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"…and you'll never find a husband, with a mark like that," Marta sneers, flicking her fingers in Milena's direction.
Milena keeps her head bowed over her embroidery and doesn't reply. Marta isn't wrong, much as Milena wishes she could argue with the cruel words. No nobleman of Redania will accept a wife whose godsmark is so very visible. Usually, it is quite easy to conceal a godsmark; they are often on the torso, after all, which is rarely bared even to one's spouse. Milena is reasonably sure that her own parents have never seen each other's godsmarks. She isn't sure where they are or what they look like, nor for that matter where Marta's is or what it looks like. She knows Marika's, because Marika showed her once when Milena was ten: a lovely angular tangle of lines in sky-blue and deepest green, on the underside of Marika's bicep where sleeves will always hide it.
Milena's godsmark isn't even on her throat, where it could be concealed with careful wrapping of veils and scarves and wimples. Instead, it spreads across her right cheek, a swirl of deep cobalt blue and startling silver. It's quite beautiful, or so Milena thinks. But it isn't concealable at all.
Which means she isn't marriageable.
Because everyone pretends, of course, that married couples have matching godsmarks. That sensible, cold-eyed political and financial decisions of noble parents matching their children off are entirely in accordance with the will of the gods. Everyone knows it's a lie, and everyone agrees it's the truth.
But Milena's mark cannot be hidden, and it will be instantly obvious if she is married that her husband is not her godsmarked perfect match. And therefore she cannot marry, not unless her mark goes dull and dim to show that her match has perished.
Which is reasonably common, Milena knows. Accidents happen; illness sweeps through villages; war and banditry ravage the countryside. Her parents have been waiting hopefully since she was born to see her godsmark grow dull. But now she is eighteen, a woman grown, and it is as vibrant and beautiful upon her cheek as it was when she first drew breath.
She isn't surprised, therefore, when Mother sniffs - delicately and properly, as befits a lady of breeding - and says, "Naturally she will not be marrying. Your father has found her a place with the Temple in Mirt. She will be departing next week."
Milena's breath catches in her throat, just for a moment. She knew this was coming. It is what is always done with noble daughters too obviously marked to be married off. She just didn't know where she would be sent.
Mirt. Mirt is quite far from Roggeven, in the foothills of the Kestrel Mountains. Milena has never been there. She doesn't think its Temple is a large or wealthy one.
She will likely be going to a life of hard work, as a lay sister of the Temple tasked with serving the priestesses in all their duties.
Well. That is not so terrible.
Milena sets another stitch without letting her expression change a single iota, and behind her placid mask begins listing the items she will need to pack. Mirt will be colder than Roggeven. She'll want her winter cloak and rabbit-lined gloves and hat.
*
Milena isn't exactly surprised that she's sent off to Mirt with two guards, one groom, three pack mules, and a letter of introduction to the Prioress. Father doesn't want to waste any more money and time on an unmarriageable daughter than he absolutely must. Thankfully, the guards and groom are men she has known since she was young, good steady sensible fellows, and the roads are relatively well-tended, and they make good time.
At least until they reach the Nimnar River.
There are several bridges across the river at various points, and one ford which is only useable at the river's lowest ebb, and a number of fishermen who make extra coin by ferrying travelers across who do not want to pay the bridge tolls.
Milena means to cross at the bend in the river nearest Mirt, to take the straightest path, but when they reach the town upon the river's bank, they are informed that the bridge is closed. Her guards go down to ask questions of the fishermen, and come back grim-faced.
It isn't just that the bridge is closed. It's that there's something in the river, something tentacled and terrible, which snatches and eats anyone who tries to cross.
"They've called for a witcher, m'lady, but no one knows how long it'll take for one to get here," Bruno, the elder of her guards, tells her gruffly. "We can stay and wait, or go down to the next bridge…"
"But there is no guarantee that the next bridge is not also under such attack," Milena finishes for him, frowning. "And this is the largest town within quite a few days' travel; we would not find such pleasant accommodations elsewhere. No; we will remain here at least a little while. I will ask you two and Georg to speak to any travelers from further up or down the river, and discover if the other bridges are likewise under assault."
"Aye, m'lady," Bruno says, and salutes.
A week goes by. Another. Reports from up and down the river say that every bridge and crossing point is plagued with monsters; witchers, so say the rumors, have begun to work their way down from the Kestrel Mountains but must battle each monster in turn, and it takes precious time to do so; and if the witchers should die in their battles, they may never reach this bridge at all. Trade, the lifeblood of a river town, has slowed to an utter halt.
So yes, Milena understands how the town's baron comes to his conclusion that something must be done.
She just doesn't much like what he decides to do.
Bruno and Felix fight valiantly, but there are two of them and a dozen of the baron's men; she is not surprised when they are subdued, nor truly astonished when she herself is tracked down and captured only a few minutes after clambering out a window and making an attempt at escaping through the streets. She isn't exactly trained for fleeing armed guards.
She isn't trained for being bound hand and foot and sacrificed to a river monster, either, but there's not much she can do about being bundled into a carriage and trundled along after the furiously chanting "priest" - if he's ever sworn himself to a god Milena will eat her favorite slippers without salt - through the streets of the town.
She knows nothing about monsters, but she's reasonably sure that the sort of creatures that eat humans habitually won't be satiatied by being given specific people, no matter how exalted their bloodlines. Especially as Milena is rather a small human, as grown women go. Hardly a mouthful.
She leans her head against her bound hands and sends up a brief, fervent prayer that her demise will be, if not painless or honorable, at least brief.
She knows better than to wish for rescue.
They reach the foot of the bridge, and a pair of white-faced guards pull Milena out of the carriage as the so-called priest screams an invocation to either his god or the river monster, it's not exactly clear. Or maybe his god is the river monster?
A long, seaweed green tentacle slides out of the water and over the bridge, groping blindly. Milena bites back a scream that will do her no good and might actually attract the monster's attention.
"To you, great one, we offer this noble maiden in sacrifice -" the priest yells, and then there's a shout from behind Milena - a man's voice, bellowing a word she doesn't know but thinks might be profanity from the tone.
"- to placate your wrath -" the priest intones, and the guards shove Milena forward; she hops awkwardly on her tied-together feet, tumbles, and collapses onto the bridge. The tentacle eels around towards her, reaching out with blind hunger. Milena squirms backwards as best she can, knowing it won't be enough.
Behind her, the priest's oration is abruptly cut off with a strange squelch and thud. Milena doesn't really have time to wonder what that was about before someone springs over her, landing on the bridge with a reverberating thud, boots planted firmly between her and the seeking tentacle.
"Fucking fuck off," her would-be rescuer bellows, and a sword flashes down and slices the tentacle in twain.
Milena blinks tears out of her eyes - when did she start crying? - and gapes.
The man standing on the bridge, with his stained-dark leather armor and his gleaming silver sword, cannot be anything but a witcher.
A dozen more tentacles rise from the water. The witcher snarls, lifts something in his free hand and apparently drinks it, and then takes two swift steps to the side of the bridge and launches himself up and over the low wall, diving sword-first towards the river monster.
There's a horrible screech and the sound of water being thrashed into foam beneath the bridge.
Clumsily, Milena sits up and turns around to find that the priest is…well, quite dead. His head is several feet away from his body. That explains the squelch and thud, then. The small crowd who had gathered to watch her sacrifice are crammed back against the buildings, looking terrified. Apparently they are more scared of the witcher than of the monster - or, perhaps, they think that if the witcher fails, the monster will retaliate against the town.
Regardless, Milena has no interest in being grabbed by a flailing tentacle. She wriggles inelegantly backwards until she's at least no longer on the bridge.
Somewhat to her surprise, as she leans over and starts to pick at the knot in the rope holding her ankles together, someone shoves their way through the crowd and comes hurrying over to kneel down beside her. It's Bruno, badly bruised and scowling fit to curdle milk; he has a long knife in his hand, and cuts her free in a few quick motions.
"Come on, m'lady, let's get you out of here before these idiots have another bright idea," he mutters.
"Thank you," Milena says, resting a hand on his shoulder to push herself to her feet, swaying unpleasantly at the pins-and-needles sensation in her arms and legs. Down below the bridge, the water is white as the tentacles thrash and flail madly. There isn't any sign of the witcher.
She swallows hard and turns to go - somewhere, she isn't sure where, nowhere in this town is safe for her any longer - and behind her, beneath the bridge, there's a screech like the largest unoiled door hinge in the world and then -
Silence.
She whirls to stare down into the water. The tentacles are going limp, the water calming around them until the river runs its usual muddy greenish-brown again. Great splotches of dark, oily liquid ooze up to the surface and drift down with the current; after a moment, Milena realizes they must be blood. Or ichor, at least.
The river monster is dead.
She swallows again. Is the witcher dead, too?
Something moves in the water. Something smaller than the river monster, but moving with purpose, rising from the heart of the river monster's tentacles.
The witcher. Alive.
Milena watches, hand clasped over her thundering heart, as the witcher swims gracelessly but strongly to shore and clambers up onto the bank, ichor-filthy water sheeting from his armor. There is what looks like an enormous ichor-stain across the side of his face, as well. He sheaths the sword he has been clinging to, glances around, and then slogs up the riverbank to the stairs leading up to the square at the bridge's foot where Milena is standing.
As he emerges from the stairway, her mind goes utterly blank with shock and a rising emotion so strong and unfamiliar she cannot identify it right away.
It isn't ichor on the witcher's cheek.
It is a godsmark, cobalt blue and brilliant silver, its curls and curves familiar from mirrors and windless lakes. Milena stares in wonder. Bruno, just behind her, breathes a fervent prayer - of thanksgiving, somewhat to Milena's surprise.
The witcher stomps right over to her. He is a tall man, easily reaching six feet; his hair is dark and short-cropped, his beard likewise closely trimmed, and he has a sharp face and gleaming yellow eyes. His shoulders are broad beneath his soaking armor, and he moves with a wolf's easy prowl.
And he bears the godsmark that matches hers upon his cheek.
His eyes are fixed on her, and she thinks she recognizes the expression in them despite their unusual color and the strange shape of the pupils: shock, and wonder, and something that hasn't yet had time to turn into joy. He stops barely an arm's length from her and stares down at her - at her cheek, for a long moment, and then lifts his gaze to meet her eyes.
"You alright?" he asks gruffly.
"I am not injured," Milena assures him. "And you?"
"Eh, some bruises," the witcher says, shrugging. "Didn't get bit."
"Thank you for saving me," Milena says.
"What the fuck was I gonna do, not save you?" the witcher - her witcher - grumbles, eyes flicking to her godsmark again. "Um. So."
Milena gathers all her courage and reaches up to touch her fingers to the swirling godsmark on his cheek. They both gasp as the contact thrums through them like a plucked harp string. Oh. Milena has heard stories about the way godsmarks react to their matches, but she's never put much stock into them. Clearly she should have.
"Traditionally," she says, knowing her voice is wavering and unable to master it, "slaying a monster to rescue a maiden does earn the hero the maiden's hand in marriage."
Her witcher's eyebrows go up. "Suppose that does show up in stories," he allows. "Can't say as I've ever run into it in real life." He hesitates. "Uh. Do you…want me to claim your hand in marriage? Don't you have someone less…uh…witchery waiting for you?"
Milena shakes her head. "There is no one waiting for me. I am meant to be going to a Temple convent, as no nobleman will wed a maiden with so obvious a mark. And I don't believe I want someone less witchery. The gods have marked me for you."
Her witcher swallows hard. "Guess they have," he says, voice distinctly shaky. "Witchers, uh, don't usually find their marked matches."
Milena smiles wryly. "Neither do noblewomen," she says softly. "But we have found ours."
"We have," her witcher says, very quietly, and fumbles briefly to take off his left glove.
His fingers are callused hard and infinitely gentle as he touches her godsmarked cheek. Milena shivers all over as the plucked-harp thrum goes through them both, dizzyingly strong.
"I'm Lambert of the Wolves," her witcher says quietly. "And - well. I'm yours."
"I am Milena, once of Roggeven," Milena replies. "And I am yours in turn."
She isn't sure how this will work - how being a witcher's wife will go - what has become of her possessions and her other attendants - there are a great many questions which will need to be answered, but for right now, for this moment, she has her godsmarked match, her Lambert, and that is enough.