bestdressed | (geralt) the sorcerer's soulmate

(geralt) the sorcerer's soulmate

Geralt of Rivia,
I write to you with utmost urgency, and so will not waste time with pleasantries. Witchers care little for smalltalk anyway, or so I hear. The kingdom of Temeria once again has need of a witcher, and none but you will do.

Some unknown creature has slaughtered a local lord and the entirety of his entourage of knights and servants on the road near the capital, and the squadron which was sent out by the king to find and kill the beast has not returned after nearly a week. One must assume they have met the same fate. The monster left prints of remarkable size in the ground near the site of the first attack, so it would belie that it likely did not take the travelers by surprise. But it is strange that so many of its victims appear to have died without so much as drawing their weapons.

The king is understandably cautious of mysterious and cursed creatures, considering his history. I request that you travel to Vizima with all haste, before more lives are lost. There I will meet with you to discuss the situation, as well as the matter of your payment. Be cautious of the southern road.

Yours,
Dorian Pavus, Magical Advisor to King Foltest of Temeria

-

It has been nearly two weeks since Dorian dispatched the letter by raven, and in that time, the road from Maribor to Vizima has become nigh impassable. Warnings have been issued to take a different route when approaching the capital from the south, but even so, there have been more victims. It is, therefore, a relief to be informed by a runner of the awaited arrival of the witcher he had sent for.

Of course, this is not the only reason Dorian's heart pounds as he pulls a heavy, fur-lined cloak over his shoulders and leather gloves onto his hands as he hurries to meet the witcher by the front gate. In fact, it hardly even comes close. The problem of the unknown monster no doubt requires the attention of a professional, it's true; but that it be Geralt of Rivia specifically is entirely Dorian's design. There is only one reason that Dorian is grateful to have ever set foot in the kingdom of Temeria: it is here that he has finally learned the identity of the man he's been aching to know all his life.

That he is a witcher comes as no surprise. Dorian determined as much himself years ago, given the rate of injury and recovery, and the severity of the wounds that he has apparently lived through. But that he would happen to be the witcher known for lifting the curse on Foltest's daughter five years past--Ada; a sweet girl, if still a bit skittish at times--had been a shock. Dorian had known from the moment the story was related to him; he remembers well the pain of teeth ripping into the tender skin between his neck and shoulder. And so he finally had a name for the man connected to the unseen hurts that have plagued him all his life--pain he's come to both resent and adore. (Though if he's being entirely honest with himself, it's more the latter, if only because it means he exists somewhere: someone just for him. A man who, if soulmates work for sorcerers the same way they do everyone else, is meant to love him.)

"Geralt of Rivia?"

Clutching his cloak around his shoulders, Dorian speaks the name aloud across the quiet courtyard, a note of hopeful anticipation in the inflection of his voice. Several yards away, a man stands beside his horse, armored and broad-shouldered with a shock of white hair and a pair of swords on his back, facing away from Dorian. Already, Dorian knows it must be him, as he feels an ebbing of the pain he has lived with for decades. It fades more with each passing moment, the dull aches and strains and old, smarting hurts that accompany years spent in the dangerous monster-hunting trade. Dorian knows them intimately; knows this man intimately.

He could trace the scars on his body from memory, though he has never seen his face.

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"We didn't see any sign of the creature then." Dorian's horse is nervous in this area, and she stamps at the ground, shying away from the scent of old blood and death. Dorian frims his grip on the reins and pats the side of her neck, but doesn't let her back away. He's too intrigued by Geralt's process. What can he really hope to find here?

Surprise flickers visibly across Dorian's face. What would Geralt hope to do with corpses that long dead? "They've been cremated," he says, in the sort of flat tone that implies it should be obvious. "They weren't in any fit state for preservation. Or anything else, really."

As that doesn't give Geralt much to go on, he adds, "I saw them myself. Any that weren't in full plate were torn to shreds or crushed. There were tracks of some sort, too, the last time I was here, but nothing that seemed familiar to me. The attack occurred after several days of rain. The ground was muddy, and one of the wagons was stuck. I would guess that they got caught out while trying to free it."

Geralt nods absently and slowly moves closer to Dorian and his mare. He makes a small sign in the air. For a second, there's a faint glow around the mare's head; when the light fades, she's docile and calm beneath Dorian's hands.

The witcher strokes a hand over her velvety nose.

"I know," he murmurs to the horse. "Roach always takes some breaking in, too."

Torn to shreds, crushed, tracks. He moves away to start looking for said tracks, and when he picks them up, he crouches down again to examine them. Geralt stands again and follows them for a few paces, but stops short of approaching the woods.

Seeming to have made up his mind about something, he returns to Roach and mount up again.

"Need to prepare some things. I'll come back out tomorrow."

Dorian thinks he knows what Geralt does to his horse; one of the witcher signs, magic so minor it can barely be classified as such. But she calms instantly, and he's so gentle with her; it's more than a little endearing, actually, the way he speaks to her. Northerners don't tend to have quite the same appreciation for their horses as Ofieri. It's nice to see.

He holds his tongue as Geralt investigates further, somehow finding the weeks-old tracks. Even knowing where they'd been, they aren't apparent to Dorian any longer, but Geralt picks up the trail quickly. It's remarkable.

"That seems best," Dorian agrees as Geralt swings back up into the saddle. The sun is sinking swiftly. "What do you need?"

"Need to make an oil. Check the decoctions I've got with me. I've got the supplies, just need a safe place to brew it all."

If worst comes, he can work in the courtyard. He'd rather be somewhere he won't be bothered by stable boys and guardsmen. Geralt turns them back down the road toward Vizima.

"I can work outside if need be. As long as the brew won't be bothered."

"Outside?" Dorian sounds horrified by the mere suggestion. "Nonsense. You'll use my lab. No one will bother you there."

If they make good time, they can probably be within city limits again by nightfall. The trees around them look so much more ominous at dusk now, knowing that something huge and dangerous lurks nearby.

"Well," Dorian corrects himself, "I might bother you a bit. I'm rather curious about witcher oils and decoctions."

Geralt won't turn down the offer. Having a mage hovering is less likely to end in tragedy and having somewhere indoors to make what he needs would, he admits, be considerably easier than doing it outdoors over a campfire.

"You're free to ask. As long as you don't try to touch or imbibe anything."

He would feel bad if he managed to kill Foltest's advisor.

"Do I truly seem so moronic?" Dorian says archly, playing at offense. "I only want to watch. Alchemy's an interest of mine as well, naturally." Being a mage, that's fairly obvious.

The two of them ride side by side on the return to Vizima, and Dorian finds it rather comfortable. Geralt is entirely new to him still, but he doesn't feel like a stranger. Truly, it feels like he's known him for a long time--and in a way, he has. There are parts of Geralt, he would wager, that he knows better than anyone.

It is dark by the time they pass the castle gates, and Dorian is frozen to his very bones. He's visibly stiff as he dismounts, and clutches his cloak close about him as he hands his horse off to a stablehand.

"I could show you to your room first," Dorian offers, "but something tell me that you would rather get straight to work."

"I would prefer to work," he agrees. He reluctantly leaves Roach with the stable hand after grabbing his saddle bags - all of them this time. "Should get inside before you freeze solid."

He nods toward the door they'd come through on their way out and follows Dorian once he heads inside. Geralt pays attention this time to the twists and turns they take.

"You do a lot of alchemy for Foltest?"

Geralt is right, of course. Dorian doesn't take his cloak off until they're well inside, and some ways past a first huge fireplace.

"I do as much as he requires." Given Dorian's dismissive tone, it isn't much. "For the most part, I do it for myself. I have plenty of research of my own, and thankfully both the time and the resources to conduct it."

He leads Geralt back to his study, where a door on the opposite side of the room leads to a larger, though far less comfortable space. This is where Dorian does his practical work, clearly. Equipment for alchemy and more innately magical crafts--the distinctly Ofieri practice of runewriting, for one--are laid out across various benches, with open books and half scribbled on papers scattered throughout. It isn't organized, but it's clean, at least, as a magical workroom should be.

Geralt isn't surprised to see the laboratory - he'd be more surprised if Dorian didn't have a work room of some kind.

After taking stock of the room, Geralt finds a relatively empty work bench to start setting out vials, jars, bottles, and herbs.

"Need to be able to render this down," he says absently as he starts to take off the swords belts strapped around his chest. No sense in keeping them on while he works. He takes off his heavy hunting gloves as well and replaces them with a thinner pair. He pauses to check his decoctions, considering whether he should make more of any of them.

Lingering near the table Geralt's chosen, Dorian watches him unpack his supplies, mentally categorizing each that he recognizes. "Any of the burners should do that easily," he says, "and I have clean flasks--" a gesture to a cabinet against the opposite wall, full of flasks and tubes and bottles ready for use.

Without his heavy cloak across his shoulders and the cold air in his lungs freezing him from the inside out, Dorian feels lighter, freer--bolder. He steps closer to Geralt, near enough to touch. But he isn't quite that bold.

"Is there anything else you'll require? Dinner, perhaps, before you begin?" Geralt hasn't eaten since he arrived hours ago, and he's been on the road. He must be hungry. "I can send for it."

"Dinner would be good, thank you."

It occurs to him that he hasn't eaten since that morning. He'd too focused after getting here to dig up a snack or something to tide him over and now he's about to start alchemical processes which will require his attention.

Dorian is close. Close enough that when Geralt turns his head, the only scents he can catch are the mage's: spice, pomade, citrus, something very faintly floral, musk. He holds back a quiet groan. He's always liked people that take care of themselves, or maybe those that have a small preoccupation with it. It always pays off, as far as he can tell.

He huffs a quiet breath and tries to clear his head. There is absolutely no good that could possibly come of sweeping things off any of the tables in here.

Though... there's always the wall.

Dorian lingers for a moment near Geralt--a moment too long, really, as he studies the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips, and the way his catlike pupils expand and contract in the bright amber of his eyes. It's impossible not to wonder how it would feel to kiss him; to feel the warmth of his mouth, the scratch of his beard, the strength of his arms pulling him close. But they haven't even touched yet; not even a brush of fingers, or so much as a shoulder or elbow bumping. Geralt hasn't even spoken his name yet; not once.

What would it sound like? His name in Geralt's voice?

He'll find out, he assures himself. He'll know what all of these things are like, eventually. He must. Geralt is meant to be his. It's astounding, still, to have him right here in front of him, close enough to touch, after all these years.

"I'll...I'll call for a meal to be brought up for us both," he says, too haltingly. With true reluctance, he steps back several paces, and then turns and retreats back through the open door to the study.

Geralt nods and offers a somewhat belated thanks before Dorian disappears. While he's gone, a sharp, sudden pain hits Geralt's hip, like he's just run into something. Apparently whoever his soulmate is, they're clumsy. Geralt is surprised he still gets the feelings at all: anyone attached to him has had undue suffering and that seems unfair. He tries to put the nuisance feeling out of his mind.

He realizes it's starting to fade, though. Not because the injury itself has healed, though, something like that would surely bruise. He frowns and looks down at his hips, eyebrows drawn together as Dorian comes back into the room. Geralt looks up when the mage appears.

The closer he gets, the less Geralt feels.

Oh.

Dorian keeps forgetting that the corner of his desk is as wide as it is. This isn't the first time he's run into it, but it's probably the most notable. He closes the door after summoning a servant to relay their dinner order, then turns back around to return to the workroom. But his desk is very much in the way in a way he hadn't anticipated, and he grazes the hard, sharp edge as he walks by. The pain in his hip is immediate, and so strong that he curses out loud, the words in Offieri falling from his tongue as easily as the day he'd left his country decades ago. The pain doesn't fade quickly. It'll bruise, that's for certain.

But he has more immediate concerns. He wonders, with a lurch in hi stomach, if the two of them are far enough away that Geralt actually felt it. Probably so, or at least some of it. But will he notice? If he does, will he put it together--and what will his reaction be?

There's little to do but return to him and find out.

Dorian crosses the threshold into the workroom, once again leaving the door to the study open behind him. He doesn't rub at the spot on his hip, though it still smarts fiercely. Geralt is already watching him. Does he know?

He stops several paces away, looking closely at the witcher's face. His expression, predictably, conveys nothing. "Geralt?" He says his name softly, uncertainly--perhaps a little hopefully.

"How's your hip?"

He asks in the same, unaffected voice as ever, but his eyes are intent on Dorian. There are times that Geralt has felt cursed or let down by his inability to really express emotion with tone, but now he finds himself grateful for the excuse. He doesn't want to be wrong - doesn't think he is - but there's plenty of reason to approach this with some caution.

Geralt just assumed that--that this whole thing somehow stopped once he became a witcher. Whatever pains Dorian endured, at some point Geralt must have simply taken them for his own, even if he could find no explanation in the moment.

Why would a witcher still have a soulmate? Most people believed he didn't have a soul to begin with.

Though, he supposes enough people think the same way of sorcerers.

Geralt knows. With that question, he has to. Yet neither his tone nor his demeanor betray anything. He doesn't seem surprised, or glad, or disappointed, or angry--all reactions that Dorian had considered possible. He has to tread lightly before he discovers which it is.

He doesn't come any closer, but remains hovering halfway between Geralt and the door. He considers playing dumb a little longer; laughing it off with an assumption that Geralt must have heard him cursing. But that will only delay the inevitable. This has to be addressed. And despite their connection, he steels himself for rejection. Romantic tales about soulmates are fine, but how does the concept hold up in reality? Is he really Geralt's perfect match?

"It'll be a nasty bruise," he says, clearly unsurprised by the question. "But you know that, yes?"

"Yeah," he answers, somehow softer in tone and expression. "I do."

Geralt isn't sure what to say. Normally his stoicism covers social awkwardness just fine, but it's just the two of them here and there is no escaping he knowledge now. So he lowers his gaze - something that might be charmingly bashful in anyone else - and considers the things he has on the work bench.

"I didn't think witchers could still--" He pauses, reconsidering his words. Geralt finds himself wondering if Dorian is disappointed or appalled. "Sorry for uh... all this."

He gestures at his own body, referencing the multitude of injuries he's endured over the years.

It isn't disgust, at least, in Geralt's response. He seems hesitant, but Dorian supposes that makes sense, if he truly hadn't thought he'd ever meet his soulmate, let alone here and now. The apology is unexpected, but Dorian takes it in stride.

"You should be sorry. It hasn't exactly been pleasant." It's the truth, and he's cursed Geralt many times for the number of severe injuries he's sustained. "I've known for years that you must be a witcher. There wasn't any other explanation for how you could be hurt so frequently, let alone survive everything I felt."

Carefully, Dorian takes a few more steps toward the bench, though he doesn't want to crowd Geralt, especially if he needs more time to process this. Does he not want to look at him now that he knows?

"But still, I've..." Dorian's hand rests against the table, fingers curling around the edge. He's far from disappointed or appalled. He's hesitant only because he worries that he may not be what Geralt expected. "I've wanted to meet you for so long."

"I feel like I must have lost your pain among my own," he says contemplatively with a faint frown. Geralt finally looks up, meeting Dorian's gaze. "That, or you're much better at dodging than I am."

Or Dorian simply hasn't had the need or desire to be in any kind of combat. Geralt offers the smallest tick of a smile.

He isn't upset or displeased, merely surprised, and the witcher generally doesn't like surprises. But this one isn't unpleasant.

Slowly, Geralt pulls his gloves off. He offers a bare hand to the mage.

"Nice to meet you, Dorian. I hope I'm not a disappointment."

To his credit, Dorian resist the urge to roll his eyes. He's elated, really, filled with hope and affection by that slight upward curve of Geralt's lips. He returns it, though his own is much more obvious, especially when the witcher finally says his name aloud. Looking at Geralt's bared hand, he takes the last few steps needed to bring them close again.

"Your idea of what constitutes a joke is disappointing, perhaps," he says archly as he peels his own glove off and sets it aside. "But despite everything, I'm rather pleased with the rest." Finally--finally, because he's waited most of his life for this--he puts his hand in Geralt's and closes his fingers around it.

He wasn't certain what to expect, but there is an immediate and palpable sense of connection--like a piece finally sliding into place, completing a part of himself that he hadn't known was incomplete. Geralt's hands are rough where his own are soft, but Dorian knows intimately how those callouses were formed. He knows the nicks and cuts and scratches on the knuckles that he smooths his thumb over. It's almost surreal.

"It helped me a great deal, you know," he says quietly, "just to know that you existed. That you were real. There were times when I needed that."

Geralt feels it, too. His fingers curl gently around Dorian's, and, feeling a little bold, he brushes a kiss over the mage's knuckles before he lets go of his hand. Seeming reluctant, he pulls away so he can start the process of making what he needs. One oil, one or two decoctions. He might as well get them started while they wait for food. He'll just make sure he doesn't start any part of the process that he can't stop.

"Did you know who I was?" he asks, curious now.

Dorian tries to keep his utter charmed delight at the very courtly kiss to himself, but it's impossible to miss the way his eyes light up. A bit disappointing when Geralt releases his hand and turns back to his supplies--very serious about his work, this one--but he doesn't want to seem that desperate.

"When I sent the letter to hire you? Of course." He answers, leaning casually against the table. "When I came to Foltest's court, I quickly heard an account of your dealing with the striga--our Princess Adda, that is. I discovered that I knew some of the injuries detailed in that account quite intimately. One particularly well." He raises a hand to the side of his neck, where he can still remember the sensation of teeth ripping deep into his flesh. "I knew then that you had to be the witcher I was bound to."

Geralt winces at the memory of that particular wound. It isn't even the worst he's had, but it is one that left him unconscious.

"Sorry," he says,though it seems like such a small word in the face of a lifetime of hard living. Geralt suddenly wonders how old Dorian is. What does age mean to a witcher or sorcerer? Still, he clears his throat as he starts grinding up some herbs in a mortar.

"How old are you?"

"Are you really asking my age?" Dorian half scolds, half laughs. It's a taboo topic among mages for a reason; sorceresses, especially. For his part, Dorian finds that he agrees. But as it's Geralt who's asking, he gives permission this once. With a long-suffering sigh, he admits, "Eighty, give or take a few years." Give, most likely, but he's already said enough.

Instead of just standing by and watching Geralt work, Dorian retrieves a second mortar and pestel, and helps himself to some of the ingredients on the table, beginning to do the same. "And you?" It's only fair, after all.

Edited 2020-03-18 23:03 (UTC)

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