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There is a boy who lives in Geralt's shadow. The boy has only ever been there for Geralt to notice, his breath in time with the quiet thump of Geralt's heart, his voice curled between the brush of Geralt's eyelashes against each other, his whisper-soft footsteps just fractionally out of sync with Geralt's. When Geralt looks in his mother's mirror or a still puddle of water, he sometimes sees himself and he sometimes sees the blue-eyed boy.
The boy is his friend but Geralt is too young to be interested in asking his name when his mother turns him over to the witchers and then he is too busy learning and training and screaming and surviving, surviving, surviving to spare much thought for his companion, so the boy remains nameless.
Geralt neglects the boy for a while as he starts down the excruciating path of becoming a witcher, all but forgetting and ignoring and rejecting his existence. The boy doesn’t seem to mind – well, he never leaves or causes any trouble, at least, even if he does go quiet for a bit. Eventually, he becomes a source of comfort for Geralt, a single point of sanity, a harbour in the storm for him to take shelter in. Given that the boy is probably a sign of some serious mental degeneration on Geralt’s part, sanity might not be quite the right word, but the sentiment still stands. Geralt’s world presently consists only of swords and bruises and exhaustion and the ever-present threat of death, and he thinks it highly likely that the blue-eyed boy and his endless nattering in Geralt’s ear is all that keeps him from entirely losing his mind. The boy is endlessly curious and observant, always asking questions and demanding more information about this and that. When Geralt is tired and grumpy (an often occurrence), he tells the boy to go and bother someone else or to start reading his way through Kaer Morhen's extensive library.
‘Don’t think I wouldn’t if I could,’ the boy snips back, his words echoing between the rustling of Geralt’s clothes as he walks. ‘But I can only read what lies in our line of sight, only speak to others through our mouth. Look, if you read that text about drowners, I promise I won’t sing anything distracting during your next sparring session with Eskel.’
Geralt’s lip curls. Eskel is good with a blade, better than Geralt, but he is determined to beat the other trainee regardless. That might be a fair sight easier if the blue-eyed boy in his shadow would shut up when they fought, but apparently he has made it his mission to be as bothersome as possible on this account.
‘You won’t sing at all,’ Geralt counters and, after some grumbling that is audible in the space between one breath and the next, the boy agrees.
Time passes and the pair grow together, becoming stronger and harder and more knowledgeable about monsters and potions and survival. Then come the Trials, which kill more young men than it spares, and for a time afterwards, Geralt isn’t entirely sure he has survived them. Apparently, however, he handled them unusually well and thus he is subjected to further alchemical torture, which this time leaves only him alive and steals the colour from his hair, too.
It takes the boy who is no longer any more a child than Geralt is a while to reappear after all that. In the privacy of his own mind, Geralt is worried because he has always seen blue eyes in his shadow, always heard gentle humming when he goes to sleep, always shared his breath with another, and how is he to go out into a harsh world that he knows already hates him without his nameless companion? How is he meant to do this alone?
It is when he at last is taking his leave of the towering stone keep in the mountains that has become his home, no matter all the pain he has suffered there, that Geralt hears a familiar voice singing a familiar nonsense tune. He draws his horse to a sudden halt, head whipping around to the right. Call him crazy, but he’s certain the tune isn’t being sung inside his head this time. Geralt’s suspicions are confirmed a moment later when a lanky figure in a green silk doublet strolls out of the trees hands in his pockets, dark hair a windswept bird’s nest, and eyes a bright blue that Geralt will know until the day he dies.
‘Hello!’ the man cries cheerfully, trotting over.
Geralt’s nostrils flare at the heady scent of jasmine wafting towards him and he stares wordlessly at the man, mouth agape with shock. There is no denying that voice and those eyes but –
‘Ah, yes, I thought the body might surprise you,’ the blue-eyed man says, rocking back on his heels when it becomes apparent that Geralt is currently incapable of speech. ‘It was those blasted Trials, they did a real number on me, but hey, I’m more than just a disembodied voice in your head now so I can’t complain! And you seem to have pulled through alright – I knew you would, obviously, but it’s nice to see it in person, and oh, wow, I can actually say that now, “in person", I mean, because I’ve got a –’
‘How,’ Geralt finally manages to choke out, completely trampling over the man’s rapid-fire words, ‘is this happening?’
That gets him a scoff and an unimpressed, ‘Really, Geralt? After all the crap you’ve been put through, this is what takes the biscuit?’
Geralt feels his face twitch into a scowl and he digs his heels into Roach's sides, prompting the horse to start walking again. ‘There are plenty of very well-documented explanations for the Trials, which you would know, since you made me read them all.’
The man throws up his hands in a show of exasperation and hurries to keep pace with Roach. ‘You could try being a little glad of this, I know you’ve missed me. What do the wheres and whys matter when you’ve got your best friend back?’
Geralt mutters darkly under his breath about blessed peace and quiet for a minute , before relenting with some difficulty and no eye contact, ‘I’m glad you aren’t dead.’
Delighted laughter rings out and he sets his jaw, keeping his gaze fixed firmly ahead.
‘Oh, Geralt, you sweetheart,’ his companion sighs dramatically. ‘The witches of Kaer Morhen may have, hmm, knocked me off kilter for a bit, but it would take a great deal more than that to kill me.’
Despite himself, Geralt glances over and blinks to see a wide, wide grin that shows too many teeth. His training whispers that his companion is different, is more dangerous than he realised, more dangerous than he looks, and that Geralt should not trust him.
The feral smile fades and blue eyes seem to grow solemn. ‘Don’t be wary of me,’ the man says seriously. ‘I am as you’ve always known me, bar the body, of course. I won’t hurt you, Geralt, not now, not ever.’
Geralt purses his lips and looks away again. After a while, he grunts, ‘If you’re not going back in my head any time soon, I’m going to need a name to call you by.’
‘Wow, do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that? Not that that was really a question –’
‘I could push you over that cliff edge with Aard right now.’
‘Fine! Dandelion. Call me Dandelion.’
They get through the first three jobs together, after which Dandelion declares he’s seen enough monster guts for the time being. For a cold, lonely second, Geralt thinks he's being abandoned (again), but then Dandelion blithely adds that he wants to learn how to be a bard (‘I’m hardly going to be your sword-bearer, am I?’) and conduct some investigations into the finer things in life, now that he’s got a body to his name (‘I hear sex and wine are two of life’s greatest gifts'). So Geralt rolls his eyes, tells the idiot not to get into too much trouble, and pretends he doesn’t dread being alone again.
‘I promise to get into no more trouble than you do,’ Dandelion says with a cheeky wink. ‘And don’t look so maudlin! I’ll see you in a few months, a year at most.’
‘I’m not maudlin,’ Geralt snaps before he can swallow the words down.
Dandelion blows him a kiss, already starting to walk away backwards down the road. ‘Sure you’re not. If you need me, though, call me thrice and I’ll be with you quick as I can!’
Geralt, having turned away, whirls back around, about to demand why on earth he’d have need of a blue-eyed chatterbox, but the road is empty. He inhales sharply, straining to catch any hint of magic in the air. There’s none. It’s as if Dandelion was never there at all.
He returns in mid-spring, just a couple of months after Geralt’s come down from the mountains after spending the winter tucked up in Kaer Morhen. His doublet is now dark blue and he’s got a slightly shabby lute strapped to his back, but aside from that, Dandelion doesn’t seem to have changed a jot. Geralt’s delight at having his companion return swiftly turns to irritation at said companion's complete inability to be quiet for more than half a second. Dandelion's skills with the lute are.... tolerable at best, but his love for the instrument is sincere and he does keep a respectful hundred or so metres behind Roach when he’s practising with it, so Geralt grits his teeth and endures.
They go on a few jobs (or adventures, as Dandelion calls them) and fall into an easy rhythm. Dandelion spends much of his time composing gods-awful attempts at ballads to commemorate Geralt’s various successes or pestering the witcher for details about this and that. Geralt, in turn, spends most of his time trying to tune out the endless questions and invariably bawdy lyrics. But between all this, Dandelion cleans Geralt’s wounds when Geralt can’t reach them and he makes a point of washing Geralt’s hair at every available opportunity, till the witcher catches the lingering scent of jasmine following him even after hours away from the would-be bard. And, as strange as it still is to find his shadow empty of another, to see only eyes of gold staring back at him when he looks in glass or polished metal or undisturbed water, Geralt is glad to have Dandelion with him. He’s still not entirely certain the man isn’t a very convincing hallucination, but that’s by the by. So he makes sure they swing past towns and villages when Dandelion grumbles loudly enough that his spine is about to irreversibly damaged from all this sleeping on the forest floor, and he occasionally shares titbits about his encounters with various monsters, and he rarely tells Dandelion to shut up with any sort of seriousness.
If there’s anyone in this unfriendly world likely to be able to understand Geralt’s silent language, it’s the blue-eyed man who once existed only in his head.
Dandelion is also instrumental in ensuring Geralt doesn’t tumble down a hole of bitter self-hatred, which would be all too easy with the reception they often receive at each settlement. Humans are astoundingly hypocritical and nasty, practically chasing Geralt out of town as soon as he’s killed whichever monster they hired him to deal to. Sometimes, he looks at them, breathes deeply the acrid scent of their fear, their incomprehension, their loathing, and wonders idly if it would not count as monster-killing to slaughter the lot of them with the steel sword on his back. He doesn’t, though. He just takes the coin he is owed, mounts Roach, and silently follows the main road out, Dandelion at his side.
More than once, some idiot spits at Geralt or throws something rotten at him, which usually leaves him feeling cold and empty as opposed to murderous. Dandelion’s response is always the same – he smiles thinly and hums something light, walking close enough to Roach that his upper arm brushes Geralt’s calf, quietly supportive and daring anyone to call him out for fraternising with a monster.
(Behind them, coughing starts up, which Geralt scarcely notices and certainly doesn’t turn around to investigate. So, naturally, he misses the offending human turning purple as they choke, collapsing to their knees as flecks of yellow fall from their mouth amongst the spittle and bile.)
The years trickle past like sand through open fingers and Geralt gets better at killing monsters and ignoring casual human cruelty and Dandelion gets better at playing the lute and composing lyrics that might be suited to someone other than a tavern of drunk, lecherous old men. Geralt takes one too many potions on a job with half a dozen wyverns, suffers accordingly as his body burns with excess alchemical power, and Dandelion tends to him with aggressively thorough tenderness throughout. A cuckolded husband breaks Dandelion’s lute instead of his neck and Geralt acquires him a new one as a replacement, as well defending said (very nice) neck.
Unfortunately, even witchers and their bards run into serious trouble from time to time, and Geralt and Dandelion are no exception to that cosmic rule.
Everything goes pear-shaped when they’re camping three days from the nearest village in a little glen, with absolutely no wind to speak of to carry any sounds or scents of warning. Dandelion’s set up the fire and Geralt’s skinning a pair of rabbits he caught for their dinner and then they’re jumped by a dozen knife-wielding bandits. Geralt has ridiculous reflexes and lethally honed combat instincts, so three of the men are dead on the ground before Dandelion has done anything more than yelp in alarm and throw a protective arm over his lute. He is quickly set upon by several thieves, one of whom roughly manhandles him into a standing position, cuffing him sharply across the jaw when he struggles. A knife pricks the thin skin of his throat, warning him to keep still, and Dandelion growls but does so.
Meanwhile, Geralt has discovered the hard way that these men are no ordinary bandits, as their blades are all enchanted with something poisonous and awful that probably wouldn’t kill him, but which, without Swallow, would definitely incapacitate him long enough for someone to finish the job. He fells two more men before stumbling to one knee with a grunt, feeling his limbs weakening as a knife bites deep into his waist, another one having already slashed his shoulder.
‘Geralt!’ Dandelion cries, panicked, from across the campfire.
Geralt’s lips draw back in an automatic snarl at the sight of his bard bound and caught, those bright blue eyes wide with fear. Fear for Geralt, he realises in a rush of furious understanding.
Someone grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back, the kiss of their knife cool against his heated skin, and then a new person walks out of the trees. It immediately becomes apparent that she is this pack's sorcerer; her red and white dress and intricate blonde hairstyle are utterly impractical, her smugly haughty expression screams arrogance, and she reeks of magic.
‘Witcher,’ she purrs, halting well out of his reach. ‘So good to see you again.’
Geralt bares his teeth at her, sweat pricking over his skin as the poison's effects spread. ‘Have we met, witch?’
Rage flickers across her face before she controls herself, smiling coldly at him. ‘Oh, yes. You thought to refuse me but a month past.’ She tosses her head. ‘No-one refuses Nina de Anglia.’
Before she can go on, Dandelion, the stupid, stupid man, retorts, ‘Well, that’s a contradiction if ever I heard one, since Geralt’s hardly no-one.’
The witch's expression contorts into an ugly look and Geralt’s heart just about stops in his fucking chest. Gods, if they survive this, he’s going to yell at the bard until he gets into his thick skull that you don’t antagonise the angry witch who wants to kill you!
‘Dispose of him,’ she spits, low and hard to the men holding Dandelion.
‘NO!’ Geralt roars, almost getting himself stabbed in the throat, a fierce ache starting up in his head.
‘Oh?’ The witch looks amused, which is never a good sign. ‘You care for him, do you, witcher? What will you give me to spare his life?’
Dandelion starts to protest and is punched in the gut, sending him crashing to his knees as he wheezes for breath. Geralt can no more stop the growl rumbling in his chest than he can catch the sun with his bare hands.
‘What you want,’ he bites out, the guttural words catching on the way.
She laughs shrilly. ‘You will give me what I want anyway, witcher. How long will it take, do you think, for you to beg me to kill him?’
Shivers are wracking Geralt’s body now and it is a strain to even hold himself upright, his weakness terrifying him and making him useless to Dandelion. He watches in mute horror as the witch seizes an enchanted blade from one of her pet bandits and crouches, grabbing the bard’s head and tipping it back. Dandelion stares up at her with a cold, cold expression and stays quiet, limp and pliant in her hands.
‘Let’s start with these lovely blue eyes, shall we?’ she declares, vicious excitement in her tone.
No, Geralt tries to protest, but his voice breaks before it gets started.
The knife flashes in the fire light as it plunges down and –
Dandelion vanishes.
Geralt allows himself to collapse to one side, relief smashing into him with the force of an avalanche, as the witch screeches in fury. The bandits scramble in confusion as she straightens, looking around for the missing man.
‘What did he do? Where is he? He is not a magic user!’ she shouts, honest-to-gods stomping her foot.
Geralt trembles and quakes on the ground and a memory comes to mind, unbidden, of the first time Dandelion and he parted ways on the road. Dandelion had said that if Geralt ever needed him, he only had to call his name three times. He doesn’t want Dandelion here, doesn’t want his blue-eyed companion in the insane witch's path again – but there’s a whisper of scent in the air, a thread of jasmine when before there was none, and Geralt can almost hear the voice in his head from before the Trials, urging him to get on with it.
‘Dandelion,’ he croaks. ‘D- Dandelion.’ Shaky breath. ‘Dandelion.’
A stiff breeze suddenly rustles the leaves on the trees, whipping at the fire and soothing Geralt’s too-hot skin, bringing with it a heady wave of jasmine. Geralt can practically taste it on his tongue and the witch freezes, looking wary. Her thugs go still in response, muttering questions to her and each other. She narrows her eyes at Geralt suspiciously and he grins as threateningly as he can while flopped on the ground like a puppet with his strings cut. If the way her face swiftly drains of colour is any indication, it’s still pretty fierce.
She opens her mouth to speak but –
Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump goes a heartbeat that is not his own, echoing in his ears.
I’ll teach you to hurt my witcher, a ragged voice snarls in the pause between Geralt’s breaths, and if he wasn’t slightly dying, if this situation wasn’t as terrible as it is, Geralt might have cried at the feral protectiveness in that voice he knows so well.
One of the bandits cough, hands going to his throat as his eyes widen in alarm. Then the next one starts, and the next one, and the next one, until every one of them are bent over, staggering and collapsing as they fail to draw breath. The witch demands to know what’s happening, no longer sounding quite so confident. Her hands move as though to cast a spell, but she is distracted by a sudden, forceful cough ripping out of her. Through hazy eyes, Geralt watches as the witch splutters and chokes, and he’s barely surprised when he identifies the tiny pieces of yellow coming out of her mouth as dandelion petals. Really, what else could they be? One by one, the thieves fall silent, suffocating on hundreds of petals. Last to go is the witch and then there are only the sounds of the fire, the forest, Geralt’s laboured breathing, and two heartbeats almost in sync.
The scent of jasmine remains thick in the air and after an immeasurable time, gentle hands cup Geralt’s face. Instincts would have him growl and throw off the touch, but he knows this smell, trusts it deeply, so he allows the hands and the soft voice attached to them to tip a foul liquid down his throat. He forces himself to swallow it, feels a hand stroke his hair after, almost as comforting as the breathing that echoes his own.
Swallow does its work, slowly counteracting the effects of the poison in Geralt’s blood. By the time his vision clears and his bones are no longer rattling under his skin, he’s utterly drained, wishing for nothing more than a good long rest, but he cannot yet. He has to make sure all the bandits are properly dead and check on Roach and Dandelion –
‘Woah there, not so fast.’
Geralt sways in place as he forces himself up into a seated position, elegant hands seizing his shoulders to stabilise him. He lifts his head and sees Dandelion kneeling before him, face drawn with worry but otherwise seemingly unharmed.
‘What,’ Geralt rasps, but Dandelion bushes him, offering him a water skin instead.
Geralt’s hands shake slightly as he accepts the skin and Dandelion wordlessly helps him tip it back so he can drink.
‘How are you feeling? Was Swallow enough? Is there anything else that needs patching up?’ Dandelion frets, setting the water skin aside.
Geralt silently regards the bard, running his gaze over the silk-clad figure he has come to know so well these past few years, staring hard at blue eyes he’s known since before he knew his own name. Fire light washes over Dandelion’s face, casting dancing shadows in his hair and highlighting the bright, clear blue. The scent of jasmine still permeates the air, thick and comforting.
‘Geralt.’
Apparently he doesn’t know the bard as well as he thought he did, though given his taciturn nature, this is perhaps not so surprising.
‘Geralt, you’re staring.’
‘What are you?’ he asks unthinkingly, the question hushed and earnest.
Dandelion blinks rapidly, sitting back on his heels. ‘I’m your friend, Geralt, and your bard. Blue eyes in your shadow and a heartbeat alongside your own.’ His lips quirk up in a small smile. ‘That’s who I’ve always been.’
Geralt raises a brow, nodding towards the scattered corpses around the campsite and the perversely cheerful yellow petals that cover them. ‘And this?’
Dandelion’s smile widens a bit, becomes more real. ‘Just because I can’t swing a sword and wrestle monsters doesn’t mean I can’t defend myself. And you.’ He cocks his head, gaze boring into Geralt’s. ‘I’ll always protect you.’
He says this like it’s obvious and maybe it is. Maybe this shouldn’t be so startling for the witcher, but he’s spent years amongst the humans, closing himself off and sharpening his fangs to scare them away before they find his soft underbelly and gut him without mercy. Even with Dandelion so often at his side, it’s easy to forget that there’s someone else in this world outside of his family in Kaer Morhen who truly cares for him and who will stand in the path of danger to keep him from harm. The realisation makes Geralt giddy, makes his head spin on the scent of jasmine and the fierce, warm look in eyes the colour of the sky.
Words have never been Geralt’s strong point, always preferring to convey his meaning with actions, so he reaches out with a cautious hand to lightly cup the side of Dandelion’s neck, his thumb brushing the bard's cheek. Dandelion hums, relaxing into the touch as his lids slip to half mast. Geralt slowly draws him near, his gaze flicking down to parted lips and back up to ensure Dandelion knows exactly which page he’s on. In response, Dandelion closes a hand around Geralt’s wrist and closes the distance between them. His mouth is soft and warm against Geralt’s, and the witcher decides then and there that this is his favourite taste, his favourite feeling in the whole world. Dandelion tastes of sun-drenched warmth and jasmine and trust, and Geralt drags him closer, hauling the bard into his lap in spite of his aching muscles. Dandelion goes easily, wrapping an arm tightly around Geralt’s shoulders and coaxing his lips apart, sipping at his mouth and sucking on Geralt’s tongue in a truly sinful fashion.
When they break apart for air, noses skimming, sharing each other’s breath, and surrounded by a curtain of silver hair, Dandelion grins. His eyes shine in the gloom and Geralt feels his own lips curl up in response, the bard’s expression near-feral in its intensity.
‘I am your Dandelion, your bard, yours,’ Dandelion whispers, his words as claiming a brand as his hand on Geralt’s. ‘And you are my White Wolf, my Geralt, my witcher. Now and forever.’
Geralt catches the faintest hint of lemon sourness amongst the jasmine and he kisses Dandelion firmly, chasing the doubt away. ‘Now and forever,’ he rumbles against reddened lips.
There is no more talking.