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do-androids-dream-ao3acc · 1 year ago

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Iorveth, Vernon Roche, his bald spot and Emhyr

Yes, this must sound utterly strange. Yesterday, @fandomwarehouse posted their hc about Iorveth seeking revenge on Emhyr because Vernon Roche is going bald in this post. Then, @she-who-drank-vodka-with-cats fueled my sudden interest in writing a story about this with even more hilarious ideas. Anyway, I know I said I have no time and I asked @valandhirwriter to write something, and she did, but so did I. Meaning here's two (very different) stories about Iorveth's assassination attempts on Emhyr – all because Vernon Roche is going bald. This was fun! It's not going on AO3 so ... do your magic, Tumblr!

Sine Qua Non (by @valandhirwriter)

Belletyne had never quite been Emhyr’s favourite celebration, at least not during his tenure in Nilfgaard. It had always reminded him of what he had lost, of things done and gone. Even now, that Belletyne had become the much happier occasion as the Crown Princess’s birthday, Emhyr was tense as he watched the guests mill about the wide areal of the royal gardens. Cirilla moved among them with ease, smiling and exchanging polite words. She was here and there charming her way through the assembled nobility, breaking a few hearts while she was at it. It allowed Emhyr to watch, observe and keep his distance from the general merrymaking.

Now and then he cast a glance across the flower rondel to where he could see Geralt. Sir Geralt of Rivia, Chevallier de Corvo Bianco made a better figure on these events than one might expect from a former Witcher. The Duchess of Toussaint had done Emhyr an indirect favour by bestowing estate and title on the man - as it allowed for him to be called to court without arousing suspicion. With Emhyr’s… fondness of the man, that was a boon indeed.

And it was why he watched so nervously. Cirilla had insisted that besides inviting her foster father, she also would invite her foster Uncle, another Witcher by the name of Eskel. Emhyr had of course been aware of the man’s existence. He had extensive files on each and every member of the school of the wolf, that had still been living around the time that Cirilla had come into their care. And the man in question had fought in Undvik. Otherwise, he was of no consequence, except that it seemed his daughter remembered him fondly.

Or Emhyr wished that this was the only consequence there was, if his daughter had a Witcher on hand, who could occasionally take missions from her or act as a body-guard, he’d not deny her, Emhyr had availed himself of Geralt’s help often enough, after all. But there was another reason Eskel was here. Cirilla had decided that she had it and wanted her Uncle and her foster father to stop avoiding each other. And with that, she had thrown a stone into a hornet’s nest. Emhyr knew that Eskel was highly critical of Geralt’s relationship with Emhyr, or of his acceptance of a noble title in the south. And while Geralt rarely cared what others thought of him, and did as he pleased, this was not just some stranger but a kind of older brother.

Emhyr peered over nervously, how easy could it be that some stern words of the dark Witcher could make Geralt break it off with Emhyr? Decide that it was dishonourable for his kind to be in an… affair with a ruler? The thought made Emhyr’s stomach churn. The two witchers stood in the shadow of a huge dove tree and the conversation appeared tense. Geralt stood leaning back on his heels, arms crossed in front of his chest, and his brother mirrored that posture, both were ready to argue or fight. From the distance it struck Emhyr how similar those two were - of sure, the colouring was different, Geralt was pale, with white hair, and Eskel was dark, bronze tanned and had dark hair, but otherwise, they were similar, body language, the same cat-like movements, even the same over-sharp reactions to their surroundings.

He wished he could listen in, hear how the conversation went. And yet, he did not want to know. He could imagine how that would go. He is the Emperor of Nilfgaard, the man who had you almost executed, a conqueror with more blood on his hands than any other before him, a coward, a liar, an overall cruel man. He is not worthy of you, Geralt. That’s what his older brother would say, before reminding Geralt of his duties to the school of the wolf and the world as a whole.

A loud gong announced noon - the hour of the sun - and Cirilla approached Emhyr, casting her foster father a sharp glance. Geralt dutifully left his place and followed her over, Eskel in tow. There as a short gaggle of servants to prepare the goblets for the semi-private blessing of the reborn child - in this case, Cirilla, before the servant approached with a tray of glasses. Emhyr was handed his glass, of course, before the tray was presented to the others.

“Kaer Morhen toast, dearest Crown Princess?” Eskel suddenly asked, he had a deep, hard voice. “To celebrate your twenty-fifth year and your ascension?”

Emhyr was startled, Ascension was not a concept of Nilfgaard, but familiar. Why was he bringing it up? To his surprise Cirilla beamed at Eskel, taking a glass, and gesturing the two witchers to follow suit. “Trade with me first, Eskel?” She asked, extending the hand with the glass.

Now Emhyr was confused, as he saw his daughter and the foreign Witcher reach around one another’s hand and exchange the glasses. Then Cirilla beamed at Emhyr. “Come, father, it is an old tradition and brings luck,” She said extending her hand.

Emhyr wanted to tell her that an Emperor did not trade glasses, but gave in, what was the harm? They traded glasses, and Cirilla turned to Geralt, while Eskel turned to Emhyr and the ritual was completed before Geralt offered the same trade to Emhyr, and then another time. Emhyr shook his head when the round ended with laughter. “Am I allowed to drink now?” he asked Cirilla a bit tersely.

She smiled at him. “Of course, father. May the sun illuminate your path.” They all drank. It was a Toussaint Pearl Wine, La Chaire de diable, a very intense vintage. Emhyr frowned, that should not have been served. Why had the cellarer brought this up?

He saw Geralt throw his head back, like in shock, and when he looked at him again, Geralt’s eyes were bleeding black, the same as Eskel’s. The two Witchers did not waste time, moving past Emhyr. At the same moment, a young man in a velvet doublet panicked and raced towards the next exit from the area, only to be caught by one of the soldiers stationed there, grabbing his neck, and quickly restraining him.

The full sequence of events hit Emhyr, the Witchers - and maybe Cirilla - must have detected the poison in the wine, and their inane glass exchanging had made sure the wine ended with the Witchers who were immune against most poisons. His heart skipped. Most poisons. Not all. What if Geralt had imbibed something even more dangerous for a Witcher? “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, his own worry covered by the additional harshness of the voice.

Cirilla looked to Eskel. “You spotted him,” she said softly.

Eskel pointed to the man in velvet and to another fat noble. “Fat one passed the vial to velvet, velvet dipped the contents into the crystal pitcher from which your Highness and her Imperial father are served,” he said firmly. “By the taste, it is a mix of Ashbloom, foxglove, winter lily, and snow-root. An old elven recipe.”

And slow acting, Emhyr added in his mind. Very slow acting. It would have meant a tortuous death for him and Cirilla. He cast a worried glance at Geralt, but his lover stood there, watchful, strong, with no signs of discomfort. “Eskel, can you get the name of their employer from them? My Axii never was that strong,” Geralt rasped.

Emhyr wanted to remind him that a confession under mind control was not a confession at all, but Eskel shrugged. “There are better ways,” he said, taking a glass of wine from a shell-shocked servant and adding something - where he got it, Emhyr could not say - to it. The wine became greenish, and after a finger gesture of Eskel, glittered with strange sparks. He went over to the man in velvet, opening his mouth with a hard grip around the jaw and forced the glass’s contents down his throat. He struggled, screamed and then slumped on a bench. Eskel - his eyes still black as the night - looked at him. “They tell you all the time about Witchers and how we breed us little monsters,” he said gravely, “now, there is a taste. You can feel it burn in your already, do you? The pain along the spine, and in your bones. They will start to grow first… to transform you…”

The man gasped. “You cannot do this. I… I am a baron…”

Eskel shrugged. “Barons, Beggars the substance knows no difference, you are meat and meat changes…”

The man’s hands were shaking, and there were swellings forming at his knuckles. “It begins,” Eskel said softly. “The pain is only moderate now, when the bone spikes break through your flesh, it will be agony… and you will not be able to pass out. More will come out of your spine… your shoulders…” He reached for his side, tossing a small vial up in the air. “It is reversible… but only before the first spike breaks through. You know what can save your life.”

Emhyr watched in a sick fascination, as the man’s fingers swelled further, and his eyes went from fear to anger… to capitulation. “I was hired by an elf…” he rambled, “a former Scoia’tel, Esthelin, he had a compromising letter, that would have incriminated me… I had no choice. He… he waits, for confirmation of the Emperor’s death… at the Three Coroner’s Tavern in the city…” He raised his swollen hands pleadingly. “Now… please… don’t make me a monster.”

Eskel took the vial and dumped it down the man’s throat, he passed out immediately and the guards took him away. They also had cleared out the shocked guests, to ask further questions to all of them, de Rideaux had taken over there.

“What did you do to him?” Emhyr asked sharply. “I will not have a baron, not even a guilty one, changed into a monster,” he remembered the quills all too well.

The dark Witcher scoffed. “I added some of your flowering elf-root seeds to the wine, it creates a strong allergic reaction, which leads to swelling and bulges at the joints. Uncomfortable, but essentially harmless. The rest was a sign, a useless one that produces nothing but sparkles.”

The entire threatening house of cards collapsed as Emhyr realised it had been a trick. A menacing trick, underlined by poison-black eyes and legends about the monsters from the North. And the Baron had spilt it all. Emhyr had already gestured to several guards. “Have de Rideaux apprehend the elf immediately.”

With the celebration cut short, Emhyr returned inside and used the short span in between to speak to Geralt. His eyes were slowly fading back to the familiar gold, and he was tense. “We need to find out what is behind this,” Geralt growled, “that dose could have killed you thrice over,” He stepped closer and touched Emhyr’s shoulders. “This was too close.”

While Emhyr agreed with the principle, he was more worried about Geralt. “What about you? You took the entire dose meant for me?” He wanted to fuss about his Witcher, just a little, to make sure he was alright.

“There never was danger for me, Ashbloom, foxglove, winter lily, and snow-root are all plants Witchers will use for food.”

Relief, sweet, painful relief exploded in Emhyr’s chest. Of course, that was why Eskel had recognized the taste, he was used to eating these plants. Eating poisonous plants. Without thinking he reached for Geralt, pulling him close into a chaste, but warm, kiss. “You will refrain from shocking me like that,” he added, trying to not show how relieved he was.

Geralt arched an eyebrow at him quizzically, maybe the strongest way it showed he was worried about the assassination attempt. They were disrupted by the news that the elf in question had been caught and brought to the palace dungeons. “Any hope the same trick will work on him?” Emhyr asked.

His lover shook his head. “No one beats an elf at botany. I need a word with Eskel… Vesemir taught him some mean trick, and I say: mean as in brutal, on how to get the truth from an elf. Takes a lot of control in sign magic,”

Emhyr chose to accompany Geralt, much as he did not fancy getting told he was not worthy of a certain white-haired witcher, he wanted to stay close to Geralt. Eskel listened to what Geralt had to say and shrugged. “I can do it - be warned while bloodless it is cruel. Very cruel. I can try words to soften him up before going all in, but if he is committed it will mean breaking him down.”

“And still bloodless?” Emhyr asked, he had seen enough interrogations to know how it looked, and where it led.

“Bloodless, there won’t be a mark on him,” Eskel cast him a sharp glance. And the glance said that he was doing this for Geralt, not for Emhyr.

The elf had been secured in the dungeon, tied to an iron bar. He had been stripped of weapons and armour and spat at them when they came in. Emhyr remained in the shadows, just willing to watch. “I’d usually be merciful with you,” he drawled, “put a few pins under fingernails and get the truth. Even the mages swear that five pins inserted under the nails break the strongest compulsion to keep silent. Works directly into the subconscious or something… would be much less messy.” He seemingly cleaned his hand with a rag.

“But as you committed a crime against his majesty, someone wants to do this the hard way.” He walked up to the elf, fingers lightly touching the ear tips.

Emhyr could see the elf freeze, the touch was so light, it could barely be felt, but suddenly there was fear in the elf’s eyes. “Awww,” Eskel mockingly cooed. “Now you see… all it takes is your anatomy. Even a human, knowing how your eartips work, could do some things to you, but a witcher, controlling the vibrations of aard… there is no limit.”

He did not move, Emhyr could not even see something, there was no visible touch, but the elf began to spasm, winding in a fierce wave of… lust? His body convulsing. Eskel held him there for less than a minute before removing his fingers. “Just a light one, for starters…” he said, “pain, pleasure, happiness… there is no feeling that cannot be stimulated in those ears of yours, even love. Where shall I take you? So much pain, that you curse your own mother for ever giving your father that first kiss? Or maybe lust? Make you want until you beg all the guards in this hellhole to take you? Love maybe… make you overwhelmingly set on this dungeon’s chief interrogator. He is even good looking for a d’hoine….”

The elf panted and spat on the ground. “You can kill me, like your master is killing Ivoreth’s d’hoine. Go on, Witcher…”

Emhyr cast a confused glance at Geralt. “Which lover?” he asked softly.

Eskel must have picked up on it. “Whom is my master killing?” he asked, almost caressing the elf’s ear tips. Emhyr saw the elf shudder in fear. How much control could be gained over an elf via this method? How much had they to fear being manipulated through their own anatomy? He had never heard of the secret before, but the demonstration had been clear.

“Ivoreth’s d’hoine… Vernon. Your Emperor had him poisoned with some sickness.” The elf growled. “Just like him, use the man first and then dispose of him when he finds a little happiness.”

“Being happy is never advisable in Nilfgaard,” Eskel replied, and Emhyr saw the elf’s shudder, not knowing what feeling Eskel had just incited him. “But what sickness is this… what is happening to Roche?”

“He… he is sick. His hair falls out, it changes colour…”

Eskel let go of the elf and walked around him. “Changes like this?” he pulled a few pale streaks from his own hair.

The elf nodded. “But it falls out, it gets thinner and thinner and…”

“He is getting grey and losing his hair?” Eskel shook his head. “And because of that, you wanted to assassinate the Emperor of Nilfgaard? Why?”

“This is his doing, and if he kills Ivoreth’s love, then he will not live to either.”

Eskel ran his hand through his dark hair. “In the kingdom of fools, you squirrels are all Emperors,” he growled, leaving the cell.

Outside the dungeon, Geralt looked at Emhyr. “You didn’t poison Roche, did you?”

“Why would I?” Emhyer was still slightly shaken by the revelation. “It would be damaging and put Temeria into needless unrest. Though why Ivoreth would overreact like that…”

“Sine qua non,” Eskel said. “That without not - the one thing we cannot be without. And Ivoreth now comes face to face with the pain of loving a human. He will watch him grow old and die, while he lives on almost unchanged. When he realises what happens it will get worse.”

Geralt had gone pale, the words might hit closer to home than he liked. “But… there is no need to kill the elves for this. Give them the information and maybe something to restore Roche’s hair a little…”

Eskel scoffed. “And the next time Roche shows frailty, the same will happen again. Humans are frail and short-lived. Ivoreth never considered that, much like you, brother. Wailia’s tears might be a solution, though Vesemir would turn in his grave if we resurrected that knowledge.”

Emhyr cast the witcher a sharp glare. “I should prefer you not take up the snake oil trade, Wailia’s tears are as much a myth, as Amritsar or the golden Elixir of dreams.”

“They exist,” Eskel and Geralt exchanged a glance. “They need some unusual ingredients - drowner spit, dragon teeth, piss of a royal gryphon - the good stuff. We might not even have to tell Ivoreth, brew it up, send it to him with his elf here as a “cure”, with a warning. The Empire retains its nasty image, Roche will be around a while longer, and all is well that ends well.”

Emhyr was about to answer when Geralt left his side and walked up to his brother. “What about the blood? You are just so beyond the line…”

Eskel shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, I know where to find someone who still is strong enough, brother,” he replied. “But that’s not what you want to ask, is it? You want me to make more.”

It was a strange dynamic between them, a mix of disapproval and worry, and a mix of misunderstanding and care. Emhyr could not truly translate it. “Sine qua non,” Geralt said softly. “I never understood what Vesemir or you meant by that… now I do. And…”

“You don’t want to lose him,” Eskel ran his hand through his dark hair. “Alright, you give me a week, and you make sure that Emperor survives all other elven heroics. And there will be more. Then we talk.” He stepped past his brother and cast a sharp glance at Emhyr. “I’ll say it only once - you hurt my little brother, you harm him, and it’s my blades that you need to worry about.”

It was a strange moment, usually, Emhyr would have rebuked such bluntness, but suddenly he felt elated. Because whatever else it may mean, it also meant acceptance for what he and Geralt were and might become. It was a chance and one he would grasp with both hands.

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The Thing About Iorveth, Vernon Roche and Emhyr (by me, @do-androids-dream-ao3acc, yes I have no title for this)

Geralt became suspicious at the second assassination attempt, Emhyr only at the third. As far as that was concerned, Vizima turned out to be a real viper's nest – no pun intended, because witchers, especially vipers, had nothing to do with it. Geralt quipped, however, that they also had a reason for such attacks. Emhyr did not find that funny.

This whole situation was quite surreal. Geralt came to Vizima more often; Emhyr had not yet left the north, as if he still had to mend fences, including with his own daughter. The latter had agreed to take up her inheritance, but she had set a peculiar condition: until the emperor would retreat to Nilfgaard, Geralt was to act as her advisor. It was a rather absurd proposal, which Geralt flatly rejected, saying that his dislike of politics was common knowledge. Whereupon Emhyr, of all people, had reminded him of his involvement in the death of Radovid.

In general, Emhyr. Where was this strict guy, who had once demanded that Geralt be bathed and dressed in black clothes before he had forbidden him to speak, yet now… Now he was still impatient, bossy, and quite demanding, but there was Ciri, and for some reason he had nothing, absolutely nothing to counter her with. Ciri was a force of nature, and Geralt found it quite appropriate that Emhyr was quite helpless in the face of it.

So Geralt was now somehow a member of Vizima’s court, feeling like an exotic exhibit in the showcase of an auction house. At least until the assassination attempts occured. The first one was almost ridiculous, a small explosive box smuggled among the cargo – whoever had placed it there only revealed they had no idea Emhyr did not even get to see such things. Emhyr claimed assassination attempts occurred almost daily in Nilfgaard, and that this one neither surprised him nor did he think it was original. Geralt thought he sounded almost proud. Perhaps the man had to keep convincing himself of his worth by withstanding attacks on his life, what did he know.

The second time was about a delivery to the kitchen. This time it was more sophisticated – Geralt later learned that the local supplier had taken a bribe. In this way, poisonous plants had found their way into the kitchen. Something must have gone wrong here, because the cook had recognized them immediately. Geralt found the composition strange: psilocybe mushroom, banewart and a branch of bohun upas, a tree with poisonous sap. All these plants resembled non-poisonous ones, but were easy to recognize for the trained eye. Incidentally, they grew in dense forests, which Geralt also told Emhyr, who did not care much.

"I leave the art of botany to those who know more about it," he had said, and he had not even let Ciri interfere, who had already reacted to the first assassination attempt with concern.

The third time, however, Emhyr's cool facade crumbled, as Geralt noticed, not without satisfaction. Emhyr had introduced a (in Geralt's eyes superfluous, insecure and somehow silly) gesture in Vizima, which consisted of him and Ciri conducting public negotiations, weather permitting, in the palace's spacious courtyard. Much later, Geralt learned that this had come about mainly because Emhyr found the palace ugly, dark and kind of creepy, which in turn was somehow cute. Ciri seemed to prefer being outdoors anyway, and so did he, of course. So there Geralt stood, one step behind the old and the new ruler, always trying to stifle a yawn and at the same time keeping an eye out for danger.

On that particular day, an arrow made it very close to Emhyr, an arrow from a bow that was later discovered near the outer wall. However, no trace of the archer was found. Emhyr had the bow shown to him, and he remarked, "This looks familiar."

Geralt was surprised, but also somehow pleased. He had now had many weeks of forced study with Emhyr, and had learned much in the process. Emhyr was extremely well-informed on certain subjects (though mostly politics, military matters, and espionage), and on some things he was a walking encyclopedia. He could quote Ciri's origin up to Lara Dorren by heart, had peculiar knowledge about the viper-witchers and knew very well about magic, despite an understandable aversion to it.

Somehow, Geralt liked that. Apart from insane rulers like Radovid, he had known those who were downright stupid, those who farted half the day into their throne’s pillow and seemed to have more straw in their heads than the farmers on the fields those king’s and queens owned. Emhyr was indeed literate, and interesting beyond that, which admittedly made Geralt a little uncomfortable. He found that bad deeds were not to be outweighed by aristocratic features, a mysterious nature, and a pleasant smell.

And yet he liked it, which of course he kept to himself. He also liked that Emhyr had been able to identify the carvings on the bow – it was clearly an elven weapon.

"Maybe even Scoia'tael," he thoughtfully added, whereupon Emhyr became pensive.

The fourth attack plunged the court into great chaos. A perfectly normal and hitherto quiet (i.e. boring) day of audiences was nearing its end, when a great roar sounded and finally the doors to the throne room were pushed open with force. Something – one could not describe it otherwise because of the confusion and its speed – flitted through the room, a tangle from which arrows occasionally escaped. In the end, it turned out to be a band of elves, Scoia'tael in fact, who made a lot of noise, but were basically only five men.

Emhyr's soldiers easily put down the small uprising, and yet one managed to get within a hair's breadth of Emhyr. Had it not been for Geralt, who had kept track in all the chaos and noticed that one man of this group had broken away. However, he was not the only one: the equally striving and attentive Impera captain had almost caught the elf when Geralt hastily shouted, "Stop! Let him live!"

After a bit of a scuffle, they actually managed to pin the elf down, and Geralt and Emhyr both shouted at the same time, "Iorveth?"

Indeed. They had captured the famous elf leader, whom neither Emhyr nor Geralt had ever believed they would see again – albeit for different reasons and with different feelings. The mess had somehow ruffled Emhyr’s hair; a curl had stolen from what was actually a well coiffed, severe hairstyle and hung down into his forehead. Geralt found this very inappropriate, because it reminded him of earlier times and caused a feeling in his stomach as if he had just drunk a good liquor – only without the intoxication, and that was somehow strange. In any case, Emhyr claimed that he needed to recover from this mess, although Geralt believed that the man was meeting with his intelligence chief in the background to exchange information. Some time later, Emhyr – again, quite odd – came to Geralt personally and asked him to be present at Iorveth's interrogation.

"You have a history together," he said. "Maybe he'll be more likely to tell you what this is all about than my torturers."

"I would think that’s clear even without torture," Geralt returned, "he's obviously not well disposed towards you, after all, you took advantage of him and then tried to have him executed."

"No man can undo his past," Emhyr replied cryptically, "and what was logical at an earlier time will seem cruel in many a history book. Be that as it may, it doesn't explain why he shows up years later to exact his revenge."

That was true, though. Admittedly, the Scoia'tael had not benefited much from peacetime so far. Emhyr had abolished all reprisals against otherlings in the North, but the execution of his orders still left much to be desired. It might be that Iorveth simply wanted to finally act out his deep resentment against Emhyr. However, it turned out that Geralt was quite wrong with this thought. After they had exchanged some typical rudeness, which in the case of Iorveth had been combined with much shouting, clamoring and fidgeting, Geralt demanded to know what the problem was.

"Emhyr is the problem, isn't that obvious?" spat the elf.

"Well," Geralt returned calmly, "I'm the last one who wants to play the diplomat here, but why are you coming up with this now? The war is over, and while conditions are certainly not ideal..."

"What?" Iorveth interrupted him, confused, "Who said it was about that?"

"It isn’t? Well, why then, if not out of a grudge against Emhyr?"

"Oh, you bet your ass I have a grudge," Iorveth scoffed. "Are you familiar with the concept of blood ties, Geralt?"

Geralt nodded, and then – maybe for old times' sake, or maybe because he finally had to get this off his chest, Iorveth told him everything.

Later, Geralt met with Emhyr, who had insisted on a private parley, without Ciri, without his curious valet, and without his soldiers. He was really acting strangely lately.

"We need a sorceress," Geralt said, "or a Ban Ard mage for all I care, if you have one handy."

"As it happens, I don't," Emhyr grumbled, uncomfortable with the thought of magic. "Why? Did the elves get involved with magic? Do they possess an artifact that could harm me or Cirilla? Do they have a mage at their service?"

"Nothing like that," Geralt said, and then he started laughing.

For a while he enjoyed Emhyr's wry look. Somehow the man had really changed. In the past, he would have had him thrown out right away; after all, laughter was not a pastime that was particularly popular at this court. Emhyr had become more patient, even with Geralt.

"If you would have the kindness to explain this to me?"

"We need a strong hair restorer, and it must work quickly, preferably immediately. An ordinary one could be prepared by any alchemist, of course, but I have told Iorveth that only magic can help here. He believed it."

"A... hair restorer."

Emhyr's brows seemed to creep into his hairline. Geralt had never seen the man so confused. It was kind of touching.

"Yes. What I'm about to tell you absolutely has to stay between us, because if this thing is going to work, nobody can learn about this. Watch out. Iorveth thinks you're causing Vernon Roche undue stress and discomfort."

"Vernon Roche?"

Emhyr pushed his lower lip forward as if he were an offended child.

"The thought of me making this creep uncomfortable pleases me, frankly. I am surprised, however, that Iorveth does not feel the same way. If I remember correctly, the man pursued him mercilessly, and for a long time."

"That's right. But you see, sometimes old enemies can discover commonalities they weren't aware of before."

He looked at Emhyr, and somehow that warm feeling in his stomach was back. It felt like he had eaten something very good, or watched a particularly beautiful sunset. His own words echoed in him, and he thought, good heavens. Is this really true?

"You mean, people who previously rejected each other can see that their reasons no longer hold water?"

It was a strange formulation, Geralt thought. But he also thought that Emhyr was looking at him with great interest, at least if he interpreted the glint of those honey eyes correctly.

"Yes," Geralt replied slowly, as something inside of him tugged at his heartstrings, "or even a human and an elf. Anyway... I hardly dare say it, but apparently Vernon Roche and Iorveth have grown closer."

"Oh," went Emhyr. "Do you think that's bad?"

Geralt looked at him in surprise. The question was unusual. Did Emhyr really want to know his opinion on such a delicate question? Well, he had actually done his homework – as far as Geralt knew, same-sex relationships were not particularly uncommon in Nilfgaard and nowhere near as frowned upon as in the North.

"Well, I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that Vernon Roche and Iorveth, of all people.... But basically, no."

Their eyes met, and Geralt wondered if Emhyr had ever had the same feeling in his stomach that he had now. Whether he had ever given this feeling space or a name, like Vernon Roche and his Scoia’tael leader, who apparently were a thing now.

Emhyr cleared his throat noisily and continued, "All right, so the two are a pair. I’ve heard stranger things in my life. Now what do I have to do with that?"

"Well," Geralt said with relish, "you're obviously the cause of Vernon Roche's distress. I mean, of course Roche is not happy with the developments. His dream of Temeria – well, it was almost manic, and as for resentment, he probably has an even bigger one than Iorveth. In any case, Iorveth describes him as stressed. Because... the man loses hair. And the ones he has left would be white, Iorveth says."

Geralt grinned broadly, but Emhyr grimaced.

"Just the thought of that guy taking off his chaperon to show off his lice-ridden mane to anyone... wait. Let me do the math... That sounds like a natural progression."

"Exactly. Vernon Roche is in his prime, and apparently he's going bald. But you know what? Elves don't get bald heads. They never lose their hair, and it doesn't turn white until they're very, very old."

"Most Scoia'tael don't live that long," Emhyr followed, and Geralt nodded.

"Exactly. That means Iorveth doesn't know what this hair loss means for Roche. He thinks it's due to stress, he must have heard once that it can be a reason for all kinds of symptoms in humans. I've essentially confirmed it."

"But why?"

"Very simple. He wouldn't have believed the real explanation. The guy is obviously crazy about Vernon Roche, although I don't understand why, but to each his own. Furthermore, Iorveth now considers the man his blood brother, which is an important concept among the Scoia'tael – it means preserving the other's honor at all costs, protecting and caring for him. And one thing is clear: these assassinations will never stop, because in his opinion it's your fault, and there are still a lot of Scoia'tael out there who follow Iorveth. So I made him a peace offering."

"Which is?"

"Well, I've maintained that you can't officially make reparations to the Blue Stripes or the Scoia'tael, but would be quite willing, in order to keep the peace, to recognize past services."

"You did what?"

Emhyr's eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

"Emhyr, listen to me. This is an ingenious and simple solution. You've been siccing your advisors on me for weeks to teach me the basics of diplomacy. Can't you see I'm doing just that?"

Emhyr swallowed. Even his Adam's apple looked elegant. Was that what Vernon Roche saw in Iorveth, and vice versa? A person, not an enemy image? What a thought.

"What exactly did you promise him?" he asked cautiously.

"Nothing but a hair restorer," Geralt grinned. "I told him you were willing to invest considerable cost in an experienced sorceress or mage to restore Vernon Roche. In return, Iorveth agrees to refrain from further attacks."

"Surely Vernon Roche will see through this nonsense."

"He would. But we will, of course, instruct the sorceress or mage to keep it secretive – which also means that Iorveth will have to try to administer the stuff to Vernon in secret. Roche mustn't know about it, because otherwise it won't work, I've told him that."

"It's a devious plan," Emhyr admitted after a moment's thought.

"Love drives people to do strange things," Geralt replied, lowering his eyes.

"All right, I agree," Emhyr finally said. "I'll have a sorceress come and make a hair restorer for Vernon Roche. I can't believe I just said that."

"Of course," Geralt said slowly, "as long as you have Iorveth in your power, there could be more attacks, after all, the Scoia'tael will miss their leader."

"You're not seriously suggesting I release the man after half the court witnessed him pounce on me," Emhyr protested. "It will already seem like a strange act of mercy if I pardon him later, all without anyone knowing anything about a hair restorer."

"That's not what I'm saying at all. But... I should probably stay close to your side for the time being. I know the Impera are capable guys and all, but I’m a witcher, and I may know some more tricks… I mean, if it's all right with you."

Geralt felt like he was stammering. Emhyr, however, fixed his eyes on him, honey and amber and a hint of hazelnut, and he nodded.

"I think I would like that."

#writing #fanfiction #crack fic #Geralt/Emhyr #Emralt #Emhyralt #Vernon Roche/Iorveth #Iorveth/Roche #my fics

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definitely-not-iorveth · 2 years ago

Text

perennial

The queen of Skellige and the Empress of Nilgaard also happen to be childhood friends. When they meet after the years, something blossoms between them. But some things that bloom within you bring only pain.

Written as a Witcher Winter Exchange 2022 organized by @witcherficwriters gift for @chamomilecaptain, inspired by the prompt: "ciri/cerys with hanahaki after final battle with hunt".

It's not quite as described, but I hope it's close enough to be to your liking! (:

(I'd also like you to know that all of your prompts were great, and I may and likely will end up writing for some of them in the future.)

ao3

Ciri has scoffed in mock offence at the notion that she wouldn't be able to make the jump, and as Cerys watches her soar, she understands why. She is magnificent to behold when she sails over the rocks, lands with a flourish and does a little pirouette, then bows laughing breathlessly.

It’s breathtaking. She’s breathtaking.

Hjalmar looks just as awestuck as Cerys, but he’s also terrified. He can’t show it, not in front of all the other children, so he hides it well behind a boastful grin. Cerys knows her brother, though. He isn’t as sure of his skill as Ciri—he isn’t confident that he can make the jump. But to a young Skellige boy, courage and daring is everything, so he tries anyway.

—

The first several months of the new Queen’s rule are tumultuous, to say the least, even and especially after defeating the Wild Hunt on the shores of Undvik. There’s numerous meetings and countless discussions—with the Jarls and bands, with the druids, with the foreign diplomats and guild representatives. There’s all the problems, not the least of which is Hjalmar’s recurrent and prominent participation in unsanctioned raids. There’s the official documentation, most of which has to be created from scratch, because Skellige’s rulers never had much interest in writing down its regulations and decrees.

To make matters worse, her leadership is continually challenged. Some are unhappy with her changes in policies, long accustomed to the ancient ways. Others find fault in her identity—because she's a woman, or simply because she's not their preferred candidate, usually Hjalmar or Svanrige. The latter especially has accumulated a surprising amount of proponents in the face of his mother's schemes. But worst of all are the worshippers of Svalblod, who hate the very sight of her most vehemently, as her peaceful policies make it much harder for them to hide in plain sight.

It culminates in a priest of Svalblod challenging her to single combat, yelling that she’s too weak , too soft , unworthy of ruling Skellige. She’s free to ignore the challenge, of course—refusing a duel from one without honour is no slight, and anyone who’s heard the name of Svalblod knows that his worshippers have forsaken theirs.

She accepts.

Hjamar may be the more hot headed of the two of them, but even Cerys has her limits.

Her victory is swift—the man’s attacks are broad, reckless swings, easy to dodge under and past his guard. He wears no armour, so it’s even easier to plunge her sword under his armpit and shove hard, piercing the lungs. He drops his weapon, coughing up blood, then unexpectedly whips out a small, sharp knife. As he does so, a sickeningly sweet smell hits her nostrils. The blade has a greenish hue.

Cerys pulls away as he slashes at her face and all he manages is a shallow cut through her cheek, but it seems to satisfy him. With his last breath, he croaks out, “now your cowardice shall be exposed.” Then he falls to the ground.

She looks at the knife as the gathered crowd cheers, bends to pick it up. The handle is made of bone and its blade covered in a thick, viscous substance. Poison?

She brings it to Mousesack, whom she had managed to install as the court druid.

He examines both the knife and the cut thoroughly. His expression is troubled, and he stares intensely at the weapon, as if willing it to reveal all its secrets. When Cerys asks what the substance is, he shakes his head and says that he needs to investigate further, but assures her there’s no immediate danger to her life.

“If you notice anything unusual, come to me. Straight away .” He cautions, then sends her on her way.

—

Between everything and constantly surrounded by petitioners and advisors, Cerys barely has time to eat and sleep, much less to partake in any leisure activities. She’s tired .

It is no wonder then, that as soon as life on the islands begins to settle back into a semblance of a rhythm, once the laws and decrees are written down and signed, all she wants to do is take a break.

That's how she finds herself cautiously wandering through the forest one late afternoon. She has come here with an escort, but left them behind to enjoy a solitary walk as they made camp. She was overdue for some peace and quiet.

Just as she’s about to emerge from the trees onto the shore of an ice-bound lake, a green light erupts some distance away. Cerys takes an instinctive step back, covering her mouth to prevent making a sound, watching a silver-haired young woman emerge from the portal. As she watches, the woman glances about, then puts on a pair of ice skates, and confidently jumps onto the ice.

Cerys blinks rapidly a few times, then rubs her eyes for good measure, but the woman doesn’t disappear. Her face is not visible from this distance, but the silver hair and the green portal… It’s just as Hjalmar had described, after the Wild Hunt ordeal.

“Ciri?” Cerys whispers to herself, still unable to believe that the girl she knew in her youth, the woman who is currently the Empress of Nilfgaard, is now right here for some inexplicable reason. Several minutes tick by, and as Cerys watches, she becomes certain. The speed with which this woman moves on the ice, the effortless way she jumps and pirouettes, the pure joy that's clear in body language and the sound of her laughter—it must be her.

It must be Ciri.

Cerys swallows, then steps out of the trees and calls to her.

—

Ciri doesn't spare the surroundings more than a cursory glance after she teleports—she has been to this lake before, and no one disturbed her. Besides, now that the Hunt is gone and the White Frost is dealt with, anything that could try to hurt her feels very mundane.

She adjusts her furcoat, throws her skates on and soon enough, she's on the ice.

It's so much fun, and more importantly, it feels free .

Being an Empress is… challenging. There's so much she needs to learn and relearn—most of all, patience. Ciri never had much of it, and to make it worse state business and ceremony bore her. Yet now it’s a part of her job, a job she chose, and she is resolved to do it well. But it does take a toll on her and sometimes ( often ) she just needs to take a break from it all.

Unexpectedly, her reverie is interrupted by a voice calling her name. Ciri turns abruptly towards it, eyes narrowing and hand going for her sword. It’s a hard learned instinct.

On the shore there's a red haired woman wearing a gambeson over a simple woollen dress—but how does she know her?

“Who are you?” Ciri shouts. The woman appears to be alone, so she slowly lowers her hand from the hilt. There’s something familiar about her face, she thinks.

“It’s Cerys! Cerys an Craite!”

The answer is unexpected like a punch to the gut, but the more Ciri stares at her, the more the red hair and the familiar features make sense. She looks a little like Hjalmar, Ciri realises, way back before he disfigured his face on the ice.

“It is you!” Ciri gasps, breaking into a wide grin and skating closer. “Little quail!”

Without thinking, she reaches out and grabs Cerys into a tight hug, lifts her up and spins around on the ice.

It feels like a long-forgotten piece missing from the puzzle-picture of her childhood finally snapping back into place.

—

For a brief moment, Cerys is certain that Ciri will run her through with a sword, or worse yet, teleport away, but once the other woman hears her name, a look of recognition flashes across her face, and then she smiles .

It’s just as beautiful as she remembers. Cerys’ heart flutters in her chest.

She’s completely unprepared when Ciri skates closer and lifts her up, then spins. Cerys shrieks, then laughs, grasping at Ciri’s shoulders. They are two heads of state and it’s completely improper, but she doesn’t care. Ciri is here, and Cerys hadn’t realised how much she had missed her.

“I go by Sparrowhawk now.” She says, a little breathless but very happy.

—

After spinning a couple of times, Ciri puts Cerys down. She’s hit with a sudden realisation that if Mererid was here, he would scold her for acting so carelessly and unseemly. Maybe he would even call her boorish—and that makes her laugh even harder.

“Oh, where are my manners! You’re a queen now!” She bows courtly. “Please forgive my uncouth and untoward behaviour, Your Highness!”

“And you’re an Empress.” Cerys raises her eyebrows at her, but her eyes are glinting in amusement. She attempts to mimic her bow with limited success—and Ciri is suddenly reminded that the rulers and jarls of Skellige never stood on ceremony. Cerys straightens and grins. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

She sits down, patting the spot next to her. Ciri is happy to join her. “But speaking of which—not that I’m not happy to see you, but what is the Empress of Nilfgaard doing here, all alone in the middle of the isles?”

Ciri tells her about how exhausting her new duties are. Cerys nods—she can certainly relate to that. She says as much, and they start comparing and contrasting their experiences as rulers, sharing advice and laughing at some more ridiculous customs of each other's nation's.

After what feels simultaneously like it's been hours and like no time had passed at all, Cerys sighs and stands up, brushing snow off her clothes.

"I should go." She sighs. "I'm not alone up here—my queensguard will worry."

Ciri nods.

"If you'd like to meet again… I come up here quite often." She grins.

Something warm blooms inside Cerys' chest.

"I'd like that."

—

She coughs up a few petals that night. She tells herself they must have fallen into her stew.

—

She shouldn't disappear into the wilderness for such a long time, she knows that, but the desire to see Ciri again is too strong to resist—so Cerys and her retinue stay camped out near the lake for over two weeks.

Ciri appears five more times during that period, and each time they sit together and chat and laugh. Ciri frequently presses Cerys to get on the ice as well, and she does a couple times—but for the most part, she is content to simply watch. Not because she doesn't know how to skate—every child on Skellige needs to learn, lest they be relentlessly mocked and ridiculed for the rest of their life—but because watching Ciri dance on the ice gives her so much delight.

She looks so beautiful, so joyful and free of care.

Once, Cerys has a short coughing fit as she watches. Afterwards, there's some petals and a speck of blood in her palm.

—

They don't get to say goodbye face to face.

Cerys waits three nights after deciding that it's time to depart, but Ciri doesn't appear, so she carves a short message into a tree they usually sit under: need to leave. come visit. C.

There's a painful tightness in her lungs as she departs.

—

Ciri's disappointment at missing Cerys' departure is immense, the little message her only consolation. The entire week after finding it, she spends the small moments of personal freedom afforded the Nilfgaardian Empress alternately moping and coming up with wild and improbable ideas on how to see her again, the least dubious of which involves simply teleporting into Cerys' bedchamber.

The solution comes, unexpectedly, from Morvran, who reminds her in no uncertain terms that while the Skelligan raids on Nilfgaardian ships have largely ceased, the diplomatic relations between the two countries are still nonexistent.

She suggests organising a diplomatic meeting, to which he agrees readily.

She doesn't mention that she's planning to go personally until after all the arrangements are already in place. She has always been better at asking for forgiveness than permission.

—

Not knowing when, or even if one will be able to see their long-lost childhood friend again is not a happy thought for anyone, but Cerys is surprised by the sheer intensity of the longing she experiences in the days after her small vacation. She knows that Ciri’s presence has contributed significantly to her enjoyment of the short period, of course she knows, but not to this degree.

And yet. Back then, there was always the certainty that they would meet again. Cerys would wait, and Ciri would, eventually, come back . Now, though? Now, there is nothing—and it hurts.

Still, she is the queen of Skellige, and queens don’t have the luxury of ruminating on such feelings. It will pass with time, she tells herself. After all, previously, she hadn’t seen Ciri in years—and she had been fine. If Ciri doesn’t appear in her life again? That’s alright.

Time heals all wounds.

(The fact that she may think of this as a wound surprises her, too.)

Her chest feels tight.

Some nights, she sleeps fitfully. When she awakens, she has to brush petals off her pillow.

—

Her heart leaps to her throat when she receives a missive inquiring about the possibility of a diplomatic visit from the Empress of Nilfgaard a couple weeks later.

It’s the first diplomatic correspondence she receives from the nation of the Sun.

She’s certainly happy about an opportunity to have Ciri visit, but the way the letter is worded fills her with apprehension—full of titles and formal words. But she clamps the feeling down firmly, reminding herself that it must be so and pens a similarly ceremonious response.

They are a queen and an empress, after all.

That night, she has a bad coughing fit that leaves the pillows stained with blood.

She doesn’t notice the pink, crumpled flower falling onto the floor.

—

She goes to Mousesack the next day and describes the symptoms plaguing her for the past weeks.

He chastises her for not coming to him sooner as he examines her mouth and throat, listens to her breathing as she inhales and exhales deeply, pokes and prods between her ribs.

“I’ve come to expect such blatant disregard for his own well-being from your brother, but you?” He lectures, mixing herbs and other ingredients into a pungent concoction. “I was always under the impression that you were more sensible.”

He shouldn’t be addressing her in this manner, as if she were an unruly child, but Cerys can’t bring herself to correct him. Lately, he’s as much a father to her as Crach an Craite, and his counsel is indispensable.

He’s also right.

Cerys accepts the reprimand along with the medication. Both taste bittersweet.

The coughing fits lessen gradually, to the point of near nonexistence by the time the Empress of Nilfgaard arrives on Skellige.

Occasionally, she still finds herself with petals in her hand or on her pillows.

—

Nilfgaardian rulers have so many titles, Cerys thinks distractedly as the black-clad herald rattles them off to announce Ciri. Finally, he gets to her name, also very long—longer than it used to be. She’s Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon var Emreis now.

The Empress enters.

She’s wearing a dress with a simple black skirt and red lacy sleeves. Over it is a black camisole embroidered with Nilfgaardian suns in golden thread. There’s no jewellery other than the imperial necklace. The pendant is so huge, it seems out of place over her breast. Her hairstyle is an intricate yet practical bun.

The attire is plain by Nilfgaardian standards, but to islander eyes, it’s downright extravagant. Ciri wears it beautifully, of course she does, but Cerys is unable to appreciate it fully at first—it uncomfortably reminds her of Birna Bran. That spectre is quickly banished, however, when their eyes cross. Ciri winks and gives her a quick, impish grin, before her face reassumes a more stately expression. Her eyes remain warm though, so unlike Birna’s cold, stony gaze.

It sends a rush of affectionate warmth spreading through Cerys' chest—and then a surge of pain. She winces and stifles the reflex to grasp at the front of her ornate tunic. Instead, she smiles and prays that no one notices her discomfort.

—

Ciri barely stops herself from impatiently walking straight past the herald. The Nilfgaardian titles are so long, and she's so damn hungry , and she knows for a fact that Skelligan diplomacy involves throwing incredible welcome feasts.

But she restrains herself, walking in with measured steps only after he finishes announcing. There will be time for celebration soon.

When she sees Cerys, she’s dumbstruck at first.

Every time they’ve seen each other up until now, the queen of Skellige was clad in a well-worn gambeson over a simple wool-spun dress, with a hastily plaited braid. Now, the braid looks much more elaborate and instead of the armour, there’s a masterfully quilted tunic with a fur collar, worn over a pair of leather trousers that tightly hug her legs. She looks stunning.

Fortunately, Ciri is able to collect herself enough to greet Cerys with a discreet wink and a playful smile. The queen’s expression brightens at first, but then a grimace of pain flashes through her face. She quickly masks it with a forced smile, though, and stands to make a formal—or as formal as Skelligan speeches get—address that ends in a hearty invite to partake in the table offerings.

Ciri happily descends on the food, but she makes sure to keep an eye on Cerys. She masks it well, but to a careful observer, it’s obvious something is wrong—she coughs every now and again, and it’s always briefly followed by a pained grimace.

Skellige doesn’t stand on ceremony—everyone granted an invitation is free to mingle, and both her and Cerys are continuously accosted by one petitioner or another. (Her Nilfgaardian guards, unaccustomed to even nobles exhibiting such familiarity, are about ready to have an aneurysm about it.)

She’s excited to speak with Cerys again, having missed her a lot, so as soon as she spots a chance to talk to the queen in private, she takes it. When she notices the queen moving onto a balcony, leaving two guards at the door to guarantee she isn’t followed, Ciri extricates herself from her current engagement and furtively moves into a side corridor, then teleports away.

—

She feels a little guilty for disturbing Cerys’ privacy at first, but the smirk and the words that greet her immediately put her at ease.

“I was hoping you’d follow me here.”

Ciri raises her eyebrows.

“Oh? Who says I was following you? Maybe I wanted to get some fresh air, and just happened to land on the balcony occupied by you?” She tries to keep her expression indifferent, but she can’t quite keep the smile off her face. Cerys throws back her head and laughs— but the sound is quickly interrupted by an ugly coughing fit.

Ciri immediately crosses the short distance between the two of them, putting a worried hand on Cerys’ back.

“What’s going on?” She asks quietly, running in circles. “You don’t seem okay.”

Once the coughing stops, Cerys wipes her mouth. Her hand comes away bloody.

“It’s nothing.” She says hoarsely. “I’m- Mousesack has given me medication. I’m sure I’ll be fine soon.”

Ciri is not fully convinced, but she agrees to let the matter drop for the time being. She trusts Mousesack—if anyone can help Cerys fight an illness, it’s him.

Maybe she can catch him later and ask about it.

They spend a while after that talking—there’s a connection between them, firm and affectionate, and it’s been there since they were very young, Ciri muses—until a harried-looking guard bursts in, imploring them both to reappear at the banquet. Apparently, their absence had been noticed, and it made the Nilfgaardian guards somewhat disgruntled.

The two women return to the main hall, but not before exchanging matching grins.

—

Ciri sees glimpses of Mousesack throughout the party, but she's unable to make contact beyond catching his eye at first. He raises his hand and gives her a small wave then, his mouth quirking up into a smile, and continues on his way. He seems at once busy and unengaged, walking around the hall in seemingly random patterns and inspecting seemingly random items of food, drink and furniture. She tries to approach him, but he waves her off, clearly busy with his strange patrol, so she gives up and morosely picks up a plate of pastries—and nearly drops it when the crumbs begin moving.

They form a message of “let’s catch up after.”

Ciri grins.

—

“That was a neat trick, with the crumbs,” she says, the green glow fading around her.

Mousesack looks unimpressed.

“I’d have thought you were raised in a barn if I didn’t know any better.” He responds dryly. “Is it not customary in Nilfgaard to knock before visiting an old friend? I thought the empire had a pretence of civility, at least.”

Ciri grins sheepishly.

“Sorry. I didn’t want to alert my guards—they would have followed me here.”

“I’m certain I’d have noticed any Nilfgaardian guards stationed outside my door.” Mousesack shakes his finger at her with a severe expression, then unexpectedly smiles and opens his arms. “Come here, you impetuous girl.”

Ciri squeals and gives him a crushing hug.

“What were you so busy with during the banquet anyway?” She asks once she pulls away and Mousesack gets his wind back.

“Just doing a continuous general sweep, making sure everything is in order. You wouldn’t believe the trouble we had during the last banquet in these halls…”

—

Despite her worsening condition, Cerys returns to her bedchamber in high spirits. Her and Ciri had managed to snatch several more moments to themselves during the festivities, and now they have a full week of diplomatic meetings ahead of them.

She falls into sleep easily.

Not long after, she wakes up to another coughing fit.

It’s painful. Her lungs are on fire, and worse yet, she can’t catch a proper breath.

She spends several horrifying minutes hacking, wheezing and sputtering, desperately trying to get enough air into her lungs, to expel whatever is blocking her airways, until finally, mercifully, the awful pressure eases off somewhat.

The little coughs haven’t stopped and there’s still a tightness in her chest, still a rattle to her breath—but at least she can breathe, for now.

She’s surrounded by a field of bloody flowers, and this almost scares her even more. Where did they come from? Did she just cough them out? Why? How?

She hastily throws on a fur-lined cloak and stumbles towards Mousesack’s quarters, the guards giving her bewildered glances as she passes. Some attempt to help her, but she waves them off. She doesn’t want a scene—she just wants her druid with a cure.

She throws the door open to find Mousesack engaged in conversation with Ciri over cups of mead. (Of course—he had known her as a little girl, they would have much to catch up on.)

They turn towards her in shock. Cerys tries to say something, but all that comes out is a rasping cough.

Ciri’s chair clatters to the floor as she bolts upright and crosses the distance between them in two quick steps. She leads her to the table, rights the toppled chair and sits Cerys on it.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, full of anxiety and concern. “What happened?” Cerys finds herself unable to answer between coughs. Each time, petals mixed with blood fall to the floor.

“Let's move her to my lab.” The druid says in lieu of an answer. Ciri doesn’t look satisfied with it, but she obediently helps Cerys stand, then hefts her into her arms.

“And then you’ll tell me?”

Mousesack nods tersely, leading the way.

—

Cerys looks like an apparition—face pale and speckled with blood, dressed in a billowy sleeping gown. Ciri is almost afraid she’ll dissolve into thin air as she scoops her up to follow Mousesack.

The druid gestures at her to lay Cerys out on a wooden table, nearly identical to the one in the other room, then begins grinding and mixing ingredients. Ciri is nearly shaking with impatience, but she doesn’t dare disturb him. She occupies herself by holding Cerys’ hand, stroking her hair and whispering reassuring words in her ear.

Finally, Mousesack turns back towards the two women.

“Prop her up.” He instructs, then slowly and gently pours it into Cerys’ mouth. She chokes a little at first, but soon begins to relax, the coughing finally easing off.

“Thank-” she begins saying, before lurching forward and violently throwing up.

Ciri watches in horror as Cerys vomits not regular bile, but a small pile of bloody flowers.

—

Throwing up the flowers is a strange and unpleasant experience, but once she’s finished, Cerys feels much better. She can almost breathe easily now.

“Will you tell me what the hell is going on?” Ciri demands, looking between her and Mousesack.

The druid’s expression is gravely serious.

“I’m afraid it’s a curse.”

“A curse?” Ciri looks just as horrified as Cerys feels. “What curse? Did you… Lift it?”

Mousesack shakes his head sadly.

“I’ve alleviated it temporarily—just as the potions I’ve been giving you were meant to.” He gives Cerys an enquiring look. “Have you been drinking them every day?”

Cerys nods.

“Of course I have! I am taking this seriously, you know.”

Mousesack’s expression darkens further.

“Then it’s progressing much quicker than I estimated. Cerys, it’s imperative that we act now.”

She nods again.

“What do we do?”

Mousesack pauses, looking uncomfortable—and she understands why once he speaks.

“You must confess your most deeply hidden fear.”

Cerys gapes at him.

“What?” She and Ciri ask at the same time. Despite the gravity of the situation, she can’t help but smile at this.

“Do you remember the priest of Svalblod?”

Cerys winces at that. Of course she remembers, the encounter was deeply unsettling. She tells as much to Mousesack.

“And do you remember his dying words?”

Cerys frowns, trying to recall the exact wording.

“He said… He said that I’m a coward?” Mousesack shakes his head.

“ Your cowardice shall be exposed . That’s what you’d told me after the fight.”

“Yes… Yes, you’re right. I remember now. So he placed the curse on me?” The druid nods.

“It slowly kills the bearer—unless they confess their most deeply hidden fear. In front of an audience .” He glances at himself and Ciri meaningfully. “Two people should be enough, though—provided they’re important enough to the bearer.”

“Great! Then I confess—my deepest fear is failing as a queen of Skellige.” Cerys says confidently. She wouldn’t have admitted this to anyone else, but between her trusted advisor and best friend, she has no qualms.

Mousesack watches her carefully. After several moments, he shakes his head.

“That’s not it.”

Cerys looks at him in disbelief.

“I know it’s difficult, but you need to think harder. Please, Cerys. Your life is in danger.”

Cerys scowls, racking her brain for anything else that could be a deeply hidden fear.

“Small, closed off spaces.” She tries after some consideration. She’d always felt uncomfortable in those.

But Mousesack shakes his head again.

“...Spider crabs?” Another shake no. “Dragons?”

She continues rattling off names of various deadly creatures she knows from myths and legends, feeling increasingly frustrated. Worse yet, she can tell that Ciri and Mousesack feel the same way and the coughs are starting back up again.

Finally Mousesack stops her.

“Enough. We won’t get anywhere like this.” He says wearily. “Let’s take a break.”

Cerys nods.

“I… I think I need some air.”

Ciri places a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll take you.”

—

Ciri brings them into the woods next to their little lake, hoping to offer some privacy.

“It’s cold.” Cerys notes. Belatedly, Ciri realises her mistake—the queen is still in her nightgown and a cloak, her feet bare.

“Shit, I’m so sorry- Let me-”

“Let’s stay for a few minutes.” Cerys interrupts. Ciri frowns.

“Won’t that make your illness worse?” Cerys laughs humorlessly.

“It’s a curse. It won’t matter.”

“Yeah, well, it won’t help if you get pneumonia on top of it.” Ciri huffs, glancing around—then, in a bout of ingenuity, she pulls Cerys’ cloak off, drapes it over her front, then grabs the other woman around the waist and allows herself to fall backwards, pulling Cerys with her.

Cerys yelps as they go down.

“What are you doing?” She yells, managing to sound both horrified and amused.

“Making you warm.” Comes the muffled reply from below.

It’s not a very comfortable position, but she does feel warm and snug once she tucks her feet under the cloak. As tired as she is, Cerys doesn’t think to resist.

She doesn’t realise she had dozed off, until another horrible coughing fit that makes her slip down into the snow.

—

Ciri sits up blearily, feeling cold and wet. There was a spot of warmth on her front that has now disappeared, and there’s a strange sound next to her, like someone choking- oh. Oh, fuck.

She immediately grabs Cerys, who is clutching at her front and coughing up flowers again, and teleports them back into Mousesack’s lab.

“Moussesack!” She yells, glancing around desperately, but the man is nowhere to be found. “Mousesack, please, I need help!”

Nothing.

“Fuuuck!” She screams in frustration, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Cerys, please.” She begs, clutching at the other woman’s wrists. “Please tell me what you fear. I can’t lose you again, not like this.”

—

Ciri’s eyes are so pretty, Cerys thinks in between coughs. So pretty, and so full of sadness. If only she wasn’t incapacitated with pain and the spasms and could reach out to wipe these tears off- If only…

With a start, she realises the answer had been in front of her the entire time.

—

Hjalmar doesn’t make the jump.

In the aftermath, both Cerys and Ciri visit him often as his face and broken bones heal.

They talk a lot—sometimes all three, sometimes just the two of them. They read, too, to Hjalmar or to each other. Over time, Cerys feels something blooming inside of her. It’s the smile that presses at the corners of her mouth whenever she looks at Ciri, the rush of warmth she feels whenever their hands brush together. A simple happiness of existing within the same space.

She thinks this may be what they call love.

She confides those feelings in her father, and he becomes strangely flustered.

“Girls don’t feel this way about other girls.” He says gruffly. “I’m sure you’re just confused—she’s your friend, of course you feel happy when she’s around. Love is- You’ll understand when you're older. It’s too early to think of such things,” is all he says on the subject whenever she tries to bring it up.

She tries raising it with some others, but the answer is always similar to the one Crach gave her, and many of them give her looks of disappointment and disgust. But Cerys knows how she feels, and sometimes- Sometimes, she thinks she sees a spark of something similar in Ciri’s eyes.

On the day she resolves to confess her feelings, Hjalmar asks Ciri to marry him.

Ciri says yes.

Maybe her father was right after all, and Cerys is just confused.

—

Perhaps it’s the thought that does it, but the coughs and the heaving come to a shuddering stop. It’s still hard to breathe, though, the flowers filling and pressing against her lungs.

With some difficulty, she raises a hand to Ciri’s cheek. This is it. After this, she will probably lose her friend forever.

“I love you.” She whispers.

Ciri’s eyes widen in shock.

“I always have,” Cerys presses on. “Ever since we were children.” She smiles bitterly. “And I’m afraid that confessing this would mean losing you.”

She understands then why Mousesack was so convinced by her previous statements, because she feels it immediately—like something being physically ripped out from the walls of her lungs and pushed up her throat. She gasps in pain, squeezing her eyes shut and turning away from Ciri to spew out the remaining dregs of the curse.

She feels a hand on her back, and careful fingers combing her hair, aways from her face. She turns around in disbelief, to see Ciri’s eyes—still in tears, but now shining with happiness.

“I love you too.”

—

It’s Ciri who gets pneumonia a few days later.

#my writing #my fic #ciri/cerys #cerys/ciri #cirys #the witcher #ciri #cerys an craite #cw homophobia

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