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The dark midnight blue of the sky, peppered with myriads of bright stars, hangs above his head, dark pine trees looming menacingly at the edges of the snaking woodland path. The ground feels soft beneath his bare soles, even if it’s carpeted with dry pine needles and little rocks. He should be able to feel more , he knows this, he should be able to bloody smell more-- something different than week-old blood, the taste of iron on his tongue taunting him, moving him forward one step at a time.
He knows why he’s in this unfortunate situation. He knows and it doesn’t make him feel any better; on the contrary, it makes him feel doomed.
What was he thinking, trying to live amongst the humans? Who was he trying to fool? Himself?
A deep sigh escapes his blue cold lips. It was a horrible idea, leaving Cidaris all by himself to traipse across the Continent like his once friend; like Jaskier. And now what? He’s stuck in that goddamn forest, growing ever hungrier by the minute, waiting for a witcher to stumble upon him and end him before he can utter a word, before he can explain that he means no harm-- never meant any harm in his long dead life.
At least he thinks a witcher can end him. It’s not like he’s met anybody else quite like him during the centuries he’s been undead.
Valdo wishes he could turn time back, back to the moment those bloody bandits or deserters or whatever the shit those criminals were, and tear them apart --like the monster that he is-- before they had a chance to snatch his quite vital for his prolonged survivability, glamour.
But noooo , he was so used to playing human that he forgot-- that it didn’t even cross his mind to protect himself.
Hell of a lich king he is.
A lich, king of nothing anymore, hundreds of miles away from his ancestral home --his once illustrious kingdom-- stranded in a goddamn forest in fucking Temeria.
Another sigh escapes his lips. At least he has his seven-course lute with him. At least the bandits were kind enough to leave him his livelihood.
He clicks his tongue and scowls, kicking a pine cone from his path. If he’s lucky he might still find a mage that will take pity on a robbed and beaten undead troubadour, that will be willing to provide him with a new glamour instead of attempting to dissect him in hope of finding the secret of immortality (or well, undeadness in his case).
The scent of blood grows stronger and as if compelled he follows it, hungry --so fucking hungry-- now that the glamour isn’t here to suppress his instincts.
Oh, to be reduced to the likes of ghouls. Pitiful.
Still, he hopes the scent will lead him to a scrumptious freshly dead carcass of a deer. Knowing his luck though, it’ll sooner be a dead hunter or something similar. He really does not want to eat something --someone, he corrects himself-- that could speak.
Between tall trees and rough ferns, he walks under the starry sky, inching closer to the smell of sustenance.
Please be a deer, please be a deer, he chants again and again under his breath, cold grey fingers curling into fists, long sharp nails digging into the soft part of his palms, unable to draw blood. Never able to draw blood.
He closes his eyes and focuses on the delicious metallic scent. Maybe he’ll be able to discern what’s giving it off. (Unlikely, but he has to try. For his peace of mind.)
And then he hears it: the soft whispers of a human.
Crap. He must run, run away. But his legs don’t listen to him, and he stays rooted in place, a statue devoid of colour, barely visible under the curtain of stars.
“Stay here,” a deep gravelly voice says, stone upon stone, like the song of the mountains.
“You’re going to leave me here alone with this- this utterly disgusting monster corpse?” Jaskier’s familiar tenor echoes loud and clear.
Of all the people to run into… Honestly, which god did Valdo offend to suffer such fate?
“It’s dead,” the witcher --for Valdo is certain, now, who Jaskier’s companion is-- remarks drily, “best it can do is cover that cologne you favour.”
“Uhm… Hello?” Valdo says, his voice wavering slightly. If he can’t run, ‘best he can do is hope his old friend and rival will be… lenient with Valdo’s unique condition. Jaskier is a lot of things but unreasonable isn’t one of them. “I mean no harm, I swear.”
He can see the witcher now, tall and broad, eyes pitch black and silver sword in hand.
The witcher tilts his head to the side in question. “Jaskier, come here for a minute,” he says and nods curtly a greeting towards Valdo.
“Honestly, Geralt. Make up your mind. Should I stay put, or should I follow you to the dark scary forest?” Jaskier huffs irritated, but Valdo can hear that the other minstrel is moving in his direction.
“He’s not dangerous to us,” the witcher says, and a wave of relief passes through Valdo’s body. At least this time he hasn’t been called ‘it’ . He wants to kiss the witcher right here and now, but he knows better than that.
“Oh hello,” Jaskier starts saying, eyes widening with recognition, “Valdo?”
A half manic chuckle escapes Valdo’s lips. “Jaskier, well met,” he greets, polite as ever. “I… uh… apologise for the-” he gestures at himself, “Afraid you caught me in a disastrous time, old friend.”
“I can see that,” Jaskier remarks and the witcher hums in agreement. “What happened to you?” It’s kind of sweet how much Jaskier genuinely seems to care for the undead creature before him. Valdo’s unbeating heart feels lighter and he feels the edges of his lips curl upward.
Valdo lets the witcher and the other troubadour lead him to the little clearing where they’ve made their campsite. There’s an endrega corpse lying on the grassy ground that smell enticing. Gods, does it look disgusting! He idly wonders why it’s making his mouth water.
“Help yourself,” the witcher --Geralt-- gestures to the slain beast.
“Ah-” Valdo swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth, “Are you sure?”
Geralt huffs a laugh, “Absolutely. Everyone has a right to eat.”
“Except perhaps that bloody Bruxa in the last town over,” Jaskier adds with a fanged grin.
Fanged? Oh, sweet Melitele, they’re two peas in a pod the both of them, aren’t they?
“Agreed,” Geralt nods.
They eat --or at least they let Valdo nibble on the endrega until he feels like a mimicry of a person again-- and he tells them how he came to be here.
“So you just need another glamour?” Jaskier asks and Valdo nods, “Well, that’s a rather easy feat.”
“You can’t be serious, Jaskier! The last one cost me an arm and a leg. Literally!”
“No, no, Jaskier is right,” says the witcher, brewing some gods-awful-smelling concoction above the shimmering campfire. It’s all so… domestic. “I’m sure Yen will be willing to part with an enchanted ring for the right price.”
“I imagine this Yen person will like to study me,” Vado sighs. He’s not keen on becoming a lab experiment again.
“Yennefer? Never!” a peal of laughter escapes Jaskier’s mouth, “But no, seriously, she’ll be happy to ask you a few questions. She won’t study study you, if you know what I mean, if you don’t want to.”
“I am not sure what you mean, Jaskier. I feel like the word ‘study’ possesses a different meaning in your mind.”
“He means sex,” Geralt comments bluntly.
“Oh, ah, that changes things,” Valdo admits and Jaskier looks a thread away from bursting into loud and obnoxious laughter.
“Right, then! Do we have a plan?” Jaskier extends a cold hand and Valdo takes it on his own and shakes it.
“We do, old friend.”