She wakes up to the blurry vision not of blue sky or the green of trees but to the grey of stone walls, cold and bleak and suffocating. Stygga, her hazy brain whispers, she must still be in Stygga. With a panicked start, she sits up. And falls right back, moaning loudly. Shit, her middle aches worse than when she had that miscarriage centuries ago. No, not really centuries, of course, but it feels like a very, very long time has passed since then, although it has not even been a year.
"You shouldn't do that, woman," a deep, gruff voice says from across what seems to be a large room. She blinks and the room comes more into focus. The walls are bare stone, yet there are candle holders mounted on them and the golden light of a sunny afternoon filters in through a high window. She is lying not on the floor between corpses in a pool of her own blood but in a bed. No fetters or manacles or anything hinting at that she is a prisoner. The blanket and pillow feel rather coarse, nothing like in Toussaint, and the bed is of a simple, but sturdy make, not a huge fourposter bed with a richly embroidered canopy. But a bed is a bed, and, being a simple girl from the woods, she hated all that hoity-toity luxury anyway. But where the hell is she? Where are her friends? And who the fuck is the man who just spoke to her?
Cautiously, she turns to the side where the voice came from. There are several more beds with small, plain tables between them, a chair or two, and a lot of unlit candles. At the far end by what seems to be the entry to an adjacent room stands a tall man. He is leaning casually against the ornamented wooden entry frame with his arms crossed in front of his broad, muscular chest. His shoulder-length, unkempt hair is red, his face covered in a wild beard and his strange, dark eyes are examining her as if she was a foreign insect waiting to be stuck on a needle and mounted in a display case. Damn, she does not like this stare.
"Take your bloody eyes off of me or I'll rip you a new one," she mutters, her voice sounding hoarse and far weaker than she would have liked. Fuck, she sounds pathetic.
A broad grin spreads across the man's hairy face. "Ah, the wild cat's alive and kicking. I like me a woman with claws."
"And I like me a man who either knows not to stare at a woman, or is dead," Milva retorts darkly, glaring at the impertinent redhead. What an ass. Too bad she feels far too tired to show her claws for real. She must have received a severe injury at Stygga. Very hazily she remembers a searing pain in her belly and the fletchings of an arrow sticking out of it. Then only darkness. She still feels kind of sick.
"Funny, how Geralt always brings the most insufferable bitches to Kaer Morhen, first his princess child surprise brat, then Merigold, this purple-eyed Yennefer, and now you. Do you have a contest going about who's the bitchiest bitch?"
"Geralt? What do you know of Geralt?" Milva asks suspiciously, ignoring the insult. That hairy caveman is not one of his friends?
"More than you'll ever know of him, I bet," he huffs. "And for sure I know that his taste in women has been abysmal ever since he had his first fuck. Told him he'd better switch to men, but no, here we're stuck with another girlfriend of his."
"I'm not Geralt's girlfriend, and you know it!" she protests vehemently. There was a time, yes, when she thought that was what she wanted to be, but that time has long since passed. "Where's that Witcher anyway, and where the bloody fuck am I?"
"So many questions, tsk, tsk. Don't give yourself a headache, Milli. You've just come back from the dead."
"What? What did you just call me?" Milva splutters, thunderstruck. If she could move without her belly exploding with agony, she would throw a pillow into that arrogant arsehole's leering face, and throw it hard. Too bad she feels as weak as a newborn baby and does not dare sit up again lest the searing pain comes back, ripping her apart from the inside.
"Milli. Isn't that your name? I thought that was what Geralt told us when he brought your dying corpse to Kaer Morhen. Sounds more like the name for a cow or a goat than for an - allegedly outstanding - archer, but— Hey, you still with me?"
Milva has closed her eyes. She is at Kaer Morhen, the secret witcher keep in the Blue Mountains that Geralt kept talking about when they were sitting around the campfire or at the big table in their kitchen at Beauclair Palace and he was in a good mood. That redheaded oaf must be one of his witcher brothers then. Didn't Geralt even mention one who is extra annoying? Lammas? Lambast? Lambart? Something like this. But if she is at Kaer Morhen, does that mean they succeeded with their crazy mission? Did Geralt manage to find and free this daughter of his, and his witch? And where are the other members of their Hanza? A sudden fear grips Milva's heart. All the other beds are empty. They aren't dead? Shit, she does not really want to, but she has to ask this Lambutt.
"Where's everybody? My friends? They didn't die at Stygga, right?" Shit, her voice suddenly sounds pathetically weepy. But what if they did not make it? If she'll never again hear Angoulême's raucous laughter, Cahir claiming for the hundredth time that he is not a Nilfgaardian, Regis's lengthy lectures that she understands not even half the words of. What if she is never again called auntie? Tears well up in her eyes and, to her own mortification, one silent drop trickles down her cheek. Fuck. Angrily, she wipes away the single, treacherous tear. Why does this dumbass witcher not tell her already? Does he enjoy gloating over her misery? Or is he afraid of having to tell her the sad news?
"Do you mean that bratty, snotty teenager that curses like a sailor and eats like a horse?" he eventually asks. "And that ugly, scar-faced Nilfgaardian, who denies he is one whenever you call him that? And this highfalutin, herbacious healer-monster-vampire-thingy?"
"How dare you, Regis is not a monster! And neither a thingy!" Milva bristles through her tears, once again feeling the strongest urge to hurl something at this highly irritating man and preferably something that will hurt a lot worse than a pillow would. Yet, even if she does not agree with all of his descriptions - Cahir is definitely not ugly, especially in comparison with the rock troll she is having this strange conversation with, and the scar on his temple is hardly worth the mention - what he was saying sounded very much as if this Lambutt has met her friends. This, in turn, would mean that they are alive and here at Kaer Morhen, that everything went well at Stygga, that their story, against all odds and reason, is one with a happy ending. Or will be one with a happy ending as soon as she feels less shitty and is not in such a crappy company anymore but back with her friends, her true company. Fuck, why aren't they here?
"Regis, right, that vampire has a name, and what a name! Nobody in their right mind would ever want to remember as pretentious a name as his. And that Nilfgaardian's name's almost worse," the Witcher complains with obvious disdain. "At least your name's simple. Want a drink, Milli?"
Gods, how she hates that jackass! How could Geralt leave her alone with that man - no, that mutant? But darn, she is dastardly thirsty, her mouth and throat parched like after a walk through the desert. And who knows when she will be delivered from this visitation of idiocy and bad manners?
"Hmm," she half grunts, half huffs.
"What? Sorry, but I didn't catch that. Can you say it again?" He holds his hand to his ear as if he had indeed not heard her, but his almost perpetual smirk tells a different story.
Fuck, the arsehole is making fun of her. The prick knows very well that she would give the world for a glass of water.
"Yes," Milva hisses, and when he, not overly gently, stuffs another pillow under her head for support and hands her a mug of water, she barely manages to control herself so she would not throw its content into his sneering face. But she does manage, and it is worth the almost inhuman effort. The water is cool and fresh and tastes like heaven.
"Thank you," she says despite herself when she has downed the entire content of the mug in one long gulp.
"Ah, the wild cat can be polite if she wants to," the man states in a mocking tone of voice. "If you say please, I might even tell you where your comrades are. No, not comrades, this ridiculous Hanza of yours."
"You know what? You're not worth taking that word into your filthy mouth, you bastard! And if you don't leave my sight right now this moment, I'm going to scream so your ugly ears will bleed and fall off! And then I'll—" Suddenly she cannot utter a single word anymore, but breaks into a stifled sob.
"Fuck, what's the matter, woman?" Although his voice is still gruff, there is a sudden note of worry mixed into it that takes Milva by surprise.
"I— I don't want to be caged in here," she chokes out between hiccuped sobs. "Fucking hate walls. I need open sky, and forests, and mountains ..." She gives another loud sob. She is so utterly pathetic and she hates it so much, and especially so with this Lambutt around who must be relishing in her misery, thriving on it like a malicious red fungus.
"Alright," she suddenly hears him. "Geralt might kill me for this, but I know how that feels. Put your arm around my neck, woman, I won't bite."
And without further ado, he swoops her up into his strong arms, blanket and all, and cautiously carries her out of the infirmary or whatever that room is. To Milva's very surprise, it feels not awkward or horrible, but warm and safe. He smells good, too, she notes as she leans her tired head against his shoulder while he, treading more lightly than she would have thought possible for such a tall, sturdy man to not cause her any pain, carries her through what looks like some kind of laboratory, up and down several stairwells, through a long hall and finally outside into the courtyard of a huge and old, half crumbled castle. The sun is shining from an azure blue sky, the majestic mountains surrounding the ruin are decked in snow that glitters like gold, and, what is even so much better, her friends are there. On the battlements, Milva spots Geralt, the white-haired Witcher, walking side by side with Regis, the higher-vampire-barber-surgeon. Angoulême, dragging her leg just a little, practises fencing with a girl who could, at first glance, be her twin sister. Jaskier is sitting on a large stone bench, the sun in his brown hair, his lute in his hand, his brow furrowed in concentration, seemingly composing a new ballad, and Cahir is relaxing on a patch of grass next to a man with dark skin and no hair who has his arm wrapped around the young knight's waist. Cute. A heavy weight lifts from Milva's heart and, suddenly, she could break into tears of joy. But this time she manages to suppress any such silly display of emotion.
Lambert walks toward the bench.
"Bard, move your pretty arse and make room for Milva, the hero of Stygga Castle!" he announces pompously. As happy as she is, it does not annoy Milva for once, but makes her bubble up with laughter. Ouch, that fucking hurts. A soft moan escapes her lips.
"Sorry, archer," Lambert says, and it actually sounds like he means it. "I promise never to make you laugh again. At least not as long as you're an invalide." He smiles at her apologetically. And, all of a sudden, she likes the way he smiles. And how he looks at her. Damn, how is that possible?
"Milva, what a sight for sore eyes!" Jaskier greets her, waking up from his intense concentration, a bright smile spreading all across his face. "Glad to see you up and about! I'm just composing the most heroic ballade of all times, featuring Milva, the brave archer, and the rest of the heroic hansa slaying the evil mage Vilgefortz and rescuing the child of destiny and the beautiful purple-eyed sorceress. Ah, speaking of the devil, here she is, Milva, meet Yennefer."
Yennefer gives the reconvalescent archer a brilliant smile. "Good to see you're feeling better. And you have met Lambert, the sunny sunshine of Kaer Morhen."
"Will you finally put me down?" Milva says, blushing and pretending to be impatient to get out of Lambert's arms.
"If you let go of my neck," he grins. Shit, her arm. Somehow it is very reluctant to move. It must be her overall exhaustion, there is no other explanation. Yennefer grins at the two, blows Jaskier a kiss, then walks to meet Geralt and Regis on the battlements.
"Call me when you're ready to go back in," Lambert says, carefully placing Milva on the bench next to Jaskier and wrapping the blanket around her before crossing the yard to where Ciri and Angoulême are sparring.
"Lambert can be a major prick, but he's harmless really, just a big teddy bear," Jaskier laughs as the redheaded Witcher strides away. "And he's got a sexy butt, don't you agree?"
"He called me Milli," Milva complains, gazing after the tall monster hunter. The bard is not wrong, though, in his tight, dark brown leather pants, Lambert looks quite sexy from behind. And she kind of misses the warmth of his arms around her. Perhaps, if he keeps his mouth shut, she could even come to like the man one day.
"Milli, isn't that cute?" Jaskier chuckles. Milva gives him a death glare. "Well, I mean, it's better than auntie, right?"
Before Milva can hit the bard over the head, Angoulême comes running, waving her arms and shouting "Auntie, auntie!"
Gods, will that girl never learn? But Milva is too happy to see the little rascal safe, in one piece and only limping a little to be angry at her.
"Careful," Jaskier warns when Angoulême wants to give her older friend a big hug. "You don't want to squash her, she's not yet fully recovered."
"What's happened to your leg, girl?" Milva asks after a very cautious little hug and a kiss on the cheek. Angoulême looks so happy and carefree, but she must have been injured at Stygga, too.
"It's nothing, got stabbed in the thigh and almost bled to death, but Triss says I'll be as good as new in a couple of days. Just a nice, grisly scar that I can impress the boys with."
"What boys? You aren't running around showing off your naked thigh to all the Witchers?" Milva asks, horrified.
"Nah, I've only shown Ciri, and did you know what she has on her groin? A red rose tattoo! It's phenomenally pretty. As soon as I find a tattooist, I'll get one, too. You haven't met Ciri yet, have you? She's a real badass, and a Witcher and a princess and a witch, and I think I love her, but don't tell anybody, auntie!" She grins from ear to ear, then runs back to her badass princess as quickly as she can.
"Angoulême in love with a girl? I haven't seen that coming," Milva says, knitting her brow thoughtfully. "But this," she gazes at the pair that is slowly walking up to them, "is not that much of a surprise, really." Well, one of the two is walking and the other one is leaning heavily onto his friend for support and more shuffling his feet than actually walking.
"You look like shit, Nilfgaardian," Milva says with a big smile when they have almost made it to the bench, Cahir huffing and puffing from the short walk. Lambert was not wrong after all, there is a big and very ugly new scar in her friend's face, running all the way from his temple to the corner of his mouth. And given how winded he is, this cannot be the only injury he sustained during the fight in Stygga. But he is alive, and, judging by the way he keeps looking at the dark-skinned, pockmarked man, very much in love.
"Nice to see you, too, Milva," he grins, then grimaces, the barely healed suture in his face obviously still giving him pain. "And, in case you forgot, I'm not a Nilfgaardian."
"Shut up and sit down before you drop, idiot." Milva moves a little closer toward Jaskier who makes space for the new arrivals. "And tell me already who your boyfriend is. And no, don't try to convince me he's not, because I won't believe a word you're saying."
"I knew I'd like you, archer. I'm Coën," the dark-skinned man laughs while helping the groaning Cahir to sit down. "I'm a Witcher, but you've probably guessed that already. Want something to drink?" And before anybody can answer, he has already disappeared.
"Now, you two, tell me everything! And don't be stingy with the details!" Milva urges her two friends, almost bursting with curiosity.
And they do. They tell her about how they all almost died, Milva with an arrow to her belly, Angoulême from a badly bleeding wound in her thigh, Regis melted into a stone pillar and Cahir almost cleaved in half by Leo Bonhart. Jaskier, how could it be otherwise, is doing most of the talking although he was not there and knows the story only second hand and Milva is not quite sure if the bard is not embellishing it quite a bit, but it is a good tale, at least now that it is over. Soon, Coën is back with a big pitcher of water and another one of something else that looks like red wine, but he shakes his head apologetically.
"Sorry, not for you, Milva, wine doesn't mix well with your medication." He pours her a big mug of water. "You neither, Cahir, and don't look at me with those puppy eyes, order is order. It's your first day out of bed, too!"
"Was worth a try," Cahir mumbles, unhappily accepting his mug of water. His face lights up again only a moment later though, when a black cat emerges on top of a wall, stretches and yawns, then hops down and comes straight toward them.
"Ah, Merlin, right, I haven't forgotten about you," Coën smiles and produces a nice chunk of cheese for the cat that is rubbing its head against his leg. After having devoured the treat, Merlin jumps onto Cahir's lap and, purring contentedly, continues his nap.
"I didn't know you liked cats, Nilfgaardian," Milva smiles, brushing her fingers through the animal's silky fur. The purr grows louder.
"But you do know he isn't a Nilfgaardian," Coën grins, pouring wine for Jaskier and himself.
"Why don't you two get a room already?" Milva rolls her eyes at the dark-skinned Witcher. Cahir flushes bright pink. "But what I still have no idea about," she continues, coming back to the story, "how come we're all alive? Shouldn't we by all means be dead as doornails and rotting away in that cursed castle?"
"Ah, yes, that," Jaskier says, taking a big swallow of wine. "Mmh, not exactly an Est Est or Pomino, but drinkable, far, far better than this abominable Dijkstra Dry that is so sour it makes your entire mouth go numb. Which, perhaps, is a good thing, with a numb tongue, you can't taste what it actually tastes like anymore ..."
"Bard, the story!" Milva admonishes, "or do I have to get it from Geralt?" She gazes toward the battlements. And sees something truly astonishing. She blinks, not believing her eyes at first. "What the fuck?" she then asks, flabbergasted.
"Ah, yes, that too," Jaskier grins. Against the sun that is already low on the horizon and soon to set, they can see the silhouette of two men in a tight embrace, kissing. Geralt, the White Wolf, and Regis, the barber-surgeon and higher vampire. Yennefer is standing a few feet away, gazing into the distance. "It happened rather unexpectedly, I guess, but was inevitable. I always knew there was some special vibe between these two, from the very first moment they met that day in Fen Carn between dolmens, cairns and cromlechs. Doesn't that sound poetical? I think I'm going to compose a song from it. Between dolmens, cairns and cromlechs, a white-haired Witcher stood so tall, as from the depths of a dolmen, an elderly man with an apron started to crawl—"
"But isn't that witch Yennefer his one true love?" Milva interrupts Jaskier's impromptu performance. "That was why we left Toussaint in the middle of fucking winter, wasn't it?
"Well, things change, I suppose. Actually, Yen's with me now. Being rescued from a Toussaintois noose in the very nick of time seems to be a good start for a blooming relationship, perhaps a better one than a wish granted by a djinn." He smiles dreamily while gazing up at the black-haired beauty in her flowing black and purple dress. "I should join her, there's hardly anything more romantic than watching the sunset together, is there? With a nice glass of wine, naturally." Jaskier rises to his feet.
"Not so fast, bard!" Milva grabs him by his shirtsleeve, stopping him in his tracks.
"Right, the story, my apologies, how could I forget?" He plops back down on the bench. "Well, from what I've heard, there was a sudden whoosh, a portal opened and three sorceresses came rushing into the castle, saving your sorry arses at the very last minute."
"Sorceresses? What sorceresses? Why the bloody fuck do I have to worm everything out of you all of a sudden, bard, when it's usually quite impossible to stop your yackety-yack?"
"Because it's quite amusing to keep you on tenterhooks," Jaskier grins. "And it's what a good storyteller always does. However, as I wouldn't want to miss the sunset, I'll put you out of your misery in a second, after another sip of wine."
"It was Fringilla," Cahir chips in. "She had nicked a few strands of Geralt's hair and managed to magically locate us with their help. And she's not stupid. She brought my grandaunt Assire and another witch called Triss Merigold with her. Triss is an excellent healer and put us all together again. No idea why she'd help me, but Fringilla must have been quite convincing. They're an item now."
"Thank you, Nilfgaardian, for finishing my story in such an unpoetic, yet time-efficient way," Jaskier says, getting up a second time. He slings his lute across his shoulder and grabs the jug with the wine. "See you three later. Or perhaps not. And have fun with your water," he adds with a grin, before he turns around and hurries to join his Yennefer on the battlements.
"Hungry anyone?" a deep, male voice suddenly booms from behind and a grey-haired man with an impressive moustache emerges from the entrance to the main building, carrying a big pot and a huge loaf of bread. The smell of chicken soup fills the air. Milva's mouth begins to water and, all of a sudden, she feels quite starved.
"Ah, here you are, Merlin, I should have known," says a dark-haired woman with a somewhat hooked nose who appears behind the old man, a tray laden with crockery floating in front of her. A sorceress. She gives Cahir and the black cat that has just opened its eyes, woken up by the delicious smell of cooked chicken, a radiant smile. His grandaunt, no doubt, and probably the owner of the cat. She is followed by two more enchantresses, Fringilla Vigo, who Milva recognises easily from their stay at Beauclair Castle, arm in arm with a beautiful woman with rich, chestnut curls and cute freckles. The skin that is visible above her plunging neckline is badly scarred, but, being happily in love with the erstwhile Nilfgaardian mage, she seems not to care at all. A pretty pair. Somehow she never liked Fringilla much, Milva must admit, but perhaps, as she was the one who saved them, she should give her another chance?
The sorceresses and the grey-haired man, assumedly this Vesemir Geralt had told them about, put everything on a big, wooden table and start to fill several bowls with soup. Coën jumps up from where he is sitting next to Cahir.
"You two need some serious fattening up." He grins at Milva and Cahir and strides toward the table, Merlin weaving in and out between his legs. "Yes, you'll get a bowl, too, I promise. Just don't make me stumble and fall on my butt, you little black menace," he adds, careful to not kick the cat by accident.
"He seems nice, I'm glad for you," Milva says so only Cahir can hear it. He blushes again.
"It's not what— we hardly know—" he starts to stutter.
"Yes, it is, and you better don't mess it up or I'll come and haunt your non-Nilfgaardian arse!"
"Right. But may I point out that you've been staring at Lambert's butt for the last half hour?" Cahir asks, quirking an eyebrow, and now it is Milva who blushes, as he is not wrong. Her gaze has lingered on the manly form of the red-headed Witcher more often than she would like to admit even to herself. "He is pretty good with that sword, too," Cahir adds, "and that trick he just showed the girls is a truly ingenious move. I'll have to try it one of these days."
"But not before Triss has declared you completely healed, which won't happen any time soon." Coën, balancing three big bowls of soup. He looks at Cahir sternly, a look that clearly says something like, and if I catch you trying to sneak away to do some stupid sword practise anyway, I'll give you a good spanking. Cahir sighs, resignedly. Milva grins. So cute to see the Witcher worrying about her friend. Then Coën hands the them each a bowl and flops down next to Cahir. "Now eat, and no talking until those bowls are empty" he says with a smile and dunks a piece of bread into his soup. "Oh, and sorry, no bread for you yet, it's too heavy on the stomach. But Triss said you can have as much of the soup as you wish."
They do not need to be told twice, but dig in hungrily and in silence. From the big table they can also hear the greedy slurping of soup and the sound of quiet conversation interrupted by the one or other meow when Merlin demands another piece of chicken - which he gets. Ciri, Angoulême and Lambert have joined the sorceresses and the old witcher, and Milva's gaze flits toward the table from time to time. The sky has taken on an orange hue which makes Lambert's red hair glow like fire. Fuck, why is she looking at him at all? She does not even like him! Actually, she hated him just an hour or so ago! You cannot possibly loathe somebody at first sight and then, shortly later, fall in love with them, can you? Anyway, love is not something that is for her. It is for little girls who still believe in romance and a happily ever after. But it is quite funny. Ciri and Angoulême are jesting and laughing and throwing balls of bread at each other, trying to catch them with their mouths and have no eye for anybody else, Triss and Fringilla are feeding each other the best pieces of chicken and seem to be barely able to control themselves enough to not kiss in front of everybody, the grey-haired witcher and the hooked-nosed enchantress are holding hands under the table, Yennefer and Jaskier are kissing long and deep - how can they still breathe while doing it? - not caring that everybody can see their outline on the battlements, and Geralt and Regis have disappeared, most likely to a secret, more private place. And Coën has his free hand around Cahir's waist again, although, sitting on the bench, the former Nilfgaardian commander general definitely does not need any support, no matter how feeble he might still be after his almost mortal injury. Perhaps there is something in the water here at Kaer Morhen that makes everybody fall in love? Or is it just because everything has ended so much better than anyone could possibly expect? Maybe this overall joy of being alive causes people to fall in love so easily? Not her, though, and Lambert is standing alone, too, leaning against a half-crumbled stone pillar with his bowl of soup and a huge chunk of bread.
Gradually, the sun and its orange glow disappear, as does the soup. It is getting chilly. Milva yawns and shudders under her blanket.
"Want a ride back inside?" Lambert is suddenly standing next to the bench, his arms crossed in front of his chest, grinning at her while moving his lips as if adding 'Milli'. But he does not say it out loud. Good. Milva nods, and, all of a sudden, feels quite faint and - nervous? As if there were a hundred butterflies in her stomach. Lambert moves closer and, once again, swoops her up into his strong arms as if she weighed nothing. His beard tickles her cheek as she wraps her arms around his neck. She could fall asleep like this, it feels so safe, so comfortable, so right. Maybe she will. And dream of flaming red hair and a sexy arse all night. Perhaps she is in love after all, even though she hates him. Or does she?
With a smile on her lips and a tired but happy sigh, she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep before they are even close to the infirmary.