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devinwolfiTitle: i was just passing through (i was on my way to you)
Fandom: The Witcher (TV)
Relationship(s): Geralt/Jaskier | Dandelion
Notes: Soulmate Identifying Colorvision, Arranged Marriage, Canon Typical Monster Fights
Length: 2.9k; 1/1
Summary: Witchers don't take the law of surprise anymore. Geralt does, and as always, he gets more than he bargained for.
Written for The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #054
Read on AO3
Geralt awoke in the dim light of the dawn.
The coastal morning air left everything glistening in a shiny dew.
The roads would be heavy with traffic soon with people eager to make it to the next town before the summer heat of the day properly settled in. He was the same, however, he could see much better than they could.
He set off early, on foot, his mare strolling beside him. The sun was finally making itself known over the horizon.
Fear was a common scent in a world of monsters. More often than not it was a prey animal that had met an unfortunate fate, or fortunate if you were the predator.
But this close to a township, it was worth a look at least.
He left Roach under the tree cover, safe from the wandering eyes of any travelers that may be walking the beaten path. The scent of fear was stronger, along with the sickly smell of rotted fish.
The scene he happened upon was an unpleasant one. A trio of drowners was snarling and scratching at the base of a tree, and in that tree were two people. A woman sniffling and crying, and jolting on the branch she was perched on every time a drowner lunged too high. The other, a man, was sitting limply on the branch, his heartbeat slow and sluggish, his blood streaking the trunk of the tree.
The woman cried for him when she spotted him. There was not enough time for a potion.
The witcher unsheathed his silver sword and advanced. The first went down easy, having not had a chance to react as he cleaved through its spine. The remaining pair were less easy.
Their bloody claws dragged across his armor. He was much quicker than them. They were slow and clumsy, driven mad by their hunger.
He arced his sword down into the shoulder of the second, and it fell into the oozing halves of its already fallen packmate. The third was strong, the sheer force of its attacks sent the witcher stumbling. Sensing an opening, it pounced at him, snarling something fierce and putrid. Geralt raised his sword, the beast impaled itself on the point, and the continued attacks forced it further down the length of the blade.
Finally, it fell limp against his chest, leaking dark blood down his armor.
He had just cleaned it the night before.
The woman sobbed hard, smearing the man’s blood across her skin as she wiped at the tears and mucous dripping down her face.
The witcher wiped the surface of his sword against his sleeve and sheathed it. “Do you need help?”
“Please, help him first.” They maneuvered the man down the tree safely. The woman followed soon after with about the same amount of grace. “Is he,” she swallowed, “is he dead?”
“No,” he said. Another broken sob ripped through her chest. “But he will be if you don’t get him to a healer.”
“I can’t carry him myself…” She assessed him, “Could you help? I can pay, I can get you some money, I promise you I’m good for it.”
Geralt grimaced at the thought, but the man would certainly bleed out without a healer soon if he hasn't already suffered permanent damage. “I have a horse, by the path. I can escort you if you’d like.”
“Oh please, please, thank you,” the woman broke into sobs again, clutching at the man's hand.
He heaved the man up who groaned at the shift. Blood poured from a wound deep in his leg with renewed vigor. The woman stumbled through the trees behind him, eventually grabbing hold of the man's free side to keep up.
Roach was not pleased with her new traveling companions, certainly not the one who was coating her flank in blood, but she trotted along obediently.
The township was a short walk away. A cock crowed in the distance and wisps of smoke from the morning’s cooking swirled in the air. The healer was not pleased by the frantic pounding on his door but ushered Geralt and the woman inside when he spotted the ghostly bleeding man shivering against his side.
The healer worked fast. Stripping the man's clothes and flushing the wound with water. The woman continued to cry. Geralt took a spare cloth and dipped it into the clean water basin. “For your face.” She touched her cheek, gasping when her fingers came back dark and sticky. She thanked him and wiped blood and dirt from her pale face.
The healer cleared his throat. “He is stable, for now. He’s lost a lot of blood. It’s a miracle he’s alive at all. A moment longer and you would be receiving different news.” She cried again. “ Maryla, I’m sure your mother is wondering where you are.” The man said pointedly. Maryla grimaced.
“You’re a witcher, aren’t you?” The woman asked. “I can pay you.”
He surveyed the man, wrapped tightly in warm blankets, save for his leg that the healer was coating in a plaster salve. “I don’t want your money, you have enough to worry about.”
“No, please. I insist you deserve something. You could have left us to die. You saved our lives, please.” She still had smears of blood on her hairline.
“Fine,” He thought for a moment. “That which you have that you do not know.” At his words, even the healer made a face, his thick brow raised.
“Alright, if that is what you wish, then you will have it.” She said. What could she have? A filling breakfast perhaps? He could do with a hot meal, his trail rations were becoming pathetically low.
They spent another hour in the healer’s surgery. They only left because the man had demanded they leave for he needed to tend to other patients. Since the man, Erik he learned, was stable, there was nothing he nor Maryla could do. She requested his further escort to her home.
They walked past shabby splintering houses and up a hill. At the top of the hill was a wide building. The girl smiled sheepishly. “I bet you wished you asked for money now.” The witcher hummed. “Please, come in. At least to confirm the story with my mother.”
Geralt was still coated in thick monster blood, it seeped through his small clothes uncomfortably.
The woman stepped through the door slowly. A chair scraped loudly against the floor followed by rapid footsteps and a woman’s voice. “Maryla, is that you? Where the hell have you been y—“ The voice, belonging to an older woman in a dark flowing dress, cut off in a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a scream. “What happened to you?” She rushed to Maryla’s side, grasping her hands to inspect her arms and face. “Are you injured? Who is this man? What’s happened to you?”
Maryla sniffled. “I was,” her voice was thick with emotion, “out with Erik a—“
“Oh for heaven’s sake.” The woman, Maryla’s mother presumably, dropped her hands. “I’ve told you a thousand times, that boy is bad news. Did he do this to you? I knew he was no good, just like this father, a wretch of a man.”
“No! Mother, stop. It doesn’t matter who I was with. We were attacked. The witcher, Geralt, he saved us.”
The woman crossed her arms across her chest. “Us? So Erik’s alive then? Shame.” Maryla protested. “No matter. Go clean yourself up. We’re expecting company. I’ve found you a suitable young man. Much better than that hapless boy you fancy. He will be here today and you will be married by sunset.”
Maryla paled, looking between her mother and the witcher. “You’ve… found someone. And he’s here. Now. Today.”
Fuck.
“Indeed I have. Now, Mister Witcher, I hate to say,” she didn’t, “but we have no space left at the table for you so I’m afraid you must go. You're… dripping in my foyer.” Maryla snorted, before devolving into a fit of laughter. “What on earth has gotten into you, girl? Compose yourself.”
Maryla patted her heaving chest. “Master witcher, I am so sorry,” she wasn’t, “Mother, he’s taken the law of surprise as payment. And you’ve brought me a husband!”
Fuck.
Her mother blanched. “No, no. Don’t be silly. Surely, Sir,” she said properly, “you would much prefer money. How does two thousand orens sound?” The witcher said nothing. Maryla was still laughing with relief into her hands. “Three thousand then? Anything over that I’ll have to discuss with my husband. Though I’m sure he would be happy to negotiate a proper payment.”
“You can’t pay off destiny, Mother!”
“Oh hush, girl. There's no such thing.” She gave Geralt a pained smile. “I’m sure we could come to an agreement that would benefit both parties.”
“I’m sorry,” said Geralt, he was. The woman’s shoulders fell.
“You’re sorry? I have worked so hard for this marriage. And you!” She pointed at him harshly, “You waltz in here covered in Gods' know what and think you can waste all my hard work! Out! Out with you, Witcher!”
Geralt followed her directions and stepped back through the front door onto the porch.
A young woman in simple temple clothes bounded up the steps. She eyed Geralt, in his blood-streaked clothes and reeking of warm week-old fish, and gave him a wide berth. “My Ladies,” she greeted Maryla and her mother with a polite bow, “Viscount Pankratz has arrived.”
The matron clapped her hands. “Excellent! Now Maryla, make yourself presentable and leave all of this law of surprise nonsense behind. The Viscount is waiting for you.”
The templewoman made a noise, “The law of surprise?”
“Witcher Geralt here,” Maryla smiled, “has claimed the law of surprise as payment for saving my life,” she gestured with her bloody dress, “and I have since found out I am to be married today.”
The woman bowed again. “I am sorry, My Lady.” Maryla’s mother protested loudly. “Witcher Geralt, the law is binding. There is to be a wedding today.” She looked at him apologetically. “Destiny demands it.”
“Is Destiny not willing to make an exception?” Geralt asked.
She shook her head. “If you will accompany me to the temple?”
The temple he was led to was small and elegant with a twisting layered roof. An ornate carriage sat out front, a pair of bright-coated horses tacked in. A few of the idle townspeople and temple workers gave him twisted and curious looks as he was led inside.
An older woman, a priestess, greeted them. “I sent you to fetch Maryla, who is this?”
“This is Geralt of…”
“Rivia,” he supplied.
“He has claimed the law of surprise in payment for Maryla’s life. Destiny calls for this union.”
The priestess nodded firmly. “Well, he can’t be handfast in this state.” She introduced herself as Sybil.
Geralt was ushered through heavy wood doors and down a winding hallway. They stripped his armor and attempted to take his swords, after his protests they agreed to leave them. A young woman quickly placed a string across his body in multiple places, making quick marks before she readjusted. He was then all but forced into a hot bath, high with soap bubbles and thick with oils that irritated his senses. The steaming water melted his muscles. He wanted to sink below the surface and never come up again. Witchers didn’t even take the law of surprise anymore, why had he? He could have ended up with a fat coin purse, not, whatever this was.
Once his skin and hair were scrubbed to their satisfaction they escorted him through another heavy door.
He was tied into a soft and suffocating pale jerkin and trousers that shimmered in the sun beaming through the temple windows.
The priestess appraised his appearance. “I’m sure this was not how you had intended for your day to go.”
He hummed, “I was just passing through.”
“You saved her life. Would you have refused to help had you known this is what you would receive as payment?”
“I would have taken the money.” She laughed even though they both knew he hadn’t made a joke.
“Maybe so, but you forced Destiny’s hand when you made your claim.”
“A witcher’s path is no place for a noble.”
She leaned in close. “A wedding does not have to mean a marriage. Marriages end all the time, Geralt. A wedding will happen today, it is destined. But after today…” The witcher looked at her curiously but she spoke no more.
As she turned to leave, “What’s his name?” he asked.
“Julian,” and with that, she was gone.
The wedding had been intended for the afternoon but once rumors of Geralt’s claim spread, it seemed to have sped things up lest the Viscount and his family try to leave. With a union ‘blessed by destiny,’ the traditional ceremony of blessing was deemed unnecessary. The priestesses of the temple were very determined to make this wedding happen as soon as possible. He would be married by noon.
He had never heard of the law of surprise resulting in a marriage, at least not like this. Sure, some people married their child surprises eventually, but from claim to marriage in less than a day was new to him.
He still wasn’t sure what compelled him to take the law of surprise. Witchers didn’t do that anymore, there was no reason to, not since the sacking.
Perhaps it was destiny.
His brothers would never let him live this down once they heard about it. He would be hearing about it every winter for at least a decade, or twice that, knowing Lambert.
He sweat under the thick wedding silks. How they had managed to find something that fit so quickly eluded him.
Sybil reentered the room, “They’re ready for you.”
Geralt did not have anyone to walk him to the alter, so he was escorted down the shadowed aisle by Sybil. The temple was nearly full of people, most of whom he did not recognize, save for Maryla and her very angry parents and a handful of templewomen he’d met throughout the morning. The priestess took her place adjacent to him with a roll of wide ribbon in her hands.
The people in the pews whispered to each other. Most of them spoke about his being a witcher or claiming the law. Some assumed he’d been paid to do this, if only he had been paid.
The door at the end of the room opened and Geralt was hit with an overwhelmingly bitter scent of anxiety and unhappiness. He studied the details in the woven rug beneath his feet. The whispering quieted as the two pairs of footsteps made their way toward him.
A man stepped in front of him. He was dressed in similarly light clothes. “I’m sorry,” Geralt said, he really was.
“Oh, it’s fine.” Julian’s voice was warm and low. “I’m sure we’re both eager to get through this.”
The man had a round jaw, a dark swooping hair, and…
Oh.
The world bled. It bled into more tones and hues than Geralt could have ever imagined. Julian’s eyes, which were bright and shining and a color he could not name, flitted around in wonder.
The room they were in was bathed in a dizzying mosaic of shades. The sun shone through the room through a ceiling of colored glass.
The shining eyes found him again and the color of Julian’s cheeks deepened into something warm. His heart rabbited in his chest and that bitter scent of anxiety gave way to a rolling wave of sugared lemons.
It made the witcher lightheaded and the room was so startlingly bright it strained his eyes. The man smiled sweetly. “Well, that’s convenient isn’t it?”
Sybil grinned, sensing this axial shift of Geralt's worldview. “It appears,” she announced, “Destiny has blessed this union a second time.” The audience’s surprised murmurs washed over him like rain. Sybil began wrapping the long ribbon around their joined hands, it was an intrusive color that stood out harshly against their skin.
The priestess continued the ceremony but he did not listen. The man gazed at him curiously, he knew the mutations had made his eyes different but no one had ever looked with such an intensity, it made him nervous. “I’m Jaskier,” he whispered.
“Geralt.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Geralt.” Jaskier briefly squeezed his hands beneath the ribbon, his heart steady.
Sybil quietly cleared her throat. “Do you, Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove take Geralt of Rivia, Witcher, as your husband?”
“I do,” Jaskier said.
“Do you, Geralt of Rivia, Witcher, take Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, as your husband?”
“I do,” Geralt said.
“By the powers vested in me by the Goddess and the will of Destiny itself, I pronounce you married.”
Jaskier glances nervously at the audience, “I think they’re expecting us to kiss.”
“That is traditional.” Geralt says.
His throat bobs, “Shall we?”
Geralt would not know how to say no even if he wanted to, so he didn’t. He watched Jaskier’s tongue dart across his lower lip and allowed himself to be pulled forward by his bound hands and into a kiss. The world was colorless and familiar for a too short moment. But then it was bright again, and looking at him in a way no one had ever looked at him before. He was married.
Perhaps there was something to this Destiny business after all.
Fandom: The Witcher (TV)
Relationship(s): Geralt/Jaskier | Dandelion
Notes: Soulmate Identifying Colorvision, Arranged Marriage, Canon Typical Monster Fights
Length: 2.9k; 1/1
Summary: Witchers don't take the law of surprise anymore. Geralt does, and as always, he gets more than he bargained for.
Written for The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #054
Read on AO3
Geralt awoke in the dim light of the dawn.
The coastal morning air left everything glistening in a shiny dew.
The roads would be heavy with traffic soon with people eager to make it to the next town before the summer heat of the day properly settled in. He was the same, however, he could see much better than they could.
He set off early, on foot, his mare strolling beside him. The sun was finally making itself known over the horizon.
Fear was a common scent in a world of monsters. More often than not it was a prey animal that had met an unfortunate fate, or fortunate if you were the predator.
But this close to a township, it was worth a look at least.
He left Roach under the tree cover, safe from the wandering eyes of any travelers that may be walking the beaten path. The scent of fear was stronger, along with the sickly smell of rotted fish.
The scene he happened upon was an unpleasant one. A trio of drowners was snarling and scratching at the base of a tree, and in that tree were two people. A woman sniffling and crying, and jolting on the branch she was perched on every time a drowner lunged too high. The other, a man, was sitting limply on the branch, his heartbeat slow and sluggish, his blood streaking the trunk of the tree.
The woman cried for him when she spotted him. There was not enough time for a potion.
The witcher unsheathed his silver sword and advanced. The first went down easy, having not had a chance to react as he cleaved through its spine. The remaining pair were less easy.
Their bloody claws dragged across his armor. He was much quicker than them. They were slow and clumsy, driven mad by their hunger.
He arced his sword down into the shoulder of the second, and it fell into the oozing halves of its already fallen packmate. The third was strong, the sheer force of its attacks sent the witcher stumbling. Sensing an opening, it pounced at him, snarling something fierce and putrid. Geralt raised his sword, the beast impaled itself on the point, and the continued attacks forced it further down the length of the blade.
Finally, it fell limp against his chest, leaking dark blood down his armor.
He had just cleaned it the night before.
The woman sobbed hard, smearing the man’s blood across her skin as she wiped at the tears and mucous dripping down her face.
The witcher wiped the surface of his sword against his sleeve and sheathed it. “Do you need help?”
“Please, help him first.” They maneuvered the man down the tree safely. The woman followed soon after with about the same amount of grace. “Is he,” she swallowed, “is he dead?”
“No,” he said. Another broken sob ripped through her chest. “But he will be if you don’t get him to a healer.”
“I can’t carry him myself…” She assessed him, “Could you help? I can pay, I can get you some money, I promise you I’m good for it.”
Geralt grimaced at the thought, but the man would certainly bleed out without a healer soon if he hasn't already suffered permanent damage. “I have a horse, by the path. I can escort you if you’d like.”
“Oh please, please, thank you,” the woman broke into sobs again, clutching at the man's hand.
He heaved the man up who groaned at the shift. Blood poured from a wound deep in his leg with renewed vigor. The woman stumbled through the trees behind him, eventually grabbing hold of the man's free side to keep up.
Roach was not pleased with her new traveling companions, certainly not the one who was coating her flank in blood, but she trotted along obediently.
The township was a short walk away. A cock crowed in the distance and wisps of smoke from the morning’s cooking swirled in the air. The healer was not pleased by the frantic pounding on his door but ushered Geralt and the woman inside when he spotted the ghostly bleeding man shivering against his side.
The healer worked fast. Stripping the man's clothes and flushing the wound with water. The woman continued to cry. Geralt took a spare cloth and dipped it into the clean water basin. “For your face.” She touched her cheek, gasping when her fingers came back dark and sticky. She thanked him and wiped blood and dirt from her pale face.
The healer cleared his throat. “He is stable, for now. He’s lost a lot of blood. It’s a miracle he’s alive at all. A moment longer and you would be receiving different news.” She cried again. “ Maryla, I’m sure your mother is wondering where you are.” The man said pointedly. Maryla grimaced.
“You’re a witcher, aren’t you?” The woman asked. “I can pay you.”
He surveyed the man, wrapped tightly in warm blankets, save for his leg that the healer was coating in a plaster salve. “I don’t want your money, you have enough to worry about.”
“No, please. I insist you deserve something. You could have left us to die. You saved our lives, please.” She still had smears of blood on her hairline.
“Fine,” He thought for a moment. “That which you have that you do not know.” At his words, even the healer made a face, his thick brow raised.
“Alright, if that is what you wish, then you will have it.” She said. What could she have? A filling breakfast perhaps? He could do with a hot meal, his trail rations were becoming pathetically low.
They spent another hour in the healer’s surgery. They only left because the man had demanded they leave for he needed to tend to other patients. Since the man, Erik he learned, was stable, there was nothing he nor Maryla could do. She requested his further escort to her home.
They walked past shabby splintering houses and up a hill. At the top of the hill was a wide building. The girl smiled sheepishly. “I bet you wished you asked for money now.” The witcher hummed. “Please, come in. At least to confirm the story with my mother.”
Geralt was still coated in thick monster blood, it seeped through his small clothes uncomfortably.
The woman stepped through the door slowly. A chair scraped loudly against the floor followed by rapid footsteps and a woman’s voice. “Maryla, is that you? Where the hell have you been y—“ The voice, belonging to an older woman in a dark flowing dress, cut off in a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a scream. “What happened to you?” She rushed to Maryla’s side, grasping her hands to inspect her arms and face. “Are you injured? Who is this man? What’s happened to you?”
Maryla sniffled. “I was,” her voice was thick with emotion, “out with Erik a—“
“Oh for heaven’s sake.” The woman, Maryla’s mother presumably, dropped her hands. “I’ve told you a thousand times, that boy is bad news. Did he do this to you? I knew he was no good, just like this father, a wretch of a man.”
“No! Mother, stop. It doesn’t matter who I was with. We were attacked. The witcher, Geralt, he saved us.”
The woman crossed her arms across her chest. “Us? So Erik’s alive then? Shame.” Maryla protested. “No matter. Go clean yourself up. We’re expecting company. I’ve found you a suitable young man. Much better than that hapless boy you fancy. He will be here today and you will be married by sunset.”
Maryla paled, looking between her mother and the witcher. “You’ve… found someone. And he’s here. Now. Today.”
Fuck.
“Indeed I have. Now, Mister Witcher, I hate to say,” she didn’t, “but we have no space left at the table for you so I’m afraid you must go. You're… dripping in my foyer.” Maryla snorted, before devolving into a fit of laughter. “What on earth has gotten into you, girl? Compose yourself.”
Maryla patted her heaving chest. “Master witcher, I am so sorry,” she wasn’t, “Mother, he’s taken the law of surprise as payment. And you’ve brought me a husband!”
Fuck.
Her mother blanched. “No, no. Don’t be silly. Surely, Sir,” she said properly, “you would much prefer money. How does two thousand orens sound?” The witcher said nothing. Maryla was still laughing with relief into her hands. “Three thousand then? Anything over that I’ll have to discuss with my husband. Though I’m sure he would be happy to negotiate a proper payment.”
“You can’t pay off destiny, Mother!”
“Oh hush, girl. There's no such thing.” She gave Geralt a pained smile. “I’m sure we could come to an agreement that would benefit both parties.”
“I’m sorry,” said Geralt, he was. The woman’s shoulders fell.
“You’re sorry? I have worked so hard for this marriage. And you!” She pointed at him harshly, “You waltz in here covered in Gods' know what and think you can waste all my hard work! Out! Out with you, Witcher!”
Geralt followed her directions and stepped back through the front door onto the porch.
A young woman in simple temple clothes bounded up the steps. She eyed Geralt, in his blood-streaked clothes and reeking of warm week-old fish, and gave him a wide berth. “My Ladies,” she greeted Maryla and her mother with a polite bow, “Viscount Pankratz has arrived.”
The matron clapped her hands. “Excellent! Now Maryla, make yourself presentable and leave all of this law of surprise nonsense behind. The Viscount is waiting for you.”
The templewoman made a noise, “The law of surprise?”
“Witcher Geralt here,” Maryla smiled, “has claimed the law of surprise as payment for saving my life,” she gestured with her bloody dress, “and I have since found out I am to be married today.”
The woman bowed again. “I am sorry, My Lady.” Maryla’s mother protested loudly. “Witcher Geralt, the law is binding. There is to be a wedding today.” She looked at him apologetically. “Destiny demands it.”
“Is Destiny not willing to make an exception?” Geralt asked.
She shook her head. “If you will accompany me to the temple?”
The temple he was led to was small and elegant with a twisting layered roof. An ornate carriage sat out front, a pair of bright-coated horses tacked in. A few of the idle townspeople and temple workers gave him twisted and curious looks as he was led inside.
An older woman, a priestess, greeted them. “I sent you to fetch Maryla, who is this?”
“This is Geralt of…”
“Rivia,” he supplied.
“He has claimed the law of surprise in payment for Maryla’s life. Destiny calls for this union.”
The priestess nodded firmly. “Well, he can’t be handfast in this state.” She introduced herself as Sybil.
Geralt was ushered through heavy wood doors and down a winding hallway. They stripped his armor and attempted to take his swords, after his protests they agreed to leave them. A young woman quickly placed a string across his body in multiple places, making quick marks before she readjusted. He was then all but forced into a hot bath, high with soap bubbles and thick with oils that irritated his senses. The steaming water melted his muscles. He wanted to sink below the surface and never come up again. Witchers didn’t even take the law of surprise anymore, why had he? He could have ended up with a fat coin purse, not, whatever this was.
Once his skin and hair were scrubbed to their satisfaction they escorted him through another heavy door.
He was tied into a soft and suffocating pale jerkin and trousers that shimmered in the sun beaming through the temple windows.
The priestess appraised his appearance. “I’m sure this was not how you had intended for your day to go.”
He hummed, “I was just passing through.”
“You saved her life. Would you have refused to help had you known this is what you would receive as payment?”
“I would have taken the money.” She laughed even though they both knew he hadn’t made a joke.
“Maybe so, but you forced Destiny’s hand when you made your claim.”
“A witcher’s path is no place for a noble.”
She leaned in close. “A wedding does not have to mean a marriage. Marriages end all the time, Geralt. A wedding will happen today, it is destined. But after today…” The witcher looked at her curiously but she spoke no more.
As she turned to leave, “What’s his name?” he asked.
“Julian,” and with that, she was gone.
The wedding had been intended for the afternoon but once rumors of Geralt’s claim spread, it seemed to have sped things up lest the Viscount and his family try to leave. With a union ‘blessed by destiny,’ the traditional ceremony of blessing was deemed unnecessary. The priestesses of the temple were very determined to make this wedding happen as soon as possible. He would be married by noon.
He had never heard of the law of surprise resulting in a marriage, at least not like this. Sure, some people married their child surprises eventually, but from claim to marriage in less than a day was new to him.
He still wasn’t sure what compelled him to take the law of surprise. Witchers didn’t do that anymore, there was no reason to, not since the sacking.
Perhaps it was destiny.
His brothers would never let him live this down once they heard about it. He would be hearing about it every winter for at least a decade, or twice that, knowing Lambert.
He sweat under the thick wedding silks. How they had managed to find something that fit so quickly eluded him.
Sybil reentered the room, “They’re ready for you.”
Geralt did not have anyone to walk him to the alter, so he was escorted down the shadowed aisle by Sybil. The temple was nearly full of people, most of whom he did not recognize, save for Maryla and her very angry parents and a handful of templewomen he’d met throughout the morning. The priestess took her place adjacent to him with a roll of wide ribbon in her hands.
The people in the pews whispered to each other. Most of them spoke about his being a witcher or claiming the law. Some assumed he’d been paid to do this, if only he had been paid.
The door at the end of the room opened and Geralt was hit with an overwhelmingly bitter scent of anxiety and unhappiness. He studied the details in the woven rug beneath his feet. The whispering quieted as the two pairs of footsteps made their way toward him.
A man stepped in front of him. He was dressed in similarly light clothes. “I’m sorry,” Geralt said, he really was.
“Oh, it’s fine.” Julian’s voice was warm and low. “I’m sure we’re both eager to get through this.”
The man had a round jaw, a dark swooping hair, and…
Oh.
The world bled. It bled into more tones and hues than Geralt could have ever imagined. Julian’s eyes, which were bright and shining and a color he could not name, flitted around in wonder.
The room they were in was bathed in a dizzying mosaic of shades. The sun shone through the room through a ceiling of colored glass.
The shining eyes found him again and the color of Julian’s cheeks deepened into something warm. His heart rabbited in his chest and that bitter scent of anxiety gave way to a rolling wave of sugared lemons.
It made the witcher lightheaded and the room was so startlingly bright it strained his eyes. The man smiled sweetly. “Well, that’s convenient isn’t it?”
Sybil grinned, sensing this axial shift of Geralt's worldview. “It appears,” she announced, “Destiny has blessed this union a second time.” The audience’s surprised murmurs washed over him like rain. Sybil began wrapping the long ribbon around their joined hands, it was an intrusive color that stood out harshly against their skin.
The priestess continued the ceremony but he did not listen. The man gazed at him curiously, he knew the mutations had made his eyes different but no one had ever looked with such an intensity, it made him nervous. “I’m Jaskier,” he whispered.
“Geralt.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Geralt.” Jaskier briefly squeezed his hands beneath the ribbon, his heart steady.
Sybil quietly cleared her throat. “Do you, Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove take Geralt of Rivia, Witcher, as your husband?”
“I do,” Jaskier said.
“Do you, Geralt of Rivia, Witcher, take Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, as your husband?”
“I do,” Geralt said.
“By the powers vested in me by the Goddess and the will of Destiny itself, I pronounce you married.”
Jaskier glances nervously at the audience, “I think they’re expecting us to kiss.”
“That is traditional.” Geralt says.
His throat bobs, “Shall we?”
Geralt would not know how to say no even if he wanted to, so he didn’t. He watched Jaskier’s tongue dart across his lower lip and allowed himself to be pulled forward by his bound hands and into a kiss. The world was colorless and familiar for a too short moment. But then it was bright again, and looking at him in a way no one had ever looked at him before. He was married.
Perhaps there was something to this Destiny business after all.
