Summary:

Assuming the Witcheress Ending at the end of TW3 video game, Geralt meets up with Ciri at the White Orchard Inn. Elated to see her again, something was not quite right.


Chapter Two

Amidst the Shadows

Drawing in a ragged breath, he ignored the glares and curious glances from other customers. Taking another step, he then halted. His gaze, set upon that cloaked lone figure in the corner, never wavered.

A drunkard dressed in filthy rags stumbled in his path blocking his way and his view. Bleary-eyed, instead of moving aside the man swayed, tried to pass him, and stopped. He stank worse than a stable not cleaned for a week.

"Hey," the drunkard slurred. "You're that, whaddaya call 'em? W-witcher! That's it. Remember you, mutant." He belched, the foul stench of stale beer combined with a fish dinner rivaled the stable odor. A high-pitched hiccup came next and the man lost his balance. Shit, it was winter and all, but it wouldn't hurt to bathe more often.

Several men huddled around a nearby table hooted and hollered shoving the drunk back on his feet. Turning his head, he glanced away, focusing his attention once again on the cloaked figure in the back.

"Weren' chew here lash shummer?"

"Excuse me." Maneuvering around the drunk, he crossed the room dimly lit by torch and candlelight. Passing the hearth, its warmth seeped through his thick black cloak wet with snow. He would have lingered in front of it, thawing out his hands and feet, but he had yearned for this meeting and did not want any time wasted.

Approaching the cloaked individual, he took a deep breath. The familiar scent of woman, of this particular woman, registered in his nose. The aroma he knew well. At one time, the fragrance of lilac and gooseberries titillated him, intoxicated him. But that was a distant memory now. This scent was raw and natural, of leather and steel, and soft womanly freshness tinged with only the scent of lilac. Influenced by Yen, no doubt. Heart thumping, he pushed back his hood and laid a hand on her slender shoulder.

Turning toward him, her hood concealed most of her features. But then she glanced up. Brilliant green eyes gleamed in the candlelight framed by ashen hair. A smile slow and bright spread wide across her diamond-shaped face. The familiar pink scar marred her cheek from under the left eye to ear. Odd, that scar invoked nostalgic sensations warm in his belly. Hell, invoked much more than nostalgia.

"Ciri." He faltered and her name was all he managed. Straddling the bench, he sat next to her and enveloped her in his arms. Hers wrapped around him clutching him close. Mugs clanged, dishes rattled, a cacophony of voices, all the noises blurred in the background to a dull hum.

"Geralt," she murmured, her familiar voice soft in his ear, her breath warm on his neck. He closed his eyes, savored the moment.

Breathing in her scent, pride swelled in him. She had accomplished what she had set out to do and survived. He squeezed her tight against him. He swept the hood off her head and gave himself permission to absorb her presence. His gaze roamed over her features, his hands smoothed down her back. Ashen hair swept back into the customary bun at her nape, a timeless style she had always preferred. Cheeks tinged pink, eyes glittered with that glow whenever she looked at him. Stunning as always.

Something in her gaze faltered, a wrinkle, barely noticeable to the human eye, but evident to his, marred her smooth skin between her dark brows. That was not there before her confrontation with the White Frost. A minute detail that aged her slightly and spoke of the hard life she had lived. He frowned. Something had happened since she had left them to confront the White Frost.

The flush in her cheeks intensified in response to his admiration. "Looking good yourself, Witcher." Her fingers tickled his stubbled chin. "Haven't seen you in a full beard in a long time. I don't know… Maybe I'll get used to it."

Scratching his cheek, he grimaced. "Can't wait to shave it off. All of it. But for now it's keeping my face warm."

A waitress stopped at their table. "Can I get you two anythin'? Beer, ale?" Her scathing glance left Geralt only to rest on Ciri. Eyeing her, the waitress' lip curled.

An older woman with salt and pepper hair and eyes lacking any joy, she wiped her hands on her soiled apron. Leaning down, she drawled, "Can I get you a mug of milk, child?" as if she were talking to a kid.

"I'm no child," Ciri spat in her usual feisty manner.

Geralt grinned inwardly but shot the waitress a scolding glare. "That was no way to address a lady, ma'am."

"Oh, my mistake." No apology hinted in her response. "What about you, grandpa, what can I get you?"

He sighed. All right, he got it. Hair and beard as white as milk aged him. It often confused people, but it still stung. He was in his prime, for fuck's sake.

"Listen, lady," Ciri spoke the word with contempt. "He is a Witcher. Show some respect, would you?"

On that cue, Geralt glanced up at the waitress giving her an unobstructed view of his eyes. Blanching, the waitress took a step back and fidgeted with her skirts avoiding his gaze.

"Two beers-" he ordered in a gruff voice.

A hand covered his wrist.

"Hot cider."

His eyes slid to hers and then back at the waitress. "Two, please."

Speechless, the waitress nodded and hurried towards the kitchen.

Geralt watched Ciri closely. She met his gaze, her fingers fumbling with the clasp on her cloak. The thick wool folds fell open.

"Everywhere you go," she shook her head. "Doesn't that bother you?"

"Used to it." He smiled at her, then dropped his gaze to the table. A small wooden vase sat at the end stuffed with evergreen boughs. Their green branches drooped over the sides touching the top of the table. Mostly, he was used to it. But sometimes, deep down, it stung. So different from ordinary folk, he would never blend in with society or ever become one of them.

"How are you feeling, Witcher-Girl?"

"I'm fine, Geralt. Even better now I'm with you."

He dropped his gaze, not entirely believing her. Looking more gaunt than usual, he surprised himself at not seeing it earlier. And the dark circles tainting the skin under her eyes. Scrutinizing closer without drawing attention, the dark smudges were not from the heavy kohl eyeliner that lined her eyes like he initially thought.

"Want something to eat? I've got plenty of coin, so anything you want-"

She shook her head and paled almost imperceptively, but he caught it.

"All right…"

Eyeing her out the corner of his eye, he was not sure how to ask this. His gaze scanned the room before speaking. "How did you do it? I mean… how'd you defeat the White Frost? And, are you feeling okay?"

She paused, peering at him, and when he glanced down, she smiled. "Yeah. I'm fine. Nothing to be worried about."

He nodded. She was happy. Despite a sense of anxiety she tried hard to conceal, he knew she was happy. That alone made him the happiest he had ever been.

Ciri beamed up at him. Chin pointed up proudly, her eyes glinted in the soft golden glow. "Conquered the White Frost. At least for a long time."

"You did it, Ciri. You truly are a remarkable woman. Damn proud of you. But how did you do it?"

A mug clanked down in front of him, the liquid sloshed over the sides and spilled onto the table. The second mug landed just as hard in front of Ciri.

"Charming hospitality," he muttered.

The waitress huffed, gave him a wide berth and scurried back across the room.

"Can't say I blame her. The last time I was here, Vesemir and I defended ourselves from a bloody brawl started by some locals. Did not end well for them. Sure I bring all that back whenever I show up."

She laughed and the sweet sound washed over him soothing him. He loved her laugh. She took a sip careful not to burn her mouth. "Mmm. Haven't had mulled cider in…. ages. Missed this from the old days."

"Me too." He took a sip.

"How's Yennefer?"

The dreaded question. Sighing, he set down the mug and wrapped his palms around the pottery. The heat seeped through his leather gloves. "Afraid you'd ask that."

Her gaze fell to the table. "She's my mother, Geralt. I need to know…"

"Of course you do. But…"

She waited unusually patient for him to continue. All the while, she stared outside the window covered with frost along the sill and edges.

"Haven't seen her since you left through the portal Avallac'h opened. You know, to face the White Frost. She... Well, she blamed me for not bringing you back."

"I'm sorry Geralt," she breathed. "I know how much you loved her."

"Still do, actually."

Ciri's gaze snapped to his, a questioning look in her eyes.

"But in a different way. Not like I used to. You know my heart belongs to another."

She relaxed and smiled at him, her grin lighting up the dim chamber.

"I should've said goodbye to her. Should've explained my plans. I… Just knew it would be too hard. And I'd falter. Had to do that… confront the Frost." She glanced at him and smiled a melancholic smile.

"But you two still have each other. Yennefer would be overjoyed to know you've returned and are safe."

Nodding, she wiped a strand of hair from her face. "Where is she?"

He sighed. "Last saw her on Undvik. After you left through the portal, the shield Avallac'h kept around the tower dissipated. She teleported to me."

Resting an elbow on the table, he stared at what was left of the cider.

"Discovering you had left… ah, haven't seen her that livid in a long time. Gave me a good lashing. Still stings," he added under his breath. "Avallac'h couldn't console her either. Tried explaining what you needed to do, but she just couldn't see past her pain of losing you. She teleported away in a fury. Don't know where she went. Haven't seen her since."

"That was… four months ago." Her eyes misted over. She blinked rapidly staring at her mug. "I'm sorry, Geralt. I should have handled that better. That was selfish of me. Hadn't considered yours or Yennefer's feelings when I leaped away mere moments after you defeated Eredin and the Wild Hunt."

She leaned in close, her eyes hooded and sincere. He did not take his eyes off her when she pressed her lips to his. Neither of them moved, the kiss lasting a delicious eternity. Every muscle melted at the contact. Her lips smooth and silky calmed and heated him.

She pulled away, their lips holding onto each other for another lingering moment before parting. Sighing, he licked his lips, still tasted her.

"Never had the chance to properly thank you."

"For what?"

Her unwavering gaze held his then it roamed over his face loving every bit of him. A flutter rolled in his belly.

"For everything. For being the man I could trust with my life. For challenging and defeating two commanders and the king of the Wild Hunt. No small accomplishment, Geralt. You've done more for me than anyone."

"I'd do anything for you, Ciri," he murmured.

"I know. I'd do anything for you, Geralt. Hope you know that."

Tugging off a leather glove, he swept aside bangs that had fallen loose near her eyes. "I do," he whispered.

She shook her head, wiping a stray tear from her lashes. "Ugh. Can't talk about Yennefer anymore. Hurts too much. I fear I've hurt her. Maybe she'll never want to see me again."

He took a sip. Hurts too much. That was an understatement. Every relationship he had hurt. Normal for him.

"Don't believe that. She loves you more than anything. Even more than me. You could find her. Anytime you want you could go to her."

"Yes, I will go to her shortly. I need her, Geralt. I mean, I need you too, but in the next few months, I am going to need her. But, I wanted to be with you first." She fixed her bright gaze on him. A shadow of worry darkened over them for a moment then she blinked and looked away. She drew in a shaky breath. "Speaking of fathers…"

"Weren't speaking of fathers," he pointed out.

"Well," she waved her hand in the air dismissively. "We are now. How did he take the news? Did he believe you?"

Silent, Geralt took his time drawing a pull from the mug. Its cinnamon spiced heat warmed him all the way down. He sat down the beverage and stretched his legs under the table. "Honestly, have no idea. Your father is a hard man, Ciri, and tough to read. Told him what you wanted in the most convincing way I could."

"That's all I could ask for. This way he'll stop hunting me down. Thanks, Geralt."

A silence settled between them thick like a fleecy blanket. He eyed her and took another sip. "When are you going to tell me what you really want to say?"

"What?" The mug wobbled on the table when she let go of it. Cider splashed over the sides.

"You heard me."

"How'd you know?" she whispered, her cheeks reddened.

Quirking his eyebrow, he did not answer right away. When he did he kept his voice low. "Your heart rate is quick, your smile, at times shaky like you are nervous about something. You look tired, weary. What is it?"

"Not here, Geralt… please. Rather not be in a public place."

"All right." He stood up. "Will get a room…"

Her hand snapped out and clutched his arm. "Took care of it. Already rented one for the night."

Sitting back down, he nodded. "Good thinking. The place is busy."

"Yeah, all the rooms are taken."

"Let's go then."

Finishing the cider in one large gulp, he deposited the mug on the table. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and rose from the bench. Offering her a hand, she shook her head, muttering something about being able on her own. Her fingers clutched the heavy black cloak closed across her chest. Something about the cloak pricked his subconscious, but his focus on her buried any further thought.

"Follow me," she passed ahead of him and headed for the stairs, her cloak billowed out behind her. Some drunken townsmen leered and whistled at her. When their gazes landed on him, their jeers turned to filthy taunts and crude jokes. Ignoring them all, he followed her tall, but slender frame to the staircase.

"Which room?"

"The last one on the right."

"Meet you there. Gonna grab my saddlebags first."

She nodded.

He watched her reach the second floor. Gods, he was so glad she made it back. After she willingly left to face the Frost, he honestly steeled himself against the thought that he'd never see her again. It was a reality he could not live with. He understood Yennefer's anger and fury. But, Ciri was back and he could breathe again.

The door clicked closed.

Every nerve ending popped alive as soon as he stepped into the room. She bit her bottom lip. Keeping her excitement in check, Ciri tossed another log in the grate and the flames roared. Turning, she removed her cloak and draped it over a chair facing the hearth. Geralt dropped his saddlebags on the end of the bed.

"Nice room," he said. "Bigger than expected."

"Yeah," she nodded. "Must be the honeymoon suite. It was the last available one." He chuckled and waves of tingles racked her lower belly.

Removing his cloak, he watched her with those unique cat-like eyes that only a handful of other men in the world possessed. She faced the fire again eager for its warmth, not knowing why. Although the room was chilly, she burned from within.

"Have something for you."

Glancing over her shoulder, Geralt picked up a scabbard from the bed. It was not one she had seen before. Steel hilt and guard glittered in the firelight. Widening her eyes, she took a step a forward.

"It's… beautiful," she breathed.

He stood before her, tall as a towering sentry. She breathed in deep his familiar scent of leather and steel mixed with that natural woodsy fragrance of pine and campfire. It was an aroma she always appreciated and remembered at Kaer Morhen. It was the scent she dreamed of when she could not be near him.

The weapon lay flat across both palms and he presented it to her. She peered in his eyes. They glowed golden, his vertical pupils rounded in the dimness of the chamber. His expression reverent and proud.

Breath caught in her throat, she wrapped her fingers around the etched ivory hilt, its chill bit her palm. Cherishing and honoring the craft that formed this weapon, she slid her hand down the pommel to the circle of steel at the end, its sturdy circumference fitting her small hand just right. This was made specifically for her. Never before had she experienced this sense of awe. He did this just for her.

A quick glance up at him revealed an intense, unblinking gaze, and a slight grin spread across his bearded cheeks. He held his breath then let it out slowly as she stroked the hilt again. Impressive craftsmanship.

"Go ahead," he rasped in that deep gruff voice of his. "Hold her."

Slowly, with reverence, she unsheathed the sword and the high-pitched hiss sang in the room. She held her breath. Pure silver glinted in the golden glow of the chamber.

"Thirty-eight and a half inch blade weighs about forty ounces."

Sharp as a razor, and fit for a witcheress. Runes etched in the blade glistened sky blue when the light hit it just right. They matched the runes of Geralt's silver blade, but this one had a glyph etched just below the cross-guard. She angled the sword in the light. It depicted a sparrow in the Elder Speech. Below the glyph engraved the word, "Zireael."

"Swallow," she breathed.

"Hmm-hmmm," he hummed. "A symbol of spring and rebirth. My little swallow."

"Oh, Geralt," she breathed. Warmth and love overwhelmed her heart and soul.

"Had it made especially for you, Witcher-Girl. Notice the weight? Slight enough for you to wield it, but just as damaging if I were to use it."

Heart pounding, she raked her gaze up to his glittering eyes and beaming smile. "This… is a true witcher's silver blade?"

He nodded. "Silver-plated siderite steel core. Forged by the most talented master swordsmith in Novigrad." His hand smoothed over her hair and caressed her cheek. Closing her eyes, she leaned into his warm palm.

"A witcher needs her silver blade."

A quivering sigh escaped her lips. Hugging the weapon to her chest, waves of emotions ran rampant through her veins and left her light-headed. Her tower of strength, her refuge, her will to survive, her everything, all wrapped up in this one man. The one man who had changed the course of her very existence, gave her a home for almost two years and taught her just about everything she knew about the Witcher trade. Now he pronounced her with the very title she had always yearned to achieve. Just like him. A witcheress.

"This is the greatest gift ever, Geralt. But, it must have cost a small fortune."

"Not for you to be concerned about."

Striding over to the bed, she carefully laid the sword on the downy comforter. Turning, she rushed into his full-bodied embrace, clutching him close. His arms enveloped her, his warmth seeped through cold leather, chain-mail, and sharp buckles. She was back in his arms again, the one place she ever longed to be.

"I love it, Geralt. And I love you."

Reaching up, she raked her fingers through his long milk-white hair and drew his head down towards her. His lips captured hers before she could do likewise. Strong arms wrapped around her back crushed her against his chest.

She laid a hand on his chest and broke the contact. With a sigh, she turned back to the fire and hugged her stomach.

"What is it, Ciri?"

"Nothing."

"Don't believe that for a second."

The jingle of buckles and chain-mail crashed to the floor. Leather came next. Then he was beside her at the fire wearing only his leather trousers. A large hand rested at the nape of her neck. A delicious tingle shot down her spine to join the tumult already churning in her belly.

"Ciri. What's wrong? Moved on from me already? It has been four months. Found a nice strapping young man?"

"Don't be silly. You know I only want you."

"Then tell me what's wrong. Thought you'd be overjoyed to see me again."

"I am," she whispered. "Just... don't feel well, is all."

His brow crinkled.

She turned to him. "I'm tired, Geralt. So damn tired."

"If anyone has earned a good rest, it's you." He led her to the bed. "Get undressed. Tonight, I'll just hold you." He placed a kiss on the side of her neck, just beneath her ear.

Her eyes misted over and she nodded. "Yes, that would be lovely."

Once in bed, he stretched out behind her and pulled her close against him. His chest hairs soft against her back comforted her. His hand slid down her side from ribs to thigh and back up again before he draped his arm in the curve of her waist. Her gaze found her new sword propped against the nightstand. Sighing, she found his hand and intertwined her fingers between his long ones. He squeezed her hand and held it tightly.

This was how she remembered the nights on the road all those years ago when she was a terrified little girl. Only he kept the fear at bay. Warmth flooded her mind, body, and soul. Here in his arms she was safe and treasured. Not for who she was or how she could further the gain of another, but to Geralt she was simply his little Witcher-Girl. His destiny. The heat he generated seeped through her inside and out. Once again her protector and mentor. Everything would be all right. She longed to stay here, just like this… always.

Sleep descended quickly. For the first time in a decade, she slept peacefully, void of nightmares.