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If someone had told Emhyr, even just a few weeks ago, that he would be fucking a Witcher he would have promptly had them dragged off to the mad house. Or executed, depending on his mood. 

Even now, with a contented and surprisingly tactile Witcher sprawled out purring in his bed, Emhyr was hard pressed to pinpoint the exact moment when this became more than just some ludicrous day dream. 

(All of which just went to show that even the Emperor of Nilfgaard could be caught off guard once in a while.) 

The first time he had met Geralt, Emhyr was still very young. Mourning the loss of his entire family, struggling under the burden of a curse, newly in love, and trying not to get killed by the ferocious Queen of Cintra, Emhyr had been a little too preoccupied to truly appreciate the Witcher at the time, despite Geralt’s integral role in lifting his curse. 

Much later, after he had successfully regained his throne (and lost the love of his life) and was in the middle of conquering the North, he met the Witcher again. 

However, as before, he was preoccupied. He was desperate to find his daughter and secure his throne. And furthermore he was distracted by the confusing mix of emotions that seeing the Witcher caused (gratitude for lifting the curse, and embarrassment as well, and resentment that he should have had the relationship with Cirilla that Emhyr had been robbed of) in order to spare him any more thoughts than how useful he could be in reacquiring said daughter. 

It wasn’t until Cirilla (who still insisted on being called Ciri) was finally returned and agreed to assuming her rightful role as heir to the Nilfgaardian empire that Emhyr found any time to consider the Witcher as something more than a means to an end. 

As a general rule, Emhyr was not in the habit of underestimating people. In fact, he prided himself on his ability to successfully read people, their intentions, their desires, and their abilities. Sometimes better than they could know themselves. It was one of many talents which had gotten him to where he was now. 

For example, he knew that most people considered Witcher’s to be little better than monsters themselves, and rarely looked past their physical abilities to consider that they might be more than just thoughtless tools for pest control. 

In Geralt’s case, it was particularly easy to see how people might look at his physical form and then fail to look further. The Witcher was tall with broad shoulders, which he often put to good use for looming aggressively over people who annoyed him. His nails were always a little too sharp to be normal, and his teeth just a little too long. Finally, his cat eyes and snow white hair made it impossible to mistake him for anything else then what he was, a Witcher.

And of course, Geralt’s movements, which were always forceful and precise and left absolutely no doubt as to his ability with a sword. 

As Emperor, Emhyr was constantly surrounded by the best swordsmen the Empire had to offer, and he was no stranger to the kind of instinctual grace that marked a skilled warrior. Geralt had all of that in spades, and carried with him a kind of miasma of violence that promised that even unarmed and at rest, the Witcher could explode into deadly motion at any moment.

But Emhyr also found himself noting things which did not fit into the image of a ruthless, brutish, killer. Geralt’s tall frame, so good for intimidation, would often curl in on itself whenever the Witcher spoke to those whom he didn’t wish to frighten. And he had a slender waist and narrow hips, which lent him a kind of lean grace. His face, under the brooding frowns and scars, was handsome, almost regal. And his eyes, so strange upon the first take, were keen and sharp, betraying a mind as agile and swift as his blades. 

And then there was everything else about Geralt, which Emhyr carefully noted and filed away. Gathering little bits here and there like the pieces to an exceedingly complicated puzzle. Details about the elusive White Wolf, which when found, only made him hungry for more.

When Ciri had first convinced Geralt to join her in the Nilfgaardian capital Emhyr had been certain it would only be temporary. 

The Witcher would stay long enough to see his surrogate daughter safely settled (or as safe as could be in the imperial court) before riding off again to resume his Witcherly duties. 

And indeed, at first it appeared that that would be the case.

Geralt lasted about two weeks, during which Emhyr’s spies informed him that he did nothing more suspicious than wander aimlessly through the palace halls, brood in his chambers, and train by himself in one of the more secluded courtyards. 

Whenever Ciri could spare a moment between courtly lessons and her growing list of imperial duties, Geralt would show up to spend an evening with her, either in her chambers playing Gwent or sparing in her private gardens. 

At Ciri’s insistence, he even showed up for a family dinner, but the Witcher stayed stubbornly mute for most of the evening and the conversation was left up to Emhyr and Ciri. Oddly enough, the whole evening Emhyr couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the Witcher was studying him as if he were taking some form of test, but whenever he tried to meet his golden eyes, Geralt became intently fascinated with his cutlery. 

A few days later the Witcher disappeared, so Emhyr put the incident out of his mind. 

That was his first mistake, he figured, as not three days later the Witcher reappeared.

Apparently, according to Ciri, Geralt had merely gotten bored and had taken a contract to clear the city’s sewers of a bullywug infestation. 

Emhyr carefully did not ask what a bullywug was, but he did discreetly have a bestiary ordered and sent up to his rooms. 

After that incident Emhyr made sure to have at least one spy following Geralt at all times, in the hopes of staying alerted to any further monster activity, only to be informed by a trembling spy two days later that the Witcher had gone on a walk through the city and had somehow managed to give him the slip. 

Emhyr was not in the habit of letting such mistakes go unpunished, but the spy also happened to have a letter in hand, a scrap of paper which the Witcher had conveniently let drop before disappearing. It was written in Geralt’s spidery and outdated spelling and told Emhyr in no uncertain terms that the spy was not to be blamed for his failure and should come to no harm. 

Furious, Emhyr dismissed the spy and went to find Ciri. If anyone knew where the Witcher was, it would be her. 

However, Ciri was surprisingly unhelpful and finally snapped that if Emhyr had wanted to drive Geralt from the palace, sticking a spy on him was a good way to do it. 

Frustrated beyond words, Emhyr spent the rest of the day short tempered and snapping uselessly at everyone around him until his entire staff, professional as they were, were left trembling with relief when he finally called the days work finished and retired to his room. 

Only, this was apparently not to be the end to his troubles. 

Emhyr var Emreis did not shriek like a startled child when he walked into his private chambers to find Geralt lounging comfortably in his favorite armchair. 

(If the Witcher told a different version of events than they were slanderous lies meant to undermine the authority of the Emperor.)

Emhyr was, however, very startled to find the Witcher in his room. Startled, and annoyed.

After all, he was guarded night and day by a small army of carefully hand selected soldiers who, not counting the slew of spells and other small cantrips layered throughout the palace, should make sneaking into his private rooms undetected impossible. 

So of course the insolent Witcher had to add insult to injury when he finally decided to make himself found by proving all of Emhyr’s carefully planned protection useless. 

Emhyr opened his mouth to demand how the Witcher had gotten past his guards when he was rudely cut off. “Did you know that you’ve gone somewhat senile in your old age?” The smirking Witcher said. “Apparently, you’ve let a barbaric Nordling have free range in the palace, and people are beginning to wonder about your sanity.”

“I beg your pardon?” Emhyr asked, mouth agape. He was too tired to put up with this bullshit.

“I spent the day exploring the city, and I overheard some very interesting things on the street.” Geralt shrugged casually, but his eyes were bright and fixed on Emhyr.

“Rumors, you mean.You never struck me as the kind to indulge in idle gossip, Witcher.”

“Idle? Maybe. But what happens when those idle rumors make it to the palace? You got a plan for when your nobles start claiming you’ve become the mindless puppet of a barbaric Nordling mutant? What happens when they start questioning your power?” Geralt’s voice remained even, but Emhyr would have to be a fool to miss the tension underneath. 

“I’m touched that you should concern yourself for my political well being in such a way, but I assure you, I have never let rumors threaten me and I don’t intend to start.” Emhyr made no attempts to hide the tension in his own voice. “Now, would you care to explain why you have found it necessary to ambush me in my own chambers? And at such a late hour as this?”

Geralt grinned without any humor and stood. He was dressed, as always, in armor with his two swords protruding over his shoulder. “Hmmm. Don’t sic your dogs on me. I’m here for Ciri, and I’ll play nice if it means keeping her safe. But don’t mistake me for one of your lackeys and don’t ever presume to have me followed again.”

It was, perhaps, one of the longest speeches Emhyr had ever heard Geralt make. But beyond his surprise at hearing so many words come out of the usually sullen Witcher’s mouth, Emhyr also could not deny a shiver of fear. In that moment, his brain did not care that he was the Emperor of Nilfgaard and had the world’s largest army at his beck and call. All it noticed was that before him stood a predator, a hunter of legend, and he was but a single man. And that would absolutely not do.

“Is that a threat, Witcher? Because such a thing would not be wise. Must I remind you what would happen to the Empire, what would happen to Cirilla, should I die?” 

“Not a threat. Just a message. Idle gossip, if you will. Something for you to consider.” 

With that, the Witcher walked unhurriedly to the door. With his hand on the door knob, he turned and said softly, as if he hadn’t just threatened the Emperor of Nilfgaard in his own rooms, “Good night, Emhyr. See you around.” 

Once the door shut behind him and the startled comments of his guards were muffled, Emhyr let himself sink down into the same chair which Geralt had vacated. His heart was beating too fast and his hands were clammy. A reaction which he hadn’t had since his earliest days in command. 

Idle gossip. Had the Witcher, a being who was no doubt capable of killing him a dozen different ways with his bare hands, just threaten to unseat him using idle gossip and malicious rumors? A startled, fierce grin spread across his face. 

Some part of him thought that he should be worried. That perhaps he should talk to Ciri about sending Geralt away. But another part, a much larger part, couldn’t help but be pleasantly surprised. 

This, now this, was a challenge that he could enjoy. A Witcher who could dance with words as well as swords. Emhyr was beginning to see that he had underestimated Geralt despite all his efforts not to, and he resolved then and there never to be so caught off guard by him again.

Once Emhyr resolved to paying closer attention, there were several things which he learned about the Witcher that forced him to reevaluate everything which he had ever taken for granted, not only about Witchers in general but about Geralt in particular. 

Of course, he did nothing so banal as to ask Ciri about her foster father. Ciri could have an awfully colorful imagination and Emhyr had no wish to hear what conclusions she might draw from such an enquiry. Instead, he simply sought to spend strategic amounts of time in the Witchers presence and observe him himself. 

Geralt, as the surrogate father of the Princess, had been given a suite of rooms in the family wing of the palace. These rooms included a lavish living room for receiving private guests, an office with a small library of books, as well as a bedroom and a private bath. The rooms even included a balcony overlooking the royal gardens, reserved exclusively for the imperial family. 

Emhyr admitted that bestowing such a privilege upon someone who was still primarily seen as a barbarian Nordling might have caused a small stir amongst the court, but all things considered he had seen no reason to deny Ciri’s wish in keeping her foster father close. But the first time that he had cause to visit the Witcher in his private chambers, he saw that it wasn’t the court he should have been worried about, but Geralt himself.

The Witcher, it was obvious, had no idea what to do with such a space. 

The living room, which usually was set up so that it could cater to everything from a gathering of friends over a round of cards and drinks, to a small dinner between family or just a quiet evening spent reading by the fire, had been completely upturned. 

The sofa and matching settee had been moved into a far corner along with several of the delicate side tables. 

In their usual place, the dining table had been pushed in front of the fireplace and was now groaning under the weight of a variety of tools, ranging from alchemical equipment to spare pieces of armor. 

The carefully selected paintings and sculptures which had been chosen to decorate the room had been repurposed for target practice, judging by the numerous holes they now sported. 

Furthermore, a clothes line had been strung up and was currently holding up several bunches of strange herbs, which filled the room with a faint botanical smell as they dried. 

But more importantly, there were little details that caught Emhyr’s eyes and revealed startling insight into Geralt’s life.

Amongst the semi contained chaos, there was evidence of hoarding. Little bits and pieces of leather, which would have been tossed out by the cobbler or the saddle maker as too small but which would be useful to a traveling warrior for patching up armor or clothes. Carefully tucked away in a corner was a small pile of broken jewelry and cracked jems, things which noblewomen threw away without a second thought but could still be traded for a decent price at the right markets. And most tellingly, the small pile of carefully wrapped food placed carefully along a shelf. As if even here, in the center of the wealthiest empire on the continent, the Witcher might run out of food. 

These were things which Emhyr was sure he would not have noticed had he not spent time in the wilderness himself. Had he not known what it was to survive just barely on other people’s throw aways. Had he not had first hand knowledge of what it was like to never know where or if the next meal was coming or whether his cloak would survive the next winter or if he would be able to find shoes before the snows set in. 

The urge to hoard and scavenge had been one which he himself had had to shake after returning to palace life and all the luxuries it entailed. But seeing such a capable man as Geralt exhibit signs of starvation and want, signs that he had also known times of depravation, made something unpleasant and unfamiliar twist in Emhyr’s chest.

It was not his place to protect the Witcher, nor to concern himself with his emotional well being. 

The fact that this did not stop Emhyr from laying restlessly awake at night, mind going over and over every little bit of knowledge he could gleam about the Witcher.

But that was just another thing which he refused to acknowledge in the light of day.

Over family dinners he learned that Witcher’s acute sense extended beyond the realm of seeing and hearing. 

After the incident with the spy, Geralt had become oddly more talkative during these little meetings. As if now that he had made his position known, he felt freer to add his voice to their conversation. So when Emhyr remarked that Geralt seemed to be enjoying the wine one evening, he was treated to a lengthy description noting not only the wine’s scent and flavor pallet, but also the likely variety and growing conditions of the grapes as well as the condition of the equipment used to ferment it in. All of this, a laughing Ciri explained, came from Geralt’s acute sense of taste and smell, and not because he had been lurking in the wine cellars memorizing the labels. 

Emhyr grudgingly accepted this new fact. It wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed that the rumors of Witcher’s astonishing senses were not exaggerated. He had noticed how Geralt would often seem to react, in subtle, minute twitches before his obvious control reined in the movements, to sounds which no one else seemed to hear. He had also not missed the way his eyes seemed to track movement even through shadows way to dark for human eyes to see through. But to realize that this extended to smell and taste as well made Emhyr reassess. 

After some consideration, he ordered that no powerful scents or perfumes were to be used when cleaning the Witchers chambers, and that extra care be given that his food not be over salted or otherwise offensively flavored.

Over games of gwent, which Emhyr diplomatically invited the Witcher to as a gesture of amiability for Ciri’s sake and not because Emhyr had not had a worthy opponent for years, Emhyr learned the true extent of Geralt’s intelligence. The Witcher was not classically trained in military strategy, that was clear, but that did not stop him from being a deadly opponent. He approached every problem from an unconventional angle that refused to fall into any kind of pattern which Emhyr could figure out. One moment the Witcher would be charging in headfirst, recklessly playing cards as if he were a beginner, only to turn around with a move of startling genius such that Emhyr could not help but be impressed. 

Over conversation which ranged from the political to the philosophical, Emhyr learned that though the Witcher was inherently an honest creature, who spoke his mind without bothering to sugar coat or soften any of his edges, he could also be surprisingly cunning. He never missed a beat when Emhyr tried to throw him with the complicated double speak of court, and always returned with a barbed remark of his own. 

In fact, Geralt’s comments often proved so insightful that Emhyr found himself asking the Witcher’s advice on certain complicated issues. Though Geralt never showed an interest in attending any court functions, he would always take the time to ponder the question seriously before returning with an answer. Sometimes even providing evidence, gathered no doubt thanks to his acute senses, about the comings and goings of various figures which had otherwise been unknown. He also had an ability to assess the atmosphere of place just by walking the streets, and always seemed to know what kinds of trouble were stirring amongst the common folk in the city below.

All in all, he proved incredibly useful. And Emhyr was beginning to suspect that the Witcher was purposefully involving himself in politics, and futhermore, was enjoying it. 

Over increasingly frequent meetings to discuss said political issues, Emhyr was slowly able to see more and more of Geralt’s personality. It was like watching an incredibly delicate flower unfold before his eyes, seeing how the Witcher could go from monosyllabic to a full conversationalist if only provided the correct environment. Geralt’s humor ran towards the bone dry, such that his sarcasm could easily be overlooked. But every time Geralt made some disparaging comment about a ridiculous noble who had been deluded enough to proposition him or try and draw him into some scheme or another, Emhyr found himself struggling not to laugh. Geralt had a way of seeing through people that was truly refreshing after so long surrounded by sycophants and liars.

But it was also clear that Geralt was no stranger to the darker sides of life. He had no delusions as to the atrocities that could be committed by humans. Royal, noble, and peasants alike. Though Geralt guarded his past closer than a dragon did its hoard, it was clear that he often spoke from experience. And at times he spoke with such a defeated kind of acceptance, that the look in his eyes reminded Emhyr painstakingly of the elven ruins which dotted the landscape of Toussaint. Beautiful, and old, and worn down through time and violence into a ghost of their former self. 

Emhyr was not a soft man. He did not delude himself about the nature of his conquest. He had a reputation for ruthlessness which was well earned, and the floor of his ballroom was just one example of that. But sometimes he caught himself wanting to know what had caused that look in the Witcher’s eyes. Better yet, he wanted to know who had caused that look and he wanted to hunt them down, if they were still alive.

All told, Emhyr found himself spending an increasing amount of time with the Witcher.

Geralt still went out on his own from time to time, taking contracts or just exploring the city, and even when at the palace he was often wont to vanish into a secluded corner to brood every once in a while. But slowly the Witcher was becoming a fixture in Emhyr’s days.

 Now, if only he could decide if that was a good thing or not.

A few days later Geralt had disappeared on another one of his hunts, unannounced as always. Ciri mentioned something about workers at a new dam experiencing some mysterious accidents over breakfast and Emhyr left it at that.

However, that very evening, he was met by a frantic servant begging that his Imperial Highness please come down to the water gardens in the east wing and stop the lunatic Nordling from calling down evil spirits. Confused and already exasperated, Emhyr went to go see what sort of trouble Geralt was stirring up this time.

What he found was several nervous guards and worried looking servants huddled around the entrance to the water gardens while a hassled looking Geralt tried to explain something to the guard captain who was pointing angrily at a thing behind the Witcher. 

The thing turned out to be a vodyanoy, some kind of frog like water spirit, that had been causing trouble after the construction for the dam destroyed his home. Geralt had apparently taken pity on the creature and had offered it a new home in the palace water gardens. Where now half of the palace staff were convinced he had let some evil being into their home to wreck havoc and bring down all manner of bad luck, ranging from soured milk to erectile dysfunction. 

Once the spectating crowd was sent away and it was just Geralt and Emhyr with his personal guard, the Emperor turned to the Witcher and demanded, “What exactly is a Vodyanoy and why are you bringing one into my garden?” 

The Witcher at least had the sense to look sheepish. “They’re harmless water spirits, really. Only interested in looking after whatever body of water they’ve decided to live in. Usually ponds and swamps and things like that. Frankly I was surprised to find one living in a river. I think Lilly will be much happier in your pond.”

“Lilly?”

“Yes, the Vodyanoy’s name. He told me on the walk over here.” 

“He. His name is Lilly.”

“Well, yes. Did you expect spirits to have the same gender norms as humans?” 

To be frank, Emhyr had not thought about it at all, but now that he did he supposed it made sense. 

The spirit in question, a strange frog like creature the size of a dog and with a face like an old man, was apparently paying absolutely no attention to their conversation, and was instead happily splashing through the decorative pond in the center of the courtyard. 

The water gardens were one of many themed gardens which could be found throughout the palace, though it was perhaps one of the larger ones. Located in the east wing of the palace, it consisted of a large open air space carefully designed to look like a pleasant mountain spring. A series of man made waterfalls fell into a pond filled with water lilies and surrounded by lush vegetation. A small open space acted like a meadow of sorts, while the edges of the yard were planted with a variety of trees, many of them flowering, so that the whole space was filled with the delicate scent of blossoms. It was, Emhyr had to concede, the perfect space for a water spirit. Granted of course, that said spirit was friendly.

“And what exactly, am I meant to do with this spirit?” He demanded.

“Do with it?” Geralt looked very puzzled.

“Yes. Do with it. When it gets hungry or bored and decides that one of my gardeners would make an excellent snack.”

A particular stubborn glint entered the Witcher’s eyes. He crossed his arms and took a deep breath to respond. “Well, if you’re really worried about him going hungry, you could always have the servants bring him some flies. Though I’ve also heard of Vodyanoy eating small rodents. Other than that, you really don’t have to worry. As long as the gardeners don’t try to pollute or otherwise taint the water, he’ll be perfectly happy to leave them in peace. In fact, he might even try and help them, if he sees them taking good care of the garden. Vodyanoy are primarily helpful spirits, it’s only when their habitat gets destroyed that they become angry.” As always, one of the few sure fire ways to get Geralt to talk was to ask him about monsters.

Emhyr sighed. He knew when he had been defeated. “And what happens when the gardeners refuse to work here because of the presence of a spirt they take to be malicious?” He tried one last effort.

“Then tell them to come talk to me. Or find others who are less superstitious. Look, I know this isn’t a small thing, to take a spirit in, but this was the only way I could think of to solve the issue without resorting to violence. It was either this or convince the crew to stop building the dam, and something tells me you would have liked that even less.” Geralt said somewhat petulantly. 

But Emhyr could not find it within himself to disagree. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to find the Witcher refusing to kill what he clearly considered a friendly creature. Others might have found such kindness in a trained killer shocking, but Emhyr had not needed long to notice that the Witcher carried with him his own peculiar brand of justice. And if a long life of violence had yet to dissuade him from it, then Emhyr doubted that he would fair much better.

However, one last thought occurred to him before he could admit his capitulation. “What of your employer? I’m assuming the contract was for a dead monster, not a relocated one.”

Oddly enough, the Witcher looked guilty and turned away, raising one hand to scratch the back of his head. “Well, umm, about that. I’ve not been taking contracts per se, exactly. More like, just picking up on some odd rumors here and there and checking them out.”

“you mean to tell me this whole time you’ve been off hunting bullywugs and what not through the sewers of Nilfgaard for free?” Emhyr exclaimed.

“Hmm. Well, not like I exactly need the money or anything right now.” The Witcher replied, shrugging. 

“Yes. But why risk your life if there is no reward in it?” As far as Emhyr knew, Witchers worked purely on a for hire basis, and were not in the habit of doing charity work.

But Geralt only looked at him and said, “I’m a Witcher. What else would I be doing?”

Emhyr found he did not have an answer for that.

Not all of Geralt’s hunts, however, proved to be as friendly as Lilly. 

A week later Geralt returned from a hunt covered in blood. Emhyr only heard the details of his arrival much later, of how he stumbled to one of the palace side entrances only to pass out before the guards could let him in. Someone who was quick thinking and should probably be given a promotion had thought to alert Ciri, and she was able to portal Geralt’s unconscious form into his room. 

Witcher’s, however, do not stay unconscious for long, and it was about as Geralt was waking up that Emhyr himself strode into the room.

He had been alerted by a frantic servant, and luckily had been a short hallway down in his private study. He still found himself almost running.

When he burst into Geralt’s chambers, the Witcher was splayed out in his bloody armor on the cleared rug in front of the fire place. His overladen table had been shoved unceremoniously out of the way to give space for a frantic Ciri who was trying her best to tend to her father while a small flock of servants and guards fluttered uselessly around the space. When Emhyr stormed in with his personal guard trailing him nervously, Geralt pushed against Ciri’s hands to lift himself as close to sitting as he could, a fierce, desperate snarl twisting his features. Feebly, his bloody hand reached for his sword.

Before he could think his reaction through, Emhyr was yelling, “Out!” In his most imperial tones of command. Everyone except Ciri scurried to obey him and he was finally able to get a good look at the damage that the Witcher had sustained.

With the crowd of onlookers gone, whatever strength had allowed the Witcher to hold himself up left him and he collapsed back with a groan. Through all the blood and the obvious mess of his armor, Emhyr could make out what looked like several long spikes protruding from the Witcher’s side. Two of them were through his arm.

“We need to get you a doctor. Ciri-“

“Emhyr, I don’t think….”

“No!”

It was Geralt’s half ruined voice that stopped him rather than Ciri’s words.

“What do you mean, no? You’re bleeding out. A doctor-“ Emhyr cried.

“No doctors. Just try to take me apart instead of putting me back together.” With his face inhumanly pale and covered in blood, Geralt’s sad attempt at a grin was more ghastly than anything else.

Emhyr looked toward Ciri, but she was only shaking her head. “Its true. A lot of doctors, especially mages, tend to see a wounded Witcher as an opportunity to collect samples. I think even if you could find a scrupulous one, Geralt would never let them close enough to help.”

While they were talking, Geralt had started up a low lingering growl again and was now reaching with a grunt of effort for one of the spikes in his arm. Ciri saw this and immediately knelt down to stop him.

“Geralt, wait! Let me help.”

“Then get on with it. Want them out.” His efforts had clearly agitated his wounds, and the small pool of blood forming on the ground spread considerably. 

“Shit. Ok. Can we get the armor off first?”

“No point. Golden Oriole. And…Black Blood. Get me a dose…”

“Black Blood? Right, of course. It will weaken the spores.”

Emhyr looked up in alarm. “Spores? What-“

“No time. Here.” Ciri had leapt over to the table and grabbed a couple of unlabeled bottles. One of which she thrust into Emhyr’s hands. “The spikes from the archspore will try to hold on. Geralt says a dose of Black Blood will weaken them and make them easier to pull out, but I need you to pour Golden Oriole on the wound when I pull them out, it will neutralize any toxins.”

“Cirilla-“

“Emhyr. I need you to hold him down while I pull out the spikes. Now!”

“He won’t let me close enough. He won’t even let a doctor-“

“He trusts you. Now, hold him! Please.” Ciri had already once again knelt at Geralt’s side and was giving him a desperate look before she poured whatever was in the second bottle down Geralt’s throat. The effect was immediate as darkened veins became visible across his face. His growl faded off more into a pained whimper, like a wounded animal. 

Well then, Emhyr supposed there was nothing left to it. He knelt uncertainly at Geralt’s head. This close, he could smell the copper of his blood and something foul like rotting fruit underneath it. His pupils were blown large and his pale hair was almost black with grit. Emhyr could not remember the last time he felt so small and ineffective. 

Ciri wasted no time, however, and quickly directed him to hold down Geralt’s shoulders while she lit a fire in the grate with a flick of her wrist and murmured spell. Then she was yanking out the first spike with a firm tug and there was no more room for doubt.

Each time she pulled out a spike, Geralt twisted with pain, and Emhyr was forced to use every bit of his strength just to keep the Witcher in place. As soon as the spike was out, Ciri would toss it into the fire behind her while Emhyr poured a measure of whatever pale liquid Ciri had pressed into his hand onto the fresh wound. In response, it would bubble and hiss, releasing more of that sickly sweet smell. Ciri had mentioned the need to neutralize toxins, and Emhyr wondered if that was the source of the smell.

Each spike, Emhyr was sickened to see, was coated in vicious looking hooks, ending in a splintered end that was clearly designed to make it impossible to remove without causing further damage first. But he was also able to see that whatever Ciri had dosed Geralt with, Black Blood they had called it, had had some effect. The spikes seemed somewhat wilted and their hooks softer. 

Finally, after what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, the last of the spikes was removed. 

Both Ciri and Emhyr sat back in a stunned kind of exhaustion. Ciri’s hands were shaking and Emhyr felt like he might be sick. 

Geralt laid between them heaving in panting breaths. His eyes, which had had a wild sheen to them just a few seconds earlier, were beginning to calm down. With a grunt, he made a sudden attempt to sit up, and both Ciri and Emhyr were thrust back into action.

“Geralt, stop it. You need to take it easy.”

“Witcher, you are full of holes, lay down.” Emhyr had just watched Ciri pull out over half a dozen hooked spikes out of Geralt’s flesh. The pool of blood was now a small lake beneath them. He was quite certain the Witcher should not be moving.

Geralt, of course, had other plans. “Get off.” His voice was impossibly rough and came out more of a growl than actual human speech. His teeth were bared and Emhyr noticed with some distant part of his brain that his fingers were leaving deep furrows in the floor where he was gripping with his nails. “Need to get off…”

“Yes. The armor. We need to get you bandaged.” Ciri starting puling at buckles and ties and somehow managed to wrestle the whole bloody thing off until Geralt was left in nothing but his pants. The damage to his chest and arm was even worse now that it wasn’t hidden. 

But Ciri seemed to be unaffected as she briskly set about cleaning the wounds as best she could before wrapping them in linen. 

Once that was completed Ciri once again enlisted Emhyr’s help, and somehow between the three of them they were able to stumble to Geralt’s bedroom and deposit him on his bed. 

After seeing her father settled, Ciri went back out to the living room, murmuring something about White Honey and making sure the last of the spikes had properly burned up.

That left Emhyr to stand awkwardly by Geralt’s bed, so he decided to sit. That wasn’t much better, since the only place to sit was on the bed itself, but exhaustion was threatening to let him fall to the floor otherwise so Emhyr lowered himself carefully to perch besides Geralt instead. 

Despite himself, he found himself studying the Witcher and the wounds which were now hidden under miles of bandages. Despite the prodigious amount of blood which had spilled onto the floor, Geralt showed very little signs of bleeding now. 

Underneath the linen wraps, Emhyr could see the evidence of hundreds of old injuries. Scars upon scars criss crossed the Witcher’s body to the point where Emhyr wondered if he could find even an inch of untouched skin anywhere.

Geralt, for his part, made no move to stop him looking, and only watched Emhyr’s face with hazy golden eyes.

“What were those things? The spikes?” Emhyr found himself asking.

“Archspores.” Geralt replied. “They can shoot spikes with tremendous force, as well as a kind of toxic gas” 

“And the…spores? That Ciri mentioned.”

“The spikes release spores into all of their victims. They quickly propagate in the blood and if left unchecked will turn the body into a fertilizer bed for new plants.” If he hadn’t just witnessed the entire bloody ordeal or seen Geralt wrapped in bandages, Emhyr would not have guessed from his voice that the Witcher was in any kind of pain. 

“And how was it that you came to be hunting these…archspores?” Emhyr asked.

Geralt sighed and closed his eyes. “Because of a stupid mistake, thats why. Was hunting a nest of zuegles, but the damn floor broke and there was a cellar, full of archspores. Had to set the whole place on fire after I got hit.”

“You set the cellar on fire? Does that mean-“

“Relax.” The Witcher murmured. “Its contained.”

“How can you be sure? In your state, you could have just set fire to a whole city block…”

“Emhyr.” Emhyr trailed off at the sound of his name. Geralt had opened his eyes again and was looking at him with something that could have been amusement. His hand stretched out and brushed against Emhyr’s knee where it was pulled up on the bed. “Its fine. The house was isolated enough, fire won’t be spreading.” 

His touch on Emhyr’s knee felt impossibly warm. As if in a trance, Emhyr watched his own hand reach out and settle against the top edge of the bandages, right against Geralt’s collar bone. 

So much evidence of violence, but where his hand touched the skin was warm and soft. 

Geralt made a low, rumbling sort of sound and tipped his head back, exposing his throat. It felt like the moment a skittish cat finally allowed a person close enough to touch. A moment of trust. 

Emhyr suddenly became very aware of Geralt’s body in a completely different way. He was aware, all of a sudden, of his state of undress and the intimate setting of the bedroom. He could feel, like a phantom, all of the places they had touched when he had been holding him down on the floor and then later as he helped to carry him into his room. 

He was aware of just how long it had been since he had had any kind of contact with another body outside of the most formal and regulated of occasions. 

Thankfully, Ciri chose that moment to return. 

She came in with another potion bottle as well as a cup of water which she set briskly down on the bedside table.

“Right. Well, glad to see you’ve managed to stay put, Geralt. Emhyr, Your guards are having a crisis outside the door, you might want to see to them.”

Emhyr felt like he had just been snapped out of a dream. He stood up on unsteady legs and cleared his throat. “Hm, Yes. Of course. Will you be needing anything else?” He did not look at Geralt where he was still sprawled across the bed.

“No, thanks. I think we’ll manage from here.” Ciri replied. “Oh, and Emhyr, your clothes are covered in blood. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Emhyr looked down at himself in shock. Somehow, that detail had slipped by him. He was usually much more observant than this. With a firm nod he turned to leave and resolved not to be so sloppy again.

Emhyr was not quite sure how it happened that Geralt came to be attending this event with him, only that he knew it had involved a lot of gentle bullying from Ciri. 

The event itself wasn’t anything too special. Just another in the endless rounds of gatherings which the Emperor was obliged to attend in order to appease the nobles of the courts. As a relatively casual gathering, it was held in one of the smaller ballrooms off of the throne room. A long table offered refreshments while a small quartet of musicians filled the hall with subtle music. Guests could mill about in a carefully affected attitude of nonchalance while serendipitously bumping into key allies and enemies alike.  

Certainly it was not the kind of activity which required a Witcher to be in attendance, and Emhyr had a strong inkling that Ciri had mostly begged Geralt into attending simply to give her someone besides bootlickers and political schemers to talk to. 

As the night dragged on and Emhyr made his practiced and calculated rounds about the room, trading carefully disguised blows in the guise of small talk, he found himself drifting almost against his will towards the Witcher. 

He had jut finished dodging the nosy inquiries of a particularly over perfumed countess and Ciri seemed to currently be holding the attention of the rest of the crowd fairly well, so Emhyr figured there could be no harm in going where his feet seemed to be leading him. 

Geralt, looking infinitely uncomfortable in the silk doublet and matching pants which he had been forced into, was standing broodingly in a corner with a harsh frown fixed firmly on his face. Despite the fact that he was tucked almost comically into the shadow of a large plant, Emhyr could see that Geralt had his gaze fixed firmly on Ciri, and something was causing his hands to clench into fists at his side.

The reason became clear as soon as he murmured his greeting and Geralt let loose a fierce tirade that would have shocked most sailors with its vulgarity. 

“That sniveling little piece of shit, Captain ass munch or something, won’t stop asking Ciri about her experience with northern men. As if she would ever be so stupid as to fall for a trap that obvious. And if that crone with the fucking forktail teeth necklace doesn’t stop fucking petting her I’m gonna fucking shatter her hand myself.” Luckily, Geralt kept his voice quiet enough that no one besides Emhyr could hear, but the Emperor couldn’t help but glance around superstitiously. 

“I was assured that they were in fact dragon’s teeth which were harvested by her grandfather, the Marques de Durberg.”

“Hmm. Nope. Those are forktail teeth. And small ones at that, probably taken from a pup.” 

“Well then, I have absolutely no doubt as to Ciri’s ability to handle the Marchioness. Is there anyone you think who poses an actual threat to her, or are you just angered by their lack of decorum?” Emhyr asked.

Geralt huffed, “Lack of decorum is putting it mildly don’t you think?”

“Perhaps, but if Ciri is to become Empress then she must learn to negotiate these sorts of things, and do so gracefully. If it is any consolation, they are only treating with her so bluntly because they have not yet taken her measure. Once they realize that she is every bit as capable as they are, their advances will not be quite so…tasteless, shall we say.”

“I think that’s the opposite of consoling, if what you’re saying is that these attacks will just get more refined.” Geralt leveled Emhyr with an unamused look.

“Hmm, fair point. But tell me honestly, with everything that you know and everything you can tell about these people here, who do you think posses the biggest threat and do you really doubt Ciri’s ability to handle them?” 

One of the many things which Emhyr was coming to appreciate about Geralt was that he never rushed to answer a question thoughtlessly. Instead, he took his time and observed the room while he considered his response. 

“The man in the fox trimmed cloak.”

“Archduke Genovious.” Emhyr supplied.

“Hmm. He’s a snake. Nothing but polite smiles but he smells too smug not to have a knife hidden up his sleeve.”

“Indeed. He is a terribly ambitious man, with enough power and prestige to be taken seriously and just enough intelligence to make a nuisance of himself…” Emhyr purposefully trailed off and quirked a questioning eyebrow at Geralt.

“But not smart enough to know when he’s being led. He’s the kind of ambitious that gets distracted by the superficial markers of power, and ignores the reality of how power is used in practice.” 

“Well said. He is dangerous in his own way, but once you learn how to handle him, he becomes significantly less of a threat. Who else?”

Another half hour passed with Geralt pointing out various lords and nobles and ruthlessly assessing their various threat level. 

Emhyr was absolutely fascinated. It was just like how he played gwent. Though most of what Geralt was saying was not anything new for him, the way in which the Witcher approached the issue at hand was so different from anything that Emhyr was used to that he found himself impressed despite himself. The Witcher deduced the various political motivation and skills the way Emhyr imagined he deduced the physical skills of the monsters he faced. With a startling precision that left no room for the frivolous niceties that nobles usually engaged in.

Emhyr also learned that when provoked, Geralt’s humor turned vicious. He had noted the Witcher’s penchant for dry sarcasm already, but now he was exposed to the truly scathing comments that he was capable of as well. In fact, he found Geralt’s commentary so interesting that he only noticed somewhat belatedly that the crowd had once again turned its attention towards him. 

It was no surprise, really. As Emperor, there was only so long he could escape notice before he inevitably became the center of attention again. And really, he should be commemorating Ciri’s skill at keeping the court focused on her for as long as she had. But now it was once again his turn to entertain. 

Even as he stepped up to acknowledge the first noble seeking his attention, he felt Geralt take an answering step back and knew without looking that any hint of personality was once again shuttered behind his protective walls. 

Oh well, it would be interesting to see how these audiences would go with a glowering Witcher at his back.

They went about as well as could be expected. Even the most refined and stoic of nobles cast puzzled looks at the golden eyed, white haired man looming behind the Emperor’s shoulder. But since Emhyr made no move to introduce Geralt, they were all left to speculate in silence. It wasn’t like they didn’t know who Geralt was in relation to Ciri, and so despite their obvious discomfort there was absolutely nothing they could do about his presence so close to their imperial liege. 

Emhyr hid a smirk as he passed through half a dozen banal greetings and twittering sycophants. Already, half of his mind was taken up with imagining what Geralt’s comments would be were he free to speak. 

The crowd in front of him shifted as another over dressed noble pressed forward. Lord Florian was one of many half wit nobles who Emhyr had to suffer through on a regular basis simply because he had no real excuse to have them banished from court. Lord Florian himself was from a rather prestigious family, who through some poorly thought out decisions in the past had fallen somewhat in actual power and now clung to their position in court mostly through the claim of lineage rather then out of any real political strength. 

As was sometimes traditional at events like this, Lord Florian came forward presenting a small gift. A somewhat trite way for lesser nobles to curry the attention of the Emperor. Emhyr was just about to wave one of his guards forward to receive it, the Emperor never took things directly, when a sudden loud growling stopped everyone dead in their tracks. 

The sound, which was perfectly equatable to the growl of an actual wolf, was coming from Geralt behind him, who was suddenly standing close enough that Emhyr could almost feel the vibrations passing from Geralt’s chest into his. 

Lord Florian, who had frozen with his hand outstretched, looked like he was about ready to faint. 

“Sir Geralt. What is the meaning of this?” Emhyr kept his voice cool and in control, so that no one could tell that he was frankly just as surprised by this as everyone else. 

The Witcher did not answer directly, but instead stalked down to circle once around the quivering lord. When he turned to face Emhyr, his lips were peeled back in a snarl to reveal his teeth, sharp and white and perfectly capable of ripping out someones throat. 

“The gift. It’s cursed. He’s trying to kill you.” At Geralt’s words Lord Florian erupted into tears and sunk down to the floor. Hs gift, a perfectly wrapped parcel about the size of Emhyr’s palm, dropped to the floor. 

“No! Your Majesty, please. I would never…” Florian broke off with a terrified shriek as Emhyr’s guard advanced on him.

The parcel was left untouched on the ground. 

Emhyr made a gesture and an aid popped up by his elbow. “Summon Mage Blackthorn. Have him come examine this curse. Guards, in the mean time please escort Lord Florian to the dungeons. I will deal with him momentarily.”

“But Your Majesty, surely you cannot take the word of this Nordling as evidence of treason. What proof does he have that the parcel is truly cursed?” One of Lord Florian’s more senseless allies spoke up. 

Before Emhyr could respond, Geralt replied, “If you doubt my judgement, feel free to pick up the parcel yourself. And I don’t give a fuck what you think my word is worth as a Nordling, but as a Witcher I can assure you that I am singularly capable of identifying a curse when I see one.”

Ciri, drawn over by the commotion, looked about ready to jump in for Geralt’s defense. Thankfully, Blackthorn arrived at that very moment, and the crowd was distracted as the mage bent to examine the parcel.

“The Witcher is indeed correct.” The mage announced in his weathered voice. Blackthorn was one of the oldest mages at the palace, and had been serving Emhyr’s family for generations before his father was usurped and he was forced to go into hiding. He was about as close to trustworthy as anyone was in this court. “The curse seems to be rather intricate, and would have needed the touch of a specific hand to activate it, in this case I imagine it would have been yours, Your Majesty. The effects would have been quite vicious though once it took affect.”

A rush of murmurs spread through the crowd. The noble who had spoken out before looked like he would rather sink into the floor. 

Emhyr nodded and made careful note of everyone who was in the room, making sure to make eye contact with everyone. Marking those who could hold his gaze and those who looked away. 

Finally, after the tension had built to almost unbearable levels, Emhyr raised his hand. “It pains us to cut this gathering short, but in light of recent events we feel it prudent to send you home with our best wishes that this event not disturb you overly much. Rest assured that we suffered no harm and will soon see to it that justice is done.” 

There was a lot of mumbled words of acceptance and well wishes and everyone but the guards, Blackthorn, Geralt, and Ciri left in short order. Once they were alone, Emhyr let himself express a single sigh before turning to the next task at hand.

To Blackthorn he said, “You will take the cursed parcel and examine it closely, see if you can’t decipher something towards its origins” The mage bowed and left. To the captain of his guard he said, “You will oversee the interrogation of the prisoner. He most likely was not working alone and we will need the names of his accomplices.” Finally, to Ciri he said, “You will summon Lady Aisha and have her enact protocol number five at once. I trust you to oversee its operation.” Thankfully, Ciri made no protests and turned to leave with only a small frown of worry on her face. Emhyr really must remember to congratulate her on her progress after all this was over. 

Somehow, he had almost forgotten the presence of the still very irate Witcher at his side until he turned to leave himself and was stopped by a sudden hand on his elbow. He waved his nervous guard away with a gesture.

“Emhyr, you want to tell me what the fuck it is you’re doing? You were just almost assassinated and you’re acting like nothing out of the ordinary just happened.”

“I assure you, I am doing nothing of the sort.”

“Then how come you just let the whole pack of nobles leave? You…” Geralt cut himself off. “I see, you know who’s behind this already, don’t you?”

Emhyr didn’t respond but gestured for the Witcher to follow. It wasn’t until they were safely in his rooms that he spoke. “The curse on that gift was surely very complex and therefor expensive, if it is as Blackthorn described it. However, the method of delivery was somewhat lackluster. It is common knowledge that the Emperor does not receive gifts directly and furthermore any one with half a brain could figure out that I rarely actually bother to open the gifts before having a servant dispose of them. Therefor, it stands to reason that Lord Florian was but an agent in someone else’s game, and a poorly placed one at that. There are several suspects, non of whom were at the party tonight, who have the funds yet lack the intelligence to be behind such a plan. I currently have them under total surveillance, overseen by Ciri, and will know if any of them react with alarm to tonights events. Events which will be made public swiftly as every noble present tonight will be spreading the news as we speak. So you see Witcher, there is nothing more that I should be doing other than that which I already am.”

The Witcher watched him for several moments, his expression unreadable. The guards had been deposited outside his rooms, and they were alone in Emhyr’s private sitting area. Finally, Geralt huffed out an annoyed breath. But instead of leaving for the night as Emhyr expected him to, he turned and sat down in Emhyr’s favorite chair. The Witcher seemed to settle in, shrugging off his sword belt to lean them up against his legs, and otherwise made every impression that he did not intend to leave.

“What do you think you are doing, Witcher?” Emhyr demanded.

“Hmm? What does it look like? I’m staying here for the night. You are obviously in more danger than I thought, and there is a good chance that your suspects will make another pass on your life tonight.”

“And you have decided therefor to…spend the night in my chair?” 

“Well, it is a very comfortable chair.” Geralt made a point to sprawl even deeper into the plush upholstery. 

Emhyr had to fight the urge to splutter in exasperation. 

Instead he turned and walked into his bed chamber. It did not even occur to him to have Geralt forced out of his rooms.

Just as Emhyr had expected, the true culprit behind the assassination attempt was found not even a week later and after a swift but brutal public execution, the entire matter was put to rest. 

In his experience, there were two kinds of people who tried to assassinate rulers. Those who legitimately sought to topple the regime and take over, and those who were simply mad enough to think that killing the person in charge would make their problems go away. This incident had certainly been the latter, and therefor needed very little further investigation to assure that all of the conspirators had been caught.

Geralt, however, seemed convinced that Emhyr was still in mortal peril, and insisted on keeping a close personal eye on the Emperor’s whereabouts. As a result, Emhyr found himself running into the Witcher almost constantly. 

At first, Emhyr tried to put up with Geralt’s stalking with good humor. But it was only through much needling that he was able to get the Witcher to stay out of his more sensitive meetings or otherwise give him moments peace. After two days of Geralt’s nonsense, he lost his patience. 

He decided to seek out Ciri, hoping she might be able to provide some insight into the Witcher’s behavior and how to stop it. 

Ciri, the traitor, only laughed at him and told him that Witcher’s in general and Geralt in particular were very stubborn creatures and if Geralt had gotten it into his head that Emhyr needed his protection then Emhyr was just going to have to get used to it.

“But he doesn’t even like me.” He complained after Ciri explained this. But all he got in response was an odd look and a cryptic reply of, “So much for you being a master of observation.” Before the crown princess flounced away, trailed by her ladies in waiting.

Of course, after Geralt’s very public display at the gathering and his subsequent unwillingness to let the Emperor out of his sight, it was only a matter of time before the rumors started spreading.

The next day, Emhyr was interrupted in his office by Geralt, who had a very odd look on his face.

“You do realize that I have an empire to run and thus have better things to do than entertain you whenever you get bored.” Emhyr said without looking up from the report he was reading. 

The Witcher, however, didn’t respond but sat instead on the corner of his desk. The padded gambeson he was wearing was covered in dust and horse hair, and the Witcher smelled strongly as if he had just come from the practice grounds.

Before he moved into the palace, The Witcher had always come to Emhyr dressed in what Ciri had later explained to him was the traditional Witcher armor for the School of the Wolf. A quilted gambeson was layered over with a chainmail jacket with reinforced shoulders made from stiffened draconian leather, while metal studded braces covered his forearms and lower legs. His two swords bristling over his shoulder along with a variety of smaller weapons strapped to his body completed the generally hostile look and made it very clear what his profession was. 

As Geralt had settled into palace life, however, he had shed some of the outer layers of his armor. But he still refused to go anywhere without his swords and could more often than not be found dressed in some form of protective gear. Usually, Emhyr was content to let the Witcher do as he pleased, since it was rather amusing to watch servants and nobles scuttle out of the way of an armed and armored Witcher stalking through the hallways like a disgruntled wolf, but when said outfit was introduced to his desktop it became slightly less amusing. Emhyr eyed the Witcher’s cloths distastefully were they were threatening to leave smudges of dirt and sweat on his carefully organized papers.

“Did you know that we’re fucking?” The Witcher said apropos of nothing. “Well, according to some ladies we’re having a torrid love affair but the staff seems more convinced that I’ve cast some blasphemous spell on you and have been slowly draining your life forces, which apparently explains why you’ve looked so hassled of late.” Geralt lifted Emhyr’s letter opener and began twirling it over his fingers as if he were performing knife tricks. 

“The staff do seem to come up with the most morbidly fascinating ideas. Really, I think some of the court could stand to take lessons. And what, pray tell, are you meant to be doing with all this life force that you seem to be draining?” 

“You’re not upset?”

“Should I be? I realize that the north has some antiquated ideas about carnal relations between the same sex, but I assure you, if I got offended every time the court spouted a new rumor about my love life, I would spend most of my life in an uproar.” Emhyr replied calmly. 

“Hmm.” The Witcher seemed to consider this for a moment. “It’s to fuel my evil spells. The life force that I’m draining. I think I’m planning to cast some form of black curse on the palace or something. Probably cause all the wine to go sour or the babes to go blind.” Geralt shrugged, but his face had gotten a certain pinched look about it.

Emhyr set his papers down and looked closely at the Witcher. “Indeed. And it is this which you find distasteful. Is it not? Sexual slanders have no bearing on you, but when common folk mistake you for a monster, I reckon that does not sit well with you.”

“What makes you say that?” Geralt responded tartly.

“Because you just told me so yourself. In action if not in words.” 

Emhyr was graced with a very pointed look, so he explained. “You came in here asking me if false rumors of our sexual interactions bothered me, but you have been at court long enough to know that the only thing which nobles love more then plotting is salacious gossip, so surely you must have concluded that such talk was nothing new. Therefor, I can only assume that your opening query was a mere distraction from the real reason why you came here, which was revealed when you mentioned your reported use of black magic and your face displayed your discomfort. Ergo, you are disconcerted by people whispering about you in such a way, and I imagine you came to me hoping to dissuade such slander in the future.”

As Emhyr talked, Geralt had drawn a guarded look over his face and stood to loom over Emhyr’s desk with his feet in a defensive stance. “Well, when such slander as you call it leads to being stoned out of a village on a regular basis, yeah, I guess I might be disconcerted by it.” 

Emhyr realized that he had perhaps stumbled upon a sore issue for the Witcher, and paused to consider his next words. “I imagine that you have more experience than most, when it comes to seeing just what a few spiteful words can stir up in most people. You are aware, though, that in this case your own actions have perhaps led to this particular line of gossip? Your most fervent reaction to a threat on my life, and your constant stalking since then, have provided more than enough fonder for such stories.”

“So what, I should publicly insult you? Stand by while the next assassin does you in?” Geralt exclaimed.

“Nothing so drastic I hope.” Emhyr replied. “But perhaps you could consider applying a hint of subterfuge, when you insist on playing imperial guard.”

Geralt huffed angrily, “I’m not playing at anything. I’m just trying to keep your stubborn ass on the throne long enough so that Ciri has a chance at a successful ascension, when it comes time for her to claim the crown.”

“Yes, I figured as much.” Emhyr leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his chest. “But surely you must see that the more you insist on acting like a brutish Nordling, the more the court will come to see you as such, and furthermore, as a monster to be feared.  Perhaps if you made some concessions to Nilfgaardian sensibilities, you would find yourself less ostracized.” 

“Right. Ostracized. Cause what I’m really worried about is not getting invited to the next ball.”

“No, I reckon not. But what does concern you is that common folk fear you for no good reason. That is the crux of the matter is it not? Geralt. You said it yourself that you have encountered spiteful rumors before. What measures have you taken in the past to mitigate them?” Emhyr asked.

“Usually, I just get my business over with and leave. Not much can be done to change the minds of bigoted peasants. But sometimes…well. In the past, Dandelion, the bard that sometimes travels with me. He used to sing some songs. Every once in a while, seemed like they had a positive effect, and the next few contracts wouldn’t try and skip out on paying me or chase me out of the town quite so fast.”

“The power of good publicity.” 

“So I should start serenading the staff about my heroic exploits? You want me to grab a lute and perform ballads in front of the court? I think you might find that has the opposite effect.”

“Perhaps nothing so obvious. But there are those at court, who will be willing to see you as a potential ally, since you do hold a position of affection for Ciri. They may be willing to spread a good word about you should you make yourself approachable to them.”

“You want me to go whore myself out to a bunch of scheming pricks you mean.”

“I am not purposing something so vulgar as all that, Geralt. But if it truly makes you uncomfortable, I can see about planting a few words in your favor in the right ears.” Emhyr ignored the look of surprise that crossed Geralt’s face at that offer. Silently, Emhyr resolved to do more than that. Perhaps he could hire some local bards to perform some of Master Dandelion’s songs, assuming that he could not have the poetaster himself brought to Nilfgaard. Or, Emhyr reckoned, he could always have some ballads commissioned himself. Or perhaps even a book. Adventure novels were quite the rage at the moment, he was told, surely a heroic story of a Witcher or two would not go amiss. “Since I am doing this favor for you, would you perhaps answer a question for me?”

Geralt looked at him suspiciously. “Depends on the question.”

Emhyr stood up and moved to the more comfortable chairs arranged by the window. He gestured for the Witcher to seat himself, but Geralt remained stubbornly standing. Emhyr sighed. “Why are you involving yourself in politics here?”

“I’m not. I’m here protecting-“

“Ciri. I know. But I think it is fairly obvious that you could remain thoroughly separated from events here and still offer excellent protection. So I ask again. Why are you involved?”

The Witcher finally wondered over and sat opposite Emhyr.

“Traditionaly, Witcher’s remain neutral when it comes to politics. We are not to play white knight or to seek out heroics. We accept coin and finish the job.” Geralt’s tone made it clear he was quoting someone. “But It’s a different world now. Witchers are a dying breed and there’s not much sense in sticking to the old ways. I am, I’ve been told, a relic of a bygone era. A fossil too stubborn to admit my time is past.” Geralt stopped and looked at his hands. For just a moment he looked unbearably sad, before he rebuilt his defensive mask and raised his eyes. “Figured, might as well. Before I’m nothing but dust.”

Emhyr looked intently into Geralt’s strange golden gaze. After weeks spent enjoying time together, Emhyr had slowly learned to read the stoic Witcher. The secret was in the eyes. Almost everything about him was perfectly controlled, but Geralt never seemed to notice just how much emotion he let slip through his gaze. 

“But why here. Why this court. I understand your desire to protect Ciri, but surely there are safer and easier ways to involve yourself in politics, especially if, as you say, it has not been your habit till now.” 

“Well, I never said I stayed out of politics, only that as a Witcher I was encouraged to remain neutral. And really, why not here? I get to live close to my daughter and enjoy all the luxurious of the finest palace on earth? Thats plenty of reason for me.”

Emhyr considered the Witcher once more. “No. I don’t think that’s all. I don’t doubt your desire to protect your daughter, but I don’t think that is the reason why you stay. You stay because you want a challenge. Because you want something new.” Geralt leaned back and crossed his arms, but made no move to interrupt, so Emhyr continued. “You have spent a long and rather successful century walking the continent as a Witcher, and have beyond a doubt proven yourself to be exceptional even amongst your kind. But there is more to you than monster hunts and brute force. You have a sense of justice that will not let you sit idly by in the face of wrong doing. There is a reason why you have continuously ignored your kind’s creed of neutrality. A reason why you can so often be found in the company of the high and the mighty. You were not meant to enjoy a simple and risk free life, Geralt. And now that you have found a new kind of hunt, I don’t think you will be leaving anytime soon.”

“Is that so?” There was a dangerous kind of glint in Geralt’s eyes as he considered Emhyr’s assessment. “You seem fairly certain that you know me.”

“You are not, I’m afraid, as much of a mystery as you might wish to be. It only takes a willingness to see beyond the prejudice and stigma that follow your kind to see that while you are no ordinary man, you are also no enigma.”

Geralt stood up and stalked forward to loom over Emhyr. For once, Emhyr could not read the expression on his face, and he felt his heart speed up in response. When Geralt stopped he was just shy of coming into physical contact with Emhyr, but his gaze was heavy enough as it moved up and down his form that he might as well have. Emhyr was forced to crane his head up to keep eye contact, but he refused to look away.

Humming thoughtfully to himself, the Witcher bent down, slowly so that Emhyr could see his movement, and braced himself on the chair’s armrest. Effectively caging Emhyr in his seat. He drew a long, deep breath, and on the exhale let out a low rumbling laugh. 

Emhyr could not tell if there was humor or a threat in the sound. His face felt impossibly warm and he was sure that if the Witcher did not either move away or touch him he would come out of his skin. 

“You know what I think?” The Witcher asked, and then continued without waiting for an answer. “I think you’re bored. I think you’ve been surrounded by the same bumbling idiots for so long that you’ve become desperate. You didn’t conquer the north because you had to, you did it because you could and because you wanted to. You say I’m not an enigma. Then tell me, Emhyr, why are you here? Why do you keep seeking me out when we both know you could easily keep yourself thoroughly separate.” 

The Witcher’s face was so close that Emhyr could see how the gold in his eyes shrunk as his pupils expanded. He could smell the fierce sweat and leather scent of him. A low knot of heat blossomed in his stomach and his breath caught in his throat. Fine, if the Witcher wanted to play this game, then he would play. 

Emhyr tilted his head up and let his eyes roam freely over Geralt’s form, coming to rest on his lips. The Witcher had a surprisingly nice mouth.

A mouth which was currently turning up into a smug little grin, as if he had just won some competition. He began to withdraw and that simply would not do.

So Emhyr reached out and grabbed the Witcher by his sword belt, tugging him down so that he could kiss him as fiercely as he knew how. 

There was a brief moment of shock, and then Geralt was kissing him back. 

The angle was growing hard on Emhyr’s neck, so he moved a hand to Geralt’s hair and pushed him back till they were both standing. That was better. Much better. 

Now he could press himself completely against Geralt’s form, and they were finally touching everywhere that Emhyr wanted. 

The sounds Geralt was making were sounding impossibly pleased, somewhere between a moan and a rumble, and his hands came to circle around Emhyr’s back. 

Surprisingly enough, the Witcher did not try and take control of the kiss, so Emhyr pressed forward and tilted Geralt’s head the way he wanted, exposing his throat. The sound Geralt made when Emhyr bit him there was almost religious in its intensity. 

Panting as he came back to himself somewhat, Emhyr stepped back to see what he had wrought. 

The Witcher looked impossibly wrecked with his eyes blown almost black and his breath coming in short gasps. But the bastard was still smiling. Full and warm like he never did and then to add insult to injury he was laughing. Throwing his head back and shaking with genuine mirth. 

“Well, I didn’t think you had it in you, Emhyr. Though I-“

Emhyr did not let him finish. He surged forward and shut Geralt up with another kiss. 

There was a fire burning under his skin and he just wanted the cursed Witcher to touch him. So he started tugging at the ties of his gambeson and then Geralt was shrugging out of his sword belt and then they were on the floor and any rationale thought left Emhyr’s mind.

Their clothes ended up thrown haphazardly around them and Emhyr couldn’t even bring himself to care. Nor to wonder if the guards outside the room could hear what was going on. 

There was a body being stunningly laid out before his eyes and there was nothing left to do but to touch it. 

With aching hands and then with his tongue, Emhyr traced over the scars on Geralt’s chest. The marks from the archspore were already faded, but Emhyr sought them out anyway and pressed kisses and gentle bites to them anyways.

The whole time Geralt breathed out his appreciation in deep moans and rumbling laughs that vibrated through his chest in a truly fascinating manner. His hands were warm and heavy where they swept up and down Emhyr’s back, but when he rocked down experimentally with his hips, those hands clenched tight and Geralt broke off with a strangled sound. 

With his head tossed back and his back arched in a sinuous curve, Emhyr could not help but sense all of the power in the man below him and feel how he still reacted so exquisitely to every single touch. There was no shame or  embarrassment in the way Geralt gave up control, only a deep animal enjoyment of his pleasure. 

Emhyr might be calling the shots, but Geralt was never at anyone’s mercy. 

He proved this when with a low growl he flipped them over and once again caged Emhyr in with his body. Grinning, he started to lean down over Emhyr’s body until his mouth was hovering tantalizingly over Emhyr’s crotch. His cock, still covered by his pants, twitched helplessly.

Geralt leaned down and pressed a wet, open mouth kiss to the head, and it was Emhyr’s turn to make a strangled, cut off sound. 

Panting, he tried to choke out a sentence, “Off. Take them off. Come on.”

Geralt for once wasted no time in obeying and soon they were both completely bear. When Geralt finally took them both in hand Emhyr thought he was seeing stars. 

For a few blissful moments, Geralt’s sword calloused hand was enough, but soon Emhyr wanted more. With a growl that even Geralt might find impressive, he flipped them and pinned Geralt’s hands besides his head.

He stopped, captivated at the sight of kiss swollen lips, whatever plan he had temporarily slipped from his mind.

“What are you waiting for?” Geralt taunted, rolling his hips so that their cocks rubbed together deliciously. “You need an invitation to fuck me?”

There were no words for what Emhyr felt right then, so he didn’t say anything as he stood on shaky legs and desperately ransacked the room looking for something to use for oil. His office was certainly not equipped for such activities, but he finally found some hand cream that would have to do.

He turned to look at Geralt and found him sprawled where he had left him. Legs open in invitation and a lazy grin on his face. Shamelessly, he was stroking his own cock, which was impressively large, and looked nothing so much like the cat that got the canary. 

Emhyr swallowed. 

“Well, are you gonna fuck me or am I gonna have to do it myself?” The Witcher drawled.

In response, Emhyr stalked over and knelt between his spread legs. With a generous coating of cream on his fingers, he reached down to circle Geralt’s hole once before plunging the first digit in. Geralt grunted in surprised pleasure and clenched his hand around the base of his cock.

Emhyr smirked. Now they were finally getting somewhere. 

After a few experimental thrusts of his finger he slowly added a second. The look of slacked out bliss on Geralt’s face was breathtaking. 

Emhyr surged forward and with his free hand he captured Geralt’s hands, holding them by the wrists. They were surprisingly slender, but even so he had no doubt as to Geralt’s ability to break his hold. But when Emhyr kissed him, thrusting his tongue in time with his fingers, Geralt whined beautifully into his mouth, but made no move to break free.

Two fingers became three and then Geralt was twisting and pushing back against Emhyr’s hand only to desperately buck his hips to get some pressure on his leaking cock. 

Emhyr released his hands and with a groan Geralt grabbed his hips and drew him down. Emhyr hissed with pleasure at the pressure, but before the Witcher could work up any kind of rhythm, he pushed back and pulled his fingers out. 

“Emhyr.” Geralt growled in frustration “Come on…”

“Patience.” Emhyr husked, and bit down on Geralt’s throat again just because he could. “Patience. And I’ll make you feel good.” He promised, reaching down to wrap a hand around Geralt’s weeping cock. It was velvety and firm and oh so warm in his hand. 

Geralt quickly grew frustrated and trapped Emhyr’s hand, stopping his purposefully slow strokes. “Either fuck me or get out. Now!” His face was beautifully wild, with lust blown eyes and a voice made deep with desire. Emhyr was sorely tempted to keep teasing him, but he was also sure that Geralt did not make idle threats. 

Before Geralt could make any more demands, he positioned himself and shoved his cock into Geralt’s hole in one long push. 

For a second, neither of them could move, and Emhyr hung his head panting over Geralt’s chest. The tight pressure on his cock was so exquisite he thought he could die right then and there and be happy. 

But then he started moving and that was even better. 

Some distant part of his brain that could still process rationale thought knew that he was being perhaps a little rough. But every time he considered slowing down Geralt would give him a look of molten gold, as if he could read his mind, and move his hips just so, so that he could thrust himself back onto Emhyr’s cock and he knew that the last thing either of them wanted right then was gentle. 

Time passed into that hazy space of endless rolling waves of pleasure. But soon enough Emhyr could feel the climax approaching. Under him Geralt was a breathless, heaving mass of pleasure, face so open in his bliss that he looked transformed. His hand was growing increasingly jerky were it was moving on his cock, and Emhyr knew that he was close to coming. 

He concentrated on thrusting in as deep as he could, and sure enough Geralt was clenching down on him and coming with a long, drawn out groan that Emhyr felt vibrant through his whole body.

After that, Emhyr only lasted a couple more thrusts before he was burying himself as far as he could and coming deep within the Witcher. 

With a gasp, he collapsed and felt his world wash out in a final wave of pleasure. 

It took them a while to regain their breaths, but when they finally did Emhyr realized that he was sprawled out quite gracelessly over the Witcher’s chest, so with a reluctant groan he stood up. 

Geralt still had come spread over his stomach, but only looked annoyed that Emhyr had left him. He made a little sound of disappointment. 

“I really hope you didn’t expect to spend the rest of the day laying on the floor.” Emhyr remarked. “I have things to do you know.” 

To support his words, he started reaching down to pick up his clothes and put them back on. Geralt looked over him and huffed a dry laugh. “Sure, I’d love to see you in a meeting looking like that. All your nobles would be too busy looking scandalized to make a coherent sound.” His rough voice sent a shiver up Emhyr’s spine while Geralt’s hand lazily swept through the mess on his stomach. Really, the man was an absolute hedonist.

But he also had a point. Besides his mussed hair and swollen lips, his clothes were rather a mess. He would have to go back to his rooms to change. 

The problem was that they were in his work office, which was in an entirely separate wing from his private chambers. He supposed he could have clothes sent to him, but that was almost sure to spread worse rumors then if he were to walk through the halls looking a little rumpled. Besides, he could always take some of the back corridors that rarely saw use. 

Of course, Geralt’s clothes were in an even worse state than his, especially after he used his already dirty shirt to mop up his stomach. Emhyr considered the pros and cons of being seen walking the halls by himself or with Geralt and came to a decision. Geralt could always change his clothes later. “Will you come with me to my chambers?” He asked.

“You sure? You said the rumors of us fucking didn’t bother you, but this is a little more than rumors.” Geralt murmured, a guarded look in his eyes. Clearly, there was another question being asked underneath the one being spoken. 

“I have no cause for shame.” Emhyr replied. It was the right thing to say, apparently, because Geralt nodded in satisfaction. 

Of course, just because Emhyr said he was willing to be seen with Geralt, didn’t mean he had to enjoy the experience of walking out in such an undignified manner of dress. Emhyr kept a dignified face and ignored the shocked faces of his guard as he and Geralt made the walk to his chambers. 

Luckily, they didn’t encounter anyone but servants on their way, but by the time they made it safely behind closed doors, Geralt’s face and gone red with holding back laughter, which erupted the second they were alone.

Of course, Emhyr couldn’t stand that so he shoved the Witcher onto his bed and fucked him again until his laughter turned to breathy moans. 

Which was how Emhyr came to be laying in his bed with a well fucked out Witcher who had happily arranged Emhyr the way he wanted him before dozing off with his head resting on his chest, a deep purr rumbling between their bodies. 

Emhyr had no idea that Witcher’s could purr. He also had no fucking clue what to do now. 

Which of course, meant he fucked it all up almost immediately.

Eventually, Emhyr did have to return to his duties. After much poking and prodding he was able to get Geralt to detangle himself enough that he could stand and get dressed.

Geralt, like the big lazy wolf that he was, stayed stretched out in the bed and watched him with lazy, hooded eyes.

“Do you plan on staying here all day?” Emhyr idly wondered out loud. “I shall have to alert the servants so that they do not have a shock when they come in to clean.”

Geralt sighed, but he did make to stand. “Guess I might get bored. Got better shit to do then keep your bed warm.” 

“Hmm.” Emhyr did not think he could respond to that without exposing himself more than he wanted to. He cleared his throat. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure how to act. How did one tell the Witcher you had just thoroughly fucked who also happened to be the surrogate father to your daughter that you had an empire you needed to run and so couldn’t keep them in your bed for the rest of the day despite the fact that you very much wanted to. 

Luckily, Geralt didn’t seem concerned with such dilemmas, because after shrugging on his absolutely filthy clothes he left with a toothy grin and just that slightest hint of a suggestive swagger to his hips. 

Emhyr shook his head to clear it. He had work to do. 

But despite his best efforts he could not get his mind away from the events of the afternoon. 

He kept turning over and over in his head what the various motives could have been. Certainly there had been a challenge, of a sort, in the beginning. Geralt had made a move and Emhyr had responded. 

And with that challenge had been a question. 

“I think you’re bored. I think you’ve been surrounded by the same bumbling idiots for so long that you’ve become desperate. You didn’t conquer the north because you had to, you did it because you could and because you wanted to. You say I’m not an enigma. Then tell me, Emhyr, why are you here? Why do you keep seeking me out when we both know you could easily keep yourself thoroughly separate”

Thinking back on that question, Emhyr figured he had answered it pretty well. 

He had been drawn to the Witcher for quite some time now, and he was not in the habit of lying to himself. So he knew that he had desired Geralt for a while. That he found him interesting in all the ways that the rest of his world was not. That he found in the taciturn Witcher something which had perhaps been missing, all these years that he had been surrounded by the same frivolous and scheming nobles. 

So now the question was, was there something more?

Certainly, they had been spending an awful lot of time together of late. Not just in a professional capacity but as….friends, of sorts. Spending long evenings chatting over drinks and cards. 

And Emhyr could not get it out of his head, how Geralt had let him tend to him after the archspore when everyone else had received a growled threat to stay away. How he had felt, standing so protectively over Emhyr’s shoulder during the assassination attempt a few weeks ago. 

So there was attraction. And companionship of a kind. Perhaps there was even a recognition of sorts. Two similar yet wholly different people drawn to each other because the rest of the world was unwilling or unable to treat them kindly or hold their attention in any meaningful way. 

Emhyr remembered the conversation which had led to their….coupling, so to speak. How the Witcher had been almost vulnerable, when he spoke have other people’s fear of him. And the underlaying resentment, of a life spent fulfilling a duty that others found abhorrent and yet still refused to recognize his sacrifice.

Suddenly, he had the chilling fear that he might become just one more face in a long line of people seeing Geralt as a tool to serve a physical need. That he might not have been used to kill a monster, but being used for the pleasure of an emperor was perhaps even worse. That because of his relative status and his reputation, Emhyr might see Geralt as a convenient bedroom distraction, and nothing more. 

Emhyr tried to think of how he could best reassure Geralt that he was neither ashamed of him nor was he interested in mistreating him. How could he assure him that he was not interested in taking advantage of him, but was in fact willing to meet him as an equal? As a partner to be respected?

Obviously, this was where he went wrong.

The next day he was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands while Ciri preceded to try her best to rupture his eardrums with her voice.

“What do you mean, you made him the imperial consort? Of course he bloody ran away. You just….put a leash on him without even asking him!”

Emhyr sighed. “For the last time, Cirilla, that was not my intention. I intended-“

“Yes, I know. You intended to alleviate him an official court position so that he would not feel taken advantage of and so that the rest of the court would know that his relationship to you was to be taken seriously and not as an illicit affair. Which would have worked great if Geralt was a court raised noble. But have you perhaps forgotten that he is a Witcher, and that Witchers don’t really see things the same way that nobles do?” Cir said in exasperation. She threw her hands up and had she not been wearing the heavy skirts of her formal wear, Emhyr was sure she would have been pacing up and down as well. 

Emhyr supposed that he could have thought things through a little more thoroughly. Or at the very least consulted Geralt before making his announcement. But he was not in the habit of questioning himself nor asking for permission. Not to mention he had been somewhat in a state of shock after realizing his….feelings, for the Witcher. 

Emhyr had not even had a chance to talk to Geralt after he had made his announcement elevating the Witcher to imperial consort during court. Geralt must have instead overheard it in the hallways and taken off as soon as he had. For when Emhyr went looking for him directly after, he was already gone. 

There followed a very brief yet frantic search for the Witcher throughout the palace grounds and the city, but no one had any luck and Emhyr quickly conceded that if Geralt did not want to be found, then there was no point searching. 

Of course, Ciri had then preceded to corner him in his study and lecture him for over a half hour on exactly what type of idiot he was for driving Geralt out of Nilfgaard so thoroughly and that any hopes of her enjoying her father’s presence were now absolutely smashed thanks to him. In fact, she said angrily, she would be lucky if she got to see him anytime before her coronation and that Emhyr would be lucky to ever see him again, period. 

Five months past.

Every once in a while word would trickle in of a white haired Witcher who had been hired to slay some beast or other. 

Once there was even word that he had been hired by the Duchess in Toussaint, and rumors of a massacre and a long lost sister were the only topic of conversation for a week. 

But despite the temptation, Emhyr did not send out any of his considerable resources to have the Witcher found. Even when he went weeks without any news, and he began to fear that the Witcher might be seriously hurt or worse, he never even considered it. He had learned his lesson when the Witcher first came to court.

It helped that Ciri never seemed concerned. Though it took her a while to show any kind of civility towards him again, she did inform him on a regular basis that Geralt was more than capable and there was no reason to be worried. Emhyr figured that if anyone knew what Witchers were capable of, it was Ciri. 

As far as the court was concerned, Geralt was merely away on business and any questions or malicious gossip about the true reasons for his absence were swiftly put down. 

Emhyr was not worried for his own reputation, but he had already promised himself that he would not let the name of Witcher’s be smeared any more than they already were. 

He even went so far as to commission those songs which he had considered when Geralt first mentioned his companion Dandelion. Though he had no true way of gauging their effectiveness, he hoped that wherever he was, Geralt might hear them and find his way eased even just a little. 

After five months of this, Emhyr was finally able to admit, at least in the privacy of his own head, that he was in love with the Witcher. 

Now, he could only hope that that realization had not come too late. Loosing Pavetta had been bad enough, he had no desire to experience a repeat. 

On the first day of the sixth month of Geralt’s absence, Emhyr was returning to his chambers after a long day haggling with the trade corporations when he once again received a sudden shock.

When he stepped into his living room, it was to find all but a few candles extinguished. Leaving the room more or less in total darkness. The doors to his balcony had been opened, and a light summer breeze was blowing the gauzy curtains into the room. 

In the bare light remaining, Emhyr could see a pair glowing golden eyes.

Emhyr var Emreis did not shriek like a small child. 

Silent and still as a ghost, Geralt was once more sprawled out in Emhyr’s favorite armchair. 

“Am I to understand that you have been sitting in the dark for who knows how long just so that you could frighten me?” Emhyr demanded once he got his breath back. “Really, I thought such childish games were beneath you Geralt.” It was too dark for Emhyr to make out anything besides the Witcher’s general form, so he couldn’t read the Witcher’s expression. 

But it was impossible to miss how the Witcher refused to respond to the obvious barb. Or how he stood, going from total stillness to sudden motion in the way that only a true predator could. 

Silently, he stalked towards Emhyr. 

As he came into the scant light cast through the open balcony door, Emhyr could make out the state of the Witcher’s appearance.

Geralt had never been overly concerned with hygiene, but even he had normally drawn the line at walking around covered in dried blood. 

Apparently, that had changed.

His armor was covered in what could only be the evidence of several fights, and his pale face was smeared with sweat and more blood. Geralt stopped at the perfect angle so that the moonlight caught his eyes and reflected them back in a golden glaze. His sharper then human teeth were on full display. And from his chest emanated a deep, rumbling growl.

The message was clear. 

Here stood a creature who was more than human. Here stood a Witcher in all his glory. 

Emhyr expected that most people who saw even a fraction of what he was seeing now ran screaming in the other direction.

He wondered what kind of response the Witcher was hoping to elicit in him.

“If this is more of your childish pranks, I’m afraid they won’t work.” Emhyr told him. 

The rumbling growl stopped rather abruptly.

“I take it you are not hurt? And that the blood decorating your armor is only that of your opponents?” Emhyr asked. It was something which he had thought as soon as the Witcher had stepped into the light.

Geralt still did not reply. But he did move so that his eyes were no longer reflecting the light. Without their glow, his golden eyes were warm and familiar. 

“Ciri told me not to worry, and while I have faith in your ability, I am also aware of the kind of trouble you are capable of getting yourself entangled in.” It was like trying to gentle a startled horse, Emhyr reckoned. Talking slow and steady until the creature learned that there was nothing to fear. 

Finally, Geralt spoke. HIs voice was rough as if he had not been using it of late. “Not here to play pranks. Here to talk.” He shook his head like a dog irritated at fleas, but the movement only caused his white hair to catch the moonlight and turn to silver. 

He really was unfairly gorgeous, Emhyr thought with irritation. To be so filthy and still look so irresistible. Like a storm or a desolate mountain, rough and eternal and completely undeniable. 

Emhyr remembered what it was like to touch that strength and to have it touch him back. He remembered how gentle those hands could be, and the oddly vulnerable curve of Geralt’s throat. 

But if the Witcher wanted to talk, then talk they would. 

Emhyr cleared his throat. “Then allow me to start. Had I known, what it would cause you to do, I never would have given you the title of consort. Know that I meant only to honor you with it, and never meant it as any sort of leash.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt said.  “I told you before, I’m not your dog.”

“I know.”

“I’m not one of your nobles. Not gonna bow and scrape and come when you call.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Geralt tilted his head and appraised him with a flat expression. “Do you even know what you want?”

Emhyr took an unquestioning step forward. “I want you. I thought I made that abundantly clear when I fucked you on the floor of my office.”

Geralt, surprisingly, flinched. And suddenly Emhyr understood why he had come to him covered in blood. 

Emhyr had made a move, had laid his cards on the table and made known his interest. His desire to be with Geralt. And of course Geralt had seen that move and had found it utterly unbelievable. 

Everything that Emhyr had learned about the Witcher in the months that he had been at court. All the little details about his life which he had collected so carefully, and somehow he had still missed this most important fact.

Geralt was not accustomed to being seen for what he was, only for what he could do.

So here he stood, covered in all the darkest aspects of himself, all his more monstrous parts open on display, waiting to be once again rejected. 

And that would absolutely not do.

Emhyr closed the gap between them and laid his hand against Geralt’s cheek. His skin was cold to the touch. “I see you, Geralt of Kaer Morhen. And if you think a little blood will turn me away, then let me make myself very clear. I know you. And I love you. Now either kiss me or get out.”

Geralt kissed him. 

He kissed him as deeply as he had ever been kissed before. 

His arms came to wrap around his waist and Emhyr was drawn into a firm chest. The tie in Geralt’s hair came out with little resistance, and then Emhyr could bury his hands in those surprisingly soft locks. He scratched his nails across Geralt’s scalp and sighed when he felt a purr in response. 

He never thought to find such a sound attractive in a man, but now he never wanted it to stop.

Soon, however, the purring turned into a low moan, and that was even better.

Geralt was just a hair taller than Emhyr, so he used his grip on Geralt’s hair to tug him down to a better angle. 

The Witcher, however, took the direction and kept going. In a fluid motion he went down to his knees in front of Emhyr, and the sight was so stunning that Emhyr felt his breath leave him in a sudden rush. 

“I promise you, Geralt, I will never misuse you. Or break your trust. I know you, and you know me.” Emhyr felt the words leave him without conscious input from his brain, but he knew them to be true the second he said them. 

Geralt didn’t respond in words, but the sound he made was answer enough. 

Emhyr still had his grip in the Witcher’s hair, so he used it to direct him were he wanted him. Geralt took the hint easily, and started mouthing wetly at the bulge forming between Emhyr’s legs. Even through his clothes, Geralt’s mouth was impossibly warm and Emhyr couldn’t help how his hips thrust forward. Geralt, thankfully, didn’t seem to mind. 

But soon it wasn’t enough anymore. Emhyr pushed Geralt back and told him roughly to take off his clothes. 

They both fumbled for the next minute, but then they were both naked and Emhyr could press Geralt against the wall and enjoy every glorious inch of him. 

A true appraisal of his form would have to wait for later, but for now Emhyr contended himself with pressing as close as he could and feeling every inch of scarred skin rub against his. 

In just a matter of minutes, both men were hard and leaking, panting desperately into each others mouth.

Uncaring of the blood on Geralt’s face, Emhyr kissed and bit a trail over his cheeks and down until he could reach his throat. When he did, he bit into the strong column of flesh at the same time that he reached a firm grip around both their cocks. 

Geralt let out a guttural moan and thrust weakly into his grasp. “Yeah, come one. Emhyr. Just like that…” Geralt broke off as Emhyr focused on setting a steady rhythm. 

Geralt’s cock was weeping so much that Emhyr’s grip was pleasantly slick, and soon enough he could feel that edge approaching. A part of him just wanted to finish like this, stroking them together and watching Geralt come apart from the touch of his hand. But he had waited five very long months for this, and he wanted something more.

Geralt let out a truly beautiful whine when Emhyr let him go, but when Emhyr turned him around to press his front against the wall and he realized what he had planned, Geralt started cursing. “Fucking hell, Emhyr. Want you…Damm it. Want you…ahh!” His words died at the press of Emhyr’s finger against his hole. He didn’t yet push all the way in. Instead he spent some time to map the gently fluttering furl by touch first. 

Suddenly, Emhyr cursed. “Oil. Fuck. Where-“ 

“In my bag. Left pocket. Green bottle. Hurry.” Geralt sounded like he was already wrecked.

Emhyr wasted no time and soon enough he was pressing back against Geralt, seeking out his hole with fingers dripping in oil. 

Emhyr had the kind of focus which could take a boy thrown into the woods and return him against all odds to his rightful throne only to conquer most of the continent. He used all of that focus to take Geralt apart as quickly and as completely as he could. 

He used one hand to keep Geralt pressed against the wall while with the other he made quick work of finding that spot which made Geralt go almost boneless with pleasure, and then made sure to hit it with ruthless efficiency as he moved from one finger to three. 

The sight of which was enough to make his knees weak with desire. 

He pressed his face against the Witcher’s ear and grinned when he felt just how ragged Geralt’s breathing had become. “I bet I could make you come just from this. I bet you wouldn’t even need a hand on your cock. Look so good, fucking yourself on my fingers like this.”

“Fuck you Emhyr.” Geralt hissed over his shoulder, but his body couldn’t help but press greedily onto Emhyr’s fingers. Emhyr felt light headed with pleasure.

“No. Not like this. Come one, Witcher. I want to see your face. I want to watch you come apart.”

Geralt growled at the loss of Emhyr’s fingers, but he went down onto his back on the floor easily enough. 

Spread out and panting, Emhyr was not sure if he had ever felt so much pleasure just from looking. He thought even if he could never touch Geralt again, just being able to watch him would be enough. A warm kind of pressure built up in his chest, and it was somehow different yet the same as the heated desire that was coiling in his stomach. 

Guided by that feeling, when he bent over Geralt he pressed a kiss to his open mouth. Soft and gentle and almost chaste, it was a stark difference to their wild frenzy of just a few moments ago. The warm pressure grew impossibly large when Geralt melted into that simple touch. 

But then Emhyr’s cock twitched and he was reminded of his plan. 

For a second he fumbled for the bottle with the oil, but as soon as he found it he hooked Geralt’s leg over his should and pushed into his body in one long thrust. 

If anything, it was better than the first time they did this. 

After that everything dissolved into a mindless haze of pleasure. The growing tension in his stomach, and the tight press of Geralt’s body around his aching cock were the only points of focus. 

Somehow, Emhyr managed to get a hand around Geralt’s cock, but then he was cresting over the edge and Geralt seemed to follow him over with a hoarse shout. 

The look on his face as he came was close to rapture. Even as he saw it, Emhyr wanted to see it again and again.

As they collapsed side by side, the world lowly started to filter back in. 

The breeze from outside, carrying with it the gentle scent of magnolia, felt pleasantly cool against their overheated skin.

For a while, they laid in silence. 

“I’m still not your consort.” Geralt finally grumbled. 

“Hmm, well the title still stands. I can have it revoked, but I assure you that the resulting scandal will make it difficult for you to appear in court for the next, oh, shall we say decade or so?” 

Geralt growled.

“Of course, the title was always meant more for show than any official kind of binding. It was a way to give you a formal standing in court, more than just as the honorary foster father of the crown princess, and one which would give you just as much access to me as it would I to you.” 

“Hmm, could have told me.” Geralt grumbled. Pressed together as they were, the sound traveled pleasantly through Emhyr’s body. For all his posturing, Geralt’s eyes were soft and sated when they met Emhyr’s.

“Yes, well. I apologize for that.”

“Hmm.”

“Will you stay?” Emhyr had to ask.

“For now, yes. But…”

Emhyr nodded. “I understand. I know better then to take you from your Path.”

Geralt looked slightly surprised, as he always did when someone made a thoughtful gesture in his direction. “Not sure what my Path is anymore. Not sure what a Witcher is good for anymore.”

“Your Path is whatever you will make of it. You are not the kind to be easily swayed or coerced into doing something which you dislike. I of all people should know that, since Ciri has not missed any opportunity these last five months to remind me.” Emhyr said somewhat ruefully. “She missed you.”

“Hmm. Was writing her letters. Think she was mostly teasing you towards the end.” Geralt said, smirking.

“Let me guess, she knew you were returning and didn’t say a word. Typical. Well perhaps you will consider that there is work to be done here, protecting the downtrodden from their unruly children?”

Geralt laughed, just a soft sort of chuckle really, but Emhyr felt like he had just won another insurmountable conquest from being the one to cause it. “Well, maybe I could be convinced, if the terms are agreeable. Besides, it would look bad if your newly appointed consort kept running out on you. Would hate to give those nobles the wrong idea.” Geralt smiled wide enough to show his teeth, but it was soft and warm and genuine. 

Emhyr knew that his time as Emperor of North and South was coming to an end. Soon, Cirilla would ascend to the throne and he would cede his place with grace. But it couldn’t hurt, he figured, if before then he made a few more changes. And if the Witcher was there to help him, then that was all for the best. “Yes, I think we can manage to come up with a solution that is pleasing to all, I think very pleasing indeed.” He said. And because he could, he leaned forward and pressed another soft kiss against Geralt’s smiling mouth. 

The End