Trigger Warning*** Slight mention of attempted suicide, and mention of potential rape - doesn't actually happen though. Just putting it out there in case there's any sensitivities to these subjects. This warning stands for the rest of the fic, as I don't know if these topics will come up again. Thanks for understanding. They are not explicit though, just slight mentions. May or may not be explicit in later chapters.
On another note, I hope you guys like this chapter. I am really happy with the way this one turned out.
Chapter 23: The Black Wedding
It had been four years – four drastically long years of waiting alone in a room, with little entertainment other than the occasional book or conversations with the maids. Cahir and Fringilla stopped by every couple weeks to taunt her and torment her about having been abandoned by Geralt. At first she'd tried to deny it, but after spending four years in their possession, she realized that it was the truth.
There was no way he hadn't gotten word about her capture, and obviously he had decided that he was better off without her. This haunted her daily, and each and every day it felt like her soul was ripped out of her and shredded. The pain never stopped, the loneliness haunted her like a poltergeist. More than a handful of times, she had tried to end her own life.
Slitting her wrists, hanging with tied bedclothes, or starving herself. Each and every time she was brought back from the brink of death by Fringilla, who seemed to be aware of every action that went on in her cell. It was an endless nightmare, and as much as she had grown in the last four years, she felt like a shell of her old self.
It had been months since she had spoken, as she refused to speak with Cahir or Fringilla, no matter what was said to her or what Cahir did to her. He liked to torment her; shoving her, knocking her over, slapping her when she refused to speak… She was so used to it. She hardly even blinked anymore when he laid a hand on her. Her life passed by so slowly, as she dreaded what was to come.
It was officially the morning of her 18th birthday, and she was already awake when Cahir slammed her door open, a large grin spread across his face. "Come, come! We haven't got time to waste," he all but shouted at her. "You're wedding is in a mere two hours."
His large hand wrapped around her skinny arm, hauling her to her feet. Over the last four years, the lack of movement made her muscles weak, and he all but had to drag her out of the tiny room and down the hall to another room. There was a large tub filled with steaming water, and a few maids stood by waiting for her. Cahir thrust her towards them, where she fell at their feet on her hands and knees, panting from the exertion.
"Get her cleaned up, the wench hasn't had a bath in all the years she has been here," Cahir snapped at the maids. "Once she is dressed, send for me and I will bring her to the procession."
He disappeared out the doorway, as the maids helped her get up and undressed. They spoke no words to her, as they got her into the tub, where they began to help her wash up, and spent an unbelievable amount of time on her hair. Her hair was past her waist now, and was so matted and tangled, it took the three of them to work all the knots out and get it washed up.
She was so mentally numb, that she hardly even cared as she was washed by complete strangers. Her hair was plucked and primped, made to look like a proper Princess, which she hardly felt like anymore. Every bit of her identity had been stripped away from her. She had no freedoms. Not even the freedom to escape.
Once cleaned, they dried her off, and she was barely even aware as she was put into a white wedding gown, and her hair styled to frame her face. The idea of marrying the King was an abhorrent one, and she hoped that there would be some means of escape, be it physical or existential. Her body would not be used against her will, no matter what she had to do to prevent it.
Geralt crossed her mind again, as she drifted away from what was happening to block out the painful emotions. Her mind often slipped away to other things to protect her sanity from whatever was occurring. She wondered how Geralt was doing, what monsters he had slain in the last four years, if Jaskier was still with him, and if he was still with Yen… She also wondered what little Bran was like now, four years old – surely he could talk and walk around on his own. He was probably still just as cute.
It was getting hard to remember their faces. She tried to cling on to bits of information that she knew about them, or parts of their features. Like Geralt's amber eyes, or Yennefer's striking black hair, or Jaskier's special lute. These things kept her sane, even though she knew she had been abandoned by these very people. She also wondered about Aspen. If Geralt had kept her or sold her off to make some coin. She hoped the mare was doing well, and getting spoiled with brushings and treats often.
She was brought back to reality when the door flew open and slammed against the wall hard. Cahir often opened doorways like that, and it seemed so obnoxious and dramatic to her. He grinned wickedly as his eyes raked over her in a disgusting way. The dress was low-cut, showing off her some-what impressive cleavage, and hugging the curves of her skinny body. A small crown sat on her light-blonde waves, encrusted with blue jewels that brought out the color of her eyes.
"The King is a lucky man," Cahir drawled, looking at her with a disgusting look in his eyes. She did not shy under the look, as it is one she had received from him countless times. He truly was a revolting man. "Let us go, Princess, the King awaits his new bride."
He looped his arm through hers, pulling her tight against her side and dragged her out of the room. They made their way down the long hallway, turning a few times and it was then that Ciri realized just how big the Nilfgaard fort really was. The halls were like a labyrinth from the old stories, and she wouldn't be able to find her way back if she'd tried.
It felt like an eternity that they wandered through the halls, passing not one person on their long journey. Cahir muttered on about how the King was going to rape her tonight, and impregnate her with sons, and once they were born, she would be slaughtered for her lineage. Of course, the idea of this terrified her, but after hearing about it so many times, she grew numb to it. She would find someway out. She had to.
They finally came into a long open atrium, lit brightly by torchlight and sunlight that came through the stained glass windows. Rows and rows of benches lined the stone floor, filled by knights and ladies, and different noble folk, whom all turned to stare as they approached. A large cross hung up on the podium at the front of the room, where a priest stood next to a tall man, dressed in fine black robes, with a golden crown sitting on his head.
Cahir had to almost drag her down between the rows of benches, as she felt her eyes grow wide as they approached the king. Her breathing was ragged, as she realized that this was really happening. Her control of her emotions was slipping, and while she still couldn't use or access her magic, she was very much trying not to have a full blown breakdown in the middle of the Nilfgaard crowd.
"Hold it together," Cahir snapped at her. "Or you will be whipped for your stupidity and for embarrassing his royal highness."
Drawing in another ragged breath, she continued to move her feet, as exhausted as her muscles were, up the steps towards the man who stood waiting for her. His face was worn, appearing to be in his early forties. Grey hair peaked under the crown, but there was something familiar to his brown eyes. She felt like she had seen him somewhere before…
Cahir pulled her hard up the next step, causing her to trip slightly on the long dress. As she went to regain her footing, a few things happened at once. A loud, deafening explosion ripped through the back wall, sending flame and rocks into the crowd of onlookers. Screams filled the atrium, echoing off of the stone. At the same time, an arrow shot through Cahir's head, exiting through his face as he fell to the ground, taking Ciri with him.
The man collapsed on top of her, his blood soaking through the back of her dress as she hit the stone stairs. Her ears were ringing from the blast, and she tilted her head upwards to look around. Cahir was dead, and unbelievably heavy on her back. With a tremendous amount of effort, she managed to shove him off and slid out from underneath him.
The King was no where to be seen, but the Priest was casting some sort of spells at the direction the explosion came from. Knights of Nilfgaard were pouring in from the hallways, only to get blasted back by some sort of vicious magic that caused them to all-but explode. Turning her head backwards, Ciri saw an army, with mages lining the front, taking on the stunned Nilgaardian army. Caught unawares, the Nilfgaards were falling rapidly, being cut down by swords and blasted to smithereens by the mages.
Dragging herself to her feet, Ciri swayed a bit as her sore and tender muscles carried her up the rest of the stairs, away from the commotion. She did not know who the attackers were, and they might kill her just as quickly as they had the Nilfgaards. The chaos was loud, and with her ringing ears, it was hard to focus on what was happening.
Blood and body parts littered the stone ground, and she was splattered with blood of different people as body's exploded around her and past her. Reaching down, she pulled a small sword of a young woman's torso, her legs no where to be seen, as she backed up against the wall. As Geralt had taught her, get something solid behind you, that way your enemy can only attack from the front. There is no risk of surprises.
Her eyes searched the battle field, but through all the dust and gore, it was so hard to make out what was happening. She couldn't see who any of the offenders were, nor could she even tell what race they were.
A large roar came from overhead, and Ciri felt her knees buckle in fear as the roof was ripped away, some collapsing into the middle of the room and crushing more lives. A golden dragon appeared in the opening, his toothed maw opening and spreading fire throughout the room. The blaze scorched the benches and people who tried to flee. The heat charring them and leaving nothing but ashes behind.
Ciri recoiled from the heat, trying to move back further into the castle, but it was hard with the amount of bodies now covering the ground and blocking her path. The body's and body-parts lit on fire from the dragon's inferno, severing her from escaping through one of the hallways.
She turned to move the other way, slowly stepping over limbs and torsos as she headed in the direction of the servants entrance. The lack of strength in her legs was agony, her muscles burning in protest at having been used more in the last hour than in the last four years. By the time she got to the doorway, she could move no more, and collapsed to the ground, breaths coming out in fast, raspy gasps. Her sword was the only thing that kept her remotely upright, as she had stabbed it between the stones and rested against it, her head pressed into the hilt.
The battle wore on around her, and she vaguely wondered if she was going to die here. She had no idea what was happening, and the idea bothered her that she could be killed in a random raid. Yet, it also brought her peace, knowing that if she died today, she would never have to marry the King or be forced into producing heirs. Yes, she could live with herself if she died here today.
The roar of the battle continued, though it started to slow. The dragon had moved on to other parts of the fortress, burning whatever it could. Thick black smoke filled the air and burned her lungs, reminding her of that fateful day in Lara's home, all those years ago. The Nilfgaards' army was slowly dissipating, being slaughtered at a rapid rate.
The screams came from everywhere, but Ciri's ears caught on to a common word that was being shouted in fear: "Witcher."
Her heart thrummed in her chest, suddenly alive and warm once again. Her head turned from where it still leaned on the hilt of the sword she had picked up, and looked over at where the battle raged on. A familiar silver sword, glinting in the firelight that burned around them, slashed and cut with precision and serious skill, slaughtering all those that approached. White hair flared out behind the attacker, a strong jaw tense with focus. The amber eyes scoured around, suddenly locking on hers with recognition.
Ciri let the sword fall to the ground, as her hands fell to her sides, where she kneeled on the ground. Geralt of Rivia was fighting his way towards her, his expression almost murderous as Nilfgaards interfered. Yet, with quick flicks of his sword, he disposed of the opposers, and in a matter of mere seconds, stood before Ciri. "Geralt…" her voice rasped out, hoarse from having not been used in so many months. Almost no sound had come out at all, but his sensitive ears still managed to pick up the words. His hand reached down towards her.
Starring at the large, familiar hand, stained with the blood of his enemies, Ciri felt her eyes widen. Her heart pounded in her chest. Geralt had come. He was here. He was going to save her. Looking back up at his golden eyes, she slid her slender hand into his, and allowed him to pull her to her feet. They starred at each other for a long moment, and Geralt brought his hand up to stroke the hair out of her face.
"Cirilla," he said, his familiar voice rumbling from his chest. Her heart pulsed hard in response to her name. He opened his mouth to say something more, when his face suddenly turned pale. Agony crossed his features, and his knees buckled. Ciri looked down in shock, as the tip of a silver sword stuck out from his chest. Her eyes dragged up, and saw the King standing behind Geralt, his sword having impaled the Witcher.
And just like that, Ciri's mind went black, as her powers took over.