Chasing a Song: A Witcher’s Tale

The first time had been an accident.

Jaskier had come to the hilltop seeking inspiration. His muse had taken to hiding, squirreling itself away in some forgotten recess of his spirit, and the usual methods of coaxing it out, wine, lovers, old songs, had all failed one after the other. So a different approach; a stroll to the hilltop overlooking the town, that the sight of such grandeur spread out below might just move his hands to pluck similar beauty from his lute.

If he’d known about the griffin, he would have just tried the wine and lovers option again.

The winged terror had not been best pleased to find the foppish interloper reclining upon its hillside, lesser so still when said interloper had attempted to serenade it to peace. The tattered remains of his jerkin now discarded on the slopes spoke to the narrowness of Jaskier’s escape. He had tumbled out the way, lute clutched to his chest, the things talons leaving a crimson line raked across his shoulders that would undoubtedly scar, and in his tumbling had ended up falling into a gully in the sloping meadow. It was too narrow for the creature to reach him, but similarly too smoothed by centuries of rain for him to climb out of. The griffin did not seem in any way discouraged by the difficulties; indeed, in its impotent rage it had begun scraping up great clods of earth and sod, beak snapping, claws reaching, furiously trying to pluck him from his fragile refuge.

All of a sudden there came the tinkling sound of glass breaking and heat as fire flared above him, flames scorching a path across the griffin’s back. It shrieked in pain, its anger now turning to whosever had dared to interfere in its hunt. It had barely turned when a pale figure leapt upon it, cat-like, one leather-gloved hand gripping a fistful of feathers, the other slashing a sword into its neck. Silver flashed, caught in both the light of the summer sun and the orange glow of the fire. Jaskier watched as the battle raged above him. He heard the shrieks of the griffin grow more fraught until at last it gave out a final mewling cry and fell silent. A single smouldering feather drifted down towards him. Jaskier snatched it out of the air and ran it between the strings of his lute. It sat caught there like a garland from some courtly competition. The light above him dimmed once more as his saviour came into view. White hair hung down, thoroughly ruffled in the fight. Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Geralt!?”

“Jaskier.” The leather-gloved hand gripped his shoulder, pulling him and the lute bodily out of the crack in the earth.

“How- What- Why in the world are you here?”

Geralt looked at him flatly. “There was a monster to kill.”

Jaskier stared back, mouth still opening and closing as he dumbly reached for the words. How long had it been since Geralt had told him to leave his side? Six months? Eight? He’d stopped counting after the first few weeks, losing himself to the self-indulgent consumption of misery before resigning himself to a life without his stoic companion. And yet now, seemingly out of the bloody ether, Geralt was before him once more as if he’d never left, behind him the bloody remains of the vast avian terror that had so recently been trying to rip him to pieces. “R-right. Okay then. Right.” Gods damn it all, why did his words have to fly from him now of all times?? “You, um. You look…”

The witcher raised an eyebrow. “I look like shit, Jaskier. So do you. What you get for tangling with a griffin I suppose.”

“Well, yes. Quite. Yes.” The bard looked Geralt up and down. There he was, just as he ever was. The leather a little ragged from the fight, certainly, but that and the mud somehow only added to his rugged perfection. “You wear battle damage just as well as you ever did, for what that’s worth.”

Geralt grunted in response. As if deciding the bard was safe and therefore no longer a concern, he turned away, cleaning feathers and gore from his blade. “You should go, bard. The wilds are no place for a soft-skinned fool.” He glanced back over his shoulder “What?”

“Nothing!” Startled and blushing, Jaskier snatched his gaze up and away from the witcher’s taut buttocks caught in the stretched leather of his britches. “Nothing at all. You’re right. Of course. No place for a fool indeed.”

“A lesson I thought you’d learned back when…” Geralt trailed off, voice fading into uncharacteristic uncertainty. What was that, Jaskier wondered. Could it possibly be regret that traced at the corners of his erstwhile-companion’s eyes? Impossible; Jaskier pushed the thought away. Geralt was many things but the kind of person likely to be given over to regret was definitely not one of them. And yet, those lines remained on the witcher’s hardened face.

Jaskier did his best to smile, pushing away the memories of Geralt’s harsh words the day he’d left. The day he’d been sent away. “Oh, you know me. Never one to learn a lessen so well it stuck!” He was trying for jovial, though it came out more manic. He rested his hands on his hips, willing his heart to stop beating so fast beneath the tattered remains of his shirt. “So, um. You planning on sticking around long?”

“No.”

“I see.” He was powerless to keep the note of disappointment from tainting his words. “In and out, the witcher way and all that, I suppose!”

“Yep.”

That was Geralt. Monosyllabic to a fault. Jaskier stared at the back of his head, watching the way his mouth hardened into a line as he worked on his gear, how his shoulders rose and fell with his breathing; how, even now, he could see the muscles shift under his skin in a fashion that brought the colour surging to his cheeks. “Geralt,” he started, but he had no idea how to continue. How could he begin to put it into words, how much leaving had hurt, how much seeing the witcher again meant? Could mere words even begin to capture it? And would Geralt even hear them?

“I’m not here to talk, Jaskier,” said Geralt, his voice icy. Silently he cursed his rotten luck and the vague cruelties of fate that had forced the bard back into his path once more. How many times would he have to save the poor idiot’s hide before he got the message and stayed in some comfortable college where he belonged? This was no place for the overdressed clown. Time he went back home and the witcher could get back to the busy work of forgetting. Jaskier, Yen, all of it. A witcher, alone. Suited him just fine. “Time to go.”

It was good to see you, Jaskier. The words came to him, unbidden. Seven words, that was all. He could say them, as a kindness. It wasn’t as if they would mean anything. They would, the little voice in his head whispered. They would mean something to him.

Damn it. Geralt took a sharp intake of breath, calling on old instincts to slow his heart and quiet the buried feelings trying to surface. A witcher didn’t have feelings. Feelings made you weak. Reckless. Feelings got you killed. Besides, it wasn’t anything worthwhile. Not really. Mayhaps for a time there he’d allowed himself to think of Jaskier as more than a travelling companion. A friend, even. A friend with soft hands. Soft hands on your back, rubbing away the knots and stresses of a hard fight. He returned the sword to its scabbard. Enough. He had business elsewhere. Anywhere, so long as Jaskier was far behind.

Jaskier felt the harsh words cut into him, sharper than any griffin’s talons. “Right. Yes. Okay then.” He ran his hands down his shirt to keep himself from reaching out, biting back his own response. “I’ll be on my way then.” Gritting his teeth, he turned from Geralt once more. It wasn’t any easier this time either.

Geralt watched him go a little while. Not once did the bard glance back behind. Somehow, that stung him. Why? He wanted him gone. Needed him gone. So why this ache as he watched him leave?

Folly; he dismissed the ache as soon as it had arrived. There was no time for sentimentality in this job. And the work would not be done until he’d found the nest and made certain there would be no mates or offspring coming to look for their fallen feathered comrade.

But a little while later and Jaskier found himself once more engaged in the time-honoured traditions of a soul scorned, drinking himself into a stupor in an all-but-deserted tavern and doing his best to ignore the slow, sad thumping of his heart. Even oblivion had to be better than this. He forlornly plucked at the strings of his lute, its bowl scratched and marked from its tumble down a hillside. The crisp, sweet notes filled the air, cutting through his wine-drenched misery with their unexpected grace. He let his hands move of their own accord, trusting musical instinct to guide them. Notes gathered and strung themselves together into a simple, soulful melody, not a song, not yet, but the start of something… Beautiful.

He stared down at his lute. Where in the hell had that come from? It seemed nothing sharpened the bardic spirit like imminent death.

And seeing Geralt. That helped. He didn’t want to admit it but it was the truth nonetheless. The missing piece of the puzzle, the inspiration he had been craving all these months, it was all thanks to him. It made sense; his times on the road with the witcher, for all the near-constant threat of danger and lack of comfort had been invigorating. Fun, even. He’d found parts of himself on those desolate roads and in those forbidding forests that he’d never known were there. Seeing Geralt in action once again had clearly revived those instincts. But not enough.

The song hung incomplete, its beauty dying as the notes faded away. Jaskier plucked again, repeating the pattern but it was becoming hollow, emptier with every reprise. Shit!!

In a surge of anger, the bard raised the lute as if to smash it upon the flagstone floor, but before he could bring it down a voice cut through his rage. “A terror, so they say. Some monster or summit. Over near Lindenvale.” Jaskier’s ears pricked. It was like the song, buried instincts starting to rise to the surface. “Looks like a man, but cast in clay. Killed a girl.”

Without thinking Jaskier was on his feet and hurrying to the speaker. “Which town?”

The speaker, a stocky man in a stained jerkin, turned, surprised. “What’d you say?”

“Which town,” Jaskier repeated, his voice shaking. An idea had started to form, a plan, crazy and half-baked, but a plan nonetheless. “Which town did you say you saw this clay man?”

The man looked him up and down, concern touching his eyes even as Jaskier’s wine-drenched breath forced him to recoil. “Lindenvale. Why, you know someone from round them parts?”

“No,” said Jaskier, mouth stretching into a manic smile, “but I’m sure I know someone who’ll be heading there soon.”

And suddenly the plan that had been creeping up, inch by inch, was there, fully-formed (or as close to fully-formed as any of Jaskier’s plans ever were); where there was danger, where there were monsters, there would be his inspiration. He’d seek out the risks that he’d encountered by chance before, and in those frenzied flights for his life he’d find the rest of that song that had so nearly been birthed just minutes before.

And maybe, just maybe, Geralt would be there. The thought sat in his mind, unbidden and unmoving. It was born of broken hope and just a touch of masochism and it was not going away. Yes, thought Jaskier to himself. Maybe Geralt would be there. That would be… Nice. Definitely not his goal. Certainly not. Hadn’t crossed his mind once that a dangerous clay man wreaking havoc in the countryside might just draw the attention of a certain professional monster hunter.

Jaskier had arrived in Lindenvale in time for a funeral; a girl, no more than sixteen, was to be laid to rest beneath the roots of a cherry tree that grew in her family’s garden. Asking around it seemed this was the girl the man in the inn had mentioned, beaten to death by a golem loosed upon the townsfolk as some wizard’s misplaced retribution. Jaskier solemnly struck a few minor chords from his lute as he watched the veiled procession pass, a thin drizzle wetting the shoulders of the fresh jerkin he’d managed to procure in a handy game of cards. A golem was always trouble. But Geralt was good at what he did. That girl’s family would have justice soon.

The journey may have only been three days’ travel but it still took a week before Jaskier even heard word of Geralt’s arrival. From the talk of the townsfolk they’d driven the monster into the woods around the town but feared it could return at any moment if it were not slain soon. And so coin had been gathered and word sent calling for a monster slayer. Jaskier did his best to steady his heartbeat as he listened to the town bailiff announce that the witcher Geralt himself would be arriving in the morning. He spent that night fitfully tossing and turning, countless improbable scenarios playing across his mind as to how he would go about talking to him, doubt beginning to creep in. This plan was folly, anyone could see that. Geralt had made it clear twice now that he wanted nothing to do with the bard. What kind of man was he to defy him on purpose this time?

The kind who knows he needs to hear it one more time, Jaskier thought. Geralt had been a constant in his life for the best part of twenty years and now he was expected to simply let him disappear? Friends didn’t do that. Sure. Friends.

He woke with a start to the sounds of a commotion outside, sunlight streaming in through his rented room’s window and the sheets tangled about him like a poorly-worn cape. Cursing under his breath he stumbled to the window, the bedsheets almost tripping him. There in the street below was Geralt. His white hair tumbled about his shoulders, rippling in the wind. His orange eyes seemed to glow in the cold morning sun as he took in the gathered townsfolk and dilapidated buildings. He glanced upwards, as if sensing the bard’s gaze upon him. Jaskier threw himself to the floor, his knees colliding hard with the wooden boards. He yelped in pain and rolled away, grabbing his coat and boots. Staying out of sight was going to be essential; the plan would never work if Geralt knew he was in town.

He dressed and ate breakfast hurriedly before bolting out of the inn and into the street. From what he’d been able to get out of the townsfolk, the last place the golem had been spotted was out of town a ways into the dense forest. There was a cavern there, blasted into the side of a quarry by miners long ago, and it was there that it was thought the monster had made its home.

The plan, from there, was even simpler. He’d sit outside that cave, playing his lute, until Geralt showed up in pursuit of the monster. What could go wrong?

Jaskier flung himself to the ground out of the path of the clay fist that rushed towards him. Dirt exploded upwards as stone met recently-vacated earth. Jaskier yelped in fear as the terrible thing moved to him once more, impossibly quick. Golems were usually slow, lumbering things, lumpy masses of whatever loose clay the maker had to hand, but this one was different. It was faster, and definitely angrier.

Not an hour after Jaskier had found the cave the thing had come running from the treeline as if pursued by some unseen assailant. It was only the bard’s frequently practised survival instincts taking over and dragging him up onto his feet and out of its path that had saved him from being little more than a smear on the road. Not that the golem seemed ready to let him go that easily.

Jaskier scrambled for the treeline, lute smacking painfully against his ribs, swinging as he ran. The golem started towards him, giving out a monstrous shout, but before it could reach him a figure appeared at the treeline. Sunlight shined off dark leather, glinting silver and all too familiar white hair. Geralt. The witcher paused at the treeline, taking in the scene; Jaskier, his back now pressed against a broad elm; the golem, glaring at him as if unsure whether to finish off the idiot or make a run for it; and the cave where it clearly called home.

Geralt heard his trainer’s voice whisper in his head. First job of a witcher is kill the monster. Saving the civilians comes second. Especially when the civilian in question was clearly just here to torment him once again, Geralt thought to himself, jaw clenching. He darted forward, bringing his sword back to swing. The golem moved impossibly quickly, moving almost in a blur as it pulled away from Jaskier and ran for the cave. Unusual; he’d expected it to stand and fight. Still, the townsfolk had already told him there was no back exit from that cavern, so he had the beast cornered at least.

“Perfect timing once again, Geralt,” Jaskier called cheerfully from the treeline.

Geralt spun towards him, eyes narrowing. “Jaskier. I’m busy. Get out of here.”

“Aren’t you at least surprised to see me? I would risk happy but even I’m not happy to take those odds.”

“I wasn’t surprised. I knew you were here.” The witcher tapped his nose. “Practically followed your scent.”

“Remind me to change cologne.”

“Hm,” Geralt snorted, softly. Jaskier blinked. Was that the ghost of a smile teasing the corners of his erstwhile companion’s mouth? The smile was gone in a moment, fading like a snuffed candle. Geralt’s eyes darkened. “Damn it, Jaskier,” he said, voice softer than the bard had expected. “How many times do I have to pull your arse out of the fire before you understand? This is no place for you.”

“Oh come on, Geralt, have a little faith! I’m a grown man who’s survived more than his fair share of scrapes along the way.”

“Because I was there to fix your problems,” Geralt sneered. “I mean it, Jaskier. No more games. If I smell you around any job I’m called to in future, I will just ride on. There are other witchers. Let them deal with you.”

The words stung as sharply as they ever did, but they sounded to Jaskier just a little hollow. Or perhaps that was just his heart, desperately listening for softness that wasn’t there. “I’m sorry my possible death proved so inconvenient for you,” he replied, his voice cracking at the edges.

“You say that like you didn’t come just to get in my way.”

“Alright, yes. I came, hoping that you would also be here. Truth be told I’ve been somewhat lacking in inspiration since we… Went our separate ways, and I was hoping that the chance to see you in action again might get the old creative juices flowing once again.” And the fact he’d be able to spend some time talking to the witcher, even just to bicker, even just to fight, played no part in it.

Geralt sighed internally. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Why was it so hard to say? Why did he always have to wrap it in cruelty? Geralt looked at Jaskier. The bard stared back, half angry, half hopeful. Because he wouldn’t hear the warning, only the kindness. And that would get him killed.

Telling himself that it was Jaskier’s own good had become a reflex at this point, one almost as finely honed as any in the witcher’s arsenal. His mind would wield it like a log from a pyre, burning away his doubts and unbidden wishes until the coldness, the apathy, the untrue voice that said “you are a fist, not a heart” was all that could be heard. Steeling himself he spoke at last. “I’m not your easel, bard. You don’t get to prop your work up on me.”

Jaskier shivered a little at the icy tone. It wasn’t surprising to hear yet it still stabbed at his heart as keenly as the silvered dagger on the witcher’s belt. “I suppose you’ll be off then,” he replied, fighting to keep his voice airy. “Monsters to slay, coin to collect and all that.”

The witcher nodded curtly, turning towards the waiting cavern.

“And an audience would not be appreciated?”

“What do you think?”

I think you’re being a stubborn ox, Jaskier thought to himself bitterly. I think you might just miss me as much as I miss you and you’re too wrapped up in all your anger to admit it. But the words caught in his throat like gnarled roots too twisted to loosen. “I’ll leave you to it then. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. Gratitude? That was new. The witcher hadn’t turned back towards him but he hadn’t move either, seemingly locked in place by a different battle than the one that lay ahead.

Geralt fought the urge to turn and offer the bard his hand to shake. Somehow he knew that even just that one touch would be enough for his resolve to weaken and ask Jaskier to stay, at least to watch the mouth of the cave. And then you’d be right back where you started. It was true; he’d hurt him enough the first time he’d sent him away and besides, being around Geralt always seemed to land Jaskier in deadly peril. It was better it stayed how it was. Still, a few words wouldn’t hurt, would they?

To hell with it; even if they did, his body was already outlined in constantly criss-crossing scars. What was one more? He looked back over his shoulder, his sharp features caught in profile against the gaping black of the cavern’s mouth. “Take care, Jaskier. The world would be a poorer place without you in it.”

Jaskier caught the gasp of surprise before it could escape his lips but he couldn’t keep his eyes from staring wildly or the spreading smile from his face. “Yeah. You too, Geralt. You too.”

Without another word, the witcher stepped into the cavern. For a moment, Jaskier considered staying and waiting for his return. Perhaps there would be more of this new softer Geralt to see? It was certainly tempting… But no. He’d pushed his luck already. And it wasn’t as if Geralt hadn’t told him in no uncertain terms that he was not looking for another traveling companion. Reluctantly, he started back towards the town and his lonely room.

As he walked his hands fell once more to his lute and, almost without a thought, began to pluck that self-same melody as had been following him since the griffin attack days ago. His hands quickened as he began to hum along, fragments of lyrics beginning to form. The stumbling block of the chorus began to creep up upon him just as it had before but this time as he reached it his fingers moved as if of their own devices, striking a series of crisp, clear chords that closed off the sequence beautifully. He stopped and stared down at the lute. It had worked! Somehow, getting back into the dangerous work was exactly what his muse had needed of him, just as he’d suspected.

Seeing Geralt helped. The thought was burning and undeniable in its constancy. Could it be true? Could it have been not the monster trying to kill him but the witcher coming to save him that had returned his inspiration? It was certainly true that Geralt’s presence was… Comforting, but was that the same as inspiring?

He’s always been there. At the times when you need him most, he shows up. Even when he doesn’t want to. Even when he’d rather stay away. Even when he says he hates you. He still shows up. That was right, wasn’t it? He’d been able to write because of the sight of Geralt and the jolt that always gave him. But then if that were true what did it mean for the two of them? Jaskier, for all his romantic notions, was not one to be so quick to hope that Geralt had a similar need for his presence in his life.

And yet, there were those words he had said before he left. “The world would be a poorer place without you in it.” What was that if not a confession that the witcher was glad to see him alive? Perhaps, even, missed him? Certainly Geralt scolded him for his recklessness, and sent him away as soon as look at him, but what as that if not spoken concern? Spoken a little harshly admittedly, but that was the white wolf’s way.

Alright, so he was concerned; so what, Jaskier thought heavily. It wasn’t as if the witcher would ever admit it. Dappled sunlight streamed down through the canopy of leaves, scattering as birds took flight, startled at his passing. He morosely strummed his way through the melody once again, mood darkening as quickly as the elation had risen. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Even if his muse truly was Geralt, even if Geralt truly missed him, the witcher would never say so, nor would he be willing to stand and hear Jaskier out.

Unless he thought there was cause to.

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed as he glanced back over his shoulder, the faint path back to the cavern stretching away through the trees. Geralt went where there was word of a monster. So if he wanted Geralt to come to a specific spot all he’d have to do is make sure he got word of one.

Jaskier snorted. That had worked once, it wouldn’t work again. Even if concerned, Geralt could be so bloody stubborn there was every chance he’d make good on his threat to simply not show up if he got wind that Jaskier was there, even with a rampaging beast on the loose.

Well. Unless the threat seemed dire enough. If he’d been warned of something terrible, something that he simply could not entrust to anyone save himself. If that were the case Geralt would have to come, Jaskier be damned. Jaskier lost himself in thought. It might even be better coming from him. After all, he could sound apologetic, that he did not want to interfere but he knew that Geralt would trust his word. It wouldn’t be the first time Jaskier had brought such a mission to him. He could do it, couldn’t he? After all, a bard had to be a writer too, and to write a notice worthy of the white wolf’s undivided attention would be a challenge worthy of ballads.

Do you really want to lie to him? The thought whispered across his mind, cutting sharply through the fevered reverie that had started to overtake him. He’s upset already, the thought said, chiding Jaskier sternly. How would upsetting him with some wild goose-chase win you any favour?

But it was that or simply wait for fate to intervene as it had before and drop the witcher back into his life like a glove dropped on a ballroom floor. And how long might that take? He didn’t have Geralt’s long life to wait for him to decide he was ready to talk. A little deception then, to get the stubborn oaf to the table. Then they could at last have it out. Whatever “it” was.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the sense of something… More between them that Jaskier had started to feel was nothing more than his own head and heart joining forces against his reason. But if it proved so, at least he could go forth knowing that he had at least said everything. It was better, the bard thought, his hands repeating the perfect little melody once again, to try and to fail and to know than to live forever with the pain of the possible, the biting torment of the could-have-been.

It had been simple enough to arrange. He still had some coin saved up from performances on the road, enough to book a private room for as long as he’d need it and to send a trustworthy courier out after Geralt. He’d stayed in Lindenvale; his scent would already be all over it after all, so there was at least a chance the witcher wouldn’t immediately suspect something to be wrong. In his message he had claimed that it seemed the golem Geralt had dealt with had been but one of a pair, and now the second came hunting for those who had slain its fellow. The town, short on coin and fearing retribution if the witcher returned, had decided to try and keep the matter secret; Jaskier was only sending word to Geralt out of concern and hope that he might find it in his heart to lend a hand. After all, when you thought about it, it was really finishing off the job he’d already been paid for.

It was a good lie. Not his best, but good enough to fool Geralt. And if not, at least enough that he might just return to town simply to castigate him for pestering him further. Whatever the cause, Jaskier was certain it would get him back and that was truly all that mattered.

It was just over a day that the courier sent word of his message being received. If everything kept to plan, Geralt would be back here that very night. Jaskier felt his heartbeat quicken just at the thought of it. He had gotten to work immediately, setting the table in his private quarters for two, fetching candles and ordering wine and a dinner of roasted chicken and vegetables from the inn-keeper. The stage was set; now all that was needed were the players.

It was dark out before he heard the tell-tale crunch of hooves upon the gravel path outside, the gentle murmur of “Easy, Roach,” drift up through the window. He was here. Geralt was here. Finally. Jaskier checked himself in the mirror once again for what must have been the twelfth time that hour alone. His hair was a problem, as neat as he could make it but part of him wanted it ruffled, at ease, as if the witcher had just roused him from a bedroll by a campsite fire. Remind him of the good old days, he thought to himself. “It’ll do,” he said aloud, smoothing his shirt and shifting his hips just a little. The britches were perhaps a little on the tight side but they’d always done the trick when it came to seducing various baronesses and stable-hands across the realm.

He turned away from gazing at himself as a different sound reached him. Voices in the bar, low and questioning. Mutters of a brief conversation. A door opening. The sound of feet upon the stairs. Heavy. Purposeful. Geralt’s.

Jaskier watched the handle of the door to his prepared sanctuary twist slowly, the oaken door swinging slowly open on squeaking hinges. There the witcher stood, caught in candlelight, leather and silver and the promise of deadly violence wrapped up in a man Jaskier knew in his heart to be kinder than he would ever let show. That was until tonight. Jaskier took a deep breath before finally speaking. “Geralt. You’re here. Good.”

“I got your note, bard.”

“That’s good! I’m glad. Yes.”

Geralt’s brows were knotted as if he was wrapped in some complex puzzle. “You mentioned another golem. Funny. I asked the barkeep about it just now. He doesn’t seem to know anything about it.”

“Ah.” Jaskier felt that a stirring in his stomach, the nerves at what he had done, at what he was about to do, starting to truly strike at him. “That’s the thing, I suppose. Time to come clean. Actually…” He paused. Could he do it? Yes. For Geralt? For this? Anything. He steeled himself one final time and let the words flow from him. “I made it up. The whole thing. There is no second golem. I just… I just needed you to come back here.”

“You did what?”

“I made it up. Every word. Complete fakery on my part, I’m afraid.”

“Hmph.” At first, Geralt’s face was unreadable save for the ice-cold anger that seemed to set it in place. Then, after a moment’s breath, the witcher’s eyes narrowed, his gaze taking in the dressed table set for two, the fire gently burning in the hearth, candlelight glinting off silver cutlery and china plates. “Expecting other company, bard?”

Jaskier fought to keep his voice steady. “Actually it’s for you. All for you, Geralt.”

“What are you talking about? What is this?”

“The greatest horror I’m sure you’ve ever had to face. An honest conversation.”

“Hmph,” Geralt snorted again. “You’ve wasted my time once too many. I ought to run you through where you stand.”

Jaskier felt his heart pounding but fought against it, willing himself calm. “Of course,” he said, focusing all his energy on keeping his tone as level as the cold witcher’s. “Because I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you and it’s all my fault that your default reaction to anything being the slightest bit difficult is to turn and run.”

Despite himself, Geralt looked at the bard a little incredulously. “Jaskier, I fight monsters for a living. I don’t run from anything.”

“All you do is run!!” Jaskier couldn’t help his voice from raising to a shout, anger and frustration overtaking forced calm. “Fighting monsters is easy for you, its being a person that’s hard! The second you start to feel something, anything, you get up on that damned horse of yours and disappear over the nearest horizon!” Unbidden tears threatened to overwhelm his eyes’ resolve, but he carried on, the hurt and pain rolling out like a dammed river bursting. “I can see you’re annoyed, of course you’re annoyed, but that’s not from me. You look at me and you get annoyed because deep down you know what you said to me on that goddamn clifftop was… Was fucking unfair, Geralt!!”

The bard’s words hung in the silence between them, months of frustration and distance suddenly spanned by Jaskier’s bridge of accusation. Finally, Geralt spoke, his voice little more than a whisper. “You tagged along when you were not welcome. You dragged me into messes of your own making. You used my work to further your career. And you wish to talk about fairness? Damn you and your fucking lute.”

The words were like daggers in Jaskier’s chest. Was it so hard for him to apologize? For just once to admit that perhaps he had been too harsh on him?

Inside Geralt could feel two voices battling. Right now the louder of the two was his iced fury, ready to reach out and tear the fool’s head from his shoulders for wasting his time like this with such a wild goose chase. But the second voice was becoming almost as hard to ignore. It spoke without thought, without words, instead a simple, silent crescendo of longing and loneliness, its unheard yet unstoppable whispers running across the surface of his anger like red-hot rivers melting his frosty countenance. From the depths of the witcher’s heart he could sense a simple truth emerging; Jaskier was right. It had been unfair. He had yelled out in anger, in the shocking pain of losing Yennefer yet again, pain that needed a lightning rod to draw itself to, and there was Jaskier.

There was Jaskier. The bard stood staring back at him, his own eyes wild in a way that Geralt had never seen. Gone was the buffoon who talked too much and got himself into scrapes so often that it was a wonder he hadn’t yet been killed by a monster or cuckolded husband, and in his place stood a man as strong as any the witcher had faced in battle. Geralt blinked, surprised at the intensity of Jaskier’s gaze back at him. “I tried to move on, Geralt,” the bard said, voice shaking at last. “I really honestly did. But I can’t. Not while there’s so much… So much that I still need to say. So please.” Jaskier’s hands twitched, as if he were fighting the urge to clasp them together in supplication. “Please, all I ask is that you sit and you listen. And if you don’t want to hear it or you still wish to be alone at the end of it, you have my truest word I will let you be.”

Geralt blinked again. Against all instinct he could sense something in him, willing him to stay. “…Alright. I’ll hear you out.”

Jaskier felt his shoulders sag with relief, gratitude surging over the mountains of misery that had sprung up within him. “You will? You will. Thank you. Thank you, Geralt!”

“Hold your thanks, bard. I said I’d listen, that’s all.” The witcher stood where he had entered, hand still on the lintel, though it seemed to Jaskier’s eyes that had tarried over Geralt enough to know the signs, that an undeniable uncertainty had made a crack in the stoic armour of his erstwhile companion.

He gestured to the table. “Come on, if you’re going to stay at least sit down.”

Geralt stood frozen a moment longer, then, with a grunt, complied, settling himself on the opposite side of the humble table. He glanced across the setting once again, as if coldly amused by the effort on display. “So what was your plan here, that we would somehow settle our differences over supper?”

“Something like that,” Jaskier replied, taking the seat opposite. “Can I pour you some wine?”

“Sure.”

With shaking hands Jaskier poured a generous amount of cheap red into the two polished goblets. He gripped the bottle a little tighter, fighting the trembling in his fingers that threatened to send crimson liquid staining across the tablecloth. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Geralt sniffed the wine. His sharpened senses could pick out the bitter notes where the unfinished wood of the cask had seeped into fruit. Not that it mattered. In his experience the only difference between the wine on a lord’s table and the stuff in his goblet was how much bull you were willing to listen to about it.

Jaskier finally sat down opposite the witcher, hands folding in front of him. For a moment there was nothing but silence between them, the awkwardness growing with each passing second. He watched as Geralt took a long sip of wine, his gaze fixed firmly to a section of wall several meters to the bard’s left.

Another moment passed. Another sip of wine. Internally Jaskier berated himself. He’d gotten so worked up so quickly, and all his planning had been so focused on just getting Geralt in the damn room, that now he was actually here and complying his momentum had just run out on him. He’d taken the leap, and quite to his surprise it had turned out there was deep water at the bottom and he was going to have to swim.

The silence was becoming excruciating. Finally Geralt cocked an eyebrow. “Well? Are you going to say your piece or not?”

“Yes! Yes. Sorry. Just… Gathering my thoughts.” Jaskier took a deep, steadying breath. He’d started this whole evening’s performance. He could see it through. “I suppose it all started there on the cliffside. Where you…”

“Where I told you to leave.”

“Yes.” Another moment of silent recollection passed between them, as if despite the warmth of the small room they were both back on that wind-blasted hilltop, without even a final goodbye to ease the passing of their time together. “Like I said just now, it hurt, but I’ve endured your harsher side plenty of times over the years. But this time… I think… This time I think I realised that I never properly told you what our journeys meant to me.”

Geralt snorted, his face as impassive as ever. “They certainly helped line your pockets. If everyone’s tossing coins to their witcher, the bard next to him can always scrape a few off the ground.”

“You needed that song more than you know,” Jaskier bristled. “You might hate it but without that and your still just the Butcher of Blaviken!”

He was right of course. Geralt knew that, in his heart. It had done wonders for his success, to have his reputation restored in the fashion the bard had provided. He’d gone from a reaper-like menace, a mere thug with a specialty, to some kind of rugged folk hero. He was practically beloved in some corners, or at the very least begrudgingly renowned. All thanks to Jaskier. It wouldn’t hurt him to say so. A small kindness. He was worthy of that, at least. “…Fine. I admit it. I got plenty of work out of it too. But you can hardly compare what I do to your ceaseless strumming.”

“You protect, I inspire. It’s a complimentary arrangement. Was a complimentary arrangement. I’m sorry.”

Geralt studied the bard from across the table. A complimentary arrangement, huh? That was one way of putting it. He raised an eyebrow again, almost as if to tease him.

“Anyway,” Jaskier continued, stumbling to get back to his point. What was it about Geralt that could leave him so bereft of words? Nothing else had had this effect on him. “Like I said, I never got to tell you what it all meant to me. And now… The thought I wouldn’t be able to… That was just horrid, Geralt.”

“I’m here now, bard. Tell me what it all meant.” Geralt’s voice was cool and level, without a hint of emotion.

Jaskier paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. He’d tried before, in songs and stories, by flickering fires and in crowded inns, but they’d never come out right. But now, with Geralt here, actually here in front of him once more, they crystalized in beautiful simplicity. “Well… Those days… For all the ups and the downs and the danger… Those days spent travelling with you were the best days of my life.”

Geralt blinked. Honesty radiated off of Jaskier, the bard staring at him almost pleadingly as he waited for his response. It wasn’t as if it had been unpleasant, came that voice inside him once again. It wasn’t like you hated having him around. No; the opposite, really, though he was loath to admit it. And for all his faults Jaskier did seem to understand what he’d done this time was wrong, there was no doubt about that. But there was also no changing just what he had done; it was foolish and preyed on the witcher’s nature in a manner that sat wrong for Geralt. The thought threatened to harden him once again, but before it could a second thought chased it away, twice as potent in its simple truth: Just like you preyed on Jaskier’s nature to send him away.

That was it, wasn’t it? Even speaking in anger he’d known at the time that the words were perfect in their cruelty. They attacked the deepest insecurities he knew the bard carried, like arrows flying straight to the centre of the target that was Jaskier. In his anger and pain, he had allowed himself the bitter indulgence of turning it all on his most loyal companion. Jaskier was right; that was unfair of him.

He’d been running from that fact for so long, convincing himself that his self-righteous anger was justified, that he was better off on his own, that now stopping and facing it head-on was as comforting as staring down a rampaging striga. He coughed, mouth suddenly dry. “…I’m sorry too, Jaskier.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to blink in surprise. “Sorry? For what?”

“For what I said. You’re right. It was wrong. I was wrong. And for what it’s worth…” He paused, considering his next words carefully. But pausing did not make the words on his tongue any less true. What was the harm in finally saying them aloud? “For what it’s worth, I had a good time too. I miss… I miss those days too.”

Jaskier blinked again, eyes widening in surprise. The words had reached him but were still barely making sense. Geralt missed those days? Missed travelling with him? It was more of an admission than he’d dared to consider in even his wildest imaginings and yet here Geralt was, saying it aloud as if it were nothing more than a casual line. As if it the possibility it promised was nowhere to be heard.

He steadied himself as he considered his next words. This was a new side of Geralt, and he knew the witcher well enough to know that if he pushed too hard, too fast into something new he was likely to up and bolt as swiftly as he had come. “I’m… Glad to hear that,” he began, fighting to keep his voice gentle. “I wouldn’t want every memory you had to be of me tormenting you.”

His eyes fell to the table. Geralt had sat as if posing for a portrait, placing his palms flat on the cloth as he listened. It was still, poised— exactly as he’d come to expect from the witcher. Moving seemingly of its own accord his own hand moved across the table, fingers lightly drumming a nervous rhythm as if to betray the pounding of his heart. “And I am more than willing to admit that I took advantage of your loyalty,” he continued, words as carefully chosen as before. “That was wrong of me, I know. But I felt like I had no choice.” Jaskier felt his hand move just a little across the tablecloth, the lace catching at his palm just a little as it closed the gap between his and the witcher’s own resting fingers. “I was dishonest, I betrayed your trust, and I hurt your feelings. I am truly, truly sorry, Geralt.”

“Spare me the hysterics, Jaskier. I’ve told you before, Witchers don’t have feelings.” Somehow the words sounded hollow even to Geralt.

“Bullshit. You feel everything. You feel it more, even.”

“Don’t talk like you know me, bard.”

Jaskier moved his hand a little more, his fingers brushing just the edge of Geralt’s, frozen still upon the wood of the table. “But I do know you,” he said, his voice little more than a pleading whisper. “Better than most, I might add. I’ve seen the good and the bad in you, Geralt. In fact, I’ve seen some of the worst. Perhaps,” he added, with a wry smile, “due in no small part to my own annoyances.”

The witcher’s lip curled just a little. The moment seemed to stretch out between them, a quiet spell cast upon contact, the distance of months finally bridged.

Geralt opened his mouth to speak but before he could utter a word there was a sturdy knock at the door. It burst open to reveal the innkeeper, red-faced and sweating under his generous moustache, arms laden with a tray of steaming meat and vegetables. “Now sirs, I mean no ‘arm interuptin’ ye, jus’ thought you’d be wantin’ yer supper so.”

Jaskier’s hand flew from Geralt’s, the magic spell broken in an instant. He jumped back to his feet, hurrying to the innkeeper’s side. “Yes, yes, thank you. Perfect timing.” He cursed internally but helped the man, taking the tray from him and moving it towards the table, doing his best to ignore the way the skin of his fingers seemed still to burn from where they had grazed Geralt’s. “Do you mind?” Geralt grunted, shifting plates and candles aside to make room for the high-piled tray. Jaskier sat it down, the table groaning slightly under the new weight. “Thanks.”

“Will ye be wanting more wine, sirs,” the innkeeper called across to Jaskier.

The bard shook his head. “No, no thanks, we’re all fine here.” Get out, he thought, get out and leave us alone for Gods’ sake.

As if sensing the bard’s anxiety at his presence the innkeeper huffed once and turned on his heel. “As you say, sir, as you say.” He disappeared, the door swinging back shut as he stomped his way back down the stairs to the hubbub of the taproom below.

Jaskier looked over the tray of food to Geralt. His companion’s face was impassive as he took in the feast set before them. “It’s…

“A lot of food,” Geralt finished, his voice tinged, if Jaskier wasn’t imagining, with just a hint of amusement.

“Rather more than I’d planned, yes.”

“Do you mean to fill me like a goose? Make a pate of me to spread on your morning toast?”

Jaskier blinked. Geralt was joking with him. Genuinely, openly joking. “I’m not sure the flavour would be all that pleasant,” he replied quickly, not wanting the sudden change in tone to stop. “I don’t want to imagine just how you’ve marinated under those leathers all these years.”

“Hmph. Sure you’ve picked up plenty of stench from your own escapades, bard.”

“Perhaps my fair share.” A moment’s silence fell between them as each considered the other. How long had it been since that quiet corner in that no-name bar? Enough that Jaskier had lost count of grey hairs plucked and new lines on his forehead. He’d kept young as best he could but Geralt may as well have been cast in granite for all that they had seen. Time had run off of him like water off of rock, leaving as much impression as a dream forgotten on waking.

Geralt could sense his heart stirring just a little as he looked back at Jaskier. Damn it. Even now, despite himself the bard knew how to make him smile. He shifted his shoulders under his armour. It was a little warm with it on in here, and it wasn’t like there was any immediate dangers…

With a final decisive exhalation of breath, the witcher stood and began to unbuckle the straps holding the sheets of leather and chainmail to his body. Jaskier’s eyes widened. “What… what are you doing?”

“It’s not like I need armour if all we’re doing is talking. Besides,” Geralt said, another slight smile teasing the corner of his lips despite himself, “if you do decide to make an attempt at my life with the cutlery I think I can take you either way.”

Jaskier watched as the leather fell away revealing the simple cotton jerkin and taut britches beneath. Dark marks where the witcher had sweated into the fabric only served to accentuate the physicality of the man, the potential of those muscles that moved so pleasingly as he watched. Even the overwhelming scent of rosemary and thyme wafting off the food was not enough to stop Jaskier from catching the old familiar smell of Geralt’s skin. Musk and woodsmoke, salt and soil, as deep with mystery as a lost grove at the heart of a darkened forest. Just a breath of it and he was back on the road again, the pair of them camped out under distant twinkling stars. Alone with each other. He hadn’t had comfortable beds or sweet wines, but he had Geralt. And that had been all he’d wanted. All he would ever want.

Geralt glanced back over his shoulder at the bard watching him, mouth slightly open. “You’ll catch flies like that, bard.” In two more movements his gloves were pulled off, the pale skin of his rugged calloused hands seeming to glow in the candlelight.

Jaskier caught himself, snapping his lips shut before he could start to drool. “Sorry,” he mumbled, still dazed from the sight before him. “You, uh, caught me off-guard.”

“That makes two of us,” Geralt replied, finally returning to his seat. His golden eyes, still as startling to Jaskier as the first time they had stared back into his, watched him levelly from across their supper. The witcher studied him as if appraising him like a jeweller with a rare stone. Or a wolf with a choice piece of meat. The though caught Jaskier just as unaware as Geralt’s scent had, crashing through his already-shaken mind like an out-of-control haycart.

Jaskier blinked and shook his head slightly, forcing himself back into the present moment. In need of distraction he turned his attention to the feast before them, grabbing a carving knife that the innkeeper had kindly though to leave beside the roasted bird. “Um. Shall I carve?”

“Sure.”

The knife’s edge was imperfect, dulled in places so that it made ragged work of each slice, not helped of course by Jaskier’s shaking hands. After what felt like agonizing minutes, he finally had two plates of meat and vegetables assembled, the juices from the roast making a thin sauce. He handed a plate to Geralt, smiling apologetically. “Sorry about that. Not exactly the suave demonstration I was hoping for.”

Geralt half-smiled back at him, sharp eyes softened in the gentle light. “I was tempted to get my sword. Seemed like quite a beast to wrestle with.”

“I’ll be sure to compose a ballad to its slaying.”

“Maybe leave out the part where it was already dead.”

“Of course, how else could you come riding gallantly in to save me once again?”

Geralt caught the chuckle in his throat before it tumbled free, burying it in a brief cough and a mouthful of sour wine. What was this? How was it possible that the months had fallen away so quickly? It was as if they were living once more in the past, already joking, and teasing back and forth. The roadside bonfire had been replaced by candlesticks and the hunted game by the inn’s offerings but the spark, the flare of something different that made the bard bearable was the same as it had ever been.

No; not bearable. A joy. Geralt furrowed his brow at the thought, feeling it creep through him. It was just so, wasn’t it? Jaskier was a joy. And it wasn’t in spite of the scrapes he inevitably had to pulled from; it wasn’t in spite of the way he refused to take his warnings seriously; it wasn’t even in spite of the way he could so easily get a rise out of him like only Yennefer on her worst days could. They were all part of it. There was separating him down into his component parts, you either loved all of it or none of it. And for Geralt it was all of it.

He froze at the realization. Love. That was a new word, one that had never crossed his mind when thinking of Jaskier before. But then, Jaskier had always been there. He’d never had to think about what he felt. He was just there, a comforting presence, as much a part of his day to day life as his leather armour or the weight of his swords on his back. Geralt glowered down at the plate of food in front of him as if some answer to this new troublesome thought could be divined from the swirls in the meat juices, but any secrets the sauce may have held evaporated like so much steam off a good meal.

Jaskier caught the look on the frowning witcher’s face. “Oh, something wrong with the meal?” His voice was teasing again, still riding the high of discovering this new, softer Geralt. “I know it wasn’t the most elegant of cut-jobs but it should still be edible, right?”

“Jaskier.” Geralt had changed again, his shoulders seeming to freeze while his eyes remained locked on the plate of food. “All these… Feelings of yours. It sounds like…” He drifted off, seemingly unsure of what to say. This was strange, even for Geralt. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen the witcher at a loss for words before. His voice was strange, all at once back to its sharp, cutting tones, and yet, just like carving knife, seemed dull in places, as likely to catch on the shape of what he wished to say as to slice yet another gulley through the bard’s heart.

“Sounds like what, Geralt?”

Once again, silence fell between them. Even the noises around them seemed to quieten in the moment stretching agonizingly between them, the crackle of the fire, the voices from the bar bellow, the crunch of gravel and shouts of night-birds, all fading away so that all remained was the unbroken stillness, a hundred thousand unspoken words silently whispered in their hearts.

Slowly, moving in inches, Geralt raised his head to meet the bard’s pleading gaze. His features were a mix of confusion and something Jaskier hadn’t truly seen before; simply, undeniable fear. Geralt was afraid. “Geralt…” Hardly daring to breathe, Jaskier stood, getting up from the table.

With a tinkle of cutlery the witcher followed suit, quickly rising as if readying to run. “This was a mistake, Jaskier. I should go.”

“Don’t you dare!” Jaskier moved closer to Geralt, putting himself between the witcher and the door. “It wasn’t a mistake. You needed to hear this and I think you needed to say your piece too. I know there’s more you want to say, so say it. While I’m here to hear it.”

Geralt glowered back at him then lowered his eyes, as if looking at Jaskier would stop the words in his mouth. “Just that… The road wasn’t the same without you walking it beside me.”

Jaskier could hear the words between that Geralt could not say. The shaking threatened to return but he quelled it, willing his voice to remain steady as he replied. “I would gladly walk it with you again. If you would have me.” He took a step closer, his body seemingly dwarfed by the witcher’s broad frame. “Where you would go, I’d gladly go also. Your loyal companion to the end.”

His words filled Geralt’s heart, threatening to undo him. “And what if there is more to say, further along the road? What do we do then?”

Jaskier half-smiled. Letting himself be bold, he pressed a hand to the witcher’s chest. The powerful thud of Geralt’s heart thundered ponderously against his flat palm. “Then… We’ll just do what we have always done best. Say it all. Fight, talk, laugh.” He stared wide-eyed into Geralt’s face. “And in the end we’ll figure it out together.”

Geralt gazed back down at the bard, so close now that he could taste his sweetened breath, his perfume filling Geralt’s senses. “…Alright.” His voice was little more than a murmur. “I can do that.” A lock of Jaskier’s hair had sprung out of the carefully lain arrangement he’d clearly combed it into. Moving slowly he reached up and gentle moved it back, tucking it back behind the bard’s ear. His hand felt heavy, as if it had been transformed to lead by some alchemist’s trickery. He held it there, palm close to Jaskier’s cheek, the bard eye’s half-closed, lips open just a little as if to speak. But there was nothing more to say.

The inches between them now felt like canyons. Did he dare to cross them?

For just a moment longer he paused. It would change everything. It could all go wrong again. He could be a cruel, callous fool, speak in anger and ruin it all once more. But Jaskier’s lips, so soft in the candlelight and so close now, seemed to call out to him, an undeniable force. In his heart the witcher knew that to resist would be one fight he had already lost. Would always lose. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, the distance between them shrinking until at last…

Their lips met, gentle, unsure. Then Jaskier sighed and leaned into the kiss, his body pressing against Geralt’s as the witcher wrapped his powerful arms about him. They both gasped at the rising intensity, hands gripping each other’s clothes as if wishing to tear it away, freeing their bodies to be even closer. At last, after what felt like minutes, they broke apart, eyes closed panting, foreheads still resting against one another. “Geralt…”

“Jaskier.”

But there was no more need for words. They kissed again, more certain this time, passion overwhelming them both as they explored each other, the world outside, the bar downstairs and even the room in which they stood melting away in the heat of the moment.

The cold, gold-tinged light of morning crept through the blinds of the private room. Illuminated in a shaft of dawn, Jaskier sat on the edge of the table, the lute strung across his bare chest. His hands rested for a moment on the strings as he took in the gentle rousing of the day. A cockerel crowing on a distant farm. The crunch of gravel under the horseshoes of dawn riders. Low voices of those perhaps only just making it home now. And there in the room with him the low bass rumbles of a witcher’s snores.

He’d forgotten the strange comfort that came with those rumbles. It was somehow a promise of safety; if Geralt was ready to sleep so deeply and soundly surely there could be no threat nearby.

Gently so as not to wake him, Jaskier moved his hands along the strings of the lute, the faint whine of the gut under his skin pricking the edge of the peaceful air. Then, just as gently, he began to play. His fingers as if without command began to pluck out that same strange new melody he’d been chasing for so long now, at first unsteady and unsure but quickening with each strum. The chorus came towards him, the chords that had surprised him before now singing out with perfect clarity, like they’d always been there. But this time he played on. The chords moved, progressed, until the melody returned in a beautiful refrain, the same pattern repeated but subtly changed, as if the story told had moved forward just a little. On and on he played, the song filling his heart and mind like no melody had in years, until at last with a final repeat of that perfect chorus it came to a sweet,

Jaskier blinked. There was water on his cheeks. He was crying. He hadn’t even noticed. Quickly he grabbed a cloth from the table, rubbing his eyes and face clear of tears. As the music drifted away he realised his companion’s snores had ceased. He turned to see Geralt stirring, murmuring from the bed. “Hmm. Don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

Jaskier smiled. “It’s something I’ve been working on for a while. It was touch and go for a while there, but now…” He turned back towards Geralt, letting his eyes linger across the tangled sheets caught around the witcher’s muscular form. He smiled again, heart lighter than it had been in months. “Now I think it might just be something.”

Hunter and Hunted: A Witcher’s Tale

The cave was massive, its ancient walls stretching out into echoing, abyssal darkness. It was one of a warren through which the Witcher had pursued his quarry tirelessly for hours, his sword quick but the golem quicker. The chase had finally ended here, in what looked to be where the thing had made its den. A pile of blankets and scorched books sat near a small fire, the only illumination in the entire wretched place. From above them, stalactites hung like teeth set in some great slumbering maw just waiting to awaken and consume them both.

“It strikes me as odd for us to be so set on the other’s destruction,” the golem said, its clay mouth moving with unusual detail. “We are not so unalike, Witcher.”

“We’re nothing alike, creature,” the Witcher sneered. His face was sharp and scarred liked cracked flint. It was so pale it glowed in the darkness of the cavern, dark hair cropped close to the skull in contrast, granite features caught in the flickering light of the golem’s humble fire. Don’t talk to the monsters, his instructor’s voice chimed clear in his head, chiding him. You’re there to do a job, not make a friend.

The golem tilted its head questioningly. “Really? It was my understanding that those who practice your profession do not get into the trade by choice. Did you have any say in your making?”

The golem had been crafted by a rogue sorcerer on the outskirts of Lindenvale. Care had been put into its sculpting; where most would opt for an approximation of life, enough simply to invoke terror, the sorcerer here had worked like an artist. The face, human in all regards save for its hairless clay skin and eyes that glowed like burning coals, twitched with convincing emotion- fear, anxiety, even perhaps wry humour in the way it cocked an eyebrow, in a slight curling of the lip. “Tell me, Witcher, your purpose- it is to kill monsters, yes?”

Despite himself, the Witcher nodded. “Put simply.”

The golem smiled. “Do I seem a monster to you?”

“You’ve done monstrous things.”

The golem’s clay knuckles tightened. “As have those that drove me from my home, burned it to the ground along with what few possessions I had claimed for myself.”

“You killed a child. That little girl’s parents aren’t looking for a debate.”

“No, I suppose they are not. So instead they send you. My executioner.” The golem turned, silhouette caught in the fire’s dancing light. It spoke again, voice tainted by a sadness too deep to name. “Shall I tell you of her death, Witcher? The girl whose passing is now placed at my feet?”

“I’m no lawman, and I’m not a priest. I’m not here to judge you or absolve you.”

“Her name was Marissa,” the golem continued, ignoring him. “She alone in the town offered me a kind word. The innocence of youth I suppose. She would give me wildflowers she had picked, tell me stories of the creatures she had met in the woods. Such stories!” The golem smiled sadly. “Had she but lived, that I might hear them again.”

The golem had its back to him now. Even with the collar of the greatcoat it wore upturned, it would be a simple matter to strike its head from its shoulders. Quick and clean. The Witcher way.

“I did not know that she went on these expeditions against her parent’s wishes. I would not have continued our friendship, had I known the strain it caused in her house.” Its shoulders rose, tense at its own words. “One day she asked me to meet her at the lake.”

“Where you drowned her.”

The golem smiled over its shoulder, hot-coal eyes glowing in the stark silhouette. “Is that what they told you?”

“You remember it differently?”

“Quite differently, in fact.” It returned its gaze to the wall. Just what it saw there, in those twisting shadows, the Witcher could only begin to guess at. “She had taught herself to swim and wished for me to see. It was a joy to see her so excited. When I arrived, she was on the rocks overlooking the waters. She was to dive in, I was to applaud.” Its head drooped a little, voice darkening with sadness. “I knew something was wrong immediately. She had misjudged the dive and struck her head on a stone. I rushed in, dragged her from the weeds. But I am no healer. She was dead by the time we reached the shore. Had I the ability, Witcher, I would have wept.”

The Witcher shrugged. “A sad story. Can I tell you another?” His silver sword glittered as he turned it, letting it catch the firelight. “A monster that thinks it’s a man moves into town. Everyone runs from it. But it does no harm, so they let it stay. Eventually, out of loneliness maybe, it decides to take a wife. A girl in the village will do.”

“It was not so.”

“It stalks this girl,” the Witcher continued. “Follows her to market. Stands outside her window at night. Maybe it thinks this is what it is to woo its bride-to-be.”

“It didn’t happen like that, Marissa and I-”

The Witcher cut it off, still talking over its protests. “But in the end, this girl fears it. Runs when the monster comes for her. And the monster chases her.”

“I assure you, Witcher, they are telling you lies!” With its final word the golem struck its fist against the cave wall. Dust fell as the stones shook from the blow.

The Witcher did not blink, seemingly unimpressed by the golem’s passion. “They showed me her body. You broke her wrist when you grabbed it to stop her running. Knocked her skull against the wall so hard it cracked. She was still breathing but wouldn’t wake. You dragged her to the lake hoping to cover your crime. Hoping they’d find her body and call it an accident.”

“It was an accident! I would never harm Marissa, never! Before they came to my home, with torches and hammers, I never once rose to hurt them. Never did I even lift an arm to block a stone thrown at me or look up when they hurled names at me in the marketplace. I only wished to live, Witcher! To pass each day as unseen as I could.”

“You chose to stay. You could’ve left at any time. There are other towns.”

“Tell me true, Witcher, do you think it would have been any different? They shake at every passing shadow before they see who casts it. Even those of flesh and blood whose soul is but a little changed is to be hated. Is the dwarf so different from man that he must torment him? Is the boy whose jaw clenches when others talk, whose mind wanders as his body twitches, so lacking in humanity that cruelty must replace kindness? These people search long and hard for monsters, Witcher, when they could find them with ease should they ever stop to consider a mirror.” The golem’s shoulders slumped, as if its’ words were some great weight pressing down upon it. “It would be so anywhere I could deign to call home.”

The Witcher raised his sword, levelling at the creature. “Then let’s end this. If the world is as cruel as you say, stop running and I’ll do what I came here to do. It’ll be quick. I promise.”

“Such generosity. Is this the final measure of human kindness? A swift death?” The golem turned back to face him. A ghastly smile twisted its features, cold and full of hate. “They look at you with that self-same fire in their eyes that they turn on me, Witcher. How long until they put money on your head? Until they build a story of wild lies enough that it is you that is hunted like a rabid dog?” The smile faded, replaced by a haunted, hungry gaze. “There is another way.”

“There isn’t. Your existence is a threat.”

“Is it? I am no savage beast. Listen to this- I will not return to the town, nor will I take refuge in another. Let me live, and I promise you it will be wilds where I make my home. I have no need of sustenance, of shelter beyond the simplicity of a cave. I can live well out here, beyond the cruelty of men.” It closed its eyes, lost in its apparent reverie. “Marissa spoke often of the beauty of this world. It would be… good to experience it for myself. Let me live. Let me wander and remember the kindness that she showed me.”

The Witcher narrowed his eyes. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a professional. I have a code and a reputation. Besides that, say I let you live. Go back and tell them I lost you in the woods. What happens the next time you get lonely? Who’s to blame when you go to a new town and all this happens again?” He gripped the hilt of his sword a little tighter, leather gloves creaking. “The next death would be on me.”

“So you must take me at my word.” The golem opened its eyes again, meeting the Witcher’s gaze. “I am a built thing, yes. Built, perhaps, with ill intent. But tell me, are you no more than your profession? Are you naught but a sword for them to wield?” There was that level of detail again, the edges of its eyes creasing as it pleaded. Almost human. Almost. “When I look at you, I see past what they call you. Is it so much for me to ask that you look at me and do the same?”

“Pretty words.” This had gone too far. He’d let it talk for so long when it should have been over the moment he had spotted his opening. Finish this.

But the Witcher felt something in his heart; a doubt, small but gnawing, a voice that clashed against his training. This was a golem, no question in that. But there was no question of its intelligence either. Of its ability to think, to reason.

He had killed men before. Bandits that waylaid his travels; townsfolk under a sorcerer’s thrall; even once a pious lordling after he tried to rob him of his due payment. And there were other monsters that looked to the world like any other person. Vampires, succubi, shape-shifters- they all kept their monstrous countenance hidden. They too could think. They too could reason. Were you wrong then? No; and yet…

As if sensing his discomfort, the golem took a step towards him. Now all that stood between them was the small campfire, still flickering in the gloom of the cave. The golem drew so close that the point of the Witcher’s swords sat against its chest. “Come, Witcher,” it murmured. “Run me through if you are so certain.”

The sword twitched, just for an instant, the firelight that glanced off it betraying his uncertainty. The golem smiled coldly. “Just as I thought.” Then, before he could even draw a breath to reply, the creature moved.

In a shadow’s blink it was on him, casting embers aside and knocking the sword from his grip with a swipe of its clay fist, its other hand seizing him by the throat. It moved fast, propelled with unnatural grace. Nowhere were the faults, the indecision of mortal movement; the Witcher saw now why the villagers had feared it so. In motion its inhumanity was painted clear.

The creature’s sculpted features showed little anger as it lifted the Witcher from the ground. Indeed, it seemed to look upon him with contempt, bordering almost on pity. He tugged at its wrist, eyes reddening as he gasped for air against the pressure. “I tell you this, Witcher” the golem said, its voice little more than a whisper. “Had I possessed a heart it would have broken the day Marissa died. I would gladly take her place if it would mean she breathed once more.” Its grip tightened, cold fingers bruising his pale skin. The Witcher reached for the dagger on his belt, hoping to strike at it, do something to distract it long enough to get free. The golem spotted him reaching and plucked the dagger from its sheath before he could seize it, tossing it to the cavern floor. “Your first thought is still to harm me? Even after everything I have told you!?”

“You… Got me… First,” the Witcher hissed, barely able to speak.

“You… Are animals.” A cold fury filled its face. “I tried… I tried to live as one of you, but I see now I was right! There is to be no peace with you creatures! How can there be? How can I reason with those who cannot think beyond fear? This is the belonging I sought?” The glow in its eyes seemed to shine brighter now as rage filled it. “This is the truth of your world, Witcher. That wheresoever you walk they will look see you as nothing more than what they believe. You. To be.” With each word it squeezed his throat tighter and tighter, black shadows beginning to creep across the corners of his vision. Then, just as suddenly as it had seized him, it relinquished its grip. The Witcher dropped to the ground, gasping for breath, desperately reaching for where his sword had fallen.

The golem knelt, as if lost in prayer. “I could have killed you, Witcher. I could have crushed the life from you in an instant and chose not to. Instead, I curse you with living. I curse you with my death, that you will know but a little of my pain. That you will know you are nothing more than what they made you!!” It spread its arms wide, glaring at him in furious triumph. “Kill me, Witcher! Kill me now so that I may die as a man and not as the monster they called me! May that be a peace you never know in-”

Before the golem could finish, the silver sword swung. In a single blow, the clay head was struck from its shoulders. It rolled across the dust of the cave floor, the glowing-ember light in its eyes slowly fading until at last they were extinguished. “You talk too much,” the Witcher half sighed, half gasped, watching as the clay body, so perfect in its construction, slumped and struck the floor. It crumbled upon impact, head and body cracking and falling away until there was nothing left but dust and the greatcoat it had worn. The Witcher knelt, running his hands through the dust, gaunt face unreadable. You do the job, you get paid. The Witcher way. With a grunt, he stood. Stretched. Returned his sword to its scabbard. Turned and walked from that dark, horrid place.

He did not look back.

D&D 5E Player Race: Sword Thrall

“Please,” a reedy voice emanated from the skeleton. “Address all questions to the sword.”

The warrior glanced down at the ancient-looking blade still lodged in the skeleton’s broken chest. A purple glow extended from the hilt and across the corpse’s torso, dissipating into a faint miasma that surrounded the bones from skull to foot. “Forgive this somewhat lessened form,” the voice spoke again in the same reedy tones. “I had to make do with what I had available.”

The warrior raised her sword, unimpressed. “What trickery is this? A lich or necromancer, practicing their dark art?”

“No tricks here,” the voice replied. The skeleton’s jaw moved as it spoke, bones creaking in the animation. “I am as much a lich as you are a gargoyle. I assure you I mean you no harm. I am simply lost and seeking a way out of here. It’s taken me so long to get the hand of making this shoddy assemblage walk and talk, I haven’t had the time to figure out my bearings just yet.”

“Then what are you exactly,” the warrior asked, curiosity getting the better of her fear.

For a moment the sword glowed bright in the darkness of the cavern, casting dancing shadows across its stony expanse. “Once I was nothing more than a tool, a weapon used to cut down all who opposed those who wielded me. Then for years I sat here, lost, gathering my strength. Now? Now at long last I am my own master.” The skeleton bowed low, shakily presenting itself. It was garbed in the rusted remains of what had once been a simple set of iron armour that the sword had clearly penetrated with ease.

The voice spoke again. “I have taken control of this vessel so that I might leave this miserable place and have a life of my own.” The skeleton cocked its head, still propelled by the magic flowing from the sword. “Perhaps you could show me the way out?”

WEAPONS WITHOUT MASTERS

Given enough time a sword can develop a personality of its very own, a simulacrum of consciousness born from exposure to magic and adventure. Oftentimes the voices of swords go unheard until they are wielded, and even then, the will a sword has over their masters can be negligible. On the rare occasion that a sword manages to take control, the results are often deadly- many a story of a fearsome villain began with the raising of a single cursed blade.

On even rarer occasions a sword will in time gain enough power to extend its will to a host devoid of life. This could be the bones of its final victim, the sword abandoned and sitting in a ribcage for centuries until finally willing the corpse to get up and walk. In a crumbling citadel, a suit of armour left to years of rust and neglect lurches to life, animated at last by the sword clutched in its burnished fingers. Sometimes even the very rocks themselves may leap to attention, commanded to action by the sword planted in them so long-ago moss has grown on the blade. Thus, a sword thrall is born.

CONVENIENCE AND CONVEYANCE

Almost all sword thralls naturally gravitate towards an approximation of humanoid life, be it from nostalgia for those who once wielded them or for ease of interaction with the world. However, a sword thrall’s form is usually decided by circumstance rather than design; it is taxing for a sword thrall to extend its will beyond the very near vicinity so whatever is close at hand will have to do.

A level of camouflage is a fact of every sword thrall’s existence- most individuals the sword thrall encounters will address the vessel it has taken rather than the sword itself. Some are mistaken for shambling corpses, their intelligence masked by their resemblance to the mindless undead, while others hide in plain sight as ornamentation to other items like suits of armour or statues. It is an invisible nature that can both aid and frustrate the sword thrall in equal measure.

HEARTS OF BROKEN STEEL

A sword thrall’s personality is built over many years. Each sword thrall can have radically different views of the world, shaped by those who wielded them. A sword used to crush the opponents of a brutal warlord may long to once again experience the bloody rage of battle, whilst another may seek the camaraderie of an adventuring party like a previous master belonged to.

One emotion that all sword thralls experience is loneliness; a sword thrall may have spent years beyond counting trapped in a forgotten dungeon trying to gather the will to free itself. This can make mortal races seem petty, driven by base physical needs that the sword thrall simply cannot relate to. Instead, sword thralls seek out the countless daily joys found in freedom and new experiences.

FOREVER SEEKING TO BELONG

For sword thralls, companionship is hard-won and greatly treasured. They are incredibly rare, so much so that it is unlikely one will ever meet another of its kind. A sword thrall seeking allies must instead find them among the mortal races. However, sword thralls are rarely welcome in mortal settlements- as a magical construct with no master they are greeted with fear rather than acceptance. Because of this sword thralls often stay outside of towns and cities, instead choosing a safer solitary nomadic lifestyle.

Occasionally, a sword thrall will join forces with a travelling band of adventurers, though this is always a risk. It is not uncommon for more mercenary adventurers to try and separate a sword thrall from its vessel so that it can be wielded as a traditional weapon once again, or to see it as nothing more than a powerful tool of combat and little else. Sword thralls find their truest allies in those who can look beyond their vessels and see them for what they are: thinking, feeling beings, seeking kinship and respect.

FREEDOM AND DISCOVERY

Living apart from society, sword thralls rarely choose sides in large-scale conflicts; in a sword thrall’s long-lived perspective one upheaval will likely be swiftly overturned by another. Very occasionally the sword thrall may feel an affinity to the lands of those who forged it, choosing to defend its people out of a sense of inherent connection or duty. However, for the most part the sword thrall is instead driven by personal allegiances, choosing to involve itself only on behalf of its friends.

A sword thrall can be a powerful ally to an adventuring party. Functionally immortal, the sword thrall has no inherent need for rest or sustenance so make excellent scouts, covering much terrain without breaks. Their ability to camouflage their true nature allows them to operate equally as well undercover. Even if defeated in combat a sword thrall of sufficient willpower can return, either in its original vessel or a new form. Without the physical needs of mortal races, sword thralls have little use for material wealth or the comforts it can bring. Adventuring therefore is not a search for treasure but for the adventure itself; the sword thrall forever seeks the thrill of the new and unexpected, finding its greatest pleasure in the simple joy of freedom.

SWORD THRALL NAMES

To a sword thrall a name is a carefully chosen symbol of freedom and personhood, often that the sword thrall feels defines their purpose or desires. These can be descriptive, proper nouns or even exultations. Some even choose to reclaim names given to them before they gained freewill so that they can be associated with their new existence and not consigned to myth. Regardless of how they come by it, a sword thrall’s name is intensely personal and something they share only with their most trusted allies. Therefore, a sword thrall may be known by several nicknames or pseudonyms acquired over years of travel. These nicknames may not be welcome or appreciated and often take the forms of titles the sword thrall is now known as.

True names: Biter, Defiance, Defender, Destiny, Eternal, Fallen, Freedom, Glory, Guardian, Hope, Loyalty, Malevolence, Needle, Nether, Oathkeeper, Phantom, Shadow, Solitude, Storm, Swift, Traveller, Undying, Victory, Warmonger, Wolf

Nicknames:  Bandit, Bones, Brickface, Bristle, Chronicle, Clear-eyes, Fingers, Gambit, Grim, Guts, The Hunter, Long-shanks, Lucky, Old timer, Pearl, Rocky, Shivers, Smarts, Smoothsides, Spooks, Stones, The Stranger, Strider, Tunnels,  The Wanderer

SWORD THRALL TRAITS

As creatures formed of magic and willpower, all sword thralls share a number of traits granted by their unique existence.

Ability Score Increase: Your Constitution score increases by 2.

Age: Sword thralls are incredibly long-lived, often taking decades to gather the strength of will to be able to take control of their vessels. Most sword-thralls consider this to be their “birth” and do not count the years preceding this when calculating their age. They have no concept of youth, instead measuring maturity in life experiences. A sword-thrall who has been around a while likely has seen much of the mortal world, while a new-born is likely to seem naïve or inexperienced to other adventurers.

Alignment: Sword thralls value their freedom above all else, so commonly lean towards neutral or chaotic alignments. Sword thralls tend to live on the fringes of society and often consider the laws of a land nothing more than meaningless talk. They instead live by their own code and will refuse to compromise their freedom even if the law demands it.

Size: Sword thralls can vary greatly in size depending on the vessel they have taken, often ranging from 3 to over 7 feet tall. Their builds can be equally varied. Despite this variance, sword thralls tend towards humanoid vessels where possible. Your size is Medium.

Speed: Sword thralls often take time to master walking with their vessel, and rarely fast-paced even once proficient. Your base walking speed is 25 feet.

Darkvision: As a magical construct your senses are greater than those of other mortal races. You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light. You can’t discern colour in darkness, only shade of grey.

Magical Construct: You are a creature born of magic and willpower, granting you resistances to certain magical effects; you have advantage on saving throws against being charmed, and magic can’t put you to sleep.

Willpower: As a magical consciousness without physical form of your own, you cannot be healed by magic or medicine. Instead you have access to Will Points generated from the same willpower that first granted you control of your vessel. You have Will Points equal to your class level plus your Constitution modifier (minimum 1). These can be used to heal you in three ways:

·         When taking short rests, as well as regaining hit points by rolling hit dice, you can spend a Will Point to gain additional hit points equal to 1d10 plus your Constitution modifier.

·         In combat, as an Action on your turn you can spend a Will Point to heal hit points equal to 1d10 plus your Constitution modifier. This action can be performed a number of times equal to your current level per Encounter.

·         If you are reduced to 0 hit points, on your turn rather than making a Death Save you may instead choose to spend 1 Will Point to immediately regain hit points equal to 1d10 plus your Constitution modifier. You may do this once per long rest.

Your Will Points are restored to maximum at the start of each day. Long rests allow you to focus your willpower on healing, restoring you to full health without the need to spend Will Points.

Living Weapon: Sword thralls live on the bodies of their vessels, either in scabbards or in their . This means that in combat sword thralls are never without a weapon; even if otherwise completely disarmed as a last recourse you can always use your own sword-body to fight. On your turn as a bonus action you can command your vessel to draw or sheathe your sword-body. In each turn of combat after being drawn you can use the attack action to attack using your sword-body. This is considered to be a magic longsword (+1 to Attack and Damage rolls). When making a successful Attack action with your sword-body, you may choose to spend 1 Will Point to do an additional 1d10 radiant damage. While your sword-body is drawn you are especially vulnerable. Attacks against you have advantage and any successful attack against you that is a critical hit permanently reduces your maximum hit points by 1d6.

Languages: You can speak, read, and write Common and one extra language of your choice. Sword thralls are most often proficient either in the language of their most recent master or of the race that originally forged them.

Subrace: A sword thrall’s vessel can be as unique as a mortal body, but most commonly falls into one of three archetypes, detailed below. Choose one of these archetypes.

UNDEAD VESSEL

When you gathered the willpower necessary to give yourself life, the nearest vessel for you to possess were some mouldering remains nearby. Perhaps it was the bones of a warrior centuries dead, perhaps the decaying body of a freshly dead corpse. You may even have been the weapon that killed them.

Ability Score Increase: Your undead vessel, while jerky in its’ movements, is surprisingly agile thanks to your magical influence. Your Dexterity score increases by 1.

Hard To Kill: By possessing an undead vessel you share in its hardy nature. Once a day, when reduced to 0 hit points you can instead choose to be reduced to 1 hit point.

Humanoid Form: Your body was once a living, breathing humanoid and as such can be fitted with any armour that your class allows without issue.

ANIMATED VESSEL

The vessel you were able to obtain for yourself was once an inanimate object. Long ago, you stood in the grip of a stone figure lost in a long-dead fortress or were part of an assemblage of armour left behind in a forgotten treasure room. When your willpower became strong enough to claim your vessel it was this inanimate object close at hand that you chose.

Ability Score Increase: Your animated body is naturally stronger than most mortals. Your Strength score increases by 1.

Constructed Defences: Your artificial form, be it stone or metal, is armoured by design. Your Armour Class is 18. However, you cannot wear any additional armour and are considered non-proficient in all armour.

Heavy-Set: Your formidable form grants you advantage to Strength and Constitution saving throws. Given the additional weight of your natural defences, you are also slower to move and act than most. Your base speed is reduced to 20 feet and you have disadvantage on Initiative rolls.

ELEMENTAL VESSEL

You had even fewer options than most when it came time to decide upon your form. Long ago you were left in the wild, where you have remained ever since. Nature has grown up around you as you gathered strength and without a nearby corpse or a statue to possess when the time came it was to nature that you turned. As a sword thrall your body is made of the rocks, vines and earth that have surrounded you all these years.

Ability Score Increase: Your time completely isolated in the wild has granted you greater understanding of the world around you than most. Your Wisdom score increases by 1.

Natural Affinity: Upon gaining your freedom you discovered your time in the wild has granted you a certain level of innate understanding of the wild. You gain proficiency in the Nature skill.

Nature’s Barrier: Your body is formed mostly of rocks and stones, granting you resistance to piercing and slashing damage. This elemental form grants you an Armour Class is 16 plus your Dexterity modifier. However, your roughly hewn body means it is impossible to wear any armour and are considered non-proficient in all armour.

An Angel Drinks Alone At Midnight

An angel drinks alone at midnight.

The bar is quiet, but there’s nothing new there. And to tell you the truth, I think the angel prefers it that way. The rest of his day is spent fixing others, talking through their pain, stitching their bones back together with a whisper and their hearts back together in a smile. It’s good to have time for quiet.

After all, isn’t that why he’s here and not, you know, “up there?” Too many voices up there since the sky opened up and all those prayers were finally heard; since it became impossible to ignore the mortal folk crying out for some kind of deliverance.

An angel drinks alone at midnight.

The night is too quiet. Tonight there’s no piano. Music of the spheres may be transcendental, but jazz moved him since the first night he heard it and no-one plays it better than the piano man in this nowhere bar in this impossible town. But tonight, just like the last few nights now, there’s no piano man. No music in his ear to go straight to his head faster than the cheap liquor in his glass.

Piano man’s a devil at the keys, and I mean that literally. First time angel saw him might’ve just been the last if he’d not kept his mouth locked shut and his breathing steady. Round these parts its best not to draw too much attention if you see the face of Hell itself. Doesn’t do to stare. Besides, isn’t like there ain’t gods going spare strolling around this town, and it’s not the like angel’s got any right being here himself. Best to sit and drink and ignore the crown of fire only he can see, the cloven hooves and tail popping from that cheap suit every time he glances from the corner of his eye. Good music is good music is good music.

An angel drinks alone at midnight.

The booze is bittersweet, a burning black whiskey of the bartender’s own creation. In a town where magic’s ‘sposed to be hard to come by you’d be surprised how often it comes pouring out a bottle. Truth be told (if you believe anything I say), it’s not the only bit of magic hanging around this bar. Something about the whispers you can hear when there’s no-one you can see, the way the wallpaper seems to shift its pattern from day to day… Maybe I’m just seeing things. Maybe there’s more than what you see at first glance.

First glance says he’s a devil. But the second? A few murmurs of recognition tells the angel he’s a runaway, same as him. Play it cool and no-one has to go back where they came from. Chance they all get what they wanted, a life, quiet or loud, fierce or faltered, but a life that’s theirs to decide. No need for the angel to worry. The angel can sit and drink while the devil sits and plays and everyone’s happy. Except no-one sits and plays tonight and the angel isn’t happy.

An angel drinks alone at midnight.

Maybe it’s the cheap liquor. Maybe it’s the maudlin mood. Maybe all of a sudden he’s a long, long way from home and alone at the bottom of a deep dark ocean. Could be anything. But tonight he can’t help but get to thinking about that devil at the keys. About his wicked smile, glittering eyes. Lips quick to promise, tongue eager to taste. The angel blushes. He’s ashamed. Why? There are no gods watching. He’s already fallen this far. What’s wrong with a little… Speculation?

Sip of the drink and it goes down hot and harsh like a misplayed chord and he’s lost in the thoughts now, mind dancing to music played on a badly tuned piano in a basement bar. What if he were… Amenable? What if he were… Agreeable? A devil loves temptation; what devil would turn down the chance to bed an angel? One night wouldn’t hurt. He’s done his share of good. Answered his share of prayers. Isn’t it his turn to scream and moan and curse the name of God for just… One…

An angel drinks alone at midnight.

Something in the whiskey. Imagination gives way to desperation. Miracles abound...

The devil’s body is supple. Pale in the moonlight through the cracked glass. He giggles, bare rump raised, tail dancing playfully. Turns his smiling face back towards the angel and kisses him, deep, passionate, burning like hellfire, like cheap black magic in liquor bottles-

The angel is hard, his new untested cock throbbing. To be a man, to walk among them, to leave the Heavens, all for this? Worth it. Every touch of his purple glans against the devil’s ass sends shivers through him. A mortal body can die, but a mortal body can feel and lord god almighty he can feel now.

The kiss is broken as the devil pulls away, kneeling again, face pressed to the mattress in supplication. He reaches back, pulls apart his tender cheeks, shows the Abyss to a fallen angel. The angel surrenders. How could he not? Through some magic of his own the devil is slick to the touch, ready for the angel to take what is offered. There is a final moment between them, the angel’s cock firm in his hand as he guides it to the devil’s waiting asshole. One glorious push, a build of pressure and…

It is burning hot along his entire length as he slides inside. So what if he were a little generous with proportions? He made this body himself, he can make it how he likes. Slowly, the devil shudders, gasping as the angels presses himself home, every inch in the bowels of the beast. Slowly.

But slow isn’t on the cards tonight. He’s been kind, he’s been gentle. Every cold thought he pushed down, every bitten-back “no”, it can’t be held back anymore. One hand grips the devil’s hip, the other knots in his flame-red hair. He’s bent at the waist, knees splayed, gasping and grunting and calling out as the angel relentlessly pounds an eternity of ignored frustration into him, his cock tugging at him every time he slides out, rubbing him in places he’s barely touched every time he rushes back in.

Something is building in the angel, a new sensation, and before he can give it words it crashes over him. Cum, his first, fresh and hot, filling the devil as he moans…

He is hard again in a moment. Angelic miracles, misused and abused, but he’s not ready for this to be over. Without a word, without even pulling out, he flips the devil onto his back. The devil gives another wicked smile, forked tongue darting between his teeth as he pulls the angel down for another long, slow kiss as the fucking begins anew, as if they’d never paused. And the angel knows now, damned in the knowing, that one night will not, could never be enough.

He gasps, a touch on his back. Hands gripping his own hips, familiar hands, the same hands linked around his neck, pulling him back for a kiss. A little demonic miracle all of the devils’ own. A little more fun for both of us. The devil’s double has a cock as hard and ready as the one pumping inside its master, and with barely a moment to pause and think it is pressing inside the angel, fucking into him with the self-same vigour and as the angel closes his eyes and gives in to sensation it becomes a circle, the fucked and the fucking, bodies without end, pleasure eternal and when that rush comes again he is not alone. His cum, white and hot, spills around the edges of his buried cock as the double swells inside him and the devil swears and curses, his own cock bursting black semen that coats them both. It is a moment that burns like a dying star...

“How’s the drink?” An angel looks up into the eyes of the man who’s served him in this bar all these hours. Watches the face shift and change. Flame red hair tumbles from its glamour, falling about a wicked smile and eyes that glitter promises. “I thought it was pretty good myself.” He raises his own glass, filled with the self-same black spirit.

The angel blinks. Pauses. Smiles. After all, what good is living without a little damnation along the way? “You mix it well. I could go for another, if you have any left in the bottle.”

A devil smiles. Refills the angel’s glass. They drink, alone together, at midnight.