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1.
The new company, nevertheless, changed Dandelion utterly. He got on famously with the dwarves, particularly when it turned out that some of them had heard of him and even knew his ballads and couplets. Dandelion dogged Zoltan’s company. He wore a quilted jacket he had weaselled out of the dwarves, and his crumpled hat with a feather was replaced by a swashbuckling marten-fur cap. Baptism of Fire, p. 80.
Dandelion untied the kerchief around his neck and let his hair loose on his shoulders, scratching at the back of his head. His curls were out of control after so many days on the road, and he kept his hair mostly tied with a string.
The smell of Munro's mushroom soup, in this moment, was as inviting as a royal banquet, and Dandelion gazed wistfully towards the little campfire where the dwarf was stirring the cauldron. It was a brief reprieve from the incessant rain that had haunted their journey, and everybody was taking advantage of the fact by getting rid of some of the mud clinging to clothes and hair.
"You're very beautiful," Zoltan said suddenly, and Dandelion blinked up at him. The dwarf grinned. "It's what I'm thinking, so it's only fair that I say it."
Taken by surprise, Dandelion flushed, and visibly preened. He seemed to shine all of a sudden, looking radiant in his tattered clothes.
"It's been a while since anyone's complimented me," he smiled. "Or said anything nice, really. Geralt's in one of his moods. Ahem… he’s merely worried. But it is nice to receive compliments once in a while, especially from one as handsome as yourself, my dear dwarf."
Zoltan's smile sent a shiver down Dandelion's spine. Field Marshal Windbag gently cawed and stretched in his sleep.
"You and Geralt are close?" The dwarf asked, resuming his work of brushing his boots.
"Yes; why, you said it yourself, that you've heard my ballads."
"I have! But I meant something quite different."
Dandelion sniffed. "I'm not sure what you expect me to tell you. But I've known him for a long time, and I've known him well."
"It's simply strange to see a Poet, of your fame to boot, following a man who carries two swords on his back into the mouth of fire and destruction."
Dandelion blushed again, but for entirely different reasons. He raised his chin haughtily. "Anyone with a conscience couldn't sit in his chair, twiddling his thumbs, while a war raged outside his window."
Zoltan nodded. "That's commendable. But it's not why you're here. There's nothing for you, south of the Yaruga."
Dandelion stared into Zoltan's dark eyes.
"Oh, don't look so serious. I didn't mean to offend, or prod. It seems to me that you open your mouth to say everything except what truly matters. But, come, will you accept a swig from my canteen as an offer of peace?"
"If you stop with the unwanted analysis of my character, perhaps."
"Certainly. Pouting doesn't suit your face half as much as you think."
"Now you wound my vanity, too… Zoltan, maybe I'll go hunting with Milva; she's grumpy, but at least she's quiet."
"You reap what you sow, poet," the dwarf said solemnly, handing his canteen to the troubadour.
"Ah, now you're talking."
"I should warn you that it's diluted with water."
Dandelion swallowed, and grimaced. "This is only water, I think."
Zoltan cackled. "When we find a tavern, I'll buy you a round of ale. How does that sound?"
"It's a deal," Dandelion smiled. He handed the waterskin back, and the rough skin of the dwarf’s hand lingered on his own. Suddenly, footsteps approached, and a sneeze made them jump.
"Confounded gnome, you'll wake the Marshal!" Zoltan grumbled.
Percival sniffled, holding his hand to his nose. "Sorry, sorry. I'm just reporting that the road is clear ahead, that's all, no need to get riled up.” He gingerly patted the parrot's head. "What’s for dinner?"
The mushroom soup prepared by Munro Bruys lacked spice, but Dandelion was in a good mood; he teased Milva, who hadn’t been able to catch a single rabbit under this constant rain, and earned a kick to his shin for it.
The sun began to set, and with dusk came a soft drizzle. The dwarves began to set up their canvases (mostly for the benefit of the women and children of Kernow), and Dandelion sat under a tree, strumming away at his lute. The green parrot was perched on his shoulder and occasionally cawed; the dwarves sang and laughed as they worked. Dandelion caught Geralt’s eyes across the dying embers of the campfire, but the drizzle was picking up speed. He looked up at the darkening sky; it took on a smoky blackness, and no stars were allowed to peek through the clouds.
“That lute of yours won’t rot in the rain?” Zoltan asked, standing in front of the troubadour with his hands on his hips. The Field Marshal croaked and jumped on his owner’s arm.
“This, my dear Zoltan, is a lute of elven make. It doesn’t rot ,” Dandelion proclaimed, while attempting to cover the instrument with his jacket. “But, well, I won’t refuse a place under your tent, if you were so kind as to extend the offer to me.”
With a chuckle, the dwarf nodded towards the smaller canvas; it was so small, in fact, that it would barely provide enough cover for two. Dandelion picked up his boots and followed Zoltan. The rest of the company was scattered nearby, almost forming a circle around Zoltan; the women and children were, as usual, further away. Geralt sat by the fire still, but Dandelion decided not to worry about it.
“Of elven make, you say?” Zoltan grinned. “I’d like to examine it someday, if you’ll allow me.”
“With pleasure,” Dandelion raised his eyebrows. “Once this blasted rain stops. In the meantime, I can tell you the story of how Filavandrel of the Silver Towers gave it to me. As a prize, you see. A sign of trust.”
Zoltan sat, and moved his parrot to his shoulder. The Field Marshal busied himself with cleaning the wet feathers on his back. “Of the Silver Towers, huh? You get into interesting capers. Did he gift you the lute before or after he whacked you in the head with it?”
Dandelion pursed his lips. “After,” he said, dignified.
Zoltan grinned. “I must have heard your ballad somewhere, then! It seems I already know how the story goes. But I will listen to you; I like your voice.”
“Very well; sit comfortably and I’ll begin. From the very beginning, in fact… 'twas the first time me and Geralt travelled together. Ye gods, how many years has it been?”
“How old are you, anyway?” Zoltan blinked.
“Younger than you are, to be sure,” the poet said haughtily.
“Mmh. In your fifties, then? Or perhaps sixty years old?”
“Ye gods! I’m not even forty. Besides, age matters not, poetry will live on forever, et cetera .” Zoltan gave him a soft grin, and Dandelion closed his eyes. “My point is, this lute has been with me for many years, and through many perils. Begin to see?”
Dandelion patted his lute, and Zoltan nodded. “I see, but you were going to tell me about Filavandrel of the Silver Towers.”
“I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it,” Dandelion sniffed. He spoke of Posada--of golden fields, and a golden sun, with just enough romanticizing so as to hold the attention of his audience. He spoke of the devil, of their capture, of the blood on Geralt’s face… of his promise to keep the elves and Dana Méadbh out of his ballads. Zoltan listened attentively, as rain pattered on the canvas above their heads. With his eyes now adjusted to the darkness, Dandelion could almost make out the dwarf’s expression. By the end of his tale, they both lay on a makeshift bed of blankets. Dandelion turned on his back and sighed.
“I do apologize if Geralt seems mistrustful of you, now. This, this story, with Torque and the mythical elves… it was before Ciri. Hell, it was before the sorceress, too.”
“I know something about that. The Lion Cub of Cintra, huh? He’s the witcher destined to her. The famous white-haired witcher...”
Dandelion snorted. “The very same. O famous witcher. And the Lion Cub… little brat. That ballad has brought me nothing but troubles.”
“It is said that Cirilla, granddaughter of Calanthe, is dead,” Zoltan said slowly. “She was supposed to have died at the hands of Nilfgaard…”
“You might have guessed, by this point, that that is not the case. Destiny saw fit to make my ballad come true.”
“So, this is why you’re here.”
“Of course, what else? Ciri happens to be in Nilfgaard, or so we believe. It’s a desperate quest, Zoltan. Desperate.
Zoltan was quiet for a moment. “I would ask what keeps you here, Dandelion, but I think I have my answers now.”
Dandelion scoffed. “Please, don’t tell me what you have discovered about my character, this time. I really do not wish to hear it.”
“As you like. I think we’ve talked enough for tonight, anyway.”
Dandelion let out a mirthless chuckle, and turned on his side to face Zoltan. The dwarf brought a hand to Dandelion’s arm, and gently stroked the fabric of his quilted jacket with his thumb. “I understand now,” he said softly. “And I’m glad we’ve come across you. At this moment you are part of my company, and I will help you if I can.”
The poet’s lips curved in a tight smile, and because he wasn’t sure that Zoltan could see it he covered the dwarf’s hand with his own. They were quiet for a while.
"With all that’s happened to him,” Dandelion sighed, speaking more softly than before, so that he was almost whispering. “He thinks this is his path. To walk alone. Stupid lone wolf that he is. He thinks he’s failed his daughter, and he knows that Yennefer… He thinks that this is all on him. That’s idiotic, right?”
“Mh. It is.”
“It is! He's waiting for me to give up on this expedition. He wants to drop me off at the nearest town, and tell me to go home..."
"Mh. The nearest surviving town is… not near at all, I'd say."
"That's not the point. I won't leave his side."
They listened to the soft pattering of the rain. Zoltan removed his hand from Dandelion's grasp, only to grab his blanket and drape it more snugly around the poet. Dandelion melted in the warmth.
"Thank you for telling me this story, poet," Zoltan said, and his gentle voice was the last thing Dandelion heard before drifting off to sleep.
2.
“Is it such a secret who you are and what you’re planning to do?” Dandelion suddenly said, losing his temper. “Are we to keep the truth from everybody and pretend all of the time? Those dwarves… We’re all one company now…” Baptism of Fire, p. 89.
“What do you think? Is he going to kill the warbler?”
“He wouldn’t… right?” said Percival the gnome, turning to Zoltan. The leader of the company looked towards the trees where Geralt and Dandelion had disappeared, and said nothing.
“Don’t be stupid, Yazon," chimed in Caleb Stratton. "What do you think they’re doing in the trees? They’re fucking, I’m telling you.”
“Their faces didn’t look like the faces of two men about to fuck.”
“And what do you know? You're an expert on men?”
“Oh, shut up, all of you," Zoltan snapped. Field Marshal Windbag, sitting on his shoulder, screeched out a profanity, as if to underline the dwarf's words.
All of a sudden Dandelion emerged from the trees, somehow looking taller than usual. He walked straight to the cart, opened one of the bags of supplies, and grabbed the smelly salve that the women of Kernow had been using for blisters. Zoltan watched as the poet sat on the ground, took off his boots and began unwrapping the bandages around his feet.
The eyes of every member of Zoltan Chivay's company were trained on Dandelion; for a moment, they looked at him in a surprised silence.
“Well, he’s still alive,” said Yazon Varda.
"Doesn't seem to be very content, though," muttered Caleb.
“He left his lute here,” Percival noted matter-of-factly. “I’ll bring it to him. If it stays here, Caleb will roll over it in his sleep and break it.”
“Shut up, gnome.”
“Give it here,” Zoltan tsked, taking the lute from Percival’s hands, and exchanging it for his parrot. “I’ll go. And look the other way. Go back to playing cards, shoo.”
In the few days of travelling together, he’d never seen Dandelion looking so serious. He had a feeling that this icy frown was a rare expression on the poet’s face. He was scrubbing at his feet mechanically--it almost reminded Zoltan of the Field Marshal's thorough cleaning of his claws.
"Geralt's gone to the devil?" Zoltan asked. The troubadour didn't raise his eyes, merely shook his head.
"He's with Milva, then?"
Dandelion nodded curtly. With a swift movement of his fingers he wiped at his eye. Zoltan couldn't tell if what he saw was wetness, or just a shadow cast by the fire.
“The Witcher didn’t… hurt you, did he?”
That got Dandelion to look up. Zoltan winced when he met the poet's blue eyes, wide with surprise.
“ What ?” Dandelion said. “No--no." He cleared his throat. "Believe me, Zoltan. He would never, by the gods.”
“I believe you,” Zoltan sighed. “And I’m relieved. I prefer it when my first impression of somebody is accurate.”
With a heavy sigh, Dandelion rubbed his hand on his face. He sat limply, suddenly, as if all the anger had spirited out of him. “I can’t believe you’d think… no. There's nothing to say. End of story.”
Zoltan sat next to the poet, and wordlessly handed him his lute.
“Thank you,” said Dandelion.
“Forgive my forwardness, but you look like a man who just argued with his wife,” Zoltan said as lightheartedly as he could, and Dandelion laughed softly, a little nervously. “Whatever Geralt said to you, I’m afraid it’s my fault. I feel responsible for it, and I came to apologise, so that there can be no hard feelings between us."
Dandelion raised an eyebrow, and a small smile slowly warmed his face. “You’re a strange dwarf, Zoltan.”
“And you’re a strange poet; although, some would argue that all poets are strange.”
"Please, don't philosophize with me now, I'm not in the mood," Dandelion sighed again, and leaned into Zoltan, his head on the dwarf's shoulder.
"This is no sophistry, merely facts. Now put on your boots, before you misplace them."
Dandelion began to speak, but his retort died on his lips when Geralt walked out of the treeline with Milva. The Witcher noticed them sitting side by side, and stopped in his tracks for a moment. Stiffly, he turned his back on them, and limped towards the opposite side of their camp. Milva's eyes caught Dandelion's; she shrugged, and followed Geralt.
"He's a little dramatic, isn't he?"
"You don't understand," Dandelion said, and Zoltan was surprised by the tone of his voice. "He's in pain. There's nothing I can do for… for his knee. I'm not some sorceress who can fly over to Nilfgaard on a broom--" He snapped his mouth shut. Zoltan saw his jaw clench.
"What you're doing, only you can do." Zoltan chose his words carefully. He'd begun to understand what this meant for Dandelion. What he could provide for him. "Geralt will realise, one day, just how much that matters."
The dwarf saw Dandelion swallow two, three times, desperately holding back tears. He wouldn't cry. At that moment, Zoltan understood many more things about the poet. He reached out to tuck a strand of curly hair behind Dandelion's ear.
"You deserve a break, too. Why don't you come over with the lads, and play a round of cards? I'll tell Percival to let you win."
Dandelion snorted. He leaned his face into Zoltan's palm, and nodded.
"If I win, I'd like a new pair of boots."
***
Later that night, Zoltan saw Dandelion and Geralt sitting by the fire, their heads drawn together. He saw them talk softly, too softly. He thought he saw their fingers intertwine.
He smiled, and closed his eyes.
***
"Our friend's in a better mood this morning, mh? I thought I saw him smile."
"You mean Geralt? Eh. It will pass," Dandelion shrugged. He patted Pegasus' nose, and the horse snorted softly, happy to be eating his oat. The poet gave Zoltan a quiet, private smirk.
"Hurry up, you two," Milva called, already mounted on her black horse.
"Right away!" Zoltan replied, and gave Dandelion an amicable slap on the ass.
"Rrrrwwaaa!" Croaked the parrot.
3.
“We’re going to Nilfgaard…” Dandelion said, leaning against the dwarf to keep his balance, which turned out to be a bad idea. “Which is a secret, just like I told you. It’s a secret mission!” Baptism of Fire, p. 137.
"What a fascinating story," said the barber-surgeon Emiel Regis, resting his chin on his hand. Dandelion blinked and looked up from Zoltan's shoulder towards the thin man. He smacked his lips together; his sight was slightly blurred.
"I lived in Cintra for some time," Zoltan hiccuped. "The window of my little attic looked onto a square; I remember songs…"
"Maybe you heard me singing," the poet grinned. He could see in his mind's eye the streets of the city.
"...It was very annoying," continued the dwarf. "Woke me up, every morning."
"Then it wasn't me. I don't perform in the mornings."
Zoltan nodded. "I thought so," he mumbled, then hawked to clear his throat. "One went like this. Ta-ra-ri-ra zam zam… "
Dandelion had appreciated the company of many dwarves throughout his travels, and he'd heard many of them sing, in a range that went from the richest bass to a nasal tenor. Zoltan's humming, even slurred by alcohol as it was, sounded soft to his ears.
" If you happen to travel-a
To the islands of Skellige
You'll find it quite surprising-a
This hairy man's a bear! "
Dandelion coughed, and the dwarf slapped his back with a hearty laugh. "That's not one of mine," the bard cleared his throat. "Pass me the cup. I need to wet my tongue, if we are going to be singing."
"I'm afraid the cup has been misplaced," said the voice of Regis.
"What? What do you mean? Zoltan, where is your gnome?"
Zoltan shrugged, glancing towards Geralt and Milva. "Everybody is asleep."
"Boo," Dandelion sniffled, a pout forming on his reddened face. "Boring. I refuse to sleep before I've been kissed. That is the rule of partying… What's a party without kisses? Like… What was it… Ah, yes, incomplete happiness…"
"And who would you kiss?" Zoltan snickered.
Dandelion stared at him, confused. "You."
"Yes?"
"You," Dandelion shrugged. His finger drew circles on Zoltan's shoulder. "I've wanted to kiss you… for a whiiiile ," he sang.
"Thanks. I value honesty."
"I believe in honesty. And in sex on the first date," Dandelion drawled.
Zoltan tsked. "I thought you were more gallant than that. A lover must be courted. Why, you'll go far if you take your sweet time with a dwarf."
"Courted ? You're old fashioned..."
"And you're supposed to be the poet here. What happened to romanticism? Eh?"
"Friend," Dandelion touched Zoltan's chest, looking deadly serious. "I have graduated with full honors at the Academy of Oxenfurt. I know what I'm talking about. Poetry is... bullshit. Would you like to know something? Something secret? A poet never writes his true feelings. That's simply unprofessional... There is reality, and there is Truth, and the latter is what a poet must aspire to. Get it?"
"I get it. You're full of shit."
"You don't get it." Dandelion hiccuped, and turned around this way and that. "Where is Regis? I'm not done with my story!"
"Yes, you are."
"You think so? What was I saying? Oh, screw him, I need to take a piss."
Dandelion attempted to stand up and wobbly made his way towards the door, reaching for a door knob before remembering the curtain that adorned the entrance of the hut.
"Don't fall over," Zoltan called behind him, amused, and the motion of swatting in his general direction nearly had Dandelion tripping on the threshold.
The fresh air of the night slowly but surely hit his heated skin like a shock. In a way, it reminded him of being near Yennefer as she cast spells. Once the notion presented itself in his mind, he looked around, as if she might be standing in the vicinity, raven locks swaying in the breeze.
Where are you, Yennefer? He looked up at the circular moon. She might be sitting on that white, flat disc for all he knew, munching on cheese. The sorceress on the moon. Interesting topic for a ballad.
Perhaps for when this is all over , he mused, captivated by the stars glittering above the old elven cemetery. Don't mention Yennefer in front of Geralt, unless you want to be stricken by lightning.
Like earlier . He grimaced, and felt a little guilty. The guilt twisted with frustration and something else, something that took his breath away--oh, why was he even standing out there, shivering in the cold, anyway? He turned and headed back to the warm light of the hut.
And bumped into Zoltan in the doorway.
"What, got lost?" he squawked. Zoltan grabbed his waist to stop him from falling.
"No, that's you. Thought you got lost. Or drowned. Or lost your head in the clouds."
"There are no clouds, the sky is quite clear. Look!"
"Quiet now, you'll wake up the horses."
For the second time that night, Dandelion leaned on the dwarf, expecting to find a solid support. Zoltan, it seemed, also expected himself to be able to carry Dandelion's weight. The floor of the hut, being made of terrain, prevented them from making a ruckus as they stumbled their way back inside.
"Oh, my head. I wonder if there's any horseradish left."
"Mmm," Dandelion hummed, looking as Zoltan bent to pick one of the strange-looking roots on the ground. The dwarf took it to his mouth. Dandelion blinked.
"Wait! Not that! Mandrake!" Alarmed, he jumped on Zoltan to stop him, making them both topple over.
"Wha-?"
"Not horseradish!" He clamped his hand over Zoltan's mouth. The dwarf's beard rustled against his palm. "No eat."
Suddenly, something hit him. Hard. Like a Fury striking her blade into her enemy's skull--or so he would later claim. "Ow! What the hell!"
"Shut up. Go to sleep," Milva grumbled viciously from the opposite side of the room.. Dandelion rubbed at his head, and in a daze he saw her boot on the ground next to him.
"Damn… Alright… What the hell…"
"Poet, you're crushing me."
"Oh, sorry," Dandelion said, but made no attempt to disentangle his legs from the dwarf's. He scooted Milva's boot away from them with the tips of his fingers, then he yawned, and stretched like a cat. Zoltan snorted. He tried to pinch the bard's sides, but he only managed to untuck the shirt from his trousers.
"Shall I sing?" Dandelion smiled sleepily. " The stars above the Path… "
Zoltan's fingers crawled inside his shirt, touching his skin. "I don't know that song."
"You don't? Everybody knows it. Atop the fields rises Pisces ..."
"It'll be light out soon," Zoltan murmured, suddenly sounding sober. The poet closed his mouth. "Milva is right. We'll have to be on the road early if we want to reach the Chotla--"
Dandelion grabbed his face, and leaned in, pressing his lips against Zoltan's. It was a long, close-mouthed kiss, and when they pulled apart with a soft smack, Zoltan continued:
"...before the refugees have moved along. Or before Nilfgaard gets to them. We desperately need news from the front lines."
He looked at Dandelion, then, and his eyes softened. He pulled him in for another kiss. His hand found a path underneath Dandelion's shirt, along his spine, and the poet squirmed in his arms.
***
Zoltan found himself with his back pressed against the mandrake roots, and he breathed out a laugh at the sensation. Dandelion's leg was between his own; his long hair was everywhere. They kissed, and whispered, and laughed until the darkness began to lift outside the hut, but Zoltan couldn't remember why that was important anymore.
4.
‘Dandelion, alive and kicking, even if your skull’s bandaged! And what do you have to say, you bloody busker, about this melodramatic banality? Life, it turns out, isn’t poetry! And do you know why? Because it’s so resistant to criticism!’ Baptism of Fire, p. 309.
“There you are!” Dandelion called as he approached the Witcher. “I watched you fighting, but then I couldn’t see you anymore… Ah, I think Queen Meve of Lyria just walked past me. Damn it, if somebody had told me any of this would happen a month ago, I would have called them insane.”
Geralt tore his eyes away from the swirling waters of the Yaruga, and looked at Dandelion. “It was the Queen. Minus her teeth. She knighted me.”
“She what?”
“She knighted me.” He paused. “Geralt of Rivia.”
Dandelion stared at him with his mouth agape. A fit of helpless giggles hit them both, hysterical with relief, and they doubled over themselves with laughter until Geralt hissed in pain, one hand clutching his lower back and the other wiping a tear from his eye.
“It’s just a bump. That’s what the surgeon said,” Geralt answered the wordless question in Dandelion’s eyes. “Speaking of surgeons...”
“Milva is fine. Regis did a good job--well, from what I can tell--but we were lucky to fall into the good graces of this camp. She’s being taken care of.” The poet gazed towards the Lyrian standards. He could have sworn that the wind was howling a mere few minutes ago, but everything seemed still now.
The Witcher’s hand gently grazed at Dandelion’s temple, where the arrow had torne his flesh a few days before. He turned to look at Geralt. His bandage had come off sometime during the events of the day. Dandelion knew, because Regis had told him, that the cut above his ear was gradually starting to look less angry-red and bone-white, and more like a proper scar.
Dandelion said nothing, and Geralt remained silent as well. He tried to shrug on his scabbard around his back, wincing at the pain. Dandelion reached out, offering his help, and Geralt acquiesced with a worn sigh.
“Confusion to the whoresons …” Dandelion muttered with a small smile, sliding his fingers along the dwarven Sihil. He began to walk towards the red lozenges, and Geralt followed.
“Zoltan and the others would have come in handy today. They would have fought like furies to protect Milva.”
“Do you regret it?” Geralt asked. Dandelion gave him a puzzled look. “Separating from the dwarves.”
“No,” Dandelion said, almost flippantly. “It was meant to be.” He thought of Zoltan’s kind eyes, holding only a tinge of regret and apprehension as they said their goodbyes. No superfluous words were needed between them; Dandelion had an unwavering faith in his good fortune, and, since very recently, in one Zoltan Chivay. It was meant to be.
“You could have gone with them,” Geralt said, looking at his feet.
“To Mahakam?”
“Anywhere. Not here.”
Dandelion rolled his eyes. “Don’t start pouting, Witcher; I warn you. Look, Milva is over there, and Regis. Try to look like someone who performed spectacular actions in a battlefield today, mh? O Sir Geralt of Rivia.”