Work Text:
The morning was magnificent: early birds were singing, the air smelled of young spring lilac, and the first morning cars rattled along the streets. Dawn was casting a golden hue over the tall spires of Łódź churches, seeping through the stained glass of the clock tower, and glinting off the multiple windows in suburban houses.
Behind one of those windows, the writer had long since risen and eaten his breakfast. Lifting the old steel cezve off the gas stove, he poured the black, thick liquid into a small red cup with white polka dots. Having taken the first delicious sip, he sat down at the kitchen table and placed the cup onto a matching saucer next to the black lacquered typewriter.
The radio played its usual cheerful tune, announcing the start of a new day and the early-morning news: a new prime minister was elected in Hungary, the European Integration Committee voted no confidence in its chairman, and the former minister of internal affairs announced that –
The writer grimaced and pressed the button on the radio; blessed silence fell. He couldn’t care less about the political news: everything truly remarkable was currently happening far away – on the distant Continent, in the province of Ebbing, in the black castle of Stygga.
He untied the ribbons and opened the folder where he had put the typed pages of his latest book the night before. There was quite a stack: the story was nearing its end, the climax was approaching. He flexed his fingers, slid a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter with a practiced motion, rolled it in, and flicked the carriage.
Immediately, the kitchen filled with voices – so thin that one could easily miss them if not listening closely.
"Good morning, everyone!"
"Good morning, author!"
"Hi, Ciri, hi, Cahir!"
Little figures, well familiar to the writer, appeared on top of the last typed page. Two very similar blonde girls were sitting side by side; one had a long scar on her cheek, the other a bleeding wound on her leg. A dark-haired, blue-eyed young man leaned against the edge of the folder, twirling his long sword with a pensive expression on his face.
“Hello, hello everyone, sorry I’m late,” a tall, gaunt man with pale fish-like eyes came running from the edge of the page. “Pleased to meet you – Leo Bonhart,” he extended his hand to the young man. “We seem to be colleagues, heh-heh. You’re a knight, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” the young man smiled politely, shaking the offered hand. “Cahir aep Ceallach. Are you a soldier too? Did you serve in the army?”
“To tell the truth, I'm not even sure myself,” Bonhart scratched his mustache in confusion. “I know no more than you do – just that I’m devilishly fast with a sword and utterly ruthless. Make what you will of it.”
“Hey, you two, enough chit-chat,” the author barked from above, and the figures fell silent, growing serious. “Time to get started. So, where did we leave off yesterday? Bonhart appears…”
He pulled the typewriter closer and began hammering the keys.
At the sight of the trio, Bonhart stopped. But only for a moment.
“Well then,” he said. “You got help? Your little friends, witcheress? All right. Two more or less, it does not make a difference.”
Ciri suddenly thought of something.
“Say goodbye to your life, Bonhart!” she cried. “This is your end. Here is your match! Ha-ha-ha, ha-ha, oh, I can’t, I’m sorry!”
The writer stared in bewilderment at what had just appeared on the page, then frowned and shifted his gaze to Ciri, who was trying her best to stifle her giggles, hand clamped over her mouth, but they kept escaping. The others were smiling at her as well.
“Sorry,” the girl finally managed through laughter. “It’s just that I sound so terribly pompous here. ‘Here’s your match!’ Like it’s from one of Jaskier’s ballads!”
“Ciri,” the writer said sternly. “Behave yourself. You should be ashamed – you’re not a little girl anymore, like you were in Sword of Destiny.”
“All right, all right, I’m quiet,” Ciri sniffed. “Let’s go on. I’m ready.”
Cahir swirled his sword and took his stance. Bonhart didn’t flinch.
“So the enchantress prefers them younger than I thought,” he snarled. “Watch this, whelp.”
“Excellent,” the writer said with satisfaction, flicking the carriage. “Very good, keep it up, Bonhart. Perfectly disgusting.”
“Thank you, I do try my best,” the bounty hunter inclined his head modestly. “Want me to throw in a couple more rape allusions?”
“No, thanks, that’s quite enough.”
Cahir drew a deep breath. The skirmish had convinced him he had little chance of defeating the fish-eyed hunter. The man was too fast, too strong. All he could hope for was that his opponent was in a hurry to catch Ciri. And clearly nervous.
The writer glanced thoughtfully at the page. Cahir, standing in his fighting stance, gave him a nod.
“Let’s do it, I’m ready. Going to be a nice fight, yes? A page and a half, maybe two? Like Geralt’s with his monsters?”
“Um…” The writer lowered his gaze, clearly embarrassed. “Not exactly.”
He started typing again and, after just a paragraph, yanked the sheet out and placed it atop the stack. The figures carefully stepped onto the new page and scanned the text. When Cahir aep Ceallach looked up, his eyes were brimming with incredible pain and offense.
“You're being serious??”
“Sorry, Cahir,” the writer spread his hands. “That’s your destiny – you knew it all along. Your role, like everyone else’s, is to sacrifice yourself for Ciri in order to pile a few more deaths on her conscience.”
“It's not about the dying!” the knight exploded, tossing his sword aside. Bonhart also lowered his weapon, leaning on it like a cane. “I get it – a minor character like me doesn’t get a better ending! But I refuse – do you hear me, refuse! – to die in such a stupid way! Especially since it even contradicts the plot!”
“What do you mean?” the author asked in surprise, but Cahir was already moving.
“Step aside, please, step aside,” he waved at his companions, who shrugged and stepped down onto the cloth-covered table. “Now where was it…” He pulled the top page aside with some effort, then the next. “Hey, guys, can you give me a hand?”
“You killed us, and now you want help,” came a grumble. It was Skellen’s bandits, lying in various poses on previous pages, cut down by Cahir’s sword. Still, they got up and shuffled away, limping.
“Right, right, where is it…” Cahir frantically dragged page after page. “Oh, hi, Milva!”
“Hi there,” the archer propped herself up on an elbow; an arrow was still protruding from her belly. “What’s this whole fuss, Nilfgaardian?”
“I’m trying to find a phrase – help me, will you? They’re killing me stupidly here, like a helpless sheep!”
“Well, what can you do,” Milva shrugged philosophically. “Standing upright under enemy arrows isn’t exactly smart either. We all serve this… what’s the word… nar… ran…”
“Narrative,” Cahir supplied, and Milva nodded, sitting up with her legs crossed. “No, that’s not it! There was that line there – ‘She smelt alcohol on Bonhart’s breath’!”
“Oh,” she waved it off. “Don’t bother, you won’t find it. It’s already down the hole.”
“The hole?” the knight whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse. “But that was my salvation! Or at least my chance for a proper fight!”
“Well, that’s how it is,” Milva stood up, holding the arrow, and helped Cahir drag aside a whole stack of pages. “See?”
Cahir sighed heavily. There was a neat black circle sitting right in the middle of the page, after Bonhart’s line about hell. The knight raised a pleading gaze at the writer.
“Sorry,” the author shrugged. “Bonhart has to be as disgusting as possible, so yes, he must be drunk, but that’s no reason for you to fight him on equal terms.”
“Great Sun,” Cahir rubbed his eyes. “I’ll jump right in there and fish that line out! You’ll see – I will!” He took a determined step towards the edge of the hole.
“No, stop!” the writer cried. “I spent so much time writing you! Don’t you dare!”
“Oh, I’ll dare,” Cahir was already at the brink. “I’ve done so many things for you, can’t you do a single one for me?”
“Well…” The writer glanced around the kitchen. His gaze fell on the rack in the hallway with a coat and a hat. “How about I give you some armor, huh?”
“Armor?” Cahir stared up in astonishment. “Where are you going to get armor from?”
“Just you wait and see,” the writer smirked and, gently pushing the characters aside, rearranged the sheets in order, placing the dead back on their proper pages. Milva gave Cahir a final wave and raised a clenched fist in encouragement.
“Here, look!”
To his surprise, Cahir saw another neat black hole on the last page, right before the fight with Bonhart. The next second, pieces of armor and a winged helmet flew out and landed on the sheet with a dull thud. The knight grimaced and looked up at the author.
“Seriously? Armor from a plot hole?”
“Either that, or none at all,” the writer said curtly, taking a sip of coffee and setting the cup back on its saucer. “So? Deal?”
Cahir sighed again and began buckling on the pieces, muttering under his breath.
“Sorry for interrupting,” a dark-haired man in rich armor and a tall white plume on his helmet peeked out from behind the typewriter. “Is everything still on schedule today? The troops are getting nervous, asking questions…”
“Your Majesty!” Cahir waved to him while fastening his greaves. “Long time no see!”
“Hi, father!” Ciri waved as well. “A bit of a delay – guess we’ll only meet by the end of the day!”
“Hmm,” the emperor glanced back at his Impera soldiers crowding behind, hesitant to step forward. “Sorry, lads, we’ll have to wait a bit.”
"What the hell, they dragged us all here for one scene and now make us wait," a muffled grumble rose, but then faded as the emperor and his brigade retreated into the shadow of the typewriter.
“Hey, Cahir, you done?”
“Almost.” Cahir stood up, brushing invisible dust from his knees, and turned, trying to glance at himself. “How do I look?”
“Like a man who’s going to die in the next paragraph,” the writer muttered, inserting a new sheet. “Hey, no – no helmet.”
Cahir froze mid-motion with the winged helmet in his hands.
“What do you mean? What kind of a cheap trick is this? I get the armor but I can’t wear it?”
“Of course,” the writer nodded seriously, leaning on the table. “You take off the helmet, Ciri sees your face. If you put it back on, she’ll have another panic attack.”
“But my head will get split open right away without a helmet!”
“That’s the whole point,” the writer grinned, placing his fingers on the keys. “Ready?”
“Like hell I'm ready!” Cahir paced nervously across the page. “Geralt, tell him!”
“What do you want me to say?” the witcher shrugged from the edge of the table, where he was waiting for his turn. “I’ve got my own fight with Vilgefortz coming up – a pain in the ass as it is,” he gestured to the sorcerer standing nearby.
“You’ll be fine,” the mage sighed, rolling a fireball between his fingers. “I’m the one who should be worried. Hope I’ll be reasonable enough and won’t be reciting my whole backstory – just incinerate you on the spot.”
“No, I’m supposed to die from three teeth, remember?”
“Hmm,” Vilgefortz looked pensively at the witcher. “Incinerate you and rake the ashes?”
“Fine, we'll think of something,” Geralt clapped him on the shoulder. “Sorry, Cahir – we've got our own issues here, need to sort out a couple of turning points.”
“I get it, no help from you ever,” the knight waved him off. “Ciri, what about you? Why are you keeping silent?”
“What is it about me?” the girl asked in surprise. “What do I have to do with any of this?”
“I’m rescuing you here, in case you didn’t notice! Finding you, saving you, protecting you!”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she snorted. “Me? Saving?”
Cahir had to admit it: saving Ciri wasn't really necessary. She was wearing a gleaming silver cuirass with exquisitely crafted ornaments and the monogram MC engraved on the left side of her chest. The knight sighed, though without much envy: plot armor was so incredibly rare that even late marshal Menno Coehoorn didn’t have any.
“Still,” he said stubbornly, almost stomping his foot. “Fighting in armor but without a helmet is even more idiotic than fighting with no armor at all! And by the way – why is it Nilfgaardian armor? Didn’t I spend three books renouncing Nilfgaard on every page?”
Silence fell. All eyes turned to the writer, who pursed his lips, clearly at a loss.
"Because… because…" he said with uncertainty, "it's… well, it’s circular storytelling. Everything ends as it begins, all that sort of thing…"
"But Ciri already saw me without a helmet on Thanedd! She stopped being afraid of me back then!"
"Cahir, don't push me!" the writer snapped, and the characters fell quiet. "If you don't die this second like I told you, you can't even imagine what I'll do…"
"Well?" The knight put his hands on his hips. "What is it exactly? Surprise me!"
The writer scanned the kitchen and found what he was looking for. His lips twisted into a predatory smirk.
“This,” he said menacingly, opening the fridge and taking out a small plate. “I’ll sprinkle all of you with it.”
“No,” Angoulême whispered in horror, pressing closer to Ciri. “Not that. Not the cheese…”
“You’ll be throwing yourselves into each other’s arms and shedding tears now,” the writer approached the table and took a pinch of grated cheese from the plate. “You, Cahir, will confess you’ve been in love with Ciri all those four years.”
“No!” the knight groaned. “Please, no! We’ve only met three times in our whole lives! Can’t we at least become friends first?”
“And Ciri will tie a scarf around your arm, since you’re her faithful knight,” the writer pressed on with his threats, holding the cheese over Cahir, who was helplessly covering his head. “And bless you for battle. Possibly in Elder Speech. In verse.”
A crumb of cheese fell onto Cahir's head, and he felt an overwhelming urge to drop to one knee and recite a ballad. He staggered but held himself upright by sheer will.
“All right, all right, I agree!” he shouted, seeing more cheese about to fall. “I’ll do it! Just let me die with some dignity!”
“A wise decision,” the writer said with satisfaction, withdrawing his hand and setting the plate aside. “My lord Bonhart, your cue.”
Bonhart’s blow smashed his temple, cheek and mouth. Cahir dropped his sword and stumbled; the bounty hunter swung again and slashed him between his neck and collarbone. Cahir fell at the feet of the marble goddess, and his blood, like a pagan sacrifice, pooled at the base of the statue.
Cahir swayed dramatically and fell into the plot hole on the page. Inside was something between viscous liquid and thick smoke, making the hole pitch black, but it turned out to be not that deep. Cahir settled into it comfortably, like a jacuzzi, resting his arms on the edge and leaning his head back.
"Good luck, girls," he called to Ciri and Angoulême, who had already stood up and were preparing to run, in accordance with their scene. "I have a feeling we'll all meet in these holes sooner or later."
"The dead don't argue, Cahir," the author interrupted him. "Wait until your resurrection… if it ever comes. Angoulême, you’ll be speaking with difficulty now – you're bleeding out."
"Fuck my boots!" the bandit girl exclaimed in surprise. "Then why did no one put a tourniquet on me right away?"
The writer took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes.
“It’s a very deep wound. And… and…” he hurried to add, seeing the girl open her mouth to protest, “it’s very close to the groin. Yes. Very close. So nothing could be done.”
As if by magic, the wound really did crawl from the middle of Angoulême’s thigh much higher. She rolled her eyes and looked at Cahir, who gave a meaningful shrug.
“Well?” the writer asked grimly. “Any more objections, or can we move forward?”
Angoulême swallowed and glanced into the distance. The edge of the plate was looming ominously from behind the typewriter.
"No objections, sir writer, we’ll be dying as we should. Just… take the bloody cheese away, will you?"
The author smiled triumphantly and started to type again. The workday was going to be productive.
