This chapter...is a beast. There's no other way to put it. Page-count wise, it's on the same level as "Stone Cold," which stood all by itself, so it took a lot longer to write. There just wasn't a good place to break it, especially since it would've been another week before I posted again. So sorry in advance that it's a million years long lol. Also I cut a few things out that were in the original story (namely, the arrival of the cavalry from Barefield) for the sake of length and keeping the focus where it's supposed to be. Thanks for being so patient with my ridiculous schedule y'all, it's much appreciated –Bel
A Wolf Among Lilacs
Part One: Longing/Regret
Chapter Ten: All the Green and All the Gold
"Only one of our supply wagons was saved, Your Majesty," said Gyllenstiern, "not counting the one the Reavers brought. Only seven soldiers remain from the troop. The road on the far side of the chasm has vanished completely—we'll have to take the long way back." Niedamir didn't answer, barely even glanced in his direction. Eyck of Denesle was staring around their party with wide, shining eyes.
"The ire of the gods chases us!" he yelled, lifting his arms to the sky. "We have sinned, King Niedamir! This was to be a sacred expedition! The dragon—it is evil, and I will not simply pass by evil! I'll annihilate it! Just as the gods and the Holy Book demand!"
"What on earth is he talking about?" Regis whispered. Geralt had been immensely relieved to find him on the other side of the bridge, but he'd had barely a moment to catch his breath before the argument broke out.
"I don't know," Geralt replied, cleaning his knife carefully with the bottom of his shirt before tucking it back in his pocket. "I can't understand a single word."
"If he keeps it up I fear we may have another fight on our hands." He nodded at Yennefer, who was standing a few feet away and pretending Eyck didn't exist as she repinned her hair behind her head. She looked considerably worse for wear—her clothes stained with dust and the blood that had dripped from her forehead onto her white shirt, scratches up her arms from where they'd dragged against the splintered wood. He thought he saw a flash of silvery skin right before she tugged down her shirt, which had ridden up ever so slightly above her hips—scar tissue. He frowned. Mages weren't supposed to have scars.
"The Holy Book," Eyck continued, so loudly that Yennefer visibly winced, "says the seven-headed dragon will ride forth from the abyss! And on its back sits a woman in purple and scarlet, holding a golden goblet, and on her forehead is the sign of ultimate whoredome!"
"Could you speak in a language we can understand?" Boholt drawled, raising an eyebrow lazily.
"One should act against evil," Eyck replied self-importantly, "with a good heart and conscience. But who has assembled here? Dwarves—pagans, who are born in darkness and serve those dark forces! Blasphemous mages with unnatural powers and privileges! A witcher, an aberration! Are you surprised, then, that this punishment has befallen us? The divine grace of the gods is being tested! I call on you, gracious King, to purge the filth from our ranks, before—"
"Not a single word about poets," Dandelion interrupted disappointedly. "And I try so hard."
Geralt grinned tightly at Yarpen, whose hand was wrapped around the handle of an axe hanging from his belt. Next to him, Regis and Yennefer exchanged exasperated glances. "I think you're exaggerating just a bit," Dorregaray said, visibly angry. "You've no reason to make your views known—they are neither polite nor chivalrous. Besides, they make no sense considering you were the one grabbing a magical rope to save a witcher and a sorceress when, by all rights, you should've been praying for them to fall."
Geralt and Yennefer looked at each other, startled, and then away quickly. "Is that true?" he whispered to Dandelion. "He threw it down? Not Dorregaray?" Dandelion nodded. He heard Yennefer curse under her breath.
"And why was that?" she asked sweetly, turning to Eyck with a smile that was very nearly friendly. "I'm blasphemous, but you save my life?"
"You are a lady," Eyck said, tilting his head reluctantly towards her in something that resembled a bow. "And your lovely and honest face allows me to believe you will one day turn from this vile sorcery."
Boholt snorted loudly, and Regis chuckled, though there was considerably less menace behind it—he sounded merely amused. "I thank you, then, Sir Eyck," Yennefer said dryly, much to most of the party's amusement, "and I'm sure Geralt of Rivia does as well."
"I'd rather drop dead," he replied frankly. Yennefer turned to look at him, eyes sharp and cold, but before anyone had the chance to comment, a cry of "look out!" issued behind him, and he turned to see Sheepbagger and a few soldiers, who had been sent ahead to scout the path, running back at full speed.
"What is it?" Gyllenstiern asked as the carpenter ground to a stop in front of him. "Spit it out, man!"
"There—beyond the gorge…a dragon!"
No one wasted any time. Boholt, the Reavers, and all of Yarpen's men were immediately scrambling for the carts of weapons they'd managed to save. It was the incident on the bridge all over again, though with less of a threat of imminent death behind it. The group went flying to where the gorge ended, gently sloping into a grassy field. As Geralt neared it, he could hear Boholt swearing loudly in disbelief. Yennefer, who had somehow ended up at the front of the group, leaned around one of the larger blocks at the edge of the gorge (Regis hovering behind her rather nervously), then pulled back, violet eyes blinking furiously.
"What?" Dandelion yelled as he caught up with the rest of them. "What's going on up there?"
"The dragon," Boholt said. "It's…golden."
It sat only a couple hundred yards away from them, on a low gradual slope, its neck extended, tail curled around its front feet. There was something graceful about it, accentuated by the way its scales blazed gold, the same color as the eyes that stared them down. "A golden dragon," Dorregaray whispered, his own eyes impossibly wide. "A fable, in the flesh!"
"There's fucking no such thing as a golden dragon," one of the Reavers pronounced. "And I know what I's talking about."
"Then what's that?" Dandelion asked, pointing at the dragon.
"An illusion! Some kind of trickery!"
"It's not an illusion," Yennefer said, unable to tear her eyes from it.
"No, it's a dragon," Gyllenstiern said. "A genuine golden dragon."
"Golden dragons don't exist!"
"Shut up, all of you!" Boholt yelled. "There's no point arguing, we can all fucking see it. And what fucking difference does it make, anyway? It's not that big. We'll take it down in no time. Who cares if it's golden or not?"
"There is a difference, idiot," Beanpole snapped. "That's not the dragon we're after. It's not the one poisoned outside Barefield. This one's just sitting there. It's not of any use to us."
"Not any use?" Yarpen said. "The damn thing's golden, don't you understand? We'll get more for its hide than we would for its whole hoard!"
"What're we supposed to use to kill it?" Gar shouted, rummaging through the wagon where the Reavers had stored their equipment. "What d'you think that thing spits? Fire? Acid? Steam?"
"I've not got a fucking clue," said Boholt. He sounded slightly worried, though he camouflaged it well. "Hey! Dorregaray! There anything in your fables about how to kill a golden dragon?"
"You kill it the usual way!" Sheepbagger said. Beside him, Geralt heard Yennefer exhale slowly. "Give us an animal, we'll stuff it full of something poisonous and feed it to the beast!" Dorregaray looked askance. Dandelion turned away, grimacing, and Yarpen smiled nastily, hand back on his axe. "What?" the carpenter continued. "Stop staring, we've got work to do! We need to decide what substance will kill it quickest. It's got to be something very toxic, poisonous, or rotten."
"Well," Yarpen said slowly and gleefully. "What's poisonous, foul, and stinks here? Because it looks like it's you."
"What?"
"You fucking heard me. Get lost."
"Dorregaray." Boholt walked over to the edge of the group where the sorcerer was standing self-importantly. Yennefer huffed, annoyed, under her breath. "Tell me, what do you know about golden dragons?"
"Not much," he said in a way that Geralt supposed was meant to sound humble, "but I'll tell you. What I know is that what sits before us now is a living legend—probably the last of its kind to have survived your slaughter. And I will not allow you to touch it, understand? You can all pack your bags and go home."
"I would remember," Gyllenstiern said, surprisingly calm given the circumstances, "to whom you are speaking. King Niedamir can order you to do whatever he wants, but not the other way around. Is that clear?"
"No," Dorregaray said haughtily. "I will not be ordered around by someone with so little true power. Do you know, I could wave my hand and change you into a flea, or something far worse. Is that clear?"
Gyllenstiern never got a chance to answer—Boholt grabbed Dorregaray and spun him around, the other Reavers looming ominously behind him. "I'd think twice about opening that mouth again. We've come too far for you to fuck it up with your fables and your prohibitions." Dorregaray didn't respond—he was too busy staring at the mace hanging from Boholt's belt. "Good. Stay out of our way. Gar, Beanpole—let's get on with it. The thing's not going to hang around forever."
"Doesn't look like it's going anywhere," Dandelion observed, but right as he said it the thing stretched its jaws wide, lifting its head.
"King Niedamir!" it bellowed authoritatively. "I am the dragon Villentretenmerth! I see the landslide I sent down didn't stop you, and there are only three ways out of this valley. You can take the east road to Barefield or the west to Caingorn. I will not allow you to take the northern road. However, if any of you wish to challenge this, you may do so in an honorable duel. With conventional weapons, and to the defeat of one of the sides. I await your answer through a herald, as the old custom dictates!"
For a moment they all stood perfectly still. Geralt looked over at Yennefer, whose lips were parted slightly. She didn't take her eyes off the gorge.
"It can talk," Boholt breathed. "Bloody hell…"
"That it can." Yarpen frowned. "Anyone know what a confessional weapon is?"
"A non-magical one," Yennefer said. Geralt was made uneasy by the way Boholt looked at her as she spoke. "But…with a forked tongue, it shouldn't be able to talk. It's using telepathy. Be careful, it works both ways—he can read your thoughts."
"Well, it's completely fucking mad," Beanpole said, "if it thinks we're going to duel one-on-one with it. We should attack it as a group!"
"No."
They turned to see Eyck, standing tall behind them and dressed in what appeared to be a full set of armor. He looked ridiculous—even Geralt, a witcher, only owned bits and pieces of armor, and he hadn't brought a single one of them with him. The sword on his hip looked far more familiar, though still somewhat out of place. "No," he said again. "Over my dead body will honor be insulted in my presence. Whoever insults honor insults me, and it will end in bloodshed. The dragon wants to duel? I will fight it! Let divine judgement decide our fates! I have faith and righteousness on my side! I—"
"Shut up, you're making me sick," Boholt said among the annoyed muttering of the others. "If you're going to fight, get on with it!"
"Wait," one of the dwarves hissed. "Remember the agreement? If he kills the thing, he gets half the spoils."
"Oh, please. He'll be happy if Dandelion writes a song about him."
"Fine," Gyllenstiern sighed, hands to his temples. "Sir Eyck will fight the dragon. But the dragon requested a herald. Who will do that?"
"I could," Dandelion offered, trying very hard not to sound overly excited.
"We need an announcement, not a song," Boholt said. "Yarpen can do it. He's got a voice like a bull."
"Just speak courteously," Gyllenstiern cautioned.
"You don't have to learn me how to talk." Yarpen climbed up onto the highest boulder and stood proudly, chest puffed out. "Hey!" he yelled. "Hey, you fucking dragon! Listen here! The first to fight you is the knight Eyck of Denesle! He'll stick his sword in your belly, according to the holy custom, for the joy of virgins everywhere and the glory of King Niedamir! And it's to be a fair fight, understood?"
The dragon raised its head and hurried down to level ground. Despite its speed, it looked bored. "I understand!" it called back. "Let Sir Eyck of Denesle enter the fray, then! I am ready!"
Eyck, who had already clambered down into the valley, slammed down the visor of his ridiculous helmet and ran forwards, sword aloft. Geralt heard the others snickering around him, but he couldn't take his eyes off of what was going on below. "Look at him go!" Yarpen whooped as Eyck neared the dragon, who, contrary to Geralt's expectations, flattened itself to the ground and rushed straight at the knight.
"Hit him!" Yarpen screamed. Though Eyck and the dragon had been heading straight for each other, Eyck changed direction at the last second, nimbly rolling out of the way of the dragon's blow and striking out with one of his own.
It was over in seconds. The dragon darted out of the way of Eyck's blow and reached its claws down at his legs. The next thing they knew Eyck was several feet in the air, spinning horrifically. His breastplate detached itself from his body moments before he hit the ground.
"The knight Eyck of Denesle may now be removed from the battlefield, as he can no longer fight," said the dragon Villentretenmerth. "Next, please."
"Oh, fuck," Yarpen said into the ringing silence.
~oOo~
"Both legs," Yennefer said, standing and taking a cloth Regis had pulled from his bag of medical supplies. She wiped her hands on it one finger at a time, paying special attention to the skin around her rings, the stones themselves. "His spine, as well. His armor's dented like someone hit him with a pile driver. It's hard to say if he'll ever even walk again."
"Professional hazard," Geralt said under his breath. Yennefer raised an eyebrow as she moved closer to him, lowering her voice.
"Is that really all you have to say?"
"What else would you want me to say?"
"That dragon, it's—it's incredibly fast. Too fast for a man to fight it."
"Ah." He understood. He wished he hadn't. He wish he'd never come at all. "No. Not me."
Her lips twisted spitefully. "Morals, then? Or just everyday fear?"
"One of those. What difference does it make?"
"None." She was very close to him now; he could smell the last vestiges of her perfume under the blood and sweat they were covered with. "Both can be broken, both can be overcome. Kill that dragon, Geralt of Rivia. For me."
He waited a few moments before he responded. He couldn't have possibly heard her correctly. "For you?"
"For me. I want it. In one piece. All for myself."
"So? Just cast a spell and kill it."
"No. You kill it, I'll use my spells to hold back the others."
"You'll kill them, Yennefer."
"And why should that bother you? You deal with the dragon, I deal with the people."
"Yennefer." He swallowed around her name; he didn't want to admit that she could convince him far easier than she thought. "I don't understand what you would even want with that dragon. From what I understand, you're already fairly well-off. You're famous. So why?"
She was silent for a moment, pressing her lips together and letting them pull apart, pointedly not looking at them. He focused on the mark under the corner of her mouth, and she ran her thin fingers along the edge of her star. "I—well, it's rather personal. But I've got a…condition, so to speak, and all my life I've been told there's nothing I can do about it. But I've recently come into contact with someone who might be able to help me. Reverse what's been done to me."
He frowned. Yennefer shifted her weight, wrapped her arms loosely around her midsection, locked eyes with him. "It's…a complex procedure. Costly. But in exchange for a golden dragon…"
The expression on her face, guarded but somehow nearly vulnerable, almost had him. It was the most emotion he'd ever seen out of her, not to mention that there were very few conditions that could affect someone supposed to have been magically made perfect, though what he'd seen earlier called even that into question. "I understand," he said, and found he had to break her gaze. "But I can't. Not for someone I barely know, and for reasons I don't know either. I'm sorry."
He wasn't sure what he had expected. Anger, perhaps. Indignation. So it surprised him when all she did was bite her lip, blink several times, and turn away. "Fair enough, Geralt of Rivia," he heard her say, and her voice trembled slightly. He looked over at Dandelion, who was doing a horrible job of pretending he hadn't been eavesdropping, and Regis, whose brow furrowed deeply as he watched Yennefer slowly rejoin the group.
"Well," Boholt was saying when Geralt finally started to listen again, "the knightly honor thing didn't work. It was a shitty idea anyway. But I say we've killed two birds with one stone. And now the Reavers will sort out this damned dragon. By ourselves."
"What about the agreement?" Gyllenstiern interjected.
"Fuck the agreement."
"This is ridiculous!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration. "King Niedamir—"
"What about him?" Boholt's hands went to the sword at his hip. "Is he going to suddenly take on the dragon himself? Are you? Because in that case, we'll gladly wait. But you had your chance. It's too late. There's no one left to fight for you."
"That's not true!" Sheepbagger cut in. Geralt groaned internally; he'd forgotten the man was there. "The men from Barefield will arrive any moment, you'll see! We'll find out who the brave ones really are!"
"Shut the fuck up," Boholt said calmly, "or I'll punch you so hard it'll shove your teeth down your throat." Sheepbagger's eyes went wide, but the words had their intended effect—his mouth remained closed.
"King!" Gyllenstiern called, turning to Niedamir, who suddenly seemed far less bored. "What do you command?"
The boy stood, his nose scrunched up. "So you've finally asked," he said shrilly, "instead of deciding to speak for me? Good. Let it stay that way. Get together the men we have left and find a way to transport Sir Eyck. We're returning to Caingorn."
"Sire!"
"Not another word, I said. Farewell, noble lords. Lady Yennefer." He inclined his head towards her. He seemed to be quite taken with her. Apparently whatever she'd done on the first day had worked. "I've learned a great deal." And he set off down the western road, the remaining soldiers scrambling behind him in disarray. Gyllenstiern was still stuttering his disapproval, but considering most of his party was already moving, carrying the unconscious Eyck between them, he had no choice but to follow. In the valley below, the dragon had bent its head and was licking something grey-green in the grass beside it.
Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and turned to Dandelion. "What do you think of all this?" he said. The poet seemed surprised to have even been asked.
"Well," he said carefully. "I'll tell you one thing—reptiles of any kind, they terrify me. But that dragon…" He tilted his head as he looked down at it. "It's pretty."
He nodded, and unzipped the front of his hoodie enough to tighten the belt holding his sword by two notches. He'd been trying to keep the blade hidden, but he wouldn't have been shocked if someone had noticed—Yennefer, whose face had been inches away from the edge of it, had to have noticed. "Geralt!" Dandelion gasped, his eyes wide. "Are you going to—?"
"Yes." Geralt reached to check the hilt's position, trying to loosen the jacket as surreptitiously as possible. "I've had enough of all this. Are you going or are you staying?"
Dandelion looked around at the others, then straightened up. "I'm staying. There's enough for a whole album here."
"It could be your last one."
"Geralt? Can you—don't kill it, please. At least try?"
"I'll try. That's all I can promise."
When they turned back to the group, Dorregaray was laughing. "Do you see that?" he said, pointing down the western road. "Niedamir is gone. Gyllenstiern no longer gives orders here." He drew a wand from his coat that looked even more ridiculous than Eyck's armor; Geralt knew well enough that any truly powerful mage didn't need any sort of instrument to cast. "I'd start writing this down if I were you, Dandelion, because soon everyone will know about how the sorcerer Dorregaray chased away those who would kill the last golden dragon. Hands off that axe, Yarpen! Yennefer, darling, don't you move a muscle. And begone, all of you! Anyone who makes one wrong move will end in ash!"
"Dorregaray!" Yennefer hissed. Geralt saw her left hand tense slightly.
"My lord," Boholt said, hands in front of him, "is there any way to—?"
"Shut up. And no one touch that dragon. Now turn and go."
Yennefer, who had been moving her fingers into position slowly as Dorregaray turned to Boholt, shot her hand forward, and the sorcerer was suddenly encircled in blue flames that erupted from the ground around him. At the same time, Gar jumped into the ring and punched his face, hard. They're going to kill him, Geralt thought, and though he didn't particularly want to, he drew his sword and plunged into the fray, meeting Boholt head-on to the sound of clashing steel. He fought well, but Geralt had the upper hand—or at least, he thought he did, but the longer he fought, the more he felt himself going numb, until he finally collapsed, unable to move.
"Tie them up," he heard Yennefer say. "All of them."
Dorregaray and Geralt, both paralyzed, were restrained easily, tied to the weighed-down carts with zip ties Boholt had pulled out of his pocket. Regis, who didn't seem concerned in the slightest—probably because he knew he was stronger than everyone there, and even all three Reavers at once would be no threat to him—went quietly, but Dandelion struggled and protested until he was subdued with a punch to the face.
"Why tie 'em up?" Sheepbagger said. "They's traitors! We should club 'em!"
"Shut up," Yarpen said. "And get out of here."
"Awfully brave, aren't you? We'll see how you act when my comrades show up! Any moment now! You'll—" He was interrupted by Gar kicking him into the grass, one blow after another, until he started to crawl away, limping slightly even on all fours. "You'll be sorry!" he began to threaten, but with one step forward from Yarpen's men he was up and running. They laughed until he was well out of sight.
"Right," Yarpen said, clapping his hands together. "Now for the dragon."
"Actually," Yennefer said, "the only thing you'll be doing is leaving right after him."
"Excuse me?" Boholt said threateningly. "Mind repeating that?"
"Leave. I'll take care of the dragon myself. Using unconventional weapons. And you can all thank me on your way out, because if not for me the witcher would've killed you. Go on, now, before I become considerably less generous. I could do any number of terrible things to you. All I'd have to do is raise a finger."
"Is that right?" Geralt was become less fond by the second of the way Boholt moved towards her—almost predatory. "Well. In that case I may also need some unconventional weapons. I won't point fingers, but a certain witch is going to get a sound thrashing."
"Go ahead and try. You'll make my day."
"Why?" Yarpen asked reproachfully.
"Perhaps I simply don't like sharing."
He smiled. "It's nice to see such recognizable human emotion out of a sorceress. Because neither do I."
Before she could even blink Yarpen had whipped a small steel ball out of his pocket and sent it flying at her. It hit her square in the forehead, and the next second she was being held up by Gar and Beanpole while Yarpen tied her wrists and ankles tightly. Yennefer screamed, thrashing helplessly, but one of Yarpen's men pulled his belt from its loops and gagged her with it, muffling the sound.
"So, Yennefer, how are you going to do those horrible things to me now? When you can't lift a finger?" He reached up and tore her shirt down the center effortlessly, ignoring her cries, the sudden fear Geralt wondered if only he had noticed. He tore what was under it too, and Geralt had to turn away, unable to watch whatever Boholt was doing that was making them laugh so hard. He could flip the cart—it would take a fair amount of effort, but he could—but Dorregaray was tied to the other side, and Geralt didn't want to be responsible for his death. Instead, he tried to distract himself by thinking of all the ways he could kill them after this. It didn't help much.
"There's no time now," Boholt said as they bound a heavily-breathing Yennefer to the wagon on the side nearest to Geralt, "but just wait. Once this dragon nonsense is sorted out, we'll have some fun. In the meantime, no one fucking touch her. We'll figure out the order based on who does a good job with the beast."
"I'd watch out if I were you, Boholt," Geralt said quietly. "You won't live to regret this."
"And if I were you I'd keep quiet. Yours is a threat I've got to take seriously, witcher. You may not live at all." Boholt stood from where he'd been threatening Geralt. "Gar! Beanpole! Get ready!"
Dandelion was mumbling some nonsense about how he shouldn't have gotten caught up in all this, while Regis stared down Boholt's back, possibly even angrier than Geralt, and Dorregaray watched the blood drip from his nose. Geralt couldn't take his eyes off the suddenly-exposed skin above the waistband of Yennefer's jeans, where there was, in fact, a scar, though it was old enough to barely be visible. "Would you stop staring!" she yelled when she finally saw him, twisting around even though it was futile—her shirt was nearly in tatters. Geralt turned away. Dandelion did not.
"Damn," he said, laughing. "How much mandrake elixir did you use on that, Yennefer? You've got the skin of a sixteen-year-old."
"I'm twenty-seven, you fucking idiot!" The only remained implied. She didn't need to say it. Dandelion's grin faltered, but only for a second.
Several feet away, Boholt was checking the catches of the extra padding he'd fastened over his clothes. The other Reavers were dressed much the same, and they all held two-handed greatswords at the ready. "Right," Boholt called. "Let's go."
"Oh, no," a deep, terrifying voice bellowed. "I've come to you!"
The dragon's head emerged from behind the rock, horribly large, staring with unsettling reptilian eyes. "I tired of waiting in the open. Though it seems there are fewer and fewer challengers."
"That's enough!" Boholt yelled. "Stand and fight!"
"I am!" The dragon lowered its snout and pushed something towards where they were bound—the green-grey creature they had seen earlier. Then it wasted no time striking at the oncoming Reavers.
"What is it?" Yennefer asked as the small creature stumbled towards them.
"It's what the dragon was protecting from us," Geralt said. "A dragonling, one that hatched from the egg of the dragon Sheepbagger poisoned." The creature in question, having reached them, stood on its tiny hind legs, squealed, and immediately latched onto Yennefer's side. She sighed loudly, an odd look on her face. "It likes you," Geralt murmured.
"It's young, but it's not stupid." Dandelion grinned widely. "Look where it's stuck its snout! Dammit, I'd like to be in its shoes—"
"Stop it!" Dorregaray yelled. "Look over there! They've got him, the bastards!"
The Reavers did not appear to be faring well—Gar was pinned to the ground by a fallen boulder, Beanpole was crawling away towards the shelter of the rock wall, and Boholt laid motionless on the ground, much to Geralt's delight. But Yarpen and his men had it surrounded, and were trying to ensnare it with nets they'd seemingly procured out of nowhere. It shredded the first few easily, but soon enough it became overwhelmed, twisting and roaring. And something replied to its roars—a high-pitched cry. And then, out of the gorge, came—
"The Zerrikanians!" Geralt said, struggling against his bonds. Try as he might, there was no way he could break them without flipping the whole cart over.
"Shit!" Dandelion yelled. "Geralt! Do you understand?"
The Zerrikanians charged into the fray, clashing sabers with Yarpen's men, some of whom were forced to abandon the nets. Geralt was focused intently on the battle until he heard a short, sharp "Oh!" next to him. Yennefer turned and, in a surprising show of agility, showed her legs under the cart so her bound ankles were next to Geralt's hands. "The Igni Sign!" she panted. "Cast it!"
"Without looking? I'll burn you!"
"Make the damn Sign! I can take it!" She turned away, pressing her lips together tightly. Next to her, the dragonling squealed and flapped its wings.
It took a moment for the plastic of her bonds to give way, and by that time the smell of burned skin had grown so strong that Dorregaray, on the other side of the cart, groaned and fainted. But Yennefer didn't waste a second. She pulled her newly-freed legs out from under the cart, waved her foot in the direction of the fight, and yelled something hoarsely. The nets covering the dragon dissolved in a cloud of yellow smoke, and it sprang free with a roar. Yarpen's men stumbled back as Yennefer continued to shout spells, turning them into a veritable menagerie of animals, seemingly at random. The Zerrikanians finished off the rest. Yarpen himself was running with a speed that belied his stature, but it wasn't fast enough. Geralt turned away, and heard only a terrible crunching. Dandelion yelled in disgust, nose scrunched up. Yennefer, whose face had become several shades paler, turned to the side and, because she hadn't eaten a thing since they began their climb, started dry-heaving violently. When she finally stopped spasming and looked up, Veá was standing over her, blade in hand. Yennefer, still shaking, raised her leg.
"No," said Borch Three Jackdaws, who was sitting on a nearby stone, holding the dragonling. Behind him, Geralt felt a cold hand near his, and then his bonds gave way. Regis. They locked eyes for a brief moment, and Geralt saw the concern that must've been evident in his own gaze mirrored there.
"We're not going to kill Lady Yennefer," Villentretenmerth said. "Actually, we're going to thank her for her assistance. These…Reavers, however…"
Veá stepped away from Yennefer, grinning wickedly, and left. "Geralt!" Dandelion exclaimed quietly from his side as he tried to revive the unconscious Dorregaray. "Do you understand? There's an ancient ballad about a golden dragon. The ballad says it would be able to—"
"Assume any form it wishes," Geralt finished. "Even that of a human. But I never believed it."
He stood, rubbing at his chafed wrists. Next to him, Regis was kneeling in front of Yennefer, dressing her badly-scorched ankles with gauze and bandages from his seemingly never-ending bag of supplies. Yennefer herself had her head tilted back and was mumbling something. It wasn't until Regis answered in an equally low voice that Geralt realized she wasn't casting. Her hands fluttered around, trying vainly to pull together what few scraps of her shirt remained. Without pausing to think too hard about the reasons, Geralt shrugged off his hoodie and offered it to her. She stared at him for what felt like eternity before she took it.
"Thank you, Geralt of Rivia," she murmured, smiling slightly as she put it on. She didn't even need to zip it for it to fall closed over her small frame. The fact that Regis and Dandelion exchanged loaded glances while it was happening didn't go unnoticed by Geralt, but he was too tired to comment.
"What now?" Dandelion asked as he fanned Dorregaray with his hand ineffectively.
"Stay here," Geralt said. "I'm going to talk to him."
"Wait." Yennefer stood up, pulling a face as she did so, and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. Her fingertips were cold. "I'm coming with you. Please."
"With me? Are you—?"
"It's fine. I'm fine." When he looked at her he saw only sincerity, and he gave in. They walked over slowly—Yennefer, leaning heavily on Geralt's arm, was limping noticeably. Her grip on him tightened when they stopped. It seemed a struggle for her to even stay upright.
"Three Jack…Villentretenmerth…" Geralt stuttered.
"When translated into your language, my name means Three Black Birds." When the dragonling saw Yennefer, it squealed again. She was smiling tightly when Geralt glanced at her.
"Chaos and Order," said Villentretenmerth, stroking the dragonling's long spine. "You remember, don't you, Geralt? Chaos is the aggressor, Order that which protects from it. And that's worth rushing to the end of the world, isn't it? Especially if the pay is good, and this time it was. The dragon Myrgtabrakke, whom Sheepbagger poisoned, flew away as you were removing Sir Eyck from the battlefield. She left me her treasure hoard as payment."
"So you—and…" Geralt found himself struggling for words. "And the goal…the destination at the end of the road?"
"This is it." Villentretenmerth gestured to the dragonling flapping its tiny wings on his arm. "Because of him, I will survive. I'll prove there are no limits of possibility. One day, you will also find a similar purpose. Farewell, Geralt of Rivia."
He paused and turned to Yennefer, who tensed imperceptibly. "Forgive me my bluntness, Lady Yennefer," he said. "It's written all over your face. I know why you're here, and I cannot give you what you came for."
With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and drew out a small pouch, which he offered to her. She briefly let go of Geralt's arm to open it and peer inside, then looked back up, startled. "That is all I can offer," he said. "But you must be aware that nothing will come of it. Nothing. I'm sorry."
"I know," Yennefer replied softly. "But I would also like to believe that there are no limits to what is possible. Or, at least, that they are very far away."
He smiled, nodded, and then suddenly the man was gone and the dragon in his place, rising gracefully with the dragonling clinging to his back. Neither of them were able to take their eyes off him until he was a spot in the distance, wings dazzling in the sun.
When they rejoined the others, Dorregaray was awake, and the blood coming from his nose had been staunched. "Ah," he said, looking at them but not quite meeting their eyes. "I hate to ask this, but—well, as you see, I'm not in the best shape to portal. I don't suppose…I would be able to return to Oxenfurt with you?"
They all turned to look at Yennefer, whose face remained impassive as she watched him. It would be so easy, Geralt thought, to leave him there. But he didn't think she would. Despite how she presented to others, she wasn't that cold.
"Fine," she said after a moment. "A favor for a favor, Dorregaray. You're not going to tell him anything."
So here's how I envision the next month or so going: I'm likely taking next week off from posting since it's a holiday for me and I'll be with z's family for most of it, so I probably won't even have access to my laptop. I'll post regularly for a couple of weeks, and then I'll take the week of December 11-15 off because that's my finals week. After that will be a regular week, and then (if I have the time to pull it off) there's something kind of special I want to do that I'm really excited about. So I'm sorry that there'll be a couple of dead weeks, but I promise it'll be worth it!
Also who's ready to see Geralt and Val butt heads in the next chapter because I've been waiting my entire life for this moment
