Chapter Text
Geralt was fuming! He had not been three hours in Gors Velen before he had found himself ambushed, tackled to the ground, and his arms shackled behind his back. By whom, he couldn’t tell, but they were not members of the guard, and not bandits either if he could judge by their attire. Too well kept, too tidy. But they had managed to overpower him in a way that would have baffled him, had he not sensed the magic dripping from them. They looked very human, though, but, well, with a little glamour, any magical creature could.
That had little influence on his present predicament though, that being him presently kept shackled in a room locked from the outside. He knew at least one of his attackers was guarding it. The room must have been part of a very elegant mansion from what he had gathered when he had been lead inside. He hadn’t seen much, as they had placed some kind of a fabric bag over his head. But the stairs he had climbed had been quiet under his feet, the sound of his steps muffled by the carpet.
Why was he kept here, he had no idea, and none of his captors had cared to explain. The only thing he heard from them was something along the lines of “I think she will be pleased. I think they will be pleased.” It was not addressed to him, and he had no idea who was she or they, and he wasn’t sure he particularly cared, as for now his main focus was to get himself out of this highly unpleasant situation. But as much as he could struggle, he definitely couldn’t free himself from the thick metal circling his wrists. So he had no choice but to wait for a better opportunity. For now.
***
They had come to fetch him, with strange looks in their eyes. Appraising. Admiring. He had growled when one of them had dusted his shoulder with a flick of his hand, but they hadn’t even acknowledged it. They were gleaming, and he could smell pride from them. This was confusing on all accounts.
“Come.”
He had little choice but to follow them. Should he feel grateful not to be lead by a leash?
They walked through corridors after corridors, descending stairs, and finally stopped before two great doors, behind which he could hear laughter and joyful conversations. One of his captors knocked on the delicately carved wood, which was opened soon after by an elegantly dressed, stern-looking man, who greeted the two men with a nod, before startling, and frowning, when he saw the Witcher. But Geralt’s captors didn’t give him time to ask any question before entering the room, which was indeed full of people. Geralt assessed about twenty of them, all grandly dressed. The Witcher growled. Had he been brought here as a fucking party favor? One of his imprisoners pushed him further inside, until the three of them reached a small group, in front of which his jailors bowed deeply. The first thing Geralt noticed about them was their incredible beauty. One tall man, wearing heavy elegant furs upon a blue jacket and leather vambraces, who Geralt guessed was some kind of a warrior. Another man, looking quite regal in a richly ornamented blue doublet. And one of the most gorgeous women he had ever set eyes upon, clad in a deep purple gown embroidered with gold, whose hair was crowned with roses.
The second thing he noticed was the whiteness of their complexion.
“Your Highness, with your permission, we have brought a gift for our most honorable guest.”
Geralt felt a strong pressure on his shoulder against which he couldn’t fight, and he fell to his knees. The room was now completely silent. Geralt glanced at the trio. The warrior displayed every sign of a carefully contained fury. The lord-like frowned deeply. The woman had opened wide eyes. The smell in the room was— What was that? Stupor? With a note of fear?
“Most Gracious Lady, allow us to present you the Witcher Geralt of Rivia, brought here as a gift from the clan Gangrel, for your very own pleasure.”
Geralt snarled at that introduction. He was a fucking party favor. And he didn’t like any bit of it.
***
Amanda had been enchanted at the perspective of this trip to Gors Velen. A change of scenery couldn’t harm, and she had always enjoyed the court of Prince Brent Joris. True, she wasn’t a frequent visitor, but one could not really expect an Elder to travel every other decade to another kingdom. Her Prince and herself had agreed, though, that it was a good idea, since they had diplomatics to discuss, and it would be impressive enough that an Elder would bother with such a trip for Prince Brent to feel flattered by it and agree on some delicate matter with his powerful neighbor.
She had left the luxuries of Novigrad for the smaller praxis two nights prior and was now enjoying the lovely conversation of the prince, and of Elder Paddy Horan from clan Gangrel, while sipping an exquisite wine in her delicately chiseled crystal glass.
A distraction arose when three men that she did not recognize entered the coziness of the Elysium. She raised an eyebrow when she realized that one of them seemed bound with his arms behind his back. She raised it higher when she understood that this was no Kindred. And then, she heard the most extraordinary thing.
She blinked. Twice. Completely dumbfounded. Her eyes traveled slowly from each of the Neonates to the Witcher, who seemed less than happy about the whole situation. The silence in the room was deadly.
“I am sorry. You brought… A what?”
The one who answered her looked very pleased with himself.
“A Witcher, Most Gracious Lady. And not any Witcher, but the White Wolf himself!”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She turned towards Prince Brent.
“I beg your pardon Your Highness, but is this perfect example of stupidity a genuine sample of the whole court of Gors Velen? Or are those two specimens museum-worthy one-of-a-kind gems of idiocy?”
Only silence answered her. The smiles on the two Neonates’ faces faltered.
“Let me get this straight, continued the elder. You brought a Witcher, shackled, in the middle of an Elysium full of Kindreds, among whom a visiting Elder, and this is supposed to be a present for me? ARE YOU COMPLETELY INSANE?!”
Later that night, the prince, Elder Horran and the keeper of the Elysium would all agree that the acoustic was terrible in the Elysium, which had allowed the voice of their guest to resonate such that almost everyone could have had sworn that they heard her yell. Which she most definitely hadn’t, since it would have been a violation against the most sacred rules of the Elysium.
“I do not know what offends me more here, whether it is that you thought that bringing a monster slayer here would be a good idea, or that I would enjoy it as a gift.
- My Lady—
- Silence! How dare you talk back to an Elder? Are you so uneducated? How are we to deal with this lovely situation that you created, now?
- … We could— We could have him… Dispatched…”
If it was possible, the silence fell heavier.
“You are not only stupid, but you are also careless of your humanity. I beg His Highness to deal with you in a way that will prevent me from the displeasure of having to lay eyes upon you again. For now, your most unwelcomed gift will be brought to my chambers. And no one is to lay hands upon him. I hope that my word will be respected.” She demanded, her voice strong and not leaving any room for doubt.
No one dared to utter a word as she stared the room down. She walked out in a regal pace, radiating of dangerously contained wrath.
***
Geralt had no clue as to what exactly had just happened, but the scene had had him tensed in many unpleasant ways. Two things though he understood. One, that he had been close to dying. Two, that the lady to whom he had been offered wanted to keep him alive. For now.
After she had left the room, an elegantly dressed man had come to him and bowed slightly.
“Master Witcher, I’m afraid I can’t help you stand up, but if you’d follow me, I will escort you to Elder Amanda Taran’s rooms.”
He raised an eyebrow. She had ordered that no one would touch him, and they all very obviously intended to obey her. With a little effort, he raised from his kneeling position and proceeded to follow him, noticing in the corner of his eye how his cowering jailors were trembling under the furious gaze of the two seemingly powerful men that remained from the small group.