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do-androids-dream-ao3acc · 8 months

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Iorveth, Vernon Roche, his bald spot and Emhyr

Yes, this must sound utterly strange. Yesterday, @fandomwarehouse posted their hc about Iorveth seeking revenge on Emhyr because Vernon Roche is going bald in this post. Then, @she-who-drank-vodka-with-cats fueled my sudden interest in writing a story about this with even more hilarious ideas. Anyway, I know I said I have no time and I asked @valandhirwriter to write something, and she did, but so did I. Meaning here's two (very different) stories about Iorveth's assassination attempts on Emhyr – all because Vernon Roche is going bald. This was fun! It's not going on AO3 so ... do your magic, Tumblr!

Sine Qua Non (by @valandhirwriter)

Belletyne had never quite been Emhyr’s favourite celebration, at least not during his tenure in Nilfgaard. It had always reminded him of what he had lost, of things done and gone. Even now, that Belletyne had become the much happier occasion as the Crown Princess’s birthday, Emhyr was tense as he watched the guests mill about the wide areal of the royal gardens. Cirilla moved among them with ease, smiling and exchanging polite words. She was here and there charming her way through the assembled nobility, breaking a few hearts while she was at it. It allowed Emhyr to watch, observe and keep his distance from the general merrymaking.

Now and then he cast a glance across the flower rondel to where he could see Geralt. Sir Geralt of Rivia, Chevallier de Corvo Bianco made a better figure on these events than one might expect from a former Witcher. The Duchess of Toussaint had done Emhyr an indirect favour by bestowing estate and title on the man - as it allowed for him to be called to court without arousing suspicion. With Emhyr’s… fondness of the man, that was a boon indeed.

And it was why he watched so nervously. Cirilla had insisted that besides inviting her foster father, she also would invite her foster Uncle, another Witcher by the name of Eskel. Emhyr had of course been aware of the man’s existence. He had extensive files on each and every member of the school of the wolf, that had still been living around the time that Cirilla had come into their care. And the man in question had fought in Undvik. Otherwise, he was of no consequence, except that it seemed his daughter remembered him fondly.

Or Emhyr wished that this was the only consequence there was, if his daughter had a Witcher on hand, who could occasionally take missions from her or act as a body-guard, he’d not deny her, Emhyr had availed himself of Geralt’s help often enough, after all. But there was another reason Eskel was here. Cirilla had decided that she had it and wanted her Uncle and her foster father to stop avoiding each other. And with that, she had thrown a stone into a hornet’s nest. Emhyr knew that Eskel was highly critical of Geralt’s relationship with Emhyr, or of his acceptance of a noble title in the south. And while Geralt rarely cared what others thought of him, and did as he pleased, this was not just some stranger but a kind of older brother.

Emhyr peered over nervously, how easy could it be that some stern words of the dark Witcher could make Geralt break it off with Emhyr? Decide that it was dishonourable for his kind to be in an… affair with a ruler? The thought made Emhyr’s stomach churn. The two witchers stood in the shadow of a huge dove tree and the conversation appeared tense. Geralt stood leaning back on his heels, arms crossed in front of his chest, and his brother mirrored that posture, both were ready to argue or fight. From the distance it struck Emhyr how similar those two were - of sure, the colouring was different, Geralt was pale, with white hair, and Eskel was dark, bronze tanned and had dark hair, but otherwise, they were similar, body language, the same cat-like movements, even the same over-sharp reactions to their surroundings.

He wished he could listen in, hear how the conversation went. And yet, he did not want to know. He could imagine how that would go. He is the Emperor of Nilfgaard, the man who had you almost executed, a conqueror with more blood on his hands than any other before him, a coward, a liar, an overall cruel man. He is not worthy of you, Geralt. That’s what his older brother would say, before reminding Geralt of his duties to the school of the wolf and the world as a whole.

A loud gong announced noon - the hour of the sun - and Cirilla approached Emhyr, casting her foster father a sharp glance. Geralt dutifully left his place and followed her over, Eskel in tow. There as a short gaggle of servants to prepare the goblets for the semi-private blessing of the reborn child - in this case, Cirilla, before the servant approached with a tray of glasses. Emhyr was handed his glass, of course, before the tray was presented to the others.

“Kaer Morhen toast, dearest Crown Princess?” Eskel suddenly asked, he had a deep, hard voice. “To celebrate your twenty-fifth year and your ascension?”

Emhyr was startled, Ascension was not a concept of Nilfgaard, but familiar. Why was he bringing it up? To his surprise Cirilla beamed at Eskel, taking a glass, and gesturing the two witchers to follow suit. “Trade with me first, Eskel?” She asked, extending the hand with the glass.

Now Emhyr was confused, as he saw his daughter and the foreign Witcher reach around one another’s hand and exchange the glasses. Then Cirilla beamed at Emhyr. “Come, father, it is an old tradition and brings luck,” She said extending her hand.

Emhyr wanted to tell her that an Emperor did not trade glasses, but gave in, what was the harm? They traded glasses, and Cirilla turned to Geralt, while Eskel turned to Emhyr and the ritual was completed before Geralt offered the same trade to Emhyr, and then another time. Emhyr shook his head when the round ended with laughter. “Am I allowed to drink now?” he asked Cirilla a bit tersely.

She smiled at him. “Of course, father. May the sun illuminate your path.” They all drank. It was a Toussaint Pearl Wine, La Chaire de diable, a very intense vintage. Emhyr frowned, that should not have been served. Why had the cellarer brought this up?

He saw Geralt throw his head back, like in shock, and when he looked at him again, Geralt’s eyes were bleeding black, the same as Eskel’s. The two Witchers did not waste time, moving past Emhyr. At the same moment, a young man in a velvet doublet panicked and raced towards the next exit from the area, only to be caught by one of the soldiers stationed there, grabbing his neck, and quickly restraining him.

The full sequence of events hit Emhyr, the Witchers - and maybe Cirilla - must have detected the poison in the wine, and their inane glass exchanging had made sure the wine ended with the Witchers who were immune against most poisons. His heart skipped. Most poisons. Not all. What if Geralt had imbibed something even more dangerous for a Witcher? “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, his own worry covered by the additional harshness of the voice.

Cirilla looked to Eskel. “You spotted him,” she said softly.

Eskel pointed to the man in velvet and to another fat noble. “Fat one passed the vial to velvet, velvet dipped the contents into the crystal pitcher from which your Highness and her Imperial father are served,” he said firmly. “By the taste, it is a mix of Ashbloom, foxglove, winter lily, and snow-root. An old elven recipe.”

And slow acting, Emhyr added in his mind. Very slow acting. It would have meant a tortuous death for him and Cirilla. He cast a worried glance at Geralt, but his lover stood there, watchful, strong, with no signs of discomfort. “Eskel, can you get the name of their employer from them? My Axii never was that strong,” Geralt rasped.

Emhyr wanted to remind him that a confession under mind control was not a confession at all, but Eskel shrugged. “There are better ways,” he said, taking a glass of wine from a shell-shocked servant and adding something - where he got it, Emhyr could not say - to it. The wine became greenish, and after a finger gesture of Eskel, glittered with strange sparks. He went over to the man in velvet, opening his mouth with a hard grip around the jaw and forced the glass’s contents down his throat. He struggled, screamed and then slumped on a bench. Eskel - his eyes still black as the night - looked at him. “They tell you all the time about Witchers and how we breed us little monsters,” he said gravely, “now, there is a taste. You can feel it burn in your already, do you? The pain along the spine, and in your bones. They will start to grow first… to transform you…”

The man gasped. “You cannot do this. I… I am a baron…”

Eskel shrugged. “Barons, Beggars the substance knows no difference, you are meat and meat changes…”

The man’s hands were shaking, and there were swellings forming at his knuckles. “It begins,” Eskel said softly. “The pain is only moderate now, when the bone spikes break through your flesh, it will be agony… and you will not be able to pass out. More will come out of your spine… your shoulders…” He reached for his side, tossing a small vial up in the air. “It is reversible… but only before the first spike breaks through. You know what can save your life.”

Emhyr watched in a sick fascination, as the man’s fingers swelled further, and his eyes went from fear to anger… to capitulation. “I was hired by an elf…” he rambled, “a former Scoia’tel, Esthelin, he had a compromising letter, that would have incriminated me… I had no choice. He… he waits, for confirmation of the Emperor’s death… at the Three Coroner’s Tavern in the city…” He raised his swollen hands pleadingly. “Now… please… don’t make me a monster.”

Eskel took the vial and dumped it down the man’s throat, he passed out immediately and the guards took him away. They also had cleared out the shocked guests, to ask further questions to all of them, de Rideaux had taken over there.

“What did you do to him?” Emhyr asked sharply. “I will not have a baron, not even a guilty one, changed into a monster,” he remembered the quills all too well.

The dark Witcher scoffed. “I added some of your flowering elf-root seeds to the wine, it creates a strong allergic reaction, which leads to swelling and bulges at the joints. Uncomfortable, but essentially harmless. The rest was a sign, a useless one that produces nothing but sparkles.”

The entire threatening house of cards collapsed as Emhyr realised it had been a trick. A menacing trick, underlined by poison-black eyes and legends about the monsters from the North. And the Baron had spilt it all. Emhyr had already gestured to several guards. “Have de Rideaux apprehend the elf immediately.”

With the celebration cut short, Emhyr returned inside and used the short span in between to speak to Geralt. His eyes were slowly fading back to the familiar gold, and he was tense. “We need to find out what is behind this,” Geralt growled, “that dose could have killed you thrice over,” He stepped closer and touched Emhyr’s shoulders. “This was too close.”

While Emhyr agreed with the principle, he was more worried about Geralt. “What about you? You took the entire dose meant for me?” He wanted to fuss about his Witcher, just a little, to make sure he was alright.

“There never was danger for me, Ashbloom, foxglove, winter lily, and snow-root are all plants Witchers will use for food.”

Relief, sweet, painful relief exploded in Emhyr’s chest. Of course, that was why Eskel had recognized the taste, he was used to eating these plants. Eating poisonous plants. Without thinking he reached for Geralt, pulling him close into a chaste, but warm, kiss. “You will refrain from shocking me like that,” he added, trying to not show how relieved he was.

Geralt arched an eyebrow at him quizzically, maybe the strongest way it showed he was worried about the assassination attempt. They were disrupted by the news that the elf in question had been caught and brought to the palace dungeons. “Any hope the same trick will work on him?” Emhyr asked.

His lover shook his head. “No one beats an elf at botany. I need a word with Eskel… Vesemir taught him some mean trick, and I say: mean as in brutal, on how to get the truth from an elf. Takes a lot of control in sign magic,”

Emhyr chose to accompany Geralt, much as he did not fancy getting told he was not worthy of a certain white-haired witcher, he wanted to stay close to Geralt. Eskel listened to what Geralt had to say and shrugged. “I can do it - be warned while bloodless it is cruel. Very cruel. I can try words to soften him up before going all in, but if he is committed it will mean breaking him down.”

“And still bloodless?” Emhyr asked, he had seen enough interrogations to know how it looked, and where it led.

“Bloodless, there won’t be a mark on him,” Eskel cast him a sharp glance. And the glance said that he was doing this for Geralt, not for Emhyr.

The elf had been secured in the dungeon, tied to an iron bar. He had been stripped of weapons and armour and spat at them when they came in. Emhyr remained in the shadows, just willing to watch. “I’d usually be merciful with you,” he drawled, “put a few pins under fingernails and get the truth. Even the mages swear that five pins inserted under the nails break the strongest compulsion to keep silent. Works directly into the subconscious or something… would be much less messy.” He seemingly cleaned his hand with a rag.

“But as you committed a crime against his majesty, someone wants to do this the hard way.” He walked up to the elf, fingers lightly touching the ear tips.

Emhyr could see the elf freeze, the touch was so light, it could barely be felt, but suddenly there was fear in the elf’s eyes. “Awww,” Eskel mockingly cooed. “Now you see… all it takes is your anatomy. Even a human, knowing how your eartips work, could do some things to you, but a witcher, controlling the vibrations of aard… there is no limit.”

He did not move, Emhyr could not even see something, there was no visible touch, but the elf began to spasm, winding in a fierce wave of… lust? His body convulsing. Eskel held him there for less than a minute before removing his fingers. “Just a light one, for starters…” he said, “pain, pleasure, happiness… there is no feeling that cannot be stimulated in those ears of yours, even love. Where shall I take you? So much pain, that you curse your own mother for ever giving your father that first kiss? Or maybe lust? Make you want until you beg all the guards in this hellhole to take you? Love maybe… make you overwhelmingly set on this dungeon’s chief interrogator. He is even good looking for a d’hoine….”

The elf panted and spat on the ground. “You can kill me, like your master is killing Ivoreth’s d’hoine. Go on, Witcher…”

Emhyr cast a confused glance at Geralt. “Which lover?” he asked softly.

Eskel must have picked up on it. “Whom is my master killing?” he asked, almost caressing the elf’s ear tips. Emhyr saw the elf shudder in fear. How much control could be gained over an elf via this method? How much had they to fear being manipulated through their own anatomy? He had never heard of the secret before, but the demonstration had been clear.

“Ivoreth’s d’hoine… Vernon. Your Emperor had him poisoned with some sickness.” The elf growled. “Just like him, use the man first and then dispose of him when he finds a little happiness.”

“Being happy is never advisable in Nilfgaard,” Eskel replied, and Emhyr saw the elf’s shudder, not knowing what feeling Eskel had just incited him. “But what sickness is this… what is happening to Roche?”

“He… he is sick. His hair falls out, it changes colour…”

Eskel let go of the elf and walked around him. “Changes like this?” he pulled a few pale streaks from his own hair.

The elf nodded. “But it falls out, it gets thinner and thinner and…”

“He is getting grey and losing his hair?” Eskel shook his head. “And because of that, you wanted to assassinate the Emperor of Nilfgaard? Why?”

“This is his doing, and if he kills Ivoreth’s love, then he will not live to either.”

Eskel ran his hand through his dark hair. “In the kingdom of fools, you squirrels are all Emperors,” he growled, leaving the cell.

Outside the dungeon, Geralt looked at Emhyr. “You didn’t poison Roche, did you?”

“Why would I?” Emhyer was still slightly shaken by the revelation. “It would be damaging and put Temeria into needless unrest. Though why Ivoreth would overreact like that…”

“Sine qua non,” Eskel said. “That without not - the one thing we cannot be without. And Ivoreth now comes face to face with the pain of loving a human. He will watch him grow old and die, while he lives on almost unchanged. When he realises what happens it will get worse.”

Geralt had gone pale, the words might hit closer to home than he liked. “But… there is no need to kill the elves for this. Give them the information and maybe something to restore Roche’s hair a little…”

Eskel scoffed. “And the next time Roche shows frailty, the same will happen again. Humans are frail and short-lived. Ivoreth never considered that, much like you, brother. Wailia’s tears might be a solution, though Vesemir would turn in his grave if we resurrected that knowledge.”

Emhyr cast the witcher a sharp glare. “I should prefer you not take up the snake oil trade, Wailia’s tears are as much a myth, as Amritsar or the golden Elixir of dreams.”

“They exist,” Eskel and Geralt exchanged a glance. “They need some unusual ingredients - drowner spit, dragon teeth, piss of a royal gryphon - the good stuff. We might not even have to tell Ivoreth, brew it up, send it to him with his elf here as a “cure”, with a warning. The Empire retains its nasty image, Roche will be around a while longer, and all is well that ends well.”

Emhyr was about to answer when Geralt left his side and walked up to his brother. “What about the blood? You are just so beyond the line…”

Eskel shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, I know where to find someone who still is strong enough, brother,” he replied. “But that’s not what you want to ask, is it? You want me to make more.”

It was a strange dynamic between them, a mix of disapproval and worry, and a mix of misunderstanding and care. Emhyr could not truly translate it. “Sine qua non,” Geralt said softly. “I never understood what Vesemir or you meant by that… now I do. And…”

“You don’t want to lose him,” Eskel ran his hand through his dark hair. “Alright, you give me a week, and you make sure that Emperor survives all other elven heroics. And there will be more. Then we talk.” He stepped past his brother and cast a sharp glance at Emhyr. “I’ll say it only once - you hurt my little brother, you harm him, and it’s my blades that you need to worry about.”

It was a strange moment, usually, Emhyr would have rebuked such bluntness, but suddenly he felt elated. Because whatever else it may mean, it also meant acceptance for what he and Geralt were and might become. It was a chance and one he would grasp with both hands.

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The Thing About Iorveth, Vernon Roche and Emhyr (by me, @do-androids-dream-ao3acc, yes I have no title for this)

Geralt became suspicious at the second assassination attempt, Emhyr only at the third. As far as that was concerned, Vizima turned out to be a real viper's nest – no pun intended, because witchers, especially vipers, had nothing to do with it. Geralt quipped, however, that they also had a reason for such attacks. Emhyr did not find that funny.

This whole situation was quite surreal. Geralt came to Vizima more often; Emhyr had not yet left the north, as if he still had to mend fences, including with his own daughter. The latter had agreed to take up her inheritance, but she had set a peculiar condition: until the emperor would retreat to Nilfgaard, Geralt was to act as her advisor. It was a rather absurd proposal, which Geralt flatly rejected, saying that his dislike of politics was common knowledge. Whereupon Emhyr, of all people, had reminded him of his involvement in the death of Radovid.

In general, Emhyr. Where was this strict guy, who had once demanded that Geralt be bathed and dressed in black clothes before he had forbidden him to speak, yet now… Now he was still impatient, bossy, and quite demanding, but there was Ciri, and for some reason he had nothing, absolutely nothing to counter her with. Ciri was a force of nature, and Geralt found it quite appropriate that Emhyr was quite helpless in the face of it.

So Geralt was now somehow a member of Vizima’s court, feeling like an exotic exhibit in the showcase of an auction house. At least until the assassination attempts occured. The first one was almost ridiculous, a small explosive box smuggled among the cargo – whoever had placed it there only revealed they had no idea Emhyr did not even get to see such things. Emhyr claimed assassination attempts occurred almost daily in Nilfgaard, and that this one neither surprised him nor did he think it was original. Geralt thought he sounded almost proud. Perhaps the man had to keep convincing himself of his worth by withstanding attacks on his life, what did he know.

The second time was about a delivery to the kitchen. This time it was more sophisticated – Geralt later learned that the local supplier had taken a bribe. In this way, poisonous plants had found their way into the kitchen. Something must have gone wrong here, because the cook had recognized them immediately. Geralt found the composition strange: psilocybe mushroom, banewart and a branch of bohun upas, a tree with poisonous sap. All these plants resembled non-poisonous ones, but were easy to recognize for the trained eye. Incidentally, they grew in dense forests, which Geralt also told Emhyr, who did not care much.

"I leave the art of botany to those who know more about it," he had said, and he had not even let Ciri interfere, who had already reacted to the first assassination attempt with concern.

The third time, however, Emhyr's cool facade crumbled, as Geralt noticed, not without satisfaction. Emhyr had introduced a (in Geralt's eyes superfluous, insecure and somehow silly) gesture in Vizima, which consisted of him and Ciri conducting public negotiations, weather permitting, in the palace's spacious courtyard. Much later, Geralt learned that this had come about mainly because Emhyr found the palace ugly, dark and kind of creepy, which in turn was somehow cute. Ciri seemed to prefer being outdoors anyway, and so did he, of course. So there Geralt stood, one step behind the old and the new ruler, always trying to stifle a yawn and at the same time keeping an eye out for danger.

On that particular day, an arrow made it very close to Emhyr, an arrow from a bow that was later discovered near the outer wall. However, no trace of the archer was found. Emhyr had the bow shown to him, and he remarked, "This looks familiar."

Geralt was surprised, but also somehow pleased. He had now had many weeks of forced study with Emhyr, and had learned much in the process. Emhyr was extremely well-informed on certain subjects (though mostly politics, military matters, and espionage), and on some things he was a walking encyclopedia. He could quote Ciri's origin up to Lara Dorren by heart, had peculiar knowledge about the viper-witchers and knew very well about magic, despite an understandable aversion to it.

Somehow, Geralt liked that. Apart from insane rulers like Radovid, he had known those who were downright stupid, those who farted half the day into their throne’s pillow and seemed to have more straw in their heads than the farmers on the fields those king’s and queens owned. Emhyr was indeed literate, and interesting beyond that, which admittedly made Geralt a little uncomfortable. He found that bad deeds were not to be outweighed by aristocratic features, a mysterious nature, and a pleasant smell.

And yet he liked it, which of course he kept to himself. He also liked that Emhyr had been able to identify the carvings on the bow – it was clearly an elven weapon.

"Maybe even Scoia'tael," he thoughtfully added, whereupon Emhyr became pensive.

The fourth attack plunged the court into great chaos. A perfectly normal and hitherto quiet (i.e. boring) day of audiences was nearing its end, when a great roar sounded and finally the doors to the throne room were pushed open with force. Something – one could not describe it otherwise because of the confusion and its speed – flitted through the room, a tangle from which arrows occasionally escaped. In the end, it turned out to be a band of elves, Scoia'tael in fact, who made a lot of noise, but were basically only five men.

Emhyr's soldiers easily put down the small uprising, and yet one managed to get within a hair's breadth of Emhyr. Had it not been for Geralt, who had kept track in all the chaos and noticed that one man of this group had broken away. However, he was not the only one: the equally striving and attentive Impera captain had almost caught the elf when Geralt hastily shouted, "Stop! Let him live!"

After a bit of a scuffle, they actually managed to pin the elf down, and Geralt and Emhyr both shouted at the same time, "Iorveth?"

Indeed. They had captured the famous elf leader, whom neither Emhyr nor Geralt had ever believed they would see again – albeit for different reasons and with different feelings. The mess had somehow ruffled Emhyr’s hair; a curl had stolen from what was actually a well coiffed, severe hairstyle and hung down into his forehead. Geralt found this very inappropriate, because it reminded him of earlier times and caused a feeling in his stomach as if he had just drunk a good liquor – only without the intoxication, and that was somehow strange. In any case, Emhyr claimed that he needed to recover from this mess, although Geralt believed that the man was meeting with his intelligence chief in the background to exchange information. Some time later, Emhyr – again, quite odd – came to Geralt personally and asked him to be present at Iorveth's interrogation.

"You have a history together," he said. "Maybe he'll be more likely to tell you what this is all about than my torturers."

"I would think that’s clear even without torture," Geralt returned, "he's obviously not well disposed towards you, after all, you took advantage of him and then tried to have him executed."

"No man can undo his past," Emhyr replied cryptically, "and what was logical at an earlier time will seem cruel in many a history book. Be that as it may, it doesn't explain why he shows up years later to exact his revenge."

That was true, though. Admittedly, the Scoia'tael had not benefited much from peacetime so far. Emhyr had abolished all reprisals against otherlings in the North, but the execution of his orders still left much to be desired. It might be that Iorveth simply wanted to finally act out his deep resentment against Emhyr. However, it turned out that Geralt was quite wrong with this thought. After they had exchanged some typical rudeness, which in the case of Iorveth had been combined with much shouting, clamoring and fidgeting, Geralt demanded to know what the problem was.

"Emhyr is the problem, isn't that obvious?" spat the elf.

"Well," Geralt returned calmly, "I'm the last one who wants to play the diplomat here, but why are you coming up with this now? The war is over, and while conditions are certainly not ideal..."

"What?" Iorveth interrupted him, confused, "Who said it was about that?"

"It isn’t? Well, why then, if not out of a grudge against Emhyr?"

"Oh, you bet your ass I have a grudge," Iorveth scoffed. "Are you familiar with the concept of blood ties, Geralt?"

Geralt nodded, and then – maybe for old times' sake, or maybe because he finally had to get this off his chest, Iorveth told him everything.

Later, Geralt met with Emhyr, who had insisted on a private parley, without Ciri, without his curious valet, and without his soldiers. He was really acting strangely lately.

"We need a sorceress," Geralt said, "or a Ban Ard mage for all I care, if you have one handy."

"As it happens, I don't," Emhyr grumbled, uncomfortable with the thought of magic. "Why? Did the elves get involved with magic? Do they possess an artifact that could harm me or Cirilla? Do they have a mage at their service?"

"Nothing like that," Geralt said, and then he started laughing.

For a while he enjoyed Emhyr's wry look. Somehow the man had really changed. In the past, he would have had him thrown out right away; after all, laughter was not a pastime that was particularly popular at this court. Emhyr had become more patient, even with Geralt.

"If you would have the kindness to explain this to me?"

"We need a strong hair restorer, and it must work quickly, preferably immediately. An ordinary one could be prepared by any alchemist, of course, but I have told Iorveth that only magic can help here. He believed it."

"A... hair restorer."

Emhyr's brows seemed to creep into his hairline. Geralt had never seen the man so confused. It was kind of touching.

"Yes. What I'm about to tell you absolutely has to stay between us, because if this thing is going to work, nobody can learn about this. Watch out. Iorveth thinks you're causing Vernon Roche undue stress and discomfort."

"Vernon Roche?"

Emhyr pushed his lower lip forward as if he were an offended child.

"The thought of me making this creep uncomfortable pleases me, frankly. I am surprised, however, that Iorveth does not feel the same way. If I remember correctly, the man pursued him mercilessly, and for a long time."

"That's right. But you see, sometimes old enemies can discover commonalities they weren't aware of before."

He looked at Emhyr, and somehow that warm feeling in his stomach was back. It felt like he had eaten something very good, or watched a particularly beautiful sunset. His own words echoed in him, and he thought, good heavens. Is this really true?

"You mean, people who previously rejected each other can see that their reasons no longer hold water?"

It was a strange formulation, Geralt thought. But he also thought that Emhyr was looking at him with great interest, at least if he interpreted the glint of those honey eyes correctly.

"Yes," Geralt replied slowly, as something inside of him tugged at his heartstrings, "or even a human and an elf. Anyway... I hardly dare say it, but apparently Vernon Roche and Iorveth have grown closer."

"Oh," went Emhyr. "Do you think that's bad?"

Geralt looked at him in surprise. The question was unusual. Did Emhyr really want to know his opinion on such a delicate question? Well, he had actually done his homework – as far as Geralt knew, same-sex relationships were not particularly uncommon in Nilfgaard and nowhere near as frowned upon as in the North.

"Well, I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that Vernon Roche and Iorveth, of all people.... But basically, no."

Their eyes met, and Geralt wondered if Emhyr had ever had the same feeling in his stomach that he had now. Whether he had ever given this feeling space or a name, like Vernon Roche and his Scoia’tael leader, who apparently were a thing now.

Emhyr cleared his throat noisily and continued, "All right, so the two are a pair. I’ve heard stranger things in my life. Now what do I have to do with that?"

"Well," Geralt said with relish, "you're obviously the cause of Vernon Roche's distress. I mean, of course Roche is not happy with the developments. His dream of Temeria – well, it was almost manic, and as for resentment, he probably has an even bigger one than Iorveth. In any case, Iorveth describes him as stressed. Because... the man loses hair. And the ones he has left would be white, Iorveth says."

Geralt grinned broadly, but Emhyr grimaced.

"Just the thought of that guy taking off his chaperon to show off his lice-ridden mane to anyone... wait. Let me do the math... That sounds like a natural progression."

"Exactly. Vernon Roche is in his prime, and apparently he's going bald. But you know what? Elves don't get bald heads. They never lose their hair, and it doesn't turn white until they're very, very old."

"Most Scoia'tael don't live that long," Emhyr followed, and Geralt nodded.

"Exactly. That means Iorveth doesn't know what this hair loss means for Roche. He thinks it's due to stress, he must have heard once that it can be a reason for all kinds of symptoms in humans. I've essentially confirmed it."

"But why?"

"Very simple. He wouldn't have believed the real explanation. The guy is obviously crazy about Vernon Roche, although I don't understand why, but to each his own. Furthermore, Iorveth now considers the man his blood brother, which is an important concept among the Scoia'tael – it means preserving the other's honor at all costs, protecting and caring for him. And one thing is clear: these assassinations will never stop, because in his opinion it's your fault, and there are still a lot of Scoia'tael out there who follow Iorveth. So I made him a peace offering."

"Which is?"

"Well, I've maintained that you can't officially make reparations to the Blue Stripes or the Scoia'tael, but would be quite willing, in order to keep the peace, to recognize past services."

"You did what?"

Emhyr's eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

"Emhyr, listen to me. This is an ingenious and simple solution. You've been siccing your advisors on me for weeks to teach me the basics of diplomacy. Can't you see I'm doing just that?"

Emhyr swallowed. Even his Adam's apple looked elegant. Was that what Vernon Roche saw in Iorveth, and vice versa? A person, not an enemy image? What a thought.

"What exactly did you promise him?" he asked cautiously.

"Nothing but a hair restorer," Geralt grinned. "I told him you were willing to invest considerable cost in an experienced sorceress or mage to restore Vernon Roche. In return, Iorveth agrees to refrain from further attacks."

"Surely Vernon Roche will see through this nonsense."

"He would. But we will, of course, instruct the sorceress or mage to keep it secretive – which also means that Iorveth will have to try to administer the stuff to Vernon in secret. Roche mustn't know about it, because otherwise it won't work, I've told him that."

"It's a devious plan," Emhyr admitted after a moment's thought.

"Love drives people to do strange things," Geralt replied, lowering his eyes.

"All right, I agree," Emhyr finally said. "I'll have a sorceress come and make a hair restorer for Vernon Roche. I can't believe I just said that."

"Of course," Geralt said slowly, "as long as you have Iorveth in your power, there could be more attacks, after all, the Scoia'tael will miss their leader."

"You're not seriously suggesting I release the man after half the court witnessed him pounce on me," Emhyr protested. "It will already seem like a strange act of mercy if I pardon him later, all without anyone knowing anything about a hair restorer."

"That's not what I'm saying at all. But... I should probably stay close to your side for the time being. I know the Impera are capable guys and all, but I’m a witcher, and I may know some more tricks… I mean, if it's all right with you."

Geralt felt like he was stammering. Emhyr, however, fixed his eyes on him, honey and amber and a hint of hazelnut, and he nodded.

"I think I would like that."

#writing #fanfiction #crack fic #Geralt/Emhyr #Emralt #Emhyralt #Vernon Roche/Iorveth #Iorveth/Roche #my fics

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queenofyumcha · 2 months

Text

'Promise' - Geralt/Emhyr Drabble

Tags: Pre-relationship, insecurity, gift giving, ✨paranoid emhyr var emreis✨

The cold weight of sharpened steel sits comfortably in his hand.

It is no Witcher sword to slay monsters with, it cannot bear a torch to the deadly span of meteorite steel that lies waiting alongside Geralt's ever-packed saddlebags.

It is also no flimsy short sword meant as a first weapon for a lordling with more money than sense, gilded with gold that does little else but dazzle.

It would not be an exaggeration to call this sword a work of art, an elegant display of a swordsmith's mastery over steel. Geralt does not recognise the maker's mark at the base of the hilt, but nevertheless, he commits the shape of the overlapping twin suns to his memory.

Any Witcher would be a fool to not memorise the mark in order to seek out the expert behind such well-crafted weaponry, but Geralt has a streak of romanticism that Vesemir could never quite rid him of.

He may no longer call himself Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde, but a whisper of the naive youth that Geralt used to be has him memorise the maker's mark purely out of respect for the craftsmanship. He can respect a man who devotes his life to learning a trade, to craft treasures from ore. At this moment in time, he wields a deadly blade capable of changing the tides of battle in his hands and Geralt will treat it with every care it deserves.

He hums, tracing a thumb along the edge of the blade, drawing his hand away with a hiss of pained approval when blood slicks his skin. Geralt flips the blade in his hand, adjusting his grip until he’s satisfied, tilting the blade this way and that, admiring the way the steel glints in the candlelight.

It’s a handsome gift and he says as much.

Witcher's do not work for free. Geralt cannot be bribed and material payments do not interest him. But of course, the man sitting opposite him knows all that already.

Emhyr seems ill at ease in the silence that follows, the man the closest to flustered as Geralt has ever seen him and the closest Geralt imagines he could ever come to being ruffled. When Emhyr speaks, none other than a Witcher would be able to detect the subtle strained inflexion his words have gained. For any other person, for any other man, Geralt would discard such an observation as meaningless.

Emhyr var Emreis is not any other man.

For a man like Emhyr, the strain to the words spoke of an anxious, nervous want to fill the lull in the conversation, it spoke of a man that found himself somewhere he did not often tread… out of his depth. Ciri may have often accused Geralt of being emotionally obtuse, however, at this moment he felt anything but.

Emhyr wanted something from him, something he thought Geralt would deny him immediately without having even considered his offer. Yet despite Emhyr's belief in being denied, Geralt had been invited here regardless. Invited, rather than summoned. Emhyr had offered the gift anyway, even knowing it would have no weight in the upcoming negotiation.

“It is not intended as a bribe, nor as a payment. I merely wished to… encourage you to the bargaining table, shall we say, and to draw your attention.”

Emhyr may have not secured an agreement from Geralt, but from the moment of the first strained word uttered he had secured Geralt's full, undivided attention.

"I haven't received many 'encouragements' through my long life, but those that I have received have been gift-wrapped and presented in person. I hope you don't make a habit of leaving 'encouragements' on your general's beds lest they think it an eminent sign of their heads being removed from their shoulders."

Emhyr holds his gaze unflinchingly, head held high. On the surface, he is the same unflappable man he has always been. Beneath the skin, Geralt can hear his heartbeat quicken.

"I see I have misinterpreted your... actions towards me the last time we met as interest. I regret any inconvenience I've caused in your daily routine, Witcher. You are free to leave."

"Well, I did think an entire sword commissioned and delivered to my room a tad overkill for a mere peck on the cheek."

Emhyr relaxes minutely in the wake of Geralt’s flippancy, his white-knuckled grip on the armrest loosening a touch.

“I was not- I am not offended by your interest, Witcher. If I were, I assure you, you would know.”

“I should have known better, a threat from you would have never been so inelegant.”

Emhyr almost looks pleased by that.

“And you say court life is ill-suited to you. You have flattery down to an art.”

Geralt settles back in his chair with a lazy smile directed at Emhyr, letting his legs spread naturally- his smile becomes more like a smirk when he sees Emhyr's eyes automatically track the movement before flicking back to Geralt's eyes with an almost guilty cast to them.

"What exactly did you want from me? Now I know I'm in no danger of being hauled before the executioner's block."

Emhyr swallows, straightening in his chair as though readying himself for some great task. His heartbeat has become almost distractingly rapid, a fluttering beat that betrays the Emperor's nerves.

"A relationship of sorts, I suppose."

Geralt is guilty of letting the silence linger between them simply to observe the normally unflappable man's demeanour begin to become strained under a Witcher's intent gaze. Emhyr's breathing patterns change to tend to his body's belief it needs more air, his emotions, to a Witcher at least, are easy to read.

“A relationship of sorts. With me. The filthy Witcher half your court thinks feral. Why would you even want that?”

“Your presence at court needs to be normalised one way or another if you truly intend to be supportive of Cirilla’s ascension to the throne.”

“As much as I’d like to, I’m hardly going to drag her kicking and screaming back into the wilds. She’s made it clear she has found her future walking a different Path.”

“How reassuring to know you won’t abscond with my daughter, Geralt.”

“Geralt? Well, if we aren’t being personable today, Emhyr, choosing to use first names instead of pointed glares.”

“The thought of spending the next four to five years without any kind of meaningful connection nor conversation seemed… unfortunate.”

There is a solemn understanding that fills Geralt at hearing his words. A lifetime on the Path is devoid of many comforts, which is to be expected, but it also lacks many necessities. It was not uncommon for him to spend weeks in the wilderness without ever speaking a word aloud, never exchanging a word with another being. He all knows all too well the bite that comes with loneliness like that.

“You were afraid of being alone.” Against his will, Geralt's tone has softened and he knows it was a mistake as he watches Emhyr tense, misinterpreting understanding with pity.

Emhyr's words come clipped and steely.

“I do not fear solitude. I do not desire it either. Most find companionship agreeable, and in that regard, I am like any other man. In return, you secure a comfortable retirement. I believe we will have a mutually beneficial arrangement. Have we not reached an agreement?”

“You’ve stripped your proposal of every shred of romance, Emhyr. Do you mean to woo me with such cold words of mutual benefit?” It is a clumsy attempt to lighten the mood with forced flippancy, but the joviality coaxes some tension from the other man regardless.

“I will accept a refusal with grace, Witcher. You needn’t drag this out in an attempt to embarrass me.”

“Emhyr, I was attempting to tease you. Honestly, did you suspect me of attempting to mock or humiliate you-" He cuts himself off, a smirk already turning up the corners of his lips.

"No, what am I saying, of course, you suspected that.”

He had never met a man more paranoid than Emhyr. And yet, he had never met a man whose paranoia had been so justified.

Geralt sighs, shaking his head with bemusement. “I will make you trust me.”

“You must realise, that to a man like me… that is rather more a threat than a reassurance.”

"Emhyr," Geralt laughs, reaching out to rest a hand on the other man's arm.

"I prefer to think of it as a promise.”

#emhyr var emreis #geralt of rivia #emhyr x geralt #emralt

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