9:37 Dragon.
Woods of Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine.
Amell sighed, for what felt like the hundreth time.
It was low of him, he supposed, and terribly self-centered, to stew quite as much as he was in his own issues and problems.
But he'd always been one to stew, terribly low, and quite self-centered, so how could he, really, renounce a chance to brood and sulk – like his sweet Nightingale would call it – when the sheer magnitude of his latest troubles presented such a fair excuse to indulge.
It felt like it was mere days ago, maye because it was, that he'd been just about ready to dedicate himself to another day of bothersome duties, in preperation for another week of cumbersome nothing, when the news had first reached him.
Kirkwall, the City of Chains, torn asunder by an all-out war between mages and templars, lit by the blowing of its Chantry at the hand of a mad apostate.
It had taken him no time at all to guess the indentity of the apostate, and to call it for what it was, an abomination.
Anders. Amell grimaced, and heaved out a breath. Justice.
A good man, and an entity of good, now no more than a corrupted perversion of themselves, that had willfully spat in the eye of everyone they'd once known.
Amell almost cracked a smile, when a feeling more akin to sadness and sorrow, than anger and bitterness, rose within his chest. He was truly growing old.
But, then again, he'd just been their Commander for a scant few months. It was Marian, and her ragtag of misfits, that known them longest, and it was them that had been betrayed deeper.
Angry mages on one side, vengeful templars on the other, a world on the edge of war, and that bunch of idiots had been caught dead in the middle, just because they, like he, had chosen to believe the words of a man out of control.
Yet, if Hawke was a fool, and so were her people, what was he, then.
Half-a-spotting of his dear Cousin, seen disembarking a ship in Amaranthine, was all that it had taken to send him in a frenzy, trying to find her. It had taken him little time to do so, and even less to drag her, and her friends, to his holding, the Vigil's Keep, unmindful of the trouble he was inviting to his doorstep.
The King of Fools, Amell sighed once more, silver eyes lazily roaming the surrounding woods for signs of danger. That's what i am.
And if only, now, were he so lucky that a bandit, darkspawn, or the like, came charging out of the trees.
A vain hope, he knew, for he was recognizable enough, and even the monsters knew better at this point, but he sorely needed a distraction, and he surely wasn't feeling above even begging merciful Andraste for –
The Warden squinted, his pale gaze studying carefully the puffs of air coming out of his nose and his mouth.
Fereldan winter was merciless, and its nights even more so. But it was summer, and it was still evening.
So why, then, pray tell, was it so cold.
Be careful what you wish for, my friend. His tenant rumbled awake. Might just get it.
Speak for yourself, demon. Amell thought back, looking around and palming Duncan's longsword. Do you see anything.
A great many things. Mouse chuckled, low and guttural. All higher.
The Warden looked up, and he squinted again.
Unknown.
Unknown.
Ciri danced away from a blow, and answered it with one of her own, for what felt like the hundreth time.
She and Avallac'h had been taking a rest in a world of ancient wonders and speaking dragons, perhaps lolling about longer than they should have, wrapped in a false sense of security, when the Wild Hunt had fallen down upon their heads.
One moment they'd been asking for directions – or, well, she had – to a couple of upright, talking felines, as big as humans and twice as kind, and the next she'd been fighting over their mutilated bodies, sprayed in their blood, and surrounded by cold, barks, and sneers.
They didn't deserve to die, thought Ciri, embedding their names in her memory – Kharjo and Ahkari – as she furiously plunged her blade deep into one of her opponents, where a gap allowed it. And now Avallac'h could be dead, too.
They'd managed splitting them, those bastards, in the fight and in the chaos, and all she had managed doing for her companion was opening a portal for him, destination anywhere safe, right before she'd done the same for herself.
Only, she'd expected Cintra, perhaps Skellige, or even Kaer Morhen itself, for as much as she didn't want to bring her war to those she loved, there weren't many places she'd ever felt safe, yet all she'd gotten was an evening sky, deserted woods, and the knowledge that, in her hastiness, she might have sent her only ally to his death.
Her jaw clenched, and she beat back a snarling hound that had tried jumping on her, only to be swiftly forced to piroette around a thrusting sword, or be impaled.
She'd barely been done spinning, when she brought her own down on the offending hand, and blade and fingers had yet to touch the ground, when she disappeared in a flash white, just to reappear a ways away from the dozen enemies that had been about to surround her.
Ciri palmed her cheek, then, and her green eyes narrowed in frustration when her digits came away red. She'd been fast enough to avoid serious damage, but too slow not to be struck at all.
The White Wolf who'd taught her – wrong, footwork, again, something almost pulled at her lips – would be incredibly disappointed.
Whatever joyful gloominess had pervaded her quickly perished, and her frustration only doubled, when an imposing figure came surging out of the horde.
"Every drop of your blood spilled, is a drop of blood wasted, Hen Ichaer." Spoke Eredin Bréacc Glas, King of the Hunt and of the Aen Elle, from beneath his crowned helmet. "Stop struggling, and maybe I will grant the traitor a swift death."
She'd only heard that her companion was still breathing, and Ciri gave a deep breath. "He's still alive."
"Caranthir is after him." Growled General Imlerith, a goliath of a bastard, wielding a mace to match. "He will not be for long."
Caranthir, Ciri thought, noticing for the first time the Navigator's absence. They'd split them up, but so had they, and that gave both her and Avallac'h more of a chance than she'd previously believed they'd had.
"No matter." Eredin thrust out his hand, a mockery of an offer. "There is no where left to run. Come with me now and accept your destiny, you are ours by right."
Fucking elves, Ciri wanted to sneer, so fucking full of yourselves.
"I'm no one's." She snarled instead, like one of the wolves who'd raised her. "And you will die before I surrender."
The King's gauntlet shut into an iron fist. "Be this your last stand, then."
Not if it's yours. And in a blink, Ciri was in the mindst of them, a storm of steel.
Her sword swiped right, to deflect a panicked strike, and then lunged left, too, to dig into something soft and squishy.
The young woman paid no mind to others' grunts of pain, nor to her own pumping heart, just blinked out once more, and flashed back above a snarling hound, her blade sinking into its skull and putting an end to its snarling and barking before it even had time to realize.
Something went slashing at her back, then, but by the time it hit, it only hit air, for in another spurt of light she'd appeared away, mid-air, her sword, raised above her head, falling on her one and true target.
Eredin, unlike the others, halted her move before it could hit true.
"Resistance is futile." Ciri scowled and pushed down, but he was stronger, as she knew, and the crossing blades didn't move an inch. "You can slay however many, others will take their place."
She'd been about to snarl back, when she noticed, at the edge of her vision,Imlerith's hulking shape silently stalking close.
Let them try, Ciri thought nonetheless, her face twisted in defiance. "Who'll take your place, I wonder."
Yet, however much her scorn, and however much her fury, Eredin's wide smile, so wide that she could spy it through the shade, sent a shiver down her spine all the same.
"The child you will bear me, Zirael."
And made her skin crawl, too.
But, she had a job to do, and Ciri forcefully drove away unease and turmoil, shameful things that wouldn't serve her in battle, and blinked away once more, just in time to avoid Imlerith's violent mace.
Only, no, she thought she had, when she'd felt her power coming alive inside of her, but then it had just wilted with a pulse of her cheek, like a flower in winter, and all Ciri had was a mere moment of dread, before her side felt like it had been carved open, quakes shook her all over, and she went souring through the air, all her wonders and all her questions smacked away by the hard bark her head and her back soon bashed into.
She'd scarcely regained half her sight, and half her bearings, but not her sword, lost in the flight, when a hateful voice woke her from her torpor. "You will not escape again. It's over."
No! She screamed in her mind, trying and failing to climb to her feet, the throbbing of her cheek almost as hurtful as the throbbing of her bones. It's not!
"Retrieve her."
It couldn't. It just couldn't. Not before she could see her friends again, talk with them and laugh with them. Not before she could tell her parents how much she'd missed them, how much she'd wanted to be with them, and how much she loved them. It couldn't be over.
It can't!
Ciri squezzed her eyes shut, willing her battered body to move and willing her ancient power to surge, when a familiar gust of wind sent her reeling, and gasps and clamors shook her from a living nightmare, and plunged her into a beautiful dream.
Aard! The young woman cried in her mind, like the child she'd been, her head whipping about, fast enough to make her sight spin, and a broad smile spreading accross her lips. Geralt!
"You have one chance." Geralt spoke, not quite like she remembered, his hand still raised, and his short white hair, shorter than she recalled, blowing in the evening breeze. "Leave her be."
He'd barely finished speaking when the warriors he'd sent tumbling rose back to their feet, and they'd barely risen to their feet when Eredin's head cocked, and half of what remained of his forces went charging towards the White Wolf.
Ciri's grin didn't dim, not even when half-a-dozen were almost upon her father, and not even when her father refused to back.
Quen, she thought, before he'd even acted.
Only, not so.
His arm did thrust downwards, towards the ground, yes, yet it was not a coat of blue sparks that surrounded him, but a storm of white.
And it barely had, when it poofed out, all around him and all at once, covering grass and tress into a layer of ice, and turning the snarling hounds and charging warriors into statues of frozen glass, unmoving and unbreathing.
When he punched his fist into his palm, and a second wave, one of pure air and smashing force, shattered them all into a million pieces, bloody shimmers blown away by the wind, Ciri only gaped.
But at least, some of her noticed, so were the rangers of the Hunt.
"So." She was jolted out of her awe, by the source of it. He'd walked into the middle of the clearing, undisturbed, and he now stood between her and the rangers. "Who might you be, then."
It was the King of Aen Elle who answered, in a savage hiss and not taking a step. "Your better, human."
"A tall dwarf, then." The white-haired man unsheated his weapon, from his hip and not his back, a blade of dark steel. "Joy."
"Imlerith!" Barked Eredin. "Deal with him!"
"No!" Ciri howled, or tried to, remembering herself. "You will not murder anyone else!"
"He won't." The man said, waiting for the giant who was stomping towards him, twinkling lights shrouding a dark, heavy armor that Geralt would never don. "Stay down."
He's not Geralt, the young woman realized with an ache in her chest. But, he didn't need to be, for her not to want him to die. For her not to want one more person to perish in her stead.
She'd die herself, Ciri decided, before she'd let anyone else die for her, and grasping at bark and grasping at her ribs, the young woman forced herself to her feet.
"This is not your fight!" She hissed through the pain. "You don't– !"
"Stay down." The man cut her off, looking over his shoulder. The eye she could spy, was cool silver, not warm gold, and just as it met hers, Ciri felt a sudden wave of odd tiredness seeping through her, lulling her to a slack standstill. "This will be over soon." And thus, she could only watch as the goliath descended upon him.
Imlerith's mighty weapon sundered the air, but just that.
The stranger easily sidestepped the attack, in an impressive display of speed, and brought his own weapon to bear down upon the General. The blade hit true, full on the chest, yet it only clanked against the thick armor of his opponent, and the man was soon forced on the defensive once more, when the mace came bouncing back.
He dodged that, too, but as he kept doing so, weaving and avoiding, lashing out some, Ciri's keen eyes quickly noticed his awkward legwork, and the way it carried none of the strength and agility he displayed.
Not clumsy, not quite, and not slow, not really, but improvised, painfully so, like he'd never quite practiced it, or like he'd never been trained on the pendulum, by the witchers of Kaer Morhen.
It didn't come to a surprise, then, to her, when Imlerith, after the umpteenth cumbersome duck, feinted one way and then went the other. It was all in the feet.
Yet, she wasn't the one fighting, this man was, and her warning scream wilted halfway her throat, when the mace hit him true.
Or, well, when it should have.
Before it had, before the savage cleave could rattle him and send him soaring like it had done her, her impromptu ally had faded, like a wraith, and the massive mace had swung right through him, leaving not a scratch behind.
Her eyes had just been done widening, and the weapon coming out of him, when his hand, filled with the same white energy as before, rose and fell on the General's vambrace, engulfing it in a coat of ice.
Imlerith had barely time to bellow, then, when with a harsh twist and a sharp crack his mace and forearm went falling to the ground.
"Dh'oine– !" He seethed, holding his ruined limb and dazedly staggering back. "How dare you– !"
And Imlerith had no time to finish, before a seed of red forced him farther back.
It warped and twisted, spouted, and then erupted into a burst of fire, bathing the General of the Hunt, and everything around him, in a sea of flames.
Once it cleared, the big goliath laid on the ground, a big charred corpse.
Ciri had almost grimaced a smile, when Eredin made himself known.
"Dh'oine!" He roared, breaking the silence that had taken his people. "How dare you kill our own! You have brought the fury of Aen Elle down upon your world!"
The white-haired one didn't reply, just passed a hand over his blade, making it, too, burst into flames, and when he took a step, the rangers took one back.
Ciri's green eyes roamed frantically, then, frantically searching for her blade. They were afraid. Maybe not Eredin, but the rest of them were. She could smell it. And she could end this. It could be over. Right here and right now.
But before she could anything, before the stranger could, a portal tore open behind them, and despite her furious scream, despite the scorching look it earned her, the Hunt and its King disappeared into it.
They'd escaped. Just like that. And it wasn't over. Not even close.
And she hadn't even been the one to force them on the run. Not even close.
Ciri grit her teeth so hard they might've cracked, tensed so much she was ready to spring, uncaring of the heat of her cheek and the ache of her bones.
"Are you well, girl?"
"Ciri!" She'd meant to snap, to the one who'd all but saved her, an easy target for her frustration. A stupid reaction, born of bruised pride, and she was almost glad it had more come out a weak rasp.
Just, almost. After this sound defeat she'd been dealt, her pride could suffer better foul manners and bitter foolishness, than further shows of weakness and delicacy.
The young woman still flushed, however, when a raised silver brow was all that rashness earned her.
"My name is Ciri." She forged on, trying and failing to calm herself, and holding her side. That was bruised, too, and stung worse than her ego. "Thank you for your help, stranger."
The silver brow didn't lower.
"You have not answered my question." Not-Geralt spoke carefully, almost coldly, eying her hand, and what it covered, with his silver gaze. He didn't sound much like Geralt, if at all, and his voice held not an ounce of the stilted warmth she missed so. "Are you well?"
"I'm fine." Ciri bit out, looking away, at the woods and at the grass, at the corpses and at at the burn marks, at anything that didn't require her realize this man didn't much look like Geralt, either. "I'm just fine."
"You're wounded." She squinted at a scorched arm. Or perhaps it was a leg. It was foggy. "You need help."
"Not much use in asking if you've already made up your mind about it, now is there." She muttered sarcastically, annoyed and bothered at too many things to count. "Look, like I said, I appreciate the help, but I am fine, and I need to get going." But perhaps, her mean and cynical side offered, it wasn't a stranger's wellbeing that concerned this impostor. "I am sorry if you expected a reward for this, but the only thing of value I– "
"You won't go far, girl." She was interrupted.
"Ciri!" Her head snapped around, a snarl on her face.
Not-Geralt barely reacted, one way or another. "You won't go far."
"And why, pray tell, won't I?"
"Because you're small." He spoke bluntly. "And you're losing an awful lot of blood."
Small! Her jaw clenched. "I'm not– !" Ciri blinked, and looked down. Her hand, the one covering her aching ribs, was soaked in red. "Oh."
"Oh." He echoed her. Fuck first meetings, she decided. If she wasn't trying to stop herself from bleeding out, she'd have tore him a new one. "Shall you come with me of your volition, or will I have to force you to."
Perhaps she still would. "I don't know who you think you are, but you can f– !"
"Ciri." The white-haired one spoke, something firm and commanding in the tone of his voice that made her mouth shut with a click. "I want to help." He continued. Maybe not her papa, but he had her old uncle down to a tee. "Let me help."
And maybe that was why Ciri found herself slacking, a bone deep tiredness suddenly descending upon her shoulders, uncurling her fingers.
No one could sound like Vesemir and not be good, could they. And in her life she'd heard, anyhow, too much honest earnestness, veiled in monotones, to not recognize it now.
"Fine." Ciri allowed, after a stretched pause, like he wasn't trying to save her life – yet again. It almost made her cringe, the thought of how sour she was being. She'd have fit right into the Lodge. "Thank you."
Her saviour's silver eyes didn't shift from her blood-soaked hands. "Can you walk?"
Yet, Lodge or not, her pride was still bruised, and it surely wouldn't survive a princely carrying.
Plus, who knew, maybe get enough of the red shit out of her, and the elves would finally leave her alone.
"Yes." Ciri nodded dimly. Not that it mattered, he wasn't looking at her face. "Is your– " She faltered, taking stock of his dark armor, the golden sigil at the center of the chestpiece. It looked like twin griffins. "–home nearby?" She finished lamely.
This time, he did look up, something studying in his pale gaze, and Ciri could only hope she wasn't screaming dimension-hopper-with-no-idea-of-where-the-fuck-i-landed out of her every pore.
She wasn't certainly feeling like she wasn't.
"Yes." He finally answered, after a bit of staring. His head cocked, towards the woods, before he simply spun around and went marching into them. "Follow me."
Maybe he is a witcher, Ciri thought, quietly following on his steps, and trying to tune out the pain that caused, he certainly has the demeanour down.
It was after a couple moments, or maybe a couple dozens, that it hit her.
"Hey!" The young woman called out, through trees and branches, and through blurriness and haziness. "Who are you?"
Her saviour looked over his shoulder. "Amell." He answered, the one icy eye she could spy burning bright through the fog clouding her mind. "Commander of the Grey."
Uh. Her brows rose, with neither her permission nor accordance, for reasons she didn't fully understand.
Ciri almost didn't feel the sharp pulsing of her cheek, before her legs gave out beneath her. Sounds rad.
So, this was fun. The idea came to me during a stroll and I just had to write it down.
Was undecided between a Elder Scrolls xover and a Dragon Age xover, but in the end I decided to go with the latter 'cause it'll allow me to explore the post-DA2 but pre-Inquisition period (and also 'cause Serana on her lonesome can't compete with both the Warden and his companions, and Hawke and her companions). Still sneaked a little reference in there.
Leave a review if you like the idea, or if you got any questions, and if any of y'all are geeks like me, the spells Amell used were:
Telekinetic Burst ('Aard')
Hand of Winter (poof of frost)
Maker's Fury (shatter)
Aura of Might (twinkling lights)
Weakness (odd tiredness)
Combat Magic/Fade Shroud (wraith)
Winter's Grasp -
Fireball - all three pretty obvious
Flame Weapon -
Cya next time!