Chapter Text
Something that always shocked Geralt when he traveled to Toussaint was how unrelentingly bright it was. Passing through Velen and Vizima, there seemed to be perpetual clouds overhead, and the lands were never at risk for a drought. But as Roach crested a hill and they got closer to the border, it seemed that the clouds had dissipated. What few wisps were in the sky were light and streaking, framing the distant mountains, and the sun shone high in the midday sky.
Toussaint was a delight for all the senses, the warmer climate home to exotic birds that warbled and trilled in the fragrant trees around him. The breeze was soft against him, winding through loose strands of hair like a caress. And the thought of good wine and rich food…He kicked Roach into a quicker trot, eager to be back in the land of fairy-tale wonder.
--
Dettlaff was thankful, at least, that his shop was close to the marketplace on the wharf so that he did not have to be around humans for long while he traded. The children were easy to deal with, coming into the shop for toys and the occasional sweet, but adults were different. He beelined for the smith, set on the few items he needed for his repairs when he noticed a stock of white hair between two swords. A witcher? He hung back to watch the man as he exchanged materials with the merchant, haggling expertly on the cost for silver and meteorite. Coming to a consensus, he undid the harness for one of his swords and set it on the table, still in its scabbard. He turned to leave, and Dettlaff caught a glimpse of a long scar that crossed over his brow and down his cheek.
Realization struck him. He knew this man, or knew of him at least. Geralt of Rivia. Regis' friend and confidant during the time before his injury and regeneration.
Well, friend may not be a strong enough word. Dettlaff knew through years of caring for Regis that he had loved the witcher, adored him to the point of being self-sacrificial in their fight for a member of Geralt's pack. He had also gotten the sense that it was unrequited, as Geralt was bound to a sorceress with violet eyes. Dettlaff felt himself conflicted, without a doubt Regis would want to see Geralt, but he was only now almost completely regenerated after being melted down to near-nothing.
What if Geralt asked Regis to travel with him again, taking him away from Dettlaff and putting him in more danger? The thought alarmed him, he wanted nothing more than to keep his lover safe, but not even the gods themselves could keep Regis from something he set his mind to. And he could not well lie to him, he had never been able to master the art of deception, he just didn't see the point.
Golden eyes met his from across the crowded market, suspicion apparent in the narrowing of cat-like pupils. He gave a curt nod and turned heel back to his shop. The supplies could wait. In his walk back, Dettlaff resolved he would tell Regis when he got back from work, though he was chilled at what it all might mean.
--
After trading goods and picking up his silver sword from the smith, Geralt was a bit richer and ready to head to the tourney grounds. He chose to walk Roach through the streets rather than ride her, taking the extra time to enjoy the sights. Even the slums around the bay were more beautiful and upscale than any he saw in the north. Bright colors adorned the crumbling homes and while the faces of the poor were still streaked with dirt, he saw the healthful glow about everyone's cheeks.
Well, almost everyone. Pale blue eyes and a pallid, severe face flashed in his mind as he considered the man he caught staring at him in the market. More friendly than other places he has been, some in Toussaint were still wary of witchers, and he imagined that was the reason for the glare. Though, the intensity of it seemed strangely personal. Perhaps another witcher had done him wrong, he mused.
Whatever the reason for the strange man's stare, it was quickly forgotten as he reached the tourney grounds. It was absolutely alive with activity, people flowing from tent to tent, laughing and drinking wine. A gaggle of children followed a knight walking to his tent, armor glinting gold in the sun. He pulled up a chair and began to tell them a story of valor, all posture and waving arms as he played up the best bits. He was rather young for a knight, with long blond hair and a clean face, but he clearly had a flair for holding the attention of the kids. They were clamoring for another tale as trumpets blew, and everyone began to move toward the arena. The knight ruffled the hair of a boy sitting nearest to him, and donned his helmet as he walked toward the performers' entrance.
Seeing the young knight piqued Geralt's interest, and he entered the arena and found a seat. Fights for regular folk were an exciting event, but for witchers it was just another activity, and usually one that involved rolling eyes at the fighter's poor form. Still, he was already here, may as well get immersed in the culture. The trumpet sounded again as the announcer began his opening speech. Sitting behind him was Duchess Anna Henrietta, radiant as ever, with a smile on her face as one of her Ladies-in-Waiting whispered to her.
"Announcing, Sir Guillaume de Launfal!" Called the host, as the young knight from earlier walked out, proud as a peacock. He bowed deeply before the Duchess.
"And now, he will face the great monster in battle! Glory and honor to him!" The announcer cried.
A monster? Thought Geralt. The large gate opened and out charged a shaelmaar, of all things. The creature was in a frenzy, turning its head this way and that as it searched for the knight only to be distracted by the bells tied to its bloodied tail. Geralt frowned at the needless cruelty; shaelmaar usually live in caves, tucked away from humans but are large and incredibly ferocious when provoked. Guillaume, to the credit of either his idiocy or his bravery, charged at the beast as it turned toward the jangling bells. He swiped at a plated arm, trying to get his blade between the cracks in the natural armor. The shaelmaar gave a piercing shriek and turned, using its momentum to swipe at him with a clawed paw. The knight could not get out of the way in time and was sent flying into the guard wall of the arena, crumpling into a heap. The shaelmaar reared up, preparing to curl into a ball and roll towards Guillaume at high speed.
This was getting dangerous. Geralt looked at all of the people sitting in the stands above where Guillaume lie dazed, and could easily see the beast charging, collapsing that wall of the arena, crushing all of those people. He darted down the stairs and hopped the rail into the fighting grounds, casting aard just as the shaelmaar stood on two legs. The monster screamed and fell onto its back, leaving its soft underbelly vulnerable. Not wasting any time, Geralt drew his sword and began slashing and piercing the unprotected flesh, not necessarily striking fatal blows. Perhaps it was foolish to take pity on a creature as strong as this one, but it was clear that the shaelmaar was suffering. It had wounds that looked fresh and were not from him, evidence that it had been used in multiple events such as these.
Because of its injuries, it did not take long for him to best the monster. It lay panting, snuffling on the ground with little more than a few small whines. He took in the sight, judging that if it lived, the beast would not be much of a threat to anyone for quite some time. The sound of trumpets and the announcer took him from his thoughts.
"The beast has been bested! Will the witcher slay it, or spare the pitiful wretch?"
Geralt sheathed his silver, and turned to face the podium the duchess and crier occupied.
"I will spare the shaelmaar! I request it to be released!" He bowed, appealing to Anna Henrietta's sense of kindness. She gave him a small nod.
"Long live the merciful witcher!" The announcer called with a flourish of trumpets following. The shaelmaar, now contained, was dragged off and Anna Henrietta entered with her Ladies-in-Waiting. Geralt was helping up Guillaume, who was muttering to himself.
"Vivienne, oh Vivienne. She cannot see me like this." He winced as he tried to breathe, his injured ribs clearly paining him.
"Just smile, don't try to talk." Geralt whispered to him as the women approached. While he may be a romantic at heart, the Toussaintios took the notion to a dizzying extreme.
"Geralt of Rivia! I did not imagine that you would grace our tourney, let alone save the day!" The Duchess greeted, speaking more to her audience than him directly.
"Duchess, it is good to see you again. You appear to be in good health." He said with a nod of his head, unable to bow while supporting the wounded knight.
"Guards, if you would be so kind as to help Guillaume to the medical tent. Geralt and I have catching up to do."
The guards took the knight, who was doing his best to smile at a blonde Lady-in-Waiting with a stand-offish expression. If that was Guillaume's love, he might just be out of luck. With his body now free, Geralt bowed to the duchess and even kissed her ring when she held out her hand, never breaking gaze from her beautiful crystalline eyes. He did not fail to notice the slight blush that tinted her rouged cheeks darker, or the hitch in her breath. When in Toussaint, he thought to himself.
"Tell me, witcher," she began, composed again. "what brings you to our duchy? Is, is Julian with you?" The hopefulness in her voice was telling, he thought, of what she wanted out of this conversation.
"No, Dandelion is not with me, your Grace. He knows that he is not welcome in Toussaint, under your orders." She pursed her lips at that, and he wondered if she remembered how close she came to ordering his death.
"As for me, now that my daughter is in Nilfgaard I have been traveling around taking contracts. Simple witcher's work." He shrugged, keeping it light. No need to go into the internal crisis he was having about being directionless for the first time in decades.
"How fortunate for us that the Path carried you this way, then. I had heard that Cirilla was with her father again. Tell me, do you think she is prepared for court life?" Anna Henrietta tilted her head as much as her crown and carefully arranged hair would allow. No doubt gathering information on Ciri, if will be a firm ruler when the time comes.
"A better question would be if the courts are prepared for her. She is more stubborn than her father and has seen more of the world. I think she will manage well and everyone else needs to just hang on for the ride." He felt pride tickle him in thinking of his daughter putting stuffy dignitaries in their place.
The duchess smiled wide, perhaps imagining the same. "I am glad to hear it. I know how hard you worked to ensure her safety. I must go attend to some tourney planning, but it has been wonderful to speak with you. If you are interested, give me a week and I shall have compiled a list of contacts that my knights have been unable to fulfill and send them to you." Her tone was firm, more of an order than an ask.
"I would be honored, your grace. It will hardly be work when the setting is as lovely as this." Which was not a lie, and it isn't as if he had anywhere to be, so he may as well collect good coin while he sipped wine.
"Excellent! I will have my people begin working on this at once. Farewell, Geralt of Rivia. It was wonderful to see you again, especially with so grand an entrance!"
"Likewise, your Grace." He said with another short bow as she turned to leave.
"Oh, Witcher!" She called over her shoulder. "Be so kind as to check on Guillaume as you go, our surgeon is well trained but monster injuries are another matter." She left without waiting for a response, already arm and arm with one of her ladies.
Geralt sighed, knowing that shaelmaar did not have any kind of poison or magic that would require his specialty. Not that he could have told her anyway. He exited the arena and looked for the medical tent, easily identifiable from the large red crosses that adored it.
Pulling back the flap and entering, he found the blond knight was already passed out on a cot, with his chest armor removed and some sort of poultice spread over his bruising ribs. The tent itself was thick with the smell of herbs, he could easily identify the scent of calendine, willow bark, anise, but there was something under that. A note of...cinnamon? Strange, cinnamon didn't have any medical properties that he knew of, the only medic he had known to use it was-
"Hello, Geralt." A calming voice with little timber chimed behind him as the tent opened. His head whipped around and his eyes were met with a steady, black gaze. Familiar and chilling.
"Regis?"