#when milva tells cahir it seems like ciri is death and anyone to touch the girl dies

[hanzajesthanza]

i love when characters are completely right about something but because what they suggested was framed in like a throwaway humorously absurd way it just flies under the radar forever until the narrative hands you the very info and youre like ohh whoa. and then later when you're combing back through previous stuff youre like Hey wait

[hamliet]

Who Holds Destiny’s Pen?

Or, choices and destiny: the main theme of The Witcher books. 

What is destiny? Is it the Ouroborus? Are you just a tool in it? Do your choices matter?

Existentialism vs. determinism, that age-old debate. The Witcher doesn’t give a clear “yes everything is determined” or “no, nothing is” but does explore the question with nuance and ultimately, for me at least, a fulfilling answer to that question.

Destiny is hope.

It’s amusing that The Witcher is in many ways seen as playing tropes straight (as opposed to, say, Martin, whose ASOIAF deconstructs elements of the fantasy genre). But I actually didn’t think this was true; or, rather, it’s a stark oversimplification. Ciri (one of the best female main characters I’ve ever read about) is very much a deconstruction of the Virgin Mary archetype within a misogynistic world. The Witcher never revels in its misogyny, using them to titillate while also critiquing them: it straight up critiques them with nuance and empathy. 

The Virgin Mary, of course, is the woman who gave birth to Jesus in the Christian faith, who saved the world. (She too was probably only 14 or 15 when her story began, much like Ciri.) Ciri’s whole deal, in addition to being a powerful medium in her own right, is that she’s prophesized to give birth to the “Avenger” who will save their world from total calamity. Thus a five-book saga of everyone trying to control Ciri’s womb is spawned. It could be creepy if it wasn’t handled so well (it is framed really well as just as creepy and dehumanizing as it sounds, yet not in a titillating way). 

One of the main motifs, if not the main motif, of The Witcher’s choice vs. destiny question is what say women have over their bodies. It could be read politically; this isn’t exactly a political reading thereof but an examination of The Witcher’s exploration of to what extent a person can control their destiny.

Renfri is not allowed to have any say in what happens to her from birth, because Stregobor believes she is a monster and wants to find her to dissect or vivisect her. Even when Geralt is forced to kill her, he refuses to allow Stregobor to touch Renfri’s body, because her body is hers. The books bang this drum even louder than the show does, because within the books, Renfri’s history of sexual abuse is strongly highlighted. 

Renfri’s story asks the initial question: what is the lesser evil? And it’s a question The Witcher keeps asking us. If Ciri being used to have a child who will save the world from a calamity that will definitely come can definitely save this world, then why not sacrifice one girl’s wellbeing for the good of the world? 

Geralt argues that evil is evil, large or small in scale. He uses this argument against the emperor determined to marry and impregnate Ciri:

“The ends justify the means,” the Emperor said flatly. “I do it for the future of the world. For its salvation.”

“If you have to save the world like this,” the witcher lifted his head, “this world would be better off disappearing. Believe me... it would be better to perish.” 

The story then focuses specifically on childbearing and pregnancy for its three most important female characters: Yennefer, Milva, and Ciri. 

The show doubles down on this, as it depicts Yennefer telling Geralt that the root of her desire to overcome her infertility is because the choice was taken from her, and she wants her choices back. It’s a powerful statement that has its spirit carried over into the books; however, Yennefer’s infertility in the books is definitely not her choice whereas in the show it does show her making a choice; it’s essentially a side effect of her magic. Yennefer can control how she appears, can control chaos, but she cannot control her own womb, and Sapkowski writes Yennefer’s anguish over this as raw and real.

However, Yennefer does later receive a choice: to train and thereby end up adopting Ciri, or not. And she chooses to, and it’s a lifegiving decision for all. She is able to write her destiny in Ciri. 

Women’s rights to control their own bodies is most blatantly brought up with Milva. She finds herself pregnant on the road and has to decide whether to keep it or have an abortion, and the emphasis is clearly on the fact that it is her choice regardless of what she decides.

‘In Nilfgaard,’ Cahir said, blushing and lowering his head, ‘such matters are determined solely by the woman. Nobody has the right to influence her decision. Regis said that Milva is determined to take the… medicine. Therefore I think of this fact as accomplished. And the consequences of this fact. But I am a foreigner and not familiar with… I should not have spoken at all. Forgive me.’

‘For what?’ the troubadour said with surprise. ‘Do you think of us as savages, Nilfgaardian? As primitive tribes, adhering to shamanic taboo? It is obvious that only a woman could make such a decision, it is their inherent right!…’

Geralt then faces a choice to help Milva make her own decision for herself, not for what she thinks she should do or because everyone else wants one thing or the other. And he steps up as a dad figure to her, becoming vulnerable with her when he discusses things he has lost in life. It’s through his empathy that Milva feels free to come to her decision: she decides to keep the baby after all..

...only to lose the baby in a later battle. So, did her choice matter or did destiny rip her choice away? Is destiny itself the monster?

It matter because it was the fact that Milva made that decision. She mourns for the loss of her baby (which gets to The Witcher’s themes about how, if you love someone, you will inevitably end up hurt, but if you don’t, you will be less and less human). This is further compounded by how Milva’s decision mirrors Geralt’s and Yennefer’s, because after the loss of her child she acts as a mother-like figure for several in the company (for example, when she forces Geralt and Cahir to stop fighting). She is able to save and protect them, to die defending life as opposed to the life she’d lived taking it.

As for Ciri, she deconstructs the Virgin Mary archetype and the lamp character trope (a trope in which you could replace the character--usually female--by a lamp and nothing would change). Everyone’s trying to find her. Everyone wants to use her. But she’s not a lamp. Emhyr, elves, mages, Vilgefortz--they all want to arrange for Ciri’s son to be someone who will represent their interests.

Even when characters aren’t trying to get Ciri pregnant, you have Bonhart (a villain who’s basically what would happen if you combined Delores Umbridge and Ramsay Bolton in a Petri dish) who treats her like an animal and forces her to be a gladiator. Not to mention Mistle straight-up assaults Ciri (I know the author didn’t intend for it to read that way, but honestly, I’m confused as to where the ambiguity even would come from; it seemed very blatant to me). Everyone’s trying to use her, refusing to give her her own choices, and refusing to care about how she feels, which brings us back to what Geralt says to Emhyr which I cited earlier: 

If this is what it takes to save the world, if the world is required to be evil and torment a girl and subject her to all kinds of abuses, is the world itself--evil in what it will do to spare itself--worth saving? 

Hence, is the concept of destiny a curse? How can it be, when destiny says Ciri is bound to Geralt and this turns out to be positive? Yet also says Ciri will have a child who will avenge the world against some calamity, but the ramifications of this almost destroy Ciri’s life. 

Destiny seems, therefore, to be what people make of it. It can turn you into a monster or a legend or perhaps both, but your choices are what make destiny, destiny. You hold your own pen. 

Which isn’t to say that the story relies on “good victim, bad victim” in how people who make bad choices suffer, because it does not. The point is that we understand what makes someone make the choices they make, regardless of if they’re feared emperors like Emhyr or murderers like Renfri or lost children like Mistle. Empathy, really. It’s hard to outright condemn any character (less so their actions) for making the choices they make. Empathy is what enables our characters to transcend their broken world, to hope and choose better. Except Bonhart. We can all hate him.

You hold destiny’s pen, but empathy and compassion give you the ink, and when you don’t get it, the pen is good for nothing but use as a weapon. 

Destiny is hope, as Philippa concludes in the end, and empathy is what brings legends about--relating to the struggles of those who came before (yes, The Witcher gets very meta in Lady of the Lake). And hence, while the ending leaves a lot of questions out in the open, I think the open-endedness really affirms the story’s core themes. The point is that Ciri has choices about whether or not she wants to conceive a son and whom with, if anyone. She’s free in a new world, able to return to her old one if she wishes, or not to. She gets to decide what’s on her next page.

To an extent, the reason I felt the more tragic endings kind of worked in The Witcher is because even when the characters’ arcs end in tragedy, they tend to get what they want. Ciri got her parents in each other’s arms, Cahir got to see Ciri again as the adult he dreamed (literally) of, Angoulême got to matter, Regis’s legacy is one of salvation rather than death, Milva found belonging, Yennefer got to become a mother, and Geralt found out how very, very human he was. Hell, Emhyr even made a choice to honor his word. The story doesn’t glorify tragedy or death (the opposite: this attitude is directly called out multiple times in Cahir and Geralt’s arcs), but neither does it imply that death is the loss of hope.

In the end, regardless of how their arcs ended, each of our beloved characters’ hopes were fulfilled.

I have several more metas I want to write, most notably on Ciri and Cahir’s foiling, as well as Ciri’s and Renfri’s, and the Rats vs. Geralt’s company.

[riviae]

so this is long & rambly but i’ve been working on this for awhile now.... anyway, starts out very introspective!regis-y but becomes geralt/regis fluff real quick lol. hope y’all enjoy: 

Before crossing paths with a witcher who proved himself to be a man worth following into the very jaws of death, the seasons hadn’t meant much to Regis. 

He knew the cycle of things--life and death, warmth and cold, planting and harvesting--but he was an outsider to these things just as everything else on the Continent. Time passed. Wars were fought. Blood was shed. Empires rose and fell. All the while, Regis remained, burdened by an immortal life lived alone. To take part in humanity, to love it to some extent, but disappear into the shadows when a curious eye took interest in him. When a hand reached out--something that rarely occurred, unless holding a sword, pitchfork, or torch--he knew it was time to pack up and leave, lest he get too attached. 

Self-preservation, for higher vampires, was confined to the affairs of the heart and the mind--their bodies were not in danger of ruin, but memories and emotions were often ruinous for his kind. 

Yet, whatever contentment he could find as a bystander to the world’s happenings and goings was dashed the moment he met Geralt. All those years ago, Regis had fled from Dillingen to his home in Fen Carn, a cottage in the midst of an elven cemetery, in an attempt at avoiding the ever-encroaching war. 

And in perhaps the same cosmically infinitesimal chances of the Conjunction of Spheres occurring, Regis’ entire life changed at the sight of milk-white hair and amber cat-like eyes. He stepped out of his hiding spot, brushed away the stray leaves that clung to his clothes, and faced his destiny with a reserved, tight-lipped smile. 

He’s a witcher, Regis thought, the wolf medallion at the man’s sternum sparking a tiny flame of uneasiness in the vampire’s gut. Then, a more logical thought followed: I’ve always wanted to meet a witcher under amicable circumstances and now, here one is, practically at my doorstep. What luck! 

As his journey with Geralt and the hansa continued, as they traveled and fought, bled and healed, wintered in a land akin to a fairytale, Regis had a startling realization. Something had thawed inside him and he was fairly certain it was the stirrings of love. Like a change in season, like the subtle shift from winter to spring, where one wakes in the morning and sees that all the snow has seemingly melted in the night, unaware of the slowly melting ice with each sunny day until it was completely gone, so Regis was caught unaware by what he felt for the hansa--by what he felt for Geralt in particular.

Just how far would he go for these humans? How much would he sacrifice for these flickering beacons of light, here one moment, gone in the next? It was the ghost of himself--the monster he once was--that would have asked these questions. But the Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzeiff-Godefroy of the present loved his friends even more for their fragility, their tenacity in the face of a world that seemed at the ready to send them into an early grave. Love, he decided, staring at the smiling faces of the hansa at their breakfast table in Beauclair Palace, was a good enough reason to die for--and a good enough reason to live for, when he was on the cusp of nothingness. When any other sentient being would have longed for death in the throes of agony, Regis held on. For them. 

Memories spilled from his head at the first touch of magic-touched flames, nails clawing helplessly at the air. Fear burned him alive, ate away at his flesh until nothing but a pillar of ash remained. It was a pain worse than anything he had felt before--worse than anything he could have ever fathomed. He was neither alive nor dead, but something grotesquely stuck in the middle, unable to pass on to the comforting abyss of oblivion. 

Between the coldness of fear and not-death, between the pain of a body futilely attempting to regenerate from nothing, Regis did find some respite. He dreamed. And dreamed. And dreamed. He was transported to memories of the past, and while some were happier than others, even the painful recollections felt better than the aching emptiness that threatened to swallow his consciousness whole. 

Angouleme’s encouraging laughter whenever he used one of her... unique phrases. A warning pinch from Milva when he veered too far off topic, followed by an apologetic, but brief pat of his hand. A comfortable silence between himself and Cahir as they stayed up to guard the group during the night, sharing a small tincture of mandrake hooch to pass the time. Dandelion’s rapt attention to Regis’ stories, one time so transfixed that he caught his sleeve on fire as they all sat around the campfire and didn’t even notice. Geralt telling him about Ciri, voice warm, eyes crinkled in a rare unguarded expression of fondness. 

He thought back on his journal entries, the once severe, cerebral scrawl now sprinkled with mentions of the hansa. 

Angouleme somehow stole a dozen baguettes from the last tavern we stopped at and took only a quarter of one for herself before distributing the rest to the unfortunate people living in the slums of the city--and I never would have noticed (her prowess as a bandit is not something to be dismissive of, regardless of her youth) if she hadn’t also tried to search through my satchel while I “slept” in the hopes of finding olive oil to spread over her bread. For a child raised by cruelty, her morals are far better than mine when I was her age--or, rather, when I was developmentally at her age. Well, better in certain respects. She’s been quite a menace to the echelon of Toussaint... 

Milva means to show me how to hunt like humans do, meaning that I must learn how to be an archer. I don’t have much skill with human weapons--for nothing is as deadly as a pair of claws or teeth built to pierce and bleed flesh--but I will try my best all the same. Perhaps after this we can continue our reading lessons. For as much as she bemoans academics and learning for the sake of learning (as in things not readily helpful in her everyday survival), she is a naturally charming and brilliant pupil. Her “common sense,” as Angouleme often calls it, has kept us from harm plenty of times--which is why her ability as a student doesn’t surprise me. Now, if only she would stop climbing up a tree whenever our lessons start to bore her... 

Cahir, to my surprise, has taken on the role of doing the laundry for the group. Granted, we all have very few vestments to spare, but what clothes we do have that can reasonably benefit from a soak, Cahir takes and washes in the lake. Which, while I appreciate the sentiment immensely, I still found myself mildly panicked when I went to dress in the morning and my trousers were nowhere to be found. The man is quite young, probably no more than twenty-two years, but he has an old soul, as the saying goes. I would not be surprised if he finally grows sick of war, having grown up in an Empire where bloodshed is the status quo, and decides to make his living as a fisherman or farmer after we reunite Geralt with his ward. I sincerely hope that he gets the chance. 

Dandelion, ever the poet, has shown me his latest ballad. And imagine my surprise when I realized it was about me despite my immense caution on writing anything regarding higher vampires at all. It’s incredibly vapid--a shame, since he is quite the wordsmith when not preoccupied by romantic affairs--but I admit, if it were published, it would become popular within a week. He took the story of my youth and twisted it into something nearly unrecognizable, save for the titular character being named Rex. A two-crown romance with the nominative case of my name attached... perhaps this is a caution to everyone: never make friends with a writer if you value your privacy. 

Geralt dozed off beside me with his head on my shoulder. Now, him sleeping close to me is not all that uncommon--we spent many nights as a company huddled around a dwindling campfire together. What was uncommon was that he sought me out--practically barged into my room--to take his late afternoon nap... all the while I remained as still as a statue, attempting to process the sudden show of affection. Toussaint had softened Geralt in a way, so much in fact, that he apparently saw no harm in falling asleep next to a higher vampire, his swords still leaning in the corner of his room. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of his unusual straightforwardness. Where others might embellish their words, dress them up (or down) to suit their agenda, Geralt forgoes words entirely, instead letting his actions speak with a refreshing honesty. I heard the “I trust you, Regis,” as clear as day.

He thought back to all the times were his cowardice had kept him from voicing his feelings and it paralleled to his past, as if he were the same blood-abusing fiend of his youth. Centuries had passed and glimpses of the same shy, timid vampire who drank blood to be accepted, to make friends, only to lose himself in addiction, still rose to the surface. Blood was no longer a problem, but the fear of otherness, of being ostracized by those he cared about, still tempered his actions. And he was absolutely tired of it.

It was then that Regis made a vow to himself: If I live, If I become whole again, I will tell him the truth. He got his chance almost a decade later, when he was as whole as anyone could be after regenerating from nothing but dust and a drop of blood.

After Dettlaff was placated, no longer a danger to himself or others, Regis visited Geralt at Corvo Bianco. It was summer then, a season that saw him at the witcher’s door just as the last of the rows of sunflowers turned towards the sunlight in the midday heat. 

He knocked on the front door, politeness dictating his actions. A disheveled witcher opened the door, familiar cat-eyes widening marginally at the sight of Regis, as close to a slack-jaw moment of surprise as anyone were bound to get from Geralt. 

“Expecting someone else?” Regis teased, clutching the strap of his satchel as he crossed the threshold into Geralt’s home. He gave a cursory glance about the homestead--it had been decorated fairly well since the last time he visited to drop off the mutagenerator. In fact, the interior was downright cozy, a far cry from what he imagined a witcher keep to look like. 

No matter what Geralt says, his years spent on the Path have influenced him. Only someone who expects to wake in the morning would bother to decorate their home--or to have a home at all. 

The witcher shook his head, long, tangled locks spilling over his shoulders as he scratched tiredly at his beard. “Wasn’t expecting anyone. Thought if it was you though that you’d let yourself in.” 

Regis held his tongue, wanting nothing more than to sit Geralt down and trim his beard. He knew from their time with the hansa that the witcher preferred to be clean-shaven, but hated trimming it himself. The vampire pushed the thought aside. “While I could have simply misted through your window, I didn’t wish to give you a fright.”

“How considerate,” Geralt said, voice rough but teasing. “You chose to wake me instead of letting yourself in.” 

“I assumed you’d be awake. I didn’t realize that respectable vineyard owners slept in until noon.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes at the well-natured jab before walking to his room, leaving the door open behind him. Regis remained in the foyer, focusing his attention on the rather impressive collection of witcher armor that Geralt had acquired. Yet, his supernatural hearing made it impossible not to eavesdrop to some extent; he heard the rustling of fabric and the soft thud of an article of clothing hitting the wooden floor. 

“Hey, Regis,” Geralt drawled. 

“Yes?” he replied a beat too quickly, turning towards the open door. 

“...Gonna get in here? Or do I need to invite you into every room?” 

Scrambling somewhat, the vampire entered just as Geralt tugged a clean white linen shirt over himself. At meeting the witcher’s gaze, the man gave a wide grin. “You came at a good time. I’ve actually got something for you. But close your eyes first.” 

“Geralt, what are you--” 

“Shh. Close your eyes and hold out your hands.” 

A brief flash of fond irritation flickered in Regis’ expression as he gave a long sigh, but obeyed, shutting his eyes. He listened to the tempo of Geralt’s heart-rate, the usual slow and steady rhythm having quickened by a few beats. Ah, so he’s excited, Regis mused. Even witcher mutations couldn’t rob him of the biochemistry of his sympathetic nervous system. Then, a sour thought: I hope this isn’t the last time I get to witness such a jovial mood. 

The sound of his heartbeat grew stronger as the man approached, some sort of fabric draped in his arms, if the rustling earlier was any indication. Gently, Geralt placed the mystery item in Regis’ arms and backed away, the old floorboards creaking under his weight. 

“Happy birthday, Regis.” 

The vampire opened his eyes to see Geralt smiling warmly at him. Peering down, he couldn’t stop the look of absolute surprise upon his features, mouth agape.

“This is...” Regis trailed, fingers running delicately over the soft fabric, briefly pausing to rub his thumb against the black fur which lined the inside. 

“It’s not the exact cloak, given what happened at Stygga Castle,” Geralt paused, briefly wincing at the horrid memory, “But I thought you’d appreciate a new one.” 

Regis opened his mouth and then immediately closed it, unable to find the words to express how much the gift meant to him. You remembered... years passed and you still remembered. 

“I know you can’t feel heat or cold like humans do, but...” he shrugged, a hint of sheepishness in his posture, a hand rising up to rub at the back of his neck. “It’s been weird not seeing you with one. You never took that damn thing off so I thought it must have meant something to you.” 

“Geralt,” Regis finally replied once he found his voice again. It was the only warning he gave before the vampire laid the cloak on the bed and moved to seize the witcher in a tight embrace. 

Geralt looped his arms around Regis’ back in return, chuckling. He made no attempt at ending the embrace even as the time spent pressed together stretched on. “So... guessing you liked the gift, huh?” he finally asked, leaning into the gentle swaying of their bodies. 

When Regis spoke, it was barely past a whisper, but Geralt heard him all the same. “Thank you. Thank you for listening to me--for knowing me. Thank you, above all else, for being my friend.” 

“I think I should be thanking you. All I got you was a cloak--but you helped bring Ciri home. Almost gave up your life. Can’t imagine that... risking your immortality for someone like me.”  

“Geralt,” Regis started, pulling away to stare the witcher in the eyes, expression serious, “You are exactly the kind of person that inspires sacrifice. You have a noble heart and, despite your best attempts at proving otherwise, it is a heart full of compassion for others. I know you would have done the same if our roles had been reversed.” 

The witcher was silent then. When he finally managed a response, he did so while clasping Regis’ shoulder. It was something the vampire had noticed ever since meeting Geralt again--the man was more tactile than he’d been before his regeneration. As if he was making sure that Regis was real. Alive. Of flesh and bone. Not something that would crumble at his touch or slip through his fingers like a ghostly apparition. 

“I don’t know if I deserve your kind words, Regis. i haven’t always been... noble. There are things I haven’t told you about. Things that pertain to you.” At this, Geralt’s grip on his shoulder faltered and he pulled away suddenly, as if he were expecting to be hurt. “Truth is, I’ve been keeping a secret.” 

Regis blinked in surprise, a retort resting on the tip of his tongue, but he paused. He noticed, for the first time, that Geralt did look genuinely nervous. Geralt had never looked nervous in his presence--at least not because of Regis. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth all the same.

The vampire took a step forward. If Geralt was also planning to tell him a long-kept secret, then he wanted to tell his own confession first. While he still had the courage to do so. “I too have kept something from you, Geralt. I hope we can still remain as close as we were after this... revelation, if you will. But I understand if you’d prefer some time away from me afterwards.” 

“I doubt there’s anything you could say that would make me want you to keep your distance, Regis. Not after Stygga.” 

Regis gave an attempt at a half-hearted chuckle. “Hearing you say that really warms my heart--especially the certainty in your voice--but I’m afraid that what I need to say will change the course of our relationship, for better or worse. You see, Geralt, I’m... quite fond of you.” 

“I’m fond of you as well...” Geralt replied, confusion twisting his features. “Is that really your big secret?”

“Oh, for the love of--” Regis cut himself off, reaching instead with one hand to encircle Geralt’s wrist while the other cupped Geralt’s cheek. “I love you, you stubborn witcher. I’ve loved you for awhile now, really. Even before Stygga. You’re incredibly easy to fall in love with, though I see now that you’re completely oblivious to this trait.” 

Regis’ hold was gentle, light--something Geralt could easily pull away from if he wished to. But he didn’t. Staring into his own reflection within the coal black of the vampire’s eyes, Geralt closed the gap between them, answering Regis’ confession with his own: a kiss. 

Between kisses, Geralt paused, huffing out a short breath. “...You know, I’m feeling like a fool for not telling you that I loved you sooner, Regis.” 

“Likewise. Which is not something I feel all that often.” 

At this, they both laughed before resting their foreheads against each other. It had been a long road to this--to love--but it was well-earned. Later, Regis’ cloak found a home within a closet in Corvo Bianco. Though the weather in Toussaint was rarely cold enough to warrant a fur-lined cloak, Regis wore it as often as he could, but Geralt left an empty hanger in the closet all the same--just in case. 

Seasons hadn’t meant much to Regis... but now, watching the morning sunlight from the bedroom window pool against the witcher’s back, he felt a tug of warmth at the first touch of Fall, at the chance of donning his cloak and the memory of the day it was gifted to him. He didn’t want to replace the painful memories, the memories of those he loved but lost, but he also knew that somewhere, surely, Milva, Cahir, and Angouleme were smiling down at them. And that was a sense of peace with his past that he wouldn’t trade for the world.