Fate/Infinity

We greet Crow's Perch with bone-deep weariness.

Even I, thanks to Anna's constant cries, am fucking spent.

Thankfully, Phillip's steward; the saint that he is; sorts us each a room pretty quickly.

The moment I hit that straw mattress and furry blanket—surprisingly plush, or maybe I'm just that dead on my feet—it was lights out. 

No drifting, just a thud and darkness.

I wake up to muffled screams and hysterical sobs. Adrenaline surging, I bolt out the door in nothing but dusty trousers, a silent exchange with Ciri the prelude to our race towards the source of the noise. "It's Anna!"

No shit, Sherlock.

She was crying in my ear the whole way here.

We burst through the door, finding the Baron looking utterly helpless and his ex—Anna Strenger flailing like a possessed woman.

"What happened?"

"I just… I brought her chicken soup," He murmurs, voice shaky.

Phillip lifts a trembling leg, nudging the shattered bowl and spilt porridge on the ground. 

Steam curls from what must've been a wonderful meal still; one enjoyed not by human but the micro-organisms probably having the time of their lives.

The woman in question is a blender of thrashing limbs and wide, panicked eyes which dart between the Baron, a table, and the dry stains of spilled wine, meanwhile the maids and the steward are struggling to restrain her limbs. "We need to talk to the Baron… Even if she's unwell, this—it isn't normal."

"She won't bloody calm down!" The steward roars, blood trickling down the corner of his mouth after getting kicked by the madwoman. 

Fucking Hell… All this yelling is only making her hysteria worse, not better.

She'll hurt herself at this rate.

Taking a steadying breath, I step forward.

"All of you, get the Hell off her! I'll take it from here. For fuck's sake…"

What am I, a swiss army knife?!

They all snap their heads towards me, even Anna.

She scrambles off the bed and rushes to my feet in a frantic flurry of limbs; desperate for what she must believe to be safety.

Kneeling down, I meet her eyes on her level, offering myself as a haven instead of a threat.

The woman practically tackles me, arms clinging tight to my neck. "It's alright, it's alright. I'm here."

"Do- Don't leave me here!"

Her voice is hoarse and guttural, choked full of terror. "I don't like this place." 

I stroke her back, a soothing rhythm against the tremors wracking her body. "I don't like him!"

She spits the word, eyes locked on the Baron with a venomous cocktail of hatred and fear.

"Phillip, can you leave for a moment, please?"

I don't want to chase him out of his own bedroom, but his presence is not helping the situation. The Baron licks his lips, then silently departs, his previous joviality nowhere to be seen. "Can you check on him? Keep him out of troubles for me."

The steward instantly catches my meaning. Everybody knows the Baron has drinking issue, and if anyone can talk some sense into him, it'll be the steward who—in spite of his rather reserved demeanor—clearly plays an Alfred / Bestfriend and advisor role to Phillip Strenger. "I'll take care of it. Please watch the Lady, sir Magnus."

The room empties, leaving behind a heavy silence occasionally broken by a despairing sob, while I keep up the soothing pats, fingers tracing gentle circles on Anna's nape like I'd my cat. If it works, it works. Years of experience—mostly unpaid—have made me oddly adept at handling other people's emotional breakdowns. 

'At least this one might come with a paycheck.' I think wryly.

Eventually, exhaustion claims her, and her grip on me loosens.

I tuck her back into bed, gently prying the woman's fingers free. 

Frustration prickles at the edges of my composure, a familiar ache in my temples that my fingers quickly soothe.

With a stealthy exit from the hall, I make a beeline for the office, where I suspect Ciri and the Baron have vanished to.

"—Gods, she was ethereal and breathtaking in way no masterpiece can compare. Anna consumed my every waking thought, haunted my dreams. I loved her more fiercely than life itself. She was my guiding light, the reason I clawed my way out of the abyss of those damned battles."

A bitter laugh escapes him, devoid of humor. "I was utterly smitten… But her heart, that was promised to another. Even after she became my wife, I could feel it, she clung to the ghost of that love." His gaze drifted to some unseen point in the distance. "She looked at me with such disdain, such utter boredom… Not that I was the most devoted of husbands, mind you."

I push open the heavy oak door, catching the Baron absently staring into the depths of the wooden mug.

"You drank a lot."

"Aye." He nods curtly, setting the mug down with a thud and avoiding our gaze. "More than I should have, truth be told."

A humorless smirk twists his lips.

"I lashed out, hurled insults like daggers. Smashed vases, even relieved myself on her precious carpets in a fit of drunken rage once." He runs a calloused hand over his grizzled face.

"One day, after returning from a skirmish, bloodied but breathing, I was met with the news. She'd left me… Taken our daughter—little Tamara—and fled with her lover… Should have gotten farther."

His fists clench, knuckles white as bone, but the emotion carved on his face isn't anger, but a deep, aching sorrow. 

"I hunted them down, found them holed up, snuggling in some godforsaken shack in the wilds. My daughter, she was in a makeshift crib beneath their bed… After he died, she picked up a knife and ran at me. It was the first time I struck her."

The words seem to Lodge in his throat, thick and bitter like poison.

"The rest, as they say, is history. She never looked at me the same after that day. Never let me forget that I was the reason her 'beloved' is gone."

Phillip drains the mug In one long swallow, a desperate attempt to drown the memories. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he adds, words barely a rasp, "I wouldn't touch her after that. Until one night, she stumbled into my private chambers, drunk as a lord and slurring her words. I wasn't exactly sober myself, but I was lucid enough to recognize she was calling his name… Half a year ago, she got pregnant. I don't think Anna ever planned on it, but it happened anyway."

Phillip's hands shake tearfully as he sobs. "I don't know what I was thinking; I don't remember what she was saying, but she told me things—terrible, awful things about my Tammy… Before I realized it, she had ended up on the ground. Our child died never seeing the Sun once."

Neither Ciri nor I move.

We simply stare at the fat drunkard.

"Why? Why did I do that?! Why'd I push her off the staircase when she was carrying my child?"

After a moment of contemplation, I steel myself. The truth, however painful, needs to be spoken.

"The Crones, Phillip," I start, voice betraying not a hint of emotion. "Your wife sought them out; asked them to rid her of the child in exchange for her service as caretaker of the orphans. They fulfilled their end of the bargain, just not as she intends. The ritual… It's killing both her and the babe. Slowly, agonizingly. But you… You bear responsibility as well."

A weary sigh escapes him as he deflates in his seat like a child. "I know… She went to such a length because of me."

I exchange a loaded look with Ciri.

We can't, in good conscience, leave them like this.

This marriage is beyond saving long ago.

Even if the Almighty himself descended from the heavens and commanded these two to reconcile, I doubt he'd succeed. My fingers twitched as if caressing an invisible cigarette, I suggested with nonchalantly, "Perhaps it's time for a divorce—no, you two must separate, for both her sake and yours."

Seeing him readying to protest, I leap onto the table, my eyes locking onto his tear-streaked gaze. "Phillip, you still dream of the woman who rescued you from certain death… You are right to cherish the tenderness she bestowed upon you, but that Anna is no more. It's time to face the truth. It will set both of you free."

"I have to make it up to her." The Baron counters, but gone is the usual strength.

"You could build her an orphanage, let her find solace in nurturing lost Souls. It's the closest you will get to righting your wrongs. But even that won't be enough." Personally, I still believe Anna was to blame for this tragedy, but without his wife and daughter;

Without something to live for, Phillip Strenger will kill himself.

Neither of them is right in the matter.

I can't be his judge, but I can be the guiding light nudging him on another Path—one that hopefully will not end with the Baron hanging from a tree at least.

"Look inside yourself. Become a Lord worthy of respect, a man worthy of admiration. Be someone your daughter can respect. It's not too late, but the only man who can unfuck the mess that is your life is you, Phillip… Live as a man, not a beast."

His hand, drawn by the invisible strings of addiction, reaches for the mug, freezing halfway, the movement stilled by the blank canvas of my expression. "What… What should I do?" The Baron chokes.

"Put the mug down," I reply. "Then work yourself to the bone until Velen becomes a semi-liveable place at least… Make it so the locals can proudly declare they are happy citizens of Velen; of Phillip Strenger. Hope that one day, your daughter will understand."

A small smile touches my lips as I give his shoulder a reassuring pat. "You're capable of it. I believe in you."

Do words truly hold power?

Beneath his flaws, beneath the grime of his mistakes, I see a flicker of yearning.

He wants to do better—to be better, if only someone will allow him the chance.

And by the Gods, I won't let him drown in the mire of his past.

I feel for the old man too much…

'I'm so gonna overcharge them.'

Monster hunting; hostage rescuing and counseling?

This is gonna cost him big…

'Phillip Strenger will never recover financially once I'm done wi—'

That's when the Baron decides to burst into tears.

Oh, for fuck's sake…

If one more person cries on me today, I swear!

Ciri and I depart from the Baron's office ten minutes later.

"You've been awfully quiet." I note, glancing at her.

The Witcheress stares straight ahead, then offers an apologetic laugh. "You seemed like you had things handled, and I didn't have much to add to the conversation, I'm afraid."

"What are your thoughts?"

Silence descends upon us… A long, suffocating silence, far louder than anything I've ever heard before. "I can't say I condone his actions, but…"

A sigh escapes her lips. "There was no good person, was there?"

"Well," I make to reply, yet my tongue stills before I can, instead settling for, "No. Just a bad person, and someone even worse."

Seeing her expression, I chuckle. "Why the sullen look, princess?"

Ciri shrugs, her lips pursed. "That was an extremely heavy conversation… And it's still the middle of the night."

Right on cue, my headache roars back to life. The bastard. "Let's hope this will be the last interruption for the night." I mutter, rubbing my temples. Before I can retreat to my room, Ciri's hand finds its way to my head.

Turning, I stare at her—confused as she gently tousles my hair, fingers ghosting through the wavy strands. "That's for calling me 'princess.'" Ciri explains, a mischievous glint in her eye.

A snort escaping my lips, my voice suddenly turns unnaturally smooth. "That's what you are, isn't it, your Highness?"

Kirei would have been prou—

Ciri throws back her head and laughs, a light, joyful sound that somehow lightens the pressure on my mind. "Goodnight, Leo!" She calls, waving over her shoulder.

"You know I'll get back at you after I regain my form, right?!" Tone dripping with mock menace, I echo.

"You'll try!" The Witcheress shoots back playfully, a hint of dare in her eyes.

Grin splitting my face as the door to her room—opposite to mine—starts to swing shut, I laugh, flicking a coin which she grabs out of midair. "Your prize for the race! Goodnight, Ciri!" Vanishing into my room, I drop on the bed, letting loose a satisfied sigh as sleep claims me once more.

The next morning comes quick; almost too quick.

For the first time since my soul crash-landed in another reality, I can finally have a blissful sleep without the icy dread of the unknown clawing at my mind.

Sure, the Nasuverse was vibrant with Magic and breathtaking mythology, but it was also a powder keg of apocalyptic threats just waiting to blow wide open.

At least here, in the corners of this world, my anxiety have a name: Gaunter O'Dimm.

The Devil he may be, but one with a Code of Honor I can bargain with.

Unlike the Lovecraftian horrors masquerading as humans back on Nasu-Earth, or the Will of the planet just waiting to wipe all of Humanity from existence—forces you just can't negotiate with; forces you pray you never meet. "Yes… A vacation." I mutter, nestling in the blanket.

That's what this place is: A vacation—a grisly vacation perhaps, but one nevertheless. For a advent fan of dark fantasy like myself, it is a sight far more welcoming than the existential nightmare I left behind.

Regrettably, the Witcheress has a penchant for coming at the wrong time.

Fault of Geralt and Yennefer, no doubt.

* Knock!

"Come back later!"

I shout, burying my head under a blanket to muffle the persistent knocking.

Persistence, thy name be Ciri!

* Knock!!!

"The Baron requests our presence at breakfast. Should I inform him that you are indisposed?"

"Yes, please do." I groan, spitting the straw I probably was chewing on in my sleep. "That'd be terrific."

Sinking into sleep once more, I wake up some time later, dropping to the ground as I groggily exit the room.

What would I do for a coffee?

What wouldn't I do?

"Sir Magnus."

With a nonchalant wave, I dismiss the maids, their presence already forgotten as I dunk my face into the waiting basin of water.

"Ah, the sweet taste of aristocracy." Relishing the coolness against my skin, I crack my neck and groan.

A spluttered exhale sends droplets flying, and I spit the last vestiges of sleep into the empty bucket beside me.

"Do you need help, sir?"

The youngest maid inquires, her voice barely a whisper as her fingers, delicate like butterflies, brush my forearm.

She is lovely, undeniably so, with wide, innocent eyes that belie the knowing glint in their depths. 

"So the soldiers have been gossiping, have they?" I muse, my grip tightening on her wrist, gently prying her fingers away. "Tell me, what is it that you want?"

To her credit, she has the decency to blush. "My family—the taxes, they are crippling us, sir. I was hoping… Perhaps you could speak to the Baron on our behalf? Times are hard."

Her plea tugs at a nonexistent thread of compassion. "I'm afraid that's not possible."

Lifting her chin, defiance sparks in her eyes. "Are you certain there's nothing that can persuade you? I am, after all… Still a maiden."

"Where's my companion?" I ask, pointedly ignoring the offer she's dangling in my face. 

The maid stiffens, the momentary blush replaced by a flicker of annoyance.

"She's out hunting with the Baron,"

The maid sing-songs, rising to her feet with a graceful twirl. "'Dancing', they probably are. One man, and one incredibly beautiful young woman… I'd be surprised if they aren't."

It doesn't take a genius to know what she's insinuating.

"Bold of you… Very bold." A low chuckle rumbling in my chest, I rise from my squat. "I'll be sure to put in a good word with the steward. Extra toilet duty for you for the next three days ought to fix that attitude. Alone, and no gloves allowed."

Instantly, the blood drains from her face.

"I believe it's only fair that your hands," I continue, venom laced behind each word. "Should match the dirtiness of your mind and mouth. Wouldn't you agree?"

Storming away, the maid snorts and slams the door behind her.

"Make that four."

Suddebly, my hands still as the information properly registers—Phillip, Ciri, hunting?

Sounds like the beginning of their race. 'Basilisk attack… Ciri's forced to use the Elder Blood and—'

I sprint at the half-finished thought, practically flying out the building when I catch sight of the two riding on the backs of their horses. "Leonis, you're awake!" Enthusiastically, the Witcheress greets, the corpse of a wild boar secured tightly behind her saddle.

Helping her with our 'dinner', I sling the beast over my shoulder and bring it to the kitchen.

The remaining hours of daylight melt away in a haze of routine and surprisingly predictable chaos.

While the Witcheress pummels the training dummies like it owes her money, I am content to merely observe everyone.

Indulge in watered-down ale, I watch as they gamble away their meager earnings.

The day, predictably, ends with a brawl in the ring.

Fists fly, furniture splinters and curses are thrown around—harmless fun really.

They'll all sport bruises come morning, but there is no real animosity, just the sting of defeat and emptied coin purses. 

The Baron saw fit to install Anna and her gaggle of orphans in a renovated house nearby. Apparently, philanthropy is his new coping mechanism, poor lad. He's currently brooding among the flowers, and I, for one, am happy to give him his space. 

A little soul-searching never hurts anyone.

It might even do him wonders.

Eventually, talk turns to the hunt, to Ciri's spectacular kill.

"Come now, Witcheress! No need to hide!" I bellow, my voice ringing across the courtyard. Ciri, in the act of draining a waterskin, nearly chokes, her gaze darting towards our table. 

"There she is!"

I roar, raising my mug in salute. "A toast, to the woman who brought down a wild boar with nothing but a sword!"

"Aye, I'll toast to that!"

Throwing her head back, she laughs at our antic, the sound as bright and clear as a mountain stream, before snatching the mug from my grasp and emptying it in one gulp. Settling beside me with a satisfied sigh, she takes a seat besides me. 

While the fire crackles away, we trade stories, one after another, each more outrageous than the last—some about tales

Finally, the circle reaches Ciri, her presence drawing curious glances. 

"'Eard the Mage call you Witcheress," The local smith chimes in, scratching his beard. "Thought they only accepted lads?"

"They made an exception for me."

"You a she-witcher then?"

She shakes her head. "Not entirely. The mutations—I was never subjected to them, but everything else I learned from the Witchers there."

"Even potion? 'Cause you see, atimes I get this pinchin' on mah bum!"

Chuckling at the man's admittance, I laugh even harder when Ciri herself is rendered speechless.

"You'll have better luck asking a Sorceress or a herbalist."

The rooster's shrill cry slices through our hushed conversation like a blade, signaling the reluctant surrender of night to dawn. 

Most have already slipped away, seeking some shut-eyes, leaving Ciri and me to tend to the campfire. Crow's Perch, for all its rustic charm, cannot be our sanctuary forever.

I'm yet to earn my keep on this journey, and the only way for this 'investment' to have any return is a Mage.

Meanwhile, Ciri… Now that the Hunt's caught trail of her, Velen's no longer safe.

"Where are headed?"

"I heard Novigrad's nice this time of the year."

Took me a while to remember, but I believe Triss is there leading a Mage Revolution.

"It was free city-state where Mages congregated in droves. Who knows? You might even run into your Mage friend there. Phillip's daughter—Tamara is probably there as well."

"Three birds for one stone?"

"There's a major problem, though… Since Redania seized control, Radovid has been fervently pushing the cult of the Eternal Fire."

Narrowing her eyes, Ciri comments, "You don't sound too thrilled about that."

But how can I? "The cult views anything supernatural as a blight on the world and seeks to 'cleanse' the world… By burning us at the stake.

By the time Geralt rode through, they had already turned their hostility towards mutants.

If we so much as hint at anything unnatural, they'll descend upon us like a swarm of flies. That's the thing about fanatics—you cannot reason with them; you can't negotiate.

It's kill or be killed for cultists, and it's this very same irrationality which makes them my direct opposition.

"Is it wise to enter while this is taking place? Security will be tight."

"I have a—"

The Baron chooses that moment to stumble out of the garden, effectively cutting off my sentence.

"Solution." I purr, allowing a wicked grin to spread across my face.

Time to shake the good Baron down.