It was morning.
"Mom! What's that young man doing? Why is he staring at the notice board like that?" The little girl, who didn't yet know how the world worked, pointed at the youth in leather armor, two swords on his back, leading a brown horse.
Her mother turned to look—and the moment she registered that outfit, she blanched. She scooped the child up and hurried away. "Shh! Don't stare at him. Careful, or he'll snatch you away."
The day Victor left Ellander, Mother Nenneke kept her word. She really did prepare a good horse for him—an even-built brown mare with a glossy coat and strong, sturdy legs. Victor liked her the instant he saw her, and he named her Amber.
He planned to ride to the capital of Temeria. The shortest route would take him through Dorndal, but that name left a foul taste in Victor's mouth, so he decided to make a small detour: head south until he reached the Ismena River, then follow the river west to Vizima.
At the time, he hadn't expected that route to bring him a surprise.
And so now, standing before the notice board of White Orchard, he felt a tangle of emotions he couldn't quite sort out.
It was a memory from more than a decade ago, but after hundreds of hours in The Witcher 3, the unchanging starting point of that story still carried things a person simply couldn't forget.
He didn't pay attention to the child's innocent question or the peasant woman's sharp words. Victor just led Amber into the village, looking for what was likely the only inn. Since he was here anyway, he might as well do a little sightseeing.
When he passed the forge and heard the bright ring of hammer on anvil, he stepped inside and asked the dwarf smith to hone his steel sword. He'd forgotten whether the smith had a name in the game, so he asked.
The dwarf—his beard a mix of black and gray—didn't seem to bear witchers any particular ill will. Cheerful and open, he even refused payment and sharpened Victor's blade for free.
He said his name was Willis. He'd lived here for fifty years, as close to the humans of White Orchard as family. If the witcher wanted to repay him, then when he passed the river he could keep an eye out for drowners. They almost never showed themselves, but they did exist.
Victor nodded, agreed, and left the forge to continue on.
He walked past the chicken coops, the pig pens, the cow shed—back when he'd played as Geralt in the game, his first real payday had come from the unfortunate "sacrifice" of livestock like these.
At last, following a narrow path, he found his destination. He tied Amber up outside the door and stepped into the inn. Morning was farm-work time, so hardly anyone came to drink; the room felt a little too empty. The arrangement of tables and chairs was eerily familiar. Behind the innkeeper, scrubbed clean and hung up proudly, was the Temerian lily crest that had triggered tavern massacres more times than he could count in-game.
His boots clacked against the wooden floor.
"Good morning, ma'am. What should I call you?" Victor asked politely as he approached the woman behind the counter.
Being addressed as "ma'am" clearly made the middle-aged woman uncomfortable. "E… Elsa," she said.
Victor nodded with a smile. "Elsa, could you please bring me a jug of warm milk? Thank you."
…
By evening, Amber slowed from her gallop with lingering reluctance. Victor swung down and led her on foot through an herb garden bursting with color and scent, then knocked on the wooden door of a small cabin.
The woman who answered looked about forty. Her long black hair was threaded with a few strands of gray; fine crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes were impossible to hide, yet her blue eyes were still clear. Her fuller figure carried the sweet softness of chamomile.
Facing her, Victor lifted the cloth bundle in his hand. "Good evening, Miss Tomira. I saw your notice—this is the beehive you wanted. Also, I noticed you've got allspice and pringrape in your garden. Could I buy some?"
Tomira was the herbalist of White Orchard, but she didn't live in the village itself. She'd built her cabin two miles outside the settlement, in a low valley among rolling slopes.
She was from a city—someone who'd seen more of the world—and she didn't quite fit with the villagers. So Victor's courteous visit pleased her greatly.
A little conversation made it clear they shared more than an understanding of herbs: they also had opinions about how the world was changing. In the end, Victor earned an invitation to dinner—and to stay the night.
…
The cabin kitchen's well-stocked assortment of spices spoke volumes about its owner's taste. Black-pepper pork chops, a hearty vegetable stew, and honey croissants—after a meal that left both host and guest content, Tomira opened a bottle of Toussaint wine and had Victor drink with her.
She was, without question, easy to be around: blunt, but never crude. Over drinks in the cabin, they complained about everything from the spring's lack of rain hurting the herbs to Nilfgaard's invasion driving up the price of wine.
When their cheeks were warm and the wine had loosened the room, Victor nudged Tomira lightly with his elbow. "Hey, Tomira. Talk about you. What's your story? Why did you come to a place like this?"
She narrowed her eyes slightly and looked him over. "My story… is a sad one. Do you know the Temple of Melitele in Ellander?"
Victor raised his glass and clinked it against hers. "Are you kidding? I just left there. Amber was a gift from Mother Nenneke."
Tomira took a big swallow of red wine. "What a strange coincidence. I trained under Nenneke—studied to become a healer.
"Mm… I was eighteen when they took me in. Back then, compared to lessons, I was far more interested in falling in love."
Thinking of the bold young novices in the temple, Victor smiled into his cup.
"There was a boy… Goslav. He always worked with his shirt off. Every apprentice stared at him until they stumbled while walking, dropped things, made fools of themselves.
"I left the temple for him. We spent one wonderful summer together… and then he left me behind."
As she spoke, Tomira poured another mouthful of wine down her throat.
"I never got to see Mother Nenneke again. The priestess Hrosvitha refused to take me back. My parents refused to speak to me, too—they gave me a cloak and a small pouch of coins and told me to leave.
"After that, I traveled for a long time, trying to find a place where I felt safe… where someone needed me.
"In the end, I came to White Orchard. That's the story."
The room froze for a long moment.
Victor set his cup down, opened his arms, and pulled Tomira into a warm, steady hug. "It really is a sad story. But I can tell you've made peace with a lot of it. You're doing well now. It's over. You made it through."
Feeling the friendly pat of his hand against her back, Tomira hesitated—then returned the hug gently. "Yes," she said softly. "I'm fine now."
…
Near midnight, Victor realized he'd been caught by sleep paralysis again. But experienced as he was, he didn't try to call for help this time. In the dark, he simply breathed in the scent that had slipped into his nose.
Chamomile—also known as German chamomile—has a faint sweetness to it. Its essential oil can be made through steam distillation; the finished oil looks deep blue, with a rich, honeyed sweetness, moderate volatility, and a scent with medium-to-strong presence.
Half-dazed, Victor felt as though he'd fallen into an ocean of chamomile, rising and sinking with the swell, carried wherever the tide chose to take him.