#witcher edge of the world

[geekcavepodcast]

Andrzej Sapkowski's "The Edge of the World" Gets Graphic Novel Adaptation

Andrzej Sapkowski's "The Edge of the World" is the latest short story from The Last Wish to get a graphic novel adaptation from Dark Horse and CD Projekt Red. The Witcher: The Edge of the World is adapted by writer Magdalena Salik, artist Tommaso Bennato, colorist Chris O'Halloran, and letterer Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou.

"Work is hard to come by for Geralt. And for his bardic traveling companion, Dandelion, the doldrum of the road is not a worthy subject for his rhymes or ballads. As they travel to the edge of the known world, townsfolk speak of many stories, but it seems that's all they are-recitals of monsters and superstition-until a man follows Geralt with news of a devil scavenging the local fields. Get rid of the beast, but under no circumstances is it to be killed. Only how can Geralt hunt the creature, when there are no such things as devils?" (Dark Horse)

The Witcher: The Edge of the World, featuring a cover by Kai Carpenter, goes on sale in bookstores on December 17, 2024, and in comic shops on December 18, 2024.

(Image via Dark Horse - Kai Carpenter's cover of The Witcher: The Edge of the World)

[slowpokegamer]

I was talking about this last night in my groupchat, but I've been in shambles lately thinking about how fresh little 19 year old baby Dandelion was ready to fucking DIE alongside Geralt during the short story "The Edge of the World"

Like he just met this white haired bozo. Geralt was about to convince the elves to SPARE him and Dandelion was like "KILL ME TOO OR ELSE I'LL SET THE WORLD AGAINST YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!!!"

I can't breathe, he's somehow just the stupidest motherfucker in the world and also somehow the most LOYAL ASS BITCH IN EXISTENCE. He loves his friends so much, he loves GERALT, so much 😭😭 He was gonna get revenge for Geralt if the elves killed him through whatever means he was able to and he was 100% serious on that threat

He literally barely knew Geralt and he was ready to give up EVERYTHING, he immediately decided he was going to be bonded to this broody asshole for the rest of his life and THATS EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED

I care about them so much. They make me want to start tearing up carpets, I'm gonna be sick /pos

[hanzajesthanza]

From Dark Horse:

As they travel to the edge of the known world, townsfolk speak of many stories, but it seems that's all they are-recitals of monsters and superstition-until a man follows Geralt with news of a devil scavenging the local fields. Get rid of the beast, but under no circumstances is it to be killed. Only how can Geralt hunt the creature, when there are no such things as devils?

The Witcher: The Edge of the World arrives in bookstores on December 17, 2024 and in comic shops on December 18, 2024. Pre-order at your local comic shop, bookstore, Amazon, Barnes & Noble or TFAW for $17.99.

what a pleasant news to wake up to! the third dark horse witcher graphic novel short story adaptation, this time one of one of my favoritesssss 🌾🐐🧝🏻‍♂️ and this december!!

[the-doctor-3000]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 {The Witcher x F!Reader}

2: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 (pt. 2)

The people in Lower Posada were strange. They were weirdly kind. Too kind actually. They gave the three of them - Dandilion, y/n and Geralt - some stew to eat. Y/n looked down at her bowl with evident disgust but reluctantly took a few bites. She looked at Dadnilion who was licking his fingers. She then spared a glance at Geralt.

"Thank you for the spread." said the white haired male, he licked his bone spoon and dropped it into the now empty bowl. "A hundred thanks, dear host. And now, if you permit, we'll get down to business."

Nettly, that was the man's name, nodded his head in agreement. "Well, that we can. What say ye, Dhun?"

Dhun turned out to be the elder of Lower Posada. He had a gloomy expression on his features and nodded to the girls who removed the dishes from the table and then left. Dandilion looked quite regretful since he was grinning at them and they were giggling at his gross jokes. Y/n though was mostly intrigued at the conversation that was about to follow. What kind of business?

"I'm listening." said Geralt, he looked out of the window. Y/n tried to see what he was looking at but she could not make out much. "Tell me how I can be of use to you."

Dhun cleared his throat and said, "There be this field hereabouts--" Y/n heard Dandilion slightly groaning, she looked underneath the table to see that Geralt had kicked him. "--A field." Dhun continued. "Be I right, Nettly? A long time, the field there, it lay fallow, but we set it to the plough and now, 'tis on it we sow hemp, hops and flax. It be a grand piece of field, I tell ye. Stretches right up to the forest--"

Dandilion chimed in, "And what? What's on that field there?"

"Well," He scratched himself behind the ear. "Well, there be a deovel prowls there."

Y/n's eyes widened as she raised her head and listened carefully. "What?" snorted Dandilion. "A what?"

"I tell ye: a deovel."

"What deovel?"

"What can he be? A deovel and that be it."

"Devils don't exist!"

"A devil?" y/n asked, pipping into the conversation, suddenly interested. "Can you describe him? Do you know where he came from? What exactly did he do to bother you?"

Dhun fiddled with gnarled hands, he then folded his fingers and looked at the female as if he now acknowledged her presence. He turned to Geralt, "Quite the curious lass you have there." Y/n knocked on the wood in order to get back to the main subject. "Right. Well, it be like this. He looks, ma'am, like a deovel, for all the world like a deovel. Where did he come from? Well, nowhere. Crash, bang, wallop and there we have him: a deovel. And bother us, forsooth he doesnae bother us overly. There be times he even helps."

"Helps?" Dandilion cackled as he tried to remove a fly from his beer. "A devil?"

Y/n shushed him. "Stop being rude." She scolded him lightly and turned her attention to Dhun. Geralt did not speak as he watched the female curiously. "But you have a good point. Devils don't help. But if that be true, what exactly does he help with?"

"Why are you so interested, ma'am?" Dhun asked her. "Are you perhaps a lady witcher?"

"I am a Shadowhunter." Upon the looks of confusion she received, she went on to explain. "Shadowhunters are also called the Children of the Nephilim. Our job is to hunt demons. So, honourable Dhun, I'll ask again and I'd like your response to be related to the main subject of this conversation. What does this deovel help with?"

He gulped anxiously. "Well, this be how he helps: he fertilizes the land, he turns the soil, he gets rid of the moles, scares birds away, watches over the turnips and beetroots. Oh, and he eats the caterpillars he does, they as do hatch in the cabbages. But the cabbages, he eats them too, forsooth. Nothing but guzzle, be what he does. Just like a deovel."

Y/n heard Dandilion cackling again, her eyes focused on Dhun with an incredulous expression, and she could not blame the troubadour. It was quite amusing - they were hiring Geralt to get rid of something which was helping them. Dandilion flicked a beer-drenched fly at a sleeping cat. 

"Nevertheless, you're ready to pay me to get rid of him, am I right?" said Geralt. His voice was scarily calm, the h/c haired female thought with a shiver. "In other words, you don't want him in the vicinity?"

"And who would care to have a deovel on his birthright soil? This be our land since forever, bestowed upon us by the king and it has nought to do with the deovel. We spit on his help. We've got hands ourselves, have we not? And he, sir, is nay a deovel but a malicious beast and has got so much, forgive the word, shite in his head as be hard to bear. There be no knowing what will come into his head. Once he fouled the well, then chased a lass, frightening and threatening to fuck her." Y/n shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "He steals, sir, our belongings and victuals. He destroys and breaks things, makes a nuisance of himself--"

"Sir, you said that he was helping you. This sounds the complete opposite from your previous claims and it's getting exhasuting." The girl's voice was cold, starting to get annoyed by this mundane. "Just answer this simple question: does he bother you or not?"

Dhun was momentarily shocked by the female's bossiness. He shook his head. "Nay. He doesnae bother us. He be simply up to mischief, that's what he be."

Her left eye twitched but gave him a collected smile. Dandilion turned to the window, muffling his laughter. Nettly spoke up then, "Oh, what be there to talk about. Ye be a witcher, nae?" He addressed Geralt who kept quiet. "So do ye something about this deovel. It be work ye be looking for in Upper Posada. I heard so myself. So ye have work. We'll pay ye what needs be. But take note: we don't want ye killing the deovel. No way."

"Interesting," Geralt spoke, his head raised and nasty smile. "Unusual, I'd say."

Dhun frowned, "What?"

"An unusual condition. Why all this mercy?"

"He should nae be killed. Because in this Valley--"

Nettly cut it, "He should nae and that be it. Only catch him, sir, or drive him off yon o'er the seventh mountain. And ye will nae be hard done by when ye be paid."

Geralt remained quiet, still smiling. Dhun then asked, "Seal it, will ye, the deal?"

"First, I’d like a look at him, this devil of yours." replied Geralt.

"It be yer right," said Nettly, then stood up. "And yer will. The deovel he do prowl the whole neighborhood at night but at day he dwells somewhere in the hemp. Or among the old willows on the marshland. Ye can take a look at him there. We won't hasten ye. Ye be wanting rest, then rest as long as ye will. Ye will nae go wanting in comfort and food as befits the custom of hospitality. Take care."

Dandilion jolted up from his stool and looked out into the yard at the freemen. "Geralt. I can't understand anything anymore. A day hasn't gone by since our chat about imagined monsters and you suddenly get yourself hired hunting devils. And everybody--- except ignorant freemen obviously--- knows that devils are an invention; they're mythical creatures. What's this unexpected zeal of yours supposed to mean? Knowing you a little as I do, I take it you haven't abased yourself so as to get us bed, board and lodging, have you?”

"Indeed. It does look as if you know me a little, singer."

"In that case, I don't understand."

"What is there to understand?"

"There's no such things as devils!" yelled Dandilion, shaking the cat from sleep once and for all. "No such thing! To the devil with it, devils don't exist!"

"True." Geralt smiled. "But, Dandilion, I could never resist the temptation of having a look at something that doesn't exist."

"Excuse me," y/n's voice was shaking a little as she now spoke directly to the 'witcher'. "I'd also like to take a look at this, uh, devil. I can help."

"I don't need it."

"And I didn't ask. I just wanted to let you know."

《♤》

"Bloody hell!" groaned y/n as her hair and clothes were now tangled with leaves and small branches. "I hope this nasty little creature is close!"

Geralt then muttered, ignoring the girl's comment. "One thing is certain" He swept his eyes over the tangled jungle of hemp. "This devil is not stupid."

"Good for him," Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "But how did you deduce that?"

Dandilion was also curious and added, "From the fact that he's sitting in an impenetrable thicket? Any old hare has enough brains for that."

Geralt answered them, "It's a question of the special qualities of hemp. A field of this size emits a strong aura against magic. Most spells will be useless here. And there, look, do you see those poles? Those are hops - their pollen has the same effect. It's not mere chance. The rascal senses the aura and knows he's safe here."

Dandilion coughed and adjusted his breeches. "I’m curious." He scratched his forehead beneath his hat. "How are you going to go about it, Geralt? I’ve never seen you work. I take it you know a thing or two about catching devils—I'm trying to recall some ballads. There was one about a devil and a woman. Rude, but amusing. The woman, you see—"

"If you finish that sentence I'll kick you where sun don't shine." The female spoke with an irritation that she had not experienced for a while. She saw the startled look on Dandilion's face and regretted her choice of words. "I'm sorry. That was rude. But I beg you, refrain yourself from making crude comments."

"As you wish, my fair lady. I only wanted to be helpful, that's all. And you shouldn't scorn ancient songs. There's wisdom in them, accumulated overgenerations. There's a ballad about a farmhand called Slow, who—”

"Stop wittering. We have to earn our board and lodging." Geralt interrupted the troubadour.

"What do you want to do?"

"Rummage around a bit in the hemp."

"That's original," snorted Dandilion. "Though not too refined."

"And you, how would you go about it?"

"Intelligently." Dandilion sniffed. "Craftily. With a hounding, for example. I’d chase the devil out of the thicket, chase him on horseback, in the open field, and lasso him. What do you think of that?"

"Interesting. Who knows, maybe it could be done, if you took part—because at least two of us are needed for an enterprise like that. But we're not going hunting yet. I want to find out what this thing is, this devil. That's why I'm going to rummage about in the hemp."

"Hey!" The bard had only just noticed. "You haven't brought your sword!"

"What for? I know some ballads about devils, too. Neither the woman nor Slow the farmhand used a sword."

"Hmm. . ." Dandilion looked around. "Do we have to squeeze through the very middle of this thicket?"

"You don't have to. You can go back to the village and wait for me. Take the girl with you."

Her brows shot up in surprise. "Excuse me? I am not scared of the woods! Mister poet could go back if he's not comfortable but I'm staying."

"Oh, no," protested Dandilion. "And miss a chance like this? I want to see a devil too, see if he's as terrible as they claim. I was asking if we have to force our way through the hemp when there's a path."

He is quite brave, for a mundane. She thought with a blush dusting her cheeks. She shook her head. No! Mother and father would be disappointed if they found out that I may be developing a crush on a mundie. She looked at the troubadour. Though I might be mistaking his foolishness for bravery.

"Quite right." Geralt shielded his eyes with his hand. "There is a path. So let's use it."

 "And what if it's the devil's path?" Y/n asked the witcher. 

 "All the better. We won't have to walk too far."

"Do you know, Geralt," babbled the bard, following the witcher along the narrow, uneven path among the hemp. "I always thought the devil was just a metaphor invented for cursing: 'go to the devil', 'to the devil with it', 'may the devil.' Lowlanders say: 'The devils are bringing us guests,' while dwarves have 'Duvvel hoael' when they get something wrong, and call poor-blooded livestock devvelsheyss. And in the Old Language, there's a saying, 'A d'yaebl aep arse,' which means—"

"I know what it means. You're babbling, Dandilion." Y/n raised her hand sheepishly. Geralt sighed in exasperation which caused her to tense up a little bit. "Yes?"

"I am literally new around here. What-- What does it mean?" She asked. "I can only understand one word because it sounds like the English one."

"English?" Dandilion questioned, his head tilted to the side innocently. "Is this a language?"

She nodded. "Yeah? You speak it right now."

He shook his head with a chuckle. "No, my lady. You speak the common."

Y/n simply stared at him. "Let's just agree to disagree." She shook her head. "Anyway. What does that phrase you said earlier mean?"

He chuckled. "It means 'Into the devil's--"

"Dandilion." Geralt groaned.

"What? The lady asked!" The bard protested. "And who am I to say no to a lady so beautiful?"

She let out a small flustered giggle. "Beautiful? You're flattering me."

"I'd never lie! I'm merely stating what's obvious!"

"Will you shut it?" hissed the witcher.

Dandilion and y/n stopped talking. The former took off the hat decorated with a heron's feather, fanned himself with it and wiped his sweaty brow. The humid, stifling heat, intensified by the smell of grass and weeds in blossom, dominated the thicket. The path curved a little and, just beyond the bend, ended in a small clearing which had been stamped in the weeds.

"Look, you two." In the very center of the clearing lay a large, flat stone, and on it stood several clay bowls. An almost burnt-out tallow candle was set among the bowls. Geralt saw some grains of corn and broad beans among the unrecognizable pips and seeds stuck in the flakes of melted fat. "As I suspected, they're bringing him offerings."

"That's just it," said the poet, indicating the candle. "And they burn a tallow candle for the devil. But they're feeding him seeds, I see, as if he were a finch. Plague, what a bloody pigsty. Everything here is all sticky with honey and birch tar. What--"

The bard's next words were drowned by a loud, sinister bleating. Something rustled and stamped in the hemp; then the strangest creature Geralt had ever seen emerged from the thicket.

The creature was about half a rod tall with bulging eyes and a goat's horns and beard. The mouth, a soft, busy slit, also brought a chewing goat to mind. Its nether regions were covered with long, thick, dark-red hair right down to the cleft hooves. The devil had a long tail ending in a brush-like tassel which wagged energetically.

"Uk! Uk!" barked the monster, stamping his hooves. "What do you want here? Leave! Leave or I’ll ram you down. Uk! Uk!"

"What the bloody hell am I watching?" the h/c haired female questioned, her look was one of a surprise rather than horror. If she wasn't shocked, she would probably laugh and if Jace were with her, there would be a high chance for him to join her. "Is this the o so fearsome deovel everyone has been talking about? He looks like a sad goat."

Dandilion laughed at her comment and could not help himself but add. "Has anyone ever kicked your arse, little goat?"

"Uk! Uk! Beeeeee!" bleated the goathorn and y/n could not tell whether it was in agreement, denial or just for the sake of it.

"Shut up, you two," growled the witcher. "Not a word."

"Us?! He"- she pointed at the creature -"is the talking goat!"

"Blebleblebeeeee!" The creature gurgled furiously, his lips parting wide to expose yellow horse-like teeth. "Uk! Uk! Bleubeeeeubleuuuuubleeeeeeee!"

Y/n made a sound of disgust and muttered silently. "Someone is in serious need of a dentist."

"Most certainly"- Dandilion added -"you can take the barrel-organ and bell when you go home--"

"Stop it, damn you," hissed Geralt. "Keep your stupid jokes and your sarcastic remarks to yourselves---"

"Jokes!" roared the goathorn loudly and leapt up. "Jokes? New jokers have come, have they? They've brought iron balls, have they? I'll give you iron balls, you scoundrels, you. Uk! Uk! Uk! You want to joke, do you? Here are some jokes for you! Here are your balls!"

The creature sprang up and gave a sudden swipe with his hand. Y/n jumped out of the way quickly but Dandilion wasn't so fast or lucky and howled and sat down hard on the path, clasping his forehead. The creature bleated and aimed again. Something whizzed past Geralt's ear.

"Here are your balls! Brrreee!"

An iron ball, an inch in diameter, thwacked the witcher in the shoulder and the next hit Dandilion in the knee. The poet cursed foully and scrambled away, Geralt running after him as balls whizzed above his head.

"Uk! Uk!" screamed the sylvan, leaping up and down. "I'll give you balls! You shitty jokers!"

Another ball whizzed through the air. Dandilion cursed even more as he grabbed the back of his head. Geralt threw himself to one side, among the hemp, but didn't avoid the ball that hit him in the shoulder. Y/n mentally admitted it to herself that, for a sylvan, he had a really good aim and, unfortunately for them, a good amount of balls. The witcher, stumbling through the thicket, heard yet another triumphant bleat from the victorious goathorn, followed by the whistle of a flying ball, a curse and the patter of Dandilion's feet scurrying away along the path. One of the iron balls hit y/n when she was distracted. She winced in pain and ran with the others.

And then silence fell.

《♤》

"Well, well, Geralt." Dandilion held a horseshoe he'd cooled in a bucket to his forehead. "That's not what I expected. A horned freak with a goatee like a shaggy billy goat, and he chased you away like some upstart. And I got it in the head. Look at that bump!"

"That's the sixth time you've shown it to me. And it's no more interesting now than it was the first time."

"How charming. And I thought I’d be safe with you!"

Y/n searched through her jacket for her stele.

"I didn't ask you to traipse after me in the hemp, and I did ask you to keep that foul tongue of yours quiet. You didn't listen, so now you can suffer. In silence, please, because they're just coming."

The female ignored the two as she removed the stele from her pocket. To Geralt and Dandilion looked like a long, slender twig but made out of silver or some metal. She took off her jacket and pressed it against her skin. A small light appeared in the tip and she begun making something. Black ink came out of it. She did a rune on the place she had been hit and then did another one.

Dandilion could not help but stare in amazement which followed up by him voicing his thoughts. "My, what kind of sorcery is that? It looks like art!"

"These are runes. They aid us and sometimes even give us special abilities when we kill demons." y/n said shortly, her eyes on her arm as she was being careful

"We?"

"Shadowhunters. I mentioned it earlier." As she finished, she put her jacket back on and the stele on her pocket. "Also, now I understand why you all can see me."

"Shouldn't we?"

"No. All Shadowhunters have a rune which keeps them hidden from the sight of the mundies." She adjusted her jacket. "The reason why you can see me is because all my runes have disappeared." Nettly and Dhun walked into the dayroom. Behind them hobbled a gray-haired old woman led by a fair-haired and painfully thin teenage girl. "I'll go check the place."

"Huh?" Dendilion blurted, baffled by her decision. "Is there something wrong?"

Y/n did not respond. Not at first. She looked at Nettly and Dhun, then to the old woman and the young girl. There was something off with this place and she was in no good mood for another discussion with them. "I'll be back soon."

And she left before anyone could stop her.

《♤》

She returned to the field, this time she had taken some precautions by marking herself with runes that would enhance her speed and protect her.

"Hey!" Y/n shouted, cupping her mouth. "I know you're here! Show yourself!" A rustle, an angry 'uk' and the snapping of stakes, reached her ears from the thicket. "Coward!"

"Coward yourself.” The sylvan poked his head out from the hemp, baring his teeth at her. "What do you want?"

She ignored his question and answered with another. "You are not a devil. You're a sylvan, right?"

"And what if I am?"

"We got off the wrong foot. I am y/n Lightwood and I just want to talk to you."

Silence.

"Are you making fun of me or what? You are with that witcher these peasants hired to get rid of me."

"I assure you, I met that man today. I simply came along out of sheer curiosity. Please, let's talk."

"That's what it's called now?" The sylvan mocked her. "I've seen that fancy dagger of yours. The one that you're hiding in your boot!"

"I am not going to hurt---"

"Throw it away!"

"Pardon?"

"You heard me! If you want to talk, then throw your weapon away!" Y/n really did not want to do this, but the satyr was not making it easy. She sighed and with a heavy heart took her dagger out of her boot. She looked at it for a long moment and put it down. "What do you take me for, an idiot? Further!" She bit her lip and with her foot she pushed it away. "Further!"

She kicked it, mentally noting where it landed. "There. Let's talk, now." She looked at the sylvan straight in the rights. He surely wasn't a beautiful sight to behold. "You do cause the mischief the stereotypical sylvan does." She begun as she examined around with her eyes. "But I've noticed the offerings." The sylvan looked at her, weighing his weight from one hoof to the other. "Quite a lot for someone as small as you. So... let me ask you this one question, and you better answer it." There was a moment of silence. The birds were chirping but she could hear something else. Galloping from a horse. She wanted to assume that the witcher was coming but she had a feeling that lady luck wasn't on her side this time. "Who are you trying to protect?" 

The galloping became louder. She sighed and ducked as she could feel something being swung at her. 

She dropped the ground and saw a man on horseback. She could not distinguish his face due to him being hooded and the sun too bright. This certainly wasn't Geralt, or Dandilion. He dismounted his horse as he took out a blade.

Y/n stood on her feet and backed away before he could strike her. It looked like a lion ready to catch its prey. Not so much different from hunting a demon, y/n thought to herself. She had to get her weapon, fast. She spotted it. It wasn't too far away but it wasn't too close for her to grab it without the man chasing her.

Her feet moved swiftly to the side, pretending to go the other way at first so she could confuse the man before her. 

The rider quickly caught on to her attempt to deceive him. He grabbed her by the wrist, blade under her neck. Y/n kicked the male between the legs and gave him a quick butthead. 

He grunted in pain as he let go and instinctively dropped his weapon to hold his head in pain. Y/n wheeled around and ran. Right on time because the rider healed fast. Just as she grasped her seraph blade, she turned around and her blade clashed with his own.

They engaged in swordfight. He was very skilful, his skill with the blade could almost match her adoptive brother's. If it weren't for her runes, he would probably land a hit on her.

She tried to keep her focus on the man's blade, but she could faintly hear the sylvan saying something to the man. Something about not killing her.

The rider grew tired of this soon and tackled her on the ground. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them over her head. She squirmed as she tried to break free of his hold but he held her with an iron grip. 

"Who the fuck are you?" She demanded of the man but he did not respond. 

He did not respond. Instead, he collided his head against her own. Knocking her out.

[vulpinesaint]

top ten geralt bitch moments

[graphicpolicy]

The Witcher: The Edge of the World comes to comics

The Witcher: The Edge of the World comes to comics #comics #comicbooks #graphicnovel #thewitcher

Dark Horse Books and CD PROJEKT RED continue their presentation of Andrzej Sapkowski‘s original short stories from his acclaimed collection, The Last Wish, now in graphic novel format. Andrzej Sapkowski’s The Witcher: The Edge of the World features another story from the collection and more monsters and mystery. A devilish tale full of shocking twists, The Edge of the World is reverently adapted…

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 39

Geralt is standing above the unconscious bloodied body of his beloved, Jaskier. The mage Geralt was tracking down to kill had meant to blast Geralt, but Jaskier had tackled the mage and things got ugly. The mage chuckles, eerily, and prowls closer. "So the mighty witcher has a weakness after all. Perhaps it'd be best if I do let you both live. Eternal sorrow is far more delicious than a passing trifle." And Geralt falls unconscious. He relives his entire life through flashes of memories, though they're all cruel and wrong. Things happen differently, skewed and twisted. The first time he meets Jaskier, he punches him in the stomach. Jaskier is standing beside him, near a body of water, as Geralt insults his voice. His passion, his livelihood, his reason for living. Jaskier standing outside awkwardly as Geralt fucks Yennefer. Geralt can see him in his peripheral, and yet he doesn't stop, nor even have the decency to pull the curtains, he just continues. Soon enough, the blur of colors at the edge of his vision disappears as Jaskier runs into the distance. Geralt however thinks that the worst memories are the quick three-second flashes of him just endlessly needlessly insulting Jaskier throughout their decades of companionship. It's not banter, it's not teasing, it's just abuse. Then Geralt is suddenly on a mountain, and he's yelling at Jaskier. "If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!" ... Nevermind. This is the worst one. Geralt is sick to his stomach. Jaskier's eyes widen, and begin to tear up. His face pales of blood, he looks like he's about to faint. His lip even quivers, the way it does when he's well and truly devastated. And Geralt did that to him. "Right.. Uh.. I'll get the rest of the story from the others. I'll see you around Geralt." But then he wakes up in Yennefer's hut. "Where's Jaskier?" he asks immediately. "That bard you hated? The one that followed you around for a few years? I don't know. It's been years since you've even thought about that wretch." He explains that this is wrong. That he loves Jaskier. He adores him. And she tuts sympathetically before explaining that it was a spell the mage put him under. Fake memories of a life where he paired up with the bard. She mimes gagging at the sentiment and he feels hot with anger. As if Jaskier is such a bad choice of romantic partner. He storms out of her place and races off to find his bard. He needs to know for sure what their standing is, and even if he has been cruel, he can at least apologize to the poor bard. "I don't know what to do, Yenna!" A bandaged Jaskier shrieked as the afformentioned witch examined Geralt for the fourth time that hour. Geralt lay comatose in her guest bed, under some sort of spell. Every once in a while, Geralt frowns or winces in his sleep, but that's all they can get from him. "He hasn't woken up since we were fighting the mage." She has a feeling she knows what sort of spell it is. A very cruel trick to play. The mage was smart enough to trust Geralt's self-flagellation. That upon waking from a fake world he perceived as real where all he did was harm Jaskier, he'd most certainly distance himself from the real Jaskier in fear of becoming the version of him in the curse. The mage was dumb enough however, to not think of how far Jaskier would go to save his beloved.

[lizzieisright]

Moon peppers (1)

were!Abby x witch!reader

Summary: Abby runs away from her (former) pack and into your forest. You're not happy with your new (woods?)mate.

Tags: fantasy au, sloppy worldbuilding (fuck it we ball), fem!reader, alpha!abby, witch!reader (so not an omega), sentient forest, stubborn idiots in love who annoy each other.

A/N: This is basically God of War 2 x Witcher fics (i didn't watch it) x Tolkien x some of my original worldbuilding for my own stories x kinda omeraverse. I have no idea where this is going, but I'm having fun.

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Abby runs. Her speed is fueled by adrenaline and fear. She is hurt and her fur is so red from blood that it's impossible to see her sandy coat at all. Abby is not sure she will survive even if she somehow escapes Isaac and his dogs: she is getting dizzy and tired. 

The Moon shines on her and Abby tries to see any path she can follow and shake Isaac off, but Abby knows the smell of her blood is so prominent nothing will hide her. 

If Abby was in human form she'd have probably given up by now, but she is a wolf now and her instincts push her forward, push her into survival, no matter what it will take. So Abby keeps running through the fields, hearing Isaac’s wolves from every direction as if they're circling her. Abby speeds up, not feeling her wounds, and follows the Moon. 

The Moon shines on the dark tall forest: it looks intimidating. Any other time Abby would avoid this forest because she is not insane, she can feel this forest is not just woods. This forest is alive and will swallow her if she goes inside, but between her former pack trying to tear her apart and slowly getting killed by the forest, Abby chooses the forest. 

She can't be sure it will kill her anyway: nature is odd and has a mind of its own. But her packmates will kill her, there's no doubt.

And all for what? For her standing up for her friends who refused to kill innocent people so their pack would have more resources? Isaac really didn't like hearing his killings and raids are nothing more than cruelty and despotism than any kind of holy war on humans who hate werewolves and want them dead. 

(Humans rarely care as long as you stay human around them and don't go on a rampage.)

So Isaac wanted to make an example out of them. Abby held off while others escaped - she is the strongest in the pack and can take a few wolves at once in the fight - but then she had to escape as well. 

And now she is getting closer to the edge of the woods and her heart is trembling from anxiety. She has no idea what will happen when she crosses the line, but if her pack follows her, the forest won't be kind to them either. 

So Abby takes a deep breath and runs into the forest. 

Inside the forest Abby hears nothing. Well, she hears rustling and can feel the wind, but there is no sign of the outside world. Her ears can't pick up on the footsteps of her pack that were deafening when she ran. No smell of them either, no heartbeats, nothing. As if they just disappeared. It's uncanny and Abby is scared, but nothing comes at her. 

Abby cautiously goes on a trail in front of her - she is not questioning this, this forest is weird - and her tiredness catches up with her. Her paws are barely moving but she pushes herself forward anyway, trusting this place to guide her since it didn't go hostile immediately. Abby looks back just to be sure and yes, the trail is still there, the forest isn't tricking her. 

Her heart is still beating crazy, but she feels safe from the chase and doesn't try to run anymore. The trail leads her to the river which shines strangely - or that what Abby thinks until she sees this is just the Moon reflecting in the water. Abby lies on the shore and laps at the water until her thirst goes away - she doesn't turn into a human, too weak and too scared: the wolf is stronger and heals faster. She feels so tired, she lost so much blood it scares her, she feels like she is very close to death now, but somehow Abby finds some strength to quickly bathe in the river and clean her injuries. 

She is also hungry, but she just can't. Abby sniffs around and catches some damp smell that feels like the inside of the cave and she follows it. There's indeed a den, probably used by a bear before, but the scent of it is so weak it's not coming back. So Abby curls around herself and falls asleep, trying not to think about not waking up ever again. 

The woodpecker starts knocking on the trees and you try to ignore it, but then the sun shines through your window and this is it, no sleep for you. You huff half-heartedly, but you don't mind forest's games. Sometimes they're grumpy and you wake up in a damp hot fog that clots your lungs, so the annoying woodpecker is not bad at all. 

The morning is beautiful: it's quiet, sunny and warm, even though the summer is ending. Probably this is why the woods are in a sweet mood - they're already mourning, which means they're celebrating the beginning of something new. 

This is the last day of the full moon and you plan on collecting some of the flowers that bloom only under the moonlight. It's not your favourite activity, since it's so dark and this forest is living its own life - they don't really care if there is a witch or not and if this witch is alive or not, you're just a passing in their lifetime. 

Useful passing though - you know the woods like you because you keep them clean and healthy when they can't; you keep the passing people from hurting them and the villagers from exploiting them. 

You've lived in the village for a few years before moving here - the call of the forest was too strong, and the times when you'd come to harvest some of the ingredients they wouldn't let you out. At first you thought they were mad at you - but then they saved your ass multiple times from animals (or, in one particular case, a werebear who really wanted to rip your throat out). So you went there for a few nights one time and lied in the bog, trying to connect with them - and they did, and told you they want you to be here. So you stayed, knowing better than arguing with a sentient forest.

The villagers were not super happy about losing their witch to the forest, but you visit them almost every other day, healing people and getting food in return, or clothes or anything which is available to your patients. They rarely come to you - they're wary of the woods, since some people got lost there and some only returned after a week, almost driven mad. The forest is not some kind of god or deity, their mood changes with wind, and by the end of the day, they really don’t care who gets hurt, unless they’re in the mood to save you. Or if they’re in the mood to kill you, then there’s no escape.

You get ready for the day, putting your salves and tinctures in your basket to head out to the village - there's always someone who is hurt and who needs some kind of help. Plus, sometimes it's nice to just be around people - and around your people, since this village is not entirely human. There's a dwarf and an elf who live close by - you have no idea why they're here, especially since the elf comes from an important old family, she is not just a peasant. But you don't ask questions, and they don't ask you questions about your past. 

You leave the forest at noon and walk to the village, enjoying the weather and the sun that warms you. Children see you and run towards you, putting their curious noses into your basket, so you spare some flower milk for them, since this is what they're looking for. They ramble about anyone who needs help and lead you to the houses. It's not a busy day, but you get stuck with an old lady whose back is hurting her. 

“Wow.” You sigh when you feel the knots in her muscles. “What were you doing yesterday? Carrying rocks?”

“My grandson came to play. We ran around a bit, he jumped everywhere, such a naughty darling!” Mari laughs. “I felt like I was a young lass again.”

You chuckle at this and press at her muscles, releasing tension. Mari squeals and twitches in pain, but she is a tough lady, so you keep massaging her with a bit of magic to make her feel better. 

You like lazy days - lazy days mean everyone is okay and you won't have to stand at another funeral: your magic is not some kind of miraculous cure, not for humans, anyway. It doesn't connect with them the way it connects with non-humans, so your help is still limited. 

You go around, giving people some tinctures for the upcoming cold season - children are especially vulnerable during autumn, so you want to prevent their illnesses as best as you can. 

The sun is slowly starting to set when you make it to Vi and Caitlyn’s house: it's on the edge of the village and it's odd. You don't know why, but looking at the clash of elven grace and dwarven coarseness makes you feel funny. It doesn't belong together, but then it does, and you always giggle when you visit them. 

They're an odd pair as well: Caitlyn opens the door, elegant and tall, and hugs you.

“Oh, darling, I hope your day was easy on your heart.” Caitlyn speaks as if she only knows poetry, while...

“Well she doesn't look like shit today.” The short, buff Vi comes into your view and you laugh. 

They don't belong together, but they do, and you can't help the flutter of your heart when you see Caitlyn caress Vi’s head gently, tracing her tattoos with her pretty fingers while Vi flexes her big biceps.  

Caitlyn makes tea for you while Vi takes her special tincture (read: magic booze) from your basket. 

“Best one yet, witch.” Vi smirks and sits next to you and Caitlyn. “Make me a few of them and I'll make you something nice.”

“Deal.” You do need a new dagger, and Vi is an amazing smith. 

It's been a while since you visited them, so you spend the whole evening in their house, catching up, listening to Caitlyn's complaints - which they never sound like, because she is the most graceful person you know - and sharing your own struggles. Vi for the most part works in her workshop, but now and then she'd come and give you her thoughts as well. 

You leave their house when the Moon is full and bright in the sky, and you make your way back to the forest. 

They don't greet you this time, but you don't mind - the mood of the woods is not your business. You cast a spell that will lead you to the moon peppers and follow it carefully: you can see pretty well in the dark, but you don't want to fall with a full basket of elven treats and dwarven booze, and your new tunic from Mari. 

Moon peppers - and they're not, in fact, peppers, they're flowers that look like peppers - are on the other end of the forest, and it takes you some time to finally get there, but you can't help your pleased gasp when you see them. The flowers shine in the moonlight, fully fluorescent - they're beautiful. You look up to the Moon and nod to her for her wonderful work.

You crunch in front of the bush and take your knife out, cutting the beautiful blooms - not only do they look nice, but moon peppers save the moon magic in them forever, and you can use them in truly powerful potions that can help with serious illnesses. 

You cut almost all of the blooms when you hear rustling behind the bush, and you look curiously: usually it would be a hedgehog going on his way. 

Then the bush gets separated in half and you freeze in terror. 

You blink at the wolf. 

The wolf blinks back. 

You scramble to your feet, take your basket and start moving away slowly, not sure of the wolf's intentions. The eyes of the wolf are golden - it's a were - and it snarls at you, baring the sharp teeth. 

Oh fuck no, you think as you swallow. Not fucking again.

The wolf growls and you don't need another cue, you run for your life - you don't know how lucid this werewolf is and you don't want to wait to find out; you have scars from the last encounter with a were and you're not eager to repeat it. 

The wolf chases you, low growling is loud in your ears, but you know these woods and you pray they won't play you now as you run to your hut. Your lungs are on fire, but you only need to make it to the protective circle that the wolf won't be able to cross. The basket is clinking and you somehow make a spell to save the contents when you hear the wolf getting closer.

“Fuck off!” You yell, annoyed and terrified. “Leave me alone, wolf!”

The wolf just growls again and you hear it right behind you, so you send a pulse of magic to trip the wolf. It hurts, why the fuck does it hurt? You don't know and don't care right now, just running as fast as you can. You won't be able to take a werewolf in a fight - haven't been able for quite some time now - but you can slow it down. You hop over the branches like a trained horse, looking ahead and making shortcuts whenever you can, because your home is a long way from the moon peppers and your stamina is nothing compared to the stamina of a werewolf. The wolf however struggles to catch up, and you’re grateful - is it forest helping you or the wolf being stupid doesn’t matter.

You see the hut and speed up, crossing the line of your circle and immediately falling down on the ground, coughing out your own lungs. It takes a few seconds for the wolf to get to you, and it pounces - and even if you know it won't cross the circle, it's terrifying. You close your face instinctively and shriek in fear, but of course, nothing happens: the wolf smacks into the invisible wall and falls down. You use this moment to get up and run to your house, closing the door and casting a few spells just to be sure there's no weak spot in your shields. You walk to the window on your shaking legs, all covered in mud, and you look out. The wolf is circling your shields, growling and scraping the walls with its gigantic paws. It sees you and gets more aggressive, so you move away from the window and sit on the floor. 

You're still panting, and even your shields don't make you feel better - last time the werebear broke them and maimed you until the forest actually intervened and dragged the bear away from you. It was nasty and took so long to heal, but the scarring was minimum - most of the injuries healed without a trace. 

You calm down, your breathing is getting normal again, and you look at your basket with a bunch of moon peppers in it. 

The wolf will not get away with it, you decide. You'll show it who is the boss here.

[adimouze]

maxiel witcher au????? tell me more 😳😳😳😳

IM SO GLAD YOU ASKED OKAY SO it's mostly scribbles and little drafts that need connecting tissue but --

max's dad tries to sell him to the school of wolf at a very young age but they've been through some reforms so when he turns up with a 3 year old Lewis is like wtf no raise that child into a teen then we'll see so Jos decides to sell him to another witcher school of dubious nature

enter the school of the cat!!! it's run by christian and a crickety old mage of dubious nature and they take in max for too cheap a price and max never sees his family again but he gets turned into a Cat witcher, he's probably the best witcher around after Lewis and Sebastian but unlike Lewis and Sebastian he's up for anything for a price he's not saving villages out of the goodness of his heart

he gets hired to save this shitty little village in the edges of the continent and he meets Ricciardo the Bard but he's just daniel then and he's like...18 and fresh off the boat, teeth crooked and still too in awe of everything around him, Max wants to eat him

so they fuck and then daniel's like peace cool see u around and max kinda imprints on him because he's never met someone as interesting as daniel but then again he has work to do and money to earn and he cant be following a mortal around BUT

(continued below if people are still around)

they keep running into each other!!!! it's weird!!! like destiny!!!! (it's actually max being obsessed enough to stick around major towns that he thinks daniel might come by in)

daniel gets famous!!! he ages!!! he gets hot!!! he decides to join max in some of his little adventures and it's fun but daniel is like "babe i gotta share some of this BDE with the world" but he does truly love max he just doesnt know max feels the same way (max, to the side, drooling at his every move) so he goes around playing songs that he wrote about max in towns and getting more and more famous (he's taylor swift and doing eras tours in my head)

anyways daniel gets captured by some king who takes a shining to him and basically makes him his sex slave/court musician and max finds out so through another witcher and he basically stages a coup

PLOT HAPPENS

daniel is injured!!! max drags him to lewis because christian tells him there's nothing he can do to save a dying bard but lewis has one way. and max wont like it. daniel would definitely not like it.

daniel wakes up 35 years old and a witcher.

[cosmos-coma]

Sick Days- Geralt

Pairing: Geralt x Reader

Words: ~1.1k

Summary: You refuse to tell Geralt that you're sick and so he has to find out the hard way

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“How are you doing back there, Y/n?” Geralt called back to you, he and Roach taking the lead on this narrow path.

The partly cloudy afternoon was more than welcome to you compared to the rain you had pushed through all day yesterday. And the day before. Ugh. 

Honestly, you liked rain as a whole, but the added chill in the air and the absolute soaking of your jacket left you feeling tired, feverish, and sniffly. You dared not let Geralt know that you were growing sick, the deadline to get to Novigrad was drawing closer and you refused to be the cause for missing it.

“Yep, yeah, I’m okay back here…” you lied. Your vision had begun spinning and your vision started lagging behind your eyes about 10 minutes ago. Your light tunic clung to your skin as your fever made you sweat relentlessly. Your various layers were laying across your horse in an unceremonious heap where you had left them and- wait, did you lose a jacket along the way? Hmm, you couldn't remember.

You let out a soft hum as a faint breeze cooled your skin and gave you a moment of relief from the sweltering heat.

 “Y/n?” Geralt called out to you, “did you hear what I said?”

“Hm? Oh, no… what were you saying?” Your eyes closed as you tried to listen, your ears only picking up garbled noises. You could feel your body begin to get to tired to hold itself together, but you had to fight through it. 

“Hmm, That’s interesting… “ you replied- well you're pretty sure that’s what you said. You… couldn’t be sure right now. Your consciousness filled with nothing more than a dense fog you couldn't seem to fan away. 

“Yes very interesting…” you slurred out as your mind finally forced your body to shut down and everything went dark.

“Y/n, you’re not making any sense- shit..!” Geralt turned just in time to see you fall off your horse with a great big THUD. A pathetic groan was the last sound your barely conscious body sent out as Geralt yelled again and ran to your limp body. 

“Y/n?” he shook you, “Fuck… and you’re burning up,” he commented and swiftly picked you up, your skin blazing and burning against his. “Let’s get you to an Inn, we’re done traveling for today…”

You woke up on clean linens, your body stripped down to its underclothes and covered in damp washcloths to keep you cool. “Hmm, Geralt...?” you grunted out as you sat up, rolled up cloth falling from your forehead, “Oh- nope, no, no, no... too dizzy…” you sighed and promptly laid down again. 

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty…” Geralt jested and sat on the edge of the bed- his expression slowly changing to something more sincere, his voice quieting as he urged you to take in the seriousness of his words. “You scared me back there… why didn’t you tell me that you were sick..? That you had a fever..?”

Your mouth opened and closed as you tried to find an adequate explanation, but it never came.

“You could have died if you’d fallen over a cliff's edge…if your head had hit rocks…” Geralt couldn’t even meet your eyes as he talked- instead opting to replace the damp cloths on your forehead. “You’re not as hearty as a Witcher is- you know that.” 

You frowned, feeling more and more like a scolded child as he spoke to you. You shook your head and glanced outside instead of anywhere near this conversation. 

“Y/n...” Geralt sighed, knowing exactly what you were doing, “Dear heart..?” he tried once more, finally catching your gaze. 

“I don’t mean to make your softness such a flaw- you know it's exactly what pulled me into you in the first place..” A small smile crept over his features as he briefly remembered your first meeting. “But you need to let me know when to slow down, okay? Remind me now and then to be a little softer too,” he spoke so quietly that you were sure nothing else in the world could have heard him but you. 

Your own expression reflected his smile and his whispered words fluttered around your heart “I will… I promise.” your fingers reached out for his, searching around until they captured his touch. “Oh, how long have I been out? We need to keep going” you urged, using your aching arm to bring his hand up to your lips in a soft kiss before you struggled to pull yourself upright.

But Geralt only laughed and shook his head as he helped you sit up, “now I see where Ciri gets her endless determination from- neither of you wants to stop for a minute to take care of yourselves.”

“We learned it from YOU, Geralt…” you grinned, sniffling as your nose threatened to run. 

Eyes rolling, his smile became even wider. “Anyways… I mean to say that you shouldn’t worry about it… we’ve been making good time, we can spare a day to let you rest and recover.” 

You nodded and relaxed a bit more, rolling your shoulder and cracking your back as you tried to get comfortable. “Good… Good, I really can’t fall off like that again. I feel like I just slammed shoulder-first into a shaelmaar…”

“I bet,” Your witcher snorted, a knowing smile hiding behind your hand as he brought it up to kiss in return. “Do you think some desert would make that shoulder feel any better?”

“Hmmmmmm, I think it’s a good start… that might help being sick but maybe you can rub my shoulder later..?” you grinned, knowing you were pushing it, but that hadn’t failed you yet. 

A genuine laugh pulled itself from Geralt as he stood, audible and even forming a faint crease around his eyes. For a witcher, it might as well have been a full belly laugh the way their stoic expressions dampen everything. 

You beamed and watched your handsome witcher as he headed off to get you dessert. You wouldn’t be surprised if his heart was as golden and lovely as his eyes were.  “Hey, Geralt? I love you…” 

“I love you too, Dear heart… no matter how soft you make me.” He said with a smile as he came back to your side and leaned down to press a sweet kiss against your lips.

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Taglist: @writingmysanity @open--till--midnight @dark-academia-slut @madamemelancholysstuff

[popjunkie42]

Chains

Read on AO3

Chapter One: Of Lovely Monsters

Summary:

"And yet I found myself deciding that if you took his hand, I would find a way to live with it. It would be your choice."

I sipped from my wine. "And if he had grabbed me?"

There was nothing but uncompromising will in his eyes. "Then I would have torn apart the world to get you back."

-A Court of Mist and Fury

Lucien steals Feyre away from the safety of the Night Court as she and Rhys train in the Illyrian Steppes. Winnowing her to the Spring Court and Tamlin, Feyre must contend with the consequences of leaving while held against her will.

An ACOMAF Chapter 47 divergence.

Thanks to @witch-and-her-witcher and @foundress0fnothing for beta reading and giving me amazing advice!

It’s my birthday and…

This is a lil dramatic divergence I’ve been working on for far, far too long. So now it’s your problem!

Chapter under the cut or Read on AO3.

Lucien moved us, again and again through the fabric of the world, his face straining and sweat dripping from his forehead. I screamed and wrenched against him as we winnowed further and further south, barely glimpsing the changing seasons as he pulled us through the courts. I could only tell the distance by the air against my face: a brush of heat, the blast of an icy wind. The misty mountains of Illyria trailing further behind us as he dragged me south.

I knew where he was taking me. My body screamed as I clawed and fought, useless now against his iron grip, and the further we got the more I felt that something inside me had turned brittle and was ready to break.

Rhys. Rhys. Rhys.

Where are you?

My skull was a prison, my mind trapped within. Just moments earlier it had been free - scanning the little blur of impressions from birds and rabbits in the woods, reaching out to listen, shivering from the brush of the other mind that nuzzled against me, and asked me and played with me.

I felt for that bridge, for that gentle pulse around my chest, once so tangible I thought I could feel it as strong as my own heart.

But there was nothing. I was empty - hollow. All my magic had poured out, and Rhys along with it. No cunning amusement, no smiles or violet eyes teasing at the edges of my mind.

No Illyrian warrior to draw me back from this hell.

As we whipped through the courts, I knew with growing horror what awaited me at the end of this journey. A scream was building within me and I didn’t know if it would come out through my mouth or simply keep building inside me until I burst.

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

Ten Minutes Earlier…

I didn’t hear the dripping of melting snow, the rush of the creek, or the howling of the wind. Not against the rush of blood in my ears.

Lucien. He found me. But –

“Feyre,” Lucien whispered, his red hair like a beacon in this black and white forest of ice.

In a blink, we weren’t alone. Spring Court sentries dressed in black and covered in weapons banked him on each side.

“Lucien. You shouldn’t be here.” The rushing river inched closer to me as I risked a single step, my stomach churning as he followed me forward, his boot crunching through the frozen top layer of snow.

His hand extended to me. No weapon in his palm, but he didn’t need one - now that I had trained my own powers, I could feel his own thrumming under his skin. The flesh of my arm prickled in warning. I wondered if the icy winter of this place would dim him, or if he could still set the forest ablaze, as I had with Autumn Court fire just yesterday.

“Put down the bow, Feyre. I’m here to take you home.” His voice was soft, strangely gentle.

“Don’t touch me,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt.

My mind was churning like the river, my thoughts a frantic blur against the blood rushing in my ears. Lucien. How had he found me? And Tamlin - gods, was he here? I haven’t used my powers in battle yet - what if someone gets hurt? What if I’m not ready? Rhys - he had to be close - would the High Lords rip this forest apart?

As if in answer, my shield dropped that small space we opened for each other, a tendril of my dark power spearing into the air.

Rhys! -I shouted into the void, just as the red paint stroke of Lucien folded into nothing. So quick I didn’t even take another breath of the cold Illyrian Steppes before his warm hand was on mine, and he had snatched me away into the space between worlds.

When we appeared again, we were still in the Steppes but somewhere higher - the air colder, the fog thick in the air.

I was going to scream, I was going to tear at him, but before I could even think, my power was coiling and twisting under my skin.

Lucien - my friend, whose life was in my debt three times over, had taken me. Was dragging me back - to him. The full length of Prythian wasn’t enough to escape it - this rot in the Spring Court, that gave them over to this haughty entitlement, this feeling of possession over me…

I swallowed the cold air into my lungs, letting the ice and panic hone my senses. With an exhale I threw my mind out to the forest like a swift wave, my body seeking his.

Where are you?

The grip of Lucien’s hands on my wrist was crushing. But my bones and joints shifted under his grasp as my fingers elongated and claws began to form, dark like black onyx. Fangs sprang to my mouth and I wasn’t even sure what I was turning into, just that I was in danger, I was angry and I was going to explode. Lucien wasn’t paying attention, was scanning the forest desperately, panting with exertion as I raised a clawed hand in the air.

“Fuck!”

But he was more prepared than I - using his grip on me to pull my body forward and off balance as he dipped to the ground and rolled out of my stumbling reach.

My jaw was widening, bones were popping and transforming in odd ways that probably should have been painful, but I wasn’t aware of such things. Anger burned through me and I felt my canines scrape against my lip as I roared, roared.

On the ground, Lucien turned pale as he scrambled backwards in the snow.

“Holy Mother,” he whispered, and threw something into my face.

Blue powder exploded against my cheek as the small satchel burst. Blue powder down my lungs like sharp metal dust, scratching and burning deep into my chest.

Whatever bones and sharp edges I was growing winked away in an instant, like a candle snuffed out. I didn’t feel the snow as I pitched forward, coughing and choking on the powder and the sudden breathless snap of my power disappearing within me.

In between the rasping coughs, I felt a silence, a cold and empty room within my mind - not a shielded space of mine, but a void of nothing.

Lucien gripped my wrist firmly as I coughed and sputtered, reaching over and over again inside of me for the power that was now gone.

“What did you do?” I screamed, the powder burning in my lungs.

“You’re not yourself, Feyre,” he said, breathless and shaking. He held my arm like a vise but kept me at the edge of his arm’s reach. “This is to protect you as much as me.” Maybe it was wishful thinking, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced. He was as tense as I had ever seen him - scanning the white and black landscape around us, a subtle glow coming from him, trying to pierce through the fog.

“We’ll get you free of him, Feyre,” Lucien whispered now, like we were being watched. I desperately hoped we were - imagined deathly black wings and piercing violet eyes descending on us through the haze –

The air around me whipped away into darkness as Lucien winnowed us from the Steppes.

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

When we landed in Spring, on the cobblestones in front of the manor, Lucien and I collapsed.

He was on his back beside me, chest heaving, gasping for air.

It couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes.

Birds were singing in the forest beyond, the sounds becoming clearer as my breathing slowed. A warm, gentle breeze blew over us. A peaceful spring day, a mockery of the fear and anger burning inside me like a forest fire.

My muscles shook and I heard my quiver of arrows clatter against my back.

She didn’t want me to rely on my powers alone, that gentle voice echoed back at me.

I had been human, when I first walked these paths and up these stairs. No powers or even decent senses to speak of. Ridiculous, how much I’d come to rely on them.

Now I had two Illyrian knives strapped to my thighs.

In an instant they were in my hands, and I leapt onto Lucien with a snarl.

He barely caught my arm in time and my shaking limbs fought against him, pressing forward, the knife in my hand shaking above his head.

“How dare you!” I screamed, spittle flying into his face.

“Tam!” he bellowed. Even without my powers he struggled against me, my knee on his ribcage, my sweat dripping onto his pale strained face. “Ow, Feyre, Cauldron, stop –”

Bruising hands wrenched my arms and legs into the air, restraining me. Someone loosened my fingers one by one until the knives clattered to the ground as I thrashed.

I scented him before I saw him. Grass and rain and roses.

My body froze, my heart stuttering. A wave of something cold and prickling traveled down my skin as the sentries set me on my feet in front of him, my arms still in their wrenching grip.

Tamlin stood, rooted to the ground at the foot of the manor. His face had gone white, his eyes wide and blazing as he looked at me. An outfit of green and gold, a blur of muscles and power.

“Feyre,” he said gently. As if he had run into me unexpectedly, as if I was a ghost haunting the woods. As if he hadn’t sent Lucien and his sentries to take me.

The sight of him after so many months - his face so familiar yet so estranged, made anger and terror mix together into something sickly and thick in my body, dripping down my stomach like acid.

The last time I was here, I had been a prisoner. Locked inside until the walls choked the breath from me.

“No,” I whispered, my limbs beginning to shake. Moments ago my body was buzzing, humming like a panicked animal. Now I was frozen. My mind went black except for the steady chant inside of no no no no…

“Let her go,” Tamlin growled, that High Lord power of his command compelling even me to tremble. I was set down gently on the stones, my knees giving way, every part of me shaking.

Tamlin stalked towards me, the beast within him cautious, his eyes wide. An apex predator, his eyes never leaving my face.

“Feyre,” he said again, striding closer. “You’re back. You’re free.”

You’re free, Mor’s voice whispered in my mind.

Something in me jolted and I scrambled back from him on the cobblestones. I didn’t get far until my back was up against the legs of one of the sentries. I hated this trembling fear in me. I was a wolf, I was the Cursebreaker, I was made from all seven courts. But here I was nothing more than a trapped rabbit.

The High Lord kneeled in front of me, extending a hand, palm down, so similar to Lucien in the woods. Tentative, calming.

Like I was a feral creature to be tamed.

“What have you done,” I said, swallowing down a sob in my throat.

Finally, his eyes left me and flickered to Lucien, now standing behind him, his hand wary on the jeweled hilt of his sword.

“We found her in the northern woods,” Lucien replied to his silent question. “I winnowed, but her powers…I had to use the faebane.”

A muscled jaw clenched tightly, as Tamlin looked back at me. He was thinner than I remembered him - the lines of his muscles under his tunic stark, his cheekbones sharp against his sallow skin.

“Was he there?” he asked Lucien, still staring into my face.

“I didn't see him, but he was close. We got out before he could interfere.”

I needed my powers - my strength, my weapons. But not even my body would obey me now.

Come find me, come get me

“You’re home, Feyre. We’re going to help you,” Tamlin’s voice waivered, and he swallowed thickly. “He’s in your mind, but we’re going to get him out.”

Something cracked inside my chest. The birds were singing and a sweet scent was in the air and I was terrified and alone. Hot tears were running down my cheeks.

“No, he’s not,” my voice was saying, but I was far away. “He’s gone.”

Tamlin furrowed his brows at me. I could see the pain on his face, in his forest green eyes. As if I was hurting him.

He stared at me for a long moment, as I willed my tears to stop, as I willed them to turn to waves of the ocean or daggers of ice. But no power echoed in my blood, my bones. I was an animal, caught fully in their trap.

The High Lord of Spring reached for me and I felt the scrape of phantom claws on my skin, the bruise from Lucien’s grip still burning onto my wrist –

“Don’t touch me!”

Tamlin’s face was white with shock, and something like devastation. He froze before me with what seemed like an eternity.

“Bring her inside,” he finally said.

And I was hauled up by my arms and carried back into the manor, prison bound once more.

Read on AO3

[climbthemountain2020]

Your Eyes Whisper Have We Met

Part 1/? | Ao3

I was momentarily and violently possessed by the spirit of Taylor Swift to write this Feysand

Biggest thanks to @witch-and-her-witcher @cauldronblssd and @rosanna-writer for the best betas a gal could ask for!

[In a world where the Archerons never lost their fortune, fate finds Feyre on the night of a masquerade ball.]

The sun was setting low and bright over the horizon of the lake while Feyre brushed out her hair, her hips leaned casually against the side of the stone railing of the balcony to keep her balance. Before too long, the nights would begin to bring a chill into the air and it wouldn’t be as easy to stand out here and marvel at the colors in the sky. But here at the end of September, the breeze was still balmy enough to skirt over her exposed shoulders like a soft blanket.

The upper register of the sky was turning a deep navy, the stars already sparkling like diamonds. They felt familiar and comforting to her, as they always did. Lower, the blues bled into a menagerie of lavenders, periwinkles, and the lightest, brightest pinks. She wanted to paint the colors so badly, lay them one by one onto a canvas until they merged together seamlessly. The colors reminded her of the smooth interior of a seashell her father had brought home once from a trip. Feyre kept it on her dresser, touching the glossy bridge of it every so often, holding it up to her ear to hear the sounds of the waves lapping the shore, though she’d never actually been to a beach herself.

She sighed, letting the arm with the brush fall to her side and flipping her hair back over a freckled shoulder.

The moon was going to be large in the sky tonight–a good omen for the masquerade in honor of Elain’s twenty-first birthday. If Feyre leaned far enough over the edge of the balcony, she could see the twinkling lights that spread across the entryway to the estate, glowing brightly and welcoming the already-surging crowds of nobles. Though she couldn’t see them from where she was standing, she knew from careful preparation how magical the lights looked, reaching criss-crossed over the main pathway up to the massive oak front doors, though Feyre couldn’t see them from here.

Despite all the shining luster, she felt her elation ebbing like the tide in her chest.

These hosted events were nothing new, but Feyre had trouble getting excited for them anymore. Something about them felt so shallow and empty–forced laughter, fake smiles–it was always the same. The same people, the same conversations, and the same…nothingness that followed.

Elain and Nesta enjoyed them well enough, though you might not know it by Nesta’s face or attitude. The two were born and bred for high society. In theory, Feyre had been too, but something had always been different. She’d taken the same lessons, been born of the same bloodline, suffered the same teachers, and fumbled through the same etiquette courses. But, still, something felt different about her.

A half-wild beast.

Nesta’s favorite insult. Yet, in the quiet privacy of her room, Feyre wore it like a badge of honor.

She would sit on her balcony often, long after the manor was asleep, and stare up at those same smiling stars, dreaming about the stories in her books, and wondering if, in some other lifetime, she was the one slaying dragons, riding horses, and falling in love. She dreamed of wielding the weapons that the guards tossed around so effortlessly in the yard, her fists clenching and unclenching with the want to hold them in her hand. She dreamed of the bow and arrows so vividly that sometimes she woke up feeling as though her arm had been drawn back at the ready, the golden eyes of some animal in the snow flashing brightly in her mind.

But, at the end of the day, Feyre understood her role. She knew her place here, even if she hated it. She’d have gone down swinging and fighting if it weren’t for her sisters, but she knew she’d never forgive herself if she ruined their chances at a life they wanted for her own selfish wants.

So, she allowed the soft dress to be pulled up her body, the corset laced so tightly she could barely breathe. She let the long, golden tresses of her hair be pulled into a braid–nothing efficient or practical, but wispy and loose and lovely. She let them apply powder and blush to her cheekbones, only to roll her eyes to herself knowing she’d be wearing a mask anyway.

Her mask was a glittering mass of crystals inlaid on the softest navy fabric, the tops of the gems twinkling brightly as she turned it in the light. She’d seen the mask in a shop in town and couldn’t take her eyes off of it. It had reminded her of the silent nights spent outside, and she hadn’t been able to leave without it. She may have hated getting dressed and paraded for these events, but at least she’d have chosen one aspect of her presence this evening.

She slipped into the satin shoes, and she listened to them click, click, click down the stone and marble of the halls on her way to the foyer.

The manor smelled magical, the air filled with sweet, sharp, and savory spices from across the world. Her father always returned from his expeditions with barrels of the best foods, cans of spices, and wooden boxes of the loveliest, most exotic teas. Their house regularly smelled of some beautiful delicacy or another, but on nights where events like this took place, the whole manor was awash in the smells, and Feyre always liked that best.

The loud rise of voices became nearly deafening as she reached the massive set of stairs in the entryway.

As she looked down, she could see Elain and Nesta already socializing and doing their duty. Elain was floating like a butterfly around the room, twirling her skirts without even meaning to and catching the wandering eyes of every eligible–and ineligible–man in the room. Elain was effortlessly beautiful and charming–a perfect fit in this life–all soft, rounded edges and sweet sighs. Her mask was a soft, brushed suede in a light brown, the gems rounded up and shaped to mimic the face of a doe. Fitting, for every bit of Elain was that beautiful, gentle, cushioned etiquette that high society expected of her.

If Elain was the cushion, though, Nesta was the pin.

Nesta had dressed in black and red tonight, the ruby gemstones of her mask catching the light and reaching out like the wings of a great creature around her face. Her silver eyes cut across the room, daring any man to come closer. She looked as though she was ready for war, and in truth, she might be. The expectation weighed heavily on Nesta to marry, and soon.

Even Nesta’s calculated coldness couldn’t combat the pressures of society for much longer. She may be cold, but with money and a noble name came the burden of responsibility. Even with her reputation, the men had been lining up for her for nearly two years already. The time she had left was running out. While Feyre knew Nesta did not care one bit for the implications of being an unmarried noble, Nesta knew the consequences for her family and her name were she to be labeled as unmarriageable, and she wouldn’t dare harm Elain’s reputation in such a way. And, in addition, Elain had been breathing down her neck, anxious for her turn and knowing that she could not step forward for a marriage offer until Nesta had accepted one herself.

Feyre sighed as she reached the bottom of the steps, turning immediately to the back walls behind the circle of pillars surrounding the foyer and leading out into the main ballroom. The estate was absurdly large–so large, in fact, that as a child, Feyre had spent years discovering rooms she’d never even seen before. It was a gross misuse of money, from her point of view, but it’s not exactly like they could give rooms to the needy. She had suggested it once as a child, and her mother had their governess strike her for it. Their mother might be long dead, but her lessons lingered into their lives.

As Feyre passed the great doors, the strung-up lights again caught her eye, glowing against the backdrop of the now deep-black sky with the woods behind them. Something stirred within her.

Go. Go see.

But she’d long felt that pull to the woods. She’d also long learned to ignore it for the sake of propriety.

She ribbed at Nesta and Elain often for their expectations, but she knew someday they would fall to her, too. She was nineteen now, and once her sisters had been paired off, it would be her turn to find a nobleman who she’d be handed off to and expected to run his home and birth his children until she died.

The thought was almost enough to send her running to the woods.

Feyre could barely hold a conversation with any of the insufferable, pompous pricks for more than five minutes; she wasn’t sure how she would ever be able to warm one’s bed long term. But she saw her life for what it was: a gilded prison where her options had been predestined, planned, and chosen for her the minute she was placed as a squealing babe in her mother’s arms and declared a girl.

Feyre grabbed a drink from a passing server, sipping it delicately and letting the bubbles settle on her tongue and in her spirit, calming her as she walked into the wide open ballroom and began to skirt around the walls. She’d need to limit it to just the one–she had a tendency to drink too much at these events, and she notoriously could not handle her drink well.

If Feyre was honest with herself, she had wondered more than once what it might be like to meet a handsome young man who was more than the surface-level idiots of the rich families. Not that she was one for a vulnerable moment, but as beautiful as these parties were, they were just the same, old, tired faces again and again. In her bed in the dark, she’d thought more than once what it might be like for a handsome prince like the ones in the books she’d hid away from her governess by shoving them in her mattress to come and whisk her away for something more–something wonderful. Not just for the love story, but for the adventure, too. They’d run off arm in arm, him setting her on a horse by his side to roam the wide world beside him, never behind.

She continued along the curved wall, watching the crowd of twirling bodies embellished in jewels and brightly embroidered threads. She could be in her room, painting the colors swirling together across a canvas, instead of being here and watching it all pass her by.

Abruptly, Feyre stopped in her tracks, the air stolen from her lungs as though by force. She’d been hiding in the near-shadows as the others danced in the light. But across the room, almost entirely encased in shadows of his own, a pair of violet eyes met hers.

Feyre felt as though she’d been punched in the chest, her entire world narrowing in on the singular raised brow attached to those beautiful eyes, staring directly into her soul as though asking have we met? He seemed to hesitate, to recognize her almost, his hand raising nearly imperceptibly as though to wave.

Had she imagined it?

She could almost hear the voice now as she took a tentative step in that direction, closing the gap as she made her way around the room.

Come. Come see.

Silky and smooth and low, like warm honey in a cup of tea, like the burn of whiskey in the swigs she’d stolen in her father’s office. He pushed off the wall and walked towards her, looking quickly to the sides as though to check if anyone else was watching. His approach caused her heart to thunder wildly in her chest.

Come see.

As they approached each other, the gap closing with each step, she was taken aback by his overwhelming beauty. His hair was the color of raven’s wings, softly catching the light of the chandeliers above. The rest of him that wasn’t covered by his mask appeared to be carved out of stone, his chiseled features sharp, but kind. Those beautiful violet eyes up close sparked like they held a galaxy within them, the glittering reminding her of the patterns of the gems in her mask.

This is the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.

His lips arched up at the corners as though he’d heard her.

Impossible.

He looked familiar as he passed behind each of the marble pillars lining the room, the swirling and twirling of dancers in her periphery not breaking her focus for even a moment. She was a woman possessed, all her energy focused entirely on this beautiful stranger, only steps away. She felt a strangely familiar comfort as they closed the last few feet between them. She was sure she’d have remembered someone like him.

“Hello, darling.” His voice nearly knocked her breathless again as he took her hand in his, sketching a bow as he pressed his lips to her knuckles delicately. The touch of his skin to hers was electric, the currents coursing through her veins like lightning and fire and shooting straight to her chest where they swarmed and tore like bees in a nest.

She must have gasped, her body reacting before her mind could catch up, because his lovely twilight eyes locked on hers, a brow quirking up again as he stared at her. There was something unidentifiable in his expression–something so wide open and unguarded and vulnerable that didn’t match his raised brows or rakish smirk at all.

Underneath all that, there was something like wonder.

Every so often, his carefully curated expression would tic just the tiniest bit, a strain of his jaw, a twitch of his brow, and Feyre could see something different hiding beneath. Something almost nervous.

“Hello.” Her voice was a curious whisper, full of awe and jittery trepidation, but the smile she was granted in return was as bright as the full moon over the lake outside the manor, and it felt especially reserved for her.

“What’s your name?” His voice was deep and rumbling, the timbre of it shooting to her ribs and tugging briefly, so visceral and real that she nearly stepped forward with the ghost of it.

“Feyre.” There was no use playing coy. She wanted to hear her name off his lips–had never wanted anything more than she wanted it.

She swore she could hear his thoughts twirling the name around in his mind, likening it to the tolling of bells. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

“Feyre,” he murmured, eyes still full of stars and staring at her. “Fey-ruh,” he mouthed wordlessly this time, as though tasting it on his tongue and savoring it. She shivered to the tips of her toes, her eyes tracking the shape of his plush lips as they moved around the syllables.

“Yes,” she said, embarrassingly breathless. “What’s yours? I don’t recognize you.” The corners of his mouth turned up in amusement. Feyre had never been good at the rules of high society, failing even the most basic points of etiquette repeatedly and fantastically. But he seemed delighted, and the thrill of it all kept her heart threatening to pound out of her chest.

“Rhysand. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Feyre.” She loved the way he said her name; she loved the way it fit with hers. Feyre and Rhysand.

Rhysand. Rhysand. Rhysand.

He still held her hand in his.

“Would you honor me with a dance, Feyre darling?” She nodded mutely, still struggling to find words in the wake of meeting this familiar stranger, but she couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

He took her hand in his, his midnight black suit with silver embroidery glinting in the light and catching the reflections like beams of light. Rhysand. She tried the name in her mind over and over again until it felt like home on her tongue.

I could see myself calling him Rhys, warm on a couch, his lips on mine.

The thought came out of nowhere, startling her and making a blush race across her cheeks and up her ears. She must have physically flinched, because she could feel Rhysand almost shudder beneath her hand.

At long last, they reached the dance floor right as a new song queued up from the musicians, a light and sturdy waltz that would allow for space to talk between them. She placed her hands on his shoulder and arms, beginning the steps that she knew by heart. He kept time immediately, almost as though the dance was something he’d also grown up knowing.

“You’re not from around here.” Not a question.

“No, I am not.” He offered nothing more. She scrunched her nose, studying him, and he grinned down at her, his hair tumbling down across his forehead.

“Where are you from?”

“Somewhere further north of here. I’m here for business.” She wasn’t one to ask family names, lest she seem like she was throwing herself at his feet. But his words were so vague she couldn’t help but cock a brow at him. He smiled, a laugh on his lips.

“Hmm, family business. Sounds very serious.” The mocking in her voice was not lost on him, and his smile widened.

“It’s all a bit dicey right now. I’m a little out of my element.” She could surely understand what that felt like, nodding almost imperceptibly in agreement.

“Well, what part of business requires you attending a masquerade in the forest?” She couldn’t help but tease him. the words flit off her tongue before she could bite them down, but she relished his surprise. He seemed to enjoy the teasing.

“Just an errant invite to a nobleman passing through. I make it a habit to know the people in the important families when I travel. You never know what you may find.”

“Or whom.” The words were coy, and his eyes flashed momentarily with something akin to hunger before it cleared.

“This is your manor, is it not?” Perhaps he cared more for propriety than her.

“Yes. I’m Feyre, the youngest. The ball is for my sister, Elain. She just turned twenty-one.”

“Ah, and you?”

“Nineteen. Yourself?”

“A bit older, not in spirit, though.” His grin was heart-stopping, her breath catching in her chest at the sight of it. He was stunningly gorgeous, a work of art. Her fingers itched to paint his face embraced by the night sky, the stars humming and shooting past behind him as though they were alive…

Her thoughts were interrupted by his hands on her waist lifting her into the air as though she weighed nothing, her small yelp bringing yet another flush to her face. She’d lost her place in the dance while her thoughts had wandered, but he just chuckled lightly as he set her back down and they resumed. The music slowed to a quieter number and they readjusted their holds on each other to fit the new tempo, stepping close enough to feel his breath flit across her neck.

“You’re not at all how I imagined you’d be.”

“How you imagined?”

“Just the daughter of a noble family. You don’t act like them.”

She scoffed, then raised herself up a bit on her toes, arching her neck to place her lips closer to his ear, never breaking the slow rhythm of the dance. “Can I tell you a secret, Rhysand?” He shuddered lightly beneath her touch as they swayed.

“Anything.”

“I hate it here.” He laughed, something warm and welcoming blooming in her at the sound.

“I can see you somewhere different,” he said, voice still filled with amusement.

“Hmm, where?”

He pulled back a bit and pretended to think about it while she took in his face again, the mask doing nothing to hide the lovely strong jaw and high cheekbones, his dark golden skin nearly glowing beneath the chandelier lights. He looked like he belonged in the galaxies above them, flying through the night sky like some sort of Angel of Darkness in a painting. The thought brought a thrill to Feyre’s lower stomach that she’d only ever felt in the dark of her bedroom alone at night.

“I can see you outside, somewhere beneath the stars with a clear view of the sky.” Feyre could hear her own sharp intake of breath as she felt it, so she was sure he could too. Perhaps, it should be strange that someone she didn’t know at all could guess something so easily about her, something so intimate.

But instead of fear, the only feeling she could summon was comfort. Had anyone ever really known her? It was nice to be seen. It was nice to be known.

“I’d like that.”

The song came to an abrupt end, spooling immediately into another, more fast-paced dance. Feyre let the mischief flare to life behind her eyes as she grabbed his hand in hers.

“Can you keep up?”

His smile could rival the sun, and suddenly it was all she cared to see again.

He grabbed her hand, his skin warm and comforting against hers, and they launched into the steps for the dance, holding each other–perhaps a bit closer than was expected.

Song after song, dance after dance, the two twirled around the room. Feyre could sense time was passing, but she couldn’t find it in herself to track it or care, the world and people an inconsequential blur around them. They weren’t speaking with words, but it all felt like a conversation in and of itself, their bodies and minds somehow in step with each other, learning one another as his starry, violet eyes met blue. His smile crinkled around his lips, and left the smallest, almost unnoticeable dimples in its wake. Feyre grinned to behold it, and something told her it wasn’t a smile most were lucky enough to see.

She felt breathless, bubbly, intoxicated–and she knew that it was unrealistic to fall for someone so suddenly. It was something she expected of Elain, ever the romantic, but for the first time in her entire life, she imagined what it would be like if someone did make a bid for her hand.

For the first time, she thought about what it might be like to accept.

Please don’t be in love with someone else.

After what could have been hours, the songs began to slow again as the night began to wind down, the lights lower and the people quieter. Their hands regrettably dropped off the other, but Feyre wasn’t ready to let this go, not just yet. She leaned in almost imperceptibly, her whisper just barely a breath on her lips.

“Meet me in the garden? The back side of the house with the lake view.” Then, before she could view his expression or regret her actions, she walked off, very audibly complaining to her sisters that her feet hurt and she was off to bed.

Feyre sprinted down the halls, cutting corners so closely she almost slammed into the walls. She rushed across the marble floors, crashed into her bedroom doors, and flung them open and back shut with an intensity of which she didn’t believe herself capable. She shut and locked them behind her, kicking off her uncomfortable heels, ripping off the beautiful mask, and pushing her loose hair off her face as she strode to the balcony. She’d gone out this way in the night so many times it was like second nature to her now, the light breeze smelling of flowers and earth. She crept down the trellis, feet expertly catching on all the holds until she jumped the last few feet. Feyre skittered to the large stone wall to the garden, avoiding the gate in favor of scaling up the thick, twisted vines, swinging a leg over, and dropping wildly down to the other side.

Nesta’s words once again rang in her head, but if she could see Rhys again, even for a moment, then propriety be damned.

She turned to run but pulled up short with a gasp when she found him already there, nearly running into his chest.

“Hi.” The word was a breathy exhale on her tongue.

“I’ve been looking for you.” His words were soft and quiet in the night, a kind smile already on his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners in what appeared to be delight. Without his mask, she could see his lovely face in full, somehow even more beautiful than before.

“Would you like to walk? I can show you the lake.” It was one of her favorite places on the property. Elain favored the gardens, Nesta the copse of old oak trees that were older than the manor itself, but Feyre had always loved the lake. More times than she could count, as a child and even older, she’d had to be dragged from its murky depths. She loved to play in it, the time slipping away as she swam around, played with the fish, and even laid on her back just watching the clouds. Nesta called her a swamp monster, but she hadn’t minded.

Under the light of the moon, she led Rhysand to her favorite lakeside view, a small stone bench beneath the curtain of a weeping willow. Here, she couldn’t be seen from the house, and it was often she’d come here to paint, or relax, or just be left alone.

“Is this your favorite spot then?” He asked coyly, almost as though he’d heard her think it, as she grabbed her skirts up and sat down.

“I like to be alone, more often than not, and it’s easy to come here and buy some time unseen.”

“Unseen, hmm.” He sat beside her, the warmth of his thigh brushing against her own. “Did you take me here to kill me then, Feyre?” A laugh burst out of Feyre before she could stop it, loud and unrestrained as she raised a hand to her mouth. He was so funny; men were never funny. She should have been embarrassed that she’d guffawed like a goat in front of him, but when she looked up, his face was lit with an intangible sense of joy that stopped her short.

“You have a beautiful laugh.” The words weighed heavy in the air around them, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “I hope to hear it again.”

“You could.” She wasn’t sure what had come over her, the words out of her mouth before she could stop them with any sense.

“If I make you laugh too often, I think they require a proposal in these parts.” A grin split his face, but something about his tone felt serious to Feyre.

“Would that be so terrible?” His responding smile was sad, almost pained, as he grabbed her hand in his.

“Please believe me, Feyre, when I tell you nothing would please me more than to ask for your hand in marriage this very second. If I was able, I would have already asked your father.” The words froze and ached in her chest, making it hard to swallow, but she couldn’t look away.

“I wouldn’t say no.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, seeming to fight with himself over something. “In my current home, I am unable to make any propositions, and it would kill me to make you a promise I couldn’t fulfill. You deserve more than that. More than me.” It was the first true crack she’d seen in his mask, the first real show of that vulnerability that she’d sensed immediately. He huffed a mirthless laugh.

“What if I waited?” His eyes shot back to hers. “My sisters are not yet wed, and I cannot go before them anyway. What if we waited until your circumstances changed? We have time.” The hope and awe and wonder in his eyes was almost enough to unseat her entirely. His hand came to touch her jaw delicately, softly, as though she was something precious in his hands.

“I can’t ask you to–”

“I want to. Rhysand, I want to. This is crazy, I’m never this way. Truly, Nesta likens me to a beast more often than anything else. I don’t get along with others, but…” When she looked up again, he was staring at her like she’d hung the stars and moon. “You see me. I don’t know how I know, but I can tell. You see all that I am, here, now.” He nodded, brows deeply furrowed, as though thinking before he spoke.

“You would wait?”

“I would, unfailingly.” Something cracked wide open in her chest at the admission she hadn’t quite even felt herself deciding to make. Who was this man who had enthralled her so completely and utterly? And why did it feel more right than anything ever had before?

His eyes searched her face, as if looking for any reason to say no and failing.

“Would it be wildly improper of me to ask to kiss you?” His voice was as breathless as hers, as though they were speaking on sacred ground. She’d tipped forward a bit, leaning her face into his hand.

“It would, but do it anyway.”

“Can I kiss–” She didn’t let him finish as she surged up, pressing her lips to his.

The effect was immediate, sparks shooting off in her mind like a cracking piece of firewood. The tug in her chest became overwhelming as she wrapped her arms around his neck, his tongue moving against the seam of her lips as though asking for permission. She let him in, the smooth caress of his tongue against her own drawing a sound out of her that she’d never heard before. He smelled like jasmine and lilac as she ran her hands through his silky, inky hair, the motion drawing him closer as he ran his hands down her sides to hold her waist. It felt monumental, world-shifting, right.

The kiss deepened as he shifted her into his lap, his hands pulling, gripping, grabbing at every inch of her as they slid up her thighs to cup her ass. She ground down against him, feeling him against her and losing the fight against tipping her head back as his mouth left hers to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw and neck. She gasped as she felt his teeth, feeling sharper and more dangerous than they were, skirting lightly over her pulse point, something deep and primal thrumming within her at the action.

He murmured against her, “Feyre, you’re my–” And she would have given him anything he asked of her in that moment. A kiss, herself, the entire world.

But, abruptly, the sound of laughter and shattering glass broke them apart. Someone at the party had dropped something on their way out, but Feyre and Rhysand stared at each other, eyes wide and wild, chests heaving for air as they broke free of the spell.

“Feyre.” The word was a prayer on his lips as he licked them, as though he were tasting her one more time.

She pressed another, more chaste, kiss to the corner of his mouth, smiling as he sighed against her.

“Will you write to me, when your circumstances change?” She asked. His face was full of such wide, open hope. She would wait, and she’d do so happily if there was even a chance of this being the future that awaited her.

“Yes, of course. I’ll call on you when all is settled. I will see you again.” It sounded like a promise, an oath. She believed him as she felt the surge of joy and anticipation welling within her, the feelings stronger and more potent than she had ever felt before.

They stood, so unwilling to untangle their limbs and let go. He walked her back to the stone wall, offering to give her a hand and help her up. She sat atop it, gazing upon him a final time.

“I am very glad to have met you tonight, Rhysand.”

“Rhys.” He sketched a bow. “Call me Rhys. I was enchanted to meet you, Feyre.”

“Goodnight, Rhys.” He smiled, and as she turned to quietly dismount the other side, she looked back a final time to find him already gone.

+++

Rhys stood on the stone wall surrounding the manor as the moon dipped low in the sky. The colors of the sun on the horizon would be coming soon, but he hadn’t been quite ready to go yet. Instead, he stood, shrouded in the dark, hands in his pockets and the entirety of his focus on a single balcony. The wall was large and sturdy, at least two feet across and spanning the entire estate.

Good, Rhys thought. There are predators here.

Through the balcony window, the gossamer curtains flowed in the breeze, the low, golden light inside highlighting the fuzzy shapes within. He could see movement, the motion he’d been waiting for since she left the lakeside bench. His breath caught in his chest as she appeared, her hair down from her braid, loosely flowing over her shoulders and back as she spun around the room in her nightgown.

Dancing. She was dancing.

For the first time in decades, Rhys felt something like tears burning behind his eyes. She was so incredibly beautiful there in the window, holding her arms out and mimicking the moves that they had completed together only hours before. He’d have stayed a lifetime if only to see her dance again, to see that beautiful smile light up her face when she looked at him.

He’d been a fool to accept her offer, but it had been so long since Rhys had felt hope. He’d been an idiot to come here in the first place, considering the circumstances, but he had to see her, touch her, know that there was something worth fighting for. If he was going to make it out alive, he needed hope.

Mate. My mate.

He’d heard her thoughts all night long, so open and honest and forthright, not even second guessing herself. She fit him so thoroughly, her thoughts often matching his as they flitted through his own mind.

She was perfect.

It had been years since the first time he’d seen her in his dreams, just snips and flashes of her running through the woods, sloshing through the lake, then more detailed pictures of her pranking her sisters and governess, painting the undersides of furniture and the trees of the forest so no one would see. It had been a particularly horrible day when he’d finally broken and gone to see her, the lights of the ball providing a convenient ruse.

He’d told himself to be aloof, just a visiting guest, only there to observe.

Then he saw her. The pull nearly painful and he was pushing off the walls to look for her the second their eyes met.

If he had suspected the mating bond before, he was certain now, the tether alive and glowing in his chest, though unsnapped. He wondered how it felt to her, a human, but they’d been sharing thoughts and emotions all night, to his great joy.

Please don’t be in love with someone else. Please don’t have somebody waiting on you.

Half of that promise he could fulfill–he would never love anyone but her, his mate, the female from his dreams. He would always belong to her, the visual of her pressed against his chest as they danced, her smile bright and warm and eyes happy to see him. There would never be anyone else for him but the human girl who was a dreamer, who wanted more for herself in this life than the pretentious, materialistic world of a nobleman’s daughter. He watched as she threw herself back onto her fluffy bed with a sigh, kicking her feet against it as he smiled.

It was time for him to go, to flee back beneath the mountain before Amarantha looked too closely into his absence. He wouldn’t risk Feyre, no matter how much his heart ached to be near her. Just this glimpse would get him through, get him one step closer, one move further into a future where he might fulfill his promise, might be able to come to her again. Might even be able to bring her back home with him. Home, to his family.

He gave her a final look, smelling that pear and lilac scent on the breeze and filling his lungs with it.

“I’ll come back for you. I promise.” And then he was gone.

[hanzajesthanza]

i feel like i just got so used to ciri and how natural ciri and geralt’s relationship left, via being introduced to the witcher via witcher 3, and then reading the middle of the saga before i finished the short stories…

that i never really innately picked up on the fact that ciri turning out to be geralt’s daughter and not his son was… uhm, part of the entire surprise, let’s put it that way :’)

geralt and ciri are just soooo natural as a father and daughter duo that i can’t imagine it any other way, if ciri had been a boy this would have been way less remarkable as a series, there would be no witcher series as we know it. so to me ciri being a girl was the normal and default, expected way things were supposed to go.

even when i read a question of price-sword of destiny-something more for the first times, i was like “ok” when ciri being a girl was a switch of expectations: geralt (and, supposedly, the reader) having expected pavetta to have a son. like… “alright, it’s a girl, so what.”

i had to be informed about how this was an intentional shock… not only because i’m not a parent, but i mean, well, ultrasounds get mixed up all the time, right… it’s not so uncommon to have a kid and be surprised by the gender…

and because of this, i was more inclined to eyeroll at blood of elves being preachy with going over ciri’s biological sex what seemed like ten million times in chapters two and three… what with the whole “daughter has her first period” subplot, ciri upset over her lack of potential strongmanship, and the witchers mostly relying on triss for guidance in raising a girl. the moral being both “just raise her like any other child” and “be sensitive to her needs that you’re blind to…”

although i still think these segments have visibly aged and date the series (not inherently a bad thing, just a quality of it)… they do make more sense when i try to empathize more with the perspective of a new father… who didn’t know he was receiving a girl… who thought she died… who only got her back through a miracle… and having to raise a girl… that’s not a young child anymore, not yet a teen, but is very shortly going to start going through puberty?! it’s like growing up in the desert, just learning what water is, and then getting thrown into the ocean.

because “having to raise a girl” still doesn’t seem that strange to me, but then i remember geralt didn’t see a woman and only had heard about them as a concept until he was an adult (because “warrior-monk” realness), he grew up with a hole in his heart that his absent mother bore, he lives in a highly gendered society, he experiences hostility from everybody of course but especially from women and girls, who take fright at him for… specific reasons explained by the old women in edge of the world…

no, geralt’s not helpless, but i forget, because he acts normal, but… (i mean, although he has issues, he could have really gone off his rocker with regards to women, a little sacrifice confirms this and vilgefortz embodies this) i forget that geralt’s inexperience with women… mostly manifesting in anxiety and both uncertain and impulsive behavior… like ghosting with a nosegay of flowers, the “dear friend” and all… would affect his view of the gender as a whole, including how he sees ciri. and it does.

in his situation, yes, having to raise a girl does intensify the element of “what the fuck am i doing”. especially as a single dad.

and although i do like it when the pov shifts from geralt in the saga but just to another person in the room, for how he becomes more of a distant and enigmatic figure, seeing him through others’ eyes always makes fills me with this uncertainty. buuuut, i would fucking adore blood of elves chapters two and three through geralt’s eyes just for how much of an emotional wreck he must have been… and trying not to show it to her :(

[vulpinesaint]

he’s literally so me for real. me when i see hear or remember something and go “i bet i could write a poem about that 🖤” all artists share a soul at the heart of it

[hanzajesthanza]

this is canon, by the way, from the edge of the world:

denis gordeev’s rendition of this:

There's no way Dandelion rides his horses like a normal person. This motherfucker is a lounger for sure; laying on his back with his legs crossed, tapping his foot in the air to the beat of his own music, hat low over his eyes as he strums half-formed tunes on his lute, all the while his horse is just meandering down the road at its own pace without a single care for whatever its rider is currently doing. You know I'm right he's just

[ammarettu]

please pleaseeeeee please please please give us a part 3 to true hate's kiss i NEED a resolution im obsessed 🙏

Your wish is my command.

Parts 1 and 2

Part 3 under the break

He dithers at the edge of the stage for just a moment, hesitates, until Valdo forcefully shoves him back into the crowd.

He doesn't want to think about what will happen now, his hands have a tremble to them that make him almost wonder if he could claim to be ill again just to keep him. He wonders if Geralt will notice if he just... follows him out of the party and into his camp and just... stays there.

He groans, of course Geralt would notice. He's already annoyed the poor man enough. Fuck. What does he even say now? Should he say anything? Should he just leave and save Geralt the trouble?

He nabs a cup of wine from an unsuspecting bystander who huffs at him in disapproval. He tosses it back in one fluid motion, then glances over to where Geralt was only to find the Witcher absent from the space.

Jaskier's heart somehow plummets and rises into his throat all at once, his pulse throbs in his fingers. Of course Geralt would leave the moment the curse was broken. Why the fuck would he stick around? Jaskier's already been enough of a burden on him, even before this whole fiasco, he couldn't have honestly expected, or even hoped, for Geralt to stick around.

He asks someone if they saw where the Witcher went, alright he asks several people, but none saw him leave. He slipped out silently, or whatever. Likely to avoid Jaskier trying to trail after him like he always used to.

Jaskier takes a breath, closes his eyes in an attempt to calm himself and force the tears back - it doesn't work. He gets drunk instead.

-

Geralt flees, you know, like a coward.

He can't describe the rush of feeling that floods through him when he hears Jaskier's voice again for the first time in... too long. He'd gotten so used to having that voice at his side, encouraging him, complimenting him, and just generally being a light that was far too bright for this world. For Geralt's world, dark and dripping with blood and hatred.

And hearing him speak again wrenches at something in his chest that he doesn't want to dwell on. Something raw and painful. He thought when he heard that voice again he could have atoned for all the cruel shit he'd spewed, merciless and without truth.

He can't bear to stick around and hear that voice turn on him the same way he'd done to Jaskier. Can't bear to hear the words of hatred he's so used to hearing from every other human pour like vitriol from such sweet lips-

Can't bear the rejection.

It's pathetic, after all he's put the bard through, all he's said, how he's certain his own words felt to Jaskier, who feels everything so deeply. But he is pathetic, and a coward, so he runs.

He finds himself down one of the estate's many long halls, golden filigree doors lining the walls. He'd intended to go outside, kind of. He hadn't really been paying attention, more concerned with simply moving away, but he'd hoped he might just end up outdoors.

Still, it's better than nothing. He pushes open a door, finding a large bedroom on the other side, and closes it behind him.

He sighs and flops onto a red velvet armchair, burying his head in his hands.

It's been a long day. A long week. It's been strange, as nice as it was having Jaskier back at his side the lack of noise usually associated with the bard still being absent was off-putting and wrong.

He takes a minute to recenter himself. To get used to being alone again. He curls into himself, resting his head on his forearms, on his knees, and firmly does not cry. He doesn't.

He also doesn't lose track of time, nor is he startled when there is a noise in the hall, giggling and shuffling footsteps - a thump, someone is pushed against the door to the room in which Geralt has taken residence. He stumbles to his feet, hears a moan past the door and moves to the window to calmbor out (the sun has set now, several hours have passed since he entered) - his medallion shudders in it's place against his chest. A warning. He pauses, he hasn't a choice, whatever is waiting outside the doors is a monster of some kind about to feast. A bruxa, knowing their affinity for alcohol infused blood.

"I wasn't expecting to find you here tonight," a female voice mutters, "Imagine my delight and surprise."

"Mm, I'm about to delight you even more."

Geralt almost fucking trips over his own feet as he glides across the room towards the door. The second voice is Jaskier's. As badly as he wants to turn on his heel and leave, his cowardice returning with a burning vengeance, he can't. Not if-

"And what of your Witcher? Will he not be joining us?"

Jaskier huffs a little laugh, "Geralt isn't my anything," Geralt winces at the coldness in his tone, "Anyways, he left."

"He'd just leave you here alone?" He hears Jaskier take a shuddering breath, hears the unbuttoning of his doublet.

"Course he would," Jaskier mutters, "He hates me."

Geralt blinks. That- Jaskier can't possibly think- but then again Geralt has always been rather cruel. It makes sense, he supposes, that he'd think Geralt hates him, especially after the mountain. But he was certain that the hatred was more than a little directed back at him.

"And yet you love him still?" The woman taunts, "How admirable."

Geralt wants to laugh at the absurdity. Jaskier doesn't love him, he hates him. He made that clear when he came to him to break a curse that could only be broken by kissing someone he hated. He waits for the refusal, but it never comes. Instead, Jaskier mutters, "Aren't you supposed to be distracting me? Making me forget?"

He can hear the grin when the woman, the Bruxa, replies, "Oh, darling, soon you won't remember a thing."

"What the fuck-" Jaskier gasps as the door handle moves, he's shoved inside, the Bruxa stepping in after him all feral eyes, fanged teeth and clawed hands. The door opens inwards, blocking line of sight between the newest occupants and the Witcher pressing himself to the wall as the vampire lurches towards Jaskier. The door slams shut, and in less than a second Geralt has his silver drawn and cleanly through the Bruxa's neck. One motion. One swipe. She never even saw him. Neither did Jaskier, until the head is already rolling, and he's taking a breath in to scream.

Geralt is there in a flash, leather-gloved hand pressed firmly over the bard's lips, "It's me, Jaskier."

He's trembling, breath coming in short little puffs that make Geralt kind of worried he might pass out, but he moves carefully back away and says, "Geralt. You're still here."

His eyes are misty with tears and drink and Geralt finds himself sighing, fond.

"I'm here. We should go."

"You- we?"

"You want to stay in the room with a bloody corpse?"

"Well... no, but we should at least take her jewelry, don't you think? Those sapphires, Geralt! A travesty to leave them on the floor."

He rolls his eyes but allows it, if Jaskier wants some jewelry he's earned it. Plus it's kind of nice to see a little glimpse of the same hedonistic bard he's missed.

The sneak out of the manor, and into the stables to gather Roach. It's just easier. Sure the woman was a Bruxa, but she was still high society, and all the red tape and questions... Geralt shudders just thinking about it.

They end up in the forest under the stars just like they used to sleep, with Jaskier chattering away and a canopy of leaves swaying with the breeze.

Geralt will ask Jaskier tomorrow what the Bruxa meant about him loving him.

-

He doesn't ask. He can't make the words force themselves from his throat. Instead, he wakes early and makes them both breakfast like he used to, wakes Jaskier with gentle shakes and a cup of warm willow bark tea sweetened with just a bit of honey.

"Where are you off to now?" Jaskier asks him as they pack up, soft as a whisper.

Geralt pauses, glances to Jaskier, and takes a chance, "Always drowners along the coast," he says. Hears Jaskier swallow in response.

"Yeah?"

"Mm... Hear Kerack is pretty this time of year." A sharp intake of breath, Jaskier's heart beats so hard Geralt is pretty sure he could hear it even without his Witcher senses.

"Is that so?"

Geralt resumes what he was doing, tacking up Roach, pretends to be nonchalant, "The taverns there could probably use a bard," he says.

"Are you sure?" Jaskier's voice is shaking and Geralt hates how uncertain he sounds. How hopeful.

"Jaskier."

"Yes?"

Geralt turns, tilts his head to the side a bit, "Come to the coast with me."

A sheen forms on those gorgeous blue eyes, brought to life even more by the glittering sapphires he now wears on his ears and around his neck.

"Yes," he breathes, and Geralt smiles his response, holds out his hand, and hoists his bard up onto his horse.