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“Business is booming,” Geralt remarked as he surveyed the wide open space in front of the Rosemary & Thyme, where a few tables had been placed haphazardly to accommodate the patrons spilling out from inside.
“Is that surprise I hear in your voice?” Dandelion said, wine on his breath. “I’m wounded, my friend.”
Geralt wasn’t surprised. The nights had been thick with smoke from pyres, non-humans condemned to death seemingly every other day for daring to live in Novigrad. Anyone with the decency to disagree with the Eternal Fire’s actions were eager to drink and dance their worries away.
“Must be that new song of yours,” he said, and Dandelion soon wandered off, preening, to mingle with his clientele.
Geralt stayed away from the worst of it, leaning against a low stone wall at the edge of the crowd. The first bars of a drinking song filled the air, so he smelled trouble before he heard it coming: the metallic tang of blood, fear and sweat and something that reminded him of the forest on the warm evening wind. The sound of rapid footsteps followed, and then a man smashed right into him.
“Careful,” Geralt muttered. He reached out to steady the stranger and his hand closed over the heavy cuff on his wrist. He wore a red cloth on his head. Bruising around his eye… his one eye.
“Geralt,” Iorveth said, out of breath, his heartbeat loud in Geralt’s ears.
“What are you–” Geralt started to ask, but the sound of heavy armored footsteps nearby stopped him. Guards. Running their way.
He looked down at the cuffs and yanked Iorveth’s hands over to the stone wall next to him. A good hit with the pommel of his sword was all it took to break the chain that linked his wrists together.
“Thank you.”
Iorveth showed every sign of wanting to run off again. He wouldn’t make it far past the gate, though, even if he managed to reach it. Geralt glanced around – the elf stuck out like a sore thumb among the bards and courtesans and… and the smiling couples whispering to each other in dark corners. Suddenly inspired, he shoved Iorveth back against an empty ale barrel and pulled the cloth off his head.
“What– Geralt–”
“Blend in.” There was no time. The guards were close enough that he could hear them huffing and puffing as they ran. He ruffled Iorveth’s hair, covering up the missing eye somewhat, then stepped close to him. Iorveth’s hands came up to push him back and Geralt guided them to his face instead. “Blend in,” he repeated, then took him by the waist and kissed him.
Iorveth’s breath stuttered against his cheek, his eye wide with shock. Axii was right at Geralt’s fingertips, ready to keep him still and calm if needed, but he finally seemed to get the idea. His fingers slid into Geralt’s hair and his entire body seemed to relax despite his still-hammering heart.
The guards stomped around behind them. Half a dozen, at least. “Spread out,” one ordered. “He can’t have gone far.”
“What are you doing here?” Geralt murmured against Iorveth’s dry lips. His eye fluttered open. “Don’t look at them.”
“Freed an old friend. They were– they were going to burn her,” he added in a low, angry hiss, and Geralt thought it best to kiss him again. He tasted like blood.
“You, there! Have you seen an elf?”
Geralt put a hand on the back of Iorveth’s neck and guided his head down. He kissed the edge of Geralt’s jaw, nuzzled his throat, and there was an edge of panic to the quiet laugh that escaped him. “If this is a dream,” he whispered in the Elder Speech as if to himself, “carrots and lard would have sufficed.”
Something stirred in Geralt’s memory, but there was no time to dwell on it. His eyes searched the crowd over Iorveth’s head and – yes, Zoltan was staring their way, a frown creasing his brow. He tugged on the slashed silk of Dandelion’s sleeve and Geralt gave them a very, very small nod toward the guards.
“They’ll be out of our hair in a minute,” he said into the top of Iorveth’s head, rubbing his side slowly with one hand.
“Are you looking for the pointy-eared whoreson with the crimson cloth on his head?” Dandelion called out, overacting as always. “He ran that way.”
“Aye, I saw him too. Right down that street, toward Hierarch Square.”
The guards took off clinking and clanging, and Iorveth didn’t lift his head until the din had almost completely faded away. He twisted in Geralt’s arms, looking this way and that, then let out a slow breath. “I haven’t seen so many dh'oine in one place since the Northern Wars,” he said with a nonchalance he clearly didn’t feel, judging by the sweat still beading on his brow. “Don’t know how you can stand it.”
Geralt snorted and let his hands fall back to his side. “Come inside. We’ll patch you up.”
“No. I need to go.”
“Won’t make it ten paces out of the city. Is your friend safe?” he asked, and Iorveth gave him a reluctant sort of nod. “Then stay inside until dawn.” He crouched and picked up Iorveth’s red cloth, then started weaving his way through the revelers and toward the inn. Iorveth followed.
“Still alive, eh?” Zoltan raised one hand in greeting. “That was a clever ruse, Geralt.”
“And a fine performance,” Dandelion teased as they walked past. Geralt looked over his shoulder, but Iorveth shot Dandelion a hard look before he could say anything in reply, and the bard coughed nervously and turned away, raising his goblet to his lips.
He ushered Iorveth into the inn with one hand on his back, looking wonderingly at the back of his head. “No chance of an encore, I take it?” he asked, curious.
“Shut up,” Iorveth retorted immediately, but even the music and drunken conversation couldn’t cover up the way his heartbeat quickened again, nor was the flickering torchlight dim enough to hide the spots of color that bloomed at the tips of his ears.
Geralt smiled to himself and kept his hand where it was.