Cold water splashed into Geralt's face, bringing him around like a swift punch. He groaned, disoriented for long moments, every inch of his body hurting. Upon a careful breath, he felt the bruising along his torso, the protest of cracked ribs and the red agony of the maltreated wound in his side. A painful heat radiated from the injury, deep and molten, a sure sign of infection.

Memory of the previous night returned then. He vividly remembered the beating he had suffered, especially the last part that had ultimately taken his senses. The deliberate kicks must have opened the scabbed wound again, grinding mud, dirt, and whatnot into the open injury. The way it hurt, it needed immediate treatment.

Biting back another groan, he struggled to rise and found that his arms didn't respond. He realized that they were in fact supporting the weight of his limp body, his manacles connecting to a pair of hooks in the ceiling. He grimaced as he tried to get his feet under him to ease the strain on his arms and finally succeeded, panting from the effort.

"Ah, look who's awake now."

The voice brought his attention to a man who stood before him, staring at him with small, mean eyes. In his hand, he held the empty bucket that presumably had contained the water that was now dripping off Geralt's face and shoulders. The uniform gave him away as a city guard.

Geralt glanced past him, noting the thick iron bars of the door, the rotting straw that covered the dirt floor, and concluded that he had been moved to the jail while unconscious. The small cell had to be underground, dampness gleaming on the walls where the bricks caught the torchlight from the corridor. His gaze settled back on the guard in front of him.

"What do you want?" he ground out. His face felt tender and swollen and it hurt to speak. "Come to beat me up again?"

The guard looked amused.

"Captain sent me down here to check on you. See if you're fit to talk."

By the way they had chained him, he could have guessed. It didn't come as a surprise. After all, the abduction of the court mage was nothing to be taken lightly and he was probably their only lead. He had just hoped that they would choose a more humane way to get the information they needed.

"Took you some time to come around again," the guard continued. "Captain was starting to get worried, said we might have gone too hard on you." He stepped closer and grabbed Geralt by his chin, turning his face to have a better look at him. Geralt could smell onions and booze on his breath. "Tell me, witcher. Have we gone too hard on you?"

Geralt glared wearily at him, knowing only too well that his answer wouldn't make any difference. The guard looked exactly like the kind of man who took pleasure in beating other people up, and a hated witcher was probably a more than welcome target.

"F*** you," he rasped.

"That's what I thought."

Geralt caught the metal gleam of brass knuckles before the punch hit him in the stomach, hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs, and he bit down to stifle the cry of pain that wanted out. He was already sore from last night's beating, his muscles bruised deeply, and he could feel something tear inside him under the concentrated force of the blow. Fresh pain flared through his center, blinding him for long moments, but he managed to stay on his feet. He counted that as a small victory.

"Thought you might want a second round."

Another blow landed in Geralt's midsection, worse than the first, setting his insides on fire and forcing a pained groan from his lips. Two more punches and his legs buckled. He grunted when his fall was caught abruptly by the chains and he retched weakly, spitting blood and bile onto the floor. He gazed at the mess before him, feeling curiously detached. Internal bleeding, his dazed mind assessed automatically. Might make the consumption of healing potions impossible. Not that he had any right now.

He closed his eyes, panting and dizzy from the pain. Son of a whore, he thought grimly. I hope you rot in hell.

"You've had enough already?" A voice sneered from far away. "Thought you witchers were tougher than that."

He could have stayed down then, pretending to have passed out. Hell, he wasn't far from it anyway, really just had to allow the pain to pull him under, but he remembered something that the guard had said before. That the captain wanted to talk to him, and his brain was still working well enough to realize that he couldn't let that chance go by. Not that he expected any help for himself, but he had to make sure that the guards knew where to look for Triss. She was in trouble because of him. He owed it to her.

It took him long moments to gather his strength, but he managed to get to his feet again. Slowly he raised his head, glaring at his tormentor with defiance.

"I'd like to talk to your captain."

"I bet you do." the guard retorted, baring his teeth. His fist was clenched tightly, ready to deal another punch. "But don't make any mistake. He doesn't give a shit about the state you're in, as long as you can talk."

The man lunged to strike but froze in mid-movement when a sharp voice resounded from behind him.

"Enough."

The guard snarled in disappointment and turned around to look at the uniformed man who had just entered. Geralt noted the man's carefully trimmed hair and beard and the ornate breastplate that was reserved for commanding officers.

"Captain Vesten," he acknowledged.

The captain's eyes narrowed.

"The prisoner is awake now," the guard declared somewhat belatedly.

Vesten glanced at Geralt who was still struggling to keep upright, then back at his inferior. His frown deepened.

"I can see that for myself," he said. "You were supposed to report back immediately. I thought I had made myself clear."

The guard bared his teeth and for a moment Geralt thought that he would retort sharply. But he seemed to remember who was in charge just in time.

"Yes sir," he replied grudgingly. "I'm sorry, sir."

Vesten jerked his head toward the door. "Out."

The guard shot Geralt a dark glance that told him that this wasn't over yet. He would be back and maybe even bring his friends. Geralt tried not to ponder on it as he watched him leave.

Vesten approached the witcher, giving him a cool once over, hands folded behind his back. He glanced at the vomit that soaked the straw at Geralt's feet, then looked up at him again, studying his bruised and bloodied face. There was no telling whether he enjoyed the sight though, his expression completely blank. Geralt got the impression that this man was strictly business.

"Looks like my men roughed you up pretty good," Vesten said at length. "I would apologize for their misbehavior, only that I understand quite well why they're so upset with you. You've killed one of their own, and Casey was a good man. Quite popular. Left a wife and four children behind. Just in case you want to know."

Geralt had his doubts that the latest beating had had anything to do with that but kept the thought to himself. Vesten wasn't here to discuss the behavior of his men, he wanted information on the killings and Triss's abduction, and Geralt was more than willing to help with that.

"I'm sorry about your man." Geralt's voice was hoarse. "It wasn't my intention to kill him."

"Yes, I've heard. The curse."

There was only one person who could have told him that.

"You have talked to Triss."

"I have talked to quite a number of people," Vesten replied coldly. "Just so you know, up until now Miss Merigold has been the only person to speak on your behalf and now she's disappeared. Things don't look too good for you, witcher."

Despite his discomfort, Geralt managed a grim smile. "I already figured that."

He shifted slightly, trying to find a position that put a little less strain on his bruised muscles, and grimaced when the movement caused him pain.

Vesten didn't so much as raise an eyebrow.

"I'm going to be blunt," the captain said levelly. "I don't care what happens to you. Considering the many witnesses, you'll probably hang by the end of the day and I wouldn't lose a night's sleep over it. But I do care about Miss Merigold and it appears to me that you should care about her too. And if only because she might save you from execution."

Geralt sighed.

"You don't have to convince me to help you. What do you want to know?"

Vesten eyed him suspiciously, surprised by his easy compliance.

"Well, I'm glad that you're sensible," he said slowly. "Let's start with the blond mage then. Who is she?"

Geralt found himself swaying and locked his knees, gripping the chains that held him. He was still light-headed from the pain and had a hard time keeping his legs under him.

"Her name is Celaena. She's the one who cursed me."

"You know her?"

Geralt shook his head.

"No, but Triss does. Otherwise, I wouldn't even know her name."

Vesten nodded, taking in the information.

"Alright. So this curse – how does that work exactly? It makes you do whatever the sorceress tells you?"

"Basically, yes. But Triss gave me an amulet to help withstand it." Geralt tried to take a careful, deep breath against the dizziness but was stopped by his aching ribs. He suspected that he was losing blood, probably bleeding into his abdominal cavity, the recent blows to his stomach having caused serious damage. Thanks to his slow pulse, it would take a while though until he passed out. Time enough to get through this and maybe convince Vesten to unchain him, so he could get some rest.

"Is that why she was abducted?"

Geralt nodded wearily. "And to be used as leverage, I think. Celaena wants me to give up the amulet so she can gain complete control over me."

Vesten's brows creased in thought.

"Will she continue to come after you?"

"You mean will she try to break me out?"

The thought hadn't occurred to him, but it wasn't far-fetched. In fact, it might even be likely. The mage had gone through a lot of trouble so far and Geralt didn't deem it likely that she would give up now. She had the means to do it too. Maybe she was even watching him right now, eavesdropping on the conversation. After all, she had been able to surprise him at the temple of Melitele, so she had to have some way of spying on him.

She couldn't simply portal into his cell, he was pretty sure of that. Based on what he knew about portals, it became trickier the smaller the place was you wanted to portal into unless you wanted to risk ending up inside a wall. So she would have to come up with some other plan to get him out. But she might do exactly that.

It suddenly dawned on him that ironically she was currently his best hope of escape.

"Yes," Geralt said after a moment of silence. "She might."

And she might succeed to take him with her, except of course, she was stopped by the guards. Right now Vesten's men stood a better chance of overpowering her than Geralt, and they would be able to help Triss.

Vesten nodded to himself, processing the information. "Well, in that case, I'd better take precautions."

There was another thing the captain could try, in case Celaena didn't show up.

"You could also try to find her," Geralt suggested weakly.

Vesten raised his brows expectantly. "Well, do you have any idea where she is?"

Geralt shook his head. He realized he was reeling, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He tried to take a deeper breath but was again met with a searing pain in his ribs.

"Not exactly, no. But she's got a hideout somewhere near Vizima."

"That's not very specific."

"It's all I know. Maybe your men will be able to find it if they ask around. Someone might remember seeing her."

Vesten nodded thoughtfully. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then stopped himself, frowning.

"There's one thing I don't quite understand," he said after a while, looking at Geralt who was pale as death, trying hard not to pass out. "You're a witcher, you know more about curses than most. After killing the alderman's son at that tavern, you must have realized what was going on. That someone was controlling you and might have you kill again. Yet you didn't turn to the authorities. Instead, you rented a room in Vizima, hoping for the help of Miss Merigold, all the while risking the lives of everyone in the city."

"Well," Geralt huffed, suddenly annoyed by the man's ignorance. Considering the widespread prejudice against his kind, the guards obviously hadn't been an option. "I'm talking to the authorities now, aren't I? Look where it got me."

The crease between Vesten's brows deepened and with it, the hard line around his mouth returned.

"Still, the least you could have done is stay out of the city. Keep away from other people as long as you had no control over yourself. But you didn't." He paused, his glance icy. "The way I see it, Casey's death is on you, whether it was your intention or not."

He knew the captain expected a reply, but there was nothing he could think of to defend himself. Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe it was mere exhaustion, but his mind felt curiously blank as if swiped empty and the captain's face started to slowly slide out of focus.

Vesten finally shook his head in contempt.

"Well, I guess we're finished here."

It was the last thing Geralt remembered before his legs gave out and he sagged, his fall once more brought to an abrupt halt by his chains. Not even able to lift his head, he gazed at the filthy straw beneath him and watched it blur. In his semi-conscious state, he barely registered the movement around him, voices drowned by the roaring in his ears. Then the chains that held him disconnected and his body hit the ground with a painful thud.

For a long while, there was only darkness.

He woke to the distant sound of voices, and through the haze of pain and fever, a pungent smell registered, scratchy and sooty. Fire, his dazed mind provided. The building was on fire. It took a moment until the danger of the situation fully sank in but when it did, his eyes flew open.

He was still in his cell, lying on his belly, his cheek pressed into the straw. Vomit soaked the ground near his mouth.

And f***, he hurt.

Why was the building on fire? He clung to that thought as if to a lifeline, sensing that the answer to that question was vital, and then a name appeared in his mind. Celaena. She must have started the fire to lure out the guards. Which meant she was coming for him. He wondered if Vesten's men would be able to stop her, but he didn't count on it.

Groaning, he tried to push up but found that his body was not in agreement. Moving brought on a whole new experience of pain, nauseating and debilitating. He fell back with a soft moan, panting from exhaustion.

F***.

Setting his jaw, he attempted to rise again and somehow managed to get to his knees at least, his whole body shaking from the effort. The witcher medallion twitched on its chain. She was coming.

What now? He turned his head toward the steel door of his cell and saw that it was locked but unguarded. So much for the precautions that Vesten had wanted to take. Seemed like he had to face Celaena by himself. Trouble was, he wasn't in any condition to fight her. But if he didn't think of something now, she would just march in, rip the amulet from his neck – his last line of defense – and break his will for good. And the idea of spending his remaining days in complete slavery scared the hell out of him.

Again, he heard the clamor of voices, closer this time, somewhere from the other end of the corridor. The sound of a sword fight. Someone screaming in pain.

He couldn't defeat her, neither mentally nor physically, he knew that. But what if he could trick her? What if he could convince her that he had somehow lost the amulet, that the guards had taken it along with his swords? He might be able to pretend to be under her spell, waiting for an opportune moment to strike.

It wasn't much of a plan, but it sure was worth a shot.

Hands shaking from blood loss and exhaustion, he removed the amulet from his neck and hesitated briefly, trying to think of a good place to hide it, then simply slipped it into the shaft of his boot. He was about to take off his witcher medallion too but then thought better of it. She would definitely be able to sense the magic on him, and it might be a good idea to present an obvious source of magic to keep her from looking for the amulet.

Footfalls tapped in the corridor, approaching his cell. He could hear the jingle of keys, the voice of another inmate begging to be released, and then the blond mage stepped into view. She looked a little worse for the wear, clothes singed from last night's fight, but it was obvious that the guards hadn't been able to harm her. Geralt wasn't surprised to find an armed man in her tow, hair blond like hers, but cropped short for battle. In his hand he was holding a broadsword, its blade glistening with fresh blood.

"Well, well," she said as she caught sight of him. "Look who's here. I told you it would be easy."

The last words were directed at her companion, who merely grunted in response. She held out her hand and he passed her a set of keys. It didn't take long for her to find the correct one and the barred door swung open with a low screech.

Geralt sat up as straight as his battered body would allow, mentally preparing for her to take over his mind, and raised his eyes to meet her glance. This time, he would consciously allow it. He hated the prospect but right now, it seemed like the smartest thing to do.

"Looks like you have been expecting me," she stated, approaching him. She seized him up, impassively taking in his various injuries.

"I have."

He felt her gaze drop to the witcher medallion on his chest, noted the slight crease between her curved brows as she realized that the focus wasn't there, and he instinctively knew that she wouldn't believe his act. He'd have to sell it.

And there was only one way he knew how. He had put up so much resistance until now that it would be suspicious if he succumbed to her willingly. He would have to fight.

His attack was almost painfully slow, the gesture that usually took him split seconds now imprecise and shaky, but the thrust of magic that burst from his fingers was still powerful enough to throw the sorceress backwards, sending her into her companion. The man tumbled and almost went down with her. She shrieked in surprise and Geralt climbed to his feet, labored, face contorted into a grimace of determination.

"You fool," she hissed between clenched teeth. "Do you still think you can resist me?"

She stretched out her arm to keep the blond man from advancing on him and Geralt caught a soft gleam of magic streaming from her hand, the ring on her finger glowing with chaos. He was but able to take one step towards her before he felt her thoughts float his mind like a storm tide, and this time, against the cold panic that clutched his heart, he let it happen.

Maybe she wouldn't notice.

Maybe she wouldn't be able to see that he was trying to deceive her.

He gasped, vision graying as his consciousness drowned in a vortex of chaos. For a brief moment, he feared that this would be his end, that this might be the last conscious glimpse he would catch of the world, and then even that thought faded. He knew nothing after that.