Work Text:
I
Freedom is being able to make a choice. Power is being able to make a choice without consequence.
The coffee was acidic with berry notes, produced directly from Zerrikania via an import chain involving at least camels, galleys and wagons. Geralt had stopped listening at wagons. And when he had made notice of how little acidic with berry notes agreed with his stomach. At least the stewed currants and canapes weren’t too shabby. He stuck to watching the thin man sitting diagonally in front of Ciri and smiling at everything she said. When Ciri made it known that she did in fact have a head that formed thoughts, the man’s smile became confused like he had drunk too much and woken up to see that he’d been crowned the favourite singer of the Redanian governor, without singing skills or the appropriate charisma.
When the man had finally gotten up, kissed Ciri’s hand in goodbye, and left after bowing at Emhyr var Emreis, Geralt leant towards Ciri: “Even Emhyr can’t force you.”
Ciri gave him a meaningful look. “No one is forcing me into anything.”
“Those in power imagine that their choices have no consequence.”
“The choices of those in power have the most far-reaching consequence”, Ciri hissed. “That’s precisely why I must marry. You are trying to take care of me, but you forget that I’m capable of making my own decisions. Start thinking with logic, not with feeling.”
“How could I, when I still don’t know why I even am here? Certainly not to keep an eye on your suitors.”
“Witcher”, Emhyr interrupted them. He nailed Geralt down with the whole weight of his stare and took another leisurely sip of coffee. “Mererid shall give you a compilation of the contract. Everything you need to know is there.”
“Don’t I even get a clue?”
“I shall be expecting you back in a week.”
“If you want results, I’m returning exactly when I do”, Geralt grunted. Next to him Ciri drew a long breath like she was trying to stop herself from going off. The appalling groom candidate had undoubtedly grated on her nerves too.
Emhyr fingered the rim of his porcelain cup. Geralt forced his shoulders to relax and refused to look away.
“What is this about?” Ciri showed Geralt mercy and asked. Emhyr finally disengaged his stare from Geralt.
“A wave of murder is crashing through the capital”, the emperor said after drinking more coffee.
“What has it got to do with a witcher?”
“The culprit is most likely a vampire.”
II
Moonlight is 100% solar powered.
“But that wouldn’t have any logic”, Geralt explained patiently to the scholar who had just declared that the culprit couldn’t be a vampire, since the attack had happened in the light of day, and everyone knew that a vampire burnt instantaneously to ash when it came to contact with the holy light of the Sun. “Moonlight is also sunlight. What about the stars? The Sun is a star, so wouldn’t the same apply to the light of distant stars as well?”
The scholar muttered something about blasphemy and quickly joined his hands in the Sign of the Sun.
“A lifeform capable of being outside only when it’s completely cloudy would hardly evolve on its own. Some lower species of vampires avoid daylight, but that’s because their eyes have adapted to the darkness. They don’t burn in the sun worse than I or you do. Now, leave me be”, Geralt said and drew the book closer even though it had already become apparent that it wouldn’t be useful. Nilfgaard’s belief in the Holy Sun had distorted all knowledge of vampires into fantasy.
“Completely empty of blood”, said the centurion in the guard camp at the old border. Roach nickered at the only horse in the camp. It blew back in response. “And trousers down by his ankles. There, in the stable. I did make a report of this though.”
The centurion’s report led Geralt far and wide from the south to the north. The vampire – Geralt was already almost certain that it was a vampire – preferred cities and larger towns but didn’t seem to feel content in the kind of one-horse-towns that lacked a bordello and a theatre. From Cintra the vague tracks turned back south, where Geralt headed through frost-bitten fields by the River Yaruga, already covered with a sheet of ice. The last trace was a wood cutter suffering from blood loss and an odd neck wound twenty or so miles south from the old border of Nilfgaard.
“I believe you were right”, Geralt said after returning to the emperor once he’d been gone a month, “it is most likely a vampire. But I can’t yet be certain, because it hunts during both days and nights, which isn’t species specific behaviour. I’ve however marked off the possibility of it being any of the lower vampires. This one is smarter than an ekimmara, garkain or even a katakan. On top of that it’s always on the move. I followed it all the way to Cintra and back. I need more time, and it’s going to cost you more.”
III
Love comes from your mind while your boners come from your heart.
Emhyr returned to his paperwork, but Geralt stayed put. After a few minutes had passed Emhyr waved at him to talk.
“You married for love yourself”, Geralt accused, going straight to the point. “How can you demand anything else from Ciri?”
“As you I wouldn’t be worried”, Emhyr said without even looking at him: a habit that annoyed Geralt to no rational end. “The courting stage seems to last until the next decade.”
“What, isn’t there one man in the whole Great and Mighty Empire of Nilfgaard that could handle a real woman?”
The pen scraping ceased, and the emperor finally raised his gaze. Geralt instinctively straightened his spine even more.
To Geralt’s surprise Emhyr smiled. “Cirilla resembles Pavetta a lot. As strong and stubborn as her mother, if not more. Both of course take after Calanthe.”
Geralt snorted. Right, Emhyr’s character naturally had nothing to do with it. But he didn’t say anything.
Emhyr waved a hand at him. “I’ve pleased the noble houses by granting the opportunity first to the men who most think themselves eligible, but I knew beforehand that none of them would find a common tune with Cirilla. They are too… Insecure. This next group will have more promising candidates.”
“And what if no one of them is the right one?”
Emhyr leant back and studied Geralt. “Not one of them needs to be the right one. Only fitting. If you are worried about Cirilla’s happiness… Almost every ruler has had their own secret lovers.”
“Except you.”
As soon as he’d said it Geralt knew he’d stepped too far. But Emhyr’s gaze stayed solid and clear of offence as he answered in a level voice: “Except me.”
“You didn’t remarry either.”
“I rose to power by sword and fear. If it’s in my hands Cirilla’s path as the empress will be different. For that end, she eventually must choose and marry.”
“And when it comes to that”, Geralt dared, “are you planning to be the one giving Ciri away at the altar?”
“In Nilfgaard the joining of hands is traditionally carried out by the bride’s mother. I have been meaning to ask Yennefer of Vengerberg to accept the honour.”
Geralt stayed silent and not least because the Emperor of Nilfgaard never asked for anything. When he spoke his throat felt strangely tight: “Yen… would appreciate that.”
“Would you like to present the request to Yennefer?”
“I think Yen would appreciate it if the request came from you.”
Emhyr nodded and returned to his paperwork. Geralt watched his bent head, framed golden by sunlight pouring from the window behind him. Unlike Yennefer’s, his tied raven locks had begun to grey.
Geralt found his way to the palace’s private collection but didn’t read a single line from the rare book detailing vampirism. Finally, he got up to find his swords and Ciri.
IV
If domestic housewives exist, that implies there are feral housewives.
“What happened to Tristran von Stickbutt?”
“I threw a pinecone at him. He left without a goodbye”, Ciri said and grinned sheepishly.
Geralt smiled: “Poor Tristran. I bet no one had thrown anything at him before.”
“You don’t say, he didn’t even know how to play dodgeball.”
“That’s what the people in power talk about when courting each other: children’s play? Right after throwing pinecones, of course.”
“He wanted to know how children are raised in the north.”
“Congratulations. You confirmed the poor guy’s worst fears.”
The walls of the guarded inner yard threw long shadows on the training ground. Sand rustled under their feet as they circled each other on the lookout for any weakness in defence. Geralt was more concentrated on hearing about Ciri’s suitors than keeping an eye on her foot work, and she’d gotten in a couple of jabs.
“How many have there been after Tristran?”
“Many. Father seems to prefer Morvran Voorhis.” Ciri switched her front with a pretty skilful cross-step. “He’s more interesting than any of the previous ones, but he looks like he’s smelling cow shit all the time.”
Geralt grimaced. “We’ve met. Half of the Nilfgaardian army would recognize him from that description. He’s really a candidate?”
“Yes. On top of that he’s my distant cousin. From both my father’s mother’s and father’s father’s side.”
“Let me guess. Emhyr thinks that’s just a plus.”
Ciri snorted. “It doesn’t hurt at least. What is he like?”
“A full-on snob. Infuriating.”
Ciri raised her eyebrows.
“A decent man”, Geralt finally relented. “But isn’t Morvran a bit old?”
“Not older than aep Cledlille. There were also two geezers that were older than Emhyr.”
“I wish I’d seen that dinner.”
“You don’t. My arse about fell off, and I was already dead from boredom before the second course. They only wanted my opinion about the menu and the renovations of their manors.”
Geralt grimaced out of compassion and passed the spot where the sun hit his eyes directly and made his pupils narrow into vertical lines. Ciri knew better than to fall for the trap of thinking that he was blinded like a normal man.
“Marshall Madhahm was entertaining to tease, though. He didn’t realize before dessert, even though my father certainly did”, Ciri said, and when Geralt shook his head amusedly, she tried a daring swoop. Geralt dodged it easily and punished her immediately for slacking foot work by pushing her face-first into the ground. After she’d cursed for a moment and shooed the guard captain off to mind his own business Ciri continued: “Morvran didn’t want to talk about child rearing, but horses instead. I challenged him to a race. A snob or not at least he accepted, took the defeat honourably, and asked for a revanche.”
V
No wonder dogs are so relaxed, they live like the elite rich: meals prepared for them by personal chefs, multiple massages throughout the day, and they have personal trainers for exercise.
“You were right”, Geralt said after returning to the emperor once he’d been gone another month, “it is a vampire. But not just any monster: a higher vampire.”
Emhyr looked at Geralt. The ‘ And?’ was clear.
“You of course know how to kill it, don’t you”, Emhyr stated.
“You don’t understand. A higher vampire can’t be killed. Even a witcher is useless.”
“What am I to do with you, if you are useless?”
“I don’t know”, Geralt jibed before he could think, “hang on the wall as decoration?”
Emhyr stared at him for a long while, and Geralt smelled a rush of adrenaline in the air. The scent made his blood boil, too.
“Only a higher vampire can kill another higher vampire”, Geralt said, grinding his teeth. “I suggest diplomacy and patience.”
“Do these… higher vampires have a leader?”
“Yes. A council, where humans have no vote or voice, not even the conqueror of the whole known world.”
“I assume a witcher doesn’t have a voice in this council either”, Emhyr said and filled in the insult emotionlessly: “Useless as you are.”
“You should maybe start regarding human beings with something else than usefulness, unless you want to die alone”, Geralt grunted and snatched the coin purse from the desk. Taking the money felt like selling himself, but it beat having to scrape together pennies by selling organs from nekkers and drowners. Only in the stables, as Mererid was planning the fastest and least noticeable way out of the city, Geralt happened to think that as useless he was no more untouchable. Nothing stopped Emhyr from taking his head for the insults.
After that he was gone very soon. He was irked only by not getting to see Ciri. And that Emhyr had left his last insult unanswered the obvious way: But you aren’t a human.
He spent some weeks circling slowly towards the north until he was thoroughly reminded of why he hated travelling in winter.
“So you finally got enough of playing Emhyr’s dog”, Yennefer said after teleporting him to Beauclaire. Geralt saw red for a moment.
“You are one to talk”, he snapped when he’d gotten his stomach to calm down.
In February Geralt got a letter. Ciri had finally decided. It was time for official courting that would be followed by engagement right before the next Midwinter Sun’s festival, assuming everything went well. The wedding would be celebrated in a year's time from the engagement but that was only a formality. The union would be binding from the engagement on, and nothing but death could break it.
VI
If you die drunk, your ghost is drunk for eternity.
Ciri took a seat next to Geralt. Geralt raised his eyebrows but said nothing about how it probably wasn’t appropriate for the heiress of the Great Empire of Nilfgaard to sit on the railing of the fourth-floor balcony in her own engagement party, let alone be drunk. He accepted the offered bottle of red wine without an argument. It wasn’t Gull, but it warmed in the chilly night.
“Good luck. You need that when you commit for life”, Geralt handed the bottle back to Ciri.
“Life is full of lifelong commitments. This is hardly the first one, let alone the last.”
Geralt thought for a moment and then nodded in agreement. “If that’s how you see it, I can see it like that too. I just wish you won’t have to regret anything.”
“If I start regretting, I can always take a lover. Or a loveress.” Ciri laughed at Geralt’s expression. “Morvran is intelligent and has a sense of humour, and he respects me as his equal. He’s not boring and I haven’t yet gotten the urge to strangle him. And he’s not a little boy anymore, but not yet complains about joint pain either. But that’s enough about my fiancée. This is an engagement party, and I plan to be properly drunk, since I can’t be drunk at the wedding.”
“I envy your confidence”, Geralt admitted and raised the bottle for Ciri. Then he emptied it. “If your plan is to get me drunk too, you need more wine.”
Ciri responded by bouncing off the railing with a sway and running to the kitchen to get three bottles of wine and one of Temerian rye vodka. Then time started to slowly lose meaning.
“Fascinating”, came a low voice that made the back of Geralt’s neck tingle.
“What are you doing here”, Geralt blurted crudely. Forming words was surprisingly hard and the sun had suddenly gotten high in the sky.
“Work”, Emhyr said dryly. “You are in my study.”
Geralt rubbed his face. Ciri was snickering, and Geralt couldn’t remember if he’d been telling about the ghost quartet he’d bumped into, stuck in eternal intoxication, or Yennefer’s unusual tastes, but he really wished it hadn’t been the latter.
“Why’s there a balcony in your study”, he asked instead of asking what Emhyr thought was fascinating, because the answer might be the thought of him and Yennefer making love on the back of a stuffed unicorn. Or in the ditch of a main road as an army marched past. The answer to the latter question, that is. Then he realized what he was thinking about, and that he was staring at Emhyr, and that Emhyr was staring at him, and the air was thick with a swirling musk, the source of which Geralt wasn’t sure of. He hadn’t spoken with Emhyr properly for over a year and now was definitely the wrong time.
VII
A bottomless pit is the safest possible pit you could fall into.
Ciri’s hair was woven with orange tree blossoms. The blossoms’ white mother-of-pearl petals were embedded into a golden frame that had been matched to be the exact same shade as the tiara that had belonged to Emhyr’s great-great-great-who-knew-how-great-grandmother. Geralt watched Emhyr set the tiara on his daughter’s head. Nilfgardian tradition didn’t have bridal veils or bouquets, but the train and folds of Ciri’s dark skirts had enough cloth for a field camp tent.
Emhyr pressed his lips hesitantly on Ciri’s hair. Emhyr’s eyes had softness in them, and Geralt felt like he was falling into a pit that didn’t have a bottom.
“I’m proud of you, daughter”, Emhyr said. Ciri smiled and squeezed her father’s hand.
The marriage was about more than a marriage. The marriage was proof that as the empress Ciri would do what was needed; the empire wouldn’t fall for the lack of carriage or selflessness. Geralt had always believed in Ciri. Now also Emhyr, who hadn’t previously been there to see Ciri’s sacrifices because he would rather command from a distance, did.
“I’ve always been proud of you”, Geralt told Ciri. Ciri punched his arm but her smile was content and wide. In an instant Geralt had as much of an armful of Ciri as her gown allowed.
“I’m anything but proud of you”, Yennefer declared on her turn as she hugged Ciri tightly. “To marry a man, and at your age.”
Then Yen lost her poker face.
“I am so very proud of you”, Yen laughed. Ciri hugged her back tighter.
For a moment everyone important to Geralt – except maybe Dandelion, Eskiel and even Lambert – were in the same room, with no one intruding. It was weird. And as soon as Geralt had thought that he thought about how he’d just included Emhyr as someone important to him, even despite their complicated terms. On the other hand, he and Yen had never been on terms anyone could have called simple. In the next moment Yennefer was already rushing Ciri out to get ready for the first forenoon’s tying ceremony where the bride and groom’s hands would be joined and from where the four-day festivities would commence. Geralt realized that if he didn’t hurry after the women, he’d be left alone with Emhyr.
But before Geralt got out of the room Emhyr turned to Geralt and surprised him by saying: “I am sorry, Geralt, for what I said in my temper. Forgive me. You are more to me than how useful you are.”
“It’s been a year and a half”, Geralt said dumbfounded. He couldn’t think about the meaning of the words. The Emperor of Nilfgaard didn’t apologize or ask for forgiveness. The Emperor of Nilfgaard was supposed to regard people – and witchers – in the light of how useful they were to him. The Emperor of Nilfgaard didn’t go around telling witchers that he kept them in more value than how useful they were to him.
“Even if it were a lifetime”, Emhyr said, and he was completely serious.
“Mine or yours”, Geralt said. He said stuff without thinking when he got taken by surprise, and Emhyr took him by surprise often.
Emhyr’s gaze was intense. “However long you’ll have me, but I’m content taking it one day at a time.”
Geralt stared at Emhyr. Emhyr was half his age, but in his body aging had already begun to show as grooves and greying hair. He was still as poised as ever, as prideful and unyielding. Emhyr var Emreis left nothing halfway. This was a man who had defied Calanthe of Cintra herself to have the woman he loved, had survived a nasty curse, and had thrown the usurper from his throne. Emhyr had gone to three wars all in all – had started three wars – until he’d finally conquered the north, and he wouldn’t be satisfied with thirty times three tries until he’d finally conquered one witcher, too. The thought was as curious as it was overwhelming.
He had recognized his own feelings, but he’d never bothered to imagine a path on which they would amount to anything. He’d known it was a physical impossibility. How far would Emhyr be prepared to go without hesitation? Would he be ready to even hear a refusal?
Just as Emhyr was starting to show signs of rare nervousness that pounded in Geralt’s ears as fastening heart beats and got his blood running as well, Mererid appeared at the doorway and informed them, his voice full of regret, that now was the final moment to leave in time for the wedding ceremony, least the sun would rise too high.
“The Holy Sun doesn’t wait for even the emperor”, Emhyr said to Geralt. “We will have time to talk later.”
Geralt tilted his head in agreement.
The temple of the Holy Sun was an untasteful colossus decorated with so much gold it would have funded an entire war, or at the very least one great battle. The ceremony took place next to the temple in an open-walled chapel adorned with thousands of flowers. The temple itself was holy and reserved for sun worship only. It was open to the public only during the celebrations of the Midwinter Sun.
Emhyr had assured that he trusted Geralt could kill any assassin who would slip past the guards with the dagger he’d shoved in his boot and had successfully gotten Geralt to leave the sword off his back. Geralt was also comforted with the knowledge that instead of a garter Ciri was wearing the dagger Yen had gifted her. They stood close to the altar, Emhyr in his blacks, the gold of the chain of office glinting in the sun, and Geralt in a doublet a bit too tight on the throat. The incense irritated Geralt’s nose and made it difficult to resist a sneeze. Half the city seemed to be in the crowd cheering and tossing flowers over the couple as they made their way to the altar. Yen, who had once again respected her usual palette of black and white, tied Ciri and Morvran’s hands together with a golden ribbon that was traditionally left in place until the consummation of the marriage. The April sun was already hot before noon and Ciri’s train was taken away before the feast.
Geralt found himself on the bride’s side of the table, next to the groom’s mother. When courses, cultural numbers, and the halting discussion about Temeria’s producing crisis between countess Voorhis’ and the beautiful noblewoman on Geralt’s other side had been going on for two hours, he was desperately wishing for company from even Emhyr whose gaze he had avoided this far.
“And who are you?” countess Voorhis dared to ask only after a third glass. Her common had started to get a Nilfgardian accent.
“Geralt of Rivia”, Geralt grunted.
“The witcher I owe both my and my daughter’s lives”, Emhyr answered with unruffled calm from the other side of Morvran’s mother as he cut small pieces of the dove that had been brought to the table with a name that made the course at least twice as fanciful as it really was. “Cirilla’s adoptive father. And my good friend.”
When Emhyr said it the word 'friend' took on ten new less traditional meanings, and countess Voorhis nodded suddenly quite interestedly. Geralt tried to wash the tightness in his throat down with wine. Emhyr’s eyes had found him and wouldn’t leave him alone. Morvran’s mother’s questions that even usually would have been challenging to answer with the appropriate etiquette now seemed impossible. Geralt kept his answers one-worded.
Even later Yen started to compete with Ciri on testing Morvran. The man between them responded to the attack with honour and wit even as his cheeks took a faint tint. Wine flowed generously and a knight at one end of the horse-shoe shaped table dug up a loud story full of bullshit from the Battle of Sodden. Soon Geralt was grinding his teeth and hoping that Yennefer would be kept too busy with teasing Morvran to notice. Even later countess Voorhis had also had one too many and was telling intrigued Emhyr how she knew a woman who told she had slept with a vampire, true as rain. Right here in the capital. One with inverted genitals, turned inwards, and who was as beautiful as the most beautiful woman.
Geralt hid his grin and shook his head at Emhyr’s inquiring gaze. True or not, the woman might have slept with a vampire, but there certainly were no inverted genitals. Perhaps the woman of the story was better off living in denial, whoever she was.
When countess Voorhis excused herself to powder her nose for the third time and the dance had already started, Geralt got up to straighten his stiff limbs. The last course carried in was an assortment of bite-sized sweet and savoury foods, fruit, and berries. Barrels of wine and beer had been opened for free consumption. Yennefer and the court sorcerer had cut a pocket of light from the darkness that had fallen to the palace gardens. Will-o’-the-wisps hovered over the dancing couples emitting a glow that left the fringes of the dance floor to fade into dusk.
Geralt leant against a wagon that still held a dozen of waiting barrels and watched as the tables were carried away and the dance floor expanded. The atmosphere was astonishingly well reminiscent of the North.
“What do you think, is the vampire the same one you tracked?” Emhyr appeared next to Geralt. Wine swirled in the glass he held in his hand. His sharp eyes watched the dancing crowd.
“Impossible to tell”, Geralt admitted, “though it is rare to hear this much talk about vampires in the same place.”
“There haven’t been more bodies, and no more people are missing than usual. It might not matter.”
Emhyr took a sip of wine without taking his eyes off swirling Ciri. Ciri was smiling. The couple tied together was placed at the head of the dance square, and they were the only ones without complicated side and partner changes. There was barely a breath of air between the dancing couple, and their distance didn’t grow even in turns.
“I fear countess Voorhis isn’t as sharp in mind as when she was younger. She should know well who raised Cirilla”, Emhyr said. Geralt could recognize notes of wine in the air, and a dark warm scent that was Emhyr.
“I didn’t raise her”, Geralt countered: “She learnt that on her own.”
Or from Yennefer, he thought.
Emhyr hid a small smile behind the wine glass: “Nevertheless, without you she would have had significantly worse chances.”
“For fuck’s sake”, Geralt blurted out. “I can try to talk to the vampiric council.”
Emhyr regarded him silently for a moment. Geralt felt like a row of ants was walking along his spine.
“Absolutely not, if it would put your life at risk”, Emhyr stated then, like it decided the matter.
“I’m a witcher”, Geralt said, “It’s in my job description to put my life at risk.”
“Witchers don’t accept contracts on higher vampires, though.”
Geralt raised his brows in surprise. Emhyr tilted his head and answered the unasked question: “Simply a bold deduction. You witchers guard the secrets of your trade as possessively as dwarves and goblins do their crafts. It seems, however, that I was previously inconsiderate in my ignorance.”
The ants had reached the back of Geralt’s neck. For a second he feared that Emhyr would apologize again, but the silence stretched. The dance square had dissolved into freely waltzing couples. They watched side by side how Ciri laughed with the knights she passed by, smiled at her court ladies, and recited empty yet thoughtful pleasantries to nobles, before returning her attention to her groom and giving him a sly look that promised water in the desert.
Emhyr leant closer to Geralt and said in a low voice: “The newly wed will hardly stay much longer. The transition might go more fluently if the emperor had already withdrawn to his chambers. The day has indeed been long.”
“What, don’t you Nilfgaardians tend to oversee the consummation?”
“Long ago the wedding ribbon had enough spells to tie together two bears. It’s been a hundred years since, and the ribbon is just a ribbon.”
Geralt smiled and bent his head towards Emhyr. He could taste the anticipation on the tip of his tongue. “Very modern. But I was just presented with an invitation I don’t intend to turn down.”
Emhyr set his half-filled glass on the tongue of the wagon and turned to the dance floor: “Last official congratulations are in place, I think.”
Ciri’s joy was immediate and real, though a wink told Geralt that the enamoured act was exactly that, an act – perhaps not counting a certain spark. Geralt stood idly by as Emhyr shook Morvran’s free hand and clumsily hugged Ciri. Then Emhyr turned towards the palace, two guards and a witcher in his steps. Geralt followed him to the entrance of the imperial chambers, where the guards took their stands with professionally neutral expressions, and finally to the bed chamber. There Emhyr’s unfaltering steps came to a stop.
“It would be highly embarrassing if there was a misunderstanding”, Emhyr began, but fell silent as Geralt stopped so close that there simply wasn’t room for a misunderstanding between them.
“I didn’t exactly come here to play Gwent and have a civilized discussion of politics”, Geralt said. “Although that wouldn’t be an impossibility at some later time.”
Emhyr looked at him for a long time. The dim light appeared only as colourlessness to Geralt, and the uncertainty showing clearly on Emhyr’s face made his heart skip a beat. Slowly Emhyr reached out his arm and pressed his hand against Geralt’s chest without taking his eyes off his for a second. The warmth that spread from the touch point had nothing to do with body warmth. A slow ballad wafted from the gardens, one of Dandelion’s favourites. He doubted Emhyr’s ears could make it out.
“You really haven’t… Since Pavetta?” Geralt asked. His voice was rough.
“How could I have trusted that the lover I let close wouldn’t be an assassin?” Emhyr stated matter-of-factly.
“I should probably thank you for your trust.”
“You don’t ever need to thank me for anything”, Emhyr’s words were warm on Geralt’s face. Geralt had enjoyed the wine with restraint, but now he felt intoxicated from Emhyr’s scent, the musk in the air, dark and sweet. Despite his questionable history as the sharer of unwanted kisses, or maybe precisely because of that, Geralt felt condemned to wait. Emhyr’s fingers pressed to his chin. His unnervingly close gaze studied his face. And then lips, unyielding and unrushed, were slowly pressed against his own. Geralt hummed, finally brought his hands on Emhyr’s shoulders and closed his eyes, tilting his head to give them more room. Emhyr’s hand reached to the back of his neck and the other grasped his forearm. Geralt coerced Emhyr’s lips to soften and open, and felt his quickening heartbeats on his tongue against his own.
Emhyr turned out to be as magnificent an improviser and strategist in bed as on the battlefield, and he hadn’t had the chance to fall into a rut over the years. That was what eventually led to his advantage.
At the breakfast Yennefer looked from him to Emhyr and back and laughed maliciously.
“You deserve each other”, Yen said. “You truly do. Congratulations, your highness. You’ve found a lifelong project. The work will never end too soon.”
“Yen”, Geralt started with exasperation, but didn’t get any further. Yennefer wasn’t deliberately mean, although she wasn’t trying to be considerate either. Yen had always been like that, which really was at the core of the problem. ‘Despite’ had never been enough.
“Thank you for your blessing, lady Yennefer”, Emhyr said and lowered his hand lightly on Geralt’s lower back. Geralt’s eyes widened. Emhyr pinned Yennefer down with his gaze, and even Yen was forced to straighten under the weight of the gaze of Emhyr var Emreis.
Ciri, who sat content next to Morvran with a golden ribbon in her hair and was happily peeling an orange, glanced at them and widened her eyes as big as Geralt’s.
“What the hell?”
“Cirilla”, Emhyr wrinkled his nose.
“I can’t believe this. You, and you – all this time”, Ciri said and sought support from Yennefer, who raised an eyebrow. Ciri’s grin reached from ear to ear.
“I thought I would be a secret”, Geralt muttered with a lowered voice from the corner of his mouth.
“There are only court secrets in court, and those aren’t secret at all”, Emhyr said evenly and stroked Geralt’s back. Geralt focused on his plate and cutting a pastry that resembled a pancake but was nothing like it. Emhyr’s warm dark scent mixed with Yennefer’s lilac and gooseberries, and the smell of the acidic coffee with berry notes that had been produced in Zerrikania and was a symbol of Nilfgaard’s reach.
“Well, how was the first wedding night?” Yen inquired from Ciri.
“Not the first”, Ciri said and laughed at Emhyr’s expression. Geralt glanced at Morvran and his reddening face on Ciri’s other side and thought that maybe Ciri really knew what she was doing.
“So that you know, I am not sharing you with Yennefer of Vengerberg”, Emhyr said quietly to only Geralt.
“Great, she wouldn’t have shared with you either”, Geralt grimaced.
It would be best if at least Ciri knew what she was doing. He himself seemed to have no idea what he had committed to for possibly a lifetime.
~
“I don’t know if I can give you the length of your life”, Geralt confessed quietly three years later, “But I can promise you my lifetime, however long or short it may end up being.”
The following sight was perhaps even rarer than a golden dragon: The Emperor of Nilfgaard hid his face in the chest of a witcher and wept.