Red Rowan

by Indiannahjones

With the Wild Hunt defeated and Empress Ciri on the throne, Geralt thought he and Yen would be free to retire to Toussaint and settle down... but it seems the ghosts of Geralt's past are intent on coming back to haunt him. Geralt/Yen, past Geralt/Shani. [Inspired by a letter found in Witcher 3 if Geralt took the alchemists' potion in Witcher 2.]

3. Rose

The fields surrounding Corvo Bianco were green and vibrant with the spring, the air crisp and temperate with dewy sunlight as Geralt squeezed his legs against Roach's sides, snapping the mare's reigns with a coaxing cry as he leaned in closer to her neck. He could hear the horse blustering with adrenaline as the wind whipped through her wild mane, drying her sweat to her flanks as it coursed eagerly over their morning run. Flicking the reigns again, Geralt tugged them to one side, coercing the mare into a turn, and Roach whinnied, tossing her head in the breeze, her hooves thundering eagerly against the grass as she began in the direction of the manor again, back towards the stables, where she knew her promised breakfast would be waiting.

Geralt and Roach had begun doing these morning runs only recently, after Geralt had noticed Roach becoming restless, having little opportunity to stretch her legs and gallop apart from the off occasion when he got a contract from some nearby town. Even then, it was usually barely a day's ride before she was stuck in Corvo Bianco's stables again, and Geralt could tell she was starting to resent the four walls of her life of newfound comfort. She was a horse with a taste for adventure, he knew, having grown used to the freedom of the wild trails during her years beside him on the path, and it seemed unfair that she should be forced to give that up simply because he was finally able to dictate his own schedule, most of which he preferred to spend in bed with Yennefer, when it could be helped.

With Roach safely in her stall with her morning oats, Geralt passed a quick hand over his tousled hair, knowing he would get an earful from Yennefer if he came back in the house looking like he had just walked through a hurricane. Stepping through the front door of the manor, the witcher paused, listening for the sound of movement, trying to determine where he should head first, now that his morning ride was finished. It was past time for breakfast, but not quite time for lunch, which meant he still had a few hours to kill before he could entertain himself with food again. He could hear shuffling coming from the upstairs bedroom, as if someone were moving things around on the floor, trying to find the best place for them; he supposed that was Shani, doing her best to fill her time by rearranging her bedroom again, placing her hefty medical tomes in the half-empty bookcase and making room among the furniture for her worn traveling trunk.

He felt badly for Shani – much like Roach, she was restless, yearning to explore, but he knew that was not something either of them cared to risk, for fear of earning Yennefer's ire. Yennefer's concern for Shani's wellbeing could be endearing, at times, but other times the sorceress had a bad habit of treating Shani as if she feared the doctor might break in half if Geralt were to so much as breathe on her too fervently. Though Geralt had tried to assure his wife that Shani was perfectly capable of handling her own wellbeing, he found he could say little to convince her to ease up on her caretaking at times, and, turning his attention to the other noises of the house, Geralt focused in on them, trying to decipher where Yennefer might be hiding, awaiting his return.

Honing his senses, he could just make out the faintest eke of a quill on parchment emanating from the library, and he turned towards the sound, guessing that only Yennefer would have any reason to be writing something in there. Barnabas-Basil had his own quarters to write in, and Marlene was not well-known for writing notes, having fallen out of practice during her years as a wight. The library smelled of lilac and gooseberries as he entered, the sound of the scratching pen reaching him from the far end of the room, and he followed his senses to their source, eventually coming upon his wife, as he had suspected, sitting at her writing-desk, pen in hand. Yennefer's brow was furrowed deeply in thought as she bent over a perfumed parchment leaf, lettering out an elaborate correspondence, and Geralt lifted his chin, straining to see around her hand to catch a glimpse of what she was writing.

Yennefer's handwriting was elegant, sharp and to the point like the sorceress herself, and just eloquent enough to make one feel inferiorly educated simply by glancing over the well-dressed text. Dropping down into the chair across the desk from her, Geralt stretched his legs out in front of him across the floor, crossing one booted ankle over the other as he reached for one of the books left unattended at the edge of her desk.

"Flowers of the Sansretour Valley," he read aloud, turning the book over to check the title. "Didn't know you were into gardening, Yen."

"There are several plants that grow right here in Toussaint which produce ingredients useful for your potions," Yennefer returned, not bothering to look up from her writing as she spoke. "Perhaps if you were a bit more invested in your alchemy studies you would have known that."

"Don't need to be," Geralt answered, opening the book to a random page and allowing his eyes to be drawn to the illustration at the bottom corner of the text. "That's what I've got you for."

"Don't use me as an excuse to be lazy, Geralt," Yennefer told him, looking up for a moment, before dipping her quill in her inkpot and returning to work.

"Never," Geralt answered, chuckling gruffly, closing the book in his lap. "Just an excuse not to read." Setting the book on the desk again, he leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows against his knees as he stared intently at the letter Yennefer was writing, only to find his attention drawn back to the sorceress' face once again, unable to keep his eyes from lingering on her expression. There was an intense sort of beauty to her concentration, he thought; similar to the way she looked when she was casting – a determination, powerful and otherworldly, one that hardened her eyes and steeled her lips, making her look like an icy work of art.

"What're you writing?" he asked after a moment, indicating towards the paper with a jerk of his chin. He was sure he was bothering her in her work, but she had dealt with worse distractions before, and he knew she would have all the time in the world to work uninterrupted when he eventually left to go on another of his missions to Beauclair.

Yennefer paused in her work at the question, her quill lingering pensively above the page, before she eventually set it aside, instead picking up the paper she had been working on as if to check, herself, what it was she had written. After a moment, she set the paper down again, before sliding it a few inches across the desk towards Geralt, inviting him to pick it up and read it if he so chose. "An entreaty for Duchess Anna Henrietta," she told him, watching with avid eyes as Geralt picked up the letter, beginning to skim it for its contents. "Asking for ordinance to open and operate a working clinic out of Corvo Bianco. I'm unsure what the customs are in Toussaint, but I figured it would be best to cover all our bases. Don't want to accidentally step on any toes."

Geralt grunted at the comment, setting the letter back down on the desk and sliding it across to Yennefer again. "Might be better to just ask Ciri," he suggested, leaning back in his chair again. "Toussaint is a vassal of Nilfgaard. Plus, Anna Henrietta's not exactly my biggest fan. Not after that whole incident with Dandelion."

"With him running around on her with another duchess, you mean?" Yennefer asked, frowning as she took the letter back. "That had nothing to do with you. She can't blame you for Dandelion's indiscretions."

"She can if I support him," Geralt returned, offering an unhelpful shrug of one shoulder as he settled back against his chair, lacing his fingers together over his stomach with a soft, tired sigh. "He's my friend. I stood behind him. Anna Henrietta didn't appreciate that."

"Which is entirely unfair, considering you saved her sister's life," Yennefer answered, shaking her head as she dipped her quill in the inkpot again, preparing to continue. "Ungrateful brat."

"Who, Henrietta? Or the sister?" Geralt asked, unable to help a small smirk from curving the corners of his lips at Yennefer's endearing vitriol.

"Both of them," Yennefer answered, almost spitting the venomous response as she looked up at Geralt again. "She's still living there, you know. Sylvia Anna. Enjoying her time, even after everything she did."

"At least Detlaff got away," Geralt put in, arching his shoulders to stretch the tired muscles in his back. "Sylvia's actions don't excuse what he did. All those murders. But I'm still glad I didn't have to kill him."

"I suppose," Yennefer answered, dourly. Then, looking down to her paper again, she scoffed, shaking her head at the thought. "Anna Henrietta was so quick to forgive Sylvia for everything," she muttered.

"She's still her sister," Geralt returned. "That's what sisters do."

Yennefer sighed deeply at the counterpoint, brushing the elegant quill-feather against her lips as she considered, still clearly annoyed. "I suppose that's also true," she finally answered, sounding less than convinced in spite of herself. Then, looking up at Geralt again, she suddenly paused, watching him, thoughtfully, her violet eyes notably sharper and more curious than before. Geralt frowned at the change, unsure what to expect, shifting a bit in his chair as he waited for whatever biting sentiment was coming next. "You probably think it silly of me to have forgiven Triss for what you and she did while I was away," Yennefer finally said, causing Geralt to falter at the statement, blinking a few times as he tried to decide what to say in response.

"No," he finally answered after a moment, shaking his head. "I thought it was generous. Showed you were willing to look past mistakes."

"Hm," Yennefer returned, a short, harsh sound, and Geralt had to wonder if he had once again chosen the wrong thing to say. "It was a mistake on your part, Geralt. Not hers. She knew what she did, and she did it anyway." Stopping again, she lingered another moment in thought, staring down at the parchment in front of her, too distracted to actually absorb any of the words written on the page. Then, letting out a soft sigh, she leaned back in her chair again, picking up her quill-pen and dipping it in the ink once more. "But she's my best friend, and the closest thing I have to a sister," she said, hovering her pen over the parchment, determined to continue. "So I suppose I can't fault Anna Henrietta for her choices, when I've made some of the very same."

"Sylvia tricked a man into murdering four people," Geralt pointed out, unfolding his hands to rest them instead on the armrests of his chair. "Brutally. Then tried to kill her own sister."

Yennefer frowned at the commentary, turning her disapproving gaze up to rest on Geralt again. "I'm trying to forgive you, Geralt," she told him, frankly. "Must you fight me on everything?"

Geralt grunted at the question, realizing he was once again treading into dangerous territory. "Sorry," he answered, shortly, causing Yennefer to nod, satisfied with the apology. Then, turning her attention to her work once more, she began to write again, the scratch of the ink-quill against the page the only sound breaking the uncomfortable, perfumed stillness of the library. Geralt shifted in his chair, uncrossing and re-crossing his ankles against the floor, tapping a gloved finger against the end of his armrest as he watched Yennefer at work. He was unsure if he should risk speaking again, or simply allow her to continue writing in peace; now that the topic of Triss had been breached, he felt he had an opportunity to learn other details of Yennefer's state of mind, details he had not had the nerve to ask after earlier, but whether those would go over as well as this had was not something he could be entirely certain of.

"And… what about Shani?" he finally asked, watching closely for any unconscious reaction from Yennefer. He was unsure what he expected that to be, truly; with how she had treated Shani from when the medic had first appeared on their doorstep, he had observed nothing but positivity from Yennefer on the topic of the woman now inhabiting their guest-room. From what he could tell, Yennefer seemed entirely pleased with the presence of their guest, excited almost, and though Geralt had had thoughts of simply allowing that to run its course, he could not help his curiosity in wanting to know how his wife truly felt about the whole situation – about the unexpected turn of events that brought a woman she barely knew into their home, into their lives, with the idea that one action Geralt had taken would mean she would likely be there in some way forever.

"What about Shani?" Yennefer asked in return, not bothering to look up from her parchment as she spoke. "She's done nothing wrong."

"I meant me," Geralt clarified, clearing his throat softly. "Me and Shani. You talked about Triss… I was wondering about Shani."

Yennefer sighed deeply at the conversation, resting her elbows wearily on her desk as she looked up again, seeming more annoyed at being interrupted than she was with the topic at hand. "We were on a break, Geralt," she told him, tiredly. "I said as much before anything happened. I knew what you would do when we were apart – anyone would. It came as no surprise." Sitting back in her chair again, she took a deep breath, pinching the quill between her painted fingers and puffing out her cheeks, before she finally let her breath out again in a long, thoughtful exhale. "The only thing that came as a surprise was that it resulted the way it did," she added, frankly. "But… there are far worse things to be surprised with than a child. I suppose I consider us rather fortunate in that regard, really."

"You should be used to that," Geralt joked, darkly. "Being married to a witcher. Surprise children is kind of our thing."

Yennefer snorted at the jest, turning her violet eyes downward. "Yes, well," she said. "That's a far different and much bleaker version of the sentiment, of course, but I suppose it's true. In its own way."

"Got me Ciri," Geralt reminded her, feeling the corners of his lips turn up at the thought of his surprise child.

Yennefer smiled fondly at the memory, finally turning her eyes up to Geralt again. "Yes," she agreed, nodding along, waving the quill absentmindedly as she spoke. "That it did. And I suppose I can't argue with it for that." Letting out another soft breath of thought, Yennefer looked down at the parchment in front of her again, her gaze seeming unfocused, almost distant as she stared at the words on the page. "It probably would be easier to just ask Ciri," she acknowledged after a moment, speaking more to herself than Geralt. "Though that would require explaining to her why Shani is living in our home in the first place. Which I feel is a topic best left to you, Geralt, as this whole situation is of your making."

Looking up at Geralt again, she raised her shapely brows, slowly, allowing him time to sweat beneath her gaze as she watched him for a reaction to this newest development. "You could write to her yourself, you know," she told him, seeming far too intent on the thought for his liking. "Tell her how you got a woman pregnant in the month we were apart after her leaving. Explain to her how we'd like to open a clinic so we can take care of the child you sired mere weeks before our wedding."

"I thought you weren't upset about that," Geralt told her, feeling suddenly very targeted.

"Oh, no, I never said that," Yennefer returned, shaking her head with a bitter smirk, reaching forward to dip her quill in her inkpot again. "I said I wasn't upset with Shani, and that I expected you to sleep around while we were apart. I didn't say I was at peace with the fact that you got her pregnant in that time." Writing another line on her parchment, she blew gently on the wet ink, drying it, before sitting back again to stare down at her newest addition with a look of mixed thought and disapproval. "I'm understanding of your dispositions, Geralt. Truly, I am," she told him, not bothering to look up at him again as she spoke. "Given how long I've put up with them, I would be a fool not to be at this point. This isn't the first time you've slept around, and I'd be very surprised if it was the last."

"It was the last," Geralt insisted, affronted. "I wouldn't sleep around on my wife."

"That remains to be seen," Yennefer returned, dryly. "I want to trust that you're good on your word. But I'm still only human, and there is still a limit to what I can look beyond." Setting her quill in her inkpot again, Yennefer folded her hands on her desk, taking in a deep breath before looking up across the desk at her husband again. "We will get through this, Geralt," she told him. "But it will take time. It can't be expected not to. In the meantime, I want to ensure Shani is being taken care of to the best of our capabilities."

Turning her attention to her letter again, she picked it up, combing her gaze across the elegant text, checking to see if she had made any errors or if the message was finally ready to send. "If Anna Henrietta is unwilling to work with us, then we can ask for help from Ciri," she added, nodding to herself as she finished reading, seeming satisfied with her missive as she looked up at Geralt again. "In the meantime, however, I don't wish to go spreading this any further than we absolutely have to. Shani is vulnerable, and the less people who know the details of her situation, the better." Blowing one final time on the letter to dry it, she began to fold the parchment neatly into thirds, careful to align the edges of the page before creasing them down with a press of her delicate hands.

"You don't know what kind of people will come out of the woodwork once they learn that some woman in Toussaint is carrying the child of a witcher," Yennefer told him, looking up at him knowingly as she reached for her wax seal. Geralt felt his stomach twist at the point he had not even considered, but he said nothing, not wanting to let on that so obvious a matter had slipped his mind. "People aren't exactly known for revering your kind, and the thought that you're suddenly able to reproduce is not likely to go over well," Yennefer added, not even seeming to notice his discomfort, or if she had, saying nothing about it. "We have to keep Shani safe from that sort of thing now. It's our responsibility."

"Right," Geralt answered, only half paying attention anymore. The point Yennefer had brought up was a frightening one, and he frowned as he stared down at his boots, considering it. He had never really given thought to what the public opinion of their situation might be, but he supposed the natural-born child of a witcher might come across as a terrifying prospect, to some. The concept that witchers were relatively rare was a comforting thought to most, he knew, as witchers were often portrayed as depraved and volatile mutants, useful only in their ability to kill monsters, but otherwise undesirable as a part of society. Even so, the idea that a helpless baby could be considered a threat to anyone seemed absurd, and he grunted at the thought, before turning his attention to Yennefer once more, not in any mood to think about it.

"I'll let you work," Geralt told her, pushing himself to his feet again. Yennefer hummed in response, waving her quill absentmindedly in his direction, already readying another piece of parchment to begin on a second letter. Geralt had the urge to ask who this one was going to be addressed to, but he figured he had already wasted enough of his wife's time, and so, turning away again, he began to make his way across the library, reaching for the door to let himself out and find something else to entertain his time. No sooner had he reached out to touch the door handle, however, when he felt a sudden, familiar sensation from around his neck, and he stopped, his hand resting on the handle, stiffening as his medallion gave a faint tremor against his chest.

Turning quickly back towards the library, Geralt glanced around for anything that might have set the amulet off, but nothing seemed significantly out of place from the last time he had looked. A moment later, the sensation ended, the pendant stilling almost as suddenly as it had begun to hum, and, reaching up a troubled hand, Geralt gripped the wolf's head pendant, wondering if it was possible his time-tested medallion had been set off by a fluke. Perhaps the amulet had spontaneously picked up on a whiff of Yennefer's magic, he thought – or perhaps some ghost or other unpleasant creature had taken up residence in the cellar beneath the house, and this was just the first unwelcome warning of more work that needed to be done.

"Yen," Geralt said, speaking slowly, turning to face his wife again. "Did you… do anything just now?"

"Hm?" Yennefer asked, still half-distracted by her task. "Like what?"

Geralt hesitated, unsure what exactly he had expected her to admit to, now that the question had been put out there. "Magic," he said, feeling a bit foolish, even as he said it. "Did you do any magic just now?"

Yennefer frowned at the question, looking up at last, pinching the feathered end of her quill between her dainty fingers. "No," she answered, shaking her head. "I was only writing still. Why?"

"Nothing," Geralt said, quickly. "Just… something strange. That's all."

"Not too strange, I hope," Yennefer returned. "I'd hate to have reason to worry."

"It's nothing, Yen," Geralt assured her, raising a hand to wave it off. "Just a weird feeling. That's all. Probably just still jumpy from my last contract." Then, turning away from his wife again, he started to reach for the door handle once more, only to stop halfway, afraid to touch it, not wanting to set off the same reaction as before.

He huffed, inwardly cursing his paranoia, before grasping the handle firmly and pulling open the door, unable to help a breath of relief when he was met with no magical resistance this time. Whatever had caused the vibrations of before had apparently disappeared between then and now, he thought – or at the very least, had stopped emitting magical energy for the time being. Letting out a soft grunt, Geralt let himself out into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him to allow Yennefer her peace, before starting to make his way towards the front-room instead, seeing what else he could find to do until it was time to eat.

In truth, he did not like the idea that something as important as his amulet was working in a way other than expected, but he quickly realized there was nothing he could do about it, and dwelling would only make matters worse. It was not the first time his medallion had gone off around the property, he reminded himself – it had warned him once to the presence of an archespore that had taken root at the edge of the property, near to the place where he had slaughtered a warg that had been harassing his faithful steed. It had been his own fault, he knew, for not cleaning up better after the carnage, allowing the blood to seep into the soil, but the cursed plant had put up enough of a fight that he had taken that as his lesson learned.

Chuckling at the memory, Geralt picked up his swords from where he had hung them by the door, sliding one out to inspect the blade, running his thumb over the tested metal. It had been a while since he had faced a foe that had truly challenged him, he thought; though the contracts he took now were more than enough to provide for his and Yennefer's retirement, he sometimes found he missed the excitement of facing down monsters he knew full well could kill him with a single, well-placed bite or claw. Even so, he told himself, he would not trade the comfort of retirement for all the spectacular, dangerous beasts of the Continent combined, and he grinned as he slid his sword back into its scabbard, patting its oiled stitches.

"Master Geralt?" Barnabas-Basil's reedy voice pulled Geralt quickly back home from the thought of the path, and he turned at the sound, giving the majordomo his full attention. "Sir, you have a visitor," Barnabas-Basil informed him, indicating towards the main door of the house. "A girl, sir. She brought a note."

"Great," Geralt said, nodding. "I'll take it. Thanks, Barnabas."

"She did not give me the note, sir," Barnabas-Basil answered, shaking his head as he folded his hands behind his back. "I told her I would happily deliver whatever she brought, but she insisted on meeting you, herself. She wanted to deliver the note in person, it seems. She's waiting for you outside." Taking a deep breath, the majordomo sighed, sounding incredibly weary, making Geralt wonder if there was something more about this visitor he was not being told. "I believe she was intrigued by the fact that you were a witcher, and wished to see for herself," Barnabas-Basil added. "I told her you were retired, but it seemed she could not be deterred."

"We are rather fascinating," Geralt returned, dryly, appreciative for his majordomo's patience in handling the unusual visitors that made their way through the vineyard on a regular basis. "I'll talk to the girl. See what she wants. Hopefully not much."

"You had other things planned for the day, sir?" Barnabas-Basil asked, stepping aside to allow Geralt to pass.

Geralt snorted at the question, offering Barnabas-Basil a wry, thin smirk, before making his way to the main door of the house, opening it to allow himself out into the courtyard. Stepping out into the Toussaint sunlight, he squinted his golden eyes against the glare, shading them over with one hand as they adjusted to the brightness of the world outside, before casting a quick glance over the courtyard to search for the messenger Barnabas-Basil had mentioned. It took him a moment to locate the girl, as she had seemingly wandered off to explore when it had taken a few minutes to honour her request to speak to the witcher in person, but he soon found her crouched in a patch of bright flowers, her green velvet coat making her nearly imperceptible against the rows of flora that comprised the vineyard.

"Can I help you?" Geralt asked, a bit bewildered by his unusual visitor.

The girl did not immediately straighten at the sound of the witcher's voice, seeming entirely unfazed by the inherent gruffness of his tone. "I've come to deliver a note," she answered, reaching out a curious hand to touch a bud on the vine she had been inspecting. Most of the flowers on the vine had blossomed with the spring, Geralt knew, but a few had been late to bloom, and the girl seemed particularly intrigued by the ones that still seemed unwilling to open. "A contract, actually. From Beauclair." Standing from the dirt at last, the girl smoothed the front of her velvet coat, before stepping from the flower-bed and onto the stone-cobbled walk, the buckles of her shiny shoes jingling merrily as she took her first steps forward towards the witcher.

She was a cute enough girl, Geralt decided, though he realized he had little experience with that sort of thing – she was a rosy-cheeked child, strawberry-blonde, with unusual eyes neither wholly green or blue. "My uncle says you're a witcher," the girl told him, staring up at him attentively as she spoke. Her expression was half of delight, half amazement as she stared up at him, something Geralt was entirely unused to when it came to how children viewed him; most children were afraid of his fearsome appearance or scorned him for his profession, spitting at his feet and running to hide whenever they saw the witcher approaching. Witchers in wives' tales were known for snatching unsuspecting children off the street, or spiriting them away in the night from the arms of their loving parents, and though there was little truth to these stories, they still managed to persist, as most unflattering stories had a way of doing.

"He's right," Geralt answered, nodding in agreement, deciding to humour the little girl for the time being. "I am."

"I've heard you don't exist anymore," the little girl continued, pressing onward. "That there's very few of you left."

Geralt frowned at the directness of her comments, wondering if she was still at an age where she could not be expected to have developed any sort of social tact. It was difficult to judge children's ages, especially for someone who had so little experience dealing with children in the first place, but she seemed, to him, a bit too old to be completely oblivious to the bluntness of her statements. She reminded him a bit of himself in that way, though he figured he had slightly more reason to lack social grace than she might, having grown up in a city as obsessed with decorum and social standing as Beauclair. "Those statements contradict," he told her after a moment. "There are few of us left. That's true. And we're not making any more. That's also true."

"Why aren't you making any more?" the girl insisted, almost cutting over him in her eagerness to have her curiosity sated. "Are you too old? My uncle says men are never too old to have children. It's only women who are too old. Maybe you could find a younger woman, and make more witchers that way."

Geralt nearly choked at her candour, but he caught himself quickly, retaining his composure, instead only taking a deep breath and crossing his arms as he looked down at the girl, who seemed entirely unfazed by his impressive stature as he towered over her. "You certainly have a lot of opinions for someone your age," he told her, frankly.

The little girl nodded matter-of-factly at his comment, as if this were not the first time she had been told this, and she doubted it would be the last. "My uncle says my mouth will get me in trouble one of these days," she told him, sounding entirely unperturbed by this fact. "Or paid handsomely, if I learn to use it right."

Geralt's frown deepened at this last comment, his brow furrowing into a hard, silver line, but he did his best to continue to appear impassive as he addressed the girl. She was too young to understand a repulsive comment like that, he knew, but that still did not make it acceptable for anyone to say that kind of thing to a girl her age, particularly someone who was meant to look after her wellbeing, as an uncle might be expected to do. "I don't think I like your uncle," he told her, trying to keep his tone relatively light, not wanting her to think he meant any actual harm to her caretaker. Then, clearing his throat, he unfolded his arms, letting one drop back to his hip and using the other to indicate towards her, expectantly. "Didn't you come to give me a letter?"

At this, the little girl's eyes widened, as if she had just remembered her purpose in coming. "I did!" she exclaimed, shifting up eagerly onto her toes. Shoving her hands into her coat pockets, she rummaged around inside them for a bit, screwing up her face in concentration as she searched, until she finally pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from one of them, beaming as she held it out for the witcher to take. Geralt took the note gingerly from the little girl's hand, turning it over before opening it up to read, unable to help a bit of bewilderment at its battered appearance. "I brought it as fast as I could," the girl informed him, rocking back onto her heels again, folding her hands in front of her as she spoke, dutiful and pleased with a job well done. "It called for a witcher, and you were the only one I knew of. I went as fast as I could to get it to you."

"This says a corpse-eater's been spotted in a graveyard outside Beauclair," Geralt told her, tapping the paper in his hand as he looked up at her again. "Have you heard anything else about this? There's not a lot to go off here."

"I don't know anything about corpse-eaters," the girl answered, honestly, shaking her head. "They're not my interest. I'm more interested in unicorns. Have you ever seen a unicorn, master witcher?"

"Yeah," Geralt answered, frowning distractedly down at the note again. "More dead than alive, though." Realizing then how bleak his answer had to sound, he faltered, before quickly looking up at the little girl again. "Uh—they were already dead when I saw them," he added. "The dead ones. They were stuffed. Like a museum, but… with unicorns."

"I don't think I like the sound of that," the little girl told him, scrunching up her button nose at the thought. "I'd much rather have live unicorns than dead. You can't ride a dead unicorn."

"Depends on how you ride it," Geralt answered, purposefully vague. Then, folding up the note again, he stuffed it into his pocket, before looking back down at the little girl and propping his hands tiredly on his hips. He was not looking forward to heading into this contract with as little information as he had been given, but from experience he had to figure that whatever was waiting was likely one of only a few different things: a ghoul was the most probable suspect, though a grave hag was also a possibility, and though neither sounded like a particularly lucrative kill, he figured a small bit of spending money was better than nothing at all.

"I have to prep before heading into town," Geralt told the girl, jerking his chin in the direction of the manor, watching as her gaze followed his indication, seeming almost bored with the sight of the grandiose building. "Grab my swords. Saddle my horse. Will you be okay heading back into Beauclair by yourself?" At this question, the girl looked quickly back at him again, seeming oddly surprised, as if she had been lost in thought and had only just been pulled back to reality. "It's a pretty long walk," Geralt added, a little put off by her unusual behaviour, but not wanting to let that on to the girl. "Especially with little feet like yours."

"You don't know," the girl answered, cheekily, rocking up onto her toes again as she responded. "I can be quite fast. I'm faster than all the boys my age."

Geralt frowned again at her comment, glancing up momentarily towards the midday sun, before looking back down at the girl with another soft, thoughtful sigh and holding out a hand, inviting her over. "Come on," he said, indicating for her to follow him. "My cook will get you something to eat. Then you can ride back to Beauclair with me. Too dangerous out there for a kid, alone."

The girl beamed brightly as the witcher extended his hand, eagerly moving the few steps to take it and walking close to his side as he began to make his way back towards the manor again. Her hands were warm and soft, he noticed, though there was no hesitation in her grip as she held his arm, following along beside him with a determination that reminded him strongly of Ciri. Ciri had gripped securely to his arm like this as well, back in the Brokilon forest, her little thin hands determined not to let go of him as they faced the unknown together, defying even the wishes of Eithné and the dryads in her refusal to leave his side. He had foolishly abandoned her once again after that, not yet ready to train a young girl such as herself, but she had not given up her determination to find him once more, and it had not been long after that that he had begun to train her as a witcher at Kaer Morhen.

Pushing open the door of the manor, Geralt held it open, allowing the girl inside, before watching with a small grin as she immediately let go of his hand to bound over to the nearest wall, staring up at the swords on display. Letting the door shut behind him, Geralt grabbed his scabbarded swords from where they hung beside the entryway, allowing the girl free reign of the front-room while he headed to the kitchen to find Marlene. Marlene was easy to apprise of the situation, and seemed excited to have another guest in the house, and so, with the girl now in capable hands, Geralt was free to head next for the master bedroom, ready to change from his house-clothes into his witcher gear for the contract ahead. He was grateful to have kept in practice changing quickly between the two, and he hummed to himself as he knotted the last taut lacing of his leather bracers, grabbing his swords off the bed again and swinging the dual scabbard over his shoulder, before securing the strap loosely across his chest and heading again for the bedroom door.

His next destination would be the library, he decided, to let Yennefer know where he was going, and that he would not be home for supper. Yennefer was still hard at work on her correspondence by the time he entered the library again, and she did not look up from her work as he crossed to stand before her at the desk, clearing his throat to get her attention. "I haven't finished, Geralt," she told him, not bothering to look up from her letter as she spoke. "If you'd like to service yourself while you smell my hair, you may do that. Just be quiet about it. And do be sure to clean up after yourself once you're done."

"I'm heading to Beauclair," Geralt announced, choosing to ignore her offer, though he could not deny it was tempting. "Got a contract. Some kind of necrophage. Probably a ghoul."

Yennefer looked up at the mention of a contract, her quill hovering a few inches above her parchment, paused in thought. "You received this between the last time you were in here and now?" she asked, a bit bewildered by the timing.

Geralt nodded. "Little girl brought it in," he said. "Walked from Beauclair to deliver it."

"A little girl?" Yennefer asked, sitting up, curiously. "You didn't let her walk back on her own, I hope?"

Geralt shook his head, adjusting his swords more securely on his back and tightening the strap across his chest. "Too far to go by herself," he answered. "Taking her back with me on Roach."

"Good," Yennefer returned, nodding her approval, flicking her quill-pen distractedly at the motion. "There are necrophages out there, after all. Probably ghouls. And where is she now, this little girl?"

"Front-room," Geralt said, jerking his head in the direction he had just come from. "Told her to wait for me. Needed to get my swords and gear." Letting out a deep sigh then, he adjusted his swords against his back again, shifting the weight so they more comfortably rested against his shoulder before tightening the strap across his chest once more. Then, patting the buckle to ensure it was secure, he looked up at Yennefer again with tired, tested eyes, letting out a weary huff as he indicated back towards the front-room again. "Is this what having kids is like?" he asked, half-joking. "Been ten minutes and I'm tired. Don't think I saw her take a breath in once."

"Oh, soldier up, Geralt," Yennefer returned, setting her quill-pen back in its inkpot and pushing her chair from the desk at last. Making her way around the table, she brushed past Geralt on her way to the door, touching his chest with one dainty hand and leaving a trail of lilac and gooseberries in her wake. Geralt breathed in the tempting aroma as she passed, turning his head to follow the scent, before starting to walk behind her to the door, keeping pace with the sorceress like a loyal dog. "It'll be much worse with yours," Yennefer continued, seeming to know full well the effect she had. "He'll likely have your stamina and Shani's smarts. He'll run circles 'round us all. At least this girl is only chatty."

"Think it'll be a boy?" Geralt asked, broken temporarily from her flowery spell.

Yennefer shrugged, resting her hand thoughtfully on the door handle, turning to glance back up at him as the unusual nature of the subject seemed to hit her for the first time as well. "I have no idea," she answered, honestly. "He would certainly be a handsome boy. But you can never say for sure with these kinds of things." She paused another moment, as if to consider what sort of child the son of her witcher husband might actually turn out to be, before letting out another soft hum and pushing the door open again, allowing them both out into the sunlit hall leading the way back to the front-room.

They could hear voices wafting through from the main room of the manor, a cheerful conversation between Marlene and the little girl, though the words were too muffled by the walls to be able to make out exactly what was being said. From the sound of things, the girl was asking Marlene questions about something of great interest, and Marlene was answering with as much honesty as she could, though Geralt could tell she was getting just as worn down by the girl's tireless curiosity as he had been when she had grilled him on witchers and unicorns out in the garden. "You go upstairs and tell Shani where you're going," Yennefer told him, indicating with a wave of her wrist in the direction of the upstairs guest room. "I'll stay down here with Marlene and the girl, see if I can't get a little more information from her about whatever's waiting for you in Beauclair. What did she say her name was?"

"Dunno," Geralt answered, frankly. "Didn't ask."

Yennefer stopped at the answer, turning in the middle of the hall to look back at Geralt with a disapproving stare, and Geralt stopped short as well, taken aback, having nearly collided with his wife in his oblivious efforts to keep moving. "You didn't ask her name?" Yennefer asked, not bothering to hide her incredulity.

Geralt shrugged, folding his arms at the question, still not seeing what he had done wrong. "She didn't offer," he answered, honestly.

Yennefer scowled at his blunt response, before letting out another tired sigh and turning back again, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder as she began to lead the way down the hall again. "I hope this isn't how you intend to treat your own child," she told him, half-exasperated. "A child is a person. They should be addressed by name."

"Hm," Geralt answered. "Pretty sure I'll know my son's name."

"I certainly hope so," Yennefer agreed. "And—" Turning again, she stopped the witcher once more in his tracks, this time holding up a scolding finger to point knowingly into his face. "Just so we're clear, Roach is not a proper name for a child," she told him, firmly.

Geralt grunted, a thin smirk lifting the corners of his mouth at the knowing joke. "No," he answered, shaking his head. "Roach is a girl's name."

Yennefer huffed at the comment, trying hard to hide a wry smile of her own, before turning back in the direction of the front-room and waving again for Geralt to follow behind. "I don't know why I married you," she told him, though the fond lilt in her voice clearly said otherwise. "Just… tell Shani where you're going, and try to come back from this contract within a reasonable time, if you would. I've still got letters that need writing so we can get this clinic up and running. We need medical supplies brought in, and to commission signage to let people know there's a clinic here at the estate and lead them here from town." Glancing over her shoulder at Geralt, she raised her brows, hopeful for his input. "Perhaps you could look into that while you're in Beauclair?" she asked. "Get an estimate for how much it will cost."

"Sure," Geralt answered. "I'll add it to my list. Kill ghoul, buy paint."

"And candles, while you're at it," Yennefer added, having none of his sarcasm. "Lavender, if you would. For the smell. If not for the clinic, then for you. You'll frighten away half her patrons before she's even had a chance to treat them."

Geralt snorted at the jab, feeling he likely deserved it, turning his golden gaze down to concede defeat as he followed Yennefer the rest of the way into the sunlit front-room. The smell of fresh food was a welcome aroma as they emerged into the dining-hall at last, and Geralt gladly stood back, watching as his wife approached the table where the girl now sat, eating clumsily with a fork and knife too large for her little hands. Her buckled shoes jingled as her little legs kicked beneath the table, too short to touch the floor, and Geralt grinned softly as Yennefer pulled out a chair to sit beside the girl, speaking in a low voice as she suggested a few things from the table for the child to eat. It felt strange to have so many people in their house at once, he thought, but he supposed that was the way Yennefer liked it – vibrant, full of life, surrounded by people whose presence she had chosen to make her own.

Geralt observed the two for another moment longer, savouring the touching scene, before deciding it would be best to allow them their privacy and instead turning to make his way to the guest bedroom, following Yennefer's instructions to let the doctor know where he was going.

Shani was rearranging her bookshelf as the witcher arrived to her room, carefully sliding a hefty tome from the top shelf before setting it back on another, and Geralt paused at the top of the stairs to watch her, trying to decipher the order she had chosen for her texts. It had to be strange for her, he thought, to have suddenly so much time to spend on herself; for as long as he had known Shani, she had always dedicated a majority of her time to those in need, paying little mind to her own interests past the practice and application of medicine. The thought of having so much free time now had to be maddening for the young doctor, and Geralt wondered if he might ask Barnabas-Basil to inquire in town to see if there were any medical dilemmas Shani could lend her hand to, if only to give her some small distraction from her current anxiety.

The idea was pushed from his mind at the thought of how Yennefer might react to it, however, and Geralt quickly shook his head, clearing it before looking up at Shani again. While he supposed he could understand why Yennefer felt the way she did, he still could not help his guilt at how very stifled Shani seemed around the house, as well as the look on the doctor's face whenever he caught her wandering downstairs, looking for something to fill her time. It was only a fleeting look, one she would quickly correct when spotted, but one which nonetheless made it clear she was trying her hardest to politely avoid her hosts, for fear of being gathered up, swaddled in warm blankets again, and provided with yet another cup of vitamin-enriched tea.

That was the look she gave Geralt as she finally glanced up to see him standing at the top of the stairs, but the witcher quickly raised a hand, assuring her that he only came in peace. "Just me," he told her, half-amused by the reaction of terror the prospect of his wife's doting instilled. "Didn't mean to scare you. Just came to talk."

Shani settled immediately at the reassurance, wedging the heavy volume between two smaller books, before wiping her hands on the front of her outfit and turning to face her visitor instead. "I don't mean to seem ungrateful," she told him, truthfully, letting out a soft sigh as she crossed the room to her bed, sitting down and sliding over to make room for him to sit as well. "I appreciate everything you and Yennefer have done. I just feel like all I ever do anymore is eat, sleep, and pee. Especially pee. I'm beginning to feel a bit like a baby, myself."

Geralt smirked at the description, moving across the room to sit down where Shani had indicated, letting out a long, tired breath as he settled down onto the soft comforter of the guest bed beside her. "Might want to see a doctor about that," he told her, causing her to chuckle in spite of herself, the sound good to hear. Stretching out his legs in front of him, Geralt folded his hands between his knees, taking a moment to look around the room as he tried to think of what else he could say; he had never been much good with empty reassurances, and he knew telling Shani that Yennefer only wanted what was best for her would fall flat on the doctor's anxious ears. Looking over to the corner of the room then, Geralt grunted, noticing for the first time that the two extra decorative couches that had once sat there had been taken out, leaving an empty square of floor-space just large enough to fit a rather elaborate crib.

"You and Yen pick out a crib yet?" he asked, looking over at Shani again.

Shani paused, her gaze seeming oddly distant as she stared at the empty spot on the floor, before she shook her head, tucking a lock of stray red hair behind her ear. "Not yet," she answered, sounding very tired, as if even the thought of picking out a crib was not one she was ready to face just yet. "I'm still settling in, Geralt. I haven't even finished putting my books away."

"From the number of times I've heard you rearranging them, I would've guessed you'd put them away several times by now," Geralt answered, causing Shani to look up at him in surprise at the comment. She faltered, trying to decipher his tone, before realizing he was joking with her and offering a soft, embarrassed chuckle in response.

"Can't get anything past a witcher," she conceded, clasping her hands together in her lap. Then, having said this, she fell silent again, staring down first at her dainty feet, and then over towards the far end of the room, her gaze resting somewhere past the wardrobe and bookshelf that stood shoulder-to-shoulder against the wall. "Did you really think I was lying when I said I was pregnant?" she asked after a moment, causing Geralt to look up in surprise at the question, having not expected it to come up again after their conversation about it a few days earlier. Shani paused a moment after speaking, her pretty brow furrowing faintly in thought, before she turned to look over at Geralt again, her hazel eyes soft, but clearly tired.

"I can understand being sceptical," she told him. "I would be sceptical too, in your shoes. But I don't think I've ever lied to you, Geralt. Did you really think that would change… for this?"

"Didn't think you were lying," Geralt answered, honestly, hoping to cut the uncomfortable conversation short. "Thought maybe you were mistaken. Seemed too strange to be true. Still not wholly convinced it's mine."

To Geralt's surprise, Shani let out a soft, sharp bark of wounded laughter at his response, pressing a hand to her chest as she looked quickly away from the witcher again. "I'm not sure who else's you expect it to be," she said, sounding amazed that he had spoken so plainly, and Geralt immediately felt his stomach drop, realizing he had made yet another thoughtless mistake.

"That's not what I meant," Geralt amended, gruffly, cursing himself for his tactless reply. "Just not sure I buy the idea that some novice was able to reverse the effects of the Trials with guesswork. Took two renowned mages decades of research to create the basis for the mutations in the first place. The idea that two scientists working out of a college laboratory could undo that with a few years' research—"

"Well, why not?" Shani asked, cutting him off as she turned to look over at him again. Her voice was still soft, but there was a challenge there, one Geralt found he was hesitant to speak against, and he faltered, unsure if he should respond or if it would be wiser to simply walk away. "What makes you think the Trials are so infallible?" Shani insisted, a certain curiosity entering her tone now. "From a medical standpoint, the failure rate tells me that there was still a lot of imperfect guesswork that went into the final product."

Geralt huffed at the argument. "From a medical standpoint, I shouldn't exist," he answered, bluntly. "My heart beats four times slower than a normal human's. I'm immune to most disease. I can ingest certain poisons and it does nothing to me."

"True," Shani agreed, nodding along with his observations. "You're very different from a normal human, Geralt. But that doesn't mean it can't ever be reversed. You didn't start out that way, after all."

Geralt frowned at the comment, letting out a short grunt, not sure he liked where the conversation was going. "Came across the lab of a man, once," he said, his brow furrowing deeper, the memory still as fresh in his mind as the day he had witnessed it for the first time. "Tried to reverse the witcher mutations in his son. Trapped him in a cage. Subjected him to experiments." He hummed at the thought, the sound deep in his throat, before turning his golden gaze to look down at his boots again, pressing his palms flat together in his lap as he thinned his lips into a hard, grave line. "Didn't work," he said, solemnly, shaking his head. "Only enhanced the mutations already present further, faster. Once they're in place, they're there forever. You can't unmutate something. Only mutate it more."

"I see," Shani answered, sounding entirely unfazed. "And what makes you so sure that isn't exactly what the potion did? Mutate you further, to the point of reinvigorating whatever the initial mutations rendered moot?"

Geralt stared at the floor at the question, his brow furrowed, expression steeled. He had nothing to say to her; there was logic in her argument, undeniable logic, but for some reason he could not shake a deeply discomforting feeling from his mind at the thought. Standing from the bed, he turned to face Shani again, ignoring her look of surprise at the fact that he was walking away in the middle of their conversation. "Heading to Beauclair," he told her, indicating with a jerk of his head towards the stairs. "Got a contract. Ghoul, most likely. Need anything before I leave?"

Shani hesitated, her pink lips thinning, as if considering asking him to stay and finish their discussion. Then, letting out a soft sigh, she crossed her dainty wrists over her knee, before shaking her head, offering him a shrug of her tired shoulders instead. "I'll be fine, Geralt," she told him. "Don't worry about me. I'm a doctor, remember?"

"Even doctors need help sometimes," Geralt returned.

Shani chuckled at the comment, the sound somewhat forced, though still clearly genuine. "I'll be fine," she repeated, more insistently this time. "Go to Beauclair, Geralt. Finish your contract. Maybe you can pick me up some candles in town, if you have time."

"Hm," Geralt grunted, dryly. "Lavender?"

Shani blinked at the question, having clearly not expected it. "Yeah," she finally said, sounding a bit bewildered. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess," Geralt answered, shrugging and adjusting his swords again.

---

The front-room was nearly empty as Geralt returned from Shani's bedroom loft, with only Barnabas-Basil standing patiently by the manor door, holding a mid-sized leather satchel as he waited for the witcher to return. As soon as Geralt approached him, the majordomo stepped forward, handing the satchel over, and Geralt peered curiously into the bag, looking to see what he had been given. "Miss Marlene wanted to make sure the girl had enough to eat on the ride back to town," Barnabas-Basil explained, causing Geralt to look up again from the satchel of prepared food with a slightly bemused expression. "I told her it was less than a day's ride, but she insisted. The girl has quite an appetite, so I'm told."

"Hm," Geralt answered, slinging the satchel over his shoulder. "Kids will eat you out of house and home. That's what they say."

"That's none of my business, sir," Barnabas-Basil returned. "Regardless, I've saddled up your horse and prepared her for your travels. She's waiting in the stable, along with your young guest." Letting out a tired sigh then, the majordomo leaned forward a bit, allowing Geralt to momentarily glimpse the sleepless bags forming around his patient eyes. "The girl insisted on waiting out there until you arrived," Barnabas-Basil added, long-sufferingly. "I told her it was fine so long as she didn't touch anything. I can neither confirm nor deny whether she kept her word on that."

"Thanks, Barnabas," Geralt answered, offering him a nod for his hard work. "Take care of the place until I get back."

"As always, sir," Barnabas-Basil returned, pushing the door open to allow Geralt outside.

The sun had already climbed high in the sky by the time Geralt stepped out into the courtyard, and he shaded his eyes against its rays as he looked out over the vineyard again, finding it hard to shake Shani's words from his mind, as well as Yennefer's. This was the safest place in the world for Shani right now, under his and Yennefer's watchful care, and the grounds of Corvo Bianco were a paradise for any child to grow and play in – but he knew he could not force Shani to stay if she truly wished to take her child and leave once it was born. It was probably better that way, he told himself; he was hardly fit to be a father anyway, and any child raised between himself and Yennefer was sure to turn into an insufferable brat.

Letting out a soft sigh, Geralt turned his gaze to the stables instead, dropping his hand to his side as he began to head in the direction of his waiting steed. He could hear Roach blustering softly as he approached, overlapped by the sound of quiet conversation, and he picked up his pace, determined to stop any pestering of his horse before it had a chance to go too far. Just as he had expected, the girl had not listened to a word Barnabas-Basil had said, and had instead taken up a post at Roach's side, running her little hands repeatedly over the horse's soft coat. Roach flicked her ears as she saw Geralt approaching, lifting her head to greet the witcher, before dropping her muzzle into his gloved hands and nudging his chest with her velvety nose.

"She's a very pretty horse," the girl said, looking up at Geralt, as if she were now the determining judge of such things.

"Roach doesn't like strangers touching her," Geralt answered, firmly, running a reassuring hand down the chestnut's sleek neck. To his surprise, Roach seemed less perturbed by the girl's presence than he might have expected, as if she had hardly noticed the child petting her at all; small hands made little impression, he guessed, though he had always thought children to be the most heavy-handed of anyone. Roach snorted at the witcher's touch, bobbing her head, before nudging his cheek affectionately with her nose, and Geralt grinned at the contact, taking her head in one gloved hand, before clicking his tongue softly, letting her know she was in trustworthy hands again.

"Roach?" the girl asked, taking a few steps back to watch the two. "Like the fish? That's an awful name for a horse. Might as well have just called her 'Fish'."

Geralt grunted, watching as Roach tossed her head in his grasp, letting out a soft huff before nuzzling her nose next into his wintery hair. "Roach sounds better," he answered, not in the mood to argue the name of his horse. Then, with one last pet to Roach's muzzle, he turned, crouching to the girl's level, letting out a tired breath and holding out his arms, ready to lift her into the saddle. "Time to head out," he told her, gruffly. "Come on."

Just as before, the girl did not argue this unceremonious offer either, stepping forward to be lifted by the witcher as easily as she had taken his hand to follow him into the house. Picking her up under the arms, Geralt lifted her easily off the ground, placing her squarely in the back of the saddle and making sure her legs were secure on either side of the horse. Then, satisfied that she was safe, he hooked his boot into Roach's stirrup, pulling himself onto the saddle as well and settling in in front of the girl, before pulling gently on Roach's reigns, causing the horse to bluster to attention.

"Hang on," Geralt told the girl, glancing back to make sure she was listening. "Don't want you falling off."

"Hang onto what?" the girl insisted, kicking her little legs on either side of Roach, causing her shoe-buckles to jingle excitedly and Geralt to clench his jaw. It was amazing, he thought, how so simple a sound could grate so thoroughly on his nerves. "Hang onto you? But you're too fat. My arms won't go around."

Geralt sighed at the answer, regretting immediately his misguided attempt at good will. "Then do the best you can," he told her, speaking through gritted teeth. Pulling on Roach's reigns again, he turned the mare towards the stable doors, squeezing her sides gently to coax her out into the vineyard, before steering her towards the path that led to the road into Beauclair. Roach blustered as she trotted the cobbled pathways of Corvo Bianco, tossing her silky mane in the sunlight as she flicked her ears happily in the warm spring breeze.

"My name is Rosie," the girl suddenly spoke again, leaning around Geralt to address him. Geralt ignored her, keeping his attention on his horse and the road ahead. "The sorceress told me to tell you that," Rosie continued, undeterred by his seeming indifference. "And to make sure you called me by it as well."

"Rosie?" Geralt asked, giving a light snap of Roach's reigns. The horse blustered, picking up her pace, tossing her head as she felt her hooves leave the cobblestones and find familiar dirt again.

"Hm," Geralt grunted. "That's an awful name. Might as well have just called you 'Flower'."

---

The rain had begun to come down in torrents by the time night fell on Orlémurs Cemetery, the howling of the wind in the witcher's ears the first sign that he should open his eyes from his meditation and prepare his sword for the night's events. The small stone archway of the cemetery was hardly enough to provide shelter from the bitter onslaught of the driving rain, but Geralt dared not move from his chosen post, not wanting to miss the corpse-eater, should it decide to make an appearance that night. The wet and the cold were little bother to ghouls and grave hags, Geralt knew; the wet soil was ideal for their purposes, making it easy for them to dig up the tasty corpses buried deep beneath the dirt, a difficult task in dry earth, but one which was made much easier with the application of rain.

It was a bleak and grotesque point of view, the witcher knew, but if standing in the rain meant he could rid the world of one more ghoul or grave hag, he did not mind being the one tasked with enduring it.

Geralt looked up as a flash of lightning split the sky, accompanied moments later by a mighty crash of thunder, and he frowned, looking out over the graveyard, his golden eyes flashing as he honed in on what he could swear was a flicker of movement from between the graves. A few seconds later, another blast of lightning spiderwebbed across the sky, illuminating the cemetery enough to see that something was indeed lumbering between the graves – something large, and distinctly nonhuman.

Drawing his sword from the sheathe at his back, Geralt began to weave his way through the rain-slick headstones, barely flinching as the bitter wind whipped his hair around his face, stinging his eyes. A frigid breeze pushed a sheet of icy rain over his skin as he walked, chilling him through to the bone, but he only lifted his sword higher, feeling his breath catch as another flash of lightning glinted off the silver of his blade, throwing an arc of light over the graveyard and silhouetting for the first time the hunched, black outline of a creature hiding behind one of the tombstones. The back of the creature rippled and writhed as it feasted, the sound of snarling, squelching, and the crunching of bones trickling through the rain to his sensitive ears, and the witcher took another few steps forward, lifting his sword at the ready as he approached, ready to spring a surprise attack on the beast before it had a chance to look up from its meal.

From a distance, the beast looked to be a ghoul, just as he had suspected. It was about the size and shape of a ghoul, and it walked on all fours like a ghoul, with twisted, meaty arms like that of a man, and talons like the feet of an enormous bird of prey. Its claws were twice the length of a child's hand, curving to the dirt like wicked knives, and its hind legs were muscular, built like the legs of a wild dog. Its head was like that of a hideous, misshapen man, with a gaping, snarling maw, filled with rotten, razor-sharp teeth, lethal enough to cause sepsis and death in a man with a single bite.

As Geralt took another step closer to the creature, he suddenly paused, taken aback, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword as he began to notice, for the first time, discrepancies in the creature's appearance, details that had not been clearly visible from only a few paces back. He could see now the spikes protruding from the creature's head, trailing down its neck, its spine, and down its back, as well as its unusual colour, which he had earlier attributed to the darkness of the night, but which he now realized was no fluke. Whereas most ghouls and alghouls were brown or dappled, this one was completely pitch black, and Geralt could feel his stomach twist with anxiety and disgust at the sight of the creature, his heartbeat spiking a few beats in his chest as another flash of lightning threw the beast into sharp relief, revealing its gruesomely massive form to the witcher for the first full time.

It was an alghoul, but not one like any he had seen before. On even ground, its head would have reached to Roach's shoulder, its grotesque, quadrupedal form nearly as long as the grave on which it now rested, gorging itself on the last pieces of a corpse that would have taken a normal alghoul at least three days to devour. Not only that, but, as he took another step closer to the creature, Geralt realized why it had appeared to be of such a reasonable size at a further distance: the alghoul, it seemed, had dug itself a hole down into the grave where it now sat, feasting on the corpse that had once lain within. It appeared that the beast had at first intended to dig up the grave in its entirety, but once it realized it was not a shallow grave like those usually found on a battlefield, it had decided to dig only where the head of the coffin would be, then break it open like an oyster shell and pull the body out.

The idea that any necrophage could have gained such intelligence to formulate a plan like that was beyond unsettling, even for the witcher, and he found his mind consumed with the thought as he stared at the creature, unable to move. He wondered if that was how this particular alghoul had managed to grow so large, its intelligence giving it an extra edge that others of its species lacked, allowing it to grow grotesquely bloated and massive through years of cunning and wile. The thought of an enlightened alghoul was so morbidly captivating to Geralt that he did not even notice as his sword began to grow slack in his hand, until another crack of thunder suddenly wracked the blackened sky, a whipping howl of torrential wind causing the creature to look up from its ghastly meal at last, its beady red eyes instantly coming to rest on the witcher as it realized for the first time that it was not alone.

The alghoul screamed at the sight of its adversary, its spines protruding swiftly from its back in one slick, metallic-sounding motion, and Geralt could hear the familiar rattling hiss over the pounding of the rain, the sound like the clattering of a thousand bones as the spines vibrated against one another on its back, an intimidation display that gave no time to warn before the attack. A second later, the alghoul sprang from the grave, using the headstone as a launching-board to vault itself in the direction of the witcher, leaving him barely a second to drop and manoeuvre out of the way of the creature's massive claws before the monster made ground. The alghoul skidded as it landed against the muddy soil, handling its enormous body against the challenge of the mire with terrifying ease, the lightning flashing overhead reflecting off the creature's colossal, thorny form as it arched its crooked, shapeless back, hissing at the witcher as its forest of spines gave another chilling rattle.

"Missed me," Geralt leered at the creature, holding up his sword, challenging it to try again. The alghoul screeched at the challenge, before immediately stampeding forward towards the witcher again, its deadly claws ripping up dirt and grass as it ran. This time, however, Geralt was ready for it, and as the creature leapt for him, he ducked, swinging his sword towards the monster's belly, hearing the satisfying scream of the alghoul at the bite of silver across its skin. The necrophage oil he had coated the blade with hissed and sizzled as it ate away at the creature's rotten flesh, and the alghoul tumbled as it hit the ground, its substantial form causing the earth beneath their feet to shake as it skidded and rolled, only stopping when it collided with a gravestone halfway across the cemetery.

The heavy headstone snapped clean in half as the necrophage slammed up against it, and the alghoul howled in anger as it writhed to its deadly feet again, twisting its body around to face the witcher and rattling its spines once more. Geralt swung his sword around, taunting the creature to come in closer, and the alghoul snarled, starting to circle, before racing forward once more with an inhuman screech, lowering its head in an attempt to skewer the witcher on one of its wicked spines. Geralt rolled out of the way of the oncoming attack, jabbing out again with his sword at the creature, managing to catch the muscle of its hind leg with the tip of his sword, and the alghoul howled as the oil burned its flesh again, kicking out with its strong hind leg and catching the witcher in the jaw.

Geralt barked with pain as the clawed foot connected, sparing a second to ensure his jaw was not broken, but he did not have time to dwell before the creature turned, lashing out at him again with its monstrous talons. Grabbing the nearest tombstone, Geralt vaulted over the top, ducking down behind the stone as the creature's claw made impact, the sound of stone shattering causing Geralt to flinch as a chunk of carved rock was knocked from the top of the headstone at the strike of the alghoul's talons. The alghoul screamed, rattling its spines, and Geralt clenched his fist, preparing a sign, before quickly jumping to his feet and expending a blast of Igni into the creature's ugly face. The alghoul yelped, and then screeched, shaking the fiery blast easily from its face, before lashing out at the witcher again with its massive claws, causing Geralt to leap back to avoid being caught in its strike.

"That the best you can do?" Geralt growled, letting out a hoarse huff of a taunting laugh. The alghoul shrieked, pounding its claws against the dirt, before it suddenly reached forward, grabbing hold of another tombstone, and, with one swift, strong motion, yanking the heavy slab completely free of the muddy earth. Looking up at the witcher again, the alghoul howled, holding up the stone, before launching the slab in his direction, causing the witcher to have to duck and roll out of the way to avoid being hit as the solid stone block came hurtling towards him.

Leaping to his feet again, Geralt breathed heavily, brandishing his weapon, staring in shock between the stone and the alghoul. He had never seen an alghoul use any sort of provisional weapon before, nothing but teeth and claws, and the idea that this one knew enough to use its surroundings to its advantage was not a thought he had wanted to entertain – but it was one he now found would be impossible to ignore if he wished to keep his life even one night longer.

"Damnit," Geralt swore, looking around for something he could use. The alghoul hissed, baring its teeth, before it began to charge in his direction again, and Geralt swung at the creature's chest, feeling the satisfying bite as the metal made contact with the creature's skin. The alghoul howled as the oil burned its skin, swiping out at the sword with its claws, before leaping back several feet away from the reach of the blade. Geralt moved forward, swinging his blade, backing the alghoul against a tree, taking a mighty swing towards one of its front legs as the creature snarled at him, trapped against the trunk.

The blade bit deep in the monster's flesh this time, carving a sizzling wound from its muscular bicep, and the alghoul screamed, swiping out towards the blade with its claw, before starting to climb up into the tree, using its sharp talons and muscular legs to propel it up into the branches. Geralt swore again, squinting up into the swaying leaves, barely able to make out the form of the alghoul against the gnarled, thrashing branches, the wind and rain whipping the plant into an effervescent frenzy. He could hear the sound of the alghoul's snarls, but where the sound was coming from was impossible to tell – until a second later, when he found himself knocked to the ground by the weight of the creature's body, pinned to the muddy earth as the alghoul launched itself from the branches of the tree, again using its surroundings to give it the upper hand against the witcher.

Geralt yelled, grasping blindly for his sword, which had been knocked clean from his hand by the impact of the alghoul against his chest. Then, looking up, he instead twisted quickly out of the way as the alghoul snapped at his head with its jaws, trying to bite the witcher's face clean off. Geralt kicked, trying to push the creature off, but the weight of the alghoul was far more impressive than the power of his kicks. He gritted his teeth, glaring up at the monster, before balling his hand into a fist and instead punching the creature squarely across the mouth. He could hear the satisfying crack of metal against bone as the studded knuckles of his glove made impact with the monster's ragged jaw, and the alghoul screeched, its black tongue lolling out, before it staggered, momentarily stunned, allowing Geralt just enough time to push himself out from under its weight, rolling to his sword and grabbing it up before pushing himself back up to his feet.

Letting out another wounded hiss, the alghoul retreated a few paces, before it began to circle the witcher, crouching low to the ground, its tar-black form nearly invisible against the darkened mud. A crack of lightning across the sky illuminated the alghoul's form, but the darkness that followed nearly swallowed it up entirely, to Geralt's surprise, and he turned quickly, gripping his sword, listening for the sound of the creature's rattle, or some squelch in the mud from its heavy claws. There was no way he could have lost a monster that large in a cemetery this small, he thought – though alghouls were intelligent, they were not stealth creatures. There was something different about this alghoul, however, and he found he could not shake the paranoid sensation that it might be even smarter than any other alghoul he had yet come across, and might in fact have more and better tactics than he had prepared for, coming into this fight.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the graveyard, and Geralt quickly turned on his heel, searching the shadows of the headstones for some sign of the missing alghoul, but somehow, the massive creature had vanished into the darkness of the rainy night. Geralt frowned, keeping his silver at the ready, but the patter of rain on the muddy stones was the only sound he could hear over the steady beating of his heart in his ears. Moving to the grave where he had first found the alghoul, he peered down into the slurried dirt, wondering if he should hide and wait for the creature to return for the remainder of its meal – but the thought had not even finished crossing his mind when he suddenly felt something grab hold of his boot from down in the mud, yanking him off his feet and dragging him down with a familiar, bone-chilling shriek.

The weight of the alghoul's razor-sharp claws dug into the flesh of his heel as he struggled and kicked, fighting to get free, wrapping his arms around the tombstone and thrashing with all his might to try to shake the creature off. A moment later, he felt his boot connect, and the alghoul gave a sharp squawk behind him as it was pushed back into the mud by the impact of his kick. "Teach you to fuck with a witcher," Geralt growled, letting out a gruff, bitter bark of a laugh, starting to drag himself from the pull of the mud again, but he did not have time to revel in his victory before he suddenly felt the crunch of the alghoul's powerful jaw close around the flesh of his calf, the creature's teeth nearly puncturing his armour, leaving painful indents he was sure would be bruises come morning.

Letting out another sharp cry, Geralt kicked at the creature's face again, only to find that his fight with the monster had only just begun. A sudden, harder jerk on his legs knocked the wind from him entirely, causing his sword to slip from his muddy hand at the unexpected shock, skidding away in the dirt just out of reach as he was yanked back towards the grave again. Twisting around, Geralt saw that the alghoul had climbed out of the hole by now, and was instead attempting to push the witcher down into the mire, intent on drowning him in the dirt.

Geralt could taste rotten flesh in his mouth as he was sucked down into the blackened soil, the driving rain pushing him ever deeper into the mud as he fought in vain to escape. The mutilated remnants of the carcass the alghoul had been devouring mixed in with the dirt as it pulled him under, and he spat, coughing, hoping he had not managed to swallow some part of the unfortunate corpse in his struggling. "Get OFF me, you mutated fuck!" Geralt howled, writhing against the alghoul's grip, but that only seemed to make it more determined than ever to entomb him in the rotten, blackened mud. He coughed again, spitting and thrashing as a half-liquefied, murky-grey eyeball began to swim its way towards his face, the unfortunate corpse's half-eaten ear sticking to his armour as he scrambled for a handhold on either side of the grave.

He gasped for breath, pushing his head for a moment above the dirt, only to find his reprieve short-lived as the alghoul pushed him back down again, this time pressing its full body weight against his chest in an attempt to keep him under. He could feel the monster's curved talons scrape against his chest as they pierced through his cuirass and into his gambeson, the sickly wet weight of the rain-soaked soil engulfing him as he was pushed down into the mud, his lungs burning for air he had not had a chance to fully take in. Geralt thrashed, kicking his legs uselessly against the weight of the monster on top of him, before he suddenly got a desperate idea, and, throwing both hands from the mud, he clenched his teeth, focusing all his might into a frantic Aard sign. A second later, an explosion of energy ripped from his hands, throwing the creature and half the mud and gore surrounding him back from the grave, freeing his mouth and nose at last for him to take a desperate, gasping breath.

The alghoul tumbled over its spines with a shriek of confusion and anger, before skidding to a halt in the mud again, righting itself with a kick of its mighty hind legs and turning to face the witcher once more. Taking only a second to wipe the mud and gore from his eyes, Geralt pulled himself quickly from the detonated gravesite, picking up his sword and swinging it around again to attack position, before facing the alghoul again, breathing heavily as rain poured into his eyes and over his ragged armour.

"Come and get me, you ugly son of a bitch," Geralt growled, spitting mud from between his teeth.

The alghoul screamed at the taunt, baring its own rotten maw, before starting to barrel towards the witcher again, but this time, Geralt was ready. When the beast was close enough that he could see its beady eyes, he threw out a hand, blasting the alghoul with another dose of Igni, and the alghoul screeched, stopping in its tracks to bat the flames from its grisly face. Taking the opportunity, Geralt swung his sword at the monster, slicing through the top of the creature's neck, only to jolt as he felt the blade hit something hard beneath the skin, stopping it a third of the way through decapitating the beast.

The alghoul howled in rage at the wound, jerking back to try to dislodge the sword, only to find that it had gotten stuck, wedged into whatever was beneath its skin. The hissing and bubbling of the necrophage oil was nearly drowning out the alghoul's cries, the acrid smell of burning flesh almost overwhelmingly noxious to the witcher's senses as it ate its way through the monster's neck. Giving another hard pull of his sword, Geralt attempted to yank it free, only to have the monster lash out at him with its claws, ripping another hole through the side of his cuirass. Geralt swore at the newest tear, before giving one last yank on the blade, finally managing to wrest it free from whatever had trapped it inside the creature's neck. Then, swinging again, he aimed for a spot a bit closer to the creature's skull, only for the blade to once again only go about a third of the way through before it was stopped short by a solid mass just beneath the skin.

Geralt swore again at the obstruction, louder this time, bracing a boot against the howling monster as he worked to wrest his sword loose from its putrid, melting flesh once more. "You're hard to fucking kill," Geralt panted, staggering back again with his once-more freed sword. "I've got a solution for that." The alghoul screamed, rattling its spines at the witcher again, and Geralt growled back at the monster, no longer intimidated. Then, lunging for the witcher, the alghoul pounced, ready to pin him to the ground and devour him, but Geralt quickly dropped to the muddy ground, sliding underneath the monster with his sword pointed upward, bracing his blade in his hands as it made brutal contact, splitting the creature from neck to pelvis in one sleek, grisly motion.

Knocked from its leap, the alghoul dropped like a stone, howling and rolling over onto its side as its putrid entrails began to slip from its gruesome body, splattering one at a time onto the muddy soil. Its rotten, inky-black skin sizzled in the rain as the oil ate away at its insides, and it struggled to its feet, turning to the witcher, one of its back legs slipping on its own intestine as it shrieked at him again, weakly rattling its spines in a last attempt at an intimidation display. Geralt panted, wiping mud from his face, holding his sword at the ready again, just in case the creature was in the mood for one more round, but it seemed it had used up the last of its energy. With one last gurgling, guttural snarl at the witcher, the alghoul collapsed, its eyes rolling back as its long black tongue lolled out gruesomely into the blood-soaked dirt.

Geralt held still for another moment longer, not sure if he trusted the creature to truly be dead, holding his sword in attack position as he took a few cautious steps forward towards the grisly corpse. The monster looked dead, truly – its stomach and intestines were lying in a puddle on the ground beside its mangled body, its spines laying slack, mouth open, eyes glassy and devoid of life. It did not move as Geralt approached, and when he reached out with his sword to nudge it, testing to see if it were truly dead, it did not react, its lifeless head merely rolling to one side as he pushed it over with the tip of his blade. Satisfied that the creature was truly dead, Geralt sheathed his sword at his back, before setting to inspecting the damage the monster had done, running his hands over his ruined cuirass with a heavy, aggravated sigh.

The amount it would cost to replace this armour, especially with an upgraded version that would hold up better against attacks like these, was far more than the amount he would be earning with this kill, and he was sure Yennefer would have something to say about his carelessness in destroying this set whenever he returned home to Corvo Bianco. Leaning down to inspect the place where the beast had bitten down, hard, on his leg-armour, he let out a low, irritated growl, realizing that part would also have to be replaced before his next contract, if he could find the spare coin to do so. "Fuck," he swore, quietly, wiping mud from the ragged greaves. Then, standing again, he frowned down at the alghoul, before turning to give the lifeless body one last, spiteful kick, glad no one was around to witness his moment of petty retaliation.

Letting out another tired sigh, Geralt lifted his fingers to his lips, whistling shrilly across the graveyard, the sound piercingly loud, even over the sound of the driving rain. "I'm getting too old for this shit," he muttered, watching with a weary stare as Roach's form began to slowly take shape through the murk of the rain, the mare bobbing her head and lifting her hooves in disapproval as she splashed through the muddy graveyard soil. Roach blustered as she approached her master, stepping carefully over the grisly corpse of the alghoul, and Geralt clicked his tongue, petting her nose, appreciative for her loyalty.

"At least you're always here for me," he told the horse, earning a shake of her wet mane in return. Hooking his muddy boot into her stirrup, he pulled himself up into the saddle, tugging gently on her reigns and clicking his tongue again to coax her to turn and start back towards Beauclair. Roach whinnied, stamping her muddy hooves a few times, before doing as she was told, starting at an uncertain trot, but picking up speed as they passed through the tiny stone arch of the graveyard, making their way to the dirt road again. "Let's get paid," Geralt suggested to the horse, earning a soft bluster in return from Roach. "Then let's find someplace warm to wait out this rain. I'm sure you'd be happy to have somewhere to lay your head."

He was glad he had Roach to talk to – she hardly ever judged or scolded him, and whenever she did, it was always for something he felt was genuinely earned. Now, however, she only seemed as intent as he was to get out of the rain, and he leaned low to her saddle, offering as little wind resistance as possible as she galloped her way towards the light of the city. "Fucking thing nearly killed me, Roach," he told the horse, squeezing his knees to her rain-slicked sides. "They want that alghoul's head, they can get it themselves. I did my part." Roach snorted in response to this, a gesture Geralt took as agreement, though he knew the horse did not know enough of his language to truly understand. Reaching out a hand, he patted the side of the horse's neck, earning another soft bluster in return.

"Good girl," he told her, grinning down at his faithful companion.