Chapter Text
The elf-king called the witcher Gwynnbleidd, and some things immediately became clear to me. For one, why Geralt of Rivia didn’t respond to his use-name, like so many foolish humans did. For another, where the faint thread of prophecy that hung around his shoulders came from. But most importantly, it became clear that I still didn’t have control over my glamour oh fuck eyes stop doing the glowy thing. Just because a Name laced with Elder magic was just casually dropped into conversation, even the Name of the incredibly attractive witcher I was currently tied to, did not give me an excuse to lose control of myself! And of course the elves noticed, because my luck is just like that, but at least they gamely tried not to draw more attention to it, which was polite. I didn’t think Geralt - Gwynnbleidd - noticed, at least. He was too focused on trying not to die, which to be fair I also should have been.
We were let go pretty quickly after that. Geralt wanted to hightail it out of there, but I really didn’t want the elf-king to be looking at me like that anymore. Wary, and a little remorseful. So I shooed the witcher away, reassuring him I would be fine, and waited for a little while. Before having this conversation, I murmured, “Geralt, come back. I need you.” When no response was forthcoming, I decided it was safe. I looked at the elf expectantly.
In retrospect, I should have known he would think I wanted more from him. The lute was glorious, and I wasn’t about to turn it down, but that isn’t what I meant. “Sure, for the one you broke. And for that lovely Name, I ought to give you something as well, hm?”
He still didn’t make a request. Probably didn’t know how much the Name would be worth to me, and didn’t want to offend me either way. Instead, he asked, “What would you give us?”
At least he used first person plural. Made this easier. I let my eyes show through a little, definitely for the drama and not to reassure myself of my fine glamour control, while I decided. I took a few steps forward, and kissed the sick one square on the nose. She collapsed immediately, heaving for breath, and I held her up and drew the poison from her chest. It was coal, mostly. I wiped it off on her shirt, smiled brightly at the room at large, and left.
I didn’t use it much, of course. That would be boring, and probably get me a sword embedded in my chest, which would be terribly inconvenient. No, this game was an exercise in subtlety. A little “Get in the bath already, Gwynnbleidd” and some “You simply must carry me back, Gwynnbleidd, I cannot go on.” I made sure to use it casually, too, without magical influence. He asked me once why I called him that. I told him not to worry about it, that I thought it more poetic than simple Geralt. Which is true.
But of course, the important part is that every time I called him by his Name, my hold over it grew. It was kinda fun, to do it the slow way. I needed him not to notice, since he probably could kill me, if he really put his mind to it.
The problem with this became clear over time. It’s just that I had never pretended to be human for quite so long before. They… rubbed off on me. Not magically - they don’t have enough magic for that. But they have funny ideas, and in order to blend in, I had to learn them.
After a while, when someone told me “no” and I made them say “yes,” I couldn’t think of anything but how I felt under my mother’s compulsion, as a child.
After a while, when someone told me what their safeword was, I asked what that meant and listened to the answer.
After a while, the idea of taking Geralt home to decorate my garden, show off to my friends and family, and throw out when I got bored, it just… it lost its appeal.
And then we met Borch, who stopped mid-introduction, eyes flicking to me, and didn’t give his surname, proving he’s more observant than my witcher. And then Geralt got angry with Yennefer. And then he got angry with me.
…
…
I left him.
I could have found a ring and gone home, but it would have felt even more like being defeated. I could have made him come home with me, but the dragon would have looked at me sideways and - and I would have known I’d betrayed him, even if he didn’t. Even if I didn’t let him. And I didn’t want to deal with my own people.
I found an audience, instead, and played for room and board and especially drink. I wandered alone and grew flowers along the roadside, dandelion and cornflower and buttercup. I cried, for what I had lost of myself. What I had given to Gwynnbleidd, and not demanded anything for in return.
It couldn’t last. I am made of magic, and it demands balance. It is not that it hurt me to leave someone in my debt, without taking payment; it is that I could not do it. In the spring, I started walking again, my feet seeking out my witcher unerringly and without my input. I caught up to him in Posada, because of course I did.
He came in in the middle of my set. He’d been scouting, not finishing a hunt; there were no entrails in his hair. His timing was perfect, and made for more money at my feet and more awkward glares at the humans trying to talk to him. He looked at me awkwardly, too, but it wasn’t a glare. I couldn’t quite decipher it.
He ordered a beer and sat.
I finished my set, and sat across from him.
I shit you not, the first words out of his mouth were “I’m sorry,” which was endearing but also dragged him a little deeper into my magic. I made eye contact and hummed tonelessly, because I’m a petty little bastard. He didn’t laugh. Instead he started babbling, which is not something I think anyone expected Geralt of Rivia to be capable of, but there we were. A lot of “you didn’t deserve that” and “I wasn’t thinking” and “I was angry at myself more than anyone else” and after it became clear he was neither going to stop nor make eye contact I stepped in.
“Geralt.”
Talking, and curling in on himself, and gripping his tankard so hard I worried he’d break it.
“Geralt.”
Talking, and pulling on his hair, and biting his lip until it bled.
“Gwynnbleidd.”
Finally, he looked up.
“Let’s have this conversation in private, shall we? I’ve a room upstairs.”
He followed. Of course he did.
We sat at the low table by the fireplace. I put myself between him and the iron poker. I poured him some of my own wine, out of habit, and looked him in the eye. “Did you ever notice?”
“... Notice what?”
“Do you think most humans look the same for twenty years straight?”
“Oh. That. I didn’t - I thought about it when Yen - but I tried not to think about - your mortality. … Are you going to tell me now?”
“I think you deserve to know how badly you fucked up, yeah.”
He shrunk on himself again. I don’t like it when he does that.
“I followed you around for twenty years. Dressed your wounds, washed your hair, sang your praises, bought you food. And you threw me away.”
“Dandelion, I’m s -”
I talked over him. “If I were human, that would be morally reprehensible.”
I dropped my glamour. I stretched into my extra inches. Blinked in my true eyes. Flexed my extra knuckles. Tucked my hair behind my ears. The witcher only stared, understanding dawning.
“But I run on promises, and debt magic, and Names, Gwynnbleidd. What do you think I could do to you?”
“... Oh, shit.”
I smiled, all fangs. “Yeah.”