#thinking about Ciri yet again

[fangirleaconmigo]

Abortion in The Witcher Books

Would anyone like to come along with me on a deep dive regarding abortion in The Witcher books? Not enough people talk about the fact that Geralt of Rivia is explicitly pro-choice and that the sorceresses are seen providing reproductive care, including abortion, on multiple occasions. So, let's do that.

There are a lot of things you can say about The Witcher books, feminism, misogyny, and the male gaze. (I am considering doing my first video on this very topic. It is complicated. This is not a 'the books are perfect' post) But one thing we can never say is that they are wishy washy about bodily autonomy, and more specifically, abortion. (In fact, that is the entire point of Ciri and Geralt's arc, which I will get to at the end of the post)

This topic came up awhile back because a 'witcher school' was closed after the owners were found to have ties to far right organizations, including anti-abortion organizations. So, I did a little thread on twitter about it, wondering how you can call yourself a Witcher fan (to the extent that you license a fan activity business!), and miss the entire fucking point. It was my most popular (and ofc hated by others) tweet ever, which was interesting, but I was mostly surprised that so many people were shocked to learn that Geralt of Rivia is, as a character, canonically, verbally, explicitly pro-abortion rights.

So I’m going to put the info here too in case any of you here find it interesting. Obviously there will be spoilers for the books.

TW: discussion of sexual assault, pregnancy, and basically anything having to do with reproductive health.

Before I start, I want to say that the book refers to abortion in reference to rights for women throughout, so that is the language in this article. I want to be clear that I (as an individual) understand that abortion is relevant to other genders and that I support it for trans men, non binary people, literally anyone. Abortion should be safe and on demand for all. But this is not a post analyzing my views on abortion, but the appearance of abortion in fictional psuedo medieval-esque fantasy world of The Witcher books.

Ok, I’ll start with the fact that sorceresses provide reproductive care in the books, including abortions.

In, The Last Wish (p210) Geralt tries to give Nenneke money to help Yen with fertility treatments. (In the books he does not mock her desire to have a child) He knows Yen wants to be a mother, and he wants to help. Nenneke replies that she does not need his money, and that providing abortions pays a hell of a lot better than witchering.

"You're more of an idiot than I thought." Nenneke picked up the basket from the ground. "A costly treatment? Help? Geralt, these jewels of yours are, to her, knickknacks not worth spitting on. Do you know how much Yennefer can earn for getting rid of an unwanted pregnancy for a great lady?"

Witches as providers of abortion is a very common trope in fantasy fiction for a very good reason. In order to stamp out paganism and polytheism, European colonists vilified the village wise woman as a murderer of children, hence the 'boil them in a pot, stuff them in the oven' stories about witches. Many people interpret this as the vilification of abortion. In the classic 1972 feminist text Witches, Midwives, and Nurses: A History of Women Healers, Ehrenreich and English quote Malleus Maleficarum, the witch hunting manual written by Catholic clergymen in 1487, to show that women providing reproductive healthcare was one of the 'characteristics' of a witch.

The witch that provides reproductive healthcare fits in very well in the witcher world, where Geralt and the witchers are embodiments of the working class who are used as tools and exploited. They are loathed until they are needed. The same is true of abortion providers. They are hated until they are needed, and they are always needed.

It also fits in well with the themes of class. In the Witcher books, it is stated multiple times that it is upper class women who are accessing this care from sorceresses. That is real. It is the truth that outlawing something very very often only means outlawing it for the poor and working class. The wealthy always find a way.

In Season of Storms, the sorceress Coral and her assistant Mozaïk provide reproductive healthcare to "wealthy, upper-class ladies" on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Geralt comes to speak to Coral in chapter sixteen and both of the women are wearing white doctor coats. They have just helped a woman deliver a baby and it is implied that the baby died and they are both upset. They do not want Geralt there, because (it seems to me) they need space to grieve, and they do not expect him to understand. They send send him away, suggesting he go spend time with Dandelion.

She walked over and kissed him on the cheek without a word. Her lips were cold. And she had dark circles under her eyes.

She smelled of medicine. And the fluid she used as disinfectant. It was a nasty, morbid scent. A scent full of fear.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she forestalled him...She looked at him and it was a faraway look, from beyond a chasm of time and events between them. He needed a few seconds to understand how deep that chasm was and how remote were the events separating them.

"Maybe the day after tomorrow would be better. Go to town. Meet that poet, he's been worried about you. But now go, please. I have to see a patient."

After she had gone, he glanced at Mozaïk....

"We had a birth this morning," she said, and her voice was a little different. "A difficult one. She decided to use forceps. And everything that could have gone badly did."

"I understand."

"I doubt it."

"Goodbye Mozaïk."

There are multiple other references to abortion in relation to sorceresses; I won't quote them all. But I'll leave you with one other reference. In Lady of the Lake (pp114), in a very funny moment, Angoulême says she has a 'small problem' and Fringilla replies:

"I understand," nodded the sorceress. "It's nothing dreadful. When was your last period?"

Angoulême is rather put out at the thought of being pregnant.

"What do you mean?" Angoulême leaped to her feet, frightening the chickens. "It's nothing of the sort. It's something completely different!"

So, sorceresses provide abortions and other reproductive care.

But what about the men? What about the heroes?

Well, several of the male protagonists state explicitly in no uncertain terms that abortion is an inalienable, sacred right. That includes Geralt himself.

Here is Geralt taking to Queen Calanthe in Sword of Destiny (p345). She asks him whether he hates his mother. In the course of his answer, Geralt says that abortion is “a choice which should be respected, for it is the holy and irrefutable right of every woman.”

"A choice. A choice which should be respected, for it is the holy and irrefutable right of every woman."

That’s a strong goddamn statement. There’s no doubting his meaning or the strength of his conviction. And it isn’t just Geralt. Dandelion (Jaskier), Cahir (he is traveling with Geralt as part of the hansa in the books, please set aside anything you think you know about him from TWN), and Regis (Geralts dear friend) all explicitly support abortion rights, quite passionately.

In Baptism of Fire (p317), one of Geralt’s dear friends (my favorite, the love of my life, Milva) shares that she is pregnant. They are on a brutal journey through a war zone looking for Ciri. So it’s complicated. Another friend, barber surgeon vampire Regis has prepared an elixir for her to induce an abortion. So, not only do sorceresses provide abortions, but so do vampire barber surgeons, one of the most lovable heroic characters in the books.

But before he administers it, Regis gathers the rest of the company. Regis knows Milva feels like shit at the prospect of burdening them, so he is worried that she is making the decision under duress. They don’t immediately understand why he is bringing the matter to them.

At first they think he is asking for opinions on whether she should get an abortion. They are baffled. Cahir answers first. He says in Nilfgaard it is always a woman’s right to choose.

"In Nilfgaard," Cahir said, blushing and lowering his head, "the woman decides. No one has the right to influence her decision. Regis said that Milva is certain she wants the medicament. Only for that reason, absolutely only for that reason, have I begun-in spite of myself-to think of it as an established fact. And to think about the consequences. But I'm a foreigner, who doesn't know...I ought not to get involved. I apologize."

So, Cahir says that maybe it’s a foreigner thing. Maybe it’s different for them. Dandelion (Jaskier) is offended and outraged by the implication that they believe any differently.

"What for?" the troubadour asked, surprised. "Do you think we're savages, Nilfgaardian? Primitive tribes, obeying some sort of shamanic taboo? It's obvious that only the woman can make a decision like that. It's her inalienable right. If Milva decides to--"

At this point, Geralt cuts Dandelion off. Geralt alone actually understands that there is something else happening here, that they are misunderstanding Regis and further questions are in order. Geralt begs Dandelion to stfu, which the bard misinterprets. He thinks Geralt is disagreeing with him and is considering opposing Milva's right to choose. Dandelion LOSES HIS TEMPER at the thought that Geralt would deny Milva her right.

Geralt becomes even more irritated and angry at the implication that he would do such a thing.

So, not only do we have witches as abortionists in The Witcher books, we have men, the hero (Geralt) his best friend (Dandelion), my beloved Regis, and Cahir say explicitly that abortion is an inalienable right.

And that should be no surprise.

Bodily autonomy and reproductive rights is at the very heart of the story. You do not have The Witcher story without it. It drives the narrative, the conflict, and Geralt and Yen's character arcs.

There is a criticism I see floating around quite a bit, that having Yen's story driven by her desire to be a mom and to physically reproduce is anti-feminist, or at least a tired reductive trope of women being defined by their maternal instincts.

I get that. I get tired of womanhood being defined by reproduction and motherhood as well. Biological essentialism when it comes to gender is exhausting and regressive. However, in this context, it is entirely clear to me that the point is NOT that all women should want to be pregnant. The point is the bodily autonomy, to be pregnant if you want to, and to not be pregnant if you don't want to.

Look at Ciri. She essentially becomes the main character by the end, and the idea of being pregnant repulses her.

So, in Lady of the Lake, Ciri is being held captive by elves, who want to do the same thing to her that everyone else does--breed her. The deal they offer her is, she does not 'have' to have sex with anyone until she is impregnated, but if she doesn't, she can't leave. (So, if she is to access what every human wants--freedom--she has to. This is still rape. It is coerced sex) She is understandably distraught and enraged. The part of that deal she seems most disgusted by, is the idea that she could be pregnant.

"But I don't want to!" yelled Ciri so loudly that the mare skittered beneath her. "I don't want to, understand? I don't want to! The thought of a bloody parasite being implanted in me is sickening. I feel nauseous when I think the parasite will grow inside me, that--"

She broke off, seeing the faces of the elf-women.

So yes, she is distraught that her bodily autonomy is being taken from her yet again. But perhaps the most upsetting part is the idea that she could be pregnant. It physically repulses her.

Now. Let's put this in context.

In this psuedo-medieval-esque setting with royal families, being used as a brood mare is COMMON and ACCEPTED. IN FACT, Calanthe, Ciri's OWN GRANDMOTHER was marrying her off against her will, betrothing her as a child. No one thought this was weird. It's your duty, right? No big deal. Even Geralt, when he first met Ciri, thought it would be a better life for her. Sure, it's against her will. But it's physically safe and luxurious. And he leaves her behind in Brokilon.

But at some point, Geralt puts two and two together. He connects his trauma with hers. He makes a decision that even if almost no one around him in his culture or on the continent, sees the importance of her bodily autonomy or agrees with him, he's protecting her. Not just against death, but against anyone taking her choice from her. When he is having a mental breakdown in Brokilon, worried about her, he tells Dandelion that he is trying to protect her from what happened to him. He doesn't say, she can't die. Or I can't let her be killed. He says she cannot be alone. She cannot go through what I went through. Here, I"ll let him say it: (Time of Contempt, p240)

"Listen to what?" shouted the Witcher, before his voice suddenly faltered. "I can't leave---I can't just leave her to her fate. She's completely alone...She cannot be left alone, Dandelion. You'll never understand that. No one will ever understand that, but I know. If she remains alone, the same thing will happen to her as once happened to me...You'll never understand that..."

"I do understand. Which is why I'm coming with you."

Honestly, I tear up thinking about it.

And Yen, well, she has a similar arc.

Yen has been abused and used as a tool, and along the way she has accepted that this is the way things are. Yen has even done the same to others. But she looked into that little face, those wide green eyes, and at some point she also connected the dots. There's another way of doing things, and maybe it is possible for a little girl to choose for herself. And even if it isn't possible, maybe the important thing is to fight for it. Maybe Yen can give her whole life to let a child just be a child.

Yen goes through torture and imprisonment for Ciri. She shoots lightning at a god, she shouts at a goddess, she drops through a portal into the sea, she gives up every last shred of political power she has spend ninety years accruing, she WILLINGLY tries to give her own life MULTIPLES TIMES, to save Ciri.

And from what? Death? Not always. At the heart of all this sacrifice is that Yen has made a decision that Ciri gets be a human who is given the dignity and respect of deciding what to do with her own body. To be a kid, not a tool. To be a person. To be free.

So Ciri gets to say, actually, for me, the idea of pregnancy is terrifying and repulsive and therefore, I don't want to do it.

In the end, Geralt, a person whose body was tortured and experimented on before he was too young to consent, and Yen, a woman who was abused and used, and BOTH of whom had their reproductive rights taken from them, decide to love Ciri and protect her bodily autonomy at any and all costs.

That is what drives the story. It drives the narrative. It drives both Geralt and Yen's character arcs. It is, in fact, the entire point.

So it should not be a surprise that abortion, and the right to have an abortion if necessary, is an inextricable part of The Witcher world. No, you cannot analyze these books and find 'perfect politics'. They are not politically correct. And there are many parts I can critique. I mean, we can critique anything. (and I do)

But I find it endlessly interesting that people who are conservative or right wing think that this property 'belongs' to them, and they want to push everyone else out, when all they have to do is pay the most minimal amount of attention and have really only two (2) brain cells to rub together, to see that they are indeed, incorrect.

[spielzeugkaiser]

[First Part] - [second]

Baby (who still has no name) is warming up to Geralt, who also starts to connect some dots. (Like, I think he suspects that he's Jaskiers son, adopted or otherwise, but he won't even humor the idea that he could be the dad.) That being said - the kid is an angry teenager sometimes. Jaskier tried all he could as a single parent and they have a very loving relationship, but I also think they do argue quite a bit, and there is some tension.

And the more he gets to learn how Geralt truly is the weirder is gets, cause. He's a good guy? And either Jaskier is petty and was too dramatic and kept him from meeting his dad for nothing, or Geralt isn't a good guy AT ALL and has hurt Jaskier really bad, and he doesn't think Geralt has it in him, but some people (and especially alphas) get really weird and archaic around omegas? And he had to witness again and again, with how little respect his unbonded, single father of a bastard child was treated - is Geralt like that too? But Jaskier still only ever talked somewhat kindly about him. And from all he saw... he trusts Geralt. He's a quiet, but witty and honorable man. But is it fair to doubt the parent that was there for him, that raised him, that sacrificed so much for him? The poor kid is so conflicted.

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Jaskier retreated from the main hall. Leaving the remaining Wolves to see to their injured and dead and readying himself for another night tucked away in his wreck of a room, determined to stay out of the way after already having been largely ignored since his arrival and then shoved away by Lambert twice. He found himself wondering if he should count the first time, considering that he probably saved Jaskier’s life in the process? Probably not. The second time though was just plain spiteful. But then, he and Geralt had been travelling together for years and the white haired Witcher tolerated his casual affection at best – why else would it always be down to Jaskier to initiate when he'd seen the Witcher freely hug and give causal touches to Ciri and Yen multiple times?

He swallowed down his self pity as he realised he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere – he definitely didn’t recognise that particular crack in the wall.

“Fuck.” He sighed as he slumped against the wall. Part of him wondered if he should maybe be feeling a little more panicked about this turn of events, considering he’d been warned that some parts of the Keep were unsafe (whilst neglecting to tell him which parts. So that was incredibly fucking useful). Then again, it wasn’t exactly like he’d be missed, even if the Wolves weren’t currently preoccupied with the aftermath of a possessed princess unleashing almost literal Hell. He closed his eyes and rest his head against the freezing stone. Sod it, this was just as out of the way as anywhere else. He’d try and get his bearings in an hour or two.

“Jaskier. Jaskier!”

Jaskier jerked awake at the shout of his name, squinting at the sun through the window, surprised by how little time had actually passed.

Geralt barrelled around the corner just as he was trying to shake some of the stiffness out of his shoulders, the Witcher looking panic-stricken as he practically ran to the Bard, “Jaskier.”

“Geralt, what’s wrong? Has something else happened with Ciri? Has Yen’s chaos - oh!” He was cut off as Geralt pulled him to his chest, wrapping his arms around him tightly and effectively trapping the Bard’s own between their torsos as he hid his face in Jaskier’s shoulder, “Fuck. Geralt, talk to me. What’s happened?”

“I couldn’t find you.”

Jaskier gave an eloquent “Huh?” at that, “Geralt, did you hit your head and not say anything again? You did find me. You broke me out of prison, remember?”

He felt Geralt shake his head, “No. Just now. You weren’t in the hall, or where Yen showed me you’d been sleeping or anywhere else I checked. I thought something had happened to you and none of us had noticed. I hadn’t noticed.” He pulled his face away, allowing Jaskier to fully look at him, “You scared me.”

Jaskier lowered his eyes, ‘Congratulations Julian. Yet another fuck up.’

“I’m sorry. I thought it’d be better for everyone if I stayed out the way.”

“No, Jaskier.” Large fingers tilted his chin up until sky blue met molten yellow, “I’m sorry. For pushing you away on the mountain, for keeping you at arms length here, for how the others have treated you.”

“I don’t think you have much control over the last one to be fair.”

“Yes, I do. Ciri made me realise I should have set them right as soon as I arrived back. She gave Lambert an earful for shoving you like he did after his injuries had been checked over.”

Jaskier gave a brief smile at that before the mood turned serious again, “Can I ask why though?”

“Hmm?”

“I thought we were ok after you trusted me to escort Ciri and then you just acted as if I were invisible. what did I do wrong?” He couldn’t stop the tears blurring his vision, “I know I can be too much. I was too much when we were together, I see that now and I want to try and fix things. Stop being so, well, me. But I can’t when I don’t even know what I did between the prison and here to make you angry at me again.”

Geralt looked at him like Jaskier had just been the one to sucker punch him, “You did nothing Jaskier, you never did. I acted as I did because, well, you terrified me. Still do.”

Jaskier gave a wet laugh, “I seem to be making a habit of that today.”

“I mean it.” Geralt continued, “You shoehorned yourself alongside me and you were – are – so full of life and joy and light. I wanted to keep you for myself. Something I’ve never felt so strongly before, not for Yen, not for Renfri. I wanted to know you completely and be known in return and that realisation scared me more than any monster I’ve faced. I didn’t know how to let you in like that, so I pushed you away.”

In a moment of bravery (or perhaps madness), he brushed his lips against Jaskier’s forehead, hearing the Bard’s breath catch, “You’re not the one who needs to change, Jaskier. You never were. I just don’t know how to start, but I’ll try. For you and Ciri and Yen.”

“My darling Witcher, you already have changed.” Jaskier, squirmed until he was able to loop his arms around Geralt’s waist, finally returning the embrace, “You and Yen are able to be in the same room and act like actual adults, you finally took responsibility for Ciri, and as for me-“ Jaskier gave Geralt’s waist a squeeze, “You do realise this is the first time you’ve hugged me first?”

Geralt brushed his lips against Jaskier’s brow again, firmer this time, “First of many. If you’ll allow it.”

“Always.”

[cherryjuicegf]

He sees her last. After the blood and the gloom and the despair that plagued his sight, after the death and the wails and the pleas that teared at his chest, he sees her last.

Chaos, he thinks, has never looked more serene.

In another place, at another time, it would be beautiful.

Now Yennefer meets his eyes from across the hall and a sudden jolt shakes her whole and she runs, gods, she runs to him with such helplessness and relief that he knows he will welcome the most bruising hug, if it means it will keep her afloat. There is a weeping beauty in sadness, but not for her eyes. Never for her eyes.

As she buries her head in his shoulder, he feels her heart digging a hole in his chest. He holds her tight.

"Thank the gods," she whispers, as though to herself, "thank the gods you're alive."

In another place, at another time, he would make a joke, perhaps about the feeling not being mutual, just to steal a smile and a banter from her lips.

But he has no heart for that now. Not even for that.

He only has a chain clenched tight around his heart and gutting his voice in shame every time he opens his mouth to speak. "Yennefer, I–"

At once, she looks at him. "No words." As though she knows what he would say, as though she knows all he hasn't done, and mourns him anyway. She shakes her head, eyes huge and dark and pleading. "You can't stay here, it's dangerous. You have to go. You have to find Geralt."

"Yennefer, Yen– I know." His fingers dig into her arms and he can't bear to loosen his hold, he can't bear to let her go. Not yet. He smiles, soft. Leans to search for her eyes, for just a moment of peace in their turbulent current. "I just wanted to see my darling witch."

Yennefer stares at him for a moment, shoulders tense. Then, she huffs a laugh. Her expression softens, almost crumbles.

He feels her hands shaking where she holds him and the corners of her lips tremble as though with all the unspoken screams of the sea trapped into a single shell, wailing and weeping and waiting to be heard. He only wishes he had time to put her heart to his ear.

Her voice is quivering as she speaks. "I don't know where Ciri is," she says and it sounds like the complaint of a mother and a child crushed into one, like the world's cruelest crime, the earth's deepest regret, choked in swallowed tears. "I don't know where she is, I don't–"

She doesn't let her face break, as if she knows that when the bottle cracks, there will be no end or beginning, as if she knows he will only have to stay there, and hold her through it. And he cannot stay here between death's teeth.

She can't afford this too.

But he knows terror when he sees it in her eyes, for it is not frequent, and floods them with a different kind of darkness. It breaks his heart.

She looks at him for a moment deeply, in thought. Then she lets out a sharp breath. Quiet, exhausted. "Gods, Jaskier. I'm losing everything all over again. And then," she nods at him from tip to toe and laughs again, as though she finds it absurd, "here you are. Here you always are."

Maybe it sounds painful, because she winces.

Maybe she cannot bear looking at him, maybe in hope it will hurt less if she loses him. But Jaskier doesn't abandon her eyes, only stays there, because their violet melts just like then, just like that other time she was all bereft and scared and he got to see it, and knew. Yet again, a familiar kind of despair.

But, gods. What else could one make out of shared pain, except for love?

A tear flows down her cheek, and he wipes it away with his thumb before it shatters. He holds her face. "Hey. You are not in this fight alone." He swallows, voice thick, hand firm as though to caress the love on her skin and right into her. "Not anymore."

Oh, she has been alone for so long. So long that her first instinct is to disbelieve him, doubt him, squint. But it is only for a moment.

Because his thumb is still stroking her cheek clean of stray tears and her brows can only twitch in desperate acceptance as she slowly covers his hand with hers and leans into his touch, closes her eyes. Presses on, as though to memorize the shape of his palm when it's missing, as though asking of him to remember her shape.

Jaskier can't hear her, but feels her own voice in his head as he prays they don't become no more than a memory.

"We'll meet again." She looks at him again and now her voice is steadier.

It makes him smile. He will miss this. Offering a hand for her to lean into every now and then. Watching as she rises again, indelible.

A chuckle, as the curtain threatens to rise. "Eh, I wouldn't worry too much about that. Besides," he speaks softer now, like a lullaby, like a confession, "I could never be done with the likes of you, Yennefer of Vengerberg."

A promise.

And Yennefer smiles, through the tears, and shakes her head. How strange, how comforting. To fight so hard for a purpose, and to know the purpose is willing, at last, to fight back for you.

With a deep sigh, she raises her head. And there she is again. Solid, seething, like a burning hill. "Don't leave Geralt alone."

"You know I won't." Then, pleading. "Be strong."

He knows she will be. It's mostly to remind himself.

Slowly, their hands drop away, and he hopes the warmth of her touch lingers on his hand for a while.

"Be brave," she replies, but she knows too. "I won't be there to save you this time." Jaskier huffs, mostly to hold back tears. "Well, then," she continues, and her voice is suddenly strained in a half-laugh, half-sob, an attempt perhaps, to seal the promise back. "Goodbye. Good luck–"

Only, she can't.

Her voice dies in her throat, and she presses her lips together, in refusal, in grief. Her eyes are wet again.

Jaskier lets out a silent gasp and shakes his head, pulling her close one last time, tighter than before. This is too much. He can't ask for too much. So he only lets her steal some breaths from his chest before he lets her go, and places a kiss on her head.

He feels her holding her breath, or his, as she pulls back and silently looks at him one last time.

And then, like a cord snapping in two, she turns around and walks outside the room. She doesn't look back.

And Jaskier watches numb. Her form disappears behind the walls and he stands wrecked, a sob threatening to rip his throat apart.

Broken, trembling, he smiles at her remaining memory, and decides to seal her promise himself. "Good riddance."

His voice echoes back to him in the empty hall.

[vesemirsexual]

insane to me how some people characterise lambert in tw3 as a simple prick or angry asshole when his on-going narrative theme is grief like.

first we have aiden. who lambert is clearly angry and grieving about, who we know was a rare close friend on the path and someone who he had an extremely high opinion of.

then we have his mother (+ by extension his childhood) and there’s very clear grief there arising from a child trying to protect a parent from domestic violence.

and then there’s voltehre. again, lamberts grief is the angry kind, but it’s clearly a significant memory and a significant loss for him.

and then there’s vesemir. and it’s easy to see on the surface how maybe you could think that lambert viewed him as nothing more than an abusive prick but the fact is that he immediately rebukes yennefer the second he doesn’t like her tone about the old man. he clearly says that vesemir could have his sword when he died and that it fits perfectly in his hand, and like i can only imagine how that conversation even came to be. lambert hates kaer morhen but still comes back; likewise, we know that vesemir has no problem telling people they’re not welcome at kaer morhen, and yet they fight and fight and they both still end up back there, and lambert seriously pisses him off and vesemir is the one who fucks off for a whole month. and it’s more apparent if keira isn’t present, but lambert is devastated at his funeral, the person most effected after ciri.

lambert is anger on the surface, and under all that is just grief after grief.

[caffieneaddictt18]

Moment of Peace

sorceress!reader travels with geralt and ciri as their healer and ciris mother figure as geralts wife. one relaxing day, reader shows ciri a little party trick that geralt doesnt know yet. ends with geralt and reader play fighting about why she didnt show him but showed ciri; and them all acting like a family

(not my image)

As we finally settle in a meadow, surrounded by forest, I let out a sigh of relief. The feeling of sun against my face and the soft soil beneath me feels amazing.

"Ciri! Y/N! Go collect water. I'll be right back." Geralt commands, but before he can leave to collect wood and sustenance for the night, you stop him and give him a quick kiss.

"Be safe."

"Always am."

Those simple four words are all you need before you walk off into the forest for a few yards, before you come upon a clear water stream. You see Ciri standing in the water and feeling the sun while collecting water. As you join her in the water, she looks up.

"So... why do you allow him to order you around if you're his wife?" Ciri, blunt as ever, asks, not understanding that this is Geralt's way of showing his love.

"He doesn't 'order' me around. It's his way of keeping us safe. I'm a mage and can keep you safe. You're training and can keep me safe. Plus, he goes off and does the dangerous hunting, so we don't have to. It's his way of showing love." I explain his actions and why I react without losing my patience with the way Geralt talks to me.

"Oh. I didn't think about it like that." Ciri ticks her head to the side and continues to collect water.

"Geralt isn't conventional. But he is exactly how I want him. I wouldn't want it any other way." I start towards the bank of the river and continue walking along the greenery of the forest.

As Ciri looked on as you walked, she watched in mystery. The forest seemed to bend to your will. The trees would part to make a path for you and the stones would roll out of the way, leaving only soft soil for you to walk on.

As you both reached your camp site, Geralt was dragging a large deer, and a cloth behind him that was filled. Probably with wood.

You and Ciri both put your jugs down as Geralt drops the sack of wood off near you and walks to the trees to skin the animal for food & it's hide.

You have the sense to build the fire and let Ciri light it later. She's normally sleepy when you build the fire. Makes it easier.

As you both run around, you find a good size patch of daisies.

"Ciri!" You call over the girl, "Come here!"

The blonde girl runs over to see what you're looking at.

"Would you like to learn how to make a daisy chain? You can even put one on Geralt, if you'd like." You throw out the tempting offer to make the Witcher seem silly.

And Ciri quickly agrees. You sit down, careful to avoid the daisies, and show her how to make a daisy chain/flower crown.

As the sun is no longer at its nice, warm heat and enters the baking heat, you take Ciri down to the stream again to clean up. 'The sun will dry us faster' was your reasoning to drag the girl with you.

As you are cleaning your clothes and yourself off, you see Ciri doing the same. Perfect.

"Hey, Ciri! Would you like to see something?"

"Um... What is it?"

"I promise, no harm will come unto you from me. It's just a little party trick."

"Ok..." She waded closer to you as you met her in the middle of the stream.

You magically gathered the sweat and water from Ciri and yourself, throwing it into the air and condensing the clouds around the sun to have more water, allowing the clouds to form a sort of circle around the sun. As the sun continues to shine, the clouds begin turn colors... briefly pink, then a light green, and there's a light blue! (Refer to the picture at the top)

Ciri looks at the sky in awe. "You can do this?" She points to the clouds.

"Yes. When I was at Aretuza, they taught not just politics and magic. They taught basic sciences. This was one of those. I had asked my teacher why there as a rainbow after every rainfall. She explained it to me. Since then, I had been practicing it until I was able to perfect it. Took a couple tries, but it came one day, and it stayed."

"And you never showed me?" A deep, hulking voice inquired from the shadows. Of course, the yellow cat-like eyes gave him away.

"I'm sorry, Geralt. I thought of it as a mere party trick. And it's not like it is helpful when we are off on adventures." I laugh and 'apologize' for not showing my husband sooner.

"You better be sorry!" He charges out of the woods and into the stream, getting both you and Ciri wet again, before lifting you by the waist and carrying you back to base on his shoulder. Everyone was laughing and peace was covering the three of them.

Just a moment of peace.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's Cup of Tea:

I am so sorry the ending was bad. I didn't know what to put for the ending so I winged it. Thank you all so much for your love and support of my work! I love to see everyone enjoying it.

[crystcrm]

i was scrolling through the tags, and i got inspired by this. . .

i still haven't finished the quest yet ( but i know what happens </3 sad. ) and i live for dilfs honestly. and to think this would be my first kinda proper-ish genshin smut? something with a dilfy guy from sumeru who had 1 whole quest line.

maybe i should write for npcs more, because mm.. some of the genshin npcs are so... ♡

huffman.. wagner... timaeus started to grow on me lately... and now, jebrael.

anyway, we're kicking this off with some nice things about jebrael and a sweet kind-of-househusband-but-not-really-househusband reader!

p.s this is more of a .. drabble than an actual fic woop

the desert's darling ;; jebrael x male reader

content ;- porn with some plot , nsfw , fluffy things , soft dom jebrael , sub reader , anal sex , size kink , breeding kink / creampie , missionary ( idk positions ) , pet names ( darling )

nsfw below the cut, minors dni.

there isn't much out in the desert, but you've made it quite inviting for travelers alike to come and rest with you. letting them rest off their fatigue in your abode in aaru village. you've met all sorts of people— some students who weren't used to the life there, adventurers who needed a place to stay, some traders from the forest and ciry beyond the walls.

you weren't exactly sent off to live there— but... you chose to.

it was a home unlike any other... even if it was too hot sometimes.

you'd provide sweet drinks, lovely food and a place to stay to any and all who needed it. it sure helped take a load off the village chief and candace— they're more than happy to have your help.

but, amongst the many patrons you'd get, there'd always be some regulars that would come on by... a certain eremite and his daughter. back when they first came by, you were quick to learn jebrael and his daughter, jeht would be common faces.

to say you were enamored was... accurate, but honestly, who wouldn't gawk and stare when there was such a fine man in their house almost every month? you honestly felt like you'd want this man in your house forever.

you'd do everything for them, not even letting them lift a finger. breakfast, lunch and dinner were always prepared everyday. laundry was done and dried, folded up for them once more to bring on their travels. if the journey was rough, who's to say your hands wouldn't work at the knots in his muscled body too?

all in all, jebrael could say you were a perfect host. in fact, it almost felt like he had a sweet wife again. or, husband he should say. archons, he felt like he wanted you more and more with each time he visited.

he wanted you so much.

when night fell upon the desert, he knocked on the room of your door. jeht was fast asleep, he was sure of it. but fortunately you were still awake. always a late sleeper, wanting to make sure your guests were always comfortable before dozing off yourself.

you had a smile on as you welcomed him into your room, one that could make his heart ache, honestly. one that made him want to feel those lips of yours. but he didn't mean to make it drop when he suddenly brought up something about payment.

payment? why would he ever have to pay you? you never wanted to take anything of his, nor would you ever accept it.

clearly he had a different idea on how to pay you.

it just clicked when he stopped calling you by name, only coming in closer, softly calling you " darling " with that huskiness in his voice.

and you crumbled and caved.

and that's how you ended up on his lap, lips pushed together in a fervent kiss. he was much bigger than you, he could handle you with ease. just the thought of it made you shudder, melting into his touch some more. and clearly it made him go mad as well, groaning against your lips as his hands began to roam your body.

you could feel his hardened length beneath that pesky piece of fabric, your own arousal clouding your mind. if he was big... surely down there would be too. you didn't have to leave it up to imagination for long though.

before long, he had you in his arms, laying down on your bed. his calloused hands that would always do tough work were surprisingly gentle with you, never rough at all. especially when he slowly fingered you open, wanting to spread you open just for him. his lips were against yours, muffling your moans as his fingers worked their magic within you. the lube definitely helped, but he had been going at it for what felt like forever— was he really that worried he wasn't going to fit...?

your head was blank when his fingers left you feeling empty, jebrael merely chuckling at your whine as he repositioned himself. you could feel his tip prodding at your entrance, pulling your legs around his waist as he looked down at you.

" darling, eyes on me, " he gently tilted your head up to look at him, a small open mouthed smile on your face as you saw him. archons, he was so handsome. you could take in his features every time, but it was so clear up close and personal like this. but the slow thrust in distracted you, a shaky moan escaping your lips.

your sounds were angelic. and your insides were heavenly— those are definitely the words he'd use to describe it.

" ..a-archons.. relax.. darling, shit.. " he was gritting his teeth, trying to distract you from the pain of his size in all the ways he thought of. sweet nothings, sloppy kisses, lustful touches. he had a hand gently wrap around your own length, stroking softly as he penetrated further and further in you. he had you feeling so many things at once and you haven't even cum yet.

jebrael was panting heavily once he bottomed out in you, looking down at where you two were connected, feeling how your warmth captured him. he just wanted to stay there for a moment and relish in it, his sweet praises raining down upon you as he rested his forehead against yours.

it wasn't long until you began begging for him— begging for more, begging for something. and you were already mewling and moaning when he slowly dragged his hips back, soft squeals forced out of you as he pushed himself back in. a slow and deep pace, a rhythm meant for feeling and taking each other in.

time went on and his pace seemed to stagger— surely his age wasn't an issue in the picture right now- but rather he was so close to the edge since earlier, it was really hard to last when you were so sexy, ravishing even. it felt more erratic, his girthy length stretching you out and reaching your deepest parts as he angled himself better— to feel every inch of you.

your loud whines and moans were muffled once again, his lips capturing yours for a final kiss as you felt your high wash over you. a warmth spilled over your stomach, a rushing pleasure running all over your body. it wasn't long until jebrael joined you in this high, sheathing himself in your deepest parts before filling you up even more with milky white.

he let himself stay longer, finding you having no qualms against it.

well, this was just the first repayment. he still had more to give back to you after months of being his sweet desert darling.

oops, i wrote a lot more than i intended to...

[sourwolf-sterek32]

Broken Heart

Summary: You were the first and only female Witcher.

You and Geralt had been together since you were teenagers, training and fighting alongside each other for decades. However, when Yennefer of Vengerberg showed up, he chose her.

Now, years later, you go back to Kaer Morhen for the winter and come face to face with Geralt of Rivia, forcing old feelings to resurface once again.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Language, violence

Previous Chapter

Chapter 15-

Anika's cabin in the woods wasn't too far away, thankfully.

To say she was surprised to see Geralt after all this time was an understatement, but you were more surprised about Otto the Werewolf living with her.

You and Geralt had been hired by villagers many years ago to kill him but managed to find him a makeshift cure instead. The vial around his neck kept him from shifting, it kept him human and in control. It saved him.

Anika was able to figure out that the girl was under some kind of powerful mind-control enchantment but had no idea who would possess such knowledge to use Chaos, druidic magic and ancient elven sorcery in a singular spell.

She gave the girl an extraction elixir to break the mind-control, but it would take time for it to kick in and there was no guarantee that it would work either.

Now, it was just a waiting game.

"How are you doing, little one?" Geralt's gentle voice suddenly asked.

You glanced over your shoulder to find him walking out the front door of the cabin before he sat down on the porch steps beside you.

"I've been worse." You admitted. "How are you?"

"I've been better." He replied with a heavy sigh. "Anika told me that Visenna is dead."

Your head snapped back in his direction, "as in your mother, Visenna?"

"Hmm." He nodded, avoiding your gaze as he stared out at the woods around the cabin.

"Oh, Geralt. I'm so sorry."

You weren't entirely sure what else to say in this situation, so you didn't try and say anything else, instead you laced your arm through his and leant your head against his shoulder. Geralt's body was tense, but that tension melted away at your touch and he placed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

Geralt was conflicted with his own internal feelings. He had spent so long hating his mother for what she did, but at the same time, she was still his mother and the happy memories he had of her, no matter how few there were, they were still happy memories and he loved her.

"It's okay to be sad. She was still your mother." You whispered.

Geralt sighed, "I know."

The two of you fell into comfortable silence as you sat together. Geralt's head now resting against yours while you stared out at the surrounding woods watching the small birds and animals in the distance.

"I'm going to cut some firewood for Anika. The least I can do for her helping us." Geralt suddenly said.

You lifted your head from his shoulder as he stood up and began descending the porch steps before a thought suddenly hit you.

"Where's Ciri?" You asked, hating yourself for not asking sooner. "The real Ciri. Our Ciri. Where is she?"

"She's safe." Geralt reassured, noticing your sudden panic. "She's with Yennefer at Aretuza."

The word safe and Yennefer did not belong in the same sentence. The last time Ciri was alone with the mage, she had tried to sacrifice the girl to get her magic back.

"She thinks being at Aretuza will help with Ciri's magic training?" You asked, and Geralt nodded. "I don't like it. I don't... I don't trust Yennefer, Geralt."

"Well, I'm starting to."

"You trust her with Ciri's life after the shit she did?"

"Not yet. But everyone deserves a second chance." Geralt simply replied. "You gave me one."

"That's different."

Geralt sighed but didn't try and argue any further before he picked up the axe that was leaning against the porch and wandered off into the woods to cut down some firewood.

You watched him in the distance swinging the axe at wooden stumps, splitting them in half with ease. It wasn't long before he had two large piles of perfectly cut wooden wedges beside him. You could watch him cut wood for hours and not get bored.

"You admiring the view?" Jaskiers voice suddenly questioned.

You could hear the smirk in his tone as he walked out the cabin behind you and you rolled your eyes but didn't try and deny it because, yeah, you were admiring the view. Your boyfriend looked good cutting wood, so what?

"Here."

You glanced up to find the bard handing you a cup which you eyed cautiously and now it was his turn to roll his eyes.

"Relax, it's not poison. Anika said you need to keep up your fluids after so much blood was taken from your body. So, drink up."

You took the cup and drank the water, surprised at how thirsty you actually were. Jaskier must have noticed too because he disappeared back inside and refilled the cup without question.

"Thanks, Jaskier." You handed him back the cup which he refilled once again but this time for Geralt. "You making it a habit to keep Witchers hydrated?"

"Only when said Witchers are stupid and don't do it themselves." He shot back.

"Okay, rude." You joked causing Jaskier to chuckle softly before you stood up and followed him out the woods, but you didn't miss the look of worry he sent your way when he realised that you were following. "Relax, I might be weak from blood loss, but I can still walk."

"To be fair, you couldn't exactly walk a few hours ago. So, excuse me for being slightly concerned."

You snorted softly but had no come back for that as the two of you weaved your way through the tall trees of the forest to where Geralt was now sitting on a log beside the large piles of freshly cut wood.

"I think you've chopped enough here for... two, maybe three centuries of fire." Jaskier observed, handing him the water. "What's the plan Geralt?"

"We wait for her to wake up, make sure she's okay, find Rience and the mage that did this, and kill them."

"And then what?" Jaskier prompted casually.

"Y/N told me that she saw you talking to Philippa Ellhard in Ban Glean." Geralt began to say causing Jaskier to sigh as he looked over at you.

You thought back to that day and how that woman had threatened the bard. You couldn't quite place where you knew her from, but when you explained it to Geralt, he was able to figure out that it was Philippa Ellhard, the court mage for Redania.

What the mage for Redania wanted with Jaskier was something that you couldn't quite figure out and after everything that had happened in the last week, you haven't had a chance to ask him more about it.

"I'm sorry, Jask. I heard her threaten you, I got worried." You apologised, knowing you went behind your best friends back by telling Geralt.

"No, no, it's fine. I... I should have told you." Jaskier sighed, looking down at the ground in guilt.

"It's okay, Jaskier." Geralt reassured. "What did Dijkstra want you to do?"

"He wanted me to convince you guys to take Ciri to Redania."

Redania? Why would he want Ciri to go to Redania?

Geralt actually chuckled at the bard’s words, thinking how ridiculous it sounded, but Jaskier wasn't laughing.

"And I agree with him." The bard quickly added which caused Geralt’s expression to harden. "She'd be safe with an army, an entire army at her back."

"Ciri would be nothing more than a brood mare on the Cintran throne." Geralt muttered.

"Well, isn't that what she was born to become?" You pointed out and Jaskier nodded.

"She's right, Geralt. Ciri is a princess. That's what princesses do. They sit on little royal thrones, and they have little royal babies. And they rule kingdoms. This is what Ciri wants."

"Does she want to be a political pawn for Vizimir and Dijkstra? No. We stay the course."

"Neutrality has consequences too, Geralt." Jaskier reminded, sitting down on the log beside Geralt while you leant against the tree and watched them.

"There are already consequences, Jaskier. And not just for Ciri. I thought by taking her off the board, the world would stop trying to use her. Instead, they're trying to use others in her place."

"And they will continue. Because that is what people in power do." Jaskier sighed, glancing between you both. "But she's not a Witcher. She's certainly not an Aretuzan witch sourcing magic out of... stones, or hemp, or plants, or whatever it is that Yennefer does. She's a princess. I think you should trust her."

"Her source." Geralt repeated, looking over at Jaskier in sudden realisation.

"Her... what now?" Jaskier asked in confusion before glancing over at you with a questioning look, but you shrugged your shoulders because you had no idea what Geralt was thinking.

"You're right." Geralt said, walking back towards the cabin, leaving you and Jaskier by the piles of wood.

"I'm right... Well, that's deeply worrying. What?"

Jaskier stood up and you pushed yourself away from the tree before the two of you made your way back to the cabin, still totally confused on what Geralt was thinking.

"I need you to wake up." You heard Geralt say as you and Jaskier entered the cabin.

"Geralt, no." Anika warned from across the room. “It's too soon. You could hurt the extraction spell."

Slowly, you and Jaskier walked over to where Geralt was knelt beside the girl’s bed, her eyes fluttered open in confusion as she stared up at the white haired Witcher.

"You said there was always a source. What did you mean? Always a source to what?”

"Magic." The girl answered, her voice a mere whisper.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Teryn."

"Good." Geralt encouraged gently. "Something happened that affected your mind. Do you remember what happened?"

The girl slowly sat up in bed looking around worriedly before she focused back on Geralt.

"I was dragged from my room... by a man."

"A man with a scar?" Geralt prompted.

"Careful, Geralt." Anika warned from somewhere behind you.

"He was there. Sometimes. He bought the Witcher in. Chained her up." Teryn answered, her voice trembling as she looked over at you.

"They kept me drugged. I can't remember much. Can you tell me who else was there?" You asked gently, kneeling in front of her.

"The woman with the funny voice. They all helped the man. The man, he... he always scared me."

"You knew him." Geralt said in realisation.

She nodded, "at school. At Aretuza."

Aretuza?

You glanced over at Geralt who met your gaze with an equally panicked look. Ciri was at Aretuza with Yennefer.

"Oh..." The girl began to sob, shaking her head hysterically.

"We need to put her back under." Anika instructed, but Geralt ignored her.

"I need a name. What was his name, Teryn?"

The girl’s sobs turned into panicked wails. She hugged her knees to her chest and began to rock herself forwards and back while screaming before dropping her head on her knees and sobbing quietly.

"That's enough, Geralt." You warned, looking at the girl sadly.

Suddenly, as if your voice had triggered something, her head snapped back up. The panicked and fearful look in her eyes had vanished completely, replaced with something that had your Witcher senses screaming at you to run.

"Stupid Witchers." Teryn spat in a deep voice that wasn't her own.

You and Geralt were on your feet in an instant as you stared down at the girl who was grinning madly up at you.

"You're doomed and you don't even know it. I am Cirilla's destiny. May all ye wail, for the Destroyer of Nations is upon us."

She threw her arm forward and you were not expecting the telekinetic wave that sent you flying across the room and crashing into the wall, hard.

Your body collapsed to the ground on impact, your ears beginning to ring as you looked up to find Anika unconscious beside you after being thrown across the room as well. Your blood loss from earlier was making it hard to concentrate. The knock that wouldn't usually stun you, had you struggling to get to your hands and knees while the room around you spun.

"Jaskier, the amulet!"

You looked up and it took your eyes a moment to focus, and your stomach dropped when you realised what was happening.

Geralt was across the room fighting with Otto who seemed to be turning back into a Werewolf while Jaskier struggled to get the amulet from Teryn who must have stolen it without anyone noticing.

Shit.

Your weakened body struggled to move, but you forced yourself to your feet, using the wall beside you for stability. You rushed over to Jaskier, or more like stumbled, but you managed to stay standing while the bard held the girl to his chest, stopping her from running out the cabin.

"The amulet. Take the amulet." Jaskier grunted, struggling to hold her.

You yanked the necklace from the girls grasp who instantly stopped fighting in Jaskiers hold once the amulet was no longer in her possession and the bard gently lowered her to the ground as she passed out.

"Geralt!" You shouted, tossing the amulet across the room.

He caught the necklace with one hand, the other holding Otto down before he pressed the amulet to the man’s chest and the Werewolf side of him instantly calmed down and he stopped fighting.

"Thank goodness." You sighed, leaning your back against the wall in relief.

-

The following 48 hours went by in a blur.

Ciri had apparently escaped Aretuza while Yennefer was meant to be watching and protecting her. So, while you and Jaskier went to organise a ferry ride across the sea to Aretuza, Geralt found Ciri and bought her back.

The Wild Hunt had showed up when he reached Ciri which was concerning. But Geralt had reassured that they were gone for the time being, which was only a small comfort.

The ferry ride lasted longer than you would have liked, but it would have been even longer for Jaskier who had to deal with Valdo Marx, a fellow bard who Jaskier disliked with a passion.

Geralt and Ciri slayed the Aeschna, a nasty sea monster that had been hassling the ferryman for weeks. You watched on proudly as Ciri used Geralt’s sword to kill the monster and before you knew it, the ferry pulled up to the shore of Aretuza.

Aretuza was dangerous. It was where Teryn had been kidnapped from, but that also meant whatever mage was working with Rience was also here, so that was where the group of you went. You needed to find that mage and stop more people from getting hurt.

Yennefer had proposed a Conclave to find out who this rogue mage was, and although you wanted to join her and Geralt, you knew having two Witchers at the Conclave would not be smart. They would know something wasn't right, and the rogue mage would disappear before you could figure out who they were.

So, reluctantly, you stayed behind with Jaskier and Ciri.

"Are you sure that you're okay with this?" Geralt asked quietly.

Him and Yennefer were going to pretend to be a couple. It was Yennefer’s plan, because of course it was, but it would be the only reasonable explanation as to why Geralt was accompanying her to the Conclave.

Geralt rested his hand on your shoulder while the two of you had a quiet conversation outside the small hut that you were staying at on the outskirts of town.

"Nope. Not at all. But it has to be done." You sighed, rubbing your face with your hands. "I just hate being sidelined."

"You're not being sidelined."

"I am."

"Someone needs to stay behind and protect Ciri in case something happens." Geralt reminded and you sighed, but nodded because he was right. "If you aren't okay with this, I won't do it."

You looked back up at Geralt, his beautiful golden eyes shining from the moonlight above and you knew he was telling the truth.

"You have to do it. We need to find out who this rogue mage is that is working with Rience. And find out why they want Ciri and why they wanted me and my blood. If we don't... more innocent lives will be in danger, including Ciri's." You explained, resting your hand atop of Geralt’s that was still on your shoulder. "I trust you, Geralt. So, go."

"I love you, Y/N."

He lifted his free hand and gently cupped the side of your face before he leant forward and kissed you passionately.

"I love you too." You whispered against his lips before the door behind you suddenly opened.

"Geralt, are you ready to- oh, sorry." Yennefer's voice hurriedly apologised.

You kissed Geralt one last time before the two of you pulled apart and you glanced over at the mage who had changed into a beautiful dress.

"I'll go get changed, then we can go." Geralt said, squeezing your hand one last time before he stepped past Yennefer and walked into the hut.

Neither you nor Yennefer said anything as you stood outside together awkwardly.

"Geralt told me what happened in the castle. I'm so sorry, Y/N." She said, breaking the silence after a few seconds. "I might be able to use my magic to heal you. I mean, you’re still kind of pale from all the blood loss, I can... I can help."

You shook your head, "save your power. My Witcher healing is working, I'll be as good as new come dawn."

Yennefer nodded with a small smile before she looked up at the stars shimmering through the treetops above you.

It was rare that the two of you had alone time together. And now you understood why because it was awkward.

Yennefer was trying to be better. But you still didn't like her. It wasn't even about what happened between her and Geralt on that mountain all those years ago, although that had definitely not helped. But it was what she did to Ciri, that was something you couldn't forgive.

If Ciri had died the day Yennefer tried to sacrifice her... you would have killed Yennefer then and there, and she knew it too.

"I do hope one day that you can forgive me for everything... I hope one day we can become friends." Yennefer suddenly said.

"Me too." You found yourself saying, and you meant it.

The only female Witcher and a powerful mage like Yennefer? That would be a friendship that nobody would dare try to fuck with.

Yennefer smiled softly at your words before the hut door opened once again and Geralt stepped out. He was now sporting a shining silver suit that you knew had to have been Jaskiers idea because there was no way the Witcher would ever choose to wear something like that.

His hair had also been neatly pulled back which was definitely Ciri's handy work and you smiled, walking over to him.

"You look nice." You smirked, looking him up and down trying to take a mental picture of this outfit that you knew he would never wear again.

"Don't get used to it." He muttered, but you could tell he was fighting the urge to smile as he looked over at you before holding out a familiar looking sword. "Here. I forgot to give this back to you earlier."

It was your sword that you figured had been lost during the fight before you got kidnapped. The last time you saw the sword it was sticking out one of the dead elves, but Geralt must have grabbed it before they left Shaerrawedd.

"Thank you." You took the sword and sheathed it over your back before glancing between him and Yennefer. "You two be careful, okay?"

They both nodded and you watched them walk away, disappearing through the woods to the Conclave.

You remained outside the hut for a little while, keeping guard and making sure nobody was lurking nearby, but it seemed to be quiet and safe for the time being, so you made your way back inside.

Jaskier was sitting on the edge of Ciri's bed shuffling a deck of cards and singing soothingly while Ciri fell asleep under the covers. You closed the front door quietly behind you not wanting to wake the young girl. Jaskier glanced over at you hearing the door and smiled softly while he continued to sing.

You pulled your sword sheath from your back, leaning it against the wall before you collapsed down on top of the other bed listening to Jaskiers gentle voice while you stared up at the ceiling.

"I think she's finally asleep." Jaskier whispered a few minutes later.

You tilted your head to the side as he stood up and pulled the blankets up higher covering the girl’s shoulders.

"You'd make a good father." You observed.

Jaskier chuckled softly, "I think I'm more of the fun uncle type, my dear. But thank you."

He put the deck of cards on the table before he walked across the room towards you.

"How are you doing? It cannot be easy for you knowing Geralt and Yennefer are pretending to be a couple at the Conclave right now."

Jaskier knelt beside your bed as you sighed and looked back up at the ceiling. "It's not. But I trust Geralt. And Yen has changed. I still don't like it, but I understand that it had to be done."

"Nobody in your position would like it." Jaskier agreed, smiling sadly at you. "Get some sleep. I'll keep watch for a while."

"Thanks, Jask."

Jaskier blew out the candles near your bed and you closed your eyes, allowing yourself to drift off to sleep.

You awoke not long after, but it took your tired mind a few seconds to figure out what had actually woken you up before you realised that Jaskier was no longer inside the hut.

You sat up on high alert, your eyes flashing over to Ciri's bed across the room. The girl was still fast asleep and unharmed, but Jaskier was nowhere to be seen.

Cautiously, you stood up grabbing your sword from your sheath against the wall before making your way outside. It was still dark, the moon and stars shining brightly in the sky above you, but there was no sign of Jaskier.

You found your body was finally back to normal. All the blood that had been taken and the amount of drugs that had been injected into your system wasn't affecting you any longer, your Witcher healing having done its job overnight.

Thank goodness for that.

"I've slipped away from my security detail. You're in no danger, I promise." You heard a voice say nearby.

"Yeah, well, that force field that blew you back, it, uh... lasts till dawn. Let them try it." Jaskiers voice suddenly replied.

"I'm scared, Jaskier." The other voice said.

Who was that?

Slowly you made your way towards the voice, spotting a smaller hut nearby where the source of the voices had been coming from.

"Just saying that makes you braver than you know."

"That's it. That's what makes you so special. You don't just see people. You see the best in them."

You had heard that other male voice before, but for the life of you, you couldn't figure out who it belonged to.

"May I?" The same voice asked.

A few seconds later, the faint sound of singing and the familiar strum of a lute filled the still night air, but it wasn't Jaskier who was singing. It was the other man.

You paused outside the open door of the hut, your sword still raised because you had no idea what was going on, but as you peaked into the room you were surprised to find Prince Radovid playing the lute.

"You learnt my song." Jaskier whispered once the prince stopped singing.

"My-my playing's shit, and I did have a-"

Jaskier surged forward, cupping the man’s face with his hands and silencing the princes rambling with a kiss.

Your jaw dropped as you watched the two of them make out, and you slowly lowered your sword from where you had it raised prepared for a fight.

"Maybe that's something we can work on." Jaskier whispered, pulling away ever so slightly to look at the other man. "I can't take you inside. I'm sorry."

"Then take me here." Prince Radovid responded.

Jaskier smiled before pressing his lips to the other man once again and you couldn't stop yourself from smiling either before you slowly backed away from the hut to give the two men some privacy.

With everything that was happening right now. All the horror. All the death and destruction, it was nice to see something good finally happening.

Jaskier deserved it.

-

Next Chapter

MASTERLIST pinned to profile.

Commissions open! Link in bio & DM for enquiries.

[geraltofriviacollection]

Chapter Six

Paring: Geralt x Reader

Summary: Reader is thrown into the Witcher’s world. Will she survive? Eventual smut may come about😉

A/N: This is the first part in a series. I have not edited or proofread. Please do not repost, translate or copy my work without permission. Please leave comments! ❤️

Things seem to settle into a routine. Ciri spends most of her days training with Geralt when she’s not watching me train with Vesemir. I can hold a steady orb of energy and bring it forth with ease. Tapping into the power I had the night I killed Eskel……

The knot in my stomach tightens watching Ciri train. I fear Geralt may not be enough to pull her back from the edge. Seeing her on the obstacle course makes me nervous. Watching her fall off and stand back up in pain makes me proud of her endurance. Geralt walks with her disappearing into the keep. 

A short time later I start to enter the room where Geralt is bandaging her up but ciri comes flying from the room like a bat out of hell. I start to ask if she’s alright but before the words have left she is already far down the hall. 

I turn going into the room and see Geralt kneeling by the bed and he sighs. “Do I want to know what that whole thing was about?” I ask walking further into the room.  He sighs again at my question. “So I am going to take a shot in the dark and guess that you tried to show that you care by imparting a valuable lesson and ended up saying something stupid with all 10 words you use. Did I miss something?” I challenge. 

“Must you always be like this? Such a pain in my ass.” He growls.

“Well I haven’t made any plans on changing but we shall see where the day takes us. Now spill, what did you say to her?” I ask to get back to the point. 

He looks at me for another moment before sighing and moving to sit on the bed. “I told her that she is not a Witcher and that great fighters all end up dead in the end.” He explains looking up at me. This time it's my turn to sigh. “I only told her the truth.”

“Next time less truth would be good.” I say moving to sit next to him I gently place my hand on his as he doesn’t move it from mine. “You may have told her the truth but you also managed to tell her that you don’t believe she can do it.” I told him. 

“I do believe that she will die if she doesn’t understand she isn’t a Witcher. I will not have her die to prove a point.” He says. 

“Geralt, She has lost everything she has ever known in a matter of months. She is trying to figure out her new place in this world. This is not Ciri proving a point, this is Ciri figuring out who she is again. Our job is to keep her safe while she does that. We won’t let anything happen to her. You just need to learn how to be a tiny bit softer with her.” I tell him. He sighs and squeezes my hand. “Now my next piece of advice is that you go and maybe try to talk to her again.”

A few days later I wake up with a strange pit in my stomach like something is about to change. Almost like smelling the wind before rain. In the afternoon I’m still with Vesemir practicing. I’ve learned how to throw balls of energy in my hands at a target. However my aim still has much to be desired so hitting the target is not going well. 

“Lass, I don’t think I have ever seen someone so bad at something.” He frowns at me stroking a hand down his face. 

“You say that and yet I know how you feel when Everard tries to cook a meal.” I joke wiping sweat from my brow. He laughs as he hands me water. I hop up on one of the benches in the lab. “Ves?”

“I thought we agreed that name would not be spoken aloud again.” He mumbles working on something next to me. 

“I agreed not to speak that name aloud in front of others, since I am your new favorite you have agreed to indulge me.” I grin at him. He rolls his eyes at me. 

“What is it you want to know, Lass?” He smirks. 

“Why aren’t there any woman Witcher’s?” The question hangs in the air before he responds. 

“Over the years since the Witchers came to be, women have been put in the trials. Not a single one of them have survived. Deglan believed it had something to do with the-“ 

I tense as I feel something in the air has shifted. 

“What is it, Lass?” Vesesmir interrupts himself. 

“I don’t know. Something has shifted. I can’t tell much more than that.” I stumble through my explanation. Vesemir comes in front of me and tilts my head side to side. Just then my stomach rumbles quite loudly. He smiles. 

“I think we may have found the problem.” He laughs. We walked down to the great hall only to find Lambert there. Vesemir walks over to talk to him and I naturally go in the other direction considering…. Well everything.

The door opens and Ciri comes in first with a red headed woman behind her and Geralt coming in last. She looks familiar and very pretty. I can seem to place her name. 

“I brought dinner," he says with a dead boar on his shoulders. The rumbling in my stomach halts like a foot slamming in the brakes looking at that thing. A very familiar feeling arises down south the longer I look at Geralt holding that boar. 

“More than that.” Vesemir says breaking my creepy stare and He glances over at me before turning back to the woman. “My child, what a surprise.” He walks to her and she kisses his cheek hello. 

“Oh hell, haven’t even had my fill of grog yet and ,already the women are tripling.” Lambert says. “Merigold.”

“Lambert, I see your wounds have improved but your manners have not.” Light laughter fills the air. 

“I wish you had come sooner. We all could have used you.” Vesemir says to her. Sorrow and guilt make my throat and chest tighten. 

“Hopefully, we still can.” Geralt says, turning to look at me. I’m not at all fond of that problematic transition. Her eyes follow his and she sees me standing there. Ciri sees me for the first time and comes to join me at my side. I smile down at her before looking back up at Geralt and my eyes move back to the red headed woman. 

“I’m Triss. Geralt has told me about you on our walk here.” She smiles at me. I smile back at her. 

“I imagine it couldn’t have been very much, considering that he mainly communicates in grunts.” Ciri and Tris chuckle. 

“I think I might like her.” Tris says, looking at Geralt and them me. He rolls his eyes with a slight uptick in my mouth. “It’s very nice to meet you.” She smiles again at me. “I’ll go and dress for dinner. I assume you’ll want to wash up as well?” She says to everyone. Chuckles go around again. She takes that as a no before leaving the room. 

Ciri takes a seat. “So, How do you know her?” She ask Geralt. He sighs and I smirk before intervening. 

“I'm sure he will tell you all about it after you have washed up.” I tell her. She gives me a look that calls bullshit. “Okay maybe not but that does not change the fact that if you sit here much longer you might smell worse than that boar.” Ciri grunts in discontentment before leaving the room as well.  “You know she gets that from you.” I smirk at him. He rolls his eyes again before walking off leaving me. 

Dinner with Triss is a rather uneventful occasion. I learned enough to know that I like having another female in the keep. Even though we are still woefully outnumbered, the energy has shifted into peaceful uncertainty. Something still feels like teetering on the edge of chaos like a shoe waiting to fall.

I leave the table first, stealing myself away to the armory. I stay there practicing controlling this power to avoid sleeping. The nightmares for killing Eskel haunt me when I close my eyes. Watching the life drain from him is the only part that seems to be crystal clear in my memory. My only hope at night is to push myself hard enough to have dreamless sleep.

 My fear of dreaming is not the only thing that keeps me awake at night. The longer I stay the more I have begun to feel some of my memories of the storyline fade. Not big things but smaller details. I can’t help but to feel purposeful. 

It’s late into the night by the time I leave to head to my room. I am about to turn the corner when I hear voices across the way. 

“If it’s up to me, everyone will know their names.Perhaps  they can live on in our memories. Perhaps something more.” I recognize Triss speaking. “You witchers pretend not to have emotions, but you do. I know you feel it too. All of it. Normal love, normal hatred,normal pain, normal fear and regret, normal joy and normal sadness.” I peak around the corner and across the courtyard I see Triss taking Geralt's hand in hers. “Stay with me tonight.” She says. Geralt starts to talk but Triss cuts him off. “Only stay. Let’s not be alone.” she says. 

‘Nope, don’t like that.’ I think to myself watching this unfold in front of me. I try to suppress my inner psychotic dialogue and try to attempt being reasonable. Geralt probably is lonely and Triss is sad and beautiful. Maybe he should take her up on her offer… Yeah fuck that I’m still not liking it. Just as I’m about to run over to break up whatever the hell this is, Geralt takes his hand from Triss. 

“I’m sorry.” Geralt says before walking away from her. Triss stands there a moment before walking away. I let out a sigh of relief when I heard a voice behind me and nearly hit the ceiling at the abrupt sound. 

“So are you going to tell him?” Vesemir ask once I have calmed down from my near heart attack. 

“Damn it Ves! I almost woke up the whole keep with you coming behind me like that.” I whisper yell at him. 

“From the looks of it you were about to wake the keep by fighting one of the best mages I know.” He said teasingly. 

“I don’t know what you're talking about, old man.” I say lying like a rug through my teeth and starting to turn back around. 

“You and I both know you have feelings for him. I think he might return them if you tell him.” He says, causing me to pause. I nod my head before going to my room.

The next morning I leave the keep on Roach to find a berry patch. I’ve managed to half way fill the basket when I feel the string between ciri and I tighten. The feeling travels through me so abruptly I drop my basket berries and the glow starts. I leave the basket and mount Roach and we rush back to the keep. When we finally make it back I push the reins into Lambert's hand rushing in not even hearing what he says.  I run through the halls and find her in her bed. Geralt standing next to her and Triss sitting on the edge of her bed. 

“I felt it. What happened?” I ask them but panting. 

“She went into some weird trance and passed out a second later.” Geralt explains. 

“What do you mean you felt it?” Triss asks me. 

“How long has she been like this?” I hiss looking between Geralt and Triss.

“Not long.” He tells me. I lean down and the second my hand brushes her cheek her eyes open and I jump a bit at the movement. 

“Cirilla” Geralt calls out to her moving closer. I back up and give her room to sit up. “

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” she repeats covering her face with her hands. Geralt looks at Triss before looking between Ciri and I. 

“Ciri, look at me.” I say to her firmly but gently. “You need to tell us what happened.” I say moving to wrap an arm around her. She leans into me but stays quiet. Geralt comes even closer. 

“You are brave. But let us help.” He says looking at her. She finally moves her hands from her face. 

“All right.” She sighs. “When the black Knight captured me..I was scared. I screamed. 

And that’s when the monolith cracked and fell.” She pauses and looks up at Geralt. “I toppled it.” I hugged her closer to me. I can feel the way she trembles as I hold her. 

“How can that be?” Triss ask looking at Geralt. 

“I don’t know.” Geralt replies. “I need to see it for myself.”

“I really didn’t mean to do it, Geralt.” She says pulling away from me and I can see the tears in her eyes. My chest tightens at the sight. “And if these monsters are my fault…” She trails off looking at me.

“Ciri, Nobody blames you. It was an accident.” I tell her pulling her back to me and she fully sinks in my embrace. A lone tear streaks down her pale face. 

“It’s alright. We’ll fix it.” Geralt says placing a hand on her arm not cuddled into me. She nodded her head before closing her eyes as a few more tears fall. I look up at Geralt and the look on his face tell me we need to talk. He walks out of the room. 

Tris leaves shortly after. Ciri and I sit together until the trembling stops and the tears have dried. I stay until her breathing has evened out and her eyes have closed. I pull away from her as gently as I can so I don’t wake her. 

I leave Ciri to find Geralt only to overhear another somewhat intimate conversation. 

“You are important to me, Triss. You always will be.” He says. I decide that is a good time to make my entrance because well I have heard enough of that. 

“Care to fill me in on what you plan is big guy?” I ask him walking in and effectively smashing whatever fucking vibe was just in the air.

“You’re going to Cintra.” Vesemir says, rounding the corner behind Geralt. 

“Cintra?” I question.

“You said you’d never go back there.” Vesemir says to Geralt.

“Cintra holds the answers that I need.” He says, looking at me. “Besides, no Witcher has died of old age lying in his bed dictating his will. I have a girl to protect. I can’t just stay here.”

“I have a friend who studies monoliths. I can portal you to him.” Triss offers. 

“Portals are no fun.” Is all Geralt says. 

“Do you think you could excuse us for a moment?” I ask looking at Vesemir and Triss. They both nod before leaving us. “How long will you be gone?” I ask him.

“Not long enough that you will not be annoyed with all my grunting when I come back.” He says with a slight uptick in his smile as he takes a couple of steps closer to me. 

“Under different circumstances I might not mind your grunting so much.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can catch them. I feel my face get hot. I take a look at Geralt to find an amused sort of smirky smile on his face. “I mean I wanted an answer in hours to days.”

Geralt is close enough that I can feel his body heat as he looks down at me. “A few days. Less than a week.” He says softly.

@freegardenbanananeck

[thedreamlessnights]

Accismus - pt. 6

{previous chapter} || {next chapter upcoming}

Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: On the journey, you and Ciri bond, and she and Geralt give you some training. A series of unexpected things occur. The road goes ever on.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of major injuries and death, mentions of vomit, mentions of personal injuries. Intense scenes of fighting, multiple mentions of blood, graphic description of a monster death, moderately graphic descriptions of a corpse. Spoilers for The Last Wish (in particular, The Lesser Evil story). While prior knowledge of that book and story is not needed, I highly recommend it - it's a masterclass of writing and exposition.

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: I am very, very excited for you all to see this chapter. I feel as though we're finally reaching the heart of the story - the scenes I've wanted to write since the very beginning, when I first had the idea for Accismus. I hope you'll all enjoy this segment (though many of you may also hate me afterward). Comments are incredibly encouraged and appreciated! Without further ado...

Leaving Novigrad is nothing but chaos. It’s sheer, overwhelming, and somehow endearing, but nonetheless chaos. 

As soon as the three of you are on your feet, there’s a desperate rush of teasing, goodbyes, and demands of letters, as if it’s just now sunk in that you’re actually going. There are calls for a final round of drinks, goblets of honeyed mead being shoved into open hands, wishes of luck murmured over the rims of glasses. 

Dandelion starts chattering as fast as he can about the djinn, too fast to give you any room to speak. He squeezes your shoulder and promises the ballad will be his best one yet, then assures you that you’re welcome to return at any time you’d like - which is so kind you don’t even know how to respond. Luckily, he doesn’t give you the chance. He’s off to chat with Zoltan about something.

You, Ciri, and Geralt try your best to lug your things to your horses in the midst of everything, but the two of them keep getting pulled away. Just as you’re thinking you’ll get out unscathed, Priscilla pulls you into her arms for a hug, and you nearly drop your bag in shock.

“I wanted to ask if you’d join us for Yule,” she says, giving your shoulders a tight, comforting squeeze before she pulls away. “Only if you’re interested, of course,” she adds quickly. “You’ve been such lovely company! I know we’ll all miss you just as soon as you’re gone. If you could manage it, we’d love to have you. There’ll be no ballads, I swear it.”

Your throat feels tight. “Thank you,” you tell her, forcing a smile. “I’d love to.”

As soon as you’ve said it, you know that you’ll have to be there. If not to see them all again, then to avoid disappointing her. Was it really just a few days ago that you and Geralt were in that cave, hiding out from the rain? When you had been telling yourself to shut him out, to not tell him a thing more about yourself? It seems years away now - as if the train of thought had been washed away the moment you’d stepped inside the Chameleon. 

At your answer, Priscilla beams at you, and with a final squeeze of your shoulder, escorts you out the door. “Stay safe, all of you,” she says.

Then, Dandelion is shouting out something else about the ballad, Eskel and Lambert are snickering over something about Geralt and a broken leg, and the three of you are finally, truly off. 

For the first time, you have something to look forward to after you and Geralt find the djinn. If only your hands would stop shaking.

From the very beginning, the journey out of the city is different than the one coming into it. Your days do not pass away in lengths of unbearable heat or blistering palms. Not that the heat is not there, of course, but it’s more manageable in fair company, when you feel less of a burden and more of a friend. 

If Yennefer’s presence had been a shard of ice, then Ciri’s is a warm glass of mead, filling you up from the inside out. Geralt clearly cares tremendously for her, and it’s not long before you do, too. And how could you not, coming to know her? 

Everything comes and goes in a blur of sun and moon - strengthening hands on the reins and calluses being built, Ciri’s witty, snippish remarks, and Geralt laughing, laughing, at her tales of being a witcheress. Somewhere in between, you’re being roped into talking about yourself. 

Geralt may not push about your past - or who you are at all, really - but Ciri wraps her inquiries in innocent questions that have you talking much longer than you’ve realized. Then, with your throat raw and hoarse, you’ll finally notice her tricks and - with no small sense of betrayal - drop off in the middle of a sentence. 

“What?” she’ll laugh. “Go on!”

And then you’ll be talking again.

You can’t stand to speak about certain parts of your past, so you talk about everything else - tales of your rambunctious childhood, memories of your parents that aren’t painful enough to silence you.

You tell them about your father raising horses, and how the first gift you can remember was a mare named Mead - the same one you’ve named your current horse after. You tell them about being five, imagining you were the village’s doctor, going from door to door with a piece of wood and noting down ‘illnesses.’

You’d even pretended to treat your father’s case of ‘measles’ - which was nothing more than a scrape on his arm - with a mysterious plant which had turned out to be poison ivy. It had given you both a horrible rash for a week. 

Your mother had tried to be stern then, but couldn’t hide her shaking shoulders from you as she rubbed soothing creams over your arms, concocted from the herbs in the gardens in front of your home. Nor could she hide the fond smile she gave you afterward, gently brushing her thumb over your cheek.

From then on, you’d been banned from touching mysterious plants - which led you to reading books instead. Your parents had been educated, and they’d taught you how to read, too. You’d gone around, begging neighbors for any spare works they could spare. It had been before the war, and times had been different - the people, too. More willing to share, even in Velen, where need bled into the very soil.

Every chance you’d gotten, you’d read and reread books about gardening, history, healing, and anything else you could get your hands on. When you were old enough, you worked any odd job you could, because you wanted to become a doctor. Cleaning, gardening, finding lost items. Mending torn clothes, fetching something from the next town over, catching a fish someone needed for a meal. You’d done it all. Everything you could.

“Busy as a bee, weren’t you?” Ciri muses with a smile. “Buzzing around from place to place.”

You can’t say her description is inaccurate. In those times, you hadn’t been still for a moment. Becoming a doctor had been your lifeblood, the reason behind every action you made. It was planted in you, a root that would not come out.

And, for the first time since you left The Chameleon, your words choke in your mouth, and you can’t speak - not about that. You leave the story there, and Ciri doesn’t question it.

 But you feel Geralt’s eyes on you, those warm, inspecting eyes that never seem to leave you. You wonder what he’s thinking. You’d give anything to know. 

Just a few days after you’ve set off, Geralt and Ciri take to training you. Even with two witchers, they explain, it’ll be good for you to learn. A real sword is too advanced to start with, and neither of them have practice ones, so Ciri shows you basic defensive actions, dodges, and escapes, and has you repeat them until they’re instinctive. Then she has you practice them in more depth, in various scenarios. 

“That’s it,” she says. “Keep spinning. Buzz around! Just like a bee!” 

Eventually, that shortens down into a two-worded application of the phrase. “Shift left! Faster! Buzz - bee!”

Any time you’re paired with her, you do alright. Not perfect, but enough to draw a look of pride when you successfully disarm her or escape her grip. She’ll give you a tip or two, then have you do it again. 

“How was that?” you ask afterward, panting.

She grins at you, a twinkle in her eye. “Perfect. Just like a bee.”

With Geralt, it’s a different story. 

Every time you’re paired with him, even before you’ve started, you freeze up. Your mind goes completely blank, as if the sight of him wipes your memory clean, wipes every instinct away. It’s even worse when he touches you. All you can seem to think about is the warmth of his body pressed against you, and even though you try with all your might to remember what to do, your movements always end up jarred and clumsy. 

“Try again,” he says softly, over and over. “One more time.” It’s never unkind, but he’s strict, drilling the moves into you with an intensity that you can only describe as fear. He’s worried about you. 

“Gotta use more force,” he says. “C’mon, faster. No, the other arm. Remember what Ciri said?”

You do. Buzz around like a bee. But if you’re a bee with him, you’re certainly a dead one. Your body just will not move the way you want it to, no matter how hard you try. This sort of thing goes on until you’re both exhausted, and you turn in for the night. And, naturally, when Ciri practices the same moves with you the next morning, they come naturally. 

“Well done, busy bee,” she says.

And there are Geralt’s eyes again, fixed on you. Golden. Piercing. Almost teasing, as he raises his brows. And you know he knows. 

For the fleeting moment when your gaze meets his, you regret not kissing him when you’d had the chance. More often than not, you’ve caught yourself ruminating on the softness of his lips, on how they might feel pressed against yours. On his hands, warm and sure, tracing a path down the small of your back. 

Then your mind rushes back to you, and you remember why you hadn’t. Your reasoning seems less and less sound when he’s looking at you like that.

Most nights of the journey are spent outside, but there’s the occasional inn that you come across, and none of you can resist the chance of a warm bed. You and Geralt share a room as you had before, and Ciri takes her own. That’s the only moment of awkwardness you can feel, when the three of you bid each other good night - but it’s brief and fleeting, and there aren’t any moments of tension with you and Geralt like before. Even if you might wish for it.

The inns are rare, and the farce you’ve put up for yourself is bearable. Usually, the three of you sleep in shifts, and the two of them drill it into you to wake them if you hear or see anything. 

You never do, not in those nights under the stars, keeping alert in the progressively cooling air. There’s never anything but the three of you and open air, the soft sounds of Geralt and Ciri breathing. It’s the one time you seem to get for yourself, and you come to look forward to it. Being able to think, without Geralt or Ciri watching you, you can almost pretend that the djinn isn’t real. 

Almost.

As time goes on, something between you and Geralt slowly shifts. Ciri is a buffer, too clever for anything to slip by her, and Geralt would never do anything while she’s here - not even if she’s ten minutes away, gathering some food for the journey. 

There seems to be a silent agreement that settles in. You don’t know what it will be like, in those days after she’s gone, but you do know with an absolute certainty that nothing is going to happen while she’s with you. And, with the lessening number of inns that show on the journey, it makes for very little room between you and Geralt. Not enough room for romance, that’s to be sure.

Thoughts of kissing him fade. Your eyes still linger - on his sure hands, strapping up food to Roach, on the scars of his arms, soft and pink - but you’re quick to catch them. The message there is clear. Not now, it says. It’s not the time. 

Maybe not ever, you think, a deep pit in your stomach.

Eventually, with this sort of emotional blockade put up, solidifying, you’re able to do the defensive moves even with Geralt. They collectively decide that you’re ready to move on to something else. The further on you go, the more dangerous the roads are.

Initially, Ciri tries to give you a dagger. Unfortunately, as soon as she hands it to you, your hands start sweating so much that you can barely grip it. It might be helpful if you didn’t feel like throwing up every time you look at it - much less holding it. Geralt finally notices the way you’re trembling and takes the thing away.

Which means you must resort to other methods of protection. As soon as the three of you come across a town with a blacksmith, you’re set up with your own crossbow, equipped with bolts. Thankfully, this turns out to be a success. You’ve worked with a bow before, after all, and Geralt and Ciri make you take turns shooting it while riding on Mead, hitting random targets until you’re very pleased at your aim.

And, of course, Ciri can use a crossbow bolt to hit a piece of wood mid-air. Like father, like daughter, it seems.

When the three of you cross over the border of Kaedwen, the mood changes. You’re not sure why. There’s something deeper, something veiled in the air. You spend your nights tense. Your dreams turn feverish, plagued not only by visions of a dagger in your hand, but by the cave you’d seen that night in Novigrad.

The deep, dark pit seldom leaves your mind. You grow so weary of it that your eyes turn desperately to your surroundings as the three of you ride, pleading for something else to attach to. Rain falls heavily and fog chokes the pathways, making it hard to see.

And, for the first time, the three of you come across some danger. 

For a first event, it’s not much. It could be much worse, really. Just a few ghouls, eating a decaying corpse. No bandits. No giant centipedes bursting out of the ground, or swarms of nekkers ready to claw you apart. 

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. It doesn’t stop your immense sense of discomfort, the sweat pilling up on your palms, trickling down the back of your neck as you mindlessly put an arrow toward your bow.

You hate monsters, but there’s something in particular you hate about necrophages. Something… unsettling about the way they crave rotting flesh. Only one thing lies between them eating you, and it’s your loss of life. Not exactly an encouraging thought.

As the three of you ride in closer, your stomach starts churning at the smell in the air. Death. You’d give anything to never smell it again.

Being at the front of the line, Ciri leaps off her horse and kills three of the ghouls in a quick, clean motion. Then she looks at you. “Just one left,” she says, motioning to one that’s a little further down the road. “Go on, Bee, give it a shot!”

“Ciri,” Geralt says, hand tightening a little on his sword. Hesitation brims his tone. “Gotta be careful.”

She simply shoots him a look, eyes twinkling. “Aren’t I always?” she asks.

You know the answer to that, and you don’t like it. You also do not want to do what she’s asking. You can barely stand to look at the remaining ghoul for a second longer, much less target and kill it. Then again, you really should know how to defend yourself. And if you can’t kill a ghoul, you’re almost hopeless with anything else.

“I’ll do it,” you tell them.

Mead is shifting uneasily under you, so, with your heart pounding like a drum, you swing off the saddle and tighten your grip on your crossbow. You can’t seem to remember how to breathe. Geralt’s silence and his gaze on your back aren’t helping.

It’s the ghoul dashing near you that rouses you. Your heart starts thrumming even faster, as if your mind has finally comprehended the fact that there’s not only disgust but danger here, and you grab the bow and attempt to do what you know.

In, out. In, out. You notch an arrow and take aim. These are natural movements, ones you’ve repeated, and they should come with ease - but this situation is anything but natural. The thing keeps running in circles, distracted by Ciri, who evades its attacks with clean, fluid movements. 

She’s clever, steering clear enough to give you a good aim, letting you predict its movements without worrying about hitting her. She’s putting herself in danger for this, and waiting for you, and you need to shoot. 

So you do. You line up the ghoul in your sights, take one more deep breath, and your hands shake like a leaf as you finally pull the trigger. A split-second later, there’s a horrific, sick sort of noise, a terrible splatter that you can’t bear to watch. You keep your eyes on the ground and tremble in silence.

“Well done!” Ciri says. “Excellent shot!” 

When you look up, the ghoul is dead. You'd actually hit it - something you didn’t think you could do - and on your first try, at that. You give a weak smile at Ciri’s enthusiasm, but can’t turn away from the ghoul’s body. 

Blood is spilling onto the ground like dark wine, sickly metallic in the air. The uncannily humanoid face is twisted up in agony, frozen in death. And, worst of all, it’s laying a few feet from the corpse it’d been eating. This close, your gaze takes in every terrible detail. Your throat goes tight.

These are scraps of someone, someone who was like you, now laying in the dirt. Someone who lived, breathed, loved, someone now unidentifiable, rotting and alone. What a terrible way to remain in this world - nothing but a bloody, stinking mass of bones on the roadway. And, for the life of you, you can’t look away. The image burns deep into your mind even as you shut your eyes.

It’s become hard to breathe. The scent of death is burning through your nostrils, choking through your senses. You’re shaking worse than ever. Geralt is saying something, but you can’t hear him - your heart is thundering in your ears, and your stomach is turning again, and all at once, you bend over and vomit up your breakfast.

Geralt swings off Roach and is instantly at your side, gently patting your back. “Hey,” he says soothingly, softly. “You alright?”

You can’t manage an answer. Your knees don’t feel steady. You have to fight the urge to reach out and grab onto him, choosing to plant your hands on your knees as you retch instead. 

Ciri is quick to join the two of you, sheathing her sword. “Not to worry,” she says, her tone bright as ever. “That’s the adrenaline, Bee. You’ll adapt over time.”

You spit the acrid taste out of your mouth and wipe your face with your sleeve, tearing your eyes away from the corpse with all the strength you have. You’re still trembling.

What you want is a hug. You really, really just… want to be wrapped up in a warm pair of arms and held. Squeezed tight, like Priscilla had squeezed you. But neither Geralt nor Ciri can read your mind, neither of them have really hugged you before, and you’ve just been vomiting up your breakfast - so of course they don’t hug you. 

“What - what were you saying?” you ask Geralt, voice as shaky as you feel. “Before? I didn’t hear you.”

“Told you that was a good shot,” Geralt says. “Gotta aim higher, though. Hit it a little low.” He’s taken to rubbing your back instead of patting, and the action feels so nice that you’re half tempted to lay down in the dirt with your exhaustion and let him keep doing that. 

But the smell of death is still in the air, and if you don’t get away from here soon, you’re sure you’ll throw up again. 

“Thank you,” you shakily tell Geralt, attempting to straighten up.

He watches you closely, tensing - as if he’s waiting to catch you. “Could take a break, if you need,” he says. 

You quickly shake your head, starting shakily back toward Mead. “Not here.”

He must understand - he can smell it too, after all. Stronger than you can. Much, much stronger. How does he stand it? But, from the look on his face, maybe he doesn’t stand it at all. Maybe he simply survives it, because he must.

Geralt gives a nod, helping you up onto the saddle with a firm hold that seems to sear into your skin. “C’mon, Ciri,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

It’s not much longer before Ciri’s time with you comes to an end. 

You can hardly believe it, when she pulls to a halt and announces that this is where you must part. She hasn’t said it, but the fact that she’s parting with you instead of going all the way to the caves, it’s clear - this is urgent business. 

Gods, are you going to miss her. It seems as though just yesterday you’d been at Dandelion’s inn, sipping on honeyed mead, saying your goodbyes. Yet, here you are, and you’ve arrived at Ard Carraigh, and she’s going. Can this be real? Had those days - a little over a month, if you’re counting correctly - slipped under your fingers so quickly, unnoticed? 

Yes, they must have, because there’s a numb, aching loss in your chest that only could have come from coming to know her. Worst of all, there’s a terrible feeling that you’ll never see her again - one that pulls deeply at your gut. You can’t stand it. You’re so tired of regrets that you pull her close without thinking and hug her, and she hugs you back tightly.

“Thank you for letting me travel with you, Bee,” she says. “I hope we’ll meet again one day.”

“We will,” you stubbornly tell her. “I’m sure we will.”

She pulls away and gives you a smile, and you watch fondly as she steps over and hugs Geralt. 

“Take care of yourself,” he says softly.

“Always,” she replies, grinning at him. She steps back, grabbing the reins of her horse, Kelpie, then swiftly mounts up onto the saddle. “Good luck, you two!” she calls, waving. “I’m sure you’ll sort everything out, and Dandelion will have a lovely ballad to sing!”

You wave goodbye and watch as she rides off, leaving you and Geralt behind. And, in her absence, there’s a large, gaping hole.

You and Geralt do your best to fill it, but you can tell it’s still there. Furthermore, you can tell Geralt is constantly tense - and that does nothing to soothe your addled nerves. You two still have a ways ahead of you, and despite your newly formed skill with the crossbow, your unease remains.

Mostly, you spend the days quiet, and struggle to sleep at night. Geralt does the same. You miss Ciri’s chatter, her warmth, her ease of getting you to speak. Without her, everything is strange and much too silent, much too eerie.

During your night shifts, you keep alert, rubbing warmth into stiff hands. With clouds covering the stars, you often turn your eyes to Geralt - murmuring things in his sleep, brow creased. Sometimes, you’ll catch a few words, a repeated whisper as soft as the wind. Ciri. Yen. And, only once, another name - Visenna. 

When he jerks awake, hand automatically reaching for his sword, you scoot back from him - not afraid, but a little space won’t hurt. After a long moment of staring at you, realizing there’s no danger, Geralt relaxes and takes over the shift from you. And you don’t sleep any better than he does.

Three days after Ciri has gone, the two of you come upon more danger. It’s in a small town, one reeking of trouble, and you’d be tempted to shy away from it - if the growling in your stomach wasn’t so prominent. The two of you are riding through when you see him - a boy, no more than eighteen, laid on the ground. He’s surrounded by a small crowd, face red and pained, blood soaking his tunic. 

And, for reasons neither you nor the gods can explain, you don’t think for a second before you jump off your horse and dash toward him. Thankfully, Geralt is right behind you. 

“What is it? What happened to him?” you ask breathlessly. 

“Bandits, likely,” someone replies, voice hushed. “Been worse than usual, of late. The lad came riding up, yelling something about being attacked. Slumped over. Fell straight off his horse into the dirt.”

As you push further in, the crowd starts to separate, people fleeing back into their homes for safety. But you can’t leave this boy here. You can’t. There’s a voice at the back of your mind, shouting out something you should remember, but you can’t hear it past the rush of blood in your ears.

When you lift up the boy’s tunic, you find a great deal of bruising, surrounded by a deep, seeping wound in the abdomen. Without hesitation, you scramble for the bandages in your pack and press them against the wound, applying pressure. 

The boy yelps in agony, hands clawing at yours hard enough to draw blood, tears coursing lines in the dust on his face. “Stop,” he groans, “stop it! Gods, it hurts - stop!”

He’s thrashing about with so much force that you can barely keep the bandages on him, much less apply the pressure you need. Blood is pouring out of him, staining the grass under him.

“Geralt,” you pant. “Help me - hold him down!”

But Geralt doesn’t. He simply stares at you, unmoving, an indiscernible look on his face. 

“Help me!” you cry, attempting to press harder. “He’ll bleed out!”

When he finally kneels next to you, you sigh in relief, watching as he grips the boy’s shoulders and holds him still. Finally able to apply the pressure you need to, your mind spins, trying to remember if you have a needle with you. A wound like that… it’ll need to be cauterized, too. Stitched up as quickly as possible.

But the boy’s face has gone blue now, and he’s started gasping. Too much blood loss - no, no, no, please. His body shakes with spasms, breathing going ragged. You desperately try to staunch the bleeding, to keep what blood he has left in him from spilling out. “Stay with me,” you tell him, muscles wound so tense you can barely breathe. 

But after another horrible round of jerking, the boy’s breathing falters, and he goes still. And then… then, there’s silence. Only silence. Not even the call of a bird, or the stir of the wind. Just… nothing.

The unbearable quiet is interrupted by the soft sound of Geralt saying your name. Slowly. Cautiously, as if he’s testing the waters of your reaction. Then he releases the boy’s shoulders and rises to his feet.

“No,” you say numbly, refusing to look at him. You keep your eyes only on the boy. “You can’t go - I won’t let you!”

Fiercely blinking back tears, you start a series of resuscitation compressions, pushing strong, even movements into the boy’s chest. “Stay with me,” you say helplessly, panting out the words. “You can’t go!”

You work methodically, desperately, waiting for the boy to revive, praying for it. But the body stays motionless under your hands, lifeless, still warm. Your arms are searing from the effort and tears are streaming down your cheeks, blurring your vision. 

You can’t fix this, your mind is telling you. There’s no chance.

But you can’t stop. You can’t.

Suddenly, there’s a pair of arms behind you, pulling you off the body. You start clawing, lashing out like a wild animal, screaming and kicking with all your might. “Let me go!” you shriek, wriggling around, beating your fists out until they make an impact on something. “Let me go, you - you bastard!”

“He’s gone, Bee,” Geralt says calmly, his voice soft in your ear. “A wound like that? Nothing anyone could do. C’mon. Gotta get you cleaned up.”

But his soothing tone only makes you more wild, more feral. You scream and kick and claw some more. He gently sets you in a sobbing pile onto the ground, and by the time you come into contact with the soft, fragrant earth, his words have set in. The truth of them, that deep down you already knew. You pull your knees toward your chest and weep.

Kneeling down next to you, Geralt places a hand on your back, rubbing slowly - the way he had after the event with the ghoul. You’ve realized what your mind was screaming at you, now. You wish you’d listened. 

“There’s - there’s something wrong with me,” you sob softly. The words are bitter in your mouth, acrid. Tears are choking in your chest, slow to die out, leaving you wracking painfully. “Everything I touch… That’s why I can’t go back to Oxenfurt. I just make things worse.”

Geralt’s touch pauses for a moment at your words, but only briefly. He goes back to rubbing your back. “Did all you could,” he says gently. “Didn’t make it worse. He would have died anyway.”

You shake your head. “I hurt him. He needed comfort, and I hurt him because I wouldn’t stop. And it wasn’t only him,” you choke. “It’s everyone, Geralt. I try to help, but it hurts people. I should just stay out of it. I try to, I really do, but it still just… happens.”

“People getting hurt like that, dying - that isn’t your fault,” Geralt says. 

“And how can you know?” you ask. The words are bitter, spitting from your tongue like venom. You regret them, but the anger doesn’t die away.

Geralt sighs, letting his hand go still on his back. “Know it because I used to think like you,” he murmurs. “Never got involved, if I could help it. Thought I made things worse. Maybe I do. Don’t know, sometimes.” He pauses for a moment, contemplating his words, inhaling sharply. “Couldn’t stay away, though,” he says. “Figured it was better to try.”

His words shock you into complete silence. They carry such an intense vulnerability that it numbs you down, every nerve, every sensation. You lay on the ground, stiff as a board, taking it in. He’s never talked to you like this, so openly. Your sobs shudder to a halt and you close your eyes, breathing heavily. 

He knows, then. He knows what it’s like. Not everything, of course. Only you could ever know that. But the sickly, squirming pit of guilt in your stomach - Geralt knows what that’s like. And he’s somehow lived with it for decades.

“C’mon, Bee,” he says. “Gotta get you cleaned up. Ought to bury the body, too, before the necrophages smell it.”

Oh. Bee. He’d called you that several times now, hadn’t he? In the midst of everything? You hadn’t quite processed it then, but now that your brain is working… it’s always been Ciri, calling you that. Geralt has never called you Bee before today. 

You give a nod at his words, feeling a little calmer, intending to sit up. Your muscles are slow and aching, and you’re still trembling. Geralt shifts and reaches toward you, and you reach back, thinking he’s offering you a hand up. What you’re not expecting is for Geralt to lift you into his arms and carry you. But that’s what he does. 

He picks you up like you don’t weigh an ounce and carries you to the nearby inn. His arms are strong and sure, and you lean your face into his chest, too weak to resist the temptation.

“Need a room,” he tells the innkeeper.

They don’t argue with him.

You don’t take in much of what happens right after that. You know you’re set on a bed, and the innkeeper comes and goes a few times before Geralt kneels in front of you, dabbing a clean cloth into a bowl of water. 

He keeps searching your face, looking for something. You only start registering what’s happened when he finally starts speaking.

“What you said before…” He pauses, hesitating. “At Blaviken. I felt like you do, afterward. Kept thinking - should have stayed out of it. Tried to, before that. Tried for a long time after, too. Guess, in the end, I couldn’t.”

He takes your hand in his, gently scrubbing away some of the dried blood. “I was passing through, on the way to Yspaden,” he starts. You sit unmoving, afraid you’ll break the spell of his words. 

“Stopped at Blaviken on the way,” he continues. “Brought in a kikimora, hoping there’d be a reward. There wasn’t. But the alderman told me to bring it to the wizard - Stregobor. I’d met him before. He didn’t pay me for the kikimora, but he invited me in. Wanted to ask for my help. Wasn’t exactly on friendly terms with him, but I listened.”

He sighs heavily, looking up at you. “Ever heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?” he asks.

You blink in surprise. “I… I have,” you reply, swallowing hard. “I read about it. It was a prophecy, wasn’t it? During an eclipse, sixty girls would be born, made servants of the goddess Lilit, and bring the end of the world?”

He nods. “Yeah. That’s the one.” His face tightens with anger - just a flash, but enough to jar you. There are so many situations where he’s been completely composed even in the face of chaos, of pure frustration. What on earth could have made him so angry?

“These girls,” he slowly goes on, “people were convinced they were demons. Stregobor talked about mutations, insane tendencies… changes in the internal organs, unidentifiable tissue, cruel and aggressive behavior. People who believed the prophecy used it as a justification for murder. They did autopsies, studying the corpses, claiming it was for the greater good. One of them… they vivisectioned her.”

Your reaction is instantaneous. You jolt as though you’ve been slapped. Vivisection? What the hell were they thinking? They’d murdered and tortured these girls just because of the day they were born? Frankly, you couldn’t care less about their internal organs or behaviors. That doesn’t sit well with you.

“Gods…” you say faintly.

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “The girls - they weren’t easy to pick off. After a time, they started locking them in towers, instead. Isolating them. But some would escape. Others died.” He stalls, lost in thought for a moment. “Stregobor had once been sent to supervise one of these girls - a princess of Creyden. Renfri.” 

Pain flashes over his eyes at the name, as if it wounds him to say it. Perhaps it does. Even so, he continues.

“Her stepmother, Aridea, had been told by one of Nehalania’s Mirrors that Renfri would kill her and a number of others. They sent a huntsman to kill her. She escaped. Tried to kill her multiple times after that, too. Poisoned apples. Assassins. They failed. 

“When Renfri came across Stregobor again, she recognized him - knew what he’d done. So she pursued him, wanting revenge. Tracked him down to Blaviken, where he’d locked himself in a tower at the edge of town, used a spell to keep anyone out unless he wanted them to get in. He asked me to kill her. I refused.”

As if he’s just remembered what he was doing, he goes back to cleaning the blood off of you - but it’s clear his mind is still far away. “I met her,” he says. “Renfri. The alderman couldn’t arrest her - she was protected by King Audoen. But she wanted to talk to me. Snuck into my attic later that night, told me what happened to her. Asked me to kill Stregobor. Told me it was the lesser evil.” 

He shakes his head. “Stregobor told me that, too - when he asked me to kill Renfri. But I told her that I wouldn’t kill Stregobor. And that I wouldn’t stand by, letting her slaughter innocent people to get to him. I asked her to leave Blaviken; to stop seeking revenge, because she wasn’t going to kill Stregobor. She gave in. Told me she would leave the next morning and never return.”

His expression has gone permanently pained now. His hand rests on your arm, frozen mid-action. “The next day, I told the alderman that Renfri and the gang she’d brought along with her were going. And he told me… told me one of her men had been at the massacre at Tridam, three years before. Hadn’t heard of it, but he told me what happened.

“A group of thieves were captured by the Baron of Tridam. The remnants of their men seized a ferry of innocents - demanded he set them free. When he refused, they killed hostages one by one until he finally released the prisoners. And… Renfri had mentioned that to me. ‘The Tridam ultimatum.’ I hadn’t known what it meant at the time, but… when I heard it, I realized what was going to happen. And I ran for the market.”

Geralt’s face has gone deathly white. “When I got there, Renfri’s men were waiting for me. All of them except her. She’d gone to the tower to talk with Stregobor. Left a message for me, though. ‘Choose. Either me, or a lesser.’”

He finally sets the cloth down, too distracted in his story to clean. His words sit in the air, tinged with a regret you can almost feel in the air, thick, and heavy. But why? you think. Surely it had been right of him to do? You listen to him go on, scarcely breathing.

 “I made my choice. I killed them. All of them…” he says. “After it was done, Renfri showed. Asked me if I was sure I made the right choice. I told her it wouldn’t be another Tridam. She told me that it wouldn’t have been. Stregobor had refused to come out. Even told her she could butcher Blaviken and the neighboring villages, but he still wouldn’t leave his tower… I told her to go. She wouldn’t. We fought…” 

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, unable to finish. You don’t need to hear it to know.

“People stoned me, afterward. The alderman stepped in. He asked if… if that was my idea of lesser evil. What was necessary. I told him it was… Didn’t know what else to say.”

He inhales sharply, looking out the window. “He told me to leave, to never return. And I did.”

His words fade into silence. Something in your chest aches so deeply that you can’t even speak. It throbs, pitching amidst the knots of guilt built into your ribs. The Butcher of Blaviken. That’s what they call him, now. Because of that. It haunts him, everywhere he goes.

“Geralt,” you finally whisper, resting a hand on his arm. He inhales sharply and stands, gently pulling from your touch.

“We should bury the body,” he says softly. You follow him without a word out to the grass. 

You’re still mostly covered in blood, and now you’ll be covered with dirt. The sun is brutal and the air is sticky, and you can still smell the iron on you, sharp and nauseating. The two of you find shovels and take to digging, your hands reddening from the effort, sweat dripping down your neck. Tears course down your cheeks. And you don’t stop digging until it’s done.

A makeshift grave, marked by a pile of rocks. You hadn’t even known his name. He’d been so young… The town members are still hiding in their homes. No doubt watching you, though.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur to the grave, hoping the boy can hear you wherever he is now. “What you sought in life, may you find it in death. Rest peacefully.”

After a long moment of silence, you and Geralt go back to the inn, this time to properly wash off the blood and dirt. The guilt cannot be scrubbed with it, but it pains you less. Maybe because it doesn’t pain you alone.

The next morning, the two of you are off again. There’s quiet between you, but not uncomfortable. Both of you are grieving. Your thoughts go over Blaviken again and again. Then, hesitantly, over your own past.

You’re going to have to tell him. You don’t know how, or when, but you will. Now that he’s told you about Blaviken, it’s as if something’s come loose. You can no longer keep it in, the way you’d once resolved to. You keep catching yourself opening your mouth - trying to find a way to speak. But the timing isn’t right. It just isn’t right.

The further into Kaedwen you get, the colder it is, and it’s especially brutal that night. It may be blistering hot in the days, but the nights turn icy as death, unnatural and unsettling. The chill bleeds into your bones. Makes you want to curl into a ball and never move again.

And, of course, there are no inns around. You set up your bedroll and try your best to keep warm, but even with the fire Geralt makes, shivering takes a hold of you. It’s not long before your teeth are chattering. You ache for the Chameleon, for the warm, soft feather bed you’d slept on. Your eyes grow heavy, but sleep won’t take you.

When Geralt rests a hand on your shoulder, you jump about ten feet into the air, startled.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m alright.” It comes out between chattering teeth. You don’t need to see his face to know he doesn’t believe you.

“Come here.”

You force yourself to sit up, giving him a look. He raises his brows, patting the bedroll next to him. Surely he doesn’t mean… no, that can’t be it. It’s closer to the fire, that’s all.

With frozen fingers, you pull your bedroll toward Geralt, laying it next to his. It’s a little better now. 

Geralt lays down next to you, tilting his head up to look at you. “Get over here,” he says. “Got me worried you’ll freeze to death.”

Your heart starts racing. Fuck. If only he couldn’t hear it. If only the warmth of his arms wasn’t so appealing. You crawl over, resting yourself at his side, and he automatically wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer, into his chest.

Gods, he’s warm. Heat practically radiates off of him. You can’t stop yourself from sighing in relief, tucking your face into his neck. This close, you can smell the smoke on his skin, the hints of wood and earth and sweet leaves, mingled with hints of his sweat.

It’s already overwhelming enough to have him holding you like this. You practically stop breathing when his hand goes to the back of your neck, wrapping it in more warmth, callused fingers that you truly believe could rival silk on your skin. His thumb rubs a slow, soothing motion in the space behind your ear, and you inhale sharply.

Him touching you like this - well, it’s making you cry. Tears start to spill onto your cheeks and you try hopelessly to stop them, terrified that he’ll pull away, stop what he’s doing. But, even though he must know, he doesn’t stop. He keeps touching you, the way you’ve so desperately needed to be touched, and you relax little by little. 

After a few minutes, your brain is barely there - melted, as though your body has become liquid. Your thoughts swirl into the heavy grip of sleep, and the world slowly fades away.

For once, you don’t have nightmares.

When you wake the next morning, you’re still in his arms. You can hear the crackling embers from the dying fire behind you, and you can feel Geralt’s breathing - even, steady. His hand still rests on your neck.

You never want to move. You know you’ll have to, but you don’t want to. For a while, you close your eyes and lie there in a meditative state, so content you’re practically purring. Then, Geralt jerks awake, and to your absolute dismay, he lets go of you and sits up, looking alarmed.

The explanation for that comes very quickly. There’s a group of men on horseback riding toward you. You can’t see them, but you hear them, crashing through the trees, clearly not caring if you know they’re coming.

“Geralt-”

“Grab your bow,” he says, pulling out your sword. His voice is low and firm. “Get behind me.”

You do as he asks. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to breathe slowly, readying an arrow. You try not to imagine what sound it will make, if you’re forced to kill.

As the men crash out of the woods, you can see that there are three of them. They circle around your camp, whooping and shouting before they come to a halt, grinning down at you with a smile that makes you want to recoil. You step closer to Geralt.

“Look at this, lads. A camp!” one of them says. “What’ve we got here?” He casually rests his hand on his sword, and you can see Geralt stiffen. The speaker is missing an eye, and he reeks so badly that you can smell him several feet away - sweat and whiskey and gods know what else.

You wait for Geralt to respond, but he says nothing - and what could you possibly say?

“Oy!” one of the others shouts. This one is wearing a red vest, stained with something that looks terribly like blood. “You fuckin’ deaf? We asked you a question!”

Still, Geralt says nothing, but his hand tightens on his sword.

“Won’t speak to us, eh?” the third asks. With the authoritative way he talks, he’s clearly the leader of the group. He leaps from his horse, bounding with nimble steps toward you and Geralt. His teeth are black and his hair is matted, and a jagged scar runs down his neck. “I’ll make you talk,” he says. “Could use some entertainment, couldn’t we, boys!”

“Aye, we could!” the man with one eye says, sliding off his horse to join the leader. “Been nothing but sniveling cowards, lately. I bet that grey one would put up a fight.”

And put up a fight, Geralt does. 

He slashes so fast you barely see the blade move. All at once, the one-eyed man is crumpling to his knees, blood pouring down his abdomen. The leader draws his sword and leaps back, snarling. 

“A lot of nerve, you have!” he says. “You’ll pay for that!”

And, suddenly, everything turns into chaos. The leader strikes, and instantly, the air rings with the sound of blades. The man with the red vest urges his horse on and gallops around, yelling out insults, slashing in your direction. You barely manage to dodge them.

Geralt is preoccupied, so - despite your shaking - you turn your bow toward the red vest and shoot. It hits his shoulder, and he cries out. His horse startles, bucking below him before it throws him off, vanishing into the woods. You’re hoping he’ll stay down, but he gets to his feet all too quickly, favoring his right leg and spitting insults.

You grab another arrow and try to load it up, but you’re too slow, too slow, why couldn’t you have just taken that dagger-

In a moment, he’s on you, shoving you to the ground and knocking the wind out of you. The djinn is tugging, tugging - Geralt’s dancing the line of acceptable distance - and you blindly scratch at the man’s face, gouging your nails into flesh until you hear a scream. His grip slackens, and you prop your feet up on the ground and force your hips up, throwing him off of you - one of the moves Ciri taught you. 

Gasping and stumbling to your feet, you dart in Geralt’s direction, but a hand catches your shirt and drags you back, momentarily choking you before he pins you to a tree.

Blood is streaming down his face. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he says. “I’m going to tear you into pieces, you hear me? You’ll wish your mother never popped you out!”

In the midst of your panic, you have the sense to knee up into his bollocks. Pain radiates through your leg, and despite the howl he lets out, he doesn’t let go. More crashing comes from the woods - more bandits, presumably. The look on his face practically spells it out.

For a moment, he’s distracted, slightly tilting his face toward the woods and easing his grip. Taking your opportunity, you slam the base of your hand into his nose with as much force as you can possibly muster. His knees buckle and he stumbles back, cupping a hand over his face.

Limping away, you catch a glimpse of Geralt - standing over the now-dead leader, panting but seemingly unharmed. More men pour in from the trees and slink in, raising weapons, and he readies his sword - but you know there are too many, just too many, and as a hand snatches around your waist and pulls you away, the world begins to crumble.

Nausea sets in, a turbulent dizziness, the world crumbling apart - too far! He’s too far! Something cold slices your arm, and the smell of blood hits you. You throw your elbow backward and make contact with bone, stumbling away and vomiting, knees buckling as the djinn’s wish takes hold. Your palms hit the ground.

Geralt lets out a cry of pain - the kind that can only mean he was hit. You call his name and helplessly crawl forward, trying desperately to get closer. Then, just as the djinn’s symptoms stop, something strikes the back of your head. 

Blinding pain erupts through your skull, and Geralt shouts with you as you crumple to the ground. Everything has gone blurry - the voices around you are muffled, but you can see Geralt, laying on the ground and barely moving.

We’re going to die, you think, cheek pressing into the soft dirt under you. Colors spin before your drooping eyes and the urge to vomit again comes and goes. We’re going to die, and it’s my fault.

 A heaviness takes over you. The pain is lulling you away, taking you somewhere far from this place. In the last moments, as the world fades, you hear screaming - multiple men screaming - and noises that can only mean death. 

Then, everything turns to darkness.

tags: @henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen @julijal @ailynyan @ivuravix @enrapturedbythemoon @angie2274

[fangirleaconmigo]

I just finished Time of Contempt for the third time and I am deep deep deep in my Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon feelings again. Now that know what’s coming and I understand her arc, I’m catching a lot more.

TW: mentions of sexual assault

Ciri’s descent, which we see a hint of at the end this book, her “corruption arc” is the story of what war, and what the associated abandonment and abuse of children, does to a society. It is a visceral story about how (as the saying goes) A child who is not embraced by the village, will burn it down to feel its warmth.

Probably the worst interview of Sapko that my eyes have had the displeasure to read was a guy who asked him basically (paraphrased) how could Ciri’s mind be so “weak” that she falls into murder and crime after everything she learned from Geralt.

And like BUDDY DID YOU NOT READ THE STORY? Wow ok.

Sapko is like…because that is real, look around you.

“Well, I suppose here my fantasy becomes very real and lifelike. What happened to Ciri happened to hundreds of teenagers, in that number some I knew.”

There is a narrative.

And when kids are all by themselves and repeatedly traumatized and threatened, they will turn where they need to for safety. Their minds and the way they process empathy and emotions will change as a result of related abuse.

And to me, that arc is very believable. And it is part of her rite of passage of ultimately choosing good and coming fully into her power, choosing the love and example of her found family (primarily Geralt and Yen but also Kaer Morhen and Dandelion). In this terrible interview (seriously someone let me interview the man I could do better) he says:

And – last not least – that’s me, the author, who has invented Ciri and her fate, who has invented the whole storyline, and the storyline required of Ciri to become a teenage killer. It was a stage in her rite de passage, the rite of passage.

It is an arc. And for me a very believable (if extremely painful one) First there is the “before”.

The story is very clear who Ciri is before she is alone without the protection of Yen and Geralt.

Her character is already established by Time of Contempt but the narrative still goes through the trouble of showing her deny the offer of destructive power.

As a little girl, (in Blood of Elves) Ciri risks herself to save Triss’s life when she and Geralt’s caravan is attacked. She doesn’t wait for someone else to help, she shields Triss with her body. (That made me feel some kinda way in retrospect let me tell ya)

In the same scene we see how tender hearted she is towards the elves plight and how she resolves not to be neutral.

Blood of Elves and Time of Contempt both show how she is just a little kid who wants parents (running away to see Geralt, writing him letters from Meliteles temple begging him to come see her, identifying fiercely as a witcher girl of Kaer Morhen, idolizing Yen)

But at the end of Time of Contempt, Ciri still makes two dramatic, narrative establishing decisions, that show what kind of person she is.

First is the refusal of power. The refusal of revenge.

In the desert, she taps into prohibited power (fire power) to save Little Horse. It begins to consume her, offering her dominion over the world. It is personified by Falka and it shows Ciri vengeance. It shows her her enemies. It shows her the people who killed her grandma and sacked Cintra. It shows her the black knight.

Ciri and vengeance is already a theme. We know she feels urges towards vengeance for the people who slaughtered her family. The only bad fight she’s had with Geralt was about that. (She says she wanted vengeance and he overreacts and has to follow her and comfort her and apologize. The narrative doesn’t let us hear what he says, it’s through Triss’s eyes, but it is heart wrenching)

And now she is being offered vengeance by showing her what it really looks like. People suffering and dying. And it’s asking hey little girl you want this? Because I can give it to you.

This power also shows her her loved ones.

At this point in the story, Ciri is alone, lost in a desert, and feels abandoned. And any kid that feels abandoned blames her parents. It makes her a very believable kid character. Im alone? Where are my parents?? They’ve abandoned me?? At least that’s what she says.

But when the power offers her the opportunity to take the hurt she is feeling and hurt them back she is horrified.

She shouts out loud that she relinquishes it. She relinquishes all the power and collapses.

She makes an incredibly important decision to refuse destructive vengeful power.

The second thing that happens to establish her character at this point in the saga is she is being pursued by people who want to kill her and/or turn her into Nilfgaard. She is running and trying to escape. She is armed and gets a clear shot at a pursuer but again, sees a human face, and can’t do it. She shows mercy because her empathy will not allow her to see a persons face and kill them.

She is very lucky to survive that encounter.

She is a good, decent, human being.

But the story doesn’t leave us there. It gives us an ominous hint of the oncoming storm.

To get out of a life threatening situation, she joins a gang called The Rats. The Rats are a group of heavily traumatized war orphans who have been abandoned, raped, and abused and have banded together to not be alone. They’ve become murderers and no longer feel empathy for those they harm, but rather they take pleasure at killing others. She sees the look in their faces and identifies it as evil.

They adopt her. They protect her. Suddenly she is ‘safe’. Suddenly she is with others like her (war orphans with heavy trauma). Suddenly she is no longer alone. She is being offered a new identity (her old identity will get her killed at this point) She is them.

They also sexually assault her. (Cycle of abuse. I had to fast forward those parts. I’m listening to the audio and I can’t do that again)

But by the end Ciri has a new family. It’s the only option to her for survival. She finally manages to kill someone and takes the name Falka.

And as the return reader, you already know just how horrific it’s gonna get before it gets better. The feelings of doom. Ooof.

There is so much coming and if you’ve already read it, the dread is real.

It takes worse torture and assault than you can possibly imagine for Ciri to become the “teenaged killer” the narrative demands.

Because above all Ciri is like Yen. She is a survivor. She is angry. She has impulses for vengeance when she is harmed. All of these things are normal and human and can be given healthy outlets in normal situations. But this is not a normal situation.

So yeah I love her so much and the feelings of doom I have going into the next book are hanging over me. Of course it makes the bloody vengeance at the end that much more satisfying. But yeah.

And just to be clear I don’t judge her at all for anything she does during this “corruption” arc. I just don’t. She is surviving and no one can make me hate her ever. I’m an irrational person when it comes to her. And the her growth, her arc is one of the most satisfying I’ve ever read.

Most of us may not be war orphans being pursued by half the world. But the parallels to being an unprotected teenaged girl in a world that wants to exploit you, chew you up, and spit you out, is something those of us who came from abusive homes can understand. It is ultimately very validating and inspiring.

So I’ll be skipping the worst parts on audio. Some of them I just can’t do again. But I’m still obsessed with this story and I love my girl.

Ok thanks for reading my Ciri feels.

[minne-cerbinna]

I'm playing TW1 again and I have thoughts about this tiny little sequence in the Chapter 2 quest "Memories of a Blade", which amounts to the only mention of Coën in the game.

When undertaking this quest, Geralt is investigating the origin of the silver sword he was given to slay a cockatrice; he mistakenly believes that it might be Berengar's sword since he knows the other witcher to have been in the area. A conversation with Thaler, from whom the sword was confiscated by the guard, will lead him eventually to speak to the Gardener outside St. Lebioda's hospital in Vizima. This man used to be a mercenary under Pretty Kitty, but has since retired and works as a gardener, and had lost the silver sword at dice poker. When interacted with, he will begin any conversation with "Look how they grow!", referring to the plants in his garden. The player can then initiate the quest dialogue with option one, "I'm more interested in silver swords".

GERALT: I'm more interested in silver swords.

GARDENER: I knew one of you would come by eventually.

GERALT: You lost it playing dice?

GARDENER: I was sure I'd win. Beware, the sharp one plays well.

GERALT: Where did you get this sword?

GARDENER: Five years ago, there was a battle near Brenna. When the dust had settled, our men had beaten the Nilfgaardians. We ceased to call ourselves an imperial province that day.

GERALT: You captured the sword during the battle?

GARDENER: Yes, it was witcher Cöen's [sic]. A strapping fellow and a rare breed. Not very talkative, mind you.

GERALT: Like most of us.

GARDENER: I gave my word the sword would find another witcher. As he lay dying, he mumbled about teeth and destiny. Then he laughed -- at his own death.

GERALT: Yet you lost it gambling?

GARDENER: I kept it hidden for five years. I lost hope I'd ever run into another witcher. Miss Shani knew Cöen [sic]. She works at the hospital.

GERALT: Thanks.

GARDENER: Good luck on the path!

The quest will lead you to speak with Shani, then Zoltan, but neither will provide further information on Coën, aside from Shani mentioning that he died on her operating table -- Shani's dialogue is to provide her backstory as a medic at Brenna and to mention Rusty, and Zoltan simply assesses the quality of the blade to ensure that it is a witcher blade of good workmanship. It has no further significance to Geralt, who, without his memory, has no idea who Coën is and has more pressing matters to deal with than to look into the past of a man who died five years ago (according to the somewhat off-kilter game timeline, anyway). But it's the only mention of Coën in the games, and I find that it's a very interesting way to manifest his presence.

I think it is reasonable to tie Coën quite closely to his sword on a symbolic level, if one considers his appearance in the novels where he not only trains with Ciri, but his prowess with a sword is unrivaled even by the other witchers to the point where she believes that he may be the best swordsman in the world. Additionally, the fact that he fought at Brenna at all means that he offered his sword in the service of the Northern Kingdoms, and when he dies, he is identified by his peers as a "master swordsman" rather than as a witcher, despite the fact that they know of his nature. As such, Coën's sword is a very important possession for him to leave behind.

And from there, there is a connection to Lambert, left unsaid. To go beyond the simple fact that Coën was Lambert's friend, someone dearly loved who was close enough with Lambert and his family to get on with the other wolves and stay a winter at Kaer Morhen, the importance lies with the sword. As with any witcher, Coën wouldn't have much in the way of worldly possessions to bequeath onto someone else in the event of his prophecied death. But he does have his swords, which are established as symbolically important to him. A steel sword could be taken up by any warrior capable enough to use it, but a silver sword belongs in the hands of a witcher, and that is what Coën asked for on his deathbed, for his silver sword to be given to another witcher. While it's very possible that this is meant in a general way, that he just wanted any other witcher to take it up, to avoid the sword being wasted, broken, or dismantled for its composite parts, it also strikes me as possible that he could have intended it for a specific witcher.

Lambert is one of the instructors for Ciri when she's first learning the swordplay and acrobatics associated with being a witcher. Lambert is the one in the first game to provide the instructional descriptions of the Fighting Styles for Geralt to regain his swordplay competencies after losing his memories. And there is another bit of dialogue in TW3 that really emphasises both Lambert's connection to Vesemir, the swordmaster of Kaer Morhen, and the idea of swords as inheritance, as a manifestation of closeness:

LAMBERT: Knew the old man couldn't live forever. Huh, even told Eskel that when it came time, I'd get his sword. Fits my hand perfectly, you know.

Which is a heartbreaking notion in and of itself upon which I could expostulate, the symbolism there in the fraught relationship between Lambert and his father figure reduced to something as simple as a hilt that fits two hands perfectly. But if this is the inheritance that Lambert wants, it makes it all the more pertinent that Coën desperately wanted his silver sword to make it into the hands of another witcher. Lambert, the son of a swordmaster, wants to take on a sword as a memento of someone he has lost, and Coën, the master swordsman, left his sword behind. Even if Lambert were not the specific intended target of the sword, he would have possibly or even likely known Coën well enough to fulfill his wishes, whatever they might be.

And yet Coën's sword never makes it home or into the hands of someone who would value it, like Lambert would, this last memory of his dear friend. Geralt makes use of the sword during his time in Vizima, and then it is lost, replaced by the gifted Aerondight. And so Coën is lost with it, never mentioned again.

[yeraskier]

“Jaskier?” He hears, and looks up just in time to see Ciri rounding the corner. She has this frantic look in her eyes. “Jaskier! Jaskier, come quick! Geralt is awake.”

Jaskier’s spent the better part of his life running. He’s run towards coin and booze, from monsters and scorned lovers.

Still, he’s never run as fast as he does now.

He nearly trips over his own two feet twice in his haste to make it to Geralt’s room.

There are others already in there, but Jaskier quite make out who. He doesn’t care, the only one in the room who matters in the moment is the man laid out on the bed— pale and still sickly-looking, but alive.

He rushes over to his witcher, hands reaching out for Geralt’s face before he can stop himself. Jaskier doesn’t mean to overwhelm him, he doesn’t mean to take up all the air that surrounds him, but he can’t help it.

Three weeks and five days. That’s how long Geralt has slept in this bed, with not a single one of the mages being able to tell whether he’d wake up or not.

And now here he is, awake, with those yellow eyes piercing into Jaskier’s blue ones.

The bard simply can’t help himself. He couldn’t part from Geralt now even if he tried.

“Darling?” He utters, voice weak and trembling, just like the hands that clutch Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier?” And Geralt’s voice sounds so familiar, yet so new.

“Yes,” he breathes, “yes, love, it’s me.”

“What are you…” Geralt swallows, and he winces when he does. Jaskier thinks to get him some water, but that would mean letting go, and he simply can’t right now. “What are you doing here?”

Jaskier's thumbs freeze, no longer stroking against Geralt's skin.

"What?"

Geralt doesn't offer him a response, he just stares at Jaskier like he's failing to piece together a puzzle.

It's silent for too long as they look at one another, and Geralt doesn't look at him now the way he's been looking at Jaskier for the last two years. He looks... distant.

"Geralt." It's Triss, Jaskier knows without even looking. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

No.

Geralt frowns, brows scrunching together as he looks up at the ceiling.

He couldn't have—

"I remember..."

Please. Please. Please.

"Taking Ciri to the Temple of Melitele."

Jaskier’s heart plummets.

The mountain. That’s his last memory of Jaskier— his last memory with Jaskier.

Geralt doesn’t remember coming to find him and making amends.

Geralt doesn’t remember asking Jaskier to stay with him, Yennefer and Ciri at the keep.

Geralt doesn’t remember begging Jaskier to remain by their side on their journey back to Cintra.

Geralt doesn’t remember all the moments they shared throughout that time.

He doesn’t remember the touches that lingered longer than they should’ve, and the looks that said more than their mouths ever would, and the conversations that had far too many meanings to track, and the knowing glances from their loved ones. He doesn’t remember the will-they, won’t-they of it all.

He doesn’t remember the they will. The they did.

He doesn’t remember their first kiss that night in the rain— desperate yet tender and slow, unlike their racing heartbeats.

He doesn’t remember peeling each of those wet layers off of Jaskier in his tent that night, just so he could worship every inch of the bard— my bard, Geralt had said.

He doesn’t remember all of the moments that came after, either. He doesn’t remember the first time he said I love you, the first time Jaskier said it back. He doesn't remember all the nights they've spent wrapped in each other's arms or the mornings they spent kissing one another to full wakefulness. He doesn't remember the time they slow danced to no music in the woods, and the time he helped Jaskier bake Ciri blueberry tarts. He doesn't remember vowing that he'd never want anyone other than Jaskier after their first big fight as a pair— a fight that left Jaskier afraid and unsure about their future. He doesn't remember promising that he'd never leave Jaskier ever again.

Geralt doesn't remember any of it, any of what they had.

Geralt doesn't remember them.

"Yen?" Geralt says softly, and Jaskier looks into his eyes again, doesn't even know when he stopped, and he's no longer looking at Jaskier, he's looking elsewhere. Jaskier turns to see Yennefer standing in Geralt's line of sight, and she's looking right back at him, and Jaskier turns back to Geralt, and oh—

There's that look... that look that he hasn't seen in far too long, that same look he was beginning to believe he'd never have to see again.

That warmhearted look only reserved for Yennefer, the same one Geralt used to have on his face every time they were in a room together back when he was... in love with her.

"Oh," Jaskier says aloud, because of course. Of course, Geralt didn't just lose the memories of their relationship, he lost the memories of everything else, as well. He doesn't know that he and Yennefer are more co-parents and best friends now, more than anything.

There was that one unforgettable night between the three of them, mere months ago, after they'd drunk far too much ale, but they had vowed to never mention it again. Not because they regretted it, but because it would complicate things.

As it turns out, there was no use in avoiding the subject altogether because here they are now, in a complicated situation.

Because Geralt doesn't remember what he had with Jaskier, but he does remember what he had with Yennefer. He remembers loving her.

Jaskier's hands begin to tremble where they rest upon Geralt's cheek, and that's what gets Geralt to look at him again. He doesn't know why it happens, but Jaskier moves away at once as if he'd been shocked, as if Geralt's gaze threatens to burn him alive. Maybe it does. Jaskier surely feels like he's been set alight.

The bard stands up straight and glances off to the side. There are still tears in his eyes, but not for the same reason as they were before. "Very well, then," he says, and he despises the way he sounds.

He chances a glance around the room at last, and everyone is there. Everyone in the keep is in the room, and he doesn't know why he expected anything less. Of course, they'd all be here for Geralt, and of course, they'd all be there to witness the worst moment in Jaskier's life.

They're looking at him with... with pity in their eyes, and Jaskier despises that too. He wipes at his wet cheeks with the back of his palm, and clears his throat.

"I'll just... I'll just go, then."

"Jask," someone says, and it's Yennefer, and she's reaching out to touch him. Whatever look he gives the mage must not be the most pleasant, because she deflates immediately, and Jaskier's never seen such a thing from her.

He must be screaming I hate you in every language through his eyes alone.

He knows it's unfair, this isn't her fault, but he can't help the way he feels towards her at this moment. He can't.

He can't help any of the feelings coursing through him. It's too much, he needs space, and so he takes it. He leaves the room, and no one follows.

Good, he doesn't want them to.

Jaskier needs to be alone. He needs room to think, and he needs to stop crying, and he needs this feeling like he's being ripped apart from the inside to go away, and he needs— he needs Geralt.

He needs his wit— the witcher, given that he's no longer Jaskier's anymore, is he?

Maybe this is a sign that he was never meant to be Jaskier's at all.

[bomberqueen17]

assorted, and snippet

it is a rainy sunday. we had a glorious last-gasp-of-summer week, 70s and sunny and lovely, and then last night as the sun went down it suddenly got cold and is going to stay that way.

today's my late father's birthday. he'd've been 79 today. farmsister asked the family groupchat if we wanted to do anything special but like, what? no, so we're just having our normal sunday family dinner. she decided to make enchiladas because while the tomatoes are done, there are still tomatillos, so she's roasting those. i decided to thaw a pork butt and i'll make a sort of al pastor kind of pulled pork for the filling, later. but at the moment i'm out in my cabin, which is a disaster area and needs cleaning. but at the moment i'm just listening to the rain on the metal roof, and i have the propane stove on to get it up to room temperature in here, and i'm dying to take a nap but probably won't.

i told myself i could sit for an hour and maybe write. I sorta don't want to write, I sorta want to fuck around and nap, lol. I'm at a bit in Peace-Tied where I'm trying to fold in stuff I wrote ahead that doesn't quite fit now, so that's complicated-- I've been resorting to using two monitors to have the old doc open in a window so I don't have to tab back and forth. But Fit For Thrones is also in an awkward spot where I wrote stuff ahead and like not a lot has changed, but I realized there needed to be a new thread introduced, so I've got to work that in, and I'm realizing a scene I wrote ages ago that was just fluffy and didn't show a lot of character development is going to have to get overhauled to fit the new concept in, which at this point is just a slight complication but later I wanna hang like a whole plot off it, so it's gotta be here-- if I put it in later it won't have any support and might not really properly hold all the weight it needs to, so. And this scene was just fluff anyway and needs more stuff in it. So that's fine. But it's hard. Because of course all I want to do is skip ahead and write the juicy weighty scene this is gonna support. But if I do that (again, as i've been doing a lot in this series, ugh) i'll get there and it won't fit and i'll have to do more of this fiddly kind of work.

I did only miss Friday's update because I was physically too busy at the time, though. It's the wind-down of the farm season but that just means people have started to peel away to do other things, there's not actually a lot less work, and so those of us left are kind of juggling a lot more balls, even if they're less heavy than they were. (more wittering specifically about FFP behind the cut, and a snippet)

So I have a bunch of stuff allllllmost ready to post, but a bunch of tricky work to do for the continuations of them. There has been a spate lately of very nice comments, some rereaders and some new readers, and I appreciate all of you and it keeps me going, really it does.

I can't find the one, though, someone commented on the latest FFT that they thought Morvran might wind up a bit subby perhaps, and I literally cackled out loud. (Someone else was speculating that he's more traumatized/demi/gray than pure ace, which I also have been trying to convey-- he's ace-spec for sure but gray, is where I'm headed with him.)

I don't think Ciri is going to wind up being particularly domme-y in her preferences-- she also would like a pretty lady to push her around please-- but understand she was raised by a bunch of dommes all around, so I had a very early slightly-cracky notion that she thinks this is how het relationships have to work (this did bear fruit in an outside-of-series published work on AO3 thanks to the Smubbles folks, here: What Every Young Woman Needs)-- but there's an excerpt here I haven't quite yet fit into the FFP continuity, which I suppose I'll put here for everyone's delectation (Ciri POV, of Morvran):

He glanced up only briefly at her arrival, flashing her a quick smile but returning to whatever he was writing, clearly intently focused. She propped a hip on the edge of the desk, waiting, and he finished writing the line and looked up at her.  There was something about the way he looked up at her, like this, something open in his expression that usually wasn’t. It sort of made her want to pull his hair, and made her suddenly understand some things about the way her-- Geralt and Yennefer had acted, around one another. She’d always thought Yennefer was perhaps too mean to Geralt, but she could suddenly understand Yennefer’s perspective, and see that maybe it… well maybe it wasn’t being mean.  But. She didn’t know Morvran near well enough to offer to pull his hair.

[stromuprisahat]

This is how you ruin another character upon their introduction.

‘Why aren’t you in school, student?’ she asked coldly, glaring at Ciri.

‘Wait, Tissaia,’ said the other woman, younger, tall and blond, in a green dress with a considerable neckline. ‘I don’t recognize her. I don’t think she’s…’

‘She is.’ Cut the dark-haired one. ‘I’m certain that she’s one of your girls, Rita. You can’t possibly know them all. She must be one of those who sneaked out through Loxia during the chaos when the students changed quarters. And now we shall wait for her explanation. Well, student?’

...

The woman raised her hand and Ciri immediately understood the seriousness of her mistake. Yennefer had demonstrated to her paralysing spells only once, tired with her long whining. The feeling had been considerably unpleasant. It was the same now.

Fabio cried terrified and leaped towards her but the other woman, the blond one, caught him by the collar and forced him to stay in place. The boy jerked his arm but the woman had an iron grip. Ciri couldn’t move. The dark-haired one bent down and glared at her.

‘I am not in favour of corporal punishment,’ she drawled her words coldly, evening her cuffs yet again, ‘But I will ensure that you’re whipped, student. Not for misbehaviour, not for the theft or elopement. Not even for wearing illicit clothes, walking out with a boy and telling him about things you were forbidden from discussing. No, you will be whipped for being unable to recognize an Archmistress.’

Rita starts with stating she doesn’t recognize Ciri, meaning she's probably familiar enough with her students to be able to. It’s Tissaia, who grabs the girl, and Tissaia, who threatens her. She also paralyzes Ciri, when she believes her to be insolent. Rita catches Fabio- still with Ciri- and lets him speak once he starts to explain.

Compare to:

“Mistress Laux-Antille”: *catches running Ciri* “Another runaway. You've had your fun, novice. Back to the dorms.”

Ciri: “Get your hands off me!”

“Mistress Laux-Antille”:  *hard slap* “You will address me as Mistress Laux-Antille. And you'll clean the toilets for your impertinence.”

...

“Mistress Laux-Antille”, between drunken laughter: “Here, girl! Novices these days are useless. Not like when we were girls. I told you to bring the wine. ... I wanted red! ... Damned Cintran princess. What's so special about her, anyway? ... Girl, the wine! Now.”

In books, it’s Ciri’s pride injured. Her main issue’s the sorceresses dealt with Yennefer- as her guardian- instead of treating her like an independent person. She wasn’t abused by some cruel, sadistic bitch only because she’s younger and “only a student”. Rita’s even kind to her!

‘Hey, girl,’ she nodded at Ciri, ‘be so good and pass me a towel. Come on, stop pouting.’

Ciri hissed quietly, still offended. When Fabio let out who Ciri was, the sorceresses dragged her through half of the city, exposing her to public mockery. In Giancardi's bank the whole incident was immediately explained. The Sorceresses apologized to Yennefer, explaining their behaviour. ... Alarmed by the activation of Ciri’s amulet, Margarita Laux-Antille and Tissaia de Vries mistook her for one [of the sudents].

The sorcerers’ apologized to Yennefer, but none of them thought of apologizing to Ciri. ...

Ciri gave the towel to the Sorceress. Margarita patted her gently on the cheek. Ciri snorted and jumped and splashed into the pool of scented rosemary water.

‘Floats like a little leaf’, smiled Margarita as she lay down next to Yennefer on a wooden couch. ‘And she is as well formed as a nymph. You’re giving her to me, Yenna?’

Margarita Laux-Antille is one of those teachers, whose job is truly their life’s mission. She knows her students, she cares about them, she risks her life for them. Even as a member of the Lodge, her focus is education, not power. She doesn’t beat random girls on the street, because they possess magical amulet.

Fuck you Netflix, for ruining another one of my favourite minor characters! On such a deep, fundamental. level!

‘Ciri, serve us. Damn this carafe is almost empty. Come on, be good and bring us another.’

‘Bring two,’ smiled Margarita ‘As a reward you will get a sip and sit down with us, you will no longer have to strain your ears from a distance. Your education starts here, now, from me before you reach Arethusa.’

[merlot-and-chardonnay]

A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons:

Chapter 4

Chapter 3

-------present day: Kaer Morhen--------------

You woke up the next morning, naked under the sheets. You look around, seeing Geralt was nowhere to be seen.

You get up and walk to the crib, noticing Aemma wasn't where she was supposed to be. You start to panic, but notice there was a little note in the middle. You pick it up and read it, recognizing Geralt's handwriting.

Thought you could use a proper rest after last night's romp beneath the sheets, so I took Aemma to the main hall for breakfast.

Don't worry, she's in good hands.

                            -Geralt

You smile a bit, thinking about last night. You remember how attentive the witcher was to your needs, taking his time and checking in every now and again to make sure it wasn't too much for you and that you were enjoying it. You remembered his soft touches and gentles kisses. You also remembered when you asked for him to be a little rougher he had been hesitant, but did as you requested, still checking to make sure it wasn't too much for you.

Overall it had been a pleasurable evening.

You did feel well rested, but you wanted to spend some time with your daughter now. You put on some clothes and walk to the main hall.

You walk past Ciri's room, hearing some rather unusual sounds coming from there.

You frown a bit and knock on the door, "Ciri?" you call out. You hear a few more sounds and Ciri opens the door. You noticed the girl's face looked rather flushed and her hair disheveled, "Uh, what were you doing in there?" you ask. "...nothing," Ciri answers, looking down like she got caught doing something shameful.

You put two and two together and knew what she had been doing. You had a small smile on your face, "it's nothing to be ashamed of," you tell her. "Uh, what, I wasn't doing anything," Ciri insists, but then recants, "...please don't tell Geralt."

"I won't," you assure, "but I highly doubt he'd make a big deal of it. Besides," you lean over, "it's the best way to figure out what you like in the long run."

Ciri frowned a bit at your cryptic advice, but brushed it off in favor of following you to the dinning area for food.

-----------flashback: the Red Keep-------------

"Oh!

There once was a ship that put to sea

The name of the ship was the Billy of Tea

The winds blew up, her bow dipped down

Oh blow, my bully boys, blow (huh)

She'd not been two weeks from shore

When down on her a right whale bore

The captain called all hands and swore

He'd take that whale in tow"

For context, there was a small council meeting today and Rhaenyra had been called to serve as cup bearer for her father and the other council members. You found this a little odd, given that she was the princess yet here she was being treated as an invisible servant, something you've brought up before, but the princess didn't seem to mind as she saw this as an opportunity to gather information.

Rhaenyra didn't really seem too interested in being a leader, which made sense given how young she is right now.

Even if she did want to be queen, the chances of her actually becoming one were slim at the moment. Her mother was due to give birth any day now and the maesters have predicted the odds of it being a boy were highly likely.

And even if that wasn't the case, her uncle still held the title of Heir Apparent, and unless something happened to him, the chances were still low. 

So while Rhaenyra was carrying out her 'royal duties' you somehow found yourself entertaining her cousins Laenor and Laena Velaryon with a sea shanty.

 You didn't know too much about the Velaryon family, other then they could trace their roots to the similar origins as the Targaryens and were dragon riders in their own right. Corlys Velaryon, Lord of Driftmark, you knew held a seat on the small council and his wife Rhaenys was cousin to Viserys and Daemon.

You also knew the woman once had a chance to be Queen of the Iron Throne as the eldest descendant of the late king Jahaerys, but was passed up in favor of Viserys, the eldest MALE descendent. 

Since then she had been known throughout Westeros as the Queen Who Never Was.

So, here you were entertaining Corlys and Rhaenys' children while waiting for the small council meeting to end.

"Soon may the Wellerman come

To bring us sugar and tea and rum

One day, when the tonguing is done

We'll take our leave and go"

"Again! Do it again!" Laena demands in excitement. "Again?" you feign exasperation, "my lady, this would be the third time. Surely, you wouldn't like to hear another one?" "I want to hear this one again!" the little Velaryon girl insists. "I'd like to hear it again too," Laenor concurs.

"Alright," you say, "One more time. Then we'll move to something else before you get sick of this one."

Before you could start, a male voice interrupts the merriment. It was Corlys calling for his children, who eagerly run to greet their father.

Corlys then sent them both to go find their mother.

You curtsy when the man approaches you, "Lord Corlys," you greet. "I hope my children didn't give you too much grief, Lady troubadour," Corlys laments. "Oh they were no grief at all," you assure, "If anything, quite the opposite." "That song you were singing to them," Corlys points out, "that wouldn't happen to be a Skellige sea shanty would it?"

Your eyes widen a bit in surprise, "yes it is? How did...you know?" "Unlike some in court I am no stranger to customs of lands outside Westeros," Corlys explains, "my ships have often made stops at those isles for trading purposes, and often end in an exchange of cultural customs as well."

"Ever send ships to Kovir?" you ask, "Or Novigrad for that matter? I'd also recommend Toussaint, their wines are excellent and well renown throughout the Continent." "Something I've been considering for some time," Corlys admits, "unfortunately with the trouble in the Stepstones, that is a venture that will have to wait another day."

"Yeah, I've heard," you admit, "I'm sure with enough pressure, the king will eventually do something about it."

You hear Corlys scoff at that. "Well it was worth a try," you admit. "You are funny, lady Bardess," Corlys laughs, "I can see why the princess has taken a liking to you. Thank you for entertaining my children." "It was my pleasure," you say, "now, I must rest for when the princess summons me again. Good day, my lord."

You walk to your quarters when you see Daemon around the corner. You were going to back track and walk the other way, hoping the Prince wouldn't spot you.

That turned out to be wishful thinking.

"(Y/n)?" you hear him call out for you. You stop, sigh a bit, and keep walking. You and Daemon had continued your little clandestine affair since that day, and as promised he'd have the servants bring you the special moon tea.

You also continued serving Rhaenyra and, as you promised a certain Hand of the king, you made sure your illicit trysts were kept discrete.

Well not as discrete as you thought as the princess somehow managed to catch on. She only smiled and wished you the best, making you realize Princess Rhaenyra wasn't as innocent as some had thought; sure she may be a maiden but that didn't mean she was naive to her uncle's philandering ways.

Frankly Daemon's said philandering was the reason why you were wanting to avoid him at the moment, especially after what you heard last night.

You feel the Prince catch up with you, wrapping his arms around you, "trying to play hard to get, Little Lark?" he teases, nuzzling your neck. You, however, were in no mood to entertain him now.

"Where were you last night?" you ask. "Patrolling the streets of King's Landing," Daemon says like it was obvious, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, "I was appointed Commander of the City Watch, you know this. It is my duty to make this city safer for the nobles and the common folk."

"Yeah I heard," you scoff, "raiding homes and killing and cutting down every other man in site REALLY made the streets a lot safer."

"Cutthroats, thieves, and rapers," Daemon points out, "the dregs and scum of the city, you ought not mourn for them."

"Okay, what about after?" you bring, "what did you do after?" "...I took the men out to celebrate a job well done," Daemon answers. "On the street of Silk you mean?" you point out, anger starting to rise.

"What are you trying to say?" Daemon asks, confused.

You pull away, unable to contain your anger, "tell me, Prince, how was she?" you confront. "Who?" "Mysaria," you say, "You fucked her." "Of course, I've fucked her, I've fucked her many times before we even met," Daemon points out. "You fucked her last night," you sneer, "I know you did, and don't you dare try to deny it."

"...Who told you such things?" Daemon asks, "was it Otto?" "It doesn't matter who told me," you say, face filled with heat.

"It was, wasn't it?" Daemon confronts, "(y/n), I've told you, the man's a-" "He's a cunt, yes I know!" you exclaim, "but he didn't tell me. He didn't have to. Everyone in the Red Keep knows what you did last night following your onslaught on the poor and destitute of King's Landing. It wasn't enough to humiliate me once, you had to do it a second time. And just when I was beginning to think I actually meant something to you, that I was more than just your...personal plaything!"

Daemon was taken aback by your words, "(y/n)," he reaches a hand as a way to comfort you, but you slap it away, "don't touch me!"

You turn and walk away in haste back to your room, slamming the door as you did so. You place your lute on the table, careful not to break it, in spite of how angry you were right now. You take deep breaths in an attempt to calm down. You didn't know why you felt this way...actually you weren't sure you even had a right to feel this way.

You knew Daemon; even before meeting him, you knew of his reputation from the brothels you had performed in.

You knew  the man was married, yet he had no qualms of seducing women who weren't his wife. You were just one of his many mistresses he has taken to his bed over the years.

You knew what kind of man he was, how he viewed the women he played with...why would you be any different to him? You knew it all, yet you had chosen to walk into this relationship with your eyes wide open.

Maybe you thought you would be the one who could somehow tame this dragon, but now you see you had been fooling yourself.

  You were pulled from your thoughts when you hear the door to your room open. You turn away, knowing exactly who it was.

"Are you jealous, Little Lark, is that what I'm hearing?" Daemon asks, approaching you. He places a hand on your shoulder and you stiffen in response, "would it make you feel better if I told you I was thinking about you the whole time?" "Oh, I doubt that," you deadpan.

"I was," Daemon insists, resting his head against your shoulder, you making no effort to push him away, "Mysaria may have her ways, that much I'll admit, but...her voice cannot compare to yours. A voice sweet as honey that can quench any man dying of thirst"

"Well, you sure know how to flatter a girl," you say, turning to face him, "Is...is this the only time? Since we've been together I mean?"  "It is," Daemon assures, "I swear by the light of the Seven. And...by whatever gods you Continentals worship." You laugh a little at that, "I'm still mad at you," you admit, "but...I don't want to be."

"How can I make it up to you?" Daemon asks, you hearing the sincerity in his tone as he places a hand on your cheek.

"Don't do it again," you tell him in a stern voice, arms crossed, "if you still want me to warm your bed, and if you still want to hear my honey sweet voice, I don't want to keep hearing about you sliding your little dragon in and out of other women."

"It's not THAT little," Daemons scoffs. "You know what I mean, Daemon," you say. "Very well," the prince nods, placing a kiss on your wrist, "you have my word." "You promise?" "On the Light of the Seven."

"Good," you nod in approval, "that's...that's all I wanted." 

"Now," Daemon says, arms starting to wrap around you, "how about I make it up to you even more?"

"What do you mean?" you ask.

Smirking, Daemon lifts you up and places you on the table. He gets on his knees and lifts up your skirts, diving head first between your thighs.

You were planning on fighting him off, still mad about his little illicit tryst, but such thoughts faded away the moment you felt him working his tongue on your sensitive rose bud.

You would enjoy this for now, but you had no plans on returning the favor once he was done. At least for now.

If the Prince wanted to that, he would have to work for it.

Which in this case would mean him winning the tourney tomorrow. 

Chapter 5

Masterlist