The White Werewolf || Season One: Ties That Bind

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Gwenllech River, 1259

Robin sat in front of the fire, warming her hands. Geralt had taken the horses to the river to drink. Jaskier leaned against a nearby tree, composing.

She had been wary of fire ever since Cintra. She certainly hadn't tried pyromancy again. The first two visions she had seen had come to pass, yes, but that wasn't proof that the magic was accurate. Technically, any mage was capable of receiving flashes of the future.

It was untangling the meaning that was the real trick. Prophecy was often deceptive, not to mention self-fulfilling.

Besides, she had plenty of concrete worries. Her fishing expedition in Vengerberg hadn't revealed anything useful about Yennefer, and even though the other mage hadn't bothered them since Rinde, Robin knew the woman hadn't forgotten about them. They were in her way, and sooner or later, she would make them pay for thwarting her.

And, despite training with Triss, Robin was no more powerful than she had been before. She had achieved the height of what she was capable of, and while it was leaps and bounds from where she had started, it wasn't enough to go up against Yennefer. Not alone.

Which meant she had to come up with some other plan. She wasn't sure what, but she was hoping she'd have a while longer to think about it.

Then there was Geralt. She felt both closer to him than ever and more distant from him than ever, and she knew it was because she was afraid that their time together would be ending soon. No matter how much she felt like she was preparing herself, she knew it wasn't going to be enough. She was going to leave her heart behind with him on that day, and she'd never truly be ready.

Suddenly, the fire leapt up in front of her. She crawled back instinctively, her eyes widening.

Jaskier jumped up and came over to join her. "What was that?" he wondered, bending and putting an arm around her.

She shook her head. "I don't know," she answered truthfully.

"You weren't trying to, um..." he trailed off, unwilling to continue.

"No, Jas, I promise," she murmured.

He looked at her worriedly and her brow furrowed. "I'm afraid, Jas," she confessed. "That what I saw will come true. That it's getting closer and closer."

"I... don't think that's what you're really worried about," the bard revealed. "I think that you're scared of losing him in general." He paused, then added, "You should talk to him. Tell him. I know he feels the same way. You're both just afraid to admit it."

"You're wrong, Jas," she whispered, hanging her head. "He doesn't want me like that. He doesn't want anyone like that."

Jaskier didn't press the issue. Instead, he went back to his lute, watching her carefully as she laid down, wrapping herself in Geralt's cloak and staring into the fire.

Sometimes it felt like the whole world wanted to consume her.

And sometimes it felt like she wouldn't actually mind being devoured.