Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sit. Let me tell you a story.

It’s about a little girl.

No, I need to tell this story differently. I guess one could say it starts with a boy.

Imagine him as a youngster, his front teeth yet too large for his face and his dark hair curling at his temples. His eyes would always glitter and his smile dimple his cheeks.

I still remember that fateful day when I found him sparring with a friend, clashing sticks in an improvisation of a skirmish. Lilac pansies bloomed in the forests and the chaffinches sang to greet the spring.

“Glaeddyv vort!” Ciaran yelled in the brittle voice that would soon change to the pitch he would have as a man, “Glorsann a’Aelirenn!”

Hearing his words, I grabbed his arm, tore the stick from his hand and slapped his face. The clatch of my palm against his cheek echoed between the trunks of the nearby trees.

The other children stopped their play, eyes wide and mouths hanging open.

I’m not proud of what I did. But I would not have him glorify that delusional, suicidal idiot. I lost his mother to the idolatry of revolution, and I wasn’t going to lose him too.

There was a time when I thought I ultimately had lost him. The boy had so much hatred in him, so much pain. I didn’t know how to save him from that pit of darkness.

Who am I, you may ask? I was Ciaran’s grandmother. Well, I still am. Frivolous occurrences as death do nothing to untie the knots of kinship. When my soul left its earthly existence, I refused to let go and leave for the land where the apple trees bloom. He still needed my guidance and I was going to give it no matter my form.

My name is Reaghan. I want to tell you the story of why I finally did let go.

It’s a story about why the day Ciaran faced death, the lingering thought on his mind wasn’t on his brethren in the Scoia’tael, but on a specimen of a once-hated species.

April 1271. That boy grew into a man, at least outwardly. In his heart, he continued his childish idolization of warriors, only with a different object of admiration.

My grandson’s unbreakable loyalty to Iorveth was widely known. Songs are composed of their comradeship. Unlike Isengrim Faoiltiarna, Iorveth continued his struggle against humans after the second Northern War which earned him the endless esteem of my grandson. Ciaran would do anything for his commander, the stories said: kill, steal, lie. He would gladly follow him into the land where the apple trees bloom.

Let me tell you this: the rosy rumours of my grandson’s adamant loyalty to Iorveth were nekker shit.

Fine, parts of them were true. He was loyal, fiercely, until the day his commander took him on a stroll to the forest and confessed he had made the decision to support a human on her quest to create a free state for all races in Upper Aedirn.

Ciaran’s admiration for Iorveth got a bit dented at that moment, to say the least.

Can you imagine my grandson’s reaction? He stared at Iorveth as if his commander had told him he planned to invade Tir ná Lia riding on the back of a dragon.

Which wasn’t that far from the truth, at least not the dragon part, and the riding if you count Iorveth’s wishes, hah!

Where was I?

Ah yes, my grandson. Poor Ciaran. If you could have seen him then, the way I saw him: anger and disbelief spread through his veins like meandering ice. You must know that ever since I followed him after my death I was able to acutely sense his emotions.

“Yesterday, I was approached by a man,” Iorveth continued his revelation in that open-voweled way he spoke, “A Vatt’ghern. I’ve agreed to aid him in his plan to assassinate the king of Temeria. We leave for La Valette castle tomorrow morning. I’d like for you to join the team that secures his flight from the castle back to Aedirn.”

My grandson kept his composure well, I must admit. He didn’t reveal his surprise and vexation other than through the way his nostrils flared and his temples broke out in small beads of sweat.

“Another friend of non-humans, I suppose?”

Iorveth tensed his jaw at the venom in Ciaran’s voice.

“So he claims. Don’t be mistaken; I’m no fool. If the Vatt’ghern has any ulterior motives for aiding Saskia’s cause, they are unimportant. The death of Foltest will provide us with the political unrest we need to secure the Pontar Valley. At least until -”

“How can you trust him? A dh’oine?” Ciaran spat the word.

“Because he showed me the head of Demavend III.”

The silence fell between the two Scoia’tael warriors like a ton of bricks.

“It was him,” Iorveth continued in a softer tone of voice, “The vatt’ghern killed the king of Aedirn and brought the proof to me so I’d consider his proposal. I’d be a fool not to listen to what he had to say.”

“Why Foltest?” Ciaran shifted on his feet. “If you speak the truth about wanting to create a free state in the Pontar Valley, then why not kill Henselt? He’s the greatest threat to Upper Aedirn by far -”

“Because Foltest has no legitimate heir. After his death, John Natalis won’t be able to aid Aedirn in war as Radovid is likely to exploit Temeria’s political unrest. Besides, Saskia intends to meet Henselt together with Demavend’s heir Stennis. They will try to convince him to repel a Kaedweni invasion of Aedirn and to negotiate a plan for her ascension as ruler of the Free Pontar Valley.”

Ciaran scoffed. His commander frowned in response but held his silence.

“Ever since you returned from the war, I’ve served you,” Ciaran said in a near whisper, “I would follow you through hell and back. I have never doubted your decisions - until now.”

Iorveth bored his gaze into Ciaran’s.

“I’ve fought wars my entire life, for one reason.”

The naked pain in Iorveth’s voice had Ciaran part his lips and go still. The wind blew fluttering shadows on the older elf’s partially covered face, spotted from the sun that glimmered between the roof of leaves above them.

“Freedom. A chance for our people to live in peace. And what do I have to show for it?” Iorveth paused, his one-eyed gaze sinking to the ground. “Nothing. We haven’t gained so much as a fraction of the freedom we want. All the death and suffering… For nothing. The older elves will rot in their Valley of Flowers while the future of the Aen Seidhe slowly dies in the ditches of monster-ridden forests. Saskia is giving us a chance for something else. A home.”

“For all races!” Ciaran spat, “You wish to live side-by-side with dh’oines -”

“If freedom means having humans as neighbours, then yes!” Iorveth growled through gritted teeth, “Upper Aedirn is our land, our forefathers land. I want a free state where an elf can visit a human inn. A land where a human can enter the forest without fear. I am tired of living for the past, Ciaran. I want a future for elves.”

“You’re starting to sound like Yaevinn.” Ciaran did nothing to hide the sneer in his voice.

“Yaevinn respected those who didn’t differentiate between the races. I am willing to adopt the same predisposition if it provides me with a way to secure a home for my people - a home that isn’t in serfdom to Nilfgaard. There must be a reason why I escaped the Valley of the Hydra alive when the rest of the Vrihedd brigade perished. This is my chance to turn this fight for survival into something meaningful. I want us to be more than bandits, or a stone in the shoes of humans.”

Ciaran swallowed hard and directed his gaze to the leaves beneath him. The roots of the oak trees sprawled under his feet in a billowing pattern.

“I still can’t believe you’ve put your trust in a dh’oine -”

“Saskia is no dh’oine.”

Ciaran raised his head in an addled frown.

“What do you mean?”

“I cannot tell you any more at the moment. It will all be clear once we reach La Valette castle.”

“She’s coming?”

“In a way. She intends to help the cause of Aryan La Valette.”

“Iorveth…”

“Ciaran, listen. No one will grant us our freedom. We must win it for ourselves - but I’d never command you to do anything that goes against your beliefs. When I joined you after the war, all I wanted was to make humans suffer. This is why you have fought with me. I’m asking that we change our ways. That we dare to dream of a future. In due time, the Scoia’tael will answer the call and emerge to join the battle. The question is, will you join me?”

The journey Iorveth had taken to make such a speech baffled me as much as my grandson. His words filled me with hope. If Iorveth had changed, surely my grandson could too?

Ciaran paled.

“What battle?”

“As I said,” Iorveth answered, “I’m no fool. Henselt will never accept Saskia as the ruler of Upper Aedirn. When he attacks, I will lead the Scoia’tael in a counter-attack.”

Observing the scene, I urged my grandson to take Iorveth’s outstretched hand. I wanted it so badly my wish flew over my grandson’s face, rustling the strands of his dark hair. The touch sent a shiver down his spine.

He crossed his arms on his chest and stared at the rise of the Makaham mountains behind his commander. His chin dipped in a nod.

I reached out and touched his intent. He followed not because he believed his commander, but because he didn’t know what else to do. He had lost his footing.

I shook my head.

My stupid child.

A week later, Ciaran marched along the riverbed with un-elflike crudeness. He tore the budding leaves from their branches with his careless gait and startled a pair of eiders that nested in the reed.

I reached out; a slight shiver danced over his skin.

Ciaran anger and confusion crackled underneath his skin like small bolts of lightning. As requested, he had followed his commander to Temeria, aiding the kingslayer in his deed by covering up his tracks. His mind still reeled from the sight of the dragon. 

Ciaran didn’t trust the vatt’ghern. What was more, he had lost his previous granite-hard trust in his commander’s leadership, and without that, Ciaran was like a cow looking at a new gate.

From a young age, Ciaran dedicated his life to death. Knowing any struggle to reinstate the former glory of the Aen Seidhe was a lost cause, he rallied to another: to make humans pay. He and his murderous gang of Scoia’tael hunted the forests of Northern Aedirn, slept in ditches, starved during winters, always convincing themselves they were free. Thus in a curious way, he shared with humans the disposition of having death breathing down their necks, living day to day, year to year. Despite owning the luxury of near eternal life, he never imagined growing old.

Ciaran never imagined a future until his conversation with Iorveth.

Stubborn and proud, he didn’t care for that particular image of the future.

He stiffened at a sound. To his left, an elf stepped out of the shrubbery, bow in hand. His dark hair braided by the temples shifted in the light breeze.

“Ciaran?”

My grandson’s initial expression of suspicion changed into one of cool disdain.

“Cedric. How is the dh’oine minne?”

I held my non-existing breath and shrank my form to a speck of dust. Of all Aen Seidhe alive, Cedric was the most attuned to my plain of existence by far. In a way, his soul lived in the rift between our worlds, often unable to tell them apart, plagued by being caught in the middle.

No wonder he drank to block out the visions of spirits crossing the realms. I know I would.

Cedric didn’t flinch at my grandson’s remark.

“Interesting choice of epithet,” he said with a lopsided smile. “Tell me, is this the third or fourth time you’re preparing to cross the Pontar since Saovine?”

“Thaesse,” Ciaran hissed, blushing.

Cedric ignored him. He sheathed his bow into his quiver with a motion that sent a glitter in the golden threats sewn into his tunic.

“You should be careful. There’s a strange presence in the forest. Humans in black robes are lurking about.”

Ciaran snorted a derisive puff of air through his nose.

“Black robes, white dresses, what does it matter?”

Cedric shot Ciaran an urging look.

“These have dark intent. There’s a sinister aura around them…”

“Not enough vodka to stop your visions?” Ciaran whiffed his hand in front of his face with a disgusted twist to his mouth.

“Always condescending, always unkind,” Cedric said, voice low.

“Save your warnings for the humans,” Ciaran snarled. “We both know that when the war comes, we’ll be on opposite sides of the battlefield.”

Cedric furrowed his eyebrows. He took a step to the side to steady himself, his next words uttered in a slur.

“What war?”

“You’ll see.” Ciaran’s eyes burned. “Don’t trip over your own feet, foilé.”

He marched away, barely discerning the older elf’s reply.

“Remember Ciaran, that hate is but an outlet for helplessness.”

When Ciaran was certain neither Cedric nor anyone else observed him, he plunged into the watery thicket and pushed a skiff hidden inside into the Pontar, aiming for where the river narrowed into a midriff. Placing the oars into the smooth waters, he steered the boat to avoid the drowners that barked at him from the other side of the shore.

I smirked. He was heading towards the outskirts of a small village called Kodsko, not far from Murivel, where a local herbalist lived. Her hut was in the village outskirts, by the edge of the forest.

Cedric hit the nail on its head, you see; it wasn’t the first time Ciaran was about to pay her a visit. He passed her neat rows of newly sown fool’s parsley, garlic, and valerian in her garden and brushed a budding berbercane bush before he stepped into her cabin without knocking.

She was standing by a workbench, pounding fat and herbs in a mortar into a mix that spread a fair scent of chamomile. A pair of tallow candles paraded on her table together with various flasks and utensils, shadowed underneath hanging bundles of dried herbs and a garland of garlic. His pulse quickened at the sight of her.

Her name was Heather. He never admitted it was his favourite flower.

She jerked her head up, lips parted. Realizing who entered her door, she made a poor attempt to control her expression but failed to stop the blush that coloured her cheeks.

“I knew it wouldn’t take long until you came to my house again.”

Her narrowed eyes fluttered shut as soon as he stepped close enough to tangle his fingers into her brown locks and press his lips to hers.

“This is the last time,” he murmured against her skin.

“You always say that,” she whispered and tore at the buckles of his breeches.

I knew better than to remain inside at those moments. I’m not a total pervert.

As hypocritical as my grandson’s trysts with the herbalist of Kodsko were, I never judged him for it. Like most elves, I had a few adventures with humans throughout my life. We’ve always been drawn to them in ways few elves are ready to admit; everyone knows it but no one talks about it.

You see, when you know you’re going to live for centuries, things tend to lose importance. Whatever starts passes. Life repeats itself in circles. Pleasures like sex become boring when you have experienced it for three-hundred years. The humans I slept with did it as if it were their last time; they laughed and moaned and stretched for you as if they clung to life itself. They envy us our long lifespan, but we equally envy them their ability to grab life by the throat.

Elves have better night-vision than humans; thus the stars don’t twinkle as brightly for us.

Ciaran tried hard to convince himself he only wanted the herbalist for one thing.

Hah! He could fool himself, that silly, enamoured man, but he couldn’t fool me.

He couldn’t hide how, whenever he was with her, he was overcome by a rare sensation of serenity. It reminded him of the times I took him to the foot of the Blue Mountains searching for blueberries. The scent of the small bush warmed by the bright rays of the sun and the chill from the snow that lingered on the mountaintops filled him with a sense of being right where he was supposed to be.

He relished in her softness. Us elves tend to grow up tall and lean, all sinew and lithe muscles. She was nothing but silky plushness; even her toes were plump.

I can’t say I understood what she saw in him. Sure, he was beautiful like elves tend to be but he suffered from one of the worst stiff upper lip ever seen on an Aen Seidhe, perhaps with the exception of the great Enid. Perhaps it was the tantalizing allure of the forbidden fruit. I liked her, despite her being a fool for letting my grandson into her home. Heather was compassionate and independent, she helped people in need and had won the respect of most, elves and humans alike.

Unfortunately, infatuation clouds the minds of the smartest of women.

After they were done, I slipped back into her cabin. Heather contently stroked the tips of her fingers down his sweaty back while the thundering of their heart slowly abated in their chests.

At a coarse sensation underneath her fingers, she pushed him to the side and scrutinized a wound on his hip.

“This was done by a monster. A nekker? It hasn’t healed well; you’re going to get a scar.”

Ciaran didn’t answer. He was a warrior; scars were as inevitable as needlesticks were to a tailor. He should be irritated by her care; he wasn’t. Her words left a confusing feeling of warmth in his chest.

I should go. Never return.

His body was a traitor, protesting against the idea of leaving her house and her bed. The sentiment sent a simmer of anger needling through his veins.

She slipped out of his embrace and reached for her white chemise. He lamented the loss of the sight of her naked body as she put it on and rummaged among her utensils and bottles on her workbench. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his breeches, thrusting his feet through each leg and failing his first attempt to clasp the buckle on the front.

“Here.” She handed him a bottle while he bound the flowery cloth around his hips and fastened the leather buckles of his scabbard, “It’s cows milk. The best treatment for cleansing ogroid-inflicted wounds.”

She smiled with a small shrug. “Use it quickly, you don’t want sour milk in your wound.”

“I don’t need it,” Ciaran said and put on his cloak. Outside, the stars appeared above the rosy skyline.

“Take it. It’ll make me feel better.”

He snatched the bottle and shoved it in his pocket.

“You should concentrate on making potions for yourself. So you won’t…”

“So I won’t what?”

He closed his mouth and eyed her, up and down, pausing at her abdomen. Her expression of amusement mixed with confusion tensed into weariness. She crossed her arms on her chest.

“You needn’t worry about that. I know how to prevent those things from happening. I’d rather never be pregnant again.”

“Again?”

“I was married once.” She blushed. “I had a baby... She died inside me.”

I reached out to Ciaran to sense his emotions and - yes - found a spark of pity in his heart despite his attempt to quench it.

“What happened to your husband?”

Heather’s eyes turned glossy.

“He died too, a few months later. An accident. He worked at the sawmill and got his arm sliced open by the blade.”

Her expression, you should have seen it. This is why I told you infatuation twists the minds of the brightest women. Her eyes, large and open, radiated a wish for his compassion.

Him, a slayer of humans.

She inhaled a shuddering breath and gazed at the floor.

“It was a horrible year. I’m not sure how I survived it.”

“Don’t talk to me about pain or loss.”

The sudden burst of rage in Ciaran made me flinch.

She snapped her gaze up, her eyes wide at the edge in Ciaran’s voice.

“That’s unfair. I know what this world has done to elves but my husband - and certainly my unborn child - was never part of...”

My heart sank at that. Although she had recognized and condemned racial inequalities, more so than most, no human could understand elven suffering.

The flame of empathy that rose inside Ciaran was swallowed by a blaze of red hot anger. He bristled at the want in his heart, at the stab of self-loathing for being weak and pathetic, for being torn in two. At that moment, though, wrath won. He cut her off, his tone icy.

“Your husband and your child are just two dh’oine less for me.”

A flash running through his guts, he immediately regretted his words. They were too harsh, too cruel, even for him. He quickly arranged his face into a hard mask. A warmth crept up his cheek; from shame, and from the slap I aimed at him with my hand, floating from ear to ear and leaving him shivering.

Heather blanched before her face turned into stone. She lifted her chin and bored her dark gaze into his.

“You will never set foot in my house again.”

She uttered the words like a curse. He hated how his heart sank like a stone in his chest.

A muscle under his eye twitched. Nauseous, he pulled the hood of his coat over his head, opened her door, and left.

I tsk’d, arms crossed over my chest. My grandson, the proud warrior, slashed with his sword at a young birch with a roar, cleaving the poor tree into splinters. Continuing south, he repeatedly hacked at brackens and ribleafs, the poor plants likely wondering what they had done to deserve such cruelty. He’s a fool, I whispered in apology as if that fact mattered to the sliced greenery.

A sound rooted us to the spot. Ciaran lifted his lit torch towards the small pond to the west, ears pricked and eyes squinting.

The shrill cry of a baby tore the air between the trunks.

He frowned. This was not the time nor the place for children to be out and about. Curious, I peeked over his shoulder as he stepped closer to the pond.

By the edge of the water lay a body of a young woman. The moon reflected in the lapping waves that dampened the hem of her dress to make it look like silver moss. She lay on her side, a bundle in her arm. Specks of blood on the sandy soil traced her flight; she’d been running from the forest until she collapsed by the waters.

Despite bleeding and bruised, she tried her best to nurse an infant.

She snapped her head up at the realization she was being watched; I gasped.

She was elven.

“Oh, thank the Goddess,” she whispered hoarsely, “Please help us. They want to hurt her. They want to…”

The baby released her breast with a whine. Ciaran leaned closer.

The baby’s eyes were large and clear. Her ears were round.

The woman redirected her bloodshot gaze to Ciaran. A trickle of blood ran from her forehead.

“Please.”

Cold inside, Ciaran clenched the muscles of his thighs and rose to his feet.

“I have no pity for the whores of humans.”

I tried to bite him in the shoulder as he paraded away from the woman and back into the forest, head held high. It merely resulted in a twitch to his arm. The coldness of his heart contrasted the warmth from the torch in his hand.

“N’te va! Aé te salah!” The woman screamed before she broke out in a coughing fit; the baby wailed in tune with the grating sound.

Ciaran continued through the thicket, past the colonnades of oaks and maple trees. I hung to his form, void of anything but bottomless pain.

Was he lost, this child of my child? Were all my attempts to open his heart in vain?

Had I failed him so miserably?

Deep in desperate heartache, I drifted off his shoulder when he stopped flat, the light of his torch trembling before us. A little further ahead, lit by the flame, stood an enormous hedgehog, tall enough to reach Ciaran's chest. It dug its snout into the earth and scratched at a root with its huge paw, exhaling a snort.

Shadowed by the hedgehog's spikes sauntered a stag, supporting the slender form of a girl on its back. A soft light surrounded her blonde hair like a halo. She bore her blue gaze into Ciaran’s, simultaneously accusing and mild.

I nearly soiled my spectral shorts.

Oh, shush, it's a way of saying. You'd be bewildered too if you met your Goddess.

Before my grandson could get a better look at the girl on the stag, a shriek pierced the gloom of the night outside the sphere of light from his torch. A violent flap of marbled-patterned wings pushed a gust of wind in Ciaran’s face. He flinched at the bright yellow eyes of a barn owl, snapping its beak and tearing at the hood on his head with sharp claws.

Ciaran broke from his paralysis and turned on his heel.

Feet pounding the soil, he ran towards the pond, towards the sound of the baby crying. I held on to a thread of his being for dear afterlife.

Breathing hard, he kneeled by the woman. Her skin cooled the tips of his fingers, her eyes lay open and unseeing. The baby wailed desperately in her stiffening arms.

I followed his motion as he reached for the baby and stood, holding her against his chest. With an inexplicable feeling he had to hurry, he marched into the thicket and let the darkness of the forest swallow him.

Chapter Text

“Shit, shit, shit,” my grandson chanted in Elder Speech as he moved further into the thicket with the crying bundle in his arms. Dew-slick leaves stuck onto his cloak and twigs and branches bent to his onslaught deeper into the forest. His mind spun; he had no idea what he was doing or why, but he needed to silence this baby lest her cries attracted monsters or worse: humans.

Calm down, I whispered in his ear. You’ve got this, elaine wedd me. After a few more steps, he eased into that graceful, near untrackable gait that characterized our race. The sweat on his forehead tingling against his skin, he peeked at the baby in his arm. Her eyes shrunk to swollen slits and her mouth was a gaping, wailing hole. I planted an idea in his head, sending a grateful thought to Dana Meabdh that Ciaran kept his hands clean.

He shook his head at first, not understanding where the impulse came from. I insisted. It’s what your mother did to calm you. What I did too.

With care, he bent down to extinguish the torch in a wet patch of moss to free his hand and placed the tip of his little finger into the baby’s mouth. She held onto it with the force of her suckling reflex and ceased her crying. A tear fell from the crook of her eye, glistening silver in the light of the moon peering down on the scene from behind scattered clouds.

Intense relief flooded Ciaran at the sound of silence. He surveyed the area for spots for shelter. Further to the west loomed the Makaham Mountains, their tips still white with lingering snow. At their base, a small lake slept amidst the silence of the night only broken by the chirp of insects.

He directed his steps southwards, stopping flat at a snarl. It wasn’t close enough for worry, but he had to choose between a wailing baby and a lit torch.

Silently, he ventured towards the base of the mountains.

By the sandy shores of the lake, surrounded by the poignant scent of sweet gale and bulrush, the mountains loomed like giant bodies rising from the lands. Stepping inside a crevice large enough to stand in without scraping his skull, Ciaran lay the baby on a mat of fir branches and maple leaves, lit a small fire, and leaned the back of his head against the rocky wall behind him.

What the hell I am doing? What the hell was that in the woods? What the hell am I supposed to do with a half-breed child?

All his desperate questions ran through him like icy water. His insides twisted in nausea. He hardly dared to pose the question that frightened him the most.

Why me?

Among our people, the barn owl was paradoxically a symbol of protection and of imminent death. Ciaran's heart still pounded at the memory of the sparks that flew from its lantern eyes as it whooshed down on him.

The baby, who had been calm in his arms during his flight to the cavern, stirred and exhaled a few hiccups.

“No, no, don’t cry again,” my grandson pleaded, in vain. Her wail bounced against the stone walls, prompting an echo that grated on Ciaran’s ears. The fatigue burned behind his eyelids. He let his back slide against the granite and landed on his behind next to the baby, picking her up and awkwardly rocking her back and forth. Her wailing subdued to a few, whiny hiccups. He placed his finger in her mouth and sighed.

She wore a thin linen bonnet and was wrapped in a red cloth embroidered with white flowers. Ciaran rubbed the cloth between his fingers, surprised by its softness. He carefully folded the linen from her body to discover that she wore a tiny cambric frock and small, knitted socks. Her eyes, blue and large, latched onto his gaze.

I sat beside them. Mesmerized, we both stared at her face while the wind gently danced in the treetops outside, rustling the leaves in tune with the croaks of frogs in the lake; a symphony for the stars above.

How old was she? Ciaran had little knowledge of human children; he guessed somewhere between three months and a year. No, year-old children had teeth, right? So, around six months?

The baby released his finger and began crying anew; she was hungry. In response to that sentiment, Ciaran’s stomach grumbled. He reached for the stack of lembas he always carried in his pocket and winced at the sensation of something cold and hard against his fingers.

The milk! He pulled out his hand from his pocket. The sight of the small flask prompted a painful spark inside Ciaran, bringing back the memory of the scene in the cabin. The hard veil that fell over Heather’s face…

Pushing the thought away, Ciaran opened the bottle and held it tentatively in front of the baby. She reached for it with her little hands which he interpreted as her approval. Carefully, he placed the lip of the bottle to her mouth and poured. The incline was too steep; the milk overflowed in the baby’s mouth and she started crying again, coughing and spluttering. A tiny string of milk flowed from her nostril.

Ciaran cursed and wiped at her chin with the cloth she was nested in.

Chuckling at the scene, my heart opened up to the sting of a guilty conscience that burned in his chest at his blunder. Rummaging the leather pouch on his hip, Ciaran fished up an item I hadn’t seen since long before I died. I held my non-existent breath. In his hand lay a carved spoon, smooth like silk and with a zigzag pattern carved along the handle.

His mother made that spoon for him when he was a boy.

He carefully filled the concave of the spoon with milk and held it to the little girl’s mouth. After a bit of fussing, where he spilled a few more drops of the milk, she accepted the new way of being fed and swallowed in satisfied gulps until the weight of the flask receded.

When she was done, she burped and grasped at the spoon with her fingers to gnaw at it with her toothless gums in an a-da-da sound.

I beamed at her and turned to my grandson. He directed his gaze to the darkness outside, eyebrows knitted.

I reached out. His head spun with a whirlwind of thoughts centering on one issue;

What am I going to do with her?

He fought a powerful urge to leave her in this cavern; to walk out and never look back. A muscle in his arm twitched from an impulse to throw her in the lake. Frantically, I pushed the image of the girl on the stag’s back, of the giant hedgehog and the owl scratching his scalp, into his mind. I wrapped my arms around him and cradled the girl through his body, humming a lullaby while the fire sent crackling sparks into the night air.

Soon, her eyelashes sank and her breathing grew calm and rhythmical. He placed the baby on the mat of leaves and ate his ration of lembas. I stiffened when Ciaran rose, afraid he would leave, but he only closed the bottle and went to the lake to place the milk in the sand, steadying it with a few stones to prevent it from floating away. My fear slowly subsiding, I followed him back to the cavern where he sat next to the baby and placed a hand on her tummy. I stayed close as Ciaran’s eyes slid close, his back against the cavern wall and the flames of the fire receding to glowing embers.

Ciaran woke up to a small sound. The first rays of the morning sun slipped through the tree trunks and illuminated the dew on the moss to look like pearls. The tweets of a lovesick blackbird rang through the forest and water striders skated the surface of the lake, leaving intricate wrinkles in their wake. Soft winds sang of the birth of a beautiful day.

Ciaran opened his eyes and met the baby’s gaze. She let out another small sound; like a cooing. To his stupefaction, her little face lit up in a smile.

He rose on his elbow, realizing he’d slept on his side with one arm like a protective loop around her. I chuckled at his embarrassment and confusion. The girl reached out with her little hands and grabbed at his nose. His mind came to a halt at the sensation of her tiny fingers nipping at his nostrils, accompanied by her happy gurgle. She exhaled a sudden ecstatic noise that startled him from his bewilderment and he sat, taking her in his arms.

She was damp under her bottom; Ciaran scrunched his nose at a distinct odour.

“Shit!” He muttered. I applauded the exactness of his perception. The baby confirmed his finding with another loud sound before she pftftft’ed with her little tongue between her lips.

He had never seen anyone soil themselves with such cheer.

Ciaran let out a silent curse and unwrapped the baby from the confinement of her wrapping. The sight, and smell, had his insides curl up his throat. The baby let out a few sobs at the cool air against her skin. Shuddering, he scanned the cavern like a desperate fool, wishing for someone to tell him what to do.

Luckily for him, I was near.

There’s only one thing to do, I told him: you need to wash the cloth and the baby and let them both dry in the sun before you plan your next step.

Hesitating, he stared at the lake, then at the baby crying in the crook of his arm. I pushed him forward.

He stepped out of the cavern with another curse, a particularly intricate one this time.

He started with the baby. Oh, you should have seen his face when he rinsed her little bottom free from goo; I laughed so hard I startled a deer on the other side of the lake. With shrieking protests, the baby’s face turned red. She looked as if she’d never received a more offensive treatment in her life, waving her little fists in the air.

“Calm down,” Ciaran muttered. “Don’t look at me like that. What are you, the Princess of Xin'trea?”

She replied with a tiny roar. It made him smile.

He spread his cloak on the sandy bank and placed the baby on it with his spoon to appease her wrath, her body bare in the sun save for her linen bonnet. Her lower lip still pouting, she accepted the toy and put it in her mouth. The sun rays warmed her tiny limbs enough to smoothen the goosebumps that covered her skin.

Ciaran went about the task of cleaning her tiny garment and the linen cloth that she was wrapped in. The only thing that didn’t require washing, besides her bonnet, was her little socks. He admired their embroidery as he placed them on a rock beside the red cloth.

I caressed the knitted feet with a smile. Ciaran wore similar socks as a baby.

Irritated at how my thought of his childhood bled into his mind, he cast a glance at the baby who managed to get a hold of a passing beetle and put it in her mouth.

“No -”

A spike of panic burning his guts, Ciaran pushed a curse between his teeth in fear that she’d choke on the insect. He took two long strides towards her, hands outstretched but stopped, sighing in relief when she spit the beetle out. It scurried off the blanket, looking aghast.

Ciaran raised an eyebrow at her.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

She turned onto her back and blinked at a gust of wind that teased her eyelashes.

We marvelled at the way the mix of two races displayed on her features. Although her ears were round, her eyes were bright and large, her face a bit pointed and her fingers and toes slender. She would grow up tall and lean.

Ciaran shook his head and marched over to where he hid the flask yesterday, dug it up from the sand and tasted its contents to make sure the milk hadn’t soured. Glancing at the baby, he took a moment looking down his own body with a sigh. Before I could reach out and read his intent, he unhooked the clasp of his leather belt, pulled off the blue-and-white flowery cloth from his midriff, his green jacket and his golden-embroidered shirt.

I stared, heavy-hearted, at the winding tattoo that crept from his arm all the way up to his neck; the sign of his loyalty to the Scoia’tael. He put his jacket back on and tied it with leather belt at his hips but took his shirt, his least coarse garment, and dressed the baby in it. He folded the hem over her waist and wrapped the arms around her to form a little packet. She calmly accepted his manoeuvres, peering into his face.

Fiddling with the bottle, the baby still in his arms, Ciaran scanned the environment for any movement of beasts or humans. He was reluctant to meet either in this situation - or worse still, to meet elves. When he turned his face back to the baby, she responded with a smile.

He stared at her before slowly sliding his gaze to the right. When he glanced back into her eyes, her double chins wobbled in pearly baby laughter.

Apparently, eye contact was the height of comedy for this little girl.

I reached out to stroke her head; my touch appeared like a mild gust of wind that wrinkled her bonnet.

What a sweetheart.

My grandson and I both froze at our simultaneous thought. Clearing his throat, Ciaran reached for the spoon and began to carefully feed her, adding chewed pieces of his last lembas to her meal.

When she was done, she let out a bit of wind in a tiny grunt, and promptly fell asleep.

Ciaran sat on that sandy bank with the baby in his arms, coming to a decision. He had to deliver her to a human settlement. But how to do it without getting killed? And how to know if any dh’oine would agree to take her?

Would the ones who did care for her? Her life would never be easy no matter how human she appeared but giving her to humans was the only solution to this mess.

Small shadows played on her cheeks; he shaded her face from the sun. The scent of newly sprung anemones and fresh water lilies swirled in the air. Bumblebees buzzed in the white flowers of a nearby cherry tree and a peacock butterfly fluttered by.

His heart sank at the memory of the scene by the lake. What did the baby’s mother mean by ‘them’ wanting to hurt her?

Who are you, little one?

It was bittersweet knowing that we’d most likely never have an answer to that question. I sat beside Ciaran, basking in the sunlight as he ate another ration of lembas for breakfast. The damp cloth hanging on the branch above us slowly dried by the gentle winds.

Two hours later, Ciaran folded the crisp cloth into a bundle and prepared to leave their temporary shelter by the crevice in the cliff. The baby was awake and likely to get hungry soon; she would need feeding and proper care. He needed to get back to his brethren.

He planned to scout the area of Kodsko for farmsteads and place her outside one with children and thus, hopefully, a mother in the house. He’d stay hidden until someone found her, and if they made any move to hurt her, he’d shoot them and take her to another house. It was a simple plan; the best he could think of.

Suckling on his little finger, the baby lay content in his arms when a fat cloud veiled the sun. A shiver ran down Ciaran’s back from a sudden cool wind.

I changed form: from aethereal to flickering vapour, like a zoned-out cloud. This only happened only in situations of heightened danger. I stretched my senses, overflowed with sensation until my form burst in the seams.

Further east, an arachas ceased its digging into the soil for earthworms. A nekker youngling ran back to its lair. A family of rabbits scurried behind the bushes and a golden beetle extended its wings to fly elsewhere.

A group of men in dark cloaks was approaching from the south.

The fright that spread through the spindly threads of my existence sent a shiver over the otherwise calm surface of the lake.

Run. I channelled all my intent to my grandson.

Run.

He sensed me; he always had. Regrettably, he’d spent a lifetime ignoring my presence, refusing to give in to the weakness of having me close, of sensing that which was no more. May the spirits walk with you, he greeted his brethren in hypocrisy. He acknowledged no spirits because of the pain of memories, and a mistake he wasn’t ready to admit.

The skin on his neck prickled; all birdsong fell silent save for the cawing of a raven. The baby whined when he took his hand from her mouth to grasp at the hilt of his sword.

Three men in dark cloaks strode out of the forest; two holding daggers, and the third holding a crossbow. Their feet shuffled the grass in slow strides.

Multiple scenarios flashed through Ciaran’s mind. A spark of panic muddled his normal calculating ability. One thing was clear: they hadn’t come for him, but for her.

Ciaran had never fought for another person’s life before. What more, he’d never fought while holding a baby.

His body slipped into a familiar routine. His breathing slowed, his muscles tensed in the preparation for the first attack. The air around us stilled, the lake calm as if it were frozen over.

He parried the first attack with an upwards slice of his blade and spun to land a kick into the chest of the second attacker. The man grunted and fell on his behind, dropping one of his daggers. The other attacker turned to slice at Ciaran’s neck but missed by a hair’s width. With all his might, Ciaran ran his sword through the attacker’s stomach, using his body to shield the baby from the bolt shot by the hooded man further down by the lake.

Ciaran pushed the dying man away who fell with a blood-curdling shriek. Meanwhile, the other man jumped to his feet and sliced his dagger; Ciaran wasn’t fast enough to dodge it. He groaned but didn’t let go of his sword; the wound was merely skin-deep. Another bolt whizzed past an inch away from his head.

The men’s sharp inhales and groans of pain were drowned by the wails of the baby. I cursed my ethereal form, yelled at the skies to strike these hooded devils down in a burst of lightning.

What was the purpose of my ghostly existence if I could do nothing to help?

Before Ciaran gathered his senses after the shock of the cut to his arm, the hooded man turned his dagger and slammed the hilt into Ciaran’s temple. His world exploded in shattering stars, a flash of agony, and the cries of the baby. Before he fell, Ciaran twisted his body so he wouldn’t crash onto the little girl he still held in his arms. It was his last controlled movement before he collapsed unconscious onto the ground.

It all happened in a matter of seconds but the scene played before my eyes out in slow-motion, like those nightmares where you need to run but your legs are caught in syrup. The baby screamed; I screamed, furious and helpless. I could only watch as the two remaining men grabbed the baby from Ciaran’s grasp and ran, disappearing into the darkness of the forest. The air cracked from the baby's desperate wails, already fading in the distance.

Chapter Text

“Ciaran!”

The muddled voice reached Ciaran’s ears as if a wall of glass separated him from reality.

“Ciaran! What happened?”

A hand shook his shoulders. He slowly opened his eyes, staring into a blurred vision of a pale face, of dark hair and worried, brown eyes peering down on him. A familiar scent of pine needles mixed with vodka swept over him.

He sat up, groaning from a splitting headache. His eyesight blurred. He inhaled through his teeth at a sharp stinging to his arm.

“Cedric?”

“Yes, it’s me. I found you lying here by the lake, bleeding and unconscious. That man on the ground, he’s with the humans in dark cloaks! I told you, they have dark intent...”

I observed the scene, shrunken to my most inconspicuous form. Small like a firefly, I hovered above the two elves to hear their conversation and to sense my grandson’s emotions.

The memories of what happened came back to Ciaran in a sudden burst. Gasping, he jumped to his feet fast enough for his eyesight to blacken. To prevent his meagre breakfast to make a comeback, he put his hands on his thighs and lowered his head between his knees. Stars danced in his vision.

“Are you ok?” Cedric reached out with his hand. “Here, let me bind that cut for you.”

My grandson pushed the older elf away.

“No! I have to go after them, they have her! They took her...”

Another bout of nausea wrecked through his guts and had him gasping. A wave of cold sweat washed over his back.

Cedric grasped his arm with more insistence.

“Whoever you’re talking about, you can’t go after her this instant! You might have a concussion. Rest, let me dress your wound, tell me what happened.”

Ciaran glanced at the hooded figure on the sand. A patch of blood bloomed underneath the man's waist and ran in a slow rivulet towards the water. The smell would soon attract ghouls and drowners.

A cold breeze flew against Ciaran’s face, helping him clear his mind, while the stars balanced on the tips of the trees.

“No. I have to go.”

With a few determined movements, he reached for his sword, wiped the blade on his breeches and jogged in the direction of where the hooded men disappeared with the baby. I sailed after him, glowing with worry.

He ignored Cedric’s repeated cries for him to return.

Ciaran took a deep breath and crouched on the forest floor, searching for signs of the hooded men. He was an excellent tracker, and soon he found footmarks in the damp soil. Not far from where he squatted, a dark thread dangled from a broken twig.

By a small brook, he knelt again, scooping crystal-cold water into his palm and drinking in large gulps. His head thumped in pain. He stood and squinted in irritation at how the forest floor wobbled under his feet like he had downed a few pints of dwarven ale.

Most of all, his heart pounded in fear. He had to find her.

The thought of what the hooded men might have done with the baby sent another wave of nausea through his guts.

Ciaran searched his pocket and cursed to find it empty. His belly screamed for food, but he would have to go without.

“I have what you need.”

Ciaran jumped onto his feet and turned to face Cedric. His gaze wandered from the older elf’s face to the packet of dried meat in his hand.

“Eat. I know where they’ve taken your friend. It’s a few hours from here, you need all the strength.”

Hesitantly, Ciaran accepted the packet.

“How do you know?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“Because I examined the man you killed.” Cedric pulled out a bandage from his satchel and wound it around Ciaran’s arm, ignoring my grandson’s noise of protest. “I knew him, although I haven’t seen him in a long time. His name was Ian; he was an apprentice of Reverend Mircei. I thought he had perished in the fire…”

The name Mircei was vaguely familiar to Ciaran; he searched his memory with a puzzled expression that prompted Cedric to continue.

“Reverend Mircei was the priest of the Order of Eternal Fire - eat, I said, you need it - that ran the mental asylum in the outskirts of Flotsam during the war.” He tugged the bandage on Ciaran’s arm to make sure it wouldn’t sag. “Surely you remember? It was destroyed in an arson attack and the reverend and all his patients died. It’s the reason the Flotsam forest is teeming with monsters… They’re drawn to the lingering agony of the souls of the lunatics…”

Hand on his throat, Cedric made a face as if he had swallowed something thorny.

“When I’m sober, I sometimes hear them, crying out in terror.”

Ciaran stared at him, eyes wide. He’ only had a few, faint moments of sensing something not of this world. The experience was usually mild and vaguely uncomfortable - nothing like hearing the cries of the dead.

He bit another mouthful of jerky and set off in an arch towards Flotsam to avoid the swamp that spread its watery landscape between the Pontar and the Makaham Mountains. He didn’t protest when Cedric silently joined him, too proud to acknowledge the tinge of gratitude in his chest at the older elf’s companionship. At night, the area was infested with monsters but he didn’t dare to light his torch, fearing it would alert the hooded men.

“Why would a priest dressed in a black robe attack me?”

“A priest apprentice,” Cedric said, “it looks like he was a part of some cult. He wore a pendant with a symbol I haven’t seen before...”

Cedric grabbed Ciaran’s sleeve and caused him to turn. My grandson let out a low growl in response.

“Your friend - is it the herbalist?”

“What? No,” Ciaran stumbled, bristling at the warmth that settled on his cheeks. His heart sped up at the thought of the baby. For one agonising moment, he debated in his mind of the right course of action.

I affirmed the right thing to do by whispering in his ear.

“It was - it is a little girl. A baby. I found her by the pond… I found a woman by the pond. She was dying and begged me to take her child. She said ‘they’ wanted to hurt her. I - I took the child. I was going to deliver her to a human settlement…”

Cedric shook his head with a bewildered expression.

“What woman? Have you met her before?”

“No… She was elven. Her baby was wrapped in this cloth.”

Cedric stopped and let out a loud gasp, ripping the red cloth from Ciaran’s hand.

“By the Goddess! Did she tell you her name?”

“No,” Ciaran said, his heartbeat rushing.

“What did she look like? Dana Meadbh, have mercy….”

“She was blonde…” Ciaran searched his memory. “She had brown eyes.”

Cedric closed his eyes, his head sinking to his chest. I hovered closer to hear his reply.

“That woman’s name was Moril. She’s been missing for over a year. Her husband, Seherim, hasn’t given up hope that she’ll one day return… Que’n esse, va en esseath, eigean evelienn deireadh, elaine blath.”

He returned the cloth to Ciaran, lifted a flask from his satchel and took a swig from it, grimacing.

“You saved her daughter. Those men, surely the same men that held Moril captive, have taken her.”

“Yes. I have to stop them. There’s no time to lose.”

“Let me go with you.” Cedric lifted a hand in a pleading gesture. “You are injured and need help. Allow me to join you to revenge Moril’s death.”

Ciaran hesitated.

“I know I’m not the warrior that I used to be,” Cedric said, his eyes hard behind the gloss of alcohol, “but I can still fight.”

Ciaran nodded, lips pursed to a thin line.

“We have no time to lose.”

Sprinting through the forest, dodging endrega nests and jumping over fallen tree trunks, Cedric and Ciaran arrived at the base of the cliffs where an upwards path led to the old mental asylum. Above their heads resonated the snoring hiss of a young owl, searching for prey. A shiver ran down Ciaran’s spine at the sound.

The wound on his arm stung and the ache in his head hurt enough for his world to tilt on its axis. None of that pain amounted to the fear of what the humans might have done to the baby.

“Wait,” Cedric reached out with his hand to wipe at Ciaran’s cloak, “there’s a spider on your…”

He froze, staring at the black spider in his hand that scurried across his wrist and winded itself down to the ground in a glistening silk thread.

Ciaran frowned.

“Cedric?”

“By the Goddess.” Cedric’s eyes were large. He directed a burning gaze to Ciaran. “I’ve been an idiot. I couldn’t figure out what cult these humans belong to, but it was right before me the whole time! Tell me, have you heard the tale of Nivellen?”

Ciaran shook his head. His knowledge of human fairy tales was as extensive as his interest in the latest fashion trends in Kovir.

“Nivellen was a beast - a man cursed by a priestess of a cult called the Coram agh Tera - The lion-headed spider. A witcher saved him, the one they call the White Wolf.”

The moon shone on Cedric’s dark hair and glistened in the drops of sweat at his temples. His voice slurred less than it had yesterday and he didn’t sway or teetered, but his hands shook and a muscle underneath his left eye twitched.

“I don’t care if they believe in a lion-headed spider or a basilisk-arsed ant,” Ciaran said and climbed the grassed path up towards the cliff. “These bloede dh’oine have the girl, and if her mother was right, they intend to hurt her.”

Cedric climbed behind him.

“If Moril was captured by humans, then her child is..?”

Ciaran ignored Cedric’s tentative question.

“And you care for her,” Cedric added, softly.

The tips of his ears warming, Ciaran swallowed his sharp retort. They reached the top of the cliff. The mountain continued to stretch its spine to the south, slowly rising towards the clouds. Pines and firs reached towards the heavens and scattered their cones and needles all over on the ground, competing for space with blueberry plants and star moss.

The remains of the asylum lay near the edge of the cliff. It was in ruins - a skeleton of a structure overgrown by sleek birches and weeds, with the stone cracked from the heat of the fire that devoured it. Like many structures of edifices in the area, the asylum was built on the remains of an elven shrine, which the arched gateways and delicate carvings to the stone bore witness to, but the few remains of the beams that held the roof and a soot-black patch of a floor whispered of the human masonry. Despite the arson being over three years ago, Ciaran still shuddered at the image of the wind carrying the odour of burnt flesh, the air crackling with sparks.

I was unable to enjoy the scenery. Attacked from all directions by the screams of lingering souls, I writhed in panic, floating between the trunks of trees and remains of stone parapets. The undead cried out, reached for me, requesting that I aid them.

I had never experienced such dread before. I had no answer that would comfort those souls as to why they were left to broil in their cells; no power to avenge their deaths.

Unbeknownst to my agony, the two elves swept their gaze over the ruins. Nothing in the area hinted at a shrine for arthropod-praising zealots. Ciaran squinted to discern the structure, bathing in the moonlight.

“An ill wind blows. I’ll need to light the torch if we are to find anything…”

He reached for his firestone and lifted the lit torch above him. Cedric let out a whine.

“The souls - they’re screaming…”

“Cedric, focus. Is there anything in this place we need to fear? Wraiths?”

“No.” Cedric wiped his brow. “Only the echoes of the tormented.”

A sharp crack had them jerk their heads towards the edge of the cliff to the other side of the ruin. Ciaran grasped the hilt of his sword, his lit torch in hand. Cedric tensed beside him, his bow at the ready. A distinct sound of a growl from a large throat had them take a step back.

With a crack, a great bear leapt from the thick branches of a large fir, its lips drawn back and fangs dripping. Its yellow eyes gleamed as it’s massive paws shook the soil.

“Look out!” Ciaran yelled, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He stumbled when Cedric lashed forward and snatched the torch from his hand. Opening his flask with his teeth, he tilted his head backwards and poured the entirety of the contents into his mouth before he spit its contents with all the force of his lungs into the lit fire.

The vodka burned with a bright, yellow flame that burst forward and caught onto the coarse fur of the bear. The animal reared in terror, it’s eyes reflecting the flame and its fangs gleaming. Whimpering and howling, the burning bear fled towards the path down the cliff, rushing down to the wetlands below.

Ciaran and Cedric exchanged glances, the first in awe. 

“Well done.”

“Thank you.”

“Bears have been extinct in this area for over a century… Did my eyes betray me?”

“If they did,” Cedric replied, “then so did mine.” He pointed towards the end of the old asylum where the cliffs rose in a steep incline. “What if the bear was trained by the cult - to guard them? Let us take a closer look at the ruin. There - behind those trees.”

Underneath a large juniper bush, a hole opened into the cliff, reeking of bear fur and the remains of a rabbit carcass. Blood moss huddled against the crack of the opening and crept inside like a red stain.

Cedric held the torch over his head. The fire threw dancing shadows on the stone and illuminated an entrance to a cavern that widened into a great corridor.

A tingle fell over Ciaran’s back. This was it; this is where they took the baby, I whispered in his ear. Sword in his hand, he strode inside, Cedric hot on his heels. Relieved, I followed them, escaping the grasp of the tormented souls who remained by the ruin.

After a few minutes, the elves stepped into a grotto the size of a regular tavern, littered with sewant mushrooms that emitted a faint scent of cotton. At the other end of the room glowed a peculiar lantern that flickered with a green light. The light illuminated three doors, each marked by a symbol of a circle intersected by eight stripes.

Cedric took a step closer, holding the torch high.

“It’s the same symbol as Ian’s pendant! The man you killed by the lake!”

Clenching and unclenching his fist, Ciaran paced in front of the doors.

“We don’t have time. Which door leads to where they’ve taken the girl? We can’t pick the wrong one!”

I made a decision. I had to help them, to help her. No more hiding. I stretched, folded out my form to sense her. She was close, somewhere to the left…

Cedric froze. His eyes widened.

“There’s a woman following you.”

Ciaran froze with a scowl.

“What?”

“Who is she? She has your eyes -”

“Don’t.”

Ciaran worked his jaw. His gaze blackened.

“She wants to help you. She’s seen your pain.”

“Thaesse,” Ciaran hissed.

“She forgives you -”

“I said stop!” Ciaran roared and pointed his sword an inch from Cedric’s heart. His arm shook and his chest heaved in a laborious breath.

The two elves eyed each other in a silence that fell heavily onto their heads as if the night itself held still.

I whispered to the torch in Cedric’s hand. The fire fluttered and stretched to the left. A gust of smoke billowed to the furthermost door.

“It’s that one,” Cedric said.

Ciaran jerked his hand back and ran towards the door. It opened to a corridor lit by more greenish lights, the tint sending a sickening hue onto the pale faces of the two elves scurrying towards the opening at the end. Skulls littered the edges of the floor - skulls of rats, badgers, deers - and humans. A startled mouse shrieked when my grandson and his companion hurried past.

The opening revealed a great chasm connected to the outcrop on the other side by a rickety rope bridge, hanging over the gaping void in a limp u-form. On the other side, more green lights burned next to a tower of human skulls laid in a grotesque pyramid-shape. A hum reached their ears; the elves keen hearing picked up a voice chanting in a low tone. No cries of the baby resonated through the hall; Ciaran let out an exhale of relief but immediately tensed, his insides tied to knots by the realization it might be because he had lost her.

No. He mustn’t be too late, not this time, not again…

Cedric pressed his back against a ledge in the cliff and peered into the lit room grand like a church, gesturing to Ciaran to join him.

A row of great pillars carved from the rock intersected the citadel, eight in total. At their end loomed an altar, long like a Skellige Trireme and decorated with a display of human skulls. The sight sent a chill down Ciaran’s spine. Two large torches burning with the strange green light lit up the stone and the u-shaped form at its base, forming the frame of an enormous net.

The net jumbled in a chaotic pattern that resembled rising and falling waves intersected by ropes of lightning. A few threads hung loose, floating in the wind of the chant sung by a group of hooded humans kneeling by the base of the altar. Behind it, on the stone walls, appeared a mural of an enormous spider, its many eyes gleaming red and its fangs dripping.

“Weavers of fate!”

Cedric jumped at the exclamation. His forehead glistened with sweat. Ciaran placed his index finger to his lips.

The words were spoken by a man in a similar hooded cloak as the disciples, only with the symbol of the eight stripes in a circle embroidered on its front in green. He raised his hands from his position in front of the altar, the arms of his robe cascading to the floor.

“Tonight marks the most significant cleansing of the web - the breaking of the dragon’s thread! Through recovering the vessel of the two races, we are ready to gain the necessary strength to sever her life. The time is nigh.”

Cedric widened his blood-shot eyes, his mouth hung open.

“It’s reverend Mircei! I’d recognize that voice anywhere. I can’t believe it…” He grasped his head between his palms, whimpering.

“Cedric?”

“I see it now. He never cared for the mentally ill at the asylum. He… He used them for blood sacrifices and burned the place to cover his deeds! Oh, the horror…”

“Cedric,” Ciaran carefully shook his shoulder. “You need to be quiet.”

Cedric lifted his head from his hands, his eyes brimming with tears.

“What was Mircei talking about?” he whispered, “What dragon?”

“Saskia,” Ciaran whispered in return. His pulse roared in his ears.

“What?” Cedric exhaled.

“The virgin of Aedirn. She is a dragon; the woman fighting for a free Pontar Valley is her human form. These humans - they are plotting to kill her -”

His words died at the booming voice of the leader of the cult.

“Bring forth the sacrifice!”

A cry from a small throat echoed in the hall. Ciaran tensed his muscles to rush forwards but Cedric stopped him with a firm grip to the arm, forcing him to stay still.

That was the moment I left. It was my time to act. I steered my energies towards the chasm, over the roped bridge, towards the ruin of the asylum.

Ciaran and Cedric both sensed my absence, one though a sensation of a hole in his heart, the other through a dwindling buzz in his ears.

What happened next is a story that has later been told by both humans and elves alike.

In the hall, a disciple carried the baby still wrapped in Ciaran’s shirt but with a striped mask over her face that muffled her wails. The leader carefully took her in his arms, peering down into her covered face with eyes hidden inside his hood.

Ciaran fought an urge to scream. He ached to kill everyone in the room, run his sword through their cold hearts and let the coppery tang of their blood fill his nostrils.

“You’ll get yourself killed,” Cedric hissed as if he’d read Ciaran’s thoughts. “We need to think.”

He let his gaze wander from one end of the hall to the other, still holding Ciaran back.

“By the mix of blood, old and new,” chanted the leader, lifting the baby towards the rocky ceiling, “grant us the strength to honour you!”

“There!” Cedric exhaled and lifted his chin to the eastern part of the hall, “the pillar!”

Ciaran squinted to outline the furthermost pillar in the faint green light. His eyes opened wide at a great, vertical crack intersecting the granite like a belt, secured only by one stone that prevented it from falling.

Cedric assumed the stance, nocked the arrow, drew and aimed, squinting against his target. Ciaran grasped his sword, his heart thundering.

“You are drunk!”

“I am sober enough.”

Cedric let the first arrow fly. It hit the stone wedged into the crack of the pillar with a thud. A few shards tumbled to the ground. Around them, the chanting continued.

“Grant us power unforeseen, power swift, dark and clean.”

The second arrow budged the stone in the crack an inch. More morsels fell in a dust-filled cloud.

The leader placed the baby on the altar.

“By a mix of blood, old and new, the threads of fate will be cut through.”

The third arrow missed its target.

“Cedric!”

Cedric’s forehead glistened in the green light.

“I know, I know!”

The gleam of a dagger scintillated through the room.

“The time is nigh!” Mircei shouted, dagger in hand, outvoicing the screams of the baby.

Ciaran lunged forward. At the same moment, Cedric released the fourth arrow that hit the stone and caused it to fall from the crack in the pillar with an echoing thud. The pillar came crashing down, burying the room in greenly-tinted dust and evoking screams and shouts from the hooded disciples. Seizing the momentum, Ciaran slashed down three hooded figures in a series of stabs to their throats and arms, barely avoiding the cut of a dagger to his head from a forth. Two more fell from Cedric’s arrows.

Ciaran fought like a demon, fueled by his rage. He hacked his way towards the altar, beads of sweat falling from his brow. The cacophony of dying zealots, most of them women, bolstered his hatred. A few of them sprinted in panic towards the bridge over the chasm; one was shot by Cedric, but some managed to escape.

When the last of the remaining disciple fell, Ciaran stopped in front of the altar, panting. A patch of blood smeared his front and thick, red drops dripping from his sword onto the stone floor.

“Don’t take a step closer.” Reverend Mircei lowered the hood and revealed his balding head and cold, grey eyes. He held the baby in one arm, pointing the dagger to her chest.

“Let her go.” Ciaran slowly lowered his sword to the ground. “Please.”

“You don’t understand what is at stake, Aen Seidhe,” the reverend hissed. “The weaver of fates needs sacrifice. The sister-fucking King of Temeria is gone, and once the dragon is dead, the White Flame will purge the lands of the North and a new era will begin! It has been foretold!”

The baby cried in his arms, her little feet trembling. Ciaran’s blood boiled at the sight, but he silently ordered himself to remain calm.

“She’s a baby. A child. Let her go.”

The reverend cackled.

“The spawn of a whore, but a powerful vessel nonetheless! Her blood contains the power I need to break the thread! I have prepared this deed for years! I will not let a few lowly elves stand in my way -”

His eyes widened, staring above Ciaran’s head.

I had returned.

I let my form swell before the man by the altar and lifted my arms. Behind me flew the souls of the patients he pretended to care for, the ones left to die by the flames lit by his hand. They screamed, shrieked, and cried out his name. They reached for him with their boneless fingers.

He blanched and dropped the baby. Ciaran threw himself forward, catching her in his arms just before she hit the ground. Above them swirled the mist of the souls, screaming their accusations, crying for revenge. Ciaran shielded her with his body and shut his eyes close as the ghosts tore the shrieking reverend’s limbs from his body and threw them around the hall.

When the souls of the patients were satisfied, they drifted out through the opening to the hall, leaving nothing but a vague sense of coolness to the air behind them. Some of them were to cross the rift to the other world, others would linger to haunt this place for years to come.

The silence that fell over the outcrop was broken only by screaming of the baby and the whisk of the green flames on the ground.

Ciaran unfurled from his position, rising with the baby in his arms. He carefully took the striped mask from her face and fastened it to his jacket, shushing and rocking her. Her trembling wails eased to a few whimpers when he dipped his face to hers, stroking his nose against her cheek and whispering words of consolement.

“I’m here, little one. You’re safe.”

The blood on his jacket stained the shirt she was wrapped in.

“Ciaran, look.”

Cedric called over from a stone parapet serving as a desk further inside the hall, stacked with leather tomes and sheets of parchment. A few candles burned by the edge, wedged into the skulls of rats. He lifted a letter in his hand.

“This is the insignia of the Black Sun. It looks like the Emperor of Nilfgaard will stop at nothing to achieve his ambition to conquer the North, even funding a murderous cult consumed with the ambition to sow chaos.”

Ciaran scrutinized the handwritten letter, signed by someone with the ridiculous name Vattier de Rideaux.

“May the dh'oine Emperor one day die in agony,” Ciaran drawled in a voice hard like stone, “loved by no one and betrayed by all.”

Cedric placed the letter back onto the table.

“So tend the lives of the powerful end.”

The baby stirred in Ciaran’s arms, letting out a few sobs.

“She’s hungry. I need to find something to eat.”

Cedric fished up a flask from his satchel and handed it to Ciaran. My grandson accepted it with a scowl.

“It’s not vodka, it’s cow’s milk,” Cedric said, rolling his eyes. “The best remedy against ogroid-inflicted wounds. Will it do?”

Ciaran nodded and sat onto the edge of the rocky desk. The flask was cold in his hand. He took his spoon from the pocket of his cloak and opened the bottle, smelling its contents before he carefully poured a small portion onto the spoon and tipped it to the baby’s mouth.

“It’s all superstition, isn’t it?” He said, lifting his gaze to the mural of the spider behind the weaved web. “They could never kill Saskia through breaking one of those threads… Right?”

“Pagan magic is potent. If they hadn’t killed Saskia, they could have cursed her, and curses are hard to lift.”

Ciaran mulled over Cedric’s words for a few heartbeats while feeding the baby who ate in large gulps.

“That fairy tale you told me about. The man who lived as a beast?”

“Yes?”

“How was his curse lifted?”

“According to the tale,” Cedric said, “the curse could only be lifted by true love.”

Ciaran redirected his gaze to the baby. She paused to make a few happy sounds before she ate until the flask was finished. Ciaran carefully undressed her from his shirt and wrapped her in the cloth he found her in. I helped him, caressing her little head, holding her little feet. She cooed and met my gaze.

Cedric observed them with a faint crease between his eyebrows.

“Moril’s husband, Seherim. He deserves to know.”

Ciaran stiffened. His heart cramped in his chest.

“He is not her father.”

“No,” Cedric said slowly, “I’d say you are… Are you not?”

My grandson gained an expression of astonishment that melted to worry. He let go of the spoon when the baby tugged at the handle and chewed on it, a wet patch of drool forming on her chin.

I reached out for his thoughts, my form aching.

His mind flew to the world she would grow up in. The world he helped form with his actions.

These people destined her for destruction. She - all the children - deserved to grow up in peace. Iorveth and Saskia envisioned a state where all races were equal, where children like her could grow up free, and safe. Did he not owe it to her to fight for such a world?

Heather. If she could find it in her heart to forgive him, would she like to live in that new free state of Upper Aedirn, side-to-side with elves, dwarves, halflings, and gnomes?

If she were to forgive him, would she consider… living with him?

He lingered on the thought of that tentative future for a moment, tasting the image. It was a future where he would live for something else than certain death, his and others. Where he could become whatever he wanted, perhaps even… A father?

Ciaran had never envisioned himself in that role before - but the image didn’t frighten him.

He handed Cedric the baby.

”Take her. There’s a cabin in the outskirts of Kodsko, on a hill. The person who lives there... Tell her I sent you. And...”

“The herbalist.”

“Yes. Tell her that I ask for her forgiveness. That I wish for her to take care of the child until I return... If she agrees to see me again. There’s a skiff hidden in the reed where the river is narrow, an hour west of Flotsam. Take it.”

Cedric nodded.

“What will you do?”

“I’m leaving to find Iorveth. I have to warn him. Saskia has more enemies than he knows.”

He reached out to caress the baby’s hand. She let out a small sound in Cedric’s arms and grasped Ciaran’s finger with her little fist.

“Va Faill, Luned,” he whispered.

At that moment, I let out the breath I held, channelling all my love for him in a burst of warmth that bloomed inside his chest like a flower.

“Take care of her.”

The faint light from the lanterns illuminated Cedric’s face, revealing a worried frown.

“I will.” Cedric brushed his thumb against the baby’s temple. “I wonder what her name is.”

Ciaran opened his mouth, closed it again, and inhaled a deep breath.

“Her name - her name is Raeghan.” He let a few heartbeats pass before he continued. “She was my grandmother. I wanted to take part in the war but she refused me. We argued. I left to join Isengrim Faoiltiarna, despite knowing she was sick and dying. In the end, I couldn't go without her blessing. I returned, but I was too late. She died thinking I had betrayed her.”

Had I a behind, would I have fallen on it. As it were, I let the bright amazement from Ciaran’s words permeate my being.

Elaine weddin me. You never betrayed me.

“Go,” Ciaran took a step from the baby, “may the spirits guide your path.”

Cedric nodded.

“And yours. Va faill.”

“Va faill... Fraere.”

Cedric’s eyes widened. With a faint smile, he left towards the opening of the cavern. Little Raeghan exhaled a sob in his arms.

Later, on the path through the forest of Flotsam, Ciaran marched towards Iorveth’s hideout holding back tears. Flakes of soot clung to his hands from burning the rope bridge over the chasm after he left the lair of the cult.

A movement among the bushes stopped him in his steps. He met the black gaze of a stag.

Filled with a sense of being right where he was supposed to be in the grand order of things, Ciaran stared into the stag’s eyes until it snorted through its nostrils and disappeared into the thicket.

Ciaran was just about to move when he froze at a shrill whistle. It was no bird’s call, but a human’s. A distinct type of human.

“Aen Seidhe.”

Ciaran placed his hand on the hilt of his sword at the sight of the witcher sauntering from behind a tree. Like the first time I laid eyes on him, I shuddered. The witcher was easily one of the biggest men I’ve ever seen, a mountain of muscle and sinew. The pre-dawn light that lurked at the treetops reflected in his bald head and deepened the yellow of his slit eyes.

“Vatt’ghern.”

“An impressive animal. Not hunting today?” The witcher stepped closer, tossing an acorn in his hand. “I don’t think we were properly introduced. I am Letho of Gulet.”

“What do you want?” Ciaran took a step forward with a scowl.

“I have a proposal.”

The words sent a flash of surprise through my grandson before a subsequent jeer filled his chest. I knew it, he thought, he is a traitor.

“What proposal?”

“Meet me by the old elven baths on the top of the hill to the west. There’s a great rosebush by a statue of an elven couple. We can speak there.”

“Roses of remembrance.” Ciaran clenched his fist, hate burning his throat.

“Will you come?” the Witcher ceased his tossing and folded his trunks for arms on his chest.

“I will.”

Letho replied with a curt nod and a faint smile before turning to walk away. Ciaran remained, watching the broad frame of the witcher’s back until he disappeared behind a ridge, his entire body itching to sprint straight to Iorveth and tell him of the witcher’s betrayal.

Careful, I begged him, be careful, be careful.

Ciaran tensed his muscles to run but stopped and swore silently. What if Iorveth didn’t believe him? Ciaran needed some proof of Letho’s intended betrayal. A simple request for a meeting might not have been enough.

He steered his steps towards the clearing where his commando regularly scouted the area for human activity, peering down from a crevice in a cliff. Two sets of eyes turned towards him in surprise when he entered and surveyed the small outcrop.

He enlisted his Scoia’tael brethren and headed towards the glen.

I tried to pull him in another direction. To trip him. I tried in desperation to turn him around, sensing the danger. He swatted at the hand I placed on his arm, lifting his palm to observe a small speck of blood from a flattened mosquito.

By the gardens, the dawn broke in a spectacular pink hue that enveloped the skeleton of granite that once formed the splendour of Cáelmewedd. The air was filled with a faint scent of the roses and the content buzz of bees inside their soft petals.

Letho rested by the edges of the moss-covered stone walls, arms crossed and his cat-like gaze directed towards the distant glitter of the Pontar.

“I’m here,” Ciaran said in a harsh tone of voice. “What do you want, vatt’ghern?”

Uncrossing his arms, Letho pushed himself away from the wall.

“You brought company. You don’t trust me. You are wise, Ciaran.”

“I trust no dh’oine,” Ciaran spat. His companions exchanged glances.

“That’s why I wanted to speak to you. Unlike Iorveth, you aren’t naive. No human has ever done anything for non-humans without an ulterior purpose. Including me, and Saskia.”

“And what is your purpose, vatt’ghern?”

“I’m a monster hunter,” Letho said, pacing in front of the roses, “to many, a freak. Like you, I belong to a dying kind. My purpose is to reinstall my witcher school and continue my trade. I could do that, if I had enough coin and if I were never known as the kingslayer. This is where you come in, Ciaran.”

“I’m listening,” my grandson replied. On the inside, his blood boiled.

“What monster,” said the witcher and stopped in his tracks, “would bring more coin than any other? Enough to rebuild a witcher school?”

Ciaran eyed him warily.

“A dragon.”

Letho nodded with a satisfied smile.

“You do understand. You know as well as I do that Saskia’s quest for a free Upper Aedirn will never succeed. She’s too inexperienced to lead an army, let alone a state. She will achieve nothing but lead the elves to their final demise.”

“Like Aelirenn,” Ciaran whispered.

“That’s right.” Letho held out his gloved hand. “Your eyes are open. You should lead the Scoia’tael, not Iorveth. He has failed you. Join me, and we can end Saesenthessis and bring a real future to our respective kind.”

Silently, Ciaran ordered his men to stay put. He unsheathed his sword and pointed the tip at Letho’s heart.

“Drop your sword, traitor.” His words came out slow like dripping acid. “I will take you to Iorveth, and you will face the consequences of your treachery.”

The witcher smirked. He directed his gaze from Ciaran’s blade to his face.

“Have you also fallen for the promise of racial equality? You know humans and elves will never coexist. I thought you were wiser, Aen Seidhe.”

“I believe in change. I believe in a tomorrow that is better than today. Your sword, dh’oine.”

What happened next occurred at such speed it blurred my sight. Letho lunged at my grandson, unsheathed his sword at preternatural speed - he can’t be human - and slashed at Ciarans midriff with deadly precision.

A cry cut the air. Clangs of steel and moans of agonising pain climbed above the treetops and sent a squirrel scurrying from the scene in fright. In the distance, a barn owl screeched its maniacal cry, petrifying enough to startle the sun to rise its golden face from over the edge of the world.

Hours later, a group of humans found Ciaran and dragged him to the harbour in Flotsam, without care for his wounds nor his pain. I held him all the way.

He was awoken inside the prison barge by the trashing of magic in his body. Another vatt’ghern - the one they called Gwynbleidd - and a sorceress interrogated him about Iorveth.

“Warn him,” Ciaran pushed the words through gritted teeth. “Iorveth fights for freedom - it’s what he does best. He’s an Aen Seidhe. A real one. A free one. One of the last. Fighting makes sense now more than ever before! There is still hope...”

They obeyed and left to warn his commander. Relieved, my grandson gave into his agony and prepared for his journey to the land where the apple trees bloom.

But, you see - this is why I have told you this story... For at that moment, it all became clear, like a bright summer’s day. The reason for my continued existence in the plane of the living; the reason why the Goddess appeared before us on that forest clearing. My grandson had to see, had to believe in order to stop the tides of fate.

I had to protect him and guide him until he needed guidance no more.

And thus, it was time for me to leave.

I placed his head in my lap, stroked his hair, and sang to him the lullabies of his childhood. He turned his head and looked me straight in the eye with a smile that filled my heart to the brim.

“Raeghan,” he whispered.

“Hello, my boy,” I said, smiling back, “I’m afraid your suffering isn’t over yet. I’ve seen your heart’s desire. Are you sure? The future is still unclear, and the path you seek is not without pain.”

He nodded.

“I’m sure.”

“Well then,” I stroked his forehead and covered his eyes, “it’s time for me to move on.”

A sluggish spark travelled from my core to his heart, spreading a yellow light inside his chest that gradually grew brighter until his skin resembled glass. He gasped and tensed, the tendons in his neck straining.

And just like that, I was gone.

Ciaran awoke by the gentle rocking of the boat on rolling waves. He sat and took a careful breath, fearing the barge was on its way to Drakenborg. To his surprise, the partially covered face of his commander appeared before his blurry eyesight, sending him a lopsided smile.

They were on their way to the free city of Vergen.

It took weeks for my grandson to recover. He wasn’t strong enough to partake in the siege of Vergen, but he joined the celebrations after the battle that secured Saskia’s rule over Upper Aedirn once she, Iorveth and the witcher they called the White Wolf, returned from Loc Muinne. Ciaran received the news of Cedric’s death with a heavy heart.

After the failed siege, Henselt admitted defeat and returned to Ard Carraigh. Stennis’ death by the hands of the upset mob caused Aedirn to fall to unrest, leaving it vulnerable to another invasion of Nilfgaard. With the eventual ascension of Anaïs La Valette to the Temerian throne, four women came to rule in the north, all determined to never be under the hands of the Nilfgaardian Emperor again - even Enid, despite her vassal crown.

As it turned out, Emhyr eventually stepped down from the throne in favour of his long-lost daughter, Cirilla. But that is another story best told by someone else.

The last thing I want to share with you is the scent the winds carried in Vergen the day Iorveth knocked on Ciaran’s door to tell him someone was asking for him. The air told of blooming Arenaria and Celandine, of sweet buns baked with cardamom, and of newly harvested hop, collected to brew the finest ale in Upper Aedirn.

When Ciaran spotted a woman approaching with a babe on her hip, her brown locks glistening in the sun and the red cloth embroidered with white flowers wrapped around her midriff, his breath caught in his lungs. She stilled when she met his gaze, her face open and her expression a mix of pain, joy, and determination. Little Raeghan took no notice of him, busy as she was waving a carved spoon in the air and smiling at the passing dwarves.

Ciaran fell to his knees, tears overflowing.

His heart ached under the weight of it all - of the fleeting nature of human life which meant a lifetime of heartbreak as a consequence of loving her; of all it took him so long to understand, and of how close he had been to losing everything that mattered. He wished to live true to himself, to never again be torn in two.

He opened his eyes when a pair of small hands searched his face and grabbed at his nose.

What happened to me, you ask? I travelled to the land where the apple trees bloom, of course.

Just like they all one day will. Just like you did before you found me.