Good morning and Happy Hump Day! Also, Merry Christmas! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.
This week, I bring you a Christmas tale in honor of the season. I hope you enjoy my Witcher Christmas! All the best to you and yours this holiday season!
“Tell me something. Has Geralt always been so…” Jaskier
floundered for words, something he was generally not at a loss for, and finally
finished his question with “crotchety?” The petulant bard kicked disconsolately
at an object situated alongside the path, then yelped in dismay after
discovering said object was a rather hard rock which would not yield to his
misguided efforts to dislodge it.
The slim platinum blonde he’d addressed patted Roach’s cheek
and briefly nuzzled the patient horse before turning back to her companion.
“You’ve known him far longer than I have,” she said bluntly. “You tell me.”
“Well, yes, I know…” Jaskier waffled. “But you’re his… I
mean, I’m not…”
“His child of surprise?” Ciri raised blonde brows at him.
“Is that what you mean?”
“I suppose so, yes.” The bard scratched at his head,
contemplating the cloudless sky with a thoughtful expression before continuing
his lament. “What am I really? Other than the man who made the name Geralt of
Rivia, the celebrated White Wolf, familiar to hundreds… no, I mean thousands,
tens of thousands of people even, in all
the kingdoms and far across the land. Thank you very much.” This last sentence
was half muttered to himself, and yet spoken loud enough to be easily heard. “I
have suffered his slings and arrows, and endangered my own quite valuable life and
reputation on more than one occasion in order to obtain the wondrous tales with
which to regale his fascinated followers. And yet, what do I receive for my
pains?” He paused dramatically, expectantly even, but was rewarded with silence
for his efforts.
With an exasperated sigh, Jaskier reached for a bright red
berry that grew on a clumpy bush beside the rock and plucked the fruit. He
opened his mouth to prepare entry for his bounty, but the next moment, his hand
had been brutally accosted and the berry had fallen to the ground. “Excuse me?” the indignant bard yowled.
“It’s poisonous,” Ciri said simply. And then added, with a
knowing twinkle, “You’re welcome.”
Jaskier had to laugh, in spite of his attempts to remain
glum. He really was a good-hearted fellow and generally rather happy-go-lucky.
But sometimes, especially where Geralt was involved, he could be rather…
sensitive. The smile turned into a slight frown.
“Doesn’t he believe in… you know… the season? As in ‘tis the
season, good will on earth, and all the other sentimental dribble that makes
the rounds at this particular time of year. Well, for just about everyone on
earth but Geralt of Rivia, apparently. I composed a particularly well-worded
and, if I do say so myself, well-sung composition proclaiming his vast prowess
to the world, and what do I get in return?”
“But has he ever
given you a gift at any time of the year, much less this one?” the practical
Ciri pointed out.
Jaskier could hardly fault her logic, much as he would have
liked to. Didn’t mean he was ready to admit to it, either.
“The Countess de Stael never hesitated,” he began but
quickly realized maybe that wasn’t his best point of attack, which fact Ciri
easily picked up on.
“Geralt isn’t sleeping with you,” she said. “And he also
didn’t tell you to go…” She neglected to finish the sentence, for which Jaskier
was grateful. He knew what the woman had said, and in just what tone those
hateful words had been hurled at him. And while she had failed to wound his
tender heart, his vanity had been pierced, which was just as painful, if not
more. But in Geralt’s case, it was not vanity which cried out at the witcher’s
seeming indifference.
“He’s had a hard life,” Ciri spoke up. “You have no idea
what he had to endure to become what he is.” The look she gave him was at least
somewhat sympathetic. Perhaps she could be a good influence on her guardian.
At some distant time in the future. By which time, Jaskier
would most likely be dead and forgotten, except for a few lonely women whose
lives he had enriched by his presence…
“I don’t ask for much,” Jaskier began on a different tack.
“And I expect even less. Even so…”
“Even so, you hope.” Ciri’s voice was soft and somewhat
gentle. He knew her life had gone to wrack and ruin ever since the death of her
beloved grandmother, Queen Calanthe. Before that even, when her parents,
Pavetta and Duny, had been lost at sea. She’d been on her own while searching
for her destiny, aka Geralt. And although her experiences had toughened her,
there still remained a shred of humanity. Something he often failed to find in
his friend.
Was Geralt his friend, or did he simply tolerate the bard as
a means to an end? The insecure bard pushed the thought away, but it insisted
upon returning.
“I hope that he doesn’t just tolerate me,” he said in a rare
moment of honesty which surprised even himself. He avoided the young girl’s
direct gaze, instead busying himself with the brass buttons on his rather
garish tunic instead. The sound of horse’s hooves mercifully brought the
painful discussion to a close. Who could this be? Geralt had left on foot, and
they were expecting no one else. Perhaps they should… hide?
He darted a nervous glance toward Ciri. She seemed not the
slightest bit concerned. But of course, she was used to the unexpected, wasn’t
she, after traveling with Geralt.
To his surprise, Geralt rode into view on a horse clearly
not Roach. So not like him.
Geralt dismounted and tossed the reins at Jaskier.
“For me?” Jaskier was stunned.
“We need to make better time,” Geralt said abruptly. He
mounted Roach and helped Ciri up before him. She gave Jaskier a knowing smile.
“Let’s go.” Geralt turned Roach’s head. Jaskier quickly
mounted his gifted steed and followed.
“Merry Christmas, my friend,” he whispered.
And just like that, all was right with the world.
