‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ CHAPTER TWELVE ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
the fjords of an skellig

   THE FJORDS OF AN SKELLIG WERE silent except for the wind rushing through the branches of trees and the distant sound of birds flying overhead. In the distance, the screech of sirens. She could see them flying above a rock in the centre, a small thing that couldn't even be considered an island, they dipped down into the water for a few minutes and then flew up to the sky with a loud screech. Their hands were bloody, the water from where they flew up darker than it had been. 

   She had read countless stories where the sirens were monsters and men the heroes, but her favourites had always been the ones where the siren and lamias had once been friendly towards men and accepted the clumsy attempts of courtship from sailors. That was when she was a child had her eyes had been covered by innocence, or what could have been considered as innocence. 

   Now, as a woman, she understood why sirens and lamias held no kindling of friendship with men. 

   "Beautiful creatures, eh?" Her eldest brother stood at her side, the wind blowing his braids across his face and towards the water in front of them. His eyes were focused on the rock in the centre, the small inlet with sirens flying overhead and swimming around. "There were times where I wished to catch one as my wife."

   Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Kidnap a siren for a wife?" she muttered, loud enough for him to hear her. "No wonder they detest humans."

   Fenrir let out a chuckle. "I didn't mean kidnap a siren, I meant—"

   "Catch," she stopped him from continuing. "You said catch one as your wife. Is there a difference between catch and kidnap that I don't know about?"

   He shook his head. "You wouldn't understand."

   "Because I am a woman?" She raised a single brow and tilted her head to the side as she looked at him. "You should understand, Fenrir, that it is because I am a woman that I understand."

   Fenrir stared at her, the corner of his mouth rising. "When did you grow?" he asked, voice low enough to almost be drowned out by the screeching of the sirens.

   She clenched her jaw. "When Father had the druids and mages experiment on me," she simply said, "or did you forget that, too?"

   His jaw clenched and his eyes hardened. "No." He turned his face back to the sirens. "I have been the only one in this family that has not forgotten how the druids treated you when you were a child."

   "Oh?" A soft laugh escaped her mouth as she turned back to face the small camp they had made the moment they arrived. There were only a few people in the camp alongside them, guards that had been too afraid to venture to the fjords of the isle but had only accepted to go the moment she stood by her brother's side with a bored expression and said she would go. They were men that wanted to prove themselves to Fenrir. "If you are the only one that has not forgotten, why is the very druid that tortured me here?"

   One druid had followed them, claiming he would heal the injured. He was an old, fat man with flaxen hair and a bushy beard, his eyes almost hidden beneath bushy eyebrows. Thick fingers hidden beneath the sleeves of black robes made Rennen want to pull out the knife at her side and push it through his throat, see the white ground become red red red with his blood. The very sight of him made the fury she was so familiar with rising up to her chest and spread to every corner of her body. 

   "Sterryll?" Fenrir questioned. 

   "That's what he's going to be when I cut off his balls."

   A booming laugh came from his mouth. "Rennen," he laughed, shaking his head. "Where the fuck did you learn to talk like that?"

   A loud screech echoed in the small clearing.

   Rennen's hand fell on the hilt of the sword at her side, a fine blade she could balance in her hand. She had brought it with her the moment she realised that it was not a mere steel sword but one coated in silver, it only needed a bit of polishing for the silver to shine with the hint of sunlight that came through the cloudy sky at moments. 

   "You had to laugh!" She pulled the sword from the hilt and put herself in a stance, eyes to the sky. Three sirens flew overhead. "You couldn't keep that big mouth of yours shut, Fenrir?"

   Another laugh escaped her brother's mouth. "Where would the fun be in that?"

   She held the sword's hilt with both hands, watching the sirens fly overhead as they screeched and their claws pushed out. "You take the first one that comes down," she said, then smiled as her eyes fell to him. "I'll take the other two."

   "And leave all the fun to you?" Fenrir stood in a fighting stance, an axe in each hand and a growing smile on his mouth. "I don't think so."

   The sirens dipped down, claws reaching out and mouths opened wide to tear into whatever they could. One siren first, followed by another and then another. They hunted in flocks. 

   "Step back!" Rennen yelled, taking steps back. She kept her eyes focused on the sirens that dipped and tried to reach for her, trying her best to pull to the side so they wouldn't be able to catch her. If they sunk their claws into her, they could rip her arm off as quickly as if it were a rock on the shore.

   She could hear the men behind her breathe heavily and whimper at the sight of the sirens, scream as they dipped low to catch them. Her eyes could not focus on them if she wanted to keep herself alive. She took a stance on stable ground and held up the sword's blade against her forearm to balance it, eyes focused on the sirens. 

   One reached out for her with her claws, mouths opened wide to reveal rows of sharp fangs that could easily tear apart her skin. 

   Rennen swung her sword. It caught on the centre of her fin-like wing and tore the skin until it appeared like two wings. A butterfly. The siren fell to the ground with a loud thump and a louder screech. She did not think as she pushed her sword onto the siren's chest. Another siren swooped down towards her when she pulled her sword out, a similar screech and claws reaching out. The assassin did not wait for the perfect strike but swung her sword until it touched flesh and brought her down. 

    Again and again, until the shore of the fjord was covered in blood and the bodies of sirens.

   Another siren swooped down when she steadied herself. Claws dug into her shoulder, tearing at not only her leathers but at her skin. The warm feel of blood falling down her chest was something familiar, a welcome feeling at some point, but at that moment it was a bothersome pain that she did not need. 

   A groan left her mouth as she ignored the pain and swung the sword until it caught the siren's wing. The moment it landed on the ground with a thud, she did not wait to plunge her sword onto the siren's chest and see her writhe. Her eyes, when she looked up, were a lot like a human's. The sclera was white, the iris a deep grey like the rocks that surrounded them, and the pupil black. She even had eyelashes. . .

   The siren stopped writhing around the sword and lay still atop the rocks, blood colouring them from their usual whites and greys.

   "Rennen!" Fenrir was at her side in a moment, his hand on her shoulder to spin her around to face him. His face was as bloody as his clothes, a simple gash on his cheek. "Where did it get you?"

   She blinked. "What?"

   "Where did it get you?" he repeated. "The siren, Rennen, where did it get you?" His eyes focused on her left shoulder.

   She pulled away from him. "I'm fine," she said as she grabbed the sword from the body and made her way back to the camp. "Just get me some boiling water."

   "For?"

   "Just get it."

   The moment she went inside her tent, she pulled off her leathers as gently as she could. Her shoulder was red. She did not need to look hard to see the three deep gashes from her collarbone, down to the space between her arm and her body, and to mid-shoulder. They were wide and deep enough to need to be closed by hand instead of naturally, bleeding more whenever she slowly moved her arm. 

   A groan left her mouth, more from annoyance than from the pain. The cut would be bothersome to travel to Cintra in the following days, the constant cleaning and changing of the strips, the fact that she could not move freely around the deck with the rest of the crew but stand to the side. The only person that had ever helped her with her wounds since she left Skellige had been Riordaine and Jaskier.

   She stilled at the thought of them. The last time she saw Riordaine was when she left the Sanctuary, sleeping on her bed naked and with no knowledge that she would not be returning for some time. And Jaskier. . . The look in his eyes after she told him she did not want him, the harsh way his mouth straightened when she called him bard instead of his name. Even then, with her hand pressed against the open wounds and fingers beginning to stain red, she could vividly imagine Jaskier walking away from her in Novigrad; when he stopped to turn and look at her. . . She did not want to see his face, did not want to see him run back to her and wrap her in his arms to give her a kiss that would weaken her thoughts. He would do that, she knew, because Jaskier was not only a man who enjoyed sex and his theatrics but a romantic. 

   The flaps to her tent opened and let in the cold air from the outside. 

   "Hot water," Fenrir said as he laid a stone bowl full to the brim with steaming water. "And I brought Sterryll to see that nasty thing the siren gave you."

   Rennen stilled. Her eyes moved from the bowl to the fat druid standing in front of the flaps, head bowed down and a wooden box in his hands. "No," she said.

   "No?" Fenrir laid his hands on his waist and rolled his eyes. "Rennen, stop being childish and let him heal you."

   She scoffed. "Heal me? I will not let that sorry excuse of a druid anywhere near me," she spat, eyes boring at the mentioned man. "He touched me enough when I was a child and left behind his traces. Now, is that childish for you, Fenrir?" She let him see the countless scars that had not healed correctly that adorned her body. Those were the ones the druid had closed without care, a simple stitch that would not even hold clothes together for a moment. Only so she would stop bleeding.

   His jaw clenched. "I did not mean. . ." He glanced around the tent and cleared his throat. 

   "You didn't mean what?" She raised a brow and tilted her head to the side. "That my hatred of the man who tortured me is childish?" 

   "No, I meant—"

   She raised a hand to stop him from speaking. "That's enough," she said. Her eyes fell on the druid, with his head bowed down and hands trembling. She could hear whatever was inside rattle and clink together. "You, Sterile—"

   "Sterryll," he corrected. "My name is Sterryll, Lady Rennen."

   "I don't care what your name is." She already knew his name and she did not want to mention it, because she knew her mouth would taste of something rotted. "Leave that box and leave this tent before I kill you."

   "Rennen!" The harsh way Fenrir's voice echoed through the tent was that of a jarl, of a commander of a legion. 

   Her eyes drifted to her brother. "My intentions are clear, Fenrir," she said. "If this man comes closer to me, I will kill him."

   The druid cleared his throat and laid the box in front of her feet, then retreated with his head still bowed. "I only did what was asked of me, Lady Rennen," he said. 

   "What was asked of you?" Her hand closed to a fist. "If Torgeir asked you to throw yourself into siren infested waters, would you do so?"

   The druid looked up, his eyes meeting hers for the first time. "If it would stop the destruction of the isles and the Continent, yes."

   Rennen grabbed a dagger she kept hidden in her boot and closed the distance between them, pushing the sharp edge against the fat man's neck. "How about I do you a favour, Sterile?" A wicked smile formed around her lips as she pushed the dagger deeper against his neck. She saw red begin to push from the dagger and the man beneath it let out a whine of pain. "I'll kill you before the world ends."

   "La-Lady Rennen!" He fell to his knees in front of her, bowing his head until his forehead touched the floor. "Ple-please, forgive me!"

   "Forgive you?" He was too close to her feet. She lifted her leg and let the tip of her boot hit his chin, throwing him back. It was not a hard hit. "I do not forgive. Why should I forgive you for what you did?"

   "I only did what was asked of me!"

   She barked a laugh. "What if I told you that killing you is what was asked of me?" She stepped on his chest and leaned down to look at his face. Sweat beaded on his brow, his mouth trembled with his hands, and all he did was stare up at her with wide eyes. "For the good of the isles and the Continent, eh, Sterile?"

────── ⚔ ──────

   Rennen did not kill the druid, although she desired to see him gasp for hair when she cut a slice clean through his throat, death would have been too easy and too kind for him. Instead, she ignored him. The quick and calculated glances over the fire in the centre of the camp, the smile that would rise to one corner of her mouth when he began to shake in his seat. He would quickly excuse himself and move somewhere else, between two of the men. For protection. She wanted to laugh, but instead silently relished in the fright that appeared in his eyes whenever he looked at her. 

   There were four other men in the camp: Vil of Faroe, Knorr, Mjairn of Fainsson, and a man that refused to lift the hood from his head or even open his mouth to speak. His name was unknown to everyone in their small group, but she had seen the countless scars that adorned his hands whenever he picked at the food that was given to him. Thin, white scars that had healed over the course of his lifetime, given to him by things he did not speak of. 

   That only made Rennen more curious.

   She sat by his side whenever they were around the fire to share their meals, walked near him as they moved around the fjords in search of ingredients for the druid would take back to his circle. Nothing, though. Not a speck of his hair or any distinguishable feature that would make him different from all the other men.

   Out of the few men that had accompanied them, she preferred his silence. 

    The fjords were full of monsters and beasts, and the druid had been too afraid to go on his own so Torgeir had made a few men follow him. She only went because she needed to breathe the fresh air of the fjords, to see the contrast of the white snow and the blue waters and the grey rocks. If she could, she would have been gone by herself. The silence of the water slowly pushing against the rocks on the shore, the distant shriek of sirens and birds, and at night the howling of the wolves. It was comfortable. 

   Rennen closed her eyes at the edge of the shore and inhaled the cold air, letting it fill her lungs. It was the harsh cold air she was used to, the comfort of somewhere that was never home but she had stayed for too long.

   She left her clothes on a big rock and took careful steps to the cold water. A hot bath would have been better, but she was tired of boiling water and having little time to bathe herself. The cold water felt strange on her skin as she stepped deeper, as if she did not belong among the coldness that she felt most comfortable with. She submerged herself and stayed underwater for as long as she could, letting the coldness soak into her being. 

   The sky was dark except for the stars and the crescent moon, the only light Rennen needed as she bathed. The distant fire of the camp meant nothing to her, she knew the men were too afraid of the monsters that lurked in the night, and perhaps they were afraid to be near her as well. It was fine with her. There was nothing more than she desired than to be alone, something she was familiar and comfortable with. 

   She pushed herself to the surface of the water and pushed her hair away from her face. On the shore stood the man who always wore his hood. He stood too still. For a moment, she thought he was a large rock that had appeared out of nowhere, but then his cloak moved with the wind.

   "Are you the kind of man," she called out, "that enjoys to stare at women while they bathe without their knowledge?"

   The man did not answer, but she thought she heard a huff. 

   "If not, why are you standing there?" She took a step forward, towards the shore and towards him. "Do you wish to join me?"

   At this, the man tilted his head to the side. "I'm here for someone," the man said. His voice was deep and rich, raspy but pleasant to listen to in the few seconds he spoke. It was the kind of voice she liked to hear.

   "If you're here to kill me, then do so after I get dressed." She swam back to the shore. "Would you turn around while I get dressed or do you wish to stare at me while I do that, too?" 

   The man stood still for only a moment,  then he turned around to face their camp. 

   She dressed slowly, taking her time with drying and admiring the slit of moonlight against the waters. It was only after she felt too cold that she completely dressed. She sat on a large rock and began to pull on her boots, but stopped halfway and glanced up at the man with a careful but wicked smile. "Are you going to try and kill me now?"

   He turned around and huffed. 

   She ran a hand through her wet hair and sighed. "Then why did you stare at me as I took bathed?"

   "Rennen of Skellige." He said her name so carefully, tasting how it felt on his tongue. She wondered if her name tasted sweet.

   "Aye, that's me. What do you want?"

   "You're a difficult woman to find," the man said, then huffed. "More difficult to speak with."

   "You're in front of me, aren't you?" She stood and laid her hands on her waist. The man was taller than her, with broad shoulders beneath his cloak. Wisps of silver hair were on his shoulders, brushing against his chin with the wind. Everything he wore was black, the only hint of colour a wolf medallion against his chest. "I'm not that difficult. Why are you here?"

   The man let out a huff and looked up, yet his eyes were still hooded with the shadows. "Someone paid me to find you," he simply said. 

   "And you did. Now, what do you plan to do with me?" She took another step forward and laid her hand against his chest, near the medallion. Her shoulders stiffened and her jaw clenched. It was the familiar pull of magic that pushed through her palm and up the rest of her arm, reaching for every corner of her being. It was wrong. Whatever that magic was, it felt worse than any other magic that had touched her. 

   It wasn't supposed to be there.

   The man grabbed her wrist, cold fingers against her skin, and pushed it away from him. "Nothing," he responded. "I was paid to make sure you were alive."

   If she clenched her teeth harder, they would crack. "Who sent you?" Her fingers brushed against the hilt of the dagger at her side. "And who the fuck are you?"

   He sighed and pulled off his hood. 

   Rennen took a step back, and almost stumbled with the rocks. The familiar amber coloured eyes that had haunted her dreams since she first saw him that night in the whorehouse at Blaviken, the milk-white hair that seemed only a hint longer since she saw him all those years ago. Familiar, yet still a stranger. 

   "Geralt. . ." She had not said his name in so long, not thought about him for so long, but she remembered. After all, it was a name hard to forget after the fame that followed it.

   Geralt of Rivia, the famed witcher, stood before her with his arms to his side and amber-coloured eyes staring back at her. They did not waver.

   She pulled out the dagger and pointed it at him. "I never thought of fighting a witcher. This can be something I can brag about." Her mouth became dry. "I thought witchers only went after monsters."

   He stared at her, amber eyes focused on her face, not bothered by the dagger pointed at him. "I'm not going to kill you."

   "Then why did you accept a contract with my name?"

   "There is no contract," he said, and then shrugged his shoulders. "And it paid well."

   "I'll pay you more to leave and say nothing."

   "It doesn't work like that."

   She took a step forward, lowered the dagger to where the point was against his ribs. If he had the same biology as every other human or human-like being, his heart and lung would be right beneath her blade. "Then how are we going to work this out, Geralt of Rivia?" There was no denying the witcher in front of her was handsome, especially with the way he stared at her with a blank face and the small quirk of his lips. It disappeared immediately.

   A hum left his throat as he laid two fingers against the blade of the dagger and pushed it away as if it were a speck of dust. "I don't plan on killing you any time soon, Rennen."

   She pouted. "Why?" she asked as she put the dagger back in its scabbard. "I hoped for a fight."

   A ghost of a smile formed around his lips. That did not disappear for a while. "If that's what m'lady desires."

   "A lady?" She wondered if he remembered her from those years ago, from Blaviken and Posada. Did he remember the swift encounter in the hallway of the whorehouse, the quick glance at each other that left an imprint she could not forget about? And the one when they met Filavandrel, King of the Elves, when he was tied up with Jaskier at his back and she had a contract to finish with Toruviel? 

   Geralt did not answer. His eyes drifted down from her face to her chest. "I see you don't wear your broach."

   He remembers. 

   "Should I announce to everyone that I am in the Dark Brotherhood?" She ran a hand through her hair and tried to detangle what she could with her fingers. "I'm surprised you remember."

   He did not respond. His eyes drifted up to her face. The amber colour in them was a stark difference in the night, the only thing that stood out against his pale skin and even paler hair. "You're hard to forget, Rennen of Skellige," he said. 

   Something stirred in her that made her arch a brow and quirk her mouth to the side. "Oh? Entertain me, then. What's so hard to forget about me?"

   "You're the first member of the Dark Brotherhood that's not tried to kill me."

   "We're only just meeting," she said with a chuckle. "Stay longer and perhaps you'll find my blade against your throat."

   His fingers flexed against his thigh. "You're the first to not try to kill me before allowing me to get a word in."

   "Many must have prayed your name, witcher."

   "None have been able to go through, assassin."

   "Then, how about a contract for my head?" She took a step back and settled against a large rock, letting the cold winds of the fjords of An Skellig cool the warmth of her skin. It felt suffocating, having the witcher so close to her. "Have you had one of those?"

   Geralt stood for a couple of moments, then took a seat on the large rock by hers. "None so far."

   She let out a hum, nodding. "If I had more fame, perhaps."

   He smiled.

   For that moment, Rennen thought she was staring at something new and odd and brilliant all at the same time. She could not look away. His eyes crinkled, there were laugh lines around his mouth and she thought his teeth appeared like fangs beneath the faint moonlight. They were normal teeth, like the ones inside her mouth. On his chin was a dimple. She was entranced by the witcher, and she could not look away even if she wanted, but she didn't want to. She wanted to keep looking, find something new that would leave her in awe.

   His armour was dark leather, strong and flexible to fight against monsters and men. Two longswords were strapped on his back, he carefully took them off and laid them at his side. Her eyes moved to his chest, to the wolf medallion that hung around his neck. She reached for it absentmindedly, the buzz of the magic immediately pushing through the tips of her fingers. Needles. She felt like hundreds of needles were pushing through the tip of her fingers and making their way up her arm. 

   Geralt did not push her away. "Does it hurt?"

   "No-no, it just. . ." She pulled away when the needles were at her elbows, pressed her fingers against her palm to soothe whatever kind of magic came from the medallion. "Is it magic?"

   "It detects magic," he explained. 

   "Does it hurt you?"

   A scoff left the witcher's mouth, leaving behind a small smile. "No."

   Her brows furrowed. "So, if it detects magic, does it not detect you?"

   "It doesn't work like that, Rennen."

   "I'm no witcher, Geralt, so I don't know how—" she waved her hand at him "—whatever you do works. For all I know, you're stalling while someone else comes from behind to stab me in the back."

   "I work alone," he simply said.

   She rolled her eyes. "So do I."

   "There are other assassins."

   "There are other witchers." She tilted her head to the side and raised a brow as she let her cheek rest against her palm. Although she didn't know if that were true because witchers were rare just like basilisks were rare—a dying breed. "Although, I believe there are more assassins than witchers."

   Geralt only stared at her, a hand on his thigh and the other dangling in front of him. His only response was a grunt.

   Rennen leaned back on the rock, her hands holding her from falling. The waves of the water were careful, a melody that made her feel just as calm as the water was. There were no sirens circling the air or the water, but there were no animals as well. It was a silent night, the laughter of the camp behind them the only sound. The company of the witcher at her side was not welcome, but it did not make her feel as terrible as the company of the men behind them.

   "Who sent you?" she asked again. 

   He was silent, then he sighed, "Jaskier." He said the name as if it was an annoyance that made him tired the moment it left his mouth. 

   Rennen only stayed silent. "Jaskier?" She did not want to show the strange surge that pushed through her chest, so she swallowed back whatever else wanted to leave her mouth. "That sounds like him."

   Geralt only hummed. 

   She turned her head to look at him. "Why would you accept this instead of accepting some contract for some monster on the mainland? I hear muire d'yaeblen are rampant near the waters these days."

   "It paid plenty."

   She scoffed. "I can't imagine where Jaskier got all that money from, then." She knew of his career as a troubadour, an artist with his lute and his voice that went from tavern to inn and earned his coin, but she couldn't imagine him putting all that money into the bank to grow his fortune. He liked to enjoy his life as if he had no tomorrow, steady but full of adventures. "I'll pay you handsomely, Geralt."

   He did not say anything but merely nodded.

   "And when you return to Jaskier, you can tell him to stop searching for me," she said, voice low enough to be carried by the breeze. She knew he heard her. "I don't want to see him."

   Geralt stared at her. "You're a terrible liar."

   She whipped her head to look at him. "I'm a terrible liar?" She was an assassin, lying was a skill she had acquired through the years and she could not be bad at it. How could this man who she barely knew, know if she was lying or not?

   "I heard your heart."

   "You heard my heart. . ." she repeated, furrowing her brows. "Is that part of being a witcher, hearing things that no one else can? What else can you hear?"

   He was silent, staring at her. "Back in the camp, they're talking about you." A soft smile appeared on his lips. "They're afraid of you, especially that druid."

   "As he should."

   "So is your brother."

   She clenched her jaw and looked away from him, towards the water. "Good," she finally said. She slapped her hands against her thighs and stood, going to her bag to pull out a deck of cards she kept in the bottom whenever she was bored. "How about a game of Gwent, Geralt?"

   His eyes focused on the deck of cards, a small smile spreading on his lips. "Fine," he said as he shifted on the rock. "What will you bet?"

   Her eyes brightened at the little bit of freedom the witcher brought out at the mention of the card game. He looked so casual as he pulled out his own deck of cards and leaned to the side, his eyes focused on her.

   She took a seat back on the rock but left enough space where she could place the cards and begin their game. "How about this: if you win, I'll pay you double of what Jaskier paid you."

   "And if you win?"

   A wicked grin formed around her lips as she stared into the eyes of the witcher. "You tell me a truth."