#dark!geralt

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King Masterlist

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Status: In Progress

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18

Part 19

Part 20

Part 21

Part 22

Part 23

Part 24

Part 25

Part 26

Part 27

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 25

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: 😁.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The queen snores in her bed. At last, peaceful. You leave her as she is, piled in bedclothes amid the glow of the low-burning fire. You emerge into the corridor, silent, and the door drags closed with a scrape at your cautious pull. The shadow by the pillar shifts.  

You glance over at the guard. Gilles has been relieved of his watch and another man stands in his place. You think you recognise him. He must’ve been one of those which helped the queen seize your cart. The road feels so very long ago and yet there is still much ahead of you. 

“Hold,” the guard warns and gives a whistle, the noise echoing along the high ceilings.  

There’s scuffling further down and you turn to face another silhouette, this one slender and lithe like a wraith. Ezme steps into the light of a lamp and stare at you placidly. She beckons with a hand. 

“Come, maid, I will show you your quarters,” she says. 

You bow your head and go to her. It is unusual you wouldn’t be left to find your way to the servants wing yourself, likely near the kitchens, and yet you are much too weary to question any of it. She turns and you walk at her side. The promise of sleep, even if only a little, has you aching to recline. 

The corridors are quiet but for the soft pad of your footsteps. Fewer lamps light the way than in the daytime and the path grows black. You follow the stirring of the women next to you as she carries on. She touches your arm to stop you, nudging you to the right. You wait and listen as she lifts a latch, the metallic noise cutting through the din, and hinges creak loudly. 

She guides you into the dark chamber by your wrist. It is lit only by moonlight and a brazier burning at the foot of a broad bed. The door clanks shut and you shiver. Ezme moves around you, her skirts brushing your own, and she goes to the low mattress. You squint, these are not servants’ rooms. The bed frame, the brazier, the space swathed in darkness; more often, bodies crowded over bags of hay or on the scant tatters of blankets. 

“You will sleep here,” she says softly, “with me. You will be safe.” 

“Safe? From what?” You croak and rub your cheeks as they burn with fatigue. 

“Need you ask,” she replies knowingly, “it is much too late for those questions. Come, lay, the morning will be upon us swiftly.” 

You don’t argue. She is right. You go to bed and remove your apron and cap. You fold them and put them to the foot of the mattress. She moves a dark square over the blankets towards you. You pause and reach to touch the obscured shape as the dim light offers only vague outline. It’s soft, furry. You feel around and find the familiar rough patch sewn into the lining. It’s the king’s cloak. 

“You will want to keep that close,” she says, “the soldier made certain to leave it for you.” 

“Bryce?” You wonder aloud, “is he your friend?” 

“He is a familiar face,” she shrugs and pulls her dress over her head. “The Lord of the Castle likes him well enough.” 

You shift the cloak over your apron and strip off your outer layer, standing only in your shift. You mirror the maid across from you and slip beneath the thick blankets. A sigh escapes you as your muscles finally release the tension of the day. She is still on her back as you lay upon your side, staring at the low flicker of the brazier against the wall. 

Curiosity nips at your exhaustion. How does a servant come upon a room like this? Is it simply at your expense? For whatever reason Bryce has bid her to keep you close. Certainly, the old soldier is overly cautious. 

Your eyes close before you can think very much on the unexpected resting spot. The day has been turbulent and full of many surprises. You only dread those that await you on the morrow. 

⚔️

Ezme wakes you from a heavy slumber. You both dress in the morning hue, rinsing from a basin before you face another day. You leave the cloak on the assurance it will be waiting for you. A thought glimmers of what the king might think should it go missing. Would he blame you? 

You emerge and part from your nocturnal companion. You procede to the queen’s chambers to find them open and the corridor a titter. A pair of servants, themselves dozy, carry one of her chests through as her shrill cry careens through. You approach as the steadfast guard with the fiery hair watches you with narrow eyes.  

You peer within and find the Queen Jazlene digging through the contents, tossing fabrics without a care, in a desperate search. You are stunned to find her awake with the sunrise but not disheartened. It might be a good omen. 

"Where is it?" She throws her hands up and scowls as her eyes skim around, "you," she points in your direction, "where is my blue dress? The one with the silver lace? It must be here!" 

"Your highness, perhaps another chest," you step inside. 

"You did remember to pack it, didn't you?" She accuses as she stands, "I did bid it." 

"Yes, your highness," you affirm, though it was Merinda who would've taken the order. "Shall I go look in the luggage?" 

"Oh, yes, you shall," she struts toward you, "I will not be dressed as some northern wench for the banquet." 

Banquet? You withhold your curiosity and bow your head. You have a task and it is always better to tend to it without question. 

You spin and hurry from the room. You nearly collide with another servant, a tray in their hands. Another chore you needn't attend. You press on and find your way through the kitchens to the rear of the castle.  

The luggage remains mostly in the stables which entails a venture into the wintry without. You mourn the cloak upon the foot of the bed but it would be worse to flaunt the king's patch so heedlessly. You tuck your hands into your sleeves and put your chin down before you push through, the door resisting your strength as the wind blows against it. 

You stagger through and the heavy wood slams just as quickly as you clear its breadth. The gales are strong but the snow has relented. You see dark bodies speckled amid the white as powder dusts up in heaps. The servants work to clear away the thick piles and make pathways around the castle's yard. 

You cross to the stables and delve into the stink of horses and hay. The beast nicker and neigh as you pass as others doze without notice. You find the luggage, chests still upon carts as others litter the unswept floor. If you find the dress, it might just reek of horse. 

You recognise the crest of Debray upon a chest and the painted sides of a few others. You unstrap several lids and raise them, the cold nipping but sweat rising nonetheless. The longer you sift through the contents, the number your hands and fingers become, the clumsier you are. 

A patch of blue, so pale and shiny it's almost white, gleams from beneath the heaps of cloth. You yank upon it, bringing out several other gowns with the effort, and claim victory. You do not neglect to suss out a pair of slippers and a hair net you think might go with it. You set it aside and pack away the mess you've made, breathless from the expense. 

You hug your lot and curl around the next row of horses, searching out Daisy as she leans her head against Chestnut's dark neck. Their eyes widen at your approach and they huff almost in time. You pat their noses before you apologise that you must leave them. 

Once more, the violent gusts greet you in the open, sending a spiral of snow around you and dusting you with the chill. Your teeth chatter as the wind pushes you from behind and fill your skirts. You can hardly aim your steps as you end up against the castle wall, sidling along until you're at the door. 

Within, the cold follows and lingers in your bones. You flit through the kitchens, pots steam as the large ovens blaze and bodies cluster and clash. You barely avoid a collision as you pass into the corridor. As you step around one figure, another appears. 

“Aye, there the mouse is,” Bryce greets as he folds a leaf around his finger, readying it to pop in his mouth, “I see she’s got you at work already.” 

“Sir,” you stop before the soldier, “how was your night?” 

“Eh, dark,” he shrugs, “and you? The other maid saw to ya?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very good. If ye can, stay close to that one at the feast,” he girds, “she’s wise. She knows well how to bide the shadows.” 

You nod and hug the fabric, another shiver flowing through you. He tilts his head as he continues to play with the leaf between his fingers. 

“Don’t tell me you were outside without a cloak,” he accuses, “where’s yours, then?” 

“Sir, it was only for a moment--” 

“This cold does not soften for summer maids,” he tuts and shakes his head, “you will make yerself sick and who should have to deal with it, hm? Who should have to hear the king rant of it?” 

“Apologies, I was only in a rush,” you pout. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he steps closer and touches the dress in your arms, “in a rush for flimsy gown. These halls are too cold for satin.” 

“The queen bids it--” 

“Oh, I would expect,” he chortles. 

You purse your lips, slanting them one way then the next, as you recall your task. You watch him pinch the silk before he rescinds his reach. He puts the leaf in his mouth and chews. 

“You said feast and the queen said banquet? Is that this evening?” You wonder. 

“Certainly, is,” he sucks on the sweet leaves, “Lord Vesemir would celebrate our departure most fervently but as any good winter lord, he would not send his guests out in the cold without full bellies.” 

“Oh,” you utter thoughtfully. 

“And I suppose, it will appease the queen,” he adds, “for a time before she is once more miserable in the wildlands.” 

“And we are to leave on the morrow?” 

“Aye, by the nightfall,” he crosses his arms. “They must clear the pass and ready the horses and carts. It will be a labour but best we move on.” 

“I believe so too, sir,” you teethe your lip. 

“Aye, you are prudent, as ever,” he lowers his gaze to the floor, “mouse.” 

You shift on your soles and exhale solemnly, “I must...” 

“Yes, very well, go on to your queen,” he steps aside, “I must find our king. I suspect he might be hounding the lord of this castle, if not sparring with him.” 

There is a reluctance between you as you carry on your way; Bryce to one wing and you to the other, as if to mark the divide of king and queen. You come up the stairs and hurry along, the queen’s doors still ajar. Her voice carries still and servant scuttles out as a plate is hurled after them, crashing onto the floor as it narrowly avoids their foot. 

You slow and cautiously peek into the room. The queen shakes her head and pinches a morsel of brown meat on her plate, eyeing it with scrutiny. For a moment, her face twists, then she forces herself to shove it in her mouth. She chews as a battle rages across her features. 

Her gaze is drawn by your movement and she gulps down her mouthful. She stands, nearly overturning the stool upon which the tray rests. She brings her hands up as she storms over to snatch your armful. You back away as she lets the dress unfurl and you bend to gather up the slippers and hairnet as they fall. 

“Ah, wonderful, a proper attire for my first proper appearance as queen,” she beams and dances around with the dress, “oh, my hair, my hair. You must braid it for me.” 

She lays the gown on the bed and gives it a longing touch before she retreats. She clammers to the plain wooden table upon which she’s had a looking glass propped up. She leans forward as you stand behind her. Her hair remains in the braids she’s worn for some time, looking wilted and ratty from neglect. 

“Yes, your highness.” 

“I suppose the king feels horrid for his display yesterday,” she preens at herself. “He must realise he cannot keep a lady like me cooped up.” 

You think to mention that it is more send-off than anything. That is on Lord Vesemir’s whim, rather than King Geralt’s. At least that’s how you have it. Yet, you know well not to argue. Let Jazlene believe as she well and the world is always a bit more pleasant. 

You set to undoing her hair, gently as you notice how dry it is, whether from the cold or the air. She snaps her fingers and demands another servant bring her the tray off food. She picks at it as you unwind her hair and let it free. 

She looks at herself one way then the other. She smiles and wipes her mouth with her sleeve.  

“I am still pretty, aren’t I?” She asks, “I will be after the child comes, won’t I?” 

You swallow and nod, “yes, your highness.” 

“Gilles, Gilles,” she chimes and waves a hand, “come, come,” she turns in her seat and you pull away from her, not wanting to tug on her locks. “Tell me, how pretty am I?” 

The man steps into the doorway and clears his throat. He looks as sheepish as you’ve ever seen. You glance back at Jazlene as she poses and bats her lashes. 

“You are beautiful, my queen, as the summer sunsets,” he avows. 

There’s a click in your head, a wriggle in your chest, and a churning in your stomach. No. No, it can’t be. She wouldn’t betray her marriage. 

Yet you thought the very same of her husband. That’s different. The king rules all, even the queen. And that she so garishly flaunts her fleeting affections. But how can you judge, when your own folly looms over you like a cloud? 

You think of the king’s story; Cerrill and Wynifred and their forbidden romance. It tints in a different effect now, it aligns more evenly, for you do not see this ending well for either queen or guard should they stray. Just as you don’t see yourself faring any better. 

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Hi! How are you doing? c:

Honestly? I am thinking about the dirty, filthy things that I want Dark!Geralt to do to me Reader in the fic I am working on...

...and this man desperately wants to use those canines. And I just...?

The White Wolf wants to bite Reader during...ahem...coitus. And I don't know if that's too animalistic or not animalistic enough???

HELP???

[gods-no-longer-tread-here]

“What do you want, warrior?”

The man soaked in blood grinned. His eyes were black, his skin was snowy, and the veins in his face and exposed hands pulsed with dark power; but he was no witcher. He couldn’t be. His grip on the silver-bladed sword was awkward, unused to the weight. He did not have the build of a monster-killer. If not for the magic, and the blood, he would look weak.

“I want my witcher, of course,” he rasped.

The lord scoffed and sipped his wine. “You cannot have him, and you will die if you continue this foolish quest,” he said flatly. “You may have cut your way through my men to reach here, but you are human. Humans cannot contain witcher magic. Do you want to die?”

The man laughed. It was a hideous sound, loud and rough and mad. The lord frowned, and squinted, looking closer. It was hard to tell, when the man was so far away, but…

The cup slipped from his suddenly cold hand.

“Yes,” the man soaked in blood said, his grin that of a madman who died a long, long time ago. “But it will be by his hand, and no one else’s. No one said I was human.”

“Jules,” the lord gasped.

“No. My name is Jaskier. Now give me my witcher, Father.”

~

Geralt pressed his fingers to his eyes again, gritting his teeth. He still wasn’t used to the hazy shadows where his vision used to be. Luckily the torturer was inexperienced; Geralt wasn’t fully blind. Yet.

His fingertips brushed gingerly against the raw, puffy scar at the corner of his right eye. He knew it was only a matter of time before they gouged the organs out of his head. He would fight, of course. He would kill. But his eyes were less important than--

The stench of blood. Metal and sweat. Rage. Witcher potions.

Linseed oil. Buttercups.

The sea.

Geralt attempted to stand, but his feet were still healing. His heart was beating too fast. He turned his head, towards the dim square of light that was the window of his cell. Surely not…

“Jaskier?” he whispered.

The lock clicked. The door opened. Geralt took a deep breath, and tasted the flat, salty-sweet tang of blood and offal. Under it was Jaskier, though—unmistakably his bard.

“Jask,” he repeated, and lurched to his feet. The form in the light gasped, then rushed forward to embrace him. Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier and held him too tightly, trembling with relief. Alive. Safe. Maybe the gods existed. Maybe Destiny had taken pity on him.

But… why did Jaskier smell like witcher?

Pulling away, Jaskier pressed a vial and a sword hilt into Geralt’s hands. Geralt sniffed the bottle as his fingers curled into the familiar indentations of the leather grip. Swallow. Potent. Too potent. It would make him sick to drink it.

“I need you to kill a monster,” Jaskier said.

Geralt felt a feral grin spread across his face. “Give me a scent,” he replied, “And their head will be yours.”

Jaskier held a piece of fabric up to his face. Geralt breathed in deeply, and growled in hate and anticipation. He knew that scent. It was carved into his memory as deeply as the voices of his brothers.

“He’s wounded,” Jaskier told him. “Not enough to slow him down, but enough to cause upset. Can you smell him, Wolf?”

“I smell him,” Geralt hissed, popping the cork from the bottle of Swallow.

“He’s all yours, my dear. I’ll clean up the trash behind you.”

Geralt growled again, drank the potion, and darted around Jaskier. A monster to slay, for his bard. There was no task better suited to him.

~~\0/~~

Ten Years Previously

It was a fine thing, to be free and untethered. Truly he was meant to exist this way.

But Jaskier had tasted the stability of love, and now he could not be satisfied with the adrenaline of lust. So he waited at the inn for Geralt to finish his latest contract, instead of leaving for the nearest court or brothel—one and the same, truly. Full of rich men paying for the use of others’ bodies. And Jaskier was tired of it all.

Nilfgaard had fallen. Cintra had been restored. That didn’t mean there weren’t still monsters to clean up—both beast and man. Whilst Geralt specialized in the former, Jaskier concentrated on the latter. Like now, as he wrote a letter to a contact in Redania containing coded and magicked information. The old men who called this backwater village home were good at hiding, but their soldiers were not. Jaskier had seen them, and their weapons, and their fine steeds. And their sorceress.

She was good, but Yennefer was better. And with the entire force of her Lodge behind her, she could easily sway the woman to give up her lord and his sons. Jaskier allowed himself a small smile as he signed the letter with a tiny bird. Yennefer still wasn’t his favorite person, but only because she wasn’t Geralt. Other than that small detail, there was no one he trusted more.

With the three of them on the trail, Ciri wouldn’t have an enemy on the entire continent within a decade.

Not that she knew the extent of her parents’ goals. The last time Jaskier had seen Ciri, she had laughed that they were all too protective of her. She was a woman grown, with a wife and a place as a weapons-teacher. It didn’t matter how grown she was, though. Not to them.

Jaskier frowned. It was wrong of him to be so protective of her, when he wasn’t even her father. But he would still burn the world to the ground in her name. Was this how her grandmother had maintained her station? This blind loyalty that ensnared the hearts of the powerful until they couldn’t imagine a world without her?

Did it matter? They would root out every speck of conspiracy, to keep her safe. They would kill everyone they had to.

Jaskier pushed himself to his feet abruptly and paced the room. These thoughts, though frequent, and often quite logical, frightened him. He had asked Yennefer to poke about in his head to find any seed of madness in him, but she had said there was nothing other than what all men had. Jaskier had not been violent when he was younger.

When he was ignorant.

He sighed, and sat again. Nothing for it. He’d have to hope Geralt came back without wounds, so they could spar, or fuck, or both.

“I do so wish I understood what’s happened to me,” he murmured, leaning his chin in his hand. “There’s so much beauty and delight in this world, and yet the one thing that doesn’t move me is death. Hmm.”

“Is that so, little one?”

Jaskier shot to his feet and whipped around, his hand going to his dagger. In the corner was a shadow, undulating, covered in eyes of green fire. The lights of the candles and setting sun seemed to leech away into the inky dark of the shadow. The scent of ancient blood on cold stone filled the room.

Jaskier scowled and took his hand from the dagger’s hilt. “Mother,” he said dryly, and bowed. “Stop sneaking around like that.”

A wet chuckle, like a drowned person choking, and the shadow resolved into a tall, broad woman clothed in rags. She smiled, baring her fangs endlessly stained in blood. “But it is so fun, my dear boy,” she cooed, cupping Jaskier’s face in her sea-cold hands. “You are just as easy to frighten as your father. What funny creatures, men.”

“What do you need, Mother?” Jaskier asked. “We’re quite a ways away from the sea. A goddess of sirens should be with her people, in the waters.”

Her smile grew soft, her enormous wings mantling around them both as she pulled Jaskier into a gentle embrace. He hugged her back immediately, breathing her salty scent deeply. He’d missed her. Only a year, and he’d missed his mother, the daughter of Storms and Death.

“I need you to promise not to hate me,” she murmured.

“I could never hate you, Mother,” Jaskier replied.

“Not even if I granted your wish to know?”

“No. Your blood is in my veins. You know I want more than is good for me, always.”

She laughed again. “The sea takes, and takes, and takes, and gives but rarely. It is time I tell you.” She pulled back enough to tilt his face up to look into her eyes of storm-fire. Her expression and voice were gentle as she said, “My blood is in your veins. It is awakening. I am fading, and soon you will take my place, the lord of death at sea.”

Jaskier went cold. “Mother…”

“Hush. I am losing power. It is a cycle, like the tides. I Saw your coming fifty years ago, and that is why I seduced your father, married him in the way of humans, and bore you. Now you are coming into your own. You will take my place and feast on those who trespass in our beloved ocean. Do not be sad, my pearl. I am not dying. I will simply go where the ones before me went.”

“Mother.” Jaskier licked his lips, gathering his courage. “Mother, I can’t leave Geralt.”

His mother smiled indulgently. “You needn’t leave him. You can keep him in the depths, like my father kept my mother. You can even let your little sorceress friend visit once a moon. But you must come home when I fade. You must take up the chalice. There are too many humans who seek to tame the sea. They must remember why they worship us.”

“I’m not god material.”

“Neither was I. It comes to you. Don’t you feel it, my pearl? That jealous love. That lust for the blood of those who hurt those closest to you. That is the sea within you. Answer the call of the sea.”

[xsapphirescrollsx]

Mesquite Grove

Written: Sep 10 2020

Dark!Syverson x Black Reader

Also this is post is pic heavy. I really just mood boarded a lot to keep me going while I wrote. I modeled the cabin in this story of off Sky Notch. I hope it’s not to much lol and that you enjoy it. Thanks for reading and reblogging!

Autumn sits all around you. Monday, seven a.m and the town is quiet except for a few rushing cars on the highway just off from the store you now occupied. The colors of deep red and orange are dull in the morning haze but it signals change nonetheless. It felt good, for you too were experiencing another season in your life. A new town, another chance to start over. It would have been frightening if you didn’t know that without this, your life might have gone another direction. 

You stood there in the doorway, hand on the knob as you opened it completely and pushed a big heavy basketball sized stone at the bottom corner. The cold nipped around your neck and you rushed back. And you waited, a lone dot slowly being enveloped in the heavy fog. This dense cloudy layer covers the town, the trees, the homes, your store and the one across the street. 

It was beer delivery day at the liquor store and your turn of the month to stand here and take count of intake. With the door open, behind you pale light from within poured around your body as you stood in the frame. You were one leg out, it was too cold to stand completely in the weather so you stayed half in with the warmth. While watching the truck slowly roll in front of the door and then back in, you took stock of this new you. A year ago, a quiet life seemed so far away, there was a time you enjoyed the sounds of a city that never sleeps and the pace the people moved at. But here, standing in the presence of the singular sound of a truck engine it seemed peaceful.

The truck halted a few feet from the door, tail first, its lights ghostly in the fog and exhaust. You shifted to bat away the puffs of white, it doesn’t last long before a gentle frigid wind carries it off for a moment in another direction. And then there was silence once again with the cutting of the truck’s engine. 

For a moment raised voices from the head of the truck mumble over the cracking of gravel. Laughter, low and sardonic of sorts was louder as two men exited. Their stomping upon small pebbles broke the eerie morning time quietness. The first man you saw, a regular on this route greeted you with a wave. Dave, shorter than you but stout in his shoulders and frame offered a smile. 

“Hey, long time no see!” he said. You smile as best you can muster for this time of day and pull the clipboard from under your arm. “Haven’t seen you in a few weeks.” he added.

“The four of us take turns. Today was my day..”you said quietly. 

“‘Gotta a new helper today.” said Dave, now standing in front of you. He handed a long slip of paper, a receipt of the day's products to be delivered.

“Well, I’m glad,--” Your words and attention are pulled by the sound of a racket coming from the truck. Loud and cumbersome, it was unusual for normally Dave would have slid it more gently. But your eyes landed on the back of Dave’s helper. He had slammed the platform that was hooked on to the door to the ground. The chains on either side still shook slightly from the action. 

“--it’ll go faster this time at least.” you said finally and returned to your list.

The sliding of the truck’s cargo door jarred you again. 

“Easy.” instructed Dave. “You break this shit we have to go back to the city for another truck.”

Once again you look up to see the man hop from the bed of the truck down to the platform. You didn’t look long. The man was already staring at you from under the rim of his dingy baseball cap. He was bulky and heavy with his footsteps as he strode the short distance to you. What you did see of him, he was large with broad shoulders and a frame built for hard labor you supposed. 

“Nice to meet ya,” he said in a smooth voice. It was surprisingly light, and pleasant despite the rugged thick beard that nearly hid his lips.

A greet worth grin, short and tight unfolded upon your lips as you spoke. “Dave’ll show you were to go.”

“You aren’t even going to ask me my name?” asked the man, his smile when bigger as did the delight in his eyes. He slapped the back of his hand on Dave’s shoulder. “I thought you said the folks at The Corner Store were friendly?”

Your eyes bounced from the man to Dave who looked noticeably uncomfortable, but still managed a grin and a shrug. 

The man turned back to you, his white teeth shiny in the light from behind you. “I’m Sy.”

“Okay?”

The sarcasm hung between the rushing sound of a car and the shuffling of Dave’s feet. You rolled your eyes back to Dave. “Anything new on the list?” you asked, ignoring Sy as he walked back to the truck.

An hour in and nearly done, Sy follows you through the first trailer lined with a variety of hot beer, winding to the next right entry way he continued to follow you through the second trailer. Once again, this one too held more warm cases of beer. Down the ramp at the end of the trailer he followed you into the main part of the store, fit for retail and held a large selection of spirits and wines in this section. He followed you still passed the counter toward the large fridge where shoppers could browse the sections of glass doors. But that wasn’t the destination. Instead you walked to the end, opened the door, a muscle reflex really, you held the door open for him as he entered too. Cold, though it felt warmer than outside, and packed and stacked into half rows with more selections of beer he followed behind you at the end. Shelving lined the end of the rectangular space, and underneath that was where he was to stack his cargo. 

“You’re new here.” 

You didn’t bother to turn around, “What gave it away?” you asked.

Sy lightly half scoffed and laughed. “Well this is my hometown. I know everybody here and you’re definitely not a local.”

Not easily swayed by casual conversation you ignored him. But his presence, the largeness of his body is equal to the energy he silently emits. That can’t be pushed aside. Sy waits while you move to the back row and pick up the last flat case of canned ale and place on the stack behind you. With a finger you gesture to that corner and he squeezes between the metal shelves with beer waiting for customers and the stacks of cases on the dolly. From on top of the beer he pushed in he grabbed for five flats of canned spirits and approached you in the corner. Within this space it was incredibly small to begin with. But with him, his broad shoulders and height you quickly become uncomfortable with not having a way out. 

He bent over and slammed the cases into the empty spot. He performed this action twice more until he carried the last of it to this area. And then at last, standing in front of you close enough to smell whatever soap he used that morning he reached for the cold case you placed on top of the other beer. He smiled at you, a grin mostly, one you would see from another who had familiarity with the other person. 

When he stood, his chest was inches from you. Parts you thought were atrophied spark to life, it had been years since you were this close to a man. The pieces fired up, your skin first, smooth turned bumpy though you blamed the cold and ignored it mostly because then your heart beat harder. Besides the whoosh of the refrigerator unit suspended behind you it was all you could hear in this moment. Sy titled his head slightly with his eyes gliding down from your chest to waist and perhaps further still you were sure. Immediately put off you turned toward the door, it felt so far away now, relief from this weight of him seemed hours away. 

“I have to cut a check,” you mumbled and hoped it sounded plausible, it was the truth after all.

Without turning back a short gasp hissed across the sound of the fan. Sy was doubly close, his chest and stomach bumped into yours. Head still turned a bit and you cut your eyes back at him. He was focused on your neck, he leaned in closer and his beard brushed across the skin of your neck as his fingers dug the high collar coat away. You stepped back, well tried - there was no room to step, instead you teetered back against the wood wall, one hand grasped the cases to your right the other placed on his shoulder. 

“What-” you asked but then heard a loud sniffing sound from him.

Instantly the chills upon your arms moved up through your shoulders and fizzled all the way down the sides of your spine. He dragged his nose up through your hairline at the back of your neck. A breathy whimper later, your body felt light, yielding at something you hadn’t had in a very long time - connection. Titling your head up at the feeling of small shudders coursing down your back, the feeling was inescapable, untamed and raw. 

And then it ended. Sy stepped back, his light eyes dark now stared back at you with something that you recognized as a man starved. He blinked and took off his cap, ran a hand through wild curls and replaced his cap. You stayed there unable to wholly accept what just happened but also, those pieces of you missed whatever that was. 

“Sorry about that - I couldn’t resist any longer.”

You wanted to ask the question; resist what? The impropriety begged for argument, to yell and tell him off about crossing your boundaries as men were often want to do. But then you remembered where he stood, where you were too and how many things between you and the door there were. 

Adjusting the neck of your jacket your eyes wandered back to the door. “No worries,” you said. 

Sy nodded with a smile emerging from his beard. The parts of you separated again, once again in their scattered places you frown at him. “Are you done? Can you get the fuck out of my way?”

Sy stepped aside with his back against the shelving and the other cases of beer underneath it. Internally you scream at the lack of space he offered you but took it anyway. Quickly you step forward, keep your body pressed against the opposite side column of beer and can only manage to brush your arm across his chest as you pass. 

You didn’t bother to look back once around the last stack, you strode down the rows of beer hearing the clanging of the dolly behind. No door holding either as you walk out of the fridge door and to the register counter. It wasn’t until you were back behind there and near a phone did you feel normal again. In this dingy old liquor store, at least here with packs of cigarettes and brown spirits did you feel safe.

Halfway through your work week you awoke to the shrill crowing of a rooster. Scrunched up on the side of your full bed your eyes cracked open to the pale morning light bleeding through your curtains. It crooned again and you blinked, brows pushed together as your eyes shot to the fabric slowly moving with the wind from the ceiling fan. 

You grabbed your phone on the end table, checked the time: 6:14 a.m. 

Shuffling on the other side of the window and the waggle of chicken noises was followed by another crow, this time the thing had to be directly in front of the window. 

“God damnit.”

While you enjoyed this house, this space you created into your own vision of a singular life you felt bothered. In the past this sort of interruption in sleep either by sounds of the city or fighting from an adjoining apartment, or even the people you shared the apartment with would have been met with lukewarm animosity. But here, in this home, as you rose from the bed with little more than a shirt on, this chicken with his cawing and carrying on, you thought he might have made a better sandwich than a living thing. 

You jerked open the front door and in a flurry of wings and feathers about a half dozen chicken hysterically flapped and scattered. They ran further when you dashed toward them with raised hands motioning them to flee. 

At the end of the porch the last chicken jumped over the railing and out into your yard. Wind from your left, the north gusted around your bare legs and up under your thin shirt. Before you began to turn and go back to the warmth of your bed something caught your eye. From your house within the valley, rising upon a crest of a hill a white tin roof gleamed as the rising sun touched it. 

You would admit there was never really any concern to know the neighbors. Other than your house, this home about a mile away on the tall mound was the only house to be seen for miles. You still hadn’t met them officially, if people even did that around here. 

But their land stretched for as far as your eye could see. Marked by barbed wire fencing and metal stakes coming as close as maybe ten feet from what would be your land. But unlike your side of the fence, which was mowed before the beginning of fall, their grass grew tall and wild, the cedar and mesquite trees were thick, the cactus patches unattended as well. 

Besides this morning chicken fiasco, you hadn’t even seen the neighbors. It made you think, just a jolt really that broke up the fuzziness of groggy thoughts, that perhaps the people who lived there did not want to be seen.

Saturdays were never easy, unlike the rest of the work week this day was met with constant customers as opposed to the lazy walkin’s of a Friday night. The liquor store would be closed on Sunday, so the rush to get the drinks for the weekend shook more people lose to come and get their selections. Also, to the side of the store, the park was filled and in the evening was lit up brightly with lights. This was different. Normally it was dark with zero cars or people. Whatever was happening brought even more people in than usual. 

Your co-worker, Hyacinth, short and blond went by Cindy mostly, rushed from behind the counter to open the beer cooler for you. As typical, you were the beer roller tonight. Laden down with a variety of beer you rolled it passed the counter where Adeline still stood helping customers make their final purchases. 

“I got it!” called Cindy. 

“My back is killing me,” you whispered as you rolled past her. 

A constant complainer, and as predicted she issued back her own set of ailments. “Well try standing behind the counter constantly after you stumped your toe this morning.”

She said it frankly, as if you had no idea what pain was or could not possibly understand. You rolled your eyes back in front of you and walked through the open door while Cindy followed in behind you. 

“And I got sick this morning,”

“Stop drinking.” your voice rose up a bit louder over the roar of the fans. 

“I wasn't! I just woke up crappy is all. Ugh, this thing with Rex. Did you know he still sends me money? After all this time! He makes me so frustrated, plus I hit my toe on the brass leg of my chair. I nearly snapped it off! It’s torture standing back there.” 

“Oh, must be really crappy to get money you never asked for once a month.” 

You sat the dolly down and grabbed the first case on top. “Geeze, I would totally hate getting money...just handed to me..” your voice drew out in a sarcastic tone.

Cindy rolled her eyes back at you. “He still wants me to come to Sunday dinners at Olive’s.”

“Well he always did love his mammy,” you couldn’t help but to giggle at her expression.

“She doesn’t love me, she lets me still work here and all that but...fuck she doesn’t make it easy.”

You didn’t have time to respond before Adie appeared with her face stuck in through a crack at the door. 

“Twenty guys just walked in -” she said, her voice quiet but begging too.

Cindy waved her off and walked out. Even over the fans you could hear the high spirited laughter and deep voices, the open and shutting of the front cooler doors, the clink of six packs clanking out the windows. And immediately you were happy that there was only thirty minutes left before closing time.

Products got stacked in their predestined places with little thought. Your mind was far away from this place. There was always the tendency to drift into a daydream at the moment the monotony of everyday life became stagnant. Somewhere on the high seas, the hero of your own story where money and time meant little, where you made the rules, and felt satisfied. 

You continued to dream as you walked out of the cooler, dolly in hand, eyes straight forward as they moved to places on the shelves that needed a bottle or two replaced. You paid little mind to the men there, who spoke softly with the beat of music across the street humming through the liquor store walls. 

Weaving around them with the dolly, you hardly notice their eyes casually glancing at your body as you pass them by. It was like any other Saturday, the men included with their minuscule unprovoked attention. Their movements within the store are meaningless, your mind was set on the last fifteen minutes until closing. That bottle of clear rum called to you like the couch, like the bag of chips in your pantry and the show you had been putting off to catch up on all week. You were ready to just be off.

The dolly and you pause near the front door where the bags of ice laid within the stand up freezer. You opened the door, palmed the frozen cubes through the plastic and decided with the cooler weather you wouldn’t have to bag anymore tonight. 

Cindy said your name over the top of the men passing comments back and forth to each other.

“I’m nearly done. I’m locking the back door.” you shouted over your shoulder and began to take off again, dolly in tow toward the second part of the store. Wine bottles stuffed together on rickety shelves clinked with the vibration of the music.

“Okay but that’s not what I was talking about- Come here.” 

You kept going with the dolly. “I’ll be right back!”

So you rolled it back there, just inside the first trailer and walked back. Finally you take the time to look at the faces of the four or five men on the other side of the counter. One of them was Sy. And you stopped short of coming into the main part of the store. 

“Hey! They are having a party up on the hill!” said Cindy excitedly. 

Her giddiness elicits a smile from you. But it was short lived as Sy turned from the counter as you took a few steps near. His large body leaned on his right arm on top of the counter, he stretched out a leg and his other hand held his wrist. A lazy stance but one with purpose that said he was open to friendly banter.  

“A gathering of sorts. The boys have returned.” Sy added.

“Boys? From college?” you assumed, it was fall after all, maybe the semester was over and these boys were younger cousins. 

Adie at the other register next to Cindy laughed. Another one of the men was leaned completely over on his crossed arms looking at Adie. But she was looking at you. “No it’s the -”

“It’sa time for family to return home.” said Sy. “Usually the men take off ‘til they’re late thirties, they come back, help out with the land, home life and settle down.”

“Are ya’ll..is this a religious thing?” you asked.

Most of them laughed, even the men down by the beer, but not you or Cindy. Sy only smiled. 

“Nah, it’s more like a reunion.”

Cindy crossed her arms over her chest, a few fingers played with the ends of her hair. “Hey you still got that bottle at home? Maybe you and I can catch up on that show and drink at your place!” asked Cindy.

Still thinking about their laughter, maybe it was an inside joke you weren’t privy too. But Cindy’s sudden shift from barely contained excitement to attempting to trash the idea all together grated your nerves. “I thought you were trying to go to this?”

“We can do something else. I got my toe to think about.”

At the mention of Cindy’s stupid toe your eyes went back to Sy. 

“After we shut down, we’ll start over there...where is it?”

The car radio mumbled a tune under Cindy’s constant talking. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t know Sy was your neighbor.”

“I’m not nosey.” you threw in, keeping your eyes on the gravel road only illuminated by the headlights of your car. 

You do your best to concentrate on the road. But in the pitch black your mind makes shadows in the spaces between bare mesquite trees, vines creeping over the fences that line either side of the gravel back road. Your eyes sweep back and forth for sleek bodies of deer that would dare dart out. It doesn’t matter that you are driving the forty mile an hour speed, you were careful every time you drove this way to go home. 

And as you passed the dirt driveway to your home an ache sets in. The kind that wants to be in your own environment with your own things. You even glance back through the driver side window, checking for the front porch light and wondering if the house missed you too. 

“I don’t want to see Rex. But I know he’ll be there.” Cindy’s whining cut into your thoughts.

“Then stay away from him.”

“I can try but he won’t listen.” she added, once again usurping another opinion.

Before you know it Cindy was waving her hand to the left. “It’s right there, the turn in - with those big wooden gates.”

It was open as you turned on to the driveway, though not much better than the actual road. Passing through them, they curved over the wide path, carved into them looked like animals, dogs maybe you weren’t sure. 

“Are they rich?”

Cindy unbuckled her seat belt and popped down the viser, flipped open the mirror and squinted when the light hit her eyes. “Ya.” she said, running a finger underneath her eyelid. “They all are.”

You drove further, even here the sides of the driveway were just as wild as the road you had turned off of. Though the gravel seemed sparse and gave way to the reddish orange dirt known for this area. Soon you were much closer in a short amount of time, you could see the house - if one could call it that. What you could see from your house was deceiving. That white house, looking now, was merely a metal garage. The mansion was large, spacious, across the land with timber embedded length wise to wooden planks running long. A cabin? A huge cabin fit for at least twenty or more people. And the cars that lined in front and down the driveway could certainly accommodate just that.

“Oh ya they are rich, god damn.” you whispered and pulled off near the garage. 

You drove to the nearest light, half way between the garage and this big house. But as you came closer it wasn’t electrical, it was a torch made of a stack of stones topped with flames. Your eyes moved past Cindy who was still adjusting her hair and makeup to the house, all the lights outside were made of fire. 

“An upclass kegger?” you laughed and put the car in park. 

“No they aren’t stuck up like that. Really, they seemed to be good people.” Cindy started to say something else but shrugged. 

She looked at you, “Ready?”

You sighed and resided yourself to just get it over with. Walking toward the house, you did feel a bit better, now that the drive was over you could look forward to an exit. 

Cindy walked ahead of you, grateful to let her take the lead you let her. And she walked straight for the large front doors with more dogs carved into the dark wood. Suddenly you were aware of the air around you, it was different from the natural smell down by your house. It smelled of the flora you walked through, even the timber that made up the house. Which only seemed to blend into the trees around it, even the front door was flanked by two small trees, stripped down to bare wood and made to be part of the architecture.

She didn’t even have to open it, before you realized what was happening a woman popped out. Tall, with long brown hair was throwing her arms around Cindy’s neck. She pulled her into the house with you trailing behind. 

“I can’t believe you’re here!” shouted the woman. “Rex!!” she yelled again as you shut the door behind you. 

The woman turned back over her shoulder toward you, “You brought a friend! Please make yourself at home!” The woman let go of Cindy and opened another set of doors set into thick wood. Past the glass on either side of them movement could be seen. She pushed them in and stepped into a stone and wood foyer. You continued to follow but quickly your eyes were pulled into this grand living room the likes you had never seen. It stopped you.

Your eyes were drawn to the large wooden columns of logs that gave way to an open layout that seemed to stretch to the sky peaking through a large window on the ceiling. Further in, the second story could be seen resting on more logs but that wasn't the focal point. Among the wood, and branches stood a rock at least twelve feet tall, carved in such a way it almost looked like the outside of a den or cave. Men sat around it upon cushions of leather or fur in deep conversation and acted like they didn’t even see you. So your eyes moved from then to the lip of this rocky monument where sat a clay bowl, burning with a fire within it.

“What the fuck is this place…” you whispered. 

 “The drinks are over there,” called the woman. She was far away, at the entryway of another room just off from this rock. She gestured into the room she and Cindy walked into. But you were still gazing, amazed even because beyond this rock were a row of double glass doors, swung open with soft music being played outside. 

Cindy called your name, finally you walked over to join her in what looked to be another sitting room but it was so much more than that, you just couldn’t name it. Wood followed into this room too, and stone. There were people in here as well, some crowded around a large bowl full of something blue. 

Cindy dipped a glass ladle into, poured it into a glass and then handed it to you. She did the same for herself, but before you could really ask her anything a bellowing hoot came from behind you. 

A man with dark hair came walking fast toward you, but glancing at Cindy, her face pale mouth open in a gasp took a step back. The man she did not want to see, Rex.

More people turned, some laughed and others nodded in his direction as he closed in on Cindy. 

“Hey I’m going out there, if you need me. That’s where I’ll be okay.” you said softly. 

Cindy only nodded and then at once Rex grabbed her in a hug. That was your mark to leave, and you did so happily. 

You followed the sound of deep crooning vocals from beyond the row of doors. More people, perhaps the last addition to the silent count in your head made for thirty people in total you had seen were sat around. Again, square cushions lined the rails of the balcony, dotted out from there encircled a man with the black satin sky as a backdrop behind him. 

It felt communal in nature, some shit you might have seen on television about cults and how they huddle together, think the same, do the same. But as you observed their faces, they listened to the music, though spoke to whoever was near them. It seemed benign. Though this was the middle of nowhere, Texas, what use would have a home like this? Who lived here?

You gazed at the man for a moment as you moved to the other end of the balcony. It seemed bigger than your own home with its little two bedrooms, and small living room. And it certainly did not have a view like this. In the dark, it wasn’t truly vast blackness, stars peppered the sky like fireflies, the nearly full moon cast a pale pearly light upon the land. 

“See anything you like?” said a voice from behind you. 

Sy was there, drink in hand and a friendly toothless smile. He cleaned up, he didn’t smell like the smoke from the pits at the park any longer, the cap he had on was gone and dark hair bundled in loose curls around his ears and neck. 

“It’s beautiful here.”

Sy’s eyes moved from you to the scene over your shoulder. He nodded knowingly, his jaw tightened and sagged, like he was biting down on a thought and then blinked back at you. 

“Not as beautiful as you.”

You were unamused and it showed across your face. Sy’s expression grew serious, simply staring at you before taking a drink.

Sy stepped closer to your left and stood near, he smacked his lips. “You’ll get used to it.” he said and turned his head toward you.

“Used to what? Was that a flirt?” you asked, finally beating back embarrassment you turned your body and leaned against the balcony.

“I’m not great at flirting.” Sy dipped in close, looking into your eyes, and spoke softly, “I call them like I see them.” 

He stood straight again, “So how long have you been in our small town?” 

The song changed, a few people called out requests before the man started singing again. You watched the people, buying time before you decided upon an answer.

“I’ve been here for about 5 months now.”

“Did it take you long to find a place?” he quickly asked back. “Not like there’s a lot to pick from.”

“Actually, I’m buying the land right down the road from here. The price was right.”

“The Grove house. I know it.”

“Yeah?”

“It used to be a part of this land, the caretaker’s house, but a few generations back we let them buy it from the family. Everything okay with the house?”

“It’s a great home. I didn’t have to do much to it. But there’s a dead tree stump at the far corner of the house.”

“I’ll come by tomorrow.”

You shook your head like you were trying to throw off his good offer. This was all so strange, the house, this land, the feeling in your gut and now this.

You finished the drink off, spilled some of it down your chin as you quickly tried to deflate his offer. 

“No, no--that’s not necessary.”

“Hey we’re neighbors now. I’m home, I want to help you.”

You wanted to say no one more time but your voice loses its intensity with the sound of a woman yelling. Cursing, Cindy strode past the doors, her eyes roaming the dark and then stopping on people and looking some more before she finally landed on you.

Quickly she walked over to you, held your arms and ignored Sy complete. “Please, can you take me home.” her voice cracked.

“What’s going on?”

“Can you?”

You looked over to Sy, he was eyeing Cindy before he turned his eyes back toward the house. Shouting, low and growing louder you shifted back to Cindy. She was still looking at you, concern settled into her stance as she grew rigid, and stared right into your eyes.

You sighed, “Okay. Fine, let's go home. I’ll take you first.”

Sunday was bright, warmer than usual, but then again it was Texas, the weather seemed to have its own mind. And today it was sunny, with the heat from the sun beating out the cool wind. It made for a pleasant late morning, you weren’t even hung over. The ride back to Cindy’s was quiet, she hardly spoke - not like her. While her silence was worrisome you assumed it was some sort of lovers concern. 

The tree in the back had to be dealt with. You figured a few hours of digging around it would yield results. And while it did you were nowhere near getting the four foot wide trunk out of the ground. Squatting down near a deep exposed root, you swung your hatchet, splitting the wood and chipping away at the foundation.

You were sweaty, and tired of using energy best spent making food and sitting in front of the television. Laying the hatchet down you grab a rope and knot it on the end of the cut root. You tugged hard, nothing. 

A rumble of a truck pulling up into your driveway didn’t sway your efforts. Planting your feet you hunched over and pulled back harder. It gave a little that time. When you tried to pull again, a pair of gloved hands wrapped around the rope in front of your grip.

It was Sy. 

He smiled while plucking at the rope, “Let’s give it a tug.” 

His thick arms rubbed against yours, he fixed his stance closer but wider and his thighs brushed against your as the rope wrenched back. He grunts hard, “One more time,”and with another jerk the root comes completely loose from the trunk.

Sy released it and you turned toward him. He was grinning down at the stump, white cotton shirt straining around his large arms with his fingers in the jean loops.  “Looks like you’ve done a good job of getting it to surface. I bet I can pop it out for good.”

He backed up his black trunk and made easy work of wrapping a chain around what was sticking out of the ground.  You stood near the front of the house and observed him gassing the engine. Within a few minutes the stump cracked as it fell forward in the direction he pulled broken roots and all. 

“Thank you!” you said cheerfully. Jumping from the porch you saw Sy lean over into the bed of his truck and retrieve a gas saw. You watched him cut the stump down into slices. You wanted to help afterwards, you even tried to lift one but they had to be at least a hundred pound each. 

“I got it.” and without another word, and to your amazement, Sy squatted down and grabbed a piece. He walked a few feet with it, his arms wrapped around the part of the circumference and placed it in the bed. 

“If you’re up for a cookless night we are having a family dinner up at the house. Do you want to go get ready?” Sy walked back to you near the wood and grabbed for another piece.

“Right now?”

He lifted it, “Ya. Go wash off or whatever it is beautiful women do. I’ll wait.”

It was evening, the sun was setting when you stepped out of Sy’s truck. Gone was the warm weather in its place mist or fog seemed to grow from the spaces between the trees trunks and branches. Somehow the natural world mimics how you feel inside. There are shadows within you too, hidden by the mists of memories, light displaced by ghostly uncaring hands from the past. You look over to Sy, back straight, head lifted he walks like a leader. And when he turns to you, his eyes blazing some of the haze within you disperses. 

Even with his silent acknowledgment that this was the beginning of something new. The lines of cars aren’t ignored. 

“Family dinner,huh?” you asked in jest, though left it open for him to explain further.

Sy nodded, a whisper of a smile tugged at the end of his mouth and you suspected the expression was mischievous but you don’t know why he needed to be. 

Up the stone steps again, the outside ornate door was wide open though the one behind it was not. He walked forward, pushed it and let you walk in first. It smelled wonderful, food of some sort, meat and the fragrance of leather and wood met you. 

The grandness of the living room was even more so in the evening light. The feeling of being within a tree, or a cave did not go unnoticed. Sy grabbed your hand, surprised by this subtle gesture you allowed him to hold you, guide you toward a room that was closed the night before. The distant hum of voices grew louder once he opened the door. You wanted to stop and take in the space, the living room was but a glimpse-- this room was for kings. 

The entire space was timber walls, stone flooring with three low-height long tables running horizontal in this great rectangle of carpentry. The furthest wall was lined with large windows which offered the view of the tree country valley and everything of god’s creation. Bowls of food, trays of hot delights steamed up into the air looking like smoke in the dying light. The people surrounding the tables, had to be at least a dozen each. And Sy continued to walk along the side he came to the head of the first table, and nodded to those who waved at him. Their voices hushed with his approach to the middle table, he brought you to the second empty seat where you sat on the leather cushion. He took his place at the head, eyes wide at the selection, the prestige of this room you looked to him confused.

“The pack is back together!” called Sy. And at once the room bellowed with hoots and howls. 

“In a few short hours we will celebrate the beginnings of a new generation!”

Another round of hollering and calling waved across the crowd. “Eat!” announced Sy. And with that the yelling died down and the clutter of silverware filled the hall.

You stared at the fried chicken mounded up in a tray, and then to the more than rare steak to the left. A heap of corn on the cob with a tiny bowl of butter was quickly taken and passed across the table. 

You turned to Sy, he had already filled his plate with what looked like brisket, a few ribs and yellow potato salad. 

“What are you celebrating?” you asked, and without looking up he spoke while chewing.

“The return,” he shrugged and grabbed a rib and began to eat again.

Not wanting to stick out, quickly you filled your plate with whatever was close and took small bites while glancing down the table and around the room.

Cindy wasn’t too far away. Surprised because of yesterday's turn of events, you waved, and she returned it with an ecstatic smile. She leaned in next to Rex who gnawed on a chicken leg. Your eyes moved from her with a bite of a roll, to the carving on the wall behind Sy. 

The scene depicted there seemed to flow from one transition to the other. First a man, walking through trees, and then he knelt before a great dog. “Who made that?” you asked and took a sip of ice cold sweet iced tea. 

Sy looked over his shoulder, he grabbed a rag and whipped his mouth and beard. “It’s a family heirloom.” said Olive who sat across the table next to Rex. 

“It’s over two hundred years old. It was one of the first things created here.” added Sy.

Your eyes turned back to the raised carving. “This house is that old?”

“Older really.” chimed in Olive.

“This homestead is a testament to family, loyalty, and resilience.”said another, a woman. The same tall brunette from the previous night. 

“So..this is a reunion hall or something?”

Sy shook his head. “This is my home. And also the place our pa-family meets. It sits on three hundred acres of protected land. Throughout there are other homes, not as big --for families who return. Generational homes..passed down.”

“Like my house?” you asked.

“No, that was a gift to the caretaker. His loyalty was never seen of his kind before. It’s a shame he passed away and his family let that land go.” said Olive.

“It’s in good hands now.” added Sy, who picked up the pitcher of tea and refilled your glass.

Your attention laid upon the faces of strangers eating. “These people are your family?”

Sy sat the pitcher down, “Might as well be.”

Confusion spread across your face, “I’m sorry but,” you put your fork down and looked at Sy. “Okay, these people aren’t your family? But this is a family home?” You looked behind you searching for older faces besides Olive and found none. “What about your parents? Do you have siblings?”

Some of the noise lowered with your secession of questions. Maybe you hit a nerve, but there were other women who looked to you as well. “Ya, I came with Jack,” the tiny young woman nudged the man’s ribs to her left. “So many secrets,” she giggled.

Sy cleared his throat before he spoke. “My parents were killed when I was about twelve. I was raised by Olive. This home belonged to my mother and the land to those who resided here.”

“But why?”

“It was originally a colony.”

“Oh,” you supposed that made sense for the times. But in today’s world...you weren’t sure, strange.

Dinner ended with the men and their dates leaving the hall. Though you did see a few women and men stay behind to clean. You walked next to Sy, out of the rows of double doors to the balcony. At the right stairs looking like they were unfinished from a whole piece of a tree. You followed him down them, winding along the edge of the balcony the stone column holding it up to the bottom. 

The only patch of treeless land was not far from the home. Out there night had descended into the orange moon slowly rising into the sky. Your eye was drawn to an equally fiery color of flames licking the cool night air. 

“What a pretty full moon!” a woman’s voice said softly from the crowd.

“Not quite,” said Sy. 

You were standing next to him, watching him gaze at the fire. It cracked and spit sparks near you before he began to speak once again.

“This is a special night.” he lifted his head and spoke loudly toward the people and you. “A homecoming.”

Sy’s fingers pulled at the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head and then junked it into the fire. You stepped back and looked at the faces of the men. They did the same, each one, to the shock of the partner standing next to them. 

From the dark a woman approached, gray hair, wrinkled heavily around her eyes and mouth. She carried a stone bowl the same color as the long thick dress she wore.

Oh shit.

“This is a cult.” you whispered and took another step back. Sy pulled you back by your wrist. 

He mumbled at first, you thought he was speaking again but you didn’t understand the words. They seemed to rhyme and flow in the same pattern, like a chant.

Your attention was back on the woman, she drank long from the bowl, she stepped to the edge of the fire, something within you felt danger that if she stood any closer her dress would catch fire. 

Her saggy cheeks were full, she leaned back and spit the liquid into the fire. The burst hit the flames, a scream from within the crowd crawled up from the howls from the men. The area was blanketed in smoke and sparks. The thick charred hot mist forced its way into your nose and down your throat. You tried to run but Sy now held you from the back. Craving fresh air you sucked in and gulped down any that was available. 

“What is this!” You yelled through a scream that tasted of blood. 

“The beginning.” he whispered into your ear.

Your legs buckled and Sy allowed you to hit the hard dead grass. 

The smoke parted, maybe your eyes deceived you but the woman there, the smoke trailed into their mouths and nose. 

“You lovely ladies might be wondering what all this means.” his voice was low, thick with a delightful litany. His eyes were wide as he stared at each one. “Well, for us it’s about family, always has been. And for you, tonight, it’s the start of the rest of your life.”

Sy began to pace half way around the fire and then back to you. He shoved a thumb into his chest, “I’m the Alpha prime in these parts, and this here is my pack. They’ve brought you here tonight, they have chosen you.”

From your place on the ground, through the yellow tops of flames, Sy turned his eyes to you. “I have chosen you.”

At the sting of his words you fell back and twisted with pain. Something hard and beating thumped through your chest and traveled down your muscles to your belly. As soon as the wave crested you scrambled away from the deafening screams of women behind you. Trampling through the grass it hit you again. You stood against it, huddled and hunched over your own scream called out into the night. 

Sy was there, you smelled him before he even touched you. The pain rescinded with his touch but you resisted him pulling you toward him, you kicked at his legs even though in his hands made you felt whole somehow.

“Stop!” you screamed but he held tighter, his hands traveled up your arms and held your face. He forced you to tilt your head and met his eyes. A honey colored ripple flashed over the dark blown out pupil invisible waves of spread out from your eyes down your body. It was inexplicable, with his gaze you calmed to his touch, you gave in. 

Sy pulled you back to him, even though the sweater you wore the heat from his skin penetrated the fabric and so to your senses as well. He was in front of you but within you too, somehow you could feel him in your blood. 

“First rut!” shouted Sy up to the sky. Howls issued back, the sound whirling and ringing in your ears.

“Alphas!” Sy dragged you by the wrist for you to follow, blurry eyes stared up at the house.

“Claim your mate!” 

You entered the house in a flurry of groggy blinks and disconnected images. Flashes of wolves carved deep in stone, the sweat of dripping down Sy’s neck, his arms around you ushering you here and there. The smell of him got stronger down a dark hall, you tried to faint then, so overcome with the tearing in your groin you wanted to die. You wanted to give up and surrender to what could only be a slow death. But Sy, ever ready, pushed you, his presences gave you strength to continue over the threshold of a room.

If not for your own breathing the cries throughout the house might have scared you. Death seemed plausible though; how hard could a heart beat this way without dying? Never mind the terrible screams, the violent fits of rage that seemed to float through the wood and enter your mind. You were dying, right?

You clutched the wooden end-board as Sy stripped you naked. He maintains the closeness during, holding his chest near your back, a hand over your belly as he pulls the shirt over your head. He pressed his lips to your neck the sensation wracked your spine seizing it in an arch to meet his naked length.

“I smell you…” he whispered and jerked you around. “I want to rip you a part.” he growled then quickly kissed you. 

You let him take. You let him feel and run his hands all the way down your back. Whatever this was, it reacted to his touch, left you breathless and sucking in air too. 

“But I won’t,” his hands were back at your face, his teeth nipped your lips as he spoke between bites. “I promise, I’ll control myself baby.”

He turned you back around, with a hand forced you to bend over and without another word he pushed into you. Wet wasn’t the word for it, the moment he hit bottom you felt the warmth roll down your thigh. Sy gripped your hips, pulled out and then snapped your ass back to him. 

The invasion bruises you, it forces you to stretch around him. When you start to cry Sy stalls. He slipped from you, held you close from behind and directed you to the side of the bed. “Shush, hush, baby..” he whispered.

He fell to the bed with you, on top of you already positioned between your legs before the tears could start up again. “Put your arms around my neck okay,”

You felt heavy all over but you did as he said. Sy smiled and kissed you as he pulled your hands up over his arms and sank back into you. “There’s my girl..” he said on a pant. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, licking, tasting you his tongue swirled over the bit of skin just below your ear.

“We felt just right,” he groaned. 

It felt like hours, the constant prodding, the grinding into you, his skin slapped against yours undoing you from within. You had never come down so hard on the sensation in your life. Holding on to him tight he pounded into you, his teeth scraped your skin until he bit down. Something more, larger entered into you at the base of his cock, you shouted out as he tightened his jaws. His legs and hips pushed you further up the bed with the shaking of his body. Sy lifted up his head, finally you could see his face, the ripple of yellow rolled over his eyes, his face contorted into some ungodly beast. 

Horror filled you, with the roar he let loose. You were fading though, the fear became thin with the steady beating of your heart. Your arms fell from him, his face returned to what you remembered. You laid there with him still inside. Sy’s face turned down to you, lovingly he kissed your lips, your chin, your cheek. A satisfied growl carried from his chest, long and vibrating it soothed you to shut your eyes. It sounded like a dog...

No, a wolf. 

The men in your life before were easy to pin down who they were. Too loud, and their words gave them away. Too greedy, and their needs, their time was above your own. They took too much and gave very little. Their faces and their warmth are nothing to compare to the man now laying at your side. 

You were a single child of single children. No extended family, passed friendly close acquaintances. Which many were brought into the fold because of childhood parties, work friends, but none could offer the connection of family. Sy offered this. A wild beginning for certain. But lying in a bed softer than clouds, his scent covering your body like the finest of tissue paper brushing across your skin but never truly feeling its weight. 

Naked as the day you were born, your lids crack open, the light coming in was muddled with mist diffusing into the room as a constant drizzly morning. Sy’s arm was around your waist and when you turned your head his eyes were already open too, watching you, studying the sleepiness across your face. 

“I'm so tired...what did you do to me?”

His arms squeezed around you, holding you securely but you didn’t think of it as a vice, “Our kind is meant to be sleeping now. It’s our first rut...it can be exhausting.” 

Your mind searched for the meaning. Rut, it was something you had heard from hunters. When creatures mated..it was a time for animal reproduction. “Rut?”

Sy folded his other arm under his head, his blue eyes with one freckled stare at you steady. 

“Babe, you were changed for the better. The boys, a few females are wolves around here.” 

You sat up fast, that was a mistake for your body felt heavy. “Wolves?”

“Our people have been around for as long as there have been men.” said Sy staring up at you. “It’s a gift most would say, a curse for others.” And he rolled over on his back and threaded his fingers over his stomach.

“Which is it?”

“It’s an honor.” 

“How is this even real? I don’t understand…”

“The world isn’t black and white, this isn’t the movies.”

“So..I’m changing..into what?”

“You are the Omega prime here, I don’t recon you’ll change like me but you are this. Once you see and allow your nature to come through you will understand my love.”

You pull the covers up closer hoping that somehow it would protect you from the truth. “I’m changing into a wolf??”

Sy chuckled lightly and pinched the bridge of his nose as he spoke. “No, you’re a vessel.”

“I don’t want that.”

Suddenly Sy sat up and moved his large bulky body toward you while pulling the sheet from you and sitting directly across you. 

He looked you into the eyes, “It’s too late for that.”

The aches in your body, the creaking in your joints were reactivated under his gazing. Without thinking you stretched out a hand and grazed it over his shoulder and down his arm. There was no use fighting it, that feeling was beginning to churn and flex under your skin again. 

You fell back to the pillow, you can’t stand even your own skin. It itched, it pulled around your muscles in a way you had never felt before. His scent enveloped you, permeating, it sinks into your pores. You could smell him more now, as if the volume of this sense turned up to zero you could even scent his cock and craved what was within it. You wanted to hunt, you wanted to run, to provide...what the fuck?

Sy unfolded your legs and laid his hips between them. “Baby, you’re sweating again. You need me. If you go for too long..you need it.”

Shaking your head while wrapping your hands around his neck your voice trembled out, “I don’t.”

His big hands buried between your body and the bed and gripped your ass. “You do...” And pushed inside of you. Every inch that sank your mouth stretched open. 

“My little omega is wet for me,”

The words didn’t make sense but they rang true for your body. It was dirty and confusing but it made you want to be good for him. You shut your mouth, moaned as you did so and nodded.

Sy began to thump, a smile maybe pulled at the corner of his mouth but his eyes remained serious. “That’s it…”

“I knew you would be a perfect fit..” he groaned too, hitting bottom. “Take my knot so well, love.”

“It--it hurt.” you mumbled.

Sy kissed you lightly, his expression turned to concern, “I know love, it’s supposed to at first.” he grunted and began to slap against you harder. “Just a tight omega..”

The longer he thrusted the more the base of his cock began to thicken. He bounced against you testing the width with each jab until he was forcing it in and out of you. “See..” he hissed and laid his head against your shoulder. Sy’s tongue licked around the marks on your next sending shudders to your core. Gasping, heart thumping his rubbing from within on your clit burst the sweet ache from within. 

“That’s my girl..” he whispered. Sy rose up, grabbed your wrists, pinned you down and fucked you harder. 

His knot entered you completely as he stilled on top of you. In the light of a dreary day his face flashed once again of the hound he hides within. His grip tightened and this time you did not give in to the sleepiness. Sy collapsed, still holding your wrists but dragged them higher as to settle in. His hips continued with small well intended prods.

He lifted his head and stared down at you. “Do you feel it?” 

His cock laid within you thick and heavy. He moved a bit and couldn't pull out. “That’s me inside of you. I did this last night, but you passed out. I fucked you all night. Do you remember it?”

Now it made sense, the aches and pains. “I had you about six times.” he said while still slowly moving his hips. He rolled his eyes back barely containing the ecstasy in his voice. “I’m filling you.”

Your purpose unfolded within your bones, spread to your muscles as warmth from the sun would. A sweet burn, one that felt ancient and destined. The life you had before shed from you as you nodded toward him. You are his, it felt right and true.

When his hands left your wrist you understood that he had brought you into his life. As he held your face and poured into you, there was no other person he loved more. 

“Just a little more,” he said and began to peck your cheeks again. He appeared relaxed and with it so did you. He rubbed your hair, cuddled into you no longer moving his hips. “We’re going to make so many beautiful children together.”

Maybe with him and this strange new way, that your life before could mean more now because it brought you to this moment. Gently you caressed his face down to his beard and carefully kissed him back. Sy grinned as he pushed back on your lips. 

“I’m going to take care of you,” said Sy.

Out of the shower you walk out with Sy naked once again. Water dripped down your breasts and to the floor you couldn’t shake the fact that this house felt like outside. Or maybe it was nature itself that had been invited in. You felt it here more than in any other place. The sense of being at peace, at being at home. Sy’s footfalls are never far from you. Like air, like sunlight too.

“This is --” you said sitting on the bed. “I feel odd. Like I feel you or this house..I’m not sure how to explain it.”

Sy handed you a towel and began to dry his body off. “Bonding.” he said while rubbing his dick and then his thighs. 

You stood up once again, and started to dry off. “You’re my mate. This home was built by my family, it means something.”

His words swallowed your thoughts as you stared at him for a moment. Sy walked to the closet in the far corner, he pulled out a few pieces of clothing and started to dress. “I’ve got stuff in here for you too babe.” and motioned for you to follow.

“How?”

“We still have the keys to that little house you’re buying. I had them move some of your clothes here while we were eating dinner last night.”

He leaned over and pecked your head. You walked to the closet and pulled on the long sleeve shirt, and held the sweat in your hands. You grabbed some faux sheepskin fleece boots too.

“Over there,” he pointed near the bed to a large ornate dresser. “Your socks and things.”

You finished dressing as Sy walked from the bathroom, his curls were tamed for the time as he fanned his fingers through them. “Just try and let it happen, okay? The more you fight it, the longer it takes.”

“You brought me here! You drugged me and now you just want me to accept this?”

Sy shrugged, “It’s always been this way.” He stepped up to you and the connection hummed at his fingertips that lightly grazed the skin around your mark. “I know you feel wronged. I’m sorry I took you. But this is your home now, it would only upset the baby if you kept fighting against this.”

Your head snapped back, “Baby?” You touched your stomach, a reflex really. 

“There will be soon.” he smiled and brought you back to his face, “We need to--” but he stopped suddenly and sniffed the air. “Wait here.” 

Purely out of the concern in his voice you did as he said. But there was more, it was in your bones and you followed out the door anyway. Loud voices carried across the space. At once within the hallway the smell of rot hit your nose. Maggoty things sprang to mind, decay and plunder of flesh flashed across your mind. Sy continued around the second story, and you followed passed busts of brass faces and more pelts lining the inside wall. Despite the sunny rays pouring over dark wood from above and falling down onto the stone monument below, the air felt rancid. 

Passed an adjacent hallway, and another few closed doors you saw the source of the fretful talking. Rex turned his head from the railway overlooking the first floor up to Sy. He paced away from it back to the door behind him, he looked in, his eyes wide he did not stop staring within. Sy stopped next to him, you saw him turn his head and peer in too. You followed suit, with your eyes adjusting to the light blazing in from three giant windows. Within the bed laid a woman upon her back, arms half moved like a crooked doll her eyes were open staring blankly up at the ceiling. 

She was the source, your stomach turned and you stepped forward. Sy held you by the arm. But she did not look decomposed, but the smell wafted up to you anyways. “Cindy!”

You moved again but was still held back, “Wait love.” asked Sy quietly.

“She didn't--” Rex was crying as he spoke. “..the transformation..she.”

There was an end, clearly somewhere within this concoction of mystical smoke people could die. Women met their end.

Olive approached from the other side of Rex, she crossed her arms and stared within the room disappointed. “You know what needs to be done Rex.” her aged voice cracked in the middle, executing the order while dealing compassion was never her strongest trait. 

“She just died!” you yelled.

Olive stayed level as she spoke to Sy. “You don’t want the old God after us, Alpha Prime. You are that now, tonight will make it official. You must do it.”

“She has a family! They will look for her!” you turned around and shouted at Olive. 

Olive seemed to cave into your voice as she turned her head shakily toward you. “I know her mother, sisters. If they come asking questions I’ll handle it.” She released a breath, steadied herself against Rex and looked back to Sy.

“When’s the last time you knelt to an Omega Prime?” he asked Olive. She frowned, and it looked like she was biting the inside of her lip and averted her eyes back to the room. “Half the day is gone.” said Sy.  “Tonight is the run..we need to do this just after dark.”

“So that’s it!” your voice came out as little more than a whisper. “You kill her? Now you’re going to hid-”

Sy whipped you around stared right into your eyes, the color in them shifted. They emitted authority down upon you to the point you were left speechless. His jaw relaxed and with it an almost soothing growl followed, but you broke through you attempted to turn your eyes. But he grabbed you by the arms, made you gaze back at him. He began to growl low, not threatening, you felt the anger within you plummet. 

“Now that you’re calm, listen. She has received the gift but her soul did not take to it. If we do not dispose of the body properly...”

Sy let you go and turned his eyes back to the room. “Let’s just say they haven’t had a dark soul in this area in a generation.”

Already the house smelled better, though cold with every window now wide open, the older women went about shutting them again. A small thin woman with silver hair eyed you as she walked passed you toward the kitchen. 

“There’s still breakfast left.” she said softly. “Just for you, miss.”

You muddled over her comment for a minute. You were starving but the idea of eating after finding Cindy dead was pulling at your ethics. She turned at the door to the kitchen and waved you in. You relented to the hunger. 

Within the kitchen it was busy, with women and men going about preparing food. A giant stone island had six people surrounding it chopping up onions, tomatoes and other things you didn’t get a good look at. The woman returned to you with a plate of toast, a giant pile of scrambled eggs, bacon and glass of orange juice and motioned for you to sit at the last seat near a young girl who was crushing saltine crackers into a giant bowl. 

You ate quickly, said nothing as their conversation picked back up with the arrival of this woman. She had to be about ninety, she commanded the kitchen, ordered people with soft words but stern looks if they back talked her instructions. 

“Well no one else is gunna say it.” said a woman from the other side of the counter. She had curly brown hair, jagged eyebrows that gave her the permanent expression of agitation. “So how does it feel to be the Queen of the Den?”

When you bit off from your toast, those talking halted and looked at you, some continued their jobs in silence. 

You chewed a couple of times, “I don’t know what that means,” you said with a full mouth. 

The woman looked up to the older woman rolling out dough. She scoffed, “Sloan knows how to pick’em.” and rolled her eyes.

With that the old woman banged the roller on the counter and pointed it back at the woman. “Peach! It’s true!”

“I won’t hear it!” said Peach, her soft voice broke into a growl. “Dottie shut that damn big hole in your face!” 

“It’s not for you to know how to strengthen the pack.” Peach relaxed back, held the roller between thick knuckles and looked back toward you. 

“Sorry about that Prime. I wouldn’t recon young and dumb went hand in hand unless it came to Dottie. She meant no harm.”

You nodded slightly, sat up a bit straighter and continued to eat. Sloan? After all this, you had never known his first name. They returned to work, though Dottie went right back to chatting with the woman next to her. The little girl hummed next to you as she moved to the next sleeve of crackers. And halfway swallowing the orange juice the back door swung open with a man carrying an animal over his shoulder. Sy entered right behind him, the man slammed the carcass on a large prepping table at the back of the large kitchen. 

Sy’s gaze never left you as he walked across the kitchen, he slipped in between you and the girl and kissed the top of your head. 

“Hey Sloan.” you said under your breath, he pulled back nodded then smiled slightly as he grabbed a few crackers from the table. 

“Are you done?” he asked, you plucked the toast from the plate and followed him out the back door.

You walked and walked with Sy. After a few minutes of silence he grabbed your hand and led you away from the house deeper into the land. 

“What’s going to happen to Cindy,” you asked quietly. 

“At dark there will be a ceremony, she will be buried then.”

He said it matter of fact though it did not set that way with you. But nothing really felt right since you got here. It was just another shocking development after another really. “What kind of ceremony?”

Sy helped you step over a fell tree, “For the turning. She has to be burned before it’s over.”

You tried not to take his callousness to heart. Though it did seem insane to speak of the dead in such a way. It didn’t strike you as hard though. Something within you felt calm about it, like a lasting trust for the man near.

And you didn’t know if it was the walking but you felt sick. At first in your stomach but quickly it grew to aches and cramps in your belly. 

“I heard Olive say that,” you said through a twist beginning to gnaw at your back. 

“The pack expects it. I’m the Alpha Prime, it is up to me to see that we are safe. And I will do it. I’ll do it till my last breath.”

Sy let go of your hand and wrapped his arm around your back. “This land is for you too,” his hand drifted down your back and settled into the back pocket of your jeans. “I want you to feel at home here.”

When you didn’t respond Sy stopped and forced you to look at him. His fingers stroked your cheek and then with the back of his hand, testing and feeling your claiming skin. “You need me?” he asked.

Shaking your head you pulled from him and walked whatever direction you thought he was going. But you didn’t get far before you doubled over. 

Sy was there, near you making you stand up and lean on him. “Come on, there’s a cabin near. It should be vacant for a few hours.”

“We can’t just use someone’s home-” you winced.

He made you walk with him again, “It's not. Call it a lookout, there are other things out here a lot more dangerous than the occasional coyote.”

You huddled into him, sweating and whining as he walked you down the path where a small house came into view. He helped you up the stairs feeling the wetness building between your thighs. And as soon as you got in it he was on you. “We barely made it in here love.” he said between kisses. His hands quickly grabbed and tugged at your pants as he walked you toward a patchy couch. 

His nose dragged from your neck, your breasts with his fingers pulling at the top of your jeans. You didn’t fight him when he pushed you down. You didn’t say a word when he used your jeans and underwear as a way of holding your legs up and close to your chest. Exposing your glistening pussy, Sy pulled himself out and entered you immediately. Bare upper thighs, Sy’s hands held you there allowing the pants to continue to restrain your legs. 

“Do I really want this? Or is it something else?” you moaned as he pumped fast.

Your eyes rolled back, “Feels so good.” you whispered as he thumped harder.

“It's real,...you belong to me.” Sy leaned in crushing you more with his weight and size. He sucked hard and fanned breath down to you as he huffed, “Always have…the smoke wouldn’t have taken if it weren’t true.”

“You,” he pushed in with every word, “..belong to me.”

“They live in the fog,” Sy said and pointed toward the dark patches between trees. 

You were right to be afraid, not of them though, for you had seen these on your first ride up here. In the car with a chatty Cindy you had told yourself it was only an illusion. Perhaps the fear was of yourself, the ignorance, the lack of connection to worlds thought to be of lore that were closer than you thought.

“Who are they?” you asked while walking closer to Sy. The open woods felt smaller now, what other beings existed out in the wild?

“Sprites, small gods.” he said, looking forward again. “B’careful and never ask anything of them. They crave warmth at the best of times, they like to hang around bodies. But if you speak to them it’sa chance for them to get inside of you.”

You said nothing after that, wide eyes continued to search the trees recognizing more hazy emotionless faces than before with each step. Light from the torches grew brighter, illuminating the dark and with it the beings faded with the touch of heat. 

You entered the area lined with thick wooden torches topped with fire. The other alphas followed behind with their mates and little was said among them. The crack of the fires to the cold of the night was the only sound that really interrupted the moment.

Sy and you stood just within the entry of this circle of flames, one after the other one alpha with his mate took their spots around the center. Built of wood like a stage and on top - a body shrouded in white, it reminded you of something you had only seen in the movies, a funeral pyre. Rex stepped close to the structure, his head pointed toward it, the flicker of shadows and light play down his back and over his head. The shiny beads, things that looked like round coins hung and clinked together in the gust of frigid wind. 

You didn’t look away until you felt Sy step away. He was behind you, unhooking the handle of the torch from the pole. And he stared toward it, walked past you and flung the torch into the brush skirting the pile.

The moment it caught fire something twisted within your gut and chest. At first it felt like guilt, a pang across the muscles in your chest but it persisted. It burst to life in your senses from your lungs and spread out to the tips of your fingers and toes. You heard screaming, light quips of moans from the other women. When you looked around they too were grabbing their chests at the same time you hunched over. Standing there in sparse dead grass, you tried to steady yourself, bracing the air but nothing came to your aid. It buckled your knees. Whatever this was swept through you in waves of pain and knowing. You weren’t sure of anything, but it felt okay, that all of this wouldn’t last. 

The wood cried as flames engulfed the bottom tier completely. And with it, the very atmosphere around you snapped and spit energy you’ve never felt before. Low growling from all around but the loudest, the longest comes from your side. You look up from the ground to Sy. Teeth bared through his thick beard his brows were pulled tight, the angles of his features once again exaggerated into something not human. You stared horrified when he began to claw at his chest, his fingers were not his own, they were long, gnarly and tipped with long nails. The yell from his mouth was an ear splitting soul shaking screech that shook your spirit. 

With the crack of bones, his skin sloughs off long black fur, the floppy bits hit the ground and immediately sank in and became fertile ground that sprouted green grass. His legs grew long and bulky and snapped back like that of a dog. He grew taller, bigger with a wolf's snout and face. 

Suddenly a shriek from the fire rang above the growling and howling around you. Upon the pyre the fire had reached Cindy, but she wasn’t laying there any more. Her body stood, claws ripped through the sheet as it too caught fire. You stared up at it hopelessly, panting hard your heart thumping at an inhuman speed, part of you gave up in the wake of this. You sat there unable to fight the buckling and rebirth of your senses.

Cindy’s body lept from the toppling pyre toward you. No time to react or run something large stepped between you and it. A man screamed from your right, he was in the middle of changing to. Rex stepped toward it with his face shifting in and out of human and wolf and tried to grab the thing by its arm. 

The sheet had burned and melted into what was once Cindy’s face. Its jaw opened long, stretching pieces of fabric and skin across its dark mouth and shrieked. The thing swiped at Rex, slicing through his skin to the white of his flesh across his neck, chest and belly. Blood splashed into the air and to the ground. He crumpled to the ground, dead before he even touched it. And when Cindy’s body turned back toward you something suddenly impaled her chest straight back into the fire, pinning her there until the families consumed her completely. 

It was quiet after besides your breathing and the warping of blood in your ears. Sy, now fully transformed, stepped to Rex, picked him up and as gently as he could, placed his body too in the fire next to Cindy. 

His feet were large paws that you centered your attention on. Displacing the dirt with every step you refused to pull your eyes up further. And when he knelt down to you, his great big clawed furry hands sat on either side of your body. He nudged the side of your face with his wet nose until you did look up. His eyes were the same, with the ripple of honey across blue that you had seen before. He tilted his head down, rubbed his nose into the palm of your hand until finally you ran your hand over the bridge of his nose, and up into the thick fur between two giant ears. 

He pushed his nose into your neck gently before he stood up. Whatever had come over you was quickly dispersing. Though now, after, you smelled more, like a scent had color or flavor that you had never noticed before. The same with your vision, prying your eyes off the newly formed Sy, and glancing at the trees and saw the fog people for who they were. No longer just faces, full bodied apparitions with different clothes and emotions of their own.  And your hearing, besides the tiniest movement of creatures, you could sense the footsteps in the ground and in your ears from the direction of the house. However peering through the dark you could see their silhouettes were still quite close to the house.

Sy grunted and you turned back to him. His snout was tilted up toward the sky, sniffing and licking the air. He howled long and loud and the others followed. He turned to you once again, baring his teeth and took off, leaping over the pyre toward the other side of the circle. A sudden rush of the others following their leader joined him and disappeared into the forest. 

The hall was packed. Along with the row of three tables that you had seen before, there was another, running diagonal at the top. You sat next to Sy who sat at this table, on the middle cushion, surrounded with the faces you had come to recognize. The new members appeared as you felt, lost perhaps in the fray of the night's ceremony, exhausted too, and probably worried about their new lives. They too most likely felt the pull as well. The fading of what their old lives were being replaced by the energy of family around them.

But even as they and you came to grips with what this new life included cheering erupted throughout the hall. Laughing, and gesturing toward one another as they ate and swapped tales of their adventure in the forest. Yes, this felt like family. Something you weren’t so used to having. 

Peach came walking to you and Sy holding a large platter made of wood. She came to your side and slid it into the empty space on the table. On it were slices of meat overlapping in a circle that looked nearly raw with it’s moist flesh, and dark red sauce.

Sy picked one up, he placed it near your mouth. A subtle smile played at the corner of his lips as he urged you to open.  You felt the enormity of this moment if you took this bite. This was it, you would be accepting your place here and everything that meant. You stared into his eyes and then took a small bite. The flavor was metallic in your mouth, tangy and fleshy as you chewed. Sy ate the other part. He passed the plate to the next man who did the same with his mate.

He leaned close to you, his nose sniffed your neck back and forth tilting his head slowly. “I think you got a secret.” he whispered, still sniffing you, his nose brushing upon the skin of your jaw.

“I don’t think it’s a secret that this is all weird,” you laughed softly, and picked at your food.

His nose touched your skin again and breathed in deep, “Oh yeah,” his lips caressed the rim of your ear. “You’re pregnant.”

You jerked your head toward him, mouth slightly parted, the words escaping as they formed in your mind. “I will protect you..” he said.

“I will love you ‘til the end of my days.” His fingers glided long the other side of your jaw to your chin. “D’you accept me?” he asked quietly. 

The hall had gone quiet. You ignored the weight of their stares. Slowly you stroked his beard and nodded slightly. “I accept you.” you whispered back. And cheering roared.  Part 2

[geraltgwynbleidd]

Nothing unusual. Just Dandelion being Dandelion and Geralt being Lambert!

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 70

Jaskier is the worst roommate Geralt could ever ask for. He comes home at odd hours of the night, constantly makes noise and chatter, and he brings home random strangers almost every damn night. It'll be three in the morning when Jaskier stumbles in, drunk off his ass, heeled shoes loudly clicking against their floor as he meanders about, squinting and knocking things over. At least he has the decency to mumble "Sorry" every time he breaks something, but is he apologizing to Geralt, or apologizing to the damn mop? He talks to himself, he sings to himself, he sings as a hobby, he sings as a job, he plays his lute/guitar loudly all throughout the day and night, he even talks in his damn sleep. Constant humming, singing, talking, muttering, whispering. Hookups and flings and fuckbuddies galore, both women and men. Not that Geralt cares, it was just something he observed. They'd steal his food, or use up the shower when Geralt was meant to be getting ready for work, or they'd leave and keep the door unlocked. The worst was when Jaskier's bachelor of the night mistook Geralt's bedroom for Jaskier's bedroom and very happily cozied up and went to sleep in Geralt's bed. Naked. Geralt didn't even care if he was high, drunk, or just dumb, he threw him out all the same. When Geralt's girlfriend, Yennefer, breaks up with him, he is comforted by Jaskier of all people. Coming home tipsy and without a shirt, and yet still sitting down next to Geralt and giving him a thoughtful, long, deep pep-talk. Maybe he isn't all bad, after all. Geralt is the worst roommate Jaskier could ever ask for. Don't get Jaskier wrong, Geralt is unbelievably easy on the eyes, but that's pretty much all he has. Geralt always looms silently in the dark, offers brutal remarks at best and grunts at worst, and for some reason always has a little blood on him. It'll be three in the morning when Jaskier stumbles in, drunk off his ass, and Geralt will just walk out of the shadows with an insanely deep "Did you remember to lock the door?", scaring the bleeding daylights out of him! He walks quieter than a damn cat! He should wear a bell like one! Fuck's sakes! Geralt's ~lovely~ comments are always harsh but sadly never truly unprompted. Jaskier will get stuck on a line and ask aloud for help, momentarily forgetting his only recent company has been Geralt, and Geralt will sometimes oblige him with an answer, such as "Can you shut up for five minutes?" "It's too late for this shit." "I hate it." So on and so forth. Jaskier learns to stop asking... Mostly. Jaskier went to shave one time, and found blood in the sink. He looked over at Geralt and asked him if he had cut himself shaving. Geralt said no. Jaskier REASONABLY asked why there had been blood in the sink, and got the answer "Work." WORK?????? "And your job is what?! BLEEDING INTO SINKS!?" and yet Geralt was already walking out the door. But then one night he comes home, to find Geralt waiting for him - Silently, alone in the dark, just sat there. Like always. Weirdo. - demanding his half of the rent. Fuck. Fuck, Jaskier completely forgot- Jaskier starts panicking. He explains how he doesn't have the money, that some of his latest gigs have backed out on him or refused him pay for bullshit reasons and he didn't earn as much as he expected to, and begs to not be kicked out. He's surprised when Geralt calms him down from his spiral, and tells him to take a deep breath and wash away his tears - Shit, when did he start crying? - He comes back and Geralt sits him down and explains he'll cover the entire rent this month, his work had gone extra well recently. He knows what it's like for people to pull out pay or suddenly ignore your deal, and won't hold it against Jaskier, but expects him to be able to pay next time. Jaskier is so overjoyed he hugs Geralt. And Geralt lets him. Maybe he isn't all bad, after all.

[lemoncremepi]

I’m reading this right now, and loving it so far!

Winter's King Masterlist

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Status: In Progress

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 19

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: Have a good day.

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The queen rises, restless as her skirts sweep around her, streaked from the hem with the filth of the road. Her insistence on finery has proven fruitless. Her once prized gown will likely never be free of stains. She has many more, you only hope they survive the journey. 

She struts back and forth, scowling as she faces the wall and drops her shoulders. 

“Why is there no mirror?” She pouts, “this place is drab. How am I supposed to keep from going blind with dullness.” She flops back onto the bed, “ugh,” she rolls over, “maid, I need wine.” 

“Your highness,” you say sheepishly. 

“Do not,” she raises her hand in a harsh point, “I don’t care about the king’s orders. I have been on the road for weeks, I am sore, I am filthy, and I am tired!” She snaps her fingers, “if I want wine I will have it.” She puts her hand over her middle, “it is for the king’s child. He is thirsty.” 

You avert your eyes. You can’t deny her. Even if the king ordered that she be deprived, you cannot look her in the face and tell her no. If they king never knows, it mightn’t matter. You turn, your disobedience nipping at your ears. 

You emerge into the corridor. The orange-haired guard remains, along with the shadow standing across from him. Bryce looms, picking his nails with a small dagger.  

“Has the queen retired so early?” He asks. 

“She requires wine,” you return, “I won’t be long, sir. Might you point me towards the kitchen?” 

“I will accompany you,” he insists as he stand straight. 

“Do not trouble, sir, I am faster alone. I only need direction.” 

You see the disappointment tick in his cheek. You’re not so mad as you were, only cautious. The king will always come first, his will shall always circumvent your own. It is a reality you knew before but now it gleams in a much different light. 

“Down to the east, on the lower floors behind the statue of the knight in black armor,” he explains, “do take care not to lose yourself.” 

“I will, sir,” you nod and glance over at the other soldier. The man with carroty hair eyes you up and down. 

You flit off, hurrying upon your quest for a bottle. You’re not certain you’ll find bounty in your mission. This is not the king’s castle and you are not a thief. 

You descend and come around the bottom of the wide stone railings. The great hall is empty and only a few lanterns remain lit to guide you. You go east and find your way, coming upon the knight in black armour that at first appears as a real sentinel in the dark. You stop to look upon the suit, admiring the ripples in its forging. 

You go into the kitchen and find the haze of the stove lighting the empty space. You peer around at the dark alcoves as the air glows amber, pulsing with the heat of the embers. You tiptoe inside, narrowing your eyes to see through the dim. 

“Are ya lost?” A growl rises from the darkness. 

You spin and face the black silhouette of a large man stood on the other side of the thick wooden table at the center of the kitchens. You gulp and sway on your feet. He must be the cook or perhaps the cellarer. He likely thought you a rat scurrying around looking for crumbs. 

“No, sir, I... would there be a bottle of wine? For the queen?” You ask, your voice catching in your throat as he looms like some great husky bear. He reminds you of the white beast in the corridor as he comes around the table, the light catching the white of his thick locks. 

His body is as thick as a barrel and his shoulders broader. The flickering hue reveals the scar above his left brow and his pocked cheeks. You wonder at the tint of his hair as you try to tell if it’s the age the lines his face or if it is the same effect as the king. 

“Wine? For the queen?” He echoes sonorously, “hmmm.” 

“Yes, sir, if there would be any to spare?”  

“Mm, suppose a bottle might go missing,” he backs up and turns. He doesn’t beckon you onward but you follow anyway. Something about him bids you without a word. 

He takes you to the far end of the kitchens and grunts as he squats and reaches to his belt, jangling a ring of iron keys. He shoves one in the thick lock in the clasp of the hatch and unhooks it. He lifts the heavy door, thick cedar bolstered with steel and throws it back to hit the floor. 

“Ah, hold,” he signals you with a palm as he stands and retreats. 

He strides across the kitchens and without a word, shuffles in a cupboard. He mutters as he takes a tallow and lights its wick from the embers, setting it into a brass holder. He offers it to you and you take it without a word, curious at the grumbly cook. 

He descends the steep stairs first and you follow, balancing the candle carefully. He takes you by the elbow to help you to the beaten floor and you raise the candle to light the expanse of the cellar. It extends well past the limits of the flame’s eye. 

He goes to a shelf and slides a bottle free of its cubby. He tuts and puts it back. He pulls out several bottles before he makes a decision. He comes closer to examine the glass by the flame. 

“Summer wine,” he says and flicks his pale eyes up to you. They remind you of the king’s though they are paler in the candlelight. “And you, serve the summer queen?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You are a summerer?” He asks. 

“Sir,” you bow your head, “you can tell?” 

“Aye, no winter’s blood wears a cloak with walls to hold them over,” he chuckles and looks around. 

You glance down at the cloak. You hadn’t thought to remove it as the cold radiates from the stone. Even without the wind, a shiver creeps through your flesh. 

He frightens you as he reaches for you, only to touch the fur collar of the cloak, rubbing a tuft between his fingertips, “it is well made.” He lets his hand trail along the front and turns out the interior of the trim. You look down your nose as he reveals a patch you didn’t notice before; a wolf’s head. 

“Yes, sir, it is warm,” you agree and he withdraws his hand. 

“Suppose a summer’s maid needs it more than a winter’s king,” he says. 

You’re quiet. You have nothing to say to that. How many others took note of you in the king’s cloak? Do they whisper about it? 

“Your queen may take the wine,” he holds out the bottle, “and the king, might have a cask of ale should he require. Only one,” he lets go of the bottle as you accept it and holds up a finger, “he does not have leave to drink this cellar dry. Crown or no crown.” 

“Yes, sir. Many thanks.” 

He snorts and shakes his head, peering down at you, “a dove like you is out of place in this nest of vultures,” he muses and gently takes the candle from your hand, “better fly back to your queen, bird.” 

“Sir,” you turn towards the stairs as the candle illuminates your shadow against the shelves. You turn to climb and peer back at the man. He watches you, his eyes flickering with the flame. 

“Gentle creatures don’t fare well in the cold,” he clucks, “best keep that cloak close.” 

You ascend and cradle the bottle at the top, keeping it close as the liquid sloshes heavily inside. You pad over the kitchen floor and into the corridor. The great hall is even colder as the shadows ripple over you. As you come up the stairs, a shiver quakes through you. 

Something about that man, about his words, clings to you. His way of speaking is ominous, like those card readers who would visit Lady Rezlyn. Or perhaps it is only that you are waiting for the inevitable. 

As you near the queen’s chambers, you hear distant footsteps from the other direction. You come in sight of the grey soldier, spinning his knife as he whistles, the redhead guard sending him an irritated glower. You slow, preparing for the guard to repel you or at least seize the bottle from your arms. 

He does not. Even as he turns his scowl on you, he only reaches for the door to let you in. Before he can push inward, a throat clears. You all pause and turn to face the new figure. The king looks between you all; from the guard, to you, to Bryce. Your nerves flutter wildly. You haven’t been this close since the night on the pass. 

“I hope that wine is meant for you, Sir Bryce,” King Geralt booms, “as my queen is not permitted to indulge. She has a vile reaction to the stuff.” 

“Your highness,” the guard swallows audibly, “I... the queen--” 

“The queen is my wife and a wife must bend to the will of her husband,” the king insists hotly. The guard’s expression draws and he mutters an apology. 

“I was unaware of the ban,” Bryce intones, “but I’ll gladly claim the bottle for my own.” 

“Gilles,” King Geralt ignores the quip and points to the redhead guard, “you will inform the queen that she needs retire for the night. In her condition, it is necessary that she rests. If she requires sustenance, she may have bread and cheese and a bit of goat’s milk.” 

“Your highness,” the guard, Gilles, nods diligently. 

“And you will fetch it yourself,” the king insists, “I trust you might find your way around a tray.” 

Gilles stares at the king then slowly pushes into the queen’s chamber. The king nears and takes the bottle from your hand. You let him and back up as Bryce steps closer. 

“Your highness,” the soldier begins, “if I’d been aware--” 

“Hardly matters now,” the king shrugs and steps close to his man. He leans in and whispers something you cannot hear, “as you were,” he slaps his shoulder then continues on. You watch after him, perplexed but relieved at his indifference. Perhaps he has rethought his intent. 

Bryce is quiet until the king’s footfalls fade off. He lowers his chin, rubbing his thick beard. He touches your cloak, a small tug on it, “this way, maid. Let us find you a place to lay your head.” 

The promise of a bed is nice and reminds you of your weariness. Your legs ache as you follow Bryce along the corridor. Your shoulders rack and the remnants of the road begin to lace through your muscles. It is only as you think of laying down that you feel the effect of those last months. 

You yawn and stifle it in your hand. Bryce glances over and lets out a willowy breath. He is certain of his path despite the twists and turns. He directs you to a door at the base of one of the castle’s towers, opening it to a spiraling staircase. 

“Would be at the top.” 

You look up at the winding ascent. The walls are mounted with lanterns over every fifth step. You frown and pull back, turning to the soldier. Your stomach churns. 

“Up there? May I not rest in the servant’s quarters?” 

“You must be closer to the queen,” his lip trembles. He raises his chin and looks away. When his eyes meet yours again, he puts his hands on your shoulders, “rest your head, mouse, you’ve come very far. You’ve earned it.” 

You look at him. You know he isn’t saying all he could. He can’t. You put your hands on his arms and squeeze.  

“I’ll try,” you affirm, “thank you, sir. I am very tired.” 

“Yes, mouse, sleep,” he pulls away. 

“Good night, sir.” 

He hesitates, “good night.” 

He turns stiffly and marches off. You step into the staircase as his shadow disappears and you pull the door shut. You look up, climbing step by step, legs shaking as you get higher and higher. You reach the top step and another door. 

You push the handle down and the lever rises on the other side. You enter the chamber to find it empty. You stand at the threshold and turn, searching for any shadow, any shimmer in the low light of the fireplace. It’s only you. 

You breathe and turn to look down the staircase. You listen. Nothing but the winds battering the walls without. You close the door and slowly wade into the warmth of the room. The windows are hung in heavy curtains and there is a tray waiting on the table. An ewer, cups, a plate heaping with delights. You aren’t hungry for any of it, you’re too uneasy. 

You unbuckle the cloak and drag it from your shoulders. You turn it over your arm and feel the patch sewn into the lining, examining the wolf’s yellow eyes. He’d marked you and you never even knew it. You fold the heavy length over a chair and back away. 

You untie your cap and unveil the short shanks of hair jutting out from your scalp. You haven’t had a chance to shear your unruly locks before they could get too long. You fold the cap and put it on the bed. You remove your apron then your dress and leave them with your cap. 

You take a pillow and a blanket from the mattress and bring them down to the bench at the end of the bed. You fit yourself onto the hardwood and watch the fire’s light pulse on the stone wall. Your eyes glimmer with tears, turning your vision to speckled hues. 

It’s all so nice, too nice for you, and knowing why you’ve come upon it, turns it sour. It is not kindness, there is expectation attached to such generosity. You should’ve known. You did. You were just too stupid to see it, just as the queen always said. 

You twit. 

You close your eyes and pull the blanket to your chin. You embrace the warmth, your one comfort left. There’s a long road that awaits you still. Not only through the Hinterlands but another, more treacherous path. One you never meant to stumble upon. 

Your body weakens, succumbing to your fatigue, overtaking your wrought mind. Your eyes roll back behind their lids and your breath peters out. Sleep enshrines you as blackness eclipses the orange haze of the chamber. 

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Tonality [5]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous Chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.

“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand. 

Your father is to be buried tomorrow. 

You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.

“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin. 

“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar. 

Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird.  You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone. 

“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle. 

“Please, mother—”

“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch. 

You cannot stop—

She will not let you. 

You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.

“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear. 

“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle. 

“Now close his eyes.”

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes. 

Perhaps I am mad, after all.

Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady. 

They stay.

“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things. 

At least, you try to. 

The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.

“W-who is it?”

“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?” 

“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face. 

Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression. 

“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.” 

“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”

“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one. 

You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses. 

“You won’t need them.”

The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you. 

“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.

“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself. 

“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.” 

You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric. 

“Even so, our fashion does suit you.”  You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line. 

“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.

“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired. 

“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”

“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling. 

“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways. 

“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here. 

“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”

“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.” 

“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.

“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”

In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—

And then burnt their dreams out. 

“What did it cost?”

“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”

Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know. 

But the witch might. 

—

The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below. 

There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty. 

The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions. 

You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”

Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges. 

Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone. 

The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms. 

It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again. 

The thought spurs you onward. 

The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.

You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square. 

The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago. 

The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.

“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.

“I—I am looking for—”

“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too. 

She is an elf. 

It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.

“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look. 

“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed. 

“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside. 

The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl. 

“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.” 

“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again. 

“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?” 

Your throat tightens. 

“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.” 

The stone stops. 

“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence. 

“And what do you dream?”

“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”

“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand,  she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye. 

“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm.  She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.” 

“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes. 

“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.” 

“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles. 

“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron. 

“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead. 

“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace. 

“Please, I—”

“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart. 

“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!” 

“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.” 

“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine. 

“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you. 

It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?

Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known? 

Would he have even wanted to?

Perhaps I can just ask him myself.

The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses. 

It is by that grace alone that you see the man. 

You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip. 

“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black. 

Nilfgaardian.

 You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards. 

The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky. 

“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.” 

Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet. 

“No.” 

“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you. 

“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.” 

“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble. 

“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat. 

“I’ve little stomach for lies.”  

A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you,  clears his throat. 

“Here, my Lord.” 

The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—

No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.

As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.

The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale. 

“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!”  There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth. 

“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not  comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them. 

The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed. 

“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”

Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling. 

“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”

The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night. 

“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.” 

“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king’s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear. 

“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”

 “Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.” 

He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck. 

“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.

“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.” 

Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry. 

“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder. 

He came for me.

Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.

“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”

In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse. 

“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”

Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.” 

You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—

A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing. 

“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak. 

“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums. 

“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.” 

You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—

The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours. 

Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.

“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark. 

I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure. 

Just for a little while. 

to be continued…

next chapter

[peyton-warren]

Unfffff.

I as a consumer of Geralt fic and a fan of biting *shows you my credentials SPN style before slipping them back in my pocket* would like to chime in and say I think biting mid-coitus is neither too animalistic nor not animalistic enough. I am feeling a bit like Goldilocks here and think tis juuuuuuust right for dark!Geralt to bite as much as he needs to. It's perfect, he's perfect, however he wants to bite me Reader in your tale is perfect. Go forth and bite me, I mean write.

Hi! How are you doing? c:

Honestly? I am thinking about the dirty, filthy things that I want Dark!Geralt to do to me Reader in the fic I am working on...

...and this man desperately wants to use those canines. And I just...?

The White Wolf wants to bite Reader during...ahem...coitus. And I don't know if that's too animalistic or not animalistic enough???

HELP???

[xsapphirescrollsx]

Mesquite Grove pt 2

Written Oct 25 2020

Dark! Syverson x Black Reader x Dark! Geralt Also this is post is pic heavy. I modeled the cabin in this story of off Sky Notch. I hope it’s not to much lol and that you enjoy it. Thanks for reading and reblogging!

She had offered an exchange.

The writhing twisted thing on the ground, whipped its long slimy arm along the bog’s black moistened soil. It bared its sharp teeth before bellowing a sorrowful moan.

Geralt stared down at what used to be a beautiful woman. With her once melodic voice she had promised youth, riches beyond measure, and power - if he would let her live.

Allow her to continue her own reign of terror over the small but humble village. She had brought strife, she carried sickness into their homes, disturbed their spirits. 

Geralt wasn’t a fool. Of course he had considered her offer, but knew it was nothing more than conjured filaments of promises. It would have only been real as long as she lived.

What are a handful of crowns in exchange to leaving innocent people to harm?

Though he was no saint. It took sleeping with the village’s leader’s prettiest daughter and taking half her dowry to gain his contract. One cannot ask if one is not willing to give. 

And he delighted in the taking.

As in this moment, the black eyes matched his as he stared into the abysmal void that was quickly spreading down its body. 

Geralt bared his own bright white teeth and plunged the sword further into the monster's rib cage, piercing its heart and impaling the dirt below. Green ooze bubbled out of the wound. The moan gurgled into a desperate scream, echoing throughout the forest, shattering the peace surrounding it. 

The moment Geralt withdrew his sword the ground beneath him shook. Around him, wind began to whip and the wispy clouds around him whirled above him. Thinking, calculating, Geralt wondered what new spell this was. Eyes now back to their golden color he stared at the swirling beginning to descend about him. 

He tried to take a step, strained again to pull back from the gravity sucking him upward. 

Geralt reached for the beast at the same time his feet left the ground. Out of time the rotten skin slipped through his fingers, the whirlwind carried him up and up. 

The forest chattered once more. The creature laid there dead as Geralt had planned. But there was no Geralt here, or sword.

The moon hung behind a clear pane of glass, in the room you shared with Sy. Near the bed, where you laid, within her own wooden bassinet, the soft breathing of an infant soothed some of your worries. Pregnancy had looked great on you. Actually, you had never felt better and almost disturbingly so. It was September now, a month passed giving after a near painless birth to Astrid.

The little darling, Sy’s heir and your delight, and your reason for sleepless nights. Not because she required taking care of, that came easy enough, but your system had changed. You had little sickness throughout the pregnancy, energy boundless in a way you longed for the days where you could sleep a full night. 

This was one of those nights. Sleepless wasn’t the word for it. You flipped on your side and stared out of the window. The advent of fall had begun revealing a clear cool night sky with stars dotting above the tops of the pecan tree basking in the white light of the moon. You heavily sighed and rolled on to your back. It was ill advised by the old matrons that new mothers were allowed to roam the woods like their other halves. So you were laying on the large, billowy bed, muscles twitching to wander, heart waiting for the moment your bare feet could hit the ground. 

You stared at the wood grain above the bed and listened to the dark, imprinted the sound of Astrid’s breathing to your memory, and beyond the window pane howls - distant, calling to the night, did little to lull you to sleep. Your secret weapon to combat restlessness was to wiggle your foot. Quick short bursts of movement rocked you gently. Your eyes slowly blinked followed by a deep yawn and you shut them completely. The things to do in the morning began to drift less in your thoughts and it became more important to cave into the sinking sensation of sleep. You attempted to blink again, though did not. 

Your foot stopped moving. 

The dream began with feet, steadily walking through overgrown grass, stopping at first and then started again. Night rounded around the image, the skin was coated in black smudges, blood, the hem of a dark dress dragged  and smeared it around the calves. You could smell the iron in the air along with rot, not animal death, but that of felled trees with fungus aiding in its decay. A woman, she began to run as the vision pulled back and revealed that within her arms a bundled lay there. No bigger than Astrid, could have been Astrid the love you felt was as strong as that for Astrid. 

But it wasn’t, this woman was afraid of losing this bundle. Though not to death, but to forces beyond her control, so she ran. 

The dream shifted to fog, no footsteps to be heard. Made of air and a moist breeze they walked out from the trees and surrounded the woman. The bundle lifted from her arms despite her attempts to hold on, what was soft fabric became translucent just as the beings. Her scream scratched the inside of your ears, the wail turned yelling, her mouth was moving but the voices from it did not match. Your body began to shake, the scene rattled too. 

“Wake up, Miss! - Oh, old God! Please wake up!” the voice said.

Your eyes peeled open to Peach’s deeply wrinkled face. Worried thin lips were drawn into a straight line. “Miss!”

Your back snapped up straight, head turning towards the bassinet your eyes looked over Astrid. Peach held your shoulders, “She’s okay. But you have to come down--”

You pulled her worn hands from your body and held them within your own. “What’s wrong?”

And then you felt it, a worry, deep in the pit of your stomach. 

“Is it Sloan?”

Peach suddenly blubbered, you had never seen her in such a state. The aged woman was tough, and her tears had you climbing out of bed faster than what she could answer. 

You stood above Astrid’s bed, touching her belly you turned back toward Peach’s hunched over figure as she wiped at her lined skin. 

“I knew it would happen again..god damn--I told Alpha it could happen again.” she mumbled. 

Dottie, with her curly hair pulled up tight in a high bun and tugging on old boots, rushed in. “I got Astrid.” she said hurriedly. 

Dottie’s face was lowered, her eyes staring down at Astrid. She sighed, that was the moment you noticed a subtle lemon light and then she looked back at you. Behind her, beyond the window the sky whirled with clouds. Some deep yellow, others blue, circled and churned. You moved closer to the bassinet, still staring at the sky when Dottie too turned around, Peach gasped behind you. In the hustle you had not looked at the window, had it been doing this the whole time?

Clattering from down below, near the stone den, loud voices shouted, some hollered for help. Your stomach dropped more. Dottie shot out and grabbed your wrist. “Go.” she said quietly. 

You walked past Peach, to the end of the bed, who was still staring at the window with her hands covering her mouth. Grabbing the thick navy robe you turned around back toward Astrid’s bassinet, Dottie was there, her face toward your sleeping baby. You threw it on as she waved for you to go.

It must have been later than you realized, the second floor was devoid of the usual lit sconces, instead the fiery light from below coxed up and gave you warm light to guide you down the stairs. The row of balcony doors came in to few as you quickly descended, the yelling had died down in its place hushed tones followed murmuring. 

Eyes wide you hit the bottom of the wooden stairs and turned toward the large space with the stone monument. Women were coming in from across the other rooms with clothes in their arms. You recognized the usual pack, Tator, shorter than Sy preferred tattered jeans dragged across the floor as he paced. Macon, naked, was squatted down near a figure laying flat near the stone of the large statue. Jimbo, he was shirtless as he stretched the waist of the sweats around his waist stood up erect, his normally jovial face was straight and concerned. 

You rushed forward, their eyes turned to you and you ignored their bareness as you searched for Sy. They parted for you until his naked back could be seen, “Sy?”

An older woman handed him a shirt, he turned toward you and grabbed your face. “‘You okay?” he asked. 

Before you could answer, you moved to this side, your eyes dropped to the figure laying on the floor. 

“Ya’ll back up,” Sy called out in a hushed voice. He looked to you again waiting for you to answer his previous question. 

But you couldn’t take your eyes off the man on the floor. Sy nudged your cheek with the back of his hand, moist with sweat it was enough to draw your eyes back to him. “I’m fine, so is Astrid.” you whispered, and then pointed down at the man. “Who is that?”

“He looks-” said Jimbo, but stopped.

Peach had wiggled through the men across from you and Sy. Her blue eyes stayed on the man.

“We shifted on the other side of the property, so we were running,” began Sy, as any mumbling died away. “I scraped my leg near the old pyre. I ain’t ever seen anything like it.” His voice strained as he tried to stay calm while speaking. “What I was lookin’ at split and blurred. There was flashing lights in the sky, these clouds circled us and this asshole popped out and landed right on top of me. And then other things, monsters, fell right along with him and disappeared in the woods.”

Both you and Peach met near the side of this man. His shirt was near new, though unique and more like a tunic than a cotton tee. And his boots were good, strange though.  “There was a high pitched noise, it sounded like a bomb went off in my head.” continued Sy.

You knelt down at his side, staring at the strands of dirty silver hair. “It reminded me of war.” 

Flicking down further down this man’s neck, his pulse thudded quickly underneath pale skin, around the bottom half on his chest and shirt, a medallion on a silver chain. You reached out for it, slowly at first unsure at why you were doing so, but you did it anyway. You held it, still warm from his body and swiped a thumb over the raised décor. “It’s a wolf..” you said softly. 

More than that, it matched the same motif and style of that within the crest of the Syverson heirlooms you had seen so many times. 

“Looks like what is on the wall in the dining room.” 

“I never thought I would see the day…” said Peach.

Sy moved closer, though still standing, at your side. “What’s going on, who is this?”

Your eyes flew back up to the man’s face. Even in his sleep, silver brows seemed to glower in his rest. A familiar profile stuck out to you, it was the same as Sy’s face, same shape of lips, the clef in his chin.

“He looks like you Sloan.” you said, still holding the medallion. 

And it happened fast. Peach gasped first before you realized the man’s eyes opened, yellow and pointed in your direction. He snatched your hand within his and sat up, staring down at you. Crushing your fingers around the metal, the man growled before suddenly blinking slowly. Through his nose, he breathed in deep. “You smell…like flowers...dizzy..” his lips barely moved, your eyes met his as he leaned in closer. He continued to do so, his eyes slowly shut, his hand around yours dropped as Sy stepped in time to push him off you. 

The man crumbled down to his side while Sy helped you stand. “Who is his?” he was looking down at the man, brows drawn together before he stared at Peach.

Teary eyes were still on the silver haired man. Peach, sighed, mumbled something under her breath before she sighed heavily. 

“He’s..” she turned her eyes up to you and then to Sy. “I didn’t think we would ever see him again. Alpha, this man..” she looked back down at him, her hands seeming wanting to reach out to stroke his hair but did not. “This boy is your brother.” she finally said. “Your twin.”

Members of the pack lifted the man and placed him into a bed on the second floor of the cabin. The women had undressed him, mended his scrapes and scratches as he remained unconscious. It was now late morning, daybreak had cast light into the room catching his white hair. You stood at the doorway, observing Peach check his pulse. 

“He’s still breathing, seems to be sleeping.” she said to Sy. 

Your eyes fell to the man. Something solid settled in your chest when you gazed at him. Akin to how you felt for Sy, but different because while you had no idea who he was, you yearned.

“How is that man your brother?”

The sound of your voice breaking the silence had Sy turning toward you. The disappointment in his express was palpable. His eyes rolled to Peach. “‘Feel like I’ve been lied to my whole life.”

“He wasn’t ‘pose to come back! No lie can be undone if there’s no proof Alpha!”

Sy stepped toward the man, pointed, “He’s right there woman! A whole lie laying in my house!”

“Sloan.” 

Olive came in, a large book cradled in her arms, “This was from the old times, before there was a here and our people came to live here.” Sy made to move toward her but stopped when she spoke again, “Your mama made me promise. Omega’s trust is binding.”

She handed the book to you. “In there is about you too.” she said, looking from the thick embossed leather to you.

“What about me Olive?”

“A woman unknown. A stranger no more. Alone in the world, shiftless but finds their grounding.”

You squinted at her. “That could be anybody.”

“--catches the eye of the Alphas.” Olive continued.

Sy interrupts with what you did not catch. “Alphas?”

“First Omega with two mates.” 

You blinked,  and then squeezed the bridge of your nose while struggling to understand. 

“You were destined to be here. The world, gods, -- you were supposed to always be here.” said Olive. “I just..never considered that this prophecy would happen in my time.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t of lied-” Sy growled.

“I had no choice. I was bound by your mother’s word. And her actions were bonded by blood. No way around that, believe me I tried. Your father was missing. And, damnit, your mother knew not to ask the fog for help. She had no idea they would take her son in exchange...” said Olive.

Peach grumbled under her breath. She shuffled toward the end of the bed all the while staring sorrowfully at Sy. “Alpha, this man is your brother.”

“I don’t even know his name.”

“Geralt Syverson. In that book there-” Peach stuck a knobby knuckled finger toward the thick tome. “Says right in there, that man’s name is Geralt.”

Olive sniffed the air for a moment and glanced back at you.

“The rut is tonight.” she said, still staring at you. “Whatever it is you need to think about Alpha, you best do it quickly.” She turned her eyes back to him. “Because this is happening. Destiny is willing it.”

“I don’t give a damn about destiny-”

“I think you will find it is hardly worth out running.” the man mumbled from the bed. “Believe me I’ve tried.”

“Where am I?” he said while glancing out the window. Geralt sat up, moaned deeply and held his head before shifting his eyes up to the man who mirrored his likeness. “And I need a bath.”

You stood tense outside the kitchen door. Back so tight, it was fit to snap but you pivoted from ball to heel, rested the back of your head against the grain. This man’s voice settles in the knot between your shoulder blades. It struck you even deeper in your gut, your soul, whatever that warm feeling that sat in the middle of your chest. 

You know more than not, that the reason is something more than soulmates, and connections. You can smell it from here, him, just as you suspected he could sniff you out too. It was raw in your nose, primal, and instinctual.

And you were grateful that the occasional passerby did not stop. Like you, they too avoided the kitchen while this visitor ate.

“Is she yours?” asked Geralt.

Without a pause, “Yes.”

“So she follows you everywhere you go?” he asked. “Why is she standing out there?”

Sy called your name, slowly you rolled on your arm toward the entry. The moment his yellow eyes landed on yours longing unfolded within you. 

“I find myself, once again, in a strange land.” he said lightly. Geralt chewed off a bite of toast and gestured toward Sy. “And this man says he is my brother. However, I believe I am much better looking. What do you say?” he said as he swallowed the mouthful.

Sy sat in the chair sideways, with his large legs splayed, he hunched over with his fist flat at the knuckles and pressed into his thigh. He turned his head to you, utterly gentle, soft even to Geralt’s gaze he gave you a half grin. 

“Why are you here?” You asked.

Walking over to Sy, you kept watching Geralt the same as his eyes stayed on you. His chewing paused when you grew close, his eyes fell to the arm Sy wrapped around behind your hips before looking you in the eyes.

“I have no idea.” said Geralt, and turned back to his plate. 

Slowly his gaze moved from the pile of eggs to the book between him and Sy. He picked up the bottle of beer, chugged it while still staring at the words on the pages. Such an odd man, you observed, since waking he even walked around with a sword strapped to his back. Like now, his top half curved over his plate, those strange eyes shifting -- taking in his surroundings without looking too long.

“But I overheard something about a rut?” He said to Sy. “What are you some sort of animal? A pack of mutant dogs?” he chuckled.

Sy didn’t join in his amusement. 

“Werewolves.”

Sy jerked his chin, cut his eyes down to the medallion around Geralt’s neck. And casually, glanced back at that symbol on the ancient page. 

“That’s the mark of my family. Our inheritance.”

Geralt put down his beer and leaned back in the wooden chair stiffly. 

He rolled his jaw, flicked his tongue between his back teeth and looked to you first. “I’m over a hundred years old.” he said, and then stared at Sy. “Either this is some sort of time dream, or I’m your ancestor. This place doesn’t look like the Continent. Lacks greater magic, but this medallion - it’s been gently vibrating since I’ve arrived.”

“It warns me of magic and danger,” he said. “It’s no family heirloom. It was given to me once I completed my trails.”

It was absurd to think of movies or the vast stories of time travel, but it was all you had. 

“So what if you were taken there as an infant.” You looked to Sy. “Like Olive said.” 

“And time moves differently in this place you grew up in.” Geralt stared up at you, listening. 

“Wouldn’t that account for something? You’re talking about all this magic like it’s true. That’s not how it is here. And only recently have I even considered anything like it.”

You continued to stare back at his unwavering glare. “Don’t you feel different?”

A long silence followed. Sy caught you staring, the heaviness of his grip on your hip pulled you to stare back at your mate. He was still considering Geralt, the man continued to look at you until he spoke.

“He does. And by the end of the night I’m sure you’ll understand why...brother.”

The title brought Geralt’s focus back to Sy. “Odder things have happened in my long life. What’s one more?”

They, the pack, took this new/old comer in stride. Stranger than his sudden appearance was how they welcomed him back into the fold of their lives. Twelve hours since he arrived and Peach was here in front of you talking about him like he had always been.

Her eyes burst with delight as she spoke about him as a baby. How good he was, that he cried very little, and always needed cuddling.

Peach was covered in dark soil. From the creases around her knuckles to the edge of her temple. The old woman cut herbs down to the root as she spoke. 

“Are you ready?” she asked.

You blinked a few times, coming back to the moment. You nodded. 

Peach threw the last bunch of tarragon in her basket and stood up slowly. “I think your baked chicken will go good with that.”

Peach huffed, shook her head and looked to you exasperated. “That’s not what I was talking about. Don’t be coy. The rut.”

“You think Sy is really going to allow a stranger-”

“It’s not about what he will allow. It’s a bond with the land that was paid in blood before you even knew we existed. It is what it is.”

You laid Astrid down back in the bassinet. Ready for tonight's pack dinner you walked from the room you shared with Sy. You peaked back through the door at the young woman you had left your child in care of. 

She sat in the chair near, cracked open her book and smiled back at you. 

You buried the anxiety with a tight nod back. Already the house buzzed with high spirits, for the arrival, and for the eve of their time of bonding. The closer you came to the dining hall the louder it was and thicker the fragrance. 

The two of them, different but the same, had the effect within you.

Entering the voices quieted. Some familiar faces looked at you, smiled, nodded as you passed down the center of the long tables toward the one sitting long ways. Your space was empty, a vast void between Sy and Geralt. 

They stared at you. But your eyes fell to Sy only. 

And so you sat between the two big men. Something about them, their demeanor toward one another -- something had changed. And it poured over during dinner. They no longer seemed like two strangers. 

Geralt leaned back on his right hand, just behind you and whispered in your ear. “I hear we have some catching up to do.”

Sy glanced at you from the side of his eye before answering a member of his pack from across the tables. 

And you said nothing in return, and you did not look at him either. You picked at the potato salad on the plate before you and forced yourself to listen to Sy’s words. 

“I’ll be gentle.” Geralt whispered again, this time close enough to feel his breath brush against your ear. “Maybe...” he chuckled softly. “..if you’re good.”

You stared at Geralt from your place at the front of the pack on the balcony. He stood there observing the pack members, shoulders straight, chin level, and those yellow eyes stopping and studying ever so often. The weather fell, cold wind swept through the crowd of people staring at their Alpha. If not for the occasional blinks, and subtle tilt to his head, you would have thought Geralt was made of stone as Sy spoke.

“These are peculiar times,” said Sy, shifting his head and eyes from you to Geralt on his left. “But we aren’t strangers to oddities as such. As you all have heard, this man here is my brother.”

Indistinct mumbles descended through the fifteen or twenty men and a few women standing in front of you, Sy, and Geralt. 

Sy held up his for silence. “Geralt Syverson was a child of bond made in blood. Our mother’s sorrow over the loss of our father was paid by Geralt’s exchange. It carried him off beyond the world we see now.” 

Sy looked over at Geralt, who cut his eyes to him. “Carried him to distant lands where he was taken in by a woman. From what I gather his life has been hard.”

Your mate turned his focus back to the pack. “He was..changed by the people of the land.”

“Why is he back?” called a voice. “Why now?” said another.

Sy turned his head to the right and looked at you for a moment and then addressed the crowd. “The dark soul about a year back did it. The last one killed before that, was the night payment was due and my brother was taken.”

“Is he one of us?” asked a tall man, his black eyes swept from Geralt’s boots to silver hair before looking at Sy.

“‘Can’t be a Prime. There’s never been two.” he added.

Sy stared after the pack member, you could see it in his brows as he carefully considered his next words. 

“There is now.”

The crowd mumbled some more, whispers, disgruntled and blameful rolled over them once again. 

“There’s more on this land than we know.” Sy said loudly over them. “Shit we never seen is going on in the woods and my brother knows about it.”

Sy glanced over at Geralt who was already staring at him. “He will help. This is home now.”

Geralt nodded. “I kill monsters.”

His eyes drifted from Sy to you. “And as far as this being my home, it remains to be seen.”

“You will.” Sy clapped his big hand over Geralt’s leather clad shoulder and squeezed. “The air is changin’, you feel it?”

And as if speaking it into existence the wind shifted around them. The Alpha’s restless stances moved with one another feeling the resonance of their Alpha Prime’s words.

Geralt said nothing at first, his eyes traced back to the men. In the light of the balcony his skin shone slick with sweat. Sy grinned. 

“Alright, ya’ll - meet up in a few hours.”

Sy dropped his hand, the other messaged your back and wrapped around you to pull you forward through the crowd along with Geralt.

“First order down this path is claiming.” said Sy quietly while walking through the row of doors back into the house. “They have it easier, like during the change-- like me because we have mates.”

Your stomach dropped. 

Still sweating and rather perturbed Geralt grunted out unamused, “I glanced through the book Syverson.” 

“Sy?” you rounded on him taking a few steps up the stairs. “This is ridiculous. I’m not-”

Sy suddenly took to the stairs, growling in his throat forcing whatever retort back down in your throat. He grabbed your arm and began to walk you up the stairs. 

“Come with me brother,” called Sy over his shoulder. And when you glanced back at the silver haired man. He was staring at you, his breaths heavy and you recognized he could smell you just as you could scent him out.

You pulled against Sy, but it didn’t matter. He dragged you into their room. Gone was the bassinet, the child you shared with Sy and the room was lit by candle light and the night sky filtering through the large windows.

Geralt followed and closed the door behind him. 

“Try it,” said Sy. And he repeated the growl in this throat. “Think of subduing without touching.” he added, and twisted you around to face Geralt. 

“Don’t-” you said.  “I never agreed to this. I-”

Geralt stepped forward, the rumble in his throat began low and hit you harder than Sy. A deep jolt in your pelvis and wetness seeped from between your folds. The sound of his call was raw, unwavering and only grew the longer he stared into your eyes. 

“A curious creature,” his hand caressed your cheek, smearing the tear into your skin. “So lovely.”

Sy released you and stepped to the side. “She was made for us. In every way possible, brother.”

Geralt hummed, blinked slowly as your compliance melted into his psyche. He had been to the edges of the Continent, seen worlds broad and miniscule. But this, the sensation to ravish and take had never been stronger than in this moment. The urge to...plant, sow his legacy felt primal and ancient.

Sy breathed in deep, smelling the fragrance of your heat fill the room. “She’ll fight. But it only makes it sweeter.”

You fought against the rush. “You--don’t know what you're talking about Sy..please..” you strained to look away from Geralt.

“You know what the rut does to me baby..” whispered Sy. “You belong to us now.”

Sy walked from the room, leaving you to Geralt. And with him any hope that the man you loved, wouldn’t do this. But the moment the thick wooden door clicked shut Geralt tore at your t-shirt, grabbed the back of your hair and pulled you against his chest. 

His lips hovered over yours. Humming the Alpha chant he kept you there staring into your eyes. 

“I have so much power over you.” his deep voice mollified your senses. “It was confusing at first, this world, how it worked. But I feel the desperate pull to be inside you, entirely. And I fear.”

Throat dry, you struggled to speak against the cloudy haze of hormones. “--fear?”

“That I wouldn’t be able to stop myself..” Geralt pressed his lips on top of yours. He split them with his tongue, plunging and licking your teeth and tongue. 

You pushed against him, you tried to unglue yourself from the nature blossoming inside. It wasn’t nearly enough. 

“The more you resist,” he groaned and kissed around your mouth slowly making his way back to your mouth. “The worse it is..”

Geralt fumbled with his armor, shedding it fast when he released you to sway where you stood. And before you knew it, his naked form stood in front of you, the muscles with dark swirls of hair coating his chest and down a wide trail over his abdomen toward his chubby, thick cock.

You lunged to the left, but you were too overcome by the nature of your place in this culture. Geralt grabbed you about the chest and waist and walked you toward the bed. Shaking your head, crying was met with his Alpha hum. 

He tossed you on the bed back first, stripped your pants away and pulled off what was left of the tattered shirt. Head half empty, the other overpowered by lust, beckoned him to fulfil his duty. 

And as he pounced on top, before you could stop yourself, your fingers traced over the mounds of his pecks, around his shoulders and pulled him toward you. 

Geralt’s tight grin, his yellow eyes delighted in your sudden offering. But he grabbed your wrists anyway, held you down below him. And without much care, squeezed his way past your slippery folds. 

His mass pounded your body into the bed. His slick, porcelain skin slides against the tops of your nipples, you swear the briny dripping from him is your ultimate undoing. He takes from you, but his thrust gives in its own ritualic way. There was no escaping the act of completion, and as the swollen feeling in your clit cascaded into bone aching bliss you fell into his command. Your Alpha Prime, the second man in your life. 

He flipped you over, ass up and fell back into line with his rhythmic thrusting. It didn’t matter that he spread you further, had a handful of your face in his hand pressed against his jaw. He powered away inside of you, dropped his lips along your neck. And with his other hand, he held your head down, licked the stretch of moist skin there slowly. 

“I claim you,” Geralt whispered and buried his cock deep. His teeth nipped the skin of your neck, your ass arched more, craving the pain of his depth. And his bite pierced at the same time he spilled inside of you. Your whimpering, the small, surrendering mewl flared his nostrils as he bit down harder. 

The door slammed open smacking the wall, your eyes rolled in your skull before falling on the shape of Sy. He walked in and shoved it back shut. 

“I can’t wait any longer,” he groaned and began to peel off his clothes. “I can smell her down to the kitchen…”

Geralt tried to move inside of you. Another round of simpering whines called from your mouth. Sy rushed to the side of the bed where your head rested.

“Don’t,” Sy warned. “You’ll hurt her.” he said softly while stroking your hair. 

“Lay there with her, hold her. She’ll bond with you until you can pull out again.” he instructed.

Sy sat on the floor, he laid his head not too far away from your own as Geralt wrapped his arms around your back to your chest. You stared back at him as he gazed at you achieving peace.

“Good girl.” he whispered. 

Geralt turned his head back into your neck, humming low, and sniffing your hairline slowly it stimulated the vibration of love deep inside of you. The rush spread.

“Now you have two of us.” said Geralt.

“It’ll be my turn next,” added Sy. “We’ll take care of you, baby.”

The Next Morning

The brothers ran together last night. Their howls carried through the room and even invaded your sleep. Dreams of a black wolf, a white wolf, fog, wilderness kept you stuck to the bed most of the early morning. 

The night sitter brought Astrid to the room as the sun rose. And you spent time with your daughter despite the ache in your body. When the voices in the cabin began to grow louder you knew they were home again. 

You wondered if it was easier for Geralt, the change that night. Not that you saw it in person. But you couldn’t help but feel that your new mate somehow deserved a painless shift. 

And when the sitter came bounding back in off the energy surging through the home. She scooped up Astrid. 

“The Alpha Prime’s are asking about.” her bubbly voice softly rang.

Even if you did feel for Geralt, the night before was remembered. “I don’t care.” you said and got up from the bed. 

“I’ll have some coffee up here.” you added and headed toward the bathroom.

You ignored the smell of food wafting into the bedroom after the shower. Your eyes landed on a tray on the end of the bed. A platter of toast, fruit and thermos of coffee waited for you. 

And so did two tall, disgruntled men.

“Why didn’t you come down?” asked Sy, pushing away from the closed door. 

Geralt slowly walked toward the bed, but turned his back to you and Sy by looking out the window.

You glared at Sy. “You--neither of you gets to decide -”

“Ah but we do.” Geralt butted in, hands clasped behind him he turned from the window.  “The moment you felt me enter your slippery cunt you belonged to the both of us.”

You look to Sy for support but he just stared back.

“From what I’ve learned you have no choice but to submit.” Geralt glanced across the room for affirmation, Sy simply nodded. “Therefore, you will learn to love it.”

You started to snap back, yell, spit anything but a low growl began from Geralt that stopped you in your tracks. “I don’t want to hurt my...mate.”

Geralt and Sy walked toward you, the silver haired at the left, the bushy faced man at the right. Sy put his hands on his hips and grinned kindly back at you.

“We want you happy, dove.” Geralt carcasses your face, he dipped in and began to sniff your cheek, down your neck. “God, do you smell that?” he asked Sy.

Sy stepped over, you turned your watery eyes to him. He was softer with his eyes, gazing at you with love. Geralt held the back of your head allowing Sy to lean in toward the pulse point on your neck and ran his nose across your skin.

“It’s sweet. Like honey, or some wild flower but deeper, yes?” he asked Sy.

He knew that smell alright, the deep resonant fragrance coated the back of this throat. It flipped a switch in the back of his mind as he breathed in deep. He wouldn’t have to mate to procreate, not for a few months.

“She’s pregnant. That’s the smell..and it smells like she has both of us in there.”

....to be continued...

[afriendtoravens]

:: conversations in the dark // emiel regis x geralt of rivia // for @bloodandwhite ::

⸻

It was quiet here. There was a certain peace and tranquility that often accompanied time spent with Geralt in the evenings. Here in the Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery they would have to part ways, though. They knew as much, had said as much earlier while they chatted over a roaring fire and hooch.

While the witcher slept, Regis lost himself to dark and somber thoughts. He had to go. The loneliness bit away at him, eager to have him walking a different path so it could torment him relentlessly, no doubt. He loathed the way it made his stomach turn. It was time to leave. Toussaint was no longer safe for vampires. His thoughts inevitably turned to Dettlaff, disgusted with the way the entire situation had played out. Things could have gone so differently. He could have lived.

He cursed beneath his breath as he packed his things, daring to glance Geralt's way one last time. "Have a good life, my friend," he murmured quietly, thankful for the man's restful sleep, before misting away.

[life-as-a-gamergirl]

I'm so curious now!!!! I'd love to read more of this

“What do you want, warrior?”

The man soaked in blood grinned. His eyes were black, his skin was snowy, and the veins in his face and exposed hands pulsed with dark power; but he was no witcher. He couldn’t be. His grip on the silver-bladed sword was awkward, unused to the weight. He did not have the build of a monster-killer. If not for the magic, and the blood, he would look weak.

“I want my witcher, of course,” he rasped.

The lord scoffed and sipped his wine. “You cannot have him, and you will die if you continue this foolish quest,” he said flatly. “You may have cut your way through my men to reach here, but you are human. Humans cannot contain witcher magic. Do you want to die?”

The man laughed. It was a hideous sound, loud and rough and mad. The lord frowned, and squinted, looking closer. It was hard to tell, when the man was so far away, but…

The cup slipped from his suddenly cold hand.

“Yes,” the man soaked in blood said, his grin that of a madman who died a long, long time ago. “But it will be by his hand, and no one else’s. No one said I was human.”

“Jules,” the lord gasped.

“No. My name is Jaskier. Now give me my witcher, Father.”

~

Geralt pressed his fingers to his eyes again, gritting his teeth. He still wasn’t used to the hazy shadows where his vision used to be. Luckily the torturer was inexperienced; Geralt wasn’t fully blind. Yet.

His fingertips brushed gingerly against the raw, puffy scar at the corner of his right eye. He knew it was only a matter of time before they gouged the organs out of his head. He would fight, of course. He would kill. But his eyes were less important than--

The stench of blood. Metal and sweat. Rage. Witcher potions.

Linseed oil. Buttercups.

The sea.

Geralt attempted to stand, but his feet were still healing. His heart was beating too fast. He turned his head, towards the dim square of light that was the window of his cell. Surely not…

“Jaskier?” he whispered.

The lock clicked. The door opened. Geralt took a deep breath, and tasted the flat, salty-sweet tang of blood and offal. Under it was Jaskier, though—unmistakably his bard.

“Jask,” he repeated, and lurched to his feet. The form in the light gasped, then rushed forward to embrace him. Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier and held him too tightly, trembling with relief. Alive. Safe. Maybe the gods existed. Maybe Destiny had taken pity on him.

But… why did Jaskier smell like witcher?

Pulling away, Jaskier pressed a vial and a sword hilt into Geralt’s hands. Geralt sniffed the bottle as his fingers curled into the familiar indentations of the leather grip. Swallow. Potent. Too potent. It would make him sick to drink it.

“I need you to kill a monster,” Jaskier said.

Geralt felt a feral grin spread across his face. “Give me a scent,” he replied, “And their head will be yours.”

Jaskier held a piece of fabric up to his face. Geralt breathed in deeply, and growled in hate and anticipation. He knew that scent. It was carved into his memory as deeply as the voices of his brothers.

“He’s wounded,” Jaskier told him. “Not enough to slow him down, but enough to cause upset. Can you smell him, Wolf?”

“I smell him,” Geralt hissed, popping the cork from the bottle of Swallow.

“He’s all yours, my dear. I’ll clean up the trash behind you.”

Geralt growled again, drank the potion, and darted around Jaskier. A monster to slay, for his bard. There was no task better suited to him.

~~\0/~~

Ten Years Previously

It was a fine thing, to be free and untethered. Truly he was meant to exist this way.

But Jaskier had tasted the stability of love, and now he could not be satisfied with the adrenaline of lust. So he waited at the inn for Geralt to finish his latest contract, instead of leaving for the nearest court or brothel—one and the same, truly. Full of rich men paying for the use of others’ bodies. And Jaskier was tired of it all.

Nilfgaard had fallen. Cintra had been restored. That didn’t mean there weren’t still monsters to clean up—both beast and man. Whilst Geralt specialized in the former, Jaskier concentrated on the latter. Like now, as he wrote a letter to a contact in Redania containing coded and magicked information. The old men who called this backwater village home were good at hiding, but their soldiers were not. Jaskier had seen them, and their weapons, and their fine steeds. And their sorceress.

She was good, but Yennefer was better. And with the entire force of her Lodge behind her, she could easily sway the woman to give up her lord and his sons. Jaskier allowed himself a small smile as he signed the letter with a tiny bird. Yennefer still wasn’t his favorite person, but only because she wasn’t Geralt. Other than that small detail, there was no one he trusted more.

With the three of them on the trail, Ciri wouldn’t have an enemy on the entire continent within a decade.

Not that she knew the extent of her parents’ goals. The last time Jaskier had seen Ciri, she had laughed that they were all too protective of her. She was a woman grown, with a wife and a place as a weapons-teacher. It didn’t matter how grown she was, though. Not to them.

Jaskier frowned. It was wrong of him to be so protective of her, when he wasn’t even her father. But he would still burn the world to the ground in her name. Was this how her grandmother had maintained her station? This blind loyalty that ensnared the hearts of the powerful until they couldn’t imagine a world without her?

Did it matter? They would root out every speck of conspiracy, to keep her safe. They would kill everyone they had to.

Jaskier pushed himself to his feet abruptly and paced the room. These thoughts, though frequent, and often quite logical, frightened him. He had asked Yennefer to poke about in his head to find any seed of madness in him, but she had said there was nothing other than what all men had. Jaskier had not been violent when he was younger.

When he was ignorant.

He sighed, and sat again. Nothing for it. He’d have to hope Geralt came back without wounds, so they could spar, or fuck, or both.

“I do so wish I understood what’s happened to me,” he murmured, leaning his chin in his hand. “There’s so much beauty and delight in this world, and yet the one thing that doesn’t move me is death. Hmm.”

“Is that so, little one?”

Jaskier shot to his feet and whipped around, his hand going to his dagger. In the corner was a shadow, undulating, covered in eyes of green fire. The lights of the candles and setting sun seemed to leech away into the inky dark of the shadow. The scent of ancient blood on cold stone filled the room.

Jaskier scowled and took his hand from the dagger’s hilt. “Mother,” he said dryly, and bowed. “Stop sneaking around like that.”

A wet chuckle, like a drowned person choking, and the shadow resolved into a tall, broad woman clothed in rags. She smiled, baring her fangs endlessly stained in blood. “But it is so fun, my dear boy,” she cooed, cupping Jaskier’s face in her sea-cold hands. “You are just as easy to frighten as your father. What funny creatures, men.”

“What do you need, Mother?” Jaskier asked. “We’re quite a ways away from the sea. A goddess of sirens should be with her people, in the waters.”

Her smile grew soft, her enormous wings mantling around them both as she pulled Jaskier into a gentle embrace. He hugged her back immediately, breathing her salty scent deeply. He’d missed her. Only a year, and he’d missed his mother, the daughter of Storms and Death.

“I need you to promise not to hate me,” she murmured.

“I could never hate you, Mother,” Jaskier replied.

“Not even if I granted your wish to know?”

“No. Your blood is in my veins. You know I want more than is good for me, always.”

She laughed again. “The sea takes, and takes, and takes, and gives but rarely. It is time I tell you.” She pulled back enough to tilt his face up to look into her eyes of storm-fire. Her expression and voice were gentle as she said, “My blood is in your veins. It is awakening. I am fading, and soon you will take my place, the lord of death at sea.”

Jaskier went cold. “Mother…”

“Hush. I am losing power. It is a cycle, like the tides. I Saw your coming fifty years ago, and that is why I seduced your father, married him in the way of humans, and bore you. Now you are coming into your own. You will take my place and feast on those who trespass in our beloved ocean. Do not be sad, my pearl. I am not dying. I will simply go where the ones before me went.”

“Mother.” Jaskier licked his lips, gathering his courage. “Mother, I can’t leave Geralt.”

His mother smiled indulgently. “You needn’t leave him. You can keep him in the depths, like my father kept my mother. You can even let your little sorceress friend visit once a moon. But you must come home when I fade. You must take up the chalice. There are too many humans who seek to tame the sea. They must remember why they worship us.”

“I’m not god material.”

“Neither was I. It comes to you. Don’t you feel it, my pearl? That jealous love. That lust for the blood of those who hurt those closest to you. That is the sea within you. Answer the call of the sea.”

[geraltgwynbleidd]

Corvo Bianco days... Roach!!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 21

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I am very tired.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

As promised, the king acquires you a full outfit to face the cold. A fur trimmed hat to replace your standard linen cap, a pair of lined hide gloves, and thick boots that go to your knees. He has bolstered you to face the elements but you are wholly unprepared to face the corridors as the glances of soldiers and servants meet you with a new glint of judgement.  

You wear the king’s cloak as before. You keep your head low under the hood as he walks ahead of you. It is a farce. A poorly acted charade. How naive you’d been for so long not see through it all. You were the perfect fool for an intent audience. 

You descend and come out to the west of the castle, through a door beneath a sharply peaked arch. The snow continues to heap over the land though the winds have relented. The king pauses as you emerge and reaches to take you by the wrist, as if he fears you might be lost in the powder. 

He walks you across the yard towards the stables built across a flat of land nestled along a curved rock wall. The doors creaks as he pushes through and the heat of braziers and horses’ bodies greets you within. Sniffs, snorts, and knickers rise in the air as you walk between the stalls. There is one in which a single horse resides, the rest crowded in pairs and trios. 

You look up at the steed’s dark snout, it’s eyes even bleaker as it snuffs out harshly. It’s nostrils flair at your approach and the king clicks his tongue at the beast. It raises its nose then shakes its head. It’s ebony iris fixates on you as its master touches its braided mane. 

“Roach,” you murmur into the dry air. 

“You remember,” he comments gently. 

“Yes,” you watch the horse as it watches you. It bows its head, nose coming close to yours, fuming hot breath around you. It sniffs the trim of your hood. 

“Let the animal see you,” the king advises. 

You bring your hands up and push back the hood, letting it hang over your shoulders. You stare at the dark eyes. Roach continues to twitch his nose in your direction then further dips his head, pressing against your chest. Uncertain, you bring your hands to touch his soft ears. 

“Ah,” the king sighs, “Roach is rarely partial to any but me. Even I receive a nip or too from the curmudgeon.” He chuckles and touches the horse’s thick neck. “others have nearly lost a finger and even sacrificed garment or two.” 

“A creature so volatile, he makes a good war horse?” 

“She,” he corrects you. 

“Oh, apologies.” 

“I doubt she minds,” he muses and pets her long nose as she raises her head. “She is restless. She would do good for the exercise.” 

He lowers his hand and unclasps the stall door. He pulls it out as you step out of the way. The horse clomps through, kicking impatiently as it blows through its lips. The king moves parallel to you and draws you before him. Before you or Roach can react, he has you aloft, urging you onto the horse’s unsaddled back. 

“Hold tight,” he girds and puts his hands to the horse’s shoulder, “come, Roach.” 

The horse starts and you press your hands to her back, clamping on with your thighs. You rock with her motion to keep from slipping. You duck with the mount as she bends through the door the king holds open. The winter snows dusts down on you as you emerge. 

The king drags his palm along the horse’s side and swings himself up with little effort. He sit behind you, Roach not missing a step or buckling at his ascent. He pulls you snug to him, tugging up your hood as the chill nips at your cheeks. He wraps his arms around you and clutches a swathe of the horse’s braids. He whistles and leans, guiding the horse away from the castle. 

“She is obedient,” you remark at her agile response. 

“I prefer mares for that reason,” he returns. You wonder if it is a quip meant for the queen or yourself. Perhaps both. “It isn’t very far, though the path is steep.” 

You nod and stare at the white expanse, a few jutting rocks pocking out above the carpet of snow, leafless branches reaching out here and there. The horse carries you to a ledge, narrow and treacherous, and you lean back into the King Geralt as the edge has you dizzy. He slips his hand beneath your cloak to squeeze your hip. 

“I have you, treasure, you needn’t fear,” he assures.” 

“Yes, your highness, thank you,” you touch his knuckles and shiver. 

“Sweet summer maid,” he purrs as he draws you snugger. “This winter is harsh but I will keep you warm.” 

You shudder and hang your head. For so much comfort as he offers, you find little. It isn’t only the snow which chills you. 

You ride on, the impact of hooves softened by the layers below, the air hollow and biting as it seeps beneath your hood. The sky ripples grey and seems to darken as you descend the curling path along the cliff’s edge. At once, you are plunged into thick blackness. 

The world levels out and the king shifts, sliding off the mount to land on his feet. You peek over your shoulder and see the grim light through the mouth of the cave. The king touches your leg and you turn, letting him help you from the height. Roach kicks and spits. 

The king frames your waist before he releases you. You listen to his steps as he moves through the dim. There’s is a scratch as he strikes flint and flame illuminates his shadow. He bends and takes something from the ground. He pauses and works with one hand, wrapping something around the thick stick. He lights the length of linen around the wood’s tip, a torch to see you along. 

“She will stay, she is not keen on confinement, especially underground,” he girds and removes his own cloak, draping it over the horses back, “the air enlivens me, I shouldn’t need that much.” 

He wears a leather coat, sewn of thick strips of black and studded with silver. He approaches you and bends his arm, offering it gallantly as a gentleman might with a lady. You hesitate and hook your arm through it, hugging his elbow as he leads you deeper, the torch flickering with each step. 

You enter a tunnel with rocky tendrils stretching from top to bottom, encased in layers of ice and frost. The flame illuminates the frozen layers. Deeper and deeper you go, quiet as your curiosity mingles with concern. Where are you going? 

Your boot slips on a slippery patch but the king keeps you upright. You thank him and bring your other arm across to steady yourself on his bicep. You feel his muscle bulging beneath. You do not doubt his promises. He will keep you safe. Down here, but you doubt what he might do without. 

He raises the torch as the air thins and you the cave opens up. You look around as the walls lay beyond the breadth of the torches glow. Your eyes are drawn by the icy fingers hanging from the ceiling. There is one close to you. You reach to touch its pointed tip. 

“Icicles,” the king says, “be careful of the thin ones, they might fall.” 

He moves the torch to show more, all around you, light fangs the line the cave, lining the edges. The flame sparkles on their eerie translucence. Then the king lowers the light and you look down beneath your feet. You’re stand on ice! 

“Your highness,” you instinctively pull yourself closer to him, your soles sliding as you try to walk further. 

“It will not break,” he assures you as he urges you on, “this cave never thaws, even in the warmer months. They call it the Moth’s Den.” He leads you across the ice and your eyes catch on the icicles, thick and thin, some pointed, some reach to touch the floor. You hear an odd hum, almost a buzz, and he sweeps the torch before you. 

You stop to gape at the wall before you. It looks soft and fluffy, almost like fur. Then you lean closer and see the wings. Pale silver moths, fluttering in place, clinging to the wall. Their fuzzy bodies line every morsel of the space. 

“Snow moths. Harmless creatures. Unlike their summer counterparts, the detest the light,” he extends his arm and a circle along the icy wall is sudden bare as the moths move to avoid the glare. “When I was a boy, I always wanted to have one as a pet. I could never get one past the entrance before it escaped and flew back to the depths.” 

You blink and lower your hand from his arm, though you stay hooked onto him, “I didn’t think this was your home.” 

“As a boy it was. At least, that’s how I saw it. My father, king of the day, sent me here to train with Lord Vesemir. As much to keep me out of trouble. I am not unaware of myself. I was not the best behaved. Vesemir took me in and he bides no mischief,” King Geralt explains, “though he does not rule without compassion. He taught me many things more than discipline. He taught me,” the king peers over at you, “that my heart should be heard just as plainly as my mind. If you do not balance them, then it will all topple.” 

You look back at him. Your chest aches deeply. Doesn’t he know you don’t have that privilege? Can he not see that you do not get that choice? Even for a king. 

You might never had cared for Lady Rezlyn and her gossip. You think it cruel and unkind. Often you wonder if she spoke less of others, if she might gain more friends. You never engaged much in Merinda’s whispers either. But you heard them and you know what becomes of mistresses. 

The other woman. That’s what you’ll become. A whore. A name to be spat. A figure to be avoided. A maid might be ignored but she neither favoured or despised. She just is. She has her purpose. A mistress only has the stain put upon her. The one who taints who my walk away, but she never will. 

“The ice becomes you, treasure. The cold it... pales to your beauty,” he smiles down at you. His gold eyes are vibrant and his fine features are even more admirable in the limn of the flame. 

He lifts his chin and takes steady steps away from the wall and leads you towards a jutting stone at the other end of the cavern. He bends to plant the torches base in the crevice at its foot. The torch leans but stands on its own. 

He faces you, untangling from your arm, and puts his hands on your shoulders, “I want to know what you think. Tell me. Do you like my homeland? Do you like the winter?” 

Your lips part and you glance up. Your eyes wander around the space and you turn your head. You raise your hands to touch the king’s leather gloves. 

“I think I do,” you answer. You can’t deny the beauty even if it is deadly. “I might think differently should I meet a bear or a wolf.” 

“It is why you must stay close, treasure, I would never let a beast get anywhere near,” he avows, “I refer to all beasts. Be it man or animal. You will always have me. You needn’t be afraid.” 

You lower your eyes. You can’t say the truth. He knows it but he refuses it. His is a king, he might bend even the world to his whim. You let your hands trails down his forearms. He drops his hands and takes yours. 

“Will you tell me more? About when you were a boy?” You ask, hoping to forget the present a little longer. You are intrigued to think of this man as just a child. It is a rather impossible concept. 

“Hm, well,” he lets go of you and moves around you. He comes behind you and presses himself to your back. He rocks you as he turns you to admire the cave, “I would come to these caves and talk to myself...” he laughs rockily, “you see, if you holler loud enough, your voice bounces back at you. Lord Vesemir, he is not always in the mind for conversation and horses can be just as finicky.” 

He continues to turn you with him. Even without his cloak, his warmth seeps into you. 

“And I would gather bouquets of frostwart and white willowrods for they are the closest to flowers that grow here. I would put the bunches all around, as if I was too be coronated. I was told every day I would be king and I wanted to be ready, but mostly, I’d pretend I was at tourney. I would have my practice sword and I would parry with the air. The air was not so mean as Vesemir with his jabs.” 

You listen, closing your eyes, trying to see it in your head. A white-haired boy with his golden eyes and flowers and swords. Now a man who’s marched through blood and dirt. How time changes more than the seasons, it transforms all. 

“What of you, maid? I want to know of you. When you were a child, did you frolic with the rabbits and the squirrels?” 

You go rigid. You try to pull away but he has you caught. You lean back and exhale heavily. 

“The life of a maid isn’t very interesting,” your murmur. 

“You were always a maid? Even when you were young?” 

“Always,” you affirm. “I emptied pots, brought Lord Dustan his boots, though at times, Lady Jazlene required a playmate...” 

He’s quiet at the mention of his wife. You feel the crack in your heart. Your nose is numb and tingling. 

“Yet, how did you become a maid? Before that, was there nothing?” He asks. 

“Please, your highness--” 

“I bid you call me by my name.” 

“Geralt,” you utter, “please, I beg you, I wouldn’t speak of before.” 

“Did you have parents? Siblings--” 

“None of it,” you hiss and elbow away from him, throwing your arms out to keep balance. You spin and shake your head, “please. My parents are dead. Long gone. And the memories I have of them are nothing more than that. They’ve only ever been dead to me.” 

He is taken aback, his face pale and cheeks tight, “treasure, forgive me, I only... I want to know everything of you--” 

“You know what I am. I am a maid. That is it. That is all I can ever be. I am not a lady, not a wife, not a queen,” you clap your hands together, the impact softened by your mittens, “you cannot make me anything different, king as you may be. I will only ever serve, and you will only ever command.” 

His lips part and he steps towards you, “that isn’t true.” 

“It’s what must be true,” you look to your feet, “might I make a request?” 

“Anything,” he says. 

“Take me back to the castle,” you raise your eyes.  

He nods solemnly and reaches for you, “as you wish.”