioned, whether woven or carved, and all depict the same… tiger… bear… jaguar, thing. He can’t quite tell if it’s meant to be a warg or a big cat, only that its fur (?) is dark green and its expression is pleasant and wise.
Geralt grimaces, shaking his head at the shopkeeper. They grin and hold out one of the charms anyway. “For good luck,” they tell him.
Geralt can count on one hand how many times a stranger has wished him luck in recent memory. He frowns, tucking the charm away into a pocket of Roach’s saddlebags only because it has absolutely no trace of magic, and perhaps he could pawn it off later for something.
The next major clue that something is amiss in this hidden paradise is the empty noticeboard. Even a pleasant town like this should have at least a few complaints, if not contracts; even in perfect places dogs go missing and children get sick. But the board is bare, with no recent indentations from nails. Geralt’s frown only darkens.
“You,” he grabs a passing man by the shoulder; a lush, judging from his rosy cheeks and how his eyes hardly widen as Geralt holds him in place. But not the kind of drunk who might run around causing issues, just someone peacefully intoxicated in the early afternoon. He smells of wine and of that same indiscernible scent that lingers around the rest of the town square. “Why are there no contracts here?”
“Praise Sylva!” slurs the man. He doesn’t even shrug off Geralt, let alone throw a punch. Geralt, used to significantly harsher treatment from strangers, drops him in disgust. “If we did have any contracts, sure they would’ve been taken by the witchers what just came through here last… last week?”
This oddity, strangely, puts Geralt at ease. Maybe this town is only so peaceful because all its threats have temporarily been disbanded. While this means an empty coinpurse and stomach for him, it does bring him some temporary relief. “Oh?”
“Think they’ve been here since last week,” the man muses. “Two of them witchers, you know… One big fella. Biiiig fella. And one little bald one. Matter of fact, both of them bald… not like you!”
The drunk reaches out to touch his hair, and Geralt thankfully puts that terrible impulse to rest with a withering glare. “Where can I find these two?”
“Pub,” offers the man, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Geralt leans around him to see said pub; there are horses tied up in front, although none familiar to him. When he categorises all the witchers he knows by hair or lack thereof, it isn’t hard to deduce who might be travelling together— despite how often the pair of them complain about each other.
Sure enough, when he opens the door to the (pristine, tastefully decorated, lively but not raucous) tavern, Geralt sees two witchers sitting on the same side of one table. It’s like a terrible joke waiting for a terrible punchline.
Already amused, he watches the ‘biiiig fella’ notice him first, and promptly deliver a sharp jab to his companion’s side; said companion lifts his head, sees Geralt, and then moves to put some space between him and Letho so quickly that he nearly falls right off the bench.
“Geralt,” Gaetan declares, a little too loudly. “I never expected to run into two witchers here! Shit, it’s like the beginning of a bad joke!”
Geralt takes a seat across from them, not bothering to hide his amusement. Letho looks amused too, although Geralt can only detect it because he knows the man so well; he quickly raises his cup to cover his smirk, but the damage has been done. Geralt exchanges a look with him, then turns back to stare at Gaetan. “I heard about the two of you, but I didn’t think there was any truth to it. You know how Cats love gossip.”
Before Gaetan can cuss him out in a hundred different languages or just pounce across the table and wrestle him to the ground, Letho brings up a broad hand and lays it on his companion’s shoulder. The change is immediate; the anger drains from Gaetan in an instant, and Geralt watches with a strange, curious hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Then Letho says, “Well, we’ve heard you haven’t been travelling alone either,” and Geralt’s frown returns with a vengeance. “Where is the little bird?”
They all know he doesn’t mean Ciri. Geralt grinds his teeth together, and answers anyway, “She’s with Yen.”
“I meant the little songbird,” teases Letho, in that infuriatingly slow and deep voice that always cuts right to Geralt’s core. “The bards here are fine, but all they sing about is fucking Sylva.”
Desperate to get off the topic of Jaskier and to learn more information about this bizarre town, Geralt lunges on this. “What’s Sylva?”
Letho and Gaetan exchange a look that he can’t read, and then both turn to him. “You haven’t been to see Sylva yet?”
-
Sylva, as it turns out, is…
“A warg,” Geralt guesses. Letho and Gaetan, standing on either side of him, both shake their heads; he frowns. “No?”
“Tiger,” Gaetan says, as Letho tells him matter-of-factly, “Bear.” They lean around Geralt to glare at each other, and then Letho steps closer to the warg-tiger-bear thing.
What it is is uncertain, but a small amount chaos radiates from it. Geralt thinks, ruefully, of the charm he’d accepted without proper suspicion. The plant is massive, nearly the size of a real warg, but Letho moves towards it without hesitation. It looks similar to the sculpted bushes Geralt has seen in the gardens of disgustingly wealthy nobility, and in this lush rainforest a little outside the town, it nearly looks at home. Like a real creature slumbering in the woods, only instead of sinew and blood, one made of moss and dew.
Geralt tenses as Letho approaches the plant formation; Gaetan, either seeing his stress or feeling it through his witcher senses, reaches out to place a gentle, unasked hand on his shoulder. It’s exactly the same kind of tender physical comfort that comes easily to Jaskier, and it’s like no behaviour that Geralt has ever seen Gaetan display before. He can’t even think of any time he’s seen the Cat witcher touch anyone, except earlier when Letho touched him.
His palm is warm, and his pulse is slow but solid. The message is clear; relax. Ironic that a Cat is telling him to relax, and exponentially more ironic that Gaetan is that Cat. But Letho doesn’t seem worried about Sylva either, so Geralt doesn’t shove Gaetan off and, begrudgingly, relaxes.
“We thought it might be a sylvan at first,” Letho tells him.
He uses ‘we’ as casually as anything, implying a new depth to their relationship. From what Geralt had heard (from Lambert, by way of Lambert’s Cat lover who Lambert adamantly denies the existence of) Letho and Gaetan had only been hooking up occasionally. Hate-fucking had been the word of choice. This is anything but hateful, and from how Letho describes their investigations as though they operate as a unit, Geralt would guess it’s more than occasional.
He keeps quiet as the Viper continues; “You know. Sylva, sylvan… everyone in town swears by this big plant. Says it’s their god, it blessed their crops, their marriages, it brings them rain and shine when needed. We thought it might’ve been some benevolent spirit who chose this town. Easy pickings.”
Geralt thinks, sourly, of a town near Skellige that was similarly ‘blessed’ by a deity that had turned out to be a leshen. “Does it answer their prayers?”
“Not verbally,” Gaetan replies. “But they say Sylva brings love to the loveless, money to the destitute… There were no contracts when we got here either.”
“Hmm.”
“At first, we just intended to stick around for the night,” Letho continues. “Not often you venture into a nice place willing to host a witcher for free, let alone two. And Gaetan thought there was something else afoot, and couldn’t let it lie.”
The Cat shrugs. Geralt narrows his gaze, looking carefully at Sylva. He’d like to carve the big plant open and see what lies inside its branches; perhaps a godling with a penchant for animals has made their home there. But if Letho and Gaetan have already stayed here for nearly a week, they surely would have uncovered this beast’s dark secret by now. Hesitantly, Geralt prods, “And is there…? Something else going on?”
“Yes and no,” Gaetan says. “Nothing spiritual— the local herbalist witch fessed up on our third day here. She said she maintains the plant and casts spells of protection on Sylva; small things, so that it won’t rot or catch any nasty infestations. But over the years, a whole local mythology has grown around this fucking plant. They really think the beast watches over them.”
Geralt stares. How anticlimactic— once more, unbidden, he thinks of the bard and how disappointed he would be in this story’s finale. Then, to divert his thoughts from Jaskier, he quickly says, “So… she maintains the hedge so that the town doesn't lose its spirit? That’s all?”
“Well. No.” Letho leans down to pluck a leafy section from the mossy beast. Sylva doesn’t move or protest in any way, despite the amateurish protective wards, and Letho cups his bounty carefully in both hands. With the same smirk he wore earlier, he murmurs, “That’s not all.”
-
“Praise Sylva,” Geralt proclaims to the stars above, which swim around in his blurred vision. From the streets below them he hears a distant whoop of agreement; although it might have been a birdcall. He lifts his head to check but can’t see over the lip of the rooftop, and craning his neck is immediately uncomfortable, so he relaxes back down on the straw beside Gaetan. “Praise fucking Sylva!”
“Now he gets it,” Gaetan grins, nudging Letho with his elbow. The Viper is curled up behind the Cat, one possessive arm slung over his chest; Gaetan reaches back to put the small bundle of herbs to Letho’s lips, and Letho inhales heavily, his breath igniting it once more.
The skies are peaceful and free of clouds, and only the lightest breeze bothers them. Geralt still shivers as he watches Gaetan hold the joint up to Letho’s lips. They had told him of a concentrate that the herbalist crafted with Sylva’s leaves and sap, but this seems like a more organic way to ingest the offerings of the forest beast. And inhaling the plant directly won’t do too much damage, since their tolerance is much higher as witchers.
Geralt laughs quietly, thinking of how all this town’s problems were miraculously solved— not by a god, nor by anything posing as a god, but by an herbalist supplying the solution to all their maladies.
Gaetan and Letho both watch him, wearing matching soft expressions, as Gaetan takes the joint away from Letho to hand it back to Geralt. They’ve been lying on this rooftop for at least half an hour, and in that time the three witchers have moved very little. Geralt wonders if Letho has been holding onto Gaetan since they all first lay down. He notices now in clearer detail how close they are; their legs are pressed together. He wants to demand answers— how long have you been snuggling? How long have you two been travelling together?
He stays silent, his gaze snapping back up from their legs to meet Gaetan’s. The Cat looks amused, and brandishes the small bundle at Geralt. “Finish it off,” he insists, and Geralt does.
The plume of smoke that he exhales at the end of the bundle smells just like everything else in this town. He thinks, unwittingly, of Jaskier. Maybe he was wrong in his judgement earlier; maybe the bard would enjoy it here. Maybe, up on a rooftop like this, on a thick bed of straw, he and Jaskier could curl up together like Gaetan and Letho.
He hasn’t been that close to Jaskier since the bard was younger and they would seek warmth from each other’s bodies on the cold and unforgiving Path. Back then, it had never blossomed into anything more intimate than what it was. Up here, assisted by the herb that keeps this place afloat, perhaps it could.
Geralt opens his eyes to see Letho and Gaetan still both watching him closely. Gaetan speaks all at once, almost as though he’s unable to stay silent any longer, “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing,” Geralt lies calmly, rolling back onto his side to face the pair of them. He tosses the extinguished butt of the joint away from the straw pile, and lets out a heavy, deeply satisfied sigh. His face burns, his whole body tingles, and he wiggles his toes in his socks. Gods, he could use a nice long bath. “They have baths inside?”
Letho nods, but Gaetan retorts, “You don’t look too dirty; not for a witcher, anyway. That sorceress of yours finally teach you some basic hygiene?”
“She’s not mine,” Geralt rumbles. Once, the confession would have brought him pain to speak. Now he just utters it as plainly as he would any other fact. He and Yen haven’t belonged to each other in a long time; it’s better this way. She will never lose importance in his life, but the yearning that drove them both so mad has finally been put to rest. For her pleasure, Yen seeks out other, equally hygienic sorceresses now. And for Geralt’s—
Annoyingly, the Cat seems to read his mind. “That little bard, then?”
“Hmm.” Geralt stretches. “Don’t know what you’ve heard from Aiden, but it’s all a pack of lies.”
“Come on, Wolf! A handsome witcher like you, you really haven’t found anyone to make an honest man out of yet?” Gaetan scoffs. “I don’t believe that shit.”
“It’s not supposed to work like that for witchers,” Geralt speaks without thinking. Then he tenses; Letho and Gaetan are both silent and passive. If he struck a nerve, neither of them shows it. He apologizes regardless, “I’m not— not saying you two aren’t, uh, you know, just—”
“Bless him, he’s stammering,” Gaetan laughs meanly. He twists under Letho’s arm smoothly, without dislodging the Viper, and presses a kiss to his lips. Abruptly, the gnawing pit in Geralt’s stomach that has been bothering him since he walked into that tavern and saw them next to each other drops. Gaetan doesn’t pull away or make any attempt at hiding his affection; he kisses Letho long, and deeply, until finally pulling away only enough to whisper against his lips. Even if Geralt didn’t have supernatural hearing he thinks he would still be able to make the words out. “You never mentioned that the White Wolf was so shy, darling.”
“He wasn’t,” Letho mutters back. Geralt doesn’t have to see his smirk to know it’s there; he can hear it in the sly, almost challenging tone. The Viper lifts Gaetan up onto his chest with nearly no effort; if Geralt wasn’t already lying down, his knees might buckle. Gaetan adjusts to his new position atop Letho immediately, bracketing the witcher’s thick thighs with his knees and nosing happily at his neck. Letho glances over, his yellow eyes finding Geralt’s. “He's the one who taught me that naughty Gwent game, decades ago in Velen.”
Geralt’s breath leaves him all at once. He remembers those nights in vivid detail, but he hadn’t thought Letho would recall their handful of dalliances; they had never slept together more than one night in a row, and they’d never been sober.
Then again, Geralt considers, none of them are sober right now. His traitorous, fearful heart thrums. Geralt has never been seduced by two people at once before.
Letho brings one hand up to cradle the back of Gaetan’s skull, dropping the other to the base of his spine, and it occurs to Geralt that the Cat is actually not scenting his throat but biting it. He catches the sharp scent of lust in the air, although it’s impossible to determine who it might have arisen from. His head swims in a way he can’t entirely blame on Sylva’s herb.
“If you don’t want to,” Letho says, slowly as ever, “all good. It’s been a long time since you and I fooled around; I’m sure you’ve changed. I know I’ve got a couple new scars.” A tremor or twitch distorts his otherwise restful face for a moment; Geralt’s pulse rushes. Gaetan must be biting along one of those scars now. Letho’s breath comes a little faster as he continues, “But I can’t stop him once he’s got an idea in his head. So either get over yourself and come over here, or go inside and take a nice long bath.”
“And think of us while you do,” Gaetan chimes in, muffled by Letho’s thick neck. Without hesitation, the Viper reaches down to smack his ass; it happens so quickly Geralt nearly misses the motion. But he doesn’t miss the way Gaetan goes still for a moment, his whole body tensing up before he leans back against Letho’s palm, clearly eager for more.
Geralt gets over himself quickly. He rises up uncertainly on the bed of straw; both of the other witchers twist to look his way. When he crawls closer instead of standing, Gaetan blesses him with a rare, genuine smile. Letho nods, equally pleased, but doesn’t take his hands off of Gaetan.
Maybe he has changed since their old hook-ups; even with the herb mellowing him out, Geralt feels strangely vulnerable up on his knees, looking down at the entwined pair. Quietly, he pleads, “Tell me where you want me.”
“Right there is perfect,” Letho rumbles. Without being asked, Gaetan clambers off of the Viper and over to Geralt. He rises up to meet him hard, kissing him like… well, it’s like no one Geralt has ever kissed before. He sinks into it, especially as Gaetan deepens their kisses, sliding his tongue shamelessly alongside Geralt’s. Geralt, to his great embarrassment, hears himself moan; then, because it feels so good, he does it again. The sound is unbelievably filthy, muffled by Gaetan’s clever tongue; Geralt sucks hard just to see the reaction and Gaetan, not to be outdone, groans into their kiss and reaches for the clasps of Geralt’s armour.
“Slow down, kitty,” Letho teases. Hearing that deep voice always does such dangerous things to Geralt, and now is no exception; he’s gratified to feel a similar response from Gaetan, whose hands still on Geralt’s chest although his mouth does no such thing. Geralt kisses back, chasing the sensation, until heavy hands come up alongside them, pressing them to lie down in the hay. “Slow down,” Letho urges. “Feel it out, first.”
“Easy for you to say,” Gaetan grunts, pulling back from Geralt slowly. As if it taxes him to do so. “You’ve already had him.” Geralt, still high, follows the heat of his mouth until he realizes that Gaetan is actually moving away. Then he leans back into the straw underneath him, slightly embarrassed to have been slow on the uptake. Usually witchers are two moves ahead of their partners in bed.
Gaetan doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he just doesn’t mind; his hungry gaze is still fixed on Geralt. Letho, kneeling beside them and watching Geralt with the same intensity, purrs low in his throat, “He’s wanted this for a long time, you know. Ever since I mentioned what you and I used to get up to, Wolf. It’s a big fantasy for him.”
“Shut up,” Gaetan whispers, in a tone that clearly indicates he wants Letho to do anything but.
Geralt reaches down to rub himself through his armour; two sharp amber gazes follow his movement. Under the moonlight, he feels like he’s performing for them. He walks that thought back quickly enough that it can’t do any damage, and asks Gaetan, “What are you waiting for?”
“Permission,” the Cat breathes. Geralt almost nods; but before he can give his tacit approval of anything and everything Gaetan wants from him, Letho nods, placing his broad hand on the back of Gaetan’s narrow neck. Geralt flushes with pleasure. Not his permission, but Letho’s. This is his first time feeling like an outsider during lovemaking; he’s sensing there might be a few firsts crossed off his list tonight, and he finds he doesn’t mind at all.
Gaetan pounces, drawing his trouser fastenings free of his armour and then shoving the whole kit down and off. Geralt’s cock springs up, already leaking at the tip— maybe the herb was an aphrodisiac as well. Or maybe he just feels that good, half-naked with two attractive witchers in front of him, both intent on making him feel great. Gaetan lowers his talented mouth to the head of Geralt’s cock, and Geralt slams his head back down against the straw.
It lands with an unsatisfying thud, but looking up at the starry night is easier than watching the Cat devour him. The pressure, wetness, and warmth feel unbelievable anyway; Geralt stifles a moan as Gaetan sinks down, taking his length into his throat.
Letho is there, striking quickly as always— quick enough to take him by surprise. Geralt gasps as Letho grabs his head the same way he’d held Gaetan’s skull. The Viper’s fingers are likely large enough to do some serious damage if he wanted; he lifts Geralt’s head, and Geralt doesn’t struggle, too awed by his strength. “Look,” growls Letho, pressing his head down until his chin touches his chest.
Helpless, he looks. Gaetan bobs up and down on his length, sucking it in sloppily every time it nearly slips out of his mouth. The witcher’s slender hand is wrapped around the base, because— Geralt realizes with a jolt— he can’t fit all of it in his mouth. Geralt itches to reach down and make him try anyway, but he doesn’t want to have bad manners. He’s not the one in control here anyway.
Letho’s fingers weave through Geralt’s hair, as though the Wolf is in any danger of running. He murmurs against his ear, “Should’ve made him drink a Killer Whale beforehand,” and Geralt’s cock pulses at the filthy idea. “Bet then he’d be able to take you without choking.”
“Fuck you,” Gaetan pulls off to angrily retort, and it takes great self-control to avoid coming all over his face. “I don’t need any fucking potion!”
To prove his point, and rise to Letho’s bait, the Cat lowers his mouth slowly until Geralt can feel his throat clenching around his cock, and he can’t help but dribble a little. Gaetan, to his immense credit, doesn’t choke; instead he hollows out his cheeks and starts sucking Geralt off with renewed effort, until he’s taking him to the root every time.
“Letho,” Geralt chokes out, a warning meant for both of them. But Gaetan doesn’t pull off, and the Viper doesn’t move to make him do so. Letho’s deft, thick fingers creep through the loose ponytail still holding Geralt’s hair up, and he tugs— not hard enough to really hurt, but firmly enough that the stars in the sky fall right into Geralt’s vision and then shoot through his cock down Gaetan’s throat.
He comes for a long moment, and the other witcher sucks him down through all of it, swallowing up Geralt’s spend like Letho told him to. Perhaps they have a code; perhaps they don’t need one. Geralt gasps, loud and clear into the night. It is a small mercy that no one hears— even in a town so forgiving and welcoming, he’s sure they wouldn’t appreciate their beauty sleep disturbed by a bunch of high witchers getting it on above the local inn.
When he comes back down to reality, brain still addled and blood still rushing, he sees Gaetan moving around him to kiss Letho. Geralt turns his head so as to properly watch, figuring it’s his turn to enjoy the show. But Letho just bites Gaetan’s lip hard enough to make him gasp once before pushing the Cat away again. “He’s not done with you, Wolf,” rumbles the Viper. “Just reminding me how you taste.”
“Fuck,” says Geralt, his softening cock making a valiant effort to harden again. He reaches down to carefully, gently roll his balls in his palm, and Gaetan, watching closely, licks his lips. Weakly, the Wolf mutters, “You two will be the fucking death of me tonight.”
“Praise Sylva,” Gaetan teases, blowing a kiss in Geralt’s direction. Geralt reaches up half-heartedly to try to catch it, reflexes slowed by the excellent orgasm and the remainder of the herb.
All three of them chuckle at that, and then Letho bends down, still laughing softly, to give Geralt a real kiss. It feels so natural and right that his heart swells; he can’t remember why he ever stopped seeking out the company of the other witcher. And he’s feeling just relaxed enough to actually share the sentiment.
Softly against Letho’s mouth, Geralt whispers, “I missed this.”
Letho smirks and kisses him once more. “Me too,” he rumbles. “Hope you’re ready to go again, Wolf; I brought along a special toy to open you up so you can take me. Just like the old days.”
The special toy in question happily replaces Geralt’s hand on his balls, honest-to-fuck purring as he rolls them between his fingers and then slides his slick hand lower. He must have oiled his fingers while the other two were distracted; clever fucking Cat.
Geralt gasps into Letho’s mouth, and then again as Gaetan breaches him with two digits. Letho chases the noises and draws more out, sucking on Geralt’s tongue. He kisses the same way as Gaetan does; Geralt supposes that makes sense, given that they must practise with each other.
Then the Viper pulls back, rummaging through the bag Geralt failed to notice before. He retrieves another sprig of the plant, tearing off a long leaf with his thumb and starting to crush the mossy flower into smaller pieces with his palm. Geralt stares closely as Letho rolls up the bundle of herbs one-handed, and the witcher mistakes his fascination for apprehension. “Don’t want it?”
“Don’t need it,” Geralt confirms, and then, a second later as Gaetan crooks his fingers inside, “but, but, fuck! Might feel nice…! Shit, Gaetan, anyone ever tell you you’re fucking good with your hands?”
“Just wait ’til you feel my cock,” Gaetan laughs. His fingers twist again, hitting the same sensitive spot that makes Geralt’s head spin; no smoking required. He slides in another finger and it barely stretches him. “Take a hit, Wolf. Might help you relax a bit.”
“Funny, you telling me to relax,” Geralt huffs, even though— shit, had he already said that? He manages his best frown even as he practically fucks himself on Gaetan’s long, skilled fingers. It feels different than when he’s been fingered in the past; he’s more on edge. Maybe that’s because of Letho’s hot presence next to him. Geralt wonders if anyone has ever seen him get fingered before.
Maybe once— at a brothel in Novigrad— there hadn’t been proper partitions between the rooms but instead fluttering curtains— between sweating through his shirt and trying not to make too much noise he swore he saw bright blue eyes fixed on him from the next room—
“Give it to me,” Geralt demands, roughly. Letho and Gaetan laugh, but not unkindly. Smoothly enough that it’s clear he’s done this many times over the last week, Letho casts a small Igni and lights the blunt, heavily inhaling its thick, strong smoke. With the same smooth motion and in the same instant, Gaetan pulls out his slick hand. Letho bends down, cupping Geralt’s jaw with broad fingers, and blows smoke into his open mouth— just as Gaetan finally slides into his ass, teasing Geralt with just the tip of his thick length.
“Ah, sh-shit,” Geralt coughs, surprised. Letho doesn’t let him up, and Geralt inhales most of the hit without coughing again. His lungs fill with the hazy smoke and his mind blissfully clears. Gaetan pushes the head of his cock in and out of Geralt, seemingly enjoying himself as he pants every time it catches on the entrance. Geralt chokes out, “You’re bigger than the toy.”
Gaetan shoots him a brilliant, beautiful smile, then rewards him for the praise by reaching down to pick up Geralt’s knees and sink into him fully. Geralt pants at the stretch, finally breaking a sweat; Letho, caring as ever, brushes the hair back off his forehead. “You’re being so good for him,” promises the Viper quietly. “He’s going to make you feel so nice.”
“Yeah,” Geralt gasps. With his bare legs held up by Gaetan, who’s barely flexing, he feels untethered from the earth and even more vulnerable than before. The herb takes effect quickly, and while it feels wonderfully different from any witcher liquor or fun potion, he has to briefly fight off the strange sensation of floating up into the endless starry sky.
Then he becomes conscious of his own socks, his ankles softly rubbing against Gaetan’s sweaty back with every push inside. Straw pokes into Geralt’s back underneath him, where his armour and shirt have rolled up out of the way thanks to all the motion. The slight itchiness calms him, but also annoys him.
Then, finally, after what feels like forever, Letho has a hand in his hair and pulls it so slowly that it feels tender. “So pretty,” coaxes the Viper, and Geralt obediently turns to him. Letho has lost his pants too; Geralt nearly laughs at the three of them only in their shirts. Like witcher initiates fooling around late at night, too scared to fully undress and get caught.
Geralt isn’t scared at all. He reaches up to place a hand on Letho’s chest, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. The Viper gets the memo, and he disrobes faster than any human could. Geralt stares in wonder, and Gaetan’s pace slows; he still fucks Geralt but now it feels like he’s hitting deeper and deeper every time. Geralt groans, unable to restrain the noise, bouncing with every thrust forward, and Letho says, “Cat, how you doing? Feel as good as you thought it would?”
“Better,” Gaetan mumbles, adjusting his grip on Geralt’s legs. “Way better. Fuck, Geralt, thank you.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Geralt gasps. “Thank you, asshole.”
“Had to repay you somehow,” the Cat whimpers. Geralt turns to face him as sharply as he can, and when he sees Gaetan smiling down at him his nerves are instantly set at ease. This wouldn’t have felt as good if it were just repayment, or a favour to a friend; Gaetan genuinely wants this. His hands are shaking as he holds up Geralt’s knees, a surefire sign that he’s close to his release. When he tries to speak again, he stutters through it, “Gonna— gonna come in you, alright?”
“What a gentleman,” teases Geralt breathlessly, even as Gaetan rocks him with every thrust. Mimicking what the Cat had said earlier, he turns to look at the Viper. “Bless him, he’s stammering. Letho, I never thought your bitch would be so shy.”
Gaetan swears a string of broken curses and pushes deep inside Geralt, filling him— it feels hotter than fire, and he groans just as loudly as Gaetan. Then Letho, with a few pulls that almost look lazy in counterpoint, strokes himself off and, before anyone else realizes he’s about to, comes all over Geralt’s face.
“Fuck,” Geralt breathes, reaching up to wipe dripping come off his chin. Before he can clean any of it off, Gaetan lunges, lowering himself onto Geralt without pulling out. The movement and closeness makes Geralt gasp again, and he doesn’t stop breathing hard as Gaetan licks over his face and jaw shamelessly. “Fucking gods damn, you two,” Geralt mumbles. Then, because he’s in a fucking amazing mood, and his cock is still hard as hell, he dares to push it further; “I thought the plan was for Letho to come inside me too?”
“Plan hasn’t changed,” Letho grins, in a crooked sort of way that makes precome leak out of Geralt’s already red, sore cock. It smears against Gaetan’s stomach and Geralt struggles to find his breath, still grappling with the weight of Gaetan’s cock inside him. “Night’s still young, Wolf.”
-
In the morning— the late, late, very late, technically the next morning, for clarification— the three witchers walk out of the inn, freshly bathed and full and content. None even bear a limp to betray how they so defiled the roof of the good, friendly, spiritual town. No one passing seems bothered at all with the presence of a witcher, let alone three.
As they pass by the farms on their way out of town, a stablehand who beat his hangover with Sylva’s help yesterday recognizes Geralt. He claps delightedly at the sight of the trio, paying little mind to their intimidating armour or six swords. “Wow! That’s not something you see every day!” cries the man. “Three witchers walk out of a town— gods, it’s like a bad joke!”
The shortest of the witchers, wearing a Cat medallion on his chest and a face-splitting grin, throws back over his shoulder, “Yeah, you should hear the fucking punchline!”
#vipurr fic#vipurr#letho fic#gaetan fic#letho x geralt#is there a portmanteau for gaetan/geralt or letho/geralt... help i hate tagging#my writing#flash fic challenge
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Prompt 13
How was Jaskier supposed to know that the lovely woman he spent the night with had a husband? Let alone a husband in a big scary poacher gang?
So Jaskier is hauling ass through the forest, only to get his leg caught in a beartrap. He faceplants (very daintily, prettily, and most certainly not with an embarrassing wail, thank you very much) and begins sobbing with the pain. Not to mention his cheap lute breaking into splinters. Great. Just great. What a LOVELY day he's having!
A pure white werewolf with bright golden eyes suddenly prowls out of the bushes, growling at him, and Jaskier decides that today really is his worst day. No matter how majestic the beast is, this is cearly the end of Jaskier the bard. He sobs and begs to live, apologizing profusely, and the last thing he sees is the monstrous snout getting closer.
Geralt, the werewolf, is stalking for food for his pack, only to come across one of those humans in their own traps. Except... This human isn't one of them. He's wearing brightly colored delicate clothing, and wasn't familiar with where their traps were. It's an innocent human. One that smells very nice, under all the stench of blood and fear.
Wolf!Geralt creeps closer, and pries open the trap, intending on releasing the human back into the wild, but it just kind of stares at him in horror before passing out. Hm. Well, it appears it needs more care than he initially thought.
So imagine the other witcher's surprise when he doesn't bring food back to the pack, but instead brings a human to patch up. The moon dips out of the sky, they all turn back into their witcher-human forms, and now they're all SCRAMBLING over what they're meant to do!? HOW DO YOU CARE FOR A HUMAN AGAIN??? FUCK- I DON'T KNOW! Geralt stop petting him, he doesn't like that, he's human, not a wolf! What do you mean he likes it? Oh shit- EVERYONE QUICK PET HIM! No wait- He doesn't like it any more- One at a time pet him! And uh- Fuck- What do normal people eat!?
♡!Optional addons!♡
• (ORIGINALLY A TAG) Is Aiden a werecat or also a werewolf? And if he is a werewolf (and/or a werecat I suppose), perhaps he's from a rival pack (against his will) and needs to be rescued by Lambert as a sideplot
• Maybe the poachers find poor trapped Jaskier and Geralt has to fight them off first, or perhaps they come back later, intent on killing the White Wolf
• Perhaps Geralt turns Jaskier into a werewolf (Either with his consent or without his consent ONLY if he has to do it to save his life, we don't fuck with forced bonds here, people)
#I just want to see a bunch of dumbass witcher werewolves care for their bard#Geraskier#And/or MonoPoly Witchersexual Jaskier#Please someone write any of my prompts i need something good after shane madej and ryan bergara broke my heart by becoming capitalists :(#fanfiction prompts#geralt x dandelion#geralt x jaskier#witcher fanfiction#the witcher#geralt loves his bard!#writing prompts#requited unrequited love#optional smut of course#the regular werewolf sex shenanigans#maybe a knot#maybe a lil scent marking#maybe a lil growling and biting#its up to you darling#werewolf#werewolves#WerewolfAU#Werewolf au#Werewolf Geralt#Is aiden a werecat? or a werewolf like the rest of them? Coen and Letho could also be there to fill up the pack some more#Aiden could be from a rival pack against his will that Lambert helps break him out of as a side plot#if we felt extra gay#lambert x aiden#a soft spot of mine
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Eastern European Wedding Pictures featuring the Witcher, part 3
(part 1) (part 2)
#small batch bc i am running out of good photos#yenralt#rorveth#thronebreaker#foltest x letho#i guess this is now a thing on this blog#witcher crack#the witcher 2: assassins of kings#tw2#tw3#the witcher 3: wild hunt#foltest#letho#yennefer#geralt of rivia#gaunter o'dimm#masterpieces of religious art#coming up next: anime edit
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2023 Summary!
Went into making this figuring I'd have a lot more blank months - but I guess I managed to get at least one piece in most months despite the chaos this year was. I'll take it!
Started the year off decently strong but getting laid off really puts a kink in your ambition. Here's hoping next year is a bit smoother! 🐺💜
Big shout out to @midzilla and the entire @continentcakeshop for helping cheer on the little ambition I did manage to scrape together this year. ily all 💜
#eskel#geralt#halsin#letho#tw3 fanart#eskel x halsin#eskel x geralt#hopefully we don't have a repeat of last year's ban hammer#art summary#my art
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✨Guess who's back, back again✨
So I updated my Lambert X Aiden Modern AU fanfic
Rating: E
Short summary: Lambert has accepted that he probably doesn't deserve anyone. There are only so many times you can be called an asshole before you get the message. After getting dumped by his last girlfriend, he meets his neighbor one night while shitfaced. He quickly develops feelings for him, which opens up a whole new can of worms. Now, he's navigating a new relationship, learning to deal with his emotions, and wondering what the fuck ‘subbing’ is.
Warnings: BDSM, emotional issues (because it's the witches fandom), eventually going to therapy, sexual discovery, random domestic moments, family issues, mentions of domestic\gang violence, eye trauma
#the witcher#artists on tumblr#art#fanart#aiden the witcher#aiden x lambert#lambert#modern au#fanfic#cat witchers#jaskier x geralt#letho/gaetan
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"I want someone wonderful. I want a man to love me the way Geralt loves you. I want a man willing to fight for me. I want a man who won’t let me walk away from him."
#the witcher#the witcher 3#vernon roche#ciri#cirilla#cirilla fiona elen riannon#vernonciri#screenshot#witcher ciri#cirilla of cintra#ciri x roche#ciri x vernon#geralt x yennefer#yennefer of vengerberg#yennefer#geralt of rivia#geralt#witcher geralt#letho of gulet#tw3#tw3 wild hunt#tw3 screenshots
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A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 40
Chapter 39.5
Masterlist
------------King's Landing: several months earlier-------------
"Where is Aemond?" Alicent frantically questions guards and servants. She had not seen her second born son in the Holdfast since this morning and now she was becoming concerned as no one else has seen him either.
She had initially contemplated if he had stolen away to ride Vhagar like he usually does, but he would've informed her beforehand so she wouldn't worry of any sudden disappearances. Aemond was not Aegon, he was not one to slip away into the city to seek temporary pleasure in the brothels, nor was he one to sneak into the cellars to drown in his cups.
This was concerning.
Alicent then went to Aegon and Helaena's apartments, hoping perhaps Aemond decided to visit his sister and her children.
When she walked in, she did not find Aemond, but she did see, much to her surprise, Aegon sitting in a chair rocking his youngest son Maelor who had just fallen asleep in his arms.
Aegon looked up in shock by the way his mother had rushed into the apartments with a sense of urgency.
"Mother?"
"...Aegon," Alicent greets briefly before looking around the apartments, "where...where is Helaena?"
Aegon frowned a bit, wondering what his mother was thinking; she clearly wasn't showing much concern for him, "she went for a walk in the gardens," he answers, "with the twins."
"And...Aemond? Is he with them?" Alicent asks, "I haven't seen him since this morning."
Aegon internally sighed; of course his mother would be more concerned with his brother, the Golden Child.
"...no, not that I'm aware of," he answers in an almost whisper, wondering what was going on. He knew Aemond enough to know this was not in character for his younger brother; he was the perfect son after all, Aemond was the one who did everything right, paid attention to his lessons in history and philosophy, who trained every day with the sword and kept up with the political and economic matters among the nobles and Royal Family. Even Aegon's claim to Sunfyre was eclipsed by Aemond the moment his brother claimed Vhagar six years ago.
Had Aemond been born first, he would've been far more suited to be king then Aegon could ever hope for.
Meanwhile, Aegon could never do anything right in either of his parents' eyes. No matter how much he tried, there would always be another sibling for him to be compared to, be it his oldest sister whom his father favored over his other children, or his younger brother whom his mother dotted on every second of every day.
Hence, the reason why Aegon barely tried anymore these days with anything. There was no reason to if it was never going to be good enough for his mother, father, or grandsire, and if it was never going to be enough to earn either their love and affection.
Sure, he had a wife and children, but even that didn't seem to fill the void that was left in his heart. Helaena, he wasn't entirely sure was capable of loving him just as his brothers weren't, and his children...well Jaehaera and Jaehaerys preferred their mother and even the nursemaids over their father, as the two would barely speak a word to Aegon when he made the effort to visit them in the nursery. Jaehaera was a little more receptive compared to Jaehaerys, but there were times when Aegon felt he was losing his daughter's affection. Maelor could still be comforted by Aegon's warmth when he would hold the boy in his arms, but who knows how long that would last. When Maelor takes his first steps? Says his first word?
However long it would take, Aegon could only prepare for the day his youngest would start to distance himself from his father in favor of his mother or anyone else that wasn't Aegon.
While contemplating his miserable life, Aegon was shaken from the way his mother frantically searched the rooms, looking for her favorite son, ignoring her eldest.
Aegon sighed a bit, recalling the times his mother had nagged him for not spending enough time with his family and rather drown in his cups and slip away into the city to do the Seven knows what. Yet, seeing him holding and rocking Maelor clearly wasn't enough for even so much as a word of recognition.
On the other hand, this was still an interesting development; even he couldn't help but wonder where his perfect brother had gone off. It certainly couldn't be the Street of Silk, Aegon knew full well Aemond had no interest in such places, despite his best efforts to 'educate' Aemond on what pleasures could be found there. It couldn't be the docks either, Aemond hadn't set foot in that place since....
Aemma, is what Aegon starts to think. He did have to wonder what became of his cousin, ever since hearing from word of mouth that the young princess disappeared six years ago after the events on Driftmark. Part of Aegon believed Aemma may have slipped away back to the Continent, he remembered how obsessed she was with those lands, how that same obsession was compounded by the loss of her mother.
If that were case, Aegon considered Aemma to be fortunate; she was free from the constraining duties that came with being part of this family, and she was certainly free from the burden of being betrothed to him.
Aegon now began to wonder if Aemond had finally left to go find Aemma. Those two had been close as children, and he knew Aemond was always infatuated with her.
Would Aemond, however, been bold and rogue enough to drop everything and leave what he knew behind to fly off to parts unknown just to rescue someone he had grown to disdain all those years ago?
------------Flotsam tavern: Present Day---------
After making brief eye contact with the White Wolf, Jaskier slipped into the tavern to join Roche, Ves, and the Westerosi trio.
He looked around, and saw Zoltan wondering outside the tavern, "Zoltan," Jaskier calls out in an almost whisper, "hey do me favor, can you keep Geralt occupied, or at least make sure he doesn't set foot in the tavern." "Whatever for?" Zoltan asks, feeling confused by this request. "I'll explain later, just please do me this favor." "Alright, whatever you say," Zoltan shrugs and does as he was bid.
Jaskier walks into the tavern and takes a seat next to Roche, not bothering to touch the drink that was brought before him as he needed to be sober enough to keep a sharp eye on the newcomers. Even though Aemond had assured the Bard that he would take Aemma away against her will, he was still not confident.
"So, Commander Roche," Criston speaks, "what is the plan?" "We need to get to find a way to get us and the Blue Stripes out of Flotsam and into the forest to face the Scoia'tel before Laredo tries to interfere," Roche proposes, drawing lines on a piece of paper, "this is Flotsam," he explains, "this is the forest. Between the town and the forest is a barricade Commandant Loredo has just built around the town ever since word spread of the death of King Foltest. As of now, no one goes in or out with the Commandant's knowing. We need to develop a ploy to keep his attention off of us while we sneak past the barricade."
"And how do you propose we do that?" Ivan question. "The quickest way?" Ves speaks up, "live bait."
The trio was a little confused by that plan. "I don't think the rest of us follow," Criston admits.
"We need someone to go and distract the main guards while the rest of us sneak out of Flotsam," Roche elaborates, "preferably someone who is good at garnering enough attention as well as being able to improvise on the spot."
The table went silent as Roche and Ves turn their gaze towards Jaskier, with Ivan, Criston, and Aemond following suit.
"...I'm sorry, where you suggesting that...I go be the bait? You're not serious are you?" "We need a diversion, and you already got into some trouble with the Commandant, as evident that you and your dwarf friend were about to get the hanging the moment my party arrived. If anyone could get under Loredo's skin and direct his attention away from the Blue Stripes, it's you."
"Pfft, alright," Jaskier scoffs, "well, what exactly do you want me to do? Don a woman's frock, sneak into the barracks, and sing all 12 verses of the Maids of Vicovaro?...Because I will."
"Maybe nothing that extreme," Roche says, "just keep their attention off us long enough so we can climb over the barricade without being spotted.
"Why were about to get hanged?" Aemond asks. "Ah, a good question," Jaskier says, "well let's just say the Commandant had some....disagreements over how I choose to conduct myself in the dead of night. Never mind that man has been known to do the same thing behind closed doors. He didn't really care, we all know Loredo is hardly a pious man, this was all more about a show of force, to remind people who is 'the Law of the Land' in these parts. Nevertheless, I'll do my part and keep him and his lackeys distracted enough that we could smuggle a rock troll into Flotsam."
"Right, then it's settled," Roche agrees, "We leave at dusk."
"And what are we to do in the meantime?" Aemond questions.
Right on cue, men from the Blue Stripes walked in and ordered drinks, laughing and conversing with one another.
"I say...we have a drink," Roche suggests, standing up to join his men.
"Excuse me, I have some business to take care of outside," Jaskier says, standing up to leaving the tavern.
--------------------
Sure enough, the moment Jaskier walked out, he saw Zoltan conversing with Geralt. Jaskier ran over to his friends.
"Zoltan, Geralt, hello, good to see you again," the Bard greets nonchalantly. "You have some explaining to do, Bard," Zoltan crosses his arms.
"Yes, I do," Jaskier agrees, "but not here, we better talk elsewhere."
Jaskier then gestures for the two to follow him somewhere a little more secluded before he explains the new development in the form of three Westerosi men who had come all this way to find Aemma.
"So Aemma's family has gotten involved then," Zoltan says, "the side with the dragons that is. Melete help us." "Well no, just the one, her cousin," Jaskier corrects, "I haven't even seen any dragons yet. But that's not quite the main concern here. He and the knights he brought with him, I fear will want to take Aemma away...whether she wants that or not." "Has the lad given any reason why that might be the case?" Zoltan asks. "Well, no not yet," Jaskier admits, "frankly he strikes me as someone with a stick up his arse...which is saying a lot considering his age. Really, he's just so...serious. But in some ways, he does remind me of his uncle, I have this gut instinct he'd do anything to get what he wants in the long run."
Geralt, while listening to the conversation, feels himself having a flashback, showing remnants of his past that he could remember. He began to remember being in Westeros, in King's Landing, with the Lady of Larks, their daring escape from the Red Keep with Jaskier and baby Aemma, and a certain man with blonde hair getting in the way. The memory then changed to the part where Yennefer came in through a portal and rescued the three of them, only to have (y/n)'s daughter yanked from her arms at the very last moment.
"Aemma..." Geralt says in an almost whisper. "Geralt?" "Princess Aemma, she was (y/n)'s daughter," Geralt says, "I...I think I remember her when she was a baby. (y/n) came to Kaer Morhen when she was pregnant with Aemma." "Do...do you remember anything else? Any specifics?" Jaskier presses. "No," Geralt shakes his head, "nothing else. But I think I understand better why Aemma was looking for her mother's family. Why she wanted to learn more of her mother...because they were separated when she was still a child."
"So...you remember THAT part," Jaskier says in a somber tone, remembering that sad day.
"That was the day, wasn't it?" Zoltan speaks up, "the day when Aemma was ripped from her mother's arms at the hands of her father. Yes, I remember she spoke of that time when she finally joined our little party on the way to Nilfgaard, the sadness in her eyes. Poor thing was determined to be reunited with her again, much similarly to how you were determined to be reunited with Ciri, Geralt." "Yes...Ciri," Geralt nods, having some vague memories of the girl in question, those particular memories being more detailed then what he was able to remember of anyone else that was part of his life.
"Cedric the elf had already confirmed that Aemma was taken by the Scoia'tel," Geralt points out, "more evidence that she is somewhere in this forest."
"What's the plan then?" Zoltan questions. "We need to get Aemma away from the Scoia'tel before this Prince Aemond and his men do," Jaskier says, "Geralt, you know how to navigate the monster ridden forest if anyone can do it, it's you." "There's still the matter of the Kayran to deal with," Geralt points out.
Jaskier thinks on this predicament, "Well, we won't enact the plan until dusk. Can you rid the village of that best before then?" "I think so,"Geralt nods, "I already have the materials needed to prepare. I just to need to meet up with Sile and we'll be ready to slay the monster."
------------time skip to dusk-----------
It took the better part of the day, but with the help of the mage Sile, Geralt was able to defeat the Kayran and thus save Flotsam's trade and commerce.
There was even spare time to follow Triss to the prison barge in hopes of questioning an imprisoned Scoia'tel, who was Iorveth's second in command, to extract information regarding these elves.
Upon learning that the witcher Letho had doubled crossed the Scoia'tel, there was also the matter of Tris proposing a solution to restore Geralt's memory with the roses of remembrance. As much as the White Wolf so badly wanted to remember again, he couldn't afford a detour at the moment; too much time had been waster enough as is, and who knows what the Scoia'tel were doing to Aemma at this moment.
"The roses will have to wait," Geralt informs Triss, "We have to save Aemma first." "I understand," Tris nods, "Alright, I'll get a head start and try and locate the Scoia'tel encampment, try and make sure they haven't harm Aemma in any serious way yet.
With that out of the way, the witcher returned to the town, waiting for Jaskier's signal.
Meanwhile, the Bard in question, with the help of Zoltan, kept the Westorosi lot and the Blue Stripes occupied by buying rounds of drinks and conversing.
Or at least he tried. Roche seemed to have found a kindred spirit with Criston and the two bonded over certain things in their lives, one of them being have to scrimp and scrap to earn the things they had in this word while those same things had been given freely to others. Criston still had some misgivings about Roche, but he seemed like a decent man who worked hard for what he had, and it was something the man could appreciate.
Ivan struck up a conversation with Zoltan, whom seemed to speculate what the half-elf was hiding behind his headband, but he wouldn't say anything, knowing the stigma half-elves faced in this world and would respect Ivan's desire to keep himself hidden.
Aemond barely spoke a word during this time, preferring more to observe; actually if the prince had his way, he would want to spar some with Criston and Ivan in preparation for what was to come.
Aemond saw the way the Blue Stripes were behaving during this time, and he wasn't all that impressed by what he saw; their vulgar words which became more frequent as the drinks kept coming, and the way they would try and seduce the barmaids who came with the drinks. When a couple women from the local brothel stopped by, the men would try and proposition them. The Blue Stripes were a complete contrast to their Commander, Aemond thought; he recalled his grandsire once telling him you could judge the quality of a man's character by the company he keeps.
Roche seemed to be an honorable man with no taste for depravity, but his men seemed to not follow their commander's example. Only time Roche would step in is when they would get a little rough with the servers, but that was it. It was a little confusing for the prince. So far, none of the men, Aemond noticed, tried to proposition Ves, despite her goods being out for all to see.
"You weren't exaggerating about that prince," Zoltan says to Jaskier, nodding towards Aemond, "he really does have a stick up his arse. So serious. Repressed I would dare say. A little concerning for a lad his age."
"Makes me wonder if Aemma had turned out like that," Jaskier admits his concern, "given that they were both brought up by the same family."
Once dusk had settled, Jaskier slipped away after informing Roche that he was going to get ready for the distraction.
He and Zoltan head around back of the tavern to find Geralt standing by, "we're about to ready position," Jaskier informs, "you ready, Geralt?"
Geralt nods, frowning a bit when he sees Jaskier pull out a wig with long hair, "uh, what are you doing?" "I'm the distraction," Jaskier sasses lightly as he dons the wig, "Zoltan, my good man, do you have what I requested?"
"Surprisingly yes," Zoltan nods, handing the dress to Jaskier, "had to extend the skirts a bit, but you and the she-dwarf I was supposed to wed are roughly the same size. I have to say, I didn't think you were serious about this."
"I never joke about these things," Jaskier feigns offense, "and besides, reason Loredo sentenced us to the hanging in the first place was a sense of 'pious justice' from the 'good' Commandant. If we're lucky, this might actually give him a stroke."
"I get the feeling this isn't the first time you've done something like this," Geralt states as Jaskier gets the dress on, "I do recall regaling you of my time at Oxenfurt," Jaskier says, "the little troupe I was part of for a time, the one that involved a lot of drag performance. Yeah, this is not my first time, and it certainly won't be the last. I even had a stage name for this particular persona, whom I called...," he gets the straps of the dress over his shoulder and speaks in a falsetto voice, "Juliana, troubaritz extraordinaire. How do I look?"
"The prettiest troubaritz I've ever seen," Zoltan complements, also eyeing the stubble, "if you had a full beard, you would be the Dwarven Bell of the Ball."
"Excellent," Jaskier, er I mean, Juliana says with a smile, "alright, time for me to head to the barracks to stir a moral panic. Wish me luck."
-----------------Meanwhile----------------
"Leaving so soon, princess?" Letho asks as he stands calmly yet menacingly up to address the escaped princess.
Aemma was about to reach for her sword, but remembered she had left behind in the Scoia'tel camp. She didn't have her mother's silver dagger. The only thing she did have was the knife she swiped from that elf, the same one she used to cut her bonds back the camp which allowed her to escape.
But now it looked like she wouldn't get far.
"We don't have to fight," Aemma tells him, "you can just look the other way and I can go home."
"I'm afraid I can't do that," Letho tells her, "business is not yet finished."
Aemma quickly takes this moment to scan her surroundings. She also regarded the witcher before her; she saw his silver medallion, signaling that he came from the witcher School of the Viper. She remembered what Vesemir told her about that school, how it was known for producing would-be assassins, and Letho certainly lived up to that reputation. But, as a witcher, maybe he could be persuaded by other means to let her pass by without conflict.
"You're working for the Scoia'tel, yeah?" Aemma reasons, "they must be paying you pretty penny, I'm guessing. To kill the king and to bring me to them. I'm a princess of House Targaryen, if you let me go, I can persuade my uncle the king to pay you for allowing me to return to my family unharmed."
"You honestly believe this has anything to do with coin?" Letho scoffs, "No...no. As I've said before. This, dear princess, is personal."
"...I don't understand." "The Scoia'tel are not the only ones who hold a grudge against your father, the Rogue Prince," Letho explains, pulling out a sword, "they're not the only ones seeking justice."
Eyes wide, realizing what this meant, Aemma stood her ground. Armed with only a knife, and also disadvantage physically, the princess would need to rely on her wits to get her out of this situation.
"Before you take me back to the camp, I do have a request," Aemma says, "...can I have a cup of water?"
While the bulky witcher frowned at this odd request, Aemma took this opportunity to take this mud and fling it at Letho's eyes. She then turned and ran off.
Letho growls and rubs the mud off his eyes, "you can't run from me, forever, princess! I will find you!"
Aemma ran through the forest as fast as she good, seeing a stream and following it upwards in hopes that it would lead her to a town or village or maybe even a hut.
She runs for a time and and then jumps into the stream, knowing about witchers' special senses and hoped doing this would keep her scent hidden.
She hides under a giant tree root that hid her from view. She grabbed some mud, making quick work of hiding her blonde hair. While doing this, she heard a rustle in the bushes, making her go still.
Thinking it might be Letho having tracked her down, Aemma pulled out her knife, preparing to get the jump first. If she could stab the man in just the right spot, it would give her the chance to finally escape.
She takes a breath, ready to time her attack. She jumped up from her hiding spot and tackled the would-be aggressor to the ground. The person in question pushed her off. Aemma pointed her knife at this person; it wasn't Letho, but with the cloak concealing their face, he may as well be a bandit.
Before the would-be bandit could draw his sword, Aemma charges him again, and the two wrestle each other, rolling the ground.
Aemma tries to stab the person, but he grabs her wrist and tries to get the knife away from her. He was almost successful, but Aemma pulled away. The cloaked individual turned her around, getting her on her back and tried to grab her knife again.
Aemma managed to move her leg and knee the guy in the groin, then pulling his cloak back before getting him on his back, knife to his neck, and panting heavily from the struggle.
Eyes wide, the man narrowed his gaze onto the princess, as if he were studying her face,
"...Aemma?"
"Who...how did...?"
Aemma took a proper look finally noticing this person's long blonde hair much like hers and the eye patch covering over one eye, but failed to conceal the scar...the same scar that...
"...Aemond...is that you?"
Chapter 41
#aegon ii targaryen#alicent hightower#hotd#the witcher#geralt of rivia#letho of gulet#oc#aemond one eye#aemond targaryen#aemond x oc#criston cole#jaskier#zoltan#vernon roche#ves#iorveth
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emhyr for character ask! 🥰☀
Yessss!!! My favourite child ❤️
Sexuality Headcanon: Very Gay. This man's type is strong, tough, and rugged. Half feral men he can look at and imagine his 13 year old self seeking shelter with. I blame HobbitDragon's fic on Ao3 for this characterisation, I read "White Flame Burning" once and decided - yep, sounds about right!
Gender Headcanon: Cis man, very comfortable with it.
You know the type of cis man that always projects this perfectly, societally acceptable, overbearingliy masculine aura - then one day they randomly start talking about their favourite nail salons, or about how much they love feeling pretty when they go on dates - and it makes all the dudebro's and pick-me's around them mad cause they feel deceived somehow?
That's Emhyr.
A ship I have with said character: Geralt/Emhyr, and honourable mention to Emhyr/Leto.
A BROTP I have with said character: Emhyr & Pavetta: partners in crime and co-conspirators. I headcannon they worked together to keep Pavetta from marrying someone her mother picked out for her, and to break the curse. The plan was that, afterwards, Duny was going to help Pavetta become the greatest queen Cintra had ever known, but he started chafing at the knowledge that he'd have to live forever under her command, and also at the knowledge that his homeland was still a massive cluster fuck. So he betrayed her.
Nonetheless, it was great while it lasted.
A NOTP I have with said character: Im going to say : none, with a caveat.
We have very talented and very deranged (affectionate) writers in this corner of the fandom. I'm pretty sure they can make anything work, given how much I love this character. I do have a strong preference for subby!Emhyr, though.
Random headcanons:
His mother was a witch.
He and Yennefer are becoming fast friends after Emhyr realised her council on Ciri is a lot more helpful than Geralt's, because Geralt legitimately thinks Ciri can do no wrong.
Will never retire. Once Ciri takes the throne he will dedicate his life to making sure her rule becomes legendary.
General Opinion over said character: My son! Absolutely fucked up, but in a delightful way. I'm constantly on the fence between wanting to give him all the nice things or wanting to put him in a jar and shake it. I think that's called "cute aggression".
Thank You so much for the ask!!
#nilfgaard#the witcher 3#emhyr var emreis#the witcher#cirilla fiona elen riannon#empress ciri#emhyr#duny#Geralt#letho of gulet#emhyr x geralt#Emhyr x letho
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The Wolf and The Snake (Lambert!The Witcher Game x OC!She-Witcher) - MASTERPOST
Chapter 1 - Smile of The Wolf.
Chapter 2 - Rotten Honour.
Chapter 3 - Rattling Bones.
Chapter 4 - Under My Skin.
Playlist
#the witcher#the witcher 3#lambert#lambert witcher#lambert fic#lambert x ofc#witcher lambert#geralt of rivia#witcher geralt#geralt witcher#letho of gulet#letho witcher#witcher letho#witcher wild hunt#vesemir#witcher vesemir#vesemir witcher#eskel#witcher eskel#eskel witcher#cirilla fiona elen riannon#witcher ciri#ciri witcher#yennifer of vengerberg#yennifer#yennifer witcher#witcher yennefer#triss merigold#triss witcher#witcher triss
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The witchers say good bye to one another as they begin their journeys in separate groups.
Geralt nodded and turned to mount Roach. Regis nodded to Emhyr, who was icily staring at the portal gate. Seems there were problems in paradise, beyond what Geralt had discovered today. However, he had to let them deal with it. His usual instinct was to intervene, but he couldn’t help them if they didn’t figure it out on their own. Emhyr finally glanced to Geralt and he saw sadness in his eyes.
“Keep us updated, on everything.” Geralt said suddenly and Emhyr’s eyes widened. “Not the state secret shit, but the important things. I want to know how you are doing, truly. And I look forward to seeing you again Emhyr.”
“Likewise, Geralt.” He said awkwardly. “Do not be a stranger.”
#witcher#the witcher#fanfic#fanfiction#Geralt#geralt of rivia#Geralt x Regis#Emiel Regis#regis#Vampire#Witchers#yennefer#Eskel#Letho#Gerd#Rukus#Lambert#Barnabas-Basil#Emhyr
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Yeah, another piece for “The Forgotten Tales”! I promise it is Emralt. A bit. However, most of the time, this story is about how Letho saves Geralt’s ass – and what consequences that has.
Did I ever say I can do short? I mean, I can. Yet this one is... 12.953 words, sorry. Read under the cut or on AO3.
"I can already see the palace. Well, almost. I see a... turret, I think. You're safe soon."
Letho gazed beyond the hill, assuming the distance, thinking that this was a fairly harmless lie, but not one that reassured himself either. Through the foliage, across the wooded plain, he could actually see something flashing in the evening sun. For all he knew, this might be the palace. Letho rubbed his nose as if the mere thought of this place made him itch. He looked at the slumped bundle at his feet, leaning against a tree, and sighed.
"You're bleeding. Again. How many bandages do you think I carry around? Damn."
He bent down, lifting the chin of the figure in front of him to look scrutinizingly into his eyes, but they were closed. Gritting his teeth, he uttered a silent curse.
"Witchers, what a nuisance," he grumbled, fully aware of the certain irony in these words.
Carefully, he loosened a bandage on the other's shoulder, while in a melodic chant he lamented equally the man before him, his wounds, the urgency of proper treatment, and his own involvement in it all. Once again he glanced into the distance. Behind what he thought was a turret of the imperial palace, the setting sun glowed orange.
"Maybe we can make it by tomorrow morning, huh, what do you think?" he said as he bandaged the shoulder again, using the last piece of cloth he had been able to find in his and the other witcher’s pockets.
"Best before sunrise. I imagine your dear husband is not particularly eager to see me. And I'm not keen on the sight of his brigade, Geralt."
This is the story of how Letho of Gulet once saved Geralt's ass – and was reprieved by the Emperor of Nilfgaard.
———————
"Viper witchers."
Emhyr's face rarely showed what was going on inside him, but now he appeared as if he had bitten into a lemon.
How peculiar that this triggered an almost immediate feeling of homesickness in Geralt, and he hadn't even left yet. He became soft. For a witcher, this was not necessarily a desirable quality, and for the imperial consort? Well. As far as that went, Geralt had to admit that it was probably just in his nature – in any of his relationships.
The letter had reached him in the summer, staying at Corvo Bianco. Letho had expressed in terse, tentative words that he was interested in how the Emperor of Nilfgaard currently felt about the vipers – and that the best way to find out was through his husband. Geralt had thought about it for a summer and the beginning of autumn with another almost fruitless harvest.
It wasn't a question that was easy to answer; not one that was easily asked at breakfast, between passing the fruit bowl and reaching for the honey. So he had avoided the subject during the stolen nights when Emhyr secretly visited him in Touissant, but also when he himself had long since returned to the palace, the letter and its question lurking deep in Geralt's pockets and mind.
Perhaps he had avoided the subject for too long, should have guessed that Letho's query lacked any innocence and held more than a premonition. The news of viper witchers, who had been spotted on the outskirts of the realm could have been worrisome – both that they seemed to be venturing back into familiar territory and that there appeared to be several of them.
It might have been only a rumor, but subsequent reports showed movements, and the latest one had it that they’d been sighted near the remains of Gortur Gvaed. A fact that Emhyr definitely did not like.
He tossed the report almost contemptuously on his desk, not without giving his spouse, who was sitting on it, an equally disapproving look (which, of course, had more to do with sitting and less with the witchers, but could one be sure?).
"There probably aren't many of them left," Geralt said cautiously, wondering in the back of his mind how to start things off right.
"There aren't many of you all left," Emhyr replied with a vague shrug.
"These ones might have reason to hold you responsible."
Geralt’s husband's gaze carried that sharp edge that sometimes made others shrink, and although Emhyr knew that it would withstand Geralt, his stare did not waver.
"I'm just saying," Geralt continued, "there may be a reason they're returning. They may be wondering how you feel about your former… arrangement."
"An agreement I did not honor for well-placed political reasons," Emhyr returned.
"Which they probably saw differently."
The air almost seemed to crackle. An argument was about to break out, it was nearly palpable. Under other circumstances, Geralt would have enjoyed this, for their little exchanges usually ended with one shutting the other's mouth in the most pleasant way. But neither was this a good idea in broad daylight, with the prospect of numerous petitioners waiting outside the door for an audience nor given the unforgotten letter.
Surprisingly, though not necessarily in a relenting tone, Emhyr said, "You're right."
In fruitless imitation of his husband, Geralt raised his eyebrows, to which the latter did not even respond. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms in front of his chest – a thinker’s gesture, Geralt already knew him too well – and replied, "Don't misunderstand that as approval, beloved, after we agreed long ago not to discuss politics."
Geralt preferred not to respond. As before, they skirted all the cliffs, where there was potential for friction, with excellency. It was impossible to banish politics from their common life, even more so when Emhyr occasionally and more or less subtly tried to get Geralt involved in it.
And undoubtedly, this new era of regency, on which Geralt as imperial consort also had influence, whether he liked it or not, was one marked by compromises. Be it only that they left out topics before their time together – whether it was about sorceresses or politics.
"And yet," Emhyr continued, "I see two possibilities for why we are hearing from the Vipers, and especially now. It may be that they have gathered their remains to claim what they believe they are entitled to. Or to take revenge for not getting it. The other possibility, however… It might be that they think they can start a new attempt at negotiations, with you as a mediator."
"Weird idea," Geralt muttered and immediately regretted it. He should have learned to interpret his husband's scrutinizing look better.
"Is it not true," continued the latter pitilessly, "that you once befriended Letho of Gulet? Don't look at me like that, Geralt. It's not as if I didn't know such things, why else would I need a secret service? And do I have to remind you that, under the influence of various substances, you are a real tattletale?"
A treacherous glint in Emhyr's eyes revealed that he was enjoying his little speech.
"You're seriously holding it against me now that I'm rarely sane when drunk?" grumbled Geralt.
"I was thinking more of fever delirium, but fine, let's not talk about that."
Emhyr didn't grin, it was beneath him, but his lips showed a satisfied curl, and the laugh lines beside his eyes deepened.
"Well, you did send your lackey to question me about it once, one does wonder how far along your intelligence is," Geralt replied pointedly.
It was useless, he had no chance against Emhyr in such matters.
"Don't mess with the masters," the latter said softly, and was he winking?
Geralt blinked, and the moment had passed. Emhyr was sitting quietly again, having leaned over and begun drumming on the tabletop. He seemed already a few steps ahead of his own thoughts again, and it made him impatient.
"Anyway," Emhyr continued, "that's a connection one can exploit the other way around. How do you regard him? How is he disposed toward you?"
"Letho? Hard to say," Geralt said cautiously. With his next words, he would enter dangerous territory again. "As you well know, since you put so much emphasis on your secret service, he was a valuable asset in our fight against the Wild Hunt."
A fight in which Emhyr had wanted to intervene only under conditions that Geralt had not wanted to agree to at the time – and perhaps mistakenly. However, he had never resented Emhyr’s decision. It had been another reason to chafe against the man, perhaps mutually so, just another milestone on the way to a connection that still seemed mysterious and yet so wonderful to both of them.
"We parted on good terms," he quickly followed up, "but I wouldn't exactly call him a friend. He's a viper – in a sense, as sane as a feline."
"That one in my service seems mostly sane to me," Emhyr objected, and that was a great compliment, coming from him. "Anyway, I believe you should find out."
Geralt slid uncomfortably around on the desk, inevitably crumpling some papers (his spouse's look was punitive), asking, "I should find out what, exactly?"
"What's going on," Emhyr replied in that undertone that meant he had already closed the subject in his mind and couldn't believe that his counterpart hadn't come to the same conclusion. "Follow the reports, follow the trail of vipers. Alone, so as not to scare them away. Find out if Letho of Gulet is with them and what he is up to. What they're all up to."
"Is that an order?" asked Geralt incredulously. "You say that as if it were already a done deal. Since when am I your negotiator?"
"You're not a negotiator until there's something to negotiate," his spouse specified, perhaps a touch too arrogantly. "That's exactly what I want you to find out. And who, my dear, could do that better than a witcher?"
"Is this a paid contract?" asked Geralt mockingly, although that completely bounced off Emhyr, as usual.
"Of course, if you insist. Although I can already guess in what form you prefer your payment. Now please get off my desk, those are official documents I intend to send off without creasing."
And that was that, and of course, Geralt gave in, and it was the beginning of a tremendous amount of chaos.
———————
Geralt traveled southeast, but he was not yet to arrive in the Tor Tochair mountains. Shortly after Vicovaro, in an inconspicuous forest, which according to inofficial Nilfgaard maps was a shortcut, Letho intercepted him.
Suddenly, the figure of the witcher cast a shadow on the path, as if a cloud had moved in front of the sun. Roach, of course, did not shy away, although that may well have been due to the zerrikanian blinders. Although Letho made an entrance like a mugger, his bulky figure was unmistakable even under his overcoat, and his angular face beneath the hood would have been recognized by any farmer if it had been on a wanted poster – not to mention the swords on his back, which clearly distinguished him from any conventional criminal.
"Took your time," was his greeting.
"Have you gotten into the spy business now, too?"
Grinning, Letho pulled back his hood, which didn't exactly make his appearance any friendlier.
"Spy, assassin, asshole on duty: what do you think I've heard myself being called? Dismount, we have something to discuss, and your horse can't follow where we’re going."
Almost involuntarily, Geralt gripped the reins tighter, as if they were a hold. Maybe that was so – because whatever the viper's appearance meant, it was hardly a good thing. But at least Geralt was now much closer to his goal, or rather Emhyr's, so he loosened not only his grip but also his mistrust; at least a little.
Letho seemed intent on confusing him as he led him through the undergrowth of the forest, constantly covering his tracks. It seemed pointless to Geralt, but he would soon realize that all the fuss wasn't about him.
In a tiny clearing, barely more than a bit of breathing around a tree killed by lightning that had dragged a small trail of devastation with it when it fell, Letho had set up camp. There were the remains of a campfire and carefully tied up equipment.
"I don't know if I expected this response to my letter," he said without transition as he checked his belongings with a practiced hand. "Or any, for that matter."
Geralt didn't know how to respond to that. In any case, he preferred not to point out that this was hardly the answer Letho had expected.
"I didn't know what to do with your letter," he finally replied.
Letho raised his barely-there brows so high they almost touched the scar that adorned his forehead.
"So I should be glad you didn't burn it right away, you mean? A strange way of saying thank you. Seems to me your generosity has stayed in the imperial bedroom."
Geralt did not take offense at these words. He wondered what exactly had kept him from dealing with the matter earlier. Was it really only because he had not desired a possible confrontation – with his own husband?
"I'm here now," he said. "And you obviously already knew that. Anyway, I can't tell you how things are. It depends on what's going on in Gortur Gvaed."
"Figured you'd want to go there," Letho opined.
He had sat down on the fallen log and started digging around in the remains of the fire with a stick as if there was more there than charcoal and ashes.
"Anyway, I thought it best to stop you," he continued.
"Your keep is destroyed, I don't even know what you lot are doing there."
"Destroyed, yes, but not completely," Letho said, finally tossing the stick into the bushes. As if not knowing where to put his fleshy hands, he eventually placed them on his knees and looked intently at Geralt. "Of course, the fire has had a devastating effect. Of course, the Nilfgaardians were thorough, as they are said to be. But the place is not just home to bad memories, Geralt. I've done a lot over the past years to change that. Searched for vipers scattered across the continent, telling them about my idea... well, basically it was a dream. Do you believe in premonitions?"
The unexpected question did not even make Geralt blink. He squatted on the other end of the splintered log and nodded.
"Indeed, I do. So you dreamed of rebuilding Gortur Gvaed? Quite audacious."
"We don't have a home, haven't for a very long time. In that respect, we are more like the felines than we would like. With one advantage: each and every one of us still carry the knowledge of the Wild Hunt, and except for some rather few ill-informed scholars, no one knows as much about it as we do. Maybe most of our library is lost, but this in here is not."
He tapped his bald skull before raising his hands in an anticipatory gesture.
"Save any words about how the victory in Kaer Morhen drove them away. The Wild Hunt is not a myth for nothing. They suffered bitter losses, yes, even lost their king, and the White Frost was stopped, that is also true. But you, who rode with them, should probably know best of all that their interests are changing. They measure time in different scales."
"You seriously believe in a return of the Wild Hunt?" asked Geralt, who didn't like to imagine such things (and never had, because there was never any going back, and some things were better not repeated).
"I believe that we should be prepared. I believe that in a world that will inevitably dispense with witchers one day, I still want to serve a purpose. We can't all sleep our way to the top, Geralt."
"And what now?" asked Geralt sharply. "Do you expect me to ask permission for you to inhabit Gortur Gvaed again? Do you want me to paint the walls, too?"
"No need to wet your panties," Letho replied with a grin. "I wasn't planning on calling in any favors, but it would be good to know you're on my side as we remind the emperor of an agreement he unilaterally broke."
"You can't seriously expect me to go against him and his decision."
"Maybe not," Letho returned thoughtfully, "but can't I expect some compassion? If you had lost your home, and between you and what is left of it, there would be only a promise that was broken… What would you do, Geralt? More so when you heard that someone you once helped is now in a position to help you."
"As far as that goes, I guess we're even," Geralt said stubbornly. "Look. I'm not saying I can't empathize with your situation. In fact, Emhyr thinks I would make a good negotiator. But to do that, I need to know what there is to negotiate."
"Thought he had his spies everywhere," Letho said, not without a hint of admiration in his voice. "So it didn't escape his notice that we’re back. And now he sends you to find out if I am among the rumored vipers. He hoped you could use your connection to me? It seems to me, then, that we have a common goal."
One that Geralt was not comfortable with from either side, but he did not say so.
"Anyway, things aren't quite going according to plan," Letho then said. "I intercepted you here not only so I could talk to you first, but also because we haven't even recaptured Gortur Gvaed yet. You shouldn't stumble in there unprepared – it's already cost me two good men, and I can't afford to lose a single one."
"Recaptured?" Geralt asked incredulously. "Who dwells in that dilapidated hole, a bunch of ghosts?"
"Funny," Letho said dryly and without a trace of humor. "A bunch of ghosts probably wouldn't be much of an obstacle for a handful of witchers, and therein lies the true irony. Because it’s not specters dwelling there, Wolf. They are Scoia'tael."
"Scoia'tael," echoed Geralt like some broken golem, "this far south, in the mountains of Nilfgaard?"
Letho pursed his lips.
"Your bed is soft, I suppose. Well, they don't have one, just like us. It doesn't make us allies, though. Their despair is of a different kind. Displaced, hunted, marginalized, and always in search of a home, they have become radicalized. Don't ask me what drove them to the mountains, I can't tell you. A sudden love of gnomes is unlikely to be it, but who knows, maybe they care about their company... or their underground passages."
Geralt was already inwardly cursing the day, his willingness, which was perhaps based only on compliance, and in the end, Emhyr himself, who had involved him in a far more complicated matter than the latter even suspected.
"Unlike ghosts," Letho continued, "these elves are cunning, extremely well-armed, and battle-hardened."
"There can't be many of them."
Geralt thought with discomfort of the handful of Scoia'tael in whose hands he himself had been not long ago. They hadn't had many weapons or experience to show for it, yet they had made up for it with determination and brutality. And he knew only too well what they were capable of when they actually managed to organize themselves. He didn't say it because he knew that Letho had already experienced it firsthand: it almost didn't matter how many there were.
"Sometimes all it takes is one to make a difference," Letho remarked, which Geralt found thoroughly sophistical.
"All right," he heard himself say reluctantly, "so what now? The Scoia'tael are not Emhyr's problem. So he's certainly not going to help you drive them away – certainly not before you've made some kind of request to stay."
"Dol Blathanna is as much a bubble as the rehabilitation of the Vipers," Letho snorted. "The Scoia'tael are not well disposed towards your Emperor either, Geralt, you do realize that? They lost many warriors in a war that was none of their business, and the piece of land they got is little consolation. Not everyone agreed with the decision on which the supposed gift of this land was based, and many who live there think that the price was too high. That's why I believe the Scoia'tael will sooner or later also become a problem for your husband. Furthermore, I believe he knows that. What will become of Gortur Gvaed, destroyed or not, is guaranteed to matter to him. And I'm sure the Vipers have more convincing arguments than the Scoia'tael, in the long run."
Geralt hated these prospects, and he hated to realize how right Letho was. Except, perhaps, in the point of arguments – what mattered, in the end, was what Emhyr might consider the most convincing, and what his agenda was in this regard, Geralt did not suspect.
"You're counting on me to help you," he said. "To snatch your keep from the elves? You think one more witcher will make the difference? I don’t... oh."
Realization distorted his face, and he continued sullenly, "You think if you get this supposed problem out of his way in time, prove yourself useful, Emhyr will be much more appreciative. And if I take your side, you further believe, this will make him more lenient. Far-fetched."
"Really?" replied Letho smugly. "After all, from what I've heard, he cares a lot about you. I'm sure he won't want to hear that Scotia'tael captured you as soon as you rode into the mountains. But to hear that vipers trying to reclaim their old homestead accidentally freed you and, since the only option was to win or perish, you sided with them, that could tip the scales after all."
"First of all, what tells you that I'm going to get involved in this dorky story? Secondly, it seems so transparent to me that he will certainly see through it."
"Maybe so," Letho said with a far too pleased grin, "but you don't grasp the political dimensions, do you? It's a face-saving story for all sides, including you. And you, Geralt, will participate for exactly that reason. Or out of guilt, for all I know of you. I don't care."
Unfortunately, Letho was right.
———————
Politics or not – and Geralt was not stupid, he understood the intrigue – he had a sense of honor that could not be turned off, even if it had brought him into dicey situations time and again in his life. However, he was just as uncomfortable messing with the Scoia'tael, not only for historical reasons and because he held no grudge against those who had attacked the convoy last year and taken him hostage, badly injured.
Geralt simply didn't believe that two equally branded groups should be out to get each other. But he had always been bad at staying out of it. Or recognizing what was actually the lesser evil.
"What's your plan?" he asked Letho as he walked beside him, Roach on the reins – there seemed no need to go cross-country for now, and he needed his equipment.
"There are countless tunnels beneath Gortur Gvaed," Letho replied. "Some of these are certainly made by gnomes, others may be even older."
He scratched his hairless head and shrugged.
"I didn't pay much attention in history lessons. In any case, the mountain is crisscrossed with corridors, of which even I or the other witchers do not know all. But neither do the Scoia'tael, at least that's what we assume."
"Kaer Morhen is of elven origin," Geralt pointed out.
"And we found no clear evidence of it in Gortur Gvaed," the other shot down this objection. "All we know is that they've set up shop there. It's hard for us to figure out how many they really are and whether they've already discovered the tunnels, but we assume they have. We hope that they don't know all of them yet – and that's why we're attacking from the inside."
"You said you've already lost men?"
Letho nodded grimly.
"We approached Gortur Gvaed too credulously, believing that we would find grave robbers there at best, or ghosts. Instead, we were ambushed."
"From very lively forms, and clearly better trained than grave robbers," Geralt remarked, and Roach snorted softly as if to agree with him.
Letho grinned, although it was no laughing matter, and patted the horse on the head. Geralt was surprised that Roach accepted this without resistance.
"I don't like it," Geralt continued. "Have you tried talking to them?"
Letho laughed boomingly, which startled a few smaller birds that swooped out of the undergrowth in a flash.
"Is this your new life, Geralt, talk? Are you some kind of official advisor now, a mediator between rival groups perhaps?"
"And are you really so recklessly willing to engage in a potentially pointless battle?" retorted Geralt irritably.
"Pointless?" sneered Letho, and there was something in his voice quite reminiscent of a snake's hiss. "Let me tell you something, Wolf. Morals and ethics are nice lecture topics at Oxenfurt University, but less enforceable in real life. Neither you nor the emperor have always been guided by these oh-so-noble values. Standing between me and my former home – the only one I ever knew, mind you – is a bunch of lousy elf rebels. There's no going back for me, and the way I see it, there's no going back for you either. Neither can you return without result and tell your noble husband that Vipers and Scoia'tael are fighting over scorched earth without having taken sides, nor can you stop yourself from taking sides. Either way, you're in a bind."
"Who's going to lecture on morality now?" muttered Geralt sourly.
"We all have our weaknesses, our strengths, and our certain idiosyncrasies," Letho replied good-naturedly, glancing at Geralt. "Whether we like it or not. Politics or personal attachment, we follow an invisible plan."
They were silent for a moment, exchanging knowing glances, perhaps both pondering the irony of fate.
"My plan, anyway," the viper continued at one point, "is as good as any. And if it's any consolation, the elves haven't shown us any special mercy so far, but I don't see any advantage in killing them either."
Geralt was not particularly comforted by this, but he realized that he was now up to his neck in trouble.
———————
They stopped briefly at the edge of the forest so that Geralt could pick additional oils, potions, and other stuff from his equipment. They would have to leave Roach here, and Geralt stroked her back comfortingly – knowing that she cared much less than he did. Either she would wait here or, if she did get restless at some point, simply make her way back alone. He wished he could do the same: there were half a dozen places Geralt would rather have been right now.
The foothills of the Tir Tochair mountains were bathed in the midday sun, but it didn't make them any more hostile. The proximity to the desert was noticeable in low vegetation. Those who set up a post there could see very far into the distance; one more reason why the tunnels seemed attractive.
Letho pointed to the east. There, the forest area made another small detour until it gradually thinned out towards the north and finally merged into increasingly barren grass and isolated bushes.
"We're making our way there," he said. "It's going to be thorny, I hope you brought some good sharpening stones for your sword."
Geralt thought this was a rather inappropriate joke at first. But in fact, in a short time, the typical mixed forest in that direction turned into a strange mixture of various plants, favored by the climate that the mountains in that area called up; among them man-high bushes with thorns as thick as a finger.
Letho didn't seem to mind the whole thing; he was almost happily hacking away at the undergrowth as if it was just a good opportunity to exercise his arms. He was making good progress, and his swings reminded Geralt once again that it was better not to fall on this witcher’s sword. After only a short time, he himself suffered a severe scratch on his forehead and a torn glove.
To his half-loud curses, Letho replied with a grin that he should be glad: this would mean, after all, that the elves had not discovered this entrance. When they finally stood before it, Geralt doubted that anyone would have been able to. To him, the forest floor was just dry earth, fallen leaves, and stubborn grass. But for Letho, who must have stored the place in his memory as a kind of secret knowledge, it was more.
The hatch, hidden under the foliage, had so few visible edges and such a concealed mechanism that it probably would not have been noticed even if a lost wayfarer had stumbled across it. Almost triumphantly, Letho pulled it open, the heavy stone making no sound whatsoever.
"After you," he said, and Geralt sighed.
After a disturbingly long descent, they reached a narrow passageway widening in a northerly direction.
"How far will we have to go?" asked Geralt.
Letho's eyes glowed in the darkness, affected by a potion they had both taken.
"Far enough that we'll have to renew this effect once or twice more," he replied, pointing at Geralt, whose cat-like eyes glowed as well.
"You do realize that torches were invented for this very reason," Geralt grumbled as he followed Letho, who moved forward almost somnambulistically.
"And risk them noticing us miles ahead?" said the latter. "I'd rather be careful."
Careful – or paranoid, Geralt mused, as they seemed to walk for half an eternity through the musty, gloomy corridors without even a hint that anyone had been here for centuries.
At some point, Letho remarked, "If I'm right..."
It was one of those moments when Geralt felt a discomfort, with the narrow walls of the corridor seemingly closing in on him, almost crushing him.
"... after two more bends, the ascent should begin."
Geralt had said nothing when Letho had occasionally stopped at crossroads during their wanderings through the underground passages, musing like a man who must check which way the wind is blowing, only without using his finger to do so. In general, they had been silent for what seemed like hours, as if they feared the old tunnels would carry their voices for miles. Now, however, he could no longer remain still.
"The ascent to where exactly? You don't sound particularly sure."
"You do understand, I hope, that this is a shortcut and at the same time the safest way to the mountains," Letho replied. "There is no other way from where we met, except through the middle of the plain, as a convenient shooting target."
"Alright, I just hope we come out in a part of Gortur Gvaed that you can safely say we're not expected."
In the dark, Letho's grin was hard to see, even to Geralt's night-vision-tested eyes, but it lingered in his voice.
"You have no idea about these mountains," he returned. "We're still a long way from the keep."
The corridor was now indeed gently ascending, and it was not long before a tiny glimmer of light became discernible. Geralt hated being in unfamiliar territory, and even more so, being dependent on the viper, who was only too happy to show off his superiority.
"Then where do we come out?" he asked sharply.
Letho didn't answer but started knocking on a wall a few steps in front of him. Some light fell through a fine crack in the stone, but apart from that, one could never have guessed that there was a door behind this structure of earth and stone.
After a short time, Letho had found the mechanism, pressed it, and suddenly he was standing in the open.
"Come," he said. "You'll understand in a moment."
Geralt followed with an unmistakable feeling that he would not like what he was about to discover. After a few steps, he was standing in front of a rock face, and, he realized, on a plateau at that. Behind him, the opening shut into what appeared to be a naturally formed rockfall, apparently seamlessly closing off a steep slope. Rugged rock jutted out in front of him, and a narrow and dangerous-looking pathway revealed an uncertain path, some ten feet downwards. How in the world had they gotten from the forest to a small slope in the mountains?
Standing on the path were a handful of men, all witchers in full armor, who showed a wide variety of facial expressions at the sight of Geralt. Neither could he blame them, he was just as surprised, nor could he in the least estimate what it actually meant to suddenly find himself alone among them. After all, he reflected uneasily, he must have seemed to them like a symbol of what they detested.
"Kidding, right?" one of them said in a raspy voice, and a tall, dark guy with scarred face uttered a curse in a language Geralt thought might be a Zerrikanian dialect (of which he understood little). "You brought him? He’s our backup?"
Letho raised his hands placatingly as if to make a speech. But Geralt couldn't resist pointing out another captivating detail.
"This is your gaggle? Five... no, half a dozen vipers?"
One of the men, a fair head shorter than all the others and perhaps therefore dressed in metal-reinforced armor, spat on the ground before replying, "And you? Heard Kaer Morhen isn't exactly packed with good men now either."
"Not packed, but good men by all means," Geralt returned irritably.
He looked at the handful of witchers, thinking to himself that while Letho had said the Scoia'tael's desperation was different from theirs, this still seemed a forlorn collection. Two wore no visible sign of their guild at all (and it wouldn't have surprised Geralt if they were, in fact, felines), one had it pushed into the collar of his doublet in such a way that it couldn't be seen. Two others wore the artfully entwined snake not without pride, and the last one finally... wore the symbol of the School of the Bear.
They all followed Letho’s lead, and not for the first time, although not in this composition. What had he done to assemble this hand-picked crowd, among them even some who could not care less about Gortur Gvaed? Of course, Geralt understood that such questions could be just as indifferent to him, because now he was in the middle of the mess. Eskel will like this story, he thought incoherently, only to consider in the same breath that one day, he would have to explain this mess to Emhyr. He sighed.
"How far is it to Gortur Gvaed?" he turned to Letho, casting a slightly worried glance into the abyss off to the side. Narrow rocky plateaus did not hold good memories for Geralt.
"Why, do your feet hurt already? Well then, let's go," Letho replied, and that alone was enough: the small band of witchers started moving, and Letho and Geralt followed.
———————
They went slowly but surely downhill and deeper into the mountains, across ravines of seemingly infinite depth. Every now and then, the narrow path was blocked, leading to climbs that made Geralt break out in a sweat. Looking into the abyss caused him almost physical pain, and involuntarily his hand moved to his shoulder, massaging his collarbone as if a memory itched him.
Surprisingly, they did not go higher up the mountains. Instead, after a while, they reached the ground (which Geralt was very relieved about) of a plain, which was surrounded by mountains on two sides.
"Pretty open terrain," Geralt muttered.
"It seems that way," Letho replied. "But the only other entrance is a ravine behind us, and according to our information, they're guarding that entry. There is still a way to Gortur Gvaed from the south, but even the Nilfgaardian army would need weeks to reach it."
"Which means, then, that they could be expecting us here," Geralt returned.
"They don't know this access," Letho said firmly. "We still have to be careful, of course, they may have placed lookouts here. But I think we'll be safe for a while until we reach the keep."
Some time later, a gently rising hill emerged in front of them, and the already sparse vegetation appeared only in the form of moss and dry, tough grass of the kind that could cut one’s hand. All the while, Letho's men had been walking alternately ahead and to the side, always on the lookout, always on guard; tough, watchful guys who avoided Geralt's presence. He didn't blame them, wondering himself why he felt so alienated in the presence of these witchers. Was it just because they were so different from his own people? Unlike these, he, Eskel, Lambert, and everyone who grew up with them had always had a home. A place to return to.
Geralt's mind wandered until he realized they weren't going up the hill at all. As they got closer, he realized that it had no connection at all to the mountains beyond – it had just been an optical illusion that had made him think that. A strange area, and somehow eerie, even for a witcher who would hardly have cared if there had been ghosts there. But the fact that one didn't know if there were still gnomes living there and where they were hiding was just as unpleasant as the strange whistling of the wind, pushing through the rocky gorges.
Behind the hill, a new gorge opened, on the sides of which the rock walls rose high and threatening, almost crushing – as if they possessed the power to keep the sun away. Geralt looked around uneasily in the direction from which they had come.
"You wouldn't see them, even if they were really there," Letho said.
"I've dealt with Scoia'tael before," Geralt replied gruffly. "The fact that they could attack us here from the front, as well as the back, does not reassure me."
"Me neither," Letho admitted frankly, "but this is the safest way if we don't want to run right into their feet. Anyway, we'll have to assume, because last time, we tried it somewhere else, and that didn't turn out so well."
"Have to assume is not much," said Geralt. "Couldn't you have made a quick advance right into the keep? You know your way around there better than them."
Letho looked to the side, a little uncomfortable, it seemed to Geralt.
"Oh, no," Geralt said, stopping.
He grabbed Letho by the arm, forcing the viper to turn toward him.
"You didn't even get as far as Gortur Gvaed, did you?"
"No," Letho admitted. "They attacked us much earlier."
"Meaning, you don’t know how many are there in total and also how many of them are already dwelling in the ruins? Damn it, Letho, this is a suicide mission, how are we supposed to..."
At this moment, an arrow whistled between Letho and Geralt by a hair's breadth. Geralt felt its draft very close to his neck, and according to Letho's wide-open eyes, he was not unimpressed either.
"Cover!" one of the other witchers yelled, and chaos erupted.
Just before the next arrow might have really hit them, Geralt pushed Letho to the side. They found cover behind a rocky outcrop, and the others also somehow managed to get to safety. The bear witcher had a crossbow with him, and he fired a few times, untargeted, in the direction from which they were being fired upon. It was useless, a shower of arrows rained down on them, a clear warning.
"Shit, Letho," cursed Geralt, finally fed up with everything.
"It's not my fault, is it?" bellowed Letho back over the whistling hail of arrows, drawing his steel sword.
The bear witcher came crawling across the ground to them with amazing agility, keeping flat to the rock face.
"At least three," he gasped.
"Only three?" asked Geralt incredulously.
The other crouched down next to Letho and shrugged.
"At least, I said. Besides, that's what they like to do, fake larger quantities... you should know."
"My reputation precedes me," Geralt retorted bitingly. "However, it's hardly the right time for a pissing contest."
"Shut up, both of you," said Letho. "There's no turning back this time. Geralt, do you have a decoction with you that will strengthen your signs?"
Geralt only nodded. The continuous shelling had stopped by now, but the silence was deceptive. The elves were lurking, and the chance for surprise was shrinking.
"Then everyone has at least one. Suck it up, and then it’s Quen and run. The end of the canyon is to the northwest."
One of the other witchers now joined them as well, running crouched and so light on his feet that Geralt was now sure he was a feline.
"They hide in alcoves, not more than twenty feet above us," he said. "Could be cave entrances or whatnot, maybe gnomes used to live in them."
"The gnomes had cities in these mountains," Letho opined. "But I don't care why the rock is perforated like cheese from Poviss. If they’re actually not that high up, we could draw them out."
"And then what?" interjected Geralt.
"Let's slaughter them," the bear witcher replied callously.
"Preferably, we knock them down, tie them up, and politely ask how many more are hiding here," the feline sneered.
His eyes widened as Letho nodded and replied, "That's right. However, only time will tell if we ask politely."
"The Scoia'tael will never talk," Geralt said, shaking his head.
"That remains to be seen," Letho replied tight-lipped. "The alternative is that if we get through, they'll use some form of communications system to tell those ahead of us of our arrival. Better to take them out quickly."
Time was running out, that much was clear. The elves would not remain passive forever, and Letho was right – they had to have a way to communicate with others from their command so that the way to Gortur Gvaed remained clear.
"After you," Geralt said sullenly as he drew his sword.
———————
Thus, Geralt suddenly found himself in a position he never thought he would occupy: he, too, followed Letho. Albeit for very different reasons than the daring little crowd he had gathered around him.
The shots had come from two sides of the rock face, so they split. Geralt went with Letho, the silent bear witcher, and the feline, who had drawn two long knives instead of a sword, which made Geralt strangely nervous. The rest looked for an ascent on the western side, while Letho's small band stumbled up a winding, rocky path.
Pebbles and dust bounced off their Quen shields as they ran. The bear had bundled his into an actual buckler-like structure, which he controlled with his left hand. Geralt had never seen anything like it. Of course, they were expected. Soon another rain of arrows pelted them, but the witcher's observations had been correct: the elves here were at best a narrow outpost, a kind of hedge – presumably, they had wanted to secure the entrance but had not actually expected anyone to try to get through from this spot. This time, the elves’ advance was small, and it soon ceased.
Geralt, of course, had no way of knowing what the situation was like on the other cliff face, where the rest of the witchers from Letho's group were advancing, but on his side, everything was going surprisingly smoothly. A final arrow bounced off Geralt's vaguely bluish, flickering shield as they reached a ledge. There was indeed something like a cave entrance, at least a wide crack in the rock that was barely visible from below unless one happened to look up at the right angle. Two elves, who had exchanged their bows for short swords, stood at the edge of the chasm with defiant expressions.
Letho approached them slowly, sword alert in his grip but not raised in hostility.
"Don't get involved in a hopeless fight."
"Glaeddyv vort, Vatt’ghern."
The feline behind Letho laughed as if the Scoia'tael had uttered something particularly funny.
"With four against two, I'd know who'd better drop his sword," Letho said.
"Why are you with them, Gwynbleidd?" asked one of the elves, staring at Geralt.
"Well, your reputation does precede you," murmured Letho.
"You're on our list too, Letho of Gulet. Don't look so surprised, of course, we know you."
"Seems you’re not so popular either," sneered Geralt.
A metallic glint in the corner of his eye distracted Geralt. Letho had noticed it, too. He pointed to the west and said, "Your friends over there won't be able to help you anymore. And it could be that my friends were much less polite than I am. So I'll say it again, swords down. We're talking."
"Talking," sneered the elf, spitting contemptuously on the ground.
"Wait a minute," Geralt said, raising a hand. "Why didn't they flee into the cave when they saw us coming?"
Letho looked at him in surprise.
"Maybe there's nothing there," he replied.
"They'd rather die than flee," the bear interjected.
"Yeá," roared the second elf, who was standing closer to the edge, and Geralt almost feared he was going to throw himself into the abyss.
"But if they had a way to escape, they could warn the rest," Geralt said.
"Yes, if," Letho agreed, "so there isn't one."
"Or there is."
Geralt approached the crevice, not without noticing out of the corner of his eye how the feline rolled his eyes.
Letho, however, joined Geralt with a quiet, "Wolf?"
The gap was wide enough for even a man in armor to squeeze through. Only a small piece behind it was illuminated by the sun, the rest lay in deepest darkness.
"The others will be here soon, with or without your companions," Letho turned to the Scoia'tael. "What's in there?"
"Nothing," said the first elf, shaking his head so violently that the squirrel's tail fastened in his hair swung wildly.
Geralt almost felt pity for the man. He was young, just like the other next to him, and both had done what they could to try to stop the attackers. Perhaps it was honorable to die fighting witchers, but the heat of youth alone, which so often made the Scoia'tael rebels particular dangerous and unpredictable opponents, would then have caused them to attack long ago. However, if they hid something…
"Tie them up," Letho said suddenly. "Geralt and I are going to look at the cave."
"Why the change of heart?" asked Geralt, as he struggled to ignore the stares and murmurs of the other witchers.
"Call it a gut feeling," Letho replied. "I think you felt it too, earlier than I did."
Geralt did not answer, but he thought that it was better not to underestimate a witcher’s gut feeling. Vesemir had once given them a lesson about how logic and putting feelings aside were essential for witchers, yet their instincts were heightened by magic. Geralt didn't know if that was what had come over him at the sight of the elves and the crevice, just a tug in his mind, neither warning nor actual indication. And yet...
"All right," he said, pocketing his sword and groping his way through the narrow opening.
———————
Letho followed him closely, and soon they were both standing in a not-too-wide but visibly deep cavern.
"This goes further ahead," said Letho quietly, peering a step ahead. "Much further."
"I don't know if the potions will be enough. Do you have torches with you?" asked Geralt.
Letho stared at him with an impenetrable gaze.
"You really want to go deeper?"
"So do you," Geralt remarked, "you wouldn't have come if you didn't think there might be a shortcut hidden here."
"Maybe, but it's that maybe that bothers me," Letho admitted. "I don't want to waste our precious time."
"But you don't want to give up a possible advantage either," Geralt replied.
"You were right," a voice suddenly sounded behind them.
Doing honor to his school, the cat witcher had appeared like a ghost.
"With what?" asked Geralt and Letho simultaneously, causing the feline to grin widely.
"That something is hiding here," he replied. "It's not a cave, it's an entrance into the higher parts of the mountains. Maybe all the way to Gortur Gvaed, I have to admit, the guy didn't quite get around to telling us everything."
"What did you do?" Letho asked in a dangerously dark tone, close to the hiss of a snake.
"What had to be done," the feline replied impassively. "Hesitation costs us time. You want your keep back, Letho, then see to it. Remember what you promised us."
"Don't worry."
A vein throbbed at Letho's bald skull, visible even in this pale light. Then, as if a jolt went through him, as resolute decisions sometimes demanded, he ordered, "Cover our tracks. We'll go ahead and find out if there's anything to it. Follow us in half an hour. If we can't get through the mountains like this, we'll come back and can still take the way through the gorge. Obviously there's no one left to warn the rest."
With that, he turned abruptly and trudged off into the darkness. The other witcher was still grinning as he disappeared back through the opening.
"At least use a torch, asshole," Geralt grumbled as he followed Letho.
Letho did just that, and soon at least some light illuminated the walls of the cave. Basically, it was no more than a corridor, not wide enough for them to walk side by side, and just high enough that Letho only had to duck his head a little. The rough-hewn walls had been worked out of the mountain long ago, certainly not by the Scoia'tael, but why would gnomes bother to adjust the ceiling height to fit an average human? It was puzzling, but they were not here to solve puzzles.
Letho, obviously out of tune, set a decent pace – and he gave the impression that he could run like that for hours. They walked in silence, the only sound made by pebbles drifting away as their boots pounded against them.
"What did you promise them?" Geralt finally broke the silence.
"Nothing of your concern," Letho replied curtly.
"You do realize that one day it could be? If you get Gortur Gvaed up and running again, Nilfgaard will send mages."
"I don't intend to make witchers there," Letho returned sharply. "And I certainly won't allow it, either, if your hubby comes up with some nonsense like that."
"I was thinking more of supervision," Geralt explained calmly. "After all that has happened between you..."
"Happened," sneered Letho. "A very diplomatic way of putting it. And yes, I realize that Nilfgaard will keep me on a leash, or at least try to.“
"Perhaps," Geralt said cautiously as they continued to trudge through the corridors, "Nilfgaard is not your only problem either. Some of your people... they seem unpredictable to me."
"Mh," Letho went scornfully, "heard the Emperor keeps himself a feline. As a security advisor. Guess they can be tamed after all, huh?"
"Maybe some of them just didn't get the full dose of insanity," Geralt said, annoyed.
They were silent for a while, their gaze steadily directed forward, where the path was now actually slowly ascending. But still it was dark, and wherever the torch shone, there was nothing but stone and dust and gloom.
"I know they are turncoats, alright?"
Geralt, who had not expected Letho to take up the conversation again, stared in surprise at the latter's back, but Letho didn’t turn around.
"At least some of them. The vipers, well… they follow me because they have no other choice. Haven't forgotten the years when they couldn't get within a mile of the Nilfgaard border. When Emhyr broke his word, things didn't get much better. We’re still walking on eggshells, but this is our land too, Geralt. Even if some of us were not even born here, we are from here. That's what the keep does to you."
"I've never thought of myself as belonging to any state," Geralt interjected.
"Maybe it's because people up north are so cold too, not just the weather."
Now Letho turned around and threw Geralt a grin, saying that at least now there was a kind of truce between them.
"We're just different," he said then. "And of course, I'm on guard. I offer them a new home and the prospect of being able to pursue their craft undisturbed in Nilfgaard."
"Before you even spoke to Emhyr," Geralt noted.
Letho hunched his massive shoulders, and the shadow of the torch flickered hastily across the walls.
"They trust in my reputation," he said. "I'm sure some of them believe that the term Kingslayer can certainly be expanded if everything doesn't go according to plan."
"Is there any particular reason you're telling me this?" asked Geralt sharply.
"If that were the case, Geralt, I certainly wouldn't be walking in front of you waiting for you to ram your sword in my back," Letho replied softly.
"There's light ahead," Geralt said, to Letho's surprise.
The latter turned around again and immediately extinguished the torch. It took only a fraction of a second for both of their eyes to adjust to the new lighting conditions. It was true: a few steps ahead of them was a soft glow.
"Is there an exit?"
"Or a larger cave. Then the light doesn't bode well."
"An exit doesn't necessarily bode well for us either," Geralt said, pushing past the viper.
Letho slapped him kindly on the shoulders and remarked, "That's what I like about you, you're always so upbeat, white one."
"Shh," Geralt simply went and crept forward.
It turned out that this time, he was right: it was indeed an exit. The cave corridor ended in a passage, hardly more than a hole, through which the elves had apparently crawled. It was lushly covered with a solid, naturally grown curtain of ivy on the outside.
"Would have been too nice if there had been a complete pass all the way to Gortur Gvaed," Letho grumbled.
"Quietly," Geralt admonished, "We need to find out what's on the other side – your cronies will surely catch up to us soon, and then we'll know better if it was worth taking a look."
"I have to agree," Letho replied, one hand already behind his back, almost stroking the hilt of his steel sword.
"Let's see if you can fit through, then, big guy. I'll go first."
———————
Geralt carefully pushed aside the ivy curtain and peered out, squinting against the sun that hung over the next mountainside. In front of him lay a sparsely vegetated plain, bordered on the east by a steep slope, and on the west and north by towering peaks.
He had no idea how high they were now. The air was cool, and the craggy rocks and puny trees made him wonder again why the elves would choose Gortur Gvaed, of all places, as their new home. Especially when there was hardly anything left of it.
"All clear," he said, "I'm going out."
"Be my guest."
Geralt didn't turn around to see, once again, what was probably a smirking expression on Letho's face. He pushed through the ivy. No sooner had he set foot on the ground in front of the cave than he drew his sword in one fluid motion.
He kept close enough to the rock to jump back if fired upon, but for several heartbeats, all remained quiet. Geralt looked up, although he realized that he probably wouldn't see the Scoia'tael if they didn't want to be seen. He could hardly hope for any metallic glint to give them away, as they were extremely careful.
Finally, Letho also squeezed through the opening, surprisingly nimble. He glanced around searchingly, but Geralt believed he was not searching for the Scoia'tael – rather, for landmarks he would recognize.
"Unusual," he commented. "Gortur Gvaed is, of course, still much higher, but if I'm not mistaken..."
"What?" growled Geralt, for Letho had paused and was staring thoughtfully into the mountains before him.
Letho tapped the knuckles of his right hand against his head, stating, "I have a map in here. I'm sure you have something like that, too, Wolf. Sneak peeks, secret hiding places, distractions for possible pursuers, all that stuff. I've never been here, certainly not from this side, so forgive me if my thick skull takes a moment to imagine the map from a completely different angle.... but I think there's a tunnel there that leads to just before our keep. Or better, has led. It was always marked on our maps as hopelessly buried, and we settled for that."
"Are you saying the elves dug it up?" asked Geralt incredulously.
Letho shrugged his mighty shoulders, shaking his head.
"If our maps considered that too difficult, I think it's unlikely. More likely, I think someone else found a way."
"The gnomes?"
Letho grinned wryly.
"Sure, possible, but what would they get out of it? Checking whether materials had survived in the keep? It was always rumored that some of us had just made it out when the Nilfgaardians set everything on fire. There was a mage who often stayed in the fortress at that time, after all, there were still adepts. Maybe he found a way out…"
"So if that's the case, the Scoia'tael have found it too and are actually sitting on your ruins," Geralt added. "Are we going to look for the entrance and wait for your rear guard?"
"We're searching, but we're not waiting," Letho decided firmly. "We don't know if those behind us had a guard routine and might be relieved at some point. The sooner we find out if that's how we get to Gortur Gvaed, the better. The others must be close behind us."
"So grin and bear it, right?"
Letho bared his teeth. It was the widest grin he had ever produced, and it almost made him look like a madman.
"After all, we want the emperor to continue to see your pretty smile," he said.
Geralt huffed, gripped the sword tighter, and went ahead. They kept close to the eastern edge of the rock, careful not to stir up too much debris on the ground, and at the same time aware that two witchers in full armor could never be so quiet that the elves would not hear them.
"The entrance must be here somewhere," said Letho, who in the meantime had pushed ahead of Geralt and was again, for the latter's taste, going far too fast.
His voice had taken on a strange tone, a mixture of confidence and delusion, at least that's how it sounded to Geralt, and he didn't like it. He didn't like the idea that they might be chasing a mirage. It was clear to him that the vanguard must have gotten here somehow, and that they had probably come through the tunnel they had insisted on defending. And yet...
"It could just as easily be a trap," he replied.
Letho glanced at him over his shoulder.
"The cat with me is a little paranoid, but you?"
"I'm careful," Geralt spat. "And I have a feeling you're not right now. What if they did find a way to warn the others?"
"There were way too few of them, and we took them out," he said.
"We took out two of them. We don't even know what your friends were doing on the other side of the mountain. The elves might have had time to…"
Geralt never finished the sentence, for he was jerked backward by a tremendous force as an arrow accurately found a weak spot in his armor, piercing his left shoulder. It was a shot of deadly precision, aiming for maximum damage, but he didn't suspect that yet. At that moment, Geralt's mind was simultaneously trying to process the recoil, seek cover, and suppress the pain that seemed to have set his arm on fire. Blood rushing in his ears, he heard Letho swearing. Geralt caught himself just in time, because the next shot narrowly missed his thigh.
At the moment of the first shot, Letho had instinctively thrown himself on the ground, rolled off, and immediately jumped up again, in a defensive position. Like a machine, he fended off the next arrows with his sword, while Geralt, a bit behind him, tried the same – with a bit less punch.
The rock walls were too steep for an attack from above, and Letho had been right about the entrance being down here: the elves were attacking from the front, and there were clearly more than three of them. They soon came too close, now with swords drawn, wild roars and stares, and Geralt and Letho literally had their backs to the wall.
"We must go back," Letho shouted, "there are too many."
"Great idea," Geralt clenched between his teeth.
Letho cast a glance over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes.
"Looks like an artery hit, we'd better hurry."
"You don't say?" muttered Geralt.
He tried to calculate how far behind them the other witchers might be, and he was sure that Letho was doing the same right now. However, the facts could not be denied: the elves were superior in number. The entrance was very close behind them, it almost seemed to Geralt as if the green of the ivy curtain stung his eyes. It was the heavy blood loss, he realized, and he blinked, trying to focus.
Pure instinct or years of experience made Geralt and Letho take a back-to-back position as they moved backward in narrow circles.
"What fun," Geralt muttered, eyeing the lurking elves who were either toying with them or looking for the perfect spot to attack. "You don’t happen to..."
"I'm not an apothecary," Letho growled back, apparently sensing that Geralt was about to ask for a very specific potion.
The saving exit was now very close, Geralt felt as if he only needed to stretch out his hand for it. Fleetingly, he wondered why the Scoia'tael still did not attack. What were they waiting for?
Geralt wouldn't remember it later, but out of the corner of his eye he saw movement, and something tugged at his mind like a déjà vu: a memory that hadn't actually happened, born purely of experience. He saw it, he understood, and then, with strength born of sheer desperation, he pushed Letho, that enormous colossus, aside, away from the entrance.
They staggered, and Geralt yelled something that would also be lost later, and when Letho realized, he tugged on Geralt. They fell, they rolled, Letho pushed them further away from the hole in the rock with all his body strength, and then the world went white.
———————
The explosion burned only briefly into Letho's retina, but the fire and what was in it did not whir past him without leaving a trace. Shrapnel effortlessly tore a wide slash in his back armor, ripping up his skin, scorching its edges. He saw Geralt get hit on the hip, imagined almost hearing metal graze bone as a piece of his armor simply flew off, and with it, presumably, skin; but he forbade himself the thought. Letho tasted blood on his lips, which he had pressed tightly together, mixed with the smell of burnt skin.
The elves and their damned penchant for bombs (Letho, being a witcher, didn't even find this thought ironic). All the sounds around him were muffled, and Letho was almost certain that blood was running from his ear. Geralt, on his knees in front of him, was trying to get up, but didn’t succeed. With remarkable clarity, Letho thought that it was probably his twisted ankle and that the guy was just too stupid to realize that, maybe someone should tell him.
Despite the roaring in his ears that blocked out most other sounds, Letho could hear the elves howling triumphantly. It had to be a great victory for them to be able to teach the White Wolf and the Kingslayer a lesson like that at the same time... however, he did not intend to let them savor or even finish it.
"Get up," he yelled in Geralt's direction, and his voice sounded strange, sort of metallic.
Geralt turned to him in confusion, almost falling on his face. Blood was running from his nose. He failed to get up, but he was still able to react: suddenly, his sword shot upwards, fending off an elf running ahead, who probably just couldn't wait any longer.
Metal clashed on metal, and while Geralt was still half-crawling, wrestling with the Scoia'tael, Letho finally broke free of his torpor. In one fluid motion, he reached for a knife in his waist belt, threw it, and struck Geralt's attacker squarely in the throat. Blood spurted as the elf staggered back, gurgling. Then Letho raised his blade, which caused the elves to hesitate noticeably despite their superior strength.
Geralt seemed to have noticed this too, because suddenly he yelled, "Don't be stupid, listen to us!"
Letho cast a glance behind him. The entrance was still intact. They had moved far enough away from it just in time – the elves were guaranteed to have been warned and had intended to bury this retreat. He estimated the distance and the time it would take them to disappear into it. Geralt seemed barely able to walk; he was standing now, but hunched over, leaning on his sword. Interestingly, the elves did not attack, they were perhaps too surprised.
The other witchers still hadn't shown up, and Letho realized that hoping for their support could be fatal – should they notice this superiority, they might just decide to leave Geralt and him to the elves. However, Letho believed that Geralt was trying to buy them time. An improvised plan, but it was all they had right now. He fiddled inconspicuously with his hip. The Scoia'tael weren't the only ones who liked to work with bombs, after all.
"Why should we listen to you, of all people, Vatt'ghaern?" one of the elves roared.
To Letho, he looked like all the others, a ragtag lot with their squirrel tails and cheap short swords, and yet he knew them well enough not to underestimate them, ever. Anyway, this one didn't look like a leader, and he knew they usually followed a strict hierarchy.
"Why not?" yelled Geralt back, exasperated. "If you're so insane as to attack the imperial consort, at least listen to him."
Letho grimaced. He found it amazing that Geralt pulled this card right now, but anything that bought them a little time should be fine with him. His hand closed around the bomb. But something else was amazing: the elves exchanged irritated glances. Had they really not known who they had before them?
"You look surprised," Geralt said, "Were you so busy looting the remains of Gortur Gvaed that the information escaped you?"
"We avoid humans," said the Scoia'tael who had spoken up, "that includes their fleeting political decisions. Frankly, we thought it was a rumor. So it is true? But then what about him, is he also a consort of the Ker’zaer?"
"He's here to negotiate."
"Geralt," Letho hissed warningly.
"Negotiate what, exactly? We've already made an agreement with the gnomes, we don't need witchers," the Scoia'tael said scornfully.
Geralt and Letho exchanged an uneasy glance.
"This land belongs to Nilfgaard," Geralt continued carefully, "so if you lay claim to it, you will inevitably have to go to the negotiating table with the emperor. And the viper witches."
"Both are better known for enforcing their rights by force," the elf sneered. "So what should stop us from taking the mountains and the ruin of a fortress in them by force as well?"
"Brains," Geralt replied, almost toppling over while gesturing to his head. "Do you really want to have everyone against you, in peacetime?"
"Peace," sneered the Scoia'tael, and Letho thought that was a good cue.
He had noticed movement behind him, toward the ivy curtain. From then on, everything happened very quickly.
"Now," he yelled, and while he threw his bomb in the direction of the elves and his cronies jumped out of the hole in the rock, he grabbed Geralt, who was yelling at him, and pushed him, head first, back into the mountain passage.
A slaughter was undoubtedly starting outside now, but Letho didn't care. He grabbed the staggering wolf witcher by the arm and pulled him onward.
"What are you doing?" shouted Geralt, who could neither reasonably fight back nor walk properly.
"Shut up, and keep up," Letho growled. "You think I'm that keen on getting into more trouble with the emperor?"
"Your men will slaughter the Scoia’tael, even if there are more of them. You think that's not trouble?"
"A necessary evil," Letho opined as he pushed them forward. "I, for one, will make sure you don't end up in the middle of it. I’m sure the emperor will be grateful. We’re both fine, I think."
"I don't feel fine," Geralt muttered, stiffening in Letho's iron grip, finally slumping.
„Oh, great," Letho muttered.
For a moment, he hesitated. Listening to the sounds of battle, he wondered when the witchers would realize that he and Geralt were gone, what conclusions they would draw from this, and what it meant for him. He looked at Geralt, weighed the chances and risks, and finally sighed.
Then he bent down, threw the man over his shoulder like a sack of flour, and hurried on.
———————
They actually reached the palace before sunrise, and although Letho had briefly considered just dumping Geralt there and leaving (which proved almost impossible on the spot), he did not. Fully aware that in this way he was throwing himself at the mercy of the emperor, but at the same time hoping that he would acknowledge the gesture, he allowed himself to be led right into the lion's den.
———————
Geralt awoke with a jolt, gasping for air as if his body had just remembered the danger he was in. His mind, however, was briefly overwhelmed by the sudden brightness in the room, or that he was in a room at all, a bed even.
"Calm down," said a voice he would have recognized among hundreds, as familiar as the hand that gently but firmly rested on his arm.
Geralt sank back into the pillows, grinning broadly as Emhyr's face shifted into his field of vision.
"You're high as a kite, my dear," the latter said with a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Really?" replied Geralt, confused, because he couldn't remember having ingested anything at all. The fact that half of his body felt numb should have told him something, but he hadn't quite figured it out yet.
"Don't you remember?"
Geralt looked down at himself, noticing his left arm in a sling, one of his feet bandaged and elevated on a pillow, and ever so slowly, realization dawned on him.
He blinked and asked, "How did I get here?"
Emhyr, sitting next to him on the bed, very briefly cocked his head and answered, "A very good question. I'm not quite sure I'm supposed to believe it, but apparently, you were carried all the way here by Tir Tochair."
Although he felt kind of woozy, this thought caused sudden discomfort in Geralt, and he actually remembered something.
"Letho?" he asked softly. "Please tell me you didn't have him beheaded right away."
"What do you take me for? According to Merigold, the torn artery in your shoulder was serious. I hate to remind you that you once told me that witchers could hardly bleed to death and already proved me wrong once. I also don’t want to question your equipment, but it seems to me you have a bad hand when it comes to the potions you actually need."
Despite the serious tone of his voice, Emhyr had raised his hand to stroke Geralt's cheek fleetingly, and the latter would have liked to grab it and hold it there. However, he barely found the strength to lift even a pinky finger, which was both amazing and strangely enjoyable in equal measure.
"I also understand," Emhyr said, "that new, unforeseen entanglements have arisen, and that you tried to resolve them somewhat diplomatically."
"Letho said that?" asked Geralt in amazement.
Emhyr continued with a nod, "The man has an amazing sense of what to say and when to say it. Especially when it comes to highlighting his role in saving your life, which seems undeniable to me."
He shook his head.
"I don't even know why I'm telling you all this, you won't remember anyway. Anyway, it's pointless to reprimand you… I sent you out to find out if Letho of Gulet is in the country, and you plunge into the middle of chaos again."
"Did I?" asked Geralt, grinning from ear to ear.
"Yes, dear, because you can never stay out of it. It's an admirable quality, but you'd better forget I said that right now."
"Huh?"
"Exactly," Emhyr said endearingly, leaning forward and gently brushing his lips across Geralt's forehead.
Geralt closed his eyes, giving a pleased little sound. Emhyr sighed, put a hand on his arm, and said, "You really should sleep."
"I thought I just did," Geralt muttered.
"Then do it again. Enjoy it, because Merigold said her spell was so strong that you're guaranteed to wake up with a headache later."
"Wait a minute," Geralt said suddenly, widening his eyes with difficulty. The pillow seemed extremely comfortable to him, but there was something else that would not let him rest. "What happens now? With the Scotia'tael and the Vipers and Letho?"
"Don't worry about that right now."
"No, this is important," Geralt asserted, making an effort to sit up.
Realizing that his punishing gaze was not enough, Emhyr gently pushed him back and replied, "You're stubborn even high, it's unbelievable."
"Em..."
At the mention of his pet name, albeit uttered in such an urgent and serious manner, fine laugh lines appeared beside Emhyr's eyes for a brief moment, even if his expression remained otherwise unmoved.
"Fine," he said. "Close your eyes first. That’s more like it. There's going to be a lot to discuss and deliberate on, but I think what you're really interested in is Letho. What did I say? Close your eyes. So, listen. Listen to me carefully, because what I am about to tell you, I will not repeat. Don't think I don't know that he's not telling me the whole truth, Geralt. He brought you back because he expects an advantage from it, and not a small one. The guy's a self-righteous asshole, but I can't blame him."
Despite Emhyr's disapproving look, Geralt tore his eyes open again.
"Did you actually just say that?"
"Maybe you're getting a fever, wolf," Emhyr replied amiably.
Hearing his own nickname from this mouth had the expected effect: Geralt smiled and obediently closed his eyes again.
"He truly is an ass," he muttered.
"Hmm," Emhyr mused. "However, one that knows the game. I think it would be quite convenient for him to pit the Scoia'tael against the Vipers, and what the elves want is not yet clear to me. The whole thing is much bigger than originally thought, and it's by no means just about Gortur Gvaed. The keep is a symbol, and I will not be made a fool of. But for now..."
Emhyr sighed barely audibly and reached for Geralt's right hand.
"Why am I telling you this, hm? Maybe I'm the idiot this time."
"I heard that," Geralt breathed.
"I thought you were asleep, for crying out loud."
"I'm listening. You still haven't said what's the matter with Letho."
"Letho," Emhyr said in a voice that sounded like he was getting a headache, "is a crook in a gang of cutthroats. Incidentally, I have officially pardoned him and paid tribute to his deeds."
"What?"
Geralt couldn't help it, he widened his eyes and stared at Emhyr.
"It's the logical consequence of what he did," Emhyr calmly returned. "Besides, way too many people had already seen him approaching the palace with you in his arms."
"He could have just thrown me down there and run away."
"Hardly," Emhyr remarked with a wrinkled nose as if Geralt had personally insulted his guards. "Be that as it may, he made a different decision. I'm tired of thinking up reasons for it, I'd rather think ahead."
"Hmm," Geralt mustered, somewhat satisfied, and closed his eyes. "I'm glad you didn't have him beheaded."
His voice was beginning to sound a little strange, he mused, yet he couldn't remember drinking.
"I'm not so sure about that yet," Emhyr said, "but for now, it is what it is. What I am glad about, though, is that he brought you back in one piece. Well, if you can say that. You're missing a not-so-small piece of skin on your hip, but Merigold says that will heal nicely. I should forbid you to throw yourself in the radius of bombs, but what good would that do. Eventually…"
Whatever happened eventually, Geralt no longer heard. It was lost in another kiss on the forehead, which he felt very clearly. He fell asleep with a smile, for the moment unburdened by worries.
For that, there was always tomorrow.
#writing#fanfiction#The Witcher 3 fanfiction#Emhyr/Geralt#Geralt/Emhyr#Emralt#Emhyralt#Emhyr x Geralt#Geralt x Emhyr#Geralt & Letho#Letho of Gulet#Gortur Gvaed#viper witchers
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by Hyrulehearts1123, sageclover61
After Geralt stole his bard of all things in Posada, it took Letho several weeks to track them down and have some much needed discussions.
And if those discussions ended up being a bit more physical than one would first assume? Well, that was for Letho to worry about.
Complete! Will update daily
Words: 4693, Chapters: 2/4, Language: English
Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: M/M
Characters: Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet
Additional Tags: Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Cock Rings, Spanking (mentioned), Multiple Partners, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Dry Orgasm, Punishment, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Dom Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Safewords, Riding, Consent is Sexy
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Reverse casting time!!!! Cakeshop peeps as Witcher characters. Go!!!
ALRIGHT I spent like 2 hours on this and the shenanigans that happened with everyone laughing and helping out... BUT ITS LONG. So it's behind a cut. It's not complete, because oh man I gotta go do errands, but we did our best!
@on-a-lucky-tide is immediately our Eskel
@hungarianbee as Erland
@lookoutrogue is Coen
@major-trouble is the best Valdo ever but countered with
@sometimesiwrite as Essi (she LIVES THO)
@trickstermoose67 is Ciri ... but
@so--many-fandoms is Baby Ciri (from W3, with the freckles)
@jayofolympus is Serrit
@frenchkey is Auckes
@tumbleweedtech I'm claiming Keldar thanks
@angry-cajun-lady is Gaetan
@lohrendrell is Ivo
@thirstyforred is Jacques de Aldersberg
@stellecraft is Nenneke
@round--robin is Arnaghad
@piranhaincaps is Gezras
@greenbirddraws is Letho
@anonymousblueberry is Ves
@cylin-aka-ankamo is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy
@liaonyxrayne is Dettlaff
@jlyarts is Kiyan
@justhereforeskel is Lil' Bleater
@justleaf is Iorveth
@zzzett is Isengrim
@whysowlowl is Philippa
@heyriel-art is Vesemir
@eyesofshinigami is Shani
@lokibus is Geralt (complete with horse pics)
@straysinfiltrator is Meve
@iboughtaplant is Gascon (she has the BEST boy)
@pressedinthepages is Angoulême
@jaskiersvalley is Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach
obscure potato is Reynard
@Towelapocalyse is Aiden
@andtosatvrn is Ivar
@disaster-imp is Lambert
@resident-beekeeper is the beekeeper that Regis thinks is a werewolf?
sdorim is an npc who wrote punny letters to Geralt
@winter-fir is a farmer NPC. Her rakes are not broken, and if you press X you get an 🍎
And who you've probably been waiting for? @skaldingrayne would be Jaskier.
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the witcher + eurovision 2023 music videos
it's eurovision season!
i accept no responsibility for any psychic damage inflicted proceed at own risk.
#vernon roche#iorveth#foltest#geralt of rivia#cirilla fiona elen riannon#emhyr var emreis#letho of gulet#dandelion#dijkstra#meve of lyria#yennefer of vengerberg#triss merigold#the witcher#witcher crack#rorveth#foltest x letho#letho x foltest#does this pairing have a name even#lmao demavend looks like a jojo character#masterpieces of religious art#eurovision 2023
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Prey of the Hunt- Chapter 10 (Final)
A/N: Happy final chapter!! Wasn’t sure I was gonna finish this for a hot minute since it’s been going on so long, but I thank you for taking this journey with me!
Pairing: Eskel x Reader
Words: ~1.8k
Warnings: Injuries, Unedited, Just fluff!
Summary: Spring has finally come and with it much softness and light.
______________________
“Ow, Ow, Ow…” you winced, grabbing Triss’s wrist as she reset your broken clavicle, a strained sigh leaving your lips as your arm finally rested somewhat normally again.
“I know. Now hold still while I heal it up just enough to stay in place… then Ciri can wrap you up properly, okay?” Her hand gently pressed against your pained shoulder, radiating a soft orange light as healing magic seeped into your broken bones. She looked tired and you couldn’t blame her- everyone needed some form of healing and magic ended up having to be rationed out with the way it was beginning to take a toll.
The great hall had been completely transformed into a make-shit infirmary, with everyone either giving or receiving medical attention while a few others roamed around to check-in. Yennefer was laid up in bed, still recovering from the amount of energy the magical barrier used. Geralt and Lambert and Letho- despite the various cuts and bruises- were otherwise unharmed. The rest of the Lodge, though exhausted and worn remained physically unharmed. The rest of you sustained various broken bones, lacerations, and bruises but you knew you’d heal in time.
“How are you two holding up?” Vesemir asked, already up and waking around on his shattered knee as he held his hand against the open wound on his arm.
“Vesemir, sit the hell down. You’re injured!” Geralt shouted at him before you could respond, catching a vulgar gesture in turn. All of this let out a light laughter through the great hall, and you nodded to the older man.
“We’re okay, Ves. But you might need to force Triss to take a breather.” You said, breathing a little easier once Triss’s hands pulled away. “Thank you….” You added, squeezing her hand in thanks, “Go get some food, and sit down. No one is life or death anymore.” you assured.
The fiery redhead only smiled tiredly and nodded, “Maybe you’re right… Gods, you sound just like Geralt.” she shook her head as she left, but you could see her still smiling.
Ciri wrapped up your shoulder to support your healing collarbone and gave you a weak smile. Her shoulders slumped in exhaustion- like a majority of the group- but guilt and blame rattled her heart and forced her to stay up helping the people that fought for her. You knew you couldn’t talk her into slowing down any, only Vesemir and Geralt could do that, and even they saw the desperate need within her to do this.
“Thank you” you quietly said and immediately padded your way through your newfound friends to Eskel. “My beloved witcher…” you said with a small smile as you approached, “can I join you…?”
Ease spread through his body as he finally saw you all taken care of, and with a warm smile and a wave he patted the spot next to him. It took a few minutes to figure out how to lay together without hurting each other, but quickly you were able to settle in comfortably, a protective arm resting over your good shoulder. “I’m so glad you came back to me…” you whispered, just for him as you pressed soft kisses into his roughened knuckles. “I… well, I was worried I was going to lose you…”
“So you ran shoulder first into a suit of metal armor?”
“Don’t ruin the moment, Esk.”
A light chuckle emanated from his notched lips before he groaned, holding his strained ribs, “Sorry… sorry, my bad.”
“It’s okay,” you smiled, “You’re safe now and no one got too hurt, that’s what matters,” with great care you shifted about so you could look up at him, face lying just inches from bit own. “I love you so much, Eskel.”
His warm breath fanned out over your face as another soft laugh came from him, quickly followed by the sensation of his lips pressing tenderly against yours. The last of the residual tension ebbed away from your body as your lips joined, easily filling you with warmth and want instead. “I love you too, my dear… More than you know.”
-------
The birds sang the joyous song of spring as the months passed and the seasons changed. The keep had been pleasantly quiet after the battle, people leaving as soon as they got well enough. The sun had even started to shine brighter, turning the new grass plush and green beneath your feet.
“Baaaa!” Lil Bleater yelled as she followed hot on your heels, hooves kicking wildly in the air as she went. Your laughter bubbled and leaped around the courtyard with you and easily filled the entire grounds.
“I already gave you a treat! No more, Bleater!” You called back to her, hugging the basket of carrots close to your chest. “This is for Vesemir, not little hooved beasts!”
She yelled in protest as she followed your twists and turns over the cobblestones, determined to win her delicious prize.
“Dear? Are you ready to go?” You heard Eskel call from the room's small window. You paused to grin up at him, a bright and lovely grin that betrayed nothing of the horrors you two had experienced just months before.
“Not yet, I’ll- OH!” You yelped as Lil Bleater stood on her back legs, leaning on you to get closer to your basket of treasure. Shaking your head you gave her one last carrot to appease her insatiable appetite. “I’ll be up there in a minute, Esk!”
A low rumble of laughter lingered across the yard as he disappeared back inside the room.
Once you were finally able to lose your trailing and finish your errand, you made your way up to your little shared room. Minimal bags were piled on the beds, ready to make their way on the path alongside you. Your helmet shimmered in the morning light in its place atop the fireplace, its scars pooling light.
“Hey, I just have a few things I wanted to make sure I had. Then we can get going…” you smiled, rifling through your pack to take a quick inventory. Your already wide smile grew as you felt Eskel’s large hands wrap around you, followed by peppered kisses across your shoulders. “Yes, My beloved Witcher?” You laughed out softly, swaying back and forth playfully with him.
You could feel his smile against your shoulder as you swayed, hiding his emotion away from the rest of the world. “I have something for you before we leave…” He mumbled into you before stepping back.
You held your hands out as he dug around his pocket, closing your eyes so it can be a surprise. “You don’t have to close your eyes, Dear…” He said, shaking his head at your lovable antics.
“I know but it makes the surprise better..” you commented as you felt a dense weight settle in your hands, small, but not compact. As you opened your eyes a small metal viper head stared back at you, fangs bared and tongue out in a show of daring strength. It was held on a sturdy but ornate chain that you figure had to have been changed out by your witcher.
“Is this… a Viper Medallion..?” You asked as you looked up at him, closing your hand around it in adoration.
He only nodded. “I found it a few years ago on one of my contracts, the witcher before me didn’t get the chance to finish it and I figured his medallion should return to at least one of the schools…” He paused, smiling a bit. “I figured since you’ll be with me on the path you should have a medallion to keep you safe. You know how it works so I won’t over-explain it, but…”
“But….?” you smiled up at him, knowing there was more to the present than he was trying to let on. Eskel always gave deep thought to his gifts, sometimes it was too deep for you to understand right away, but you always enjoy the sentiment.
He fought the grin that pulled at his lips once more and continued, “ well… I thought the Viper school would be perfect for you. Their entire school is dedicated to destroying the wild hunt, they know everything they can about them. You fought so well that day, Y/n.. you deserved a token of your changed past.”
Heartfelt tears threatened to rise, but you quickly blinked the sensation away as you looked back down at the heavy medallion in your hands. “Thank you so much, Eskel…. I don’t know if I could have gotten through this the same way without you.” you smiled as you slipped the necklace over your head, letting it rest comfortably on your chest.
“I love you too, Dear,” he said, watching the viper rise and fall with your breaths and jostle gently as you let out a small chuckle.
“I’m glad you know,” you said, taking his hands into yours and giving them a solid squeeze. “Let’s get ready to go, yeah? We wanted to make it through most of the Blue Mountains today.” You said with nervousness hidden in the nooks and crannies of your voice.
Your horses stood by the main gate, saddle bags packed and ready for the long journey ahead. Lil Bleater also stood there at the ready, not about to let her witcher leave without a genuine goodbye.
“You guys have everything? Your bedrolls, potions, food?” Vesemir questioned, looking over your Horses.
“And my swords, bombs, and medallion…” Eskel responded, scooping up Lil Bleater. “I already double-checked.” He gave Lil Bleater a gentle squeeze, smiling a bit at the way she happily nibbled on his hair.
“We’ll be okay, Vesemir. We’ll be back sooner than you know,” you assured.
“Yeah, well… Just be safe out there. Don’t leave me with just Lambert and Geralt.” He grumbled, but you knew it was just him showing you that he cared. You gave him a quick hug before climbing up onto your horse.
“We’d never be so cruel,” you said with a smile.
He nodded, a tiny smile creeping into his expression as Eskel hopped up on Scorpion.
“Are you ready, Dear?”
Nervousness gripped your stomach again as you realized this was it- it was time to leave the comfort of the keep and make your way in the rough world. What would you face on the path? How would you overcome it? Will your decisions be right? You’ll never know. Small bits of courage rose in you as you remembered how hard it was to discover your new self. Surely nothing could be as hard as that.
You took a deep breath.
“Yeah, Esk… I’m ready.”
___________________________
Taglist: @writingmysanity @open--till--midnight @dark-academia-slut @weaponizedvirtue @madamemelancholysstuff
#Vesemir lives#just had to fix canon#I had to include a little message to myself in the last paragraphs#im going away to a remote place for work soon and i'm scared!!#but surely the discoveries of myself that ive made in this time is much harder than living remote#eskel witcher#Eskel#eskel x reader#eskel x you#eskel x y/n#eskel x reader fluff#eskel my beloved#eskel imagine#the witcher#tw3 eskel#Witcher self insert#witcher fic#witcher fanfiction
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