Chapter Text
„Va’esse deireádh aep eigean.”
“Something ends and something begins.”
— an old Aen Seidhe proverb
“We look up at the same stars, and see such different things.”
— George R. R. Martin
He was falling. Slowly. Inevitably. He felt nothing but cold, the biting cold of everlasting night. He didn't remember when he had experienced the darkness embrace itself. He could have sworn that he still existed somewhere, but it wasn't that place. .
Was that what death itself looked like?
He didn't want to go.
Let me stay.
Let me live.
I want to exist.
I need to be alive again.
*
He gained consciousness, but he didn't feel like he was even awake. He couldn't open his eyes, still heavy from diving into the darkness. A cool breeze caressed his cheeks, lips and closed eyelids. He could smell the crispness of fresh, winter morning, but also a stench of sheepskin, old, rotting food and horse's fresh dung. All of it couldn't suppress the stink of his own unwashed body and blood-covered clothes. He knew that smell very well from his previous life. Since right now he didn't feel very alive.
It took him a while to concentrate and fight the nausea. Finally he opened his eyes and looked straight into great blue above his head. The sky was almost azure like the sea in the summer. He could have sworn that not so long ago he saw the great water. He could hear the swoosh of surf and smell salt in the air. His eyes followed black dots dancing on the sky. Birds - crows maybe? Or ravens? It was getting harder and harder for him to focus on one thought. His mind was slipping away. The blue was getting darker and darker. The darkness approached with its cold claws...
Suddenly the cart he was laying in, earlier jolting along the bumpy road, bounced on a protruding root and for a short while soared over the surface. He felt sharp pain, sliding from his neck and chest and all through his body, as the squeaking wheels of the wagon heavily touched down the ground. The sheepskin enveloping him slipped down a little so he could now hear the noise of the world. A creaking of leafless tree branches. The clatter of horses' hooves and neighing. Human voices. Talking, shouting and laughing.
He tried to focus on that to bring back his mind from dark places. He picked out three distinct voices.
“... and he danced with his guts out,” said the first voice, male, harsh and breathy as if its owner were taking too much fisstech in his youth. “And the blacksmith's daughter, a real flower, was so grateful sh— ”
“How could you tell, huh, Yrth? Can you tell a girl and a goat apart at all?” asked the second one with a rather unpleasant tone. It also belonged to a man. The kind of man who only needed any small excuse to draw a sword or a dagger. The worst kind of shit.
“I tell you, Redd, you fucker,” Yrth sounded highly put out. “I caught 'er after the dance right behind the barn and she picked up all her skirts for me. She's soft and nice to fuck. She made those funny squeaking noises,” he cackled, and his companion echoed him with an ugly, neighing laugh.
“So you can tell apart a girl and a sow, good for you,” the third voice joined them. It sounded younger, right after breaking.
The men fell silent for a little while. He could hear only the sound of hooves on the road and creaking of wheels beneath him.
“Don't try to be funny,” barked Yrth and the feeble moan could be heard right after a louder slap. “You will joke with adults when you get yourself a woman and fuck her properly. Oi! Boy, are we there yet?” he addressed another person.
“Almost, sirs.” The fourth voice could only belong to a child, a young boy who felt rather uneasy in the company of three rouges.
“We’d better be,” muttered Redd. “I don't like this road. Ain't they saying this swamp is haunted or something?” He sounded scared. Actually, all three men seemed to be unsure, like they were trying to hide their own terror from their companions.One of the horses snorted as if his rider had drawn in the reins too much.
“Yeah, who knows what phantoms wander here. Hoick!” Yrth spat nervously. “Can we just dump him somewhere for peace and quiet? None'll know and he's already as good as dead...”
Who were they talking about? Him?
I'm not dead, damn it! He opened his mouth to shout out, but only a small moan escaped his lips.
He tried to get up, but he couldn't. He wanted to move just a little under the sheepskin, but he wasn't able to. He felt heavy, as if his body were made of stone. He managed to turn his head a little and then the pain, radiating from his neck, filled his chest and torso once again. He gave up right after that and tightened his eyelids which were still fighting against the aching. He didn't, however, stop listening to the conversation which was certainly concerning him.
“The un... the alderman will lash us,” protested the youngest man. “He put in some gold for him, nah?”
“Ain't you a little knight, eh, Pavo? You take care of your uncle's business?” Redd barely controlled himself. His voice got angrier and angrier with every word he said. “Wait till I get off the saddle and bow to you, you little shit!” He harked and spat with contempt on the ground.
“Oi, oi, boys. Shut up.” Surprisingly, it was Yrth who tried to calm his colleagues.
“No way. The old man paid this fucking freak some gold. And what we've got? Two lousy pieces of silver. For helping... this... this thing... Let him rot in the swamp. None'll ever find the fucker.” Redd was gabbling so quickly and loudly that he scared away birds sitting on the roadside trees. The animals rose from the branches, croaking.
“We can't do tha—” Pavo tried to be more tenacious, but it came out with poor results. Redd was tougher and more steadfast. The scare and maybe a little bit of greed got the upper hand over him.
“The old man paid you more for gabbing like a pussy?”
“No, but—”
“Then shut you pretty face, you little twat!”
One of the horses neighed and squealed loudly when his rider halted him violently.
“Youtwo/Both of you! Shut your pie holes.” Yrth finally lost his patience. “I've got a plan. Now you listen. We'll leave him at a/the healer's and ride off. That way we'll fulfill our orders. As a payment we'll take all his things. They'll sell pretty well and then we'll share the gold between the three of us. Deal?”
The man sounded very confident with his idea. Redd agreed right away. Even Pave said yes after a moment of hesitation. The rest of the way they spentrather quietly/mostly in silence.
He was just lying there on the wagon, contemplating his fate. Maybe he was as good as dead? He couldn't move, even though he was itching to grab his sword and wipe out those swines right away. If only he could lift his hands and reach his weapons. They had to be somewhere near him...
He gasped, feeling really weak. He thought he would be able to withstand a little longer, but the darkness was calling his name again. He almost felt its claws at his throat.
The cart was rolling like the world around him. And he was drifting in the darkening mist. He felt like he was drowning. Thick and dark...
“Sirs, we're here.” The boy's voice, echoing under his skull, was muffled, deformed
“Only a loony could live in a place like this...”
“This is where the Master lives, sirs.”
The Master? Who was the...
He blinked a few times, but he couldn't stop the fatigue that fell on him. He felt tired. He just wanted to sleep for a little while...
And so he finally did.
*
It was a beautiful morning.
The sky was crystal blue and the sun, hung low above the horizon, shined bright, almost spring-like.
He went outside the tower wrapped tight with a warm, thick coat. He turned the dark furred collar up and brushed his raven-black hair off his forehead. It grew too long, he noted. It needed to be trimmed. He hadn't done that for some time, too busy with studying and restoring some old volumes which he had found in a secretcompartment under the tower. He thought about selling the books if his middleman in the capital city would reply to his letters.
The snow crunched under his heeled knee-high boots while he was walking through an alley, barely noticeable under the white, gleaming in the sun’s power.
The Yule season was coming to an end yet he could smell the approaching snowfall, a snowstorm if he wasn't mistaken. He inhaled the frosty air and let himself smile a little. The winter always lasted longer here in the North, but it didn't bother him much. Unlike his old friends from the Empire, he enjoyed winter. He liked snow and a touch of frost on his skin as well, as his little strolls.
He passed a ruined castle wall and entered a courtyard. At this time of year it seemed to be desolate and empty with leafless trees and bushes covered only with snow and icicles jingling in the wind. Even birds abandoned this place and flew off to the southern, warmer lands.
He might love winter, but he also missed springtime. He almost could feel the emerald green grass under his feet, smell the scent of blooming trees and hear luscious, almost malachite green, leaves murmuring around him. He easily imagined a walk surrounded by white, light and dark pink petals swirling and dancing in the air.
The spring here, in the North, was truly beautiful, unlike his homeland where summer arrived too fast. It was too hot for his taste, too sultry, too unsettling. The Empire never was his home, not for real, even though he spent many years of his life there. Too many.
He moved further, traversing the courtyard slowly. He checked every tree carefully. He whitewashed them and covered them with bundles of straw to protect them from rodents. He smiled wryly at himself. Who would have thought that one of the most powerful Nilfgaardian magi ended up here, in the North and became a gardener. He probably would have been ridiculed by his colleagues, but he ceased to care a long time ago. This place, this courtyard and the tower, calmed him down and let him forget about many things that had happened even before Nilfgaard. He still sometimes dreamed about those dreadful events, but not as often as earlier. The nightmares became weaker and weaker with every soul he helped to heal, with every broken arm he set.
He stopped and clenched his fingers on the bridge of the nose. What made him think about all of it again? He should focus on the here and now. He was safe here. No-one would ever find him. He assured himself about that many times and almost started to believe it.
He sighed softly. He hated himself for this. For dwelling on the past he tried so hard to forget. For now on he should take care of more urgent and mundane matters. If he worked hard enough every day, then maybe, just maybe, the dreams wouldn't come back and all bad memories finally would fade away.
He roamed along the walls, inspecting thoroughly to see if the hard frost setting in for many months hadn’t worn away any bricks in the weakest points of the construction.
It was a very old place, built centuries ago by an Aen Sidhe prince. Only elves were able to erect something permanent enough and beautiful at the same time. In the past this place was a work of architectural art. Humans tried to copy this unique style over the years with notable results, but their buildings weren't perfect. They lacked gentleness and magic.
The wizard learned the history of his current solitude only thanks to the old books he had found in the dungeons.
The last ruler of this castle and surrounding lands was killed together with his family and servants right after men had come to the Continent. It all had happened during a long, enfeebling war between humans and elves. It was time of pure hate, racism and xenophobia, which had never truly died. It remained till this day, as he had personally found more than once.
Some information he obtained in nearby villages. For many years locals passed the ruins with fear, believing it was haunted by the ghosts of former residents. The elven king, who supposedly was also a warlock, was said to have cursed his own land, altering it into deadly swamps with no way out.
The swamps surrounded the castle indeed. They were also very dangerous, but he wasn't fearful. He created a safe passage using the Force. Only some of the outsiders knew the route through poisonous fumes and unstable bogs. Of course during the winter the ground froze over and even men on horses could travel this road safely.
He also wasn't superstitious. Although he was a wizard and had seen many strange things in the past, wonderful and scary beasts or magical events, he didn't believe in ghosts. Many unusual, unnatural beings had found their way through the Spheres and were trapped in this dimension during the Conjunction, but it hadn't been the spirits of dead, that was for sure.
When he had moved here, he had personally scared away some ghoul-like creatures creeping in the ancient tomb hidden in the remains of the castle garden. However he never had come across anything remotely resembling a specter.
When he had turned this place into his home, the locals’ fear stooped and they came to visit him, looking for help, treatment and medicines. He worked so hard to make it a haven for himself. Maybe it wasn't perfect, maybe he had lived his previous life in better conditions, but it was far from the world, it was safe and his own. Here he had everything he needed to lead a peaceful and rather comfortable life.
Carefully he touched the wall with a hand gloved in a thin, dark leather, and smiled, sensing a trembling presence of spell he had cast on previous Belleteyn. Everything looked and felt just fine; it should hold for another year or two. Nevertheless he decided to take care of repairs before the next winter.
He twitched, shaken from his thoughts. He had the impression he heard something quiver right behind his back. Dried leaves were rustling on bushes even though a gale subsided last night and the morning weather was windless.
He turned swiftly, rising his hand with gentle yet skillful gesture and opened his mouth to shout out a paralyzing spell.
He halted halfway.
Through creaking, covered with snow, branches, a huge wolf was sneaking gracefully. The sparkling snowflakes fell onto on a thick, silver fur while the animal came closer and nudged the man with a triangle-shaped muzzle.
“Welcome, Fenrir,” he greeted the wolf with a smile. “The hunt went well, I can see.”
The beast barked softly when the wizard tucked his fingers in his fur and shook the snow off his head and neck.
He had treated Fenrir more like a person and a good friend than a mere animal almost since the day he had found him about two summers ago. During one of his walks he had discovered a body of a she-wolf among the trees. It was sad and disgusting. Someone had shot her with a crossbow. Only humans used that kind of weapon and were cruel enough to kill a mother with a litter. She had probably only tried to protect her cubs, now lying dead. He had decided to bury the animals, but when he’d moved the wolf body, he’d heard a pitiful squeal. Much to his surprise, he had found the only cub that had survived the massacre. It had been barely alive and hadn't had any strength left to fight him or break free when he had taken it in his arms, and only whined loudly when he wrapped it with his coat.
He had taken the cub with him to the tower and had dressed its wounded little paws and fed it, trying to save its life. He truly had thought that his small patient wouldn't survive, but it had been stronger than it looked.
He had called the cub Fenrir and let him stay at his home. The puppy hadn't been scared anymore and had liked to follow him around all the time.
Fenrir grew up to be a magnificent male wolf, beautiful and very smart. He was the wizard's faithful companion. Sometime he headed to the woods for hunting and then disappeared for many weeks, but he always came back to him, like today.
“Come.” He patted Fenrir's head gently. “I need to finish this round.”
He set off slowly, leaving the wolf behind for a short while, but the animal caught up with him and followed him to the old garden, trotting after him.
They walked slowly among the bushes and trees. The wolf managed better with stepping on the snow. He moved much faster and steadier than the wizard who was using simple spells to clear the snow from his path. Finally they reached an old, withered tree. Many centuries ago it had been a huge oak with a large trunk and dense branches proudly reaching the sky. Now, however, it was a dead reminiscence of the old and better times.
The wizard slipped off the glove from his hand and carefully placed it on the lifeless, brittle bark. He smiled, the corners of his mouth barely rising. A familiar warm feeling seized his body, sharpened all his senses for a short while as the Force surged through his veins. Drawing from the source could be addicting, but mortal flesh was too weak, too fragile to take more than a bit, so he had to stop. He backed out slowly, severing the connection, almost bowing before the old tree.
Fenrir, standing behind him, barked really unhappily. He was behaving almost like he wanted to run away, but faithfulness kept him close to his master. He tucked his tail between his leg, waiting for the wizard.
“Do not act like a ninny,” sighed the wizard. His companion was truly scared of this particular place and tried not to come too close to the tree when they were taking walks together.
He stroked the wolf's neck soothingly till his friend calmed down.
“Good boy. I am sorry. I know you do not like it, but it was necessary,” he apologized as they walked away from the oak.
Finally the wizard finished strolling and, with Fenrir at his side, headed toward the tower.
Everything seemed to be in order. He could go back to his laboratory and work in peace. His telescope needed to be repaired and some villagers waited for a new batch of medicaments.
He stretched and inhaled the fresh, icy air. It became colder after the northern wind got up.
The flock of the crows, cawing warningly, flew out of the trees growing near the road leading to his retreat.
“Who would know, Fenrir, we are going to have guests,” he mumbled and went around the tall building to reach the main entrance. He climbed up one granite step and glanced in the distance. He didn’t have to look very hard to see three raiders with a cart following them. At the head of this bleak procession a small figure was approaching really fast.
“Master! Master Loki!” he heard a childish voice as a young boy almost ran into him, losing his momentum. He caught the child firmly.
“Welcome, Pietro,” he said, letting the boy go. “How is your sister?”
“She's fine, Master.”
Pietro ran almost with lighting speed, but his breath wasn't even short. He was always in a hurry and even now he was talking very fast, dropping the endings of words.
“There's men, who want to see ya, Master.”
“They are, Pietro,” he corrected him. He liked Pietro and as a teacher of all the children in the village he wanted them to improve.
“Now, tell me about those men,” he asked.
“I don't like 'em,” muttered the boy under his breath. If Pietro didn't like someone, it must have been for a reason. He decided to trust the boy with this one and stay on his guard.
The wizard wanted to ask Pietro more about the men, but didn't manageto do it. The raider passed a low wall, separating the old elvish estate from the road and the swamp, and rode into a small yard in front of the tower. The cart, driven by a son of avillage elder, rolled in right after the horsemen. Its wheels were creaking dreadfully, even after it stopped.
He felt a growing displeasure, but also anxiety. It was alarming that strangers so easily obtained access to his retreat. Their presence was highly unwelcome. He thought he could trust the villagers and they should have known that he didn't wish anyone on his land without him knowing first.
He glanced at the unwanted guests, trying to guess with whom he had to deal with. The three riders on exhausted, scared horses and one wagon covered with a thick, linen sheet and pulled by a roan gelding. The cart was followed by a spare, unsaddled horse. It looked far from any ordinary draft horse. It was a real steed, dun-coloured and truly beautiful. This animal didn't suit the men before Loki's eyes.
He didn't like the horsemen’s appearance at the first sight. The second one was even more alarming.
All three men were carrying swords, none of them, however, bearing any resemblance to a knight nor a simple soldier. The two of them, the eldest, looked like mere swashbucklers, brawlers. The biggest of them, face hidden behind a hood, had a small, loaded crossbow on his back. Their companion, the younger man, was actually just a boy, still wet behind the ears. He girded his sheath in the wrong way.
The giant man slipped off the hood, uncovering a pockmarked face.
“Oi, you! Are ya a healer?” he asked with a harsh, unpleasant voice. He had to be the leader.
Loki didn't even twitch, gazing at him calmly.
“You could say that.” He nodded.
“Are you or not?!” spoke the other thug angrily and clenched his fingers on his sword hilt. It wasn't a good sign.
The wizard raised his hands peacefully. The men didn't know that the same gesture could easily kill or paralyze them if he were more generous.
“If you are in need of a medic, then you are in a good place, kind gentlemen,” replied Loki.
“How can I help you?” he continued slowly as if he was talking to a child. He seemed to be calm, but stayed focused. Those men could act and speak poorly, like commoners, but they were dangerous, but for some reason desperate and anxious. The worst of all combinations.
“We've got an injured man on the cart,” said the pocked face and dismounted his horse.
Loki grimaced slightly. Treating yet another hoodlum was just waste of time and his precious magic.
“I am not interested,” he replied shrugging his shoulders. “But you are lucky. Not far from here lives Babushka. Maybe she will help your friend.”
“He ain't our friend!” The smaller thug interrupted him. He sounded irritated and a little bit insecure. That wasgood. The more afraid they were, the faster they would leave.
“We found him in a ditch near the main road,” snapped the thug with a crossbow. “We're good-hearted, so we brought him here. The villagers said you're earning your living doing this. Take him and heal!”
Loki sensed the lie right away. He glanced distrustfully at the wagon.
“Very well. Fine. I take a look at him, but that is it. Nothing more. Are we clear?” He saw the anger in the eyes of the elder men. The youngest of the three looked scared.
Not caring about the men's feelings, he descended the stone steps and headed to the cart. He still was on guard. Life had tried him sorely before and now he knew better not to trust any people, especially those like these three. The wagon could be equally well a smart trap, even though his scanning spell didn't show anything suspicious. He couldn't be sure, however, who was lying in wait inside. Maybe an enemy, a bounty hunter or maybe a real injured person.
He drew back the sheet carefully and then moved away swiftly. A stench of unwashed-for-many-days body made his eyes water. It mixed with an odour of clotted blood and the sour smell of a sick man's sweat.
The injured man had to lie in here for many days. He doubted if he was still alive or would live much longer in those conditions.
Loki covered his mouth and nose tightly with an emerald green scarf and after that he slipped inside under the sheet. For a short while he struggled with an old and stinky sheepskin, but managed to move it aside, expecting to find a cold corpse underneath. To his surprise the man was very much alive. He was pale as death itself, but was still breathing. His chest, covered with sticky, browned rags, was raising and going down slowly, but evenly. It was the first good sign.
The wizard took off his gloves to check the man's pulse. It was too slow and barely perceptible. He moved closer and leant over the still body. He had to take off the scarf to use his other senses. He couldn't smell the rotting stink of gangrene, which was good too.
He carefully moved his hand closer to the unshaven face to part the man's eyelids. He did it as gently as he could and then he froze in complete shock. He blinked a few times but nothing changed. It was nothing like what he had expected.
An amber iris with a vertical, cat-like pupil. It was an unusual shape for a human eye, which meant the man was something more. Much, much more. The wizard had only read about it and never in his life had he seen one. This man was a witcher! Something very extraordinary and rare in this world. And he had it in his hands, served almost on a golden plate.
Loki felt the wounded man's chest and around him, but couldn't find a symbol of his guild nowhere nearby, just as other marks of his profession. He knew he wasn't mistaken and this man was more than mere human. The lack of his personal things was, however, alarming.
Finally he crawled out from behind the linen sheet and jumped down from the cart. The ground underneath his feet started to freeze a little.
Sliding on the path, he turned to the thugs.
“So, he ain't survive?” asked the pock-faced man with hope clear in his voice.
“Oh, he will live, I can assure you,” replied Loki, coming closer to the horsemen. “Whoever dressed his wounds, although without medical skill, also helped to stop the bleeding. His natural abilities also hel—”
“There's nothing natural in this... this thing!” an enraged scream escaped from the shorter bandit's lips as he clenched his fingers stronger on the hilt, looking like he wanted to draw the sword.
The wizard frowned. So that how it was. The thugs knew exactly who and where they were carrying. Someone had probably paid them to do it.
“Redd!” the leader snapped warningly and then looked at the wizard. “We leave him here, yea? And then we go. No harm done.” He got on the horse’s back quickly.
“Pavo, take the hack,” he added, glancing at the younger man.
Loki squinted at the three thugs, scrutinizing their behaviour. They didn't come for him, but they definitely acted strange.
He turned to Pietro hanging around the tower.
“Pietro, take Fenrir and go inside,” he said. “Go and do not touch anything. Now!” he urged the boy who clearly wanted to protest.
He waited until Pietro would disappear inside the building and after that came back the hoodlums gearing themselves up to leave as soon as they could. The young man, who they called Pavo, was carrying the reins of the dun-coloured spare horse.
“Excuse me, kind sirs,” he addressed them politely with calm smile.
“Yeah?”
“You carried out your task well, but my service is not for free.”
“We won't pay for some stray dog found on the edge of the road, yeah.” The nervous one truly waited only for the opportune moment to draw his weapon.
“I do not want much, gentlemen,” smiled Loki. “Would you be so kind and just hand me the witcher's belongings?”
“How? Wha—” All three men looked pretty shocked that he had discovered their little secret.
The smaller one finally yielded under the pressure and took the sword out of the sheath/unsheathed the sword.
“Ya'll take nothing, little fuck.” He charged at the wizard with his blade raised.
Loki's eyes from greyish-green became more vivid, almost emerald, when the magic filled his body surging through his veins to his hands.
The thug's chestnut horse reared up, but his owner managed to calm the animal down.
“You fuck— ” The rest of the sentence got stuck in his throat when the wizard moved his fingers gently.
“Now. The witcher's belongings,” repeated Loki, eying his companions attentively.
“Ye-yes, sir!” Pavo dropped the reins of the spare horse.
The pockmarked leader wanted to stop him, but the young man threw an oblong bundle on the ground. They heard the sound of metal clacking and the cracking of the glass.
“Is that all, boy?”
“Yessir!”
“Oh, I know you are lying,” murmured the wizard, moving closer. “Where is the witcher's medallion?”
Pavo gulped. “I dunno. Yrth was the first to rummage in his things!”
Loki turned to the leader, but the man said no word, only hurled something silver at the wizard. The pendant, rattling loudly in the overwhelming silence, landed just near Loki's boots.
“Thank you,” he raised the corners of his mouth, flashing his teeth like a predator. “Now, sod off out of my land!” He waved his hand, releasing the spell.
The thugs, all them, drove their horses and were off as fast as their legs could carry them.
Loki heaved a sigh of relief and relaxed more when he couldn't see the horsemen any longer He lowered his hands slowly, releasing the excess of magic back into the air and letting it sink into the ground under his feet and surrounding flora.
His body calmed down and his eyes faded into greyish-green.
“Pietro, my dear, you can come out,” he called the boy, who immediately stuck his head out through the door.
“Yes, Master?”
“Be so kind and take care of this beauty.” The wizard slowly approached the dun horse. The animal neighed, but let Loki touch his nostrils. “Good boy.” He petted the horse to calm him and after that he turned to Pietro. “There should be some place in the stable next to Sleipnir.”
“Yes, Master!” The boy caught the reins and took the hack to the small building at the other side of the tower.
The wizard had a peek at the cart and its horrified coachman who sat on the box with an unmoving gaze.
“You there! Are you awake? Come and help me with this one!”
“Ye-yessiree!”
The man almost fell off his seat and, still shaking a little, helped Loki to carry the unconscious witcher into the tower.