Chapter Text
"Please, Milva. The fate of Ciri rests on this. The fate of the world rests on this!"
"On a bloody banquet?"
The archeress looked up from the pile of straw she was huddled in, herself covered with a horse blanket, pulled up by her hands stuck in sheepskin mittens.
They stood in the knights's stables, covered overhead from the frigid, soon-to-be winter weather by high, lofty ceilings, supported by transverse beams. Surrounded by gates. And horses. Many horses.
This individual stablehouse roomed just over thirty, and nearly all were becoming agitated by the argument.
"Yes, a bloody banquet," Geralt groaned. "This is Beauclair, where banquets are as fateful, decisive, and common as battles. Come on, Milva. Our company needs you. I'm asking for your help, don't make me beg."
"My help," she huffed, looking down at the piece of straw she was playing with. "But I don't see what help I can give. Unless you want me to fill this banquet table with a herd of rabbits, or to give some wayward knight a piece of your mind, that is. Then I'll help you rightly."
She snorted.
"But to sit there, in a fucking dress, making conversation and chirping nonsense, all the while remembering not to put my elbows on the table? Funny, witcher. I thought it was Cahir that caught one in his noggin by those mines, not you."
Geralt sighed, divested of arguments.
Luckily, he was not without aid.
"Milva," Regis asked, "Might we have a word?"
"What do you think we're doing now?"
"I meant, a word in private."
"Huh. Without Geralt, then, alright. But you know, Regis, with or without him, I'm not very convinced."
"I meant in private, out of this pen. We're disturbing your mare, who's begun to express her disapproval of being cooped up with all three of us in here, through a series of stamps and snorts."
The vampire was not wrong. The black mare, disturbed by his presence, indeed seemed territorial and defensive over Milva.
She pawed at the ground, treating Regis to a final snort, visible in the cold air.
"Shh. It's alright," Milva said, rising from the straw to pet the horse's muzzle.
It worked. She calmed it with a touch.
"It's alright, Lucky. I know, he's a bit strange… They both are. Don't worry, there's no trouble. Shh…"
The mare, named Lucky, was a black horse with a white spot on her forehead. She had received the name when she was just a filly and bit the hand of a knight known for mounting too early and breaking young horses' backs. Despite his outrage, she had saved herself in the process.
Still, the name followed her around after that incident, too. Nomen est omen. This very summer, she had survived, yet suffered, a tragedy. She lost her first and only foal in stillbirth. After that, the horse became withdrawn, reluctant, and even more eager to bite the hands of anyone who drew near.
Milva and the mare had taken to each other instantly. Like kindred spirits, they recognized in one another something that transcended the experience of human or animal, and bonded to each other like two sisters.
Or, like two mothers, for each tried to mother the other incessantly, with Lucky licking Milva's hair and Milva brushing hers, with any chance they got.
The company also knew Lucky, and even knew of her at length, for horses and bows were the only things Milva seemed to want to talk about these days, when she found the desire to talk at all.
It wasn't uninteresting to them. Cahir often went with Milva in the mornings to feed their horses. For, he reasoned, even though they were lords and ladies now, and it had returned to being the work of servants, it was a knight's duty to ensure the trust between him and his horse didn't wane.
Geralt and Regis also agreed with that sentiment, although Regis was less able to put it into practice.
Not for any personal reasons. His vampiric presence simply stressed the stable horses out.
After the third occurrence of overhearing servants questioning why the entire stable went whale-eyed and became irritable around his presence, Regis ceased his daily visits to the stables to visit Draakul. To the mule's utter discontent and resignation.
Still, it seemed that he did not hold grudges, for when the vampire walked near, he rose from his napping posture and trotted over to the gate, eager for a pat on the head or a treat.
He was an old mule, and didn't have interest in much. But he had interest in Regis.
Regis approached the gate and called him with a click of his tongue and pinching of his fingers. He was greeted enthusiastically, with a nuzzle and a snort.
The horses in the neighboring stables retreated and eyed Draakul as if he was demented.
"Alright, alright," the vampire calmed him, patting his snout.
Another snort.
Geralt smiled, walking over to lean over the gate as well, watching the reunion of friends. He too missed his Roach, who they had said their hellos to earlier.
Suddenly, he had an idea.
"Regis," the witcher said, "Why don't you and Milva saddle Lucky and the mule, and take a jaunt around? It's a small city. You can walk the horses around and make it back here by lunchtime. There's your private conversation."
"A quaint idea, Geralt, but I'm hardly dressed for riding at the moment."
He was wearing a dark houppelande with scalloped edges and black slippers, which were in no way compatible with the mess of the stables.
They had made their way there unpredicted and by coincidence; having been informed of the banquet occurring tomorrow evening, and their desired presence at said banquet, they had set off immediately to gather and prepare their company.
Beginning with Milva, whom they had found, where else, but in the stables.
"Will it matter to you?"
Regis considered the proposition.
"No. I can ride sidesaddle. If we only walk the horses, I suppose it won't be too troublesome. But what of yourself?"
"I'll grab Roach. We'll catch up."
"A fine plan. We'll see you soon."
***
"So," Milva sighed after some time spent on the cobblestones, making their way past merchants bearing loads of goods, "Tell me about this banquet, Regis. Why is it so important? What's the reason you're asking me, and not Cahir?"
"We will ask Cahir," Regis nodded, handling his reins atop the mule, "After we've finished asking you. And then, just imagine, we'll also ask Angouleme."
"Damn. We need all be there, then. Even Angouleme. It's like it was with that audience. And here I thought it was only a little dinner!"
"It is a dinner," Regis explained. "Banquets everywhere, but especially here in Beauclair, serve a social function as well as a gustatory one. To see and be seen, to be present, is just as important as to eat for one's survival. Imagine that."
"I don't need to imagine," Milva snorted, mimicking the mannerism of her mare, who was indeed tetchy around the vampire and his herbal scent. "It's enough to take a gander at the women around here. See and be seen? Ha! Sure thing that is. I've never seen so many colors, dresses, fabrics, feathers… not even during the market days in Cidaris, or in the town of Oxenfurt. No, there's no comparison."
She looked down suspiciously.
"Do you think it's something in the water?"
"The water? No. It's cultural."
"Same thing. I guess, since we're a part of that culture now, that's why you want me there for this banquet so badly."
"Precisely. Milva, it's essential that you attend. Geralt might have exaggerated some about the fate of the world, but for the fate of Ciri, certainly. Our quest is to deliver Ciri from harm, and we won't be able to achieve such a thing without the benefactory of Her Englightened Highness, Her Grace, Lady Duchess Anna Henrietta. And you remember her moods."
Milva snorted again, this time disturbed.
"Don't remind me. I've never seen a more overgrown brat in my life, not even kids spoiled rotten, dragging on their parents' coats to get them a toy. Or a poet. And how idiotic! I might be uneducated, Regis, I might be simple and stupid, but at least I bloody know there's a war on. I can't imagine what Dandelion sees in her… Or, well, maybe I can."
She sighed through her teeth.
"It's all on her, then, isn't it? We're only here by the duchess's whim, as I've understood things."
"You've understood correctly. We are under her care and in her graces, as alleged lords and ladies incognito in our quest. That's why we must keep up appearances, and why we must attend banquets that might seem frivolous upon first impressions, but play an absolutely important role in the social functioning of this valley and this very court."
Milva sighed again, heavily this time. She grimaced, grit her teeth, and spat over the side of the mare into the gutter.
"I'll tell you something."
"I'll listen."
"I won't say no to this banquet. How can I, if, on my attendance rests the fate of the witcher's girl and possibly all of the world? And, I've never seen something like this, have I? I'm curious, I admit. But, Regis…"
Her expression soured.
"I don't know what you're expecting of me," she said quietly. "Luckily, I know how to eat with a knife and fork, we didn't have nothing when I was small, but my parents beat that into me sure enough. And how to sit up straight at the table. But I don't know how to talk good, like you do, or entertain a man with my words. I don't know…"
She furrowed her brow.
"I don't know how to dress like that," she said, pointing out another group of giggling ladies with a jab of her thumb in a none too discreet gesture. "Nor do I know how to act like that, either. I'd like to help you, I'd like to help Ciri, but I really don't know how… I think it'd help more if I wasn't there at all."
"I understand your hesitations. You don't have any practice with such activities or appearances."
"None at all."
"Well," he smiled, "here's your chance to try."
"Regis…"
"I may understand better than you may think," he said, adjusting his position on the mule. "It's difficult, certainly, to hide oneself. It's uncomfortable, and, when you're just beginning, seems impossible. Practice helps, indeed. But it can also be done without practice, impromptu, for when it's necessary, it is. Compromise, Milva. One night spent imagining yourself as another may seem like an insurmountable hurdle to overcome, but… Who knows what the night will hold?"
Nostalgia clouded his eyes.
"You might even enjoy yourself. You may even come to know another part of yourself, which you didn't know existed."
"I doubt it," Milva shook her head. "A night in a gown seems like a night spent in jail. And how do you think I'll manage, laced up in a corset…"
"Specific accomodations," Regis interrupted her, "will have to be made. Certainly. I'll see to it that the supportive garments selected for you are supportive and only that. Any tight lacing or form-fitting is out of the question. I'm aware your ribs have healed by now, but it would be inappropriate to place undue pressure on them now."
"That gladdens me to hear. I wouldn't like to be laced up like a boot. But what of the dress?"
"Seeing as we're travellers, Her Grace has opened not only the ducal heart for us, not only the ducal purse, but too the ducal closet. Several generations worth of court outfits are available to choose from."
"I like to hear that, too. For if it's the frilly little thing the chamberlain brought me before, I'll give him a piece of my mind."
"That won't be necessary."
"I'll say what's necessary. But I want something simple. I don't want to draw attention to myself. I know it's a stupid ask, because I think that's the point of a bloody woman, isn't it, to draw attention to herself? But I'm pleading with you, Regis. Something simple. No ribbons, no details…"
"No embellishments," the vampire nodded. "Understood."
"Nothing bellish, and no pom-poms, either."
"You'll have full creative choice."
"Fine. But… Regis?"
"Yes?"
"A dress like that, I mean. With the long, fancy… you know."
"A court dress. With petticoats and a long skirt."
"That's what it is. A petty coat, huh. And I thought they were something grand… Anyways. When I was small, I wore dresses, I can remember, but they only went down to my knee, for my ma would get cross when I splashed mud on the hem."
"Not to worry, there'll hardly be mud to dirty yourself with in the banquet hall."
"That's not it. Regis, I…"
She looked down at the mare's mane.
"I'm a woman, aren't I? But, despite that… I don't know how to walk in a dress," she confided. "I've never worn one like that. How… do you just move your legs? Like normal? It can't be, I mean, it looks like it swallows you up…"
Regis smiled slightly.
"Have no fear," he chided. "I'll help you. I'll teach you how to walk in a skirt."
She snorted.
"You really do know everything."
"Only this and that."
"Alright," she said finally. "If I can learn how to walk in a dress by tomorrow, I'll be there. But I won't have to talk during too much, will I? Can I keep my mouth shut?"
"You may, if you wish."
"Good," she sighed. "For if I don't shut my trap, it'd reveal us all and one as fraudsters… Ugh, if I'd only known our journey would take us here! Flee from war, alright, no problem. Shoot at Nilfgaardians, fine, risk it all for the noose. But wear a dress and present myself as a lady? Shit… I'd have thought long and hard about helping the witcher then."
She shrugged.
"Too bad, choice's been made. Now I can't escape it. If I had only known what I was getting myself into! What I'd be doing, how I'd be laying myself down for him! But I can't say no, I can't leave him alone. He has that effect, doesn't he?"
Regis didn't comment.
They remained quiet for a while, listening to the hoofbeats of the mare and the mule alternate on the cobblestones.
"Regis?"
"Yes?"
"I have another question. About the banquet."
"Of course."
"I'm no young snot. I know what these kinds of get-togethers are for, and how they end up. For ladies and men. I'll be all dressed up like a lady, won't I? And I'll be sat with ladies? Or men?"
"I imagine the seating plan will be co-ed. Mixed."
Milva was silent.
"Regis… I'll do a lot of things for this company. Devil take it, I'd cross to hell and back for the witcher, risk my neck, endure fire and sword… But I won't, I will not ever, whore myself out."
"Worry not. For you will not be asked to do that. Never, under my watch. And, I imagine if you were to ever ask Geralt that, he'd suffer a case of apoplexy much like the late duke."
"Good. Glad that's clear. I'll mind myself and have patience," she nodded, "More patience than I'd have outdoors. But if any smooth-talking nobleman tries to woo me, get close, or pull a fast one, well… I'll let him know what for!"
"You won't have to do that, Milva."
"How do you know what I'll have or won't have to do? It might happen."
"Try to think positively. Imagine the best outcome."
"You and your best outcomes…"
She muttered under her breath.
"I have one more ask."
"Ask away."
"Tomorrow evening, I want to ready myself and go downstairs alone. I don't want to get ready with the rest of you lot. No, not because I don't like you. But because whenever there's a woman, there's a woman's tasks. And I won't be given the task of putting curlers in Angouleme's hair!"
"You'll need help lacing your corset."
"You can do that. But I don't want Cahir or Geralt to see me like this."
"We'll likely be sat together, they'll see you at dinner. Might I ask, why not?"
She sighed.
"I don't mind that, them seeing me when we sup. But I don't want them to see me in private. Don't get the wrong idea, it's not because I don't trust them. But because I know how it is when a woman cleans up, slaps on a dress, and rouges her face. She walks into the room, and all the men go slack-jawed and stare. The witcher and Cahir are bound to get misty-eyed, sentimental, and well up with pride, cooing like doves: "Our little Milva…" Well, I don't want them to get any feelings from it. I'm not sprouting wings out my ass like a butterfly."
"The process is called chrysalis. A caterpillar doesn't sprout wings, but metamorphizes, reforming as a butterfly."
"That, then. I'm not meta-morphing and I'm not reforming, neither. I'm doing this for the company and them only," she insisted. "One dress, once, and never again. Hopefully not ever again."
Regis nodded.
"All of it will be arranged as you wish."
"Thanks, Regis."
"Thank you. For the compromise and thoughtfulness."
He watched the horizon, momentarily pausing to gaze up at the sun above their heads.
"I'll wager," he said, reasoning, "you'll be proud of yourself when it's over. And you'll realize that it's not so alien of a feeling. For we all have made sacrifices for this company already. We have all swallowed discomfort, held our tongues, and restrained ourselves from feeling…"
"We all have?" Milva shook her head. "Could have had me fooled, Regis. Angouleme might be just a little brat, but she's got you pinned with calling you a prig and "the spitting image of saintliness." I can't imagine that you've held back anything, any resentment, any arguments. What are you holding your tongue about?"
Regis was silent for a moment, staring at the mule's neck.
"That's of little importance."
"Like hell, little importance. Tell me, or I won't go to this banquet."
"Milva…"
Just as Regis was searching for the words, they were interrupted.
Geralt was riding up behind them on Roach.
"Come on," he goaded the mare, urging her to catch up with them.
The two slowed their pace to let the witcher ride up.
"So, how goes it?" He grinned upon seeing his friends' faces. "Regis? Milva? Will you attend the banquet?"
She nodded her head briskly, pointing towards the vampire with a masculine gesture expressing comradery.
"Regis convinced me. As usual."
"As usual," the witcher smiled. "That's great. Milva, thank you..."
"Don't whine on about it. Thank Regis. Shit. I'll do it, so long as he teaches me how to walk in a dress."
"I'll meet you this evening. Five o'clock, sharp."
"Make it six. For I'm planning to bathe at four."
"It's a plan."
Geralt smiled again at the both of them. And once more at Regis, it seemed.
He pulled his Roach forward and cantered before them, eager to complete the route and meet them back at the stables.
"You were saying," Milva said, "About your sacrifices. About your restraint?"
Regis exhaled.
"I don't know," he lied. "Nothing readily comes to mind."