Chapter Text
Pain!
She lifted her hand to press against her throbbing cheek. Tears welled up and overflowed down her face.
“Stop!” She jumped at the sudden noise. “Matilda, you can’t just hit the girl like that! She’s in shock and she’s…”
A voice like a broom – stiff, prickly, and practical- swept away the shrill censorious words. “And she’s just had some sort of very traumatic experience. I am aware, Selene. However if the girl does not wake up enough to answer some basic questions, her man may well die.”
She looked up and blinked against the candle light. Two women stood before her, both clad in dresses of undyed linen but not poor either. Her eyes hung upon the intricate embroidery. The symbols were familiar but their meanings escaped her.
“Girl!”
She jumped again and sluggishly raised her eyes to the piercing gaze of the smaller woman. The woman nodded in satisfaction.
“Girl, you are in the Temple of Melitele. When your man carried you here, you were unresponsive and slipping into shock. Unfortunately, while we were treating you, your man slipped off into a quiet corner and collapsed. We cannot wake him so you must answer our questions. Does your man have a bad reaction to celandine?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“What about bloodmoss?”
The girl blinked and then shook her head.
The small woman narrowed her almond eyes, “Can you at least tell me what happened to you?”
Water rushing, weight so much weight, pulling her down…
A hand seized her wrist and pulled her up. The girl stumbled up from the bed and staggered after the woman pulling her forward down smooth stone passage ways. She caught the scent of night jasmine before she was roughly pulled into a room and pushed toward a solitary bed. There was a man on it. She was scared of him at first; his face was rough with scars, and his hair and skin were corpse pale. But something about his face - maybe the shape of his lips or the slightly crooked angle of his nose - calmed her heart. She drew closer and felt a quite irresistible urge to take his hand.
The small woman hovered across the man’s sick bed like a particularly persistent crow. “This man saved your life when he brought you here. You must pull yourself together and save him right back.”
The girl clung to the lax hand whose rough callouses promised safety. Her other hand traveled up the man’s chest to rest on his breast. “His medallion… it’s gone.”
“Girl…” the woman growled but the girl kept on, “He never takes it off, never, not even when he is sleeping. A wolf’s head…” She blinked slowly, “I have to find it. He needs it. The Wolf, the wolf’s head medallion.”
The small woman peered down at the man and slowly pealed back one eyelid to reveal a dead cat’s eye, still and unresponsive to the light. “A witcher…” the woman murmured and looked up, “Well done, girl.”
The girl drew herself up in distant anger, “I have a name, you know.” The words sounded like they were being delivered by an actor playing her, whoever she was, on a stage.
“Really?” the woman drawled sarcastically and brushed back greyish strands of hair into her neat black bun, “What is it then?”
The girl opened her mouth than shut it again. She was silent for a long still moment. “I don’t know.”
The taller woman behind them made a sound of dismay which was swiftly drowned out by the shorter woman’s snort. “Well, we have to call you something. Until you remember; we’ll call you Lisle.” She smirked, “Lisle the Wanderer,”
The girl, Lisle, found herself humming a tune. It was catchy and bright but somehow sad too. The small woman nodded. “You know the song.”
Lisle looked up at her, “I don’t know the words.”
The small woman snorted again and answered, “Neither do I, but not knowing the words has never stopped me from singing. Now shush and hold your man’s hand while we work.”
The two women bustled around the sick man and Lisle. They mixed potions, dribbled some in his mouth, and wiped on salves. All the while Lisle sat still and watched. Finally the taller woman smiled in awkward relief and sank down onto a bench to rest. Her eyes fell on Lisle and softened.
“Lisle, dear. I am Selene, Priestess of Melitele. Our temple is a quiet place, out here in the country, but there is no better pace to recover the wounds done to your spirit. Stay and rest. Pray with us and heal.”
The shorter woman’s mouth twitched upwards but did not quite change from its stern line. “I am Matilda, Priestess of Melitele. You are welcome here.” She carried over a jug of fresh well water and three cups expertly cradled in one hand. “Now girl. I believe your witcher is stable. Likely enough, he’ll get better on his own.” She sipped some water, “Yet it is uncommon for a witcher to collapse. If he takes a turn for the worse, we will need to know more to be able to treat him properly.”
Her sister priestess looked at her with a kind but reproving glance, “Matilda, the child needs rest not an interrogation.” Matilda sighed and fell silent.
The girl called Lisle clutched at the man’s hand. For some reason, the thought of losing this man- a stranger to her- filled her with such fear. Her mouth grew dry and she trembled. Matilda’s sharp eyes focused on her.
“Right now,” she said briskly, “We are treating his symptoms. However it is a healer’s prerogative to treat the cause of the illness, not the symptom it creates.” She stopped there and the silence was faintly judgmental.
Lisle bowed her head under that judgmental weight, but inside something flared to life in anger. A small beaten down voice rallied. How dare this woman judge her? Never the less, the voice inside was weak and quickly Lisle found herself talking.
“We were in the water. That’s what I remember. Salt on my lips and being pulled down and down and..”
“Drink your water.”
Lisle started and tremulously lifted her cup to her lips. The priestesses shared a glance. Selene rose and began moving quietly around the room. Matilda hummed thoughtfully and said in a calculatedly casual tone. “When he brought you here, your skirts were torn and ragged. Cut away from your bodice. We thought…”
Lisle stared into the water of her cup. The waves crashing over her face. Salt stinging her eyes. Coughing and gasping for breath. The man’s arm wrapped around her chest; like being strangled by an iron bar. A flash of moonlight reflecting not off the water but a knife.
“Geralt…”
The water was pulling her under, pressing her like a vice against his arm. Then a sudden release from the weight. Foul words from behind her as her head cracked into his. Then movement, the arm around her chest dragging her backwards through the water.
The smell of salt mingled with lavender. There was no lavender out at sea. Lisle blinked and turned around. Selene kept calmly lighting incense and Lisle breathed in the fresh smell.
“You said Geralt.” Lisle swung her face back forward to Matilda. “Is that his name?”
“Yes. At least I think so. He was in the water with me. He cut away my skirts. He was trying to rescue me.”
Matilda nodded, “Geralt shows symptoms of acute cold, dangerous cold in fact...”
“Cold?” Lisle tilted her head.
“Cold kills.” Matilda said briskly. “You show as Northern bred. Surely you know this.”
“Of course,” Lisle answered without thinking, “Someone caught in the snow can died without a mark on them, but we were just in the water…”
Matilda rolled her eyes, “Water is cold and your body needs to maintain a certain temperature. Even a small change in temperature is enough to kill if it lasts long enough. And if you went in to the water where I expect, then the two of you were several miles offshore. Easily long enough for the chill of the water to kill you both.”
Lisle unconsciously began chaffing the hand she held. “But why…” she trailed off.
“Why are you fine?” Matilda finished. “I don’t know and I am very curious.”
A light crack of brittle sound caught Lisle attention and she turned to see Selene crumbling a piece of salt onto an incense brazier. Lisle rose and walked over to it. The metal was warm and the smell of salt began to fill the room.
“Get on top of it!”
Lisle flinched as a low rough voice cut through her mind. Wet wood tore at her hands and ripped her fingernails as she desperately tried to haul herself out of the water onto the flotsam Geralt held steady. The scraps of mast and rigging bobbed up and down like an unruly horse as she desperately clung on. The wind whipped at her cold skin and she began shivering violently.
Geralt swore viciously and slapped his palm against the metal rings wrapping the mast. The metal grew hot so fast Lisle flinched up and the water around her grew warm and steamy. Listle clung hard as another wave powered over them. Salt stung her eyes as she struggled hear Geralt over the crashing of the waves.
“Just hold on, for me. Please, hold on!”
“Lisle…”
Lisle breathed in and coughed. Selene pulled her away from the incense and guided her back to her seat. Lisle grabbed Geralt’s hand and lifted it to her lips. She tasted salt still lingering on his cold skin. Selene and Matilda waited patiently for her to gather her thoughts.
“He, he can do magic. Fire, I think I remember.” Geralt’s fierce face lit up by the glow of sudden flame and the screams of her enemies dying. Lisle shook her head. “He heated the water; kept me warm.”
“Ah!” Selene broke into an excited sigh. “That’s it then!” She turned to Matilda excitedly. “Magical exhaustion…”
“Combined with physical exhaustion, acute cold; yes, he’s probably done quite a bit of damage to himself. If he has abused his natural channels for magic by continuing to try and cast beyond his limits, yes, he may well have done himself a real injury.”
“But,” Lisle looked between the two of them anxiously, “You can heal him, yes?”
They gave her identical calm looks. “Neither of us is powerful enough to be trained as a sorcerous, my dear.” Selene said kindly. “So we cannot simply heal him through magical means. We are trained to help though and Matilda has some minor talent. He will recover in time. The real danger is that his glandular systems, the way his body protects itself from illness, have been severely weakened. While he is healing, he will be in great danger of normal sicknesses that would never even bother him under normal circumstances.”
“As cold and wet as he got,” Matilda continued, “I fully expect him to contract the common flux or, in the worst case, pneumonia. Fortunately, he is in the best place possible for him. A warm bed with healer ready to treat any illness that presents itself.”
Selene stood up and reached out to place a gentle hand on Lisle’s shoulder. “And now let’s get you tucked into a warm bed. It’s time to heal.”
The temple of Melitele was a very good place to heal. Scents of newly baked bread herald the rising sun, quiet voices of the faithful coming to make offerings to the goddess drift on the air like flower petals in the spring, and the weathered stones of the long echoing hallways grow warm in the afternoon sun. Lisle visited with Geralt every day to tend him as his lungs filled with phlegm and he coughed weakly but never woke. She would have stayed all day, but the priestesses encouraged Lisle to take time for herself.
Lisle found she enjoyed sitting in the garden and eventually helping Selene to tend it. She did not care for the smelly apothecary room where Selene took the fruits and flowers of the garden to turn them into medicines. Lisle enjoyed the library Matilda cared for, drifting to the books of poetry rather than the histories and scriptures Matilda patiently copied. The big map of the Northern Realms, carefully framed and hung on the library wall, always drew her attention. She spent time every day staring at it; wondering where she came from.
But as her body healed from the chill of the sea and the bruises of Geralt’s saving grip on her arms, her mind refused to open the gates of memory. She spoke to Selene of it often; the older woman always willing to sit and listen. Most often they took tea in the late afternoon in Geralt’s sick room. After a full week, Lisle finally snapped.
“When am I going to remember, Selene! I know it’s there. I can feel it; like a word trapped on the tip of my tongue. I can remember I like pottage and hate onions, but I can’t even remember my own name!”
Selene hummed thoughtfully as she poured herself more tea. “You need to give yourself time. Time is the greatest healer of all.”
“I have given myself time! Geralt still hasn’t woken and what if it is because of something I’ve forgotten? I cannot simply wait because this effects more than just me. I know that he needs me! But why?” She turned and gripped Geralt’s lax hand. “He’s mine. I need to remember.”
Selene tipped her head and considered Lisle. Slowly, as if reluctant to speak, she said, “Sometimes the mind protects the soul by keeping a person from remembering something. Some hurts are wounds of the soul; deep and life changing. Most commonly, I find this happens in children who need that kind of protection.” Selene eyed her, “Or in young women who have been raped. Something happens which is such a brutal invasion, physical or emotional, that the mind cannot accept how much their life will be changed by the event. Consequentially it refuses to accept that the event happened. A way to pretend life can continue on as it had before.”
Lisle shuddered, “Do you think that’s what happened to me? That someone raped me?”
“Perhaps. I did at first, certainly.” Selene said calmly, “When a man comes in carrying a bruised swooning girl with her skirts torn up, it is a common conclusion. But perhaps no. No, I think your mind is hiding something more emotional than physical.”
Lisle shook her head in frustration, “But nothing is coming back to me! Help me, please! I need to know!”
Selene pursed her lips then let out a long slow breath. “You wear a wedding ring on your hand.”
Lisle blinked and looked down at her left hand. Sure enough on her hand was a simple golden ring. She twisted it curiously. “I never even noticed it.” It felt right on her hand; common and natural.
Selene nodded. “Geralt… is not wearing a wedding ring.”
Lisle blinked and looked up at her calm face. “What?”
“Where is your husband, Lisle?”
At first, the words didn’t make sense to her. “Excuse me, could you repeat that? I didn’t quite…”
Her husband. A young face, older than her but still young. Hair black as night, blacker yet when her pale hands carded through it. Warm soft skin with lines from laughter slowly creasing the corners of his beautiful eyes. Her hand clasped in his with matching rings twinkling in the torch light.
Lisle looked up at Selene in shock. “My husband…”
Selene looked at her sadly. “What happened when you told him about Geralt, dear? Did he react badly to your betrayal?”
Lisle froze. “My betrayal?” Her words were barely a whisper of air.
Sudden silver light filled the room and made Selene flinch back. The girl rose and her eyes burned with silver fire. “HE BETRAYED ME!” Her words broke the air like thunder as power emanated wildly from her towering form. Selene fled back to the doorway as items around the room began to rattle and rise into the air. The girl screamed and the power tripled.
Matilda came running. “What in sweet Melitele’s name is going on?” Selene shouted back but the power emanating from the girl kept her from being heard. Matilda stared into the room and then screamed as loud as she could.
“Lisle! Lisle!” The girl showed no sign of hearing her. “Girl! Listen! You are going to hurt Geralt! You need to control yourself! Look at him!”
It seemed, at first, like Matilda’s words had no effect but slowly the girl turned to look down at the man still in his sickbed. He was grimacing in pain. The girl knelt and took his hand. The silver maelstrom began to calm and the pained expression eased from Geralt’s face. The flying objects slowly drifted down until all was still. Silence filled the air only to be broken by a quiet murmur from Geralt’s lips.
“Pa…ve…tta…”
The girl bowed her head to kiss his hand. “It’s alright, Geralt. I’m here. I remember now. I’ll take care of everything.” The silver fire smoldered in her eyes, banked but not extinguished.
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“I’ve told you, Pavetta. Until you have control over your power, you are just going to be a danger to those around you. You are undisciplined and weak. If you want to be able to see your child again before winter, control yourself.”
Pavetta snarled and stalked out of Matilda’s workroom. She stomped down the hallways and out into the bright morning sunlight. She threw herself down on the soft clover and screamed into her hands. A soft chuckle made her turn her glare onto Selene. The sun shone off Selene’s golden hair tied back in long plaits. The older woman knelt beside an herb bed and was tenderly separating tiny sprouts.
Pavetta huffed and rolled onto her back to stare up at the puffy white clouds. “She keeps telling me to control myself, over and over, as if somehow or another knowing what to do is just going to spring into my head by divine inspiration.”
Selene laughed, “You never know; it just might.”
Pavetta huffed. Selene sat up and regarded her kindly. “Dear Pavetta. I think it would be lovely if you would tell me about your mother.”
Pavetta sat up too, “My mother?”
Selene nodded, “You have told us precious little and, for the most part, the details of your story matter little. But it strikes me that if you have such difficulty with control, perhaps you have not had much practice with it?” Selene blinked slowly like a sleepy cat in the sunlight. “How much control have you had over your own life?”
Pavetta wet her lips and played with her long silver blond hair. “Precious little,” she admitted at last.
Selene nodded, “It is a common problem for women. Their fathers and mothers control them all their childhood. Then they marry and their husbands control them. Even if their husbands die, their in-laws can rule their life still. Precious few women have the opportunity to control their own lives.” Selene’s eyes drifted over to Pavetta like a puffy cloud. “Mostly only noblewomen.”
Pavetta stiffened and then sighed heavily, “You know, don’t you?”
Selene’s long fingers sorted the weeds from the sprouts slowly and carefully. “A messenger came from Cintra announcing that the Prince and Princess of Cintra are suspected of being killed in a ship wreck. They are searching the coast for your bodies.”
Pavetta crawled closer, “Why didn’t you give me up?”
“Why didn’t you go home when your memories returned?”
They sat in silence under the rising sun. Pavetta listened to the birds singing and Selene waited patiently until she was ready to speak. “My mother enjoys control. Like you mentioned, her father controlled her and then when she married my father, he made all the decisions; often against her advice. I think it was such a relief to her when he died.”
“Oh she’d never said it like that, but she loves ruling Cintra. She loves making the decisions and watching the men around her dance to her tune. She was so disappointed when I turn out to enjoy quietly reading in the garden rather than learning to fight or manipulate.” Pavetta laughed, “Here she was, ready to begin a great new dynasty; to lead forth and show the world what female leaders could do and her only daughter wanted nothing more than romance and a quiet life.”
Pavetta pulled up a handful of grass, “I was a big disappointment to her, I am sure. Even more so, when I got pregnant. You don’t know this man, she told me. He is using you. He is just trying to steal your throne. I told her no. That he loved me. That he would rule by my side. That I could trust him.”
“I really thought I could.”
Selene didn’t say anything. It felt a little like Pavetta was reciting her life out to the garden for nature to do with it as it willed. Pavetta didn’t know whether that felt good or bad. It felt wrong to just end there, though.
“After the wedding, things were wonderful. I had Duny with me and his presence softened the pain of my mother still controlling everything; from our clothes, to the food, to where we went, and how our daughter was to be raised. It was normal for me and I never even guessed how much it must have torn at Duny. He should have talked to me!”
Selene nodded thoughtfully, “Did you have control over any aspect of your life?”
Pavetta blushed and looked away. “I, umm, Duny, he… we liked to play games in the bedroom. He would let me… rule him…” She glanced up and when she did not see censure on Selene’s face, Pavetta was able to continue. “I was in charge and it felt wonderful.”
Selene nodded and asked quietly, “Did you have complete control over him?”
Pavetta nodded and then hesitated. “No, we had a signal. A little something to tell me if Duny was uncomfortable or wanted to stop.”
Selene looked up, “That was very wise of you. I have seen others in your position who, in their desire for control, took advantage of their partner. Many times they hurt them badly.”
Pavetta smiled fondly, “We had a good teacher.”
Selene raised an eyebrow, “But… that did mean that you were sharing the power between you. Did that bother you?”
Pavetta shook her head, “No, no it was us. Can you understand? What was his was mine and what was mine was his.”
Selene tilted her head in that bird like way of hers, “Including Geralt?”
Pavetta pressed her hands to her burning cheeks and nodded. Selene chuckled, “Well, unconventional to be sure, but you were happy?”
“We were so happy.”
“Were you?”
Pavetta looked up and met Selene’s inquisitive gaze. She blinked slowly before she continued. “Was Geralt, a common man and a witcher happy at your restrictive royal court? Was your husband happy being ruled so aggressively by your mother, his mother-in-law?” Pavetta wet suddenly dry lips. “Was your child happy…”
“Stop it!”
Pavetta stood up, her fist clenched angrily and silver fire starting to glow from her eyes. “Don’t you ever talk about my child like that! You don’t know her. We were happy!” She fled rather than face Selene’s calm eyes.
Pavetta found herself in the library. Her hands travelled over the books of poetry. On a whim, she pulled out a copy of Lesarus’ 'Grass and the Wind', one of her favorite poet’s best collections. She opened it and casually glanced at the page.
‘If destiny wills us to part, would you throw off all you know and follow me? Would you give up your right name and rest unknown upon my breast? Will you still love me in another country? Will you still love me by another name? Will you still love me if all the world cursed my name? For I would you, if such demands were made.’
Pavetta slammed the book shut and dropped it to the floor. “You were supposed to follow me. Not I you,” she hissed.
“Refrain from taking your anger out on my books, if you please.”
Pavetta turned and snapped out, “What exactly am I supposed to take my anger out on then?” Matilda just stared at her reproachfully. “No, enough judgement, enough lectures!” She beat on her chest, “I want this to stop hurting. I want to be able to think without every moment being cut by this betrayal. I don’t want to be the weak victim anymore!”
“Then change!” Matilda snapped back. “You want control of your life then take it!”
“I can’t!” Pavetta screamed, “The only way I can get control is away from my mother, but all my power comes from her. I can’t even control this magic inside my very bones. How am I supposed to take the power I want to get my revenge!”
The echoes of her screams lingered like a bad taste in the mouth. Matilda frowned at her. “Is that what you really want?”
“What?” Pavetta whispered, no louder than the hissing of the torches.
“I’ve tried to motivate you so many ways. For your child, for your lover, for your mother, against your mother, but not a single thing has motivated you as much as revenge for your betrayal.”
Pavetta hugged herself, “I never said I was perfect,” she muttered resentfully.
“No one is,” Matilda said sharply, “But revenge is a poisoned blade that will cut you even as it destroys what you hate.”
“I don’t care! I don’t care. I don’t.”
“You might in the future.”
Pavetta looked up angrily, “Then that will be my problem in the future.” She swallowed against a big lump in her throat. “What god will help me?” she demanded, “I need help. I need clarity and vision to seek my vengeance. I will make whatever sacrifices are necessary. What god will help me?”
Matilda stared at her across the silent library. “There are many gods who would give you what you think you want for a little blood spilt on the right stone. However if you are serious about what you have just asked for, then Melitele will help you best.”
“Melitele” Pavetta said scornfully. “A sweet goddess of love and motherhood, of children and childbirth. How is she…”
“If you think that love is all innocent devotion and romance, then you have been reading too many novels. Love has turned your own heart to a shard of glass, has it not?”
Pavetta could barely breath under the weight of Matilda’s words.
“You haven’t said it, but I have read it in every word you haven’t said. You love your husband. You love him deeply and you will forever. That’s why his betrayal, whatever it was, cuts you to your soul. Love is the most powerful force there is. Ask any child who cries in the night for a dead father and mother. Ask the woman who hacks a begging man into pieces with an ax for raping her daughter. Ask a man who works himself into an early grave to feed his family. Ask them the price of love and the power it can create.”
Pavetta groped forward until she could grab Matilda’s hand, “Yes,” she hissed out. Her eyes were wild with wonder and hurt. “I will do anything for my vengeance.”
Matilda stared at her a moment longer before sighing heavily. “Bring a black pig to the temple by the next full moon and we will ask.”
Pavetta squeezed her hand and darted away. Matilda sighed again and picked up the book. “Foolish girl.”