Court-jobi - Lyubava_Writes

Better Angels

Pairing: Thorin x Tessa (Modern OC)

Words: 3,489

Ratings: Gen Audience

Warnings: none

A/N:  The grief -fresh in her dearheart's soulful eyes- tumbles around with Tessa's head with heartache of her own, and what follows is told through her POV.

Summary:  After their brief time apart, morning found Tessa finally rejoining the others in the makeshift infirmary on Erebor's groundfloor. By Mahal's Grace and every dwarves' fingers-crossed, Thorin Oakenshield II pulled through and is in recovery after his skiff on Ravenhill. The Mountain seemed even brighter on the inside, its history far beyond what she imagined. Tessa couldn't hold back her questions in her eagerness to see him again, and wanted to hear everything from his own lips. Thorin welcomed her familiar, doting company at his bedside, but also realized he has his guilt to reckon with before he can even consider taking the Throne as King. In his honesty to Tessa, he shares his bout with darkness that threatened to take his sanity and respect, and hopes this does not stain her view of him in return. Clearly she missed something big....

Read on AO3

It hit me the next morning when I woke– I never asked about the Throne Room! 

Every dwarf filing into the Halls was bustling with important things like keeping their King alive, so I never thought to stop someone and ask to see it. I was drained enough as it was, when I saw him… what a sight that must have been. Even after a wash down, I felt dirty as sin from ash and smoke and leftover dragon bile, topped with a mess of tears seeing him on the brink of life and death. 

My adrenaline tanked when my head hit the pillow, and though every square inch of this place needed a deep clean with a couple hundred Swiffer mops, I was way too exhausted to care about tidiness. In our huddle outside the hospital wing, there was a fire, the six of us non-injured Company members sleeping in shifts just like old times- that comfort meant the world to me after the days I spent away. 

In the morning I found myself raring to help, but wanted to go back and check in with everyone, first thing. When we all visited our friends and brothers again with breakfast in tow, I took my waiting place on the King’s bed while Dori checked on Fili first. 

Wrappings and heat warmers aside, Thorin sported color in his cheeks today, which was a fantastic sign. Sleep must have come easier with the roots Oin gave him. From the way he moved, his abdomen must be feeling better because he could scoot up to the headboard all on his own, making room for me to sit. 

Washing down my first bite, I shared my waking thoughts with him, 

“Well, hon, if we can get you out of this bed here soon, it’s time to get you back to your throne where you belong~. It’s all yours now, isn’t it!” 

There’s so much I wanted to catch up on; time flew as we'd spent the last few weeks away from each other in a whirlwind. Surely he'd had plenty of time to refamiliarize himself with his home before the battle. Our friends had been armed and prepared for it, judging by the state of everyone's armor. 

I really should've paced myself; Thorin only just woke up. But I couldn't bite back the questions now, there were so many. But I was most curious about him– what living meant, now that he'd made it through the night and could see his future more brightly,

“How does it feel? Take you right back? Only now, you're taking the best seat in the house," I remembered aloud.

…Thorin's expression fell altogether. The last thing I ever wanted to have happen because of something I said; I regretted asking- though I didn’t know why.

“-What?”

Then abruptly he just– cut away. Not looking at me at all, but rather his feet; sulking away like the sad sight of a guilty child. Even when I cocked my head to cue him to look up, he wouldn't.

In all these months, this was the first ounce of hesitation I’d ever seen in Thorin. The one time I’d ever dare call him feeble: 

"Thorin?"

"I-... They’ve not told you, have they."

"Told me what?"

Grief heaved across his face. You can tell by the way he struggled to breathe– the normal ebb of his chest didn’t lift in that steady, sure rise. 

In the gap of quiet, I stretched out, turning from my twisted seat off the side of the bed to prop up my legs alongside his. He wiped at his brow with a still-stiff hand in search of words, the right words. Whatever had happened proved hard for him to swallow, let alone speak.

"A grace that they didn’t." Thorin murmured under his breath before speaking up, "You weren't here to see it, when we arrived at the Door. To see me, what became of me inside.” To pacify my growing worry, Thorin laid his hand over mine.  “And to be true, I am glad for it."

Under his palm, I held it back to try and stop its tremor. "See you? In– what way?"

The confession barely passed his lips,

 "... I turned goldsick."

The longest fear he’d held: the one taunted to him by kings and trolls alike for months- refusing at every turn to anyone who would listen the very idea of succumbing to his grandfather’s fate –

...it came true anyway.

"Oh, Thorin," I only scooted closer- not away, never away. (And that, plainly, surprised him, if his brows freezing in place was any indication.) "What happened?"

Internal debate brought Thorin's eyes to close for a minute, but he shook his head at the end, 

"The things I said, I cannot take back.  I'd give nearly anything for the chance to scrub them away... How Bilbo can even look me in the eye is beyond me. It's inexcusable." 

The groove of his top lip twitched at some tortured memory,

"Once the dragon left, my heart turned toward the gold around me, and never looked away. This- damned lust settled in my chest… Had this grip on my mind and– what felt like my very soul. It was a dream, and not a dream, because I can remember every moment passed .. almost like a morning fog."

Thorin reasoned with the thought a moment, the followed up, 

"To answer you, I’ve not returned to that cursed room. How could I? How can I sit there, when the very sight of the gilded stone we used in our haste lies poured solid across the floors below?… It reflects everywhere. We’d never piece it up again if we tried for another sixty years."

His heavy brows sagged in their agony. I listened on until Thorin's large thumb stilled and held onto my hand like a lifeline,

"I was horrid, Tessa. You'd never recognize me."

How his heart made the claim as fact so surely, broke mine.

"Of course I would. You're still you, even if you're 'not yourself'."

"-But I was myself.” 

Thorin finally braved to look up: firm as ever, and brokenhearted,

“–Foul and greedy and sick," he said, "Even in the dark when I lay alone trying to sleep. My madness mixed about with the fallen who came before me; the curse passed through my lips as it would their own. I could taste those acrid words as they slipped from me– and I believed them. I'd–...I believed every word." 

I knew my pity must have been readable, because his guilt rose with each sin he confessed:

“I led us to war when it was not necessary. Peace may have been an option, had I but honored my word. Our allies presented joint arms and I refused. I set my brethren to count coins instead of hunt, I let men, women, children dig themselves out from Smaug’s wreckage and leant no help– all while I writhed in my wealth and excess.” Thorin’s words wavered with his head, “I set my own.. my own kin to anger against me. It is by Mahal’s Grace that I have them with me now.”

It clicked why no one told me. This seemed like a huge shift in Thorin’s character to have watched him suffer through. Seemed it was aptly named- a sickness. One he’s clearly sought forgiveness for, and they’ve very clearly wished for nothing more than to move on from. I could see it in how Balin prayed over his healing, how Kili kept asking about him, how everyone cared so much– even given how he’d allegedly treated them all.

The very sink of his shoulders pushing him down sent my chest into an ache. Prostrate as David before the Lord– or as much as he could manage in a makeshift bed.

"I am worthy of that throne no more.” Thorin braced his head as he had before, “Who would follow a slipshod king prone to such weakness?"

This was his truth as he knew it. I reached for Thorin’s other hand.

"Here, c’mere–” 

While he looked tense to receive anything resembling comfort in this moment when he’s already so exposed of the heart, Thorin surrendered it. 

Massive, steel-worn hands, cupped by thin, spread-wide fingers like mine… harmless by comparison. 

Holding them fast seemed second nature; with both the reverence as a king deserved, but also with the care of someone who oh-so deserved something soft for once in his life. No rings adorned his hands now. Before I would have thought this was necessary for hygiene and bandaging; though now I suspect it was a choice of unworthiness. I couldn’t stop myself; I kissed them both. 

I still can’t fathom having a royal title over my head like he does. Holding any kind of political office –or even some stuffy position on a board of trustees seems daunting enough to me. With royal expectations and generations' past leaving their pressures lying on my shoulders like a fur cloak, not to mention being held up by a bum leg that's keeping me trapped to a bed for the next few weeks? That handicap alone –however temporary– would be frustrating enough on its own. 

And to face the oliphaunt in the room, let no one forget that this room is chock full of people suffering from injuries from top to bottom. There was a war outside these walls. We fought a frickin’ war and won. 

Really, what could I say to give counsel to a mastermind behind that undertaking? 

But as I sat back up, the way this guy looked at me caught me in the moment. His eyes set to hear my words like I hung the stars myself. This reminds me of every time we’ve gotten a second alone: this is Thorin. This is the man - no. ‘It's dwarf, lass, and a proud one’- that has to sit with himself at the end of the day, and reason with the same questions as anyone else: 

‘Have I done my best’, ‘Was it enough’, ‘What can I do better tomorrow’. 

And yes, he has to think about those things for the greater good of his people, first… but I’m positive he worries over those things for his own peace of mind. Or else, why would he have brought his friends, his kin, his own flesh and blood along with him to the hardest challenge of his life? He needed them. Surely, even he wrestled with those wants when he’s completely alone. The ones that crop up in the quiet, from the haze of his pipe, 

–a calm, quiet, ‘I could really use a friend right now’.

Rubbing out the tension in his hands is my next move- a nervous gesture of busyness I tend to hide most of the time when I make some excuse to be around him. But it does serve a purpose of relief. Not much, but maybe enough for now.

I offered my hardest to relate, to ease that tension in his brow:

"We all have inner demons. Whether they were born there or worked their way in somehow. And sometimes, our better angels are just so quiet, it's hard to hear them over the noise."

Thorin cocked his head to understand the idea.

"But you listened, hon'," a pause to give a kiss to his tented knuckles, and again, "You listened to your angels in the end; they haven't left you. You came out of it. You chose to do that, yourself. And they all know that–” 

Thorin glanced to where I nodded: somewhere behind me, to the hall and Halls beyond. 

“There's no second thoughts from any of them, whether or not to follow you."  I assured him "–wasn’t any doubt from the start. Your Company was well-chosen. Knew every one of those concerns, always heard you out, and yes- maybe even considered that temptation about you. And yet, they still kept with you anyway, and from the looks of things- all your injuries, notwithstanding- every risk was worth it."

And these were no small injuries- to him, least of all. Scores of his own kind lost their lives in this fight.

My gut backpedaled to the point, 

"That's not to say I'm happy for what you went through! Please don't think that I'm grateful for that part; you've suffered enough." My fingers slipped to lace through his. "Hearing voices- ghosts, insomnia, what have you- that sounds like a form of torture I’d not wish on my worst enemy. Thorin, no one would want more of that for you... you don't deserve it."

To prove I was earnest, I took a few fingers to chip his chin up from where he locked onto my hands in wonderment. This part was important:

"But– you’re no less deserving of what’s rightfully yours just because you stumbled. That's being human– mortal, guilty to a fault. It can, and has, and will, happen again to even the highest among you.”

Thorin is listening– but that edge of doubt still bobbed his head back and forth, scoffing at the idea. Too hard on himself, this one.

“If it wasn’t you, might’ve been Fili next, wouldn’t it? By your thinking, this temptation would have been the 'Durin Family Blight of Erebor'.”

At this, Thorin’s sights flitted to his nephew’s bed, across the way. A spike of fear and steely readiness shook his bones, unseen. He hadn’t considered that. 

“You think… he would have done the same?”

“Maybe,” I shrugged a little lightly. “- and even if he did,” the fact remained, “Would you have turned away from his side because of how it changed him?”

A quick, sharp blurt, “Never.”

Of course, you wouldn't. I smirked through it. 

“And do you think I wouldn’t be telling him the same thing I’m telling you now? It’s no less true, no matter who in your family this applies to.”

This was funny territory, playing hypotheticals in reverse– to rework the past rather than guessing the future. The Company thrived on telling me visions of Erebor our whole way here; didn’t give a second thought to the life I’d left behind, and instead fed be images that I wasn't totally certain I believed at the time. Plus I’m still not sure where I stand on the whole ‘cursed gold’ situation myself. That sounds like the kind of thing from faerie tales. 

–Then again, here I am in Middle Earth… so I’ll be shutting up now.

“Point is, whatever happened when you first came here is no reason to abdicate your throne, Thorin.”

A little, thoughtful hum passed in the moment, though he didn’t look altogether convinced. 

Thorin's sights still flickered to Fili, thoughtfully as he pondered his nephew. 

I stopped him in his tracks, 

“His time will come, you said so yourself.” I blocked his view with a little lean, “But now’s not the time to step down. You’ve done nothing by step up and up and up. The moment you came back to your right self, you came out onto that balcony and asked them to follow you head first against an entire Orc legion, and lead the charge yourself." 

The imagery still thrilled me. Kili made it sound so glorious- majestic. In fact- given what he’d overcome, it meant even more now.

"--You are their King– the only one they'd ever accept after all this time. And the one they'd live and sing and die for, even now."

And then– that look came back. Like a narrative was swirling around my head like Tweedy-birds, Thorin looked me over like a man dazed.  

Y'know, to put my finger on it, he stared just the same as he did at every stop and rest we’d taken from the Rolling Hills to Dale. He’s mulling over things I’d said, trying to ‘get me’. I hoped he’d be remembering the good ones:

'It's coming, Blue Eyes. You've earned the rest that comes at the end of this- even if I have to beat it into submission. I've got little arms, but sheer Southern spite to back it up.-- Don't believe me? I'll do it!'

'Yknow I may not have a magic 8-ball in front of me, but I see a couch in your future. A couch, a bed of ridiculously-sized pillows, a hot bath, and all the mead you can drink. (No, Nori, I’m not a wizardess! NO, it's not real magic-It’s an expression!)'

'Home is coming; peace is coming- for you, and everyone else. Please, for the love of God, take it when the time comes.'

You've suffered enough.

You've suffered enough.

You've suffered enough.

Wait… 

Oh God, Thorin’s one blink away from crying. 

And I would too, if I wasn't careful. Sympathetic crier..

Was I that good at making folks emotional?? Didn’t take much around me, apparently. Balin, the Ri’s, Kili, even Bombur that one time I sang a flipping Hamilton song. (Then again, if you don’t choke up at ‘Burn’, do you even have a heart?)

"I'm sorry I wasn't here for the worst of things, Thorin…” I shook any heady mush away. “But seeing you now, I'd take every ounce of that dragon-sick memory from you if I could, if it'd only take that poor look off your face."

Thorin pardoned the sentiment with a brush to my hands entrapped in his. 

"N'yway, I think… Even at its worst?… It's nothing I wouldn't have loved you through."

The bleary haze sobered, Thorin flickered to life.

"Loved?" he asked. 

What could I say?

…well. Yes. “Love,” I decided. “Present tense.”

Not the finest confession, but we’d danced around the label so far and said everything but the three words to each other. 

I knew it, felt it, even if I’d not said it. 

And yet… I don’t quite know what I was expecting, but Thorin sure didn't melt into a full-on puddle at whatever I said in those imaginings. Not as he did now. Blue Eyes just centered back on my hand and sniffed his emotion back. I think I rendered him speechless, until he glanced up he chimed into his regular, deep timbre,

“Master Oin,”

I turned to see our lovely healer Oin in his element, with a massive tray harness coming up on my right. His vending case of herbalist goods was traded out to what he usually must work with in an infirmary, filled with all sorts of things; namely bandage rolls, compresses, and sacks of medicine pouches. Just in time for the King’s daily dose. 

“Aye, got yer breakfast in ye already, Thorin? Gonna have to keep you, ‘round, lassie,” Oin’s free hand batted at my shoulder and shook it, “Pulling teeth to get him to eat somethin’ down last night, it was...”

I gave Thorin a bit of a look, to which he muted an eye roll. 

“Call me childish all you like,” Thorin droned, “But my stomach was in knots, in both senses of the word.”

“And ye know what helps that along? Bit of this, bit of that– and a solid meal in you to settle in!” Oin’s curmudgeonly side kicked into high gear, pointing at just the sorts of things Thorin needed to get well. Of all his patients at the moment, seems the one that needed the most ‘patience’ indeed was the King himself. 

Dwalin teased me just earlier that I might need to keep on snack duty for the foreseeable future, just to make sure no one keels over. 

Gotta say, this wasn’t the most ideal timing, given we were most definitely interrupted, but I slid off the bed with a happy step, straightened the covers to let Oin have his space.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I cleared the way, and to Thorin, “And I’ll gladly check on you later with a bite of lunch, huh?”

“Please do,” Thorin answered at the ready. A touch softer than he just quipped back to Oin, but he returned to his usual self as Oin chattered along with the usual rounds of questions about every bit of his body and if it still hurt the same.

Thorin was a hard read most of the time– but never to me, and not about what we’d just talked about. There was no mistaking that soft look in his eye that promised more; he smiled back when I took his empty bowl with me.

I nodded to them both as I left, making an effort to keep a snarky smile back at his puppy-like expression that all but apologized for the intrusion out loud. Given his state of calm, I relished in the little signs he gave that he was feeling better in more ways than one.

I’m not a long-time friend of his by any stretch; our time together so far has been but a blink in the span of his life… but I’m so proud of him. And truthfully, I’d follow him anywhere.

Behind the Bar

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Kenna (Herbalist OC)

Words: 4,249

Ratings: Teen/Up Audience

Warnings: none

A/N:    An interlude for two unlikely, fast friends over a bar chat… about perceptions, monsters, and the magic a simple act of kindness can have in their grey world. This is a one-shot set a little time after the start of my upcoming fic, A Stroke of Luck; enjoy~

Summary:   A calm, predictable routine had settled between the Witcher and Dandelion’s new, darling addition to his masterplan; a comfortable, easy end to the day– with Kenna as his company. The two were no longer acquaintances after shared meals, close calls on the road, exchanging goods, and crossing paths at several turns that one could only perceive as fated meetings. After a day of earning her own keep at the local spot where Dandelion has posted up in the city, Kenna steps in to defend Geralt for what he’s due– something he’s clearly never experienced in such a charming way. 

Normally, knights are the noble ones in the city; not herbalists with a mind for money and deduction skills. 

Read on AO3

A red tethered topknot collected most of Kenna’s sweat from the stockpot. On hot days like this, brewing outside is not only a necessity, but a mercy. 

Her celandine seeds currently roasting over the flame are potent in a moderate amount, but with the steamy heat of summer driving everyone in Velen to the nearest river, Kenna knew trying to cook off copious amounts of pollen in a small kitchen would cause headaches galore– a migraine just waiting to happen. Still, catching a breath herself was a sacrifice she was willing to make for the sake of this batch.

"Twenty minutes," Kenna rasped to herself- wistfully catching sight of the still wind chime at the far corner of the patio. No breeze today. "Maybe thirty. Then a much needed cool down..."

Kenna brushed off the polleny barbs on a dirt rag, and took a swig from her canteen. She counted the horses filling up the stable overhang across the way, brows flicking up at the sight of a familiar dun.

"Roach~"

The mare turned head and gave a quick, barreling whinny. Kenna ducked under the tarped shelter and through the walkway to scratch the Witcher's much-loved steed across the blaze of her snout. She found the sweet spot under the horse's bangs easily, relishing in the fluttery burrs coming from deep in her barded chest.

"Like that, don't you..." Kenna hummed down to Roach’s head nuzzling straight against her stomach. "Glad to see you too. Wonder what your friend's gotten up to, hm baby? Is he inside?"

Roach couldn't give an answer, but Kenna engaged the conversation anyway.

"Yeah, I should go say hi. Maybe bring a little treat to a special someone after, huh?" Kenna cooed, and earned another agreeable burr. Seemed the ashen-colored mare next to Roach shared the sentiment. With a final scratch, Kenna doubled back inside the back door, shedding the potholders strung to her wrists and making her way to the bar.

Slipping past a few of the entertaining girls for the night with a welcoming smile, Kenna joined Dandelion’s side by the peddler’s table as he looked on. Activity near the front door had his attention with strong degree of disapproval.

"Uh-oh. That's a look.” Kenna murmured over his shoulder, not making it look obvious that she was looking, too. “What's going on?"

"Mmmm. I think someone’s trying to stiff Geralt." Dandelion sniffed haughtily. "That lout’s been floundering ever since he got the full story of the contract he lent out. Job's done- he better pay him." Dandelion spoke with conviction, but with an aire of a joke. "Or else I might just sing ‘The Song’ as loud as I can manage."

"Geralt said he doesn't like it."

"I don't care if he doesn't like it- it's the principle!" Dandelion soured. "Ts'why I put the line right in there!" He seemed certainly proud of his creative stroke, but moseyed on over to his band’s half circle to try and break from his foul mood and give his impatience time to cool off.

Looking back, Kenna sorted herself around the counter, treading close to the end where Geralt wore a flat scowl of his own. His hair partly wisped about by a likely rushed scuffle, it stuck behind his ear a little haphazardly on one side, and only proved the dangerous risks and efforts of his line of work. 

Catching herself from staring too much, she did fall in line and familiarize herself with the current state of coin and orders coming in. It wasn’t her night to tend the dining pots, but she was always agreeable to help Marge out when things picked up around this hour. Some slips were for standing tabs, meals to-go, and for the brews currently being concocted outside on her burner as quick medicines. On the stake beside the coinbox sat the paid out tabs, half-crumpled; she saw a regular’s- Corrull, from up the high street- had just paid out. To her surprise, he was the one Geralt was talking to by the door. 

Kenna picked out his higher pitched voice rushing out a pleading laugh to break the tension. Back still turned to her, Geralt crossed his arms and leaned onto one heavy-set foot.

"Please, I've had bit’of business since Hump day, Witcher; you know how these things go! I gotta keep up. There's been costs, and doctors calls- my youngest girl's been tied in knots over this whole housing mess.. been mislaid for almost a week now from the stress."

"This isn't what we agreed to."

"Have a heart, man- damn godlings are a mess- not tryna snuff you, or nothing, but twenty coin really gonna put you out that much? It's a good thing ya done- you have my thanks, honest-"

"Grateful conscience or not. Still won’t buy me dinner." Geralt managed levely.

Kenna's brow furrowed and her chin upticked- Dande was right.

Corrull went on about his recent laundry list of expenses before Kenna's feet moved on their own and came from the bar to their space with a confident air in her shoulders, messing with her hand towel just casually enough to show authority as part of Marge’s staff.

"Everything ok here, gentlemen?" Kenna eyed them both, more focus landing on Geralt’s noncompliant company.

"Kenna, love!" Corrull visibly waffled, "Just settling up with a posting, no trouble here."

Geralt wasn't impressed, glaring daggers into the man's temple and rolling off to the side, not quite meeting her eye back.

Kenna kept aloof and light. "That so?"

Geralt groused, "Wouldn't say that." 

Geralt's tone kept sound but the edge on the last beat ruffled Corrull ever so much, even in a bystander's presence. Kenna looked back to Corrull for a clearer answer than his nervous chuff of laughter.

"Just hard to uh-- settle up when your pot's empty, ya know miss? Just paid off my tab, you can check! I'm good for it, Witcher!" He claimed, posture jumpy. Geralt soured even more.

Kenna's brow lifted, her proof coming to mind.

"True enough, he sure did," Kenna lilted, stepping back to the bar. With a quick blind grab, she flipped up the spoked slip of paper. "Amount of- oh look here.. twenty pieces. Got the Friday special, I see. Someone was feeling indulgent."

Geralt eyed her back more calm than before, with a curious sort of furrow to his brow. Beside him, he glanced in his peripheral as the man's throat bobbed. Guilty as sin.

"Tell you boys what," Kenna slipped comfortably onto the low tabletop to address them, slipping the sheet to Corrull, "How's about you take this, my friend... And we'll settle that up when you're not in such a tight spot. Got a week's due date, after all- says so on the door."

She referenced the casual plaque above his very head with a pointed nod, and while both looked up dumbly to it, she rustled up the increments of five gold pieces to the total of twenty.

"And this-- can be used to pay the Witcher what he's owed." 

Stance calm and collected, Kenna kept her tone equally sweet, but with a careful look that meant this was more than a suggestion aimed straight at the portly man.

Geralt unfurled his arms to keep casual rest on the hilt of his shortsword, looking far less threatening, but solemn to a fault.

Swallowing against a flare of pride, the man nodded all too quickly,

"Mmm-- agreeable. Fair enough. Call it done, Master Witcher?"

With the same severe look that wasn't to be messed with earlier, Geralt shrugged off with a dismissive wave.

"Fine by me."

"Good deal!" Kenna brightened with a knowing smile. "Then you'll take this..." 

Corrull came to claim the tab and drop off the remaining bag of coins beside the stack on the counter, before she offered, 

"And-- a quick word I hear, from a wise man?"

"Yesm, Ma'am?"

Her voice dropped a fraction in volume.

"Pay your debts, in the order in which they're received. Just good business."

Message delivered; Corrull’s subdued nod was prompt indication. Satisfied by the small sweaty blink away of nerves he showed, Kenna patted the coin bag and carried on wiping out a still drying cup within reach- as casual an act as always.

"Lovely," she perked up again, "do enjoy your night, barber. We'll see you back to settle that one up- whenever's convenient for you."

"Course, ma'am.... Witcher, my regards."

"Hm." Geralt nodded briefly. 

And Corrull slipped out of the Rusted Arrow's well worn door with a shake of the head and a jerky rake of his hair, making off not unlike a dog with his tail between his legs.

Slipping off the counter's edge to a less precarious posture, Kenna huffed at the obvious poor planning and shitty business sense of the patron. As thankful as she was for regulars, that display wouldn't endear the Barbersons to her for a while. 

Back to Geralt, the Witcher pocketed the bag before shedding his swords off under the counter edge and took a seat.

Kenna rallied a cleansing breath, catching Geralt's eye and giving a sympathetic little smile. All previous ‘peddler’s appeal’ voice gone, she dropped to her more natural, unfussy tone.

"Hey there, stranger."

"Hey," Geralt smirked back lifelessly. "Thanks for that."

Clearly he wasn't all too pleased.

"...Does that happen often?"

Geralt dismissed with a curt shake, "Few and far between."

Kenna hummed, content enough for the rarity of such stinginess of people. Witchers took on the strangest and deadliest of occupations, in her eyes... Managing payment for those services seemed a given, especially the more desperate the man was to get a witcher's help.

Refreshing her tucked hair back, Kenna shook off her abrupt wave of justice. Geralt spoke up again, so she recentered to listen- though wilted at the same time, noticing his head cocked down a bit staring off at the bar too absently.

"Iron's gone up in the last month. Everything's more costly. Arrowheads, sinker lines, horseshoes even..." He huffed dully. "This kind of job will barely cover my regular list–thanks-" He acknowledged her pour of some ale with a sip. After a thin lipped swallow, Geralt eyed Kenna with a resolute firmness of his brow. "I don't mean to sound cold over a bit of short change. But twenty coin's twenty coin. The rest is pretty much spoken for."

Kenna scoffed lightly with an ease of her brow.

"You don't owe me a single explanation- not to anyone, Geralt. You earn what you earn- and you should get every bit of it. It's only right."

"Still," he drawled, giving a small nod. "All I mean is every bit counts, wasn't meant to be greedy. Witchers get enough shit as it is."

"You said that last time," Kenna frowned thinking back to his visit at the start of the month. 

"Kinda nice tho... Having someone stick up for a Witcher for once. That's a rare sight."

Geralt was looking off through the window’s condensation, so he missed Kenna’s wry little smile. A thank you, in his own way.

"So I literally scored you dinner with my little stunt, huh?" She hinted.

"Sure did." He looked back, visibly more relaxed.

Kenna couldn't stifle the pride blooming in her chest again. They say good deeds don't go unpunished, but she couldn't see a downside when the timing was so perfect.

"Well don't worry- it's not a favor you gotta return when it's over your hard earned money." She tapped the counter, working her jaw casually, eyeing him up amicably. "Dinner’s up to you now; what'll it be? Same special as Jackass out there, orrrr we have a good bit of chicken, greens, Redwood rarebit- and if I remember right, bread from this morning? I think it's still good."

"You pick. Sounds good."

Hyperverbal as always. 

This Witcher... days like his, stretching on to the night, where a meal is hit or miss... Been a long day, Kenna imagined, so she decided to cut him slack.

"Alright, Mr. Chatty," Kenna dropped the hostess' airs, and settled into her routine. "One bread or two?"

"Mm," he hummed. "How much'll that get me?"

Kenna paused. He's dead serious.

"Two," she decided, with a smile.

"Might as well."

Navigating the stovetop was fast paced with three girls working tonight, so Kenna was able to slide in and out with minimal invasion. Sweet girls- this was their first job for two of them; trying so hard to please and make a few extra tips. Kenna was simply glad for the exclusive backdoor access to the outside fireplace, and left the interior fires for the staff to have as much space to manage mealtimes as possible. Paired with the visiting bard, she wasn’t necessarily in this job for the money- more for the company, “in” with the local herbalists, and here to manage Dandie’s books while he wooed the populace. Didn’t hurt to make a few friends along the way- or treat them to a kinder night of conversation than what they were typically dealt…

"You're quick."

Geralt was studying her even before she dropped off a couple plates to his spot. The sole attention might have scared any of the other girls, Kenna thought. But under Geralt’s eye- that almost rang a compliment.

"I’m not exactly a field track star, Geralt. I hate running." She teased with an eye roll. Sidestepping around the bustle wasn't a task to be taken slowly.

"Quick at reading people," Geralt stated as his correction, "Reading a room. Diffusing situations."

"Working with all the hotheads in here?” Kenna mused, “You pick it up after a while if you don't wanna go mad. And I’ve worked in quite a few spots like this one."

"You know what I mean. C'mon."

Kenna shook her head- not following.

Geralt worked through a bite before asking, "How do you manage it?"

"... Stopping barfights, or not losing my patience?"

"Understanding people." he asked with a careful eye.

Well, this is chattier.

"Well,” Kenna started, “I like people- shocker."

Geralt gave a conceding look and kept eating.

"All kinds. And that's... -not a popular opinion. People find anything to fight about nowadays. Dwarves, elves- witchers; don't have to explain that one."

Geralt's wariness softened.

"I guess the more I've moved, the more I’ve listened.. People are complex, no matter where they come from. We have…” she paused to collect stray thoughts together and blew some air through thought, “These ideas of what we should be, what we wanna be, and what we are. And if I look hard enough- I start to 'get' it, myself. I can hear it in their stories. There’s things people say- and things they don't say. Both are telling."

"And I dunno." Kenna stepped back towards the back counter, arms lax but bracing herself upwards. "Everyone's got a story. Maybe if we all listened a bit, we'd understand each other better. Not get so wrapped up in this political mess, greed, vendettas and actually put that energy towards something better. Better for all of us.." 

She waved humorlessly to him; the gesture was received with a smirk.

"I may not be a huge part of the solution in my tiny little corner of the world.... But I just don't wanna be part of the problem. It pays to listen in."

Geralt blinked, a thought passing through, fleeting. 

"Life's too short, y'know?" Kenna spun to the positive. "Might as well make the ride easy for folks while I'm here. Do some good. It's in rare form, like you saw tonight. That's why I try my hardest to 'herd the cats'; it works to calm me down at least." She sullied as the barber’s interaction seeped back in. 

The cat-eyes focused, a question behind them and his brow lifted.

"You think it's naive-- I can see it on your face."

"Difference between optimism and being naive.” Geralt answered, “You're not naive."

"Well, thanks." She wiped a cup, not convinced at his still-inquisitive gaze.

"... I think you're what the world needs."

Kenna blanked out, staring back. He offered a little, thin lipped smile- barely there. Then took another drink.

"... Wow." Kenna managed out of her confusion. "Here I thought I was talking your ear off."

"No,” he wiped a bit of juice between his thumb and forefinger. “You just made me think."

"About what?"

"Couple things," he rose and joined her behind the bar, sitting with his back to the room-- across from her, her equal.

Squared up, she sipped from her canteen in new company.

"What are you thinking about?"

"These spectres. Ghouls. Settling into houses around this area; they’re often tortured. Beings that  were never properly laid to rest when they met their end. It makes sense to know why they breed suffering and wrath on everything, because they never got the chance to feel it themselves. Just as they're misunderstood in life- they also are in death. They're trapped in the mortal plane, and can do real harm in the moments between real and unreal."

Kenna was surprised at the tangent. Still, he was sharing. This had to be fairly rare too. 

"Huh."

"The job–one I just did,” he rolled back his shoulders, “The spirit was that of a child who was feeding on the collective dreams of the owners of the wellerman’s house from nearly a decade ago. His parents. Kid died young, but was hardly mourned because he was some sickly thing- seen as a burden on the family. The family moved on to bear more children, seemingly much happier. But so much hatred and scorn drove the child's spirit to madness in the last days of life- and so, he haunted them in death, until they went mad and passed with equal unrest. Arguably before their time."

"Woah."

"Coursem now,” Geralt nodded on, “You'd think justice was done- the nightwraith would be content with handfuls of residents coming in and out of that home. But he wasn't sated. Bitterness rots. Destroys you. Lingers– it's a slow thing, that only hurts:"

"-yourself." Kenna reasoned along with him, "And that even happens to undead creatures like that?"

"It's how they thrive. You don't know any different way to survive when you're in a plane of your own."

It sounded lonely, in the worst sense.

Geralt mused with the storytelling genius of all those cautionary tales she’d been reared on, 

"He fed on what he believed was real-- but it wasn't. Wraiths can feel the living- but not hear and really see. So with new residents, he transferred leaching from one source to another, thinking his family was still alive after years of roaming alone. Full of misplaced hatred and nowhere to put his grief."

"So he was going to kill the barbersons, too?" Kenna worried a bit.

"Bit by bit from madness- sure."

"So... What did you do?"

"Laid him to rest. With his family, where he belonged all along." Geralt’s eyes flickered to the nearer of the two swords- the silver blade.

"That’s-- wow." And the more she thought... "...And you get only three hundred coins for all that?!"

Geralt snickered lightly, 

"Three hundred was generous. I've handled worse for less. This was a selfish child whittled away by an illness that took him from his family. Imagine a woman scorned by a lover, demanding eternal restitution."

"Oooo, that's messy." Kenna winced.

"I'd take on a hungry grottore anyday."

Kenna gawked flatly. Those things are terrifying. 

But Geralt reached back for his stein,

"I'm joking. Breathe, sweet thing."

Sweet thing? That was new and thrilling in its own right.

Kenna watched him from her perch, ever amazed at the ease which Geralt so willingly deals with such extremes of monsters.

“I think that’s a bit of a trend with you, isn't it?” Kenna recovered her backbone, “Taking on the worst of jobs that accost the body mind and spirit, and get paid nickels for it?”

“Long as I can get  a hot meal and a night’s rest out of it.”

“Not without the creepiest nightmares, I’d imagine…” Kenna shuddered off.

Geralt shrugged again, “One can wish.”

Kenna huffed, but wrenched at her neck in a shudder of nervous energy,

"Well geez Geralt, that's some heavy stuff. What on earth did I say that made you think about all that?"

Geralt joined her side now: looking out at the bar, leaning back, hip to hip.

"What I meant was... There's talent in reading people, all kinds. You can put yourself in someone else's shoes, and know how to relate. Makes people at ease. Anyone who meets you-- they’re better for it." He looks at her. "I meant what I said; the world needs more people like you. For what it’s worth, the more there is of you-- the less there are of monsters like that."

Kenna hadn’t considered that connection- specters did start out as souls with flesh and blood at one point. The compliment surely meant more when Geralt spelled it out so graciously.

 There was no doubt in her mind now- hearing how nobly Dandie constantly bragged on this Witcher. As if her own little talks here and there didn’t confirm it, Geralt was always surprising her, tale after tale. Humanizing him all the more to her.

With a smarmy brow lifted, Geralt passed the mug to his lips again,

"You also asked me if I get stiffed often for payment. Had to think about that too. Would you believe me if I told you there’s only one person who's ever asked me about that before?"

In a whole lifetime, only one friend? "Really?"

As soon as she’d asked, Dandelion bellowed out some rousing opening liner to a shanty. He was really putting in the effort now- to announce the arrival of some fisherman’s party that he recognized coming in the door and set to immediately boost their spirits after a long day. Geralt pointed the bard out with a silent finger, perfect timing. 

Of course–Dandelion had been concerned, the moment she walked in the room. Kenna softened to know his eye out for Geralt wasn’t coincidence.

"Imagine my surprise... To learn you two found each other." Geralt muttered.

"Looks like we share a knack for picking up stray witchers."

Geralt huffed a small bit through his nose; a smile teasing the edges of his eyes. They wrinkled  in little, soft lines.

"He's insufferable and rarely shuts up when I need him to... But he's a good friend. Best I've had in a long time."

Kenna smiled again, happy for the turn of fate. The odds of her acquaintanceship between a bard and a monster hunter on separate instances to merge so perfectly could only be a happy accident.

Kenna held out a small hand as he might to one of his formal business prospects, more to tease than offer a real truce

"Well, if you'd like- make it two, Geralt. You'll have my ear when you need it; and I'll come set your bullies straight at the pub anytime you want. Deal?" 

But Geralt clearly had other intentions on the receiving end. His gaze flickered for a moment, surprised to catch her open hand. Yet the act brought a wider grin to his face, which was a welcome sight. 

Geralt took her hand of course, but lifted it for a quick, polite kiss instead of a shake to seal the invitation.

"Deal.” he agreed. 

Stifling that flip in her heart very quick, Kenna turned interested,

"So that's a yes on the bully-fighting? Better polish off my fisticuffs."

"If I'm ever going to let you fight, you're using a blade. Not glorified punches." Geralt countered.

"Hope you plan on teaching me,” she coughed out a laugh. “I've never used one."

Geralt sighed with a flutter of an eye roll, "You and Dandelion both. What am I gonna do with you..."

Kenna couldn’t resist;

"Swordplay, it sounds like~"

Geralt’s sharp eyes flared, sights fixed on her from a half submerged sip from his stein. Doubt, dipped with interest- clearly wondering if he heard her right. 

Kenna smirked at being able to catch him off guard. Dandelion was right about him appreciating a bit of quick wit. 

"I'll start restocking your cache and be out back if you need me." 

Kenna passed across him to grab his side pouch perched on the ground where he kept his elixir reserves. As always, that was her usual forte beyond serving up a meal he’d enjoy. Before crossing him again, she remembered to snag a couple apples from the top rack dangling from the bartop.

"Gotta check in on the ladies, too. M’sure Dandie will wanna hear your ghost story.”

“Oh gods forbid.” Geralt scowled playfully. “I’m not giving him any more ideas for his songs.”

“Oh he’s got plenty already. See ya.” Kenna turned and slipped out from the bar. 

– And what to her luck, her batch of celandine was just the right, toasty color on the back stove. 

“Perfect timing, Roach,” Kenna called to the mare across the way, “Come get a treat, sweet girl~”

Roach perked up and trotted her way over, head shoved under the awning and ready for the herbalist’s touch. She may think the lady’s pot always smelled weird in that tent of hers, but Geralt spoke nicely about his new little friend, Kenna. Wherever they went, Roach always had the suspicion the Path would lead right back to this one…

FIN

dwarven hair customs

This is so pure. The joy on this man's face when food is involved~

You know what we don't talk about enough? Thorin's sandwich-serving skills