#minstrel's gallop

[justdillydally]

Will You Still Love Me? (Gwayne Hightower x OFC) 1

Chapter Summary:

When the Hightower knight met the minstrel, first impressions were made.

NOTE: I don’t own ASOIAF and the characters except from the OCs that I made up. The song is from ASOIAF so I don’t take credit of it.

Trying to help out Gwayne girlies out there, we need more of fics about him.  It will be a slow burn story with enemies to lovers trope.  I’ve pictured Gwayne as a bit of an elitist but a good man who highly value his honor.

I'm open to constructive criticism should anyone have suggestions to improve my writing. Hope you enjoy the first chapter!

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The trotting of the horse’s hooves broke the silence in the Kingswood. A lady with dark hair and violet eyes rode a stallion, galloping with such speed that her hands were occupied with a bow and arrow. One could mistake her for a peasant, just like the knight who accompanied her. He stood in the clearing, and as the lady continued to move forward, he rolled a small tire wrapped in a cloth towards her.

The lady relaxed her fingers on the string, releasing the arrow from her bow. Thump. The arrow knocked the tire down.

“Perhaps we can return to the castle and you can practice again some other day, Lady Rhaella?” suggested the knight, picking up the tire and inspecting where the arrow had hit. He was almost twice the size of the woman with blonde hair. The cloth was tattered with holes from previous arrows that had pierced through it.

He raised the tire for Rhaella to inspect from her horse. The arrow had failed to hit the golden center, and the lady shook her head. “Not good enough.”

She held onto the horse’s reins and stopped the animal from moving around. “I just need to practice more, and we’ll get back, Ser Qarl.”

“You hit the tire again,” the man reminded her.

“I missed the center. My mother was an excellent hunter. If I am to fill her seat, I need to be as skilled as she was.”

“There is no question about your mother’s skills, but she had years of experience to her advantage.”

“After I’ve used all the arrows in the quiver, we can return to the Keep,” she announced, guiding the horse’s movement with pressure from her legs. “Again, Ser.”

Qarl bowed his head, walking to the side of the clearing and waiting for Rhaella and the horse to move again.

Once all the arrows were used, the knight gathered their items. Two arrows had hit the ground and missed the tire entirely, but he was grateful to the Gods that the lady did not insist on prolonging her practice with the bow.

He mounted his horse, and Rhaella joined him with her own steed. “Thank you, Ser Qarl,” she smiled at the knight.

“It’s my pleasure, my lady.” Ser Qarl had seen her as a babe and had become her sworn shield since she was sent to the capital with her cousin and uncle. A growling sound made Rhaella stop her horse, and her gaze fell to her companion’s stomach.

Rhaella giggled, and Qarl tried to maintain a stoic expression. “We’ll head to eat near the Rose Road first.”

“My lady—”

“Do you dare argue with your lady?” She sounded firm, yet her lips broke into a grin that told Qarl otherwise.

“The King will come searching for you if we don’t return soon.”

“They’ll only worry if we haven’t returned by midday. I’m feeling famished as well. I know a tavern on the Roseroad. If you wish, we can just bring the food and drinks on our way back to the castle.” She turned to him, grinning.

“We have only a few coins with us, my lady,” he argued. Rhaella was used to living in castles where there was no need to bring coins, as they had servants to attend to their needs.

There was a moment of silence as Rhaella maintained her gaze on Qarl. “Leave it to me, Ser.” She winked at him as they both headed toward the Roseroad.

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Arriving earlier than expected in the Crownlands, Gwayne Hightower decided to stop at a nearby inn to spend the night. His father and younger sister could surely manage another day without him. He needed to be in peak condition for the upcoming tourney. The room was quaint, far from the luxuries of his chamber back in Oldtown. However, the delicious wine served was a fitting compensation for the modest accommodation.

It was late in the morning, and Gwayne planned to leave the next day to meet his sister, the Queen. The wooden shutters of the window were raised, letting sunlight brighten the room.

A knock on the door caught his attention, and soon the door swung open with a servant carrying food. “From the innkeeper, Ser.” Once the food was laid on the table, the young lad quickly disappeared.

Gwayne took the bread and went to the window. The height of the tavern was no match for what he was accustomed to back home. His eyes darted to the crowd forming outside the inn. A minstrel was singing, capturing the attention of passersby. All he could see was the woman’s dark hair seeping out from beneath her short acorn hat, as the crowd shielded her full appearance.

A smile graced his lips as he glimpsed the woman. Her face appeared small from where he stood, and though her clothes were worn-out, it was the grace in her movements that captivated the knight.

“My featherbed is deep and soft,

and there I'll lay you down,

I'll dress you all in yellow silk,

and on your head a crown.

For you shall be my lady love,

and I shall be your lord.

I'll always keep you warm and safe,

and guard you with my sword.

And how she smiled and how she laughed,

the maiden of the tree.

She spun away and said to him,

no featherbed for me.

I'll wear a gown of golden leaves,

and bind my hair with grass,

But you can be my forest love,

and me your forest lass.”

When the song came to an end, the minstrel curtsied, and the crowd clapped, some tossing coins onto the cloth laid beneath her feet. Gwayne quickly found his coin pouch and made his way out of the tavern.

There, he saw the maiden collecting the coins along with a blonde companion. “I believe you deserve more for such an impressive performance,” he said, holding out a few coins to the young woman.

She turned to her companion with a proud smile before looking back at Gwayne. There was something familiar about her eyes.

Upon closer inspection, Gwayne realized that his initial impression had been misleading. His gaze lingered on the violet-eyed woman, who possessed a beauty that made him captivated, not planning to tear his gaze anytime soon.

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you, Ser,” she said, her eyes gleaming with gratitude as she accepted the coins.

Gwayne noticed her smile briefly fade when her gaze landed on the sigil of his House etched on his clothes.

“I can offer more gold coins if you sing another song,” he proposed. After all, wasn’t that what minstrels sought? Not just admiration but also fair compensation? He figured that a few extra coins might sway her to accommodate his request or even mention his connection to the Queen.

“Not all people can be bought with coins.” A frown creased his face at her response. She moved quickly, gathering the remaining coins from the ground.

“I only wish for another song. Surely, a minstrel would have time for that,” he persisted, trying to charm her.

“I’m afraid I must go. Thank you again for the coins.” She bowed her head, then tugged her companion’s sleeve. Before Gwayne could say another word, they began to run, disappearing from view. His brow furrowed in confusion as he watched them leave.

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Each step Lady Rhaella and Ser Qarl took was swallowed by the buzzing noise of the servants in the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast. The cold and damp halls were brightened by the tapestries that covered the walls. Rhaella was dressed in bronze and black, while the knight wore his full armor. The servants bustled about the Red Keep as House Targaryen prepared for a tourney in honor of the King’s anniversary with the Queen. It was the fifth or perhaps the sixth year; Rhaella couldn’t be entirely certain.

“The King will kill me if he knew what you did yesterday, my lady. You should stop going out among the smallfolk unguarded,” Ser Qarl whispered carefully, despite there being no one near them. He knew full well that the walls of the Red Keep had eyes and ears.

“I will not let my uncle kill you. You have done your duty; I’m still alive, aren’t I, Ser Qarl?” she replied, walking slowly while the knight followed her.

“You were almost caught yesterday,” the man reminded her for the hundredth time since the incident. “A Hightower, no less.”

“Almost,” she pointed out with her hands clasped behind her back as she turned to him. “I have no intention of doing it again soon.”

“You must be careful.” Ser Qarl was about to remind her of the perils of leaving the Red Keep, but Rhaella was quick to cut him off.

Her smile disappeared, and her face turned somber as she spoke. “Once I rule Runestone, I’ll have no time for such follies. I’ll do my duty to our people and vassals. I will not stray from my responsibilities as my father did to my mother.” There was a pause before she forced a smile back. “But until then, I must find pleasure in the simplest things.”

Her sworn shield sighed, trying to understand the Lady’s position. In his eyes, she was still but a child, though she would soon be wed and rule Runestone. It seemed like only yesterday when he was tasked with protecting her on their journey to King’s Landing at the behest of the King and the Rogue Prince.

“Here. Do as you wish.” She handed him the golden coins from yesterday’s earnings. Ser Qarl took the money with hesitation. Over the years he had served her, he knew she would eventually find a way to force him to accept it. “I’ll be here with the Princess and spend the rest of the day safely in the Keep. You need not worry, Ser.”

“Ser Harwin.” She smiled at the Captain of the City Watch, who was guarding the door. Known as ‘Breakbones,’ he was bigger in stature than her sworn shield. The knight and heir of Harrenhal gave her a nod of acknowledgment.

“Lady Rhaella.” Ser Harwin announced her arrival outside Rhaenyra’s chamber.

“Good morrow, Princess.” Rhaella curtsied and walked inside the Princess’s chamber. Rhaenyra looked radiant as she carried her second child.

“You don’t have to visit me every morning, cousin.” The Realm’s Delight was seated in a chair, rubbing her swollen belly and watching her dark-haired toddler on the ground.

The color of Rhaenyra’s son had led to questions about his legitimacy. Only when a dragon egg hatched in his cradle did the rumors slowly die out. There were still whispers in the castle, but Rhaella cared little about them. She didn’t think it mattered much when Rhaenyra was the one who gave birth to him and she was next in line for the throne. He was still family.

Rhaella knelt on the ground where Rhaenyra’s firstborn child was playing. “What if I’m here to visit my nephew? Besides, I am one of your ladies-in-waiting and I must learn a thing or two before I return to Runestone.”

The cousins shared a laugh, and Rhaenyra stood up and moved closer to where Jacearys and Rhaella were. “How are you feeling, Your Grace?”

“Like the babe is ready to burst out of me.” It was a learning experience to see her cousin pregnant and giving birth. It was the same fate she would endure in the future once a match was found for her.

“The Maesters say you have about a week before he or she arrives. You might still make it to the tourney with the King and Queen on the morrow.”

“I need help.” Rhaenyra looked at her cousin, freezing before she looked back at Rhaella.

“With what?” Rhaella released Jace, turning her full attention to the Princess.

“Syrax has laid a fresh clutch of eggs. I need to choose one for the babe.”

Rhaella stood up, straightening her dress and nodding at Rhaenyra’s words. “I’ll call the dragon keepers and have them bring the eggs up here.”

“You might want to choose one for yourself,” the Princess suggested, smiling and holding Rhaella’s arm.

“Dragons are not for me, Princess.” She had failed to hatch a dragon, and she feared that this might be why her father had been distant with her. Then again, she was the one who had insisted on remaining in Westeros rather than joining him in Pentos with his new wife.

The Princess looked at her softly and placed a finger under Rhaella’s chin. “You’re not just a Royce but a Targaryen. The blood of the dragon runs in your veins just as it does in mine and your nephew’s.”

“I know.” Her voice quivered slightly. The late Lady of Runestone hadn’t hidden her disdain for dragons, perhaps because of her husband. Rhaella really couldn’t tell.

She grew up in Runestone, and whenever her parents met, there was anything but love. It made her feel like a pawn in a game, opening her eyes at a young age to what noble marriages were like—a fate she would follow.

Her mother wanted her to live in Runestone, where she would one day rule, while Daemon wanted to whisk her away from her mother’s grasp.

“If you don’t want a dragon egg, there is another option,” Rhaenyra’s voice brought her back to the present.

Rhaella waited in silence as the Princess continued.

Rhaenyra placed her hand on her swollen belly. “There are dragons in Dragonstone that need riders. I will fly there once I give birth. You are more than welcome to join us.”

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Rhaella rushed into Maegor’s Holdfast toward the library where a Maester was waiting for her. Her lessons were similar to those of young lords who would rule their lands, but she had learned that they were much gentler, not including any training in the yard. This was in stark contrast to her mother and father, who did not mind her learning how to fight.

Almost stumbling, she managed to stop just as she saw the Queen descending the staircase with her royal guards and children. “Lady Rhaella,” Alicent Hightower greeted her in a green dress. The older woman appeared to be in high spirits, her smile bright and welcoming.

“My Queen,” Rhaella curtsied and waved to the young child one of the servants was carrying.

Without saying another word, the Queen continued on her way, and Rhaella hurried to the library. She flung open the doors, panting as she tried to catch her breath.

She stepped into the room and walked past the bookshelves to look out the window. From where she stood, she saw the Queen and a few carriages coming to a stop. “Hightowers,” she muttered, her curiosity momentarily distracting her from the other person in the library.

Her heart skipped a beat seeing the Auburn hair Knight whom she met at Roseroad. His blue eyes held her captive for a second, and she would have entertained him with another song but the Hightower sigil was more than enough to stop her from indulging him.

Her father’s words about the Queen’s family echoed in her mind: “They’re power-hungry cunts, daughter. Be wary of them.”

“It should not surprise you, my lady. They are taking part in the tourney,” a voice made her jump. An old man, wearing several links of chains around his neck, walked over to her.

“Maester Murch,” she addressed the older man with a weary smile.

“You barely made it.” Disappointment laced his voice, his eyes cold and dark.

“My apologies, Maester Murch.” She offered a sheepish smile, but the Maester’s expression remained unchanged.

“We’ll have to begin today’s lesson unless you prefer we gossip like old maids about the Queen’s family?” He asked, placing a broad, brown book on a table. With a grimace, Rhaella moved away from the window and took a seat at the table where the Maester had placed the book.

[searchingforserendipity25]

fern and moss and root and blossom

daeron/maglor / ao3. for @silmsmutweek.

many thanks to @welcomingdisaster for sharing her enthusiasm and betaing expertise <3

Daeron’s long exile had turned him into a strange creature. So closely aligned to the Music that he could quiet down the voice of the wind in the trees with a sweet phrase and the turn of his wrist, quiet the sound of the surf with the might of his minstrelsy. Maglor, it had become swiftly apparent when they met once more, found it entirely disarming to be disarmed.

“Ai,” Maglor said, mighty voice trembling with a sharp thrill of fear, pulling with his blackened hands at the ivy and vines that were Daeron’s grip, Daeron’s conquering claim. “Have pity, minstrel. Not all of us bear our horrors so conveniently arrayed.” 

His nostrils flared - there was nothing feigned about the shuddering of his voice.

“That is not a very charming entreaty at all, with no poetry to be gleaned in it. Do you know, I do not think I shall,” Daeron said mildly, and felt the taste of blood in the air a moment before Maglor bit his cheek not to laugh. 

Bound with his back to a great elm, Maglor tugged at the chains of ivy that curled around him and held him down. Daeron felt the swift galloping of his heart as closely as if he had pressed a palm against his back.

It was only half for the spectacle of it that he struggled, and the pleasure Daeron took in feeling his body move against his will and bound to it. There was always a true edge of terror in it for him, a fierce flare of defiant shame.

His face gleamed in the moonless dark, gray and thin and terrible; his eyes shone silver, covetous and fey amidst the shadowed wilderness that trapped him in Daeron’s hold. 

Daeron tightened the hold around his throat warningly for a moment. Maglor’s breathing grew stilted for a moment, strained, before he eased his shoulders, forced himself to yield. 

Bound mercilessly, legs spread open by ropes of hibiscus and honeysuckle, Maglor could not reach him.

But he was not careless - violence would not serve him here, and so he made himself gentle. Turned his hand carefully around Daeron’s ivies, tugged lightly only, stroked the edge of a leaf, hummed a soothing note when Daeron's wilderness quivered, curling around him tenderly. 

“It is not poetry I wish from you tonight,” Daeron said, sounding severe to his own ears. He was not inclined to making it an easy victory for himself, nor an easy surrender for Maglor: but he felt half-impish, scattering trickling thirstles around his ribs and forced him still. "Nor any song at all of your own words at all."

His bare feet on the grass sank down, and grew cold. The mist was gathering, growing restless around them - Maglor's dark curls turning shadow-dark, his panted breaths deep and deeper with a voice nothing like the voice of one of the Eldar. 

It had taken a long tutelage, but under Daeron’s instruction Maglor had learned at last to surrender to be free. His sighed against Daeron’s mouth, let himself sink into his grip. 

The first true attempt to free himself shackled him more firmly; the second earned him a raking scratch of fingertips wrapped in briars, the third came shattered, half-pleading.

And then Maglor went very still. A row of brambles wound itself around Maglor's wrists, dangerously near the burned ruin of his hands. 

"Monstrous," Daeron said disdainfully, pressing a long sliding touch of his hand to the place where elvish steel had left scars on his chest. Maglor's own, warped fingertips curled in reflex, and the pain of it stole his voice for a moment. 

Maglor shivered with unfeigned want. The shadows clustered around him shivered with him. Already a damp fog rose in the air, to smudge the edges of the world, leech its colours and deepen its echoes. 

Daeron stepped back, ignoring Maglor's cry. 

Soothing, Daeron’s tendrils stroked his arms, rustled over Maglor’s bare shoulders. Caught as he was, it was a sweet temptation to kiss him to silence; and there was little reason for Daeron not to indulge himself tonight. 

Daeron’s long exile had turned him into a strange creature, so closely aligned to the Music that he could quiet down the voice of the wind in the trees with a sweet phrase and the turn of his wrist, tame the wild calls of the gull and quiet the sound of the surf with the might his minstrelsy.

His wanderings through the ancient forests, and the dangerous studies in song he indulged in with no teacher or king or dear lady to bind him had changed him greatly, more than was quite righteous and good. 

Maglor, it had become swiftly apparent when they met once more, found it entirely disarming to be disarmed. 

A game of nearness and glancing touches, control and grace. Maglor's voice rose and fell under Daeron's caresses. 

On moonless nights, when the stars were brighter in the sky, Elbereth's light clearer and purer, and Maglor was flushed and feverish, skin prickling with a faint burning - when Daeron's hold over the rhythm and melodies of the desolate wild places was most potent, then they met, only then. 

Daeron had missed the salt of Maglor's blood, had grown hungry for the delicate feeling of his pulse fluttering under his power. 

It did not happen every new moon, not even every year; the course of their exiles did not always intersect on those days, for they each held to their own domains, the duty they owed their grief and their lore. 

The vines he bore as part of himself only retracted back to their winding ways around his arms almost reluctantly. More and more often, Daeron stretched the moments to a sweet interlude, reveling in the heady feeling of his lover's pulse resonating from vine to skin to his own cock, before he willed himself to unshackle him.

 They were fond of Maglor's skin, ever-hungry, and willful, whimsically led by Daeron's stray, misplaced instincts. 

 To want to release - not to watch mesmerized his possessing strength, where the living instruments of his song curled, tight and tender and terrible, around Maglor’s yielding. 

They had agreed on it - moonless nights were for wildness, the darkest night of each year given over to the strangeness, pain and regret, grief and sorrow had made of them. 

Maglor gasped. Daeron’s fingers wound about his hair, tight and punishing; but he did not need them to stroke him. He pressed close against his buttocks, already slick with sweet nectar. 

Now, he did permit himself to smile. Maglor's charred hands were shadow and flesh at once, struggling against his might one last time, before he grew weary and wary and wise enough to pause, breathless under Daeron’s attention.

"I shall do better," Maglor protested,  a little desperate. "Will not any poetry at all serve? Let me please you, lord; I shall show you such images of glory you have not known before, and such a sweet ache of grief you will weep and be glad for it."

"I have no ears for your tales and lays, your bespelling treachery that traps the unwise in its riptide."

"Not even a joyful hymn? I would give you such a thing, as it is in my power."

"Nay," said Daeron dryly "not even that."

Maglor tilted his head back against the tree, rubbed his cheek against a heavy front of thick leafs. Looked at him under the startling darkness of his lashes, a rousing sight on any occasion, and rarely more than when Daeron could feel his shuddering veins, the rasping of air on his throat.

"You have not heard this one before, master: it speaks of lovers that meet only in the dark, and part in sorrow to meet again and torment each other before falling into an embrace."

"Nay," Daeron said, amused despite himself and striving to be dire, "not even that! Treacherous thing that you are, changeful and terrible, I would court foolishness to permit you the power of any narrative." 

Tendrils of mist curled around his legs, fluttered adoringly about his wreath of living ferns - a smell of the sea was in them, the ceaseless lust of the sea, dreadful and unnatural and dear to him. Daeron had grown strange and powerful in his exile, but so had Maglor, on most nights but for this one.

His hands of bark and amber ached to stroke the curve of Maglor’s cheek, the thin skin of his neck.

Half of his was his own want: half of it was Maglor's compelling will, tugging light and teasing. A reminder of his mighty power, diminished for tonight; and a slyer reminder, too, of other encounters, when it was Daeron that walked on moonlit hours by the shore, allowing himself to be enthralled by a spell sung over and with the whispers of the surf.

Daeron, too, had missed him; but tonight, Daeron did not soften, kept his rose-briars sharp as knives, his shielding walls of growth high as a siege around Maglor. He stepped back, and all the leaves of his dark forest rustled a song of longing in echo or his refusal. 

The rising shadows of Maglor's haunting draped themselves heavy and sweet about his shoulders, sunk gladly into the earth he claimed, tangled around his thistles - that much he did welcome. Always the darkness in him was easier to tame; all the rest was words and wind, proud grief to be pared down and horror to be matched by horror. 

"A touch, at least," Maglor said, voice rumbling, control fraying - the sea's waves and surf, the sea's own hunger speaking in and through and with his voice. "Have pity! I have missed you so, singer."

Daeron folded his hands, very nearly like the hands of the Eldar, and mightier by far, to watch Maglor's eyes on them lose their false Treelight, grow dark and dark through and through.

Nothing of Elvenkind remained in him, but for the memory of grief he clung to; if his strangeness was less visible at first than Daeron's, it was not because it was less absolute, and certainly it was far more hideous. 

Daeron was the forest, the trees, the grass and the soil. His power rose in him, unrestrained - all his flowers blooming, the leaves speaking in leaf-tongues, the torn sinking deep and drawing blood. 

He felt the rushing force of Maglor's fear in the air as the sea-chill, heady as a kiss. Satisfaction settled tight and warm in his spine already; but he meant to be patient.

There was no space for pretense between them. That was a lesson to be relearned every time, and Daeron meant to enjoy upholding it as well as ever he had. 

“Sing to me sweetly enough, perhaps, and I might consider releasing you after I have had my fill,” Daeron said, and reached out through the mist to gather the shadows close and tender about his chin. "But make it beautiful. I am of a mind for beautiful things, tonight."

[une-sanz-pluis]

Bedford soon came to appreciate his wife at her true worth. Anne might not be beautiful but she had character. Once she had made up her mind that a certain course was right, nothing could turn her from it. Moreover, she was kind-hearted, understanding and utterly unselfish — all qualities which help to make a successful marriage. To Bedford, who was an intensely lonely man, Anne brought the inestimable gifts of companionship and sympathetic insight. Harassed as he was by cares of state and irked by the difficulties of his task, Bedford found in his wife a restful influence. Anne had a lively intelligence coupled with sound judgement, and before long they discovered that they had many interests in common. Both took delight in rich furnishings, interior decoration and music. Bedford had in his household two minstrels, Thomas Clerke and John Fairfield, whose music gave much pleasure. Another mutual bond was their fondness for richly illuminated books, and as a wedding present to his bride Bedford commissioned the famous Book of Hours with portraits of himself and Anne with their patron saints which is now one of the treasures of the British Museum. They had deeper interests, too, in their pity for the poor and their piety. Yet like her brother Philip, Anne's character was a mass of contradictions. She combined delight in the pleasures of this world with deep religious devotion so that once, on hearing the bells of the Celéstine convent at midnight, she exclaimed, 'Wretch that I am, I take my pleasures and delights when the servants of God interrupt their sleep to sing His praises', and hurried across Paris to be in time for Matins. In spite of her love for the people, Anne could act thoughtlessly towards them, as on the occasion when she aroused the anger of the Parisians by riding past a religious procession at a hand-gallop, bespattering them with mud. Moreover, there was a streak of obstinacy in her nature, a determination not to listen to the voice of reason, which led to her premature death. For notwithstanding warnings Anne insisted on visiting the fever-stricken inmates of the Hôtel Dieu where she caught the infection from which she died. 

E. Carleton Williams, My Lord of Bedford, 1389-1435 (Longmans 1963)

[soul-eater-novel]

Suikoden I Soul Eater Light Novel Translation - Chapter 19: The Invincible General

For your reading pleasure and enjoyment, below the cut is the full rough English translation of chapter 19 of the official 1998 Suikoden I Soul Eater novel (volume 2 of 3). Individual page translations and original Japanese text can be found in the chapter 19 tag.

Chapter 19: The Invincible General 

The Liberation Army rushed to respond to the news of the Imperial Army’s invasion. Once Tir and the others had rescued a minstrel named Kasios and a painter called Ivanov from the ruined castle, the Liberation Army marched out on the double. 

The only information they had to go on was what Stallion brought them from headquarters. According to him, the Imperial Army was traveling overland through the Arus region—home to the capital—and was headed south. It would soon pass through the Kwaba Fortress. 

While moving their troops back to the Garan checkpoint, Mathiu had also intermittently sent out scouts to collect detailed information on the Imperial Army’s every move. They had not yet reported back on who was leading the force in question, which did not give Tir any peace of mind. 

Sonya Shulen’s Imperial Navy forces would never take a land route. And if it were Kasim Hazil’s army, they would come in from the west of Lake Toran through the northern checkpoint that connects the Kunan  region with the Senan region, where Kasim’s Moravia castle is located. 

Which means that this Imperial force on the move is either the first regiment, led by His Majesty himself from the central empire, or it’s the third regiment... led by my father, Teo McDohl.  

Filled with anxiety, they rode across the plains until they were in sight of the checkpoint. A scout immediately came galloping out on horseback. Mathiu was the first to meet him. He hailed the scout. “What news of the Imperial Army?” 

The scout rode over to Mathiu and saluted. “Sir! The Imperial Army passed through the Kwaba Fortress and has taken control of Seika. They are now nearing the town of Kaku.” He turned to Tir. “Also, Lord Tir...”

Tir’s heart pounded in his chest, but he composed himself and replied calmly. “What is it?”

“One of the reasons I rode here so quickly is because there is a visitor who has come to see you on urgent business. We asked her to await you in the checkpoint meeting hall. Would you like to meet with her, m’lord?”

“Hmm... a visitor? Who could that be?” wondered Mathiu aloud. 

“She is called Kasumi,” answered the scout, “and she hails from the hamlet of Rokkaku. When Teo McDohl’s amy traveled from the north to the south, they launched a surprise attack on Rokkaku, so she came to request assistance from the Liberation Army.”

“Wh-what?!” cried Tir, shocked. 

Mathiu, however, was as calm and composed as ever. “I see... the hidden village Rokkaku is a place where ninja gather and I have heard they have long resisted the Empire. That alone is reason enough. Please tell her we will meet with her shortly.”

“Yes, sir!” 

Mathiu made to follow after the scout as the latter turned to go back to the checkpoint. But Tir just stared out past the flowing waters of the Dunan river, dumbfounded. He gazed east, in the direction of the Goran region, not moving a muscle. 

Noticing that Tir hadn’t come with him, Mathiu reined his horse in and trotted back to his side. The look he gave Tir was relentless. “Lord Tir... I understand how you must feel. But you knew this day would come.”

Of course, Mathiu was right. Tir had known when he became the leader of the Liberation Army that  there might come a day when he would have to fight his own father. 

But he had thought that, surely, he would be able to find a way to avoid it. That was precisely why he had been able to continue to fight the Empire. Even if the chance was slight, he had still held out hope. 

Now that the day was drawing near, however, he could no longer escape the fact of reality. The unease in his breast turned to doubt and hesitation as he realized he would have to make his decision, and soon. 

“Lord Tir...” Mathiu murmured. 

“Yes, I know,” Tir replied sadly. 

The young leader and his tactician charged at full speed side by side on their steeds toward the Garan checkpoint. 

---

Tir stepped into the checkpoint meeting hall with a heavy heart. A young woman stood waiting there with Sanchez, who had come running from their castle headquarters. 

The woman wore a thin red garment atop chainmail. She watched Tir from behind her gleaming black bangs with what looked like sadness in her eyes. She bobbed her head in a bow. 

“Lord Tir. I am Kasumi, a ninja from the Rokkaku hamlet.”

Tir gazed into her eyes as he responded. “Ms. Kasumi. Forgive me for jumping straight to the point, but could you please tell us in more detail about what precisely happened when your village was attacked?”

“Yes, certainly.”

In her low, quiet voice, Kasumi began to tell the story of how Teo’s army had attacked. Not only had Teo’s forces been armed to the teeth, but their ranks included the Gulhorse—the armored cavalry said to be the strongest in the Empire. 

The Gulhorse are beasts outfitted in iron armor of their own, and the riders are also clad in armor and helmets. The creatures stand upon two well-developed hind legs and use their large tails to maintain their balance. 

Their bodies are covered in fur such a rich color of brown it is nearly black. They can race across fields at the same speed as a horse, but their physical strength and ability to jump far exceeds a horse’s. The Gulhorse’s bodies are sturdy; one ramming attack from a Gulhorse can send two regular horses flying.  

Their only flaw is their lack of stamina, but their opponents are usually completely destroyed by the time the Gulhorses begin to tire. Since Gulhorses were known to be so difficult to use, Teo was the only one of the five imperial generals to incorporate them into his forces. 

While Kasumi spoke, the leaders who had heard the news began to gather in the room. 

“So it’s come to this…” Cleo said, folding her arms. 

“You mean I’m gonna have to fight Lord Teo…?” muttered Pahn, a complicated expression on his face. 

Viktor and Flik were both astonished at the threat the armored cavalry units posed. Tir listened to Kasumi in shocked silence. The most vital piece of information he gleaned from Kasumi’s tidings was his father’s intentions. 

Father really is serious about fighting us.

Kasumi looked around at everyone present, then continued. “When it looked very likely that our village would be defeated, our leader Hanzo ordered me to convey this information to the Liberation Army. And since Teo’s army has begun moving south, I fear that my village and my comrades are…”

Kasumi stopped herself from finishing that sentence and took a breath. She looked Tir right in the eye. “Lord Tir… nothing more can be done for my village. But if the Liberation Army gets destroyed now, then who will put a stop to the Empire? Please, Lord Tir, you must stop Teo McDohl’s army somehow. It may not be much, but I would lend my own strength to fight in the coming battle.” Kasumi knelt in front of him. 

Tir was unable to speak.  

I know we’re fighting against the Empire’s injustices for the sake of everyone who has suffered at their hands. I know that, but…

The second scout Mathiu had sent out came running into the room. “Lord Tir, Lord Mathiu!”

“What is it?” Mathiu responded immediately. “Has something happened?”

“The Imperial Army has already gained total control of Kouan and is headed this way now. It’s only a matter of time before they arrive…”

“What?!”

Mathiu, Tir, and everyone else was momentarily struck speechless. Even Viktor lowered his voice. “What are we gonna do, eh, Tactician?” 

Mathiu thought for a moment, and then answered. “They boast that General Teo’s cavalry units are invincible. There is no way our forces can hope to match them, no matter what strategy we employ.” 

“So then where does that leave us?” Flik asked. 

“We must retreat to our castle headquarters at once. The armored cavalry are at their best when they can run freely—namely, on the open fields. Luckily, our base happens to be in the middle of a lake. Let’s hole up in our castle and buy more time to come up with a better plan.”

“But the Empire has Sonya Shulen and her navy,” noted Lepant. “Even if the armored cavalry is taken out of the picture, we can’t rest easy.”

“That has not escaped me. However, General Sonya’s Imperial Navy and the lake pirates who run rampant on Lake Toran have been at each other’s throats for years. If someone were to send notice to the pirates that the General is on her way, their interference would likely provide her with some distraction.” Mathiu quickly gave the order to retreat. 

Tir and the others hastily made their preparations as well and soon the entire army had evacuated Garan Checkpoint. Unfortunately, no matter how they hurried, it would take at least half a day to reach the shore where their boats were anchored. 

The general sense of anxiety and unease mounted as the Liberation Army marched forward. Then, just as they were about to arrive at the shore, several men on horseback came galloping over the fields at a breakneck speed. It was the third group of scouts Mathiu had dispatched. “Lord Tir, Lord Mathiu! Bad news! Teo’s army is right on our heels!”

A large cloud of dust could be seen rising into the air over the fields stretching out behind the scouts. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Tir stared hard at the dust cloud until at last he could make out flashes and sparkles of light here and there among the dust cloud. The armor of the Gulhorses and their riders reflecting the sunlight. 

“How the devil were they able to arrive that quickly?!” Mathiu, clearly flustered, demanded of the two scouts who had just arrived.

“Sir. Teo had the armored cavalry units sent ahead of the main unit. We moved as quickly as we could to warn you, but we can’t compete with their speed…”

“Is that right?” growled Mathiu, sparing a brief glare for the approaching cloud of dust. “Convey these orders to all units at once. Viktor, Flik, and Humphrey’s units gear up and march out first. Kirkis, Ruby, and Lorelai’s archery units will line up directly behind them.”

“Yes, sir!” Saluting, the scouts disappeared into the ranks of the soldiers. 

As the news of the calvary’s impending attack spread, the whole army burst into activity. Mathiu shrewdly prepared for the battle ahead. Viktor’s unit and the other two assembled behind Tir and the others, and the archers in turn gathered behind them. Mathiu ordered Cleo’s unit to attack at will, and Lepant’s group to go into hiding in the forest at the lake shore to prepare the boats for a retreat. 

Perhaps because they were tired from marching day in and day out, only Pahn’s unit of foot soldiers were placed at the very rear, distant from the battle. Tir delivered the orders to Pahn’s unit, telling them to join with Lepant’s group and follow the same path to retreat. The preparations complete, Mathiu ordered the army to maintain that formation and begin their march.

The armored cavalry steadily closed the gap. The approaching rumble of the gulhorses shook the earth and the battle cries of the enemy soldiers split the skies. 

When there were perhaps only three hundred paces left between them, both armies drew to a standstill and stood facing one another. A lone man rode out between the ranks of cavalry, his sword drawn and his golden cape billowing. He was one of the five Imperial generals, known as “the invincible general and victor of one hundred battles”—Teo McDohl.  

So the time has come at last. 

Without meaning to, Tir looked up at the sky. His father’s voice rang out, merciless. “Traitors to the Empire! It doesn’t matter who you are—you will not be tolerated or pardoned.”

Tir forced himself to look at his father. Teo, standing at the head of his army, pointed his sword straight at Tir. “I vow on my name, Teo McDohl, to destroy all of you! Prepare yourselves!”

Tears welled in his eyes. In that instant, something in Tir’s heart broke. “Father…”

Ever since he had heard his father was on the march to attack them, a fierce tempest had been raging in his soul. 

Leading the Liberation Army means fighting the Empire. But I don’t want to fight my own father!

Torn between those two thoughts, when Tir heard his father’s words, he realized his own will in the matter had been cruelly smashed to bits. 

I can never go back from this. 

“Father...” whispered Tir once more but his voice didn’t reach Teo McDohl of the Imperial Army. 

“All units, engage the enemy!” Teo ordered, raising his sword overhead.

Mathiu motioned to his subordinate to wave the flag and their advance unit rushed forward. “We’ll show you the strength of the Liberation Army!” 

The enemy cavalry galloped toward Tir. He stood stock-still, the only person not in motion. Viktor, Flik, and Humphrey’s squads flew past him on both sides, the sound of the horses’ hooves thundering in his ears. 

ーーー

The three Liberation Army advance units fought fiercely, ready to give up their lives in battle. The archers providing support shot arrows until their gloves tore, until blood oozed from their fingers. But even so, they could not break through the defenses of the cavalry led by Teo. 

The gulhorses’ ramming attacks sent many a soldier hurtling down from their steeds. Some lost their lives when they were trampled underfoot while trying to rise, while others died just as they got to their feet, impaled on the ends of the Imperial soldiers’ spears. 

The Liberation Army’s swords were no match for the armor and helmets the Imperial soldiers and their gulhorses wore. The field was littered with the corpses of fallen Liberation Army soldiers. Everyone sustained wounds, commanding generals and soldiers alike. The Liberation Army was completely and utterly defeated. 

Cleo guarded Tir while he retreated and the vanguard covered their tracks, but the armored cavalry were still in close pursuit. 

“Dammit, these bastards are real monsters! Our attacks didn’t even scratch ‘em!!” shouted Viktor bitterly as he retreated from the front lines with his decimated unit—more than half of his soldiers had fallen. 

Tir and Cleo moved their horses further back and then

Lepant appeared out of the forest by the lakeshore. “Lord Tir, over here!” He called, gesturing. “We’ve prepared the boats! Hurry, quickly!”

Glaring at the cloud of dust that heralded the approaching armored cavalry, Mathiu said, “We can do no more here, Lord Tir. We must retreat.”

“But our soldiers are still out there…” 

“Tir, you go on ahead!” Viktor yelled, grimacing from the pain of his injuries. “We’ll take care of the guys left here somehow. So just hurry up and get outta here!”

“Viktor…” The moment Tir began to speak…

“Nwoooooh!”A company of red-faced soldiers appeared behind Tir and the others, yelling at the top of their lungs, charging full-speed ahead. It was Pahn’s foot soldiers, arriving late. 

“Pahn?!” Before Tir could stop him, Pahn was thrust into battle with the armored cavalry. Horrified, Tir shut his eyes tight. But beyond the darkness of his closed eyelids, he could still hear sharp metallic noises and the heartrending screams of the gulhorse. 

He opened his eyes and, to his complete surprise, saw that Pahn and his soldiers were putting up a good fight. When the gulhorses tried to ram them, the foot soldiers just slipped by and attacked the gulhorses’ unprotected feet. 

“So that’s how you beat ‘em…” Cleo murmured under her breath in admiration. “Way to go, Pahn!”

When waging war against the quick gulhorses, the foot soldiers turned out to be more effective than mounted soldiers. The main reason being that mounted soldiers have to synchronize their breathing in time with their horses to do battle. 

If there is a delay of even one second in the transmission of the rider’s will to the horse, then they will be hit head-on by the gulhorse’s ramming attack. 

Footsoldiers, however, only rely on their own reflexes while fighting. No matter how fast gulhorses may be, they can’t keep up with Pahn’s footsoldiers, honed in hand-to-hand combat. 

Furthermore, the gulhorse had been running and fighting constantly up until the point of engaging with Pahn’s men. Their one fault—lack of stamina—played right into Pahn’s hands. 

They wrestled with the armored cavalry for a time and got knocked about but he ran up to Tir in high spirits, checking on the status of the units. “Lord Tir, we’ll hold them off.” Pahn panted. “Please hurry and escape!”

“You can’t do this alone, Pahn,” Cleo retorted. She jerked her chin, indicating the field and beyond. At some point during the battle Teo’s unit had come marching up behind the armored cavalry. “That doesn’t exactly look like a fair fight. You planning on dying today?”

Pahn’s smile was forced as he said, “Not planning on it, no. But if I’m not prepared to die, there’s no way we can stop Lord Teo.”

“Absolutely not, Pahn.” interjected Tir. “I won’t lose you, too.”

“Thank you, Lord Tir.” Pahn said, gazing up at Tir sitting astride his horse. “But you can’t die here today. You’re our leader. Plus…” He smiled suddenly, just for a moment. “We can’t waste the lives Gremio gave us, can we?”

“But that’s…” Tir trailed off, and Pahn continued. “Lord Tir, ever since I met your father I’ve always thought… I want to try going head-to-head with him in battle, just once. Every man wants to surpass those who are stronger than them, right?” 

Pahn laughed. A real laugh this time. Tir felt something stir in his heart, hearing that laugh. “Pahn…” 

“So, Lord Tir, please grant me my selfish request.” Pahn said, gazing at him. Tir stared back at him.

The battle had subsided temporarily, but at that moment the silence was broken by the scream of a soldier. It seemed that Pahn’s soldiers were also beginning to tire. “Now, Lord Tir!” shouted Pahn, sparing a glance for his unit, fallen into chaos. “Hurry!”

“Okay—but don’t you go dying on us, Pahn!”

“Just leave this to me. I’ll be back in time for dinner!”

“You’d better be!” Cleo smiled. 

“Yep!” Pahn plunged back into the fray, his claws held high. 

While Pahn held back the armored cavalry, Cleo, Tir, and all the soldiers they could gather together boarded the boats Lepant had prepared to leave the war-torn Goran region behind. They left the shore in their five boats, believing that Pahn would come back to them. 

ーーー

“Is that Pahn?” Murmured Teo, looking at the one man left standing on the field amid all the corpses. 

By the time Teo’s main unit arrived, the Liberation Army had for the most part succeeded in escaping to the lakeshore forest. Teo eliminated the remaining unit and had his armored cavalry pull back to rejoin the main force. Only Pahn remained, clad in red, drenched in the blood of his enemies. 

Pahn took one step forward. “Lord Teo…” 

Despite losing all of his men, it was clear from his posture that Pahn was still ready and willing to fight. Teo spoke quietly but with firm authority. “Pahn. Do not try to stop us.”

Pahn took one more step toward Teo. “I can’t do that.”

“You would disobey me?” 

Staring at Teo fixedly, Pahn took another step. “I already betrayed Lord Tir once because of my loyalty to the Empire.. But now… now I understand better what I want—how I want to live my life. And now that I understand that, I can’t just go throwing it away.” 

He scowled deeply. Looking into his eyes, Teo understood what Pahn was getting at. “I see.” He let his cape drop and dismounted his horse. “Very well. I never imagined the day would come when I would raise my sword against you, Pahn.”

“Lord Teo!” One of Teo’s commanding officers suddenly threw off his own red cape and galloped over on his horse. It was Alen. “There is no need for you to fight this battle, Lord Teo. Just leave it to me. I’ll take this man’s head.” 

“Enough, Alen,” barked Teo and Alen brought his horse to a halt. 

“But, Lord Teo…” Grenseal had, of course, jumped out to join them as well. 

“I said that’s enough, Alen, Grenseal. Stay your hand.” Teo drew his sword in one fluid movement. Pahn adopted his fighting stance as well, his claws held out at the ready. “All right. No games. This is a real fight.”

“Here I come, Lord Teo!”Pahn ran across the blood-soaked field and leapt straight at Teo.

Teo hurled himself into the wind that stank of blood. 

***

★ Chapters 0-1 ★ Chapters 2-3  ★ Chapters 4-5  ★ Chapters 6-7  ★ Chapters 8-9  ★ Chapters 10-11  ★ Chapters 12-13  ★ Chapters 14-15 ★ Chapters 16 - 17 ★ Chapter 18

«-first // archive // Ramsus-kun Scanslations

[harmonystarfield]

Holy Wave - Minstrel’s Gallop (2016) From the LP : Freaks Of Nurture The Reverberation Appreciation Society

[tayarthur]

American Cartoon's Assignment

In class last week we watched several videos containing media, cartoons, Tik Tok’s and explainer videos on nature documentaries that present attitudes of American society across the last 100 years or more. In one video on Youtube, a cartoon from the 1930’s-40’s was shown in black and white with characters seemingly shown in Blackface. The main characters presented as speech illiterate and also goofy. Another shows images from “Lazy Town” where their residents are slow, sloth-like and unmotivated. While these cartoons may be cast aside as taking ‘creative liberty’ or appealing to what entertains audiences, they really reflect racist ideologies that inhabit the psyche of America.  Minstrel shows, which were recorded using real actors, showcased white actors in Blackface and appealed to the Racism that was reflected in everyday America. It can be argued that the reason these shows appealed to so many in the “mainstream” of the time is due to the lack of knowledge of the Black community and the unwillingness to incorporate them into society as equals. Alarmingly, we watched several videos where fake videos were posted showing ‘missiles’ in Israel. This mirrors trends across the world by bad actors to present misinformation in hopes of swaying public attitudes for or against American values or nationalism of one’s country. For the majority of people it is incredibly difficult to spot these videos as fake, which means that the viewers opinions of the video are more likely to be shaped by the maker of the videos intention, rather than logical analysis or facts. Additionally, the explainer video on nature documentary shows revealed that the editor of the show is really responsible for how the audience feels or understands the narrative. At first glance, ‘nature’ shows might seem strictly educational. However, if one looks deeper you begin to realize the sequence of images and sounds from the footage may not have been recorded in real time or cut in chronological order. This calls into question the intentionality of the filmmaker and it’s really up to them to keep true to a truthful narrative or not. The thing I found most curious about this explainer video is that many of the ‘nature’ sounds are recorded in the studio. I could not imagine watching a majestic wolf gallop across a field while listening to the blades of a helicopter. So, in some sense, I understand this practice, but I also found it surprising all the same.

[lacortei]

Another one for “What if this was a single?”

[storms-path]

Day 26 - Break a Leg

Not for the first time, Arashi deeply regretted regaling the Wandering Minstrel of her various exploits and adventures. True, this was hardly the worst of his… escalations of her battles, but it was one of the few that was playing in the largest theatre in all of Kugane to a rapt audience of locals and tourists both. It was also playing to one Arashi Washi, Sanda Washi, Fareena Hagen and Stalwart Mountain, all unified for once in their discomfort as they cringed together.

It wasn’t that the play was bad, exactly, it was just so… inaccurate. There were flashes of truth sprinkled in, such as the incident with Soroban and the box recovered from the Swallow’s Compass. But then there were the… embellishments. Byakko was most certainly not made up of five separate tigers combined together into some sort of super-tiger. Suzaku was not the sun made manifest, nor did she bare nearly so much skin. And Seiryu most certainly did not have a katana that would put Susano’s mighty blade to shame.

The crowd adored it, though, hooting and hollering like wild animals, roaring with approval and gasping in terror at every twist and turn. From what Arashi had heard, such participation was a rare thing indeed. Typically Kugane’s plays were a much stuffier affair, met with polite applause only at clearly marked moments. The copious amounts of sake being distributed certainly helped the atmosphere, though. Fareena was on her third cup, as if it would help numb the pain. Stalwart was on cup number five. It was a wonder she was as lucid as she was, really. Arashi and Sanda remained painfully sober. A silent pact made to witness the travesty to the bitter end, to remember every awful detail. Someone had to.

Mercifully, the climax was approaching. The four lords were gathered and the seals keeping Koryu at bay were shattering. Dimly Arashi noted the surprisingly good effects and lighting as the seals burst apart with a flash of light. The costume, on the other hand… Well, it was certainly horse-like. But the original Koryu most certainly did not have a human top half, nor did it have any rippling muscles to speak of. As for the resulting clash, Arashi remembered it being a good deal more one-sided until Tenzen’s arrival. But that hardly stopped the stunningly beautiful actor that was playing the famed Warrior of Light from engaging in a one-on-one duel with the half-man, half-horse thing.

(Several moons later, Arashi would face down the amalgamation of man and horse that was Eden’s Ramuh and wonder dimly just how much of that form was inspired by that godsawful play. These thoughts would be quickly put to one side by the literal thundering hooves galloping towards her.)

It took a further five minutes for the battle to finally end, Tenzen himself reduced to a disembodied voice telling the glorious, gleaming Warrior to “search inside herself for the strength to succeed.” Whatever that was supposed to mean. Still, apparently it was enough to bring forth some hidden power to smite down the dreadful man-horse, sending it screeching back into its stone, seal and all. This, of course, led to all the four lords claiming their undying devotion to the magnificent Warrior of Light who saved them all. And, in Suzaku’s case, a not-so-subtle offer of quite a bit more. Arashi found she couldn’t sink any further into her seat as the audience made appropriately scandalised noises. Then, blessedly, it was over. The actors took to the stage for a final bow, the crowds began to file out, and Arashi and Sanda were left to deal with the drunken mess that were their friends.

Thankfully the bracing night air of Kugane was enough to bring Fareena back to some semblance of lucidity. They only stumbled a few times on their way across the grand bridge to the Bokairo Inn. Fareena had admittedly been complaining loudly the whole way there that the actor claiming her part wasn’t nearly attractive enough for the job, but she’d likely have done that while sober anyway. Still, even she made no complaint as she was bundled hastily into her room, allowing the Sanda sisters to finally put the ordeal behind them and get some night air.

Even at night the city shone brilliantly, paper lanterns blowing merrily in the wind and scattering their light all over. The city itself was unusually empty of people, however, eerily quiet even for the late night that it was. Arashi had no complaints. Peace and quiet was all she needed. One glance in Sanda’s direction told her it was all her sister needed as well. Alas, a polite cough broke through the tranquillity, causing both sisters to turn towards the source of the disturbance.

“Terribly sorry to disturb,” rumbled a massive, bulky man dressed in a snow-white robe. “We were hoping you might be able to provide us with some directions.” The giant man was joined by a tall, slender woman in a burning orange kimono and a rail-thin man garbed in what looked a good deal like geomancy robes. All three wore matching masks. “You see, we’re rather new to this city, and we wished to experience the outdoor bath-house after that magnificent performance.”

Several things clicked into place at once. Firstly, Arashi knew that voice. Secondly, there was a prominent white tail swishing behind the hulking man. And thirdly, three of the four lords had just borne witness to a travesty of their darkest moments. Arashi turned her head just enough to look at Sanda out of the corner of her eye. She looked as if she were ready to throw herself into the mercy of the sea and swim back to Eorzea. Arashi was strongly considering the same.

A silvery laugh broke through the mounting horror. “Oh, don’t worry! We found the whole thing quite amusing, really. What better way to immortalise your battles than in play?” The woman, who Arashi was strongly trying not to identify as Suzaku, laughed again. “And really, you did cut quite the dashing figure on that stage, oh Warrior of Light!”

Sanda clamped a hand around Arashi’s wrist before she could make good on her thoughts of escape. The beanpole man shook his head at his compatriots. “Really now, you’ve gone and embarrassed them. And I thought we were trying to be subtle around mortals.”

The hulking man rumbled out a laugh of his own. “Now where has this newfound wisdom sprung from, my old friend? But you’re right, we’ve bothered these two long enough already. Come, my friends! We had best return home, lest Soroban and Genbu worry themselves sick!” Putting an arm around the other two, he led them towards the docks of Kugane. Arashi and Sanda let out breath they didn’t realise they had been holding onto as the trio disappeared from view.

“Stalwart and Fareena must never hear of this,” Sanda muttered. Her eyes were full of deadly focus. “They’d never let us live it down.”

“Agreed. This is one secret we take to our graves.” Now they just had to figure out how to buy the silence of the four lords.

[dhwty-writes]

Toss a Coin to your Lover

I finally cracked. After months of reading (who are we kidding, inhaling) Geraskier fanfic, I finally wrote an one-shot. What inspired me to do it was this extremely heartwrenching post by @clown-of-rivia, who kindly gave me permission to write this. And write I did! I typed half of this at 2 AM on my phone because I couldn’t sleep until the words were own and the other half in the last 3 hours. It was a lot of fun, honestly!

Best you read the post mentioned above first to know the context but basically what happened is that Geralt and Jaskier slept together and Geralt (like the absolute idiot he is) put some money on the nightstand the next morning and left (because he couldn’t imagine himself worthy of love that is not bought). Here’s what happens after. It’s angst but with a happy ending, don’t worry. Enjoy!

Read on AO3

Jaskier stared at the coins on the nightstand for a very long, probably an embarrassing long time. Alright, definitely an embarrassing long time. But in his defence, the sun had barely risen and he'd frankly had the best sex of his life - and that ought to say something - so he thought he ought to be forgiven.

He'd be very glad to say that, when reality had finally caught up to him, the first thing he'd felt was rage. Alas, that was not the case. Because despite what other people thought, despite his infamous reputation as an exceptional (and intermittent) lover, despite everything, he actually cared about sex. His flings were seldom only a fancy to sate his needs; he was genuinely, truly, deeply in love with his usual bedfellows.

And Geralt? Geralt wasn't his usual bedfellow. He wasn't anything like his usual bedfellows. Jaskier fell for people easily and had been even more prone to do so in his youth. He had been in love with Geralt from the first moment he saw him. And over the years the feelings hadn't subsided in the slightest.

He was not ashamed to say that at this point he loved Geralt with all his being. Melitele's tits, he'd spent the last two decades traipsing after the damned witcher, composing ballad after ballad to his glory and beauty and virtue and finally - finally! - he'd thought Geralt had understood.

And then-

This.

Disbelievingly he stared at the money on the bedside table.

So, naturally, Jaskier felt hurt. He wanted to curl up and cry for days as he'd done after his first heartbreak, a lovely stable hand his father had sent away after catching them in the hay.

But then- resignation. Because he'd always known. 'Death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.' In some way he'd even been prepared for it, as much as one can prepare for such an eventuality. But not like this. This wasn't fair, this wasn't how it had been supposed to go, his heart not only broken but shattered into a million pieces, like the beautiful painted glass vase he had broken all those years ago in the Countess de Stael's manse. Beautiful even in shambles, yet dangerous to everyone who dared touch the shards.

He exhaled forcefully, clinging to the feeling of glass cuts on his hands, clinging to the pain, the sting, the bite. Finally, the rage kicked in. That was better than heartbreak, that was something he could use as a weapon, wielding words as lethal as any sword, as sweet as honey and as beautiful as a field of poisonous buttercups.

He stuffed the coins into his purse and got up to get dressed, seething and too furious to even attempt buttoning up his doublet. It wasn't as if Geralt hadn't seen that before. He had and he had loved it and then he had thrown coins onto Jaskier's nightstand and left. The audacity!

And the audacity to just leave! Jaskier was of half a mind to not go after Geralt after all because wasn't that a pitiful sight? The great poet Jaskier in the role of the scorned lover, running after his witcher with desperate need? But then again, he was just too angry and he needed to have words with Geralt. Oh, and what words they were about to have!

'Errands to run,’ Geralt had said and Jaskier scoffed in disbelief. Because now, apparently, the witcher had gone craven, Roach and her master long gone when he peered into the stable. 'Good,' he thought, 'so he's afraid.' And he ought to be, really. Jaskier wasn't about to just stand idly by and let the love of his life leave - he had been much too persistent over the last two and a half decades for that.

So, he tightened the straps of his lute case and his bag and set out to do what he did best: Not composing or singing or giving exceptional blowjobs (although he certainly excelled at all of those tasks), no, no, no; what Jaskier did best was tracking a certain whitehaired witcher of his, no matter how little he wanted to be found.

A few pointed questions and sweet words later, he was on his way, huffing and puffing while running to match the speed of a horse and trying to compensate the head start Geralt and Roach had gotten – and praying, Melitele, please, that they hadn't galloped away because then would take days to catch up to them – yes, he spoke from experience, one of his not so fond memories from the beginning of their friendship when Geralt had still thought he could shake the bard. He had learned better quickly, though now it seemed he had forgotten the lessons learned half a lifetime ago.

Luckily, though, he hadn’t galloped away, as Jaskier caught up to him half a day's march later while he was watering Roach by a creek. Good. That was good. That meant that his white wolf wasn't completely averse to being found. Still, the sight of the peaceful tranquillity - as if nothing had happened - only fuelled his rage.

'How dare he?', he thought. 'How dare he be calm when I am furious, how dare he find peace while I am aching, how dare he hurt me and not hurt in turn?'

Oh, but that wouldn't last for long. No, Jaskier would see to that.

"Geralt!" he called even though he knew that the witcher had to be long aware of his presence. Still, he hadn't deemed it necessary to acknowledge him, not turning, not even raising his head. The nerve of this! "What errands lead you to the middle of nowhere?"

The witcher flinched and looked up, his brows furrowed. It was a look Jaskier had long learnt to identify with pain. 'Good,' he thought, although he felt a little guilty, 'he shall hurt, too. Just like I do.'

"No answer?" he asked flippantly. "Fine. Then I'll do the talking. As always. You better sit down, witcher, because we will be here for a while. And you will listen." Geralt didn't move. Fine for him.

"What the actual fuck," he began his tirade, "we're you thinking, you cursed witcher?" He flinched but Jaskier didn't care. He was bitter and battered and broken-hearted and it was Geralt’s fault!

"What do you take me for?" He shouted and dug for the coins in his purse. "Some common whore? Some- some common travelling bard who will just as easily fall into bed for some coin as fall into song?" He probably shouldn't care that much but even if he was now famous enough to normally elude such propositions- as well as the need to accept them - it still rubbed him the wrong way decades later.   

"For years I've kept you company, for years I've sung your praises. 'Toss a coin to your witcher', indeed. Here!" One by one he hurled them in Geralt's general direction. "Have some coins! Have plenty of them because trust me, I’m not wanting for money! I’m not wanting for anything, to be precise! I could easily retire to Oxenfurt to teach or to basically any court on the Continent to make a home. Easily, do you hear me? I do not need your pity! I do not need you to pay me!"  

He had run out of Geralt's coins to throw and while he could certainly bombard him with his own money, he was actually quite protective of his earnings. So, he reverted back to verbal assault: "Is that what that was to you last night? Another night of paid company you like to indulge that you could just leave behind come morning? What were you even thinking? That you could finally shake me of after years of travelling with you?"

He gasped as a terrible thought came to his mind. "Is that what it is? You try to insult me so that I finally stop following you? Because then you have succeeded, Geralt. This insult is-"

"Jaskier," Geralt said, the first time he spoke since his arrival. It sounded weak. Broken. Pleading.

"No!" he answered. "No, I'm not finished with you, yet! You humiliate me, Geralt. For years I've endorsed your terrible bedside manner but this is a step too far. Really, I'm at a loss for words! I woke up with a wonderful afterglow to see you leaving and was worried for you. Turns out I shouldn't have been because apparently this night has no impact whatsoever on you. You're as calm as- as- I don't even know! See what you do to me? I'm a poet! A minstrel! A pretty little wordsmith, yet you make my words fail me. My weapons, my craft, my only asset, my-"

"Jaskier, please," Geralt interrupted him and to his shame tears rose to Jaskier’s eyes, "I didn't want to hurt you!"

"Then why did you do it?" he yelled, choking on the tears. "Because guess what, Geralt, I'm hurt! I'm really fucking hurt!"

"I'm sorry. Last night was a mistake."

"Oh, great," he scoffed. "First you add injury to insult. But sure, why not add insult again?"

"I shouldn't have made you do this."

"Made me?" he howled. "You didn't make me do anything! Fuck, I kissed you because Melitele's tits, I've been in love with you for so long and I just couldn't take it anymore!" His voice broke on the last syllables and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to quell the tears. "Shit-!" he croaked weakly. He hadn't meant for it to go this way, he was angry and he wanted him to feel the fury, not to crack down before him, show him his weakness, show him just how helpless he made him feel and-

He gulped down air, in a hope to stifle the violent sobs that shook his body. Oh, how he ached to curl up in a lover's embrace, to be held and comforted and yet Geralt was the one to reduce him to the blubbering mess. It was fucked up. It was so fucked up. Fucked up to run after him, fucked up to yell at him, all so very fucked up.

Still, he calmed down. Slowly. But still, he did.

When he was only sniffling a bit, he lowered his hands and found Geralt staring at him, unmoving, unblinking. Then he said: "No you're not."

"What do you mean, I'm not?"

"You're not in love with me. You can't be."

He scoffed. "Do you now claim to know my heart better than I do? Do you think I cannot judge whom I love? Do you think me an imbecile, Geralt? Incapable? Weak? Whatever it is, tell me! Better tell me now!"

"I think you are insane," he growled and Jaskier gasped, "to think yourself in love with a witcher."

"What, you absolute idiot, do you think have I been doing the last twenty-odd years? It hasn't been a deterrent all that time, so why should it be now?"

"Because you can't love me, Jaskier," he roared, the first time he had actually raised his voice at him since the djinn. "Because I am a witcher and can't love you back and demanding your affection would not be fair!"

"Denying it is equally unfair!"

Geralt growled and turned away, obviously displeased by something though Jaskier couldn't tell what it was.

He was still angry and he wanted to continue yelling, yell how Geralt paying him wasn't fair, how Geralt leaving him wasn't fair, how- But somewhere in his rage-clouded mind a voice of reason spoke up, granting surprising clarity for just a moment.

He clung to that clear thought as if for dear life, letting the fury dissipate until he was thinking again, and not just feeling and hurting. "Geralt," he said cautiously now, "why did you pay me?"

The witcher scoffed and ducked his head. "I had to pay you something, didn't I?" he mumbled almost too quietly for Jaskier to hear. "I mean, you were expecting something. No-one would bed a witcher without- without recompensation."

Jaskier stared at him abhorred. "Why on earth would you think that?" he asked with disgust dripping into his voice.

"Because it's always been like this!" he answered exasperated. "Women love me only for the money and even then, they cannot look at me while taking me to bed. Yen could, but-" He winced. "The djinn- And you, Jaskier. You don't have anything like that. But I had to give you something. I could never ask a sacrifice like that of something without-" Jaskier watched with astonishment as the witcher's voice broke. "What else do I have to offer you?"

"What- what else would do you have to offer me?" Jaskier gasped and spluttered trying - and failing - to find any words.

He just grunted and took Roach by the reins as if he was about to walk away - again.

"No!" He stepped in and ripped the reins out of his hands. "No, you do not get to flee! You stay and listen to what I have to say." He just stared, watching the bard as he started pacing. "What do you have to offer me, Geralt?" He asked bristled. "Why, what indeed? It isn't as if you have made me famous, ensuring my wealth and livelihood. It isn't as if you've saved my life countless of times, putting yourself in harm’s way right from the very beginning when you didn't even know - or like - me. It isn't as if you listen to my endless ramblings, as if you replace my lute strings when I need to, as if you lend me your coat when I'm freezing or carry my bag when I'm tired. It isn't as if you've nursed me back to health after illness and injury alike. It isn't as if you've rendered me completely speechless last night. No, none of that has ever happened."

He ducked his head. "That's nothing."

"That's everything."

His head snapped up. "Well, I'm still a witcher!" he shouted but Jaskier didn't flinch nor waver.

"And when have I ever cared about that?" he shouted back. "My love for your mind and soul and heart has been free for as long as I know you. Why would you think that my love for your body wouldn't be?"

"You mean it," Geralt said his voice full of surprise.

"Of course, I do, you big dumb oaf! That's what I've been trying to tell you for the past half hour. What else am I supposed to do to convince you that you are worthy of love and softness and care? What else am I supposed to do to show you that I've been giving you all of this for half of my life without asking anything in return? I never needed to ask! I've been paid in turn thousandfold. Not in money, Geralt, in actions big and small. I thought-" He choked on his tears, "I thought I've been paid in love, too."

"Witchers can't love. Witchers can't feel at all."

"Stop telling yourself that lie. I've known you for twenty years, Geralt. When you're happy you smile, when you think I'm funny you huff a laugh, when you're angry you shout, when you're sad you shut me out and when you're hurt you lick your wounds. You hide it, of course, but you haven't been able to hide it from me for a long time. And I know you love people. You love your brothers and Vesemir and you love Yennefer in some way and Ciri, too. And I think you love me, too. Don't hide your love, witcher. Not from me. Never from me. You're just scared. A coward. Scared to get hurt and scared to hurt me."

"I'm not craven," he growled.

"No?" Jaskier crossed his arms. "Prove it."

Geralt looked at him quizzically. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. A challenge. An invitation. A plea. And just like that, Jaskier could see the witcher break. It was plain as day, the little crack in the facade, the little gleam in the eyes and then, suddenly, he was being kissed.

There was a desperate sob caught in Geralt's throat when they kissed, the anguish and agony overwhelming Jaskier and making him stumble a few paces back. Geralt kissed as if he'd never kissed before, frantic and fierce and forlorn, as if he feared that Jaskier would pull away, as if he waited for eventual rejection, revulsion, rebuke.

And that broke Jaskier's heart again, maybe even more so than the coin. No, Geralt could have paid him all the coin in the world and it wouldn't have hurt half as much as the onslaught of- of- decades of loneliness and loathing and longing that choked him.

He was still angry - he was sure that he would continue being angry and hurt for quite some time - but that didn't matter right now. Right now, all that mattered what that he loved Geralt. And his beloved witcher, his dear white wolf, his revered companion, friend, lover was hurting, too. Because he hadn't been able to even imagine being worthy of the affection Jaskier gave him so readily, so freely, so effortlessly. Oh, and how much affection he had to give!

He raised his hands gently to cup his cheeks, wiping the tears away with both his thumbs and leaned into the kiss. The desperation faded away, as did the agony, to be replaced with tenderness and love. He reached for Geralt's hands to place them on his hips, whispering quietly between kisses: "It's okay, it's alright. Hold me, embrace me, I've got you." He placed a tender hand on Geralt's chest, manoeuvring them until they reached some rocks beside the creek to sit down on. He cradled his witcher into his lap, carding his fingers through his hair and kissed him, wishing that he never had to stop, hoping to pour all the unsaid words, all the undelivered confessions, all the unsung ballads (that he definitely did not have ready, no) into the slow movements of their lips.

When Geralt pulled away and leaned their foreheads against each other he was almost disappointed. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sorry, Jaskier, I'm so sorry, I never meant- I never meant for any of this, I never meant to hurt you, to insult you, to- I just don't- I don't know how to- I want to make this good, make this good for you, and-"

"Shhhh," he made soothingly. "I know. I know, my love, my witcher, my dear heart. And I forgive you. You know I always do."

"I don't deserve-"

He pressed a finger to his lips. "No," he declared. "None of this nonsense anymore. I've yelled my throat sore trying to convince you otherwise. What else am I supposed to do to prove it?"

"Kiss me again," he begged, "A thousand times. Maybe I'll start to believe it then."

To his own surprise, Jaskier laughed. "That, my dear, I can do." He pecked him on the lips. "One," he said. "Nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine to go."

To his even bigger astonishment Geralt of Rivia, the witcher, the white wolf, smiled. Widely. "Hmm," he made. "I think I like that. Do it again?"

He did. "Two."

That earned him a quiet chuckle and a quivering sigh. "I love you," Geralt whispered. "I really do."

Jaskier smiled, too. "I know. I love you, too."

He buried his face in the crook of his neck and Jaskier's breath hitched. "I'm not good at showing it yet," Geralt said and Jaskier had to keep himself from squirming at the tickling sensation. "I'm shit at showing it. I can't promise you that I won't hurt you again. I've never done something like this before. But I will try. For you. Anything for you."

"Oh, my love," he sighed, his heart beating quicker. "And what a wonderful adventure that will be. A tale of love and woe, of-"

"-death and destiny?" Geralt interrupted him and looked at him, a sly smile on his lips. "Heroics and heartbreak?"

Jaskier gasped. "You remember!"

"Of course, I do. I never forget anything important." He opened his mouth to protest and Geralt quickly spoke: "Do you think it is a story worthy of a ballad?"

His expression went soft and his heart warmed. "No, Geralt," he said and kissed him again. "This is the stuff of an epos. In a thousand years they will still tell legends of our love. There will be novels and plays and songs, and- oh Geralt, I love you, so much it hurts."

The witcher pulled him close. “I love you, too. I love you even if I don’t show it. I love your singing, your dramatics, your fancies. I love that your hair is soft and that your body is unscarred and that your hands are always gentle. I love that you never smell of fear. And I still can’t believe any of this.”

Jaskier smiled and kissed him again. “Three,” he announced.

“Do it again?”

He laughed. “Always.” And so, he did. A thousand kisses and a thousand more. To make his witcher believe. To make his witcher stay. To love his witcher.

Because he always had. Jaskier, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove, strolling minstrel, master poet, bard loved Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken since the moment he had first laid eyes on him. And now he got to show it to. Now he received love in turn. And in the end, that was all that mattered.

[autumnslance]

Early ARR: On Aeryn's first mission for the Scions, she and Thancred have to make camp and talk. With no one else around, there's no need for facades from certain rogues--as if the Echo would allow that anyway.

((Worked on this on the FFXIV Write 2020 free day (when not chatting with my FC buddies). Been working on this for awhile so finally yeeting it out there. Below the cut if one prefers Tumblr to Ao3.))

The wind was kicking up, sand and grit blowing as they rode across the dusty old roads toward Drybone. Thancred looked up at the sky and frowned as the rented chocobos kwehed and shook worriedly. Aeryn looked to him, a questioning expression on her face.

“We’ve a sandstorm coming in,” he confirmed, familiar with the signs. “If we push, we can make it to safety before the worst strikes. Come on!” He urged his bird into a gallop, Aeryn’s mount keeping up easily.

He muttered a prayer or three as the chocobos’ talons ate the yalms of roadway, his eyes seeking the cut in the hillside walls that led off to a side road. He finally found it, and kicked his flagging chocobo forward again as the wind surged, the rumble of the coming storm at their backs.

He let out a coughing breath of relief when he saw it. The small house was tucked against a cliffside, well away from the main roads. Thancred had discovered the abandoned building during his surveys over the years, and often used it for camp as he passed through this region. Now it would shelter the two Scions and their birds from nature’s fury.

He leapt off his chocobo into a running landing for the door. He took more time than he liked--less than a minute, but still too many seconds--to find the hidden key and force the swollen old door open. Aeryn had dismounted in the meantime, and led the chocobos inside while Thancred secured the door again.

“That should do--Godsdammit!” Thancred looked at the broken window. He scrambled to the top of an old table, praying again that it held his weight, and leaned out to grab at the shutter. He had to wrench it, and his shoulder a bit, to get the old hinges to finally pull shut. He jammed the latch; no need to leave it open in any case.

Aeryn dug feed from the saddlebags, letting the winded chocobos soothe their nerves with dinner.

“Well, we are not going anywhere for some time,” Thancred said as the wind howled outside the old building. The beams overhead shuddered, but the walls were intact and the door remained latched. There seemed to be no other residents, either; his minor wards must have held.

Aeryn shook sand out of her coat with a grimace.

“Welcome to Thanalan,” Thancred said, dusting sand out of his fair hair. “I stocked some fuel by the fireplace when last I came this way; we shan’t freeze, at least. There’s a well, too, in the sideroom for drinking and bathing and all else.” He removed his chocobo’s tack, patting the tired bird as he retrieved his pack.

Aeryn did the same before joining Thancred at the fireplace on the other side of the small space. The ceiling was low and there were no other rooms; it had either been a single prospector’s house or was always meant to be a traveler’s waystation, forgotten as trade routes altered over time.

She set out bedrolls and rations while he crouched next to the old hearth, pulling a false brick from the wall with a small grunt of annoyance as his knuckles were scraped. In the hollow behind the brick was a battered camp kit and a meager amount of dry rations. “The tea shouldn’t be too gritty,” he said, using a cantrip to start a fire. Aeryn nodded in response, taking their canteens and the old kettle to fill with water while Thancred checked his stored rations alongside what they had packed for the journey.

Aeryn only had the aetheryte to Black Brush Station attuned, so they had had to travel the long way. Thancred had meant to camp at a more populated waystation on the main roads, another bell or two from now. He was glad after fifteen years working in Thanalan he had such eventualities dotted around the region; it paid to be prepared when the weather turned like this.

They settled in, amicably making camp, listening to the wind outside howl with the static of sand scouring the outside of the building. The chocobos were uninjured despite the final push to beat the storm, and fell asleep quickly after deep drinks of water and a treat of gysahl greens. The birds curled up together for warmth as the weather and night brought dropping temperatures.

“We should get to know one another better,” Thancred said as their supper warmed and the tea finished steeping. Aeryn looked up, raising a quizzical eyebrow. He shrugged. “We have the time, and we are colleagues now, are we not?”

She nodded again, a bit wary.

“All right, it may be a ploy to hear more of your lovely voice,” he teased, giving her one of his charming smiles. “Still; I shall start, if you prefer.”

Aeryn blushed, but did smile in return, at least.

Thancred remained crouched by the fire. “Now then; I bet you cannot accurately guess my age. ‘Tis an interesting effect of the--”

“Thirty-one.”

He blinked. “How did you--” He narrowed his eyes. “Yda.”

Aeryn giggled and nodded. “She explained a few things about the archons.”

Thancred sighed dramatically. “I can only guess what she said of me.” He gave Aeryn a pouty look.

She shook her head. “She said you’re a charming pain in the arse, and too clever for your own good. She didn’t speak poorly of any of the order.”

“Well that is something at least,” he replied. “She spoke rather well of you, too, if you were curious.”

Aeryn considered that a moment. “Hope I don’t disappoint.”

Privately, he agreed. Out loud, he answered, “From what Yda and Papalymo said, you arrived in Gridania only a short time ago. Where is it you hail from, if I may ask?”

“Originally, Coerthas,” she answered. “But Mother took us to her homeland in the Near East when I was small.”

“And you decided now that you are grown to return to the realm?” He asked, handing her a tin cup of tea.

She nodded in response as she accepted. “My brother returned a few years ago. I...came to find him.”

“Seems you have found plenty of adventure along the way,” Thancred said. Heroics in Gridania, and yet more with Y’shtola in Limsa, and what he had seen of Aeryn in Ul’dah; like she was always in the right place at the right time, and it all happened to coincide with the Ascians’ schemes ramping up again. A strange feeling, almost like a forgotten memory, tickled the back of his mind for a moment, but he dismissed it. “I know Ishgard’s gates are closed, but have you been back to Coerthas at all yet? Have you other family there?”

She shook her head. “No chance, while establishing myself with the Adventurer’s Guild, and then all that came after. I’ve heard Coerthas has changed since the Calamity, though I barely recall much of it.” Aeryn thought a moment, a small line creasing the space between her grey eyes. “I don’t believe I have any remaining family there.”

Thancred nodded. Before he could ask another question, she looked up, head tilting as she regarded him. “And you? Any family back in Sharlayan?”

“Ah, no, actually. I’m not originally from the City of Learning myself.” He idly rubbed the marks on his neck. “I am an orphan and immigrant; Sharlayan adopted me.”

“Like Yda.”

He raised a brow. “I’m surprised she said so much. She was...young,” he said, playing it safe. He wondered how much Yda had admitted to this young woman; it was easy to forget they were of an age, given…circumstances.

Aeryn only nodded and lapsed back into silence, watching the fire as she sipped her tea. It did not feel uncomfortable, and Thancred stayed quiet himself as he finished warming dinner. He passed Aeryn one of the cooked plates of rations.

“A simple meal, but it shall suffice for tonight,” he said. “Assuming the storm ends by morning, we can dig ourselves out and make it to Camp Drybone by midday. There will be better fare there.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking her share.

“You said your mother’s people are from the Near East. Hannish?”

Aeryn finished chewing the bite of jerky she had been contending with. “No; from an island off the mainland, actually. Traders; we spent half the year, after crossing over the strait, wandering usual routes, before spending the colder, wetter months in our village.”

“Grew up in a merchant caravan, then?”

Aeryn shrugged. “Partly, yes. Mother’s talents, when younger, were more of a minstrel’s.” She considered a moment, then smirked, eyes flicking a glance his way.

“What?”

“She’d have liked you, I think,” Aeryn said. “Probably would have seen through the charms, though.” There was a lilt to her tone; she was teasing him.

“Hrmph,” he couldn’t quite hold the smile back. “And warn me away from her pretty daughter, like as not,” he teased in return, pleased to see her blush once more. He noted again that it was not difficult to make that red appear on her tanned cheeks. “From my understanding, you’ve inherited some of your mother’s talents.”

Aeryn nodded again. “I can sing, and play the lyre and flute well enough.” She hesitated a moment. “I partially went to Gridania first because I’d heard rumors they had real bards in the Shroud. Luciane introduced me to one, but he wants me to practice awhile before teaching me more.”

“I’m sure you’ve the talent for it. We should sing together sometime,” Thancred said. She looked at him, blinking. “Good practice, yes? And the others would likely enjoy it.”

“I...Perhaps,” she replied, smiling. “What about you?”

“What about me, my lady?”

“You said you’re not from Sharlayan originally. What of your people?”

“Oh not much to tell there, I’m afraid,” he replied blithely, turning to the tea kettle. He caught a motion from the corner of his eye, and reflexively batted away the tightly wadded napkin she had flicked his way. “Hey!” He couldn’t help but grin; he recognized a test of reflexes when he saw one.

“You don’t get to deflect that easily,” she replied, grinning back. “Not after getting me to say so much.”

He eyed her a moment, then shook his head. “‘Twould only be fair, you’re right--but there honestly isn’t much to tell. No family to speak of, nor much of consequence occurred, before I met Master Louisoix and he brought me to Sharlayan--the colony in Eorzea, at least. I struggled to catch up with my education, learned to speak like a gentleman, and earned my Sage Marks at a younger age than most.”

She peered at him intently. He wondered if the Echo were showing her any of his memories. “Why do I feel as if some of that were out of spite?” Aeryn asked.

Thancred laughed, noting he had not quite kept a hint of old bitterness from his tone, and she had caught it. “Mayhap there was a bit; not all of the scholars were kind to a young guttersnipe. The ones who mattered though--well, you have met most of them.”

“You all seem close.”

“We’ve been colleagues for many years now.”

“Minfilia isn’t Sharlayan.”

“No,” Thancred said. “Like Yda, she’s originally Ala Mhigan, though she’s lived in Thanalan since she was a child.”

Aeryn gasped, her half-full tea cup dropping to the stone floor. She held her head, as if wracked by a sudden headache. “Are you all right?” There was no response, though she looked right at him. It seemed as if her eyes had taken on a silvery sheen. “Aeryn?”

She blinked, the odd reflection of light in her eyes gone. “I...saw….”

So the Echo did show her something. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath, smiling when he opened them. “A moment from my past?” Thancred asked quietly, resigned to explaining whatever the Crystal had deemed necessary to show her.

She nodded, reaching for the fallen tin tea cup and a spare blanket to blot at the spill. “Moments, really. It went quickly.” She closed her eyes. “A parade; a goobue; a miqo’te woman; a card game; a knife in a crypt…” Her eyes opened and she looked at him again. “Minfilia had a different name, as a child.”

He looked at the fire. “I could not save her father that day.” Thancred did not try to hide the old pain and shame; she already knew of it. “He had many enemies; I gave Minfilia her new name to keep her safe from them. F'lhaminn--the Songstress of Ul’dah herself--was part of the conspiracy of wealthy youths that led to all the events you saw. I ensured she took Minfilia in, though I also watched over her for years. Minfilia told me of her Echo when still an adolescent, and so I introduced her to Master Louisoix, via letters at first. The rest, as they say, is history.”

Aeryn nodded. “Papalymo gave me a brief history of the Circle of Knowing, the Path of the Twelve, and how they formed the Scions after the Calamity,” she said. There was still a thread of shakiness in her voice, but color was coming back to her cheeks, and her hands weren’t trembling as much.

“Does it take much out of you? The Echo?” He asked.

She looked at her own unsteady fingers. “Not as much as it did the first few times. Perhaps I’m getting used to it.”

He remembered her fainting at the Sultantree, and again outside the Sil’dihn ruins. The others had reported similar instances. “I hope so; you seemed ready to pass out.”

She grimaced and shrugged, and he feared she would lapse back into her customary silence. “You said you were looking for your brother, here in Eorzea?” He prodded gently.

Aeryn took a moment, then nodded. “He left home about six years ago, to see the realm of our birth and become an adventurer. I wanted to come with him, but Mother begged me to stay. She was ill even then, but had yet to tell us. And my own studies were not yet complete--though once she did take a turn for the worse, I had to give them up entirely.”

“What were you studying?” Something tickled the back of his mind again, but he shelved it for now to focus on her. Her breathing was steady again, and she wasn’t as pale; good.

“Magic. Magic theory, really, I...couldn’t do magic. Not as they taught in Thavnair, at least. I had wanted to learn so I could help my brother on his adventures. Instead I took up martial skills.” She frowned at the fire again, opting for water instead of more tea. “In Gridania, E-Sumi-Yan told me it’s strange I couldn’t learn; he says I have deep aetheric reserves, and it...suddenly seems to come easily enough, now.”

“Eorzea’s an aether-rich land,” Thancred pointed out. “Perhaps you’ll find a magic that agrees with you here. You certainly don’t lack the mind nor the talent, from what I have observed.” If anything, Aeryn's penchant for studying thicker tomes fit right in with many of his fellow archons.

She smiled, the pink tinge returning to her cheeks again as she ducked her head. “Thank you,” she said simply after some hesitation.

He smiled. “Quite welcome. Now, we should get our rest. Morning will come and plenty of work with it. Here, move your roll closer; we’ll have to huddle with the chocobos regardless for warmth, and I swear I shall be a gentleman.” He winked.

She nodded with a slight smile and an eyeroll, recognizing his joke. She shifted her bedding away from the spilled tea staining the floor. They ended up alongside one another, leaning on their chocobos, the chill seeping in even with the thick walls and the fire, the rushing of sandy wind now a constant background noise. The birds’ sleepy chirrs were closer and more comforting, the feathery bodies radiating a pleasant heat against the hyurs’ backs.

“Thancred?”

“Yes?”

“How exactly is my Echo supposed to help, if it still nearly causes me to faint when the visions come?”

He thought about his answer for a moment. “Well, you are getting better at not falling over when it hits you. Perhaps it will aid our investigation into the kidnappings.” He did not want to think about the alternative, the possibility that she might have to do more.

Aeryn’s quiet seemed thoughtful, as if she knew he was holding back. “Goodnight, Thancred,” she finally said.

“Good night,” he replied, staring at the flickering fire, shadows and light playing across the room.

What could one girl, talented as she was, do against something like Ifrit?

He hoped to all the gods they didn’t have to find out.

[fangirlshrewt97]

Geralt Whump Week Submission Day 6

TITLE: I Hurt You (You Saved Me)

SHIPS: Geralt of Rivia / Jaskier|Dandelion 

PROMPT: Monster

MEDIUM (Netflix, Books, Games, Hexer): Netflix

WARNINGS: NA

SUMMARY:  Excerpt:

The only thing he could actually blame Jaskier for was his stupid decision to befriend Geralt, for trusting the Witcher to keep him safe. Because now Jaskier was hurt and the thing truly responsible for it was chopped into several pieces and flung across the clearing. So, the only one Geralt could actually blame was himself.

Basically, Jaskier gets hurt, Geralt blames himself, and along the way to getting Jaskier help remembers some key memories with him.

WORD COUNT:  5424 words

AUTHOR’S NOTES:  Additional Tags include Geralt Whump Week, Prompt: Monster, Geralt Whump, Jaskier Whump, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Protective Geralt of Rivia, Self-Hatred, Non-linear storytelling, Pining, Geralt of Rivia has Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Falling in Love, Canon-typical violence, Soft Jaskier, Soft Geralt of Rivia, Idiots in Love, Friends to Lovers

AUTHOR: Fangirlshrewt97

CHARACTERS: Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier

LINK TO AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25109782

                                                       ///

He wanted to blame Jaskier. Blame him for being reckless, for not paying attention, for thinking he would be fine tagging along on one of Geralt’s hunts because he wanted more inspiration for one of his diddies.

But the only thing he could actually blame Jaskier for was his stupid decision to befriend Geralt, for trusting the Witcher to keep him safe. Because now Jaskier was hurt and the thing truly responsible for it was chopped into several pieces and flung across the clearing. So, the only one Geralt could actually blame was himself.

///

It had been almost two weeks since Geralt’s last contract, his coin was running too low, and the villages he had to cross had not been all that welcoming. Jaskier hissing and rearing to fight everyone who looked twice at Geralt did not help the situation. He was touched by how fiercely Jaskier protected him, but sometimes he wished he would learn to pick his fights.

“I am choosing my fights Geralt. I am choosing to fight for you.”

Geralt shook his head. “You don’t need to do that.”

Jaskier scoffed. He propped himself on his side from where he had been lying on Geralt’s chest. “Geralt, last time we were at court, you almost tore off the arm of the nobleman who insulted me.”

“He called you a whore.” Geralt growled.

Jaskier shrugged. “I’ve been called worse. But you did not need to defend me that day, I didn’t ask you to.”

“I wasn’t going out stand by and let him call you names.”

Jaskier smiled fondly. “Precisely my love, how is it fair you ask me to stand by while all these strangers beg you to help them with a monster and then call you names in the same breath.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Oh? Do you think I don’t care for you as much as you care for me?”

“Jaskier it’s-” Geralt bit off, growling when he was unable to say what he wanted. Jaskier merely ran a hand across the length of his chest, accustomed to giving him time to sort out his thoughts. “I don’t need to be protected.”

Jaskier laughs, the bastard.

“Oh darling, of course you don’t need to be protected.” He leans down and kisses him, slow and heavy, pouring his seemingly endless affection into Geralt until the Witcher wonders if one can drown in it. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel nice when someone does it anyways though. You protect me from all the monsters of silver, and I’ll protect you from the ones of steel.”

I’ll be your shield against humans, I won’t let you get hurt again. Not on my watch.

Fuck, Geralt’s chest is a pandemonium of emotions, so he does the only thing he does understand. He rolls the bard back onto his back and shows him his love.

///

A conversation from long ago echoes through Geralt’s mind as he ties the makeshift bandages he created out of his tunic across Jaskier’s chest. He wills his hands to stop trembling, his heart to not beat so loud, his breath not to be so ragged and painful. He doesn’t particularly believe in any God, but right then he prays to every one he knows to allow Jaskier to be alright.

Because the world needed this miracle of a man to be alive.

Because Geralt needed this miracle of a man to stay alive.

///

They were camping next to a lake, the summer night making the air heavy and humid. The soak in the river had been delightful, the cold water washing away the stickiness on their skins, allowing them to feel clean for the first time in days. They were on their way out of Novigrad, Jaskier having requested Geralt to meet him there after he finished his latest hunt. The bardic festival hosted by Lord Whittenmore had sent a personal invitation to Jaskier who had been honored, and determined to win once he learned Valdo Marx would also be there.

Jaskier had worked tireless on perfecting new compositions for the festival, staying awake late into the night, having to be hauled to sleep by Geralt when the Witcher finally had enough of the racket.

“Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

“Do you know the constellations?”

Geralt slowly peeled his eyes open, sleep had been scarce during the hunt, and though he would not admit it out loud, Geralt found he slept best when the bard was next to him.

The sky above them was a twinkling canvas, the moon half full but still bright enough they hadn’t even needed to keep the fire going for light. The lake was surrounded by a flat ground, allowing them to see the sky unobstructed. And stars crowded each other so much it was difficult to make them apart.

“A few.”

“I had a book about constellations when I was a child. My mother, she would read to me every night from that book. Told me the story behind each one.”

Geralt rolled his head to the side, taking in the view of his lover from the side. Jaskier was staring steadfast at the stars, their light reflected in his own eyes. Geralt’s breath got caught in his throat when Jaskier turned to meet his gaze. Jaskier did not need the reflection of stars in his eyes to imitate their twinkle, not when his out shined them all.

“Tell me one?” The question left Geralt before he could stop it.

Jaskier seemed to light up even more somehow, and launched into the tale.

Geralt fell asleep to the sound of his voice, his eyelids too heavy for him to keep them open.

When he woke the next morning, he swore he could feel the imprint of a kiss laid on top of his eyelids as he had drifted off to sleep.

///

Geralt heaved Jaskier up on his arms, ignoring the searing pain running up the entire left side of his own body. Fucking kikimoras. Trusting the potions he had taken beforehand to heal him, he secured Jaskier in his arms. Clenching his jaw so tight, he was sure he was chipping his teeth, Geralt tightened his hold on the bard and started to run. He needed to get a potion in Jaskier, get him stable, and then take him to a healer. One who could do magic.

Jaskier’s head lolled against his shoulder, the bard having succumbed to the pain a long while ago. Geralt picked up his pace the more he heard Jaskier’s heartbeat slowing down. The drum the dictated the beat of his life more and more.

His own chest started to feel icy, fear gripping his heart with claws that made it bleed.

///

It had been the bard who kissed him first. They were camping just outside of the Cedarian capital, the town had been having a nasty basilisk problem that took Geralt the better part of two days to take care of. Jaskier had conceded to being left behind in town on the condition of being allowed to fuss over Geralt as much as he wanted once he returned. And hadn’t that been a warm thought to mull over on the hunt. There was now someone who was waiting for Geralt on the other side of the hunt. Someone who had no obligation to do so, but chose to. Chose to spend time with him, someone who cared, someone who washed and tended to his wounds and soothed his nightmares. Jaskier chose him.  

The basilisk had been a pain but Geralt had killed it and collected the reward soon enough. They rode out of town after Geralt got his coin, the villages reeking of equal measures of fear and disgust. They set up camp in the woods, Jaskier not complaining about the lack of a soft bed or the plain stew.

Geralt did not know much about the bard, for all that he rambled and babbled throughout the day, Geralt noticed that Jaskier rarely spoke about anything regarding his past. But there were some things he could not hide, the easy comfort in the silks and colors of his doublets, his intimate knowledge of nobility, his casual spouting of political relations and hierarchies in every country. Jaskier came from money. He came from a family that educated him. Possibly a family that loved him. So what was a man such as himself doing as a wandering minstrel? One who walked with Geralt even?

Every night, these thoughts occupied Geralt’s thoughts, though he’d never voice them out loud. He fell to a restless sleep, and was up with the dawn. Jaskier did not protest too much when Geralt roused him so early, just getting up and packing. They were barely on the road when the hair on Geralt’s neck stood up, and he called Jaskier to halt. He had barely pulled the bard close when an arrow landed right where the bard had been standing. Snarling, Geralt pulled Jaskier onto Roach, and kicked the horse into a gallop. A couple more arrows whizzed by, but none hit their target. Unfortunately the path they were on narrowed, and they ended up in a bottleneck. Geralt dismounted, pulling out his steel sword and taking a fighting stance as he patted Roach to hide with Jaskier. Soon enough the bandits descended, and they must have thought their numbers would help against a single Witcher, only to find themselves quickly outmatched. Geralt received a few nicks, and one slash to the side of his chest that could had pierced him if not for his armor. By the time Geralt disposed of the last bandit, he was panting and the pain from a cut to the leg had him limping.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried out when he emerged from the hiding spot. The bard rushed to him, entering his personal space and started to prod him, finding all the wounds. Geralt growled and batted at Jaskier but the bard was not deterred. The bard had him sitting on a nearby rock and pulling out Geralt’s supply of salves and bandages, quickly bandaged the two deep cuts, the nicks already starting to close on their own.

“Well, nothing like a bandit encounter to get the old blood pumping, right Geralt?” Jaskier tried to joke, laugh dimming at the sour look on Geralt’s face. He sighed. “Look, let’s just go alright?”

Geralt grunted and stood up, beckoning Roach to him. He mounted, and to Jaskier’s surprise offered him a hand too. Accepting the offer, Jaskier mounted Roach, slinging his arms loosely around Geralt’s waist. But to his surprise, rather than going out of the bottleneck, Geralt rode the opposite direction, back to where they had come from.

“Um, Geralt, I think we are going in the wrong direction. We need to be going the other way.” Jaskier explained. Geralt just grunted. Jaskier fell silent, but Geralt could scent his confusion.

They arrived at the place where the first arrow had been shot, and seeing it there made Jaskier gulp. It made Geralt’s blood boil. How dare these humans try to take his bard away?

When they got to the arrow, Geralt dismounted, making Jaskier yelp and follow. “What are you doing Geralt? I’m sure the bandits hiding here saw the fate of their friends and fled.”

Geralt was looking for something though, and moved with a purpose, pulling back a bush to see his prize. Crouching to get it, he brushed off the dirt that clung to it, noticing the dents and splinters to the wood.

He brought the lute back to Jaskier, who was standing next to Roach with wide eyes and an open mouth.

“Here. You dropped this.” Geralt said as he passed the lute back to Jaskier.

Jaskier took the lute from Geralt, cradling it for a moment before staring back at Geralt. His scent took on a pleasant smell of pine wood and flowers on top of his default scent of chamomile and vanilla, one Geralt had smelled before but had not yet deciphered the meaning of.

“You… we came back for this?” Jaskier asked, wonder filling his voice. Geralt shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the emotions he was reading off of Jaskier.

He grunted. Jaskier’s lips twitched before morphing into a genuine smile, small but beautiful. It made Geralt’s heart speed up and a bubbling feeling develop in his stomach.

And then. And then, Jaskier switched the lute to one hand, using the other to pull Geralt close to press a kiss to Geralt’s lips. The Witcher stood frozen, the heat of the bard’s body feeling as though it was burning him. Jaskier had closed his eyes, but Geralt couldn’t find himself able to do the same, mesmerized by the shape of Jaskier’s eyelashes lightly brushing against his cheek. His lips tingled when Jaskier broke the kiss. “Thank you Geralt.”

Jaskier turned around and started walking back towards the pass. When he didn’t hear Roach following, he twisted his head to beckon him. “Are you coming Witcher?” His voice was warm.

Geralt unfroze and climbed on Roach, following the bard for once.

What had just happened?

///

When he neared the road, he whistled a short tune, Roach galloping to meet him. Swinging Jaskier onto her saddle, Geralt climbed behind him, shifting to have him sitting side-saddle, secure between the Witcher’s arms. Then, he snapped Roach’s reins, begging her to be swift as they thundered towards the nearest village.

He hated how much this reminded him of the Djinn and the meeting that had happened. How many times was he doomed to hurt this man?

///

The first time Geralt kissed him, Geralt wished he had done it differently. They had been in Murivel, and just by sheer bad luck Jaskier had encountered a nobleman who vividly recalled his face as it had tumbled out of the window of his wife’s chambers. Needless to say, he had been holding a grudge and Jaskier had been sent running through the streets of the town while half a dozen guards with swords chased him. Jaskier had ended up crashing straight onto Geralt, nearly sending them both tumbling to the ground.

“Geralt! My darling Witcher, help me please!” Jaskier had cried.

Geralt heard the sounds of the soldiers, and was able to connect the important dots even if he didn’t have the full story. Unfortunately, he had left his swords in the inn and had only a small dagger. And this was their town. And Jaskier was wearing one of his obnoxiously bright doublets that made sure he always caught everyone’s eye. Good for a performance, bad for hiding from soldiers who want to castrate you.

Already regretting the action he was going to do, he hauled Jaskier against the wall of the nearest alley, pressing close to the bard, touching from shoulder to knees. Jaskier squawked before his breath hitched. It was not helping Geralt concentrate.

“Geralt?” the word was whispered against his ear, and instinctively Geralt squeezed Jaskier’s hip. He heard the soldiers round the corner on their street and turned to Jaskier, pressing his lips onto his, swallowing the moan Jaskier let out. Jaskier was frozen for a moment before he threw his arms over Geralt, one burying itself in his hair and the other encircling his torso. Geralt brought his hands around Jaskier’s waist, pressing them against his lower back, making the bard arch into him.

The heat from the bard was intoxicating, and left Geralt wanting to continue doing this. This miracle of a human who touched him with no fear, who wanted him.

He heard a group of footsteps stop at the mouth of the alley but moved on quickly enough. It was only when he heard them turn another corner that Geralt stepped back. Not too far though, leaving just a couple inches of space between them.

Jaskier was a sight, lips red and plump, eyes slightly glazed and hair mussed. “Geralt…” Fuck, even his voice was hoarse.

The Witcher could feel his arousal racing through his veins and when his hips brushed the bard’s they elicited a moan letting him know the bard’s reaction was more visceral than a simple kiss warranted.

Geralt could still recall the first kiss Jaskier gave him, he had spent nights replaying it in his head. He had also, in the nights when he travelled alone, allowed himself to imagine how he would return the kiss. This had not been it.

He had wanted to earn it, wanted to treat the bard, make him smile, make him laugh, make his scent be filled with happiness.

Still, he couldn’t say he entirely hated what had just happened either.

///

Roach brought him to the healer’s hut quickly, sensing the panic from her rider. Geralt dismounted, carrying Jaskier in his arms. He shifted him enough to knock on the door, anxiety and panic coloring every second before the door finally creaked open to reveal a tiny woman who barely reached his chest.

“Please, respected healer, my friend has been injured and he needs immediate assistance.”

“Hmmm,” the woman contemplated before thankfully opening the door further to let him in. “There is a bed in that room, deposit him there. Divest him of his clothes too.” She ordered.

Geralt quickly followed her instructions, willing away the trembling in his arms as his fingers unbuttoned Jaskier’s doublet.

He couldn’t pull the bard to sit to remove his chemise, so he used the dagger from his boot to cut it, promising in his head to replace it for him. He was just finishing with lowering Jaskier onto the bed when the old lady waddled back into the room. In the light of the fire, the slash of the kikimora had cut a wide line from just below Jaskier’s armpit to his opposite hip in the back, the line curving jagged and dangerous.

“Now Witcher, let me do my job, go sit outside.”

“But-”

“I cannot concentrate if I have you hovering over me. I may not be able to scent your anxiety but I am sure you reek of it. Begone with you!” She ordered, pointing back to the main room.

Biting back an argument, Geralt sighed and bowed his head. “Yes madam.”

He glanced backwards at Jaskier, still laying on the bed, pale and haunting with the moonlight that was shining down on him.

He closed the door, the main room being dark and cold compared to the space he had just occupied. Knowing he couldn’t stay still, not when he was useless to help Jaskier, not when it had been his fault the bard had been hurt in the first place, Geralt fled.

///

“That’s it. You are teaching me how to make your damn potions Geralt!” Jaskier huffed as he tried to staunch the bleeding by wrapping the bandages faster. But Geralt’s torso was slippery and bandages ended up bunching up rather than laying flat on him.

Geralt, helpfully verbose as always, growled at him.

Jaskier growled back and pulled at the bandages viciously.

Geralt tried to swipe at him. Jaskier pulled the bandages again.

“I am the only reason you are not dead you idiot. Stop resisting me!”

Geralt snarled, securing Jaskier’s wrist in a tight enough hold strong enough to hurt but not fracture.

“Get your hands off of me, or I will do it for you.”

Jaskier bared his teeth in a half feral smile. “I’ve travelled by your side for 10 years now you bastard, you think you scare me? I’m not afraid of you Geralt.”

The two men wrestled some more, although it was less wresting and more Geralt using his bulk to keep Jaskier away from him without hurting the bard while the bard clawed and threatened to bite him.

In the end, Roach got annoyed by the racket then were making and headbutted Geralt’s back, making him lose his balance for a second. Unable to balance both of them when Jaskier decided to swing at him again at that instance, both went crashing to the ground, Geralt gasping as lines of pain radiated from his cut shoulder to the ends of his toes, further exacerbated by Jaskier falling half on top of him.

“Shit! Are you alright, I am so sorry!” Jaskier exclaimed as he scrambled to get off the Witcher and stand upright, accidentally kneeing him in his, thankfully, uninjured side.

Gritting his teeth so hard he almost heard them crack, Geralt braced himself on his hands and pushed himself up against the rock he had been sitting in.

Jaskier dropped to his knees beside him, far more careful of his movements.

“Geralt?” the concern was overwhelming in its sincerity and its scent.

For all the flaws the bard had that drove Geralt out of his mind on a daily basis, the one consistent thought in his head was the perplexity he felt as he studied the enigma of Jaskier. The bard was loud, colourful, had a tendency to go feral and pick stupid fights, got into stupider beds he ended up having to run from with his trousers only half done. But he was also kind to Geralt, a kindness that was genuine. He feared for Geralt, not because of him. Geralt did not know what to make of this human. And now he claimed he wanted to know how to make potions to help Geralt out? The idea was absurd.

But as Jaskier took his silence as permission to continue his fussing, he sat back and let the bard do as he wished, thankfully quiet this time. Jaskier’s touch was gentle but firm, and the fear Geralt kept waiting for, even after all this time never came.

Somewhere along the way, Jaskier had learned how to heal him, how to care for him, anticipate his needs. And Geralt felt a curl of shame in his stomach that he could not say the reverse was true.  

///

Geralt was back at the swamp. The scents were overpowering, the rot of death and blood, kikimora and Witcher and human, all combining to form the most noxious smell Geralt had ever smelled.

He felled the head off the monster, harvested the useful bits, and then burned the corpse. He burned the whole clearing too, just to be safe.

He rode back in a fugue state, his mind was blank because the only thought was ‘Jaskier will be alright, Jaskier needs to be alive, Jaskier needs to know, Jaskier will be alright, Jaskier needs to be alive, Jaskier needs to know …’

The sun had set long ago, only his Witcher vision allowing him to guide Roach back to the hut of the old healer. Leaving Roach to munch on the nearby patch of grass, Geralt reentered the cottage. The smell of blood in the air had been replaced with incense, and Geralt could hear a faint chanting from the old lady.

Lost without direction, Geralt sagged against the wall next to the door leading to Jaskier. He curled his arms around himself and rested his head against his knees.

All that was left to do was wait. How had this all happened?

///

It had even been a simple hunt, the alderman had put out a commission for a Witcher to take care of the spider monster in his lake, and when Geralt had met him, had even been helpful in giving details. He described how four of the men of his village had been lost when they had left through the path north to do business and then failed to return. But when a couple others returned, they realized the men who disappeared must have done so near the water. So the remaining citizens had armed themselves and gone to the search the riverbanks to find their bodies to bring home, only to lose another citizen to the monster.

The alderman shuddered as he recollected the sight.

He had said, “Master Witcher, I know that in most places your kind is not treated kindly, but we are a small village, dependent on each other. Loss of even four men is a heavy loss, and we cannot afford to lose any others lest all of us die. We do not have much coin, but we can provide you lodging and food for free to compensate.”

Geralt had accepted the offer, not least because he had seen the hunger pang faces of the children when he and Jaskier had arrived, death and misery hanging like a cloud over the village. Jaskier had quietly offered to play at the tavern and the alderman had smiled at him weakly. He had travelled wide and seen the rarity of people in power who cared for their people, and the man before him all but bled his grief at the death of his people.

“Music and happiness have long been gone from here Master Bard. If you would kindly welcome them back for even a night to this town, I will be grateful beyond words to you.”

Jaskier had offered a nod and made arrangements for his performance. That night, after singing and dancing and finally seeing those children laugh, both men retired to their room.

“What monster do you think it is?” Jaskier had asked, laying on his side, head pillowed on his arm, looking at him.

Geralt had been on his back, on arm tucked beneath his head as Jaskier took the one on his stomach to play with.

“Based on the description, it is probably a kikimora. They are difficult but if you go in with a plan the job can be done quickly enough.”

“Let me come.”

“No.”

“Geralt.”

“You could get hurt.”

“That’s what you tell me before every hunt!”

“It’s true of every hunt.”

“Geralt…” Jaskier whined. Geralt had relented. In hindsight, he wanted to hit himself over the head for such a stupid decision.

The next morning had dawned early, and the two went in the direction of the swamp. Jaskier had conceeded to staying away from the fight itself, and found that there was a place where the path forked to the swamp, one heading to the river, and another to higher ground. Making sure the bard was safe up high, Geralt ventured to the river, pulling out his silver sword.

He leaned down and picked up a few pebbles, enchanting them with a sign, and once at the river’s edge tossed them in. Barely a couple of seconds passed before the still waters rippled and splashed as the monster emerged from the riverbed. It roared, Geralt barely able to make out a small darkened spot on it’s head before it launched itself at him. Geralt dodged and threw an Aard, which stunned the kikimora enough for Geralt to hack off one of it’s legs.

Enraged, the monsters had screamed again before slashing out rapidly, catching Geralt in the arm. Geralt grunted as the claw pierced the skin below the armor, but used the proximity to chop off another limb. He threw another Aard, throwing the kikimora out of the water and into the cliff by the river’s edge. The soil of the cliff must have been weaker than it looked, because Geralt could only watch as the ground beneath Jaskier’s feet crumbled and the bard let out a scream as he fell, landing on the monster’s back. Jaskier was stunned for a second before he scrambled away from the monster, limping to cover. Geralt unfroze and launched himself at the monster, giving Jaskier enough time to get to safety. Unfortunately, the kikimora was fueled by anger at that point and viciously slashed out it’s leg throwing Geralt into the river. Geralt spluttered when he breached the surface, and could only watch in horror as Jaskier let out a blood curdling scream before falling silent as the monster seemed to cut him in half.

Geralt couldn’t recall what had happened next, only knew his vision had gone red and he had fought against the monster, going so fast and hard the kikimora could not even prepare a defence for itself.

///

Geralt had been engaged in intense self-flagellation for over an hour before the door next to him crack open, spilling bright light into a dim room that had Geralt squinting. The old woman stepped out, closing the door behind her. Geralt rose to his feet, feeling his heart in his throat.

“Madam, my friend-”

“Quit your nervousness, it is unbecoming. Your friend shall be alright. A little bruised but he will be healed by the morrow.”

Geralt felt the immediate urge to sink to his knees in relief.

“Now go on ahead, he is asking for you.”

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat before starting to pound. “Asking- He’s awake?”

“Yes, boy, generally sleeping people cannot make requests. Go on in now.” The lady said as she practically pushed Geralt into the neighboring room.

The sight in there was enough to make his eyes tear up. There on the bed, looking exhausted with a new scar, but otherwise healthy and breathing, and whole, was Jaskier. With his bright blue eyes, and warm smile, and kind hands. There was his miracle of a man he had done nothing to deserve.

Geralt nearly sobbed in relief. Good things did not happen often to him, destiny had a tendency to fuck him over at every turn.

Jaskier called him forth, extending a hand towards him. “Geralt.”

The steps he took felt mechanical, as though it wasn’t him who was walking, not him placing his hand in Jaskier’s, not him being blessed with that radiant smile. But that smile dimmed a little, and Geralt wanted to bring it back.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Geralt managed to croak out after several prolonged moments.

“Like you can’t believe your eyes?”

“I-” Geralt said, before being overwhelmed, and he surged, enveloping Jaskier in a firm but gentle hug, burying his face in Jaskier’s scent. A tear made its escape and landed on Jaskier’s bare shoulder.

“Geralt wh-”

“I heard your heart stop.”

“Oh Geralt. I am alright, I am here.”

Geralt just clung to Jaskier tighter. The bard brought one hand up to run through Geralt’s hair as the other rubbed soothing circles into the small of his back.

The pair stayed like that until Jaskier’s muscles protested, and Geralt forced the bard to lie down, pampering and fussing over the bard.

His bard. His friend. His Jaskier.

The old lady allowed them to stay the night, saying the stitches would burst open if the bard had to ride by horseback or walk the next day.

“Thank you for taking care of me, my lady.” Jaskier had said.

“Little boy, I just did my job. If the big one hadn’t brought you to me as quickly as he did, no one could have helped you. You should be thanking him.”

“I plan to, my lady, I plan to.” Jaskier had said, voice so fond, Geralt wanted to run, especially when those blue eyes filled with love were aimed at him.

“Very well, you both interrupted my supper, I am going to eat. I trust you to take care of yourselves.” She had bid before walking out, nodding at their bows.

Once she was gone, Jaskier had cupped Geralt’s face ad brought him in for a kiss.

“This is not your fault.”

Geralt’s fist clenched in the sheets.

“Of course it is.”

“Geralt-”

“I should have been more careful.”

“And I should have actually listened to you.” Jaskier said exasperated. He sighed, shifting his hand from Geralt’s cheek to the back of his neck. “Dear heart, you warned me so many times, you gave me so many chances to stay behind and I rejected all of them. Neither of us are to blame, or both of us are. But please, please don’t put this on yourself.”

When Geralt looked like was going to protest, Jaskier shut him up with a kiss.

“Promise me.”

In front of those eyes, Geralt had always been helpless. “I promise.”

Jaskier smiled brightly again. “Good.”

And then because he was a ridiculous fool in love, he pressed a kiss to the Witcher’s nose.

And because the Witcher was an even bigger fool in love, he blushed.

///

In his heart Geralt did not know if he could ever truly forgive himself for letting Jaskier get hurt, but he had promised the bard, so he would try.

He would also make sure to do his best to ensure harm never came to his bard again, directly or indirectly.

Jaskier was far too precious to hurt.

[vivitanima]

❇ — @gachcuid​​ || starter call

❇ — the wind is cold, scathing against his face, as he gallops with ferocity through the open valleys outside of winterfell. the horse beneath him, a burly black gelding who snorts contently, moves as if the wind is its wings, and the voices calling him to slow behind him are scarcely a murmur upon his ear. he spurs the horse faster, the thud of its stride better than any minstrel in the halls of winterfell. it is not until he reaches the peak of the hill overlooking the vast expanse of northern land that he slows his horse to a trot and then a stop. the horse breathes heavily and so does brandon. he turns, waiting for his mother to catch up before he decides to speak. at least it’s her over his father, whose gaze, even from a distance, is scolding. “ i told you i was fast. ”

[soul-eater-novel]

P180

19 百戦百勝の男

Chapter 19: The Invincible General

帝国軍襲来の知らせに、解放軍の動きが慌ただしくなった。 The Liberation Army rushed to respond to the news of the Imperial Army’s invasion.

ティルたちは炎上した城から吟遊詩人のカシオス、画家のイワノフを救出すると、すぐさま軍をまとめて出発した。 Tir and the others rescued a minstrel named Kasios and a painter called Ivanov from the ruined castle and then the army immediately began marching away.

今ある情報は居城から駆けつけたスタリオンがもたらしたもののみで、それによれば帝国軍は陸路を取り、帝都のあるアールス地方からクワバの城塞を通過して南下してくるということだった。 The only information they had to go on was what Stallion brought them from headquarters. According to him, the Imperial Army was traveling overland through the Arus region—home to the capital—and was headed south. They would soon pass through the Kwaba Fortress.

拠点としているガランの関所を目指して軍を進めている間に、マッシュは断続的に斥候を出し、帝国軍の様子を細かく探った。 While moving their troops back to the Garan checkpoint, Mathiu had also been intermittently sending out scouts to collect detailed information on the Imperial Army’s every move.

それが誰の軍かはまだ判明していなかったが、ティルの胸中は穏やかではなかった。 They had not yet reported back on who was leading the force in question, but this gave Tir no peace of mind.

ソニア・シューレンの水軍なら陸路は取らない。 Sonya Shulen’s Imperial Navy forces would never take a land route.

カシム・ハジルの部隊ならトラン湖の西を回り、モラビア城のあるセナン地方とクナン地方を結ぶ北の関所を通過してくるはずだ。 And if it were Kasim Hazil’s army, they would come in from the west of Lake Toran through the northern checkpoint that connects the Kunan region with the Senan region, where Kasim’s Moravia castle is located.

となれば、その帝国軍は陛下の率いる帝国中央軍第一軍か、父テオの率いる第三軍ーー。 Which means that this Imperial force on the move is either the first regiment, led by His Majesty himself from the central empire, or it’s the third regiment… led by my father, Teo McDohl.

不安を抱えながら草原を進むうちに、ガランの関所が見える位罰に来た。 Filled with anxiety, they rode across the plains until they were in sight of the checkpoint.

すると関所から、マッシュが最初に出した斥候が馬を飛ばしてきた。 A scout immediately came galloping out on horseback. Mathiu was the first to meet him.

p181

「どうだ？帝国軍の様子は？」マッシュの問いに、 He hailed the scout. “What news of the Imperial Army?”

斥候は馬を寄せ、かしこまって答える。 The scout rode to Mathiu and saluted.

「はっ、敵軍はクワバの城塞を通過した後、セイカを制圧し、現在はカクの町近辺を進んでいます。それで、ティル様…．」 “Sir! The Imperial Army passed through the Kwaba Fortress and has taken control of Seika. They are now nearing the town of Kaku. Also, Lord Tir…”

斥候がティルに向き直った。 He turned to Tir.

ティルはどきりとしたが、心を落ち着けてから言う。「どうした？」 Tir’s heart pounded in his chest, but he composed himself and replied calmly. “What is it?”

「私馬を走らせているさなかに、ティル様に用があるという者に会いましたので連れて参りました。関所の広間て待たせてありますがいかがなさいますか？」 “One of the reasons I rode here so quickly is because there is a visitor who has come to see you on urgent business. We asked her to await you in the checkpoint meeting hall. Would you like to meet with her, m’lord?”

「ふむ……、何者だ……？」訝しげに言ったマッシュに、斥候が答える。 “Hmm… a visitor? Who could that be?” wondered Mathiu aloud.

「その者はロッカクの里のカスミと名乗っております。北方からテオ・マクドールの軍が南下する際、ロッカクの里を襲撃したので救いを求めに参ったと……」 “She is called Kasumi,” answered the scout, “and she hails from the hamlet of Rokkaku. When Teo McDohl’s amy traveled from the north to the south, they launched a surprise attack on Rokkaku, so she came to request assistance from the Liberation Army.”

「な…、なんだって… ？！」思わずティルが叫んだ。 “Wh-what?!” cried Tir in complete shock.

しかしマッシュは冷静だった。 Mathiu, however, was as calm and composed as ever.

「なるほど……。忍びの者が集まるロッカクの隠れ里も、長らく帝国に抵抗を続けていたと聞いている。 “I see… the hidden village Rokkaku is a place where ninja gather and I have heard they have long resisted the Empire.

それは十分にあり得ることだ。すぐに行くと伝えてくれ」 That alone is reason enough. Please tell her we will meet with her shortly.”

「はっ、わかりました」 “Yes, sir!”

[ «-first // previous // next // archive // Ramsus-kun Scanslations ]

[sunflowersupremes]

The Child Surprise: Chapter 6

It’s not Geralt who Ciri finds after fleeing Cintra, it’s Jaskier.

Characters: Geralt, Ciri, Jaskier, Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert

Read on AO3

Ciri was painfully aware of Jaskier’s grip, and how it loosened more and more the longer they rode. She grabbed his hands, wrapping them around her waist again, and then dug her heels into Roach’s side again.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed into the mare’s mane. “Just please, hurry.”

She waited for Jaskier to tell them not to hurry on his account, as he already had several times, but he remained silent.

She risked a glance over her shoulder.

The bard’s eyes were still open, but they were glazed, staring into the distance but not seeming to see it. “Jaskier?” she asked, squeezing his hand.

“Huh? Oh, Ciri,” he said, looking at her shoulder. “I- I’m fine. Absolutely fine. Tell Geralt I’m fine.”

“Roach hurry,” Ciri begged.

Kaer Morhen couldn’t be that much further, could it?

But before she could think any more, Jaskier went limp, slipping off Roach’s side and falling into the snow.

“No!” Without thinking - even though she knew without a doubt he would have told her to abandon him - Ciri jumped after him.

Roach paused, looked at them, snorted, and galloped away.

“No!” Ciri shouted. “Roach, come back!”

She knelt by Jaskier, rubbing the minstrel’s shoulder, trying to shake him awake. “Wake up,” she sobbed, smacking his chest. But he only moaned, his eyes closed.

All she could do was pull the itchy blanket around them and pray Geralt found them before the wolves.

----------------

The day felt impossibly long.

It wasn’t because he’d been walking in the snow for hours, but because he had no idea what had happened. Every time he walked around a bend in the trail he half expected to find Roach’s body, her riders ripped to shreds beside her, staining the snow red with their blood.

But thankfully, the snow remained white, and Roach’s prints were on the main trail. At least they hadn’t wandered off down a side road.

Night came and went, soon the sun was rising, but at least Roach’s foot prints were still clear in the snow: Jaskier and Ciri were still on the right path.

As he was nearing the next curve, his Witcher senses picked up the sound of hooves and he hurried forward. “Who is it?” he called. “Vesemir?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” replied Lambert, looking down at him with a scowl. “At least there’s something I’m good at.”

“Where’s Roach?” Geralt demanded, struggling through the deep snow toward Lambert.

“Not even a hello?” Lambert snorted. “And here I thought we were-”

“Damn it, Lambert, where are they!” He’d reached the other Witcher by then, grabbing him and pulling him from the saddle to give him a good shake.

“I don’t know!” Lambert shouted, struggling in Geralt’s grip. “Vesemir and Eskeltook them back to Kaer Morhen!”

“Are they well?”

Lambert stood, shaking himself off. “The last I saw of them, Vesemir was making a sling to carry the man, the girl was with Eskel.”

“The hell did you need a sling for?”

Lambert seemed uneasy, an unusual look on the prickly Witcher. “They didn’t reach the fortress.”

Geralt sucked in a breath. “They-“

“Your mare reached us, riderless. We came looking for you, but we found the two of them first. The girl told us about some letter, seemed to think we’d kill her for not having it-”

“And I’m certain you were a delight to be around!”

“Look! I’m only telling you what I saw!” Lambert ran a gloved hand through his hair with a sigh. “Vesemir’s going to try to help the man-”

“Jaskier-”

“But he was in a bad way.”

“And Ciri?”

“The girl? A bit cold and frightened, but she should live.” Lambert folded his arms over his chest. “Geralt, who are they?”

“A long story.” He’d told Vesemir - vented to him, actually - about the Child Surprise, but he had no idea if Eskel and Lambert knew. He didn’t have enough time to care. “Can I borrow your horse?”

Lambert sighed. “Sure,” he said. “But only because-” Geralt was already in the saddle, turning the horse back toward Kaer Morhen.

“If this is what you look like with feelings,” Lambert grumbled, “I miss the old Geralt.”

------------

When he approached Kaer Morhen, the fortress was silent. He barely stopped long enough to tie Lambert’s horse to a post before racing up the steps, into the main hall. “Vesemir!” he yelled. “Eskel! Ciri!”

For a long moment, they was no reply, then someone stepped out of a hall. “Quiet,” Eskel said, “They’re resting.”

“Tell me they’re alive.”

Eskel nodded. “They are.”

Geralt leaned against the wall, the exhaustion from the past days finally catching up to him. “Where are they?”

“The west tower.” Eskel chuckled, “Vesemir thought the girl would enjoy the view.”  

“Won him over already?”

Eskel only nodded, a slight smile biting at the edge of his lips. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll take you.”

“I know where the west tower is.”

“You look like a breeze could knock you over.”

“You- you should probably find Lambert. I took his horse.”

A flash of sadness worked over Eskel’s features, but only for a moment. “About your mare-”

“What?” Geralt snarled, turning sharply.

“She’s seen better days. Lambert wanted to put her out of her misery, but Vesemir thought the decision should be left to you.”

His chest tightened, and he nodded roughly. “I- I’ll check on her later,” he said. Gritting his teeth, he hurried toward the west tower, up the spiral staircase to the room at the top.

Vesemir must really like Ciri, he thought, to lug Jaskier up all these stairs.

The ancient Witcher himself was sitting by the door, alone, his eyes closed as though resting. But as soon as Geralt reached the top of the stairs, his eyes opened. “Geralt,” he said, relief filling his voice.

“You left your patients?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, I left the girl with him, she’s to come to me if he worsens.”

Geralt chuckled. “Jaskier annoying you so much already?”

“You know,” Vesemir said, shaking his head. “I’ve never known someone to offer to write a song about stitches.”

“That would be Jaskier.”

“What happened Geralt? Why did you wait so late in the winter?”

“Cintra fell,” he said, watching the shock and horror slide over his mentor’s face. “I thought Ciri must be dead, but she found Jaskier, somehow.”

Vesemir nodded, looking thoughtful. “You should see them,” he said. “I doubt little Ciri will rest until she’s seen you - Jaskier will, but-”

“Only because you drugged him,” Geralt finished.

The ancient Witcher gave him an innocent smile. “My hand slipped, Geralt, I didn’t mean to give him so much of the brew.”

Geralt shook his head, pushing open the door and stepping inside.

Ciri and Jaskier were both in bed. Jaskier, tucked beneath a mountain of blankets while Ciri curled up on top of them, wearing what looked suspiciously like Vesemir’s best coat.

When the door opened, she sat up. “Geralt!” she sobbed, rushing forward. He grabbed her, pulling her into his arms and lifting her off the ground.

“You’re alive!”

“Of course I’m alive,” he scoffed, ruffling her hair. “What do you take me for, a bard?”

She giggled. “Jaskier’s asleep.”

“With what Vesemir gave him, he’ll sleep for the next decade,” Geralt muttered, casting a glance toward the snoring figure on the bed.

“He fell off Roach,” Ciri said softly. “I thought she’d abandoned us, but Eskel said she ran here and kicked up a fuss until they came after us.”

“She’s a smart girl,” he said. “Listen, Ciri- I’m going to check on Roach-”

“I’ll go with you-”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I need you to watch Jaskier for me.” Ciri was too innocent to see such things.

After a bit more cajoling, and promising that he’d send Vesemir to sit with her, he managed to slip away.

“Ciri’s waiting for you,” he said to his mentor as he passed him. “Jaskier’s asleep.”

“Alright,” Vesemir said. “If you need-”

Geralt stopped, turning to fix Vesemir with a gaze that would have terrified lesser men. “I can kill a horse without assistance,” he said softly.

---------------

They kept the horses in an unused room off the main hall. There weren’t enough of them that it mattered, and it let the horses stay warm. The room was just far enough away that the smell rarely troubled them.

Roach was laying on the ground when he entered, and she looked up, nickering softly. Geralt knelt beside her, holding out his hand for her to sniff.

She rubbed her nose against him, then let out a loud snort.

“What’s the matter with you, girl?” he whispered.

He traced his hand over her legs, feeling the strained and swollen muscles. “Is anything broken?” he asked. She almost seemed to shake her head.

The bones were cracked, most likely, but if they hadn’t broken all the way through-

Geralt rubbed his hand over her side. “Don’t get up, you hear me?” he said softly. “Lay down for a few days. Let your legs heal.”

“She’ll never carry a rider again.” Lambert was in the door, holding the reins of his gelding.

“She doesn’t need to,” Geralt replied. “She deserves to retire.” He patted her neck, pushed himself to his feet, and said, “I’m going to bed. Don’t bother me unless Jaskier or Ciri is dying.”

“What if I’m dying?”

Geralt shrugged. “Don’t fucking die.”

[beaflower77]

This Night’s Moon

Sitting off by himself, he stared at the vast landscape. The ponies and larger horses the elves owned, were galloping round, getting much needed exercise. He smiled slightly at them, slightly. Sitting still, listening to the evening calls of birds nestling down in the distance, he couldn’t but think, Why, why?, while small animals gathered up the last few hungry pickings, scattering off to their own shelters. I should be moving along myself, again coming around from his wayward, scattered thoughts. But still he sat, and lingered and thought not knowing what to do, which way he should turn.  

Elves were not ones to make quick, easy decisions, but they were not ones to linger and tarry over unnecessary quests either. Why then was this one so hard, so difficult, so, so brutal to decide upon? He sat. He watched the land. He could not decide. They had said he would never do it, said he could never, did not have the courage to, he lacked the skills, the love, the need, the ache. What he was supposed to have, was supposed to give, they said he didn’t. He wanted to prove them wrong, wanted to do it, wanted it, yearned for it, but still he sat and watched, and thought and deliberated.

How long he sat there on that rise he did not know. How much time passed and still he thought. How long it took the sun to set, he could not say. High in a cloudless sea of stars, the moon appeared on high. It was beautiful, fathomless that moon. The moon rose, clouds passed. And a slight wind washed over him. It was a minstrel’s wind and he listened to its call. And finally he rose. Rising, stretching, rubbing down achy legs, he finally stood. 

He strode with purpose. Strode toward his waiting destination. And his destiny.

The walk is treacherous, he thought. The walk is long, the walk is slow, but this I must do. I must go on. I will not stop now. It will be alright. Whether it is or is not, I must continue. I have decided. Now I must carry through.  

Reaching his destination, the honorable elf stopped momentarily. With his silent, wordless approach, the elf continued his staring down upon the object of his vast affection while she continued to sit, and wait, and wait longer. And she had hope. A hope born of years of silent longing, endless glances, and boundless internal devotion they gave each other. 

At last he found his voice.

“I am not an extremely positive elf,” Athlidon began. “I am not even inclined to smile all day.” He waited, waited for her to say something, she didn’t. Her face was kept in neutral, her emotions in check. Continuing, “I am often told I am annoying, stubborn, maybe even … arrogant.”  He waited again. And again she said nothing in return. He strode ever on, “I have waited long, I know not why, I. I do not know how to say it.” He silently wished for deliverance, for help. He stood there on achy legs, waiting, staring, voiceless. The bravery he had earlier discovered gave way to inarticulation. 

Slowly, she stood. Reaching her long fingers up his arm, almost touching, almost not touching him. She did not dare yet. Instead, “Say it please. Say that which is on your mind, do not be afraid for me. We are friends.”

 What encouragement for me, he thought.

He breathed in heavily, shoved on, with little pinpricks of a blush starting to form, prickling his checks, his neck, ears. “I love you Gwingnis. I always have. I could never love another who is so very tender and touching as you.”  

There, I have said it he thought, wondering her reaction to his more than candid admission. Will our friendship end, or blossom?

She waited for him to continue, but he went on no more. She smiled, no beamed up at him, his unguarded face, just him and no more. Moving forward slowly, ever so slowly he thought, she touched his face so soft, so light as down, it was almost not even a touch amidst the evening’s dark.

“I have watched you from afar for so long now,” she gazed longingly. “You who walk in beauty under the night’s moon. Never before have I longed for any other as for you. I would offer myself to you, if you would but have me.”  

She said this? She said it? Yes she did. He moved in, washing out that distance betwixt, the distance which separated them for more than any lifetime. Grabbing her swiftly, yet with such tenderness no one thought he could possess, he stormed on, “I would have you. You are my night’s moon.” Tenderly stroking her down, he felt suddenly freed from unnamed chains. This night’s moon, this one ellyth, who could change everything he is, he was, or even wanted to be. She above others could save him, point his life in the right direction. She would be his eternal compass. 

He kissed her. It was not a tender kiss or even a sloppy kiss, just a kiss, and even if there were to be no further kisses that night, it was simply just a kiss. And Athlidon held her tight against him for all he was worth.

Under this night’s moon, and from around the corner, she peeked and smiled to herself.  Knowing, secretly wanting, hoping and watching as she smiled at Athlidon and Gwingnis, his night’s moon, she thought to herself, Athlidon has a girlfriend.