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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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)

Geralt winces. "That's what I was afraid of. You must've been... eighteen, twenty when I went through the Trials. I'm about sixty."

Sixty, sixty-five, it all starts to blend together. Vesemir might know how old he is, but he's been in Vesemir's care since he was very young. Geralt can't quite bring himself to look up, so he caefully dumps the herbs he's been working with into a beaker. He sets a different one next to Dorian.

Taking the hint, Dorian carefully funnels the herbs he's been grinding into the beaker Geralt offered him. He's silent for several moments as he does this, and as he tries to determine what to say next. Ultimately, he decides on simple honesty, however brutal. Geralt is, after all, the one person in the world he should be entirely honest with, isn't he?

"It was the most excruciating pain of my life." He says it without accusation, but the words are still heavy in the quiet room. He looks at Geralt, but can't meet his eyes; Geralt is looking away. Guilt, perhaps? "And I've known quite a lot of pain." Most of it, needless to say, has been channeled through Geralt. "I was in and out of consciousness for days--screaming, crying, pleading. Everyone thought that I was cursed." Carefully, Dorian sets his beaker down, and places a tentative hand on Geralt's forearm. "I don't blame you."

He was a child, as all witchers are when they go through the Trials, from what he understands. Dorian had been an adult, or nearly so. Geralt could have died. It's clear who it was worse for.

Geralt looks up and meets Dorian's gaze when his hand comes to rest on his arm. "Sounds about as I remember. Don't think I managed much pleading."

According to those that remembered better, Geralt had been beyond words.

"They did an extra set on me," he admits. "Since I took so well to the usual."

So Dorian's pain - and his own - had been prolonged past what most boys endured, those that survived. It isn't a matter of worse or better: Dorian' shouldn't have had to go through that pain at all.

"It's why my hair is white. And Vesemir suspects it's the cause of this." He gestures to himself, meaning to indicate his rather flat affect.

An extra set, he says--meaning even more dangerous mutagens. It's baffling, still, how witchers are made. He might call it barbaric, except that the Brotherhood hardly has ground to stand on there. Even the institutions he'd studied at back home in Ofier. It's all built on suffering.

"This? You mean that it's responsible for how handsome you are?" Dorian's teasing smile shows that he's being deliberately obtuse. White hair, lack of affect--he doesn't consider anything about Geralt less than desirable, or defective. Perhaps he's simply being more charitable because he'd been half in love with him for years before they'd ever met, but Geralt seems near perfect to him.

He wants to reach out and touch Geralt's face, trace the line of his cheek, of his jaw, with gentle fingers. But he isn't certain, even now that they have this established, what's welcome. Even if they have felt one another's pain all their lives, they are virtual strangers. Even if Dorian feels like Geralt is the only person in the world he can trust, they hardly know one another. His hand remains lightly on Geralt's arm.

Geralt holds Dorian's gaze for a long moment. Then he leans close to give the mage a light but lingering kiss. He can't necessarily stop the preparations he needs to do, but at some point, they'll just have to render down. Maybe then he'd have more time to kiss Dorian the way he'd like to.

He doesn't say anything as he breaks the kiss, but just a breath later, there's a knock at Dorian's door. Dinner has arrived; he could smell it and he could hear the approach of the page delivering it.

Dorian feels his breath catch in the moment before Geralt's lips cover his. His lashes flicker for a moment before his eyes slide closed, and he leans closer. Geralt's lips are thinner than his own, but warm and welcoming, and they fit so well together. He is content. How long has he waited for this? He wants to do this a thousand more times; just share slow, exploratory kisses.

Before that idea can properly manifest, however, the sound of a knock jars him harshly from the moment. He smiles ruefully. "That will be dinner." He lingers for just a moment longer, now feeling at liberty to touch Geralt's jaw, just briefly, before he turns away.

"Let's eat in the study, yes?" he calls over his shoulder. His exchange with the page is brief, and the tray laden with their food is set on Dorian's desk before the boy swiftly takes his leave.

Geralt follows the siren song of Dorian’s touch and the scent of food back into the study. The light is lower there and Geralt’s pupils widen as they move from one room to the other. He watches the boy leave and looks at the food. He doesn’t smell anything off, though. Maybe the page is just nervous about being sent to the sorcerer’s rooms.

“How do you like Foltest?” he asks, finding himself curious now that they’re alone with no pressing business before them. “And Temeria?”

Dorian arranges the food on his desk as Geralt poses his question. He settles in the chair behind it, and gestures toward the armchair by the fire, motioning that Geralt should bring it closer so that he can sit down as well.

"I like one as well as the other," he sighs when both of them are settled. "Which is to say not at all. Foltest is exhausting to deal with, and Temeria is cold and dismal. But I am not at liberty to have a say in my postings as of yet. For the purposes of the Brotherhood, Temeria is a powerful appointment, and I'm expected to serve here for some time."

The witcher tries to hide a smile behind his drink.

"The spring and summer aren't so bad," he quips. "Speaking as someone that spends a lot of time sleeping outside."

Geralt actually likes the spring. More often than he'll ever admit, he's sought out flowering trees to sleep under. He likes the smell and the sound of the bees. But he knows how powerful Temeria is among the northern kingdoms and for any of the Brotherhood, it's a good appointment. Regardless of the weather.

Dorian, watching Geralt's face carefully, catches that ghost of a smile. It pleases him, in a very personal way. There's a clear sense of humor beneath Geralt's flat affect, and he's glad to have caught onto it.

"Of course you would think so. You've lived here all your life." He says it like he's turning up his nose, dismissive, but it's very much his usual diversionary tactic. He's well versed at making things sound far worse than they are. But of course, a thought occurs to him then, one he can't simply allow to pass.

"Are you intending to keep me warm tonight, then?"

It's half a tease, half a genuine question.

Geralt seems to consider Dorian for a long moment, but his gaze is warm.

"Are you asking me to?"

Might as well be clear on the matter before he sticks his foot in his mouth. He's been alive just long enough to know that sometimes it's easier and more effective to be more blunt.

Somehow he hadn't expected Geralt to respond so bluntly. Clearly a miscalculation on his part, given how straightforward the witcher has proven to be so far. But he hardly seems opposed to the idea, at least.

The silverware scraping his plate seems too loud in the quiet room. He puts down his fork and knife, regarding Geralt carefully. Has he been too forward?

"I am," he admits, and hopes that he's reading the look in Geralt's eyes correctly. "Though I did prepare a room for you, if you'd prefer that."

A smile ticks the corner of his mouth and something in his gaze warms. "Then I'll keep you warm," he answers. "Be rude to refuse the hospitality."

He doubts he'll be missed in his room, unless Foltest does find out that he's here. All the more reason to accept Dorian's invitation: privacy as well as a warm bed and an interested partner.

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