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The stars are shining bright tonight. Thick layers of new snow cover the mountains, the forests, the sleeping vinyards and the roof tops of the pictoresque houses and castles of the fairytale Duchy of Toussaint. In Beauclair Palace, the legendary Yule celebations are in full swing. Tables upon tables in the huge ballroom are overflowing with delicious food and drink, dozens of noblemen and noblewomen in glamorous attire are chattering and flirting and dancing, drunk on wine, music, and the festive atmosphere, and everybody is having the best of times.
Well, perhaps not everybody ...
"Fuck," Geralt curses under his breath. Too loud, too smelly, too crowded, and that for hours and hours, and in clothes that are too new and too tight. Impossible to bear for a Witcher without a nice, quiet break.
As stealthily as he can, he disappears.
... ... ... ... ... ...
"Sorry," Ciri says, "wrong time, wrong place." Nobody understands her anyway, and not only because the people here speak a language that has no resemblance to either Common or Elder Speech, but also because the music is far too loud. So loud actually, that her ears have begun to ring, and in combination with the flashing lights, the strange, jerky dancing and the heavy smoke coming from the thin, white sticks that almost everybody seems to puff away at, it is too much. Far too much.
Fuck, she needs air, and a place of quietude.
Determined, she shoulders her way through the rhythmically swaying throng. An obviously drunk man slurs a string of incomprehensible words into her ear as she passes, then tries to grope her. As quick as lightning, Ciri spins and kicks him in the balls. Then she rushes toward the door. The wailing of the man is drowned out by the booming of the music.
... ... ... ... ...
On top of the highest turret of Beauclair Palace, Geralt breathes in the cold, fresh air, sighing with relief. From here, he can still see the lights of the thousands of candles in the castle windows and hear the merry music - Jaskier singing one after the other of his biggest bangers - but only faintly so and from afar. Like this, the hubbub of the celebration of this longest night of the year is so much easier on his over-perceptive senses. In contrast to the Witcher, his human comrades do not appear to have any problems with Anna Henrietta's prestigious party. When he left, Zoltan, Cahir and Milva were drinking with some of the knight errants and loudly exchanging tales of hunts, both for game, bandits and monsters, while Angoulême was having fun with the younger knights - hopefully not too much fun, but if something happens, Geralt is sure, Fringilla will agree to take care of it. Regis seems to have disappeared shortly before midnight and was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps a date with his succubus friend on this very special night?
With another heart-felt sigh, Geralt gazes up at the night sky. As expected - for how could it be otherwise? - his eye is greeted by the familiar constellations, The Seven Goats, The Jug, The Sickle, The Dragon, and The Winter Maiden, almost exactly the same as much farther north in the December sky over Kaer Morhen. One star, though, is particularly shiny. It is rather low on the horizon, not part of any constellation he remembers, and as he gazes at it, it seems like it is gazing back at him. An eye in the sky, a shiny white flame against the blackness of the firmament. It almost looks like the star is winking at him.
Geralt snorts. What an idiotic notion. As if the stars gave a flying horseshit about him, or about what happens on the continent in general. They are just little specks of light in a cold, indifferent and eternal universe. Many humans would disagree with this assessment, Geralt is aware of it, but it is the only one that makes sense. Still, his gaze lingers for a long while, drawn again and again to this particular star. Why, Geralt does not know.
... ... ... ... ... ...
Despite the freezing temperatures and the late hour - it must be past midnight already - the streets of the city are alive with people who are chattering, laughing, drinking booze out of the bottle and smoking their smelly little white sticks. Mysterious, small lights are everywhere, in the windows of the houses, in the trees, on thick black strings across the street. Together with the snow that covers everything in a thin, immaculate layer, the streets look nicely festive, however, they are still too crowded. For a while, Ciri walks on until she comes to a deserted park. Between leafless trees, a snowy path winds its way toward the top of a little hillock. A weird kind of street lamps illuminate it, but they are few and far between, and soon the lights and the hubbub of the city fade into the background. Only the crunching sounds made by her own boots in the fresh snow remain.
When she arrives on the top, silence.
With a sigh of relief, Ciri gazes up at the stars. They are bright tonight, not a single cloud in the sky. The pattern of shiny dots against the blackness of the universe looks different from the constellations Mousesack once explained to her, before the Slaughter of Cintra, yet this does not come as much of a surprise. Somehow Ciri can sense that this is not only a different time, but also a different sphere. One of the stars, however, does look familiar. The Eye. It is not the star's official name; it is the name she gave it while she was wandering through the Korath desert. Back then, it was her beacon of hope. Is it possible that it is the same star?
Ciri stares at it. Is it staring back at her? And winking?
... ... ... ... ... ...
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Regis' voice suddenly sounds from behind Geralt. "And who knows, perhaps, at this very moment, your Ciri is gazing at the stars, too?"