So as usual, I don't know if the next couple of updates will be this quick, since book retelling takes a lot of time and page-checking, and the only reason I finished this one so quickly (it's the longest chapter to date) is because I had several hours of unexpected free time today that I basically just spent writing this. Hopefully updates will continue to be as quick, but I'll always make it known if they're going to be off the regular schedule. Hope you enjoy! –Bel

A Wolf Among Lilacs
Part One: Longing/Regret
Chapter Eight: Can't Go Forward, Can't Go Back

They slept, at Regis's insistence, with a small lamp on, and he refused to turn it off even when Dandelion complained. Geralt knew it wasn't for his benefit—Regis could see in the dark better than even he could—but he kept his mouth shut about it; it didn't make a difference to him. He woke early to shower and go downstairs, intending to take full advantage of their free breakfast. Dandelion joined him shortly after, and they made the rounds. He found himself being introduced to nearly everyone, though he doubted he'd remember any of their names when it came time to divide back up again. The socializing was already beginning to tire him out, and the second he had a change to get away he did, settling again in a corner table as he was accustomed to do.

He drank a glass of water slowly as he watched the room fill up. When Yennefer entered, dressed in a plain white shirt and black jeans, her hair pulled up behind her head, she didn't acknowledge him, but he could smell her perfume as she passed by, only a few feet away. They had sat so close for so long the night before that he wondered whether or not he'd ever be able to get it out of his clothes—his skin, even. He'd watched her as she watched the window, so quiet he could hear her breathing, the steady flutter of her heartbeat. "You're refreshingly silent, Geralt of Rivia," she'd said when she finally stood to go inside, tugging the van's door shut behind her and looking at him for several long seconds before she turned away. Even now, he could still feel that gaze.

"Geralt!" He forced his stare away from Yennefer and to the table in front of him, which had suddenly become far more crowded. To his left sat Regis, and on his right was a man with thick, curly chestnut-colored hair, who was dressed far more casually than anyone else there. Next to him, one beside the other, were two women in tank tops and tight jeans that showed off extremely muscular frames. There was something vicious about them, something off-putting, though he suspected that was mostly because of the tattooed stripes that ran from the corners of their eyes to their ears. He tried not to stare too long; it wasn't difficult when he could redirect his gaze to someone far more interesting across the room.

"Geralt," Regis repeated, and he could tell he was annoyed. "This is Borch, also known as Three Jackdaws, and his…girls, Teá and Veá. We happened upon each other in the elevator and got to talking. They're going to be accompanying us from here on."

We have to fit three more people in that van was the last thing Geralt wanted to hear, but he shook Borch's hand, introduced himself, and hoped it didn't show. "Geralt," the man said in an accent he couldn't quite place, turning towards him. "Regis tells me you're a witcher. As I understand it, what that means is you wander from one end of the world to the other, and if you happen upon a monster, you kill it. And people…pay you for it. Am I describing it accurately?"

"More or less." He didn't feel terribly inclined to explain the intricacies of it—the stationary nature of his current contract, the fact that he had a daughter and ever since that happened, his stints on the Path had grown shorter and shorter. That the thought of spending another century on the Path—maybe two, if he was lucky and didn't get killed—made him sick to his stomach every time it surfaced.

"And have you ever been summoned somewhere specifically? For a special contract, say? What would you do then? Go and carry it out?"

"It depends on who asks, and why."

"And for how much?"

"That also depends." Geralt shrugged. He heard the muffled sound of boots on carpet, and even though he didn't turn his head, he felt Yennefer sit down next to Regis. The scent of her perfume crept back into his nostrils. "Prices are going up, and we've got to live."

"A selective approach, then. Practical. But there's something at the heart of it, I'd say. The conflict between Order and Chaos. I'd imagine your mission is to defend people from Evil, always and everywhere, without discretion. In this conflict, you stand on a clearly defined side."

"The forces of Order and Chaos. Awfully high-flung words, Borch. You want to put me on one side of a conflict that began long before us, and will endure long after. But where does the average person stand? What defines the border between the two?"

"A very simple thing," Three Jackdaws replied, tone low and serious. Geralt became uncomfortably aware that everyone at the table was listening intently. "The thing that represents Chaos is menace, aggressiveness. It is the threatening side, and Order is the one being threatened. It is the one in need of a defender. But you yourself aren't keen to be placed on either side."

"That's right."

"But you can't escape the conflict. You go into an abandoned building and emerge with a slaughtered basilisk. You take your payment and hurry off to kill the monster you're asked to. But say a fierce dragon is wreaking havoc on—"

"Bad example," Geralt interrupted, "and not just for the obvious reasons. You've already mixed up the two. Because I don't kill dragons, and dragons clearly represent Chaos."

"But why?" He raised his eyebrows. Geralt couldn't tell whether or not his surprise was feigned. "Dragons are the most bestial monster there is! They attack people, breathe fire, carry off virgins. It seems impossible that a witcher such as yourself wouldn't have killed a few."

"I don't kill dragons," Geralt repeated, irritated. He was starting to tire of this conversation, though he seemed to be the only one. "Forktails, sure. Dracolizards. Flying drakes. But not dragons—green, black, or red. Take note, please."

"You astound me, Geralt," Three Jackdaws said cheerfully, "and I'm eager to continue this conversation, but it seems we must change venues." He gestured to the room around them. Many of the tables, he noted with surprise, were already empty, and Yennefer had somehow slipped off without him noticing. He stood resignedly and kept pace with Regis as they walked outside. He'd been hoping to get a decent seat for the remainder of the trip's driving portion, but as he neared the van he heard Dandelion complaining loudly. When it came into sight Yennefer was already sitting in the front, reading a book and ignoring him completely. Geralt sighed to himself. It was going to be another long day.

~oOo~

"Aretuza," Philippa said commandingly, voice and heels echoing in the entryway, "has a fairly sizeable student population. Given the varying ages at which young mages enter and leave, up to several hundred students can be housed here at a time, and it's not uncommon to have that many. The building we're in now, Loxia, is purely residential, and it's also the only building on the campus that normally admits visitors, though you're an exception. There are five levels and seventy-six suites, each of which can house at least two people. Generally, all are in use except one—though I suppose that's the one you want."

"Yes," Ciri said without hesitation. "Or it would be the one I'd want. Remember, this is my choice."

"I've been reminded more times than I can count," she replied dryly, and Ciri rolled her eyes. If she'd had her way, Ciri knew, Philippa would've locked her in Aretuza and kept her there until she'd figured everything out. She didn't care about Ciri the same way Yennefer did—though she did care about Yennefer, and given their history it made sense. She had no such history with Ciri. "Anyway. The five floors are split between levels of study. Novices, apprentices, adepts—and the top two levels for those who choose to pursue higher levels of study. You'd likely spend a few years on each of the first three floors."

"And Yennefer—"

"Yennefer spent one year in each level of study, but don't expect yourself to be so lucky. She possesses an incredible amount of raw power; I've never seen anyone rival it, not even far older and more experienced mages, not to mention that she spent the vast majority of her time working in the first place. You, on the other hand, have no work ethic and no access to your power at all."

Ciri swallowed an angry retort and looked down at her sneakers, which seemed out of place against the marble entryway. She was beginning to question the purpose of this visit more and more. After the first month or two they'd been together, Yennefer had slowed down her studies considerably, had become more sympathetic to the pain that came with an education in magic. She wouldn't get that kind of personal attention here. Besides, she still wasn't sure this was what she wanted. She still felt like a witcher-in-training more than anything else—like she should be back at Kaer Morhen, weapons in hand. But every time she thought about it a knot of guilt twisted itself in her stomach, and she forced herself to put that behind her now. She couldn't go back.

"Why even come then?" she said sourly, scuffing her shoe across the tile. Philippa turned and glared at her as she held open a door that Ciri followed her through, one that led to a large, circling stairwell. Light filtered down from thin, high windows placed sporadically on the tower's walls. "What can they do that I haven't already tried a million times?"

"You'd be surprised." Philippa began to climb the stairs in front of her, and Ciri had no choice but to follow. "Yennefer is brilliant, true, but she doesn't know everything."

"Neither do you," Ciri muttered under her breath. Thankfully, her voice didn't carry up the circling stairwell. They climbed for what seemed like forever, until they reached the third floor, and once they were in the hallway, the building became startlingly modern. Plain, thin carpet, white cinderblock walls, grey suite doors covered in decorations. Next to the doors were silver nameplates, two for each two-bedroom suite. The number of people in a suite, Philippa explained as they advanced down the hall, went down as one got older—novices were six to three bedrooms, apprentices two to two, and only adepts got their own room, mostly to aid in keeping their research private during the thesis stage. On rare occasions, the system would pair two girls of different levels to room together, in which case they'd live at the higher level, but it barely ever happened. Only once in recent years, with disastrous results (though, she admitted, that hadn't had much to do with them living together).

"Normally, a request like yours would be denied," Philippa continued. "The point is to earn the privilege of a bigger, more private space. But no one's used the room since, and you're her daughter, so…"

She shrugged as they stopped in front of a door that was a more faded shade of grey than the others, lacking several coats of fresh paint. "Why haven't they let anyone else use it since she graduated?" she asked curiously as she rubbed her sleeve over the nameplates, cleaning them off. Triss Merigold, the top one read, and underneath that, Yennefer von Vengerberg. Alphabetical, even though she was older. She'd probably hated that.

"Technically, that's not true." Philippa pulled one key from the others on her ring and unlocked the outside door. "Triss stayed here until her graduation a few years later—but she didn't want another roommate, and given the circumstances, they granted her request."

"But why won't they let anyone stay here anymore?" They stepped inside, and Philippa flicked on the awful fluorescent lights as the door swung shut behind them. The small common space was bare, and the lights reflected off the grey tile that led into the bathroom door to her left but stopped short at the two doors on the wall in front of her. The room was cold, and Ciri shivered as she drew her oversized denim jacket tighter around her.

Philippa sighed. For the first time since Ciri had met her years ago, she looked genuinely disconcerted. "It's no secret that students die here," she said finally. "Try as the faculty might to help them, some who show initial aptitude can't handle the full Force that they would need to become true sorceresses. But all those deaths are accidental." She looked at the leftmost bedroom door, which seemed to have taken on a foreboding aura in the seconds since Ciri had last looked at it. "And action that's…deliberate…leaves a very strong magical imprint."

Ciri swallowed again as Philippa offered her the key. Her footsteps echoed on the tile, and it took her several tries to actually unlock the door. It felt as though her stomach were condensing, closing in on itself. Everything was still there. Exactly as she'd seen it in the memories.

"She asked them not to clean the carpet," Philippa whispered. "When she left a month later, she only took her personal effects—clothes and the like. She didn't want any of the rest of it, so they left it here. No one would even dare set foot in the room for months." She laughed a little. It sounded incredibly forced. "Triss was the only one who could stand it—remember, whatever you're feeling now is eleven years old. The air in here was a lot nastier at first."

And she could feel it, something sorrowful and angry, lurking in the corners, on the bloodstains. "I can handle it." She tried to sound confident, but she was sure Philippa noticed how her voice quivered, how she clenched her fists a little too harshly.

"I don't doubt that you can. But you have to keep in mind, she thought she could handle it too."

The words were heavy, and it took Ciri a moment to let them set in. From any other mouth it would've been an insult. Philippa, however, only sounded regretful. It was the only scrap of true emotion she'd ever seen out of her.

"So," she said after a minute, tone filled with false enthusiasm as she stepped out of the room and took the key from Ciri. "Shall we continue the tour?"

~oOo~

"Look," said Boholt, the oldest of the Crinfrid Reavers, as he tossed an apple into the air and caught it again effortlessly. They'd driven until the vans and trucks they travelled in could no longer fit on the paths, and it was there that they stopped to pitch camp for the night, with the understanding that from then on they'd be travelling on foot, carrying their things in backpacks and a couple of large carts that Dorregaray had conjured up specifically to hold weapons. Geralt, assisted by Eyck and the (reluctant) Reavers, had set about building a very large bonfire, and now nearly all of them were crowded around it (though Eyck himself had vanished).

"So," Boholt continued. "Niedamir didn't turn you away, like I thought he would—though who am I to question a king's decisions? So it's good you've joined us here, the three of you, I suppose. Now, just between us, what did you and the king talk about?"

"We've barely spoken," Geralt replied shortly. Dandelion was sprawled next to him, strumming a guitar he'd somehow managed to cram into the back of the van. Regis was on his other side, though he appeared to be lost deep in thought. "And he wouldn't turn me away. He requested me by name."

"Well, I think," the second Reaver said, pausing to take a long drink, "I don't think he should've asked for you at all. I mean, lookit how many people're after the dragon now. It's not a hunting party no more, it's a funeral procession. I need room when I's fighting."

"Oh, fuck off, Gar. The more the merrier," Boholt declared. "There's always swarms of people after a dragon. But you know who'll be left standing at the end? Us. Besides, it's only after the dragon's dead and the treasure up for grabs that the heads start to roll. Right, Geralt? Am I right? Hey, witcher, I'm talking to you."

"I've heard of cases like that," Geralt replied unenthusiastically.

"Heard of. Hearsay, must be, because I've never heard of you fighting any dragons. Which makes it strange that you're here." He made eye contact with Geralt for an uncomfortably long time. "See, we know each other, the witcher and I, and up until now we've stayed out of each other's way. If I wanted to disrupt his work, he could kill me in an instant, right?"

No one said anything. "Right," Boholt continued after a moment. "The more the merrier, as I said, and the witcher may yet be useful to us. If we run into any frightener, ilyocoris, or striga, he can take care of it. That's your specialty. But dragons aren't your specialty, are they?"

Again, everyone remained silent for several minutes. "Well, Regis and Lord Three Jackdaws here are with Geralt, and that's enough for me. So what's bothering you, Gar? Beanpole? Can't be Dandelion, can it?"

Yarpen Zigrin barked out a laugh as he passed around a bottle of unidentified spirits. "Dandelion always manages to show up whenever something interesting happens. He doesn't help, doesn't interfere, and won't slow us down, so what do we care?"

The dwarves that had accompanied Yarpen laughed and yelled in agreement as the man in question took a long drink, then passed the bottle on, gasping for air. "Bloody hell, that's strong! What's it distilled from, scorpions?"

"There's still one thing bothering me, Geralt," Boholt continued, ignoring Dandelion completely, "and that's you bringing those mages along. We'll never get anything done with them around."

"He's right," Yarpen agreed loudly. "We need that Dorregaray like a pig needs a saddle. And don't even get me started on that witch. The noble Yennefer." He groaned in disgust, and several others joined in. Geralt dug his fingers into his legs very tightly.

"Yes," Boholt said, "there are too many sorcerers here. Two too many, to be precise—and they're a bit too close to Niedamir. Just look at us! Sitting outside, sleeping under the stars, while they're warm in the royal tent, plotting and probably gorging themselves, too. And what are they plotting? How to cheat us, that's what!"

He paused, out of breath, scratched his neck a bit, then picked back up. "That Yennefer," he said, pronouncing her name like it tasted foul on his tongue, "is a nasty, mouthy bitch. Not like your girls, Lord Borch. They're quiet and agreeable. I'm glad they're here, but not her. All she does is scheme. We've got to watch out, or else we'll get shit-all from our agreement."

"What agreement?" Geralt fought to keep his tone neutral, even though he was a few more wrong words away from breaking Boholt's jaw.

"Should we tell him, Yarpen?"

"Don't see any harm in it. Go ahead."

"There's no more booze," Dandelion interjected sadly, turning the bottle upside-down. Once again, he was ignored.

"Well," Boholt said, "we came up with this idea, because the truth is we can handle the dragon without Niedamir, but he can't handle it without us. So we've made it fair—whoever does the beast in gets half the loot. Niedamir, considering he's royalty and all, gets a quarter no matter what. The rest, provided they help, will split the last quarter equally. What do you think about that?"

"Well, what does Niedamir think about it?"

"He didn't say anything either way, but he'd better not put up a fight. He won't kill the dragon himself; he'll have to rely on the experts—us, the Reavers, and Yarpen and his lads. We're the only ones who'll face it head-on. The others—including the mages—will get a fair cut if they give honest assistance."

"Who do you include in the 'others?'" Dandelion asked curiously.

"Certainly not poets," Yarpen cackled, along with the rest of his men. "We include those who fight, not laze about."

"Ah." Three Jackdaws, who had until then remained quiet, raised his eyebrows, casting his gaze up to the sky. "So what will the carpenter Sheepbagger and his rabble contribute?"

"They know the area," Boholt replied smoothly, "and will act as guides. It seems reasonable to allow him a share. But it…wouldn't be a shame if something horrible happened to him along the way."

Geralt saw movement out of the corner of his eye—a petite figure in a dark jacket entered the circle of light thrown by the fire noiselessly. Yarpen Zigrin wrinkled his nose. "What reeks so much in here?" he asked, pretending not to see her. "It's not brimstone, is it?"

"No." Boholt glanced to the side, sniffing pointedly. "It's musk, or some other scent."

"No, it's…" Yarpen grimaced. Geralt gritted his teeth tightly. "Why, it's the noble Lady Yennefer! Welcome, welcome! Please, sit down! Kennet, move your ass, give the good lady a proper seat."

"By all means," Yennefer said, her voice cool, "don't inconvenience yourselves for me." She came fully into the circle of light and sat down next to Regis, crossing her legs underneath her. Geralt saw her move her smallest finger over his, felt his medallion vibrate faintly—telepathic communication. Her eyes swept over the company slowly, finally coming to rest on Geralt. He smiled faintly.

"From what I heard," she continued in her melodic voice, "you gentlemen are talking business. Without me?"

"We didn't dare trouble such an important personage," Yarpen muttered.

"Quiet, Zigrin," Boholt snapped, clearing his throat. "Let's hear what Lady Yennefer has to say. I'm sensing she's got an offer for us, and I'm interested to hear it, so long as it doesn't involve her killing the dragon herself, with spells."

"And what if it does?" Yennefer tilted her head, dark hair falling flatteringly over her collarbones. "Don't think it's possible?"

"Oh, I know it's possible. But it's not profitable for us, you see, because you'd demand half the dragon's hoard."

"At least half," she replied coldly. Dandelion had stopped strumming and was now watching them with great interest.

"And that's why we'll kill it ourselves, without spells or your help."

"Are you sure about that? There are limits, Boholt, to what is possible."

"Maybe there are, but I've yet to encounter them. No, we'll kill it ourselves—especially since spells are sure to have their own limits which, unlike our own, we don't know."

"Brilliant. Did you come up with that yourself? Or did someone put you up to it?"

"No one did. Listen, Lady Yennefer," Boholt said slowly. "We've given Niedamir our terms, but he hasn't provided an answer. We're patient, we'll wait until morning, and continue on if he agrees. If not, we'll leave."

"Us, too," Yarpen snarled.

"So take it or leave it, good lady. I shouldn't need to mention that a deal would be good for you and Dorregaray as well. We'll give you the carcass—anything you might need for your sorcery. We'll not stand in your way on that."

Yennefer stood, sighed angrily, and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Niedamir won't wait until morning. He's already agreed to your terms. Against my and Dorregaray's advice, mind you."

"Then it seems," Boholt drawled, "that he's displaying surprising amounts of wisdom for someone so young—which includes turning a deaf ear to foolish or insincere advice."

"That's what you say now." She drew herself up, put her hands on her hips in a gesture that Geralt was already far too familiar with. "But you'll be saying something else when the dragon's broken half your bones. You'll be begging for my help then. I know your kind. I know them all too well."

She turned sharply and left, and without giving much thought to the action Geralt stood and followed her, leaving so quietly that no one even noticed until Dandelion said, several minutes later, "Hey, where'd Geralt go?"

~oOo~

"Yennefer."

She stopped several feet in front of him and turned around slowly, illuminated only by the floating ball of light she'd conjured above her right hand. It glinted off the star on her neck, off a row of piercings up the shell of her ear he hadn't noticed before. She looked tense. He could imagine why. "What? Come to apologize for them?"

"I can't do that," he said, and she relaxed visibly, letting her fingers open just a little bit more. When he caught up with her, she turned and kept walking towards where they'd parked. It didn't take much effort for him to keep up with her. "But…the things they were saying about you—"

"I'm used to it." She smiled wryly, sharing a knowing look with him. "The mage community hasn't ever exactly been fond of me, either. I break their unspoken rules too often for their liking."

"Rules like what?"

"Like don't sponsor your best friend. Among others." It was clear he'd crossed a line, and he desperately sought a way to change the subject as they reached the van. Yennefer slid the middle door open, climbed into the seat and faced him, letting her legs hang out the door. He was surprised that she didn't immediately close it on him, but she seemed, for the most part, content to sit with him in silence.

"You didn't answer my question last night," he said when it became too much to bear. She looked up at him, lips parted slightly in confusion. "About you specializing."

"Oh." She smiled with the corners of her mouth. "I did answer your question, Geralt of Rivia. Just not seriously. I'm guessing you want a serious answer, though, if you're asking again."

He nodded, and the smile widened. "I didn't have one. I did a little of everything. But I've been told I've got a knack for enchanting stones. Here, hold out your hand."

He did as she asked, despite his initial hesitations, and she reached to the back of her neck, unfastening and catching the velvet choker with one hand as the other grabbed his. She placed the obsidian star in his palm and closed his fingers around it. Her own were startlingly cold. "Do you feel that?" she asked, and he nodded again. He supposed she was referring to his own medallion pulsing in response to hers, but he could feel far too many things right then. "There are twenty active diamonds in there. Each one has a different enchantment on it. It was a tricky thing to get right, took me almost a year. Some enchantments, you see, react volatilely to others, so placement was important. Some of those stones are there simply to neutralize adverse reactions between others."

He looked back up at her, at the way her hair had fallen from behind her ear to cover part of her face, how her neck looked longer without the ribbon circling it and he wanted to know what the skin there felt like under his fingers, his lips. He hoped desperately she wasn't reading his thoughts as other mages were prone to doing. "It's impressive," he said after a moment's pause.

"I'm glad someone thinks so." She pulled her hand away before he was ready for her to, swept her hair to one side so she could refasten the choker. "It was my thesis. Nothing groundbreaking, truly—though on a larger scale than others had done with similar projects—but considering I was expending so much energy on…other things…" She stopped, cleared her throat, staring at something in the distance. "Well, the committee was impressed, to say the least."

The silence, once comfortable, had now grown tense around them, "I should probably get back," Geralt said. "They're likely wondering where I've gone. You're just going to stay here, then?"

"I don't know if you've noticed," she said dryly, "but there are few women in this camp, and it's already been made clear how most of the people here feel about me. I'd prefer to stay here, yes."

She had a way of rendering anything he might have said unnecessary, so for what felt like the thousandth time that night Geralt nodded, and turned away. As he made his way back to the main camp, he heard her, though faintly, like she was whispering the words to herself and not to him. "Good night, Geralt of Rivia."

I would say I'm sorry about that Sad Backstory, but I'm honestly not...it's only going to get sadder from here lol

Speaking of, I'm still working on the first companion one-shot to this, but since it was supposed to be done weeks ago I'll just go ahead and say it: it's about Yen and Ciri, and the first couple months of their relationship. It's also ended up being a lot longer than I anticipated (it'll probably be *at least* twice as long as Stone Cold), so I'm not sure when it'll be up; it depends on when I can find time between regular updates to work on it, but I'm hoping for sometime in the next month or so!