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i. queen calanthe
Oh, how she hated these fucking balls! Queen Calanthe glowered at another noble man who was about to take the steps up the dais in order to ask her for a dance. The man visible paled and hastily turned around, vanishing in the crowd, probably to look for an easier partner.
Good for him. She had enough of boys who thought they could conquer the world just because their tiny balls were now sprouting a few hairs. She had been crushing skulls long before most of them had even stopped suckling at their mothers’ teats.
Calanthe harrumphed and took another sip from her goblet of wine. It was already half-empty again. Did she already mention how much she heated these fucking balls? If not, it was well worth repeating.
She hated squeezing herself in a corset, hated that she needed four people to get this ugly rag of a dress on her body, hated that she could barely move her head because her hair would fall apart at the slightest move, hated the frivolous talk, the air-headed nobles and their petty squabbles they tried to get her involved in. She pretty much hated everything.
Except the food. She quite liked the food.
She could be out there, though, with her men, drinking and feasting, ridding her country of scum, villainy and, worst of all, elves. She could wear chainmail, a sword on her side and a horse underneath her, just riding wherever she wanted with no Mousesack hounding her every step with duties and helpful advice.
But no, she had to host this fucking ball, because the ‘people deserved to see their queen’. Fucking Mousesack and his fucking advice.
“You look like you’re about to murder the next person who dares to approach you,” her husband, Eist Tuirseach, joked next to her.
“It would certainly liven up this slog of a feast,” Calanthe replied as she let her gaze wander over the crowd dancing in front of her. “Why did I let myself be persuaded to host this shit?” Another sip from her goblet.
“Because the nobles start to grumble when they don’t have access to their queen,” Eist reminded her. “And we don’t want grumbling nobles.”
“Pah,” Calanthe spat out. “If they start to grumble, they can have a talk with my sword.” They both knew that she didn’t mean it. She was a mean-spirited, rough woman who liked to shout at people, but she was no tyrant.
She let her gaze wander again, but this time it was caught by a certain someone leaning against one of the stone pillars that supported the hall, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Unfortunately, Geralt of Rivia was many things, but unobtrusive was certainly none of them. It wasn’t his snow-white hair, his scars or his yellow wolf-like eyes that made him stand out this time (though they certainly didn’t help) but rather the off-putting aura of utter disdain and aggressiveness he was wielding like a sword to keep people from approaching him.
Exactly what Calanthe needed.
Swiftly – or as swiftly as this fucking mess of a dress allowed her to – she stood up (goblet in hand, of course) and made her way towards the Witcher, the crowd parting for her as if they knew that their queen would suffer no distraction.
“You certainly look like you enjoy this feast as much as I do,” she remarked idly as she came to a halt next to the man. Geralt just grunted at her, his main mode of communication. Calanthe preferred it very much over the endless empty chatter most nobles were so fond of these days.
“If you hate it so much then you should just stop hosting them,” the Witcher added without so much as looking at her.
“My husband and Mousesack think that it’s my duty as queen to entertain my subjects,” Calanthe replied, the corners of her mouth pulling down. The Witcher still didn’t look at her, so instead Calanthe followed his gaze and tried to discern what was more important than the queen of a very important northern kingdom.
Her gaze immediately landed on the bard with whom the Witcher had arrived at the ball. Jaskier, his name, though some people had started to call him Dandelion. She didn’t know why and also didn’t care. He was surrounded by a group of young nobles, most of them women but also a few men, all of whom looked like they wouldn’t mind getting even closer to the young man.
Though it certainly looked like the bard was enjoying the attention – smiling, laughing and flirting as if his life depended on it – Calanthe could tell that his heart wasn’t in it. Years of being queen had taught her to read people and Jaskier certainly looked like he would rather be somewhere else.
Or with someone else, she thought as she noticed the bard’s gaze to flicker towards the Witcher every now and then. Barely noticeable, but she saw it.
Calanthe looked back at the white-haired monster hunter: the squared shoulders, the tense posture and the murderous glower that appeared every time someone would thread to close to the bard and the way he tensed every time Jaskier laughed even a little bit at something one of the nobles said.
Everything fell into place.
I take it back, I fucking love feasts, she thought with glee.
“You know, he doesn’t look like he’s enjoying himself very much,” she said casually, running her finger along the edge of her goblet.
“Who do you mean?” Geralt huffed. Calanthe looked up at him sharply. It couldn’t be? Or could it? The Witcher couldn’t be that dense. He was supposed to be smart, after all, how else had he survived for so long?
“Your bard,” she added, nodding towards Jaskier who had taken a step back as one of the more daring nobles was invading his private space.
“He’s not my bard.” She could practically feel the Witcher smouldering next to her.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were friends.”
“We. Are.” It looked like it pained the Witcher to admit that simple fact.
Gods, why were all men so repressed? Did she really need to beat the Witcher over the head with her goblet to get it in that thick skull of his. But on the other side, it was really fun to watch. She hadn’t had that much amusement in ages.
“Well, then as your friend isn’t it your duty to help him escape those tittering fools?” Calanthe remarked. “I bet he would be forever thankful for you if you were to come to his aid.” For a short moment it looked like the Witcher was fighting with himself, but then with his trademark huff he pushed himself off the pillar he was leaning against and determinedly walked towards Jaskier.
The group of nobles, seeing the towering Witcher stalking towards them with a glower that could turn a harpy to stone, dispersed immediately, though quite a few sent wistful gazes towards the bard before they thought better of it and vanished into the crowd.
Seeing the Witcher, the bard broke into a wide grin and immediately started to start blathering about this or that. Geralt made a show of being all grumpy and surly, but Calanthe saw the way the tension ebbed out of his posture and how his gaze softened whenever the bard wasn’t looking.
Repressed fool. “Fucking men,” Calanthe muttered. “Good for one thing, only.”
ii. a lone werewolf
The werewolf was stalking through the forest. He was alert, his ears listening for the slightest sound, his eyes scanning the underbrush for even the tiniest of movements. He knew that there was a Dangerous One roaming his forest tonight, had smelled the odour of silver, metal and poison that hung over the stretches of ground where the Dangerous One had threaded.
The werewolf knew that the Dangerous One was looking for him. That didn’t mean that he wouldn’t hunt tonight. He was a predator, a monster, and even greater than his fear of the Dangerous One was his craving for human flesh. Nothing tasted better on his tongue than that, not rabbit, not doe and certainly not rat.
His head snapped to the right when he heard a voice echoing through the forest. Someone was singing.
The werewolf let out a grunt of excitement at this. A human! He would feast well tonight. Fast, but still careful to not make any noise, he carved his way through the dense scrub until he reached the edge of the clearing from which the sweet sounds were coming from.
A man was sitting near a fire, fiddling with a lute all the while he was humming his song. He was small and delicate but looked oh so young. It was as if Destiny herself had brough the perfect prey onto his path.
The small one smelled so delicious, miles and miles of unblemished skin for him to sink his teeth into, to tear and rip and feast. The slobber was already running down his chaps in excitement. But then another odour crept into the werewolf’s nose and all of the excitement suddenly stopped. Underneath the smell of delicious flesh there was the distinct note of the Dangerous One, so completely intermingled with the Sweet One that it was already part of his smell.
It’s the Dangerous One’s mate, his instincts told him. The smell left no other conclusion. The werewolf took a few steps back, sinking deeper into the shadows. Oh, how he longed to sink his teeth into that sweet tender neck, but he couldn’t. Didn’t dare. The Dangerous One would come for him if he went after his mate. He would hunt him down until the edge of the world and further, because there was nothing that tore you apart like the loss of your mate.
The werewolf’s mind may be ruled by his animalistic instincts, but those same instinct screamed at him to leave the Dangerous One’s mate be before he came back and had a chance to defend his mate. It wasn’t worth the risk, wasn’t worth paying the price. The werewolf could concede though that the Dangerous One had chosen good.
Slowly, the werewolf crept deeper and deeper back into the woods, his gaze never leaving the Dangerous One’s mate. He may not be able to tear, rip, feast, but he could still devour him with his eyes, imagine the sweet warm blood…
The werewolf never saw the sword coming that separated his head from his body.
iii. yennefer
Inside her magically expanded tent, Yennefer sat in front of the mirror and stared at her appearance. Hair as black as the night, so shiny and lush that it gleamed under the candle lights, framing a delicate face with high cheekbones, expressive lilac eyes and plush red lips. A face many men would die for – had even died for in some cases.
Many a man had fallen for her, even Geralt, the mighty Witcher. Yennefer didn’t know what she was feeling for the man, but he was more to her than anyone else she had met before. She didn’t just want to use him, didn’t just want to discard him after one night, like all the men she had had before. He was something to her, so it hurt all the more to realise that Geralt no longer felt the same for her.
Something had changed since the last time they had last seen each other. There was still something between them, but it had become muted, like the last ember of a dying fire. Geralt still cared for her, but it was a different kind of caring, even if the Witcher hadn’t noticed yet.
Yennefer, though, had. She was a well-learned and intuitive woman after all. She noticed how his gaze lacked the usual heat and lust when they were alone together, noticed how his gaze stayed on her face now, never wandering down her chest or deeper. She noticed how he came to her just because by now it was a well ingrained ritual whenever they met, not because of some burning desire he may still harbour for her.
Geralt may be unaware of all of this, being the emotionally repressed man he was, but Yennefer wasn’t blind to where his feelings were now focused on. Or rather on whom.
She hadn’t taken Jaskier as someone who could catch the Witcher’s attention like that, but once you saw it, the pieces fell together and you could no longer unsee it. There was no one else Geralt drew his sword faster to protect, no one else he allowed to be vulnerable around, no one else he took care of like they were the most precious thing in the world, no one else who managed to make the monster hunter smile and huff in amusement.
And Yennefer noticed how Jaskier’s eyes lit up every time he managed such a feat. Noticed how his eyes always tracked Geralt’s every step when the Witcher wasn’t aware of it, noticed how his eyes would wander places no men’s gaze would wander to on other men. She noticed how – for just a split-second – Jaskier would look totally gutted and heartbroken every morning Geralt left her tent.
One day Geralt would realise this, too, even if it may take him a while.
Yennefer was a proud woman, too proud to be the one being left. But she also wasn’t selfish enough to keep Geralt to herself just to assuage her own feelings and to keep him from another. Sometimes she wished that she was.
This night, Yennefer refused Geralt’s advances.
“Why?” Geralt wanted to know. There was no hurt in his voice, though, as if unknowingly he wanted to confirm her suspicions. Just confusion.
“Oh, Geralt,” she whispered and cupped his cheek with her hand. No spark, no electricity, just warmth. “Call it woman intuition or witchcraft or Destiny, but what we had has run its course. I’ve seen it.” She let go of him. “There’s a future waiting for you which I cannot be part of like this.”
“If that is what you want,” Geralt replied.
“It is,” Yennefer spoke, turning around. She didn’t want Geralt to see the hurt on her face. “Please, go now.” There was no answer, but the flapping of the tent entrance told her that Geralt had followed her wish and had left.
As if suddenly bereft of all of her powers, Yennefer sank down on her bed. Setting Geralt free had been the right thing to do, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt. She would allow herself to be weak for one night only, to grief for something that might have meant something in a different world, but tomorrow she would be strong again.
The next day, Jaskier was much more cheerful than he had been the last few days.
And even though it still hurt, Yennefer couldn’t help but smile a little bit.
iv. jaskier
“This is fucking disgusting,” Jaskier complained as he trudged along behind Geralt. “Couldn’t you have waited to kill the harpy until she wasn’t standing right in front of me? Now I have blood and guts all over me.”
Geralt sighed. By now Jaskier knew him well enough to translate the Witcher’s nondescript sounds into actual meaning. This one meant ‘Why didn’t I let that harpy tear him apart? At least I would have gotten a few precious moments of silence out of it.’. Jaskier was pretty proud of his proficiency in translating Witcher grunts – or well, Geralt grunts really, because he didn’t know that many Witchers.
To be honest, he only knew Geralt but that was more than most people could say.
“Then she would have disembowelled you,” Geralt pointed out.
“I’m way to pretty to be disembowelled,” Jaskier stated. “I doubt my inside look as great as this.” He pointed towards his whole body. Geralt just rolled his eyes.
“There’s a stream near our campsite,” he told him. “You can clean yourself there.”
“But Geralt, that’s at least a half-an-hour walk,” Jaskier whined.
“All the more reason for you to keep up,” Geralt replied and merciless as he was, he even increased his pace. Well, if he wanted to annoy Jaskier, he would just annoy the Witcher back. He was working on a new tune and he was well aware of how much Geralt hated it when Jaskier tried to finetune his songs in the Witcher’s presence.
“You remember that last contract you took?” Jaskier rambled. “That baroness who tried to bring her great love back from the dead by sacrificing her whole village. Not that great for the village, I admit, but her motivation is great source material for a poet such as me. I think I have the exact right song for it. A tragic love story that ends in grief and despair.” And then he started singing the tune he had in mind:
“The sun is shining, the sea is blue,
My heart is broken and so are you,
We fought against the world, against them all,
Defeated gods, made titans fall,
We laughed, we cried, betrayed, moved on,
But it was you who made me strong,
And as I look down on empty streets,
The winds whisper of our last defeat,
Of things we should and things we shouldn’t,
Of things we could and things we couldn’t,
And as I stand with my back against the wall,
I regret everything and nothing at all,
I grasp your hand, I catch your gaze,
The haze is broken, I see your face,
Your skin, your mouth, your nose, your eyes,
The infinite wonders of thousand skies,
And I hope you know it, deep down too,
My whole world starts and ends with you.”
The melody was still rough at the edges, there were some syllables that he needed to emphasis differently to smoothen the rhythm, but Jaskier thought that his words perfectly captured the overwhelming love between the baroness and her lover, the obsession and the oh so haunting melancholy and longing that so insidiously had turned a woman who had once cared for her people into the monster that Geralt had needed to slay. The melody carried with it the sadness and grief that had turned the baronesses’ heart into stone and Jaskier dared anyone who would listen to this song in the future to not at least shed a single tear when they were confronted with emotion so sincere and deep.
So busy with complimenting his craftsmanship Jaskier was, that he ran squarely into Geralt who had suddenly stopped walking and had turned around.
‘Ompf’ it escaped him as he collided with Geralt’s very broad and very defined chest. “Give a guy a warning next time you suddenly decide to stop moving. I could have hurt myself! What if one of those potion bottles you keep on yourself broke and turned me into a toad or something? You can’t deprive the ladies everywhere of this beautiful face…”
Jaskier stopped talking because Geralt wasn’t actually listening to him. That wasn’t actually weird, because Geralt ignored him more often than he listened to Jaskier, so the bard was in no way affected by it. No, it was the way the Witcher looked at him that had him confused.
Usually there were two way Geralt looked at Jaskier: In irritated annoyance (mostly after Geralt had needed to save him after Jaskier totally accidentally stumbled upon the lair of whatever monster they were looking for) or in fond exasperation (when Jaskier stumbled over a root, a stone, his feet or generally anything a man could stumble over. Not that one-time Jaskier had stumbled over the entrance of a ghoul nest, because the Witcher had been too busy with slaying the monsters to look at Jaskier).
But right now, those piercing yellow eyes were practically piercing him with their intensity. Jaskier could write several sonnets about those eyes (bit he didn’t because Geralt would kill him…for real this time), but right now they were staring at him as if Jaskier was the greatest puzzle that Geralt needed to figure out. There was confusion and uncertainty, but also something else Jaskier couldn’t quite put his finger on. If it was anyone else, he would have called it desire, but this was Geralt and the only desire he felt for Jaskier was the desire to be left alone.
“Everything alright, big guy?” Jaskier joked, though even to his own ears it sounded weak.
“Nothing,” Geralt replied with his usual gruffness. Then he just turned around and continued walking.
Jaskier, though wasn’t fooled. His hunting instinct had been awoken (contrary to what Geralt might think, Jaskier did possess one as well as common sense and other senses the Witcher might thought the bard lacked): Something was going on with Geralt and he would find out what it was.
It would make for a great song!
v. ciri
“Your fathers certainly are an uncommon pair,” a voice next to Ciri spoke. She turned around and saw a peasant woman standing next to her, holding a basket full of cabbages she probably intended to sell on the market. The woman’s gaze was glued on Geralt and Jaskier who were arguing about something near a market stall that was selling food. If Ciri was to take a guess, then she would say that Jaskier wanted something prohibitive expensive to spice up their ‘terrible diet of unidentifiable mush that tastes like nothing’ while Geralt just wanted to go with the cheapest option. The merchant behind the stall looked torn between the desire to just tell them off and the fear of the prospect of doing that to a Witcher.
Ciri, meanwhile, was standing here on the edge of the market, looking after Roach and the horse newly acquired for Jaskier called Sybille (because according to Jaskier it had the same face as a baroness of the same name he had performed for long ago).
“They’re not my real parents,” Ciri pointed out. It may sound ungrateful, but she had had parents who had loved her and she owed it to them to remind the world which had taken them from her of that, even if it was only this small denial to a peasant woman.
“Of course not, dearie,” the woman laughed. “Everyone knows where babies come from, after all.” Heat rose to Ciri’s cheeks. “But they’re taking care of you, aren’t they? And they certainly act like a married couple.”
They both looked back to Geralt and Jaskier. The Witcher looked like he was about to strangle Jaskier with his bare hand while the bard just grinned smugly while he handed the merchant a rather big amount of money. Jaskier had probably used Ciri again as argument: A bigger room in an inn? Think about the girl, Geralt. Building a fire even though it wasn’t that cold? Think about Ciri, Geralt. Paying a ridiculous amount of money for better food? But what about Ciri, Geralt.
They were always bickering and arguing about the smallest of things, though Jaskier was doing most of the arguing while Geralt made noncommitting noises that – at least according to Jaskier – were complete retorts to what he was saying. Sometimes you could be mistaken to think that they couldn’t stand each other, but then Geralt would risk his life to save Jaskier from a monster or Jaskier would be all in someone’s face who had dared to insult the Witcher even though he was ‘as threatening as a drowned kitten’ (Geralt’s words) and the others were usual brawny men nearly double his size.
They cared deeply for each other, that had been obvious to Ciri after only a few days in the presence of both men. She may be still a child in the eyes of the world (even though the world had robbed her of all childlike joy and wonder long ago, ever since she had fled her burning home) but even she could see that both men felt – wanted – more. Even she could see that.
“They certainly are,” she agreed with the woman.
“Ah, they remind me of my Roland and I,” the woman sighed in fond remembrance. “We had so much fire even after decades of marriage.”
“What happened to him?” Ciri asked, noticing the woman’s wording.
“Drowners took him,” the woman replied. “The same ones your Witcher took care of. The mayor already paid him for it, but carry my thanks to him, would you, dearie? You can never be too grateful for people like him.” And then she was already trudging along the path, leaving Ciri alone again with just the horses as companions.
+ geralt
Geralt was in a mood. And like nearly always in recent times the cause of his mood was standing only a few meters away, leaning against a wooden beam, his shirt indecently unbuttoned and his eyes gleamy from the ales he already had had. A local farm boy was chatting him up and from the way Jaskier laughed and allowed the other’s lingering touches, the bard wasn’t that averse either.
Something hot was churning in his stomach, making the ale taste like mud on Geralt’s tongue. He had to supress the ugly urge to just go over there and throw the boy (he looked like he could barely grow a beard, why would Jaskier prefer him over a real man?) through one of the inn’s windows, but he didn’t if only because he knew how much a replacement would cost.
The boy wasn’t worthy of Jaskier. No one was.
Geralt’s thoughts turned darker and darker and he could have sat there and brooded all day and evening when suddenly the boy’s hand landed on Jaskier’s hip and didn’t leave again.
Standing up more forceful than necessary, which earned him the annoyed looks of the other patrons near him, Geralt stalked towards Jaskier and the boy. Seeing the incensed figure of the Witcher determinedly coming at them, the boy’s eyes widened in fear. He let go of Jaskier and rushed out of the room, much to Geralt’s satisfaction.
But that wasn’t enough. Someone else could come along and try to claim Jaskier, so Geralt grabbed the bard at his hands and pushed him up the stairs until they were finally in the room they had rented. Thankfully, Ciri was currently with Yennefer, so the room was empty.
“Why did you interrupt is so rudely?” Jaskier whined as the door closed behind them. “This evening could have ended so well with a fine cock stuck up my…”
“Shut up!” Geralt snarled and then because he couldn’t control himself any longer, he pressed his lips on Jaskier’s, just to shut him up. At least, that was what he was telling himself.
“Finally,” Jaskier grinned after Geralt had let go. His cheeks were flush, his hair dishevelled and his eyes full of heat and desire. It was a good look and Geralt’s chest swilled with pride knowing that he was the cause of it. “I thought you’d never kiss me. A drowner is faster on the uptake than you.”
And just to protest that statement, Geralt kissed him again.