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johaerys-writes · 3 years

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Fandom: The Song of Achilles

Pairing: Achilles/Patroclus

Chapter 13: I Would Know Him of High-Flying Birds is up! The boys’ reunion in Skyros, from Achilles’ POV :)

Read here or on AO3! Read from the beginning

The white fabric of Achilles’ dress snapped around his ankles, and the petals on the flowers of the garland around his neck rustled as the wind blew over the plains and jagged hills of Skyros. It whipped up the dust of the long and narrow track field that had been prepared in Poseidon's honour, sending it flying in swirls above the ground.

The celebrations had been going on for most of the day, with prayers and sacrifices to the god. The priests were now burning leaves in the lit braziers by the temple, and blessing each runner that would take part in the race. Young boys, no older than Achilles himself, their dark skin gleaming with oil, their hair oiled and bound; they all knelt before the priests now, waiting to be blessed with the god’s favour.

Achilles envied them. It wasn’t too long ago that he, too, was competing in festivals like these. The thrill of his victories had always been exhilarating, even when anticipated. Yet now he was watching from the sidelines, standing amongst the maidens, concealed under layer upon layer of fabric. Other men, lesser than he, had a chance at competing, at showing their worth, while he was safely hidden from view.

The acid thought did nothing to improve his mood, and the day was still young.

The sun hung bright and hot in the middle of the sky, while the priests still said their prayers. Sweat had started to bead on Achilles’ forehead, despite the chill breeze that was blowing. The maidens were supposed to dance in honour of Poseidon after the trials were over, but Achilles had already had enough. As soon as the race started, and the sound of the runners’ feet tapping the hard packed ground mingled with the music from the lyre and the cymbals, he slipped away, unnoticed.

The shade underneath the thicket of pine trees surrounding the stadium was thick and cool, and the cliff beyond that was empty and quiet, overlooking the Aegean that glittered blue and gold in the distance. He pulled the scarf from his hair with a sigh, and let the breeze comb through his hair. It brought with it the scent of saltwater, of fir and pine, of wet sand. It was a scent Achilles had come to know well, in the months he had stayed in Skyros.

It was almost months now. While he had been on the island, the moon had already waned and waxed once, and was slowly moving through the next cycle. Close to two months that he had spent there, without Patroclus.

The days flowed by in a never ending stream, the one blending into the next until he couldn’t tell them apart. His daily activities felt like chores to him. The walls of the palace were a prison, his women’s clothes the ropes that tied him there. His appetite was all but gone, and it was becoming harder and harder to find the will to join the girls each morning, knowing that Deidameia would be among them.

He was wasting away.

The realisation left a sour taste in his mouth, a bitterness that was steadily boiling within him, seeping into his bones. The war chiefs of the Greeks would all have gathered in Mycenae now. Perhaps they had already set off for Troy with their armies, while he was there, dressed in women’s clothes and pretending like he had no worries other than spinning wool and practicing his dancing. They would all talk about him, wonder where he was. They would talk amongst themselves, about the one that was born to be the greatest warrior, the one destined for battle and glory unmatched by any hero who had ever lived, yet when glory had called, he was absent.

Achilles had come to terms with that. He had. He had accepted it, because to go there would mean taking Patroclus with him, placing him in danger, having him fight in a war he did not care for. It just wasn’t time yet; Patroclus wasn’t ready, and neither was he. There will still be wars to be fought, his mother kept telling him, and Achilles believed her. He would have a chance to claim his birthright, when the time was right. Both for him, and Patroclus. And for now, they would both be safe, away from it all, together.

And yet.

They were not together. Months had passed, and Patroclus still hadn’t come.

The thought was poison, eating away at his insides. His mother had promised, she had given him her word that she would tell Patroclus where he was. Yet the days kept flowing by, and Patroclus hadn’t arrived. His mother would have kept her end of the bargain, he was sure, but for all of Achilles’ wishing and hoping and waiting, no ship had reached the small bay below the palace.

What if something had happened to him on his journey? What if he’d been hurt, or worse, while trying to reach him?

Achilles’ hands tightened were they rested on his forearms, stomach twisting with unease. Patroclus would come. Achilles was sure of it. He was well, and he would come, and they would be together once more. No other possibility could exist within Achilles’ mind, there was no place for anything else. Patroclus would come because… because he had to.

It was a childish notion, yet Achilles felt no shame for thinking it. They were meant to be together. After Patroclus came, nothing would ever come between them, ever again. Achilles would make sure of it this time.

The sound of approaching footsteps made him tense. He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

“Pyrrha,” Deidameia said quietly. Almost timidly. She had been that way around him ever since… that night. Achilles did not want to think of it as more than ‘that night’. It was enough to remember it had happened at all.

His fingers balled into fists, and he forced himself to relax them. “You don’t have to call me that here,” he replied. “There is no one around to hear.”

She came to stand beside him, her footsteps muffled by the dry grass beneath her feet. She looked out into the sea, and the languidly moving shadows from the canopy of leaves overhead carved harsh lines across her features, hiding her expression from him.

Achilles looked away, blocking her from his vision.

“It never hurts to be cautious," she said. "Does it?”

Achilles made no reply. Deidameia took in a breath, then slowly let it out. At times, it seemed to Achilles like she held back her words when he was around. Her behaviour around him had changed. She was no longer pouting and stomping her feet when something displeased her, nor did she laugh and jest with him, or ask to braid his hair. She would sit quietly beside him and listen when he played the lyre, but her dark eyes had a forlorn look in them now, like he was far away from her even though he was right there. When they spoke, their conversations were short and tense, hanging in midtones.

Deidameia had changed, that was sure. But then again, so had he. It was a new and unfamiliar thing for him, this uneasiness that spread within him whenever she was near. He would look at her hands, and remember how small they had looked when illuminated by the shifting light of the candle in his room, how cold they had felt when they had been on him. She would practice her dancing, and he couldn't help but remember how she had looked when she had slipped free of her nightgown and lain beside him on his bed. She was small and thin like a child beneath the layers of fabric of her dress, fragile like a doll. Achilles had been scared to touch her, at first. She had insisted he hadn’t hurt her, though he was quite certain he had. He had seen how her brow had furrowed, how her teeth had left marks on her lips when she’d bitten down on them, how she had held her breath. She could not have liked it.

But then again, neither had he.

“You’re so quiet these days, Pyrrha,” Deidameia said shyly beside him. She was fidgeting with the flowers on her garland, picking at the velvet petals.

“So are you.”

She glanced up at him, surprised. She averted her gaze when their eyes met, her cheeks growing a flushed pink. “Yes, but…” She worried her lip, “You hardly speak to me anymore.”

“Only fools speak when they have nothing to say.”

Achilles hadn’t meant for his words to smart, but Deidameia winced as if he’d cut her with a whetted blade. She turned away from him, her small hands balling into fists at her sides. “I am your wife,” she said with a trembling voice. “Who will you speak to, if not to me?”

You are not my wife, Achilles almost said, yet knew the words to be untrue. He had agreed to be her husband, however little he had relished the notion. It was a bargain poorly struck; yet it had been struck. To not honour it would bring shame upon him, upon his name.

He let out a soft sigh as he uncrossed his arms and turned to face her, as was proper. “What would you like to speak of, Princess Deidameia?”

Hope kindled in her tear-filled eyes, and her crimson lips parted in a sharp intake of breath. “Anything,” she said, her cheeks flushing even more, “anything you would like. Prince Achilles.” She curtsied before him, bowing her head. The sun caught on the glossy black waves of her hair.

He stood straight before her, clasping his hands behind his back. It was not easy, finding a topic of conversation that would interest them both. But then his gaze fell upon the cyclamens and violets of the garland that hung about her neck, and he remembered how Patroclus and he had gathered them in Pelion, hung them and dried them and worked them into dusts and pastes under Chiron’s instruction. Patroclus and he always used to talk about plants and their uses, would make a game of coming up with as many as they could whenever they went walking beyond the olive grove, past the stream, through the winding paths of the forest. The sycamore trees would be turning red and gold now with the ripening autumn, their fallen foliage covering the forest floor in a thick carpet of leaves.

A pang of longing drove through him at the memories. How long would it be, until he could see Mount Pelion again? Until he could walk those same mountain paths, gather herbs and swim in the stream, sleep under the glittering rose quartz crystals of their cave with Patroclus by his side again?

Deidameia blinked up at him, expectant. Achilles drew a slow breath.

“Have you any knowledge of herbs?” he asked.

The sweet notes of the lyre drifted into the quiet morning, a timbre that vibrated through the half-empty dancer’s hall. It was followed by Deidameia’s laugh, sharp and fleeting like quicksilver.

“Do it again, Pyrrha!” She was sitting beside him, her dark eyes alight with excitement as she watched his fingers move along the strings. Her own lyre was in her lap, forgotten. “One more time. I wish to see it again.”

Achilles plucked the same notes, slower this time, then waited for Deidameia to follow his example. She had decided earlier that week that she wished to learn how to play the lyre as well as he did, and she had barely left his side since then. She had quickly reverted back to her old, highly excitable and tempestuous self shortly after their talk at Poseidon’s festival, yet her behaviour was still changed. The other maidens seemed to have sensed it; Deidameia hardly had any interest in spending time with anyone but him, and they all took care to keep out of her way- and the sharp edge of her tongue.

“Look at your hands, how beautifully they move,” she crooned, watching his fingers with a sort of hunger. “Phoebus Apollo himself must have blessed you, Pyrrha, when you were born.”

Achilles did not reply. He simply focused on the act of playing, letting the music thrum through him, brushing all thoughts aside. It always had this effect on him, the trilling sound of the lyre; it would ease away any tiredness or ache, it would imbue his mind with calm and serenity. There was no room for outside distractions when he played; that other people enjoyed it mattered not. The lyre that was now cradled in his hands was a well-made one, of carved walnut wood, smoothed and polished to a high shine, yet the sound was almost hollow, almost dull. The sounds that came from Patroclus' lyre were deep and clear; this lyre, however well-made, could never hope to compare.

“You try it now,” he told Deidameia when the piece was over. “As I showed you.”

Deidameia blinked, as if waking up. Her gaze was dreamy and distracted while she watched him play, yet now she straightened in her seat. She tossed her head back, sending the dark curls that hung down her back swinging.

“Like this?” she asked. Her fingers, when she placed them over the strings, were the wrong shape, despite Achilles only having shown her how to properly position them moments before. Her eyes flicked up to his own, dark eyes regarding him carefully through her eyelashes.

“No,” Achilles said, his voice only slightly tinged with exasperation, “that is not how I showed you.” He set his own lyre to the side and sat close beside her, guiding her hand. It was not so complicated a hand position, yet Deidameia seemed to be particularly slow in picking up his instruction. Patroclus had learnt it perfectly in less than a day. “This. This is how you do it.”

Deidameia’s arm brushed his own, so close were they sitting, and Achilles thought he felt her shivering, though the window behind them was shut and the coals were hot and glowing in the brazier. She plucked the strings one by one, holding her breath. The sound was harsh and strained, but at least the chords were somewhat correct this time.

“How about this?” she asked softly. “Is that better?”

“Yes, slightly. You need to practice more.”

She beamed at him, the colour in her cheeks rising to a bright cherry pink. “Oh, I will. I’ll practice day and night, until I do it perfectly. Then we can play together, and everyone will be so envious of our song.” Her head tilted towards him ever so slightly, a sweet floral scent wafting from her curls when she tossed them back. “You are the best instructor I could hope for, Pyrrha.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

Achilles simply stared at her for a moment in puzzlement. “Thank you,” he finally said as he returned to his seat. “If you say so.”

Deidameia seemed faintly disappointed at the distance that Achilles put between them. Yet before she could say anything, once of her maids appeared at the door. Deidameia’s quick, dark eyes fell on her, and the girl cowered at the annoyance that flashed in them at having interrupted the lyre lesson.

“Forgive me, my lady,” the girl said, curtsying, “but a visitor has arrived. He wished to speak with your father, but he is indisposed, so—”

“A visitor?” Achilles’ heart fluttered with hope at the words. The palace of Skyros hardly ever got any visitors, so it was unusual enough an occasion to make all the maidens in the hall abandon their embroidery and their skeins of spun wool to stare at the maid. Achilles stood up.

“Who is this visitor?” he demanded of the girl, who gaped at him. “What is his name?”

“It is surely nothing, Pyrrha!” Deidameia said hastily, abandoning her lyre and springing to her feet. “Nothing to concern yourself with.” She shot a fiery glare to the maidens, who averted their gazes and returned to their work. “One of my father’s friends that has come to visit, I am sure. Or perhaps a prince or king who wishes for his daughter to join my dancers. We do get those quite often, remember?” She set her small hand on his arm, in a gesture that Achilles vaguely registered was supposed to be soothing. He glanced down at her, and she gave him a small smile, which was only a little tense. “I’ll go see who it is. You girls should not alarm yourselves. I’ll be back shortly.”

While Deidameia was away, Achilles sat on hot coals. His hands on the lyre were stiff, his knee jerking underneath the fabric of his skirt. Could it be? Could it be that Patroclus was finally there? His stomach twisted with anticipation, a swarm of bees buzzing in his chest.

He would see him again. He would hear his voice again. He would touch, kiss, hold him again. The thought was enough to make his head swim.

Achilles anxiously searched Deidameia’s face when she returned to the dancer’s hall. Her air was different than before she had left; the skin on her forehead was just a little tight, her lips pursed, her hands clutching at the fabric of her dress where she stood. She noticed his gaze on her, and gave him a smile that little belied her thoughts.

“A very special guest has arrived,” she announced to all the maidens in the hall. “A scrumptious feast is being prepared for him. Of course, no feast would be complete without Deidameia’s women. We shall perform our finest choreia for him.”

While the maidens were casting off their embroideries and finishing coiling their skeins of wool, Achilles approached Deidameia to quietly ask her, “Who is this guest?”

She looked up at him, and he thought he saw a shadow darken her features. It was gone in an instant as her lips widened in a sweet smile and she said, “Oh, you wouldn’t know him.”

The maidens practiced their dance all morning, and most of the afternoon under Deidameia’s watchful eye. She was uncharacteristically thorough in her instruction that day, and more than once did she snap at one of the girls, even Pagona and Phrasikleia who were among the most adept, for not performing the steps correctly. She also refused to practice the paired dances with any one other than Achilles, though he had somewhat come to expect this.

“Of all my women,” Deidameia announced while the girls were putting on their finest dresses with the most lavish embroidery, their most colourful scarves, gilded bracelets and anklets rattling as they moved, “Pyrrha is the most graceful, the most fleet-footed. None of you could hope to match her.” She flashed him a bright smile as she took his hand, then stepped into the torch-lit corridors beyond the dancer’s hall.

The smell of cooking meat, spiced bread and the rich scent of wine being mixed with water in the wide brass bowls reached them as they made their way towards the throne room. As the princess, Deidameia was leading the procession, with the rest following behind her. Her dark, glossy hair was expertly curled and delicately perfumed; her red lips had been tinted scarlet with crushed rose petals; rows upon rows of golden bracelets and rings caught the torchlight as she walked ahead. Just before entering the throne room, she stopped, turning to face them.

“Do not enter unless I call for you,” she ordered, and left them in the half dark of the corridor.

From the gap in the door, Achilles peered at the crowded room. Rows of tables had already been set, laden with food and drink. King Lycomedes was there too, taking his seat at the highest table with Deidameia by his side. Servants were moving about left and right, bringing in yet more bowls of fruit and meat, platters of cheeses and steaming loaves of bread, or mixing wine and pouring it. It had been weeks since such a lavish feast had been prepared.

The question had never left Achilles’ mind. Who was this guest?

“Stranger from Pelion,” Deidameia’s silvery voice cut through the din and the chatter. “Never again will you be able to say that you have not heard of Deidameia’s women.”

A wave of her hand was their cue. Achilles stepped into the hall, carefully lifting the hem of his skirts as he walked. The soft notes of the flute, the lyre and the cymbals accompanied them as each dancer moved to position. Deidameia stepped around the table, coming to take Achilles’ hand. It was cold around his, holding just a little too tightly.

Achilles flowed effortlessly through the practiced movements. His feet tapped the earth in the rhythm of the cymbals, his arms lifted in time with the trill of the lyre; he tossed his head back when the flute reached its high notes, then ducked his eyes when it quietened. The dance Deidameia had chosen was one of the most elaborate, with each movement being mirrored almost precisely by each dancer’s partner. Deidameia smiled encouragingly at him every time their steps met, her eyes flashed every time they parted. She reached out to touch him, her beringed fingers skimming his wrist as they danced.

When the music drew to a close, she came to stand beside him, her hand still reaching for his. They curtsied and bowed their heads in perfect sync, then straightened. Achilles lifted his head.

Somewhere in the silently watching crowd, the sound of a single intake of breath.

Achilles’ heart ceased beating, the world around him coming to sudden halt. He knew that breath. He knew it, better than his own. He would know it in the dark, amidst countless others. He would know it in madness, in death, if the sun never rose and the mists of oblivion swallowed the earth. He would know it.

He would know him.

Achilles’ limbs moved before thought reached them. The crowd parted before him as he stepped, then walked, then ran, closing the distance between them.

“Patroclus,” he whispered, voice thick and strained, catching in his throat. His arms wrapped around familiar, slender shoulders, his nose sank in familiar dark curls, his lungs swelled with that familiar, comforting scent: jasmine blossoms, salt and sea, warm earth still wet with early morning dew.

Home. He smelt like home.

“Patroclus,” he said again, eyes stinging with tears, “Patroclus—”

“Pyrrha!”

The voice reached him as if through a cloud; the name unknown to him now, incomprehensible. There was no room for it, not when he had Patroclus in his arms. He drew back to look upon him, cradled his face in his hands. Honey brown eyes peered back at him in disbelief, gleaming in the light from the fires in the braziers. His brow was tanned and weather beaten, his plush bottom lip chafed from the wind and the salt. Achilles traced the outline of those lips with his thumb, drinking in the sight of him, the feel of him. He caressed the faint dark circles underneath his eyes with the pad of his fingertips, and thought of all the long and fretful nights they had spent apart, reaching for each other in their dreams.

“My mother,” Achilles whispered, searching for the right words. He had to tell him, to explain. “My mother, she—”

“Pyrrha!” Deidameia clutched his arm, pulling him away, at the same time that King Lycomedes asked, “Who is this man, Pyrrha?”

Achilles reluctantly peeled his eyes away from Patroclus to look at the King. The hall was empty now, void of dancers, musicians, servants, the crowd that had gathered. The king must have sent them away.

“No one,” Deidameia shrieked, still tugging at his arm. “He is no one—”

“My husband.” Achilles held Patroclus’ hand tightly, never letting go. “He is my husband. He has come for me, and now I may leave your court.”

Deidameia went silent. Her hold on him went slack, and she looked up at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. “You cannot,” she said breathlessly. “You cannot do this to me.”

Achilles regarded her coolly. A distant part of him was surprised at how little her reaction mattered to him. He had agreed to marry her only so that he could see Patroclus again; now that he was there, there was nothing holding him to her anymore. He had honoured his end of the bargain. Nothing that she did now was any of his concern.

“Sir,” King Lycomedes asked Patroclus, his disbelieving expression mirroring his daughter’s. “Is this true?”

Achilles squeezed Patroclus’ fingers.

“Yes,” Patroclus said, and a shiver ran up Achilles’ spine upon hearing him speak. Gods, how he had missed the sound of his voice.

The next few moments washed over Achilles like the icy waters of a violent, rushing river.

You have betrayed me! Apathes!

We are married. You are my husband.

I have lain with him.

I am pregnant.

He stood, frozen and numb, before the onslaught of Deidameia’s wrath, her anguish, her defeat. In the midst of his shock, he felt Patroclus’ fingers slipping from his own, his sandaled feet padding to the door.

“Patroclus!” Achilles ran after him, leaving Deidameia and the old king behind. His mother, who had appeared at the first sign of the commotion, made as if to reach for him, but he swerved past her. He cursed when the hem of his dress caught around his ankles; he jerkingly tugged at the fabric as he followed Patroclus out of the room. “Wait!” he cried, and caught him by the arm.

Patroclus stood perfectly still. He did not turn to look at him when he said, “Let go.”

Achilles started at the emptiness in his voice, the detachment. Patroclus had never spoken like this to him before.

“My mother,” he uttered hastily, “she made me. She led the girl to my room. She—” He scrambled for words, yet the consonants and vowels tangled on his tongue. A sudden coldness crept within him, a strange sort of despair. It startled him, how quick it was to steal his thoughts away, to turn them to dust.

“I did it for you,” he said, helpless. “For us. I had to— I had to see you. She said that if I did as she said, she would tell you where I was.”

Patroclus was still not looking at him; it felt as if he never would. Achilles cupped his cheek, brought his gaze up to his own. He searched his eyes, his face, his expression for any sign of recognition, of forgiveness. “Patroclus.” His heart thumped painfully, clawing at his chest as he searched, and searched. “Please, say something.”

“You did it for nothing.”

Achilles blinked, frozen. “What do you mean?”

“Your mother did not tell me where you were. It was Peleus.”

The breath that had been gliding down his throat caught, dandelion puffs trapped in the thorns of a prickly pear tree. His voice sounded as if coming from far away when he asked, “She did not tell you?”

“No,” Patroclus answered, and the harshness in his tone was so sharp and foreign that Achilles winced. “Did you truly expect she would?”

“Yes,” Achilles whispered, and the sudden emptiness left him breathless. The magnitude of his mother’s betrayal stung. It was deep, bottomless; Achilles could not find where it ended, where it began. Had everything she told him been a lie? Had she lied about keeping him safe, keeping them both safe? Had the last two months been for nothing at all?

It did not matter now. What was done was done, but Patroclus was there. He was right there before him, yet looked at him as if he could not see him. Achilles counted his heartbeats as he gazed at Patroclus, searching his eyes, searching.

“Forgive me,” he said, his voice engulfed by the oppressive silence of the corridor. He reached for him once more; his palm cradled the curve of his cheek, fingers brushing the shell of his ear. Every fibre of his being ached for him. He could not stay away. “I did not want it. It was not you. I did not— I did not like it.”

Something in his words seemed to pierce the invisible veil that had settled between them. Patroclus looked at him then, really looked at him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“There is nothing to forgive,” he whispered, and leaned into Achilles’ touch.

They embraced then, like they never had before. They reached for each other as if through a fog; Patroclus’ arms wound around his middle, Achilles’ fingers threaded through dark curls, unruly and dishevelled from countless days of the sea breeze combing through it. Achilles leaned down to capture his lips in a kiss, to feel him, taste him on his tongue. He held him close, drew breath from his lungs, drank him in as if he were sweet summer rain falling on dry, parched earth.

“I missed you,” Achilles said against his lips, breathless, reeling, “I missed you—”

“I missed you, too.” Patroclus clutched him fiercely, his voice steady despite the tears that were coursing down his cheeks. Achilles kissed his damp eyelashes, wiped the tears away with his thumb, his throat burning with the effort of holding his own back.

When Patroclus' tears had ebbed, Achilles edged back to look at him, at the outline of that beloved face. The trembling torchlight cast shifting shadows on his cheekbones, his jaw, the slope of his nose, the hollow of his eyes. Achilles traced them with his fingertips, slowly and deliberately, followed those same pathways he knew like the back of his hand. He did not need that feeble glow to see him; he would know him even without it, the way one knows their heart is beating even if they cannot see it, knows their blood is coursing through their veins even when they cannot touch it.

He would know him blind. He would know him in death. He would know him at the end of the world.

#the song of achilles #tsoa #patrochilles #achilles x patroclus #patroclus x achilles #Patroclus #achilles #high-flying birds #high flying birds #johaerys writes #tsoa fanfic #tsoa fanfiction

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sennextheassasinkingoflight · 3 years

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Firelight

Gerlion Rated T and up for minor swearing and minor nudity.

Also, I'm sorry I'm bad at technology and I've only got mobile and they updated it and I dont know/can't figure out how to put a read more break in.

Geralt and Dandelion reunite after a long time apart. Its fluff, complete fluff. They're so soft with one another.

This lovely piece was inspired by art created by @johix with permission I'll figure out how to link it. But I recommend checking out all the art.

It had been nearly nine months since he last saw his bard. It wasn't unusual for their paths to cross and diverge like the threads of a tapestry twinning around one another; close but never consistantly together. Dandelion was often called away to court, to Oxenfurt, or some festivity or other and he always went where he was wanted. Geralt never stopped him; though he often wanted to reach out, grab a slender and deceivingly muscled arm and say, "stay you're wanted here more than they want you anywhere else." But his lips stayed stubbornly shut as he watched the blond ride away on his muleish stead. He would turn his back and tend to the nearest contracts he could find. At first he'd been glad for the others departures, now they left him aching in a way he feared to define. So he would focus on his work, on the Path and push all thoughts of the Bard away until he was alone with inky night and moonlight for company. Then and only then he would wonder what his friend was doing.

This year he had been eager to get back on the path and left the keep far to early. The others had warned him but he was restless, concerned even. He hadn't heard anything from the bard in the three months leading into winter. It was May now. Summer had yet to grace the continent and snow continued to stick stubbornly to her. He hadn't made it to town, and that was okay. He was freezing but he'd dealt with worse. He stoked the fire up and leaned against the tree behind him. He flexed his fingers in his gloves to keep them from growing stiff.

He knows he should have found a cave or some other shelter but he'd been loath to leave the road. The more time he spent on it the more likely he was to run into Dandelion. Instead he began to meditate and wrinkled his nose at the scent of rain permeating the air. He hoped it would hold off until the morrow. He didn't mind rain when he didn't need to be out in the path. Meaning, he liked the rain if he was cooped up in an inn with Dandelion. He always tried to keep him from getting sick, despite the need to be on the oath. But tonight he wasn't in an inn with Dandelion. He was in forest clearing bustled against a dry spot beneath a tree with snow and ice all around him. The thought of being at a warm inn with his musician made his chest ache desperately. Slowly he managed to meditate. Meditation turned to sleep as soon as he chose to lie down in his bed roll. Roach shifted to his left to keep herself warm but never went far.

He woke cold and stiff to blue grey light. If he were a normal human and not so fucking cold he'd have probably rolled over and gone back to sleep. But instead he was a witcher and rain scented heavier on the air. That alone is enough to incline him to get a move on with the day. Carefully he stood rolling his joints, they cracked and popped at the movement sore from the last hunt and the cold. He breathed through his nose and set about feeding Roach. Then he turned to begin gathering his supplies. His heart jumped in his chest at the sound of distant music. There was a troupe, if the noise was anything to go by, traveling up the road. They were a ways off and he couldn't make out individual instruments yet. The music was to far away. Still, he forced himself to slow and methodically work through packing everything up at a more subdued pace. He had no way of knowing if Dandelion was with them, but he hoped he was. It was safer for the trabedour to travel with a group and more to his and the bards liking as well.

Satisfied that the group would catch up if he kept Roach to a walk he rejoined the road. This way he would be far enough ahead not to bother them, and close enough that if Dandelion was with them he'd be able to see him. He kept Roach at a careful pace and she seemed content to meander. His coin purse was currently full at his side, and the season was early. He could dally a little. Still he wondered at the futility. It would have been better to write to Oxenfurt or go himself. They would know where to find the poet. He listened as the music drew closer. There were several lutist. Which he could say wasn't uncommon as it was one of the preferred bardic instruments. He strained his ears none the less, Toruviels lute had a specific sound and he was well aquanited with it. He smiled and forced himself not to turn back towards the musicians. He was a witcher, he'd scare them off. He slowed Roach as much as possible. And then he heard it, the stutter of a chord gone off tune and forgotten. They way it would if he complimented the musician while he was playing. He always made the best faces.

"Geralt." He kept Roach moving, gripping the reigns hard in anticipation. Then he heard the murmurs of surprise as Dandelion ran ahead and called out,

"Geralt of Rivia, you gigantic oaf, I know you can hear me!" The indignant tone of Dandelions voice pulled him over the edge of his little game and he stopped. His heart beating a little faster, a little stronger than it ought, as it always did around the poet. He dismounted his horse and held out one hand to give or receive a hug. Something he was growing accustomed to doing with Dandelion. The bard rushed forward unabashed and wrapped his arms, one hand still holding his lute firmly, around Geralt and squeezing with all his strength. Geralt returned the favor, one armed, the other still outstretched to hold Roaches reigns.

The hug lasted longer than it ought to have, and then some. When they finally came apart Geralt raised an eyebrow and absently reached a hand out to brush shoulder length blond curls. He smiled softly amusement curling in his stomach with something far more dangerous.

"What are these?"

"Curls Geralt. You've seen them before."

Dandelion notes with brightness in his eyes. Geralt is being very tender he thinks as he flicks his eyes to the hand still in his hair.

"I know. But I've never seen them on you before. Nobles. Whores. The like."

Geralt says simply and something like sadness tugs at Dandelions heart. He was prepared with a quip but it slips from his tongue and instead he whispers out a breathy,

"You don't like it."

He looks to the ground, body language changing. Geralt smells the acrid scent of disappointment on him almost instantly. Even if he hadn't he'd have realized his mistake. He brushes his hand down and catches the lutists chin pushing it up and then dropping his hand to his shoulder. They have an audience.

"That's not what I said, nor is it what I meant, Dandelion. Introduce us?"

The poets meets his eyes and blinks. Right. Okay. He smiles,

"There isn't much to be said in introduction. I only met this lovely group last night. I don't even know all their names yet."

A short brunette in bright colors hands him his geldings reigns. They know he won't be continuing with them.

The brunette nods to Geralt and speaks softly,

"It was a pleasure to play music with you master Dandelion."

And with that the group turns down the path to the right. Geralt must have worked hard to time it so he'd be seen before they had a chance to turn down the other path. Though Dandelion would not have gone that way anyways.

Geralt looks him up and down again and and he flushes under the scrutiny and then speaks through a genuine smile.

"What is that on your face?"

He nearly reaches up to brush his hands against the white beard. He refrains barely as Geralt does it himself. He's fairly certain the man had forgotten all about it.

"Left the keep early this year. It's warmer like this."

Then he watches Geralt glare at the sky and take a deep breath.

"You'll want to put that in it's case. Smells like rain."

Dandelion moves quickly to follow his instruction and nearly jumps when thunder claps across the mountain range. He shivers and mounts Pegasus.

"Where to?"

Gerlat hesitates a moment. He shouldn't be caught off gaurde but he is. It's always this easy with Dandelion. Easy in a way it has never been with Yennefer, or with anyone else. It's natural almost to the point of being dangerous. He knows that Dandelions will follow him anywhere. Hen wont ask questions, but will walk beside him loyal and true.It eases something in his heart to see the other man beside him again. He settles something in him the way Yennefer never did. He realizes Dandelion is looking at him with raised eyebrows and a cheeky grin.

"That glad to see me?"

He swallows and clears his throat ignoring the second question.

"There is a village up ahead. If you're mule moves fast enough we may make it before the rain gets bad."

Dandelion laughs and the remnants of tension in him depart. They ride in companionable silence for a while before he asks,

"What are you doing all the way out here? The roads and weather are hardly fit for traveling, even for me."

He glances over and meets pools of bright blue sky. The poet is quiet for some time and it's only broken by the wind picking up around them and whispering through the woods as boughs bend beneath its force. The rain comes next and Dandelion finally speaks. Geralt remains facing forward carefully neutral.

"I hadn't heard anything about you in months. I had no idea if you even made it to Kaer Morhen. So, I thought to myself, Dandelion if you get closer to the keep you might hear something. Now, here I am hoping to find out if you're still alive. Figured being close would increase my chances of running into you too. And I suppose it worked."

He seems almost embarrassed Geralt thinks. Only embarrassment isn't an emotion he's ever seen on the musician. He was shameless and full of mirth. He felt deeply, certainly had had bouts of sorrow at times. But embarrassment… no this had to be something else. He seemed sombre. Almost sad as he fell into a silence that meant his thoughts had hold of him. Geralt shook his head, grateful when Dandelion did not ask him the same. Unfortunately he fell unusually quiet, normally he would grumble or speak his thoughts allowed. The silence upset him and he could sense the poet growing morose and gave him some space until he noted the bards teeth chattering. He looked miserable, lips pushed together to keep his teeth from chattering, curls gone limp with the rain. His fingers were probably just as cold as Geralts own. He slowed Roach.

"Wheres your cloak?"

" Forgot to pull it out of my bag."

He laughs. Gerlat could kick himself for not reminding the bard, but then, he was a grown man. Still the thought of him sick…. Absently he removed his outer cloak and handed it over. It wouldn't do to much now but it was a kind gesture none-the-less.

"Geralt, no sense in both of us being cold."

He simply cast Dandelion a withering glance and the trabedour smiled as he took the cloak. Geralt returned to his normal speed and missed the way Dandelion smiled into the fur and breathed deep. He almost missed the whispered "thank you" as well, but the wind carried it to his ears and he held it close.

By the time they passed through the archway of a sleepy little village he didn't know the name of, Dandelion was shivering from the cold. It had started as a thunderstorm and quickly devolved into a snowstorm. And while he had already been soaked through he was grateful for Gerlat's cloak around him. Though he was sorry too. He knew how cold Geralt often got, likely from having a slower heart rate.

They made their way with practiced ease to the local inn. Dandelion watched in slight awe as Geralt made arrangements with the matron. She had known his name, no one had so much as even batted an eye at the witcher. He shivered and tried to focus on keeping his feet warm.

The matron knew the witchers who passed this way every spring and winter. She'd been quiet young when Geralt had first met her, now she was a mother who had aged kindly.

"I'll have the boys tend to your horses. Jason's getting a fire going for you. He'll bring up some more wood in a bit."

As if on queue, summoned by his name, he came around the corner of the desk and nodded at her before heading out the back door. She smiled and handed Geralt the key. "Go on go get warm before your friend catches a cold "

"Thank you."

He handed the key to Jaskier who moved quickly forgetting his bag in his rush to get himself and his lute dry. Geralt smiled a toothy grin and shook his head shifting his own bags to gather Dandelions.

"Oh dear, I had better ask, will you be going out for supper or shall I bring some up when it's ready?"

" If it wouldn't be any trouble. And maybe a demijohn?"

She winked,

"Vodka?"

"Please."

"No problem, off you go. He's waiting."

He would have blushed if his biology allowed it. There was something about the way she looked between them and spoke that made Geralt feel vulnerable.

He followed damp footprints to their room and stepped in the door left slightly ajar. Dandelion had already hung his cloak up and stripped out of his shirt and boots, and was currently putting his lute on the chair a good distance from the fire to draw out any moisture.

"Finally Geralt! I was half naked before I realized I forgot them. And the fire was so nice I couldn't bare to go back and get them. What kept you?"

He stepped back as the bard reached for his bags and started removing his armor. He shook his head,

"Supper arrangments." He says simply.

"Then were staying in?"

"Yes."

"Excellent!" He watches the musician swap a change of clothes for his night clothes.

Although he was fairly dry beneath his armor and cloak Geralt was freezing. He removed his boots and looked up only to freeze. Breath stilling in his lungs as he swallowed tightly. He followed bare leg, muscled and lean, from floor to hip, over the curve of the poets ass, over the dip of his back and up the curve of his shoulders. He let out a breath and pointedly averted his eyes. His armor needed cleaning, he was sure of it.

He hadn't thought it possible to make Geralt uncomfortable at this point. But what he'd seen out of the corner of his eye told him otherwise. Though he'd only caught him looking away. He could have looked for a moment, or minutes he'd never know. Slowly he dressed in his sleepwear. The fire had been nice against his skin and he hadn't wanted to dress damp. You got sick when you did that. He dried his hair out with a thin towel from his pack. He'd need to replace that. He made his way back over to Geralt as he pulled his shirt on.

"The fire is nice." He says gently as he sits beside him. Geralt looks up at him from his armor and nods. They stare at one another for a moment then Geralt speaks.

"You seemed upset earlier. Was it just the weather?"

Oh. He wants to lie but he would never. Besides, Geralt can read him like a book, never mind the enhanced witcher senses. He'd never stand a chance. Instead he looks away, towards the crackling fire and let's silence reign while he thinks through what he means to say. The truth but not all of it. Just enough. The only noise is the wind rustling the shutters against the walls and the gentle crackling of the fire.

"I wouldn't know." He starts voice gentle and far away. "If you died. I wouldn't know. And if I ever did find out it would be from some rumor in a tavern passed through far to many drunken mouths to hold much truth. There's no one to tell me if you die while I'm not there Geralt. And that… scares me a little. I worry for you and it would pain me to never know or to find out so late. And know that I'll never know the truth of what happened." He looks to the witcher now and meets molten sun with ocean depths.

"But," he continues, "we're both here now. No sense in dwelling on something like that."

Something shifts in Geralts face like he wants to argue. He's already working out some way to change the topic so he doesn't give himself away. He loves the man next to him that's why it scares him. The knock comes loudly from the door and he moves to open it grateful for the matrons timing.

He smiles and opens the door wide.

"Thank you." He says to both the matron and her husband as he drops wood near the hearth and she places supper and a flagon of something on the table.

"No problem. Enjoy, its roast." With that they leave them to their dinner and Dandelion is grateful for the distraction. Geralt joins him at the table but neither speaks.

Geralt presses his lips together. What Dandelion said nearly ruins his appetite. He won't press but it makes his gut twist to think of the pain his friend would be in. The agony of not knowing. Though those same thoughts run through his head when he doesn't keep them in check. He knows if anything happens to his poet there would be hell to pay. He shakes his head and focuses instead on eating. The quiet of the room is unsetteling. They should be talking, reminiscing about their time apart and it's almost grating that he can't move past the last conversation. But then Dandelion uncorks the vodka and pours them both a generous amount. He hands a cup to Geralt and raises his own.

"To reunions." Geralt smiles and clinks their glasses together. Grateful that they're falling into their rhythm.

Dandelion asks how the winter went and Geralt sighs. It's always the same. His brothers are great but he always find himself missing his poets softness and sound. He wont say this of course. He wont say he lays awake wondering what he's doing in Oxenfurt. Who hes with. If hes happy. He won't admit that loneliness creeps in on him when they're apart, that he misses pulling the bard close to his chest when they sleep.

Instead he tells him that they repaired the battlements, the walls, the stables. That Vesimir had made them clean and catalogue the library. The library he knows Dandelion wants to see and would have to be forcably removed from and he knows that the poets only joking when he says "you'll have to show me one day" but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to grab him by the wrist and take him there. He talks of training and running the trail with Lambert and Eskel like they did when they were young.

"And what of you Dandelion? How was your winter?" The musician smiles and takes a drink straight from the bottle.

"Boring Geralt. This bach of students don't care. They have no heart and less inspiration. It's like they're only there to please their parents or something. To mingle. They don't care about learning what the truth behind folk tales are or why they're wrong. The composition courses are a bit better I suppose," another drink, his face flushes pink in the flickering light of the fire," at least they can make things rhyme even if it's meaningless. And it was so lonely Geralt. I missed traveling. I know it's better for my purse, retirement, and the like to work straight in the winter and travel in the summer months but honestly, I regret it this winter. Not that I could have traveled much alone."

He's rambeling now and Geralt loves it. Loves listening to him talk about nothing and everything. The way his face goes soft and his eyes grow bright and he can only be described as whimsical. How his voice dances always lulling and pulling him in. He takes the vodka and drinks a long pull from the bottle, he shouldn't let Dandelion have much more if they want to start out early. Though if the storm keeps up they might be stuck a few days.

He acknowledges the ard with a soft hum as he gets up to stoke the fire and add a few logs. It's gotten late. He makes his way back towards the bed and brushes his hand down the poets shoulder and his arm before passing on. He crawls to the far side of the bed and waits wondering if he'll understand the invitation and join him or take the other bed. He hopes that the Dandelion understood the gesture. The poet stands and looks at him.

Dandelion takes a breath to steady himself. There are two beds and he desperately wants to join Geralt, help him stay warm, bury his face against his chest, breath in leather and earth and musk. He blinks looking at Geralt for any sign of what he's supposed to do and just as its growing uncomfortable long in his slightly tipsy mind Geralt reaches out and hand and he knows he's wanted.

"It's cold."

Geralt offers quietly as he shuffles under the blankets next to him. He needn't have bothered Dandelion doesn't need an excuse. But if it makes him feel more comfortable he'll roll with it even as it feel like lead on his chest. He rolls onto his side and buries his face into the blankets between them. The bed is small for two but they'll make it work, they always do. He watches as Geralt lounges beside him thinking about how beautiful he is with shadows dancing against his skin as hes bathed in firelight alone. Then Geralt sits up so abruptly and swallows so that Dandelion joins him instantly.

"Is everything alright Geralt?"

"Yes. Just. Don't move."

And he laughs gently, breath coming out calmer now. He catches the way Geralts throat bobs as he swallows and the shadows dance across his throat. He both wants to kiss it and compose about it. Instead he shifts a leg underneath himself and leaves the other outstretched. He's not sure what's going on but he will do as told. But then Geralt moves and lays his head in his lap and when he looks down comatose pools of cooling gold meet his own cobalt depths and his breath catches. He stutters in another one and then smiles fondly. Geralts eyes flutter shut and he can't help himself as he places a hand in white hair and runs his fingers through it. He's certain it's been months since he had physical contact that wasn't violent.

He doesn't hum or sing. This moment is precious. It will be locked in his heart, witnessed only by the firefight and remembered in the lonliest of winter nights. But then Geralt looks at him again so he smiles softly and starts to open his mouth but theres a hand in limp gold locks by his face and he stops. Heart rate picking up, but not in fear and distantly he knows Geralt knows the ways he's affecting him. But he makes no move to pull away even as the calloused hand in his hair moves up to cup the back of his head and pull him down. Instead he closes his eyes and smiles. The kiss is everything he imagined it would be and then some.

#geraskier #gerlion #firelight #fanfiction #was going to add a read more link but im bad at technology and the update is making it worse #fluff #domestic fluff #soft bois #romance

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