Hell Hath Frozen Over
Chapter 9
"You've been spinning that ring for the last hour," said the witcher after taking a long pull on his pipe. "Will you put it on your finger already - before you lose it?"
Dandelion didn't acknowledge that he'd even heard Geralt speak. He just took another drink from his tankard and peered intently at the small golden band that was spinning on the table top in between them. On a table in a quiet corner of the Golden Sturgeon. They'd been there all evening, with the bard drowning his sorrows. Geralt had joined him in drinking, but after they'd finished off his bottle of vodka, he'd fortunately convinced Dandelion to switch to ale. Otherwise, they'd both probably be under the table at that point.
Initially, the troubadour had been mostly angry – both with Priscilla for destroying his favorite portrait and with Geralt for having given him horrible advice. At least, according to Dandelion, it had been rubbish advice. And given the outcome, the witcher was hard-put to disagree with him. Eventually, the man's ire turned to heartache, with a lot of moping and lament, but for the past hour, the bard had been nothing but sullen and uncommunicative, just drinking in silence as he spun the golden ring on the table over and over. And that was causing Geralt to worry because that was not like Dandelion at all. For as long as he'd know the man, he'd always been a chatterbox, constantly yapping regardless of his mood. He'd also never seen the bard so upset over a broken relationship. In the past, Dandelion had usually moved onto the next woman before he'd even said goodbye to the last.
The ring's momentum finally died, and it fell still and flat onto the wooden surface. The bard picked it up and stared at it for a moment before looking across the table at the witcher.
"It's already lost."
"You drunk? What the hell are you talking about? It's not lost. It's right there in your hand."
A condescending look crossed Dandelion's face.
"Do you know what this is?"
"Yeah. A ring."
"No. It's a wedding ring."
"A wedding ring? What the hell is that?"
"I swear, you know nothing," said the bard, shaking his head. "Sometimes, I'm surprised we're even friends. It's the latest trend. I'm not sure where it actually started. Kovir perhaps. But that matters not. What matters is that grooms now give their brides a band at their wedding ceremony."
"And why would you do that? I thought it was customary for the bride to bring the gift – the dowry."
Dandelion rolled his eyes and shook his head again.
"Why? Why, you ask? You don't have an ounce of romance or poetry in your soul, do you? I swear - you've got all the sensitivity of a chort. Because of love, you ignoramus! It symbolizes our love," he said, shaking the ring for emphasis. "Our perfect, never ending love for each other. And now, it's all gone. Because I listened to you."
Geralt had already apologized a half-dozen times so he didn't bother saying he was sorry again. It was obvious that, given the bard's current, drunken state, he wasn't in the mood for forgiveness or personal accountability. He just wanted to wallow in his misery.
"Look, Dandelion, I know things don't look real good right now, but it'll be okay. Tomorrow, when Priscilla wakes up, she'll have calmed down. Then, you two can talk it out, and I'm betting she'll forgive you. Just…I'd recommend not telling her it was her fault that you slept with Tiffani. It might be better if, you know, you just said you were sorry instead."
"Oh ho! More advice from the relationship guru! Hey, everybody! Come gather around! Gather 'round! The Sage of Love, here, is handing out pearls of wisdom!"
He then looked back at the witcher with a scowl.
"If I need advice about killing a werebub or a gulpywort, you're my man, but, do us both a favor and keep the relationship advice to yourself. Because you know nothing about love."
"Hey, I know…" But Geralt paused mid-protest, because, if he was honest with himself, he wasn't actually sure he did know anything about love.
"You know what?"
"Well, there was Yen."
"Oh, please. You think what you had with her was love?"
"Yeah, maybe."
Dandelion snorted.
"If that was love, then I'm the Church's next hierarch. You two were connected by a magical bond, and you still couldn't stay together. Tell me, just how long have you known her? When did we fight that djinn in Rinde?"
"We? I don't remember you being in the battle?"
"I was there! And just answer the question. How long have you known her?"
"It's been…I guess close to twenty-five years now." Damn, had Rinde really been that long ago?
"Right. And in over two decades, how much time in total have the two of you actually been a couple? Huh? A year? Six months, maybe? You two bring out the worst in each other. That's not love."
"Alright, maybe so. But we were both willing to die for each other," Geralt countered. "What's that if not love?"
Dandelion took another drink and shook his head.
"That's proof of nothing – certainly not of love. Peasants are willing to die for their liege in a squabble over some insignificant piece of land. Are you saying that's love? No, that's duty or maybe honor. But most likely it's just fear. Because they know if they don't, the lord will kick them off his land. Nah, it's easy to die for someone else. That's a one-time thing. Wham-bam, and it's over. Any fool can do that. But actually living for someone else. Being there every single day for them. To see them at their worst and to still stick around anyway. That's much, much harder. That's love, my clueless friend."
Geralt didn't say anything. He simply took a draw from his pipe and thought about what the bard had just said. Shocked as he was to admit it, maybe Dandelion was right. Maybe true love was less about overly grand gestures – like dying - and more about simple, day-in day-out commitment. If he was honest with himself, then he had to admit that he wouldn't know, because he'd never made that type of commitment with anyone. Not with Triss or Essi or Shani. Not even with Yennefer. Because, frankly, that thought terrified him. For he hadn't been created for permanence. He'd been mutated and trained for the Path. Forever wandering. Forever alone. And resolved to the fact that he'd probably die young, bleeding out in some gods-forsaken swamp. He'd certainly never expected to live as long as he had. And all of that - his transient lifestyle, along with his sterility – may have been the greatest reason why he'd never settled down. Not with Yennefer or anyone else. For he'd always believed that women wanted two things in life: babies and a safe and secure home in which to raise them. And, over the course of his life, he'd never had the ability to provide either of those things. And it had only been in the last two years – since acquiring Corvo Bianco – that he could possibly provide the second. Deep down, he'd always known that he'd never be able to make a woman truly happy. Given enough time, she'd discover what he already knew - that he was going to be nothing but a disappointment to her. So, if that was the case, then why even bother with relationships at all?
At least, that had always been his philosophy before. But, maybe, he thought, maybe with Vivienne it could be different. She'd already told him that she didn't want children. And he could now provide a home for her if that was what she wanted. Well, he'd be able to provide a home if he could actually keep his vineyard afloat. But did he even want that? Was he really willing to make some kind of life-long commitment with a woman – be it with Vivienne or with someone else? He honestly didn't know.
He took another draw from his pipe and looked at his friend.
"And that's what you want with Priscilla? To be there every day with her…for the rest of your life?"
The troubadour looked him squarely in the eyes and nodded.
"In the past, with every other woman, the thought of that would have sent a shiver up my spine. Committing to one person? Until the day I die? No thank you. But with Priscilla? Yeah. I'll admit - the thought of living with her, for the rest of my life, sometimes terrifies me. But it's nothing compared to the dread in my stomach now. With the thought of having to live without her."
"Paydirt!" bellowed a familiar voice from across the room.
Geralt turned his head to see Zoltan approaching.
"I've been searching all over town for you two. You weren't in your usual haunts. What brought you here instead of to the Kingfisher or the Passiflora?"
"Did Priscilla send you to find me?" asked Dandelion, ignoring the dwarf's question. The hopeful tone in his voice was unmistakable.
"Ah, sorry, pal, but no. Just thought I'd track you down myself. See how you were holding up."
Dandelion's face fell upon hearing that news. "So, what did she do after I left? Did she talk to you at all?"
"Well, she, uh…" Zoltan hesitated, scratching the back of his head. "She tossed the painting in the rubbish and told me she was going to see her family. To tell them the wedding was off."
"The wedding…the wedding is off? So, she's…she's really…" Then, he scowled. "She's probably sitting with her father right now. The pious bastard has never liked me. Has never thought I was good enough for her. And why? Simply because I own a cabaret. He's probably telling her, 'I told you so, Priscilla. I told you so. I warned you that he's nothing but low-class.' Of all things. What poppycock! I am the Viscount of Lettenhove! Master of the Seven Liberal Arts! I am nothing if not the epitome of sophistication and bloody refinement!"
The bard was suddenly standing up from the bench with his finger pointing to the ceiling. The hand full of patrons at the nearby tables looked at him for a moment, shook their heads, and then went back to their conversations.
A moment later, Dandelion's eyes widened, and he immediately sat down and grabbed his lute. He strummed it a few times as he hummed some unintelligible words. Geralt saw a small smile come to his face before he nodded to himself. He quickly reached into the inner pocket of his doublet and pulled out his small journal and a writing utensil. The witcher knew that his friend never went anywhere without something on which to jot down his thoughts.
And for the next hour, while Geralt and Zoltan drank, smoked and joked, the bard strummed, hummed, and scribbled notes. Every once in a while, Geralt would see him scowl and grumble out the words, "Low class? I'll give her low class" as he furiously crafted his latest artistic masterpiece. Of course, Dandelion was also drinking non-stop the entire time. Finally, he slammed his pencil down on the table and looked at Geralt and Zoltan. The witcher noticed that the man's eyes were glassy and that he seemed to be swaying a bit on the bench.
"There!" he exclaimed. "She thinks I'm low class? Well, then, 'Who needs her?' I say."
He then stood, grabbed his lute, and wobbled towards the front room of the tavern where there was a small stage for musicians.
"Come on," said Geralt to Zoltan. "This could wind up ugly."
The band happened to be in between sets so the stage was empty. Thus, the troubadour simply tottered his way onto the stage and sat down on a tall stool that had been left there.
"Good evening…ladies and gents! You should feel privileged tonight," he slightly slurred. "Because you are about to hear the world premiere of a brand-new song…crafted and sung by none other than I, the great…and low-class, Master Dandelion."
The troubadour nodded his head at the smattering of applause. He strummed his lute once, and then, as he began singing, he finger-picked the strings in a slow tempo.
"As I packed up my things, she said I hope you've thought this through,
'Cause you'll never do better than me in that life you're running to.
And now looking back on that day I walked out that door,
Regret seizes me 'cause I know…"
After a slight pause, he suddenly started strumming quickly on the strings.
"…I should've left her years before!"
"'Cause now it's road trips and poker chips and all-night games with girls who strip,
And getting high with all my low-class friends.
And I've only got myself to blame for falling for that ball and chain,
But now I'm finally back from where I've been…so hello, life…I'm single again."
By this point, everyone in the tavern was stomping their feet and clapping along to the upbeat tempo.
"Well, all my friends they tried to warn me things would change
When I said, 'I do,' on that fateful day.
And sure enough those married days felt like hard time,
'Cause it turned out my sweet angel wife…was her mother in disguise."
"But now it's road trips and poker chips and all-night games with girls who strip,
And getting high with all my low-class friends.
And I've only got myself to blame for falling for that ball and chain,
But I escaped the hell that I was in…so hello, life… I'm single again.
Yes, hello, life…I'm single again."
"Bravo! Encore!" several of the patrons shouted.
"Pam param!" yelled out someone else. "Pam pam param!"
The troubadour doffed his beret - his peacock feather sweeping against the tops of his calf-skin loafers - and gave a slight bow of his head to acknowledge the crowd. He then stood up from the stool, took one step, staggered, and passed out onto the tavern floor.
Geralt looked at his sprawled-out friend and then to Zoltan.
"Looks like the party's over."
"Aye, let's go get the poor sap."
oOo
Vivienne was running through a dark woods. Though it was midday, the canopy of the trees overhead was so thick that only a few rays of sunlight could fight their way through and illuminate the forest floor. As she ran, her dress kept snagging on bushes and tree limbs, tearing the fabric. It was as if the forest was alive, doing its best to hinder her from her goal. But she was determined. Nothing would stop her.
Despite her heavy breathing, she could still hear the monster's low growl coming from somewhere up ahead. She had to reach it. She just had to. And, suddenly, without even thinking, she began to sing. Her dulcet tones echoed through the forest and seemed to push back both the darkness that surrounded her and also any lingering internal doubts. A moment later, she burst forth from the forest and into a sun-lit clearing. It was beautiful, nothing like the dark woods from which she'd just escaped. In fact, it reminded her of the magical glade back in Toussaint. There were golden orioles singing in the trees, and butterflies glided here and there along the gentle breeze. A pond of crystal-clear water was located on the far side of the meadow and was surrounded by beautiful flowers – white myrtle, daisies, and tulips. She looked down to notice that she wasn't wearing any shoes, and she smiled as she stepped through the soft, lush grass. But then she heard a growl, and her eyes snapped upward, landing on the deadly animal.
Near the edge of the glade, in the shadow of a thick tree, stood a gigantic wolf, its leg caught in the teeth of a metal trap. The dangerous beast was staring right into her eyes, his grayish-white hair standing on end. She swallowed down her fear and took a tentative step forward. Immediately, the wolf barked and bared his teeth.
"It's okay," she said softly. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help."
The wolf didn't bark in response to her words, but she could hear a low, persistent growl coming from his throat. For the next several minutes, she continued to speak in soothing tones to the savage beast, all the while taking tiny steps forward in his direction until, eventually, she was standing right next to him. She swallowed as she took in his size. He stood higher than her waist, and his paws were bigger than her hands. By that point, he was no longer baring his teeth, but she could tell he was still wary. One false move, and she knew he would snap his ferocious jaws.
"Hey," she whispered. "Hey, everything will be alright. I'm not going to hurt you."
She carefully knelt down next to the animal and peered at his leg caught in the trap. She sucked in her breath at what she saw. The fur of his lower leg was completely stained red with blood. The metal teeth had dug into his flesh, and he'd tried so hard to escape that he'd torn his muscles to shreds. It looked like, at one point, that he may have even attempted to gnaw his leg off. She glanced at his muzzle, and, sure enough, she could see traces of blood there as well.
"You poor thing," she whispered. "Here, let me help you."
She slowly reached her hands out toward the trap and carefully opened its jaws. The wolf immediately removed his leg, but when he tried to flee, he yelped in pain and stumbled to the ground.
"Don't go," she said softly. "Don't go. You don't have to be afraid."
The wolf was standing again, holding his front paw in the air, keeping his weight off of that leg.
"I'm going to fix that wound up, okay?"
She knelt down in front of the wolf and very slowly placed her closed hand near his face. He initially flinched, jerking his head away, but a second later, he brought his snout close and sniffed her hand.
"That's right. I'm your friend."
She let him continue to smell her scent for a bit, and once he seemed calm, she started to gently apply an ointment to his injured leg. The huge animal whimpered at her touch, but he neither attacked her nor tried to flee. He simply stood there, looking at her as she worked.
She didn't know where the medicine had come from. It had simply appeared, but at that point, she didn't care. All of her focus was on caring for the wolf in front of her. On easing his pain and healing his wounds. She gave him a potion to drink and carefully began wrapping his leg in bandages.
"There, all done," she said a few minutes later. She reached up and gently rubbed her hand through the thick hair atop his head. "Isn't that better?"
The massive wolf brought his snout to her face. He sniffed her a few times and then nuzzled her cheek with his nose, causing her to smile.
"I guess that's a 'yes.'"
And it was then that Vivienne awoke from her dream. She blinked her eyes several times and raised herself upright in bed. She was almost out of breath. In all of her life, she'd never had a dream that vivid. It had seemed so real. Even now, wide awake, it still felt real to her. And she realized that she still had a smile on her face.
She looked towards the window to see that dawn had arrived so she quickly threw back the covers and got out of bed. As she went through her morning ablutions, she hummed to herself – not bothering to be quiet since Marissa had once again spent the evening with Count Dufrene – and thought about the last few days. She couldn't believe just how much had changed in such a short time.
When she'd arrived on the ship in Novigrad, she'd felt so empty. She'd questioned what she was even doing anymore, for all the parties and balls had long ago lost their luster. Even traveling to strange lands and experiencing new cultures didn't thrill her like it used to. And she knew why. The last two days had shown her what she'd already known deep down in her heart. She wanted to share all of those experiences with someone special. With someone with whom she could laugh and cry. With someone who could make her heart thump from simply holding his hand. With someone she could trust and just be herself.
Vivienne honestly didn't know if Geralt was that man, but she knew she wanted to find out. She'd never met any man with such decency and honor, who went out of his way to help others in need. And, if she was truthful, she'd never known any man who stirred up such passion within her. When she closed her eyes, she could still remember the feel of his lips from their kiss. And Marissa would probably laugh out loud and do cartwheels if she knew that her cousin had thought about him multiple times as he'd been at the Passiflora, wearing nothing but that bright blue thong. Lying in bed last night, she'd even imagined what it'd feel like to have his muscular body pressed tightly to hers.
In fact, she'd stayed up late, hoping that Geralt would come by her room and knock on her door, but he never did. She assumed that he'd spent the entire evening with Dandelion, once again helping his friend with his troubles. And, suddenly, she sensed a whiff of jealousy stirring about inside. She'd felt it last night, too.
"Stop it, Vivienne. You should be ashamed," she chastised herself. "Geralt was right to go with him instead of staying with you. Dandelion needed him." She then sighed. "I just hope the buffoon realizes what a great friend he's got."
After getting dressed, she headed to Geralt's room – doing her best not to run. She knocked on his door several times, and when no one answered, she was surprised by just how disappointed she felt. At that point, she wasn't sure what to do. Marissa was gone, and Geralt still hadn't returned. But, then, a memory from her dream flashed through her mind. She pictured herself kneeling in that beautiful glade next to that massive, white wolf. A dangerous wolf that was injured, angry, and scared – but who, with just a little love and tenderness, came to nuzzle her cheek. And she suddenly had an idea of how she'd spend her morning.
oOo
"Hey, Geralt! I thought that was you."
"Hello, Bea. It's been a long time. How you been?"
"I can't complain," answered the young waitress. "And you?"
Geralt glanced across the table at Dandelion. The bard was hunched over and moaning.
"I could. But it wouldn't do any good. So, what's the point?"
Bea looked at Dandelion and snickered. "Right. So, what can I get you gentlemen this morning?"
"The full-plate breakfast. All around."
At that, the troubadour whimpered, and his face turned even more queasy.
"And, Bea, the greasier, the better."
"Coming right up," said the freckle-faced woman with a laugh.
Not wanting to go back to the Chameleon the previous evening, the three had decided – or, rather, Geralt and Zoltan had decided since Dandelion had been passed-out drunk – that they would stay the night at the Golden Sturgeon. It was now mid-morning as the three huddled around a long table in the main room. After Bea had walked away, Zoltan pulled out a bottle from his satchel.
"Here you go, Dandelion. Some of Mahakam's finest."
"Ugh," moaned the bard. "Are you trying to kill me? I can't."
"Ah, you big baby. A little hair of the dog that bit ya, and you'd be right as rain," said the dwarf, taking a pull from the bottle.
"I'll pass." He then looked at Geralt. "So, what's the plan?"
"Plan for what?"
"Are you serious? To fix the mess I'm in, that's what. A mess that's your fault, by the way."
"Right. Of course, it is. It's always my fault."
"Well, it's good to hear you finally admit it. So?"
Geralt nodded his head and got a serious look on his face.
"I was actually thinking about this all night, and…I think the best course of action is to ride for Oxenfurt."
"For Oxenfurt? Why?"
"Well, I hear that, at the Academy, they've got world-renowned scientists who are studying the deepest mysteries of quantum physics. Top of the field engineers coming up with cutting-edge experiments to determine exactly how the dimensions of time and space actually work."
"And just how in the world is that going to help me?"
"I was thinking that maybe they've invented some kind of time-traveling contraption. Maybe a portal. So that you can go back and talk yourself out of sleeping with Tiffani."
Zoltan guffawed, but Dandelion just scowled.
"Oh, ha ha! Very funny. This is serious, Geralt. And all you've got is jokes? And not even good ones, at that? You've got to help me."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"Go to Priscilla. Talk to her. She'll listen to you."
"Why would she listen to me? I'm your friend."
"Because she'll be calm with you. Yesterday, when we were still upstairs, after I told her about Tiffani, she said she wanted to punch me in the face. Can you believe that?"
"Well, to be fair…it is quite punch-able."
"Aye," interjected Zoltan. "You know, I've known the lass for years now, and I've never seen her so angry."
"I know, right! It was a total overreaction."
"He didn't say she overreacted," said Geralt.
"Well, she did. I swear – she just hasn't been herself lately."
"I told ya," said Zoltan, looking at Geralt. "She's always been the picture of patience with this knucklehead. She'd have to be, but now…"
"I know. I have no idea what's going on with her," said the bard, shaking his head.
It was then that Bea arrived with their breakfast. She plopped a plate down in front of each of them – a plate piled high with greasy sausages and eggs and potatoes.
"Aha!" exclaimed Zoltan. "This'll hit the spot. I'm so hungry my stomach thinks my throat's been cut."
Dandelion just looked queasy and pushed the plate away from him.
"Could this day get any worse?" he asked just as the front door of the tavern opened.
"There you are, you rat!" came a man's voice from the doorway.
A moment later, an incredibly handsome knight wearing chest armor and a sword on his hip strode towards the table.
"Quentin?" said Dandelion. "This is great! Did Priscilla send you to find me? Does she want to talk things out?"
"No, you contemptible cur! I am here because you have dishonored my sister!" He threw a glove on the table in front of Dandelion. "I demand a duel of honor!"
And with that proclamation, the bard proceeded to vomit all over the handsome knight's boots. Quentin immediately jumped back and grabbed the hilt of his sword.
"You swine!"
But before the knight could fully bare his blade, Geralt was standing in front of him, his hand on the grip of his witcher steel sword.
"Sheathe your weapon," he growled.
"I demand satisfaction! He has dishonored my sister, and now he's dishonored me."
"It was an accident. Look at the man. He's as sick as a dog. He needs an hour to pull himself together."
Quentin didn't respond, but he didn't sheath his sword, either. He was glaring at the bard, and Geralt noticed that the knight was slowly withdrawing his weapon from its scabbard, inch-by-inch.
"Alright. Go ahead. Skin that blade and see what happens."
Quentin's eyes shifted from Dandelion to the witcher.
"Is that a threat?"
A hideous smile slowly came to the monster-slayer's face.
"You tell me," he said in barely above a whisper. "Do you feel threatened?"
"You, sir, may be a knight, but you're no gentleman."
"Never claimed to be. And what I'm also not is a sick, defenseless poet. But I am this – the deadliest son-of-a-bitch you'll ever meet. And I'll remove your pretty little head from your neck…before you ever finish clearing your scabbard."
The two men were staring daggers at each other, but eventually, Quentin blinked, sheathed his sword, and nodded.
"Very well. Far be it from me to duel a man when he's incapacitated. I'll grant your request. He has an hour."
Geralt slowly lowered his hand from his sword and back down to his side.
"I knew you were a sensible fellow."
"I'll be waiting over there."
"Good for you," said Geralt before taking a step backwards next to Dandelion, never taking his eyes off of the knight. He reached down, grabbed the bard underneath the arm, and stood him upright. "Zoltan, head to bar, please, and order the hottest mug of coffee they've got."
"Aye. I'm on it."
Geralt grabbed one of the plates of food and steered a still-moaning Dandelion through the main room and out the side door. He led him towards a horses' trough at the front of the tavern and proceeded to dunk the bard underwater several times before he finally started protesting.
"Alright, alright, enough," he muttered weakly.
He was sitting on the ground, his back resting against the trough and looking like a drowned rat.
Geralt thrust the plate of food into his hands.
"Here, eat. Or I'll shove it down your throat."
At that point, Zoltan arrived with a steaming mug of coffee and handed it to Dandelion.
"You've got yerself in a fine pickle, haven't ya, mate?"
Dandelion didn't answer. He just nodded pathetically at Zoltan and then nibbled on a sausage.
"Think the brother is any good with a sword," the dwarf asked Geralt.
"Don't know. I've met a lot men in my time who clearly carried their swords for nothing but show. Barely knew which end to hold. But, hell, even if he's the worst knight to ever wield a blade, he'd still be better than him," he said, nodding toward Dandelion. He then lowered his voice. "Go find Priscilla. I don't care how angry she is…I can't believe that she'd be okay with bloodshed. Maybe she can talk some sense into them."
"Got it," said Zoltan before taking off down the roadway as fast as his short legs could carry him.
The next half-hour passed in relative silence with Geralt scowling at his friend while Dandelion did his best to hold down his breakfast.
"Feeling better, sunshine?" Geralt eventually asked.
Dandelion gave a small nod.
"Good. Then, go inside and tell prince charming that you'll have to respectfully decline his offer for a duel."
"What are you talking about? I'm going to accept it."
"You can't be serious."
"That is where you are wrong. I can be, and I am."
"Dandelion, use your brain for once in your life," growled the witcher.
"If I decline the duel, then what? I'll tell you what - I become a laughing-stock. Unable to show my face in the entire city. 'Oh, there's Master Dandelion – the Continent's greatest poet, troubadour, and coward.' I'd have to sell the Chameleon and move to Zerrikania. And you know how much I hate the hot weather. I always get a heat rash. It's not my fault I've got sensitive skin. So, no, I have to accept."
"Do you really think you can beat him?"
"Most likely not, but what does it matter? Without Priscilla, I think I'd rather die."
Geralt rolled his eyes.
"Knock off the melodrama, would you? You're not on stage."
"And just what would you do? Would you reject the duel?"
"Of course not. But I'm a witcher. You know, someone who's actually skilled with a blade. But you? Hell, are you even strong enough to pick up a sword?" Dandelion didn't even bother to respond, simply glaring at his friend with a look of annoyance. "The only thing you can wield is a lute."
Dandelion's scowl suddenly disappeared, and a smile slowly came to his face.
"That's it. You're a genius."
He grabbed his lute, groaned as he struggled to his feet, and headed towards the door of the tavern.
"What in the world is he up to now?" mumbled Geralt as he trailed behind his friend.
Dandelion made his way across the main room, and Priscilla's brother stood – with hand on sword – as the bard approached.
"I formally accept your duel, Quentin."
The knight furrowed his brow. "Really?"
"Of course. You act surprised."
"Because I am. It's a duel of honor, of which you have none."
Geralt saw Dandelion clench his jaws at the insult, but the bard didn't immediately respond.
"I have agreed to your duel…under my official title, the Viscount of Lettenhove," he eventually growled out. "And as such, I call upon the Codex of Lettenhove regarding duels, which states that, as the person challenged, I choose the weapons that shall be used during said duel."
"That's fine…Viscount," smirked Quentin. "Name your weapon. I'll best you at whatever you pick."
At that, Dandelion smiled.
"Excellent. In that case, I choose…dueling lutes," he pronounced as he expertly strummed the strings on his instrument.
"What is this? Some kind of joke? Making a mockery of honor? I should have known."
"I assure you – I'm not making a mockery of honor, nor is this a joke. In fact, there is even precedent. In 1248, the Baron of Wallenby and the Duke of Castor conducted a duel in which both gentlemen played their respective flutes. Of course, a panel of impartial judges was required to determine the victor. But I have no doubt we can round up some volunteers to judge our duel." The troubadour then played his lute, his fingers flashing up and down the neck as beautiful notes filled the tavern. "So, do you accept my conditions, Quentin? Or would you prefer to rescind your demand for honor?"
Geralt looked at the knight and would swear that he could actually hear the man grinding his teeth. Eventually, though, a smile came to his face, and he gave a small nod of his head. Despite that, Geralt was still wary because he didn't see a whole lot of mirth in the smile.
"You are a clever, little chap, aren't you?"
Dandelion puffed up. "If I may so humbly say so, then yes. Cleverness is one of my many notable traits. Excelling in the arts requires it."
"Yes, well…far be it from me to decline the terms of the Lettenhove Codex. I accept your conditions regarding weapons, and I'll even forfeit the need for a panel of judges. I trust Geralt here – as an honorable knight – to judge impartially. What say you, Geralt?"
The witcher peered closely at the knight. He didn't know what Quentin's angle was, but he was suddenly highly suspicious of the man's behavior and change of attitude. But he kept his thoughts to himself and simply nodded his assent.
"Wonderful!" said Dandelion. "I'll be gracious and let you choose. Would you like to go first or me?"
"Please, you first," answered Quentin. "I'd love to hear the Master ply his trade."
Dandelion gave an exaggerated bow, headed to the stage, and sat on the stool that was still there from the night before. A few patrons were still sitting around the tables eating their breakfasts. He gave a nod of the head to them and pronounced, "This is a short, simple piece – titled, "Inferno."
And, instantly, the troubadour's hands went into action. He may have been hungover, but no one would have ever known. His left hand was flying over the frets while the fingers of his right hand seemed to be picking at every string simultaneously. And he was doing it all without a single mistake, every note ringing true. A minute later, he ended the song with a flourish, his right hand high in the air. There was a smattering of applause, to which the bard nodded. He exited the stage and approached Quentin.
"Impressive," said the knight. "Very impressive. Priscilla has bragged about your talent. To be honest, I always thought she was exaggerating, but apparently not."
"Thank you, Quentin. That's kind of you to say."
"Now, I suppose that it's my turn, isn't it? Unfortunately, I'm afraid that you've caught me unprepared. I don't happen to have a lute on me. Would you be so gracious as to allow me to borrow yours, perhaps?"
Geralt's eyes immediately shifted to Dandelion, and he saw the bard gulp.
"My lute? You want to borrow mine?" he asked as he held it protectively to his chest.
Quentin offered his beautiful smile.
"Well, of course. I don't see any other lute around here, do you? It's going to be difficult for me to conclude this duel without one, no?"
"Right, right," stammered Dandelion. "Of course."
Geralt could see his friend's hand shaking as he passed his instrument toward Quentin.
"Dandelion," warned Geralt. When the bard turned to look at him, Geralt gave a small shake of his head.
"You're not afraid, are you, Dandelion?" asked Quentin.
"Afraid? Me? Of course not. I'm afraid of nothing," he blustered, and he handed over the lute.
"Thank you, Dandelion," Quentin said with a smile before heading to the stage. He didn't bother to sit on the stool, however. He brought the lute to his chest and plucked at a couple of strings. He then brought his eyes up to meet the bard.
"Priscilla has said that you love this lute. She joked that perhaps you love it more than you do her. And I can see why. It's got a beautiful sound." At that point, Geralt saw the man's eyes turn cold. "My piece is entitled, 'Payback…for dishonoring my sister.'''
And, with a shout, he turned and smashed the lute over the wooden stool several times.
"Noooo!" screamed Dandelion.
Quentin tossed the broken instrument to the floor and looked at Geralt.
"So, witcher, who won the duel?" he asked before laughing.
Dandelion rushed to the stage and scooped up the destroyed lute. The wood was in pieces, a few bits of the shattered body only connected to the snapped neck by limp strings. He glared at Quentin, who was simply staring back, a smug smile on his face. Then, the smile turned hard.
"Stay away from my sister, you low-class, dishonorable dog."
"How dare you!" yelled Dandelion, standing up.
"Oh, I dared, because you're nothing but a coward."
Geralt was suddenly between the two men.
"Dandelion, calm down. We'll buy you a new lute, okay? Just calm down."
"That's right, coward," egged on Quentin. "You'd best calm down. You and I both know you're not capable of fighting me. So, stay hidden behind your witcher friend…coward!"
"No one calls me a coward! I demand satisfaction!" yelled the bard. "A duel of honor!"
Geralt sighed and shook his head.
A slow smile came to Quentin's face.
"You demand satisfaction? But of course. I gladly accept. And as the man challenged, then I get to choose the weapons. And I choose the sword. I'll await you in the street."
With that, the knight turned and exited the tavern.
"You just can't keep your bloody mouth shut, can you?" growled Geralt. "Couldn't you tell he was goading you?"
"What did I just do?" Dandelion looked like he was in shock.
"You just challenged a knight to a duel, you bloody fool." Geralt clenched his jaws and then unsheathed his steel sword. "Just wait here," he ordered. "I'll go take care of the pretty boy."
But before he could turn towards the door, Dandelion stopped him.
"Don't you dare! I am the one that challenged him. How would it look if you faced him instead? It would be a breach of dueling protocols."
"Dandelion, since when have I ever given a damn about pompous knights and their ridiculous, chivalric code? Besides, I just spent two days going through all manners of hell to break your curse. After all that, I'm not about to watch you die out there in the street over something as silly as your honor. I'll just tell him you changed your mind, and if he doesn't like it, then he can deal with me."
"No! It's true, I asked you to help me before, but I'm not asking you now. I will handle this myself. So, promise me, Geralt. Promise me that you won't interfere."
"Even if it means your death?"
"Yes, even then."
Suddenly, the heat left Geralt, and he shook his head.
"I…I don't think I can promise that, Dandelion. I can't just stand there and watch you die. Not when I can stop it."
"Then, you don't respect me at all, do you?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You may not have liked it, but you respected Ciri enough to allow her to make her own decisions…about facing the Wild Hunt and the White Frost. Well, this is my decision. Besides, I wasn't being melodramatic before. I meant what I said about Priscilla. I don't really want to live without her. But…maybe, if I can defeat her brother in a duel of honor, then she'll have me back. So, promise me."
Geralt didn't say anything for a moment, just staring at his friend. Finally, he sighed.
"Dandelion, I…Fine. I promise…that I'll try not to interfere. That's the best I can do." He offered his sword to the bard and pointed to the grip. "Just make sure to hold this end. Got it?"
Dandelion grasped the sword, stared at it for a moment, and swallowed hard.
"You're your own worst enemy. You know that?" said Geralt.
The bard gave a barely perceptible nod.
"The thought has crossed my mind on an occasion or two."
"And you never took the time to listen to it? Maybe do a little introspection?"
"I did."
"And?"
"I concluded they were the raving thoughts of a madman. So, I decided to ignore them."
Geralt rolled his eyes. "You're a piece of work, man."
"Well, why should I have listened to such nonsense? Everything always comes up roses for me. I'm talented and rich…handsome and famous. I own the finest cabaret in all of Novigrad. And I have - well, had – the most amazing woman on the Continent. If I'm my own worst enemy, then more people need enemies like me."
"Yeah? And how are things looking right now?"
"Not good." He then glanced at the door, outside of which awaited a very angry knight. "So, what exactly should I do?"
"Don't get hit."
"I'm serious!"
"So am I. Stay away from him. But if he does draw blood, then, if I were you, I'd immediately cry out 'Yield' and hope he shows you mercy."
"And if he doesn't?
"Then, Zoltan and I will give you a nice funeral and raise a glass in your memory. And then I'll kill the whoreson."
"Right." He then grabbed the sword with both hands and took a couple of very awkward practice swings. "You know, your sword really is a lot heavier than it looks. I much prefer my little dagger."
Geralt just sighed and shook his head. "You should have thought about that before. Let's go, hero."
By the time the two made it out into the street, word had spread and a crowd had gathered. Geralt stopped at the edge of the crowd while Dandelion continued a few steps forward and faced his enemy. The two men stood fifteen feet apart, and Geralt noticed that Quentin was no longer wearing his hard leather, chest armor.
"As you can see," the knight said, addressing Dandelion, "I have removed my armor in order to be attired more similarly to yourself. Unlike you, I know the meaning of honor."
"Thank you, Quentin. That's gracious of you. But I also happen to be severely hungover. So, if you were truly honorable, then you'd head into the tavern and down a bottle of vodka and a dozen pints of ale before we continue."
Quentin scowled. "Again, you mock."
"Who's jesting? I'm being serious."
"Drunkenness is a violation of Lebioda's teachings. Not that I would except you to know. So, no, I refuse your request. However, to show just how magnanimous I can be – I shall permit you to yield right now, before blood is shed."
"Really?"
"Yes. All you must do is confess your sins against my sister to this audience here…and proclaim yourself to be the dishonorable, unscrupulous, debased coward that you truly are!"
Several people in the crowd gasped.
"Never," growled Dandelion before clumsily swinging the sword. "En garde!"
The bard charged at Quentin, but the knight easily parried and stepped aside, causing Dandelion to lose his balance and fall the ground. Several of the on-lookers laughed, bringing an even deeper scowl to the poet's face.
"Damn it, Dandelion. I told you to stay away from him. Not rush him," mumbled Geralt to himself. "This is gonna be even worse than I thought."
Dandelion charged at the knight again, and once again with the same result. Only this time, Quentin also struck at the bard's shoulder, causing the troubadour to cry out in pain. He grimaced and clutched at his shoulder, and when he pulled his hand away, Geralt could see blood seeping into the fabric of the shirt.
"Yield, damn it," the witcher whispered. "Say, 'yield.'''
But Dandelion refused. Twice more, he rushed at Quentin, and the result of each charge was a new bloody wound. And with each strike to his friend's body, Geralt clenched his jaws harder. It was obvious that Quentin could kill the poet whenever he wanted, and, at first, Geralt wasn't sure if the knight was showing mercy and restraint or simply toying with the fool, like a cat with a mouse. But when Geralt peered at the knight, it became obvious. The smug smirk plastered across Quentin's face made it clear that he was relishing Dandelion's humiliation. And, suddenly, Geralt's blood boiled over. For there was no honor in this duel, at least not on Quentin's part. For there was no honor in humiliating one's opponent.
Despite his promise to Dandelion, Geralt had finally seen enough. It was bad enough that he had promised Dandelion that he would stand there and watch his friend die. But he'd be damned if he was going to watch his friend also be humiliated in the process. He was just reaching for his silver sword when he heard shouting coming their way.
"Make room! Make room!" came a familiar, dwarven voice.
Suddenly, the crowd parted, and Priscilla and Zoltan rushed into the middle of the fray.
"Stop it, Quentin!" she yelled as she jumped in front of Dandelion's bloody and sweat-soaked body. "Put down your sword this instant!"
"Step aside, sister! I'm about to end this contemptible cur for dishonoring our family name!"
"You can't, Quentin! You can't!"
"And just why not, dear sister?"
"Because…" and then she turned to look at Dandelion. "This contemptible cur is the father of my child."
And upon hearing that, Dandelion proceeded to faint dead-away. Priscilla, Geralt, and Zoltan all rushed towards him, and she knelt in the street next to him and placed his head in her lap.
"Dandelion! Dandelion, please be okay," she begged, as she cradled his head and gently patted his cheek. "Please wake up!"
Zoltan chuckled and turned to Geralt.
"Can ya believe it? The dunderhead's gonna be a father. Just imagine - another little Dandelion running around in the world."
"Heaven help us."
"Well, at least this explains why Priscilla's not been herself lately."
"Yeah."
At that point, Dandelion opened his eyes. He blinked several times as he looked up into his love's face.
"Priscilla, my angel. Is it…is it really you?"
"Yes, you silly man. It's really me."
The bard nodded, and then his eyes found Geralt.
"What…what happened? Did I win?"
Geralt stared at his friend, lying there bloody in the street but also in the arms of his love.
"Yeah, Dandelion, you won. Everything came up roses."
"Brilliant!" said the bard, flashing his charming smile. "Just like I planned it."
oOo
Author's note (February 2021):
If you'd like to hear my attempt at singing Dandelion's song, 'Hello, Life,' I've got it posted on my YouTube channel – Luke1813.