The slight tremor and rise of the mattress roused Geralt from his light sleep. For a moment, cold air managed to slip underneath the heavy featherbed and brushed across the calloused skin of his right leg, marking the sudden absence of her presence.

Again, he thought. She hadn't tried to wake him, never did. Never would. If not for his extraordinary senses, he quite likely would never have even known. Would never have found her that night almost a year ago.

It might have been bad then, but it certainly was this time. The third night in a row. It hadn't been this frequent in months. He indistinctly wondered what had triggered her, yet knew that there needn't be a reason. It was probably this randomness, this unpredictability that had unsettled him the most in the beginning.

The thought remained with him as he quietly pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He winced a little as his bare feet, still warm from long hours spent below the abundant bedcovers, met with the chilly marble floor. Although the glow of the waning moon alone would have been sufficient to illuminate the large chamber, a plentitude of candles and magical lights had been lit and cast flickering shadows. She never slept in the dark.

In passing, he pulled a blanket from a chaise longue, careful not to disturb the pieces of undergarment haphazardly strewn across the velvety cushions, and threw it around his shoulders. His steps, all but inaudible, found their way as if from cellular memory, recalling countless sleepless nights in which the same path had been trodden.

She stood by the open window, her back to him. Pale fingers clutched the translucent fabric of her nightgown, hardly any protection against the cold. Raven locks rustled in the light, chilly breeze, spreading the familiar scent of lilac and gooseberries. Although her posture gave no sign, he knew she was aware of his presence. She always was.

After a moment, he softly walked up to her, stood behind her and enveloped the freezing figure in the blanket with himself. Without resistance, she allowed herself to be pulled back against his wiry chest, gave in to his embrace.

He knew better than to try and strike up a conversation, instead buried his face in the raven tresses cascading down her neck, drinking in her fragrance, inebriating himself on her being. Her slender shoulders, with their ever so slight irregularities, trembled softly, barely perceptibly. His hands found hers and gave a tender squeeze, a mere reassurance of his presence and support.

Still she refused to turn to him. Wouldn't let him see. Not yet. The tremors running through her body became more distinct, and Geralt slowly ran his calloused palms up and down her arms in a calming gesture.

The two of them stood in that manner for a while, as they always did, quietly giving and receiving solace.

After a long while, the trembling stopped, her breathing evened out. She wiped slender fingers across her cheeks. Slowly, she turned around to him, an insincere smile curving her lips up but not reaching her eyes.

"No sight more pathetic than a sorceress in tears, hm?" she half-whispered.

Geralt reached for her face, wiped at the remaining traces of moisture with his thumbs.

Their eyes met for a moment, but she was not ready to bear the intensity and glanced sideways, avoiding his piercing amber eyes. As she always did.

"Yen, hey", he gently took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and raised her head. His eyes probed hers intensely. She didn't resist. Not anymore.

It had to come out, she had to let it, he knew. He had witnessed what would happen - eventually - if he allowed her to keep pretending, and he would greatly appreciate never having to endure it. Neither of them. So as much as his question would cause her discomfort, even grief, not asking would ultimately be much more painful.

"The boy again?"

She pressed her eyes shut. A small nod, barely there.

So, the boy. The one with the shock of raven curls and emerald eyes. With the gap in his baby teeth which showed every time he smiled his beautiful smile. Who sat babbling to himself while he contemplated colorful pictures in his precious books for hours on end. Until he was eventually hoisted up, squealing, onto strong shoulders so he would finally get some fresh air. In other nights, it was the girl with the strawberry-blond hair and a smattering of freckles. With the tiny scar on her chin from when she had tried, pretend-sword in hand, a pirouette like her father and had tripped over a loose floorboard. Who unfailingly threw a fit whenever her unruly, knotted tresses were combed, screaming and sobbing so heartbreakingly.

It was often the boy lately.

"It's all right, Yen", he whispered, softly caressing her cheek.

It started with a hiccup - it often did. She leaned her forehead against his chest, no longer even caring to stifle the sobs that had begun to violently shake her body.

Geralt felt her hot tears drench his chest and encircled her with his arms, stroking her tousled, shivering locks as if he were calming a small child.

"Shhh… it's okay", he whispered into her neck, "it'll be okay. One day, I promise…"

Standing there, holding his devastated lover in his arms, he wasn't sure exactly what it was he was promising. He knew well that nothing was okay, perhaps would never be. Although it pained him to admit so even if only to himself, he was fairly certain that it was beyond his capabilities to grant her what she truly wished. Far more powerful people than him had tried and failed. Still, he would be damned if he didn't try.

One day, he told himself.

And until that day, she would cry for him - oh, she would cry - for the boy with the raven hair and emerald eyes. The boy who never existed at all.