First off, I'm sorry about the unexplained week off; it's a long story, but it basically boils down to classwork and the fact that this is the longest chapter I've written so far. Something I'd like to mention real quick: I said something earlier about reworking book events, and that's what's starting to happen here (though things have definitely changed). This one will probably spread over a few chapters so I can hopefully continue to update weekly instead of taking a couple weeks off to post one really long chapter. That being said, hope you enjoy! –Bel
A Wolf Among Lilacs
Part One: Longing/Regret
Chapter Six: A Pair of Glassy Eyes
Much to Geralt's relief, once the initial shock of his presence wore off, the students didn't seem to much care who he was. In fact, most of them didn't seem to care at all, though they appeared to be paying attention. After the first class he was able to return to his original plans with minimal interruptions. Pair the students up, let them work on their own after he demonstrated. It felt like surprisingly little work on his part, so similar to the way he himself had been taught at Kaer Morhen that it was almost second nature. A few days in, he even started to find himself enjoying it, though he tried not to let himself become too comfortable.
Some of the others didn't seem to be as lucky. Regis, who as a department head taught only upper-level classes, seemed perfectly happy, and all Dandelion did was talk about how his students were the best in the department, though the only criteria seemed to be that they were taught by him. Triss, on the other hand, was almost always visibly stressed. "You'd think," she complained to him at lunch one day, "that by the time they get to this level they'd have an understanding of basic alchemy, but none of them do. And I'm the one getting all the questions because they're too intimidated by Yenna to even look in her direction."
He didn't have any trouble believing that. Though Yennefer was constantly shrouding herself in an almost unnatural veneer of calm, Geralt was slowly learning to tell what days she taught by the tenseness of her shoulders, whether she wore her hair up or down. She was never horribly talkative either way, and unlike Triss, she never said anything about her students. When she did complain, it was invariably about Keira. Once, Dandelion got annoyed enough to ask why they even lived together if they hated each other so much. "I have my reasons," she replied curtly, and though he continued to press she ignored him steadfastly (Geralt had to admit he was impressed with her capacity to ignore Dandelion). It seemed that he had yet to learn what Geralt had managed to pick up on in less than a week: that it was pointless to ask Yennefer direct questions; the likelihood that she would respond equally directly, if at all, was slim to none.
"What she means is that she doesn't want me anywhere near her research," Triss told him later, when the group had split off and they returned to campus alone. "Me, specifically, or else we would just live together and that would be that. Not like we haven't done it before. But I'm the only one who tries to actively dissuade her from what she's doing, so she doesn't want me around too much."
"Why would you do that?"
Triss pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and looked up at the tops of the buildings they walked past. "She's on a path to self-destruction, I think," she said. "But no one else seems particularly concerned about it, or if they do they don't show it. You have no idea how many times I've heard it's her own business what she researches. But it's my business if it doesn't work—because it won't, and when she finally figures that out…"
She paused, breathing heavily, like the conversation had sapped all her energy. It felt as though she were talking more to herself than to Geralt, and he didn't intercede. He wanted to know what she would say. "I don't think it would be as bad as it was last time, but…I don't know. All I can do is hope that she'll think twice, what with Ciri and everything."
He didn't exactly see what Ciri had to do with anything Triss had said, but she looked so distraught about it that he couldn't bring himself to say anything. They came to a slow stop outside the building that housed the alchemy department and se rocked back and forth on her heels, like she felt like she needed to say something more. But he must've imagined it, because as she turned away with a smile there was nothing about her demeanor suggesting anything but calm. Still, he couldn't shake her words as he continued up to his own office a few buildings away.
He hadn't wanted an office, and he'd made it very clear when he was negotiating with the dean—but, thanks to what he suspected was Regis's influence, he had one anyway. It was on the highest floor of the department's building, tucked into a corner. Despite his initial reluctance, he was beginning to like having a place to work that wasn't his apartment, which Dandelion seemed to think was the social hub of Oxenfurt, judging by the way he knocked on Geralt's door frequently and at ungodly hours of the morning, wanting to go out. Geralt had made a point of not telling him where the office was, and it was quickly becoming the only place he might get some peace and quiet.
It didn't sound quiet behind the door as he approached, though. He heard music, drifting quietly from behind the door's frosted-glass window. For a moment he was angry, thinking someone had told Dandelion anyway, but the feeling faded when he opened the door and saw Ciri, splayed out on the couch the office's previous owner had left and that Geralt hadn't bothered to move. She was playing something through the speakers of her phone, and she lifted her head up as he entered, shutting the door behind him. It seemed to take her an immense amount of effort, though she'd always had a flair for the dramatic.
"How'd you get in here?" was the first thought that made its way out of his mouth, and she rolled her eyes as she pushed herself to a sitting position, pausing the music and putting her phone down. Now that he was looking closely, now that the sun shone through his window at exactly the right angle, he could see the ghosts of other scars on her arms and legs, ones that had healed far better than the one on her face, so light he wasn't surprised he didn't notice them before. Even though she changed stances smoothly, it was clear she was tense.
"You really think I don't know how to pick a lock?" she scoffed, pulling her legs up and crossing them.
"Where did you—? Never mind. I don't want to know. Suppose a better question would be what are you doing here?"
"Everyone's gone," she said. Geralt dropped his key ring on the desk and pushed the chair around from behind it so he could sit near her, since she was still managing to somehow take up the whole couch. She tipped her head back so she was staring at the ceiling. "You teach all day. You and Yennefer and Triss. And I…I don't have anyone else, not anymore. So I'm stuck."
She shrugged in an attempt to appear indifferent. "It feels like…I don't have a purpose anymore. That ever since—well, you know." He listened to her draw a quick, shaky breath and reached over, covering her hand with his. She didn't look at him, but she flipped her hand over and squeezed his fingers tightly. "I don't know what to do," she finished timidly. It was one of the only times he'd ever heard her so unsure.
"Thought you wanted to be a witcher," he said as softly as he could manage. He knew he was taking a risk—it might not be what she wanted to hear. But she only made a choked noise and shifted a little closer to him.
"I did. But I figured my chances of that happening vanished the second I ran away." With her free hand, she pulled a thin silver chain from under her shirt, tugging it back and forth around her neck. There was a heavy-looking ring on it, set with an emerald that she rubbed her thumb across. He'd never seen it before, but he'd seen its like on Triss more than once, and now that he thought about it, on Yennefer as well, though it looked far smaller on her slim fingers. "Didn't even know if I'd see you again."
They fell quiet for a moment. Outside, Geralt could hear people talking, doors opening and closing. The sounds grated at his ears and his nerves. "Did you ever…think about going back?"
He didn't elaborate, and he didn't need to. She knew what he meant—he could tell by the way that she exhaled through pursed lips, pulled her knees up to her chest. "I've thought about it," she replied, weighing each word carefully. "But…I mean, it would cause more problems than it would solve. Any powers" —the disdain that dripped from the word was obvious— "that I might've had are long gone now. And I kind of like it that way."
She meant the dreams. He remembered all too well the nights she'd wake up in a cold sweat, screaming, unable to calm down until he was there. From what he knew, they stopped after her first month or so with Yennefer—or, at least, if they were still happening, he didn't hear about them anymore.
"Well," he said, "what are your other options?"
"I don't know!" She pressed the heel of her free hand against her forehead, dropping the ring so it came to rest just under the hollow of her neck. "I mean, how many places can I realistically go without being recognized as the runaway Cintran princess?"
"You managed it for—what, five years?"
"Five years of never staying in the same place for more than a few days, and even that was risky. Five years of hiding my hair under hats so no one could see it, and darkening my eyebrows. When—" Her breath hitched, and she paused for a minute to compose herself. "When the accident happened, Yennefer paid off all the reporters that showed up to say there were no survivors, and it wasn't a small bribe, either. My options are pretty limited. I can't even legally drive—anyone who saw Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon on a license would turn me in without a second thought."
He hadn't considered it that way—hadn't considered it at all, in fact. To him she'd always been just Ciri, the surprise child who'd somehow made a home for herself at Kaer Morhen. There was nothing of royalty about her, except perhaps her attitude. He and the other Wolf School witchers were probably the only ones who thought that way, though. Anyone else would only see Cirilla, heir to the Cintran throne.
"I'm stuck here," she repeated, just as he was beginning to accept her conclusion. Her head drooped forward and she slouched over, the fingers of her free hand brushing the tips of her sneakers.
"Have you talked to Yennefer about this?"
"Yes." She didn't move; her voice was muffled by her own legs. "She said the same thing you did. Why not simply return to Aretuza, Ciri? You'll be safe there. Like I haven't already run away once, not to mention all the other problems with that idea. But at this point…it feels like it's either that or stay here."
Geralt remained quiet. She needed to work things out for herself now, and he didn't want to interfere with what should be her decision and hers alone. Yennefer, it seemed, did not share this sentiment—though based on what Regis and Triss had told him, he wondered whether he should be judging her so harshly. It seemed there was far more he didn't know than he'd initially thought. He couldn't help but wonder how much Ciri knew, but it would've been a bad idea to ask—he knew word would get back around to her quickly.
"I'll think about it, I suppose," Ciri sighed after a while. She pulled the elastic band from her hair, which was disconcertingly long compared to when he'd last seen her, and started to wind it around her fingers. "But if I do decide to go back, it'll be on my own terms."
"As far as I know, no one's asking you to do it on theirs."
She nodded, pleased by his response, and straightened up a little. "Well, it doesn't feel like much of a choice at all. But it's better than nothing."
~oOo~
Geralt was woken hours before he had intended to get up by an insistent, near-frantic pounding at the door. He stood unsteadily, leaning against the bed frame for a moment before making his way to the front of the apartment. Based on years of past experience, he had a fairly good idea who was there, and to say he wasn't happy would be an understatement. When he pulled the door open, dragging the bottom across the carpet, he was met with Dandelion, who looked more cheerful than anyone had the right to be at an hour like this. Lurking a few feet behind him, leaning against the doorjamb of the apartment opposite his, was Regis. He seemed to be staying a fair distance away on purpose. Obviously, he understood Geralt's morning tendency towards irritation more than Dandelion cared to.
"What do you want?" he snapped, though the force of it was diluted by the sleep that still hung heavy in his throat. Dandelion didn't seem to notice—or, at least, he didn't comment. He simply pushed past Geralt, ignoring his startled grunt, and disappeared into the bedroom faster than his tired mind could comprehend what was happening. It would be easy to stop him. Even among ordinary men, Dandelion wasn't the strongest. But his aversion to unnecessary violence, coupled with complete and utter confusion, kept him rooted firmly in place.
"You haven't heard?" Dandelion yelled from somewhere outside Geralt's line of sight. He heard drawers being opened and closed, but that, at least, didn't surprise him—he was used to Dandelion going through his things without so much as a warning. Regis, to his credit, looked sympathetic, and waited until Geralt motioned him inside to come in. He stood in the middle of the living room, his expression somewhere between amused and mildly annoyed.
"Heard about what?" When Geralt returned to the bedroom Dandelion was, indeed, rummaging around in his dresser. He'd already managed to locate a duffel bag, into which he was throwing seemingly random clothes at an alarming rate.
"About the dragon! They're leaving within the hour, and I'll not miss it! How didn't you know? They sent out a high-importance email about it—the Academy wants people there to make sure it gets a cut of the spoils, or better yet for their research, a cut of the dragon. And I know you wouldn't pass up an opportunity to spend several days wi—"
"Dandelion. Stop." Geralt passed a hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back. "If you want any chance of me caring you've got to start at the beginning, because I don't have any idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, alright, but we haven't much time." He paused his packing to sit down on the bed dramatically. "Do you want it in verse or in normal speech?"
"Normal speech. And quick normal speech."
"If that's how it is, fine. Concise. No metaphors." He looked disappointed. "A week ago, a dragon landed on one of the farms outside Barefield."
"That's a load of bullshit, Dandelion." He felt Regis enter the rom behind him, and when he looked over he'd schooled his face to be carefully neutral. There was something more to this, Geralt thought, something that Dandelion wouldn't tell him until the end of the story, if at all. "No one's seen a dragon in that area for years now—maybe even decades. It was most likely a common or garden dracolizard. Some species have been known to get as big as—"
"Don't insult me, Geralt." Dandelion straightened up and puffed out his chest in a manner that, had Geralt been awake, would've been quite funny. "I know what I'm talking about. I happen to have spoken with an eyewitness, who got video of the whole thing."
"Well, all right. Get on with it then. Was it big?"
"Enormous! Bigger than three of that truck of yours. Not taller than one, but much wider. Sand grey."
"So…green."
"Yes. From what I heard, it landed right in the middle of a flock of sheep, killed more than a dozen of them, gulped down four and flew off."
Geralt shook his head. His body suddenly felt very heavy. "And that's it? No more?"
"Of course there's more! It came back the next day and swooped down on a group of women who were sitting on the banks of the Braa, gossiping. I've been told watching them bolt away was quite amusing. Anyway, it went after the sheep again, and caused mass panic. You see, despite video evidence to the contrary, no one had believed any of the eyewitnesses the first time. The mayor called everyone he could think of—I even heard some of them talk of hiring one of you witchers—but the citizens took matters into their own hands first."
"Really? And how did they do that?"
"In a rather forceful manner. A local carpenter by the name of Sheepbagger came up with the plan. He killed a sheep and stuffed it full of hellebore, deadly nightshade, poison parsley, brimstone—well, you get the idea. They set it up among the flock and held it up with a stake. No one thought it was going to work, but it did. The idiot dragon went right for it, ignoring all the living sheep, and swallowed it whole."
"And then what?" Geralt asked when Dandelion's dramatic paused stretched on a few seconds too long. "Go on."
"What do you think I'm doing? Listen to the story, dammit. In less time than it would take you to get Keira Metz out of her clothes" –he heard Regis snort with suppressed laughter behind him— "it started to roar, smoke coming out both ends. It somersaulted around a few times, tried to take off, then collapsed and was still. Two volunteers set out to check whether or not it was dead—a groundskeeper and the local idiot, the result of a union between a woodsman's daughter and a squad of soldiers who marched through during Warlord Nelumbo's rebellion—"
"Now you're just lying."
"I'm not lying," Dandelion said, looking extremely offended. "I'm merely embellishing."
"Well, stop embellishing and get on with it. You're the one who said we were short on time."
"That we are. Well, anyway, the groundskeeper and the idiot went off to examine the dragon. I've been told that their funeral was quite lovely."
"So," Regis interjected quietly, far calmer than Dandelion, "the dragon was still alive."
"And how!" Dandelion exclaimed. "Yes, it was, but it was also weak enough that it didn't devour either of them. All it did was lap up their blood—and then, much to everyone's disappointment, it took flight again, though not without some difficulty, and left. Every so often it would fall, but it didn't stop moving, though it occasionally had to walk. A few daring individuals even followed it, kept it in sight—but you know what?"
Geralt heaved a sigh and sat down heavily on the bed. The alarm clock on his nightstand told him it was just after four in the morning. "What, Dandelion?"
"The dragon vanished! The whole thing disappeared into the ravines of the Kestrel Mountains! By all accounts, it's hiding out there now!"
"…alright," Geralt said after a long few minutes. Dandelion, apparently satisfied, got up and resumed shoving Geralt's things in the bag, after pausing to throw a shirt and a pair of jeans at him. He set them to the side—he had every intention of going back to sleep once this was over. "It makes sense now. The dragon's probably lived in those caves for centuries, in a state of torpor—I've heard of cases like that. Rare, but not impossible. And its treasure hoard must be there too. Someone wants it. But I still don't see what this has to do with the Academy, or with any of us."
"You're right," Dandelion confirmed, "someone does want it, and that someone is Niedamir of Caingorn. Oh, don't look at me like that," he said as Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. "I know I'm famed for my imagination, but I don't think even I could make this up. The whole of Barefield's hopping mad—they think that dragon and its hoard are rightfully theirs. But no one wants to cross Niedamir. He's still young, true, but he's already made it clear that's a bad idea. And he wants that dragon like nobody's business, which is why he reacted so quickly."
"He wants the treasure, you mean."
"No, he wants the dragon. He's got his eyes on the kingdom of Malleore, you see. A—a young princess, shall we say, was left there after the prince died suddenly and unexplainably. The noblemen there aren't fond of Niedamir; they know he won't allow them much freedom, unlike the princess. So they found some dusty old prophecy that says the girl's hand belongs to whoever slays the dragon—no one's seen a dragon in these parts for so long, they thought they were safe. Of course, Niedamir paid no attention to the 'prophecy' and took Malleore by force anyway. But when he heard about the dragon, he realized he could make the nobility eat their words. If he shows up with the dragon's head, none of them will dare say anything. It's a massive stroke of luck on his part."
"So he aims to shut out the competition." Geralt's head was beginning to hurt from the amount of effort it took to keep up with the waterfall of words pouring out of Dandelion's mouth. Even so, he was beginning to realize where the story was going, and it didn't bode well for him.
"Exactly—well, and the people of Barefield. But here's the thing: he, or a member of his staff, at least, has been sending out messages with letters of safe-conduct attached—they've blocked the bridge, you know—to anyone he thinks could actually kill the dragon. He's no intention of doing it himself, so he's drafted the most renowned dragon slayers he could find—you might know some of them, actually. Anyway, one of these messages was sent to the dean of the Academy, with instructions to forward it to any faculty he felt might be competent and provide them with the letters. There were a couple of people he asked for by name. You're one of them."
"Of course I am." He pressed his fingers to his temples. Though he would never admit it, part of him had been looking forward to taking some time off the Path. Doing less physically demanding work. He hadn't come here to slay dragons, and he didn't intend to leave the city until classes stopped for the holidays and he could temporarily return to Kaer Morhen. Dandelion was well aware of that, but he didn't seem to care as he went systematically through Geralt's bathroom cabinets, grabbing anything he might have needed had he actually planned on going along with this ridiculous idea. "And who are some of these other dragon slayers I 'might' know?"
"Well," Dandelion said slowly, returning with a smaller bag that he shoved into the first one, "as far as I know—as far as any of us know, really—these messages have only gone out in the last few hours or so. None of the faculty who received the forward know who else the original message has gone out to. We'll be meeting up with those people tonight, at an inn not too terribly far from our destination, and setting off again in the morning. The only person I know for certain has already agreed to help is Eyck of Denesle."
This was the first thing Geralt had heard that genuinely surprised him, and he let out a low, soft whistle. "I'll be damned. The pious and virtuous Eyck, a man without flaws, in person."
"Do you know him, Geralt?" Regis asked. Until then, he had clearly been content to stay out of the conversation, but now he looked curious. "Is he truly the scourge of dragons?"
"Not just dragons, but any monster. Manticores, gryphons. He's good. But he's putting us witchers out of business—refuses to take a single crown for his work. Why would they even need me if they've got him? I'd be expecting payment, after all—if I agreed to this."
"Oh, what does it matter?" Dandelion said cheerfully. "Now hurry up! We've only got a few minutes! Where do you keep your weapons? Never mind, I'll find them. You've only got so many closets after all."
Geralt waited until Dandelion had left the room before he looked over at Regis, who stared back with a close-lipped smile. "Why do you both seem so certain I'll go?"
Regis picked up his phone from where he'd placed it on the bed, locating the email faster than Geralt would have even known how to turn it on. "Because he wants you to read this," he said, holding it out. "He wasn't exaggerating, you know. They really did ask for only two faculty by name."
He read it. And then read it again. He stared at it for what felt like a very long time, wondered at the lack of articles in the name—though the concept wasn't unfamiliar to him. These days, it was difficult to obtain any sort of official documentation without something that at least sounded like a last name. He could feel Dandelion staring at him, having returned with another bag, the one he kept his weapons safely stored in. He didn't want to ask how he'd found it.
"Oh, alright," he said, doing his best to ignore their slightly triumphant smiles. "Give me a moment to get dressed."
So here's how this is going to go: there are 3 major book events that I'm sort of retelling over the course of the story. One of them involves Geralt only by proxy, but the other two are pretty focused on Geralt and Yen. I'm writing one where they canonically know each other as one where they really don't, and one where they canonically don't know each other as one where they do, if you catch where I'm going with this...
I'll try to keep posting weekly, but since these few chapters will rely a lot on me rereading stuff it might not happen. I always post on my writing blog when there's going to be delays, though!
