Crying out in ecstasy as a kaleidoscope of colours explodes in front of her retina like a most exquisite fireworks, she moves her pelvis against his one last time before his seed spills into her hungry cunt and a beautiful, most satisfying warmth starts to spread throughout her entire body. Bliss, pure bliss.
Then she hears it. The accursed name. And realisation hits her like a club in the face.
"You don't love me, not at all, do you, Geralt?" she asks sharply, her voice not only husky from the phenomenal sex.
He blinks his eyes open sluggishly and rolls off of her with a sigh.
"What did you say?"
"You heard me, Witcher, don't pretend otherwise! I know Witchers have exceptional auditory abilities."
"What made you say it then, darling? We were just having a hell of a lot of good sex, right?"
"Don't darling me when you don't mean it. This is not about sex, you moron. It's about love!" she chides, pushing her dress back down over her knees, effectively covering her female parts. What became of her underpants, she does not remember. Geralt probably ripped them in two in his haste to get the fabric out of the way. "Is it because of my skin colour? Because I'm black?"
"Black?" Geralt looks at Fringia, baffled. "How are you black? If I had to describe your skin colour, I'd definitely not call it black."
"Then, what would you call it?"
"Hmm," he furrows his brow for the briefest of moments, then beams at her. "Roach-coloured!"
"Roach-coloured?" Fringilla asks, incredulous. "Isn't Roach the name of your horse?"
"Of all my horses. And I've loved every single one of them."
"And now you're going to tell me that you call all your lovers Yennefer, but love every single one of them equally?" Fringilla inquires, raising her eyebrows indignantly. Yet, despite herself, she is kind of amused. Roach-coloured, how typically Geralt.
"Did I—?" Geralt asks, and slowly it dawns on him why Fringilla seems to be rubbed the wrong way all of a sudden. Fuck.
"Yes, you did!"
"I'm sorry, Fringilla, I didn't mean to upset you."
"Of course, you didn't!" she scoffs, rising from the library floor where they, as so often before, made out between ancient tomes and scrolls. She laces up her blouse, covering her voluptuous, apparently Roach-coloured bosom. It has been a big misunderstanding from the start. She has always suspected it, but hearing the name right at the point of having an orgasm is different. It hurts. Deeply. And she knows there is nothing she can do about it. Yennefer always wins. Poor, Roach-coloured Fringilla will only ever be second best at most. She should finally accept this truth and move on or the green-eyed monster jealousy will eat her up from the inside out.
"It's better you leave, I suppose," she says with determination. "You ought to have left long ago. Your child surprise is waiting for you - and your Yennefer."
"Fringilla, I—"
"Don't say another word. I understand. And I'll still help you find her, as I promised." It is probably stupid, but there is this tiny part of her that yearns to be Yennefer's friend. That has always yearned to be Yennefer's friend. Maybe, if she helps Geralt save her now, it is not completely impossible?
"I found this spell a few days ago," she continues, "in one of the ancient elven scrolls. It will reveal the location of the person you're bound to by destiny. I only need some of your blood. Who it will be, Ciri or Yennefer, I cannot say."
"And you only tell me about the spell now?" Geralt says, his voice full of sudden reproach. They could have been on their way days ago. Days that might be crucial for Ciri's and Yennefer's fate.
"I didn't want to lose you. But I've just realised that you were never mine in the first place. It was just a dream, a beautiful fairytale dream. Maybe it's better that it's over now."
"Fuck, I liked that dream, Fringilla. A lot. But you're right, it's time to wake up." Geralt rises to his feet, pulling up his pants. "How much blood do you need?"
"Don't worry, just three drops. You'll have to promise me one thing though."
"What, Fringilla?" Geralt knits his brows with suspicion. He knows from experience that it is very dangerous to make a promise to a sorceress.
"Keep an eye out for Cahir, will you? I don't know why, but I'm really fond of that boy. He has a tendency to get himself into a hell of a lot of trouble, though."
"Trust me, I've noticed," Geralt says with an amused huff. This is not exactly a request he expected, but one he can easily fulfil. "And I feel you, Fringilla. I've no idea why I like him that much either. Must be old age slowly catching up with us."
"You must be jesting, I'm still pretty young - for a sorceress," Fringilla chuckles. "But seriously, Cahir can be a bit of an idiot sometimes and needs to be supervised by a responsible adult." She points her finger at Geralt. "So he won't get himself killed."
"I'll be as responsible as possible, I promise," Geralt says solemnly. "But I don't think you need to worry that much. Cahir isn't easy to kill. I've tried several times and could never do it."
"Hmm, you might be right. I almost did this once, too, back in Cintra when I put all the other generals to the knife."
"You did what?" Geralt's eyes grow wide. "You've never mentioned that before. Sounds like a, well, interesting story."
"I can tell you while I get the other equipment that I'll need for the spell. A goblet made of gold should be easy to find here in the palace, I've got a silver knife, then we'll need incense, a hand full of hair from a black cat, mandrake roots, those will be difficult to come by—"
"Think I know where we can get mandrake," Geralt interjects with a smug smile. Regis will have some. He always has what is needed. "Are we good, Fringilla?" he then asks, looking at her from amber eyes.
"You know what, Geralt?" Fringilla rolls her dark ones at him, amused. "Cahir and you, you aren't that different. You can be quite a moron too, from time to time - maybe even most of the time." She gives him a quick peck on the cheek. "Now, up with your sleeve, I need your blood. The sooner you'll leave, the better."
Geralt does not disagree. They have stayed in Toussaint far too long.