Warnings: Please be aware that this fan-fiction will contain profanities, mild sexual content, many bloody battles, character deaths, and an overly obsessive usage of semi-colons and 'big' words.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything of the Witcher series. This piece of fiction is being written for merely entertainment purposes.
Rated: M
A/N: All right, this is just a one off. There will be another chapter added to this one, but on the whole this short fanfiction has been written and posted up because there is a sore lacking in slash fiction for Geralt of Riv. I always get irritated by companies when they produce characters that are strictly what the companies desire; in other words, oh, how lovely – you can change Geralt's clothes and hair, but not his personality or sexual interests. Nope, let's have him copulate with whores and mages, but not with men. Honestly, the only gay character in the series is Dethmold.
In any case, I hope anyone who reads this enjoys it; and if anyone decides to review this or message me, please do so about the plotline, character, or any spelling errors I've overlooked. I've no desire to argue politics over the legality of homosexuality.
Edited: 12/4/2017
Summary: Geralt has been suffering from the memory of Aryan La Valette's death. He wonders why Aryan kissed him, and why had he liked it? But as the Witcher stumbles across Flotsam and meets the Scoia'tael's leader, he realises that sometimes that the past doesn't matter – it's the future that counts.
Chapter One: Dangerous Deeds and Pasts
"Second door on the left – that's the oil store."
Geralt groaned. Aiding the baron's son was no small quest. Countless guards lay unconscious around them, knocked into their state by namely himself. Indeed, although they were safe for the moment, that could change at any moment. They still needed to escape.
Aryan limped away from Geralt once they were through the doorway. He pressed his weight on a stone on the wall, and then backed up as the wall slid open to reveal a hidden passageway.
"There's your way out, Geralt. It'll take you straight to the docks," Aryan said, his tone still as formal as ever. "I thank you for your aid in getting me here."
"Come with me." Geralt wasn't sure why he was asking. Aryan likely expected him to leave and never look back, but there was something odd about the way the heir was speaking - it was as if he wanted to stay behind. "There's nothing you can do here."
"I've more to do now than ever before."
"Alone?" Geralt asked, frowning. Surely the young La Valette wanted to see his family?
"I need no one's aid for what I aim to accomplish," he said through his half-beaten lips. He snatched a torch from the wall nearby, but with his free hand holding his injured leg, he was slow. It was a feat he could stand by himself, let alone walk. "I'd run were I you, Geralt – and fast."
"Is that your final word?"
Geralt wanted to carry the heir down the tunnel. Aryan could only be holding a torch to light the oil and set the place ablaze, that was clear, but did he have to remain behind? As Geralt considered batting him unconscious, and wondered how many more people he'd render unconscious in this prison, Aryan gave him a haggard look.
"Geralt -"
"What of your siblings? They're in the nobles' clutches. And your death - by dying here, you'd leave them to suffer. Are you that much of a coward, La Valette?"
Aryan grunted. He latched two fingers into Geralt's breeches and pulled the Witcher towards him. Their chests slapped against one another and Geralt parted his lips. Underneath the heir's unlaced, torn shirt, on his chest, was a tattoo of a man grasping the hand of another mirrored below him.
"You know, they got one thing wrong when they tortured me below." Aryan curled his lips into a dark smile. "I'd never plough any woman, ever. Certainly not my mother." He grimaced in a way that Geralt thought privately was charming, sweet even. "My tastes…I am more inclined to cocks than cunts."
"And yet you signed the document in the torture chamber, verifying that you sired your siblings?"
He chortled. "Words, Geralt of Rivia. Mere words on a page, were they."
Aryan La Valette crushed his lips against his. Geralt, dropping the black jackhammer that he'd used to incapacitate the guards, groaned at the metallic taste of blood on the heir's lips. The Witcher had kissed many a woman, most especially the fiery Merigold, but Aryan kissed with an aggression that he hadn't experienced in a long while.
The heir kissed his lower lip repeatedly, practically suckling at it. Geralt growled, and kissed him back, his resistance failing. Aryan was too enticing; he was too much like a trickster. Geralt stroked his way from Aryan's arms to his hips, which he found were not curvy like Triss's or Yenefer's hips but instead straight and hard. He started stroking those prodding hipbones.
So perhaps the heir was training to become a knight, which meant that he was likely stronger than any witch he'd bedded before, but Geralt didn't expect Aryan to curl a hand around his neck and grasp his bound-up white hair in a handful. The heir tugged at the knot, and Geralt groaned - loudly.
Aryan stepped back, then, so Geralt bent down to pick up the jackhammer. As Geralt made to stand up and regain his footing, though, Aryan's hands settled onto his shoulders. The heir pushed the Witcher backwards into the passageway.
Geralt scowled. In spite of his flushed cheeks and his askew shirt, Aryan still held the torch. His grip on it hadn't faulted in the slightest.
"Aryan, no -"
"Farewell, witcher," Aryan said.
The heir swept the torch over a barrel. Geralt tried to grab Aryan by the waist, thinking to carry him out still, but the man kicked him in the shin and, once Aryan had torched four barrels of oil, it became clear that the heir didn't intend on leaving the Fortress alive.
Geralt skirted for the passageway. Aryan had a death-wish, but the Witcher did not. Even so, as the oil found gunpowder and ignited in the room behind him, and the tunnel shook and rocks crumbled around him, it was not a fear of death that terrified Geralt. It was the sound of Aryan laughing.
Witchers in general have an unnatural strength, enabling them to ignore pain for days. Geralt knew he was strong physically, but his mental state, with his memories lost, was not. So as the echo of Aryan's voice died out, he found himself wishing for its return, so much so that, in his lack of inattention to his surroundings, he stepped on a sharp rock and it pierced his naked foot.
Steeling himself, Geralt continued on and barrelled his shoulder against the prison's door. Hobbling out of the passage, he looked down at himself. Crumbs of stone and dust now littered his skin. The wounds on his chest were dribbling blood down to his breeches and had stained them; and as for his ribs and his feet, he could already feel the ache of the bruises he would have when they began healing.
Geralt barely listened to the Officer-guard. And when he met Triss and Vernon at the docks, he only told them the necessary details. After all, he could hardly remember anything from his past life. Why should he inform them of his sexual exploits? Or even of Aryan, who was by all accounts now dead?
Talk of Aryan La Valette couldn't be avoided though, not when Vernon began asking why he had taken so long. It hadn't even been their plan to torch the Fortress and raise the castle's alarm, so Geralt could understand his concerns.
"I ran into a hangman who was torturing Aryan La Valette. A scribe was there too, trying to persuade the man into confessing of having incestuous relations with his mother," he said grimly. "I rescued La Valette, but found that he had his own agenda. Aryan torched the oil store inside."
"Those sons of bitches," Triss said. "They're trying to undermine Aryan's siblings their right to rule."
Geralt spent their sea journey listening to Triss talk of politics and kissing her, more out of routine than anything else. He was thankful that Vernon was aboard. The man had listened to his story and believed his innocence in Foltest's death.
More than that, Vernon was also a constant reminder that Geralt still needed to prove his innocence.
/***\
They arrived on the edges of Flotsam, among the watery muck of its wild forest. Geralt was still reeling from Triss' tale about his past life, his forgotten life, with a witch called Yennefer. He wanted to dwell on his thoughts more, but Vernon seemed determined to reach Flotsam by the evening.
As the Commander of the Blue Stripes hollered his name out from the shore, the Witcher jumped over the ship's barrister and landed in the watery sludge below.
"So - who does this forest belong to?" Roche asked, glancing at Triss.
She sighed. "I don't know. Iorveth, maybe?"
They tossed information back and forth as they traversed through the forest, until the playing of a flute breached their ears. Gerard prepared himself to reach for a sword. Meanwhile, Vernon unsheathed one of the daggers from his waist.
"I smell an elf," Vernon muttered.
They went further to side-step around a mossy boulder, where Geralt spotted an elf lounging on a tree that had been chopped down. The tree resembled a bridge. Its ends rested on top of large rocks, and it seemed secure, so the Witcher had to admire the mindset behind its construction. The bridge offered an excellent defensive point against anyone who approached it.
Geralt narrowed his gaze. The elf stopped playing his flute once they halted beneath his tree.
Roche sneered, "That's –"
"Vernon Roche! Special Forces Commander for the last four years. Servant of the Temerian King," announced the elf, rising to his feet. Pocketing the flute, he started clapping. "Responsible for the pacification of the Mahakaman foothills. Hunter of elves, murderer of women and children. Twice decorated for valour on the field of battle…"
"Iorveth – a regular son of a whore!" Vernon shouted, before pointing at him.
Iorveth was clothed from his head to his feet. He had bound crimson-dyed cloth around his head with a leather strip, hiding what appeared like much scaring and a lost eye. A long red feather poked out of the cloth.
The elf smirked at Vernon. He was certainly confident for someone without backup. Geralt looked past him and strained his eyes to see figures - archers - kneeling in the forest. Still wearing his hood though, he couldn't see them all. He couldn't tell how much backup Ioverth had.
"I've long awaited our meeting," Iorveth continued. Geralt only turned his gaze back onto the elf when he began walking up and down. Perhaps he would make an error in his footing, but Iorveth paced like he was on solid ground, making even the Witcher envious. "Laid plans, set traps…and now you appear in my forest of your own volition."
Roche scoffed. "You aided the man who slew my king…"
"King or beggar, what's the difference?" Iorveth said, stooping to lean over. "One dh'oine less."
Geralt gritted his teeth. The arrogance of the elf reminded him oddly of his talk with Aryan La Valette on the castle before the King's death, but Iorveth didn't seem the type to honour noble deeds and words. No doubt, this elf would've gladly stabbed King Foltest in the back.
"Know any spells?" he quietly asked Triss.
"A few, but I'll need some time," she replied. "Stall him."
He turned back to the elf, and murmured, "…I'll try."
"Climb down and we'll finish this," Roche growled, not having heard an inkling of their conversation. "One on one, Iorveth, I await!"
Ioverth laughed. "You're a man without honour, Vernon Roche. An insect I'll not duel, but one that I will crush."
"Seems like you spout the same old elven drivel," Geralt called, outspreading his arms. He knew how to challenge a foe of course, but this elf was easy to read. Ioverth had both his ears sticking out of the cloth and he wore chain mail over his coat. There weren't many elves who wore mail. "It is a wonder why you interest anyone into your schemes."
"I see the pendent of the Wolf you bear, witcher," he snarled. "Reveal yourself, and come clean, what you do you know of my kind?"
Geralt lowered his hood. There were elves and dwarves in the trees, he was certain of that, but he also had a reason to inspect Iorveth now. A large scar traced his right cheek and ran into the crimson mask he wore. The Witcher forced himself not to wander about the cause.
"You are no different than others of your kind, Iorveth," he called. "Proud Aen Seidhe sneaking around forests. You attract others only through your helpless acts, but your masked cruelty increases even so. You're helpless to act alone so you persuade others to a cause you call justice."
"Lies, witcher. I helped kill Roche's king, would you call that helpless?" he rebutted. Standing, the elf took to pacing again. Ignoring the evident thickness of Iorveth's thighs, the Witcher noted carefully the thinness of the blade at the elf's hip. If there was one thing Geralt never did, it was let his guard down. "Or would you call me a terrorist? No one will grant us our freedom. We must win it for ourselves."
Geralt had had enough. He'd heard enough speeches in his lifetime and this was most certainly turning into one, more for Iorveth's men than for Geralt and his companions.
"You're just another old elf in a young elf's skin, using clever words to mask the truth." he said. "There isn't anything new to what you spout - your words are plain."
"Plain, am I?"
Geralt titled his head. Iorveth was not a plain Sedh, at least not in looks. But the Witcher could speak the Aen Seidhe tongue and he knew of their past, and in his long life he still had to meet a 'free' elf.
"This is not about race or freedom, or even vengeance, you're here because someone powerful told you to be. Someone who's using you," he accused. "They may wear a crown, carry a wand, or lead a guild. Just be sure of this, it's not about your freedom, your rights, or your ears. Nilfgaard ploughed you once, now someone new does. Am I wrong?"
"Those days are gone…No one will use the Scoia'tael again."
"Who are you addressing – me, yourself, or the archers up in those shrubs?" Geralt pointed to the right, where elves and dwarves lay in the trees, with arrows pinned on them.
Vernon had seen them as well. "Enough of this piss! Die, Iorveth!" He flung the dagger. As Iorveth wheeled around, flinging his arms up, the dagger flew over his shoulder.
"Spar'le!" he shouted, before running to join his brethren in the forest. As he did, the archers drew their bows and fired a rain of arrows down at the intruders.
Geralt looked back. "Now would be good, Triss."
Triss murmured words under her breath and a glittering force shield swooped over them, transforming the arrows into butterflies.
"That ought to discourage them." Geralt frowned when he got no response. He turned, and saw Triss stumbling over her own feet. Her nose was bleeding. "Triss, are you all right?"
"Lovely…"
Triss fainted. He only just managed to catch the witch before her body landed in the mud.
"Here, you're a witcher," Vernon said, sheathing his sword. "C'mon, you're better with a sword. I'll carry her."
"You're sure?" Geralt asked, watching the Officer sweep her up over his shoulder.
"Certain," he said briskly. "Just keep them off us."
"Hey, who's holding me? Is that you, Roche?"
"Yeah, and you're spent, so we've no more butterflies," he snickered, before lifting her higher onto his shoulder for balance. "Just hold on and we'll get to Flotsam. Sod these archers."
"I'm not a sack of flour, you arse!" she shouted, beating his back with her fists. "I'm a woman."
"I noticed, Merigold. I noticed."
The Witcher shook his head, and struck down one elf. And then another. And another. He wondered if their Scoia'tael leader was watching them even now, waiting for them to die. Well, Geralt wasn't about to give anyone that satisfaction, let alone a pompous Squirrel.
As they stepped onto Flotsam's dirt path, Geralt eyed the last of the squirrels retreating back into the forest. He spotted Iorveth and waved in his direction, but the elf, ignoring him, marched off with his kin, much to Geralt's humour. He was sure Iorveth had seen him.