The road winds and turns ahead of Visenya, like a labyrinth that never ends. The sun bathes everything beneath it in a soft glow warm, the miles upon miles of farm fields surrounding the road basking in its radiance. Fields of overgrown grass tinged gold by the sun act as the walls around the dirt road, swaying lazily in the breeze. Yet the sun is deceiving, a chill hangs in the air, causing any travelers Visenya passes to bundle themselves further into their cloak. However, Visenya finds herself no longer affected by the cold. The fire that laid dormant just under Visenya's skin since waking up in Blaviken furiously fighting the cold in the wind. It bubbled just under the surface, enough for her to sense it but calm enough to not cause any harm.
She's been walking for days, mindlessly following the road, allowing the winds to guide her to her next destination. Six days. It's been six days since the catastrophe that is Blaviken happened. And despite her best efforts, Visenya can't seem to forget about it, no matter how hard she tries, it lingers in the back of her mind.
Every night when she lays down to go to sleep, kept company by only the stars and the trees around her, Visenya can hear the screams of the people burning alive. They echo in her mind, coming together in a sick melody, the tones grating and harsh. When she closes her eyes, even for a brief second, she can see them, their images clear enough that she could taste the fear in the air. She'd watch them burn, performing a dance of fire and blood, the personification of what House Targaryen stands for.
But the worst part isn't the memories following her, haunting her like ghosts. It isn't the regret and pain she feels whenever she remembers the terrible faint she bestowed upon them. No, the worst part is she didn't care. Even on the hardest days, when she was too stuck in her melancholy she didn't care. Their faces were fleeting, their lives unimportant, and their potential non-existent to Visenya.
She knows she committed mass murder in same way her grandfather did and she feels nothing. Nothing but a dark obsession with the fire she created.
So she runs. She locks away Blaviken in the same spot the Starks, her mother and siblings, and her own life reside.
To the left the grass rustles, breaking Visenya from her thoughts. Turning her head, she sees nothing but tall golden grass lazily swaying in the breeze; no animal or bandit preparing to ambush a lone traveller. Her eyes narrow, surveying the area one last time. A pit rests in her stomach as anxiety creeps into her mind. And as her hackles raise, so does the fire inside of her, ready to incinerate any potential attacker. But there wasn't anything there. She rotates her body, looking in all directions hoping to spot whatever was the cause of her sudden dread. Subconsciously, her hand rests atop the pommel of her blade, readying herself to unsheathe it in a moment's notice.
But even as her keen eyes focus on the surrounding area, taking in every minor detail, she sees nothing out of the ordinary.
A second passes and she's about to turn around and continue towards the nearby inn.
Crunch.
She turns to her right, ready to unleash hellish fury on the cloaked figure standing before her. She raises her blade and brings it down towards them. The figure manages to nimbly dogge out of the way. In another fluid, motion Visenya strikes, however the blow never manages to make impact, as a blunt object makes contact with the back of her head. And as her body falls to the ground, another figure approaches. Black blotches dot her vision as the figure pulls down their hood, revealing wheat gold hair, sunkissed skin with freckles dotting their cheeks, and pointed ears.
The person, man or woman, she can't tell - speaks to another person. The language is light and musical and completely forgein to Visenya. Her ashen brows furrow and she tries to speak, but the words get caught in her throat. So she tries again, this time managing a pitiful whine that sounds more like a dying animal than a person.
The figure's attention darts back to Visenya, an alarmed expression painted on his face. He says something else to the other person and then turns back to Visenya.
"Get some rest why don't you," A moment later, Visenya watches as the pommel of a dagger cracks on the top of her head, rendering her unconscious.
It's cold, that much is obvious, so obvious Visenya - who never gets cold anymore - notices it. Not the type of cold Winterfell bestowed upon its inhabitants, pelting them in its relentless bitter chill and glistening snow that would freeze a man to death without hesitation. No, it's a different type of cold, the one that can only come from pain and suffering that's so strong it bleeds into the air and syphons any joy until all that's left is frigid air that's still like a statue.
She doesn't hear anything, not even the distant sounds of footsteps or voices that slowly trickle into the room. It's completely silent. The walls in the room are made of stone, with tiny rays of light pouring through the small windows. The ground beneath her is cold and wet, either stone or dirt - she isn't sure.
And for a moment Visenya thinks she could be dead, that her attacker put more force into their strike than originally realized, but dead people wouldn't be tied up. Her hands clench, feeling the rough rope that binds her wrists, it's frayed and old, but tied tight.
She turns her head slightly to the right, seeing a head full of bright white hair and a wolf pendant hanging from his neck.
"Geralt." Her voice sounds like it hadn't been used in days, which is possible. Who knows how much time has passed.
She feels a surge of anger rushing through her, images of Renfri's dead body lying on the ground, blood pouring from the fatal wound on her neck. And for a second she contemplates screaming and yelling at Geralt, scorning him for what he's done. But as soon as it appears, the feeling fades, ice cold water pouring over the fire in her veins.
"Jane." Geralt replies, turning his head so he's looking at her. His amber eyes stare at Visenya, brows furrowed. "What are you doing here?"
And just like that the spell was over. Like water breaking through a dam, ambient noise streams into the room, filling Visenya's ears with distant shouts and feet pounding. And the air… the air feels less dead.
"I don't know, I was traveling to a nearby inn when I was ambushed. Same as you it would seem." She turns to her left to try and get a look at their third companion who's knocked out cold. His skin is pale like ice, but not as luminous or enrapturing, floppy brown hair that looks well washed and conditioned obscures his face. Bright blues and reds color his clothes that are ostentatious and impractical for travel, with sleeves that are slightly puffed at the shoulders.
Definitely not a warrior.
Geralt starts jerking to the left and right, attempting to free his arms from the bindings locking them in place. Combined with the sudden movement and grunts of frustration he's letting out, the man wakes up. His lolling head shoots up, his eyes fantcally surveying the room. They land on Visenya for a moment, his eyes the same shade of blue as his shirt, before they flit to the corner of his vision. He lets out a small sigh of relief, his tense posture physically deflating as he leans against Geralt's back.
"This is the part where we escape." he says. Any panic or fear that he initially showed upon waking up is gone, replaced with a sense of ease and confidence. But not in his abilities, no, he seems positive Geralt will get them out of this mess.
Visenya can't help the snort that leaves her mouth.
"This is the part where they kill us!" Geralt exclaims, not amused by the man behind him.
"Who's they?" Visenya asks, hoping one of them could catch her up. Nobody gets the chance to reply however. A woman clothed in poorly made garments and long brown hair burst into the room.
Like a wild boar charging towards its target, she moves to the man behind Geralt, lifting her leg in a smooth motion and driving it into the man's chest. A cry of pain escapes his mouth as the wind is knocked out of him. In a language foreign to Visenya, with similar intonation to the one she heard before being knocked out, the woman says something in a scathing tone. She says the phrase at him like a cobra spitting venom.
Like the wind, the woman then moves to Geralt greeting him in the same manner, before finally moving to stand before Visenya. Her features are pointed and regal looking with delicately pointed ears. Her eyes are the same shade as the forest during the darkest night, a mix of emerald and black with a hint of silver streaming in from the moon. She would be ethereal, in a goddess of war kind of way, if not for the heavy bags under her eyes, in shades of blue and black or the sunken appearance of her face- a sign of under-eating. But she's proud and angry- like a roaring lion as it shows its teeth.
Visenya golden eyes narrowed into slits, challenging the foreign woman to treat her as she did Geralt and the other man. And she did not disappoint.
Despite looking as if she could deteriorate any second now, she kicks Visenya with the force of a fabled giant, rendering Visenya breathless. For a brief moment, everything goes black as small dots cover her vision. But she doesn't move back into the bodies behind her, or let out a grunt of pain. Her pride is too strong to show weakness, even when she's at an obvious disadvantage.
Warm liquid begins to pool in her mouth and without hesitation, Visenya spits it out. The crimson liquid sprays in the air, the woman narrowly managing to avoid being hit.
"Elves!" Geralt exclaims. Another man in similar garb to the woman comes into the room with an ornate lute in hand. He begins buckling at the strings, breaking them as he goes. The sound is painful, similar to the noise of silverware scraping against a plate, but worse. It lingers in her head, only to return enfold when the man breaks another string.
"Oi that's my lute. Give that back!" the man exclaims, more concerned about his lute than their safety it would seem.
"Maybe focus on staying alive." Visenya mutters, wiggling to try and loosen the knot around her wrist.
"Quick Geralt do your- your- witchering thing!" the man finishes, unperturbed by Visenya's comment.
"Shut up!" Geralt yells, before being kicked by the woman again, a crack resonating in the room. Visenya's face scrunches up in a wince, the sound worse than the pain probably is.
Like a predator circling its prey, the woman makes her way back to Visenya. She leans down until the two are eye to eye, and doesn't hesitate to slap Visenya across the face, the force causing her head to swing to the left. Before she has a chance to recuperate from the blow, the woman punches the other side of Visenya's face. Her hands slid down, finding purchase on her cloak.
The cloak Sansa made for her. One of the only things she has left of the Starks. A reminder of a time when things were simpler and she still had a home.
"No please don't-!" Visenya desperately pleads, but it's too late. The woman tears the fabric of the cloak. The side that had the dire wolf embroidery completely torn off. She tosses the piece behind her, bringing another hand towards Visenya's face. The smack resounds in Visenya's mind, her inner dragon roaring at the offense. Her skin heats up as her emotions grow unstable.
The smell of rope being singed fills the air, the binds holding Visenya loosening, however the rope is too thick to immediately burn off. When the woman's hand makes contact with Visenya, she screams in pain and immediately recoils, tenderly touching her burned hand. The injury doesn't stop her though. Instead she moved onto Geralt, yelling something in her foreign tongue.
"My eldar speech is rough, I only got part of that." the man sarcastically quips. The woman dances around Visenya, refusing to even look at her.
"Humans, shut up!" she spits, glaring at the man. He then replies to her in the same language, using that same sarcastic tone.
"Do you wanna die right now?" she says, her tone more hostile than before. By this point she'd moved so she was directly across from the man in blue.
"As opposed to later?" Geralt venomously yells, once against trying to loosen the restraints. While partially singed, the rope is incredibly durable.
She swiftly kicks the mystery man in the gut, simultaneously the man with the lute breaks another string. She then moves around to Geralt
"Leave off!" Geralt yells at the woman. "He's just a bard." he finishes. She responds with a punch to Geralt's face, a third string breaking.
"You don't deserve the air you breathe." she says, fourth string
"Everything you touch, you destroy." another punch to the face, and the final string is broken. The man with the lute then proceeds to break the instrument over his knee as the woman finishes Geralt off with one more blow to the face.
"You hide in your golden palace. You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye!"
"Do you like my palace? Hmm?" she replies, maneuvering back to Geralt. She lowers herself to his level, grasping his chin in her hands. "Does it live up to the tales you humans tell?" she asks. Geralt responds with a head butt. The force knocks the woman to the ground and she begins coughing profusely, unable to stand up.
"Haha! Take that pointy!" the man yells. "W-wait what's wrong with her?" the man worriedly asks once the coughing and wheezing doesn't cease.
"She's sick." someone replies, two more figures entering the room. A man with blonde hair and a… goat standing upright.
"I've seen it all." Visenya mutters to herself, ashen brows raised towards her hairline. Her mouth is turned downwards, watching the...creature enter the room.
"Oh and who's this?" the man asks. The blonde figure moves to the woman profusely coughing on the ground.
"He's Filavandrel, King of the Elves." the goat-man replies, rushing to the other side of the woman. Visenya snorts to herself.
"One hell of a kingdom, even better subjects too." Visenya mutters under her breath. Filavandrel responds with a piercing glare towards Visenya, but she simply snarls at him, baring her teeth at him like an animal. The blood she spit from her mouth earlier stains her mouth deep red, making her look more like a wild animal rather than human.
"Not a king. Not by choice." he says, taking the pack the goat-man gave to him. He turns his attention to the woman and gently picks up her arms. Her hands are bright red, small blisters forming where Visenya had burned her.
"How did you get burned?" the man asks, his voice so quiet Visenya had to strain herself to hear, despite their close proximity.
"The girl burnt my hand when I touched her." she replies, looking past him to scowl at Visenya. Geralt looks at her briefly, his brows furrowed and eyes squinted. His gaze soon switches back to their captors.
"You mean you can do that?" the man to her left exclaims, wiggling around in his spot. Visenya pointedly ignores the man.
"You were stealing for them." Geralt says. The goat whipped his head around towards Geralt.
"I felt for them. They were forced out of Dol Blathanna." he says.
"Forced out? No they chose -" the man begins, sounding as confused as Visenya felt, although for different reasons probably. She has no idea what an elf is, and even less what this goat creature could be identified as.
"Do you know anyone who would willingly leave their home? To starve? To have a Sylvan steal for them?" Filavandrel interrupts, he then turns his attention back to the elven woman. "Touruviel, no one was supposed to get hurt." he scolds her.
"What's three humans in the ground when countless elves have died." she responds, her voice lacking the fire it held previously.
"Two humans." Geralt rebuttals. "And you can let them go."
"Then Posada will learn that we've been stealing." Filavandrel replies, standing from his position, moving towards them. "The humans will attack. Many will die… on both sides." he spits, moving to stand in front of Geralt.
"The lesser evil." Geralt gripes, obviously unamused by the current events. "No matter what you choose you'll come out bloody and hating yourself. Trust me. " Geralt says, conviction behind every word.
Visenya continues to stare straight ahead, not looking at anything in particular. Flashes of Blaviken enter her mind, but she forcibly pushes them away.
Filavandrel simply shakes his head, he kneels before Geralt. "I can't. And this is necessary." he replies, leaning over to unsheathe a dagger.
"I understand." Geralt says. "As long as you understand it won't be long before you join me."
"Yes, because they pushed us from viable soil." Filavandrel says. "Even chaos is polluted. Synthetically enhanced so humans can make magic."
"Chaos is the same it's always been, the humans just adapted better."
"You say adapt, and I say destroy."
"You are choosing to starve. You're cutting off your own ear to spite your face."
"Do you think this is about pride?" Rage simmers under the surface of his words, the rage barely kept in check. "My elders worked with humans and got robbed of everything they had. And when they fought back, they were slaughtered. "The Great Cleansing," humans call it. I call it digging a mass grave for everyone I loved. And now the humans proudly watch these very fields grow… our babies fertilizer for their grain. I don't want to bury anyone else."
He pauses, his voice turning more somber.
Like tiny flares, memories flash into Visenya's mind: Running around The Red Keep when she was a child; tightly holding onto the skirt of her mother's dress; reading her any book she could find after she gave birth to Aegon and was bedridden for nearly a year. She can almost smell The Red Keep, a cacophony of floral from the gardens, incense trickling through the windows, and the musk from ancient books.
"I was once Filavandrel of the Silver Towers, now I'm Filavandrel of the edge of the world."
There's a pause, everything in the room growing still. Visenya moves her gaze to her left, looking towards Filavandrel who is still sitting in front of Geralt.
His face can only be described as defeated. His silvery blue eyes are dull and dead, a stark difference to the glittering brightness they probably used to burn with. They look more like a foggy sky, the crystalline blue sky muddled by dirt and pollution. His lips are pulled into a thin line, lines embedded in his forehead and around his mouth. His cheeks are sunken in as well, dirt spotting his sun kissed skin.
"I understand." Her voice is raw, why is it so raw? "When I was five, my family was killed in a rebellion. My mother and siblings were murdered, and my father fell in battle. The savage who killed my mother was pardoned and the killer of my father became king. Neither suffered any consequences. In fact, the bodies of my brother and sister were wrapped in cloaks in the color of their killer to be presented to the new king as a token of loyalty,"
It's strange, speaking about past events outloud and remembering each detail so vividly. She's always known their fate, the sound of her mother's screams keeping her up in the middle of the night, the sound of her skull being crushed haunting even the sweetest dreams.
"I was raised in a foreign country by a family not my own. But I adapted."
Filavandrel moves from his spot in front of Geralt to instead kneel before Visenya. She manages to wiggle her hands from the partly burnt rope, grasping Filavandrel's hand in her own. He recoils in shock but doesn't pull away, his eyes locked on Visenya.
"I never forgot my dead and neither should you." she continues in a much softer tone than before. "But I adapted," Visenya says, looking Filavandrel directly in the eye. "And you can too."
He simply continues to stare at her, his eyes boring deep inside her own. An air of hopelessness and sorrow surrounds him, his light blue eyes are more ancient than his youthful face should allow. And he's beautiful, despite how malnourished and dirty he is, dressed in rags that are ill fitting on his scrawny form. She can see past all of that and visualize the former glory he used to possess before everything came crashing down.
"I can't." he says. "If my people come down from these mountains, that would mean bowing to human sovereignty. They'll make slaves of us. Pariah's from half-blood children." he fiercely exclaims.
"Then go somewhere else." Geralt interrupts. "Rebuild. Get strong again. Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be." he finishes. Filavandrel releases himself from Visenya's grasp, moving back to Geralt.
"Like you, Witcher?"
"I have learned to live with them. So that I may live" Geralt simply replies. The woman stands from her sitting position, moving over to them.
"Please my king. There are others. A new generation. Evellian who wish to fight!" the woman nearly shouts, burning passion lacing each word. "Let us take back what's ours. Starting now" she finishes. Filavandrel leans over, grasping the hilt of his dagger once more.
"Wait!" the Sylvan exclaims, grabbing onto Filavandrel's shoulder.
"Torque, stand aside." Filavandrel exclaims, jerking his shoulder out of the Sylvan's grasp.
"The Witcher could've killed me. But he didn't. He's different, like us." the Sylvan finishes. Filavandrel simply shoves Torque away with his shoulder, staring intently at Geralt, his eyes occasionally flickering back to Visenya.
"If you must kill me… I am ready. But the Sylvan's right." Geralt intervenes. "Don't call me human." he holds his head up to expose his neck to the elves. Filavandrel moves to the other side, directly across from Visenya, holding up the dagger high in the air. Visenya's eyes squeeze shut, not wanting to watch Geralt and their third companion be butchered. Like lightning, the dagger flies through the air and a sharp crack rings in the air. The ropes binding their arms loosen and fall to the ground. Visenya cracks one eye, then slowly the next.
"Oh good, we're not dead. Love it when I do that."
o0o
"That was a nice touch, the whole 'I know how you feel' thing." The man mutters to Visenya, a lopsided grin resting on his face. His floppy brown hair is disheveled, pieces of it sticking to his forehead due to sweat. Some blood spills from the corner of his mouth, where the elven woman hit him - multiple times. His bright eyes look at Visenya like a puppy would look at a child, wide-eyed and full of wonder. "Really sets a vulnerable tone." he finishes, strumming the new lute Filavandrel had gifted him to replace his now broken one.
Geralt is a few steps away from them, gathering his weapons and other items the elves took when they captured him. Despite not looking at them and giving no indication he's listening, Visenya knows he is. His attention seems too intently focused on the pack in his hands.
Visenya simply rolls her eyes at the man, moving across the room to retrieve her possessions. As she passes him, Geralt nods his head in acknowledgment but says nothing. His eyes are scrutinizing her face like she's a locked box that he's attempting to unravel. Not that Visenya can condemn him for his curiosity, only moments ago she revealed a piece of her life in Westeros. However, Geralt was merciful enough to not vocalize his inquiries and for that, she is grateful.
"I do believe this belongs to you." Filavandrel stands behind her, a familiar longsword in his hands, offering her the blade. Visenya grasps it, the cool metal of the hilt a stark contrast to her warm skin. The silver dragon design coils around the hilt, the gleaming red gemstones set in the design imitating two draconic eyes peering into Visenya's soul. The blade makes a soft shing as it's slowly unsheathed. The smooth metal glistens in the light as the soft sunbeams reflect off it. She takes her time intently inspecting the blade, memorizing each slight imperfection from the extensive battles it's seen.
"A dragon on the hilt, an interesting touch," he notes, watching Visenya tracing the details of the blade with her eyes. Filavandrel notes the reverence in her eyes, often not seen in an untrained soldier with a sword.
"A gift from a friend," Visenya answers his unasked question, eyes moving to meet his. His gaze is as intense as it was before, however, the delicate smile resting on his face eases any discomfort. His eyes move to Visenya's cloak, torn from where Touruviel had ripped it when Visenya was bound. Her hand follows his eyes, feeling the ribbon of the cloak with the embroidered wolf. It limply dangles from her shoulder area, the damage far beyond anything Visenya's skill could fix, at least to make it appear as it was before.
"I am sorry about your cloak." he apologizes, guilt flooding his facial expressions. Visenya simply shakes her head, hand dropping back to her side.
"It's fine, could've been worse." Visenya shrugs her shoulders, not sure what else to say.
"Yes, but that doesn't change the fact that, while the weather is comfortable during the day, the nights are cold - too cold to go without proper supplies." he rebuttals. His concern for her comfort moderately amuses Visenya. Her lips faintly turn upwards, not a full smile, but enough to show her gratitude towards Filavandrel.
"I don't find myself getting cold these days," Visenya answers, her voice softer than the hints of sunlight flooding the room. A stark contrast to the severe tone she'd used moments ago towards Touruviel.
An amused expression snakes itself onto Filavandrel's face, his soft blue eyes alight with humor and an upward curve of his lips. "Even so, I feel I should still apologize on Touruviel's behalf. She can be overly zealous concerning her convictions." Filavandrel replies, his tone apologetic. Before he can continue with needless apologies, Visenya reaches her hand out to grasp his own, cutting him off.
"You don't need to apologize. Your people have seen the worst humanity has to offer." Visenya remarks eyes quickly darting to Touruviel who's been watching Visenya intently, hands ghosting on her dagger as Visenya makes physical contact with Filavandrel. Her gaze moves back to him as she removes her hand from his. "She holds an explosive passion for her people, perhaps you could learn a thing or two from her." Visenya teases, her words lacking any bite to them. A hearty chuckle leaves Filavandrel's mouth, the humor returning to his eyes.
By this point Geralt and his companion have walked through the doorway to leave, Geralt awkwardly hanging by the exit watching Visenya, not attempting to be subtle. In his hands, he holds a pack that distinctly resembles hers.
"Perhaps so." he muses after his laughter silences. Noticing where her gaze is, Filavandrel turns towards the exit, holding his arm out to Visenya, offering himself as an escort. She delicately weaves her arm around his elbow, a non-verbal cue for them to move forward.
"If I thought I could, I'd point you in the direction of my aunt, Daenerys. From the information I've been given, the people have taken to calling her the Breaker of Chains. Her army and three dragons would make for a worthy ally to your cause and a fearsome enemy to your oppressors." Visenya absentmindedly says as they get closer to the exit. Upon closing the distance between them, Geralt tosses Visenya's pack towards her, which her free hand catches with ease.
"Queen Calanthe would be cowering in her palace." Filavandrel muses in a light-hearted tone. "However from your phrasing and previous information, I gather this aunt is somewhere my people can't reach," he adds, taking note of her slightly crestfallen tone.
"Your assumption is correct." Visenya plainly replies, staring straight ahead. Her thoughts once again wander home. The desire she'd felt to sail east had burned like ice in her veins upon hearing about the return of dragons due to Daenerys. The only thing keeping her was the loyalty she'd felt to Ned Stark and by extension - Robb and the northerners. A small part of her wonders how different things would've been if she had left, sailed to Slaver's Bay and never looked back, joining her Aunt in war as opposed to the North. Would she still become food to the crows, or be covered in glittering jewels worthy of a dragon princess. Would she don glorious plate armor, the design similar to her own father's? These distant thoughts matter little, Visenya made a conscious choice to stay, and in turn die, in Westeros.
While Visenya was too busy lost in her own mind, Filavandrel had guided her out of the building the elves made their sanctuary, far away from bigoted humans. The natural crevices in the walls act as windows, allowing for natural sunlight to stream into the hall. The sun is in the beginning stages of setting, creating a warm glow, making the beings in the vicinity appear ethereal and surreal. Visenya's eyes trace the faint halo above Geralt's head, the sun reflecting off his white hair beautifully.
Beautiful; not a word Visenya would think to use to describe Geralt, but it fits.
Geralt and his companion wander ahead of them, the Witcher never more than three steps from her. It warmed Visenya's heart, that despite hardly knowing her, he felt the need to protect her - something Visenya doesn't doubt he'd be easily capable of. Despite the elves vastly outnumbering them, they were starving and Geralt is highly trained and they were starving.
The elves they pass watch them warily, most wearing vicious sneers on their faces, keeping a scrutinizing eye on the humans. A few of the elves reach to grasp their weapons, preparing themselves for a fight. The floppy-haired man carefully watches his surroundings, his expression giving away his nerves as he worries his bottom lip. Geralt seems completely calm - if he is aware of their hostility, he remains unbothered. But if Blaviken was any indication of his treatment, hostility is something he's very familiar with.
The closer they get to the exit, the brighter the sunlight grows, the elves becoming more frequent until eventually, they reach what seems to be the main entrance. Filavandrel pulls his arm away from Visenya's and moves towards the front of the group. He opens the door, motioning for Geralt to move through. He mutters lowly to Geralt, the witcher replying with a simple grunt. Next through is the floppy-haired man, nodding in acknowledgment at Filavandrel. Visenya's gaze locks onto Touruviel, who'd been stalking behind them, her razor-sharp gaze locked on Visenya, who offers the woman a small smile, attempting to diffuse the elf's rage. Touruviel responds with a sneer, clutching her injured hand that had been wrapped in bandages. She spits something at Visenya in her native tongue, lacing the words with venom, but makes no hostile movements.
"Perhaps the finest thing to come from this is making your acquaintance." Filavandrel's words pull Visenya's attention back to him. He's still standing by the door, arms outstretched towards her. A beaming smile rests on his face, his eyes no longer weighed down by the responsibilities that were thrusted upon him - at least for the moment, making his timeless face appear more youthful. It's so infectious Visenya can't help but return it. She moves towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder as she passes.
"I'm flattered, your grace." Visenya quips, light joking lacing the formality. He raises his eyebrows at her joke but does nothing else. She moves past the door with a hand still on Filavandrel, feeling the fresh air hitting her face. She turns to face him, his body moving like a magnet to match her. "About what Touruviel said earlier about a new generation wanting to fight back," she remarks, Filavandrel opens his mouth to interrupt, but Visenya pushes on before he can. "You can count me in. It would be an honor to fight alongside your people." she finishes. The light expression on his face instantly shifts into disbelief, his eyes, however, look at her with an admiration that wasn't present before.
"You shall be the first ally I call upon," he claims, managing to regain his composure. Visenya responds with a beaming smile. Her golden eyes - beaming with delight - could rival the sun on the hottest summer day. She leans forward, placing a delicate kiss on his cheek.
"I promise you, my life is eternally richer by meeting you," she tells him, and she means it. "Until we meet again Filavandrel," she adds, before releasing her grip and moving towards Geralt and his companion. Geralt is watching with a neutral expression and his arms crossed over his chest. His companion's composure is the exact opposite, watching with wide eyes, trying to take in every detail of the scene before them. Unknowingly to Visenya, he is planning his next ballad, based on what unfolded before him. She moves towards them, not stopping once she reaches them but just continues forward. Geralt and his companion follow suit, however, the man rushes forward until he's keeping pace with Visenya.
"I don't believe we've had the pleasure to formally meet my lady," he comments, dashing to stand in front of Visenya. She pauses her movement as the man kneels before her, grasping her hand in his own. "Julian Alfred Pankratz, but you may call me Jaskier," he says as he attempts to pull her hand towards his lips but Visenya jerks away before he can.
"Jane." she plainly replies, hoping to not encourage the man further. Either he doesn't get the hint, or he decides to disregard it.
"I am but a humble bard blinded by the beauty of the woman before me…" he begins but is interrupted by Geralt, who is a few steps behind Visenya.
"Leave her, Jaskier," he demands. His eyes are locked on the man in question, his ashen brows furrowed and lips pulled in a tight line.
"Perhaps the lady would like to hear a ballad, each line inspired by her beautiful golden eyes." Jaskier continues, completely ignoring Geralt. Visenya sighs in annoyance, staring straight ahead. She side-eye's Jaskier, sending a chilly glare his way before continuing to move, albeit at a faster pace than before hoping to get ahead of the persistent bard. Similar to when Geralt demanded Jaskier to leave her alone, he chooses to ignore Visenya's cold reception of him. The soft sounds of a lute begin to resound in the area when Jaskier starts singing a soft ballad, the song lyrics thinly veiled references about Visenya.
Geralt moves up until he's walking beside Visenya, leaving the bard in the back. His lips still pulled into a tight line, eyes narrowing in concentration as he stares ahead. There is a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, that grows more apparent the louder Jaskier's singing becomes. His jaw is clenched so tightly, Visenya could swear a few of his veins have popped. A slight smirk tugs itself onto Visenya's face as she continues to watch his irritation grow. Out of the corner of his eyes, Geralt notices Visenya's amusement.
"Something funny?" he questions, his deep voice closely resembling a growl. Visenya's gaze moves from Geralt's face to the rolling fields ahead of them. The soft crunch of the grass beneath her feet is a stark contrast to Jaskier's incessant singing. A soft giggle bubbles from her mouth, her hand immediately coming up to her lips to stifle the sound. But the damage has been done. Instead of looking at her out of the corner of his eyes, he turns to face her head-on. She shakes her head, unable to silence her laughter. All the while, Geralt continues to stare at her. The only sign of his amusement is the slight twitch in his furrowed brows.
"It's nothing. I just forgot how vexed you always seem to be." Visenya muses, after managing to silence her laughter. His face relaxes as her words sink in, a single brow rising in questioning.
"This is the second time we've encountered each other." he points out, a teasing undertone hidden in his gruff voice.
"Then it would seem you've made an impression, Geralt of Rivia," Visenya claims, not missing a beat. She turns her head to meet his gaze for a split second, a teasing grin resting on her lips, amber eyes alight with mischief. A simple grunt is all Visenya gets in response to her banter.
A moment of silence passes between the two of them. By this point, Jaskier's singing has ceased and instead, he opted to idly strum his new lute, silent for the first time since Visenya met him. The sky is a beautiful blend of vivid oranges and reds. Fluffy white clouds conceal the majority of the sun, causing the rays that peek through the clouds to appear more concentrated. Visenya can't help but stare, her face alight with childlike wonder at the sky being so beguiling and surreal, looking akin to a painting rather than a natural cause. Geralt sneaks a glance at Visenya out of the corner of his eye.
"So my fair friends! Where to now?" Jaskier exclaims, rushing to stand in between Geralt and Visenya - his brief silence over. His lute is slung over his shoulder, his face stuck in a puppy dog state. He throws his arms over their shoulders, however, Geralt swiftly shoves Jaskier off of him, continuing forward at a more rapid pace than before.
"That depends, where are you planning to head off to." Visenya inquires, side-eyeing Jaskier once again. A beaming smile breaks out on his lips, his baby blue eyes nearly as beaming as the brightest star.
"Well my lady, I will need to head back to the inn in Posada to gather my things, then perhaps I was thinking about going to Venngerburg. Who knows what the capital could offer a bard like me!" Jaskier exclaims, removing his arm from her shoulder, opting to instead practically dance around her, twirling in front of Visenya, finishing his movements by smoothly kneeling to the ground and brandishing a single flower. It's a delicate wildflower, it's petals a vivid red that blends with the sunset above it. Appearing as if the same artist that painted the sky dotted the field with flowers.
"Perhaps the lady would care to join me?" he asks, offering the flower to her. Visenya's eyes flicker to Geralt momentarily before moving back to Jaskier. His eyes are hopeful as they dart across her features, attempting to discern her reaction. After a moment of contemplation, she grabs the flower from his outstretched hand.
"Perhaps the lady would like to make sure she is on the other side of the continent," Visenya replies, mimicking Jaskier's tone. She glides past him, placing the flower behind her ear. Jaskier stays frozen in his position, his brain not fully registering the turn of events.
She briskly moves towards Geralt to match his pace once again. The only acknowledgment he shows her is a quick glance at her before returning his attention forward. After a few moments, Jaskier manages to gather his bearings and moves to walk behind the duo. The three of them continue in silence. With no conversation acting as a distraction, Visenya finds her thoughts wandering. The elves had struck a nerve in her, their tragic fall from grace too similar to Visenya's own house's demise. Injustice appeared to run rampant in this world - similar to Westeros. Despite being reborn with fire magic, Visenya still finds herself helpless to do anything to stop it. It was almost better when she couldn't do anything at all.
o0o
Eventually, they reach the main road - a brown mare that Visenya recognizes from Blaviken as Geralt's - is patiently waiting on the side of the road. It snorts and shakes its head as Geralt approaches. He places his hand on its head, gently petting the horse as he softly speaks to it. It's quite possibly the most tender Visenya has ever seen Geralt act. The sweet smile that had crept onto her face immediately disappears as she notices Jaskier approaching her. Before he has a chance to begin talking, Visenya throws a glare his way.
"Don't," she says before moving towards Geralt. By this point, Geralt is guiding the mare towards the road. Once again, she takes her place beside him. The sound of a lute smacking against a surface alerts Visenya that Jaskier is following.
"So what now?" Visenya asks Geralt as they wander aimlessly down the road.
"Leaving." Geralt mutters.
"Off to bigger and better adventures?" Visenya teases, nudging Geralt with her shoulder, a sly smirk on her face. He snorts in reply, unmoved by Visenya's attempt to lightly push him.
"Something like that," he replies, a hint of a smile on his grim face. "And you?" he asks, his gaze meeting her own. Visenya sighs, not having a clue what her next course of action should be.
"Well, my cloak is ruined so I'll need to get it fixed. Which means I'll need coin, which also means I need to get a job. Maybe the inn has an idiot that needs their gold relieved from their pouch." she wistfully replies.
"I do!" Jaskier exclaims from the back. Geralt and Visenya stop and turn to look at Jaskier. His arm is raised in the air, a giddy expression lighting up his face. He swiftly lowers his hand upon gaining their attention. He stands up straighter, attempting to smooth out his clothes. "I mean - I might possibly have a job for you my lady Jane," he adds, trying to keep his voice level and tone nonchalant.
"Really?" Visenya asks, an amused look on her face as she raises a single eyebrow, watching the man expectantly.
"Truly," Jaskier replies, running to close the distance between them. "I find myself in need of a bodyguard of sorts if you will. A bard of notoriety such as myself will need the highest security gold can buy." he finishes, running his hands through his already messy hair. Geralt snorts, nudging his horse to continue moving forward, leaving Visenya and Jaskier. Visenya momentarily glances at Geralt's retreating figure before returning her attention to Jaskier.
"I've never heard of you before," she notes, scrutinizing Jaskier's face, trying to see if his offer had any double meanings.
"I assure you, my lady, I'm up and coming. Before you know it, kings and queens everywhere will be begging for me to perform at their parties!" Jaskier exclaims, wrapping his arm around Visenya's shoulder as he leads her down the road - the same direction Geralt went. "Which means - should I acquire any rivals or perhaps trouble during my travels - I will need someone with a very large sword at my back." he continues. Visenya once again snorts, watching Jaskier from the corner of her eyes.
"Fine." she relents. His eyes widen in surprise momentarily at her agreeance to his offer. "But there's going to be some rules." she sternly finishes, narrowing her eyes at him to get her point across.
"Anything." he quickly exclaims, with a large smile on his face. With the fluidity of a practiced warrior, Visenya shoves her elbow into Jaskier's side. The bard crumbles to the ground, moaning in pain as he holds onto his right side, attempting to ease the pain.
"Don't touch me," she says, continuing down the road.