Patrick O'Leary -The Gift: Chapter 10, Unexpected Arrivals
Do you know what vengeance is, Tim? It is a dark mirror in which we cannot see ourselves."
"Dandelion?" The bard's gaudy smile faltered for a second as the Witcher narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing here? If anyone sees you-"
"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt," the Bard interrupted, waving a bejewelled and dainty hand in the air as though swatting away gnats. "Now, is that any way to treat an old friend? I have travelled a great distance to get here, and - of course - at great personal risk." The Witcher grunted. Now that Dandelion was on a roll there wasn't any hope of stopping him without causing a commotion. "But of course nothing was going to stop me from being by my friend's side during his great hour of need. Though you seemed to have forgotten to request my assistance, I am - nevertheless - here to offer it to you, Geralt. This is one battle I do not intend to miss." He held his head up and smiled pompously.
Geralt buried his head in one hand and took a long, deep breath. When he opened his eyes, Dandelion had started to move past him and towards the house, the Witcher held out an arm to stop him.
"Dandelion," he began in a hushed and warning tone, "if the Duchess catches you…"
Dandelion brushed off Geralt's hand and began sauntering up the gravelly path. "Always so terribly optimistic, aren't you Geralt?" he said sarcastically. "Don't worry, I'm sure Anna will find it in her heart to forgive me; I am, after all, here for selfless reasons." The Witcher knew Dandelion too well to be fooled so readily by his confident façade. He distinctly heard the bard swallow.
Geralt cast a look at Ciri over his shoulder; she shrugged. "Dandelion, wait."
"Geralt, please." The bard pivoted on the spot and clenched his jaw. "I know what you're going to say. But I can tell you now that nothing will make me change my mind." He placed a hand on his hips and held a fist to his chest. "I want to help, Geralt. I want to help you and…And I want to help Yennefer. Don't, Geralt, I know what you're going to ask." He pointed his finger in the Witcher's direction. "Why? Why would I want to help Yennefer, after all the things I've said over the years? Why, because I was unfair to her and to you. I realise that now, I realised that a little over two years ago. I regret it deeply and I feared that my realisation had come all too late, but now," he gestured towards the fortified estate looming over them, "I have a chance to make amends, to repay her."
They remained silent as Dandelion's monologue finished. Then, Dandelion took several purposefully strides until he was face to face with the Geralt.
"A long time ago, Yennefer thanked me. Yes, me of all people, Geralt," he added as the Witcher's eyebrow twitched. "It's a hard truth to believe, but a truth nevertheless. Yennefer thanked me, Geralt, for being your companion; for being by your side when she was not and for being your friend. I owe her, Geralt, I owe your beloved and Ciri's mother for ever doubting what there was between you. Which is why I will not let you face this alone."
The Witcher, who had his arms crossed, looked at Dandelion. Something echoed in the back of his mind, something Priscilla had said to him while he was hunting for Ciri in Novigrad. At the time, he thought it to be utter nonsense. Why? Because she had called him responsible. There were limited ways in which one could link words together, and the words 'Dandelion' and 'responsible' did not (to his mind), have any such plausible links. But now, he wondered if Priscilla had been right. Well, partly at least.
Geralt watched his friend for a moment, then clapped the man on the back. "Thank you, Dandelion." His shoulders sagged and he nodded at Geralt.
The group of unlikely companions made their way back up towards the estate and, with the combined efforts of Regis, Ciri, Geralt and Syanna, they were able to convince the Duchess to do the impossible. She forgave Dandelion. Only momentarily mind you because even miracles have their limitations. And so Dandelion, under the supervision of two guards at all times, was permitted to stay on the estate and only on the estate for the time being.
When the morning slowly began to transform into midday, there was still no sign of either merchant. It was beginning to set the Witcher's nerves on edge. He retreated from the house and went far from the preparations. After several minutes searching for something, he eventually found it. Peace.
Geralt settled down to meditate beside the small, glittering stream which flowed through the estate, pleasantly reflecting the sun's rays. Geralt listened to the gurgle of the stream, to the drops of water tumbling over the stones and rushing between the fertile soil. The simplistically beautiful melody helped ease his mind, as though his worries had been swept away, if only for a short while.
"How much longer are they going to keep us waiting, Witcher?"
The owner's voice was as cold as the shadow she cast on his motionless body as they loomed over him with malice. The calming melody which filled him went silent at her presence, and with it slowly trickled everything else, carried away by the stream. For a brief second, he considered ignoring her, but he dismissed the idea immediately. Geralt knew that she wouldn't be convinced that he couldn't hear her in his meditative state and given the foul mood she'd been in since arriving, it would have been very short-sighted for him to test her patience.
"I don't know, Philippa," he drawled quietly, without opening his eyes.
He heard her scoff. "Witcher, are you even capable of giving a definitive answer?" she snapped shrilly. He didn't answer. "How or why Yennefer has put up with you over all these years alludes me; your monotone answers make for such dull and quite frankly painful conversation."
"To be perfectly honest, I blame my present company." He didn't have to open his eyes to know that Philippa was sneering at him. Though, if he was being candid, he didn't care.
"Perfectly charming as always, I see," gibed the Sorceress. For a moment Geralt's hope soared as he heard her walk away, long dress gliding over the rich green grass. However, that hope soon plummeted. "Really, Geralt, is this how you treat your guests? I am, after all, risking my life for your dead fiancé."
Geralt opened his eyes, narrowing his mutated pupils to accommodate for the glaring Toussaint sun which stood alone in the cloudless sky. "And your fellow Sorceress," he said, clutching both the unused wedding band and medallion which hung around his neck as he climbed to his feet with ease. "Don't make yourself out to be altruistic, Philippa - it doesn't suit you."
She laughed unpleasantly. "Well, perhaps there lies the one thing we can finally agree upon, Witcher," said Philippa over her shoulder, crimson lips upturned in a malicious smile.
As silence fell, the two predators continued to stare each other down, neither wanting to be the first to back down. Instead, the decision was made for them.
"Master Geralt! Master Geralt!"
A freckled and lanky young man was hurtling up the path towards them, beads of sweat rolling down his ruddy cheeks.
"Who is that lunatic, Geralt?" asked Philippa. She raised a hand to her eyes as they followed his frantic movements. "It would appear that he knows you, rather unsurprisingly I might add. The company you keep, Witcher."
Insults aside, Philippa was right; he was one of the workers of the vineyard. "Hiameil!" called out Geralt, hurrying over towards the half-elf. "Hiameil, what's wrong?" As they neared each other, the Witcher held out his arms to steady the young man whose knees practically buckled under him. "Deep breaths, Hiameil, calm yourself." The half-elf nodded and hauled himself up straight, sucking in several deep breaths, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "What did you need to say?"
"We, we saw," he began slowly, still panting heavily, "the other workers…and I, we saw, saw… that, that mage. The, the…one you, warned us…about. We, think we did."
The Witcher narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Where, Hiameil? Tell me."
"Just, just…by our vineyards…he, had a horse…I took a shortcut, through the, fields…but-"
Before he could even finish his sentence, Geralt was hurtling towards the house.
Many heads turned in his direction with alarm as he rushed through the gate in the barricade and up the courtyard, his feet upturning dust and mud as he ran across the stone. His heart was pounding loudly, ringing in his ears; Geralt couldn't hear the voices calling after him as he wrenched open the front door. He clambered up the stairs, taking them two at a time, the wood creaking under his weight. He threw himself against the bedroom door practically knocking it off its hinges. What he saw made his blood begin to boil.
Shoulder length dark hair brushed the top of his black robes which were spilling over the sheets as he perched on the edge of the bed, towering over the sleeping figure beside him. A slightly wrinkled hand was protruding from one of his long, billowing sleeves. Hardened fingers were fastened around a small, pale hand belonging to the resting maiden. The figure's other cold hand cupped her face as he caressed her cheek while she was unable to protest. Geralt could see the mage smiling sickeningly at her as his unworthy eyes gazed upon Yennefer.
When Istredd's dirty grey eyes finally looked up from the sleeping angel, Geralt had already thundered across the room. For a split second, they made eye contact. The Witcher saw too much. He felt revolted. He saw the ravenous look which had haunted Yennefer's dreams and left marks on her skin. He saw where the maniac had already taken her in his mind's eye - just as he had before. The heat emanating from Istredd's body infuriated him in a way nothing else ever could. His hands twitched with anticipation. Swords would have been too easy. Geralt pounced.
Grabbing him by the collar, the Witcher hauled the mage off the bed and threw him across the room. His heart pounded against his chest like a caged animal as boiling hot blood coursed through his veins. His fury overpowered his senses like a toxin, making his mind crave the smell of blood and the feeling of that warm liquid staining his fingers. Geralt balled his shaking hand into a fist and smashed it into Istredd's face with all the force he could muster. He growled with satisfaction at the feeling of his knuckle colliding with soft flesh, at the sound of agony and bones snapping. Istredd's blood began to trickle down his nose and there was a smattering of liquid coating Geralt's knuckles. The animal within him howled but his appetite was far from sated.
Pain for pain, the scale must be balanced. The brutality of Istredd's punishment must be no less severe than the harm he inflicted upon his victim. Upon his Yen and what he did to her that night. When Geralt looked into the man's eyes he saw no remorse - judgement was passed. Only when the cobblestones flowed with Istredd's blood would this monster's execrable crime have been fairly punished. Only Istredd's death would sate Geralt's bloodlust and avenge Yennefer's pain.
He struck again and let out an atavistic snarl. No sound escaped the criminal's lips, struck unconscious by the first blow. Geralt felt a pang of despair, then regret. The first strike should not have been so hard. He would have preferred that the man stay awake during his reckoning, so that he could feel each punch and kick and to feel his bones snap and his lifeblood escape his demonic vessel. But still, if Istredd prayed that unconsciousness would save him - he was sorely mistaken. The third strike connected with Istredd's chest, breaking at least two or three ribs.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Geralt's capacity for anger was somehow increased inconceivably by the sound of Mistress' Mirror's vexing voice. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fist, nails digging into his calloused flesh, arms shaking. He focused his narrowed eyes on the two outwardly unassuming merchants as drops of blood trickled down his stained hands and onto Istredd's unconscious and unfortunately still-breathing form.
Geralt bared his teeth. "I don't see why not," he spat.
While he didn't for a second believe that the two Mirrors were afraid of him, they did, for once, refrain from coming any closer. Though everything else about their manner and appearance was still characteristically denigrating.
"Because, Geralt, out of all the forces you have gathered, five of you alone have a connection to Yennefer's lost soul which is strong enough to enable you to enter O'Dimm's Realm. Five, Geralt. Five lives and five chances to save her. Because he, Geralt," insisted Un Wake, gesturing towards Istredd's mangled face, "is one of the only people who knows Lady Yennefer well. Because you-"
"No!" hissed Geralt through gritted teeth, brandishing his fist. He knew where this was going, what they were about to propose. He wouldn't allow it. He couldn't. "I don't want his help."
Master Mirror gradually walked forwards with his hands in front of him. The Witcher followed his movements closely like a wild animal. "But the fact remains, Geralt," he said in what he undoubtedly thought was a friendly tone, "that if you want to save your beloved Yennefer…You need it."
Logic and emotion, an impossible conflict for a Witcher was evoked with those three words. A struggle which defied what was supposedly his biological destiny. Geralt tore his gaze from the two merchants still hovering near the foot of the bed and looked down at the piece of meat on the floor. He was still holding Istredd's collar in one hand with a vice-like grip. His nose was broken, and blood was still leaking from it in a heavy stream. He would surely have a black eye later. But the sight before him was far from the image Geralt had conjured in his mind that day on Thanedd. When he had seen Yennefer's red cheek and the finger-like bruise marks on her upper arm, when he heard her screaming for him to stop in her sleep. The fear in her eyes when she had awoken, the way she had at first flinched at his touch. He had known Istredd to be a monster. He had warned him to stay away.
But, back then, Geralt had considered himself to be different from the animal before him...
W.C. Fields: Chapter 11, Old 'Friends'
"I am free of all prejudice. I hate everyone equally."
Hello, my lovely friends and readers! Hope you enjoyed this update, two unexpected guests in one chapter…But hold onto your horses! There are more people yet to join the party, just you wait and see. Did you enjoy seeing Istredd getting a little piece of what he deserves as much as I did? If anyone reads BellumGerere's 'A Wolf Among Lilacs' like I do, then that scene is even more satisfying to read (and you'll all know why…). If you haven't read it then go do that know! Should still be an update next Sunday; get ready for some Philippa POV for the next chapter or two. Also, I'm writing chapter 15 as we speak and this is the chapter when they enter the Realm of Glass – just to let you know :)
Please feel free to comment, leave kudos and like and share (especially on Tumblr!) I really want to know how you guys feel about this story. You can also drop me questions about this fic anytime on here or on Tumblr. Sometime you might be lucky and get a spoiler or hint out of me :D Thank you to my betas DaisyofGalaxy (Archive and Fanfiction) and Dabbles in Crayon (Fanfiction) for all your amazing help.
PS: Sorry this chapter is late. Couldn't upload it for some reason last week and the completely forgot to try again :( Oops!