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Dandelion screamed.
It was the sort of scream that tore through Geralt, making his blood run cold. Instantly his silver sword was in his hand and he was running through the empty sterile walls of Lettenhove castle. He hated the place, but after a particularly nasty run in with a griffin, he’d needed somewhere to stay long-term to recover, and Dandelion had suggested his childhood home.
Because apparently Geralt’s best friend was secretly a Viscount and had never thought to mention it.
None of that mattered though, not when Dandelion was in trouble. Geralt couldn’t reach the poet’s room fast enough, getting lost in the halls and having to rely on his witcher senses to track Dandelion’s lavender scent, soured by misery.
“No! Oh no, no, no!” Dandelion whined as Geralt burst through the door, his sword raised and ready to strike.
The scene in front of him was nothing like what he’d expected. There were no monsters or guards or bandits holding his flower captive. There was no crimson blood streaking across the floor, painting Dandelion’s pale skin red as the life drained from his lungs. There were no torn up doublets or broken lute strings.
Instead, it was a perfectly normal sight. Sun streaked through the windows, bathing the room in a glowing golden light, and Dandelion was sitting at his dresser, the gilded mirror shimmering and beautiful. The ivory brush in his long lutist fingers clattered to the floor and he whined pitifully, staring forlornly into the mirror with sad eyes.
“Dandelion?”
“Oh, Geralt, thank the gods!” Dandelion cried as he spun around to face Geralt, tears streaking down his cheeks. “The most terrible thing has happened!”
Geralt raised an eyebrow as he sheathed his sword, crossing his arms in front of his chest whilst he waited for the poet to explain what was quite so terrible. He cocked his head, eyes roaming over his friend but nothing seemed out of sorts.
Until Dandelion tucked a lock of golden hair behind his ear to reveal a striking red curl, brighter than anything Geralt had ever seen.
“Huh.”
“Oh don’t just ‘huh’ at me, witcher. I’ve been cursed! Do something!” The poet flailed his arms in the air and then sighed, pouting back at his reflection and steadfastly refusing to meet Geralt’s gaze in the mirror.
“Umm…” Geralt fumbled as he tried to work out how the fuck he was going to break the curse, if it even was a curse. The bard seemed fine, except for the strange colours and there was no obvious magic in the room - Geralt’s medallion lay still upon his chest. “What happened?”
The poet huffed, elegantly bending over to pick up the abandoned hairbrush, extravagantly decorated with flowers and gold leaf. He winced as he gently stroked the brush through a golden lock of hair, and Geralt’s eyes widened as he saw the strands turn a vibrant orange wherever the bristles touched.
The brush was turning Dandelion’s hair into a rainbow.
And the poet was devastated. His hair was his pride and joy outside of his music and writing but Geralt… well, he thought it looked pretty. It wasn’t practical for life on the road, the bright colours attracting all sorts of nefarious monsters, but Dandelion’s doublets were bright enough on their own for that, and for now they were trapped at Lettenhove.
“I like it,” he admitted.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I like it. It’s colourful… like you.”
“Oh.”
Geralt reached his hand out for the brush, a faint smile on his lips. “Let me.”
The poet still pouted as Geralt combed out the rest of the curls. With every stroke of the brush, Dandelion’s hair slowly turned into a shining rainbow, vibrant and sparkling just like the poet. Gradually, Dandelion’s pout began to melt into a brilliant smile. Geralt had been right, the rainbow hair suited the poet perfectly, and he seemed to grow in confidence the more he looked at his reflection. It probably wouldn’t be permanent but it was beautiful.
Dandelion was beautiful.
His best friend, his poet… his flower.