The road to Vizima had changed very little from the last time Geralt had travelled it; in fact, the only thing that had changed in that time, as far as he could tell, was himself. Even with his witcher's constitution, he found himself needing nearly-nightly respites from the trail, small breaks to offer his aching back and rear some relief from the wear of the saddle. Roach, too, had complained the first few days they had spent riding hard towards the Nilfgaardian province, but by the fourth day of journeying, her blustering had quieted, and she seemed to be enjoying the change of scenery.
Geralt had charted his trip before heading out, plotting a path which allowed him to circumvent major landmarks, avoiding such uncertainties as the militant mining town of Belhaven and the authoritarian Riedbrune in the Slopes. Even with his masterful navigating, however, it had proven impossible to bypass the Yaruga, and it had taken a steep parting of coin to secure passage across as he continued his journey north. He had pushed Roach hard to get through Sodden in a day, not wanting to linger near such tragedy longer than necessary, and he had made a point of avoiding the druidic fortress of Mayena, not wanting to have anything to do with Visenna or her kind. He had taken a much-needed night's stay in Maribor, knowing Triss to have dealings with its people and so trusting little trouble to come from his stay, but he had barely spoken to anyone while there, only requesting a warm bath and a room out of the rain before continuing on his way.
It was two weeks after leaving his doorstep that he finally spotted the signpost for Vizima, and he snapped Roach's reigns, squeezing her sides and barking a command for her to speed up the last length to their destination. The armour of the guards standing watch at the palace gleamed beetle-black in the morning sun, the golden trim and Nilfgaardian emblems on their breastplates glinting as they caught the watery light. One of the guards, a sturdy man in a winged helmet, stepped assuredly out of formation as Geralt drew Roach to a halt in front of them, watching as the witcher dismounted, before taking his horse's reigns to lead her forward.
The guard frowned as he looked Geralt over, and then Roach, before his dark eyes moved to the swords on Geralt's back, and he made a face, his thin lip twisting as he looked up into the traveller's cat-like eyes again. "Her ladyship the Empress of Nilfgaard is not entertaining unscheduled visitors," he announced, his voice thick with a Nilfgaardian accent. "She is awaiting expected company. We have strict orders to turn away drifters and petition-seekers."
Geralt frowned at the command, tightening his grip on Roach's reigns as the mare blustered behind him. "Do I look like a petition-seeker?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.
The guard narrowed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, and Geralt could feel his jaw clench at the unsubtle implication. He had been travelling for two weeks straight at that point, with only the armour on his back to wear, needing all the room in Roach's saddle-bags for his bedroll, cooking supplies, and provisions. He had spent his nights sleeping out under the stars, bathing in rivers where he could find them, and in taverns only on the rare occasion that he knew he would find no delay to his journey. He knew perfectly well what he looked and smelled like after two weeks spent in the saddle, but the fact that this guard thought that meant he was some kind of vagrant was a bit more than he was willing to put up with.
"I'm sorry," the guard finally said, not sounding sorry at all. "But I simply cannot let you through to see the Empress today. She is expecting important company, you see. We aren't allowed to let anyone else through."
"Right," Geralt answered, nodding in understanding. "And what company is her majesty expecting?"
The guard lifted his head, cocking back the wings of his helmet. "Her majesty Empress Cirilla is expecting a visit from her friend, the witcher, Geralt of Rivia," he answered.
"A witcher?" Geralt asked, raising his brows. "Interesting. And what do witchers look like, exactly?"
"Like mutants, I'd wager," the guard answered, standing his ground. "They've viper eyes and carry two swords, I'm told. Differing tales say different things, of course, but they're usually described as monstrous." He paused as he said this, as if something had just occurred to him, before his dark eyes began to slowly widen. Then, as Geralt watched, his gaze began to move again, first to the swords on Geralt's back, and then to his wolf medallion, until finally coming to rest on his yellow eyes, the last, most obvious piece of the puzzle. Geralt could see the man physically blanche beneath the sweltering weight of his helmet, and the guard quickly took a few steps back, clearing the way for Geralt and his steed to pass.
"Master witcher," the guard stammered, mortified. "I apologize, sir. Please, go ahead. Empress Cirilla has been eagerly waiting your arrival."
Geralt nodded, letting out a grunt, wondering how long it would take before someone recognized him – it had been almost half a year since the last time he had visited the palace, and he supposed the patrols were traded out regularly enough that it was plausible no one there would know him on sight. Giving a soft tug on Roach's reigns, he pulled her forward, past the leader of the guards, before handing her off to one of his subordinates, smirking at the man's startled expression. "She needs a bath," he told the guard. "Doesn't like strangers touching her, so watch your hands. I expect my things to be where I left them when I come back."
"Yes, sir," the guard stammered, nervously.
Geralt grinned at the show of respect, running a last fond hand over Roach's mane, before turning to head inside the palace, eager to see Ciri after so long spent on the road.
The palace at Vizima was just as Geralt remembered it, with its high, vaulted ceilings and diamond-patterned marble floors, with tapestries and carpets draped on every visible surface bearing the insignia and colours of Nilfgaard. Black-clad guardsmen flanked every door he passed through, turning fleeting, disapproving glances to his dirt-stained armour and travel-worn smell, but they said nothing to him as he wandered from room to room, searching for where Ciri could be at this time of day.
He paused as he passed by the corridor leading to Yennefer's room, the place where he had first sat down to talk with her about Ciri's fate – despite his eagerness to see the empress, he found himself feeling suddenly curious, and he turned, diverting his path, figuring it could do little harm to take a quick look inside. The room had changed very little from the last time he had been in there with Yennefer: the grated brazier lay empty and cold, the books she had been studying still sitting open on the desk. A picture of Ciri she had set out for Geralt, one of many, still lay untouched beside the tomes, and he picked it up, staring at the likeness, remembering how strange it had seemed at the time to think of his daughter as fully grown.
As he stared at the picture, wondering where the time had gone, he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps approaching quickly from behind him, before he felt something solid collide with him, nearly knocking the wind from him as it latched on with an iron grip. Looking down to his chest, he saw with a burst of warmth that two slender arms had wrapped themselves around his torso, squeezing him tightly, as something soft – a face, from the height of it – pressed itself firmly into his back. Geralt recognized immediately the tiny hands and freckled forearms, and he smiled as his heart gave a grateful leap, before dropping the paper to turn around and embrace Ciri in person.
Picking the empress up in a warm bear hug, Geralt spun her around, ecstatic to see her again, and she laughed out loud as she felt her feet leave the ground, wrapping her arms around his neck like a happy child. "I missed you so much, Geralt!" Ciri exclaimed, kissing his cheeks until he felt himself blush. "Oh, it's been so long since I've seen you! You don't know how dreadful it is without you!"
"Not that bad," Geralt joked, setting her down again gently. "Pretty nice house to be miserable in."
"This palace is the worst of it!" Ciri exclaimed, her hands never leaving his shoulders, seeming unwilling to let go just yet. "It's so boring here, Geralt! Not one single monster. Not even a rat, it's so unbearably clean!" Geralt laughed at her frustration, kissing the top of her head, before pulling her in again for another warm hug. Ciri squeezed him back tightly, before she suddenly coughed, letting out a sound of disgust as she pulled back again. "Gods, Geralt!" she exclaimed, wrinkling her freckled nose. "When was the last time you took a proper bath? Your armour smells like you've rolled in something dead!"
"Possible," Geralt answered, looking down at his armour. "Dunno what was on the forest floor."
"Well, you're getting a bath now," Ciri announced, before taking his hand and starting to lead him in another familiar direction. He knew where she was taking him – to the dressing-room where he had first been prepped for his meeting with Yennefer all those months ago, where a bevy of court ladies had washed him while Emhyr's right-hand general interrogated him on his reappearance in White Orchard. He remembered that bath distinctly, not because of the lovely ladies washing him, but rather because of how much he had enjoyed the oils and scrubs they had used, and he took a deep breath in as he was pulled along behind his daughter, already looking forward to the scented water and dissolving bath-salts the palace would undoubtedly provide.
They had only reached the second hall or so leading towards the dressing-room, however, when they found their path suddenly blocked, held up by a shapeless, pallid man draped in an ensemble of Nilfgaard's regalia. Voorhis' blue lips twisted in a strange expression as he took in the scene before him, his hands tucked perceptively behind his back, before he turned his watery gaze to Ciri, causing her to grip Geralt's hand a bit tighter as he zeroed in on her. "Your majesty," Voorhis drawled, his voice cold and slick, like oil. "I've been looking for you. You wandered off before you could finish going over the new proposals your father sent over from Nilfgaard."
Voorhis paused, before looking up at Geralt next, his gaze trailing slowly, as if unconcerned with wasting the witcher's time. "I believe he had some ideas for how we can improve things for those living in Nilfgaard's provinces," he continued, staring at Geralt as he spoke, though he was clearly still addressing Ciri. Geralt frowned at the act, making no attempt to hide his expression, earning only a thin, grim smile from Voorhis in return. "He always did have his peoples' best interests at heart," Voorhis added. "Always looking out for his fellow man."
"Didn't know you had a sense of humour, Voorhis," Geralt told him, refusing to drop his gaze from the general's first. "Figured you were born without it. Like some people are born without fingers and toes."
"My fingers and toes are all intact, witcher," Voorhis returned, coldly. "Thank you." Then, turning his gaze to Ciri again, he raised a hand, indicating for her to follow him. "Your guest will be taken where he needs to go," he told the empress, still speaking painfully slowly. "I'm sure he can bathe and dress himself. Despite evidence to the contrary." As Voorhis continued speaking, Geralt could hear the padded falls of booted feet behind him, and when he turned, it was to see two servants standing in wait for him to join them. They seemed surprised to have drawn his attention, but did not seem fearful of the witcher himself, having likely been warned of what to expect when Ciri's company came to call.
Geralt frowned at the servants, before looking back to Voorhis, having no doubt the general knew exactly what he was doing in separating him from Ciri. Still, he said nothing, not wanting to cause trouble, only giving Ciri's hand one last reassuring squeeze before letting go, taking a step back to allow her to go with Voorhis unchallenged. "Thank you, witcher," Voorhis smirked, taking a step towards Ciri and coaxing her forward to join him. "Come now, your majesty. You have important work to do."
"I'll be back soon," Ciri called back to Geralt, flinching a bit as Voorhis put his hand on her shoulder, starting to lead her out. "I won't be long – we'll still have time to visit, I promise!"
"Don't worry about me," Geralt assured her, taking another step back towards the servants. Then, turning to face them again, he nodded, indicating for them to lead the way.
The hot bath-water was welcome and refreshing against Geralt's weary skin, and he let out a long sigh, sinking down into the basin and allowing his arms to drape luxuriously over the sides. It had been a long while since he had been able to take an extravagant bath like this, and he gave a low hum, stretching his legs to the edge of the tub and allowing his tired body time to soak. As much as he sometimes missed life on the path, one of the many things he appreciated about Corvo Bianco was the ability to draw up a bath like this whenever he pleased, without the strange and unpleasant looks such requests sometimes drew from judgemental innkeeps. It was difficult to find a good bath on the road, let alone a good heated bath, but Yennefer had long ago perfected a spell for making the process nearly instantaneous whenever she was around.
Thankfully, she had grown a bit more charitable in her methods for disposing of his bathwater once he was done; these days, she had taken to using the water to hydrate the wildflowers growing on the hillock outside the manor gates, which Geralt had to admit was a sight better than her old method of watering whatever unfortunate passer-by happened to be near their window whenever he finished his soak. Despite her newfound resourcefulness, however, Yennefer insisted on only using fresh water on the actual property's plants, not wanting her garden to be soiled with runoff from sweat, soap, and monster entrails. To her credit, it had not escaped Geralt's notice that a few hillside flowers had indeed begun to grow in strange colours since she began dumping his bathwater there, though he had to wonder if that was due to the monster blood, or the magic she used in transporting it there.
Geralt smiled as he thought of Yennefer, wondering what she was doing while he was away in Vizima – but his moment of peaceful solitude did not last long as the doors to the dressing-room swung suddenly open with a bang, causing him to jump nearly out of his skin as a slim figure came rushing in. He sat up quickly in the tub at the intrusion, causing hot bath-water to slosh over the side, but Ciri did not even seem to notice as she came to kneel eagerly beside the basin. "Finally!" she breathed, beaming excitedly up at the witcher. "At last, we're alone and we can talk! I thought Voorhis would never let me go."
"Ciri," Geralt growled, grabbing the first thing he could reach – the scrub-brush sitting by the edge of the tub – and using it to cover the space between his legs. The scrub-brush did little to hide anything, and he quickly covered the rest with his hand, making a face as he frowned up at his ward. "You can't just come in here like that," he told her, feeling a hot blush start to flood his face and shoulders as he spoke. "Gotta knock first. Give me a little privacy." Ciri scoffed, seeming resistant, but scooted back a few paces from the tub, folding her legs in a crisscross and stashing her hands in her lap like an impatient child. Geralt shook his head. "Further back than that," he told her. "Behind the screen where you can't see anything. Go."
"I can't see anything from here," Ciri argued, scrunching her freckled nose in protest. "Not that it matters. Everyone in the Continent has seen your naked arse."
"Everyone but you," Geralt returned, lifting a dripping arm to point to the screen at the far end of the dressing-room. "Go."
Ciri's frown deepened at the instruction, her young face twisting in a look of frustration, but did as she was told, getting up and moving across the dressing-room to sit against the changing-screen, facing the tub. Geralt sighed as he watched her settle in, folding her arms in stubborn dissent, before deciding she was far enough away that she was in no danger of seeing anything while he was still in the tub. Setting the scrub-brush by the edge of the basin again, he reached over the side, picking up one of the provided bathing-oils, before pouring it out into his palm and starting to rub his arms down, making sure to cover every bit of skin stained by dirt and sweat on the long road to Vizima.
Ciri chewed her lip, watching him in interest, before finally taking a sharp breath in. "You've gotten new scars since the last time I saw you," she observed. "You didn't tell me about that in your letters. You made no mention of fighting monsters at all. All this time I thought you were just sitting around Corvo Bianco, drinking wine and growing fat."
"Hm," Geralt answered, rubbing warm water and scented oil into his aching thighs. "Thought you said you couldn't see anything from the edge of the tub."
"Forgive me for looking at your calf, Geralt," Ciri scoffed, tossing her mousy hair in protest. "I didn't realize you'd become such a prude. I'll remember to ask next time I seek to lay eyes on anything past your dainty ankles."
Geralt snorted at the retort, continuing to wash himself, feeling increasingly more at ease the longer he traded familiar back-and-forth with his child surprise. "Fought a few," he answered after a moment. "Didn't want to worry you by telling you about them. No big deal."
"That means it was a big deal," Ciri returned, quickly, sitting up straighter. "And Yennefer didn't want you to tell me about them. Is that right?" She raised her brows expectantly, lifting her chin as she waited for some response, and Geralt paused, considering trying to lie to her again, before finally nodding, realizing there would be no point. "Ha," Ciri smirked, settling back down again. "I knew that was the case. So you'll tell me about them now, won't you? Since you're already here, and there's no chance of me trying to come to your rescue."
Geralt grinned, picking up the scrub-brush, starting to scour ingrained dirt from his knuckles and nails. "I'll tell you," he agreed, nodding shortly. "But first I want to know what's been going on with you. Your letters have been very vague. Purposefully, I'm sure." Washing off his now-clean hands in the warm water, he reached again for the scented oil, rubbing more of it into his tired muscles as he allowed his body to soak in the tub. Making a sign under the water, he heated the bath again with a short flash of Igni, before folding his knees to sink his upper half into the tub up to his chin, allowing his sore back and neck to soak in the freshly heated water.
Ciri shrugged, making a face at the question. "I'm not sure what you want me to say," she answered, honestly. "I'm empress of Nilfgaard. My days have mostly been filled with my duties. I've had a few meetings in the past months where various nobility have tried to marry me off for political reasons, but I've always managed to weasel out of them somehow." She frowned at the thought, leaning back against the screen, stretching her slender legs in front of her in an effort to get more comfortable. "I'm lucky Nilfgaard has such pull," she added after a moment. "Or I'd have been forced into a political union some time ago, I'm sure. Nilfgaard's reputation precedes it in most parts of the Continent, and everyone seems to want a piece of its prestige."
"Not surprising," Geralt returned, closing his eyes as he continued to soak.
Ciri sighed. "I suppose," she conceded. "It's just strange to think that Nilfgaard was once the ruthless pursuer, and now seems to be the one being pursued. I suppose people have realized I'm not Emhyr, and they think they can take advantage of my youth and femininity to take Nilfgaard's power for their own."
"Hm," Geralt grunted, amused by the thought. "Whoever tried that doesn't know you very well." Dipping his head under the warm water, he gave his hair a moment to steep, before finally coming up for air again, parting the wet white curtains so he could see.
Ciri huffed, similarly amused, crossing her arms over her slender ribcage. "Clearly," she agreed, looking up at him again. "Clearly they don't know I'm your daughter."
Geralt smirked, pleased at the thought, but even more pleased with the phrasing she had chosen – it had not escaped him that she had called herself his daughter, while calling her biological father merely by his first name, Emhyr. Picking up a comb from beside the tub, he began to run it through his wet hair, gritting his teeth as he picked at the tangles, watching as dirt and small pieces of crumbled leaves began to fall from his hair into the scented water. He frowned as he stared down at the muddying bath, before a new thought occurred to him, and he suddenly stopped, trying to think of the most tactful way to begin asking what he needed to know.
"Speaking of… femininity," he said, and immediately wished he had picked a better lead-in. Ciri looked up in surprise at the preface, but only raised a brow at the witcher, curious and amused. Geralt took a deep breath, now committed, before looking down from Ciri's gaze as he began to comb his tangled hair again. "When you were… indisposed, at Kaer Morhen," he said, speaking slowly, feeling heat rising to his face as he continued. "When you were… thirteen. And Triss scolded us, and told us that you were… bleeding, and it was…" He stopped, frowning, sucking his lips into a frustrated line as he tried to think of a delicate way to word his question. He was too old to be embarrassed by these topics – he was a witcher, a man of worldly experience – yet here he was, blushing like a handmaid over the thought of a normal female bodily function.
"Women who don't have… glamour, or magic… they… do that all their lives," he continued, still speaking haltingly. "They're… indisposed, at times. And that's something that happens regularly. …Right?" He paused another moment after finishing, before finally looking up again, prepared to see Ciri trying her best not to laugh at his ignorance – but her expression was gentle as he met her eyes, tickled but understanding, and he felt a bit of his humiliation fall away, happy to have gotten the worst of his uncomfortable questions off his chest.
Ciri took a deep breath as she considered his questions, her teeth skating pensively across her bottom lip, before she narrowed her eyes, trying to decide how best to answer, equally delicately. "Not all their lives," she finally returned, folding her hands thoughtfully in her lap. "Women with no magic usually only… become indisposed, at certain times each month, and only for as long as they're capable of having children. Usually until their fortieth year or so."
"Forty?" Geralt asked, raising his brows in surprise. "Longer than I expected. Makes sense, though."
Ciri nodded, leaning back against the screen again. "I, myself still have months where I become… indisposed," she continued after a moment, still treading carefully. "Triss would be glad to hear that, I'm sure. She worried that the food and training at Kaer Morhen might have harmed my reproductive ability, but I don't think so. Even Yennefer says they didn't do any lasting harm, and I trust her judgement." She shrugged, looking up at Geralt again, noting that he was watching her with an anxious expression, but she only brushed off the cuff of her sleeve, reaching to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "It's mostly just magic and stress that cause any irregularities," she added, frankly. "Nothing to be concerned about."
"Can pregnancy cause irregularity?" Geralt asked, and regretted his bluntness immediately.
Ciri looked up at the bizarre question, her hand hovering halfway to her ear. "Well… yes," she said after a moment. "Pregnancy causes irregularities, of course. But I haven't exactly had time for romance since becoming empress, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Right," Geralt answered, nodding slowly. "But it's still… hm… a thing."
Ciri's eyes narrowed as she stared at the witcher, and she pursed her lips, clearly trying to read past his cryptic questions. "Technically speaking, it is something that happens," she agreed after a moment, speaking slowly. "What a woman loses during her indisposition is what's needed to keep a baby inside. Once she becomes pregnant, her body needs to keep all of that in until the baby is born. Does that make sense?"
Geralt grunted at the answer, still trying to piece it together. "So… pregnant women need to keep everything inside," he said, repeating her explanation. "What about… pee."
Had Ciri been drinking something, she would surely have spat it out – as it was, she quickly covered her mouth, trying her best not to choke in surprised laughter. "What!" she exclaimed, her green eyes brimming with mirth. "Geralt! Did someone tell you pregnant women don't urinate?" Dropping her hand from her mouth, she let out another hearty laugh, holding her stomach as she drummed her little heels in delight against the marble floor. "Oh, dear," she sniffled after a moment, wiping away a tear from her eye. "I suspect someone is pulling your leg, Geralt. From what I've been told, the baby sits right atop a woman's bladder. If anything, pregnant women urinate more than most."
"Hm," Geralt answered, nodding in agreement. "Makes sense now."
"What makes sense?" Ciri asked, pulling up her shirt to dab at her still-wet eyes.
Geralt shook his head. "Nothing," he told her. "Don't worry. It's nothing." Emptying the last of the scented oil into his palm, he ran it through his hair, massaging his scalp, before sliding into the water again, wetting it once more to clean it. Then, finished with his bath, he sat up in the tub, clearing his throat and pointing to Ciri again. "Turn around," he instructed. "Behind the screen. Don't want you seeing anything."
"What makes you think I want to look?" Ciri retorted, but she did as she was told, getting up and moving behind the screen.
Geralt watched as Ciri retreated, craning his neck to ensure she was facing the other direction. Then, satisfied he had some semblance of privacy, he pushed himself up from the basin, stepping out onto the polished tiles and picking up the provided towel to begin drying himself off. He tousled his hair with the soft cloth, before starting to dry his body as well, making sure to dab gently at his newest scars before reaching for the clothes Ciri's manservant had provided him. He had expressed often and openly his distaste for court attire, and it seemed Ciri had taken that to heart when providing clothes for his visit; the shirt she had picked was soft and roomy, and the pants, though a bit tight, were clearly chosen for comfort as well. Geralt hummed in approval as he checked his appearance in the floor-length mirror near the edge of the dressing-space, before reaching for the boots Ciri had provided, starting to pull them on as well.
"I knew you would like the clothes," Ciri smiled, back at his elbow again from seemingly nowhere. Geralt sighed as he straightened, realizing there would be no point in scolding her for coming back – he was decent now, and had likely been decent the entire time she was watching him. He had not seen her reflection in the mirror when he had been checking his clothes, at least, so she had likely not come around again until he started putting on his boots. Ciri grinned at the witcher, smoothing the shoulders of his shirt, before reaching into his neckline to flip his medallion to the outside, and Geralt frowned as he felt the necklace drop to his chest again, still and heavy like a stone.
"Used to go off when you did that," he observed. "Doesn't react to you anymore."
Ciri made a face, curious and amused. "What made you think of that?" she asked. Then, deciding it was not worth asking, she shook her head, waving a dismissive hand. "It hasn't reacted to me in quite some time," she reminded him. "The medallion stops reacting to magic it's grown accustomed to. Otherwise it would be going off constantly just from being around you. Don't you think?"
"Makes sense," Geralt pondered, fingering the wolf's head absentmindedly. "Doesn't go off around Yen anymore, either. Not unless she's casting or opening portals. Goes off around your Nova, still, too."
"Well, yes," Ciri agreed, nodding along, thoughtfully. "It has no reason to have grown used to that. I've hardly grown used to it, myself, and I've been doing it for years." She paused as she pondered this, as if not having truly considered the specifics of it before – then, before he could say anything else, she grabbed his hand again, starting to pull him along eagerly behind her once more. Geralt barely had time to seize his hip-satchel from the dressing-chair before he was pulled out of the room and into the bastion at large, following along behind Ciri as she chattered enthusiastically about anything and everything he had missed in his absence.
She led him through long corridors and finely-decorated rooms as she talked, places in the palace he had never seen before, and he made a note that he would have to return to them later, once she was no longer guiding him and he could take the time to appreciate them better. "I haven't seen much of Emhyr around," Ciri observed, drawing Geralt quickly back to the conversation. "He's been staying mostly in his own palace back home, allowing me space to regulate without him hovering about, trying to influence my hand. He was less than impressed with my decision to nullify the ultimatum on magic-users in the vassal provinces, of course, but I think it was the right choice in extending a gesture of unity on Nilfgaard's part."
Pulling him past a door and around a corner, Ciri led Geralt next through the familiar great hall, and he faltered as he noticed two golden thrones atop the carpeted platform, wondering if they had always been there and he had somehow simply missed them before. "I've been looking into legislation that would benefit non-humans as well," Ciri continued, pulling his attention back again, still a bit overwhelmed. "But it's difficult to find ways to do things that keep everyone happy. I know I can't please everyone, but I'm hoping I can at least start to rectify Nilfgaard's reputation by showing that we don't only care to protect non-humans who help to further our military cause."
"Lots of people upset with Nilfgaard," Geralt pointed out, following the conversation as best he could. "For good reason. Might be good to take it slow at first. Don't want people to get the wrong impression."
"And what impression is that?" Ciri asked, curiously, turning to look back at him as she began to push open the heavy doors to the courtyard. "That I've no wish to be like Emhyr, and am doing all I can to exemplify that?"
Geralt shook his head, helping to push open the second door to the courtyard. "No," he told her. "That's fine. Good, actually. You're not Emhyr. But that's just it. You don't want people to think you're too desperate to seek clemency from those Emhyr wronged before you." Following Ciri into the courtyard, he squinted against the waning midday sunlight, feeling the warmth of it on his face as they began to make their way down the garden path. Ciri's garden was just as magnificent as his own back home, if not moreso, with flowering plants springing up from either side of the walkway, painting the courtyard in bright purples, blues, and whites. He could distinctly smell lilac on the breeze as he followed Ciri towards a covered pagoda overlooking a small stream, along with the heady, perfumed scent of roses and the subtle sweetness of honeysuckle.
A small, round table piled high with food was already waiting for them as they crossed the tiny bridge to the gazebo, and Ciri quickly took her seat, indicating for Geralt to take the chair across from hers. Geralt did as he was told, settling down with a grunt, before watching as Ciri began to eagerly pour them two cups of steaming, jasmine-smelling tea, pushing one across the table towards him and picking up the other to take a sip. "Might just be paranoia," Geralt continued, taking his cup of tea and blowing on it to cool it. "I just worry they might think you're desperate to provide recompense, and might mistake your empathy for naivety. Or worse, weakness. If they think you're weak, they might try to retaliate." Taking a sip of tea, he suppressed a face at the watery taste, before setting his cup down in its matching saucer, deciding he had drunk enough to uphold appearances.
"Seems bleak, but Emhyr hurt a lot of people," Geralt added, looking up at Ciri again. "Can't put it past them not to take retribution at the first opportunity they think they can get it."
Ciri nodded, frowning a bit as she thought, clearly listening as she took another sip of her tea. Then, setting down her cup again, she licked her lips, before looking up at Geralt once more and narrowing her eyes. "Enough about Emhyr, though," she said, changing the subject. "I didn't ask you here to talk about politics. I asked you here to talk about witcher matters – which, it seems there's quite a few of them to discuss." Pinching her teacup between her slender fingers, she stared at Geralt across the table, watching him closely, but he only stared back, saying nothing, waiting for her to tell him what was on her mind.
"That disc you found," Ciri continued after a moment, seeming undeterred by his unwillingness to jump in. "You said in your letter you found it in the city. But that's not entirely true, is it? There's more to the story than what you let on." She began to grin as she said this, the corners of her mouth turning upward like a cat discovering a sunbeam. "Where did you really find that disc, Geralt?" she pressed. "And before you lie, know there was a layer of rotten residue on it when it arrived. Rotten organic residue. As if from the belly of some beast you'd slain to obtain it."
Geralt smirked, having wondered when Ciri might fold and change the topic to witchers and monsters. The amount of time she had tried to spend on politics had been commendable, but he knew her heart still lay with the path, and her curiosity could never be deterred for long, no matter how heroically she tried. "Not the belly," he answered, grateful that he could finally tell the truth. "Found it in the neck of a cemetaur-zeugl hybrid."
At this revelation, Ciri's eyes widened, and she sat back in her chair, staring in shock at the witcher. "A hybridized crossbreed?" she asked, her voice an astonished hiss. "That's—incredible! Did you document it fully? Get a scientific authority to verify the find?"
Geralt shook his head, his smile quickly disappearing. "No," he answered, grimly. "Just took its head. Showed it to Yen, but she didn't believe me. The only other person who's seen the beast is dead now, too. Got no one to back me up about it."
Ciri made a face at the answer, sitting back in her chair with a huff. Then, suddenly, she looked up again, her spirits returning as another thought occurred to her. "Did you bring the disc with you?" she asked, hopefully. Geralt nodded, pulling the polished plate from his hip-satchel and handing it over, and Ciri took it eagerly, holding it up to examine the numbers in the sunlight. "Fascinating," she said, beaming up at the find. "Did you take it to Fringilla? Did she have any thoughts?"
Geralt shook his head again, his mouth twisting into a frustrated gash. "Yen didn't want to," he answered. "Didn't think she'd help us. Too much bad blood." Ciri frowned at the news, before turning her attention back to the disc, staring at it intently as she tried to puzzle out what the numbers could mean for herself. Geralt huffed softly, feeling suddenly a bit useless, before clearing his throat, jerking his chin indicatively towards the artifact. "Could be some kind of booking number," he guessed, hoping to offer something helpful. "Beast was technically a necrophage. Could've killed a convict trying to escape through the sewers." Lifting a hand then, he tapped the side of his neck. "Disc could've lodged in its throat when it swallowed him," he added. "Wasn't exactly a fan of chewing."
Ciri looked up at the last comment, as if considering asking Geralt how he knew this, but seemed to decide against it, turning her attention to the plate again instead. "I don't think so," she said, thoughtfully, shaking her head. "It looks more like a cataloguing number to me. The kind used for organizing important collections—like in museums, or banks."
"Maybe it ate a curator," Geralt joked, holding out a hand for a turn to examine the disc.
"Or a bank robber," Ciri countered, handing the plate over with a grin. "You did say you found it in the sewer, after all. And everyone knows the sewers are where criminals like to hide. Has there been any mention of a recent bank robbery in Beauclair?"
Geralt shook his head, running a thoughtful finger along the stamped numerals. "Not that I heard about," he answered, honestly. "But I've been busy lately. Haven't been keeping up."
"That's right!" Ciri smiled, eagerly, folding her hands in front of her on the table. "Your 'other commitments'. So tell me: why is Shani living at Corvo Bianco now?"
Geralt looked up at the question, thinking a moment, before finally setting down the plate again and folding his hands over it with a sigh. "She's… our guest," he began, slowly. "She… runs a clinic, and helps with expenses for the house. Or, she will, once the clinic officially opens. Yen submitted a request, but we haven't heard anything about it. Think it got lost in the works. Or something's holding it up from approval."
Ciri faltered at the news, her eager smile falling. "Anna Henrietta hasn't approved your request?" she asked, sounding confused and affronted. "I don't see why she shouldn't. It's a reasonable request." She frowned, pondering on what would cause such a delay, before finally lifting a hand, looking as regal as Geralt had ever seen her. "No matter," she said, shaking her head. "I'll pass it through myself. I'll write up the paperwork before you leave."
"Appreciate it," Geralt told her, nodding, and Ciri nodded back, before leaning in further across the table, staring at him with eager eyes, making it clear she knew there was more to his tale. She had always been a curious girl, he thought, always keen on the trail of a story to be told, and he took a deep breath, feeling anxious cold fill his stomach as he prepared to continue. "Shani's also… pregnant," he said after a moment, the words rolling awkwardly off his tongue like gravel. "It's mine. So… she's living with us now. At least until the kid is born. Then… dunno. We'll see after that." He fell silent after his confession, feeling his stomach start to twist in knots, before he finally looked up at Ciri again, narrowing his eyes as he waited for her reaction.
It was not an easy topic, he knew, and he would not be surprised if she was upset or disappointed in him for it – for the strangeness of it all, the suddenness of it, and how it broke the bounds of everything he had taught her at Kaer Morhen. He worried that the thought of him having a biological child might also strike a personal blow; all her life Ciri had been his one and only child surprise, treated like the daughter he could never have. The thought that their dynamic might now be interrupted in some way was strange, and frightening, and difficult to consider, but he had to wonder if it was Ciri's view he was considering, or if he was simply projecting his own insecurities in the absence of a better answer.
Ciri said nothing for a while, her slender brow furrowed in a thoughtful frown, clearly still trying to process everything she had just been told. Then, finally, she sat up in her chair again, pressing her hands flat against the tabletop. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked him, sounding bewildered, and Geralt could clearly hear the start of a smile in her voice. "You're going to be a father, Geralt! With Shani! Don't you think I would have wanted to know that?"
"Thought you'd be sad," Geralt admitted, shrugging. "Didn't want you to worry."
"Sad?" Ciri scoffed, making a face that reminded him strongly of Yennefer – it was easy to tell where she got her spunk, and it was not from the deadpan witcher sitting across from her. "I'm not sad – I want to know everything! How many months is she? When did you find out?"
Geralt blinked, taken aback by the barrage of questions. "Four," he finally answered, dumbly.
Ciri stared back at him. "'Four'?" she repeated. "Four weeks, or four months? You can't just say 'four', Geralt."
"Four months, I think," Geralt amended himself, still not entirely sure he knew what he was talking about. "Eighteen weeks, she said. Or… twenty weeks now. I guess. It's been… some time since then."
Ciri paused, staring at him for another long moment, before she finally let out a chuckle at his lost expression, shaking her head as she reached across the table for his hand, forgiving his plight. "I love you, Geralt," she told him, fondly. "And I love Shani, and Yennefer, and your baby as well. You don't have to worry about me – really. As long as you're all happy and safe, then I'll continue to be happy for as long as I live."
Geralt smiled at the vote of confidence, grateful to have Ciri to confide in. Then, clearing his throat, he retrieved his hand, reaching across to spear a pheasant from one of the serving-plates instead. "So what was this lead you wanted me to investigate?" he asked, bringing the pheasant to his plate and starting to carve into it with his fork and knife. "Told me to come out for a contract, but still haven't told me what it is yet. Starting to get suspicious there might not be one after all."
"There is," Ciri assured him, quickly, setting down her teacup before she could take another sip. "The lead comes from a town called Marchen – a small town, just south of Murky Waters. I don't suppose you've heard of it."
"Heard of Murky Waters," Geralt returned, swallowing a bite of pheasant. "Used to know someone who lived there."
"It's close by," Ciri agreed, picking up a pastry from a plate of sweets on the table. "Just south of Lake Vizima. About two days' ride from here, if you take the main roads." Popping the sweet-roll in her mouth, she covered her mouth with her hand as she chewed, making sure to swallow everything down before she continued speaking. "It's pretty unhospitable, admittedly," she added, washing the last of it down with a sip of tea. "The road to the town itself is half-hidden by trees, so not many travellers go that way. There's a superstition surrounding Marchen's forests as well… they say that all manner of creatures live there, creatures that aren't found anywhere else in the world. Imps and faefolk and the like."
"Imps aren't so bad," Geralt conceded, picking up a loaf of sweetbread and tearing off the heel. "Though the only faefolk that exist in this plane are elves. Aen Sidhe. And a few rare sylvan. As far as we know." Ciri watched with barely an expression as he dug eagerly into the bread heel, not even blinking as he shoved half the loaf-end in his mouth in one wolfish bite. He did not have to mind his manners so much around Ciri, a fact which he appreciated – though he was loathe to admit it, he had grown so used to Marlene's home-cooked meals that trying to revert back to his own half-raw fare had left him nearly starving on the road to Vizima. He had not really considered it before just now, too distracted with the thought of seeing Ciri again, but now that he finally had proper food at his disposal, he was beginning to realize just how ravenous he had been this entire time.
"Other planes do exist, though," Ciri pointed out, pulling him back to the conversation. "And other creatures in them." Reaching across the table, she dug her fingers into the heart of Geralt's sweetbread loaf, stealing a chunk of fluffy white bread before sitting back again and popping it into her mouth. Geralt looked up at the treason, his brow knitting in a look of amused betrayal, but Ciri pretended not to notice, instead trying to hide the small, cheeky smile from her face as she continued. "We've both been to such planes, Geralt," she told him. "And we've both seen such creatures break the boundaries of those planes. The Wild Hunt is only one example, but there have been others. Demons, unicorns… it's not so far-fetched to believe that some others perhaps slipped their way through a planar rift as well."
"Always possible," Geralt returned, unable to help grinning at his ward in spite of himself. "Or it could just be superstition. Old wives' tales. People scaring themselves over rocks and shadows."
"Well, this was no shadow," Ciri answered, matter-of-factly, sitting up a bit straighter in her chair as she spoke. "It's true that nothing ever really came of those woods, in spite of the stories… but this is not the same. There have been multiple reports of this, and all with similar descriptions. If it is a wives' tale, it's a mighty good one to spook the villagers of Marchen so." Picking up her teacup, she washed down her bite of bread with a sip of tea, before setting the cup back on the saucer in front of her, spinning it thoughtfully in the porcelain groove as she licked her lips again, thinking back to the report.
"They say there's a being that lives in the wood," she said after a moment, causing Geralt to lift his golden eyes again, intrigued by her suddenly more serious tone. "The way the people tell it, nothing of any real note had ever truly lived in that forest… apart from a few tall tales, the villagers of Marchen saw no reason they should actually fear the place. Then one day, they started hearing music coming from the woods. The sound of someone playing an instrument, as if in an attempt to lure them in."
"Sounds like dryads," Geralt commented, thoughtfully, tearing off another piece of sweetbread. "Possibly even elves, if it was just music."
"It wasn't elves, Geralt," Ciri retorted, miffed that he was trying to dismiss the strangeness of her story so early in its telling. Picking up her teacup again, she swirled it around, staring down into the base as she thinned her lips in thought. "Of course, people have always been frightened of things they don't understand," she continued after a moment, undeterred. "Even moreso since learning the truth about the Crones, and the Hunt… for good reason. But because of that, people were too afraid to investigate the sounds coming from the forest at first. They feared it might be bandits, or witches, or worse. Then one day, a man dared venture into the forest to look for game to feed his family, but instead of bandits, he came across this… well…"
"What?" Geralt asked, intrigued.
"Thing," Ciri answered, looking up again, her frown remaining, though now more troubled than annoyed. "This… being, was how he described it. For it was a being, he said. Not a creature." Dropping her gaze to the table again, Ciri paused, distant in thought, her green eyes fixed on the finery before her, intent but unseeing as she considered the story. "The villager claimed that the being possessed the same intelligence as a man," she continued after a moment, and Geralt could tell there was something different in her voice now – a reflectiveness, as if something had only just occurred to her in retelling the tale to a fellow witcher. "A clever man, the way he told it. He said at first he would have mistaken the being as just another human, but for something that seemed… not quite right."
Ciri's fingers twitched faintly around her teacup as she said this, a fleeting motion that would have escaped the notice of most, but Geralt was quick to catch even the slightest changes from his former ward. He frowned at the shift in her demeanour, the small, telling details that made it clear something was upsetting her, and he shifted in his own chair, giving a soft huff as he tried to think of a way to ease her concern. "Could be a lot of things," he reasoned, pushing his teacup away from him across the table, watching as Ciri's eyes followed the cup before returning again to his face. He had never been much for tea, but he had at least tried this time, and he could tell that she appreciated the effort. "A few different monsters can mimic human likeness. Godlings, succubae… dopplers, especially."
"Yes, as we both know," Ciri agreed, allowing a faint hint of a smile to touch her lips at the thought. It was a fleeting gesture, but lasted just long enough for Geralt to catch a glimpse of the puckish youth who had once shared happily in his adventures, standing by his side and – to his dismay – making friends with the oddball personalities who had come to be a part of his everyday life.
Geralt grunted, enjoying the conversation, but even in his enjoyment he could still not help feeling a bit worried about whatever it was that was troubling Ciri. She had never been shy about speaking her mind for as long as he had known her, particularly to him, so the thought that she was choosing to keep whatever this was inside concerned him far more than if she had chosen to simply come out and tell him about it. If he knew, he could at least have a chance to try his hand at fixing it, but as long as she continued to stay silent on the matter, all he could do was worry just as silently in return.
"What else did he say about this… creature?" Geralt asked, hoping to pull more information out of her. Ciri looked up at this, staring at him across the table, her piercing green eyes watchful and knowing over the line of her gold-rimmed teacup; she always seemed able to read him like a book, Geralt thought, even when he was trying his hardest not to be read. Witchers were trained in skills of deception, and Geralt was better than most: he had learned at Kaer Morhen how to level his heartrate, monitor his breathing, control every aspect of his physical tells so even the most accomplished behaviourist would be readily fooled – but Ciri had always been the most difficult to trick, no matter how hard he had tried, or how long he had spent attempting to perfect his craft against her watchful eye.
"Well, as I said, it was not a creature," Ciri finally answered, setting her teacup down again, before starting to tap her finger pensively against the side, a habit he was not even sure she was aware she had picked up from him. "At least, it did not speak or act like a creature, according to the report." Taking a deep breath, her brow furrowed again, her pearly teeth skating over her lip as she thought, before she finally let out a heavy sigh, seeming annoyed at her lack of information. "The witness' overall description of the being was very vague, unfortunately," she added. "He only said that, whatever it was, it spoke as it if had known him all his life… and for whatever reason, it always seemed to carry a wooden spoon."
Geralt felt his heart drop at the final detail, the faint smile of before vanishing immediately from his face. "A wooden spoon?" he repeated, too startled to mask his unease. He could feel a tight, wrenching knot twisting in the pit of his stomach at the thought – while the idea of a forest creature with a spoon might have seemed whimsical or endearing to some, he had only ever come across one being in his lifetime that had carried that token trinket; a being he had hoped he would never again encounter as long as he still lived.
It had been only a little over four months since his nearly-fatal run-in with the man of glass, an experience which had ended with him playing a twisted riddle game for the prize of two men's souls, his own included. He had hoped the devil might bide his time at least a little longer before showing his face around their material plane again, but from Ciri's description of the being in the woods, it seemed his hopes had been too fanciful to be true. He had learned long ago that optimism was often synonymous with ill-preparedness in his line of work, but he had hoped he would have had at least a small amount of time for things to return to normal again, some small respite before everything was once again turned on its head – especially by someone as adept at turning things upside-down as Gaunter O'Dimm.
Thinning his lips, Geralt folded his hands in front of him, racking his brain to find a suitable answer for Ciri about her contract. He did not want to alarm her in case he was wrong, and this was not the same wicked being who had nearly laid claim to his soul, but at the same time he did not want to play intentionally into the spread of wilful ignorance, especially if doing so might have the potential to put his foster daughter in danger. "You're sure it was a spoon?" he finally asked, hoping against hope that this was all some great misunderstanding. He was willing to be wrong, happy to be wrong, if it meant he would not have to deal with the master of mirrors again so soon after their last encounter. "Couldn't have been something else? A—twig, maybe, or… a doll? How sure was your witness that it was a spoon?"
Ciri said nothing, only narrowed her eyes, before one brow began to climb slowly upward, eventually moving to arch curiously over her eye as she traced the tip of her finger thoughtfully along the edge of her teacup. "What do you know, Geralt?" she asked, speaking slowly, making it clear she had no intention of letting him leave until she learned the truth. "Is there some significance to the spoon I'm not aware of?"
"Maybe," Geralt answered, honestly. "Depends on if the creature is what I think it is."
"And if it's not?" Ciri asked, her fingers pinching curiously around the edge of her cup.
Geralt grunted again, turning his hands to rest them palms-down against the tablecloth. "Then there's nothing to worry about," he answered, frankly. "I'll go in, see what the problem is, and either get rid of it or determine there's no threat."
"And if it is what you think it is?" Ciri asked, her second shapely brow moving up to meet the first.
Furrowing his own brow, Geralt looked up across the table at Ciri again, his golden eyes sharp and weary at the persistent line of questioning. He knew that to dismiss the potential of O'Dimm's return would only disadvantage Ciri if the worst had truly come to pass, but at the same time, instilling premature terror would only cause undue panic, and could very well do irreversible harm. "I don't know," he finally answered, offering the only honest response he could think of. It was not particularly satisfactory, but he supposed it was the best he could give without providing a false sense of security or alarm. He did not have all the answers, as much as he wished he did, and without that, he only knew how to say what he had been taught to say in situations like these – when townsfolk came asking about the monsters in their woods, the ghosts in their cellars, the corpse-eaters in their streets. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
Ciri frowned at the roundabout response, as clearly dissatisfied with the answer as he knew she would be, before taking another sip of her tea, sitting back in her chair and staring down thoughtfully into the dregs of her cup. Despite her silence, her expression was clear; even with her informants keeping her apprised of goings-on like these, she still did not have nearly the amount of information she would have liked to have. She missed the life of a witcher, he could tell – she missed collecting clues from scrawled pages pinned to dingy notice-boards, tracking the beast through the dark woods, and the thrill of the hunt as she finally came across her quarry. She missed coming away from the fight with something new and exciting, some new scar to showcase at the local tavern or a new tale to tell around a roaring fire. She missed ending her nights dirty, bloody, and exhausted, sleeping hard on an animal skin on a cold wood floor, or laid out across roots and dirt under the stars, ready to get up and start it all over again the following day.
"I suppose that is all I can ask of you," Ciri finally responded, and Geralt could plainly hear the bitter disappointment in her voice, wishing she could know just a bit more, or better yet, investigate alongside him when he went into the wood. But she was empress of Nilfgaard now, and chasing after witcher contracts was no longer part of her life; she had a responsibility to her people now, an obligation that slaying monsters could simply not provide.
Geralt let out a soft sigh at the sight of his daughter so bitterly disappointed; he hated to see her sad, even when he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Reaching across the table to her, he slid his large hand over her much smaller one, wrapping his fingers around her palm as he had done a thousand times when she was young. Looking up at Geralt in surprise, Ciri set down her teacup again, her green eyes wide, clearly expecting something, though he could tell even she had no idea what. "This is where you belong," he told her, his voice even, gravelled, but soft. He hated to lie to her, but he knew it was only a lie in the fact that he wished it was not so true. In all honesty, he knew she was better off here, and that Nilfgaard was better for her leadership as well. "No one knows how to protect their people better than a witcher."
Ciri faltered at the accolade, before a small, weary smile began to creep across her lips again. Then, turning her hand under his, she closed her fingers around his rough palm, giving it a soft squeeze, before leaning across the table to kiss him gently on the forehead.