#dark geralt

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 10

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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: have a wondeful thursday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Queen Jazlene slumps against her chair. She’s barely awake as her eyes glaze over. Despite your deflections at serving her, she’d drunk herself to excess, swiping away goblets that weren't hers. Her constant imbibition has not been missed by her husband. Slanted looks and gristly whispers did little to deter her, your own gentle girding only fuelling her irritation. 

The king stands, stepping forward to overshadow his slouching queen. He raises a hand to the remaining crowd; the clumsy and drunken dancers, the chittering ladies, and the boasting lords. They turn their attention to him and hush. 

“So I must retire for the night, I bid you all a hearty rest,” he pronounces, “and may tomorrow see a brighter sun shine upon us all.” 

A hurrah is sent up in return and the king waits until the large hall falls back into its previous din. He turns slowly, his head down, and flares his nostrils at his queen. His golden eyes skim up and down the table. 

“Come,” he takes her hand, “let us get you abed.” 

Jazlene yawns and hiccups. She does not resist as he tugs her to her feet, though she teeters once upright. He swiftly hooks his arm around her, keeping her away from the view of the hall. He huffs heavily and ushers her around the bench. 

“Maid,” he demands over his shoulder. 

You follow as he carries on, finding a door behind the high table. The dimness of the corridor fogs around his figure as Jazlene’s slippers begin to drag. She babbles and gurgles. 

“I warned you not to drink so much,” he mutters, “why can you not obey? Why can you not just do what is best for you?” 

You tread behind them silently. The king falters and grunts, scooping up his wife before she can slip further down his arm. As he lifts her, her head lolls back over his thick bicep. He growls and presses onward. 

As he reaches her chamber door, you come around to open it for him. He doesn’t say a word as he enters and you wait near the entrance as he lays Jazlene down on the bed. She is very silent and still, only the subtle rise and fall of her chest suggesting a glimmer of life. 

You peer around as the king looms over her, his hand on the post of the bed as he simmers at her. His other arm bends as he rubs the bridge of his nose. You go to the vanity and take the now cool basin of water. You reach into your apron pocket as you hug the large bowl and cross to the bed. 

You pull out a cloth as you sit on the edge of the mattress and balance the bowl against your bent leg. You wet the fabric and lean over the queen to wipe her face. The kohl around her eyes has begun to smear and a sheen of sweat layers over her rich skin. You sense the king watching your deliberate tending. 

“You are good to her,” he remarks. 

“She will not feel well in the morning,” you say, “I will make sure she has water to drink and a warm compress when she wakes, your highness.” 

He’s quiet as he considers your words, “you will stay with her?” 

You wring out the cloth and fold it over the edge of the basin before moving it back to the vanity. You face the king and clasp your hands over your apron, “she cannot be alone when she has drunk so much. Once...” you shake your head and let the statement taper out, “your highness, she will need me.” 

“Hmm,” he pulls his hand off the post, pacing around the end of the bed and turn towards you, “once what?” 

“Nothing, your highness. It was only a memory I had. It doesn’t matter now.” 

“I would like to hear it,” he insists. 

You swallow down the dryness in your throat, “your highness, well, her mother, the duchess, she is the same about wine. Once she drank overly much that she did not wake when her stomach revolted. If we’d not been there to watch over her, she might have choked on it.” 

“Ah, yes,” he stops, just a step away, “that would be unfortunate. I will thank you then for keeping a close eye on my lady wife.” 

“As is my duty, your highness.” 

His eyes blaze down at you and he shifts on his feet, “but will you sleep?” 

“Me? I rest in the cart--” 

“We will not leave on the morrow, I have business yet in the capital,” he explains, “when the lady is awake, you will make certain she is conscious, then you will go and seek rest of your own.” 

“Your highness, how generous, but she would need to break her fast, and dress anew, perhaps bathe--” 

“There are other maids in this castle. I am commanding you to retire for the day. You will need strength for our pending departure,” he bids, “to serve your queen upon the road.” 

You bow your head, apologetic, “your highness, I did not mean to argue. Certainly, I will do as you say. Thank you for minding me.” 

He inches forward and your shoulders slant as you shrink for his closeness. You see his thick fingers twiddle at his side and his hot breath blasts over you like a brazier. He cautiously bends his arm and touches the front of your apron. You quiver as you watch his calloused hand climb up the stained fabric. He pauses and shudders, pinching the loose thread poking out from the belt. He pulls it loose and rolls it between his fingertips. 

“You will have new clothes,” he backs away, feeling the thread, twisting it, “you are a queen’s maid now. Not some castle sweep.” 

You squeeze your hands tighter as you stare at his tunic, “yes, your highness. Thank you anon.” 

He turns on his sole reluctantly and looks upon the bed. You follow his gaze to his subdued wife. He hangs his head and puts his back to you before he pivots toward the door. He stalks toward it and pulls it open with enough strength to make the hinges whine. 

“Good night, little maid,” he drawls just before the door snaps shut in his stead. 

You raise your eyes completely and stare at the heavy wooden slats of the door. Your chest is knotted so tight you can hardly breathe. The king’s displeasure lingers even his absence. Is he unhappy with his inebriate wife or is it you? You quickly dismiss the latter. You don’t matter so much. No, his marriage is not an easy one thus far. 

⚔️

You only know Queen Jazlene is awake as she spits bile onto the floor. Her head hangs over the side of the bed as she wretches and spews, coughing and gagging until she goes limp and groans. The acidic smell permeates the chamber and you come forward to clean it away with a cloth. 

Once you’ve sopped up the mess, you leave her to dispose of the smelly rags and return with a cool, fresh basin and a new cloth. You help her onto her back, propping her against the pillows and clean her face anew. She moans as she keeps her eyes closed, a ripple in her forehead. 

“Too bright,” she mutters. 

“I will draw the curtains, your highness,” you assure her as you rescind the cloth and rise to do so. 

She winces as you pull the heavy drapes together and groans, “my husband... did he not see back to my chamber?” 

“He carried you here, your highness,” you explain, “you were not feeling well.” 

“Mm, I still do not,” she decries. 

“Shall I call for a bath?” You suggest. 

“Do what you will but be quiet,” she hisses as she shades her eyes beneath her long fingers. 

She gurgles as she sinks down and rolls upon her side. She curls up and you stare at her back. You go to the door and ease it open. You emerge and pass between the guards without. You are no more than a draught to them. As you approach the stairs, your name is called from ahead. You peer down the next corridor. 

“Eh, there you are,” Bryce approaches. You can tell by the shine in his hair that he has bathed, “and what mission has you so intent?” 

“I am to fetch lemon water for the queen. She has a sour stomach,” you say and turn back to the steps.  

The soldier descends apace with you and chortles, “as she would. She can drain an ewer like no other I’ve seen.” 

“Mm,” you hum grimly. 

“Ah, pardon, I do not mean to be cruel,” he says, “it is only... often we reap what we sow, yes?” 

“I suppose,” you allow. 

“Speaking of, mouse, it is your turn to reap,” he spins and stretches his arm across your path, “king’s orders.” 

You shake your head in confusion. 

“The queen--” 

“I will send another for her lemon water. But our dear liege and lord has bid that you rest your head. And I do concur. You are only mortal, little mouse.” 

“But I must--” 

“Obey your king,” he insists and rescinds his arm, crossing it with his other across his chest. “I’ve been given leave to treat you as prisoner if ye resist but I do not wish to go so far.” 

You frown. You recall the night before. The king’s orders are not forgotten but you thought perhaps they mightn’t be standing. You bow your head and press your palm to your stomach, another memory flitting through your mind. The king’s hand brushing along the belt of your apron. 

“I’ve acquired you a fine chamber,” Bryce says. “Gods, how could one ever be so glum about a bed of their own?” 

“Sir, I am not unhappy,” you counter. “I am...” you lift your head, “tired.” 

“Oh, how the fates align,” he quips, “come then. There is a bath and new dress too. I was too kind to mention it but you were starting to smell a bit too close to Daisy.” 

You can’t but laugh and snort, “hey!” 

“May as well take benefit in staying still,” he says, “now, let us hurry before the water is cold.” 

You acquiesce and follow him away from the kitchen. You hope Jazlene is not discontent with your straying. You walk along several corridors and up to the second floor again. You do not expect to stop at one of thick doors meant for nobility. 

“In here,” Bryce takes out an iron key and unlocks the door. He pushes it open and steps back. “I will come in an hour to look in on you but I trust by then you will be abed.” 

“Yes, sir, thank you,” you affirm. 

“Be certain to have some of the food,” he orders you, “much better than the goat meat I’ve been chewing on.” 

You thank him one last time and enter on your own. He closes the door behind you and you hear the lock twist. The loud grind of cogs does not unsettle you. It’s rare you ever have a moment of solace, though often you feel alone. 

You look around the chamber. It is much too grand for you. There is a wide bed at one end with a long canopy. The window lets in a warm breeze as the steam coiling from the large tub dampens the air. The furniture here is just as fine as that in the queen’s rooms. 

You meander around and stop before the covered tray on the round table. You lift the lid and reveal an assortment of fruit and cooked oats drizzled with honey. Your stomach roars and clenches painfully. Without a thought, you sit on the stool to gulp the porridge from the brim. You empty near half the bowl before you stop to catch your breath. 

You pluck at the citrus and devour the fruit with delighted purrs. When you have glutted your hunger to the point of discomfort, you lick your lips and rise. You near the tub as untie your apron. Your body aches for the heat of the water. 

You leave the layers of your filthy garments on the floor and step into the depths. You sigh as you lower yourself in. Relief seeps through your flesh and enshrines you. You lay back for a time and bask in the calm. Before the water can cool, you sit up to scrub yourself clean. 

When you finish, you climb out and pull on the shift folded on the top of the stack; a dress, and apron, stockings, and even shoes. There is no cap. You fish around your disposed clothing and retrieve your own. You soak it in the bathwater, wringing it out until it’s not so browned. 

A knock comes at the door. You sit on the edge of the mattress and call to the visitor, “hello?” 

“Eh, it’s me,” Bryce’s salty timbre comes through the wood, “you sleep now, mouse.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

He taps the door and you hear his footsteps fade away. You recline across the bed and stare up at the canopy. You close your eyes but your stomach is uneasy. You don’t know why. The bed is too soft, the linens too fluffy. 

You puff and sit up. You get to your feet and circle around the bed to the short bench across the foot of it. You tuck yourself onto the barely cushioned wood and bend your legs to fit. You fold and arm under your head. Much better. 

It isn’t very long before you succumb to your fatigue. You don’t realise how tired you truly are until you’re buried in sleep. Heavy and dark, almost suffocating. 

Behind your eyelids, you see streaks of colour, curling and rolling into visions. Shadowy forests and endless roads, the clop of horse hooves, the rattle of axles, and the crunch of boots in the dirt. The preening whine of the Queen as she splashes wine across your face. You gasp through the acrid sprinkle and fall backwards into air.  

You land on a heap of hay. You’re back in Debray, in the barn where you would flit away with Merinda to eat or even steal a nap. She would watch at the window and you would doze or nibble. You look over but do not see her. Instead, another stands at the opening.  

The king’s silver white hair hangs in waves down his muscled back. He wears only breeches as he stares off into the distance. The window greys with a storm beyond, pulsing from shades of dove feather to harrowing black. He faces you and his golden eyes glow like a wolf’s. 

You sit up and whimper. He prowls closer and closer, thunder crashing as a great gust blows through the barn. Then all at once, the tempest subsides and the wooden walls turn to stone. You’re trapped beneath something unbreakable, like iron, wrists bound. You look at your arms, pinned by large hands. You look above you and find yourself straddled beneath the king. 

He leans in, closer and closer, his fiery breath razing over you. 

“Little maid...” 

His growl snakes around your neck and you wake with a start. The bench teeters as you sit up, your hand gripping your forehead. You blink and look around, clearing the haze from your sleepy eyes. 

Just as in your dream, you are not alone. 

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #winter's king #the witcher

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King Masterlist

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Status: In Progress

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #dark!fic #fic #series #the witcher #au #medieval au

[komotionlessqueenmm]

Headcanon/Preference # 23

Gifs NOT mine.

Requested? Nope.

Year posted - 2023

Fandom - The Witcher (TV series)

Note that I haven't actually watched this show, I plan on watching it, but only the content that included Henry, because him getting fired for being "toxic" is total bullshit.

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| How did Geralt first cross paths with you? |

• Exactly how you would expect, he saved you from being killed by a Noonwraith while trying to gather wild herbs for your elixirs.

• He'd been traveling for a fortnight, and he'd dealt with all sorts of trouble along the way. Who knew his chosen path would be so troublesome.

• The day had been relatively calm and quiet, which he was grateful for, he needed a break. Then a sound suddenly broke through the quiet, a woman's scream from further up the road.

• Geralt couldn't help the sigh that passed his lips, of course he wouldn't get to have a break from the chaos of the world. But regardless of that he urged Roach to trot faster so he could help whoever potentially needed his assistance.

• The creature had you by the wrist, trying to slash at you with its sickle, which you continuously managed to dodge in the nick of time. Another terrified scream ripping from your throat as the Noonwraith shrieked at you.

• Geralt unsheathed his sword and got to work, slaying the Noonwraith with a little bit of trouble, he was exhausted after all. All the while you had rushed around gathering the herbs you had dropped as they fought.

• "Those must be pretty important." Geralt had observed gruffly after he'd slain the Noonwraith. You ducked your head in slight embarrassment, feeling as if he was scolding you for it. He then turned to leave, not honestly expecting anything from you.

• "Wait!" You called out to him, taking a tiny step back when he turned to look at you. "Thank you... For saving me." He nodded his head without a word. "I... I don't have anything to give to you as a reward, except for a hot meal and a warm bath if you'd like."

• Considering the week he's had, that was the best reward he'd had in what felt like an eternity. But Geralt maintained his cold demeanor, and accepted the offer, following you back to your modest little cottage nestled deep in the woods.

| When did Geralts obsession start? |

• That evening when you invited him into your home, you fed him well, and explained that you are a "potion master" as you put it. After he'd finished his meal, you tended to the small injury on his forearm, then left him to tend to the small bathhouse, preparing a warm bath as promised.

• You'd mixed in a few fragrance oils and flower petals into the steaming water. Trying to make it as relaxing as you could, without being overbearing. Geralt had found it amusing when he'd realized what you'd done, but he was pleased with the claiming atmosphere that now filled the bathhouse.

• You'd left him be as he soaked, rushing off to your cellar to start working on the elixir you'd been gathering herbs for. And as he soaked he thought about you, about how tender you'd been with him, and how you'd treated him so endearingly. So much so that an onlooker would have assumed you were lovers with the way you fretted over him. It was nice.

• You'd offer him lodging after his bath, giving him your own bed, and stating you'd sleep in the upper loft. He'd tried convincing you to just let him stay in the upper loft, but you declined saying how he'd saved your life, and you intended on offering him the best comfort that you could as a reward. He accepted this offer when you sternly informed him that you wouldn't change your mind on the matter.

• So that night he lay in bed, surrounded by the scent of you, just thinking about everything that's happened in such a short time since he'd met you. You been grateful for his help, you gave him a hardy meal, a nice bath, and now let him sleep in your bed. And yet unlike so many others he's helped, you didn't want anything in return. He'd saved you, and yet you didn't request that he help you with whatever other troubles you had.

• He wondered why you'd been so desperate to gather those herbs that you'd risk crossing paths with a Noonwraith. Let alone why you were intent on collecting them all again as he fought the creature, not even waiting until he'd slain it, or given up on gathering them all together.

• He wondered why you lived all the way out here, seemingly all alone deep in the woods. How you managed to survive your day to day life. You had few animals, and no crop fields, only a simple garden. And yet you seemed to be living comfortably, he'd seen nothing to suggest you had much wealth, but you weren't miserable like so many others he's met.

• His obsession started growing from the moment you'd welcomed him into your home. And as the day progressed and his curiosity peaked that obsession grew. You were a mystery to him, and with how kind you'd been to him he found himself smitten before the night was even out. Making his departure that morning an unwanted but necessary venture, so he'd left before the sun had risen, and while you still slept.

| Does Geralt try wooing you in a healthy way before snapping? And how does he do it? |

• He didn't stay away for very long, showing up one evening with a large gash on his arm, hoping you'd assist him. You of course rushed to do so, gathering healing herbs, cleaning and dressing the wound, and assuring him that he was more than welcome to rest at your home until he was well again.

• You'd offered him your bed again, stating it was more comfortable, and would be much easier for him to get to than the upper loft with his arm injury. This time however he wouldn't let you do that, and when you argued against it, he'd suggest that if he'd struggle with the ladder leading to the loft, that you could simply assist him.

• You'd thought about it for a moment, and eventually agreed with a heavy sigh, knowing you couldn't convince him otherwise. And that's what ended up happening, he struggled with the ladder, and you quickly rushed to place yourself directly behind him on the ladder, allowing him to lean against you as he slowly climbed up, following his pace patently.

• He was larger than you, but that didn't stop you from doing whatever you could to help him. And Geralt came to realize pretty quickly that that's just how you are, always trying to help in anyway you can without expecting anything in return. That made his obsession grow of course, no one had really ever been that way with him, so the feeling was addictive.

• Witchers heal much father than regular men, and combined with the healing herbs you'd used, his arm was completely healed by morning. And Geralt was intent on repaying your kindness, subconsciously hoping it would woo you the way your kindness had wooed him.

• In doing so Geralt worked on many chores around your homestead. Chopping wood, feeding your animals, repairing the damage he'd noticed to your home, even going out and hunting some game for you, which he later skinned and cured for you. Because of how much he was intent on doing for you, he had stayed with you for a few days.

• He would offhandedly praise your beauty, and often praised your skill crafts. He'd offered a helping hand with some of your elixirs, and went out and found some of the more rare ingredients you'd gotten low on. Most of which were only found in dangerous places. He assisted with cooking as well, and made as much small talk with you as he could.

| What happens when you politely reject Geralt for another man? |

• He'd learned so much about you in such a short time, and he found his heart felt lighter at the mere thought of you. So he decided he'd take a chance with you, feeling as if he'd never be the same without you in his life. He'd grown to love and adore you in so many ways, you were all he dreamed of, all he could think of, he needed you to be his.

• That evening after cleaning up after dinner, Geralt had taken a chance, and cupped your face between his hands. You looked at him with curiosity, then a surprised gasp escaped you when he suddenly kissed you. He all but melted into the kiss, but you remained stagnant, eventually pushing on his chest to get him to stop when he didn't seem to notice your lack of enthusiasm.

• He of course released you in an instant, worry and confusion etched onto his face. You then sheepishly explained that you were already betrothed to another, and you wouldn't accept his advances. You also explained that those elixirs that were so important for you to make were actually meant for your betrothed, who was suffering from a ailment you couldn't cure, but at the very least you could slow its progression.

• So you'd rejected him for a dying man... That hurt, much more than he'd ever admit. So he'd left without saying much, he needed to think, he needed to get away and let out his heartache. Which came out of him in a fit of rage as he brutally slain some bandits that he later crossed paths with.

| How bad will things get when Geralt does finally snap & become Yandere? |

• It's all he can think about anymore, you'd rejected him for a dying man, someone weak and unworthy of you. And his obsession starts taking a dark turn as that thought consumes him, and he allows that pent up rage to take over from time to time, which usually resulted in bloodshed.

• Eventually he finds his way back to your cottage, but he doesn't make his presence known to you. Instead he watches you from a distance, and follows you as you make your weekly trip to your betrotheds home. A basket containing the vials filled with your most powerful healing elixir hanging from your arm.

• The stone home was shabby, and in Geralts mind a pitiful excuse for a home. The dense woods surrounding it allowing Geralt plenty of cover to hide behind. And later into the evening, still early enough so you would get home before the sun went down, you'd left with an empty basket and a promise to return soon.

• Geralt stayed where he'd been hiding until the sun had set, and he knew you were long gone. Then he made his way into the stone home, breaking the door down in order to enter. Inside sitting at the table was a sickly man who wasn't nearly half the size of Geralt. He'd been eating salted meat and bread, a coughing fit taking hold of him as Geralt entered.

• The sudden of it all clearly terrifying the sick man, who through his coughing pleaded for his life. Geralt ignored him and walked around the little home, finding the vials of your elixir on the table beside the shabby bed. "Who are you?" The man asked once his coughing subsidized, Geralt looked to him with dark uncaring eyes.

• "You're the Witcher that saved (Y/n)." He realized quickly. That made Geralt smirk as he shoved the bedside table over, the vials breaking as they hit the stone floor. "What are you doing!?" He'd asked in a panic. "Cutting loose ends." Geralt stated calmly before leaving the man behind, knowing that without the elixir he'd die slowly, painfully, and all alone.

• That night Geralt showed up on your doorstep, a dark aura about him, making you nervous. Despite this nervousness however, you foolishly opened your home to him. And Geralt took full advantage of that, making it much easier for him to steal you away and runaway into the darkness. No one would ever come looking for you, and on such dangerous roads you'd never dare trying to run away from him.

| So what kind of a Yandere is Geralt? |

• Obsessive, possessive, jealous, and manipulative. He adores you, and he wants you all to himself. He's greedy and he'll kill anyone that might come between you, finding cleaver ways to cover the murder up.

• He would never harm you physically, but he will break you mentally. Then he will mold and reshape you into his perfect little obedient lover. You will love him the way he loves you, sooner or later, with or without the help of magic or potions.

• He will remind you constantly that without him you would be dead, that without him you would be nothing but meat for the crows. Sometimes he'll test you and pretend to leave without you in the night, if you run he will find you and punish you, if you cry out for him, he will come to you in an instant.

• Punishments from Geralt are usually being denied food and water for an extended period of time. Other times he'll make you walk as he rides Roach, and he won't allow you to take a break, making you walk for several days at times. Sometimes it'll be as simple as denying you things like, the warmth of the fire on a cold night, or a bedroll, leaving you to sleep on the hard icey forest floor.

• However when you are good Geralt is very tender and sweet with you. Making sure you are well sated and hydrated. Holding you lovingly in his arms as you ride together, his arms around your hips as you practically sat in his lap. Keeping you warm and comfortable on chilly nights, cuddling with you by the fire on a fairly comfy bed he'd made with things from the forest.

• When it's just you two he's easier to keep satisfied, simply do as he asks, do not fight him, praise him as often as he praises you, and never try running away.

• When others are around he's much harder to keep satisfied, as his jealousy knows no bounds, anyone and everyone is a threat in his eyes. So it's best just to stick with him, particularly right up against his side, with his arm around your shoulders reminding everyone you are his.

| Is Geralt worried anyone will find out? |

• Not in the slightest bit. Before ever taking you anywhere near other people, Geralt broke you to the point where you wouldn't try running away, or beg anyone to help you.

• In the beginning of it all he would chat with Roach about you, and as time went on, and he became more and more obsessed and deranged, he would loose his hold on morality of the situation, talking about it all allowed him to accept it much easier.

• If anyone tries to ever take you away because they know something is wrong, they'll vanish from town without a trace, along with the witcher and his female companion. You'll both become a ghost story in most of the settlements you pass through.

• Geralt is very good at manipulating people, and if that doesn't quite work he'll try to intimidate them, though it's rare but if that also fails then he'll simply kill them and anyone else that might get in his way.

• And considering how long you've been on the road now, he knows your betrothed is long dead, and you didn't have any family left, or any friends. No one knows who you are or where you came from except for him. No one cares about you anymore except for him, and he's sure to remind you of that fact until he's achieved breaking you completely into submission.

| What happens when/if you are ever hurt? |

• It was bound to happen sooner or later no matter how hard he might try to prevent it. You travel all over dangerous lands, and stay on the sidelines as he slays any beast or men that poses a threat. He really should have allowed you a dagger, or at least hide you somewhere safe when working a contract.

• He'd heard your panicked scream when one of the wolves managed to get passed him and corner you. It was as if his heart had been ripped from his chest, and the world was moving in slow motion. In reality he'd spun on his heel in an instant and thrown a knife into the wolfs throat before it could do anymore harm to you.

• He dispatched of the rest of the wolves, and rushed to your side as you sit on the ground, leaning against a tree and cradling your bleeding leg. He'd been making you wear trousers, as they were easier for you to travel in, but now he wished you'd had a dress on, as it would have been easier to get to the gash without causing you anymore pain.

• But that wasn't the case, so Geralt had to unlace the pants and pull them down until he can reach the gash. Cleaning it and dressing it as best he could, even taking advice from you when you told him what herbs would be best. Afterwards he pulled the pants back up as gently as he could, and pulled you up into his arms.

• After finding a safe place in the woods, Geralt set up a large camp. Somewhere for you to rest until your leg was healed, and where you would later train with a sword. He wouldn't make this mistake again, so he will make sure you can protect yourself properly if he cannot. While your leg is injured he would carry you everywhere, or let you ride Roach while he walked beside you to catch you if you fell.

| Is Geralts obsession in any way sexual? |

• In the very very beginning it wasn't sexual to him, you were to pure in his mind in the very beginning. But as time goes by, his love blooms into desire, which will deepen as his obsession grows, and even more so when he sees you bathe after he's taken you captive. He had to make sure you wouldn't run, and sometimes he couldn't help but look at you.

• He may be yandere and at times cruel, but he will not force himself onto you. Not for a kiss or anything else. Even when he wants to cuddle at night, he lets you initiate it, which due to the cold you did so often even when you were still fighting against him.

• But when you finally give into him, and begin to see his love and begin to love him in return. He's like a starved beast, everything is so fierce and intense, yet he is still gentle with you, knowing if he took it to far he could seriously hurt you, and that's the last thing he'd ever want.

• No one and I mean no one but Geralt can see your naked body. Not even the female maids you cross paths with in castles or keeps. If you need assistance in the bath or with your clothes Geralt will be the only one to help you. If someone barges in while you're in a compromising situation, he'll dispose of them for ever looking at what is for his eyes and his eyes alone. Doesn't matter to him who it is, and this could really prove to be a problem if it's someone of great importance.

• He's addicted to your taste, from the taste of your kisses, to the taste if your dripping pussy. Geralt would spend all day and night with his head buried between your thighs if you allowed him to. By the time he's finished with you, he'll be the only god you'll ever pray to.

• Geralt also fucking loves watching you ride his cock, and he doesn't care where you are when you do it. In the woods, an inn, a castle or keep, doesn't matter in the slightest. The sight if his cock stretching you out is far to divine a sight to pass up, not to mention how fucking incredible you look as you use him to fuck yourself into oblivion.

• Geralt will totally melt if you insist on sucking his cock, you look so precious and you do so well he doesn't honestly last long when you suck him off. Sometimes he'll order you to suck his cock and talk about all the filthy things he's gonna do to you as you work his length. But the he still much rather prefers to eat you out.

• He'll leave bruises on your skin from how tightly he holds you as he's fucking you. Sometimes he'll even leave bite marks, but he prefers when you bite him, it's just so primal feeling and he can't get enough. Geralt will warship your entire body for hours before sex and oftentimes after sex as well. Tender overstimulation and aftercare are his specialty.

• Geralt would give you the world on a silver platter if he could, but since that's easier said than done, he'll offer you his body to use as you please whenever you so please. And he feels most at home with his cock buried to the hilt inside of you, so be prepared for all the cockwarming you can take, because now there's no other way to sleep.

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*Alrighty y'all I'm feeling better finally, and I'm trying to get back into the groove of writing. So I hope you enjoyed this piece, and know that if you've sent in a request I've got them in my drafts and I'm slowly working on them again.

- The Jaded Monkey 🐒

#Headcanon #preference #yandere #geralt #geralt of rivia #witcher #geralt x reader #yandere geralt #geralt imagine #geralt headcanon #dark!geralt of rivia x reader #dark geralt #yandere!geralt of rivia x reader #The witcher #the witcher imagine #the witcher x y/n #the witcher x reader #the witcher x you #the witcher headcanon #reader insert #dark theme #henry cavill #geralt of rivera #geralt of rivia x y/n #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia headcanon #obsessed geralt #yandere geralt of rivia x reader #Dark geralt of rivia x reader

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Tonality [4]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: a little more story, a little more tension, a little mor everything! what do you guys always, please mind the warnings, and enjoy!😊🥰 divider by @firefly-graphics​

 The Nilfgaardian banner snaps in the sharp, salt-laden breeze, the dark fabric bearing the crest of its namesake. The bright yellow sun mirrors the one in the cloudless sky above the keep. From your room, you can see their approach long before they reach the gates, a thin vein of black weaving through the countryside like a snake. The garrison pauses only briefly in the city, winding through the crowded streets in their pitch colored armor like a long satin ribbon. You grimace at the sight of them, swallowing against the sourness you feel growing at the back of your throat. 

 You do not know why the sight of them fills you with a dark foreboding, a shadow that looms in the space behind your thoughts. Perhaps it is the knowledge that you are expected to greet the Nilfgaardian envoy alongside your mother, the king, and the prince that makes your stomach curdle.  

“My Lady, should we not join their Majesties?” Kassandra’s voice draws you from your churning thoughts. “Her Highness would not be pleased if we were late.” You swallow the dry retort that your mother would not be pleased no matter what you did, and automatically feel guilt over the bitter thought. You grimace before nodding at Kassandra over your shoulder. 

 Nothing good will come of this. The feeling—no, the knowledge—is as familiar to you as your own name, appearing among your thoughts as if it had always been there. Only sorrow will come of this day. 

 “Are you alright, Your Grace?” 

 Your throat tight, you smile. “Y-yes.” I am grim without cause. You shake yourself, smoothing your hands down the stiff, unfamiliar dress. It’s new, gifted to you only this morning as your mother had informed you of her expectations. 

 “You’ll look lovely in this,” she had bade the servants to lay out the massive thing, a veritable ocean of fabric, with so many skirts and stays you find yourself amazed you can even move at all. You detest the restriction and corsetry of it all, fidgeting with a frustrated grimace as Kassandra opens the door. Your thoughts must be plain on your face, for she is quick to reassure you as you pass.

 “You are a vision, Your Grace,” she says, hurrying to your side as she closes the heavy door behind you. Despite your displeasure, her words do comfort you, and you offer Kassandra a watery smile in thanks. “I daresay you shall be the envy of every Lady in attendance.” 

 You laugh dryly. “Even you?” Kassandra’s response is unexpected—she shakes her head, pressing her lips together into a thin, apologetic smile.

 “No, my Lady.” She says softly. There is true pity in her eyes, which stings all the more. “Though there are many in His Majesty’s keep who would treat with the Gods themselves to take your place—and, exalted though it may be, I am not among them.” The words pass unspoken between you, true honesty masked only slightly by propriety. “I would not wish that for all the world.”

 The throne room is as packed with bodies as it was at your mother’s coronation only a few scant weeks prior, servants weaving deftly in and out of the crowd. It parts easily for you, people scrambling out of your path as you make your way toward the throne. Geralt stands to the king’s left, and you feel the weight of his gaze upon you so heavily it is as though he has touched you with his hand. 

 “My King. I trust you are well this morning?” He heaves a heavy sigh at your question, massaging the graying hair at his temple. 

 “As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.” King Vesemir graces you with a tired smile. “But I am glad these worries are mine. Would that they fall on mine own shoulders and save yours.” Of these troubles, you know only what little you have managed to glean from casual conversation and your own observations—the Lord of Nilfgaard has sent his envoy, along with a garrison of troops, to treat with the king. 

 Your mother scoffs. “You are a King, my love,” she says, tilting her regal head at him. “You can do nothing without rousing at least a little of the rabble.” 

 You take your place next to her, skirting around the prince with a wide berth. Your mother reaches for your hand, patting it as she nods approvingly at you.

 “You look as lovely as I thought you would.” Somehow, her complement makes you like your clothing even less. The dress is heavy and cumbersome, the corset laced so tight a deep breath makes the seams groan. 

 “It is the color.” Geralt’s interjection makes your mother’s smile thin and tighten, until the edges seem brittle like paper. “It suits you, sister.” Is there no line he will not cross? From behind his wide shield of plausible deniability he mocks you, his mouth quirking innocently as if he is unaware of the boundary he dances upon. Gracious acceptance is the only play you have, and he knows it as well. 

 “You are too kind, my Prince.” You clasp your hands together and face forward. It is surreal, almost, to see the calm with which he regards you now, when only a week ago he had raged at your door like a madman. Had you not seen it yourself, you would not think it possible. Though you would blame him for it, the nervous twisting of your stomach is not Geralt’s fault alone. The ill feeling that had taken root in your belly at the sight of the Nilfgaardian envoy still left you with a sour taste on your tongue, one that did not seem to wash away. 

 And the dreams…

 You shudder to think of them, the dark, creeping things that keep you awake long after the halls of the king’s keep have fallen silent. You have not wandered from your rooms again to your knowledge, but you’ve slept so little in the past week that you suspect it is less a matter of your self control and more the lack of opportunity. The nails on your fingers, hidden by the cumbersomely long sleeves of your dress, are bitten down to the quick. It is a new habit you’ve developed sitting in the crushing dark as you wait for the dreams to come. 

 Your father’s rotting face swims before you again. 

 Sugar sweet—  

 You twist the heavy fabric of your sleeves in your nervous hands as you stare hard at the stone floor between your feet. 

 “What troubles you, Little Doe?” Geralt’s voice is as much of a surprise as his proximity, his side lightly pressing against your own as he leans down. You drop your hands to your sides like deadweight, suddenly aware of his eye. 

 “And why would you think me troubled?” You ask curtly. The prince’s wolfish grin sends a strange, hot pulse straight to your core, one you vehemently try to ignore. You are under no pretense, you know what the prince is, who he is. He has gone out of his way to show you, and yet—

 “I am apt to know trouble when I see it.” 

 The throne room doors slam open, leaving you no time to respond as every eye is drawn to the entrance. The instant hush that falls over the room is so deep that the herald’s voice is like a crack of thunder. At the same time, your stomach tightens. The dark warning in your heart rings again like a bell, clear and true. Though you still do not quite grasp its meaning, the message is clear—whatever you’d been meant to avoid had now come to pass, leaving no room for escape or denial. 

 “Presenting His Lordship, Duke Emhyr of Nilfgaard!” The duke sweeps into the throne room, his ink-black cloak billowing behind him. There are two of his own guards flanking him in their telltale black armor, like pools of animated shadow. Their faces are hidden by their helms, the sides carved like griffin wings. 

 The duke stops before the throne, dropping down to one knee. 

 “My King.” His accented common turns the words up at the edges, almost like a question. “Hail.” His face is handsome but severe, high cheekbones, fierce, beady eyes, and a thin mouth that curls up at the corners, just like his words. There is a scar on his face, long and thin and jagged, stretching from his left temple to the right side of his chin. His already wan smile thins further as he turns to your mother. 

 “My Queen.” 

 “Lord Emhyr.” The duke’s smile is wan as he dips his head again. “I bid thee welcome. I trust you found the journey pleasant enough.” The words are empty pleasantries, merely frivolous formalities exchanged before the truth is allowed to be addressed. 

 “Aye, Majesty, as enjoyable as one can find a carriage journey.” He straightens back up. “I would extend my many congratulations on your union. The Gods themselves could not have delivered a more beautiful Queen.” 

 To your surprise, it is Geralt who speaks next. 

 “We did miss you at the celebration, my Lord.” The remark is meant to sound like a casual observation—you know it is not. “Quite a pity.”

 Emhyr’s jaw tics. “Indeed.” He looks over his left shoulder, and motions the guards forward. “My deepest regrets. As I previously expressed to His Majesty, my presence was required elsewhere. As I am sure you recall, we do share a border with the Elves.” He spits the word like a curse. “Occasionally those savages do need a good reminding of where their lands end, and ours begin, Your Grace.” 

 You shudder. There are few elves left south of the heavily policed Nilfgaardian border, but you have met some. Savages. The word makes your lip curl. They are rather fond of that word, aren’t they?

 “I did bring a—belated—wedding present.” Between the two of them, the guards haul forward a small black chest, the polished wood glinting in the light. He pulls back the lid, and a murmur travels through the gathered courtiers at the sight of the jewels. A small fortune in dark blue sapphires sits within. King Vesemir stands, bidding two of the ivory cloaked kings-guard forward to take the chest.

 “A most precious gift.”

 “The mines remain prosperous. Perhaps Her Highness might have them made into something befitting her loveliness.” A smile creases your mother’s ruby lips, but it is sharp enough to cut. Neither does it reach her narrowed eyes. 

 “We cannot thank you enough for your gracious gift, my Lord.” Her voice is delicate, like breaking glass. “But I do not believe you rode for six days to bear witness to my beauty.” You are left to wonder in the brief moments before Duke Emhyr answers. If he will allow the truth to be broached, or if he will flee from it like a rat from a burning ship. 

 “Indeed my Queen, I have not.” He casts a look around, as if the words he is about to speak are for everyone there, not just the king. “Your Grace, I come before you today with only the deepest respect for your will, authority, and wisdom.” Duke Emhyr chooses his words carefully. He chooses them as carefully as a mason did his stones, stacking each one meticulously on top of the other. “But I do admit my heart longs for clarity on this matter. 

 Not a season past, when His Majesty announced an end to his long mourning period, and indeed his intent to marry once more, I did put forth my own daughter as prospect.” His accusation takes shape, and you watch your mother’s face tighten, her fingers curling around the polished bone arm of her throne. “And before this very court, His Majesty agreed. I had imagined a shared future of prosperity and happiness between both our great houses. I mean no offense, and so I beg pardon—”

 “And yet you have given it.” Your mother’s expression remains placid—her voice less so. You can almost hear the icy words forming on her tongue as her lips part to speak again, but the king silences her, holding up one steady hand. 

 “I appreciate your candor, my Lord,” he leans forward. “But it is Vesemir who rules here, not Emhyr.” All chatter ceases, and the chamber is as quiet as the crypt beneath it. “The decision as to who it is I marry is mine—and mine alone.” King Vesemir stands, descending the short set of steps until he is level with the duke. “It is I who bears the burden of ensuring the prosperity and stability of this realm. And while I am ever thankful for the service you have provided it… you would do well to remember that fact, my Lord.” 

 “Of course, my King. I—I mean only for the betterment of the empire.” It is then that his eye falls to you. “I see no reason a match might not still be made—”

 “Then we shall speak no more about it.” You watch the duke’s jaw tighten, his lips thinning as he fights not to show his displeasure. 

 “As you will, Your Grace.” You have not heard the last of this matter, of that you are certain. A sinking feeling rises in your stomach, like you’ve tumbled freely over the edge of a cliff. There is no going back, the feeling seems to whisper, goosebumps erupting across your flesh. A path has been chosen now and you will walk it—

 “I thank you again for your generous gift, Lord Emhyr,” the dismissal is obvious in the king’s tone. 

 “The pleasure is mine, my liege.” The words sound broken in his mouth, like he’s chewed them up. A cold finger traces down your spine as his eyes meet yours again. “I thank you for your counsel.” 

 —

 The sky is dark, angry black clouds roiling above the keep. You’ve not seen much rainfall in Rivia since your arrival, but today the clouds above you seem full to bursting, the smell of the imminent downpour filling your nostrils. Still, you take your time as you stroll through the gardens, stopping every so often to enjoy the sight of flowers in bloom. 

 “You are enjoying the gardens today, my Lady,” Kassandra’s observance is gently made, though she looks worriedly up at the sky. 

 “I feel I must,” you reply, leaning down to inspect a half-closed bud. “Summer here is drawing to a close, and I must admit I fear the cold.” You offer her a small smile over your shoulder. 

 “Have you no winter in Redania?” She asks, wonder coloring her words. “The land of eternal summer indeed.” 

 “No snow,” you agree, shaking your head. “Tis more like… autumn.” There is a wistfulness to your words you cannot suppress, a longing that brings moisture to your eyes. In truth, you doubt it will matter how many years you spend here at court—Rivia will never feel like home. Kassandra smiles thoughtfully. 

 “I should like to see it, my Lady,” she says. “Twould not be a chore to accompany you—if you wished it so. The winter here is harsh, even within the city walls.” 

 “Aye, winter on the continent is no easy task to weather.” The two of you turn at the sound of a new voice to face the speaker. Duke Emhyr bows respectfully, removing his cap as he does so. “I did not mean to intrude—I find the gardens less familiar than I imagined,” he adds, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Might I trouble you for an escort?” 

 You had not seen the duke since his spectacle at court the day prior, the matter of which had the courtiers aflutter with gossip. You suppose you, like Duke Emhyr, had been equally blindsided in the matter of your mother’s courtship and her subsequent marriage. Nervously, you wonder if his feelings of dissatisfaction—and possible animosity—extend to you by proxy. Kassandra curtsies, and you nod, forcing a small, charitable smile onto your lips. 

 “O-of course, my Lord.” You reply. “I myself find the task of navigating the keep daunting, despite calling this place home.” Kassandra falls into step just behind you, and you must physically stop yourself from commanding her to walk beside you. Though you’ve little personal regard for the importance of blood and titles, you know here in Rivia those things matter above all else. The duke is more than happy to ignore her, his hawkish eyes weighing heavily on you. 

 “How long has it been since your arrival at the White Keep, if you will indulge my curiosity?” 

 “Nearly three months.” Though you have kept count of every passing day since your arrival, to say it aloud makes homesickness rear up in your chest. The duke clucks his tongue pityingly. 

 “Tis a shame. Redania is quite beautiful this time of year. I have had the pleasure of many a visit.” He clasps his hands behind his back and casts a look at the dreary sky. “Nilfgaard is my home, but I would be a liar if I said I did not envy the beauty of the southern jewel.” The wistfulness in his voice inspires thoughts of warm autumn nights scented with pine and faded sunlight. But a warning echoes in your heart at the false note in it, the one that reminds you of the coy, prying questions of your mother’s ladies in waiting, only cloaked in a cleverer disguise.

 “Indeed.” You round the corner of a hedge. “I have never seen snow, now that I think of it. I should much like to, now that I am older.” 

 “Never seen snow?” The duke echoes your words, replacing your simple desire with shock. “Though I would not speak ill of your late father—Redania has never seen a finer Regent—I do believe he kept you far too sheltered.” It takes effort to keep your smile from going thin at the mention of your father. As  if in response, a dull ache throbs in your chest. 

 “How lucky for us, then, that his death should bring me here.” You flick the words from your tongue like the lashing of a whip. There is a brief moment of dark satisfaction as the duke’s eyes widen, and his confident words falter. 

 “My sincerest apologies, Princess, I did not mean—”

 “No, of course not.” You reply, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat. “Forgive me, Duke Emhyr. My father I are—were, quite close.” You offer him an apologetic smile. “Might we speak of something else?” 

 “Of course, of course. My deepest sympathies.” He casts a furtive glance in your direction. “I hope you have been enjoying your time here, despite the… unfortunate circumstances.” You nod primly—for what words do you have to  describe the aching emptiness that fills you at the thought that home is a distant             thing now, the memory of a place you no longer belong. 

 “I have found ways to occupy myself.” You feel as thin as your smile. “The White Keep is large, there are many ways to spend ones time.”

 “And Her Majesty has certainly taken to her role,” he continues. “She has taken to court as though she were born here.” There is a note of bitterness in his voice. “Has she spent much time in Rivia? Surely during His Majesty’s rather short courtship—”

 “I know little of my mother’s courtship,” you say flatly, your eyes narrowed. “If you wish to know about it, perhaps you should ask her.” This time, it is difficult to leash your ire. You grow tired of the duke’s probing, his thinly veiled attempts to pick information from conversation behind the shield of feigned ignorance.

 “Highness—”

 “I trust you will can your way from here.” There is an unfamiliar coldness that underscores your words, one that uncomfortably reminds you of your mother. It is like hearing her own voice from your mouth, leaving a sour taste on your tongue. “Lady Kassandra, l believe we should take our leave.” 

 “At once, My Lady.”

 You leave him at the entrance to the gardens in the courtyard, sweeping past as his eyes bore into your back. 

 —

 “How does it end?” You are sat before the fire, a book held tenuously in your hands. Your loose, traditional dress is folded beneath you primly as the flames dance in the hearth. “How does it end?” Your father repeats warmly, chuckling as he leans forward to rest a hand on your shoulder. “You stopped reading.” 

 You can’t quite recall where you were now, the words seeming to shift on the page as you squint at them. 

 “I… I don’t remember now,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at your father. Though the flames are bright, his face is shadowed, but you get the feeling that he is smiling. 

 “The princess has just met the wolf,” he replies. “She doesn’t know it yet, but he plans to devour her whole—body, and spirit.” You look down at the page. “She is careful, the princess, and clever, but the wolf is sly, and he is not the only thing she has to fear.” You do not know why, but his words fill you with an incomparable sorrow. 

 “What else does she have to fear? Is the wolf not enemy enough?” You are crying. You don’t know why, but you are, tears pouring down your face and dripping messily off of your chin to stain the pages with salt. 

 “Weep not, daughter. She may yet avoid his jaws—and if not that, then perhaps she might at least turn him to her will. But the peacock—she is her true enemy.” 

 “A bird?”

 “Yes, dear girl,” your father’s voice goes strangely quiet as the fire burns low in the hearth, and the sitting room is shrouded in gloom. “For while her pretty feathers distract you, her beak plucks out your eyes.” 

 You wake blearily, blinking in the darkness as you struggle back to wakefulness. Instead of your bed, you are knelt on the cold, stone floor in front of the half-dead hearth. The embers that still smolder within are not enough to give off true heat, and pins shoot through your legs when you struggle to your feet. It is frigid in here, and you shiver, clutching your thin nightgown tightly around yourself. 

 You’ve no memory of leaving your bed, nor of kneeling in front of the hearth, and you sniffle as you make your way back beneath the canopy above your bed. There is a familiar ache in your tight throat that feels like you’ve been crying, and when you lift a shaking hand to your cheek. 

 Your face is wet with tears.

 —

 Your mother strokes your head as you sob, your tears soaking into her gown. 

 “I—I fear sleep, I fear waking,” you rasp, wiping at your sore eyes with the back of one trembling hand. “T-there is no respite from them. I close my eyes in one place and open them in another—” A hiccoughing sob cuts the words in half. “Mother I fear I… I fear I shall go mad if I see father again. His face—!” You bury your head in her lap as another round of shuddering sobs wracks your limp body. 

 It has been years since you have sought your mother’s comfort like this, and in truth you cannot remember the last time it was even offered. She had been surprised to see you at her chamber door at this hour, disheveled and still clad in your nightgown, but she had let you in after you’d tearfully recounted the contents of your dreams. 

 She strokes your head. “Nightmares, my love. Nothing but terrors spun up by your mind—brought on from stress, no doubt.” Her hand is cool and comforting against your forehead. “I shall have the healer assemble something for you.” 

 “T-thank you, mother.” You offer her a watery smile.

 “Anything for you, my love.” She strokes your cheek affectionately, the bandage wrapped around her index finger rough against your skin. “I do so hate to hear of your suffering, I will do what I can to appease it.” You smile wider, even as you swallow back the inappropriately bitter feeling that says you have been suffering all this time regardless. This was the response you had desired from her all those weeks ago when you’d begged her to send you home—and now, for some reason, it feels… hollow. 

 “What happened to your finger?” You ask, and she sighs, waving her hand dismissively. 

 “A hairpin, nothing to worry yourself over.” You dry your eyes, dabbing at them with a handkerchief. Your mother barely acknowledges the timid knock at the door before the chambermaid pokes her head inside. 

 “Highness? H-His Majesty is here.” 

 Your mother does not look surprised to hear this. If anything, the corners of her mouth curl up into a sly smile for half an instant before she nods. 

 “I see. I shall see to him in a moment—” The maid squeals as the King himself pushes past her, his eyes wild. 

 “Thayet!” He calls your mother’s name with a hoarse, desperate voice. “I have waited over an hour for you—oh.” He seems to note your presence with all of the recognition one would give a fly. His bright, golden eyes are cloudy with confusion—as though he hasn’t the faintest idea who you are, or why you are there. Recognition finally lights in his eyes, and he nods at you. 

“Princess. It is… quite late,” he says slowly, as if he is only now realizing that fact himself. “Should you not be abed?” Your face heats with embarrassment. 

 “Ah, y-yes, my King. I was… troubled.” Your eyes dart between him and your mother. “But mother has allayed my fears.” You gather your shawl about your shoulders, bowing your head respectfully. Of course he would visit her as a husband—that is a fact you suppose you have known since you came to this place, but to catch the King in your mother’s bedchamber was another thing entirely. 

 The eagerness in his eyes as he looks at her, the way he licks his lips—it reminds you uncomfortably of Geralt, and of the need you see mirrored in his amber eyes. You retreat from the sitting room, though the sound of your mother’s voice makes you glance over your shoulder one last time as the door begins to close. 

 “I shall send Callista with a sleeping draught,” your mother calls at your retreating back. “For the dreams.” 

 Your stomach turns uncomfortably as you watch the king latches onto your mother, pulling her close as he trails desperate kisses down her arm. You are too far away to hear the words he growls through his gritted teeth before ripping at the bandage on her thumb and sucking the injured digit into his mouth. 

 The door closes with a loud bang, leaving you alone in the dark, empty hall. 

 The peacock, your father whispers in your memory as you shuffle back toward your room in the early hours.

 She’ll pluck out your eyes. 

to be continued…

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

#henry cavill #henry cavill fandom #henry cavill fic #henry cavill x reader #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x you #geralt x you #geralt of rivia smut #geralt smut #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt of rivia fanfiction #geralt x y/n #dark fantasy #dark!fic #darkfic #boxofbonesfic #tonality fic

[dadralt]

#thewitcheredit #hcavilledit #geralt of rivia #the witcher netflix #**gifs #sorry they're so dark lmao

[heytheredeann]

Just say this isn't goodbye for good. That there are more good nights to come. That you will, in whatever form... think of me.

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 9

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I can't explain why but damn I'm so tiredddd.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

As you approach the capital, you can’t help but poke your head up to admire the domes of the great castle and the high towers. The gates stand open as the party advances, in wait of their new liege and lord. You shield your eyes against the sun as you gaze at the silhouette of the mighty architecture. 

“May as well get a good gander,” Bryce says, “doubt the kitchens are any more glorious than the ones you know.” 

“Mm,” you retract your gaze and sigh, “suppose. But they will still be new to me.” 

“Not all that is new is wondrous,” he girds. “For as much as I’ve seen in this world, it is the familiar that keeps me sane.” 

You nod and let the cart rock you. Ahead of you, the horses tread over rocks and dirt, wagons bounce and creak, and some servants walk afoot to ease the cramps in their legs. You lean lazily on a chest and fold your hands in your lap. It will at least be nice to stay beneath a proper roof again. 

The streets of the city are crowded with faces. They do not holler for you but you can hear the raucous uproar ahead as the king and queen ride between the citizens. There are even more black and grey soldiers stationed along the roads, awaiting your arrival. 

As you wind up to the royal castle, the noise grows tantamount. At the walls of the grand structure, clusters of people threaten to crush the party between their writhing bodies. It takes some time after the king’s entrance for the luggage to make way into the courtyard. 

The carts depart around the back of the castle as the horses make way for the stables. You climb out as Bryce lurks around, dismounting Daisy with a grunt as he rubs his lower back. You glance over at him as the other servants quickly fall into work. 

“Maid,” he calls to you before you can follow suit, “no doubt the queen will need to wash away the road before she faces the hordes.” 

He beckons you forth with his gauntlet and you diligently near him. He hands off Daisy to a castle servant and carries on inside. You scurry beside him as he stops and gauges his surroundings. He is not versed with the corridors but he presses on unimpeded. 

You turn back a few times before you reach the great hall. It is crowded and chaotic. The soldier strides through without pause. You nearly grab onto him just to keep from being lost in the stirring of soldiers and servants, and the tittering lords and ladies in their colourful garb. 

Up the stairs and a few questions grunted to his comrades, Bryce takes you down to a set of chambers with yet another soldier before it. You’re let inside without question. You find Queen Jazlene before a steaming basin as another servant cleans her face. 

The queen scrunches up her nose and swats the lady servant, the maid still in the former king’s colours; burnt autumn orange and goldenrod yellow. 

“Watch my eyes, you moron,” Jazlene chides and jabs her nail into the maid’s ribs. 

“My lady, I didn’t mean--” 

“I am a queen, not a lady,” Jazlene hisses, “be gone before I have your teeth knocked out of that stupid mouth of yours.” 

The other maid wrings the cloth and steps back on her heel, chewing on an apology before she spins to flee. As she nears the door, she notices you and gives a panicked look. You reach to take the cloth from her before you go to the queen. 

“Your highness,” you greet her and dip the cloth back in the steaming water. “Would you like me to put ribbons in your hair?” 

“Mm, I suppose,” she tilts her face up and closes her eyes, “once the dirt is gone. By gods, I hate traveling.” 

You gently wipe along her hairline and trace the outline of her face. You delicately but intently clean away the errant dust and streaks. You drape the cloth over the brim of the basin and turn to the table. 

“And would you like your lips painted?” You intone. “Your highness, I do think your natural tones are beautiful.” 

As you peek back at her, her eyes open and she stares at you. Her nostrils compress as she inhales. She puts her head straight and looks at her reflection. 

“Do you think so?” She touches her cheeks. 

“Yes, I do, if you line your eyes, they might appear bigger but they are so lovely and dark already,” you compliment. 

She hums and tilts her head, turning her attention back on you, “it’s you.” 

You lower your head, “your highness?” 

“You’re always flitting around like some bird,” she sniffs, “suppose you are not so... agitating as the other. Yes, ribbons and some kohl. Then I will have one of the former queen’s gowns. They have delivered her wardrobe to me.” 

“Yes, your highness,” you say and go to work. 

You settle into your usual lull. The queen sips from her goblet as you twine ribbons with her curls, a halo around the crown of her head as coiling strands hang down to her back. She looks even more immaculate than you’ve seen her before. 

She calls for a dress and you bring her several options from those strewn across the large bed. She chooses the lavender and you help her into the light silk. You relace it to account for her lither figure, the former queen having some extra years in her hips. 

When she is dressed, she twirls before the mirror. She stops and sets her chin straight and glares at herself. She arches a brow coyly. 

“I cannot wait to see Lady Florence,” she scoffs, “she will choke when she realises I am her queen.” 

You linger by the wall, blending into the tapestry as she sighs and eyes the glass affectionately. She primps herself and spins again. 

“Well then, I must be overdue,” she goes to the door, “I must go to the king and show him I can be his queen.” 

You open the door for her and follow her out. The soldiers outside glance at her but do not move or speak. Bryce comes up beside you as you trail after Jazlene. She struts to the end of the corridor and is stopped by another guard at another door. 

“Do not think to stop me,” she spits, “I am the queen,” she flicks her fingers in his direction, “don’t be absurd.” 

The man lets her through as she tugs on the latch and his dull eyes stare past her. She hardly has the effect she thinks. People do not admire her so much as they tolerate her. 

She sweeps into the chamber as you wait outside. Bryce lets out a gritty breath and taps his fingers on his sword pommel. He chews more of the sweet leaves he loves so much. Jazlene emerges with a doe-like look. 

“Where is the king?” She exclaims. 

“He has gone to address the people,” the guard picks at his teeth. “He tired of waiting--” 

“Do not tell me about the king,” Jazlene snaps on the soldier, “ugh, let us find my husband. How can he think to face my people without me at his side?” 

She storms onward and you can only follow. She will no doubt need wine sooner than later, though you wish she might take more water or milk instead. Bryce keeps your pace slowed as he makes little haste. 

As she descends the steps, you can hear the king’s voice. The crowd is hushed, almost hypnotised as he speaks from atop a chair. Somehow, he is both overwhelming and unassuming. Jazlene shows as she sees him. The crowd does not move out of her way as they are rapt in his words. 

“...do not come as conquerer, but as liberator,” he declares, “I am not here to suppress but to unite. Our kingdoms, forged together as one, can attain glory. Peace. Joy. Our people needn’t suffer the droughts or frost rot without relief. By coming together, we will join summer and winter in harmony,” the king holds his sword, the tip on the armrest of the wooden chair, “to you lords who stayed loyal to Waleran, I do not seek retribution. You only did your duty and served the king you put an oath to. You had no part in his violations upon myself. I am aware you could not rein in your greedy master. You will keep what is yours, as by rights, but you will swear fealty to the new crown.” 

King Geralt looks around the hall, “I have spoken to the farmers and the peasants, I have seen the beauty of your lands. I wish not to ravage it but to build it. You will not have only from me writs and declarations, you will have fields sown, you will have harvests reaped, you will have coin in flow, and you will have full bellies.” 

He raises his great sword over his head. The large weapon could be held only by two-hands in anothers grasp but he lifts it effortlessly. 

“I saw how your king tucked tail when he saw me on the field. After you good lords followed him to battle and sacrificed your men and your blood. He could not stand and fight, but many of you did, many of you not here today. I will not let their souls be spent in vain,” he pauses and his golden eyes rove around the room. He points his sword suddenly towards you but not quite, at Jazlene, “I have taken a summer wife.” He curls his fingers to gesture her to him. People swivel to see her and clear the path to the king, “a winter’s king must have a summer’s queen, if our kingdoms our to rise anew.” 

Jazlene sways before she gets her footing. She moves forward, chin high as she lets a grin break out over her face. She looks this way and that, gloating as she goes to her husband. He steps down as she approaches and he takes her hand. He helps her up on the chair herself and she seems almost confused by the act. 

“Queen Jazlene of Debray,” King Geralt proclaims, “she will return with me to the Hinterlands to see that order is kept across our realm and perhaps, the next time I look upon you all, I will have an heir to present to you. A young prince to lead us into the sun ahead.” 

He raises Jazlene’s hand as she fawns. The crowd breaks out in racket, voices swelling to the rooves as you’re jostled against Bryce. The lords and ladies, servants and soldiers, throw up fists and hoot and holler. 

The king brings his sword up again, silence falling at the gleam of its silver blade, “but first, a feast!” 

The fervour is even louder as the hall explodes in glee. You hear it ripple out the doors into the crowd without and like an ocean, the tides carry through the courtyard and front gates, streaming into the city. Peace has come and old grudges cannot take the shine from the gift of a king’s mercy. 

⚔️

“Your highness, we heard of what happened on Stag’s River,” an earl, you think he said his name was Kelvan, “it was a brave stand. Admirable, even standing upon the other ridge.” 

“You were there?” King Geralt muses, “mm, how fortunate our paths did not cross.” 

“Indeed, your highness,” the earl agrees, “I must admit, I dreaded it.” 

“But here we are, alive, together, as allies. It is all I ever wanted.” 

“And we knew it. We knew it, my liege, for when you let our men march back at all, we saw your grace,” Kelvan smiles. 

“Yes, but I have only ever admired your lands, never had I wanted to ruin them,” the king assures as he looks over at his wife. 

“He is a brave and good king,” Queen Jazlene praises as she puts her hand over the king’s. 

Lord Kelvan’s lips ripple, “mm, yes, I have not seen your father yet. If I shan’t happen upon the Duke, you will send my regards.” 

There’s an edge that makes you uneasy. You see how Jazlene bobs her head, “so I shall.” 

She doesn’t seem to notice the tick of resent in the earl’s cheek. How odd it is that they are so fond of the invader and yet their own kith and kin, they cannot help but revile. You’ve heard the whispers swirling already. It was not King Geralt who betrayed these people but this snakish woman and her blood. 

“Wine, girl, now,” Jazlene snaps as the early departs back to his seat. 

You stand against the wall, just behind the bench she shares with the king. You come forward with the jug reserved only for her, nearing between the shoulders of the royal couple. Before you can put the spout to brim, King Geralt’s hand catches the swollen belly of the ewer. 

“Perhaps you might have some more lamb before you indulge further, wife,” he girds. 

“It is a feast,” she slurs, “I am only celebrating. With you,” she touches his sleeve, “my king.” 

“I see that,” his voice is low but firm, “yet you are a queen and your subjects are watching.” 

“I can stomach my wine,” she sneers. 

He huffs and wraps his hand around the bottom of the handle, just below your grip. He wiggles it away from you and sets it on the other side of his plate. Jazlene lets out a childish gasp. 

“It is just wine,” she snivels. 

King Geralt runs his fingers along his collar, “we are having a good night,” he says as he peers out on the crowd, “please, let us not make a scene.” 

“I am not making a scene. I am the queen and I want more wine,” she insists. 

He faces forward completely. You stay as you are, trapped in their indecision. He blocks the jug with his elbow and she claps her hands on her lap and kicks her feet.  

“Perhaps you should have some of that wine,” she mutters, “it might make you kinder.” 

The king doesn’t reply and instead greets another lord; one who introduces himself as the Count of Bress. As they speak, Jazlene leans back on the bench and tugs your skirt. You look down at her. 

“Find more wine,” she growls, “and don’t be obvious about it.” 

“Your highness, but the king--” 

“I am your master, not him,” she snarls and nudges you harshly, “be away before I lose my patience.” 

You dip your head and notice how the king’s head turns towards his wife. You don’t look back as you critter off quickly into the shadows. You might be better to take your time and tell her you could not abscond any more wine. If you wait long enough, it might even slip her mind, as so often her desires fade into the next. 

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #medieval au #au #series #the witcher #winter's king

[holylulusworld]

Broken Rose (Prologue)

Summary: He may have stolen your kingdom and freedom – but he’ll never own your heart. Right?

Pairing: Alpha!Geralt of Rivia x Queen(Omega)!Reader

Warnings: heavy angst, mentions of death/fighting/blood, mentions of forced/arranged marriage trope, friends to enemies to ???, a/b/o, magic

Broken Rose masterlist

A broken rose. That’s what he called you the day he forced you to share his life and bed. Right after he defeated your brave knights, the undefeatable master of darkness, the monster with yellow eyes claimed you as his bride and mate.

Cries. The smell of blood, death, and despair still lingered in the back of your mind when he claimed not only your kingdom but your body too.

The lost battle still tasted bittersweet on your tongue when he stole the first kiss and promised to make you his obedient queen.

He believed that you’ll bow your head and fulfill his every wish.

What he didn’t get was that roses have thorns, and they can cut deep into the flesh of someone who tries to pick them…

“Watch the left flank!” You yelled at your knights while holding your ground. A queen fighting alongside her knights and commoners to defend their homelands from the enemy.

“He’s merciless,” Adekin, one of your most trusted knights said. “We should retreat, my queen. You cannot die out here among us. Go back to the castle.”

“If I die, I’ll do it next to you and my knights,” you threw yourself into another fight, slicing the enemies invading your homeland open with the sword your father gifted to you. “This is my kingdom and my people. I will not back down!”

“He’s the black magician, the Witcher enchanting even beasts,” he cut the next enemy's head off. “We cannot withstand much longer, my queen. Please head back to the castle.”

“No!” You refused to fall back and run away like a coward. If your life ended tonight, it would end on your conditions. “This is my fight as much as yours. It’s my birthright to defend this country and feed the earth with my blood.”

“My queen,” Adekin protected you with his shield and struck another enemy down. “It’s an honor to fight alongside you. It will be an ever greater honor to die for you.”

“No one will die tonight,” you rammed your dagger into an attacker’s side. “He will not win.” You gritted your teeth. “This is our kingdom. The Witcher cannot have it.”

“Y/N, queen of Rosethra,” the ground shook when his voice cut through the night. The monsters attacking you stopped in their tracks, and your knights dropped their swords to the ground. “I came here to ask for your hand.”

“Go back to where you came from,” even now, he couldn’t enchant you with his magic. “Here is nothing for you, Geralt of Rivia. I will never bow for you. Kill me now if you are man enough.”

His laughter made you even angrier. You gripped your sword tighter and prepared for the final battle. “My sweet rose,” he stepped out of the darkness, smirking darkly because you were the last one standing.

Your knights fell to their knees, defeated by an invisible power holding them down.

“What are you doing to them?” You screamed as Adekin looked back at you with black eyes. “No…stop this!”

“Queen of Rosethra, I came here to unite our kingdoms,” he stepped toward you, his hands raised in surrender, but not defeated at all. “Give yourself to me, and your people will live. Your knights will live. No one must die tonight if you agree to become mine.”

You looked at Adekin, your fallen knight. He didn’t deserve to turn into one of the monsters following Geralt. You knew his magic could enslave your beloved people, and couldn't let them suffer because of your dignity and pride.

You gritted your teeth but kneeled in front of him.

For now, the battle was lost. So, you chose to save your people and give up on your freedom. You placed your sword in front of you and tilted your head in submission.

“If you shelter their lives and don’t turn them into monsters,” you glared up at Geralt, the man who used to be your confidant and friend, “I’m yours...” 

Part 2

Tags in reblog.

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #alpha!geralt of rivia x omega!reader #a/b/o #Broken Rose (Prologue) #geralt of rivia x you #dark!geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x y/n

[spielzeugkaiser]

How you feel about blind Jaskier au??? 👀

I hadn't thought about it honestly, but...

I think I like it! I pictured Poppy as some kind of samoyed, looks-like-some-kind-of-wolf mix and Jaskier had her since he was 14. Overall it's pretty much the same; I think Geralt speaks and hums and grunts a bit more. (Also Poppy absolutely adores him.)

#jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #the witcher #the witcher netflix #geralt x jaskier #answered asks #artwork #I think Geralt looks out for him more when they are in cities - in his own very subtle ways #(Jaskier knows) #and we will ask Geralt to describe him things or ask him to read stuff aloud #which he does #i think maybe Jaskier can distinguish a bit of light and dark but that's it

[geraltofriviagwynbleidd]

Nothing unusual. Just Dandelion being Dandelion and Geralt being Lambert!

#геральт из ривии #ведьмак #the witcher 3 #geralt of rivia #gwynbleidd #the witcher #andrzej sapkowski #henry cavill #geralt #ciri and geralt #dark horse comics #dark horse books #comics #Ofir #the witcher netflix #the witcher fanart #cd projekt red #cd project #Poland #geralt x dandelion #dandelion x geralt #dandelion #jaskier x geralt #geralt x jaskier #witcher geralt #geralt z rivii #lambert x geralt #geralt x lambert #liam hemsworth #anya chalotra

[extraordinary-heroes]

The Witcher: Fading Memories #2 (Cover art by Evan Cagle)

#the witcher #evan cagle #geralt of rivia #cd projekt red #dark horse comics #dark horse #textless cover art #artwork #illustration

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Tonality [5]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous Chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.

“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand. 

Your father is to be buried tomorrow. 

You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.

“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin. 

“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar. 

Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird.  You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone. 

“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle. 

“Please, mother—”

“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch. 

You cannot stop—

She will not let you. 

You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.

“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear. 

“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle. 

“Now close his eyes.”

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes. 

Perhaps I am mad, after all.

Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady. 

They stay.

“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things. 

At least, you try to. 

The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.

“W-who is it?”

“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?” 

“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face. 

Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression. 

“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.” 

“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”

“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one. 

You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses. 

“You won’t need them.”

The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you. 

“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.

“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself. 

“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.” 

You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric. 

“Even so, our fashion does suit you.”  You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line. 

“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.

“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired. 

“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”

“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling. 

“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways. 

“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here. 

“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”

“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.” 

“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.

“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”

In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—

And then burnt their dreams out. 

“What did it cost?”

“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”

Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know. 

But the witch might. 

—

The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below. 

There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty. 

The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions. 

You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”

Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges. 

Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone. 

The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms. 

It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again. 

The thought spurs you onward. 

The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.

You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square. 

The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago. 

The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.

“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.

“I—I am looking for—”

“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too. 

She is an elf. 

It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.

“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look. 

“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed. 

“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside. 

The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl. 

“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.” 

“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again. 

“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?” 

Your throat tightens. 

“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.” 

The stone stops. 

“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence. 

“And what do you dream?”

“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”

“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand,  she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye. 

“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm.  She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.” 

“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes. 

“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.” 

“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles. 

“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron. 

“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead. 

“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace. 

“Please, I—”

“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart. 

“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!” 

“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.” 

“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine. 

“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you. 

It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?

Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known? 

Would he have even wanted to?

Perhaps I can just ask him myself.

The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses. 

It is by that grace alone that you see the man. 

You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip. 

“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black. 

Nilfgaardian.

 You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards. 

The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky. 

“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.” 

Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet. 

“No.” 

“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you. 

“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.” 

“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble. 

“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat. 

“I’ve little stomach for lies.”  

A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you,  clears his throat. 

“Here, my Lord.” 

The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—

No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.

As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.

The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale. 

“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!”  There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth. 

“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not  comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them. 

The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed. 

“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”

Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling. 

“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”

The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night. 

“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.” 

“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king’s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear. 

“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”

 “Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.” 

He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck. 

“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.

“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.” 

Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry. 

“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder. 

He came for me.

Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.

“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”

In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse. 

“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”

Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.” 

You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—

A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing. 

“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak. 

“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums. 

“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.” 

You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—

The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours. 

Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.

“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark. 

I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure. 

Just for a little while. 

to be continued…

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[katrinsupernova]

Grain of Truth, The Witcher

Illustrations for The Witcher, the Last wish

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[ex0skeletal-undead]

The Witcher by Anato Finnstark

#art #illustration #digital art #fan art #dark art #fantasy #the witcher #geralt of rivia