They looked at each other for a long time, a very long time. The red glow of the fire danced over their faces. Yennefer sighed suddenly, veiling her eyes under their lashes.
“Geralt, no. Don't start...”
“It's Belleteyn,” he interrupted, “did you forget?”
She approached slowly, put a hand on his shoulder and pressed gently against him, curling herself gently against his chest. He stroked the raven-black hair that fell in curls like snakes.
“Believe me,” she murmured, lifting her face, “I wouldn't hesitate for a moment if if it were only a question of... but there's no sense in it. Everything would begin again and end as it did before. There's no sense in us...”
“Must everything make sense? It's Belleteyn.”
“Belleteyn?” She turned her face. “What difference does that make? Something drew us to these fires and these celebrating people. We intended to dance, to let loose, to get a little drunk and vigorously enjoy freedom from good manners here, in honor of the renewal of the cycle of nature. And what? We trip over each other after... how much time has passed?
After... a year?”
“One year, two months and eighteen days.”
“I'm touched. Do you do that on purpose?”
“Yes, Yen...”
“Geralt,” she interrupted, leaning back suddenly and shaking her head, “let me be clear: it's impossible.”
He confirmed with a nod of his head that this was clear.
Yennefer pushed her cloak back from her shoulders. She wore a thin white blouse and a black skirt held by a belt of silver links.
“I don't want to start again,” she repeated. “And the idea of doing with you... what I intended to do with the handsome blond... under the same rules... that idea, Geralt, I find demeaning. Degrading for you and for me. Understand?”
He nodded again. She looked at him, through her lowered lashes.
“You aren't going?”
“No.”
She remained silent for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders impatiently.
“You're offended?”
“No.”
“Come, let's sit down somewhere, away from the chaos. Talk a little. You see, I'm glad that we met. It's the truth. Let's sit a moment. Agreed?”
“All right, Yen.”
[...]
Feeling tense, Geralt caressed Yennefer's curls and inhaled the scent of lilac and gooseberry they gave off. If I want her too much, he thought, she will sense it; it might upset her. I'll ask her quietly if it's all right.
“It's nothing new to me,” she said. Something trembled nonetheless in her voice.
“Nothing worth mentioning.”
“Don't do that to me, Yen. Don't read my mind. It bothers me.”
“Forgive me. It's instinctive. And you, Geralt, what's new?”
“Nothing, nothing worth mentioning.”
They remained silent.
[...]
“Belleteyn!” she cried suddenly. Geralt felt the shoulders pressed against his chest rise and fall. “They have fun. They celebrate the eternal cycle of nature. And us? What do we do? We, the relics, those condemned to death, to extermination and oblivion. Nature is reborn, the cycle repeats itself. But not us, Geralt. We can't perpetuate ourselves. We are denied that possibility. We have inherited the gift to do extraordinary things with nature, sometimes against it, but we have been deprived in return of what is most simple and natural.
What does it matter that we live longer than humans? There is no spring after the winter; we are not reborn, our end carries us with it. But something draws us to the fires, even though our presence is a cruel joke, a sacrilege against this festival.”
She fell silent. He didn't like to see her fall into such darkness. He knew too well the reason for it. It's starting to gnaw at her again, he thought. There had been a time when it seemed that she had forgotten or accepted her fate. He moved his shoulders, rocking her like a child. She did not resist. Geralt wasn't surprised; he knew that she needed it.
“You know, Geralt,” she said, suddenly calm, “it's your silence that I've missed the most.”
He pressed his lips to her hair, her ears. I want you, Yen, he thought, I want you, you know that. You know it well, Yen.
“I know,” she murmured.
“Yen...”
“Only for now,” she replied, watching him with wide-open eyes. “Only on this night that will soon disappear. That will be our Belleteyn. We will part in the morning. I beg you, don't count on anything more. I can't... I couldn't. Forgive me. If I hurt you, kiss me and let me go.”
“If I kiss you, I'm not leaving.”
“That's what I thought.”
[...]
“Yen?”
“Oh... Geralt.”
“Yen, are you crying?”
“No!”
“Yen...”
“I had promised myself... I had...”
“Don't say anything. It doesn't matter. Aren't you cold?”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“Warmer.”
[...]
“Geralt?”
“Hmm...”
“The day will break.”
“I know.”
“Have I hurt you?”
“A little.”
“Will it start all over?”
“Nothing ever stopped.”
“Please... I feel good with you...”
“Don't say anything. Everything's fine.”
The smell of smoke was rising from the heather. The smell of lilac and gooseberries.
“Geralt?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember when we met the Great Mountain Kestrel? And the golden dragon? What was his name?”
“Three Kestrels. I remember.”
“He told us...”
“I remember, Yen.”
She kissed the back of his neck, pinning his head and tickling him with her hair.
“We were made for each other,” she murmured. “Perhaps even destined for each other. But none of this can happen. It's a shame. We will have to separate when the day breaks. It can't be otherwise. We have to separate so as not to hurt each other: destined for each other, made for each other, but the one who created us should have thought of something more. Forgive me. I had to tell you.”
“I know.”
“Making love makes no sense.”
“You're mistaken.”
“Go back to Cintra, Geralt.”
“What?”
“Go to Cintra. Go, and this time don't give up. Don't repeat the mistake from last time...”
“How do you know?”
“I know everything about you. Have you forgotten? Go to Cintra, go as fast as possible. A dark time approaches. Very dark. You must get there in time...”
“Yen...”
“No, don't say anything, please.”
It was more and more fresh and more and more clear.
“Don't go now. Wait for the dawn.”
“We'll wait.”