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“Geralt?”
“Hmmm?”
“A messenger came by this afternoon. We have been invited to an art exhibit. I'm sure you can imagine my surprise. I didn’t know you had any taste for art.”
Geralt groaned, tempted to tip his head back a bit further so the water could drown out the conversation he knew would follow. He might have if Yennefer hadn’t been sitting behind him, ready to pull him back up by his ears. Not to mention that it would stop her combing his hair, which would be a shame as it was at least as relaxing as the hot bath they were sharing.
“I don’t.”
She hummed quietly, dragging a comb through his hair in slow, even strokes.
“Someone clearly thinks you do. I wonder what has given them that impression. No worries, I will do the talking, you can just walk beside me and look pretty.”
He poked her in the ankle for that, it being the only spot he could reach without moving and running the risk of her pulling out his hair. It still got him an admonishing tug, although she also kissed the back of his head.
“It would be nice to have a night of high-class company Geralt. I know it’s not your thing, but I’m gasping for a bit of good gossip with my wine. I love this vineyard dear heart, but it is somewhat lacking in entertainment.”
Geralt grinned and twisted his head back so he could look her in the eye, raising his eyebrow suggestively.
“I could entertain you.” he said as his hands started to wander. “You might even convince me to gossip while I’m doing so. Right here even.”
He could hear the suppressed grin as she sighed theatrically and put the comb away.
“Promise to join me at the exhibition and I will consider allowing you to entertain me.”
Geralt was already starting to regret thinking with something other than his head by the time they arrived at the exhibition.
They were fashionably late, due to a minor disagreement about appropriate attire for such a function which Yenn had only won because Marlene en Barnabas-Basil had ganged up with her like a pair of common bandits, and were welcomed by the hum of dozens of conversations going on at the same time.
He grit his teeth and allowed the sorceress to put her arm in his, resplendent in her customary black and white. He could suffer one night of this he supposed, taking her lead as she smoothly wound her way through the throng of people, saying all the appropriate things at the appropriate times. She’d spend a lifetime among the intrigues and multi-layered conversations of royal courts, leaving it would be as hard for her as abandoning his sword and horse would be for him.
They’d admired a dozen different statues, carved out of the rubble that the night of the long fang had left behind, when Yenn was so taken in by one of the artists’ explanations that Geralt could safely escape to the table with food and drink.
He followed his nose, moving around a great variety of exhibits. Gargoyles and pretty women of varying quality were plentiful, as were horses and crested helmets, though the only thing that genuinely spoke to Geralt was a broken heart carved out of blood-stained sandstone.
He was tugging at his clothes by the time he finally reached the table with refreshments. None of his garments felt comfortable, too constricting and scratchy. Only the sword on his back didn’t feel like a mummer's costume, the belt keeping it in place a comforting weight against his shoulder.
“Enjoying my exhibition?” asked a voice that was both familiar and utterly out of place.
“I wondered if you’d come, word is that you avoid social gatherings like the plague.”
“Olgierd? I must admit that you were the last face I expected to see here. This is your party?”
“Yes. They say sorrow and pain are the best fuel for an artist. I have both in spades so I decided to pursue a life of beauty and art.”
“That’s a far cry from your former existence. Enjoying it?”
“It is and I am. Voraciously. But come comrade, would you help me drink some of those sorrows away? I would love to talk, but rather in an environment slightly less public.”
“Gladly. Though to be fair, I’d have accepted an invitation to slay some sewer drowners as well by now.”
Olgierd laughed and slapped Geralt on the back before snatching up a bottle and leading the way to a separate room, his confident swagger as effective at clearing a path as Geralt’s obvious otherness often was. It was only when they closed the door behind them that the man spoke again, waving Geralt to a bench piled with pillows.
“Ah, that’s better. I find myself tiring of noise and company more easily nowadays. Old age I guess…” He huffed out a laugh and let himself fall backwards, sprawling in the pillows.
“You wouldn’t know I suppose, being a witcher and all. What are a few years to a man such as you, you haven’t aged a day since I saw you last. But I fail my duties as a host. Sit down and have a drink, how have you been my friend?”
Geralt accepted the drink and found a place to sit without accidentally crushing any of Olgierd’s limbs, stretching his back until they could both hear his spine popping.
“Still spry and supple as a teenager.” he said with a grin, raising his glass for a toast.
“To the ever young! No matter how old we may get.”
They talked and drank for hours. About their shared dealings with Master Mirror and the nightmare the man had put them both through. About the strange lightness of waking up without the man’s existence looming over them, knowing he’d come knocking to collect his due sooner or later.
They spoke about the tournament and the contract that had made Geralt a landowner, and the difference it made to have a home like that to come back to. A home Olgierd had apparently built for himself too, choosing the fairy tale land to finally put down roots again.
“So how’d you end up in Toussaint? No desire to regain your place in Redanian society?”
“Goodness no. I have changed. Redania has changed. The joy and excitement of war doesn’t appeal anymore, nor does the wandering. Too many years with my Wild Ones perhaps. And the court is no place for one such as me. It has become a viper’s nest Geralt, liars and spies and bootlickers all. No, I like it here, and I like the Toussaintois. Their chivalric code appeals to me, they are honest and hold on to their oaths and beliefs. And they appreciate art. All of them, like it comes with the sun or the soil. A far cry from the nobles in Redania who still couldn’t pick a Votticelli out of a row of Skelligen village totems.” He huffed a laugh and topped up both their glasses.
“No, I don’t miss my old life. Though I can’t help but notice that you still carry part of it on your back. She serves you well?”
“Iris? Yes she does. A sword like her doesn’t belong on a stand or a wall but on a belt. She’s seen a great many strange things since you gave her into my keeping. Men who turn into gigantic bears, Goldilocks and Thumbelina… She’s even tasted the blood of the riders of the Wild Hunt. Now that was a battle worthy of remembrance. Black Ones and Skelligers fighting side by side, spilling blood on the deck of Naglefar. Iris brought honour to your family that day.”
A faint, sad smile crossed Olgierd’s face at that, his eyes lingering on the hilt that poked out above Geralt’s shoulder.
“It’s good she serves you my friend. I haven’t touched a sword since starting this new life and I won’t take one up again, but I am glad our family heirloom is at last used to take some evil out of this world. The gods know she’s been used to cause it for too many years.”
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