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The first time she realized her imaginary friends were something more was when the serving girl had shown up at dinner time like normal, the day after Milena overheard mother talking to father about replacing the girl after she had died of some illness.

Milena had done a double take, staring at the girl with sad eyes and hollow cheeks in quiet horror. Then she had watched as another serving girl had walked right through her without seeming to notice a thing. 

Her father had been displeased with her open mouth gaping, staring into the air like a vapid peasant. She had been put on bread and water rations for three days, in punishment. From that day on, Milena knew two things. The first was that she was different from her sisters, from everyone else she had ever met. 

The second was that she could never tell anyone what she saw.

She struggled to find ways to differentiate between who was real, and who was… she couldn’t bring herself to call them ‘dead’. So she just called them the Lingering. She kept her head down, always waiting for her mother or sisters to speak first. Thankfully, as the third daughter that was expected of her already. But still, she was not always surrounded by family. Standing on her own while her sisters and mother danced, for example, and being forced to make polite small talk with whoever deigned to speak with the third daughter at some function or another. She could not very well refuse to speak at all. 

It only took her two more punishments of bread and water rations for her to get more creative. 

She discovered it quite by accident, really. The only punishment-proof way to tell if someone was a Lingering. They had been at another ball hosted by the Marquis de Murivel, who was renowned for extravagant taste. He had been showing off the mirror he’d had commissioned, hung on the wall for everyone to admire in its opulent golden frame. Milena had been ushered towards it along with her sisters and Mother. Marta had been tittering in delight, primping her curled hair and flattering the preening Marquis, when Milena had turned to say something to Marta quietly, only to startle at the man standing behind her sister. A quick check in the mirror, and the man was gone. 

It had taken a bit of… subtle manipulation was unfortunately the best way she found to describe her next actions. 

Marta of course, made it much easier. She practically gushed to father about the mirror at their next private dinner, and for once, Milena piped up in support. 

“It truly was remarkable. The Marchioness of Murivel said her Lord Husband was commissioning a smaller one for her, that which could be kept on her person to check her appearance was in order throughout a ball, and to fix all which might have become amiss.” Milena said quietly. Marta beamed. 

“Oh father, that is such a marvelous idea!”

And slowly, their father came around to the idea. And in this, his desire to show off his own wealth took precedence. He could not give one daughter a gift, and appear that he could not afford to get his other daughters the same. Such had always been the case with the finer things to be shown in public, as Milena and her sisters well knew. When Marta needed new dresses, they all received them. In this one thing, her father did treat all his daughters equally… even if it was always for Marta, such changes occurred.

So it went with this: Marta insisted she get a hand held mirror set in a beautiful gold frame, and thus all three sisters received one.

They were surprisingly light and appropriately dainty. Slender enough to fit in the wide sleeves of their dresses, and concealed there with clever ties and pins. It took practice of course, to pull it out gracefully and check their reflection, and just as gracefully conceal it again. In their more casual dresses, it fit easily beneath their skirts in a small pouch covered by their voluminous skirts. Marta was thrilled, and Marika too gently pleased. Milena repressed the urge to cheer, or worse yet, weep from sheer relief.

It became her most constant companion, that little hand held mirror. Ensuring she had no more issues with talking to a Lingering instead of a real person. The days of fearing punishment after one ball or another for ‘talking to herself’ become fewer, though her father always found other things to fault her for. 

So when she received word she was being sent to the barbarians as the treaty bride, of course she brought along her small mirror with her few precious belongings. 

And by the gods, had she needed it. Especially in those early days. 

Kaer Morhen was littered with Lingering’s. Children running around in ragged tunics and trousers, some with normal eyes and some with wolfblood gold, phasing through wolfblood and servants alike without care. Laughter and crying drifting through the hallways or empty rooms. Wolfblood, young like Roland or the older trainees, with fresh faces and no scars. And no medallions around their throats. 

The Lingering here are unlike others she’s encountered. They don’t try to speak to her for one.. They also seem… more aware, in some ways, than others have been. Like they somehow know they are no longer among the living, yet cannot bear to leave. She notices too, the Wolfblood Lingering especially have others they gravitate to. They do not re-enact events like the sad-eyed servant girl did, endlessly showing up to serve a dinner long after her death. 

There is one in particular who is never far from her husband’s side. She notices him at that first lunch. When her husband comes striding in scandalously bare chested from the hot springs. When her husband laughs at the dark skinned wolfblood’s joke and moves to step away. He passes through the arm of the Lingering without notice. By the time her husband has reached her with his scowl firmly in place, the Lingering is gone. She sees him a second time in the corner of the salle with a smile on his lips when she begins her dance lessons with her husband. But on her second spin, he is gone. He becomes a fixture in her everyday life. She catches sight of him and he seems to meet her gaze before he disappears between one blink and the next.

He is tall, taller than most men she has met, yet it is obvious he’s still got more growing to do in the gangliness of his limbs.  With honey blonde hair falling around his face in gentle curls. He is young, too, only in his  late teens or early twenties, the same age as the newly grassed trainees. He bears no scars, and no medallion rests against his chest. His face is always settled in an expression of gentle calm. And his eyes are the wolfblood yellow, but she likens them to the color of marigolds, warm and sunlit. 

He fades away, sometimes, when her husband is sharing intimate moments with herself, or when Aiden has joined him. And he always stays a few paces away when she is with her husband, or walking by his side when she is not. And when her husband is in a foul mood or lost in his own thoughts, the blonde Wolfblood kneels by his side and puts his hands over her husband's. Looking up at him with that gentle calm and speaking words too softly for her to hear. 

She says nothing to her husband, or their lover, or any of the friends she has made in Kaer Morhen about the Lingering. She needs her mirror less and less, as she learns who is real and who is… not. 

But then the Trial of the Medallions rolls around again, and her husband is lost in a grief unlike any she has seen him in before. It is different than his grief when he spoke of Aiden, when he thought him dead. It is different than the grief mingled with rage when Jad’s treachery and Aiden’s survival became known to him. It is quieter. It is older. 

And then the story comes out, in between dregs of White Gull and her own barely touched wine.

Many years ago, before Milena was born, before Geralt became the Wolf Lord, before any changes to the Trials, Lambert had a brother in arms, as dear to him as Aiden and Milena now are. It is not uncommon for trainees to bond more tightly to some within their cohort. Such as Eskel and Geralt, Letho, Serrit, and Auckes, Cedric and Axel, or any other such group. It is not always romantic, like the Wolf Lord and his Right Hand. Sometimes, they are beloved siblings. Best friends, inseparable in every way that matters. 

Lambert had one such brother, dearer to him than any other. Before he bonded so tightly to Geralt and Eskel. Before Coen. Before Aiden. One who looked at the scrawny raging feral child he had been, and loved him first, and befriended him through it all. 

Who had screamed beside her husband on the stone tables she has never seen, but knows are deep within the keep. Who had impossibly survived with Lambert, when none of the others in their cohort did. Who had died horrifically, in the final Medallion trial when he was still so tragically young. Leaving her Lambert as the sole survivor of his entire trainee group. Her husband breathes his name like a prayer, unknowingly staring into marigold yellow eyes.

“Voltehre.” Lambert whispers. “He was my best friend.”

And the Lingering kneeling at her husband's feet, the young man with honey blonde hair and a kind face, looks directly at her for the first time with his marigold eyes. 

There is a trainee this year, with the same honey blonde hair and easy smile. A candidate for the Wolf School that Lambert cannot bear to look at. The face is different, and their personalities are different, but when Lambert looks out on the training fields and sees a flash of blonde hair and easy laughter, he remembers, and the grief hits him anew. 

That trainees survive the draught, well. Not easily per se, but dying from the draught has become a rarity. And the Medallion Trial has changed, shifted to something that few trainees die from. 

That it is no longer something undertaken alone. That, in another life, Lambert could have gone with his brother, and both lived to see the day as Wolves together. 

That this trainee who so resembles Voltehre but isn’t will get to earn his medallion surrounded by brothers and cousins, and come home laughing. And irrevocably, Voltehre never will.

“Voltehre.” She says softly, carefully. And the Lingering nods, standing slowly with a last pat to Lambert’s hand and fades away.

She and Aiden spend their time comforting Lambert and holding him as he works through his quiet grief. They hold him close, his face tucked into Aiden’s throat and Milena’s gentle fingers carding through his hair.

The next day, she waits until Aiden and Lambert are off to morning training. Lambert’s eyes are dry if slightly red-rimmed, but she knows no-one will mock him for his grief. Especially not any of his brothers. Aiden told her quietly that Lambert is not the only one who is quiet and red-rimmed the morning after. That he is not the only one who lost a beloved brother to the Grasses. Or to the Trial that follows after. 

So she waits while they go to training, postponing her morning bath for the moment. And then she says quietly to the air, hoping he is around and can… hear her somehow, which she has never done before. In fact everything inside her is screaming that she should not be doing this, that she is different and strange and she should not be doing this!

Lambert’s tear-streaked face and his quiet grief, even decades later, and the silent teenager shadowing his steps urge her forward anyway.

“Voltehre.” She says quietly to nothing. 

It takes only a few rapid beats of her heart, before the young teen appears, solemn eyed but smiling gently, fading out of the walls and taking a seat in Lambert's chair across from her. 

“Hello.” He says softly.

Milena swallows nervously. She has never… never intentionally spoken to them. Yet she also never imagined she could love her wolfblood husband, or find such happiness in her new home, or take another to bed who is not her husband and feel no shame or regret. There is much that was impossible or unthinkable before she came to Kaer Morhen. Why not can this be one of them?

“I’m Milena,” She introduces herself almost awkwardly, petting Bluebell’s fur to soothe her nerves. “I have not… I have never spoken to one of you apurpose before.” She admits quietly, almost afraid to be overheard still. She has no fear of being put on bread and water rations, but the fear lives on for this one thing still. Of what reaction this might earn from her new family, should they find out. 

“I know, Lambert loves you. You’re good for him.” Voltehre says with an easy smile. 

Milena feels the blush rise to her cheeks and soldiers on. “Might I ask… That is to say, I have taken to calling you and the others, ah, the Lingering, ere now.” 

Voltehre hums thoughtfully. “That’s a good way to describe us, I suppose. Most’d just call us ghosts. Or spirits too, I suppose.”

Milena swallows. “Why is it then that you, well, linger here?”

Voltehre leans back in the chair and rests his chin on his hand thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose it’s cuz we feel like we have… more left to do. Or something that ties us here. At least, I think that’s why I’m still around, can’t speak for all of the rest of ‘em, not like we sit around and gossip. But yea. S’really fitting you called us that and all.”

Which is… well it really is fitting she called them that for all these years then, isn’t it? “Are there others, who can see you or speak with you?” She asks slowly. Her heart beating rabbit fast in anticipation of his answer. Are there those who could tell her what’s going on? Why she, of all of them, can see and speak to these… these spirits?

Voltehre shrugs slightly. “I believe so. It’s a… a feeling around you that lets me know you can. Cats all have it,” He points to the kitten dozing in her lap rumbling with purrs. “S’ve horses and most animals I’ve seen. I’ve felt it a few times faintly, when I followed Lambert out in the world. Nothing as strong as with you. Well, and there’s Old Ivar.”

What.

“I-Ivar? As in Lord Ivar of the Vipers?” She says faintly. 

Lord Ivar, Ivar Evil-Eye, for his unsettling mismatched eyes and scarred face. His incredibly stern and disapproving countenance is one of the few she still finds genuinely intimidating. Not even Geralt, the Wolf Lord unsettles her so. And she is not the only one unsettled by the Clan Head. Most outside his school avoid him, and even those within his school take care not to bother him needlessly. It is only Old Keldar, who seems to enjoy his company for how often they are seen together in conversation with one another. Or perhaps Letho, who is no doubt shadowing his mentor as the widely accepted next Clan Head. 

He is the one she might find answers from?!

Gods spare her now. She thinks she’d rather help one of the Cranes with a new invention!

“Yep.” He pops the ‘p’ with mischief gleaming in his marigold eyes. “So any questions along that vein would probably be best directed to him.” 

Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh that is a thought firmly for later.

“A-and there are other questions best asked now?” She stammers trying not to reel in her shock.

Voltehre nods, and that mischievous twinkle fades to something else. She cannot help but think that of all Wolfblood she has ever met, Voltehre could be summed up in one word: Gentle. Not even Gweld, for all his joviality could be described as such. He is kind, yes. And friendly. But he could still plow through an emotional conversation with all the grace of a raging bull in a room full of porcelain, and look all the more like a confused puppy at the end. 

But Voltehre is… perhaps the most gentle Wolfblood she has met. She feels a wave of pity and sorrow wash through her at the revelation. How truly unfair, the world has been to Wolfblood, that so gentle a soul should perish so young. And she sees for her own eyes why her Lambert would have loved him. Her prickly, foul-mouthed, kind-hearted husband.

“I figured you would ask me why I Linger.” He says evenly. Shifting again in the seat until his elbows are braced on his knees, and his fingers are steepled beneath his chin. 

And that… that is what she would have asked next. Drat. “Will you tell me?” She prompts quietly.

Voltehre studies her for a long moment, and she feels every beat of her heart in her chest like the ticking of the water clock Lambert got from the Cranes for their dance lessons. Finally, he answers. 

“For years, it was just to stay by Lambert’s side because he needed me.” Voltehre begins softly.  “But when he met Aiden, he started to heal. When he made the testing potion with Triss, he healed even more. And when he married you, and you fell in love, I think the last of his wounds started healing.”

Voltehre stands up and goes to the window, overlooking the training yard where Lambert spars with one of the Manticores, throwing cheerful insults she cannot hear. “I didn’t want to let him go, not until I was sure he would be okay. And I think… that time is finally coming.”

He turns back to her and crosses the room, putting his hands over hers gently. She feels the whisper of a cool breeze, where his skin would meet hers, the sensation raising gooseflesh along her arms and spine. “Tell him, it’s alright. Tell him he’ll always be my Sting, and I’ll be his Honey. But he doesn’t need to feel guilty anymore. Tell him to be happy, and to live, and to never forget what I told him the night before we took the draught. That I still mean it.”

She nods and swallows past the lump in her throat. “I will do so. Would you… like to be there when I do?” 

His smile widens into a truly beatific expression, and she is struck once again how unfair it was, that such a kind soul had been taken too soon. “Yes, I would. Later tonight?”

Milena nods again. “Yes, yes that would be best I think.”

Voltehre dips his head in a small bow, and fades away where he stands, his voice like a whisper on the wind. “Thank you, Lady.”

Milena sags back in her chair, blowing out a shaky breath and petting Bluebell. “Oh dear.” Now she has to find a way to explain to her husband and lover she sees… ghosts and that her husband’s dead best friend had something to say to him before he found his rest.

Milena looks down at Bluebell with wide uncertain eyes. “Oh dear Bluebell. How would I even begin?” She frets.

Bluebell, of course, only looks up at her with big bright eyes, and yawns.

*~*~*~*~*

Milena knows she must smell of apprehension and nerves at dinner. Lambert and Aiden have both given her looks of near identical concern on their way down. They at least believe her when she reassures them it is nothing they have done. Marlene’s fine cooking is like ash in her mouth. Gods, how to even begin explaining? My loves, I know this comes as a shock, but I see and speak to the dead? She winces. This is why she has always called them Lingerings. To do otherwise feels so…crude. Unfeeling, even. Death comes to everyone eventually. Even long lived wolfblood cannot escape it. Yet it feels like she erases the lives they have lived, the people they once were, by referring to them as merely ‘the dead’. As though the fact they are dead is the most important part of who they are. As though who they were is not important anymore now that their hearts no longer beat, and blood no longer warms their cheeks and hands. 

Perhaps she is a fool for thinking thusly. As her eldest sister often scoffed at her sympathy for pawns on the chessboard. Useless compassion in a world run by cruelty. But Kaer Morhen has been a blessing in that regard, a place which allows her to be recklessly kind as she could not be in Tretegor or even Roggeven. No, she cannot even imagine the disasters she might have caused in court. Her father would have been beyond wroth with her. She cannot even think what he would have done to her, had she caused any kind of scandal by being kind. Milena carefully cuts off that train of thought and turns her mind back to the problem at hand. It does no one any good to wonder about such things.

How to even begin this conversation eludes her. She has resolved to have the conversation, which is perhaps the most important part, and surely her nerves have put her loves ill at ease. Lambert keeps giving her worried glances, and she can see Aiden peering up at her from his spot amongst his clan. Drat. All she is accomplishing is making them fret along with her. Milena takes a deep breath, pushing it out slowly and letting her shoulders relax, focusing on the memory of embroidering in their rooms by the hearth filling her with contentment.

This shall just have to be like the conversation she had with Lambert on the picnic, about the duties of a wife and how she might go about fulfilling them. It was uncomfortable at first, but have they not been better off since?

Dinner passes quickly, and she should not be so surprised that Aiden is bouncing up to her other side with furrowed brows. 

“Everything alright, cath fach?” Aiden asks softly, his hand brushing against her elbow.

She offers him a tremulous smile and captures his hand in hers, squeezing gently. “I wish to discuss something with you both, in our rooms.” She murmurs. “I am only nervous.” 

Lambert scowls though she knows he is only worried. “D’you want to talk now?”

Milena nods and doesn’t let go of Aiden’s hand. “Yes, husband. I think it would be best to just… lay it all out.”

The familiar phrasing strikes a chord in him and she can see his shoulders relax. It’s better than any other reassurance she could think to give. “Well alright, c’mon.”

Aiden still looks confused, but follows along willingly enough, keeping her hand clasped in his the whole trip up to their rooms. They give Bluebell her demanded affection, scritching behind her ears and under her chin until she slinks off to curl up before the hearth, satisfied. Milena sinks very slowly into her chair and bites the inside of her cheek as she searches for words.

Positioned as she is facing the door, she sees Voltehre step through the wall and settle at her husband's back.

Voltehre gives her another sweet smile. “It’s okay.” He whispers.

Milena steels her resolve and shifts her gaze back to her loves who are staring at her in confusion.

“I think the best way to start is to tell you how I realized anything was amiss at all.” She begins softly. And the whole sordid affair spills out of her. The maid struck down from illness, the balls and formal dinners walking on eggshells. The mirror, which she pulls out and shows them carefully. She lays it all out for her wolfblood loves, until they’re staring at her in a sort of baffled wonder and her heart eases. They don’t look upset, or like they’re about to call her mad.

“So let me get this straight,” Aiden says incredulous, “You can see and speak to ghosts?” His green eye is wide, his eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. 

Milena winces, but nods slowly. “I call them the Lingering. They are very much who they were before, they just…” 

“Linger.” Aiden supplies, a wry twist to his lips. 

Milena shrugs helplessly. “Yes.”

Lambert is staring at her silently, his eyes hooded. “Why are you telling us now?” He asks slowly. And oh. She should have figured her husband would get to the heart of the problem quickly. He is one of the most intelligent men she’s ever met.

Milena takes in another deep breath. “One of them asked me to pass on a message.” Her eyes flick to Voltehre, standing silently behind Lambert with a hand on the back of the chair. “He has honey blond hair.” She says so quietly she doubts they could have heard her had they not been wolfblood. “With eyes like marigolds, and a sweet smile.”

Lambert makes a strangled sound and her heart aches to see the dawning realization and pain in his topaz eyes. When he speaks the name it comes out part prayer and part cry. “Voltehre.”

Aiden has gone still on the floor, turning to stare at Lambert in pity and horror. “Oh Lamb…”

Milena carries on, pushing down the urge to go to her husband just yet. Something within her writhes, and she knows the words must be spoken, now that she has started. 

“He Lingered, because he didn’t want to leave you alone until you were okay without him. That you’ll always be his Sting,” Lambert chokes and she hates to see the tears welling in his eyes and begin to fall silent down his cheeks. “And that he will always be your Honey. To not feel guilty anymore. That more than anything, he wants you to be happy. And that he still means it, what he said before you both took the wolfblood draught.”

Lambert buries his face in his hands and inexplicably, laughs. It is a slightly hysterical wet laugh, choked out through his tears. But still, of all things she didn’t expect him to laugh. 

“That fucker!” He gasps out. 

Voltehre grins, his marigold eyes sparkling. “Yep, that’s me.”

Aiden looks just as confused as Milena does. They share a startled look and Aiden shrugs, so apparently he has no idea what that means either.  Lambert is too busy laughing between his tears, and Voltehre grins at her from his side. 

“I told him if we didn’t make it, then at least we wouldn’t have to deal with Varin anymore. Death had to be better than putting up with that prick.”

Milena chokes and covers her mouth with a hand. “Oh, how dreadful!” She turns to Aiden with pink cheeks. “Voltehre told Lambert that Death would be better than dealing with ah, Trainer Varin.” She heard little of the Wolf trainer in her time here, but what she heard all agreed: He is the finest swordsman in the Keep, and that everyone, including Clovis, believes he is a nasty piece of work. Thankfully she has no reason to interact with him, as he and Lambert have perhaps the worst relationship in their Clan and steer well clear of one another. 

Aiden snorts a laugh. “Oh spirits! Yea, I can see that being true.”

Voltehre beams and his whole form seems to shimmer, as though lit from some inner light. His gaze drifts to the doorway and his shoulders relax.” I can see it…” He murmurs and steps towards the door. He looks back at her and a peace settles over him. “It’s time. I can rest now. I know he’s in good hands.”

Milena swallows thickly as her mirth fades away. “Husband.” She calls softly. “He’s saying goodbye.”

Lambert’s head snaps up and wild panic takes over his handsome features. “He’s- No he- I just-” 

Milena stands and moves to him, she grasps his hands in hers and pulls him gently to his feet. “He is at peace, knowing you are happy and loved. He is ready to rest, my love.” She soothes, the words coming from some place deep inside her. She clasps his hand in hers and guides it gently to Voltehre’s outstretched hand. And though he can not see it, Lambert shudders when his fingers brush against Voltehre’s palm.

Lambert swallows thickly. “See ya around, Honey.” He chokes out with a tremulous smile.

Voltehre leans forward and rests his forehead against Lambert’s, and her husband’s eyes shoot wide and he shudders. “See ya around, Sting,” he whispers. And without another look back, he turns and walks through the door as the light within him coalesces into a bright flash. Milena blinked her eyes furiously but he’s gone. The air feels lighter, as though that room had been bathed in sunlight. 

She and Lambert stare at each other at a loss for words, when a crash and the tinkling shatter of glass behind them draw their gazes. Milena’s heart drops.

That little handheld mirror she’d carried for years lies shattered on the floor. Shards of it scattered across the hearth rug, and Bluebell sits perched on the table where Milena placed it. 

“Well shit.” Aiden says helpfully.

Milena blinks rapidly to rally herself. But well… If this isn’t a special occasion…

“Well shit.” She agrees blithely.

The sunlight warmth in the room seems to only grow stronger when it is joined by the bright laughter of her husband and their lover.

*~*~*~*~*

Milena takes a shaky breath to gather her courage. She raises her hand to knock determinedly on the closed door, only for it to be yanked open.

Mismatched eyes glare down at her, one pulsating and red, the other the typical burnt umber of the Viper Clan. She swallows as that baleful glare focuses on her with unrelenting precision.

Ivar Evil-Eye stares down at her for several rabbit-fast beats of her heart before his scowl twists into the facsimile of a smile and the door is opened wider and he beckons her inside.

“It’s about time, girl. I’ve been waiting.” He says in a rough voice. 

Milena sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly. Well. Inexplicably, she feels her nerves settle. So she does the only thing that makes sense.

She steps over the threshold into Ivar’s lab. 

“I apologize for my tardiness.” She says calmly.

Ivar grunts and lets her pass. “I’ve no use for chit chat. Let’s get started.”

Behind them, the door gives a definitive click as it shuts.