wake the white wolf.

Something catches at that, a wry amusement blooming at the fact that he very nearly did everything wrong — when it came to women, at least. Ciri had admonished him often enough, claiming he was past even her help, and he can’t imagine how she’ll react to this. She’d always been particularly amused at the words on his arm, engaging in speculations nearly as much as Lambert.

Not that he planned on telling Lambert jack shit.

“Geralt,” he counters, offering a hand. For the first time since their recent debaucle, he pauses to really look at her, hand small and soft within his own. All things considered, he’d really lucked out: she’s no wilting maiden to despair at being matched with a beast, and if the callouses on her palm were a sign, she was more than half a warrior on her own. Truth be told, her foul mouth is more endearing than she could know, though he suspects that’s rarely been the case.

It doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful, either — but he’s quick to hold that pleasant neutrality in his eyes. No need to add lecherous to the list of faults she’s got to be comprising in her mind.

“It’s a pleasure. And if it helps,” he adds, with the slightest upward tick of his mouth, “I wasn’t planning to show your mother my arm. Guess she’ll never find out.”

It had been a shitty day from start until right about now. From a restive horse who chose to throw a shoe midway through the day, to hunting down reports of something or other on the road up ahead from people who didn’t want to admit it existed to a woman, to yet another letter from her mother waiting for her. And then a spilled beer, when it had been the one thing she’d wanted to blunt the edge of the shitty day.

But then there was this. She hadn’t paid attention to anyone else in the inn, but now that she looked at him, even if her words hadn’t been on his arm, there was something compelling about those gold eyes and white hair, the warrior’s strong shoulders and easy, controlled grace.

And the hand she took had an entirely different skip of her heart from the gentle warmth and thoroughly enticing calluses.

No, she could not count this as part of one of the bad parts of the day.

This was why he’d almost hoped he’d never meet them. It made everything so complicated.

Still, it’s interesting, to say the least. If he doesn’t concern himself with the future, the whole thing might not be so bad. But his eyes track the movement, feeling a phantom tingle against his own skin where her outburst is marked, a clearly cut link that drew them together. “A curse,” he echos, and not without a considerate tone. It’s a fitting notion: he knows enough about spellwork to agree. A force that twists two fates together — with no consent from either one?

He’s vaguely aware of how fast her heart’s beating. Yet instead of romance, it’s embarrassment that spurs it on. That’s surprising; given how enthusiastically she’d just ripped him apart, it’s hard to believe she’d regret the words so quickly. After all, she very genuinely seemed to think he was a careless prick. And a fucking asshole.

He’d always wondered how these words would come up. Mystery solved.

“Why’s that?” He gestures to the barmaid for another one — and then the hand lowers, a conspicuous glow of gold at the back, flames peeking out to lick at his skin. He waves it over the mottled fabric of his linen shirt, the faint smell of hops carried into the air as it gently steams dry.

“Guessing you’re not usually so unwieldy.” It’s a joke, if you read his eyes carefully enough. The barmaid appears, tentatively hands Geralt a drink. He offers it out to the woman in turn, a tip of his head in unspoken apology for the first. “Either way, seems to work out for us.” If not for spilled beer, they’d never have found their soulmates tonight — or maybe not. Maybe it’s all down to fate, but Geralt has a hard time thinking that.

It was one thing to say the words. It was another to realize they’d be immortalized. She probably would have gotten to the regret, but this was far sooner and layered with additional levels of awkward.

He was owed the explanation for what was on his arm, at the very least. “My mother,” she said, with growing mortification as she remembered the lectures, “used to say if I didn’t mind my tongue the first word on my soulmate’s arm would be ‘fuck’.” She sat down heavily and rubbed at her eyes. It muffled her plaintive, “And I fucking just proved her right. Fuck, I left and…Shit.“ She shut her mouth as much to stop swearing as to keep from spilling all of her past into his lap the way she had the beer.

Though, apparently it wasn’t going to inconvenience him much. It was the warmth she felt that had her looking up, just in time to see the glimmer of light and heat pass over his shirt, dry it well enough. The neat trick had her raising an eyebrow, her smile more curious than polite.

Not that he planned on telling Lambert jack shit.

“Geralt,” he counters, offering a hand. For the first time since their recent debaucle, he pauses to really look at her, hand small and soft within his own. All things considered, he’d really lucked out: she’s no wilting maiden to despair at being matched with a beast, and if the callouses on her palm were a sign, she was more than half a warrior on her own. Truth be told, her foul mouth is more endearing than she could know, though he suspects that’s rarely been the case.

It doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful, either — but he’s quick to hold that pleasant neutrality in his eyes. No need to add lecherous to the list of faults she’s got to be comprising in her mind.

sunshinedoomguide:

@silverandsteelsing

Iswen rubbed the words that matched down her forearm. Soulmate words: her soulmate’s first words, by tradition. She hadn’t even believed in it, not really, until right about this moment. There were moral reasons not to, from a distaste from the idea of having one person in all the world who suited her best instead of working at a relationship to points about free will, but secretly, the fact of what she had on her arm. 

How many times had she felt a kick of fear because the first word out of someone’s mouth after being introduced to her wasn’t their polite name in return, or even a slightly less proper ‘nice to meet you’, but a noncommittal noise as they gathered their thoughts? Her eyes had always drifted to her arm, rather than theirs, trying to determine if ‘ah’ or ‘mm’ counted as “Hhm.”

All those very pretty rich boys at the pretty parties in Novigrad, people she never would have liked if it had been her own choice, all that fear and unhappiness, and it turned out she needed have worried.

“Oh shit,” she said, nearly back in her throat, feeling the heat radiating out from her skin. Because those were indeed the last few words on the witcher’s arm.

He makes a show about checking the rest, fingers tracing that last sentiment. Eyes lift back up, seemingly satisfied, a good measure of silent laughter now showing within their depths.

“That settles it, then.” His tone is impossibly nonchalant: in truth, there’s more than a few thoughts in his mind, each warring for primary position. Maybe he hadn’t really believed the mark. For one thing, it almost seemed a cruel joke — like the words writ on his skin offered affirmation to his real thoughts.

That witchers couldn’t have a soulmate. Those were human things, and they weren’t quite human.

It must be what she’s thinking right now. She’s got to be disappointed, anyway. He’s hardly the type of man a young girl would dream of finding — but then, that’s what this damned thing means, right? That they were what each other truly wanted? A hand rubs over the back of his neck. He needs a drink.

Speaking of. “Guess I should buy you another.” Lips quirk, gesturing to half empty cup. “Seems like we’re wearing most of it.”

The bard Dandelion had songs about this moment; this exact moment, where two lovers looked at their arms, then up into each other’s eyes, and fell madly in love. Sighing was involved. Her sisters had giggled madly over them, and the silly chapbooks that described the moment, and over each and every couple who proudly showed their matching arms, a name on each.

She had a wildly beating heart, a beer staining her shirt and boots, while her arm had “Hhm” and his had something that began “Motherfucking hagspawn-” and ended “oh shit.” (Had she included something about him being an asshole in there? She couldn’t remember and was afraid to look.) She didn’t have a wide experience in the matter, but she was fairly sure this was not what True Love felt like.

Maybe it wasn’t something miraculous after all. The thought actually made her feel a little better. Not much, but a little. Under the circumstances, she’d take it.

He’d always wondered how these words would come up. Mystery solved.

“Why’s that?” He gestures to the barmaid for another one — and then the hand lowers, a conspicuous glow of gold at the back, flames peeking out to lick at his skin. He waves it over the mottled fabric of his linen shirt, the faint smell of hops carried into the air as it gently steams dry.

Iswen rubbed the words that matched down her forearm. Soulmate words: her soulmate’s first words, by tradition. She hadn’t even believed in it, not really, until right about this moment. There were moral reasons not to, from a distaste from the idea of having one person in all the world who suited her best instead of working at a relationship to points about free will, but secretly, the fact of what she had on her arm. 

How many times had she felt a kick of fear because the first word out of someone’s mouth after being introduced to her wasn’t their polite name in return, or even a slightly less proper ‘nice to meet you’, but a noncommittal noise as they gathered their thoughts? Her eyes had always drifted to her arm, rather than theirs, trying to determine if ‘ah’ or ‘mm’ counted as “Hhm.”

All those very pretty rich boys at the pretty parties in Novigrad, people she never would have liked if it had been her own choice, all that fear and unhappiness, and it turned out she needed have worried.

“That settles it, then.” His tone is impossibly nonchalant: in truth, there’s more than a few thoughts in his mind, each warring for primary position. Maybe he hadn’t really believed the mark. For one thing, it almost seemed a cruel joke — like the words writ on his skin offered affirmation to his real thoughts.

That witchers couldn’t have a soulmate. Those were human things, and they weren’t quite human.

It must be what she’s thinking right now. She’s got to be disappointed, anyway. He’s hardly the type of man a young girl would dream of finding — but then, that’s what this damned thing means, right? That they were what each other truly wanted? A hand rubs over the back of his neck. He needs a drink.