#winter troupe tenth play | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Text

A new us will begin (11/ ?)

word count: ~7k

AO3

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 12

content warnings: panic attack, references past major character death, major character death, blood, injury

“Geralt.”

The whisper that broke through Geralt’s half-asleep mind was so full of urgency, that Geralt’s eyes snapped open in a flash.

“Dandy?” He asked into the darkness, only relaxing when he realised that Dandy was still nestled in his arms, the same way they had fallen asleep. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“No.” When Geralt’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see the soft smile on Dandy’s face. “I just had to wake you.”

Before Geralt could ask, Dandy leaned up and pressed a kiss against his throat, the fist patch of skin he could find. “For the first time you said my name in your sleep.”

Dandy twirled the dandelion Geralt had plucked for him in his fingers, an amused smile on his face.

“It’s always the yellow flowers, huh?” He teased, bumping his shoulder against Geralt, who was sitting next to him on the grass a little away from the other actors that were preparing lunch or going over their lines again. “I take it buttercups and yarrows are yellow too?”

Geralt hummed in agreement and leaned his head against Dandy’s shoulder, his hand coming up to play with Dandy’s curls.

“Dandy?” Geralt said, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. “That dandelion you have isn’t yellow anymore. It’s white.”

“Seriously?” Dandy scowled as if the flower had personally offended him. “That’s just ridiculous. Why would flowers change colours?”

“Why do you change your hats?”

Dandy gasped in indignation. “Don’t you dare bring my hats into this. I have been told they are very stylish. And they are important to me.”

Geralt’s lips twitched. “If it’s any consolation, there aren’t many flowers that change like that.” He turned his head to place a kiss against Dandy’s neck.

“So this one just wants to be special then?”

“I think it is.” Geralt was sure Dandy could hear his smile in his voice. “You are special to me, my Dandelion.”

Dandy nudged him again. “Look at you sweet-talking. One of these days you’re going to become an actor after all.”

“Wasn’t acting,” Geralt mumbled against Dandy’s skin. “I meant it.”

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.” Dandy pressed a kiss onto the top of his head and let out a mock-exasperated huff. “You know, if I didn’t love being able to just kiss you whenever I want now, I would have said it’s a shame that you already told me that you love me too.”

Geralt grunted quizzically.

“I’m just saying, I could have used this dandelion to wish for you to love me. That would have been a good wish.”

“What are you going to wish for instead?”

“I’m not telling. Wishes don’t work when you say them out loud.”

With that, Dandy took a deep breath and blew the dandelion seeds off into the wind. Some of them got caught in Dandy’s hair and Geralt brushed them off.

It wasn’t until he saw them drifting off with the breeze, that he remembered a different dandelion, lifetimes ago.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes snapping from the now barren dandelion in Dandy’s hand to his face. It couldn’t have been that simple…could it?

A dandelion flying off while Geralt begged Jaskier to open his eyes and look at him again... Could a simple wish have done this? Geralt had made too many wishes in his lifetime and only the twisted ones had come true, even if just for a short time, always hurting Jaskier in the process.

Why would a witcher be granted this? Why, after having set a Djinn on Jaskier, after wishing for Destiny to take him off his hands, why would Geralt be given this second chance, being trusted with Jaskier’s life again?

A lifetime of pain and misery, of learning that nothing came easy in life but death and heartbreak, had taught Geralt that this couldn’t be, that it was too simple. And yet, Dandy leaned his head against Geralt’s, having so easily accepted the truth and still being by Geralt’s side, as if it really could be that simple.

Perhaps, it wasn’t all that impossible.

It took Geralt embarrassingly long, before he finally asked why the hats were so important to Dandy. If he was being honest, he had never put much thought into why he was wearing them so often. The only times he had actively thought about them was when they were big enough to nearly shield Dandy’s face from view fully.

As it turned out, that was exactly their intended reason.

“While I have been told that I have the most gorgeous face –“ Dandy began in a teasing and over the top tone, but Geralt let out a hum of sincere agreement that made a smile flicker across Dandy’s face.

“Geralt! Don’t interrupt me by being all sweet,” he chided and swatted in Geralt’s general direction. “I’m trying to tell you something important.”

Geralt hummed again, this time encouraging Dandy to keep talking.

“It’s just that sometimes it’s a bit hard to keep making facial expressions. I mean, I learned them all when I started acting. I can give appropriate reactions with my face and I love doing it, but sometimes it can be really exhausting. Of course some things come just natural, but there are some expressions that I have to put effort in. I can’t just mimic what other people do, I always have to remember what my face needs to do and … I don’t know. It’s hard sometimes. With the hats I can hope that I can hide my face enough to not react falsely or do it to a lesser extend without appearing rude.”

“You don’t have to do that around me,” Geralt said. He reached up until his hand came to rest against the brim of the hat. He hesitated, waited until Dandy gave a small nod, before pulling the hat off, brushing his knuckles softly against Dandy’s cheek as he did so. “I don’t mind. I just want you to be comfortable. You have the most beautiful smile, but I don’t want it, if it’s exhausting for you.”

“I – thank you, Geralt.”

“You have nothing to thank me for.” Geralt’s lips twitched. “I guess I never told you, but I don’t change my expressions much either. At least not in a way that people notice.”

Images of the eyes Yarrow had painted flashed through his mind, the miniscule details only noticeable for those who had known Geralt for a long, long time.

“Oh?” Dandy perked up. “What expression do you have on your face most of the time then? Are you looking at me with dreamlike adoration? Are you smirking like you’re mentally insulting everyone around you all the time? Are you staring forlorn into the distance, being all dramatic?”

Geralt snorted.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said. “You - Jaskier used to call it my ‘scary face’.”

Dandy barked out a laugh. “Oh no, my dear. As much as it pains me to say this, but Jaskier was an idiot. I’m sorry to tell you, but if I ever said this, I was dead wrong. There’s no way you could ever be scary, even if you tried.”

In that moment, Dandy’s description of Geralt looking at him in dreamlike adoration was closer than Geralt would ever admit.

“Dandy?”

“Hmm?”

“You don’t remember your past lives, do you? You don’t remember exactly who you used to be?”

“No.”

“But you still trust me.”

“Of course I do.”

“It’s not just dandelions.” Geralt scowled up at the trees that forced him to remember the passing of time. “Leaves turn brown in autumn.”

Dandy brushed a leaf that had fallen onto his head away and crushed it between his fingers, lips twitching up at the sound. “I like how crunchy they get.”

Geralt smiled and watched Dandy shuffle through a pile of leaves, all the while grinning like a child and telling Geralt to come join him.

Geralt didn’t have the heart to tell Dandy that he hated the fall. It meant that winter would come far too soon.

“You should go,” Dandy told him, for what felt like the tenth time that day.

“I want to stay.”

Dandy sighed and rolled over in bed, so that his back wouldn’t be pressed against Geralt’s chest anymore, but he’d be able to embrace him instead.

“I know. And I want you to stay.” He placed a kiss against Geralt’s chest. “But you should go see your family. They must be worried about you. You have to show them that you are still alive and not still torturing yourself over things you can’t control.”

“What about your family?” Geralt countered. “The troupe, I mean. Won’t the winter be hard for you without protection?”

Dandy buried his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck. “Of course it will. But we’ll be fine. It’s possible that I exaggerated a little when I told you how dangerous the roads are for us.”

Geralt’s brows drew together. “You didn’t. I fought the skullwarg, remember?”

Dandy hummed, a pained little noise. “You wouldn’t have had to do that if you had been safe in your witchers’ keep.”

“I told you I’d get hurt again for you.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

Geralt’s hand came up to play with Dandy’s hair, brushing it out of his lover’s forehead and pressing a kiss against the crown of his head.

“I can’t leave you,” he said, half muffled against Dandy’s hair. “I can’t risk you getting hurt while I’m away.”

“Nothing is going to happen.”

“You can’t promise that.”

Dandy sighed. “Of course I can. If it makes you feel any better, I can write my parents and ask them if we could stay with them for the winter. It will be a bit awkward performing for them, but they would definitely let us stay and perform until we wanted to leave.” Dandy snuggled even closer. “And when spring comes, we’ll be right there waiting for you to join us again.”

Geralt let out a long breath. It was the perfect solution. They would both get to spend the winter with their respective families and Dandy and the troupe wouldn’t have to worry about the cold or being short on supplies. And yet…

“I still don’t like it.”

“I know. But promise me you’ll think about it.”

Geralt had never been good at saying goodbye. It had taken him years to allow Jaskier to hug him when they split for winter. More often than not, the idea that someone liked Geralt enough to care if he just disappeared without goodbye, hadn’t even occurred to him. Until Jaskier had made it abundantly clear that he very much cared.

Still, there was a difference between hugging one bard goodbye and saying goodbye to a whole group of affectionate players.

Thankfully, most of them were satisfied with just nodding or waving at Geralt. Mika and Kara clapped him on the shoulder and Nadine pulled him into a tight embrace, telling him sternly to take care of himself.

Dandy, of course, embraced him too, much warmer and long enough that Geralt began to suspect he would stay like this for the rest of the day if no one intervened. So Geralt did, by pulling Dandy towards him and pressing a soft kiss against his lips.

And another. And another.

“I’m going to miss doing this,” he said in -between kisses, feeling Dandy smile into the next kiss.

“I’m going to miss you.”

“You don’t have to,” Geralt said, brushing his thumb over Dandy’s cheek. “I could still stay.”

“No. I know you miss your family.”

He did. He really did, but –

“The winter will be long without you.”

“We’ll see each other again in spring.”

That dark, cold thing that had been half-asleep in Geralt’s stomach reared its ugly head again. “What if we won’t?”

What if something happens and I’m not there to protect you?

It went unsaid, but they both knew it was what Geralt was thinking.

“Then I’ll still find you again.” Dandy hesitated, before pulling something out of one of the many pockets of his ridiculously long leather coat and handed it to Geralt, who took it without thinking.

“What is this?” he asked, turning the thing, that was wrapped in one of Dandy’s shirts, in his hands.

“It’s a gift. You can open it when you miss me.”

Geralt had a feeling that he would have to open it not an hour after he watched the wagons disappear from view. Still, he resolved to keep it wrapped, at least until he reached Kaer Morhen.

After having travelled comfortably with wagons and a group, being alone again was harder than Geralt liked to admit. The forest floor he slept on were cold and hard and the occasional rooms he manages to rent at inns were too quiet without the troupe’s constant bustling and by now familiar heartbeats around him.

With every step he took further away from his newfound family, Geralt’s heart grew heavier and colder. More than once, when bitter winds bit into his skin, he thought about turning around and joining the troupe again.

All of those thoughts were washed away in a heartbeat, when he found the familiar walls of Kaer Morhen towering above him.

He urged Roach to go faster and once he reached the yard, he didn’t hesitate to jump of Roach and bring his brothers and Vesemir, who had approached him, into a hug.

It had been too long since he had seen his pack, too long since he had told them how important they were to him.

He hadn’t realised how much he had truly missed them, until he had become part of a family that was able to spend each day of the year together and talk and hug whenever they wanted.

The wolves only had the winter, but Geralt was determined to make the best of it.

Silently, as Eskel ruffled his hair affectionately and Lambert grumbled unconvincingly about the hug having gone on for far too long already, Geralt thanked Dandy and wished he got to hug his family like this as well.

Had Geralt thought he would look at Dandy’s gift immediately upon arriving, he was now proven wrong. True, he missed Dandy with all his heart and it happened increasingly often, that he would think about how he was going to tell Dandy all about the things he did this winter, but he didn’t miss him with the ache he had come to expect but with an excited anticipation of seeing him again in a few month’s time.

For now, he had enough to do, fixing the crumpling walls and ceilings or listening to what his brothers had gotten up to during the time they had been apart.

Still, Geralt looked at Dandy’s gift that remained wrapped safely in the shirt every evening, tempted to open it.

It wasn’t until a few weeks into his stay at the keep, that he couldn’t wait any longer.

His breath caught in his chest when he unwrapped the gift in the privacy of his own room at the keep. For a moment, he didn’t even register what he was holding, too overwhelmed by the feeling of the soft fabric of Dandy’s shirt. Almost reverently, he ran his fingers over the familiar fabric, imagining that it was Dandy he was touching instead.

He was certain that, had Dandy wanted to, he could have found something else to wrap the gift in. Paper or some cloth that wasn’t needed anymore. The fact that he let Geralt have this, made that warmth in his chest glow like a beacon.

It took more strength than he would like to admit, not to completely forego the actual gift and bury his face in the shirt, drowning in Dandy’s scent again, as if he was right here next to him in this too big, too empty bed.

But Geralt set the shirt aside, turning his attention to the thing it had concealed.

The corners of his lips tugged up. It was a notebook. Of course.

His thumb ran over the edges and the cover of the book, before opening it. Like with Yarrow’s sketchbook, there was a note in the front.

Geralt ran his finger over the bumps in the page, the way Dandy had taught him, despite being able to see the dots that made up the letters. It would have been easier to just rely on his eyes, but he didn’t regret asking Dandy to teach him the way he read it.

Reading the note took him frustratingly long, no matter how much he had practiced with Dandy. It had been easier when his lover was sitting right next to him, correcting him where he misread and pressing kisses against his skin when he made it through an entire line.

His fingers faltered after the first line and he had to force himself to keep reading.

This was no simple note. It was a letter.

‘Dearest Geralt,

It feels like forever since I promised I would write this for you, but I didn’t know how I should go about it. As it turns out, writing a sequel to a play with a climax that is apparently based on my old memories, is harder than I thought it would be. But I hope you’ll enjoy it still.

I know reading this script is still hard for you, so don’t worry about reading all of it, if it’s too much. Nadine promised that we would start rehearsing as soon as we reach my parent’s place, so you’ll probably get to watch a performance when you get back. I still wanted you to have this.

I know the text might be a bit personal. But it had to be. Now stop it with your ‘scary face’, love. I didn’t just write this because I wanted our beloved pirate and knight to become friends in a different lifetime. I did it, because I want the same for us. I want to be able to know that I will always find you and know to trust you.

So I will make sure that this will be our best known play. Every child will know this story and hopefully, when the time comes, the next me will know it as well and know to go looking for you. I am a smart man, I’ll be able to read between the lines, in any life.

I know this isn’t something you like to think about, but it’s important to me. I want to meet you again. I want to be able to hug you and kiss you again. In spring, every day of my life. And I will do everything I can to make sure that you won’t be alone in my next life either.

I love you.

Yours, forever,

Dandelion.’

Geralt’s fingers were shaking when he reached the end of the letter, needing to run them over the letters again and again until he could be sure of the meaning. And then he did it again, just to read the last words once more.

“I love you too,” he whispered into the emptiness of his room.

Despite Dandy’s understanding words and the amount of focus it took Geralt to read the script, he read it all. Not all in one go, of course, but whenever he had time between sparring with his brothers or repairing the walls, he pulled out the book and read.

At first Lambert had teased him for staring at and touching a seemingly empty notebook that was only filled with dots that didn’t make sense to Lambert, but soon, the teasing died out. It didn’t take long for Geralt to tell his family everything that had happened. It took even less time for Eskel to wrap him in a long, warm hug and hold him as tightly as he could, when Geralt began trembling as he recounted the way he had met Dandy.

However comforting Eskel’s hug was, it was nothing compared to the shock of Lambert’s reaction. The usually so abrasive witcher quieted down, his face softening with a hope Geralt hadn’t seen on him since he had heard the rumours of Aiden still being alive.

Lambert didn’t voice any of his thoughts, but for once, they were written plainly on his face. He hadn’t dared to hope that Geralt’s theories of reincarnation were correct and now he realised that he might be able to see his best friend again.

Over Eskel’s shoulder, they shared a long look. They didn’t hug, not yet. But when they all got drunk that evening, too overwhelmed with the revelations that year had brought, Lambert leaned into Geralt and thanked him with the most sincere voice, Geralt had ever heard him use, that he had found Jaskier again.

It took him nearly all winter to finish reading the script for the play. When the snow thawed and Geralt made his way down the mountain, his mind kept going back to the play.

To the two almost-friends who had found each other again in a different life, as a witcher and an actor, to become lovers, who would always find each other again, no matter how many lifetimes it would take.

He couldn’t wait to find Dandy again and take him into his arms again.

“Dandelion!” Geralt called out to him, as soon as he saw him.

Dandy turned to him so quickly that for a moment Geralt feared the ridiculous hat he was wearing would fall off.

Geralt ran towards him and pulled him into his arms.

“You’re safe.”

“I promised you I would be.” Dandy’s voice got muffled in Geralt’s neck and Geralt could feel his smile against his skin. “You sound happy.”

“I am. I am happy to have you back.”

“I missed you too, love.” Dandy’s hand came up to cradle Geralt’s head. “How did you like the play I wrote?”

Geralt didn’t answer. He just placed a hand beneath Dandy’s chin and tilted his head up to capture his lips in a kiss.

The first time the players performed the sequel Dandy had written, it was at Dandy’s coastal home, with the sound of the waves and the seabirds’ cries in the background.

Watching Dandy play the part of himself was an experience Geralt hadn’t been prepared for. It was one thing reading the script haltingly. It was another thing entirely, to have Dandy speak lines that Geralt had told him Jaskier had said before or make references to his previous lives as Geralt had recounted them. He put so much heart into this performance; it was impossible not to see how much it meant for him.

Watching the play, Geralt didn’t cry, but when he came to see Dandy after the performance, he could do nothing but bury his face in Dandy’s curls and tremble while Dandy rubbed soothing circles into his back.

The play wasn’t just good, it was a masterpiece, destined for renown.

For the first time, Geralt thought that Dandy’s plan might work, that somehow this play could transcend lifetimes and bring Dandy back to him when the inevitable happened.

“My genius, brilliant Dandelion,” he whispered, pressing kisses into Dandy’s hair. “I love you. I love you so much.”

Still, he prayed with all his heart that the inevitable wouldn’t happen for decades to come. He hadn’t had enough time with Dandy yet.

No amount of time would ever be enough.

Before they left the coastal town that Dandy called his home, Geralt went into town on his own while Dandy spent a last day with his parents. He didn’t know much about instruments, but he had heard Jaskier play often enough that he could recognise when a lute sounded nice.

It took most of the coin Geralt had saved from contracts he had taken on his way back to the troupe, but an hour later, he made his way back to Dandy with a lute case slung over his shoulder.

He wouldn’t give it to him just yet. It would be hard keeping it a secret from Dandy, partially because Geralt was sure Dandy would notice that Geralt wasn’t telling him something and partially, because Geralt couldn’t wait to see Dandy’s face when he would hold the lute in his hands for the first time. Nor could he wait to hear him play again.

But he had to be patient. This was supposed to be a gift for Dandy’s birthday and the anniversary of the day they had confessed. Though Geralt didn’t doubt that Dandy would appreciate the gift no matter when he received it, he was a dramatic actor at heart and he would love a grand gesture like that.

It was only a couple more months of waiting. Geralt could be patient. Nothing would be lost by waiting a little longer to give Dandy this gift.

The scratching of Dandy’s cane across the pavement might have grated on Geralt’s nerves had it come from anyone else, but like this, it created a soothing background noise when their conversation faded into comfortable silence. Which it barely did.

They had been travelling again for a couple of weeks until they had reached a town big enough that Nadine deemed it worthy of staying here for a while. Ever since the troupe had reached this new city, Dandy had been unusually jittery. When Geralt asked about the cause, Dandy just shrugged.

“Don’t know,” he said, pulling a face. “I guess it’s just nice being on the road again. Don’t get me wrong, visiting my parents was lovely, but I’m not used to staying in one place anymore and it’s been months – months! – since we’ve been out and about.”

Dandy tilted his head back, so the sun could reach his face, before he scrunched up his nose from the sudden heat and lowered his head again, so that his feathered hat with the wide brim would give him shade once more.

A fond feeling welled up in Geralt. Gently, he took Dandy’s free hand and pressed a chaste kiss against his knuckles.

Without further ado, the two of them had separated from the other players, most of which were stretching their legs or taking care of the horses and wagons they had left outside the city walls for the time being, while Nadine went to speak to the alderman and negotiate the price for them being allowed to set up their stage in the town square.

Geralt was content letting Dandy tug at his hand and accompany him to make sure he wouldn’t get lost.

Or rather…he would have been content doing so, if it weren’t for that strange feeling of vague familiarity this place emitted. It wasn’t impossible that Geralt had been here before, years or decades ago. Cities changed, after all, and Geralt had often made a point of spending as little time as possible inside city walls, unless it was strictly necessary. After living for as long as he had, places tended to blur together.

Still, the sense of unease – a prickling chill at the back of his neck telling him that this place was important somehow - didn’t leave him.

He tried to distract himself by listening to Dandy’s chatter but even Dandy quieted down uncharacteristically, the longer they spent walking around.

Geralt didn’t understand, until they reached the town square. He stopped dead in his tracks, staring with wide eyes across the space, his heart picking up the pace, like a rabbit running for its life.

He knew this place.

“We need to go,” he said hoarsely.

“What? Why?”

He had been here before. Decades ago. Though last time he had seen this town square, it had been tumultuous, filled with terrified screams and people scrambling to get away. Away from Roach, the cockatrice head fastened to her saddle – and the artist, who had brought her here.

“Geralt?” Dandy asked concerned, when Geralt didn’t reply.

This was where Yarrow had lived. Where he had died.

Geralt’s blood ran cold and his hands began to tremble uncontrollably.

“Geralt, you’re scaring me.” Dandy’s hand tightened in his, but all Geralt could see was Yarrow being dragged away by guards. All he could hear was Yarrow’s voice that had been so small and lonely, echoing in that cell. All he could smell was the stench of sickness that had clung to the place where Yarrow had waited for Geralt, only to die thinking that Geralt had abandoned him.

“We have to leave,” Geralt repeated, unable to form any other words.

Still, Geralt remained frozen to the spot, until Dandy tugged at his hand, tearing him out of his spiralling thoughts.

Geralt moved, leading Dandy back as quickly as he could, all but fleeing this place. He didn’t take the route they had taken to get here but the more direct route, the one he had walked before, when he had run after Roach and the drunk thief who had attempted to steal her.

People stared at them and began whispering, as they hastened past them.

The inn. There was the inn. This was where Yarrow had waited for him, where Geralt had let him down. Where he had let him die.

That was when he heard the first shout. Angry murmurs that had followed them here, culminated in one shout, which cracked through the air like a whip.

“Get out of here, mutant!”

Another voice chimed in, shushing the first one. “Shut up, don’t make the witcher angry. Don’t you know what happened to the last man who pissed him off when he was here?”

Geralt came to a skittering halt, nearly making Dandy lose his balance at the unexpected stop. His head whipped around to the woman who had just spoken up. She didn’t look much older than Dandy, maybe by a couple of years, and her hair hung down her back in a long braid. She returned his look with wide, terrified eyes.

Geralt hadn’t known. He- he hadn’t thought that people remembered him here.

“What?” He asked, voice carefully blank. “What happened to the last man who pissed me off?”

The woman swallowed, her eyes darting around to the group of people who started to gather around them, lured in by the commotion.

“You killed him,” she said uncertainly. “Bewitched him somehow so he couldn’t leave your horse and then he – he died, right there.” She pointed a shaky finger at the inn. “Please, witcher, just leave us. We don’t want your curses and misfortune here.”

Geralt reeled back. Was that what people said about him? That he had killed Yarrow?

His heart sank. They weren’t wrong, were they?

“Take that back!” Dandy’s shout, sudden and angry, made Geralt flinch. “Geralt wouldn’t do that! Right? Geralt, tell them.”

It was impossible to breathe, to form words. He had done it. In a way he had bewitched Yarrow, had somehow bound Jaskier’s life to his. Had made Dandy fall in love with him.

Jaskier had died. And Yarrow had died.

Geralt’s hand in Dandy’s became numb. He could do nothing to defend himself, as more and more people joined the first man, hurling shouts and insults at Geralt.

Some of them were old enough that they might have been children during that fateful Belleteyn Geralt had spent here, remembering only the terror they had felt and the destruction the chaos had caused. But most people appeared younger, though no less spiteful.

Geralt was no stranger to how rumours worked. Stories and words held greater power than any sword, Jaskier had used to say. Rumours could turn into legends; stories of a vengeful witcher who would terrorise and curse every town he came across.

Those words cut into Geralt like daggers, tearing at his heart and mind like claws.

Decades had been enough to turn the story of an unwanted artist that had died waiting for his friend into a cautionary tale, a reason to shun witchers, an excuse to be as brutal as the townsfolk pleased.

Throughout all the shouts, Dandy stood beside him, never letting go of Geralt’s hand. He didn’t stop defending Geralt with his words.

Dandy couldn’t see the first stone flying through the air.

Geralt didn’t see who had thrown it. It didn’t matter. He barely noticed it landing hard against his shoulder. All he could see was the stone grazing Dandy’s hat, taking it right off.

It was too close. The stone had come so dangerously close to hitting Dandy in the head.

Within a heartbeat, Geralt pushed himself in front of Dandy, shielding him from any more harm. He bared his teeth, uncaring that it only perpetuated the rumours these people already believed, spurned by hatred and fear.

A sharp cry came from somewhere in the crowd, but when Geralt’s eyes snapped to the woman with the braid that had cried out, she wasn’t looking at Geralt in fear. Her eyes were trained on Dandy, who did his best to push past Geralt and stand beside him again.

“It’s him,” she whispered, blanching as if she’d seen a ghost. “That’s…that’s the one who died.”

She pointed a trembling finger at Dandy. “It’s him! I saw him as a child and he’s…”

“The witcher brought him back!”

Gasps and curses went through the crowd, some staggering back in fear, others stiffening, their hands clenching as if readying for a fight.

“He’s dishonouring the dead!”

“Filthy mutant!”

“We don’t want your kind here!”

“You’ve brought enough death to this city!”

For every insult, Dandy shouted something back, but Geralt couldn’t hear a word he was saying. All he could think of was that he needed to get Dandy away, make sure he was safe.

But Dandy wouldn’t budge. No matter how Geralt pleaded with him to leave, Dandy stood his ground, refusing to leave until he hadn’t convinced these people that Geralt wouldn’t kill anyone who didn’t deserve it.

Geralt’s pulse was racing, his hands were clammy and he couldn’t fucking focus! At the edge of his vision, he saw some people running to the stables, saw them emerging wielding shovels and pitchforks.

“Dandy, we have to go. Now.” He grabbed Dandy’s arm, pulling him away.

“No, Geralt, let go off me, I’m not done here yet –“

“The witcher is going to kill him again!” The cry was accompanied by a stone hitting Geralt square in the head.

Sharp pain erupted on his brow, blood dripping into his eyes.

The mob came closer, shouting and waving their improvised weapons, stinking of mindless fury.

Geralt pulled Dandy back, but Dandy thrashed in his grip.

“He’s not hurting me, you idiots!” He yelled. “He is the kindest-“

The people didn’t hear. Geralt saw it in their eyes, the terror and anger turning into thirst for blood.

One man rushed forward with a cry on his lips. Geralt’s blood ran cold. He yanked Dandy back at the same time that Dandy twisted in his grasp and finally managed to stand before him, assuming a fighting stance.

Ice filled Geralt’s chest, his lungs, his mind. It had been he who had taught Dandy this stance. He was the reason why Dandy was now filled with the hubris of believing himself able to stand his ground and fight against those people.

Geralt tried to yank him back, but it was too late.

Dandy never saw the pitchfork coming that pierced his gut with a sickening squelch.

“No!”

Geralt’s cry of anguish was louder than the shouts of the mob. Blood rushed in his ears and he saw Dandy gasp for breath, his sightless eyes wide and his lips forming silent words.

Time stood still. The charging men faltered as Geralt’s cries roared through the street. The stench of fear spiked through the air, but Geralt spared the attackers no glance. He couldn’t tear his eyes off Dandy.

Dandy, whose legs gave out from under him without warning. Geralt caught him, held him as tightly as he could.

“Dandy! Dandy, no, stay with me.” He pressed his hand against Dandy’s stomach. Something sickeningly sticky and wet drenched Dandy’s coat. Geralt’s hand came back red. “No, no no! You’re going to be fine, you hear me? I won’t let you die, I won’t!”

“Geralt-“ Dandy gasped, his voice trembling and the nauseating smell of salt and iron making it impossible to think.

Without hesitating, Geralt picked Dandy up, cradling him in his arms.

His eyes were blazing when he turned, people shying away from him, parting in fear to let him pass.

Geralt knew what they saw. In this moment, he looked exactly like what they had feared. Blood smeared across his skin, a snarl showing his teeth and burning eyes that promised that if they didn’t let him go to take care of Dandy, there would be more bloodshed this day.

A healer. They needed a healer. Geralt hadn’t been fast enough with Yarrow, but he could save Dandy. There still was time. He could do it. Dandy would make it.

Geralt had heard of witchers who had died from wounds caused by pitchforks.

Dandy felt so small in his arms, so breakable.

His blood didn’t stop gushing out of the wound. Geralt needed to stop the bloodflow!

He cursed, coming to an abrupt halt. As gently as he could, he set Dandy to the ground, but it wasn’t careful enough, making Dandy cry out as the motion jostled him.

He pillowed Dandy’s head in his lap and let go of him to shrug off his own shirt, ripping it into strips to bandage Dandy with.

It wouldn’t be enough. It had to be enough!

Dandy whimpered at the loss of contact, his free hand blindly reaching out for Geralt, while the other was gripping his cane so tightly as if his life depended on it.

“Geralt!” He sounded so afraid, his voice garbled by pain. “Geralt!”

Just his name, over and over, as if there was nothing more important to Dandy. As if he wasn’t fighting for his life, because Geralt had been too slow, too reckless freezing like that and too stupid to realise where they were before it had been too late.

“I’m here,” he croaked out, as he tore Dandy’s shirt open, revealing the wound.

His stomach churned. It was too deep. There was no hope the pitchfork had missed everything vital. Still, Geralt pressed his shirt against it, trying desperately to stop the blood, even though he knew it was useless. Even if he were able to stop the blood, the pitchfork had caused to much internal damage. It was a cold certainty, that the desperate part of his mind couldn’t accept.

“I’m here, Dandy. I’m not going to let you die.”

Dandy’s hand found his. Geralt watched in horror, as it too turned red from blood as he tried to pry Geralt’s hand off.

“No, Dandy, stop. I need – I need to save you-“

“Geralt…” Dandy’s wild and panicked expression made way for the smallest of smiles. “Kiss me.”

“I cant – I can’t lose you.” Geralt ignored Dandy’s attempts to get him to stop, putting even more pressure on the wound. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.” Dandy’s breath came in rattles. “Kiss me. Please.”

It was that plea that made Geralt falter. He had to save Dandy, he had to –

The one hand that Dandy held, stayed on the wound, pressing down on it even now, even though Geralt knew it was too late. His other hand went up to cup Dandy’s cheek, smearing a red handprint over it.

His eyes prickled and he didn’t know whose tears he could taste on his tongue as he leaned down to press his lips against Dandy’s in hopeless desperation.

He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see Dandy’s bloodied skin, so he could imagine for even a moment that Dandy wasn’t bleeding out in a dark alley, as if the past year never happened; as if Geralt had been too late to save him that first time.

All he focussed on was the copper taste of Dandy’s lips beneath his as Dandy smiled into the kiss.

Then, Dandy’s lips stopped moving against his. When Geralt pulled back, he felt no breath ghosting against him.

“Dandelion?” He whispered, broken and scared like a little child calling out for his mother, knowing she won’t come back for him.

The whisper was drowned out by the clatter of Dandy’s cane as it slipped out of his limp hand.

#reincarnation au #geraskier #mcd #my writing #fic #witcher fic #fanfic #geralt #blind!jaskier #jaskier #witcher #sorry

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scrivenerofmossflower · 6 years

Text

Martin of Mossflower Chapter 7

Word Count: ~2.3k read on ao3 second in the series Martin of Mossflower. Beta-ed, as always, by @raphcrow. Bless and keep her through all her endeavors. Chapter Summary: That little niggling doubt that things are going a bit too easily? Yeah, Martin needs to start listening to that a bit more closely.

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The Rambling Rosehip Players were loath to abandon their cart, though Rowanoak and the hare Ballaw, their leaders, recognized the necessity of it, especially once Martin promised some woodlanders could be sent for it once everyone was safe. This did not prevent the fussy squirrelmaid Celandine from complaining, but as long as she kept her voice down, Martin didn’t care. Not only were Tsarmina’s forces abroad in Mossflower and looking for them, but there was always Argulor to watch out for.

Still, very little could keep Gonff serious. He and Martin played off each other expertly, keeping the mood light and bringing smiles to the somber looking mice. They told tales of some of their sillier exploits against the guards of Kotir, like the time Martin had managed to lead a patrol blundering right into a patch of stinging nettles, or when Gonff convinced a particularly dimwitted guard that if he covered himself in honey and dust, he wouldn’t catch the sniffles that had been going around the barracks at the time. They kept a good pace, and had reached the banks of the River Moss by mid-afternoon.

Ballaw and Rowanoak called a halt, and rations were distributed for a quick lunch. Nothing that needed to be cooked, of course, but bread and cheese and the odd apple were welcome after a long, hard walk.

Several creatures soaked their footpaws in the river, including much of the Rambling Rosehip Players and some of the younger mice. Martin sat further up the bank with the elderly mouse, Abbess Germaine. He scanned the opposite bank and the tree-line, keeping an eye out for the glint of sunlight on chainmail or spear blades. He’d relaxed considerably since they’d reached the wide river without incident. They could expect to meet with Timbal at any moment, but it was better to be watchful, just in case. “You’ve said you were traveling to Brockhall deliberately, ma’am, but where do you come from? Why are you all dressed in robes?” Martin asked, indulging his curiosity.

“We came up from the South, from a wonderfully peaceful place called Loamhedge. Ours is a healing order, one dedicated to preserving knowledge and helping others. But even we could not heal the sicknesses that have begun to spread in the south…” The Abbess trailed off, the slightest sob in her voice.

“Why come to Brockhall? Do you know Bella?” Martin asked, hoping to distract her from what were clearly painful memories.

Germaine smiled, and patted his paw, recognizing the attempt and thanking him for it. “Indeed I do, young Martin. Bella is an old friend of mine, from very long ago. We gave her shelter during her wanderings for nearly a season, as I recall. When she left, she promised that if ever I was in need she would aid me in whatever way she could, and extracted a promise from me in return that someday I would visit her in her ancestral home of Brockhall.”

“Aye, that sounds very like Bella,” Martin agreed with a fond smile. “She did the same for my own tribe, after Verdauga’s forces razed our old home. I was born in Brockhall.”

Rowanoak, who had been sitting nearby, nodded. “I thought as much, though of course I couldn’t be sure. You look very like your father, Martin.”

Martin spun around so quickly he nearly fell from his perch upon the rock, staring at the badger with wide eyes. “My father? You knew my father?” Sayna spoke of Luke the Warrior often, as did Vurg, but the chance for new stories was irresistible.

She smiled and dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I did indeed, though only briefly. I know Bella, too, from her wanderings—I introduced her to Barkstripe, in fact. Several seasons back, the troupe and I wintered in Brockhall. You would have been far too young to remember now, but Luke spent many a long evening in front of the fire with us, sharpening arrows and listening to us talk.”

Wide-eyed, Martin was about to ask more, but he was suddenly pulled from the rock by his footpaw. He yelped and flailed as his attacker dragged him into the water. He was almost instantly released, only to come up sputtering beside a laughing Gonff. He dived at his friend without a second thought, knocking him under and sending them both rolling in the shallows. The second time they broke cover for air, it was to laughter ringing along the banks. Gonff grinned and waved, and Martin turned just in time to see a pretty young mousemaid wave back.

“Showoff,” Martin sing-songed just loudly enough for Gonff to hear, and got splashed for the comment. He laughed and splashed back, and they made their way back to the bank to sun themselves dry.

“Up you get, young feller,” Ballaw said, chuckling as he hauled them each in turn back onto dry ground. “Quickest way to cool off, I grant y’ that, but perhaps we ought to keep movin’, wot?”

Gonff accepted his hat from the pretty mousemaid with a gallant bow, presenting her in turn with a sprig of crowfoot he’d plucked on the way back. She tucked the bloom behind her ear with a small smile. “An excellent idea, matey.”

“We ought to head east along the bank,” Martin offered, wringing out the edge of his tunic as best as he could. “Our friend, Timballisto, went ahead of us to bring an escort, just in case. We’re sure to meet with him soon.”

Martin retrieved his staff from the flat stone he’d been sitting on, and took up a position on the side closer to the forest, midway down the line. Ballaw and Rowanoak led—they had some familiarity with this area as they had been to Brockhall before. Until they needed to turn off into the forest, the path was straightforward enough that Martin needn’t worry overmuch.

At the moment, he was a good deal more interested in finding out more about the pretty mousemaid Gonff was smitten with. She seemed just as taken with Gonff, and Martin quickly found out that she was named Columbine, had been with the Loamhedge order for the last few seasons, and was quite accomplished in healing, often serving as assistant and apprentice to Abbess Germaine, their master healer. Martin encouraged her interest, telling her about times Gonff had snuck out into the woods to fetch various healing herbs, as well as some of his more daring escapades, including the clever ruse he had pulled last winter, hiding right under the guards’ noses to break him out of Kotir.

He left Gonff and Columbine flirting and trotted towards the front of the column to walk again with the abbess. She glanced at him with twinkling eyes. “It is very important, of course, for relationships to be forged between our order and the woodlanders,” she said, “especially if we hope to build a permanent home here.” They exchanged smiles tinted with mischief. It was a relief to know that Abbess Germaine approved, though Martin couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t. It was Gonff, after all. Any mousemaid would be lucky to settle with him.

Martin was just starting to ask Abbess Germaine about her plans when he saw the gleam of sunlight on metal from the corner of his eye. Acting on instinct, he threw himself at the abbess, knocking them both to the ground. A spear whistled over their heads, burying itself in the ground in the middle of the column.

“Ambush!” Martin hollered, springing upright again as the rest of the volley flew out of the woods. “We’ve been caught, ambush!” Several spears found targets among them. At least one Loamhedge mouse fell, and Martin felt his blood boil at the injustice of it. These were peaceful mice, dedicated to healing and helping—they weren’t woodlanders, part of this conflict!

Rowanoak scooped Germaine up with one paw, placing her on her broad shoulders and keeping her steady. “Run! Down the bank!” Her bellow carried farther than Martin’s had by dint of larger lungs and stage training. The Loamhedge mice broke rank and dashed pellmell along the riverbank.

“They’re in the woods to our side and behind us,” Ballaw reported. “C’mon, young warrior, discretion is the better part of valor, don’tchy’know!” Martin hated to retreat, especially from soldiers of Kotir, but he had promised Timballisto he would run—though he, Ballaw, and Gonff did stay to the back to cover their retreat.

Fates be praised that they had noticed the ambush early, and that Tsarmina wasn’t a tenth of the tactician her father had been. They moved too quickly for the slower, armor-laden soldiers to outflank them.

The next few minutes were a blur as they raced for their lives. The soldiers were catching up when they rounded a bend to see a platoon of otters bounding forward to meet them, Timballisto among them. They broke rank, allowing the mice and minstrels to pass through, before closing again, smoothly flowing together to present a united front, double-pointed javelins held at the ready.

Skipper clapped a heavy paw to Martin’s back as he reached them, not taking his eyes off the regrouping Kotir forces. “Good job gettin’ ‘em here, matey,” he said, teeth bared in a ferocious grin. “We’ll take it from ‘ere.”

“Not likely,” Martin panted, turning to join the ranks of otters. Gonff joined him, and they quickly fell in to where they’d most frequently practiced with the crew during their drills. Gonff took his place in the second row of sling-beasts, as he lacked Martin’s proficiency with the staff, while Martin stood in the back rank, in reserve for close combat. Guessing at the form Timballisto’s protest was about to take, Martin interrupted. “Rowanoak and Ballaw know the way, now that they’re closer. Rowanoak’s an old friend of Bella’s, and the troupe has been to Brockhall before. They already knew where they were going. We’ll be more help here.”

Any further argument was curtailed by Tsarmina herself, striding forward through her soldiers. She was dressed in armor, her helmet’s visor lifted and with slits for her ears. A green velvet cape, trimmed with a black ribbon stitched with green, evilly slitted eyes, swirled behind her. Martin supposed it was meant to look intimidating, but really all he could think was how incredibly impractical such a fancy cloak was in the middle of a forest, let alone in the middle of a fight.

She lifted one paw and let a single claw slide free as she pointed. “Those mice are trespassers within my domain, and it is within my rights to do with them as I wish,” she said imperiously. “You are rebels to the true ruler of Mossflower, and I will not hesitate to kill you if you do not let me pass now.”

Skipper stood at ease, a loaded and ready sling dangling from one brawny paw. “Go and chase your mangey tail, pussycat.”

Tsarmina hissed in fury, and raised one paw. A row of archers immediately behind her began fitting arrows to bowstrings, but Skipper was quicker off the mark. Like their commander, the otters already had hefty river pebbles locked into their slings, ready for the order. It came without hesitation.

“First rank o’ slings, fire!”

They ripped off a clattering volley, many of the stones striking the paws of the archers, or finding targets deeper in the soldiers’ ranks. One stone bounced off Tsarmina’s helmet with a loud clang. Martin grinned.

“I imagine her skull’s ringing a bit,” Gonff chuckled from in front him.

“Like a bell,” Martin said. “Careful, here they come!”

Clutching at her head, Tsarmina yowled in fury. “Charge! Charge the blasted rebels! Kill them!”

The soldiers had been slower to organize than the crew, but proper ranks didn’t matter in pitched battle. The second rank of slings got off another volley before they fell back, allowing the lancers forward. The two sides clashed in a flurry of fur and blood. An otter running beside Martin went down, a spear through his gut.

Martin didn’t think about it, throwing himself into the fight with a ferocity that startled him. He lashed out with his staff, targeting paws and unprotected necks, driving the end into chests and stomachs, winding opponents. He tried to keep track of Gonff, but soon lost track of him in the chaos of battle.

It almost came as a relief to fight face-to-face, to literally strike back at the regime that had oppressed him his whole life. He blocked a stab that would have lamed Brook, though it meant the spearpoint lodged in the grain of his staff instead. He shattered the stoat’s paw in retaliation. A step to the left brought him opposite a weasel in a captain’s cloak named Thicktail. For once the rank meant some level of competency, and he blocked Martin’s first strike.

His staff splintered, leaving Martin clutching two halves of ashwood. The roar of battle faded for a moment as Martin froze, his eyes fixed on the shattered wood. “Gotcha, mouse!” Thicktail snarled, raising his spear to thrust at him.

The world surged back into motion.

Martin ducked away from the initial thrust, flinging one half of his staff at the weasel’s nose. It collided as Martin brought the other half to hold double-pawed, grip shifting down to clutch at one end. With a yell, he lashed out, the weight of the ash thudding into Thicktail’s gut. He parried another slash from the spear, and battered away at the captain. Slash, thrust, slash, slash again, parry again—Martin drove Thicktail back and down, batted the seeking spearpoint away. His teeth were bared in a fierce grin as he pursued his enemy—his blade may be too dull to slay him quickly, but he could still slay him—

“Cut and run, crew!” Skipper’s bass bellow rang above the din of the fight, and Martin found himself gripped from behind. He struggled, writhing as he was lifted bodily from the ground and away from his enemy. What was Skipper doing, taking him away from his opponent? “Deep breath, messmate, we’re going for a swim!” Skipper gasped into his ear.

Martin had just enough sense to obey the order before the entire crew bounded into the river, the icy waters closing over his head and dousing the last of his battlerage.

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#redwall #Martin of Mossflower #my fic

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