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elderbwrry · 3 years

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Even if he doesn't say so - Chapter 2/?

Kylo/Hux/Poe Witcher AU

Chapter summary: The trouble with trinkets is they make people jealous. Or maybe that's just Kylo.

Chapter 1 here, 2 below or on Ao3, 3

Wordcount: 2029

Kylo raised his sword and brought it down fiercely on the horrible carnivorous vines he'd been hired to clear out of the local village's moor edge. The things had already munched their way through a cow and half a sheep, and the villagers were worried a child would be next. Perhaps to his own detriment, Kylo wasn't really all that interested in the reasons why he'd been hired; he was far more interested in the coin he'd get out of the experience, and the opportunity to really let loose some destructive energy.

Of course, Kylo had been trained well in fencing, dagger fighting, stave fighting and in hand to hand combat, but for his typical work, he favoured the longsword. The weight of it felt so right in his hands, the swing of it, the sharp edge or the blunt hit, the way it gleamed red after drawing blood. For most monsters, it worked perfectly well, but even then the necessity to dodge or force down some kind of potion usually took the pleasure out of the pure heft behind it. These vines, however, were easy game. They thrashed, shot out poisonous barbs, but mostly they stayed in one place. That meant Kylo could swipe the metal through them with abandon, and still be assured he'd meet his mark.

He hacked and slashed, let a furore course through his veins and out into his surroundings, over and over and over through whatever fleshy leaf, woody stem, fibrous buds he could reach with metal and intensity. When finally he let his sword drop to trail its point through the under-brush at his side, it was carnage. He went around the area, plunging the blade as deep as it would go into each root stump until he was satisfied that nothing was living, before stalking away from the destruction.

Chest heaving, he found a flat, dry piece of ground and lay down, looking up at the clouds and basking in the feeling of action still tingling through his arms, into his fingers, out into the earth and the air around him. He felt connected – to the ground he was lying on, to the source of his own power, without being worried he was lost in the force of a potion. This was all him.

Back in the village, when they'd described to Kylo what he was out to fight, Hux had listened carefully and given a fancy academic name for the vines. Kylo stuck with the common name, shrugging and standing to head off immediately. Hux had reprimanded him and delayed him until he'd found an anti-toxin potion to order Kylo to take before engaging the things, which Kylo had ignored. Now, looking down at his legs and seeing several barbs sticking out of them, Kylo again heard Hux telling him, “They have poisonous thorns, you know,” in exactly that tone that could piss him off just as much as it could make him want to pounce on Hux and make his annoyance known by ripping a few tunic seams in the process.

Still, the mage was right, as per fucking usual.

Kylo hauled himself up to sit, drew the potion out of a pocket and downed it, picking the barbs out while he waited for it to take effect. The pricks tingled a bit, but it wasn't anything too bad, certainly not to the severity that Hux's wariness had suggested. Though it was nice that he'd given him the potion. It felt like being looked out for.

He let his mind drift to how Hux and Poe would be doing. The mage was likely offering common-sense medical advice to the villagers in the most deadpan delivery possible, or flicking through one of the books he'd brought with him in his seemingly bottomless bags. Poe had been eager to do his usual thing and perform a little in the tavern. His voice was so wonderful, Kylo found himself thinking, the sparkle in his eyes as he reached the punchline of a bawdy tune, and the way he could command a room, tell a story better than anyone else before...

Well, Kylo should be getting back.

He stood, gave the area one last cursory look for any vines he'd missed, and, seeing nothing, turned to go. He was just sheathing his sword when he stopped, eyes catching on a clump of cheerful orange and white flowers which had managed to survive his visit, just on the edge of the carnage.

“Hmm.”

When Kylo returned to the village tavern and gave Poe those same flowers, Poe's face lit up with a smile. “Well, don't I feel special.”

Kylo noticed Hux eyeing them. Shit, had he done something wrong? “They're not poisonous too, are they?” he asked.

Hux seemed to snap out of some kind of reverie. “No, they're... they're just normal flowers. Excuse me,” he stood from the table he was sat at and made for the stairs.

If Kylo didn't know better about Hux's taste in “useless gestures” like flowers, he would have thought he should have brought Hux some as well.

[break]

They stopped at the next city. Kylo wasn't sure they should stay – there were no contracts of the style he took, and, in his opinion, staying pointlessly at a place like this was a recipe for trouble – but Poe wanted to get some supplies and try out a some new material with a more cosmopolitan crowd, and Hux claimed he had someone he wanted to visit, so stay they did.

Hux disappeared off into the bustling crowds early in the morning, and, later, Poe dragged Kylo off to the market. Kylo started to suspect he was only there so that Poe could make him carry things, which would grate on him usually, but he found didn't mind all that much, since it meant he got to spend time with the bard.

Poe was a people person, a fact which Kylo had always known, but it was never so clear as when he was not trying actively to entrance people as he did when performing – somehow not putting it on made it all the more obvious this was just him. He would flash charming grins to the women and manoeuvred through the crowds with an ease Kylo was jealous of.

For his own part, Kylo always felt the need to keep his hood low, to keep out of sight, even going so far as to cast a glamour some witch had taught him years ago. It was a weak thing, but eyes slid off him like water droplets off a bird. With Poe, however, he didn't need it; the man was so magnetic as it was, there was barely anyone who would bother to stare at anyone else. (Kylo included himself in that number.)

Finally, they came to a stand selling all sorts of gold and silver jewellery, pretty trinkets, gemstones on cords. One brooch caught Poe's eye – a dragon. “This is some amazing craftsmanship,” he noted, striking up an easy conversation with the stall keeper. When the man had to tend to another customer, he turned back to Kylo. “I'd love to fly. Do you think I'd be a good dragon?”

“You'd be great,” Kylo told him honestly. He was certain Poe would command the skies, given half the chance, and push back against the hunters until the entire Continent was dragon territory once again. The mental image morphed into one of Poe in front of a victory banner, the name of a great flying lizard no more than an epithet used by the forces he'd become leader of. It was a good look in him; he may not want to be in charge of his home kingdom, but with a cause like that, and people to follow him, he could be formidable. Lost in the daydream of Poe as some kind of dragon king of the skies, Kylo pointed at the brooch. “Do you want to get that?”

Poe looked at it thoughtfully, enough that Kylo could see the conflict in his thoughts. “Nah,” he said eventually, “it's expensive and... I have stuff at home.” He began walking away, and Kylo trailed after him, thinking it was a pity – the brooch would look so wonderful on him. “Maybe I could get Hux to transfigure me or something,” Poe mused, a glint of humour in his eye as Kylo blanched.

“I'm not sure that's how it works...”

“Imagine it though. Flap flap, blagh, I'm a dragon.”

[break]

A day after they left the city, they made their first camp at the edge of a copse. Kylo was checking over his armour while Poe and Hux were sat on a log opposite him, Poe cooking a fowl on the fire and Hux watching him do it. Kylo had let himself fall into a somewhat meditative state as he worked everything over, but a glint of silver and amber across camp hooked him out of it.

Hux had withdrawn a small pouch from his pocket, and withdrawn from that again a brooch. Another second let Kylo confirm – it was the very brooch from the city market. How had he known? Then he was handing it to Poe with a smooth, “I saw this and thought of you.” Bastard.

Poe was speechless for a second. “You shouldn't have,” were the first words out of his mouth.

“Well I can always-”

“No, I'll...” Poe reached to take it from Hux's hand. Kylo's jaw clenched as Poe's fingers lingered for too long. “Thanks, Hux. This is... wow.” He put it on, pinning it over his heart.

“It isn't straight.” Without waiting to be asked, Hux reached up with deft mage's fingers to fix it, smoothing out the fabric more than was necessary. “There.”

The leather armour in Kylo's grip creaked. Poe didn't hear it, but Hux shot him a look and... was that a smirk?

Then it hit Kylo; those flowers he'd given to Poe weeks ago must have made Hux jealous. It did not enter into Kylo's conception that Hux could simply like seeing Poe happy – happiness could be a part of it, certainly, but Hux was too cunning, too driven by ulterior motives for it to be that simple – or that Hux's feeling at seeing Poe like another person's gift could be any different to what Kylo himself was now feeling at seeing the same.

Well, if this was to be a game of one-upmanship, Kylo was sure he'd find a way to win. To make Poe smile like that, run a hand through his curls self-consciously as he now was – Kylo could do that just as well as Hux could. The rest of the evening, his mind was spinning with things he could give to the bard, trinkets of affection he could source the next time they crossed a place which dealt in such things.

The fire burned down and Hux retreated into his tent for the evening, Poe and Kylo settling on their bedrolls. They ended up facing each other, so Kylo, with his Witcher eyes, was not spared the view of Poe's finger fiddling with the brooch as he smiled to himself.

“He shouldn't have got it for me,” Poe mumbled again, as if sensing Kylo's train of thought, “It's probably gonna get broken.” Then, quieter, “I worry enough about whether you two will stay in one piece, I'd rather not worry about tiny things like this as well.”

Kylo thought about that for a minute. “You worry about us?” He couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. Out of all of them, Poe was the one who should be being worried about – Kylo himself was nigh on destructible, and Hux would probably survive anything out of sheer spite, even discounting his magic.

“Shut up,” Poe chuckled.

Kylo watched him smile up blankly at the canopy. And... if Poe could be happy like that without being showered with gifts, if it would please him more to worry about them less, maybe Kylo didn't need to compete with Hux. Perhaps the three of them were good enough as they were.

#darkgingerpilot #armitage hux #kylo ren #poe dameron #kylo/hux/poe #kylux #darkpilot #gingerpilot #my writing #fanfiction #witcher au #fantasy medieval au #star wars #even if he doesn't say so

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king-finnigan · 4 years

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I Found Something In The Woods Somewhere - Chapter 1

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Genre/Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, tw: suicide mention in chapter 3 (minor character, not graphic), Cursed Jaskier

Words: 3,000 per chapter, 3 chapters

Summary: After getting wounded by a particularly nasty Kikimora, Geralt spends a week in the woods, fighting an infection and ailing. When he finally wakes up, a scream rings through the forest. He finds the source: a wounded fox. But as he approaches the creature, he can't help but notice the bright blue eyes, and how familiar they seem.

A/n: Special thanks to @panlesters for being my beta! This fic, and especially the first chapter, is heavily inspired by In The Woods Somewhere by Hozier. This is chapter 1 of 3, and I will post the next 2 chapters sometime this week as well. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don’t hesitate to leave a like and a comment if you feel like it!

You can also read this on AO3! Masterlist here.

Faces floated in front of his eyes as he tried to keep them open, his vision fading out and reappearing every few seconds. The world swayed around him, sweat dripping from his brow. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to fight the dizziness washing over him. Behind closed eyelids, he saw the face of his mother, her red hair and kind eyes treacherous. Yennefer appeared next to her, all raven curls and snarky expressions.

He groaned and lifted a heavy hand to swat the visions away, and they disappeared like smoke, the colours blending into each other to form one last face. Brown hair framing blue eyes, the lips forming words he couldn’t hear, the hurt in his features apparent and painful.

Geralt’s voice was hoarse, and his throat parched, the words barely able to leave his mouth. “I’m sorry, Jaskier.” He opened his eyes again, the world around him different shades of grey and brown, the shapes blurred. Somewhere, in the outskirts of his mind, he could feel the cool night air on his warm skin, sweat dripping from his forehead. The dirt underneath him fell away, and he was falling, falling, into the abyss. I’m sorry - his last thought before he went unconscious once again.

҉ ҉ ҉

He awoke with a start, blinking furiously to clear the haze in front of his eyes. Dirt was digging in his cheek, and he could smell the iron of blood, both old and fresh. He tried to push himself up with his left arm from his foetal position on the forest floor, but his shoulder screamed in agony, and he dropped back into the mud with a groan.

Instead, he waited until the pain subsided, then used his right arm to lift himself up, slowly but surely, until he was sat upright, his back against an old oak tree. His lungs were heaving, and he had to fight the dark spots that were swimming across his vision, determined to stay awake this time.

He was in the woods, large canopies above his head filtering the light, making everything beneath the orange leaves dim and grey. About twenty yards to his right, he saw a large, dark shape on the ground. He frowned, struggling to regain his memory.

His mind offered no clues as to why he was here, so instead, he focused on the most pressing matter at hand: the wound on his shoulder. He lifted his hand up with great effort, shifting the armour and shirt away from his left arm. A large gash adorned his shoulder, barely healed, the edges coated in dried blood. The skin around it was a violent red. An infection.

He dropped the clothes back, wincing as pain flared up again, and he let his head fall back against the bark of the oak tree. Possibilities of what could have happened crossed his mind, eventually jogging his memory.

He lolled his head to the right, regarding the dark shape, inhaling the sharp scent that the thing emanated. A kikimora, dead for about a week. His mind flashed back.

҉ ҉ ҉

The water of the small, murky pond sloshed at his ankles as the Kikimora fell down in front of him, the water around it turning dark with blood. He pushed the thing with his foot, turning the large body to its side. He lowered himself on his knees and pushed a hand into the wound in the monster’s neck, cringing slightly at the wet sound it made, and the feeling of warm blood running over his lower arm as he pressed deeper.

His fingers eventually closed around the hilt of his dagger, and he grasped it tightly, gathering all his strength to pull it out, a fresh wave of blood leaving the Kikimora’s neck after his hand.

He shook out his arm, droplets of blood falling off his clothes and the dagger, onto the ground below. He stretched his back out, and rolled his head from side to side, to fight the familiar soreness emerging in his muscles. This Kikimora had been a particularly nasty one, and had managed to disarm the Witcher, which had forced him to resort to driving a dagger deep into the monster’s throat.

He groaned, and rolled his shoulders as he walked over to his sword, where it was sticking from the ground, hilt up, a dozen or so feet away. He stopped dead in his tracks, as he felt pain flare up in his left shoulder, and he groaned again, this time in annoyance.

He pushed away the fabric and armour above the wound, and found a large gash underneath. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it needed care anyways, as the monster blood and murky water he was covered in might cause the wound to infect.

He sighed, and continued walking to his sword, pulling it from the mud and sheathing it. He would have to clean his weapons later, but for now, he had to tend to his shoulder. He looked around, trying to find his bag, frowning when he couldn’t locate it. It must have been flung away during the struggle. For the tenth time that day, he wished Roach was there with him. He’d had to leave her behind in the town at the foot of the hill, as the path up was too treacherous for her.

He turned round and round, eyes scanning the area for his pack, eventually finding it next to an old oak tree. He walked over to it, and lowered himself on the ground, rummaging through his things for a healing potion, uncorking it with his teeth and downing it. He sat back against the bark, and closed his eyes for a second, as he waited for the magic to start working.

Tiredness weighed his limbs down, and he found himself drifting into sleep. He usually didn’t sleep right after a fight, and he still had to clean his wound, but the Kikimora had caught him by surprise. The townspeople had miscalculate its location, and the monster itself had been smarter than average, so it had managed to sneak up on him.

He tried to get up, but sleep overtook him easily, and he sagged down on the ground, laying on his right side in the fallen leaves.

The next time he woke up, he was ailing. He would be for the next seven days, until his fever finally broke.

҉ ҉ ҉

He blinked slowly, once, twice, as the memories flooded through him. He frowned, realizing he had been lying on the forest floor for a week, waiting for his body to beat the infection. Surely, the townspeople must think him dead after all this time, and he clenched his fists as he thought of what they might have done with Roach in his absence.

He groaned as he pushed himself upwards, holding on to low-hanging branches of the oak tree for support. The mud made a wet sound beneath his feet, the dirt having been wetted by his blood while he was lying there, unconscious. Slinging his bag over his non-wounded shoulder was hard, walking was harder, and he staggered from tree to tree.

Looking up, he only saw leaves and branches, grey spots of sky in between. He had no idea what time it was, with the absence of the sun, but he knew which way to go, as the village lay at the bottom of the hill. He started down the slope, feet slipping away a few times over the fallen leaves. It was at least a day’s walk to the town, even if he was in any good shape. It would probably take longer now, as his legs were unsteady and his mind barely clear of fog.

He looked down at the forest floor, deciding to focus on his feet, and putting one in front of the other, over and over, slipping, regaining balance, walking on.

Slowly the darkness grew around him, and his limbs were tired and heavy. He found an old willow tree, and laid his bedroll underneath it, shielded from hostile eyes by the many branches. He laid down on his back, staring at the few leaves still on the tree, seeing bits of night sky between them. His eyelids drooped down, and he fell into a deep sleep.

҉ ҉ ҉

“Dammit, Jaskier, why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shovelling it?” Rage coursed through his veins like fire. He could not keep the words from rising out of his chest, into the Bard’s stunned face. Geralt’d had enough. He’d just lost Yennefer due to some stupid decision he had made years ago, and the hurt was too new, too fresh, sharp edges cutting away at the inside of his chest.

Jaskier had been right there, ready to cheer him up – except Geralt didn’t want that right now. What he wanted was some peace and quiet, and a chance to hurt in solitude.

He tried to ignore the way the Bard seemed to hesitate for what could possibly be the first time in his life and could not stop another outburst of the anger raging in his blood. “The Child Surprise, the djinn- all of it!” Truly, the only constant throughout all of his misery, all of his problems, had been Jaskier. He had been there to drag Geralt to the betrothal feast. He had been there to ruin his wishes for the djinn. He was there at the moment to act like nothing happened, even though Yennefer had just left.

A small voice in the back of his head told him that Jaskier had also been there to clean up his reputation, to hold him company, to help and cheer him up when Geralt needed it the most. Yet, that tiny part of him was soon buried under a new wave of rage as purple eyes danced across his vision.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” Some sick, twisted part in him was overjoyed at the expression of pure hurt on the Bard’s face, was glad to see that Geralt wasn’t the only one suffering. Yet, again, a small voice in the back of his head warned him he would come to regret his words.

He ignored it, and turned around, walking to the cliff’s edge. He stood there, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, eyes staring unseeing over the landscape in front of him. He heard Jaskier mumble something behind him, but the pained voice was lost in the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, his own slow heartbeat deafening him.

The part of him that regretted his words grew as he slowly, but surely, came to his senses, and realized the full weight of what he had said. Eventually, he couldn’t take the guilt growing in his stomach anymore, and he turned around, only finding air where Jaskier had been standing, his familiar scent long faded.

He was gone.

҉ ҉ ҉

He awoke with a start as a scream ripped through the forest, a few birds taking flight from the branches of the willow tree Geralt was lying under, startled by the noise. He pushed himself up with a quiet groan, hand on the hilt of his sword, dried flakes of blood falling off the metal as he touched it.

He stood up quickly, head moving from side to side as he inspected the surrounding woods intently, yellow eyes focused. He listened, and startled a bit when another cry rang between the trees. It sounded as though a woman was being murdered, and without hesitation, he flung his bag over his shoulder, taking his sword in his hand.

He started in the direction of the sound. The canopy and many trees had bounced the scream around, which would’ve made it hard to pinpoint the source, if he didn’t have a supernatural sense of hearing. He moved quietly, swiftly, through the forest, footsteps light but determined over the fallen leaves.

It wasn’t long until he got to a small clearing in the trees, a rare view of the grey sky above him, as the branches gave way. He stayed at the edge, knowing he would make himself a target as soon as he stepped in the middle. The light, however dim, was still brighter than the forest around him, and he would not be able to see any potential enemies lurking behind the trees.

A small, pained sound drew his attention, and his eyes caught a glimpse of red. In the clearing, a little off-centre, lay a fox. Geralt regarded the edges of the forest one last time, before relaxing and walking over to the animal, lowering his sword as he did so.

The fox’s head lay on the fallen leaves, and it breathed quickly, shallowly. It didn’t look up as the Witcher approached, and Geralt couldn’t help but feel pity at the animal’s dejectedness. He kneeled next to it, eyes falling on a long gash in the fox’s hind leg. The stark white of bone shone through the darkness of the blood, dripping from the wound.

He sighed, as he realized he had rushed into action too quickly. An old lesson from Kaer Morhen resurfaced in the back of his mind: “A fox’s scream sounds like that of a woman, keep that in mind, Geralt. Do not judge a situation too quickly. Observe, listen, wait.” He shook his head to clear it from unwanted memories, as he laid a hand softly against the heaving side of the wounded animal. He observed the wound, deep and long, and wondered what could have caused it.

He cursed as the hairs at the back of his neck stood up. “Do not neglect your rationality in favour of your heart, Geralt.” Vesemir’s voice rang through his head, before he tightened the fingers of both hands around the hilt of his sword, swivelling around, moving the blade up.

A Hydra head clamped it’s teeth over his sword, and pulled. Geralt managed to hold on to it, but his shoulder groaned in protest, barely healed tissue threatening to tear at the force. He moved down to evade another one of the beast’s heads, dragging his sword with him, cutting the lower jaw off of the first head.

The monster screamed in pain, staggering back, which gave the Witcher an opportunity to cut off its third head, swiftly casting Igni to cauterize the wound, preventing two more heads from growing in its place.

A claw swiped down, burying itself into the dirt as he rolled to his right, the monster screaming in agony and rage. An Aard sign pushed the second head back, its teeth only mere inches away from his face. Another roll, this time to the left, gave him the perfect angle to cut the first, jawless head off, once again cauterizing the wound.

He stood up, swaying on his feet, sword in both hands. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs, but he refused to give in. It was just him against the middle head. A small voice in the back of his mind notified him that he had gotten lucky, as this was a young Hydra, the presence of only three heads indicating it had not seen serious battle yet.

The teeth lunged at him, and he moved to the side, cutting through the neck with ease, burning it shut. The ground under his feet shook a bit as the body fell down, and Geralt felt himself relax a bit.

He closed his eyes, tiredness weighing him down, and he considered climbing a tree and sleeping in it, when he heard a small, pained noise behind him. He had forgotten about the fox.

He turned around, sheathing his bloodied sword, and walked over to where the creature was still laying on the fallen leaves. He kneeled down next to it, hand resting against the side, right above its quick heartbeat, fingers threading through the soft fur. He regarded the wound in its hind leg, still seeping blood, bone exposed. He could only imagine the pain it was in.

Slowly, quietly, he unsheathed his dagger. It was still dirty, dried flakes of week-old Kikimora blood clinging to the blade, but it would do the job of releasing the animal from its suffering well enough. He sighed. “I’m sorry it had to go like this, you deserved better.”

He raised the knife, pressing the sharp tip against the pelt poking out beneath his fingers, still curled in the soft fur. The heaving ribcage threatened to impale itself, and the fox made a pained sound. Geralt looked to its head, his yellow eyes meeting those of a striking colour, like the sky on a clear summer’s day, like the ocean in the south, like cornflowers in a spring field. It was a blue he had only ever seen once before.

His grip on the blade faltered, and it fell on the ground with a soft thud. He bent down, moving closer to the fox, staring into its eyes as he narrowed his. The creature lifted its head, wet, black nose nearly touching the Witcher, before the fox grew tired again, laying back on the fallen leaves.

Geralt was frozen in place, his heart thrumming in his chest wildly. It couldn’t be. Yet, he couldn’t deny the familiar scent in the fox’s fur, half-buried beneath the iron smell of blood and the earthiness of the forest. He noticed the hand that was still laying on the fox’s side was shaking, and he looked down to where the blade had been pressed between the small ribs just seconds before.

The fox moved its head up again, yellow eyes meeting cornflower ones, the familiar scent tingling in Geralt’s nose again. Cinnamon and blueberries…

His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “Jaskier?”

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #gerlion #i found something in the woods somewhere #chapter 1 #mine

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