Dorian Pavus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bestdressed) wrote2020-04-07 08:14 pm
bestdressed) wrote2020-04-07 08:14 pm
blood & wine (geralt)
A summer night in Antiva City is nearly as warm and fragrant as a spring evening in Minrathous. Standing in the midst of the villa's outdoor garden terrace surrounded by night blooming flowers and the press of silk-clad bodies and the scent of free-flowing wine, with the sea breeze off the Rialto Bay, Dorian is reminded enough of home so as to feel a pang of longing without the trappings of actually being in Tevinter. Antivan soirees have the potential to turn out as dangerous as Tevinter ones, but rarely do. The constant warring of the twelve merchant princes has nothing on the daily infighting and petty one-upsmanship of the Magisterium. But Antiva does have the better assassins, Dorian will give them that.
Tonight, however, he's being used as little more than a convenient decorator and a topic of conversation. The magical lights twinkling in the trees around the gardens are his doing, and the guests simply can't stop asking his benefactor how his court was assigned an altus mage of Tevinter. The truth is, of course, that his position here has very little to do with being officially appointed by any organization of mages or sorcerers, and more with being hired for his skills in return for a comfortable life away from the Imperium and the space and funds with which to do his magical research. It stings a little, of course, having to answer to Adrian Mercurio, a merchant prince and therefore an upjumped businessman, but at least no one here is trying to drag him back to his father, and absolutely no one cares who he sleeps with beyond idle gossip. The Antivans are a passionate people, and restrict little when it comes to sex or romance.
A peacock among a crowd of other exotic birds, Dorian still stands out. He is unapologetically Tevinter in the way he dresses and styles himself, from the kohl lining his eyes and gold dust on his lids to the scent he wears (cloves and orange blossom oil dabbed on his pulse points) to his robes, ivory linen with designs of feathers and serpents in spun gold, a high collar and an entirely bare left arm from the shoulder down. On his feet are soft sandals rather than heavy boots in deference to the weather, and his long fingers are decorated with jeweled rings. The picture of Tevinter decadence, and entirely out of place among the brightly dyed silken doublets and puffed sleeves and plumed hats and heavy necklaces preferred by the Antivans.
He does only the requisite socializing, and regrettably keeps his drinking to a single glass of wine. The purpose of this soiree is not, after all, merely to celebrate the success of recent business ventures, or to network, or even to display Mercurio's wealth. It's to reveal (and to slay) a monster in their midst, and it is apparently Dorian's purpose to facilitate this with the witcher they've hired, for whom he keeps a careful eye. It is, of course, nearly impossible not to be mildly distracted by thoughts of the last witcher he'd encountered, over a year ago now. That had been a pleasant meeting. Dorian isn't certain whether he's relieved or disappointed that Mercurio had specifically elected not to hire Geralt of Rivia; he wanted a monster slayer, he said, not a butcher. But surely there are so many other witchers on both the northern and southern continents that the chances that Geralt would answer this particular ad were slim anyway.
Which is why he freezes when he looks across the gathering and meets a pair of familiar yellow eyes by the trellis archway leading from the gardens to the main house
Tonight, however, he's being used as little more than a convenient decorator and a topic of conversation. The magical lights twinkling in the trees around the gardens are his doing, and the guests simply can't stop asking his benefactor how his court was assigned an altus mage of Tevinter. The truth is, of course, that his position here has very little to do with being officially appointed by any organization of mages or sorcerers, and more with being hired for his skills in return for a comfortable life away from the Imperium and the space and funds with which to do his magical research. It stings a little, of course, having to answer to Adrian Mercurio, a merchant prince and therefore an upjumped businessman, but at least no one here is trying to drag him back to his father, and absolutely no one cares who he sleeps with beyond idle gossip. The Antivans are a passionate people, and restrict little when it comes to sex or romance.
A peacock among a crowd of other exotic birds, Dorian still stands out. He is unapologetically Tevinter in the way he dresses and styles himself, from the kohl lining his eyes and gold dust on his lids to the scent he wears (cloves and orange blossom oil dabbed on his pulse points) to his robes, ivory linen with designs of feathers and serpents in spun gold, a high collar and an entirely bare left arm from the shoulder down. On his feet are soft sandals rather than heavy boots in deference to the weather, and his long fingers are decorated with jeweled rings. The picture of Tevinter decadence, and entirely out of place among the brightly dyed silken doublets and puffed sleeves and plumed hats and heavy necklaces preferred by the Antivans.
He does only the requisite socializing, and regrettably keeps his drinking to a single glass of wine. The purpose of this soiree is not, after all, merely to celebrate the success of recent business ventures, or to network, or even to display Mercurio's wealth. It's to reveal (and to slay) a monster in their midst, and it is apparently Dorian's purpose to facilitate this with the witcher they've hired, for whom he keeps a careful eye. It is, of course, nearly impossible not to be mildly distracted by thoughts of the last witcher he'd encountered, over a year ago now. That had been a pleasant meeting. Dorian isn't certain whether he's relieved or disappointed that Mercurio had specifically elected not to hire Geralt of Rivia; he wanted a monster slayer, he said, not a butcher. But surely there are so many other witchers on both the northern and southern continents that the chances that Geralt would answer this particular ad were slim anyway.
Which is why he freezes when he looks across the gathering and meets a pair of familiar yellow eyes by the trellis archway leading from the gardens to the main house
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"You should not take such a tone with the man who sponsors all you projects," Mercurio says. "You're nothing but a spoon-fed court mage who had a job to do! By the Maker, Pavus, it wasn't even a hard one." His disgust shifts back to Geralt. "I wrote a contract that was ignored by the brotherhood-- you should not have been allowed in the door."
"Yes," Geralt replied, his voice cool and even. Even had he come at the man in a fury this impartial cloak would have been drawn tightly around him quickly enough; this was business, and witchers did all business the same. "But I was, and that makes the terms of the contract refutable. Witchers are given leave to act in the case of duress." Which Mercurio nor his guests are in, obviously, but the letter of law is a fine thing to have on one's side. Mercurio looks as if he's swallowed a toad. "I will not ask for payment. The contract is closed."
Family business, indeed. But who would want to make this their family?
"Mutant trash," Mercurio hisses. His arms sweep outward in a needlessly dramatic gesture. "Get out of my house! And you," to Dorian now, "you as well. As long as we are in the business of ending contracts tonight, consider yours withdrawn." His wife sniffs. A proper lady by all Antivian standards, she's never really cared for Dorian's flamboyance.
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By the time Mercurio lands on mutant trash, Dorian's jaw is set hard, and he is glad that his next words are a dismissal. He wouldn't have wanted to stay anyway. His pride takes a hit even so. How dare this man break their contract before he can break it himself? The audacity! With an air of sarcasm so thick that even a silver sword couldn't cut through it, Dorian sweeps into an exaggerated bow.
"How courteous of you to say exactly what was on my mind, Adrian. Certainly, I think your court would be better suited to another sorcerer. Perhaps a cowed southern Circle mage with half my knowledge and even less talent would be a better fit. You'd actually have something in common." By virtue of experience and pure spite, Dorian manages to hone the flame of his anger into the cutting edge of his words. When Dorian is angry, he hisses. To huff and puff as Mercurio does is beneath him. "You can expect myself and all of my projects gone by morning."
He dictates the terms of his own sacking with aloof confidence in the sort of indignant, self-assured way of those born to wealth and power that leaves no room for argument. "I'll begin now, shall I?" He smiles. With a twitch of his staff, the whimsical mage lights in the trees surrounding the patio that have kept the party illuminated flicker out like so many suddenly doused flames. The garden is plunged into semi-darkness, lit only by the scattering of candles on the banquet tables. Distressed chatter and cries of shock erupt around them. Feeling sufficiently revenged, Dorian turns to Geralt. Though he can't see him well, he's certain that the witcher has no trouble.
"I believe our business is concluded, Geralt."
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Mercurio stalks toward them from the gloom, leaking hot air like a kettle left on the flames for too long. "I never want to see you near my house again! Not anywhere in Antiva! I own this city, you jumped-up pompous little cu--"
And that is as far as he gets, because all the rest of the charming words spewing from his mouth are cut off with a swift palm to the chest, too fast to be tracked in the dark. His breath flees his lungs in a whoosh and without his guards nearby to help, Mercurio is left gaping like a fish and sitting down heavily on the flagstones, a sack of potatoes dropped on the spot. He's wheezing like a bellows, his knees sticking out at rather ungentlemanly angles. Geralt gives it a moment and then leans down, brushing nothing from Mercurio's shoulder before grabbing the man by the forearm to haul him to his feet under the pretense of help. "Thank you for your understanding in giving the mage a night to collect his things," he growls, the words offering no argument even if Mercurio could catch his breath. "Now perhaps you should see to your party considering it's rather dark suddenly and you're surely not the only one tripping over his own feet. Well enough that there are no monsters about, wouldn't you say?"
And maybe Mercurio doesn't see the flash of the lean, white smile, but that is fine. It is only for Geralt, anyway.
He turns back to Dorian and nods. He'll clear out his rooms first, at least, as some small show of good faith that he doesn't feel but knows better than to push. Besides, he doesn't think that he'll be needing his rooms anyway. Now that he knows the way he can lead the mage if the man would rather keep the lights off. Truly a fitting end to a rather obscene party. The best guests will make it an excuse to carry candles around and continue on, if Mercurio has the sense to spare them, but none of it matters a bit to Geralt. He won't be coming back out to the patio.
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With nothing further to say to his former employer himself, Dorian takes a measured step toward Geralt, finding that he can just barely make out his features. In the dark he doesn't hesitate to reach for his arm and wind his own through it. There isn't anything tentative about it. He takes hold of Geralt with the self-assurance of a man who knows where he is wanted.
"Let's go," he urges. "Kaffas, I really can't see a thing." He laughs, amused by his own joke. Dorian doesn't mind relying on Geralt to guide him. In fact, he welcomes the chance to be led while he thinks. There is much to consider now, though he is far less worried than perhaps he should be. He's been out of a home before. He'll find a place again.
And for tonight he has Geralt. Somehow that feels equally important.
"It's quite all right," he says with cheer, assuring himself as much as the witcher. "I'll figure something out. I would rather be anywhere else. Nearly, anyway."
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"Nice weather," Geralt mutters, which is to say that he can find little nicer to say about Antiva then something so banal. If Dorian will need to find somewhere else to go... certainly the assurance is the truth and mages have ways, networks, of finding such places, even Necromancers. Perhaps especially Necromancers, is the truth of it.
He pauses at a junction between the wing where he'd been placed and the wing where the mage was housed. Here the scones light the corridors with wavering soft light. Geralt pulls his arm away from the mage with something like a sigh pressing at his chest. It is quiet. They are alone. There is no monster and now no employer-- and if he reaches out and begins something then it will most likely start and end right here on the cold flagstone, he knows that as surely as he knows himself. Just a little more control. So little. Geralt clears his throat. "I need to go get the rest of my things," he says. "I'll meet you at your rooms."
And then a strange thought occurs to him: that despite all the dancing away and together they've done over the course of the night, it has been, all of it, obvious yes, but also unspoken. At the crossroads in the hallway, Geralt turns to Dorian. He remembers the sharp edges of the conversation a year ago: If you intended to stay the night, perhaps we might spend it together. A brittle memory considering how he acted then and what he feels now.
"That is." Geralt inclines his head slightly. "If you'll have me."
It is Dorian's right of refusal, tonight.
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Candles flicker in sconces on the wall and Dorian can see perfectly well now--well enough to like the way the light flickers across the strong features of Geralt's face, at least. They warm his skin and soften his brow and his lips, even as the shadows sharpen his jaw and cheekbones. It's so tempting to reach up and trace those lines with his fingers, and to test that softness with his own lips. It seems unfair that they should have to be apart again for even as long as it takes for Geralt to collect his things.
He has more self-control than that, at least. But after their narrative tonight Dorian falls still and attentive when Geralt, however awkwardly, asks his permission to stay with him. It's impossible not to remember the way Geralt had rejected a similar proposition a year ago. Yet the idea of doing the same is never seriously considered. Dorian can be spiteful, but not enough to deny himself something he wants this badly.
"I'll have you." He means to sound more suggestive, warm and playfully flirtatious, but the deeper note of sincerity in his voice ruins the levity. It's a level of honesty that makes him feel vulnerable, guarded only by his thin smile. "Don't make me wait long."
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The hallways are empty through the guest corridors, everyone determined to wait out or make use of the dark on the patio to have a good time. That is fine with Geralt-- he wants no distractions. His boots clip a pace just shy of a lope against the flagstone and his mind is somewhere between how Dorian's robes come off and getting to find out where else the mage might have smudged his golden paint... or if Geralt might be allowed to take his own liberties with the stuff. He can only blame himself for the fact that he doesn't hear the guards waiting inside his rooms until he steps inside.
They are courteous and cold. They do not attack him, cuff him-- they simply wait. They are here to show him out and Geralt's throat closes as he stops with the door to his back. What can he do? There is no visitation rights, there is no way to stop himself from ever opening the door and all Geralt can do is gather his things under their cool gaze and then be escorted toward the front, away from Dorian.
Something in his chest contracts, tightly. His steps don't falter but he wants to make them, wants to turn back if it means fighting because the only thing he has to lose is the man waiting for him.
Geralt doesn't.
Outside the yawning front gates he pulls the token from the bag slung over his shoulder. "Got a nice pair of trousers from the deal at least, Witcher," one of the guards laughs. "Better than you deserve." Yes, it probably is. Geralt looks up at the stone of the villa and imagines Dorian waiting for him. The token is bought and will take him back to Kaer Morhen-- another would cost more than he has, now that the contract has come to nothing. A bird sent would reach no one after its travels because Dorian had been fired and he will be gone in twelve hours. There is no point of contact.
"Fuck."
Geralt cracks the token and walks into the portal.
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Dorian doesn't do much initially. He makes his bed up nicely, checks his reflection, and once satisfied begins organizing the journals on his desk. He passes the time by arranging his research notes into some sort of comprehensible order, and by the time he's finished with that, irritation and concern have begun to gnaw at his stomach. Geralt really should have been here by now.
But he gives the benefit of the doubt; enough that he starts packing up books, which will be an arduous task in the morning. But before long the titles begin to lose meaning. He isn't concentrating on the task, but thinking about Geralt and wondering what could possibly have held him up.
He counts the passage of an hour before he leaves his room and makes his way through the quiet halls to the room Geralt had been appointed. He meets no one but a few quiet servants on the way. He doesn't cross paths with Geralt as he'd hoped to. Apprehension makes him nauseous. What if something has happened to him? What if he never made it there in the first place? Dorain doesn't run, but he does hasten his steps.
The door is unlocked. Dorian needn't have steeled himself before opening it. He finds nothing. Not any of Geralt's belongings and certainly not the witcher himself. Gone, then. Slipped out without a word. There's a sense of numbness at first, like being slapped across the face; the pain doesn't surface immediately. But when it does, it is dizzying.
His return to his quarters and his furious, chaotic packing become mostly a blur. If he'd found it difficult to concentrate earlier, it's impossible now. His emotions shift back and forth in a horrible balancing act, unable to decide which way to lean. In one moment he is furious with Geralt and in the next he recognizes that he himself is to blame for feeling this way, and his anger becomes entirely self-directed. He should never have placed so much importance on a man he's met only twice, whatever strange attraction there seemed to be between them. This is so predictable it's almost funny. He'd been so certain that this time would be different, but it never is. He was so certain that Geralt wanted him, that Geralt felt the same connection he did. Yet he'd run at the very first chance to do so.
What had all of that been about, then? Why had Geralt looked at him that way, kissed him that way? What had he wanted? Dorian can't answer that, and it keeps him awake all night.
In the morning when he departs with everything he owns and turns north, he tries to leave that question behind.