Chapter Text
It is purely chance that Geralt, of all his brothers in arms, is assigned to the prince.
The king, and his predecessors, have always preferred older knights to guard their children – one Wolf charged to shadow each of the royals for their safety. Remus has long been Prince Julian's Wolf, but after twenty years of service, it is time for him to lay his blade aside, and turn instead to training and advising as Vesemir and Barmin do.
All of the senior Wolves have already retired, or are guarding the king's other children. Even so, there are plenty older and more experienced than Geralt, but they are often summoned for aid outside the keep. And most of the Wolves his own age are escorting a merchant caravan, while the youngest are on a training expedition.
So it happens, with his brothers flung far and wide in and around the city, that Geralt is the only Wolf available when one of the king's most decorated commanders, Vernon Roche, arrives unannounced to find a replacement for Remus.
Geralt expects him to leave in a huff, or return to Grandmaster Rennes’s office with demands to summon the other Wolves back to the keep. Instead, he gives Geralt a considering look, and gestures to the training yard.
“No need to waste the morning. Let’s see what you can do while I’m here.” He removes his cloak and drapes it over the fence, making it clear he intends to test Geralt himself.
Roche is well known among the Wolves and throughout the kingdom as a weapons master in his own right, with a level head, and an eye for skill. He is a sparring partner worth bragging about, and an excellent choice to judge the worthiness of a knight.
Geralt bows his head, and asks, “which weapon?”
“Sword first.”
Geralt nods in understanding, fetching a sword and testing its weight before pausing. Roche has two swords, one at his hip, and another at his back, its hilt peeking over his shoulder, barely visible without his cloak to hide it. “One blade, or two?”
Roche raises an eyebrow and gives Geralt another long look. “Quick of you to notice, and bold of you to ask. Two it shall be.” Roche replies after a moment, with a slight smile, and what Geralt thinks is approval in his tone.
Roche draws his second sword, then lunges with no further warning. Geralt has barely enough time to parry the strike with the sword in his right hand, using his left to grab the hilt of the nearest sword from the rack at his side. It is not the style he prefers, but it is clear that Roche does not mean to allow him to be selective.
The commander comes at him again, and Geralt pivots, sweeping downward with his blades to catch Roche’s swords, redirecting their momentum towards the ground. Roche recovers immediately, lashing out toward Geralt’s legs since the blades are already grazing the dirt.
Geralt takes a step back, and Roche uses the space to regain his footing, planting his feet and raising an eyebrow at Geralt.
Inviting him to strike, Geralt realizes.
Geralt goes in low, grinning when Roche’s eyes widen in surprise. Most people don’t expect someone of Geralt’s size to move so quickly, even with all of his training. It catches Roche off guard enough that his block is late, forcing him to take the brunt of Geralt's blow, instead of brushing it aside. Geralt sees Roche’s arms jolt, muscles jumping.
“Should have known better than to go easy on a Wolf,” Roche says wryly. “Alright, no more coddling. We keep going ‘til first blood, weapon changes on my order.”
Then the fight begins in earnest.
Geralt has to use every skill and trick he knows to prevent himself from being run around the training grounds. He has not managed to land a single cut, though he feels no small amount of pride knowing that Roche has not drawn blood either. Geralt is holding his own, at least.
Eventually, Roche calls, “enough! Spears next.” The commander sheaths his swords, and Geralt returns his own to the rack, watching Roche warily as he does so. The commander is closest to the spears, and if the start of their bout is any indication –
His vigilance is repaid when Roche sends a spear sailing toward him without warning. Geralt leaps to the side as the spear whistles past. It would have grazed his shoulder had he reacted any more slowly.
“Fuck,” he wheezes, while Roche twirls a second spear.
“That one’s yours, Wolf, if you can get to it!” Roche taunts.
Geralt cannot bring himself to be upset. He has always loved a challenge, and his brothers in arms and trainers have done worse.
Rather than risk giving Roche an opening by retreating to pick up the spear, he embraces the adrenaline coursing through him, and charges straight toward Roche. He dives, tucking into a roll, snatching the commander’s still spinning spear on his way past.
He comes up into a crouch behind Roche with a fierce smile. “I prefer this one, sir.”
Roche’s shock makes him slow, and Geralt finally has the chance to land a hit. With just a twitch of his wrist, he can say he has bested Vernon Roche in a bout. Roche turns slowly, arms held wide in acknowledgement of Geralt’s victory, clearly waiting, but Geralt hesitates.
His instincts are all howling, for seemingly no reason, but his training has taught him to trust them.
Something is wrong.
He strains his senses, trying to pinpoint the danger. Then – there, the soft sound of careful footfalls when they should be the only ones here, and a flash of metal. Geralt moves without thinking, tackling Roche to the ground as an arrow flies over their heads and thunks into a weapons rack, rattling its contents. Geralt rolls to his feet, already angling the spear to be thrown at their assailant before Roche’s hand clamps down on his arm.
“Enough, lad. I’d rather keep my colleague in one piece, if it’s all the same to you,” Roche says.
“Your colleague?” Geralt asks, confused.
True to Roche’s word, the man standing across the training grounds from them, bow in hand, is wearing a similar uniform, though the colors and the pin at his shoulder mark him as special forces.
Even worse, Geralt recognizes him. “Apologies, Commander Iorveth. I thought – ”
“You thought I was trying to kill poor Vernon, did you?” Iorveth asks. “Tempting as that may be, I would never be so foolish as to do so in broad daylight, or with a witness, for that matter.”
Roche huffs. “If anyone tells you romance is dead, lad, just regale them with Iorveth’s flowery words, and they will surely change their tune.” Roche sounds exasperated, though he is betrayed by the smile he wears.
The relationship between the two commanders is an open secret, though it can be difficult to tell from moment to moment whether they are enemies or lovers. They seem to prefer it that way, from what Geralt can tell. He suspects they are much different in private, though he has no way of confirming that theory, and would never dare ask.
But, if Iorveth was not attempting to hurt them, then the shot must have been a test as well. Which means the bout may not be over. Geralt stiffens slightly, preparing himself for whatever might come next.
“Looks like he passed to me. What say you, colleague?” The emphasis on the word colleague is scathing, but Iorveth does not give Roche a chance to comment, instead asking, “does the prince have a new Wolf?”
Roche nods. “Aye. Seems pointless to waste time testing the others when he’s done so well.” If he is exasperated by Iorveth’s barb, he does not show it.
Geralt freezes. “What?” he croaks. He thought Roche was simply humoring him. Being polite to pass the time since the other Wolves are all unavailable. He never imagined he would be chosen, that he could be chosen. “I’m too young,” he says numbly.
Roche and Iorveth share a look.
“I expect Vernon is going to have some difficulty convincing our king to agree, but that has never stopped him before,” Iorveth says casually. “He is like a hound with a bone. He just keeps gnawing away until it snaps.”
“How flattering,” Roche mutters with a sigh, rubbing his forehead. “Look, lad – every hour the prince doesn’t have a Wolf at his side is an hour for the rest of us, and the entire royal family, to worry, and fret. We’ll all go gray at this rate, especially since the prince hasn’t taken kindly to being followed around by four men, instead of the one. He is likely to start pushing them out of windows, or trying to slip them just to have some air, and while I wouldn’t blame him, that would be one hell of a headache. My point is, the king may balk at your age at first, but he will see reason.”
Geralt grimaces in sympathy. He has overheard Remus exchanging stories with some of the older Wolves about their charges, speaking of Prince Julian’s rebellious streak in his younger years with fondness. Some of the young prince’s attempts to escape Remus were frankly absurd, but others were worrisomely close to succeeding – at least until Remus earned his trust. Geralt cannot imagine normal guards, even four of them, dealing with the same if those old habits have resurfaced.
Not that he can imagine arguing with the king, either.
For all the import the Wolves have to the royal family, Geralt has had no contact with them himself. That has always been the duty of the older Wolves, or their grandmaster. Though, he also cannot help but notice the similar current of fondness in Roche’s voice when he speaks of the prince. Perhaps that makes it easier to speak on his behalf, even to the king.
“I see,” Geralt says slowly, though he is still reeling. “You’re sure?” He cannot help but ask.
“There’s no need to doubt yourself, lad,” Roche says bluntly. “Strength, speed, skill, and even experience are each easy enough to find, especially among the Wolves, but having the wit to use them all to best me on your first attempt is no small feat.”
“Besides,” Ioverth cuts in, “better fighters than you could still have lost Vernon to my arrows, too caught up in their victory to pay attention to their surroundings. But you heard me coming, and defended him, even though it is not your responsibility to do so. If the prince is made your charge, he will be safe with you, even if you are exhausted and distracted, and that matters more than the rest.”
“The only real question left, lad, is whether you want this. I’m willing to convince your grandmaster, and the king, but I’ll not waste my time if you intend to turn down the offer.” Roche’s voice is solemn, and Geralt is suddenly pinned in place by Roche and Iorveth’s expectant stares.
“Only if you think the prince will be…” Geralt trails off, searching for the right words, before settling on, “comfortable with a Wolf my age.” Geralt waits as the commanders exchange another weighted look.
Members of the court are all accustomed to having very little privacy, the royal family in particular. They sacrifice much to ensure their safety, and no matter how professional they may be, having a Wolf act as your constant shadow is no small thing. They are privy to nearly every moment and detail of their charge’s life, which is why the king has always insisted upon older Wolves to maintain clear boundaries, and Geralt is only two years older than Prince Julian.
The last thing he wants to do is make the scrutiny of the prince’s life more difficult to bear than it already is. He suspects Remus would never forgive him, and more importantly, he would never forgive himself.
Geralt is startled when Iorveth chuckles, and Roche joins him, before waving a hand as if batting away Geralt’s confusion. “Forgive us, lad. It is only that you are better suited than we’d hoped if you would think to worry about that, and have the decency to ask, rather than grasping at the title.” Roche claps Geralt on the arm, and smiles approvingly.
“I expect you and the princeling will get along quite well,” Iorveth adds, grinning sharply at Roche when the other commander gives him a warning look.
“Ignore him, lad,” Roche says. “Now, let's go speak with your grandmaster.”
The walk inside is nerve-wracking as Roche and Iorveth escort Geralt to the grandmaster’s office, where they find Rennes mired in a heated discussion with Vesemir and Barmin about the training regimen for the Wolf recruits.
It is a common argument amongst the oldest Wolves, and one Rennes and Barmin are doomed to lose. People can say what they will about Vesemir’s strictness, but he has always held the well-being of his charges foremost in his mind, and will not tolerate any meddling. Not even from the highest ranking of his brothers.
Roche clears his throat, and the bickering immediately stops, though Vesemir’s small smile suggests he has come out the victor, once again.
“Be welcome, Commander.” Rennes pauses when he catches sight of Iorveth, and corrects himself. “ Commanders. Beg pardon, Commander Iorveth, I did not realize you were accompanying Commander Roche. You are both welcome, as always, though I did not expect to see you again today. Is something amiss? I trust Geralt has not given you trouble.” Rennes’s gaze lands on Geralt, piercing enough to steal his breath.
He is relieved that he has grown out of fidgeting beneath it, though he can do nothing about the nervous sweat trailing down his neck. He can only hope everyone present assumes it is due to his exertion on the training field, but Vesemir is giving him a knowing look that says otherwise.
The older Wolf has always been far too good at reading his trainees.
“Not at all, Grandmaster, Masters,” Roche assures them. “In fact, Sir Geralt has far exceeded our expectations. I merely wished to inform you that, with your blessing, I will be putting forth his name to the king to be appointed Prince Julian’s new Wolf.” Roche makes it sound like he is commenting on the weather, rather than suggesting they break decades of tradition and protocol requested by the royal family themselves.
Barmin coughs loudly, as if he is choking on air, head whipping to the side to look at Rennes. Vesemir remains quiet, but is wearing a thoughtful expression on his face, and merely tilts his head in Rennes’s direction, awaiting the grandmaster’s word on the matter. Rennes might as well have been carved from stone, still as death, his eyes drilling holes into Geralt for long moments until he glances at Roche.
“That is an… unusual request, and a rather hasty one at that,” Rennes says carefully. “You were not gone from here for more than an hour.”
It is obvious Rennes wishes to protest, treading lightly in an attempt to avoid offending Roche. The Wolves are not known for being timid, but they, like everyone else, serve at the mercy of the crown, and Roche is well-regarded and respected by the Wolves and the royal family alike.
“It was more than enough time to reach my decision, and to be confident in the reaching. The prince’s safety is not something I take lightly, as I trust you know,” Roche replies, steel in his voice. “Do any of you have reason to believe Sir Geralt is unfit for this duty? If so, speak now, or give your assent that I might speak with the king.”
Geralt sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Iorveth has crossed his arms, and is leveling the three older Wolves with an impressively intimidating expression.
An uncomfortable silence falls, blessedly broken by Vesemir. “Geralt is the most talented student I have taught in all my years, and is well on his way to being the greatest knight our order has ever known. I have no doubts in his abilities, or his character. I cannot think of a better candidate to guard the prince if the king is willing.”
Geralt has always respected the Arms Master, but has never desired to embrace him before this moment. The older Wolf does not dole out praise easily, and to speak so highly of Geralt in this room, before these men, is an honor beyond measure.
Barmin nods along with Vesemir’s claims. “Vesemir speaks true. The pup’s grown into a fine Wolf. Fine enough for anyone – even the royal family.”
Rennes frowns at the other Wolves’ words, brow furrowing in thought, and Geralt holds his breath, awaiting the grandmaster’s verdict. At long last, the tension in Rennes’s face is released on a heavy sigh. “My brothers are right. Much as I may dislike it, I can find no fault with your choice, Commanders, aside from the king’s own preferences. If he approves Geralt’s commission, then so be it.”
It is not quite the ringing endorsement the others gave, but Geralt did not expect it to be. Rennes allowing Geralt the chance at all is more than he could have hoped for.
“Excellent. Vernon and I will return to the palace then, so he can have what I’m sure will be a pleasant and enlightening conversation with our king.” Iorveth bows his head respectfully toward the older Wolves as he speaks. “Grandmaster, Masters, it has been a pleasure.” With that, Iorveth turns on his heel and strides quickly out of the room.
Roche huffs. “Tactful as ever,” he mutters under his breath, so softly that Geralt thinks he is the only one that hears him. Roche’s next words are loud enough for everyone. “Forgive our hasty farewell, but Iorveth is right. I must speak with the king as soon as possible to learn if I will be returning on the morrow for Geralt, or to test more Wolves.”
“I understand, Commander. We look forward to hearing the king’s word on the matter.” Rennes says formally, offering the commander a salute, and then Roche is gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
Geralt is left staring down the older Wolves, trying to ignore the way sweat is pooling at the small of his back, and under his arms. As if to mock his attempt at composure, an errant droplet slides down from his hairline, across his forehead, and settles dangerously close to the corner of his left eye. He resists the urge to blink, or swipe it away, keeping his hands still at his sides from sheer force of will.
The weight of Rennes’s eyes is crushing, but once again, Vesemir speaks before the grandmaster has a chance.
“Why don’t you get cleaned up and rest a bit before the noon meal,” the Arms Master suggests, not unkindly. “If Roche is that impressed with you, he must have run you ragged, and there’s no use in having you collapse from exhaustion.”
“As you say, sir,” Geralt says, saluting with relief at the dismissal, and at Vesemir’s discretion. He is quite certain the Arms Master knows it is not just the bout that has him at wit’s end.
As Geralt steps through the doorway, he barely catches Barmin’s dry chortle. “Remus is going to love this. Which of us should tell him, do you think? I would prefer it not be me.”
Despite those ominous words, the rest of the day passes normally enough, which only serves to worsen the surreal feeling left over from the morning.
Geralt does his best to put it out of his mind, reminding himself that becoming the prince’s Wolf is nothing more than a possibility until they receive word from Roche that the king has granted his approval. Geralt assumes that uncertainty is the only reason he has not been pulled aside by Remus yet; the older Wolf has instead settled for watching him like a hawk any time their paths cross. It is enough to sour Geralt's excitement, making him wonder whether he should have turned down Roche's offer after all.
He smothers that worry as best he can, repeating to himself that he has earned this chance, that if the king's commanders and the masters of his order believe him capable, that he must be.
Geralt still cannot bring himself to tell any of his brothers what happened when they return for dinner, convinced it will cause the dream to be snatched away, and uncertain how they will react to the news besides.
Thankfully, his brothers are too busy regaling Geralt with tales of what, by all accounts, was a painfully dull and exasperating escort job. All except Eskel, who has been eyeing Geralt worriedly most of the meal.
Geralt does his best to avoid catching his gaze, knowing he will cave the second Eskel asks a single question. He has never been able to keep a secret from the other Wolf for more than a few hours.
He turns his attention to Lambert's diatribe in a desperate bid to avoid giving himself away.
“You have no fucking idea how irritating it was, Geralt. There we were, riding alongside them at a completely normal pace , but the caravan drivers kept adjusting the speed of their horses. It was like they’d never done it before! One moment we’re even with them, the next we’re ahead, so we slow our pace, only for them to over-take us, and give us looks like we’re doing something wrong. Fucking hells. I almost jumped over and shoved the lead driver out of the way to do it myself. Bunch of useless asses,” Lamber rants, waving his arms for emphasis while Voltehre rolls his eyes.
“Yes, Lamb, it was oh-so terrible to get paid an exorbitant amount of coin for a job where all we had to do was ride our horses and pay attention,” Voltehre says, exasperated. “Why, how will we ever recover from it?”
Lambert shoves Voltehre in retaliation, though not hard enough to spill the drink the other Wolf is holding. Gweld is not so fortunate when he snickers at Lambert, falling clean off the bench and getting drenched in ale.
Gweld yells out a complaint, but Lambert ignores him, replying to Voltehre like nothing happened. “Look, all I’m saying is they had to be doing that shit on purpose, and if we did have to defend them from something, it would have been fucking impossible with how inconsistent they were. Can you imagine trying to stay on their flanks while someone was attacking them? I think I would’ve just let the bastards figure it out themselves.”
“Best not let Rennes hear you say that, or you’ll get treated to another lecture on the code,” Aubry warns from across the table as he tears a hunk of bread into pieces to dip in his stew.
Lambert groans loudly. “Rennes wouldn’t recognize a fucking joke if it stripped naked and sat on his – ” Lambert trails off when the doors of the great hall open, admitting a gate guard and a courier in the livery of the royal family. Lambert scowls in irritation, though it is unclear whether it is due to the courier interrupting their dinner or his insult. “The fuck is he here for?”
A wave of murmurs travels up and down the tables, and Geralt does his best to control his breathing. It is not unheard of for the royal family to send requests to the order, but their couriers are usually escorted directly to Rennes’s office to wait for him if the issue is not pressing, and if it is pressing, they move with much more haste. Geralt cannot recall ever seeing a missive arrive in the middle of dinner with a courier that appears perfectly calm.
There is only one thing Geralt can think of that would require immediate notice, without the urgency brought about by something life-threatening.
He swallows the food still in his mouth, washing it down with a large gulp of ale for good measure, then makes the mistake of glancing at Eskel. The other Wolf’s eyes narrow, then go wide, darting between Geralt and the courier, who has reached the head table.
The man sweeps into a bow, his gold-trimmed livery sparkling in the torchlight as he offers the letter in his hand. “Grandmaster Rennes, I have brought the king’s decision on the matter Commander Roche and Commander Iorveth spoke with you about this morning.” The man’s voice rings through the entire hall, but rather than drown out the muttering, it only lends more strength to it, all of the younger Wolves speculating on what this could be about.
Geralt risks a glance toward Remus’s table and finds the older Wolf staring back at him with a frightening intensity.
“Geralt,” Eskel whispers. “What the hells is going on?”
Geralt shakes his head, barely able to tear his eyes away from Remus to look at his plate instead.
Surely the king would not have sent a courier only to say no. Unless he is cross that Rennes supported Roche's suggestion to break protocol. But then, would he not have had the missive delivered in private? The king is many things, but Geralt has never heard tell that he takes pleasure in humiliating those that have displeased him.
That means he must have accepted, does it not?
Geralt's mouth goes dry despite the ale, and he listens as if from a great distance as Rennes’s chair scrapes across the floor when he stands, then announces to the hall, “brothers, the king has named the Wolf that will take Remus’s place at Prince Julian’s side.” The hall falls silent, the air heavy with anticipation, and Geralt tries not to tremble with hope and nerves. “Rise, Sir Geralt. May you serve the prince well, until your teeth and claws grow dull, or death takes you in the prince’s stead.”
The hall erupts into a roar as Geralt rises from the bench. The brothers nearest him are all wearing expressions somewhere between shock and excitement, and Lambert seems to speak for all of them when he exclaims, “what the fuck, you lucky gods-blessed bastard!”
Geralt does not have the opportunity to reply to Lambert’s outburst, nor to any of the deluge of questions from the rest of his brothers. Rennes has stepped away from the head table, and is motioning for Geralt to follow him, no doubt to discuss what comes tomorrow, and his expression makes it clear Geralt should not keep him waiting.
Geralt grimaces, and shoots an apologetic look at his brothers. “I’m being summoned. I’ll come talk to you later.” That he aims mostly at Eskel, who is watching him with concern.
Lambert snorts. “If you survive whatever mood Rennes is in, sure. We’ll have a few extra drinks on your behalf.”
“Thanks,” Geralt says sarcastically to a round of laughter from the table.
Putting his back to them, Geralt strides quickly across the room and toward the hallway where Rennes disappeared moments before. The grandmaster is standing just inside it, and the moment Geralt joins him, Rennes nods and heads toward his office without a word. Geralt follows him in nervous silence, focusing on controlling his breathing as they take turn after turn.
When at last they reach the office, Rennes shuts the door behind them with more force than necessary, and Geralt is barely able to suppress a flinch at the sound it makes.
“Sit down,” Rennes says, voice cold. Geralt obeys, taking one of the chairs across the large desk from Rennes’s own. The grandmaster paces for a few moments, then forces himself into stillness and sits as well, glaring at Geralt over his steepled fingers. “This is unheard of, as you well know, and I need to be certain you understand the position you have been placed in. The position the entire order has been placed in.”
“I do, sir,” Geralt says with confidence that quickly wanes at the way Rennes’s eyes narrow.
“Do you? Truly?” Rennes asks, learning forward. “Older Wolves have always been chosen for the royal family for good reason. We have built this order over the course of centuries, brick by brick, Wolf by Wolf, but no matter how strong our walls, the king could bring it all crashing down with a single word. Your livelihood, and that of all your brothers, depends upon the king’s support. Our mere existence depends upon it.”
“I know, sir,” Geralt says solemnly. “Every Wolf knows that.”
“You are all told , and you can chirp back the words like a trained bird, but that is not the same as understanding what it means. Traditions are not broken lightly, nor does our king make exceptions often. Commander Roche must have given a most convincing argument, and in doing so he has risked his career for you,” Rennes points out.
Geralt frowns. “With all due respect, that was his choice, sir.”
Rennes scowls, slamming his palms flat on the desk as he stands. “You may be a knight, but you are young yet, and I will not entertain debating with you. I am well aware of what happened. What is done is done, whether I approve or not, but know this – all Wolves are held to the highest standard, and you will be held to a higher one still. You will do nothing that could jeopardize yourself, the order, or the commander. Am I clear?”
“As crystal, sir,” Geralt replies stiffly.
“Good. You will swear your oath to the prince tomorrow. Vesemir has volunteered to ride with you and bear witness as the order’s representative. Report to Vesemir first thing in the morning, and he will explain what is required of you. Dismissed,” Rennes snaps.
Geralt salutes, and leaves the office with as much grace as he can muster. He strides away quickly once he has closed the door, trying to put as much space as possible between himself and the grandmaster’s foul mood. He has nearly made it back to the great hall when he turns a corner to find Remus blocking his way.
“There you are, pup. I’d like a word,” Remus growls. The word pup cracks like a whip, and Geralt wonders whether fleeing back towards Rennes would be worth avoiding this conversation.
Remus does not give him the chance to decide. The older Wolf grabs Geralt’s shoulder and steers him toward the nearest room, pushing Geralt inside first so that he will be blocking the exit once the door is shut.
Geralt realizes it is an old storeroom as he glances around, his mind making notes of the details despite his panic, training kicking in as the room is briefly illuminated.
The shelves are filled with spare linens and soap. There are no torches on the wall, only a stand bearing a few unlit candles. There is nothing else of particular note, and by the time Geralt turns, Remus has pushed the door shut. The only light left is what is currently spilling around the door frame from the hallway, leaving Remus’s face shrouded in darkness, his body outlined in an eerie glow. Geralt wonders nervously if he is ever going to leave this room, or if Remus is simply going to do away with him and stash his body.
Then Remus shakes his head, grumbles in annoyance, and pats at his pockets until he produces something Geralt cannot make out in the dimness.
There is a soft noise, like a case being opened. Geralt tenses when Remus raises his arm, but all he does is reach toward the wall and drag something against it. A small fire blooms at the end of what Geralt realizes is a match. It must be one of the newer designs from the royal alchemists.
Geralt has never actually seen a self-lighting one up close before, and is momentarily distracted from his terror by curiosity. He is certain if he asked Lambert, he would be able to explain how it works, though his brother would surely prefer to see one up close. He opens his mouth to ask where Remus managed to find one, until Remus sets the flame to several candle wicks, filling the room with soft light that reveals his thunderous expression.
Geralt chokes back his question, wishing rather desperately that Remus’s face was still hidden.
“So, pup, what exactly is it you’re after?” Remus asks, his voice a dangerous snarl that raises the hairs on the back of Geralt’s neck.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand,” Geralt says warily.
Remus’s eyes narrow, and he scowls, stalking forward. Geralt backs up instinctively until his back is pressed against a shelf, and Remus is looming over him. “Don’t play dumb with me. You’re too young to want to be trapped within the palace walls, and far too clever to believe you’ll be able to just leave if you don’t like it there,” Remus growls. “Do you think there’s glory to be found as the prince’s bodyguard? That you’ll receive some sort of favoritism from the royal family? Or maybe you’re chasing after approval from the commanders? Whatever your reasons for accepting Roche’s mad offer, I’ll not have you dragging the prince into it.”
“Dragging him – ?” Geralt echoes in disbelief, and indignation overtakes his fear. “I don’t want anything but to do my duty. I didn’t seek out the commanders, nor did I ask for them to choose me. Am I to be held responsible for the decisions of full-grown men who outrank me?”
“You should be when you agree with them,” Remus snaps. “When that decision could ruin not only the lives of your brothers, but the prince’s as well.” Geralt attempts to protest, but Rennes cuts him off. “He deserves the best. You’re good, I’ll admit to that, but I didn’t step down to ensure his safety only to be replaced by some hotheaded upstart with dreams of fame or fortune. I’ve half a mind to ask to be reinstated. At least then I would know the Wolf with him was giving his all.”
Geralt goes rigid. This is the sort of vitriol he expects from Rennes, but hearing it from another Wolf, one he respects, burns like acid. Piled atop Rennes’s cold distrust, it is too much to bear. Geralt would never dare argue with the grandmaster, but Remus? Remus will not receive the same grace.
Geralt’s control breaks. “Do you truly think so little of me? That I somehow managed to trick Commander Roche and Commander Iorveth into choosing me, and that the moment I am sworn to the prince that I will, what, forswear my oath? That I will fail to guard him, or simply neglect my duties entirely? I would never.” Geralt’s voice gets louder as he gains momentum, unable to stop the next words from spilling forth. “Perhaps you would like to test my skill yourself in the training yard, Master Remus, and then we can decide who is best fit to protect him.”
The moment the words are out, Geralt feels the blood drain from his face.
It is not that he doubts his abilities, but the jab was uncalled for. Having his motives and his honor questioned has struck him deeper than he expected. Even so he should not have lashed out, and certainly not when he is trapped in close quarters with the man he has just grievously insulted.
Remus’s face reddens with rage, and Geralt braces himself to be struck, or to be screamed at. To his shock, Remus leans close, and vehemently whispers, “The prince is not just a duty.” The words are spoken with a quiet fury that is altogether more terrifying than yelling could ever be. “I gave up my position by his side because I could feel myself slowing, and I was not willing to risk harm befalling him because I could not react quickly enough. But being a good fighter is not sufficient. He isn’t just some valuable good to be guarded, he is a person, and the perils he faces are rarely from blades or arrows, or even from others at all. Julian –” Remus grimaces, and his mouth closes into a thin line at what was clearly a slip of the tongue. He carries on as if to cover it up, but Geralt can still hear the prince’s name ringing in his ears. “You wouldn’t understand. All you pups care about is a good fight, and proving how strong you are. That’s not what he needs.”
Geralt stares at Remus in the flickering candlelight – at the hard set of his mouth, at his hands clenching by his sides, at his narrowed eyes that hold too many emotions. He recalls the way Remus’s face brightens when he speaks of the prince, how his voice brims with enthusiasm, and how he cannot seem to keep himself from smiling.
And then, he thinks he does understand.
Geralt straightens, standing at attention. Remus is surprised enough by the motion that he moves back, giving Geralt a wary look. Geralt ignores it as best he can, and begins to speak, praying he is right.
“You are afraid for him, and I do not think I have it in me to blame you for it after what you have said, after all the years you have spent with him. I can only hope that my word will be enough to lay some of those fears to rest. I have no intention of allowing any harm to befall him, physical or otherwise. And if he would cause the harm himself, then I humbly ask for your guidance in preventing it.” Geralt pauses and swallows, heart pounding with nerves. What he is saying falls so far outside the realm of propriety that Geralt is surprised Remus has not stopped him. But what he needs to say next is worse, so it is for the best that the older Wolf has remained silent. Geralt takes a steadying breath. “I will do everything I can to take care of him, Remus. I swear it – not to the order, or to the king, to you. Because I suspect you are more family to him than some of his blood, and you deserve to know he is well.”
Remus steps away as if struck by Geralt’s words. His expression shifts, as he no doubt prepares himself for a fight – to argue and defend himself from the accusation buried within Geralt’s words.
It is no small thing for someone to suggest that a Wolf has overstepped their bounds. That they have grown attached to their charge. Rennes would string them both up if he heard this conversation, but the grandmaster is busy seething in his office, so what does it matter?
When Geralt says nothing more, merely staying at attention, making it clear he is not passing judgment, Remus’s demeanor softens, as does his voice. “Do you mean that?”
“I do,” Geralt affirms
“Then I’ll hold you to every last word, pup.” The diminutive holds far less heat than before, and Remus clears his throat. “I must admit to feeling a bit foolish now.”
Geralt laughs weakly, and relaxes, a bit dizzy at the sudden release of tension from the room. “I don't know how I feel,” he admits.
Remus snorts and claps Geralt on the back with a grin. “Grateful to be alive I should think. Come on, let's get you back to your brothers before they storm Rennes's office with a search party.”
Geralt nods and follows Remus into the corridor, blowing out the candles as he passes them. He hesitates before heading back toward the great hall, glancing at Remus. “Is there anything you need to tell me before tomorrow? About the prince, I mean.”
Remus huffs. “Vesemir insisted at dinner that I make you a list of what to expect so you aren’t going in blind. Suppose I’ll just have to add a few unofficial things to it, now. You’ll get it in the morning, though you likely won’t have time to read it all before meeting him…” Remus looks up at the ceiling like he is debating with himself, then shakes his head and sighs. “Should probably warn you about some things now.”
“You don’t have to,” Geralt says immediately when he hears the hesitation in Remus's voice. He will be happy for any information he can get, but whatever it is seems to be making Remus uncomfortable. If it will be easier to write it, Geralt can wait.
“It’s alright. You need to know.” Remus sounds certain, but it still takes some time for him to continue, as if he is marshaling his thoughts. “The prince has a sharp wit, and a sharper tongue, though he has a nasty habit of using it to belittle himself as much as others, something that comes of being a sixth child and fourth in line to the throne. The people around him haven’t exactly helped to curb the habit. Over the years he has decided he prefers to get the insults in before anyone else can,” Remus says wryly. “He does like jokes though. Another downside to being a royal is everyone tiptoes around him, so he’s hurting for humor unless there’s a jester performing, or another noble takes a stab at it. But, honestly, most of them can’t tell or take jokes for shit. Too sensitive. Be mindful of that.”
“I will. Thank you, sir,” Geralt says, and means it. That is helpful indeed. Hopefully this will leave him better prepared, at least until he can read through the rest of Remus's notes.
“Just call me Remus, lad. I expect we’re going to be having chats, or at least exchanging letters, as often as we can manage from here on out. Feels strange to be called ‘sir’ under the circumstances. Besides, now that you’re assigned to the prince, we’re equals, as far as I’m concerned.” Remus’s tone is friendly, but there is a bit of mischief in his expression.
“Now that you’ve decided you approve of me, you mean?” Geralt clarifies.
“Exactly! You really are as clever as Vesemir claims,” Remus teases. “Now, off with you. You have a big day tomorrow.” Remus squeezes Geralt’s shoulder then disappears around the corner, no doubt making for his room to work on his notes.
As soon as Remus is out of sight, Geralt slumps against the wall and just breathes for a few minutes.
He has sworn to Grandmaster Rennes to uphold the highest possible standard in his duties. To not step out of line, or bend the rules, lest it bring the hammer down upon the entire order. And within the same hour, he has sworn to Remus to skirt those same oaths to ensure the prince’s well-being. To be a companion as well as a guard, if the prince will allow it.
How is he meant to keep both oaths? What in the hells has he gotten himself into?
He stares at the wall until he is reasonably sure he can walk without his legs giving out, sighing as he pushes himself upright, making his way past the great hall toward his own quarters. Even if his brothers are still eating, he is not in the mood to be surrounded by the chaos just now. Besides, he knows Eskel at the least will want to speak privately.
He pushes his door open, looking forward to collapsing on his bed until Eskel arrives, only to be met with the sight of Lambert already sprawled across it. Voltehre is sitting by his head, leaning against the headboard, and Eskel is in the ancient but comfortable armchair by the small hearth.
Geralt groans, and Lambert sits up with a smirk.
“Oh, good, you’re not dead! Now tell us what the fuck is going on. We’re not leaving until you do!” Lambert threatens cheerfully.
Neither Eskel nor Voltehre say anything, but their expressions make it clear they are in agreement with Lambert. Geralt sighs and resigns himself to a long night, kicking the door shut behind him.
Geralt stays up far later than he ought with his brothers, explaining everything that happened, with the exception of the more personal information Remus revealed, and his slip of using the prince's name. Not that the exclusion matters much – all three of them are smart enough to fill in the gaps.
Thankfully, and most importantly, they are also smart enough to keep their mouths shut about it – even Lambert. The prickly Wolf might enjoy running his mouth, but telling him a secret is like locking it in a vault and letting it sink to the bottom of the ocean. Geralt doubts he would break even under torture, though it would mostly be out of spite.
Eskel and Voltehre are just as trustworthy, and much more quiet about it too. Geralt is confident no one else will hear so much as a whisper of a thought from any of them about this.
He bids them all goodnight reluctantly, suddenly struck by the realization that he will soon be seeing much less of them. His duty to the prince will fill most of his days, and his time to see his brothers will be extremely limited, even though the barracks are just outside the castle grounds.
As he lies down to get what sleep he can, he vaguely recalls some of the older Wolves gossipping about how Remus would occasionally come to the keep with the prince in tow. Surely that would still be seen as acceptable. What place could be safer? Perhaps it would even give the prince a chance to visit Remus. Though, it will only matter if the prince is willing to afford Geralt the same courtesy.
A thought to keep in mind for the coming days.
The night is not long enough, and the morning is a whirlwind. Geralt spends most of it with Vesemir being drilled on the details of the ceremony, and repeating his oaths over and over until there is no chance he will forget them.
He could likely say them in his sleep now.
They eat a hasty, private breakfast, finishing and mounting up just before Commander Roche arrives with several guards. Roche gives Geralt an approving nod, then leads his horse over toward Vesemir, and they lean their heads together, speaking too softly for Geralt to hear. Geralt swallows hard, twisting in his saddle to look over the crowd of Wolves gathered outside the barracks to see him off. Several of them wave when they see Geralt looking, but it is the rude gesture from Lambert alongside the warm smiles from Eskel and Voltehre that put him at ease.
He glances toward the senior Wolves and finds Remus watching him. He looks meaningfully toward Geralt’s saddlebags, a clear reminder to read the notes stashed there as soon as he can, and then to Geralt’s surprise, he salutes. The sign of solidarity bolsters Geralt, and he turns forward again with much more confidence than he has felt since Roche chose him.
He can do this.
Roche and Vesemir finally finish their conversation, and Roche signals for them to move out. With a sharp whistle from Grandmaster Rennes, the assembled Wolves come to attention as one, and Geralt rides through the keep's gates toward his future.