Chapter Text
Vizima, in the height of the plague, was a horrible place to be.
Geralt didn’t have anything to compare it to - although he was certain he’d been there before, he couldn’t remember it - but even then, he found it horrible. He couldn’t wait to leave, and not just because he couldn’t wait to be done with the Salamandra investigation. Hopefully, that would bring him one step closer to finding out what had happened to him.
The first time he heard his name - a distant cry of ‘Geralt!’ - he shook his head and told himself that he must be imagining it.
He kept walking, his cat’s eyes scanning the crowd. But there was no sign of a speaker.
“Geralt!” That time, he was certain he heard it, but he gave no sign. It wasn’t a familiar voice, and if it wasn’t Zoltan or Shani (the only two people in the city that he was at least somewhat certain he could trust) then he wasn’t interested. There were too many people that were out to kill him.
“Geralt of Rivia- come back here you horse’s ARSE!”
The Witcher finally stopped, looking back over his shoulder. Most of the people on the street were going about their own business, barely looking up at the sound of shouting. But there was one- Geralt did a double-take.
The man racing toward him, was quite possibly the strangest person he’d ever seen. He had dark hair, held back from his head by a leather cord, and his outfit was made of a plethora of different fabrics, all entirely different textures and patterns, although mostly in muted blue and red. Bouncing over his shoulder was a lute.
The unfamiliar minstrel finally reached him, panting slightly and out of breath from the chase. He wasted no time in grabbing Geralt’s shirt, then running his hands over the Witcher’s shoulders, as if checking that he was real. With the man so close, Geralt could easily smell the alcohol on his breath.
Although highly tempted to pull out a blade, Geralt contented himself with just shoving the man away. “I- Geralt! Geralt what are-” The musician stumbled back. Geralt hadn’t hit him too hard, so the shove must have caught him off guard. Interesting, thought the Witcher. He thought I’d be alright with being grabbed. Either that, or he’s just soused.
“Do I know you?” He would be surprised, because he clearly knows a lot of people. He just can’t place how - or why - he would know such a strange and flamboyant man.
The man’s face fell, almost comically. That expression - Geralt thought - ought to be only allowed on very cute children or puppies. Not full-grown men.
“You- you really don’t remember anything?”
“No.”
“Zoltan said you had memory problems, but I- I thought you couldn’t possibly have forgotten me.”
“I remember nothing.”
The minstrel looked around, as though expecting an answer to jump out at him from the side streets. When nothing came, he adjusted his lute, straightened his shirt, and held out his hand to Geralt. “The great Dandelion, at your service.”
Geralt didn’t take the proffered hand. “I thought we’d already met. That’s what you said.”
“We have! At a fête in Gulet, but-” Dandelion - and that topped the list of the strangest names he’d ever heard - shrugged, pulling his hand back awkwardly. “Ah, look Geralt- uh, how about I treat you to a drink?”
“Why?”
“You must have questions! And well, if it hadn’t been Zoltan who said they’d seen you, I would never have believed it. Never! But I-”
“You’re still not certain I’m real.”
“I’ve had a bit to drink,” he confessed, shrugging and fiddling with his lute strap again.
“I can smell it,” Geralt promised.
Dandelion almost looked as though he expected Geralt to say something - should he scold him? Is that what he would have done? - but when no such reaction came, he said, “Please, Geralt, let me treat you to a drink.”
“I’m working.”
“Perhaps I could help you! I know a lot of people! What is it you’re looking for?”
“Why should I trust you?”
Again, Dandelion seemed crestfallen. “I- Geralt, I’m your friend." He paused, then quickly said, "I'll tell you what, I’ll help you, but you don’t have to tell me what I’m helping with.”
Geralt looked at the man and sighed. Something told him he wasn’t going to get rid of him very easily. “A drink it is,” he said, and Dandelion’s face lit up. “I’d like to know about my so-called death.”
“It wasn’t so-called,” Dandelion said, hurrying off down the street, clearly expecting Geralt to follow him. With a sigh, the Witcher strode after him. “I was there, Geralt. It was a very real, very dead, death.” He shivered at just the mention of it. If he was acting, he was doing a very good job of it.
“How’d I die?”
“We were drinking - ah, all of us - the Hansa - oh, you don’t know who that is, do you?”
“No.”
“You, me, Zoltan, Yarpen, Cahir, Milva, Angouleme, and Regis- ah, Regis wasn’t there.”
Clearly he expected a reaction to the names, but Geralt only nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“We were sitting in a tavern, drinking, eating - I suppose you don’t care what we were eating? There was a riot, people came to kill the non-humans, and you- you thought you could frighten them off! I should have stopped you, I’ve replayed the scene a thousand times in my mind I-” His voice grew faster and more agitated the longer he spoke. Then he stopped, sighed, and almost whispered, “You were stabbed with a pitchfork. There was nothing we could do.” Dandelion shivered, clutching the strap of his lute.
“And you buried me?”
“Well, no, not exactly.” Dandelion shrugged, scratching at his hair, then patting it down, as though afraid he’d messed it up. “We put you in a boat, there was a unicorn-”
“How drunk are you, bard?”
“Not too drunk to remember the worst night of my life,” grumbled the minstrel.
“It sounds more like a ballad than the truth, and I’ve heard mention of you. They say you spin great tales-”
“Yes, I lie in ballads, Geralt! But I wouldn’t lie to you!” He stopped, then nodded to a door. “There’s the tavern,” he said softly. “Have a seat, I’ll order.”