*MAJOR SPOILER ALERT*

End spoilers for The Witcher 3 ahead

Author's Note: This story takes place after the so-called "bad ending" of The Witcher 3, where Ciri dies. There are a few changes to it, though. First, Geralt doesn't die, obviously. Secondly, he didn't make any of the "bad" choices throughout the game which cause the ending where Ciri dies. Basically, he did everything he could to save Ciri, but she died anyway. That should be everything you need to know to get going. I will be posting a chapter a week, probably on Fridays. I hope you enjoy and make sure to leave a comment to let me know what you think! Any feedback is appreciated!

UPDATE: The full story is now up!

Prologue

It had been five years. Five years since Ciri was lost to the White Frost. Five years since Geralt had spurned Yennefer and Tris, turning them away. Turning away anyone he might once have called friend or family. He couldn't face them. Not after what had happened. He could barely face himself.

He hadn't known where to go from there. Hadn't known how to piece his shattered life back together. There was nothing left. All that remained was anger, hatred. And he let it consume him, let it turn outward.

Geralt had gone to the swamp pursuing some kind of retribution, as if it could fix the hole in his chest. As if it could bring Ciri back. He had slaughtered the crone. And butchered everything else. The bog had run red with blood, the air misted with it. Geralt had risen out of the marsh like some yellow-eyed demon, covered from head to toe with blood and viscera and flesh. Yet even that had not slaked Geralt's bloodlust. But there was nothing left to eviscerate, no more victims for him to slay. He'd left none alive.

Broken and devastated, Geralt had departed Velen. Left his former life behind. He couldn't stay any longer in a place where he saw Ciri around every corner, heard her voice in every crowd. He had gone, seeking the answer to a question beyond his grasp. An answer he still hadn't found.

The burden of Ciri's death was a boulder laid upon his shoulders. For the first few months, it had crushed him under its immense weight. He had barely been able to function, his life hollow and empty. Over the years, though, Geralt had come back to the world. He had learned to carry the load. But no matter what he did, he couldn't toss it aside. It was still there, still threatening to overwhelm him if he let go for even a moment. Now, he had grown so used to its presence that he had forgotten it was there, blind to its existence, but still bound to its burden. Nothing came of Geralt's ignorance but pain and frustration.

And, in the furthest reaches of Geralt's consciousness, still lingered that inexpressible question. One that seemed destined to remain unresolved to the end of Geralt's days.

Chapter One

Geralt was tired of the world. More accurately, tired of everyone in it. The time of the witcher was fading. Geralt had seen it coming for a long time now, but it didn't make it any easier. It used to be that monsters roamed the world in droves, terrorizing towns to the point of desperation. Witchers could find plentiful work back then. People would pay top dollar to be rid of their monster problems. Back then, everyone knew a witcher's place in the world. They may still have been feared or reviled, but at least everyone knew a witcher's worth.

Now, as monsters grew more and more scarce, and witchers became less and less necessary, Geralt was lucky to find work at all, let alone a job that paid what it was truly worth. Just the other week he had taken a contract on a young leshen. It had killed several women that had gone to pick herbs in the woods—and the search parties sent to find them. Fifty crowns had been the agreed upon price. Fifty. That was half of what Geralt would normally ask, but he had needed the money and he could sense that the village elder was about to send Geralt on his way without striking any bargain at all. It ended up not being too difficult of a beast to conquer so Geralt wasn't too upset by the time he returned with its head.

But when Geralt threw the severed head at the elder's feet, the man avoided Geralt's gaze, shuffling his feet. Geralt demanded the money. The elder said they had none—nothing close to the asking price anyway. Fifteen crowns is what Geralt ended up walking away with and that was only after he had practically shaken it out of the man's pockets. He had ridden out of that village trembling with rage, hand itching to reach for his sword, to end that miserable man's life. In the end, he had deemed it not worth the hassle.

It's not like that man hadn't done what every other person would have—fleeced Geralt out of the money he was owed. Geralt wasn't even sure why he bothered anymore. He supposed it was just plain habit. He was a witcher. That was the only thing he had ever known.

And that's not to say that everyone cheated Geralt out of money. Occasionally, a contract would come along where the issuer was truly grateful for what Geralt had done and generously forthcoming with the reward. Those were few and far between, however. Geralt couldn't even remember the last contract he had taken that he had been paid promptly and, more importantly, in full. Had it been a year? At least. Maybe fifteen months.

Regardless, Geralt kept chugging along, wandering aimlessly in the dreary world. He was done with it. Done with the liars, the parsimonious bastards that would have him risk his life for nothing in return. Why was he bothering to save these people? Were they really worth it? It had taken months, years, but Geralt finally had his answer.

No, they weren't.

The leshen had simply been the last brick in a tower of deceits that had finally come crashing down over Geralt. The next town he came to, he was going to find the nearest tavern, drink himself into a stupor, and just forget about the world and everyone in it. Ignore the pleading cries from miserly tongues.

And so, with only two crowns left to his name, Geralt pushed on through the mid-afternoon, guiding Roach down a small path in one of the easternmost areas of Velen. The entire area was wooded. So much so that he had hardly seen the sun. Only the villages and main roads were wide enough to spread the trees and allow full sunlight to reach the ground. It was a region he was largely unfamiliar with. Only because of his self-imposed exile was he even in the area. Though this was the closest to any sort of familiar territory he had been in a while.

It was late winter in Velen. Late enough that the trees had regained their full breadth, but there was still a bite to the crisp air. Spring Equinox was fast approaching and celebrations would begin soon enough. Geralt would make sure he was well away from civilization when that occurred. The mere thought of such festivities soured his mood.

Now he picked his way along a small, but well-used trail that snaked through the trees. By early evening, Geralt could smell wood smoke. A town was nearby and it both excited Geralt and disgusted him. He was ready to fill his body with as much alcohol as he could buy. But that also meant dealing with people. And that was something he was not looking forward to.

Despite his misgivings, Geralt drove onward, reaching the village within an hour. It was a large settlement, built in an enormous clearing in the trees. It looked as though they had cleared many of those trees themselves over time when more space was needed. Small plots of farmland wove into a patchwork of color to Geralt's right, on the southern end, small huts dotting the land every so many acres. To Geralt's left was the village proper, the main street down which Geralt now rode teeming with people of all ages going about their daily lives.

Men and women bartered and exchanged wares at door fronts. An old woman sat knitting contentedly on a doorstep while another braided yellow flowers into a young girl's hair. Dozens worked the fields while others swept porches, hung laundry, butchered, forged, cooked, sewed, played, and frolicked. Geralt even glanced a young couple stealing away to the privacy of the forest. The bustling hive barely noticed as Geralt passed which, frankly, was odd. Geralt was used to being eyed with at least wary caution if not downright hatred. He was used to the hushed whispers and furtive glances that crept along in his wake. But here there was nothing. Here there was…acceptance, joy. As if nothing could shatter the harmonious atmosphere of their little world.

Geralt honestly didn't know what to make of it. And it almost grated on him more than those thinly veiled affronts would have, like some manifestation of fate were trying to cheer him up when all he wanted to do was brood. Geralt grumbled to himself as he pushed on, only to find a gaggle of children darting in front of Roach, squealing with laughter at whatever game they were playing. Roach planted her feet in the ground, throwing Geralt onto the horn of the saddle. Grinding his teeth, Geralt silently cursed the little urchins, watching them clear the road to the South where they ran straight into an old man who stopped them and told them off for their recklessness. Good, Geralt thought as he met the old man's gaze. The man dipped his head marginally at Geralt—an apology, he supposed, or, at least, as much of one as he would get.

With a sneer, Geralt touched Roach's sides with his heels and continued on his way. It didn't take him long to find the local tavern. The Split Oak, a sign read out front, a large tree split down the middle by lightning pictured above the words. The lintel was made of a raw piece of blackened wood, charred to the point where it shone like glass.

Geralt dismounted and tied Roach to a hitching post out front.

A black cat darted across Geralt's path as he stepped toward the door. It hissed and growled, its hackles raised, but Geralt shooed it with a twitch of his boot. At least that was normal.

As Geralt crossed the threshold, he found the tavern mostly empty. He had beaten the evening crowd. A plump barmaid strode over to him as he settled himself at a table near the window, facing the door. It was an old habit of Geralt's. He always liked to know of any threats as they entered. He had been blindsided too many times by people who didn't appreciate the presence of a witcher in their midst.

"How much will this get me?" Geralt asked the woman, flashing his coin.

"A couple of ales. Or a plate of chicken and vegetables. Not enough for both, I'm afraid," she answered sympathetically, wiping her hands on a rag at her waist.

"Course not," muttered Geralt under his breath, glancing out the window. The shadows were elongating in the fading light and people seemed to be wrapping up their business. The taproom would soon be swarmed by laborers weary from their daily toils. Geralt turned back to the expectantly waiting barmaid. "I'll take the ale."

"Coming right up." She smiled and left, sliding the remainder of Geralt's funds from the table. A minute later she returned, skidding a frothing mug in front of Geralt, then leaving him once more to attend to something in the oven, telling him to holler when he had finished and she would top him off.

Taking a swig of the foamy brew, Geralt relaxed back into his seat. It was good ale. Full-bodied and strong. Not the watered down piss most taverns tried to swindle to their customers.

The tankard steadily emptied as more and more people trickled in, the room humming with chatter and raucous laughter. Halfway through his second filling, Geralt was just starting to feel a pleasant warmth spread to his extremities when the barmaid appeared at his side again.

Great, he thought. She was probably there to kick him out. No use wasting a table on someone who couldn't pay their worth in staying. Let alone a witcher. It wouldn't have been the first time.

He was about to open his mouth to tell her that he would leave when he was good and done with his drink when she produced a plate of roast chicken and set it in front of him. The browned skin glistened with juices and the roasted carrots and potatoes that filled the rest of the plate beckoned with their enticing aroma, reminding Geralt of just how hungry he was.

At the confused and ravenous look on Geralt's face, the barmaid spoke, gesturing at the food. "A gift. From our village headman."

Geralt took in the words with a cynicism only a witcher could know. He wasn't about to be dragged into something and he knew all too well the ploys of those looking for cheap labor. "Am I supposed to believe this is just from the kindness of your headman's heart?" Geralt gave the woman a skeptical look that seemed to have no effect on her. "I'm not some moron to be lured in by a delicious morsel and then reeled into doing a job for a pittance of its actual worth. So just take your food and leave me be." He shoved the plate violently to the table's edge and turned his attention back to his ale.

The woman, unaffected by Geralt's aggression, responded by shoving the plate just as violently back to where she had placed it originally, sending a couple of the potatoes rolling across the table. "The food is a gift. Eat it or don't. It's yours either way." With that, she turned up her nose and went back to the counter to pour several more mugs of ale.

"Wait!" Geralt half stood, calling after her with his free hand in the air. But she firmly ignored him.

Geralt growled as he sank back into his seat. He stared hungrily at the delicious platter of food in front of him, arguing with himself as to whether he should eat it. Loathe as he was to accept such favors, knowing full well what always followed, Geralt decided he might as well enjoy the food anyway. Geralt skewered a golden potato on his fork, his stomach tugging at him and gurgling its encouragement.

Then a voice called out just as Geralt stuffed the bite into his mouth. "Bertha's not accustomed to anyone turning down her food, I'm afraid."

An elderly man stepped out of the shadows near the door. Geralt eyed him as he approached, though he couldn't quite make out the man's face until he dropped into the seat opposite Geralt, his features now lit by the full light of the lantern on the table.

It was the man from the road, Geralt realized; the one that had reprimanded the children. He looked even older in the dramatic light of the tavern than he had earlier, the light striking harsh shadows down the deep lines across his skin. He had to have been as old as Geralt, though obviously Geralt looked the younger of the two due to his mutations. Rich, greying hair, almost as white as Geralt's, hung down the man's back in elegant braids and honey-brown eyes held a depth of knowledge that could only come with age and hardship. Yet somehow there was also a youthfulness in the man's eyes that made him seem as though he could live another fifty years, beyond any reasonable lifespan.

It wasn't hard for Geralt to guess the man's identity. "I suppose you're the one I should be thanking for this meal." Geralt raised another forkful in mock gratitude, his tone flat yet acerbic.

"No need to thank me," the man stated, a genuine smile lighting his eyes. "A weary traveler always deserves a hot meal at the end of the day."

Geralt studied the man's face with a hint of annoyance. He didn't deign to respond.

But the headman didn't seem deterred by Geralt's iciness. With a knowing look that made Geralt's lip curl, the man continued. "I'm Tesrin. I'm the founder and leader of this little village." Tesrin paused, waiting expectantly with eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

Geralt wasn't going to give the man the satisfaction of a response, but he also wanted the conversation to end as quickly as possible and could sense that Tesrin would most certainly be the more patient of the two. So he grumbled out a reply. "Geralt. Of Rivia."

Still smiling warmly, Tesrin nodded acknowledgement. "Pleasure to meet you, Geralt. What brings you to our—"

"Look," Geralt cut in sharply, "I know what it is you're after and I'm not doing you or anyone in this town any favors because you thought you could butter me up with dinner. Let me finish my meal in peace and I will be gone before morning." Tucking into his chicken with new fervor, Geralt dismissively ignored the old man.

Tesrin did not seem offended by Geralt's outburst, but neither did he leave. Instead he answered Geralt with a sincerity that only stoked Geralt's ire. "Forgive me. I didn't mean for the offering to mislead you. And you are welcome to it and a room for the night regardless of how this conversation ends. All I ask is fifteen minutes of your night."

Not quite knowing why he was bothering, Geralt reluctantly sighed and nodded his assent, unable to fully bring himself to verbally acquiesce.

As if the fifteen minutes were a deadline Tesrin meant to keep, he launched immediately into his request. "A man has gone missing. Mikel is his name; fair hair with blue eyes and a nose so crooked from a horse kick to his face in his youth that it's impossible to miss. He's one of our best hunters here in the village. A few days ago, he went out to check his snares and didn't come home. He hasn't been seen since."

Curiosity piqued despite himself, Geralt asked, "Has anyone checked the area around his snares? Wolves might have gotten him. Or maybe a bear."

"Two of the other hunters went looking for him. His snares were empty, but there was blood on them, as though he had emptied them himself. Yet there was no sign of what had been caught. Or of Mikel either. But these reports must be taken with a grain of salt. As proficient as they are, the other hunters in town do not excel at tracking. They prefer to lure their prey in. Mikel is our tracker. He may very well have left a trail the others did not see."

"And so I'm to find him and bring him back in one piece I suppose."

"I know you witchers have heightened senses that far exceed any normal man's. When I saw you on the road today, I knew you were our only hope at finding Mikel."

Tesrin spoke as if he had firsthand knowledge of the capabilities of witchers, which Geralt found odd. "From what I can tell, no witcher has ever set foot or even been mentioned in this village, judging by your people's reactions. How is it that you know what we can do?"

"I have lived here a long time, yes. But not my whole life. I wandered the world quite a bit before settling here and have had my share of adventures to show for it. I travelled with a witcher briefly in my youth. School of the Cat. Best tracker I've ever seen. He could spot a single deer hair or a single rabbit track fifty yards away. That was the most well-fed I'd ever been on the road." Tesrin rubbed his belly appreciatively and then gestured toward Geralt. "And judging by your age, I'd say you have a fair bit more experience than that young man did."

"That doesn't mean that there would be anything left to find," Geralt countered morbidly.

"Perhaps not. But I could not live with myself if I did not do everything in my power to bring Mikel home safely. He has a family, a wife and two young daughters. They are all beside themselves wondering where he is. It has been all I could do to keep them out of the forest themselves. It is too dangerous out there for them, but you look like you can handle yourself. And you would be paid handsomely for merely trying."

Geralt scoffed. "If I had a crown for every time I've heard that, I would be living in Emhyr's palace." He turned his attention back to his plate.

An amused smile lit Tesrin's face. "Three hundred crowns."

Geralt choked on the piece of potato he had just forked into his mouth, coughing and sputtering until he washed it down his throat with what remained of his ale. He had expected Tesrin to say thirty crowns. Maybe fifty if he were really feeling generous. But three hundred? He had once taken on a pair of nesting griffins for less.

Incredulously, Geralt asked, "Why would you offer that much just for me to track down a missing man?"

"I could offer less if you'd prefer," Tesrin jested. At the look of disbelief still plastered on Geralt's face, Tesrin grew serious. "We are all family here." Geralt's eyebrow raised, but Tesrin help up his hand to forestall the comment Geralt was about to make. "Not literally," Tesrin said with a small chuckle. "In the absence of a true one, this village and all its inhabitants have become my family. I would give anything to keep them safe."

"But how could his family possibly afford such a sum? Most villages can barely scrape together fifty crowns altogether."

"I am offering the reward out of my own coffers. I told you that I traveled the world. Well, I amassed a large quantity of coin as I did so. Enough for me and quite a few others to start a life here. With enough left over for a rainy day should we ever need it."

"If you have so much coin, then you'll pay me four hundred." Geralt didn't think for a second that Tesrin would agree. Three hundred was absurd as it was. Four hundred was just asking to be thrown out, which, honestly, is pretty much what Geralt wanted. Then he could be on his way and forget about this place. He was better off leaving now and not wasting his time finding some lost hunter. When it came right down to it, Geralt highly doubted that Tesrin would pay anyway. He would be like every other village headman that had stabbed Geralt in the back. Geralt added another condition to his terms just to put the final nail in the coffin. "And I want half upfront."

Smiling pleasantly, Tesrin simply said, "Done." Then he produced several medium-sized sacks from under his belt that clinked heavily when he set them on the table.

Geralt did a double take at the word and then the coin that now sat in front of him. He was lost for words. He couldn't believe what had just happened. His eyes roved over the burlap bags and then wound their way up to Tesrin's face.

At the baffled look on Geralt's face, Tesrin offered another dose of earnest sincerity. "Find Mikel, Geralt. Please."

The next day, Geralt left at dawn, setting out in the direction of Mikel's snares, a bag laden with provisions strapped across his back. He had left Roach at the stables of the tavern, Tesrin promising that she would be well looked after until Geralt returned. Tracking was too delicate an art to go clomping through the woods on horseback, destroying any trail. Geralt was better off on foot, even if it did slow him down.

It took him all morning to get there. He came across the site just as the sun reached its zenith and cast stark shadows from the canopy above, mottling the forest floor below. Geralt finished the hunk of bread he had been eating and dusted the crumbs from his fingers as he leaned down to examine the snares.

There was relatively fresh blood on both of them and the surrounding ground, but the snares were set. They had caught something and then been reset. The other hunters had been right in that regard. But if that were true, then where was the prey? And Mikel?

Geralt searched the ground and found a curved indentation in the bed of leaves. Mikel had set his bow there when he checked the snares. There were clear signs of Mikel's presence, but the other hunters had trampled the area too much for Geralt to glean anything useful. Then, a few yards further out, Geralt found a lead—wolf tracks, two or three by the look of them. A human footprint followed. The wolves must have eaten the catch in the snares and ran off. Mikel, proficient as he was at tracking, would have seen the tracks and must have decided to go after them. They were likely to come back after all, now that they knew the location for an easy meal. And if Mikel had young daughters, then he wouldn't have wanted wolves prowling so close to his family.

The trail was easy enough to follow, at least for Geralt. Sometimes he took for granted how easily he could track. How obvious signs to him were missed completely by most others. Following the tracks the wolves and Mikel had left, Geralt wound ever northward, pausing only occasionally when the trail was unclear.

The forest morphed by the hour. What started out as younger trees and thick vegetation gave way to an ancient deciduous forest. Spotty crabgrass and blankets of moldering leaves were the only vegetation covering the ground. The towering trees loomed high over Geralt's head, the dense canopy making Geralt feel like he were in some kind of outdoor great hall. It was an area untouched by man. There were dangers here that someone like Mikel would be unprepared for, Geralt was sure of it. And as the afternoon turned to evening, the chances of finding Mikel alive dwindled.

Then Geralt smelled it—blood. He abandoned the trail and ran a couple hundred yards toward the scent. Turning around a massive trunk, Geralt spotted two dead wolves lying in pools of blood, arrows piercing their sides. Circling the carnage, Geralt tried to piece together the scene before him.

One wolf was taken down by an arrow straight through the heart. It must have been Mikel's first shot. Then the other wolf had attacked. Mikel had gotten off a shot, but it hadn't killed the beast immediately. Now that Geralt got closer, he could smell something else too—human blood. Mikel had been bitten. But he must have somehow fended off the wolf and taken another shot to down it for good. But then where was Mikel?

In ever widening circles, Geralt sought evidence of Mikel's whereabouts. It was difficult to distinguish because of the large quantity of blood and the fading light, but Geralt finally managed to single out a faint trail that led away from the battle, to the South. Judging by the amount of blood forming the trail, Mikel had been badly injured. About fifty yards further, Geralt came across Mikel's bow. It was covered in bloody handprints and even a few bite marks. But still no sign of Mikel.

Night fell, however Geralt continued on, his pupils dilating to their fullest to capture any last vestige of light. Out in open country, Geralt would have had no problem seeing throughout the night. But under the dense forest canopy, the darkness soon became all-encompassing. Just as it was becoming too dark to see, the trail abruptly ended at the edge of a sizeable clearing. Although, it wasn't truly a clearing Geralt realized. The trees were just so enormous that the gaps between them were getting larger, the canopy still impenetrable. There was nothing left of the trail near the base of one of the arboreal giants, no footprints, no blood. No Mikel. It just…stopped. And Geralt didn't know what to make of it. It was like Mikel had vanished into thin air.

Mystified, and without any clear direction, Geralt decided he would be better off starting again in the morning. That he might be missing something in the gloom. Staying close enough to the trail that he could find it again, but not close enough that he would risk altering it, Geralt laid down on the forest floor and went to sleep, senses ever alert for what could have taken Mikel.

Just in case it came back.