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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 4 years

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Snowed In pt 2

I’m SHOCKED by how well Snowed In went over with y’all... like WOW

Thank you!

Listen I was gonna go somewhere else with this (still might if anyone is interested) but I couldn’t resist getting all up in Geralt’s head.

part one right here

Warnings: None fam. idk what to even call this? does it qualify as fluff?

__________

By the time Geralt had come back from the barn you were asleep in the middle of the bed. He’d spent a little extra time talking to Roach and making sure Beau’s tail wasn’t one long dread lock but he was still surprised you had gone to sleep so quickly.

He found himself smiling in relief when he noticed your eyes darting about beneath your eyelids, a deep sleep he hadn’t seen from you in weeks. Instead of going to bed and risking waking you, he sat cross-legged in front of the fire and took a deep breath.

He could almost hear his instructor’s voice in his head even all these years later, “Sit comfortably” Impossible. “Slow your breathing” I might as well hold my breath “Let your thoughts pass without question. Even the odd ones. You can’t cease thinking, but you can tune out the nonsense.” My usual nonsense is somewhere on the other side of the pass chattering away to someone else.

Despite his newfound lack of distractions, he couldn’t quite clear his mind. He kept thinking about how you fit so comfortably against his chest as he held you; how you’d asked him to stay with you and how you leaned into his touch. Your trust in him was what confused him the most. You’d drawn every horrible detail of his wrongdoings out of him, every last shameful word, some he hadn't even told Jaskier, yet you still let his hands near your neck.

He took another deep breath, focusing on the pace instead of his thoughts. In, two, three, four, five, six. Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…

Then there was the way your face had melted in concern at his words as he left. Your innocence and empathy never failed to surprise him, even after months of traveling and hunting. You had no reason, no right to treat him with the softness you did, even if it was thinly veiled in hostility. He had tried to push you away, but you had wormed your way under his armor and made a home there.

Stop it. Breathe.

But you wouldn’t let him be, or he wouldn’t let you be. He couldn’t tell anymore. You, the gritty, brave, and ever so vulnerable human ruled his thoughts and it terrified him.

For fuck’s sake. Let it go already.

The frustrated air he forced from his nostrils blew bits of ash and coal back into the fire, causing sparks to fly and the logs to shift.

“Geralt?” your voice was soft, lowered with sleep.

He turned to see if you were really speaking or if he’d just imagined it, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows and squinted to see in the low light, "What are you doing on the floor?”

“Meditating,” he grumbled, “...or trying to.”

You let loose a puff of air in amusement, “Well how about you stop being pretentious and try sleeping?”

He sighed, pretending, as he always did, to take slight offence rather than let on he heard the tenderness there.

He didn’t notice the troubled look in your eyes as you watched him ready for bed, “You don’t need to walk on eggshells around me.”

He laid down next to you, choosing not to tell you that he was always making an effort to be more careful with you, “Wasn’t planning on it.”

You nodded, shifting onto your back in your usual spot pressed against the wall and tugging at the laces of the nightshirt you’d chosen. The two of you laid in silence for a while, the pace of your heartbeat being the only sign you hadn't slipped back into unconsciousness.

He shifted to lay on his side facing you, tucking his arm up under his pillow. You spared him a glance before going back to staring at the ceiling, leaving him to wonder what was on your mind. He thought maybe your worry had crept back in your sleep, taking hold when he wasn't here to talk you back from the ledge of panic. Not that it would have helped anyway, he clearly was no wordsmith. Maybe you'd simply realized how odd it was that you slept soundly next to a man literally designed to kill as efficiently as possible.

He hoped that wasn't it as he closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing yet again in vain. He smelled nothing but the soap and oils in your hair that lay damp beside your head on the pillow. The combination of scents was comforting to him, as much as he wished it wasn't, and he found his thoughts revisiting the soft sighs that escaped your lips at his touch. Never in his life had he been so mystified. His mind reeled just thinking about it, someone he trusted and cared for enjoyed his touch. Not tolerated, not lusted after, not flinched at, but naively enjoyed.

You shifted to face him, the dip in the mattress pulling you closer to him, "Geralt?"

"Hmm?"

He heard you take in a breath, let it out again, take in another, preparing to say something, then fall silent. He opened his eyes, analyzing the curve of your brow and the way your lips pursed as if you were holding a question between your teeth. You were never hesitant like this, he was sure you'd chew out the gods if they gave you opportunity, but your face was unreadable.

"What is it?" He whispered.

You reached across the bed to trace a scar on the back of his hand pressed into the blankets. A scar you had given him when you first met, he liked to think it made him yours when he had the courage to daydream. The sensation was always odd, the dull hint of touch over the scarred tissue and the overreaction of the nerves next to it sent alarm bells off in the back of his mind.

You kept your eyes on the vague forms of your hands, "You said you owed me more… what could you possibly owe me?"

"Y/N," your eyes snapped up to meet his, making it all the more difficult for him to think through his answer, "I… I don't know that I could put it into words."

The words felt hollow as they left his lips, the victory of keeping his emotions safe tainted by the look of disappointment and resignation in your eyes.

You nodded, patting the back of his hand, "You owe me nothing. Call it even, let's say?"

This was worse than what he'd imagined, the mental floundering and looking for a way to fix what he'd done was foreign and confusing. You'd let him off the hook, as you always did, and accepted that his answer would have to be enough. The difference this time was that he didn't want to be let off the hook.

"But I do." He argued, trapping your hand under his as you moved to pull it away, words barely escaping his lips, "I owe you, at the very least, a worthy answer." He turned your hand over, skimming his thumb over your palm as he whispered, "You hold my life in your hands and instead of doing what you should… tossing me by the wayside, you treat me with gentleness and… acceptance that I don't deserve. I at least owe you the same in return."

Had he the courage to look you in the eyes he would have had time to be shocked and confused by the anger reflected in them, "Don't you dare tell me how I should or shouldn't treat you ever again. I get to decide that, not anyone else, least of all you."

The change in tone nearly gave him whiplash, but all he could do was stare at you with a mix of confusion and surprise.

"You say I'm not used to people accommodating my emotions, but you don't give anyone the chance to get close enough to know what you're feeling." You continued, voice softening on seeing him balk, "I decide you owe me nothing. Feel guilty about it if that makes it easier, but don't mistake my affections for pity." You tugged your hand free of his and gently laid it over his jaw as you spoke.

He barely registered your pulse quickening, his whole body nearly going numb with shock at your words.

You rubbed your thumb over his temple and smiled, "Let's go to sleep, yeah?"

He nodded, laying his hand over yours with a smirk, "Yes ma'am…"

You snorted and kicked at his shin under the blankets, "Ew don't call me ma'am."

Almost without thinking he trapped your knee under his own, paying close attention to your response. When you blushed and bit your lip he thought you might just be the death of him. You gently pulled your hand back, sending a pang of doubt down his spine before you tugged at his wrist and laced your fingers through his, your palm covering his scar.

You squeezed his hand and smiled before closing your eyes and sighing in content.

He lay there for a long while after you'd fallen back asleep, slowly but surely putting the pieces of the day together. He was almost ashamed how distracted he was by your skin on his, soft and warm and unfamiliar. Your touch was so foreign in it's innocence that he almost felt guilty, almost.

It was beginning to grow light out when his mind finally slowed enough to let him sleep. His last thought before peace was that it might be nice to lay next to you just like this, well into the morning.

Part 3 here!

#listen I just wanna cuddle geralt #is it bc im lonely or bc i just want him to be happy? no one knows #its both #geralt x reader #geralt x reader fic #geralt x reader fan fic #geralt x reader oneshot #geralt one shot #geralt fluff #geralt pov fic #the witcher fic #the witcher fanfic #the witcher one shot #the witcher netflix #the witcher fluff #geralt x fem!reader #the witcher

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cicada-bones · 3 years

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The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 8: A New Threat

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Rowan awoke abruptly, well before dawn. Moonlight stretched its cool fingers over him through the window, while cold mists battered against the glass. The fire had long since burnt itself out, and no longer helped to keep away the chill.

His eyes ached, ripped to quickly from sleep. The warmth from his anger was utterly gone, and the cold emptiness had returned in full force.

It wasn’t so much he was in pain the way one was from a wound, a constant ache. No, instead it was like large parts of him were missing. His chest was empty – all those vital organs cleanly scooped out like so much cream.

And so often, the emptiness was so heavy that he couldn’t breathe around it, couldn’t think around it.

Rowan sat up on the bed and moved to open the window, the freezing glass stinging his skin. He shifted in a flash of light, and soared out over the courtyard, through the black stone gates and over the mountain range beyond.

The cool night air seeped cleanly into his lungs, filling them far better than his Fae body could.

The nightmares came every night. He had gotten used to them. Learned how to endure them. But that didn’t mean that it had gotten any easier.

Rowan had lost his mate, his wife, his love, just over two centuries ago now. And while purpose and distance had provided distractions form the agony of his loss, time had not dulled the wound.

His wings strained still further. Lyria’s screams still rang out in his head, filing his mind with their heart-wrenching sound. The familiar images flashed behind his eyes, and though he had seen them countless times, had relived them more than any other event in his life combined, they had not lost one drop of their potency, their brutal effectiveness.

Rowan breathed, and relaxed into the wind’s embrace. He soared still higher, breaking through the mists to reveal the length of Wendlyn flowing below him. The land was like a canvas painted in moonlight, the tips of the mountains bright and shining, the oaken forests rippling like folds of deep green silk.

This is what he had missed from the pitiful vantage point atop the horse’s back. The shape of the land, the way it moved and breathed like a great beast, or an ancient, slumbering god.

Rowan could see the western coastline snaking across the horizon in the distance, marking the barrier between Wendlyn and the great ocean separating the eastern and western continents. Countless rivers flowed down from the misty mountain peaks to meet with the sea beyond, steadily carving through the bedrock below.

The land was a familiar sight, a soothing one. The land of his queen and country. But it didn’t call to him, didn’t feel like home. And he didn’t love it.

The only time he had ever felt at home anywhere had been deep in the mountains, surrounded by pines and icy mountain wind. Where the snows got so deep that the drifts could overwhelm their cottage.

The home he had shared with Lyria. Where he had buried her. It had burned to nothing when the raiders had come, and was now just a blank patch of grass. Unremarkable, unmemorable.

He was the only one left who remembered her. The only one who still mourned her. His mate. A flower girl in the markets of Doranelle, with no family, no connections. He had lost Maeve’s favor, but he hadn’t cared, he’d mated her anyways, had loved her just the same.

And then she’d been taken from him. Murdered by foreign raiders. When she’d been pregnant with their child.

Rowan breathed deep, gliding over dark fields and mounds.

He hadn’t been there for her, hadn’t been there to protect her. He’d abandoned them, his wife and child, to pursue his own glory and honor. To regain Maeve’s favor. Lyria had begged him to stay, but he’d left her anyways. To face her fate alone.

Rowan dove, landing on an oak branch overlooking a dark field, unable to keep his body moving any longer.

The nightmares had been worse tonight. The anger that he had drowned in yesterday had eroded away at the icy walls he used to keep himself contained, guarded. The princess had incited a fury in him so great that it had created a pathway for the pain and shame and guilt to flood him – escaping through a breach in the dam.

And he hated her for it.

As Rowan bathed in his hate and shame and pain, a whip of darkness thrashed before him, breaking him from his train of vicious thoughts. He flapped away quickly, startled, while the tendrils of smoke rallied to strike yet again.

Rowan retaliated with ice and wind, driving the creature back as he returned to the skies.

He had inadvertently come to rest before a barrow-wight field. The home of dark creatures of smoke and malice that came out at night and reveled in catching unguarded Fae unawares, seeking to squirrel away their treasure. Beneath the field was undoubtedly a verifiable trove of riches, the hoard of the creatures above. Rich enough to rival a dragon, or a king.

If he could have, Rowan would have grinned. A perfect foe for the Heir of Fire.

···

He felt the beginnings of dawn stirring on the other side of the Cambrian mountains, and flew swiftly back to Mistward to begin the day – first of a great many at the fortress. In the company of the princess.

He had left her the previous night in a truly horrific state. She was still wearing the vagrant clothes he’d first encountered her in, still smelling of the rooftops of Varese. And their brawl the previous night had left her with fresh bruises, a torn lip and a bloody mouth. A slight twinge of shame passed through him, a vague flicker of feeling.

No matter how much she deserved it, Rowan never reveled in an unfair fight. He had acted badly.

Rowan swooped back into the fortress, shifting and heading for the storage area where they kept extra linen, soaps and salves. Rowan took a small ivory tin that smelled of rosemary and mint, and would help reduce the swelling in the girl’s lip, as well as some clothes, soap and pitchers of water.

He didn’t think he could stand it if he had to deal with the girl’s stench for one more day. And he didn’t want to inflict it upon the other members of the fortress either.

He left the items outside the girl’s door just as dawn began to rear its head over the peaks of the mountains, along with a note that read: You deserved it. Maeve sends her wishes for a speedy recovery.

There. She got what she wanted – Rowan in trouble with Maeve. He knew it wouldn’t satisfy her, but he didn’t want her raring for a fight again this morning the way she had yesterday. He didn’t think he would be able to stop himself this time.

Rowan went back to his rooms and readied himself for the day, then headed down to the kitchens to meet with the princess, waiting in the hallway for her to appear.

She was late. Dawn had now fully broken, and Rowan would just love any excuse to pull her out of that room by his teeth and make her chop wood all afternoon for her tardiness.

Luckily for the princess, after barely another minute of stewing, Rowan heard footsteps in the kitchen at his back and the chattering from inside suddenly cease.

He turned and entered the kitchen. The princess had indeed arrived, now in the set of fresh clothes he had left, and the dirt of Varese finally cleaned off her.

Emrys, the fortress cook, was already awake and working on breakfast, stirring something in a large pot over a fire. Another male assisted him, standing in an out-of-the-way corner chopping onions and monitoring a collection of bread loaves baking in the large oven set into the wall beside him.

The two males nodded their greeting, Emrys respectful and the young male near-deferential, caution and fear emanating from each of them respectively. The girl just stared back at him, blank and hard.

In clothes that actually fit, she was gaunt, the blades of her collarbones sticking out like wings. In the morning light and without the dirt, the scars papering her skin were much more prominent, shining stripes of white-silver. Her eyes were dull with sleep, and the bruises on her face stood out against her pale skin.

His eyes tightened slightly as her scent wafted towards him. Her clean, untarnished scent.

The brightness he’d sensed beneath her disgusting stench was a sharp, potent mixture jasmine flowers and lemon verbena, of warmth and sweetness and biting citrus. Her embers still slumbered, but the scent of ash and smoke and charred wood clung to her like a cloud of mist.

It bit at him, scraping down his throat. Uncomfortable. Irritating.

He spoke through the burn, addressing where Emrys stood tending the fire. “Your new scullery maid for the morning shift. After breakfast, I have her for the rest of the day.”

Rowan turned to the girl now, a challenge in his eyes. You wanted to remain unidentified, so go ahead, Princess. Introduce yourself with whatever name you want.

She frowned in understanding, and then said hesitantly, “Elentiya. My name is Elentiya.”

Rowan’s brow furrowed in confusion. Why would the girl choose a name in Eyllwe? The language of a nation so far from Terrasen?

Rowan let the emotion go as Emrys cautiously approached the girl, not really caring enough to divine an answer.

Emrys wiped his hands on his apron and his eyes roved over the princess, assessing her clothes, her sharp, blank eyes, and her many scars. He seemed a bit taken aback by the strange child’s appearance, though he was unsurprised by the gruff command in Rowan’s voice. Emrys had resided in Mistward for years, decades even, and knew Rowan, was used to his way of behaving. Even so, he hesitated before entering the fraught, simmering space between him and the princess, obviously sensing the antagonism bubbling there.

He spoke softly, bowing to Rowan. “So good of you to find us additional help, Prince.” Then he turned to the girl and gave her an efficient once over. Rowan had been right to give the girl to Emrys. He’d work her hard, teach the spoiled princess the value of laboring for the benefit of others.

“Ever work in a kitchen?” he asked. Rowan almost scoffed.

“No,” she responded softly.

“Well, I hope you’re a fast learner and quick on your feet,” Emrys replied.

“I’ll do my best.”

And Rowan stalked out of the kitchen, having heard all he needed to, and aching to escape the princess’ presence and the scent that still tore at his throat.

···

Rowan stalked up the stairs, heading for the fortified outer wall and the sentry station hidden within, where Malakai would be waiting.

As far as Rowan knew, Malakai was still the commander of the fortress and all of the forces housed within. So, though Rowan would prefer to keep to himself, this conversation was a necessary evil.

Rowan approached the station, really just a table in a small room off to the side near the entry gates, papered over in maps and missives. Malakai sat on a small wooden chair, pouring over a piece of paper clutched between white knuckles that Rowan recognized as a common field report from the fortress sentries.

He waited for Malakai to look up and acknowledge his presence, not wanting to start talking before absolutely necessary. Even if he was familiar with the male, had met with him on numerous occasions to collect reports for Maeve and distribute her instructions, Rowan was in no rush to spark this conversation.

It wasn’t that the two males didn’t along – Malakai regarded him with the usual fear and grudging respect. It was more that Rowan didn’t particularly get along with anybody, especially outside the inner circle of Maeve’s warrior-court.

Malakai sighed, breathing in deep and finally getting a whiff of Rowan’s scent. He quickly looked up, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Oh,” he said, taken aback, “Prince Whitethorn.”

Rowan grunted an acknowledgement.

“I’m sorry I’d just assumed you had left with the Queen and her retinue last night.”

“So she’s gone.”

Malakai furrowed his brow. “Yes – Her Majesty left late last night, returning to Doranelle.”

Rowan nodded, accepting the information. He had not felt the presence of Maeve’s power since the night before, but that wasn’t in and of itself a confirmation of her departure.

“The Queen of the Fae has commanded that I stay stationed here at Mistward. I’m to train a female who arrived with us last night, and to remain here through the season, and perhaps into the summer or fall.” If I’m unlucky, he added mentally.

Malakai just nodded, unsuccessfully leashing his surprise at the news. “Has Queen Maeve given you any other assignment while in the fortress?” he asked, tentative.

“No – but I am to take command throughout the duration of my stay here.”

Again Malakai just nodded, accepting the demotion with as much grace as could be expected. Rowan guessed that he could just count himself lucky that the male wasn’t as prone to aggressive plays for dominance as so many of the other Fae were. Particularly as his patience had already been worn so thin in dealing with the princess and her aggressive dominant royal bullshit.

“Any news?”

Rowan didn’t actually expect there to be any, Mistward was a quiet and secluded place, but he asked so that he could wrap up this conversation and move on. So when Malakai frowned and said, “Actually, yes – ” it surprised, and then concerned him.

“I just received the report from a scout that returned this morning from the northwest, near the southern hills.”

Rowan frowned. They had passed through those hills on their journey to the fortress. Whatever news the sentry brought had probably missed them by days – if not by hours.

“He discovered a body.”

Rowan tensed, clenching his jaw as Malakai continued. “A demi-Fae male. Time and cause of death were indeterminable – but he was killed no longer than a week past and no sooner than two days ago.”

Right when he and the princess had been traveling through the area. Frustration and cold anger coiled in Rowan’s gut. “Skinwalkers?” he asked through his teeth.

“No – not unless they’ve drastically changed their patterns.”

Rowan raised his brows questioningly.

“The male was only a husk. Whoever killed him drained him of his very essence. There were no marks, no wounds or bruises – only dried blood streaking from his mouth and ears. Though apparently his skin was withered and dried – the scout compared it to an old apple.” Malakai’s voice twisted in disgust. “But according to him, the most horrifying part was the smell. The body stank of something twisted and vile. When I asked the boy to describe it, he just spluttered. I’ve never known him to be scared, or tentative. But he looked absolutely terrified. All he would say was that the scent was wrong, just wrong, and that I would know it when I smelled it.”

Rowan’s face had darkened while Malakai spoke, a promise of violence sparking in his eyes.

“And this is the first you’ve seen of this?”

“Yes. There have been no other bodies, no strange sightings. Nothing else unusual reported.”

“Who was the male?”

“We don’t yet know. No one from in or around the fortress is missing, and we haven’t received word of any missing people within the past month, let alone any who match this male’s description. There isn’t much around here as you know – you have to travel closer to the coast or the rivers to find any farms or towns.”

“What was the precise location?” Rowan mentally readied himself to depart.

Malakai turned and pulled a map from underneath a pile of papers on the desk. It was of the western side of the Cambrian mountain range, and the lands separating them from the sea. Villages dotted the coastline and the rivers that fed from the mountains, roads connecting them to Varese and the mountain passes.

Malakai pointed to a spot deep in the hills abutting the westernmost peak on the map, where the hills were narrowest between the peaks and the oceans. Rowan committed the map to memory, then looked back at Malakai. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“Nothing that I can think of. Fly well Whitethorn, and…when you return, would you let me know what you discover?”

Rowan nodded brusquely, turning to leave and taking off into the morning sun.

The trip that had taken them nearly three days on horseback took him barely an hour through the air. Not only could he bypass all of the detours they’d been forced to take around crevasses, and avoid the winding paths through the forests, he no longer had to force a horse up rocky hillsides, or ford across slow-moving rivers.

And, with his magic, Rowan could push and pull the winds at will, driving him still faster through the clouds. His hawk body soared over the land in great leaps and bounds, miles melting beneath his feathers, the body of the dead demi-Fae drawing closer with each beat of his wings.

···

“It was just as the scout said.” Rowan told Malakai bluntly. “The body was dumped near a river inlet that fed into the ocean, less than fifteen miles out. It was lying on its stomach, but when I flipped it over, the face was contorted. The male had been scared when he died. Horrified.”

“But who ever heard of someone being scared to death.” Malakai frowned.

Rowan grunted.

He certainly had not. It was possible that Maeve may have encountered such a thing over her many millennia, or perhaps Lorcan or Gavriel, who had a combined three centuries on Rowan. But if so, he’d never heard them speak of it. Nor had he ever heard mention of such a thing happening, not in legend or rumor.

It grated on him, the ignorance. Made him feel incapable.

Malakai was staring intently at the table in front of him, at the pile of paper, as if it would provide the answers he sought so desperately.

His scent was filled with worry and grief. While nowhere near as old as Rowan, the male was an elder of the demi-Fae, and felt responsible for the welfare of the people who lived here. They were his home, his family. And like all Fae males, he needed to protect them.

It sent a familiar ache through Rowan.

Malakai sighed, and seemed to shake himself from a stupor. Then said, “Well, I’ll be sure to keep you informed Prince, about anything else that may come up.”

Rowan just nodded, and turned to leave the station, heading for the kitchens.

He couldn’t get the image of the demi-Fae male out of his head. It had been grisly. While no blood had been spilt, and animals had avoided the body, the sight of a sentient being in such a desiccated, ruined state was deeply disturbing.

And the smell. It had been like nothing Rowan had even sensed before. It was indescribable, unnatural and vile and completely other.

The scout had not exaggerated. Whatever had killed the male was entirely wrong.

And Rowan had been so close, within a few miles when this demi-Fae male had been murdered, had been utterly eviscerated, and he hadn’t been able to do a damn thing. A deep, violent anger broke through Rowan’s icy indifference, as it seemed to do so much more easily lately.

A new threat was stalking Wendlyn.

···

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