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neen-writes · 11 months ago

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Silver for Monsters -- Ch. 7: The Dancing Windmill

Series: Witcher/Fairy Tail

Pairing: Gajeel/Levy

Summary: In a world ravaged by monsters where magic is becoming outlawed and nonhumans are hunted, the Witcher known as Black Steel Gajeel takes up a contract. He expects to find a simple old herbalist, terrorized by a beast in the woods. But in his many years he has learned to never trust what he expects.

Notes: Here we are, the first entirely fresh chapter for this fic in five years. I spent a long time sitting and listening to music, and going over old notes to really nail down where I wanted this to go. Which has included looking at a lot of interactive maps and picking places for our two to go! As a note, I had "On the Champs-Désolés" from the Blood and Wine OST on my mind for the last dance. Which I know is technically combat music, but boy just imagine a wild, hedonistic dance circle to this. Anyway, enjoy!

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The locals were in a tizzy. Something about a pile of dead drowners on the beach and no real inkling of how they got there. Just whispers of some scuffle at the crack of dawn. ‘They killed each other,’ ‘something bigger got ‘em,’ and then finally, the one that made the corner of Gajeel’s mouth tilt.

“You fetid whoreson, I told you to burn them, not dump them in the harbor!” Shrill, aged. Without a doubt a long-suffering wife shrieking at her husband that had most certainly ran afoul of her good graces years past. Well, he found the careless farmer it seemed; or at least, one of them.

He scratched the side of his mouth absently, moving with some familiarity to pick up his contractor. He’d taken his time leaving the city proper, knowing that she likely had a list of preparations to see to before they could be on their way. His interests aside, Gajeel did not fancy sitting awkwardly on Lucy’s couch while Levy packed for what was predicted to be an extended period of each other’s company. No, he preferred to mentally work that scenario to death ahead of time while browsing the shelves of an apothecary for essentials, then stopping at the stable he had boarded his horse at for the night.

The Witcher had agreed real quick to inserting himself in whatever big picture the mage was being painted into. In the moment, it seemed like the only thing to do. She needed help, and was already on a variety of his waking and resting thoughts, so he could provide. Then, as he silently packed his items into the leather saddlebags, his better judgment came knocking. Loud.

Not a single one of them had missed the signs that something astronomically significant was brewing right there in Novigrad’s harbor. Two of the most powerful political powers of the territories agreeing to participate with one another to hunt the Lodge for some common goal. For Emhyr to find the tolerance to cooperate with a madman like Radovid, to put their war second to finding the remaining sorceresses…the carrot at the end of that stick must have been remarkably rich.

Men were foolish, violent; driven by their lusts in whatever flavor it happened to be. For the flesh, for power, for blood. A simple grudge and common distaste for the Lodge was not so rewarding a dish to bring those two together. No, some deeper desire had them both by the throat.

Gajeel saw all of that, and without a second thought said ‘excellent, I’ll get in the middle of that.’ His boot scuffed the dirt loudly and a grimace fell over his features.

Hell’s teeth, Lily was going to be livid when he found out.

Which, realistically, Gajeel could put off for some time. They often traveled separately from one another, coming together here and there when it served them. It was perfectly feasible to get all this Lodge business sorted, Find Levy’s lost compatriot, then be off on the Path once more. He would collect on some reward for whatever work Jellal had for him, and then call it a day. Easy. Cut and dry. Uncomplicated.

Gajeel repeated that mantra to himself as he tied up his horse just inside the old fence around the familiar townhouse. Uncomplicated.

His fist rapped twice against the worn wooden door, and the ginger-haired man from before opened it carefully; Lucy’s polymorph. Relief rippled over her features, but she did not drop the form. Cautious, good. Knowing what we know now.

“She’s just grabbing the last of her things upstairs,” Lucy said by way of greeting as she stepped to the side. Gajeel’s brows lifted a fraction; the conjured voice that she matched to this form was foolproof. A comfort for her, certainly. The untrained eye would never know the difference or that something more lay beneath. They just had to hope that the witch hunters remained untrained in polymorphy.

He nodded once and helped himself inside, awkwardly shouldering through the tight doorways. Farcorners wasn’t the neighborhood of wealth, and it showed in more ways than one. Particularly in the economical way most buildings were constructed: shorter ceilings, narrow doorways, small rooms. A collection of cut corners to save on building costs.

The Witcher didn’t bother sitting, and instead assumed his favored lean on a wallspace with crossed arms. Lucy didn’t make any effort to strike up conversation, but judging by the way she hovered around the space and avoided eye contact, he could see it was anxiety that had her tongue. Mercifully, it wasn’t long before the other mage descended the stairs with a light pack at her side. She had put on fresher clothes since this morning, and looked more prepared for the road than she did before. Judging by how quickly and thoroughly she put herself together, this wasn’t the first time she had to move on with such short notice.

When Levy’s eyes found him, there was a spark on her face, like she hadn’t expected him there. She did not hide that it was a pleasant surprise, and a glimmer of satisfaction swirled in his chest.

His earlier mantra, whatever it was, conveniently drifted right out of his head. Couldn't have been that important.

“Gajeel, you’re right on time,” she remarked with a strained smile. The mage was on edge, as she rightly should be. It didn’t suit her.

“Saw no reason to stall,” he replied, having stalled most of the morning.

“True enough,” Levy glanced over at Lucy, who had stepped over to fuss at her shirt. She was still in her glamour, so she stood nearly a head taller as she checked the security of her bag strap. An easy familiarity of old, old friends. No space boundaries.

“Did you remember–”

“Yes, I have everything you gave me, Luce,” Levy cut her off before she could start fretting all over again. The morning had been tense for the two of them, and Lucy tried at least twice to get Levy to reconsider. To no avail, of course. There was no stopping Levy once her mind was set on a direction, and Lucy knew this well enough. But not knowing when, or if she would see her friend once she rode off with the strange Witcher was motivation enough to at least try. Gajeel’s only saving grace in her opinions of him was his relationship with her complicated blacksmith, and likely the only thing that kept her from doing something drastic to keep Levy safe.

Lucy heaved a tired sigh and laid both hands on Levy’s shoulders. “You’re the best of us, you know.”

“Stop it,” Levy replied with a gentle smile, “I’ll be in touch with Erza soon. You just remember our agreement.”

“Kovir. Two weeks,” she responded.

A gentle clattering reminded both of them that Gajeel still stood, awkwardly, in the room with them. Waiting for whatever this was–so many emotions–to be over. This was largely why he traveled alone, if not with Lily. People were so complicated, and so full of things to say when actions worked just as well. The urge to not settle, to not linger longer than was necessary was a wordless understanding between Witchers. Socially, they weren’t meant for the world anymore unless drunk enough to stifle their inhibitions, but they got on just fine with one another. If he had it his way, they would have been long gone by now, but this seemed important to her. In an odd turn, he seemed keen on validating what was important to her.

A few more quiet words, a clasping of their hands, and then Lucy’s glamour gave Gajeel a curt nod that said everything her words could not before they headed out the door. ‘Take care of her.’

The door closed, and Levy’s face fell slightly when she saw the single horse tied up outside, “You still just have the one.” Not a question.

“Apologies, I did not find the time to buy ya one all for yourself,” the eyeroll was all over his tone whether he physically did so or not. Regardless, he held out his hand to help her up into the saddle, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.

She stared at the offering, then up at the horse. “Too busy buying yourself new armor? Or killing the neighborhood vermin?” Levy cast him a half-annoyed look and eased back slightly.

Ah, so word of his escapades had spread. “Ya mean my profession? Correct,” he replied, his tone full of easy mockery.

Levy huffed and motioned for him to mount the horse first, “I’ll ride in the rear this time, if it’s all the same to you.”

He blinked, wondering why that would matter or make it any different. Either way she was going to be close enough to make his skin crawl and–

Heat clawed at the back of his neck, mercifully hidden by the cascade of black hair he’d pulled up into a ponytail earlier. Without any more protest, he hoisted himself up into the seat with fluid ease, then leaned over to extend a hand, again, to the mage.

She pondered for half a second on whether or not she should take it, then settled on the fact that trying to get up on her own would surpass any embarrassment from simply taking his hand. It was an assist, that was all. The mage placed her right hand over the top of his and braced her left on the back of the seat. Hers disappeared into the palm of his and for a split moment she found herself distracted by how rough it was, before her heart dropped to her feet.

Either oblivious to his own strength or seriously overestimating how much effort he needed to put in to lift her, she clumsily hopped into the saddle behind him and nearly slid right on over the other side with the momentum. Levy might have, were it not for the quick twist back of his right shoulder to catch her with a small oomf into his back. “Easy,” he chided, and he can practically hear the steam billowing out of her ears as he gave a gentle pop into the horse’s side. This was going to be a long ride.

—

“You know, if you gave me an idea of where we were going, I could probably teleport us there. Or at least close. Rest and Lucy worked wonders.” The increased distance between homes were the first indication that they were coming to the edge of district, and closer still to leaving Novigrad behind. Her hands sat securely on her thighs to minimize any unnecessary contact with the Witcher in front of her. The seating arrangement did allow her to feel like she wasn’t quite so close to him, but the unforeseen circumstance to that was the fact she couldn’t see a damn thing past his wall of a back that wasn’t directly to their left or right.

“No,” he responded a lot more sharply than he had intended, but the suggestion wrought an immediate twist of nausea in his gut. “No portals. Sworn off ‘em.”

Levy scrunched her nose, “Well, that’s a little dramatic. We did fine last time when I wasn’t even at my best.”

Gajeel cast a quick look over his shoulder at her. “Sorry, ya mean when I was swiftly delivered into a mouthful of dirt?” He was full of bitter accusation.

The sorceress raised her brows at him and grazed her fingertips over her chest in mock scandal, “The drama persists,” she huffs and dismisses his bravado with a wave of her hand, “Again, next time you are welcome to navigate yourself out of such a situation yourself if my assistance so offends. I’ll file away your preferences for the future.”

Gajeel bared his teeth slightly and instead just looked forward, pulling their horse due north. “If we want to avoid the border posts, we’ll need to leave by way of Seven Cats Inn, head north to avoid the high traffic over the river crossings, and then east,” he leaves no room for any other option. This would involve some level of roughing it through untraveled landscape, but with so much activity in and out of Novigrad, it was their best option. Especially if they were benign tailed in any way, the least direct route to his friend’s base was the safest choice.

The sorceress heaved a sigh, but didn’t fight him on it. “Your horse, your rules. Lead on.”

There’s the faintest of hums in his medallion as they pass the seedy tavern on their way out of the last vestiges of Novigrad’s reach. The feral cat colony that call the inn home are everywhere as they pass through, some roused from deep sleep to give the two of them one look and then hiss emphatically.

Levy peeked up at Gajeel, amusement prickling at the corners of her eyes. She’d heard rumors, folklore, surrounding Witchers in excess. As stories passed from generation to generation, cautionary tales and ghost stories alike, it was hard to know what was real or not.

‘Keeping your barns vermin free besides, always keep cats to your property. They will surely see more than your eyes can on every occasion, and will always know when a Witcher comes knocking to steal your younguns. When the cats hiss, know your home’s amiss.’

“So, the stories are true,” she remarks, casting a thoughtless glance into the windows of the already busy tavern as they ride by. For a split second her eyes snagged on something familiar, but it’s already out of view as they ride forward.

“And those are?”

“Your affinity for cats, of course,” there’s laughter in her tone, but she could see him bristle as another cat hissed on their way out.

—

The sun glowed at the horizon by the time sounds of revelry reached the two of them. Levy, absently, placed a hand on Gajeel’s bicep to lean as far as she safely could to the side to get a look. Her curiosity had her oblivious to the way Gajeel straightened at the contact, and instead she regarded what at first just looked like a simple windmill. With the steady westerly breeze, it turned slowly, but the rest of its body had seen far better days.

Gajeel looked, stiffly, over his shoulder at the intrigued mage, then forward at the windmill at the top of a small hill. Various horses were tied up wherever anyone could find the space, and as they ambled forward on the path, more and more signs of movement became apparent. The space around the mill was positively swarming with folk, and a thin stream of fresh smoke indicated the start of a fire.

Somewhere in that direction, someone gave a loud ‘woop!’ and music immediately hopped into a fever pitch as the collection of people whirred into unison with one another. Two things that didn’t seem to go together: a decrepit windmill, and unfettered revelry.

“Strange place to come together,” Levy commented, trying to crane her neck to see better.

“Surprising, I didn’t think they still did this,” he responded, pulling the horse to a halt. From the corner of his eye, he could feel the questioning stare. “Used to be, probably still is, called the Dancing Windmill. Some well-to-do dancer used to own the place and threw wicked parties,” a small, knowing smile curved the corner of his mouth, “but when he died I thought they went with ‘im. Guess tradition ain’t easy to bury.”

He felt the woman shift behind him, a kind of uncertain bounce in her seat. After a moment, she scooted back suddenly from him and tucked a leg over to slide out of the saddle, her boots impacting the dirt with a soft thud. Levy quickly reached up to adjust her hood, pulling it securely around her face and tucked brown hair behind her ears.

“O-oi, what’re ya doin’?” Gajeel started to protest as she stepped forward, took hold of the reins, and began leading them up the path towards the commotion.

“Relax, I just want a look. Not every day that you find something like this outside the city.”

The Witcher grumbled to himself and dismounted with a much heavier thud, not keen on being led like a maiden on horseback by the small sorceress. “Much as I’d love a bender, we ain’t got the time. Not sure if ya remember,” he came round front to take the reins from her, but continued in the direction she was heading.

Levy rolled her eyes, “I’m not planning to stay. I just,” she paused, not taking her eyes off the raucous swirl of bodies as a new song struck up its tempo. She recognized it from a time long past as something she had danced to once in a tavern. Back when there was time for simple joys like dancing. The memory of the dance came to her, and a bittersweet warmth spread in her chest when she tracked the same dip, spin, partner switch in the revelers when they came closer. “I just want to look back for a moment, to be someone other than myself. Just for a few minutes.”

Gajeel swallowed the remainder of his protests then, studying the faraway look on her face. It made sense, being what they were, that simple pleasures like a night of dance and drink would be bygone memories. He found himself wondering then if she danced, if her cheeks flushed when she tossed back one too many ales. Or, rather, if she preferred a Touissaint red, or a honey-sweet mead. The questions swirled faster than he could choose from, and instead he chose to watch the party-goers as they stopped just at the edge of the growing firelight, the sun quickly dipping below the horizon. “Shouldn’t bother us none, these used to draw in noble stiffs all the way down to the stable’s shit shovelers, and any non-human that could hide so much as a pointed ear. Folk’d dress however they needed to blend in and come mornin’, no one spoke of it again until the next one,” he offered as an attempt at breaking the silence. A weak reply to her when he could feel every part of her drawing in towards the party.

The sorceress’s shoulders sagged as a small sigh left her. She wanted more than anything waltz in there as an unnamed face and blend in to the swirl of common-folk. In another life, a life where the chaos of magic had not been a siren song that ensnared her into conflict neverending. A life that was not and would not be hers, made clear by the occasional wary glance cast upon them as folks took their breathers at the edge of the property. They were noticed, but be it the energy or the alcohol, the participants appeared to choose not to consider them a problem unless they made themselves one.

For the moments she stood there, watching the unrestrained twirls, yips, and splashes of tankards against one another, she could put herself in their shoes. Levy was there with them, remembering the steps because each week’s end would be another chance to practice. There were no boundaries amongst dancers, freely placing their hands where necessary to throw from partner to partner in a fever step to match the rising tempo.

She wanted to join them, and she could, easily. She could step in there, just for one dance, so quickly. Or two, or–

Pressure, his hand, settled over her shoulder and she snapped out of a trance she hadn’t even known she was in. Levy looked quickly at her confused companion holding her back mid-step, as the hairs stood on the back of her neck.

She swung her gaze back to the party so sharply, he thought someone might have called her name. Levy, a woman possessed, looked closer at the dance than she had before, eyes darting from face to face. Looking for something. The music swelled, pulling her erratic heartbeat with it. This was familiar again, a tune she knew heralded from taverns in Toussaint.

“Levy?” Gajeel probed, going tense. The mood had shifted drastically, and where before she had been just observing, now she seemed drawn. Panicked even. There was no indication that she even heard him, or chose to acknowledge his presence.

The mage didn’t answer, looking for something without knowing what it was. She shouldered out of his grip and took another step forward, searching, searching.

Searching until a flash of blonde, nearly white hair swept through the middle of the swirling crowd. Levy felt the color drain from her face and her heart seized, before launching into a gallop. Somewhere in the band, someone took up the beat of the drums to thrust the melody forward, boots stomping the dirt in wild unison. Another swirl, and a short woman dressed in white leapt from one partner to another, a wild trail of ashen hair behind her, and disappeared again into the mess of bodies.

Levy’s throat went dry, her hands grasping up at the empty air in front of her. The edges of her vision darkened as she stood on her toes, trying to search as much as she could of the crowd short of walking in there herself. She leaned harshly left and right, nearly throwing off her hood, and opened her mouth to call out.

A harsh reminder of the Witcher’s presence came in the form of a large, rough hand clasped over her mouth. The sorceress felt her world tilt as he wrapped another arm around her waist and hauled her up and back off of her feet. “What are you doing?” he hissed into her ear, before cursing sharply as a numbing shock sparked into the hand over her face. Gajeel dropped his hand to shake out the sensation, but held his other arm firm around her middle.

Levy bobbed forward, and a single name tumbled in a gasp from her mouth, “Mavis?!” Her eyes scanned again, the music arcing downward again as the dancers separated out into two lines opposite each other to conclude their flurry. Bright hair caught her eye again, and her chest seized, before ice water in the form of stark disappointment crashed over her. A woman with a mess of ashen-blonde hair stood there true enough, her sides heaving from the effort of the dance, but it was most certainly not the person she imagined seeing.

Gajeel felt her body sag and waited an extra moment before setting her back onto her feet and pulling her round to face him. He blanched backwards at the stark white color of her face and the vacant look of undiluted shock in her eyes. Surprise gave way to action, and Gajeel seized her chin to force her eyes up to his, still needing to lean forward to avoid craning her neck too far. “I’m gonna need ya to say somethin’ here, shorty,” he pushed, hoping the nickname would be enough to pull her back to the present.

There was a glimmer, but she still did not supply the reaction he hoped. “I,” she started, blinking once, then a hard twice, “I thought I saw,” she was out of breath. Another heartbeat, and urgency fell over her features, “I was wrong, we need to go.” The abruptness with which she pushed past him to head back onto the trail left him stunned for a moment. He hazarded one curious glance back at the party, which would continue well into the morning hours, and then pulled the horse after him to prevent her from creating too much distance.

“Look, I know we all got our things, but if I’m stuck with ya, I need ya to give me somethin’. Anythin’, ‘specially if it is something that will, I don’t know, blow our cover? In front of a large group of people?” he caught up to her fairly easily, his steps much longer than hers.

It took Levy a moment, refusing to look at him now as embarrassment alone brought the color back to her face. Stupid. That was almost, disastrously, stupid. “I’m sorry,” she replied finally, quieter than she had hoped. “I saw a ghost, that’s all,” she was, noticeably, refusing to look at him. “She is–was someone important to me. To all of us, but she died a long time ago. I haven’t been sleeping well, and I got caught up in the past, that’s all.”

Gajeel wanted more than anything to probe further, but she looked absolutely drained from the mere possibility she had seen the living body of an old friend. A severe reaction that didn’t warrant digging into just yet. He would, of course, eventually. Gajeel was not and would never be known for his patience and tact. “Looks like we should find somewhere to set down for the night, then.”

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