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The summer of 1317 was an especially peaceful one for the masses. The ending trails of war had finally died down completely three years prior, and the population had been flourishing under Nilfgaardian rule ever since. This was especially the case in Toussiant, where the last war between Nilfgaard and the Northern Kingdoms had not touched. People there studied and developed the arts and the sciences, making advancements in various fields while the North was still picking up pieces after being figuratively and literally torn apart.
Reporting the current events to Dandelion had become morning routine for Geralt of Rivia, the proud owner of one of the top 10 most profitable vineyards in Toussiant. Who knew that Geralt actually had a good head for running vineyards or business in general? Certainly not anyone who knew him personally, given that Geralt had always been lacking in funds before owning Corvo Bianco. They thought he lacked the cunning and wits required and would be eaten alive by his competitors, but being honest and hardworking had worked out for Geralt in the long run. That and the massive web of connections with local viners the Geralt had unknowingly picked up while completing witcher contracts had ensured that Corvo Bianco would thrive.
“So, what do you think about that Charlie?” Geralt grumbled to Dandelion, who he moved with a bridal carry to their usual spot under the massive oak tree in Geralt’s back garden. Dandelion was no longer the athletic troubadour who in his prime easily escaped from angry husbands and fathers out of windows and across rooftops. Now as an elderly man, he could no longer walk the distance from Geralt’s guest room to the garden, nor could he see anything over three feet away from his face. However, perhaps due to his profession, Dandelion’s hearing is still sharp as ever, and his voice still much clearer than Geralt’s own had ever had been. Geralt expected that Dandelion would still sound better than the young bard who had started performing at The Cockatrice Inn a few weeks prior.
“They seemed like they love each other, didn’t they”, Dandelion replied, shifting his head to a more comfortable position on Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt lowered the both of them onto the hammock hanging off his tree. There were enough pillows to cushion Dandelion’s aged and frail body, but he always preferred using the witcher as a man-sized pillow instead. “I mean, Ciri wouldn’t have brought her to see you if she didn’t.”
“I suppose, I just don’t like the look in her eyes” Geralt mumbled to himself but Dandelion still picked up the softly spoken words. Sensing his best friend’s discomfort, Dandelion reassured Geralt: “Hey, Ciri is an adult. She’s older than you when you met Yennefer.”
The mention of his long-time lover who he eventually married to brought a small smile to Geralt’s lips. Technically, Yen was his wife. They married officially after they had fought against the Wildhunt together and emerged victorious some forty years ago, but Geralt was still unsure if he was allowed to call her that. Heck, he was still getting used to the idea that he had settled down with the woman of his dreams, and that he has a daughter who visits him frequently and friends who he often writes to. This life seemed to be straight out of a fairytale (He had had nightmares where he realised that it was indeed all a dream and he was trapped in a mage’s twisted game instead, but luckily, they were just that, nightmares.)
Yennefer had been away for a week attending a magic conference with the new Council of Sorcerers and Sorceresses. Following a month of self-indulgent reading when she first joined Geralt in Corvo Bianco, Yennefer had found a new passion in academics and had been trying to prove a few new magical theories after Geralt, in an attempt to impress her, showed her the abandoned lab of the mage Tomas Moreau, where she had found his research notes. Yen’s new busy schedule often left Geralt feeling angsty and neglected for a while, but he eventually learned to cope after repeated assurances from Yennefer that yes, she still loved him dearly, and yes, no matter how many magically conferences she attends, she will always return to Corvo Bianco, her home with him.
“I wonder how Priscilla is doing,” Dandelion wondered out loud, interrupting Geralt’s mental contemplation over his relationship with Yen. “She’s doing good,” Geralt replies to Dandelion, with worry and resignation in his voice. “You saw her last month, Zoey had won Oxenfurd’s annual poetry competition and they came over to deliver the news.” Dandelion had been losing his memory more often recently. Geralt supposed that it was normal for elderly humans, but it was nonetheless concerning to see his friend not being able to remember meeting his own granddaughter the previous month.
“You know, Geralt,” Dandelion sighs. “Everything I’ve done in my life, betraying Pricilla’s trust is what I regret the most.” Dandelion and Pricilla had been together for seven years before Dandelion cheated on her. Geralt would admit now that he loved easily, but Dandelion loved even more easily than he did, and often with a few people at the same time. It was almost inevitable, that Dandelion would eventually fall into another person’s bed even after he became a married man with children, as he had done countless times before to his other lovers. Geralt’s lips pulled themselves into a straight line at that thought, he had been both the person Dandelion had cheated on with and the person who Dandelion cheated on, at different times. He supposed that even then he had known never to expect their arrangements to be exclusive.
“Remember that time we put on a show for Sophronia?! That was hilarious.” Dandelion interjected suddenly, being able to instinctively tell when Geralt was headed towards a spiral of moping even when he could barely see Geralt’s expression due to his poor eyesight. “I played the Crimson Avenger and you the bandit trying to mug her. She highly applauded your performance, did I ever tell you that? Said that the red mask was an especially nice touch. It made you look more menacing.” Bringing up that particular shitshow did make a chuckle escape from the depths of Geralt’s throat. He remembered being deeply skeptical when helping Dandelion with his ‘performance’, but ultimately trusting his friend to not do anything stupid or amoral. His efforts paid off when Dandelion revealed that Sophronia only forgave Dandelion because she accepted his apology in the form of the exciting interactive play he and Geralt had put on for her, not because Dandelion had managed to trick her. “What, don’t I already look menacing enough?” Geralt shook his head as he rearranged Dandelion’s body into a more comfortable position on top of his own. The sun was rising fast, and in summer, even under the shade of the tree, the air will soon be too hot for the old poet.
“Why, of course not my friend.” Dandelion teased in his singsong voice, “Are you still under the false impression that you are in anyway monstrous or frightening?” Dandelion reached a wrinkled hand out to gave Geralt’s scarred cheek a pat. “You’re about as frightening as an angry cat, it’s the swords and the whole ‘witcher’ thing that people are apprehensive about. Besides, you’re actually quite dashing, don’t you know?” Dandelion winked at Geralt. Geralt felt his heart fluttering. Damn Dandelion.
Geralt noticed that Dandelion had been reminiscing the past more and more frequently since the start of the year. He guessed that it was a normal activity for elderly humans, a group of which his friend was apart of. However, the increasing stench of Death emitting from the poet’s body had been concerning to Geralt and his brothers. Dandelion had been alive for 88 winters, so perhaps this was just nature taking its due course. Geralt had taken it upon himself to gather their friends individually so they could all spend time with the poet before the end of his days while making sure that his physical needs were taken care of and his mind was frequently stimulated with conversation, but there was really not much else he could do.
The summer of 1317 passed similarly to the few other summers preceding that. Geralt had been visited by Ciri with her romantic partners; bickered with and cooked for Yen while she did her studies and experimentations; had morning conversations with Dandelion reminiscing fun times of the past; trained with Eskel and Lambert to keep himself more or less sharp -- all activities that made Geralt feel happy and whole. However, it would also be the last winter in Dandelion’s life. Geralt knew it was going to happen that summer. He was prepared when it did. On the night when he knew his dearest friend would close his eyes for the last time, Geralt held Dandelion’s hand in his own and embraced him as he slept. Even at the last moment, when Dandelion’s heart finally slowed and stopped, he knew that he was loved. He had a friend in Geralt, who had cherished and cared for him, who he cared for and cherished in return. Fire burns and dies; life comes and goes. Even a weed as resilient as the dandelion will wilt and fade away. Dandelion is gone, but his memory will live on. Geralt will carry them until his own life either slowly decline or come to an abrupt end. And that is enough, for now.