The Wrong Last Wish

The Third Wish

Fucking djin. Fucking witch. Fucking bard. He cursed them all at once as he got knocked through a wall by the enraged air elemental.

How did he always end up being dragged into this somebody else's crap?

Fucking luck. Fucking destiny. Fucking witcher's existence.

"I wish this wasn't my life." And just like that, he spoke his third and final last wish.

The world spun upside down, then upright again, and his head went along for the ride. There was no crumbling house, no burning village, no mad woman trying to submit a dangerous spirit to her will. Colours and shapes swirled and blended into an amorphous amalgamation until nothing remained but the perfect pitch black of nothingness.

For a moment he thought the witch portalled him again, but there was no smell of ozone - so characteristic of magic - not even the icy stillness of being transported. In fact, he couldn't really feel anything, like he had been disembodied. Only his thoughts floating inside a void.

Was this what death felt like? Had he stupidly wished himself out of existence?

He wished for peace, maybe a little happiness, nothing more than a simple existence, unburdened by all these responsibilities thrown at him from all sides. Although, if he was fair to himself, it was partly his fault for having so much to hang on him. Sure, there was no shortage of people needing help, but it wasn't like he went out of his way to avoid them. Not that it mattered anymore; now all that was over. He relaxed, waiting for the faint light of his consciousness to be extinguished.

Just as he had made his peace with the inevitable, the world grew bright again.

"It was just a nightmare, love," a faint voice echoed inside his head.

Was this the afterlife the prophets spoke of?

He felt solid again, thoughts anchored inside a body. His fingers reached out to feel around, but he daren't open his eyes yet. If this was the afterlife, he hadn't really led a virtuous existence. There was no reason to think that a pleasant image would greet him. Yet, what his hand felt underneath was a crisp sheet over a straw mattress. Surely heaven or hell must have something more... particular to offer. Not plain bed sheets, the kind any commoner would have.

"It was just a bad dream, love," the same soft voice spoke again, and a soft touch accompanied the sound; small fingers clasping his hand and faintly squeezing.

He opened his eyes carefully, as if procrastinating could change the reality that met him. Soft pale green eyes watched over him and the firelight from the hearth glittered inside them.

A rush of images and memories flooded him and he felt himself drown in someone else's life. Anna. The green eyes belonged to Anna. His wife? Witchers don't have wives. They have the Path, they're married to their work. Yet he remembered marrying her. On a sunny autumn day, under the oak tree, they took their vows, and the priest bound their hands and destinies together. Had that been a dream or was his life as a witcher the dream?

He sat up and looked around, disorientated. Soft hands coiled around his waist and a delicate cheek pressed against his chest. Ringlets of chestnut hair that swirled and danced cascaded over his skin. Lighter sunburnt strands shone in the dim light. With each passing second, his memories of being a witcher faded, and his conviction that he was a simple huntsman who dreamed of being a hero became stronger.

The fire burned dimly in the hearth; it was time for him to stoke it if he didn't want it to die out.

"Was it monsters again?"

He nodded in silence. It had been monsters, even if one had human form and violet eyes.

"It's that cursed thing in the woods. Sends bad dreams to all the villagers. I heard Eloise complain, too. She and the kids all have the same nightmare each night. Crows pecking at their eyes while roots spring from the ground to keep them in place. She was on the verge of tears, thinking of moving to her mother's. If this continues much longer, the entire village will be empty."

"Sounds like a leshen."

"Leshen? And how would you know that?"

He shrugged. How could he explain he dreamed of being a witcher, complete with 80 years of experience under his belt?

"I'll speak to the ealdorman. Whatever it is, he should put out a contract for a witcher," she said.

"You think he'll spare the coin? Could be expensive."

"I'm sure everyone will pitch in. Cheaper than packing up and leaving."

He got up to stoke the dying fire. For a moment, he had the impulse to make some a sort of sign with his fingers. How odd, he thought. That dream had been so vivid, it muddled his reality.