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“Why am I here?”
Geralt’s gruff complaint permeated the noise and fuss outside the castle, a grumble beneath excited chatter and the faint music playing inside. He had made some concessions on his armour, a fine cloak covering his usual leather, and you couldn’t help smiling at the uncomfortable way he played with it.
You shushed him as a couple in finery strode past, offering you a matching pair of tight smiles. You greeted them with an equally tight grin, and the Witcher watched the whole exchange with a polite bafflement. Your smile dropped the second they were gone.
“To look out for me,” you ground out, “and scare away these idiots.”
The idiots were suitors, already offering waves and smiles as they piled into the castle. It belonged to your uncle, as did the kingdom you stood in, and the ball was a blatant ploy for the King to marry you off. It seemed that, as the runaway second-in-line for the throne, you were still worth pursuing to the knights and princes who peacocked around.
Geralt seemed amused.
“A bodyguard?”
“Not… exactly.”
He hummed, wanting elaboration, and you grimaced at yet another arriving set of nobles. You couldn’t look at him as you spoke, fixing your gaze on the distant stables. Wondering if Roach was being spoiled rotten. Bracing for Geralt to burst out laughing.
“My aunt seems to think we’re… together. And I really don’t want to marry any of these fools. A Witcher on my arm might scare them away.”
You hoped he wouldn’t be offended at the assertion. Quite the opposite, he seemed to stand a little taller, a little closer to your side.
“That one is rather handsome,” Geralt half-teased, nodding to an arriving knight.
His blonde hair reminded you of summer, where Geralt’s was cold, like snow, but he did bear a slight resemblance to the Witcher. He hadn’t even looked around, too busy following the growing noise in the banquet hall.
“Of course you would think that,” you grumbled, being petulant just to see the laugh-lines form around Geralt’s eyes.
“Might be nice to settle down eventually.”
It was unexpected, from a man like Geralt. You looked to him in surprise, only to see the vulnerability on his own face. Had he ever considered such a life for himself?
“I would be trapped here from the moment I said yes to a proposal. I would never be allowed travel with you again.”
He raised his eyebrows half-mockingly, tilting his head towards you, but betraying no other emotion.
“Then I will do my best to look terrifying,” he paused for a second, fingers finding his sword.
It was on his belt, and you knew he found the outfit change disconcerting.
“Does your aunt really think we’re in love? She hasn’t seen us in years.”
“She thinks that we’re together, yes.”
You chose your words carefully; you had no desire to make the Witcher needlessly uncomfortable. If he could offer you his arm for the night and maybe a smile, it would be enough. His face was unreadable as he wordlessly reached your hand, and you were astounded by the gesture.
“You really don’t have to –”
“If it keeps you from being trapped in this shithole with some knight, I’m sure you can put up with holding my hand for a night,” he muttered.
Tightening your fingers around his, feeling his cool, calloused skin against your own palms, you nodded.
“Thank you.”
He ignored you, his gaze far away as he observed the nobles milling around, but you knew he had heard. Without any further comment he followed the last of the guests into the banquet hall, tucking your connected hands close to his body. You followed his long strides into the building, enjoying the looks of awe from intimidated partygoers. Pretending you didn’t enjoy it.
*
As you found your seat at the banquet beside the King and Queen, they appraised Geralt with smooth politeness. A space by your side at the head table was created with little fanfare, your aunt watching curiously as the Witcher folded himself into a seat alongside her. It was rare that he seemed so ill at ease, he usually had such control over his body, his environment. You hid a private smile as he looked to you for reassurance that he was doing the right thing. You found his hand and squeezed it again, muttering to him about guests as they filed in.
It seemed to calm him, not that he cared for idle gossip or local affairs in the slightest, and you could see the inquisitive looks piling up as the room filled.
Soon you realised your mistake in seating Geralt beside your aunt. She was fascinated by him, involving your uncle in her questioning, growing more intense with every course served. The mere suggestion of introducing you to suitors was briefly out of the window, but you weren’t sure you liked the alternative any more
“Where did you meet?” she pried.
You had barely spoken to anyone all night, your conversation partners all far more interested in the infamous White Wolf. Geralt responded to her interrogation, toeing the line between curt and polite expertly.
“How long have you been together?”
Twisted versions of the trust kept her entertained, satisfied with Geralt’s answers which were as a smooth and pleasant as the finest wordsmiths you had ever heard.
Finally, with the King’s interest engaged, she broached the question:
“You are a Witcher, are you not?”
“Yes.”
You could see the stiffening of his posture, the tensing of his muscles, as the King’s gaze grew more intense. It felt like the whole room was watching.
“Witcher’s can’t feel, can they? They beat it out of you.”
Maybe it was the contact you’d had with him all night, maybe it was the shift of his fingers towards his sword, but you felt yourself grow tense. You knew he wouldn’t draw his sword from anger, from offense. It was a comfort. Control.
As the Queen shifted away from him subtly, your hand found his where it rested on his thigh beneath the table. Your other hand wrapped around your goblet of wine, trying to hide your nervousness.
“I think that’s quite a pervasive rumour, but certainly not true” you interject, trying to lean across Geralt to defend him.
Your aunt and uncle don’t register your words, gazes instead focused on Geralt’s tense posture. There’s a quietness across the rest of the banquet hall as guests fix their gaze on the Witcher. You trust Geralt not to do anything stupid, know he won’t endanger or embarrass you, but nonetheless you feel your heart sink. Guilt sits heavy in your stomach, and you want to apologise to Geralt right there, wishing you hadn’t forced this on him.
“I have never met a Witcher before, but I have heard tales. You don’t have emotions, do you boy?”
The King was certainly younger than Geralt, although he did not look it. His arrogance certainly presumed a superiority, his words patronising as he brushed you off. You felt Geralt bristle again at the demeaning name, at the insinuation he couldn’t feel. You didn’t know if he felt anything for you, beyond friendship and protectiveness, but you certainly knew he felt.
Nonetheless, you knew Geralt wouldn’t appreciate being spoken for again.
“If I am lacking emotions, I am not aware of it.”
Your heart sank.
“How would you know, I suppose!” The Queen exclaimed, trying to diffuse the tension.
The room shifted, those watching from tables reassured, returning to conversations with glances at Geralt and the King. As their eyes turned away, you felt Geralt’s tenseness remain – he knew the conversation was not over.
“Interesting creatures, Witchers. I have wondered… Do you only slay beasts? Or for anyone who will offer you coin?”
“Only monsters, regrettably.”
He ground the words out, but his gaze was elsewhere, watching some shuffle of the guards at the entrance to the dining hall. The Queen was watching too, seemingly unbothered by Geralt’s discomfort.
“I see. If you ever wanted proper employment –”
Geralt squeezed your hand in warning before you heard the drag of his chair across the flagstones, the Witcher standing to his full height before offering a nodded apology to the royals.
“A kind offer. I need to check on my horse.”
That was bullshit, and you knew it. Roach would be having the time of her life at the stables, fed Alfalfa and fresh vegetables by attentive stable hands. You watched him leave with a gnawing sense of regret, loathing that you had brought him into such a situation. That your station didn’t allow you to speak up for him.
“He’s awfully uptight, isn’t he?” the Queen mused, making the King chuckle.
“Surprised you convinced him to come indoors at all!”
“It sounds like he prefers the stables!”
You grimaced, taking another bite of your meal to avoid answering. You had to admit, the banquet was delicious, though you found your appetite leaving you. Geralt’s plate was still untouched, and you made a note to buy him a proper meal at the next place you stopped. You could pilfer something from the palace – it would be worth it.
“What do you think of the suitors?”
Your aunt leant over Geralt’s empty seat conspiratorially, and you winced at the closeness. She had been no friend to you growing up, offered your family no help, and now she would marry you off for her own power.
“They seem perfectly lovely.”
“Handsome, I reckon,” she raised her eyebrows, and you school your face to play along with her.
“Perhaps.”
You scanned the room, indulging her whims for a moment. Wondering how your life might change if you took this opportunity.
The blonde man who had caught your eye earlier was watching the exchange, his hair tucked behind his ears and a goblet to his lips. He met your gaze, eyes green where Geralt’s were golden. The longer you looked, the less superficial likeness he seemed to bear to the Witcher, but you couldn’t deny that he was handsome. There was a cheekiness to him, a raised eyebrow and a quirk of his lip, and you smiled back.
“I like him,” the King bellowed, and you saw the man hide a chuckle at the loudness, “good stock.”
You tried to hide your embarrassment in another swig of your drink, sure the whole room heard the King breaking your private staring exchange with the handsome stranger.
“He’s a knight, though he is landed. Very well regarded. You would do well with him,” the Queen whispered to you urgently.
It was still one of the dining courses, dancing and mingling were perhaps an hour away, but you wondered what would happen if you pursued this. You wanted to know.
“Then I believe I ought to excuse myself for a moment,” you stood gently, much to the Queen’s delight.
A pointed glance to the Knight got your point across, and the Queen followed your exit with excitable encouragement. It was all so crass, so blatant, but you let yourself bask in the excitement of the moment.
You had wondered if you might bump into Geralt as you stood in the corridor outside the banquet hall, waiting for your suitor to join you. He would still be occupied with Roach, you supposed, telling her about all the annoyances you had forced him through, complaining about these humans. You could do with a horse therapy session too, frankly, you were beginning to understand his frustration with human customs.
Finally the knight rounded the corridor to find you, flushed from his rush and no doubt from the teasing he had gotten from his fellow diners after the exchange.
He was tall, a little less broad than Geralt but still an imposing figure, even in his finery. He smiled wide and openly, his face bronzed by the sun. The lines around his eyes were handsome as he greeted you, kissing you once on each cheek, crowding you into the alcove you had chosen. Perhaps it was his exuberance, but this suddenly felt like youth, stolen moments and giddiness and the spark of a new connection.
“Hello,” he greeted breathlessly, and you couldn’t help laughing at the sheer strangeness of this all.
“Hi!”
“I hope I was the one you were smiling at, my companion was rather convinced it was him,” he teased.
“I confess I am a little disappointed, but you will do,” you played along, “I hope it was my attention you wanted, and not my aunt’s.”
“It can be hard to tell from across a room,” he chuckled, “but yes – I have no desire to cross the King. Especially not when such a beautiful stranger returns to us.”
You raised your eyebrow, a little doubtful of how he might know you.
“We had classes together, when we were younger?”
You offered an apologetic grimace, trying to wrack your memory, but you truly could not remember him. You had met a lot of training young knights on your occasional visits of the palace, they had rather blended together.
“You don’t remember,” he accepted, looking a little deflated, and you wanted to apologise immediately.
“I am rather sure we couldn’t have met, I would have remembered someone as handsome as you.”
Then he was grinning again, contagious, making you smile back.
“Smooth answer, my lady.”
Laughter echoed down the halls as your conversation dragged on, he was charming. Someone you would sorely like to spend more time with, perhaps getting a drink or sharing a meal. But the longer you spoke, the longer you realised what your life together might look like, you felt your resolve strengthen.
He spoke of the farm work he did in the height of the harvest, of small family disputes and land boundaries he fought for, of how he would long to return to someone as beautiful as you at the end of a long day, as you cared for his home.
You felt your jaw beginning to tense, fewer words escaping you. He was a charmer, he could wax poetic as Jaskier could, but you doubted it was any more than pretty words. The reality of it all seemed... Boring. If you wanted that life, he seemed a fabulous option, but you didn’t. You had a life you loved already.
“I confess, I didn’t bring a ring, but I have longed to see you again since we first met all those years ago… if you would let me have your hand.”
Increasingly you were beginning to see why Geralt was so succinct in the way he spoke. Your brain was aching to concentrate as he continued to stumble over himself. He still had you pressed into the alcove, although the situation was now rather less exciting, as his business pitch continued.
“I own five acres, though I believe I will shortly inherit more, and I am aware you are not soon in line for the throne however my family name will be elevated by the connection, our children could share in both country life and the excitement of court –”
His words felt like ice water, making your nerves stand on end and your heartbeat faster in panic, the clear image he painted startled you. He was still speaking, but you were spooked. Was that all he could offer? Monotony interrupted by the formalities of court once a year? At the cost of your freedom? Your ability to travel, and be terrified by whatever Geralt was slaying, and warmed by the fire, and be awestruck by a new horizon every single day? He was offering you visits to court?
You placed a hand on his chest, gently cutting him off.
“Perhaps we ought to return to the banquet, I hear the next course is duck confit –”
He wasn’t listening, too busy covering your hand on his chest with his own, the pleasant warmness of his skin beginning to feel clammy as you realised you wouldn’t be leaving until he had finished his speech.
“I just hope you will truly give my offer the consideration it deserves, I am prepared to do whatever it takes –”
The footsteps passing your alcove had previously been light, scurrying, servants and guests awkwardly rushing past to avoid interrupting your moment. The approach of slow, heavy steps caught your ears as the man blathered on. Then, they stopped. The stones were getting painful behind your back, and you winced as the knight unintentionally pushed you further back as he turned to look.
You didn’t need to see the shock of combed white hair to know who it was, the footsteps had been enough. Geralt was never loud, unless he wanted to be intimidating. Frankly it was working. Seeing his practiced frown over the knight’s shoulder made you feel decidedly caught, and you had to bite back the urge to hurriedly explain yourself.
The Witcher’s frown deepened as you yanked your hand free of its spot pinned to the Knight’s chest, leaving you waiting a few more seconds before he finally spoke.
“Everything okay here?”
The Knight opened his mouth to speak, and you took the distraction to slip free from him, standing away from both him and the Witcher, heart pounding in your chest.
“Everything’s fine,” the blonde man continued, stepping towards you. You stood firm.
“We were just discussing the engagement, I believe suitors will be lining up already for your hand, dear lady.”
Both you and Geralt stared him down, and you felt your confidence return as Geralt did.
“Naturally,” the Witcher grumbled.
You couldn’t shake the feeling he was making fun of you.
“I, um, I should get back. It will be starting soon,” the Knight straightened his clothes as if something rather more salacious had happened, straightening his posture as he passed Geralt in the corridor.
As he passed you he reached for your hand, holding it between the two of you for a second before kissing your knuckles.
“Follow your heart as well as your mind,” he whispered to you, as though he was imparting some great wisdom. With one final nod, he left.
You watched him leave, not quite sure what to do.
Geralt was shifting his weight from foot to foot, deflated a little now the Knight had gone.
“How was Roach?” you murmured, unable to face him.
Embarrassment was beginning to well up inside you, although you couldn’t quite place what its source was, it was tightening your throat, making your cheeks feel warm.
“She’s good. Spoilt.”
“Did you catch her up on all the stupid shit my aunt was asking you?”
He snorted a laugh.
“Naturally.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it. You gave me fair warning. It’s always like that.”
You sighed, keeping your head low as you turned to face him.
“It shouldn’t be, though. I am sorry.”
You could see him nod out of the corner of your eye, but you couldn’t look up for fear you might just cry.
“It didn’t feel real, until he started actually… talking about it.”
“Hm?”
“Them marrying me off.”
You felt arms wrap around you, gentle enough to let you pull away if you wanted. Instead you manoeuvred yourself to hug him back, letting him pull you tightly to himself, hiding your tears as the Witcher hugged you. You knew he could hear the sorrow in your breathing, probably smell the saltiness of them in the air, but you couldn’t bear to meet his eye.
“We should go back in,” you hiccupped.
You had been gone for long enough, the Knight had no doubt conspicuously returned, perhaps bartering around the table to buy a ring off someone’s hand. Not a word you had said could shake his confidence.
“They can wait. You’re royalty, after all.”
You half-heartedly tapped his bicep, and imitation slap, making him laugh as you kept your face burrowed against his shoulder in misery.
“Hardly. They’re definitely more impressed to see you, Witcher.”
“I’m not sure ‘impressed’ is the word I would use,” the grumbled.
“I’ve heard that Witchers can see in the dark and breathe underwater!” you imitated your aunt, hoping to draw a laugh from Geralt.
He gave a hm, and you finally pulled back from him, staring at his face in shock.
“You can?”
He grinned, and you rolled your eyes, hiding your teary face against him once more. A hand patted your back in mock sympathy before resting there, more of a comfort than you cared to admit.
“You’re such a prick,” you grumbled.
“I do have a potion for seeing in the dark.”
“I don’t believe anything you say anymore.”
“You never listen to anything I say anyway,” Geralt teased.
“That’s not true.”
You felt him nod his concession, enjoying the hug for a few moments more. It was rare, this closeness with the Witcher. You relished in it.
“Do you think Roach needs checking on again?” you muttered once you’d collected yourself.
Disentangling your arms from his, you tried to regain some composure, wiping your eyes. You had to ignore Geralt’s look of concern, focussing on it would only bring you to tears once more. He offered you his elbow and you took it, wordlessly walking away from the banquet hall.
“I’m sure she’s fine.”
“She’ll be miserable when you make her sleep outside tomorrow,” you teased, feeling a pang of sadness at the realisation you might not be there with them.
We could run, you wanted to urge, get out of here. Duty froze you to the spot, years of conditioning to bend to your aunt and uncle’s whims. You knew you wouldn’t make it far. Worse, Geralt might end up being blamed. You couldn’t do that to him.
“Do you really want to marry him?”
The words tumbled from Geralt in an unfamiliar rush. He never spoke so thoughtlessly, and you tried to watch him as the two of you walked to a window, but the flickering candlelight dimmed his face.
The moon wasn’t out tonight. These were the worst nights, when there wasn’t even a sliver of brightness to illuminate the continent as you and Geralt crossed it. You liked to look for the moon on your travels, remind yourself it was still there – that you hadn’t wandered to anywhere so far that you couldn’t see the moon.
It felt like an omen.
“I never said I wanted to marry anyone, Geralt.”
“He seemed nice,” Geralt pushed, staring out into the grounds. You didn’t doubt he could see more than you, gaze unwavering as he focused on the treeline.
“I think he was just a sweet talker. He wanted me to raise his children on a farm.”
Geralt’s grunt turned to a bark of laughter, and you didn’t have it in you to feel offended by it. Truthfully, you couldn’t imagine settling anywhere. Unless Geralt wanted to.
“I’m sure you could… learn to farm,” he tried, breath curling into fog near the cool window.
You fixed him with a hard glare, and he sent you a look of mock fear, holding a hand to his chest as you did when you were shocked.
“You’re such a fucker,” you grumbled, “I’ll miss you.”
He stood silently, seemingly brushing your comment aside.
“Do you really think you’ll leave?”
Tears, again. Fuck.
“Do you think I have a choice?”
“What are they going to do? Hunt you down?”
“Maybe! I don’t know!”
Finally, Geralt seemed genuinely startled, holding perfectly still as his “danger!” instincts kicked in.
The rushed footsteps behind you made both of you whip your heads towards the intruder, a panicked looking guard with red cheeks and clattering armour.
“I’m sorry, the Queen said –”
“Yeah, I know,” you cut him off, already knowing you had pushed your luck with your long absence.
You checked your reflection in the glass of the window before following the rushing guard back to the dining hall, surprised when he stopped you and Geralt.
“She did say… just you. Not the Witcher. My lady.”
The guard stumbled over his words, and you pitied him as he looked at Geralt, clearly terrified.
The Witcher huffed, then followed anyway, ignoring the nervous glances from the guard. He seemed to have no more protest.
As you approached the doors, you glanced at Geralt, wondering if he might take the opportunity to leave and spend the rest of the evening with the more favourable company of Roach. Instead, he stepped beside you.
“You know they won’t get to you,” he murmured to you.
You had no time to respond as he pulled your arm into his, entering the banquet hall from the main entrance as heads turned. Refusing to turn your head, you let Geralt guide you back to the seats you had abandoned earlier in the evening. The dessert course had been served, although it seemed all plates were left untouched as the room hissed with speculation.
As you approached your seat you almost stumbled, surprised as the Witcher pulled out your seat for you. It was an awkward dance as he took his own seat, forcing your hand above the table so he could hold it between your plates.
Smoothing your face and trying to smile through the act was all you could do to keep up appearances.
“Kind of you to finally join us,” the Queen mused, looking Geralt up and down pointedly.
“Apologies. We were distracted,” the Witcher responded, and you fought to keep your jaw from dropping in surprise.
“You kept us waiting,” she prodded, and you pointedly distracted yourself with the plate of fruit in front of you.
Instinctively you attempted to pull your hand free to use it, but Geralt silently held firm.
“I won’t apologise for taking my time.”
To your amazement, she offered him an approving smirk.
“You won’t get that in a marriage bed,” she stage whispered.
You ignored her, and the knot in your stomach.
As dinner wrapped up, you continued to listen to Geralt fight through questions about your fictionalised relationship – you could feel the stress of it through your connected hands. Your aunt would glance at your hands occasionally, with the entertained air of someone judging teenage romance. Finally she addressed you directly, and you cursed yourself for not listening.
“Remind me how long you two have been together?”
You smiled sweetly, glancing at Geralt as if his face might give it away.
“Two years!”
“Oh! I thought you said six months?” she turned to Geralt with barely suppressed glee.
Dread sunk like a stone in your stomach, and you clung to the Witcher like you might be whisked away from him at any second. It had been nice. The evening. The tales he had spun of your courtship. The hugs and the heart to hearts, the fire which flashed across Geralt’s eyes as he saw you with the knight. You would never see that again. The faint image of a farm seemed to shimmer in the sconces around the room.
Now disappointment painted his face, his polite smile plummeting down into a frown, and the ache in your chest truly felt as though you had disappointed him as a lover.
“Has it only been six months? Sorry! I guess when it’s right… it just feels like we’ve always been together.”
You turned to Geralt, apologetic, and he made a poor show of laughing it off. You hoped he could read you, see the fear and the apology and the oh god, I don’t know how to do this.
You felt sick at the Queen’s raised eyebrows, the surprised delight on her face. There was no reason other than pride to keep pretending. You pulled yourself closer to Geralt, the handle of his sword pressing between your hips.
Her gaze fell on your connected hands, and you hung your head. You could feel the frustration from Geralt, and you wanted to apologise to him
“As I suspected. This is going to need to go,” she told you pointedly, words venomous.
After a moment of pause, you went to let go of Geralt’s hand. He pulled your connected hands beneath the table, otherwise stoic as he made his small resistance.
The King was watching with curiosity, one elbow perched on the table, head resting on his hand.
Despite Geralt’s hand squeezing yours, you couldn’t escape the sensation that this was it. It was over. The Queen stood, passed Geralt to speak only to you, bending down to meet you as you sat.
“Whatever this is, was, you know your duty to us.”
You were frozen to the spot, tongue heavy in your mouth with regret. For letting Geralt down. For accepting this summons at all.
For what might have happened if you and the Witcher had spoken sooner.
It felt like you blinked, and it was happening. Suitors standing to pitch to you. You couldn’t hear anything they said, as they rotated through in front of you, the rowdy room quietened as each suitor spoke.
As the blonde Knight stood, you felt Geralt sitting up straighter beside you, your aunt’s gaze shifting to your slouched form pointedly.
Ready to hear his spiel again, you barely noticed the gasp of the room as he stood before the stable, cleared his throat, and dropped to one knee.
“I believe we have something special, my lady. And so I take this opportunity, in front of everyone gathered here today, to boldly ask for your hand.”
He looked hopeful, handsome features smiling as he stared up towards the table, eyes shifting between the four of you. A ring glinted in his outstretched hand.
You wished you had the control not to, to sit there stony-faced, but for a split second your gaze slipped to Geralt. He looked as alarmed as you, no great expression on his face but a wideness to his eyes and a clench in his jaw which made your heart sink.
If Geralt was afraid, this was really happening.
The knight on the floor in front of you looked up hopefully, his eyeline slipping between you and the King and Queen, occasionally stuttering as he passed Geralt. You knew you had to do something, the room was watching, the Knight’s confidence waning with every silent second.
Your aunt said your name with a quiet forcefulness, and your knees felt weak beneath you as you rose.
This was it. Whoever this was.
You wondered if you could say no, if you should say no. What would the consequences be?
Absence from the castle had left you with minimal understanding of who these people were, which alliances were unimportant, which were volatile – who this man represented.
Fuck.
As you stood you frowned, feeling Geralt’s hand on your fingers, tugging one of your rings free as subtly as he could.
You couldn’t even register it, too busy trying to figure out what you were supposed to do.
“Do you want to marry any of these idiots?” he murmured, his touch lingering.
“No!” you hissed back, wincing as the pleased expression fell from the Knight’s face.
The delay was making everyone nervous, every shuffle of your feet echoing around the astounded room.
“I, um – kind Knight I –” you began. Fuck, you didn’t even know his name. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think I can accept your hand until… Until I have given the rest of these kind suitors a chance.”
“I believe I am the last one, my Lady.”
Your knees were weak. Your heart was pounding, mouth tasting of copper. Again your eyes slipped to Geralt, seeing the top of his combed, clean hair as he sat beside you. He was toying with your ring, passing it between his fingers.
The Queen gestured to have her chair moved, standing with a false smile plastered on and her goblet raised in celebration.
“In that case, Sir, my niece would be delighted to accept your offer.”
A smattered applause filled the room. You swayed on your feet, eyes unfocused with the panic rising in your throat. The Queen’s smugness, the awkward applause, the knight approaching, it was too much. You wanted to run, but your feet couldn’t move from the flagstones, your chair boxing you in against the table.
The blonde knight smilingly approached the table, ring outstretched, and you flinched away. Your instincts were failing you.
Fuck.
“Geralt…”
Your voice sounded broken to your own ears as you asked for him, and he finally looked up, his yellow eyes softer than you had ever seen them. He stared at you for a moment, reading you, before the shriek of his chair across the stone floor caught the attention of the room.
The Queen looked murderous.
Geralt dropped to one knee, your ring in one hand, his other hand finding yours. You couldn’t even see the knight, the shock of the room. All you could focus on was the Witcher.
“Marry me, instead?”
“Yes!”
You let him shove the ring onto your finger, hugged him as he stood, in a complete daze as the Queen approached you.
“You have already accepted another offer, girl.”
You held up the hand Geralt had just shoved a ring on, unable to find words. You didn’t see the hand coming, the nails she dug into your wrist, cutting you very intentionally as she pulled you away from Geralt.
“Ow!”
“Obviously he is not an option. I didn’t think I had to specify human!”
Her grip grew tighter, a second hand now gripping your jaw, the shock making you dazed and slow as she drew your face close to hers. A hundred prying eyes were watching as she manhandled you, but no one moved.
“You’re hurting me –”
“Take it off.”
Whatever sense was always attuned to Geralt told you he was behind you, and you reached back instinctively, knowing he couldn’t strike the Queen but desperately wanting his help.
“No,” you hissed, wriggling against her grip as much as you could without risking the guards approaching.
“Then leave.”
Geralt answered for you, pressing his body between you and the approaching guards to hiss back to the Queen.
“Gladly.”
*
Hours passed in a blur. Geralt guiding you. A stinging pain in your wrist. The blur of faces as you left the castle. A pang of guilt as you passed the knight, disappointment and embarrassment pink across his cheeks. There was the sting of cold as you walked to the stables, banished as Geralt slung your coat around your shoulders.
Both of you wordless.
You had ruined everything.
You had somehow won, and yet lost everything that mattered anyway.
You couldn’t meet his eyes.
You collected Roach word of your banishment could reach the stables, keen to avoid drama or conflict. The clink of guards followed you across the grounds, a silent threat at your back, separated only by three yards of distance and the firm warmth of Geralt’s hand on your lower back.
The familiar ring was uncomfortable on your finger, making you twist it and stare at it.
For the first time in years, Geralt helped you on to Roach, the horse setting a slow pace with both of you on her back, your regular clothes in her saddlebags. The finery felt ridiculous now, as you were escorted off the grounds, Geralt at your back as he guided her.
Fighting to stay awake, you let your eyes close, Geralt letting you as he handled the journey.
Once the guards had left you Geralt dismounted Roach, walking alongside her to relieve her back from the weight of two humans. You leant forwards, as relaxed as you could be against her neck, too exhausted to care whether you were riding safely.
You knew the Witcher would look out for you, no matter how much you had messed up the relationship between you.
After a few miles you had entered a well-worn path through safe forest, a river to your left and a town ahead. A real bed would be welcome, especially at this late hour, but you knew funds were tight after the long journey you had made to be at the banquet.
“I forgot to get you food,” you murmured into Roach’s neck.
“Hm?”
The steady rhythm of Roach and Geralt’s steps was calming, soft against the mud road. You stared at the road passing beneath you as the Witcher watched you, finally meeting his eyes when the motion sickness grew too much. They were soft, tired, heavy as they met yours.
“I was going to steal some money, buy you a meal to apologise for tonight. I forgot.”
He chuckled, dry and confused. You could hear the worry in his laugh.
“I’ve eaten plenty. Though truthfully, I was too distracted to eat.”
“I’m sorry.”
He murmured to the horse as he brought Roach to a halt, then took her off the road and into the woods. One hand found your shoulder to steady you as the terrain grew more uneven.
“We’ll camp here,” he declared, knowing you were well equipped for one night in the forest.
“Okay.”
After a few more moments of travel away from the road you stopped in a clearing, fighting to summon the energy to sit up and begin unhitching bags from Roach. You passed bedrolls and bags to Geralt sharing only murmurs, not needing words after so long on the road together. Stumbling from Roach as you dismounted, you were grateful to see Geralt already building a fire.
You barely remembered your head hitting your bedroll, only waking later as Geralt shook your shoulder.
Water was boiled to drink, steaming as he handed it to you, your blanket draped over you and your bags hung from trees to stay dry as the small campfire blazed.
“Thank you,” you muttered, throat dry, head aching from the tears you had shed.
He nodded, cupping his own water, sat curled on his bedroll in a way which seemed to undermine the hulking stature he usually exhibited.
“I… I really can’t thank you enough. And I’m sorry – I should have known better –”
Your words were croaked, steam from your drink and heat from the fire warming your face. It had to be the early morning, an unusual darkness in the air, the moonless sky looming over the life of the mossy forest.
“You couldn’t have known. Frankly those engagement banquets are usually a shitshow.”
His familiar, baritone pessimism warmed you like no fire or water ever could. From the inside out.
“Yeah?”
His fond glance told you of a story he didn’t care to tell. A crunch of twigs behind you made you jump, whip your head around only to see Roach peacefully grazing. You smiled at her, returning your attention to Geralt, who was smiling indulgently at the pair of you.
Your nap had helped, the adrenaline and stress built up in your system flushed away, replaced with a gentle tiredness that made you feel drunk on freedom. You pulled your hand free of the cup, staring at the unfamiliar shine of metal now occupying your ring finger. You had never considered what it would mean, assumed the Witcher would barely be aware of marriage as more than a bizarre human custom.
It didn’t mean anything – an engagement wasn’t legally binding regardless of the room it was accepted in front of. Geralt hadn’t meant anything by it.
You should move it back, correct this strange diversion in your course and pretend this had never happened. You took another sip of your water. It looked nice there.
To your alarm, Geralt’s watchful gaze was fixed on you as the spell broke, watching the cogs turn in your brain. Embarrassed, you quickly struggling to balance your hot drink and pull the ring off, put it back in its rightful finger.
“Sorry, I…”
“I hope I did the right thing.”
He spoke over you, and you completely forgot the apology you were stammering. You met his eyes, staring into the striking yellow of his irises. It used to be a reminder he was different, alien to you. When that knight had knelt in front of you, you had been underwhelmed with the green of his desperate stare.
“Of course. It was quick thinking, thank you.”
The ring was still there, shifted further up your finger, but it was awkward to get it off without full use of your hands. He stared at it.
“It looks nice there. It doesn’t have to mean anything, but… it looks nice.”
You blinked at him, not quite understanding. Not quite believing. He cleared his throat, fighting his natural quietness to explain.
“It doesn’t have to be… an engagement. But… it’s a reminder. Something to deter those flirts at the taverns. If you want to deter them, that is.”
Raising your mug to your lips concealed the smile you were fighting back, and you watched your Witcher with a quiet hope. A quiet understanding of what was left unsaid. You slid the ring back to its natural place on your finger, nodding even as a giddiness held your tongue. Roach spooked you again, this time passing behind you to get as close to Geralt as her tether would allow.
“At least she had a good evening,” you teased, stretching your wrist with a wince.
No doubt the skin would be aching lightly for days to come, bruised and strained from the Queen’s outburst.
“Unlike that poor knight,” the Witcher added, a playfulness to his voice. “He thought he’d found the opportunity of a lifetime with you.”
You snorted, repressing a shudder at how close you’d been to the path you had so longed to reject. Wondering if that would be the path your life took without Geralt.
“I’m sure he would have been disappointed with the truth,” you replied, watching the crackling firelight.
You smiled, glancing at the Witcher as he looked across at you. Geralt’s eye contact was too much, even in the low light.
“Only because of his small-mindedness, I promise you that.”
“That’s generous,” you laughed.
“That’s true.”
“I’m glad you were there. I froze, and you stood up for me. That means a lot.”
“Of course.”
He was overwhelmingly sincere, and you fought not to wince at it, instead accepting the burning warmth settling in your chest. It only seemed to amplify the weight of the ring on your finger.
The heat was becoming increasingly valuable to you as the nights grew longer, even the days cold. Soon the shivering would grow too much, and you would separate for winter. As you asked the Witcher how far away that inevitable break in your routine was, you felt the weight of his ring on your finger, his intention in your chest.
“I had hoped to stretch it out longer,” he mused, “although the snow may come early this year. I actually wondered…”
For a moment he paused, glancing at Roach as she started to settle, before finding his resolve.
“If it might be easier for you to join me. For the winter. I would like you to.”
“Geralt?”
“Kaer Morhen can be… unwelcoming to outsiders. But I promise my family is more welcoming than yours. The food is not as good, but we eat with friends, rather than enemies.”
You were struck by the weight of the offer, by the urge to say yes. Not only because you truly had nowhere else left to go, but because the pain inflicted upon you by thought of leaving Geralt was tenfold this year.
You would only spend your time scraping by, awaiting his return.
“That sounds like an honour. I would love to.”
“We may have to straighten out our story,” he nodded towards you, no doubt referring to one specific ring, and you huffed in frustration.
“Six months! I know!”
“It is lovely that you said it felt like longer,” he smiled, gentle so as not to reopen an incredibly fresh wound.
“Hm.”
You lacked the heart to flip him off, sipping at your drink instead.
“So I would be your… betrothed… at Kaer Morhen?”
He shrugged.
“Whatever you like.”
You settled back onto your bedroll, placing the mug aside and settling. Geralt did the same, and you watched him sideways as he settled.
“We have all the time in the world to figure it out,” he reassured you, voice muffled as he lay down.
The night was still, the noise of the forest monotonous enough to fade away as your mind slowed to sleep. You could hear Geralt’s weapons click as he shuffled them around near his sleep mat, accessible at a moment’s notice.
“I think I might have made my decision already,” you admitted.
“Oh?”
“There is a rather handsome knight with a farm –”
You could hear his eye roll, it was accompanied by a dramatic groan which made you laugh, your face inches from the forest floor.
“although I doubt he has a horse as fine as Roach.”
Geralt grunted out a laugh, and you could hear the tiredness finally catching up with him.
“If we get married, I’m keeping Roach.”
You went as still as the forest, the rustle of leaves and the faint sounds of the river an unwelcome distraction from the moment passing between the two of you.
If we get married.
“She likes me more. I’m nicer to her.”
He huffed again, that restrained laugh that made you feel like you had a headrush.
“Bullshit.”
You could hear the mumble in his voice, inhibitions melting away with sleep. You longed to close the distance between you.
“I’ll buy you a proper ring. Leave my horse alone.”