Chapter Twenty-Two: Some Things Cannot Be Discussed

Squirrel Party – Free Camp in the Floating Harbor Forest.

On the third day after the humans settled into the camp, Torruviel finally awoke. Her mind was clear, her injuries had healed well, and she could immediately get out of bed and walk. Upon hearing the news, Eiofis rushed to her tent.

“Oh! You’re here. I heard those two bastards who beat me up are still in the camp.” Standing before the mirror, Torruviel carefully avoided the swollen bruise as she wiped her face with a silk scarf. Her expression was openly furious.

Eiofis sat grandly upon the only chair in the tent, gesturing for the elf woman who had been caring for Torruviel to leave, then said, “They are my guests now. Please show them at least the minimum respect.”

“After they beat me like this?”

“I struck back… and you suffered no lasting effects.”

The elf woman snorted, “Ha! Did I hear that right? You’re speaking up for the humans. Was I really unconscious for only three days? Are you still the Eiofis I know?”

The elf replied calmly, “Two humans. The woman is a fool with nothing but brute strength. As for the man, aside from his status as a witcher apprentice, he’s from Belton, east of Serekania. He has nothing to do with the hatred between us and the humans.”

Torruviel strapped two short swords to her waist. “Belton, east of Serekania!? You really believe that nonsense?”

“Experience, speech, subconscious habits—these don’t lie. That boy is no local monkey; he bathes every day. In all my years, I’ve never seen a witcher—or apprentice—so obsessed with cleanliness.” At this, a smile appeared on his face.

Impatiently, she threw a necklace of golden birch beads around her neck and spoke sharply, “Regardless, without consulting me, you handed my subordinates over to him for command. I reserve the right to pursue this matter.”

Eiofis bowed his head slightly in apology from his seat. “I understand your displeasure, madam, but only your people can properly identify herbs. For the sake of our compatriots’ swift recovery, I ask for your forgiveness.”

Torruviel clasped Eiofis’ arm twice, then walked to the tent’s exit, the squirrel tail on her waist bouncing with her steps. “Let me see what he’s done to my herbal camp before I say anything more!”

...

For Victor, the greatest disappointment about living in the Squirrel Party camp was that Eiofis had only promised him the safety of home, not the comfort. In truth, the living conditions of the Squirrel Party were, in his opinion, abysmal—old, dingy tents, crude and shoddy tools, rough, natural food. Even the dilapidated Kaer Morhen was better than this. Fortunately, it was summer, so warmth was not an urgent need.

As an apprentice alchemist, Victor was no doctor. His method for treating injuries was essentially hasty bandaging and administering potions, which required a variety of herbs and complex processes.

Clearly, he couldn’t do it alone, so Eiofis provided him with a dozen helpers—elves who only had a modest grasp of herbal knowledge.

On the first day, Victor suppressed their resistance with overwhelming expertise in identification and extraordinary potion efficacy. On the second day, he won their respect with his selfless sharing of formulas and instruction in mixing. On the third day, after assigning the day’s tasks and dismissing the elves to their duties, he began working on new formulas—when his tent was suddenly lifted open, revealing the unforgettable sight of Torruviel’s swollen bruise and smooth, high forehead.

...

He invited her to sit opposite him at the low table and brewed a pot of rose tea.

Her eyes were beautiful, the carved brows highlighting her black irises shining like obsidian, paired with a delicate nose and thin lips—a formidable presence, Victor thought.

The elf woman held her right palm upward to her chest in a graceful salute, and introduced herself with composure, “From Valley of Flowers, Torruviel Aep Cecil.”

The youth bowed in return, “From Belton, east of Serekania, Victor Corleon.”

She picked up the teacup, inhaled the aroma, and sipped slowly. Then she set the cup down, her dark irises locking onto his blue ones, and spoke bluntly, “Where’s that wretch who hit me?”

Victor raised an eyebrow, momentarily distracted, realizing he clearly wasn’t attractive enough. Then he said, “It was a terrible misunderstanding. Angoulême has paid the price, and she is now Eiofis’ guest as well—free as the wind.”

He meant he didn’t know, and where she went was none of her concern.

In this era, guests must not harm their hosts, and hosts must protect their guests—a self-evident custom. Its moral force sometimes even outweighed the law; even the most despicable criminals rarely attacked their hosts while visiting.

Torruviel glanced at Victor, but made no effort to pursue the matter, instead changing the topic naturally. “Did you know the people you’ve been commanding these days are all my subordinates?”

“I know. I’ve spoken with them a lot, including your mission to leave Valley of Flowers and teach elves outside herbalism and agriculture.”

Her voice warmed. “For that, I must thank you. I’ve asked after the wounded and seen the formulas you taught—the results are almost unbelievable,” Torruviel said.

Victor waved it off. “No need to thank me. I’m merely returning what was yours—the formulas are elven, you simply lost them.”

“To admit that so easily… you really aren’t a local monkey. Most humans would rather erase every trace of elves and declare all achievements as their own!”

Victor found nothing to say; after all, he was human himself.

Sensing his discomfort, the elf woman pressed on, “You know what the humans here have done to the elves, don’t you?”

“I do. Many books still record it; humans haven’t yet begun rewriting history. The difficulty is, whether elves or humans, it’s hard for either to interpret these events without bias or prejudice…”

Victor, for his part, could understand, even sympathize with the elves. What happened to them had once happened on the American continent.

The Indians had welcomed the civilized newcomers who crossed the ocean. Once the newcomers gained a foothold, they asserted ownership of the land with swords and guns, generously helping to ‘civilize’ the natives and reduce their numbers—an exceedingly barbaric process.

In the Witcher world’s version, humans were outsiders brought by the Conjunction of the Spheres. The native elves welcomed them, taught them magic, helped them gain a foothold, and then the humans usurped their place, slaughtering elves until their civilization was broken and they barely survived.

Detecting the sympathy in Victor’s tone, Torruviel smiled bitterly. “Whatever the case, I must thank you—Victor of Belton. These potions have helped greatly; my people will suffer much less injury thanks to you.”

“And those healthy elves may one day shoot my own people,” Victor said, ignoring Torruviel’s attempt to explain, continuing calmly, “Honestly, the best choice for your kind is to let go of hatred and withdraw to distant lands where humans won’t follow, to recover in peace.

You’ve already lost this round of survival, and further resistance will only spill more blood. Though perhaps it’s too late to say so now, for the blood shed in the past won’t allow you to let go easily.”

The silence stretched. Torruviel finally spoke softly, “Victor Corleon—outsider from east of Serekania. I’ve heard similar arguments long ago, but I still don’t agree.

I disagree with every word you said. So please, don’t speak to me again of abandoning hatred.”