For a second Triss feels like falling and then - darkness. Nothing but utter darkness is enveloping her, heavy, suffocating, devoid of colour, sound, movement, thought. Not at all what she expected. Is this even a dream? Or did something go wrong? An unsettling sense of dread creeps onto Triss's heart, sending chills down her spine. If this is indeed a dream, it is even more frightening than the worst nightmare about man-eating monsters, bloodthirsty demons or terrifying natural disasters, or, probably the most likely scenario for a soldier's fever dreams, about war, slaughter, fire and conflagration. The darkness is so oppressive, stifling that Triss wants to cry out for help, but it is as if she had lost her voice in the blackness surrounding her. No, not surrounding her, more like smothering her, taking her breath away, sucking her into this frightening abyss of darkest nothingness. Is this what dying feels like? But she does not want to die! This is not how it is supposed to work! Panicking, Triss pushes against the encroaching darkness, the all-encompassing black void with all her strength.
Her eyes fly open, her hands jerk away from the Nilfgaardian's temples, and, with a gasp, the sorceress gulps in a big mouth full of air. And another one.
"Triss, what happened? Are you okay?" Vesemir asks, concerned. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"
"No, no ghost. I'm alright, don't worry." Her voice sounds too shaky for her own liking. Triss takes another deep, steadying breath. This was an experience she definitely does not want to repeat. No wonder the Nilfgaardian is having difficulties breathing. He must be frightened out of his mind. Only that he, in contrast to the sorceress, cannot get out.
Triss sighs, shuddering inwardly at the memory of the darkness in his mind. Feeling a lot better herself by now, it is high time to wake the man up from his dreadful nightmare somehow. But how? She is definitely not going back in there to alter the dream into something more pleasant as was her original plan. No, once was more than enough. However, his breathing is still far too fast and loud. He has stopped moving and is just lying there as if paralysed, sweating profusely and trembling. The trembling seems to be getting worse by the minute, too. She has to do something, and quick. Something that has a calming effect, that brings some light to the darkness. However, she can hardly light a candle in his mind, can she? Not without entering his dream again. Some soothing sound perhaps? A lullaby maybe? Triss has occasionally sung for her patients when tending to sick children, and it has often helped more than any potion. It sounds ridiculous as the Nilfgaardian is not a little child, of course, but a grown-up soldier. Still, it cannot hurt to try, can it?
So, while Vesemir is limping over to the door, Triss takes the knight's hot hand in hers and starts to sing. A sweet little melody about the clouds and the night, the mountains and the moon, of dreams and the coming of dawn. The beautiful tune accompanies the old Witcher as he, as quietly as possible with his bad leg, hobbles through the corridor toward his bedroom. Returning from the yard with his bucket full of ice-water, Lambert stands still in the doorframe, transfixed by the lovely song. For a brief moment he almost wishes he could swap places with the Nilfgaardian. How much more delightful to have an amazing beauty like Triss Merigold at your sickbed than his mustachioed old mentor. Unusually silently, the red-headed Witcher finally detaches himself from the doorframe and walks over to the singing sorceress. He puts the pail on the floor next to her and quietly sits down on Vesemir's vacated chair. Without pausing her song, Triss takes the cloth with her free hand, soaks it in the cold water and, once again, wipes her patient's fever-hot forehead. He moans softly, but the longer the sorceress sings, the less laboured and fast is his breathing. It takes a while but, eventually, he is breathing evenly and deeply. The trembling has subsided and, apparently, so has the nightmare. Triss releases his hand as the last notes of the song are fading away.
"Merigold, are you sure you aren't a siren? I'd have to kill you if you were, you know." Lambert smirks at the sorceress who is rising from the ground with a sigh.
"Good I put an illusion on my fluffy plumage and scaly bird's feet then, Witcher." Triss rolls her eyes at Lambert. Other men have praised her to the skies for her beautiful singing voice, and this is what he comes up with. How typical. Probably the closest to a compliment she would ever get from the man. "Have I bedazzled you enough with my siren call to make you get me something to drink by any chance? Not whiskey, though, please."
"Cider to the lady siren's taste?"
"Cider it is. And some of that fresh goat cheese and roasted bread would be great, I feel like I'm starving ..."
And so it happens that the red-headed Witcher and the witch with the beautiful chestnut curls spend the rest of the night together roasting bread in the fireplace, eating goat cheese and drinking cider, not whiskey, while telling stories of singing sirens and other man-eating monsters. And taking care of the sick Nilfgaardian, of course.
