Author's Notes (September 2020):

Story Synopsis: Geralt of Rivia has retired from the Path, no longer killing monsters for coin but spending his days toiling on his vineyard instead. But one evening a letter arrives at Corvo Bianco – a letter from Dandelion containing unbelievable news. It's news that forces the witcher to travel back to Novigrad - to see if hell actually has frozen over.

Warnings: This story contains major spoilers of the books, the games, and the expansions – particularly Blood & Wine. It is not 100% canon compliant. Additionally, in this tale, the Axii Sign does not exist. While it may be an interesting game mechanic, I simply don't have the talent to reconcile all of the plot inconsistencies that it creates. Please read my Bio for more details. Finally, with this story, I wanted to stretch my writing muscles and attempt something out of my comfort zone - a light-hearted, romantic comedy. Unfortunately, I am not by nature either romantic or funny. (Just ask my ex-wife. She'd gladly tell you.) So, this tale may end up being a train wreck. You have been warned.

Words of Gratitude: I was first introduced to Geralt of Rivia in the spring of 2016, and over four years later, I am still intrigued by him and his universe. I believe that is a testament to the incredibly talented and dedicated professionals at CD Projekt Red, who made such an amazing game with such interesting and complex characters. Experiencing their game helped me to discover and pursue this new hobby of creative writing – a hobby that I find both immensely enjoyable and rewarding. And for that, I am incredibly grateful. So, thank you, CD Projekt Red. Thank you for pouring so much passion into your games that it spills over onto the rest of us.

Disclaimer: This work is based on the characters and universe created and owned by Andrzej Sapkowski and/or CD Projekt Red. It was undertaken strictly for my enjoyment and hopefully yours, as well.

oOo

Hell Hath Frozen Over

Chapter 1

"I'll ask you one last time," said the witcher. "Are you sure you don't want to use the other method? I could transfer the curse instead. And most likely it would be weakened."

"I'm positive," answered the creature, staring hard into his eyes. "I would never give this curse to someone else. Even in a weakened state. Even if he volunteered for it. I wouldn't be able to live with myself. So, yes, I'm sure. I choose the egg."

He knew that's how she was going to answer. He'd seen the resolve on her face the day before when they'd first discussed her options. But he'd forced himself to ask again anyway. For the consequences of her choice would not only be permanent, but it was also possible that they'd be quite severe.

The two of them – the witcher and the monster – stood close together in a small glade. Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances that had brought them to the forest, the witcher thought that the location couldn't be more romantic. The clearing was filled with daisies, tulips, and white myrtle. The silver beams of a full moon shimmered off the surface of a nearby pond. Birds chirped softly in the trees, lightning bugs flittered about, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves. Plus, there was a scent in the air that was intoxicating. The scent of the creature standing in front of him. Cursed though she may be, she still smelled like a young, healthy and naked woman in the prime of her life.

He breathed in deeply, letting her scent fill his head, and then let out a small sigh.

"Even though, with the egg-ritual, you might be condemning yourself to only seven years of life?"

"Exactly, Geralt. Seven years of life. Of truly living. No longer afraid of being discovered. Seven years of freedom. No longer caged in this cursed prison."

At that point, the duchess' lady-in-waiting broke eye-contact with the witcher and lowered her head. He knew that she was examining her cursed body. A body covered in black and bright yellow feathers of a golden oriole. Hands that were transformed into bird-like claws. His heart broke for her. For he knew exactly what it felt like to be a freak. So, when she lifted her head, he only glanced at her large beak for an instant. Instead, he looked intently into her black, avian eyes and gave her a knowing nod.

"Yes, Geralt," she repeated, this time a small laugh escaping her throat. "I am very sure."

"Okay. Then, let's go over by the pond."

"The pond? Why?"

"Somehow, it temporarily transforms you back into your human state. So, obviously, there's something magical about it. Hopefully, the Power that's in it – around it – will strengthen the incantation."

Vivienne gave a nod, and then the two of them walked over to the edge of the pool. Once there, Geralt crouched down, and she followed suit – less than a pace away. The witcher raised his hand, gently holding the cracked oriole egg in between them. He brought his other hand near and cast a short Igni Sign. Fire flashed from his fingertips, quickly washing over the egg, before the sparks disappeared into the darkness. He slowly reached up and carefully rubbed the egg down one side of her face, across the feathers on her forehead, and down the other cheek.

"Now, focus all your thoughts on the egg and repeat after me," ordered the witcher, holding the egg in front of her. "Munna gan dehrau…munna finerat."

"Munna gan dehrau," she whispered. "Munna finerat."

The witcher nodded his head – indicating for her to repeat the incantation.

Once she had, he nodded his head again.

On her third go, Geralt could hear her voice breaking with emotion. Whether with hope or fear, he couldn't be sure. Perhaps, it was both. And, suddenly, the egg in his hand began to vibrate and glow a fiery red. He tightened his muscles and gritted his teeth, trying his best to keep the egg right in front of her, but there was too much Power surging into it. He heard her speak the incantation one more time, and then his world exploded. He was blasted backward through the air, landing flat on his back. He laid there for several moments with his ears ringing and his vision filled with flashing lights. Eventually, his senses began to come back to him, and he heard the sound of a woman's joyful laughter.

"Geralt! Look! Look!" she exclaimed. "It worked!"

He lifted himself up onto one elbow to see a stark-naked and completely feather-free Vivienne doing pirouettes around the meadow. At first, he said nothing – just enjoying the sight in front of him. For, he had to admit, she was absolutely stunning. Firm and flat in all the right places. And curvaceous and bouncy in all the other right places. And, obviously, without a shred of embarrassment. But it was more than her beauty that mesmerized him. The way she was dancing and moving her arms about – laughing all the while – it was completely uninhibited and care-free. He knew that he'd never felt that way in his entire life. And he feared he never would.

It was then that he furrowed his brow, for he was suddenly filled with confusion. In his mind, he whispered, "This isn't right. This isn't the way it happened."

"Shut up!" he heard another voice answer back. A voice that sounded a lot like Dandelion's. "You're gonna ruin it! Just go with it, man! Just go with it!"

He continued to watch the scene in front of him for a few more moments before he finally shook himself from his trance-like state.

"Yeah," he said out loud, and then he swallowed hard. "It definitely worked. You, uh, you are aware that you're as naked as the day you were born, right?"

"Of course," she said laughing. "And it's all thanks to you. You wonderful, wonderful man."

Instantly – so fast that he hadn't even seen her move – she was on top of him, covering his face and neck in kisses.

"How can I ever repay you?" she whispered breathlessly as she continued to shower him with kisses. To make the situation even more awkward, she was now rubbing parts of her body all over parts of his.

"Well, I've got an idea," said the bard's far-away voice.

But he chose not to listen to the voice because, at that moment, an uncomfortable feeling was beginning to flood his mind. So, instead, he said, "No, Vivienne, we can't do this. This isn't right."

"Noooo!" yelled the voice. "Fool! Absolute fool!"

Clearly, the voice and the fair maiden were of the same mind because Geralt's words didn't deter her at all.

"But it is, and we can," she said seductively, not stopping her amorous displays.

And, suddenly, Geralt felt completely agitated. He began to push the young woman off, but he couldn't seem to get a grasp on her. He was moving in slow motion, and she was like water in his hands. Every time he tried to grab her, she'd slipped right through his grip and would immediately be back on top of him.

"No! No!" he began yelling, shaking his head from side to side. "No! No!"

"Yes! Yes!" she answered back.

He continued in vain to fight her off when events turned even more bizarre.

"Sir! Sir!" she said in a man's voice. "Wake up, sir!"

And, then, suddenly, the young, nude Vivienne morphed into the majordomo of Corvo Bianco. Seeing a now naked Barnabas-Basil Foulty on top of him caused the witcher to shout out in shock and revulsion – waking him from his dream-turned-nightmare.

Geralt jerked up in his chair, breathing heavily and with a piece of parchment stuck to his face. He felt a hand firmly shaking him on his shoulder.

"Wake up, sir," said B.B gently. "It's just a dream. Wake up."

It took a moment, but the witcher eventually recognized his surroundings. He was in his study, a small room just off of the main dining area. His desk – covered with numerous ledgers and parchments – was before him, and his steward stood over him holding a lantern in hand. He saw B.B. smile.

"That sounded like a doozy, sir."

Geralt removed the paper from his sweat-soaked face, placed it back on the desk, and exhaled long and slow. He nodded his head and grunted in the affirmative.

"Fighting shaelmaars and vampires, sir?"

"Worse," he said, still trying to catch his breath. "A young, beautiful, naked woman."

B.B. chuckled.

"You know, sir, even after all this time, there are moments when I still don't know when you're jesting or not." The steward's eyes then scanned the desk. "Fell asleep at your desk again. What exactly were you working on?"

"Just going over everything one more time," he answered, glancing at the most recent report from his viticulturist.

The vineyard's first harvest would start the next week, and he was doing everything in his power to make sure it went off without a hitch. Last year – his first year owning the vineyard – they'd had no harvest due to a fungal invasion of the vines. Thus, this year's crop was vitally important. So much depended on it. So many depended on it. The thought of that weighed him down. And he only knew of one thing that he could do to deal with those thoughts. He looked back up at B.B.

"If you're here, then that means the sun will be up shortly," he stated, rising from his chair. "I best get to work."

"Don't forget your breakfast, sir," said the majordomo, picking up a plate that carried a ham-and-cheese-filled croissant.

"Ah, yeah. Thanks, B.B. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Indeed, sir."

Geralt wolfed down his sandwich as he left the house by the front door. When he came around the stone path, heading towards the barn, he heard a sharp hiss coming from near his feet. One of the vineyard's cats was nearby, arched up with its hair standing on end. It was an older tom-cat that Geralt could tell had been in many battles over the years. It had a scar across its nose, and one of its ears was half missing. The witcher had named the grey feline after a friend from decades past, a Sorcan guard who'd also had a half-missing ear.

Geralt stopped where he was and slowly knelt down. He took his last bite of croissant and tossed it toward the cat.

"Come here, Jokko," he said gently. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

The cat took a few cautious steps toward the meal but, suddenly, thought better of it and scampered off into the darkness.

"Ingrate," he called after Jokko before picking up the morsel. He blew on it a couple of times before tossing it into his mouth.

"That's fine," he mumbled to himself. "Little shit needs to be catching mice anyway. Earn his keep around here." But then he smiled as he looked off in the direction that the cat had fled. "I'm going to wear you down, Jokko. Just wait and see."

A few moments later, Geralt entered the barn and – as was his custom – sat on a stool next to the grinding stone. For eight decades while on the Path, he had sharpened and cared for his swords every day. And, though he was no longer a practicing witcher, he'd discovered that some habits just wouldn't die. So, while his witcher swords now sat unused on a sword rack in his bedroom, every morning he'd spend the hour before sunrise sharpening all of the tools in the shed. Hoes, axes, pruning shears, knives and the like. He'd put a razor's edge on all of them, whether they needed it or not.

He cherished those moments before dawn, before his workers arrived and the hustle and bustle of the day would begin. The world was so peaceful at that time a day, he thought. The night-dwellers and all the other creepy-crawlies had gone to bed by then, and most day-creatures were just starting to stir. It hadn't been intentional, but that hour before sunrise had become a daily time of relaxing meditation. Even the routine of sharpening the tools seemed to help to put his mind at ease – even if it was just a bit. It seemed to be the only time of day when he wasn't constantly worrying about the vineyard's success or failure.

As he went about his morning ritual, his mind drifted back to the dream he'd just woken up from less than an hour ago. At first, he wondered what had brought on such a strange nightmare, but he then recalled that he'd seen a solitary, golden oriole flying around his estate at one point the previous afternoon. He'd noticed it because it wasn't one of the typical birds that called his land home. To his surprise, it seemed to have been following him around for a short while before a crazed and angry raven had attacked out of nowhere and scared it off. He'd thought the whole incident strange at the time, and he now figured that it must have been the genesis of his dream. Because, in the last two years, he hadn't seen Vivienne de Tabris. Not once. The last he'd heard was that she'd left the duchy almost immediately after he'd broken her curse. The rumor was that she was traveling the world. He couldn't blame her – given what she'd been through and how little time she might have left. The truth was that, not only had he not seen her, he hadn't really thought much about her in the last two years either. But, obviously, seeing the golden oriole the day before had stirred up some memories.

Now that she was on his mind, the witcher remembered her quite fondly. Heck, every contract that he'd ever taken in which he hadn't been forced to kill he recalled fondly. They were so few and far between. But he had positive feelings about her for more than that. He hadn't known her well, but he'd liked the young woman in their brief time together. He'd empathized with her anguish. That part of the dream had been accurate, at least. For, if anyone could understand what it was like to feel different and alone, it was him. And he'd respected her, too. It would have been so easy for her to use Guillaume – the love-sick knight who had been fawning all over her – and to transfer her curse onto him. That way, she wouldn't have had to face any potential consequences from the egg-ritual. She could have used him and then dropped him immediately. Never to see him again and leaving him to deal with any and all consequences alone. Geralt had come across a lot of selfish, sorry people in the world that would have made that choice. But she hadn't done that. She'd chosen the harder path. It proved she possessed decency and honor, and Geralt respected her for it.

So, if he liked and respected her so much, then why had he rejected her amorous advances in his dream? Especially, considering that he could freely admit that she was quite toothsome. Not only that, but it had been a long time since he'd last been with a woman. His last lover had been Shani, during the Olgierd contract, and that had been ages ago. So, what exactly had stopped him during the dream? An hour after the fact, he could still remember how uncomfortable he'd felt. There was obviously some part of him – a part that had been voiced by Dandelion - that had wanted to go through with it, but the predominant feeling he'd felt had been one of…Geralt wasn't sure what the right word was. Impropriety, perhaps?

The witcher nodded his head at that. For he hadn't broken her curse just so she'd have sex with him. That hadn't been his motivation at all. Guillaume had paid him to lift the curse, but even if the knight hadn't hired him, sleeping with Vivienne still wouldn't have been his motivation. The truth was, once he found out she was cursed, he would've helped her for free. Because it was the right thing to do. And her trying to sleep with him out of gratitude would have somehow cheapened the whole ordeal. He wasn't going to lie to himself. In the past, he would have gladly accepted her 'gift' of thanks and not lost a wink of sleep over it. But he wasn't that man anymore.

"Or, hell, at least I hope I'm not," he said out loud. "Besides, you're old enough to be her grandfather."

And with that thought, Geralt wished the woman well – wherever she was – and then went back to the business at hand.

It wasn't much later, after finishing his work with the grindstone, that he left the barn and headed north. A brook of clean, cool water bubbled up behind the main house and meandered its way down the hill through his vineyard, irrigating the land, before continuing down the slope towards the Sansretour River a couple of miles away. He stood atop an arched, wooden bridge that spanned the brook and peered back toward the east. The sun was still below the horizon, but the sky in that direction was now a mixture of pink, purple, and blue. The morning sunlight was bathing his estate in an almost magical glow, and as he peered out over his land – as he did most mornings – a small smile came to his lips. Geralt had never been a religious man. In fact, if anyone had asked him, he would have admitted to straddling the line between atheist and agnostic. But every time he was able to find a sliver of solitude on his vineyard – especially in those silent hours around dusk and dawn – the experience was almost spiritual. Seeing the beauty of nature and connecting with it always seemed to restore his soul just a bit. It made him feel like maybe – just maybe – he was a part of something bigger than himself.

Not only did it renew his spirit, but looking out across his land always humbled him and made him grateful, as well. For his entire life, the only things he'd ever owned was his horse and whatever the two of them could carry. And, in almost a century of living, his only real home had been the Path. He'd spent the majority of his life eating alone by campfires and sleeping under the stars – or, if he was lucky, in the loft of some peasant's barn. But two years ago, all of that had changed when Duchess Anna Henrietta had bestowed upon him the Corvo Bianco vineyard as partial payment for completing the 'Beast of Beauclair' contract. It had changed his life for it had allowed him to finally leave the witcher's Path. He'd been contemplating retiring from monster-slaying for years. Heck, he could even remember a conversation two decades ago with Dandelion on the very topic. But he didn't think it would truly ever happen. For no witcher ever retired. They just died. Alone and bleeding out in some swamp, mausoleum, or dank cave. But the deed to Corvo Bianco had allowed him to be the exception to the rule. So, even though his vineyard couldn't compete with many others within the duchy in terms of size or reputation, he cherished it. However, sometimes he wondered if maybe he prized it too much. At times, he had the uncomfortable feeling that it owned him instead of the other way around.

Geralt was interrupted from his introspection by the sound of approaching footsteps. He glanced to his right to see Phillipe, one of his employees, yawing and scratching himself behind one ear as he stepped onto the bridge. The handsome, young man stood next to the witcher, and, after finishing his yawn, he rested his hands on the railing and – like his employer – gazed out over the estate.

"Quite the view. Bet you Nordlings don't have sunrises like this in the North, eh, Master Geralt?"

The witcher could hear the playful tone in his voice. The two of them often exchanged banter about their respective homelands.

"'It's true," he agreed. "I've never seen any land quite like Toussaint. But, the North, it's got some breathtaking vistas as well. I dare you to stand on a mountain peak on one of the Skellige Isles at sunset, watching the waves crash against the rocks below, and not be in awe. There's beauty there, too. It's just more rugged."

"Cold, rocky, rugged…kind of like the people then."

Geralt laughed.

"Yeah…as opposed to perpetually tipsy like you Toussaintois."

"Hey, if my lips don't taste like wine, my wife won't know their mine."

"You know, that was funny…the first dozen times I heard it."

Phillipe shrugged. "Why mess with perfection?"

The mention of his wife made Geralt think of the man's family – specifically, their recent addition.

"So, how's Isabelle?"

A wide smile spread across the young man's face.

"Ah, sir, she's the apple of my eye. And a more beautiful baby you've never seen."

"Must take after your wife, then."

Phillipe laughed. "And praise Lebioda for that. I just hope that, with our next one, it won't take so long. With Isabelle, Cecille was on my back for a year about getting pregnant."

"On your back? Well, that right there was the problem, then."

They both laughed at that.

"True, but we figured it out eventually. As they say, practice makes perfect."

"Yeah, well, I don't think I need to hear the details of that."

After a moment, Phillipe looked around and then lowered his voice.

"In all seriousness, Master Geralt, I want to thank you again for the loan. With an extra mouth to feed, times would've gotten tight."

Geralt turned and faced the young man, peering intently into his eyes.

"Phillipe, I told you, it wasn't a loan. It was a gift. For bringing a beautiful baby girl into the world. Plus, you're a great hand. I'd hate to lose you if you felt like you had to go elsewhere. So, I don't want to hear another word about it being a loan, okay?"

The young man blushed at the compliment but nodded his head.

"Yes, sir, and thank you again."

"You're welcome," answered Geralt, clasping Phillipe on the shoulder. "Now, let's start the day, shall we?"

The witcher spent the rest of the morning making his way around the estate. The wife of the previous owner had at one point started a large garden of herbs on the northern side of the vineyard, and the year before, Geralt had decided to expand it to include a variety of fruits and vegetables. Once every couple of weeks he'd take the produce into Beauclair to sell to the city-folk, and whatever was left over he'd share with his workers. That morning, he spent an hour helping Marie pick ripened tomatoes, asking her about her family all the while. After that, he assisted Beatrice collecting eggs in the chicken coop until a loud crash and several shouts near the stables grabbed his attention.

His three youngest employees - all still teenagers – were trying, and failing, to repair the estate's lone wagon. A couple of days prior, the wagon's rear axle had broken. The boys had repaired it, but now, they were struggling to lift the wagon in order to put the axle back in place. Geralt could see that they had tried using a block-and-tackle, but, apparently, the pully-system was malfunctioning. He listened to the three lads rain down curses and blame toward one another for a moment or two before he finally said, "Boys, let me help."

He immediately went to the wagon and bent his legs to place himself into a squatting position. He grabbed the bottom of the heavy wagon with both hands and, with an audible grunt, lifted it into the air. The three teens just stood there awestruck so Geralt – the veins in his neck and arms now bulging - eventually said through clenched jaws, "How about you put the axle in place? That might help."

The three scrambled to comply, and once the axle was properly secured, Geralt released his grip and let out a long, slow breath. He looked at the three, and they were all just staring back at him wide-eyed.

"Good job, fellas. If anyone asks, I'll be down in the vines."

He smirked to himself as he headed to the lower part of the estate where the grape vines were located. With his advanced hearing, he'd overheard on multiple occasions the three teens discussing a variety of outlandish rumors about witchers. He knew his latest act of strength would be fuel for their next conversation.

Unfortunately, the rest of the day wasn't so exciting or rumor-worthy. He spent the remainder of the morning and all afternoon meticulously checking the grapevines. It was a tedious endeavor, but work that he considered necessary. He checked every grape for even the slightest spot of fungus, and he also occasionally trimmed back the canopy. Though, truth be told, it was only a leaf or two. For the vines didn't need much more maintenance at that point. Geralt tended to them every day – to the point that B.B had accused him of being obsessed. The witcher conceded that his majordomo was probably right, but he just needed to get through this first harvest. He'd never raised an infant of his own, but he'd had several conversations with Phillipe over the last few weeks, and as strange as it might sound, the way the new father spoke of his first child was similar to how Geralt felt about these vines. Constantly worried that he was doing something wrong. Wanting to make sure that he was doing everything possible to keep "her" healthy and safe.

"I just gotta get through the harvest," he said to himself as the sun was setting behind Mount Gorgon. "Another month…and then I can relax."

oOo

"Un-bloody-believable," the witcher said in a low voice.

But it was still loud enough that B.B. heard it from the other side of the desk. It was well past sundown, and – as was their custom – the two men sat in Geralt's study discussing that day's events. They'd meet together each evening to discuss any new developments that might have cropped up on the estate in the previous twenty-four hours. Especially, anything that might require immediate attention the following day.

His dinner lay half-eaten on the desk nearby, and in his hands, he held an incredibly fancy parchment. A rider from the North had brought it earlier in the evening in a special, cream-colored cylinder. The writing on the parchment was done in the most stylish of calligraphy.

"Sir?" asked B.B. with concern.

Geralt slowly lifted his head and eyes from the parchment in his hands. His brows were furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He shook his head and glanced back down at the parchment. He read it again. This time out loud:

"The Lord and Lady Finkenbinder request the pleasure of your company

at the marriage of their daughter, Priscilla Diane, to Julian Alfred Pancrantz

Saturday, October 14th at half past five in the afternoon.

The Temple of Lebioda, Novigrad

Doublet and Evening Gown Requested

Reception Afterward"

Underneath the invitation was a note written in a hand that the witcher would've recognized anywhere. He read the note again but only to himself.

"Geralt, yeah, I know. The invitation is a bit subdued and inadequate. It doesn't even mention my nom de plume, that I'm a master of the seven liberal arts, or any of my other distinguished accomplishments. But what are you going to do? Priscilla's folks paid for them and apparently, they were charged by the letter. Anyway, this is no prank. It's all true. And I want you to be my best man. It wouldn't be the same without you. Come as soon as you get this.

Dandelion"

"Friends of yours, I presume?" said B.B.

Geralt just nodded his head, still unable to form coherent thoughts. He reached for his cup of wine on the desk and slowly downed half of it before looking at his majordomo.

"Dandelion…I can't believe it. Dandelion is getting married. And he wants me to be his best man."

"The Dandelion, sir? The bard? The one who was, well, friends with our beloved duchess?"

"The very same."

"I wasn't there in the square that day, but I heard that she'd ordered him to be hanged for…well, I guess that's neither here nor there. When was that? Almost a decade ago?"

"About that, yeah. Though, he was to be beheaded, not hanged. Not that it matters."

"Indeed. Well, then, shall I pack a bag for you, sir?"

"A bag? No, I…I can't go to Novigrad. Not now."

"But, sir, he's your best friend is he not? How can you miss his wedding?"

"I'll go to the next one. Because I'm sure this one won't last. None of his relationships ever have."

"Sir, you can't be serious."

"The hell I can't. He expects me to come now? I'd miss the entire harvest. There's no way I can do that. No way. I swear, that idiot's timing has always been for shit."

B.B. didn't say anything. He just let out a low sigh instead. He stared back at Geralt for a few moments with a pensive look on his face before finally reaching into an inner pocket and pulling out a kerchief. He removed his spectacles and then methodically cleaned the lenses before placing the kerchief and glasses back in their original locations.

"Sir, if I may ask – when was the last time you took a day off."

"Day off? What do you mean exactly?"

"I mean a day in which you did not work. A day in which you did nothing for the advancement of the vineyard. A day that was strictly for yourself and your pleasure."

Geralt looked away for a moment, lost in thought.

"I…well, there was…no..." Finally, he sighed and peered back at B.B. "Why does it matter?"

"Sir, in two years, you have not taken a single day for yourself. Not a single one."

"Yeah…and? Isn't that something to be admired? Not mocked?"

"Sir, heaven forbid. I'd never mock you. You should know me better than that. I'm only concerned for you. For your well-being."

"My well-being?"

B.B. nodded.

"I am your majordomo, sir. The man responsible for every detail on this estate, and even I take a day for myself once a week. A day away from the responsibilities. A day to renew my spirits. But you? More times than not you fall asleep here at your desk instead of your bed. If I didn't bring you food, I fear you'd forget to eat. And, frankly, sir, you look exhausted. And, now, on top of everything else, you're having strange nightmares. So, yes, I'm concerned for your health, sir."

Geralt didn't reply at first. He was thinking over everything his steward had just said. Finally, he swallowed, nodded, and spoke.

"It's just until the harvest, B.B. Once the grapes are in, then I'll relax. Then, I'll take some time off."

"Are you sure, sir? Because after the harvest will be the process of turning the grapes into wine. And the barreling process. And then selling and shipping the barrels. Not to mention the harvesting of our olive orchard. And then getting the vines prepped for the winter. And so on and so on. The work on a vineyard never stops. So, do you truly believe that you'll be able to relax after the harvest? To take a holiday?"

Geralt didn't answer. He just brought his hand up to his face and rubbed it across the whiskers on his jaw a couple of times.

"May I ask a personal question, sir?"

The witcher sighed and nodded.

"Would you consider yourself to be content, sir? Does working on this vineyard day after day give you peace and fulfillment down in your soul?"

The look on Geralt's face was one of confusion, but it slowly turned thoughtful.

"I…I don't know. Peace and fulfillment? Hell, I'm not even sure if I've ever truly known what those are. I thought at one time I might have those things with – well, with a certain woman I knew. But I was wrong. Very wrong. It was the exact opposite of peace. There were moments with her when I felt those things – or, at least, thought I did – but they were always so fleeting. They never lasted. So, I don't know, B.B. While I'm incredibly grateful to own this place, and the work can be rewarding, I'm not sure that I'd go so far as to say that the work truly fulfills me…or gives me peace down in my soul."

"Then why do you do it, sir? What is compelling you to work yourself to death?"

The office was quiet for the longest time after that. Neither man saying a word. Only the sound of the ticking cuckoo clock on the wall could be heard. Eventually, Geralt exhaled deeply and peered intently into his steward's eyes.

"I've never talked with you about the Path, have I? About my life before this?"

"No, sir."

"Well, I learned early on that I was going to have to scrape, claw, fight, and bleed if I wanted anything in this world. Including just staying alive. Nothing came easy. And nothing was ever just given to me. Even my witcher swords I had to earn – through years of training and pain…and mutations. And then I learned that I had to work just as hard if I was going to keep what I had. Neglected swords quickly dulled. Rips and tears in my gambeson – and my flesh – had to be stitched up immediately. My horse required constant care. Oils, potions, and bombs needed to be replenished. On the Path…there are no days off. Not if you want to live for long. It's…it's all I know."

B.B. nodded in understanding.

"How long were you on the Path, sir?"

"About eighty years."

The majordomo raised his eyebrows at that.

"I…I didn't realize you were…"

"That old?"

They both smiled.

"Yes, sir. The Path, it sounds like a very hard life."

"Yeah. And I don't particularly want to go back to it. That's why I can't lose this place. But it's…it's not just for me that I want to keep it. I've got eight people depending upon me. Eight people besides me whose livelihoods are tied to this place, too."

B.B. smiled upon hearing that.

"Well, sir, your work ethic is admirable. Nobody can question that. Nor your kindness. I can honestly say that you're the best employer I've ever had. And I know that Marie and Phillipe and all the rest would agree. We all respect you greatly. It's a shame that not all landed gentlemen treat their help as you do."

Geralt let out a short laugh.

"A landed gentleman. I swear – I don't think I'll ever consider myself that. I sure as hell don't feel like a landed gentleman."

"With all due respect, sir, since when does one's feelings negate reality? You may not feel like a landed gentleman, but that's what you are. So, why not live as one?"

"Yeah? And just what exactly would that look like?"

"To live a life of leisure. After eight decades on the Path, sir, if anyone's earned it, it's you."

"A life of leisure. I don't even know what the hell that means. What would I do?"

"Whatever you wanted. Throw parties, travel, take up a hobby."

"A hobby? Like what? Bug collecting? Knitting?"

"Whatever you'd like, sir," answered the steward with a smile. "Perhaps, you could finally find that one thing that would bring you peace and fulfillment."

"I don't know, B.B. If that's what it means to be a landed gentleman, then I don't think I care to act like one. Because I'm not sure that any of that sounds like me."

"Well, sir, perhaps you could ease your way into it."

"Yeah? And how exactly would I do that?"

"Taking a few weeks off might be a good first step, sir. By going to Novigrad and being best man in your best friend's wedding?"

A low growl came to his throat as he shook his head.

"You want me to leave during the most important month of the year?"

B.B. was quiet for a moment.

"Do you trust me, sir?" he finally asked.

The question was so unexpected that Geralt couldn't immediately answer.

"What? Yeah. Of course. You're invaluable. You know that. This place would fall apart without you."

"That's kind of you to say, sir. But if you truly trust me, then show it. As you know, I've supervised over a dozen harvests in my years as a majordomo. So, trust me, when I say – I can handle this estate while you are gone. I mean, that is why I am here, correct? To be your steward…so that you don't have to be here every minute of every day."

Geralt looked B.B. in the eyes, his words starting to hit home.

"This isn't the Path, sir. You're no longer alone. You have people here that you can rely on."

With those words, Geralt nodded and sat back in his chair. Finally, a small smile came to his lips.

"Okay," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "Looks like this landed gentleman is going to a wedding."

"Excellent, sir!" said the majordomo with a smile. "I know you won't regret it."

"Yeah, let's hope not. But, just to be safe, I'd better go put an edge on my witcher swords."

B.B. laughed.

"Your swords, sir? You're taking your swords to a wedding?"

"You've never met the famous bard, Dandelion, have you?"

"No, sir. I have not had the pleasure."

"Yeah, well, the man attracts trouble like…"

"Like a honeycomb attracts bees?"

"More like a dung heap and flies. So…I'm bringing my swords."