Eleven
A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! This is set during Pavetta's 'party' in episode 4. Akela is 5 (she's been aged down as of December 2021).
Summary: For a five-year-old, political events can be boring. Thankfully, Geralt is a master at distractions.
"Him?"
"Uh… seven."
"Why?"
"He has nice hair."
"Right. What about him?"
"One. He looks like Roach's big—"
"Akela."
"Sorry."
"Him?"
"Five."
"Five?"
"Frizzy hair."
"Oh. Five, then."
"Or maybe four. His beard is scruffy, too."
"Four, then."
"Or five. Scruffy beards can be nice. Just like yours."
For a brief, stupid moment, Geralt forgot the, quite frankly huge, audience, and leaned down, burying his stubbled chin into the crook of Akela's neck. "Nice like this?" he growled out, but his eyes widened when she squealed harmoniously, and he could almost feel the eyes on him. He straightened immediately and cleared his throat, sending deathly glares to anyone who even dared to continue staring after he made eye contact with them.
Calanthe, chewing slowly at a piece of bread, had not looked away, but thankfully Geralt hadn't turned to check her just yet. She continued to do so, watching as Akela lapsed straight back into her game as though he hadn't just done what he'd done. A practiced thing, then, she supposed. In some ways, it made sense. A witcher was meant to be cold. Heartless. They had a reputation to uphold. But with a little darling as sweet as the one on his lap… she chuckled inwardly. Even she wouldn't be able to resist slashing at that so-called reputation and showing a bit of affection sometimes. The only difference would apparently be that she wouldn't care who saw her.
Swallowing her food, she turned in her chair, directing her attention to them both.
"What are you doing?" she asked curiously, and Geralt looked at her, eyebrows knitted together. He stared a moment before heaving a sigh and turning back around.
"These… parties aren't our kind of thing," he admitted gruffly, and Calanthe rose a brow before he continued. "I came for Jaskier, but I couldn't leave her alone."
She nodded, tearing at a piece of meat. "Understandable." Honestly, she'd been surprised to see the famed witcher and his bard followed by a little girl when they'd first walked into the great hall. Of course, she'd heard the songs—everyone had—but there is always a difference in hearing about things and witnessing them. A certain truth to it that makes the whole thing that bit more surprising.
She had invited him to sit with her at the table, and he had accepted the offer, moving after her and seating himself beside her. Then he'd lifted the child onto his lap. He'd been quiet since, apart from the little conversation they'd been immersed in for the past ten minutes.
"So, you're playing a game?" she asked. A hint of a smile curled at her lips as the famous White Wolf shifted uncomfortably.
"We're rating the men out of ten!" Akela suddenly spoke up from Geralt's lap, and Calanthe's brow rose higher.
"And tell me, little one," she said, "what do you rate Geralt here out of ten?"
Akela pursed her lips in thought, Geralt clearly struggling not to intervene, before confidently answering. "Eleven."
"That was a quick answer." She smiled softly, leaning closer. "And I do believe eleven is cheating."
The little girl shrugged, fiddling with the ribbon of the itchy dress Geralt had made her wear for the night. "Not cheating," came her little mumble, and Calanthe had to move closer to hear above the cacophonous noise of the party around her, "just the truth. Geralt's better than all the men."
"In this hall? I would agree with you."
"In the world!"
Calanthe's smile widened, and she lifted her gaze just enough to see the tight-lipped look of the witcher and the way his eyes portrayed perfectly that he'd rather the girl just stop than continue.
Which was why she prompted her to carry on.
"And why is that?" she asked, reaching forward and patting her knee. "Why is Geralt better than all the men? Not that I'm disagreeing." Akela, finally, tilted her head to look at her. Calanthe winked, and the child decided that perhaps she could be nice. She'd been a little uneasy earlier, especially with the way the queen had entered the hall, but she was much more a lady than a warrior now.
"He just is," Akela told her, shrugging a bit. "He keeps me safe, and reads me stories, and lets me ride on Roach all by myself."
Calanthe nodded along to each word, briefly glancing behind to see the first genuine smile she'd seen all evening on her daughter as she also listened intently. "Does he, now?" she asked, and Akela bobbed her head, her hand pausing in its fidgeting and twirling on the ribbon. "You must love him very much."
Geralt rolled his eyes, sitting up and causing Akela to slide down his chest. "Alright, now," he said, a final edge to his tone.
Calanthe crossed one leg over the other. "Nothing wrong with a little girl describing her endless adoration for someone," she said, popping a grape in her mouth. Geralt breathed a short laugh, shaking his head, and she shrugged. "What? People like us deserve it. Mostly."
"People like us?"
"The cold-hearted ones," she told him quietly as though in secret. "The callous. The unfeeling." She sighed, shifting in her hard chair and straightening her back, eyes sweeping the crowd in front of her. "We have hearts. You just have to dig around a bit to find them."
Geralt dipped his head. His brows furrowed in thought and his eyes blinked as he stared aimlessly at the ceramic plate in front of him. She was right, he supposed. He often wondered if he had too much heart, though he rarely showed it. It worried him. Made him think the trials had gone wrong in the emotions department. Though, over time, he'd come to think of that as more of a blessing than anything.
"How much more of this peacocking must I endure?" He flicked his eyes to look beside him, noticing the queen's quite sudden change in demeanour. "This… all this because male tradition demands it. If I were a man, I could simply tell the whole lot of them to fuck off, declare outright who Pavetta should marry and have done with it. Or, better yet, let the poor girl decide her own fate."
The sound of Jaskier's droning singing caused him to look back at the crowd, despite Calanthe's words, and he let Akela go when the bard, lips spread into a wide smile, called for her to join him. He watched as she clumsily pushed herself from his lap and raced out onto the dance floor. She bounced around with him and some others, and he had enough faith in Jaskier—strangely enough—to trust him to mind her when he was forced to answer Calanthe's next question.
"Your little one won't suffer through this shit, will she?" she asked, waving a hand absently in Akela's direction. "Sometimes I wish I'd not been born into royalty, simply so Pavetta could choose her own course of life."
"I haven't thought on it," Geralt said. "I haven't needed to."
A sly smile spread across the woman's face. "Something tells me you'll be one to keep her unmarried and attached to you for the rest of your life, Witcher."
A harsh remark almost leaped from the end of his tongue, but he held it fast and turned to look at her. "Something tells me this isn't the first time you've navigated the vagaries of male tradition. In fact, I'd wager you thrive on it."
Calanthe's smile softened the faintest bit. "Spoken as one who has navigated his own share of fools." Geralt hummed and she stared at him a moment, watching as his eyes followed Akela while she danced inelegantly around, letting Jaskier twirl her and sing those blasted songs along with him. Calanthe leaned her head in her hand, elbow resting on the chair's arm. "Well, if you're anything like me, and you are, you'll be experiencing more of those fools with each year your little girl grows older."
Geralt twisted his head, lines creasing his forehead.
Calanthe shrugged. "She's a thing of beauty, I can say for certain. Well-spoken, too. Reminds me of my Pavetta. And she was like gold for those boys." Her tone became distant as her gaze toughened at the men and boys who'd joined in Akela and Jaskier's dance. He followed her eyes, and, for some odd reason, his own look hardened at the sight of his child there among them. "The cure for their… aching maturity. They saw her as nothing but a weak princess. Ripe for the taking."
Subconsciously, Geralt shook his head. "She will be trained to fight. Her skills will improve with age."
"A female witcher," Calanthe mused, and Geralt, once again, was forced to push down the abrupt feeling off anger. A witcher was the last thing he wanted Akela to be. He barely wanted to put a sword in her hands, but each time that thought threatened to overtake his sanity, he reminded himself of his last hunt.
"Mother," Pavetta spoke up, her voice quiet, yet Geralt heard it, and he turned to look at her. Her eyes were downcast, a hidden pain behind them, and she shifted under both gazes. "She's only a girl," she said eventually, and Calanthe scoffed.
"A girl, yes. A girl who will grow to be a woman. All I'm saying—" And she turned to face Geralt— "is keep her safe. Safe and close. Don't let the fools take her."
The witcher hummed as he sat back against his seat.
He knew there was a reason he shouldn't have come.
Fuck the fools. He was rated eleven out of ten.
