A Witcher fic for @domaystic prompt 10, get stuck with someone, also on AO3:
Serrit finishes her furious examination of the cell and finally turns to look at the other inhabitant, who has been sitting quietly against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closed. He’s a tall, well-built redhead in filthy dark clothes.
“Find anything?” he asks softly, and lifts his head, opening his eyes to reveal witcher yellow, clear and startling.
Serrit hisses and gropes for a knife that isn’t there. The fucking asshole noble whose regrettably well-kept dungeon this is also has very competent guards, and they found all her holdout weapons, the whoresons.
The other witcher doesn’t move from his spot on the floor, just spreads his hands out on his knees, demonstrating that he’s neither armed nor trying to make a Sign, and raises an eyebrow at her. Serrit snarls and makes herself relax. “Nothing,” she bites out.
“Damn,” the other witcher sighs. “I was hoping you’d spot something I hadn’t.”
Serrit leans against the wall as far away from him as she can get. “How long have you been in here?”
“Fourteen days,” the other witcher says.
“Fuck,” Serrit mutters. The other witcher laughs softly.
“Must admit I’ve already run through every curse word I know. Don’t suppose you speak Zerrikanian or Ofieri? I’ve heard they’ve got some good ones.”
Serrit eyes him dubiously. “You are far too fucking calm about this.”
The other witcher chuckles again. “Eh, my brothers always say I’m too good-natured. Though I must admit, if I can figure out how to get out of this cell, I’m going to be very tempted to explain to that asshole count exactly why caging witchers is a truly terrible idea.”
“Explain?” Serrit asks incredulously.
The other witcher smiles, showing very sharp canines. “Pointedly.”
Serrit snorts, amused despite herself. “What School?” If he’s a Cat - unlikely, given his size, but possible - this might end up being entertaining.
“Wolf,” he says mildly. Serrit hisses again. Fucking Wolves. Not as sanctimonious as Griffins, and less likely to start a fight than Bears, but still. Annoying bastards. “And you?” he adds.
“Viper,” she says, bracing for the hostility she knows will follow.
It doesn’t. He just nods. “I’m Gweld.”
She’s so startled she responds. “Serrit.”
“I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but honestly the circumstances leave something to be desired.” Gweld grins wryly. “I think I would have preferred a tavern - have you been to that one in Ellander, just south of the temple? The Crowned Fish?”
Serrit stares at him, bewildered. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“There’s very little to do here except count the stones in the wall, unless you’ve managed to smuggle in a Gwent deck somehow, and the guards are regrettably terrible conversationalists.” Gweld shrugs. “I’m bored, Serrit of the Vipers.”
Serrit blinks. That’s…actually rather fair. But she’s terrible at talking to people. After a moment’s thought she crouches down and scratches a grid into the packed dirt of the floor between them. Gweld sits forward, eyes lighting up, and starts grabbing pieces of straw and coiling them up to make game pieces.
Four games of checkers later - Gweld cheats, the grinning bastard, and Serrit must admit she likes him better for it - there’s the sound of guards approaching down the corridor. Gweld hums. “It’s not suppertime,” he says softly. “I wonder if they’re going to let us out?” He grins. “Truce til we’re both out of this damned county, Viper?” He offers a hand across the makeshift gameboard.
“Truce,” Serrit agrees, taking his hand. It’s broad and warm and roughly callused, and his grip is firm but not too strong; he’s not showing off or trying to establish dominance the way some idiots do. “And I’ll give you dibs on the count - long as I get the last piece.”
Gweld chuckles, showing those too-sharp canines again. “Deal,” he murmurs, and rises to his feet, rolling his shoulders.
Serrit stands, too, and meets his grin with one of her own. These assholes are about to learn how bad an idea it is to cage a witcher - much less two.
And, hours later, as she and Gweld slip into the woods with their gear on their backs and the count extremely dead behind them, she decides that while most Wolves are more trouble than they’re worth, this one - well. This one’s not so bad at all.
