Chapter Text
Geralt always thought that the urgency of one’s duties were impalpable in the early morn, for it was still intertwined with the night.
He tried his best to savor the quiet, bleary easiness that came with lonesome work. To rise before anyone else was imperative, of course; for he was his Lord’s most battle-hardened knight and in charge of assessing the squires. In times of peace, however, one might frequently find him tending to the royal army’s stables — which his Lord’s advisor initially declined by imploring that “a man of his rank needn’t shovel horse shit” — but by the end of their dispute, Geralt was granted his occasional retreat.
Being a habitual man he could also sense when there was something on its way to disrupt his carefully constructed routine.
Geralt’s shoulders tensed when the gentle whinnying was suddenly drowned out by increasingly urgent footsteps. The empty courtyard merrily echoed the click, click, click of this person’s heels as if to rouse each and every bird from its slumber; and so a frenzied orchestra of chirps erupted from the trees, signaling an end to Geralt’s relaxation. He, perhaps stubbornly so, continued to comb through the horse's thick mane with gentle strokes. Roach, the mare, (which he considered to be an old friend of his) released a happy, heartfelt sigh.
“Sir Geralt! May the Gods give you good morrow. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. May I be so bold and ask what you are doing here, at dusk? Surely, the stable boys could relieve you of such undignified labor?”
The interloper was met with silence.
It prompted a hearty laughter.
“You must forgive me! I did not mean to speak ill of your preoccupation, oh no, quite the opposite even. My— You must think I’m boorish now. Let me assure you, that is most certainly not the case! I am extremely personable; but… I guess you already figured that out by witnessing my splendid manners! Yes?”
Still, no response.
“Sir Geralt, I must say, I believe your stoicism to be most endearing! The way you just, ahem, stand there and brood. That in itself radiates knighthood. Hah! Worry not; my father has prepared me well for this encounter. I know better than to stir your fury.”
“The squires do not assemble before noon. Scram, boy, or I’ll have you booted.”
“But, with all due respect; I am anything but a squire.”
Geralt briefly paused. Had he misidentified the juvenile voice? Who else but a pupil would seek him out? He peered over his shoulder to examine the mysterious man and — damned be his blasted luck. He’d never seen him in the flesh since he was sheltered like a bird and preserved like a painting; but… no, it was undoubtedly him. The King’s son, in all his glory. He’s heard many a rumor regarding the “kingdom’s darling boy”. A pampered, clean-cut man who rarely left the castle and only if needed. Julian wore, distinctly unfazed by Geralt’s icy demeanor, a saccharine smile that could make even the sun blush.
The knight instinctively adopted a more compliant demeanor which had been forced on to him after years and years of serving the royal court and its cantankerous residents.
His frown, however, never faltered.
“How may I be of service, your Highness?”, Geralt inquired wearily as he turned himself around.
Julian inched closer towards the other man as if to test his patience. His fur-coat and satchel gently swayed along with his steps. “What strange color your eyes have! They strike me as somewhat familiar… —Ah! Why, of course. Same as Sir Vesemir’s; that gilden glare. My father’s mentioned it afore. To have a trait which is unique to your family must be a great source of pride, no?” The Prince seemingly reveled in the knight’s caution. His lips stretched into a cunning grin. “Hah! Do I bore the good Sir with my chatter? Fret not, I bear no cruel revelations. Will you humor me and take a guess as to what brings me here?”
“Does his Majesty the King wish to summon me?”, Geralt offered with thinly veiled annoyance.
Julian theatrically shook his head. The crease between Geralt’s eyebrows deepened. Rarely was he met with such childish whims, but he found it unwise to bicker with someone who could have him rot in a dungeon cell. “You sought me out on your own accord, per chance?”, he pressed on, rather sharply.
To that the Crown Prince clasped his bejeweled hands together. “Yes, Sir Geralt! That is, indeed, the case.” He then quickly stuffed them back into the depths of his coat before the crisp winter air could prick at his skin. “I came before you ever so humbly to request a fragment of your time. We — the King and I, but also this entire country — are gravely indebted to you and your lineage, for the knights of Kaer Morhen have bravely fought in so many of our wars. And, well...” He smugly produced an expensive-looking leather-bound notebook from his satchel. “Despite my regal upbringing, I happen to be a bit of a poet. Now, Sir Geralt, you might be wondering how I managed to foster such creative inclinations, yonder a ways from the strains and tribulations that a commoner may encounter — which, of course, infuse the art of poiesis with its very lifeblood: emotivity and truthfulness.” Geralt rolled his eyes in a quite obvious fashion. “I must admit that my well of inspiration is currently under, ahem, a sort of drought. Hence, I’ve come to you. What occurs on a battlefield fascinates me so. I wish to be your scribe, Sir Geralt, to retell your grandiose tales, embellishing your legacy for years and years to come!”
The courtyard fell silent once more, only the horses shook and shuddered under a chilling breeze. Julian was scanning the knight’s face for signs of approval and found none. It bewildered him.
“I suggest, you go to war and find out for yourself… respectfully.”
The Prince visibly fluctuated between sheer disbelief and outrage. “That is—“
“You come across as rather ill-equipped for the outside world.”
And with that, Geralt calmly resumed to groom his horse.
Julian’s eyebrows twitched. In his birdcage, no one dared to speak harshly (or earnestly, for that matter). “That is…! That is unnecessary, insulting and, above all, untrue! I leave my castle all the time!“, the Prince retorted. “So long as the opportunity arises...” He cleared his throat. “Do you not care for romance, Sir Geralt? For poetry, the fine arts?”
And for the entirety of Julian’s pleas, the tall, silver-haired man did his darnedest to mimic a wall. He remained silent until the Prince’s willpower ran out of steam and his lips fell shut. In Julian’s 25 years of age, not a single person has ever ignored him so whole-heartedly. None could afford to. It was, as if his god-given pedestal was vanishing into thin air… and yet, the idea of something (or rather someone) being out of reach was perplexing enough to inspire a new wave of deliberate persistence.
Julian grumpily embarked on his way back home, clutching his notebook with a grip far tighter than needed.
The knight’s living quarters were humble, safe for a few personal items he willfully clung to — such as various letters (not the ferocious ones) from his bygone lover Lady Yennefer, a painting of him and his brothers which hardly resembled either one of them and was simply kept for his own amusement as well as a a series of swords that have all surpassed their life expectancy but were gifts of sentimental nature. He was granted fiefdom early on in his career but chose not to live in his Lord’s mansion for several reasons; one of them being his resentment towards nobility and etiquette. A small, timber-framed house in the outskirts of town suited his needs far more efficiently than any castle could.
Geralt preferred seeing serfs over nobles any day — which Julian was blissfully unaware of, because he began hammering at his door the very moment Geralt has sat himself down to evaluate a weaponry report. He buried his face in his hands when the Prince’s voice rang muffled through the door.
“Sir Geralt! Are you at home? I’ve come to see you! Make haste and let me in! You will be pleased to learn that I’ve chosen to pardon yester day’s lampoon. Let’s make merry and be friends!”
Shuffling could be heard as the Prince rushed to a nearby window to peer into the knight’s workshop. He exclaimed a victorious “Aha!” when he spotted Geralt, who attempted to flee into the living room. He knew of his defeat as soon as he locked eyes with his harasser. Julian did not seem to mind his apparent disdain and shuffled all the way back to the front door where he would patiently wait for it to open. And open it did, because Geralt was conditioned against disobeying orders from a higher authority… but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t at least strongly consider it.
When they stood face to face, both men were somewhat taken aback by their difference in height. Granted, they’d seen each other just the other day, but from a considerable distance nonetheless. Julian was not short by any means but Geralt still managed to tower over him, somehow. The Prince poorly hid his flusteredness when he lifted his head to look at him.
“I’ve— Uhm, I’ve come to see you.”, he repeated for no other reason than to work through his flaring up timidity. “I will have you know that I do not intent on giving up so easily. And, as you can see, I am very much capable of venturing outside of the restraints of my castle — which is something I should, admittedly, do more often. I even visited the farmer's market!” The praise he anticipated did not follow so he swiftly moved on. “My writing may seem to you as a boyish past-time, but I greatly care for it and I do believe that my sensibility towards worldly pleasures will make me a better ruler some day.”
Geralt actually seemed to ponder this for a moment. “How do you know where I live?”, he interjected.
Julian smirked at him with newfound confidence. “Your Lord and I hunt game together. He fiercely supports our companionship. Come on! Wouldn’t it be nice to be on good terms with me? To always have a seat at my banquets? Sir Geralt, my banquets are all the rage! Well, rest assured: I’ve set my mind on bugging you to my heart’s content and there is nothing you can do to stop me!”
But there was actually one thing he could do — which was slamming the door shut. Geralt wagered, he could stomach two days in jail for offending his royal pestilence. Anything was preferable over having to withstand these long, uninterrupted streams of consciousness.
Julian, now thoroughly agitated, contemplated violence (probably for the first time, ever) but was forced to acknowledge, that it would bring dishonor of catastrophic proportions over the Crown if a serf were to catch him clawing at someone’s door like a feral cat. His Highness, rather wisely, decided that he should retreat for now. Ultimately, this hardwood barrier did very little to discourage him.