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victoria-daydreams · 2 years

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A Close Call

AN: I can’t believe I did it, but I wrote a story for The Witcher universe. I always had this idea floating around in my head, but I didn’t feel confident writing for The Witcher and I still don’t really, but I had to get this plot bunny out before it drove me insane. This is mostly based off Netflix’s The Witcher and I’m hoping I got the personalities right. So yeah, here you go, sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes.

Word Count: 5.9k

Rievone stirred from her slumber, her eyes fluttering open. Golden light streamed through the small window of her bedroom. The sign of a new day dawning in the countryside of Redania. She could feel the warmth of each ray seeping through her blankets. Blinking a little for her eyes adjust to the sunlight, Rievone exhaled heavily before rolling onto her other side. However, instead of the usual empty space she had been used to for many months now, she was greeted by the sleeping face of a man. Her Witcher.

Rievone’s gaze became more alert, her eyes resting on the figure beside her in bed. Lambert’s hair was a mess of unruly red waves and his pale, muscular body stretched nearly off her bed. She reached out to him, using the back of her finger to stroke his cheek. Lambert unconsciously tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer to him. His body was warm against hers, generating more than enough heat to knock off the morning chill.

Lambert buried his nose in her hair, making Rievone smile to herself. When first meeting the stony Witcher, she would have never took him as someone who cuddled. Moving an arm around his waist, Rievone laid her head on his chest and looked up at him. He looked so much younger asleep, more carefree, more vulnerable. His strong jaw was relaxed and the usual worry lines etched into his forehead along with the furrowed brow, nowhere to be found.

Rievone saw him as soon as he rode into the backwater village on a gorgeous, black mare. She had just barely shut the door to her patient’s home. He was a big man with wide shoulders and thick, muscled arms that were noticeable even underneath the black leather armor he was clad in. Her eyes weren’t the only one watching the ginger haired stranger as every pair of eyes was fixed on him. Two swords dangled from the scabbard strapped on his back. One silver for monsters, one metal, for humans.

Rievone knew exactly what he was.

“Witcher,” she thought.

The monster hunter strode stiffly down the muddy road, a glower set in his face. Some villagers averted their stare, others wore a look of disgust. He ignored the leering and maneuvered his horse towards the tavern.

“Right,” Rievone whispered to herself, and pulled the hood of her cloak over head.

She finally stepped away from the door and made her way back to her cottage which happened to be in the same direction of the tavern. Rievone passed a two men lingering outside the inn, making her grip the basket in her hand tighter. She didn’t need any trouble, she just wanted to get home.

"I need a mage or a healer,"

The voice was gruff and unfamiliar, it made her pointed ears perk up slightly. Rievone glanced in the direction it came from. It was the Witcher that had spoken, and to those two men, no less.

“No witches here,” the farmer scowled. “Or their foul magic,” he added.

"We have a healer, but I doubt the half-breed would treat a monster like you,” the other man sneered, and spat on the ground. “Even she has her limits I suppose,” he commented snidely.

"Where is she?" the Witcher asked, seemingly ignoring the insult.

Suddenly, a high pitched whistle rang out in the air.

“Hey, pointy!” the farmer shouted, stopping Rievone in her tracks. “Your services are needed!” he yelled.

She turned to the group of men, “Whistle at me again like I’m some dog and I’ll cut your tongue out,” she threatened, glaring at the old farmer.

Rievone’s defiant gaze met the Witcher’s unflinchingly stare for just a split second before continuing on her path home. She had barely made it down the road when she heard a horse slowly trotting behind her.

"I don't treat Witchers—” Rievone began.

He scoffed, “Of course, you don’t,” he cut in. “You’re going to treat me just as the villagers treat you,” he continued, now riding alongside her. “You finally get someone to look down on,” he finished, with a sardonic chuckle.

“Very often” she finished, looking up at him pointedly.

The man scoffed again, but Rievone could see his lips curve into the barest hint of a grin.

Thus, began an unlikely friendship between a hedge mage and a Witcher. After all, it was only Rievone who saw right through him. The real him, beneath the tough exterior which was the only way he knew how to present himself to the world. Lambert would never admit it out loud, but there lay a soft hearted, lonely man who simply wanted to be with kindness. In kind, Lambert learned that Rievone’s perceived demureness was an act; she could've easily graduated from Aretuza. She was as ambitious and cunning as those sorceresses are renowned for.

Lambert, who was not famous for his chivalry and manners, but instead his quick temper and snarky comments. Any trace of the tough Witcher persona he carried himself by had been stripped away as he dozed. All that remained was Lambert, a man, molded into a seemingly untouchable monster hunter due to a series of traumatic events. If it were possible, Rievone would always want Lambert to always be this serene. Without all those walls in place to hide who he really was. It looked good on him.

"Like what you see, love?"

Rievone was jerked out of her thoughts. Dark brown irises blinked lazily down at her, still glazed over from sleep. A small smile formed on her lips and she lifted her head from his chest.

“Oh Lambert, don't be so cocky,” Rievone said, with a scoff. “Something I know that’s hard for you not to do,” she addded, rolling her eyes.

“You certainly weren’t complaining about my cockiness last night,” he quipped. “Or hardness,” he recalled smugly.

Rievone scrunched her nose in disgust, “You’re a pig, Lambert,” she responded.

They stared at each other for a beat, both completely silent until both their faces split into smiles. Leaning down, Rievone placed a light kiss to Lambert’s lips that was short and sweet.

“Good morning,” she whispered, as if it was a secret between the two of them.

“A good morning indeed,” he hummed, tucking loose strands of red hair behind her ear.

“Did you sleep well?”

“The best in months,”

“Good,” she said, and gave a peck on his cheek.

Rievone pushed herself up from the bed and sat up. Stretching her muscles, they burned with a familiar and pleasant ache and caused her grin to herself, images from yesterday activities flashed through her mind. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and went to stand up, but didn't get far. Strong arms had wrapped themselves around her waist.

"Don't go," Lambert groaned. “It’s too early,” he added, tightening his grip on her abdomen.

“The sun begs to differ,” Rievone replied, with a chuckle.

“No one in this godsdamned village needs a healer at the crack of fucking dawn, Rievone,” he complained, halfway to exasperation.

Her smile turned into a smirk, “I don’t know Lambert, there’s potions to be made, balms and salves, poultices, tinctures—”

Rievone let out a yelp as she felt herself being tugged backwards onto her bed. Lambert pulled her on top of him, his arms curled around her. Her chest pressed against his, and only the thin fabric of Lambert’s shirt that she wore was between them.

"Plenty of time to do that…" he trailed off, bringing a finger up to run across the light dusting of freckles along the bridge of her nose. "Later," he emphasized, now smirking himself.

Bringing her head down to meet his, their lips connected once more. This kiss was slow and passionate, more than sharing just a light peck. Rievone was pressed up against him, her body molding itself to his. Lambert’s hand found itself at the small of her back where her shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing the smooth skin that was soft and warm under his palm. Their lips continued to move over each other’s lazily and Lambert’s hands shifted to tightly gripping her hips, taking a handful of her backside as he did. He coaxed her to grind against him making Rievone inhale sharply, the action igniting the pits of her stomach with butterflies.

Rievone could feel the lightest of pressure pushing against her thigh. The evidence of his desire for her was unmistakable; he was hard and aching with need. She cupped his cheek in her hand, his beard tickling the palm of her hands and slid her tongue over his bottom lip. His hips involuntarily bucked upwards.

“Fuck!” Lambert hissed, abruptly pulling away from the kiss. He turned his head away, gasping for control. “Gods damn woman, you don’t know what you do to me,” he said, in between huffs.

“I could say the same for you, Witcher,” Rievone said, sitting up and straddling his waist.

She ran her fingers up and down his well muscled torso riddled with scars twisting around his body like white vines. Her her hands came to a rest on his chiseled chest, directly above his heart. Lambert tucked an arm behind his head before intertwining his fingers with Rievone’s.

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me,” he said suddenly.

“What?” Rievone asked, her eyebrow quirking up.

“Kaer Morhen,” Lambert repeated. “The keep I travel to every winter,” he reminded.

“Why do you want me to go?” she asked curiously, absentmindedly tracing his scars.

“I worry about your safety, Rievone,” Lambert answered, squeezing her hand which got her attention.

She chuckled, “My safety?” she echoed. “Are there monsters in the woods that the village is not aware of?” she questioned, tilting her head.

Lambert untangled his fingers from hers and let his hand slide along her thigh up to her hip.

“Not all monsters dwell in deep, dark woods,” he stated, rubbing a circular pattern on her skin.

Rievone’s eyebrow raised itself again, this time in half amusement. Dipping her head down, she trailed kisses up his sternum to his throat. He closed his eyes and she knew he was enjoying the attention she gave him. Her kisses were light and mischievous, warm on his skin.

“Tell me,” she began, peppering kisses on the corners of his mouth. “What has my Witcher so concerned?”

“Man,” Lambert answered simply.

“If this is about the barkeep’s boy, I told you already you have nothing to fear,” Rievone said playfully.

“Rievone, I’m serious,” Lambert stated, a frown lining his features.

“And I’m being serious too, Lambert,” she replied, sitting up again. “The villagers can be absolute asses, but they haven’t harmed me,” she commented.

“Yet,” Lambert retorted. “Tensions are running high between humans and elves, and in case you’ve forgotten, you’re a half elf,” he informed. “Not to mention you’re a sorceress, and these people hate magic,”

“You truly think the villagers are stupid enough to kill the only healer around?” She questioned, raising a brow.

“Yes,” he answered bluntly. “Humans are fickle and irrational,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing ever.

“Lambert, I’ll be fine, I promise,” Rievone reassured, bending down to place a kiss on his forehead.

She rested her forehead against his and he curled his fingers into her auburn curls.

“Rievone-“

She put her finger on his lips, “If all fails, I will come to Kaer Morhen at the first sign of trouble,” she interrupted. “I know where it is, you showed me on a map before, remember?” Rievone asked, a small smile on her lips. “I’ll be out of this village before you can say kikimora,” she joked.

Lambert shifted underneath her and before she knew it, Rievone’s back was against the mattress and Lambert was hovering above her.

“If so much of a hair is harmed on your head…” he warned lowly.

“You’ll kill them, yes, I know,” she said, finishing his sentence. “I prefer you don’t,” Rievone said, releasing a breathy laugh. “How else would I get my crowns and coppers?” she joked.

“You’re incredible,”

Lambert grinned at her lovingly and Rievone giggled softly, a giggle that was swallowed by Lambert capturing her lips with his. Immediately, she melted into the kiss feeling her body tingle and course with warmth. Rievone leaned up and returned the kiss with vigor, wrapping her arms around his neck. She clung onto Lambert as their kiss deepened. His mouth moved over hers, stealing away her breath in deep, desperate kisses. Lambert slid his hand from her hip to her thigh, grinding against her as he pulled her leg up to wrap around his waist.

Rievone’s eyes roll back ever so slightly as breathy gasps that left her throat, muffled by his lips against hers.

“Still need to make your potions and poultices?” Lambert murmured, against her mouth before trailing down her neck.

“No,” she breathed, Rievone could not help but smile at his jest. “This is much more important,” she stated, nodding her head.

Lambert let out a satisfied grunt into her neck. His beard tickled her jawline, while his lips and hot breath fanned over collar bone. Everything felt so peaceful, so perfect. Rievone didn't know what time it was, nor did she really care. She would gladly stay in bed all day if it meant more tender and loving moments like this.

~~~x~~~

Two months later

Rievone’s feet hit the frozen ground hard and she immediately stumbled, falling hard onto her hands and knees. The portal behind her spluttered close, the last of its energy spent dying with one final crackle. Heavy, ragged breathing was just barely audible over the howling wind around her. Rievone’s skin was slick with sweat, mixing with blood trailing down her forehead and onto her cheeks. The cold, dampness of the snow soaking the skirt of her dress barely registered with her, not when there was pain lancing through her body. Sharpness in her back, a throbbing slash on her side.

Rievone glanced at her surroundings, her portal had taken to a dark, dense forest. The moon was the only light that shone upon the forest floor, filtering its way through the branches that already lost their leaves. Suddenly, a freezing gust swept through the air like an agonized howl and Rievone stiffened. The biting wind lapped at her newly acquired tender, raw cuts on her right cheek and forehead. The stinging pain hurt, but kept her focused on her mission.

“I need to reach him,” she wheezed, pushing herself up from the ground.

On shaky legs, snow crunched underneath her boots as she made her way through the thick forest. Rievone could barely see where she was going. Her vision blurry both from fatigue and the little white flecks falling from the sky. She held her palm against her side moving as fast as she could, gasping for the frigid air. Blood was seeping from her wound on her waist making it even harder for her to continue at her current pace. Her lungs burned and her legs ached and the snow blanketing the forest floor surely wasn’t making it any easier on her body.

Panting heavily, Rievone finally stepped out into a clearing. Before her eyes, the full moon shined down on the remaining standing walls of Kaer Mohren, snowflakes slowly descending onto the decrepit structure. Tall mountains rose high behind the castle, blocking out the horizon from its vast height. The towers jetted up towards the sky disappearing into the clouds. The ruins was the most peaceful thing she had laid eyes on in hours.

Rievone vision was beginning to swim and each breath she took was more difficult than the last. Briefly, her eyes shut as a shudder racked through her body. She was so tired. Rievone forced her eyes to reopen, wanting her rapidly fogging vision to assess the damage at her side. It only took a quick glance for her to clasp her hand back over her wound again. It was bad. No worse than bad, it was fatal.

Thick, crimson liquid began to pool profusely between her fingers almost instantly. The sudden flow of blood spilling from out of her made her hands slick. Trembling, numb fingers pressed harder against the torn layer of the soaking wet clothes. A rasping moan of pain drew from her throat at the increase in pressure.

Soundlessly, the warm liquid trickled down to the ground in droplets, staining the freshly laid snow red. In the moonlight, her blood almost looked black instead of red, as if she was bleeding tar or ink. Rievone knew wasn’t going to last much longer.

She furrowed her brow in concentration, tugging at the remnants of her magic, ready to cast a spell to freeze the blood in her wound in a desperate bid to staunch the flow. Time, she needed to buy herself time…time to get help, but she realized that trying it would only wear her down further.

“Fuck!” she hissed, her breath steaming in the air in front of her.

Her breaths were coming in short gasps while heart pounded like a drum in her ears. With one bloody palm, Rievone flexed her fingers and the heavy gates flung open. She trudged through the snowy courtyard, the pain in her side increasing with every step she took, but she wasn’t going to allow herself to give up. Not when she was so close.

Rievone outstretched her hand and the wooden doors leading to the Great Hall flung open with a loud bang, causing every head inside the room to whip towards the entrance. Even with clouding vision, she could see the main hall was lit up with candles, a fire roaring in the large fireplace. Gripping her cloak tighter around her body, she didn’t think that it was possible for the hall to feel far colder than the snow storm raging outside. Or maybe it was due to the unknown amount of blood she’s lost? Rievone leaned against the frame of the door, leaving a bloody handprint on the wood.

An older man with white hair that dusted his shoulders and a receding hairline was the first to spring to his feet, a wolf medallion dangling from his neck.

He stared at her warily, “Anything I can help you with?" the man asked, his composure cool.

She didn’t answer, instead she used the door to steady herself, feeling her legs tremble beneath her. Red smeared itself all the along surface as she entered the hall. A loud scraping noise eerily echoed in the hall as Rievone’s feet dragged across the stone floor.

“Lambert,” she uttered weakly.

She swayed, black dots peppering her vision. Rievone took a step forward into the hall and immediately wavered, her knees buckling as they refuse to carry her weight for another moment. Gravity slammed her onto the cold, stone floor. For a few seconds, she was blissfully numb as her brain tried to process what was happening. She couldn't move, couldn't feel. The only sensation she could feel was the dull, icy cold seeping into her body.

“Oh, I’m dying,” she realized.

She knows it by the dull, numbness spreading up from the agonizing throbbing in her side. By the strength she didn't have the to get up, by the will to not keep fighting. A warm puddle of liquid pooling beneath her. It coated her fingers and her arm. It drenched her hip and her side. It spread across her stomach. Above her, she could faintly hear voices and hurried footsteps.

“Rievone!”

Someone had screamed her name. They sounded frantic.

“Strange…I-I don’t remember stating my name,” she thought.

The corners of her eyes darkened, her mind beginning to fog. Suddenly, a pair of hands fumbled over her body in a panic, turning her over to look at them. The last thing Rievone saw was the face of a man framed by curly, ginger hair full of shock and terror, before finally slipping under and feeling her head loll to the side as darkness took her.

~~~x~~~

The first thing Rievone woke to was a splintering pain in her skull causing a soft groan to pass from her lips. She opened her eyes, or rather, she tried to open them. Her eyes felt like they were glued shut, the pressure in her head building like a tea kettle coming to boil. She forced her eyes open just a slit and for a moment there was a piercing, blinding ray of light. Instantly, she shut them again, wincing against the pain.

It took a moment for the fog of slumber to lift from her mind, before lifting her hand to rub her forehead. When moving her hand, the softness of fur blankets under her fingertips was both welcoming and puzzling. How did she get under fur covers? When did she get under covers? Rievone’s confusion only grew as she sensed herself drifting between the hazy state of consciousness and unconsciousness. Blurred Images and muffled sounds began flashing through her mind.

"Rievone, please! Open your eyes for me love!"

The feeling of intense heat and a cool cloth on her head. The taste of bitter medicine. The sound of a door opening and closing, hushed voices outside. Hearing a familiar voice and the thought of opening her eyes crossed her mind, but she was unable to move a muscle. The only thing she felt was a comfortable warmth. A much larger hand tenderly holding hers.

She tried once more to pry her eyes open and with every blink, the pain of the sunlight light began to fade as her eyes slowly adjusted to the poorly lit space. A wooden empty chair beside the bed was the first thing her eyes had landed on. Her eyes darted towards the center of the room, a stone fireplace lined with black ash and soot heated the room to a warm, nearly sleep-inducing temperature. Rievone had to force herself to ignore the urge to fall asleep again.

She pushed herself up in the bed slightly and felt lightheaded from the sudden motion. Every muscle in Rievone’s arms groaned, her bones seemingly letting out a few creaks themselves. This was the exact opposite surroundings she was accustomed to. It was a far cry from the coziness of her cottage. It’s then, the events of the night before came flooding back to Rievone. Jumbled at first, but her brain slowly pieced it back together into cohesion. The villagers. Her cottage. A fire. Running. Blood.

"Half-breed!”

“Filthy elf!"

“She-elf!”

“Nilfgaardian spy!”

The volley of insults hurled her way was relentless, but she held her head high, refusing to allow the insults to get under skin. All she needed to do was collect some herbs from the forest and leave the village when night fell. A rock suddenly hit Rievone on the side of her forehead just below her right eye. Momentarily, she was dazed by the unexpected blow, but then came the sensation of something warm running down her face. Dropping her reins, Rievone lifted her hand to her face. Blood.

Another flurry of rocks soared her way, this time missing their mark. Rievone picked up her reins and kicked the sides of horse.

“Yah!“ she shouted, ordering her horse to sprint.

More rocks were tossed at her, but with the speed she was riding at, she avoided most of the jagged projectiles. Rievone flinched as one struck her cheek, slicing the tender skin. She had spoken too soon.

Rievone lifted her fingers to her cheek expecting to feel the open wound on her cheek, instead she felt nothing, just the smoothness of her skin. The harsh wind whipping loudly against Kaer Morhen shook her from her daze. A shiver ran down her spine, the wintery air getting through the cracks of the walls, whistling through them and giving the room a slight chill. Luckily, the heat from the fire burning in the fireplace kept most of it away. Quietly, faint voices echoed in the corridor outside the door and Rievone’s head snapped in that direction.

The hushed voices became louder and louder as the sound of footsteps simultaneously grew closer. Rievone couldn’t explain it, but she suddenly felt afraid. A subtle click echoed in the room as the door opened to reveal a man and woman as light from the corridor spilled into the semi-dark room. The woman was dressed elegantly, in dark velvets, her hair braided around her head to resemble a crown.

Rievone shifted her gaze to the man and her eyes froze at his appearance. Deep scars ran down the right side of his face distorting his features, reaching from his temple to his lips. Despite the scarring, she could tell he was handsome; brunet hair pulled back into a half bun with wavy strands falling over his face.

“It’s good to see you awake,” the woman greeted softly. “You had us all worried, Lambert most of all,” she said, stepping into the room.

“Had Lambert going half out his mind,” the man commented.

“Not helpful,” the woman admonished, lightly hitting his stomach. “I’m Leyna,” she introduced, placing her hand on her chest. “And this is Eskel, who is going to tell Lambert that he comes bearing good news,” Leyna said, looking up at him.

“Er-hi,” Rievone croaked out, her throat raspy from dehydration.

He frowned, “Why do I—”

“Go,” Leyna ordered, lightly pushing him out the room and closing the door in his face.

She turned around and faced Rievone with a grin on her face.

“I suppose I have you to thank for healing me,” Rievone stated, picking up the cup of water from the small wooden table next to her.

“I cannot take all the credit, it was a combined effort,” Leyna answered, moving over to the fireplace. “My friend Triss helped as well, we made sure to leave no scars,” she added, smiling over her shoulder.

Rievone wiped her top lip of excess water and watched as Leyna kindled the flames that crackled and spit, the flickering light casting dancing shadows on the walls.

“You’re both mages, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and from what I heard from Lambert you’re one too,” Leyna replied, placing the poker down and spinning around. “Says you’re quite powerful yourself,” she continued, sitting down in the chair next to the bed. “I saw some of your handiwork, you tried to heal yourself just enough before you portaled,” she recalled, nodding her head.

“A hedge mage,” Rievone corrected quickly. “I wouldn’t dare call myself a mage since I never received formal training at Aretuza,” she said sarcastically, curling her fingers and watched as the extinguished candle sprung back to life.

An ache inside Rievone’s skull throbbed making her wince and hold her head in pain.

“Too early to try and cast magic,” she thought.

Leyna grabbed the pitcher off the table, “He wasn’t wrong, Lambert that is. I can feel the power radiating from you,” she stated, refilling the cup.

Rievone laughed bitterly, “It’s funny, the Rectoress of Aretuza, Tissaia de Vries, said she could sense my power as well,” she recalled, shaking her head.

She placed the pitcher back down, “You know Tissaia? Oh, how lovely,” Leyna said, her face lighting up.

“I suppose she had plans to whisk me from my father’s farm, but then she realized what I was,” Rievone said, before pulling her hair over one shoulder.

“A half-elf,”

“My father and I knew that such a day would come,” Rievone explained, picking up the cup again. “My mother was a sorceress, it was only matter of time before I manifested my powers,” she said quietly, raising the cup to her lips.

“I’m sorry, I cannot accept your daughter into Aretuza. Upon further inspection, she doesn’t meet our standards,” the Rectoress informed, a stoic expression on her face.

“Your ‘standards’ being ‘humans only’, right?” her father retorted, holding Rievone closer to him. “She’s better off without you lot,” he stated, his eyes narrowing at the woman. “Come on dear, let’s get back inside and finish our breakfast,” he said, looking down at her warmly and rubbing her arm.

“I-” Leyna began.

Suddenly, the door to Rievone room was thrown open, loudly slamming against the stone wall and startling both women. There in the doorway, stood an out of breath Lambert immediately seeking out her eyes. His face was paler than normal, causing the dark rings under his eyes to stand in stark contrast of his skin. The mighty Witcher looked haggard, his unruly hair and clothes were more disheveled than she could ever recall. It pained Rievone to see him in such a state.

“Gods, Lambert!” Leyna exclaimed, rising to her feet. “You nearly made of us die of fright,” she scolded lightly, as he slowly walked in the room.

Quick footfalls echoed in the corridor and sliding behind Lambert was Eskel’s slightly panting form.

“Barely had time to finish her name before he went sprinting,” Eskel said, breathing heavily looking at the sorceress. “Fastest I‘ve ever seen him,” he quipped, glancing at Lambert who was not paying to him at all. His eyes were solely focused on Rievone. “Leyna, let’s give them some privacy,” Eskel suggested, holding out his hand for her to take.

“Of course,” she agreed.

Passing Lambert, Leyna gave his bicep a reassuring squeeze before leaving and pulling the door close. Just before the door completely shut, Rievone could see Eskel rest his hand on Leyna’s lower back before sliding down and grabbing her backside. Promptly, she swatted it away, but not before letting out a giggle as the door shut with a click.

Rievone shifted her gaze back to Lambert, observing the slight shaking of his form and the white-knuckled grip the ginger had from his fists being balled up. He stood there, not saying anything.

“Lambert, I-”

“What was it that you promised me?” he asked lowly, cutting her off. “The first sign of trouble and ‘I’ll be out of this village before you can say kikimora,’” he echoed, and Rievone opened her mouth to explain herself but found that her throat suddenly felt dry. “Tell me Rievone, what was the first sign? Was it the stab wound to your side? The slash to your back? The cuts on your forehead?” Lambert questioned.

Rievone could taste the anger in his voice, the fear in his words, and yet his face was gentle, eyes soft. Lambert began to pace back and forth in front of her and ran his hand through his hair, tugging at the curls in frustration.

His pacing suddenly stopped, “The moment you heard the elves aligned themselves with Nilfgaard, you should’ve left that backwater village!” Lambert said, his eyes boring into hers.

Rievone swallowed deeply, “I was going to leave at nightfall, but the barkeep’s son h-he-” she stammered.

Lambert’s eyes darkened, “What did that bastard do to you?” he growled, walking to the bed.

“H-He followed me into the woods,” she answered, as Lambert lowered himself next to her. “You knew how he could be Lambert, always making advances at me,” Rievone continued, noticing his jaw tighten. “When he followed me, I thought it was out of the kindness of his heart this time. You see, I just had rocks thrown at me,” she informed. “That’s why my face was cut up,” she explained, running her fingers across her cheek.

“At first he did try to comfort me, he helped clean my face off,” Rievone said, with a soft sigh. “I closed my eyes for one second, and he took that as an invitation to kiss me,” she went on, as Lambert narrowed his eyes. “I shoved him away…” she said, trailing off.

“What the hells is wrong you?” Rievone shouted.

“I turned my back on him, it was a terrible mistake,” she remembered, her breath slightly faltering. “My rejection of him had consequences,” she said, her eyes never leaving Lambert’s.

“Elven bitch!”

“He stabbed me in the side first,” Rievone began, and Lambert warily reached his hand out to where the wound should have been. “Then, he slashed my back. Only reason he didn’t kill me was because I fought him off with my magic,” she said, letting the heat of his palm anchor her as the warmth permeated through the thin material of her dress.

The man fell back onto the ground, “Y-You’re a witch,” he stated, his knife slipping from his fingers. “You’re a filthy witch!” he yelled, pointing fearfully at her.

“He ran back to the village and told everyone what I was,” Rievone recounted. “There was going to be a manhunt for me, they were going to kill me,” she whispered. “I tried to go back to my home, but…” she trailed off again.

Camouflaging herself behind a bush, Rievone carefully pushed away leaves that blocked her view to her cottage. She gasped at the crowd amassed at her door.

"Burn the witch!" the mob cried, as they surrounded her home.

Rievone looked on in horror as they broke the windows in and tossed their torches inside, setting her once cozy home aflame.

"Let’s get the she-elf witch and kill her!"

Her head snapped in the direction of the voice as they walked in the direction where she had been left for dead. Rievone held her side and slowly backed away from the burning cottage, her breathing uneven. She forced herself to tear her eyes away from the fiery blaze and turned around, limping off into the dark woods.

“They burnt it down. My cottage, everything inside, gone,”

Lambert’s fingertips traced along her jaw, his thumb ghosting over her cheek like she was made of glass.

“I don’t give a damn about your cottage,” he stated, his voice low.

Rievone frowned, “Lambert-”

“No!” he snapped, his tone hardening as his eyes fervently searched hers. “I warned you that something like this could happen,” Lambert said, followed by a shaky exhale. “Rievone, seeing you bleed out on the floor of the Great Hall—to see you motionless on this bed—” he paused, taking a breath. “My worst fear very nearly came true, I could’ve lost you,” Lambert whispered, his voice cracking as his thumb gently ghosted her lips.

Lambert’s fingers began to tremble against her skin. Immediately, Rievone placed her hand on top of his stilling the tremors and rubbed her thumb against his skin, moving in small circles. His eyes were glassy and a single tear slipped down his face.

“Don’t cry Lambert,” Rievone said softly, wiping the tear away before pulling him in for a hug. “I’m right here,” she reassured. “And I'm not going anywhere,” she added, kissing his hair.

Rievone felt as his body began to shake violently as he cried silently. Her arms tighten around his him, his tears dampening her dress. A shiver ran through her as Lambert’s breath fanned across her neck and collarbone. He wrapped his arms around her waist and held her tightly, to the point that it was almost crushing, but she didn't mind.

“For as long as I draw breath, I shall never leave you,” Rievone whispered, running her fingers through ginger locks.

Lambert raised his head, “Life without you Rievone, would be unbearable, everything would become meaningless. You are the tether that keeps me going in this godforsaken world,” he confessed brokenly.

Rievone leaned forward, their foreheads resting against each other. She lifted her hand and cupped his cheek feeling Lambert press into her hand.

“My dear Lambert,” she began, her smile small and warm. “Aé minne taedh,” she said, nuzzling her nose against his.

“What was that you just said?”

“I love you, my dearest Lambert,”

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