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 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.

"It would be," Dorian agrees, letting his gaze drift to the ghost of a smile on Geralt's lips and back up to his eyes. He's deeply relieved, but doesn't reveal it, all coy smirks and a confident tilt of his chin. "It isn't the sort of reception I offer every passing witcher."

"But some passing witchers?" he asks, brows lifting slightly. Now he's curious.

"Your bed's probably nicer than the guest suites, anyway. Unless you put me in the barn with Roach."

The way he says it suggests that it would not be the first time, nor he suspects the last, that the hospitality he's offered is less than generous. Sometimes the barn is all folk have to offer, in which case he gratefully accepts. He doesn't mind sharing a space with Roach, anyway.

"You can't blame me for being curious," Dorian breaks character to laugh, looking bright-eyed and mirthful at Geralt. "School of the Bear, I think. He was built like one, anyway." The memory is clearly a fond one, but his smile thins. "But he didn't have the right scars."

He sets his hand on the table, palm up. "May I see yours?" His hand, he means, but it wouldn't be wrong to interpret it the other way. It is the scars he wants to see.

Geralt finds himself wondering if he knows the witcher in question. He looks at Dorian's hand, then pulls off the gloves he'd been wearing in the laboratory. He sets them aside and offers one hand to Dorian.

His palms and fingers are calloused, despite the heavy gloves he often wears. He has scars even on his hands - this one features a cut across the back, possibly from a glancing blow or blocking something.

"Here I thought that was a ploy to get my shirt off," he admits.

"I hardly need a ploy for that," Dorian says with smirk. Now that Geralt's agreed to go to bed with him, it seems he's quite confident.

He takes Geralt's offered hand in his. He feels that rush again, that certainty, like a warm sunrise. His thumb brushes slowly across Geralt's palm and the callouses there. Dorian's hands are smooth by comparison, manicured, the nails painted with black lacquer. The flips Geralt's hand over slowly so that they're palm to palm, and traces the long scar across the back with the fingers of his other hand. His expression softens.

"This one is old, isn't it? But I remember. I couldn't move my hand for days while it was healing."

"I blocked a sword," he says as Dorian recounts the pain. "It was early days, stumbled into a bandit camp and they weren't interested in letting me leave."

Being outnumbered is nothing new, but he'd still been relatively new to the Path.

Dorian's hands are soft compared to his own. Geralt takes care of himself, but luxuries always seem pointless, unless it's a hot bath and a bed. His nails are neatly trimmed and clean, that's as luxurious as he gets.

"I thought I might lose the hand," he admits. "The gloves were thick but the cut was deep. Even with swallow, it took time to recover."

"I thought I might lose the hand, and I wasn't even the one injured," Dorian snorts. He looks at the scar again, traces a finger over it. "It healed so well." Touching Geralt's hands--touching the marker of an injury he vividly remembers feeling--is just this side of surreal. "I've noticed you aren't blocking swords with your hand any longer. I'm glad you learned that lesson quickly."

He's silent for a moment, just looking at their hands together--both of his around one of Geralt's. That scar.

"It really is you," he murmurs.

"Got better gloves," he quips with dry amusement. That is more or less true - he's still blocking with limbs, but he's been able to invest in better gear.

Something in him softens at Dorian's gentle awe. Geralt shifts his hand so he can brush his thumb over Dorian's.

"I'm sorry for your pain," he says after a moment. He feels like he should offer some sincere apology, even if it's not his fault that Dorian has been matched to him. But he can offer his sympathy, his empathy. "I can't have been easy to live with."

"You weren't," Dorian agrees. "And you will never be, I expect. But don't apologize. It isn't as though I'm easy to live with either." One side of his mouth pulls up at that. A joke, but one he clearly thinks is true. He's been told often enough how difficult he is. Watching Geralt's thumb stroke the back of his hand, gentle and soothing, is odd. Until today, the only thing that's connected them is shared pain.

"For a long time, I tried to rationalize what I was feeling," he explains quietly. "I thought that perhaps I had to suffer more than most to have someone who would truly understand me. It seemed a rare enough thing. I thought that if I could meet you one day, everything would have been worthwhile. And," he adds, "I wasn't alone. If I was in pain, so were you."

There's a tightness in his chest that Dorian is determined to stop from escaping. He shakes his head slowly, forces a smile. "I haven't even asked what you think," he points out. How typically selfish. "Do you believe in any of it? That this connection means that the two of us are...uniquely suited to one another?"

"Destiny and fate get thrown around a lot," he says after a moment. "I believe in them, I think. But I never thought witchers could--have bonds like this. We aren't human anymore. Not entirely." But then, he supposes, neither are sorcerers to a degree. They've given up something as much as witcher candidates do to become what they are.

Granted, as far as he understands, there might be some level of volunteer for the Brotherhood. But he's also heard that anyone with power might catch their attention, and sometimes those are not always interested in leaving their homes for the unknown.

"I don't know what I think," he admits. "I only know that I feel... better. With you close."

Dorian's presence doesn't soothe all of his old aches and pains, but it does do something.

Dorian is a talker. Geralt very much is not, as had become clear extremely quickly. It's funny, really, how opposite they are in a number of ways--appearance, personality. Dorian can't help but find it strangely fitting. So when Geralt speaks, Dorian listens, wholly and intently. The witcher has such a nice voice; low, rough, rasping, but in a way that sinks down through Dorian's body, settles warmly against his spine.

"Ah," he breathes out. That's as close to an admission as he's heard Geralt make. "Well that's something." He doesn't know if he believes in destiny either. But he's believed in the validity of this bond for most of his life. He believed that on the other side of it was someone who would understand him and care for him in a way no one else could. And now that he's met him, he's beginning to think he could be right. His smile softens. "So do I."

Geralt squeezes Dorian's hand before gently letting go. The rest of the meal is pleasant. The witcher doesn't talk much, if only because he seems focused more on eating. He's polite, though, he has respectable table manners. Vesemir would be proud.

When they finish eating, it's back to the laboratory. Geralt answers any questions Dorian has as they work, and it goes faster with two sets of hands. All that's left is to let things sit overnight to steep or solidify or whatever needs to happen to finish.

And as they leave the lab, Geralt turns his full attention to Dorian. "Is your room here int he tower or do we need to walk?"

(geralt) the sorcerer's soulmate

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