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antimonyschnuck
Fandom: The Witcher
Ship: Geralt/Emhyr
Rating: teen+ (some genre typical violence)
This is an Emralt advent calendar (but it counts to the 21st, Midwinter).
One chapter each day, in real life and in the fic.
The doors: It's an advent calendar so it has doors. Any deep symbolic meaning behind what they look like is completely accidental! :D
Also I don't intend anyone to take the backdoors in this fic, the "Mature" is mainly for some violence.
There's 12496 words in 21 chapters under the cut; may contain traces of nuts.
19 days
19 days before Yule Geralt stepped through a portal.
He did it voluntarily because Ciri had asked him for help and he'd do anything for her, even go through a whirling vortex with Nilfgaard on the other side.
Emhyr looked his normal, quietly seething, self. He was sitting in an armchair near a fireplace in what seemed to be his private study and glared at Geralt. His attire was a lot less formal than anything Geralt had ever seen him wearing, though.
"Show him," Ciri ordered bluntly, and Emhyr opened his wine-coloured velvet dressing gown, baring a chest marred by welts.
"Still 19 marks?" Ciri asked and Emhyr nodded briskly. "As I said," she turned to Geralt, "yesterday it started out with 20 of them. I think it's supposed to be a count-down of some sort."
Geralt stepped closer and gingerly touched what would have looked like fresh scars if scars usually radiated a flickering orange glow. "Does it hurt?"
Emhyr huffed. "Is that important?"
Geralt sighed. "Well it's worse for you if it does."
"He woke up screaming at midnight yesterday," Ciri explained. "Said it felt like he was getting whipped. Since then they apparently feel like one day old lashes."
"He is right here in front of you," Emhyr griped.
"And he was not answering Geralt's question." Ciri rolled her eyes.
"My medallion doesn't detect any lingering magic." Geralt pulled Emhyr's dressing gown back in place and earned another glare.
"Well thank you for your expertise, witcher. I am glad Cirilla dragged you here for it." Emhyr's words lacked the usual edge although he was trying.
Geralt sighed again while Ciri pulled him away as if she anticipated them to start a fight. "Mererid will show you to your room. Do you have any idea what this could be?"
"Spontaneously: no. But I'll look into it." Geralt hummed. "Maybe you should have rather asked Yen."
Ciri cleared her throat and grinned. "Yeah about that. Uh. We gave her a room in a different wing so you wouldn't accidentally run into each other all the time but maybe you could be civil and compare notes?"
Geralt gave her a long suffering look.
"She had no immediate solution either so I insisted on getting you, too," Ciri elaborated.
"Yeah I get it." Geralt sighed once again. "I just suggested it myself, right?" He patted Ciri's shoulder and turned to Mererid. "Long time no see."
"The Gentleman will follow me to his room," Mererid intoned.
"Alright."
Fuck, this was going to be an overall unpleasant experience. But he'd probably survive it. Hopefully Emhyr would, too.
18 days
18 days before Yule Geralt opened the door leading from his new room at Nilfgaard palace into the corridor, and walked right into Yennefer.
“I was just about to enter,” she declared.
“You mean you were just about to knock?” They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Geralt sighed. “Do come in then.” He stepped back to let her through.
“If he dies now it will be disastrous for Ciri; she’ll be in way over her head,” Yennefer stated the obvious and sat down in the only chair available.
“I know.” That was Geralt’s standard line with Yennefer, right along with “you can’t just - wait, what are you doing”. “Got any theories what it is?”
“It’s a curse, of course.” Yennefer looked at Geralt as if he was a rock troll. “By the way, the marks are indeed down to 18 this morning.”
Geralt didn’t explain that of course he knew it was a curse, but what kind of curse and how could it be stopped. Yen just called it “making excuses” if one tried to rectify her assumptions. He was just finding out it was a lot easier to stomach if you weren’t desperate to be in her good graces.
“Is it a curse you’ve read of before, can we find out its exact wording, have you found an anchor?” Geralt specified patiently.
“No, I’ve only been here half a day longer than you.” If she did it, it wasn’t “making excuses”, of course.
“There’s something abnormal about it,” Geralt ventured on. “The spectral effects shouldn’t be possible without leaving a constant outpour of low level magic pollution but I couldn’t sense anything.” Geralt liked talking to sorceresses because he didn’t have to dumb down his vocabulary with them. He also had to do it with Yen to remind her he wasn’t, in fact, a rock troll.
“I have noticed,” Yennefer scoffed. “I’ll need to do some research. Maybe you can do your folksy rituals here and keep him distracted. He’s more anxious about this than I would have expected from the White Flame yadda yadda yadda.”
Geralt hummed. He’d already planned to start by searching the palace before possible clues would be cleaned away. “Getting cursed probably doesn’t get easier when it’s done to you repeatedly,” he muttered. “Must remind him of the old trauma.”
Yennefer rolled her eyes at him and got up. “Oh no, the poor thing. Better go hold his hand then.” She moved her arms elegantly through the air and went through the ensuing portal without another word.
Geralt did not hold Emhyr’s hand that day, he was too busy. Since he couldn’t possibly search the whole palace by himself he made Mererid summon a few dozen servants, explained to them what sort of thing to look for (little bags filled with bones or hair; wood or stone tablets with sigils; effigies; anything written on walls in blood… everything odd actually) and took it to himself to search the emperor’s chambers and public office.
What he found was a lot of splendour, a bottle of Nilfgaardian Lemon so delicious it had to be sourcery and needed to be confiscated, a miniature of Ciri as a teenager in Emhyr’s bedside table, painted approximately after Stygga, and a whole lot of nothing in the curse anchor category. Same with the brigade of servants: no unusual objects had been found.
Geralt called it a day when Emhyr pointedly started to undress for bedtime. Well, they still had 18 days to find a solution.
17 days
17 days before Yule Geralt stepped through a white door with golden inlays. It led into the emperor’s office.
Being doomed wasn’t a condition that kept Emhyr away from his desk and Nilfgaard was still getting its usual levels of despotism.
“Down to 17 today?” Geralt asked, nodding towards the broad area of Emhyr’s chest. He took a seat without having been offered one.
The emperor took a deep breath but let it slide. “Yes, indeed. At the turn of midnight one of the marks flares up and vanishes.”
Geralt nodded. “Can I have another look? There was something about them… and this morning it occurred to me - but I might be wrong.”
“That they glow orange?” Emhyr suggested testily but started unbuttoning his overcoat. Geralt shook his head and waited until Emhyr bared his chest to him again, holding the lapels open with exaggerated flair. “Well?”
Geralt’s face didn’t show any emotion. For a few seconds he just sat there and looked. Then he leant back in his seat and unbuttoned his own shirt.
Emhyr’s face tried to do several emotions at once. Then his eyes went wide and he hissed. “The marks. They are in the exact same places as your scars.”
Geralt nodded. “I really should have noticed it immediately. But I rarely look at myself like that. Looks different with all your fur, too.” He huffed. “Yen could have known though.”
“What does this mean?” Emhyr’s eyes burned almost as orange as his marks and he buttoned himself up with so much angry energy, he almost ripped his clothes. “So you are involved in the curse?”
“Whoever did this surely tried to have me involved.” Geralt got himself covered up, too, and snorted. “Apparently they didn’t take into account that Ciri might not recognise my scar pattern and were lucky she fetched me anyway. Let’s talk enemies. I couldn’t find a remote anchor for the curse. It would have been done in person then. Someone who managed to come close enough to curse you in physical proximity.”
“Someone who knows your scars?” Emhyr sounded petty.
Geralt shook his head. “Anyone motivated enough could have acquired that information. I’m thinking someone who’s targeting both of us might want to strip Ciri of her support.”
Emhyr contemplated this for a moment and nodded gravely. “If they want you to be present for whatever happens on Yule, you should leave.”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll just leave.” Geralt snorted. “Now get out some paper or parchment and start on a list of likely enemies who could have done this. I’ll take it up with Mererid. I’ll need a list with strangers who got anywhere near you. Could have been a hired mage.”
Emhyr winced. Then he shuffled around a stack of paper and retrieved one sheet. “Here, a list of my enemies. I always keep it updated. I will underline the names of those I have personally met with lately.”
Geralt exited the Imperial Office through the white-and-gold door with a list of potential perpetrators and the sense of being overwhelmed by a heavy workload. Only 17 days to work through this.
16 days
16 days before Yule Geralt entered a rustic tavern through its equally rustic heavy wooden door. Nilfgaardian architecture and interior design differed from the Northern style but a tavern was a tavern everywhere. Patrons were drinking and arguing and there was some organised fist-fighting in one corner. Probably organised.
Fortunately Geralt wouldn’t have to investigate everyone on Emhyr’s and Mererid’s lists all by himself – that was, in fact, de Rideaux’ job. He’d firmly been told not to approach any of the nobles and was now going to look into one of the commoners who’d attended the public imperial audience the day before the curse took hold.
“ You are from the Imperial looking-into-things department?” The tavern landlady was sceptical but ushered him into her little office nook.
Geralt snorted – but to be honest he had no clue, either, what kind of official or clerk was responsible in such a case.
“What kind of accent is that? Vicovaro? Well, you saw the potholes on your way here. It gets worse and worse and lots of folks here leave a bit tipsy and then hurt themselves. We’re not the patricians’ quarter but we’re paying our taxes and need a new pavement.” She appeared to be genuine. It had been her at the audience, her issues were real and she didn’t act suspiciously. Still, Geralt decided to make sure she wasn’t moonlighting as a witch and had been hired to curse the emperor, so axii it was.
“No, of course I don’t know how to practise magic,” she said dreamily. “What the fuck?”
“Thanks for your cooperation,” Geralt tried to say, but she was already at her second “What the fuck?!” , and this time she was shouting.
As it turned out, the fist-fighting in the corner of the public room was indeed an organised attraction and hosted by the landlady’s very large and currently bare-chested boyfriend who Geralt got to meet now.
Witcher metabolism provided accelerated healing but Ciri still got to see Geralt’s black eye and had to laugh so hard she had to flee, claiming she just peed herself.
“I couldn’t seriously fight them,” he growled to no-one. And he wasn’t going to tell anyone that he hadn’t managed to dodge the punch because he’d stared at his opponent’s chest hair a second too long. Apparently he had developed a thing for chest hair now. So what.
16 days to Yule but the black eye would be gone by tomorrow.
15 days
15 days before Yule Geralt went once more through the artfully whittled cherrywood door leading into Emhyr’s private study.
He’d spent the day checking out more people who’d attended the public imperial audience and he’d even managed not to get punched again. Back at the palace he’d found a note ordering him to see the emperor in his rooms, so here he was.
“Witcher.” It was probably meant to be a greeting. Emhyr was sitting in his chair by the fire and had started on a bottle of wine.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Geralt furtively looked around but they were alone. When Emhyr didn’t say anything else he shrugged and sat down in the armchair facing him.
Emhyr sighed and whirled his fingers at the empty glass next to the carafe in an elegant yet listless move not unlike some of the sorceresses’ hand movements; this one didn’t open a portal to a hell dimension but seemed to indicate “help yourself”.
Geralt helped himself to a glass of what turned out to be Sangreal. His eyebrows went up.
Emhyr huffed. “I have two weeks left to live. I am not going to spend them drinking Beauclair White.”
Geralt looked into his glass. “We don’t know what happens at the end of the countdown.” He looked up because Emhyr had snorted.
“Yes, my bad knee is going to fix itself and I will actually feel rested in the mornings.” Emhyr sipped from his wine. His golden ring gleamed in the light of the fireplace.
Geralt grimaced. “There are other options between eternal youth and immediate death. You might… relapse into your first curse, for example. We can still try to get you out of that after the fact.”
Emhyr’s face twitched. “I have thought of that, too. Having a cursed form would be ostensibly less severe, now that I have reestablished my status, but I do not know if I can live like that again.”
Geralt nodded. “If it helps – I think whatever it is will be more spectacular than you just quietly keeling over. The whole curse is so flamboyantly set up, that would be an underwhelming climax.”
Emhyr’s eyes flashed amber with surprise. Then he laughed. His laughter was nice; low and warm. Geralt had never thought about what it would sound like because a laughing Emhyr would have been a grotesque idea, like “imagine a hippopotamus in a tutu”. (He’d tried that on Ciri when she got the hiccups but she’d never seen a hippopotamus, so that fell flat. He drew one for her then, which had her giggling, and that had worked in the end.)
“Yes. That helped. Thank you.” Emhyr had closed his eyes and tipped his head back. “We might be pitted against each other,” he added, sombre again. “Since you were so courteously invited via the placement of the marks.”
Geralt hesitated and nodded then. “It has crossed my mind,” he added, as Emhyr still kept his eyes shut.
Emhyr hummed. He opened his eyes and drilled his gaze into Geralt’s. “Do not hesitate to kill me for Cirilla’s sake. For her sake, indeed, make it quick if you have to. Remember I never showed you any mercy either.”
This was, in fact, what Geralt had already come to think of as the most likely outcome, but now he felt dark waves of desperation wash over his resolve. “We’ll just have to break that curse before it comes to that,” he snarled and set down his wine glass with a clink. He wasn’t angry with Emhyr, that would be stupid. And yet he was suddenly angry with Emhyr; for being so godsdamn sad and dignified about it. And for trying to manipulate him into not caring.
“I’ll show myself out,” he pushed out and got up, trying to appear at least a little bit calmer than he felt. “We still have 15 days to find a solution.”
He left through the pretty cherrywood door without checking for Emhyr’s reaction.
14 days
Today, Dec 6, is Nikolaustag in Germany (children will get sweets and little gifts from the original Santa's sack or find them in their shoes) -- that's why, um... well, enjoy.
(Sorry for the dead horse.)
14 days before Yule Geralt ran through the broad archways of chiselled white stone that led into the great inner courtyard. He was wearing his full armour and both swords on his back and only had to follow the screams to find the task at hand.
Ciri had already engaged the thing in combat. Geralt didn’t know what it was – except for huge. It was roughly humanoid with a full white beard and wore what Geralt first thought was a bright red coat – then he saw (and smelled) that it was just so thoroughly soaked with fresh human blood that only its brims showed its original white colour. Ciri’s green flashes looked kinda festive against it.
Geralt used the silver sword but no oil, since that would have been a gamble anyway and meant wasting time.
“Ho ho ho!” the monster roared, wielding an average sized sack like a brick-in-a-sock. “Slay ride!” it hollered, and killed a poor horse that had fled into a corner of the courtyard instead of running off.
“Now!” Ciri shouted from a nearby balcony and Geralt threw a dimeritium bomb.
“What the fuck was this?” Ciri asked and kicked part of the corpse.
“Dunno, never seen anything like it,” Geralt grunted, hacking his way through the monster’s neck because decapitation usually ensured that dead things stayed dead. “Doesn’t look like a construct but that would be my closest guess.”
“And how did it get here?” Ciri started cleaning her sword. Vesemir would have been proud.
“Also a very good question,” Geralt huffed and severed the spine. “Maybe it was part of this year’s Yule theme “attacking Nilfgaard”. Or it was meant as a distraction from finding a cure for your father.”
Ciri sighed. “14 days left.”
13 days
13 days before Yule Geralt stepped through the glass doors of Emhyr’s private balcony and watched him watch the snow. Huge, fluffy flakes were falling from a white sky, quickly covering the landscape in a layer of quiet.
“Whatever this is, at least I get to see snow one last time,” Emhyr said into the cold air.
Geralt stepped forward and leant next to him on the balustrade. “Nilfgaard doesn’t usually get that much snow, does it?” It was cold enough he could feel the warmth next to him like an extension of Emhyr’s body.
“No. This is highly unusual. If it snows at all, the most it ever gathers is a thin layer.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and exhaled a hazy cloud of hot breath. “The White Frost – are we sure Cirilla banished it for good?”
Geralt shrugged. “As sure as we can be. Together with all the… other current anomalies, I’d guess this is something else.”
“An orchestrated attack on Nilfgaard with several different means, all rooted in very advanced sorcery?” Emhyr didn’t sound as if this idea had occurred to him just now. “Who has that kind of power?”
“That’s the question,” Geralt hummed. “The Wild Hunt might. They’ve been defeated but maybe not annihilated.”
Emhyr shivered next to him and Geralt fought the urge to put an arm around him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was he thinking. Fuck. “Let’s go back inside, you’re getting cold,” he said instead and tried not to sound too concerned. “Ciri likes snowball fights, by the way. But she cheats.”
They stepped back through the balcony doors into the warmth of Emhyr’s sitting room and Geralt felt in his bones how short a time the next 13 days were going to be.
12 days
The White Flame, the great Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, went out on the Feast of Stephen. (Twelve days before the Winter Solstice – the origins of this minor holiday have been lost in time and scholars argue about its alleged cannibalistic background.)
He strode through the marble arches surrounding his palace into the imperial woodlands and hunting grounds, where the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shone the moon that night, reminding his Majesty of the years he’d spent in the dark, shunning the days, forced to hide his beastly face from the Great Sun’s grace; and the frost in the heathen forests of the North had been as cruel as the unnatural cold that now had taken hold of the blessed lands of Nilfgaard.
His Majesty was accompanied by his humble page who shall remain nameless, and a vile gentleman of ill repute, called the Witcher. As
“Melitele’s knees, haven’t you seen enough? Can we turn around now? Mererid can barely hold up with us through all the snow.” Geralt was walking behind Emhyr, ready to defend him from whatever might want to attack them, but so far the only thing hostile had been a cranky squirrel. (The small woodland creature, not a guerilla elf.) “I still don’t know why he’s following us.”
“I have pledged my life in service of his Majesty’s well-being and will not abandon him in the wilderness,” Mererid huffed and puffed. He’d been present when Emhyr had decided to investigate the unnatural weather by himself – Geralt suspected he wanted to go on a walk – and had just trailed after them.
“These are the palace grounds,” Geralt grunted. “It’s basically a park. But I agree that his Majesty shouldn’t be traipsing around like that.”
Mererid made a shocked noise and the great emperor Emhyr var Emreis finally stopped and turned around. “The snow does not seem to be especially malevolent. I will have to consult with my agricultural advisors if the cold will have a negative impact on next year’s crops.”
The witcher seemed to be smiling – he was probably just squinting through the snow flakes. “Would have been a nice walk if the weather wasn’t so suspicious.”
The emperor huffed out a cloud of steamy breath and started to head back to the palace. He had slowed down and walked next to the witcher instead of stomping ahead. Mererid tried using their footprints to have an easier time in the snow but soon was struggling again.
The witcher turned around frowning and stopped his Majesty by touching his arm. “Let’s make the way back a little more comfortable,” he suggested and stretched out his hand, forming an eldritch sign with his fingers - his other hand still lay in the crook of his Majesty’s arm.
They returned to the palace within mere minutes, treading within the narrow pathway the witcher was somehow melting into the snow, and by the time they passed under the palace garden’s marble arches, Mererid's opinion of him had somewhat mellowed, too.
11 days
11 days before Yule Ciri stepped through an arbour overgrown with rambler roses, now bare and thorny in the snow covered palace gardens. She’d been summoned here by a short and rather cryptic note in her father’s hand, and the moment she passed through the brambly arch she got hit by a snowball.
Ciri roared with rage upon the lowly betrayal and materialised seconds later behind Geralt, giggling and stuffing a load of snow into his collar. She felt so sure she’d tackled her enemy, she never saw the next snowball coming before it exploded into her face.
“Friendly fire!” Geralt shouted, because the projectile had actually hit the back of his head.
“I was not aware we were allies!” Emhyr had positioned himself somewhere behind some boxwood planters which provided him with both cover and ammunition, and his voice boomed through the snow-quiet garden.
“You’re teaming up against me?!” Ciri gasped.
“Apparently not,” Geralt answered grimly and launched his own missile. It flew in a high parable, mesmerisingly slow before it reached its peak, and then dropped right on Emhyr’s head behind his barricades. A muffled squeal confirmed the hit.
Ciri’s face showed some genuine shock. “You just hit my father with a snowball!” she whispered. “Have you gone mad? That – that’s Emhyr!”
“Shouldn’t have called off our entente then.” Geralt grinned in the unsettling toothy way that now and then made people shit their pants.
“Have to try and fix this,” Ciri muttered, half to herself, and vanished in a flash.
Her voice continued from behind the boxwood, ended on a very high note and then turned into laughter.
Geralt narrowed his eyes and quickly stocked up on ammunition: now it was him against them.
He decided if Ciri was using her abilities, he could use witcher signs, too, and ran across the open plane of the garden promenade to draw their fire. That part went well and used up all of the imperial force’s pre-rolled snowballs before they realised that Geralt was shielded by quen. He himself had doubled back to his array of ammunition and quickly cast yrden before he started to launch his own counter strike, throwing his snowballs high to get them behind the boxwood barrier.
Ciri had started to flicker around, pelting Geralt with handfuls of snow from ever changing positions, but she had to freshly roll the balls each time and Geralt landed some hits, too. Emhyr had been slowed down as he, too, had to form new balls, but his aim was annoyingly good and despite his own cheating Geralt was soon drenched.
Emhyr came out from behind his cover showing empty hands and declared a truce – which was unusually merciful as he himself had managed to stay fairly dry. “We will cease fire if you surrender, witcher,” he smirked – then his eyes went wide and he tried to throw himself to the side but Ciri’s snowball got him so thoroughly that it exploded into a glittering cloud around the laughing emperor.
“Guess we have a winner,” Geralt grinned and helped him up. “Told you she cheats.”
“You used yrden!” Ciri theatrically put her hands on her hips.
“To keep you from stuffing more snow into my collar, yes,” Geralt snorted.
“It feels yucky.” Ciri shuddered. “Like being stuck in molasses.”
“Come on,” Geralt nudged both of them. “Let’s get back inside. I don’t want to catch a cold.”
Emhyr looked over his shoulder with a puzzled expression. “Can you get a cold?”
“No,” Geralt grinned, and pushed them through the arbour and back into the palace.
10 days
Geralt stepped listlessly through the simple, unadorned backdoor of the palace library, trying to suppress the nagging feeling that they were on borrowed time – only 10 days left and they still didn’t know how it could have even been possible for anyone to put the curse on Emhyr.
Every instance the emperor had interacted with people there had been witnesses (his Impera guards at minimum) and no-one remembered anything odd going on – de Rideaux’ “clerks” had been thorough with their investigation. Casting a curse as complex and powerful as this one would have required even a strong and experienced mage to recite the words and channel Chaos onto the target, something that was usually done via arm gestures and shouting.
Geralt had been wracking his brain about what else he could do, anything more productive than staging snowball fights and spending more and more time with Emhyr. He’d been re-reading passages about spells and curses but there was nothing in those basic books he hadn’t known before. Yen hadn’t returned yet and she was their only hope now.
So part of him welcomed the distraction when a handful of palace servants came running, shouting “Witcher!” and “There he is!”, with hope in their eyes – a common demeanour in people with an acute monster problem.
He quickly donned his armour in his room, trying to make sense of the information he’d gotten: “Snow monsters” were attacking people everywhere in the city, including the great inner palace courtyard. He considered the hounds of the Wild Hunt – or maybe ice trolls? He wouldn’t call any of those “snow monsters” but couldn’t think of anything that fit the bill.
As it turned out, they were snow monsters. They had started out as snowmen – for the Nilfgaardians that much snow was exotic and exciting and they had been building them everywhere: lots of knee-high small ones, bigger ones in places the snow had been piled up in order to clear footpaths, and a few ambitiously large ones were as tall as Geralt. Now all of them were moving around, attacking everything in range. They were somehow holding their original shapes although they moved by gathering the snow next to them into their bodies and leaving the replaced material behind.
Their attacks didn’t seem to be lethal or even overly dangerous but being assaulted by a suddenly sentient mass of snow held enough horror for most people and many forgot in their panic to just flee inside. They were being pelted with snowballs which the monsters ripped from their own bodies, whipped with the sticks and beaten with the pots they’d been given for arms and hats, and all of it in eerie silence – the only screams came from the humans. The smaller critters had rotted together, singled out victims and surrounded them. One large snowman had gotten hold of a rather young servant and was stuffing her head into its abdomen, trying to suffocate her with its body mass – shit, that did look dangerous.
Geralt drew his silver sword while running and decapitated the snowman. The snowman grew a replacement head. Its face was now modelled into the snow as its old carrot nose and charcoal eyes and mouth lay on the ground.
Geralt put his arms around the monster’s victim and pulled her out. She gasped and sputtered and didn’t hesitate to run for the closest door when Geralt pointed it out to her.
Geralt then transformed the snow monster into a dirty puddle, using igni. It stayed liquid and inanimate.
“Everyone!” Geralt shouted. “Get inside or get yourselves some torches! You can melt those things down!” He demonstrated it by dissolving the next snow monster, too, and then continued melting one abomination after the other to the ground.
Some people actually cheered and organised torches – Geralt sent them out into the city to take care of the snow monsters there and spread the word how to defeat them.
“What the fuck?” Ciri said from behind him when he finished the last few of them.
“Where were you?” Geralt asked. “Was a bit worried when you didn’t show up for the fight.”
“Fight,” Ciri chuckled. “No-one told me until the meeting with the agricultural advisors was over. But seriously: what in Melitele’s name was that?”
“Same as the bearded giant I’d guess,” Geralt grunted. “Some mysterious shit.”
Ciri snorted without enthusiasm and accompanied him back into the palace. At least 10 more days of mysterious shit still lay ahead of them.
9 days
9 days before Yule Emhyr sat up in his bed and reached for his knife. Someone was in the room with him. He ripped open the drapes of his four-poster bed and froze – his dagger was pointing at his wife.
Her hair and clothes were dripping water on the parquet and a small fish was currently suffocating in the frills of her travelling coat. Other than that she looked exactly as she had on the day she died.
“You are not real,” Emhyr greeted her. “I am having a nightmare. I should not have eaten that cheese.”
Pavetta laughed. Her voice had an echo around its edges. “Well I’m dead, yes. It doesn’t get any more real than that, I can assure you.”
Emhyr took a deep breath. “What do you want?”
“Oh, that’s new,” she chuckled. “What does Pavetta want? Let’s see… My life back would be nice. Not being lied to, deceived and abducted by what turned out to be a smarmy elven bastard.”
“Had you known my true identity you would have rejected me from the start.” Emhyr pulled his dressing gown over his nightshirt but hadn’t put his knife away.
“Damn right I would have,” Pavetta spat out. “And that whole charade not even because you really wanted me. You just used me to get your curse broken!”
“Ah! You do understand now why I had to do it?” Emhyr lifted one sarcastic eyebrow. “Very good. I’d daresay you can rest in peace then.”
The ghost gasped, not unlike the by-catch in her jabot. “I’m here for your redemption,” she declared after a few seconds of quiet outrage. The echoes in her voice warbled ominously. “I’m the first of three ghosts who are going to visit you to show you the errors of your ways.” She stopped short because Emhyr was laughing; it was the cold, put-on laughter everyone always expected from a haughty emperor.
“I already regret a great many things I have done,” Emhyr elaborated. “I still cannot see any other option regarding our relationship, though. I had no intention to harm you. You did that to yourself. Surely death was a kinder fate than being forced to live the life of a queen and empress.” He contorted his face in mock horror. Then he snorted. “I shall be grateful for your visit, though. There was not enough time to air my grievances with you on that ship. I think I finally might have gotten some closure now.”
The ghost stared at him with a slack face, almost like a muppet going still because the puppeteer off stage has to pause in order to get through a laughing fit.
“I loved you, Duny,” she eventually said, and tears mixed with the sea water on her face. Then she splashed through the mirror above Emhyr’s vanity and was gone, except for the small fish now swimming in the wash basin.
I said I was not going to do Dickens' Christmas Carol because I don't like characters' put on redemptions and doing that to Emhyr would feel like cheapening who he is. I like him as is. I don't want to change him.
Well, I found a way around that, took a mallet and hammered the Chrismas Carol into a fitting shape; but you can still recognise it by the cheese line. I only use three ghosts, no introductory Marley, and those are not ghosts of Yule past, present and future but... something else. Due to the advent calendar formate they also visit on three consecutive nights, not in just one.
Those changes are intentional, not because I'm an uneducated troglodyte -- I'll have you know that I've watched the Muppet Christmas Carol many times! I even included the word "muppet".
8 days
8 days before Yule Emhyr slowly walked through the whittled mahogany door leading into his bedroom. He hadn’t told anyone of his nightmare – in the light of day he’d been increasingly convinced that it had only been a dream. There had been no fish in his wash basin in the morning, either, and every time he’d considered bringing it up, the thought of Geralt thinking him to be foolish kept him from speaking.
But it was night again. He forbade himself from delaying bedtime just because yesterday’s phantoms seemed to be more real in the dark, but still – he was apprehensive when he entered his bedroom. It was empty. Of course.
He washed quickly and changed into his nightgown, trying to ignore the marks glowing on his chest. They were down to eight now. One week left.
Despite the unnaturally cold weather he left his bed curtains open and although his intention was to not make a fuss and simply go to sleep, he found himself sitting up in bed, knife in hand, waiting for the second ghost, when the door opened and his father’s chamberlain stumbled into the room, eyes wild, blood running down his face from a head wound. “Your Highness, quick! Grab your dressing gown and follow me!”
Emhyr blanched. He’d instinctively started to rush from his bed because it was Joul and even though Joul had been dead for almost 40 years now, Emhyr still felt compelled to do as he said.
Joul had only been in his late 20s, a very young age to be the emperor’s chamberlain, but in young Emhyr’s eyes he’d been – well, not old. Definitely not old. But an adult who always knew what had to be done, ultimately capable.
From the perspective of his current 50 years Emhyr saw how young Joul really had been, and how scared; how he didn’t know what to do at all. He could also still see what had drawn him so much to Joul. Barely adolescent Emhyr had spent all those last months before that night quietly observing him, thinking about him when he was supposed to study, and even had some rather spectacular daydreams featuring both of them and minor mishaps that would lead to being touched in intimate places.
“Emhyr, hurry! It’s a coup and they’re somehow everywhere in the palace! We have to get out of here!” Joul’s ghost beckoned to him, holding out a blood smeared hand.
“How is this memory supposed to lead me to redemption?” Emhyr asked him.
Joul looked confused. Then he screamed, as he had screamed when the Usurper’s man had run him through with a sword, and a dark red flower made of blood and viscera bloomed from his white shirt. Emhyr had been pulled away by his hair back then; but now he could watch Joul die with his name on his last breath.
Emhyr swallowed. He didn’t appreciate being manipulated and what was worse: it worked. He’d very much managed to forget what Joul had been to him – which had been made easier by what the Usurper had done to him later that night and the hard times he’d struggled through after escaping the Usurper’s men in his cursed beast form, almost starving and freezing to death.
Every now and then in his life he’d experienced feeling attraction again, of course, but he’d never really dared giving in to that weakness.
Nor would he now.
“You meant more to me than you knew,” he told the dead ghost’s contorted body. “I am glad you never knew. At the time you would have turned me down, I am sure of that – you were a decent man. And then suddenly there was no later.”
The ghost sighed and twitched. “You didn’t know that your time was running out, my prince.” He slowly faded out of existence, like a reflection in glass under the condensation of a hot breath.
Emhyr rubbed his eyes. Time was running out again. Eight days. He could face this with dignity – or maybe it meant he had nothing to lose.
He walked through the mahogany bedroom door and spent the night sitting up in the dark.
Shout out to the online Nilfgaardian name generator giving me the name Joul which I'd pronounce like Yule.
7 days
7 days before Yule Geralt stepped through Emhyr’s mahogany bedroom door and tried to assay the room’s layout but not stare at Emhyr’s bed too much. He’d been in here before, of course, when he’d searched the emperor’s chambers for a possible anchor for the curse. But back then – 11 days ago – he hadn’t been thinking all the inappropriate thoughts he now entertained.
He moved one of the cream coloured chintz armchairs from the fireplace next to the enormous four-poster bed and sat down. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just sit here. Better go to bed, maybe that’s a trigger for the apparitions.”
Emhyr nodded briskly. He seemed nervous – understandable as they were waiting for the third ghost to haunt him. “Because having nightmares requires me to fall asleep as a first step.”
Geralt snorted. “If a horrible sound wakes you in the middle of the night, that’ll probably just be me, snoring.”
Emhyr had started to fumble with the belt of his dressing gown but still stood there, undecided. “Would you like to have a blanket?”
Geralt’s bright yellow eyes flashed up. He cleared his throat. “No, thanks. Wearing full armour indoors is quite cosy. It’s got extra padding for when I have to sleep in ditches.”
Emhyr nodded again, quickly doffed his dressing gown and slipped under his duvet. Geralt caught a glance of his embroidered nightgown and thought lighter, brighter fabrics suited him. He rubbed his face. This was such a normal situation. Just two men in a room. There was nothing suggestive about it, he told his brain. He wasn’t going to make a pass on a doomed curse victim, adding more dismay to his last few days situation. He leant back in his chair and closed his eyes so Emhyr would not catch him stare if he glanced over.
Emhyr sat back up in bed and pulled the bedding up to his chin. Lying down when Geralt was sitting right next to him felt vulnerable. Even though “right next to him” was still at least two metres away because the bed was large. Even though Geralt had been completely oblivious to Emhyr’s newly self-conscious demeanour around him. Even though Geralt apparently had already fallen asleep in his chair. Emhyr sighed.
The door opened slowly, quietly, and his wife entered hesitantly, eyes shily cast down, like the first time they had presented her to him. Emhyr sighed again.
A quick glance towards Geralt’s chair showed him fast asleep. His face had gone slack and there soon would be drool on his collar.
The ghost of false Cirilla nervously glimpsed up to Emhyr’s face but avoided eye contact. “My Lord.”
Emhyr rubbed his forehead. Marrying her might have been the most irrational decision he’d ever made – apart from letting his daughter go when he saw her in person for the first time and she was neither a toddler nor a pawn but a desperate, bold girl, still headstrong in her defeat, with nothing left but tears.
He’d sold this marriage to his co-conspirators as a tactical move – as long as no-one knew about the switch, he was still securing the Cintran throne. But the truth was that he just hadn’t felt like having her killed and those had been the only two options available. He’d always been better at being cruel if he didn’t have to actually meet the people he was dealing the cruelty to. Disposing of false Cirilla would have been like killing a puppy.
“My dearest wife,” he addressed her as he used to. He’d always avoided calling her by his daughter’s name and although he had never pretended to love her, she had been, in comparison, his dearest wife.
“I’m not sure what is expected of me,” the nameless ghost whispered.
Emhyr nodded. “Neither do I.” He glanced sideways at the sleeping witcher who didn’t seem to be bothered by him having a conversation with his dead wife.
The ghost fumbled for the neckline of her dress and started unbuttoning it.
“Not again,” Emhyr groaned. “Please, there is no need for you to perform any marital duties.”
When this had happened the first time, his newly wed bride had blushed and just complied. He’d left the room so she could get ready for bed and with time the awkwardness of coexisting next to each other had slowly subsided.
The ghost’s lip trembled. “I thought that with time you might relent – if just out of boredom and convenience. There just wasn't enough time.” She stepped forward, approaching his bed. “It wouldn’t have been just a duty to me to be your wife in the flesh.”
“I am sorry.” Emhyr tried to maintain a distance between him and her, which was difficult as he was still stuck in bed; but he didn’t want to be touched by the ghost, much less than he had ever wanted to touch her before.
“I died a maiden, denied the pleasures of being a bride,” the ghost hissed. Its jaw fell off and its tongue lolled out of its maw.
Emhyr kicked into the mattress in order to shove away further from the wraith but she was hovering in the air above the bed now, right above Emhyr. Had she been human his knife would have killed her, he knew how to wield it proficiently, but it just went through the incorporeal form, not harming it in the slightest.
The silver sword slicing into the wraith’s shoulder did have an impact, even though not to the extent sword wounds usually affected natural beings. The wraith vanished screeching in a cloud of greenish mist and reappeared in a far corner of the room.
“Geralt!” Emhyr groaned with relief and fought down the urge to cling to his saviour like a flower crowned virgin on the cover of a romance novel.
“Try to get out of here!” Geralt muttered under his breath and somersaulted from the bed, landing behind the wraith. He generated the purple circle Emhyr had already seen during their snowball fight and started to hack into the wailing wraith.
Emhyr, indeed very motivated to get out, threw himself through his bedroom door into the parlour.
Geralt followed little later. “That wasn’t just a nightwraith,” he frowned as he rekindled the fire in the fireplace. “It had me sedated. I don’t even know how. Much less why it let me wake up in time to fight it.”
Emhyr hummed. “There are still seven days left until the curse runs its course. Maybe I was supposed to survive this in order to–” He hissed and ripped open the first few buttons of his nightshirt to display one of the marks pulsing in bright light before it completely vanished. “Midnight. Six days left,” he corrected himself.
6 days
6 days before Yule Geralt walked behind the emperor and the crown princess through a festively decorated arch onto a raised stage. He’d been told this was some kind of Nilfgaardian pre-solstice festivity Emhyr and Ciri would have to preside over but he regretted now to have joined them as part of the entourage. At least he’d been allowed to wear his armour and swords.
Emhyr held a speech about cleansing, leaving old misfortune behind, etcetera bla bla – Geralt listened more to his voice than the content of the speech.
Then the crowd cheered and parted and the large straw effigy of a goat was slowly being pushed towards the middle of the empty field the festivity was taking place in, while the crowd was singing a song.
“Are you kidding me?” Geralt hissed into Emhyr’s ear. “Don’t tell me you’re going to burn that thing! Oh shit you are going to burn it.”
Emhyr frowned and whispered back. “Why is this upsetting to you? We consider it good luck if it catches fire. In case you are wondering: it will definitely catch fire. The straw has been soaked with a mild accelerant.”
“It’s really just a bonfire,” Ciri added. “It’s not, like, that there’s a human sacrifice in the goat or something.”
“That has been abolished years ago,” Emhyr confirmed so drily both of them stared at him for a few heartbeats, until he smirked.
“You can’t set fire to that thing!” Geralt barely restrained himself from jostling Emhyr’s shoulder for emphasis because the Impera behind them were already watching them through narrowed eyes. “We already had a blood soaked giant, sentient snowmen and your abnormal ghosts – we’re going to have an enormous burning goat monster at our hands in a minute if you don’t stop this!”
Emhyr’s stone-face changed from quietly amused to serious. Both of them threw a quick glance at the progress of the goat’s procession.
“I cannot stop this now!” Emhyr hissed. “It will be taken as an omen of misfortune and the contestants to the throne will gleefully interpret it as a sign that Cirilla’s reign will herald the fall of the empire.”
“So a giant infernal goat monster incinerating hundreds of people will be seen as the harbinger of a coming age of prosperity?” Geralt hissed back.
“Stop bickering like an old couple and do something!” Ciri joined in the hissing.
It startled both of them into staring at each other, wide eyed and flustered. Then the goat went up in a whoosh and the crowd cheered with abandonment.
All three of them turned their heads and looked down on the spectacle. The air smelled of smoke with a slight note of methylated spirit. The effigy was covered in flames, sparks flying up into the crisp air like swarms of fireflies. Some people were dancing around the goat in circles. Others had started queueing at the make-shift vendor booths to buy snacks and mulled wine. There was very little mauling and the only thing aflame was the bonfire.
“Ok, that’s kinda nice,” Geralt admitted. A servant materialised with a tray of mulled wine and little goat shaped buns. They both pretended not to notice how close together they stood while watching the merry crowd below and Ciri mercifully didn’t comment on it either.
Much too soon they had to step through the festive arch off stage to get back to the palace. Yule was going to be in six days.
5 days
5 days before Yule Geralt stepped through the ivory plated doors leading to the palace’s ballroom. At least he hoped it was ivory; surely the doors weren’t made to match the floor.
The floor looked rather innocuous, actually. Tiles of white marble. No visible bones. He was a little disappointed.
Fortunately the official Yule dance was always held a few days before the actual solstice, so it didn't have to be rescheduled to take into account that something probably spectacularly horrible was going to happen to the host on that day.
Geralt thought dancing was fine if other people did it and hoped the evening wasn’t going to be so boring he’d be hoping for another grotesque monster attack. It didn’t help that opulent buffets still reminded him of Thanedd; but it didn’t keep him from sampling all the food, either. Emhyr and Ciri resided on a dais at one end of the spacious venue and Geralt had sworn to himself he wouldn’t spend the night ogling him.
“Witcher,” Morvran nodded jovially with a too bright smile and put some prawns on his plate. He looked over the display of food, bobbed on the balls of his feet like a wading bird, then coughed and slinked away. Weird man.
Geralt and his plate started on a procession through the room. He missed Dandelion; or someone else to exchange sarcastic commentary with; Triss even. He bet Emhyr had some mean insights to share, but alas. He kept to the walls, avoiding the main bustle, and found himself next to de Rideaux. “Witcher?”
“Spy master?” Geralt contributed extra-friendly to the game of guess-my-occupation they were apparently playing.
De Rideaux glared at him.
Geralt nodded as if the viscount had just said something especially profound and walked on.
Avoiding the main dancing area he swerved back towards the buffet. “Geralt!” Morvran grinned at him.
“Yes. We already bumped into each other earlier, remember?” Geralt contemplated if there was more than one Morvran; but that would account only for part of the inconsistent behaviour.
“Ah, have you tried this dish yet? It’s from Toussaint, they call it ‘lasagna’!” Morvran beamed at him.
Geralt decided not to tell him about the special ingredient and just loaded up his plate again, nodding and kinda smiling.
Then he steered into the direction of the imperial dais, just so he had checked out the whole room. Ciri looked bored and wistfully watched the dancing she couldn’t just join in with. Emhyr was looking at him funny. Geralt nodded at him and ate from his lasagna, which was indeed very good.
He passed by a gaggle of senate aides and clerks who discussed work matters as if they didn’t see each other every day while working together on exactly those things. Then he found a servant offering glasses of white wine that smelled really good. He took two and started to map a route back to the buffet when Morvran was suddenly walking next to him, chatting about his horse as if they were mid-conversation.
“Ah! Thank you, my friend!” Morvran took Geralt’s second wine glass and lifted it in a toast.
Geralt blinked.
“Do you have a greater appreciation for the arts, Geralt?”
“Uh?” Geralt stopped and checked Morvran’s pupils for intoxication but he just seemed to be very animated. “I’ve been painted once,” he mumbled and then chastised himself for mentioning that. He always did that. When he didn’t know what to say, he said something stupid. Now he had to spend the next minutes trying to get Morvran off that topic again.
That turned out to be easy as Morvran carried the whole conversation all by himself while occasionally throwing an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. All Geralt had to do was nod and grunt. This was feasible.
“His Imperial Majesty will receive the gentleman now,” Mererid said.
Geralt should have heard him approach but he hadn’t paid attention as he’d been partially meditating. “He what?”
“The gentleman will follow me.” Mererid turned on the heel and shuffled away.
“Morvran, let’s do this again soon.” Geralt freed himself and tried to accompany Mererid without overtaking him.
“Lord Voorhis is known to be an enthusiastic conversationalist,” Mererid almost whispered. “Of course an audience with his Imperial Majesty takes precedence and he will have to find another interlocutor.”
Geralt grinned. “Thanks.”
“It was his Majesty’s orders.” Mererid seemed flustered again. He led Geralt through a backdoor and onto the Imperial dais.
“Thanks,” Geralt said and Emhyr almost-smiled.
There was a bit of a European lasagna scandal a few years ago. Horse isn't supposed to be in there but was, in lots of frozen lasagnas.
4 days
4 days before Yule, Mererid slipped through the cherrywood doors of his Majesty’s parlour, cleared his throat and bowed. “Pardon me, your Majesty, but there is a delegation of townspeople asking to see Sir Geralt.”
Sir Geralt, who’d been unaware he’d acquired gentry status with Mererid, looked up in alarm. “Something horrible happening?”
Mererid made an uncomfortable face. “They say there’s a skeletal horse passing through the streets, knocking on doors, asking to be fed.” He looked at his shoes. “Some compulsive singing has occurred.”
Geralt sighed. “Won’t be long until they’ll say I brought this mysterious shit to Nilfgaard. Any of them carrying pitchforks and torches yet?”
Mererid shook his head.
Emhyr had put down his Gwent cards and frowned. “Let Cirilla handle this.”
Geralt and Mererid were looking equally puzzled.
“A merciful ruler coming to the aid of her people as they are suffering from…” he paused.
“Singing?” Geralt suggested.
They both smiled in a way that people had described as “menacing”. Emhyr took a sip from his wine.
“I’ll go talk to her.” Geralt put his own cards down and got up. “Damn, I was winning.”
“If you say so,” he heard Emhyr say before the door closed behind him.
***
“What am I supposed to do with a dead horse?” Ciri frowned. “Flog it?”
Geralt groaned but had to chuckle. “Whatever works. If it’s not aggressive: talk to it, provide it with food, keep it from scaring more people. If it gets beasty: give it some silver. Think on your feet. And try to appear heroic while doing it.”
Saint Cirilla, future empress full of grace, huffed and went to get her armour and swords but had a spring to her step.
Geralt went back to Emhyr in order to get destroyed at Gwent. Only four more days left until Yule.
3 days
Preparation before reading this:
If you don't own a stress ball, roll up a pair of socks; stick yellow eyes on that and call it Geralt. Now you can punch it as needed.
3 days before Yule Emhyr opened the stained glass doors of his resplendent drinks cabinet and chose a bottle of Nilfgaardian Lemon. Geralt’s eyebrows went up because he recognised it – he had a bottle of that in his room.
“I assume you like this one, since you helped yourself to my previous bottle,” Emhyr confirmed. No-one would have called it a smile but the light from the fireplace dimly reflected off his teeth for a second.
“Uh. Yes. It’s exceptionally good.” Geralt rubbed his face.
“One of the most expensive spirits in the empire.” Emhyr’s fingers were warm when they touched Geralt’s, handing him one shot glass. “I have three days left and intend to get drunk tonight,” he informed him.
They exchanged a bitter look and kicked back their shots.
Emhyr was wearing something Geralt hadn’t seen on him yet, all black and stiff and severe; it looked as comfortable as armour and screamed “emperor” as effectively as if the word had been embroidered on it across the chest. He also smelled of soap and his perfume more than usual. Geralt thought he must have had some important official business; or a rendevouz. He frowned and then told himself off for begrudging Emhyr the attempt to fill those days with pleasures. Geralt could be pretty insightful; this was not one of these moments.
Emhyr’s hand landed on his shoulder. That did interesting things to his stomach but he took a deep breath and kept his cool just fine. “I am grateful for your company,” Emhyr kind of murmured close to Geralt’s ear.
“Um. You’re welcome. Don’t mind it either,” Geralt huffed.
The hand on his shoulder stayed there for half a moment longer, then squeezed a little and vanished. Emhyr sighed and went back to his chair. “I apologise. I have spent my life avoiding true connections that would have afforded treating others as equals.”
Geralt didn’t quite get what Emhyr was apologising for – Roche had once called him “dense as Temerian fog” – and felt a little bit stunned by the fact Emhyr had apologised for something. “Not sure what you’re apologising for,” he said.
Emhyr huffed and rubbed his forehead. “Thank you.”
Geralt blinked.
“Another Lemon?” Emhyr already had the bottle open and poured.
“Sure.”
This time Emhyr pushed the shot glass across the table without touching Geralt’s hand. After that they played cards and Geralt won a whole lot more often than usually.
Only 3 more days before Yule.
2 days
2 days before Yule two Impera guards opened the doors of the emperor’s private chambers for Geralt and closed them again behind him.
He’d been in his room reading up on curses in a tome he’d ordered with Emhyr’s money from one of his shadier Novigrad contacts, but nothing in that book had helped him find a feasible approach so far, either. There seemed to be a way to redirect the curse – this was the idea Geralt had been pursuing – but the curse’s severity meant redirecting it on another person, not an animal, as Geralt had hoped.
He’d been summoned to the emperor’s chambers by a runner who didn’t know the reason, only that it was urgent.
Emhyr was sitting in his chair wearing a very blank face. Ciri was walking around aimlessly. Yennefer stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed in front of her chest, radiating impatience.
“Yen.” Geralt felt hope rise in his chest. “Have you-”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Yennefer cut him off. “Once again just for you: I found something. Practically instantly, first collection of scrolls I went for. Since then I’ve tried to find a way to actually break it. But because our time is running out I’ve decided to attempt the conservative approach after all.” She tipped her head into the direction of the ominous box sitting on the low coffee table next to Emhyr.
“A phylactery?” Geralt stared at it. “You said this wouldn’t have worked on Uma even if it hadn’t been damaged. What makes you think it’ll be enough now?”
“We will see. I have the exact words of the curse – or at least one extremely similar to his Majesty’s affliction,” – she gave Emhyr a professional smile – “and I’m confident I can force it to work as long as his physical form hasn’t been compromised yet.”
Geralt looked at the floor to hide the massive doubt in his eyes. If Yennefer said she was “confident”, it meant she didn’t know at all. In any other case she’d have said something like “I found the solution, now hold this.”
“Emhyr?” Geralt finally looked up and right into Emhyr’s eyes. “Since Ciri is pacing the room like a barghest I take it you understand that Yen is as reckless as usual and this has a medium to high risk of going very, very south, right?”
Emhyr had been looking at Geralt since he’d entered the room. He cleared his throat. “Anything is better than the alternative.”
Geralt nodded slowly. “Do we know now what the alternative is going to be?”
Emhyr smiled coldly. “The curse Lady Yennefer found transforms the… afflicted person… into a raging beast that will kill indiscriminately until it can be killed itself. Whoever cursed me at least was kind enough to provide Nilfgaard with a witcher to take care of the problem.”
Geralt closed his eyes. It had been naive to hope for the curse to do something relatively benign like turning Emhyr back into a hedgehog. This. This made sense. And both of them had already come to suspect that this was how it would play out in the end. And still. Knowing it for sure was worse.
“Now, hold this,” Yennefer said. “Your Majesty,” she added a bit late.
Emhyr got up, took the phylactery with one hand and didn’t look like he cared about being addressed by title right now. He exchanged a long look with Ciri and cleared his throat. “I know you will be an extraordinary ruler, luned , because where I managed to rise to the challenge, you are going to excel.”
Ciri shook her head and then nodded, apparently not trusting her voice.
Yennefer put one hand on the phylactery and lifted the other arm up into the air.
“Geralt,” Emhyr said – but nothing else followed. Then his free hand went up as if he was trying to shield himself from a blow.
A pulsating light passed through Yennefer’s body into the phylactery, she started to chant unintelligible words and Emhyr’s face went into a rictus of pain and his hand reached out to Geralt. Geralt’s hand gripped it all by itself, without involving his brain in the decision process, because he absolutely knew better than to touch someone who was just receiving a portion of freshly sourced Chaos.
There was an odd sound like a heavy sheet of metal being slowly torn in half and a sharp pain in simply every nerve there was there nerve every simply in pain sharp a and half in torn slowly being metal…
Geralt stepped through cherrywood doors, stepped through ivory plated doors, through mahogany doors, festive arch, white-golden door, door, door, portal,
549725 days
549725 days to Yule
Geralt was – well, he was. That was something. He groaned.
The floor was grassy. No floor then. He pushed himself up on his knees. The air smelled fresh and clean. That meant he wasn’t even close to the city. He also smelled bear, which was slightly worrying because he didn’t have his armour and swords, only the two knives he always kept in his boots.
The sunlight was bright and hurt his head, so he kept his eyes shut for a few more moments while attempting to get up from the ground.
His hands touched something warm and soft and covered in brocade that smelled like Emhyr when he put his face closer to it. It also groaned like Emhyr now. Geralt squinted his eyes open to confirm he wasn’t visibly injured.
“What happened?” Emhyr rasped while keeping Geralt’s hand clutched to his chest.
“Dunno,” Geralt sighed and sat down again. “We don’t seem to be in the city anymore, probably not even Nilfgaard ‘cause it feels like summer to me.”
Emhyr sat up, too, still groaning. “Has it worked?” He started unbuttoning his doublet until he could hold it open enough to display the last two glowing marks on his chest. His face contorted into a mask of anguish and he didn’t move for quite some time. Geralt started to button him up again and he let him.
“Let’s find out where we are.” Geralt tried not to show his own desperation.
They were on the plateau of a massively large hill covered in trees and brambles, but not quite so densely that Geralt would have called it a forest. After a while of quietly stomping into a random direction Geralt could hear water and they changed direction to follow the sound. Geralt was keeping his silver dagger at the ready in case they encountered anything unpleasant but there were only birds, squirrels and rabbits around.
“At least I will be out of range of the city when I turn into a beast,” Emhyr stated drily. He seemed to have gotten his emotions back under control.
“And who have we got here?” said the elf dropping out of a tree in front of them, pointing a sword at them. Except she said it in Elder Speech. Then she backed up and looked startled. “ What are you?”
Another elf materialised from the undergrowth. He looked very young – they both did. “Look at their faces,” the first elf whispered. “Look at their ears.”
“They look like very tall dwarfs,” the second elf whispered back. “But that one has the eyes of a wild beast.”
Geralt cleared his throat. “I’m a witcher, that’s just a friend of mine. We got a bit lost. Where are we? Dol Blathanna?”
Both elves backed up further. “He barks like a wild beast, too,” the second elf whispered. They both vanished so quickly it looked like more magic.
“Everyone’s a critic of my Elder Speech,” Geralt groused, but without much zest as he was busy thinking.
“Very good,” Emhyr said. “I wager we are still on the grounds of the city of Nilfgaard. If we can determine where the var Emreis crypt is going to be erected in a few hundred years, you can leave my body there so I will be buried with my ancestors – once they have been born and died.”
“I agree with your assessment but I’m not going to kill you. Damnit.” Geralt pulled Emhyr further into the direction of the river. “Let’s concentrate on the positive aspects: if this is before the conjunction of the spheres, I won’t come to miss my silver sword too much as the only danger here is bears. Secondly,” he pulled away some branches, “here’s the river.”
“I will be worse than a bear,” Emhyr huffed.
Geralt sighed. “I know.”
They made camp, which meant that Geralt went to hunt for rabbits while Emhyr gathered firewood. They prepared the meat together, both deep in their respective thoughts.
“This would be very pleasant if not for the circumstances,” Emhyr eventually broke the silence. “There are no immediate dangers, the weather is balmy and we have food and drink.”
“Hm,” Geralt agreed around his mouthful of rabbit. “I’d say we’re lucky we got here in summer but I don’t feel ‘lucky’ quite fits the bill.”
Emhyr shook his head. “How could this happen? I know the odds were high that Mistress Yennefer’s attempt at breaking the curse would fail – but why did it bring us here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Geralt shrugged, and got up to wash his hands in the river. He felt sticky. It was definitely not just 1500 years in the past but also summer and although it had cooled down a little in the evening, the air was still warm. He felt kinda shy about just stripping down and getting into the water in front of Emhyr though because it wouldn’t help with keeping his thoughts at bay.
He turned around to get back to the fire when an invisible hand pushed him into the river.
1 day
(549725 days before Yule - 549724 days before Yule)
Geralt emerged from the river and was angry. He didn’t know who he was angry with – that was part of his anger – but he managed anyway. He was also very wet of course, as he’d just been pushed into a river. He stomped up the river bank, stripping out of his drenched shirt, fuming and also glistening (the latter literally).
“Someone invisible pushed me in,” he growled and wrung out his shirt, which made his muscles do nice things he was momentarily unaware of.
Emhyr had jumped up when he’d seen Geralt fall backwards into the water and was now looking at him with an odd expression. Geralt hung his shirt up to dry next to the fire and started to get out of his boots and trousers, too, unfortunately at the same time.
“Someone invisible,” Emhyr repeated with a sidelong glance but didn’t sound sarcastic at all, merely astonished.
Geralt deflated. He’d expected to be mocked mercilessly. “You believe me?”
Emhyr’s eyes flicked up to his face. “Why would I not believe you? Your senses are astute and all of this…” he made an exasperated gesture. “The absurd monsters – it is almost like a cruel prank.” He started to get out of his own clothes.
Geralt sighed and made the fire blaze up as he was getting chilly in his wet braies. Emhyr was in his shirtsleeves now, holding out his doublet. “It might smell of sweat, I’m afraid, but it is warm and dry.”
Geralt took it gratefully and tried not to act like a dog who’d found his owner’s laundry. He kept watch during the night but nothing else happened. Emhyr wasn’t able to fall asleep for some time and kept staring into the thin air where Geralt sat. Midnight was marked by his quiet groan when the second to last glowing gash on his chest vanished.
The next morning Geralt’s clothes were dry and he was just about to get more rabbits for breakfast when Ciri appeared in a green flash, looking ruffled and exhausted. She let out a shout of triumph and dropped to the ground next to them. “I thought I’d never find you! I've tried since you vanished. Every time I pursued your mental images, something slipped sideways. I saw things I wish I could unsee. Some universes should come with warnings, seriously.”
“Does Mistress Yennefer know what exactly went awry?” Emhyr had involuntarily put his hand on his chest where the last mark was waiting its turn.
Ciri shook her head, a bitter expression twisting her mouth. “She says it should have worked. But she felt some kind of presence in the Chaos before both of you vanished.” She got up, groaning exaggeratedly, dusting off her trousers. “Come on, let me get you back home.” She was about to give her father a hand but Geralt was already carefully pulling him to his feet – and he very much let him. Ciri grinned sadly and sighed. “Don’t leave anything behind that might change the course of history.”
Emhyr’s face took on a thoughtful expression.
“You can’t engrave ‘Ithlinne knows nothing’ into some rock,” Geralt snorted, still kinda holding him in a one-armed embrace. “Too dangerous.”
“You thought about it, you even know what you would write,” Emhyr teased him.
“There’s a reason why I haven’t done that myself yet,” Ciri confirmed. “As atrocious as everything was, it’s our past now; we won’t be ourselves if I meddle with it.” She hooked herself under with both of her fathers and transported back into the
(1 day before Yule)
present time.
Yule
Shortly before midnight a heavy dungeon door closed behind Emhyr and Geralt. The room looked ridiculous. It was a stone cell, spacious enough for two people to fight comfortably within its massive stone walls, and it was empty – except for two plush chintz armchairs and a coffee table; it looked like the stage for some absurd drama and probably would be. Fortunately there also was a fireplace (its original purpose was not providing warmth to prisoners but something more sinister), so waiting for midnight would be as comfortable as possible.
“We’ll be right there,” Ciri needlessly informed them from the other side of the bars. The current arrangements had been discussed and agreed on during the afternoon. Ciri had to stay out for her own safety although this was ludicrous because she could just flash in and out if she wanted to. She had agreed to it because she had no desire to kill Emhyr herself if not absolutely necessary.
Yennefer stood next to her and managed to look at the same time bored and resolved.
Geralt clunked a little when he sat down, as he was in full armour with his swords.
Emhyr had opened doublet and shirt far enough the curse mark was visible, faintly glowing orange in his chest hair. It was an unusual, rakishly handsome look on him and Geralt swallowed.
“Geralt…” Emhyr started out but didn’t continue saying anything else, just shaking his head.
“I, uh. The last few weeks were, ah…” Geralt struggled. “It’s been a pleasure to have known you. Lately.” That had come out surprisingly well without hinting at his actual feelings. At all. He sighed.
Emhyr nodded and his throat bobbed, something usually hidden by the high collars he always wore, and being able to see it felt suddenly very intimate. “Likewise.”
The mark of the curse glowed brighter, pulsed in the rhythm of Emhyr’s heartbeat, flared up and vanished. Geralt was suddenly hit by the whole weight of his desperation and he moved without thinking. He pulled Emhyr up into his arms and pressed his face against his neck, having this one touch before everything ended. “I could have loved you,” he whispered against Emhyr’s skin.
Emhyr quietly sobbed against his ear. “I think I do.”
Their lips met and the world stopped. There was only their faces touching, their hands holding the other’s body close, their tongues finding and caressing each other – time had ceased to exist.
Only when Emhyr gasped for air for the second time, Geralt came to his senses enough to notice that a) Emhyr hadn’t turned into a beast, eating Geralt’s face off his head (at least not literally) and b) that it was very uncharacteristic there were no comments from Ciri and Yennefer; Ciri might be nice enough about it but Yen definitely wasn’t. Geralt kept holding Emhyr close but turned to the dungeon door: They both were on the other side of the bars but stood there completely still, not moving – not even breathing.
“You really are the most stubborn asses on this mortal plane,” Gaunter o’Dimm said. He was sitting cross-legged on their little table and smirked. “The sheer amount of work it took to get you two together! Do you think you’ll manage to copulate by yourselves or would you like to have help with that, too? Not that I would mind. To be honest, I’ll watch anyway.”
“Who are you?” Emhyr demanded to know at the same time Geralt asked “Did you make a wish with him?”
“What? No!” Emhyr looked righteously offended. “I have never seen him before! What is he?”
“How impolite! He is right here in front of you – as you once put it,” o’Dimm drawled. “Of course you made a wish. Your thoughts were so loud I heard it three worlds over. ‘All I want for Yule is you’ – I immediately came here to help even though the other universe had coffee shops!”
Emhyr was actually blushing. “That was private.”
“If he didn’t explicitly ask for a favour you have no valid contract,” Geralt insisted.
O’Dimm chuckled. “As if I was actually bound by such formalities. I just use those terms of service to make people think they can outsmart me. Now don’t puff yourself up like that, I’m not claiming his soul. Satisfied?” He hopped off the table and bowed. “I already got my entertainment from this. Very touching. Special kudos for the “I could have loved you”, really. Also: nice abs, you should be wet more often. Now go forth and show some initiative yourselves so I can get my rocks off.” O’Dimm vanished himself by snapping his fingers and Yennefer yelled something obscene while Ciri was elbowing her into the side.
They both fell quiet because to them it looked like the kissing couple had suddenly materialised in a different position, still holding on to each other but now staring at the empty coffee table as if it had offended them.
Geralt quickly evaluated his priorities and then started kissing Emhyr again – who seemed to concur. Yennefer made more disrespectful noises and Ciri grinned broadly. At one point a little twig of mistletoe popped up above Geralt and Emhyr but no-one even noticed.
Happy Solstice everyone! If you want to tell me if you saw that coming or what your theory was, feel free to comment!
I felt I was giving so much away by making the marks glow orange and have the Pavetta muppet jump into the mirror :')
