Chapter Text
Geralt crested the hill and came to a stop.
Roach, who was a feisty young Nilfgaardian mare this time around, redder then he normally picked them and with an attitude to match, pranced a bit in annoyance before settling. Geralt usually avoided showy horses because they could be even more trouble then the stubborn ones, but this one had been a gift from Emhyr and he couldn’t deny that she was swift and graceful and agile enough that riding her felt more like flying and she had that particular glint in her eye that always told a good Roach apart. That glint that said she would bite you if you looked at her wrong.
He had been riding at a sedate pace for the last several days. As he neared the Nilfgaardian capital the weather had turned hot and balmy, and since there was nothing urgent on the horizon he had seen no need to rush.
Also, there may have also been the little detail of nerves.
It didn’t matter how many times he did it, every time he approached the City of the Golden Towers, he was overcome by such a complicated wave of emotions that he was forced to stop until he could get them under control again.
Among them was shock, of course. And disbelief. A large part of him could still not belief that he was returning to the imperial palace which he more or less called home these days and which also happened to house his daughter and his lover who also happened to be the Emperor of Nilfgaard.
Geralt would sit and gaze at the distant city and wonder at just how far his life had come from anything which he had ever imagined.
And underneath that, there was fear. Though even under extreme torture he never would have admitted that.
A fear that he wasn’t as welcomed has he had thought. That at some point he would wake up and realize what a fool he had been to ever think that a Witcher could live in the imperial palace.
And underneath that, discomfort.
He would never breath a word to Emhyr, or Ciri for that matter, but sometimes palace life could wear him down.
He was used to that hatred and bigotry he met while on the Path, and could usually content himself with the knowledge that after the monster hunt was done he could simply ride away.
At the palace, that was not an option.
He had made a promise to Ciri, and then to Emhyr. And even if he hadn’t, he had come to enjoy the benefits of living at the palace. The knowledge that he could affect real, lasting change simply by giving advice. That Emhyr listened to him, and took his help seriously, and always took whatever little details or insights which Geralt could provide and turned them into beautiful and dazzling schemes that saw roads built and schools constructed and food and medicine dispersed where before there had only been swamps and ruin and starvation.
Geralt liked that, so it was worth it to stay. But that didn’t stop the whispers that no one thought he could hear or the (still) pervasive scent of fear or the looks of contempt from cutting him to the bone on bad days.
Those were usually the days when he would slip out into the city and find something to kill or something to do with his hands and only come back when he felt more like a person.
On really bad days he would find Emhyr and drag him off to a dark corner and have him fuck him senseless.
On really, really bad days he saddled Roach and rode as far and for as long as he needed to until his muscles ached from fighting and his hands had forgotten what it felt like to hold anything other than a sword.
But always, always, he returned. Because it was worth it.
With a sigh, Geralt shakes his head at his own ridiculousness and nudges Roach back into motion.
The hills here are steep and numerous and Geralt takes his time picking the best path between them. He could take the road, which runs straight and level and even, but this close to the golden city it will also be full of traffic going both ways, and he would rather have a few more moments of peace.
Eventually however, he is forced to rejoin the thoroughfare.
Thankfully, the guards at the gate let him through without any fuss, but as he gets closer and closer to the palace, and the more opulent neighborhoods around it, he starts to draw attention.
Unfortunately, this had been happening more and more of late. When he complained to Emhyr and Ciri, they both told him to suck it up as both of them had it far worse, but that didn’t stop Geralt from wishing that he could conjure a spell of invisibility every time he was forced to travel so visibly through the city.
Word had spread that the Emperor had taken a consort, and that he was white haired and cat eyed and so as he neared the palace the people in the street made way for him with increasingly deep bows and murmurs of Lord Geralt and Master Witcher and Consort and whatever other title they thought might fit.
By the time he actually made it to the palace gate, he was wishing fervently that he had waited until night fall to return.
All the genuflecting was bad enough, but underneath it all Geralt could still smell the sour scent of fear and superstition that not even the ruthless civilization of Nilfgaard was able to wipe out.
But once he was in the palace proper the atmosphere changed.
The staff at this point were more or less accustomed to him, and they were professional to boot.
They didn’t make a fuss when he insisted on tending to Roach himself and didn’t bother him with a million offers for a bath or refreshments or any of the other nonsense that most nobles and dignitaries were met with.
An aid wondering by was kind enough to inform him that both Ciri and Emhyr were in the family wing, using the late afternoon hour to work in their private offices which for anyone else would have meant a few hours to relax and for them just meant a few less disruptions while they slaved away.
As he made his way up, a fond smile split Geralt’s face. It was such a silly thing, to know that at least half of Emhyr’s ruthlessness was actually just his shear inability to stop working or that Ciri took to everything she did with a kind of stubborn zeal that bordered on obsessive. But they were little insights into their personalities that Geralt hoarded closely.
Once in the hallway that connected all of the royal families suites, the ingrained scent of his lover and his daughter, the invisible markers left by their countless comings and goings that showed this space to be undeniably theirs, made all of Geralt’s earlier doubts vanish in face of his sudden desire to see them.
He knocked on Ciri’s door first, and was rewarded by a delighted shriek and a flying hug that would have sent anyone else to the ground. But because he was who he was he caught her easily and spun her around. She laughed delightedly and for that moment was just a daughter happy to see her father returned and not an empress in the making.
The scent of happiness was thick in the air, and under that Geralt could tell that though Ciri was perhaps a little tired, she was healthy and well fed.
They moved to Ciri’s balcony, which in the late summer heat was thankfully mostly in the shade, and she spent a good hour barraging him with questions about where he had been and what he had done. He answered what he had to before diverting the conversation towards Ciri.
It turned out that in the two months that he had been away, the palace had been fairly quiet, which meant that there was only one plot per week and that no one had resorted to assassination. The public school in Cintra, Ciri’s latest project, was going well and soon she would be leaving to personally oversee the final stages of preparation herself.
But that wasn’t at least for three months and so they had plenty of time to catch up. Geralt left when she started eyeing her desk again and promised that tomorrow they would spend at least a few hours in the sparring ring together. Ciri smiled and waved him out the door.
Next was Emhyr.
A small smile curved his lips as he turned not towards the door leading into Emhyr’s private office, but to the door of what was still technically his own rooms.
Though he spent almost every night that he was at the palace in Emhyr’s room, he still kept his old suite. Mostly because they had never formally discussed Geralt moving into Emhyr’s rooms and also because it was nice, to have his own space that wasn’t beholden to the strict standards that even the Emperor’s private chambers were held to.
He made his way swiftly to his own balcony, swung himself over the railing, and then preceded to inch his way across, holding on with just his fingers to the thin ridge that was the only protrusion on the otherwise smooth wall.
Emhyr hated when he did this, mostly because he still had no idea how Geralt did it, but that was exactly why he loved doing it.
Only a Witcher would have the strength and discipline necessary to carry themselves across such a distance only by their fingertips, so Geralt really wasn’t too worried about someone else figuring out this one little weak spot in Emhyr’s defenses.
Once he made it to the appropriate balcony, he pushed with his feet, propelling himself sidewise to catch at the edge of the balcony with this hands before gathering momentum to swing his body over the railing, landing silently, on all fours.
As he had predicted, the living room was empty.
Walking with the absolute silence of a professional Witcher, Geralt slipped through the open balcony doors, through the the living room and then, with a burst of movement too fast to be human, through the door to the office and right behind Emhyr’s chair.
Emhyr let out a satisfying shriek and Geralt couldn’t resist bending down and scooping him out of his chair.
There was a lot of cursing and demands to be “Let down this instant!” But Geralt didn’t pay it any mind. Instead he brought Emhyr’s feet to rest on the floor so that they were standing pressed together with Geralt’s arm around his waist and his head buried in Emhyr’s shoulder. He took one deep breath of Emhyr’s scent, pine soap, parchment, and the black tea he loved to drink, and felt every last drop of tension fade.
Finally Emhyr gave up with his swearing and let his own arms come up to return the embrace. He knew well by now how much such simple physical contact meant to Geralt, and had gotten better about letting Geralt just be for a few moments before he started pestering him with questions.
Geralt made a pleased noise and nipped gently at Emhyr’s throat. Now that he was back, he wanted nothing more than to take Emhyr to bed and not let him out for at least a few hours.
Talking could wait.
But Emhyr only laughed and pushed Geralt away to arms length. He was smiling, but Geralt knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.
“Witcher, while I am pleased to see you, perhaps you might indulge me and take a bath before accosting me further? I believe I can smell at least a week’s worth of travel on you, and I haven’t but the nose of an ordinary human.”
Geralt grumbled.
“You would think Witchers were allergic to water, the way you complain about bathing sometimes. I know you like to be clean when you can Geralt, is it really too much to ask for you to consider some hygiene before jumping to sex?” Emhyr’s tone was purposefully light, so that Geralt would know he was mostly teasing. His somewhat sporadic bathing habits were sometimes a point of contention between them.
It wasn’t that Geralt didn’t like bathing, he did in fact prefer it, but it was just that he didn’t always see the point of washing when he knew he was going to get dirty again not long after. And a long life on the road where bathing was difficult had taught him to ignore the discomfort of carrying a few days worth of dust.
And he really had missed Emhyr.
“Would think you weren’t even happy to see me. Not even one kiss?” Geralt tried one more time.
It wasn’t that he was desperate or anything.
It was just that Geralt liked sex a lot. In fact, he was reasonably sure that most Witchers did. It wasn’t something which they talked about exactly but one of the many things which their mutations did was ramp up a lot of their hormones. It was hard to tell, because there were no human children at Kaer Morhen after the age of twelve, but judging by the amount of fumbling sexual exploration that went on between the boys in between pouts of training it was safe to assume that the Trail of the Grasses left them…well, energized in more ways then one.
The problem of course, was that it was hard enough finding people willing to take a Witcher into their homes, much less their beds. Even at brothels, it was hard to find anyone who didn’t reek of fear, which was just about the biggest turn off you could imagine.
Geralt liked sex, but didn’t get it very often and when he did was often stuck bedding some adventurous young women who would non the less flee if he made so much as a wrong gesture so he was usually fairly preoccupied with not doing that the whole time.
To have a partner who not only never smelt even remotely of fear, but also whom he trusted and was interested in something more than just a dangerous roll in the hay with a Witcher was rather amazing. The fact that Emhyr often claimed to love Geralt and that Geralt was beginning to believe him only added to that.
So he liked sex and he wanted very desperately not to have to think for the next few moments. And he had dearly missed Emhyr.
They didn’t have to do anything complicated. Just a quick hand job would do the trick and then he would be on his merry way to the baths.
Though, on second thought. “Or, you could come with me. We can do a lot more than kissing in the bath.” Geralt offered, trying to pitch his voice as low and as inviting as he could.
He was gratified when he saw Emhyr’s eyes darken and heard his breathing hitch.
But Emhyr had not become Emperor of North and South for nothing. Geralt could practically see the man pull himself together and regain control. Pity. He had really hoped that that might go somewhere.
“As tempting as your offer is, dear Witcher, I am afraid that some things will not wait, even for you. I have reports that must be signed and orders to send out.” Emhyr sighed at Geralt’s beaten look and leant forward to press a chaste kiss against his lips. “But later. I will clear my evening and I promise you, you shall not want for attention then.”
It was Geralt’s turn to feel his breath catch and his eyes darken. He knew what it was like to hold the personal attention of the Emperor for an evening. “That’s a promise then.” He said, his voice coming out a little husky.
Because he wanted to and because he could, he stole one more kiss, but then he turned and headed to the baths.
Though each royal suit was equipped with its own private bathing chamber, there were also hot springs located under the palace, and since he wasn’t going to be getting any special kind of company, might as well take advantage of the sprawling pools and mineral rich water.
He sighed when he sunk into the hot water. The hot spring was blissfully empty and he felt safe enough to close his eyes.
It had been a hard two months.
He had left with the intention of making a quick circuit north into Sodden before returning along the coast. He would take contracts as he liked and otherwise make note of certain things which he thought Emhyr or Ciri might find useful.
Whenever he left like that he was never under obligation to fulfill any sort of imperial duty, an allowance which he was grateful that Emhyr had understood. But he also felt inclined to make himself useful where he could.
Even Emhyr’s spies had limits, and he was beginning to understand that he often saw things which others missed, and not just because he was a Witcher.
But his plan had been somewhat derailed by a slew of bad luck that led to one awful hunt after another and though none of them could strictly be classified as failures they all weighed on him poorly and added up to a generally miserable time.
Life on the Path wasn’t always that bad, but when it was Geralt hated to talk about it. Words would get stuck in his throat when he thought about all the bullshit that made up most people’s existence. All the petty hatred and bigotry which led to senseless violence.
To add insult to injury, Geralt had found himself complaining about the quality of almost everything while on the road. Since settling into life at the palace, he had noticed more and more that when he went out he was unable to put up with things which before he hardly would have even noticed.
The beds were always too itchy and smelled bad. The food was always either over salted or overcooked and the beer tasted like piss. Even with coin to spend on the fanciest inn that would take him, he found himself annoyed at every little imperfection.
It got so bad that he started avoiding inns all together, but then he only found himself complaining that the ground was too hard or the weather too wet.
In other words, he was getting soft, and he hated it.
Annoyed at his own spiraling thoughts, Geralt let himself sink down until his head was submerged.
Under the water, the world was muffled and almost peaceful. He sometimes wondered if this was what life was like for ordinary humans, who never had to worry about all the scents and noise and general clutter that he was never fully able to tune out.
As a Witcher, he could hold his breath for a considerable amount of time, and he let himself stay under until his lungs were aching for breath. HIs hair, longer than he had ever let it grow before, swirled around him in the water and obscured his vision in a cloud of white.
He stayed until everything but the need to breath was silenced and then he let himself surface.
Feeling relatively refreshed, Geralt got out and went to hunt down some food.
And then he would hunt Emhyr down and regardless if he was finished with his work or not he was dragging him into bed and wasn’t going to let him leave until he had been thoroughly ravaged.