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Warm sunlight bathed Yennefer’s face as she reclined back in her plush chaise lounge. The book she had selected for the day turned out to be a tad too monotonous, even for her impressive attention span. And, to her, a nap was perhaps a more productive way to pass the day by then to read about the translations of transmutations in Kovir.
A gentle wind swept over, caressing her warm face with it’s cool hand. But another hand followed suite, this one of the human variety, sliding up her neck and arriving to comfortably rest on her cheek. It was a calloused, rough hand, that she knew all too well. She opened her eyes, squinting slightly in the sun. A pair of yellow, wild eyes peered back at her.
“Home early are we?” she said, the tendrils of sleep still clinging to her mind.
Geralt chuckled. “Damien De La Tour is not as good a gwent player as he claims.”
Yennefer sat up so she could see the witcher better. His hair was tied back neatly, a sheen of white stubble on his face. He was dressed, uncharacteristically, in a long red robe wrapped in a thick, golden brocade belt. Yennefer couldn’t help but smile; gone were the days of dark, practical armor and worn linen shirts. This truly was a witcher in his retirement.
Yennefer could not help but lean forward and give Geralt a tender but lengthy kiss. Geralt leaned into the kiss, his arms wrapping around her waist. When they finally parted lips, a devilish grin was on the witcher’s face. “To what do I owe this affection? It couldn’t possibly be my gwent victory.”
Yennefer shook her head. “Can a woman give the man she cares for a kiss?”
“The average woman perhaps, but you are far from average, Yen.”
She grinned. “Quite right.” Her grin suddenly faded, replaced by a thoughtful look. She took Geralt’s hand in hers. The witcher tilted his head, an eyebrow raised. “What scheme are you toying with now?”
“You know me too well,” she said, “but what I’m about to say may perhaps take you by surprise.”
“Now, this I have to hear,” Geralt quipped, “surely you aren’t planning to return to politics?”
“No, no, nothing so tedious.”
“What then?”
Yennefer looked out over the beautiful vista of Toussaint. It was mid-morning, clouds hued in brilliant gold floated over the mountains, which looked purple in the light of the rising sun. The knee high grass that wreathed Yennefer’s reading place swayed to-and-fro in the cool breeze. It was the perfect day. “What would you say if I wanted to make an average man out of you?”
“Don’t see how that’d be possible.”
“It would be simple,” Yennefer said, swinging her legs back over the side of her divan and sitting upright. “We would get married. It will be a simple ceremony, I will not wear white, you will not be armed in any manner. And then, it can be said that you were a man in the most average sense of the word: a husband.”
Geralt stared at the sorceress, seemingly speechless. It was clear she truly had taken him by complete surprise.
“Well, what do you think? Speak, I’ve not cast a spell on you. But perhaps I should have done,” Yennefer laughed.
Geralt’s mouth fell agape, as if he wanted to speak but then he shook his head. His gaze moved out to the countryside. He stared out into the vista for a time.
“Is it such a terrible fate to call me your wife?” Yennefer asked, a bit of insecurity seeping through.
Geralt shook his head. “No, not at all. If I had known you were interested in that sort of thing, I’d have made an “average” woman of you right after Eredin fell.”
“I think our time in the nearest inn suited us just fine,” Yennefer said with a coy smile, “but we somehow have land and some semblance of a regular life now. Why not? I don’t plan to go anywhere. Do you?”
“Just the Cockatrice Inn for a pint and some gwent on lazy days.”
“So it’s settled then.”
“I suppose so.”
The two grasped each other’s hands tightly and gazed out at the beautiful view before them.
Yennefer of Vengerberg married Geralt of Rivia that very day. It was a simple wedding, beneath a great oak tree that overlooked all of Corvo Bianco, officiated by the majordomo of that place. Yennefer wore a simple dress of black lace. Geralt remained in his red robes, not a sword was to be found on his person. They ate a simple but fine meal made lovingly by Marelene out on the front porch, sipping goblets of Sangreal. The sun set in a beautiful tapestry of pinks and purples that one could have sworn was crafted solely for the two newlyweds. The two disappeared into their chambers and did not reappear until late in the afternoon the next day.
Letters were sent out not long after to those that the two held dear, inviting them to a feast in celebration of the marriage they had wanted to keep private, for at least a little while. It would happen several months hence, so the two had more than enough time to live the simple life they had so craved before they were besieged by well-wishers and a daughter who was somewhat miffed she had missed their wedding.