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far beneath the winter snows: The Letters

Chapter Text


...he gets a letter, addressed “to the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, Witcher.”

My ever dearest Geralt,

I hope this letter finds you as well as can be expected, not in small pieces, but warm, clean and relatively whole. I am writing from the comforts of the University at Oxenfurt, where I am presently lecturing. I am engaged, though not strictly contracted, to remain as long as I desire, contributing to the study of the liberal arts and belles lettres, viz., music and poetry, in which, I trust I do not flatter myself to declare, I have achieved some renown.

Students seem to enjoy my classes, as they cluster about the lecture hall in numbers too great to admit, and so the dean of letters has arranged a fairly generous stipend to continue as long as I lecture at least twice a month, and make arrangements to look over the work of at least a few of those who deem me a proper master.

Dearest Geralt, the manner of our parting has not ceased to pain me. I do not know if it pains you at all, though I do testify they lie who say that Witchers do not feel. You feel so deeply, so intensely, it breaks my heart to look upon how manfully you crush your feelings in your giant fists and shove them down with all your mighty strength.

Please do not believe for even a moment, that your parting words, though they cut me deep, could ever sever the bonds of friendship that tie my heart to you. Any act of devotion you care to name, I would gladly perform in your honor. I love you, Geralt, make of that what you will. My presence by your side seemed to hurt you more than my staying would allay that pain — and that is the only reason I would ever stray from your side for long.

I winter, as I say, in Oxenfurt… and until I hear from you again, my heart remains, as it were, buried deep under snows as white as your locks when they gleam in sunlight, fresh and clean as when, lovingly, I have tended them. I await your word, dearest Witcher, to fly to your side, or, should you need what succor a scholar might afford, please consider my rooms as your own, and my door forever open.

I remain, as always, your friend and devoted servant,

Julian de Lettenhove, Prof. (Visc.)


Yennefer instructs me to write: she bears you no ill, and wishes you well.