Steam penetrates my hand as it lingers over the boiling pot on the stove, my eyes glazed as I watch the muscles flex on the back of my scarred hand as it stirs absently at the seething liquid. The herbs clinging to the edge of the pot release a strong scent of home that can be smelled even outside in the garden, though my thoughts are far from such a pleasant place. I can't help but think of my daughter, whose pale hair occasionally catches my gaze from the window as she fusses with the new gelding she's brought home, my eyes wandering from her and then back to the thin scars that run alongside the metacarpals in my hand.
We never mention the similarities between my scars and hers, even when her gaze later lingers on my hand when she joins me at the table and I carefully serve a steaming spoonful of soup into her bowl. I eat in silence, Elwinel filling the quiet with boisterous banter as she fills me in on everything she's done with her new gelding in the week since she brought him home. She's used to my quiet, her eyes pulling up at the edges in response to the smile I give her as she chatters on. Quiet as I am, I never tire of hearing her speak - not after having once wondered if I would ever hear her voice again.
Too soon, it seems, she's gathering up the dishes and carrying them off to the sink as we bid one another good-bye for the day - the ritual not ending until she's reassured me of her every plan for the day, and told me who will be with her and when she will be checking in with Varna, her adopted grandfather. Even then, a tight ball of worry settles in my stomach, a familiar companion I know won't depart until I see her again, safe and sound, later this evening. Were it not for Varna's urging, the poor girl would never leave my sight, but alas, I can always count on him to talk some sense into me - or nonsense, in this case - but the old man is sterner even than I when he wants to be.
And so, Elwinel leaves for the day, her eyes bright with excitement as she coaxes her new companion out to the cobbled street where she'll guide him down the road to break him in at the arena where she trains. There, she'll be under the watchful eye of a Hylda, a hot-tempered, bossy, and delightful dwarven women who took a hammer to the knees of the one young lad who was stupid enough to lay a finger on El' during her first week there. (We've been fast friends ever since.)
The next few hours of my morning are filled with chores - many of which Elwinel has already tended to. Still, I take the time to brush out my own horse, cleaning and trimming her hooves, and treating her to a bag of oats before she's finally saddled so we can set off into town ourselves. The ride is broken with the periodic stops at the various message boards between the house and our destination. Etrielle is familiar with the routine, and she lingers at my side, occasionally nudging my elbow as I pull various notices off of the boards and slip them into a tube on my belt.
Midday is still a few hours off by the time I reach the edge of town, Emhyr's scowl visible the moment I've crested over the bridge leading to the city gates. I can't help but smirk at the sterness in his posture, his arms crossed over his chest as though his entire day has been taxed by having to stand there, resolutely refusing to relax against the stone walls as he awaits my arrival. Etrielle's hooves click hollowly on the wood of the bridge as we approach, the sound parting the commonfolk as they smartly avoid the horse's steady gait as she makes her way toward Emhyr intently.
"You're late," he says curtly the moment I begin to slide off of my saddle, Etrielle already trying to turn off toward the stable where she knows the stablehand will reward her with something tasty.
"I'm not," I reply firmly, my hand going up to count the widths between the sun and the horizon. "Three hours past sunrise. Same time as every other day."
"I've been here an hour already," Emhyr insists, his scowl never lessening though I know I'm right. "An hour we could have used looking for work."
"I've already gathered five notices we can check into," I respond with a raised eyebrow as I release Etrielle's reigns to the stablehand. "You could have as many if you hadn't wasted an hour standing here waiting for me."
"If you would just move into town-," he starts before I interrupt sharply.
"I am not moving into the city," I say roughly as I pull the notices from my belt and shove them toward him, the discussion ending before its even begun. "An old woman is Glennbrook says her dead husband keeps breaking into her barn at night and scaring off the horses. Another couple in the same village claims an imp has been getting into their cellar and making off with their food stores."
"There's no such thing as imps," Emhyr rolls his eyes as he takes the notices, looking through them with interest nonetheless.
"I know that," I sigh as I give him an irritated look. "Still might be worth looking into. Somehow I doubt there's a corpse walking around, either, but clearly someone is causing trouble in Glennbrook."
"Not interested in mundane troubles," Emhyr says with annoying finality as he tries to hand the papers back to me. "We're witch hunters - this? This is work for charlatans with phony holy water."
"It's work," I insist sharply as I shove the notices back toward him and start off past the gates. "And besides - what would your superiors say if they heard you refused to investigate a potential necromancer or some other unnatural anomaly? Worst case scenario, we stop a thief and get paid. Best case, we find some heathen raising the dead and you get to send someone to the pyre. There is no downside.
"But lets see what else we can find," I concede as I glance back at him over my shoulder. "Might be something more worthwhile in town."
"There's never anything worthwhile in this town," Emhyr sighs in agitation as he tucks the notices into his belt and follows after me. "This whole city is full of heathens and pagans, peddling their damned magic as though it were some simple commodity like bread or shoes. They don't hire witch hunters.[i]"
"And it's better in Novigrad?" I ask with a scoff as I make my way toward the first notice board within the city walls. "Where there's a dozen jobs, and five dozen hunters all vying to finish it before anyone else can collect on it? We make more here than we'll ever make in that shithole just for the simple fact that we're the [i]only hunters here. Even heathens and pagans have troubles with magic, Emhyr. More even than the commonfolk, I wager - and they're smart enough to know when a curse is a curse and not just a raging case of pubic lice."
Emhyr shudders at that and nods solemnly, "True enough," he admits. "I pray we never have a case like that again."
"I think you were more embarrassed than he was, honestly," I say with a laugh as I glance back at him, the stern man refusing to return my gaze even now. "For a grown man, you sure are terribly uncomfortable with something as basic as human anatomy."
"I don't have any reason to see another man's testicles, Solas," Emhyr responds gravely. "And let's just leave it at that, shall we?"
"If you say so," I smirk before turning my attention to the noticeboard, the mud squishing under my boots as I weave through the handful of people passing in front of it. Most of what I read is boring, tedious ads for an exchange of services, a few 'lost' and 'found' postings, many mispelled and barely legible scribblings, and a couple of 'looking for love' notices (which have all clearly been ignored for some time).
"Nothing," I sigh as I return to Emhyr before waving him toward some vague direction. "Your turn - maybe you'll have better luck than I."
***
But Emhyr's luck was no better, our search taking us all over the city as we combed through notice board after notice board. Much to Emhyr's disdain, we found little more than a posting asking for help moving a large set of drawers into a very magically inclined household. Emhyr was so disgusted, he wouldn't even accept the ten silver pieces the woman offered. I, however, was happy to take his pay as well as mine.
"Do you know what Solas means?" I ask some time after the job is complete, Emhyr's heavy footsteps still carrying the weight of his foul temper as we make our way to the market square. The odd question gives him some hesitation, however, and I'm quick to grasp at it. "It means pride." I say matter-of-factly. "So I'm finding it rather odd that you're being the one who's too damned prideful to do a little manual labor for some extra coin."
Emhyr only rolls his eyes as he returns to his angry walking. "It's nothing to do with manual labor," he says the word with such disgust that I can only offer a disbelieving, "Mm-hmm," in response.
"It's the fact they're all so blatant with their witchcraft!" he snaps back at me as he wheels around on his heel. "Did you not see all the black magic dolls she had hanging in her window?! Not even a shred of concern about her actions!"
"Well, in her defense, they were worry dolls, not black magic dolls," I say with a frown, Emhyr faltering questioningly as I sigh at his lack of understanding. "Worry dolls... they're made by children, out of twigs and string and bits of colored cloth for the clothes... they then whisper their fears and worries into their ears, and place them under their pillows - or, in this case, hang them in the window - and the dolls carry the fears away and dispel the evil from the child's mind. Bit of harmless superstition, really - nothing all that magical about it."
"That - that's not the point!" Emhyr insists, only a small fraction of his steam dying in his tense posture. "Those superstitions come from a place of magic! And that's only one example of this wretched place flaunting its otherness. How can we be surrounded by magic, and not be able to find a single job?!"
"Well, there's still the imp and the dead husband..." I offer lamely, Emhyr's ears growing hot with anger. At first I think it because of my comment. At least until I notice his gaze peering off over my shoulder. Glancing behind me, I can feel my heart sink. A girl, no older than eight or nine, playing a game of spark rocks - a harmless game, much like hopscotch. Except the stones thrown in the squares are enchanted to spark and smoke if you fail the agility challenge of skipping that particular square as you hop along. The game is as much about echanting the rocks as it is about the actual hopscotch aspect, and nearly every young witch has played it in their youth.
"Emhyr-," I start, the word cutting short as the man shoves past me roughly. "Emhyr!" I hiss loudly, trailing after him as he stalks toward the unsuspecting girl. "This is not Novigrad! There's nothing to gain from this."
"She's going to the school, Solas!" Emhyr snaps back at me with barely a look. "That's our job. One we've failed to deliver on for weeks now, and our failure has been noted!"
"Damn it!" I grind out, knowing that arguing with him will achieve nothing. Instead, I can only follow along as he approaches the young witch, my insides knotting uneasily as I take in the quaint facade of what I can only assume to be the girl's home.
This is wrong. And I know Emhyr knows it, too.
We never mention the similarities between my scars and hers, even when her gaze later lingers on my hand when she joins me at the table and I carefully serve a steaming spoonful of soup into her bowl. I eat in silence, Elwinel filling the quiet with boisterous banter as she fills me in on everything she's done with her new gelding in the week since she brought him home. She's used to my quiet, her eyes pulling up at the edges in response to the smile I give her as she chatters on. Quiet as I am, I never tire of hearing her speak - not after having once wondered if I would ever hear her voice again.
Too soon, it seems, she's gathering up the dishes and carrying them off to the sink as we bid one another good-bye for the day - the ritual not ending until she's reassured me of her every plan for the day, and told me who will be with her and when she will be checking in with Varna, her adopted grandfather. Even then, a tight ball of worry settles in my stomach, a familiar companion I know won't depart until I see her again, safe and sound, later this evening. Were it not for Varna's urging, the poor girl would never leave my sight, but alas, I can always count on him to talk some sense into me - or nonsense, in this case - but the old man is sterner even than I when he wants to be.
And so, Elwinel leaves for the day, her eyes bright with excitement as she coaxes her new companion out to the cobbled street where she'll guide him down the road to break him in at the arena where she trains. There, she'll be under the watchful eye of a Hylda, a hot-tempered, bossy, and delightful dwarven women who took a hammer to the knees of the one young lad who was stupid enough to lay a finger on El' during her first week there. (We've been fast friends ever since.)
The next few hours of my morning are filled with chores - many of which Elwinel has already tended to. Still, I take the time to brush out my own horse, cleaning and trimming her hooves, and treating her to a bag of oats before she's finally saddled so we can set off into town ourselves. The ride is broken with the periodic stops at the various message boards between the house and our destination. Etrielle is familiar with the routine, and she lingers at my side, occasionally nudging my elbow as I pull various notices off of the boards and slip them into a tube on my belt.
Midday is still a few hours off by the time I reach the edge of town, Emhyr's scowl visible the moment I've crested over the bridge leading to the city gates. I can't help but smirk at the sterness in his posture, his arms crossed over his chest as though his entire day has been taxed by having to stand there, resolutely refusing to relax against the stone walls as he awaits my arrival. Etrielle's hooves click hollowly on the wood of the bridge as we approach, the sound parting the commonfolk as they smartly avoid the horse's steady gait as she makes her way toward Emhyr intently.
"You're late," he says curtly the moment I begin to slide off of my saddle, Etrielle already trying to turn off toward the stable where she knows the stablehand will reward her with something tasty.
"I'm not," I reply firmly, my hand going up to count the widths between the sun and the horizon. "Three hours past sunrise. Same time as every other day."
"I've been here an hour already," Emhyr insists, his scowl never lessening though I know I'm right. "An hour we could have used looking for work."
"I've already gathered five notices we can check into," I respond with a raised eyebrow as I release Etrielle's reigns to the stablehand. "You could have as many if you hadn't wasted an hour standing here waiting for me."
"If you would just move into town-," he starts before I interrupt sharply.
"I am not moving into the city," I say roughly as I pull the notices from my belt and shove them toward him, the discussion ending before its even begun. "An old woman is Glennbrook says her dead husband keeps breaking into her barn at night and scaring off the horses. Another couple in the same village claims an imp has been getting into their cellar and making off with their food stores."
"There's no such thing as imps," Emhyr rolls his eyes as he takes the notices, looking through them with interest nonetheless.
"I know that," I sigh as I give him an irritated look. "Still might be worth looking into. Somehow I doubt there's a corpse walking around, either, but clearly someone is causing trouble in Glennbrook."
"Not interested in mundane troubles," Emhyr says with annoying finality as he tries to hand the papers back to me. "We're witch hunters - this? This is work for charlatans with phony holy water."
"It's work," I insist sharply as I shove the notices back toward him and start off past the gates. "And besides - what would your superiors say if they heard you refused to investigate a potential necromancer or some other unnatural anomaly? Worst case scenario, we stop a thief and get paid. Best case, we find some heathen raising the dead and you get to send someone to the pyre. There is no downside.
"But lets see what else we can find," I concede as I glance back at him over my shoulder. "Might be something more worthwhile in town."
"There's never anything worthwhile in this town," Emhyr sighs in agitation as he tucks the notices into his belt and follows after me. "This whole city is full of heathens and pagans, peddling their damned magic as though it were some simple commodity like bread or shoes. They don't hire witch hunters.[i]"
"And it's better in Novigrad?" I ask with a scoff as I make my way toward the first notice board within the city walls. "Where there's a dozen jobs, and five dozen hunters all vying to finish it before anyone else can collect on it? We make more here than we'll ever make in that shithole just for the simple fact that we're the [i]only hunters here. Even heathens and pagans have troubles with magic, Emhyr. More even than the commonfolk, I wager - and they're smart enough to know when a curse is a curse and not just a raging case of pubic lice."
Emhyr shudders at that and nods solemnly, "True enough," he admits. "I pray we never have a case like that again."
"I think you were more embarrassed than he was, honestly," I say with a laugh as I glance back at him, the stern man refusing to return my gaze even now. "For a grown man, you sure are terribly uncomfortable with something as basic as human anatomy."
"I don't have any reason to see another man's testicles, Solas," Emhyr responds gravely. "And let's just leave it at that, shall we?"
"If you say so," I smirk before turning my attention to the noticeboard, the mud squishing under my boots as I weave through the handful of people passing in front of it. Most of what I read is boring, tedious ads for an exchange of services, a few 'lost' and 'found' postings, many mispelled and barely legible scribblings, and a couple of 'looking for love' notices (which have all clearly been ignored for some time).
"Nothing," I sigh as I return to Emhyr before waving him toward some vague direction. "Your turn - maybe you'll have better luck than I."
***
But Emhyr's luck was no better, our search taking us all over the city as we combed through notice board after notice board. Much to Emhyr's disdain, we found little more than a posting asking for help moving a large set of drawers into a very magically inclined household. Emhyr was so disgusted, he wouldn't even accept the ten silver pieces the woman offered. I, however, was happy to take his pay as well as mine.
"Do you know what Solas means?" I ask some time after the job is complete, Emhyr's heavy footsteps still carrying the weight of his foul temper as we make our way to the market square. The odd question gives him some hesitation, however, and I'm quick to grasp at it. "It means pride." I say matter-of-factly. "So I'm finding it rather odd that you're being the one who's too damned prideful to do a little manual labor for some extra coin."
Emhyr only rolls his eyes as he returns to his angry walking. "It's nothing to do with manual labor," he says the word with such disgust that I can only offer a disbelieving, "Mm-hmm," in response.
"It's the fact they're all so blatant with their witchcraft!" he snaps back at me as he wheels around on his heel. "Did you not see all the black magic dolls she had hanging in her window?! Not even a shred of concern about her actions!"
"Well, in her defense, they were worry dolls, not black magic dolls," I say with a frown, Emhyr faltering questioningly as I sigh at his lack of understanding. "Worry dolls... they're made by children, out of twigs and string and bits of colored cloth for the clothes... they then whisper their fears and worries into their ears, and place them under their pillows - or, in this case, hang them in the window - and the dolls carry the fears away and dispel the evil from the child's mind. Bit of harmless superstition, really - nothing all that magical about it."
"That - that's not the point!" Emhyr insists, only a small fraction of his steam dying in his tense posture. "Those superstitions come from a place of magic! And that's only one example of this wretched place flaunting its otherness. How can we be surrounded by magic, and not be able to find a single job?!"
"Well, there's still the imp and the dead husband..." I offer lamely, Emhyr's ears growing hot with anger. At first I think it because of my comment. At least until I notice his gaze peering off over my shoulder. Glancing behind me, I can feel my heart sink. A girl, no older than eight or nine, playing a game of spark rocks - a harmless game, much like hopscotch. Except the stones thrown in the squares are enchanted to spark and smoke if you fail the agility challenge of skipping that particular square as you hop along. The game is as much about echanting the rocks as it is about the actual hopscotch aspect, and nearly every young witch has played it in their youth.
"Emhyr-," I start, the word cutting short as the man shoves past me roughly. "Emhyr!" I hiss loudly, trailing after him as he stalks toward the unsuspecting girl. "This is not Novigrad! There's nothing to gain from this."
"She's going to the school, Solas!" Emhyr snaps back at me with barely a look. "That's our job. One we've failed to deliver on for weeks now, and our failure has been noted!"
"Damn it!" I grind out, knowing that arguing with him will achieve nothing. Instead, I can only follow along as he approaches the young witch, my insides knotting uneasily as I take in the quaint facade of what I can only assume to be the girl's home.
This is wrong. And I know Emhyr knows it, too.