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The world around him was finally starting to blur, turning into a multicolored array of nonsense. Poetical, thought the troubadour cheerfully.
Dandelion closed his eyes, taking another long drink from his beer. He’d finished his performance for the night, slipped away from the adoring fans, and found himself a quiet corner to curl into. All he had - all he needed - was his alcohol.
He always needed a drink after his performances and - more often than not - before them. It was the only way he could handle singing about Geralt. Of course, people had told him to simply find other muses, something less traumatic to sing about, but he couldn’t. If the White Wolf couldn’t live on in actuality, then he would live on in song. It was Dandelion’s duty to him.
The best thing about his current state of inebriation was that if he squinted, the innkeeper’s aged friend could almost pass for a certain white-haired Witcher.
“Dandelion.”
“Not now,” he said without looking at the speaker, motioning them away with a wave of his hand.
“Dandelion!”
“I’m hardly in a state for conversations with fans at the moment.”
“What about old friends, ya bastard?”
The poet’s eyes snapped open. “Zoltan? Zoltan!” Dandelion felt a smile spread across his face. “Why, I can’t say no to such a familiar face! Come, sit with me! What brings you to Vizima?”
“If its familiar faces you’re lookin’ for, then have I got news for you lad.” Zoltan bounced into the booth across from the poet. Without asking, he grabbed Dandelion’s tankard and drained nearly half of what was left.
“What familiar face are you referring to, Zoltan? My friend Shani is in town, but I’m not certain you’ve met her-”
“It’s not Shani, laddie,” Zoltan said heavily. The dwarf tapped his fingers on the table, watching Dandelion. “Geralt’s back.”
Dandelion froze. “I’m sorry?” he asked. “For a moment there my friend, I almost thought you’d said-”
“Geralt of Rivia is alive.”
“That’s not funny,” Dandelion hissed. He waved over the waiter, taking another beer from the tray, downing half of it in one gulp.
“It’s not meant to be!” argued Zoltan. “Dandelion, I saw ‘im with my own eyes!”
Dandelion’s hands shook. He blinked, struggling to focus on Zoltan. After a moment, the three fuzzy figures merged into one, but just as quickly, they slipped back apart. “You-” Dandelion snarled “are lying! Do you want to talk about things we saw with our own eyes, Zoltan?”
“Dandelion-“
“Because I was there. I saw the pitchfork. He slammed a fist on the table, hard enough to make the entire table shake. “I watched Geralt bleed out on that- that flithy street-”
“Aye,” said Zoltan. “So did I laddie, but-”
“Fuck off.”
“Listen, friend-”
“Friend?” Dandelion whispered, he leaned forward, until his face was level with Zoltan’s. His sides were heaving, barely able to pull enough oxygen into his lungs. “So you want to talk about friends, Zoltan? Because my friend Geralt died protecting non-humans. And only one of the two of us is a non-human.” He’d regret it in the morning, but at the moment, all that mattered was the gaping wound in his chest and the scab that Zoltan had ripped off of it.
His eyes refused to focus on Zoltan, so he couldn’t see the dwarf’s face, but he heard him whisper, “Dandelion-“
“So you cause his death and then you- you come here and lie to me?”
“Oh laddie,” murmured Zoltan. “I’d heard ya’d gained a love for drink, but I had no idea how bad it had gotten.”
“This has nothing to do with my drinking!” He took another swig of his drink. “Geralt’s not back? Do you know how I know that?”
“Because ya saw ‘im die?” Zoltan guessed dryly.
“No. Because if Geralt were back, he’d have told me.”
“Dandelion he- he don’t remember anything. Barely knew his own name, certainly not mine.”
“Excuses!” snapped Dandelion. He pushed himself to his feet, fumbling for a coin to pay for his drinks. To his surprise, Zoltan left a coin on the table for him. He grit his teeth, refusing to thank the dwarf.
“Dandelion, when ya sober up, why don’t ya-”
“Why would I want to sober up?” He leaned over, looming in the dwarf’s face. “Fuck off back to your whore, Zoltan.”