You could use this, some small part of his mind suggested. It was a dark thought, something truly evil in a way that Geralt had never considered being evil before, and the ex-Count grimaced. You could pay that sorry Redanian traitor back for his treatment of you. This is the opportunity of a lifetime; you could ruin the Viscount’s son, ruin his family’s reputation, and still be none the worse off for your efforts. What does it matter, Geralt? You’re already banished from court.

So, with the Angel on his shoulder mysteriously absent and his conscience sufficiently tamped down into silence, Geralt stepped into view of the young man. 

“Who goes there?” the ex-Count asked, glaring down his nose at the wounded student. 

“J-Julian, Milord,” the boy answered. His eyes were the brightest shade of blue Geralt had ever seen. His heart skipped a beat in his chest and he lost his breath for a single, heart-rending second; the Count had never been so caught up in the glory of one solitary color before. Is this what God had felt like when he held his finished work in his hands for the first time? Had he been as lost to Julian as Geralt currently was? The boy cocked his head to the side and his blue fawn-eyes pierced the Count in a new and terrifying way. 

“What brings you here?” he managed to ask.

“My friends have - ah!” he’d tried to gesture in the direction of his friends but he’d lost his balance and his weight had shifted atop his ankle again. He hissed through his teeth and dropped to a crouch, stabilizing the limb with both hands while he breathed through the pain. 

So Julian had experienced pain before and he’d learned to cope with it. Curious.

“Let’s get you laid down,” Geralt suggested, “And then you can tell me how you came to be lost on the lands of my estate.”

Geralt carried the young man all the way back to his crumbling manor house and marveled at how light Julian felt in his arms. Was he really so slight or was it another side effect of his monstrous curse? The enhanced senses he had adjusted to already, but improved strength? That was decidedly new. When the odd pair finally reached the house and pushed their way through the front door, Geralt made his guest comfortable. He laid Julian down on a chaise lounge before the sitting room fire and placed a bolster cushion beneath his injured ankle. “May I feel you for a sprain, Julian?”

“Are you a doctor?” the smiling boy inquired, reclining back to rest his head against the gold silk pillows. Sitting there in front of the fire, the apples of his cheeks glowing pink from exertion and nervous excitement, his brown hair mussed and shining in the low light, his sparkling blue eyes boring into Geralt’s...the boy might have truly been a portrait of Cupid brought to life. “Can you diagnose what ails me?”

Geralt eased into a more romantic mode of conversation, grateful for the easy opportunity to flirt; he hadn’t been well-known for his way with women at court. He prodded and poked and felt across the bones and tendons of Julian’s ankle, recognizing a sprain when he felt one. It was an easy fix, just bed rest and elevation for a few days until the muscles healed up.  “You’ve sprained your ankle, Julian. I wouldn’t suggest taking a walk in the woods at twilight anytime soon.”

The young man startled and his eyelashes fluttered sweetly. “But Milord, I must return to my dorm! My friends will wonder what’s become of me.”

“Where were your friends when I came upon you?” the Count questioned, laying a thick woolen blanket across Julian’s lap. The boy blushed brightly yet again and Geralt marked it as another success. 

“They spun me around a few times and all ran off in different directions. I was dizzy, of course, and I tried to follow Paul, but he was long gone by then. When Stephan called for me I went to follow his voice and tripped, twisting my ankle terribly. After that there was no keeping up; the sun was starting to set and I was beginning to grow worried for my safety when you rescued me. Thank you, by the way. You have a lovely home.”

“No need to lie to me, little fawn,” Geralt chuckled darkly. He stood from his place beside the settee and paced before the fire, gesturing around as he spoke. “I know exactly how rundown this place looks, Julian, I was a great Count once. The curtains here are moldy, the tapestries are moth-eaten and holey, and the mattresses have rotten all to Hell. This is the only hearth in the manor that I’ve gotten fully cleaned so far; I apologize for the mess. I was moved here rather suddenly, you see, and haven’t had the time to fix everything up yet.”

“Moved? As in, you did not choose to move but were translocated nonetheless?”

“To be blunt, little fawn, I was banished,” the Count drawled. He shot a quick glare in Julian’s direction and the young man withered beneath it. What had he done to anger his host in such a way? Was he safe here any longer? Should he try to run? If he did run, would he make it any farther than the doorway? The edge of the dirty elf-made carpet? Then the glare dropped away for a split second, revealing a flash of genuine pain and confusion, “Someone else at court wanted my job. They cursed me and hid me away from the world in order to take my place. They coveted power so much that they threw my entire life away without a second thought.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” Julian cried, holding his arms out towards his host. The confused Count stopped his pacing and turned to face the teary-eyed young noble. “Come here, Your Grace, and let me give you a hug.”

“That...wouldn’t be appropriate,” Geralt frowned. Julian deflated and let his arms drop back to his sides. His hands moved to fidget in his lap and he flushed yet again, embarrassed. 

“My apologies, Your Grace.”

The older man steeled himself for what he had to do. Julian seemed like a nice boy, a perfectly pleasant nobleman all things considered, but this wasn’t just about Julian. This was about a corrupt family with incredible and unchecked power, running around at court and pulling the King’s strings, uncaring of the consequences beyond their own fortunes. Geralt had to teach them a lesson.

He slid back to a kneeling position beside the couch and took one of Julian’s busy hands into his own. He brushed his lips against the back of the young man’s knuckles and whispered softly, the way blue-blooded men had been speaking to empty-headed young women for hundreds of years, letting the skin of his lips tickle against the back of Julian’s hand with every syllable, “Take your rest here for the night, little fawn. I wouldn’t dream of letting any further harm come to you.”