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Geralt wasn't sure if he should feel grateful, that Iorveth waited until Triss was rested and well enough to portal away. Not that this parting would have been made better by having an audience.
“Va fail, Gwynbleidd,” Iorveth said once Triss was gone and their sparse camp packed away. Just like that, as if he couldn’t spend a moment longer in Geralt’s company. As if he was in a hurry to get somewhere else. There were just trees and rocks for miles and miles around them. Nothing but the mountains for days.
It might have been better to let it go, but Geralt couldn’t help but press on this new, wholly irrational hurt. “That’s it? You in some kind of a hurry?”
“We both know it’s best I leave.”
Iorveth didn’t seem bothered by getting dragged into explaining himself. Maybe he had been expecting Geralt to be difficult about it. Geralt stomped down his own urge to be contrary and forged on.
“Why?”
“We’re enemies, Witcher, or have you forgotten? We shared a common goal much longer than expected, but the time for that has run out.”
“I’ve never been your enemy,” Geralt argued.
Iorveth snorted at that, and before he spoke, Geralt already knew what he was going to bring up. “You worked for Foltest. And Roche.”
“Didn’t seem to bother you before.” It was a lie, of course. It bothered Iorveth plenty, and he tried to kill Geralt over it. But after that initial hostility it had never seemed to matter much. After everything they’d been through, Geralt had naively thought they were past all that.
“Like I said, common goal.” Iorveth shrugged. As if that was all it was. As if every shred of longing that managed to creep up on Geralt in idle moments, every drop of admiration he could taste when fighting side by side - as if all of that was him alone.
“Could still share our path until we get back to Vergen, at least,” Geralt offered, not sure if his forced calm was hiding rising anger or near-desperate pleading.
“Ah, now that your sorceress is gone, you need someone to keep you warm at night? I’ll pass.” Iorveth smiled with very little mirth. Attack to defend, and Geralt should know better, but he fell for it. His calm evaporated, and just like that he’d already lost, he just didn’t know it yet.
“Are you jealous? What, all those times I put your cause before her safety were not enough? I followed you to the end of your quest and she almost paid with her life for it, and now you’re punishing me for it?”
Goddamn, Geralt sounded too raw and too upset. Before the sound of his voice died down, he already knew he’d made a mistake. What the right words to say were, he had no idea, but he had definitely said the wrong ones.
For a moment Iorveth stays silent. Geralt fears that's going to be it - Iorveth will say nothing at all, and leave without another word.
“Which should I feel, I wonder - flattered or insulted that you blame me for your own choices, hmm? Or are you insulting yourself by saying you are so easily led?” The mocking tone was so very like Iorveth, and yet today Geralt couldn’t bear it; couldn’t manage to let it slide off him like water off a duck.
“You know that’s not - ”
“Enough!” Iorveth interrupted him, for the first time in the entire conversation sounding harsh. “I’m leaving. I trust even a dh'oine like you will be able to find your way through the woods safely.”
Iorveth’s flinty stare was daring Geralt to object, to make noise about his safety in the woods. Since even as wretched as Geralt felt, he had no wish to turn this into actual bloodshed, he kept silent and watched Iorveth walk away.
He didn’t stop worrying about it though - hours later, walking through the trees and trying not to trip over inconveniently shaped rocks, Geralt was still imagining all the things that could go wrong. All the monsters and men that would like nothing more than to tear Iorveth to pieces if they only got the chance. It was beyond unnecessary. Iorveth had survived much, much worse than traveling through the woods without backup. But since dwelling on that was very slightly less distressing than thinking about the raw ache in his chest, dwell on it Geralt did.
That was very likely the reason he completely missed the pommel that smashed into the side of his head until he was already crumpling to the ground unconscious.
Geralt awoke to a blinding headache. Nothing let him know better that he’d been struck by a blow to the head than the white bursts behind his eyelids. And the rolling nausea that didn’t settle even when he kept his eyes closed to all light, couldn’t forget that. He really wished he wasn’t so familiar with the sensation.
Some minutes of slow, deep breaths, and he could begin assessing his situation beyond the pounding in his skull.
There were chains and ropes around his arms, and from what he could tell without giving away that he was awake, they seemed unfortunately secure. When Geralt decided there wasn’t much to gain from continuing to play dead, he carefully opened his eyes.
The good news was, his nausea didn’t get worse. Mostly because the dungeon he found himself in was barely lit. A single flickering light somewhere beyond his sight made deep shadows dance across the walls ominously. Made the place look almost like a crypt. When Geralt managed to focus more, he realized he was in an elven ruin instead, which was arguably worse than a crypt. More chance of magical traps, less chance of anyone wandering by and helping him get free.
How he’d gotten there in the first place though…
The restraints were holding him better than in the ones in the actual royal dungeons; he could say that with certainty, as he had very recently had the pleasure of experiencing the latter. He tested them as much as he could without injuring himself, and then decided to wait. He’d try again when his head stopped hurting.
The flickering shadows were making his headache worse, so Geralt closed his eyes again. Focused on the faint vibration of his medallion. No wights appeared despite the haunted look the place had, nor did the medallion quiet down. Nothing left to do but wait.
He’d almost managed to fall into a meditation, when a couple of men barged in and without any fanfare dragged him up and out of the darkened room. Through a couple of dark, dilapidated tunnels and and into another, bigger and only slightly better lit room.
There were at least half a dozen men there, all seemingly soldiers, though they had the look of deserters. Maybe using the chaos that descended on Loc Muinne to disappear. Why they were hiding in an elven ruin in the middle of the woods, he had no idea.
His medallion was vibrating stronger than before, though. Huh.
“ - Now, get the witcher to deal with it!” one of the men shouted. Sounded spooked. Wonder what they needed him to deal with?
“Here he is,” the man dragging Geralt said, and all eyes turned to them.
There were more swords in the room than men, by far. Even if they’d stolen some of them - case in point, Geralt’s swords were propped against a small barrel on the side of the room - there were too many. Too many packs, too much everything, for a place with no real roads and no unlucky travelers to rob.
“Something’s been eating your men,” Geralt muttered. Not that surprising, if they’d decided to use an old dungeon for a hideout.
“You’re fucking right they have, and you’re going to kill whatever the fuck it is.”
“Dunno, you knocked me out, chained me up. Not sure I’m feeling all that charitable towards you.” That seemed like common sense to him, but the man that seemed to be in charge got all red in the face like Geralt had just insulted his mother.
“It’s your fucking job, innit! So fucking do it, and we might let you live!”
“Well, with an offer like that, how can I refuse,” Geralt said, and admired that to the last one, they all seemed to take it seriously, going by the sudden relief on their faces. “If you’ll just unchain me…”
And the relief was gone.
“Now wait a goddamned minute, I said you’d go free after you helped us!”
“Not like I can kill your monster like this.” Geralt tried to move his hands to demonstrate. By the myriad of unhappy emotions spreading through the room, clearly they hadn’t thought that far. Panicked, afraid, their friends dying one by one, it was understandable. Stupid, but understandable. But by the gods was the whole thing stupid.
Heated arguments sparked up among the men, and Geralt was no longer required to participate, so he took another look around the room. His swords weren’t far, but there was still the matter of the chains.
And, as his vibrating medallion reminded him, the matter of the monster.
No one seemed to be paying him much attention, so he inched slowly to the far edge of the room, away from the men and towards what looked to be an exit, or at least a tunnel leading somewhere.
And then his medallion jerked sharply.
One of the men fell down to the ground on all fours, and started to shake. His friends swarmed around him, worried exclamations rising in pitch, and Geralt winced. Both because the noise made his headache flare, and because he had a good guess as to what was about to happen and no way to stop it.
Before he could warn them, if they would have even listened to him, chaos broke out. The man on the ground twisted and with a great roar started transforming. In moments his bones shifted and lengthened, claws and teeth and rough fur all grew out.
Maybe they’d disturbed some curse down here, or maybe ran afoul of a mage back at Loc Muinne. Result was the same.
The werewolf howled, and swiped at the soldiers before they even finished drawing their swords. In their shock, they barely put up a fight. They were torn apart and cut down in minutes.
Meanwhile Geralt pulled at his chains as hard as he could, no longer unwilling to do himself some damage. Time was out.
He was rolling to the side the moment he felt at least one of the chains give. The werewolf was done with the man and turning to him, and the silver sword was right there, if only Geralt could get a hand free to -
An arrow lodged itself into the werewolf’s throat, and it froze for a moment, before clawing at it. A second arrow, and a third, and then the fourth one went straight through the beast’s eye.
It howled, an awful gurgling sound, and staggered back.
Someone, oh, Iorveth rushed past Geralt and in a single powerful strike of his sword chopped the werewolf’s head off. Then he turned and looked at Geralt. There was werewolf blood splashed across his neck, tattoo of wines now having red on it. Flowers blooming among the ink black leaves.
Fuck.
There were a dozen things Geralt should have been concerned about right then, but all he could think was that Iorveth still looked absolutely, stunningly lethal. Like looking at the goddamned sun, Geralt felt dazzled.
“Is this a grave offense to you Witchers, stealing someone’s contract from under them?” Iorveth asked, with what sounded like genuine curiosity. Not at all like someone shocked by having just decapitated a werewolf.
“Not like they were paying me well,” Geralt shrugged. His head was still spinning from the turn of events.
“I don’t imagine you get to be the damsel in distress often,” Iorveth drawled, and wiped his sword on a rag that might have been what remained of someone’s jacket.
Geralt couldn’t help but snort. He tried to pull apart his chains once more, carefully and with far less urgency.
“Can’t say I do.”
“Then I’ll oblige and play the Witcher a while longer,” Iorveth said, and in a few steps got to Geralt, kneeled down behind him, and started working on the bindings. It took some time to get him free.
All the while Geralt was dying to ask what Iorveth was doing there; if he’d changed his mind and come looking for him, or if he’d come across the ruin by accident. But Geralt was afraid to start another argument, to end up watching Iorveth leave again, so he held his tongue. And tried to not feel guilty at how much pleasure he took from the steady yet careful touches of Iorveth’s hands on his arms.
When he was finally free, he almost wished it had taken even longer. He got up and with a pained groan clutched his own head.
“Fuck.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m fine, got knocked out,” Geralt answered and got his swords. And then staggered a little as he straightened up.
Iorveth swore and pulled one of Geralt’s hands over his shoulder. Geralt was hardly incapable of walking on his own, but he didn’t argue when Iorveth wrapped an arm around his back and helped him out of the blasted ruin, picking some things from the soldiers’ stash. Not like they’d need any of it anymore.
When they got out, it was evening, the last dusk fading into darkness. Iorveth guided them confidently, so Geralt assumed he knew where he was going. Though anywhere other than the ruin seemed good, to be honest.
Not too much later they found a comfortable alcove in the mountainside, just big enough to shelter them for the night. A few blankets that weren’t particularly bloodstained made the place almost homey.
“Drink your potions,” Iorveth ordered. He sat down within reach of Geralt and drank some water before passing the waterskin to him. At least he didn’t seem like he was about to wander off into the night just to get away from Geralt as fast as possible.
“Don’t have the right one on hand. And it’s just a headache.”
“And to think I expected you to be able to fend for yourself.” Iorveth sounded half disgusted and half joking. He pulled a pipe out of one of his pockets and started packing it with herbs. Didn’t smell like tobacco, or not just tobacco.
“Should have stuck around and made sure. Like I said.”
Iorveth didn’t answer immediately. He watched Geralt carefully as he lit the pipe and drew the first couple of breaths of smoke.
“How did they manage to overpower you?” he finally asked.
“I was distracted.” Geralt looked away, into the night, and felt a sudden urge to rub at the faint ache in his chest. A lot more dull now that Iorveth was right next to him again. But he had no reason to think it would last.
“Out here? By what, a shiny rock?” Iorveth asked, and sounded amused. Geralt wished he could be, too. Instead he looked at the dark shapes of trees in the faint starlight and stayed silent. Not like there was anything he could say.
Another minute passed in silence.
“Geralt,” Iorveth said, quietly, but with a lot more intensity than anything else he’d said since the werewolf.
And Geralt didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to have this conversation that would surely worsen the way his crushed longing cut into his ribs. But he felt the warmth of Iorveth’s palm on the side of his face and had no choice but to follow it. He turned his head.
Iorveth’s lips pressed to his firmly, and a mouthful of smoke passed between them. Geralt breathed it in, like a new start to something. An unexpected offering, one he hadn’t thought he could ask for. Their mouths stayed sealed together for far longer than a single breath.
When Iorveth did break away, he stayed so close Geralt could feel his lips move against his skin, as Iorveth muttered, “Against the pain.”