[UPDATED CHAPTER (27/02/18): Rewritten]

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the books by Andrzej Sapkowski and the game series by CD Projekt Red. I do not claim ownership to any of these characters and have written this fanfiction for entertainment, not financial gain.

Warnings:

Contains spoilers for the Witcher 3: Wild Hunt and the Witcher book series.

Dear colleagues and students,

Mistress Philippa Eilhart and Mistress Margarita Laux-Antille, headmistresses and founders of the newly established Aretuza Magical Academy for Young Ladies on the Isle of Thanedd, cordially invite you to the celebrations taking place in Garstang. Its purpose: to rejoice at the end of the Witch Hunts and to re-acquaint with those who have survived.

We advise that you attend; this gathering is essential to help Mages re-establish our rightful place and power in society, for the good of the Kingdoms and ourselves. Most importantly, we shall make evident that we shan't be subdued by common fear and hatred, shan't cower at the chanting of fanatics nor be controlled by the whims of Kings and Queens. We adhere to our own power, not to the power of the crown, nor to the power of the gods and their blind followers. At Garstang, we will gather our knowledge and experience of the Witch Hunts. We aim to prevent Mages being used as scapegoats by simpletons who, in their stupidity, fear, suspicion and ignorance, blame simple misfortunes on their betters for they must always place their misery in the hands of others. It gives them hope in their mundane lives.

Further information about the date and accommodation is provided. We insist that you contact any other Mages and colleagues you know who may not have been considered or contacted. All should attend, if possible.

Regards, Mistress Philippa Eilhart and Mistress Margarita Laux-Antille.

Dear Yennefer and Geralt,

I suspect you recently received our letter about the gathering on the Isle of Thanedd. Though I'd hate to draw you away from your exhilarating retirement, the Lodge insists that you both attend. Refusal is out of the question.

This gathering is not merely to be filled with revelry, but also business. Before the general gathering begins, the Lodge wishes to record a detailed account of the events surrounding the spectres of the Wild Hunt. Knowledge is power; it is essential that these myths be translated into facts, which is why you shall travel to Thanedd without delay.

You, Yennefer, shall not test the patience of the Lodge again. Your transgressions might have been overlooked, only given the circumstances, but are not forgotten nor forgiven. Your disobedience will not be tolerated - that, I shall ensure.

I urge you, Witcher, to make her swallow her pride - for both your sakes - or you might soon find yourself without your Sorceress, one of them at least. And fret not, Yennefer; I will be sure to inform Triss of this development, lest your Witcher's bed start to get cold.

I have attached a list of all those, known to me and the other members of the Lodge, who have first-hand accounts of and experiences with the Wild Hunt; more importantly, those whose accounts we can rely on. Inform us of any and all others you know of that can provide information. I stress 'any and all others', none to be excluded.

I have personally informed Emperor Emhyr of the importance of Ciri's attendance, and he has agreed to my terms. Perhaps that over your sense of fealty and obligation to the Lodge will hasten what I'm sure will be your most imminent arrival.

Regards, Philippa Eilhart

At first glance, one might have mistaken the field to be covered in a blanket of pure white snow. The multitude of white clovers seemed to have weaved themselves together, shielding the earth from the scorching sun. The field was left completely unblemished, a blank yet mesmerizing canvas. Nothing but an endless sea of flowers, unnaturally cold and still, could be seen no matter which corner of the earth one faced. There were no distant mountains or hills to which the cloud and mist clung to. No smoke trailing into the air, perhaps because there was no breeze to carry it - all was still and quiet. There were no rocks littering the landscape, no fauna or flora adding life to this surreal picture. Nothing except for the white clovers. Pure white, blinding in the sunlight.

The air was thick with their sickling scent. It made his stomach churn.

The leaves did not rustle under his feet, nor did the stems' crunch punctuate the silence. It was preternatural. Unnervingly so. Not even the sounds of his beating heart and frantic breath broke the silence as his feet pounded against the earth. The clovers withered under his feet as he ran, the honeyed air mingling with death and decay. The ground lay scorched and barren behind him and the field stretched into infinity ahead. He was unaware of the destruction in his wake. His presence was a disease to which death was the one certainty.

He frantically waded his way through the sea of flowers and panic was at the helm, calling him to run faster. His movements were becoming wild, dangerous, like an animal caught in a snare; his mind became forgetful of its training and his body had long ago given into fear.

There was something following him, chasing him. He was afraid to cast his eyes upon its shadow.

He was running from it for what seemed like an eternity, but the sun did not move from its throne in the sky and the flowerbed remained unchanging and incessant. It was like a painting. Unchanged. Inescapable. As though the serpent Ouroboros had sunk its teeth into its own tail.

Then, he stumbled.

He braced himself; knees and hands dug into the blackened ground beneath him and its heat began to burn his bare skin and singe his clothes. As his palms collided with the earth they slipped along it, moving some of the mud. It sent a cloud of sweet ash into the air, stinging his eyes and throat and coating his body. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. A shiver ran down his spine as a sudden coldness enveloped him. Then, he noticed the darkness.

It took a mere second or two for his mutated pupils to adjust to the unexpected change in light. When they did, he at once saw the cause of this transformation. He was in a forest of flowers. Stems as thick as tree trunks, white flowers at their tips, reached out for the sun, effectively blocking it from his sight. They cast eerie shadows around him that danced and flickered on the surface of the ground which was churned up by a tangle of roots.

He tried to brush off the ash and the feel of death and decay which accompanied it, sweat clinging to his brow. He scratched his bare arms and neck in his haste, but no matter what he did - it clung to him as though it was a part of him, just like the scent of blood which stained his hands. He roared in frustration, two mighty fists pummeled the ground, burning it. Then, his arms fell limp, dragging by his side, fingers barely scraping the dirt. He was lost.

"Help!"

A scream pierced the silence like a knife. He started, eyes wide. He knew that voice, feared that scream. Heart beating so fast he feared it might burst, he whipped his head side to side, eyes scanning the darkness. His inhuman gaze caught a flash of ashen hair. In the blink of an eye, it vanished.

The adrenaline which coursed through his veins electrified him. He leapt to his feet in an instant and pursued the disembodied presence into the sea of thick stems which stretched out before him. A sense of urgency spurred him forwards. Instincts to nurture and aid overcame every part of him – his mind and body. He tried to call out to the figure darting between one stem and the next. To tell her to slow down, to stop, to let her know he was only one step behind, yet forever one step out of reach. But his voice formed only silence. Soon, the figure had slipped from his grasp.

"Go to hell!"

A second cry broke the heavy silence. The voice was quivering with pain but was too proud and stubborn to concede to it. It was a scream that haunted his memories and his nights. It was a scream he felt he knew better than his own, and that fact disgusted him. He'd failed her.

In his peripheral, a burst of black and white streaked past him like lightning. He smelt something which made his heart skip a beat. He took flight after her, perilously traversing the hazardous landscape. Snarled roots reached out to him like claws, snagging on his clothes and slowing him down. He feared for her more than he did his own life. He dreaded the thought of her running down this path alone. She was prone to self-destruction, sacrifice. Once, he had let her go alone, and never a day went by when he didn't regret that. The figure ahead was slight and agile, but not fast, yet the flowers seemed to move at her touch. Leaves, roots and stems leaned towards him, holding him back; he was forced to take alternative routes to reach her following her scent. Then, it was gone and she along with it.

"Aaaaaaah! Stoooop!"

A high-pitched scream reverberated off the looming flowers. It was laced with terror and dread. The sound dragged forth an unpleasant memory, one full of regret. Guilt. He remembered a cold, dark room. Dimeritium and silver. A necessary evil.

He spied a bloody handprint staining the smooth surface of a nearby stem; then, he heard rustling. He flung himself headlong into the labyrinth. The air was fast becoming thick with smoke, amber fireflies drifting like burning snow around him. He passed numerous charred stumps, leaves, roots and stems. In the distance, he saw a blur of auburn hair standing out against the smoulder. He tried to catch up with her, to reach her before her fire toppled the forest around them. A cloud of smoke billowed past him, painting his vision grey. When it cleared, the figure was gone.

"Get back! Take cover, quick!"

The voice was strong and steady, not tinted with any suggestion of distress or desperation. Wildly, he looked around, searching for the voice which had become a lifelong companion. A brother. There was a flash of yellow eyes, a disfigured yet friendly face.

"Great fucking advice!"

A shout packed with sarcasm distracted him. There was a sense of bitterness and contempt behind each word. He whirled around, spinning his head to find the provocative and irksome man. Brother in arms. Another flash of eyes not unlike his own, and a face spoiled by a snarly grin.

"To me, now!"

A woman's command rang through the undergrowth. It seemed unquestionably out of place in this encompassing wilderness. This was the outcome of circumstances, not choice. A glimpse of pale, glossy yellow hair from amidst the stems.

He ran towards it, as did the others. A flare of unnatural light. Like apparitions, the figures vanished.

"Noooooooo!"

This time, two cries broke the eerie hush. One was low and gruff, a complete contrast to the other, which was melodramatic and clear, neither discernibly masculine nor feminine.

Two shapes briefly crossed his path and vision, one tall, one small. There was the sound of a swinging axe and a streak of garish purple and pink. He followed in pursuit. He leapt over fallen stems the size of tree trunks and wished he had his own Sihil in hand. A gift. He felt he'd need it now. There was a crack, a flower plummeted towards him. He dived to the side, nimbly rolling away from danger. But in those few seconds, the figures were gone.

Now, there was nothing.

A deafening silence rang in his ears. His knees weak, he fell to the floor, kneeling in the decay. The silent cries and pleas of the spectres which haunted him filled his mind. He felt their pain as though it was his own. He saw their hot lifeblood dripping from his bloodied hands. A sense of betrayal pierced his heart. Of blame. Hate.

The blood began to pool around him like a warm bath. No matter how much poured to the ground, his hands were forever coated in it. The smell made his stomach churn. He threw his eyes shut.

Warm tendrils of sunlight wrapped themselves around him, soothing his cold skin and muscles, but failing to banish the icy dread which consumed him from the inside. Light forced its way, unwelcome, through his eyelids. Begrudgingly, he opened them.

The ocean of white flowers no longer belittled him. In the place where the snowy field had once been, was a sea of yellow flowers with star-like petals. There was a danger to the sharp edges of the bird's foot trefoil. It was a foreboding flower, one of the few with a negative meaning attached to its colourful petals.

He heard the sound of running water. He turned his eyes up from the ground and saw a fountain before him, jutting up from the flowers. Small gargoyles dug their stone claws into the podium at its centre spurting water into the basin. He leaned over the edge of the fountain. The pool was calm and endless. Eerie nothingness. The water was as black as night. It took his eyes a while to adjust. His reflection became clearer, gradually.

He gasped. His leg muscles tightened. He gripped the edge of the fountain with clammy hands. He saw his eyes; they were full of fear - raw and primitive. Then, they vanished. The face looking back at him…It was not his own. He gasped and leapt away, heart pounding. But he could not escape it.

The flowers, the sky, the sun, the ground, all of it was gone. Mirrors surrounded all four corners of the world, the sky and the earth. The field had been replaced by another eternity. He closed his eyes. He could not bear to see it, to acknowledge it. But, he felt it. Felt the shadow clinging to him, and it whispered to him.

"Open your eyes, Geralt of Rivia. See your fate and the death sentence you have hung above their heads."

Slowly, his eyelids began to flutter open, defying his will. He looked in the mirror. A figure stepped out from behind him. Their eyes met.

His face burned.

The Witcher awoke with a start. Instinctively, and with ingrained movements, he reached for one of the two swords lying, customarily, beside the bed. Heart pounding against his ribcage, sweat drenching his body, muscles twitching, he pulled the weapon free from its scabbard. The runes decorating the silver surface of the blade pulsated with power.

His eyes scanned the room quickly. There was nothing there. He checked on the sleeping woman beside him. He listened.

Geralt heard Yennefer's melodic heartbeat, and he honed his senses on it. He inhaled deeply, drawing in her scent. Lilac and gooseberries. The presence of her beside him, unharmed and safe, instantly worked its magic on him. Geralt felt his body begin to relax, his muscles loosen and his heart fall back down to its usual rhythm.

Her preferred her like this – sleeping. Here, she was untouched by the worries and burdens that haunted her waking hours. Raven locks spilling around her, unkept and stormy. Her face serenely beautiful, a small smile tugging at the corner of her luscious lips. Geralt hastened to put his weapon away and was careful not to disturb her pleasant rest. Besides, it was a foolish dream, likely forgotten by morning.

As Geralt lay down beside his beloved, enveloping himself in her familiar and comforting scent and touch, he quickly forgot his vision. Nor did he remember the white and yellow flowers left on the windowsill, or their smell of honeyed death. The dream was foolish to him because he did not understand its meaning. Its Promise.

Sam Miller - Apocalyptic Skies: Chapter 1, Winds Howling

The darkness wind and chill

all point to the end times,

where green grass will never return

and the sun will never again

show its bright face.

Nights like this

are a spiritual experience.

The air speaks to me

in ways the sunlight never can.

I feel the apocalypse every time it storms.

Hi guys! I really hoped you enjoyed my first ever read, I've been so anxious to publish something for ages and am glad to finally be getting around to it, though admittedly not at the best of times considering I have exams (A-levels) in June, so I apologise now for slow updates, but I felt I needed to do something to end the monotony which has been my life since January (because that's how long I've been revising!)

Constructive criticism is welcome, I wish to improve and can only do that by identifying my shortcomings.

I'd be interested in getting beta readers, if you have played the games and read the books, or are not afraid of spoilers, feel free to contact me on here or Tumblr, also under Eileniessa.

Have a pleasant day!