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Dusk had fallen quickly and the camp settled down. Queen Meve and her officers had retreated to their tents, fires had been lit and whatever was edible was being cooked over them in large kettles.
Milva settled down with her back against one of the piled rocks that still held some of the warmth from the sun. The air was mild but despite that, she shivered. Her body still ached, her middle twinging sharply every time she turned or tried to bend over, but pain she knew. Pain, she could deal with.
What unsettled Milva most was the feeling of hollowness in her chest. She had quite literally lost a part of herself, no living, breathing thing yet, but undoubtedly hers. Now it was missing, everything that her body had grown, gone in a matter of minutes. She tried to convince herself that it was better this way. There was no room for a child in the life of Milva of Brokilon; on the road, in refugee camps or within earshot of the frontlines. Yet still, she couldn’t help but picture what it would have looked like - would it have had her black hair? Tiny pointy ears and hands and feets, waddling over the forest floor? She could have returned to Brokilon, raised it with the dryads, protected by them and her and the canopy of the trees…
Milvas throat tightened. Such thoughts were dangerous. Nothing good ever came from dwelling for too long in one’s own head. She drew in a shuddering breath and looked around to distract herself.
Their little company had settled down in a small furrow not too far off the camp - resources were sparse as ever so no one had even thought about offering them a tent, but they were so used to sleeping under the open skies that none of them really seemed to mind.
Zoltan was already passed out near the fire, snoring peacefully on his bedroll and clutching his axe tightly to his chest. Regis was nowhere to be seen - surely off to inspect the nearby area for herbs and medicinal plants. Her gaze wandered over to where Geralt was resting against another small set of rocks. While every other man would have been elated about their recently acquired knighthood, the witcher showed no sign of pride or joy whatsoever. Milva could see that his eyes were troubled, feigning focus on one of his plates of armour he was currently polishing, but his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
Jaskier lay close by, his scarf bundled up as a makeshift pillow against the side of Geralts thigh. The flickering firelight illuminated the stitched up gash on his forehead, his relaxed features. He mumbled something in his sleep and curled a little further in on himself. It was always strange to see him so… silent; face and lips void of a snarky, unnecessary comment or a string of melodies.
Footsteps approached, pulling Milva from her thoughts and causing her hand to slip to the small dagger tucked into the side of her left boot, just in case. She turned to see the last member of the company approach. Cahir had a small bundle slung over his shoulder and threw a quick glance at the others scattered around the fire before his gaze settled on Milva. There it was again, that look in his eyes she’d seen before, first in the swamp and then right under the bridge. It unsettled her, that he so blatantly showed that he cared, indicating that she needed help. He opened his mouth, a question on his lips.
“If you even think about asking me if I’m fine, I’ll kick you in the shin. I’m so fucking tired of being asked that by everyone over and over again. Yes, I will recover fully. And yes, I will be fine.”
Cahir raised his eyebrows, but closed his mouth again, dropping the bundle to the ground.
“Do you mind if I sit, then?”
Milva shrugged, but scooted over a little and Cahir lowered himself onto the stone beside her. He started rummaging through his bundle almost immediately and she caught herself watching him, his hands, the cut below his collarbone, the small scrapes on his face, undoubtedly from the battle against Nilfgard. Finally, he held out two items.
“They are holding quite the celebrations back there. The caterers are feeling generous.”
Milva inspected the goods: a white, fluffy-looking bread with a golden crust and a tiny clay pot with a lid. When she lifted it, it took her a moment to recognise the ochre content inside.
“Is that… honey?!”
Cahir nodded and a smug, almost proud smile snuck onto his lips. The way it made her smile back right away irritated her.
He set the pot of honey down in the space between them and broke the loaf of bread in half, offering her one. She took it with a bit of hesitation and Cahir raised his half like one would a glass of fancy drink.
“To a battle won and to another day survived. And to the first knighted witcher on the entire continent.”
“Don’t let him hear that.”
Milva clinked her slice against Cahir's and dipped it into the honey. The sweet, flowery taste unfurled on her tongue, spreading all the way to the back of her throat when she swallowed the soft piece of bread. It reminded her of the rare happy moments of her childhood, of something she had called home long ago.
“Hope you didn’t get us in trouble over this.” she said around another bite.
He quietly laughed at that and she hated how the sound eased the hollowness in her chest for a moment. She didn’t want to get attached, not in that way at least.
“Don't worry, they explicitly offered it to me. After what happened on the bridge, Meve and her entourage are well disposed towards us for a change.”
“No thanks to me.” Milva said, the words slipping out before she could stop herself. If there was one thing she resented, it was to appear helpless and that had been exactly how she’d felt on the river bank: idle and helpless while the others risked their lives above her.
Cahir tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on her.
“Everyone knows you would have fought tooth and nail if you had been able to somehow. You had your own battle to fight.”
She couldn’t hold his gaze, looked into the deepening darkness beyond the fire.
“Yeah, I much rather would have been up there with you. But I guess you can never exactly choose those kinds of things. Who knows, it might have been better to lose it sooner than earlier.” she said, bitterly.
“No one knows. Destiny makes our lives take strange and brutal turns. There’s very little we can decide entirely on our own. One can either despair of that or… find comfort in it.”
Milva clenched her jaw, trying not to show how much those words hit. Destiny. She didn’t really believe in it — never had. She had learned from a very young age that life was what you made of it, all by yourself. It had been too brutal, too unpredictable, too full of losses that no fate with any mercy would’ve allowed.
But when Cahir said it, it didn’t sound naïve. It sounded like something forged, tested, a belief hammered into shape by surviving more than most. He had a troubled past, much more than he let on, that she was sure of, but all of that didn’t matter in the here and now.
Milva didn’t trust destiny. But she trusted Cahir.
And some traitorous part of her whispered that if there was such a thing as fate, then maybe it had nudged their paths together for a reason she wasn’t ready to name.
The fire had dimmed a little and a breeze brushed the shrubs around them, causing Milva to shiver again.
“Are you cold?” Cahir asked, “Or is that another question that might get me kicked in the shin?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but something about his expression made her falter.
“It’s the blood loss.” she said quietly, “At least that’s what the healer said.”
Cahir nodded and turned to his pack once more, producing a woollen, neatly rolled up piece of fabric. “You should warm up, then.“
Milva knew her own bedroll and blanket were only a few feet away, but she took it anyway and tucked it around her shoulders. The cloth was heavy and smelled faintly of soot and petrichor.
Silence settled between them for a while, which only added to the heavy fatigue that started to take hold of her body.
“Thanks.” she murmured, “For…the honey and the bread and… everything.”
Cahir smiled again. “You’re welcome.” he simply said.
Before she knew it, Milva drifted off to sleep, engulfed by warmth and with the taste of honey still lingering on her tongue.
Jaskier startled awake. He was long used to being shaken from his sleep, but it was as unpleasant as ever. His hands and hair were clammy from morning dew and various sharp objects -hopefully just twigs and pebbles - dug into his side. Zoltan’s hand tapped his shoulder repeatedly.
“Hnngh? Yes, yes I’m awake.” Jaskier said eloquently. “What blood-curdling catastrophe has unfurled this ti-“
He was silenced by a sharp “Ssshh!” from Zoltan who pointed his finger at something across the furrow. “Would ya look at that.”
There in the twilight, Milva was resting against a large rock, soundly asleep. She was snugly wrapped in what was unmistakably Cahir’s cloak and her temple rested on its owner’s shoulder.
“Seems like our squirrel and our not-Nilfgaardian got quite the shine on each other.”
Cahir’s head was tilted back against the stone, but the rest of his body angled towards Milva, as if shielding her from the fading night.
Jaskier couldn’t help but make a tiny noise in the back of his throat.
“Aw. Nothing quite like two rogue travellers, each with their own tragic story to tell, finding comfort in each other. It’s great song material actually. Sure, it’s a little overdone, but if I just…”
Zoltan laughed as loud as he allowed himself to.
“Hah, I’d like to see you try write a song about them. They’ll probably have your head on a stick if they find out.”
Jaskier contemplated if that might be worth it just as the first rays of sunlight began to creep over the hills, illuminating the huddled pair, still blissfully unaware to the world. No one even thought of waking them.