Let it be known that Yennefer of Vengerberg never drinks to get drunk–although the buzz is welcome–she drinks because she enjoys the taste. She wouldn't consider herself a sommelier by Toussaint standards, but she was quite knowledgeable about her wines. Her favorite was by far Est-Est, grown in Toussaint from the finest grapes and most skilled artisans, coupled with its fermentation in a maplewood barrel. Save for wines, champagnes, and more elegant drinks, she detested liquor. It was boorish, meant for those less civilized and lacking class. She would never partake in drinking such tasteless beverages. Her younger days were different, and whilst she does look back on them fondly, she detests those kinds of drunken gatherings.
She was bitterly aware of the irony of the situation as she clenched the mug, her knuckles turning white. Its smell was potent and it burned the throat on the way down; a purely corrosive substance. Yet it got the job done. And right now, she didn't care. Right now she would just have them keep coming until she blacked out, her future self can deal with the hangover. Consider it an experiment of sorts, since she either wasn't able or willing to use her magic on this, to find out how much it would take to numb the pain.
So alone she sat, save for a wizened bartender and the light of the candles, thoroughly despising herself and every fuckup she had ever made. It made her angry, to look back at the past and realize what an idiot she was.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She wanted to throw something, break something; hurt her past self for her idiotic choices. Yet all she could do was scream internally at the memories and down another mug. The anger led to guilt. How could she be angry? How could she even deserve to be angry? Her past self was still her, and it included herself from mere days ago. She had no right to be angry. She was the one at fault. Anger wasn't what she should have, instead, punishment of some sort. Yes, she deserved the feelings she had now. Her void of self-wallowing and regret. An aura of internal masochism had begun to suffocate her, and she just let it seep in.
And the worst part? She could even face him. Whilst all the others were in the room, watching over his wounds and making futile efforts to save him–although efforts nonetheless–she was having a pity party trying to drink herself blind so she could forget. Even if only temporarily. With any luck, she might even drink herself to the grave tonight.
A lone tear slid off her cheek and into her mug, making small ripples that bounced back into each other several times before the liquid finally became still. She watched the event with glazed eyes, not really seeing anything. Not even hearing, or smelling, or tasting anything. But she did feel. She felt misery.
How many times had Geralt made efforts to reach out to her, and how many times did she reject them? How many times did she become the ice queen, venomous with fangs glaring. Worst of all: how many times did she use him, manipulate him like a goddamned puppet? Witchers can't really express emotions all that well, but she had long ago mastered the art of reading how they felt. She saw the hurt in his eyes, even if only briefly, like she had slapped him. Each time they conveyed betrayal. And yet, no matter what, he always came back. Always helped her. Never asked for anything really in return. He had never even dreamt of using Ciri. He had no interest in using people as tools for his own gain. No, that was left to her.
She had always loved him, even if only until recently she denied it. That hadn't stopped her from being toxic, from manipulating him. From holding things from him. Now, as Geralt lay unconscious and dying, she was kicking herself. He had brought her much joy in this dark and screwed up world, and how had she repaid it? The guilt was crushing. The regret was crushing.
At first it was panic. Dashing up the steps of the crumbling tower to find Geralt, his head laying in Ciri's lap, desperately trying to staunch the bleeding. Begging him to stay, because he couldn't leave, she still needed him, she loved him, because he just couldn't leave right now. That scene right there had broken her heart, or at least begun the process of it. Seeing the tears on Ciri's face, the blood pooling out and forming a crimson puddle, while she stood there in shock as others immediately sprung into action to stabilize him. They quickly transported him to the nearest inn, Triss throwing a bag of gold at the inkeep nearly hitting him in the face. They laid him down on the bed and immediately got to work, her panic reforged into unyielding determination. This was fixable. He'd lost a lot of blood, but she'd seen worse.
Or so she had thought.
Eredin's blade had been poisoned. None could identify it. It was so foreign, so potent, and so deadly. The blade had been twisted in his gut, leaving the poison to freely enter his bloodstream. Not even Avallach knew what it was. After eight hours of desperately trying to find a cure she had begun to break down. Her first panic attack. They barred her from the room until she calmed down.
The next few days were a blur. She was too mentally exhausted to contribute anything meaningful, save for scanning old tomes. It was Zoltan who found her, and told her that he didn't have much longer left. He'd begun to offer words of comfort, himself feeling pained by the imminent loss, but she brushed past him and made a beeline for the empty bar. She slammed coins on the table and with a hoarse and weak voice demanded whatever it was that was the strongest. And that was where she found herself now.
Her best guess was that it had been 30 minutes since then. 30 minutes she could have spent with Geralt, saying her goodbyes and being with him. Ciri had not strayed from his side except to use the restroom, diligently doing whatever task she could that might help Geralt.
A/N:
This isn't finished and does have a happy ending (I myself can't stand bitter endings, but do like bitter moments where all seems lost but isn't) but I'm going to stop writing for tonight because steam is calling me. Literally I cannot fucking focus.
The reason why I haven't been updating my other story is because I got into the Witcher 3. And ho-ly fuck was it amazing. Second favorite game next to Mass Effect. Amazing game. So much fun. And probably the most graphic game I've ever played both in terms of violence, dark topics/themes, and sexual content.
My game had Ciri become a Witcher, romanced Yennefer (because Triss is way to needy and Yennefer and Geralt fit together like puzzle pieces, fuck you), Cerys became queen, Olgierd survived, as did Syanna and Anna, Marlene got uncursed, I have a very nice house, and a bunch of other stuff I'm forgetting to put on this list. Or probably I'm just too lazy and want to get to steam.
Yeah so played witcher, great game, story only ⅓ of the way done.
Yours,
amc555