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likecastle · 4 years

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Witcher Noir AU, pt 18

Back to my old Witcher noir AU tricks! Previous parts here.

When Geralt pushes through the front door of the automat, he is doesn’t know how to make sense of the scene that greets him. Overturned tables litter the floor, which is strewn with trampled food. A waitress cowers behind a cart of clean trays. Jaskier is holding Emhyr’s henchman hostage with a steak knife.

“I said drop it!” Jaskier says, his voice shaking, and the gunman relaxes one of his raised hands so that the pistol he’s holding clatters to the floor.

“Now kick it away,” Jaskier instructs. His hand is trembling where it’s pressing the knife to the man’s side, but when he doesn’t act quickly enough, Jaskier jabs the knife into his flank to show he means business. The gunman kicks the pistol away from him, and it goes spinning across the floor in the direction of the terrified waitress.

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt spots a slim girl with white-blonde hair creeping towards the rear exit of the restaurant. “Ciri!” he calls out, before he can think better of it.

“Geralt?” Jaskier turns, surprised, and that’s all it takes for the gunman to elbow him hard in the chest.

Jaskier staggers back, winded, eyes wild, and Emhyr’s hired gun dashes for his weapon, but Geralt’s closer, and he snatches it up from the floor, training it on the man. He’s hardly more than a kid, mid-twenties maybe, with an intense expression in his wide-set eyes. He looks angry, yes, but also terrified.

Instead of rushing Geralt for his gun, the man makes a break for it sideways, running toward the back exit. Geralt fires a shot but it goes high, smashing into the sign for the restrooms. Jaskier is there, ducking shattered plastic, and he tackles the gunman with a shout.

Geralt expects a tussle, but the man goes down like a lead weight, and by the time Geralt catches up to them he understands why.

“Oh, god,” Jaskier says, pushing himself off the other man with red-stained hands. He tries to stand but his knees won’t support him, and Geralt has to dart forward to catch him before he collapses. He can feel Jaskier’s heart hammering where their bodies are pressed together. “I stabbed him, Geralt. Is he gonna be alright?”

The steak knife is sticking out of the middle of the gunman’s back, just below the shoulder blade. He’s still breathing, but there’s a lot of blood on the floor all of sudden. “He’ll be fine,” Geralt says, and for once he doesn’t care if it’s true. It’ll matter to Jaskier later, but not now. Now they have to go, or they’ll lose Ciri. “C’mon.”

He half-drags Jaskier out the back exit of the restaurant. One end of the alley terminates in a brick wall, so he heads the other way.

“I didn’t mean to,” Jaskier gasps beside him. His voice is thin, panicked. “I just—you were gone—and then you were back—but I knew you’d never forgive me if I let him hurt Ciri.”

“It’s not your fault,” Geralt grits out, scanning each doorway they pass for another glimpse of Cirilla’s pale blonde hair.

“Geralt, if you lose her because of me—”

“We won’t.” They can’t. They’re so close now.

There—a door left partially ajar. No sign of Cirilla, but he has to try. He heaves the door open to reveal a steep, dark stairway.

Jaskier is in shock—shivering, legs weak—and Geralt doesn’t want to leave him, but he knows he can’t haul him up those stairs, either. “Stay here,” he says, propping Jaskier up against the wall. “If she tries to escape this way, do whatever you can to stop her.” Then, reluctantly, he puts the gun in Jaskier’s hand, curling his fingers around the grip. “If that son of a bitch you stabbed turns up, shoot him.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts to say, but seems to think better of it, because he swallows and nods his head like Geralt is the one who needs reassuring. “Go, I’ll be fine. I could do with a bit of a breather.”

The stairs are practically a vertical climb, and each step he takes brings him further into darkness. There’s no light on the landing, and he can’t for the life of him work out what this place is supposed to be. He creeps along the corridor, one hand on the wall to guide him in the dark.

A scuffling sound suggests he’s on the right track—not the sound of an ordinary footfall, but the nervous, shuffling movement of someone trying not to be heard.

“Cirilla?” If she hears him and decides to run, she’ll have a good head start, but the last thing he wants is to frighten her. She has to know he’s not a threat, and if that means giving her the chance to escape again, so be it. “I don’t know if you remember me,” he goes on, his voice falling flat in the stale air. “My name is Geralt.”

Under his hand, the corridor wall gives way to an open doorway, and he decides to chance it. Inside, there is a little more light—gaps in something blocking the windows, he thinks. He squints as his eyes adjust to the grey gloom, though he still can’t see much. “I used to work for your grandmother,” he continues. “I knew your—”

His next words are forced out of him along with the rest of the air in his lungs as something smashes into his back and knocks him forward. He staggers, trips over something he can’t see, and careens sideways, grabbing for something to keep him upright. He finds purchase, only for it to come away in his hands—strips of blackout paper covering the window. Light floods the room. As he falls, Geralt has time to notice the newsboy standing in the shadows, a broken chair still in his hands.

A cloud of dust goes up around him when he hits the floor, and he coughs weakly, eyes watering. His fucking ribs can’t take much more of this. And if he didn’t have a concussion before, he damn well does now. “Ciri,” he tries to say, but it comes out as a dry rasp.

There is noise in the room beyond, a harshly whispered conversation.

“Come on,” the boy hisses, and she says, “No, I have to see—”

She moves into his field of view slowly, carefully. That face—otherworldly pale, almost gleaming in the streak of sunlight coming in from the window—leans down over him, her long white-blonde hair hanging down around them. “You’re the one who found me, that time I ran away from the summer house.”

All Geralt can do is nod.

She smiles slightly, remembering. “You carried me back home over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes and when I told you I’d have you fired, you laughed and called me a spoiled little princess.”

“You were,” he says fondly. Her features blur around the edges, and Geralt realizes, absently, without much shame, that there are tears in his eyes.

Part nineteen

#the witcher #witcher #witcher noir au #noir au #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #ciri #cirilla #cirilla of cintra #darra #cahir #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralion #gerlion #witcher casefic

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do-androids-dream-ao3acc · 3 years

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This one is for @aloe-casia, who is ShyTrush on AO3 – a brilliant writer who always leaves much too cute comments on my fics. And (drum roll) I had a beta for this, namely @the-cooler-king-finnigan who is King_Finn on AO3 and also a brilliant writer. Wait a second, fan mode is setting in *SCREAMS*. Okay okay. So, the ask was as follows:

Could I, perhaps, submit a prompt for you? I love when you write Emhyr looking after Geralt after he’s been injured or sick, so my prompt is Geralt whump, poisoning, and Emhyr being competent and taking care of Geralt afterwards and making sure he’s comfy.

Now, hear me out. Emhyr truly is competent, isn’t he? He dragged Geralt out of the danger zone here, he pushed back his bones here, he was willing to tell a lie to make Geralt feel better in this fic, he held back his hair when the aftereffects of Geralt’s concussion took hold of the latter here and he even managed to take influence on him in, well, let’s say, a dream in this fic. Poison is nothing he can’t handle. Or is it?

This one’s called “Oh my beautiful disaster” (lyrics from “World on Fire” by Slash), read it under the cut or on AO3. 6688 words (I’m sorry, it somehow grew bit by bit) and I’d rate it G, I guess.

"You don't have to do that, you know."

Geralt's voice sounded a little nervous. But the knife at his throat was probably a good reason to be.

"I believe I do," was Emhyr's calm reply. "You're scratchy. You've been claiming for days that you don't have time to shave, and you refuse to let the servants do it."

"You won't let them touch your neck either," Geralt returned.

He sat bare-chested in front of the mirror; behind him stood Emhyr with a towel in one hand and the razor in the other.

"Which is why I have decades of experience doing it myself. Now hold still."

Emhyr set the knife precisely.

"I could still do it myself," Geralt replied.

"I don't know why a razor makes you so nervous," Emhyr said reprovingly.

"I think it's more the fact that you're holding it."

"By which you mean to imply that you don't trust your husband? That's bold, considering you've just established that I'm the one with the knife, my dear."

"It's a golden blade. It's decadent. It's probably just decorative and blunt."

"Feeble," Emhyr muttered, dragging the knife slowly along Geralt's chin. "I’m about to believe this bush on your face is starting to appeal to you."

Against his will, Geralt grinned at Emhyr's reflection in the mirror.

"It seems to bother you. That's quite entertaining."

Emhyr raised his brows.

"In this game, I think I have the better hand," he returned. "I've got the knife."

Slowly, the blade continued to scrape along Geralt's neck, and the latter had to admit that Emhyr was indeed handling it skillfully. He began to relax, trying to see it for what it ultimately was: a courtesy of his spouse. Anyway, he didn't understand why he had such a strange feeling about it. Maybe it was because his medallion felt unuasually warm on his bare skin. Geralt almost casually reached out a hand to touch it. Suddenly, he winced.

"You should hold still. See, now I've cut you."

Emhyr snorted disapprovingly, bent down, and wiped a tiny drop of blood from Geralt's neck.

"What is it now?"

Geralt shook his head.

"This feels strange. Like it's vibrating, and then it's not. It's never done that before."

"Hmm," Emhyr mused as he continued to work on Geralt's beard with concentration.

"What do you think it means?"

Geralt still held the medallion with one hand. His gaze was absent as he answered, "I don't know. Maybe it's..."

He didn't get to complete his sentence. Suddenly, Geralt rolled his eyes into the back of his head, stiffened, then slid off the chair. Emhyr pulled the razor away just in time.

"Geralt? What is... Geralt!"

Emhyr couldn't prevent Geralt from falling, collapsing on the floor. He was immediately beside him, grabbing him by the shoulders, but now Geralt began to twitch uncontrollably. His whole body tensed up, his hands aimlessly hitting the floor. His neck stretched out; only the whites of his eyes were visible. His head began to hit the ground now, too, and Emhyr knelt beside him, placed Geralt's head in his lap – which wasn't easy, his twitching body continually threatening to slip away – and held his hands tightly. Then he yelled, "GUARDS!"

—

When Triss, alerted by the guards, came rushing into the room, the sight almost chilled her to the bone. Convulsions ran through Geralt's entire body. Emhyr held his hands to prevent Geralt from hurting himself, but the sheer force of the spasms was already bloodying his heels on the stone floor. She had never seen anything like it. Instinctively, she knelt on Geralt's shins and put her hands on his chest.

"How long has this been going on?" she asked.

Emhyr seemed surprisingly calm, but by now, she had known him long enough. His voice might be serene, but the hint of worry in his eyes was unmistakable.

"Five minutes," he replied with astonishing certainty.

He had probably counted the seconds, Triss thought. She couldn't blame him. Her hands ran over Geralt's body. Invisible strands of powerful magic pierced his unconscious mind, examining the workings of his body, searching for clues.

"What happened before?"

"A shave, nothing more," Emhyr replied tersely.

As if that were an expected answer, the sorceress nodded and took Geralt's restless head between her hands. In extreme concentration, she narrowed her eyes, then snapped them open in surprise.

"That's strange," she murmured. "It feels like poison, but then again, it's not. Maybe a spell to strengthen... What else did you do? Was anything different than usual?"

Emhyr frowned.

"I wouldn't know..."

"The razor," she interrupted him. "Where is it?"

A shadow crossed Emhyr's face, and he looked around quickly.

"The blade was new," he replied. "It fell to the ground when.... it must be here somewhere."

Sure enough, he spied the razor he had dropped, right next to the overturned chair. Reflexively, he reached out a hand for it, but Triss immediately snapped at him, "Don't. We should get Adan."

—

The witcher, swift as ever, was summoned in no time. Although he had no idea what to expect, he did not dwell on surprise or pointless questions. He immediately went down on his knees, checking Geralt's pulse on the carotid artery. The feline bent over, pulling back Geralt’s eyelids, then looked at Triss.

"Looks like an extreme reaction to poison, but..."

She pointed to the razor on the floor with a curt movement of her head. Adan looked around quickly, noticed the dropped towel, took it, and picked up the knife with it.

"I touched that, and I'm fine," Emhyr broke the silence.

"Then it's something with the blade, but better safe than sorry," Adan returned.

He held the razor close to his eyes, and his gaze became somewhat absent. Nobody knew what he was doing, but suddenly he stuck out his tongue, pressing the knife against it. Triss hissed his name, yet he held out his other hand, an unusual gesture that signaled her to let him. When he finally looked at the sorceress, his eyes had a strange gleam – at least it seemed that way to her.

"Definitely some kind of poison," he said. "But that's not all."

Triss nodded.

"I think it's a spell. For enhancement, maybe. A double safeguard? A bit much for a simple razor."

"Now, it's not that simple," Adan replied. "I, for one, do not own a pure gold razor. So it's yours?" he turned to Emhyr.

The latter suddenly raised his head as if a startling thought had occurred to him.

"It was one of the wedding gifts.... this morning, my knife broke, and I sent Meredid to get a new one. He said he remembered seeing one among those things – the gifts are still being cataloged, but it caught his eye."

"A strange wedding gift," Triss said grimly.

"That's what I said, but he replied that, on the contrary, it was particularly thoughtful."

"Not merely because of its value," Adan said, immediately catching on. "But because it is especially personal. Something that would touch the Emperor on a daily basis. Kind of quirky, though."

"That's more than quirky," Triss protested.

"It doesn't matter. The crucial question is who it came from," said the witcher – and he was right.

"We can examine this later," Emhyr said urgently. "I demand to know how we are going to help Geralt."

Geralt's erratic movements had slowed a little, but his spasms had by no means ceased. Adan pulled a vial from his pockets. Of course, even at this late hour, he was fully equipped. Never was he without his armor, his swords, or anything of his equipment at all, even in the palace.

Triss held him back.

"We don't know what will happen if you use one of your potions."

"Because of the spell? We don't know what kind of magic it is either," he returned. "And the poisoning is clear. We can start with low doses."

"He's not a lab rat. That could be dangerous."

"Doing nothing seems more dangerous. And apparently, your magic can't dissolve the other one either."

"Not right away," Triss replied defensively.

Emhyr had had enough of this strangely familiar-looking repartee.

"You can argue later," he said sharply. "I've seen the effects of this potion often enough. Let him try it."

Adan jumped up, telling Emhyr, "We need to switch places for a minute. You should continue to hold his hands down."

Apparently, he had hit just the right note; at any rate, Emhyr asked nothing further, letting go of Geralt's hands, retreating, and gently resting his head on the floor. Then he slid to the side and put his hands on Geralt's wrists again. Adan knelt behind Geralt's head, placing his fingers on his chin and jaw in a peculiar way, and then began to squeeze them both. Adan let go with one hand, pulled the cork out of the vial with his teeth, and carefully dribbled a small amount into Geralt's now open mouth.

Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Suddenly, the room became very quiet, except for the strange sound of Geralt's twitching body grazing the floor, regardless of their attempts to hold him down. Slowly, the convulsions subsided until he finally lay still.

But beyond that, nothing happened: the dark veins that had emerged at his neck and other parts of his body had not changed, his eyes were closed, and he did not respond to Triss' soft words as she leaned over him.

"I could increase the dose," Adan suggested, but there was an air of uncertainty in his voice. Something was happening here that was beyond everyone's control.

Triss shook her head.

"We have to find out what kind of poison caused this. And what spell."

"That means you can't do anything for him?"

Emhyr's voice had a piercing tone to it. He was still clutching Geralt's wrists, although the latter was now lying perfectly still.

"Poison needs an antidote," Triss explained. "Healing magic also knows an universal counteragent, but I would have to prepare it yet. However, since the potion didn't work, I'm afraid that won't get us very far. Mostly because of the apparent link to a spell. That's why we need to examine the blade..."

"...and identify the poison, and the spell," Adan finished her sentence. "To make a specific antidote. If we work together, it will be faster. I'll find out where the knife came from."

"In the meantime, we'll try the conventional way; we'll make a decoction, try poultices and a sweating cure.... Someone has to be with him at all times."

"We'll take turns," Adan said.

"I'll stay here," Emhyr suddenly interjected. "I'll stay with him; you can show me what to do."

Triss glanced at him.

"This will be a lengthy and unpleasant business," she replied. "It could take us several days to make the antidote. I'm sure it's not life-threatening, at least not for him – in a way, we should be glad you didn't use the knife yourself. Still, it's going to be difficult."

"Is that supposed to scare me off? He's my husband," Emhyr said coldly.

"You have other responsibilities as well," the sorceress reminded him.

It was her duty to tell him, and her status gave her the unique right to do so, but neither did she like doing it nor did he want to hear it. It was unusually clear on Emhyr's face.

"I have a whole staff of advisors," he objected, not without a hint of defiance in his voice that no one had ever heard from him. "I'm not disappearing. Still, there's nothing that can't be postponed or delegated."

Those were unfamiliar words coming out of his mouth, but Triss couldn't say she didn't understand his motives. Yet, she said, "I can send for Ciri."

"Absolutely not," Emhyr replied sharply. "She will make a tremendous fuss, and in that condition, she is no help to me."

What he actually meant, Triss suddenly realized, was that he himself was just incapable of concentrating on anything other than his spouse's well-being. But he couldn't possibly admit that.

"Fine, but we'll still take turns. Even you have to eat and sleep," she decided.

—

Together they laid Geralt on the bed, and Triss inculcated Emhyr to keep him warm, have water ready in case he woke up (not wanting to predict as to when that would be), and otherwise just watch him. But Emhyr would not have required this advice; he did not take his eyes off him. He felt an unfamiliar nervousness rising within him. Often enough, he had seen Geralt wounded and without consciousness, but this seemed so uncertain: neither did they know who had done this to them, nor what the ultimate consequences would be. Especially with Geralt, he thought, not without anger, because obviously, the poison had hit the wrong person. Not for the first time.

So he kept busy to distract himself from such thoughts. He had the fireplace lit, although it was no longer cold enough for it, covered Geralt with two blankets in accordance with the advice of his court sorceress and simply waited – for some change. Emhyr didn't know if he should believe that one could sweat out poison, and probably that was simply an additional safeguard, and yet he wanted to use every means at his disposal – knowing that those same means were limited.

And that was probably the worst part of it. Over time, he had acquired amazing skills in dressing wounds, and he knew how to relieve pain. He didn't like any of it, but he'd be damned if he was going to tell Geralt how to live his life. Both had agreed on that some time ago. They circumnavigated some issues in their lives with the extraordinary certainty of seasoned sailors, without harm. Emhyr was sure they would be able to handle this as well. He sat down next to Geralt on the bed, stroked one of those unruly strands of hair out of his face, and took his right hand in his own. Slowly, he traced the engraving of Geralt's ring with his forefinger. That was what made him stay, no matter what.

Night fell, and while shadows of candles and fires flitted across the walls, Emhyr held Geralt's hand and watched his face. He appeared to be asleep, but his features lacked their usual relaxed quality. This had been going on for many hours now, and while nothing had changed on the outside, it was obvious that he was getting more restless. The fingers Emhyr held trembled every now and then, and the muscles in his face flinched as if he were in a profound yet unpleasant dream. Sweat had long been standing on his forehead, which was not surprising given the heat in the room. Emhyr himself accepted the warmth stoically. He would not admit any weakness, he never had, and he definitely would not do so now. Still, it felt unfortunate that he couldn't do anything. He observed, but there was nothing to see.

It was already past midnight, and Emhyr had gotten up to walk around so he wouldn't get tired. His mind was rattling with a list of things he would turn over to his advisory staff the next morning; a dozen items to do on his schedule, documents he could sign even as he sat here, and the like. And yet, he noticed instantly when Geralt opened his eyes. Immediately he was at the bedside, sitting on the edge, reaching for his hands.

Geralt's gaze was unsteady as he tried to sit up, and confused when he realized he failed right away.

"Stop it," Emhyr said softly, letting go of his hands and gently pushing him back. Geralt's chest was wet with sweat; he had somehow managed to slip off the covers in the few minutes when Emhyr hadn't been looking. "Just lie still. Everything is fine."

It was one of the few lies he had ever told his husband, but the circumstances probably justified it.

"We fixed that gap in the wall a year ago, but it broke again," Geralt said.

His voice sounded clear, but his words made no sense to Emhyr. It did not matter.

"You can fix it again," he replied, hoping that his voice alone would affect him, as it often did.

At least Geralt no longer tried to sit up. He seemed to become a bit calmer, although still confused. His eyes had a strange gleam, and his pupils flickered like those of a drug addict.

"Ciri needs to practice the feint again," he said, and that stung Emhyr a little. Clearly, Geralt was very, very far in the past. He wondered if he even remembered him in this condition. Certainly, he didn't even recognize him.

Carefully, Emhyr leaned against the headboard of the bed, retook Geralt's hands, and replied, "I suppose she should."

Geralt's lids fluttered, then he closed his eyes again, but his sleep remained fitful.

—

At some point, Emhyr must have dozed off, too, because the next thing that entered his consciousness was his aching back and the fact that Triss was standing over Geralt, wrapping fragrant sheets over his thighs.

"Ah," she said as soon as Emhyr noticed her, "it's good that you had some sleep. Can't have been much though, you should lie down again, a little more comfortably perhaps."

"Any news?" he asked as he stretched and glanced at Geralt's face. For now, he lay still, but his muscles still seemed tense.

"Some ingredients are missing for the decoction; we will get them in the morning. Then the protocol officer will also arrive, who manages the records of the wedding gifts."

"The feline could well have kicked him out of bed to get this information," Emhyr muttered.

Triss glanced at him.

"Don't exaggerate," she said. "It's only a matter of a few hours, and we won't get anywhere without the ingredients anyway."

"But until then, Geralt won't get any better," he replied heatedly.

"But neither will he get any worse," the sorceress returned calmly.

As for the rest of the night, she was to be proven right. Emhyr was careful not to fall asleep again, and he stoked the fire himself when it threatened to go out toward morning. The heat in the room was unbearable now, and he had rolled up his sleeves. Meanwhile, Geralt had additionally developed a fever, which Triss had described as "excellent". Emhyr, however, could find nothing excellent about the sight of his husband lying there drenched in sweat, occasionally clenching his hands as if he were still trying to fight invisible forces even in his sleep. His cheeks, usually so pale, were reddened more by the fever than by the warmth in the room; just another expression of the unnaturalness of the whole situation.

At some point, he had begun to utter soft noises, a strange mixture of incoherent words mixed with something between sighs and groans. Emhyr had taken his place next to Geralt again and grasped his hands, vaguely hoping that he would feel the touch and calm down. He barely heard when the door opened. Adan was basically very quiet, yet Emhyr wondered how much time had passed. Had he been about to fall asleep again?

Silently the witcher stepped closer, pulled up Geralt's eyelids to check his pupils, and felt his pulse, but neither told him anything new.

"He seems stable, but we need the antidote as soon as possible."

"Do you now know what poison it was?"

"We're working on it. We'll know more shortly. The antidote is still missing a few basic ingredients; we've sent someone out to get them. However, only when we know what poison it is can it be finished. But we now know who the gift came from."

Emhyr sat up straight and ran a hand through his hair. He was aware that he might not be particularly presentable, but that was unimportant.

"From whom?"

Adan shrugged.

"A Nilfgaardian nobleman, a minor duke or something. Just being brought in for questioning."

When Adan told him the name, it didn't ring a bell.

"I should be there for the interrogation."

"You should get rest. Not here, if possible," the witcher replied.

"I suppose this suggestion comes from my court sorceress?"

"And from your security advisor."

"I'd say he's overstepping his authority."

Adan tilted his head.

"Is it not a matter of security if the Emperor overexerts himself?"

"Don't overdo it," Emhyr said, and the authority in his voice was unmistakable. "Come back when there is actually something new, or until I have one of you summoned. In the meantime, I will take care of my husband. Understood?"

Adan remained unimpressed. Naturally. But he nodded and replied, "I will tell the court sorceress so."

He turned to leave. Quietly, Emhyr said, "You will not be spared her scolding."

It almost sounded like an apology.

"Well, neither will you," Adan said lightly before leaving.

—

After a while, Emhyr began to reconsider his decision. It wasn't because he was getting tired – he had enough experience in staying awake for various motives. But because it became increasingly difficult to assess Geralt's condition. His restlessness had increased to a point where Emhyr feared that his erratic movements would once more turn into terrible spasms. Triss had advised him to bring the fever down a bit and forgo the fire since this treatment was not working. She continued to try herbal poultices, but even there, she had not been very confident. The things didn't last long anyway since Geralt tossed and turned too much.

Emhyr counted on the fact that they would soon find out what this strange linking of a spell with poison was all about. There seemed to be no improvement in Geralt's condition, and even if his court sorceress was convinced that it was not a life-threatening situation, Emhyr was not entirely confident. It was perhaps all too easy for him to forget that he still had a witcher before him. But Geralt had told him things that would have chilled anyone to the bone. He had told things that were neither stories nor legends, and they had spoken of a great deal of suffering. Surviving was a doubtful gift; he knew that very well. Emhyr didn't know if Geralt was in pain; he seemed very far away now. But the possibility alone gnawed at him. He didn't understand why anyone would go to the trouble of securing such a simple object – which he had only used at all by chance – with so much hatred. The poison alone would undoubtedly have killed him. It made no sense.

Emhyr had sat down on the bed again, he had begun to stroke Geralt's hair gently. Usually this calmed them both. Geralt still felt hot, he almost appeared to be glowing, and nothing Emhyr could do seemed to change that. Carefully, he ran a moistened cloth over Geralt’s parched lips and his forehead. Geralt's face twisted briefly, but that might mean that he felt the touch as much as that it disturbed him in the middle of a dream. Emhyr imagined that these were not pleasant dreams, but he forbade himself such thoughts. Worrying wouldn't help Geralt either.

As if to distract himself, he slowly stroked Geralt's hot cheeks with his fingertips. What came next happened so quickly that it would be difficult for him to recall it later.

Geralt's right hand shot forward and grabbed his wrist. His eyes opened, but they seemed to look right through Emhyr with a dull gleam. He sat up, and the grip tightened painfully.

"Geralt," Emhyr said softly, reassuringly, but he should have known better.

He realized what was going on at the same moment he made his next mistake. Emhyr raised his other hand to grasp Geralt by the shoulder – a harmless touch meant to let his husband know that it was him, that he was here, that all was well, even if it wasn't. Geralt jumped up, pushing Emhyr forward without letting go of his wrist. When his feet touched the ground, he swayed briefly, but it didn't stop him. Yes, Emhyr knew what was going on, he really should have known better. At that moment, Geralt behaved no differently than a wounded wolf snatching at the hand that was trying to help him – because his instinct told him that such a thing never happened.

Actually, they had left that behind for long. Emhyr had learned his lesson not to startle the sleeping witcher, and the latter had, at some point, learned to put trust above instinct, at least when they were together. However, Geralt was so very out of it, so very unaware that he did not recognize him or his surroundings. The wolf's instincts said fight or flight, and the grip on Emhyr's hand told him that he had chosen fight.

"Geralt," he tried again, his voice a sole assurance that all was well, although that seemed a massive lie, "let go. Please."

Not even the softness of his tone, reserved for special occasions known only to Geralt, or the word that so rarely crossed his lips, triggered anything in the witcher. Geralt looked around frantically as if searching for an exit – flight, after all, Emhyr thought fleetingly – but since he didn't really seem to register what was happening, he turned back to Emhyr. The latter was doing his best not to look threatening, and although Geralt was only holding his wrist, he knew that one movement would be enough to break it.

"You're safe," he said, his voice expressing confidence he didn't feel.

It seemed like the biggest mistake to even approach him. Suddenly, Geralt's second hand was on his neck, and Emhyr’s free hand lay over it in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure. His back hit the wall and his breath caught. Dark spots began to dance before his eyes. His mind demanded oxygen as much as his lungs, but still, a thought flashed in him. Something Geralt had shown him, he and Ciri, they had both insisted on teaching him something he had thought was superfluous. He hadn't tried it; he had found it ridiculous – with a whole army of guards and soldiers, with two witchers and Ciri (if she was ever present) and an extremely capable sorceress, what would he know such a thing for?

And yet, some part of him could recall the knowledge now. Geralt was not standing quite securely, it was apparent. He wasn't putting any weight on his leg that had been broken twice; in stressful situations, it hurt more than usual, and he suffered from nightmares. And this was probably a particularly bad dream. Almost instinctively, Emhyr moved his right foot directly against Geralt's slightly retracted leg. He thrust in a movement that had been precisely described to him, hitting a point that had been tried to inculcate in him.

Geralt did not fall, the kick had not been strong enough, but surprise and force threw him off balance. He let go of Emhyr's neck, but not his wrist, and Emhyr tried to free himself. He pulled, Geralt faltered, and Emhyr tried to kick again. His only chance seemed to be to throw Geralt entirely off balance. Only now did it occur to him to yell for the guards outside the door. Once they were in the room, he could order them to get the sorceress, and if they couldn't restrain Geralt, the other witcher as well.... He stepped forward, but this time Geralt seemed to have sensed his movement, and he pulled him to the side. Emhyr stumbled, but because Geralt was still holding his wrist, they both swayed. Geralt pushed him off with force, but he was too weak to stay on his feet any longer, and in the fall, he pulled Emhyr with him. Geralt's confused face was the last thing Emhyr saw; then he banged his head on the edge of the bed.

—

He came to on the chaise longue in the salon. A damp cloth lay on his forehead, which he pushed aside almost angrily. There wasn't even a bump to be felt. The woman knew exactly how much he hated her magical healing, at least on himself. Emhyr slowly stood up, walked to the open door, and leaned against the frame, feeling slightly dizzy. Merigold and the feline were standing in the bedroom. The sorceress noticed him immediately.

"For goodness sake, can't one of you lie down for a while?"

Emhyr ignored her tone and asked, "What of him?"

Geralt lay in bed again, not moving.

"He hurt himself and you," Triss replied angrily. "From now on, you won't stay alone. Lie back down; you had a laceration, you'll still be dizzy. I'll go and finish the antidote. Adan can tell you what we learned."

"Geralt will not hear what happened, just so we're clear," Emhyr said seriously.

Triss narrowed her eyes.

"Stop blaming yourself. It was pure coincidence that Geralt got the poison, and an accident that it had such an effect on him."

She noticed that Emhyr was about to say something, but she interrupted him immediately, though much more gently.

"I agree that he doesn't need to know what happened. I don't think he will remember either. But you are both seasoned enough not to let guilt define you all the time."

"You still have amazing ideas about the duties of the court sorceress," Emhyr countered, but he didn't sound upset.

Triss shrugged, but as she walked past him, she said quietly, "But I know her rights pretty well."

She left him to Adan, who, as he noticed, was holding a small vial.

"What is that?"

Adan placed the empty vial on the small table next to the bed and replied, "Just a sedative. He knocked out two guards before I arrived. You might have to muddy the waters – I mean, if the Emperor's consort attacks him and then lashes out on the guards, it might stir up the rumor mill quite a bit."

Emhyr only snorted contemptuously – he definitely didn't have the nerve for that now. He stepped closer, pulled a chair, and sat down at the bed. Geralt now looked reasonably peaceful; he could only hope that it stayed that way.

"Doesn't the remedy cause any complications?" he asked.

"Frankly, we can't know for sure," Adan replied a touch too honestly for Emhyr's taste.

"But you know more about the poison now?"

"Oh, yes. It wasn't effortless to find out because the spell kind of overrode it. I'm still wondering what purpose..."

"The poison," Emhyr reminded him impatiently.

Adan scratched his head, one of the few gestures he had grown accustomed to that clearly showed he was unsure.

"It's a strange mixture of easily obtainable toxins. Even ratsbane was among them, but also a veritable quantity of mushrooms and... well, flowers, like nightshade plants."

"What exactly is strange about that?"

"All of these are things that can be obtained from herb stores or alchemists, or you can simply gather them yourself from nature."

"So the perpetrator knew what they were doing."

"Not necessarily; they just knew where to get the poisons," Adan objected. "I'll have the herbalists and other stores in the area questioned, but I suspect they didn't buy any of it. The selection is pretty random. There were also a few re-identifiable kinds of grass in the mix and one or two non-toxic substances that weren't carriers or otherwise served a practical purpose."

"And that gives us what insight?"

Adan shrugged.

"That's the question. I don't know yet."

A long silence followed. It might have lasted for hours; Emhyr had long since lost his sense of time. He continued to sit there and, perhaps in a fit of defiance, had reached for Geralt's hands again. It still soothed him to clasp those fingers tightly, to stroke over them with his own, hoping that somehow, sometime Geralt would notice.

Adan had been standing there leaning against the wall for what seemed like an eternity. It was almost strange that he, who could nearly never keep his mouth shut, was so quiet. He held a worn, tattered little book in his hand, in which he wrote something down from time to time. Whenever he lifted his eyes, he glanced briefly at Geralt's motionless figure; then seemed utterly lost in thought once again.

Suddenly, he pushed himself off the wall, noisily slammed his booklet shut, and shouted, "I've got it."

Already he was on his way to the door when Emhyr called after him, "What?"

Adan turned and looked at him as if noticing him for the first time.

"I know who made the poison. Or at least how I can find him. It's someone from the palace. I have to go, but you shouldn't be alone. I'll let the guards know; Triss won't be ready yet..."

"Don't you dare," Emhyr said sharply, but the witcher was already out the door.

—

Emhyr threw out all the guards, even if it probably meant incurring the holy wrath of his sorceress. But since she did not show herself, he assumed that the production of the antidote was proceeding. He desperately needed good news now, progress in many ways. He needed the certainty that something would change because every minute that passed seemed to bring Geralt suffering. Emhyr knew Merigold would have objected; she would have said that no one could understand what was going on inside him. But Emhyr did not sense it that way. He felt a hot forehead when he stroked over it. Saw closed eyelids twitching as if in a dream. Squeezed hands that did not return his pressure.

How long could anybody, any witcher, possibly resist a mixture of strange poisons? All that remained for him was the hope that the antidote would have the promised effect, even though the unknown spell had mixed with the poison. As he watched Geralt, he thought about something they both knew: that there would always be unknown threats hovering over them both. That peace was fragile not only in the empire but also in their lives. They had agreed to brave the coming storms together against all odds. Their connection was unique and perhaps the strangest imaginable, but it worked. It was the best thing that had happened to him in infinite years, on so many levels, and he knew that Geralt felt the same way. Just maybe not now, because now he might feel nothing at all, and that hurt.

Time passed agonizingly slowly. Minutes flowed into hours, and everything around him became blurry. Therefore, it was probably no wonder that Emhyr flinched when Adan suddenly stormed into the room. To be more precise, it was as usual: from one second to the next, he was there, as if one had simply blinked a heartbeat too long and missed his appearance.

His interim silence forgotten, he immediately sputtered, "Triss isn't here yet? Damn, so we still don't know anything about the spell? Anyway, now we know who poisoned the razor. You'll never guess."

"I don't usually have to guess," Emhyr replied with enough disapproval in his voice that even Adan caught it.

"Well, I suppose not," he returned. "It's not mysterious at all, either. An emissary, which explains why there were so many different poisons – he started collecting during his missions. Seems to have collected the stuff like some resentment built up inside him. His motive..."

"The wedding?" asked Emhyr, although it didn't sound like a question.

"I guess that was the last straw," the witcher confirmed.

"How strange that my security advisor could miss this," Emhyr said. As usual, his sarcasm didn't catch on with Adan; would he never learn?

"This bloke has been with the court longer than I have," was the calm reply. "And you realize that human emotions will always find a way to overcome the best security measures."

"Of which you are the best example," Emhyr returned snappily, even though he knew Adan was right.

"Last time I checked, I wasn't human."

Emhyr raised his brows in surprise.

"Funny."

"What?"

They stared at each other for a moment, and Emhyr thought that Geralt would definitely have found that hilarious.

A moment later, Triss stood in the room, and the first thing Emhyr noticed was the vial in her hand. Slowly he stood up. She saw his look and nodded.

"I am ready. But you two will never believe who caused the spell."

"Another one with a long-held grudge?" muttered Emhyr.

Triss looked at him in surprise.

"On the contrary. The same Nilfgaardian noble who made the gift turned to a local wizard. It wasn't to curse the knife. He asked for a harmless enchantment. What it does is almost ridiculous: it embellishes the gift, so to speak, making it more attractive. This is also the reason why Meredid immediately noticed the razor and why he remembered it. Spell and poison were both of similar quality and strength and mixed in such a way that identification took its time."

"We should check if this noble and the emissary knew each other," Adan replied, updating Triss on his discoveries.

"I don't think so," the sorceress said afterward. "The nobleman wanted the spell to rise in favor. His rank and reputation are a bit shady. We could clarify how the emissary got the knife, but once he saw it, the spell will have made him think it was a good object for his vengeful desires."

"Pure coincidence, then," Emhyr said musingly.

"Just as unpredictable as emotions," Adan agreed.

"Let's deal with this in more detail later," Triss urged. "I have an antidote, and I'm pretty sure it works."

Pretty sure was not enough for Emhyr, but he said nothing. Filled with tension, he watched Adan take the potion and administer it to Geralt.

"How soon will this take effect?" he asked.

"I hope very quickly," she replied, basically voicing his thoughts. "And with no side effects," she added.

"You mean as opposed to witcher's potions?" Adan remarked as he set down the empty vial. "It might have looked worse without it."

"I don't think it compares."

"You started it, after all."

"Shut up, both of you," Emyhr said without raising his voice.

Adan and Triss gave each other an almost guilt-ridden look, but at least it caught. For a while, everyone just looked at Geralt, spellbound. But for a while - nothing happened.

Emhyr's impatience increased to new, unimagined heights. Triss nervously plucked at her fingernails. Only Adan still seemed unimpressed. He had gone down on his knees beside the bed, two fingers permanently on Geralt's carotid artery, his gaze highly concentrated.

The silence in the room became more and more oppressive. Emhyr gave his sorceress a look, which she avoided.

"Look," Adan said suddenly.

He pointed to the protruding veins on Geralt's neck. Slowly, very slowly, they lost their unnaturally dark color, receding like snow melting in the sun. Wherever on his body this visible testimony of the poison had formed, the same thing happened. Triss put a hand on Geralt's forehead, then nodded.

"Almost over," she murmured.

"Normal pulse," Adan confirmed after a while.

Both stepped back, but still, all seemed to hold their breath together. The tender sprout of hope that had formed not only in Emhyr had become a real seed.

Shortly after that, Geralt opened his eyes. When he saw them all standing there, he jerked back, straightened up on his elbows, and spluttered, confused as if after a long slumber, "Have I overslept? Did I miss something? Why are you all standing there? Shit, my head… did I forget that we got wasted? What are you all looking at! Damn, I have to pee."

Triss involuntarily started giggling.

Adan said, clearly relieved, "What an idiot."

Emhyr looked into Geralt's puzzled face, and this time he did not hold back his smile, which only increased the latter's irritation.

"Careful, you're insulting the Emperor's consort. However, it is true."

How peculiar, that he somehow sounded pleased.

#writing #fanfiction #Emhyr x Geralt #Geralt x Emhyr #Emhyr/Geralt #Emralt #witcher 3 #a03 fanfic #whump fic #witcher fanfic

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