Chapter Text
Henryk had spent his entire life in a little city not far from Murivel and had lived through good and bad times. Son of a peasant who lived from the milk of his cows, the eggs of his chicken and the wheats of his fields, Henryk followed his father’s footstep after his death, thirty years ago.
Life had been more rough than good, for the little people in the barony, in these last years. The town had been ravaged by the baron to raise the taxes despite the plague that had killed almost a third of the population; mostly the wives and children, leaving the others to try to meet the quotas of their Lord.
“Oi Henryk!” Jaroslaw calls, and Henryk nods in salutation as he places his little booth at the market. “Didn’t you hear? The king sent a new tribute to the Witchers!”
Henryk sighs at the overtly enthusiast tone of the young man. “And you’re glad because…?”
“Well, at least he’s doing the best to keep them off our land!”
Henryk hums, brushing his greying hair back as he gets the little painted planks showing his produce. “And who’s gonna fight the monsters when they’ll choose to eat the rest of the people here?”
Jaroslaw frowns and leans back against his own booth. “Whatever you mean?”
Henryk sighs again, rubbing his bad eye. “Son, you’re young. I remember, twenty years ago, before the Warlord of the North… Witchers hunted monster in every country. They don’t anymore unless the royal castle asks them; do you really believe they’ll listen to us, poor people?”
Jaroslaw grumbles a little, and turns away, and Henryk rolls his eyes. Young people.
“Sir Henryk!” a little voice calls, and he turns to meet the owner.
Little Magda, barely ten years old, smiles at him as she waves from her mother’s tailoring booth. Henryk waves quietly back, noting to himself the little bruises on her wrists. She reminds him of his own daughter, peace to her soul, with her innocence and kindness despite the harsh treatment of her own family. Her brown hair is in two simple braids, under a white cap, and she’s in an adorable maroon dress.
She comes to his booth as her mother is preoccupied with a customer, and Henryk guides her in the back after her tight hug.
“Are you hurting, little duck?” he asks, and she shakes her head. “Magda… your wrists?”
“t’s nothing,” she says, not fighting him as he grabs a bruise balm. “I made mama mad; I should have listened…”
“Did she say why she was mad this time?” he asks softly, and she shrugs, losing her smile. “Okay, here. All cared up for.”
“Thank you, Sir Henryk,” she says, throwing her arms around his neck, and he returns the hug. “I wish you were my father,” she whispers low enough for him to almost miss it.
“Here,” he softly says, giving her a little plate of cheese, bread and berries. “Eat, before you go back.”
She nods, and he goes back to the front to serve older Michal, the innkeeper. They share a knowing look, and Michal sighs.
“If they weren’t cousin to the Baron’s wife,” Michal hisses lowly, and Henryk huffs. “And Alderman…”
“No time for useless wishes,” he says, and Michal nods. “She stayed at yours?”
“Not last night, but seein’ your face maybe she should’ve.” Michal grunts and purses his lips. “Few of us got our children still, and how they treat her like…”
Henryk grunts in acknowledgment.
With the plague, a few years ago, many men of the village lost their wives and children; Michal had a daughter almost old enough to marry who was the first to perish under the illness. His wife died of heartbreak, said the healers; and Michal almost followed her if not for his old mother and supporting Henryk himself in his grief.
Ewa, his kindhearted, warmth and hopeful wife, lost her battle to the sickness just before their two children, Hubert and Kaja. Henryk would’ve given anything to have them back, and Magda’s parents mistreat her because she is a girl. Oh, how Henryk hated them; they were so lucky for Magda to survive, as so few did, but they preferred to condemn her for her gender.
“Thank you, Sir Henryk,” little Magda says as she joins him in the front, hugging his waist. “I will go back to mama now.”
Henryk pats her head as she leaves, and Michal sighs.
“Knock on wood and hopes for no monsters,” the innkeeper grunts, and Henryk scoffs. “So, you’ve heard?”
“A tribute. As if it would stop them if they wanted us dead like they did Gelibol.”
Michal hums in thoughts and Henryk serves old Agatka her eggs with a nod and a small smile. “I never feared them, Witchers,” he says, and Henryk meets his eyes. “They were always polite, paid in full and saved our town. Never understood hating them.”
“They don’t make you uncomfortable?” Henryk asks, leaning on the counter between them.
“The eyes are… unsettlin’, I’ll give you that,” Michal nods with a shiver. “But… I prefer judgin’ someone by their actions, not what others say of them. And Witchers, like other non-humans, well… had more manners than many of the Baron’s knights.”
“Oh, really?”
“Don’t get me started on them, you!” Michal exclaims, and Henryk laughs at him as he moves to leave. “Alright, see you tomorrow night?”
“You know it, old friend.”
The day goes as usual, and he takes back the little he had left, quietly grooming his old gelding.
“The more it goes on, the less it changes, doesn’t it Szymon?” he softly says to the horse, who huffs and shakes his head. “Yeah, you’re right; Witchers warlords… Father would lose his mind, ah. Winter is coming soon enough, better be prepared.”
*
There’s a new woman in town, remarks the people with whispers and wary looks. No one knows if she’s a mage, a druid, or something else. She has long curled black hair, a symmetrical face and pale blue eyes. Michal says she’s working for the Baron, and Henryk scoffs to himself, his friend sharing his annoyance.
Baron Hasso doesn’t waste enough of their gold; he had to pay for a new mage too. She also seems weirdly involved with the children of the village, and many parents are wary and standoffish, careful with the few young they have left. He doesn’t say anything and keep running his farm as he did before, efficiently and quietly.
The winter of that year is difficult, cold and stormy, and the town is isolated from the rest of the world. They haven’t seen the maybe mage since the snow, and Henryk can’t stop himself from thinking of little Magda, as he does each winter.
Will her parents keep her safe and warm? Or will she be forced to sleep in the barn? Will they…
Knock-knock-knock!
He almost jumps at the sound as his dog, Lud, barks in surprise. Henryk quickly stands, moving to answer his door, and nearly gapes at the sight.
Magda looks up to him, her bluish lips shaking.
“Oh, little duck,” he says softly, quickly ushering her inside. He corrals her to the chimney side; she’s shaking like a leaf. “Why are you outside?”
“Papa said I was bad,” she quietly answers, and Henryk hisses between his teeth. “Said I had to sleep in the barn until I was good again… but last time I was good only after a week, and I’m so cold, Sir Henryk.”
She’s tearing up, and Henryk kneels in front of her, cupping her face.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly, and gathers her against his chest. She hides her face in his tunic and shakes with sobs and cold. “Let’s get you some dry clothes, okay?”
He quickly gets her some of Kaja’s clothing, the woollen dress almost too big on her small frame. Magda smiles sleepily at him as he gives her a warm bowl of soup, buried as she is in the warm blankets. Henryk feeds the fire before going back to his knitting, his old dog curling around little Magda. She pets his ears, and Lud deeply sighs and sags against her.
“He is old,” she giggles, hands tracing the white in his fur, and Henryk huffs.
“He is easily your age,” he smiles as Lud’s ears twitched. “He’s the best sheepdog I have ever seen, until I didn’t have more sheep.”
“Well, he deserves to rest then,” Magda softly said, and Lud visibly agrees with her as his tail wags a little. “Papa… always says dogs are animals and deserve to be outside… and mama says they’re dirty, like me.”
Henryk stomps on his anger, his hands carefully casting off the little woollen hat. He doesn’t say anything, knowing it would only be useless. With Magda’s father, Igor, being Alderman and the Baron’s cousin, his words would mean nothing. Their treatment of their only daughter was… an open secret, and Henryk couldn’t stop himself of daydreaming of leaving the town with Magda in tow. Little sweetheart that she is, how those two bitter and cold people made her… Henryk doesn’t know. He can only try to help her in these times, and he is grateful, again, for Ewa’s kindness to Magda years ago.
“Rick? This is Magda, she’ll be staying for the night.” Ewa says with a smile, her blond hair falling in short curls around her head.
She is holding a young girl on her hip, chestnut hair tied in a messy braid, wide brown eyes staring at him. She has bruises on her hands, and Henryk shares a look with Ewa. His wife purses her lips and kiss Magda on her head.
“Kaja, darling, why don’t you show her your doll?”
Kaja gives her a hesitant look but nods, grabbing Magda’s hand to guide her to her room.
“Ewa, that’s the Alderman’s daughter,” he hisses lowly, and Ewa’s expression fall.
“They’re mistreating her!” she answers back with a scowl, going back to chopping the vegetables. “Ashamed of a daughter… she’s such a sweet soul, Rick.”
“We… we can’t keep her, you know that.”
Ewa sighs and closes her eyes, lowering her knife. “I know. But we can care, show her we care when others don’t. She… reminds me of myself. Please, Rick.”
Henryk sighs, but nods, and she hugs him. “Okay, Ewa, okay.”
“Thank you, love.”
Magda leaves after a week, when the storm lifts, and Henryk watches her go with the new mittens he knitted. That night he goes to the Inn, Michal tilting his head at him and pinching his lips at his expression.
“Bad?”
“The whole week in the barn,” he hissed, and Michal’s hold tightened around his tankard.
“Those…” Michal spits on the ground, and Henryk nods, smiling at Renata as she grabs a new tray.
“That girl’s goin’ to die from t’common cold,” Renata grunts, deep lines of scowl almost carved on her face.
“Don’t start,” Michal says, and she rolls her eyes with disdain.
“She ain’t wrong,” Henryk mumbles, and his friend grunts.
“Better not jinx anything.”
*
Spring is soft but nice this year, and Henryk is gathering the weeds out of his garden when Lud’s barking gets his attention. He smiles at Magda as the girl comes trotting to the fence, leaning on it and smiling with all her teeth.
“Hullo Sir Henryk!”
“Hello, little duck,” he says, and she giggles, lowering her head, beaming.
It is good to see her so happy, so carefree.
“What can I do for you?”
Magda hesitates and Henryk doesn’t push, grunting as he rises. His back cracks and he sighs at the soreness of his muscles. He is not as young as he used to be, and his body keeps reminding him of it.
“I have a question,” she softly says, and Henryk turns to look at her. “You pretty old, aren’t you, Sir Henryk?”
He huffs a laugh. Ah, children and the truth.
“That I am, little duck.”
“Do you… remember what Witchers are like?” she asks, moving on the balls of her feet. “Krzysztof said…”
Henryk scoffs as she names the boy. Krzysztof loves to bully the children and to tell them horror stories.
“Whatever he said, it is probably false.”
“So, they don’t steal bad children to eat them? Even mama said so…” she asks with wide eyes.
Henryk sighs but moves to sit down on his porch, Magda following him. “I can’t say I know a lot about Witchers.” He admits. “But, when I was just a little older than you, one of them went through our village to kill something in the woods that kept eating the cattle. The Alderman, your great-grandfather at the time, barely paid him, and the Innkeeper refused him the night. My grandfather had allowed him a night in our barn, because he basically had saved my family’s business by hunting the monster.”
“But why couldn’t he stay in the Inn?” Magda blurts out, her eyes wide. “Hadn’t he saved the town?”
“You never saw a Witcher,” Henryk explains. “It does not excuse their reaction, but they have… yellow eyes like a cat and they’re stronger than a bull and armed to the teeth. They move in the graceful way I’ve seen Mountain lions do, up in the forest. They are… unsettling, and people fear them for they are not human. I was brave, or maybe stupid, and asked questions.” He thinks back, diving in his memories.
He grabs the plate his mother gave him, a knowing look in her eyes. A Witcher had saved her father years ago, and she never truly feared them as others do. It did help that this Witcher is from the same school, at least that they can tell from the wolf snarling on his medallion.
“Bring this to him,” she says, ruffling his brown hair. “Tell him we’re grateful for his help, that the Alderman should get his head out of his fucking ass for once in a while, and that he can take as much honey he wishes; we’ll deal with it.”
Henryk nods, his father clapping him on the back, and left the house to carefully walk towards the barn. He stops at the door and knocks politely. He hears a grunt and takes it as permission, moving slowly to not make him angry.
“Master Witcher?” he calls, freezing when he meets yellow slit eyes staring back in the low light of the lantern.
“What is it? Came to fucking kick me out too?!”
The Witcher has short, cropped hair receding in a starting widow’s peak, short beard, a scar tracing over his eye gives him a rugged air and he’s got an impressive scowl. He’s wearing more knives than anyone needs and has a hand overing one of his swords.
“Ah, no, Master Witcher,” Henryk winces at the anger in his tone. Understandable anger, from how the Alderman and Innkeeper treated him after saving their town. “My mother, she sent me to give you this.”
The Witcher seems dubious, still scowling and visibly angry. Maybe he’s like grandfather? Angry because that’s easier to express himself? Henryk slowly comes closer, pushing down his instinctual fear at the Witcher’s gaze. He takes the plate and fork, raising an eyebrow.
“Gonna poison me? Hate to disappoint you, poison won’t work on Witchers.”
Henryk shakes his head vehemently. “No! No, we wished to thank you, for killing the monster, Master Witcher. See, it was eating our cattle, and Grandfather couldn’t afford to lose many more for the winter. He’s really grateful for your actions.”
The Witcher scoffs, letting go of his sword to kneel on the ground, resting his weight on his heels. “Would’ve been nice if your fucking Alderman was half as much pleasant.”
“Well, my mother said he should get his head out of his fucking ass for once in his life, and that you can take as much honey as you wish,” Henryk quickly says, playing with his hands, nervous.
The Witcher cackles in surprise, and Henryk gives him a small smile.
“You got some balls, kid.” He says, raising an eyebrow. “Ain’t as fucking afraid as the others, too.”
Henryk can understand his surprise: honey is expensive.
“My grandfather, on my mother side, was saved by a Witcher years ago,” he softly explains, slightly freezing at the Witcher’s intense gaze. “She said it was the same medallion he had, too.”
“Wolf school,” the Witcher almost absently states, and Henryk watches him as he eats. “Well, thank your mother for the food and honey.”
Henryk nods, and hesitates, and the Witcher sighs with a mumbled curse.
“What is it? Got something on my fucking face?”
“Is it true?” he blurts, and wince at his daring; though, the Witcher would probably kick him out if he offended him. He seemed like the kind of man who’ll make their opinion known very easily. “The rumors, about you?”
“Fucking depends on the rumor,” he raises an eyebrow. “Stronger, immune to poison…”
“The emotionless, child stealing?” Henryk carefully asks, and the Witcher scowls.
“Do I look fucking emotionless to you?” he grunts, and Henryk winces.
“You do not, I apologize for offending you, Master Witcher,” Henryk quickly said, and the man freezes for a few seconds.
“You really fucking meant that,” he quietly says, and Henryk blinks. “Uh. As for the child-stealing, we take children in law of surprise as payment; we don’t go around fucking stealing kids.”
“Well, I guess that’s reassuring,” Henryk mumbles, and the Man scoffs. “The honey is in this room and my mother said to take as much as you will. I’ll leave you to it, Master Witcher. I wish you a good night.”
The Witcher watches him move to the exit, and just before he closes the door, he calls out.
“Lambert.”
Henryk freezes, meeting the Witcher’s gaze.
“My name,” he said, and Henryk bows his head.
“I’m Henryk, Master Lambert; good night.” He closes the door as the Witcher scoffs loudly; he walks back towards the house, his head reeling of the new information.
The next morning, when Henryk goes back to the barn to collect the plate, Lambert is nowhere to be found. There are only four jars of honey missing, and a handful of pheasants hanging from the rafter. Henryk’s mother smiles and squeezes his shoulder.
“Witchers are odd,” she says in her teaching tone. “But they are doing the worse work imaginable, only for people to fear them. If we can show them how much some of us care for their work, well it will assure us they will come back to protect us despite the hate of others.”
Magda looks at him with wide eyes.
“Have you ever seen him since?” She asks, and Henryk shakes his head.
“This village is quite small; and with the Warlord, no Witcher has been coming here for about twenty years. We’ve been lucky enough to only have the sickness, but the woods are dangerous. Never go alone.”
Magda nods and looks at the sun. “I should go back…”
Henryk smiles and squeezes her shoulder. “Be careful; Michal said he’s having pigeon pie this week.”
Magda nods, hugs him and leaves him in a lower mood, as she always does when she has to return to her parents; Henryk watches her with a heavy heart, petting Lud’s head when the dog comes closer.
*
Leslawna is the mage/druid’s name, Magda tells him. She’s staying in town for a few days until the summer’s festivities, to make everything go smoothly because Baron Hasso couldn’t care less about them; at least Michal and Henryk both think so.
“Did you hear?” Michal asks, and Henryk tilts his head. “The Warlord took Temeria this spring; it’s said his right hand beheaded the king in his own throne room.”
Henryk raises his eyebrows and Michal shrugs. “Some lower Baron became King, Griffin, I think? The Witchers killed most of the nobility.”
“And the people?” Agatka asks, sitting beside Henryk at the bar, and Michal shrugs. “If they’re doin’ all tha’ to the nobles, how d’you think they treat the peasant’s?”
Michal sighs and Henryk hums, stuck in his thoughts.
“No need to worry, my dear Agatka,” Igor’s voice is heard closing in, and Henryk shares a look with Michal, wincing when the Alderman came from his half-blind side. They both keep their expression calm and neutral while Agatka simply rolls her eyes. “Our King signed a treaty with those beasts; they won’t come for us!”
“You call them beasts, yet believe they’ll keep their words?” Michal scowls, and Igor snorts.
“Well, they always killed the monsters in our contracts, didn’t they?”
‘They should have taken payment upfront,’ Henryk can’t stop the thought, mind briefly going back to his encounter with the Witcher Lambert. ‘If they’re as bad as our nobles, what’s stopping them from just taking Redania?’
“Just for you to steal away their pay,” Agatka snipes with a sneer. “And for us to never see that money back, Igor. Better not be raisin’ our taxes for this festival…” her tone is menacing, and Igor blinks before smiling sweetly.
“Of course they will rise, my dear, the Baron is coming, and when he’ll see how well you’re all doing, he’ll need his own share for protecting us!”
“Protectin’ us from what?” Michal scoffs, and Henryk subtly shakes his head. “Fine, but my Inn better be fuckin’ full for the next week, Igor.”
Henryk tunes them out, mentally counting the goats he’ll have to kill for the meat, and sighs as Igor leaves.
“Fuckin’ idiot that one,” Agatka hisses, and Michal snorts.
“Just as his father and his grandfather, dear friend.”
“Hopefully, he’ll choke on his own tongue,” she grumbles, leaving coins on the counter and walking away. “He stoppe’ any hunger I had wit’ his stench. See you later, boys.”
Henryk waves at her, and sighs.
“Come on, you’ll help me again this year?” Michal asks, and Henryk snorts.
“What do you think? Idiot.”
*
“Can I help?” Magda beams at them, and Michal chuckles.
“Of course, little duck,” Henryk smiles, and she moves to stand on his half-blind side. “Give people the bowls, okay? My eye is getting worse; I might miss their hands.”
Michal huffs lowly, and Magda subtly hugs his side before helping them.
They spend the evening distributing food to the village, smiling as people compliment Michal for the soup.
“Alright, you two take a break,” Michal orders, and Henryk smiles at him.
They both grab a bowl and go sit against the Inn’s stable.
“Here,” Henryk says, reaching in his coat and Magda looks at him with wide eyes. “For you, little duck.”
She takes it with wide eyes and smiles. It’s a small duck, carved in pine, smooth and detailed.
“Sir Henryk…” she whispers and hugs him tightly. “It’s the best gift ever.”
He hums and Magda beams and starts talking about all Agatka told her about gardening.
They finish their lunch before going back to Michal and continuing distributing food. They bow to Baron Hasso when he walks in front of them, his expression disdainful. Henryk sees how Magda keeps her head low and grits his teeth as he hears her mother speak with the Lord.
“At least she’s making herself useful,” Igor snipes, and Henryk reaches down to squeeze her shoulder. “Useless girl.”
The Baron chuckles, Leslawna beside him glancing around with a curious expression.
“I never really presented you, did I, my sweet?” he says, and she shakes her head.
“I have not been so fortunate, my Lord,” she says, honey-sweet, and Michal glances at him, barely restraining from rolling his eyes.
“This is Leslawna; she’s a priestess of the Eternal fire; she gracefully offered her services to us when I met her in Tretogor, and to keep our good fortune coming.”
‘Eternal fire?’ Magda mouth at him, and Henryk subtly shakes his head.
Henryk keeps his good eye at attention on the priestess and the Baron, and knows Michal is doing the same.
Later, when the fires are dying and people are leaving for their home, Michal and Henryk meet in the kitchen of the Inn.
“Fuckin’ Eternal fire zealots,” Michal hisses, and Henryk rubs his face. “They’ll try to convert the whole fuckin’ town.”
“Saw how she watched the children?” Henryk mumbles and Michal grunts.
“I’ll keep my eyes open, my friend. You take care of Magda as much as you can. That girl’s all skin and bones… how they can live with themselves… ugh.”
*
Tretogor falls under the Warlord at the end of the summer, and the village is wary. In the middle of autumn, the Baron declares they will get the new Wolflaws in spring, since their town is so far from central Redania.
“We will pray for our king,” the messenger ends the Baron’s message before they left to disperse.
Michal and Henryk share a look, worried (Our king as Vizimir, or as in the Warlord?). Michal had heard from passing voyagers (and they both remember what happened in Temeria) that nobles rarely kept their seat if they weren’t good to their vassals. Baron Hasso, with the latest tax increase, couldn’t really be considered good. The village had some monster in the forest that ate anything or anyone coming close to it at night, and they had to reroute their path to the water since midsummer because of the ones there.
“Think it’s his last winter?” Michal softly asks, both curled around a mug of warm wine in the kitchen.
Henryk glances at Magda sleeping on the heart, fire keeping her warmth, and grunts.
“Hope so.”
*
It’s the worse winter any of them has been through in decades. There is sickness in the town, affecting the older people. The foxes and coyotes were sudden and unexpected, and Henryk lost all his goats and chicken, and most of his provisions, as did the others. He only had Lud and Szymon left, and Michal had told him in no uncertain terms to move into the Inn until it got better.
“Come on, Szymon,” Henryk encourages his gelding, the horse carefully cutting through the snow.
Lud follows them along the horse path, and they finally reach the Inn’s stables.
“Here,” Henryk untacks his horse, Szymon gratefully lying down in the hay, Lud beside him. “Food, and water, for both of you. Lud, stay.”
He quickly gets inside the Inn, where most of the villagers are, but Henryk frowns when Michal catches his attention.
“The priestess,” he hisses lowly as Henryk spots her on the stage.
Laslawna, the priestess, is standing at attention in front of the heart, gathering people’s attention. Since the summer, she had been prattling about the Eternal flame to the younger generation, and Henryk has a bad feeling.
“My good people!” she calls. “Our village is in danger! We must pray for ourselves and our kind Baron!”
“Kind?” Agatka hisses beside them, and both men shrug.
“He’s sick, and his son too! We must pray, for his life, and ours!”
The younger people cheer, following her as she starts to chant, and Henryk frowns.
“Where’s Magda?” he asks them, and Michal shakes his head.
“I’m here,” a little voice is heard, and he looks down.
Michal guides them to the kitchen, and Magda jumps into Henryk’s arms.
“Hey, little duck,” he whispers, holding her tight and kneeling on the ground. “You’re okay?”
“Mama made me sleep in the barn again,” she whispers, and he curls tighter around her. “I don’t want to go back, Sir Henryk. Please, make it stop.”
Henryk gulps the pain in his heart and the burning anger, resting his lips on the crown of her head.
“Oh, little duck,” he sighs, and she hugs him tighter. “Redania is under the Wolf Law now; after winter they’ll come and bring the new laws; we will ask them if they’ll allow it.”
‘Or I’ll just leave with you, sweetheart,’ he finishes the sentence in is mind, and Magda nods against his chest.
“I can’t wait to see a Witcher,” she grins lightly, sniffing her tears away. “Oh, you think we’ll see Master Lambert?”
Henryk smiles, sitting instead of kneeling for his knees. Since he told her that story, she hadn’t stopped talking about it; how despite the anger of Master Lambert, he was visibly kind. Henryk knows the odds are too slim for them to ever meet Master Lambert again, but Magda has so few things to look for…
“Lass,” Michal calls, and they both look up. “… Your mother’s lookin’ for you.”
Henryk can’t stop himself from tightening his hold, and Michal looks as pissed off as he feels.
“Better not make her wait,” Magda mumbles, and Henryk lets her go reluctantly.
Michal helps him stand and guide him back to the main room. Most of the town is praying, and they pretend to do the same while observing around. They then leave to go to the rooms Michal gave everyone, until at least the worse of the storm is over, as almost half the town had died with this new cold.
*
Henryk is not sick. He doesn’t know why, but they are not many free of the illness. Magda isn’t sick, but her mother is, and Igor is starting to get antsy; the people are aggressive, more and more so. It’s been a month, and they’re reaching the end of Michal provisions.
“Henryk…” He hears Agatka groaning in pain, and he kneels to her side. “I… protect the little lass for me, yeah?”
“I will,” he promises softly, with one hand holding her. “Agatka…”
“I’ll tell them, how they have another sister and daughter,” she smiles, and closes her eyes.
It takes her another day before her body gives up, and Henryk carefully takes it to the cellar, where the other dead bodies had been stacked, waiting for spring to bury them. He closes his eyes when his good eye sees Michal’s body, and blinks away the tears. He walks out of the cave, coming to sit at the counter, rubbing his face with a deep sigh. Agatka, Michal… He sees Leslawna and some guards sitting at the back of the Inn, and she whispers prayers.
‘Fucking prayers won’t save the town.’ Henryk spitefully thinks. His good eyes focus on Magda, still at her mother’s bedside, and Igor is visibly upset and angry.
“Do it,” he suddenly says, and Henryk frowns and straightens. “Brings us to the pyre, and we do it there.”
Leslawna purses her lips but nods, the guards standing beside her. They quickly move through the room, and Henryk jumps on his feet when they grab Magda.
“What’re you doing?!” he calls, and they ignore him as the villagers still able to stand follow them, their faces grim.
He shouts at them and follows. He fights his way to get closer, but Damian, the blacksmith, holds him back strongly.
“We have to,” he says, his voice grim, and Henryk looks at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“Let me go! Have to what!?”
“The Eternal flame needs a sacrifice, to repent the village,” Jaroslaw explains, watching the front of the crowd.
There is a pyre there, Leslawna standing in front of it as the guards are tugging Magda towards it.
“No!” Henryk feels cold, and not from the snow. His hands are shaking, and he is fighting as much as he can Damian’s hold. “Don’t! Please! She’s just a child!”
“No! Father! Father, please!” Magda starts screaming and fighting back. “No, stop! Father, please!”
Henryk shouts back, and Leslawna starts reciting some bullshit prayer. “Let her goes! She’s just a girl! Don’t do this!”
“Hear us now, Eternal fire! For you, we offer up this girl so that you may cleanse her with your fire and make its light lead our way. Accept this token of our faith, my Lord, and lead us from the darkness. Eternal fire, lead us the way; protect us. For the night is dark and full of terrors,” the priestess is chanting, ignoring Magda’s screaming.
“Sir Henryk!” Magda screeches as Leslawna grabs a torch to light the pyre. “Please, Sir Henryk!”
“MAGDA!” he yells back, finally escaping Damian’s hold and sprinting forward despite his bad knee. The guards stop him before he reaches the fire, pushing him on the ground, almost standing on him. He keeps fighting back, ignoring the twitches of pain in his hip. “No! Let me go! Magda!”
“Sir Henryk!” she cries, and he weeps as she starts screaming in pain. “Please!”
Henryk shouts in response, a long scream of pain and grief, as Magda’s voices break and the smell of burnt flesh burns their noses. He doesn’t look away despite her pain, holding her brown gaze with his own, trying to offer as much comfort and love as he could.
“Magda! No!” he’s crying, cheeks cold of the snow and his own tears, as Magda stop screaming. He stops fighting back when she stops moving, and he’s quietly crying on the ground as the crowd leaves him there. His heart is burning, and his head is numb. He lets out a low, grating groan of pain, his voice breaking from despair.
He doesn’t know how long he stayed there, on the ground, crying for a girl who wasn’t his, who died in such a horrible way. He finally moves when he sees something brown falling from the now cold pyre.
It’s a little duck, carved in pine, burnt on the outside. He whines, lifting it to his lips, and lets out a long keen of pain and grief as he looks up at the pyre. He slowly crawls his way to the rest of the body of the little, kind-hearted girl who made his life better despite the death of his family.
She’s unrecognizable, but still her mouth is open in a silent scream.
“Oh, little duck,” he whimpers, hands hovering over the burnt head. “I’m so fucking sorry, I failed you.”
Nothing answers him, and his breath stutters. And he decides, after he wraps Magda in a beautiful blanket and tucks her into a cool spot in the cellar; as he watches as no one else seems to regret their actions, as he sees them glaring at him and growling right back at them.
When the Witchers come for the Wolflaws, he’ll ask justice from the Warlord.
*
He watches as they die, one after another. Igor, his wife, Damien, Jaroslaw. Leslawna doesn’t, but the remaining guards throw her in the jail as they see she didn’t help at all with the plague. Henryk gives her the minimum to survive, as the guards also die.
“What will you do to me?” she asks a few times, but Henryk doesn’t answer.
He’s gone nearly mute since Magda’s death, biding his time, waiting. Lud is following his side, as they wait for the road to be travelable again.
One day, he sees a dandelion and can’t stop his sobbing at the memories. How he promised her, they would leave together, they’d stay a family, free of pain.
He failed her, and Leslawna, she’ll pay. He could have killed her, no one else left to stop him, but… he isn’t a killer. And the Witchers, if they’re to lead the country, should know how it is for unwanted daughters in this world.
He’s shoveling Magda’s grave as he hears horses on the road. A group of seven Witchers is riding towards him, recognizable by their swords. He doesn’t even feel fear as Lud sits by his side.
He doesn’t feel a lot of things, since Magda’s…
The Witcher leading looks around, visibly surprised by the lack of activity.
“Hullo, sir,” the Witcher says, handsome and blond, and the medallion about his throat shows a snarling wolf’s head. “Know where the Alderman’s?”
Henryk nods in welcome, leaning heavily on his shovel. “Dead.”
The Witcher blinks in surprise. “The Baron?”
“Dead too, Master Witcher. As are the Innkeeper, the blacksmith, the sewing ladies, the farmers, the children.”
Henryk's unexpectedly calm demeanor visibly startles the Witcher, causing an uneasy feeling in the group.
“What happened here?” he softly asks, and Henryk feels his face heat, tears gathering at his lids, and looks away to collect himself; this is the first instance of kindness since Agatka’s death, and he is taken by surprise from how deeply it affects him. “I’m Gardis, of the Wolf school.”
“Henryk. Sickness and bad luck, Master Witcher,” Henryk chokes out, and takes a deep breath, turning to look at Gardis’s yellow eyes square on. The Witcher seems put out by the lack of fear, but Henryk doesn’t know if he can feel fear anymore. “There is a woman in the jail.” His voice is hoarse; it’s the most he has spoken in weeks. “Do not free her, not before you know what happened, Master Gardis, please.”
He then glances at the other Witchers who had fanned around them, some of them eyeing the rest of the sacrificial pyre with hesitance.
“We won’t,” Gardis assured, still looking around with apprehension.
“If any of you is interested, we’ve got monsters by the mill and the forest; for a few years now.” Henryk mumbles, turning to walk towards the Inn. He hears Gardis follows him and uses the shovel as a walking stick; his leg is getting worse, probably because of his lack of sleep. “I’m sorry to say I will not be able to receive you with food, for nothing is left short of flour and salt.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Gardis assures almost absently minded.
They reach the cave, and Henryk stops before the door to slightly turn his head.
“I dunno how sensible your noses are, but it’s been some time.”
Gardis nods and Henryk opens the door.
*
Gardis didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. The man, Henryk, smells of grief and pain, and despair so high it turned to numbness. He can see that he’s limping, underfed and seemed half-blind from one eye. Despite the warning, he winced at the smell when the door opened.
The floor is packed with bodies, none of them really decaying for the coolness of the cellar. Henryk points his shovel to a body near them, and his scent switches to anger.
“The fucking Alderman,” he grunts and spits on the ground before holding out his shovel at the Witcher.
Gardis grabs it, and the man turns toward another corner, where a small body is wrapped in a colorful blanket, and he can smell ashes.
“I will explain, but please, let me bury her as she deserves?” Henryk whispers, smelling of salty tears and grief, and Gardis nods again.
The man crouches despite his weak leg, gathers the bundle closer to him and carefully exits the room, Gardis following him. There’s the dog sitting right where Henryk left him, and he carefully kneels beside what Gardis sees now is a grave.
There’s a bigger one started a little away, but this one is obviously more cared for, for the depth and size is smaller.
“Her name was Magda,” Henryk suddenly says, one hand resting on top of the blanket. “She was ten years old; kindhearted, joyful and curious. She always talked about meeting a Witcher, how the stories couldn’t be true; she had brown hair, brown eyes. She was ten years old.” He says again, his voice breaking at the words, and Gardis kneels beside him, smelling his anger and despair. “They burned her at the stake.”
“What,” Rorik’s voice is low but surprised, and they all stop to look at the grieving man.
“A year and a half ago, a woman came to town to serve the Baron,” Henryk starts, his voice low and hoarse. “Last summer, we learned she was a priestess of the Eternal fire. And this winter, when the sickness killed half of them, under her encouragements, they chose to sacrifice Magda.”
He takes a shaking breath, and Gardis frowns, one hand squeezing his shoulder. “I ask for justice of the Wolf.”
Gardis meets his good eye, and Astor hums.
“The woman in the jail…”
“The priestess who lit up the pyre,” Henryk growls, tugging his bundle closer, and Gardis nods.
“Then yes, you will have the Wolf justice. Astor?”
“Yeah, I’ll call it in.”
“Alright,” Gardis nods, before turning to the other Witchers. “The bodies are in the cellar.”
They nod and quickly trot toward the Inn.
“We’ll help you with the graves, Henryk.” Gardis says, squeezing his shoulder, and Henryk closes his eyes, tears on his cheeks.
“Thank you, Master Witcher,” he says softly.
He leans his head down on the bundle in his arms, the body of whom had been Magda, a ten-year-old little girl, and kisses where her head seemed to be.
“I’m sorry I failed, little duck,” Henryk weeps softly, and Gardis pretends to not hear him. “I should’ve taken you away before… you won’t be in any pain, now.”
He lowers her in the grave, and the dog whines lowly, moving to lean against the man. Henryk pets him, and takes a long breath, smelling of salt and grief and pain. Gardis helps him with putting the earth on the body, and Henryk nods to him.
“I need you to swear you will not bring any harm to Kaer Morhen,” Gardis says after a long moment as his brothers finish burying the rest of the town.
“I swear I will not bring any harm to the Wolf or his people, in any capacity or intention,” Henryk softly said, hands cradling what seemed to be a little carving, and Gardis almost sighs at the sight.
A little carved duck, charred on the sides. Hm.
“Anything you wish to bring with you, my lord?” Astor asks, and Henryk glances in surprise at him.
“Lud, my dog, and my horse Szymon,” he says, looking at the stables, and Turi immediately moves to get the only horse there. “They burned my house when I fought them back.”
There is no need for more information, and Gardis nods at Rorik.
“Go get the priestess,” he says, and Henryk slowly stands up, grateful for the Witcher’s hand. “Make her swear in the jail.”
*
Henryk holds Szymon’s bridle, Lud beside him, glued to his side. A portal opens in front of him, and Gardis and another Witcher make a strange gesture with their hands. Lud and Szymon easily relax and follow them, and Henryk chooses not to ask, focusing on the courtyard in front of him. A young male, human, comes closer to meet them, and takes Szymon and Lud away to the stable.
“They’ll take good care of ‘em,” Gardis assures him, and Henryk nods, blinking at the grey keep in front of him. It’s immense, a true fortress, and nothing like anything he’s ever seen before. “Come on, let’s take you to the Wolf.”
They quietly walk inside, and Henryk ignores Leslawna’s sobbing; he had no sympathy, and his heart was too broken for him to even feel a glimpse of fear at the Witchers looking at them. Gardis leads them to what seemed to be the great hall, two beautiful doors ornate with snarling wolves opening before them.
There are few people inside, mainly servants cleaning up. Henryk briefly looks around, seeing six tables one way and one last at the end, facing them. There is an enormous chair, on which a Witcher with white hair and golden eyes sits.
The Warlord of the north.
Standing beside him is a woman with purple eyes and the symmetrical appearance of a sorceress. Beside her is a Witcher with brown hair, amber eyes and disfiguring scars keeping his mouth in a constant snarl, and on the Wolf other side…
Oh. Master Lambert.
Henryk doesn’t have time to even be surprised by the Witcher’s presence that Gardis is saluting the Warlord with a sibling’s kind of familiarity.
“Wolf, this is Henryk of Broz, last of his village.”
The Warlord doesn’t react, and Henryk gulps, tightening his hands on his carved little duck, fingertips tracing the feathers. Master Lambert’s frowns, a deep scowl on his face as he looks at the priestess.
“He’s come for justice.”
The scarred man hums, amber eyes fixing Henryk with curiosity.
“Please, Henryk,” Leslawna whimpers and he feels a sudden rage. It’s burning up his heart and his throat, and the tightening of his chest with Magda’s death becomes bright and even more painful.
He turns to look at her, his eyes flaming with fury and grief, and sees Gardis take a step back from the corner of his eye. He meets Leslawna’s gaze, and she flinches at his scowl. He looks down at the duck and raise it higher to show it to the priestess, who paled even more.
“Tell them. Tell them who it belonged to.” Henryk says, fixing her, and Leslawna flinches. “Tell them what you did to a ten-year-old girl.”
The Witcher holding Leslawna pushes her harshly before Henryk, and she slowly gets back to her feet, hugging herself with the long sleeves of her dirty dress.
“The… the alderman’s daughter,” she says softly, curled on herself, and Henryk’s glare hardens.
“Tell them what you did to her,” he says, voice stone cold despite his anger, but he loses patience when she stays silent. “Tell them!”
She refuses to meet anyone’s eyes, and Henryk can feel Gardis’s silent presence behind him, almost comforting.
“We… we burned her at the stake.”
Her voice is so low Henryk barely hears her, but by Master Lambert’s vicious snarls, echoed by the others unaware of the situation, Witchers didn’t have any issue.
“Why?” The Warlord nearly snarls, and Henryk feels… something softer, after all this rage, as someone else validates his own feelings.
Leslawna flinches, looking down, and Henryk’s hand tightens around the duck.
“The storms were becoming worse; the people were dying… I followed what the Baron asked, it was the only way.”
“You burned a little girl alive!” Henryk finally exploded, his voice resonating in the air around them with grief and pain. “She was ten! A kid with her whole life in front of her!”
“I only do what my Lord commands!” she argues back at him, her eyes wide with fear, and yet no guilt.
“If your Lord commands you to burn children, your Lord is evil!” he bellows in the silence around them, and Henryk turns to meet the Warlord’s eyes. “I… I loved that girl like she was my own! She was good, she was kind!” he meets her gaze, tears gathering in his voice. “And you killed her!”
“So did her mother,” she says, and Henryk scoffs angrily, almost shaking with rage. “So did her father. Her own blood knew it was the only way!”
“The only way for what?! They all died anyway!” he shouts back over her voice, and she takes a step back as he takes one forward. “Her parents were not worthy of holding that title, we all knew it. You told them that the Eternal Fire would protect them; you had them convinced you would save them all. All of them fooled! And you lied.”
“I didn’t lie!”
All the Witchers suddenly growl around them, and she flinches back hard as Henryk blinks, still breathing heavily from his outburst. Master Lambert is scowling a thunderstorm, and the scarred man beside the Warlord seems ready to jump over the table, growling loud enough for Henryk to hear him.
“I… was wrong, about them,” she says, gulping in terror as the Witchers around them looms over her. “I made a mistake in the wills of the Fire…”
“You were wrong,” Henryk scoffs, looking down at his hand to trace the head of the little duck. “Look how many died, because you were wrong.”
“Enough.”
They all turn to look at the Warlord, the White Wolf scowling down at Leslawna. His golden eyes seemed able to read her soul, and she let out a small whimper of fear.
“If you let her go,” the sorceress says, crossing her arms and looking at the priestess as if she was an ugly thing on the sole of her shoe. “She’ll tell others that we allow human sacrifices to the Eternal Fire.”
The Warlord grunts and meet Henryk’s eyes for a long moment. The latter doesn’t move and waits for the verdict.
“You came here for justice,” the scarred Witcher declares, and asks: “What is your belief in justice here, Henryk of Broz?”
Henryk glares at Leslawna for a long time, before turning back to meet the amber gaze. “She turned my people against each other for a religion we had never heard of before; she lied about her own beliefs, and she killed an innocent girl. Master Witcher, if I was the one judging, I would give her the same treatment she bestowed upon Magda. In this instance, I just ask for you to give justice to a child who was burned alive in the way you see fit.”
The Warlord rises slowly, glaring upon Leslawna’s terrorized face. “You killed an innocent and lied to a town; an eye for an eye, a death for a death.”
Henryk barely has time to blink, and Leslawna’s head is on the ground, her body falling after it. He feels faint, not at the blood but at the sheer relief of justice served.
Gardis squeezes his shoulder and guides him to sit at the same table facing them as some others cleaned the mess. “Breathe, lad, breathe.”
Henryk almost laughs at the Witcher, looking half his age, calling him 'lad', and rubs him face to stop the tears, to no avail.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and look up to meet the Warlord’s gaze. “I… thank you.”
He nods and grunts, and the scarred man’s expression softened. “I am sorry for your loss, Henryk,” he says, and Henryk sighs at the genuine tone. “If you wish to stay, Kaer Morhen’s doors are open to you.”
Henryk rubs his cheek and nods. “Thank you, Master Witcher.”
“Just Eskel,” he smiles and nods, exiting the hall after the Warlord.
Henryk is sipping a cup of water Gardis gave him when Master Lambert and the sorceress comes closer.
“Any idea about the noble who should take Baron Hasso’s place?” the woman asks in a no-nonsense tone, and Henryk shakes his head.
“I’m a mere, old dairy farmer, my Lady,” he apologizes, and she sighs without heat.
“Oh well, I’ll go ask Milena.”
She leaves them as Master Lambert sits down in front of him, his slit yellow eyes narrowed.
“Hello, Master Lambert.”
“So, it fucking is you!” the Witcher exclaims, and Henryk smiles ruefully. “Fuck, it’s been longer than I thought.”
“I’m surprised you remember me at all,” Henryk admits, and Master Lambert snorts.
“Witchers got a fucking good memory, and you were the first family in months to treat me with some basic fucking respect,” Master Lambert says, nodding as Gardis stands.
“I’ve gotta go back for the next village,” he says, squeezing Henryk’s shoulders. “You take care, alright?”
Henryk slowly nods, his hands cradling Magda’s duck, and Gardis walks away silently.
“Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here and get some fucking food in you,” Master Lambert says, jumping over the table.
Henryk stands and barely stops himself from face-planting on the floor when his bad knee folds under his weight.
“Fuck, you okay?” the Witcher asks, one hand holding him upright. “Oi, Aiden! Get your scrawny ass back down and go find a fucking cane, would you?”
Henryk looks with wide eyes as a man falls from the rafters, lands on his feet, winks at him and trots away with a cackle.
“Fucking cats,” Master Lambert grunts, and guide him away; he puts his arm around his back and take some of his weight. “Crazy fuckers, let me tell you.”
“Cats?” Henryk faintly asks, almost glad for the distraction from his grief, as short-lived as it was.
“Cat Witcher,” Master Lambert says, and then grabs his medallion showing a snarling wolf. “There’re seven schools, each with their own Witchers; I’m a wolf. Cats are fucking crazy half the time.”
“Half the time? Your generous!” a woman says as they enter the kitchen, and Master Lambert smirks. “Who’s this?”
“Marlene, this is Henryk, one of the only fucking humans who were decent to us before this whole Warlord thing; Henryk, this is Marlene, the best fucking cook on the continent.”
Henryk nods at the woman nearing his own age, and she shot him a softening look.
“You look like hell, you poor man,” she says, grabbing a bowl and filling it with good smelling stew. “Here, eat! If you need anything come see me! Any man decent to Witchers before the Wolf is a good one in my books!”
Master Lambert guides him to a small corner where a table is against the wall with a few chairs, out of the way of the cooks running around. They sit, and Henryk makes sure his bad eye is on the side of the wall. He eats quietly and finishes just in time for the Witcher who fell from the godsdamn rafters to join them. He has dark curly hair, yellow slit eyes and a snarling Cat on his medallion.
“Here puppy,” he smirks, throwing a cane at Master Lambert’s head, and Henryk, as tired as he is, barely flinches. “I’m Aiden of the Cats.”
“Henryk,” he responds softly, and Aiden’s expression softens a little. “Nice to meet you, Master Aiden.”
Master Lambert snorts, and Master Aiden chuckles as he sits down. “Just call me Aiden, and him Lambert. No need of this ‘Master’ business.”
Henryk gulps but nods, putting down his spoon. “Ah… Hm. What now?”
Aiden shares a look with Lambert, who’s scowling as he watches the carved duck.
“I guess it’s up to you.”
“Should probably show you the hot springs,” Mast-Lambert says, leaning back in his chair. “ ‘cause you fucking reek.”
Aiden snorts and rolls his eyes, and Henryk huffs a little. “I would not be opposed to it.”
“Fucking wonderful, come on.”
The two Witchers kept their pace slow enough to not rush Henryk with his cane. They lead him to a staircase going down, and the man stops in shock at the sight and warmth in the air.
There’s a cave, probably as big as a whole floor of the keep full of pools, mostly empty. There’s a man snoring in one of the farthest, and Lambert claps a hand on his shoulder.
“See that line? The ones further up are for Witchers, too fucking hot for humans.” He says, and nods at a man leaving. “Think you can arrange to bring us some clothes for him?”
“Of course,” the man nods, and leaves quickly.
“That’s Jan, the Steward,” Mast-Aiden says, quickly shedding his clothes without hesitation ad throwing them in a hamper. He also grabs what seemed to be vials and gracefully submerged himself in the water. “Come on.”
Henryk complies with slight hesitation, carefully lowering himself in the water and nearly melting against the stone. “Ohhh.”
Aiden snorts and Lambert smirks, both leaning back. Henryk rubs his face with the water, his exhaustion catching up to him. Aiden hands him one of the bottles, a soap bar and a small cloth, and Henryk nods to him in thanks. The soap smells faintly of citrus and Henrik feels an itch he hadn’t realized was there lifted as he cleans himself. He carefully unties his hair and gratefully takes the comb Lambert is handing him. They don’t watch him too closely as he washes his hair, and he’s glad about it. The shampoo smells even fainter than the soap of mint this time, and Henryk is just glad for the opportunity to clean himself.
“So,” Lambert starts as Henryk finishes combing his now freshly cleaned hair. “You good at something?”
“Well, I used to own goats?” Henryk asks more than he says, hesitant. “I used to have sheep, but when my family died… I wasn’t able to care for them, and unable to pay anyone for help, so…”
Henryk sees Aiden winces slightly, and the Wolf Witcher frowns. “The fuck happened?”
“Some sickness, less bad than this last one,” Henryk sighs. “Took my wife, Ewa, and our two children, Hubert and Kaja. And most of the village’s children and wives. Happened… around five or six years ago. Magda… Hm.”
Aiden shares a look with Lambert before leaning forward and tilting his head.
“If you want to talk about it…”
Henryk sighs and rubs his face.
“Yeah… I… I’m the only one who remembers her,” he mumbles, lowering his eyes on the water. “Maybe not today, but… It’d be nice for other people to… know her, I guess.” He looks up to Lambert. “She’d love meeting you.”
The Witcher’s eyebrows rise, and Henryk smiles at the water as he remembers Magda’s innocent questions.
“Some older brat told her… rumors, about Witchers, and she asked me if they were true. Told her about the time you stayed in my grandfather’s barn; wanted to meet you ever since. Was all she was talking about half the time. She… would’ve loved this place.”
He sighs and sniffs, meeting Aiden’s kind gaze. He shakes himself and gets out of the water, followed by the Witchers, and dries himself. He hadn’t seen whom, but someone left some breeches, pant and shirt in his approximate size, and Henryk puts them on. He stays careful of his bad leg, the one he hurt trying to get to Magda, and cradles the little duck in his hands.
“Hers?” Lambert grunts, tilting his chin towards the carving.
“Yeah; I made it for her,” Henryk answers, lifting it to slightly show the Witcher. “Gave it to her in the last midsummer celebration… last thing I have of her.” And probably his most valuable possession.
Fortunately, both Witchers seem to understand, and Aiden tilts his head.
“Come on, we’ll show you your rooms.”
“D’you think…” Henryk cuts himself as two pairs of yellow eyes look at him. “My dog…?”
“If he’s fucking clean,” Lambert shrugs, and Henryk quickly nods. “No issue then; your room’s close to the garden too. Alright, let’s go get him.”
*
He sits down on his chair and sighs as the fire warms him up. He spends the day with Szymon, glad to see his gelding in good hands, and Lud had some more fun running around the trainees and the Cub, the Warlord… no, the White Wolf’s daughter.
Lud comes to lean his head against his thigh, and whines, and Henryk grunts.
“Couldn’t you ask before I sat down?” he mumbles, before hissing and standing again.
He guides Lud to the garden doors, sitting on a bench as the dog goes to his business.
“Sir Henryk! Please!”
His eyes snap open at the memory and he shudders. Nightmares have been old friends since Ewa’s death, but now… he hasn’t had a good night sleep since he is in Kaer Morhen. He sighs and walks back towards his room, meeting Lambert and Aiden laughing in the way.
“Hey,” Aiden says, his smile dimming at Henryk’s lack of joy.
Or maybe because he smells bitterness and exhaustion, who knows with Witchers.
“You okay?” Lambert grunts, almost hesitant.
“Could be better,” Henryk chooses to answer, wary of lying to the two.
“Nightmares?” Aiden asks, one arm coming to hold him around the shoulders.
Henryk sighs but nods, and Aiden clicks his tongue. “I used to speak with Michal, it helped then. But now… well he… died, too. And Agakta, and Renata…”
He sniffs and rubs his face with one hand. “Fuck, sorry.”
“Don’t fucking apologize,” Lambert scowls, but Henryk can see his worry beside the anger and coarse language. “Ain’t your fucking fault you went through hell. Come on.”
They lead him back to his door and wait outside.
“Oh, you can come in.”
They both follow him, and Aiden drops on the rug in front of the fire. He stretches, and smiles when Lud lies down beside him, his head on his stomach. Lambert takes a seat on the other chair, his eyes spotting the little figurines on the mantel.
There are four of them: one approximately the size of his palm, two slightly smaller, and one half the size of the largest figure.
“You made them?” Lambert asks, and Henryk follows his eyes.
“Yes. Ewa, Hubert, Kaja and Magda.” He whispers, the little duck enclosed in one of his hands.
“Your family,” Aiden says, and Henryk meets his eyes. “I know we don’t really know each other, and that you’d much rather have Michal here, but… we can listen?”
Henryk tilts his head back, closing his eyes. He counts to ten, and sighs again.
“I rather have them all alive,” he mumbles, but nods. “I… alright; if… if you really don’t mind.”
“Wouldn’t have proposed it if we fucking minded,” Lambert grunts back, and Henryk hears Aiden kicks him.
He smiles softly and then starts to talk.
And talks.
And talks.
About Ewa, how he met her, how they decided to get married. About his first son, Hubert, and his passion for foraging; how he knew every type of tree relevant around the farm. About Kaja, and her love for their sheep and goats and knitting, how she learned with Agatka and her daughter. About little Magda, who was basically family the moment Ewa saw her. How she had been his daughter in all but blood for half her life.
He speaks of the sickness who ate his wife and children; how it stole their mind with its fever and killed their bodies from the inside. Of his friendship with Michal, who knew the same pain as he did. Of Renata and Agatka, living together as friends, since two women would never be tolerated.
He rants against Igor and his wife, for their treatment of Magda, their miracle little girl who survived the sickness and who loved the world with all her heart. Of their resentment to having a girl (“Fucking pieces of shit stain who didn’t deserve the air they breathed” to quote Lambert) instead of a boy. Of the Baron and the fucking taxes and their treatment of a child. He speaks of the illness who took his closest friends.
His voice breaks when he gets to the pyre, and he has to stop, his eyes full of tears. He hides his face in his hands, trying to stop the silent sobs, and almost jumps at the hand on his shoulder.
“Let it out,” Lambert grunts, sitting beside him on the two-place sofa. “No one’s going to judge you here.”
Henryk meets Aiden’s eyes, the Cat Witcher coming to sit beside his legs, Lud leaning his head on Henryk’s thighs.
“Promise.”
It takes him a few moments to recompose himself, but he goes on. After the pyre, how he found out they burned his house with all of his belongings.
“And then, the guards threw her in the jail. And then, they all died, one after the other. I waited, you know? For spring, for the reading of the Wolflaw.”
There is silence, only broken by the fire cracking in the chimney, and Aiden tilts his head back.
“Why didn’t you kill her? Before coming here?”
“I’m not a killer,” Henryk sighs, his hands rubbing Lud. “I… The Warlord was our new lord, and from travelers Michal had met, the Wolflaws are fair. And… well, I remembered you.”
He turns to meet Lambert slightly surprised eyes.
“You were the one who taught me Witchers were more than monster hunters. I… decided to take the chance. And I was tired, too tired to make that decision. I’m just… glad she got what she deserves, but it won’t bring Magda back.”
Lambert squeezes his shoulder, and Henryk carefully leans against him, and the Witcher nods to him.
“You were a good lad, and became a fucking good man despite the shit life threw at you.” He says, and Henryk sighs in… a sort of relief.
It is difficult to explain why, of all people, Lambert’s words affect him that way. But it is the first time, since winter, that he feels like he can stay calm. And he feels and sees it when he blinks.
“Lambert?” he asks softly, and the Witcher grunts in acknowledgement. “Take care of Lud? And Szymon?”
“Huh,” Lambert’s confusion is thick and Aiden’s head snaps to look at him, but Henryk eyes are fixed on the mantel. “Sure?”
Aiden rises on his knees, wide eyes fixed on Henryk.
“Henryk?” he calls, and the man relaxes back on his chair.
Henryk eyes are fixed on the mantel, a ringing sound softly coming through, and the fire is warmer than ever before.
‘Rick?’
“Don’t you hear?” he whispers, and both Witchers look at him with worried eyes. “They’re calling.”
“Who’s calling?” Aiden asks, looking back at the mantel but saw nothing.
‘Da?’
‘Papa?’
‘Rick?’
Lambert shares a look with Aiden, the Cat Witcher grabbing one of Henryk hands and squeezing it.
“Henryk?”
The man expression is suddenly calm, and he smiles.
“They’re calling me.” He says again, his eyes shining.
Both Witcher can hear his heartbeat slows, and Lud whines highly; Henryk simply smiles. He closes his eyes, deaf to the Witchers calling his name.
And meet her gaze.
‘Sir Henryk!’