Red Rowan

by Indiannahjones

With the Wild Hunt defeated and Empress Ciri on the throne, Geralt thought he and Yen would be free to retire to Toussaint and settle down... but it seems the ghosts of Geralt's past are intent on coming back to haunt him. Geralt/Yen, past Geralt/Shani. [Inspired by a letter found in Witcher 3 if Geralt took the alchemists' potion in Witcher 2.]

25. Lime Blossom

Geralt was surprised to find Cirilla exactly where she said she would be the next day, and for several days after, always waiting for him out on the balcony overlooking the sea at the time she had asked him to meet. He could not help noticing, as they conversed, how uncertain she still seemed around him, even after a few days' time – she had a strange response to his presence, wanting to come closer one moment, and then retreating the next, her manner reminding him almost pitiably of a stray, hungry dog. She had little reason to trust him yet, so he could not take her hesitation too personally, but he still found it an almost morbidly fascinating look at what might have happened to Ciri, had she been returned to Emhyr as a teenager.

"You know witchers have different Schools," Geralt told her one afternoon, watching as she fidgeted, staring down at her hands folded on the railing. "Different methods of teaching, for different interpretations of the craft. Some more widely accepted than others."

"Emhyr once spoke of the Viper School," Cirilla agreed, her voice soft, seeming uncertain to bring it up. "He said they were gullible fools—too eagerly trusting, if it meant any benefit for their own order. That anyone who wiped them from the world would be doing the Continent, and Nilfgaard, a great service."

Geralt frowned, thinning his lips as he looked out to sea, trying his hardest to say nothing; he had had his own quarrels with the Viper School, and particularly with Letho of Gulet, the man who had framed him for the murder of Foltest. Still, the idea that he had been doing Emhyr a service by killing his fellow witcher made him feel all the more conflicted – though De Aldersburg had mentioned how his killing of Letho had been a boon for O'Dimm and his goals, he had never really put much thought into it before now, never forced to face the reality of his decision.

"He'd be happy to hear the whole School's been wiped out, then," he agreed after a moment, deciding not to address it. "Nearly all the Schools have. Only witchers I've seen recently have been Wolves and Cats. Cats, especially, are deceptively hard to kill."

Cirilla paused, rolling her lips, staring out across the water as she thought. "I've heard tell of the School of the Cat," she finally said, looking over to Geralt, as if to seek his approval. "From the Countess. She says they're all criminals, and insane. Cold-blooded murderers who'll anyday take coin over morality." She paused again, thinking on this, before she finally turned, looking out to sea again. "I think I should like to be a Cat," she considered, softly. "It must be nice to have no concern for what others think of you."

Geralt hummed, finding the conversation harder to remain neutral about, the longer it went on; he did not want to dampen her beliefs, but the truth about the Cat School was so much deeper than she had been made to understand. His first thought went to Aiden, and then to Gaetan, and then lastly, to the ill-fated Kiyan, and he could not help feeling a surge of guilt at the thought of how their School's reputation had betrayed them all. Cats were often seen as Cirilla described them – heartless, pitiless, monsters in the guise of men – a reputation which more often than not created such monsters out of desperation, or made monsters of those around them, who saw them as problems to be eradicated.

"Cats have been known to accept women witchers," he finally answered, trying to move away from the subject. "But their induction is just as arduous as the rest. Best just to appreciate from the outside."

Cirilla frowned, her soft brow furrowing for a moment as she took in a deep breath, seeming to think. "Do you believe in destiny, witcher?" she finally asked, surprising Geralt with the question, causing him to look over at her, curiously. "That is… do you believe everything is fated to be? That some of us are simply… put here to be used by others?"

Geralt faltered, before shaking his head. "Don't believe that at all," he said, looking out across the water again. "Believe each of us has the power to change our fate. Some things will still be, but we don't have to feel bound by them."

Cirilla nodded, her expression vague. "I suppose that's comforting," she said after a moment, softly. "I'd like to think some things happen for a reason, however. I find it hard to believe my meeting you was truly so meaningless."

Geralt grunted, looking over at her again. "Never said things had to be meaningless," he answered, honestly. "Just think we have the power to shape our fate. Shouldn't always count on destiny to choose our direction for us."

Cirilla paused again, seeming to consider this, before she finally turned to look up at him with a strange expression; this was the longest she had made eye contact with him since the start of their conversation, he noted, and he held his breath, unsure what to expect. "I apologize for my strange questions," she finally said, her voice soft. "I am unused to… kindness, without some expectation. I find it… difficult to trust others' incentives. I have grown so used to people using me, only needing me for as long as my usefulness lasts, and no longer. I have grown so used to people having ulterior motives with me, that I… find it hard to believe anyone might exist without them."

Geralt nodded, feeling the knot in his stomach start to tighten as she spoke of ulterior motives, realizing with a pang of guilt that he was just as bad as everyone else who had used her for personal gain over the years. Cirilla frowned, her pretty brow forming a soft crease, before she took another breath, unfolding her hands from the balcony ledge. "Do you truly not find it strange that I resemble your child surprise?" she asked him after a moment, looking up at him again, warily. "I admit, I am… not as familiar with that aspect of witcher culture. Do you truly not mind the similarity?"

Geralt shrugged, folding his hands against the railing. "More I look at you, less I see it," he admitted. At least that was true, he thought – the longer he spent around her, the less she seemed like Ciri. Still, there were a few things he could not quite look past, similarities he could not quite shake, and he gritted his teeth behind his amicable expression, hoping she could not see how strained his smile was becoming. "Think you're intriguing," he told her, remembering the advice Yennefer had given him a few nights prior. "Something about you drew me in immediately. Think you're the most captivating woman I've ever met."

Cirilla faltered, her soft breath shuddering as she looked away again, trying not to appear too flustered. "You flatter me, though I'm not sure why," she told him, her voice quiet, clearly trying to control it.

Geralt shrugged. "Can't a man flatter a beautiful woman?" he asked.

Cirilla swallowed, turning to look up at him again, and he could see something that looked almost like anticipation in her eyes this time. "I suppose," she answered, softly. "Though I admit I'm… not used to hearing so. I'm mostly told I look almost identical to the princess. I'm sure that's where most of my beauty lies."

"She's beautiful, but she's not you," Geralt answered, having to speak the compliment through gritted teeth; though he believed the real Ciri to be rightfully beautiful, he could only ever see her as his daughter. He saw reflections of Yennefer in Ciri – in the edges of her smile, the silver of her laugh – and he saw bits of himself in her as well, in the beauty of knowing she loved him as much as he loved her. This woman, though she was not Ciri, his Ciri, still looked enough like her to make his skin crawl, but he swallowed his discomfort as he reached out a hand, brushing a lock of mousy hair behind her ear.

Cirilla seemed surprised as he touched her, before she began to lean into it a bit, enjoying it, and Geralt watched as a soft pink blush rose to her cheeks as she lifted her head, drawn in by his attention. "I…" she began to say, before she suddenly stopped, her green eyes growing wide, only to quickly pull back from his hand again, her lips thinning into a stark line as her face grew ghostly white. Taking a step back from the witcher, she lifted a hand to her shawl, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders. "I really must go," she told him, shortly. "I've courtly duties to attend to. I've wasted enough time in conversation already."

Geralt frowned, taken aback, wondering what he had done wrong to make her change her mind so quickly. "Didn't mean to run you off," he told her, honestly. "Hoped we'd have a bit more time before you had to go."

Cirilla hesitated, seeming conflicted, before she finally let out a soft huff, sounding insulted. "Time's all well for a witcher," she told him, curtly, looking up at him again with sharpened eyes. "You've nothing but time. But I do not have such luxury. I really must return to my duties. Farewell, witcher." Having said this, she paused again, giving Geralt one last, long look, as if still uncertain in her decision to leave, before she finally turned to depart the balcony, disappearing in an anxious rush down the hall.

Geralt frowned as he watched her leave, leaning a hand perplexedly against the balcony railing, before a hint of movement in the doorway made him turn his head, realizing immediately what had driven her off. Cerys folded her arms as she came to stand in the doorframe, watching as Cirilla retreated down the corridor, before she finally let out a soft, observant snort, turning to look over at Geralt instead.

"You two seem to be getting' mighty close," Cerys noted, her voice sharp, painfully attentive.

Geralt hesitated, before he finally nodded. "Yeah," he agreed. "She's nice. Kinda jumpy, though."

Cerys pursed her lips. "Hm," she mused, her tone flat. "Perhaps. Just can't help but wonder if there's a reason for that. Figure I'd be jumpy, too, if some great stranger kept tryin' to corner me, attemptin' to steal kisses in private." Geralt felt his stomach drop at the mention of kissing, but he held his expression, not allowing Cerys to catch even a glimpse of guilt; still, he could feel himself nearly starting to sweat under her gaze as she stared up at him, scrutinizing him. "Can't help but wonder if the situation at home's not as grand as you let on," she added after a moment, not willing to let it go. "If you're not truly here to seek a bit of distraction. Get a bit of side action on the coast. Take your mind off your troubles at home, and the babe you've got soon on the way."

Geralt faltered, taken aback at the mention of the child. "Ciri tell you?" he guessed, unable to tell if her tone was something to be wary of; if Ciri had any part in sharing the news, he hoped she had cast him in a positive light, but he supposed it was less on Ciri and more on Cerys to determine how she would react to it.

Cerys hummed, moving her hands to her hips. "That she did," she answered, shortly. "She also shared with me that you're several months married to Yennefer. Far as I know, the two don't correlate."

Geralt paused, thinking for a moment, before he finally let out another huff. "That's… fair," he conceded. "Can't really defend myself. Had a fling with a friend before marrying Yen. Didn't know about the pregnancy until after we were married. Figured, should do the right thing, even so." He paused again, furrowing his brow, wondering if he should say more on the subject, or stop while he was ahead. "Don't guess Ciri told you we opened a practice for the mother," he added after a moment, hopefully. "Gave her a room. Baby supplies. Let her stay in our home rent-free."

Cerys faltered, seeming shocked for a moment, before she let out a hearty laugh, the sound coming out in a hard, sharp bark that reminded Geralt strongly of Crach. "Rent-free, he says!" she exclaimed, looking up at him again with cutting eyes. "She's carryin' your fuckin' child, Geralt! Freya's tits—rent-free, indeed." She chuckled again at the thought, the sound like a muffled grunt as she folded her arms, before she finally let out a deep, incredulous sigh, shaking her head in disbelief. "Nonsense like that aside," she said, sparing him from more humiliation. "I'll not have you takin' my court maids for a spin to sate your troubled mind. Especially not Becca, bless her. Been through enough of that sort of thing as it is."

Geralt thinned his lips, caught between embarrassment and irritation, before he suddenly realized something, looking down at Cerys again. "Why d'you call her Becca?" he asked, curiously. "She mentioned it, too. Where'd that name even come from?"

Cerys huffed, looking up to meet his gaze. "Would ye rather I call her Cirilla?" she asked, annoyedly. "The girl needs a good, strong name, witcher. Not one that was thrust upon her at the behest of a tyrant."

"Just seems like an unusual choice," Geralt admitted, shrugging. "Becca of Nazair, second queen of Cintra. That was the inspiration, right?"

Cerys nodded. "Aye, you're a quick one, witcher," she acknowledged, sounding impressed. "Know your Cintran history."

Geralt grunted, folding his arms. "Read up on it a bit," he admitted. "Personal interest."

Cerys nodded again, turning to look down the hall to where Cirilla had disappeared. "That was the inspiration, indeed," she agreed, seeming to have her mind on something else. "Figured it was a sight better than Cirilla. The girl's of noble blood, and Cintran besides. Felt she deserved a name which represented her."

Geralt frowned, turning to look down the hall as well. "She seems lonely," he commented. "Doesn't seem to be adjusting."

Cerys faltered, her ruby lips pursing, before she turned to look up at the witcher again, crossly. "She's adjusting as well as can be expected," she told him, sounding almost insulted by the observation. "This is all very new for her, witcher. T'ain't nobody holding her hand, tellin' her what to do. Been tryin' to give her a sense of independence, autonomy, but it's hard when she's been denied it all her life." She paused again, thinking it over for a moment, and Geralt could see her jaw tense as she gritted her teeth. "Sad to see a lass reduced to this state by a man," she finally spat, quietly, shaking her head. "Disgustin'."

Geralt raised his brows, leaning against the balcony railing. "You really care about her," he observed, softly.

Cerys huffed again, the sound collecting in the back of her throat. "Ach," she said. "'Course I do, Geralt. Why wouldn't I? She reminds me of my favourite cousin. Not just that, but the girl's had such a hard life. She deserves someone who's unashamedly on her side." She thinned her lips, her red brow furrowing as she stared down the hall after Cirilla again, and Geralt could see something soften in her expression as he watched her, something barely perceptible, just below the surface. There was more to Cerys than met the eye, but much like the witcher, she was sometimes impossible to read, so stoic and blunt in her outward mannerism that it often felt like trying to read the mountains of Skellige.

"Regardless," Cerys continued after a moment, causing Geralt to blink, drawn in again. "It's all well to speak to her about witchers and whatnot, but if I catch you tryin' anything untoward—I'll lob off both your plums. Send 'em back to Yennefer in a royal napkin, so she can keep 'em in her coin-purse where they belong."

Geralt faltered, his hand on the balustrade giving an instinctual flinch at the thought. "Think Yen would rather keep those where they are," he said after a moment, trying to sound nonchalant. "Think she likes 'em there."

Cerys snorted, waving a dismissive hand. "That's more than I care to hear on the subject, witcher," she told him, chuckling. "Nonetheless—just be vigilant, would ye? Becca's a good girl, but she's just got out of a bad spot. Goin' from being empress to bein'… this… it's enough to make anyone a little off-kilter." She paused, folding her arms again, before she let out a soft sigh, turning to look down the hall once more, her amber eyes hard and watchful as she stared down the corridor to where Cirilla had disappeared. "A person with a famous name comin' around, showin' her interest… it's like a bad drug to her, Geralt," she added, shaking her head. "You might not mean it, but her interest in you isn't just for your shinin' personality. Be wary of that."

Geralt frowned, his expression twisting. "Didn't get that impression from her," he admitted, honestly. "Felt like a miracle I got her to talk to me at all. Seemed she'd rather see me dead the first day or so."

Cerys shrugged, letting out a soft sigh as she turned to move out onto the balcony with him. "It's not intentional," she answered, frankly, resting her hands on the railing to stare out to sea. "Pretty certain she can't help it. Think it's the only way she sees herself as having value anymore." She paused, her freckled brow hardening, her red lips pursing in a pensive line, and Geralt turned to rest his elbows on the railing as well, staring out across the water as he waited for her to continue. "After bein' the wife of an emperor, it's hard to go back to bein' nobody," Cerys said after a moment, contemplatively. "Think it left her with some deep-set issues. Pretty sure she only thinks she's worth somethin' anymore if someone important says she is."

Geralt hummed, thinning his lips. "Didn't realize," he admitted after a moment. "Wasn't my intention."

Cerys nodded. "I know," she told him, turning to look up at him again, her expression solemn. "You're not the type to take advantage that way, even if I do sometimes give you a rough time of it. But that's why I've been so on your back about the whole thing – you might be seekin' purely friendship, but to her, it might come off as somethin' more." She paused, twisting a ring absentmindedly on her finger, before she folded her hands, stopping herself from fidgeting. "You might not intend to hurt her, but that doesn't mean she won't be hurt," she added after a moment, gravely. "She's still so raw from her ordeal with Emhyr, and bein' shipped outta Nilfgaard against her will. She's lookin' for a lifeline, and you're a great big target, witcher. You couldn't've picked a worse time."

Geralt set his jaw, doing his best to keep his expression impassive as he thought it over; though he knew Cerys only meant well in telling him this, he could not help wishing she had kept it to herself. He already felt the guilt of the world on his shoulders knowing he was lying to Cirilla to sleep with her, but the thought that he could use his reputation as additional bait was more than he could reconcile with. He had never been a manipulator in his life – if anything, he was usually the one being manipulated, he realized, pulled in one direction or another by some political pundit seeking to use him as a weapon to further their interests. He had been manipulated by Fringilla in Toussaint, and during his amnesia by more people than he could count, and he flattened his nose in a scowl as he remembered how much he had hated the feeling then, and even now, thinking back on it.

"Don't have to talk to her anymore," he said after a moment, knowing that was a lie.

Cerys shrugged again. "Never said that," she conceded. "Just askin' you to be a bit careful, is all. Seen too many girls lose their head over a man and wind up hurt. Don't want the same for her."

Geralt nodded, staring out to sea again, before he finally stood, resting his hand on the balcony railing. "Hm," he said, looking down at Cerys, thoughtfully. "Sounds like you know what you do want for her, too."

Cerys faltered, seeming surprised, before she finally looked up again, meeting his golden stare. "I never said none a' that," she argued, though he could see her cheeks starting to darken as she spoke, undermining her. Feeling her face heating up, Cerys scoffed, standing straight to wave a dismissive hand in his face. "Ach—you're givin' me hives, witcher," she told him, clearly trying to sound composed about it. "Nonetheless, I can't stand about talkin'. I've actual court business to attend to—the perils of bein' a queen and all. Just… promise you'll lay off that girl a bit, would ye? She's a good lass, but she's no match for a witcher of your standin'."

Geralt grunted, folding his arms again. "Just talk to her sitting next time," he agreed, wryly, only to flinch with a grin as Cerys punched him softly in the arm, letting out a snort of laughter despite herself.

---

Cerys' words still hung in Geralt's head as he settled down for the evening, tucking himself warmly into bed, and he let out a heavy sigh as he stared at the ceiling, realizing sleep would be difficult tonight. Guilt had become common for him over the last few months – guilt for getting Shani pregnant, guilt for keeping things from her he felt were too upsetting; guilt for causing Yennefer undue heartache then, and now, while he completed his tasks. Despite all that, he now had to add the guilt of using a damaged young woman's mental health against her to sleep with her, and he gave an unconscious shudder at the thought, realizing how much it made his skin crawl.

Manipulation was not in his nature, though he was familiar enough with its ins and outs, having been a victim of it; but now, the thought of being the one to have to use such underhanded methods to get his way made him nearly sick to his stomach. That was part of O'Dimm's plan, of course – his intent had always been to push Geralt to his limit – but the master of mirrors was a master manipulator as well, it seemed, doing his best to drag Geralt down to his level.

Letting out an unsettled grunt, Geralt turned over in bed, reaching out to grab the xenovox from the nightstand, before he lifted it to his lips, giving it a frustrated shake before speaking into it. "Yen?" he asked, before letting out another sigh. "Dunno what I'm doing here, Yen. Maybe I should just give up."

There was a hiss as the xenovox settled, before Yennefer's voice came through from the other end. "And do what, exactly?" she insisted, clearly too ruffled to bother with formalities. "O'Dimm made it clear it must be you who beds… who he specified. This is the only way to do it, unless you truly wish to sleep with Ciri."

Geralt felt his stomach clench at the thought. "Don't even say that," he told her, sharply.

"You agree, then," Yennefer concluded.

Geralt gave a dark hum, turning over to face the ceiling again. "'Course I agree," he said. "Just frustrated. Feels like nothing I'm doing is working."

Yennefer sighed, sounding as if she had expected this. "Women aren't transactional, Geralt," she told him, frankly. "You can't just put in a few compliments and expect sex in return. Women are complex, they require more than that. It's a dance."

Geralt wrinkled his nose. "Hm," he said. "Never been much good at dancing."

"But you're good at other things," Yennefer answered, causing Geralt to perk up at her encouraging tone; he had expected her to be much more irritated with him, but he enjoyed her optimism so much better. "Sword fighting, let's say. You don't just expect to go in with a jab of your blade and fell the opponent with no resistance. There would be no tact, no reason to that. Not to mention it wouldn't be any fun." She paused, before a soft rustling from her end let him know she was finding a seat to continue, and he could not help wondering, for a moment, where she was tonight, and what kind of bed she was sleeping on.

"It's a ballet, Geralt – delicate and artful," Yennefer continued after a moment, drawing him in again. "You aren't just a clumsy oaf, swinging blindly. There's a reason your sword manoeuvres are called pirouettes."

Geralt frowned, confused by the analogy. "Saying I should… treat her like a training dummy?" he asked, finally.

Yennefer scoffed. "Melitele's sake, no," she insisted, sounding affronted. "I should hope you wouldn't treat any woman like that. A few rounds of rough and tumble, and then you hang her out to dry while you go get a drink with the boys? What a dreadful comparison." She paused, taking another moment to think, trying come up with a better explanation, before she finally gave a soft, pensive hum, tapping her finger against the xenovox. "Treat her like you would an opponent you respect," she told him after a while, sounding more patient now. "Like you would Barnabas-Basil, when you're training in the yard."

"Hm," Geralt answered. "Don't really wanna imagine her as Barnabas-Basil."

"As someone else, then—someone young and buxom," Yennefer returned, sounding a bit more frustrated now. "You really do make this incredibly difficult."

"Not my intent," Geralt answered, honestly. "Just trying to follow your thought process."

"Yes, well, it's becoming increasingly clear that, between us, we've no idea how to properly woo a woman," Yennefer conceded with a sigh. "Have you at least tried using her fetish with witchers to your advantage?"

Geralt winced. "Kinda," he admitted. "Got a little political."

"Well next time, don't let it get political, then," Yennefer returned, sounding as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "For goodness' sake, Geralt, it's been almost two weeks since you left for Nilfgaard. I've never known you to take this long seducing anyone. I'm starting to feel a bit easy by comparison."

"Not my fault," Geralt argued, sitting up in bed, now feeling a bit insulted, himself. "Can't find a single moment without Cerys breathing down our necks. Know she suspects something's up."

"As she should," Yennefer answered, frankly. "You're trying to sleep with one of her court maidens."

Geralt gave a loud snort. "Thanks," he said, dryly. "Good to know you're on my side with this."

Yennefer let out a sigh, sounding much more tired now. "Of course I'm on your side, Geralt," she told him, honestly. "But you must also see it from Cerys' perspective. She has no reason to believe you haven't come to Skellige with the express purpose of being a lecherous dog. You show up uninvited, overstay whatever welcome you might have had, and consistently try to sneak off with a court maiden who resembles Ciri. I'd be on high alert as well, given those circumstances. You simply must learn to avoid her whenever you can."

Geralt frowned, disturbed by the implication. "Have I ever given the impression I wanna sleep with Ciri?" he asked.

"Not to me, you haven't," Yennefer answered, again as if it were obvious. "And that's the most important thing. But to Cerys, she's grown up around draconian, patriarchal men all her life. She's no reason to trust your motives on word alone, given what she's probably seen and experienced."

Geralt grunted. "Guess that makes sense," he conceded. "Still don't like it, though."

"I don't like it either, but for entirely different reasons," Yennefer agreed, sounding strangely stiff. "Regardless, the next time you see this girl, give her what she wants—a witcher, exactly as she imagines him. Give her whatever it takes to get her into bed, so you can get out of there and finished with these tasks."

Geralt hesitated, feeling the same sense of sickening guilt start to build in his stomach as before, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from feeling nauseous as his conversation with Cerys returned to him again. It was more than he could put on Yennefer – more than he even wanted to think about, himself, he realized – and he let out a soft sigh as he lay back in bed again, staring up at the ceiling with a strained expression. "It's… more complicated than that," he said after a while, his voice soft, unsure what else to tell her.

Yennefer faltered. "What?" she asked, sounding confused. "Don't tell me you've befriended this woman, Geralt. Sleeping with her to break a curse is one thing, but actually having feelings for her is quite another."

Geralt grimaced, shaking his head. "No," he said. "Don't have feelings for her. Not exactly. Just… feel bad for her. Emhyr really fucked her up. Left her with a lotta issues, take a while to fix."

Yennefer paused again, seeming surprised for a moment, before she finally let out a soft sigh. "Your desire to empathise with this woman's situation is commendable, Geralt," she told him, trying to sound patient. "But you mustn't forget what you're actually in Skellige for. There's so much more at stake than the emotional welfare of this political stand-in—"

"Becca," Geralt corrected her. "Cerys calls her Becca."

Yennefer faltered, taken aback at having been interrupted. "Fine," she agreed after a moment. "There's so much more at stake than Becca's emotional welfare. Perhaps, once everything is done, you can go back to Skellige and try to help her then – but for now, you've a task to do, and I pray you do it quickly." She fell silent again, before finally letting out another long breath, one Geralt could tell she had been trying to hold until then, the wordless sound more than enough to let him know just how much the situation was weighing on her.

"Shani is having difficulty adjusting to this new location," Yennefer explained, more honestly now. "The sooner you can get these tasks taken care of, the sooner we can all return to Corvo Bianco, and the sooner she can have her child in comfort and peace, in the safety of her own clinic."

Geralt frowned, trying not to worry about Shani, remembering she was in the best of hands. "How… did she like the name Regis?" he finally asked, trying to distract himself with the thought of their last conversation.

Yennefer huffed, sounding suddenly put-upon. "She tolerated it, Geralt," she said, shortly. "Much like she tolerates all other names that are brought to her. She says she'll know the perfect name when she hears it. I also suggested Cahir, but it seems she wasn't fond of that one, either."

Geralt grunted, raising a quizzical brow as the memory of Cahir returned to him, wondering why Yennefer had picked that name when there were so many others to choose from. Geralt and Cahir had travelled together years back, seeking Ciri across the Continent with Regis and the hansa, but the witcher had never truly bonded with the Nilfgaardian, up to his untimely death at the hands of Leo Bonhart. "Agree with her on that one," he said after a while. "Not a fan of Cahir. Ciri suggested Coën, though. Thought that was pretty good."

"I'll bring up Coën to her next," Yennefer agreed, still sounding a bit irked at her suggestion being shot down. "Don't be surprised if it's rejected, too, however. She's being incredibly picky about what names she'll consider."

Geralt hummed, sinking down into his covers again. "Might be the only kid she has," he acknowledged, thoughtfully. "Wouldn't blame her if she didn't want any more after all this. Makes sense she'd wanna get the name right."

Yennefer paused, before letting out a soft sigh. "I suppose you're right," she agreed. "It makes sense when you put it that way."

Geralt grinned, resting the xenovox on his chest as he settled back comfortably into his pillows. "Sure you'll come up with something," he assured her, feeling his eyes start to grow heavy as he spoke. "Just have to keep trying. You'll figure it out."

There was a long silence from Yennefer's end, before she finally gave a soft hum, sounding almost sad. "I'm not so sure, Geralt," she answered, truthfully. "I don't really feel that I know what I'm doing half the time. I know that sounds strange, but… I do so wish you were here. Everything would be much easier with you around."

"Trying my hardest to get there," Geralt assured her, doing his best to stay awake, though he could feel himself fading.

Yennefer sighed. "I know," she acknowledged, gratefully. "And I love you. Please don't forget that."

"I won't," Geralt told her, kissing the xenovox and resting it on the pillow beside him. "Love you, too, Yen."

---

The balcony was off-limits, Geralt decided, as Cerys had already found the two of them there, but he had no idea how to convey that to Cirilla without actually going there to tell her as much. She would be waiting for him there at their usual time, he was sure, intent on hearing more stories about witcherkind, but he could not help hearing Cerys' threat repeated in his mind every time he passed the open doorway. Yennefer already knew what he was up to here, so that was not so much of a concern, but the idea that Cerys might think he had come to Skellige specifically to cheat on his wife was another matter – though they barely talked these days, he still respected Cerys, and her opinion of him, and he had no intention of alienating Ciri's favourite cousin because of a task he never wanted to do.

"It's strange," Cerys had told him that evening at supper, as he sat beside her at the long banquet-table – the festivities of the first week were long over, but the castle was still full enough with regular staff to make the hall quite boisterous. "Becca's been out of her element all day today. Don't suppose I've you to blame for that, witcher."

Geralt shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed attentively on the large slab of fish on his plate, scraping his fork between its brittle ribs to clean out all the soft meat he could from its bones. "Wasn't me," he said, taking a bite of fish, before washing it down with a slug of mead. "Didn't see her all day. Didn't talk to her. Keeping my distance from her, like you said." Reaching across his plate, he picked up a loaf of bread, tearing it in two, trying his hardest not to glance towards Cirilla, seated further down the table from the two of them. She was fixated on her food as well, but she did not seem to have much of an appetite, and Geralt frowned as he picked up his butter-knife, scraping a healthy dose of butter onto his bread.

Cerys hummed, stirring her porridge. "I appreciate that, Geralt," she told him, nodding after a while. "Though that wasn't really what I asked. I only asked that you be cautious when speakin' to her, not avoid her entirely." She paused, staring down into her bowl, before she finally took a deep breath, arching her heavy brows. "Seems like a bit of an overreaction… as if there's somethin' you're avoidin' by not speakin' to her at all," she added, thoughtfully. "And I also can't help feelin' she's taken it a bit personal, as if she was countin' on your company enough to miss it."

Geralt nodded, setting down his knife again. "Been telling her stories," he explained, licking butter from his thumb. "Got a fascination with witcher tales. Been telling her which ones are true, which ones are exaggerated."

Cerys pursed her lips, her expression growing taut, making it hard to tell whether she believed him; it was always a challenge to read her, but he could not help feeling she sometimes went out of her way to make it moreso. "I suppose that makes some sense," she conceded after a while, her sharp gaze never leaving her bowl as she spoke. "It's just strange, is all… that a girl should go from vibrant one day, to melancholy the next, all because she missed out on hearin' a few tales." She paused again, before looking up at the witcher, this time making no qualms that she doubted his story. "Doesn't sound quite right," she added, thoughtfully. "Does it to you, witcher?"

Geralt grunted, his mouth full of bread, giving himself a moment to chew before responding. "Didn't mean to hurt her feelings," he finally said, swallowing. "Just doing what you said. Know she really likes those stories."

"Hm," Cerys answered, letting out a dark huff, spooning a distracted dollop of porridge and letting it dribble back into the bowl. "Perhaps. Though it worries me, Geralt, that she might be readin' more into your stories than you intend." She stopped, staring down at her spoon, before she turned to look further down the table at Cirilla, her expression growing tense with worry as she watched the young woman picking dejectedly at her food. "I was afraid of somethin' like this," she admitted after a moment, quietly, letting out a wary hum. "She's grown used to your attention, witcher. Used to being needed again in some perverse, self-ascribed way. Listenin' to your stories means she's important to you, in that moment – it's a dark way to see it, but I fear it's what's true."

Geralt frowned, having to resist glancing down the table towards Cirilla as well, not wanting her to see him looking – even so, he could not help feeling the way Cerys described her sounded eerily accurate to how she had been acting. She had spurned his attention at first, but had nearly lost her head when he noted he might be wasting his time with her, and had immediately turned her entire personality around when it seemed she might lose him otherwise. "I just don't think she's well enough right now to be prepared for makin' new friends," Cerys added, drawing him in again. "She's still not quite right from bein' sent off from Nilfgaard. She's desperate to be wanted, and you're just makin' it harder to let go of that disposition."

"Wasn't my intention," Geralt answered, looking down to his mug again, pointedly.

Cerys nodded, setting her spoon aside, seeming to have lost her appetite for her porridge. "I figured," she said, giving a soft sigh. "But I think it's wise ye leave it where it lies, regardless. I imagine Yennefer's missin' you somethin' terrible, anyhow. Might be best ye just head home on the morrow."

Geralt faltered, surprised by the suggestion, though he figured he should have seen this coming, given the last few days – he had come to Skellige uninvited in the first place, and Cerys had been beyond patient to host him for as long as she had. Still, he could not help feeling that her dismissal of him could not have come at a worse time than right now, and he steeled his expression as he reached for his flagon again, taking another swig of mead to buy time to think. "Fair," he finally conceded, ripping his bread in half again and shoving a piece in his mouth. "I'll try to get a good night's sleep, then. Find a boat to take me home in the morning."

"Ye needn't bother," Cerys answered, picking up a piece of bread and tearing it in half, herself. "I've a whole fleet of boats at my disposal. I'll be sure to get one of 'em ready for you tonight, so you can leave first thing." Geralt thinned his lips, realizing this send-off was not as friendly as he thought, though he could say nothing about it—a fact which Cerys seemed to grasp as well, as she quickly looked up at him again, making piercing eye contact. "She'll do well to be without distraction for a while," she added, thoughtfully, dipping her bread in her porridge, her gaze never moving. "Friendship can come anytime, witcher. But the girl's health and wellbein' must come first."

Geralt hummed, pinching his last piece of bread between his fingers, before he stuffed it in his mouth as well, trying to appear unmoved. "Seems reasonable," he agreed, reaching for his flagon. "One less thing for me to do in the morning." Lifting his mug to Cerys then, he offered her a stiff, knowing grin, which she blatantly returned, before he downed the last of his mead in one breath, anxious to get out of the hall while he still had the night.

---

The corridors of Kaer Trolde glowed warm with lantern-light, though that only made them all look the same to the witcher; he had no idea where to even start looking for Cirilla in a place so large and cavernous. The castle was multiple stories, halls upon halls of twists and turns, hidden corridors, rooms that gave into hidden rooms, with more hidden rooms tucked behind and between. He had no idea where the court maidens slept – their quarters had always been kept secret from him, even during Crach's rule, and he huffed agitatedly as he realized Yennefer would probably have been able to guess where to look. She was always smarter than him about these things – about most things, now that he thought about it – and he let out a soft breath as he rounded a corner, realizing thinking about her was only making him miss her more.

"Witcher!"

Cirilla held up a hand, stopping him from running into her as he turned the corner, and Geralt halted quickly at the sight of her, realizing he had nearly collided with her lit candle in his distraction. His cat pupils narrowed to slits as she lifted her flame aloft, trying to see his face, and Cirilla gave a soft gasp at the sight, seeming both alarmed and entranced by how alien it was. "I apologize, witcher," she said after a moment, lowering her candle again, still sounding a bit shaken. "You startled me. After you'd been avoiding me all day, I… I hadn't expected to see you."

"Sorry," Geralt said, raising an apologetic hand. "Didn't mean to startle you. I can leave."

"No, that's—not what I meant," Cirilla amended, holding out her free hand to stop him from leaving. She paused, considering a moment, her pearly teeth running anxiously over her lower lip, before she made a face, wrinkling her nose as she let out a soft, agitated sigh. Her flustered mannerisms reminded Geralt for a moment of Ciri, and he could not help but crack a small smile, before the realization of who she really was, and why he was speaking to her, caused the smile to quickly fade away again. "I apologize," Cirilla said, letting out a sigh. "I'd wanted to speak to you, but… I hadn't quite formulated what to say. I thought I might have a bit more time to think it over before we… crossed paths again. If we ever did."

"Didn't mean to put you on the spot," Geralt apologized, resting a hand on his hip. "Don't have to say anything. Heading out in the morning anyway. Won't see me for a while. Plenty of time to think."

Cirilla looked up at this, her expression startled, as if that had been the last thing she wanted to hear, and Geralt could almost see the flame start to tremble in her hand as she tried hard to hold the candle steady. "You're leaving?" she asked, her voice hoarse, before she quickly cleared her throat, doing her best to regain her composure. "I mean… of course I understand. You're Geralt of Rivia. I'm sure you've places to go… famous monsters to slay." She paused, staring up at him for another anxious moment, before she finally dropped her gaze to the floor instead, her slim shoulders rigid under her shawl as she gripped the candle-holder with both hands, holding it firm. He had no idea what made her do this, Geralt realized – now, or any of the other times she had suddenly stopped making eye contact with him – but he said nothing, only watching as she let out another breath, seeming to have difficulty deciding how to speak her mind.

"Before you go," she finally spoke, her voice still small. "I've… given some thought to what you said."

Geralt raised a brow. "What I said?" he asked, curiously.

Cirilla nodded, seeming just as nervous. "About me," she reminded him, lifting her eyes to him again, tentatively. "About… wanting to know me. As myself. Do… you still wish to know me, witcher?"

Geralt paused, wondering for a moment if this was some sort of trap set up by Cerys, but he could not imagine the Skelliger queen going so far out of her way simply to catch him in the act. She had actual duties to attend to, things more important than keeping watch on him on his last night in Skellige, and he gave a soft hum as he looked down at Cirilla again, taking her in in her hopeful entirety. She was giving him an invitation, an opening to seduce her as he had before, and he took another step closer, watching her intently to see how she might react. She did not back away as he approached this time, and he took another step forward, testing his limits; in return, she drew her foot back a bit, instinctively, though the rest of her body refused to follow.

She was mesmerized, he realized – captivated by his presence, by the promise of something new and dangerous – and he took another step forward, before he leaned in over her, forcing her to look up to see his face. "Is that what you want?" he asked her, causing her to shiver at the rasping sound of his voice. "Me knowing you means you'll have to know me, too. You ready to know a witcher like that, Cirilla?" He sounded ridiculous, utterly insane, and he could feel his face threaten to flush with embarrassment as his own performance—he was playing a schtick role, he knew, but it seemed to work, as he could see her cheeks start to turn pink as she stared up at him. He could hear her breath start to quicken, her hands growing rigid around the edges of her candleholder, the faint vein in her throat starting to flutter as her heart sped up, her green eyes never leaving his face.

"I've never known a witcher before," Cirilla admitted, her voice soft, almost overwhelmed.

Geralt grunted, grinning down at her. "And I've never known an empress," he admitted. "Not in the way I want to know you." Reaching a hand to her cheek, he felt her tremble as he passed his thumb across her porcelain skin, her breath coming out in a shuddering respire as she stared up at him, nearly melting at his touch. "You're so unique, Cirilla," he told her, causing her to squeak softly as she bit her lip. "Beautiful, and brilliant, and wise beyond your years. Everything a witcher could ever want." Trailing his thumb across her cheek again, he brushed it next along the edge of her pink lip, teasing her, causing her to give a soft gasp as his calloused pad made contact with her sensitive skin.

"Did me a great disservice, thinking I meant you harm at first," he told her, his voice low. "Pride of a witcher's not easily wounded. Think you owe me something for that."

"Wh-what would you like, master witcher?" Cirilla asked, her gaze flicking eagerly between his eyes and his lips.

Geralt hummed, leaning in closer. "Wanna invoke the Law," he said, his voice a near-growl in her ear. "Gonna take something you have, but you don't yet know."

Cirilla wet her lips, her breath catching. "And what is that?" she asked, quietly.

Geralt leaned in closer, lifting her chin with a gentle hand, before he pressed his lips to hers, kissing her softly; again, he had to imagine her as someone else, though he found it easier to fake this time. He knew how foreign her lips would feel, how strange the taste of honey would be in his mouth, and he pushed both away from his mind as he kissed her, replacing them instead with thoughts of Yennefer. Cirilla shuddered as their tender kiss parted, her long lashes fluttering against her pale cheeks, before she leaned in again for a second kiss, just as soft and featherlight as the first. After a while, Geralt pulled away again, letting his hand return to his side, and he grinned as he watched Cirilla blink a few times, still dazed from the thrill of the kiss.

"That," he said, sounding pleased with himself. "Now it's mine. And I'll keep it forever."

Cirilla stared at him for a long time, lost for a moment for what to say, before she finally let out a quivering breath, seeming to melt with the aftershock of the kiss. She was flushed, Geralt saw – flustered, pink as a rose, her green eyes wide and eager – and he could almost hear her heartbeat in his ears as she stood, seeming to have forgotten for a moment how to speak. "Are you so certain that's enough, master witcher?" she finally asked him, her voice soft, as if she were speaking without realizing. "Perhaps my debt is not so forgivable, and you've simply given me an out, knowing how little I have to give. Witchers are not known to be altruistic… though again, I might be mistaken in my knowledge from the tales."

She paused, staring up at him for a moment, before she reached up, trailing her fingers through his scruffy beard, and he felt his shoulders stiffen at her longing touch, having to remind himself to smile through the sensation. "Perhaps, master witcher," Cirilla continued, slowly, "you'd do me the favour of regaling me with the truth of these stories. Perhaps somewhere more… comfortable, for the both of us. I'm sure you've many more tales to tell, and I… really am most interested to hear them." She smiled, leaning in to kiss his cheek, before she turned her head, breathing warm air against his ear as she whispered into it.

"Perhaps you could tell me more about the Law of Surprise," she added, breathily. "And… other things which I don't yet know."

Geralt grinned, forcibly, feeling a knot in his stomach start to tighten as he let out a gruff chuckle. "Would love to teach you all about the Law," he told her, his voice low as he took her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss it. "Maybe even a few other things. After all, as you said… we witchers've got nothing but time."

---

The sound of the bedroom door closing behind them reminded Geralt of a coffin lid slamming shut, but he pushed the distressing thought from his mind as Cirilla turned to face him again, finally alone. She smiled, an expression he tried to return, before she threw her arms around his neck, kissing him ardently, giggling as he pressed her up against the wall, giving her exactly what she wanted. She was so much more assertive now, Geralt realized, spurred on by his endless praise, his heavy-handed attention, and he took a sharp breath through his nose as she pressed up against him, moving her hand across his still-clothed cock.

He could feel her searching through the material of his trousers, sliding her fingers along its girth, still pressed against his leg, and he grunted as he grabbed her wrist, pushing it up against the wall again with an assertive huff. "Not so fast," he told her, grinning into her lips as he kissed her again, hungrily. "Gotta give it a bit to warm up. Over a hundred years old. Takes some time."

"I'll warm it up for you," Cirilla answered, wrinkling her nose as she gripped his hair with her free hand, kissing him again. Then, before he could stop her, she began to kneel down, starting to unlace his trousers.

"Not yet!" Geralt exclaimed, pulling her up again and starting to kiss her neck, hoping to distract her. "Gotta snuff out these lanterns first. Sex with a witcher is so much better in the dark."

Cirilla faltered, unsure if he was joking, before she finally let out a merry laugh, seeming to decide he was. "I didn't realize witchers could joke," she told him, taking hold of his face and kissing him again, greedily. "I thought you were emotionless freaks, lacking all love and understanding of human nature. Animals, barely more than beasts, said to steal maidens away in the night. Voracious, lustful monsters, ravaging helpless women for your carnal delight."

"All true," Geralt answered, trailing his lips along the edge of her ear, causing her to shiver against him. He could barely keep from laughing at the tall tales about witchers the countess had planted in her mind, but he supposed with so little else going on in her life, perhaps tall tales were all she had. "We're just like monsters," he added, kissing her neck again, causing her to bite her lip as his teeth scraped her skin. "And just like monsters, we can see in the dark. Sometimes better than the light. Not only that… we can smell you in the dark. Smell like… womanly wiles. Something witchers can't resist."

Cirilla moaned at the thought, biting her lip so hard it threatened to bleed, before she pushed him away, starting instead to pull her shirt up over her head, getting undressed. Geralt winced, unable to help the innate instinct to turn away as she exposed her breasts, but he forced himself to watch as she tossed her shirt aside onto the floor in a crumpled mess. Her breasts were perky, smaller than Yennefer's, with petal-pink nipples standing erect in the cold Skellige air, and he took a deep breath as he stared at them, realizing he felt… absolutely nothing.

"Can you smell me, witcher?" Cirilla breathed, pressing up against him to kiss him again, before she quickly danced away again, pulling down her skirt next to leave it in a pile by the bed. Geralt felt his heart race as he realized it was growing too late to back out now, and he watched as she crossed the small space to him again, tugging his shirt eagerly from his trousers. She pulled it up over his head, tossing it aside to rest with her own, only to gasp as she saw the scars hidden beneath, trials of years battered across his war-torn skin. Geralt tried not to make a face as he watched her lean in to his chest, kissing a large, star-shaped blemish on his pectoral, but he found he could not suppress a faint wince as she pressed her face against the same scar with a soft, low moan.

"Brave witcher," Cirilla cooed, sliding her hands around his back, pulling him close, before she pressed her body against his, rocking in a gentle motion against his hips. Geralt gave her a wary grin, feeling his mouth stretch like toughened leather, unable to help the sinking feeling in his stomach like he was about to lose his last few meals. Cirilla purred as she ran her hands over his chest, trailing her tongue across his nipple, stiff from the cold, before she looked up again, her green eyes wide as he took hold of her face once more, pressing his lips to hers.

He had to do something, he told himself – he had to do something to make it work. Of all the times it had roused to attention at the worst possible moment, it chose now to decide to behave.

Geralt breathed in Cirilla's scent, closing his eyes as his senses were flooded with saltwater and cedar, trying to imagine the room on Skellige where Yennefer had first agreed to his proposal. He could have gone all night with the sorceress then, but instead, they had spent the rest of the night just talking, getting to know one another all over again, as if more than only a month had passed since their parting. They had lain awake all night, naked, but neither sparing more than longing touches – the brush of her hand across his beard, his lips on her neck, her soft curls spread out on the pillow beside him. Those were the best times he could remember with Yennefer, times when sex had come second to intimacy—times when he had come to know her as a person, rather than just as the woman he loved.

The thought of Yennefer was enough to set something ablaze in him, and he gave a sharp gasp, opening his eyes and looking down again as Cirilla grinned into his lips, pressing her slender form against his erection. "There it is," she moaned, tracing her hand along the shaft still hidden under his pants. "I was wondering when I'd find it. I was starting to worry all that sweet-talk was for nothing."

"Wanna fuck you so bad," Geralt lied, his breath a hot growl against her skin. "Emhyr was a fool to let you go. Not just an empress—you're a goddess. Deserve to be treated like one." Kissing her again, he felt her warm breath on his tongue, her lips yearning hungrily for his, and he reached up a hand as their kiss ended, sliding his thumb across her lower lip to tease her. He watched as she opened her mouth at his prompting, swallowing his revulsion as he slid his thumb in over her tongue, before she closed her lips around his thumb again, looking into his eyes as she sucked gently on it, bathing it in warmth.

Geralt shuddered at the intimate sensation, unsure if the feeling was from arousal or disgust, before he slid his hand from her mouth again, using his wet thumb to tilt her chin up into another messy kiss. It felt wrong, intimately wrong, his lips rigid and numb as they parsed with hers; her tongue in his mouth was like viper venom, cold as steel in a winter storm. He hated this, hated it more than he could say, but he knew he could not afford to be hesitant now – he was here, he had made the decision to do this, and it was the only way to fulfil this task without doing the unspeakable.

Cirilla smiled as she pulled her lips from his again, the taste lingering as she looked up eagerly, wanting more, and Geralt kissed her again, trailing his lips across her face and down her neck as he pressed his body against hers. He could feel her shudder against him, feel her skin prickle where his lips had touched – before he suddenly stopped, letting out a long sigh and lifting his head again, looking down solemnly into her eyes.

"Can't do this," Geralt said, his voice grave, causing Cirilla to blink, seeming surprised to hear it. "Don't really want this. Any of this. Wasn't fair to make you think otherwise. I'm sorry."

"What's wrong?" Cirilla asked, her lips parting ever so slightly as she stared up at him, confused; she looked almost like a doll this way, Geralt thought – perfect and porcelain, barely real in the candlelight.

Letting out another soft sigh, Geralt reached down into his pocket, pulling out his wedding-ring, before he slipped the band onto his hand, watching as Cirilla's eyes grew wide at the sight of it. She had a strange expression as she stared at the ring, he thought, though he knew it was not the first time she had seen one – she, herself had been married to Emhyr, though he supposed her ring had never held much meaning, while his clearly did. "I'm married," he told her, holding his hand up to let her see the band more clearly. "Love my wife more than anything. Don't think I can go through with sleeping with anyone else."

Cirilla faltered, her slender hands pressing against his back as she thought, as if loath to let go, even in her hesitation. "I… had a feeling as much," she admitted after a moment, sounding more observant than disappointed. There was a strange quality to her voice now, Geralt realized, as if she were scrutinizing him the way Yennefer so often did. "Something has felt… off, this entire time. I couldn't figure out what it was, but… it makes sense now."

Geralt hesitated, surprised by her insight, though he supposed it was not too difficult to understand – she knew what it was like, he was sure, to be made to do things against her will just to please another. She could probably recognize in him things she had too often experienced while still married to Emhyr, and he sighed at the thought, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear with the care he would show the real Ciri. Cirilla reached up a hand to touch his, still a bit dazed, before she finally looked up into his face again. "Why are you even here in Skellige, witcher?" she asked. "I don't think you ever told me. If you miss your wife so dearly, why are you not home with her instead?"

Geralt made a face, trying to think of how to explain, before he let out a heavy sigh instead, realizing there was no easy way. "Made a mistake," he admitted. "Hurt someone I love. This is the only way to fix it."

"By sleeping with a stranger?" Cirilla asked, frowning.

Geralt shook his head. "Not a stranger," he said. "With you. Specifically with you."

Cirilla's brows shot up at this. "I can't even think who would want something like that," she admitted, softly. "What kind of mistake could you have made that would warrant a punishment like that?"

"Got in too deep with a demon," Geralt answered, letting out a low, solemn hum at the thought. "Now he's trying to hurt my family. Only way to stop him is to do what he says."

"And he says you have to sleep with me?" Cirilla asked, her expression twisting in disbelief.

Geralt nodded. "Sounds crazy, I know," he admitted, letting out another heavy sigh. "Wouldn't blame you if you didn't believe me. Trying to push me to my limit, give me tasks he thinks I won't do. But… I'm here. Just… can't force myself to lie to you about it. Not anymore." He stopped, feeling his expression twist as he looked down into her face again, watching as her eyes moved across his features, her expression discerning, desperate to believe him. "You're not just someone's puppet, Cirilla," he told her. "You're a person, with dignity. Deserve better than that."

Cirilla paused, seeming to think for a moment, before she finally took a deep, solemn breath. "If anyone else told me that story, witcher, I'd think they took me for a damn fool," she admitted, honestly. "But… for whatever reason, I believe you. I can tell that you aren't here because you want to be." She stopped, staring up at him again, before she suddenly reached up to touch his face, trailing her slender fingers across his winter beard as she traced his expression, thoughtfully. "I believe you didn't come here out of malice," she told him, speaking softly. "And I bear you no ill will. I was simply… so alone, and needed to hear kindness. Any kindness. I suppose I was willing to accept it in any form. Even in the form of a handsome witcher who knew all the right things to say."

"Didn't mean for it to happen this way," Geralt told her, reaching up to take her hand from his face. "Don't think of you as a means to an end. Hope you can forgive me for making it seem that way."

Cirilla faltered, watching as he held her hand, seeming unsure what to say for a moment; she looked dazed, almost, by his tenderness, as if she had never been shown such consideration before. The thought made his heart heavy, the idea that she was so unused to basic kindness, and he frowned as she finally looked up at him again, her expression more determined this time. "I believe you," she told him, honestly. "You're a good man, Geralt. Your wife is a lucky woman." She paused, looking down to the hand still holding hers, before she tilted her head, her green eyes distant for a moment.

"I'm not sure why this demon needs you to do what you say," she told him after a while, speaking slowly. "Perhaps… it's as much a punishment for me as it is for you. But if it's what needs to be done…" She stopped again, trailing off, taking a moment to process the situation, before she finally looked up into his face again, her expression determined as she lifted her head. "I believe I can still help you," she told him, her voice still soft, but with resolve. "But… for my sake… can we still pretend you're here because you want to be?"

Geralt paused, unsure what to say, still wondering for a moment if he had heard her correctly; with everything he had just told her, he had expected her to scream, perhaps even run from the room. He had expected her to go straight to Cerys, to tell her all about how the witcher had tried to take advantage of her; he had expected her to slap him, or punch him, or at the very least, give a chastising word about his deceit. But she had done none of those things—in fact, she still seemed willing to help him, even eager, and he frowned as he stared down at the mousy-haired maiden, wondering how to go forward from here. He supposed he could do what he had before, pretending she was Yennefer if he closed his eyes, but the illusion was already spoiled for him, he realized; the curtain lifted, the players revealed.

"Don't know if I can," he told her, placing his hands on her shoulders with a heavy sigh. "Too strange now. We both know it isn't real."

"Was it real before, then?" Cirilla asked, frowning faintly.

Geralt shook his head. "Wasn't real then, either," he said, finding it hard to collect his thoughts. "Just—"

"Then fuck me, witcher," Cirilla insisted, taking hold of his face again and bringing him down into a needy kiss. She ran her fingers through his hair, breathing heavily into his open mouth, before she rubbed her hand over his half-alert cock, coaxing it back to full attention. He could feel her rubbing him through his pants, and he choked, kissing back with the confusion of a drowning man, before he bent down, lifting her up behind her thighs and hoisting her onto his waist to kiss her.

It felt wrong and strange to kiss her, he thought; her lips were too thin to be Yennefer's, her hips too slim, but with her legs wrapped around him like this, he could almost pretend he was kissing his wife again. Cirilla moaned as she kissed him, pressing her breasts against his bare chest as he turned for the bed, before he laid her down across it, climbing in after her and straddling her slender form. She bit her lip as she pressed against him, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair again, and Geralt buried his face in the slope of her neck, grunting as he brushed his still-covered cock against her willowy stomach.

This was what she wanted, he knew – this was what she thought of when she imagined sex with a witcher. The stories portraying them as animals were common and pervasive, and, as Yennefer pointed out, often arousing to the women who enjoyed them. He reached down blindly, hooking his thumb next into the slim line of her panties, before he began to slide them down her thighs, feeling her nipples brush his chest as she moaned, pulling him closer. Pushing her hands up over her head with his free hand, he kissed her again, roughly, causing the young woman to squirm in anticipation, before she gasped, feeling him scrape his teeth along the cusp of her tender ear.

"Devour me, witcher," Cirilla moaned, rocking her hips against his erection, and Geralt winced, having to take a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. This was fine, he told himself; she had no rose tattoo, no scar, no streaks of white in her ashen hair; just enough things to set her apart from the real Ciri and keep him going, though his mind begged him not to. He pulled her panties from her dainty feet, tossing them aside as he moved down to kiss her bony hips, before he began to work his way up her body again, trailing scratchy kisses from her stomach to her collar-bone. Her perky breasts heaved as his hand found her thigh, moving down until he could feel the warm indent of her knee, and she moaned as she felt his fingers against her skin, his beard on her face, kissing his way to her mouth.

This was probably the most attention she had received in quite some time, Geralt knew, even though they both knew they were only here by necessity; still, he could not help but think that even that was more dignity than she had gotten in a while. He had told her the truth, at least, and she had agreed to go through with it, even so, but the truth could only help so much with the fact that, even with his eyes closed, he could still tell there was a stranger under him. She was too tall, too slim, too eager to please, her hair too straight and coarse between his fingers, and as he reached down to push his own underwear down, he felt her shudder beneath him, brushing her warm lips against his ear.

"I'm ready," Cirilla moaned, the reedy keen of her voice almost a plead to his senses. "I can be whoever you want me to be. I just want you inside me, Geralt. Fuck me!"

Geralt huffed, opening his eyes again, only to be met with a strikingly familiar face staring back at him, and he had to choke back his gag reflex as he retrieved his hand, stopping his underwear at his hip-bones. Despite how much he had prepared himself, her resemblance to Ciri was just too great, too upsetting, and he let out a heavy huff as he pushed himself up onto his arms, staring down at her naked form in disgust.

"I… can't," he said, sliding off her slender form again, before settling on the opposite side of the bed, groaning as he pressed his face into his hands. This was the only way to achieve his goal, but he had no idea how he was going to do it, now that he was actually here—he had been so pleased with this workaround, so sure he could push through for Shani's sake, but now that he was actually here, in the moment, he found it too hard for even him to fake.

Cirilla frowned, sitting up in bed, pulling up the covers to shield her breasts from the cold. "Is something wrong?" she asked, sounding concerned. "I thought you said you found me beautiful. I thought you needed this."

"I do," Geralt answered, barely able to glance her way before having to look quickly away again. "It's just… your resemblance to Ciri, is…"

"My greatest asset," Cirilla offered.

"…Unsettling," Geralt admitted.

Cirilla frowned, seeming surprised. "You said you didn't mind my resemblance to your child surprise," she reminded him, softly. "I'm not sure what to do, if it truly unsettles you. I cannot change my face, try as I might."

"Don't need you to change your face," Geralt answered, forcing himself to look up at her again. She looked so young, he thought – too young, still a child, just like the real Ciri. "Don't need you to change anything. Just… need to get my head around it. Want to see you, not… Ciri."

Cirilla paused, her slender brows rising, green eyes earnest in surprise. "I've never been told I was desirable for just being myself," she admitted, making his heart break to hear it. She faltered, before her brows knitted softly again, looking up at him and biting her lip in thought. "Perhaps… it might help you not to think of me as Ciri if I were to call you what I called Emhyr," she suggested. "It always seemed to make him more excited. Might that help you think of me as someone else? Someone… you might desire?"

Geralt frowned, wondering what Emhyr could possibly have asked her to call him in bed to arouse him; if even the witcher was having trouble not seeing Ciri in her face, it had to be twice as difficult for Emhyr. "Sure," he said, uncertainly, before reaching across to take her face in his hand again. He kissed her lips, pulling himself across the sheets to where she sat, before he lifted her into his lap, letting her settle down softly and feeling as her pale thighs wrapped around his waist. He grunted, gripping her soft skin, feeling as her arms entwined around his neck, before she pressed her forehead against his, biting her lip as she rocked her slender hips against his erection.

"Papa…" Cirilla moaned.

Geralt immediately went soft.

"What the fuck!" he hissed, pushing her off his lap – Cirilla looked mortified, snatching the sheets to cover her naked form, and Geralt let out a monstrous breath, pushing himself from the bed to pace the room. He could feel the sensation of snakes crawling over his skin as he searched blindly for his trousers along the floor, and he let out a visceral shudder as he glanced her way again, unable to even look at her. Cirilla looked almost ready to cry, he saw, but he found he could hardly sympathise, not when he still felt he needed to bathe in fire to ever feel clean again. "What the fuck was that?!" he insisted, nearly catching his foot as he grabbed his pants, starting to yank them on again. "Don't ever say that. You are not Ciri. Don't ever call me that again."

Cirilla frowned, her teeth skating anxiously over her lip. "But…" she said, her voice barely above a mouse's squeak. "But… Emhyr is Ciri's father. I thought you were just her teacher—how can you be her father as well?"

Geralt huffed, resting his hands on the sides of his neck, unsure what else to do with them in his distress; he could feel his head spinning, his stomach turning, every instinct telling him to run. "He's her birth father," he explained, grabbing his shirt from the floor and pulling it on over his head with a sharp jerk. He could hear the fabric of the low V rip as he forced it down, but he could not be bothered to check. "But he wasn't a real father to her. Didn't raise her. Didn't train her. Only cared about her power, her—bloodline. Only reason he ever cared about you, too. Emhyr's not a good man, Cirilla."

"You may call me Becca, if you wish," Cirilla answered, her voice so soft he could barely hear it. There was a waver to it now, as if trying hard not to cry, and Geralt stopped, turning after a moment to face her again. She was still sitting on the bed where he had left her, still covering her naked form with the sheet, but he could see where a streak of water had begun to trail down her cheek, sliding down her neck to her collar-bone in the low candlelight. She sniffled, bringing up the sheet to wipe another tear from her freckled face, and Geralt sighed, crossing to the bed again to sit down beside her, reaching across to rest a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Becca," Geralt addressed her, causing her to look up again, her eyes wide. He paused, before huffing, letting out a tired breath. "Pretty," he said. "Cerys gave you that name, right?" Cirilla hesitated, before she finally nodded, wiping another tear away from her cheek, and Geralt hummed as he reached across with his free hand, brushing a second tear away with his thumb. Cirilla inhaled softly at the gesture, seeming surprised by the witcher's kindness, but he only tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, giving no impression he intended to go any further.

"Becca's a good name," he told her. "A new name. Chance to start over. Get back on your feet."

"Is that who you want me to be, witcher?" Cirilla asked, lowering the sheet to her lap again. Geralt winced, seeing her breasts exposed, before he quickly reached out, pulling the sheet back up to cover them again.

"Want you to be your own person," he told her, a bit firmer this time, hoping to make her listen – it was hard not to get frustrated with her, but knew this was not her fault, not entirely. She had been so beaten down by Emhyr's manipulation that this was all she knew to be now, and Geralt sighed at the thought, pulling a stray blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around her shoulders. "Deserve to be your own woman," he told her, wiping another tear from her freckled cheek. "Make your own choices. Too smart and beautiful to live in someone else's shadow forever."

Cirilla frowned, her mouth drawing into a pinched line as she looked up at him again, but he only put his hand on her shoulder, feeling her wince beneath his touch, before leaning into it, eagerly. "Don't have to depend on others to make decisions for you anymore," he told her, shaking his head. "Don't have to be relegated to that. Know it's hard, coming out of… whatever Emhyr thought marriage was supposed to be." He made a face, trying to keep his disgust for Emhyr from showing too plainly, but he found he could not be bothered to temper his words now, not after seeing what the man had done to her. "Can't blame you for being lost," he added, his expression drawing again. "Being fucked up. But… you're free now. Free to be who you wanna be. Becca, or Cirilla, or… whoever."

Cirilla paused, considering for a moment, before she finally looked up at him again, her pretty brow pinched. "What if what I want is to be with you?" she asked, her voice quiet, but still with a hint of hope.

Geralt sighed. "Can't," he said, shaking his head again. "Love my wife too much. Sorry, Becca."

Cirilla frowned, her pink lips pursing. "You were so willing to sleep with me before, when I was Ciri—" she began.

Geralt held up a hand, stopping her. "Don't," he told her, firmly. "Don't say that. I'd never sleep with Ciri."

Cirilla faltered, her expression twisting, shifting confusedly beneath the blanket. "Can we not go back to before?" she asked, and he could hear something uncomfortably pleading in her voice this time. There was a near-desperation in the question, he realized, as if she were starting to panic at the idea of losing him. "I'll call you whatever you wish, witcher. Please. I'm so very alone here. I've no one who cares for me, no one at all."

"That's not true," Geralt shot back, starting to get annoyed. "Cerys stood up for you. Defended you, even from me. Told me she cared about your happiness. Wanted you to find your own identity. Why she brought you here in the first place." Cirilla hesitated, saying nothing, before she turned her gaze down to stare at the covers in silence, and Geralt let out another long sigh at the sight, getting up to stand from the bed again, exhausted. "She really cares about your wellbeing," he added, causing her to shrink a bit in her bundle of covers, ashamed. "Think she sees you as more than just a court maiden. Possibly a friend. Maybe something more."

Cirilla faltered, seeming surprised to hear this, before she timidly lifted her head again. "Do you really think she sees me as something more?" she asked, her pretty brows rising expectantly.

Geralt faltered, realizing he might have just caused a problem for Cerys, but figuring she could handle it. "Can only tell you what I know," he admitted, honestly. "But the way she talks about you… she definitely cares about you. Think you should give her more of a chance to help you. That's all she really wants." He paused, staring down at Cirilla for a while, before he finally let out another tired breath – it had been barely half an hour since they had entered his room, but somehow, it felt like a lifetime. "Whatever you believe, Cerys is right," he added after a moment, causing Cirilla to blink, seeming surprised to hear it. "You're better than what Nilfgaard did to you. What anyone did to you. And you deserve happiness, too."

Cirilla said nothing at this, only staring up at him, seeming too dazed to respond, but Geralt only offered her one last weary smile before he turned, opening the door to let himself out.

---

Corvo Bianco smelled strange after a week on Skellige, but it was a welcome change to Geralt's senses; the scent of cedar and saltwater had grown far too normalized, and he was glad to replace it with the spices of home. He had arrived back at barely sundown, and had dismissed Barnabas-Basil and Marlene to their quarters on his arrival, not wanting to risk them being present in the house whenever O'Dimm decided to come around. He had tried to meditate for a while, waiting in anticipation for the demon's arrival, but he found the sensation of spiders across his skin too persistent, too upsetting, and so had given up the effort, deciding he would just take a warm, calming bath instead. He was disappointed to find, then, that even thorough scrubbing was not enough to shake the feeling of Cirilla's hands on his body, and so, with all other methods exhausted, he had decided the only solution left to turn to was vodka.

He poured himself a mug as he sat at the dining-room table, tipping in some White Gull for good measure, watching the fire as the night dragged by in agonizing silence in anticipation of O'Dimm's arrival. It took almost no time to finish the first bottle, and he let out an anxious growl as he left his seat to fetch another, doing all he could not to think about what might happen when the demon finally did appear. He had done all his tasks to the letter, but O'Dimm had seem displeased with his solution to the previous one, and he could not imagine the Man of Glass would be much happier with the way he had handled this one. Letting out a hum, he sat down again, watching the fireplace crackle in the darkness as he waited, pouring himself another mug of vodka and Gull and staring at the empty space across the table.

He remembered that had been where Yennefer had sat on the night when Shani had first come to stay – a night which, until that point, had been spent casually conversing about vampires and lovers in the catacombs, without a care in the world. That had been the last night of normalcy, the last night he could remember seeing her smile without some hint of sadness behind it, and he finished off another mug, filling it again with a sickening feeling he could not wait to drown.

"Greetings, Geralt."

The voice came out of the darkness, and Geralt turned, glancing to the far end of the table, spotting O'Dimm perched precariously cross-legged on the edge, as he knew he would be. O'Dimm smiled as he caught the witcher's eye, his face dark and shapeless in the low light of the fireplace, his hands steepled perceptively above his lap, where his spoon lay crosswise across his knees, waiting to be called upon.

"You look mighty glum for a man who just got lucky," O'Dimm observed, his cattish smile widening. Then, his dark eyes moved slowly down to the mug, and then the bottle, before lifting to rest on Geralt again. "It's a nasty habit, drink," he noted, one brow creeping into a sadistic arch as his thin mouth curled. "Has a way of taking over your life, if you're not careful. But then, you've never been a man to worry about the long-term consequences of… much of anything, have you, Geralt?"

"Did what you said," Geralt told him, shortly, in no mood to be scolded. "Bedded Cirilla Fiona. Empress of Nilfgaard, noble of Cintra. Task's complete."

O'Dimm paused, his dark brows lifting, before he took a deep breath, lifting his spoon to turn it over, thoughtfully. "Former empress," he corrected, seeming equal parts amused and dissatisfied by that fact. "And that wasn't at all what I asked for. I said you had to bed her to completion. In that aspect, among others, you failed." He stopped, staring down at the spoon, rolling it slowly between his fingers as he thought. "I go to all the trouble to whittle it down to the bare minimum for you, and you can't even accomplish that," he added, disappointedly. "Tsk, tsk."

Geralt gritted his teeth, feeling his stomach churn with bile at the demon's taunting. "Got her into bed," he growled, stifling a soft hiccup. "Should be enough. Did what you asked for. Can't keep holding us hostage like this."

O'Dimm looked up, seeming surprised, before he suddenly gave a sharp, hearty laugh, the sound causing Geralt's skin to crawl, having never heard anything like it before. "Can't I?" he insisted, coldly. "You did nothing, witcher. You didn't fuck her—you didn't even penetrate her, Geralt. You went to all the trouble to find a suitable workaround, and then you didn't even bother finishing in her." He chuckled again, his dark eyes cold as he gripped the spoon, resting the handle against his knee, and Geralt felt his stomach clench at the flippant, almost degrading way O'Dimm spoke about Cirilla. He was not particularly attached to her, himself, but he still felt she deserved more dignity than that—but it seemed O'Dimm did not even notice his affront, only continuing to smile his wicked grin.

"At least we know what doesn't work for you now," O'Dimm added after a moment, sounding far too amused for Geralt's comfort. "You'll be sure to let dear Yennefer know to leave any… paternal issues at the door, going forward."

"Fuck off," Geralt spat, grabbing the vodka to pour himself another drink. "Not Becca's fault Emhyr's a deviant. Leave her alone. Fucked up enough as it is."

O'Dimm chuckled at his reaction. "Oh, don't look so dour, Geralt," he said, giving another offhanded flick of his spoon. "It was only a jest. And it was also incredibly clever of you, rooting out the False Ciri like that. Whispering sweet nothings in her ear, seducing her, only to throw her away immediately afterward. As you always do, I suppose, but… with ample good reason this time." He grinned, looking down at the spoon again and giving it another flick of his wrist, as if trying to decide whether he liked it better in his right hand or his left. "But— my heart is not made of stone," he continued after a moment, looking up at Geralt again as he spoke. "So for your trouble, I'll give you one last chance. One last task you may fulfil, to make up for your failure."

Geralt felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. "Wasn't part of the deal, O'Dimm," he growled.

O'Dimm nodded, sliding his thumb across the lip of the spoon. "You're right," he agreed, honestly. "It wasn't. Not until you tried to cheat me out of two previous tasks. Now, you'll do one last task to make up for your failure to follow through on those." He paused, taking a moment to look down at the spoon, admiring it a while, before his sallow mouth began to curl again, and he let out a soft, sadistic chuckle. "It seems your inability to finish in bed is not the only place you fail to follow through," he noted.

Geralt felt his face flush. "What's the task, O'Dimm?" he demanded, nearly baring his teeth in a snarl.

O'Dimm stared at him for a moment, pausing to think, his dark eyes tracing the ceiling in an agonizing arc, before he finally took a deep breath, the pouch around his heck rising and falling against his chest with the motion. Geralt had to resist looking down as it moved, having always wondered what was kept in that pouch; were he a normal merchant, he might have guessed bezoars, perhaps coins, but with O'Dimm, it was likely something much worse. "I think I know what I want you to do," O'Dimm finally said, causing Geralt to look up again, drawn back in. "I think you'll find it quite fitting, in fact. Thematic, though… perhaps a bit simple, for your tastes."

"Nothing's ever simple with you," Geralt answered, taking another swig of vodka.

O'Dimm smiled, his expression cold. "I think you'll find this one to be quite direct," he answered, fairly. "And quite easy, if you don't dally around, as you do. I want you… to kill Shani."

Geralt froze, his hand gripping his mug. "…You want what?" he finally demanded, finding it hard to breathe.

O'Dimm sat up straighter, folding his hands in his lap. "You heard me," he repeated. "Kill. Shani."

Geralt faltered, too stunned to speak, before he finally let out a dark scoff, feeling his heart race. "That's it?" he insisted, trying to keep his voice steady. "No clever riddle this time?"

O'Dimm blinked slowly in response. "I can make one up, if you like," he said, picking up his spoon to run his thumb along the handle. "But I don't think that's really what you want. I could tell you what you want, but I doubt you'd be pleased to hear it." Resting the head of the spoon in his opposite palm, he tapped it a few times, considering, before he finally took another deep breath, his expression growing solemn as he stared down at the witcher. "Here's how this will work," he continued, his voice grave, all but forcing Geralt to listen. "The child can still live, if you can find a way to separate one from the other. But therein lies your choice, witcher. Allow Shani to live, or the child to live. One… or the other. You cannot choose both."

"Won't do it," Geralt snapped, pushing himself up from the table to meet O'Dimm's eyes. The vodka bottle tipped over as the table rattled, rolling off the edge to clatter noisily to the floor, but O'Dimm only spared it a passing glance before looking up at Geralt again, unimpressed. "Won't make that choice, O'Dimm," Geralt growled, gritting his teeth as his heart thundered in his ears. "Contract's over. It's done. Did all your tasks. You have to let Shani go."

O'Dimm was silent for a while, staring across the table at the witcher, his expression unmoving, before he finally lifted his chin again, taking in a deep breath as he rested the spoon across his lap. "I see," he said, his tone unreadable, though there was unmistakable venom in his voice now. "You think you can just say no to me. That you can just walk away, and expect nothing to follow you home." He paused again, resting his half-gloved hands on his knees, tapping his fingers in a thoughtful pattern, before he finally let out a low, cold chuckle, the sound sending ice through Geralt's veins. There was no warmth in the sound; it sounded almost angry, Geralt realized, vindictive and cruel, and he braced himself for the inevitable reprisal, knowing he had pushed too far this time.

"Who do you think I am, Geralt?" O'Dimm finally asked. "Go on. I want you to take a good guess."

"Think you're the devil," Geralt answered, bluntly, holding himself against the table as he spoke. Under more sober circumstances, he might have been more careful, more conscientious of his answer, but right now, he found he cared about nothing else but getting Shani away from this creature's clutches.

O'Dimm stared back at him at the answer, allowing an uncomfortable moment for it to hang in the air between them, before he finally tilted his head, a joyless, serpentine grin stretching across his features. "Close," he said, his tone deceptively light. "But not quite. That's far too simple, I'm afraid. You see, witcher, I, and this, are so much bigger than you imagine—so much bigger than you and your menial tasks."

"Who are you, then?" Geralt insisted, wavering again. "Wouldn't tell me last time. Said it was for my own good."

"And it was," O'Dimm agreed, seeming amused that Geralt would remember. "Back then, you and I were only acquaintances. Now… I would almost call us friends."

"Hate to see who you call enemies," Geralt answered, finally allowing himself to sit again – it was getting harder to stay upright, and he had no interest in giving O'Dimm more to hold over him. Picking up his mug again, he finished it off, before moving it aside, clearing the space between them. "What are you, then?" he insisted, darkly. "Since you say you're not the devil."

O'Dimm grinned. "Oh, I never said that," he corrected, amusedly. "I only said it was far too simple an answer. But since you asked—some may call me the devil, yes. But others might call me something else. I'm the taker of hearts, you see. The keeper of souls. The dark thing in the Black Forest. I'm the Holländer-Michel. The one who makes deals at a fork in the road that most fools… can't resist." Geralt made a face at the string of titles, wondering why he had never heard of so many of them before; the Black Forest he knew, but the creatures within were all still a mystery to him, it seemed. There were so many stories even he did not know, so many versions of the same sadistic tales – so many years of pain and torment O'Dimm had under his belt that even the witcher had no way of knowing.

"I'm the one who steals your joy, for no other reason than so you cannot have it," O'Dimm continued, ignoring Geralt's discomfort. "I don't need it for my own sake, witcher—I have my own joy, much better than yours, or anyone else's. My joy comes from watching you, and thousands – millions – of other fools just like you, suffer. Just like Olgierd von Everec suffered… just like Amadeus Ritterhof suffered. Just like everyone else who was foolish enough to seek me out for things they don't deserve, suffered." He stopped, leaning forward again, his hands clenching his knees until his fingernails paled, and Geralt felt his blood run cold as he stared back, swearing for a second he could see a sickly yellow flash across O'Dimm's dark irises.

"Your one mistake, Geralt of Rivia," O'Dimm told him, almost hissing the words as he spoke this time. "Your one selfish, imprudent mistake – was in thinking you could ever deserve to be happy."

"I do deserve to be happy," Geralt shot back, the words leaving him before he could stop them; it sounded so childish coming out that way, but he found he could care very little right now.

O'Dimm chuckled again, the sound joyless and cold. "You deserve nothing," he told him. "And that's exactly what you'll get. Once all of this is through, you'll be left with nothing—no friends, no wife… nothing."

"This was never a coincidence," Geralt growled, clenching his fists against the table until his knuckles paled. "Admit it, O'Dimm. Everything – all of this – was about getting revenge on me from the start."

O'Dimm smirked, picking up his spoon again. "Clever," he admitted. "Though how clever, I wonder?"

Geralt gritted his teeth, breathing heavily, trying to collect his thoughts enough to answer. "Wanted to get back at me for taking von Everec's soul out from under you," he said after a moment, looking up again. "Knew showing up in one of Nilfgaard's provinces, drawing attention to yourself, would spread word. Word of an unusual being in Temeria's forests would get the attention of the empress—a former witcher-in-training. Knew Ciri wouldn't be able to resist telling me about it, 'cause she couldn't do anything about it herself." He paused, glaring up at O'Dimm, waiting for some sort of confirmation, some sort of reaction, but the Man of Glass only sat maddeningly still, his expression unmoving, waiting for Geralt to continue.

"Knew I was retired, so you couldn't lure me out yourself," Geralt added, trying to ignore his creeping doubt. "Knew I'd do anything Ciri asked, though. Knew that from the start. Was your plan all along."

O'Dimm paused, silent and motionless, before a thin, sallow grin began to creep across his features again. "Close," he conceded, resting the head of the spoon musingly against his cheek. "On all counts but one. I couldn't care less about Olgierd von Everec, nor his soul. You won that challenge fair and square, witcher. What happens to him now is of no concern to me."

"Then why?" Geralt demanded, pushing himself up again, only to sit back down quickly, his head swimming. "What'd I do to you that you're so hell-bent on destroying me? Destroying everything I love?"

O'Dimm shrugged, seeming unfazed by his anger. "Absolutely nothing," he answered, tapping the spoon against his cheek. "And now, I plan to have you kill the mother of your child. Isn't it a small world we live in?"

Geralt took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm himself down enough to think; it was nearly impossible, with how much he had had to drink, but he knew there had to be something he could do. "I challenge," he said after a moment, looking up again. "Worked last time. Should work again."

O'Dimm chuckled, seeming incredibly amused, before he moved the spoon away from his face again, tossing it up in the air before catching it perfectly upright on the tip of his finger. "That's not how that works at all," he said, watching the spoon as it balanced effortlessly against his fingertip. "You've already challenged me once, Geralt. You wasted your gamble on von Everec." He grinned, moving his hand across his body, following the spoon with cold, dark eyes, but it only stayed seamlessly upright, frozen in place on his finger, refusing to waver. "If you wanted to challenge again, you'd have to find a surrogate—a champion—someone to challenge on your behalf," O'Dimm explained. "Someone who stood a chance to beat me, but whose soul you wouldn't mind losing, should they not possess the same… innate skills, as a witcher."

Geralt narrowed his eyes, watching the spoon as well. "What if I bring you von Everec?" he asked.

O'Dimm hummed, continuing to watch the spoon, before he finally let his hands drop back to his lap, and Geralt made a face as he watched the spoon stay suspended in the air where the demon had left it. A few months ago, he might have been shocked by such a trick, even frightened, but he had seen O'Dimm do this kind of thing so many times by now that he could only feel irritation anymore. "I don't want von Everec, witcher," O'Dimm told him, sounding almost annoyed with the offer. "You made your wager, and you must live with it. His soul has no value to me anymore." Then, having said this, he paused a moment, before he finally reached out, plucking the spoon from midair again.

"Which is not to say I wouldn't accept your soul some other way," he added, bringing the spoon down to stare at it, thoughtfully. "It would have a place of honour in my collection. But, alas… rules are rules. For now, I only want one thing—Shani, or the baby."

"Can't have either," Geralt shot back, gritting his teeth. "Can't have Shani or the baby. Give you my soul before I give you either of theirs."

O'Dimm smiled, his dark eyes frigid, his expression twisting in a mockery of sympathy. "Oh, Geralt," he said, clicking his tongue. "You malign me. I never take a soul that isn't knowingly given. And besides, I believe Yennefer would be most displeased to learn you'd made a life-altering decision while in your cups." He chuckled, the sound causing another shiver to run down Geralt's spine, before he finally slid from the table, standing in silhouette before the fireplace and tapping the spoon against his opposite palm.

"Once you've made your decision, you can come and find me in the place I reside," O'Dimm explained, calmly. "The place with no mirrors, which reflects only the truth. The choice is yours now, Geralt – you must decide wisely." He paused, allowing a moment of silence to fall between them as he let his instructions sink in, and Geralt stared back at the demon, hearing his heart racing in his ears as he tried not to look down at the black, amorphous shadows being thrown across the rug. "You have a month and a half to decide," O'Dimm added, his frigid smile widening with every word. "Once that time runs out, it will be too late to choose. Godspeed, witcher… and good luck."