The Divine Hunter - Chapter 561

Chapter 561: Birth

[TL: Asuka]

[PR: Ash]

Kaer Morhen. A towering fortress sleeping within the snow-capped Blue Mountains. It was almost deserted and in disrepair for decades, but now new life was breathed into it. The leaves and weeds piling up in the courtyard were cleaned away, and the training grounds saw new stakes, pendulums, and dummies installed in it. The rundown benches, observation deck, and walls were refurbished and repainted. The towers were gleaming under the sunlight.

In a stark room, a pair of sorceresses lived. They leaned on the windowsill, staring at the snowy expanse beyond the fortress.

“It’s been a month since you came here, Lydia. How do you feel now?” Coral looked at the woman on her left.

She was slender, and her chestnut colored hair was tied in a bun behind her head. Lydia had taken off the mask she’d worn for twenty years, revealing her true face. The top half radiated intelligence and elegance. Her brows were light as ink dipped in water, her eyes bright and quiet as a still pond in a forest. Her nose was petite, and her lips were lusciously pink.

However, from the chin down to her neck, Lydia’s appearance was a nightmare. Burn marks, scabs, and cysts were everywhere, and one of her arms was prosthetic.

“I’m really sorry, Coral.” Lydia’s voice was hoarse and scraping. Her vocal cords were severely damaged. “I’ve served him for twenty years. He was my master, my everything, and my reason to live.” Lydia’s eyes were glistening with tears. “I-I can’t forget about him.”

“I know. Vilgefortz was an incredible man. Dashing, capable, and magically gifted,” said Coral. “But he would never have fallen in love with anyone. He only loved himself. You heard his answer to Roy’s question. He never saw you as more than a tool. You committed evil despite what your conscience told you, all because of him. You have blood on your hands, but unlike Vilgefortz and his cohorts, you still have a conscience. That’s why Roy spared you.”

The mention of that witcher left conflicting feelings in Lydia’s heart. She looked at her almost lifelike prosthetic, and her heart swelled with hatred and gratitude. Roy brought an end to her life of servitude, but now she did not know where the future lay.

Coral gazed at her fellow sorceress and persuaded, “He’s been dead for months now. No longer can he exploit you or your feelings for him. It is time to let go, Lydia. Live for yourself.”

Lydia looked at Coral, a little dazed. The older sorceress wrapped her arm around Lydia’s shoulder. “Kaer Morhen is a beautiful place. We can look into the legacy Vilgefortz left behind. And with the children around, there’ll never be a dull moment. Now I need you to prepare some mutagens and herbs. He’ll need it when he comes back,” said Coral.

“Okay.”

***

Eskel stood atop the wooden scaffolding overseeing the broken parapet. He slapped bricks into the missing parts. Most of the walls had been filled in. The succubus was by his side, donned in thick cotton clothes. She handed him a canteen.

Eskel took a sip and smiled at the succubus.

The apprentice witchers stared at the couple, and righteous anger flared in their eyes.

“Stop staring, Monti. Focus on the job, and pick up the pace. You’re slow as a snail. Didn’t sleep last night?”

“Last night? I haven’t slept well for two months. Carl hugs me every night like I’m Vicki. Almost suffocated me, the guy.”

Someone coughed.

“I thought Kaer Morhen had everything.” Monti had dark circles under his eyes. He grumbled, “There’s nothing but empty stone houses here, and we had to sleep on the same bed.”

“And we had to make it ourselves too,” Charname grumbled.

“Hey, this isn’t fair. Why do we have to work on the buildings?” Acamuthorm swung his wooden trowel in agitation. “We wanna go on a trip like everybody else.”

“Yeah. We’re not carpenters. We should be training. Casting Signs. Not cutting wood,” Charname complained while he and Lloyd were pulling the saw back and forth in sync, cutting off the wood of the scaffolding.

Serrit and Auckes were making a wooden bed about six feet six inches long. They had the base down, and the witchers were immersed in the job, as if they were professional carpenters.

“We almost refurbished the whole place in two months. Don’t you think this is the kind of achievement we should be proud of?”

The apprentices were particularly annoyed about that. They’d been working on repairs and refurbishments for two months, and without any pay too. All the expectations they had prior to this trip were dashed.

“And you’ve seen everything around this place. Heard all the stories too. And you’ve visited your predecessors’ graves.”

Eskel shook his head, carefully sliding a triangular brick into a triangular hole. “The cyclop’s dead. Only his skeleton remains. Bears are in hibernation too, given the season. The harpies aren’t showing up either, and Carl’s dealt with the foglet. You can go sightseeing, but that’s just boring. Woodworking and masonry’s more fun to learn.”

Serrit tucked his knife away and took out a file from the toolkit beside him. “And you can at least have a job when you retire from being a witcher.” The witcher cut the wood, creating a piece of art from the simple material he had.

“But Roy said there’s a family of trolls on that mountain. He said you could talk to them if they get a bit of vodka. We didn’t get to talk to them last time.” Carl looked at the confusing blueprints. He couldn’t make any sense of it for a long time. When he finally managed to at least glean a bit of knowledge, he made a simple circle on a log.

“You want to talk to the trolls?” Auckes glanced at the apprentices. “Yeah, no. They’re going to turn you into stew. Trolls are far stronger than the guards you fought. They have fists bigger than your heads, and their skin’s nearly impenetrable. Oh, and their favorite food is human children.”

The apprentices winced just from hearing that. The newbie witchers sneered, their eyes flaring with fighting spirit.

“You barely have enough experience in battle as is. Better memorize my thesis before you even think about meeting a troll,” said Serrit proudly.

Eskel wiped the sweat off his forehead. “If you’re tired of all this work, Grimm’s always happy to spar with you kids.”

The apprentices shook their heads vigorously, obviously not taking the idea well.

“Why’s Grimm still around anyway?”

The children were more than annoyed at this point. Grimm wouldn’t stop sparring with them for months. To make things worse, he’d try to inculcate the virtues of knighthood into them, despite their clear reluctance.

They thought knights were supposed to be paragons of virtue, but Grimm took morality to another level and wouldn’t stop talking about it with them.

***

Behind Kaer Morhen was a mountain. There was a cliff with a narrow path surrounded by a rickety wooden fence. The fence oversaw a snow-covered prairie, the swaying pine woods, and a fog-covered hill just over yonder.

A wide river gushed through the ravine between mountains, the stream gurgling.

Grimm sneezed and rubbed his nose. “By the honor of a knight, I swear someone is talking behind my back.” He stared at the witcher ahead. “Coen, are you certain the Lady of the Lake is in this river? We have spent two months dueling before this river, and yet she has never shown herself to us.”

Coen nimbly climbed up the small slope beside the cliff. In the woods beyond the river, a group of children were happily whiling away their time. Some were foraging for herbs, some were drawing, some were doing poetry, some were fishing, and some were in a hide-and-seek session. The air was filled with the children’s laughter.

“Roy claims that you possess all the virtues of a knight.” Coen pulled his clothes tighter, surreptitiously pouting. “But you lack a certain element.”

“Which is?”

“You’re a guest. First lesson you have to learn is to control your impulses. Don’t keep asking the children for duels, and stop lecturing them.” Coen turned around and solemnly said, “They’re witchers, not knights. They’re not that easily brainwashed.”

Grimm held the hilt of his sword as he quickly sidled to Coen. “By my honor, this is just a bad habit of mine, and it dies hard. Despite my continued defeats, I can feel my skill growing.”

If Grimm didn’t use his weapon, he would have a more difficult time with the apprentices.

“I need someone to measure my growth. Cahir will be a good sparring partner. Speaking of which, how is he doing? It has been months since he went to Skellige. Is there any news?”

“For all we know, Bran might’ve lopped his head off.” Coen smiled at Grimm. “Just joking. Perhaps Cahir found a new goal on Skellige and doesn’t want to return anymore.”

***

Cahir was in the stable of Bran’s castle. The knight had a black apron tied around him, and his hands were covered with gloves. He brushed the last horse in the stables clean and patted the steed’s mane. A bitter smile curled his lips.

His request to meet Ciri was denied by Geralt. The White Wolf could not find it in himself to forgive Ciri’s captor. When Cahir thought all was lost, another witcher gave him hope. That witcher was a peculiar one. His gaze was sharp, but there was trust in it. It almost felt like the witcher had known him for a long time.

With Roy’s backing, Cahir made it to An Skellig, but before he could meet the princess, Bran sentenced him to the dungeons with the pretext of ‘punishing a Nilfgaardian spy.’ For some reason, however, he was released and made a servant of the castle.

Cahir became a stableman, and a mighty busy one at that. His days consisted of nothing but work and sleep. Work was nothing but feeding and grooming the steeds of Skellige’s lords, but his abode was almost undesirable. It was but a small hut beside the stables. The air reeked of the steeds’ stench.

As an elite knight of Nilfgaard, Cahir had experience grooming horses, and he took to the job easily enough. However, he still couldn’t see the princess. Nay, he couldn’t even see the steward, much less anyone more important than him. The knight had a feeling someone was watching him, but he accepted his fate. Shortly after he began his journey with Grimm, he was no longer a Nilfgaardian spy. He was but a humble sinner, seeking redemption.

***

It was a special day. Dawn had just broken through the horizon, but the air itself felt tense. The cooks and servants around the castle were nervous and anticipatory at the same time. It was as though a storm was coming, but at the same time, the promise of warm sunshine followed.

The black horse licked the stableman’s neck. Cahir patted the steed’s neck and stared at the upper levels of the castle. “Something’s happening in that room. Perhaps someone important is inside.”

***

Calanthe’s room was firmly locked. Standing in the corridor were a group of people, nervous. King Bran was present, of course, with a bear hide cape draped on his shoulders. And Birna stood by him, her face caked in beautiful, gleaming makeup. Their son, Svanrige, was there as well.

Crach an Craite and his children were there too, as well as Geralt and Roy. Ciri, of course, would not miss this event for anything. She was dressed in a light blue dress, looking as groomed as a princess could be. The young princess muttered under her breath, balling her hands and loosening them up quickly. She paced around the corridor, her eyes filled with concern for her family.

“Can ya stop it, Ciri? Yer makin’ my head spin, an’ I hate that!” Crach grabbed his niece’s braid.

Hjalmar rubbed the scar on his face, teasing, “It’s not ye givin’ birth, Ciri. Ain’t gonna do anythin’ worryin’ so much.”

Ciri harrumphed and cracked her fingers. Hjalmar brought his left hand to his mouth, covering it.

“Alright, we know yer a good sorceress, but don’t use yer magic on yer cousin,” Cerys pleaded.

“Grandmother’s not young anymore. Did you hear how much she was screaming? And it’s not like I get a new family member every day. I want them both to be safe.” Ciri approached Geralt and held his hand.

Hjalmar heaved a sigh of relief, but he hung his head low. Ciri’s magical education was bearing fruit. She could easily take him down now. How am I supposed to convince her to marry me?

“They’re not wrong, Ciri.” Geralt stared at the shut door, patting Ciri. “This isn’t Calanthe’s first child, and your grandmother’s always been on the stronger side. And Yen is taking care of things inside.”

Geralt smiled. Never did he expect Yennefer of Vengerberg to be a midwife, and for a queen, no less. Still, given her age, it was not surprising that the sorceress knew about female medical care.

Ciri pursed her lips, but she nodded.

“Ciri’s calm enough, but I can’t say the same for him.” Svanrige looked at the bench on the left of the door, where a black-haired witcher sat.

Roy would glance at the door ever so frequently, listening to the screams and shouts within, all the while having a tense look on his face. He would bury his face in his hands and take a deep breath before he got up for a worried walk. The air around him reeked of concern. It almost felt like he was the father of the infant.

The Skellige royalty were looking at Roy with conflicted gazes. Calanthe had told them about the witcher’s bond with her unborn child through the Law of Surprise. If it weren’t for the islander’s faith in Freya and destiny, they’d have cut down the insolent witcher by now.

And then a loud cry rang across the air. Everyone quickly huddled around the door. Ciri was in the front row, her eyes big as saucepans. She held her breath.

Hurried footsteps approached them, then the door swung open. Yennefer stood before the bed. She was in clean, comfortable white clothes. There was shock on her face, her hair swaying behind. The sorceress stared at the infant Calanthe was holding in her arms, her eyes twinkling with surprise.

The former queen of Cintra’s eyes shone with the love of a mother. Love for the beautiful baby she was holding in her arms. The umbilical cord was cut. The baby had purplish skin covered in a white layer of fat.

Bran stared at the infant, a big, fat grin stretching his lips. “Good job, Calanthe. Eist finally has a descendant!” He nervously wiped his hands on his shirt. “By Freya, she’s heavy. About 9 pounds, I reckon? A child of the sea, indeed. So, Cerys, do you mind her taking your title of Sparrowhawk?”

Cerys was grinning as well. She nodded, captivated by the baby.

Calanthe scanned everyone and nodded gratefully. She was too weak to even speak.

“Ah, she’s marvelous.” Brina chuckled. Her eyes were twinkling as well. “She’ll grow up gorgeous.”

“Of course she will. My aunt is…” Ciri frowned, surprised and a little troubled, muttering, “actually quite ugly. Her skin’s purple. And there’s white stuff everywhere.”

“Shut it, duckling!” Yennefer skewered Ciri with a sharp look. “Even gods start out as nothing but regular babies. You were a lot more grotesque when you were born.”

“T-That’s just a joke, isn’t it?”

“Outta the way, Ciri. Lemme kiss the baby.”

“Don’t even try, Crach. Your hands are dirty as the dumpster. And your beard’s filled with alcohol. Ugh, I smell fish, and are those leftovers I see? Don’t kiss her. You’re going to make her sick.”

“Ah, she’s a Skellige girl. She ain’t that weak.”

And the baby cried.

“See? You made her cry, you big oaf.

Geralt frowned. He stared at Yennefer and Crach, thinking that they were a bit too friendly with each other.

“Oh, let me do it. I just had a big serving of liquor. Perfectly healthy.” Bran rubbed his gigantic hands together.

And the baby cried. Again.

“Sorry, Your Majesty. She doesn’t like you very much either. And stop glaring, Geralt. You’re scaring her. Don’t poke her, Ciri! And stay away. I don’t want any more chain reactions happening.”

Yennefer was screaming and warning everyone. The air was livelier all of a sudden.

“Roy.” Calanthe turned around and looked at Roy. The witcher was standing far away, nervous but a little anticipatory.

Yennefer sternly said, “Don’t just stand there, Roy. She’s calling you.”

“I…” The witcher came ahead and stared at the bald, wrinkly baby. Something magnificent welled within his heart. There was joy and a bond forming between him and the baby. A close bond.

He wasn’t even an adult yet, and yet he could feel a close connection to the baby as if she were his own child. The Elder Blood cheered in delight, resonating softly with the blood within the child. It made Roy tipsy, as though he’d drunk a bottle of liquor.

Calanthe raised her head, her face glistening. She looked at Roy, her eyes twinkling with a smile. “Why don’t you christen her, Roy?”

“What?” The news shocked everyone. None could believe that a queen would allow a witcher to name her baby. They wondered if Calanthe had gone mad.

“Why does Roy get to name her? Why can’t I do it?” Ciri pouted.

“Consider this carefully, Calanthe. Yes, he did lend a great deal of assistance to you, but…” Bran gently dissuaded.

The queen and Crach and Crach’s family shook their heads as well.

Calanthe told them softly, “This is what destiny has led us to. Destiny not even Freya herself will disobey.” She was adamant about having the witcher name the baby, and she held her up to him.

Strangely enough, the baby stopped crying the moment she got closer to Roy. She blinked at him and gurgled happily, then she extended her hands at him, her eyes twinkling with yearning.

This was their first meeting, and yet the baby seemed to have known the witcher for a long time. She had nothing but trust in him. Roy extended an arm over the baby’s back, holding her head and part of her shoulder. He cradled her hips and waist with his right arm, holding her up carefully.

Flames flickered. For a moment, the infant took on another image. It was the girl Roy had seen in his vision. A thin veil covered her vague visage. She had hair black as ebony and eyes green as a forest. The girl was petite.

Roy’s boiling Elder Blood was slowly coming down. Thanks to the baby’s trust, Roy’s Elder Blood and hers merged easily. The witcher knew he had permission to use her blood to strengthen his. Especially the bloodline’s space-time powers.

“She shall be named Eileni.” A word that meant beauty and luck in Elder Speech.

And then a chain connected their hearts. Roy trembled for a moment as the bond between him and Eileni grew deeper. He closed his eyes. Aside from Eileni’s location, he could feel her breathing, heartbeat, and even physical condition.

Calanthe quickly took her daughter back and gently touched her chest with a finger. “Do you like that name?”

Eileni gurgled.

“Very well, then, my dear. Henceforth, you shall be known as Eileni Fiona Tuirseach Riannon.”

Eileni’s happy gurgles echoed throughout the room. Everyone smiled.

“I’m counting on you, Roy.” Calanthe smiled at the witcher. “You’ve given Eileni her name. Do please take good care of her. Keep her safe.”

The bond in Roy’s heart felt warm and fuzzy. He smiled. “Eileni, my Unexpected Child. I swear I shall forevermore grant you my protection. On my name as a witcher.”

***