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"I'm begging you, goddammit, Geralt, I'm on my knees" he actually knelt down and clasped his hands together in front of him. "You are perfectly aware of the fact that no one else will do this for me, and I'll look like a complete idiot without my beloved."
"Oh, meanwhile, I fishing you out of the cask will look really sane." Geralt first threw his arms up to support the urgency of his words, then took an angry swig of his beer and continued. "It's not my fault you've gotten yourself into something again, so stop pretending it's my problem too."
"I didn't get myself into anything, I won!" Marigold was already shouting more loudly than everyone in the whole tavern combined by this point, and seeing that kneeling on the sticky floor wasn't helping anything, he sat back, but for a change grabbed Geralt's forearm to get his full attention.
"Yeah, you won, but did you not find it strange at all that you were the only man in a room full of women? You're gonna drive me insane one day, Marigold, I swear." Geralt shook off his hands and gripped the back of his own head instead.
"It was a poetry contest, I just figured Toussaint didn't have any good male poets," Marigold explained, shrugging.
"And you didn't even care what the main prize was," Geralt continued sarcastically, his hands still on his head.
"All I knew was— that it was a huge honour and it was connected with the wine harvest celebrations, which Countess Anna Henrietta would be attending, and that was enough for me. Women and wine, Geralt!" he carefully emphasized each syllable. "And most of all, I simply wanted to win too, as you can probably imagine. I think you know me well enough for that by now," Marigold defended himself poorly.
Geralt just shook his head and grumbled under his beard, thinking that this was really typical Marigold behaviour and if this is really something he has to go through every couple of weeks. Before he could give a proper answer, Yarpen Zigrin appeared at the table with an overflowing pint of beer.
"What are you two bastards doing around here, drinking again?" he asked cheerfully, setting his beer down on the table so he could pat them both on the back in a friendly gesture.
"I'm just trying to explain to Marigold that he doesn't have a head just for the looks, but he could use it to think sometimes, too," Geralt clarified eagerly, and Yarpen just nodded in understanding.
"Good to see you Yarpen, are you travelling on business?" Geralt greeted the dwarf amiably, ignoring the troubadour's protests.
"Hey!" shouted Marigold, swinging the hand in which he held his beer and spilling it on the table. "Don't you two talk like I'm not here! My head happens to serve me well! I'm the best poet in Toussaint! I've even got it in writing, just look at it!" he fumbled in his pockets for a moment before he fished out a rolled-up leather-bound document with the Countess's seal on it.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me! Tell me you entered that fucking Lady Anne contest and actually fucking won it! Fuck me. I'll be back tomorrow, happily, to see you making a fool of yourself in front of the whole county. And I'll take the boys too, they'll piss themselves laughing." Yarpen laughed in disbelief.
Marigold stood with her arms crossed, glaring at Yarpen. "I don't know what's so funny! It's an important tradition maintained for centuries!"
Yarpen leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief. “You may be right, but it is not for nought that the festival has always been called 'grape treading by maiden feet,'"
Marigold sighed, looking defeated. "My God, I'm really an idiot," he finally admitted.
"And I'll drink to that!" Yarpen gestured to the tavern keeper and showed him three fingers. The keeper promptly sent a girl to their table with shots, which they all immediately drank - Marigold somewhat resignedly and the other two with gusto.
"What on earth were you thinking?" laughed Yarpen heartily, holding his belly. "Everybody who's ever set foot in Toussaint must have heard about the harvest festival!"
"Well, I guess I'm the only one who doesn't know!" Marigold fumed again. He knew Toussaint wine, of course, but all he needed to know about it was that there was always a full carafe on his table. The next thing he was interested in was the local countess, and he knew everything about her.
"I've never heard of grapes being trodden by a man before,” continued Yarpen. “The prettiest girls in the area and the winner of the poetry contest - our Marigold. I bet the judges gave you the first place intentionally for the sake of the fun they're going to see tomorrow."
"Well, I strongly disagree, “ Marigold protested. “I was by far the best, those girls were no match for me!"
Yarpen raised an eyebrow and gestured for another round. "And you, Geralt, couldn't you have warned him about the crazy shit he's getting into? Or did you want him to get his ass kicked?"
Geralt shrugged. "I was busy with a contract at the time, fighting off a leshy attack. And besides, I'm not his babysitter to watch his every step," he calmly washed down his shot with a beer, pretending that the whole thing didn't even remotely concern him.
Marigold interjected, trying to defend himself. "So, we've clarified everything nicely. Tomorrow, I'll be the first man in history to tread grapes with the prettiest girls in the county. But that does not alter the fact that I consider it an honour to participate in this noble custom with the Countess." He took a deep breath, trying to convince himself more than anyone else.
Yarpen looked sceptical. "Oh, you must be thinking you're gonna get in her pants by doing that! The Countess! Come on, Marigold."
"So what! She already knows I'm a great poet! Tomorrow I'll show her my irresistible charm, and to top it off I'll prove to her that my manhood isn't so fragile that it could be threatened by doing something typically feminine!" Marigold tried to stand his ground.
Geralt rolled his eyes. "Marigold, just stop talking."
Yarpen burst out laughing. "I’m gonna piss my pants! Are you gonna be wearing a see-through nightie, showing off your manhood? You'll have all the women in the neighbourhood, not just Anna, chasing after you!" He slammed his palm on the table, amused.
"Just laugh, Yarpen. We'll see tomorrow!" said Marigold with an annoyed pout, but in his head, he wondered what kind of nightdress the dwarf was referring to. "But that brings me back to my favour, Geralt. All those girls will eventually be pulled out of the casks by their beloveds. It's part of the tradition. Would you do that for me? I have no one else to turn to. Pretty please. I swear I'll never ask you for anything again for the rest of my life. I can't be the only one stuck there when everyone in the whole county comes to see the performance!" Marigold was trying to put on the sweetest face he could, giving Geralt puppy eyes. On top of that, he ordered another round of liquor.
“You wish! Am I your fucking beloved or something? Seriously, forget about it, what would people say? Witcher, carrying a half-naked poet in his arms...I wouldn't be able to get a single job in this county ever again!" Geralt folded his arms on his chest dismissively.
Marigold looked confused. "What do you mean by 'half-"
Yarpen interrupted, "Come on, Geralt, but you must. Just for the fun of it. Marigold's already started this shit, you can't let him do this alone." Laughter was still bubbling up from Yarpen's throat, but he was trying with all his might to suppress it while trying to persuade Geralt, even though tears were still rolling from his eyes.
"Sure, you'd like that, wouldn't you since just the idea of it makes you burst out laughing!" Geralt sputtered like a cat.
Yarpen chuckled. "It's just a bit of fun! If you do it, I'll pay your whole bill!" Yarpen suspected that this was going to be a comedy that would be remembered for a long time to come, and he took it as a personal mission to make sure that the witcher went along with it.
Geralt let out a deep sigh, his eyes darting between Yarpen and Marigold. He knew he was being roped into something he didn't want to do, but the promise of a free meal and drinks was too tempting to resist.
"The festivities begin at noon, by then, everyone will be tipsy from young wine and no one will even recognize you!" Yarpen coaxed Geralt, despite the fact that it was clear to him that no one would miss such a spectacle with the White Wolf in the leading role. Tactically, he ordered another round of shots and a beer for everyone.
They argued for a while longer while Marigold played on Geralt's feelings and Yarpen softened him with liquor. In the early morning, he finally gave in when Yarpen promised him a rare Gwent card from his collection.
"Fine, I'll do it," he finally relented, feeling defeated.
Yarpen let out a triumphant laugh, clapping his hands together. "Deal! It'll be a show to remember."
Marigold was practically jumping with excitement. "Thank you, Geralt! You won't regret it, I promise."
Geralt shook his head, already regretting his decision. He took a swig of his beer, trying to drown out his worries. "I already do," he muttered under his breath.
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Geralt woke up feeling dreadful, with a dry mouth and throbbing head. He knew from experience that drinking with dwarves always resulted in a severe hangover. As he tried to recall the events of the previous night, he felt a bitter sense of regret for what he had agreed to do today.
With a sudden burst of anger, Geralt shoved Marigold, who was sleeping beside him and responsible for his current predicament. However, the shove was too forceful, and Marigold tumbled off the bed with a crash, letting out a startled scream.
"Hey! What's gotten into you?" Marigold's dishevelled head emerged from behind the bed frame. He frowned, rubbing his sleepy eyes and stroking his sore ass.
"You're taking up too much space," Geralt grumbled.
"Is it my fault we can't afford to sleep in separate rooms?" Marigold demanded an explanation.
"Your fault is whatever you got us into today!” Geralt shot back, sulking with his hands behind his head. "And to top it off, you hogged the bed and my blanket last night, leaving me with barely a quarter of the space!"
Marigold winced as he rubbed his sore spot. "I'm pretty sure I'm going to have a bruise on my ass," he complained.
Geralt's tone softened as he apologized, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shove you so hard." He quickly changed the subject, "Aren't you supposed to be somewhere by now?" he asked, still feeling sour about the situation.
“Course!" Marigold picked himself up off the ground and hastily threw on the clothes he had flung over the chair the night before. "Maybe I forgot to mention that you...you need to go get ready as well, as my-"
"Don't say that word again," Geralt warned him, then started to get out of bed too.
"As you wish," Marigold added meekly as he slipped on his shoes. He was happy that Geralt was going with him after all, and he remembered all too well how much persuasion it had cost him, so he didn't want to upset him in any way in case he ended up changing his mind. Normally he would have taken more effort to get dressed in the morning, but he knew he had some beautification treatments waiting for him on the spot, so he just rinsed his face and ran his wet hands through his hair in front of the mirror.
By the time Marigold had packed everything and was impatiently pacing by the door, Geralt was just idly pulling his shirt over his head. He didn't want to go and he wasn't going to make any extra effort to get there on time.
"Geralt, I don't want to rush you, but do you think you could hurry a little so we can make it?" Marigold tried cautiously.
"Alright, alright," Geralt grumbled, reluctantly picking up the pace.
Marigold couldn't help but feel a sense of nervous excitement building up inside him.
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When they arrived at the makeshift tents made of solid white fabric erected in the meadow next to the vineyards, Geralt and Marigold had to split up and join their respective groups. Geralt silently smirked at the situation, nudging Marigold towards the girls' tent. Marigold didn't mind, as he was good with women and enjoyed their company.
As he entered the tent, he found the girls already dressed in semi-transparent dresses, each wearing a different flower wreath. The fabric looked light and delicate as if woven from morning mist by fairies. Marigold felt a knot in his stomach as he imagined himself wearing such a dress. He quickly pushed those thoughts aside and poured himself a glass of the young wine that had been prepared by the entrance.
Marigold approached a girl in a traditional Toussaint costume and smoothly asked her to pour him a glass of wine. The girl coyly smiled at his wink and quickly obliged. Marigold downed the wine in two gulps before the girl indicated for him to move to a separate part of the tent. He grabbed the whole jug of wine and followed her.
The girl blushed as she showed Marigold the dress they had prepared for him. It was hung on a hanger hooked to a folding screen. She apologetically explained that it was the largest size they had managed to find on such short notice, as the local maidens were quite petite. Marigold was relieved to see that the dress was sleeveless, which meant he didn't have to worry about fitting his broad shoulders and manly arms into it.
Taking a deep breath, he took another sip of his young wine to steady his nerves. He climbed behind the screen and gradually shed his clothes until he was left in nothing but his underwear. He slipped into the lightweight dress, which felt refreshingly cool against his skin. Despite feeling somewhat strange, he had grown accustomed to finding himself in all sorts of peculiar situations during his travels with Geralt.
As he settled in front of the mirror, the girl carefully combed his thick hair, which was in desperate need of a trim, as it fell into his forehead and curled around his ears. Using her nimble fingers, she massaged a scented jasmine oil into his hair to help it retain its shape. Finally, she adorned his head with a wreath of poppies.
She dusted his face with powder and applied some blush to his cheekbones with her fingers. Using a small brush, she highlighted his lashes and then coated his lips with a balm to give them a pink tint. The contrast between his two-day stubble and hairy chest and his freshly made-up face was striking, yet somehow it all came together perfectly.
As Marigold caught sight of himself in the mirror, his cheeks flushed with a mixture of nervousness, anticipation, and the young wine he kept sipping. Despite his initial doubts, he couldn't help but feel pleased with how handsome he looked. Who cared about the opinions of anyone else?
With the prospect of meeting Annarietta looming, he decided to apply a few drops of perfume from a bottle nearby. It was probably intended for women, like everything else in the room, with its sweet and floral scent. At this point, though, he didn't care anymore. Pouring himself another glass of wine, he kicked his feet up on the table, leaned back in his chair, and waited for further instructions.
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Meanwhile, Geralt was dressed in tight pants, high boots, a loose shirt, and an embroidered vest adorned with vine leaves. He waited alongside other men in a tent, which provided a good view of the raised platform where the ceremony was to take place. On top of the platform were casks, and the lads were gradually filling them with grapes from wicker baskets.
The girls then appeared in a neat row, their bare feet alternately sinking into the grass. Not that the sight of the girls in their sheer gowns would have made any of the onlookers focus on their feet. A crowd of locals was already slowly gathering around the stage, where, in addition to the casks, a band had been set up to accompany everything with traditional folk songs that featured wine in any possible way. Almost everyone had a glass of wine or young wine in hand, and those who knew the words sang along with the band.
Marigold was the last to go, and when the audience noticed him, they erupted in laughter. But Marigold was used to such reactions from his profession, so he pretended to be unfazed. He straightened his back, jutted out his chin, and beamed bright smiles in all directions. When the men in the audience saw how their wives were swooning at the sight of Marigold, even in this outfit, they quickly fell silent.
Geralt had one arm folded across his chest, while the other supported his forehead. From where he stood, he could hear Yarpen and the other dwarves laughing uproariously. If he had turned around, he would have seen tears streaming down their faces. But he was fixated on Marigold, and he certainly wasn't in the mood for laughter. He had seen Marigold naked countless times while they were bathing or changing clothes on the road, so any sense of shame in that regard had long vanished between them. However, seeing Marigold dressed like this, in a sheer female dress that wasn't too different from women's underwear, and with flowers in his hair was entirely new. Geralt wasn't sure what to think or how to feel about it, but he felt a warmth in his chest and tingling in his stomach.
Steps were arranged by the casks, and Marigold and the girls ascended them, taking their place on the final step. The crowd parted to form a double row as the band struck up a solemn fanfare, and Countess Anna Henrietta made her grand entrance. Her gown was made of the same fine fabric as the girls', but it was more sumptuously frilled and flowed in long ruffles that were less revealing. Her long hair shimmered in the sunlight, and instead of a wreath, she wore a tiara adorned with flowers and precious stones. The crowd whistled and cheered in admiration.
Once they were all in place, they stepped into the casks together, ready to start treading the grapes. The band played lively folk songs, and the crowd clapped and sang along as grape juice splashed out in all directions, soaking their clothes and making them increasingly transparent. Those working with red grapes, like Marigold, found that the juice dyed their white garments a deep shade of red.
At first, he found the whole process quite gross, until he got used to the strange texture under his feet. Now, though, he was quite enjoying it and felt like a star on stage in a sense, even though he was all drenched and filthy.
Gradually he accepted that he was covered with grapes from head to toe in his absurd attire, which was now sodden with grape juice and clung to his body. The juice was also in his hair, which he struggled to tame with his hands as it fell into his eyes.
It couldn't get any worse, so there was nothing to do but enjoy it as much as possible. People who had come to see the festivities were obviously enjoying themselves and that was all he cared about. He brushed his hair out of his face again, braced his hands on the edge of the cask, and began to pedal with renewed fervour. He was suddenly terribly amused by his whole situation. Yarpen's cynical prediction that this would impress the Countess seemed to ring true, which made him laugh even harder.
As they stomped, local young men periodically circulated around the casks, adding more grapes to raise the level of the mash above everyone's knees. Marigold seized the opportunity to flirt with them, shooting coquettish winks and sticking his tongue out in playful banter.
When the grapes had been squashed, and it was clear that the ceremony would soon be over, Marigold suddenly felt a rush of heat, as he realized that he was about to face Geralt looking like this.
And then there was the issue of Geralt having to carry him out of here in his arms. Marigold's heart first stopped for a moment before it started racing. He couldn't understand why he was reacting like this. It had been arranged this way from the start, and he had put them both in this mess himself. He even stopped treading the grapes for a second before he regained his composure.
Geralt observed that the other men were already slowly getting ready and adjusting their clothing. He decided to prepare himself by chugging two shots of brandy. As he did so, he watched Marigold with confusion. First, Marigold paced furiously, beaming and laughing like a madman, and then he stood like a scalded man with a completely absent expression on his face. "It's a good thing it'll all be over soon," Geralt thought.
As they moved towards the stage, Marigold seemed to avoid Geralt's gaze, which was unusual for him. Geralt wondered if Marigold was feeling embarrassed, which made no sense at all. Marigold was not usually shy, and Geralt had always thought that his confidence accounted for half of his success in performing and picking up girls. But what could make him so self-conscious now? Perhaps it was the presence of the Countess that had such an effect on him, but Marigold hadn't even looked at her the entire time, at least from Geralt's observation. Not that it was ever easy for Geralt to read Marigold's feelings, or human emotions in general…
Marigold couldn't comprehend why he was feeling so flustered. He tried to talk himself the hell out of behaving like some bashful schoolgirl. But his efforts were in vain as Geralt approached him all dressed up in a loose shirt and tight pants, his hair and beard carefully groomed. His cheeks began to burn and he suddenly didn't know where to place his eyes. It wasn't just Geralt's dashing appearance that was driving him crazy, but the fact that he had dressed up like this for him and was coming for him. Marigold's current state of being filthy, exposed, and vulnerable, wasn't really helping the situation.
"Come on, Marigold, get a grip. It's only Geralt!" he reasoned with himself but to no avail. Instead, he found himself smoothing out his clothes, shaking off bits of grapes, and adjusting his flower crown. Geralt was taken aback by his behaviour, but then again, he knew that looking good was always a top priority for Marigold. Meanwhile, the other girls and boys exchanged loving smiles, their eyes lighting up with excitement.
When Geralt reached the cask and held out his hand to him, a look of anguish on his face, Marigold could feel himself getting so unnerved that it made him shiver all over. Obediently, he bent down and wrapped one arm around his neck, and Geralt took him in his arms with complete ease as if it was something they did every day. Grape juice instantly stained his clothes everywhere their bodies touched. Most of it dripped from Marigold's thighs onto his stomach, where it soaked into his freshly clean, white, ironed shirt.
"Oh perfect," Geralt muttered sarcastically, rolling his eyes upward.
"Is there a problem?" Marigold asked quickly, trying not to think about how much his heart was pounding, though he knew that Geralt, with his wizarding senses, must have already registered it from a few metres away. And with their bodies pressed tightly together, Geralt surely felt it too.
"I think I could find a couple of them at the moment," Geralt said, imagining what it must be like to look at them. He also thought of Yarpen and the rest of the dwarves, and what an idiot he was for always letting Marigold talk him into any crap he could think of. "First one is how much you weigh," he grinned and moved his hands up and down demonstratively.
"Hey, take that back, will you!" He protested, fidgeting until Geralt retracted his comment. "I meant, of course, that you've gained mostly muscles over my last few contracts...which, by the way, are best displayed in what you're wearing now," Geralt smirked. Marigold's clothes were soaked through and sticking to his chest, stomach and legs, which were dripping juice onto the ground.
"Hey, you're always making fun of me!" Marigold huffed, punching him in the chest with his free hand while laughing and admitting that what he was wearing was quite asking for the teasing.
Both of them were probably more into the bickering than focusing on the people around them who were pointing and laughing. The White Wolf was famous for different stunts than pulling sticky poets out of casks, after all. But Geralt cast such a look at a few of the loudest mockers that their smiles froze on their lips in an instant.
With similar nudging, they reached the tent where Marigold had originally changed. The only difference was a tub full of soapy steaming water.
Geralt set Marigold down and inspected his reflection in the mirror. Pink and purple stains covered his sleeves and his shirt was completely drenched. Although his dark trousers didn't show any visible stains, he could feel the dampness, particularly in the crotch where most of the grape juice had dripped, making him increasingly uncomfortable.
"Only one tub, but I could use a good soak myself. This shit is worse than the blood of some creatures," Geralt said, taking off his vest. Marigold just nodded and tried to slip out of his clothes, but then hesitantly spoke up.
"Geralt,...um, I know I promised not to ask anything of you again if you helped me out, but...could you lend me a hand?"
Geralt had vowed to himself that he would collect his debt from Marigold and make him pay for it over the next few months. He was determined not to accept any more favours from Marigold in the near future. However, when he saw how much Marigold was struggling to pull his skirt up, he couldn't help but feel pity for him, as he always did. With a deep sigh, he walked over to Marigold, whose skirt was plastered to his thighs, making it difficult for him to pull it up and over his ass.
“Let's see," Geralt said as he got down on one knee, slowly rolling the hem of the dress up, pulling it up over Marigold's thighs and ass. Marigold swallowed dryly, his hands resting on the tub of water behind his back to steady himself.
As Geralt, with some difficulty, slipped his skirt to his belly, he nodded his head to urge Marigold to raise his hands, which were still behind him.
He instead timidly put them around his neck. He was breathing heavily, his head was spinning from the close proximity, his rational thinking was completely clouded and he needed to release all the tension somehow.
"Marigold..." began Geralt slowly as he tried to make sense of the situation. "How am I supposed to-" Before he could finish, Marigold leaned in and kissed him.
Geralt panicked for a moment, unsure of how to handle the unexpected turn of events, but Marigold's mouth tasted of sweet grape juice and his lips were so soft that he didn't want to break the kiss. It made him all confused, mixing the warm feelings he had for Marigold as a friend with the rushes of desire that came in waves with increasing intensity.
Without overthinking it, Geralt slid his hands down Marigold's back and pulled him closer. Taking this as encouragement, Marigold pressed his whole body against Geralt and kept kissing him. In between kisses, Geralt finally rolled up Marigold's dress to his shoulders, pulled it over his head, and tossed it behind him in a crumpled heap.
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