last-wish

[last-wish]

What We Do in the Shadows: The Return of My Darling

[last-wish]

All this death wasn’t caused by a monster-making virus. It was greed. Human greed. I decided then and there: the ashes of Raccoon City would be Umbrella’s ashes too. I would end them once and for all. Jill Valentine in Resident Evil 3 (2020 remake)

[last-wish]

I was working on a history paper today and found a book from 1826 that seemed promising (though dull) for my topic, on an English Catholic family’s experience moving to France.

And it ended up not really being suitable for my purposes, as it goes. But part of the book is actually devoted to Kenelm, the author’s oldest son…and man, his dad loved him.

Kenelm seems to have had a fairly typical upbringing for a young English gentleman, although he is a bit slow to read. At twelve he’s sent to board at Stoneyhurst College—often the big step towards independence in a boy’s life, as he’ll most likely only see his parents sporadically from now on, and then leave for university.

When he’s sixteen, however, his father moves the whole family to France, so Kenelm gets pulled out of school to be with them again. Shortly after the move, his dad notices that he seems depressed. Kenelm confides in him that he’s been suffering from “scruples” for the last eighteen months—most likely what we’d now call an anxiety disorder.

And his dad is pissed—at the school, because apparently Kenelm had been seeking help there and received none, despite obviously struggling with mental health issues. So his dad takes it seriously. He sets him up to be counseled by a priest—there were no therapists back then—and doesn’t send him away to be boarded again, instead teaching him at home himself.

And his mental health does improve. His dad describes him as well-liked, gentle, pious, kind and eager to please others; at twenty he’s thinking about a career in diplomacy or going into the military—which his dad thinks he is not particularly suited for, considering his favorite pastimes are drawing and reading. He’s excited about his family’s upcoming move to Italy, and he’s been busy learning Italian and teaching it to his siblings.

Henry Kenelm Beste dies of typhus at twenty years, four months, and twenty-five days. That’s how his dad records it. That’s why his dad is telling this story. It’s not an extraordinary story—Kenelm’s story struck me because he sounds so…ordinary, like so many kids today. And he was so, so loved. His dad tried hard to help him compassionately with his mental health at a time where our current knowledge and support systems didn’t exist. You can feel how badly he wanted his son to be remembered and loved, to impress how dearly beloved he was to the people who knew him in life.

I hope he’d be glad to know someone is still thinking of Kenelm over 200 years later.

Anyway, that’s why I’m crying today.

[last-wish]

The Witcher Season 2 Sneak Peak | Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt

[last-wish]

My dearest Ysabeau, at last, I am able to find words to straddle the centuries that separate us. The language has eluded me until now for I have struggled to accept my mortality. But today, I have finally found the inspiration, for I am at peace, and I am no longer afraid of my fate, for fate retains the power to surprise us. Our son is happy at last. Mated to a woman who walks in the footsteps of the goddess. They journey now to Bohemia in search of The Book of Life. And I fear there are difficult times ahead. And that I trust they will return to you and that together you will forge a bold new future for our family. This is my final message to you, my love. I know now that there shall come a day when we will be parted. But until then, as in the afterlife, I will hold you in my heart.

[last-wish]

Feainnewedd: Chapter 9

Summary: Geralt, Yennefer and Ciri finally meet at the Temple of Melitele. Old wounds open as Geralt recovers from battle and Yennefer helps Ciri deal with her powers.

Pairing: Geralt x Yennefer

Word Count: 6,1k

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: None

Cross posted to AO3. Special thanks to @ohrackham for all her help.

A ray of morning light parted the room in two—sprouting from a gap between two thick curtains, crossing a cold stone floor, climbing white bed sheets, and coming to an end over a scarred chest. A chest that fell. And rose. Deep, regular breathing. The spell was working.

Yennefer opened and closed her hands, trying to shake off an unpleasant, tingling sensation. Was it caused by the healing sleep spell she had cast on Geralt, or by the lightning storm she had sent upon the Kaedwenian riders intent on killing him? Lives saved and ended by the same power that ran through her. A blessing and a curse. The same prickly feeling.

The sorceress sat by the witcher, half uncovering his leg. The wound had not bled that night. After making sure the dressing was still clean and tight, she put the sheets back over Geralt’s leg, and her fingers caught in Geralt’s hand. She was startled.

She could have sworn his hand had closed around hers. But there it laid—still, rough, and warm. She clasped it, her fingers running through creases that held sweet memories deep within. Come to think of it, it was a bit too warm.

Her hand rose to his sweaty forehead. No wonder, it was too hot in that room. She sprung from the chair, pulled the curtains aside and opened the windows. The cool morning air greeted her. Outside, birds chirped and bees buzzed. The temple was still asleep.

Yennefer walked back to Geralt’s side and noticed a gap in the door of the room. She chuckled to herself.

“Are you going to stand there like a sneak? Come in, Cirilla.”

The door stood still for a long moment until the girl finally entered the room. Her white nightgown billowed out around her strikingly wiry legs. Yennefer felt for the girl as she wondered what kind of brutal training had Geralt and her brothers put her through during her winter in Kaer Morhen. Cirilla stood in front of her, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Cat got your tongue?” Yennefer asked.

The girl put a strand of messy hair behind her ear. “I didn’t mean to spy, it’s just… I couldn’t sleep.”

“Another nightmare?”

The girl clenched her jaw and nodded.

“Triss told me about them. We’ll see if you can rein your power and get rid of them. I would have started with your training already, but you’ll need total focus, and I didn’t want you to get distracted by… other worries.” Yennefer looked at Geralt.

“When will he wake up?”

“The wound looks better, so I’m not going to extend the spell any longer. It’s entirely up to his body now. Probably just a few days.”

A hint of a smile appeared on the girl’s face, relaxed for the first time. This girl had lost her whole family, survived hunger, persecution, and a brutal battle just a few days back, but she had not lost herself. A mumble broke the silence. Geralt’s hand twitched.

“Is he having a nightmare?” The girl asked.

“Maybe. Or just a dream.”

“Can’t you…? My grandmother told me witches can read minds.”

“And eat nosy girls, too. Do you want me to read yours?”

“What? No!”

“Then why should I read his?”

“Hmm, I see.”

Having your thoughts read by someone else can be very unpleasant, or even painful, if you are not fully open and willing. Yennefer had not read Geralt’s mind since the year they had spent together in Vengerberg. It was a form of deep connection between them every night. After Geralt’s sudden departure, she had never listened to his thoughts again.

Cirilla approached Geralt’s bed. Another spasm coursed through his arm, and the princess knelt beside him, holding his hand between hers. Yennefer felt a lump in her throat. The girl really cared for her witcher. After so much loss, he was all she had, and the events set in motion by Yennefer’s decisions in Rinde had almost taken him from her too.

“Back there in the forest,” Yennefer said. “You stood between the riders and him. Why did you do it? You couldn’t have hoped to stop them.”

“He said he would never leave me,” Cirilla said, squeezing his hand. “I held him to his word.”

“Indeed you did.” Yennefer smiled. The girl was stubborn, and training her would be no easy feat. But she was no ordinary girl, that was clear. “What do you say we start your training this afternoon?”

***

Geralt walked inside Yennefer’s home in Vengerberg. Leaving his steel sword leaning against the wall, he ventured inside, following the scent of lilac and gooseberries.

Yennefer sat before the mirror in their bedroom, putting all her effort into taming her unruly locks. Behind her, a steamy bathtub greeted Geralt’s eyes.

“Just what I needed,” he said as his chainmail, tunic and boots fell to the floor in quick succession. “Thank you, Yen.”

“I figured you’d need it after a long day of work. Otherwise, you would be sleeping in the stable.”

Geralt smirked, freeing himself from his shirt and breeches and plunging into the hot water. “Sleeping with the horses? I thought I left that in the past.”

The sorceress tossed her hair to one side, exposing her delicate, lovely neck. Geralt yearned to touch it gently, elicit a sigh, kiss it along its length. He tilted his head to one side.

“Are you coming to bed once I’m all cleaned up?”

“I’d love to, Geralt. But I have an appointment. I’ll meet you in bed later tonight.”

“An appointment, this late?”

“You know how druidesses are. It’s hard enough to get a meeting with them, I’m not about to complain about the time.”

“A druidess?”

Yennefer turned her neck, facing him for the first time since he had arrived. He drank in her delightful features, absorbed by the violet eyes observing him, and stopped over the puckered corner of her mouth. Her lips parted for a moment, and then she turned back to the mirror. “I just need a second opinion about a client with a strange condition,” she said.

“Well, don’t take long. I’ll be waiting for you.”

She applied a few drops of perfume on her wrists, intoxicating Geralt even more. “I’ll be with you before you know it,” she said with a smile as she got up and grabbed a coat.

The sorceress walked towards the bedroom door, and Geralt felt a sudden urge to touch her, as if she were about to fade away. He needed to make sure that she was really there with him, that it was not a dream, not a memory tinged by years of longing.

But he froze as she walked past him out of the house, leaving him alone, with her scent as the only hint of her amid his regret.

***

The afternoon air carried the promise of summer, warming the room almost to the point of unpleasantness. The sounds of lively chatter entered through the window as priestesses and students returned to their rooms. Lessons were over. It was time to begin Cirilla’s training.

Yennefer looked at Geralt one last time. What would she say to him when he opened his eyes again? How could she bridge the gap opened by the two years they had spent apart? Fortunately, he was completely still. The effects of the spell had not faded away yet, and he showed no signs of regaining conscience any time soon. For the moment, she could focus all her attention on helping Cirilla rein in her powers.

Yennefer left the room and closed the door behind her.

“Yen,” she heard.

Her heart jumped, and she opened the door again. She rushed to Geralt’s side. The witcher groaned as he stirred, eyes still shut. He drew a deep breath.

“I missed you. Come here.”

“Geralt.” Yennefer grabbed his hand, now responsive, clasping hers back. His rough fingers brushed steadily against her skin, as if resuming a caress interrupted years before. It was real. It was him. She smiled. “Are you alright, how do you feel?”

“Hmm. Fine now that you’re here.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it, drinking in her scent. Yennefer felt transported to another place, another time. “How did it go?”

“How— What?”

“Your meeting with that druidess,” Geralt mumbled, eyes still closed. “You seemed nervous about it. Did something go wrong?”

Yennefer frowned. A meeting with a druidess? Perhaps Geralt was raving, still under the effects of the spell. Curiosity bit her. “A druidess, you say?”

“You didn’t tell me her name, but I don’t think there’s a lot of druidesses in Vengerberg.”

Yennefer froze. Vengerberg. She had sought a druidess’ help five years before, while living with Geralt in her hometown. Back then, she still had hopes of regaining her womb, trying every mage, healer and swindler that fed her delusions while emptying her purse. She had kept it from Geralt, unsure of his reaction since he was also infertile. But she had dreamed of finding a cure for him too.

Childish delusions.

A few days later, Yennefer woke up without Geralt by her side, the first morning without him after more than a year living together. He had found out about the cure she was seeking. A letter was all he left behind. Three years had to pass before they met again by pure chance in a dragon hunt.

Geralt tightened her arm around her waist. “What’s wrong? Come to bed.”

She pushed his arm away and stood before him. “Geralt!”

The witcher opened his eyes slowly, blinking at her. “Yen.” His face paled. “I’m— Where are we?”

“The Temple of Melitele. It’s been a week since the ambush at Shaerrawedd.”

“Fuck.” He blinked his glassy eyes, mouth gaping open. “I’m so sorry, Yen, I thought we—”

“It was a dream. Just a delusion from the spell I cast on you. Don’t fight it, it’s fading.”

“Yen.”

“Rest. I must go, Cirilla waits for me.”

“Yen…”

She closed the door behind her, leaving Geralt to his thoughts.

***

The last remains of the candle by Geralt’s bed burned out. The witcher decided it was time to leave the endless cycle of thoughts in which he was trapped since waking up with Yennefer by his side. Guilt, embarrassment, longing and sorrow had restlessly followed each other in a never-ending torment. The back of his neck itched like stung by a hundred bees every time his mind went through the events of that morning.

Enough.

He turned to his right side, avoiding the wound on his left thigh. His back protested with an ache he knew too well. It wasn’t the first time he spent days in bed following a fight. In fact, this temple had seen most of those days, when his body and mind found some respite before lunging into the next fight. Except this time, his mind wasn’t resting at all.

With a grueling effort, he pushed his legs out of the bed and touched the cold floor with wary feet. Here we go. He clenched his jaw in anticipation and exerted himself out of the bed. He groaned. The wound hurt like hell, and the room spun around him. Fuck.

He leaned on the wall, gritting his teeth. Pain came in waves along his leg, up his spine and down his arms. Hours seemed to pass. He panted as if he had just fought a kikimora and slowly straightened himself.

“I can’t do it!” Someone yelled outside.

Geralt slowly walked beside the wall until he reached the window and peeked through the curtains. Two familiar figures stood at the garden beneath.

“It’s the simplest spell,” Yennefer said. “You know how it goes. Pronounce the incantation, loud and clear, while you take the power from the flower and let it flow towards the rock. Gently.”

“Zeilil eip.” Ciri breathed in as she straightened her back. “Zeilil eip. Zeilil eip! Come on!” She shook her arms.“There’s no use, it won’t move! Please, Madam Yennefer. I can’t use magic. Teach me how to block it. Just stop the nightmares.”

“You can’t block it, Cirilla. You can’t lock up your problems hoping they will disappear; you’ll just make them worse. This power inside you… If you don’t let it flow, it will continue to burst out of you, in your dreams or while you’re awake.”

“But I can’t! I’ve been trying all day and I can’t even move the rock one inch.”

“Then we’ll go back to the basics. Go take some rest, we’re done for today.”

Ciri turned and walked slowly towards the building, kicking a pebble in her way. Geralt pushed the curtains aside and leaned against the windowsill.

Ciri saw him and her eyes widened. “Geralt!” She bolted into the building, steps echoing as she ascended the stairs, and when Geralt had barely turned towards the door, she hugged him tight.

“Easy there,” he said with effort. She didn’t budge an inch. He didn’t mind one bit. “It’s alright,” he said as he stroked her head. She trembled slightly and looked him in the eye.

“Don’t leave me again,” she said.

“You’re not alone,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “You were very brave out there at the ruins, ” Geralt said. “Too brave, I would say.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you there!” Ciri protested, finally pulling away from him. “But it all would have been for nothing if it wasn’t for Madam Yennefer. She saved us.”

“I know. Madam Yennefer?” Geralt chuckled. “She has lost no time while I was out cold, I see.”

A small smile crept across Ciri’s face.

“What about the Scoia’tael? Did Toruviel and Dara…?”

“She saved them too,” Ciri said. “The Kaedwenians ran away. Not many soldiers are eager to fight against a sorceress since Sodden Hill.”

“Not that I’m expecting to get you out of another fight,” a resonant voice rang out from the door. Yennefer entered the room, followed by a floating tray. She raised her hand and the tray obediently landed on a table beside Geralt’s bed. “You’re expected at the dining hall, Cirilla. You can leave him in my care. He’ll manage.”

“Yes, Madam Yennefer,” Ciri huffed as she left the room.

Yennefer’s raven hair fell in mesmerizing cascades of locks over her shoulders, gleaming as she turned toward him. Her violet eyes beamed at him, and Geralt realized he had been staring at her for far too long. He stammered, looking away. His skin prickled.

“I brought you some food,” Yennefer said with a half-smile. “I assumed you were about to starve.”

Geralt peered at the table. A bowl of steaming soup laid on the tray. “Oh.” He was truly hungry. “Thank you.”

“Please don’t. It’s Nenneke’s work.”

He dragged himself along the wall towards the table. Yennefer offered her hand.

“Don’t worry,” Geralt said. “I want to see how far these old legs can carry me. Test the waters, you know.”

“As you please.”

Geralt continued his walk, grimacing every time he put his weight on his left leg. “Besides,” he said, “you’ve already done so much. Taking care of Ciri, healing my wound… Saving us at the ruins. You didn’t have to, but you did.”

“Well, I wanted to. Asking for help is fine, you know. It would have saved us some trouble if you had.” She rested her hands on her hips. “What were you thinking when you joined that band of rebels with her?”

“I didn’t have a choice. We found ourselves in the middle of a raid, Fort Leyda was burning—it was joining them or facing the Kaedwenian Army. I had no way of contacting you.” His tone came off harsher than he intended. He bit his lip.

“It seems to me you only delayed facing them. And Shaerrawedd is quite a few days of travel on horse from Fort Leyda. You had plenty of time to get away from them.”

“Look,” Geralt started. He huffed, shaking his head. He had finally reached the table. Slumping into the chair, he grabbed the wooden spoon. A bit of food in his belly would help clear his mind. He swallowed a spoonful of soup and immediately retched. “The hell is this soup?”

“Nenneke’s Special,” Yennefer snorted. “She mixed some medicine in it. She said you wouldn’t drink it on its own. And well,” she laughed, “I don’t blame her.”

“I still think I deserved a warning. This tastes like rotten drowner.”

Yennefer raised a brow, barely holding her laughter. “I won’t ask.”

Geralt chuckled. He had missed her laugh so much. Why did everything have to be so difficult between them? “You know, you’re right about the Scoia’tael. Staying with them was my mistake. Ciri had been through so much, and then she found an old friend among the Scoia’tael. It seemed cruel to take it away from her again. But staying was foolish.”

“Very foolish,” Yennefer said. “Yet born from good intentions, at least. I feared you had taken a contract with those rebels and carried her along with you.”

“I would never put her in danger like that.”

Yennefer shook her head and smiled. “You didn’t think that way when you talked to me about your child of destiny. Something about using her as bruxa bait rather than subjecting her to a life with you. They stuck with me, those words.”

Geralt grumbled. “Well, I was even more foolish then. Didn’t know what I was talking about. The world has turned upside down since then. I don’t want to think about contracts for a long time.”

“Impressive. You might make history as the first witcher to retire before dying on the job.”

“Who knows,” Geralt shrugged. “Maybe that’s my destiny. It’s unsettling not really knowing what the future holds. In the old days, I always knew another contract would be waiting for me. The final one, perhaps. And there wouldn’t be any more worries after that.”

Yennefer sighed as she touched the obsidian star on her neck. “I’ve been there myself. Looking back, struggling to find any meaning in decades of your own life. Looking past the present and seeing… nothing.” She bit her lip and stared out the window for a while. “But now you have her,” she smiled at him.

“I do. I always thought I wasn’t cut out for this life.”

Yennefer looked down. Guilt stung Geralt, deeper than the wound in his leg. She had sacrificed so much to become a mother, all in vain. He had ridiculed her, and here he was now, being healed by her after trying to give his life for his child of surprise. Putting Ciri in his care had been destiny’s ultimate irony.

“She’s fierce,” Yennefer said, leaning on the table, closer to him. “We spent all day training, I didn’t think she would last that long. You should have seen her these days, practicing with her sword with the first light of dawn. I’ve also caught her here, watching over you.”

“She’s relentless when she sets her mind on something. She reminds me of you.”

“Me too,” she said, looking down. “I look at her and I see myself back at the academy, struggling to find my power. But she… She never gives up.” Her voice broke and she shook her head. “You’re both lucky to have each other.”

She was about to storm off when Geralt caught her by the wrist. “Hey.” Violet eyes glistened before him. His thumb went over the four scars on her wrist, not exploring their length, not trying to study or judge them, but instead loving every inch of them as he loved the rest of her. “You’re not broken, Yen.”

“Geralt…” She faced him as he stood with effort.

He ran a finger against her cheek, wiping away a newborn tear before it crossed her face. “I stood at the hill where you turned an army to ashes, and I… It wrenched my guts, Yen. I couldn’t believe that field of bones and scorched earth was all you’d left. You’re so much more than that. You’ve faced so many horrors and disappointments, and you didn’t deserve any of them. Despite it all, you’ve kept your hope alive within you. You have so much to give, I’ve seen it. So I made a promise on that hill. I would break the cycle that scarred us both before it took Ciri too. I would turn your legacy into something more. So don’t just say we’re lucky to have each other when it was only because of you.”

“Geralt…”

She looked up at him and rested her hand on his chest. He had yearned for that touch for so long. He took a long breath, falling deeper and deeper in the scent of lilac and gooseberries. He wanted her so much that it hurt. His eyes locked with hers. “Yen… I’ve missed you.”

Now she was cupping his face with her hands, drawing closer to her. “I’ve missed you too,” she said as she rose on her toes. Their lips met, sure and eager, defiant to the idea that they were doomed, too broken to be together. Her lips were warm and sweet, even softer than he remembered. She pulled him towards her as his tongue moved against hers, his fingers running through her hair. When their mouths parted for a moment, gasping for air, their eyes said everything that needed to be said.

He plunged again and followed the length of her neck, trailing kisses on his way down as she threw her head back. She sighed. Then she pushed him gently but surely towards the bed, undoing the buttons on his shirt as they went. He shivered every time her hands touched his skin, lower and lower. Free of his clothes, he laid down, gingerly setting his hurt leg into place, while her dress fell to the floor.

He drank in the sight of her. She was ravishing. Her shadowed figure, framed by silver moonlight, firm yet vulnerable, scarred yet whole. She climbed on top of him, leaning her head towards his, a question in her eyes. He nodded, and she framed his head with her hands before kissing him deeply. Her hips slid carefully into place, eliciting a soft groan from him. They whispered each other’s names as sacred oaths, and he saw the truth as if a misty veil had finally lifted. He understood that by crushing his desire for her, he had severed a part of him, and drowning in her scent now he felt whole at last.

***

“Yen.”

Yennefer opened her eyes slowly and rubbed her nose against Geralt’s imposing back. She was holding him in a close embrace, sharing the warmth of their bodies as they laid in bed.

“Hmm?” She answered as she squeezed Geralt’s hand, entwined with her own.

“I was thinking.” He brought her hand to her mouth, brushing it with his lips. “We never really talked about… Well, you know. The djinn.”

Yennefer frowned. She lifted her head, trying to glance at his face to no avail. Easier to climb a mountain than his shoulder.“It’s no matter,” she groaned. “Why would you wake me to bring that up?”

“Hmm.” He slid away from her, rolling onto his back, then pulled her closer to him. She looked him in the eye as she cocked her head to one side, waiting for his answer. “I want to clear everything up,” he said. “Face our troubles. Stop avoiding them.”

She smiled faintly as she caressed his chest. “I read the treatises on djinns back at Aretuza. Reflected on the events as well. And I understand now. There’s nothing to clear up as far as I’m concerned.”

“It was the only way I could save you,” Geralt said. “If I could undo it—”

“I don't regret it.”

He nodded contently, and she rested her head on his chest. “Hmm,” he broke the long silence. “I could have something to eat.”

“Well, that soup must be cold now.”

“Must taste even worse,” he said. “I suppose I can stay here a little longer.”

She slid her head across his chest, eyeing her prey, then bit.

“Ow!” He flinched. She buried her face in her chest and laughed. “Why?”

“Just a little encouragement. Wouldn’t want you to starve to death.”

He shook his head, a corner of his mouth turning up into a half-smile. Before she could strike again, his fingers were brushing along her back, and she sighed. Up and down, up and down. Soon she was back in that delightful place, and everything was as it should be.

“Yen.”

She snorted in disbelief. “What now?”

“You haven’t read my mind for a long time, have you?”

She turned her head to face him. “I have not.”

“Why?”

She stuck her chin in his chest. “I guess I was scared.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Scared of finding out I wasn’t really enough.”

He looked her in the eye. “I want you to do it.”

“Geralt… Are you sure?”

“I am. No more secrets, fears, or regrets.”

“Alright,” she said as she settled her cheek over his heart. She took a long breath, closed her eyes, and dove among slow heartbeats into his mind.

A yellow eye gazed upon her from a silver blade, blinking as she blinked. She stood. The sword was firmly stuck in the ground, right next to a steel blade. Hanging from both crossguards, a medallion in the shape of a wolf swayed in the breeze. Someone pulled her right hand.

“Come on!” Cirilla beckoned. A low orange sun painted the mischievous smile on her face.

Cool fingers intertwined with her own on her left hand. She turned and saw herself beaming with joy, as she had never imagined herself. Pulled forward by both hands, she drifted among banter and laughter while far above her, on the outer edge of her consciousness, Geralt’s hands stroked her hair, lulling her into blissful slumber.

***

Two months later.

The hook broke the surface of the lake, dragging with it a small piece of bait. Geralt held the fishing rod in his hands as he sat with effort on a bank overlooking the lake.

He sighed.

Tired of moving along the lake shore, with no catches to show for it, he decided to try for the last time there, under the long shadows of the trees behind him. He closed his eyes, and his whole world became the birds chirping above him, the last warm breaths of the late afternoon, and the fishing rod in his hands, with no signs of fish biting yet. Not so bad for a lonely afternoon.

“Geralt! Where are you? Geeeraaalt?”

He chuckled; his eyes still closed. “I’m here, Ciri!”

Quick feet pattered on the ground and came to a halt by his side. “Geralt, I did it! I lifted a stone without touching it and—oh. You’re fishing?” Her question ended in a muffled laugh.

“I got a bit bored at the temple with you two gone all day. Figured I’d keep my hands busy while you trained.”

“You’re incorrigible, Geralt.” An unmistakable voice rang behind him. “We leave you alone for a few hours, and you run off. Not fishing for another djinn, I hope.”

“You can rest easy. Got enough monsters and spirits for a long time. I’m just trying some good, old-fashioned hand work. And if I’m lucky, you’ll get something new for dinner tonight.”

“Fortune has not smiled upon you yet, I see. I’m not sure about putting much hope in your catches, or we’ll starve to death.”

Ciri snorted.

“Laugh all you want, you two. Fishing is all about patience. Wait and see.” He noticed Ciri was pressing a napkin against her nose. “Hey, what happened to you? You got hurt?”

“Just a little too much enthusiasm,” Yennefer said. “She channeled quite a lot of power to lift that stone. A bit of nose bleeding is perfectly normal.”

“I tossed it outside the Temple walls!” Ciri announced.

“That’s great, Ciri,” he smiled. “A little blood is just a sign of progress.”

“Yeah, this is nothing compared to the training in Kaer Morhen.”

Yennefer shot a look at them. “Sometimes I don’t know if I should ask about your time there.”

“Look at you three,” Nenneke said as she approached them. “Making yourselves useful. Now if you only managed to catch something that would be great for our kitchens.”

Geralt huffed.

“Anyways. A letter arrived to some Anica of Aretuza,” she said, handing an envelope to Yennefer.

Before Geralt could ask about the mysterious recipient of the letter, something yanked the fishing line. He stood and pulled back. “It’s a big one.”

Ciri let out an excited laugh.

“Well, I’ll let you focus on your work,” Nenneke said as she left.

Geralt continued to pull, legs spread open, but the fish was relentless.

“Come on, Geralt!” Ciri shouted. “Pull!”

He pulled with all his strength, but the line snapped, its broken end swaying in front of him. “Damn it,” Geralt muttered. He threw the rod to the ground and turned towards Yennefer. She was frowning at the letter, blanching. “What’s wrong?” He asked.

She handed him the letter without a word.

Geralt instantly recognized Jaskier’s pretentious cursive. It informed about a mysterious mage that had returned to Oxenfurt, with a recent scar covering half of his face. From his center of operations, and with the protection of a lord of the city’s underworld, he was sending hired killers around town searching for the trail of a dark-haired sorceress while receiving informants from all around the Continent. Jaskier had managed to find out the identity of one of the spies—a Kaedwenian officer who had been present at the Shaerrawedd ambush.

Geralt folded the letter. The pattern was alarming. The mage that had killed his way through the Continent searching for Ciri and Geralt was back, and his net was closing around them. The Temple of Melitele was their last safe place, and abandoning it meant roaming the roads again. It was the last thing he wanted for Ciri, now that she had found a place where she could thrive, now that she had started to discover her powers. The solution to the problem was painfully clear. He had to go to Oxenfurt, attract the spies’ attention away from the Temple to buy Ciri and Yennefer some time, and kill Rience once and for all. He slowly met Yennefer’s gaze.

She pressed her lips together and stared at him for a long time. Geralt knew what he had to do, but he didn’t want to say it. Putting it into words would somehow make it real, crushing the little world they three had created for themselves under its inexorable weight.

Yennefer sighed.

Words were pointless.

Her lip trembled, and she looked away. She grabbed Ciri’s hand, and they left for the temple while Geralt stood by the lake, the song of the birds turned into a gloomy silence, the night cold creeping over him, and his hopes shattered at his feet.

***

A cold tear crossed Ciri’s cheek. The wind lashed hard, and Geralt was leaving. She and Yennefer had risen early to see him off. A fiery sun emerged from the horizon, breaking through the clouds in an explosion of flames. It was time to say goodbye.

Geralt talked with Yennefer, holding her hands between his. Ciri had never seen her like this. Her body was still holding together, but her eyes were a window to the storm inside.

“Be careful,” Yennefer said. “Rience may be just a piece in this game.”

“I’ll kill him once and for all,” Geralt said. “And then…”

“Then… If she keeps making progress with her powers, and Rita does her part… We may meet again in Aretuza.”

“We will.” Geralt held her gaze. He brought her hands closer to him, and planted a kiss on them. “Thank you. I couldn’t leave her in better hands.”

A smile broke out onto Yennefer’s face, and her eyes glistened. Geralt finally released her hands, and she took something out of her pocket.

“A Feainnewedd flower?” Geralt asked.

“I took it from Rience after he used it to portal away,” Yennefer said. “Maybe it can help you find him.”

Geralt was slightly pale. “Tissaia gave me one like this. At Sodden Hill.” He held her shoulders. “I left it at the hill where you disappeared. I thought I’d lost you.”

“But I came back.” She caressed his cheek. “Come back to me, Geralt.”

He put his forehead to hers. “I promise.” She rose on her toes and kissed him briefly.

Geralt stole a glance towards Ciri, and Yennefer nodded. He walked up to her.

“Hey,” he said as he put his hand on her shoulder. “You alright? Did you have any nightmares?”

Ciri shook her head. She had not had any bad dreams for a few weeks, ever since she had started to control her powers. But she had not slept that night, restless in bed, thinking about this moment. The moment of saying goodbye.

“You know I’d never leave if there was any other way,” Geralt said. “I have to do this so we can live without fear. No more hiding, I promise. You’ll be safe here with Yennefer and Mother Nenneke until the time comes.”

“Please, Geralt.” She sobbed. The cold wind whipped, and she trembled.“Please. Don’t— Don’t go.”

He hugged her tight, his warmth surrounding her, calming her. “There’s nothing more important to me than you,” he whispered. “We’ll be back together soon. The three of us. I promise.”

He parted, and the cold assailed her again. She repressed a sob. Geralt still looked at her, a doubt in his eyes. He sighed and released his sword from the scabbard on his back. The blade gleamed blue. He had spent hours sharpening until it cut through cloth.

“I have to ask you something,” he said as he extracted the golden brooch clasped around the hilt. “Can you keep this for me until I return?”

Ciri held the brooch. Green and red jewels glinted among golden metal. A dying woman in a dark alley flashed before her eyes.

“You saw what happened to Renfri in your dreams,” Geralt said. “A chain of bad choices led us both there. Destiny takes us places we can’t imagine, but… Sometimes there’s another way. Sometimes you can break the link in that chain. I saw it too late, but you don’t have to. Keep this brooch always with you, to remind you of the price the sword claims from us when we unsheathe it.”

“I will,” Ciri said. “I’ll put it on my sword.”

“Take care of Yennefer, will you? And don’t give Mother Nenneke too much trouble.”

Geralt stroked her hair and turned. He jumped atop his horse and spurred it in the blink of an eye, his silhouette already turning smaller, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves fading in the distance. Ciri bit her lip and looked down. Loneliness bit between her ribs like a treacherous dagger. When would it stop? When would these cruel goodbyes end?

A sudden warmth embraced her. Yennefer wrapped her arm around Ciri’s shoulders, and she was struck dumb for one brief moment, before she turned and hugged the sorceress, who ran her soft fingers through the girl’s hair.

“Don’t worry, little one. He will come back. He always does.”

A year had passed since Ciri’s and Geralt’s paths had met, turning their lives upside down. His calming presence had been a constant through it all, and she never wanted to part with him. But she wasn’t the same scared girl he had found in Riverdell. For the first time since the fall of Cintra, she didn’t fear the days ahead. Free from her nightmares, surrounded by people she cared for, and who cared for her, she could see a future where the dark days would be just a fading memory.

Ciri hugged Yennefer tighter, holding on to her. She looked up at the fiery morning sky and smiled. Not even the bitterest tears can hide the sunrise, and sometimes the hope of brighter days still burns through grief.

[last-wish]

Anything that you can do, I can do better.

Ritu Arya as Lila Pitts in The Umbrella Academy Season Two

[last-wish]

[last-wish]

[last-wish]

Happy International Women’s Day!

[last-wish]

Feainnewedd: Chapter 8

Summary: Geralt and Ciri are forced to travel through Kaedwen with a band of Scoia'tael while Yennefer makes a disturbing discovery when she arrives at the Temple of Melitele.

Pairing: Geralt x Yennefer

Word Count: 6,1k

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: None

Cross posted to AO3. Special thanks to @ohrackham for all her help.

“Gwynbleidd?”

“Toruviel?” Geralt replied. The elf looked exactly as he remembered, same fierce expression as all those years back in the Blue Mountains. She lowered her bow, brow still furrowed, dirt and blood all over her. “You attacked the fort.”

“No time to talk, witcher. You’re coming with us.”

“I’m not—”

“We’re not leaving witnesses.” Toruviel’s voice hardened as she drew the bowstring again. “You come with us or you die.”

Geralt counted five more arrowheads glinting among the trees. Six elves were not enough to assault Fort Leyda, the proud stronghold of Northern Kaedwen. Dozens more raiders most likely surrounded them, blood still fresh on their weapons. The fort defenders would come looking for revenge sooner than later and perhaps his past self would have bet on the small chance of fighting his way out of the incoming chaos—but he would not gamble with Ciri’s life. Reality set in as the screams from the fort grew louder. He couldn’t risk getting caught by Kaedwenian soldiers when spies from every kingdom were after Ciri. They had to escape through the forest and the elves were their only option.

The witcher lowered his sword and nodded. Ciri was staring at him, disbelief and terror fighting in her eyes.

Geralt fought the knot in his throat. “Hey,” he whispered to her, “she’s a friend. We need their help to get out of here. We’ll leave them as soon as it’s safe, I promise.”

Toruviel took Ciri’s sword from the ground. “Your sword, Gwynbleidd.”

“I didn’t betray you to the humans of Posada back then. Do you still not trust me?”

“You’d be dead already if I didn’t. That doesn’t mean you won’t have to earn my brothers and sisters’ trust.”

Geralt sighed and handed her his sword.

“If it makes you feel any safer,” Toruviel whispered, “they don’t know about the silver one you keep on your horse.”

Geralt and Ciri got on their horses and followed the Scoia’tael procession through the forest. He immediately noticed two riders behind them, closing any escape option.

“If she’s your friend,” Ciri muttered, “I can’t wait to meet your enemies.”

Geralt swore quietly.

***

The path wound across the forest, climbing up steep hills and down deep ravines, always under the cover of tall pines. Geralt could never have found his way through this endless sea of tree, shrub and rock. Putting his trust on their Scoia’tael companions, he followed them atop his horse always keeping Ciri by his side, even though he knew he could do little to protect her without his steel sword.

“Lighten up, witcher.” Toruviel said from her horse behind them. “We’ll reach the main road tomorrow. You and the girl will get your swords back and you’ll both be free to go, as I promised.”

“Presuming I don’t break my neck before,” he grunted, clutching the reins as they descended into another gully.

“Is he always like this?” Toruviel asked Ciri. The girl snorted and turned her head away. She looked uncomfortable among the rebels, never letting her guard down. Geralt cursed under his breath, blaming himself again for choosing the route that had led them straight into Scoia’tael hands.

“Birds of the same feather.” Toruviel sighed. “At least you keep better company than last time, Geralt. Where is that bard of yours?”

“Running after someone’s wife?” Geralt said with a shrug. “Drinking someone’s ale? Or snagging someone’s coin singing embellished bullshit about me. Perhaps all of them at the same time. I haven’t been keeping up with him lately.”

“Sounds like him. Should I worry about the lute I gave him?”

“Not at all, it’s his most prized possession. He’s sure to show it off before singing about the time he stole it from an elven king.”

Toruviel raised an eyebrow. “As I said, much better company now.” She overtook them and headed towards the front of the column, talking with her comrades as she went by.

Geralt sank back into his thoughts. His mind had been busy for the last few days, especially after the night near Fort Leyda. Watching over the elves and dwarves surrounding them, arguing with Toruviel and keeping an eye on Ciri occupied all his time, but another thought was always brewing in the back of his mind, and though he tried to drown it, it always came back to the surface.

Yennefer.

She would be waiting in the Temple of Melitele, fierce, ravishing, alive. After months of grief, he had not fully grasped the news of her survival. Everything he had done since that terrible day on the scorched fields of Sodden Hill was because of his promise to her—breaking the cycle of neglect that had scarred them both before it took Ciri.

Turning your legacy into something more. A vow made to a ghost who was now walking among the living. At first, all he could see in Ciri was another terrible blow of fate, his atonement for past misdeeds, and he would have hardly opened his heart to her without his realization on that day of ash and death. Without Yennefer’s sacrifice.

Worst of all, he didn’t know where her heart was now. Their journeys had split, and the roads she had followed were unknown to him. What had she felt on that cursed hill as fire consumed earth, flesh and her own spirit? How had she passed the following days, blinded and hurt and scared? When she rose from her deathbed, was she the same person that had been laid upon it?

His journey had rekindled his feelings for her, but he couldn’t ask the same of her. He had to be grateful for the help she had offered Ciri. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help longing for more. Waking up to her scent in bed, listening to her teasing, watching her brush her hair, read an old tome or write a letter in her elegant script…

“Geralt!” Ciri stared at him with a strange look on her face.

“Huh, what?”

Ciri looked somewhere behind them and grew a bit pale. “Nothing. Just… I’ll tell you later.”

Geralt turned and saw nothing besides a group of young elves shouting and laughing. “Alright.” He lowered his voice. “Are you sure?”

Ciri bit her lip and stared vacantly ahead for a moment. She startled. A dwarf was approaching them from the front, rushing his horse.

“Witcher! Come with me, quick!” He struggled to keep his panicked steed steady.

Geralt frowned and looked at Ciri. “Why?”

“There’s a bloody huge yghern blocking our way. We have two wounded and more will be soon if you don’t come. Now!”

Geralt cursed. “Fine, but she’s coming with me.”

“She’s to stay right there. Orders from Toruviel.”

The witcher gritted his teeth. Before he could consider his chances, two elven riders, a man and a woman closely resembling each other, emerged from the trees at the sides of the path. Their hands gripped the hilts of their sheathed blades. Geralt cursed again.

“If anything happens to her,” he said to the two elves, “if she gets so much as a scratch, I’ll gut you both.” He turned to Ciri. “Stay with them. I’ll be back soon.”

She nodded.

“Come on, Roach.”

***

An hour had passed since Geralt had left. The Scoia’tael sat in groups on the side of the path, while Ciri sat alone, close to her horse. Her twin guards had given her some distance, talking now in hushed voices while still observing her every movement. But that wasn’t the reason why Ciri felt on edge.

Earlier that day she had started to feel watched. It didn’t take her long to catch a glimpse of her stalker. Behind Geralt and her, hidden among the trees beside the path, a pair of eyes were fixed on her. The scrawny figure, donned in a cap with the typical squirrel tail of the rebels, vanished before she could get a good look. Something felt strangely familiar. She had hesitated to tell Geralt, unsure at first of what she had seen, and later worried about someone hearing her.

But now she was alone. The granddaughter and heir to the most hated woman in the Elven world, surrounded by dozens of elven rebels armed to the teeth in the depths of their ancient territory. It would take just one person to recognize her, and then not even Geralt could save her.

The urge to run away grew by the minute. She was alone, the only human in sight, countless eyes staring at her. She lowered her head and looked at the mossy ground. If she could lose the twins’ attention just for one moment, she would bolt out of the path, straining her horse until she reached the end of the forest. She knew Geralt would manage—Toruviel couldn’t deny him his freedom after killing that monster. And then he would find her, as he always did.

A panicked scream startled her out of her reverie. The twins turned towards the back of the column, metal scraping on leather as they drew their blades.

This is it.

Ciri already had a foot on the stirrup and was about to jump on her horse when a hand grabbed her. Her stomach dropped. She turned. A young elf was staring at her, eyes wide and jaw set. A bow was slung across his back. His raven curls were tucked under a Squirrel cap, and a stubble covered his cheeks. She had seen his eyes stalking her among the trees that morning, and also a long time before in the forests of Cintra, throwing her a warning before she ate poisonous berries.

“Ciri,” Dara said, “don’t do anything stupid.” A chaos of rebels shouting and horses neighing surrounded them.

“Just let me leave, Dara,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Why?” He lowered his voice. “Oh, you’re afraid I’ll betray your secret. Afraid I’ll turn everyone against you.” He smiled sadly. “Now you know what it’s like for us to live in your world.”

Ciri looked around. Two dwarves dragged the carcass of a centipede almost as large as them. “We’re lucky we only got the offspring of that yghern,” they laughed. The twins were back, looking at her with suspicion. Her chance to escape had vanished. She looked back at Dara.

“Do you know why I joined the Scoia’tael?” He asked.

“You want revenge against the people that killed your family.”

“Revenge? That’s what you want, right? They killed your grandmother, robbed you of your future and they still haven’t paid the price. You expect a punishment for that in your world. But did Calanthe get any for all the elves killed in her name?”

Something stung deep inside her at the mention of her grandmother. Ciri still had a hard time believing she had ordered the massacres during Filavandrel’s Rebellion. During her time with Cintran refugees, she had seen definite proof of the cruelty inflicted upon nonhumans. She couldn’t get out of her head the necklaces made of elven ears, or the screams of a human master as her halfling servant got his revenge for a lifetime of abuse. How could a woman so capable of love as her grandmother be responsible for such hatred? She knew Calanthe would have done anything to protect her. Anything. Perhaps that was the problem. She had grown up sheltered from all troubles outside the court, but she couldn’t shake off a sense of guilt. Had so many people suffered because of her?

“I don’t want revenge, Ciri. I just want a place where I can live in peace, so I’m helping build it. I won’t betray your secret.”

Ciri let out a sigh and held Dara’s stare for a long time. She had endured too many betrayals to just take him at his word. “I understand. But I won’t be safe until the men pursuing me are gone. And I don’t want to hide and wait until they grow old and die on their beds—I want to live. So, if I have to kill them,” her voice hardened, “I will.”

Shouts and screams arrived from the front of the column, and the rebels stirred again. A ghostly rider covered in blood appeared, his skin as white as his hair, dark veins bulging across his face. “Move! The road is clear, move!” Geralt pointed his sword towards the front, the afternoon sun glinting on the steel blade, and the Scoia’tael bolted as if they had just seen a spectre. On his back, he carried Ciri’s sword on its sheathe. “Move, move!”

***

Two rows of poplars flanked the road, fields spreading beyond them as far as the eye could see. The Pontar Valley was at its most beautiful in the Duchy of Ellander. Yennefer savored the smells of grass and flowers as her horse approached the end of the road. There, surrounded by a long stone wall, stood an imposing building with a tall, pointed tower. After weeks of travel, she had finally arrived at the Temple of Melitele. Soon she would meet Geralt and her child of destiny. The time of fears and speculation would end, and she would face what fate had in store for her. She breathed in. Her attention turned to the entrance archway to the temple grounds, where a soldier and a priestess quarreled.

“No,” the woman said, her hands at her hips. “And that is my final answer, I have a temple to run.”

“This order comes from General Natalis,” the soldier insisted. “We are the First Temerian Army, and we are granted authority by King Foltest to use the kingdom’s resources.”

“I don’t see any King Foltest here, and I don’t think he would agree to this madness. I don’t know where you come from, but this is not just a place of prayer. This temple is the main house of healing, sanctuary of the Goddess and school of the Duchy of Ellander. We have barely got through the winter and I’m not about to give our last provisions to you.”

The soldier shook his head. “You’ll hear from my commander.”

Yennefer dismounted and smiled faintly at the priestess. “Your temper hasn’t aged one bit, Nenneke.”

“It’s about time you arrived, Yennefer.” Nenneke arched her brows. The archpriestess of the Temple of Melitele counted a few more wrinkles around her eyes, but her presence was just as commanding as the last time Yennefer had seen her. “What took you so long?”

“A little distraction along the way. Just sorceress business, you know.”

“I don’t want to hear about it. Where is the girl you mentioned in your letter?”

“She will arrive soon.” Yennefer looked around her. “I’d rather explain in private. But don’t fret,” she said as she grabbed a pouch from her horse, “here’s the donation I promised.”

Nenneke took the bag and smiled. “You’re very much appreciated, Yennefer. Please come in.”

The archpriestess closed the gate behind them, and they walked across the temple grounds. The sun was high in the sky, and dozens of students toiled in the gardens while priestesses chastised them for their sloppy work.

“These are difficult times for the temple,” Nenneke said. “The richest families in Temeria used to send their youngest daughters to us, along with generous patronage. But times change, and now they prefer your academy in Aretuza, so we make do with what we have.”

“Don’t resent me, Nenneke. I can’t stand the thought of talentless girls wasting a spot at Aretuza for the ones that truly need it. Magic can’t be bought with gold. Either you have the potential, or not.”

“Luckily, the girls here just need to work hard,” Nenneke smiled, “and a bit of substance between their ears. But that too seems to be scarce nowadays.”

They reached the end of a corridor that ran between rows of ornamented pillars, and Nenneke opened the door to her study.

“Take a sit, Yennefer. And tell me about this girl.”

Yennefer took her seat before the desk of the archpriestess. “I haven’t met her yet.” She watched for Nenneke’s reaction. “She’s coming here with Geralt.”

Nenneke raised her eyebrows. After a long silence, she snorted. “What are you two up to?”

“It’s a sensitive matter,” Yennefer said, “far too sensitive to mention in a letter. There are dangerous people after the girl.”

“We have hidden people from persecution in this temple before. She will be safe here.” Nenneke sighed. “That is, if these soldiers camped outside leave for once.”

“Why are they here?” Geralt and Ciri were supposed to arrive from the Kaedwenian border, just a few miles from the Temple. “Is there any trouble in the border?”

“The only trouble I see is the one they bring. Camping in our land, taking provisions, distracting the girls… I’m in charge of dozens of students who have been locked up for the whole winter without seeing almost any men. It’s hard enough as it is. And then there’s that officer they send here whenever I tire of their demands.”

“Do you mean the one you were arguing with?”

“Oh, no, that was just an underling. The officer is a boneheaded man so full of himself. Always ‘Temeria this’, ‘Temeria that’…”

A student knocked on the door. “Mother Nenneke,” she started.

“Is he here already?” Nenneke asked. The girl nodded.

“Let me talk to him,” Yennefer said.

“Every minute you keep him off me would be a blessing. He’s all yours.”

***

“Look, Geralt!” Ciri arrived on her horse to the witcher’s side and showed him a short bow, its black and white limbs curved in a complex shape. “Toruviel gave it to me, she says it’s made with horn from a chort.”

“I’m impressed.” Geralt smiled. “You wore her down in the end. I’m glad to see she was still wise enough not to give you any arrows. Don’t get any ideas.”

Ciri paid no attention to Geralt. She drew the string over and over, imagining her arrows finding enemies behind every tree as they went on through the forest. At first, she had doubted Geralt’s decision of staying with the Scoia’tael, traveling through the forest instead of the main roads. But in the days since the yghern incident she had slowly broken down her barriers and now she spent her time talking to Dara, Toruviel and the two elves that still followed Geralt and her. They were twins, the woman was named Toreth, and her brother, Ithel. They had joined Toruviel’s company three years before, after escaping a pogrom in Ban Gleán where they had lost their family. Now everyone knew them as Toruviel’s Two Blades.

The company had lots of orphans like Dara and them. Ciri almost envied them. After losing their home, they had found their people and their purpose. But her future was still full of questions. She had no place to call home, and she doubted if she would ever feel safe again somewhere. Even in Kaer Morhen, hidden from her enemies and surrounded by Geralt and his brothers, her trances had threatened to harm her. Cirilla of Cintra had died a long time ago. Now she was Ciri of Nowhere.

Ciri stopped playing with her bow and put it in its leather case. In a sudden silence, the Scoia’tael around her took their caps off. Birds chirped and a stream murmured somewhere ahead. Ciri gaped at Geralt in confusion, and he gestured her to look around. She gasped when she noticed the marble columns among the trees, flashing white in the few spots not covered by ivy and moss. Rows of pillars spread to their left and right.

“What is this place, Geralt?”

“Shaerrawedd,” Geralt said. “This palace was the jewel of the Elven kings of the past.”

“But how— Did the humans destroy it?”

“No, the elves did. After their greatest defeat two hundred years ago, before fleeing to the mountains. The humans had plundered and occupied the cities left by the elves as they retreated into the wild, hoping to take them back some day. But their youngest, led by Aelirenn, refused to leave Shaerrawedd to the pillagers. They followed her into a great last stand to protect the beauty of their world. And they were slaughtered. The elders lost all hope and destroyed Shaerrawedd before leaving.”

“Why have we come here?”

“I guess they want to honor their dead before facing their own war. Maybe they hope to find an answer here to the same question posed in the past.”

“But if they lost all those years ago when they were still strong, is there any hope for them now?”

“The kings’ armies far outnumber them. The Scoia’tael can’t win in open battle—their only hope is to make this war costlier to humans than their demands. So it all comes down to the choices of the kings. That’s why we must not intervene in this fight.”

“But they are alone! The world is stacked against them, I’ve seen humans treat them as filth. They need help.”

“Blood only results in more blood. I’ve been in that position before, and there is no good choice. The best you can do is not get involved and avoid more deaths on your conscience.”

“That’s bullshit, Geralt, and you know it. If you really believed that, you’d never have taken me with you out of Riverdell. You’d never have helped and trained me.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“You… You’re too young to understand.”

Ciri snorted and shook her head.

“Ciri, I see why you want to help them, but this is not our fight. Tomorrow we’ll part with them, and hopefully we’ll reach the Temple of Melitele before dark. You better enjoy these last hours of freedom,” he said with a smile, “because I don’t think Mother Nenneke will let you anywhere near a place like this in the foreseeable future.”

***

The notes echoed in the elven halls like drops pattering on a rainy night. Toruviel plucked the strings on a bone white lute while a male elf sang melancholically at her side. Elves, dwarves and halflings sat around a bonfire on a small courtyard nestled between four ruinous balconies. A ghostly audience seemed to contemplate the performance from above, Geralt thought.

What would the proud elves from centuries past think if they saw their tattered, starving progeny huddling together with the defeated races of old to fight the cold at the Palace of Shaerrawedd? Probably the same mixture of horror and wonder that witchers of the Golden Age would have felt if they saw one of the last members of their caste obstinately carrying his child of destiny through a war-torn land. Toruviel’s lute sang its last notes and Ciri whispered in wonder.

“That was so beautiful… I don’t want to leave this place. Not so soon.”

“We must leave early in the morning,” Geralt said. “You should get some sleep.”

“But look! The balustrade on that balcony is just like one in Cintra’s Castle.”

“That’s because Cintra was an elven city before the humans arrived. Elves all over the Continent adored this palace and built theirs alike, so they would always have a bit of Shaerrawedd with them.”

Ciri raised a brow. “You’re not that old.”

Geralt chuckled. “Stories live longer than witchers. You’re not going to give up, are you? Let’s take a walk.”

They wandered through corridors set between fallen stone overgrown with vine until they arrived at a surprisingly well-preserved cloister. In the center, a marble statue of a woman was almost buried beneath a mountain of rock. Only her head and an outstretched arm were visible, leading her people with clear eyes set on a place that no longer existed. Geralt and Ciri zigzagged between bushes and flowers emerging from broken stone slabs.

“This is Aelirenn,” Geralt said, “and these ruins are all she achieved with her struggle.”

“But all you see is rock,” Ciri protested. “She’s still inspiring her people.”

“Still leading them to their doom. But not all elves visit this place to spur the rebel within them. Many do so to remember a world they lost, but still lives in them somehow. Like these white roses,” he said, kneeling before a bush, “that flower all year round, in an endless cycle of rebirth. The roses of Shaerrawedd. As long as they have a place to take root, they will never die.”

“And these ones?” Ciri asked as she looked at a bunch of small, round flowers springing from slender stalks. “They grow all over the palace ruins.”

“Those are Feainnewedd flowers, Ciri. They grow where elven blood has been spilled.”

“Oh,” she said, suddenly straightening up and looking around her.

A long silence followed.

“Yennefer believes they have hidden power,” Geralt finally said. “And someone is using it for no good.”

“You’ve never told me much about her.”

“Well, I told you she’s a sorceress, and—”

“About what she means to you.”

“Hmm. There’s nothing one can hide from you, huh? We were together. But that was a long time ago.”

“I’m not stupid, Geralt. I was on Sodden Hill with you while you looked for her. You still care.”

“Well, I did. I do, but… it’s complicated.”

“I dreamed of her on the day you found me. And you were there too, crying out her name. That surely must mean something.”

“She and I are bound by the same forces that bind you and me. But that doesn’t matter now because I screwed up. I don’t want to hurt her or myself anymore.”

“Hurt?”

Geralt let out a long sigh. He took a Feainnewedd flower, considering it from all sides as he spun it in his hand. “Love is a hard thing, Ciri. You open your heart to someone, and they can nourish it or rip it to shreds. We’ve done both to each other too many times. Maybe I deserve it, but she doesn’t. She sacrificed herself for a greater cause while I was running away from my destiny. I could have been there with her, and perhaps she wouldn’t have gotten hurt like that. She doesn’t deserve a cynic like me.”

“You’re no cynic. A grumpy old man, definitely, but if you were a cynic, I would not be here.”

“You’ll never yield. You two have a lot in common.”

Ciri flinched. A crow landed on Aelirenn’s hand. The black bird rattled and pecked the stone. It looked at them for what seemed an eternity.

A horn boomed in the mountains ahead of them and the crow flew away. While it still echoed, another horn blasted behind them, and then another, all around them. With no way of escape.

***

Yennefer approached the temple gate, hardly believing her eyes. A dashing officer dressed in Temerian blue stared at her, eyes wide open.

“Ma’am?” Roche’s mouth gaped as he struggled to find the words. “I… It’s good to see you safe. I’d never have thought I’d find you here.”

“The feeling is mutual, Lieutenant. I didn’t expect to meet you so far from Vizima. I hope you resolved the situation after the attack on the road. I didn’t want to leave like that.”

“Ma’am,” Roche smiled shyly. “You left no trouble for us to solve back there. You put the whole squad of ambushers on the loose.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Yennefer smiled back. “But now I fear I just landed in more trouble here in the border. Some disagreement with Kaedwen?”

“Not with Kaedwen itself. There’s some rebel activity there, so we’re keeping an eye on the other side of the Pontar.”

“Rebels, you say?”

“Yes, they’re mainly elves,” Roche said. “They’ve been causing all sort of trouble in Redania and Kaedwen. I don’t know if you heard, but they raided Fort Leyda in Northern Kaedwen a few weeks back. These Scoia’tael know what they’re doing, they even have a witcher clearing the forest paths of monsters for them.”

“A witcher?” Nothing made sense. Geralt was supposed to bring the girl avoiding any trouble. Maybe this was one of his comrades.

“Yeah, we’ve got unusual reports from that band of rebels. We’ve even heard of a human girl traveling with them.”

She was going to kill him. What was he thinking? Maybe he hadn’t changed at all, and he was just as selfish as he had been in his worst moments. “Listen,” Yennefer said, struggling to keep her cool. “I’m expecting someone to come from the other side of the Pontar any day now. Is it dangerous there at the moment?”

Roche set his jaw and looked at her. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but we expect there to be fighting. A large rebel unit from Redania entered Kaedwen through the Murivel pass. The Kaedwenian Army is going to crush their own rebels for good before they have the chance to join the others. Sorry, I really can’t say anything more.”

Yennefer’s stomach dropped like a stone. The Scoia’tael from Redania had only escaped to Kaedwen because of her. She had chosen to say nothing so that Chireadan could make it out of Rinde alive. Now Geralt and the girl were in direct danger and it was all her fault. Her ears rang as blood rushed to her head. She had to save them.

“Vernon,” she said as she grabbed his forearm. “These people are very important to me and I’ve put them in danger.”

“I’m very sorry, Yennefer.”

“If my help in Vizima meant anything to you, you have to help me here.”

Roche looked down and huffed. He slowly rose his eyes to meet hers. “Wolf. The witcher and the girl from Sodden Hill. The ones you were looking for in Vizima.”

Yennefer kept his gaze as a shudder ran through her.

“I can’t leave my post,” he said. “Do you promise you won’t tell anyone? And you won’t interfere in the fight between elves and humans?”

Yennefer nodded. “I promise.”

“The ambush will happen in the ruins of Shaerrawedd any moment now.” Vernon Roche sighed. “You better hurry.”

***

The Scoia’tael camp was a stormy sea in the night. Orders, screams and prayers floated above a hubbub of rebels and torches. Geralt pushed against the crowds, never letting go of Ciri’s hand as he looked frantically for their horses.

“To the South Road!” Toruviel bellowed as dozens of warriors streamed past her. “They’re coming from the North! Go, go!”

A dark smoke rising from all directions covered the sky. The Army of Kaedwen would burn the whole forest to the ground before letting the rebels escape. Their horns boomed ever closer, rattling Geralt’s bones every time. Yennefer must have felt the same dread as the Nilfgaardians launched assault after assault at Sodden Hill. Had she foreseen her fate that day? Geralt certainly found himself assailed by grim thoughts. Whatever happens, I’ll get Ciri to safety. I’ll keep my promise, Yen. He sharpened his senses, knowing they could not afford any misstep, or they would find themselves trapped between the chaos of the throng and the deadly certainty of the Kaedwenian pikes.

“Gwynbleidd!” Someone yelled, raising a hand that held their horses’ reins. Dara, Ciri’s friend.

Geralt nodded at him. He helped Ciri to her mount and jumped atop Roach.

“Follow me!” Geralt shouted above the noise.

As they made their way to Toruviel, the tide of rebels stopped, and screams rose in Elder and Common Speech. “They’re blocking the South Road too!”

Trapped. Geralt cursed. They should have parted with the Scoia’tael a long time ago. He had grown overconfident, and his guilt about separating Ciri from more friends had been the final nail in their coffin. Stop. Breathe in, breathe out. Get her out of here whatever the cost.

Everyone was looking at Toruviel. She clenched her jaw and looked around, sweaty ponytail flapping against her shoulder. “Toreth and Ithel, get your warriors to the Northern Gate! Morlais, to the South! The rest, with me!”

Geralt rushed to Toruviel’s side. “Where are you going? Toruviel, I need to get her out of here.”

“There’s a cave nearby. From there, a secret passage leads out of the ruins. We’ll have to leave the horses but it’s our only chance, there are too many soldiers for us.”

She led the group to a cave entrance hidden behind overgrowth. Slowly, they trickled into the dark, only broken by the feeble light of their torches. They trudged through a surprisingly wide gallery that seemed older than the ruined palace itself. No elf could carve rock like this—only dwarven hands. So the elven marvel of Shaerrawedd was built on land stolen from dwarves, and now humans made their claim.

Agitation ran through the line as the screams behind them grew nearer. Ciri grabbed Geralt’s hand.

“Don’t look back,” Geralt said. “We’re almost out.”

Finally, the stuffy air of the cave gave way to a cold night wind. A steep path climbed out of the ravine. On top of it, spears bristled, gleaming in the red light of the burning forest. Geralt swore. A wall of black shields emerged from the ridge, long spears jutting out over them. Then another line. And another.

The Scoia’tael froze. Toruviel looked desperately at Geralt. The rows of Kaedwenian soldiers advanced. “Don’t harm the human girl,” one of them said. “Kill the rest.”

Geralt unsheathed his steel sword and stared at the rebels around him.

“Our swords will never reach past those spears if they remain together,” Toruviel said.

“That much is clear,” Geralt said. “But if I cleave through them, we have a chance.” He got closer to Toruviel and whispered, “If I don’t make it, get the girl to the Temple of Melitele. Promise me.”

She nodded, eyeing anxiously the rows of soldiers closing in.

Geralt looked at Ciri and fought the knot in his throat. “Stay here. Be ready. We run out of here as soon as we have the chance.”

“Don’t leave me, Geralt.”

“I won’t.”

He faced the Kaedwenian soldiers and his hand twitched. Liar. He usually kept his cool before a confrontation, but this time he could not clear his mind. You’ll meet your end here, another corpse she’ll have to leave behind. He shook his head. He would have to trust his muscle memory. “Follow me!”

Aard. The center of the line faltered, barely keeping their shields and spears up. His opportunity. He rushed through the opening, cutting left and right. Aard. The line broke apart, soldiers stumbling towards the Scoia’tael’s swords. Chaos. His blade tore through flesh and arteries. The world turned red. He danced to the rhythm of bones crushing.

It was then he noticed two Kaedwenian riders breaking through the turmoil, rushing towards the cave. No. He ran. Aard. One of the riders fell, but the other was already on foot, approaching Ciri. Geralt slashed, and a right arm still holding a sword fell to the ground. The Kaedwenian soldier toppled over.

Ciri wielded her witcher sword, eyes wide open at Geralt, blood splattered across her face. Geralt wanted to say something, but a whistle crossed the air behind him. He tried to turn a moment too late. Pain tore through his thigh. His knees gave out. A bolt was stuck on the back of his thigh. Fighting the stinging pain, he turned his head. The first rider was loading another bolt into his crossbow.

This is it.

“Ciri,” he said with effort.

Ciri run past him towards the rider.

No.

He wanted to shout, scream, cry at the girl running towards her doom, but she reached the man before he could. Her sword was a blur. The soldier dropped the crossbow, hands desperately clutching his bloody neck. Dara reached Ciri’s side.

Get her out of here.

The endless stream of soldiers pushed the Scoia’tael back towards the cave. They were almost cornered, the battle was lost. More riders emerged from the fight, bolting towards Ciri and Dara. They stood in front of Geralt, swords ready. “Run,” he tried to say, but he stumbled to the ground. His clothes got soaked in the dark puddle beneath him. Hooves thundered towards them. I’m so sorry, Ciri. I’ve failed you, Yen.

A deafening crack. Lightning. Horses and riders falling in every direction. On top of the path leading out of the ravine, Geralt saw her, raven hair flapping wildly in the wind, striking against the all-consuming fire. Then everything went black.

[last-wish]

Feainnewedd: Chapter 7

Summary: Geralt and Ciri leave Kaer Morhen and set out for the Temple of Melitele. On her journey there, Yennefer returns to a key place from her past where a new war is brewing.

Pairing: Geralt x Yennefer

Word Count: 4,1k

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: None

Cross posted to AO3. Special thanks to @ohrackham for all her help.

The Blue Mountains loomed like silent giants over Kaer Morhen. Ciri huddled inside her fur coat, trying to keep the cold out. Despite spending all winter in the witchers keep, every time she climbed to the top of the walls, she felt the stinging wind in her bones like the first time. She sighed. Gazing down the valley, a glinting line revealed the course of the Gwenllech river, swollen by the snow melt. Soon she would be following the river southwards. Away from Kaer Morhen, from Vesemir, Eskel, Coën and Lambert, from the safety of the Blue Mountains. And back towards the South.

The mere thought brought back an old sense of unease, the urge to sharpen her hearing, to look for anything suspicious around her. Everyone is looking for you. You can hide for a while, but how are you ever going to feel safe when they all want you? Your name, your claim to the throne of a forsaken kingdom, your blood. You can’t escape.

She clasped the battlement in front of her and recalled Calanthe’s words from her deathbed. As in life, it is impossible always to be fully prepared for battle. Keep your sword close and keep moving. Her ragged breaths slowly evened out. Footsteps sounded behind her and she turned like a cornered beast.

“Hey,” Geralt said, “it’s just me. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just… thinking about the journey. It feels strange, going back South after everything.”

The witcher put his arm around her shoulders and stood beside her in silence for a while, staring into the distance. “I remember the first time I left Kaer Morhen. I was just as nervous as you.” The witcher smiled. “Vesemir took Eskel and me down the river to look for work. And we found some—a villager tormented by a curse. He claimed that every night someone knocked on his door. The ghost of his brother, who had frozen to death in the snow the previous winter.”

“Oh. What did you do?”

“Well, Vesemir said we had to do everything for ourselves. So Eskel and I stayed at the house that night, waiting for the knock. Eskel was sure it wasn’t a ghost, probably just some drunkard or the villager’s imagination. But then, in the middle of the night, we heard it, loud and clear. We rushed to the door, busted it open and saw no one. We did find a strange trail near the door and followed it to the village cemetery.”

“You must have been terrified,” Ciri said.

“Oh, we were,” Geralt chuckled. “It was so quiet. We got to the center of the cemetery when we heard footsteps around us. We stood back to back, ready to kill and die. And then—” Geralt snapped his fingers into the Igni sign and a small flame flickered before his face. “Light. A bunch of older apprentices around us, howling with laughter.”

Ciri shook her head slowly. “Uncle Vesemir? Really?”

“Well, every witcher of the School of the Wolf must pass it. It’s an ancient ritual of Kaer Morhen.”

“You’re all just… ridiculous.” Ciri burst out laughing.

Geralt smiled and leaned on the parapet. Ciri noticed then that the witcher was holding something behind his back.

“What’s that?”

Geralt slowly revealed it—a sword, sheathed in a simple leather scabbard. The witcher offered her the hilt and the girl seized it immediately, the warmth of its grip inviting her hand. She unsheathed the sword and the slender blade glinted in the morning sun. Astonished at its lightness, the girl turned and swung it. After training for so long with heavy wooden swords, wielding this blade in her hand she felt she could fly off the battlements of the old keep. She cut the morning mist again and again, slashing the throats and piercing the hearts of the fiends that inhabited her nightmares.

She stopped to catch her breath and when she turned, Geralt was smiling at her.

“Does it feel good in your hand?” He asked.

Ciri nodded and giggled while she sheathed the sword.

“It belonged to a witcher that trained here a long time ago. Vesemir adjusted it for your weight and height and I sharpened it.”

The witcher girl jumped at Geralt and hugged him tightly. After a moment of surprise, the witcher hugged her back.

“You know,” Geralt said when they separated, “you’ve learned here how to defend yourself. You have that potential in your hand now. This blade is light and sharp, it will want to leave its cage and bite. But keep this in your head—once you unsheathe it, there’s no coming back. That will always be the hardest decision you’ll have to make.”

“Is that why you have that golden brooch on yours?”

“How do you—” The witcher shook his head.

“I saw it in a dream. You were holding a woman bleeding out on the street. She had that same brooch.”

Geralt looked over the wall, his face like stone. “She was called Renfri and she... she was a princess like you. And yes, that’s why I have her brooch in my sword.”

He didn’t look eager to talk about it and Ciri didn’t press him. Instead, she approached him and looked at the abyss below them. “I hate leaving people behind. I had to leave my grandmother in Cintra, then the dryads in Brokilon and Dara after that. Now I have to leave Vesemir, Eskel, Coën and Lambert. I’m so tired of it, Geralt. Will it always be like this?”

The witcher put his arms around her shoulders and looked her in the eye.

“I will always be with you.”

***

“Alright lady, your papers are in order. You can go.”

Yennefer mounted on her black horse and crossed the bridge over the swollen Pontar river, leaving behind a throng of merchants and peasants trying to pass through the customs post. After just a few steps of her horse on Redanian soil, the sorceress stopped abruptly. On the other side of the river, the forests of Temeria extended to the horizon. Among the sea of green, the road she had followed before approaching the bridge waited patiently for her return. Stop overthinking. This won’t take long and I have more than enough time.

After setting the meeting in the Temple of Melitele via megascope, Yennefer had decided to avoid any unnecessary risk. Bidding farewell to Tissaia as she returned to her diplomatic missions through the Northern royal courts, she had headed to the Academy of Aretuza to spend the winter. Helping her friend Rita in her new role as Rectoress had been a much-needed distraction from her worries, but, as soon as the roads thawed, she had set out in secret to the Duchy of Ellander. The Northern roads that waited for Geralt and Ciri would take longer to reappear under the molten ice, giving her time for a short detour to the other side of the Pontar.

Almost there. The place where the spark of a single decision started an all-consuming fire. But even so, a tainted spark, one that contained the doom of its own product. Could an impure creation be saved from itself? Was it worth the effort? Many lives ago, she had asked herself the same questions. Her own answer at that time was marked forever on her wrists.

She reached the top of the hill and the city walls rose before her. Red standards hung from the guard towers of the southern gate. The white eagle of Redania flapped its wings as if getting ready to take flight. The sorceress wondered again if she should do the same and turn back to Ellander.

Almost ten years already, Yennefer thought as she walked the bustling streets of Rinde. The city was an awkward combination of worn-out but still recognizable places and new additions that sticked out like a fresh, nasty scar on a familiar face. The air carried the events of past months in its smell of clay and mortar. The proud local nobles strove to repair the landmarks, but the rebellion of the Redanian peasants had left an unmistakable mark upon it.

The sudden clatter of hooves on cobblestone startled her. A group of riders dismounted before a nearby building, bringing three wounded soldiers with them. At once, a lanky man emerged from the building and guided the troop inside. The last soldier stopped before him, his face twisted with rage and contempt. The tall man raised his hands in appeasement, only to find a blade over his throat. Yennefer rushed towards them. Before she got there, the enraged soldier spat on the ground and left. Sighing with resignation, the man was about to go back inside when he saw the sorceress. From up close, his light blue eyes and pointed ears left no doubt.

“Chireadan!”

“Yennefer! What are you doing here?”

“I was just passing by and I thought—” Shouts from inside interrupted her.

The elf clenched his jaw. “Sorry, I have to go. We can talk later.”

“Can I help you?”

The healer’s eyes shone. “In fact, you can. Come, quick.”

Before they got to the end of the hallway, they bumped into the soldiers leaving the main room.

“Get this into your skull, elf,” one of them said, his finger an inch before Chireadan’s face. “We tried every sawbones in this city before we brought ‘em here. Guess what? None has any room left thanks to your traitor kind. You better slog your guts out mending our wounded because you see my boys?” He grinned. “They are just waiting for an excuse to expand our collection of nonhuman scum hung at the square.”

“Are you suggesting Chireadan would let a patient die?” Yennefer asked. The soldier stared at the sorceress with a mix of surprise, confusion and restrained anger. After a moment of quiet tension, the soldier made a gesture and his companions followed him outside.

“Thank you,” Chireadan said when they closed the door behind them, letting out a long sigh. “Few people in Rinde would dare to defy the sorceress that almost destroyed the city. Or so the stories say.”

“Stories from a time when all the city respected you and sought your services. What happened?”

“It’s been some rough years, Yennefer. Today’s Rinde has little in common with the one you left a decade ago. First, the peasants rose up in rebellion, and now…” He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. A slight wince highlighted fine wrinkles all over his face, betraying a pain that ran deep beneath. Somehow, this elf seemed to have visibly aged in just a decade—an absolute absurdity. “It started shortly after the war with Nilfgaard. Just whispers among elves in the beginning. Then leaflets calling for revolt appeared in the nonhuman district and the attacks on the roads started not long after.”

“Elven rebels here, too?” Yennefer asked. Chireadan frowned. “I’ve encountered them in Sodden and Temeria,” the sorceress clarified.

“Then the saying is true, misfortunes never come alone. I truly thought it was just a Redanian matter. Mobs started lynching elves and dwarves during the peasant rebellion and the youngest among us needed just a spark to take up arms. I guess things weren’t better in the rest of the Continent. Anyway, come with me, I must tend to the wounded.”

Yennefer followed Chireadan to a large room where the three injured soldiers laid among others. A nauseating stink of sweat and blood assailed her. Chireadan wrinkled his nose while he examined the rushed bandages on an unconscious soldier’s arm. “It’s a miracle this one’s not bled out. We have to change the dressing, bring me the cloth over there.”

“What’s their goal?” Yennefer said as she handed him the rags.

“The Scoia’tael’s?” The elf raised his gaze from the soldier. “That’s how they call themselves, because of the squirrel tails they wear. Well, they demand the liberation of the nonhuman prisoners, the end of the racial laws and the privileges by birthright.”

“Here, in Redania? The nobles will never accept it. They’d have Vizimir’s head on a spike if they suspected him of bargaining with those chips on the table.”

“I’m aware,” Chireadan said sharply. “It’s hard not to notice with every mutilated soldier that finds his way here. This war won’t end with a treaty. Is this the reason you’re here?”

“Oh, no. It’s more of a… personal reason.”

Before she could continue, one of the wounded moaned and squirmed, and the healer rushed to his side.

“I must—” He struggled. “I must warn them.”

“Of what?” Chireadan asked.

The soldier twisted and screamed. “You fucking squirrel, let me out!”

Yennefer approached the man. “We’re in Rinde. You’re safe. Chireadan is just trying to treat your wounds.”

“There’s no time for that, take me to the barracks now.”

“Soldier,” said Yennefer. “What’s your name?”

He stared at her. “Caspar.”

“You are in no condition to go anywhere, Caspar. I can take a message if that’s what you want.”

“Not with him here,” Caspar said through gritted teeth, looking at Chireadan. The elf threw up his hands and crossed the room to attend another patient.

“Well?” Yennefer asked.

“I heard two squirrels talk before they stabbed me. They’re breaking camp. They’re leaving Redania.”

“Great news, then. Where’s the urgency in that message?”

“They’re going to join the squirrels from Kaedwen. Don’t you understand? These commandos are giving us hell. If they join forces—” The man shook and moaned, his breaths turned to rasps.

“I see. But what can you do about it?”

The wounded soldier rose slightly, drawing closer to Yennefer, his voice a whisper. “The Murivel pass. They’ll cross the Kestrel Mountains there, towards Kaedwen. An ambush there… We’ll get them all.” Caspar’s smile was interrupted by a coughing fit. Yennefer turned away as Chireadan rushed to the dying man. The sorceress wiped her hand across her face. It was covered in blood.

“Bloede pest!” Chireadan screamed, trying to turn Caspar over. The cough stopped after an endless moment. The soldier’s lifeless eyes were fixed on the ceiling. An ominous laugh made Yennefer’s skin crawl.

“You’re done, elf,” one of the wounded grunted. “Maybe I’m too. But I’ll die with a smile knowing your body will hang soon on the square. Then they’ll get the rest of your own and you’ll all understand that Redania is no place for murdering scum like you.”

Chireadan stooped over the corpse, grabbing the bed with both hands, his knuckles white.

Yennefer approached him. “Chireadan…”

He stormed out of the room. She followed him.

“Chireadan!”

“Don’t you see it? I have no way out!” His hands trembled. “Those soldiers were just looking for an excuse to arrest me, it doesn’t matter what we tell them. What’s left for me, join the rebels and die with a blade in my hand? By the Mother, my job is mending bodies, not maiming them!”

“Maybe there is another way. If the Scoia’tael are fleeing to Kaedwen, perhaps they can help you escape Redania, start a new life there.”

The elf laughed bitterly. “A new life among humans in Kaedwen, another kingdom besieged by rebel commandos. How do you think they’ll treat me there? Not just an elf but an outsider.”

“Then join them. You’ve healed wounded for one side, why not for the other?”

“I must be feverish too if I’m hearing the hero of the Hill, savior of the Northern Kingdoms, urging me to enlist with the rebels trying to topple them.”

“Urging you to save your neck, Chireadan. Do you think I fought on the Hill for this? For injustice, crushing the different, the pogroms? No. I fought for the people I care about. And I intend to keep on doing it. If there is truth to what that soldier said, we are the only ones who know about the Scoia’tael plans. You still have time to reach them and get out of Redania.”

The healer stared at her, a storm raging behind his eyes. He let out a long sigh. “I’ll get my things. As for my patients… I’ll go warn my assistant.”

“You’ve done far more for them than they would have done in your place.”

He nodded. “You won’t be safe here either, those soldiers saw you with me. The river is our best bet. I have a friend who can get us across.”

“Then I’ll see you on the docks at midnight,” the sorceress said. “I must do something first.”

***

“This is a good spot,” the witcher said. “Here, give me the reins.”

Ciri dismounted her mare. As soon as her feet touched the mossy forest floor, pain shot through her legs and she fell pathetically to the ground.

“Shit!” She winced and moaned.

“All winter without riding a horse,” Geralt chuckled. “It’s only normal you get leg cramps now.”

“Normal?” She massaged her worn out legs. “Does riding all day sound normal to you? The sun is almost set.”

“Then get up and help me. This is the only light we’re getting tonight—no fires. We’re still close to the fort and I don’t want to alert any patrols.“

Ciri got to her feet and relieved her exhausted mare from the weight of her saddlebags. After rummaging a bit, she took some food and sat on the ground next to Geralt, her back resting on a thick tree. She took a deep breath. The air carried the scents of earth, damp moss and flowers in bloom. The forests of Kaedwen were beautiful in the spring. Ciri’s stomach rumbled and she started munching on the lamb pie she had bought in a village that morning.

“You better get your fill of food and rest tonight,” Geralt said. “We have another long day before us.”

“Oh, come on,” Ciri protested, her voice muffled by the pie. “First you leave Triss behind and now you want to ride all day.”

“Triss was too sick to continue and you know Eskel is taking care of her. We just need to get some distance between Fort Leyda and us. The road will be much calmer after—”

Leaves rustled suddenly somewhere nearby. Geralt's eyes narrowed.

“What was that?” Ciri asked.

“A deer. We must have scared it. Or something else did.” The witcher stood in silence for a while, eyes alert and his sword nearby. After a while, he slowly relaxed.

“I wish I had a bow,” Ciri said. “We could eat some fresh meat tonight.”

“A bow is no weapon for a witcher.”

“You witchers are so boring. I should have stayed in Brokilon, the dryads would have taught me how to shoot a bow.”

Geralt laughed. “Dryads do not hunt forest animals. I don’t know how Eithné could have put up with you.”

Ciri smiled. “You never told me how you met her. When was it, a thousand years ago?”

“Not quite that long. But I was still a young witcher, sent on a contract by the King of Verden...”

Ciri’s eyes closed as night fell over the forest and Geralt’s voice slowly drifted to the realm of dreams.

***

The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon when Yennefer reached Rinde’s main square. Not even a ray of moonlight cut through the overcast sky, and only torches and lamps hanging from the balconies provided some light in the dark. Not that there was much to light up. A couple of guards leaned on their halberds before the mayor’s house. On the opposite side of the square, a bunch of drunks broke the night silence with their songs and shouts. Between the two groups, the corpses of two elves and a dwarf swayed softly, hanging from the gallows at the center of the square.

The sorceress stood on one of the side entrances to the square. The thought of stepping into it felt wrong, as if the impossible peace of that place would snap like a taut rope with no hope of mending it. Her resolution hardened—despite her sacrifices for the Northern kingdoms, despite the friends fallen in battle, she would never help tighten the chains of injustice.

Under the faint light of the torches, the mayor’s house looked as ten years back, but an attentive look on the right place unveiled the truth. The top of the house had been rebuilt in an austere style after a djinn had collapsed the previous one. Yennefer felt a strange relief as she realized she was not the only one marked by the events of that day. But could she restore what had fallen time and again during those ten years? Was it not a doomed effort, trying to build on a cursed foundation that had never withstood for a long time? Each breakup with the witcher had inflicted a deeper, more painful wound than the last. And now he had embraced a new life, taking care of the princess of Cintra. Was there a place in his life for her? Was it worth casting her shield aside, show herself as she was, maybe even taste the sweet fruit of affection just to be abandoned again? You already know what will happen, an old cruel voice whispered in her ear. No one will ever love you.

The world spun around her—screaming drunkards, crackling flames, dancing corpses on the gallows. She leaned on the wall of the entrance arch. The smoke from the torches scratched her throat and slowly choked her. She felt her own insignificance again, stuck into her heart like a sharp dagger. A shiver ran down her spine as the clouds above her opened, the moon emerging from behind them. She was naked against the silver light, no shield able to protect her. Yennefer stopped fighting and tasted salt on her lips. Her limp body trembled against cold stone.

The desire to flee invaded her. To flee far from the city, from the war brewing within, from kings, rebels and assassins to a shelter against this ravenous cold. Inside a tent standing bravely on a cruel mountain, beside braziers that warmed her skin. A smile against hers, a drowsy, sincere voice uttering a confession she clung onto, each word a rope she would never release. You’re important to me.

Yennefer rose. She had lost track of time, but the moon was still above her among the clouds, lighting the now quiet square. Her footsteps broke the silence as she walked towards the docks, where Chireadan and her embarked on an old weathered boat, never to return.

Crows cawed in the night. The clouds flared red as if the sun was about to break through, and the scents of the blooming spring had turned into a burning smoke. Cintra was falling. The bird of prey would take her soon, as it did almost every night. But the face looming over her was not the one she expected.

“Ciri, get up!” His hoarse voice could hardly belong to the same person that had told her old stories of Brokilon just a while ago, but Geralt’s eyes were full of worry and Ciri did as he said. “Fort Leyda is burning, we have to get out of here.”

“War again.” Ciri’s voice broke. “But we’re so far North, how could it reach us so fast?”

“This can’t be Nilfgaard. Must be bandits. There’s no time, get your things and—”

A whistle cut through the air, ending abruptly as a thud on the tree behind Geralt. The arrow was just a few inches above his head.

“Glaeddyv vort, dh’oine!” A raspy voice rumbled in the dark of the forest. Geralt stood silent. “Do you not understand? Drop the sword, human, or my next arrow will pierce your neck!”

The witcher’s hand gripped his sheathed sword, where Renfri’s golden brooch glinted against the fiery sky. “Essea neén dh’oine,” Geralt said curtly.

Ciri recalled her Elder Speech lessons with Triss back in Kaer Morhen. I am no human. The witcher’s eyes burned bright. Ciri had no idea how many attackers surrounded them, but she knew Geralt could see in the dark far better than her. His thumb pressed against the brooch on the sword’s crossguard. What would he do? Ciri’s sword was by her saddlebag, too far for her to reach before an arrow found her.

A woman emerged suddenly from the trees in front of them, her footsteps so light that Ciri didn’t hear her coming. She held a short bow with a strange shape, bowstring drawn near her pointed ear. Her green clothes were splattered in blood.

“Gwynbleidd?”

“Toruviel?”

[last-wish]

[last-wish]

I’m a vampire. And before you ask, I can go outside during the day and my hair won’t catch fire in the sunlight. I’m Catholic and have a crucifix. When I sleep, which is not often, I prefer a bed to a coffin. If you try to stake me, the wood will likely splinter before it enters my skin. No fangs either. And one last thing: I do not, nor have I ever, sparkled.

[last-wish]

an ancient prophecy - it tells of a witch, who will change the destiny of all creatures  ↳ A Discovery of Witches Season 2 Trailer

[last-wish]

Calanthe: *big dick energy*

Eist: (♥‿♥)