Chapter Text
Let it not be said that Skelligans couldn't sense a fight before it happened.
It was like a sting at the back of their mind, and Crach an Craite felt it hard the moment he stepped into the Cintran court. Despite his best efforts, he wasn't familiar with the continent's political mannerisms and trends, but that by no means implied he couldn't recognise their foppish nature. It's all dance, gossip and schemes as far as he was concerned. Smoke and mirrors shadowed their every lord and lady's action in a game Crach found himself wholly uninterested in. He was a military man in his own right, and while he wouldn't deny Pavetta's beauty and grace, she was so far from his view of romance that the thought of a marriage for purely political purposes made him uneasy. This is not to say he has never engaged in governmental action on behalf of Skellige because, by birthright, he was forced to. Still, he's never particularly enjoyed this aspect of his life, which was undoubtedly all of Pavetta's. He knew in his heart of hearts that if he were to marry Pavetta, he would be consumed in that which he hated.
Aligning themselves with Skellige would be a fantastic move on Cintra's part due to their previously shared history. However, if he was frank, Crach wasn't sure what the purpose of this particular endeavour was. Suppose their intent is to get a Cintran on the throne of Skellige. In that case, they have entirely forgotten that Skellige doesn't choose a leader through hereditary ascent but rather a display of skill and ability followed by a democratic process. If the intent was to strengthen ties with Skellige by potentially marrying someone who already had immense control over the island nation, why did Calanthe need Pavetta for that? Crach's uncle Eist was a shoo-in for the chief of the islands and had already stated his interest in the widowed queen, both for political reasons and just because Eist himself was completely and utterly smitten with the woman. Crach knew he had to be here for his elders, but it all felt a bit unnecessary, and he could think of better things than being sat at their insanely uncomfortable tables nursing a lukewarm drink and fake smile.
'This was a boring but necessary process.' He kept reminding himself whenever he contemplated how easy it would be to leave and find adventure elsewhere in Cintra for the night. That being said, there were three people in this room he kept thinking of whenever boredom struck its blow. Three people were gritting their teeth through ceremony and flowery talk, and three who tried to ignore how tense they felt with every passing moment. Three people with that familiar sting at the back of their minds. Crach smiled smugly whenever he caught their visages in his side eye; he could practically hear the squeeze of skin and leather as their grips tightened on their weapons handle.
Unsurprisingly, the first is Calanthe. She'd been known for her aggressiveness and tenacity in every situation. Every conversation was a fight to be won in her eyes, and you'd need to be genuinely an idiot not to see it. 'She's a lioness in all senses', Crach chuckled to himself. 'All she lacks is the fur.'
Pavetta was the second. She was one more inane dance for bolting from the room entirely. Despite all the courtesy and custom, Crach relished that she looked just as miserable as him to be here. He could tell she was fantasising about an escape plan and, failing that, a fight. Her knees were loose despite her tall and proud posture. It screamed like someone who was looking for an out. Crach had been to a fair few of these diplomatic banquets, and at the start of the night, like the others he'd seen, he'd assumed it was a childish fear that she would be sold off to the highest bidder with little disregard for how she felt about the suitor. To be a married noblewoman in this country sometimes meant the complete and utter loss of autonomy and decision; only those with an exceptional mind for the game could manipulate their way to power and security. Being just 15, that must be an incredibly daunting idea to Pavetta. However, having watched her on and off for a few hours, Crach noted something else. She would look to the doors of the building frantically every so often, almost like she was waiting for someone or something. Crach, for all intents and purposes, did not give a single shit what she was up to, but even the slightest bit of curiosity was preferable to talking to the nobles around him, so he did wonder every time he looked back to her.
Then there was the third, and Crach didn't even know his name. A man. Tall with lean muscle. Strong but not bulky. Scars littered his hands, only visible because of his rolled-up sleeves that stayed at his elbows despite being told off by Calanthe herself. He was dressed professionally but not trying to compete for best dressed. His most interesting feature, however, was the long, stark white hair that flowed like rain down his shoulders. It obscured his face, and Crach couldn't solidify his features from his distance away. However, he could see the hilts of two swords secured solidly around his waist by an unobvious belt. Standing straight, one would never see them behind the man's muscled legs. He stood loosely against a pillar, watching the crowd like a hawk. He seemed to be preparing much like Pavetta, but preparing for what?
Two swords and an objective. Without even saying a word, this man had made Crach insatiably interested.
Elves don't exist on Skellige, and Crach had never seen one. Only hearing ancient tales from the continent about their old, wizened nature and etherealness. With their long-lived existences and magic, Crach had always equated them to beautiful and almost divine beings. In all the fiction he'd made in his head, one would have sworn that it had jumped out and manifested in this white-haired angel across the room. 'He doesn't have the ears.' Crach tried to dispel the fantasy quickly developing in his brain about this stranger. He felt drawn to him as he hadn't with anyone else at this function, and by a few drinks in, he was stumbling his way over to the man. Crazily intent on talking to him.
Though the man didn't show it, he was immediately aware of Crach's approach. He made a distinct effort not to look over at the Skelligan as he closed the distance between them, instead finding interest in the basically untouched cup of alcohol he had been nursing this entire night. Now, Crach could hold his alcohol even after a whole slough of intoxicating beverages, and he was cognizant that the man was making this effort to avoid looking at him. To make himself seem a little less creepy in his eagerness for conversation, Crach saddled up beside him, leaving at least a good 40 centimetres in between them. The man was smaller than him, substantially though most people are. The stranger's head sat around Crach's shoulders, which meant he'd have to look up to see Crach. 'Maybe that means the hair will fall from his eyes so I can see his face.' Crach's devious mind was at work.
"Two swords? Do you often use two at once or do they have different properties?" Crach ingratiated himself with the man who still refused to look at him. "Personally I find I only need one at any given moment but to each their own."
The man didn't speak, taking a sip of his drink. They stood in relative silence for a long while, almost to the point of discomfort, before the man sighed softly, easing his posture, realising Crach would not move on. "Maybe I just couldn't decide which one I liked more." He was barely audible over the general noise of the crowd.
Overjoyed, Crach huffed a short laugh "A problem I often face as well." He slapped the hilt on his sword at his waist, smiling at the man who had shifted his vision to the nebulous space before him to casually spy the weapon on Crach's hip. "Maybe I should take a page from your book, my friend. Two is always better than one, they say."
The man blew air out of his nose in amusement. "Thought a Skelligan would appreciate the extra steel." He spoke up now, clearly above the room noise. Crach felt the hairs on his arms stand at attention at the stranger's voice. He could get lost in that rough cadence. Like a low rumble you felt in your very soul. Though he'd not said much, Crach felt warmer somehow with each syllable.
Crach turned to face him properly, aiming to push his luck. "Oh, I'm very appreciative. It's just not something I've seen on the continent so far." He explained, "You've caught my interest."
The man shifted in an awkward dance with thoughts so loud Crach could swear he heard them. After a moment, he spoke, "I assure you" The man rumbled "I'm the furthest thing from interesting. I'm only here for the drink."
A lie. As Crach observed before, he'd been nursing that drink since he first appeared. So, it's false, really strong, or the man can't hold his drink. Crach held his hand out to the man. "We share that in common." He said, unable to contain a wolfish smile on his face. "I'm Crach an Craite, from Kaer Trolde."
The man turned to him slowly and steadily, taking his hand in his own. "Ravix of Forhorn," he introduced himself. Rough hands. These are the hands of a commoner, not a noble. These hands have known work and pressure, unlike most in this room. When Crach didn't let go immediately, the stranger looked up, the hair flowing away from his face, showing his features. The skelligan felt a bit unnerved seeing the man's face. It was not ugly but rather almost fake in its cookie cutter beauty. Like it was a mask. Something meticulously moulded. Crach was sure it would peel off if he rubbed his hand along it, and he was almost tempted to try. 'Surely that's not a glamour.' He stated to himself. He only knew of the beauty product through the Druids on the isle who had similar concoctions, though he'd only seen them used on lasses who were unlucky in love. If it was a glamour, it looked odd on a man. Ravix looked up at him, concerned. "Is something wrong?" he asked.
Crach came back to himself. "No, I just- Is your face your own?"
Ravix looked a little taken aback but answered truthfully, "No. Not right now." He looked away again, his hair falling back over his face. "I wasn't aware Skellige had magics of this variety."
Crach looked to the crowd. "We do. It's just not common." He explained, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable; I was just thrown off. Why do you hide your face?"
Ravix took another sip of his drink, humming softly, "I'm scarred very heavily. I've been asked to cover the ones on my face so as to not upset the royals."
"That's a shame," Crach smirked. "I bet they look awe-inspiring."
Ravix huffed. "To a skelligan, maybe."
"Lioness of Cintra!!" a voice loudly proclaimed. Crach looked to the doors of the hall where the sound originated. A man in full plate armour, including a helm, stormed in, immediately addressing Calanthe at her high table. "I've come to claim that which is rightfully mine!" He slung a sword from his waist, raising it to point to Pavetta, who looked terrified. "Pavetta by law of surprise!"
Violence broke around the scene as Cintran guards leapt forward, trying to strike the man down. Ravix had sprung from his spot to join them in a moment, taking out a mean-looking sword from his waist. It was eclipsed in runes that burned a bright orange at every slight movement, creating a sea of light as Ravix swung it about. In one fell swoop Ravix unmasked the man stopping his onslaught to stare at the- well he wasn't really a man. Rodent came to Crach's mind.
Dry cracky skin, hairlike thorns protruding from his scalp, and a short snout with an unnatural overbite that distorted the dimensions of his face.
"You're cursed." Ravix started, turning to Calanthe, who looked about ready to murder something. Ravix's own features turned hard in disquiet. "This is a cursed man Calanthe. Not a monster." He invoked.
"Kill him Witcher." She spat at him. "Kill him and get your prize."
"No!" Pavetta screamed from down the table, standing up looking anguished, "Please Witcher! Please let no harm come to him!"
Calanthe gave her daughter an angry scowl before ordering the Witcher again, "Kill him Witcher, or I shall kill you."
He refused to move, sheltering the man with his body from the queen's gaze, and as Calanthe's face contorted in knots of anger and rage, she screamed bloody murder, ordering the death of them both. The guards surrounded them, steeling themselves for the fight ahead, though there was an evident hesitation amongst them.
'He's a Witcher?' Crach asked himself. Like elves, he'd never seen one before. Only heard the stories of their violent births and sinister nature. They were monster slayers like no other, a result of their horrific mutations. Aggressive beyond belief, the only thing able to satisfy them being coin. If Ravix indeed was a Witcher, Calanthe's guards were right in their hesitation. Ravix's features were unchanged as three of Calanthe's men dropped dead before him, seemingly before he even moved. His sword was drenched in their blood. Crach felt a sliver of excitement crawl dangerously up his spine, and like a devil on his shoulder, he thought to himself, 'Oh how fun it would be to fight alongside a Witcher.' Without much more thought, he drew his weapon, 'An honest to God Witcher.' Forcing himself into the mix, he pushed against Ravix's back with his own, flashing a cheeky smile over his shoulder, defending his back against the guards. Ravix nodded back at him in appreciation and thus began the fight.
Crach's ears were ringing something fierce as he stomped his way outside the Cintran Court in pain and thoroughly exhausted. He wasn't aware Pavetta had magic. In a determined effort to protect the rodent man from certain death, she'd screamed like a banshee, sending everyone flying and knocking out a good chunk of people, including Crach himself. By the time he came to, the rodent man was convulsed on the floor as his rodent features burned away into distinctly more human features. 'The curse must've been lifted somehow', he concluded later. Last he saw, Ravix and the ex-rodent had a short conversation Crach couldn't hear before Pavetta threw up, and the Witcher stormed out, leaving everyone looking very surprised and horrified. Whatever he had said had really rocked the court.
He'd not seen Ravix since, which was a shame because Crach found himself still insatiably interested in the man. He'd never thought of men romantically, but watching the Witcher fight had awoken something in him. The way white hair danced around him like a thick ribbon made him look glorious in combat. If something good came out of this night, Crach would say seeing Ravix again might make it all worth it.
The ringing wasn't stopping; the noise around him was significantly exacerbating the issue, with Crach now clutching his ears to muffle the loudness. In his disoriented state, he ended up walking off the palace grounds entirely, on a desperate mission to find silence. Time blurred together as he stumbled through the cobbled streets, eventually finding himself amongst the grass and the tree line to the forest standing before him. Sitting against a thick oak, relished the little noise hitting his ears. Relaxing, he peered into the night sky, finding peace along the constellations that had often guided him home on the sea. The ringing died down slowly, the soft breeze the only song in the air. Were he in a country he knew, he'd feel comfortable enough to fall asleep.
As his hearing returned in full, a soft crackle of a fire behind him alerted him to the light obscured by the tree he leant against. Grass crunched to his left, signifying he wasn't alone, much to his annoyance. He growled, "Piss off, this nights been bad enough."
A body appeared next to him, sitting down against the same tree with little distance between them. "Agreed." a gravelly voice hummed into the air.
"Ravix", he murmured, turning to look at the man. His heart was in his throat, and he felt tension release in his chest. The Witcher didn't look at Crach, instead looking at a water skin in his hands.
"Geralt", the Witcher slurred in response, stumbling drunk in his actions, beginning to open the water skin. He poured small amounts into his hands and wiped the liquid over his face. Using his shirt, he'd wipe off the liquid bit by bit. With each swipe, his face changed. Like paint peeling off wood, it was like Geralt was shedding his skin for a new one. Crach found himself unable to look away from this almost grotesque act. Oddly entranced by the man underneath. He really was a Witcher. His golden eyes were glowing in the darkness, highlighting the scars on his face and down his neck. Now dotted with blood, the white hair stood out in the darkness like a beacon. Crach had envisioned the divine when he first saw the man, and that thought had only increased now, having seen his true face.
He sighed, exhausted and tense, like the night was seeping into his bones. Looking at the bag in his hands, he felt a soft frustration coming over his features. "Can't get this shit off." He cursed to himself. Putting the bag down and facing Crach, "Did you escape unscathed?" Geralt asked awkwardly loudly as if making conversation.
Crach shrugged, pulling himself to face the other man better. "Nursing a bit of a headache, but the ringing in my ears has stopped." He replied, rubbing his forehead.
Geralt considered the man for a moment, humming in acknowledgement. He raised his hand so that it sat in front of Crachs face. The twisting fingers made an odd motion, and a sigil appeared before Crach. Instantly, he felt his headache ease and a heavy blanket of tiredness overtook him.
Crach sighed in relief. "Thank you, dear Witcher. Are these your magics?"
"Signs, that's what we call them", Geralt stated, "you helped me. Consider this a thank you." He turned back to the task of washing his face. They sat in relative silence for a while. Geralt gets increasingly frustrated as he scrubs his face hard to get the fake face off. Crach spied that it was this one spot he was missing close to the underside of his chin. It was clear the Witcher could feel the cream on his skin but couldn't fathom where it was in his drunken state.
Crach shifted closer to him, reliving the Witcher's hands of the water skin, which Geralt surprisingly just let leave his hands. "Let me try." He grunted unthinkingly, wetting his fingers and leaning in to touch the man's face. Geralt awkwardly leans away for a second but is powerless as the man uses his wet hand to dab the side of his face. A ghost of a beard reappeared on the other's skin, and the glamour was officially all off. Crach, still feeling a little drunk from earlier, was staring at his face again, thoroughly charmed by his features. The man wasn't traditionally handsome by continental standards, but his hard features and ruggedness did its charms hard on Crach. "I like your eyes." He said off handedly. "Actually, I prefer this face overall."
Geralt laughed humourlessly. "You'd be the first." Taking the skin, the Witcher grew mischievous. "I didn't take you for a romantic." He joked, "Had I been a woman, I would've swooned."
Crach laughed unexpectedly. "Call it the Skelligan charm."
"I'd call it the Crach charm. I've not met many touchy-feeling Skelligans." Geralt leaned away in show, chuckling, "We've talked twice, and both times you've been just a little close, don't you think?"
Crach scooted a bit closer, yawning and making a big show of putting an arm around Geralt as he did. His forearms resting on Geralt's shoulder so as to not push his luck "I have no idea what you're talking about." He smirks at the Witcher.
Geralt looked at Crach with an intense stare, and the skelligan almost feels he's overstepped by this silly action but that fear quickly disappears and Geralt rolls his eyes. In an unexpected action, the Witcher leans into Crach's side, humming to himself and softly head-butting his inner shoulder, "You're okay Crach an Craite." He uttered drunkenly.
He moved to lean away, but suddenly, feeling very brave, Crach leaned over, pulling the Witcher taut against him so that the other man's head sat on his chest by his shoulder and the sides of their bodies were touching. Geralt takes a second to stabilise himself, not expecting this action, though he did nothing to push Crach away. The Witcher looks up at Crach, his golden eyes glowing pretty in a soft confusion. "Same to you, Geralt of Rivia." Crach spoke down to him. Geralt hums in acceptance and shuffles comfortably into the other man's clothing. The newly added weight almost made Crach's heart skip a little. The witcher pulls a flask out of his pocket and takes a sip, coughing slightly before truly settling down. Crach raises his eyebrows at the action. "What's that?"
"Black gull." The Witcher hummed, eyes half-lidded, tiredness taking over slowly. "Witcher hallucinogen."
Crach chuckled at the thought that his companion had been high this whole time. "I suppose I can't have some then?" Geralt shook his head and rubbed his forehead into Crach's shirt. "Shame. I'll have to drink with you some other time."
Geralt sunk further into the other man, laughing softly. "I'll come to Skellige. We'll have a drink."
Crach felt his eyelids get heavier and heavier. "I'd be happy to have you." He said before falling asleep with the Witcher by his side.