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Chapter Text

Geralt and the werewolf traced a circle together in the field. The moon shone milk-white and full, and the werewolf paced slowly around, never taking its eyes off him. Her eyes, he corrected himself--this was a female monster. His breath came out in a slow puff of steam.

“Get out of here,” he said between gritted teeth. “You can save yourself. There’s already a price on your head.”

The werewolf snorted and snarled, digging her claws into the earth. She didn’t respond, just narrowed her silvery eyes. A gust of wind sent a chill over both of them.

Geralt tried again. “Your husband’s gone from the village. He’s given up, so there’s no reason to stay. I don’t need to kill you.” He continued pacing in a circle, gripping his sword. Sweat trickled down his neck.

The werewolf stopped. She opened her mouth, displaying tapered canines that would have no issue puncturing his armor.

“I don’t...remember...my husband.”

Then, in one motion, she lunged at him.

There was no time to think. He turned swiftly to the side and she missed him, but barely. Before he could steady himself she clawed at the ground and leapt on top of him, knocking him flat on his back. Something hot tore open on his side, bringing pain with it, but there was no time to check what it was.

He brought the sword up between him and the werewolf, and her claws slammed down on top of it. She roared, saliva dripping from her fangs and onto his face. His arms shook with the effort of keeping her from ripping into his chest. 

“You don’t need to do this!” But she didn’t listen. There was no time, so Geralt aimed a swift kick to her stomach, momentarily shocking her. In that window of opportunity, he drew his sword back and plunged it into her chest. 

He didn’t stop until the blade was buried up to the hilt. Then he pried himself out from under her and yanked it out. It was completely covered in blood. The werewolf lay motionless in the grass. He stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily and watching the blood slowly drip onto the ground.

The same hot pain from before throbbed in his consciousness again. Geralt pressed a hand against his side and it came back sticky with blood. He pressed harder on the wound, trying to stem the bleeding, but a wave of dizziness washed over him and he dropped to his knees.

He met the werewolf’s lifeless eyes. “This didn’t have to happen,” he whispered. He knew she wouldn’t respond. And even if she did, darkness edged into his vision, and it was so persistent that he gave up hope of hearing anything in that moment. Another wave of dizziness had him feeling light-headed and heavy all at once. Then came the numbness. Then--nothing.

There was still nothing, in those first few seconds. Until a dull ache in his side forced him back to consciousness. Without opening his eyes, he twitched his fingers. They brushed against something soft and woven. A deep breath, and he cracked his eyes open.

What greeted him wasn’t the cold night sky that he expected. Instead, he looked up at a thatched roof. Raising his head a little, he saw that he was lying on a bed, in a small room with a crackling fire in the hearth and a stool next to it. 

His side throbbed dully and weakly, and he felt the telltale pressure of bandages wrapped around the wound. It seemed like his head was filled with cotton, meaning someone must have given him medicine to take the edge off the pain. Whoever it was, he owed them one. He didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if he’d bled out in the field.

A young girl walked into the room carrying a swath of bandages. When she saw him, she almost dropped them. “You--you’re awake!” she said. “Hold on, I, oh dear, I have to tell the lady, just a moment…”

She rushed out of the room as fast as she had come. Geralt stared after her, wondering idly if she was the person unlucky enough to discover him half-dead. After a few minutes, she ran back in. This time, a woman followed behind her.

The woman had wild black curls reaching past her shoulders. When she saw him, her eyes--which were a striking shade of violet--widened and she rushed over, knocking the stool aside with a clatter. To his shock, she clasped his face in her hands and stroked a thumb over his cheek. 

“Geralt,” she said, “thank the gods! You gave me quite a scare, you know.”

He blinked and tried in vain to free his face from her gasp. How did this woman know his name? He hadn’t given it to the alderman. And why was she so relieved to see him alive?

“What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing his confusion. “Is it your wound? How is the pain?”

She started to reach over and probe his wound, but he blocked her hand with his own. “It’s not that,” he said quickly. “It’s just…” He paused, wondering how to explain his confusion. 

After a moment, she narrowed her eyes and drew back from him. “You’re acting strangely.”

“Why did you embrace me like that?” he asked.

Her brow furrowed as she stared at him. “What? I thought...well, I thought you would be happy to see me. I’m certainly happy to see you.”

The woman’s overt familiarity, her casual touch, how she knew his name--it dawned on Geralt that this woman must have known him from before. Before he lost his memories. He mentally cursed. This was some coincidence--running into one of the handful of people on the Continent who cared enough about him to patch him up like this woman did. All of whom he somehow forgot. 

“I, uh,” he started. There was no easy way to say it. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are.”

She stiffened suddenly, the smile on her face disappearing. She slowly placed her hands in her lap, and glanced back at the girl who’d brought her in. “Inan, go prepare his medicine, will you?” Her voice was icy and smooth. 

The girl nodded quickly and nearly tripped over herself on the way out. Once it was just the two of them in the room, the woman turned back to him. She spent a minute adjusting and readjusting her black silk gloves. He blinked at her, not really sure how to break the silence. 

She gave her gloves a final tug and looked at him. “You don’t remember me?”

“No,” he said. “I lost my memory.”

“Not even my name?”

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the mattress. Holding it up was tiring out his muscles. “I’m sorry.”

A moment passed, and she said nothing. The wound on his side throbbed again, and he wondered how much time had passed between him killing the werewolf and waking up.

The woman pulled the stool to his bedside, sat down, and took the roll of bandages the girl had left behind. With deft fingers, she peeled back the old dressing on his side. Geralt saw the wound in the light: a deep, ugly gash narrowly missing his liver, thankfully uninfected due to the woman’s care. She murmured an incantation, and her fingertips glowed against his wound. The wound’s throbbing pain receded to a dull ache in only a few seconds.

“You’re a sorceress,” he said with surprise. The only sorceress he knew was Triss--or rather, Triss was the only one he’d met after his amnesia.

The woman didn’t immediately respond, just pressed her lips together. She let out a breath and the spell fizzled out. “I am,” she said. “I’m temporarily staying here as a healer. That’s how I found you. Unconscious and bloodied, laying face down in one of the wheat fields.”

Geralt grimaced. “That couldn’t have been pleasant. Thanks for...well, for saving me.”

She wrapped fresh bandages around his wound. Her hands were gentle, even though he secretly thought she seemed like someone used to aggression. He looked at her while she worked, trying to make out what she could possibly be feeling. But her face betrayed nothing, not even a hint of emotion.

She finished replacing his dressings. “Yennefer,” she said, looking into his eyes. 

“What?”

“My name is Yennefer.”

He tried to absorb the name, hoping it would spark something in his mind, but there was nothing. It was just a name. A pretty name, but one without any meaning.

“Yennefer,” he repeated. “How did I know you?”

Her face fell. She looked down, and for a second Geralt thought she wouldn't say anything. Suddenly, she stood up, scraping the stool against the stone floor. She spun on her heel and started walking out of the room.

“Wait,” he called after her, trying to sit up and immediately regretting it as his wound jolted with pain. “Come back! How did I--”

She paused in the doorway and looked over her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter, Geralt. It won’t make a difference.”

With a thud, she closed the door.

Chapter Text

Night passed without Yennefer coming back to check on him. Geralt was secretly glad for that--he wouldn’t have known what to say to her. How could he possibly make up for the fact that he had no idea who she was?

Instead, he fell into a light, dreamless sleep, one that was only disturbed by the little girl from before creeping to his bedside with a blanket. She deposited it somewhat clumsily onto his sleeping form, and it was at that point in which he woke up with a start.

“I’m so sorry!” she whispered frantically, recoiling from the bed. “I just--you looked cold, and--”

Geralt groaned a little and blinked to get the sleep out of his eyes. “It’s fine,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Thanks for the blanket.”

After a few seconds of tugging on the corners and shifting around awkwardly to get the blanket to lie flat on his torso, he heaved a sigh and glanced over at the girl. She was sitting on the stool next to his bed, seemingly unwilling to leave his side, yet shifting her gaze anywhere but his face.

Finally, she spoke up in a small voice. “You know,” she said. “Lady Yennefer doesn’t like you very much.”

A chuckle escaped his lips when he heard that. “Don’t blame her.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I…” he trailed off, unsure how best to explain it. “Apparently we used to know each other. Thing is, I lost my memory. Now I have no idea who she is.”

The girl wrinkled her nose. “It’s kind of scary. Being around her like this, I mean.”

“Relax,” he said. “It’s me she’s angry with. Not you.”

“No--I mean, she’s mad, but I also think…” the girl paused and bit her lip. “I think she’s sad, too.” 

Geralt raised his eyebrows. Yennefer hadn’t exactly seemed sad when she’d left him. Although, to be fair, he wasn’t the best at reading expressions. The question was whether he could trust a child's intuition more than his own.

The girl sighed and swung her legs while sitting on the stool. “I wonder how she knew you.”

“Me too.”

“Maybe you were married!”

Geralt couldn’t help but smirk. Of course that would be the first thing a young girl would think of. “Very funny.”

A moment passed in which neither of them said anything, the girl idly toying with the hem of her skirt, and Geralt content to watch the shadows dancing on the ceiling. The pain from his wound barely registered in his consciousness--whatever ointments Yennefer had used on him clearly worked.

“She watched over you,” the girl added after a few seconds. “You weren’t awake, but she did.”

Geralt closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. He wondered why Yennefer would do that for him. And what he could possibly do to make it up to her.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll pay her back with my contract money.” Seeing her head droop a little, he continued. “So go back to bed, alright? Everyone needs sleep. From little girls to witchers.”

By the next morning, Geralt was not only able to sit up, but walk around as well. It was high time for him to leave town, to seek out his next contract so his coin purse could sit a little heavier on his hip. At the very least, he needed to pay Yennefer back somehow for healing him. Perhaps the right amount of coin could overwhelm whatever disappointment she was feeling about him not remembering her. Although, to be honest, he wasn’t optimistic.

He picked up his swords and put on his armor. After tightening his belt and swinging his blades onto his back, he did a few test moves to see if he was in fighting shape. A few minutes of this led him to the verdict that he was in fighting shape--not perfect, but well enough to handle a few drowners. 

A small sack that he hadn’t noticed before sat on the stool next to his bed. He picked it up, its weight telling him that it was full of money. There was also a hastily scribbled note next to it. Payment for the werewolf , it read. Geralt tucked the coin into his bag with a smile.

He was about to exit the room when the door swung open. He half expected the girl to come back again, perhaps with some food, but instead he saw Yennefer, wearing a black cloak with an elaborate and expensive-looking jeweled pin holding the fabric together. 

She stared at him for a few seconds. “You’re awake,” she said. “Where are you going?”

He stared back, noting the meticulous arrangement of her hair and clothes. Her expression betrayed none of the emotions he expected--neither anger, misery, nor desperation. “You look...better.”

“Did you expect me to be tear-stained? Despondent?” Her voice held a hint of mockery. “You haven’t answered my question.”

Geralt stopped himself from looking doubtful and gestured to his swords. “Heading out,” he said. “I need to get back on the Path.” After a moment, he took the payment for the contract back out of his bag, somewhat reluctantly. He held it in front of him. “Take this as a thanks for rescuing me. It should be more than enough.”

Yennefer narrowed her eyes at the jingling coin pouch, and shook her head. “Keep it,” she said. “I have something else you could do to repay me. Think of it as a favor--a mutually beneficial one.”

Geralt sighed. He didn’t like the sound of this. “Sure you can’t just take the money?”

“Geralt,” she said pointedly, “I’m always sure.” 

Frowning, he gestured for her to continue speaking. Although she probably would have, even without his explicit permission.

“There’s rumored to be a plant that grows in this region,” she continued. “In a place several days north from here. I want that plant, and I want you to come with me.”

He shifted his weight to lean against the doorframe. “I’m a witcher, not an herbalist.”

“I’m well aware of that.” After a moment, she uncrossed her arms and looked to the side. “The plant...it’s extremely rare. Extremely powerful. It’s a rose of remembrance.”

“A rose of…” he started, then trailed off. Its name made Yennefer’s purpose clear. He tilted his head and looked her in the eyes. “You want to help me?”

“Legend has it that a brew made from the petals can restore lost memories,” she said. “I want to see if the legend is true.”

“But why?”

Her eyes stared into his. “Consider it professional curiosity.”

Geralt said nothing. The strange thing about his amnesia is that he didn’t know what he was missing. He had no idea what kind of a man he was before a few months ago. He almost thought it would be easier to keep on living in ignorance. But he couldn’t deny that some part of him was curious about his past, murky as it may be. About the people he knew. About what Yennefer meant to him--even though she made it sound like she meant nothing at all. And here she was, offering him an opportunity to do so on a silver platter. 

“Alright,” he told her. Her eyes widened, as if she had expected him to say no. “But if it doesn’t work, I want you to tell me what our relationship was.”

Upon hearing that, she paused. She briefly closed her eyes. “You’re too cynical.” A smile appeared for a short moment, then disappeared just as quickly. “Cynical, and you drive a hard bargain. But I’ll do as you ask.”

Geralt couldn’t help but smile. Just a little, because part of him still worried about what would happen if the legend of the rose was just a legend. Yennefer could lie to him, after all. She could be lying about everything, and he would have no way of knowing. But it was useless to think about those things, he thought. There was nothing to do but follow her out the door.

“So,” Yennefer started. Her voice was nonchalant. “What have you been up to ever since you regained your memory?”

Geralt considered the question for a bit, mindlessly patting the side of Roach’s neck. A cool breeze blew past them, ruffling Roach’s mane and drying some of the sweat that was beading on his forehead. “Met the other witchers at Kaer Morhen,” he said. “Triss was there too. There--”

“You met Triss? And she didn’t mention me?” 

Geralt paused. “Uh, yeah. Apparently I knew her from before too. Why? Do you know her?”

Yennefer adjusted the jeweled pin in her cloak. “I suppose you could say that.” She looked at the dusty road ahead for a few seconds, then she straightened up with some sort of a realization. “Geralt--didn’t anyone try to help you regain your memories?”

The question surprised him. At the moment, he’d assumed there had been too much going on to bother with his amnesia. After all, he still knew how to fight. That seemed to be the most important thing. 

“Well, I didn’t--” he started, then sighed. “I don’t know. There wasn’t really any time for that.”

They sat on their horses in silence, slowly making their way along the winding forest path. Occasionally, a deer would spot them and go bounding off deeper into the forest. “Even Triss…” Yennefer said. She still wasn’t looking at him. “How convenient for her. How terribly convenient.”

Her tone led him to believe there was something she wasn’t telling him. Although, he had the feeling there were already a lot of things she wasn’t telling him. One more would just add to the list. 

“Are they really that bad?” he asked, half-joking and half-serious. “My memories, I mean.”

Yennefer turned her head to look at him. “That’s not what I meant to imply.”

“Then why don’t you just tell me?”

“Geralt, it’s complicated,” she said. Her tone was final. “I would rather you regain your memories yourself.”

Geralt was about to respond, but a rustling off the side of the road caught his attention. His eyes narrowed. There was more rustling, louder this time, and a few branches snapped. He reached for his sword, his hand hovering over the hilt.

“Did you hear that?” Yennefer asked. He nodded. Suddenly there were voices coming out of the woods, voices that sounded like men. Many men. He unsheathed his sword.

Roach whinnied and stamped her hooves nervously. At that moment, half a dozen men burst out of the woods, blocking the path forward. Some of them clutched daggers, and others held loaded crossbows. One of them sauntered forward, aiming his crossbow straight at Yennefer.

“Lay down your valuables,” he snarled, “or the wench gets it!”

Geralt froze, gripping his sword. He threw an unsure look to Yennefer. Although she faced straight ahead on her horse, not moving a muscle, her eyes met his. Ever so slightly, she nodded.

In half a second, Geralt leapt to the ground. The man yelled and he heard the crossbow fire, sending a bolt straight for Yennefer, but he whipped his blade through the air and deflected it. The man stumbled back, his face pale with shock. There was a commotion to Geralt’s right, and he turned his head to see Yennefer tracing an arc in the air, sending a wave of electrifying magic into the men holding daggers. Her hair and her cloak billowed wildly behind her.

The man in front of Geralt dropped his crossbow with a thud. “S-she’s a witch!” he cried. “And he’s a mutant! Run, lads!” He scrambled away from Geralt, and the two remaining men came in from either side to hold trembling daggers pointed to defend them. Geralt sighed. He never knew what compelled commoners to attack a witcher--never mind a witcher traveling with a sorceress.

“Not so fast.” With one smooth motion, Geralt slit the throats of the two men, grabbed the leader by the shirt, and pinned him to the ground. He yelped and squirmed against the dirt, but Geralt didn’t relent. He pointed the tip of his sword against the man’s throat, using just enough pressure on the blade to draw a droplet of crimson blood. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

The man blinked a few times, taking in the scattering of bodies surrounding him. “I--uh, I--”

Geralt gripped the sword harder. “Talk.” 

He felt a hand touch his shoulder, and looked behind him to see Yennefer. She looked as if she hadn’t just killed three men--that is, not a drop of blood stained her face. Not a hair was out of place. She regarded the man with contempt. “Allow me, Geralt.”

He let the man go, taking the sword away from his throat. Yennefer reached a hand out and whispered an incantation, and the man’s eyes glowed with a strange light. “Now,” she said, her voice commanding, “tell us why you were foolish enough to try to rob us.”

The man blinked slowly. “We...needed supplies,” he said. He sounded calm, almost drowsy. Her spell seemed to be working. “Ran out...we weren’t prepared. The boss sent us. He was too busy...busy searching. For the rose.”

Geralt shot a look at Yennefer. “Rose? Do you think--”

“Quiet,” she snapped. “I need to concentrate.” He almost started to apologize, then thought the better of saying anything else.

“What rose are you talking about?” she asked the man. “Why are you searching for it?”

“Don’t rightly know. It’s...north. That’s all.” He blinked a few more times with his mouth hanging slightly open.

Yennefer cursed under her breath and let go of the spell. Immediately, the man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped against the ground unconscious.

“Let’s go,” she said to Geralt. “We’re losing time.” She walked briskly to her spotted gray mare and lifted herself onto the saddle.

Geralt followed her lead, hopping onto Roach and lightly digging his heels into her sides. Both Roach and Yennefer’s mare started at a brisk trot away from the scene.

After a minute or so on the road, he turned to Yennefer. “You think he’ll live?”

“Honestly, I don’t give a damn,” she said. “Especially when it seems there’s another contender for the rose.”

“He could’ve been talking about a different rose,” he pointed out. “Not necessarily the one we’re looking for.”

“Geralt, how many important roses do you think exist? Do you really think someone would organize a search party for a regular fucking rose?”

He frowned, and a frustrated sigh escaped his lips. “Listen, Yennefer, I know you’re upset, but this isn’t worth getting angry over. I mean, is it that bad if someone gets to the rose before us? I’ve managed fine so far, haven’t I?”

He watched as Yennefer’s face turned from irritated to stricken. For a few seconds, she stared at him, and he started to realize that maybe he shouldn't have said that. But it was too late.

“It’s your memories,” she said. She looked away from him. “I thought...well, I thought they would matter more to you. I suppose I was wrong.”

He should’ve figured she would say something vague like that. He was starting to realize Yennefer was the type of woman to keep secrets. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t prize open her cold exterior. It irked him.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. He tapped his heels against Roach, causing her to pick up the pace. “But it’s fine--let’s move on. It’s like you said. We’re losing time.”

Many hours later, they’d tied up the horses and set up camp near a trickling stream. Geralt was poking at the fire, while Yennefer was off by the stream to, in her words, “tidy up her appearance”. For the past few hours, she’d been strangely quiet--a pensive sort of quiet, rather than the angry silence he’d expected. That didn’t change the fact that Geralt felt somewhat guilty. True, everything had happened so fast, and he was never one to think over his words before he spoke, but that didn’t absolve him of the fact that he’d blown her off.

He threw another stick into the flames. As the fire crackled and hissed, he started to take out his sword for cleaning when he heard a soft grunt of pain. It came from deeper in the woods--from the direction Yennefer had gone.

It took a few moments to figure out exactly where she’d traveled to, and another few to walk through the woods to get there, but when he did he saw her crouched by the running water and holding her forearm. He smelled blood.

“Yennefer?” he asked. “Are you alright?”

Her head snapped up and she immediately dropped her forearm. “Geralt! I--”

He came next to her and knelt. “Your arm. It’s hurt.”

She looked down at her arm and scowled. “I’m perfectly aware of that,” she said. “I’ll be alright. Go tend to the horses, or whatever you were doing. I just need to wash the blood off.”

“Can’t you heal it with magic?”

“I used most of my magic dealing with those ruffians. I don’t want to burn myself out.”

He reached for her forearm, his hand hovering an inch away. “Let me help,” he said. “I can bandage it for you.”

Yennefer huffed out a laugh. “I’m capable of washing a wound, Geralt.”

He raised an eyebrow. “With one hand?”

A moment passed where she glared at him, but that soon morphed into resignation as it became clear that he was right. She held out her forearm and a roll of bandages, pointedly looking anywhere but his face. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Luckily, bandaging a wound wasn’t one of the things I forgot. You can rest easy.” 

He took her arm in one hand, pouring the clear, cold water from the stream over the wound. It wasn’t very deep, but it spanned almost her entire forearm. As the water touched the exposed flesh, Yennefer inhaled sharply and bit her lip.

“The men from before do this to you?” he asked. She nodded stiffly. After a few more rinses, there was no more dried blood crusted around the edges. He wrapped the soft bandages around her arm, looping the fabric around and around until her arm was covered in swaths of creamy white. He put just enough pressure to make sure they stayed in place.

As he was doing so, he noticed a scattering of strange scars by her wrist--pale, raised, and perfectly linear. Without meaning to, he let his eyes drift toward them.

“What are you looking at?”

He snapped back into focus and looked at Yennefer. “Nothing,” he said. “Look. I’m all done with the bandages.” He got up and brushed the dirt off his pants, turning to head back to camp. He didn’t want to stay any longer than he had to. 

Yennefer hesitantly touched the bandages and winced, then regained her composure. For a second, she remained kneeling by the stream, watching the water bubble past. Eventually she glanced up at him. “You...did a good job,” she said quietly.

 Of course I did, he thought. Compared to the painful ordeals of patching himself up after a contract, bandaging someone else’s wound was nothing. But he had the feeling that what she said wasn’t just referring to his medical treatment. 

Yennefer mystified him. Regardless of what past they’d shared, to him she was simply a woman he’d met a day before--a woman who’d abandoned a man on the road, then lashed out at Geralt when he’d asked her about it. Not that he was any better. Maybe, before he’d lost his memory, they’d deserved each other, flaws and all.

“Yennefer, I care about my memories,” he said eventually. “I do. I just don’t know what there is to miss. And I don’t understand why you won’t tell me.”

She stayed silent for a few moments. The afternoon sun dipped behind the trees and sent its warm rays between the branches, reflecting off of the black material of her cloak. The jewel in her clasp sent a dozen different points of light bouncing back into the woods.

Her expression lost its steely edge and softened. “I know,” she said. “I understand. But you need to trust me.” 

“I’m trying,” he said.

She got up from the side of the stream and briefly touched his shoulder with the tip of her finger. “If you really are, then I believe you.” Her hand fell back to her side. “And I thank you.”

Later that night, when the moon shone pale between the trees, Geralt and Yennefer lay in their two respective bedrolls. The fire had been put out, and there was a curl of smoke still rising from the blackened ashes. Around them, crickets chirped with an ebbing and flowing rhythm, never quite falling silent.

Geralt wanted to ask Yennefer about the raised marks he saw on her wrist. They looked too organized to be accidental, and he had a suspicion of where she’d gotten them. But he didn’t want to force anything--especially not after her outburst.

“You can stop thinking about my scars now."

He raised his head in surprise. “What? I--”

“I saw you staring at them,” she continued. “And you’ve been unusually pensive ever since. You know, you’re more expressive than I remember.”

He considered this for a moment. A part of him longed to see what kind of man he was before his amnesia. He wondered what kind of worries he had, what he lay awake at night thinking about.

He sighed and turned his head to look at Yennefer. “Maybe it’s because I have nothing to hide anymore.” 

Her expression grew pensive. Probably about something that would never reach his ears, even if he begged her to tell him. He thought again about her scars.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

A few moments passed where neither of them said anything. An owl hooted from deep within the woods, which made the crickets chirp even louder, but eventually the sound died down.

“If you want,” Yennefer said, “I can tell you. Even though I’ve told you before, a very long time ago.”

“You don’t have to.”

She hummed in acknowledgement. “It just...I don’t know. We’ve done this before, Geralt. All of it. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“Not really,” he said. At least he could be honest with her. “I don’t understand a lot of things.”

When she heard that, Yennefer smiled a little. It was a wistful smile, one tinged with sadness. She wasn’t looking at him, but rather at the stars scattered above. She sighed again and closed her eyes. “We should sleep,” she said. “Gods know we’ll need it.”

Chapter Text

By dawn's first light, they were on the road again. While their pace from before was a leisurely trot, now it was more like a canter. Luckily, Roach was more than capable of handling such constant travel, since she was used to hard life on the road. Yennefer’s horse, on the other hand, started to slow after a few hours. It’s coat ran slick with sweat, and every few moments Yennefer shifted in the saddle with thinly veiled disgust.

Soon it became clear that her spotted gray horse was simply getting more and more tired. “Geralt,” Yennefer called, “slow down, will you? I think we need to stop.”

Geralt eased Roach to a stop and swung himself off. “Your mare acting up again?”

“She’s not acting up,” she said in an irritated voice, “just exhausted. And sweaty.” She crossed her arms under her cloak for a moment, but then let them fall at her sides. “Can we just rest a bit?”

He sighed and nodded. He wasn’t thrilled at the prospect, but a tired horse is better than a horse dead from overexertion. It was clear Yennefer felt the same way. He hitched the two horses to a tree branch, patting Roach on her neck. Yennefer sat delicately on an overturned log next to the road.

“Feeling alright?” he asked her. He didn’t miss how she rubbed at her temples before she dismounted her mare. 

“Of course. I suppose I’m just not used to the monotony of traveling on horseback.”

“Really? How do you usually get around?”

“Teleportation, if I can. But I can’t risk it with you, in case your amnesia was magically induced.” She paused for a bit, then spoke with an amused lilt. “Besides, I have a distinct recollection of you hating portals.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows, looking mildly impressed. “You’re right.” 

He couldn’t help but wonder how she knew that. Perhaps he’d only revealed the fact through conversation, but it was easy to imagine her trying to teleport him somewhere and him flat-out refusing, consequences be damned.

A glance at Yennefer told him that she was still listening, so he cleared his throat a little. “What other things do you remember about me?”

She didn’t respond immediately, instead choosing to stare at the grass next to the log. Perhaps she was thinking of something innocuous enough to keep the nature of their relationship a secret. 

Suddenly her face took on an amused expression, and she lifted her head to look at him. “I have something,” she said. “Before you set out as a witcher, you didn’t want to be called Geralt of Rivia.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I believe you wanted your name to be--” she paused for a moment, as if savoring the next few words “--Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde.”

He stared at her, not quite sure if she was joking or not. Would he really reveal something so silly to her, regardless of how close they were? The look in her eyes made him think that she was just teasing him. 

“You don’t have to believe me,” she said airily, smiling a little. “Just be glad that Vesemir stopped you from making a fool of yourself.”

The only thing stopping him from flushing with embarrassment is the fact that he was physically unable to. “You know, I kind of expected you to tell me something a little more…”

“Flattering?” she suggested after a pause. “But that would take the fun out of it.”

“Glad I can amuse you,” he said, although there wasn’t any bite to his voice. “If nothing else.”

After a moment, he sighed and surveyed the thick expanse of forest stretching out on either side of the road. “We should probably try to hunt something,” he said, strapping his sword to his back. He tilted his head towards Yennefer. “Coming with me?”

She shook the dust off of her cloak. “Changing the subject?” she asked. After he gave her an exasperated glare, she relented. “I suppose it would be a nice diversion. No use just standing around.” After a moment of thought, she tucked a small, elaborately carved dagger into a leather band around her thigh.

She’s smart, he thought. She knows to have a backup in case her magic fails. He supposed her resourcefulness was what kept her alive all these years. Just like him.

Geralt let his feet lead him in the direction of the hunt. He knew to trust his instincts, sharpened to perfection from years of training in Kaer Morhen. The instincts that never left him, even when everything else did. In moments like these, he allowed himself to hone in on the smallest sign of life in the woods. To give in to his senses completely.

A movement caught his eye. It was a tiny flicker out of the corner of his vision, but he snapped his head toward it, and saw a gray paw step among the trees.

“Do you see something?” Yennefer whispered.

He nodded, keeping his eyes on the creature. After a second, it padded into a gap in the trees. It was a wolf. 

He made a gesture for Yennefer to follow him. Together, they crept through the trees, keeping enough distance away from the wolf so that it didn’t catch their scent. Geralt was surprised at how quietly she could move.

After following the wolf for a minute, she touched his arm. He looked back at her. “Are we going to kill it or not?” she hissed, trying to keep her voice down.

He glanced at the wolf, which was still making its way through the trees. “Let’s wait. Wolves might lead us to a bigger catch.”

She sighed and nodded, letting him take the lead again. The wolf started moving faster, loping through the trees with long strides. They almost couldn’t keep up with it, especially while staying quiet at the same time. The gnarled roots poking out of the ground didn’t help either, making it a challenge to keep their eyes on the wolf at all times.

He didn’t know when exactly it happened, but the wolf vanished out of sight. Even with Geralt’s enhanced perception, it had disappeared. They spent a few moments trailing between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of it, but failing. That is, until Geralt noticed the slightest indent in the soft dirt a few feet away. A paw-shaped indent.

“Yennefer, I think I found a trail.” 

She came over to him, taking extra care to not make any missteps. “I don’t see anything.”

“Just follow me,” he said. “Come on.” He noticed another indent, and then another, and he kept following the pawprints until they both came to the edge of a clearing.

Geralt saw the wolf from before. It wasn’t alone anymore--it was currently edging its way into a pack of other wolves, all crowded around something in the middle of the clearing. Geralt smelled blood.

“Dammit,” he hissed. “The prey’s already dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he replied, a little louder than he meant to. It was then that he noticed a pair of yellow eyes turn to meet his. The wolf that saw him let out a low howl that quickly turned into a snarl. Which, of course, alerted the whole pack to their presence.

Geralt internally groaned and drew his sword. Behind him, he heard the sound of Yennefer preparing a spell--a soft fizzle of energy he’d learned to recognize in the past few days. He focused his attention back in front of him. The wolves bristled, and that was fine because he bristled back, not waiting for the animals to make the first move. He closed the distance between himself and the first wolf.

It bared its fangs and leapt at him with a guttural howl. Within a second he thrust his sword into its neck, narrowly avoiding the spray of blood, and let it fall to the ground. One down. The others pawed the ground and launched themselves towards him, but he barely even paused as he swung his blade through the air and across the belly of another wolf. Then another, and then a next one as well. His chest rose and fell with the exertion, but also with adrenaline--the thrill of the hunt. 

Suddenly, he sensed something coming up behind him, and he turned to face it head-on but couldn’t wrench his sword out of the latest wolf fast enough. A sharp pain stabbed into his shoulder, bringing with it a staggering weight. A wolf snarled directly into his ear. 

He almost fell forward with the weight of the wolf on top of him, barely catching himself in time. With a swift motion, he drew his small hunting knife and reached upward to stab blindly behind him. The blade sunk into fur and flesh. The wolf growled next to his ear and he winced in pain. The claw dug deeper into his flesh, seconds away from piercing into his neck if he didn’t do anything.

By some small miracle, that didn’t happen. In only a second, something tore the wolf from his back and sent it flying onto the ground. He stumbled forward and fell on his knees, pressing a hand to the back of his shoulder. It came back covered in blood.

He looked at the wolf, which lay unmoving on the forest floor. Then he saw Yennefer. Her face shone with sweat and she was panting, turning her gaze from the wolf to him with her hand still stretched out in his direction. There was a tear in the bottom of her cloak. 

Geralt slowly stood up and came next to her. He still held a hand to his shoulder. “Yennefer...thank you.”

She ran a hand through her curls and sighed. “I’m just paying you back for before. Let me look at your wound.”

“It’s just a scratch,” he said, but she went behind him and prized his hand away from the bloody gash in his armor. “Really, you don’t have to--”

“Stay still.” She whispered something and pressed her palm over the wound. Her touch was gentle and warm, although Geralt wasn’t sure if that was just her healing magic at work. Part of him wanted to crane his neck around to see what she was doing.

Yennefer’s hand grew warmer. “Stop trying to look behind you,” she said. Then she whispered another phrase and removed her hand “There. I’m done.”

The pain disappeared, and when he felt his shoulder, the skin ran smooth under his fingers. He turned to Yennefer. “Damn. Guess we’re even.”

“If you’ll forgive my teasing from earlier,” she said. The lighthearted glimmer in her eyes was back.

He huffed out a laugh. “I could manage that.” 

Behind her, he caught sight of a large brown animal, lying on its side, perfectly still. Chunks of flesh had been ripped out of it. Surrounding it were the bodies of at least a dozen wolves, probably twenty, all with blood caking the fur around their mouths. Yennefer had taken out her fair share of wolves, probably even more.

“Look,” he said to her. “This is what they were all crowding around when we first got here.”

She hummed in acknowledgement. “It’s quite a hunt,” she said. Walking behind the animal, she paused for a second and yanked something out of the corpse.

Geralt looked at what she held in her hand. An arrow. 

She met his eyes. “Someone else was here,” she said. “They killed it. Not the wolves.”

He shrugged. “So? Could be a hunter.”

She gripped the arrow tighter. “Or," she said, "it could be the people who want the rose. I know for certain that this is the fastest route to where it’s rumored to grow. And I know they need supplies--like this meat.”

He frowned, not wanting to disagree with her but finding it hard to believe the coincidence. 

“I don’t know--” he started, then paused. Something caught his eye--a faint boot print in the soil. It led to another, which led to not only one trail of footprints, but multiple ones leading out of the clearing. Trails that pointed in the direction he and Yennefer were traveling in. There wasn't just one hunter, he realized. There was a whole group of them. 

“Yennefer,” he said, “there are footprints, and a lot of them. Only a day or so old. There’s a chance you could be right.”

Her eyes widened a little, then she narrowed them in determination. “Let’s get the horses,” she said. “We might be able to catch them.”

They whistled for their horses. A minute passed, and nothing happened. Even Geralt’s hearing didn’t hear any approaching hoofbeats. Another minute passed, and they tried again. Still there was nothing. He could understand Yennefer’s mare not responding to her call, but Roach? Roach should’ve been at his side by now. They whistled a third time. Not even a sound.

Yennefer muttered a curse under her breath. “Gods, these horses are useless.”

“No,” Geralt said. “Something happened to them.” He started walking out of the clearing and into the forest. 

Yennefer trailed behind him. “How can you be so sure?”

“Roach always comes.”

"We don't have time to go back," she said, annoyance coloring her voice. "I'm sure the horses will come eventually. But in the meantime, our lead is getting away from us."

He turned to face her. "Will you trust me on this, Yennefer?" 

Her eyes looked into his. "Why must I?"

"Because I trust you on everything else." After a pause, he spoke again in a quiet voice. "And losing my memories doesn't mean I can't think for myself."

A few seconds passed in which neither of them spoke. The challenge burning in Yennefer's eyes slowly dimmed into something like acceptance. Or perhaps it was just resignation. Geralt's instincts urged him to take off running in Roach's direction, but he waited. There was a chance he was wrong, after all. There was a chance thinking for himself would lead them both losing precious time. 

"I know," she said. Then her voice hardened. "Let's get to the horses."

Together, they made their way back in the direction they came from. Geralt’s heart started to beat a little faster as his mind cycled through what could possibly be waiting for them on the path. He’d been stupid--he shouldn’t have left the horses alone. He hadn't been thinking right, too absorbed in conversation with Yennefer to focus on more practical matters. 

They burst out of the forest and into the sunlight. And it was then that Geralt heard the sound of hoofbeats. Hoofbeats that were fading out of earshot. He looked at the path stretching out before them and saw Roach and Yennefer’s gray mare--with an unknown rider sitting in each saddle, galloping away from them.

Chapter Text

For a second, the two of them stood together in horror. Not only because someone was stealing their horses right in front of their eyes, but also because the horses held all of their supplies. Roach carried Geralt’s potions and extra weapons, and Yennefer’s mare carried her precious spellbooks. But more importantly, losing their horses meant losing their only mode of transportation. It meant being stranded.

“Geralt! Bring me an animal, quickly!” Yennefer said.

“What? Yennefer, how is that--”

She cut him off. “Don’t just stand there,” she snapped, “do it! Time is of the essence!” She started whispering something, her fingertips twitching in the air. 

This must be for a spell, he thought. He searched frantically around for any sort of animal, and luckily he noticed a chipmunk crouched under a bush a few feet away. In a single motion, he swiped it off the ground. He brought it to Yennefer, holding it with outstretched arms as it scrambled and squeaked wildly to free itself from his grip.

“Hold still,” she said. She swirled her hands in a circle and made a series of complicated signs, then pressed her finger directly on the chipmunk. For a moment, a crackle of energy filled the air.

Yennefer grabbed Geralt’s forearm. “Drop it, and stand back.” He let the animal fall to the ground with a small thump, but it didn’t scurry away. She pulled him to the edge of the path, her grip like iron, and they waited for a moment. He wondered if she’d killed it unintentionally. But then he decided that wasn’t the case--he’d learned that Yennefer rarely did things by accident.

There was a terrible creaking sound, then the sound of a hundred strings snapping. Slowly, Geralt saw the chipmunk swell in size, then grow its legs, then finally shed its brown fur for a glossy black coat and a wild mane. Before them stood a horse--snorting, tossing its head, and stamping its hooves.

Geralt looked at Yennefer, and leapt on the horse. It whinnied, but he quickly calmed it. He reached a hand down and pulled her on the horse with a grunt.

“Hang on tight!” he said. There weren’t any reins, and there wasn’t a saddle, so he had to improvise. His fingers clutched the coarse mane for dear life, and he hugged his legs around the horse’s sleek black coat. Behind him, he saw that Yennefer didn’t know where to put her hands, so he grabbed her hand and placed it around his waist.

“Sorry, but you’ll have to hold onto me,” he said. “Unless you can conjure up a saddle and reins too.”

He couldn’t see her expression, but she wrapped both her arms around his torso. “Go,” she said, “just go. Hurry!”

He’d already started the horse at a gallop before she’d finished speaking. Sweat trickled down his neck. Although the time spent on the spell meant that Roach and Yennefer’s mare were long gone, he could see two sets of hoofprints in the dust. He kept glancing down every few seconds to make sure he could still see the trail. Part of him was afraid it would disappear. 

“How long will this last?” he yelled over the sound of galloping hoofbeats.

“As long as I can hold it!” she replied.

“And how long is that?”

“For a few hours!”

He cursed under his breath. They didn’t have much time. They needed to go faster, or they would never catch up to whoever stole their horses. He spurred the horse on, then spurred it on again. Then another time--just for good measure.

Geralt didn’t know how long they’d been riding. However long it was, it was enough time for the sun to sink beneath the horizon, casting long shadows behind them. He could still see the trail of hoofbeats, but just barely. The strides were shorter, meaning the riders had slowed the horses down. He was grateful--it meant they had a chance of catching up.

At some point, Yennefer had leaned into his back, pressing the side of her face against his armor. Almost her full weight slumped against him, and although she tried to keep a strong grip around his waist, her hands kept slipping. 

“Yennefer.”

She shifted slightly against him. “Hm?”

Not good, he thought. He could barely hear her voice against the wind. “Stay with me.”

“I’m…” she paused, taking a breath that sounded more like a gasp, “I’m trying.”

“I know,” he said. As her hands once again loosened from his waist, he covered them with his own. Letting her fall off was the last thing he wanted.

The hoofbeats thundered on the road. With each second, the horse blew out hot lungfuls of air, snorting and panting heavily. Its slick black coat foamed with sweat. How much longer could they go on like this? Even he was starting to tire, and all he had to do was hold on to the horse’s mane.

It turned out he didn’t have to worry very long. At some point during the exhausting haze, Yennefer weakly squeezed his hand, saying something so softly he couldn’t quite hear it.

“What?”

“Geralt…” she said, “we need to--”

She never finished her sentence. In the next moment, there was a cacophony of snapping and creaking, and suddenly he felt the distinct lack of a horse underneath him. The momentum launched them both onto the hard dirt road, Geralt only barely managing to break Yennefer’s fall with his own body, and sent them rolling for a few painful seconds.

A moment passed in which Geralt could do nothing but groan at the various aches making themselves known. He coughed the dirt from his mouth. From on top of him, Yennefer dazedly opened her eyes. 

She immediately pushed herself off of him, landing on her back with a grunt. Her chest heaved, and for a moment she lay there by his side, breathing along with him. 

He gave her a long look. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead making, her hair stick to her face. She scrubbed a hand over her face and sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I tried to warn you.”

“You okay?” he asked.

Yennefer pushed herself up into a sitting position. Gone was the stiff posture she usually held--instead, her head sunk forward to lean against the hand she pressed to her forehead, and her elbows rested against her knees.

Geralt sat down next to her. His whole body ached, both from riding for so long and from the fall. He was tired too, but certainly not as tired as Yennefer. After all, the only thing he’d had to do was ride. She’d had to sustain a living, moving horse for hours on end.

“Just a moment,” she said, clearing her throat when the words didn’t come out right. “We’re only resting for a moment. Then we must continue.”

“How?” he asked. “No way you can do that again.”

“Then we’ll walk. They have to be near.”

“But what if they’re not?”

“Don’t ask me that, Geralt. Please don’t ask me that.”

Geralt looked back at Yennefer. Her eyes were dull. Exhausted. 

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “If I hadn’t wanted to go hunting, I don’t think this would’ve happened.”

She shook her head slowly. “No, Geralt. I should’ve stayed back with the horses.” The wind blew a few strands of hair away from her face, and she closed her eyes against the breeze. “I knew better, and yet...”

Her eyes opened and lingered on him for a second. “And yet my foolishness has cost us.”

The last rays of sunlight cast an orange glow over the road, making everything on the horizon stark with shadow. Warmth and dust clouded the air. An owl hooted, not too far off from where they sat.

“We don’t have to go on,” Geralt said eventually. “We can just cut our losses. Replace the horses.”

Yennefer shook her head and smiled a little. “There’s no time for that. Not if we want to be the first to the rose.”

“We don’t have to be.”

She straightened up a little and looked him in the eye. “What are you talking about?”

“What I mean is that it’s wearing you out. All of...this.” He made a vague gesture with his hand. Looking at the sunset, he spoke quietly. “I don’t want to do that to you.”

An icy glare pierced his eyes. “If you don’t want to help me, then so be it,” she said. “I’ll find the rose on my own. What I go through is none of your concern.”

He furrowed his brow. “It’s obviously my concern. I don’t like people suffering for my sake.”

“I don’t care if you don’t like it,” she retorted. “I have to do this.”

“But why? Why do you insist on sacrificing yourself to help me?”

“Because,” she gritted out, “it’s not just your problem.”

“How is my amnesia your problem? What memories could possibly be worth all this trouble?”

“Gods damn it, Geralt!” she said, her voice sharp and angry. “Can’t you see how--” she said, stopping in the middle of her sentence. “Seeing you like this...don’t you understand that it hurts me?”

Her voice broke on the last sentence. As soon as she said that, her jaw clenched and she averted her eyes away from him. She stood with her characteristic poise, even now. But that didn’t stop Geralt from cursing himself in his head. A dull spike of shame found its way into his stomach. 

Just because he’d lost his memories didn’t mean he was stupid. He still noticed things she did. He’d seen how she’d held herself back at moments, seemingly about to say something to him that she’d bitten back. At those moments, words always failed him. More and more, it was like he was blindly feeling around for the right thing to say, as if there was a single, magical phrase he could utter that would unlock the secrets she held so tightly inside her heart. But he knew there was no such thing. What came out of his mouth did nothing but cause her pain.

Since he felt the urge to do something, anything, he slowly touched her shoulder. Just the tips of his fingers against her cloak. And surprisingly, instead of pushing him away like he thought, she relaxed, just a little bit. Enough to embolden him. He swallowed and took a deep breath. In the next second, he dared to wrap his arms around her and pull her into an embrace.

It was stiff, and awkward, and although it didn’t get any less so, Yennefer didn’t pull away. Geralt spoke quietly next to her ear. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly.” And then, only after she didn’t respond, he continued. “Did I...do this? Before?” 

After a few seconds, she nodded against his shoulder. So he held her the tiniest bit tighter and continued, even though he knew whatever he said would not be enough. “If you pretend, maybe it’ll feel the same.”

Yennefer didn’t speak. Neither did he. Another gust of wind passed, blowing her curls against his shoulder, and she shivered. Then returned his embrace.

She held onto him tightly. Tenderly. It was strange, unfamiliar to him, but it wasn’t bad. No one had ever held him like that, Geralt thought, at least in his recent memory. Not Vesemir, nor the other witchers. Not Triss. 

Although he didn’t want her to, she eventually pulled away, holding him at arm’s length. There was an unreadable expression on her face. “I fear if I say anything,” she said, “I will regret it.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth lifted. “Me too. But for different reasons.”

 She huffed out a laugh at that, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. He looked at her. “Rest,” he said. “Then we’ll go looking for the horses.”

Yennefer paused, understanding his meaning. Then she spoke in a soft voice. “Will you wake me up?”

“Promise.”

She nodded, more to herself than to him. Then she lay down on the grass, pulling the edges of her cloak over her like a blanket. She blinked a few times, slowly, until her eyes closed completely and her chest rose and fell in time with the easy rhythm of Geralt’s heart. 

Geralt struggled not to fall asleep himself. Exhaustion seeped into his bones, and the only thing keeping him awake was what he’d said to Yennefer. What had happened between them. He stole a glance at her--she looked worried, even in her sleep. Perhaps even more than when she was awake. Part of him wanted to let her rest for as long as she needed, just to see if the tension etched into her face would melt away. 

But, even though that probably would’ve been what was best for her, that’s not what she’d asked him to do. He didn’t quite understand it--her iron-like motivation to help him. After all, it more often than not resulted in her suffering. What was it like, caring about someone enough to carry them miles on horseback, to heal their wounds, to save their life time and time again, even though they could give nothing in return?

The little girl, Yennefer’s apprentice, had told him with childlike honesty that Yennefer didn’t like him very much. But part of him disagreed. Part of him wondered if they’d been friends.

It surprised him to realize he would’ve liked that.

He waited until the moon peeked into the sky, casting its pale light onto the road in front of them, before he touched a hand to her shoulder. There would be time for talk later. 

“Yennefer,” he said, glancing at the two pairs of hoofprints on the road. “It’s time.”

As the moon rose higher, the two of them started back on the trail. The hoofprints looked fresh, only a few hours old at most. They led down the road as far as Geralt could see.

“Can’t be much further,” he said. 

Yennefer didn’t meet his eyes. “Let’s hope so.” After resting, she looked significantly less exhausted than before, but that didn’t mean she looked well.

“Why do you think these people took the horses?”

“I wish I could tell you.”

They stayed silent for a little bit after that. Geralt wanted to pick up the pace, but he figured they needed to be ready for a fight, so he held back. He tried not to think about how far they were. Or if Roach was alive or not. It only made the dull, gnawing fear in his stomach worse.

The night grew cold, as it always did in this climate. Yennefer shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her. The sound of their footsteps was muddled by the incessant chirping of crickets and creaking of wood. The silence between them grew heavy.

Then, suddenly, a light in the distance. A light that the trail pointed towards, a light with a gray column of smoke curling into the sky above it. Smoke could only mean one thing.

“Yennefer.” 

“I know,” she said. “I see it too. Let’s get closer.”

Geralt and Yennefer followed the trail, which veered off the road and into a cluster of trees. A ways into the forest, it led them to a clearing overshadowed by the jagged mouth of a cave. The light came from just outside the entrance, from a roaring campfire. There were at least ten people sitting around it. Geralt had no doubt there were even more resting inside the hollow. Some of them howled with raucous laughter, clutching crude mugs in their fists. Some hunched over, busy with quieter conversation. All of them wore shabby clothes, the kind that peasant mothers would patch up again and again until the fabric was virtually unrecognizable. 

It was then that Geralt heard the faintest whinny. He turned his head toward the sound and saw a group of horses tethered to a sapling. And, on the outskirts of that group, stood their stolen horses.

He felt Yennefer’s hand grab his arm. She pulled him, quickly and without looking back, to the horses, all without making so much as a sound. Tension hardened her grip, but he understood. They couldn’t celebrate yet. Not until they made it out with what was taken from them. 

Roach’s eyes were wide and afraid. In the darkness of the night, firelight glittered in her pupils. Yennefer’s mare showed the same confused fear, the kind of fear common when an animal is completely out of their element. Geralt’s heart clenched in sympathy. He reached for the reins, about to unhitch both of the horses, when a voice from the campfire caught his attention.

“-- so I’m thinking, right, what happens once my Nan’s got her memory back? D’you think she’ll take over the chores again?”  

Another man gave a short laugh. “If I had to remember I had someone like you as a grandson, I would concuss myself just so I could forget again.”

“Not like you can talk,” the first man retorted. “I doubt your woman really forgot about you. More likely she just gathered enough sense to leave while she still could.”

“Hey, don’t talk about her that way!”

Another person, a scrawny young woman, spat into the fire. “You’re all a bunch of idiots,” she said. “I still can’t believe you two managed to nab those horses. And without Rob’s help to boot.”

“Not a bad catch, eh? I call dibs on the brown one, the hardy one. I’ll call her...Praline.”

The woman snorted. “Yeah, Rob’s gonna love that. And we’ll call the gray one Whipped Cream.” After splitting another glob into the fire, she continued in a mocking voice. “You know, I bet that’ll earn you a promotion! You’ll get whichever petal you fancy from that rose. Might jog your woman’s memory a bit...although I doubt it.”

“If you think you’re so smart, what would you name it?”

“Ideally, something that doesn’t make people think I’ve spent my entire adult life held captive in a bakery.”

While the three of them started bickering, Geralt and Yennefer shared a look. “I can’t believe it,” Yennefer whispered. “The trail led us right to our competition.”

“You think they all want the rose?”

“That’s impossible,” she replied. “There’s only one rose. It’ll only work for one person.”

Geralt took another look at the three people sitting around the fire. “They might not know that.”

Yennefer silently untied the reins of her mare. “Let’s not stick around any longer to find out.”

Geralt nodded and took Roach’s reins. He stroked a gentle hand down her neck to calm her. “It’s me, girl. You’re alright now.”

They led their horses away from the camp at an agonizingly slow pace. He could still hear the sounds of arguing behind him, but no one came to check on the horses. If they were lucky, that discovery would be made in the morning, when they would already be long gone. Just a little further, and both he and Yennefer could ride off into the night. No one would be the wiser.

At the edge of the forest, Geralt spotted a figure in the darkness. He held out a hand to signal that they should stop. 

“Geralt?”

“Someone’s heading this way,” he whispered. “Just stay still.”

The figure walked toward them a little, stepping into the moonlight, then stopped. He held a crude longbow in his hand. Must be someone on guard shift, he thought. This little group was more organized than he’d previously thought. He was about to turn around and walk the other way when Yennefer’s mare snorted and tossed her head impatiently, and the figure straightened up. “Who’s there?” he called out.

Yennefer shot Geralt a panicked look. The man was about to call out again, raising his bow threateningly, when Geralt handed Roach’s reins to Yennefer and closed the distance between himself and the man in two steps.

He clamped a hand over the man’s mouth, even as he struggled against his grip and pounded his fists on his forearm. Behind him, he could hear the approaching footsteps of other people. They were running out of time. 

“Listen to me,” he growled. “When they ask what happened, you’re going to tell them it was a rabbit. Hear me? You’re going to tell them you panicked. Made something out of nothing.” And he made the Sign of Axii.

The man’s eyes glazed over, and Geralt released him. The man dropped his bow. “A rabbit,” he said dully. “You’re right. I panicked. Overreacted.”

Geralt and Yennefer didn’t stay to hear the rest of his drivel. As other members of the camp approached the man to ask what had happened, they leapt on their horses and galloped away. Geralt wasn’t sure if anyone heard them, but even if they had, no one followed.

The sound of galloping hooves thumped over and over on the dirt. They were riding, faster than the wind, Geralt’s eyes watering in the open air and Yennefer’s hair flowing behind her like black ribbons. Trees flew by in an instant, soon turning into wide open fields where the grass parted easily in front of them. As the wind whistled in his ears, the tension held in every crevice of his body melted away. Despite all that was against them, despite the fact that there was an entire gang vying for the same thing he and Yennefer were, he didn’t want to stop. He could allow himself this little drop of freedom. After all that had happened, both of them deserved it.

“We did it, Geralt!” Yennefer called over the wind and hoofbeats. “We’re finally ahead of them!”

“You think so?” he called back.

“I know so!”

For the first time, there was a certain lightness to her voice, like a laugh woven into the syllables. It made Geralt grin. He spurred on Roach and she sped up immediately, like he didn’t even have to tell her to. 

They rode and rode, until before they knew it, the faint lights of a village crept up in front of them. Reluctantly, they slowed the horses down. Sweat ran slick through Roach’s coat, but she didn’t seem tired. Geralt felt the same. Somehow, the exhaustion from before had lifted off of his shoulders and he felt lighter than ever.

“We should stop for the night,” Yennefer said. Her cheeks were flushed from the ride.

He glanced over at her. “You tired?”

“Surprisingly, no,” she said, a slight smile on her face. “But it would be nice to sleep in a real bed, don’t you think?”

“Can’t argue with that.”

The village was small, but strangely lively at this hour of the night. Garlands of flowers hung off every available roof, their sweet smell perfuming the air. Torches and lanterns blazed with light. In a large building further into the village, Geralt heard the faint roar of celebration.

“Wonder what they’re so happy about,” he mused. As they rode closer, he smelled sugary cakes and ripe fruit, mixed with the unmistakable scent of alcohol. The building they rode towards looked like an inn, a large one at that--and in the windows, he saw masses of people. Laughing. Dancing. 

Beside him, Yennefer took a breath in. “Geralt,” she said, looking at the throng of villagers crammed inside the tavern. “What day is it?”

He tilted his head curiously. “Should be nearing the end of the month of April, but I’m not too sure. Why?”

Yennefer turned to look at him. “Don’t you remember?” she asked. As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she seemed to realize something. “I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s alright,” he said quickly. “But why did you ask?”

Her eyes gazed at him, glittering as they reflected the light of a passing torch. “It’s Belleteyn.”

Chapter Text

When Yennefer asked the innkeep about renting a room for the night, the lively chaos around them drowned out his answer. The large room was packed full of people, milling about with mugs of ale in their hands and loose smiles on their faces. Geralt saw a back door through the crowd, wide open and with bonfires blazing in the clearing behind the tavern. He squeezed past the partygoers to join Yennefer next to the innkeep.

“What did you say?” he asked.

The innkeep startled a bit at Geralt’s appearance, eyes quickly darting to the scar on his face and the two swords strapped to his back. The expression faded as quickly as it came, however, and he spoke over the sound of celebration. “I was saying that you’re in luck--we have exactly one room left! I would be happy to make it yours for the night. The cost is--”

“We’ll take it,” Yennefer interrupted. She dropped a few gold coins into the innkeep’s palm, making his eyes widen in surprise.

“Thank you kindly!” He quickly dropped the coins into his pocket. “I’ll be sure to get the bed made before you retire for the night.”

Geralt nodded in appreciation, then paused. “Bed?”

“...Yes?” The innkeep frowned at him. “You know, a mattress on top of--”

“I know what a bed is.” Now that he looked closer, the innkeep had the telltale ruddiness of someone who had had too much to drink. “I’m asking how many there are in the room we just paid for.”

The innkeep gave a hearty laugh and clapped a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Ah, I see!” he said. “Well, there’s one.” After a moment of silence, he looked from Geralt to Yennefer. “Surely that’s not a problem?”

Before Geralt could object, Yennefer quickly smiled and shook her head. “Of course not,” she said. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It’s my pleasure!” The innkeep reached under the counter and brought out a short, rounded bottle. He poured two glasses of whatever was inside and handed them to Geralt and Yennefer. “And, thanks to the lady’s lovely tip, this is free of charge.” he said. “Come, celebrate with us!”

“Celerate Belleteyn?” Yennefer asked.

“Yes,” the innkeep said, “but also my daughter’s marriage.” He beamed at them.

Geralt raised his eyebrows. “Congratulations,” he said. He took a tentative sip of the alcohol. It burned going down, but it was good--in the way that alcohol that could only be found in tiny, obscure villages could be good. 

“Many thanks,” the innkeep said. “Now, why don’t you have a bite to eat? We’ve got more food than we rightly know what to do with, and enough ale to get the whole village piss-drunk!” As if to prove his point, he gestured to a long wooden table sagging under the weight of piles of food and barrels of alcohol. Geralt suddenly became aware of the emptiness of his stomach after failing to get anything to eat all day. Swallowing heavily, he felt his mouth water.

He and Yennefer shared a look, and she cleared her throat. “I think we’ll take you up on that offer.”

The inkeep laughed heartily. “That’s what I like to hear! Remember: the order of the evening is food, drink and love. Now, go and enjoy yourselves!” He once again clapped Geralt on the shoulder and pushed his way through the crowd, leaving the two of them next to the food and drink. 

“Food, drink, and love?” Geralt echoed. “That’s what Belleteyn celebrates?”

Yennefer smiled. “The innkeep simplified it, but those are the essentials. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to get started with the food part of the celebration.”

They wasted no time. Geralt snatched up a bowl and started shoveling whatever he saw in front of him into it--including a choice cut of lamb, a few hunks of crusty bread, and even a couple vegetables, just to round out the meal. Beside him, he saw Yennefer doing the same, albeit in a more restrained manner. 

Somehow, both of them managed to find a seat at the end of a communal table with their food. Over the next few minutes, Geralt devoured his food, scarcely leaving time to breathe in between bites. Again, Yennefer managed to curb her enthusiasm more successfully than he did, though she clearly enjoyed the fare. 

As he brought a crust of bread to his mouth, he glanced at her. “So...why didn’t you say something about the bed?”

“You saw the man,” she said. “Well on his way to being drunk, and probably itching to get on with the party. I figured we would have more to gain by appealing to his hospitality than by questioning it.”

Geralt nodded at her, but that didn’t mean he agreed with the decision. “I can set up a bedroll.”

“Nonsense--we didn’t come all this way just to sleep on a hard wooden floor, did we?”

A short laugh escaped him. “I know I didn’t,” he said. “But what choice do we have, besides…”

They fell into a brief, awkward silence. At least, it seemed awkward to him. It was hard to tell what Yennefer was thinking. He took a long drink from the glass of alcohol the innkeep gave him. 

“Let’s enjoy the night, alright?” Yennefer asked. “We can deal with everything else later.”

He hummed in agreement, crunching down on a crust of bread. They busied themselves with finishing up their food. She was right, he thought. No use letting his nerves get the better of him on a night when they were supposed to be resting. Not that he was nervous--sharing a bed with someone else was far less intimidating than the contracts he took as a witcher. But something about the whole situation almost made him prefer sleeping on the floor over sleeping in such close quarters with her. Almost, he corrected himself. Not quite.

“At least the food’s good,” he said.

“You’re right.” Yennefer took a long drink from her cup, then sighed. “Unfortunately, I never quite lost my taste for court food, and this has been the only thing to come close in a few months.”

“You were at court?”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Surely you don’t think I work as a village witch?”

“No, it’s just--” he paused for a second. “Sometimes I forget about how influential sorceresses like you can be.”

A wry smile flickered across her face. “We’re not,” she said. “Frankly, I’ve helped more people in the past month than I have during all my years in Aedirn.”

He couldn’t help but ask another question. She’d never told him about her past, after all. It seemed a little unfair to him that she carried the weights of both of their pasts, while he didn’t even know his own. “Is that why you left the court life?”

She was silent for a moment, staring down at the wooden surface of the table. Then she met his eyes. “I did that a long time ago,” she said. “For various reasons. All of which were unrelated to my temporary job as a healer.”

He took a swig from his drink. The alcohol warmed him pleasantly as it settled in his stomach, although the burn was still fierce. “So why’d you take a job in the middle of nowhere?”

“I was...waiting. For someone to appear.”

“Really? Who?”

Yennefer simply stared at him for a second, then took a deep draught from her own mug. Sighing again, she wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. He must have touched another nerve. This time, he was wise enough not to press further.

A great cheer suddenly rose through the crowd, coming from the back yard. People started to flood out the back door, carrying their drinks with them, excited chatter murmuring through the crowd. A woman tapped Geralt’s shoulder, her cheeks ruddy from alcohol.

“You two don’t want to miss out,” she said, slurring the words a little. “The marriage is starting!”

The woman joined the others in going out the door. Yennefer rose, holding her tankard in one hand and gesturing to Geralt with the other. “We should go too,” she said. “You’ll want to see this.”

Geralt voiced a question that had been bothering him for the last few minutes. “Why would people get married during Belleteyn?”

“It’s considered good luck,” she said, glancing out the door at the crowd. “This festival is all about love, after all. Now let’s go, before we miss it.”

Taking Geralt by the hand, she wove her way through the throngs of people. Geralt tried his best not to spill his drink, although a little sloshed over the sides. Before them was a great, blazing bonfire, flames reaching higher than the trees and bathing everything in an orange glow.

The crowd’s cheers grew louder, some people clapping and stomping their feet. Geralt was halfway through his tankard when he saw the reason for the cheers: a pair of young women, flowers woven into their hair, clad in beautiful, flowing white dresses. Their eyes glowed in the firelight, and even from this distance Geralt could see the bright smiles on their faces. They clutched each other’s hands as they went to stand in front of the bonfire. One of them had deep brown skin, with hair woven in thick braids starting from the very top of her head. The other woman’s skin was lighter, and she wore her hair closely cropped. 

“Attention, everyone!” It was the innkeep again, raising his hands to attract the crowd. “My daughter and her beau are blessed to commemorate their love today, a love that I have personally seen flourish from a seedling into a beautiful flower. I will admit, I’ve had my doubts at times-” he threw a pointed glance at the short-haired woman, which sent a ripple of laughter through the crowd “--but not today. Ladies,” he said, “do you want to say anything before you tie the knot?”

The brides shared a brief glance, then the woman with the braids cleared her throat and looked at the people surrounding them. “We’d like to thank everyone for coming, although some of you may not know us personally.” Her eyes rested on Geralt for a second. “Things have been hard lately, with the recent famine. Many people who I would like to be here today have passed on. Sadie and I miss them dearly, with all of our hearts.”

Her partner continued the speech. “But this is not an eulogy,” she said, raising her voice and looking at the crowd. “Today is a cause for celebration. Today is a cause for happiness. It is a cause to love each other, just as Jo and I do. There is nothing more powerful, and nothing that comes quite as easy. You can never forget how to love. And it is by loving one another,” she said, “that we can remember how to do everything else.”

There was nothing but the crackling of the fire. Then, as the women--Sadie and Jo--linked their hands together and looked hesitantly at the crowd, the crowd stirred. Slowly, everyone started clapping. A few villagers, including the woman from before, swiped tears away from their eyes. The innkeep raised a hand to silence the crowd.

“These girls,” he said with laughter in his voice, “they always know how to make a speech!” But he, too, quickly brought a hand to his eyes. 

Geralt shared a look with Yennefer. It felt a little like they were intruding on something that was supposed to be hidden from them, something so soft and vulnerable that it took a whole village to keep secret. Yet here they were, watching it. Together.

“So,” the innkeep  said, coming to stand between the women and the bonfire, “now comes the question.”

The people around them clutched their drinks a little tighter in anticipation. The innkeep pulled out a leather-bound book, opened it, and cleared his throat. A hush fell over the crowd, the only sound being the crackling of the fire.

“Do you, Sadie Burton, take Jo Tyler to be your wife, in sickness and in health, until Death’s hand parts you?”

Sadie nodded. “I do.” 

“And do you, Jo Tyler, take Sadie Burton to be your wife, in sickness and in health, until Death’s hand parts you?

“Yes,” Jo said. “I do.” 

The innkeep closed the book. “By the power invested in me, I pronounce you wife and, well, wife!”

An exuberant roar erupted from the crowd. Geralt found himself cheering as well, and when he looked over to the side, Yennefer was smiling wider than he’d ever seen her smile. It was hard to tell in the dim orange light, but her cheeks looked a little red, maybe from the alcohol. After all, her tankard was empty.

The two brides, Sadie and Jo, pulled each other into a passionate kiss. The crowd cheered again, and then all of a sudden, flowers began to rain upon the couple. Flowers of all kinds--daisies, bluebells, lilies, and roses fell onto the ground in front of them. Laughing, the women put up a hand to shield themselves.

“What’s going on?” Geralt asked.

“It’s a tradition,” Yennefer said. “Flowers symbolize romance for the happy couple.” She turned her palm upwards and quickly murmured something Geralt couldn’t quite catch. A second later, two clusters of blossoms materialized in her hand, colored a light purple. Intertwined into the blossoms were a few stems of round, green berries. The scent the arrangement gave off felt familiar somehow, although he didn’t know why. 

Yennefer handed one of the arrangements to Geralt. Briefly, she glanced into his eyes, her expression strangely hopeful. “Throw it, Geralt. Give them our blessing.” 

He threw it, just like she said, tossing the flowers right at the feet of the brides. There were still flowers raining upon them from all sides, a constant shower of blossoms landing with a hundred different soft thumps on the grass, as if falling from the sky itself. Some flowers even went into the fire, curling up inside the flame in only a few short seconds. Petals littered the ground. Warm light washed over the scene. The air was thick with heat, smoke, and perfume, casting a glaze that illuminated the happy tears on the womens’ faces as they kissed again. And again. And again.

For a brief second, Geralt forgot about his and Yennefer’s desperate race for the rose of remembrance. He forgot about the werewolf he’d killed in cold blood only a few days before. He even forgot about the worry that overtook him whenever he thought about sharing a bed with Yennefer--a worry that stemmed not from the fact that he didn’t want to, but from the fact that he did. He wanted to, and it scared him. But for a brief second, he forgot about his fear. All he saw was a cascade of flowers.

He swallowed thickly and looked at her. “Is every Belleteyn like this?”

“For the most part, yes.”

“It, uh.” He struggled to find the right words to say. “It’s beautiful.”

A smile crossed her face. “I know,” she said. “There’s nothing quite like seeing this for the first time.”

He couldn’t help but grin back at her. “Almost makes me glad I lost my memory.”

Just as she was about to respond, a rousing tune began to play. Off to the side of the bonfire, a few villagers were playing fiddles, flutes, and an assortment of drums. A space cleared in the middle of the yard for the couple to dance. But instead of dancing alone, Jo waved a hand to the crowd.

“Celebrate with us,” she cried, “all of you!”

Immediately, the crowd cheered, and people began to press Geralt from behind as they rushed to dance with the pair of women. An assortment of elbows and knees jostled into his side. As the swell of the crowd grew stronger, he threw a slightly panicked look over at Yennefer. She simply shrugged, smiled, and let herself get swept away. 

He was almost certain that it was the drink that loosened her. But even so, he followed behind her as best as he could. As the music began to shape into a catchy, percussion-heavy folk tune, he found himself standing in a long line, facing another line of dancers. Yennefer stood directly across from him. Geralt considered mouthing a cry for help, but before that was possible, people started dancing.

At first it was a craze of motion. All around him, villagers stomped their feet and clapped their hands, making so much noise that he couldn’t hear the music. Glancing desperately at Yennefer, he saw with dismay that she somehow seemed to know the moves by heart, twirling and stepping in sync with everyone else.

He took a deep breath. Surely this couldn’t be harder than learning sword forms, he thought. As he focused on the music, he started to understand the rhythm hidden underneath. He started to copy Yennefer.

Whenever she took a step, he took one too. Whenever she raised her hands to clap, he raised his. Whenever she tossed her head, he echoed her. Yennefer moved quickly and effortlessly. She was loose, free, laughing as she moved, caught up in the wild emotion of the music and looking as if she would never come down again. He copied that too. And he realized he was dancing. 

As Yennefer stepped toward him, he automatically repeated the motion. The two lines of dancers came together to form one. She took his hands, gently placing them on her waist, and resting her own hands on his shoulders.

The formerly frenetic music slowed down to a sweet mixture of flutes and fiddles. Around them, people swayed slowly with their partners.

Yennefer looked into his eyes, a little out of breath. “Are you alright, Geralt?” 

“Yeah,” he breathed, “although I had to improvise the dance a little.”

She squeezed his shoulders. “Just follow my lead.” He noticed the flush in her cheeks was even more pronounced than before. Perhaps it was just the firelight. 

The melody grew slower and even richer with harmonies. In a smooth motion, Yennefer stepped forward with her right foot. Geralt stepped back with his left.

“That’s it,” she murmured. Now she stepped forward with her left, then to the side with her right, then back with both feet. Somehow, Geralt managed to stumble through the moves along with her. It was a strange sort of waltz that felt all wrong to him, but he tried his best at it.

Yennefer giggled--actually giggled--which is how he knew for sure that she was at least a little drunk. “Somehow I thought you would be better at this,” she said. “Considering you fight with such grace.”

He barely stopped himself from stepping on her toes. “Don’t have to swing my sword in time to folk music.”

“Whatever you say, witcher.” She adjusted the position of her arms, loosely draping them so that her hands rested on the nape of his neck.

Geralt couldn’t help but focus on the soft touch of her fingers against his skin. Suddenly he became aware of the solidness of her waist, the fact that they were swaying only inches apart. He became aware of the heat of her body, which he could feel from here, and the intense gaze of her violet eyes. He became aware of her lips.

And then she blinked up at him, snapping him out of his reverie. “We should probably get to bed soon.” 

“Of course,” he said quickly. It had been a long night for both of them, and although the food had helped restore some of his energy, the events of the day weighed heavily on his shoulders. The alcohol, too, was making him more drowsy than he expected.

While the music was still playing, he separated himself from her. As they walked up the creaking wooden stairs to their room, his neck burned with the memory of her touch, the memory of her fingers ghosting against his skin. And his fingers mourned the loss of her waist pressing against them.

Yennefer pushed open the door to their room, and the innkeep was right. There was only one bed--a large bed, but a singular bed. Without even taking off her cloak or shoes, Yennefer sank into the mattress.

Geralt took the chance to shrug off his armor and swords, leaving only the soft padding of his shirt and pants. He hesitated a moment, then sat on the other side of the bed. He could set up his bedroll later, when he wasn’t so unsteady on his feet. For now, he was grateful to be sinking into something comfortable.

A stolen glance at Yennefer told him that her eyes were closed, although she wasn’t asleep. He could tell by her heartbeat. 

Her hand grasped his forearm. “Lie down,” she said, her voice slurred and soft. “It’s alright.”

“I shouldn’t,” he said, but she smiled and shook her head. Slowly, her hand trailed up to his shoulder and pushed him backwards, into the mattress. She didn’t have to use much force. He let her do it.

A contented sigh escaped his lips as he let his weight sink into the soft matt ress. “Thank you.” 

She opened her eyes and turned her head to face his. The smile was still on her face, and it grew fonder. “You were always stubborn,” she said. “Some things...some things don’t change.”

“I guess not,” he said. Her hand still lingered on his shoulder, playing idly with the fabric of his shirt. A flush grew on her cheeks.

“You’re drunk,” he said. 

“Perhaps.”

The minutes passed by slowly, with Geralt staring up at the ceiling, his eyes getting harder to keep open. The fear from before, the fear of what would happen if he shared a bed with Yennefer, stirred in his chest. But it was dulled. He could set up his bedroll later, he reasoned, after she fell asleep. He promised himself that, even though part of him wanted nothing more than to fall asleep with her.

His thoughts were interrupted by the realization that Yennefer was saying something to him.

“What?” he asked her.

She blinked for a second, then repeated it in a soft voice. “I said, Belleteyn is my birthday.”

Her eyes stared into his. It wasn’t like her, letting slip information like that. All this time, she’d been harder to crack than a stone. Somehow, maybe because of the alcohol, she was softer. More open. And this simple confession seemed more like an invitation.

Geralt had the strange feeling that if he decided to ask her, right this moment, who they were to each other, she would tell him. With no reservations. And part of him wanted to--because that part of him couldn’t stand not knowing, couldn’t stand hurting her over and over again with his clumsy words born out of ignorance. It would be a bold move on his part, and if asking her came off as nothing more than a risky question then he would be glad. He would be glad because to him, the question of what their relationship was would be so presumptuous, so hopeful, that he wanted to curse. Because he thought he might know the answer. 

Yennefer continued gazing at him, her lips slightly parted, her expression tinged with the tiniest bit of melancholy. She looked like she was waiting for his question, as if she could read his mind--and dreading the moment in which he decided to ask it to her. 

He didn’t ask. He couldn’t. Instead, he gave her a gentle smile.

“Happy birthday, Yennefer.”

Chapter Text

Geralt wasn’t woken up by the birds singing outside the window, or by the rays of sunlight streaming onto the wooden floorboards. He was woken by Yennefer’s heartbeat.

As he opened his eyes and raised his head to look around him, he saw that she was already awake. In fact, she was looking right back at him, and her heart--her heart was thumping in her chest. Putting that together with the rapidly fading, skin-level warmth on the surface of his torso and the cornered-animal expression on her face, it wasn’t hard to figure out how they’d managed to both fit onto the lumpy mattress.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Never did set up that bedroll.”

“What did I tell you last night?”

Yennefer, now that he looked more closely, had dark circles under her eyes. Her skin shone with a thin layer of sweat, and Geralt couldn’t tell if the early morning light was responsible for her paleness or if she was truly as hungover as she appeared.

“I don’t know,” he started. He wasn’t feeling his best either, though clearly not as bad as her. “I think...we went to that wedding, there was a dance--” he paused to wince in embarrassment “--and we came here.” He took a second push through the colorful, noisy blur that obscured the events of the night before, and then the memory hit him. “You told me that it was your birthday.”

Yennefer narrowed her eyes, as if she didn’t quite believe that was all that had happened between them. But then she sighed, sagging a little and blinking against the sunlight.

“We should--” she winced a little at the sound of her own voice “--we should get going.”

Of course, Geralt thought. The rose is her first priority. He wasn’t bitter--in fact, he understood her drive to restore his memories more than ever--but it’s as if he was watching her rebuild the very same walls that had almost broken down the night before. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Yennefer, seeing his hesitation, continued. “I mean, we might lose our lead--”

“I know,” he interrupted. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

Slowly, they packed up their belongings and exited the room. Compared to last night, the main room was deathly quiet. Empty bowls and tankards littered every available surface. There were a few patrons slumped against the wall, unconscious and drooling. Even the innkeep, formerly so boisterous, sat snoring in the corner, a loose smile on his face.

Carefully, so as to not wake anyone, Geralt pushed open the tavern door. Both he and Yennefer squinted against the harsh morning light. Surprisingly, both of their horses were exactly where they’d been left the night before, if not a bit restless.

Geralt patted Roach. “Glad to see you,” he said. She nudged the side of his face in response.

Yennefer mounted her mare, who didn’t seem quite as happy to see her as Roach was. “Shall we?”

He nodded and mounted Roach. Together, they rode away from the village.

The sun was high in the sky before either of them spoke up. 

“How are you feeling?” Geralt asked. 

Yennefer let out a short, humorless laugh. “About as well as you might expect.”

He paused before responding, idly brushing a hand through Roach’s mane. “Hopefully there’s not much longer to go.”

“There isn’t,” she said. “We should be there by tonight.”

Geralt didn’t know why that made him feel nervous all of a sudden. It’s not that he was afraid to get his memories back--in fact, his desire to learn about his past had only gotten stronger over the past few days. 

He glanced at Yennefer. “Looking forward to it?”

“Are you asking if I’m anticipating you getting your memory back?”  she asked. He nodded, and she furrowed her brow for a second. “Of course I am,” she said. “But I’m also…”

“Scared?”

She hummed in agreement. “You’re right. I suppose I am.” Her eyes trailed from his face to look at the road ahead. The woods around them were thicker, more lush, than at the beginning of their journey. Geralt thought he could hear a trickling stream somewhere off to the side. Gone was the barely-restrained chaos of the Belleteyn celebration, or even the peaceful silence of the woods at the beginning of their journey. Maybe it was his imagination, but even the nature around them seemed to perk up in anticipation of what was to come.

“You know,” she continued, “I never would’ve told you that before. Back when you were still healing from your fight with the werewolf.”

Geralt’s mouth lifted a little. “Don’t blame you. I was an idiot.”

“So was I,” she countered. “As I’m sure you noticed.”

He raised an eyebrow, but decided not to comment on what he had or hadn’t observed about her. Instead, he asked her a question. “What changed?”

“Well, I was drunk enough to forget.” She let out a small sigh. “That helped.”

He turned his own eyes to the road, noticing how the dirt grew darker and more moist. They were entering into the wilderness now, a place truly far from civilization. The grass grew greener, the trees grew taller and sturdier. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the branches.

“You know,” she said, interrupting his thoughts, “this reminds me of when we first met.”

“You mean we were in a forest?”

She laughs a little. “I mean that I feel about as hungover as I did back then.”

Geralt felt the urge to press her for more details, but hesitated. After all, what was the point if he would know the truth before the next morning? 

Eventually he turned back to Yennefer. “Don’t worry,” he said. “A few more hours. Then this will all be over.”

He was right. After a long, hot afternoon on horseback, the path through the woods disappeared entirely. The trees crowded together, the horses barely able to squeeze in between the trunks. In the distance, Geralt heard the sound of rushing water.

“This should be it,” Yennefer said with a tight voice. “The rose is by a waterfall.”

He nodded. “Ready?”

“Of course.”

They dismounted and stepped carefully through the trees, leading the horses behind them. The ground was soft underneath their feet, almost pliant. In some places, the ferns growing on the forest floor reached up to Geralt’s thighs. 

And then, all at once, Geralt and Yennefer stepped into a clearing and saw it. A waterfall, a hundred feet tall, spraying white foam onto a group of jagged rocks below. The water roared in Geralt’s ears. In front of the waterfall was a lone bush--with a single, blood-red rose. 

Yennefer let out a soft gasp. Without looking back, she ran over and cupped the blossom in her hands. Geralt followed.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “It’s really...it’s really here.”

She was right. It was obvious to him that this was no ordinary flower. Geralt’s medallion thrummed against his neck as he leaned closer to it, eyeing the silky petals. 

“What do we do now?” he asked.

With one swift motion, she plucked the blossom from the bush. “We take it back. As fast as we possibly can. It’ll dry out without the bush’s nourishment.”

He was about to respond when he heard a twig snap behind them. And then, while he turned around, he heard another. Yennefer instinctively clutched the rose to her chest.

A group of dirty, dishevelled individuals came crashing through the trees and into the clearing. Some of them were arguing, but stopped once they noticed Geralt and Yennefer standing in confusion before them. There were about two dozen in total.

Someone pushed their way to the front of the group and squinted at the two of them. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Geralt recognized her. She was the woman they’d seen while stealing the horses, the woman who’d been sitting by the fire with two other men. 

It seemed that his and Yennefer’s lead hadn’t been as large as they’d believed. How much time had they foolishly wasted? How much time could they have saved by riding through the night instead of letting themselves rest?

The woman gestured at them, looking both confused and annoyed. “Who the fuck are you?”

Yennefer spoke up before Geralt had the chance to. “I don’t see why it matters,” she said. While she stared ahead, the hand holding the rose came down to grab Geralt’s, squeezing it tightly. “Take it,” she whispered to him. “In case I need to cast a spell.” His fingers closed around the blossom.

The woman waved someone over. “Rob,” she was saying loudly, “Rob, look who we found.”

A tall, sinewy man strode into the clearing. He was slightly more well-dressed than the rest of the group, but that wasn’t saying much. Peering down his long nose, his eyes resembled glass beads. The rest of the group watched him intently, as if they were waiting for him to do something. Or to order them to do something.

“Are you here for the rose?” he asked in a calm voice.

It was a simple question. But for a second, neither Geralt nor Yennefer uttered a word. 

“I said, are you--”

“It’s gone,” Yennefer said suddenly. “We were too late. And you are as well.”

Rob jerked his head a little, and the group of two dozen shuffled fully into the clearing. Now Geralt was able to see that they all carried weapons--dirty weapons, notched weapons, but weapons nonetheless. 

“Really?” Rob asked dryly.

Yennefer nodded. “Really.”

“Then what’s that doing there?”

Geralt followed his pointed finger, and his eyes landed on a crimson petal in the grass. He cursed. And in a matter of seconds, two dozen weapons pointed towards his and Yennefer’s necks. 

“How--” Geralt started to say, but Rob cut him off.

“We may not look it, but we’re capable soldiers,” he said. “Deserters, in case you were wondering. Now hand the rose over.”

Geralt swallowed heavily. Ten or twelve soldiers they could handle easily, but twice that amount? It was more likely that one or both of them would get hurt. Or worse. 

Yennefer narrowed her eyes. “What do so many of you want with it? There’s only one rose.”

“Yeah,” the woman from before called out, “but Rob said that it only takes one petal to restore someone’s memory. Right?”

“Right,” someone else echoed. “I’m giving my petal to my sister. In case she wakes up.”

“And I’m giving mine to my old pa.”

“And I’m--”

Despite the tense situation, Yennefer scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. You need the entire flower for one cure. Don’t believe everything you hear.”

A few of the weapons lowered a little as their wielders turned to look at Rob. Rob simply stared back. “Surely you’re not going to believe the woman?” he asked. “I didn’t just come here for myself, you know.”

Geralt spoke up. “Well, whatever you came here for, you can leave,” he said. “We have every right to take the rose.”

“I don’t think you understand, mutant ,” Rob snapped. “I need it. For my wife. I had to abandon her just to come here.”

“Why? What’s wrong with her?” 

Rob closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. He glared daggers across the clearing. “She’s a...a monster. With a contract on her head. She doesn’t even remember me. ”

As Geralt heard Rob’s words, he felt the pit in his stomach grow deeper. His throat went dry all of a sudden. “What kind of monster?”

“A werewolf. Not that it matters.”

It couldn’t be possible, he thought at first. There was too much chance involved. He thought back to his own fight with the werewolf, the one that had paid him in a heavy sack of coin. He remembered how the werewolf was female, which was a rarity in itself. And he remembered her last words: I don’t remember my husband.

Yennefer looked at him in confusion. “Geralt?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

“Rob,” he said, his voice heavy, “it’s too late. The rose won’t help you. ”

Rob’s brows furrowed. “The fuck do you mean it’s too late? Is she dead?”

Geralt said nothing. Slowly, all of the weapons pointed at him and Yennefer lowered. Two dozen people looked at their leader with something like fear in their eyes. The waterfall roared behind them, spraying droplets of water onto his armor.

Grief crumpled Rob’s face. He stood, his face pointed at the ground, and his shoulders trembled. Finally, he looked at Geralt.

“How?” he whispered.

And in those few seconds where their eyes met, the other man must have seen something. He must have seen the regret. The poorly-hidden guilt. Or maybe he just went into a blind rage, grief igniting an inferno inside of him. Whatever he saw--whatever he felt--it was enough for him to turn to his group, fury on his face, hands trembling.

“Take it,” he commanded. “Take the rose from them.”

The chaos was immediate and deafening. All at once, the group of soldiers with their rusty weapons rushed at Geralt and Yennefer, swords raised. It seemed that even with their newfound doubts with their leader, they trusted him enough to kill on his behalf. There was no hesitation.

But Geralt and Yennefer didn’t hesitate either. Geralt drew his sword with a metallic hiss, fluidly brandishing it in front of the group of soldiers aiming to strike. He parried an incoming sword, then spun barely out of the way of the next.

“Don’t listen to him,” he bit out, raising his sword to stop a dagger from slicing his ear off. “Revenge is useless.”

Mid-strike, one of the soldiers let out a harsh laugh. “That’s rich, coming from a murderer!” She brought her sword down heavily on his with a shriek of metal.

“Please, just--” he started, but interrupted himself to duck under a mace. He took the moment to glance over at Yennefer.

She was in a similar predicament as him. People advanced toward her from all sides, sunlight glinting off of their weapons, ready to strike. But unlike him, Yennefer didn’t wait. She screamed out a spell, and suddenly the palms of her hands erupted with hellish fire, blasting onto the crowd in front of her and sending them yelling and dropping down to the grass. Through the fire, he caught a glimpse of her. Her movements were slower, leaden with fatigue, and sweat beaded on her hairline. It wasn’t obvious, but she was struggling. If all else failed, she probably couldn't even summon the energy to make a portal.

That was all the signal he needed. Instead of passively dodging and parrying, Geralt took a deep breath and started truly fighting back. He ducked out of the way of a spear and used the momentum to slice the attacker in the neck. It was easy--a simple cut to the carotid artery, and the soldier dropped to the ground. He looked to be no older than twenty.

Geralt didn’t let that fact sit in his mind too long. He turned, sweeping bloody arcs with his sword, letting his movements flow like the water gushing behind him. Another soldier gurgled and collapsed. After that, another, and another after that. This was what he had been trained to do, what had been engraved into his memory, what had remained after everything else disappeared. He didn’t know if he considered it a kindness or a cruelty.

Then a choked gasp pierced the air.

It was Yennefer, he realized, fear stabbing into his gut as he watched her cry out an incantation with no effect. She tried again. Nothing. A single night’s rest hadn’t been enough to replenish her magical energy, and now she was paying the price. Soldiers closed in on her. Geralt started running across the clearing, faster than he’d ever run before, but not fast enough. In a split second there was a dagger to her throat.

He froze. Met her eyes across the field. 

“Drop the weapon, witcher.” 

There was no choice. Geralt’s sword fell onto the grass. Yennefer’s eyes darted from his face to the faces of the soldiers behind him, now edging closer and closer. If he wasn’t careful, there would be a dagger at his throat as well.

The rose in his satchel felt more like a stone, dragging him towards the ground.

Rob’s grip on the dagger tightened, just a little, and a drop of blood trickled down Yennefer’s neck. “I could kill her,” he said quietly. “I could kill you too.”

Geralt’s mind raced. If he was fast enough, if he made it look like he was reaching into his satchel but instead kicked his sword into his hand, there was a chance he could hurl the point into Rob’s eye before Yennefer’s throat would be cut. But only a chance. A chance he didn’t dare take.

“Give me the rose. Or let her die.”

Yennefer’s breaths came in pained wheezes. She blinked rapidly, her eyes turned briefly to the sky, her jaw clenched so tight Geralt worried it would break. Her voice was only a whisper.

 “No--” she said, “Geralt, please--”

He knew so little about her, he realized, yet he knew just enough to understand the sacrifice she wanted to make. The sacrifice that only he could prevent. And Geralt would prevent it, because he was a selfish man. 

He wanted to remember her, wanted it with every fiber of his being, every bone in his body. Truthfully, he was greedy, too. Greedy because he wasn’t content with knowing only that Yennefer would give up everything for him, that she would make this sacrifice. Even that wasn’t enough. He wanted to know why she had scars on her wrists, why her perfume smelled achingly familiar to him, why she looked so sad whenever he called her by her name. 

But what he wanted didn’t matter. Even if it was what she wanted too. Not even the rose--the one chance he had to restore his memories--mattered as much as the life of the woman in front of him. After all, she’d saved him, only a handful of days ago. Here was his chance to return the favor.

Yennefer, he thought, I wonder if you will ever forgive me for what I’m about to do.

Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out the red blossom, which didn’t look nearly as vibrant as before. His medallion hummed with its magic. “Take it.”

Yennefer tried to say something but failed, and the dagger pressed into her neck, drawing more blood. The woman from before, the one who’d discovered them, walked up to him and snatched it from him. She spat at his feet.

When Rob took the rose, he held it gently. Just as Geralt had done only minutes before. Slowly, he removed the dagger from Yennefer’s neck, and she fell with a gasp on her knees. 

He looked at the withering petals and cursed. “It's dying.”

Geralt didn’t listen. The rose wasn’t important, not anymore. The only thing that mattered was Yennefer. He rushed to her, the only thought being that although nothing he could do would be enough to apologize, maybe if they were together things would be okay again. They had to be. As he ran to her, he saw her eyes widen with what he thought was hope. 

It turned out it wasn’t hope. It was horror, because as he ran toward her without thinking about the soldiers behind him, he heard the shot of a crossbow. And felt something pierce his back.

Warmth. That was the first thing he felt, although dimly he thought the first thing he should be feeling is pain. He heard the rushing of water. Felt heavy, soaking wet.

He opened his eyes and saw Yennefer’s face. 

“Geralt…”

“Yennefer,” he rasped in reply. Then he remembered--the dagger kissing her throat, her wheezing breaths as he gave up the rose, and the crossbow bolt tearing through his armor and sinking into scarred flesh. He felt for the spot where he was shot and found nothing. “How…”

She helped him sit up. The two of them were sitting at the bottom of the roaring waterfall, legs submerged in the icy water. In fact, his whole body was soaked. So was Yennefer’s. Her curls hung limply over her shoulders, and the fabric of her blouse was sheer enough to show her black undershirt.

She tucked a dripping strand of hair behind her ear. “I drew magic from the waterfall,” she said. “More than enough to heal you. And to kill them.”

It was then that Geralt looked at the field beyond. Corpses littered the ground, blood soaking into the dirt. The grass was brittle and blackened. He saw another body, the charred body of a thin man with sharp eyes that were now dull and unseeing. He clutched something in his hand--a rose. A rose that was similarly charred.

He looked back at Yennefer. She averted her eyes, staring at the swirling water beneath them. A deep breath, then she spoke. “Rob was right. It was dying.”

For a second the only sound was the waterfall to their right. So, he thought, the rose perished too, as the precious few minutes it had slipped away while they were fighting. And with it--well, it didn’t matter anymore. Everything they’d come for had been burned to a crisp. He remembered the promise Yennefer had made when they first set out--the promise that if he didn’t get his memory back, she would tell him what he’d forgotten. Looking at the rose, looking at her stricken face, he didn’t care about the promise anymore. 

“Geralt...I’m…” Yennefer said, her voice breaking, her hands coming to cup his cheeks. She seemed so unsure. “We…”

“I know.” He rested his forehead against hers. And kissed her. 

Her lips tasted like blood and tears, salt tinged with a hint of metal. She leaned into it, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone. The closeness, the softness--it was like nothing else he’d ever experienced. It was strange. Beautiful. He never knew to miss it, not even now. 

Part of him foolishly thought that kissing her would somehow make him remember her. But that wasn’t how it worked at all. His memories didn’t magically reveal themselves. His traitorous mind still refused to cooperate with him. In the end, all he felt was warmth. Warmth, and a helpless sort of sadness.

“Forgive me,” Yennefer breathed. “I couldn’t tell you. Even after everything. I just…I...”

“Don’t say it.”

“I didn’t want to be the one to hurt you…”

If any of the soldiers had been alive, they would have seen the sorceress who’d killed them clutching the witcher as if her life depended on it. They would have seen the witcher wrap his arms around her. They would have seen the couple kneeling at the base of the waterfall, slowly rocking in each other’s arms, neither letting go. And then, if any of the soldiers had been alive to hear it, they would’ve heard the sorceress whispering in his ear about things no soldier would have been able to comprehend. Things like how they lived on an island, once upon a time. How they were happy. How they had a daughter called Ciri.

Ciri, they would’ve heard him repeat. A beautiful name.

No one would’ve heard anything from the sorceress or the witcher for a few moments. Time was no longer an issue to them--it had already run out. The worst was over. It was a cruel kindness that neither of them were grateful for.

The witcher buried his face in her hair, saying something over and over again. I’m sorry, Yennefer. I’m sorry. Like he couldn’t possibly say it enough times. Like saying it was all he knew. 

The sorceress wept, trying in vain to conceal it, but not the witcher. Witchers don’t cry--they aren’t able to. Although perhaps this time it would’ve been a blessing.

Yennefer, the witcher said, repeating the name over and over like a litany, as if he could go on saying it forever. But it wasn’t forever, because eventually the sorceress pressed a finger over his lips. Please. Geralt. Don’t call me that.

It was a long time before either of them drew back from their embrace. Both of them were sopping wet, and Yennefer’s makeup was a watery, smudged mess. Geralt didn’t look much better. As the waterfall came down next to them, they stood up and surveyed the clearing once more.

It was a massacre, plain and simple. There was no denying the fact. A massacre resulting from their actions, with nothing gained from it. 

Yennefer slowly straightened out her cloak and stepped onto the grass. She raised a hand and chanted an incantation, and a portal opened up in front of her.

Geralt stilled. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going back,” she said quietly. “I can’t stay.”

“Why not?”

She paused, letting out a hollow laugh. “Don’t you understand, Geralt? Nothing connects us anymore. Nothing at all.”

A tiny flame of hurt erupted in his chest. After all this time, after all they’d said to one another, he thought that she wouldn’t leave him. He thought maybe they could forget the past and all its pain, start their relationship from the ground up. 

“That’s not true,” he said. “We just made new memories. Please, Yennefer.”

“Do you love me?”

He paused, stunned. “I…” he started, then sighed. Memories of their meeting rushed back to him, when she’d stubbornly stayed by his bedside. He hadn’t understood why, then, and he could only begin to understand now. He remembered the satiny sheen of scars on her wrists. He remembered her expression when she gave him that sweet-smelling arrangement of flowers and berries at the wedding, like she was in her own private bubble, reliving years upon years of hope and suffering. That expression--he hadn’t understood it then, but it was clear to him now. And it was clear that his own feelings, however strong, couldn’t compare.

“I want to,” he said to her. “I do.”

Something in her face softened at that. For a second, she smiled a little at him, with all the tenderness of the kiss they’d shared. “I know,” she said. “You’re a good man, even to me. Especially to me. But I’m selfish, Geralt.”

Looking into her eyes, Geralt recognized her wish. There was nothing more human than that--the desire to end one’s own suffering. He couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t going to deny it to her, because he wanted her to be happy. But she was wrong about one thing. There was a connection between them, a connection they’d fought tooth and nail to create. He refused to give it up.

He took her hand in his, squeezing it between his palms. “I’ll come back,” he said. His voice wavered a little, despite his best efforts to steady it. “When I remember you, I’ll come back. I’ll love you better than I used to. I promise. You just need to wait for me. Because one day, I’ll show up at your door, and you won’t have to miss me anymore. I’ll put an end to all of it--the pain, the suffering, the loneliness. And then, Yennefer...” he took a moment to wipe a tear from her cheek, “I’ll know what to call you.”

A laugh worked its way out of her mouth, sounding more like a sob. “I believe you.”

“I’m glad.”

The portal in front of her yawned open, its pitch-black void resembling a hole torn in reality. Slowly, she pulled away from him, turning to face it. 

There was one last look, her face perfectly still, her violet eyes connecting with his. He saw the grief in her gaze. The shame. The longing. And he knew that their connection was something that she, too, refused to give up.

She didn’t want to say goodbye. He knew that perfectly well. Still, when she stepped through, vanishing from sight, it was as if something heavy lodged in his chest and insisted on staying there. It was like a sack of bricks. This must be the weight, he thought. The weight she carried with her this whole time. The weight of knowing what you are missing, of knowing what could have been but never came to pass. The wrong place or the wrong time. It didn’t matter. He straightened up against it.

Inan, her little apprentice that she’d taken under her wing a few months before, was waiting for her as she exited the portal. She was darning a pair of socks, her brow furrowed in concentration as she hunched over the garment.

“I’m back,” Yennefer said. She tried to even out her voice, although she knew it was a lost cause. 

Inan jerked up in surprise. “Lady Yennefer!” she exclaimed. Then she paused for a second. “Wasn’t the witcher supposed to return with you?”

“Yes,” she said. “He was. But there’s no need for that anymore.”

Inan seemed to deflate a little. “Oh.”

Yennefer took off her black cloak, hanging it up to dry. She brushed out her hair, ignoring the water droplets flying everywhere, and quickly changed into a set of dry clothes. With a sigh, she sat on a stool next to the fire, facing away from the neatly made bed in the room. The bed where she’d treated Geralt.

“Is he going to come back?” Inan said.

Yennefer paused at the question. 

“He will,” she said. “I know he will.”

The girl smiled in the innocent way that children often do. “That’s good! I liked him.” She stabbed her needle into the sock, continuing her clumsy sewing. 

Yennefer watched her with a small smile of her own. “I liked him too.”

Perhaps that was a bit of an understatement. She always tried to teach honesty to her apprentices, but at the moment she couldn’t bring herself to say the full truth. Some words were only meant for certain ears.

What would she do when he came back? Could she wait that long?

Yes, she thought. Of course she could. She’d done harder things before, and she could be patient when she wanted to. Sorceresses live for a long time. And so do witchers.

He would come back, just like he said he would. He would come back and remember her. He would kiss her, remember the scent of her perfume, hold her in the inky darkness of the night and lull her to sleep. He would call her Yen. And then, finally, they could start over.