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There were so many bright and brilliant things in the world, and as a troubadour, it was Dandelion’s job to find them. Usually all they could see was colour and beauty and magic. It was their bread and butter after all. What good was a poet that just talked of misery? In a world wracked with war, the people didn’t pay to see a bard perform songs of death and destruction. They wanted love, romance, and life. It all made perfect sense to Dandelion, and usually they didn’t have a problem in providing their audience with exquisite songs, poems and play. They could write masterpieces in their sleep.
Which was bloody good luck, because all they wanted to do was sleep.
At first they thought they were coming down with something, which was unusual but not impossible. Travelling with Geralt since they were eighteen had done wonders for their immune system, all that fresh air and exercise probably. Of course, at the age of fifty, they had started to slow down, and they couldn’t spend quite as many days on the road as they used to. Most of the time they stayed at Oxenfurt, occasionally leaving the city to run jobs for Dijkstra, but the last time the spymaster had called on them, Dandelion hissed at the poor errand girl and sent her on her way.
It hadn’t even been that early, but Dandelion hadn’t been able to drag themself out of bed. That was a task that was growing more and more challenging by the day. Every time someone came into their room, calling them Master Dandelion, or referring to them as ‘he’ or ‘him’ or ‘good sir’ it was like their life was being sapped from their soul. Not that they had noticed that at the beginning either. All it had been at first was mild irritation, slight frustration, nothing a good heavy sigh couldn’t fix.
But as the days, months, years had gone past, their colleagues still couldn’t get it right. Dandelion had tried everything and anything, bar cutting off their precious golden curls. That was one thing they refused to sacrifice for the off chance that someone might not misgender them. Now every time some referred to them wrong, it really fucking hurt. The disrespect was unbelievable, and it had gotten to the point where Dandelion just didn’t want to leave their chambers.
At least if they were alone then no one could invalidate their existence by being a shit-faced troll cocksucker.
That was what they told themself to fight the crippling loneliness that now resided in their heart. They miss Geralt. They miss travelling. They missed the sun on their face and the breeze running through their hair. The world that had once been so bright and beautiful, now felt grey. All they could see were the scars that the war had left on the Continent. When they did, on occasion stumble into the streets below, it wasn’t the music they heard, it was the cries of the sick and poor.
Because it turned out, there were even more dark and depressing things in the world. Once one’s eyes had been opened to the truth, beauty and colour became harder and harder to see.
Dandelion sighed, pulling the covers over their head to block out the light. Really they had meant to get up that morning, but it was too late now. They’d already missed their morning lecture, so it wasn’t like anyone was expecting them anywhere. The day would pass just like the one before, dull and empty, leaving Dandelion feeling like a worthless pile of crap.
Dandelion sighed again. What they wouldn’t give to see Geralt. It had been so long since they’d had a hug, and once Geralt removed all that armour, he really was quite cuddly. That would probably do wonders for Dandelion’s moods, but alas…
They would just have to try again tomorrow.