Note: Thanks to Shalizeh for allowing me permission to use the wonderful image entitled "Geralt and Yennefer" located on deviantART as cover art. art/Geralt-And-Yennefer-538344353
Skellige - Enroute to Larvik - Act I
Winds howled. Blackened storm clouds rose up from the sea like great coal mountains. Forks of lightning pierced the night sky, illuminating the world for only a moment so that gnarled shadows danced upon the earth. Rain drizzled.
The witcher quickened his gate, racing after the sorceress as they swiftly traveled from Freya's Garden to Larvik. "Yen, we won't make it in time."
The sorceress glanced towards the sea, her hair whipping about her face in a mass of unruly curls. She sneered and slowed, searching the area immediately off the path for shelter.
Geralt stopped beside her. His senses tingled. The air smelled heavily of salt, a thick dampness weighing down the atmosphere. His nerves prickled, sensing the dangers within yards of their position. He heard the rumbling of drowners from the shoreline over the nearby hill. He heard the growling and howling of wolves as they pursued a fleeing elk; he heard that prey beast pant as it raced through the brush, trying to outrun the elite predators.
Yennefer pointed towards a small grouping of pines. "There." Without waiting for his response, she stepped off the path and pressed through the low brush.
Along the cliff side, protected by snowberry bushes, was a cave. The cave entrance faced the east, thereby offering a possible shelter for the coming storm. The magician paused outside the entrance, cautious as she eyed the exterior. Her fingers contorted, twisting and gnarling into an odd but exact position. "Gvella Glan." Yennefer stated, and from her outstretched hand, a small blue sphere of light formed.
Without waiting for the witcher, the sorceress entered the cave. Geralt drew his steel sword and followed her. The cave was not deep, and other than a scattering of puffballs and sewent mushrooms, was uninhabited. Sheathing his sword, the witcher dropped his traveling satchel onto the ground and exited the cave to gather wood for the night's fire.
By the time he returned with an armful of kindling and logs, the sky had erupted in a flurry of horizontal rain and hail. He was drenched through, as was the wood from the previous days of rain, ice, and snow. Yennefer was sitting upon the ground, her ankles crossed, and she arched a single brow at his appearance.
Geralt shrugged. "Couldn't help it. I can't command the weather."
She gestured to the ground in front of her. "Are you insinuating that in some way I can?"
"No," the witcher replied and knelt, placing the gathered wood in a heap before the sorceress. Sitting back on his heels, he glanced at her curiously. "Why? Can you?"
"Well, of course I can," she replied, her tone laced with sarcasm. "I simply wanted to lounge in this cave that reeks of rancid cheese for the aromatic pleasure."
"Well, that's puffballs for you," Geralt baited. "And here I always thought you liked mushrooms."
"My love of puffballs is about on par with your adoration of endrega chitin."
"That could be pretty substantial. It's not bad, you know, powdered and sprinkled on catfish."
Yennefer tucked her legs beneath her and inched closer to the pile of wood. She opened her mouth to reply, no doubt another wry retort, but instead, she looked at him, head cocked slightly. "Which? The puffball or the chitin?" As soon as she asked, she shook her head. "No matter. Silence, Geralt, please. I have to concentrate."
She reached out, her fingers following complicated patterns as she whispered under her breath. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw tensed, and her lips curled. She repeated the incantation, slowly curling her fingers, and the diamonds embedded in the design of her necklace sparkled, glowed, and pulsed.
Beads of liquid formed on the gathered wood, and the sorceress intensified her spell. The droplets of water continued to gather at her command, withdrawing from the wood, and coalescing near her fingertips.
Geralt was awed at her power, an experience he often felt when witnessing Yennefer's command of various elements of magic. Her expression was pointed and radiated intensity. She was ferocious, awesome, and magnificent. The atmosphere around her crackled, surging with energy. He could only hope it wasn't enough to draw the Hunt.
Yennefer pulled back from the pile of wood, her hands surrounding the sphere of undulating liquid. She released the sphere towards the opening of the cave, and it hovered out, bursting against the snowberries. She sat back and gestured to the wood, expectantly.
He smirked, setting aside the extra wood. Arranging the kindling and a few larger pieces in a cone on the ground, he traced a circle in the dirt to create an outline for the fire. "Igni," he whispered, his hand tracing the simple pattern in the air, and flames ignited the wood. As he sat back onto his heels, he reflected on how different his simplistic patterns were to the complex patterns Yennefer weaved.
Geralt looked at the sorceress, noticing far more detail than he should. She sat proudly, head high and shoulders pinched, but it did not hide her fatigue from him. He saw it in her eyes, and in how at the moment, her natural resting shoulders were slightly lopsided. There was worry, mostly noted in the tension in her jaw and tongue; he saw it easily in her face and neck.
Yennefer always hid such things well, and Geralt was certain that most would never pick such adjectives to describe the sorceress: tired, fearful, uncertain. Most would call her calm, collected, calculated, cold, and perhaps callous. Yes, Yennefer could display all of those characteristics, however they were not her defining traits. Geralt always saw more.
He noted that her fingers, only now in rest, were marginally crooked. Did they still pain her, ache with the changing weather or the cold? Did they inhibit her ability to cast? It did not appear so, but Geralt could not be certain. Even if so, she would never admit to a struggle with something as basic as magical gesturing.
The sorceress sighed. "Perhaps you will cease dwelling on perceived imperfections, and instead tell me more of what happened in Velen and Novigrad. This elven mage that Keira mentioned. Was it Ida? Francesca?"
Geralt shook his head. "No. Male, he wore a mask, and she didn't know who he was. She seemed intrigued by him though."
"Keira is intrigued by any member of the opposite sex, as I'm sure you remember. Was her interest more than nymphomaniacal wonder?"
"You would have been surprised. Her dress was fairly modest compared to what I remember."
"Really?" Yennefer smirked. "You mean she was not fully bare to the eye or covered only in mesh?"
"Only once," he answered.
"Mmm, and I'm to believe you didn't work very hard for more than one peek?"
Shrugging, he tugged off his gloves, setting them aside. "You can believe what you like. Rrrmf, she was really helpful at first when we went through the elven ruins together, trying to track Ciri. She even gave me a few trinkets to help. But then she asked a favor, to lift a curse on an island. Fyke Island. I agreed."
He removed the two swords from his back, leaving them sheathed beside him. "So I did it. Wasn't easy. Discovered a mage's lab while I was there. Mage was Alexander, apparently some …"
"Yes, the epidemiologist. I know of his work. Continue."
"Right. Experimenting on peasants, doing something with the plague. Keira was interested. Really interested. Anyway, she tricked me. Managed to put a sleeping spell on me. When I caught up with her, she was on the island. Had this scheme that she would use Alexander's notes to create a vaccine for the plague and go to Radovid. She thought he'd reward her."
"Reward her?" Yennefer shook her head. "He's more likely to impale her. She was a member of the Lodge."
"That's what I said. Convinced her it was suicide. Told her to go to Kaer Morhen. She agreed. We'll see."
"You said she gave you trinkets. Show them to me."
Geralt reached for the traveling satchel at his right and pulled out the elven lantern. "Used this to listen to ghosts. Wouldn't have believed it myself, if I didn't use it." He placed it near the sorceress.
She regarded it, but did not reach for it or examine it.
Next, he removed a flat, metallic disk with spokes at four opposite ends. "This came in handy a few times. She called it an Eye of something." He placed it beside the lamp.
'Nehaleni," Yennefer replied, unimpressed.
Finally, he showed her the xenovox.
Yennefer leaned forward, intrigued. "A xenovox? How on earth did Keira Metz craft a xenovox?" She took the relic from the witcher, examining it.
"She didn't," he answered. "It was attached to that lamp from the elven ruin we were in. She said the mage promised her the lamp. She didn't know about the xenovox until later."
Yennefer picked up the lamp, her fingers hovering over the turquoise, crystalline glass. Activating the lamp, she twisted the xenovox into position onto the base of the lamp. The light pulsed, and the color changed from algae green to amber yellow.
When Geralt opened his mouth to ask a question, she glared at him, and her lips pursed to hush him. He obediently remained quiet.
She lifted the lamp high, observing it from every angle. Finally, she deactivated the lamp and detached the xenovox; she placed the lamp where Geralt originally set it. She turned the xenovox over in her hand, rubbing her thumb over the intricate runes on the base.
He waited for an explanation, and when none was forthcoming, asked, "What was that?"
"Never do what I just did," she stated without looking up.
Aggravated, he gestured to her. "Then why the hell did you do it?"
Peeved, she glanced up at him, lowering the xenovox so she can stare at him as if he were a petulant child. "Because I know what I'm doing."
Geralt pressed his lips together. He wondered how many times Ciri had seen that look shot in her direction during her time with the sorceress. He also wondered how much longer it would take before Yennefer stopped regarding him like an incompetent lout.
From the pouch at her side, Yennefer removed a small green crystal and held it, point side down, over the top of the xenovox. She chanted softly, her voice a mere whisper, and though Geralt heard every word, he did not understand the spell.
Instead of asking her anymore questions — after all, what good would it do — Geralt shifted back to lounge against a smooth sloped surface of the cave wall. It was fairly comfortable by his standards. Life on The Path left little room for luxuries, including the comforts of soft beds, warm sheets, and hot stew.
His eyes closed as he visualized a hot, steaming stew. The Golden Sturgeon had a delicious fish stew. It had cost him nearly 30 crowns for the bowl, but it was rich with various fish types, including crab, and a multitude of root vegetables. At the time, he was tempted to purchase another bowl, to gorge himself on the flavorful brew, but instead, he opted to buy provisions for the road. Dried fruits, hard bread, dried meats, cheese, and a few sweet rolls. It wasn't nearly as satisfying.
What would be even more satisfying than fish stew was …
"Do you have the phylactery?"
"No," he replied. "I left it with Dandelion."
"What? Why? Didn't you think I'd need to see it?"
"Yeah, but it wasn't easy to find a ship willing to sail to Skellige. Pirates, Nilfgaard. Few were willing to risk it; lot of ships had been lost. Thought it was more important the phylactery was safe, and if something happened on the voyage, well you'd have traced it back to Dandelion."
She did not respond, but he heard the rustling as she stood, the scuffing as she walked, and the rattling as she dug through one of his bags. When there was silence, he looked towards the fire.
The trinkets from Keira were packed away in his bag, and it was closed and set aside. Yennefer stood by the cave entrance, staring out into the storm, her back to him, and arms likely crossed over her chest. Lightning illuminated the sky, and winds whipped through the brush.
Finally, she spoke. "Tell me more about these witches, these creatures, that you say Ciri grappled with?"
"Ancient beings, more like," Geralt answered. "Three of them. The witches of Crookback Bog. Keira said that when she first arrived in Velen, she couldn't sleep. Horrible dreams and something trying to get her to go to the swamp. So, she next entered her dreams lucid, and when whatever it was realized Keira was aware, it left. Never returned."
"Hmm, interesting. If they were ancient and powerful, like you said, why would they be worried about Keira? She's far from the most powerful sorceress."
"Maintaining the status quo, I think. All the peasants talk about them with a kind of reverence."
Yennefer turned from the cave entrance, striding back to the fire, her brow furrowed. "Perhaps. It would be easy to lead weak minded layman to you, but to try and challenge anyone with true magical training could bring danger. Why challenge Ciri then? You said she barely escaped them? What happened?"
"These beings eat humans, and Ciri was injured when they found her. They knew exactly who she was. More what she was. Craved her blood. Knew the Wild Hunt was after her too."
The sorceress paced from the fire to the wall, then back to the fire. "And yet they were willing to cross the Wild Hunt for a taste?"
"Seems so. I wanted to slay them, right there, but I couldn't risk it. They were powerful, and I still had to find Ciri. But I will go back."
Yennefer sat near the fire. "She got away. That's what counts. We can worry about vengeance later." Staring into the fire, she flexed her hands, and finally asked. "Novigrad. How is Triss?"
Geralt watched the magician. From his position, he saw mostly her back and the outline of her profile. Her expression, what he could see, gave nothing away. He responded. "Novigrad is a pisshole. Between Radovid and the Church of the Eternal Fire, the entire city is in upheaval. Free city? Not anymore. They're killing mages, and it's only a matter of time before they turn that rage on the elves and dwarves."
"Rivia," Yennefer whispered.
"Kind of, yeah," he said and sat up. "Triss is surviving."
"Why on earth doesn't she just leave?"
"She's taken it upon herself to try and save the mages. Asked for my help to get them out. Menge is dead, but it won't matter. If the witch hunters get their hands on her, it won't be good."
"I should contact her."
"Bad idea," he quickly said with a slice of the hand. "She's in hiding and if the they find her or her megascope, no telling what they can do. Keira said as much too. It's why she hasn't tried to contact anyone."
"Good point," Yennefer conceded. "So … will you help her?"
Without hesitation, Geralt nodded. "Yeah. Past is the past. I can't just sit back and … I really don't want to think about what they'd do. Actually, I already have an idea of what they do for entertainment."
At Yennefer's curious look, he continued. "Dijkstra's in Novigrad, going by an alias and is an underworld boss. He agreed to help me find Dandelion, if I helped him get his gold back. Long story short, Menge and the witch hunters had Dijkstra's treasure. He recruited Triss and the two of us went to their barracks. She agreed to go in dimeritium handcuffs. I traded her in to the witch hunters so I could talk to Menge. Her idea. Triss had insisted that she could take whatever they did. Ordered me to stay focused and get the answers I needed. I hated it."
Yennefer looked away.
Geralt sighed, staring into the fire. "Bounty on her head was high so they took me to see Menge as I handed her over. I didn't know what exactly they were doing to her at the time. I thought they were cutting off her fingers. Ripping her nails out … they threatened to tear out her tongue."
The witcher fell silent, his thoughts drifting to the distant past. He recalled the sight of his beloved sorceress, that fateful moment in Stygga castle as she was dragged by her hair down a corridor. He recalled the hatred that coursed through him, the unquenchable rage. What horrors did she endure in that time they were apart, especially as he lingered in …
"Stop," Yennefer stated softly with a slow shake of the head.
"Sorry."
The blood and bruising …
"Geralt!"
He buried that memory. Even the passage of time did not dull the guilt, the anger, and the fatigue from that long-ago day. All he could do was suppress the memory, knowing it would fester only to rise again when triggered by similar circumstances.
"I let them torture her," Geralt finally continued. "And Menge spoke nice and slow … just to see if I'd flinch." He remembered every excruciating detail, even the exact tone of her cry. The memory surfaced with vivid clarity - the death, the blood, the words spoken.
Yennefer stood. "Enough sitting around. Let's go."
He frowned, looking over the fire to the cave entrance where hail and wind still pounded against the snowberry bushes, coating the ground in white. "Go? It's night and the storm hasn't ended. We can wait until morning."
The sorceress did not object, but she also did not rest. Instead, she paced before the cave entrance. Endless minutes passed, and still, Yennefer did not return to the fireside.
"What's wrong?" Geralt asked.
"Nothing is wrong," she stated.
"Yen, don't lie to me."
She paused a very long moment. "Do you know what knowledge is, Geralt? It is simply information. And it offers the potential to possess great power, because the greater the knowledge, the greater the ability to see multiple facets of a situation. It is not inherently evil or good. Accepted or forbidden. That is left to the wielder. No different than your sword, actually."
"Ah, so that's what this is about. You know, maybe if you stopped poking around my head, you wouldn't be so prickly all the time."
She turned then, blazing eyes narrowed on him. "Perhaps if I was not constantly being judged from your morally, superior pedestal, I would not need to."
The witcher chuckled. "Morally superior? And maybe if you bothered to just ask me …"
"Ask you? Geralt, let's face it. You're not one for conversation. By the time you bumbled through an explanation, I could just see it for myself."
"Problem is, in some cases, you just see a memory of an event, then take that as some kind of accusation." He searched her eyes, and as always, noticed more than he should. "Yen, are you alright?"
She recoiled as if struck, her gaze piercing. "Of course, I'm alright."
With an expression of absolute disbelief, he reached for her with one hand. He was persistent, unwilling to lower his hand through her stoic silence. Finally, she relented, and with a sigh, approached him. She did not take his hand, but sat beside him.
"I will be fine, Geralt," she said, softly. "I understand that there are aversions to some kinds of magics. But what happened in Freya's garden … I did not make that decision without great care. You know me. I respect the customs or others. A long time ago, I …" she shook her head. "Nevermind. I didn't want to use that spell, and the garden will grow back, in time. Do you understand?"
"Yeah."
"Sometimes, it seems that I am the only one that has any sense of urgency in our search for Ciri. Geralt, the Wild Hunt cannot get their hands on her. If they do … if they take her from here, we will never see her again. I can't open the portals like their navigators, nor can I jump from plane to plane like Ciri can."
Geralt tossed another log onto the fire, reaching into the flames to carefully arrange the wood. "When I was in Henselt's camp, both Sile and Dethmold were there advising him on the war. Dethmold … well, we performed a ritual to look into the mind of a dead man. It was nothing like what you did."
"Tell me."
"I had to drink a potion, hallucinogenic. Dethmold muttered some spell and suddenly I was seeing the past as if … well, as if I were the corpse. Well, not the corpse, because I was alive. It was alive, I mean he."
"I know what you mean," Yennefer quickly stated before Geralt tumbled into an unnecessarily long clarification. "Geralt, if a sorcerer ever asks you to do that again, say no. It's not safe."
"Dethmold said it was. I'm a witcher and …"
"Your survival rate is better than that of a layman. A layman being zero. Listen, as you relive the memories in your mind, there is a high probability of your death when you witness the moment of the deceased's death. Or you become lost in the vision and cannot escape back into your own body. With the spell you are speaking of, there is no risk to the spell caster, only to the vessel. Which was you."
Geralt reflected on that revelation for a moment, then two. "So there was no risk to Dethmold. Were you at risk in the garden?"
"There is always a risk when one is casting spells."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it."
Holding the witcher's stern gaze, Yennefer replied, unflinching. "Yes. There was a great risk to me in the garden. Spells have varying ranges of difficulty, and the necromantic arts have been forbidden not just because of what you are doing, but because of the dangers during spellcasting. It takes a great amount of energy, discipline, knowledge, and precision."
"When you cast your signs…" she traced the simple Igni sign into the air, causing the fire to flare. "It draws on the energy from the world, usually from the area around you. For Igni, the energy pulses through you and manifests itself externally in the spell. In this case, fire. Surely, you can feel it. If not the draw within you, then reflected off of you when you cast."
Geralt nodded. "Yeah. It tingles, and if I do it a lot, it feels like the hair on my arm singes off."
"Yes, good," Yennefer said. "All the elements feel different, but often can bring feelings of pain as one absorbs them. To cast that spell, I required a great amount of energy to syphon through me and into the corpse. That energy reconnected the nerve endings, acting as a catalyst for the body to function again. That is why it seemed so alive, because the connections were still present, I just had to offer the energy to make it work. The muscles remembered the pain of its death, the trauma it suffered. It also sensed the decomposition, which would be painful. The body responded appropriately. But that boy — his essence — was not present. He had long passed. I was merely animating the remnants of flesh."
Yennefer fell silent a moment before admitting, "The spell … it was … unpleasant."
Geralt scoffed. "Sounds like an understatement."
"Mmm, indeed."
"What could have happened to you if something went wrong?"
"It would have killed me. Perhaps you as well. And before you start getting all indignant, any spell that a sorceress casts could be dangerous, even the simple ones if she does not control it."
Geralt tugged at the collar of his leather jerkin and eased back from the fire. "So on a scale of Igni to fireball, what was the spell?"
"Volcano."
"Hmmf, volcano. I have a feeling that 'wriggling cockroaches' was also an understatement."
Yennefer closed her eyes. "Grossly. Geralt, I would really rather not remember exactly how the spell makes me feel. It is disgusting, nauseating, and the taste still lingers in my mouth. So can we please engage your curiosity along another line of conversation."
Geralt reached for his satchel. "Alright. Hungry?"
The sorceress arched her brow, her lips parted in incredulous revulsion. "Truly? Am I hungry? Geralt, the taste that lingers in my mouth after that spell — the one you so vividly just wanted to talk about — is one of decomposing flesh. Like a putrid, festering, week-old corpse, as if my tongue were rotting away inside my mouth. The last thing I could stomach right now is food."
After popping a few dried fruits into his mouth, the witcher removed a small jug from his satchel. He twisted off the cork, and presented the jug to her.
Tentatively, Yennefer took the jug, sniffing its contents. She looked at him strangely then, and Geralt did not understand why. She drank with a long, savoring sip. Clutching the spout, she held the jug to her breast as she stared into the fire in pensive thought.
She did not drink from the container again. After quite some time, she set it aside, thanked him, and crossed to the mouth of the cave to stare out into the storm.
Funny, he thought she liked apple juice.
AN: Thanks for all the hits and reviews. Also, I'm looking for a Beta reader who is well-versed in the witcher book series. If you're interested, please send me a PM.