Chapter Text
Livi’s heart gave a painful thump in her already-bruised chest at the sound of the exterior door to the Duke’s office suite clicking shut. Oh gods, she prayed as her heart leapt back into motion, faster than ever, oh, merciful goddess, Melitele, please…
Please what? For what could she beg her goddess? That her lord husband not be furious over whatever twist of fate had caused him to return already, several hours early? That he would not take out his anger on her skin? That he might remember, even in his rage, that he had more use for her alive and capable than dead or broken in his bed? That the door had opened for someone else, someone like her father, come to tell her it was all a mistake, that he hadn’t meant to sell her off to this monster of a man for a few fields and small road, that he was here to take her home, to rescue her, to beg on his knees for her forgiveness that it had taken him so long? No. She had prayed for that, for all of those things and many more besides, back when her betrothal had first been announced. She had prayed, begged, cried out to any person or power she thought might possibly have the ability to save her, and she had continued doing so, desperately clinging to her naive surety that she deserved better, that the world could not possibly be that unjust, up until some awful evening near the first month’s anniversary of her marriage, when she realized that she could no longer think of anything to hope would never happen. Every terrible thing she had ever conceived of, seen in her very worst nightmares and darkest imaginings, had already been done to her by her awful, monstrous husband- save for those things which would leave her damaged irreparably, cradled by Death or at the least knocking on its doorstep, and she… she found that she was no longer sure that that was any mercy.
The cat in her lap mewled its protest at her lack of attention, jolting her back to the present. It had been at least a minute since she heard the door close, yet she had heard nothing since then but the rushing of blood in her own ears. Clearly her visitor, whoever it was, was not the Duke; her lord husband could scarcely exist in a room for a moment without yelling or demanding or breaking things or making his hateful presence known in some other manner, especially when he was in a foul mood. If not him, then, who could it possibly be? All of the servants here did their best to ignore the entire fact of her existence when they were not being called on to serve her directly, as one might ignore a sickly foal or deformed calf, knowing that they would surely not survive for long enough to make them worth caring for. Even if one of her husband’s staff had been dispatched to find her, whether in answer to some fresh new hell the Duke wished to subject her to or to notify her of some other manner, such as a response about the tax report discrepancies from Burntcreek’s alderman, they surely would not have chosen to linger in the receiving room; they would have gone straight through to the private office room where she was working, to complete whatever task they had been assigned so that they might leave her company as soon as could be. Had she imagined it, then, or misheard? No, she was quite sure she had not mistaken some other sound for the door - she’d spent long enough with its quiet click her only warning before her one small sanctuary was shattered by her husband demanding her attention - and she’d not been hit in the head hard enough to bruise for almost two weeks now, so she wasn’t likely concussed and hallucinating. But what other options were there? There was no one else currently at the estate, as far as she knew, and she had given up on hoping for any white knight rescuer to appear months ago with the rest of her childish dreams. She looked down at the cat - Butters, named for his luxurious cream-yellow coat and habit of pouncing after butterflies - as though he might have an answer, just in time to see his head snap up towards the doorway, his ears going flat and fur puffing out, and a moment later she felt his claws like tiny pinpricks on her legs through the thick material of her dress as he let out a low, sustained hiss. Oh, goddess preserve us, he’s only ever reacted like this to the Duke, and never without recent provocation. What terror could be lurking beyond the door which surpassed even her lord husband in all his grotesque monstrosity? Surely nothing she would ever wish to encounter had she the slightest bit of choice in the matter, and yet, it seemed she was about to, as the handle was now turning, the door creeping open before her eyes.
Oh. The door had opened silently, and on the other side stood… a woman? A truly gorgeous woman, Livi couldn’t help but think, though she hardly fit the standards of beauty a Redanian noblewoman would be expected to follow, or those of any court Livi knew of; she was far too tall, first of all, and the lovely caramel skin of her face was adorned with silvery scars, faint creases in the corners of her eyes and above her brow, and various patches where uneven exposure to the sun had left patches of discoloration, which were layered atop each other in the sort of perfectly casual mess that master artists could spend years trying to achieve with coat after coat of thin paint, and still they could never create any work of art as beautifully real as this face. She wore armor, with trousers , which was rarely accepted in Northern courts, at least for any woman with less of the freedom-for-eccentricities granted by rank than a Queen, and she was strong . Though she was fairly slender, as much as the armor allowed, it was not the dainty, fashionable fragility of a courtier; no, this woman was slender like a great cat, the ones from Zerrikania which she’d seen only through her cousin’s descriptive letters and bestiaries, who were quick and vicious and walked with the confidence of knowing that they were far deadlier than any creature they might meet, that they were sturdy and balanced and would stay standing against any force or challenge they might face.
The woman was also holding a wickedly curved dagger, with the hilts of a great many more poking out from seemingly every pocket and seam of her armor, which - surely that should’ve been the first thing Livi noticed about her, right? Perhaps she had grown so used to the threat of imminent pain and death, living here, that such dangers no longer registered as urgent or alarming, but- well. She thought that if anything, she had only grown more wary to such hazards, quicker and more likely to notice them even when they weren’t really a danger to her at all. If she was going to die today, well, she had hoped she might manage to outlive her lord husband and in doing so gain her freedom for him;
(she had even, on some nights - the worst ones, when his rage was especially harsh and he called her to attend him in his bed with his cock and fists still dripping, dirty from taking out the worst of his evil desires on some poor peasant girl he considered more expendable than her, one body simply not enough to sate his awful hunger - she had considered helping him along, quietly, that she might win her freedom that much sooner… but if he were to die now, with her still well within her marriable years and no children in her charge, she would surely be returned to her father’s care. She would surely be safer, not to mention happier, with him - her father had never once raised a hand to harm her or been cruel in other ways, such as her friend Milena’s father had, from what stories she’d told - but how long would it last? If he had not hesitated to hand her over to a monster such as Velen when she was younger, pristine, naive, by all accounts the most valuable she would ever be, then what would he do with her now? She does not think there could be any monster, man or beast or otherwise, more evil than her lord husband, but then before she had lived with him she thought that surely no man could be so terrible as this either. She did not want to imagine what might become of her if her fate were to once more rest solely in her father’s hands - did not want to imagine what horror might then lay in wait in her next marriage bed. She wasn’t sure she could face him again, anyway, not now that she so intimately knows what fate he had willingly doomed her to, all while smiling and doting on her and pretending he was in all ways a perfectly loving father.)
But if that was not to be, well, surely it would be less painful to go out by the hand of a professional (for that was clearly what this woman was) and a razor-sharp dagger (not that she could test the edge without touch, but surely anyone who kept their blades polished so cleanly as those she could see would not let their edges be anything but deadly) than it would be to fall to her husband’s fists… or whatever else he might chose to make use of in his rage. It would almost certainly be much quicker, too; if this woman was smart enough to have made it to her here without being caught, she would surely also be clever enough to know better than to linger for any longer than necessary if she intended to make it back off the estate without being caught.
As the seconds stretched on, the woman’s face transformed into a sort of startled confusion, followed by a brief and nearly imperceptible flash of panic, before finally settling on a sort of sheepish smile as she leaned against the doorframe, hastily shoving her unsheathed daggers under one of her belts and pulling her cloak down around her waist to obscure the shapes of her armory-worth-of-weaponry, as though that might somehow make Livi forget that she had seen them. (When she’d first slunk through the door and pulled back her hood, her gorgeous face had been bent into a viciously victorious and bloodthirsty cousin-to-a-grin, far closer to a baring of teeth than a smile, the sort of expression that surely would have made any sane man or woman weep in terror and had instead seemed to melt Livi’s knees, to the point that she was sure that if she’d not been sitting already they would have given out under her, bringing her to her knees as though she were a priestess giving reverence to her warlady-goddess; it had been a similar but notably different sensation to the way her legs wanted to shake and refuse whenever they were forced to bring her to her lord husband’s side.) As her face relaxed, the woman’s eyes widened far enough for Livi to see their bright yellow-green color, unlike anything she’d ever seen on man or elf alike, though nearly identical to those she oft saw watching her from Butters’ haughty face- and, to her amazement, her pupils were just as narrow as well! Was she imagining things after all…? Perhaps- but now that she was looking for it, she easily spotted the silver chain around the woman’s neck and the fairly large medallion it carried; though she couldn’t see the details of the carving to confirm, shadowed as it was by her cloak and armor, there was no doubt in Livi’s mind: this woman was a witcher.
“You’re not Velen.” Gods, but she could listen to the witcher’s voice forever - it was so rich, with a deep gravely purr under its silky smooth melody, like a bowl of the most luxurious chocolate poured over a layer of crumbled ginger cookies on a plate and left to solidify, before being sliced up and served in slices like cake - indeed, she was so captivated by the way her voice seemed to wind its way around her very bones, to caress her skin like the softest ribbon and steal the air from her lungs only to crawl down her throat and make its home there instead - that she entirely failed to process the words for several long seconds.
“I’m not of the line which holds these lands, it is true, though I am a Velen, as of my wedding some months ago - I suppose I don’t need to ask what for you seek my lord husband?”