Through Your Eyes

~1~

Hold On

"Who's Yennefer?"

By the time Geralt snapped to wakefulness at the voice in his head, he found the little girl staring at him intensely from across the unlit campfire between them. She had her knees huddled to her chest and was hugging them close to her small, emaciated body for warmth beneath the filthy, royal blue, woolen cloak she donned. Ciri, currently regarding her newest mentor, wore an expression that was both guarded and distant, as if she would flee at the first sign of danger, or as if she had been in his head and could read his every thought. And yet...there was something familiar about her resolve, too. To stay, because she absolutely needed to. Because, truthfully, she had nowhere else to go. In a disturbing way, it reminded the witcher of himself as a child, when so often he thought about fleeing Kaer Morhen. But those memories were neither pleasant nor something he wished to share, and so he brushed them aside as quickly as they came.

Geralt, now feeling weary, sat up and breathed deeply through his mouth, trying also to forget his vividly haunting dreams that took place at a burning Sodden Hill. Sleep, however, still clung to his subconscious; he was supposed to have stayed up and kept watch and couldn't remember when or how he had fallen asleep instead.

Only that he dreamed of-…

"That's not important." Stoking the embers of their former fire in distraction, Geralt dismissed both her question and the bone-deep ache he felt at the thought of the sorceress. Even though he pretended not to, he could still feel Ciri's wide, curious gaze on him, like he wore the shame of his lie on his very skin. Like his insincerity on the matter was as evident as the shirt on his back.

"If it's not important, then why do you keep calling out her name in your sleep?"

Ciri wasn't holding back any punches today.

Initially, she'd taken his silence on the subject at face value, but the more time they spent together on the road to Khaer Morhen, the less she believed him. Yennefer was important to him, afterall, and Geralt couldn't help the way he tensed and prickled every time Ciri would say her name so casually. What was just a word to the princess, was like a lash to Geralt's heart every time he heard it.

The witcher eyed the naive, teen girl from beneath heavy, silver brows, postulating her for a few moments. "How long was I out?" he countered.

"Don't change the subject." Her face betrayed nothing but he saw the way her pale fingers clutched at the blue cloth tighter, nails digging into the coarse fabric. The slight twitch of anger in her youthful jaw as she contained her annoyance at him with a taught, royal air. "Is she in trouble?"

Geralt sighed, but he ought to have laughed. Ciri's stubborn, fiery nature that she tried so hard to smother, as well as her affinity to calling out his bullshit, ironically reminded him of the raven-haired sorceress herself. But it hurt to think about that, like digging at a raw wound that would likely never heal.

And so, his melancholy settled in instead, and he cast his gaze downward to the pile of ash before him. "I...I don't know." It was the first time he'd been entirely honest with the princess, and she appeared to realize this, her fair features softening.

"Do you love her?"

Just like that, an innocent little girl had disarmed the seasoned witcher, and he'd barely started her training.

Not because Geralt didn't know the answer to her question; he did. He knew it like he knew that the night sky was full of stars, or that the woods were crawling with monsters. The answer was inarguably, irrevocably, immediately yes. Always yes. Resounding and powerful in the back of his mind, as sure as he was of anything.

Geralt had spent the majority of his life being told by everyone he ever met that he wasn't supposed to feel. That he didn't feel, couldn't feel. And, as instructed, he let them all believe it, because it was always easier. More money, less fuss. But it didn't have an ounce of truth to it, and Yennefer was proof of that.

Yet, here was this child, unlikely to know much about a witcher's reputation at all, who had drawn the easiest, most plausible conclusion, reading his heart like an open book. And Geralt hadn't even told her a thing about the woman whose name he often whispered deep in the restless, lonely nights.

He opened his mouth to answer, not entirely sure exactly what to say yet, but was then promptly interrupted by the undeniable scent and taste of smoke on his tongue. Not that of a campfire, but something far more pungent and unnatural. Like the forest itself was on fire, but full of rot and decay, and its taste twisted Geralt's expression into a disgusted scowl. Immediately, he came to his feet, falling into a hunter's stance, and listened carefully as animals moved about the brush, speeding away from something.

A swarm of birds, feathers as black as night and flapping aloud, abruptly took to the skies, blotting it with their wings like an ominous, dark cloud.

"Stay here," Geralt instructed Ciri gruffly, going to get his swords and potions which he'd left nearby the tent they'd pitched for the night. In the distance, Roach whinnied uncomfortably at her post, stamping her feet into the ground with restlessness.

But Ciri was on his heels regardless of his instruction. "No, don't leave me!" she cried after him.

He swiveled around to face her and, gazing into her terrified, green eyes, softly promised, "I'll be right back."

It could have been the Nilfgaardians on their trail, or something worse. And Geralt knew that they'd all want the girl; she'd told him as much when they'd finally met. But moreso, he didn't want Ciri to witness the brutality of more killing and bloodshed, especially at his own hands. The princess had already been through more than enough, and his status as the Butcher of Blaviken was still a roaming theory she might have heard about already. If he scared her any further, she'd run from him for certain.

"You'll be safer here until I know more," he tried again, gentler this time.

It didn't escape Ciri that he'd placed a hand on her shoulder, and truthfully, he wasn't entirely sure why he'd done so in the first place. Only that he felt he had to.

Finally, the princess nodded solemnly, even though her bottom lip quivered and her eyes glossed over. This was not the first time — nor the last time — she'd said a hard goodbye.

Geralt didn't like the idea of leaving her behind any more than she did, and he wanted her to know that. He'd only just found her, and already he would be abandoning her, like everyone else in her life had. But his priority was to keep her safe, at any cost.

And so, with great difficulty, he turned away and walked deeper into the forest, the thicket of trees swallowing his tall, hulking form, both his swords strapped to his back, the familiar wolf-head pommel glinting silver.

Ciri watched him go forlornly before she eventually decided to take shelter in the makeshift tent nearby, feeling frustrated at herself for being too useless to help. For yet again, only existing as a liability to those around her.

Just like she'd been with Dara.

Thoughts of the elf boy made her feel worse though, and she huddled beneath the hood of her cloak, trying not to cry as the rain began to tap against the fabric of the tent. It had started to drizzle softly, and an eerie fog had rolled in, casting the forest in a dewy, grey morning.

As his instincts prickled in a familiar forewarning of danger, and his wolf pendant grew hot against his chest, Geralt drank one of his cat potions, trained his focus on the growing sounds of what he could only presume was a scuffle, and made his way through the brush even faster. The humidity of the forest made his skin wet with perspiration — sweat and rain coalescing on his face and making his pale, unruly hair stick to his temples.

He could hear them now — smell them. The undeniable, pungent stench of old dirt and deterioration was as familiar to the witcher as the scent of bread was to a baker, only nowhere near as pleasant.

The rain, humidity, and fire was not helping matters, but it did lead the witcher closer to the correct destination when it intensified the gagging smell. Geralt had burned more than his fair share of Nekker flesh to recognize what the odour permeating throughout the woods was coming from.

Something — or someone — was killing the Nekkers with fire.

Geralt found them in hordes, swarming in a clearing, sharp teeth clicking, and hissing in anger as their claws slashed the air. The hunched creatures always did like lingering around until dawn, especially when they thought they'd found decent prey and a source of food.

Not waiting for an invitation, the witcher drew his silver sword, the blade singing as he unsheathed it, and his blood pulsing with the anticipation of battle. The nekkers screeched and another bout of fire, paired with a willful cry of power, consumed the closer ones that had ambushed their target, charring their thin skin a charcoal black. They died with an unnatural scream fading from their lips.

Geralt flicked his wrist, entered the clearing, and his sword sliced the air, thirsty for the blood of the monsters. With the brief element of surprise, he cut down one, two, three, four in a whiplash of flurries of the silver sword, their thick blood splattering onto his face and clothes. And then he took out another two just as easily before the nekkers learned of his presence.

By then, him and the mage — for it had to be a mage casting an Igni spell so powerful, it could deteriorate the entire forest if the user wished it — had whittled down their numbers enough to scare away what was left of the hunting party. The remaining nekkers ran past Geralt, some on all fours, squealing like frightened pigs and parting around him to avoid the blade dripping with the dark blood of their brethren.

That was when he finally saw her standing there in the distance, and his heart — typically slow and steady — appeared to thump wildly in his chest, as if it were just about ready to burst from his ribcage in its race towards her.

At first, he thought he was dreaming again, not believing his eyes.

Yennefer of Vengerberg, wounded and strained, stood before him in the empty clearing, the thick fog rolling in at her feet. She clutched at her side where a fresh pool of blood seeped through her fingers and added to the stains of ash, and her dress — various beautiful ropes and threads — looked to be coming undone.

The exertion of using the fire had taken a toll on her, the colour of her skin going sickly pale, her breathing laboured and dry. It appeared like she could barely stand, the way she was bent over, staring down at the ground like she wasn't seeing at all.

The grass around her was burnt to a crisp, still smoking from her fire, a lump of crisp limbs strewn about her, mirroring an epic battlefield not too unlike what Geralt had dreamed of these past few nights.

Once the imminent danger seemed to have subsided, Yennefer coughed, stumbled forward, and then collapsed, far too exhausted to even make note of Geralt's presence. But the witcher was swift; he was at her side in a few long strides, catching her in his arms just before her head hit the floor.

Her curtain of ebony hair — still impossibly silken to the touch and very much real — obscured most of her face, and Geralt brushed it aside tenderly in order to survey the damage on her impeccable skin.

Much to his relief, Yennefer was still breathing, her heart beating rapidly, albeit faintly.

Ash smudged her bronzed complexion, and all around her eyes, the skin was raw and puffy, smeared with tears and the black coal of her makeup, ruined from anger rather than sadness. Yennefer lay limply in his arms, and Geralt's heart ached at the sight of her. It took immense willpower not to cradle her to his breast and openly weep in worry for her well-being, all at once feeling the unbearable weight of his regrets from their past. Had he arrived only a moment later, she might have been nekker food. The brief scan he gave her condition proved she'd been almost depleted entirely trying to keep them at bay for as long as she could. But Geralt was no fool; he knew her injuries came from more than just a pack of vicious nekkers.

Carefully, with the utmost tenderness — like he was handling the most fragile of treasures — Geralt scooped her into his arms, supporting her head with his bicep and his other arm just under her knees. Yennefer's head lolled lifelessly onto his chest and that scent — lilacs and gooseberries — wafted impossibly to his heightened sense of smell. Even through the stench of rot and charred nekker flesh, she could still hypnotize and render him useless with her sweet, subtle perfume.

Geralt came to his feet nonetheless, her fading aroma only driving his urgency to get her immediate help. The fight in her was almost entirely snuffed out, and Geralt was amazed that she hadn't attempted to kill him, too, out of her necessity to survive, and the delirium from the significant blood loss.

Just as he turned to take her back to his tent, where he knew Ciri would have a million more questions, Geralt winded up coming face to face with the moon-faced girl he'd reluctantly made his ward and left behind. Ciri stood at the edge of the forest of trees, a blue and white smudge that stood out against the dreary backdrop of green and brown and grey. Eyes wide and perplexed, she didn't appear to care any for the burned nekkers and smoking fumes that marked the clearing, but instead, stared at the unconscious woman currently cradled in Geralt's arms, and then questioningly back at the witcher.

They maintained eye contact, and without a word, Geralt immediately knew that his distraught expression gave way to all of his complicated feelings regarding Yennefer. Despite the years of witcher training, none of it appeared to serve him at all whenever it concerned the raven-haired sorceress who had so effortlessly captured his heart.

And Ciri recognized it, along with his shame, no matter that she'd only spent barely more than a fortnight with her newest mentor.

With a heavy heart, Geralt realized that he'd have a lot of explaining to do.