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"Cahir, you can read, can't you?" Milva suddenly asks out of the blue while they are sitting by the campfire together. It is a nice evening, not raining for once, and two fat rabbits on spits are roasting over the fire. With a grumpy expression, Geralt is perched on a tree stub across the fire sharpening his sword, as far away from Cahir as possible, nothing new here. Regis is off somewhere in the woods to collect herbs and mushrooms, and Jaskier is busy close by scribbling something into this inevitable scroll of his that he is so secretive about.
"Yes, I can read. Why?"
"Because I can't. But I have this book."
"It'll soon be dark, Milva."
"It's a thin book. Will you read it for me? There's still plenty of time before those bunnies are done. Please?"
"It's not a romance, I hope?"
"How would I know? I can't read!"
"Alright, then. We'll see what it is, I suspect."
"Just one moment," Mila says, almost jumping to her feet with excitement. She fishes a little bundle from deep inside her saddlebag. She unwraps the dark brown cloth. A thin, leather bound book emerges, no, more a booklet than a book. Tenderly, she strokes across its binding with the fingers of one hand before she passes it to Cahir.
"It's a children's book," he says, surprised.
"What if it is? My father bought it for me because of the picture. It's the only thing I have to remember him by."
"Didn't you say your father died when you were a kid? You've had the book for years and nobody has ever read it out for you?"
"There was never the time, or the right person. I want it to be special." Cahir raises his eyebrow questioningly. However, Milva does not elaborate.
He opens the booklet. On the first page there is a beautifully crafted, somewhat scary looking illustration, in its centre a horrible giant hurling rocks at frightened people. A devilish face crowned by a pair of pointed horns is peeking out from behind a gnarly oak tree on the left, wiggling its forked tongue at the desperate humans. Not a picture one would expect to see in a tale of love, and neither in a fluffy children's bedtime story. Looks like an exciting legend or heroic adventure. Excellent. The script is big and easy to read, too, even in the falling twilight of the evening.
"Once upon a time there was an evil giant by the name of Mils," Cahir begins. "He was an ungodly creature and in league with non other than the devil himself." He lowers his voice and pauses for dramatic effect. A shiver runs down Milva's spine. She knew Cahir would be perfect to read her book for her aloud. If her father had been able to read, it would have sounded quite similar, she is sure of it. Except for the Nilfgaardian accent, of course, but it is so slight, it does not matter. She even kind of likes it.
"Goaded on by the evil horned fiend," Cahir continues, "the grim giant caused devastation and death among the poor inhabitants of the remote mountain region. Until, one day, the villagers would not take it any longer. Putting all their meagre coin together, they decided to hire a hero who would slay the giant. They put up notices and sent out messages all through the country, but in vain. Until, one day at the end of summer, a man emerged from the morning mists that lay over the landscape, swathing it in mystery. A rider with two swords strapped to his back."
"Fuck my old boots, it's a Witcher story!" Milva exclaims excitedly. "Who would have thought!"
"A Witcher story? But not about this white-haired old grump over there, right?" Jaskier asks, pricking up his ears. He puts down his quill.
Could it be possible, Milva wonders, could the book be about Geralt? It was not new when her father brought it home for her just a few days before he died. It feels like a lifetime ago. However, she is aware that Geralt is far older than he looks. She has never asked but he could be more than a century old, maybe two or three for all she knows. There are ballads about the White Wolf and his monster hunts, perhaps there are legends, too?
"Go on, Cahir, let's find out if there is something about his hair colour!" Milva urges. Cahir turns the page.
"The man was clad in black leather, his amber eyes half covered by a shock of black hair."
"Not him, then," Jaskier says with a grin in Geralt's direction. "Our grumpy old snowman was born with his white hair."
"You know that's not true, Jaskier," Geralt huffs, shooting the poet a death glare.
"Ah, well, what difference do a few years make? You were all white before you ever started to go a-Witchering. Which totally rules you out as the hero of the story."
"As if I ever wanted to be in your stories, nor in anybody else's."
"Yap, yap, yap." Jaskier rolls his eyes. "Admit it, you like to be in my ballads, and you want to hear Milva's story, too. So, drop the act and sit with us. See, Regis is coming, too!"
Although how the presence of the higher vampire is supposed to be an incentive to join the rest of the company eludes Geralt and the fact that Cahir, the black knight of Cintra of all people, is reading out the story highly contributes to his resolution not to leave his side of the campfire, he gives up sharpening his already deadly sharp sword and listens. Perhaps the story is not altogether made up but, like many legends, has a grain of truth to it? Maybe it is about a Witcher he knows?
Regis glances at Geralt, smiling through pursed lips.
“Look at his face, what an interesting character study. The inner struggle. Should he, despite his animosities, enjoy the tale - and our company - or should he play the lone wolf again and ignore the story along with the reader and his audience, no matter how interesting it is? Anyway, those rabbits, dear Milva, need turning. Would you like me to assist? I found some nice mushrooms, too, that will go along with the meat splendidly.”
“Darn, you’re right, I almost forgot about our food.”
“Don’t you worry, Milva, I’ll take care of it. You enjoy your Witcher story. Just go on, Cahir. And don’t mind me. Or Geralt’s grumbling." As quietly as he can - and, as a higher vampire, he can be extremely quiet - Regis busies himself with the rabbits and his mushrooms.
Cahir clears his voice.
“A silver chain hung around the mysterious man’s neck. It was adorned with a silver medallion in the shape of a wolf’s head.”
“Damn, I knew it, a Wolf Witcher! Have you recognised him yet, Geralt?” Jaskier asks enthusiastically. “Ah, no, how stupid, I forgot." He slaps his forehead. "You aren’t interested in the story. Not a teensy-weensy bit.”
Geralt gives a huff but does not comment.
“The man exuded an air of menace, of fearless determination. Exactly what the villagers were looking for. But skill and bravado come at a price. After hours of tough haggling, they and the stranger finally agreed on a contract. It would cost the villagers dearly, but the risk for the man was great. And, if he succeeded, they would finally be rid of the deadly pest for good. It was worth it. Even though, on top of the coin, they had had to pledge him three young boys of his choice to take away with him to wherever the stranger had hailed from.”
“Is that where new Witchers came from? As a payment for contracts?” Milva asks, aghast.
“They had to come from somewhere,” Geralt mutters. This or the Law of Surprise. He is not proud of it, but that is how it worked - before the Sacking of Kaer Morhen and the loss of the Witcher mutagens.
“The fight between the Giant Mils and the raven-haired Witcher went on for days. As if it was nothing, the giant broke off big chunks of rock from the surrounding mountains and hurled them at the monster hunter with force. However, the Witcher - for that is what he was - was too fast. He swerved and rolled, spun around and leaped so swiftly, he was a mere blur of black in the late summer landscape. His face a contorted grimace, his eyes glinting evilly like a wolf's, he looked like a monster himself. A monster that wielded his swords and threw all kinds of magical signs at the giant. And who seemed immune to the devil’s temptations. For whatever riches the devil promised the Witcher in return for giving up and leaving the place, the man declined. A contract cannot be broken.”
“Are you sure, Cahir, the book said he had black hair?” Jaskier asks with a frown. “This stubbornness sounds so familiar. Or maybe it’s a Wolf School thingy?”
“Contracts must be honoured, no matter what. This has nothing to do with stubbornness,” Geralt grumbles from the opposite side of the campfire. "Now shut your trap, bard."
“Got you, you're listening to the story after all!” Jaskier exclaims triumphantly, rolling his eyes at the Witcher once again. It is doubtful that he can see it through the flames and smoke, but the bard's comrades can. "Pardon me for interrupting, Cahir," he then says, "I'll keep silence from now on. Let's hear how the fight went."
"By the end of the third day, when the red sun was sinking below the horizon, the entire valley was a sea of rock rabble. Still, the Witcher was alive and diving around between the boulders as swiftly as ever. While the giant was growing tired. And unbelievably angry. In his boundless fury, he climbed to the top of the highest mountain and roared so loudly, it made the earth shake. The ground beneath his feet gave way and, together with tons of rock, he tumbled down the steep mountain side. To his death. The villagers could hardly believe their luck. The Giant Mils, the bane of their existence, was no more. And the cherry on the cake, it had killed itself and not died by the Witcher's hand. Which rendered the contract void. The payment was promised for slaying the beast, not for it dying by accident. And a contract cannot be broken. The Witcher swore and raged, but finally, with empty pockets and without the promised boys, he left the area never to return. The devil, though, sad about his monsterous friend's demise, heaped all the rocks and stones that lay scattered about the valley onto the dead giant, creating a huge burial mound. A mound that made up a new mountain. Still today, this distinctive mountain is known far and wide as the Milseburg in remembrance of the Giant Mils. The unlucky Witcher, however, is long dead and forgotten."
"No!" Geralt protests vehemently. "This is not how the story went! What a complete pile of bullshit! The Witcher stabbed the giant through the heart with his silver sword, as he had promised. It was the devious villagers who broke the contract and chased the Witcher away! How typical to distort the story so that the Witcher is the villain in the end and not the treacherous humans!" he spits. "And the devil did not exist at all. The only devil in the story was the village's malicious mayor!"
"Ah, the rage. About a story he didn't even listen to!" Jaskier winks at his comrades on his side of the fire. Then he turns to Geralt. "You sound like you know the Witcher."
"I do. And you do, too, bard! He is very much alive and will never be forgotten!"
"Not Vesemir?" Jaskier asks, his eyes growing wide.
"Of course, it's Vesemir! It was one of his first contracts. Those villagers really did him dirty. And then people wonder why Witchers are a grumpy lot and prefer to stay away from them."
"Darn," Milva swears gloomily, "If I had known it's such a pack of lies, I'd not carried the book around with me for those many years."
"Sorry the story's not what you hoped for," Cahir says apologetically.
"It's not your fault, Cahir. I should have left it like it was, just looking at the picture once in a while when I felt like it."
"Don't be downcast, Milva," Regis tries to console the archer. "It was a good story, even if it is not a truthful rendition of events. None of your legends are, however, people still enjoy them. Moreover, your father could not know. And the illustration is exceptionally beautiful indeed." Suddenly the higher vampire starts to chuckle, a funny, gurgling sound they have not heard him make before. The other company members look at him in surprise.
"I was just thinking about what lengths humans go to just to explain trivial matters like mountain formation. Every sentient creature knows the universal truth that it's by the forces of physics alone. The plates of the continents bumping into each other, elevating one above the other and stimulating the eruption of fiery volcanos. No devil needed at all."
"But that's so boring! Why would one want to write a story about the forces of physics?" Jaskier says. "No, no, the truth does not sell books, just accept that universal truth and move on. Or write your own story after your taste and liking. Actually," the bard's face brightens up with sudden inspiration, "that is a brilliant idea. Why not just change the ending? Perhaps, the malicious mayor had a beautiful daughter who was ashamed of her father's treatment of the very sexy Witcher - I just assume here that Vesemir was extremely handsome in his youth - and totally smitten, she stole the promised coin and eloped with the Witcher to the far Blue Mountains. And there they lived happily together until the end of their days."
"Then it'd be a romance, after all," Cahir frowns.
"Yes, it would. And rightly so. For everybody needs a little romance in their life, even Witchers and Nilfgaardians!"
"I'm not a Nilfgaardian."
"Shut up, Cahir," Milva says with a grin. "We get it. We aren't daft. And thank you for reading the story for me. I'll just go with Jaskier's ending then. I like it."
"I could write it down for you, too," Jaskier volunteers. "I'll start right away, it's not too dark yet. A fluffy, sexy ending for Vesemir and the mayor's daughter." He picks up his quill. "But what should we call her? The girl needs a name." Jaskier furrows his brow. "Ah, I know! The not only extremely beautiful but also exuberantly cheerful and friendly Geraltine. What do you say, company? Isn't it a very fitting name?"
They double up laughing. Even the corner of Geralt's mouth twitches into something like a smile.
Hopefully, the others did not see it through the smoke and flames of their campfire and in the twilight of the mild late summer evening.
