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The smell of milk. The smell of over boiled milk, sweet and acrid, mixing with the aroma of honey and freshly baked bread had roused Geralt from his sleep. He gave himself a moment to tune in. He turned over, enjoying the warm brush of the light on his bare skin. Then he opened his eyes.
The day must have just started; golden beams of the sun sneaked through but hadn’t yet managed to disperse the darkness completely. They had left a bluish afterglow, marked only gently the outlines of exiguous furniture and a copper jug on the table. In the sea of light, there was something else as well. A long, blurry shape next to the bed. The shape he would recognise always .
He would recognise anywhere these pretty shoulders. The cascade of locks decorating them. This thin waist and shapely hips, masked quite effectively by the fabric of the nightdress. A white linen nightdress which smelled of lilac and gooseberries.
He put some effort and constricted the right muscles. It got brighter. Beneath a cover of dishevelled curls, he spotted a pair of violet eyes. The eyes he knew well, which by a single look in them allowed to guess the mood of their owner. They peered at him from beneath the lines of long eyelashes. They were serene and wise, loving, glazed in the cold morning air.
At the very bottom of all that, hid an outline of a smile - the most beautiful smile in the world.
“When did you come back?” the shadow asked and brought an end to his quiet contemplation.
Geralt scrooched on the narrow bed and lingered, cherishing the last bits of moment before it’s gone.
‘’Late,” he blurted at last, in the same time letting it become a memory - a very nice one, but still a memory. “Or early in the morning. Didn’t want to wake you up so I settled myself down here.”
Yennefer didn’t reply. Instead, she sat down beside him on the bed and placed her finger on the bandage he wrapped around his bicep the previous night. “I was- We were waiting, “she replied, loosening the fabric. “Ciri didn’t speak to me the entire evening. Thought she had grown up from similar nonsense but clearly not.”
“She’s still not over it?” he more observed than asked.
“Because of me she couldn’t assist you in the hunting - you think how would she respond?”
Geralt watched her movements with a great interest, how she tilted her head, how her lips unwittingly opened while she guided her fingertips along the long scratch. Or rather pieces of skin which were kept together by four stitches made of the fishing line.
“Not a biggie,” he lied.
“Not a biggie,” Yennefer repeated after him, shifting and pressing her thumbs a bit too hard for his liking.
She was irritated but smile didn’t vanish from her lips even for a moment. And somehow, for totally undefined reasons, Geralt felt like doing exactly the same. Despite the struggle with foglets last night, despite toil and uncertainties, despite all death and loss following them lately, he felt lucky.
“I see your common sense kicked in and you took care of yourself. The cut is deep but shouldn’t cause trouble. Still-” Yennefer stressed on the last word. “Still I think you should’ve asked for help. The stitches look messy. If I was being pesky, I could easily order another suturing. Quite likely I may need to: at least one of them looks like it’s about to fall off.”
Geralt listened to her advice and nodded as befits an obedient patient. After a long monologue and to his genuine relief, Yennefer decided to leave things as they were. She joined him under the covers not long after that, scented and warm beside him. As if by magic, the sheets begun to feel warmer. And much cosier.
“One witcher in the family is enough,” she mumbled, waking him up from the nap he wasn’t aware he was taking. “Those creatures trouble experienced hunters, let alone a novice. She would’ve caused more damage than help you.”
“Yes, one witcher’s enough,” Geralt muttered absentmindedly. His eyelids were still shut.
Yennefer had let it go. Not for long however. He felt how she shifted, how her breath became quicker and quicker. He didn’t respond. All his previous attempts of reasoning with edgy Yennefer had an utility similar to extinguishing oil with water or convincing a hungry lynx to vegetarianism. They could lead to loss of digits and nothing more.
“Don’t bother,” she groaned loudly when it became obvious he would not initiate the conversation on his own.
Geralt sighed and looked at her.
“She’s been with us only a month,” the Enchantress moaned. “Only a month and we fought at least ten times already. I promised myself that we would be different, that because of what happened, we would not waste our time on pointless squabbles and stupid sulks - yet here we are, arguing like everyone else.”
“Back then in Kaer Morhen, that day when we found out that-” Geralt stopped and for a long moment sought the right words. “When we found out Ciri had ceased to be a baby, I found Vesemir as full as a boat. You know what he told me?”
“I dread to think.”
“He told me that if he was to choose between a teenager and a bunch of enraged manticores, he would always choose the later. Even after so many attempts and years of whatsoever, experience, it still creeped him out. How can we feel?”
“Vesemir didn’t aspire for the role of her parent as far as I’m concerned.”
“Wanted to know my opinion so here it is.”
He expected her to say something, to flood him under the wave of brickbat or simple insecurities, but it never happened. He had never got a response other than a modest movement of her lips, and it was more than enough. Yennefer’s smile was worth no less than gold and gems - the latter were much easier to gain.
He smiled at her too and brought his lips to the crown of her head. And then he made a mistake.
He took a look at her fingers, it came back to him. The traces of deformations were gone, but he knew. He could still tell the subtle difference: the tiny bit of bending where it wasn’t before or unnecessary protrusions. The scorpion nestling inside his chest vivified itself once more.
“Don’t let it eat your heart out,” she cut him and took her hands away from his sight. She was listening. She always had. Or maybe it was him, constantly bring up that subject?
“Hmm-”
“Just don’t. I don’t resent. Never did. Not even for a moment. Can’t you do the same?”
He couldn’t. He would never forgive himself his foolishness, his lack of faith in her and how easy it turned out for them to manipulate him and feed on his hatred, the months he had wasted on blaming and hating her while she awaited his help. The time in Toussaint.
“I know,” she whispered, stroking gently the clenched muscles of his jaw. “I know and I forgave. It’s a nice morning. I don’t want to talk about it when the day is so nice. Do you understand, Geralt?”
He didn’t but he obeyed nonetheless, letting himself be engulfed in the silence. The silence stirred solely by the chirrup of a bird. A ginger robin sat on the windowsill and kept singing for them, for no one. He hadn’t seen a robin in ages.
It was a nice morning indeed.
“Five minutes walk, there’s a pretty meadow,” he started, taking a strand of her hair between his fingers. “Wouldn’t count on rose beds but forsythia is blooming. Catkins are hanging from the willows. Maybe we could even find a crocus or two. We could have a picnic later. What would you say to that, eh?”
“Picnic?” Yennefer chuckled, fidgeting inside his embrace. “Should I examine you for concussion?”
“Don't want to go?”
“Of course I do.”
Geralt kissed her, this time around properly on the lips. And then, they both came back to what they had done quite a lot lately: thinking about everything and nothing, always in each other company. The conversation did languish again, leaving an pleasant aura. Until, he started to think about it .
“What is it?” She turned under his embrace again and looked him straight in the eye. “I felt it. The weight of it. I promised not to read you, but we both know it may turn out to be quite hard to deliver. Tell me.”
“Yen, do you believe in afterlife?”
“Well, every culture on the continent and beyond it believes there is something awaiting us after death. The Eternal Fire for instance-”
“Do YOU believe?”
The Sorceress shrugged. “No not really. Why?”
“Yen, did you see my elixirs?” Geralt blurted, rummaging through the net of fabrics and boxes they stored in a huge painted wooden casket. Despite the rudimentary design of the hut he was renting along with Ciri and the Sorceress for almost a week now, the object he was looking for seemed to be impossible to find.
Yennefer released a long muffled groan which as the Witcher suspected meant she had no idea what the item's whereabouts were. He sighed and moved to other chest, the last one to be exact, and prayed in spirit the item would be there. Getting another set of elixirs was out of the question, particularly now, as there were minutes separating him from the hunting.
“It's not there too,” he mumbled, but the information didn't manage to win him even a little of Yennefer’s attention. She had her eyes set on nothing else but a large clay dish on the stove, just as she had them fixed for the last hour or so. A young hare he had brought home the previous night was perhaps inside it already and awaited a little baking session in the flames. The smell of roasted onions and fresh meat bullion was in the air. Geralt gulped. Yennefer knew how to make use of every bit of the animal.
“Yen, can you please focus for a moment?” he said, grabbing his jacket and swords. “Do you know where it is?”
He left their room, which linked together the function of their bedroom, dining and living room, and entered the provisory kitchen - except for the brick oven and few shelves here and there, the room was pretty much empty.
“Yen, just a moment.”
“I'm busy, Geralt” the Sorceress snarled, still not looking at him. The dish ended up behind the small iron doors. She placed the baking apron back on the table and headed to the bedroom.
“How many times I told you to be careful where you place them?” she snorted, inspecting under the bed and in the chests. Geralt was sure the item wasn't there, yet her eagerness made him cringe. He knew more than well what kind of response he could expect from her if she had somehow found it.
To his luck, she had found only fresh sheets and their dinnerware. “They can be in the sacks in the stable. If not, you'll have to fetch yourself new ones, I'm afraid.”
“Will I?”
“No, I'm pretty sure they're in the sacks.”
He thanked her and was about to leave the room when she grabbed his shirt and pulled dangerously close to her.
“Be careful, Witcher,” she mumbled between fervent and quick kisses, her nails dug into the skin of his shoulder and neck. Lately, she hardly ever kissed him any different. He couldn't say he didn't like it. Quite the opposite.
“Why did I even agree for this stupid contract in the first place?” she asked, looking him in the eye and pressed herself to him in a rather unsubtle manner. “Sure you have to go?”
Geralt gasped at the sensation of her lips on his ear and neck. The words he wanted to say got stuck in his mouth and then disappeared completely, exchanged for the most atavistic responses.
“Less thinking, more action,” the Enchantress purred, suckling on his skin a bit harder.
Everything he could think of was their unsatiated appetite. He kept intoxicating himself in it, in her taste, her smell, in the recent happiness that was for them like a pouring rain after months of drought. He loved her and she loved him back, and it was the most perfect thing that could happen. At last everything had fell into place.
My room is clean and tidy .
Ciri’s voice was like a bucket full of ice-cold water. The Witcher reluctantly drew away from the Enchantress and began to ponder again if the girl possessed some kind of gift allowing her to sense similar situations. She did perhaps - there was no other way to explain how she had successfully blocked all the attempts of making up for the lost time the Sorceress and he had shared in the last month or so.
“Go, but I see you at the supper. Understood?” Yennefer said to Geralt and moved to another victim, not waiting for his reply even a moment. Her hands began to fix the girl's braid with an astonishing precision. “Stop moving, I beg you,” she directed to her, gently forcing her to stay still.
Ciri rubbed her forehead hidden behind a layer of thick bangs, she did not say anything. She didn't fulfil Yennefer’s wish as well, but it did not stop the Sorceress from continuing with the task.
“You know you're ridiculous, right? I'm too old for such punishments.”
“I’m not discussing it with you,” Yennefer said in the tone which Geralt knew more than well, what it meant to be exact. “Also, the punishment would be much less severe if you didn't argue with me.”
“I'm an adult. I want to be treated like one,” the girl replied, wrinkling her little freckled nose.
“We will not discuss it again. Why are you so stubborn?”
“You don't want me to have a vote because you know I'm right. I'll be sixteen next week.”
“You certainly don't act your age. Yen told you to stay home and you're throwing a tantrum like a five year old,” Geralt blurted and left a kiss to Yennefer’s cheek. “Must go. See you later.”
Yennefer was right and the box with his elixirs was indeed in the stable. It had waited for him in his travelling sacks, right next to an old fishing line and few oak nuts. He placed the box back in its place and grabbed his saddle. It was enough for the horses. Kelpie, which stood closer to him, observed his preparation for the ride with a great interest, most likely sensing the ongoing opportunity to stretch her legs.
“Fancy a little ride,” he directed to the mare. The animal began to tread merrily, releasing in the same time an outstanding plethora of noises. Geralt approached her and touched her head gently. The open manifestation of joy finished as fast as it started.
“Much better,” he said, paying extra attention to the her jet-black mane. “Be a good girl and you can go. If not, I'll choose one of your buddies. I need a quiet horse tonight. Will you be quiet, Kelpie?”
Kelpie did not reply but did not reject the apple he kept in his hand either. She took it in her mouth and grated with her jaws into dozens of tiny and wet pieces. Geralt looked away, as if mesmerized by something. It didn't take him long to notice Ciri hiding behind the straw at the tiny deck above his head.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
The girl jumped off, landing right in front of him. Her face did not betray any emotion. Geralt was sure that the distance and the foundation in the stable were enough to make the experience at least unpleasant. He admired her stubbornness even more.
“Sorry but you're not going with me,” he said, preempting her question before it was even asked.
“Why not?”
“I said no,” he repeated, giving Kelpie another apple. Roach and Yennefer’s nameless stallion patiently awaited their turns. “Yennefer said so and I completely agree with her decision. Want to help - go and finish preparations for the dinner or do the laundry. Pretty sure, Yen will find enough tasks for you if you ask.”
Ciri bit her lower lip but did not reply.
“Ciri, be a good girl and help Yennefer. This is what I want you to do. What I want you both to do. There were times when you needed to fight and you did but now you have a chance to be a child and I want you to use it wisely.”
The girl still did not reply, but he saw the frustration boiling in her.
“Can't you do what I tell you to just this once?”
The narrow lips tightened only more at the sound of his words.She took from him the last of the apples and gave it to the horse.
“I'm not a child anymore,” she replied. Her tone that didn't appeal to the Witcher at all. “You want to pretend everything is good but nothing is. I'm sick of you trying to make it up to me, to Yennefer. Of her silence and attempts to make it look like home, like a family. You won’t fix anything.You can’t, so stop it. You just make things worse.”
Geralt crossed his arms.
“You’re mad because you know I’m right,” she said, tossing the braid to her other shoulder. “You want to pretend the last two years did not happen, but I can't. Something had changed and I changed accordingly. I'm not the girl you trained in Kaer Morhen, Geralt. Don't try to protect me, you don't need to.”
“I doesn't change a bit. You stay in tonight and there's no room for negotiations.”
“You treat me like a baby. Both of you. But it's about her, isn't it? the girl asked and dropped her gaze instantly. “This is why you look at her like this, why you always ask so many questions. You said it’s normal, but I knew it.”
“We know nothing.”
“Yet you ask me to watch after Yen,” replied the girl very sadly. “What if she'll never get better.”
“She will. Don’t think about it.”
“Can’t help it,” she said, biting her lip again. “If not for me, she would’ve been fine. It’s all my fault. This stupid elder blood.”
He pulled her closer to him for a hug. To his genuine surprise, she did not fight back. He felt something wet soak through the fabric of his shirt not long after that.
“She'll be alright,” he whispered, stroking her ashen-grey hair. “She just needs time.”
So this is why? Yennefer’s words irreversibly finished that part of the story.
“Why what?” Geralt asked, trailing the line on her shoulder with his lips. Yennefer shifted, forcing him to stop. He arranged himself on the bed too and awaited her explanation.
“Why we stopped travelling,” she mumbled. “I knew from the very beginning that something wasn't right. People like you don't yield and run away from the wilderness just like this. It's about it right, about what was going on recently?”
He did hesitate, not sure how to reply and Yennefer must have sensed it.
“I may have epilepsy - that's said. I'm flattered you both care about me, but it needs to stop. We have other, more important expenses. This house… How much does it even cost per week?”
“Don't think about money,” the Witcher interrupted her sternly, or at least he thought he did because it didn't stopped Yennefer giving him a stink eye.
“Money,” she repeated with a note of sadness. “Even the dress I have on me wasn't bought with my money.”
The weird feeling of disappointment which the conversation with Ciri had elicited didn't want to leave for a long while. He had managed to pass the tiny forest and orchards surrounding their hut, crossed the river using an old stone bridge and reached the main road before it happened, and even then, nothing has changed really.
“Staying here for long?” asked the peasant sent by the local priest to show Geralt the way to the foglets’ nest. Religion was the last institution the Witcher would accuse of having any interest in such matters, so their offer was at least surprising but it did also assured him in his judgments: he rode while the man accompanying him walked, barefoot.
“Time will tell,” he replied, instructing Roach to slow down again. “How much more we have to walk?”
“Only a tiny bit more, Mr. Witcher. Can you imagine, Mr. Witcher, that the foglets decided to take our church and cemetery? The priest tried to pray, performed exorcisms. Nothing worked. It will be a year now. Heavens must have sent you to us, Mr. Witcher.”
The Witcher did not reply, only fixed his eyes at the road again. The rows of tall poplars looked more like black stains, now when the sun was down. He came back to making a mental list of items they would spend the money from the contract on. He thought about getting some chickens and rabbits and perhaps partridges, depending on the local prices. There was also Yennefer’s treatment which had been consuming most of their funds lately, what was worse, it did not seem to work at all.
“You're not a very talkative person, Mr. Witcher,” the man offered not waiting long.
“Just a bit tired,” Geralt replied, just as short in his explanation as he could. He was way too tired for fake kindness.
“You sure that's the right time then?”
“Not this type of exhaustion. Family business.”
“I see.”
“Yes, you see.”
The conversation died. From that point onward they travelled in silence. The silver moon started its daily journey across the sky and stopped above the tower of the church.
“It’s here,” the man explained. Geralt jumped off the mare and began to slowly move in direction of the churchyard. The man awaited in front of the stone wall. Geralt suspected he wasn't willing to pass it.
“This is where everyone from the village is buried. Some tombs are as old as two centuries back. We have even two noble families. I can show you if you want.”
“Maybe later,” the Witcher replied, stopping in the middle of an alley formed by rows of tall stone tiles, the majority of them was so old that the letters ceased to create coherent words anymore. There was also a sandstone statue resembling a weeping angel. One of its wings was missing. “Have some stuff to do.”
“I assumed so, Mr. Witcher. Mind if I-”
“Go home, Ewing, and thank you for your help. I'd be long lost without it.”
“My pleasure. See you in the village then.”
“See you in the village,” Geralt replied.
Before long, the outline of the man disappeared, replaced by a simple, drifting light of the lantern.The Witcher took a seat, hidden between the tombs and the bushes of cypruses and waited.
“Why are you like this?” Geralt asked Yennefer, stroking her hair with a great dedication. “Why is it so hard for you to accept anything from me? Were the dresses I got you that bad?”
“It’s not about you,” the Sorceress replied, and he was willing to let her have what she wanted.
He knew that type of response, where it was coming from. Her childhood and years in Aretuza while still a subject of taboo between them, weren’t as foggy to him as the Sorceress might have assumed. He knew few things, suspected another dozen at least. There was also Triss Merigold who tended to spill out everything that was going on in her head, no matter if it was hers or someone else's secrets. He had never dared to confront her though. Quite likely it was the right decision.
“You were supposed to tell me about the contract,” the Enchantress reminded him. Her eyelids were still closed, displaying the beauty of her long, naturally-black eyelashes. “I'm waiting.”
Geralt felt a sudden touch of cold on his feet. He looked down and noticed hundreds of thin tentacles, wrapping themselves around him, slinking through the grass. Before long, the tentacles began to form a thick cloud of fog. Geralt held his breath, trying to avoid the piercing smell of mould and rot the fog had brought with it.
He reached for his sword and instinctively performed a sidestep. It was a right thing to do: the foglet did appear only inches away from where he had stood just second earlier, its bright yellow eyes dazzled the Witcher’s unprepared eyes.
Geralt started to cross a circle around it working on his feet. The creature still inebriated by the sudden change of circumstances gave him a moment to approach it, reacted with a visible delay. The Witcher tried to inflict the first wound - in vain. The foglet did miss his blade, nimbly closed the distance between them and was about to attack, but he managed to jump off.
He aligned his fingers in the Axii sign and continued circling. It’s easy , he said to himself, and it perhaps was, but he should not think about it during the fight. The creature released a loud squeaking noise.
Geralt started to charge in its direction, every now and then blocking the foglet’s paws with his sword. The monster wasn't willing to let it go so easily though. It vanished into thin air. The Witcher saw its contour in the corner of his eye and jumped off, but the creature managed to reach him nonetheless. He felt a sudden stinging pain in his left arm. He regained balance and moved to attack straight away.
The foglet did not escape him this time. First. Second cut. The monster stood indolently on its feet, did not try to escape his blade anymore. He hurt it again and then once more. The foglet fell on one of the tombs, breaking it into two. For a long time it did not try to get up. A stream of blood was pouring down its chest, exploded from its nostrils with every breath.
Geralt made a step forward and was about to inflict the last, fatal wound when the foglet disappeared again. He heard its howling already, knew where it was and that he would not be able to escape. And then he heard it: the whistle on an arrow. He turned around. The foglet was still there but with an arrow jutting out of its now-lifeless eye.
“You’re getting old and slow,” a familiar voice called from the distance. The Witcher knew that voice, just as he knew that arrow. He remembered whose hands made similarly beautiful fletchings.
“Milva,” he whispered.
“Who else?” the woman replied, all of a sudden standing right beside him. “Saving your ass just as always. It would have salvaged you if not me. You saw its claws?”
He saw only her. She looked the same, yet different. Her face appeared more relaxed, her garments were in perfect condition. Not to mention the eerie aura surrounding her that painfully reminded everything that had happened.
“You stare at me like if you just saw a ghost,” she added, chuckling and he realized how much he had missed her hoarse laughter.
And then he heard a crying baby. Cahir and Angoulême, the same Cahir and Angoulême who died fighting under the walls of Stygga, did emerge from the mist. Cahir with a baby in his arms approached Milva and passed it to her.
“He doesn't like being without me,” Milva explained, brushing her lips to the mop of dark hair covering the boy's head. The infant physical skills suggested he could be six, maybe ten months old. It didn't have sense at all. “No idea how he survived all that time without me. My little birdie.”
How? The Witcher wanted to ask but could not take his eyes off the blue waters of the boy's eyes.
“I woke up and he was there, waiting for me,” said Milva and began to gently rock the baby. “I called him Fin - I think I did. I kind of always thought that was his name.”
Cahir looked at Geralt questioningly, and despite the fact neither of the two spoke, they understood each other.
“Yes, Ciri is safe and sound and so is Yennefer. No, I did not propose to her. Waiting for the right moment. I know-”
“You'll never change,” Milva snorted, knitting her thin eyebrows. “You love each other a lot. Why make it so hard? Just ask her.”
“I'd like to do it properly. Buy a ring-”
“Stupid customs of Nordings. Just ask her for goodness’ sake.”
“Tell me, Milva. Is Regis with you?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “He's too tough to be killed so easily. He’s likely taking a nap some place. He'll come back, Geralt. And as for us , stop mourning. Deads don't like tears!”
“You died because of me. For me.”
Milva rearranged her hands around the long linen dress in which her son was dressed. “We died because everyone on our place would. There are offers you can't turn down. Price you'd be always willing to pay. I'm happy with the one I made. Don't regret a thing.”
Geralt glanced at the baby again. Even you, he said to himself in spirit. As if sensing his thought, the baby turned his face in his direction. Their eyes met and stayed like this for a brief moment. The Witcher swore the boy did smile at him.
Then the silence fell again.
“Dying foglet.” Yennefer stirred the silence which filled up the room. “Dying foglet must have caused the hallucinations.” The chamber seemed brighter and brighter with every passing second. The night was officially over, and so was the tale.
“Thought so too,” he sighed.
Their conversation got stuck in the stalemate, they did not try to rescue it. Yennefer laid down her head on his chest, her breath tickled every now and then.
“I still think it's beautiful,” she told him, snuggling a bit closer.” Even if untrue. We owe those people so much... I'd like to think they're out there, happy and alive. I truly hope they are. What do you think, Geralt? Our saviours - are they there, somewhere?”
Geralt did not reply.
“Why are you so quiet, witcher?” she chuckled, gently poking his back. The Witcher shifted.
“Yen, can you pass me my jacket?”
“Why?”
“You’ll see. Please.”
She got herself up and reached for the item which hung from the only chair in the room. “What do you need so-”
She fell silent. Geralt was convinced at first that the reason could be only one and very simple but fastly lost that certainty.
“I’ll return it tomorrow,” he snapped while Yennefer’s eyes were still fixed at the amethyst eye of the ring. “Stupid idea. We’ll come back to this conversation later.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes, you moron.”