Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Join us at the road to fate
There are two paths
Feel the pain
Which steps into his life
(Ashes to Ashes)

"Don't make that face."
Geralt turns around in the saddle, looking at Emhyr intently.
"What kind of face am I making?"

He rides beside Emhyr, surrounded by the usual ridiculous entourage of far too many soldiers and a superfluous court; all of this serving more the display of power than any actual purpose. After tough negotiations, Geralt has refrained from making his first official inaugural visit as the Emperor's consort in armor. Instead, he sits in the saddle in somewhat discreet yet still quite uncomfortable riding clothes after Nilfgaardian fashion. There has almost been a dispute over the question of whether he would also have to wear a little hat. So, if Emhyr's remark refers to the fact that he finds the elaborate journey, his clothes and the fuss around him annoying and therefore seems somehow grumpy, this can not be completely dismissed.
But to his surprise, the answer is different.

"As if you suspect danger around every corner," his husband replies, gesturing vaguely to the road in front of them. The forest path lies so evenly before them as if to demonstrate the ease of this journey. It seems to be nothing but an innocuous, sunny day. Spring merges almost seamlessly into summer; the vegetation is lush and green, the sounds from the undergrowth lively but innocent.
"You're not here as my bodyguard this time; remember that."
"Don't worry, I won't forget," Geralt grumbles, now actually sullen. "However, your actual bodyguard is flirting around back there, probably trying to scam himself something to eat."
Emhyr turns around briefly. In fact, Adan is quite far back in the whole procession. The feline witcher seems to be talking to some maidens. Still, from here it is impossible to tell whether they are staff or possibly some young debutantes who inevitably have to be dragged along to present them to some royal court at such an event.

Emhyr looks ahead again, and at most, the fact that his knuckles tighten a little more around the reins might betray some disapproval.
"You have to give him credit that he's fast if needed," he finally says. "Other than that, I don't anticipate any major problems during this journey. And you, my dear... if you don't have a knife hidden somewhere in your boots, I'd be very astonished."
"You know me too well, husband," Geralt replies.
The slight smile they both exchange reveals that no further harm has been done.
And yet, Geralt can not shake off his nature. The traveling party might be protected by a platoon of heavily armed soldiers, crossbowmen included, and two witchers - of whom, however, to Geralt's chagrin, only one is wearing armor and carrying two swords on his back. There is no denying that their lives have been almost quiet lately. Of course, that is a welcome change given the attacks that lay behind them. But for Geralt, it is deceptive calm. If his long life has taught him one thing, it is that good times are inevitably followed by difficult ones. His occasional moodiness probably has less to do with the trip’s circumstances than with vague feelings that he nevertheless does not want to call foreboding.

It almost bothers him that the feline seems so calm. Adan takes his new duties as the Emperor's security advisor quite seriously. Still, contrary to his habits - which sometimes include a certain paranoia - he has not seemed the least bit tense. He has approved the route, spending nights fiddling with details, even determining parts of the soldiers' formation against considerable commanders' resistance. Emhyr has probably burdened him with more responsibility than any witcher before him has ever had, and not without protest from many others involved - of course, because he is a witcher. Still, Adan has expressed virtually no concern. Instead, Geralt is the one with the strange, underlying feeling that everything is going far too smoothly. Is it only because he feels useless in his function? It is more than weird to be the witcher whom the Emperor has married. It is never the other way around, of course. On the other hand, neither rumors nor oblique looks bother him, rather the momentary inaction. Despite everything, his acquired caution has not disappeared. His senses are still focused on perceiving the smallest changes in the environment. There just aren't any. And yet a feeling will not leave him, that this is only the calm before the storm.

A movement further ahead on the seemingly endless road that runs straight forward interrupts his thoughts. A slender young man, inconspicuously dressed in green and brown shades, steps out of the twilight created by the dense foliage above them and speaks quietly to the commander riding further ahead. The latter then turns his horse around and gives hand signals that are spread throughout the rest of the procession - a sign to stop. When he reaches the Emperor's position, he says, "The scout reports that further ahead a fallen log is blocking the way. We will have to clear the obstruction first, Your Highness."
In one fluid motion, Geralt jumps off Roach and replies, "I'll go check it out myself. Someone should let Adan know, too."
"That's not your responsibility," Emhyr reminds him, frowning.
"The route has been carefully checked," Geralt says, ignoring him. "There were no storms lately. It can very well be a trap."
"The scout says it looks inconspicuous," the commander replies.
"The scout sees only what he is supposed to see," says Geralt, already on his way.
"Geralt!" Emhyr calls after him, trying hard not to raise his voice. Then he sighs and instructs the commander to send two soldiers after him, just for safety.

Possibly it is really just a fallen tree. The road runs through the middle of the forest at this point, and trees can fall for all kinds of reasons. But maybe it is also the trigger for Geralt's subliminal unease. Other than that, he has nothing to justify his action, which probably just means a whole bunch of protocol violations - even for the Emperor's consort. As if to mock him, the day still seems completely innocent and ordinary. The sun sents some powerful rays through the dense foliage; the forest sounds can yet be heard. Their absence would have attracted his attention, but everything seems completely inconspicuous.

He focuses so much on all the rustling in the foliage caused by light wind and small animals, that the soldiers' footsteps behind him almost roar in his ears. For a second, he actually wonders if he is the only one who hears them so loudly or if their stomping would startle all the creatures in the undergrowth. Even though the ground is soft under his boots, also his own footsteps seem loud as far as that goes. There is no dry wood lying around that would crumple if a careless foot trampled it. And yet...
Geralt approaches the obstacle. The fallen tree trunk is now clearly visible; it is actually lying in the middle of the road, completely blocking the passage. Geralt glances into the undergrowth, in the direction from which the tree has fallen, and sure enough, there is a stump there. Though half-hidden between the dense foliage and the branches of the nearby trees, everything seems inconspicuous. He can see from here an irregular shape; it actually appears to have been torn out - a natural cause. He will still look at it up close.

Geralt glances back briefly. The soldiers keep behind him, close enough and yet with enough distance. The traveling party can be seen a good distance away, and Geralt also sees Adan riding slowly forward. He will be approaching Emhyr soon. Emhyr, as much as he can see from here, is holding Roach's reins with one hand. Perhaps Geralt's sudden dismount has startled her a bit - but maybe even his horse has perceived the calm of the past weeks as unfamiliar.
Once again, he looks at the tree trunk, then at the stump. Probably it is ridiculous, but nevertheless, he takes a step in its direction - only to stop as if rooted to the spot. The ground should have been soft, as it has been all the way before. But under his right boot is something hard, hidden under leaves and dust, pebbles, and forest floor. All at once, Geralt sees everything very clearly, as if it were suddenly possible for him to see through the undergrowth, to push it aside with his eyes, and to see figures deep behind it, hidden in the thicket, perhaps even up in the trees. It has been only a ridiculous feeling, in the end maybe a premonition, but still, he has not reckoned on this.
Geralt raises his right hand to hold back the soldiers.
"Stop," he says as quietly as possible but loud enough for them to hear him. The men, to their credit, obey immediately. However, they look confused, at least from what Geralt can make out when he peers cautiously over his shoulder.
"Scoia'tael traps. You must go back, quickly, and warn the commander. Everyone must retreat now. The Emperor must be taken to safety."
It has to seem strange how he stands there, oddly stiff, frozen in motion, one leg forward, one back; but even if the soldiers don't understand much about it, they have certainly heard of the Scoia'tael. And also of their traps.
"Sir, this is suicide," one of them says gravely.
"If you hurry, no one else will get hurt."
"You are asking us to tell the Emperor that his consort is standing on a bomb?"
"I'm asking you to warn the others," Geralt replies between clenched teeth. "And do it quickly. Even I can't stand like this forever."
But, he thinks, hopefully, long enough until the travelers are safe—especially Emhyr.

Regretfully, Geralt looks back at his regal, imposing figure standing out from the crowd; and he wishes he would have appreciated the quiet life of the last months more. He knows exactly what he has to do now. What he doesn't know is what kind of bomb this is. What is clear, however, is that the Scoia'tael have been counting on them. They have been waiting for them. It wouldn't be the only bomb; they just don't work that way. Whatever their motives for this ambush, their goal seems clear. It is pure coincidence that the scout has not walked into one of the traps, and equally coincidence that Geralt has done so himself. He knows the cunning of the Scoia'tael. If they are serious, the chances for him are awful - without armor, unprotected, standing directly on one of their bombs.
"For crying out loud, why are you still standing there?" he hisses. The soldiers finally react, as if they, too, have been caught in a kind of paralysis of shock. They turn around to move in the direction of the waiting entourage. They don't get five steps - then both fall, entirely silently, arrows in their backs. Bloody hell. The front part of the traveling party, mainly soldiers and Emhyr, is far enough away, but this does not escape them. Geralt sees Emhyr straighten up in the saddle, and he perceives the commander's hand gesture very clearly. Instead of sounding the retreat as expected, it looks like he is now about to head off in his direction, more soldiers on his heels.

Damn fools, Geralt thinks - and then he jumps.

Chapter Text

And a cruel price
We've paid
But still I can't claim
That I'm innocent
(Noldor)

Emhyr, sitting on his imposing black stallion, appears as if he is enthroned on it. However, of these two striking appearances, he is still the one who attracts the most attention, albeit rather furtively. He is surrounded by an aura of aloofness and a crowd of soldiers. Both provide him with security; a security he has been able to rely on for many years. So there is objectively no reason for the feeling that has been creeping up on him ever since Geralt has swung out of the saddle and set off in the direction of the obstacle the scout has reported. But it is there, undeniable; it has subtly accompanied each of Geralt's steps within him. Although the latter is used to long journeys in the saddle, he seems relieved to have solid ground under his feet. Still, Emhyr knows precisely the real reason for the restlessness that has driven him from his horse. He holds Roach's reins loosely in his hand - the only one Geralt would trust with them, and the only one the horse would even let do so - though he knows full well it isn't necessary. This is one of the most stoic horses he has ever seen, usually unimpressed by the surroundings.

Emhyr doesn’t know what has worried Geralt - if you can even call it that. But it is certainly not pure boredom that drives him to check the obstacle. Ever since the severe injuries he had suffered due to his fall months ago, he experienced nightmares. The dreams have remained as well as the pain in his leg that comes and goes. Merigold suspects that the pain causes the dreams, not the other way around. As an explanation, that is as good as anything. At any rate, the dreams occasionally seem like premonitions to Geralt, and he has said that he has experienced similar things before with Ciri. And even though there has been no reason to take these possible premonitions seriously for some time, Emhyr would be hell-bent on merely dismissing them. So, even though it might seem unusual - in the face of this journey and the traveling company that is still subject to a tricky protocol even on the way - he lets Geralt go, knowing that maybe he is just having a feeling. How peculiar that this witcher, his witcher, who should not have has any feelings, is so full of them.

By now, he is a good distance away from them, whatever he is doing. Emhyr can not see a tree trunk or whatever from here.
"What's going on up ahead?" asks a voice beside Emhyr. Adan has caught up to him and somehow squeezes his horse between his and one of the soldiers. Now he rises in the saddle, straightening himself with almost artistic agility, keeping his balance while standing only in the stirrups to see as much as possible.
"You tell me," Emhyr replies serenely, "if you are going to perform such feats."
"What kind of feats?" asks Adan as he elegantly slopes back into the saddle. Emhyr still doesn't see through whether the feline really doesn't understand some things or whether he is just pretending to be innocent.
"I don't know what he's looking at," Adan says now, "but an obstruction is highly unusual at this point."
He squints his eyes and continues to stare straight ahead. "Why did he stop? I should look at..." At that moment, the two soldiers who have accompanied Geralt fall to the ground as if felled by an ax, but only Adan recognizes the real reason.
"Shit, archers," he curses. "Commander!"
The latter also swears - he has seen the incident. With a wave of his hand, he orders soldiers further back to come closer. At the same time, those riding in front with the Emperor have to stay put for his personal protection.
"What's going on up ahead?" asks Emhyr, dangerously calm. He keeps his gaze fixed on Geralt, who stands rooted to the spot, not moving. Adan, however, suddenly has an inkling. Addressing the commander, he shouts, "Wait!"
At that moment, Geralt makes a huge leap towards the bushes, and immediately a massive detonation shakes the forest.

In the blink of an eye, chaos reigns. Smoke blocks the view ahead, and the sheer volume of the detonation disturbs the rear procession of travelers on horses and in coaches. In a single heartbeat, Adan puts his horse in front of Emhyr's and yells to the commander, "Retreat! Retreat, fuck!"
The feline is not prone to curses, and his horrified face bewilders Emhyr. Further ahead, the smoke is still thick, and a strange, almost inhuman howling sounds from the forest.
"What is that?" cries the commander.
"Scoia'tael!" shouts Adan back. "We must retreat!"
The commander has already turned his horse and is signaling the formation around Emhyr to move closer together.
"There can't possibly be many of them," Emhyr says, raising his voice above the sudden noise.
"Maybe not, but we have civilians with us, and you don't want them falling into the hands of the Scoia'tael," Adan replies grimly.
"He's right, and your protection is our first duty," the commander agrees with him. Hastily relayed commands ensured that the traveling party further back is already moving in the rearward direction. But they are a damn big procession, and even if the Scoia'tael can only be heard and not yet seen, the risk of staying and defending the fellow travelers is too great.
"What about Geralt?" Emhyr roars over the increasingly loud noise from the forest. He looks at Adan as he does so as if he is personally responsible for giving him the right answer. And perhaps that is so, but Adan doesn't answer; he just returns his gaze with a serious expression. With a thump of his thigh, Emhyr makes his horse turn around. He lets go of Roach's reins and lightly slaps her flank as he rides by. That is all it takes. She neighs with a snort and follows him.

They are not pursued, which only adds to the feeling of having been driven away by a damned outnumbered force. It may have been the wiser decision, objectively speaking, given the ambiguity of the situation. Besides, Adan claims that Scoia'tael traps never occur singly, and it can be assumed that the path might be almost mined. However, they have lost two soldiers - and Geralt, whose fate is unclear above all. They have retreated several miles from the forest and taken up position in a field, the farmer who owned it having been easily persuaded to leave it to them temporarily. Tents have been hastily put up; Emhyr confers with the commander and Adan in one of them.

Adan has a map spread out on the ground and is pointing to a spot with a branch.
"If we guide the civilians along this route, with a quarter of the soldiers for protection, they will reach the royal court two days later than planned, but safely. There are several small villages along this route, so there is no further danger," he just explains.
The commander glances at the map, narrowing his eyes, and says, almost reluctantly approvingly, "That's a good plan. They can't go back all the way, and they will be safe at the court."
Suppose he is surprised that the feline is so quick with an alternate route. In that case, it is due solely to his bias - this is indeed Adan's escape plan in case of an unexpected attack. He has told no one about it because he has considered his own caution to be almost paranoid - and he has definitely not taken any Scoia'tael into account.

Despite everything, the commander wants to keep the upper hand and says, "I propose to strike back with a surprise attack."
"No Scoia'tael attacks have been expected in this area," Adan interjects. "We don't know how many they are or what they want."
"What they want?“ snorts the commander. He is a large, coarse man, even beefier in his armor, who obviously hates the fact that Adan is even taller than he is, despite everything, and that he has to look up to him when he speaks to him. His massive appearance, including the pockmarked, dull face, is usually enough of a deterrent. Well, maybe for his subordinate soldiers. "They want what these elves always want - to slaughter humans."
The contempt in his voice might be as much for the Scoia'tael as for Adan at this moment, but at least with this elf, it bounces off.
"I agree that there must be something the elves want," Emhyr says.
The commander's lips form a thin line, but he knows how to control himself.
"However, they rarely organize into large units. So if they dare to attack an imperial traveling party, it's certainly not for any possible treasures or the like."
"Which they could certainly use, though," Adan says. Emhyr decides to pass over the remark.
"They used one of their traps. Bombs," the commander adds. "They wanted to inflict maximum damage, which probably proves that they are targeting you directly, Your Imperial Highness."
"What would they get out of it?" asks Adan."The Emperor has already granted them Dol Blathanna."
"Quite possibly, not all of them would agree," Emhyr replies thoughtfully. "They have numerous splinter groups, they don't communicate purposefully, many of them have their own agendas."
"In short, they are terrorists," the commander adds rudely.
"Well, yes, but ones used by Nilfgaard," Adan says, which earns him a sharp look from Emhyr. There is no denying that he is right. Still, the question is, what do they want?
"If they wanted to attack the Emperor directly, the trap would not have been placed in such a way that the scout or a random squad of soldiers would walk into it," Adan continues quickly, for once realizing that he has entered dangerous territory with his remark.

"All right, but why should we care what they want?" replies the commander. "We can take the wind out of their sails with a quick counterattack. They killed two soldiers and the wit... Your Imperial Highness's consort."
"We don't know if he's still alive," Emhyr says harshly.
The commander gives him a look that seems almost pitying.
"He was right on top of the trap, Your Highness," he ventures to reply. "Surely your advisor will be able to confirm to you that the traps of the Scoia'tael are incredibly effective."
"I'd be careful with my words say if I were you," Emhyr says, very quietly and in a tone that the commander apparently judges correctly, for he is clearly growing paler.

Emhyr looks wordlessly at Adan, his gaze cold and seemingly completely devoid of emotion. Still, the witcher has had enough time to study this face in the past months. He has succeeded in an art that very few manage to master; even Geralt rarely knows how to interpret these muscles' smallest movements. Anyone who is not entirely without sense is able to judge the Emperor's mood from his voice. Still, his face hardly betrays anything that he does not want to show. It is trained, and Adan suspects it has been quite useful over the past decades. Even now, there is no trace of the worry that Emhyr undoubtedly feels, as if neither the uncertainty nor the prospect that - should Geralt still be alive - his husband is in the power of the Scoia'tael touches him. But Adan sees and feels that it is not so. Although his own experiences with Triss have elevated his understanding of human nature to whole new heights, he might not understand all of it. However, that is probably something else because both of their lifespans are different from that of ordinary people. The Emperor might strive for an opposite aura, but in the end, he is also just a human being. Coincidentally, one with enormous affection for a certain witcher.

An answer is expected from Adan, more than that, he senses. Fleetingly, he wonders how this ever has happened. How a single encounter could have changed his life so much. Perhaps it is genetically ingrained that he should believe in destiny, but he has his doubts. He still doesn't quite understand why everything has to do with Geralt. Why one single witcher has had so much impact on so many things. Whose additional mutations are supposed to affect only himself, not everyone around him - and as ridiculous as the thought is, any other explanations would have to take human nature into account. Adan has a feeling that would give him a headache. There are more important things.

"He set off the bomb when he saw you were going to launch an attack," Adan says in the direction of the commander, whose face almost instantly shows angry features. "He jumped, even though he knew it wouldn't save him - but everyone else, with any luck. So if you're going to lead an attack, do it for the right reasons. We should get him out of there, even if he didn't survive. And yet, I think we should wait a day. If they have something to tell us, they will find us. If they don't report, the attack may not have been on the imperial entourage."
"All the more reason to wipe them out," grumbles the commander.
"One day can mean the difference between reconnaissance and further unnecessary death," Adan says, just looking at Emhyr.
And he understands.
"Prepare the soldiers," he orders the commander. "We are waiting yet, but we will not let this attack go unanswered."
The commander bows stiffly. He gives Adan a final, disparaging look and leaves the tent to carry out his orders.
Emhyr says quietly, "You also believe he is still alive."
It is not a question, and his "also" shows unusually clearly what he feels.
"Geralt is like a cat, and I don't mean my kind, although he would have made an excellent feline."
Emhyr's look clearly shows not only impatience, and Adan nods.
"Yes," he replies simply. "And I intend to bring him back."

Chapter Text

Now I will
Run through the blazing fires
That's my choice
Cause things
Shall proceed as foreseen
(Skalds and Shadows)

The leap. Light, a bang, fire, and smoke. A crash, something ripping - and then, nothing more. Later, the vague sensation that something is dragged across the ground. The fleeting thought of what that has to do with him. But there is actually nothing but a lot of noise in his ears and burning, everywhere, until he finally understands that this is him, this is his body. Before he can deepen the thought, something hits against some part of it - his leg? - and the world explodes again.

Once again later, the darkness dissolves into a hazy gray, and he realizes that he is back in this body. No, that he is this body. It's still a strangely distant idea because parts of it don't seem to belong. It's as if the mind is the last part to understand that everything belongs together. Still, everything is so slow and seems so far away. His ears are ringing, and his eyes don't want to open, but maybe he's just forgotten how. The darkness is still very close, dancing right in front of his closed eyes, up and down, like waves; and like waves, the memory comes back, too. There has been an explosion, powerful enough to damage horses, wagons, people; if they had touched it. Sensitive enough to be set off with a stone or a well-aimed arrow, if only for the deterrent effect. He, however, stood right on top of it. He has set it off himself, but well, what choice did he have?

Geralt just lets himself drift with the waves, and the thoughts sink as quickly as they came. The waves can bring him closer to the darkness or take him away from it, and he knows that, to some extent, is his choice. He definitely knows which is the easier decision because the more aware he becomes of his body, the more likely he is to have to deal with what is still working and what is not. Perhaps none of this is real, either. Maybe this is a crazy dream, one of those you can't move in. He doesn't know if he can move because he may be on fire, that's what it feels like, and if he would be trying to force anything, he'd have to actually pay attention to that part of his body. As long as he doesn't, this pain isn't genuine, and he can drift with the waves, block out the noise in his ears, and not even try to open his eyes.

At that moment, hundreds of cells in his body are dying, and just as many are being created again; ceaselessly repairing damage that his mind does not want to deal with. They will continue to do so until they can't, and that can take a very, very long time. Dying can take a very long time if the body is continually trying to heal itself. The cells don't care about the pain; nobody has ever cared about the pain. After all, they have been made to endure agony. For all he knows, there might not be much left of him, but as long as his heart pumps blood through this body, it will desperately try to maintain that function. No matter if it is useless, and no matter how much it hurts. There is pain enough; that is clear now. It's there, everywhere, and if he chooses to push back the darkness now, he'll be able to see if he's really on fire or if his body thinks it's a successful metaphor. Deep underneath it all is a feeling he must give in to - a survival instinct, perhaps, and the sense says he must survive.

So he makes an effort; he forces his eyes to open, pushes the waves away, and with them the blackness, even the pale gray. The ringing in his ears subsides and gives way to a dull roaring as he actually manages to open his eyes. They want to close again right away as if something in him doesn't want to see anything at all; in fact, that's the case. A part of him wants the darkness back, where nothing hurts. Geralt blinks to get rid of the feeling. His own breath sounds strange in his still booming ears, far away and yet far too loud. But that's not what sounds odd about it; he breathes choppily and whistling. That's not good, but the inventory isn't over yet, and he doesn't have time for concern. He is lying on the ground. The light above him is dim and green-yellow, and a few heartbeats later, he realizes that it is shining through a canopy of leaves. Everything around him is foliage, an artificial hiding place, like a cave made of trees and shrubbery. The ground is damp; this is not only the natural dampness of the forest floor, this is his own blood under him, sticky and warm, a testimony to his survival and at the same time perhaps the opposite.

The burning he felt before can now be narrowed down to different parts of his body, and it's not actually a burning. Still, all the pain combines into a single sensation. That's not good either; he knows he needs to find out exactly where he's hurt and how badly, and to do that, he needs to focus on each pain. It seems to be everywhere, just like the blood; he feels it on his face, but in other parts of his body, it hasn't stopped bleeding yet; that's why the ground is so wet. There's pain in his back - maybe he hit a tree - and in his chest, where it is most troubling, though, or perhaps because it comes and goes with every breath. He can distinguish the pain, the dull pull of bruises, and the sharp sting of broken ribs and injured organs. Geralt directs his gaze down from the foliage to himself, although it makes him dizzy, and for some reason, he can't see everything. He sees enough: lots of blood, cuts and open wounds, and here and there small metal pieces sticking out of the skin. The trap was full of shrapnel, which in turn doesn't suggest that it was only meant to have a deterrent effect, but he can deal with that later. Geralt sees his hands tied in front of his stomach. It's just a simple rope but tightly bound. It wouldn't have taken the sight of his grotesquely swollen right hand to make him realize that at least the wrist is broken - which didn't stop anyone from tying the rope directly over it.

If he wanted to see more, he would have to lift his head, but he doesn't dare; the right side feels numb, this is also where he hears the least, and Geralt wonders if his ear is still there. The thought is strangely distant, just like the observation that what he sees of the rest of his body is at least there. All of this, his mind knows, is shock, and that's partly good. His body focuses on providing enough oxygen to his brain, keeping his organs running, and only the adrenaline, of which every witcher has an excess, prevents him from reacting to it like an ordinary human. His reactions are slowed down to ensure his survival, but eventually, this will no longer work without supply. At some point, his body will remember that he is part human, and once that happens, there is not much time left.

But it still works, and he continues his survey. What he sees of his legs may not be much, but he can see the large piece of shrapnel sticking out of his left thigh. He forces himself to focus on it closely, even though that same piece of metal is responsible for the burning he's felt all along. His analytical mind tells him that fire that bores into skin and sears flesh feels different than that. This is more like a sharp blade that has broken through the skin with surgical precision, drilling deep through all skin layers. He feels the metal close to the bone. For a brief moment, panic rises in him, a hot sensation that causes sweat to break out on his forehead, and he has to push it back with a few deep, painful breaths. The metal is close to the bone, and if he moved his leg - which he won't do, he doesn't even know if it's possible - it will graze the bone. He knows the feeling well, and he doesn't want to evoke it; he doesn't even want to think about it. Geralt knows every kind of pain, and he is not too proud to admit that he fears some of them more than others.

There is a movement; he perceives it in the corner of his eye. Very carefully, he tries to turn his head. The foliage to his right is pushed aside, an opening appears - no, it was always there, just not visible to the eye of all who are not supposed to see it. A figure pushes through, but Geralt recognizes the face of a young - quite young - elf only when he leans over him and looks scrutinizingly into his face. Quietly, he hisses something in the direction of the foliage he just came through, but this is the side where Geralt understands almost nothing. The words may escape him, but not that this young elf seems uncomfortable as he looks at him. Geralt is sure that he may even look worse than he feels, but there is more to it. Stringy, dark hair falls into the young man's face; it is an excellent way to cover his facial emotions. If he has the typical squirrel tail on his body somewhere, Geralt can't spot it. But then again, maybe this elf hasn't earned it yet. Geralt can only hope that he won't be the one on whom the young man makes his first honors. He's pretty sure that's not how the Scoia'tael work, but what can he actually be sure of currently?

The young rebel looks at him silently, and all Geralt can do is look back with a not-quite-focused gaze. The elf looks at him as if he is not sure what to do with him. He turns his head briefly - apparently, someone is talking to him, Geralt can't hear it - and it's clear from the mouth movements that he's responding. Perhaps he has received an order; in any case, he decides to check the restraints as the very first thing. He touches the rope, neither particularly roughly nor particularly carefully, and perhaps it is pure negligence or ignorance. Still, he handles it just above the broken wrist. This is far from the worst injury, but the bolt of pain the touch is causing is so severe, it makes the darkness return very quickly. And Geralt can't fight it; he doesn't even want to. Everything goes black, but not for long. He opens his eyes very quickly again, strangely brought back to reality by more pain or the same pain; there's no way to differ now.

The elf has changed his position; he is now kneeling next to Geralt's legs. His fingers rest on the piece of metal sticking out of his thigh. His face is still indecisive. He doesn't want to be here, Geralt thinks, and he understands that; he damn well doesn't want to be here either. The young Scoia'tael reaches around the tip of the shrapnel, and involuntarily, Geralt's eyes widen.
"Don't," he says, at least he thinks he does, for what comes out of his mouth is not much more than a croak, perhaps not even an intelligible word. The elf looks at him in surprise.
"Don't do that," Geralt manages to utter. "Que n'te, ell'ea."
"Thaesse, vatt'ghern," the elf replies, but with considerably less confidence than he probably should have. "I am supposed to take care of your wounds," he continues. "For some reason, we let you live."
It's clear he doesn't like that, for whatever reason, now is not the time to think about it.
"Then leave that where it is," Geralt says, "If you want me alive. Pull it out, and I'll bleed to death."
The elf doesn't look like he believes his gasped words.

Someone comes through the foliage, a second Scoia'tael. He rules the first one, "Que suecc's?" - What's going on?
The other answers hastily in elder speech, so quickly that Geralt can barely understand him, and his hearing is still losing him on the right side. The young man seems to justify himself with what Geralt told him - that he would bleed to death if the metal is pulled out of his leg. The second elf leans over Geralt, looks him scrutinizingly in the face; and Geralt believes for a moment that he is seeing double, that now his eyes are failing him as well. For this elf looks exactly like the other, still kneeling at his side. It takes him a moment to understand. They are twins, a rarity among the elves, which are not exactly blessed with many offspring anyway. But that doesn't make a double birth a stroke of luck, not if you have to live in poverty. And not even if you grow up among those superstitious peoples who see twins as a bad omen. Both might be possible explanations for why these two joined the Scoia'tael.
"Eigean evelienn deireadh," says the elf. Geralt isn't quite sure what that means - everyone has to die? Everything must end?
His mind is no longer able to translate his words as he replies, "You have let me live this far. Someone wants me to live. Ask your healer. He will confirm that what I say is true."

The elf huffs. Unlike his twin, he wears a squirrel tail in his hair. He has already earned his merits. "If we had a healer, my brother wouldn't have to take care of you," he answers. "He knows a bit about it, so don't fight back."
Fight back? Geralt thinks in a daze. Then he realizes. They fear him, even now. He lies on the ground before them, in their own territory, bound, bloody, not even in armor, not even armed, and they fear him. Exactly why is not clear to him. He is not their enemy, but it will be challenging to make them understand that. How desperate must they be to send this boy to save what can be saved of him? This half-grown boy, he may have already bandaged some wounds; maybe he has even seen dead people. But no one here has any idea what it means to take care of injuries that a human - and even an elf - would not have survived. Geralt sees the looks that the twins exchange. Even the one who acts so detached and brave can't have much experience.
Now they are talking to each other again, quickly and hastily in elder speech. Much of this happens on the side where Geralt hears next to nothing, and all he grasps is that they both have doubts. He understands "dead he is of no use to us“ and "I dare not“ and "but the orders." At some point, the words blur just like the canopy of leaves before his eyes. He's drifting away, he can feel it, and he's ready for it. His mouth is dry, his breathing is heavy, and everything just hurts in so many ways. Would it be so bad if they accidentally kill him when they can't care that much about his survival anyway?

His eyes fall shut, and he thinks of a better place. He was still in a better place this morning, he was in the arms of his beloved. This morning, he had it all: arms around his chest, frizzy curls tingling on his ear (is it still there?). Soft lips on his neck. Warmth. Safety. Secureness. Now, all of this is gone, there's nothing left. He's trying to remember those feelings, but what's not numb is all pain, and there is no safe place. So, if they just do what they think is right (it's wrong, and he told them), he may be safe again. No, he won't be, because he just won't be anymore. At least the burning would end (there is no fire), the throbbing and the stabbing and the dragging. It would all be gone. Before everything disappears, he feels someone leaning over him, he feels breath on his face - how can it be that even that hurts?
"Vatt'ghern," says one of the twins, his voice full of doubt. Then that, too, is gone, and with his last clear thought, he knows he may not wake up again.

But he does wake up again; how disappointing. This time he doesn't come to abruptly; it's more like a slow creeping back into all the pain.
Apparently, they did not dare to just pull the metal out in the end; anyway, he still sees it, he still feels it, and his body is still trying to repair the damage. In any case, he is still alive.
The two elves have become three; the third is a woman, taller than the other two, older. But again, they stand to his right, and he still doesn't understand much. Sometimes they turn in his direction as they speak, and then he hears individual words. He understands “task" and “duty," and he knows they are very strict about it. The Scoia'tael may be rebels, outlaws, at times terrorists, but they have their own laws, their own strange ideas of honor and conscience. The boy has gotten himself into trouble, and the woman is probably some kind of superior.

She points at him, she seems angry - for a moment, she looks puzzled, because she sees that he is awake. Then she spits out staccato sentences in a dialect he doesn't understand. “Gwynbleidd" is almost the only word he can make out, plus "ceas'raet." That has something to do with Nilfgaard. His brain refuses to draw any connections; his body claims all attention. But this much is clear: the attack was, in some form, aimed at Emhyr. And it's equally clear to him that there must be some advantage to the elves that he's staying alive. Something else occurs to him: that he has a reason to survive. The healing inside of him may start to work; maybe his senses clear. There's still a lot that can tip the scale. He might even bleed out nonetheless if they rip that piece of metal out of him or not. But now he remembers that he wants to live; he knows why, and he'll try not to forget again.

The female elf turns to face him now. Her intense green eyes under long lashes remind him of Ciri for a moment, but this one has ocher speckles in them. They give those eyes something serene that nothing else about her radiates. Like all elves, she is beautiful, but she shares a cool beauty with many of her kind. Hers is also surrounded by an underlying aggressiveness, a permanent reminder that she could have had an entirely different life under different circumstances. The oval face is framed by shoulder-length, irregularly cut hair, into which she has braided a few squirrel tails. There are more hanging from her robe. She is clearly the leader, not only of the twins but also of all the Scoia'tael responsible for the attack.
Now she moves toward him, and he sees her dragging a foot ever so slightly. It is a difficult weakness for a leader - a constant challenge to prove herself, especially for a woman.

The woman bends over him, examining him. She looks tired, he thinks. But he doesn't make the mistake of feeling sorry for her.
"They're afraid of you," she says now. "All the legends, gwynbleidd.... they're young. But I don't fear you."
Her voice is soft, her words are not. She's tough. She's the one standing.
"I am not your enemy," Geralt manages to say.
There would be much he can bring forth to defend his point, the many occasions he helped elves, even friendships he made. But he doubts that the woman would be interested. And he doesn't think he can muster the strength; he already needs it to breathe.
"Maybe not right now," she replies, "Now you're useful collateral damage."
He wants to ask what she means, why is he useful, but no sound comes out of his mouth. She still stands bent over him, looking at him thoughtfully, and perhaps she reads his question in his eyes.
"I actually care that you survive, gwynbleidd," she finally says. "So let the boy tend to the worst of your wounds without frightening him."
The young elf stands behind her, uttering a protesting noise, and she silences him with a wave of her hand.
"I don't understand much about it, but if he ties off the leg before he removes the shrapnel..."
Geralt quickly interrupts her, though his whistling breath should warn him to avoid talking too much.
"He doesn't know what to do. If he makes a mistake, the only thing you can do is send my body back."

She seems to think about it, and wrinkles form on her smooth forehead. She has doubts, just like the other two. Do they have any combat experience at all? Her limp can as easily be a war wound as just a poorly healed fracture. Or even a congenital disability.
"You are a vatt'ghern after all," she retorts, "The bomb was strong, and you are still alive."
"And yet I can bleed to death."
"If we leave this thing in..."
"... it's safer, at least for now. Until you can find a healer. Or demand a ransom, whatever you have in mind."
A narrow smile appears on her face. "A ransom? If it was up to me, that ring you're wearing on your finger would probably be enough."
The elf gestures to Geralt's right hand. The fingers are as swollen as the joint; probably more is broken than he thinks, and he can barely see the ring. But he knows it's there. It's valuable, no doubt, but far beyond its material value.
"Then what do you want?"
Now she straightens up to her full height and looks down at him almost contemptuously.
"If the Emperor wants you back, let him consent to an exchange."
His confusion must be plain to see, but the words do not find their way out. What kind of exchange? Nilfgaard has no elven prisoners, certainly no Scoia'tael - at least he knows nothing about them. On the other hand - how would he actually know? There are a lot of things concerning politics that he knows nothing about. About which he has never wanted to know anything. Right now, his mind does not want to deal with possible reasons for it.

Geralt looks up at the woman; he can't do anything else anyway. He searches her face for an answer. It is very quiet in this hiding place of leaves. The two young Scoia'tael stand indecisively behind their leader, as if wondering if this conversation was even meant for their ears. Not only does Geralt barely hear anything, but he can also hardly feel their heartbeats. All his senses are dull. His body uses all its energy to keep him alive. He doesn't know what image he gives off, but presumably - and given the hesitant, almost fearful looks of the first twin - he hardly looks like someone who will survive the night. But for what it's worth, they seem confident that he'll live long enough to make a useful bargaining chip. He believes that they have every intention of letting him live until they achieve what they want. He just doesn't believe that they will achieve it. Even less so when the Scoia'tael leader decides to continue speaking.
She drops to one knee, probably to make sure he understands her. It seems even more arrogant than when she stood over him earlier, looking down at him.

"It is not a question of prisoners of Nilfgaard," she says. "Your Emperor has left us alone, I suppose that is true. He fobbed us off with his supposedly generous gift of sanctuary while at the same time using us. That, too, is true. But you know, rumors spread fast, even out here. So we knew he is traveling around the country. And believe me, we know well the kingdom he wants to visit. This king is one of those who mourned Radovid's death more than anything else. I think you realize what I'm trying to say."
Geralt actually knows that. It is not necessarily a coincidence this kingdom is one of the first of Emhyr's visits so soon after the wedding. Radovid has been dead for a while, but neither the troubles have automatically died with him (although many his former followers have taken his death with relief), nor the problems for otherlings.
"This king," the elf continues, suppressed anger in her voice, "boasts of his successes against the Scoia'tael, impaling their heads at the city gate after show trials. We have waited long after the balance of power has shifted, gwynbleidd. Hope is an addiction not easily broken. We have waited and hoped, but nothing has changed. It is said that the Emperor is above the kings among the humans, and if that is true, we demand that he use his power. We want our prisoners back before they too are nothing more than skeletonized admonitions. That ring there on your hand, it has a meaning, doesn't it? This information has also reached the forest. Stop, don't try to speak, save your strength."
She places a cool finger on his parched lips and shakes her head. But this is not kindness. It is a sign of superiority.
"We know you are not our enemy, gwynbleidd. But you are not our friend now either. As a vatt'ghern, you prided yourself on neutrality, yet you always meddled in everything. Don't meddle here; just stay alive a while longer. Your Emperor will agree to the exchange when he learns that you are still alive."

Geralt looks up at her, and a sound comes out of his mouth, and his body is shaken by something for a moment. The elf gazes at him, puzzled and almost disgusted. Geralt realizes that he is laughing. It is no more than a croaking sound, and he feels blood in his mouth, running from the corner of his mouth, and the laughter hurts.
"The Emperor of Nilfgaard does not negotiate with terrorists," he answers, spitting out the words with blood.
The woman's face hardens.
"That remains to be seen," she claims. "For your sake, I hope you are wrong. That you underestimate the power of love. Because otherwise, vatt'ghern, your chances of survival just got extremely slim."

Chapter Text

The storm comes closer
Can feel you're getting near
Just stay invisible
You're no saviour
(Distant memories)

Before Adan has left - without the knowledge or approval, but also without the support of the commander - Emhyr has asked him a question. The feline doesn't tend to brood, but he still thinks about those words.
"Is it not so," Emhyr has said, "that a painful death is a daily expectation for your kind?"
Adan has realized that by your kind, he did not mean the elves, but the witchers. It is a strange question, and he had wondered what answer was expected of him. Was Emhyr trying to draw comfort from the fact that death is a kind of daily business for a witcher? Did he think that made anything easier?
Finally, he had answered hesitantly, "I thought we agreed to assume that Geralt is still alive."
"We're only doing this because of that assumption," Emhyr had replied seriously. "You have one day. After that, we will have to react, one way or another."

Adan, whose school has never believed that witchers should stay out of politics, had understood. If he manages to bring Geralt back alive, the Emperor can avoid a confrontation with the Scoia'tael. For if he interfered militarily in that kingdom's affairs on its territory, although he came with superficially peaceful intentions, that would have unforeseen consequences. Suppose Adan is forced to take out some elves during his rescue mission. In that case, hardly anyone will care much - as ridiculous as it is. And Emhyr knows that he has no scruples in this regard - not because it is about Geralt (although, possibly because of that) - but because his mutations do not differ. He lacks that kind of compassion. It's not that the concept is foreign to him, and he has learned a lot about it, especially since he knows Geralt. By now, it is clear to him that friendship, comradeship, and also affection involve a certain loyalty that he has not known before. Sometimes he still thinks of the words of Assir var Anahid. She has claimed that he and Geralt had something in common: the fact that their mutations had not been able to eliminate all feelings. Some of them are still confusing. Adan understands that he is no more than a pawn in this game, coincidentally one whom his origin does not keep him from his task. What he finds confusing is his unease at the fact that he really can't say for sure if Geralt has survived that explosion. He doesn't care because of the political consequences. Usually, the only things that make the feline nervous are occasional bouts of his never-quite-suppressible paranoia. Now, however, he feels unease at the thought that he might only be able to bring back a corpse.

But feelings, whether present or not, have hardly ever kept a witcher from his tasks. And the feline is not easily distracted. He knows that he does not have much time. He can't approach the wooded area by road, nor can he make his way directly through the forest, at least not from the direction they fled. Both options are too predictable, and the Scoia'tael will have guards posted. He will have to take a detour, approach from an unexpected side. This will take time - the only thing he does not have enough of, because otherwise he is perfectly equipped, as usual. For everything he will find.
So Adan runs off. The witcher is fast, not only in battle. He remembers that he once explained to Geralt that his school does not bear its name for nothing. He realizes that most witchers know little about each other or how others of their kind were trained. So he too has only a vague idea of why the wolves are called wolves. He's seen Geralt fight, and he's seen him survive, and he puts certain confidence in both.

It is already dark when he reaches the edge of the forest. At first, there are no traces of the Scoia'tael to be seen, and he knows that the forest, while not overly extensive, is large enough to hide in. He also knows enough about these elves to suspect that he may have to search for them for a very long time. He doesn't want to think about that. He has to work with what he has, and that's not much, but at least he knows where the attack took place. It's a start, and he slowly works his way to that spot, always careful to stay in the slipstream. His gaze is as firmly fixed on the ground as it is aloft. However, darkness is settling over the treetops, and he will need a potion before long if he is to make out anything up there. He doesn't worry about the ground; he'll find these tracks even when it's completely dark. But the Scoia'tael may be crouching in the trees, perhaps even moving around up there, like real squirrels, jumping from tree to tree. Paranoid thoughts? Maybe. Nevertheless, this time they don't make him nervous; they increase his caution.

Careful and nimble, that's what he is, just like a cat, and finally, he reaches the place of attack. This time he stands on the other side of the road, opposite the site where the Scoia'tael were hiding. The last light of day casts reddish shadows on the tree trunk that still blocks the road. The road is also covered with branches and leaves that the explosion has swirled through the air; the leaves are scorched, the ground is blackened. And Adan sees something else: here and there are pieces of metal lying around, small and larger; at least one has also smashed into the tree trunk. Adan feels a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach. Shrapnel? He knows the Scoia'tael are as desperate as they are nefarious. Still, this is a more than bold move - attacking an imperial convoy, protected by a supposed superior number of soldiers is almost suicidal. But the force of this type of bomb is designed to cause maximum damage in a short time. Whatever the motives of these elves, the attack was certainly not just to defend a piece of land that does not belong to them anyway.

It is undoubtedly very effective to cancel out a quick counterattack for the time being. But why the Scoia'tael acted this way is irrelevant for Adan. The metal parts are worrisome for an entirely different reason. Geralt was standing directly on this bomb when it went off. Indeed, he has tried to jump to safety, but even a witcher cannot escape such an explosion. The question is whether he can survive it, and that's exactly what the feline needs to find out. He sneaks across the blocked road from behind under cover of the approaching darkness, using the tree trunk as a sight protection, ignoring the gnawing idea in the back of his mind that he might well be seen from far above. But he's fast, whether he's running or sneaking around crouched; Adan is always quick, in everything, he's hard to catch, and that's still an advantage. Now he pushes his way through the undergrowth until he reaches the place where Geralt must have ended up.

It's hard to miss - shrubs and foliage are violently dented there, just as if a mighty storm had raged in only one spot in the forest. There is also blood, a lot; on the ground, on the leaves, even on the trunk of a scrawny birch tree. Adan grimaces without noticing. This is where Geralt must have hit the ground, and the witcher knows from experience that this is not particularly pleasant - but, judging by the traces of blood, probably the least of his worries. It is also here where Adan first feels that the Scoia'tael are overestimating themselves. The tracks indicate a minimal number of attackers - that can't be ignored. Every witcher is a good tracker, even if their respective specialties may be in a different field. Geralt, Adan knows, excels at finding and analyzing clues, but he himself can also boast some successes in that regard. However, it doesn't take any exceptional finesse to recognize these traces. No one has even bothered to cover them up. The undergrowth is dented; they have left a whole swath. Of course, it is not very easy and time-consuming to lay false tracks. But it seems that no one has even tried that here. What Adan sees, as clearly as if it had just happened, not several hours ago, what he sees as if he had been right there is the hasty attempt to drag a body across the ground. Blood and crushed leaves have left an obvious trail.

They are nowhere near as many as they would have the convoy believe. And: they don't seem to have planned the events that way. Their departure was hasty as if they feared being followed immediately. The howling and roaring that had been heard was by no means a sign of an expected attack or a supposed superiority. It was a deterrent maneuver, a clever, but also somehow desperate trick. A trick by a number of elves whose plan had not quite worked as expected, at least that's what Adan believes. And yet, they had seen no alternative but to take Geralt with them. Which means he must still be alive. At least he was still alive when all this happened. Despite the somewhat depressing trail of blood, this thought is somehow comforting to Adan. It means hope. He knows what the Scoia'tael think of hope. As a witcher, it should also be one of those feelings that the mutations have not only suppressed but, at best, eradicated. Should.

——————-

Evening settles over the field in which the imperial entourage has found momentary refuge.
"We are ready, Your Majesty," the commander reports. "Enough soldiers have been assigned and, under the direction of Captain Heyteens, will accompany the civilians. A messenger will ride ahead to inform the kingdom that the arrival is delayed. I would respectfully advise that you accompany them so that no questions arise as to why you are arriving even more late than your traveling party."
Emhyr gives the commander a long, disparaging look.
"Need I remind you that you are neither my strategic advisor nor my security chief?" he says gently. Too gently. A muscle in the commander's face twitches, but he behaves himself.
"With all due respect, we don't want to put you in danger, Your Highness."
"Let me worry about that," Emhyr replies sharply. Now, at the latest, it must be clear to the commander that he has entered dangerous, hazardous terrain. The Emperor's impatience is well known, but every sensible person fears it.
"I will let you know when I plan to withdraw and follow the entourage," Emhyr continues. "But until then, we'll wait before any kind of advance is made on our part, and I will stay and observe and command that advance. Is that understood so far?"
The glance he gives the commander is clear, imperious, and arrogant; it mirrors that of the commander, although the latter does not even suspect it.
But the Emperor is a master when it comes to staring, especially since most of his subordinates don't dare to look at him directly anyway. So the commander gives in, lowers his gaze, and he answers with military precision, "Yes, Your Imperial Majesty."

At that moment, a soldier enters the tent, bows deeply (and somewhat uncertainly - a very young man who never thought or wished to be so close to the Emperor) and says, "Your Majesty, Commander, we... we have received a message from the elven rebels."
"What kind of message?" the commander rules him. Wordlessly, the young soldier holds an arrow out to him. Below its tip hangs a faded, old-looking piece of parchment. The commander takes the arrow, almost angrily, and asks, "This was just found?"
"It was fired from the north, commander, but only hit the ground."
"Deploy a squad immediately to find and investigate the firing site," the commander replies, now almost yelling, and the young soldier eagerly disappears.
Cradling the arrow thoughtfully in his hand for a moment, the commander decides to examine it more closely; he even smells it, as if fearing that arrow or paper might be impregnated with poison. Finally, he carefully pulls off the document, unfolding it after considering its means of transportation as ordinary and carelessly throwing the arrow to the ground. He reads the message, shakes his head, and passes the paper to Emhyr.
"I don't understand their language," the commander reluctantly admits.

Emhyr holds the parchment in his hands, looking thoughtfully at the characters. The paper is decidedly soft, although it seems to have been used a lot. To his surprise, it is genuine, original parchment, actually not paper but animal skin. He realizes that the Scoia'tael, lacking resources, have kept this piece as long as possible. They have given it up to deliver a message to him. When he reads it - because unlike his subordinate, he understands elder speech, although his knowledge of the characters is a bit rusty - he understands why. It is a very personal message, of which he initially recognizes only one detail, absorbs it, and processes it. Te minne byw ess can be read on the parchment, at least that's what he can decipher. Emhyr thinks it's some kind of dialect, but he's pretty sure it means something like "your love is alive.“
He is not alone; the commander looks at him expectantly, so Emhyr cannot express his relief or any other feeling. But he senses a few things at this moment. A warm feeling spreads through his stomach. It is not just alleviation; it is.... hope. The rest of the words, scratched into the animal skin - it only adds to this message's raw, primitive effect - do little to inspire confidence.

"They want a prisoner exchange," Emhyr says calmly.
"What prisoners?" the commander asks, confused. "We have no Scoia'tael, either in Vizima or in the capital, as far as I know."
"We don't," Emhyr confirms. "That's not what they're about either. They demand from me to convince our future host to release his prisoners."
"The king? Forgive me, Your Majesty, I don't understand why these damned elves think they can demand anything of you."
"You really don't, commander?" replies Emhyr softly. "They believe they have that right because my consort is still alive and in their power."
The commander is silent for a moment, and the steep crease on his forehead hints of thoughtfulness.
"Good as this news is, Your Majesty," he finally says carefully, "it adds to the urgency for a counterattack. Surely your security advisor will agree on this?"
These words clearly contain the unspoken question of where the feline might be roaming - he is undoubtedly unobtrusive when necessary. Still, the entourage is not so large that his absence for hours on end would not be noticeable.
"I think we can do without his advice for a while," Emhyr replies firmly and evasively at the same time. "We don't need him because my decision has already been made. We will wait for the deadline that has already been set."
The commander squints his eyes, obviously trying to keep up with the Emperor's thoughts. "You intend to actually ask the king for this exchange? Your court sorceress has remained in Vizima, and we will reach the king's court with some delay. With all due respect, the imperial consort may be long dead by then. Let us attack..."
"...his chances of survival are no greater, and the political consequences incalculable," Emhyr gives back sharply.

Suddenly he stands directly in front of the commander, pushing through his back and straightening up to his full height. Emhyr is always an impressive figure; he doesn't need the accouterments of his power to prove it. Neither the clothes, nor the ornaments, nor the crown makes him an Emperor. His voice now drips with sarcasm and undisguised contempt. He does not appreciate this commander, at least not at this moment, and the latter should feel it.
"Politics is not why you are in this position, commander. Your strategic skills are an advantage on a battlefield, but we're not fighting a war. It may seem strange to you, but in fact, that's what we're trying to avoid. But be assured of one thing: Nilfgaard does not negotiate with terrorists. Not even at this price."
If the harshness in his words surprises the soldier, he doesn't show it. The man is hardened, not just by war - and war is never a mere memory for a warrior.
And he knows that it is not his place to question his orders. But it can't hurt to refresh his memory.
"If you are unable or unwilling to obey my orders, now is your opportunity to resign," Emhyr continues. "I do not discuss my commands. We will wait, we will not respond, and we will attack when I say so. Understood?"
The commander's lips are now only a thin line, but his feisty face has turned pale. He is not only attached to his position but quite attached to his life.
"Absolutely, Your Imperial Highness," he replies formally.
"Dismissed," Emhyr says curtly as he continues to look the man openly and sharply in the face. The man does not return his gaze; he salutes briskly and leaves.

Alone again, Emhyr expels his breath noisily without noticing. His hand reaches for one of the wooden poles to which the tent canvas is attached. His grip is so firm that his knuckles stand out white. Yes, he has softened; he has felt it for a long time. He shouldn't care about this bunch of Scoia'tael. Truly, he has indeed used the elves in the past. Still, it is also true that some kind of sentimental interest has led him to do so as much as strategic considerations. For what he has achieved, it has taken harshness, ruthlessness, as well as the will to sacrifice things. Or, if necessary, people. Emhyr has no intention of sacrificing Geralt. But what is much more severe, he could not even do it. He wonders where he got the nerve to send the feline on this adventurous mission. But this was the desperation of someone who at that moment was sure to have lost something tremendously valuable. The spark in him that told him Geralt might have survived had not become a flame even when Adan had agreed to confirm this assumption. Emhyr has seen and experienced too much; destiny has demanded too much of him for hope to be something that could have kept that flame alive.

But now that he knows that Geralt may actually still be alive, all the feelings that he has been able to hide so well all these years come to the surface. Emotions that had only returned with Geralt and that he always had to suppress in situations like this. How incomprehensible it is that he is not permitted to allow himself such a weakness, even now. All this would undoubtedly have been different if Emhyr had chosen the other path a few years ago. He could have brought a princess to his empire, as was expected of him. He could even have appeased the North much more quickly had he chosen one of their women - he has not forgotten that it was not only Cidaris who had hoped for this. That Ciri had turned out to be alive had not only been a blessing to his hardened heart. The prospect of winning her as a future Empress offered a way out - although that meant encumbering her with the burden of not only ruling a vast empire but also choosing the most politically useful partner. They both had to understand that this would not work. Especially not after he - not without Ciri's help - had recognized his feelings for this witcher, of all people.

But even in these times of peace, it would have been difficult for him to justify a wild vendetta in the forests of a delicate kingdom with an even more delicate king. Perhaps a little less difficult, if the cause were revenge for a beautiful Empress instead for a witcher. It does not change his difficult situation or his feelings. Every fiber of his heart that this witcher, of all people, has softened wants to know what has happened to Geralt. All his hopes that he had locked deep inside and that a piece of parchment reignited, now rest on another witcher. The irony of this does not escape him. But time is short, and it is unpredictable how the Scoia'tael will react if there is no response. He is not worried about a possible attack, not only because the civilians are safe anyway. To him, the signs are clear: the elves can only be a very small band. A tiny but desperate band. And desperation, Emhyr knows, can drive one to actions that haunt one's dreams. Most certainly, Geralt is injured, and that worries him. The Scoia'tael may not suspect it, but cornering an injured wolf usually results in it biting. Emhyr fears that the elves' momentary mercy will quickly turn if this were to happen. And so all that remains for him is to wait and hope.

Chapter Text

Each single breath inspires
you to come to an end - expire
(This will never end)

Adan follows the trail of blood and crushed undergrowth. He is no less cautious than before, but at the same time, quite sure that he is not being watched. At least not yet. The closer he'll get to the Scoia'tael's lair, the more careful he becomes, continually lifting his gaze to the treetops. And he knows that they can't be far away. There is too much blood, and if they were interested in keeping their prisoner alive at least for a while, they won't have gotten far.
Meanwhile, his senses, especially his vision, are enhanced by potions, and darkness is no obstacle. He still sees the trail quite clearly, and everything he hears is louder than usual. The buzz of insects settling over the blood trail is so loud in his ears that it is almost unbearable given his tense nerves. And it is far from being the only sound. While he moves through the forest completely silently, there are creatures everywhere, whose crawling, scratching, scratching and creeping he hears, even if it may be very quiet or very far away.

Adan takes in all the sounds, analyzes them, and discards them as unimportant. The elves will move forward as silently as he does; he knows he will hardly notice them. Here he must rely on his other senses. They tell him how fast they've progressed - not very fast considering the fact that they've dragged Geralt across the ground like a piece of hunted game. The feline puts the tracks together like a puzzle; each piece a piece of information that the environment reveals to him. Even what is not there is telltale. Adan does not find any signs of further traps. Bombs are about the furthest thing from the rebels' mind, but their traps are dreaded. Anyone caught in them can end up in a pit or suddenly floundering in a net high above the ground. One false step can mean an arrow in the heart, triggered by a mechanism that only a genuinely knowledgeable eye would recognize. They have dozens of such traps, inventive tricks that not infrequently prove their superiority in areas conquered by them or claimed as their home. In this respect, they have learned much from the dryads, even if the Brokilon is far away.

But here is nothing of the sort. Their bomb seems to have been the only one, filled with pieces of metal that might once have been the remains of conquered swords and daggers. It looks like something you would use as a last resort. For example, as one to pretend that there are large numbers of elves ready to fight in the woods - while Adan finds no indication of this in the tracks. They may have expected casualties, probably factored them in as unavoidable collateral damage. But he doesn't think they expected to take a captive. This hasty retreat, of which everything here tells, was perhaps a spontaneous change of plan. They took it as serendipity when they realized who they had before them. Adan - amazingly clear-sighted as always - believes that the elves will try to capitalize on this fact somehow. Not inconceivably, they will try to contact the Emperor. All the more reason that Adan must try to buy him time. If he succeeds in stealing the Scoia'tael's trump card from under their noses, he will deprive them of their bargaining material. While still analyzing the trail and tuning out the sounds of the forest, looking only for the clues and the noises that will benefit him, he thinks for a moment about what they might ask in return. He thinks of equipment, weapons, maybe even mundane food. The Scoia'tael are outlaws; they can't just go to the next village to replenish their supplies. They depend on the help of allies or the mercy of well-meaning peers. Adan knows them well. He knows what they lack - and that is usually everything. For a while, a long time ago, he was one of them, a contract he doesn't like to think back on. He is not sympathetic, but if he had to weigh reasons and motives against each other, there would definitely be those that would speak for the Scoia'tael, their actions notwithstanding. But it has never been his task to evaluate such things, so he does not do so now. Now his mission is to find a witcher who, strangely enough, has become a friend. If anything, here would be a motive of his compassion.

Adan follows the tracks until they suddenly, abruptly stop. They don't really stop, of course, not for the witcher's senses, especially as exaggerated by potions. But it is supposed to look like that, and it would be hard for most people to pick up the trail again. A skilled tracker, however, would probably be able to interpret the tiny clues. But not at night. The night is as much the Scoia'tael's advantage as the fact that the area is familiar to them. Even Adan loses some time trying to pick up the trail again. From this point, he suspects, they have given preference to caution over haste. They were mostly thorough in disguising where they went from here - but their victim hasn't suddenly stopped bleeding, they have only become more skilful in hiding this. The forest itself has not changed; the area provides no clues, either in vegetation or topography. Adan finds the clues that they could not hide from the witcher's superhuman senses, even if, at some point, he can only rely on a scent. He follows the further trail very slowly, although he knows that time is running out. Very carefully. And when he finally finds them, he hides for a very long time exactly where they would never look for a pursuer: high up in the crown of a tree, close to their hiding place. Ironically, he learned how to do this from their kind.

He observes them, and what he sees is almost shocking, although such an emotion hardly suits his disposition. They are few. Very few, not much more than a dozen, if that. That doesn't even make them a squad, and not only that - a Scoia'tael squad usually consists of several dozen fighters, but some of the elves down there are no more than adolescents. It is quite true that the younger members of the Scoia'tael are often the most radical. But those there, for the most part, look like they've only ever used a knife for carving. One elf stands out from the small group - a woman, tall, draped in copious squirrel tails. She is the leader, but what kind of group is she leading? Adan hardly sees any weapons - two archers, but beyond that only one sword is visible. It's possible that they don't carry their weapons on their bodies because Adan notices that they occasionally disappear into the undergrowth. The small refuge should be difficult to find from below, but from up here, it's obvious that the small clearing was cut into the forest and did not form naturally. Everything is surrounded by dense foliage, thorny bushes, and closely spaced trees. After watching them for a while, he realizes that they have not only shaped the space where they stay - without a fire, sitting close together. One or the other of them occasionally disappears into the undergrowth, carefully pushing it aside. After a while, Adan realizes that these are further attempts to shape the forest to their needs. Down there, they have created small sleeping places for themselves, or perhaps just chambers in which they store supplies and other equipment. He did something very similar before moving into his vantage point; he had to leave his swords and some of his equipment on the ground, so he used what the forest offered him to hide everything inconspicuously. The rebels have merely done this on a larger scale and with considerably more elegance. It is now clear to him that they hide Geralt somewhere in there. He won't be hard to find now.

Adan will have to get down. In a way, that sad bunch of elves down there is outnumbering him. However, neither their quantity nor their armament should be an obstacle for a witcher of his kind - and he thinks this without a trace of arrogance. But he has no reason and no desire to create a bloodbath among them. The feline will beat the Scoia'tael with their own weapons. They are truly skilled in creating their traps and bombs, but Adan humbly believes that he has been doing it a little longer and is much more experienced. What he needs, he has already prepared. He is always prepared. Adan slides down a little on his lookout, the elves below him still in sight, and then slowly lower and lower. Finally, he reaches a height where a single sharp glance up would be enough to spot him. The Scoia'tael do not have his abilities when it comes to night vision, but their perception is heightened, unlike humans. They could undoubtedly see him now, clinging there to the trunk with his legs. One hand still holds the log, the other clutches a small leather pouch. Adan bends forward as far as he can; the movement, his whole appearance now has something artistic about it. The pouch is tightly closed with a leather band, and he pulls it open a bit with his teeth.

After that, there is no reason to hesitate any further. With as much momentum as he can muster in his position, the feline throws the small bag onto the ground. Credit the elves for noticing this movement almost at the same moment. Still, by then, his little surprise already hits the forest floor, and it's too late. Adan is on the ground only a moment after his little trap hits it, and he sees the elves' futile efforts to respond to the surprise raid. The sachet has already released some of its contents in flight. As it impacts with force, thousands of tiny granules disperse, spreading with lightning speed and filling the air with an unnatural greenish glow. The Scoia'tael inhale it whether they like it or not, and they have no time for warning or to draw a weapon. The two archers already have their nimble hands on their arrows, but in the end, they fall just like the rest of the small group. They go down, almost entirely silent - here and there, a stifled gasp can be heard, but otherwise, the only sound is that of a handful of bodies falling to the ground. Swiftly Adan moves between them and checks his deed's effect - one or another kick, counting a pulse in very young victims. In the end, everything worked as planned. The elves will sleep for a while. Not too long, the ingredients were hard to get, but with a little luck, the time should be enough to find Geralt and take him away from here.

After quickly recollecting his hidden equipment, he turns to the undergrowth that so artfully hides what lies behind it. Adan takes a step towards it, passing the leader, who, like all the others, went to the ground, felled like a slender beech. At that moment, her hand grabs his ankle with amazing speed. It is not possible to disturb his balance - it would be difficult even if the female elf was clear-headed. Adan frees himself from her grip with ease, but he still looks down at her with astonishment. The woman had the presence of mind to pull a piece of cloth in front of her mouth at the moment of the impact of his pouch, just like he did; but in her case it didn't quite work, she was much too close. Her experience amazes him. She leads a bunch of greenhorns, mostly very young women and men; their sheer number is ridiculous. Yet she dared to attack an imperial traveling convoy. The woman looks up at him with a befuddled yet somewhat angry expression, and now her fingers just twitch as the soporific effect fully hits her. Adan nevertheless takes no further chances. There's a little extra treatment for her. A quick press on a specific point on the back of her neck is all it takes, and her inquiring, angry, questioning eyes twist in their sockets to finally close. Now his path is cleared. He must find Geralt.

——————-

Geralt dreams. This he knows with absolute clarity, unlike last time. He recognizes the place: once again, he sits at an infinite abyss that stretches below him. But it does not worry him as much as the first time. Perhaps because this time, he knows that this is only a dream. Or because its symbolism no longer disturbs him. The abyss is a metaphor, a sign of his diminishing mind. There is not much left to keep the darkness below from devouring him and little to keep him from surrendering to it himself.
There is something, however. A hand holds one of his, and he feels a gaze directed at him. So he turns his head and looks into the face of his husband. Geralt smiles - this sight will never disappoint him. It feels good not to be alone here and now, even if his mind only lets him see what he would like to see. He looks down at himself, he's as intact as can be, and nothing hurts. This is a welcome change, and he takes a few deep, painless breaths, although he doesn't even know if he needs to breathe in this dream world. Emhyr continues to look at him steadfastly, smiling now too, a smile that reaches his beloved’s eyes and certainly lights up his own.

"Are you going to tell me once again not to jump?" Geralt eventually breaks the silence.
"You do realize that I'm not really here, right? That means you have to answer for yourself."
"Yes, but does that mean I pick out the answer I would give myself, or do I imagine what you would tell me?"
Emhyr just smiles.
Then he shrugs and replies, "I guess that depends on whether this is really a dream."
"What else could it be?"
"Hmm. A vision, a premonition?"
"A last resurgence of my dying mind?"
"Your mind isn't dying yet, Geralt."
"When you say that, is it as if I said it to myself? I wonder what part of me you are supposed to symbolize."
Emhyr squeezes his hand and smiles, longer perhaps than he has ever smiled.
"Perhaps you worry too much about it."
And maybe that's true. He should enjoy the moment, whatever it is, a dream or a coma or something else entirely. For now, it's fine, he is fine. He's holding his husband's hand, and all he feels is love.

He realizes that perhaps, once again, it is this love that keeps him alive. In any case, it is the reason that he wants to survive. It won't be easy, and it certainly won't be pleasant. How much of it can he actually influence? It doesn't seem to matter here and now. He is content to just sit there, carefree and without pain, and to hold this hand as long as he can. How long they sit like that, silent and just gratified with each other's presence, Geralt doesn't know. This time no darkness surrounds him, gradually increasing. He feels as if he is falling into an almost meditative state. That's why he is so surprised when he suddenly hears footsteps directly behind him. A hand rests on his shoulder, and the dream begins to dissolve. Everything disappears, the tranquility turns into uneasiness, more and more. Geralt turns around, and the world explodes one more time.

Chapter Text

Cries come from the outside
Yes, void will find thee
This war is not over
(The ninth wave)

Adan relies neither on chance nor luck. An unmistakable slow - and disturbingly weak - heartbeat tells him where to find Geralt. But when he pushes aside the curtain of leaves, branches, and intricately woven shrubbery and slides into the small hiding place, the sight that presents itself is disturbing. He is recognizable by little other than his size and stature; even the milk-white hair is mostly blood-encrusted or dirty. What the logical part of Adan's mind takes in is simply a lot of damage. The rest of him is thinking, "Holy shit,“ and in a second, he's on the ground checking for a pulse. That's nonsense, he knows; he's already felt the heartbeat, he knows Geralt is alive. Adan doesn't understand why he's doing this, and he also doesn't understand why this superfluous test makes him feel strangely relieved.

There is a lot to take in, and Adan tries to identify the worst problems. First of all, he carefully cuts the rope around Geralt's hands. The right one is broken, the wrist as well as some fingers. A classic, he thinks, strangely calm: a typical defensive injury, probably caused by the leap when Geralt crashed into the tree. A large amount of blood on the right side of the head, on the other hand, is clearly due to the explosion itself. In the end, he was lucky, as cynical as this thought is - because he was so close that it could have literally cost him his head. Adan is not entirely clear what the Scoia'tael used as a trigger - the shrapnel was just the devilish contents of the bomb. Still, the explosive power came from another source. He doesn't entirely rule out a magical cause, though it seems hard to imagine that this sorrowful lot could have gotten their hands on anything of the sort. With extreme caution, he palpates Geralt's face, careful not to touch the burns on his right side, but in need to know if more is broken - but fortunately not. There are many minor injuries, such as cuts from the metal parts, bruises, and the like. All this is unimportant, although his body has not wasted energy on starting to heal these things. Two clues are evident and disturbing: there is the blood at the corner of the mouth, the color of which suggests internal bleeding. And there is a large piece of metal stuck in the left thigh. Here and there are pathetic attempts to bandage some of the injuries, apparently an attempt by the elves to keep their captive alive a little longer. But none of it was incredibly skillful or helpful, and they didn't even dare to touch the thigh - fortunately. Adan digs a torch out of his pockets and rams it into the soft forest floor. He ignites it with a short Igni blast, and kneels beside Geralt's legs.

He bends low over the wound caused by the shrapnel, looking at it as if he were following a trail here as well. He doesn't like what he sees, but he doesn't like any of it. He looks at Geralt's face and thinks that somehow he really is more like a cat than a wolf. Humans have a saying that a cat would have nine lives. They have forgotten that there was once a beast wiped out by the witchers that looked quite similar to today's cats but had amazing regenerative abilities. The Bestiary of Extinct Species says that this beast always got up again, even pierced by spears. If it was not possible to cut off its head, only fire helped. Adan has never seen such a monster, but he knows the proverb, and he knows Geralt. The witcher who died twice. The witcher who, perhaps, is still alive this time only because of his additional mutations and stubbornness. In any case, it is now up to Adan to continue to keep him alive. He will have to remove this metal before he can get him out of here. Before that, he has to make sure that there are no other injuries that he can't see anything about now. He plans to carefully turn Geralt onto his side to palpate his back. Adan gently grasps his shoulders. Geralt's eyelids flutter.

——————-

He's back in his body in an instant, with all the consequences. Geralt opens his eyes and inhales sharply, painfully. It is dark, but a torch burns somewhere beside him, its dim light casting strange shadows on the canopy of leaves above. It might as well be burning inside him. The pain is everywhere now, as if it has spread in the meantime (or was always there), passing over him in waves. Inhale: burning heat that radiates from his legs to his head. Exhale: a knife thrust into his chest from his back. Two breaths: the wave crashing over him. There's a rattling sound, and it takes him a while to realize: that's him. Breathing becomes heavier, everything becomes heavier. A face slides into his field of vision; it's one of the elves. How peculiar that he looks exactly like Adan, from the short black curls to the flawless face to the crooked scar on his neck.

"Hael," the elf says in Adan's voice, except he's actually saying "hello" and is actually Adan.
"I don't know how much you hear," he continues, and slowly the information arrives in Geralt's brain. This is the feline. Geralt is still here, somewhere in this forest, lying on the ground bleeding, fading, but there is Adan. "I don't know, but there might be something wrong with your right ear," he continues as if this is some annoying little thing he wants to quickly check off. He points to his own ear to emphasize his words. His ear is pointed because he is an elf, Geralt thinks hazily, but not just any elf. He tries hard to focus. This is no longer a dream, at least not like the one before. This is a nightmare of never-ending pain, but there's Adan. Annoying guy, always sticks his nose too deep into things that are none of his business. But also reliable and capable. The only person Emhyr would trust with such a delicate matter. Geralt may be befuddled and quite busy breathing, but he has a rough idea of the political consequences of this situation.
Caught up in his thoughts, Geralt misses some of what Adan says.
"... have to pull it out," he says just then. "Do you understand me?"
"Pull what out?" Geralt gasps, although knowing it already. If this is supposed to be a rescue mission, it's perfectly clear to him how it works.
"Listen, we don't have much time," the feline patiently explains. "Those blokes out there are sleeping for a while, but not very long. I can't get you out of here with that metal stuck in your leg. It's very close to the bone, you know that, right?"
He looks scrutinizingly into Geralt's face and seems to find in it the confirmation he seeks.
"I'll be quick," Adan promises, already beginning to rummage in his pockets. He has so incredibly many of them, and there always seems to be just what's needed in there at the moment. Now he pulls out a leather cord, narrow and long, and already he begins to tie off Geralt's thigh. Unlike the boy, who is undoubtedly lying unconscious out there somewhere, Adan knows what to do. He is nimble and skilled, and although the renewed pressure should increase his discomfort, Geralt is long past such things.

He said he would be quick, but he might have been exaggerating. Geralt stares up with an unfocused gaze, green and brown blurring before his eyes, and he knows it can’t be quick. Once again, something shifts into his gaze. Adan holds something in front of his nose. A piece of wood, he realizes. Some small branch, the bark hastily scraped off.
"Bite on it," Adan says. Geralt blinks. His gaze searches for the feline. Then he shakes his head, very slowly, very carefully. He pulls out a few hairs in the process, they stick to the ground with his blood; Emhyr won't like this, he thinks incoherently.
"I don't think anyone out there will hear me," he returns with surprising clarity.
Adan doesn't bat an eyelid.
"But I'll hear you, mate," he replies in another futile attempt to imitate human humor.
Geralt shakes his head once again, or at least he thinks he does; his movements are enormously slowed down and barely perceptible. He doesn't need anything - he doesn't want anything - to channel the pain; it won't work anyway. More pain makes no difference except for one thing: it will send him, with any luck, back to the darkness from which he came. Adan, of all people, should understand this, and he does.
"Fine," he says, and the little stick is thrown onto the ground.

Without much fuss, he begins to carefully pull the metal out of the thigh. At some point, he pours whatever potion over the wound, after which Geralt briefly stiffens but makes no sound.
"I'd give you some of that directly, but..."
He doesn't have to say it. It would be too dangerous. The toxicity of most potions doesn't mix well with internal injuries. All the while, he keeps chattering, that's just his style. Geralt doesn't understand much, he's too busy trying not to forget to breathe. It's all he can do, breathe through this sickening sensation he feels as Adan begins to jerk piecemeal on the metal. The feline babbles incessantly because it calms himself down, Geralt knows this, and strangely enough, it feels familiar, almost soothing.
"... very close to the artery," Adan says at one point, at least that gets through to Geralt. He says it very calmly, almost serenely. He makes a simple observation.
"They could only have done it wrong," he continues. "And you know what else?"
Against his will, Geralt realizes that he perceives everything far too clearly. He feels one of Adan's hands on his thigh, surprisingly cool fingers, almost pleasant. The other hand continually pulls gently on the shrapnel with almost surgical precision. It seems to take forever, although he has long since lost his sense of time. Geralt notices that he is making small noises whenever the metal in his leg moves up a bit; the tugging sends impulses through his body as if he were being hit by a spell that keeps hitting the same spot with increasing intensity. He actually knows that feeling; he's experienced such a spell.

Adan just keeps talking, not expecting an answer. If anything surprises him, it's that Geralt is still conscious. He doesn't scream; if anything, he expels air noisily, but even his groan is more of a gasp, and there's blood on his mouth. Adan knows he has to hurry, and not just with this piece of metal. He pulls the shrapnel up another bit and says, "We'll need Triss. That weird druid will throw his hands up in horror when I bring you back, and he sees you like this. He'll probably faint."
He is not aware that this remark is actually funny, and he would be surprised if he was told.
But he's right, Geralt thinks, and dwelling on these thoughts is at least a minimal distraction. Triss stayed behind in the palace, not just to keep things running there (in fact, it wouldn't need her for that, Emyhr has a perfectly capable staff of advisors and the prolonged absence while they were in Nilfgaard caused absolutely no chaos). Emhyr is not interested in endangering the current peace by too provocative deeds. He lets this king know, more or less subtly, that the days are numbered when otherlings were fair game by introducing him to his husband, the witcher.

So, if this king still believes that the reports of this certainly scandalous wedding are mere rumors, he will face a new reality. Moreover, one in which the Emperor's security advisor turns out to be another witcher, an elf at that. And although he can be sure that most of the northern kingdom's, no matter how small, know that Triss Merigold, of all people, is his court sorceress, he at least spares the king her appearance. Even more so because the two of them apparently already have an inglorious past behind them - or any of his ancestors, Geralt doesn't remember right now. But yes, they will need Triss. However the feline wants to get him out of here and to safety - if they really make it back, the weird druid, as Adan calls him, won't be able to do much. Emhyr has persuaded the Skelligers to put one of their healers at his disposal, ostensibly to lighten Triss's load and direct her tasks more into political dimensions, but also to begin studying their magic. Of course, the druid knows nothing of this; hardly anyone knows that Assire var Anahid had returned for a time and from where her power was fed. But this druid is not one of those who helped her, and his healing skills are no match for Triss. In short, Geralt's chances of survival will increase considerably if they manage to summon the sorceress in time. He is sure that Adan, her lover, after all, has a solution for this.

The metal moves another bit until it's finally out with a sickening smacking sound. This new pain is short but sharp and agonizing. He still doesn't scream; there's no air for that at all. It is just enough for a pitiful whimper. The darkness is very close, but not close enough.
"Lovely," Adan says, a little too cheerfully.
Meanwhile, he is already dressing the wound, and he is quick at it, as at everything.
"Fine, on to the next task," he finally says. Geralt is drifting away, which is quite pleasant. Yet, drifting means the scale can be tipping both ways, and Adan's words bring him back to reality. Adan leans over him again so that he understands him perfectly; Geralt sees the dark eyes above him, they search his gaze.
"I'm going to get you up now. You won't like it, I'm afraid, but we have to hurry, so I won't be able to be very gentle. Ready?"
Geralt just blinks. No, he's not ready, he doesn't want to move or be moved, but that makes no difference.

——————-

Adan takes Geralt's silence as agreement, what else could he do; he is fully aware that there is no alternative, and Geralt knows it, too. His breathing is wheezing now and labored, and if Adan knows anything, it is that everything he has done may have been in vain in the end. That he may have kept Geralt alive for only a short time and that what he must do now may as well kill him. He will do it anyway. He has promised that he will bring Geralt back, one way or another. So the feline reaches under Geralt's shoulders as he kneels next to him, and he feels blood there. He holds his neck as he pulls him up, and the admittedly ridiculous thought occurs to him that the clothes are ruined. They are stuck to the forest floor with blood and sweat, not to mention all the places where they are torn from all the little pieces of metal and the merciless dragging across the ground. Adan has only a vague idea of why Geralt agreed not to make this trip in armor. Still, he suspects he never will do it again if he actually survives this. Quickly and as carefully as possible, he straightens him up, and if that is at all possible, Geralt's complexion turns even paler. His gaze goes into the void; he's very close to fainting now, which is probably for the best, even if it might be dangerous. There's nothing not dangerous about this all, so Adan stops thinking about it.

He has put him in an upright position, and now he is slowly straightening up, pulling Geralt along with him. He ignores the little sounds the latter makes; they cause strange feelings in him. Adan knows all the sounds that wounded men make. Some just grunt, others moan pitifully; many, many scream until your ears almost bleed. And he has undoubtedly heard that kind of whimpering gasp before. It's just that he has never held one of them in his arms when they made that sounds. Is this compassion? If so, he doesn't want it; it feels like nausea rising inside him. He never knew any of them that well. Never cared what they prefer for breakfast (rolls), never paid attention to how they treat others (Ciri always gets a hug, and even though they are married, he and Emhyr still hold hands under the table) or watched how they react when they are angry (he then puckers his mouth as if smiling, but he doesn't smile). Apparently, knowing them too well hurts when you have to hurt them. It's an interesting observation, but one he needs to toughen up to.

Interestingly, it's easier when he's not looking at him. He doesn't know what to say; there's nothing he could say that would somehow make things easier. So Adan just goes through with it. He straightens up and throws Geralt over his shoulder; he goes down on his knees for a moment, but a moment later, he's standing again, holding him securely. Geralt's only other sound is a short cough, and Adan is pretty sure he's not conscious now anymore. He doesn't check; there's no turning back now. Now Adan has to make the most essential part of his promise come true. He has to bring him back.

Chapter Text

Just wondering how
in the darkness
They found their way
to the right place
(A dark passage)

The elves are still lying motionless on the forest floor. Adan has to add a little of his potion, which he will regret in a few hours. Yet, now it is more important to see in the darkness and gain a head start than to worry about puking his liver out later. And he needs another potion to carry this heavy bastard long enough on his shoulders. All this means that he has to be back fast enough because he won't be able to take care of Geralt anymore in a few hours. He'll scurry into hiding like a real cat, puking and squirming. If he's not back at the makeshift camp by then or manages to draw attention to their position without the elves finding him, they'll both have a problem.

One thing at a time, he thinks, and he sneaks out of the Scoia'tael's hiding place. Everything goes surprisingly smoothly. Strength and perception are heightened, right up to the moment when Adan has to be careful not to get lost in the minutiae but to focus on his task. He is at a point where the night forest is no longer silent to him; he could distinguish each nocturnal animal by its movements. Adan hears water rushing, far away, a tributary of the Jaruga. A gentle wind makes the treetops rustle above him, so loud in his ears, as if he were up there himself, sitting in the leaves. It is dangerous to indulge in these sensations and sounds, so he concentrates on the very nearest sound. It's not a nice one - Geralt's breathing is a rattle, a thrust into reality, and a reminder not to dawdle.

Adan does not dawdle. Geralt's weight over his shoulder should slow him down. Still, witcher potions are a curious thing, leaving aside the inevitable side effects. Adan is not incredibly imaginative - something like that is exorcised from a witcher early on - but he simply imagines himself carrying a heavy bag over his shoulder. He knows very well that the potions give him such thoughts and that he must be careful that they do not make him overconfident. He has made that mistake only once, and he doesn't like to think back on it. Sometimes the rumors about the cat school witchers are not exaggerated after all. Ultimately, this thought keeps him sane. He is a cat, he is a feline and an elf. He can move through the forest just as well and just as fast as the Scoia'tael. What he can do even better than them, perhaps, is cover his trail, and they do not possess his abilities to follow a scent.

Morning dawns as Adan realizes that the potions will wear off soon enough, and they have not yet reached the edge of the forest. He has no idea if the Scoia'tael are pursuing them. Still, he knows that Emhyr's self-imposed ultimatum will soon expire. That's good if he manages to send out a message in some form to make the soldiers aware of him. If he fails to do so in time, they will invade the forest searching for the elves; they will be too busy looking for their hiding place to wonder where Geralt's body has gone. If they find nothing, it will only lower their already low opinion of the rebels. Adan is quite sure that Emhyr will not prevent this attack, even if it is fruitless. Once the elves realize that their hostage is gone, they have only two options - and that they will try to go against a fully equipped witcher, even outnumbered, when they know that soldiers must come, is doubtful. Therefore, he believes that the Scoia'tael will choose to flee, and the soldiers will accomplish nothing at all. For the Emperor, this will be the best solution. It's all quite complicated, and his mind is racing now, also because of the potions.

At about this time, Adan notices a cave. A small rock formation almost marks the end of the forest and, still a good distance away, the beginning of a mountain spur. It is not the closest point where the soldiers would begin their search, which only adds to the problem. But right now, Adan can only think one thing: that he urgently needs to get rid of the weight over his shoulder, that he needs to find a safe place for Geralt. Then he can think about what he can do to put the soldiers on their trail. He approaches the cave. Actually, there is no more than a gap in the rock through which they will both just fit. He might be able to hide it with some branches. The place is as good as anything to give Geralt some security, while he himself will soon be lying, uncontrollably twitching, in some bushes somewhere in his own vomit. Adan sees it so clearly as if it had already happened (which would certainly be very pleasant, because then it would also soon be over).

Adan lets his senses wander for a moment, into this cave. He feels the rocky floor as if he were already walking on it. He sees the walls, the rough rock face - there is enough space inside. Far, far away (how big is this cave?) he senses the presence of.... something. But it is not near, and the feeling of getting rid of the extra weight is now becoming urgent. Maybe there is still time to take care of this something. Maybe it's not a problem at all. Without further ado, he drags Geralt into the cave. Inside, there is a small open space, but a narrow gap tells him that the cave must actually be much larger than he thought, even if a person shouldn't fit through this gap. In his head, a whole number of possible animals (monsters) rattle through briefly, which would succeed in this, but there is no time; he must discard the thought.
He very carefully lets Geralt off his shoulder. It's dark in here, and the ground is cold, but nothing can be done about that. He no longer has a torch, and the hard rock would offer no possibility of attaching it anywhere. Lighting a fire would only make Geralt's breathing more difficult, given the limited possibilities for the smoke to escape through the entrance gap, and it would lead the elves - if they did somehow manage to pick up his trail - to them.

There's no way to make this any more pleasant, for Geralt or for him; and as for the former, he's pretty sure he won't notice. At least it would be desirable for him, Adan thinks, as he briefly checks his vital signs. The pulse is a bit too fast for a witcher, but that's not a bad sign. This body is still working, and quite diligently at that - as he briefly touches Geralt's forehead, he notices that he's already starting to feel feverish. It would undoubtedly be desirable to do this in a different environment, under better observation, and with the possibility to take care of all these injuries properly. But nevertheless, his body works, releasing all the helpful enzymes, organizing helper cells, activating all the self-healing forces enhanced by the mutations. Still, the damage is too significant. Even witcher potions would not help here. They need Triss, but Adan has no idea how to accomplish that. Soon he won't be able to take care of Geralt, not even of himself. That's the price he has to pay for using the cursed potions in a way they shouldn't be used. You don't pour oil on the fire if you can't be sure that someone will be there afterward to put it out.

He sits there for a while beside Geralt, keeping himself busy with checking the bandages (bloody), thinking about if there is something he can do about that burn at the ear, which really doesn't look that good (nope). He feels himself getting lost in the thoughts. It's time to do something. Slowly, the feline stands up, not even noticing that he is mumbling something to himself, until he realizes that the words are not only in his thoughts, but also bouncing off the rock walls. In his ears, they are very loud. So loud that he doesn't hear the noise behind him.

——————-

Well, here we are again, Geralt thinks, and the thought amuses him as much as it pleases him to be back in this dream (if it is one). A part of him that is still amenable to logic knows that it is wrong to cling to this dream. The false hope that this floating, painless state gives him is only caused by some endorphins. Of course, this is their function; it's a good thing. But this logical part of him knows that the line between life and death is dissolving, and he won't notice it. Which, in the end, is probably a blessing.

But it is easy to forget that while he sits on the precipice (which he no longer fears), and not being alone in doing so is the greatest reason for his joy. This is his dream, and that's why Emhyr is sitting next to him, and he's holding his hand, looking at their rings, enjoying the moment.
"You can't always dream, you know," Emhyr says. There is a hint of seriousness in his voice, which surprises Geralt, even though it shouldn't - it would be something Emhyr would say, and if he is to symbolize his conscience, it is fitting.
"Can't I?" he asks, looking at that familiar, angular, beautiful face, and he wishes nothing so much as that the hand he holds were real, that the mouth, so close to his were real; that he could kiss it and taste it. He could do that, but he would know it wasn't real. The thought is sad, as is the idea that it will never be real again if the abyss engulfs him. There's more he'll miss - Ciri, especially, but also his friends. All the humans (and non-humans) who have crossed his path over the decades. A witcher with friends, imagine. A married witcher, who has ever heard of that? His life had a lot to offer; a life filled with destiny and miracles.

Emhyr looks at him, a calm, somewhat assessing look from those amber eyes. He reaches out, brushes a strand of Geralt's hair (it's too long, again) out of his face, and says, "You're thinking too much."
"Well, sure," Geralt returns, "it's an acknowledged fact that of the two of us, I'm the thoughtful one."
The remark makes Emhyr smile. He smiles a lot in this dream, but this time it's a kind of sad smile.
"Just don't let it be a dream anymore," Emhyr says.
"How am I supposed to do that?" asks Geralt, looking down at the abyss. It's as deep and dark as ever, and there's nothing he can do about it.
"Don't look down."
Emhyr's dark voice has something hypnotic about it. The dream becomes weird, but it is not yet unpleasant.
"Look at me," Emhyr demands, and although this is his dream, Geralt cannot resist. Is this really his subconscious wanting to tell him something, or has the dream reached a new level?
It doesn't matter; he loses himself in those eyes, as always.
"Listen carefully," Emhyr says. He's so severe now, what's happening? A feeling creeps up inside Geralt; something is different than before. Again, he knows very clearly that this is just a dream, but he also remembers very well what lies behind it: the blood, the pain. The dream is supposed to make him forget all that, at least to repress it, but it looks as if the veil to reality is thinning.

"Stop dreaming," Emhyr says. "You're not defenseless. You are not unarmed. Remember that. You're a witcher, so act like it, damn it."
That's just my subconscious, Geralt thinks, telling me not to give up. It feels different, somehow.
The world around him seems to blur.
I'm waking up, he thinks.
"No," he says aloud. It sounds defiant in his own ears. "I don't want to."
Emhyr's face is the last thing he sees before the dream finally dissipates.
"Wake up," he says. "Wake up!"

He comes to with a stumbling breath that sounds awfully loud in his own ears (the one that still works), but probably he is the only one who hears it. He is somewhere else; this is no longer the forest, no more canopy of leaves above him, only stone. There is Adan, standing right next to him; Geralt hears him muttering something. He is talking to himself. Geralt feels hazy, the dream is gone, but something of it remains in him, lies beneath the dull wave of pain. But despite the fog in his head, one thing is perfectly clear to him at this moment, for whatever reason. Adan's face looks marbled from the protruding veins that potions have stained black. His eyes are glassy. Whatever he took, it was too much or the wrong combination. Geralt recognizes the signs even in his condition. And he recognizes something else. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a movement. Behind Adan, a kind of shadow appears on the wall, and Geralt cautiously turns his head in that direction. His vision blurs briefly, but he forces his eyes to see. There's a crack in a rock wall (they're in a cave), and something pushes through that gap.

Adan does not hear it; he does not perceive it. Geralt knows these signs too; every witcher knows them. Such high toxicity has side effects, and when the impact of the potions wears off, it becomes really unpleasant. It can't last much longer now.
The shadow behind Adan is not a shadow; it actually has substance. It is a creature, rare and ancient, a crawling, slimy thing. One of those that humans rarely get to see, for which they should be grateful - their nightmares are already full of monsters. This one feeds on everything that lives in caves, from mushrooms to a bear, if need be. This makes it quite dangerous, but not necessarily to a witcher. Unless he's caught in the waning effects of potions. Or lying on the ground, almost unable to breathe and certainly unable to fight back.
Something from the dream comes back to Geralt's mind as he watches helplessly as the dark, almost shapeless figure slowly slithers closer, sliding from the wall to the floor like an oversized snake.

No sound comes out of Geralt's mouth; although he tries hard to warn Adan, something in him knows that there is only one action he has energy for. There is something from the dream, something that he should remember.
"You are not unarmed.“ What are his weapons? Adan is his only effective weapon now, his extended arm, but he doesn't hear him, he doesn't look here, he doesn't look anywhere at all.
"Don't be an idiot,“ Emhyr voice says clearly inside him, even though the dream is over. Across the floor, the shadow/non-shadow, the bear-eating monster that loves mushrooms (focus!) creeps ever closer.

And Geralt remembers. How long ago was it that he rode beside Emhyr? They had one of those typical conversations where he usually got the short end of the stick. It was about something ridiculous - where they were riding, what he was wearing? - yes, and Emhyr told him... he said... "If you don't have a knife hidden somewhere in your boots, I'd be very surprised.“ That's Emhyr's voice again, as clear in his head as if he were standing next to him. Geralt actually has a dagger in his boots. For a moment, a pointless hope springs up in him (how the hell is he supposed to get it?), until it occurs to him that the elves have probably taken the weapon from him. They will have searched him, won't they?
His brain commands his hand to move. His hand refuses, and it actually takes the relentless stabbing pain of the attempt for him to remember that he can only move the left one.

The left hand obeys, albeit reluctantly. Moving it is like trying to reach through a fog. No matter how small, every step hurts; every impulse, every muscle, and every single tendon needed to make the hand do so is difficult. The hand creeps over his belly like the monster over the ground; it is already almost near Adan. Now he has to pull up the right knee (be glad it's not the left), must try to bring the leg closer to his hand. How long can this take? Surprise, it seems to take forever. What if the dagger is not there? If he makes these efforts entirely in vain, mobilizes his last reserves, endures the pain - only to discover in the end that there is nothing there? But then why the dream, Geralt thinks. Why tell him he's not unarmed? His hand slides along his leg, which he has pulled up with an almost unimaginable effort; he reaches for his boot, his fingers slide in with difficulty. Very briefly, he feels nothing at all except his sweaty skin and sticky blood, which has seeped into his boots from somewhere. Then his fingers touch metal.

——————-

Adan stands there, his gaze fixed on the void for who knows how long. His murmured words hit the bare rock, and eventually, they reach him, reflected back from the rock face, nothing more than a pale echo, but it arrives. As if waking from a dream, he blinks. His fingers cramp, and he has to shake them - a first sign that brutal reality will catch up with him shortly. His senses are somehow superimposed, on the verge of overload. He got carried away, dangerous as hell, and he almost forgot his most important task. There is still something to do before he is no longer in control of his own body. Adan looks down, glances at Geralt, and blinks again, confused. Geralt's eyes are wide open, glowing in the pale darkness of the cave. But he's not looking at him, he's looking at some point next to him, and he's got one knee up (how the hell did he do that, and why anyway?). It's probably just the potions (but they're wearing off), still Adan feels like time is running much slower than usual.

Something is behind him. He turns his head very slowly, and there is something on the floor. There is no other description for it than „something“. It is not much more than a thing, a nightmarish, slimy, crawling thing. He's never seen anything like it, and his overwrought senses tell him he never wants to see it again, but a last vestige of sanity tells him something else. This last remnant causes his hand to overcome the slowing of time and reach up to his sword. It's little more than instinct now, in this state. But what amazes him (why, actually?) is that he is not the only one with this instinct. In fact, it shouldn't surprise him. They are witchers, created not only to kill but also to survive as long as they can. The survival instinct is the last thing that leaves a witcher, and Geralt is the best example.

Adan reaches for his sword, his hand clasping the hilt, the cool material (a braiding of leather and metal) nestling naturally against it. He pulls - an equally natural movement. But there is Geralt: a real picture of misery, one immense damage, a bloody mess. Despite everything, there is suddenly a dagger in his left hand. That must have been hard, Adan thinks, perfectly clear now. And it's still hard, the movements are slow, and the deep furrow on Geralt's forehead is only a vague hint of the pain all this must be causing. Adan's hand is on the hilt of his sword, and he draws, and then the sword is in his hand. And yet, Geralt is holding a dagger in his left hand, and it must take him superhuman effort as he moves his arm, and he has to twist it strangely to reach the critter at all. But he succeeds. The crawling, slimy something is now very close, and there comes the dagger from above, with force - though far less than usual. He catches the monster right in the thing that is its head, right between those disgusting, twitching eyes. And Adan suddenly realizes that he himself is not holding anything at all. The thought is a shock, a physical shock that, if briefly, actually produces a slight tremor in him. He stares at his hand. His hand is empty. His mind has known exactly what to do, but his body has not been able to do it. Stunned, he stares at the monster, which no longer moves. Now he is absolutely back in his consciousness, but that won't last long. He kicks the disgusting thing away, and it bounces against the wall, sliding down from it, slimy and motionless.

Adan gets down on his knees, looks Geralt in the eye - the glow in it (did he imagine it?) is already fading. Geralt grins - well, it looks like it anyway; the murky darkness in the cave and his blood-encrusted face give this grin a creepy appearance.
"We're even," Geralt mutters, at least that's what Adan thinks he understands. Then his eyelids flutter, fall shut; and Adan quickly checks his pulse. Weak, but present. It must be enough. Adan pushes himself up, he stumbles; then he rushes out of the cave. Outside, he has to hold his hand over his eyes. The sun is now fully up. Not much longer, and Emhyr has no more reason for hope. But Adan now knows what he has to do. He can only hope that Emhyr understands it, understands it as what he wants to tell him. It's crazy, pure madness, but he begins to climb a bit up a birch tree. The crown is still far, far above him, but it will have to do. Adan raises an arm, and now he has an idea what it must have cost Geralt to make this move. He raises his arm, his hand pointing upward into the top of the tree. He tenses, gathering the last of his strength, “Igni," he whispers, and from his hand flows hesitantly but steadily the energy he needs. A short burst of fire and the branches and foliage above him catch fire.

He doesn't know how he manages to climb down from the tree again; he only knows that he eventually stands on the ground again, swaying. A fire crackles above him that can be seen from afar. Undoubtedly it will spread - collateral damage, he thinks this without any regret. Briefly, he checks which way the wind is blowing, then stumbles in the opposite direction. A few steps, and a few more, but then the cramps set in. Adan goes to the ground, pulls his knees to his body, curls up like an animal seeking shelter. But there is no more shelter. Hope is the last thing left.

Chapter Text

Taken the long way
Dark realms I went through
I arrived
My vision's so clear
In anger and pain
I left deep wounds behind
But I arrived
Truth might be changed by victory
(Curse of Feanor)

Morning dawns, and Emhyr awakens from a strange dream. That he has slept at all seems miraculous to him. He has lain there for hours, a small candle in a glass lamp beside him, casting flickering shadows on the tent walls. He was following the wandering patterns with his eyes so as not to fall asleep, drafting and discarding half a dozen possible scenarios in his head. And yet, he must have dozed off at the end. When Emhyr wakes up, his right hand is cramped into the thin blanket above him, as if he had tried to hold - or hold onto - something in his sleep. But the dream is now only a vague memory, no more apparent than the shadows of the candle were in the evening - and this has burned down. A stub of wax in a glass cage - the image seems strangely accurate for his own state of mind. Undoubtedly, his dream had to do with Geralt, even if he can't remember. Emhyr stares at his right hand still clawed into the blanket and loosens his grip. There is the ring with the finely crafted wolf's head. Not even fully aware of it, he strokes the engraving with his other hand's index finger.

The first rays of the morning sun hit the tent roof. Emhyr looks up, and he knows that he will soon have to make a decision. No news from the feline. He doesn't know what kind of clue even to expect from the witcher. They have not talked about it, which may have been a mistake. The uncertainty is nerve-wracking - he's been staring toward the forest all evening, wondering what he might see there. That the elf would come running from there? That a flock of birds would suddenly fly out of the trees, startled? How exactly should Adan send him a message? He relied on the man to think of something. Perhaps, however, Adan has thought just as little about it, even if it seems unlikely to Emhyr. The witcher is not a mage; he will not suddenly teleport into this makeshift camp or stage fireworks over the forest to draw attention to himself. The thought of fireworks makes Emhyr uncomfortable. But at least it directs his thoughts to another possibility - that the elf would somehow manage to notify the court sorceress. But if he had done that, she would probably have already shown up here. Emhyr thinks about whether he should summon her himself. The druid has not left with the rest of the traveling party, even though that meant Emhyr had to let them go without the protection of a healer. But he felt he needed the man here more urgently, especially since he is his only chance to actually make an immediate connection with Merigold. His thoughts are spinning in circles. Surely Merigold will increase his chances of finding Geralt enormously. But the fact that he has heard nothing so far could just as well mean the worst. Involving a sorceress in the then unavoidable conflict will only complicate everything.

But not only Adan, also the Scoia'tael have not made any contact. Emhyr has spent half the night thinking about their abstruse demand. The rumors from that kingdom are not exaggerated - the policy towards otherlings is brutal and, after the war, downright an affront to the Emperor. Not only the forest but this whole trip is a potential minefield. An open attack would bring the king's allies into action. Emhyr can not tolerate such practices, nor does he want to weaken the still fragile power structure to his disadvantage. The elves' audacity to attack the imperial convoy still amazes him as much as the brutality of this onslaught. He can think of no other reason than pure desperation. The commander would probably disagree with him - it is and remains terrorism, from a certain point of view. And he will have to look at it that way in the end, regardless of the reasons. It's not that the Scoia'tael overestimate his influence; it's that they underestimate the political circumstances. It is clear to him that they are not very interested in this. They live outside human laws, for which they have their reasons, and he is not entirely insensitive to these reasons. Fact is, the world will continue to turn even without the Scoia'tael.

So if they think it is within his power to negotiate here and now with a kingdom he has set out for but has not yet reached, they are not entirely wrong. But if they actually think he would do that, based on a single uncertain message, they are wrong. His life has taught him to always assume the worst. It saves disappointment, and it keeps options open that may sometimes seem cruel, but in the end, make the difference between winning or perishing. Emhyr rises, smoothing the clothes he slept in, running his hand through his hair, and straightens.
He leaves the tent, and the morning sun blinds him. It hits the guards' shining armor in front of the entrance. The men stiffen reverently as he appears. As the night before, his first gaze is at the edge of the forest on the horizon. But the forest lies there as before, seemingly lifeless. His experience tells him that the commander will not be long in coming, and he is right. The man seems to have waited only for him to appear - already he comes toward him, his face grim as ever. He is not a bad man, certainly not a bad commander. It is just that he is one of those who know little about peacetime.

"Any news?" asks Emhyr.
The commander bows briskly, straightens up again, and replies, "No more news from the rebels, Your Majesty."
That's not what Emhyr meant, but the other can't and doesn't need to know that.
"How are the preparations going?"
"Are completed, Your Majesty."
"A little more specific?"

The commander goes into details - how many soldiers he intends to deploy, in what way they intend to comb the forest, what precautions they will take to avoid running into more Scoia'tael traps. Emhyr listens only half-heartedly, he can already guess what the commander is telling him; he knows all the possible strategies, and he has gone through them long enough in his head. The stern look he gives the soldier wanders off, as do his thoughts, and he looks back to the edge of the forest. Something catches his attention, and he squints his eyes. What is that?
"... are able to strike off immediately, Your Majesty," the commander says just now.
Emhyr points past him, drawing his attention to the forest that stretches some distance away.
"Do you see that?" he asks as if he can't believe his own eyes.
The commander frowns, puzzled by the sudden distraction. He turns and looks in the direction indicated. Briefly, he hesitates, puts a hand over his eyes; equally protection from the sun as a silly attempt to enhance his vision.
"Smoke?" he says with a hint of doubt in his voice as if it were a question, but it is not. It is actually smoke rising from the edge of the forest. "Wildfire, perhaps? Might make it easier for us to find them. They're certainly not in that area."

The commander sees only what he wants to see. What would start a forest fire? There was no thunderstorm. Every fire needs an ignition source. It is hard to imagine that the elves (or the feline) ignited it out of carelessness, perhaps because the embers of a campfire were not extinguished with proper care. The distant smoke is like a spark that ignites a feeling in Emhyr that lay dormant deep within him. The smoke is hope - the expected sign.
"You will lead the soldiers right there," Emhr says to the commander's visible surprise.
"Your Majesty, that's miles away from the attack site," he points out. "And if there is a fire there, the elves will not be there but will retreat to other parts of the forest. Our chances of finding them are greatest where they first encountered us."
"There lies a very different chance, commander," Emhyr replies, abundantly enigmatic. "You will lead the squad there, without further question. You will take my husband's horse along," he adds. Roach stands tethered near the tent, next to his own horse. Emhyr steps up to her, strokes her neck briefly, and whispers something in her ear, whereupon she gives a short snort.
"You just need to point her in the right direction," he says. "Don't grab her reins, she won't let you."

——————-

The commander's facial expression could not be any more confused. Neither does he understand why he should lead his soldiers to this part of the forest, nor why he should take an extra horse. And not just any horse, but a very specific one. It could well be that grief makes a man lose his mind. Not that the commander understood the meaning of this strange wedding from the beginning, but after all, that's the way it is, and the Emperor and the witcher have not been married long. For some reason, he seems to think the soldiers will find his dead consort there. Perhaps the horse is supposed to find him? The idea is as crazy as everything else. Or the horse is meant to transport the body; a touching move, albeit a bit quirky.

The commander is willing to accept this possibility as the most obvious one. It seems strange to him - besides everything else - that the Emperor shows no signs of grief. However, was this really to be expected? This is the petrified face of a man who has learned to hide his feelings and has become a master at it. At the end of the day, it is not his place to question his Emperor's orders. If, for some reason, the latter does not want them to find the Scoia'tael at all (there may be political reasons for this), he will have to accept it. Quite possibly, the elven rebels have also already retreated from the forest in the face of the fire. Whether and how the Emperor plans to avenge his loss is up to him.

So the commander does what any good soldier does: he doesn't ask questions, he follows orders. If doubts create pressure in him, as a commander he can still pass it on to his subordinates. This is a strangely comforting thought, and so the commander barks a few orders, gathers his squad, has them line up and mount. These are all activities that need no explanation, that happen all by themselves; the natural order of things, knowing where you belong. He mounts his own horse, and indeed a click of his tongue is enough to make the witcher's horse follow the march.

The smoke naturally gets stronger, the closer they get to the edge of the forest. At this point, some rocks can also be seen, scattered foothills of a mountain range not too far away. The smoke lies heavy and dark over the treetops, and when they finally reach the forest after some time, the soldiers are presented with a picture of devastation. The fire must have spread from here and completely charred several treetops, but wind or some strange coincidence ensured that it did not reach the ground. Perhaps this has happened somewhere else. Some distance away, the commander can still see the reddish embers of a fire that continues to spread to the north. May it surprise them as they crouch in the trees, he thinks grimly as he leads the troop of soldiers deeper into the forest. He finally believes he can make out the actual starting point of the fire. It's getting narrower, there aren't really any paths here, and he orders one of his soldiers to ride ahead a bit and determine if they need to dismount already. The man does not get far. "Commander!" his call soon rings out, and he sounds surprised. What surprises a soldier so much that he sounds almost frightened?
The commander brings the rest of the squad to a halt with one movement, dismounts, and follows the soldier. Here the smoke is particularly heavy - clearly the starting point of the fire - and although a few steps ahead, above them, there is hardly anything left of the treetops, the remains of charred leaves still occasionally sail to the ground.

The soldier stands next to the slumped, motionless figure of a man lying on the forest floor, a puddle of vomit half-dried beside him. The swords on his back reveal him to be the Emperor's security advisor; the commander recognizes this immediately, but his brain refuses to connect for a moment.
We haven't seen him all night, he thinks. What is he doing here in the forest?
"Is he alive?" he asks, and the soldier stands around helplessly, blinking.
"For crying out loud, didn't you check?"
The commander hastily steps forward, kneels beside the witcher, and checks his pulse. Then he shakes his head, irritated, as a glance confirms that the elf's chest is rising and falling - he's breathing, why the hell doesn't he have a pulse? The commander forces himself to calm down and search for the man's carotid artery. There it is - very slow, which is odd, but clearly alive. He remains in this kneeling position for a moment, looking at the unconscious witcher, pulling back his eyelids, only to find dilated pupils. It may be that this means nothing at all - after all, this is a witcher. But the commander is not a stupid man, so he begins to put two and two together. The commander has learned that witchers use potions. He doesn't have an exact idea about it, but soldiers also occasionally use certain stimulants before battles. This is an open secret. The wrong mix can end up having people acting like fisstech addicts in the gutter. Then they puke their guts out and collapse in the end.

The witcher lies not far from the tree from which the fire must have started. Did he ignite it? If so, then surely not to smoke out the elves. Unless they were chasing him. There is only one reason why they should have pursued him. Only one reason why they didn't see anything of him for so long. Only one reason why he set the fire - and only one reason why the Emperor wanted them to start their search here.
No, the commander is not a stupid man. He may not see through all the political maneuvers, but now everything is starting to make sense.
He stands up and orders the soldier, who is still standing there uncertainly, to gather the rest of the troops.
"Fan out," he then orders. "We're not looking for the Scoia'tael. If we find them, so much, the better. But primarily, we're looking for clues to find the Emperor's consort."
Some of the soldiers exchange looks that he can't blame them for. The commander does not believe that the man is still alive. But he certainly believes that this elf here at his feet is good for some surprises. That he might have managed to find the other witcher. Whatever happened after that is not clear to him. But if this one managed to send a message with his last strength, the other one must be nearby.
"Two stay here," he then says, "we have to bring back His Majesty's security advisor. Someone has to give up his horse and transport him on it."
Precisely the same reason the Emperor wanted them to take the other witcher's horse, he thinks. And because his loyalty to the Emperor is more significant than any doubt, he hopes they will end up finding something that can be hauled on that horse.

Chapter Text

Would you open the door
Enter the here and now
A new horizon
You'll rise you'll fall
And learn to live
(The new order)

This time, the awakening is quite different; slow, like waking up from a dream that has long masqueraded as reality. First, there are sensations, also sounds and smells. All of it is strangely familiar. With his eyes closed, Geralt follows along. It is not quite easy, still as if in a fog, or as if he were behind a thin veil that only the ultimate reality can tear apart. It is very peaceful, very quiet, very pleasant. The first thing that reaches his consciousness is the constant brushing of skin on skin. A hand, he realizes at some point, stroking his, non-stop; a strong hand, yet a delicate touch. Is it the touch that wakes him up? It is unimportant. There is more - the feeling of being in a familiar place. The smells are varied and mingle, and he has trouble telling them apart. There is something tart, but there is also something sweet. And a slightly pungent smell, he knows it well - a somewhat nasty but extremely useful healing ointment.

Somewhere deep in his consciousness is the thought that something has happened. Actually, he doesn't want to dwell on this thought so much. He feels light, somehow cocooned, a pleasant feeling. Now he focuses on the sounds. They are a little muffled - a murmur that becomes a rushing background noise in his ears. A conversation, perhaps? He gives himself to the sounds for a while. A woman, and the deep, dark voice of a man. Both are familiar to him, he knows them, he just has to…
"I think he's coming around," the woman's voice says clearly, and he opens his eyes. Cornflower blue eyes seek his gaze. Triss. Is he in Vizima? It doesn't make sense, it doesn't feel like it, the smell isn't right either….
"Don't you touch that," the sorceress says sternly, and Geralt realizes that he has reached out to touch his right ear. He hears almost nothing there, and the bandage he feels may be one of the reasons. Triss grabs his hand just below the wrist, very carefully, and he realizes more bandages. "What's happened?" he asks.

——————-

"'s 'ppnd?" Geralt mutters. Triss notices Emhyr's questioning look, though she continues to watch Geralt's reactions intently.
"Don't worry, he's pretty drugged up," she explains. "I don't think he'll remember any of this later. Someone will have to explain everything to him again," she adds with a sigh.
"But does he understand us?"
Triss nods.
"Pretty much, but I don't think there's much point in explaining the details to him now."
Geralt grins, clearly the incomprehensible grin that drunks share with those who are drugged.
"You're at Corvo Bianco," Triss says. He blinks as if he actually understood. She rather thinks he's forgotten it right away. But the next time he wakes up, he'll do so in familiar surroundings. Then she straightens up and turns back to Emhyr, who is sitting on the bed and steadily stroking Geralt's left hand with his thumb. It is a strangely touching scene.
Emhyr just looks at Geralt as he asks, "The hearing will return completely?"
"One hundred percent," Triss assures him. "You remember the last time Regis and I had to patch him up?"
Emhyr does, but like any of his memories of Geralt's injuries, he would rather suppress them.
"Well," Triss continues, a little too euphorically, it seems to him, "I had the opportunity to learn quite a bit about his very interesting tissue regeneration studies. Extremely groundbreaking concepts. Honestly, I understand well that previous generations of mages were fascinated with studying witchers. But had they ever had the opportunity to scrutinize a vampire and his abilities in such a way…"
Emhyr's gaze silences her. Not a good topic.
"Anyway, yes, the ear is sort of whole again," Triss says. She notices that this statement piques Geralt's interest. He is awake enough that his eyes roam back and forth between her and Emhyr.
"'N e 'eg?" he hums.
Emhyr looks at her again as if she is the expert in some kind of secret language.
"The leg will be fine, Geralt," she says reassuringly. "Everything's going to be just fine."
He just grins.

——————-

Later, Emhyr will receive a report - as is customary, and his court sorceress also strictly adheres to it - listing each of Geralt's injuries. It is a prosaic list that hardly does justice to the agitation Emhyr felt inside when the soldiers returned to the camp. He doesn't know that the commander was convinced all the way back that they would end up delivering a corpse after all. What they found in the cave that the soldiers finally discovered, next to a hideous monster that none of them had ever come face to face with, had hardly been identifiable as the Emperor's consort. It is a story for the campfire, for the few occasions when soldiers tell each other tales that a little alcohol usually exaggerates. When he gets this chance, the commander will tell that he first recognized the boots - a strange detail, but these fine deerskin boots were just worthy of a nobleman, and such the witcher was well now. That his hair was no longer white, nor was it gray; he will describe it as "primarily black from clotted blood." There he actually exaggerates, if only a little.

Emhyr had no trouble recognizing Geralt when they brought him back, but actually with keeping his composure. So later, when he will have this report in front of him, it will be difficult for him to read it. Right now, he is sitting next to Geralt, stroking his hand incessantly, and Triss has mentioned some of the injuries before she started treating them. Her report will list considerably more later. The right wrist and three fingers: broken precisely at their respective joints; bruises and cuts (an exact list of each occurrence); the right ear: burned and partially destroyed, successful tissue reconstruction; the left leg: deep cut with high blood loss; the lung: injury to the lung tissue with internal bleeding… and so on and so forth. What matters is that he made it through - with his own healing powers keeping him alive long enough, and with a lot of luck that ensured he was found in time.

He strokes Geralt's hand, unaware that he is doing this primarily for himself. That he is still agitated and that this calms him. Emhyr looks down at the hand in his, and then at the other, bandaged one; and he knows Geralt will eventually realize his wedding ring is gone. They had to cut it off his swollen finger to fix the fractures. He will feel pain again at some point, and on top of the physical pain will come this loss. Geralt loves this ring. And Emhyr? He can't bear to see him suffer. That's why the ring, or rather its remains, are on their way at this very moment, either to be repaired or, if that's not possible, to be remade. One would think there would be more pressing problems for him to deal with right now. But Geralt loves this ring, and Emhyr loves Geralt, simple as that.

Geralt just grins - he actually looks a bit drunk - and Emhyr feels the need to do nothing but sit here for a while, holding this hand and smiling into this face. He doesn't, because they're not alone and because he knows he won't stay long. They have arranged everything so that Emhyr will arrive at the royal court with a delay appropriate to his status, but not conspicuously long. Triss will accompany him. A suitable explanation for his late arrival has already been prepared. Still, the fact that he is now bringing his court sorceress, after all, will undoubtedly cause some turmoil.
Emhyr has thought about this for a long time and has concluded that this is a good solution. It is necessary to subtly increase the pressure on the royal court. More political power games, he thinks, and he looks at Geralt with some regret. It was Triss' idea to bring him here. He wouldn't have the peace he needs in the palace, she said, "it is not a place for healing". Here, however, he's safe, in a quiet sanctuary, and someone else who can use some rest will take care of him. As if Geralt - although not one hundred percent sane - has read his mind, he now slurs,"'Dn?" This time Emhyr understands, and he smiles. He knows Geralt won't like it. He just won't be able to complain.

——————-

Triss also understands him.
"Adan is fine," she assures him. She sounds strangely proud when she adds, "He torched most of the forest to get you out. I don't know how we're going to explain that. On the other hand, there's no reason whatsoever to think magic or anything like that caused the fire - and no one can connect him to it."
The fire actually served several functions - not only did its smoke put the soldiers on their trail, it will also have driven the Scoia'tael out of the forest. Triss doesn't know how to feel about this. Once, she has risked everything to get mages out of a besieged city. Had she been there, who knows if she would have understood the elves' position too well? Then again, it's a good thing she wasn't there. Because despite all her experience, she doesn't know if she would have supported Emhyr's decision to wait so long and not respond to the demand at all. All the political consequences are clear to her; she understands them and is aware of the logic behind them. Nevertheless, she finds his reaction downright cold-blooded. On the other hand - he didn't know for hours whether Geralt was still alive. Still, he didn't let himself be carried away into making an ill-considered attack. Triss is glad she didn't have to make any of those decisions. That she didn't have to take sides.

She turns back to Geralt and says, "Adan will stay here and take care of you."
She sees his frown - this information definitely resonates with him, and he doesn't like it. Ridiculous, she thinks, if not without affection. He saved your ass, but you just think you don't need a babysitter. But he does need that, at least someone who knows how to take care of his injuries, who keeps an eye on him should he be feverish, someone who is with him—a friend.
Smiling, she says, "Your housekeeper Marlene has taken a fancy to him. I should check on him, I think, before she fattens him up. She has complained that he is much too thin, but in fact, he eats her out of house and home."
It's easy to imagine Adan sitting in the small kitchen at this moment, chatting up the good woman, with one hand in the pot at all times. The thought makes her smile again. The witchers in her life are certainly peculiar, but she treasures them both in very different ways. Her hand already on the door, she looks at Geralt, her smile expressing an affection that is not for him alone at all. And Geralt grins back.

——————-

Geralt has every reason to grin: he feels light, downright carefree, almost joyful. He feels like he smiles quite a bit. However, the right side of his face is kind of numb, and it could be that he's not quite clear-headed, but other than that, he feels pretty good. How could he not, Emhyr is holding his hand, and Triss has just assured him that his ear is still in place (or something like that). She has left, and he can entirely focus his gaze on his husband.
"I'm sorry," he says softly, and he means everything by it: that he was ever displeased, that he caused trouble with his restlessness, that he worried Emhyr. Emhyr somehow frowns in exertion; he seems to be contemplating. Maybe the message just doesn't reach him because Geralt has to smile incessantly. He's just happy to be here. Glad that the hand in his is real.

However, there is one thing he has to think about.
"What about the Scoia'tael?" he wants to know.
Emhyr tilts his head and looks at him oddly. It takes him quite a while to answer, though his answer doesn't sound like he had to think about it for long.
"The elves?" he asks as if Geralt hadn't made himself clear. "Well. There were no more traces of them. I guess they found a new retreat."
Geralt looks up at Emhyr, searching his face for a clue that he might not be telling him the whole truth, but this sort of thing has never come easily to him, so he gives it up. Moreover, he's getting tired, and perhaps it is enough to let this hand caress him and think less. Still, he remembers one thing pretty well.
"Their demand," he says. Emhyr's piercing gaze begins to grow weird. He almost pretends not to understand him correctly, yet Geralt is the one with his ear under a few layers of bandages. Finally, Emhyr replies, "They told you they wanted to exchange you for some of the king's prisoners? Well, let's say... Let's assume that it has come to my attention that the man has some elves in his dungeons; women and children at that, and suppose we come to some business arrangements, as planned, it might be that those elves are part of the subjects of negotiation."

Those are well-chosen, cautious words, and Geralt can't quite follow them. What he takes away from it is a bit of hope for a green-eyed Scoia'tael, who apparently had her reasons for forming a gang of outcasts. Geralt feels that his eyes are closing, and even if he has some more questions, now is not the time to answer them.
"I must leave you soon," Emhyr says with regret in his voice, despite his seemingly calm demeanor. "The feline will keep me informed of your condition through Merigold. I'm sure you'll be much better when you next wake up. I'll see you again soon."
Geralt, feeling that he is doing excellently already, has to smile broadly against his will.
"I love you," he says. And Emhyr, understanding perfectly this time, shows a genuine smile. Knowing that these are - mainly - the drugs that speak out of his husband, he leans forward. He kisses Geralt on the forehead and whispers, "You're a real idiot. And I love you, too."