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The witcher and Temerian commander had just met privately in the woods surrounding the port town to discuss Foltest’s death at the hands of the king-killer, an unknown witcher and dangerous rogue variable for a man in a position such as Vernon Roche. Truthfully, Geralt dreaded the ordeal: he had long since tired of nobility, and as far as he was concerned, the risk of assassination came with the job. But it was far too late for any of that, as Geralt was already undeniably involved with the slaying and fleeing now would put his loved ones at greater risk.
More than anything, Geralt needed to find Cirilla and help her however he could, even if that meant keeping his distance as long as he knew she’d be safe. But for now, Geralt had to deal with Roche and the man’s rather annoying efforts to keep Scoia’tael influence at bay while Nilfgaard lurked over their shoulders.
The two men stepped into Flotsam Port’s main square: its central portside space had been transformed from the comparable serenity Geralt had left behind at dawn when he rose to meet Roche outside the city. Dozens of townsfolk were chanting; the pair had heard the crowd’s roar outside the city walls, though now that Geralt thinks of it, no one had passed them on the road to report what lay in store for them ahead. Geralt’s senses were overwhelmed by the commotion but he could feel a distinctly familiar cut of fear through the crowd. He couldn’t leave his bard alone for a single morning, it seemed, as he sensed Dandelion’s palpable terror stronger than anything.
“Trouble,” Geralt insisted, “we need to regroup now .”
The square’s market stalls, with weighing equipment used for goods like grain and wool, now sported several figures atop its stage. Geralt’s heart sank, a chill running through his blood.
“Our informers,” muttered Roche grimly.
“Dandelion. And Zoltan,” Geralt’s mouth grew dry.
They were to be executed, with all the eyes of Flotsam upon them. He needed to act.
“No fighting, Geralt. These people are still loyal to Foltest, I’ll have you remember.”
A flash of anger ran through the witcher. So this is who I’m aiding in the war, a sneering voice in the back of his head supplied. Roche stood at the edge of the crowd as Geralt stepped forward, fingers twitching as they urged to draw his steel blade prematurely.
A desperate voice rang out over the crowd he was trying desperately to drown out, focus drawn to the guardsmen surrounding the stage.
“Geralt! Oh sweet Melitele, Geralt help!” he pleaded.
It was the voice of his bard, his ever-faithful traveling companion, the man who held his heart and now warmed his side no matter the meager sleeping arrangements. Geralt had been granted a second chance at his life, and he would choose to spend it much the same as his last: alongside those he loves, even if it’s what undoes him. Dandelion was no exception to this rule.
His lover was clearly distraught, but Geralt maintained a semblance of composure as he locked eyes with the guardsman. This was witchering, truly, as the man in front of him was more monster than the rock trolls he passed on his way to this uninspiring port town. The guard wasn’t even close to fit for duty, his breath reeking of cheap swill, his face red and blotchy from years of self-inflicted abuse.
“Step aside,” Geralt seethed, “I won’t let them hang.”
“Stay back, witch man. This doesn’t concern you.”
“I said, I won’t let them hang.”
“And I’m tellin’ you, stay back or you’ll join ‘em. The law says they hang.”
“What are the charges? Or do your townspeople not care why you hang people so long as they get a public spectacle?” Geralt couldn’t stop the venom from creeping into his voice or the snarl that revealed his unusually sharp canines.
“Colludin’ with the Scoia’tael. Bard’s hanging for debauchery.”
“What?”
“He’s sentenced to hang for debauchery,” the chainmailed guard repeated, “you heard me, witcher.”
“Is debauchery truly a punishable offense a stone’s throw from your brothel?”
The guardsman opened his foul mouth to respond but didn’t even get a chance before a voice cut over him.
“The guard’s no stranger to us, is he ladies?” a woman behind Geralt chimed in. He recognized her voice as the madam who rented their party a room the night before. She tried in vain to offer the men the establishment’s other services, until Dandelion had brushed her off gently but firmly. Sometimes the pair indulged, of course, but lately they had been so desperate for one another’s company that it didn’t so much as cross their minds.
“Quiet, Margot,” the guard hissed, eyes narrowed in her direction. “And you, mutant, piss off!”
This time, a man from the crowd objected. He had previously been making eyes at Margot, but the exchange drew his attention for a moment.
“Debauchery’s one of my favorite pastimes, guardsman, and I don’t want a noose placed round my neck for it!”
The guard shook his head and took a step toward Margot and her admirer threateningly.
“Stop the execution!” Geralt bellowed.
“The singer’s to hang, freak! Flotsam is a decent town, whores and witchers notwithstanding!” the guard spat.
Geralt didn’t have a turn to respond before the man over his shoulder renewed his objections.
“Margot’s a decent woman, guardsman! You’re the indecent one!”
The crowd erupted in shouts from all sides, their investment in humiliating a universally hated guard now outweighed the entertainment value of a public execution.
“I’ll not vouch for what I’ll do if you stand in my way! They hang today!”
“My ladies won’t serve you anymore, you cheap, cruel bastard! Should be you on that stage!”
“Last warning, Margot!”
Geralt stepped in front of the madam who had inched up to yell in the guard’s face.
“I’ve got this, ma’am,” he reassured, arm outstretched.
Geralt cracked his knuckles and cocked his head at the guard. The man shouted and launched his fists at the witcher without a second thought, but even without the aid of his potions or swords, Geralt was already a dozen steps ahead of the incompetent soldier who made the mistake of laying his hands on Zoltan and Dandelion.
The witcher sent a blast of Aard at the snarling man, knocking him cleanly to the ground. He landed a swift kick to the man’s torso and that was that, the pathetic guard retched into the dirt at their feet. Margot and her fervent supporter whistled and hollered in celebration.
Geralt’s attention snapped to the executioner himself: the man gestured to rile up the crowd and pulled the first lever that supported an elven woman, clearly one of Iorveth’s band. Shit. The witcher jumped aboard the gallows platform, engaging the shirtless yet still hooded man in a brawl.
The executioner was of heartier disposition than his compatriot; clearly he was chosen with care for his role as a man unafraid to dirty his hands, and probably one strong enough to drag the bodies away at the end of the day. As the man moved to land his first blow on the witcher, Geralt kicked at his calf, unbalancing the man and sending him face-first into the wood at their feet. He quickly recovered, but Geralt was quicker, dealing half a dozen hits to his bare stomach followed by a sharp left hook to the man’s jaw. Geralt used the momentum of a running start and a well-placed grasp on his throat to sprawl the man out on the platform yet again. The crowd cheered, but Geralt paid them no mind: he focused on several more guardsmen who pushed through the throng of commonfolk as he moved to stand defensively in front of Dandelion. Behind the line of soldiers trailed a large, bald man in what passed for fine dress in the port of Flotsam.
“What the arse fuck is going on here?” he barked, eyes locked with Geralt.
The drunken guard stumbled to his feet and wiped at the spit pooling from his mouth, “I-I’d like to report—”
“Out of my sight! Can’t even hang sodding bandits, imbecile!”
“And you!” he hollered at Geralt, “Hands off your sword! The scaffolding welcomes both speeches and hangings, so which will it be?”
“Are you in command here?”
Dandelion whimpered behind his witcher, both relieved at the witcher’s close proximity and terrified by the thick length of rope around his neck. Geralt felt him shift his weight nervously on the unstable platform.
“Aye, Bernard Loredo, whorehouse proprietor, commander of Port Flotsam. And who the hell are you?”
“Geralt of Rivia, the witcher,” he responded, arms crossed over his chest.
“Terrible choice of friends, witcher.”
“Release them.”
“As you wish, good ser,” Loredo quipped. He climbed the gallows stairs and pulled the next lever, dropping the elven man to his fate. No room for last words. Geralt had to work quickly or Zoltan’s demise would be next.
“Lucky for you, I’ve use for a witcher. Perhaps we can come to an understanding.”
Loredo turned to address the square. Geralt stood his ground firmly and gritted his teeth, daring him to make an attempt on Dandelion’s life. He was, admittedly, too far from Zoltan’s lever to be much use unless he did something very, very clever.
“Listen well, citizens of Flotsam: King Foltest lies dead. The Scoia’tael are almost certainly at fault in this heinous crime, and none of you are safe. My men will be distributing armaments today. If you can hold a weapon, I ask you to take it up as you prepare yourselves to avenge our fallen King. I command you to disband and await orders, this spectacle is over.”
Loredo shifted his attention to Geralt. “Let’s say I’m reconsidering the fates of your friends. For now. Come nightfall, I expect to see you at my estate. None of you are to leave town.”
The commander descended the stage without as much as a glance at the prisoners, but he smirked cruelly and leveled a gaze at Geralt.
“Ah, where are my manners? Welcome to Flotsam, witcher.”
Geralt scowled. Roche shrugged, having been of no use in the dispute. Geralt scowled deeper.
He swiftly unsheathed the serrated blade from his boot and made quick work of the rope around Zoltan’s neck first. Soon, the dwarf was free.
“We owe you, oh how we owe you witcher,” he remarked, pure relief on his face.
Geralt said nothing, turning to cut his lover loose. With the accursed rope littering the ground, their eyes met at last and Dandelion released a deep breath. Geralt frowned at the rope burns littering the bard’s lightly stubbled neck.
“I… they were really going to hang us, Geralt.”
The witcher moved to cut his companions’ hands free from where they were bound behind their backs.
“I didn’t mean to torch that watchtower, I swear my love.”
The confession forced a huff out of Geralt, who wondered when his bard even had a chance to do such a thing.
With a grim look to the pair of Iorveth’s agents he wasn’t able to save, the witcher bid them enter the inn.
“Could use a stiff drink,” Zoltan remarked.
Dandelion said nothing, too stunned and full of adrenaline to do much more than fidget with the cruel marks left on his wrists.
The four men had spoken intel and plans over a round of ale, “on the house” Margot had remarked with a wink as the same man from the square clutched at her ample hips. Dandelion remained unusually quiet, only breaking his silence to fill in the occasional gap in Zoltan’s stories, with an encouraging hand from his witcher resting inconspicuously on his thigh. The pair bid Roche and the dwarf farewell as they made halfhearted excuses and retired to their shared room.
“Are you alright?” Geralt asked when Dandelion stood motionless in the middle of the room, gaze faraway and contemplative.
He didn’t respond for a beat.
“Yes. Well, no. But yes,” he turned to look earnestly at his witcher.
“I’m sorry.”
“Just in shock. You’d think I’d be used to near-death experiences by now, with how frequent they are,” he replied, a twinge of sadness in his voice.
Geralt stepped closer and pulled the bard to his chest. A firm weight against his cheek, but also soft, with the dull and infrequent beat of his heart there to ground him. They stayed like that a moment, before Geralt pulled back to get a good look at the poet, honing in on his bruised neck where he slowly leaned in to place a delicate kiss.
“You were almost killed.” Kiss. “Because of me.” Kiss. “ Again. ” Kiss. He took the bard’s skin gently between his teeth, right above the long line of muscle in his neck.
“Yes, well,” Dandelion replied, voice rising an octave, “I wasn’t. I know you’ll always protect me, often to your own detriment.”
“Mm,” he hummed against his throat. Their proximity and the familiar weight of Geralt against him spurred something in Dandelion, who only longed to comfort his love.
“My brave witcher, putting yourself between me and that hideous garroter. How do you think Zoltan feels, knowing you left him exposed to better shield me?” Dandelion’s hands came up to rest in his witcher’s ashen hair. Clean, for once, as he had finally gotten his lover into a proper bath the evening before. The madam, Margot, knew the value of a hot bath, it seemed. He’d have to ask again tonight, she seemed pleased at Geralt putting that horrid guardsman in his place. If she wasn’t preoccupied with her new flame, that is.
“Would have gutted every guard in that bloody square to keep you safe,” he murmured, lips refusing to leave Dandelion’s skin.
“I know, my love, and gods know I will rip a hole through the spheres themselves if lady destiny tries to take you from me again. Was actually making decent progress on that when you came back to me, you should have seen the Oxenfurt antiquarian’s face at some of the tomes I was trying to track down.”
Geralt paused the path his mouth was trailing across the bard’s throat, resting his forehead atop the incriminating marks on his neck. Geralt’s arms sought to squeeze the life out of his lover, fingers clenched roughly at the back of his gambeson. If Dandelion didn’t know the witcher so thoroughly, he wouldn’t have believed the sob he muffled against his skin.
“Shh, love, I’m not going anywhere,” Dandelion cooed, fingers petting the witcher’s hair, “if anyone even thinks of separating me from you, after all we’ve been through, it will be the last thing they do.”
The men held each other, gently swaying until Dandelion felt wetness drip onto his neck. Geralt steeled himself with a long breath and raised his red-rimmed eyes, tears pooling at their corners.
“You frighten me, poet,” he confessed, voice breaking. “I have suffered for far longer than most people live, believing it was all I deserved. And somehow,” he sucked in a breath, tears threatening to spill over, “handing my heart to someone so very fragile is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done.”
At that, his tears did spill, replenishing the rivers that ran down his reddened cheeks. Dandelion quickly swept the tracks away with his thumbs, and again as more started to fall.
“My beautiful, sweet, perfect man. My heart. There’s a reason I’m the poet among us. You cannot truly know love without having known pain, and that knowledge makes the having all the sweeter. I am, as always, yours,” he smiled gently.
“Easier watching Ciri face her demons, at least I know we’ve prepared her the best we can.”
Dandelion snorted at that, mouth curled into a lopsided grin, “planning to beef me up with magic spinach too, witcher? I can’t say I object to the thought.”
Geralt shot a glare at the bard, as menacing of a look as he was capable of under the circumstances.
“But you. ”
“Me,” he replied, thumbs still tracing circles on the witcher’s cheeks, “go on, then.”
“You get targeted just based on who you are. You walk into towns with your head held high even as people stare daggers at you, just waiting for their chance to wring your neck.”
“We have that in common, I should think. It’s why I employ the services of a certain very muscular, very handsome bodyguard.”
Geralt’s brow furrowed, “Jaskier, you don’t—”
“Now hush, my dear,” he interrupted, “you have fretted long enough for us both for one day. I remain at your side, as there is no other place I would be, and I will not hear arguments to the contrary. I cannot hide who I am or who I love, no matter the consequences, and no matter the sweet names you call me with those honeyed, pleading kitten eyes.”
Geralt pouted, an expression rarely if ever shown to anyone including his lovers. If pressed, Dandelion would never admit that witchers could pout: it was an unspoken secret kept between them, something too intimate to make into verse.
“I’m a wily one, as you well know, hard to confine and even harder to get rid of,” the poet smiled warmly. “Now, how much time have we got before that brute Loredo calls you away from me?”
Geralt hid his face in Dandelion’s neck once more as he let the silence stretch on between them. He could hear commotion from the street below, but louder than that was the blood thumping in the man’s veins and the steady thud of his heart. His heartbeat was an anchor in the storm dancing around them and Geralt dared not to let it go, fleeting thing he knew it to be.
“You don’t have to pretend to be strong for me,” Geralt finally said.
“I’m not,” he replied brokenly, “I’m not pretending. I am strong.”
Geralt pulled back, something like pity shining hesitantly in his eyes.
“Don’t give me that look, Geralt. Regardless of who’s at fault for me being on the end of that rope, I would do it all again if it meant I’d end up right here, held by you, the greatest man I’ve ever known.”
Geralt grimaced at that, finding the absolution and praise difficult to accept. Pain he understood, pain was an inevitability of life on the path, but forgiveness? Unheeded trust?
“I don’t think I deserve you. But I want. I want to deserve you.”
Geralt pulled away, hands moving to meet Dandelion’s. He smiled gently and brought them up to his face, kissing the man’s knuckles in turn and then the rope marks around his wrists. Geralt rubbed them with reverence, and he knew he would spend many more hours kissing the marks after they faded, just as Dandelion loved to lavish attention on Geralt’s scars.
“You already do deserve me, love,” the bard replied, tears shining in his eyes, “and I will tell you so every single day until you believe me. If you’re quite finished self-deprecating, I’d very much like to reward my savior before he runs off with a dashing band of Scoia’tael rogues, a greasy racist nobleman, and the leader of the Temerian Blue Balls.”
“Blue Stripes,” Geralt snorted, finally cracking a smile.
“Yes yes, same thing,” Dandelion dismissed with a wave. “Now help me out of these thigh-high boots, they’ll take all afternoon to unlace on my own.”
“Why were you on the scaffold anyway? I heard three different excuses and it’s not like being seen in the brothel is a crime,” he asked as he unlaced and yanked on one of his bard’s ridiculous shoes. How he even found a cobbler to fulfill such a ridiculous order was beyond him.
“Ah,” Dandelion hesitated, heat rising in his cheeks. “The uh, the deplorable guard you tackled in my honor? He may have seen us yesterday.”
“Oh,” Geralt frowned.
“Yes, oh. Face buried in your lovely cunt on the balcony because someone didn’t want to scandalize dear Zoltan who, need I remind you,” Dandelion counted on his fingers, “obviously knows and watches us curl up to one another in our sleep.” With his boots defeated, he nearly pounced on the witcher to start on his many belts and buckles.
“Didn’t want to kick him from the room, already dressed for bed in naught but a nightshirt.”
“So, he storms out of the brothel, clearly frustrated as per dear Lady Margot’s testimony, and while you met up with Roche this morning he recognized my jaunty egret feather hat from where he saw it last between your ridiculously-muscled thighs.”
“A man who makes his own misery everyone else’s problem. Typical.”
“Maybe he’s just mad he can’t pull off a lovely little plum cap like I can,” the bard shrugged, “or maybe he has a deathly fear of herons, hard to say really. Zoltan tried to talk sense into the man and we both left the market in chains, you know how it goes.”
“What was that about burning down a watchtower?”
“I may have gotten into a spot of trouble waiting for you in this backwater town, love. I’m a magnet for trouble, can’t take me anywhere I’m afraid.”
Dandelion, finally free of his clothes, launched himself into Geralt’s lap, which earned him a gruff oof.
“Next time,” Geralt started as he grasped the offending hat and flung it to the other side of the room.
“Hey! The hat stays on, you brute!” Dandelion swatted Geralt’s freshly-revealed chest.
“Next time,” he repeated with a roll of his hips, “we send Zoltan on his way with some coin because I want you all. To. Myself,” Geralt punctuated, licking up Dandelion’s neck, with a hand cradling his head, eliciting a gasp from the man.
Geralt gripped his lover’s outer thigh and flipped Dandelion under him as smoothly as he could manage. As Geralt nuzzled his nose into the man’s ridiculous goatee, Dandelion threw his hand out on the bed to find a stray cushion or discarded garment to put under Geralt’s bad knee. The witcher moved his mouth to the bard’s deliciously stubbled corner of his jaw. He gently raised a broad hand up to his Adam’s apple, not squeezing, only holding it over the angry red-purple bruises blooming there.
“To think you owe your life to this little thing,” he began, thumbing the jut of his neck. “One tiny bone in this anxious neck, barely connected to anything at all. What would a pretty songbird be without his breath?”
“Still yours. Always yours,” he breathed out in a rush.
“Is this okay, Jaskier?” he asked, pulling back to evaluate the bard.
“More than, my witcher. ‘M just glad to have you in my arms,” he smiled, “you being on top of me isn’t too bad either.”
Geralt rolled his eyes fondly, he couldn’t bring himself to be truly annoyed. Even with his life on the line, death looming so close he could see the hollow sockets of its eyes, the bard was so very Jaskier. Geralt’s annoyed features quickly spread into a grin.
“If you don’t get your clever fingers in me soon, bard, Zoltan will be scandalized when he inevitably comes looking and not even I can protect you from an angry dwarf with an ear for intelligence. Besides, we’ve got a daughter to find, and I think she’d appreciate her dads in one piece.”
Dandelion extracted Geralt from where he was plastered against his throat yet again to kiss him properly, though he couldn’t hold back his traitorous tongue or the groan he loosed into Geralt’s open mouth.
“Anything for my hero,” he whispered against his lips, “now be a good boy for me and we’ll see about your reward.”