Chapter Thirty-Six: A Familiar Old Place

The hour was morning. "Mommy! What's that big brother doing? Why is he staring at the notice board in a daze?" A little girl, innocent of the ways of the world, pointed at the youth clad in leather armor, twin swords slung across his back, leading a chestnut mare.

Her mother turned to look and was startled by his attire. She quickly scooped up the little girl and hurried away. "Shh! Don't stare at him, or you might get kidnapped."

When Victor left Aelrand two days ago, Old Nannick kept her promise and truly prepared a fine horse for him. The chestnut mare was of moderate build, her coat lustrous, her limbs strong and sturdy—a sight that captivated Victor at first glance. He named her Amber.

He rode toward the capital of Temeria, choosing to avoid passing through Dornedale, a place that left a poor impression on him. Instead, he planned to travel south to the Ismina River and then westward along its banks to Vizima.

He hadn’t expected that this route would bring him a delightful surprise.

Now, standing before the notice board in White Orchard village, Victor was awash with emotion.

Though the memories were more than a decade old, hundreds of hours spent in the game had imprinted an indelible mark—the unchanging beginning of the story always left something unforgettable.

Paying no heed to the child's innocent words or the farmer woman's harsh remarks, Victor led his horse through the village in search of what was likely its sole inn. Since he was here, he thought he might as well do a bit of sightseeing.

Passing the smithy, he heard the ring of hammer on anvil. He entered and asked the dwarven blacksmith to sharpen his steel sword. Victor had forgotten whether the blacksmith had a name in the game, so he inquired.

The dwarf, his beard streaked with black and gray, felt no animosity toward a witcher. Jovial and good-natured, he even refused payment, offering his services freely.

He introduced himself as Willis, saying he had lived here for fifty years and was as close to the villagers as family. If Victor wished to thank him, he could check the riverbank for drowners—rare, but not unheard of.

Victor nodded and continued on his way. He passed chicken coops, pig pens, and cattle barns; once, playing as Geralt in the game, his first earnings had come from the sacrifice of such livestock.

At last, following the little path, he found his destination. He tied Amber at the door and entered the inn. It was farm work hours in the morning, so few came to drink, leaving the place spacious and empty. The arrangement of tables and chairs felt strangely familiar, and the Temerian lily shield—the cause of endless tavern massacres in the game—hung polished and spotless behind the innkeeper.

His leather boots echoed on the wooden floor. "Good morning, madam. May I ask your name?" Victor approached the innkeeper and politely inquired.

Being addressed as 'madam' made the middle-aged woman uneasy. "El... Elsa," she replied.

Victor nodded and smiled. "Elsa, please, a pot of warm milk. Thank you."

...

As evening fell, Amber reluctantly slowed from her gallop. Victor dismounted, leading her through a garden riotous with herbs and knocked on the door of a small wooden cottage.

The woman who opened the door was about forty, with long black hair streaked with gray and crow’s feet at her eyes. Yet the blue in her gaze remained pure, and her full figure carried the sweet scent of chamomile.

Facing her, Victor raised his cloth bundle. "Good evening, Miss Tomira. I saw your notice—here is the beehive you requested. Also, I noticed your herb garden contains fragrant fruit and feverfew. May I purchase some?"

Tomira was the herbalist of White Orchard, but she did not live in the village itself. Her home stood two miles away, nestled in a valley.

She hailed from the city, worldly and out of place among the villagers, so Victor’s courteous visit pleased her immensely.

A bit of conversation revealed they shared not only knowledge of herbs but also opinions on the changing world, and Victor was invited to join her for dinner.

...

The well-stocked kitchen of the cottage reflected its owner’s refined taste. Black pepper pork chops, French vegetable stew, and honey croissants made for a sumptuous meal, after which Tomira uncorked a bottle of Toussaint wine and bade Victor drink with her.

She was, without doubt, easy to get along with—forthright, yet never coarse. Together, they drank and complained, from the spring’s insufficient rains stunting the growth of herbs to the Nilfgaardian invasion driving up wine prices.

As the wine warmed him, Victor nudged Tomira’s arm with his elbow. "Hey, Tomira, tell me about yourself. What’s your story? Why did you come to this place?"

She squinted slightly and regarded Victor. "My story… it’s rather sad. Do you know the Melitele Temple in Aelrand?"

Victor raised his glass and clinked it with hers. "Asking if I know? I just left there—Amber was a gift from Old Nannick."

Tomira took a hearty gulp of wine. "What a coincidence! I trained as a healer under Priestess Nannick.

Hmm… I was only eighteen when they took me in. At the time, I was far more interested in romance than in lessons."

Thinking of the bold, spirited young women at the temple, Victor smiled over his wine.

"Back then there was a boy… Gustlav. He always worked shirtless. All the apprentices stared at him, tripping and knocking things over.

I left the temple for him. We spent a wonderful summer together… then he abandoned me and left."

She drank another mouthful of wine.

"I never saw Nannick again. Priestess Hroswita refused to take me back. My parents wouldn’t speak to me, either—they gave me a cloak and a small pouch of coins and sent me away.

After that, I wandered for a long time, searching for a place where I felt safe, where I was needed.

In the end, I came to White Orchard. That’s the end of the story."

The mood was frozen for a while.

Victor set down his glass and opened his arms, giving Tomira a warm embrace. "Indeed, it’s a sorrowful tale, but I sense you’ve made peace with it. Everything’s fine now—it’s all in the past, isn’t it?"

Feeling the youth’s gentle pat on her back, Tomira hesitated, then softly returned the embrace. "Yes, everything’s fine now."

...

At midnight, staying the night, Victor suddenly realized he was once again beset by sleep paralysis. But this time, with experience, he didn't try to cry out for help. Instead, he breathed in the fragrant aroma permeating the darkness.

Chamomile—also known as mother's herb—its subtly sweet scent can be distilled using steam to produce essential oil, deep blue in color, with a rich sweetness, moderate volatility, and a strong aroma.

In his daze, Victor felt as if he had fallen into an ocean of chamomile, rising and falling with the waves, swept along by the tides.