Castoff: Bittersweet Memories (ch. 10) (Patreon)

The seal worked, and Guts had absolutely no idea how to feel about it. Night came and went without so much as a single hateful whisper from those that had died but were unable to move on, their hate and envy anchoring them to this plane of reality. Despite Ciri urging him to go to sleep before he died of sleep deprivation, Guts had stayed up for the first night, Dragonslayer in hand, just outside of the city.

It had been a long night of silence. The tranquility was only broken by the sounds of men off in the distance as refugees continue to pour into the refugee camp outside of the walls and sounds of nature. With the refugees came tales of horror. Monsters in Oxenfurt, creatures that could summon the dead and vengeful spirits -- Puck had just about killed himself laughing at that one. Though, those tales paled in comparison to the stories of the Nilfgaardians.

Guts stayed out a second night as well, just to make sure that the first night hadn’t been a fluke. As well as a third. Each time, he heard tales about the war. More often than not, they conflicted. According to some, Oxenfurt had already fallen. Others said that it was being besieged. Others claimed that the Nilfgaardians had been rebuffed and defeated and that it was only a matter of time before the war was over.

It was rumor-mongering, but Guts was used to it. It was a well-honed talent to be able to sort through the mess of contradicting rumors to see where the stories lined up. If all the stories involved Oxenfurt or a battle, then that meant that the Nilfgaardians had managed to cross that bog. Which meant that there was an invasion underway. There wasn’t any word about the North fighting a battle as of yet, that told Guts that there hadn’t been one.

King Radovid seemed like a clever enough leader. The terrain was almost ideal for mounting a defense -- the cities were all seated by the river, making them naturally defensive, sustainable, and difficult to siege without the use of a navy. The war and its outcome didn’t matter to Guts. Not really. This wasn’t his world and it wasn’t his war. The only reason he had a vested interest in keeping up with the news was self-interest -- Novigrad was a rich city. Guts had seen it. A thorough sack would be enough to finance a war several times over, meaning that the Nilgaardians were coming here. Eventually.

“The seal works,” Guts muttered into the night, a fourth night passing without any sign of the vengeful spirits.

“Told ya’,” Puck remarked, lounging in a hammock made with a bit of spiderweb and a leaf. “To think it took you four whole days to believe me,” Puck added, shaking his head in disappointment while making a chidding sound. Guts just grunted, staring into the blackness of night, the truth of the matter settling on his shoulders.

Night was a time of battle. In the past two years, that was an undeniable fact. Some nights were worse than others, but without fail, he would have to fight. Resist. Struggle. That had been true for so long, Guts hardly remembered the time when that wasn’t true, even if it had been true for most of his life. And now, with the seal, it no longer was. He could sleep at night. Every day didn’t have to be a constant battle for survival.

And part of Guts hated it.

That part of him wanted to scratch the seal off with his bare hands, welcoming the fight. Fearing that without it, he would get soft. Weak. Because the battle was familiar. It was the only thing he knew and the only thing he had to know. Another part was in disbelief that the long nights were finally over. He was too stunned to feel overjoyed. He felt uncertainty for the most part because he didn’t know what came next.

“You know, I can keep watch. If you want to sleep for once,” Puck spoke up after a long lull, breaking the silence. Guts slept some during the day, a scant hour or two, but as Puck made the offer, Guts became increasingly aware of how utterly exhausted he felt. “I’ll scream really loudly if there's any trouble! Promise! And I totally won’t fall asleep on watch this time.”

Guts didn’t believe him in the slightest. But, all the same, he closed his eyes as he leaned against a tree overlooking the ocean and fell asleep.

…

“I’m thinking dark velvet with an inlay of white stitching. Black cloth, overall. The left sleeve folded up -- hiding the prosthetic will draw attention to it. Might as well have it be included in the outfit. Present it as a strength,” Triss remarked, circling Guts like a shark as a team of seamstresses took measurements. They were careful not to touch him -- he had nearly scared one of the elven women off with a harsh look, and that got the message across. Guts was pretty sure that they were convinced that he was a racist, and Guts didn’t care enough to dissuade them of the notion.

“My Lady, black on white…” An elf spoke up, trailing off as he looked pensive. He was dressed finely. Guts wasn’t sure if he owned the tailor shop that they were in or if he represented it. In any case, he was in a position of authority and he was the one that was cobbled together an outfit for Guts, much to both of their displeasure.

“Nilfgaardian colors. Of course,” Triss remarked, eyeing Guts up with a cynical gaze. “Terrible. It would have really brought out your eyes and frame.”

Guts ignored her in favor of looking around the shop. The room was framed with spools of fabrics and stitching. He stood on a small stool that groaned underneath his weight before a set of mirrors that gave him a three-sided reflection of himself. His ratty, stained, and torn undershirt had been all but ripped off of him and probably taken out back to be burnt. His gaze drifted to his missing arm, the scars that littered his body, and the unyielding muscle under a thin layer of pale flesh.

A memory washed over him. “Dark navy. Gold stitching. White and gold half-cape thing,” Guts growled the words out, surprising the team of seamstresses and Triss. Her dark red eyebrows quirked up, tilting her head at him before adopting a surprised expression. A very surprised expression. You’d think he grew a second head.

“That’s… actually perfect. Dark colors work well with you, but gold projects a different kind of power. I’m shocked you have taste in fashion, Guts,” Triss remarked, sounding absolutely delighted.

He didn’t. Gaston did. A member of his raiders who really had no place at war. He was too happy, too optimistic. He became a mercenary only to save up enough money to open up his own tailoring shop -- one a lot like this one, Guts imagined. Everyone had been sick of him talking about all of the clothes he would one day make, but everyone had been happy for him when he cried tears of joy after the war was over and he purchased that shop.

Gaston. Who had closed down that store the moment he heard that the Band of the Hawk was in trouble. Gaston. Who died in the Eclipse because he was too loyal to be anywhere else than with the Raiders when they needed help. Gaston. Who achieved his dream, only to give it up for Griffith and he was repaid with betrayal and an eternity of hell.

“I don’t,” Guts retorted, his jaw clenching as he swallowed the memories down. Gaston had designed his last outfit. The one he wore to that dumb ball that was overstuffed with nobles turning their nose up at them. Gaston had been overjoyed when Guts asked, honored beyond words to make the outfit for him. It felt like nothing less than a betrayal to his memory to have a suit made by anyone else.

Triss seemed to take the hint and said nothing, simply nodding at the tailor to follow through on his suggestion. Piece by piece, the outfit started to come together and things were sped along thanks to Triss’ magic. Nothing was stated, but there seemed to a deal between the two where he gave her clothes in exchange for her using magic to cut down the time and effort needed to complete an order. Which allowed him to take more orders and generate more money.

Because of it, the outfit was completed in short order and Guts hardly recognized himself by the time it was done. A navy colored dubblet with a high neckline that was lined with white frills. Tight-fitting trousers and knee-high boots. One sleeve was longer than the other with his prosthetic on display by tucking the fabric as if he had rolled up the sleeve. The image was complete by a stupid half-cape thing that was draped over one shoulder.

In short -- he looked like a moron and the type of idiot that he used to rob as a mercenary. Which, Guts could admit, was probably the point.

“I expected more grumbling and complaining,” Triss admitted as she circled him a final time. She seemed satisfied with what she saw, even if Guts wasn’t.

“Would it have changed anything?” Guts questioned, briefly wondering if he suffered in silence for nothing. His gaze kept drifting to the mirror. He looked like an absolute cad, but his reflection stirred memories that were better left forgotten. Of a stuffy party and a dance. One of the truly good memories that he had and he didn’t want to taint it with everything that came after.

“No, not really,” Triss agreed. “It’s something that had to be done. This party isn’t one we can afford to miss. And as much as it annoys you to dress up like a noble, I doubt you’d like it much better dressed as a servant.” She continued, earning a grunt in agreement. The entire thing was unavoidable if he wanted to get back to his Sphere in a reasonable timeframe. “Everything needs to go off without a hitch, Guts. Everything. I do understand that it may kill you to smile, make small talk, and be polite, but I am asking that you do so.”

Guts grunted. Pointedly. That earned a small sigh from Triss, rolling her eyes to the heavens as if there was a god up there that would grant her strength. That sky was empty and the only ones that offered strength were devils. “What’s the party even about?” Guts questioned as the seamstresses made the last touches to his attire before they left, letting Guts step off the stool. Why he needed it when the seamstresses needed one of their own to reach his shoulders was beyond him.

“A holiday banquet, but that is just the reason for gathering. The truth of the matter is that its a meeting between displaced nobles and the City Council to discuss the ongoing war and Novigrads place in it over frilly cakes. Officially, Novigrad is neutral, but King Radovid has been exerting his influence over the city through the Witch Hunters and the Church of the Eternal Fire. He’s pressuring for more… active involvement -- gold, supplies, manpower -- while the city is holding out until things are either desperate enough to throw in with the Northern Kingdoms or there's a large enough bribe on the table.”

Triss sounded like she was in her element when she started speaking of the politics of the situation. Gut nodded, following along as he tested the mobility of his new attire. It was like they stitched wires into the clothing and he just barely resisted the temptation to pop a few threads if it meant being able to move properly. “What does that have to do with you?” Guts questioned, making Triss incline her head to him.

“It's an opportunity. There won’t just be displaced nobility, but representatives from kingdoms across the world. One of these kingdoms is called Kovier. Nilfgaard has its mages on a tight leash while the Northern Kingdoms have turned to burning us where they can. Kovir is a poor country, but it smells opportunity. Mages are a versatile force equalizer -- A dozen of us at Sodden Hill managed to turn an absolute defeat to a victory.” As she talked, she was moving, and Guts could see her mind racing.

Guts could see that easily enough. “Northern Kingdoms fall, Kovier is next on the chopping block.” He ventured and glared in annoyance at the surprised look that Triss gave him, as if she didn’t expect him to figure that out. He didn’t know the details, but he knew war. And, ultimately, what her goal was. “Has a deal been made between you and Kovier or are you crossing your fingers and hoping?”

“The deal has been made through back channels, but details still need to be ironed out. Such as tonight's event where a diplomat will be bringing the next round of negotiations in addition to ways we can actually get up there. Portals work well enough, but stabilizing one to take us from one end of the world to another… That has inherent risks, so more mundane methods of travel are a must.” Triss went on, sounding like she was still putting it all together in her head.

Guts nodded to himself, finding that he didn’t particularly care one way or the other. He couldn’t say he cared much for the Witch Hunters -- or at all, really -- but he had no stake in the fight. However, he knew it wouldn’t be as simple as Triss was making it out to be. In exchange for tracking down his Sphere, they would undoubtedly try to leverage him helping them out of the country. A fair enough deal, if an annoying one. He couldn’t blame Triss or the mages in any case -- getting burnt at the stake was a bad way to go for anyone.

“And my role in this mess?” Guts questioned, hoping that she had been joking about smiling. The only way he’d crack so much as a smirk is if it meant bashing a noble's head in. He never cared much for the nobility in general, but he couldn’t deny that there was something satisfying about seeing snooty nobles or haughty knights falling from grace. Even as they died, they could never believe it because they couldn’t believe that a lowborn bastard like him could ever get the better of them.

Before Triss could answer, the door swung open to reveal Ciri. Guts saw her- he saw her. The dress was low cut, mostly white with dark green accents. There were ruffles and curls that Ciri was visibly unhappy with, but she strode into the room with a familiar grace all the same. He had to look away, a muscle spasming in his jaw. She looked so much like Casca in that moment that it caused him physical pain. Almost as if someone was trying to rip his heart out through his throat.

“I can’t fight in this thing,” Ciri immediately grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I’m pretty sure the seamstresses think I’m a whore because I asked to make the fabric easy to tear,” she added, making Triss roll her eyes with such force it was a wonder they didn’t fall out of her head.

“There won’t be any fighting,” Triss said, looking between them. Then she paused and thought about that statement. “There shouldn’t be any fighting,” she amended. “What I need from the two of you is interference. Covering for me while I slip out to make contact with a few people. Maybe make a scene at most,” Triss said, sounding exasperated and Guts narrowed his eyes at that. It seemed a little much, he thought to himself, to bring them into this party at late notice when all she was doing was making contact with a diplomat.

Why not meet them somewhere more isolated? Why not through a dead drop? Why not through a messenger or a proxy?

Triss wasn’t giving them the whole story. She was planning something else at this party and she wasn’t telling them what it was. Because she was using them?A possibility, but… Ciri and Triss were close. The kind of close that was hard to fake. Which led Guts to believe that she thought she was protecting them- or, rather, protecting Ciri.

He wasn’t fond of entering situations blind, but it didn’t matter. Whatever Triss was planning, it didn’t involve him. So long as it meant he got back to his Sphere, then she could do what she liked.

…

“Are you ready for this, Lord Redfield?” Ciri questioned, a smirk playing at her lips as she sat across from him in a carriage that seemed determined to hit every single pot hole on the long winding dirt road to a villa outside of Novigrad. Her scar had been smoothed over, the puckered flesh filled with makeup. Using magic was apparently a no-go because Witch Hunters, on occasion, wore magical medallions that alerted them to the presence of magic.

Guts gazed out of the small window in the carriage for a moment, seeing the rolling hills and their ultimate destination. A fancy-looking villa made out of marble and gold from the looks of it. The carriage bucked, nearly losing a wheel because of where he'd stashed Dragonslayer on the bottom, balanced between the axles. “I’d rather fight monsters,” Guts decided, knowing that the party was going to be far more tedious and annoying than a night of slaughter.

“Well, that makes two of us,” Ciri agreed. “Judeau Redfield. I wish I got to come up with my own assumed name. Lady Amelia Willowwood. I actually knew her when I was a child. The most stuck-up little thing,” Ciri chattered. “She would tell on me for every little thing that I did. Suppose I should thank her in the end, because the lengths I went to avoid getting seen by her were incredible.”

Ciri was nervous, Guts realized after a moment. He glanced at her to see that her hands were in her lap, her knuckles painted and white. Her fingernails were painted and she was visibly restraining herself from picking at the dark green coloring. She also took his silence as permission to continue babbling. “Did you know a Judeau?” She questioned him, wincing when she saw his scowl that emerged on reflex. “Sorry.”

His lips thinned as he kept his gaze focused on the outside, watching their encroaching doom inch closer and closer. Puck said he was keeping his nose clean of the party, but Guts harbored doubts. “I did,” Guts answered after a long pause, uncertain that he was going to say anything at all.

For the life of him, he couldn’t tell why Ciri seemed so pleased with the admission, even as they lapsed into silence once more. Guts watched the villa approach with an emotion that he could only describe as dread -- he hated parties before, and he hated them a great deal more now that the very idea of going to one dredged up so many memories. Memories he wanted to forget to spare them the taint of everything that came after.

Death was certain one way or another. How didn’t matter. But, he hoped that… that one beautiful night could be the last memory he remembered as hell finally took its due. Until that day, whenever it might be, he wanted to leave the memory unbesmirched.

It felt like he was approaching his own execution when the carriage finally stopped. Ciri glanced at him, flashing him a smile that was more of a smirk. “I think you can leave the talking and the smiles to me,” Ciri offered, affixing an ambivalent one to her face just as the carriage door was opened by a man dressed in finery, but clearly a member of the help. She gestured for him to go out first, and he was glad for it -- the carriage didn’t offer much in the way of legroom.

“Lord Redfield,” the man that opened the door greeted him, offering a bow while Ciri got out of the carriage. His lips thinned ever so slightly when Ciri extracted herself, his gaze flickering to him, as if he was supposed to do something. Guess he was starting the night off right with a faux pas. “Lady Willowwood. Lord Wilhelm Blecker welcomes you to his estate. If it pleases you, then follow me, my lord and lady.” With that, the man in his mid-forties bowed before leading the way.

Ciri fell in step with him and through the large double doors, Guts heard the sounds of music and people talking. A woman that was singing softly in the background suddenly grew louder when the doors were opened for them, allowing Ciri and him to see the dancehall. Like everything else in the villa, it was a lot of white, almost to the point that it was blinding, and the only source of color came from the walls that were covered in tapestries and heraldry. Nobles did love their self-important lineage.

“Announcing Lord Judeau Redfield, accompanied by Ameilia Willowwood!” The man introduced them to a crowd of pompous-looking bluebloods, a number of which gave them a curious glance before quickly returning their attention back to whatever they were discussing. There were a good number of them whose gazes lingered on Guts in particular. He could admit that he stood out even without the prosthetic drawing attention.

He stood a good head taller than some and a head and shoulders taller than most. It allowed him to see across the crowd of people, his gaze drifting to the source of music to see a pretty blonde-haired minstrel singing as she strummed a lute. Her voice was soon joined by a familiar one -- Dandelion, who tossed Guts a wink as he sang, their voices harmonizing in a tune that wasn't… unpleasant.

"Now what?" Guts asked Ciri, who smiled at the people that met her gaze.

"We mingle," Ciri answered, gently laying a hand on his prosthetic, careful not to touch him any more than that, and she led him into the belly of the beast. He went with her with the utmost reluctance and despite every insistence from Triss beforehand that he try to blend in, Guts found himself scowling at everyone that approached them.

Because of it, few were willing to meet his gaze, choosing to speak to Ciri who was by far the most social of the two. She put on the act of being an empty-headed noble like it was an old pair of shoes -- laughing politely, smiling, and rumor mongering about everything under the sun and anything that never saw the light of day. Servants walked by, offering refreshments to everyone and as desperately as Guts wanted to drink to alleviate the mind-numbing tedium, he couldn't afford to. Especially considering that they didn't serve rum.

It didn't take Guts long to find that his opinion of these nobles was justified when he half-paid attention to a conversation that Ciri was engaged in. "It was absolutely dreadful getting here. Those peasants were battering at my carriage and throwing… dung… at my coachman. It's like they don't understand that I've been as devastated by the war as they have been. Oh, my poor wine cellar ransacked by Nilfgaardians…" a man in his early thirties muttered, his speech slurred ever so slightly but other than that, he was the picture of restraint as he complained about his hardship.

Just about everyone in this room was the very worst sort of nobility, Guts decided. The kind that were absolutely helpless and could only stand on the backs of greater men and their lineage. The banquet was to celebrate the Eternal Flame, or whatever it was called, but that was just a thin excuse for the pity party that was going on. Every single noble was complaining and grumbling about the war, the Nilfgaardians, or the ungrateful peasants that were displaced by the war. Because not a single one of them knew what hardship even looked like, much less experienced any.

Ciri offered her condolences and Guts could hear it in her voice that even she was running out of patience. Guts ignored the blathering in favor of scanning the crowd, looking for Triss. So far, he hadn't found her. However, by looking at Dandelion, he was able to guess either where she was or where she was going. The dancehall was an opulent room that could easily fit a hundred men with little difficulty, but it opened up to a garden from the looks of it. For more private discussions, Guts imagined.

It was as he looked to the gardens he caught the eye of someone looking at him. A man. Head shaved, a squarish face that was in a neutral scowl. Finely dressed, but clearly not nobility based on the practical clothing. That, and the scarring that marked one half of his face. The man's eyes narrowed the moment that Guts caught his gaze. He was suspicious.

"I'll be right back," Guts informed Ciri, breaking from her grip, much to her surprise. There was a downright pleading look in her eyes that Guts chose to ignore as he walked away, leaving the group of impoverished nobles to bad mouth him in his wake. Guts stepped into the dance floor, the crowd parting for him as he cut a line straight to the scarred man, who didn't move from his position by a window that overlooked the garden. "What do you want?" Guts asked him, his tone curt and to the point.

His experience being a spy or assassin hadn't gone particularly smoothly, but he knew how people thought. People like the man standing before him. When people were suspicious, they didn't expect the target of their suspicion to confront them. Simple.

"To have my curiosity indulged at the moment," the man replied after a moment, his gaze going to his prosthetic. "Your hand. Is it magic in nature?" He questioned, making Guts narrow his eyes at the man.

Witch Hunter. It was a bit of a leap, but all signs pointed to it. And he was one important enough to get invited to a fancy party.

In response, Guts reached over to a nearby table and grabbed a spoon. "Magnets," he said, letting the spoon catch the grip of the magnets in his metallic fingers. "They're not good for much, but it lets me grip a sword. That's all I need it for," Guts answered the question and the man smiled lightly.

"Clever," he remarked, nodding in approval. "Too often men are drawn in by magical solutions offered by wizards and witches that they miss the simplest solution right below their nose. He offered a hand, "Caleb Menge," he introduced himself as Guts accepted the handshake, feeling ill as he did so. "You're Guts, I presume?"

Guts went still at the mention of his name. However, Caleb continued to speak, his dark blue eyes sharp. "That's a strong name if I ever heard one. Speaks of character. I heard the name mentioned in a report from Oxenfurt. A tall, dark-haired man with a scar across the bridge of his nose and a prosthetic arm wielding a blade larger than most men are tall and wide. A man who had been in a battle with a terrible beast before vanishing in a flash of light."

He was going to kill him. Guts meant it this time. When he got his hands on Puck, Guts was going to squeeze the life out of him.

"A man that fits your description, who now stands before me bearing the name Redfield rubbing shoulders with nobility," Caleb continued, squeezing Guts hand tighter in an attempt to intimidate Guts. He failed. Guts was feeling far more annoyed than intimidated. "How did that come to be, I wonder?*

"By escaping the creature," Guts answered, not making any effort to hide who he was. There wasn't a point. "It teleported me to Crookback Bog, and sicced a fiend on me, but I managed to escape after killing it," Guts said, blending the lies with the truth.

Caleb's eyes narrowed ever so slightly even as his deadly smile grew a fraction, "It's a rare man that treats a fiend as anything more than an inconvenience."

Then it should have been more inconvenient. Ciri spoiled the one trick that it had. After that, it was nothing more than a big elk. "I'm here because it mentioned plans for Novigrad. Something about Oxenfurt being the start. I don't know. The thing was able to speak, but it didn't seem particularly intelligent," Guts continued, making Caleb stiffen. He seemed surprised-... No. Not surprised.

Caleb looked like a man that had just been handed the final piece to a puzzle and was shocked to see what the whole picture was.

"I must bring this information to his Majesty immediately," Caleb stated, leaping off the wall almost as if it had burned him. "You- you must come with me and present this to his Majesty-" Caleb began, reaching out for Guts, only to find his grip in a grip of his one. This time it was Guts turn to squeeze down and he found that he had far more success intimidating Caleb than Caleb did him.

"Who-" Guts started, only to be cut off by the same man who announced them.

"Announcing King Radovid! King of Redania and Kaedwen, Sovereign of Novigrad, and Protector of the North!" The announcer barked out with far more pride and enthusiasm as a young king strode down the carpet, much to the adoration of the impoverished nobles.

He was handsome. Early to mid-twenties, his head shaved with a thin beard, dressed in red and white, the colors of his kingdom. A golden crown sat atop his head as if people needed the reminder that he was king. This was the leader of the North? Guts had been mildly impressed with him for his tactics, but if he was here while there was a war going on, then Guts found himself a great deal less impressed.

And out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. A woman with black hair and a dark green dress was politely pushing through the crowd to head toward Radovid. A woman with a similar build to Triss.

At the same time, Radovid seemed to be heading right toward Guts and Caleb.

It seemed that this party was about to get a lot more interesting.