Ciri's description of Marchen as a small town had been an understatement, Geralt soon discovered. It had been difficult enough for him to find his way back to Murky Waters, despite having been there once before, but gaining directions to the even smaller hamlet to the south had proven nearly impossible. He had eventually found luck at the tavern, getting directions from a friendly drifter at the bar, and he set out again with his destination fresh in his mind, making a note of every rock and tree the traveller had mentioned.
The road to Marchen was winding and treacherous, leading the witcher over a rickety bridge that had not seen repair in quite some time, before narrowing to barely a dusty ribbon, causing Roach to toss her mane uneasily at the tightening path. "Easy, girl," Geralt coaxed, giving the mare a gentle pull on her reigns. Roach blustered, giving her head another wary shake, before laying her ears flat, keeping her head low as the path began to gather with looming branches. Ciri had warned Geralt of the forest around the town, but even that was not enough to quell his uneasiness at the sight of it – the trees grew unnervingly close together here, so close that it would be difficult for him to pick a path through it, but easy enough for any manner of beast or bandit to hide with little fear of detection.
Geralt clicked his tongue, reassuring Roach, unable to help wondering if he was doing it for his own sake as well. Then, focusing his senses on the woods around him, he listened for any sign of monsters approaching. The forest was silent as they rode through, eerily deadened to any of the usual sounds of nature, with no chirping of birds or chittering of squirrels to break the wail of the wind rustling thinly through the leaves. Geralt had only ever heard forests go quiet like this when a leshen or other powerful creature took up residence there, but he was certain whatever was causing this particular disturbance was no mere leshen or penitent. It would be easy to hear music coming from these woods, he thought, with no other sounds to compete with it, though he now found himself wondering where that music had gone, if the creature still resided here, as Ciri had said.
It was possible the creature was merely asleep, he figured, though he knew that possibility was too innocent to be true. More likely, he thought, the only purpose of the music had been to draw in a witness, some unsuspecting innocent to report back on the creature's presence, thereby luring other curious victims into its sinister snare.
"Damn woods," Geralt swore, turning his head as a rustle from the treeline caught his attention – but it was only a bird hunting for a worm in a pile of leaves, and he let out a sharp huff, his nerves thoroughly rattled. It seemed nature did still exist here in some way, but the animals had all been rendered silent by whatever else resided in the woods, either from fear of the creature itself, or for some other, more troubling reason.
The rickety signpost with its faded lettering announcing his arrival to Marchen was a welcome sight, and Geralt gladly steered Roach through the weather-worn gate, making his way for the nearest tavern. The hamlet itself, he quickly realized, was barely the size of a mining-camp, and as he made his way towards the heart of the tiny town, he began to see just how accurate that assessment was. The entire village of Marchen, it seemed, had been built to surround an active charcoal kiln, with its precipitous form looming at the edge of town like a bleak, smouldering beacon. Several of the charcoal-workers perched atop the mound looked up curiously as the witcher rode past, but Geralt did not have time to greet them, only sneezing as the smell of smoke tickled his senses and using his hand to cover his nose and mouth as he continued towards the centre of town.
Reaching the tiny tavern, Geralt was quick to dismount, tying Roach outside, before heading into the inn itself, having to duck a bit to avoid hitting his head on the low-built doorframe. The air inside the tavern was a bit more palatable than outside, though the smell of soot still hung heavy on the patrons as Geralt made his way to the bar, settling down on one of the shaky stools and trying to ignore the creak and rattle of its craftsmanship. A few patrons sitting at the bar with him – villagers of Marchen from the blackened state of their hands and necks – looked over in interest as the witcher sat down, clearly identifying him as an outsider, but he ignored their stares, instead raising a hand to beckon over the woman behind the bar. The woman seemed hesitant to oblige him at first, but after a moment, she made her way over to where he sat, leaning her wide hip against the bar counter as she continued to clean a mug with a towel dirtier than the flagon.
"A visitor in town," the barmaid commented, not bothering to hide her suspicious tone. "Don't get many visitors to Marchen. You lost? Or looking for kilner's work?"
"Looking for witcher's work," Geralt answered, trying his best to sound amicable in return. "Heard there was a man here, saw a creature in the woods. Word spread to Vizima, so they asked me to investigate."
"Vizima, aye?" the woman asked, sounding falsely impressed, almost sarcastic. Her attitude surprised Geralt, and he frowned a bit, wondering if she thought he was making the whole thing up. "That's mighty far to go for witcher's work," the woman commented. "Don't you have no monsters of your own to fight? Gotta come all the way out here to find 'em?"
"Got plenty of monsters," Geralt answered, keeping his voice even as he folded his hands on the bar. "But none of them seemed as interesting as yours. Wanted to come out and see for myself."
"Well, you're shit out of luck, witcher," the woman told him, starting to wipe down the bar counter with her dirty towel next. "T'ain't got no monsters here, I'm afraid. Just a nice man, what's living in the woods. Like a hermit."
"A nice man," Geralt repeated, frowning, lifting his hands to allow her to clean under them. "Did he say what his name was, this nice man? Did he try to make a deal with any of you?"
"Deals? No," the woman said, shaking her head and tsking through a gap in her teeth. "Hasn't made no deals. He's a merchant, alright, but he's got no stock. Down on his luck, he says."
"'S why he's taken up living in the woods," another patron at the bar chimed in, causing Geralt to look over at him next, surprised that so many seemed familiar with the hermit's story. "Waiting for his ship to come in. The White Wolf, I think he called it. He says he's waiting for the White Wolf."
"Hm," Geralt answered, narrowing his eyes. "Did he mention what kind of merchant he was?"
"Mirrors, sir," a quiet voice from behind him answered, and Geralt turned, looking to see who had addressed him this time. The man standing behind him was thin and pale, almost sickly-looking, with thick, straw-coloured hair that had grown too long to stay out of his watery greyish eyes. His lips were cracked from kiln smoke, his nails black and ragged with charcoal dust, and he held a loose red hat in his hands, wringing it anxiously as he stood back a few paces from the bar. "Saw you come in here, sir," the man told him, squeezing the brim of the hat until his knuckles paled, staring at the witcher as if afraid to even speak to the monster-hunter. "Knew you when I saw you. Had to be, I said. Had to be the witcher, come to seek the creature."
"There ain't no creature, Peter, you fool," another patron at the bar chided, causing the man named Peter to flinch. "He's but a merchant, down on his luck. Says he used to live here, that's why he knows us all."
"He said he used to live here?" Geralt asked, focusing his attention entirely on Peter – whatever this fearful man's story was, he seemed to be the only one with any objectivity on the matter.
Peter nodded, chewing his lip, twisting his hat until Geralt was sure the threads would break. "Yes, master," he said, softly. "But I've lived here all my life. And my father before me, and his before him. We ain't never seen no one selling mirrors this whole time. Ain't never seen no one what looked like him."
"Go home, Peter, you lowlife," the first patron called, picking up a heel of bread from his plate and lobbing it at the man with the hat. Peter cowered as the bread heel bounced off his shoulder, and Geralt stood quickly from his stool, blocking him from another blow. The patron who had thrown the bread hocked loudly at the show of bravado, waving a dismissive hand as he leaned his elbows on the bar again. "Ain't nothing but a no-good gambler, this one," he said, indicating towards Peter, who quickly dropped his gaze. "Lost all his money on gwent, he did, so now he's tryin' to spread tales of creatures in the woods. No magical creature's gonna explain to your wife where all your food money went, Peter! She'll find out, she will!"
"Come on," Geralt pressed, taking Peter's arm with a firm grip and starting to steer him for the door of the bar. "Let's talk outside."
"I'm not making this up, sir," Peter pleaded, his voice cracking desperately as he was pushed in front of the witcher. "Please, believe me! I gamble, I do, but I'm not making excuses. That thing is not what it seems."
"I know," Geralt answered, speaking in a low voice, too quiet for the other patrons to hear. "I want to hear your side of things. Just shut up until we can find someplace to talk." His answer seemed to surprise Peter, and the man instantly relaxed in his grasp, saying nothing until the two of them were outside the bar and Geralt had released his arm. "Now," the witcher said, turning to face the charcoaller again. "Tell me everything you know."
Peter seemed stunned for a moment, blinking a few times, as if this were the first time anyone had bothered to hear him out. Then, pursing his lips, he took a deep breath, causing his entire body to give a faint tremor as he prepared to speak. "He knew things, witcher," he said, his voice shaking, and Geralt frowned at the vague answer, hoping the man would elaborate. "He knew things he shouldn't. He knew my wife's name. He said—how are Lisbeth and the children faring? But… I never told him I had children, sir."
"Hm," Geralt answered, his frown deepening. "And what did he look like, this knowledgeable man?"
Peter sucked his lip, considering for a moment. "Like nothing, at first," he finally responded, his voice so quiet Geralt had to lean in to hear him. "Could've passed for a merchant, just as he said. Yellow tunic, black boots, leather satchel like any might carry… but that was before I saw his eyes, sir. Oh… just the blackest eyes." He stopped, giving a visible shudder, before looking up at Geralt again, clearly afraid. "Black as night, they were, I swear," he said, his voice almost a whisper, seeming scared to even speak on the subject. "No light in those eyes to be seen. It was as if… they'd swallowed it up, and there was none left to be had."
Geralt lowered his gaze, remembering too well those unnervingly dark eyes; there had been something unsettling about them even back then, though he had never been able to place just what. Now, he realized that Peter's comment about them reflecting no light made sense, and he made a face, wondering what kind of creature would be able to achieve so subtle yet so disturbing a trick. "And he's still in the forest?" he asked, looking up at Peter again, determined to hear all he knew. "Sure he hasn't left? Didn't hear any music when I was coming into town."
"He hasn't played today," Peter answered, frankly, shaking his head. "But he played yesterday. And the day before that. Always luring people in… 'just wanting to talk'."
"Hm," Geralt answered again, before nodding, figuring he had all he needed to know. "Thanks. You've been helpful." Turning for the darkened forest, he paused, staring into the trees, before a sudden thought occurred to him, and he turned back towards Peter again. "One more thing," he said, causing Peter to look up in surprise. "Did you make any deals with this merchant? Did he offer you something in exchange for, maybe… something you'd never miss?"
Peter frowned at the question, pulling his cap onto his head, and Geralt tried not to stare at the way it sagged from all the anxious twisting. "I know better than to make deals with magic beings, sir," Peter said after a moment, shaking his head with determination. "Can't speak for none of the others, but I made no deals. Would rather eat sawdust than be a rich man with a heart of stone."
Geralt narrowed his eyes at the comment, taken aback by the pointedness of the man's example. "What makes you say that?" he asked, warily.
Peter shrugged, seeming less perturbed. "That's how those stories go," he answered, simply. "You make deals with imps, they'll give you good tidings. But make deals with devils, and they'll steal the heart from you. Replace it with one made of stone, such that you'll never feel happiness again."
Geralt frowned, his lips thinning into a troubled line. "Not the first time I've heard that," he admitted. Then, turning away from Peter again, he set his sights on the forest, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves before starting to make his way for the darkened line of the trees.
The forest was still as death around him, all sounds of normal wildlife having fallen silent, making the air feel thick as milk as Geralt trod cautiously through the thick underbrush. He could hear his boots tramping across leaves and twigs, causing him to nearly flinch at the loudness of the sound; he had always taken pride in his skill as a hunter, his ability to tread silently as he tracked his quarry, so light on his feet despite his size that most monsters barely detected his approach. Now, in the stillness of Marchen's forest, he felt like a troll plodding through crunching snow, every shift of his armour like the rattle of saddle-bags, every bounce of his swords ringing deafeningly in his ears, all the potions in his hip-satchel clinking together like a tavern at full capacity.
Then, the music began.
It was soft at first, so soft he almost mistook it for the wind rustling through the trees – but the melody itself was so hauntingly familiar that it did not take long for him to realize what it was. He remembered the tune with chilling clarity from his times passing through the small town of Yantra, where a group of children would sit gathered around the crooked marker at the intersection of the crossroads, singing the eerie melody as they rolled a ball between them. The witcher had not thought much of this ritual at first, having taken it as merely a town eccentricity – a strange game played among local children, as children were wont to do – but it had occurred to him, after passing through a few times, that they always seemed to sit in the exact same spot, always singing the same tune for hours on end, never turning their eyes to passers-by.
It was almost, Geralt had thought at the time, as if they felt somehow compelled to do this, driven to the crossroads by some strange, supernatural force, some otherworldly power drawing the sensitive to its epicentre. It was as if something were making its presence known, just subtle enough to go mostly unnoticed by the locals, but just unsettling enough to put the witcher's nerves on edge, giving him some sign that something was not quite right with the town at the intersection of the crossroads.
His smile fair as spring, as towards him he draws you…
His tongue sharp and silv'ry, as he implores you…
The tune in the forest had no words, but the lyrics still rang clear in Geralt's head, and he quickly shook it, pushing the memory of the children's voices from his ears before continuing on. "Fucking demon," he growled, the words barely more than a mutter – but they seemed to have an effect regardless, as the music began to grow faintly louder in response, echoing chillingly through the maze of the trees. Whatever was playing had clearly become aware that Geralt was privy to its presence, and he felt his blood run cold at the idea that the creature knew exactly where he was, when he still had no idea where it could be hiding.
Your wishes he grants, as he swears to adore you…
Gold, silver, jewels, he lays riches before you…
He could feel the hair prickling on the back of his neck, his senses on high alert as he followed the sound deeper into the forest, growing more and more lost in the sameness of the trees as he sought to find the source of the otherworldly melody. Wherever the flute music was coming from, it seemed to echo like a cathedral through the winding brush, growing steadily louder with every step the witcher took in its haunting direction. He was unsure if the music even had one single source now – from the way it reverberated, it seemed to be coming from all directions at once – and he turned on his heel, his hand clenching at his side, tempted to draw his sword in case the creature decided to appear from thin air and attack.
Dues need be repaid, and he will come for you…
All to reclaim, no smile to console you…
Geralt turned again as the music continued, looking up into the gathering of trees, feeling his blood run cold again as he suddenly felt something focusing in on him. It was a chilling sensation, like the feeling of inhuman eyes peering out at him from the darkness of a cave; he had felt the sensation a hundred times before, hunting monsters in the depths of the darkest caverns, and he felt his skin prickle at the feeling of being watched, his muscles tensing as the sound of the reed flute grew louder yet again. It was taunting him, calling him in one singular direction, giving him the distinct feeling he was being led into a trap, yet he knew he had no choice but to follow the sound if he wished to find whatever he had come here for.
He'll snare you in bonds, eyes glowin' afire…
To gore and torment you, 'til the stars expire…
As soon as the last verse ended, the music came to a sudden stop, and Geralt froze as he found himself standing in the middle of a clearing, having not even noticed where his feet were taking him. He felt exposed with the lack of trees, unnerved at the sudden change in scenery, wondering what had caused this part of the forest to remain so barren when all around him the trees grew so close together it was difficult not to feel claustrophobic when navigating between them. He had heard tell of faerie gates in his study of regional tales, areas of the forest where the trees dared not grow, places where a great magical force had appropriated all available energy, clearing the way for fae to pass through the border from their world to another. He doubted greatly that whatever had called him to this spot in the forest was a mere fae, however, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, allowing his senses to clear in the same way he usually did while meditating.
"Greetings, Geralt."
The words were simple, but the voice rolled down his spine like cold monster saliva, and he suppressed a shudder as he opened his eyes, looking up at last towards its source. The Man of Glass was as Geralt remembered him – unnervingly plain, just as Peter had described, so unremarkable by design that he could have easily passed for a traveller crossing paths with the witcher in the wood. The only things that separated him from the façade of a fellow traveller were his cold, lightless eyes, and the fact that he was sitting several feet off the ground, perched in the branches of a large, leafy tree, legs tucked neatly under him as he stared down at the witcher from a spot he had not occupied only seconds before.
O'Dimm grinned as Geralt acknowledged him, his stubbled face splitting into a wide, unsettling curve, and Geralt had to resist turning back to return to Marchen, doing everything in his power to keep his feet planted firmly in place. "What a pleasant surprise to see you again, witcher," O'Dimm smiled, folding his hands eagerly in his lap. "I thought for sure you had retired from your avaricious profession. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?"
"Contract," Geralt answered, bluntly, making a sour face. The sight of the devil was bad enough without the mocking voice to accompany it, and he was in no mood to pretend he shared O'Dimm's enthusiasm for seeing one another again. "Thought it might be you. Figured if it was, I could at least get some answers."
"I much prefer questions to answers," O'Dimm returned, his cattish grin widening. "But if you insist. What was it you wanted to ask me? Perhaps I have the answers you seek."
"The monsters I fought in Toussaint," Geralt said, not bothering to explain further. If O'Dimm was truly responsible, there would be no need to fill him in on what he already knew. "Only someone like you would have the power to do that. Create creatures like that, and put them there for me to fight."
"And what makes you think I have the power to do that?" O'Dimm asked, narrowing his eyes in amusement.
Geralt frowned at the question. "I've seen you," he said, holding out a hand. "I've seen you make monsters. The toad in the sewer. The Caretaker. The cat and dog, Iris' companions—"
"Illusions," O'Dimm cut over him, waving a theatrical hand. "Demons and apparitions, all. Not true living beings. Not even Iris." Propping a hand on his folded knee, he looked down at the witcher, his wicked smirk widening. "I cannot create something from nothing, Geralt," he said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Nothing of substance, of flesh and blood. Even the toad was already alive before I got to him—just in a different form. I have power the likes of which you'll never fully understand, but I'm afraid I cannot create mortal life from nothing."
Geralt's frown deepened at the answer, not quite believing him. "And the girl?" he asked. "Was she an illusion, too? Or was that you, in some manufactured disguise?"
O'Dimm narrowed his eyes at the question. "Girl?" he asked. "What girl is that, exactly?"
"The girl that keeps coming around," Geralt answered, annoyed that he had to explain himself. He could not quite tell if the demon was playing with him, trying to test his nerves, or if he truly had no idea what the witcher was talking about. "Keeps bringing me contracts. Little redheaded girl. Was that your doing, too?"
O'Dimm's assured smile flickered for a moment, as if something in what he had been told had troubled him, but his expression quickly cleared again, returning to the same sinister smirk of before. "I've never changed my shape for anyone's benefit," he answered, giving another amused shrug and shake of his head. "I only reveal myself to those I wish to see me. To everyone else, my face is unrecognizable— a blur in the mind of a passer-by. Why in the world would I change my form when I can completely control who sees it?"
Geralt thinned his lips at the answer, realizing he could make no argument to disprove what O'Dimm was saying. He had seen the demon do exactly what he described on multiple occasions, including to him, revealing himself from the form of a stranger that had moments before had a face the witcher could not quite commit to memory. His magic was unsettling in the way it worked, and downright frightening in the power it held, but it seemed it did in fact have some limitations— though Geralt had to wonder if 'creating mortal life' was truly something that could be considered limiting.
O'Dimm smiled as he waited for Geralt's response, silent but watchful like a bird of prey, his dark eyes narrowing as he observed the witcher from his vantage point in the tree. The thought of being scrutinized by the demon – or devil, or djinn, or whatever O'Dimm was – was unnerving at best, but Geralt held his ground, challenging the creature to say or do something that would warrant a quick, decisive blow from his silver blade. "Nothing to add?" O'Dimm finally asked. "That's fine. I've more than enough to ask of my own. For one—you say you've come to fulfil a contract, but I thought your days of hunting monsters for coin were long finished." As he spoke, a soft, rhythmic tapping sound began to reach Geralt's ears, and when he looked down, it was to see the wooden spoon being tapped against O'Dimm's arm, measuring a beat as the demon pondered over the conversation.
Ciri had mentioned that Peter had brought up the spoon in his report, but the reference alone could not compare to the sight of the cursed utensil itself – the same wickedly powerful artifact that had turned Marlene into a spotted wight, and the one Geralt had once seen O'Dimm drive into the eye-socket of a man who had merely deigned to interrupt his conversation. Tucking his legs up under him on the branch, O'Dimm let out a long, low, drawn-out hum, picking up the spoon to instead tap it against his lip, his dark eyes travelling in a wide, pondering arc.
"You're not a man who cares about money," he mused, seeming more entertained by this than Geralt felt he had any reason to be. "Not anymore, at least. So my question, then, is this: if not for pay, then what has truly brought you out to these woods today?" Geralt said nothing, crossing his arms, allowing O'Dimm to conjecture to the air; he had no intention of playing games with the demon, but it seemed O'Dimm had every intention of playing games with him. "You've already got everything you could possibly want," O'Dimm observed, not seeming to care that Geralt was not playing along. "At least, everything that money could buy. A lavish home, a private vineyard, a beautiful sorceress wife…"
Pausing again, he rolled his lips, seeming to revel in the mystery. Then, realizing something, he straightened on the branch, his dark brows raising as a knowing grin split his cheeks. "Oh!" he gasped, causing Geralt to look up at the sound. "She's pregnant, isn't she?"
The haste with which he had come to this conclusion gave Geralt a start, and he raised his brows, only to quickly lower them again, not wanting to give anything away. It was possible, he figured, that O'Dimm had heard rumours of Shani's symptoms if he had taken to skulking about Oxenfort disguised as a face in the university crowd—or perhaps, he thought, O'Dimm had seen her arrive at Corvo Bianco while wandering the manor grounds undetected by the witcher and his staff. That last thought made Geralt's skin crawl, and he quickly thought back to his last few weeks at the manor, trying to remember if he had noticed anyone wandering the grounds whose face he had not recognized. He could not remember anyone specific, but he knew that meant little with the way O'Dimm's magic worked, and he stayed silent, doing his best not to let on how unnerved he was as he stared the demon down.
"Yes," O'Dimm continued, either having missed Geralt's fleeting lapse of stoicism or simply not letting on that he had seen it. "The foreseeable arrival of a child would certainly warrant the taking on of treacherous tasks for extra funds. Especially if the child were unplanned, as… well, I don't take you for the planning type, Geralt. However…" He paused to puzzle again, tapping the spoon thoughtfully against his lip, as if the metronomic beat would somehow help him concoct a rational solution. "Yennefer is a sorceress," he observed, seeming less concerned with the logistics and more entertained by the challenge of a riddle. "She can't have children of her own. And neither could you, as far as I knew. But if you're here, then you must have managed somehow… but how?"
Pausing again, he stilled in his tapping, allowing the spoon to rest pensively against his lips. "Perhaps your feats of heroism have somehow reinvigorated your sluggish sperm," he suggested after a moment. "Or perhaps you imbibed a strange potion on the street, one which forever altered your mutational chemistry. I suppose the world will never know. A pity… that would make for such an interesting story."
"No problem with my sperm," Geralt answered, flatly.
O'Dimm chuckled, waving the spoon in a dismissive arc. "Clearly not, if you've somehow managed to get a young lady pregnant," he agreed. "I can't imagine Yennefer is too pleased about that. But I also imagine it was as much a surprise to you as it was to her." Leaning forward in his seat on the branch, he locked eyes with the witcher, angling himself in a way Geralt knew should have been impossible for anyone bound by the laws of physics. "There is such a thing as protection, Geralt," O'Dimm told him, smirking, amused with his own witticisms. "Even your mighty sword could benefit from the use of a sheath sometimes."
Geralt flushed at the comment, feeling cold rage start to fill his stomach at the implication. It was easy enough to look back on his actions and lament the consequences now, knowing what he knew, but at the time there had been no reason to believe anything else was needed but himself, the moonlight, and Shani. He could still remember the taste of her skin, the softness of her hair between his fingers as he came inside her, completely unaware that anything would come of that night but a few stinging scratch-marks and a sweet-smelling, gradually-fading memory.
"Ah, I know who it is," O'Dimm suddenly spoke again, his wicked grin widening, sending an icy chill up the witcher's spine. "It has to be. That fetching redhead I saw you dancing with at the wedding. The one dear Vlodimir seemed so fond of. What was her name, again?" Geralt pursed his lips at the taunt, his teeth clenching so tightly he expected them to crack, feeling a vein flicker painfully in his cheek as he stared up at the man in the tree. Despite Geralt's rage, O'Dimm only stared back, seeming more amused than anything by the witcher's reaction. "Ah, Shani!" he finally answered, seeming pleased with himself for remembering, though Geralt was sure he had never forgotten. "That was her name, yes. The doctor from Oxenfort. A fine catch, that one. Sure to be a… wonderful mother to your little one."
"Don't talk about Shani," Geralt growled, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. "This has nothing to do with her, O'Dimm. That's not why I came."
"Isn't it?" O'Dimm asked, looking up again, his dark eyes flashing with a knowledge Geralt resented. "As far as I know, you'll come for just about any pretty woman who sits still long enough. Am I wrong?" Geralt felt his ears burn pink at the jab, but he said nothing, only clenched his jaw harder, feeling his face twist and twitch with disgust as he fought back the urge to bare his teeth in a snarl. O'Dimm chuckled at the witcher's reaction, tracing a finger across the head of his spoon, the smug curve of his feline mouth making Geralt's usually-stalwart stomach turn, threatening to empty its contents on the forest floor.
Narrowing his eyes then, O'Dimm paused, before taking in a long breath as he stared at the witcher, seeming to be extracting something from Geralt's expression only he could understand. "That isn't why you're here though, is it?" he finally asked, his fingers wrapping thoughtfully around the neck of the spoon. "No… you didn't come to find me at Shani's behest. It was someone else, wasn't it? Another woman in your life." Resting his clenched hands against his knees, O'Dimm paused another moment, his eyes keen and bottomless, watching Geralt's face for some hint of an expression, some flash of weakness, something that told him what he was seeking to know. Geralt only stared back, his expression unwavering, giving nothing but the blank, hateful stare of a man looking on at a criminal's execution.
"Was it Ciri?" O'Dimm suddenly asked, and Geralt felt a flash of dread shoot through him at the name. He could feel his expression falter, just long enough to allow a flicker of panic to pass, but he quickly fixed it, returning his countenance to stony apathy once more. Despite his best efforts, it seemed his moment of weakness was enough to confirm what O'Dimm already knew, and he smirked at the foible, letting out a soft, contented chuckle as he leaned back again in the tree. "It was, wasn't it?" he asked, much more confident now. "Dear little Ciri. Little Zireael. Heir of Lara Dorren. The last of the line of the Gull."
Looking down at the spoon in his lap, O'Dimm turned it over, seeming entranced, before picking it up and starting to gently tap it against the palm of his opposite hand. "You trained her as a witcher, did you not?" he asked, not looking at Geralt as he spoke. "Taught her the Signs, the skill of the blade. The sacred alchemy of your potions and decoctions. The tricks of the trade, hunting monsters for coin… Yet, you did not complete all the same rites for her. All the same rights as for other recruits to your order, other… male recruits. Am I right?" Turning his eyes towards Geralt then, he stared at the witcher, his expression smug, pausing in his spoon-tapping to focus his entire attention on the man standing below him.
"You did not subject her to the Trial of the Dreams," he said. "Which is, if I remember correctly… the ritual which renders you witchers sterile." There was a chilling malice in his expression as he stared down with his dark, knowing eyes, one that made the hair on the back of Geralt's neck stand on end; he was not frightened of O'Dimm – at least, that was what he told himself – so he could not quite place why he felt suddenly so unsettled by the thought of their conversation continuing. Perhaps, he thought, his disquieted feeling came from knowing in his gut what was coming next, but refusing to acknowledge that something so despicable could rightfully cross anyone's mind.
"There had to be a reason you neglected that," O'Dimm continued, sliding his calloused thumb thoughtfully over the lip of the spoon. "When everyone knows that is by far the most important part of becoming a witcher. So let me ask you something, Geralt… and answer truthfully, if you would. If you'd had your way, if nothing else was stopping you… would you have wanted to impregnate Ciri instead?"
Geralt stiffened, feeling his blood turn first to ice, and then to boil, his stomach churning at the sickening implication. "What?" he insisted, hissing the word, baring his teeth as his hand itched for his blade. He had expected the question, known it was coming, but it still did not soften the accusation, nor keep it from nearly raising the taste of bile to the back of his throat.
Seeing the witcher's distress, O'Dimm grinned widely, no longer trying to hide his intent – to hurt, to harm, to drive the knife in as far as he could and twist with all his might. His countenance, once almost puckish, had quickly warped into that of a cruel Cheshire cat; his eyes, cold and hollow, were fixed fervently on Geralt, as if not wanting to miss even the slightest change in his distressed expression. "Come now, Geralt," the demon pressed, wrapping his fingers around the head of the spoon, squeezing so tightly in his enthusiasm that his knuckles began to turn white. "Don't say you've never considered it. Surely you've given it a bit of thought. Especially considering… your current predicament, it's impossible it wouldn't have crossed your mind."
"You're sick," Geralt hissed. "You're fucked, O'Dimm. That's my daughter you're talking about." His hands began to shake at his sides, and he clenched them tightly, unable to decide if he wanted to reach for his blade or simply drag the devil from the tree and start waling on him with his fists.
It was not the first time he had been accused of harbouring lascivious thoughts towards Ciri – many a well-meaning shopkeep had unknowingly called her his lovely young wife in their travels, a gaffe Ciri usually played along with, or other times laughed off as a simple mistake. But not all were so benevolent; there were many whose jabs were not so innocently misguided, those who sought to imply that their lack of common blood was proof enough that he had taken her in specifically to groom her – those who claimed he had trained her at Kaer Morhen with the sole intent of getting her alone on the road, eager to have his lustful way with her where she could do nothing to stop him.
Geralt had always thought his rise to affront at these suggestions had been something he could not control, a father's reflexive reaction to allegations of ill intent where none had ever existed. But the way O'Dimm said it, the language he used, the knowing look on his sickening face, made Geralt wonder if his true affront had come from the knowledge that, deep down, he had always wondered the same of himself: if he would not have taken Ciri on as an eager young lover, had she given any indication she would have him in that way.
"Be that as it may," O'Dimm continued, waving his spoon in a lazy circle to move the point along. "I've seen the way you look at women. You're a dog, Geralt. And Ciri… she's a woman. A shapely woman, lithe and young… just the type you can't seem to keep your hands off of."
"I've never looked at Ciri that way," Geralt growled, feeling his face burn hot as his blood seethed. O'Dimm was a master at planting doubt, but he was wrong – they were all wrong, all of them. He had never felt anything for Ciri but the love of a father for his daughter. "I would never… I could never—"
"Oh don't be so self-righteous with me, Geralt of Rivia," O'Dimm snapped, the sudden change in tone making Geralt falter, surprised to have apparently struck a nerve with the infuriatingly even-tempered master of mirrors. "If she was anyone else's child surprise you would've fucked her senseless ages ago. Just look at how you besmirched poor Deidre. What did Eskel do to deserve that?"
Geralt felt a knot twist in his stomach at the mention of Deidre, and he took a step back, swallowing hard as he felt the colour drain from his face at the painful memory. As O'Dimm had said, Deidre had been to Eskel what Ciri had been to Geralt – a young girl, othered by the circumstances of her birth, claimed from her royal parents to train with the order of the witchers. A girl Eskel had trained to follow in his path, and had grown to love, to the bitter end. A girl whose future Eskel had felt responsible for, wanting to ensure her happiness and success, just as any father would. And then, true to his nature, Geralt had come along, unable to resist the intoxicating draw of a beautiful woman – a beautiful woman like Deidre had been when he had thoughtlessly coaxed her into bed, not caring one bit for the consequences of his actions, or how it might hurt Eskel or Deidre in the long run.
A beautiful woman, like what Ciri had become in the years since becoming Geralt's ward.
"That was a long time ago," Geralt muttered, his voice low, much weaker than he had intended. "Forty years. That's… not the same. Not a fair comparison. I was… different, then."
"Were you?" O'Dimm returned, quickly, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself at the question, sending a visceral shudder down Geralt's spine at the disturbingly satisfied sound. "I don't think so. Want to know what I think? I think, if you had your way, the line of the Gull would be rife with white-haired wolf children. Am I very far off?" His wicked grin widened as Geralt's face reddened again, the witcher's ears burning as the twisted taunting burrowed beneath his usually steely skin, making him sick to his stomach with anger. "Of course, if your newfound proclivity is anything to judge by, then perhaps she's already pregnant," O'Dimm added. "And perhaps I'm simply the last to know. You did just visit her recently, did you not… Gwynbleidd?"
At this, Geralt let out a feral scream, all patience for conversation gone, before tearing the silver sword from his back and lunging blindly for the demon in the tree. Taking a mighty swing, he drove the blade down hard on the spot where O'Dimm sat, only to be staggered as his blow was met with a jarring thunk and splintering of wood. Looking up, Geralt realized quickly that the branch he had aimed for was now completely empty, with O'Dimm having disappeared from the spot mere seconds before Geralt had a chance to reach him. Bracing his boot against the trunk, Geralt heaved at his sword, giving another angry shout, before prying it free just as the sound of O'Dimm's chilling laughter picked up again from somewhere behind him.
"Temper, temper," O'Dimm taunted, his gleeful smirk widening as Geralt turned to face him again. Geralt was seeing red now, blood red, but he gritted his teeth, fighting back the urge to rip the demon limb from limb. "I see I've managed to strike a nerve," O'Dimm said, tilting his head to observe the witcher. "Pity… I thought we were having a delightful conversation. I suppose I've never been much good at reading people." Chuckling again, he picked up his spoon, spinning it idly between his fingers, knowing full well he was fraying the witcher's already raw nerves by making him wait. Then, after a moment of twirling, he stopped again, catching the spoon deftly in his hand, before taking another deep breath, turning his dark eyes down to Geralt once more.
"I can see we're getting nowhere with this line of questioning," he said. "So let me pose you a different question. Why did you come here, if not to impress Ciri? Surely you didn't come by just to reminisce about the good old days."
Geralt held his ground, still gripping his sword, breathing heavily through his teeth. "Contract," he repeated, his voice a low snarl. "Like I said. Came to see what was living in these woods. Hoped it was something else, but since it's you, I'm gonna have to kill you." Raising his sword again, he took another step, preparing to strike once more at the Man of Glass – but he found himself stopped suddenly short as O'Dimm held up a hand, halting the swing of his blade mid-carve, freezing the forest around him in an unnatural, silent sojourn. Geralt growled at the vice, wrenching against the magic, but nothing he did seemed to do any good; he could feel his arms shackled above his head, held fast mid-swing by some invisible force, and it did not take long for him to realize that his entire body was in the same stasis, leaving only his eyes free to stare angrily up at O'Dimm.
"You know, that's something I like about you, Geralt," O'Dimm told him, letting his hand fall to rest in his lap again, holding the spoon like a lazy conductor's wand against his opposite knee. "You're very to the point. You don't make people wait around to hear what you have to say." Unfolding his legs, O'Dimm jumped smoothly down from the limb to the forest floor, the sound of his feet hitting the leafy ground barely louder than a cat dismounting a windowsill. Twirling the spoon with a roll of his wrist then, he chuckled darkly, starting to tap it against his opposite palm, before taking his time to encircle the witcher in a slow, meticulous stride. Geralt could feel his lungs start to burn as he stood frozen, unable to speak or breathe, but O'Dimm did not even seem to care, taking his time to observe every inch of his sadistic trophy.
"Oh, Geralt," O'Dimm tutted after a moment, clicking his tongue, a sound which made Geralt's skin run cold. Moving around in front of him again, O'Dimm leaned down, as if hoping to catch some sign of struggle expressed in his frozen countenance. "Unfortunately, I'm going to have to keep you from fulfilling your contract," he said, a wicked grin spreading across his unremarkable face, far too pleased with himself for Geralt's liking. "For you see, I've just returned to this plane, and I have no intention of leaving it again anytime soon. So instead, I'll make you a deal. You know a good deal when you hear one, don't you?" Turning away again, O'Dimm took a few steps, pausing as he considered what to offer – then, seeming to settle on something, he spun back around, lifting his spoon with a dramatic flair as a wide, wicked smile began to stretch across his face at the thought of what was to come.
"If you turn around and leave these woods, pretend like nothing ever happened," he began. "Tell the people of Marchen and Vizima that there's no threat, or you simply failed to find whatever you came in here to look for… in return, I will grant Yennefer the one thing she has always desired. The one thing she has always wanted, but could never have of her own volition." Allowing a moment to let the offer to sink in, O'Dimm hummed, his smirk widening to encompass what felt like his entire wicked face. Then, raising his spoon again, he gave a tiny wave, the simple motion lifting just enough of the magic to free Geralt's mouth and nose from stasis.
Geralt took a deep breath as he felt sensation return to his face, his vision clearing as he felt his lungs fill up with air again. Then, looking up at O'Dimm with a hateful expression, he bared his teeth, sucking back saliva as feeling began to return to his numb lips. "What… could you possibly give Yen… that would make me… agree not to kill you?" he coughed, his voice rasping as he fought to growl the words past a throat that felt like it had just escaped a stranglehold. It was impossible not to realize how close he had come to death with O'Dimm's seemingly minor spell, but he did not want to acknowledge it, not wanting to admit just how much power the demon truly had. The less willing he was to show his hand – his very real fear of the master of mirror's capabilities – the more infuriating he was sure it would be to the demon, and the more mistakes he would hopefully be prone to make as a result.
His plan seemed ill-fated to work, however, as O'Dimm only chuckled in response to the question, tilting his head as he rested his spoon back in the half-gloved palm of his opposite hand. "Oh, Geralt," he repeated, his disparaging tone doing better to throw the witcher off than any intimidation tactics. "You clearly don't know me very well. I can do anything with the proper materials at my disposal. Anything. As for Yennefer…"
Trailing off, he took a step forward, reaching out a finger to gingerly touch the middle of Geralt's forehead, and Geralt winced, expecting another bloody marking or full-body pain. But the pain never came – instead, he found himself suddenly transported somewhere else, somewhere far from the darkened forest and the spiteful presence of Gaunter O'Dimm, and he froze at the change, too startled to move, not trusting what waited with his first steps into this new reality. After a moment of nothing happening, he decided to take a chance, and, bracing himself, he began to slowly turn his head, only to realize that this was not a new reality at all.
Between the flickering logs on the fireplace, the lingering smell of spiced wine on the air, and the gentle lull of the rain on the tiled roof, he could tell that he was, somehow, back at Corvo Bianco. From where he stood, everything seemed to be in proper order, with nothing to suggest this might be some sort of vision or dream, and for a split second, he could not help wondering, faintly, if it was possible he had never actually left. Just then, the sound of Yennefer's voice calling his name caught his attention, and he turned, looking back towards his wife, only to freeze just as quickly at the sight of her, his pulse thundering wildly in his ears as he watched her move around the table to greet him. He could feel his jaw tremble at the sight of the sorceress, his lips growing numb, his eyes starting to sting, and he let out a shuddering breath, unable to speak or move as Yennefer approached him.
"Geralt," Yennefer repeated, smiling into his face. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost." Then, taking his shaking hand from his side, she brought it up to her lips for a kiss, before moving it down again to rest it gently against her visibly-pregnant stomach.
"I can reinvigorate her womb," O'Dimm's voice cut suddenly through the dream, causing Geralt to give a start, all good feeling at the sight of Yennefer so happy sucked instantly dry. This was nothing more than an illusion, he realized – a lie, a hallucination O'Dimm had planted to set him off his guard, and he, foolish and hopeful, had been only too happy to play into it blindly. Pulling his hand back from Yennefer's stomach, he turned quickly, hunting for the source of the voice, trying to pinpoint a direction it might be coming from, though it seemed to be coming from all at once. "I can negate all the ill effects magic has had on her," O'Dimm continued, his taunting words making the witcher's face burn. "And you, with your newfound virility… well, I presume you can fill in the missing pieces."
"No!" Geralt insisted, baring his teeth. "I don't want your black magic, and neither does Yen!" Closing his eyes, he focused with all his might, forcing his mind back to his current reality – until, finally, he began to feel the warmth of the manor's fire drain away, the smell of spiced wine slowly being replaced by the smell of leaves and mulch. Opening his eyes again, he stared contemptuously at O'Dimm, the same painful nerve flickering in his cheek as he gritted his jaw in defiance. "I came to do a job," he said, breathing heavily through the strain. "That's what I'm gonna do."
O'Dimm's expression had already begun to shift as Geralt turned down his initial offer, but at these last few words, his expression soured entirely, his nose flattening against his face in disgust as his thin lip curled in spiteful leer. "Always so stubborn, aren't you, witcher?" he sneered, twisting his fingers around the spoon, squeezing so hard Geralt could see his nails blanch sickly white with the pressure. Taking a deep breath, O'Dimm stared the witcher down, his dark eyes intent, judgemental, knowing – then, without warning, he seemed to lose momentum, letting out his breath in a long exhale. Lifting the spoon again, he gave it a wide, careless wave, causing him to disappear from the forest floor, only to reappear again an instant later in the arms of the tree above them.
The transition was almost soundless, with only the small pop of something being sucked from reality to indicate he had gone, before he was back again with the noiseless grace of a cat, not even bending the branch on his re-emergence. The simple wave of the spoon seemed to have freed Geralt from stasis as well, and he stumbled, caught off-guard by the return of gravity, swearing under his breath as his sword immediately dragged his arms towards the ground. After fighting a moment to right himself, he stood up again, staying his sword at his side, looking up at O'Dimm once more, in case the demon had any more mind to argue before his head was sliced clean from his wicked body.
O'Dimm seemed significantly less concerned with this possibility, leaning his back against the trunk and picking at darkened threads in the grain of the spoon, seeming disquietingly at peace with the situation, as if he had known he would not be able to bargain with the witcher from the start. "Very well," he said after a moment, not bothering to look down at Geralt this time as he spoke. "I gave you a chance. Now, my terms will change. As they must, when two parties cannot reach a mutual agreement." Staring at the spoon, he held it thoughtfully between his hands, letting out a low hum as he pondered on its form.
"Yennefer will be able to bear children, just as I said," he continued after a moment. "But my offer will not be limited to just Yennefer anymore. All magic users will be able to have children. Every lonely, barren practitioner whose abuse of magic has atrophied their reproductive organs… every wicked, seedless conjurer who ever wished to bring another life into this world… every witcher, withered by Trials, forced to steal babes from the arms of their mothers." Trailing off, he paused again, waiting to ensure Geralt was invested, before he turned to look down at the witcher again, making Geralt's skin crawl as the demon's dark eyes fixed on him.
"I will grant this feat for all magic-users," O'Dimm continued, morbidly pleased. "If— they first destroy the child which you, Geralt, created by mistake. The child of witcher and human blood, whose existence defies every tale ever told. The child which now resides in Shani's womb, its heart beating in time with hers." His words struck Geralt like a pike through the heart, and he breathed in sharply, feeling his blood turn to ice, each syllable crushing, weighing him down, until he found he could barely keep his knees from buckling. He drove his sword into the soft ground, leaning on it to keep himself upright and standing, listening, feeling his head start to spin as blood pumped thunderously in his ears, his heart hammering as if it were trying to leap free of his chest.
"Some, admittedly, may have no inclination to act upon learning these terms," O'Dimm continued, every hateful word like a flaming arrow loosed inside Geralt's skull. "With those, you shall be safe. But some, like Yennefer, desperate for children… or perhaps those with more wicked intentions, mages wishing to spread their despotic seed, wreaking a swath of rape and terror through the helpless masses, women and young girls powerless to defend themselves… how desperate do you think they would become, hearing that one small obstacle is the only thing that stands in their way? Knowing that one small life is the one thing keeping them from a triumph they thought they could never achieve?"
"You… treacherous piece of shit…!" Geralt snarled, barely able to force the words past the heavy beating of his heart. He felt choked, helpless, angry, confused, every emotion as powerful and unclear as the last, with so many fighting to express themselves at once he did not know which he could possibly process first.
O'Dimm scoffed at Geralt's despair, unmoved, before turning his attention back to his spoon, holding it up again over his head, as if to admire its form against the backdrop of the trees. "Do with that knowledge what you will, witcher," he said, sounding now almost bored of their game. "You may slay me now, if you wish… but know that only I can undo this. And until I do, Shani and your child will be hunted like dogs, tracked down by magic users more desperate and powerful than you could ever imagine."
"You can't do that!" Geralt shouted, furious, his fist clenching so tightly around his sword he knew he would have cut his palm with his nails had he not been wearing gloves. "Shani has nothing to do with this! She's innocent! You can curse me, O'Dimm, but leave her out of it!"
O'Dimm chuckled darkly at the objection, not bothering to look down at Geralt again as he responded. "Aren't they all innocent?" he asked, indifferently. "You should have accepted my first offer."
Geralt felt his heartbeat filling his ears, cold dread pumping through every inch of his body, his tongue numb behind his teeth, his mind frozen, throbbing, as if someone had wrapped a wire around it and pulled taut until it bled. "What do I have to do to undo this?" he hissed, working hard to keep his voice from shaking, though whether it was from fear or anger was difficult to tell.
O'Dimm grinned at the change of heart, turning his dark eyes down to gaze at the man standing below him. "Ah, a businessman, I see," he smirked, balancing the spoon between his index fingers. "I'm a man of simple wants, Geralt, as you know from our last encounter. For me to lift this from Shani, you must complete three tasks. There are no half-answers, however, so bear that stipulation in mind… complete all three, and you win, fair and square. But fail to complete them, and there will be dire consequences."
Geralt frowned at the loaded offer. "What kind of consequences?" he asked, warily. "Mages are already trying to kill Shani's baby. Can't be worse than that."
"Oh, but it can," O'Dimm returned, turning to let his legs dangle over the edge of the branch. "Things can always be worse, Geralt. That's just a sad fact. But complete these tasks three, and you won't have to worry about that. I will happily remove the metaphorical bounty on dear Shani's head, and everything will go back to the way it was." Holding up the spoon again, he swept it across in a whimsical, paintbrush-like curve. "Do the tasks before time runs out, and you've nothing to fear," he added, grinning. "The child can be born normally – barring any natural complications, of course… and everything will go back to how it was before. You, Yennefer, and Shani, all living in harmony at Corvo Bianco."
Geralt wet his dry lips at the answer, taking a moment to consider before responding. "So either I complete these tasks in five months, or Shani's baby dies," he concluded, speaking slowly.
O'Dimm chuckled. "And people said you were dull," he returned, amused.
"Have to tell me what the tasks are first," Geralt insisted, taking a determined step forward. "Never agree to anything I don't know all the terms of."
"We both know that's a lie, witcher," O'Dimm returned, opening his dark eyes wider. "And besides, that's not how this works. You know that. I make the rules, and if you agree, I will tell you what must be done."
Geralt huffed, gritting his teeth at the clearly slanted playing field. "And what happens if I refuse?" he asked, wondering if there was still time to kill O'Dimm before the curse took hold.
O'Dimm shrugged, seeming unconcerned that Geralt was obviously stalling. "Then you have a very difficult five months ahead of you indeed," he answered, frankly. "The tasks are simple, Geralt. Complete them and you and your redheaded love are free. Only if you lollygag about on completing them will there be dire consequences."
"Complete these three tasks," Geralt repeated, stiffly. "Tasks you won't tell me about until I agree. All the while keeping Shani safe from the mages who will be trying to kill her in the meantime."
O'Dimm grinned, his wicked smile spreading across his sallow face. "Well I couldn't make it too easy, could I?" he asked, sounding entirely pleased with himself. "Wherever's the sport in that?"
"Sport," Geralt spat. "Is that all this is to you?"
"But of course," O'Dimm returned, simply. "You think I do this for my health?"
"I know you don't do it for mine," Geralt growled, feeling a muscle twitch in his jaw.
O'Dimm chuckled at the retort, stashing his spoon in his belt at last. "Witty, witcher," he answered, steepling his fingers like the peddler he pretended to be. "So, what shall it be? Will you take my offer? Complete my tasks and spare Shani the heartache of being hunted like a dog? Or will you wait out the next five months in fear, never knowing where the next attack may lurk, or when the next moment of peace may be safely found?"
Geralt set his jaw, his upper lip trembling as it began to curl into a snarl – he hated what O'Dimm had reduced him to, a man forced between a rock and a terrible hard place. To give up the idea of Yennefer regaining her fertility in order to defeat an evil being was one thing, and hard enough, but being forced to choose between Shani's child's life and defeating the demon was something else entirely. It was unfair, being forced to choose with no insight into what O'Dimm's tasks entailed; the last time he had been put in a similar position, he had been given errands which had nearly killed him, or had forced him into uncomfortable situations he would never have agreed to otherwise. Still, it was difficult to think of anything worse than watching Shani's baby killed by some crazed mage, and he took a deep breath, feeling his heart clench, his stomach twist, his throat seizing up in an effort to stop the words before he could make the mistake of speaking them.
"I'll do the tasks," he announced, speaking so low he barely recognized the weak voice as his own.
O'Dimm leaned forward on the branch at these words, cupping a mocking hand around his ear. "What was that?" he asked, grinning widely. "You need to speak up, witcher. I'm afraid you were mumbling."
"I said I'll do the tasks," Geralt repeated, louder this time, spite turning his voice into a hateful growl. "I agree to your terms, O'Dimm. I'll do the tasks." No sooner had he said this when he felt a sudden, searing pain radiating up from his left palm, and, lifting his hand, he watched in horror as the leather glove began to blossom with crimson, the gruesome stain trickling down his wrist until he could see blood dripping from the lip of the gauntlet. Tearing the glove from his hand, he hissed, staring at the enormous, bloody gash, the pain from the wound as if a rusted knife had been ripped across the skin, cutting it down to the bone. The edges of the broken skin bubbled angrily as he stared down at the wound, as if his blood were physically boiling where O'Dimm had opened up the cut, and he looked quickly back up at the master of mirrors, clenching his bleeding fist to his chest.
O'Dimm smirked at his surprised reaction, drawing his spoon from his belt again and giving it another careless wave. As he did so, what appeared to be a scroll of contract materialized before him, unfurling to its full length in midair in front of him. Plucking the document out of the air, O'Dimm looked over it, seeming pleased, before turning it around so Geralt could see its contents more plainly. The body text of the contract was too small to read from the forest floor, but at the bottom of the page Geralt could clearly make out what appeared to be his own signature, signed in what he could only guess was his own dripping, dark-red blood.
"So happy to be doing business with you again," O'Dimm grinned, giving a flick of his wrist to roll up the contract again. "Now, to get down to the business of your tasks. For your first task… hmm." He hummed, sliding the contract back into his satchel, grinning contentedly in the knowledge that he was wasting the witcher's precious time. "Let me see," he said, tapping his stubbled chin in thought. "Ah, I know. I've got a good one for you." Laying the spoon across his lap, he lifted his hands, rubbing them together, before clearing his throat as he readied himself to recite the first of Geralt's tasks.
"Mentor and daughter have borne this same; stole by three sisters who share a name. Two are slain, one remain, find her and trinket regain."
Geralt gritted his teeth at the rhyme, feeling his blood pump furiously in his ears, making the riddle sound like garbled nonsense as he clenched his hand more tightly against his chest. "What?" he hissed. "What the hell does that mean?"
O'Dimm chuckled, picking up the spoon and balancing it between his index fingers again. "Think on it, Geralt," he told him, simply. "It's not my job to solve the riddles. Only to provide them."
"The Crones," Geralt answered, forcing himself to think. "Ciri slew two of them, but the third one escaped. Made off with Vesemir's amulet. You want me to get it back."
"Very clever, witcher," O'Dimm conceded, smirking as he spun the spoon lazily between his fingers. "That one's relatively straightforward, however. Now for your second task…" He paused again to consider, letting his hand drop back to his knee as he thought, but the spoon did not fall with it, continuing to turn cartwheels, suspended in the air. Geralt felt his stomach drop at the sight of the slowly-spinning spoon, wondering why he had never seen the demon show this trick before – if O'Dimm had been holding back so simple a feat from the witcher's knowledge, he had to wonder what else the master of mirrors could do that he had no idea about. "Ah, I know," O'Dimm finally said, drawing Geralt's attention back to his face, before raising his hands again to press them together once more, as if in a mockery of prayer.
"Wolf School witchers left are three; to finish, two or four must be. Child or friend, rite or rend; alter forever, or end."
Geralt frowned at the riddle, running it over in his mind as he tried to puzzle it out. "You want me to force a conscript through the Trials?" he finally asked, feeling a sickening sensation rise in his gut at the thought. The secrets to the Trials had been lost years ago, destroyed with the rest of the knowledge stolen by the Salamandra at the massacre of Kaer Morhen; Yennefer had managed to piece together a few of the elements, and Geralt had found a few others tucked away in a cavern in Kaedwin, but most of the secrets had been trusted to witcher elders, those whose job it had been to pass them on when the time came. Vesemir had been the last of that generation, but he had been the fighting instructor at the time such secrets were given out to his brethren, so he had had no reason to know such things when so many others had been counted on to remember them.
"I… can't do that," Geralt answered, shaking his head. "Can't train a child to go through the Trials in five months. Witcher training takes years, and even then…" He stopped, trailing off, his wounded hand uncurling faintly against his chest, before he looked up at O'Dimm again, narrowing his eyes. "Ciri," he breathed, feeling the same cold nausea as before starting to collect in his stomach. "You… want me to give Ciri the final Trial? Turn her into a full-fledged witcher?"
"Perhaps," O'Dimm returned, seeming less invested in the solution. "I suppose you could put Ciri through the final Trial. Technically that would fulfil the prerequisite. Though there's also another answer you haven't quite hit on yet."
"You want me to kill Eskel or Lambert?" Geralt asked, feeling his heart clench in horror at the thought.
O'Dimm grinned at this, his wicked mouth seeming to stretch to encompass his entire face. "If that is what must be done, then who am I to dissuade you?" he drawled, sounding far too pleased that Geralt had come to this conclusion on his own. Letting out a chilling, venomous chuckle, he rocked the spoon between his fingers, the wooden head blurring as it tapped metronomically against his gloved palm and back again. "Come now, Geralt," he pressed, the name sliding off his tongue like ice down the witcher's spine. "It can't be that hard a task to undertake. After all, how many witchers have already fallen to your blade? Gweld… Letho—"
"Too many," Geralt snapped, his jaw clenching at the memory. Letho had been easy enough to fell, a self-driven murderer with no concern for the lives of others, but Gweld had been Geralt's best childhood friend, and the pain at the memory of the boy's blood on his blade still ached as fresh as the day it had happened.
O'Dimm's smirk widened at Geralt's distress, and he paused in playing with his spoon, resting it thoughtfully between his fingertips. "Perhaps," he answered after a moment, sounding unfazed with the pain he had caused. "Or perhaps… yet not enough."
"What's the third task?" Geralt insisted, eager to get this over with.
O'Dimm shook his head at the demand, tilting the spoon in time to match its movement. "Ah-ah, witcher," he scolded, as if speaking to a naughty child. "Not yet. The third task I will reveal once the first two are completed."
Geralt gritted his teeth. "That's not fair," he hissed.
O'Dimm shrugged, seeming unconcerned with his thoughts. "That's the way it works – you know that," he said, sounding almost dismissive. "That's the way it's always worked. Think back, Geralt. Olgierd did not reveal to you his last request until the first two were already granted."
"Olgierd's tasks didn't have my child's life at stake," Geralt snapped back, feeling anger rising steadily in his chest. "Those tasks had no time limit. They weren't the same. You know that, O'Dimm."
"What I know or don't know makes no difference," O'Dimm returned, threading the handle of the spoon between his fingers so it rotated in a slow somersault across his knuckles. "As it was then, it is now. Complete the first two tasks and the third will be revealed. And, witcher…"
Catching the spoon by the handle, O'Dimm held it up in front of his face, grinning at the witcher as he waved his second hand in front of it, revealing a long, thin reed flute in its place. Lifting the instrument to his lips, O'Dimm blew a few high, haunting notes into it, and Geralt shivered as he heard the music echo through the forest around them like an icy breeze. As he listened, he began to hear a soft, barely discernible crackling noise coming from somewhere in the trees around him, and when he turned to look, it was to see that the leaves had begun to wilt and brown, as if autumn had arrived two seasons early with only a few chilling measures of the demon's flute. Geralt felt his blood turn to ice at the sight of the previously vibrant leaves withering and falling, and he looked quickly back up at O'Dimm again, wondering if this was just another trick, or if the demon truly did have such an extreme influence over the flow of time.
O'Dimm chuckled at Geralt's expression, lowering the reed flute from his lips once more. "Don't delay," he told him, ominously, grinning down at him. "Your time is running out. Godspeed, Geralt… and good luck." Then, lifting the instrument in salutation, he disappeared again, leaving behind only the last, fading echoes of his sinister laughter in his wake.