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Dear readers:
As a forewarning, I must implore you to venture no further; for this is a dreadful story with a horrible ending, a rather awful middle, and even a deplorable start. As your narrator, I know just how this tale will be spun, and I cannot urge you enough to click away and read the other stories in this collection for none will be as terrible and disastrous as this.
This is the story of the dependable disappearance of Dandelion.
Dandelion is a bard, one who was born from a wish placed upon a star and woven through the fabric of fame with the tales of a witcher with whom he was the best of friends. And that, I regret to inform you, is where the happiness of this story ends. The rest is rather dreadful and maudlin; so I once again ask that you go off to read something much more enjoyable and not ruin your day.
To those who still remain, I cannot say I understand as to why. Perhaps it’s because of your curiosity– although to what end your curiosity will stretch is a mystery to me– or maybe it’s your morbid interest. To whatever end you find yourself, I hope your intrigue is sated, as would the hunger of an elephant be sated after consuming 300 pounds of food in a day.
We begin our story on a hot summer’s day just outside of the town of Huntsen upon a dusty road with nary a tree in sight, all that lined the narrow dirt path was miles and miles of dry grasses in the process of exsiccation. Exsiccation is a funny word– one that means “to dry up”– that Dandelion learned recently and, as such, now sprinkles liberally into his internal monologue in the hopes of getting to say it in conversation.
“Quite the exsiccation of grass this summer, wouldn’t you agree, Geralt?” Dandelion says conversationally.
A tall man upon a horse who must be Geralt (the man, not the horse) looks down at Dandelion and arches an eyebrow, “I don’t know what the hell that means, Dandelion.”
“Why, to “dry up” of course!”
“Of course.”
Dandelion hums, sticking his hands deep into his pockets and whistling a tune for a few bars as he walks alongside Geralt and his horse. Dandelion could have a horse of his own, but he rather prefers the stretch of his legs and the ache in his knees rather than in his bottom after a long day of walking instead of riding. Perhaps they travel a bit slower because of it, but Geralt’s never complained so Dandelion, very pointedly, doesn’t bring it up. Why cause a rift where there isn’t one?
“Do you think,” Dandelion starts– which is always a sure sign to Geralt that the next words out of Dandelion’s mouth are about to be absolutely preposterous– “that we walk this very same road every day?”
Geralt stiffens and his lips press into a thin line as he shakes his head, “No, I don’t think so. How do you mean?”
“I mean, it feels as though I’ve lived this day a thousand times before. Not to imply that your company is repetitive and tiresome, Geralt, of course not; just that I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve walked these same steps and seen these same grasses and even said the same brand new vocabulary word before and will do it again.”
“That’s absurd,” Geralt murmurs but he doesn’t elaborate and Dandelion is left wondering as the town of Huntsen appears on the horizon.
“I don’t know the definition of absurd,” Dandelion crosses his arms petulantly.
“It means extremely silly, as you often are.”
Dandelion makes a fictitious noise of outrage as his hands fly off of his chest and zip to his hips in a facsimile of indignance. That is to say, he squawks and puffs up like a slighted peacock, “Geralt, I am the least silly man to walk the Continent. Now you, my good man, are absurd. The absurdity of your absurdness is, in itself, completely absurd!”
“Dandelion.”
“I, of course, know the definition of absurd but for you to abuse it against me in such an affronting manner when I am nothing but of pure and kind heart to you–”
“Dandelion.”
“–is well and truly absurd to the highest possible nature of the meaning of absurd!” Dandelion has his finger pointed skyward, his chin raised defiantly and the corners of his mouth twitching in his attempts to maintain his humorless facade. Geralt rolls his eyes with a smile and slows Roach to a pace slower than Dandelion’s natural gait before hopping down and taking her reins in hand to walk beside his friend under the sweltering sun.
Now, dear readers, I must once again request that you turn away, for the story only gets more disastrous from here. If you have made it this far, what are you trying to prove? That you can read a fictional work designed to distress? It isn’t strength you display, but foolishness I fear. Turn back, dear reader, while you still can before Geralt and Dandelion reach the town of Huntsen and the story becomes as impossible to ignore as a runaway train upon a bridge rigged with dynamite.
With sweat dripping down their spines and damp hair plastered to their heads, the men walk into the eerily silent town. A shutter bangs somewhere in the hot wind as dust devils whorl up into the air. In the very center of town is a large oak tree, thousands of orange leaves– not native to the summer– coating the earth and cobblestone around its base. Dandelion eyes it nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows thickly.
The quiet is so loud in the heavy heat of the day; the air oppressive and constricting, akin to tucking your head beneath the confines of a thick cotton blanket wherein your breath warms your face to the point of discomfort. There’s a sort of static to the air, prickling across their bare arms and raising the hair on the backs of their necks. Geralt’s medallion hums.
“Geralt, I fear as though something may not be right in this town.”
Dandelion’s low voice shatters the silence like a rock through a stained glass window. People suddenly pour out of homes and flood the town. A marketplace pops up out of nowhere, a dry fountain starts to run, voices fill the air and the static crackles into arcs along their skin. Geralt’s breath catches and he grabs Dandelion’s hand, abandoning Roach in favor of hauling the bard out of the courtyard and down an alley.
“Geralt? What on earth are you doing?” Dandelion asks, alarmed.
“Hush, no time right now, we need to hide.”
Geralt drags him through another alley, and then another, until the voices are faint and the town is all but deserted once more. Only then does Geralt push Dandelion behind a stack of crates, crowding him close to the wall with his body. Dandelion frowns, peering up at Geralt with more concern than should be written into the lines of his oft-smiling face.
“What is going on? You’ve been acting rather odd ever since I mentioned my strange bout of deja vu this morning, Geralt. You’ve even left Roach behind!”
The witcher grinds his teeth as he thinks, placing his hands on Dandelion’s shoulders. “We’re caught in a loop of time. It feels as though you’ve lived a thousand days the same because you have. We have.”
“Do you remember them all?” Dandelion’s frown deepens.
Geralt starts to shake his head before changing to a shrug, “Many I do, many I don’t.”
“Well, isn’t there usually a way out of this sort of thing? Perhaps the answer to a riddle or the key to a question. Have you tried doing any soul searching?”
Geralt huffs an annoyed breath and peers out from behind the stack of crates he and Jaskier are hiding behind, “I’ve done everything, Dandelion, everything! I’ve helped every person in this town, I’ve avoided the town, I’ve killed the alderman, I’ve eviscerated every monster in a ten mile radius, nothing satisfies it!”
Dandelion is quiet for a moment, “What resets it?”
Geralt doesn’t answer.
“Geralt, what resets it?”
“C’mon,” he says gruffly, grabbing Dandelion’s arm and ushering him forward, “We need to keep moving.”
“Wha– Geralt, why?”
“Just move, Dandelion,” Geralt keeps his pace to a brisk trot, one that Dandelion keeps up with easily as he slips his hand into Geralt’s once more. Geralt can feel Dandelion’s thundering pulse fluttering against his palm as they hurry through the outskirts of town.
“Who’s causing this?” Dandelion whispers, blue eyes darting worriedly towards the witcher.
“I… I’m not sure. The people of this town have magic of their own, but I don’t know if it’s one of them or if a sorcerer has somehow captured us.”
Dandelion falls silent for a while as they weave through buildings and dart down back alleys, keeping their distance from the town center and the towering oak. It’s a while before he speaks again, even as Geralt is sweating profusely with each growing step they take, “You’ve not yet told me what restarts the loop, Geralt.”
“I-I don’t know.” A lie.
“What do you know then?”
Geralt grits his teeth, his grip on Dandelion’s hand tightening, “You never make it past this town.” Geralt spies the main road, the edge of town. They’re so close. They’re so close if only they can just–
“What does that mean, I never make it past the t– oh!”
Dandelion’s hand is ripped from his. Geralt turns around. He’s alone in the silent street. He sighs, feeling every minute of his years weighing on him as he closes his eyes. A single orange leaf drifts down from the oak tree.
Geralt opens his eyes. A hot and dusty road stretches out before him.
“Quite the exsiccation of grass this summer, wouldn’t you agree, Geralt?”