"Aunty, what the hell happened to you?" Angoulême laughs when Milva appears between the bushes surrounding their camp for the night. The archer is wet and covered in mud and duckweed.
"Don't call me auntie, punk, or you'll be the only one who won't get one of these." Milva, looking unusually happy despite her dirty, soaked clothes, pulls something from a leather bag and holds it up for her comrades to see.
"Eggs? Can I have one? I'll swear never to call you auntie again!" Angoulême shouts excitedly, jumping up and down and grinning at her friend. "Did you fall in a pond to get them? You're my hero! I haven't had any eggs in ages!"
Milva throws the egg at the blonde teenager. Luckily, having had to evade plenty of stuff thrown at her by the archer before for calling her auntie, Angoulême has excellent reflexes and catches the big, white duck's egg with ease. She beams at her friend, ready to knock the egg open against the next tree trunk or stone and drink its yummy content.
"Sorry, but I definitely wouldn't do that, dear girl," Regis warns, his expression unusually grave. "Not unless you want to contract salmonella entertidis."
Angoulême freezes in mid-motion. "Salmo-fucking-what?"
"It means you'll spend the next couple of days retching your guts up and shitting yourself," Geralt says bluntly. "Duck's eggs need to be cooked or fried thoroughly."
As the Hanza is, sadly, not in possession of a frying pan, Cahir grabs the pot that Regis used to cook tea in earlier to get more water from the nearby river.
"Wait, I'll come with you. I need a bath," Milva says, hands Regis her bag with the other eggs and follows the alleged non-Nilfgaardian in the opposite direction of where she has just come from.
The swift-flowing water in the riverbed is of a deep, clear blue, its rippled surface shimmering like spun gold in the warm light of the sunny late afternoon. The Arete, that was what Geralt called the river, right? Tomorrow morning, they will cross it. Then it is only a few more days and they will arrive at Stygga Castle, their destination. Or their destiny? Will they leave a mark on history by saving the Cintrean princess and thus forever change its course? Or will they perish trying? Will they make it back across this river? Who knows?
Cahir hunkers down by the riverbank to fill the cast-iron pot.
A few paces downstream, Milva takes off her muddy boots and dips her toes in the water. It is cold, but nicely refreshing. And the sun still has a surprising power this far south, although it will set soon.
It's the spring equinox today, Milva suddenly realises, the day the earth begins to awaken, plants start to sprout from the ground, and animals come out of hibernation. Is that why she has felt so different all day? Lighter, more alive? Because this day marks the triumph of light over the darkness? Of life over death?
She takes off her leather jerkin that is sprinkled with tiny green duckweed leaves.
Cahir is just about to leave.
"Wait!" she says for a second time in not so many minutes. "We can have that bath together."
"Won't the others wonder what has become of us?"
"Do you mind?" Grinning at Cahir, Milva slips out of her soggy blouse with one swift motion.
"Not really," he mumbles, staring at her firm, now naked tits.
"What are you waiting for then, Nilfgaardian?" Milva teases, quickly sheds her pants and runs into the water with a shriek.
Cahir hurries to get in after her, the pot with the water all but forgotten.
It is the beginning of spring. Who knows, it might be their last.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"Bollocks, where is that Nilfgaardian with the water? I want my egg," Angoulême complains already for the third time in as many minutes. "I'll count to a hundred and if he isn't here by then, I'll go after them! One, two, three, thirteen, thirty, thirty-three—"
"You're cheating, Angoulême," Geralt says, trying too keep a straight face despite his amusement.
"Of course, I am. I'm fucking starving! These eggs might hatch before those lazy bums are back!" Then, suddenly, a thought hits her. "What if there is a monster by the river that has attacked them? You've also heard that shriek, haven't you?" She jumps up from the log she was sitting on and grabs the hatchet from her belt, intent on pelting through the underbrush and throwing herself into battle against whatever creature might want to eat her friends.
"Calm down, girl. There's no monster. I'd know if there were," Geralt says, and, to his surprise, Angoulême does sit down, making a face. Then, suddenly, it dawns on her and she begins to grin.
"They're fucking, right?"
"Well, I guess you could call it that, my girl, although the human language has far nicer expressions to describe this peculiar act," Regis says, smiling through pursed lips. "To lie with somebody, for instance, or to bed somebody — no, not this, they don't have a bed at hand, I guess — to have sex with somebody, to sleep with somebody — although, from what my extremely sharp vampire ears tell me, I strongly doubt that either of them is sleeping — to tumble in the hay — hmm, there's probably no hay there either, maybe more of a tangle in the reeds? Or a romp in the rivergrass? — to sport under the stars — no, too early, the sky's just taking on an orange hue — to make merry betwixt the sheets — but alas, they did not take any sheets with them — maybe we'd just go with to make love to somebody? Yes, I think that might be the one that fits best on this beautiful spring equinox evening, don't you think, Geralt?"
"Mmh," Geralt mumbles, his thoughts far away. How he wishes Yennefer were here. If he closes his eyes, he can almost smell her perfume. Lilac and gooseberries. Only a few more days and he might hold her in his arms again, kiss her, make love to her as never before. Or they might all be dead. Who knows what will await them once they cross that river? At least Milva and Cahir are having some fun before everything might go to shit. Maybe he and Regis could—?
He glances at the higher vampire, who looks him straight in the eye — or in his soul — his lips curled into a knowing smile. Not for the first time, Geralt has the strong feeling that Regis can read his mind. But funnily enough, he does not mind it in the least. They will have to wait until the others are asleep. Angoulême can have his egg.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Milva yawns and snuggles up closer to Cahir, the two of them having not only spread out their bedrolls next to each other as so often, but for the first time cuddling up under a shared blanket, nicely warm and tired after having let their passion flow like the river.
"Are you sleeping?" she whispers in his ear.
"Mmh."
One more time she kisses him on the neck, between the two love bites that are already gracing his skin from earlier.
"I love you, Milva of the woods," he murmurs, already half asleep.
She smiles. Who wants to leave a mark on history if they can leave a mark like this? Then she, too, falls asleep.
Angoulême is snoring softly, her belly filled to the brim with five nicely boiled duck's eggs.
Regis looks at Geralt, his black eyes sparkling in the light of the campfire. The Witcher nods almost imperceptibly. They get up as silently as cats and, hand in hand, walk the short distance to the river.
It is a quiet, peaceful night. The first bats have woken from their winter sleep and fly zigzag across the river hunting for early insects in the light of the waxing moon.
"Shall we join—" Regis begins, and this time it is Geralt who finishes his sentence, "— in fleshly union and quench our carnal thirst?"
Accompanied by the murmur of the Arete River and bathed in the silver light of the moon, they do.
What a memorable night!
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Come next morning Cahir is not the only one sporting several dark bruises on his neck that, for once, were not caused by fighting.