Archive of Our Own ^beta

FIRE

No sleep. No food. His head hangs weakly, chin resting lax against the top of his chest as he focuses on his breathing, trying to keep meditation wrapped around him like a cloak to ward off the growing discomfort of his body. He has been stripped down to just his pants, leaving him exposed.

He expected more pain. He can smell old blood sunk into the floor, fear and death stained into the stone wall at his back. So far, no outright torture, just his hands manacled above his head, feet to the floor, and three days of nothing but hunger and lack of sleep. There are demimaterium bracelets around his wrists which aren’t connected to the manacles, which doesn’t bode well for what could be coming next.

His cell is decently sized. More than big enough for one captive, yet he is alone and can sense nobody else nearby.

He knew the silence wouldn’t last. Something would break. He has gone far longer in worse conditions, so whatever his captor has in mind is either just beginning or will soon end.

Footsteps outside the cell catch his attention, barely audible even to his sharp hearing. They pause, a jangle of metal before the lock is turned and the heavy iron door is pushed open.

Geralt opens his eyes, regarding his captor warily. Two men. He only heard one set of footsteps.

The first is a guard - tall and broad, straight-backed. He wears red and gold over practical leather, the crest of a flower emblazoned over the burgundy of his tabard.

Geralt looks to the other, a man slightly shorter and much more delicately built. No. He furrows his brows, focusing. It was a trick of the man’s clothing. Sloped shoulder pads to hide the actual breadth of his shoulders, naked hands adorned with large rings to make them appear smaller. Why would someone want to make themselves look smaller? The man’s age is difficult to discern. There are flecks of gray in his dark chestnut hair, the slightest crinkle of crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, and bold laugh lines around his mouth and nose.

He settles on blue eyes, ocean blue and clever. Here is a man who considers everything when making a decision, a man of meticulous planning.

Dangerous , Geralt’s mind surmises. Clever men without intelligence are annoying. This man is clever and intelligent, taking in Geralt as much as Geralt is taking him in.

“There he is.” The clever man approaches carefully. “You really are stunning , aren’t you? Oh what a wonderful sight.”

Geralt grunts, offering nothing in response.

“I’ve been waiting quite a long time for one of your kind to pass through. We don’t get much trouble with monsters around here. At least… Not of the beastly variety.” The clever man smirks, eyes appearing to glitter in the dark with some withheld truth. “But I knew my patience would pay off eventually.”

Geralt snorts. “You ambushed me.”

“Well, not me. No. I just formulated the trap.” The man steps forward and runs a careful hand over the Witcher’s bared chest, tracing a fingertip over an old, deep scar.  “But yes. You were ambushed. Don’t blame yourself, though. I put a lot of research and thought into that imaginary troll.”

When he gets no response from the chained Witcher, the man continues. He seems to enjoy hearing himself talk. “Now then. I’ll begin simply: my name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, and I am the King of Letterhove. You do not have to be a prisoner here. I will make you an offer, and you can take the easy way, or the hard way.”

Geralt doesn’t like the sound of the clever man’s offer. He tries to hide his growing unease and feels he doesn’t quite succeed.

When the Witcher remains silent, Julian rolls his eyes and continues yet again. “Swear your undying fealty to me and mine, from now until the end of your life, or mine, and I will let you down. I will see that you are well fed, clothed, armored. Your horse? She is unharmed, stabled with my horses, and she will be tended to properly. I have no need to harm an animal.”

Geralt frowns. “Witchers serve no one but their School.”

“Yes yes, I know the oath. But… Really, what’s left? Your School is all but rubble, and your numbers dwindle. There can’t be more than half a dozen Wolves left on the Continent. You are spat on, mistreated, swindled, treated worse than the shit on the bottom of someone’s shoe. But I offer you something different.” The man smiles, his eyes agleam in the dark. It is strange and unsettling, and Geralt’s upper lip curls back. “Join me, my beautiful Wolf. Join me, and you will never want for anything.”

“I’m a Wolf, not a dog on a lead.” Geralt keeps himself steady and still despite his discomfort. He’s been offered an easy life in exchange for his sword before. This is no different.

The man breathes a soft sigh, dropping his head down to look at the floor like a disappointed child. “My dear, I do not take no for an answer.”

Geralt huffs, smirking. “Planning on torturing me until I give in?”

A soft hum. “Something like that.”

“Hasn’t worked before. When I break free, your head comes off.”

The man giggles, an oddly melodic sound. “Oh. Darling… Other men don’t do what I do.” He looks up at Geralt again, something in his depthless eyes making even the Witcher uneasy. “Very well. Two weeks.”

Geralt snorts. “You think you’ll break me in two weeks?”

The man rolls his eyes. “Probably not. I want your mind, darling. I want a warrior at full capacity. That takes time. I can shatter you like glass beneath a hammer in a matter of days. But this? This will take time. No. Two weeks until you will get the opportunity to change your answer. Once I leave this room, no amount of begging will ease your coming suffering.”

Geralt takes a deep breath and spits at the man’s feet. “I will die before I serve you.”

Another soft sigh from the man. “Very well.” He turns to the guard by the door and pauses beside him as he moves toward the door. “Confer with Baldric about handling him. But start with the Dragonfire. I want as few marks on him as possible.”

The guard nods and they both exit the cell, leaving Geralt dangling from his restraints.

He’s alone for some time longer. He watches the sunlight from the small barred window high above shift several degrees before the door opens again. Two men, the same guard and a new face, enter the room.

The new man has a wooden box in his hand and he kneels down to place it on the floor, opening it  so the lid hides Geralt’s view of the contents inside. He lifts out a syringe filled with a clear liquid, tests the plunger and looks Geralt up and down.

“Poisons,” Geralt growls. He smirks. “Witchers burn poisons out pretty quick.”

“Master Pankratz has already taken this into consideration. It may take some time to find the right dose. He would be extremely cross if you died…” The man comes forward and presses the needle through the skin between Geralt’s ribs without preamble. He doesn’t even wince, even as he feels something cold and uncomfortable seep into his body.

Geralt waits for the pain, the nausea, to feel the effects of whatever the concoction is. After a moment, while the man goes back to the box and kneels back down, he grins smugly. “So much for his research. I don’t feel anything.” He shouldn’t goad the man, but Geralt can’t help himself.

The man lofts a bushy brow and chuckles. “That was just a shot of water, dear Witcher. Can’t have you dehydrating on us.” When he stands again, the syringe contains a deep red substance. “I doubt even a Witcher is immune to dehydration.”

Geralt frowns, pressing himself back against the wall as the man comes closer. He eyes the syringe, wondering at the contents and their threatening color.

The needle is pressed directly into his sternum this time. The stab itself is painful enough, but what fills his veins is fire. Unholy, burning fire sears through him, and Geralt feels sweat already beginning to bead over his skin as his internal temperature spikes sharply. Nausea sweeps in so fast that he gags on nothing, his arms jerking against the chains.

It takes only a few moments for him to feel dizzy, and breathless. He jerks again at the manacles above him, the action futile, gasping and struggling.

Witchers don’t get sick, but the pain reminds him of when he was still in training. When he’d fallen ill with a terrible fever that nearly claimed him during his third year at Kaer Morhen.

The room swims. Even the smallest  motion makes his muscles ache and burn, his skin feeling like it’s on fire and growing too tight on him.

The man who administered the shot grins and chuckles. “That’s just a very small dose. You’ll probably ‘burn it out’ before nightfall.” He regards Geralt with something like anticipation. “But I’m very curious to see the effects. You see, Dragonfire reacts even more violently when something tries to counter it.”

Geralt jerks against the chains again, gasping out a jagged breath. It hurts. It burns. His skull starts buzzing, droning out any sound in the room or around him.

His head thumps back against the wall hard enough that he sees stars, panting heavily.

He closes his eyes, light flashing behind them as he twists and tries to find any relief from the fire. He feels his strength being sapped, his body attempting to reroute his remaining energy in an effort to fight the burn, and he feels his knees give out and pull him down.

When Geralt’s awareness returns, he finds himself alone in the room.

Meditation eludes him, his body screaming too loudly to allow even a modicum of peace. He tries to focus on his breathing, but the sound of his own gasping breath is deafening in his ears.

It’s just after nightfall when the worst of the pain bleeds away, and he slumps against the wall, gasping again. Slowly, the room stops spinning.

As his head clears, Geralt becomes aware of a sound outside his cell. A high-pitched buzz that has his skull throbbing as he tries to fight off the last of the poison. It’s an infuriating sound that he can’t block out no matter how hard he tries.

He grits his teeth and resolves to last the night.

He will die before he gives in.

He doesn’t know exactly how much time passes. It’s all a blur. At some point, he begins to hallucinate, seeing visions of Renfri and Yennefer floating through the room.

Geralt is too weak to fight and his captors know it. Between minor increases in the doses of Dragonfire, and the insistent high-pitched buzz, he finds no peace. They inject him with water several times a day as he sweats what feels like literal buckets.

Earlier in the morning, he screamed and snarled at the guard like a feral animal, jerking as hard as he could against his bonds.

To his credit, nobody abuses him further. They just watch, impassive and calm. They come in, give him another dose or inject him with water, then leave again.

“Ooh. The dehydration has really accentuated those lovely muscles.” Julian’s voice has Geralt’s attention slowly coalescing away from another fevered hallucination. He growls a low sound to make his fury and hatred known.

He’s still burning off the last dose of Dragonfire, and the room pitches slowly to the side as he tries to force his gaze to focus. It doesn’t work, and Geralt feels one of his knees give out. He slumps weakly when he tries to stand straighter.

“Poor darling,” Julian’s voice is soft and gentle. A hand touches Geralt’s cheek and smooths over his skin with startling care. “I know it must be terrible. I can see the fire in your eyes, though. Defiance is strong in you.” The words are a croon, possessive and almost reverent. “I wouldn’t want it any other way. Once I have your loyalty, nothing will take you from me.”

Geralt grits his teeth, but can’t pull enough saliva into his mouth to spit in the bastard’s face.

“Here, darling.” The hand retreats, then a moment later something cold and wet presses against the back of Geralt’s neck. It’s such a blessedly welcome feeling that he groans without realizing it. The cold cloth slowly pulls over his neck and across his chest, then pulls away again.

“No,” the Witcher pants desperately.

“Shh, it’s alright darling.” 

Geralt looks up and watches Julian step away as the guard comes forward with a key. He frees Geralt’s arms and Julian is there to help keep him from falling. Instead, he’s slowly lowered to the cold stones of the floor and he can do little more than throw himself against them. The chill is a welcomed contrast to the remnants of fire humming through his exhausted body.

The binds on his ankles are undone, and he takes advantage of the freedom to stretch his legs out as he heaves uneven breaths.

He hears sloshing water and looks up to see a bucket. Julian dips a cloth into the liquid before he smooths it over Geralt’s overheated skin. “Relax darling,” he murmurs in that soothing tone. “Let yourself rest. No more pain today.” More swipes of the cool, wet cloth over his skin, and Geralt doesn’t have the strength to fight as he’s maneuvered onto his back.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Julian coos softly. “In fact, I want just the opposite. I want to shower you with love, I want to spoil you with fine clothes and armor, I want to watch you fell man and beast alike with the grace of a dancer. But first I have to break you down, and that will hurt. I don’t want to take you away, though. A mindless slave is no fun. I want a paragon. A lieutenant. A force of nature. The Wolves are everything I want in my right hand.”

Geralt wants to roll his eyes, wants to grab Julian by the throat, squeeze and watch the life drain from his eyes. He can do none of this, despite being untethered. He’s helpless but to allow the gentle ministrations of being wiped down like an invalid.

The water is so blessedly cold that he shivers with each stroke, the man taking care with each motion. He is so gentle and careful.

“I have burned you down with fire,” Julian says, dragging the cloth over Geralt’s shivering skin. “I have taken your body from you. I can see the fight in your eyes. You would kill me if you could, but I can’t allow that. I was actually a little surprised that the Dragonfire worked so well on you. Surprised, but not at all unhappy.”

The cool cloth runs over Geralt’s forehead, washes away sweat and grime, then moves over his throat and across his chest.

Julian traces over the scars he finds with the cloth as he works. His voice is soft and even, almost lulling Geralt into a stupor. The cold, damp drag of the cloth is like a soothing balm on his skin. “Someday you will tell me about these. Epic battles with monsters and fiends…” he hesitates over an old knife wound. “Tragic tales of betrayal from the ones you were supposed to protect.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Geralt wonders aloud with a groan.

Julian smirks. Geralt can hear it in his voice. “Not really. I do like to talk, I have to admit. And I like to sing.” As if to prove this, the man starts to hum a few bars of a song Geralt finds vaguely familiar. It’s an old Redanian lullaby, and the melody is gentle enough that he feels his mind starting to drift into the shallows of sleep.

That’s when he notices the lack of the buzzing noise, the sound that has been dogging him for the last several days absent from the air.

He doesn’t voice this, though, as he feels Julian’s gentle swipes over his body, washing him down with a scentless soap. He doesn’t know how long it goes on, and he forces himself to stay conscious to keep track of anything the man has in mind. He prepares himself for whatever may come next.

Finally, the cool cloth pulls away and doesn’t return. Geralt’s eyes open slowly, and he looks over to see Julian sitting back, studying him. He has set the cloth in the basin and is clearly finished cleaning Geralt’s aching body. “You are beautiful,” he says with a strangely earnest tone. “And you deserve the world.”

“I deserve to be free,” the Witcher growls with all the remaining energy he can muster.

“Freedom is a lie, darling,” Julian quips in a sharp voice. “We are all bound to something, whether it be a School, a King, or the Gods themselves. I’m not taking away your freedom, I’m simply taking you from your previous owner.” He smirks, darkness flickering in his vivid eyes. “And when you are mine, you will have the run of the land, with my authority at your hand. No more hatred of Witchers, no more being spit at or swindled.”

Geralt takes a breath and summons his strength, lifting himself onto his elbows, then up to a sitting position. Julian doesn’t seem nervous, though his guard has come closer, the sound of steel sliding free from a sheath singing in the air. Julian holds his hand up but doesn’t turn his head. “He won’t hurt me.”

“You sure about that?” Geralt huffs. The distance between them is small. He could lunge and snap the man’s neck. He would die for it. Would it be worth it?

“Care to prove me wrong?” Julian challenges.

The two lock eyes, and Geralt grits his teeth. He lets the tension drain from his muscles, feigning defeat. Then he lunges, hands outstretched and reaching.

Julian is faster than he looks, jerking forward to meet the lunge. Geralt had been expecting retreat, so his hands overshoot, passing by Julian’s neck and over his shoulder as the man slides elegantly into Geralt’s space. It takes a moment for the Witcher to register the small sting between his ribs, quickly followed by liquid fire.

Panic rises, boils through him, and the air escapes his lungs in a rush as the Dragonfire enters his blood.

“What happened to no more pain today?” he asks, his voice just barely above a whisper.

Julian turns his head and presses a gentle kiss to Geralt’s temple. “You forced my hand, darling. I am sorry.” He sounds remorseful. The needle pulls out and Geralt fists the back of Julian’s tunic, turning to sink his teeth into the man’s neck like a desperate, cornered animal.

He doesn’t get the jugular, barely misses, and hears the Julian’s howl of pain. The body beneath him jerks and shoves, and Geralt lands heavily on the floor where he curls up on himself as he feels his temperature rising once more.

The guard is yelling, and he waits for the cold plunge of steel that will end him.

It doesn’t come.

Julian’s blood drips loudly on the floor, the man holds his neck with one hand and stares down at Geralt. His expression holds neither fury or pain. No, it appears almost fond. He has his other hand held out to the guard, and he holds Geralt’s gaze for a moment longer before he turns and leaves the room with the guard behind him.

Left alone, Geralt curls in on himself further, the burning in his veins building to a roaring inferno. He lets out a furious scream, the sound ragged with frustration, pain, and helplessness. 

It is the scream of a wild animal, captured.

WATER

By the time the Dragonfire burns itself out, the last of Geralt’s strength is gone. He hasn’t eaten and has barely slept. He feels ragged, on-edge, feral. They never rebound him in his chains, which Geralt would normally consider negligence. He has a strong feeling that Julian just knows there’s no energy left in Geralt to fight.

He keeps his forehead pressed to the stone and tries not to let the spinning of the world make him sick.

The sound of the door opening has the Witcher rolling onto his side at once. It’s a struggle, but he forces his aching muscles to move. The men who enter approach him with purpose, gloved hands grabbing at his arms and shoulders to haul him upright. Geralt rails, tries to fight but his hands are clumsy and his movements uncoordinated. He bares his teeth, and a hand strikes against his face, jarring him with pain and dizziness.

Three more guards are bringing something into the cell, the two with Geralt keeping the Witcher pinned mercilessly against the farthest wall while the others work.

They set out a large steel table, hammer nails into the holes at the feet to anchor them into the floor. This must be Geralt’s punishment for taking a chunk out of Julian, and he grins at the idea. His mouth is still stained with the bastard’s blood, and he can taste the metallic tang, lingering on his tongue. He squirms and struggles against the men, knowing it’s useless but refusing to make it easy for them. 

The guards barely react to his struggles, waiting for confirmation before the Witcher is hauled up and thrown across the table, bare chest meeting the cold metal and a hand down against the center of his back to keep him still. Someone grabs at his hand while another grabs an ankle. Geralt kicks out. He catches the one behind him in the face, sending him toppling to the ground.

“He is so very impressive, isn’t he?” He can hear Julian and turns his head to see the man just outside of the cell, in the doorway of the hall beyond.

Geralt locks his eyes on the bandages around the man’s neck. He grins, flashing bloody teeth in defiance. “Couldn’t afford a healer?”

“Didn’t want one,” Julian says simply. He offers Geralt an equally feral grin, madness flashing in the shadows of his ocean blue eyes. “You’ve marked me, as I will have you marked soon.”

Suddenly, Geralt is yanked, pulled back until his feet rest flat on the floor, heavy iron shackles around his ankles attached to the legs of the table. They pull his arms forward to lock him to the legs at the other end of the table, rendering him immobile against the surface. He tugs uselessly, snarling.

“I don’t know where you pull your strength from, but I admire it oh so much.” Julian approaches with blatant confidence and presses a gentle hand to Geralt’s back, smoothing down the expanse the same way one would pet a prized dog.

“Seven more days, darling. You’ve passed the first week.”

“You think I’ll give in that easily?” Geralt scoffs.

“Oh, I know you won’t,” comes the unperturbed response. “We’re still in the very early stages. But you’ll kick yourself later when you do finally give in, when you know you didn’t take the opportunity to make it all stop…” Julian leans down and presses a kiss to the back of Geralt’s shoulder. “I just have to be patient.”

Geralt jerks against the chains and snarls.

He feels a nervous sense of vulnerability at his position. Julian keeps petting over the Witcher’s back, and Geralt tries to squirm and buck his hand off. “Shhh, easy now,” the man soothes. 

Geralt notices some of the guards leaving, then returning, and he catches only a fleeting glimpse of a wooden beam and rods.

“This next one won’t be quite as intense as the Dragonfire. But with your strength sapped, it should be very effective.” There’s a smile in Julian’s voice, a certain depraved excitement that Geralt is immediately wary of. “I will see you in a few days, my darling. Be good for me while I’m gone.” Another kiss to Geralt’s back, and the man is walking out of the room.

Geralt squirms as the guards continue their work, then he feels the first drips on his back.

He tenses, muscles contracting, waiting for the burn of acid or heat to sink into his skin. The next few drips patter against his back, and he focuses on scenting the air to try and determine what the substance is.

He only smells water. Regular, clean water. Tantalizing, close, out of reach.

It’s cool, dripping lazily down onto his spine in irregular intervals. It runs down his sides and trickles along the table.

He waits. The cool water is a balm after the Dragonfire, and Geralt’s mind spins, searching for the rationale. There must be a catch. Surely, this is not meant to be a comfort.

The guards leave after a few minutes, the door clanging closed. 

He waits. The water keeps up its incessant dripping.

“That’s it?” he asks himself hesitantly, voice ringing in the empty cell.

The buzzing sound stutters back to life, and Geralt growls against the grating sound. It is far more irritating than the water.

If this is Julian’s follow-up to the hellish Dragonfire, he doubts that this ‘King’ understands how torture works. He settles in, trying to force himself into meditation despite the infuriating buzzing from outside of his cell.

This will be easy.

It takes about eighteen hours before Geralt starts to understand.

The guards come in every few hours, do something with the water source, likely adding more. The water never lets up, dripping down at the same exact spot on his back, just between his shoulder blades. The water rolls down his back, pools uncomfortably between the table and his chest. Slowly, the dripping consumes more and more of his thoughts, almost overriding the incessant drone of the buzzing noise outside the cell.

Unable to retreat into meditation or sleep, Geralt is held between focusing on the droning buzz or the constant cold drip against his back. It is a vigilance without relief, consuming his mind.

Twenty-two hours, and he has to periodically unclench his muscles to avoid cramps.

Thirty hours, and he jerks each time the water hits against his skin.

Thirty-five hours in, he begins to knock his head against the table, attempting to force himself into unconsciousness. A guard comes in and straps  a strip of leather strap around his forehead to prevent that. He thrashes and squirms, but it does no good.

Forty hours, and his breathing comes at an erratic pace. His hands clench and release in rhythmic motion. His stomach snarls with hunger, his muscles cramping and straining, and he just wants a reprieve from the dripping. He can handle the buzz, the buzz was preferable in small doses, but even the buzz can’t drown out the constant dripping. The water seems to alternate between ice and fire, stinging or burning his skin in turns.

At forty-eight hours, the cell door swings open. Geralt snarls and thrashes with what little strength he has left, panic flooding his veins at the thought of them refilling the water, forcing him to endure  more of this slow, insidious torment.

Only one guard enters this timer, followed closely by Julian, who offers the feral Witcher a patient smile. The bandages are gone from the man’s neck, revealing a clear scab from Geralt’s teeth on his skin.

The man approaches, and Geralt remains tense as he waits for whatever fresh hell this monster has in mind.

Julian reaches out, his hand hovering over Geralt’s back, but doesn't touch him. His hand interrupts the pattern of the  drips and the sudden reprieve  is almost jarring.

There is a soft squeak above him, and the water stops entirely. He lets out a long, heavy breath, his entire body trembling.

“There he is… My beautiful wild thing.” There it is again, that possessive croon humming beneath Julian’s soft words. “I expected it to take a lot longer for that to wear you down, but I’ve never used it directly after Dragonfire before. I’ll have to keep that combination in mind.” Julian moves around to stand in front of Geralt, and he snaps his fingers sharply towards the guard. The door opens, and a minute later, Julian is settling into a chair in front of Geralt. He reaches up to smooth his fingers through the Witcher’s hair.

“Torture people often enough to have a fucking process?” Geralt’s voice is hoarse and weak, jagged in his own ears. “Got a manual somewhere that you consult?”

Julian shrugs, unperturbed. “Before I accepted my title here, I worked as a Redanian spy. I was…” he pauses and smiles, the expression sharp on his shadowed face, “very good at my job. I didn’t like it, but I was good at it. I’ll bet you can relate.”

“Fuck you,” Geralt huffs sharply. “There’s nothing similar about us.”

Julian makes a soft tutting sound, tongue against teeth. “I wouldn’t say that, darling.”

Geralt glares and refuses to respond, his jaw tight and muscles clenched.

Julian smiles primly. “It has only been two days. You have five more.” Geralt feels himself swallow hard at the reminder, eyes lowering as an involuntary tremor runs the length of his spine. “And after this? Well.” Julian’s smile shifts into something darker. “Let’s just say that the next steps are a little less physical.”

“Why are you doing this?” Geralt asks, his voice wavering despite the attempt to keep it steady.

“I told you. I want a Witcher to stand at my side.” Julian leans forward, eyes fixed unblinking on Geralt’s face. “I want a companion. A lieutenant. A lover. I want someone who will make my enemies cower, who will make my allies confident, and who will make me feel safe.” He lowers himself to murmur directly against Geralt’s ear.

The Witcher snorts. “Couldn’t have done that by just befriending me?”

Julian sits back again, grinning. “Come now, do you honestly care to tell me that would work? Witchers are notoriously solitary. They rarely even travel with their own kind. Besides, it’s not as if I can go gallivanting about the continent as a bard like I used to.” He gives a wistful sigh, his gaze turning distant as he recalls some memories that Geralt isn’t privy to.

He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t give in to Julian’s desires in any capacity, but so long as Julian is prattling, then Geralt gets a reprieve from the torment. “That doesn’t surprise me,” he says, testing the waters “Overly chatty, musical, demented.”

Julian giggles, and the sound is equal parts unnerving and melodic. “Oh, I like that one, darling. I may have to request that be carved onto my tombstone one day!” He looks genuinely amused by the morbid thought. “But yes. I was a bard, and very good at it, too.”

“And then you became a torture specialist, then a king?” the Witcher huffs.

“I’m glad you recognize the level of skill I possess.” Julian sounds pleased. “But yes. Bard, spy, torture specialist, king. Technically, I was always a viscount, per family heritage, but I wanted no part of the role. Youthful rebellion and all that. I ran away, attended Oxenfurt for a time. Specialized in history and musical study. Then the war began to stir. People were less willing to toss coin to their bard, no matter how much I improved their mood. I had to accept contracts from Redania. Information in exchange for coin. I had to pick up new skills to get better at getting information, of course.”

“I don’t recall asking for your life story,” Geralt snaps.

Julian shrugs. “Ah, how rude of me. I’m taking up your very valuable time. I’ll let you get back to it, then.” He moves to stand, and a bolt of panic rips down Geralt’s spine.

“Wait. I…” He grits his teeth and hangs his head. “You went from informant to torturer?”

Julian slowly sits back down, a wicked smile on his lips. “I worked with some of the Redanian master spies in an operation to collect and hold several Nilfgard officers. These were men who had…” His eyes narrow, mouth twisting with evident anger. “They saw us as lesser beings, and so they openly raped and pillaged. They skinned people alive for their wicked black magic. They used an entire orphanage of children as sacrificial lambs. I may be a monster, Witcher, but I have never brought harm to an innocent. They talked about their conquests in the north and laughed about it.” The man clenches his jaw, his gaze far off again as he glares daggers at the wall.

“When the spymasters struggled to break them, I offered them some wisdom from the past. Torture methods used back before the conjunction of the spheres. Cruel, wicked torture methods buried only in the deepest and driest history tomes in the oldest libraries I had found.” He finally turns his gaze to Geralt, and the Witcher sees iron and courage staring back at him. A man who believes that his actions had been righteous. “Do you remember when I said that I could shatter you like glass beneath a hammer, should I so desire?” Julian refreshes his earliest words, and Geralt tenses. “Well, my darling, I took great pleasure in shattering those men. I broke them, body and mind, and even after they wailed their secrets to me, vomited their souls bare at my feet, I kept pushing. We threw them back at Nilfgard, what husks remained. Left them as men who flinched at their own shadows, who broke down into sobs at the lightest touch. After that, I was given a promotion and put in charge of future interrogation procedures.”

Geralt growls. “You said you’ve never harmed an innocent. What am I?”

Julian studies the Witcher’s face for a moment before replying. “My selfish desire.” The man’s expression is so open and raw, Geralt can’t help but look away to avoid the intensity. “Harming you will forever be my greatest regret. But it is a necessary evil.”

“I’m sure Nilfgard saw themselves as the necessary evil.” Geralt waits, expecting pain. It doesn’t come. Instead, he looks over and finds Julian watching him carefully again.

“You’re not wrong. But I never once claimed to be a good man, just not entirely evil. Now then, are you hungry?” The change in topic is sudden and unexpected, catching Geralt off-balance. “I’m fairly certain I need to get you some food at this point.”

Geralt’s stomach snarls at the reminder, and he offers a disgruntled sound.

“Don’t worry. You could go another two weeks without food before you would be in any real danger of starvation, I’m sure. But I brought you some food all the same.”

Geralt scoffs. “Had your chefs make it, more like.” The guard reappears, having procured a covered platter from somewhere out of sight.

Julian pouts as he accepts the platter into his lap. Geralt can already smell the food beneath, something warm and inviting. He pulls himself forward as much as he can manage with the restraints, his body betraying him in the need for food.

“Next time, I will ensure that it’s something I have prepared personally. Though, it won’t be as flavorful, I never was a good cook.” Julian pulls off the cloche with a flourish and reveals buttered bread and chicken. The smell makes Geralt groan and he pulls at the restraints again. He doesn't care what it is, or who made it. He just needs something.

“Easy now. We can’t give you too much. Wouldn’t want you throwing it all back up when things continue.” Geralt snaps his gaze up at the madman and sneers. Julian is picking up a piece of roasted chicken, and he can smell garlic on it, a hint of honey. He pulls forward a little more, then realizes what is expected of him.

Despite having a permanent mark on his neck from Geralt’s teeth, the man is going to insist on hand-feeding. Geralt can read the rules in Julian’s eyes, unspoken but crystal clear. He can either eat peacefully, docile as a tamed dog, or lose out on the only meal he will have for an unknown amount of time.

Julian holds out a piece of chicken, and Geralt swallows down his pride and anger. If he has any hope of surviving, he needs to play along. With marked reluctance, he opens his mouth, accepts the food, and resists the desire to bite. His reward is delicious chicken, well seasoned, perfectly cooked, heavenly on his tongue. 

“Mathilda is a wonderful chef, and I adore her to pieces.” Julian speaks casually as he holds up a second piece, then another. Geralt accepts each offering with careful lips and forcefully docile teeth. Next is a morsel of bread, freshly cooked and still warm, with an odd flavor Geralt can’t place. “Walnut bread,” Julian hums as if reading the question on the Witcher’s face. “A bit earthy, but oddly delicious.” He offers another bite.

After a few more offerings, Julian pauses and sets the chicken aside before reaching up and framing Geralt’s face in one of his palms. “You are wonderful, dear Witcher.” He smooths the pad of his thumb over Geralt’s bottom lip, tugging it down with his eyes fixed on the soft flesh. “In a few days, I will offer you freedom from this hell. If you take it, my darling, if you accept my offer and serve me?” Julian’s eyes glitter, and his mouth curves like a blade, the smile just as sharp, just as cruel. “You will have all the food you can eat, and I imagine you can eat quite a lot. You will have nice clothes, freshly made armor of the highest caliber, finely crafted weapons. I can provide you with any reagents you may need for your potions. I will not stop you from being a Witcher. I need you to know this, my darling. I do not want to take the world from you. I do not want a dog to heel at my side, nor a slave to grovel at my feet. I simply want your loyalty. Your love. Unconditional, enduring. I will give you the world if you want it.”

“Whatever you get from this won’t be love. It will be fear.” Geralt knows that if something doesn’t shift, if he doesn’t find a way out of this cell, he will break eventually. He can only imagine what the madman has planned next, but his tortures seem cleverly crafted for the specific purpose of taming even those as unbreakable as Witchers.

All he can hope is that Yennefer or someone comes to his rescue before he breaks.

Julian frowns. “Perhaps at first, yes. I recognize this. But one day, perhaps. And none of your words can take that from me.” He leans up and presses a kiss to Geralt’s forehead, over the leather strap still bound there. “Now, until then. No more trying to hurt yourself. In a few days, I will offer you freedom and I truly think that you should consider the offer. You have everything to lose, and even more to gain.”

Geralt grits his teeth, revulsion rising like bile in the back of his throat. “What more do I have to lose?”

Julian hums softly, his nose still pressed against Geralt’s hairline. “It’ll be your choice if you want to find out.” He finally sits back and covers the platter, less than half of the contents eaten. The Witcher lets out a pathetic sound as the food disappears from sight.

“I can’t give you too much,” Julian tuts, smirking at his reaction. “You’ll just make a mess of yourself and you already smell terrible enough. Take the deal when it is offered, my darling Witcher. Take it and you’ll have all the food you can fit in your stomach and more. Roast chicken and fresh bread, meat pies, pastries, anything you want. And fine ale to wash it all down.”

Geralt tips his head down to deny Julian access to his face. “Fuck you.” He spits the words through his teeth.

Julian sighs, shrugging. “As you wish.” He stands and exits the room. The guard comes in momentarily, a light squeak the only warning before the first cursed drips hits Geralt’s back.

A sudden rush of nausea makes him glad Julian refused him more food.

Geralt has never thought that something so simple could be so effective. He has been through intense pain before, has experienced sleepless nights, and endured immense discomforts. But no matter what he does here, he can not ignore or tune out the steady drips of water. The sensation builds up, turns unrelenting.

He tries counting them, but loses count quickly. The dripping is inconsistent, unsteady, and there are long moments between, where he hopes for the water to run out or slow down. He holds his breath, waits, prays, only for the next one to strike and his frustration to build.

His entire body is stiff and sore. His wrists and ankles are raw from tugging at his binds, his head throbbing from lack of sleep and endless tension. His muscles cramp regularly, and he has no room or ability to stretch them.

He can only guess at the time, his estimate based on the shadows drifting across the room from the tiny window above.

The guards have no sympathy. They don’t say a single word to him, refusing to meet his eyes, they just come in to refill the water and occasionally force Geralt to drink some.

Julian doesn’t return. Not even after Geralt has a minor fit of rage and frustration, screaming and cursing at the top of his lungs until he wears himself out. He doesn’t sleep, can’t even sink into unconsciousness, but there is a short while where he loses his steam and simply lies there without a care for what might come next.

It is some time after he comes back around, emerging from his daze, that the door opens. He senses more than hears Julian enter. The water is turned off, and a gentle hand rests on his back. “Hello, my dear.”

Geralt has no response. He lies still and waits to see what will happen next.

The hand disappears, and he hears Julian  move to the back of the table before Geralt feels his manacles being unlocked. Then, Julian moves to the front of the table and undoes the ones on his wrists.

Having been immobile in such a position for days, it takes intense effort to pull himself up slowly, dizziness pitching the room sideways. Geralt stumbles, and Julian is there to catch him and lower him down to the floor slowly. He is stronger than he looks. 

He is still reeling, when a scent hits Geralt’s nose. He looks around, then studie Julian and takes another deep breath, trying to identify it.

The man smiles. It isn’t a clever smirk or a cruel grin, but a genuine and gentle smile. He reaches back and pulls something off of his belt, offering it to the Witcher with care .

It is a horse brush, and it scented strongly of Roach. Geralt takes it with a clumsy hand and pulls it up to his face to take a deep inhale. He is suddenly glad for his inability to properly cry because that scent alone might have otherwise broken him down into sobs. 

“Your horse is fine. I brush her down each morning. She is fed on fine oats, and enjoys running with the other horses in the stables. She does miss you, though, and nearly took a finger off of one of my stable boys.” Julian’s voice is soft, hypnotic, a hand settling on the back of Geralt’s shoulder in a soothing touch. “As I said, I will bring no harm to her for any reason. She is purely innocent in all of this.”

Geralt is oddly grateful, though he knows he shouldn’t be. So his demented captor has a soft spot for animals, but he would torture a Witcher for weeks on end? The contradiction is stark.

However, Geralt can tell by the scent on the brush that the man speaks the truth. Roach’s scent is strong, but healthy. No traces of stress or upset. She is being well cared for, at the very least.

He sits there for several long minutes, letting the scent of his closest companion bring him comfort after days of hell. Julian waits, patient and calm, with seemingly no intent to strip the item from Geralt anytime soon.

Then, finally, Julian breaks the silence. “Would you like to see her?”

Geralt’s eyes fly open. He shoos the man a wary look and waits for the catch.

“Tomorrow is the day I offer you freedom.” Julian eyes him with an evaluating stare. “If you accept, you will be welcome to spend as much time with your horse as you wish. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you. She’s getting a little unruly since you’ve been gone so long.” Of that, Geralt has no doubt. Roach is a smart girl, and must know something is wrong.

“I still have another day of this then,” he growls. “Why did you take me down?”

Julian hums. “You will get the rest of today and tonight to rest. I have food and water waiting for you, and a cot will be brought in. I want you to accept my offer when you are more clear of mind. If you accept under stress, then there is a greater chance of you doubling back on your decision.”

Geralt frowns, his expression skeptical. Julian is offering him an opportunity to regain some of his strength, which seems like a foolish choice. Julian underestimated him once, and he doubts the man would do it again. The man is too clever, too well-trained.

“Copper for your thoughts?” Julian’s soft question and a gentle bump on the shoulder shakes Geralt back to the present.

He glares at the man beside him. He’s not going to give Julian the satisfaction of his thoughts.

“I suppose that’s fair.” Julian shifts slightly, leaning a little more of his weight against Geralt. The Witcher can’t help but think the action is intended to be more symbolic than endearing. The silence stretches for long minutes where Geralt just focuses on the scent of Roach, letting his mind drift away from the horrors of the last two weeks.

Finally, Julian sighs and closes his eyes. “I will leave you to your thoughts. Get some food, some rest. I will be back at dawn.” He holds his hand out for the brush, and Geralt can’t help the way he clutches it tighter and pulls away. Something dark flashes behind Julian’s eyes before his expression softens. He pulls his hand back and moves to stand, heading for the door to the cell without another word.

He is only gone a brief moment before he comes back with another platter. He sets it down on the table Geralt had laid bound to not minutes ago and leaves. The guard closes the door, and the heavy sound of a lock clangs into place.

Geralt finds himself struggling to look at the table, keeping his eyes down and away from it. Julian left the tray there on purpose, he knows this. It is a silent warning, or perhaps a promise. Accept the offering the man presented, or suffer more.

The smell of food, warm and delicious, fills the small cell and it’s physically painful to reject it. His head throbs, his body is a mass of aches and pains, and he feels his mind cracking at the edges, leaving jagged little corners sticking out. Geralt wars with himself over whether or not to take the food and the opportunity to build up his strength, or reject both in a blatant display of defiance. With some of his strength back, he could fight, but he has no doubt that Julian would be prepared. He considers fighting until the other is forced to kill him, and it’s a thought he struggles with.

Some time later, the door opens again. Lost in his thoughts, Geralt realizes he failed to listen for footsteps. His head jerks up and he watches several guards enter, two with swords drawn while the others set out a basin of warm water, a thin mattress of straw and a clean, warm looking blanket.

They leave as silently as they entered, and Geralt swallows hard. Food, rest, even the ability to clean himself. It is a display of honesty, perhaps. Proof that Julian intends to be kind to Geralt if he accepts his new collar.

He stands on shaky legs and paces the length of his cell several times, still avoiding looking at the table. By the time the sun has set and night has come, the Witcher makes his decision.

He lays down in the corner opposite the offered mattress. He doesn’t eat or clean himself, he doesn’t use the blanket.

He lets his mind sink into the shallows of sleep, feeling himself  pulled down and away from this horrible place.

The only way he can win is through defiance. This game he has found himself in is a test of wills, and, unfortunately, Julian has the upper hand.

Geralt refuses to make it any easier for him. If this is to be his last stand, let it be on his terms.

The sound of the door opening is what pulls Geralt from his sleep. His body feels heavy and abused, his mind sluggish and confused. Still, he slowly pulls himself uprightt, even as he listens to the guard draw his sword.

He can recognize Julian’s footsteps now. They’re quieter. The man can make himself nearly inaudible when he wants to, but today it seems that he wants to be heard. Geralt keeps his back to the door so they don’t see the exhaustion on his face, so he has a few moments to collect himself.

He hears the cloche lifted, followed by a disappointed sigh. “You really shouldn’t waste food, darling.”

Geralt just grunts. It’s all he feels capable of for the moment, when all he wants to do is collapse and sleep for another several weeks.

“Well, best not to draw it out, then. My offer is as follows. You swear your unyielding loyalty to me, until the time of my death. Should that death not be at your hand, you will be free of any responsibilities thereafter. While I am alive, you will be bound by loyalty to me and only me.” 

The words ring out in the cold room, and Geralt stares resolutely at the wall, keeping his back to them and Julian continues. 

“You will be my right hand, my lieutenant, and my consort. You will always be taken care of, all of your needs and wants fulfilled. Food, ale, armor, weapons, money, and the freedom to continue your Witcher duties when I am not in need of your skills. You will be respected as my partner, my equal. There will be none who would dare to look down on you or mistreat you.” Julian’s voice is calm and practiced as he lays out his deal. “Your expectations will be simple. During times of war, you will remain with me to ensure our victory. During times of peace, you will be free to do as you please, though I would greatly appreciate your presence as my right hand and consort whenever you are around.

“What say you, then, Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt scoffs, still turned toward the wall with his back stiff and his spine straight. “So you do know my name?” He turns at last, leaning against the wall as he  studies Julian.

His captor smirks and offers a one-shouldered shrug. “White hair, Wolf Witcher, it wasn’t a difficult assumption to make. I know that there is a Wolf with terrible scars upon his face named Eskel. Another with a terrible attitude named Lambert. If there are others, I’ve not heard their names or tales.”

“You’ve done a lot of research,” Geralt growls, hands clenching.

“I don’t walk into these things uninformed, my darling. And, with that in mind,” Julian comes closer slowly, “it only gives you more reason to accept my offer now and avoid further suffering.” He holds his hand out, and Geralt can see the guard tense behind him, ready to spring forward if anything goes wrong. “Come with me,” Julian invites in a voice low and tempting. “I will see you fed and bathed, clothed. You can go see your horse, and I can get you settled in for rest and recovery.”

Geralt just sneers. “There’s one problem with your offer.”

Julian raises a careful brow. “Oh?”

“You can’t give me everything I want. There is only one thing I want, and it’s the one thing I’ll never have with you.” Geralt slaps the hand away, swallowing hard and seething. “True freedom. Witchers align themselves with no human, no country, no Lord or King.”

“Is that so, Geralt of Rivia? ” The emphasis on his title has the Witcher huffing.

“That only speaks of my origins,” he lies. He’s not actually allied to Rivia, but he doesn’t feel like explaining the name to Julian. “I have no alliance there.”

Julian breathes a heavy sigh and slowly squats down until he is eye-level with Geralt. He studies the Witcher’s face, careful and calculating. “I knew you wouldn’t break so easily. I’m actually quite happy to see that I’m right.” He sighs again, shaking his head with false remorse. “I am sorry, my darling, that I cannot give you whatever this ‘true freedom’ is, but I can assure you that it doesn’t exist. We all have bindings that hold us down. The thing with me, though, is that you know exactly what those bindings are. You know where the lines are drawn, you know the punishments for breaking the rules. You’ll find that I’m actually quite kind, and very understanding.”

“You’re a madman and a monster.”

Julian smirks. Something in his eyes shifts, and Geralt can swear he sees the endless blue go darker. A cold shiver runs down his spine.

“Trust me, Geralt. You’ve not seen madness yet. But, I am happy to show it to you. Perhaps then will you understand.” He stands, looks down at Geralt. “You know, my initiation for becoming a true member of the Redanian Spymaster’s circle was to endure my own tortures. I had to show them that I could look into the yawning chasm of darkness and insanity, that space between life and death, the place where lesser men shatter like glass. I had to look into the heart of madness itself and say ‘I own you.’” Julian smirks, nudging Geralt’s foot with the toe of his boot. “I’m curious to see what you’ll say when you see it.”

Before Geralt can parse a response, Julian turns and leaves. Normally, he would say something smart, make a witty response, but something in the man’s eyes had been so twisted and dark that Geralt feels little more than fear for what might come next.

Geralt doesn’t have to fret for long. Four guards come in, and he can hear more waiting outside. The Witcher stands, tenses, and lunges before he can convince himself not to. Even weakened, he takes down three of the guards with swift motions, waiting once again for the cold steel to bite into him. He throws one over the table, knocks down the beam holding the dried up canteen, leaps for the two guards that come into the room.

His heart is thumping heavily in his chest, as fast as it gets during his most dangerous fights, but he can already feel his energy waning and slipping away. He hasn’t eaten, and hasn't had nearly enough rest. One of the guards gets past him, and the end of a pommel cracks against the back of Geralt’s head.

The world flickers for a moment, and he crashes down to one knee before something harder strikes.

They’re careful not to use their swords, avoiding any real damage, their orders no doubt to stun and restrain. Julian, of course, had been prepared for this.

The world flickers out.

SILENCE

His head throbs angrily as Geralt drags himself back to consciousness. He blinks his eyes open, confused when he sees nothing but darkness. He isn’t chained or tied down, and feels cold metal beneath him. Panic sets in as he worries for his lack of vision, his concern for blindness very real and overwhelming.

He jerks upright, only to bang his forehead against a low, metal ceiling overtop him. He fumbles and feels around the area, finding solid walls on all sides, a metal box that he barely fits in, and he thrashes against it in the hopes of finding the door.

After several minutes of struggling, thrashing and kicking, he finds that he doesn’t know which way is up or down, in or out, and he lets out a bellow of rage and kicks the box only to feel pain throbbing up his foot and leg.

His roar is met with silence. Not the ambient silence of the forest in the dead of night, or the comforting silence of Kaer Morhen in the depths of winter when all the Wolves are asleep. This silence is deafening, as all-consuming as the blackness crushing around him in his small box.

He howls again, but the sound only reverberates in the tiny space and hurts his ears.

He tries to curl up, but his knees hit against the wall, and he thrashes again in another feral fit of frustration and panic. He hammers his palms against the walls, then slowly loses his steam. He collapses downward, wraps his arms around himself and focuses on breathing.

Meditation. He can do this.

Before the walls can close in on him even further, Geralt dips his head and tries to center himself the way Vesemir taught him.

Deep breaths in, then slowly out through his mouth.

The air feels heavy.

Think of home. A crumbling castle in the depths of the Blue Mountains. Family in the form of two brothers and a father.

His head throbs.

He furrows his brows and grits his teeth. He thinks of his lessons. His instructors.

Dead. All of them dead. Crushed beneath the cruelty of man.

Julian’s face appears briefly, and Geralt jerks his head back and crashes it against the back of the box.

Surely, the suffering from the Witcher trials had been far worse than this. Nobody has laid a harsh hand on him. All of Julian’s torments are designed to break through his defenses. Strength, sensitivity, and now what? 

He needs to stop thinking about this. If he can find peace in meditation, he can get through this.

He tries again, but each attempt is shattered by some phantom sound or smell, some wayward thought, and Geralt knows that this is exactly what Julian had intended. He means to wear Geralt down so much that he can’t find peace even within his own head.

Caught,  he lays there, alternating between attempts at meditation and frustrated bouts of thrashing and screaming.

Even his sleep is plagued by nightmarish figures. Phantom pains, and fresh fears that are settling deep into his heart. So it’s after he snaps awake suddenly from a short doze that he realizes something is different.

He scents the air, and... there. It’s faint, so faint that he isn’t sure it’s real, but he can smell Julian’s perfume. Geralt breathes heavily for a moment, swallows and tests his voice. “Julian…?”

“Ah, good. You’re awake.” The voice is close. Above him? He can’t tell what’s up or down, and it’s so disorienting that he feels a sense of vertigo wash through him. Geralt presses his hands against the far side of the box, his back to the other side, trying to ground himself.

He takes several breaths, trying to fight the disorientation. “So… This is your next move?”

He can hear the smirk in the man’s voice when he replies, “It is.” He hears the sound of fabric rustling, then a squeak and the man’s voice is clearer as he feels slightly cooler air meet his face. A hatch, it must be, and Geralt reaches for it desperately. “Ah-ah, darling. You’ll never fit through there.” But a naked hand touches his arm, fingers skating gently up the Witcher’s bicep.

There is no light outside of the box, so he has to assume that the room he’s in is pitch black as well. Or perhaps he really is blind.

“There is no greater enemy to a man than his own mind. But, you Witchers are so mentally resilient.” Geralt doesn’t feel very resilient at the moment. He feels like he’ll crumble away any second. Julian continues, “But… I’m here with you for now. And I will be here for as long as you want me.”

Geralt’s first instinct is to spit that he doesn’t want Julian there, however he catches himself quickly. The idea of the crushing, endless darkness and silence without anything else is terrifying.

He feels slender fingers twine with his own, and gentle lips press to the back of his palm. “Another two weeks, darling. This will be very hard on you.”

Geralt scoffs. “Like it wasn’t the first time.”

“Not like this,” Julian hums. “Before, your pain was external. Now? This is purely internal.”

There’s a long moment of silence before Geralt needs to break it. He swallows. “Is this what broke you?”

There’s a brief moment of thought, but Julian keeps his connection with Geralt, rubbing his thumb over the back of the Witcher’s hand. “Yes. It took a little under three days.”

“And you expect me to last two weeks.”

He can feel the man’s shrug through their connected hands. “You are stronger than me. And I didn’t have someone to offer me respite from the pain. But this version is lesser than the one I endured.” Another pause, then he continues on. “My box was suspended. They alternated between heating the interior, then freezing it. Anytime I moved, it swung about. They flooded it with water up to my neck so that I couldn’t sleep.”

Geralt swallows and feels himself squeezing down on the hand in his.

“It took me weeks to recover. I was never the same, though.”

The Witcher grunts, desperate to hide his growing terror.

“Madness has a way of sticking with you. I just refused to let it consume me.”

“Seem pretty fucking mad to me.”

Julian goes still for a moment, then sighs. He pulls his hand away, though Geralt tries to cling to it. “No, wait,” he says before he can even think.

He can hear the man standing. “I will return tomorrow, darling.”

“Julian! You said—”

“I won’t tolerate cruel words. I will be back tomorrow, dear Witcher.”

Geralt reaches out desperately, but in the distance he hears the sound of a door opening, then clanging shut.

Silence and darkness crush around him once more.

Without the sun, without light or sound, he can’t discern the passage of time. The span of the time since Julian’s visit feels like an eternity when Geralt is left with nothing to preoccupy him but his mind. He struggles, using the hatch’s hole to try and find a way out, but it’s useless. Of course it’s useless.

This time he hears Julian coming. He stills at the first few footfalls, Julian making himself heard before the clatter of the door. “Are you awake in there, darling?”

“Julian…” Geralt presses himself closer to the hatch, greedily breathing in for the scent of something other than the metal of the box and his own body.

“There you are.” There’s kindness in his voice, and Geralt presses his forehead to the metal next to the hatch. “I have brought something for you. It’s not much, but I won’t leave you with nothing.”

Geralt sticks his arm out, searching blindly until he finds Julian’s trouser leg and grabs hold of it, focusing on the feel of the soft fabric in his palm.

“Ohh… My sweet Witcher, look at you.” The man kneels and a hand takes Geralt’s wrist, slowly tugs his fingers free of the fabric and twines their fingers together again. “There you are. I’m here. I’m here.” The words are soft, the touch so welcome that Geralt could scream.

“I’m sorry,” the words are out before Geralt can stop himself. He swallows hard, takes a shaking breath. “I…” He struggles for words.

“What, you didn’t mean it?” Julian giggles softly, “Yes, you did. But it’s not polite to insult someone who is showing you kindness.”

This isn’t kindness, Geralt almost screams. Instead, he says again, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright. One cannot expect to tame a wolf and not get bitten.” A kiss is pressed to Geralt’s knuckles again.

Geralt takes several deep breaths, focusing on the point of connection between them.

After a few moments, the Witcher calms. Julian settles down on the floor, keeping his hold on Geralt’s hand, and starts to sing a soft, gentle song.

Geralt finds himself listening, relaxing despite himself as the Redanian lullaby he’d heard Julian humming before washes over him. The tune feels like a balm on Geralt’s jagged mental state, and he understands now that Julian must have been a well-liked bard. His voice is rich and lilting. Coupled with the gentle touches, Geralt finds himself drifting into the shallows of sleep.

As the song comes to an end, he forces himself to stay awake. “That was…” He halts, not used to giving praise.

“Come now, my darling. Three words or less. You wouldn’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.” He snorts a chuckle and Geralt finds himself confused.

He furrows his brows and searches for words. Exactly three. “I liked it.”

Julian chuckles softly. “Not my most glowing recommendation.”

“I’m not particularly good at words…” He’s never had reason to be. The only person he ever spoke to regularly was Roach, who he was informed was not actually a person. He would often spend his winters mostly quiet with his brothers, unless plied with ale. Eskel and Lambert were far better at talking than he was.

“That’s alright. I’m quite wonderful with words, we’ll balance out.” Another kiss to his knuckles and the Witcher hums softly. “Let’s play a game, shall we?” When Geralt tenses at the suggestion behind the words, Julian is quick to soothe, “Oh. No no darling. A completely innocent game. I ask you a question, and you answer in as many or few words as you would like. The longer you talk, the longer I stay.”

Geralt snorts. “That’s hardly innocent. It’s a bargain.”

“You say tomato,” the man muses idly. When Geralt doesn’t outright refuse, he plows on. “Were you born with white hair, or are you just older? Do all Witchers get white hair like that?”

It’s not the first time he’s heard the question, and Julian must know it. Geralt sighs. Normally, he doesn’t say, but if he refuses then he’ll be left alone again. “I take it you know about the trials we go through, the ones that make us…”

“More than human?” Julian wonders, his voice soft.

“Most people call us monsters.”

“Most people are very, very stupid.” Julian plays with Geralt’s fingers idly. “I know only that the trials exist. I know nothing beyond that.”

Geralt hums. He curls his fingers, idly plays back just to feel the gentle rub of skin on skin. “We go through trials, some alchemical and others physical. Most Witchers only go through two alchemical trials.”

Julian hums again, curiously this time. “And you?”

“Five. I… I think. I lost count, I wasn’t very coherent by the end.”

Julian gives a low, impressed whistle.

“I don’t know which one turned my hair white. It all fell out by the end, but when it grew back, it was white.” He frowns, thinking about it.

“What color was your hair before?”

“Light brown, I think.”

“You’re very uncertain for having lived through these things yourself,” Julian points out.

Geralt scoffs. “That was almost eighty years ago. I don’t think of the before much.”

“Eighty years? Goodness, I knew I liked older men.” Julian giggles, the sound melodic and bubbly. “You’re very handsome for an old man. It does explain why you’re so unbelievably cantankerous.”

Geralt chuckles, despite himself. The sound is nothing more than a soft whuff of air, and he doesn’t think Julian notices it, but he does.

It scares him.

“What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever killed?”

He can tell Julian is keeping the questions easy. Vaguely personal without being invasive. He’s trying to put Geralt at ease, and it feels like it’s working. “Hard to keep track. Perhaps the Striga. They’re extremely rare, and this one in particular was difficult. I was charged to lift the curse rather than kill her.”

“The name is familiar, but remind me? What is a Striga?”

“The cursed, unborn child of a dead woman.”

Another impressed sound. “Yes, well. That does sound suitably terrifying.”

“She killed another Witcher. A Griffin who went in believing it was a werewolf.” The Witcher sighs, swallowing down the pain of seeing a dead brother.

Julian’s finger smoothes gentle circles over the back of Geralt’s palm. “I am sorry, my darling. Unfortunately, death is a part of our world.”

After a moment, Julian continues on. He asks a seemingly endless stream of questions, and Geralt doesn’t know how long the man stays but he does know it’s comforting not to be alone. Finally, though, Julian sighs. “My darling, I think I must go.”

Geralt falls silent, swallowing hard against the dryness in his throat.

“Here.” Julian presses a waterskin to Geralt’s hand. It’s less than half full, but Geralt happily swallows every drop. After a moment, Julian knocks lightly on the box. “Trade with me.”

Geralt is hesitant to give up the waterskin, but he is rewarded with a heel of bread which he eats with similar enthusiasm. As he eats, he hears the sound of the hatch closing. He’s not fast enough to push it back open before it locks into place and he slams his hand against it, whining in a pathetic sound he can’t stop.

“Relax, darling. Please, please, calm down. I will return tomorrow.”

“Please,” Geralt whispers, letting out a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry, my sweet Witcher.” He hears Julian stand and slams his hand against the box again in frustration.

The door clatters as it opens and closes with a finality that makes the Witcher scream his rage.

The time between Julian’s visits seem inconsistent. Geralt can’t tell if it’s him losing his concept of time, or Julian intentionally coming at different times. It’s maddening, the eternities of silence and darkness before the man returns. And Geralt, he is pathetic and desperate for each one just to have something to distract himself.

The following visit is longer, with Julian just talking about his days as ‘Jaskier the Bard.’ He sings some of his old songs, which were… Well, they were music. Geralt liked the melodies, but found that his interest and knowledge of music was remedial at best. He doesn’t mind, though, because Julian always kept a point of physical contact between them. Held hands, soothing and gentle over scar-carved skin.

When Julian is gone, the only thing that Geralt seemsd able to do to keep from going insane is replaying Julian’s songs in his mind. Finally, after six visits from his captor, he is able to use them to slip into a shallow meditation that makes the waiting easier.

Unfortunately, the meditation is centered around Julian. The exact opposite of what he wants.

“You’re calmer today,” Julian muses as he accepts Geralt’s hand into his own.

Geralt takes a deep breath of the slightly fresher air from the room outside of his box. He parses out the individual scents around him. “You’re not. You’re bleeding. Stressed.”

The man hums, impressed. Geralt can hear the smile, at least, he thinks he can. “The unfortunate dilemma of being a part of the old spymaster’s circle is that the new spymaster keeps a close eye on my actions. Normally, I let this happen as I’ve nothing to hide here in sleepy little Letterhove. But you… I’ve tried to keep your presence to the greater palace quiet, but the word got out. So I had to deal with the spy, and I’m not quite as quick as I used to be.”

Geralt grunts, brows furrowing. “The new spymaster wouldn’t be too happy with you forcing a Witcher into subservience?”

He gets a firm squeeze of warning for his bold words, but he’s learned where he can toe the line with Julian. He knows his wit and bluntness is as welcomed as it is lightly reprimanded. “She might take it as a sign of hostility. Which… It might be. Who knows.” He feels Julian give a half-shrug.

“Luckily I was able to intercept the missive before it got out, and a new letter was sent to the spymaster reporting nothing amiss. It won’t take long, of course, before something gets out. The nature of information trading is too unpredictable to contain completely.”

“I hate games like that. Political subterfuge, cloak and daggers.” Geralt’s stomach churns unpleasantly at the idea of being forced to play such a role. Then hates himself for realizing that’s going to become a reality if this keeps up much longer.

Julian gently rubs over the back of Geralt’s hand. “Your job will be simple, my darling. You leave the cloak and daggers to me.”

“I don’t take the lives of humans,” he says solemnly. “I will not be your butcher.”

There’s a long beat of silence, heavy with the workings of Julian’s mind. “You would kill me,” the man finally says, “if you had the chance.”

“I would rather leave and never come back,” Geralt murmurs in a sudden rush of honesty.

Another pause. “Oddly, I believe you.” Julian trails his hand up Geralt’s arm. “What if I offered it so that you didn’t have to kill anyone. No humans, at least.”

“You want me to be your bodyguard.” It is not a question.

Julian huffs, cleverness lacing his tone. “You can subdue an attacker as easily as you could kill them. So long as I do not end with a dagger in my back, then you can leave their fate to me.”

Geralt swallows hard. He clenches his jaw, taking a deep breath. “Like I have the choice for anything else?”

“You have many choices. And I’m more than happy to negotiate the terms of your service. I can sit down, we can write up a contract together.”

“Filled with your bullshit spy double-speak,” Geralt spits. The hand in his tries to pull away, but he’s fast to clamp down with as much pitiful strength he can manage. “No, wait…”

“No, darling. I don’t think I shall. Now let me go.” Julian pulls at his hand, and Geralt refuses to relent.

He’s learning not to expect pain, Julian doesn’t directly administer pain. At least, not to Geralt. He keeps his fingers open, his hand still, waiting patiently. Geralt is clinging on, getting no attention or affection in return.

Slowly, very slowly, Geralt relents. He doesn’t know why, but he understands that giving in now might reduce his punishment later. He withdraws his hand and pulls it back into the box, arms curled against himself.

He waits for the sound of Julian leaving, no doubt upset by the Witcher pushing just a little too much too soon.

Instead, Geralt feels a hand stroking over his hair, fingertips gently scratching against Geralt’s scalp. “Deep down, you want to be a good boy for me. And I know you will be wonderful. You will be happy. I will do everything in my power to keep you happy.”

Geralt presses greedily into the hand, letting out a shaky breath.

He thinks of himself, knelt at Julian’s feet. He thinks of himself, head in the man’s lap, letting his hair be stroked just like this. It’s not a terrible thought.

“My wonderful white wolf. Be a good boy for me, and I shall bring you something special tomorrow.” The hand slowly retreats, and Geralt can’t stop himself from catching Julian’s hand in a loose grip. It’s silently pleading, but doesn’t stop the man from withdrawing and closing the hatch.

Geralt whimpers as he’s left alone once again.

His reward the following visit is a small pillow pressed through the hatch. It’s soft, made of fine fabric, and smells strongly of Julian.

Geralt’s entire body hurts. No longer aches, but actively hurts from the points of pressure against his shoulders, arms, hips, and thighs. There is no comfortable position within the box, and meditation continues to elude him, his body louder than his mind.

Still, he tucks the offering under his head and ponders the unusual silence from his captor. “Thank you,” he tries, voice soft and hesitant.

“There’s my wonderful boy.” He’s rewarded when Julian’s hand strokes through his hair.

He presses into the contact again, trying to place himself where it’s easiest for Julian to access him.

“You’re over halfway done, my wolf. A few more days and I will let you out, and I will make my offer once more.”

Geralt swallows hard, whining deep in his raw throat. He doesn’t think he’s strong enough to resist this time. “And… If I refuse?”

Julian gives a heavy sigh, his thumb curling over the shell of Geralt’s ear. “I’m left with two choices. The tree that refuses to bend will break eventually. I can either keep trying, and possibly break you beyond the point of having a Witcher worth my while,” the words sting, “Or. I can just try another Witcher I suppose. I’ve gotten word that the scarred one, Eskel, was it—?”

“NO!” Geralt’s body jerks so violently that he hits his forehead against the metal of the box in front of him. Ignoring the pain, be begs, “No, please. Julian, please don’t. Don’t touch him!” The fear flooding through him is greater than the terror of remaining in the box, it’s greater than his fear of losing freedom.

Julian is silent, and Geralt knows that he’s just given the madman the last piece he needs to finish this job of breaking him.

“I’ll…” Geralt swallows, aware of the hand pulling out of the box and pawing at the metal in front of him. “I’ll swear myself to you. Right here, right now. I’ll do anything, Julian. Just don’t… Don’t touch my brothers. Don’t you dare.”

“Do you tell me what I dare do or don’t do?” Julian wonders in a dangerous voice.

“If you want my loyalty and my blade,” Geralt replies desperately. “They are yours. But put that in the fucking contract. You will never lay a hand on another Witcher, especially not… Not my brothers.” His body is tense, his voice tight and manic as he verbally throws himself at Julian’s feet. He knows it’s too late now. Julian has him. The collar is all but secure, and Geralt is going to be helpless but to obey.

Julian hums. “You still have several days left before I will accept your loyalty. However… If you are true to your word, then I will swear to you in both word and in contract that I will never bring harm to another Witcher for so long as I draw breath. Is this acceptable.”

“You won’t touch them!” Geralt snarls, slamming his fist against the metal.

“My wolf, they are your brothers. I will not take you from them, nor them from you.”

“Don’t you ever touch them!” Geralt’s shout breaks into a bellow of rage so visceral that he knows his voice will be gone soon. 

He bangs against the box a few more times, listens to the sound of Julian pulling himself to his feet. Geralt kicks the box, pain lancing up his foot as he listens to Julian’s retreating steps. “Don’t!” His plea seems to fall on deaf ears as the door clatters closed.

Julian doesn’t return. Geralt can’t tell if he’s completely lost track of time, but he does know that Julian misses at least one visit. Geralt’s restlessness thrums in time with the pains of his body as he twists and thrashes. His voice had indeed broken beyond use, so his screams are little more than weak huffs of air in the silent box.

The box feels hot. Feels hotter each second that passes. He wonders if Julian was doing to him what he’d said before, heating and cooling the metal. But there’s nobody there to do such a thing. No, the metal of the box is still cold to the touch, but Geralt feels like he’s burning.

Pain and stress and silence blend together slowly. Julian must have forgotten him. Or perhaps he’s hunting Eskel, and the thought terrifies Geralt so much that he sobs, silent, dry sounds.

He isn’t sure when the waking nightmares start, gripping his body with cold claws and piercing gazes. He tries to fight them, bangs his hands and head and body against the walls as he feels himself being swallowed down by darkness.

By madness.

Oh.

The blackness is physical, and Geralt feels like he’s drowning as he sucks it into his lungs, feels it flooding his veins. He swipes at the phantoms that curl around him, whispers from his past hissing into his ears. The pain means nothing, his body little more than one massive point of pain now, it’s one with the darkness.

He is a part of the darkness and pain.

He can feel hot air against his face, the smell of smoke choking his lungs as he watches Kaer Morhen burning, filling the sky around the Blue Mountains with bloody smoke.

He can feel the claws of the Striga ripping strips off his back, her hands sinking past his ribs, tearing at his heart, sinking fangs into his neck.

He can feel the executioner’s noose around his neck pulling slowly tighter, and the more he struggles, the more Geralt knows he’ll be the one to hang himself on it. He kicks and screams soundlessly, clawing and embracing the wild animal buried deep in his soul. The monster blood fused into his body makes itself known as he feels like a werewolf splitting out of his own skin, his bones shattering and reforming.

Then, finally, he finds himself standing once again in Kaer Morhen. He sees faces of people who have been dead for decades, their eyes blank and lifeless.

Julian stands before them, and he’s staring Geralt directly in the eyes, holding the Witcher’s focus above anything else.

“Tell me, Geralt of Rivia. What will you say in the face of madness?”

Geralt sucks in inky black smoke, silent air from his putrid box that feels leagues and years away from his mind. It burns in his lungs.

The Witcher’s mouth falls open, his eyes locked with Julian’s. Except, this isn’t Julian, he realizes. The eyes he’s staring at are red, tiny pinpricks of black pupils boring into him, through him.

“I…” He doesn’t know what to say, his mind is blank and he can feel the jagged edges splintering.

The figure of Julian reaches out, taloned hands grabbing around Geralt’s throat with a near crushing grip and suddenly he can’t breathe. He has no more strength to thrash or fight. He is breaking. He has battled monsters, and believed that he had seen madness before.

This is like nothing he can ever understand. Nothing that can be put into words.

A sound breaks through the smoky air, familiar and soft. It sends a shiver down Geralt’s spine as he feels himself standing at the space between life and death, a place he’s been before but never like this.

A melody begins to pick up around him. Julian’s Redanian lullaby is enough to make Geralt gasp in a partial breath. The vision around him is darkening, but the grip on his throat remains, and he struggles weakly against it.

“Geralt…” a horrifically familiar voice. “Geralt, my wolf. Come back to me. You’re stronger than this.”

Geralt stares up at the apparition standing over him, the madness of his own making holding him at the very edge of death, and if he tips forward just a little bit, he might meet it.

The lullaby continues, the clench on his throat lets up a bit more. The fire burning beneath him is cooling.

“Come back to me. You know how to do it. What do you say to the face of madness, my darling? Do not let this break you.”

He struggles to recall the answer. The words are there, but they vanish when he reaches for them.

His already slow heart feels like it’s barely beating.

“Geralt!”

“I…” the Witcher struggles. “I…”

He chokes. He thinks of Julian standing at this precipice. He thinks of the darkness he could see sometimes shadow the man’s face when a truly dark thought crossed it. He thinks about the pain of his tortures, and how every point of gentle comfort has come from a man who has stood exactly where Geralt stands now.

A human, a bard, a man who had once been so filled with youthful will and ambition. He had stood here, stared his own madness down and managed to return to the real world. A human could do this.

Geralt feels a sudden understanding. A kinship he never wanted to feel. If he fell into death, he will have been broken by simple tortures where he has suffered not a single strike from a cruel hand. If he walks away, then Julian is the only being that Geralt knows who would understand… this.

“I will not go,” he gasps out. These aren’t Julian’s words. He isn’t Julian. He pulls back, the claws starting to evaporate into smoke and the burning of the hellish pits beneath him cooling again. “I will not go… I will not be broken!”

The claws vanish, and Geralt falls back into blackness. Everything else is gone.

SUBMISSION

The pain is what wakes him. He jerks back into consciousness in a rush, thrashing and immediately cringing as he awaits the pain of hitting the box.

Except his hands meet open air, and something soft is laid beneath him. He gasps, heaving deep gulps of air as he struggles to parse this new space, looking around wildly. He’s aware of blackness, but something fuzzy and light as well. His hand reaches up, pawing at his face as he feels the blindfold around his head and starts to pull at it.

“Wait, darling.” A firm hand catches his wrist and Geralt goes still, tense and trembling. “Easy, Geralt. Your eyes are very sensitive, you don’t need any more pain right now. Here.”

He feels the mattress beneath him flex as the speaker stands, listens to footsteps moving around a small carpeted space. Soft huffs of breath blowing on something before Julian speaks again. “Try that. Be careful, now.”

Geralt rips the blindfold off of his head and opens his eyes.

The room is richly decorated, the window covered over with heavy blankets to prevent any light. The only light in the room is from a trio of candles, casting soft light around that makes Geralt’s head throb. He snaps his gaze to Julian, who stands at the foot of the bed, dressed in simple sleeping garments and looking tired.

“There you are, my darling. Here, you need to eat and drink something.” He goes to a small table, pawing around with the lack of light in the room. He stubs his toe on the leg of the table he’s searching and hisses, hopping around with a hushed curse before he takes a plate of food and a goblet from the surface and makes his way to the bed.

Geralt snatches the water first, swallowing down the contents, ignoring the vicious twist in his stomach. He throws the goblet aside and grabs the plate. It’s bread and cheese, both fresh. It’s perhaps the best thing he’s ever eaten, shoving it all into his mouth as his stomach both rebels and snarls for more.

“There will be more,” Julian assures him in a soothing voice. “Just let that settle first. I was told not to let you eat too much just yet, you may need to adjust to normal amounts again.”

Geralt growls at him, but his ire doesn’t last longer than a few beats.

“There are sores on your body,” Julian informs him calmly. “I’ve already applied some salves to help numb any pain you may have. But a bath and a good rest will go a long way towards helping you recover.”

“I don’t want to rest.” The last thing Geralt wants is to be sitting or laying down. To prove this, he pulls himself to the side of the bed, his movements sluggish and heavy. His legs feel weak beneath his weight, and Julian steps in close as if prepared to help. He wants to run, he wants to be outside, he wants to be anywhere fucking else.

“Alright, my darling.” Julian’s hand rests gently on Geralt’s shoulder. “Alright. No rest. But let’s at least get you cleaned up. You’ll feel much better, I promise.”

“ Will I feel better?” Geralt snaps, growling a low sound from his chest. “I’ll still be trapped here. I’ll still be your fucking pet.” Warning bells were ringing distantly in his head, memories of his very recent tortures reminding him what would happen if he pisses off Julian too much. He ignores them, driven by the urge to lash out and snarl and snap like the cornered animal he is.

Julian sighs but doesn’t rebuke Geralt for the rude words. “That’s the stress talking. Now. I’m going to have a bath drawn for you.” He lets his hand slide down to Geralt’s, gives it a reassuring squeeze and turns to walk for the door.

Geralt reacts before he can stop himself, snatching Julian’s wrist with a soft plea of, “Wait…”

Julian turns and studies Geralt carefully, then presses close as the Witcher tries to avoid his eyes from the display of weakness. “I won’t leave the room, darling. I promise.”

Geralt keeps his gaze resolutely on the bed, glaring as if the furniture has personally offended him. Julian leans up on his toes and presses a kiss to the Witcher’s jaw, and the contact is welcome after so many days of nothing but hard metal and silence.

When Julian steps away this time, Geralt doesn’t stop him but he feels the loss acutely.

Julian goes to the door and opens it, keeping himself visible as he speaks to someone in the hallway. He orders the staff to bring in the bath and more water. He also requests some things from his personal room, which means Geralt has been sequestered to some kind of guest bedroom - possibly just a new cell, albeit far nicer than the last.

While the man goes about getting the bath orders placed, Geralt feels a thrum of anxious energy. He paces the length of the room several times, taking deep breaths of fresher air, the scent of candle wax and Julian thick in the room.

Julian finally closes the door and turns to him, offering Geralt a gentle smile. “Feels good to be moving about again, hm? Once your eyes adjust to the light, you’ll be free to explore.”

Geralt growls again, still pacing. He already feels tired, and his mind works sluggishly as he struggles to think of anything he could or should do.

The door opens, several servants bringing in a large tub that they fill with water. One of them brings a pitcher of water which Geralt uses to refill his mug and swallows down. He can tell Julian wants to stop him, but doesn’t. He seems to know that now isn’t the time to push Geralt.

Once the bath is filled, Julian dismisses the last of the servants and closes the door. He stands awkwardly for a brief moment, and Geralt can hear the gears turning in his head. “Would you like to bathe privately, or would you like some help? I can wash your back, your hair?”

Geralt scoffs. “Do I have a choice?” he snaps.

“Of course you have a choice, darling. You’ve had a choice since the beginning. You’ve been through a great deal of stress, the last thing you need is to feel as if I’m forcing myself on you. So. The water is warm, take as much time as you need.” Julian makes his way to the edge of the bed to sit down, his back to the tub and Geralt. He’s keeping himself visible without encroaching on the Witcher’s privacy.

Geralt sighs and strips himself of the meager cloth that has been covering him since the beginning. It reeks of sweat and body odor, and he tosses it aside with a grimace at the idea of having to put it back on.

The water is warm - far from as hot as he likes it, but he can’t use his magic to make it warmer. As he sinks in, the water comes up to his shoulders, and he can feel himself starting to relax some of the tension quivering in his body. There are oils and soaps left out, and normally Geralt would never care to use any such thing but he feels particularly tacky and gross.

He takes his time, using most of it to clean and try to get his hair under control. He’s been told by Eskel to cut it for years, but he can never bring himself to do so. He’s grown attached, and it's as much a part of who he is as the scars on his body, the stories of his past.

As he rises to climb out of the tub, he finds clothes and a rag at the end of the bed. He dries himself and pulls the clothes on, annoyed to find that they fit almost perfectly. A clean white cotton shirt and soft cotton breeches that hug his legs. He’s lost both weight and muscle tone from his ordeal, both which will need to be regained. But all in time. Geralt lets out a heavy sigh, feeling human-ish again for the first time in weeks.

“Darling?” Geralt turns his eyes to find Julian watching him carefully. The man smiles and holds his hand out. “You look a bit better. May I have the pleasure of brushing your hair?”

Geralt feels torn. Julian says he has a choice, but he feels nervous every time he wants to say no. He doesn’t know where the lines are yet. However, his hair is wet and tangled, and he can already tell that he won’t have the patience to work it out himself.

Geralt finally sighs, shoulders slumping. Defeated mentally, physically and emotionally, he drops down to his knees at Julian’s feet and lowers his head to his lap.

“Absolutely beautiful,” Julian praises, his voice covetous. “We’ll get your hair combed and soft. I’ll have more food brought in if you’re hungry.” He pulls a cloth bag over and opens it, retrieving a familiar brush from inside. For a moment, Geralt thinks Julian intends to brush him with that, but instead the brush is handed to him and he brings it to his nose.

Roach’s scent is immediately calming. So much so that he doesn’t notice the first gentle strokes of the brush at the ends of his hair. “The sun will go down soon,” Julian tells him. “Once it does, I can take you out to the stables and you can see her. She’ll be so very excited.”

Geralt hums, keeping the brush close. Julian’s hands are gentle and careful with each stroke, working out the mess of tangle with almost no pain - a stark comparison to Geralt’s usual rough treatment with a brush. 

It’s soothing enough that between the gentle strokes through his hair, and the scent of his horse,  he rests his forehead on Julian’s thigh and dozes.

True to his word, Julian takes Geralt to the stables once the sun has set. Geralt finds Roach in a spacious stall where she has plenty of food, water, and fresh straw. There’s a blanket over her back, her mane has been combed, her coat is shiny from a recent wash and brush, and Geralt even spots fresh shoes on each hoof. Julian has been true to his word about taking good care of Geralt’s horse.

Further, Julian doesn’t invade the space of the stall. He lets Geralt enter and stays outside while the Witcher and his horse have their reunion. Roach gives him a soft headbutt before hooking her muzzle over Geralt’s shoulder to pull him in close. He wraps his arms around the beast, buries his face in her mane and just breathes for long minutes. He feels his stress melting away like the snow in the spring.

Julian leaves an apple on the lip of the door for Geralt to feed to Roach. She makes a happy sound and continues to rub all over Geralt.

Later, after he has eaten another meal and drank more water, Julian takes Geralt to his personal chambers. They’re much larger than the small, dimly lit room he’d woken in. The space smells much more heavily of Julian, and feels more lived in. The windows have all been covered, the space lit by sconces on the wall.

Geralt finds himself laying on the man’s huge bed, his head resting on a pillow in Julian’s lap while Julian lazily works his hair into small braids. The actions are so oddly gentle and comforting that he feels himself creeping towards sleep. He can already feel the nightmares along the edges, but they pull away as Julian begins to sing the lullaby that has strangely become a comfort.

Perhaps, Geralt thinks as he feels the room sliding out of focus, perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad…

3 months later…

Geralt huffs a sigh as he walks into the study to find that Julian has fallen asleep on his desk again. There is a hefty stack of messages and parchment on his desk that he’d been looking over, refusing the delegate anything that involved the flow of information within his court.

There is a brief moment where he debates just leaving the man. He has done so before, just to see if it will earn him ire. It doesn’t, though.

Julian has been true to his word. Since Geralt had accepted his place at the King’s side, he has yet to endure any more harsh or cruel treatment. He has been entrusted with swords and knives, allowed to hunt, and his supplies are always topped up. He doesn’t go far from the castle, he finds that sleeping on his own results in terrible nightmares.

Even when he sleeps beside Julian he will endure nightmares of his tortures. Mostly the black void of pain and isolation from the box - something that he knows will haunt him until his final days. However Julian will simply hold him close, hold him through the tremors and heavy breaths.

Geralt crosses the room and reaches down to put a hand on Julian’s back. The man startles awake, a light sleeper who could wake with violent action if caught off guard. 

For a moment he blinks, taking in the surroundings, then looking up to Geralt. “Hello, my darling.” The words are spoken with a heavy, sleep-scratchy voice.

Geralt squats down and offers the King a tiny smile. “If you sleep there much longer, you’ll regret it tomorrow. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Julian shifts and moves to bury his face in the Witcher’s neck, nuzzling into the warm junction between neck and shoulder. Geralt tips his head to lean lightly against Julians, taking in the now familiar scent of his King.

When he’s not terrorizing Geralt with tortures and madness, as he hasn’t done for months now, the man is almost entirely pleasant to be around.

Perhaps, had they met back when Julian was Jaskier the Bard, their love could have been real.

That night, as he lay in Julian’s massive bed, wrapped around his King to offer warmth and comfort, he wonders if he can one day pretend his love is real.