The name 'Geralt of Rivia' opened doors in Nilfgaard—including those at the fortress of Darn Rowan, and Geralt hummed low to himself as he wandered its halls, finding it nothing like what he had expected. The entirety of Darn Rowan was made of white limestone, its floors polished marble, making everything stark and bright, and the witcher had to resist the urge to glower at how strikingly washed-out the place appeared. It was if no human had ever stepped foot there, the bastion prime and glistening, reflecting the pale sun from every window, and Geralt made a face as he stopped before a portrait of Emhyr hanging in the long corridor, its length stretched nearly to the ceiling.
It was possible the impression of purity in this place had been intentional on Emhyr's part, Geralt thought; a man so obsessed with his perceived image that even his political prisoners could not avoid being subjected to it. It was eerie then, almost sadistic, to think he had built a prison so completely modelled after his own ideals, only to then force the woman he had so callously thrown away to live out the rest of eternity within its walls.
Geralt frowned at the unpleasant thought, but he found he did not have long to dwell on it, as a moment later he found his attention drawn away by the sound of footsteps approaching down the hall. Turning to face the sound, he looked down to find a black-helmeted guard walking towards him, his posture stiff, and Geralt watched as the guard stopped rigidly in front of him, crossing a dutiful fist across his chest and lifting his head. "Countess Stella Congreve will see you, master witcher," the guard said, causing Geralt to falter, taken aback; he had not expected any kind of escort, but he supposed it made little difference in his goal for being here. He had nothing to hide, and no ill intent, and so he only nodded, indicating for the guard to lead the way.
The floor echoed under their boots as they continued onward, the long rug lining the footpath doing nothing to mute the hollowness of the fortress walls, and Geralt could not help noticing, as they walked, just how many portraits lined the corridor on the way to the countess' main hall. Most of them were portraits of nobles he only vaguely recognized – rulers of Nilfgaardian vassal states; barons, earls, viscounts, dukes and duchesses and the like – but he found himself stopping suddenly as one in particular caught his eye, having to pause a moment to inspect it more closely. It was a portrait of a sad-faced young woman, wearing a white gown with green jewelled sleeves and emerald accents, and Geralt could not help noticing how incredibly distant her expression was, as if any emotion had been wrung from her before the painting even began.
"A portrait of Empress Cirilla," the guard informed him, moving up to stand directly behind him. Geralt shifted, making a bit more space between them, not liking how close this guard felt he had to keep to his ward. "Emperor Emhyr – former Emperor Emhyr, now – had it painted by the artist Robin Anderida," the guard added, seeming pleased to remember such a detail. "It was nearly impossible to get the man out of his house, I'm told. He suffers from a disorder that makes him unbearably averse to the outside world."
"Call that misanthropy," Geralt noted, dryly, staring up at the portrait. "Suffer from a bit of it, myself."
The guard blinked, seeming surprised, before he took an obliging step back from the witcher. "My apologies, master witcher," he said, sounding abashed. "I hadn't been informed you were unwell. My deepest sympathies."
Geralt held his tongue, allowing another moment of uncomfortable silence to fall between them, before the guard finally cleared his throat again, indicating for the witcher to continue onward. The rest of the portraits leading to the countess' main hall were much less interesting than the painting of the False Ciri, Geralt thought, but he knew his interest was admittedly biased, as his knowledge of fine art left much to be desired. Still, he could not help feeling he had a right to be critical of each piece they passed, noting that none of them held the same depth of character as his portrait of Ciri at home. She hated that portrait, hated the way it made her look like a dismal puff pastry, in her own words, but even Geralt could not deny that her youthful scowl in the image perfectly captured her untameable spirit.
The main hall was just as pristine and bright as the rest of the keep, and Geralt had to bite his tongue as they entered to keep from grimacing at the sight of yet another white hall, scoured to perfection; the entire fortress felt like polished anxiety, he thought, a bastion meant to drive men to madness with its monotony. Thinning his lips at the dismal thought, he turned his attention instead to the woman at the head of the hall, watching as the guard who had been escorting him stepped out in front of him, raising his helmeted head and holding out a hand towards his ward. "Your grace, Countess Stella Congreve," the guard announced, bowing low. "A visitor. One, Sir Geralt of Rivia."
Countess Stella Congreve looked up at the name, though her expression was not one of interest – rather, she looked as if she had smelled something foul, and had only just been apprised of a skunk on the premises. She had the face of a schoolmistress, Geralt noted: drawn and intense, with tightly-thinned lips, her grey eyes round like a watchful owl's in her pale face, set atop a high-necked dress. She wore her long, greying hair in coiled braids, pulled back from her face with a thin band and jewelled floret, and she watched the witcher with unmasked scrutiny as he came to stand before her, offering a nod in lieu of a bow.
"Ciri's witcher," the countess addressed him, sourly. "I never expected we might meet."
"Neither did I," Geralt admitted. "Not here on a social visit, though. Looking for Cirilla."
Stella pursed her lips, her pale eyes growing intense as they bored into him, disapprovingly. "I daresay you'll find her on the throne," she told him, coldly. "You did help put her there, after all."
Geralt frowned, having not expected that answer. "Know what I mean," he said, annoyed. "The False Ciri."
Stella lifted her head proudly. "I know what you meant," she told him, letting out a reedy breath. "But she is neither of those things, witcher. Nor does she live here any longer. I had her sent away to Skellige for her own good." She paused, seeming to think, before she let out another short sigh, this one sounding less irate than the last. "It was too much to watch her wasting away," she added. "Pining for a man who no longer had use nor want for her."
Geralt faltered, taken aback. "So you just—shipped her off to Skellige?" he asked, finding it hard to believe. Ciri had told him before he came that the false empress might have found her way to Skellige, but the thought that she had been sent off against her will, with no warning, was a bit too much for him to buy. Despite being no longer empress, she was still too much of a liability to the crown to simply send away, and he steeled his expression, staring up at the countess, unable to tell if she was lying to his face.
Stella hummed, giving no impression she cared whether the witcher believed her or not. "It seemed the best course of action," she answered, unswayed in her conviction. "It was the furthest place from here that I could think of. Somewhere that the memories of Emhyr could not follow her. Someplace far from Nilfgaard, and that scar-faced brat on the throne."
Geralt set his jaw, not liking the insult to Ciri, but knowing now was not the time to address it. "Don't know where in Skellige?" he asked.
Stella nodded, looking away from the witcher again. "I do," she answered, dismissively. "But what interest is she to you, that I should tell you where she is? I've heard tales of your womanizing ways, witcher. I won't have her hounded down by another mongrel in heat."
"Only bitches go into heat," Geralt corrected, causing the countess to look down at him again, her eyes wide with shock. "Lotta vitriol towards the throne for someone claiming loyalty to Nilfgaard. Talk like that can get people in trouble. Sometimes even killed."
Stella Congreve huffed, puffing up like a pheasant ruffling its feathers to ward away a predator. "I've been a faithful subject to Nilfgaard all my life, witcher," she told him, irately. "Emhyr knows my loyalty. But his treatment of that girl is unforgivable. His threats to do away with her, terrorizing her—only to make her fall in love with him, marry her, and then throw her away as soon as his daughter returned to the throne… it's despicable." She huffed again, settling more squarely in her chair, trying to push back some of the redness from her cheeks as she did so, and Geralt had to resist thinking how much her head looked like it might pop right off her high ruffled collar like a cherry stem.
"My loyalty to Nilfgaard remains," the countess continued after a moment, speaking slower now, trying to regain her composure. "But the treatment of Cirilla by the throne of Nilfgaard, father and daughter, has left me unable to temper my tongue."
Geralt grunted. "Can't say I blame you," he answered. "But Ciri had nothing to do with it."
"She was complicit," Stella returned, her tone again harsh, having no interest in compromising her view. "She made no move to stop Emhyr from evicting that girl from her home. From erasing her from all annals of history."
Geralt felt his face twist at this. "Why would she?" he insisted. "Emhyr made it sound like the girl he married was Ciri."
Stella scoffed again, sitting rigid in her chair. "So a young girl should be used up, and then left with nothing, because doing otherwise would be inconvenient for Ciri's reputation?" she insisted, coldly. "You clearly care for Ciri, witcher, but you'll find no sympathy from me for her decisions."
Geralt hummed, realizing he was getting nowhere, before he let out a long sigh, resting his hands on his hips. "Fine," he said. "Skellige, then. Don't guess you'll give me any other clues."
Stella sneered, one edge of her sharp, upturned nose flattening to her severe face as she stared down at the witcher. "You're Geralt of Rivia," she told him, haughtily. "You already found one empress. I'm sure you'll figure it out."
The sounds and smells of the sea hit Geralt like a brick wall as the portal opened up onto Skellige, and he squinted into the pale sunlight, feeling a chill run through him as his feet crunched in freshly-fallen snow. He had almost forgotten that the seasons were different here, on the farthest reaches of the sea, and he shivered as he blew on his hands, looking around to see where the amulet had deposited him.
He could hear the sounds of a port from somewhere nearby, the bustle and murmur of a town alive with commerce, and he shook the chill from his muscles, starting down the dirt road in front of him towards the sounds of trade. Kaer Trolde was just as he remembered it – from the screeching of gulls to the pungent scent of freshly-caught fish, and Geralt breathed in a long, wistful lungful of salty air as he passed the rustic sign into town. He was fond of this town, not just from his dealings with the An Craites, but for more personal reasons as well; this had been the town where he had proposed to Yennefer, after all, and where she had finally said yes.
He could still smell the polished cedar of the tavern, the wafting of smoked meats and honeyed mead from beyond their door, the aroma of lilac and gooseberries as Yennefer's hair enveloped him, driving his senses wild. This town was full of memories, too many to hold them all without spilling over, and he let out his breath again in a long, contented sigh, resting his hands on his hips as he took a look around.
If the False Ciri were truly here, she would likely be somewhere she could blend in, he thought; her resemblance to the real Ciri would make her stand out in most places, but perhaps not here in Skellige. He remembered from his last trip to the isles with Ciri that not many commonfolk had been terribly familiar with the Cintran princess, and with little else to single her out, he supposed the False Ciri could easily use that to her advantage to disappear.
Therein came the hard part, he realized—if she truly had melded back into society as Emhyr might have wanted, then it would be difficult to root her out now, with nothing to ask after but a young woman with flaxen hair. He had been down that road once before, with just as little hope then of finding what he was looking for, and he let out a huff as he ran a frustrated hand back through his hair, realizing it was starting to get long again. "Should've asked Regis," he muttered, letting his hand return pensively to his side. He had no idea when he would see Regis next, but he hoped it would not be for quite some time; if everything went as planned, the vampire would hopefully be gone for a while figuring out his relationship, but that still left Geralt with the problem of his hair and beard growing like a wild man in his friend's absence.
Geralt hummed at the thought, wondering if he should bother looking for a barber before heading up to the castle, before deciding that Cerys had seen him in worse states than this, and that a bit of wildness was probably beneficial, here in Skellige. Blowing warm air on his hands again, he turned, starting to make his way towards Kaer Trolde's castle, wondering as he went if it might not be better to go all the way around the mountain to the footpath instead. As much as he hated portals, he had to admit he hated the lift to Kaer Trolde's castle almost as much; a portal, at least, would bring him up blessedly fast before sending him plummeting to his death. The lift, by comparison, made him wait, creaking irritably as it made its slow climb up the mountainside, and he gritted his teeth as the platform swayed, trying to distract himself with anything around him he could see.
The castle of Kaer Trolde, he observed looking up at it, was built into the side of a massive mountain, with a view overlooking the entire archipelago, its high towers black and amorphous as they reached towards the sun like a creature tossed from the sea. He squinted towards the castle's stone bridge as he climbed, trying to guess how much longer until he made land; the pully system had never quite sat safely with the witcher, and he stiffened as he felt the planks shudder under his boots, counting down until he finally felt the lift groan to a halt, allowing him to step gratefully onto solid ground. As much as he loved Kaer Trolde, there were a few things he did not miss so much about visiting – the chill, for one, though he supposed he would not have minded it so much, had he prepared better. The other thing he found he was better without were the heights the towns of Skellige were often built upon, as most of the island chain seemed intent to point towards the sky, rather than having the decency to sit on flush ground, as he preferred.
Two guards stood watch at the keep door as Geralt approached across the bridge, their faces nearly obscured by their ram-horned helmets, and they lifted their bearded chins as he drew closer, their rough hands tightening around their lances. "Hold," one guard told him, raising a hand. "Can't just let you through. No public appeals today."
"Was hoping for a private audience," Geralt answered, frankly, coming to a stop. "Got something to discuss with Lady Cerys."
The second guard hummed at his appeal, before sniffling, clearly trying to hide the start of a cold. "Did you have an appointment?" he asked, sternly. "Lady Cerys is a busy woman. Got no time for private audiences with any sap who calls."
"Not just any sap," Geralt answered, turning to look at him next, his expression firm. "I'm Geralt of Rivia. Friend of the An Craite family. Fought with Crach and Hjalmar in the Winter War." The second guard paused, staring at him for a long time, and Geralt sighed, realizing he would have to try harder. "Helped Cerys gain the throne," he added, feeling the first guard scrutinizing his warm-weather attire as he spoke. "Helped Hjalmar slay the frost giant. Old friend of Mousesack—Ermion. Whatever you call him these days."
The sick guard snorted, looking over to his companion. "Don't call him much of anything these days," he said, giving his friend a smirk. "Old Ermion don't deal with us much anymore. Stays to the woods, mostly, makin' potions n'… grousin' about some witcher."
"Says the world's gonna end in ash," the first guard added, chuckling dubiously at the thought. "Says he's seen the signs. Some… weakness in the fabric. Think the poor fool's lost the plot, quite frankly."
Geralt frowned, not liking how similar that sounded to what Triss had warned him about earlier, but he knew he had no time to dwell on it, and he cleared his throat, getting the guards' attention again. "Witcher's me," he said, tapping his wolf medallion. "Got a history with Skellige. Eist, Crach, Cintra… Cerys."
"Cintra," the sick guard repeated, resting his spear on the bridge to lean on it, interested. "Now there's a coincidence. Lady Cerys just added a Cintran lass to her court. Don't suppose you know her."
"Looks a bit like you, come to think of it," the first guard added, squinting up at Geralt, thoughtfully. "A bit around the eyes, perhaps—and the dour mouth. Could definitely see a family resemblance."
"Could be," Geralt answered, deciding there was no use educating these two right now. "Been around a long time. Done lots of travelling. In and out of Cintra a time or two."
The first guard chuckled, seeming pleased with the answer. "In and out indeed," he said, resting his spear on the bridge as well. "A right dog ye are, witcher. So—what was it you wanted to talk to Lady Cerys about? Don't see why we can't make an exception, if ye got good reason."
"Just wanted to catch up," Geralt answered, hoping his face would not betray his lie. "Haven't seen Cerys since the Winter War. Since Crach died. Wanted to make sure she was doing alright."
The sick guard sniffled again, tilting his helmeted head at the thought. "That's mighty kind of ye, witcher," he finally said, looking up again with a sharp huff. "But, dunno that Lady Cerys has time for such a meetin' today. She did tell us to disallow all visitors."
"Got my own quarters in the castle," Geralt returned, looking back to the first guard, who seemed more amenable. "Doesn't have to see me today. I can wait. Just—long trip to get here. Would like to be let in, at least."
The first guard considered a moment, before he finally let out a low rumble. "Ach," he said. "Don't see why we can't let you in. You're a friend of the An Craites, after all." Then, stepping back from the gate, he held out a hand, indicating for the witcher to pass, and Geralt offered him a nod as he walked through the gate, heading into the warm glow of the castle.
The court at Kaer Trolde was ablaze with firelight, so warm Geralt almost forgot about his unseasonal attire, and he lifted his head as he entered the main hall, trying his best to peer over the bustling crowd for a glimpse of Cerys. He had grown used to living in Toussaint, he realized, where he never had trouble seeing over the heads of any crowd, that he had almost forgotten that his six-foot-three stature was not exceptional here in Skellige. Skelligers, he knew, regularly grew past six feet, some spanning almost seven in height, and he could not help but feel suddenly a bit out of his depth as he eased his way through the crowd, looking for the queen.
Whatever was going on today, it certainly had everyone in the court abuzz, he realized, and he had to resist the urge to cover his ears to keep them from ringing with the sheer amount of noise in the hall. Sliding past another loudly guffawing warrior, he began to make his way for the long oak table in the middle of the hall instead, figuring he would simply have to wait for the commotion to die down before trying to find anything in all this activity. Grabbing an empty flagon from the table, Geralt dropped down tiredly onto the long wooden bench, pouring himself a mug of mead from the nearest pitcher and taking a long swig, looking around.
Despite the warmth of the hall – undoubtedly from the amount of warm bodies and hot air being moved around – the mead was refreshingly cold, and Geralt allowed himself another drink before trying again to look around for Cerys. She was nowhere to be seen in the hall, but from this vantage point, he realized he could see something else he had not before – Cerys' court maids, all sitting together at a table to his left, speaking merrily amongst themselves about something he could not hear. They were mostly dark-haired, he realized, with a few redheads and blondes thrown in to break the homogeny, but none of them looked particularly like Ciri, and he frowned, going over each one with a scrutinizing eye.
One blonde's eyes were far too dark, he thought, while another was far too petite to pass for his tall child surprise; another was far too tall, with shoulders like a boulder-lifter from one of Velen's travelling circuses. Geralt hummed at the thought, taking another drink, unable to help wondering if he had wasted his time in coming here, before he suddenly felt a warm body drop down onto the bench beside him, causing him to glance over in surprise to see who had joined him.
Cerys smiled up at him from the next seat over, looking pleased with herself for having surprised the witcher. "Thought I saw you prowlin' about," she told him, taking a cheerful swig of mead from her drinking-horn. "Told those blockheads out front not to let anyone in. Guess you sweet-talked your way past 'em anyhow. As you do."
"Think one of them might have a cold," Geralt answered, frankly. "Probably hindered his judgement."
Cerys chuckled. "Ach, his head's all stuffed up and his senses are too," she agreed. She grinned, seeming pleased to see him, but there was something dangerous in her smile as well, he realized – something a bit harsher than usual, as if she knew there was something just off enough about his visit not to take it as a friendly call. "Why didn't you tell me you were comin'?" she asked, pointedly. "Would've made arrangements. Caught me off-guard."
Geralt shrugged. "Can't a man surprise his friends?" he asked.
Cerys' expression did not move.
Geralt hummed, put on the spot, taking another swig of honeyed mead to buy time. "Here for the celebration," he finally said, indicating the busy hall with his mug. "Word travels fast from Skellige. Didn't think I'd need a personal invitation to show up."
Cerys' stern brows knitted together. "Oh aye?" she asked. "So ye've come for my weddin', then, have ye?"
Geralt looked up quickly, surprised. "You're getting married?" he asked. "Never heard anything about that. To who?"
Cerys stared at him for a long moment, before a slow grin began to creep across her face again. "You're a terrible liar, witcher," she told him, letting out a snort of laughter. "And a pushover besides. T'ain't no weddin', ya cunt. Now stop lyin', and tell me why you're really here."
Geralt sighed, setting down his mug again. "You got me," he admitted, shrugging. "Here on business, not pleasure. Trying to find someone. Was only told she was in Skellige, nothing else. Hoped you could help me find her."
Cerys raised a brow, seeming more interested now. "And who're you seekin', exactly?" she asked.
Geralt took a deep breath. "Cirilla Fiona," he said, trying not to sound too uncomfortable with the name. It still sounded utterly strange to him, but he knew it was the right one, as Ciri had assured him. "Former empress of Nilfgaard. Wife of Emhyr. Ciri said she might be here."
Cerys frowned at the answer, before taking a deep breath of her own, her fur shrug seeming to shift like an animal around her shoulders. "She'd be right," she said after a moment, sounding more suspicious than pleased of that fact. "Brought her here to get her out of Emhyr's clutches. He's got no eyes, no pull in Skellige, not since Ciri took the throne. He'd sent her off to some… dank prison. Had her rottin' away in a keep in Nilfgaard. Tucked away, where no one could discover his dirty little secret." She paused, taking another sip of mead, buying a moment to think how much to reveal to the witcher. "That's no way to treat a human bein'," she added after a while, sounding grave. "Once I learned of it from Ciri, I reached out to the Countess, and requested the lass be sent here instead."
"Been to the keep," Geralt agreed, nodding. "So does that mean she's here now?"
Cerys pursed her lips, before nodding back, slowly. "Aye, she's here," she said, speaking with great care. "But your out-the-gate interest makes me uncertain if I wish to tell you more. It's unnatural, witcher, that a man should be pursuin' a woman whose main draw is her resemblance to his daughter. Bad enough that Emhyr up an' married her—don't go ruinin' my opinion of you as well."
Geralt faltered, feeling his face grow warm at the accusation. "Know I've only ever treated Ciri like a father," he said, indignantly.
Cerys shrugged, unimpressed. "Aye," she agreed. "And Emhyr is her father. Don't mean much in the long run."
Geralt frowned, gripping his flagon tighter. "I'm not Emhyr," he insisted, insulted. "Just wanted to see this… False Ciri. Figure out a little more about her. Didn't know until recently Emhyr'd even had a wife." He paused, setting his jaw, giving himself a moment to regain his composure – of anything he had thought might sting to hear, he had never even considered he might be compared to Emhyr. Taking another swig of mead, he did his best to calm his fraying nerves, before he finally let out a low hum, staring down at Cerys' hands instead.
"Heard a rumour while travelling with the hansa years back that Emhyr'd married the real Ciri," he admitted, speaking lower this time. "Thought the rumours were nothing but gossip. Thought he'd just been waiting for some sad fuck like me to come along, bring the real Ciri home."
Cerys paused at his explanation, taking a moment to think it over, before she finally nodded, seeming content. "I suppose that makes some sense," she agreed, taking another offhanded swig from her horn. "Hard go of it, findin' out you've caused inadvertent harm. Can see why you'd want to meet her, tie up those loose ends." She paused again, her amber eyes lifting to rest on a table across the way, before she pursed her lips, her red brows carving a deep crease in her freckled forehead. "Just… be a bit wary of who you're tryin' to befriend, would ye?" she added after a moment, solemnly, looking up at him again. "She's a bit fragile still, and I won't stand for her being taken advantage of again. Not in my court."
Geralt frowned. "Seems unfair to assume that's my intention," he said, thinning his lips. "Never been anything but a friend to you. Friend to Crach. Thought that might attest to my character."
"A friend to us, aye, but your character's that of a womanizer nonetheless," Cerys agreed, her brows arching. "Or have ye so quickly forgotten your tryst with Jutta an Dimun on your last visit to the isles?" Geralt faltered at the mention of Jutta, having no idea how Cerys could have learned of such a private matter, but she only let out a hiss of air from between her teeth, shaking her head as she looked away again. "Emhyr's already fucked her up good," she added, tsking in sympathy at the thought. "Poor thing's all alone in this world, 'far as she's concerned. Last thing she needs is another man gassin' her up and tossin' her to the wayside."
"How do you know Jutta?" Geralt asked, still not sure he could let that go so easily.
Cerys paused, thinking a moment, before she finally looked up at him again, her lips pursed. "Jutta's one of my best shield maidens," she answered, sounding just as distrustful of him as he was of her. "Or she was, until she became with child. She'd always say—only a witcher'd ever defeated her in battle. Was right proud of that."
"Jutta… had a child?" Geralt asked, feeling his stomach twist at the implication.
Cerys hummed, nodding her head stiffly. "Aye, she will have," she answered. "In a month or so, when she's due. Near fit to burst, she is, but no babe as yet." She paused, her sharp eyes never leaving Geralt, making him nearly start to sweat under her scrutinizing gaze. "It'd be 'bout a year and a half since you sparred with her, wouldn't it?" she asked, causing him to clench his teeth at the question. Then, letting out a soft hiss, she shook her head again, looking away once more. "Ach, don't be lookin' so guilty, witcher," she told him. "T'ain't your babe. You needn't worry."
Geralt frowned, unable to help a flood of relief at the thought that the child was not his, but he could still not help the memory of Lambert's taunt from crawling back again and lodging itself darkly in his brain. Jutta had not been the only woman he had slept with over the last few years, he knew – there had been others, ones he had confessed to Yennefer, but ones he had been too careless with, knowing what he knew now.
"Thought she only wanted kids with whoever could best her," he finally said, trying to shake the unsettling thought.
"She did," Cerys answered, nodding again. "But she got tired of waitin' for that day to come. No man but you could ever best her in battle, so she went ahead and found a man she felt would do her child justice instead. She wanted a babe, and realized it was foolish to think she needed a husband for that." She paused, seeming to think on this, before she finally pursed her lips, her brow furrowing again. "She said that if no man could best her at duelling, there's no way they'd be suitable to help raise a babe," she added, thoughtfully. "A man who's careless with his blade would be careless with a child. 'Twas her logic, and seemed rightly sound."
Geralt tilted his head. "Hm," he said after a while. "Guess I can see the correlation." He paused, staring down at his hands, wondering if the same logic applied to him and Shani's baby – he had always been a master swordsman, but his confidence in handling something as fragile as a baby was slim to none. The idea that a man who knew how to flourish a blade could be just as capable with a child was an interesting one, but one he found discouragingly hard to apply to himself, a man whose hands had only ever been used for killing. "Is Cirilla here?" he asked after a second, trying to push the thought of insecurity from his mind. "Not gonna take advantage of her. Just wanna… talk to her. See who she is."
"Who she is?" Cerys repeated, the question seeming to hold more weight than Geralt had thought. She paused, sucking her lips, before she finally let out her breath again in a long, low hum. "That's an interesting question," she told him, looking up at him again with a thoughtful frown. "Don't rightly know that it has an answer, as yet. She's… a good person, I'll say that for her, at least. Soft-spoken. Brainwashed by a society only interested in exploiting her for who she resembled – that bein' our beloved princess Ciri." She stopped, thinning her lips, seeming to have to take a moment to think of how to describe Cirilla, before she finally tilted her head, leaning her elbows musingly against the table.
"She has… little personality," Cerys said after a moment, seeming almost to wince at this, as if it pained her to admit. "Borderin' on none, save what she learned in order to impersonate Ciri. Been trying to work on it, but… it's a process, as you know. Personalities don't just grow overnight, and hers is takin' a while to settle in." She stopped again, before her expression began to twist, looking almost dismayed this time. "It's a bit unsettlin', actually, how close she seemed to Ciri on first glance," she admitted, looking up again. "But… the differences became apparent soon enough. Either way, she doesn't deserve what that bastard made of her. No one deserves to be used up and tossed aside like an old napkin the way Emhyr did to that girl. She might not have any real identity of her own just yet, but she's learnin'. And in the meantime, she's still a person, and still has value."
"Hm," Geralt answered, feeling a bit of guilt start to pool in his stomach as he listened. He had no intention of trying to hurt the girl, but the more Cerys talked about how pitiable she was, the more he felt he might not have the heart to persuade her into bed when the time came. "Sounds like she's been through a lot," he admitted. "Probably grateful to you for pulling her out of there."
Cerys frowned, before sitting up straighter, her gaze moving to rest on the table across the way again. "I thought she might be," she admitted. "But thus far she only seems to miss her home. That… prison. Strangest thing, witcher… it's almost as if she's grown attached to Emhyr, in spite of all he put her through." She faltered, her brow furrowing deeper, her red lips twisting as her nose wrinkled in a loath expression. "He always did know how to fool people," she added, disgustedly. "Especially innocent girls. But hopefully her fixation will pass."
Geralt frowned, unsure what to say, watching Cerys for a long moment as she sat in thoughtful silence, before he finally turned away, following her line of sight to the table directly across the way. As he did so, he found himself faltering, realizing that there, directly across from the two of them, sat a blindingly familiar face, one he had been looking for, but one he had somehow managed to miss entirely until just now. The woman at the table across from them had flaxen hair, worn loose down to her shoulders, save what bits were braided behind her head in silvery plaits; her green velvet dress was accentuated with white mink fur, making her look every inch a royal maiden, and Geralt felt his heart catch as he stared at her, realizing how strikingly similar she truly was to Ciri at first glance.
"That her?" Geralt asked, nodding to the woman, nearly feeling the question stick in his chest as he spoke; he had almost forgotten to breathe as he stared at her, so captured by her likeness to his child surprise.
Cerys nodded, seeming to have expected him to find her. "That she is," she said, looking over at him again, intently. "You can talk to her, if you wish. But heed my warning, witcher—I'll not have her hurt again. Not while I keep watch."
Geralt hummed, too distracted by the sight of the former empress to hear half of what Cerys was saying, and he took another deep swig from his flagon for courage before getting up to head to the table across the way. It took a bit of manoeuvring to get to the table, so full was the hall still with gathered revelry, but he finally managed to reach it, sitting down beside the young woman and sliding down until only one space lay between them. Pouring himself another flagon of mead from the jug in front of them, he lifted his mug in a toast to her, trying to ignore Cerys' scrutinizing amber eyes cutting through him from the table across the way.
"To your health," he told the young woman, taking a long swig and wiping his beard with his sleeve. Then, looking over at her again, he offered her a friendly smile, one he hoped looked genuine. He had practiced his smile in the mirror before, but he knew it was always different in person, and he had to hold back a slight wince as she finally turned to stare back at him, her expression betraying nothing. "Haven't seen you around before," he told her, causing the young woman to frown at his attempt to converse. "Thought I knew every woman in this court. Can't say I've had the pleasure of meeting you, though."
The woman made a face at his lead-in, looking as if she had just smelled spoiled milk, before she turned her attention away again, looking back down at the goblet in front of her in rigid silence. Geralt grunted, realizing again that his social skills were the rustiest of his witcher's tools, but he took another deep breath regardless, refusing to give up until he got an answer.
"What's your name?" he pressed her. "Gotta have a name."
"Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon var Emreis," the woman answered, not looking up from her goblet.
Geralt huffed, leaning on the table. "Can't be your real name," he said, taking another drink of mead. "Ciri's in Nilfgaard, sitting on the throne. And her surname's 'of Vengerburg'. Picked it herself."
"That's a different Cirilla," the woman corrected, her voice growing swiftly cold. "My name is Cirilla var Emreis. Or at least, it was. I'm not sure what it is now."
Geralt hummed, setting down his mug again. "How's a woman not know her own name?" he asked.
The woman called Cirilla paused, before she looked up again, her green eyes frigid; they were almost as green as Ciri's, Geralt noted, save for a bit of hazel around the edges. Had he not been sitting so close, he might never have noticed, but sitting barely a foot from her, he could see now that her hair was just a bit too dark, her eyes just a bit too muddied, her face just a bit too maudlin to truly be Ciri's staring back at him. "You certainly ask a lot of questions, witcher," Cirilla told him, nearly spitting the last word. "I don't remember seeing any monsters in Ard Skellig. I'm not sure why you're even here."
"Here on pleasure," Geralt answered, finishing his mead with a last, hearty swig and a sigh. "Observant to realize I'm a witcher. What gave it away? The medallion, or the eyes?"
"Neither," Cirilla answered, her tone still cold, seeming unwilling to accept any of his charm. "I know who you are, witcher. You're Geralt of Rivia. Emhyr's personal witcher, the one meant to fetch him the princess." She paused, pursing her lips, and Geralt found himself taken aback at her recognition, having thought for sure he would be as much a stranger to her as she still was to him. "You were the one responsible for my exile," Cirilla continued after a moment, her voice like ice in his ears. "Surely you can understand why I wouldn't take kindly to your presence. Nor your conversation."
Geralt frowned, a bit thrown by this curve. "Not Emhyr's personal witcher," he finally said, shaking his head. "Got nothing to do with him. Only helped him find Ciri. Even that barely had to do with him. Just happened to have a common goal." He paused, waiting for some reaction, but Cirilla only stared back at him, seeming unwilling to buy his excuse. "Doesn't matter," he added, shrugging, wondering if there was any hope to salvage this disastrous first meeting. "Not why I'm over here, anyway. Just a curious man. Saw a pretty woman, wanted to talk."
Cirilla hummed, her delicate brow furrowing. "Curious, indeed," she answered, frostily. "If it bothers you so much, you may call me Becca. But I'd prefer to be called Cirilla."
Geralt raised a brow. "Becca your real name?" he asked.
Cirilla shook her head. "No," she said. "But you dislike my real name. So Becca must do."
"Hm," Geralt answered, shrugging. "Would rather call you Cirilla, then. If that really is your name."
Cirilla paused, seeming to consider her options, before she finally stood from her bench with a sigh. "Do as you wish, witcher," she told him, wearily. "But I must go now. It's been a long day, and I am very tired."
Geralt faltered, surprised by her curt dismissal, before he quickly got up from his seat, holding out a hand to stop her from leaving. "Didn't mean to run you off," he told her, gently reaching out to touch her arm. "Cirilla's a beautiful name. Just wanted to make sure you weren't blowing me off—"
"Don't—!" Cirilla whirled back around quickly, retrieving her arm from his grasp, and Geralt blinked, taken aback by how extreme a reaction she had given to such a simple action. Cirilla stopped, seeming surprised at herself, before she finally relaxed her shoulders again, letting out a soft, shuddering breath as she allowed her arm to return warily to her side. "I apologize," she said, softly, turning her strikingly green gaze to the floor; she seemed unable to even look at him, Geralt realized, which seemed strange, but he said nothing, only allowing her to speak. "You've caught me at a bad time, I'm afraid," she added. "I am upset, and… I really must rest." Having said this, she paused again, seeming to take a moment to consider, before she finally turned to leave again, slipping away silently into the bustling crowd.
Geralt watched as Cirilla disappeared, settling back slowly into his seat, before he felt a sudden presence at his side again, filling the space that had once belonged to Cirilla. "Bad luck, witcher," Cerys noted, causing him to glance over, surprised to see her there. "T'ain't your fault, though. Figured that kinda thing might happen. Been a bit like that ever since she got here."
"Hm," Geralt answered, looking back again with a frown. "Yeah. Thanks for the warning."
Cerys huffed, taking another swig of mead, before she set her horn down on the table in front of her. "Not my job to tell you how to talk to women," she told him, giving him a gentle nudge. "Seems you're a bit rusty at it, yourself, anyhow. Too many years out the saddle. Between the two of you, I'm amazed you lasted this long."
Geralt grunted, realizing she was right. "Can you help?" he asked, looking over again. "Didn't mean to run her off. Frighten her. Maybe you could… dunno. Tell her I mean her no harm."
Cerys wrinkled her nose at his request. "Ach," she said, making a sour face. "I've no idea of your intentions, Geralt. And I'll not help you sleep about on your wife. Not only for Becca's sake, but Yennefer's. She's a friend to Skellige, and a friend to me besides."
Geralt grimaced at the answer, realizing how his question had to seem to Cerys, knowing only what she knew – with her lack of context, he could easily see how she might think he was falling back into old habits. He let out a harried breath at the thought, staring down at the table, wondering if it might not be worth it to tell her the truth; while it would certainly make things simpler, he had no idea how much it might endanger Cerys to know. He also knew how terrible it might sound to her, knowing he truly was only looking for a quick fuck from the former empress, and he realized with a bit of discouragement that, no matter how he tried to frame it, there was no good way to explain his task.
"I'm n—I just wanna talk to her," he finally retorted, setting his jaw in frustration. "Said yourself, tying up loose ends. Don't know why you're so convinced I wanna sleep with her."
Cerys huffed, arching a brow. "You dunno?" she asked. "I am speakin' to Geralt of Rivia, aren't I?" She snorted, taking another swig of mead, before she finally shook her head, disbelieving. "I'll not play a part in you harassing my court maidens," she told him after a moment, more seriously now. "But I won't stop you from trying to make friends, neither, if that's truly what you're after. Just know those girls all report back to me, at the end of the day." She paused, her freckled brow furrowing, her ruby lips pursing as she stared into the still-bustling crowd, before she finally shook her head, picking up her horn and pushing herself up from the table again.
"Anyway, give it up for tonight, witcher," she told him, waving a dismissive hand. "That girl won't be back 'til the morrow. Just be you an' your hand tonight, I'm afraid."
"Said I didn't wanna fuck her—!" Geralt insisted, turning to look back at Cerys again, annoyed, only to find her already gone, with the merry whistled tune of the Wolf and the Princess disappearing in her wake.
The warmth of Cerys' mead hall seemed to fill every inch of the stone castle, and Geralt sighed heavily as he nestled down into his covers, fishing his xenovox from his pouch on the floor. He had promised Yennefer he would update her on his progress, and he hummed as he lifted the trinket to his lips, dreading the conversation that awaited as he gave it a moment to activate. The conversation was kept incredibly vague, but he still managed to convey everything of importance – his disappointing trip to Nilfgaard, and his strange first encounter with his nameless object of interest in Skellige. Yennefer listened in relative silence as he spoke, never reacting or questioning him as he caught her up, until he finally finished his tale, allowing her a moment of silence to turn it over.
"Shani is almost seven and a half months pregnant, Geralt," Yennefer finally informed him, speaking once he had finished his update. She sounded more annoyed than he had expected, but he supposed she had good reason, even if it did feel a bit unfair.
"Gonna take more time than I thought," Geralt admitted, letting out a sigh. "Not as good as I used to be."
Yennefer huffed. "At what, exactly?" she insisted. "What could you possibly be doing that takes a week or more to complete?"
"Only been in Skellige a day," Geralt reminded her, defensively. "Plus, thought you didn't want to know."
"I don't," Yennefer answered, still sounding annoyed. "But I can't help being frustrated, regardless. Whatever it is you're doing, see that it gets done quickly—we might've found a place for Shani to stay. If it works out, I'll be coming back to Corvo Bianco soon, and I expect to find you there on my arrival."
Geralt perked up at this, surprised to hear the good news. "Hope it does work out," he said. "Wanna see you again."
"And I, you," Yennefer answered, sounding more tired than annoyed this time. "Though I'm not quite sure about this place. It's not somewhere any of us would have picked as our first choice. Unfortunately, we're running out of options at this point, and we don't want to keep Shani on the road any longer."
Geralt smiled, hearing the tenderness in his wife's voice he had missed so much in their time apart; as much as she pretended to be the stoic one, she had an empathy that she could never quite hide, especially from him. "Sure you know what you're doing," he told her, fondly. "Always do. Love you, Yen."
Yennefer paused, before letting out a soft sigh. "I love you as well, Geralt," she told him, her voice much gentler now. "Now stop dawdling and finish your task."
Geralt faltered, feeling his good mood wane. "Wouldn't say that if you knew what it was," he admitted, gravely.
Yennefer hummed, before letting out another short huff. "I'm sure you're right," she admitted, sounding just as grim. "But whatever it is, please be safe. I can only assist you so much from here, but I believe you'll do the right thing."
Geralt winced, feeling a writhing in the pit of his stomach at her assuring words; of anything she could have said to ease his mind, that had to be the worst for his already-guilty conscience. She had no idea the impact of her words, of course, but she somehow knew exactly where to press, regardless – exactly what to say to make him rethink every decision he had ever made in lying to her. It was not really a lie, he told himself – Yennefer, herself had agreed that not knowing would be best – but he still could not help the feeling of anguishing guilt from gathering in his chest like a coiled snake.
"I suggested Vernon for a name," Yennefer said after a moment, pulling him back from his thoughts again. "Shani didn't much like that, either. Or Emiel, though I thought that one infinitely more charming."
"Emiel," Geralt repeated, surprised to hear it. "Don't like it. Too close to Emhyr."
Yennefer huffed, sounding insulted. "Don't let Regis hear you say that," she told him. "Though I agree – 'Regis', itself, is a much better option. I simply didn't wish to be too upfront about it."
Geralt hummed, wrinkling his nose a bit. "Guess Regis could be a good name," he admitted, too tired to argue. "Keep that on the table for the time being. Agree with Shani, though. Don't like Vernon."
Yennefer hmphed, the sound clearly good-natured. "You wouldn't," she agreed, sounding only playfully offended. "Regardless, at least one of my suggestions still stands. I'll pass it by Shani in the morning and see what she says." She paused, seeming to think on it a while, before she finally let out a soft, discouraged huff. "She really does seem incredibly intent on planning for a girl," she admitted after a moment, thoughtfully. "I just hope she isn't disappointed if the child turns out to be a boy. As I'm sure it will."
Geralt shrugged. "Dunno that," he answered, honestly. "Could be anything. Might not even be human."
Yennefer faltered, seeming unsure how to respond for a moment, too surprised to answer. "Why would you say that, Geralt?" she finally insisted, sounding alarmed. "Do you have reason to believe the child might be something else? Some kind of creature? Have you discovered some new detail you haven't informed me about?"
Geralt thinned his lips, realizing his mistake, but he only let out a long, thin breath, realizing now was not the time to get into this – there was too much uncertainty, too many theories, and he could feel his eyes growing heavier with every word. "Just… worried," he admitted, sinking down lower into his sheets, feeling his eyes start to flutter as he spoke. "Didn't mean to startle you. Got a lot on my mind, is all. Baby's fine. You'd be the first to know otherwise."
"I certainly hope I would," Yennefer answered, still sounding ruffled, though she could do little about it. "Don't make those kinds of statements anymore, Geralt, please. Now, get some sleep. You've a big day ahead of you tomorrow."
Geralt grunted. "Wish you were here," he told her, lifting the xenovox to press a tired kiss to its face.
"As do I," Yennefer agreed with a sigh, before kissing him back through the xenovox from her end.
Cirilla Fiona, noble of Cintra, former empress of Nilfgaard, had not moved from her spot on the balcony overlooking the sea in quite some time, and Geralt watched as she sighed into the salty wind, tucking a lock of pale hair distractedly behind her ear. He had found her out here nearly ten minutes ago, and had watched her that whole time, expecting her to move, but it seemed she was content to simply stare wistfully out to sea, preferring the company of seagulls to that of Kaer Trolde's inhabitants. Geralt hummed to himself as he watched her, wondering if he might not be better off leaving her alone, before he suddenly realized that this was likely one of the only times he might be able to find her alone and accessible.
She had disappeared to her room the night before, and had stayed in the company of the court maidens the entire morning since – clearly in an effort to avoid him, though by Cerys' warning or not was difficult to tell. It had only been by sheer coincidence that he had happened upon her now, having broken from her group for a breath of fresh air, and he frowned, checking both ways down the corridor to ensure he was not walking into a trap.
He knew Cerys did not believe his flimsy excuses for being here, a fact which he could not blame her for; even now he half expected to find her fiery plait stepping out from behind a pillar or walking up behind him to surprise him. Despite his worries, however, he found the hall blessedly empty, and he slowly crossed the stone corridor to the balcony, coming to a stop in the open doorframe to stand behind Cirilla. She did not seem to hear him approaching, her gaze vague and misty as she stared out across the water, and Geralt cleared his throat gently as he stood in the doorway behind her, not wanting to startle her with his presence. He had frightened her with only a touch the evening before, and he could still remember the frightened look in her eyes – the look of a deer who could see the arrow, but knew it was too late to stop its impact.
Cirilla frowned as she heard him announce himself, her pink lips pinching as she stared out over the balcony ledge. "I know you're there, witcher," she told him, her voice soft. "I wondered how long you were going to stand there watching me before you approached."
Geralt grunted, leaning against the doorframe. "Didn't want to interrupt," he explained, hoping it sounded sincere. "Figured you were busy. Looked deep in thought. Didn't want to intrude."
Cirilla huffed, sounding unconvinced, lowering her gaze to the balcony railing. "Since when do witchers care about such trivial things?" she asked, her voice still expectedly cold. Geralt frowned, wondering if he had already said something to hit a nerve he was not aware of, but she only took a deep breath of sea air, her slim shoulders stiffening beneath her mink shawl. "In all honesty, I'm not even sure why you're still here," she admitted, still not turning to look at him. "Were you truly a friend of Cerys', you would have left after her celebration. As you haven't, I can't help but think you might be here for another reason."
Geralt shrugged, folding his arms. "I'm a man of many surprises," he admitted, offhandedly.
Cirilla pursed her lips, still not looking at him. "I suppose that's true," she finally agreed, stiffly. "You certainly surprised everyone by turning up again after the world assumed you dead."
Geralt faltered, taken aback by the young woman's knowledge of his adventures, though he supposed it was not so hard to believe some of Dandelion's ballads might have reached her, even in Nilfgaard. "Sure know a lot about me," he commented, trying his best to sound casual about it. "Put me in an awkward spot. Admit I know almost nothing about you."
Cirilla raised her gaze to the mountains again, folding her hands stiffly in front of her. "There's really nothing to know," she answered, her voice cold. "I'm no one of any great importance. At least, not compared to someone like Geralt of Rivia."
Geralt hummed, furrowing his brow. "Don't think that's true," he answered, fairly. "Think there's plenty to know about you. Think you just don't want to tell me."
Cirilla paused again, seeming to consider, before she finally turned to look back at him, her green eyes flat and lifeless as she took a long, silent moment to survey his face. He could not help noticing, as she stared at him, how dim and inert her eyes seemed, compared to the sparkling emerald of the real Ciri, and he felt a slight chill run through him as he stared back into the world-weariness of those plain green eyes. "Why would I, witcher?" Cirilla asked him, drawing him sharply back from the thought of what kind of life she had lived. "What would you even want to know? Who am I to you, if not the False Ciri? A spectacle to be ogled, an exhibition? That is all I've ever been known for—my resemblance to the princess of Nilfgaard, and my marriage to Emhyr. Barely considered human, even by those who exploited me most during my time in the empire."
She frowned, her pale cheeks lighting with a soft pink flush of indignation, and Geralt watched in captivated silence, allowing her as much time as she needed to vent her frustrations. She had every right to be angry, he thought, considering everything Emhyr had put her through, but he could still not help wondering how long she had been waiting to say these things to anyone who might listen. "I was sent to Skellige to escape those like you," she continued after a moment, still speaking stiffly. "Those who only cared about who I was when I was still empress of Nilfgaard. You've come at the wrong time to speak to me of any of that, witcher. I have no more connection to Emhyr, nor the empire—you'll not gain footing over him by going through me. He cares not for me, though I truly believe he once held love for me, as I once held for him."
Having said this, Cirilla suddenly paused, seeming surprised to hear the words leaving her own lips, before she finally turned away again, letting her dull gaze return to the sea. "Please," she said, her voice quieter now, all indignation of before seeming to leave her all at once. "Please, witcher… leave me be. I am tired, so tired, of feeling like an oddity in my own skin."
Geralt faltered, unsure what to say, having not expected to hear her speak so honestly; if anything, he had expected to find her insufferable, but now, he found himself almost speechless. "I'm… sorry you've been made to feel that way," he finally said, struggling to find the right words. "Not why I'm here, though. Not why I'm talking to you. Like I told you last night—think you're beautiful. Just wanted to know more about you."
Cirilla paused, staring out to sea for a long time, before she finally turned to look back at him again, taking a moment to look him over, as if truly observing him for the first time. He could see her lashes flutter as she took him in, her soft brow furrowing faintly as she considered, before she finally let out a weary sigh, allowing her gaze to fall as she turned around to face him. "I'm… sorry, witcher," she told him, quietly, seeming again unable to meet his eyes. "I should not have spoken so harshly. I suppose I simply saw you, and… I assumed the worst. I thought, perhaps, you'd been sent here to kill me – to eliminate me entirely, so I would no longer be a problem for Emhyr and the princess. I suppose…"
She trailed off, folding her arms so her elbows rested neatly in either palm, and Geralt could not help making a face as he listened, understanding at last why she had reacted so coldly to him. "Well," she said, speaking softer. "Now that the princess has taken the throne, I assumed any proof of my existence would be inconvenient to the both of them. Emhyr always did put Nilfgaard before anything else… or anyone else. I know this." She frowned, her pretty brow furrowing, her pink lips rolling in concentration, before she finally looked up at the witcher again, taking a moment to observe him before speaking.
"So why did you go after the princess, then, if not by order of Emhyr?" she asked, sounding more curious now. "There was a reward out for her return, I know, but… it'd already been claimed by the man who brought me in. There was no other motivation but a political one—to see Emhyr's authentic blood on the throne."
Geralt shook his head again, standing from the doorframe. "Wasn't interested in the reward," he answered, simply. "Went after Ciri because she's my child surprise. Know how that works, with witchers?"
At the mention of witchers, Cirilla seemed to hesitate, sucking her rosy lip as she thought, and Geralt could not help noticing her slender hands curling into her skirt as she searched for an answer. "A… bit," she finally admitted, sounding strangely shy as she spoke this time. There was something new in her voice now, Geralt noticed; something almost excited, though she was clearly trying to hide it. "Countess Stella told me a bit about the world, and a bit about witchers," she said, sounding more confident as she continued. "I was never truly familiar with their stories before then. But I've heard about the Law of Surprise, and how it works. How you ask for the first thing someone sees on their arrival home, or something they have which they do not yet know."
Geralt nodded, folding his arms again, wondering if he had stumbled on something he could use. "Usually works out differently," he admitted. "Usually gets us a chicken or a cow. Something we can trade or sell. Children of surprise are the least common thing, but it happens. Not so much anymore."
"It's the only way to get more witchers," Cirilla agreed, her voice solemn, seeming to slowly come alive with interest. "Witchers are all sterile as mules. Taking children is the only way to continue their number."
Geralt hummed, seeing no reason to correct her, as she was technically right about their sterility – another fact which surprised him, as he had not taken her for a woman with an interest in anything but her own misery. He was starting to realize there was more to this young woman than met the eye, but he was not confident enough to lean on it just yet, and he cleared his throat, pushing the thought to the back of his mind, for the time being. "To be honest… had no idea you even existed," he admitted after a moment, bringing the conversation back again. "Nobody told me. Not even Emhyr. First time I ever saw you was at Cerys' get-together."
Cirilla made a face, seeming displeased to return to the unpleasant topic of before, but she did not turn her gaze away this time, allowing him her full attention as he continued his apology. "Didn't mean to frighten you," Geralt told her, honestly. "Didn't mean to upset you, either."
Cirilla took a deep breath, seeming to consider whether or not to accept his apology. "I suppose… I can understand," she finally said, looking up at him again, her gaze softer this time. "And I apologize for thinking ill of you, witcher. Though I admit I still don't quite understand your reasons for being here."
"Just here on a social call," Geralt answered, shrugging again, wishing she would drop it. "Witchers're just like everyone else. Got friends, like to visit them sometimes."
Cirilla huffed, still seeming unconvinced, turning her eyes to her skirts again. "Well, you've certainly been very social with me," she admitted. "So much that I don't think you've had time to see your friend at all."
Geralt grinned, letting out a low grunt. "Can't help it," he told her. "From the moment I saw you, had to get to know you better. Asked Cerys about you, but she only told me a little. Hoped to hear the rest from you." He paused, giving her a moment to respond, only to be met with more uncertain silence, and he let out a short, thoughtful breath, running a hand back through his scruffy hair as he tried to think of what to say. "Don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he told her, hoping he was not coming on too strongly – the last time he had tried to push her for more details, she had shut down completely and retired for the evening. "Want get to know you, but… seems there's something still keeping you from trusting me. Not sure what else I can do to convince you. Starting to wonder if I'm wasting my time."
At this, Cirilla faltered, before she finally looked up at him again, her green eyes dull; there was a strangeness to her expression now, he realized – an emptiness, as if he were looking into a half-full pitcher. Something in what he said had shaken something loose in her, though he could not think of what it could be; still, she seemed almost more alert now, more anxious, as if some lever had been pulled in her brain. "I apologize," she said, sounding unnervingly vague, causing Geralt to have to steel his expression to keep it from twisting. "I am unused to people having an interest in me. I will… try harder to tell you what you want to hear. As little as there may be to tell."
Geralt frowned, unable to help a creeping feeling of discomfort at the way she spoke now – she sounded so listless, like a puppet that had learned to talk, but not to think on its own. "Don't expect you to try anything," he told her, causing her to blink, seeming confused, though her expression never moved. "Just wanted to get to know you. Who you are now, not who you were before."
"I…" Cirilla paused, chewing her lip, having clearly never been asked before. "I… am no one now," she finally answered, warily. "A lady of Cerys' court, with whatever that entails." She stopped again, thinking a moment, turning her gaze to stare down at her dainty hands in front of her, and Geralt saw them tense as she took a deep breath, fidgeting idly with a ring on her finger. "I… give insight into the workings of Nilfgaard, at times," she added, warily. "Though with the princess on the throne now, things are… different. There's no need for insight into Emhyr's mind anymore. My usefulness has run short here, as everywhere else." She stopped again, her pretty brow furrowing, before she took another deep breath, her soft jaw clenching through her cheeks.
"Skellige is different from the Continent," she observed after a while, looking up at Geralt again. "Everyone is so much rougher here. I'm not quite sure they'll ever take to me… much like everywhere else."
Geralt frowned, unsure what to say to her, having not expected to find her so sympathetic; she was only a girl, he realized, manipulated and broken, beaten down by Emhyr's unrealistic expectations of her. A girl, so crushed by the pressure Emhyr had put her under that she had lost her entire identity in the process—and a girl, he knew, that he had to take advantage of just like Emhyr had, if he wanted his child to live. He clenched his teeth, taking a hard breath in as he stared down at the young woman in front of him, feeling the coiled serpent of guilt in his stomach growing ever larger with every second. "I've taken to you, for what it's worth," he finally told her, the words sounding awkward, even as he said them. "Only just met you, and already like you. Would like to get to know you better, in fact."
Cirilla paused at this, her eyes growing wide, before she quickly looked down again, staring at her hands. "Thank you, witcher," she said, her voice quiet, a soft pink blush touching her cheeks at the compliment. "I'm not sure how much more there is to know, but… I am willing to try. If you'd like."
"Like that very much," Geralt answered, reaching up to trace a finger along the apple of her cheek; the lack of a scar helped him know this was not his Ciri, but it still felt strange to do. He gritted his teeth as he moved his finger along the outline of her jaw, and Cirilla looked up again, her doe eyes wide, expectant, her pink lips parting in anticipation as Geralt leaned in, pressing his lips to hers. Her lips were different from Yennefer's; the sorceress' lips were pillowy, soft, like a warm bed waiting after a long day's ride, but Cirilla's lips were stiff and lukewarm, like a bath still warming before it was ready to step in. Still, he could tell she had not been kissed like this in quite some time, if ever, and he let his lips linger against hers for another moment longer, feeling her relax as she finally allowed herself to give in to the gentleness of the kiss.
After a while, Geralt leaned back again, allowing their lips to finally part, and he grinned down at Cirilla as he did so, noting how the silence between them made her heart sound all the louder in his ears. Cirilla took a moment to open her eyes, and she blinked a few times, still in a daze; her face had turned pale with the kiss, but the blush of surprise was quick to return to her rosy cheeks, and she looked up at Geralt with a soft gasp as she leaned back, reaching up to press a gentle hand to her bosom. "Witcher," she breathed, quietly, as if still not quite sure if she had imagined the kiss. Then, her gaze suddenly dropped to her skirts again, the soft pink blush on her cheeks growing darker as the reality of what she had just done sank in.
"You really do presume too much, witcher," she told him, quietly, sounding as if she were trying to convince herself as much as him. "I've heard tales, you know, of witchers wooing women. Having their wild romps, then disappearing into the night. Surely you've sport to pursue elsewhere—women who are more susceptible to your fame and charm."
Geralt hummed, not sure how to respond, wondering if he might have pressed his luck too far this time; he had gambled on reading body language, and like so many times before, it seemed he had lost. "Fame and charm are only half of it," he answered, honestly. "And tales're only true up to a point."
Cirilla frowned, brushing a hand over her skirt, still seeming a bit disconnected from reality. "That's unfortunate," she said after a while, glancing up again. "I do rather enjoy those tales. I'd be remiss to learn many more of them are less than true… especially the ones about wooing women." She paused, staring up at him for a long while, seeming intent on memorizing his face, and Geralt raised his brows slowly as he stared back at her, wondering what was going on in her enigmatic mind. He had always had trouble reading people, thanks to the effects of his extra mutations, but he could not help feeling this woman would be hard to read even by Regis' empathetic standards.
"Perhaps," Cirilla finally spoke again, her words slower now, as if still formulating her thoughts. "If you intend to stay awhile, we might have a chance for you to tell me more about which stories are true. Perhaps… if you like, we can meet here again, and you can tell me more about witchers."
Geralt paused, unsure what to say, before he finally offered her a strained, practiced smile. "Would like that very much," he told her. "'Long as it means I get to see you again."
The strange feeling of Cirilla's lips lingered on his mouth all day, no matter how he tried to rid himself of it, and Geralt let out a gruff sigh as he fell into bed at last, worn out from another fruitless day. He had had such high hopes on coming to Skellige, thinking he could skirt around O'Dimm and complete his task in easy time, but the more he found out about the former empress, the more insurmountable his mission seemed to become. There was something different about meeting someone and realizing they were a human being like any other, he realized; a young woman, someone's daughter, a person with dreams and ambitions, so many already utterly dashed. She was a woman with no reason to trust him, no reason to allow in anyone who seemed too eager to know her, having already seen what that same eagerness had gotten her before, and where it had left her.
Geralt frowned, remembering his conversation with Ciri about the so-called friends who had used her until they could no longer control her, before his thoughts returned next to his conversation with Eskel, and the accusation that Geralt had done the same thing to Shani. No matter how he tried to escape it, it seemed he was constantly being pulled back into old, toxic habits, unable to move on or grow from them so long as O'Dimm held his feet to the fire. It was maddening, sickening almost, to realize how deep the devil's manipulation went – to the very core of Geralt's being, turning him into a hypocrite in every way imaginable.
Picking up the xenovox from the bedside table, Geralt gave it a quick shake to wake it up – he had no idea how the trinket's magic actually worked, but he figured it could not hurt to try. "Yen?" he asked, bringing it up to speak into it. "Yen, if you're there… really need to hear from you right now."
"Geralt, what's wrong?" Yennefer answered quickly, not even waiting for the interference to settle.
Geralt took a deep breath, holding it for a moment, before he finally let it out in a heavy sigh. "Can't do this anymore," he told her, honestly. "Can't keep this task a secret." He faltered, narrowing his lips, unable to help wondering if he was truly doing the right thing, but he knew it was too late to turn back now, now that he had put it out in the open.
Yennefer faltered, seeming surprised. "So tell me, then," she said after a moment, her voice gentler than expected. "I only didn't ask because it seemed you didn't want to tell me. I respect you, Geralt. If you say I don't need to know something, I believe you. As foolish as that may make me."
Geralt hesitated, thinking it over, knowing there was no way he could frame the task without sounding like a monster, before he finally took another deep breath, knowing his next words could change the dynamic of their marriage forever. "You know O'Dimm gave me the task of fulfilling the second half of Ithlinne's prophecy," he reminded her, gravely. "Of… sleeping with Ciri. Getting her pregnant. The… seed, bursting into flame."
Yennefer was silent for a long while, making Geralt's heart race as he waited for her acknowledgement. "…And?" she finally asked, her tone unreadable, poised and perfectly stiff. It was cold as ice, Geralt noted, and utterly precarious, as if waiting for one last push to decide one way or another—a tone he had not heard in quite some time, and one which made his heart lodge like a stone in his throat.
"And nothing," he said, speaking firmly, though he could feel his lungs catching as he spoke, making it nearly impossible to breathe. "Not gonna sleep with Ciri. Found a workaround. Political stand-in with the same name."
Yennefer paused again, her silence rigid, still poised to strike like a tiger surveying its prey, before she finally let out a soft breath, allowing some tension to ease across the connection. "So what's the problem, then?" she asked, sounding more informal now, though a notable stiffness still remained; she was still not entirely convinced, he could tell, still on edge at the mention of Ciri. He had touched a mother's nerve, a nerve he could tell could have ended very badly for him, given any other answer, and he took another deep breath as he listened, knowing she was still not entirely placated. "You've always been unfortunately good at seducing every woman with a pulse. And even some without."
"Used to be," Geralt answered, grunting. "But, not anymore. Can't do it. Feels wrong that it's not you."
Yennefer huffed. "That's very romantic, Geralt," she told him, sounding half annoyed, half incredulous. "But you must remember what's at stake if you don't succeed. What have you tried so far with this woman?"
"I kissed her," Geralt answered immediately, his voice low, feeling his face grow warm with shame. He had never felt this way with previous infidelities, he realized, but it seemed now that even one kiss made him feel unclean. He had changed since settling down with Yennefer, and he sighed as he realized how much different he was from the man he had once been – he liked himself better this way, he knew, but it still made the thought of the task ahead almost impossible. "Only once, but… couldn't stop thinking about it," he added. "Felt too guilty. Couldn't keep it from you anymore."
Yennefer paused, seeming uncertain for a moment. "One kiss?" she finally asked, sounding almost confused. "Geralt, you're acting like a schoolboy. Did you really think one kiss would bother me so much?"
"Bothered me," Geralt answered, frankly. "Told you, can't keep things from you anymore, Yen. Doesn't feel right. Doesn't feel good. Had to say something about it. Get it off my chest."
Yennefer sighed, her anxiety softening, and Geralt could hear the sound of her settling down into a seat on her bed. "I love you, Geralt," she told him, fondly. "But I also understand what's at stake with these tasks. Have you done nothing else besides kiss her? Have you tried to talk to her at all, get to know her?"
Geralt paused, thinking it over. "Asked her name," he finally said, honestly. "Told her she was pretty."
"All very fine ways to woo a prostitute, I'm sure," Yennefer returned, letting out another sigh. "But a political stand-in for an empress is a bit more challenging. Next time, try asking her about herself instead. Women love a man who gives the impression of caring what they have to say—regardless of whether they actually intend to listen." Geralt frowned, sitting back against his pillows again as he listened to his wife's advice, unable to help wondering just how much of this was drawn from what he failed to do in their own relationship. "Tell her she's unique, not just beautiful," Yennefer continued. "That's certain to be something she's not heard before, in any significant measure. And tell her she's intelligent – women respond well to a man who values them for more than just their body."
Geralt hummed, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "Wish you'd told me all this before," he admitted.
Yennefer huffed again, unbothered. "It would've been too simple to give you all the answers, Geralt," she told him, frankly. "It was… endearing, watching you try to woo me in your own way. Even if it took you twenty-odd years."
"Worked out pretty well in the end," Geralt answered, grinning despite his uncertainty.
Yennefer hummed. "Seeing as we're married now, I suppose that's true," she said, her tone fond despite its curtness. "But, what else have you learned about this girl? Surely she's given you something you could work with."
Geralt made a face, trying to think. "Mostly just convinced there's nothing about her worth knowing," he admitted after a moment. "Keeps warding off any attempt to learn about her. Managed to convince her I wasn't here to kill her, at least." He frowned, his lips pursing into a hard line as he let out a low hum, thinking back. "Did seem to have some interest in witchers," he said after a moment, raising a brow as the memory returned to him. "Said the Countess told her about them a bit. Seemed to like the stories. Even though most of them are exaggerated or wrong."
"A fetish," Yennefer translated, sounding less surprised than Geralt might have guessed. "A young woman with nothing to look forward to but the prospect of marriage to a stodgy emperor would doubtless find excitement in stories of a more adventurous life. You can use that to your advantage as well – play up the angle of the animalistic witcher. She'll no doubt enjoy that."
Geralt grimaced. "Don't really like that," he said. "Makes me uncomfortable. Reflects badly on witchers."
Yennefer huffed, sounding half affronted, half amazed at his attempt to argue. "Oh, please," she told him. "You're perfectly happy to flounce out that stereotype when it suits you otherwise. How many women have you lured into bed with promises of a wild romp with an unruly witcher?" Geralt hummed at the question, deep and uncomfortable, feeling his ears light up with a mortified blush, and he quickly cleared his throat, forcing the conversation forward without answering. "Regardless," Yennefer continued, granting him solace. "Don't keep me waiting around forever, please. Go woo this Ciri stand-in and get the hell out of there, Geralt. The faster you get her to sleep with you, the faster we can all escape this nightmare."
Geralt snorted, unable to help himself. "Never thought I'd see the day where you told me to hurry up and sleep with another woman," he admitted.
Yennefer sighed. "Yes, well," she agreed, sounding much more harried now. "I never thought I'd be travelling with a man with a goat, yet here we are."
Geralt chuckled, lifting the xenovox to press a soft kiss through. "Love you, Yen," he told her, fondly.
"I love you too, Geralt," Yennefer answered, returning the kiss. "But please, do be safe. I expect for you to return to me in one piece. And—Geralt?"
"Hm?"
Yennefer paused again, before letting out another soft sigh. "Please… use protection," she told him, sounding much more tired now. "As much as I love children… I'm starting to think that one might be enough."