antimonyschnuck

Fandom: The Witcher

Ship: Emhyr/Geralt

Rating: mature

Geralt accidentally got himself cursed: he can't speak anymore to anyone who loves him.
It's obvious where this - yet another Emhyr/Geralt story - is going to end; I'm in it for the details in between. Has LOL (lots of Lambert).

I'm experimenting with a less linear narrative style with flashbacks - I hope to make things more interesting and mysterious by that.
If I'll fail it will be more WTF.

There are 11,846 words, made quiet by the following cut:

Chapter 1

“No, really. No reason for bothering the crown princess, I can check in with her later when–”

“We have standing orders that the gentleman’s visits have priority,” one of the guards interrupted Geralt while they proceeded marching him through Nilfgaard Palace.

Geralt groaned but cooperated – resisting the Impera for no apparent reason had potential to get misinterpreted in a way that would much later become a funny story of the sort that isn’t funny while it takes place. “Is it true that Lady Yennefer is here in Nilfgaard?”

The guards ignored him.

Geralt sighed. “Come on, you must know – I’m looking for her but only heard rumours.”

“We can’t say,” the guard insisted.

For some reason the witcher seemed to find that answer amusing.

“That it?” They had stopped in front of a door framed by two more guards with halberds. One of them knocked. The “yes” coming from inside sounded barely muffled by the walls and was definitely not Ciri.

“I’ll need one of you to get in there with me,” Geralt told the Impera who opened the door and discreetly pushed him through. “Shit,” he said to the room in general; definitely not to Ciri who was sitting behind a massive desk in what seemed to be a private study or library. Her father hovered ominously over her or maybe just stood behind her and the looming was simply part of his demeanour; Geralt had decided to try and be more gracious in that regard. The door snapped shut behind him.

“Geralt!” Ciri jumped up from her chair, predictably excited, and ran into his open arms. “You’re finally visiting! And made it a surprise!” She held him at arms’ length in order to see his face. “I’m so glad you’re here! You have to tell me all about your recent contracts, in detail, even if it was just drowners!” She frowned, staring at his sad smile. “No. What’s wrong?”

Geralt sighed, patted her hair and looked up over her shoulder. “Emhyr?”

The emperor narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t moved from his defensible position behind the desk. “Witcher?”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t talk to her.”

~~~

“What kind of stupid, weak-ass curse is this supposed to be?!” had been Lambert’s reaction to when they’d found out that Geralt could only not speak directly to him.

“Dunno. I don’t think she intended to curse me,” Geralt told the kid they’d paid to be their intermediate. The child was barely older than a toddler and understood jack shit of what was said but that was sufficient for the curse to let Geralt produce sounds with his mouth.

“Hng.”

Lambert snickered. “Don’t address me directly, pretty boy. Refer to me as ‘his highness’, or else.”

“His shortness witnessed it himself,” Geralt quipped without missing a beat. “She thought she was gonna squash me like a bug and squeezed in some gloating which was cut short by hrgmpf…” He rolled his eyes. “ – by my little brother who loves me so dearly.”

“Shut up! Shut up even more,” Lambert groused. It frightened the child a little and Geralt paid up with more candy.

“He doesn’t mean it,” he told the kid. “He loves me.” Lambert hit him with a twig. The child giggled and licked the lump of sugar.

Geralt made another strangled sound and rubbed his face.

“What?”

Geralt sighed and pointed at the child, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe it.” Lambert formed his personal witcher sign with both hands. “Give me the bag with the fucking candy, I’ll find us a new chaperone. If I pay the brats myself, maybe they won’t take such a shine to you that the curse kicks in.”

~~~

Geralt kept a hand on Ciri’s shoulder but approached Emhyr without looking at her again. “It’s a curse. I came because there are rumours that Yennefer is here; gotta ask her for help.”

Emhyr’s brow pushed down on his face and made it into a very effective threat. “What will happen if you attempt to speak to Cirilla?”

Geralt huffed. “Nothing. I just can’t.” He faced Ciri and made a small strangled noise. Ciri looked more shocked than the situation warranted. He patted her shoulder and turned back to the emperor.

“You are already familiar with the curse’s effect,” Emhyr stated. He looked so alert and interested , Geralt almost took a step back. “What is its scope? You are showing no inhibition whatsoever in speaking to me ; as usual.”

Geralt took a second to stare a hole into the slightly dusty air, which was what he did when he forcefully suppressed an eyeroll. “I won’t ever speak again to anyone who holds me dear,” he related eventually.

Emhyr huffed. Ciri went with “What?” She turned to face him again, leaning against the desk, with an expression worryingly similar to Emhyr’s. “How does it allow for such an easy work-around that I can still hear you at all – and I can talk to you just fine? Have you tried breaking it yet?”

Geralt gave her a tired smile, found a plush armchair facing Emhyr but not her, and explained.

~~~

Geralt hated unresolved business. Not necessarily out of principle because he was prone to holding grudges, but because in his experience unresolved business always found him again, sooner or later, and he preferred to tackle things on his own terms, with preparation and a plan; backup, even, which had been a spontaneous idea he got when he stumbled over Lambert in Velen.

Lambert wasn’t motivated at all to fight dangerous shit like the last Crone of Crookback Bog only because it was ‘the right thing to do’ without contract and compensation, but he could be reeled in when he heard that they were also going to retrieve Vesemir’s medallion for Ciri; because he was a sentimental bastard, really.

The fight had been hard and all by himself Geralt wouldn’t have made it. There was something like pity in Emhyr’s face when Geralt tried to gloss over that part; probably regret that the witcher had survived. Fortunately the Crone had underestimated the short, average looking ‘other witcher’ and focussed on Geralt, who she had blamed by proxy for her sisters’ annihilation. “You will never speak again to anyone who holds you dear, either!” she had cackled at Geralt, defeated on his knees. Then Lambert, who had never fought fair once in his life, had decapitated her from behind.

~~~

“She hadn’t intended to curse me; it was just the last thing she said before she died. That’s part of the problem. It would probably help to know what exactly the Crones were. The only things left in Velen are mud and legends; if there ever were actual records, they’ve been burned by your wars.”

Emhyr pulled an unimpressed face.

Geralt fumbled around in a pocket, turned to Ciri and carefully deposited Vesemir’s medallion into her hand. She nodded, blinked, shook her head and joined him in his silence, closing a loose fist around the symbol of so many of her losses.

“So – well,” Geralt tried to lighten the mood. “Turns out that contrary to his claims, Lambert is full of brotherly love for me.” He turned his grin from Emhyr to Ciri who snorted.

“Everyone knows that,” she huffed and wiped at her face.

“Not sure Lambert did,” Geralt told Emhyr who still looked uncharacteristically patient, even attentive.

“Lady Yennefer has been an honoured guest of the empire on behalf of Cirilla’s wellbeing,” the emperor eventually announced, sounding as pompous as humanly possible. “You can consult with her tomorrow. The purpose of her attendance at court has been given purely as for providing motherly support to the crown princess. I am asking you to not mention your curse – or sorcery in general – to the general public; this includes guards and servants; except for Mererid, of course.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up but he acknowledged compliance with a short nod.

“And how are you going to speak to Yen?” Ciri wondered from aside.

Geralt gave a self-deprecating snort. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” he told Emhyr – who looked entertained; the bastard.

Chapter 2

This was fine. This was the first step towards getting the curse broken. He was going to be verbally abused and humiliated, for sure, but it wouldn’t be the first time and it wasn’t such a high price to pay for being cured. He could do this. He was going to do this.

Geralt nodded at the door guards, they knocked and opened the door for him. There she was. The rest of the room blurred out similar to when he concentrated on following tracks.

Yennefer was leaning against the desk exactly as Ciri had yesterday. She looked great, all in black, all glamours in place. She looked exactly as she had when they’d parted in Novigrad, months ago, years ago, aeons ago, after everything that could be said had been said and there was nothing left between them without the artificial bond provided by the djinn.

She looked exactly as she had but also flatter – a whole dimension to her was missing. All those feelings that had filled him to the point of suffocation: longing, yearning, endless memories of his painful desire to be close to her that never got sated, even in those moments she admitted him skin to skin – all of this was gone. He remembered it but he didn’t feel it anymore. The brittle hollowness of being rejected and unloved was still there but his stupid heart had stopped insisting that it was Yennefer it needed.

His heart was a clean, empty room, fresh air blowing through wide open windows; cold, not stifling. It felt good.

Their eyes locked. Yennefer’s face twitched with contempt, disdain and impatience.

Geralt took a deep breath before greeting her: “Hchh.”

~~~

“You alright? How many fingers am I holding up?” Lambert practically lived for doing the how-many-fingers question; it was always the same finger he held up.

“–”

“Geralt, the fuck! Not the time for your pathetic drama! Tell me what’s wrong so I can patch it up!”

“Hfff…”

“Did she strangle you? I didn’t see her strangle you but fuck was she fast with that… how she blinked out and materialised somewhere else, like a foglet. But uglier. And with birds.”

“Hhh…”

“Let’s get out of this shithole. Here, you take that if you want to give it back to the brat.”

“Hlh…”

“Stop trying to talk for fuck’s sake, let your throat heal up. You’re so dumb, how do you even survive on a day to day basis.”

“–”

“Haha, dumb! Get it?”

“–”

“Ouch!”

~~~

“Your general cluelessness is rather spectacular. One can only hope you allow for a greater range of possible factors to impact your plans when you strategise for your fights.” Emhyr had materialised seemingly out of thin air; or had risen from his chair behind the desk. With his sharp focus on Yennefer, Geralt hadn’t noticed – as a witcher – the other person in the room; he found himself agreeing with Emhyr about his own incompetence.

Geralt huffed. “Did you anticipate this and showed up to act as our intermediary or did you just come for the entertainment?”

“Yes.” Emhyr managed to radiate a general sense of smugness without debasing himself by having undignified facial expressions.

Geralt didn’t manage to hold back the snort. “Such an honour to have a whole emperor to speak at; Lambert and I bribed children to do this for us. This is so much more classy.”

“So –” Yennefer walked up to Geralt and stopped in front of him, arms crossed over her chest. “Do you still want my help then?”

Geralt exhaled and turned back to Emhyr. “Yes. I need help. And I’m sorry.” He rubbed his face. “For her… condition.”

“My. Condition.” Yennefer turned away and stared at the wall for the time duration one needed to slowly count backwards from ten. “You mean that I still care about you after I put up with you for decades and after almost sacrificing my life so you could survive and walk all over me? That’s not a condition but a nasty habit. Like getting used to drinking cheap ale because that’s the only drink available and forgetting that it’s swill.”

Geralt snorted. “She really only remembered I existed when there were no other options around, that’s true.”

Emhyr inhaled and let his eyes drift into the distance. “The curse?”

“Yes. Right.” Geralt looked around, located his chair and pulled it up so he faced only Emhyr. “I take it Yennefer has been informed about the general situation.”

Yennefer huffed behind his right shoulder. “Yes. Ciri told me. Accidental curse, oddly convoluted. What have you tried in order to break it by yourself?”

~~~

Lambert had been silent for some long minutes. His face was completely slack when he turned back to Geralt. Then he grabbed one of the meat hooks dangling from the cellar’s ceiling and bashed a stack of wooden crates until they were reduced to splinters and Lambert was red and sweaty.

“–”

“Stop looking at me like that! Yes, you were right, ok! The fucking bitch needed killing without us having a contract for it, I get it!”

The Witch Hunters of the Eternal Fire had cleaned up the altar in the aftermath of the battle for ownership over Anna Stenger. There were no doll effigies left, the table was empty except for a few ears (Had the last Crone stocked up on new ears?), the candelabras held no more candles made of baby tallow and the tapestry of the three sisters had been slashed with swords. The Witch Hunters hadn’t cared about burying the children’s remains though – small bones lining the cellar floor along the walls – and the stench of rotting meat… of rotting flesh, had started to seep up into the building above.

Geralt formed an igni sign but didn’t feed power into it.

Lambert nodded.

When they left Crookback Bog for the last time, all the buildings behind them burned.

~~~

“We went back. There were no curse anchors and we didn’t find anything holding power. That doesn’t mean much, though, because those Crones were something else and had access to a parallel plane where they usually kept themselves. We burned everything. Even if we’d missed anything, it’s been burned.

We also tried several cleansing rituals on me including the fun one with the blood letting – didn’t help. I… I consulted a guy I know who’s – he knows how to tap into Chaos.”

~~~

“White Wolf, White Wolf! How can the pellar help the White Wolf?”

Geralt could feel Lambert’s smirk without looking. Fortunately he was able to talk to the pellar himself – he had been worried the eccentric little man’s usual gushing and gratitude for Geralt’s help with his father might translate into “holding him dear” but apparently the pellar was mentally better adjusted than expected. Or his whole heart simply belonged to Princess.

He made Geralt drink goat milk. That part might or might not have been imperative to the process because he then urged Geralt to admit that it was the best goat milk he’d ever had. After that he held Geralt’s hand over a plate, cut into the fleshier part of his forearm (he didn’t warn him what he was about to do, but the plate had been a give-away clue; and then the big knife) and licked the blood with a facial expression of a cook trying to decide if the soup needs more salt.

“The White Wolf is full of love!” the pellar decreed. “The curse is tainting his connection to those who love him .”

“Full of shit, maybe,” Lambert mumbled, and then louder: “Yeah, we know that already.”

The pellar completely ignored him: he was busy licking the bloody plate clean like a cat delving into cream. Then his eyes turned white and in the voice Geralt had heard once before he announced “The Elder Blood is the lock and the Elder Blood is the key!”

Chapter 3

“W h a t.” Emhyr had somehow made himself larger without moving a single muscle. It was like a glamour, Geralt thought with quiet fascination. He hadn’t even raised his voice – just made that one word razor sharp.

“I agree,” Geralt said, intentionally calm. “Also ‘why’ and ‘how’.” He turned his head to glance at Yennefer who looked like she’d bitten into a lemon. “It might not be a helpful clue at all,” he continued in Emhyr’s direction. “So far the pellar has been – one of the more decent people. His advice has been valuable before. But he’s clearly in touch with… something… that speaks through him; I don’t necessarily trust whatever that is.”

Emhyr kept quietly radiating disapproval.

Geralt sighed. “I came here looking for Yen while Lambert’s tracking down Keira. What’s Ciri even supposed to do? She can’t undo curses.”

“Ciri killed the other two Crones,” Yennefer contemplated from behind. “Maybe that Weavess somehow included her in the curse.” She cleared her throat. “You haven’t told her about this yet.”

Geralt shrugged. “If I tell her, she’s going to spit, bleed and pee on me, just in case any of that works. I’d rather not.”

Emhyr seemed to have relaxed into his usual, still overbearing, presence.

Yennefer got up from her seat behind Geralt and moved back to the desk. “I’m going to tell her after I’ve examined you and considered all options we could identify so far.” She looked around the room. “Now pick a place where you’d rather writhe around on; couch or carpet?”

Geralt sighed. “Carpet,” he told Emhyr and went to lie down on the rug in front of the fireplace.

“Try not to scream or the Impera outside will think we’re murdering his Majesty.” She held up her hands to source Chaos and Geralt couldn’t have replied anyway.

~~~

There were voices, fading in and out; Geralt only managed to understand a few words in between. He coughed up something wet and rolled on his side. A mug was pressed into his hand and he managed to drink some water and keep it down. “What hng.” He pushed himself up into a more or less sitting position. “What does she mean by ‘not a curse’?”

Yennefer handed him a wet cloth to wipe the blood from his face. “It’s not a curse as such; which could be analysed to see what measures might undo it.” She made a frustrated noise. “There’s nothing there for me to look at. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but: There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Geralt huffed. “Great.”

Emhyr was watching them intensely and with an odd strain around the eyes that almost looked like concern.

“We need to know more about the Crones to see how their magic differed,” Yennefer declared. “I’m going to sleep off this exhaustion. Then I’ll go see if the Lodge has any old scrolls that might help. Ciri can take you to Oxenfurt to comb through the books there – if her court duties allow for it?”

Emhyr huffed. “They do not. But I am not under the delusion that she would listen to me if I told her to let the witcher sort out his problem by himself.”

Geralt snorted. “Much obliged.” He got up, quietly groaning. “Also gonna take a nap, I think. Thanks for the… uh.” He gestured between Emhyr and Yennefer.

Emhyr frowned and made a gesture that clearly dismissed them.

Geralt nodded and held the door open for Yennefer. “Ah. And sorry for your carpet.”

~~~

“Why the whole secrecy around magic?” Geralt asked Mererid a few hours later around a mouthful of mutton.

Yennefer sighed, sipping from her tea. “Nilfgaardians are as finicky about it as anyone and Emhyr doesn’t want an ‘affinity with magic’ to be the crown princess’ perceived weakness.”

Geralt nodded. They were having an afternoon breakfast and the mood was strange because it wasn’t especially awkward; it was like nothing had changed, actually. Except that Geralt had to speak to Mererid who was very much not holding him dear, but had been cleared to listen in to their conversation.

“The pellar tasted the curse on my blood,” Geralt jumped to the next thought that was bothering him. (Mererid did not approve.) “How, if there is no curse?”

“I don’t know.” Yennefer didn’t approve, either. “Maybe because it was just an act. Or, if you’re right and he channels some kind of entity, it was just the offering for that demon.”

“Hm.”

Yennefer huffed. “I’m not sure if this is the curse or just you being monosyllabic.”

“Hmn.”

Yennefer snorted. “Dumbarse.”

~~~

“Oooh what have we here?”

“A juicy morsel!”

“Ah! Elder Blood! The blood of the traitress!”

“This will be a feast, sisters!”

“No! She’s his! Imlerith, he’s claimed her!”

“We’ll just have a bite then, the rest is for him. One plump foot – it will make such delicious soup…”

“Oooh, I can already taste it!”

Ciri sat up in bed and rubbed her face. She’d hoped to exorcise those memories when she’d slaughtered the Crones and it had indeed helped. Remembering that night wouldn’t help Geralt with his curse – which apparently wasn’t a curse. But something about it had wedged itself into a dark corner of Ciri’s mind. Probably the helplessness she’d felt because she had been unconscious when she’d fallen into the Crones’ hands. Some part of her had decided it was important to remember. The rest of her did not agree.

Chapter 4

The parts quoted are from ingame books, hence authored by Cidi Piar (CDPR).

“I would have imagined being the emperor was terribly time consuming; in regards to Ciri’s future I’m glad to see you can just decide to spend vast swatches of your day as this lowly witcher’s intermediate.” Geralt had resolved to not needlessly rile his Majesty up; but Emhyr’s insistence to personally sit in on their discussions warranted the question quite genuinely.

Emhyr huffed. “As there is no current crisis demanding my full attention, the boon of being emperor is being able to reschedule. At this time anyone discreet enough to help you with your little problem has more urgent menial duties to attend to.” His eyes lit up. “I could, of course, appoint a courtier as your personal ‘translator’ and have him executed after, to assure absolute confidentiality.”

Geralt kept looking at him, being unimpressed.

“Is that not how you expect me to treat my subjects?” Emhyr inquired.

Geralt snorted. “I’m surprising myself here, but apparently not.” He watched Emhyr for a few more seconds and then laughed.

“What.”

“You’re bored. My little problem is interesting.” Geralt grinned at Emhyr trying to give him an intimidating look. “Don’t worry, I’ll treat this information strictly confidential.”

It wasn’t as if he was physically able to tell Ciri.

~~~

“She who knows” by Cidi Piar

Folk say they were four at first. The Mother, She-Who-Knows, the Lady of the Wood, came here from a faraway land and, since she suffered terribly from loneliness, she made three daughters out of dirt and water.
A long, long time ago the Mother was sole ruler of all of Velen. Her daughters brought her the people's requests and served as her voice. Each spring, sacrifices of grain, animals, and men were made to the Lady of the Wood on her special night. Yet as the years passed, the Lady of the Wood slipped deeper and deeper into madness. Her madness eventually spread over the land - men took to abandoning their homes and setting out into the bog, where they became food for beasts. Before long, Velen was drowning in blood.
The daughters saw their land nearing destruction and took it upon themselves to save it. When spring came once more, and with it the night sacrifices, they killed their mother and buried her in the bog. Her blood watered the oak atop Ard Cerbin, and from then on the tree grew wholesome and hearty fruit for the people. As for the Lady's immortal soul, it refused to leave its beloved land, and so the sisters imprisoned it. To this day it lies trapped beneath the Whispering Hillock, where it thrashes about in powerless rage.

~~~

“The Lodge didn’t part with any insightful information – and I didn’t conveniently find ‘The Crones – who they are and how to defeat their magic’ lying around, either,” Yennefer announced from the sofa she shared with Ciri, positioned behind Geralt’s chair.

Geralt nodded and addressed Emhyr: “Didn’t find anything useful in Oxenfurt either. Just as expected.” He sighed. “The books on post-conjunction beings are mostly so far off, it’s sometimes hard to determine which creature they refer to. I know there’s nothing on anything like the Crones in the books at Kaer Morhen – unfortunately not many survived the pogrom.

The book about the Ladies of the Wood I got from Keira is also useless; it’s just a tutorial on how to get rid of your children. Nothing about who the Ladies were, only that children led to them would never ever want for anything again – true, because they were killed and eaten.”

Geralt opened a book in front of him on a marked page. “So this one remains the only source of information we seem to have – but it presents the Crones as a folk tale and establishes the common legend of the benevolent sisters having ended the bloody reign of their mother.” He scratched his beard. “Unfortunately I can’t just ask that first Lady of the Wood what exactly she and her daughters had been because I relinquished her imprisoned spirit. All the atrocities the book ascribes to the original Lady were committed by the Crones, too – it might be a case of throwing dirt at their victim in order to justify the matricide, but I wasn’t just going to release yet another spiteful power into the world. But yeah – on top of eating children the Crones still held their annual feast, finagling human sacrifices from more or less willfully ignorant or complicit villagers; that’s where Ciri killed the first two Crones while I took care of Imlerith.”

Ciri nodded. “Right. Could they have been constructs somehow – golems? It says their mother formed them from dirt and water.”

“Very unlikely.” Geralt shook his head. “They were fast; Lambert aptly compared it to fighting foglets, flicking in and out, materialising somewhere else.”

“Yeah,” Ciri grinned without humour. “I handed them some of their tricks back.”

Emhyr cleared his throat. “Creation from clay is just the usual way of mysticising anyone’s origins. The ancient Aen Elle god-emperor of Cyrod was supposed to be sired by king Hrol fornicating with a heap of mud imbued with the spirit of a saint – legends often suffer from a certain lack of original thinking since repeating common tropes solidifies their claim at greatness.” He glared into the ensuing silence.

“That’s, uh, true, of course,” Geralt eventually relented. “Dirt may also symbolise a traditionally unworthy heri–”

Yennefer’s voice cut through it: “Why was Imlerith at the Crones’ feast?”

Geralt turned around to her and made a strangled noise.

“Avallac’h had told me he’d be there,” Ciri offered. “To pursue delights of the flesh,” she added insouciantly.

“He was there ‘entertaining’ some succubi when I found him,” Geralt confirmed. It was odd, to say the least, saying this aloud into Emhyr’s face, and he had worded it more carefully than he normally would have. “Wasn’t as if he couldn’t have done that every Thursday if he'd felt like it, though.”

Emhyr’s face relaxed in a way Geralt had come to think of as ‘being amused’. He’d seen so much of Emhyr those last few days, he was slowly getting a feeling for the very subtle expressions that lived underneath the veneer of displeased ennui that was his official mask, and what appeared to be cold resentfulness but maybe was just his neutral face.

“The Crones said they’d promised Imlerith to look for me and bring me to him once they found me,” Ciri added. “They were – associates.”

“And he helped them out gathering libidinous energy at their feast,” Yennefer concluded. “Do you think he had such concordial relationships with lots of other monsters?” She got up. “I have a theory. I need to pay a visit to Francesca and Ida.”

The door fell shut behind her and Geralt thought she had shown exceptional goodwill to not open a portal directly in this room with its many books and small, loose objects.

After a long pause Emhyr said: “Elves?”

~~~

The Magic of the Elder Folk (Geoffrey Monck, edited by Cidi Piar)

Despite popular opinion, the term Aen Saevherne is not simply the equivalent of 'elven sorcerer', but has a much deeper meaning. The closest possible translation would be 'sages'. Indeed, if rumour is to be believed, the Aen Saevherne command not only an impressive knowledge of magic, but also – as implausible as it seems – a comprehension of other worlds, time, and space. These Sages form a separate caste among elven sorcerers, mysterious even to their brethren and greatly respected by all, including the most powerful among them.

So what if Emhyr quotes from Skyrim lore? He reads a lot! What he's referencing is from the Elder Scrolls' ingame book "Remanada".

Chapter 5

“Ah! Elder Blood! The blood of the traitress!”

“This will be a feast, sisters!”

“No! She’s his! Imlerith, he’s claimed her!”

~~~

“So Imlerith having been acquainted with those Crones suggests that there might be documents about them in Dol Blathanna,” Emhyr said conversationally.

Geralt looked around. They were alone. There was no need for Emhyr to be here and yet there he was. Continuing seamlessly with what they had been talking about half a day earlier, when Yen had left and Ciri had to prepare herself to host some kind of official function with… Geralt had already forgotten or maybe never listened to the details.

He had found some peace and quiet and exotic shrubbery in one of Nilfgaard palace’s walled gardens and had been staring at the one passage they had in the book about the Ladies, in a stubborn attempt to squeeze more information from those few paragraphs simply by looking at the words with determination.

Geralt hummed noncommittally in response to Emhyr; it wasn’t an answer but Emhyr’s statement hadn’t been a question, either.

“You look terrible,” Emhyr declared and sat down on the other little stone bench next to him.

Geralt snorted. “Gee, thanks, I hadn’t noticed.” He looked up straight into the emperor’s face so Emhyr could get a better view not only of Geralt’s damp, waxy, veiny pallor but also got the whole impact of the soulless oily sheen in his completely black eyes, which always gave away the witchers’ inhuman nature best.

Emhyr accepted the invitation to look his share and stared so shamelessly it actually made Geralt uncomfortable. “Why?”

Geralt huffed. “That plant over there – it’s Ofieri. Allegedly it helps with curses; my guess is by killing the ailing person. It’s highly toxic and since it doesn’t grow in the North I have no experience with it, personally. Saw it and decided to give it a try; what’s the worst that could happen.”

Emhyr nodded like he’d just listened to a sane person’s sensible approach. “Did it help?”

“Probably not.” Geralt wiped a clammy hand over his brow. “We’ll see.”

Emhyr made a sound resonating from somewhere deep in his chest that went directly into Geralt’s toes, somehow. Maybe he was still hallucinating.

“Cirilla said you were coping with your situation.”

Geralt shrugged, ostensibly unbothered. “I’m coping.” They exchanged a long glare. “This is hardly the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” he added. “Won’t interfere with the Path at all. Won’t be able to talk to Roach anymore but she’s very accepting.” He narrowed his currently beady eyes. “What’s it to you?”

Emhyr kept watching him with seemingly detached interest, except for a slight twitch in his jaw muscle. “Cirilla would be devastated if you accidentally got yourself killed.” He got up from his bench, his eyes never leaving Geralt’s face. “So don’t.”

He turned around and left the garden at a stately pace. Geralt took a deep breath and huffed it out with an incredulous grunt.The balmy afternoon air smelled like the sun with traces of Emhyr. He definitely was still hallucinating.

~~~

The plant hadn’t helped. At dinner Geralt was presentable again but still could only talk to Emhyr. He chose not to talk at all. The food was excellent and wasn’t silence more polite anyway. Something horrible was about to happen if he kept talking to Emhyr all the time; something ridiculous like that he’d start to look for Emhyr first thing when entering a room. Any room, really, for some reason. Well – stress sometimes did strange things to you and he was conditioning himself like a dog getting trained to primarily interact with its master.

He had to repress a snarl at that thought and faked a cough to conceal the throaty noise that still escaped his silence. Ciri looked over to him with sad eyes. Emhyr had already been staring at him any time he’d looked up from his food; that man knew no shame. Geralt felt some more things he chose to push away from his internal scrutiny as he was pushing some odd tasting leafy greens towards the edge of his plate.

Emhyr’s eyes glinted with mirth. “Those are not toxic, I assure you.”

Ciri sniggered and then gawked at her father saying things in jest.

“Isn’t ‘not toxic’ the bare minimum for deciding if something is food?” Geralt pretended to grouse.

“Non-toxicity does not seem to be a prerequisite for you at all,” Emhyr doubled down. He was definitely smirking now.

Ciri was grinning. “Geralt used to eat poisonous mushrooms; said they were too tasty to pass them over and that it was an ecological niche for witchers.”

“She’s a traitor,” Geralt told Emhyr. “Don’t trust her; first opportunity she turns on you to criticise your nutritional choices. Traitorous snitch.”

Emhyr was discernibly smiling now and fortunately, before Geralt could do something embarrassing like ogling that smile, that was the moment when Ciri’s fork hit her plate with a loud clang.

“Traitress,” she said. Everyone’s eyes were on her. “The blood of the traitress.”

Emhyr sent the servants running from the room with a sharp gesture.

“Geralt, the Crones said that. They called Lara Dorren the traitress. No-one does that but elves!” She got up from her chair and toppled her goblet of water without noticing. “No random monsters would use that word. Even if they’d been true goddesses, they wouldn’t have judged Lara Dorren’s decisions as ‘traitorous’. I think the Crones were elves – or at least used to be. Imlerith was visiting family.”

~~~

The Tale of Lara Dorren as told by the Humans (by Andrzej Sapkowski)

Then the witch hissed like a cat and her sinister eyes flashed. 'My end is nigh,' she shrieked, 'but yours is too, O Queen. You shall remember Lara Dorren and her curse in the hour of your dreadful death. And know this: my curse will hound your descendants unto the tenth generation.'

Chapter 6

“The Crones’ mother was Aen Elle,” Yennefer announced with florish while the door behind her was still getting closed by the Impera outside. The air around her seemed to crackle with static when Geralt just calmly nodded his head in agreement while putting his cards away.

“Cirilla arrived at this conclusion as well,” Emhyr explained, looking very proud. He swept his own cards from his desk into a drawer. Geralt grinned.

Yennefer sighed but failed at not looking pleased herself. “Well, I even have details and various scrolls; if you help me with the research, we might find what we need before anyone is going to miss them.”

Emhyr made an amused noise; Geralt just nodded again.

~~~

“Thufal was not only Aen Elle, she was Aen Saevherne; like Lara Dorren.” Again Yennefer shared a couch with Ciri, and Geralt had turned his back to them. “For reasons unclear she left her world and travelled alone until she settled in Velen, of all places, installing herself as a benefactress of the land. There’s no note about who fathered her daughters, their names appear in slightly newer scrolls without explanation: Heffash, Unro and Liarrae.”

~~~

Ciri stepped through her flashing portal into a picturesque glade and marched directly to the well hidden cave entrance.

“Avallac’h?”

The cave was empty and his furniture and lab equipment looked like no-one had cleaned in here in a while. “Oink!” Ciri wrote into the dust on the desk and dropped a prepared note next to it.

~~~

“We don’t know who of them was Brewess and who was Whispess, but I think Liarrae was the Weavess,” Geralt injected. “Her tapestries are mentioned in one scroll; they used the pictures to travel to places on other worlds; sounds a bit familiar.”

Ciri groaned. “Shit, of course. It’s much easier to focus with an actual picture.” She clicked her tongue. “Wouldn’t have found Stygga without one. It’s still awfully mysterious how and why that happened.”

Emhyr – very carefully – did not react whatsoever.

~~~

Ciri hit the elevator button to the penthouse floor and glared at the suit wearing man who’d eyed her with a sneer. Avallac’h’s apartment was empty but clean; he never left anything lying around on this world and was paying a cleaner. She sighed, took a beer from the fridge, zapped through the TV channels for a while and left after sticking her note into his computer keyboard.

~~~

“By conjecture and if we believe Geralt’s folktale, I’d say the Lady Thufal took a human lover; he would have been the dirt the daughters were made of,” Yennefer reasoned.

“Hypocrites.” Geralt could hear Ciri roll her eyes behind him. “Calling Lara Dorren ‘the traitress’ when their mother had done the exact same thing.”

“Well, they did kill her,” Geralt said, and Emhyr nodded:

“Moreover, Lara Dorren’s choice had not been merely a private one – marrying Cregennan was a political move intended to unite humans and elves. Whereas this Lady Thufal’s history sounds as if she had been an outcast even before she arrived in Velen.”

~~~

Ciri materialised in the dark and shivered. She’d come prepared with a coat she’d gotten from the place with the flying cars, but this world wasn’t only cold, it was also creepy. She lit a torch and waved it around. The white, spindly inhabitants of the dark lands scuttled away from the heat, sound and smell of the fire – they couldn’t see it; they didn’t have eyes.

Avallac’h wasn’t here. She would have already seen some light coming from his house – the only light in this world.

Ciri hurriedly dropped her note where he would see it immediately upon coming home, and portalled out as fast as possible.

~~~

“Why did no-one harass them for their blood?” Ciri griped. “I would have liked to see Auberon trying to get it up for them .”

It sounded like Yennefer had been putting an arm around her. “They had been old for a long time. No-one probably thought about it when their wombs were still fertile. Or maybe there had been attempts even back then, who knows? Almost everything about them has been forgotten.”

“They probably weren’t born evil,” Geralt said, hesitantly. “No-one is. Whatever their story was, it taught them to be ruthless and cruel.” He looked away because Emhyr’s eyes laid heavy on him.

“So what’s the curse then?” Ciri interrupted. “They had Elder Blood, alright. Does that mean I can curse people with non-curses, too?”

“Hng,” Geralt said.

“Yes,” Yennefer corrected him. “But only once: the moment of your death.”

~~~

Ciri narrowed her eyes against the bright sunshine and sighed. This was the world she disliked even more than the dark one – well, she had to check all of Avallac’h’s abodes. A large beetle suddenly took off from the giant fern bushes next to her and she squeaked.

“They have more reason to be afraid of you than you of them,” Avallac’h said sagely.

Ciri replied by rolling her eyes. “Those bugs are the size of dogs – and they fly; and they are everywhere. I’ve become really grateful that kikimora are at least not airborne.”

Avallac’h lifted an eyebrow. “This is no social visit, I presume. What is the emergency?”

Ciri huffed. “How do we counteract the Last Gift?”

~~~

“It’s called the ‘Last Gift’,” Yennefer explained. “It is a rare boon bestowed by Hen Ichaer, the Elder Blood. The last thought before death can potentially transform the actuality of the world – that’s why it doesn’t manifest as a curse.”

No-one spoke for some time. The dust motes dancing in the sun beams falling through the windows were the loudest thing in the almost absolute stillness of the room.

“This cannot hold true,” Emhyr finally disrupted the silence. “I am still alive, after all.” He looked up over Geralt’s shoulder to the place where Ciri sat. “Your mother –” He winced. “Pavetta was so aggravated she caused the storm that killed her; and her ire was directed at me.”

Geralt hummed. “Pavetta never learned what having Elder Blood encompassed – or how to control her powers. She didn’t know – and she might not have had a clear last thought.”

“Why not just–”

“Wishing to simply not die does not work,” Yennefer interrupted Ciri.

Geralt cleared his throat. “I think the Crones’ mother might have said something like ‘my spirit will not leave this land’ when her daughters killed her; so they had to detain her in that hill.”

“Or ‘you shall look as monstrous as you are’,” Ciri suggested. “Ouch.”

“Don’t be flippant.” Yennefer sighed. “You were lucky the other two Crones didn’t get their Last Gifts out, either. Geralt should never have let you fight them.”

“Hng!”

“I believe Geralt is trying to say nobody usually ‘lets’ Cirilla do the things she wishes to do,” Emhyr translated. “So how does one break this curse of the Last Gift?”

Geralt sighed. “That, we don’t know.”

I have SO MANY thoughts about the Ladies -- originally I just went with "what if they were elves" and then a whole universe of possibilities popped up.
Was the Lady's Last Gift what Geralt guesses and the Crones' looks were caused by a curse (extra story!)?
But I'm with Ciri, actually! What if she just gasped "You monsters!" with her last breath. And she had split off part of her self and bound it to the land in order to have more influence -- and that actually caused her to go batshit crazy. And that part stayed as a spirit even after her death.
Did the Crones have such a HORRIBLE youth we'd surprise ourselves by becoming slightly sympathetic? They sure look like they got horribly tortured.
I won't write any of that but feel free to build on it yourselves! :)

Chapter 7

“How come you play cards with him but he’s still able to speak to you?”

“Cirilla.” Emhyr took a deep breath. “You do not have to like people in order to maintain a civil relationship.”

Ciri snorted. “I don’t necessarily like everyone I have to deal with, either, but what’s your game with Geralt? Don’t say Gwent. I didn’t even know you knew how to play.”

Emhyr shrugged as a reply.

“You know you don’t have to butter him up in order to get into my good graces, right? I’d prefer if you didn’t string him along for some ulterior agenda, actually.” Ciri’s tone was calm, detached and very close to her father’s emperor mode.

Emhyr huffed. “I might simply attempt to establish non-hostile levels of communication in order to make future encounters less unpleasant.”

Ciri narrowed her eyes at him and the word ‘might’. “Why don’t you like him, actually? You’re both sarcastic bastards and you clearly don’t bore each other.” She hesitated. “He even likes your sad attempts at joking.”

Emhyr didn’t move a muscle. He kept looking at her and finally sat up even straighter than before. “I do not trust him. He might promote a friendly demeanour but there is steel and ruthlessness underneath his handsome veneer. You have not known him for long – it appears to you as such because you were a child and came to see him as a heroic saviour. I can see –” he hesitated. “I understand that he is very charming and attractive. I am suspicious of it.”

Ciri looked stunned in the collected way that would make a useful tool in her future as empress.

Her father nodded gravely.

Ciri rubbed her face in a very unmajestic manner. “Alright.” She got up and exhaled. “Anyway. I have things to do, places to be. See you when I’m back. Thanks for letting me do this.”

“It is important for your understanding of the scope of your powers,” Emhyr shrugged.

Ciri nodded and left. “ Very charming and attractive… and handsome, my arse,” she muttered under her breath on her way out.

~~~

Avallac’h stood there, composed and slightly bored, and somehow capable of not drawing everyone’s eyes despite being the tall, pale, haughty elf in the room. He had nodded graciously at Yennefer and was ignoring everyone else; he never even had looked at the emperor.

“The Last Gift –” he eventually lectured, not bothering with an introduction, “We don’t like to talk about it. Not every Aen Saevherne seems to have had that power. Some believe it is a myth entirely – and since I have not died yet, I have no personal experience regarding its validity. There has been no reported case of it further down a diluted blood line, either. Alas, Zireael insists this is what happened to the witcher.” He sighed.

Yennefer made an impatient noise. “Is there a known way to break it?”

Avallac’h looked as if he was being forced to do something undignified. “There is a poem,” he revealed eventually. “It is very romantic and it might be complete fiction; albeit, it’s the only historical source mentioning the Last Gift.”

“Alright, let’s hear it then,” Geralt said, charming as usual.

Avallac’h exhaled dolefully. “It has been composed in the One Speech, predating even Elder Speech. I will translate – but I won’t be able to capture its lyrical allure.”

Geralt hummed. “Sad but inevitable.” Someone snorted quietly.

Avallac’h cleared his throat:

“ If the last gift of the blood brings wrath and destruction to the worlds, only pure love can heal the wound hewn by hatred, and giving love to the blood will negate death’s decree.”

He pulled a face. “As I said, it is very romantic.”

“That’s all?” Ciri sounded offended. “So Geralt just has to love someone back?”

“No.” Avallac’h stalled. “That was only the exposition; also the conclusion; the repetitions frame the main verse.” He blinked. “Furthermore: it cannot be just anyone. ‘Giving love to the blood will negate death’s decree’ implies someone who also is of the Elder Blood.”

“The Elder Blood is the lock, the Elder Blood is the key,” Geralt quoted. “Means the pellar was right, after all.”

“So this whole thing would have long been over if only you liked me better?” Ciri had unsuccessfully tried for a casual tone.

“Hng.” Geralt made more strangled noises.

“No.” Avallac’h seemed to brace himself. “The term I translated as ‘giving love’ does… not refer to a parental bond,” he said, and had the decency to flinch.

~~~

The array Avallac’h was chalking on the floorboards would span the whole room. The chamber wasn’t large but secluded, the few furniture items it had held had been carried away by servants.

“Well, at least those inscriptions don’t have to be sketched in blood,” Ciri whispered meekly.

Yennefer cursed and stomped out of the room.

~~~

The silence that followed Avallac’h’s explanation had been so loud it droned out Geralt’s thoughts. For a second he forgot what was going on, where he was, what had been said. The silence was like having been hit by a bruxa’s scream – total, deafening, except for the roaring of the blood in his veins.

Then everyone started talking at once – no, not everyone: Ciri was saying things, Yennefer was shouting at her and Avallac’h, who was giving reluctant answers to both of them. Ciri was saying something to Geralt, but Geralt didn’t understand words yet. Yen was yelling.

Emhyr was glaring at him, his eyes cold with an emotion purer than hatred or disgust or anything people had dared giving a name to.

Geralt snorted. Then he grinned a humourless grin and shook his head.

“Hng,” he told Ciri and sighed. It got everyone’s attention, though.

“This is ridiculous,” he told a seething Emhyr – and laughed. It was exasperated and there wasn’t any joy in it but it was genuine. “Can everybody just stop and calm down, perhaps? There is nothing to consider and nothing to discuss.” He looked at Ciri and choked out another “hng”.

“Fuck!” he groaned at Emhyr and hit the desk between them with the flat of his palm. “How can you think this is something I’d consider doing! Not to step on anyone’s toes here: if I believed I had to do it in order to prevent the apocalypse I’d definitely be less casual about it, alright?”

Emhyr’s expression showed several layers of surprise, shock and awe.

Geralt shook his head. “So I won’t be able to talk to… my family anymore; right. We’re already dealing with that. Most people don’t like me anyway. I’ll be fine.”

There was a sob that sounded like it had come from Yennefer, which was another uncomfortable thought.

“Some people can’t talk at all and they manage,” Geralt said quickly. “Can we all just forget that this discussion ever happened and hng–” He frowned. “Hng?” Geralt narrowed his eyes and very carefully addressed only Emhyr: “Hng.” Emhyr closed his eyes and swallowed.

Geralt kept looking for a long moment; the smile he gave Emhyr then was slight and private and it was reflected by the gleam in Emhyr’s eyes.

Geralt turned to Avallac’h: “Oh, good. You still don’t like me.”

~~~

The array Avallac’h had drawn on the floorboards read five times ‘ giving love to the blood will negate death’s decree’ in the original words of the One Speech, as pointed out in the poem’s central verse.

“Sex magic,” Yennefer hissed. “It’s base and crude. I can’t believe he” – she pointed her chin at Avallac’h – “called it ‘romantic’.”

“Hm,” Geralt hummed; he probably would have said that anyway.

“I also can’t believe Emhyr agreed to go through with this. I just hope for you his contribution will be enough for the curse to break.” Yennefer left and Avallac’h handed Geralt the written instructions. The elf looked as bored as always: “Don’t worry; I will not enjoy this.”

~~~

“Sit with me.” Emhyr had been seated in an armchair by the unlit fireplace.

Geralt had taken the other armchair and shrugged. “Hng.”

“I know you will not be able to contribute to this conversation,” Emhyr had said in that smooth voice he’d used on Geralt lately. “But I do not feel like sharing what I am about to say with another person.”

Geralt had frowned and Emhyr had then poured them some wine.

“I am Cirilla’s father. She inherited half of that what makes her special from my side; so much so that those who attempted to breed her like a mare wanted me to contribute once more.”

Geralt had just blinked. He hadn’t expected Emhyr to ever address this specific part of their past – and voluntarily, nonetheless; and if he was to be guessing where this was going – no, but that was impossible.

“I am proposing we try if my blood is sufficient to break that curse,” Emhyr had spelled it out for him and Geralt had coughed out a nose full of very expensive wine.

~~~

Emhyr entered the room with the magic circle wearing only trousers and the shirt he presumably used to wear underneath all of his other layers; it was black and of exquisite quality, but this was very much not The Emperor of Nilfgaard stepping into the circle of runes – only a man; a man Geralt had secretly been ogling, which made his conscience shrivel up and his cock fill out – and his more complex emotions scuttle around in confusion.

Emhyr avoided Geralt’s eyes and nodded at Avallac’h as the door closed behind him and left only the three of them in the dimly lit room with the ominous floor decoration.

“Begin.”

Meming my own writing:
Emhyr: "Geralt is suspicious, look at him, he's beautiful, what right does he have to be so gorgeous, no, look, look at his arse: criminal, right? He's corrupting everyone with his paramount sexiness!"
Everyone: "Uh, he's alright I guess?"

Chapter 8 - The Smut

Avallac’h cleared his throat and handed Emhyr the written instructions. “You will have to paint these signs on each other’s skin, using your blood on the other person, respectively.”

He’d already explained everything to Geralt earlier. One sheet of paper featured two large characters made up of lines and dots, reminiscent of the overall look elven runes had, but more complex.

Avallac’h stated: “The iconography used for the One Speech stands for concepts, not letters; these two characters say ‘last gift’. I’d recommend you paint them on your lower abdomens because you’ll then have to wash them off your bodies using your liquids fuelled by passion.” He pointed at another sheet of paper with his translation of the poem. “That was a quote.”

Emhyr hummed. “And what is this?”

A third page was filled with strange squares: nine by nine grids with a handful of numbers in seemingly random places.

“Ah, no, that’s mine.” Avallac’h took the paper and slipped it into a slim notebook, switching it for another page. “This is yours. I wrote out an approximation of how it is pronounced. It means ‘wipe away’. You’ll have to say it together at the point of your climax. You’ll have to coordinate accordingly.”

“Of course it had to be awkward and difficult,” Geralt huffed.

“You probably have some expertise with this sort of thing?” Emhyr muttered.

“What? Timing my orgasms?” Geralt’s bafflement was mirrored by the dismay showing in Avallac’h’s face.

“Sex magic,” Emhyr specified. “Breaking curses with it.”

Geralt snorted. “Ah, his majesty has been reading those books,” he told Avallac’h. “No, there’s surprisingly little of that on the Path.” He looked at Avallac’h’s shoes, which were sturdy brown leather – very sensible footwear. “I guess I can time my orgasm, though. His majesty can just go ahead, I’ll try to adapt but would ask for a timely warning.”

Avallac’h had been very clear, beforehand, that although being Aen Saevherne made him a prime candidate for attempting this ritual with Geralt, a) there was that line about love that wasn’t just Avallac’h’s purple prose, which suggested that a minimum of fondness was required – at least as much as what currently rendered Geralt speechless; and b) he’d really rather not. Geralt was glad he’d agreed to assist, though, because having Mererid in here as the intermediary he could talk to would have been a horror beyond comprehension.

“I will be over here in the corner outside of the array.” Avallac’h nodded at Geralt. “Tell me once you’ve drawn the characters on yourselves, I will check if they’re correct.” He leant against the wall and started to squint at something he’d pulled from his notes.

Geralt nodded and, submitting to the inevitable, quietly lined up a knife, a vial of oil and his dignity. “Is his majesty still willing to do this?” Never in his life had he so consistently referred to anyone as ‘his majesty’, but right now he preferred the formality, avoiding a false sense of intimacy.

“One, one… one,” Avallac’h muttered under his breath, jotting something down.

“Yes,” Emhyr said, and when Geralt turned to look at him he saw him unbuttoning his shirt at an unhurried pace.

Geralt nodded and also started stripping out of his clothes, clandestinely glancing at Emhyr’s golden skin and liberal amount of chest hair. Maybe ‘golden’ was an exaggeration, but not by much, compared to Geralt’s pastiness. Geralt contemplated he’d be sufficiently disrobed for now if he kept his smallclothes on, and Emhyr had apparently decided the same thing.

“Do you think licking the blood off would count?” Geralt mused, staring at Emhyr’s chest and stomach. “Just in case we won’t produce ridiculous amounts of love juices?”

Emhyr wore an inappropriately complacent expression and had the gall to let his gaze slide slowly over Geralt’s body, not trying to hide it the littlest bit.

“Liquids fuelled by passion,” Avallac’h corrected. “No. Better be careful with the oil, too.”

Geralt hummed. “Does the ritual require penetration?”

Emhyr’s heartbeat sped up at that.

Avallac’h pulled his copy of the poem out and frowned at it. “No.”

Geralt nodded. “We should just go for mutual stimulation then. That way we’ll get all of our luscious loin fluids on our stomachs.”

Avallac’h knew he was being made fun of and didn’t deign to respond.

“Hng,” Geralt declared, and cut into his arm. He motioned towards Emhyr to lay down and went to work. Making the sigils bigger would make them more legible but keeping them smaller reduced the amount of blood he’d have to wipe away later. Emhyr’s skin was warm and his stomach pleasantly soft and Geralt tried to place each character to one side of the strip of salt-and-pepper hair leading south.

“Astonishing,” Emhyr whispered when Geralt had to cut himself a second time because the first wound was already closing over. The second sigil was more difficult to place because Emhyr was breathing faster by now, his stomach rising and falling with each quick breath; having Geralt’s fingers slide over his skin was affecting him and Geralt was battling the temptation to do something stupid, like pressing his face against Emhyr’s starting erection and losing control. Some loose strands of his hair had slipped from his ponytail and ghosted around his face as he was finishing his task. Emhyr reached up and touched them with an odd tenderness, and their hands met. Geralt made a sound that he may or may not have wanted to make.

“My turn.” Emhyr’s voice was rough and Geralt almost moaned.

He handed Emhyr the knife, hilt first, and layed down. Suddenly he was aware how vulnerable it felt: lying there, looking up at someone holding a knife. Shit, he should have tried to be less intimidating – it must have felt worse for Emhyr, having a witcher wield a huge knife above him, and he couldn’t even apologise for it. He exhaled, closing his eyes, and then Emhyr’s hands were on his body; heavy and warm, sliding up his stomach, finding their way up his chest, unapologetically taking pleasure from feeling him up and filling Geralt with the bone deep desire to be taken.

“Do you object?” Emhyr whispered into his ear. “Is it your preference to stay detached or will you let me touch you more than strictly necessary?”

Geralt moaned and tried to speak and then just grabbed Emhyr’s neck and kissed him.

Since he’d found himself in the unfortunate position of having to face Emhyr a lot, he’d idly been playing with the thought of what kissing Emhyr might be like. He’d amused himself with imagined scenarios of him going rigid and flustered; that had even been part of the allure. Other parts were that his lips looked fascinating – thin but enticing in their sharpness and their miniscule haughty lifts and curls. And what it would feel like to caress the blade of that nose with his lips. He hadn’t anticipated getting overwhelmed by Emhyr’s rather ruthless desire. His kiss was more urgent than artful but it was also sensual and greedy; he yielded eagerly and took without holding back. Geralt wanted to sink into that kiss and let it consume him.

Eventually Emhyr buried his face into Geralt’s neck with a gasp, and yes: that nose. Geralt let his face do what it wanted to do because as long as that nose was still poking at his jaw, Emhyr wouldn’t see the very damning smile.

“The ritual,” Emhyr muttered and only then pulled his face off Geralt’s neck. “I apologise for dithering.” He didn’t look apologetic at all.

Geralt blinked wordlessly at him because there was nothing else he could do. Emhyr had regained his composure and swiftly cut into his own forearm. Geralt kept staring while Emhyr started painting, alternating between looking at the reference sheet and tracing a bloody finger tip across Geralt’s skin. Emhyr wasn’t fearless or even shameless, he decided, because all of that was still there in his face and some lingering reluctance before he’d drawn blood; he just pushed himself. It was bravado and an adamant will. His lust, too. He was not actually confident but when he decided to pursue something, he went for it.

Geralt suddenly found out that he wanted to be wanted. That this was exactly what Yen had never felt for him. Others – like Essie or Triss – had wanted Geralt to want them. It wasn’t the same. But he didn’t know if Emhyr’s desire went beyond seizing this opportunity to get a taste of him, and he chided himself that he was pining for more. Again.

“Finished,” Emhyr declared.

Geralt cleared his throat and called Avallac’h over, who quickly acknowledged the legibility of their handwriting. “Yes, you can proceed,” was his enthusiastic judgement before he went back into his corner to write numbers into little boxes.

Geralt activated the array with a pulse of aard. There was no crystal to power it, it connected to their life energy instead. That alone was a sinister set-up, but it couldn’t be helped.

Geralt turned to Emhyr and smiled. If neither of them wanted to take a dispassionate approach, there was no need to be coy. It wasn’t an innocent smile. Emhyr inhaled sharply; for a few seconds he seemed to be unable to tear his eyes away from Geralt’s face; then he reached for him and pulled him close. Their first kiss had been an answer; their second kiss was a new question.

Geralt didn’t bite back his moan and slipped his hands down to feel around Emhyr’s arse. His smallclothes were silk – of course – and cut loose enough Geralt could weasel his hand up one leg. It earned him a ‘Geralt’ sobbed into his ear, then they both fumbled for the ties to get rid of their underwear.

“This shouldn’t take long,” Geralt managed to groan into Avallac’h’s direction, and Emhyr actually chuckled into his neck.

They dropped down to the floor again and Geralt drank in the naked want in Emhyr’s face, eyes caressing Geralt’s body, down to his very ready cock. Emhyr took him in a sure grip that made his eyes roll back and pressed his own erection against Geralt’s thigh.

“Hng,” Geralt begged and added a hand. They both panted while working out how to best rub against each other and into the other’s hand, and when Geralt looked back up into Emhyr’s eyes he had to struggle not to come on the spot; while Emhyr’s focus was terrifying, his amber eyes flared up with the peaks of lust Geralt’s thumb coaxed out of him and he looked close to losing it, too.

“𑑛𑑛,” Geralt chanted [the runes used by the One Speech can’t be shown here as they aren’t in the unicode system] and the dim light emitted by the rune circle started pulsing.

“𑑛𑑛,” Emhyr moaned, and they managed to roughly coordinate their strokes and the chanting.

“𑑛𑑛!” Emhyr gasped and rutted desperately into Geralt’s hand; Geralt nipped into his neck for good measure and the enticing taste of his skin and pushed him over the threshold.

“𑑛𑑛!” they moaned and panted together while Geralt let himself fall into the sweet abyss of his own release. His vision whited out or maybe it was the array blazing up its bluish white light, and while he was still soaring on the sharp waves of his lust, he kept chanting the 𑑛𑑛 and started smearing their come over the blood characters on Emhyr’s stomach.

Emhyr hadn’t completely lost himself either and was keeping up well. They had, indeed, managed to produce a ridiculous amount of ‘liquids fueled by passion’ and were busy sludging it over each other’s skin when the rune circle around them blew up with bright light and chaotic energy and left behind a faint crackle and a smell of ozone.

Geralt sighed, exhausted, and buried his face in Emhyr’s chest. That damn array had sucked a lot of energy from them and he was done.

“Geralt?” Emhyr muttered and stroked his hair. “Try to say something.”

“Hrgm,” Geralt groaned. Then he snorted. “Sorry, wasn’t supposed to be a joke.”

“It worked,” Emhyr triumphed.

“Melitele bless,” Geralt mumbled. “All that neccessary coordination – next time I want you to simply fuck my brains out, if that’s alright by you.”

Emhyr huffed and relaxed underneath him. “Maybe even a bed,” he said after a while.

Geralt grunted.

“When did Cirilla’s elf leave?” Emhyr blinked into the corner.

Geralt snorted. “As soon as he could.”

Yes, Avallac'h is doing sudokus; he brought them from our world.

Chapter 9

“And?” Yennefer accosted him while he was still soaking in the bathtub that had conveniently been waiting for him when he had returned to his room.

Geralt looked a little sheepishly. “It worked.”

Yennefer huffed but still looked relieved. “I know you, you’re going to hang around now. No, don’t interrupt me: we can make use of this. Now that you’re here, you’re going to become very good friends with General Voorhis.”

There was a lengthy pause in which only Geralt’s bathwater made soft splashing noises.

“I see.” Geralt let himself slip down the tub and sighed.

“That’s all you’re about to say?” Yennefer snorted. “A lot of curse breaking effort went into allowing you to mumble four whole words.”

“Hmm,” Geralt contributed.

Yennefer huffed and turned to leave. When she had just reached the door, Geralt called out. “Yen? I’m glad we’re on speaking terms.”

“Hmn,” Yennefer agreed, and the door snapped shut behind her.

~~~

“What’s wrong now?” Geralt was having a déjà vu as he was being marched through the palace by two not very talkative Impera. “Has something happened?”

“We’re not at liberty to say,” one of the guards said down his nose.

“Shit!” Geralt started to walk even faster than his escort. They reached Emhyr’s study and Geralt had the door open before the door guards could react.

“Emhyr?” The room appeared to be empty. “What–” The door shut behind him and then he was pressed against it.

“I wanted to see you,” Emhyr hummed into his ear. “Lay out some basic matters to make sure we are of the same mind.”

Geralt exhaled and let himself be manhandled. “Fuck, I thought something had happened. It's only been roughly three hours since–”

“There is an opening in my schedule and I intend to fill it,” Emhyr basically purred, leaving Geralt speechless for a moment. Then he sniggered against Emhyr’s face, lips caressing his skin when he spoke: “If it’s a pressing matter I’m sure we can squeeze it in.”

Emhyr drew in a sharp breath. “You do like my awful attempts at joking.”

“That’s what she calls my jokes as well – and yet she laughs about them,” Geralt grinned and pulled Emhyr closer again. “I like way too many things about you.”

Emhyr’s hand had found its way into Geralt’s hair. “Enough for you to stay for a while?”

The last three words had come as a careful afterthought and Geralt’s stupid heart was in freefall. “Yes.” He swallowed. “Yen has devised a scheme for me to spy on Morvran; that’s not why I’m going to stay, though.”

“Good.” Emhyr was breathing into Geralt’s ear and he squirmed. “I approve of the spying. You could also study more exotic plants.”

“Did you think you’d have to talk me into staying?” Geralt gasped.

Emhyr huffed, again into Geralt’s ear. “Maybe.”

Geralt hummed. “Yeah, better convince me somehow.”

~~~

“Are you going to stay a little? Now you can speak again?”

Geralt nodded reassuringly. “Sure. Entertain you with my latest exploits. None of my recent heroics is going to be as interesting as the whole Last Gift thing, though.”

“Ugh, I hope not!” Ciri grinned.

“Yen wants me to spy on Morvran.”

Ciri just nodded – so at least she was in on that plan, too.

“And Emhyr wants to show me–”

Ciri slapped her hands over her ears and went “La la la la la”.

Geralt rolled his eyes and poked her, so she had to lower her hands in order to defend herself. “He wants to show me the other exotic plants grown in the palace gardens so I can study them. There’s plenty of plants I’ve read about but never used in alchemy myself. Might come in handy.”

Ciri sighed with exaggerated relief.

Geralt smirked. “He’s also going to show me his bedroom.”

Ciri cried out in mock horror.

There was a woosh and a portal opened, and Ciri’s “Shut the fuck up, I’m a delicate princess!” was met with a “That’s my girl!” from Lambert.

“ Everyone shut up!” Keira interrupted. “The Crones of Crookback Bog were…–,” she paused dramatically. “...in part elven and carried the Elder Blood!”

She beamed with satisfaction when the reaction to her reveal was deafening silence and slack faces, but after a few more seconds of that she narrowed her eyes and put her hands on her hips. “What?!”

~~~

“How did you research the Crones’ background so quickly?” They were in Yennefer’s room now, which was actually a whole suit.

“Ah!” Keira laughed and waved her hand. “I already knew.” The expressions she looked into ranged from outraged to fatalistically accepting. “Did you think I would have moved into the Crones’ backyard without finding out what I’d be dealing with beforehand? Please…!” She chuckled.

“Why didn’t you tell me when I asked about them?” Geralt asked perfunctorily.

“Why, I told you what was relevant, how to find them.” Keira swiped a strand of hair out of her face. “No need to confuse you by adding unnecessary details.”

“Well, I should still thank you for attempting to help,” Yennefer not quite thanked her.

“Yeah you should,” Lambert griped. “We came here as fast as we could. How did you–”

“And I still need to thank you for this!” Ciri quickly held her medallion up. “The best gifts always come from my favourite uncle!”

“I’m your favourite?” Lambert grinned. “I knew that.”

“You’re the only uncle, Lamb. Eskel is just Eskel.” Geralt didn’t add ‘and uncle Vesemir is dead’. Lambert had come up with the ‘uncle Vesemir’ moniker, then Ciri had started calling him ‘uncle Lambert’ just because he got angry when she did it. It had stuck.

Nevertheless, Ciri was on her way to becoming a skillful diplomat; the way she had just steered Lambert’s attention away from the more delicate question of how the curse had been broken – that had been good. They’d need to come up with some kind of innocent half-truth –

“So –” Keira smiled angelically. “Who did you fuck to get rid of the curse?”

Lambert’s snickering was the only sound for a long moment.

“Emhyr,” Yennefer huffed.

“Ooh, that’s creative,” Keira crooned. “I was looking forward to watching you court Ida. She’s still slightly traumatised from your booty call, you know?”

Geralt was incredibly grateful Emhyr was catching up with his administrative work at the moment and not present for this conversation.

“You also already knew about the Last Gift and how to break it?” Ciri didn’t hide that she was impressed.

Keira preened. “Oh yes – I once considered specialising in rare sex magic; then things happened, kings died, genocide, the usual – well, it was a phase during more innocent times.” She looked back at Geralt. “Emhyr, eh? How did you make him true-love you in only a few days? It really must be true what they say about your skills. I can’t believe I’m like the last person on this world having missed out on–”

“What?” Ciri had interrupted her with a gleeful expression. “True love? Avallac’h said it might work with fondness, like the curse did.”

Keira looked like this was by far the best moment in her life. “No, the translations I studied agreed that 𑑛𑑛𑑛 means true love. Isn’t that sweet?”