Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12854676.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Wiedźmin_|_The_Witcher_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Emhyr_var_Emreis/Geralt_z_Rivii_|_Geralt_of_Rivia
  Character:
      Geralt_z_Rivii_|_Geralt_of_Rivia, Emhyr_var_Emreis, Yennefer_z
      Vengerbergu_|_Yennefer_of_Vengerberg, Cirilla_Fiona_|_False_Ciri, Triss
      Merigold, Cirilla_Fiona_Elen_Riannon, Pavetta_Fiona_Elen
  Additional Tags:
      True_Love, Poor_Life_Choices, Life_Partners, Child_Death, breaking_up,
      Secret_Relationship, Infidelity, Angst, there's_no_happy_endings,
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, Age_Difference, young_emhyr, Young_Geralt, Older
      Man/Younger_Man, Implied/Referenced_Incest, Dead_Dove:_Do_Not_Eat,
      Domestic_Violence
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-11-28 Updated: 2017-12-03 Chapters: 4/? Words: 12275
****** The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies ******
by aeiparthenos
Summary
     “Witcher”, Emhyr’s deep voice sounded from behind him and Geralt
     stopped in his tracks, not looking back as he took a deep breath,
     closing his weary eyes, “I do not wish to see you. Ever again”
     Geralt nodded once and opened the door, strode out from the emperor’s
     study without looking back. He ignored the slightly hitched breath of
     air that left Emhyr’s lungs and he forced himself not to look back.
     To never again, look back.
Notes
     Based on 'Young Geralt':
     https://i.imgur.com/QyGK6tU.jpg
     And 'Young Emhyr':
     https://i.pinimg.com/originals/86/7b/d8/
     867bd847d14175d0025f3c95d91554e0.jpg
***** Chapter 1 *****
“If there’s nothing else…”
“There is, but you may go”, Emhyr sat down with a heavy sigh. Geralt frowned
and looked back at the large man, his eyes still as stony cold and devoid of
emotion as they always had been. Geralt felt his face twitch in supressed
agony, sorrow and anger for what had led them down this path, for everything
that had happened as he walked calmly and collected towards the door. As
always, the emperor wanted the last word and it wasn’t like Geralt would be
able to deny him that, as he had never denied Emhyr anything before in his
life. Not truly, at least. All hope, was now vanquished and gone – only a
silent vacuum remained and for the first time in his all too long life, Geralt
felt as emotionless as they said witchers were.
“Witcher”, Emhyr’s deep voice sounded from behind him and Geralt stopped in his
tracks, not looking back as he took a deep breath, closing his weary eyes, “I
do not wish to see you. Ever again”
Geralt nodded once and opened the door, strode out from the emperor’s study
without looking back. He ignored the slightly hitched breath of air that left
Emhyr’s lungs and he forced himself not to look back. To never again, look
back.
Nothing had been worth this. He had died once, lost what he thought was the
love of his life, trice all ready. This, was the fourth and, decidedly, the
last time. The daughter he had shared with his first love – was no more. The
one he had raised, with her, he had survived. He knew Emhyr’s pain and hatred,
knew it all too well himself. Knew Yen’s agony. No parent was supposed to
outlive their children and even though Geralt had been prepared that he might
just outlive his daughter, he never really prepared himself for the fate that
now stood in front of him, with a dead-like clarity.
All, was lost. Gone and done for and there was really nothing, now, keeping him
here. Keeping him, in this world. Except for the Path.
He would return to it. And sooner or later, the Path would find its way to
bring him the peace he really didn’t deserve, but that he craved and longed
for. All that strength and endurance, and for what? There was now nothing left
to take from or give to. Yen, was in the North. What had held them together,
the spell of the djinn that had been cast on them so long ago, it had released
them. And he’d felt nothing.
It was not like he’d never loved Yen. He believed he had, at some point. But
his true emotions were all too tangled up, distraught and painfully twisted up
inside him, for someone else, someone – unattainable. He never realized it, his
amnesia having taken all that lust and feverish emotion away and leaving him
dazed and confused, desperately trying to understand what is was that made him
long and ache. What it had been, had stared him right in the eyes only moments
past and now rejected him for the rest of eternity.
And Geralt understood. He couldn’t deny it, wouldn’t deny it. He blamed Emhyr
just as much as Emhyr blamed him. Ciri had been Emhyr’s blood: Blood of his
blood. But she had been Geralt’s soul. Soul of his soul. That bond, first given
him through the Law of Surprise so many years past, during a time when he still
had the capacity of remembrance and the will not to push back uncomfortable
truths and instead indulge in the secrets mounting all around him. To leave
chance and security behind and simply fall into the pits opening before him,
into something unknown that would eventually and unfortunately lead him to
where he now stood.
On the last steps down from Emhyr var Emreis study. The door behind him was
still open, but everything else had closed around him. Almost forty years - a
lifetime of a hundred, gone and now buried and devoured by the pain and aches
and miseries of the world that ate away at them, eventually leaving them
nothing left to take from. Nothing, could survive this. The indulgences, the
depravity and the all-consuming notion of a strange kind of suffocating love –
and Ciri, in the end – being the only thing keeping it together. Without her,
it all fell. It was a house of cards, had always been just that, a thin thread
always ready to snap, and Ciri, was the builder, the one making sure that the
string held. In the end, they were only ragdolls stowed together for her and at
her mercy.
Now, there was really nothing left to take from or give to. Ciri, was no more.
That bond, that suffocating love, was no more. And it left Geralt with a hole
in his chest so large, he could feel all those forty years pour from him like a
throat sliced open, the blood gushing from his pulsating veins and onto the
cold stone floor before him. And Emhyr and himself alike, had been the ones to
sewer his throat, slicing open his skin and letting everything that held him to
his too long and too violent life falter and stain the sand-coloured floor
crimson.
It was time to leave, time to end it all.
Geralt pushed his heels into the sides of Roach, not heading north. He cared
little of where his mare would take him, but he did not want to even be close
to the sorceresses, but neither did he want to remain close to Emhyr and
Vizima.
It would have to be south, for now.
                                       *

Forty years earlier
Geralt had noticed the young man before as circumstance had taken him to
Cintra, assisting a village protected by some high lord with cleansing out
several unwary wraiths prowling since a raid of murders had occurred. The high
lord claimed they had caught and hung the killer, but still the wraiths roamed,
unwilling to let go of their grasp of this world and continue into the other.
Geralt had seen it before, ghosts unwilling to leave – the death of their
perpetrator not enough revenge for their suffering. It was an easy enough job
for him, keeping him fed and able to once in a while sleep in an actual bed at
some Inn somewhere cheap enough for his coin purse.
Soon, however, it dawned on the witcher that the circumstances weren’t as
simple as he would have wished for them to be. They never were, really. It kept
him in Cintra for several weeks, staying at the Inn, sleeping during the days
and out hunting for clues all over the land during the nights. He remained
close to the City of Cintra most of the time, staying at the Inn on the
outskirts of the city itself, gaining him access both to the countryside and
the inner city.
At the Inn, he noticed after a while that he wasn’t the only one keeping
strange hours, spending the days in bed asleep, whilst being up during the
night. He’d seen the young man several times – he looked to be around eighteen
years old, thin but with a adolescent build beginning to give him adult
muscles, tall and with amber-like brown eyes, stern like a reptile’s and a face
with sharp features. He looked aristocratic in his features, but the clothes he
wore, looked like those of a moderately wealthy merchant.
He’d seen the young man once or twice during the day, but then, he’d realized
after some time, he kept his face hidden under a helmet and he always dressed
in armour. Geralt hadn’t first realized it was the same young man, but the more
he watched him, the careful movements of his limbs, strangely controlled and
not the least bit hesitant, for a man his age – Geralt started to recognize the
movements, and so put two and two together.
It was the same man.
One early morning Geralt burst through the door of the Inn, tired and worn out
after having fought an especially stubborn wraith who seemed to dodge his every
Yrden sign just in time before he had a chance to strike. The serving part of
the Inn was almost completely empty, not even a barmaid was present behind the
counter, but as Geralt’s yellow and cat-like eyes roamed the empty space, they
fell on the young man.
He sat alone at a table in the far corner of the room, a half drunken mug of
ale beside his hands, flipping through a deck of cards as he met Geralt’s
searching eyes. The young man smirked slightly towards Geralt, beckoning him to
join him. It was an open invitation and Geralt hesitated for a moment, but then
his eyes fell on the mans long, raven hair, pulled back and flowing down his
shoulders like a dark waterfall. He hadn’t noticed before, but the young man
was exceptionally beautiful – for a human. Geralt’s curiosity got the best of
him and so he wandered over and sank down in a chair opposite of the young man,
resting his weary hands filled with sword callouses on the table and looking
into those shining brown eyes with a healthy hint of suspicion.
The young man cocked his head, his long hair falling down over one of his
shoulders and forward, over part of his chest. He twisted his lips slighty and
Geralt could easily catch the scent emanating from him. Sandalwood and rich
spices.
He noticed himself wetting his lower lip and the youngling leaned back with a
heated look in his eyes, as he bit his own lower lip, smirking silently towards
the witcher. In all his sternness, he had something playful over him – Geralt
would possibly contribute that to his youth, and rightly so, looking back at
this event in time. But the man was also entirely mesmerising, and there was
something in those deeply brown, almost amber eyes, that told of tragedy and
loss – and a boy having to grow up all too quickly. The man hadn’t said
anything to him as of yet and silence reined around them. But Geralt, with his
witcher scenes, could sniff most reactions out, this man however, proved more
difficult. His eyes told him some things, but not even close to anything real
and his sharp features, strong chin and cheekbones and large nose, told him of
an esteemed linage. This was only due to Geralt actually having had the
displeasure of meeting several nobles and aristocrats along his travels and
normally, he’d stay the fuck away from them as much as possible, if he was not
in desperate need of coin. And witchers, were most always in desperate need of
coin.
Geralt cleared his throat and flickered his fingers on the rough wood of the
table and the youngling started to sort his deck of cards again.
“Ever had a chance to play Asino, the King and the Servant?” he asked, his
voice surprisingly deep and soft, as if made out of musty Erveluce wine and
Geralt couldn’t help a small smile coming over his lips. Asino, was a card game
he was well familiar with and so he nodded once and the youngling started
dealing the cards.
They played until dawn, when the youngling suddenly looked out at the rising
sun and his facial features cemented into hard and sharp shapes, making Geralt
furrow his brows, biting his lip as he leaned back.
“Thank you”, the youngling nodded stiffly, “For a fine game. Though, it is time
for me to retire”
Geralt looked up at the man now standing, realizing he recognized his accent.
He spoke with a light Nilfgaardian accent and just when Geralt was about to
stop him, the man had quickly made it up the stairs to the second floor,
leaving Geralt slightly confused and more than a little curious as to who this
aristocratic youngling actually was.
He returned to his own room after some time, still pondering the identity of
the man and realizing, he actually wanted to know. Anyone else, Geralt seldom
cared too much about, but there was something with this young man that had him
thinking. The way his amber brown eyes had pierced him, intrigued him. They
hadn’t spoken much, but it seemed as if it wasn’t necessary – at least not at
this point. Geralt felt a heat spreading through his groin and he did his best
to supress the unwelcome feeling – a feeling, only women so far had been able
to conjure within him.
His confused mind soon had to back down when his body decided that thinking
hindered his sleep, and Geralt thankfully dozed off on top of the reasonably
soft mattress. A too beautiful strange young man was the least thing he needed
to concern himself with right there an then.
 
Geralt didn’t see the young man for several days after their first real meet,
but one late night when sleep evaded the witcher, he found himself playing
cards with the youngling again. Neither man said much, but it wasn’t necessary
as they occupied each other with the cards, communicating mostly through grunts
and nods, which fit the witcher perfectly. He ignored his query mind, wanting
to ask about who the youngling were, as to how someone who seemed to belong to
Nilfgaardian nobility found himself frequenting an Inn in Cintra, mostly during
night time. But the youngling smirked arrogantly as he laid out his last card,
triumphantly, and Geralt grunted, throwing his own hand of cards on the table
and grabbing his mug of ale, drinking it down.
When he sat the mug down, the younglings eyes had shifted into something new, a
gaze Geralt’s way that wasn’t only just stern of slightly mischievous, but
instead, lustful. Geralt could smell a hint of arousal coming from the young
man’s body and he had to suppress his own crotch starting to ache, his cock
immediately reacting.
Sure, he hadn’t bedded a woman for a month or so, but he’d never reacted like
this to a man. A man twice as young as him self, for that matter. Not that age
mattered that much in general to Geralt, as long as the woman – or, as it
seemed, man – was old enough and consenting.
Geralt knew, his own age didn’t show on the outside. He was well over fifty
years old, soon sixty, if he were to believe the records Vesemir kept at Kaer
Morhen – but he looked no older than perhaps twenty-five.
He raked his hand through his white long hair and leaned back into the chair,
not letting the young man’s amber eyes go with his own yellow, and the young
man stared back at him, his eyes filled with a self-assurance and arrogance
along with lust, that Geralt couldn’t help but to simply cave in to. It was a
deep pit to fall in, but did he really care? During his years on the Path,
Geralt had learned one thing, that you took what graces were given to you, the
moment you had a chance to do so.
The young man stood and Geralt’s eyes fell on the straining of his breeches,
around his crotch and he felt his own cock jump. How the hell did one even
fuck, if there was only two men?
Of course, he could imagine the basics, sucking and penetrating, touching and
kissing, nipping and biting. He wasn’t an idiot. But how was he supposed to do
it to someone else? Doing it with a woman was easy, they just laid down and
spread out beneath him. But somehow, he got the feeling this man, with his hard
but still insolent eyes, didn’t spread himself like a woman.
The youngling smirked silently and cocked his head, motioning upstairs and
Geralt slowly followed a few paces behind him, almost dragging his feet, still
in doubt as to what he was doing.
It wasn’t long, however, until the witcher found himself on his knees with the
young mans hands sprawling around his head, his velvety smooth and hard, large
prick fucking Geralt’s mouth, as he took himself in hand, franticly jerking his
hard cock in the same pace as the youngling’s hips snapped.
Geralt felt his jaws ache, but he didn’t care. The younglings fingers bore into
his scalp and his breath hitched, small, controlled moans escaping between his
parted, broad lips. Geralt looked up at him and saw his heavy lids only just
covering amber eyes, filled with desire and lust, the younglings upper lips
drew back as he stared down into Geralt’s yellow eyes and with a deep sigh, his
body twitched and he spilled his warm, hot seed down the witcher’s throat. The
feeling of his pulsating cock brought Geralt over the edge and he spurted his
thick, white seed on the floor beneath them.
The youngling’s hands stroked Geralt’s hair as he withdrew from his cock and
leaned his forehead against a still clad thigh, swallowing down the last of the
young man’s seed and trying to catch his breath. Geralt could feel himself
blushing, but even though he felt amazingly satisfied, more satisfied than he’d
ever felt after sex in his whole life, his stomach twirled and a strange kind
of nervousness came over him. It was as if the youngling could feel his
hesitation and the strange feelings within him, as he soothingly raked his
fingers through Geralt’s hair.
“Shit”, Geralt breathed and the youngling chuckled slightly, tucking his dick
back into his trousers. Geralt sat back on his heels and tucked himself back
inside his breeches and with a sigh, raked his fingers through his hair. Then
he looked up at the youngling with an exasperated, but still questioning look
in his eyes, not really knowing what to say, or even how to ask, what he wanted
to ask.
“What are you not saying?” the youngling asked, as he tucked his shift down his
trousers and straightened out his dark, velvet coast. From down where Geralt
sat, looking up at him, the youngling looked even more aristocratic than he’d
done before. His straight hair hung on the sides of his face, slightly
shielding his prominent cheekbones, and stubbornly fell back just as quick as
the young man had drawn it back, out of his face.
Geralt shrugged, “Nothing”, he said, looking away. It shouldn’t really matter
what his name really was, or who he was. But the thing where, that during the
days, Geralt’s mind had continued working – searching for an answer and now, he
was beginning to suspect something, even though the mere thought of it seemed
impossible, if anything. He supposed that even if he tried to get an answer
from the youngling, he wouldn’t be able to get him to tell the truth, unless
the youngling knew Geralt would be able to notice if he was lying or not.
Geralt rose to his feet and sauntered over to a table standing further back
inside the youngling’s room. It contained bottles of wine, some dried fruits
and some uneaten bread. Geralt broke off a piece of the bread and popped it
into his mouth, as his eyes searched over what little belongings the young man
had. Then he cast a glance over his shoulder at the man, who still stood
pressed against the wall, exactly in the place where Geralt had sucked him off
just a moment past.
“How old are you?” Geralt finally asked after some time, sitting down on the
edge of the bed standing in the centre of the room.
The youngling made a noncommittal noise and pushed himself away from the wall,
walking over to the table and pouring himself a cup of wine, then another one
for Geralt. He walked over and gave the mug to the witcher, their fingers
touching lightly, the movement causing Geralt almost to recoil, from his
stomach twirling. Why did it do that? He frowned to himself, bringing the mug
to his lips.
“Age is relative”, the youngling said and sat down in an armchair a feet or so
from Geralt.
“Yeah”, Geralt nodded, “I guess you could say that”
The youngling nodded, “But, as you ask nicely", he smirked, "I’m fifteen”
Geralt felt his stomach sink, as he looked at the boy with wide eyes, not
really believing what his ears had heard.
“Fifteen?” Geralt croaked and the boy smirked again, looking down into his mug
of wine, he looked almost self-satisfied. Sure, he supposed the boy wasn’t the
youngest person he’d ever slept with – considering he didn’t exactly check
every girl's age before he took them to his bed, but Geralt had been sure that
he would be at least eighteen years old. But what did that matter in the long
run, if he was being honest with himself? What difference did it do? Fifteen or
eighteen? Many young men was married by his age in any case, but that fact did
however not lessen the feeling Geralt felt inside him, of being lecherous and
just completely fucked.
The young boy rolled his eyes and rose from the armchair, moving towards
Geralt, “Don’t worry”, he said, reaching out and stroking Geralt’s hair with a
soft hand. “So, what’s your name, witcher?”
“Geralt”, Geralt croaked, staring down into his mug of wine.
The youngling nodded, smirking slightly, “I’m Duny”
                                       *
***** Chapter 2 *****
Thirty-eight years earlier
Geralt was holding the reins hard and tightly drawn as he raced through the
woods, Roach galloping as fast as she could to avoid the pursuing bandits that
raced behind them. Arrows flew and hit the trees around them, but Geralt ducked
deep, avoiding both arrows and branches that tried to get in his way. He’d
gotten himself a new scar just above his left eyebrow, puckering his still
smooth and un-aged skin, giving him a slightly rougher look.
He could hear the screams and shouts from behind him, the bandits getting
further and further away, but not yet inclined to give up their hunt on him. He
urged Roach on, hoping she could gallop just a bit faster, getting him just
slightly closer to Cintra city, before she fell over from exhaustion. His mare
did good and brought him to the burrows, leading him inside the city
eventually. He reached an Inn, not the same one as he’d been staying at two
years past. This time, he came from the south, having roamed the edges of the
empire for work. The usurper that had killed Fergus var Emreis ruled the lands
and his rule was harsh, but not well thought through. Geralt stayed clear of
him, did some work and then left the borders of Nilfgaard as soon as he was
able to.
It was in a dense woodland, where he’d run into bandits. He’d thought himself
so close to Cintra, he didn’t need to worry – but that proved a mistake he was
unwilling to do again, as he sloughed off his mare and felt his knees buckle as
his feet hit solid ground. He hadn’t slept well for over two weeks, living
rough on the road and travelling, making his way north as fast as he could.
He had received a letter from Yen, telling him to come north and hurry. She had
offered to teleport him, but Geralt, as usual, refused. He stumbled into the
Inn, surprised that the door was unlocked at this hour, he gazed around the
dingy room when he noticed steps coming down from the stairs. He cleared his
throat and croaked out, exasperated from the ride, “I’m only looking for a bed
to sleep in. I’ve got the coin”, he said.
Then, a pair of all too familiar amber eyes met him with a stern expression,
lips twisting as the young man leaned against a pole reaching from the floor to
the ceiling.
Geralt huffed, looking almost indignantly on the young man, his lips bending
downward. What the hell?
“Not glad to see me, it seems”, the youngster - Duny - said. “Witcher”, he
added soon after.
Geralt snorted, a warmth already spreading through his lower abdomen at the
memory of their shared… No, no. Geralt shook his head internally as he kept
watching the boy. Not gonna happen. He tried to ignore the soothing deep voice
of the youngling now smirking at him with hungry eyes. What kind of incubus was
this man? Seemingly so unaffected by anything, yet so regal and controlled. How
old was he now? Seventeen, at most – and he’d grown, Geralt saw it as clear as
day. His shoulders had broadened and widened, he looked more muscular than he
had before, and even then he’d looked to be in his early twenties. Now, he
definitely looked as if he was in his twenties, not far from how Geralt himself
looked.
“What are you doing here, Duny?” Geralt seethed through his teeth, staying
where he was. Duny shrugged arrogantly and drew a deep breath, moving towards
Geralt.
“I could ask you the same”, he said, gaining in on him, “It’s been two years
since we last saw each other”, he breathed and reached out, one of his large,
slim hands touching Geralt’s chest.
“Hm”, Geralt grunted, looking up to meet those all too beautiful amber eyes.
“Where’s the innkeeper?” Geralt asked, frowning and he saw Duny’s lips twitch
into a small, very controlled smile.
“Asleep, I imagine”, he said in almost a whisper and withdrew his hand from
Geralt’s chest, walking past him behind the counter. “What is it that you’re
after? A room? A drink? Surely, I could help you with either”
“I bet you could”, Geralt said through clenched teeth.
Duny looked up at him with gleaming eyes, filled with the same kind of lust
Geralt had seen there that night two years ago. He still wasn’t convinced that
‘Duny’, was who he said he was. But what did it matter? He was a boy, and just
like Geralt himself, his looks were a mere rouse, making you think he was
something he was not. He wasn’t a young man, he was a boy. By now, surely a boy
soon turning into a man, but his quick wit had made Geralt a fool, falling for
his invitation and leading him to do something he’d spent the last two years
trying to pry away from his mind.
Still, he found himself stroking his wantonly hard prick to the memories of
Duny’s deep amber eyes looking down on him under heavy lids, as his broad,
filthy lips twitched and snarled into an orgasm, shooting his milky and bitter
seed down Geralt’s throat. He’d imagined Duny beneath him, when he fucked Yen,
when he made love to her, and it made him feel horrible, like he was duping not
only himself, but her as well.
And now, now he stood here, in front of the young man again, biting into his
lower lip to keep it from quivering and endlessly thankful for the fact that
his armour covered up his crotch, as he felt his hard cock twitch as he looked
at the long raven hair spilling down Duny’s shoulders and his intense eyes
staring at him.
Geralt slowly looked around the room, making sure they were alone before he
stalked over to Duny, grabbing him by his throat and pushing him back against
the wall. The insolent youth only gasped, before smirking at him with heat
filling his eyes. Geralt pressed himself against the young man, who now had
become almost as tall as the witcher himself and Geralt drew in a deep breath
from him. Still sandalwood and rich spices, hit his nostrils and he had to keep
himself from moaning. He could feel the dark slits of his eyes widen as Duny’s
musky arousal hit him in a deep, almost profound wave.
“Who are you?” Geralt hissed and stared into those reptile-like eyes peering at
him with hot lust, then he felt Duny’s hands wrap around his wrists, easily
unclenching Geralt’s fingers from the hold on his throat. He didn’t know why he
let go, but there was something about Duny, that simply had him… Do stuff.
Duny took his hands in his and entwined their fingers and Geralt breathed in
deep, shaking his head slightly as he frowned. “I can’t tell you, witcher”,
Duny said in a murmur. “And even so, what does it matter?”
“Uh huh”, Geralt huffed, taking a step back and Duny released his wrists,
turning away from him and walking towards the stairs.
“Wake the innkeep if you wish”, he drawled in his Nilfgaardian accent, “But if
you feel so inclined, my bed and room is open to you”
Geralt stood silent for a moment, looking after the young man and his tall and
muscled, too gorgeous body, move up the stairs. He groaned inwardly as he began
following him up the stairs. When he entered Duny’s room, the youngling was
already undressing, his tight dark leather trousers unlaced at his crotch and
Geralt could easily notice how his hard cock strained against the undone laces
and the rough material.
He looked at the boy with hungry eyes and it seemed as if he basked in Geralt’s
gaze, as he shrugged off his robe and then drew his shift over his head,
revealing his bare upper body to Geralt, who sucked in a sharp breath as he
stood watching, as if caught like a naughty child trying to steal from the
kitchens.
Then, Geralt snapped out of his trance and stalked over to Duny, trying his
best to tower over the almost equally tall youngling, who’s breath fell hot
against Geralt’s face.
“Tell me who you are”, Geralt hissed, having to restrain himself from touching
the young man’s velvety skin, his knuckles turning white from him fisting his
hands. He could feel his aching cock, pulsating inside his own breeches.
Duny huffed, shooting Geralt an annoyed look as he leaned back against a desk,
shooting his crotch out, deliberately making Geralt’s eyes fall down over his
hips and the straining trousers. “Why?” he said, not even trying to deny he was
not who he said he was.
“Because”, Geralt said and moved closer to him, leaning down against him, their
noses almost touching. “I know you’re not telling the truth”
“I’ve never said truth nor falsehood”, Duny bit back, a snarl covering his
upper lips and Geralt caught his lips in a searing kiss, hot breath spilling
over them both as Duny melted against Geralt.
“You lie”, Geralt hissed between their kisses and he couldn’t help a moan
escaping him as Duny’s tongue entered his mouth, licking into him and taking
all the fucking control that Geralt had over himself in one move alone.
Duny pushed him back suddenly, looking at him with query eyes, “Why do you need
to know?” he asked, frowning.
“I know”, Geralt said, gasping by now as Duny’s hand was cupping his cock from
outside his trousers, palming him with generous but still achingly teasing
strokes, “That you’ve got some curse, I can smell it on you”
“Hm”, Duny nodded quickly before he leaned forward, pressing his lips against
Geralt’s again, their breaths both hitching at the same time and a gasp made
Geralt breath in air from Duny’s lungs.
“And you’re a noble”, Geralt gasped, pressing his hard cock against Duny’s
palm, trying desperately to get some friction, “From Nilfgaard”
“Such a good boy, aren’t you?” Duny mused in a dark whisper, biting down on
Geralt’s lower lip and Geralt groaned, bucking into Duny’s hand.
Before he knew it, Duny had pulled off parts of his armour and was unlacing his
pants, then pulling them down, and soon, his searing hot lips were pressed
against Geralt's balls and his wet mouth sucking one ball into his mouth at a
time. Geralt reached down and ranked his fingers through Duny’s hair, bucking
his hips and grinding his achingly hard prick against the younger man’s face
while he was sucking on his sack.
“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time”, Duny moaned in a gasping breath as he
released his lips from Geralt’s balls and one of his hands trailed up his rigid
cock, making it twitch with anticipation.
“Oh fuck”, Geralt gasped as Duny’s lips closed around the head of his cock, his
tongue flickering around it, before he pushed himself all the way down to
Geralt’s pubes. Duny started to slide his lips up and down Geralt’s shaft, his
fingers pressing up just behind his balls and Geralt felt his knees buckle,
pleasure shooting up along his spine as Duny swallowed his cock whole into his
throat. How the fuck did a youngling like Duny do this? How- “Aaahh”, Geralt
moaned as he felt his cock pulsating and his muscles twitching, as he spilled
his seed straight down Duny’s throat without any warning. Duny’s throat
convulsed, gagging on the spurt of Geralt’s thick sperm, which only made it
feel even better as Geralt pressed himself deeply inside the young man’s mouth.
“Tell me”, Geralt gasped, “You know I’ll find out eventually”
“Why should you?” Duny answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as
he stood up. Geralt looked down and saw his trousers still straining, he hadn’t
brought himself out, jerking while he sucked Geralt off. Geralt looked up and
met his amber eyes again, starting to pull off the rest of his gear as Duny
peeled off the rest of his clothes.
“Because”, Geralt sighed, “I’m a witcher”
“As if that proves anything”, Duny shrugged and Geralt walked over to him, his
hand trailing down the smooth skin of his back.
Geralt leaned in, his lips touching Duny’s neck, trailing down over his
shoulder, “I’m sure it wouldn’t, but then I'll simply have to give you my best
guess, yeah? Emhyr var Emreis”, Geralt whispered close to his skin and he felt
the young man stiffen, all the muscles in his body becoming rigid, before he
breathed in deeply and leaned into Geralt’s touch.
“And now?” Duny, or well, Emhyr, asked without looking back at Geralt, who’s
lips still trailed his flesh with warm kisses.
“Now”, Geralt said in a deep voice, filled with heat as he pressed his half
hard cock against Emhyr’s naked cheeks, “I’ll fuck you”
 
And a marvellous fuck it was. Geralt had let go of everything as he finally
drove his hard cock into the tight ass of the too young, too handsome and too
demanding insolent little Nilfgaardian heir to the throne. But he simply
couldn’t stop himself as Emhyr moaned quietly underneath him. The youngling was
the only other man Geralt had ever fucked, the only other man he’d wanted to
fuck – and to finally do it, had been so good, he had trouble even finding the
right words for it in his mind. His head was spinning as he laid down beside
the heaving raven haired teenager, sprawling on the bed – the linens a complete
mess from their fornication. Emhyr’s stomach was covered in his own seed and
Geralt’s second orgasm ran down from his violated ass, over his thighs. And
Geralt still hadn’t met a woman that was even close to being as beautiful as
Emhyr before in his life, where he lay, pale chest going up and down as he
raked his fingers through his hair.
They fucked twice more that night, before Geralt fell down into an exhausted
heap on the bed, falling asleep within seconds, too content, too fucking sore
and not caring one single shit about who Emhyr actually was, apart from what he
knew, or what would happen the next day.
He got his answer fairly quick when he opened his eyes to the agonizing
sunshine streaming in through the windows. The room still reeked of fucking and
dried up sperm, and as Geralt turned around, he realized he was alone. Emhyr
had left, but to where?
And did he even really care?
Geralt shook his head as he heaved himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed
with his head in his hands, sighing. Of course he cared. Lambert could fuck off
with his emotionless blabbering about witchers having a hard time attaching –
or, this fucking little courtly brat from Nilfgaard had really done a number on
him.
It seemed he indeed had done a number on him, because as Geralt looked around,
he noticed all of Emhyr’s stuff were gone. His armour, his few clothes and
possessions. Nothing remained except Geralt’s shit, still packed into a small
sack.
“Fuck”, Geralt sighed and reached for his under trousers and breeches.
                                       *
Yennifer was in Oxenfurt, why, Geralt had no idea – but the letter he'd
received had him continuing his way North. As he left the Inn, ass still sore,
which in itself created a moronic fucking longing for the raven-haired youth,
he mounted Roach with a strangely detached feeling brewing inside himself. Was
that worry? He didn't fucking know. But what else was he supposed to do? He had
work to do, to continue to do. He couldn’t just chase after some stray heir to
the Nilfgaardian Empire, not matter the usurper currently on the throne, or
they way that stray made his cock hard as fucking steel. He could only guess as
to what Emhyr was up to, but he certainly felt like he didn’t want shit to do
with it. Whatever happened, he wanted to stay as far away from that circus as
possible. But at the same time, he felt as if he had to pull himself away from
the city by force, knowing Emhyr was most likely still there, only having
abandoned him for some reason or another.
The tingle he’d felt from the curse Emhyr carried, still roamed in the back of
his skull. He’d thought about what it could be, exactly, but as Emhyr had said
nothing, there was really nothing he could do at this point. Why he would do
anything to begin with, at all – Geralt shrugged and huffed indignantly,
groaning to himself. Roach made an muffled sound as she trotted through the
city, as if knowing his thoughts and Geralt frowned.
It took him some time to get to Oxenfort. He camped out in the woods and on one
occation, stopping at a disgusting Inn filled with drunkards, rowing and
shouting. Geralt kept to the shadows, staying out of it, as he drank from his
mug of ale. He almost imagined the raven haired young man walking in through
the door and sitting down beside him. Too close, his hand creeping up along
Geralt’s thigh and he could feel his cock jump at the thought. Geralt frowned,
pressing it back.
That wouldn’t do. It most definitely wouldn’t do, considering he was heading to
Yen. She’d read his mind and know, in an instant. She wasn’t a fool, and
amongst other things, she didn’t share. If he ploughed a barmaid every now and
again, she didn’t care. It was fine, considering they seldom had time to
actually meet and be alone just the two of them. But this? Yen would fucking
kill him.
And he liked Yen. Like her more than he’d like the other women or sorceresses
that he’d run into during his travels and machinations with the rich and
famous. Not that he’d had that many, but, he seemed to have a way to stomp head
first into the problems of wealthy nobles, always being at the right place at
the right time, for solving their dumb shit.
This, was no different. Except, he hadn’t fucking fallen in love with any
nobles as of yet. And that was what this was, wasn’t it? Geralt shook his head
and drank down the last of his ale in spite. Goddamned brat, he snarled under
his breath as he rose from the table and stalked off to his room. There, he
took himself in hand, trying to imagine Yen’s broad hips jutting out, his large
hands grasping them as he pressed himself into her hot, wet cunt and fucked her
until she screamed.
But then, she turned her head and her raven locks fell over, revealing her face
– and it wasn’t fucking Yen, was it? It was Emhyr, and suddenly, the rounded
soft hips had been replaced by his sharp, male body with broad shoulders and
slim, finely lined hipbones. His ass tight and oiled as Geralt thrust inside
him, hitting a spot inside the young man that made his lips part and a soft,
shallow moan escape him. He didn’t scream or mewl wantonly like Yen did when
they fucked, instead, Emhyr moaned silently, grunted and huffed as Geralt took
him. His sounds made Geralt come undone, even though it was only his
imagination fucking with him and making him remember.
As he dried himself off and threw the small cloth away in anger, he laid back,
breathing hard as he stared up at the ceiling. What the hell was he even
supposed to do?
Damn it all.
                                       *
***** Chapter 3 *****
The memories pained him as he sunk down on his bedroll. He was beginning to
become too old, too worn and exhausted. He had fought for so long, to keep
everything around him working, and amongst all of it, having to pretend not to
love someone he’d gladly give everything up for. They had spent the better of
forty years together, off and on, through two of Emhyr’s marriages and a
handful of goddamned concubines.
He’d been without Emhyr for long periods of time before, but neither had pained
him as much as it did now, knowing – with finality, that the only person he’s
ever truly loved, except for his daughter, never wanted to see him again.
Wasn’t it enough that Ciri was gone?Dead, for all he knew. Geralt hadn’t cried
since the Trial of Grasses, but right then and there, he felt one of his cheeks
wetting, as a single, large tear rolled down from his eye. His breath hitched
from a deeply buried sob and he stared up at the dark sky above him. He’d never
felt so lonely in all his life. Who wasn’t dead or gone? Geralt shook his head,
covering his face with his large hands. Vesemir, Triss, Yenn, Dandelion,
Zoltan, Roche,CiriAnd now Emhyr, his one constant, the only person who had
loved him back just as intensely as he had loved him.
They’d had a good life. Geralt couldn’t deny it, even though it had been more
painful than happy, but it had still been good. Their relationship had always
been kept as quiet as possible, as it was frowned up on, not only in the North,
and for the imperator of Nilfgaard to have a life partner that was a man? It
simply didn’t do. It would have caused a scandal forcing Emhyr to abdicate.
There were years they never saw each other, when Geralt had ridden with the
Hunt and then suffered from amnesia. But somehow, his feelings never forgot
Emhyr. He’d met him during his period of amnesia, and he could still remember,
as he lay there under the dark sky staring up at the nothingness meeting him
and watching him back, how he once again fell in love with the emperor. It
didn’t matter to Geralt that Emhyr aged more rapidly than he did. He’d been so
young when they met, and now – they looked to be about the same age, Emhyr even
looked older than Geralt, by half a decade or so.
But now, it was all gone. They had quarrelled before, of course. All couples
do, at times. Especially those who’re not allowed to live in the open, those to
have to hide their love and their affections behind a faked curtain of deep
friendship, pretending to be something other than they are, only because of
preconceived notions and laws trying to forbid feelings from erupting.
Geralt knew the raven-haired emperor better than anyone else. Contrary to
Geralt, Emhyr had never preferred women. Geralt knew he had to doze himself
with aphrodisiacs, only to consummate his marriages and produce the one heir he
was able to, or to fucking take his concubines to bed. And even though all
that, it wasn’t strange for them, to share the parenthood of Ciri, even if it
drove a wedge through their relationship once Ciri bonded with Geralt when
Emhyr was gone for years on years. Ciri was never his blood, but it didn’t
matter – because she was of Emhyr’s blood and through that, she was just as
muchhisas she was Emhyr’s. It was almost comical, Geralt chuckled miserably as
he closed his eyes. Pavetta, Ciri and Cirilla, had all looked very much like
himself. Almost every woman Emhyr had surrounded himself with, had looked like
a female version of Geralt. Strong females, refusing to follow his orders, with
hair so blond it was almost white. Pavetta and Ciri had had ashen coloured
hair, just like Geralt – Cirilla, Emhyr’s current wife, looked horrifyingly
much like Ciri, except that her hair was a shade too yellow, but he supposed
she served her purpose.
Geralt, on the other hand, had realized he preferred women. Emhyr was the only
man he’d ever slept with, the only man who would ever rouse those sort of
feelings within him. But also the only one he’d ever been with, were it
feltthatgood. After he’d had Emhyr, it was as if there was no longer any point
in having anyone else. He never longed for another, even though he’d slept with
hundreds of women through the years after their first encounter. But it was
almost exclusively Emhyr that came to his mind as he thrust into someone else.
Geralt frowned and wiped away the tear staining his dry cheek, scowling as he
huddled together like a foetus in the cold, his hands forming a pillow under
his head, as he listened to Roach’s huffing and chewing. If he could only sleep
for an hour or two, this agony would feel just slightly less haunting and
devouring..
                                       *
Thirty years earlier
Geralt had ripped off Emhyr’s helmet in the middle of a quarrel, and now he
stood staring at his lover with wide eyes, too shocked to even utter a word.
He’d seen many monsters in his lifetime, but this was simply so bizarre, it
shook the witcher to his core.
A humanoid hedgehog. Geralt couldn’t believe his eyes and his now twenty-five
year old lover punched him hard in the face, making Geralt stumble back,
completely at a loss, not believing his eyes. Emhyr, or, the bestial form of
him, snarled like a creature such as him would do, before he snatched back his
helmet and put it back over his head.
“See!” he snarled from under the helmet, “Now leave”, Emhyr growled, standing
completely still with his arm pointing straight out at Geralt. Geralt shook
himself to life and grabbed Emhyr’s wrist in a tight grip, bending his arm back
and moving in close to him.
“This”, Geralt rasped carefully, searching the small holes of Emhyr’s helmet
for his eyes, “Is curable”
Emhyr jerked his hand away from Geralt’s grip and took a few steps back from
him, “You don’t think I know that?” he said in his now calm voice, making him
sound like he usually did, collected and always thinking at least two, three
steps ahead. “Why do you reckon I employ Xarthisius?”
Geralt frowned and looked at his lover, crossing his arms over his chest, “How
long have you had this curse?”
“What does it matter?” Emhyr said, shaking his head once before he turned and
walked over to a desk filled with papers. He always kept himself with all kinds
of documents, keeping in contact with the few people he had still in Nilfgaard,
supporting him. Supporting his taking back the Imperium from the hands of the
usurper. Emhyr took a deep breath and Geralt rubbed his hands over his face,
frowning.
“I guess not”, Geralt said, “Uh”
“What?” Emhyr looked over his shoulder.
“How have you been able to hide this from me, this whole time?” Geralt looked
at him incredulously and Emhyr shrugged.
“Your attention to detail is surprisingly flawed, considering your nature,
mutant”, Emhyr said in a drawl and Geralt’s jaw tightened.
“What’s with the name-calling, beast?” Geralt strode over to him. “You’re
sulking”, he said and grabbed Emhyr’s shoulder.
“I’m not”, Emhyr smacked away Geralt’s hand, “I’m considering options”
“If I know you, there’s not an option you haven’t already considered”, Geralt
muttered, walking over to the bed and sitting down with a sigh.
“True”, Emhyr nodded carefully, “That does however not stop me from re-
considering”
After a moment’s silence, Geralt smirked and looked up at Emhyr from where he
sat with his arms resting against his thighs, “So”, he said and Emhyr put his
pencil down from where he sat at his desk.
“Mm?” he hummed in answer, not looking up at Geralt.
“Does your prick have spikes, or what?” Geralt grinned and he could see Emhyr
tense up and even though he wore that stupid helmet, covering himself up,
Geralt felt his scowl from underneath it. Emhyr looked up at him without saying
a word.
“What if it did?” he finally said and Geralt smiled, showing his teeth, his
split yellow eyes now filled with lust he simply couldn’t help. That beast was
still Emhyr, after all – and Geralt didn’t just want him because of how he
looked. He wanted him no matter the circumstances.
Unless his prick actually was covered in spikes. Geralt may consider himself
somewhat of a masochist, but he wasn’t completely mad.
Not yet, at least.
 
When Emhyr had changed back into his normal, human self, Geralt lay in their
bed, looking at him lying beside him, reading some dusty tome he’d bought
somewhere. Emhyr read, a lot. Geralt could enjoy reading, of course – but
sometimes, like after a thorough fucking like this, he wouldn’t be able to
concentrate. Emhyr, however, always read when they were done.
He followed the still very young man’s trails of body hair, from his upper
chest, down in a thin dark line over his stomach, dipping down into his navel,
and then disappearing down underneath the covers. Geralt knew how it spread out
around his proud cock in a gorgeous dark little sea of musky scents that drove
him absolutely insane with want. He looked up and met one of Emhyr’s amber
eyes, his eyebrow cocking with inquiry, but he remained quiet. Geralt let the
tips of his finger trail down along his hair, circling around his navel, and
just before dipping down below, he steered his fingers back up. Emhyr breathed
out, not moving a muscle in his emotionless face, but Geralt could read his
body language by now and the prickling of his skin, along with his deepened
breathing, told him Emhyr was enjoying his fingers travelling up and down his
naked form.
Geralt, however, had drowned into his mind – searching through his thoughts
about this curse. Trying to remember if he’d heard anything about it before, if
he knew anything at all, to begin with. That moron, Xarthisius, wouldn’t be
able to find Emhyr a cure, even if it jumped up behind him and bit him in the
ass. Geralt tried to grather his thoughts as he leaned down against Emhyr’s
shoulder, placing light kisses along his velvety and warm skin.
Geralt would try to do whatever it was he could do, to help Emhyr find a cure
to the curse. He wasn’t sure it was what he was supposed to do. Well, he knew
damned well it wasn’t what he was supposed to do. He was a witcher, he was
supposed to kill monsters, not cure them. But then again, Geralt knew monsters
better than anyone else – and, he’d come to regret thinking this later, but
Emhyr, wasn’t a monster.
 
As it turned out, finding a cure, wasn’t easy. Geralt didn’t see Emhyr for over
a year as he searched up and down the continent for something to help his
lover. He even discussed it with Yen, not telling her all that much and
thankfully, it seemed as if she kept from reading his thoughts that time. He
even travelled inside Nilfgaard, searching through their imperial library and
consulting several high mages and priest on the matter – but what he learned,
was of little help.
Then, after too long out on the road and with too little money and food, having
sold his horse for money just so that he wouldn’t get scurvy from eating the
same dried meat over and over – Geralt found himself stumbling through Kaedwen.
He finally collapsed into a heap on the grimy ground as the rain poured down
over him and just before he closed his eyes, he felt two hands grabbing him and
start pulling him away.
At that point, he didn’t much care what happened to him. He couldn’t fucking
believe he’d risk this much for one person alone, starving and half dying from
exhaustion. He’d done both several times before, but this – along with some
fucked up emotional stress, made his head spin and his mind was completely
lost.
He woke up in a small hut. It was warm and smelled strongly of minty herbs and
earth inside, along with the burning embers, sparkling from the hearth. He sat
up with a groan from the small cot in which he was lying and immediately a
woman, perhaps forty years old, strode up to him, holding a cup out.
“’Ere, drink this”, she said in a thick Kaedweni accent.
“What is it?” Geralt rasped and she scowled, pushing the cup into his hand.
“It’ll make ye better, that’s what it is”, her voice was stern and unforgiving.
Somehow, she reminded him of Emhyr, which in itself was completely bizarre, as
Emhyr was young, beautiful and… And… Stern and unforgiving in a lot of ways,
now that he thought about it.
The woman, turned out to be a regular crone, who would have thought? Geralt
remained suspicious for some time, but when he didn’t die from her concoctions
and started feeling less weak and less like he was dying, he tried asking her
hesitantly about the curse. At first, she looked at him as if he was completely
mad, but then she told him of an old elven tradition, that didn’t sound all
that far off. Geralt listened to her, and as she spoke, things were beginning
to become more and more clear to him.
The trouble was, Geralt wouldn’t be able to do anything to lift Emhyr’s curse.
He could help him, sure – but the lifting of it had to do with acceptance, from
someone hating him bad enough to put such a curse on him. And the person having
put the curse on Emhyr? Well, Geralt had no idea who it was, since Emhyr hadn’t
deemed him worthy of that exact knowledge.
Emhyr was a pompous ass, in many ways. Geralt knew that well enough. Still – he
couldn’t help his feelings, so after having recovered with the help of the
lonesome crone in Kaedwen, he made his way back to Cintra where Emhyr lived in
a small, rented loft, which during Geralt’s stay in the city worked as his home
as well, since a few years back. Geralt never truly had a home, except for Kaer
Morhen of course, but he was so seldom there, the home he now shared with Emhyr
seemed more real somehow. It was a strange kind of domesticity Geralt had never
expected to end up in, even though he knew all too well of Emhyr’s plans for
the future, in restoring his power of Nilfgaard, taken from the usurper who
murdered his father. But right then and there, Geralt was content in ways he’d
never believe himself ever be.
When he arrived back, late during an evening, an hour before midnight, he found
Emhyr gone from the small loft. He set down his bag and quickly went through
the small space, only to make sure nothing strange was going on. He figured he
should just relax and wait for the beast to return. When the moon stood high in
the heavens, Emhyr would return to his human self, and fuck knew what he did
when he went roaming the woods in his bestial form. Geralt, for one, was pretty
happy not knowing, to begin with.
Emhyr returned several hours later, reeking of liquor and tobacco smoke. He
tumbled into bed, falling down over Geralt who in his own dazed state shot up
from the bed, instantly panicked by not even having really noticed someone
entering the loft – then, when he realized it was Emhyr, he sank back down into
the bed, chest heaving heavily as Emhyr laughed drunkenly lying sprawled over
him.
His raven hair fell out over the light bed-linen and Geralt leaned back on his
elbow, looking down on the writhing form of Emhyr, obviously way too drunk for
what would be deemed acceptable for a future emperor. But then his mouth grew
quiet and his broad, luscious lips parted slightly and Geralt saw his pink
tongue slide over his straight line of frontal teeth. It took Geralt exactly
half a second to close the distance between them and devour Emhyr’s lips with
his own, drinking him in and pressing his hard hips against Emhyr’s bucking
ones. He simply couldn’t get enough of the young man. After having ravished
him, he urged Emhyr on to fuck him as well, which he gladly did, whilst holding
his head back with a tight grip in his ashen hair.
It never mattered how much younger Emhyr was than himself, the beautiful
aristocrat knew exactly how to submerge Geralt beneath him and drown him in his
heated lust. There simply wasn’t enough time during the night for what Geralt
always wanted Emhyr to do. When Emhyr’s stamina was drained completely after
several orgasms, Geralt would happily fuck him lying on their sides, from
behind – lazily pushing himself in and out of Emhyr’s sore and sensitive hole,
listening to him moan quietly as Geralt nipped his damp and blushing skin.
There was never enough time.
                                       *
***** Chapter 4 *****
Twenty-six years earlier
It hadn’t been easy finding a way for Emhyr to get rid of his curse, but after
years on years considering, planning and thinking, completely ignoring Geralt’s
hesitations to the plan, Emhyr had started meeting the now deceased King
Roegner’s daughter, Pavetta. Geralt was well aware that Emhyr housed no real
feelings for the lass, but the fact that she was the heir to Cintra, would not
only prove a possibility for Emhyr to finally escape the curse, but also a
perfect opportunity to gain an army for his plan to overthrow the usurper still
sitting one the throne in Nilfgaard. It wasn’t like Geralt could say anything,
to be honest, even though he certainly didn’t like the idea of Emhyr becoming
involved with another.
But Geralt couldn’t exactly talk, could he? He hadn’t met Yen for several
years, but he hadn’t ended it with her either, and she remained unknowing of
his relationship with Emhyr.
They both knew, and Emhyr in particular, that if he presented himself to
Pavetta as Emhyr var Emreis, his plans to have her fall for him wouldn’t go
very far. But as Duny, he had an opportunity. Emhyr in himself, was charming,
and known as Duny alone, women flocked around him, much to Geralt’s annoyance.
He knew that was hypocritical, considering he forced Yen to share him with
Emhyr, but that didn’t take away the fact that Geralt didn’t want to share
Emhyr with anyone else. But, as Emhyr stood dressing himself before him,
fifteen minutes past midnight, Geralt could only clench his jaw tight and try
to ignore that fact that instead of spending the night with him, Emhyr was
going out and meeting up with a fourteen year old girl.
“Don’t look so sour”, Emhyr sighed arrogantly as he buttoned up his long, dark
red coat. It framed his face and jawline in a most handsome way and Geralt
narrowed his eyes. Emhyr peeked over his shoulder and his long, silky dark hair
cascaded over his shoulder, and Geralt breathed in sharp. “You knew this was
coming, dear”, Emhyr drawled.
“Uh huh”, Geralt grunted, his knuckles turning white from clasping his hands so
tight over his knees where he sat on their bed.
Emhyr turned around and rolled his eyes, sighing again as he strode over to
Geralt. His tall, slim body accented perfectly in his coat, reaching just above
his knees, cut in a southern sharp fashion. He stopped just before Geralt, his
crotch an inch or so from Geralt’s face as he leaned forward over his thighs.
Emhyr stroked his ashen hair, raking his fingers through it, which he knew
Geralt loved.
Geralt groaned and looked up at Emhyr from under a frown, pulling him down by
the clasps of his coat, as Geralt lay back in the bed, Emhyr following him
down, straddling him.
“There’s no reason for you to be jealous”, Emhyr said, kissing Geralt’s lips
lightly, his mouth still hovering over Geralt’s.
“You say that now”, Geralt grunted, sitting up, leaned back on his elbows as
Emhyr rolled over to his side, lying back and looking up at Geralt with a
frown.
“Indeed”, Emhyr looked at him, his gleaming brown amber eyes searching the
witcher’s face. “You’re waiting for me to say it, aren’t you?”
Geralt looked back at him over his shoulder, “Say what, exactly?”
Emhyr smirked slightly, running his hand over Geralt’s clad arm. “That I love
you”
“I know that you do”, Geralt huffed, without any kind of dignity left and he
sighed.
“And I know that you need to hear me say it”, Emhyr said in what was more a
whisper than anything else.
“Hm”, Geralt shrugged, trying to seem unaffected, but inside him – his heart
ached for the man lying beside him. So unconditionally beautiful and at the
same time, icy cold and stone-like.
Things seemed to go according to Emhyr’s plan, and it didn’t take long for him
to charm the young Pavetta, and the two of them kept meeting during the nights
when Emhyr was able to sneak inside the large castle in Cintra. Geralt kept out
of it and focused himself on his work, being away for some weeks at a time,
doing what he did best, killing monsters and slaying other kinds of beasts.
He tried to push away his anxiety and worries as best he could, focusing on
just about anything else besides what Emhyr was up to. It wasn’t like he
doubted Emhyr, exactly.
Then that dreaded evening came.
Emhyr claimed Pavetta’s hand through the Law of Surprise. It was a banquet,
filled with suitors for Pavetta and Geralt kept himself to a dark corner most
of the night, keeping a steady eye on Emhyr, making sure nothing unexpected
happened. The darkness also hid his weary jealousy, as he soon realized what
Emhyr probably didn’t know, that Pavetta was already carrying Emhyr’s child in
her womb. He had impregnated her, and Geralt could only feel nauseous at that
fact. Horribly jealous, angry and retched, even as he tried to lash his
emotions with the same coldness as Emhyr took each and every well-manoeuvred
step towards the Nilfgaardian Empire.
Emhyr had covered his face, but when he laid claim on Pavetta and Pavetta, who
was by now completely smitten with ‘Duny’, declared her undying love for him.
Geralt felt sick on the inside, but he kept his face calm and collected as
Emhyr squeezed the young girl’s hand in his large, slim one.
An argument broke out and Geralt rushed to Emhyr’s side, just in time to
witness Emhyr removing his helmet – and revealing his bestial face. Geralt
stopped in his tracks, eyes wide and staring. His breath hitched in his throat
at the screams of terror that rose around them. But then he looked down, and
saw that Pavetta still held ‘Duny’s’ hand tight. Time seemed to slow around him
as he with horror, saw that she gazed up at Emhyr, still with a soft and
accepting smile on her lips.
I still love you, he heard her whisper softly to him and Geralt’s heart sank as
Emhyr reached up and cupped her cheeks between his hands, looking tenderly at
her in a way Geralt had never seen him do.
Then time sped up again, Geralt drew in a deep breath and focused his eyes on
Calanthe, Pavetta’s mother, who stood with a horrified expression on her face,
her lips parted in terror as she had just succeeded in deceiving ‘Duny’ into
removing his helmet before the stroke of midnight.
“I’ll not have my daughter married to this beast!” she shrieked in her thick
accent, pointing straight at Emhyr, “To hell with the law! Guards, seize him!”
That’s when Geralt made his move, running over to Emhyr and pushing him back,
shielding him with his body and drawing his sword, pointing it towards the six
guards now moving closer and closer towards them. People all around them
screamed and argued, some of the suitors pushing each other and everything
broke into a complete pandemonium within seconds, and as Geralt pushed Pavetta
away from the rowing public, along with Emhyr.
It took bloodshed and a stubborn druid for everything to finally calm down
somewhat and in the end, Geralt really didn’t want to think about it, Calanthe
agreed to Duny’s and Pavetta’s union. And that was what broke Emhyr’s curse,
turning him back completely to being human.
Their wedding was, as Geralt was told afterwards, a lavish affair – fit for
royalty if nothing else. He hadn’t attended it and Emhyr said nothing, as he
left their small loft and moved into the castle with Pavetta and her family.
Geralt knew, of course, that this was necessary. It didn’t mean, however, that
it didn’t hurt like hell. He could still smell Emhyr on everything, see him
before him, casually walking around the small room, putting things together or
sitting in the worn armchair with his ankle resting over his knee as he read in
silence.
Looking down on his hands, Geralt realized he was shaking. He hadn’t even
noticed he was, but him hands trembled. They never really did that, but now, he
felt like he could hardly breathe. Pavetta, was pregnant. He had seen it, known
it, even though Emhyr didn’t.
He needed to get out of here, needed to leave Cintra. He couldn’t stand being
made into some kind of exotic lover to a newly wedded man. Setting out on the
path, was his best choice, right now, Geralt deduced. It would take his mind
off those things that pained him, he would be taken away from smells and scents
reminding him of Emhyr and the years they had shared.
They hadn’t broken it off, whatever it was they had between the two of them –
whatever it was two men could possibly have. But Geralt thought nothing more
needed to be said, then and there. It was done for.
                                       *
He still couldn’t get his fucking head around the fact that she was dead. He
didn’t care if he froze to death, scrounging up like a babe in the cold to keep
himself warm. He’d slept rough many times before in his too long, too fucking
miserable life to even care.
If he weren’t the man he was, he would have wailed and cried. Instead, he
sucked it up like everything else. Kept it inside himself, blaming his own
fucking stupidity. If he’d been a better father. If he’d had a more normal
relationship to heractualfather, none of this would have happened. But Geralt,
no matter how much he loved Emhyr, couldn’t help but to grow bitter with time.
Unconditional love, he’d only ever felt for one person, and now – she was… No
more?
Geralt shook his head in anger, his teeth shattering as he hugged his chest
tight, shaking, ever shaking – from cold or from anger. From fright, from
angst. He’d learned early on that life wasn’t fair, but he never thought it to
be this unfair in the end. He might as well just off himself now, ease the
suffering while he still could. If he undressed and waded out into the water
only a mile away, he’d freeze to death quickly enough. But she’d saved him from
death once before, and it had taken a lot from her – she had riskedherlife for
his. And now, he was simply going to end it? Give it up? For what?
No, no. He couldn’t give Emhyr that fucking satisfaction, having killed himself
because of Emhyr’s words. But it wasn’t just his words, was it? It was the
actual and very much too realistic fact that Ciri was gone, dead – and Emhyr,
his only and last connection to her, never wanted to see him again. What Emhyr
said, he meant. And Geralt, he got it. He understood. It was all just… Fucked.
                                       *
Some time after Emhyr’s wedding to Pavetta
Emhyr looked at Geralt with a scrutinizing look in his hard amber eyes, eyeing
him up and down as he’d walked calmly into his office, blood and grime smeared
all over him. Pavetta would have a fit, surely. The witcher’s hair was pulled
back into a loose knot in his neck, stray straws falling into his face, the
ashen white died dark from dried blood and he’d gained himself yet another scar
over his face.
Emhyr cringed his nose in disgust as the smell of filth filled his tidy study.
“Do you not bathe?” Emhyr drawled, leaning back in his chair with his hands
splayed over the desk.
“What?” Geralt grunted out, looking more dumb fooled than anything.
“You positively reek”, Emhyr drew back his upper lip in a disgusted snarl,
though still retaining his sombre look.
Geralt shrugged noncommittally and unclasped the rein holding his two swords on
his back, letting the weapons fall to the floor with an undignified and no
fucks given-attitude as he stared impassively at Emhyr.
“Very well”, Emhyr drawled again with a sigh, “I’ll not touch you until you’ve
had a bath”
Geralt rolled his eyes and walked past Emhyr, opening the door to the future
emperor’s private chambers in Cintra’s castle where he resided with his wife
and soon to be born daughter.
With a sigh the witcher sank down into the tub, constantly containing steaming
water. Cintra generally had lower standards than what Geralt was sure Emhyr had
been used to during his upbringing in Nilfgaard, but it hadn’t taken the stern
man long to make sure his new home with his queen was outfitted with
Nilfgaardian pluming. And Geralt certainly didn’t complain.
The door from Emhyr’s study remained open and Geralt could see that Emhyr still
sat by his desk, scribbling on a document. He was clad in a dark, long robe and
his long hair, had been cut to reach just to his shoulders, and pulled back
into his neck. It remained as raven as it had always been. But fifteen years
had soon past since their first meeting and Emhyr was now carrying himself like
a man. Geralt recognized the signs of age growing on his lover, even though he
could still remember him in his youth as clear as yesterday’s morning. It was
strangely comforting, but yet odd – to realize tha Geralt himself, didn’t look
much different than he’d done when they’d met, except for a few more scars. But
he aged more slowly than Emhyr did, and the difference between fifteen and
thirty, was major. His features had become more set, broad and sturdy – like
those of a man. He was still a very tall and slim man, but his comfortable life
showed through, in that he had no more muscle than a lazy exercise regime
allowed, only to keep him from growing fat. He was slightly more soft around
the middle than he had been only years past, but he still more a youthfulness
in his pale skin, that mingled finely with his more maturing nature, the small
creases around his eyes and the prominent, dark shade of stubble that appeared
at the end of the evening.
Emhyr had, for as long as Geralt had known him, had a deeper kind of voice, but
it had grown more eloquent with time, his Nilfgaardian drawl ever present and
his reptile eyes was now harrowingly piercing and shone with an intelligence
that would at times unnerve Geralt. Though, it didn’t scare him – Emhyr could
never scare him – really, but he could make him uneasy. His constant
machination, planning and considering option after option. It never ended and
Geralt could read it in his eyes, even though Emhyr seldom told him anything
about what he actually thought, or mulled over inside that rapidly working head
of his.
Geralt closed his eyes and eventually dozed off, lying in the warm water and
just enjoying how his loosened his taught muscles, soothed his aching bones and
cleaned the filth out of his still healing wounds.
He only stirred when a large hand raked its fingers through his hair and firm,
but ever so familiar lips closed around his mouth in a searing kiss that took
Geralt’s breath from his lungs.
                                       *
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