Suborned by words

The reason I say that is because when they met, Geralt had just gotten himself thoroughly soaked, and Dandelion, upon seeing him in that state, didn't burst out laughing, nor did he grab his lute and improvise a little tune on the spot.

The bard merely climbed down slowly from under Pegasus, nearly missing his footing and falling—Geralt was already ready to catch him, but he didn't go down in the end, otherwise that gold-trimmed, wine-red tight outfit would have been ruined.

Geralt thought to himself that if his clothes really got wet, he'd probably complain for a full ten minutes before getting distracted by a street vendor.

"Long time no see, Geralt!" Dandelion nodded as a greeting, and Geralt nodded back.

"I need to get back to the inn, take a bath, and change out of these clothes," the witcher said, tugging at the fabric clinging to his skin, which was mixed with water, blood, sweat, and various unidentified substances.

"That's perfect!" Dandelion said excitedly. "Take me to your room."

"No problem, Dandelion. Follow me."

Geralt led him to the remotest corner of the town, so remote that even Dandelion had no idea an inn was hidden there. The ground floor reeked of alcohol and sweat—it was the dockworkers' break time, which explained why the tavern was located here. Dandelion also noticed a back door behind the innkeeper, and he knew exactly what that was for, because several young, pretty women were standing around nearby.

The witcher was used to it, so he headed straight upstairs without lifting his head. A few women who recognized him said hello, and a few men who weren't too fond of him made some rude remarks.

"Oh, the white-haired one! Looks like you've got a new taste today?" The others around them laughed.

Geralt ignored it.

Then a rebuke rang out: "If you're looking for trouble, I'd be happy to oblige." But the one who retorted wasn't Dandelion—it was a dockworker. The friction was soon swallowed up by the noisy crowd.

The witcher blinked and looked back at Dandelion, who was following behind him. The bard nearly tripped again, and Geralt caught his arm just in time.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Given Dandelion's usual temperament, if he heard someone running their mouth, he would have doubled down and mocked them right back. But he acted as if nothing had happened? A wave of unease rose in Geralt's heart.

Once in the room, Dandelion sat down on the bed. Geralt quickly stripped off his wet clothes, walked over to the bard, reached out to feel his forehead—normal temperature.

"Geralt, what are you doing?" Dandelion swatted his hand away.

"Nothing," Geralt said, putting his questions aside for the moment—because he was about to take a bath. "Just stay put and don't mess with my bag."

Last time, the bard had volunteered to tidy his backpack, and Geralt had ended up tasting alcohol in his potion. Dandelion later said it was an accidental spill, and Geralt had given his arm a good hard pinch.

"I won't touch anything. I'll just sit here and wait for you to come back." Dandelion forced a smile, and Geralt thought it looked a bit strained.

Finally, a moment of peace.

As he sank into the warm water, Geralt had never felt so relieved, body and soul. Though the contract had left him a bit battered, the pay was decent. If he saved a little more, he could put aside a tidy sum: half for the travel back to Kaer Morhen, and half for the winter upkeep contribution—voluntary, of course, but he'd feel bad if he didn't give anything, and he swore he wouldn't let Vesemir laugh at him for half a year's work being all for nothing again.

Soon, his thoughts turned to Dandelion. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong with him—it was strange, not just a little. He wasn't feverish, he didn't seem drugged, just quieter, calmer... no, that was the scariest part. For Dandelion, it was like a different person. The unease surged back in Geralt's chest. If something really had happened to Dandelion, he might actually consider skipping Kaer Morhen this year.

When he came out of the bath, he saw Dandelion lying on the floor, hugging his sword, with the potion bottles from his bag laid out in a row. He knew Dandelion couldn't sit still—at least in that regard, he was still the same Dandelion.

"Hey, wake up," Geralt nudged him with his foot.

The bard jolted awake, rubbed his temples, looked around in panic, and upon recognizing Geralt's room, let out a long sigh of relief.

"Let me guess—you didn't break up peacefully with another woman again, did you?" Geralt picked up his bag and bent down to gather the potions.

Dandelion didn't answer, just stared blankly at the floor. Geralt frowned and pushed his shoulder. The bard flinched, then grinned at him: "Oh, oh, uh, what did you say just now? How could I not have heard? I mean, I didn't quite catch it, anyway..."

Geralt shoved his things aside, grabbed Dandelion, and set him on the bed, feeling his forehead again, stroking his cheek, and checking those blue eyes—big and bright. He pulled Dandelion back to the present.

"Dandelion, tell me honestly—what have you been up to lately?" He raised his voice, his tone serious.

"Drinking, singing, admiring beautiful scenery, and finally running into you, my dearest friend! And I did hear what you said this time, Geralt!" Dandelion said with utmost seriousness.

Geralt snorted and reached to undo his collar. The poet's thin body showed no abnormalities—no strange symbols, bruises, love bites, or wounds. Aside from his ribs being a bit prominent, he was clean.

"Hey! Geralt, what are you trying to do? First you randomly paw at my face, then you pull at my clothes. Not that your undressing technique isn't smooth, but it's still a bit off—let me tell you, you should—"

"Dandelion, are you really okay?"

"Well... actually... a little... I wasn't going to tell you so soon. Damn, how did you find out? I mean, we only just met today—you couldn't possibly know what I've been up to. Hmm," Dandelion paused to think. "By my plan, we should have met later, but I don't mind moving it up, because now there's only one last step left—and that's you."

"What... what? What are you talking about?"

"You should be grateful to have such—such—such a great friend," Dandelion spread his arms wide to show just how "such" it was. "I've been singing for three days and three nights without closing my eyes."

He yawned. "Because I accidentally came across some information about an awesome set of witcher armor. I swear this time I won't get your money swindled like last time. And the seller doesn't take money, so I sang for him for three days. He agreed and said someone would deliver it in a few days. If it turns out to be fake, please behead him for me. Thanks."

"No, I won't do that," Geralt said, his eyes wide. "But... Dandelion, why would you do all this?"

"Hah, Geralt, you don't remember—I knew you wouldn't—but I do," Dandelion said, proudly patting his chest. "Not long ago, you told me about your father—I mean Master Vesemir's legendary tales, and your gang of brothers who aren't really brothers but keep trying to kill each other. For the sake of my best friend's reputation—that is, my reputation—I wanted you to have something to show off in front of them this year."

"Trying to kill each other?"

"Geralt, come on—aren't you Wolves?" Dandelion made a face.

"Dandelion..." Geralt gripped his shoulders, then squeezed his neck. "I have some money left..."

"You bastard!" Dandelion pinched his cheek. "How dare you try to insult me with money!"

"Sorry, Dandelion," Geralt raised his hands in surrender. "So you're just tired... oh, I should have realized."

"Huh? What did you think was wrong with me? Geralt, the recommended sleep duration for ordinary people is over eight hours. Me? I recommend ten hours for myself." Dandelion yawned again and tugged Geralt onto the bed. "Now, Geralt, let's sleep."

Dandelion turned over, his back to him. Geralt blew out the lamp, his chest pressed against the bard's back.

"Dandelion, if I asked you to come with me to Kaer Morhen, would you say no?"

"Why would you think... I'd say no..." Dandelion's voice faded into drowsiness. Geralt couldn't help but smile, pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, and closed his eyes.