There's so much darkness between the brightest of stars. The dots of light linger apart in a mirror of the worlds they gaze over since the beginning of time, where souls only distinguish happiness after long periods of feeling just nothingness or despair. It is crucial, of course, to feel the puncture of the dark.

Blood and guts surrounded them when the shouts were brought to life thoughtlessly. Crimson dripped in endless slow rivers from the tip of Geralt's silver sword. It fumed while getting cleaned and Azaras wiped the drops of stain from under her eyes.

"I already said I'm sorry!" Annoyance shivered from the tip of her tongue. Geralt didn't need half the help to get out of the mess she knocked the door off to get to him for and he was right too, to make it worse. Were it not for her softness showed in front of those strange lone children, they wouldn't have to put their monstrous remains in bags now.

Tentacles flopped off the edge of the straw bag oozing the impossible stenches to bare and Azaras shoved them all in again, to the brim with disgust. Geralt has all but been deadly silent, mad with glares. His heart, the only one speaking truth for it was surrounded by armors and scarred, strengthened skin, was beating fast, craving fears.

He couldn't accept her apology because the moment the monsters revealed themselves to him, two meant for his massive stature, Geralt was caught of guard due to the thought that Azaras was against one monster too.

Witchers were formidable warriors, but they died so often that the tree of Kaer Morhen was a metal mass, a common grave of fugitive tingles. And there were so few Witchers left, that Geralt imagined the hinge of his heart was fear of losing yet another, when the times showed new monsters and dangers.

It grumbled him the possibility of instead giving his fear the face and name of this woman in particular. Days have passed and seeing the same face every day got stronger against pushing back the walls around the happy memory they guarded. He could hear the fireworks, feel the weakness and the vulnerability. It ached.

"Be careful with those heads," Geralt threatened away. Cannonballs for words have been thrown harder, but this time, Azaras felt the hit through the open cracks of shame. So shameful of how she'd forsaken all reason, which would have otherwise reminded her of Geralt's capabilities well beyond hers, just for some frail care, a sincere instinct to not watch another important person get torn to shreds while life still lingered in her bones.

Azaras dropped the bag with two monster heads at Geralt's feet and met his eyes without a single hitch of intimidation being successfully played. They needed those things, apparently, because Geralt had a hunch someone would either be able to tell what they were, who made them or at least pay them for the material provided.

"Gods grant me patience with the likes of you!" Azaras exclaimed. She had crossed her arms over the faltering hope Geralt would grant her anything else but the bare minimum of numbness, that her shameful realization of care would ever be reprieved. 

He did not understand what she meant by it just then.

The silence that followed on their ride to the nearest fully live town at least revealed there was something to understand in all. Each step built tension, each breath culminated to their paths growing apart in frustration, leaving Geralt to turn left in the town, make it to a mage with some elven-suspicious rumors around themselves, while Azaras turned left from the stable, stormed her way into a bar.

In the midst of the day, only drunks would search the warmth of a humid room where the fireplace burned evermore. Unless of course, as Azaras had happened, it was around noon. Then, the tables would breathe their steaming stews, the overbaked breads and warmer drinks, for the weather has gone cold over these weeks. The winter announced itself long.

Azaras found herself carrying the conspicuous dirt of the road, mixed with the fresher signs of monsters, to sitting at the taller chairs around the bar. She turned some eyes, either her state or the presence of her sword, her bow or even her arrows, which unlike the others, smelled badly. Corpses had no use of keeping her crafted tools, even if her current childish feuds allowed no time spared on cleaning the wood, the stained metal of dark blood.

"Something strong," Azaras ordered for a drink, even though her stomach grumbled for real sustenance. She had realized already the stables argument with Geralt was foolish. Being used to stealing did not suddenly mean she could afford anything, not while her heart feared prison and her pockets were empty.

Feeling bad swept in; she shouldn't have complained about Geralt's option of making money out of the monsters they just killed. The way he put it, the true reason of the bubbling rage Azaras sought to put out in spirits, it was a miracle she was still alive with so many battles in her repertoire, while being so underfed.

Out of spite, she ruled out eating.

"We are a peaceful people." Instead of a relieving alcohol being offered to her, Azaras was addressed by this odd fellow, the owner of the bar, older and fatter, yet somehow cleaner than she was just then.

"Good for you," she faked a flattened smile to him. It was just then she noticed how the lunch chatter thinned away to an almost silence. They all waited for this man to finish his approach on her.

"What I mean by that," he cleared his throat with a humid cough, "is that we don't serve troublemakers, fugitives or... Witchers."

"So which is it then?"

"Pardon me?" His plump cheeks grew red and he puffed his chest to flaunt a bravery he didn't really have. No man would have liked to look intimidated by Azaras just then.

"Troublemaker, fugitive or Witcher?" she leant over the counter, daring the owner to speak his mind. She narrowed her eyes and forced a blabber out of his open mouth. Categorize me, she teased.

"There are no female Witchers," a thinner voice of another man spoke from beside Azaras. It turned her head slowly to that right side, to see the proud smirk of a rather short fellow who wore himself in finner clothes, whose material may have lacked quality, but their colors exploded into attention towards a fine design.

"Whatever this lady orders is on me," he flaunted a wink at the bar keeper, claiming a win against the abrasive welcome and waking himself up to the unflinching observation the woman had on him.

Azaras' eyes showed attention, studying the face of this man until she knew he'd boil a little fluster. That was the point where a certain kind of boys were weaker. "How do you know so much about Witchers?"

"Well-," he immediately stumbled over words. Shifting his posture from one leg on the other, pondering whether or not to seat beside her too, an answer came about, "I happen to be friends with one."

So proud he seemed, but Azaras has never heard anything more unlikely before. She knew, from experience already that Witchers didn't stick around in no one's life, not even those of their own. They'll all leave for so long that time would wash away any titles of relation and possibility for a return. But at least they were fair; Azaras still remember Geralt's whispers of warning during the festivals, when rainbows shone in the clash of their quintessential colored hair.

She paid no mind to this man's words, "Never thought I'd live to see such a bad liar..."

"Am not," he gasped, oh, so offended, drawing in closer to sit next to the woman. He glanced once over her head while continuing, "In fact, me and..." Realization stroke him and he stared back up again, "Geralt!"

Though Azaras was impressed the commoner recognized the Witcher, she was far more intrigued by how fast Geralt had returned and found her. So intrigued that she turned around to him about the time the mug of ale was pushed towards her.

He caught it instead and pushed it back, risking wholeheartedly to receive another pointless quarrel. Instead, she seemed rather preoccupied with interrogations.

"What happened with the heads?"

"We'll sleep here tonight."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"You two know each other?" The boy, who has been watching the exchange most confused to loose any sort of showing off material in front of the woman, stepped now somewhat in the distance between Geralt and the chair Azaras was propped down on.

To that approach, Geralt frowned. Visibly disturbed, his hum was a reaction of tiredness to a person he found particularly annoying when their paths inevitably seemed to collide. "What are you doing here, Jaskier?"

Azaras stared between them, absolute disbelief threatening her with a smile. "So, you two really are friends?" Nothing seemed impossible anymore, not even her stoic Witcher keeping in touch with a common boy.

"I sure hope so," Jaskier raised his chin proudly. Geralt did not cease his glare at how absolutely foolishly Jaskier was attempting a charming smile towards Azaras. Successful with his courting, having earned her smile, Jaskier continued bravely, "I am the one who made Geralt here famous after all. With the song."

A tiresome sigh got Geralt to turn around and press his fists on the table. Adding salt on the wound, Azaras asked, "What song?"

Jaskier was just passing through that town, apparently invited instead to a party up north to entertain guests. His location was scribbled on a parchment, but by heart, after being flustered for a lady, he did not know to say where he was clearly heading. Geralt had to endure hearing that wretched song of lies again; no matter how good Jaskier's voice way, or how enthusiastic got his charm when singing, lies were worse than keeping quiet.

"Where are you going though?" Jaskier asked curiously, at some point when Azaras excused herself from their table and went with the owner of the place to see the room they could be offered for the coin Geralt made off the beast heads. "And since when do you travel with such delightful company? I don't remember ever having seen you anything else but alone... It's a good change, but something tells me it is also something to be concerned about."

"We're hunting a monster," Geralt said a little of the truth.

"Together?" Jaskier laughed, choking on the piece of bread he chewed on and swallowed, for he realized just then that due to being mesmerized, he forgot to take in the details which had made Azaras stand out in the first place. Like the blood. He paled, "She hunts?"

"She's a-" Geralt swallowed his prideful comment in doubtful sighs. Perhaps, he considered, showing off what she is already was a bad call. They did not need to raise waves of attention, they did not need the tension of rumors and all the untruth they are followed by. "She hired me."

"Oh, so she's rich too," Jaskier sighed relieved, to some extent. "Not just an absolute madness alive for looking you dead in the eye. But I have an even better question now." His entire face lit up in hope and smiles, his bubbled being itched with adventure and fugitive passion he felt burning again in his chest. "Do you think I have a chance with her, Geralt?"

"No."

A putting off bluntness shouldn't have come as a surprise if Jaskier didn't know himself as addicted to the knowledge of the soul. Good artists had a flare for the emotions, they could smell the feelings from afar, read into them without fail. To him, it wasn't just Geralt's usual unfiltered sincerity, like the times he complained of his manners, of his antics, but rather a hint of territoriality.

It made Jaskier lean back and smile.

That stupid smile.

Were it anyone else across from him, he would have taken advantage of what he had just learned to tease, but he secretly feared the table was too narrow for Geralt not to simply reach his arm across and damage Jaskier's precious vocal chords in an instant.

"What are you smiling about?" Irritated, Geralt has lost his appetite for his piece of a meal.

"Nothing. May I just have your word then that you will give the lady my farewells at least? I fear I won't be here in the morning, as I must make haste for Arcapan-," Jaskier stopped himself with wide eyes, then a smile. "Ah, yes, I remembered, that is where I must go."

Geralt tried to not let out no sigh of relief that Azaras was not there to hear these mentions of home. He let Jaskier see no sign he even cared about that kingdom in the first place and he got away with a falter of his heart in the eyes of the world. Those eyes closed, they batted their eyelashes together and let the Witcher strip his armour in the dark room their near death experience had earned.

It smelled of lavender.

Azaras must have taken a bath with any such soap she found laying around. In lack of options, she had fallen asleep, effect of the strong scent and on the rhythm of her inhales and exhales from across the room, Geralt undressed the heavy armour, settled the weapons beside his own narrow bed.

Her soft breaths, lullabies to the frozen soul, turned rapidly into whimpers, into scared sighs, sharp exhales. Geralt had just sat down on his bed, ready to lay down when those alerted him to looking up and noticing the extent of her nightmare. She squirmed in her bed, as narrow as his, rolled to the edge and his a cry into her pillow.

"Fuck," Geralt sighed. He knew what he had to do, the decent thing that had to follow, but he despised how much pleasure it brought him too that moment. A step away from her bed, the cries already falled quiet and when he sat down on the edge of her bed, on the corner that delved down besides her, the softness of breaths returned and she calmed.

To that, Geralt smiled. It was a blessing to know, despite all that has happened since they last met, this one thing about Azaras remained the same, making him feel just a little more special.

Azaras nightmare, the usual reliving of the one single day of utter suffocating into abysall weakness, turned into the darkness of the forest, through which, the growl of a black wolf captured her attention. She stared into its yellow eyes as it stepped into the beam of moonlight, letting its fur catch silver hues. The growl died down and the wolf seemed friendly.

An explosion of fire works turned her to look the other way and when she looked back down, the wolf was gone. Beams of colors guided her away, and in the distance she heard the song, the warmth of laughters swarming festivals with joy.

It was there, in the midst of a dance, when she woke up and noticed she was not alone. Geralt was beside her, trying to make the small bed seemed fitter to them both. He was so preoccupied with moving slow that were it not for her to speak, he would not have noticed her facing him with eyes almost open. Azaras wore a smile drunk of sleep.

"Do you still remember the dance?"

In the pasaage between sleeping and awakening, the human form was most sincere, for they did not care to sound some way or be seen in another light. Anything the heart felt, the brain translated, like a humble servent.

Geralt settled back and looked down at her face, softened by a lazy blush, netted over by strands of her dark hair, falling over her lashes, her nose, grazing her lips and covering her shoulders in a blanket, just to have the back of her neck exposed. He sighed and looked away.

"I do," Azarad smiled further. Her cheeks were numb so the smile closed her eyes and only once it was gone, she could blink again to stare up at a returned look. "From all the girls there, you ended up dancing with me. I have never seen my mother angrier than the second the wheeled dance matched our ribbons... and I have never felt more alive before. And you could have let me go after that dance, those ribbons were not so tightly knit, but you stayed and we danced all night long. Do you remember what you told me?"

"Hmm," Geralt hummed. "When the fireworks came..."

"Yes," Azaras nodded, just a little bit more alive, enough to take the blanket from beneath her and toss it over the Witcher in bed with her, inviting him to lay, just not so close to the edge.

"I told you who I was," Geralt remembered clearly, though his words were slow. Somehow, his eyes were attentive to the blanket, mindful of his own soace taken beside the dreamy girl, so alike, but so much different to the warrior he also met in her. "I told you what I do and what I cannot offer."

"And do you remember what I told you?" Azaras' eyes were just a bit wider, now that she didn't look up at him, but rather down, at the blanket they shared.

Geralt felt the pierce of a sting through his chest. He could almost see Eskel's knowing smile, his eyes of not exactly disappointment, knowing he had been right. "You said," Geralt took a deep breath, his voice so low there was no need for whispers so the worlds would roll out quiet and sacred, "you would have felt honored to dance with me even if I was a peasant boy."

"Then I invited you to taste the Arcapan cuisine," Azaras' tiny giggle echoed on the sheets. Her eyes closed again. "We went for a ride in the forest, didn't we? They thought I went missing during the festival while we were living those two days..."

She was sleeping again, but the words lingered as Geralt fully remembered the youth with which he allowed himself to consort. Reckless as it was, Arcapan was close to Kaer Morhen, he went there to have fun during its busiest days, when the option of relaxing still captured him after each bountiful hunt. Instead, he found an unconditioned bond, between him and a woman, between their dances, their skin, the ribbon he still carried, though only one piece of it was left, so dirty it became part of his belt.

Those two days were heaven and Geralt finally drowned in reminiscences of what cruelty had life bestowed, to only bring him back to Azaras when she carried scars unseen.

Turned on his side, Geralt raised his left hand. "You still sleep better when I'm next to you," he whispered the observation that melted the whole of his heart into the crack of a smile. The tips of his fingers descended into a feverish connection to bare of her forhead.

Brushing back the hair, his head laid heavier on his pillow. "I still do too."

A coin of fortune she had given him during the festival, to let him live a life of pure intent, he ought to give it back, now that they were one and the same. The poison in his veins, was a darker liquid in hers too; the flow of darkness, the broken hearts... Geralt did not believe in fate. But if it was that which brought them together when she needed it most, then perhaps the cruel ironies have yet tasted sweeter.

And he ruled out any possibility of her not being a Witcher.

chapter dedicated to -simplyhan
thank you sooo much for this wonderful cover !!