The stars are shining bright tonight. In the distance on the hill looms the dark shadow of a huge castle. Stygga. Even the name sounds evil.
Milva and Cahir are sitting by the fire, staring into the flames, lost in thought. Angoulême is snoring softly. Regis and Geralt have left to fetch more wood. At least that is what they said.
"I'm afraid. What will happen tomorrow?" Milva suddenly says, breaking the silence. "Aren't you afraid of tomorrow, Cahir? Of dying?"
"Not of dying." Cahir does not look at her but continues to gaze into the fire. "I know that I will die. I've seen it in my dreams. Often. A huge room with the white marble statue of a veiled goddess. The plinth is splattered with blood."
"How do you know it's your blood? It could be anybody's."
"I just know, I can't explain it. It has to be this way." He swallows, then turns to the archer, meeting her eyes. "I only hope that this time I will not fail her. The Princess. That my death won't be in vain. And that the rest of you will be alright. That you all will return to Toussaint and be happy."
"I don't want you to die, Cahir. Just run if you see that bloody marble statue!"
"I must not. It's what destiny demands."
"I hate destiny! Geralt's right, it's a steaming pile of horseshit."
"Maybe it is." Cahir shrugs.
They fall silent for a moment.
"I'm frightened and cold," Milva says eventually. "Where are Geralt and Regis with the wood? The fire'll soon burn out. This sucks so much, I want to hit something!"
"They might wish to have some privacy, I suspect. They've grown quite close. I wouldn't expect them back any time soon."
"Right." Milva shivers slightly in the chill of the night. The last hours of the month of March.
"Come closer. I can keep you warm," Cahir offers, like so often before during their travels. "If you don't hit me, that is. Once was enough," he adds, grinning at Milva. It did hurt back then, a lot, and the angry red welts on his arms were visible for days afterward, but the archer was formidable in her anger, a goddess of rage, and very effective. It was half a year ago anyway, and quickly forgotten. And who knows what would have happened had she not intervened in the fight?
"Have I ever apologised for it properly?" Milva asks, snuggling up to Cahir. "Don't think I have. Geralt was the one who deserved the beating, not you."
"You don't need to apologise. We're friends." Cahir wraps his arm around her shoulder.
"Best friends." She smiles. It is nice to feel his warm body against hers, especially tonight. The night before they are going to attack Vilgefortz's hideout. Which is probably swarming with mercenaries and bandits and all kinds of creepy people. Not to forget that Vilgefortz is one of the most powerful mages on the continent. If she is honest with herself, it will be a miracle if any of their Hanza make it out of Stygga alive. A fool's hope. And they all know it.
Suddenly, a memory surfaces in Milva's mind, the memory of a night that was not so unlike this one. A night in June, hiding in the willows not far from the Ribbon, five elves, one she-elf and knows what tomorrow will bring? Who will cross the Ribbon and who will perish?
"En'ca minne," she this way can death be overcome. Death or fear.
"What?"
"A little love." She turns her face toward her companion's with a smile. "Kiss me, Cahir."
Milva's lips are slightly parted. Very kissable lips. Without a miracle happening, this is the last night they are both alive, his last chance to kiss these lips. So Cahir does, holding her like he will never let her go. She smells of moss, grass and dew, and tastes like heaven.
Eventually, Milva withdraws from their passionate kissing, breathless and excited. She begins to undress. This time there will be more love than fear, she is certain of it. And the love will not be fake.
From the dark night sky, the stars twinkle down on the two humans making out in the grass by the slowly dying flames of the campfire, the shadow of the old, eerie castle, death and fear forgotten for a little while. For one last time.
En'ca minne. A little love.