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soggydogggy · 2 months

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Small Isengrim/Dijkstra fanfiction because I love old men yaoi. There is actually an amazing art piece drawn based on the fic by my dearest and loveliest friend @gsope! check out her other stuff, she’s incredibly talented <3

Dijkstra talks a lot, Isengrim is madly in love. Their first kiss just kinda happens.

P.s. for english not being my native tongue i'd kindly ask you to be gentle with me (please otherwise i might actually cry /j)

The night was a little colder than the others. Clouds filled the dark sky barely lit by stars, and a tingling breeze crept under their cloaks, unobtrusively reminding to change into something more suitable for the upcoming winter. The crispy weather wasn’t anything unusual, as their long journey was about to come to an end — they were approaching the North, and so the chills running rapidly along their spines caused almost no questions. Although he never showed it in the way he was acting, it was extremely hard for Isengrim to believe that was the only reason — he was certain the frost did not come only from the changes in climate, but emerged somewhere from the inside of his own head too.

They were both sitting by a small now dying fire they made earlier, just a few inches away from each other, their knees nearly touching. They were comfortable at last, being so close to one another. Sigi Reuven (and this name yuckily rolled with a taste of deception on Isengrim’s tongue) was gaping at the burning logs of wood, slightly squinting from ashes getting into his eyes, discoursing on something, explaining everything in such detail. Isengrim found it hard to pay attention, not because he wasn’t curious enough, but because his companion's voice was too quiet, hoarsely soothing, and his own thoughts were too deafening — therefore all the political intrigues forgotten in the sandy valleys of Zerrikania flew right past him, for he had unintentionally turned a deaf ear to anything that was said.

Isengnim, however, didn’t dare to look away even for a split second, and was gazing quite attentively, to the point it might have been a little shameful for him to do so — that was if he could experience shame, after all. The warm fiery light fell gently on the rough features of Sigi’s face, and so they seemed to slightly change, visually softening. This, for a completely unclear reason, caused a very faint smile on Isengrim’s own face — and the only thing that scared him was it seeming natural, too natural, even. There was something not quite right about looking at a dh’oine with zero withering contempt, especially at a dh’oine who had almost condemned you to a painful and unworthy death in the past.

There was something not quite right even about thinking of such a thing at the moment — though Isengrim, already feeling the ever-increasing smell of familiar northern herbs all day long, absolutely could not help but do so.

Here, in these familiar lands, he was considered a war criminal — and a pathetic fugitive at the same time. His head was still probably worth a whole fortune — although his name send shivers down people’s spines not so often anymore, slowly starting to get erased from the history books. He was getting forgotten, swiftly and quickly, and he himself was also forgetting everything(a little slower, albeit). The scar on his face seemed to itch less and less with time — and there was something not quite right about that, too. He was away from here for too long, and who knows how much longer it might have taken — if not for one particular proposal, that was more of a polite request, at the end.

“Oxenfurt first, then Novigrad, and I could use your help there, Grim." — not Wolf,

— “I would love you to consider that", — and a smile, that smile, that ugly, atrocious smile of a dh’oine,

and "Fine, I would think about that",

and "We are leaving in a week",

and "Thank you, my dear" said with a small grin,

— and a heavy hand on a sturdy shoulder, gently squeezing the tensed muscles and the rough skin for a second too long.

And these memories were terrifying too. And here, in these familiar lands, the value of his life was dropping significantly, yet next to Sigi it never seemed to matter, fading into the shadows of Isengrim’s twisted mind. His fingers always trembled because of that — well, because of that, and because of the way the shining sparks from the fire were reflecting in Sigi’s watery tired eyes.

Isengrim sat a little tense, rubbing his roughened hands against one another. Old calluses and marks and scars were covering them whole, constantly reminding that they used to bleed daily from a grip too strong on the hilt of a shabby old sword. They didn't hurt much anymore, just like the ugly scar covering his face didn’t, yet that was not quite important in the moment —what was important was that Sigi didn't have any of those. Isengrim noticed the fact a long time ago, and ever since it reminded him of the unchangeable difference between them even more than the accents in their speech or the shapes of their ears did.

Isengrim swallowed hard, his next sigh filled with some kind of an irksome disappointment: Sigi's hands were the best evidence that all he did was hold quills in them, write a lot, sign so many important documents and crucial papers — and the very particular one, the one that decided Isengrim’s fate, too. Here, in these familiar lands, at that one specific moment, it was Sigi himself who determined the value of his, Isengrim’s, very own not-so-fragile life with his own unscathed fingers.

And the only thing that scared Isengrim was all that important business not raging him even in the slightest.

Isengnim knew he ought to have been rageful earlier. A lot earlier, to be exact, somewhere around the time they shook hands for the first time ever, introducing themselves with fake names, looking at each other knowing they both understood everything about one another just right. Yet even then he just couldn’t bring himself to do so. There just wasn’t any need for that: he was to find someone to travel with, someone to ensure his path, a strong ally, an alibi and, finally, some rightful decisions in his life, — and after meeting Sigi, he found everything except the very last thing.

Something else had come to replace it — something strange, completely wrong, dizzying his mind with a heavy burden of feelings. This special something was now scraping his aching heart from the inside when Sigi, throwing a couple of sticks into the fire, laughed hoarsely looking right at him.

He went on with his speech immediately after — and Isengrim let out a sigh that seemed a little heavier than usual. And the only thing that scared him was the absence of any desire to curse any gods known to men now.

That was new.

Their knees still were nearly touching, and the chilly wind was still blowing around their bare necks, and the fire was still making them squeeze their watery eyes, and the smell of familiar northern herbs was still sticking to their clothes. The value of Isengrim’s life was dropping significantly with every going second — and here, in these familiar lands, it seemed to be starting to matter. And there was something not quite right about Isengrim not being able to understand what the exact value would be like now. Sigi's fingers, the ones not disfigured by any scars or marks, were confusing him even more.

Sigi was calmly going on with his speech, mentioning Radovid's weakening position, the future of Redania, the plans for their freshly found friend Bart, — and yet it was becoming more and more challenging to properly concentrate (or even impossible, Isengrim had to admit). Despite that, he still wasn’t planning to take his eyes off his comrade any time soon. The light from the fire still brushed softly along the very familiar features of a very familiar face — and here, in these familiar lands, the tender small grim he was given did not leave Isengrim’s not-so-fragile life a chance. And there was something not quite right about the feeling not scaring him at all, but being absolutely needed right now instead.

Impatient enough, Isengrim moved just slightly, awkwardly making their upper hands touch, placing a wide palm on a stubbly cheek, making Sigi look right at him, his gaze shining from the heat of the fire. He did not seem to be frightened or shocked, and his face was not at all familiar to the touch: it was not of a sophisticated Aen Seidhe, but of a simple dh’oine, rough and prickly — yet the special something scraping inside Isengrim’s heart did not let him stop.

Isengnim closed his eyes and quickly leaned forward — and just a second later, he pressed his slightly trembling lips to Sigi’s very own. He didn’t do any more, waiting for any kind of a reaction, and his breathing was a little heavier than usual, — and right there he felt their knees finally touch. The intimacy of the moment sent shivers down his spine, and Isengrim almost forgot about what he was doing — right until the piercing realisation hit him.

Sigi was smiling. The bloody, Sigi-fucking-Reuven, let him be damned, Isengrim thought, was smiling right into his lips. It was a very familiar smile, the one Isengrim had seen so many times before, the ugly, vile, disgustingly gentle smile of a disgustingly precious dh’oine — and the only exception was that this time he could actually feel it. Grasping that smile made Isengrim titter, right as he started to pull away — when suddenly, at the very last second, he felt he was actually getting kissed back.

Unfortunately, it was already too late to come back to the hot touch of those desired lips— yet to look at the cunning, satisfied eyes before him was quite the right time.

Sigi never stopped beaming, now with a tint of arrogance, looking right at Isengrim — yet there was a very slight hint of crimson blushing on his cheeks. From the heat of the fire, it must be.

They spoke quietly.

“Is that how they show love now, men?”

"Well, I would think it's more of an Aen Seidhe thing. But yeah. Something like that.”

“Something like that” and Sigi grinned again, turning his gaze to the fire.

And the familiar features of his face were softer than ever. And his raspy voice was gentler than ever. And he slightly stroked Isengrim’s knee(the one that never broke the touch) with his huge rough hand — and there was something just quite right about that — more right than ever.

“So, Radovid…”

And here, in these familiar lands, the value of Isengrim’s life seemed to increase more than ever. And, once again, it seemed like Sigi himself was the one to determine it with his very own unscarred fingers — and his very own lips, too.

And so the night felt warm again.

#the witcher #isengrim faoiltiarna #sigismund dijkstra #the witcher 3 #the witcher fanfiction #scoia'tael

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