Chapter Sixty-Nine: One's Life Needs No Explanation

The alchemy chamber was quiet, the only sound a soft bubbling from the mysterious liquid simmering in the cauldron. Sensing the awkwardness in the air, Angoulême took the initiative to smooth things over. “Let me do the introductions,” she offered. “His name is Dandelion, a friend of Uncle Geralt. We traveled together for a long time, and when Uncle fell in Livia, he was there…”

Whatever the girl said next was lost on Victor. From the moment the name “Dandelion” reached his ears, he was transfixed, staring in a daze at the man’s rakish face. He wasn't worried about mistaking him for someone else—the name and the aura matched perfectly. This fellow was without a doubt Dandelion himself. He really was blessed with such a handsome visage; no wonder he left traces of affection everywhere he went.

Though this man was an incorrigible scoundrel, if you counted him as a friend, he would willingly risk life and limb for you; a scoundrel, yes, but one with a sense of loyalty. In the monster-haunted world, he was among the rare few who brought a constant spark of comedy to the grimness. As for his poetry, Victor had heard more than once since coming to the world of sorcerers—it was, in truth, quite good.

So the frost on Victor’s face thawed. He gestured for Angoulême to stop talking, removed his sunglasses, and stepped out from behind his desk. “Forgive my rudeness—I had no idea the greatest poet of the North, Dandelion himself, would grace my humble home. I admire your work greatly. Please, allow me as your host to offer you proper hospitality.”

Angoulême’s eyes widened, her mouth agape, stunned by the sudden shift from coldness to courtesy. In all her experience, her captain had met countless important figures with unwavering composure, never changing expression at their names. Why was he being so polite to this lecherous, cowardly, useless fellow whose only talent was singing bawdy ballads?

But to Dandelion, such a reaction was hardly surprising. All those self-styled nobles, eager to seem cultured, behaved just the same.

The poet instantly found his stride. “Ah, the esteemed Victor! Thank you for looking after Angoulême. We have weathered many storms together, braved rain and snow—we are the best of friends. It is a great honor to accept your hospitality.”

Having played the White Wolf countless times in games, Victor was quite familiar with Geralt’s close friends, harboring an extra measure of tolerance for them.

Dandelion was practically the comic relief of the game, and given Victor’s own closeness to Ciri, this man was, by all accounts, a natural friend.

He needed to remember Zoltan’s blunder and build this friendship slowly and steadily.

With a genuine smile, Victor patted the poet’s arm. “Come! I have a few bottles of fine wine upstairs—Toussaint’s best ‘East of East’ red. Perhaps we can drink and listen to your ballads. To tell you the truth, I dabble in the lute myself and even performed at the Elven festival.”

“You play as well? Wait… Victor—could you be the ‘Heavenly Minstrel’ who moved thousands to tears with a single piece at the Summer Festival in Driftport Forest?” Dandelion’s words left Victor momentarily dumbfounded. How had the rumors grown so wild? What had once been praise for the music as “heavenly” had now become a title for himself.

He replied, a little helpless, “I wouldn’t call myself a ‘heavenly minstrel,’ but ‘With You’ was indeed my performance.”

Dandelion’s face flushed with excitement. He gripped Victor’s hands tightly. “Heavens! I’ve heard many Elven friends mention your music on my travels. They say hearing it leaves them with no regrets in life, that all others pale in comparison. Who would have thought I’d meet you here? Come, come! Let’s go upstairs and truly share our art!”

With that, the two men went up, arms around each other’s shoulders, leaving Angoulême ignored. She was shocked by how swiftly their friendship blossomed; in less than ten minutes, they seemed on the verge of becoming “kindred spirits.” Heaven knew that not long before, she could have sworn Victor was about to draw his sword on Dandelion.

...

Now Angoulême wondered if she had the gift of prophecy. She had always known that Dandelion, nearly forty, was unreliable, but she hadn’t expected her fifteen-year-old captain could match the poet’s lack of dependability. After “With You” was played, Dandelion sang “The Lion Cub of Cintra,” and the two embraced as if they were long-lost brothers. In the end, they drank themselves into a disgraceful stupor.

Angoulême had a vague premonition that this sorry spectacle was only a rehearsal for an even wilder debauch to come.

They drank until they passed out, then drank again upon waking. Fortunately, by the next evening, the one woman who could handle them both arrived. To everyone’s surprise, including Victor and Angoulême, Shani turned out to be Dandelion’s junior at university; both were graduates of Oxenfurt.

“Dandelion, you fool! Why did you get Victor so drunk? He’s just a boy!” Doctor Shani scolded her so-called senior without mercy.

Unfortunately, the poet was already too far gone, slumped in a daze on Shani’s favorite armchair. She glared daggers at him; if he dared vomit on it, she swore she’d make him regret it.

Victor, having downed a bottle of sobering potion, felt his senses clearing. He tugged at the young lady’s sleeve. “It’s alright, Shani. Don’t be mad. We were just enjoying the music and had a few too many.”

Now it was Victor’s turn to face Shani’s deadly glare. The look in her eyes made him suck in a breath and immediately fall silent, ready to be lectured. “Listen, Vic, you’re still a child. I don’t mind a little wine on occasion, but your body isn’t fully grown. You shouldn’t drink so much, even if you are a witcher apprentice! If you want to get any taller, don’t squander your health.”

Faced with such caring admonition, Victor’s bravado evaporated like a tiger brought low. Was there any need to explain himself? The mature soul knows better than to argue out of pride—just bow your head and admit fault.

Seeing Victor’s submissive attitude, Shani’s sternness softened into a satisfied smile. She then directed Victor and Angoulême to help her haul Dandelion, limp as a dead pig, up to the third-floor bedroom and lay him on his side—never on his back or stomach, to prevent him choking on his own vomit. Sitting upright to sleep was bad for the body too.

Once Dandelion was settled, the group made their way downstairs. As Victor prepared to escort Shani home, he noticed she had no intention of leaving. “Um… aren’t you going home tonight?”

“The hospital’s given me the night off. I’ll stay with Angoulême. When Dandelion wakes, he and I need to have a serious talk. After all this time, the first thing he does is get a child drunk—unbelievable.” Clearly, her anger hadn’t abated.

Victor blinked, unsure of the true cause of Shani’s ire, but he knew when to lie low. He stretched, feigning tiredness, and slipped away to bed.