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The cells beneath this particular fuckhead kings castle were six levels deep, cold, dark, and guarded by some of the most sadistic bastards on the continent. All in all, not the place Vesemir particularly wanted to die after everything he had survived so far. Still, despite the undeniable relief he felt at seeing his oldest pup outside his cell door, sword in hand and dead guard at his feet, he felt it necessary to put up at least a token protest on principle.
“You shouldn’t have come for me boy. It wasn’t worth the risk.”
Geralt stared back at him, face somewhere between surprised and embarrassed, “Vesemir? I… actually didn’t know you were here.”
The older Witcher frowned; true there was no logical way Geralt could have learned of his capture two weeks past in order to come for him, unless the Kingdom itself had notified the other Witcher’s, which was unlikely enough to be laughable. Yet here Geralt was. “Then how…why?”
“Geralt,” a far too cheerful voice for this bleak place trilled out. A voice Vesemir had become very familiar with this last day and a half, since the newest prisoner was thrown into the cell across from his own, “you came!”
Vesemir was confident from the way Geralt’s shoulders hunched inwards that his glare of disapproval was as effective now as it ever had been.
…
Prison breaks are not a good time for meaningful conversation so he waited until they were under clear skies and half a day away before he said anything.
“A noble. A noble Geralt! You risk your neck to save a fucking noble?”
Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove as he so frequently reminded the guards, playing on his status to scare them out of getting too rough. Promising his father's retribution upon the Lord learning of the transgression of his son’s imprisonment.
The Viscount himself was back at their campsite preparing the rabbits Vesemir and Geralt had hunted to be cooked. Vesemir was wondering if he should catch another one, confident that the foolish man was going to make a damned mess of the task.
“Saved you too,” Geralt muttered defensively.
“That bit of dumb luck is not the fucking point.”
“He’s, my friend.”
The glare was just as strong but Geralt didn’t wilt this time, instead meeting his gaze head on.
The older Witcher growled angrily, “Those people don’t have friends. They have tools.” Had he taught this boy nothing?
“He’s not like that.”
“He’s a noble.”
“He’s been disowned.”
Vesemir snorted. So, the man’s threats in the prison had been all bluff and bluster then.
“Then he’s a failed fucking noble, latching onto you for protection since his Lord father has retracted his.”
“No.”
“You just risked your life breaking him out of a prison cell.”
“He would do the same for me.”
The pity and disgust Vesemir felt in that moment was overwhelming. He shook his head in dismay. “You soft fool.”
…
Meanwhile in an alternate timeline.
“This way Milord. A real treat for you. You’ll get your monies worth alright.”
“Oh, I do hope so. Real Witcher’s you say? You’re certain they’re genuine?”
“Real as you or me.”
Two figures stopped outside the cell door. Vesemir didn’t give them the satisfaction of looking up; refusing to make himself an entertaining show for this pompous bastard to gawk at.
Being imprisoned here was bad enough.
Having his eldest pup thrown in with him three days ago was worse. He could still hear the echo of the guard’s voice sneering, ‘toss him in with the other one’. Could still smell the scent of his boy’s fresh spilled blood as his heavily beaten figure was roughly dumped into the cell.
Being treated as an exhibit for spoilt nobles in his final days was an indignity too far. He was meant to die in battle, fighting as a Witcher. Not here in this sad dump.
On the other side of the cell Geralt shifted, glancing up through his matted fringe.
“My goodness,” the noble gasped “That is a frightful sight, isn’t it? Positively beastly.”
“More monsters than men,” the guard agreed, clearly enjoying his role as macabre tour guide.
“My nursemaid positively terrorised me with tales of Witcher’s when I was a child,” the noble confided. “Had me convinced that at the slightest transgression one would appear out of nowhere to drag me off. ‘Behave yourself Julian’ she would warn. ‘Else the Witcher will have you’.”
The two laughed uproariously and Vesemir fought back a snarl. ‘This Witcher will have you’ he thought angrily. ‘Have you impaled on a spit and cooked rare in all your finery.’
Outwardly he stayed silent. ‘Don’t give them an inch.’
“Both have white hair,” the nobleman noted with delight. “Now which do you suppose the songs are about? Don’t tell me, don’t tell me. It’s this one.” He pointed to Vesemir. Across the cell Geralt let out a snort. “Surely this one is the White Wolf.”
The guard shook his head, chuckling. “Nope. The other one.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes milord.”
“Well imagine that. This scruffy mess, the famous White Wolf.”
“Not so impressive now, is he?”
Vesemir almost snarled out loud this time; outrage for his son, greater than any anger he had for his own situation. Geralt deserved better than this shit.
“I really must thank you,” the nobleman declared, flicking a gold piece into the air for the guard, “For letting me in here to see them. A most exhilarating experience. Well worth the cost. I am sorely in your debt my fine fellow.”
The guard grinned with delight, preening at the praise.
So distracted was he, catching the gold coin, he didn’t notice the way the noble’s other hand was behind his back, passing a dagger and set of lockpicks through the bars to Geralt. The pup didn’t seem at all surprised by this turn of events. Vesemir for his part was wondering if he was hallucinating this whole thing, because surely a nobleman wasn’t here helping break two Witcher’s out of a dungeon?
…
Prison breaks are not a good time for meaningful conversations. Yet here the pair were, bickering like children as they scrambled to escape.
“Three days,” Geralt snarled.
“Well excuse me. I can’t work miracles you know? I had to find a nobleman the same size as me, steal his clothes, and find a guard willing to take me down into the dungeon to see you. These things take time Geralt.”
“And when you were stealing this nobleman’s clothes did you or did you not stop to fuck his wife?”
“Can you think of a better way to get access to a man’s wardrobe?” the man, (noble? Not noble? Vesemir wasn’t sure at this point) challenged haughtily.
“So, whilst I was rotting in a cell you were playing hide the weasel with some dolled-up noblewoman.”
“Where do you get these atrocious euphemisms of yours? Does anyone else on the continent call it that? Anyone at all?”
Geralt growled, killing the next guard and leading them up the staircase to the next level.
“Anyhow, are we forgetting the part where I saved you Geralt? You and your friend here.”
“After three days.”
“Yes, three days. More than two. Less than four. And here we are on our way to freedom. Typically, when someone saves you, the correct response is ‘Thank you.” the man scolded. “Whoever raised you did a piss poor job of teaching you proper manners.”
Geralt snorted.
Vesemir smirked. “That would be me.”
The man spun on him, not missing a beat as they all three cut through the next wave of guards. “That checks out. Since you haven’t bloody well thanked me either!”