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Ealdred is sharpening his sword contentedly beside the fire, listening to his companions banter cheerfully among themselves, when a purple-black raven comes swooping down out of the night sky and lands neatly on his shoulder. Ealdred startles slightly, but this is not the first time this has happened; he settles again quickly, and reaches up to stroke a hand over the bird’s feathers. They tingle gently against his fingers; it is, of course, entirely made of Chaos, though Ealdred knows that Yennefer does gather the shed feathers of actual ravens to help shape her spells.
The raven caws softly and runs its beak through his hair, preening several strands out of order. Part of being based on real ravens does mean that the spellravens have rather mischievous senses of humor sometimes. Ealdred chuckles and scratches its neck-feathers; it leans into the caress happily.
“What do you have for me, o gull of battle?” Ealdred asks the spellraven fondly.
The raven caws again and dips its beak between its breast-feathers, and draws out a rolled scroll which it drops into Ealdred’s hand.
“My thanks,” Ealdred says, sets the scroll down carefully, and scratches the spellraven’s neck-feathers for a few more moments until it nudges its beak against his cheek and leaps off his shoulder, rowing its wings vigorously as it rises into the sky until not even Witcher eyes can track it any further.
Ealdred sighs happily and picks up his letter, ignoring the quiet snickering from his companions. He knows they tease only out of fondness - it’s clear in their scents - so he doesn’t mind their jests.
The letter smells of lilacs and gooseberries, very faintly - and, more faintly still, of warm honey. Ealdred resists the urge to hold it to his face and just breathe for a while. That would make his companions mock him, and then he would have to teach them again that he may be lovesick but he is also still one of the better swordsmen of the Griffin School, and then he would not get to read his letter for far too long.
He unrolls it contentedly.
My wise counselor,
I have missed your steadiness, this week; nothing has gone dreadfully wrong, but there was a dispute between two hedgewitches which escalated into a verbal brawl between their respective factions, and as it was about a remarkably petty manner, I found it difficult to restrain my ill temper at their folly.
Thankfully, Triss is more even-tempered than myself, and Sasha volunteered to moderate the debate; his rank and habitual courtesy were sufficient to keep the furor to a dull roar, and Triss’s wisdom prevailed in the end, though it was a long and weary week to get there.
Ciri, the darling girl, has learned a new aspect to her powers, to wit, teleportation; her new habit of appearing suddenly and without warning has caused several Witchers to teach her new and interesting profanity. Thankfully she is learning to control this new trick swiftly.
I have made some progress in developing the spell we spoke of before you left; the exact arrangement of herbs needed for the ritual still requires some modification, but I think I am near to finding the optimal recipe. I may well have completed my research before you return.
I have received your gift of endrega venom and eggs, and will assuredly make good use of them. Triss also sends her gratitude for the pickled nekker livers.
The book of poetry is beautifully illustrated, and you are, as ever, absurdly sentimental. How did you find enough time to write this out without my knowing? I am impressed by your stealth.
I find myself brought to equal sentimentality by thoughts of you.
It is signed with the elegant scrawl of Yennefer’s name and - gods be good - the crimson print of her lips upon the page. Ealdred sighs in adoration and presses his own lips to the mark -
And feels the tingle of Chaos against his mouth.
When he jerks back, he finds that the words have changed.
Dear one,
I have missed you, as well, at odd moments - finding myself turning to speak to you in the baths, or attempting to hand you a ritual tool only to find that you are not at my side. And most of all I have missed you in my bed.
When you return, I will not be letting you out of my rooms for at least three days.
Jaskier, the darling trouble-maker, has found several new books with some ideas I had truly never encountered before; I will be delighted to share them with you, and think you will enjoy them as well.
But more than anything I have missed sleeping in your arms, and I find it very odd to feel this fond. Even with Geralt, I did not have such easy comfort in his presence; that did not come until well after we had ceased to be lovers.
I miss your wise and steady counsel, and our nights of conversation, as much as I do those nights of bedsport. And our bedsport is, to be perfectly honest, the finest I have ever had, Geralt most distinctly included. (And Geralt was not bad in bed.) Yet our conversations are as pleasurable as having you in my bed - or elsewhere.
I have been preventing myself from coming to walk in your dreams, for if I did so and you were distracted enough to be injured upon the Path, I would never forgive myself.
Therefore keep yourself safe, dear one, and return to me as you can. I will be waiting.
Your Yennefer
Ealdred presses the letter to his chest over his heart, feeling almost as if he could swoon.
His Yennefer. He loves her so.
His Path may yet be long, but he knowing that his beloved waits at the end of it - well, even were he walking the Path alone, he would be strengthened such that no monster could hope to overpower him. As it is, he will return with many trophies of his travels, and lay them at his lady’s feet in joyful tribute, knowing she will reward him for his valor and devotion.