Work Text:
At first, stepping into Fen Carn was like opening a door to the past. Everything was as Regis and Geralt remembered it, and Regis especially wallowed in the memories of all the little details. There was the grave of the woman whose name resembled a vampiric pun, and there the headstone with not a single word on it, the origins of which Regis had pondered on many a boring night.
The ivy still clung to the stones, and the barrows were still overgrown with it. Trees reached their branches across the graves, showering them in leaves each autumn so that many of them were half buried in soil by now.
It was quiet, appearing almost muffled, and the only sounds that reached their ears were those of birds singing and flapping their wings in the canopy above.
Regis stepped up to one of the graves and ran his hand over the stone. It was uneven and covered in moss and lichen, a bit moist to the touch.
“Bring back memories?” Geralt asked.
“It does. Though around this time I would usually have prepared to return to Dillingen for the winter.”
“Think mandrake still grows here?”
“Without a doubt,” Regis said, casting his eyes around the cemetery. There, behind a headstone about thirty feet away, he could spot one now. “The plants thrive in this environment. As the bodies decompose, they release nutrients into the soil, and the ground, due to its frequently being dug up, is soft and therefore easy to root into.”
Geralt smiled. “Make it sounds so scientific. Not at all like the superstitions of the common folk.”
“That, my dear witcher, is because botany is a science, and the physiological mechanisms of plants can be explained in quite similar terms as those of humans. In conclusion, they are no more or less horrifying.”
“Plenty of superstition about human physiology too,” Geralt said with a shrug.
Regis chuckled. “How very right you are, my love.”
When Regis returned to Geralt’s side, he looped an arm around his waist, hooking his fingers under the Witcher’s belt. They strolled down the main path through the cemetery, placing their feet in the little puddles of stone not yet claimed by the weeds and grass growing out of the cracks.
Suddenly, Regis stopped, lightly jostling Geralt.
“Hear something?” the Witcher asked. He knew the focussed, absent look on Regis’ face.
He nodded. “Light steps, almost imperceptible. And there is a strong smell of… urine.”
“Great.”
As they walked on, the sensations entered Geralt’s perception too, though by now the steps had turned into the rustling of leaves and the anxious scratching of fingernails on stone. Geralt could almost see them examining their fingers and digging lichen from under their nails.
The remains of Regis’ cabin emerged on the hill in front of them. The thatching on its roof had greyed, and it showed bald spots now, plugged with pine branches that stuck out, resembling the spines of a hedgehog. The door hung crooked on its hinges, and the walls had sprouted mushrooms in places where they weren’t held together solely by vines of ivy.
All in all, Geralt found the sight quite pretty in a dilapidated sort of way.
To the side of the cottage was a low wall, which had held up better than the building itself, and behind it, a shock of red hair and two big, bulging eyes stared at them. The creature’s skin was wrinkled, but the proportions formed a youthful face with a reddened button nose.
“A godling,” Geralt whispered to Regis.
“I’m a lutin!” the lutin called, pushing themselves up and onto the wall. As they moved, Geralt caught a glimpse of pointed ears under their hair.
“Dammit, not again,” he grumbled. “Gotta hit the books. Vesemir’d be furious.”
Chuckling, Regis shifted his attention from the Witcher to the lutin, who was dressed in a modified apron Regis recognised as having been his own once. They clambered from the wall holding a scrunched-up piece of red fabric. Folding it out, they held the resulting cap, which resembled a coif, above their head.
“Could a godling do this?” they asked and, as soon as the hat met their hair, vanished.
Regis’ eyebrows drew up in surprise, but Geralt merely huffed. They could both hear the little tapping steps approaching – though the lutin did not seem to anticipate or know that. Suddenly, Regis felt the weight at his side lift just a fraction, and when he looked down, the flap of his satchel was floating, seemingly on its own. He looked over at Geralt, who watched with stifled amusement.
A light purple glow drew around them in a circle when Geralt bent to trap the ground with Yrden. The lutin – now perfectly visible – looked up from under their hat and pouted.
“’S not very nice, y’know?” they said with a shrug. They lowered the flap of Regis’ satchel, but yanked the bulb of garlic attached to it off and took a dive out of Yrden’s radius.
“Ha! Now you can’t see me!”
“Yeah, now we can smell you,” Geralt said with his arms crossed.
The lutin did not respond.
“Quite a fascinating display,” Regis mused.
Geralt nodded. “No one really knows how they do it, but they weave the Power into those hats. Far as I know, though, going invisible is the only thing they do, and they’re generally harmless. Had some people ask me to exorcise the, uh, ghost that was haunting their home, though. Happens with godlings, too, but less frequently, since those prefer living at the edge of settlements instead of occupied homes.”
On the stone wall ahead, Regis’ garlic bulb reappeared, twitching with the lutin’s invisible touches.
“No one really knows how they do it,” came a voice, mimicking a deep, gruff tone, “but witchers perform weird magic tricks with their hands. Far as I know, though, all they do besides that is talk about people in their presence and make big-headed speeches.” The lutin pulled the cap from their head, sitting on the ground in front of the walls, and stared pointedly at Geralt. “You’re not very polite, you know? You stroll into my home, disturb me and my funny hijinks, and talk about me like you’re reciting from some book of dry facts. Didn’t even ask my name or what I do here.”
Geralt huffed and nodded. “Alright, sorry. So what’s your name?”
“I’m Lizzie,” they said and stood, dusting themselves off entirely for show. Spreading their arms, they puffed out their chest and said, “Welcome to Lizzie’s home of challenge pissing!”
A beat of utter silence passed.
“What,” Geralt deadpanned.
“Pissing, you know, where you whip out your—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m familiar with the concept of pissing,” Geralt barked. He glanced at Regis beside him and found the vampire’s expression tense with a mixture of revulsion and gleeful curiosity.
“So what, this some kind of kids’ attraction? See who can piss the farthest against the wind or something?”
“Of course not! I’d never stoop to something so low as competition,” Lizzie said. “You know, I was friends with a godling once. He claimed defecating was much more satisfying than urinating, especially in the morning. But what’s better than that release after you’ve held it in for several hours? Emptying one’s bladder is a beautiful thing, you know – and a great form of protest, too!”
“Characters such as these seem drawn to you, Geralt,” Regis said, and the Witcher shot him a look that conveyed exactly what he thought of the idea. “Now, now, I merely meant to remind us both of a a seemingly mutual acquaintance of you and Lizzie’s.”
“Come with me, gentlemen, come with me,” Lizzie said, waving their arms in emphasis.
Geralt and Regis exchanged a look. What was currently transpiring was nothing short of ridiculous. And that was exactly why they followed Lizzie. The little lutin weaved through the graves with much of the same goal-oriented nature Regis had once shown, but while he had wandered and perhaps strolled, Lizzie skipped along the path.
They made their way to the oldest part of the cemetery, to its heart, where the first elves had been buried under a great big ash tree five hundred years ago. The way Regis remembered it, the place had held a regal air of ancient memories. He’d felt more at home here, among the remnants of bygone days.
The thing that kept those memories from resurfacing now was the pungent smell of piss.
“Here we are,” Lizzie said, resting their hands on their hips and scanning the circle of graves around the base of the ash tree with satisfaction.
“A fact that is quite unmistakable,” Regis mused. The idea of challenge pissing had been amusing at first, but he felt almost violently reminded of the deficits of it now.
“Does its own advertising, that one.” Lizzie shrugged.
“So why are you pissing in an ancient elven cemetery?” Geralt asked.
“Because I’ve got a passion for it, you know? And any self-respecting being seeks to apply their passions in a way that makes sense.” Lizzie pointed at one of the graves. The inscription of it, if there had ever been one at all, was obscured by a thick carpet of moss. “See that one? I talked to the other people round here and they said this is where an evil queen was buried. She was quite horrible, had her army invade and occupy all these other countries without ever liftin’ a finger herself. Like that emperor nowadays, the one you humans’re so worried about.”
Geralt raised an eyebrow and looked at Regis. “You know anything about that?”
“I did hear some unsavoury stories during my time in these parts,” he mused. “Though I never gave them much credit due to humanity’s harsh judgement of the elder races. There remain no trustworthy records from this time, so we may never know for certain what truly transpired.”
“Don’t know enough about elven history in these parts…”
Lizzie shook their head, and their hair flew like sparks. “Wasn’t an elven queen! Humans say she was, but I’ve talked to a kobold nearby, and he said ‘twas a human one. Had all the original graves dug up because she wanted the treasures in her museum. Then when she and her court died they were buried here instead. I guess she liked that the cemetery was old. Or to take over elven ground. Who knows.”
Frowning, Regis rubbed his chin in thought. “I do not recall a woman ever being the ruling monarch of Sodden.”
Geralt nodded. “Me neither. Might ask Roche about it, he could know more.”
Lizzie shifted on their feet. All in all, the story seemed fabricated, and they to lack understanding of how great an offence urination on someone’s grave was in human society.
“Well… we all have to piss somewhere, you know?” they said. “D’you want to try? You can piss elsewhere, too. I think any place should be free grounds for urination.”
Geralt screwed up his face, but couldn’t help the amusement that showed through. “No thanks.”
Lizzie pursed their lips. “No pressure on the pump, I get it. Care for a drink instead?” they asked and pointed back to Regis’ shack. “When I moved in, I found some funny devices and books. Now I make some crackin’ moonshine.”
Regis laughed at that.
“Alright, show us what you have,” Geralt said. “Got stiff competition in the field though, kid.”