Summary: Fleeing Novigrad, Geralt grapples with the events that had taken place in the city. Dandelion had to flee with them for he is no longer safe either. Ciri, traumatized, needs help and Dandelion is the one who finds that help for her.
Notes: Gamers of the Witcher 3 Wild Hunt will recognize the dream sequence. We live this scene through Geralt's perspective in the game, but I wanted to tell the most moving cinematic piece in the game from Ciri's perspective. In this "Vision," not only does she get a glimpse of her future self, but I wanted to dramatically show a thread I hope to carry throughout this work. The idea that by taking Ciri under his wing, Geralt, in truth, sets her free in many ways and in return (more visible later in the story) she sets Geralt free on an emotional level. I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Chapter TextCHAPTER EIGHTVisionThe moon, obscured by thick low-hanging storm clouds, abandoned the world to oppressive darkness. The persistent rain continued its barrage and trailed down his leather jerkin in steady streams, drawing out its familiar pungent scent from the wetness despite wearing a thick wool cloak. But the rain could not wash away turbulent thoughts or untwist churning knots deep in his gut.
With a swift kick of silver spurs, Geralt jolted Roach from a trot into a gallop once they reached the open fields beyond the village. The rain had turned the dirt path to treacherous mud, but the mare, accustomed to off-road trekking, trudged through the muck with confident speed. This was one of those times he appreciated and relied on her stamina and agility.
Securing an arm around Ciri's midsection, he braced her against him and tucked her inside his cloak. The woolen folds closed over her completely, protecting her from the elements.
He spurred Roach again. Faster! Fly across the fields! As if she understood his thoughts, the mare lowered her head and thundered across the muck onto the grassy plains, her mane whipped in the wind spraying water in all directions, as did his. Mud and grass tore from the ground underneath her hooves, arced in the air behind them maring the landscape. Tall grass and copses of trees blurred passed in nondescript black shadows. The moonless night offered no guiding silvery rays, but he did not require much light to see in the darkness anyway. Balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, he bent low into the biting wind, clutching Ciri all the while. Faster she sped northeast with the frigid rain stinging his eyes.
The sharp cold he'd take rather than the sickening churning inside. He kicked her flanks again and Roach lengthened beneath him, giving the effort he demanded. With each thud of her hooves, he expected an outlet for his tension and anger, yet all he managed was to seethe even more.
He drove her on. Mud shot into the air and rained down about them in a radius like a twisted hailstorm spell gone wrong.
It was not about leaving the city behind as fast as he could. No, not at all. But he couldn't let off steam in a sword fight or an arm wrestling match at the moment. But what he really wanted was to gut the fucking sailor a second time, pick him back up, and do it again. Really, he would not have let the scum die so easily. A few unpleasant torturous ways of disposing a man had crossed his mind that he would have liked to do to the bastard and draw out an agonizing and slow death had Ciri not been present. Blast her stubbornness!
But right now, all he had was his horse and she thundered over the saturated ground tearing it up in her wake, but what release he gained was far too little for his satisfaction.
He sustained the relentless sprint and only after Roach slipped and stumbled a couple times, did he rein her in. Slowing to a steady trot, he steered her off the muddy road into a dense forested area. Running her hard with two bare hooves was not wise or kind, but concern over Ciri dominated his thoughts.
Damn it all to hell! He was supposed to protect the girl!
He slammed a silver-studded fist into the nearest unsuspecting tree trunk. Bark chips shot in all directions. One ricocheted off his shoulder and careened to the ground near Roach's back leg. Typical of his skittish mare, she danced sideways and snorted.
Still tucked within his cloak, he tightened his arm around Ciri. The innkeeper took her away and he let it happen. What was he thinking? He should have known she would come find him. With spunk and wit she had escaped from that Nilfgaardian knight that had plucked her from the carnage during the massacre of her country. She had eluded him and the empire's battalions across Cintra's borders, so of course she could certainly break away from an inkeep. But tonight, she was alone in a foreign city, lost in the middle of a stormy night, and terrified…
She had no one else. He was all she had. If not for him, she would not last long in this world. A world that was unkind, and to women especially, regardless of age. No young girl should be left alone with no one to turn to for protection and support.
He snapped the ends of the leather reins across his knee. Its bite stung, even through the leather trousers, but ignored it. Why didn't he wreck the guards in the stable right then and there, which was his initial instinct anyway?
"By the gods, Geralt!" Dandelion sided his bay mare alongside Roach. Both horses labored in gasping breaths, belching out puffs of white clouds from their noses and mouths like smoke from a scorching forge. "Plan on running your horse into the ground? Forgot she's missing horseshoes already, did you?"
Geralt ground his teeth. Rain streamed from his forehead, down over his cheekbones, and the back of his neck. No, he had not forgotten. With a wet glove, he swiped water from his eyes and mouth. This cursed incessant rain!
His gut churned in painful spasms. "I should never have told her to go with the innkeeper. It's all my fault," he ground out.
"No, don't think like that, Geralt. It wasn't your fault."
Roach danced in placed and snorted out a huge cloud of white. He tugged the reins and she settled. "If I hadn't let her go with him, none of this would have happened, Dandelion."
"I think the innkeeper only meant-"
"He was motivated out of concern for Ciri, I get it. But his good intentions ended up doing her more harm than if he had let us well enough alone. Why couldn't he have just let us be?" His gaze dropped to the soggy ground. "All because he didn't trust me, a Witcher, like I was some kind of... monster." He spat that last word. "Where did we go wrong?" That last comment was more of an afterthought than a direct question.
"People are afraid of what they don't understand."
After centuries of existence, people still did not understand their kind? Long ago, Witchers, revered and respected, were held in such high esteem kings sought their expertise and gladly compensated them handsomely. Even folk easily tossed them coin bags for a job well done, but nowadays, negotiating a higher price for a contract usually left a bad taste in one's mouth and often accused them of exploiting their services. Truth of the matter was no one but the wealthy could afford a Witcher's true worth, which left them risking their necks for a few coins scraped up by those who barely had any to give in the first place.
Have Witchers fallen from grace so far that a young girl in his presence elicited such mistrust and disdain?
A sharp pang twinged in his chest and he grimaced. Just the memory of those dark scowls directed at him at the inn sliced through his sense of honor like a steel blade. The way the innkeeper had implied he had disturbing sexual tastes that involved young and undeveloped girls. His lip curled up in a snarl. He and his kind risked their lives every day protecting people, and this was how they were treated? As if they've lost moral and ethical standards, indeed become the monsters they hunt?
"I let her go with a stranger, Dandelion. What was I thinking?"
"Geralt… you did the only thing you could. You acted with her in mind, my friend. Stop beating yourself up. You did nothing wrong. All we can do now is move forward."
Geralt found his friend's gaze, his pupils wide and black in the darkness. "She was almost raped, dammit!" The sharp bitterness in his tone was not lost in his own ears. "She needs me. I'm protecting her and that happened… On my watch, Dandelion. My watch."
His friend simply gazed at him, his expression full of concern. His shoulders slumped just a bit, but he caught it. Then it hit him how the usually primped and immaculate troubadour looked at the moment. The rain soaked him. In his colorful and fanciful velour, he resembled a drowned rat with his usual light-brown wavy locks hanging long and straight, plastered to his head. He was also mostly covered in mud thanks to his irrational mad dash.
"You are protecting her, and I know you, Geralt, you will protect her with your life for the rest of hers. She could not have asked for a more able and loyal guardian."
Geralt heaved a hefty sigh. Some guardian he had turned out to be! Ciri had not been with him very long and look what happened. He needed to do better than this. She deserved a much more competent protector.
He glanced back at his friend. However grateful he was for his presence, Dandelion was unwittingly dragged in the middle of this shit. They would not be in this situation had he bypassed the city altogether, but he needed to replenish supplies such as dried fruits and nuts, and clothing, warm ones for Ciri. And Roach needed two horseshoes. Another blanket and bedroll would come in handy.
"I'm sorry, friend," Geralt muttered. "You didn't have to be involved in this."
"I'm a wanted man too, Geralt, remember? We're in this together. Like old times, hey? You and me traveling together, a lot of times in weather as foul as this. Now tell me why we have left the road. Are they following us?"
He glanced back toward the direction they had come. Murky darkness swallowed the city, snuffed out what little lights flared along the skyline behind them. Fog as thick as cream soup hovered over the saturated ground and rolling mists wove their vaporous tendrils through the trees like the long crooked fingers of a crone weaving a magic spell.
Ciri nestled against him, but still she trembled violently. He tightened an arm around her again. He had to get her out of those wet clothes or she would catch her death.
"Dandelion, Ciri is still shivering. Take her and ride as fast as you can to the village. I'll not run Roach like I have already. Get her by a fire as soon as you can. Would you do this for me?"
With a serious expression, Dandelion nodded. Water sprayed from his drooping cap. "I said you could use a friend and I meant it. But wouldn't it be better if you took her on my horse? I'll take it easy on Roach and meet up with you there."
Geralt chose his next words carefully. He glanced around, inhaling a deep breath. The bastard was on their trail, he could feel it. "Normally, yes, but I need you to do this for me."
"Don't you think you sh-"
"Just do this for me. Please." He kept his tone serious, but not harsh. He locked his gaze on his friend's eyes, dark in the night.
Dandelion nodded. "I'll take her and wait for you there."
He let out the breath he held and nodded.
Carefully, he scooped her from his saddle and hoisted her up in front of Dandelion. After making sure she was secure in his saddle, did he let go of her.
"She didn't even wake. I hope she's just really tired."
The bard adjusted his lute strap so the instrument lay across his back in the same manner as Geralt wore his swords. The steady ping of raindrops tuned a more bass note on the wooden lute in contrast to the higher pitched pings on his sword hilts.
"Make sure you hold her tight… with your arm around her like-"
"Geralt, I got this."
"Right." He unfastened his cloak and flung it around his friend's shoulders. "Close it over her. Protect her from the rain."
"I can manage." Dandelion closed the cloak around her.
"Don't tell anyone who we are. Keep her identity hidden, please." Geralt collected a few gold coins from his leather pouch and placed them in the bard's gloved hand. "Here, use this for whatever you need."
Dandelion stuffed the gold into a hidden pocket and frowned down at him. "Don't worry, she'll be all right. You gonna be long?" He gave him a serious unblinking stare. "I know when you're not telling me something."
"Go. I'll catch up as fast as I can."
He slapped Pegasus' rump and she jumped forward. He stood and watched them weave through the trees and thunder away on the murky road. Within seconds, they vanished amongst the grey swirling mists.
Glancing back at the direction they had come, he checked the tautness of his sword belt across his chest. The cursed rain turned into a slow and steady drizzle, but it still seeped into everything. The dampness chilled to the bone.
Stifling a shiver, he relieved himself in front of some bushes. Leaning back against a medium-sized tree trunk, he waited long enough to give Dandelion lead time.
Warmth… Heat… She craved heat, needed it, would die without it. Why couldn't she warm up? Teeth chattered loud in her head, she could not stop it. She quaked from head to toe. Cold… this unnerving cold…
Geralt… she wanted him, needed him. She didn't feel him. Was he near? She sniffed. His earthy woodsmoke and leather scent that reminded her of a campfire in the woods was not around. He was not around… Cold. She was so cold…
She sank back into the vision that formed in her mind. Shadows focused into undetectable shapes and then those shapes twisted into recognizable forms, the colors, vibrant, filled in everything...
There he is. Tall and still, standing before a thatched-roof stone cabin. Not a single part of him moves, except his familiar white ponytail fluttering in the slight breeze. When the clouds part, silvery rays beam down outshining a single candle on top of a cloth-covered crate next to the entrance. The soft moonlight, diffused by mists, illuminates his pure white hair so that it glistens with the motion. The black leather trousers and jerkin, that fits him like a second skin, also shines sleek, the rays glint off the many silver buckles and studs on every piece of clothing.
Some baskets stuffed with glass bottles of various sizes, crates loaded with herbs, a few long two-by-four wood planks, and a wagon wheel propped against the side of the structure, fills the space beside the door, all suggests someone lives here. But the owner is nowhere around.
The house, the only one in sight, is surrounded by once full and vibrant pines that now droop their bare branches in a wearisome and drawn-out permanent winter, never having returned to the world of the living from their dormancy. A bluish-grey fog, illuminated by the moon, silhouettes the bare trees in an eerie way as if she has become a part of a dark children's tale.
She hovers just over his right shoulder, behind him, not sure how or why only that she is not in her true form. Or perhaps, this is her true form… However it may be, it seems Geralt is not aware of her presence.
His back to her, she cannot see his face or read his expression. The wooden door, framed with an ancient intricate and symmetrical design carved by an artistic and practiced hand, hung open but a crack, beckoning, but he just stands there staring at it.
An awful silence hovers over the dreary land. A breathless silence. One full of anticipation and… dread.
Still, he remains unmoving before the door. Is he afraid to go in? Hesitant of what he may find?
Breathless herself, she waits. Where is this place? A lone cabin in the middle of nowhere. Dank, cool, with swirling mists coiling around the trees after dusk, crawling low over the ground, suffocating everything. The distant cry of a… what is that? A harpy... echoes through the trees. Before she ponders how she recognizes a harpy's cry, she focuses on the locale. Reminds her of Skellige, actually, her home away from home. Is it possible they are on one of the isles? But this place... not one she recognizes.
Her attention snaps back to him. He has placed a gloved hand on the wooden door and ever so gently, he pushes it. The wood groans and creaks louder than usual in the stillness as his arm extends, holding it wide open.
Hesitating at the threshold, he just stands there. Motionless.
Her gaze shifts, peering into the darkness beyond the door. Eerily quiet, she cannot make out much of what is inside other than some broken crockery on the floor near the door. Is someone in there?
A bright silvery beam shines down behind them lighting a path into the darkened home. Or is that light emanating from her?
He casts a long dark shadow into the room. The black elongated shapes of the hilts of two swords, large and distinct, the circumference of his head and wide shoulders stretch across the floor and up the far wall where a bed rests. Someone lies upon it, also unmoving.
"Geralt…?" she dares, but her voice falters. She's not sure why she spoke, but just the sound of his name calms her even though the tone of her voice jolts her. It is not a familiar voice, but deeper, more mature, that of a woman. But it is her voice, of that she is sure.
He does not respond.
Can he hear her? Perhaps that is why he's not aware of her presence.
Just a small step he takes inside and stays focused on the bed in the back of the room. Then another small step forward.
She lingers at the threshold. She shouldn't go any further, doesn't want to intrude, although she felt silly for feeling this way. It was the way he moved, silent ginger steps… hesitant, as if he dreaded discovering something horrible, or the possibility of facing a deep-seeded fear. His body language, tense, alert, and ready to brace what he will find, all suggests this is a big deal… This is a moment he has been waiting for, something he has labored long and hard for… and yet, he cannot bring himself to face it.
Peering into the large single-room home, she studies the slumbering figure. Lying on her side facing the wall, a woman stretched out on top of the covers. Slender, feminine curves betrayed a lean, lithe figure, alluring, and tall. Dressed in tight black leather armor, high boots, a wide black and silver belt, and a deep wine-colored blouse underneath chainmail covers her upper body. Clearly fully grown. And her hair...
She sucked in her breath. No! It cannot be...
The emotions he so desperately attempts to stifle radiates from him like the rays of the noonday sun. They scorched her, suffocated her, for her emotions were truly similar at the moment. It is clear that the person on the bed means a great deal to him. To the man that means a great deal to her.
Standing there, he stares down at the woman, his expression stony, yet his eyes, soft and rounded, glazes over with… wetness? Gently, he sits down on the bed beside her, his weight dipping the mattress. The young woman does not wake or stir… Is she alive?
Her gaze races back to Geralt's and then at the woman again, but she still doesn't bring herself to cross the threshold. Not yet. He needs to be alone with this lady who is breaking his heart right now.
His lips firm in a straight line, he reaches for her shoulder. For a moment, his hand rests there, as if he were gathering the courage to finally face the inevitable. Gingerly, he rolls her onto her back. Her arms, limp, fall with a dead weight next to her and her head lolls to the side. He jumps to his feet and staggers backwards, overwhelmed.
From the threshold, she stares at the woman whose identity is now clear and loses the ability to breathe, fluttering to the ground just outside the door like a wilted flower, her light dimming. She does not have the strength. She cannot face the truth that…
The raw emotions he stifled moments ago, cascades over her like a thundering waterfall and she drowns in its intensity. He nearly stumbles and collapses back onto the bed, his elbows on his knees, head down… his heart broken.
NO, no, no! She screams, yet her voice is not heard. The sound never passed her lips. No, she cannot do this to him, she is right here! "Geralt!" she cries, but he still sits there, hanging his head, his eyes tightly closed. "I'm right here!"
Why can't he hear her? Her body may be in a deathlike state, but she is right with him, has been all along!
He turns to the still form, lying in the sleep of death, and slides his hands underneath the crooks of her arms like a mother does to pick up her baby from a crib. Drawing her up, he embraces her, buries his face in her neck, rocking back and forth.
It is too much. She cannot bear the grief, his loss. "I am right here…" she murmurs, her strength about gone. "Geralt, I'm here!"
Her strength evaporates and she wilts on the ground before the threshold. The only thing she can do is gaze into the house and at Geralt clutching the woman's limp form close to him. He knows she is gone, yet he still embraces her and slides a hand up her back, gripping the nape of her neck.
The display before her brims with the tender compassion she has always longed for and a sense that it has been ages since she has experienced that left her breathless. She lets go and absorbs the scene she is witnessing. However tender it is, it is intimate as well, by the way he wraps his arms tighter around her as if he wills to impart his life force into the empty shell of her body. However futile the effort, the longing is there. It is palpable. His thudding heart echoes in her ears, the groans of grief barely heard uttered from his lips, reverberates in her soul. The tears she cannot see she discovers on her own cheeks.
A sudden understanding fills her and her light grows in intensity until it blinds her. His love, true and unconditional, gives her strength, but even more so, sets her free. Weightless again, she rises in the air absorbing the rays of the moon. Her strength returns and she knows what she must do.
Finally allowing herself to cross the threshold, she scurries inside the dark house, as light as a butterfly, her essence shining in a radius around her. She flutters to Geralt, more than grateful for this man in her life, and then the pull takes over. His pull, his influence. Letting go, she twirls around him, but he doesn't see her and that was all right. He'll know in a moment. Over his shoulder, she came up behind him and the pull sucks her essence into the forehead of the unresponsive woman. The woman she knows all too well and is yet a stranger. The grown woman with ashen hair...
The crush of his arms around her, his hand at her nape holding her in place is the one place she longs to be… this close to him, protected and loved. The familiar scent of leather and steel, of pine and woodsmoke surrounds her…
She opens her eyes and encircles her arms around his back, clutching him as fiercely as he holds her.
Home, she is home!
With a gasp, Ciri's eyes shot open.
A ray of morning sun sliced a line of gold from the window down onto her face. A myriad of tiny glittering particles danced in a tireless rhythm inside the beam. Squinting, the brightness pained her eyes, and groaning, she moved to flatten the pillow over her face. But she could not turn her head. Or move her arms.
Her heart slammed in her chest, her breathing became difficult as a sick horrific wave struck her. She was paralyzed and unable to move in the slightest fashion!
A jolt slammed her in the forehead and shot an electric bolt through her limbs and out through her fingertips and toes. What was that? What just happened?
Breathing in rapid gulps of air, she twitched her extremities. Exhaling deeply, relief flooded her. Everything functioned properly.
She's alive… and able to move.
The memory of the dream began to fade and she scrambled to grasp it, to etch it in her mind and soul before it was lost forever like most of her dreams. For this one was special, she could tell. Geralt… he was in it. It had something to do with him. And her. But what was it exactly? She had a hard time recalling. It hovered on the precipice, but warmth swelled inside at the mere thought with a powerful sense of…
"You're awake, dear. Good. How do you feel?"
Tingles shot down her back. Although grateful she wasn't alone, she glanced about for the source of the unfamiliar alto voice. Ciri took in the chamber in one sweeping scan before settling upon a woman before the hearth. It took a moment for her eyes to clear and focus on her long dark waves that flowed over her slender back. The woman bent toward the grate and placed another log on the fire. Flames swelled and danced around casting shadows in the darkened room, although sunlight poured inside through the window over the bed.
"Wh-where am I?" Ciri croaked with a parched throat.
"Hush, child." The stranger turned toward her, her long flowing skirts swirled with her movement when she padded across the room. The dimness cast her features in shadow and Ciri squinted to get a look at her, but the brightness from the window blinded and hid everything beyond its golden beams in dark, muted shadows.
Pushing herself up on an elbow, she wiped her nose. Strong and varied aromas of sweet flowers and poignant herbs assaulted her senses. The tickle made her sneeze. Many different varieties of herbs hanging upside down from the ceiling and around the mantle bespoke this lady was an herbalist, or possibly a healer.
The lady came over, bent near, and placed a palm to her forehead. "Much better. Shivering ceased and still no fever."
Returning to the hearth, she used a wooden ladle and poured steaming liquid into a wide-mouthed earthen-colored crock. Gathering her skirts close about her legs, she sat down on a stool beside the bed. Holding out the mug, she said softly, "Here child, drink. You need to replenish your fluids. Careful, it is very hot."
Ciri sat up, clutching the sheets, but did not accept the crock. Glancing down, her lambskin clothing had been replaced with a long plain linen night shift a couple sizes too large. "Who are you? And where am I?" She looked for Geralt, but clearly, he was not there. Only the herbalist, or healer, or whomever she was, and she were the only two in the modest sized house.
"You're safe here. Please drink."
Ciri's breathing quickened. Although the woman appeared youthful, her glittering blue eyes were lined with kohl emphasizing their hue. Her fair skin, smooth and flawless was framed by dark wavy hair and red lips. She was beautiful. But despite her appearance, she was a stranger and she had no idea how she had gotten there and why. And where was Geralt? Or the poet, for that matter?
"Geralt!" Ciri cried flinging off the covers.
"Hush, child. There's no need to be upset. You're safe."
"I don't care! I don't know you. Where's Geralt? I want Geralt!" Despite an unusual weakness in her limbs, she scurried down the length of the bed and swung her legs to the floor. Upon standing, the room swayed in a circular pattern and she paused placing a hand to her forehead until the room righted itself again. The dizziness passed. Did that lady give her potions? Was she a witch? She must have drugged her! Geralt… she had to get to him!
It was then her eyes landed on her clothes drying out by the hearth. Her pants in particular arrested her gaze as well as her soul.
The woman's gaze followed hers and when they rested on her trousers also, her lips tightened, her eyes narrowed.
Stumbling over to the hearth, Ciri picked up the pants that had no longer fit properly. The back seam had been completely torn apart leaving a gaping hole where her bottom would be.
Cheeks flaming, the memory of what caused her pants to end up like this came rushing back at once. The sailor with one eye… the dark alley… her pants torn and ruined in an attempt at something much more horrifying.
A full-bodied quake overtook her again and weakness stole her strength. The sensation of falling and not able to control it until she hit the wooden floor left her breathless. The woman was beside her in an instant, helping her to her feet and back to the bed.
"Geralt…" she whined breathless. "Please... take me to Geralt."
A soft pillow beneath her head and covers tucked under her chin eased the shivers somewhat, but still she trembled.
The woman pressed the warm mug to her lips. Holding up her head, she encouraged her to drink it's contents. The taste was familiar and sweet, but it was mixed with something else she did not recognize. Her parched throat begged for hydration. She drank eagerly anyway.
The lady watched her with a worried expression.
Lying her head back down, Ciri needed to make sure the woman understood. "Please, mistress… I need Geralt-" Sleepiness weighed her eyelids. "I need him…"
"Sssh, dear. You are safe. Sleep now."
Everything went black.
Dandelion, exhausted, treaded down the path toward the healer's home situated on the outskirts of Yantra. The reins slack in his open gloved palm, even Pegasus' gait was slothful.
After he had stumbled upon this house a few hours ago, he thanked his lucky stars the home belonged to a healer, and a rather attractive one at that. He grinned to himself. And single too, for it was obvious she lived alone.
She took Ciri in and administered her skills at once, no questions asked. Not able to watch and do nothing, he jumped back on his horse and headed back in the direction where he had left Geralt, just a little way, in case he could be of assistance. But Geralt was nowhere to be found and he did not want to leave Ciri alone too long with the woman, healer or not.
It grated on him that Geralt wasn't forthright. He was hiding something, he was sure of it. Yeah, it annoyed him. And hurt a little to boot. How could a friend not trust him? But, on the other hand, perhaps trust was not the issue here for Geralt trusted Ciri in his care while he stayed behind and… well, dealt with whatever it was he wouldn't tell him. When he got here, he'd make him spill the beans or he'd regret it. He would compose a ballad about the Witcher's closed mouth syndrome and blasted sense of privacy.
Dandelion sighed. Reality was, he knew his friend well enough to know Geralt had good reason to do what he did. He always did. Methodical by nature, Geralt never wasted time on anything. Efficient and reliable, he always had a method behind the way he tackled anything. He would simply have to wait and trust him.
At the moment, the sun shone bright this morning, although he doubted it would last. The receding storm clouds darkened the sky to the east, but lighter clouds overhead still bode a mostly overcast day.
Tucked within a copse of tall thick oak trees, Chessa's humble and weathered wood house showed signs of years of decay, and due to lack of direct sunlight, the roof was covered in green and brown moss. The sun's rays clearly did not penetrate through the branches heavy with large leaves. Already, many of them had lost their dark green hue of summer and various shades of reds and browns of autumn now littered the ground around the house and the path that led to it. As if on cue, one such large multi-pointed leaf fluttered in the air not far ahead. It suddenly furled upwards, dancing in the current, tumbling over itself. Then caught up in the breeze, shot towards him. A well timed dodge saved his eyes from an unpleasant mishap at the risk of nearly tumbling out of his saddle.
When he reached the house, he took his time dismounting. The door groaned opened and Chessa stepped out on the porch, a hand clutching her skirts up enough to reveal high-heeled laced black leather boots that disappeared beneath the flowing folds of her dress. He grinned, despite the fatigue. The healer was a comely lass and not a green-faced, wart-nosed witch popular in children's' tales. Of that he was grateful.
After closing the door with care, she whirled on him, hands on hips and fire ignited in those stunning blue eyes.
Sadly, not the kind of fire he anticipated.
Was Ciri all right? A muscle clenched in his gut at the thought she might not be and that was the reason for Chessa's unmistakable fury. But wouldn't she be morose instead of angry?
Dandelion paused, taken aback. "How are you this morning, my fine healeress?" He tried to sound confident and offered a rather lazy bow, but truth be told, he was too damned tired.
"Don't you dare take a step closer, Poet, you hear?!"
Skirts fluttering, she approached and drawing herself up to her full height (which meant the top of her head barely reached his shoulders), her palm made contact with his cheek with a loud crack. A burning ache spread across the left side of his face.
"Had I known!" She spat.
Taking a step back, he rubbed his stinging cheek.
"Hey, I didn't deserve that." Although his pride stung just as much as his stubbled cheek, he refrained from raising his voice. It never bode well to yell at a lady. "Kindly inform me had you known what, exactly?"
Chessa's eyes spat fire anew. "You came to my home in the wee hours of the morning, frantic with worry, sopping wet, with a young girl in obvious need. She cried in her sleep for this Geralt fella. And when she awoke, she went into near hysterics because he wasn't here. I had to give her quite a bit of chamomile to induce sleep! But, she never cried out for you."
"I can expl-"
Chessa's pointed finger at his face silence him. "The back of her pants are ripped to shreds! They practically fell off her when I removed them. This girl is scared to death! I can only imagine what you did to her!"
Dandelion swallowed hard. "I can explain."
"Oh, I bet. You'll start by explainin' who this Geralt is and why she wants him so badly. Is he her father?"
"I… uh, no. But, he-"
"Where is he?"
"He's on his way. Look, Chessa. I… Geralt and I are very grateful you helped us out. You'll see for yourself when he arrives-"
"You and another man traveling with a ten-year-old girl? No others? No women in your troop?"
"Eleven," Dandelion sighed. "She's eleven. And ah… no. Just us three." He barely uttered that last statement because suddenly Dandelion had an idea of what Geralt felt back there in the city. Now he was accused of perverted behavior much like Geralt was. This could be bad. Very bad.
Chessa gave him a solid expression of disgust. "You'll not get any closer to the girl, you hear? Sleep in the chicken coop or… anywhere but my house you understand?"
"Chessa, my lady 'tis a simple misunderst-"
"Oh, don't try to flatter me with your fine eloquent tongue, Master Poet. I know men like you. And until I know what exactly is going on here, you stay away from the girl. Understood? Don't make me put a pox on ya."
Blue eyes flaring, Chessa's gaze swept over him and her stern expression softened. Just a bit. Was that the slightest hint of a smile of desire? Slight or not, he recognized that gaze when he saw one.
With a dramatic turn, she headed for the door with a grace unusual for someone like… a healer.
"It's not what you think, Chessa!" Dandelion's hands dropped to his sides. No, this was going all wrong! Why would she think he had anything to do with... Then a thought struck him. "Wait! Can I have my lute, please?" Dandelion called while the door closed.
A few moments later, the door opened again.
"No, no, NO!" Dandelion lurched toward the porch as the instrument came sailing through the air. Landing hard on his stomach on the wooden planks, he lost his breath, but pressed his forehead on his bicep, and breathed out a huge sigh. The lute lay across his outstretched forearms. His livelihood saved from destruction!
Rising from the porch with a groan, he straightened his jerkin and hugged his instrument to his chest as if it were the one thing he cared most about. Well, in a way, it was. He stood staring at the closed door of the healer's home. It was quiet inside. Ciri seemed to be in good hands and Geralt would never forgive him if he learned he left Ciri unattended, so not having any other choice, he pulled a rocking chair closer to the window and sat down, resting his lute across his thighs. He stole a peek inside the window. Ciri lay peacefully asleep on the bed, the sun's rays glittering off her messy ashen hair.
Relaxing, he sat back and propped up the lute against his chest and strummed it with well practiced ease. Grimacing, it was dreadfully out of tune. In the midst of the birds' relaxing lullabies, he rocked on the chair lazily strumming, and tuned it up as if he had all the time in world. Then he found himself humming a favorite song, one he had written showcasing the romance between Geralt and his sorceress lover, Yennefer. The romance that had become legendary because of his ballad.
Stealing another glance in the window, he met Chessa's intense gaze and they held the connection for a few fleeting moments until she turned away, her glorious long waves swirling with the movement.
Sighing, Dandelion continued making music and it drifted through the trees. He stifled a yawn.
When the hell was Geralt going to join up with them?
On its own accord, Geralt's hand found his sword hilt. He tightened his fingers around it and breathed better with the reassurance of its cold solid steel. He let it go. The blade he could count on, it was a part of him, an extension of his arm. He let out a slow calming breath.
Ciri was safe with Dandelion. He would get her to the village and to the warmth she so desperately needed. As for the bastard following them, he would know the sharp bite of steel soon.
Keeping to the trees, he continued back toward the city. Eyes and ears sharpened, he studied the ground for the tiniest evidence, listened to every bird call, heard sticks breaking, leaves rustling, and the scurry of small forest dwellers through the brush. He breathed in the dank musty air for any scent of their pursuer.
This he understood, this was his element. Already, his stomach unclenched, muscles relaxed, even though his blood stirred.
The Witcher was on the hunt.
