Hey all, sorry about the delay in updating. If you didn't already see it on my writing blog, I've been pretty sick this week, and it's put me a bit behind in my writing/editing schedule. I don't know what things are going to look like next week because I've got some catching up to do class-wise, but I'll be sure to keep you updated! This is a little shorter than previous chapters but I felt like this exchange deserved its own chapter since I've been building up to it so much. Hope you enjoy! –Bel

A Wolf Among Lilacs
Part One: Longing/Regret
Chapter Three: This Dragoness Disguised in Lace

If someone had asked him right after he accepted the offer what he'd be doing that night, sleeping with Keira Metz probably wouldn't have been anywhere on the list, but that was what he found himself doing. It wasn't the first time, either. They'd known each other several years now, and when he saw her he swore he wouldn't go down that road again. His resolve, apparently, was weak, easily broken down by the smell of (surprisingly) clean linen and whatever it was she'd been drinking. It was the only thing about Keira that was clean in the slightest. He knew that, had known it a while, but he came to her bed nonetheless.

She wasn't one for cuddling—or emotions at all, really—so after they lay in her bed, which dwarfed the room, side by side without touching. She'd painted the walls a light blue (the lease forbade it, but he was certain that didn't bother her in the slightest) and hung them with tapestries that fluttered in the breeze coming through the open window. "She made me take the smaller room," she griped as she blew a strand of hair off her face and pulled the quilts up. Geralt suddenly remembered why he hadn't wanted to pick back up with her in the first place.

"Why wouldn't she? She's paying rent. And utilities. And a rather sizable bribe, if what I heard is right." Keira stared at him disdainfully. He knew it wasn't what she wanted to hear. She liked to be right, and she liked when people agreed with her. He was fully aware of that, so he wasn't sure why he felt the need to defend a woman he'd never met, especially in bed with another. Obviously, she was thinking the same thing.

"All I'm trying to say is she's the one who showed up looking for a roommate."

"And you were the one who accepted her offer and the circumstances that came with it. You're not entitled to anything except what she said she'd give you." He didn't look over, but it was as if he could feel the anger radiating off her in waves. He knew he'd made a mistake, but considering how he felt (or, more accurately, didn't feel) about her, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. If this was the last night he spent in her bed, so be it. He wouldn't exactly be heartbroken.

"Geralt," she said all of a sudden, turning onto her side so she pressed against his arm. When he glanced down she had her gaze lowered, shielding herself with her lashes in an attempt to make her look more innocent. He wasn't fooled. "I don't suppose you could get me a glass of water?"

Of course. As a general rule, Keira was only nice when she needed something. But he didn't have anything better to do and he couldn't stand the way she was looking at him, so he stood resignedly and mumbled "fine" as he pulled on his boxers. If it had been easier for him to slip out unnoticed and return to his own apartment he would've done it, but it would be too obvious now. Surely she'd question if he got fully dressed to go to the kitchen. He'd just have to deal with it.

Once he was out into the main area, he could see the source of her frustration. Aside from the fact that he felt like he'd been smacked in the face with something that reminded him of the scent of lilac and gooseberries, there wasn't a hint of Keira in the whole room—not in the ivory couch, the grey-stained dining room table, the small shelf made of black metal and the same grey wood that was covered in framed photographs. Everything was crisp, clean, all sharp edges. Unfamiliar.

He could hear people in the other rooms of the apartment—the sudden silence of the shower being turned off in the bathroom, the click of someone typing in the bedroom. Though his senses surely had picked up the noises, he hadn't paid them any mind until now. It was unlikely Keira had gotten up, though he wouldn't put it past her—she'd been known to do things like that for no other reason than to annoy him—and besides, she couldn't possibly be in three places at once. After a moment or two had passed without any further incident, he shut off the faucet and, against his better judgement, wandered over to the shelf in the corner of the living room, setting the full glass down on the coffee table. It felt off, it felt somewhat intrusive, but everyone had been talking around her all day and, except for snippets here and there, vague memories of old photographs Ciri had sent him, he wasn't even quite sure what she looked like.

His decision to snoop solved at least one of those problems, because she was in nearly every picture, except for one of him and Ciri. He was surprised to see it there, but then again, he knew Ciri had at least two copies of it—it was seven or eight years old by now. She was in the rest of them; he recognized slightly younger versions of Triss and Philippa, and in another was a man with brown, shoulder-length hair that he assumed was her fiancé, judging by the casual way he'd draped his arm around her. He looked to be about forty, though he could've been far off. It was a common age for sorcerers to slow or stop the aging process; sorceresses started much earlier than that. He wondered, not for the first time, how old she actually was. She couldn't be that much older than Triss if they'd lived together, but then again, the age range of students at Aretuza was fairly sizeable, and she could very well be much older.

There was something tucked behind one of the frames, and though he knew he shouldn't, he carefully moved the picture out of the way to grab it. It was a book, a copy of The Poisoned Source that was extremely tattered and had several page markers sticking out of it. The name sounded familiar, but it wasn't something he'd ever read. He turned it over, examining the worn leather cover, and started to flip it open.

A shocked noise made him stop halfway, and he hurriedly shoved the book back and repositioned the frame. When he turned, the bathroom door was open just a crack. A shadow danced across the sliver of light being thrown on the floor.

"I was hoping," said a very annoyed voice from behind the door, "that when I told Keira I didn't want any strange men here when I returned, she might actually listen to me."

A moment later the door swung open, and he was immediately arrested by an amused pair of violet eyes. He knew he shouldn't be surprised—she lived here, what had he expected?—but he found himself there anyway, and she didn't hesitate to pick up his slack. "But you're not a stranger, are you, Geralt of Rivia?" she said, the corner of her mouth turning up ever so slightly.

His first thought, after years of not knowing her personally, only hearing about her through others, was that Yennefer of Vengerberg was…small.

Perhaps he'd been building her up in his mind, but it seemed as if all the personality he'd heard of wouldn't be able to fit in that body. Her skin, slightly damp, was even paler than his, and under the black robe that had clearly been tied hastily he could see hints of curves that he tried not to look at too long. She drew up next to him and turned to look at the shelf. Her inky hair was piled messily on top of her head, showing off a triangular face, sharp cheekbones. She pressed her lips together and didn't look back at him.

"Truthfully, this isn't at all how I imagined we'd meet." Her hand reached up to her neck, slender fingers tracing the outline of an obsidian star, surrounded by diamonds, which hung on a black velvet ribbon that encircled her throat. He recognized it immediately from the design on Ciri's left shoulder. "But here we are."

"You imagined it?"

"You didn't?" She turned her penetrating gaze on him. He felt as though he were drowning in her scent, which had only intensified in the time he'd been there. No, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it, though he'd also assumed it would be more formal, and that they would be more clothed when it happened. And she wouldn't be staring at him like that. "I see where she gets her nosiness from," she said, nodding towards the shelf.

The book. If he still had the ability to blush, he would've. "Not exactly private if it's sitting out in the open."

"You're not wrong," she replied. One of her sleeves had slipped partially off her shoulder, framing her body in a most fascinating manner. He suspected she knew he was staring. "But if you need to move other things to get to it, it's not out in the open, is it?"

"Sorry." Was she always like this? No wonder Ciri had run away—though from the way she'd spoken earlier, it seemed the two of them were close. There had to be something to her, some redeeming quality, because all the seemed now, despite her obvious beauty, was blunt and somewhat cold.

She waved off his apology with an all-too-familiar gesture that Ciri had used on him not even a few hours before. There was a ring on her finger, a silver one, set with a sizeable black diamond. He hadn't intended to say anything about it, but the words slipped out before he had a chance to think about them. "Is he here?"

"Who, Val?" She held her hand out flat, examining the way the stone caught the light. Her fingernails were painted a perfect, glossy mauve. "Yes, he's here, but only for a day or so, until classes start up. The offer to stay didn't extend to him."

"But it extended to Triss." The whole thing seemed off to him, though he wasn't sure why. He raised an eyebrow and she met his stare head-on, hitching the robe back over her shoulder and resting her hands on her hips in one fluid motion.

"It's a complicated situation, one that you know nothing about. And if you don't know anything, perhaps you shouldn't say anything."

She was right, of course, but he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of admitting it out loud. So he remained silent, turning back to the shelf. A few moments passed in silence. He heard her walking to the kitchen, the fridge opening and closing, what sounded like a bottle being opened. It took a lot to render him truly speechless, but she'd managed to do it in a manner of minutes. He had the distinct feeling that she would dismiss anything he tried to say anyway.

"It's funny, isn't it?" He didn't turn but he could feel her hovering at his side, pausing to take a drink of whatever she was holding. "The first witcher I've met in person, and it's you. The famous White Wolf." There might've been a mocking edge to her voice; he couldn't quite tell. "Among other things."

He sensed a question coming, and he shifted to meet her eyes, only to be stopped short by her cool fingertips on his face. She traced over the scar that cut across his eye with startling gentleness. "This scar," she murmured. Her brow furrowed, her lips parted slightly. "It's new. Where did it come from?"

He'd been asked that question more times than he could count. Never before had it caught him so off guard. "A cockatrice." The star on her neck was pulsing in a very distracting manner against the pale column of her throat. She nodded, her eyes moving over his other visible scars, down his chest, though her hand stayed in place. "What?" he said, spurred on by the way she looked at him, like she could divine his life story from the marks on his skin. "Never seen one before?"

Her lips turned up in a smile that didn't look entirely friendly. He didn't know why he'd felt the urge to prod her further. Keira was waiting for him; he had an easy excuse to leave. But there was something about her. "A cockatrice? No, I've not." Her voice was soft and somewhat threatening. "But I've also no reason to have seen one."

"Thought you mages knew everything."

She dropped her hand quickly, curling it around the edge of the wall instead. He felt the loss, the warmth where just seconds ago her fingers had been. "Some think they do. But I'd thank you not to take all your frustrations about other sorceresses out on me."

She suddenly sounded very tired, and Geralt couldn't help but be grateful, because he'd all but run out of things to say. "Well, it's been lovely, Geralt of Rivia, but I'm afraid I've got other things to do. Besides, I'm sure Keira is anxiously awaiting your return." After one more long, penetrating look at him, she left the room. He heard a door click shut behind her, voices speaking too quietly for him to make out what they were saying—he was sure she was doing it purposefully. Picking up the glass from the table, he resignedly headed back into the other bedroom.

"It's about time," Keira snapped as he climbed into the bed, handing the water over. "I see you've met her."

He nodded and slumped back. He felt exhausted. "Remind me again why you don't like her?"

"I'd think speaking to her would be enough to answer that question," she said sourly. Putting the glass down, she curled up next to him in an uncharacteristic show of affection. It seemed almost impossible, but he thought she might actually be jealous. "But fine, I'll tell you. We lived together her first full year at Aretuza, but you already knew that. We also graduated together. Whatever, you're thinking, right? We don't have to interact, and we don't, for the most part. But in the last few months when you're looking for apprenticeships, it's incredibly hard to find decent ones when some upstart sixteen-year-old is getting all the attention. And I haven't even mentioned—"

"Wait. Sixteen?" Surely she'd misspoken. The average age to graduate was anywhere from nineteen to early twenties, depending on when the student had started and how fast they progressed; he'd learned that when he'd found out Yennefer had been planning to send Ciri there. Of course, there were exceptions (if he recalled correctly from the small amount of research he'd done, the youngest recent graduate was Philippa Eilhart, who had been eighteen), but sixteen seemed far outside the realm of possibility.

"Yes, aren't you listening to me? Anyway, it's not that, or at least it's not completely that. She's got this attitude, like she can do whatever she wants, like she thinks she's better than everyone else."

That wasn't at all the impression he'd gotten from her, but he let that slide. He doubted she wanted to hear about their little exchange. "From what I've seen, that's not entirely unjustified."

Keira groaned very loudly and rolled away. The voices from the other room, he noticed, had stopped, though he could hear other noises now. "You're impossible. I can't even try to explain anything to you." When he didn't immediately respond, she reached over and flicked the light off. "Good night."

"Keira—"

"I said good night, Geralt."

She fell asleep quickly, and after an hour or so he got dressed and slipped out as quietly as he could manage. He could hear the soft humming of a white noise machine from somewhere to his left, but he shoved thoughts of that room and its inhabitants away. He still had some unpacking to do.

Remember that post about the sponsoring system I said I was going to make like two weeks ago? I finally did it, and it's up on my writing blog. I might make more like it if there are specific things people are interested in, but this one is so plot-important that I just went ahead and did it.