Chapter Four
Warmth and comfort enveloped Geralt as his consciousness returned. He was laid out on a straw mattress with a fluffy down pillow under his head. For a moment, Geralt couldn't remember where he was and thought he was at some inn after a long night of drinking. Then his eyes lazily flicked open and next to his bed stood Endir, the sight of whom sent all of Geralt's memories rampaging back.
He made to jump up, to throttle the man who had caused so much pain and anguish. But Geralt's body didn't obey, didn't so much as move an inch. Panic flared within Geralt. Was he paralyzed? What was Endir planning to do with him?
But Endir, noticing that Geralt was awake, simply bade him sit up and then seated himself on a stump acting as a stool across from the bed. The strangest sensation crept over Geralt as his body sat up against his will and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his eyes focused on Endir. The blankets fell back with the motion, exposing Geralt's bare chest, and a chill crawled over his pale skin, though the tent was still moderately warm due to the small fire crackling in a stand off to the side.
"I'm glad you're finally awake," Endir started conversationally. "You've been asleep for over a day now. Though, from what I could tell, you needed the rest."
Geralt had been bandaged while he was asleep. His ribs were bound and various other cuts had been cleaned and taken care of, though they were still painful. He could feel the bandages in place, but he couldn't inspect them, couldn't do anything, and Geralt raged against his own docility. He felt like a caged animal, and thrashed and threw himself against the bars.
Not even a muscle twitched. Geralt couldn't bring himself to speak either, though it didn't seem as if Endir expected him to answer.
Leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees, Endir met Geralt's eyes. "I respect you, Geralt. As such, I feel I owe you an explanation. Call it a courtesy. I know it's not really necessary, considering," Endir gestured to Geralt's still form and then gave a half chuckle. "You know, Nelan thinks I've taken too much of a liking to you. I think he's wary of you after what happened the other night. I, on the other hand, know just how useful you are going to be to our mission. Though, admittedly, I've never met a witcher before and I find myself fascinated by what you can do. You've had quite the exciting life—monsters and women and plots. I've seen into many men's lives and yours is by far the most interesting. With your skill and abilities, we may just win this war against the White Frost."
At first, Geralt seethed against Endir's intrusion into his memories, but then dread chilled him to the bone at the thought that Endir would have seen Ciri as well. It soon became apparent, however, that Endir either hadn't seen Ciri, or hadn't marked her significance. If he had, he surely wouldn't be acting as calmly as he was now, not if he had discovered the identity of the only one supposedly capable of stopping the White Frost.
Sensing that he was digressing, Endir brought his monologue back around to the original point. "Look, I know you oppose me and that may never change. But you are here now. You may not agree with me, but at least you can understand the reasons for my actions."
Geralt scoffed internally. Not likely, he thought.
"I wasn't always this way, you know." Demonstratively, Endir displayed his lack of hands. "My father was a hunter. He and my mother and my younger sister and I all lived happily in our remote cottage up in the mountains far to the east. We grew up mostly isolated from the world; my mother had her little garden and my father brought us game to use for meat, pelts, and tools." A sad smile stretched across Endir's face. "I would play with my sister while our parents were busy and then we would all gather around the fire at night to tell stories."
The smile faded and a deep sadness welled in Endir's eyes. "Then, when I was maybe eight, a particularly harsh winter had us snowed in for weeks. We were trapped in our house, the doors and windows frozen shut with snow banked up almost to the roof. It was late in the winter and our stores were already running thin. But we couldn't go out to find food and could only get water by melting whatever snow blew down our chimney.
"Things were bleak and my sister, she was so little…" Tears pooled in Endir's eyes and his throat caught on his words. "My sister, she… she didn't make it. We had run out of food by this time and the snows wouldn't cease, so we…we did what we had to," he added ashamedly.
Horror settled within Geralt and, despite himself, he felt a twinge of pity for the man.
Endir broke eye contact with Geralt, ducking his head and staring at his lap. "My mother, she couldn't live with what we had done. She took her own life a few days later." Geralt could see tears falling from Endir's hidden face. "But still the snow wouldn't stop. A week later, we had nothing left. My father tried to be optimistic, but he knew—we both knew—we were going to die." Heaving a sigh, Endir looked back to Geralt. "So he took out his knife." Endir grabbed the hilt of the knife at his hip with both stumps and unsheathed it, holding it aloft for a moment before laying the blade across his legs. "He told me not to be afraid, to do whatever was necessary to survive." His voice grew quiet. "Then he told me he loved me and he slit his own throat."
There was a long pause. Geralt couldn't believe what Endir was telling him. It was no wonder the man had gone mad.
Endir finally found his voice again, though his eyes had misted over. "The snow stopped that day. And I… I… survived another week while I waited for it to melt enough for me to get out. Still, I had to claw my way out of the cabin and struggle through the snow for a day and a night to reach the nearest settlement." A self-effacing huff cleared Endir's throat and he motioned to his many deformities. "As you can see, not all of me made it through the ordeal.
"I couldn't see then, but I was lucky just to be alive. Many perished that winter. A great sadness swept over the town when the bodies were accounted for, the cries of the mourning tolling through the streets. The White Frost had ravaged our sliver of the world. Of course, I was too young to understand that at the time.
"Left orphaned and crippled, you can imagine how hard life was for me after that. Rage and bitterness filled my heart. I stumbled through life, begging and stealing and cheating, doing whatever I had to just to stay alive. But then, maybe a year later, I noticed something strange. I could control those around me to do what I wanted. At first, I didn't think anything of it, that people were just being nice to the poor cripple and doing as I asked. But that had never been the case before and I started to realize that it was more than that. I pushed the boundaries of what I could get people to do, testing the thoroughness of my control. After honing my skill over the years, I found that control to be absolute.
"In testing my skills, I also figured out that I could control the minds of those around me to a lesser degree, even if I had not invaded their minds and taken over completely. I could make them see things, convince them that things were different than what they actually were, as long as the illusion wasn't too improbable. Mostly, I used this gift to disguise myself, to make myself whole in the eyes of others. That alone was enough to improve my lot in life considerably. Here," Endir motioned around himself, "I have no need of such trickery. Here, I don't have to be ashamed of who I am. Many have flocked to my cause for similar reasons. One of them was Nelan Lund. In fact, he was the first to join me.
"It all started a few years back when, one day, I came across him, begging on the streets. I immediately recognized the cause of his deformities and, for the first time in a long while, I felt pity for someone other than myself. Here was a man who, like me, had been cast out. Only, he had no powers of control to make his life easier. Through our shared tragedies, we took to each other instantly, brothers in our misery.
"That day, it hit me. There were others out there who had been through what I had, that had survived the White Frost, reaching out its icy claw to smite whatever it could, retreating only briefly before striking again, biding its time until its true coming. Nelan and I had both survived, but there were scores more that hadn't and there would be thousands, millions more that wouldn't if it weren't stopped." A veiny stump wandered over the knife in Endir's lap. "I didn't see it at the time, but my father had already shown me how to defeat the White Frost, stave it off at least."
"So I started my work," Endir explained passionately. "I knew there would be opposition, that many would not share in my conclusions. That's why we hide ourselves. Not because we are ashamed of what we have done, but because others would condemn us. And our mission is far too important to be stopped. Our methods may seem harsh, but we are simply doing what is necessary for our world to survive."
Endir resheathed his knife with some difficulty. Then, standing, Endir ambled a few steps, Geralt obediently following him with his eyes. Endir spoke quietly, almost to himself. "I wish desperately that it were not so. But this task has fallen to me and I will see it done, no matter who stands in my way." Looking up as if suddenly remembering that Geralt was still there, Endir strode to the entrance of the tent, pausing at the threshold and speaking over his shoulder. "I know you don't wish to be here, Geralt, but we must all play our part. And I think you'll find that life here is not so bad. You'll have food, shelter, and not a care in the world." Endir turned his head to meet Geralt's gaze. "You're going to be here a while. I hope you can learn to enjoy it."
Geralt was internally screaming at Endir as he exited the tent, wishing he could chase after him and end him and his cult. He didn't care what Endir said, nothing justified what he was doing. The worst part was that Endir actually believed he was keeping the White Frost at bay with his blood sacrifices. Someone as devout as Endir was in their beliefs would stop at nothing to achieve their end goal. And that put Ciri at immeasurable risk. With Geralt so close at hand, Endir need only glimpse into Geralt's mind to find the information he so desperately sought. Plus there was the fact that Ciri was likely to try to rescue Geralt. She was too much like him for her own good. For once Geralt was grateful that this camp was well hidden, he doubted anyone could have followed their tracks. As much as he had taught Ciri about tracking, she would never have the finely tuned senses that Geralt possessed as a witcher.
There was nothing Geralt could do, to stop Endir, to protect Ciri. And that scared him more than anything.
Geralt had been in many prisons throughout his life, but he had never felt so trapped.
Life continued on for Geralt, despite his inward raging. His body would eat when hungry and drink when thirsty. He would sleep after a long day of chopping wood or standing watch and warm himself by the fire when his body grew too cold. It was a dismal imitation of life and the helplessness it instilled in Geralt set his teeth on edge.
He fought uselessly against every step his body took. But he couldn't so much as slow himself down.
After a week of fruitless battling, Geralt was exhausted and demoralized. He didn't see any way out, so he gave up trying. There was no point in wasting his energy.
Though he had given up on controlling himself, Geralt wasn't quite ready yet to give up completely. He turned his attentions outward, focusing on gleaning anything he could from the cultists.
One of the first things he noticed was that the camp was surprisingly quiet for one so large. The reason why came as a shock to Geralt, though he didn't know why he hadn't seen it before. When he caught glimpses of those around campfires or walking past, Geralt recognized the same passivity he felt in himself. These men were enslaved just as Geralt was.
A bit of panic rose into Geralt's throat at the thought that those men had been enslaved much longer than Geralt himself. Endir had said he had started his crusade years ago. Could some of them have been his prisoners that long? Geralt didn't think it likely. Most had probably been killed and replaced in the raids. Nevertheless, there may have been a handful that had been trapped for months. Or more. Was he to become the next in that count? It wasn't bragging to say his skill was substantial. It was unlikely he would fall in a raid against simple townspeople. If he couldn't find a way to break free, he would become one of Endir's long-standing minions, just one in a sea of nameless thralls. And judging by the vast number of them, they made up the majority of Endir's forces, with only about a third of his men being true believers in the cause.
Geralt couldn't necessarily fault those men for wanting to join up. True to Endir's word, they were all fed and housed and comfortable, with those whose minds were free finding a fierce companionship amongst themselves. Most of them had probably been beggars and widowers and outcasts, those who were searching for something more because they had lost everything. Endir had given them a home. He had given them a purpose. A heavily misguided purpose, but a purpose nonetheless. Geralt didn't think any of them were inherently bad people and, had their lives gone a little differently, they probably would have remained normal members of society. But Endir's delusion had turned them into thugs and murderers. Geralt would have pitied them for throwing their lives away were they not taking so many in return. In the end, they had made their choice, and they would pay for it before too long.
The larger contingent of the encampment, the enslaved, was largely ignored. Not out of disdain, but simply for the fact that they didn't engage in anything but tasks relating to keeping the camp running and raiding the settlements. Geralt would sit at a fire at night and watch as the others talked and laughed and played Gwent, blissfully unaware of the torment those next to them were experiencing. He didn't think they knew either, that the consciousnesses of those whose minds Endir had captured were bubbling just beneath the surface, like a river running swiftly beneath a thick layer of ice.
Lund seemed to know. In fact, he seemed not to trust Geralt. Geralt would always catch him out of the corner of his eye, lurking around every corner. Endir had said that Geralt not immediately succumbing to his control had shaken Lund. More and more, Geralt concurred. Where once Lund had fought so desperately to get Geralt back to the base camp, now he seemed almost to regret it. Lund was in charge of organizing the raids, but he kept holding Geralt back. When Endir would ask, Lund would say that Geralt had not yet healed and he didn't want him out there injured. But Geralt, though admittedly still injured, knew it was a lie. Lund was afraid of him, of the potential threat he posed. Even though Geralt couldn't so much as blink of his own volition.
Eventually, a few weeks after Geralt had been captured and his injuries were more or less healed, Lund had no more excuses and was forced to put Geralt out in the field. They set out on a dreary day, Endir palpably excited to see how his new weapon would perform. The caravan headed southwest, a different direction from which Geralt had first approached the main camp. They weren't stupid enough to go back to the site Geralt and Zoltan had found. As before, three sledges, though much less burdened this time, led the way while perhaps sixty men followed along behind. Lund, mounted as usual, stayed close to Geralt for the entirety of the journey, only leaving his side to check down the line occasionally.
They arrived at their new campsite by early evening and efficiently set up the tents. Once they had settled in for the night, Lund approached Geralt, bearing his swords. He even had the sheath that once held Geralt's knife, though Ciri had taken the blade itself with her when she had escaped. In its place was a new knife, not as good of quality as the one Geralt had had before, but it was still of decent make and freshly sharpened.
A bit reluctantly, Lund handed the weaponry over. His words were curt, but not overtly hostile. "Endir wanted you to be fully armed."
Geralt took the weapons and wordlessly strapped them on.
"You're with me tomorrow. Your only job is to protect us while we take what we need and get out." Lund searched Geralt's eyes. "I hope Endir was right about you."
Without waiting for a reply, Lund strode off, and Geralt returned himself to the circle of men gathering around the fire.
It had been weeks now since Geralt had been taken. Ciri wanted to believe that he was alive, she felt in her heart that he was. But all of the evidence pointed to the contrary and Ciri didn't know if it was easier to keep convincing herself that there was still hope or just to let herself accept that he was never coming back. Each day passed in a haze of guilt and sorrow, and dreams of wolves circling in the shadows plagued her sleep.
Ciri berated herself for moping like a child. She needed something to take her mind off of everything, and she knew just the thing.
The bandits were still attacking regularly and the Guard was hard-pressed to keep up. They needed her, they needed any help they could get. So she volunteered for every watch she could, although her confidence had been shaken and she never went out on her own. She didn't know if her decision to act as a sole guard to that small village had been a mistake or not, but she certainly wasn't going to do it again. Not after what had happened.
Ciri worked every hour that she could, turning her sorrow into anger, determination, not giving herself any time to rest. More importantly, not giving herself any time to think. She would sink into her bed at night so exhausted that her mind shut off completely—no dreams, no nightmares. It was the only way she could keep going.
She wasn't going to stop. Not until they found the bandits. Not until they found Geralt. Or what became of him.
Until then, she wouldn't give up hope, not if there was even an ounce of it left. For Geralt's sake and for her own. For if Geralt died because of her, then what did that make her? No better than a murderer, a patricide. She couldn't face that reality.
Geralt had to be alive. He had to.
It was late in the evening when they reached the settlement, a fairly large town far southeast of Novigrad. The snows had just begun to fall when Geralt could sense it in the distance, all the sounds and smells of nearby habitation. The group consisted of about twenty men, including Geralt and Lund. The remaining number had split into four other groups of various sizes depending on the settlements they were to attack.
Their approach was quiet, no war cries were uttered as they slinked from the trees, a few of their number skirting around the edge of the town to set a fire on the far side. It would draw attention and manpower away from the main force of cultists.
They were nearly to the edge of the buildings and hadn't met any kind of opposition, and Geralt thought maybe this town hadn't been lucky enough to receive the Guard's protection. But just as they filed into the narrow streets, a call rang out and arrows rained down from above.
Two archers were stationed on the rooftops above. One cultist was hit in the shoulder. He clutched at his wound and staggered backward. The second arrow narrowly missed Lund, who retaliated with a knife thrown into the chest of his attacker. Geralt felt himself raising his arm, aiming a torrent of Igni at the last archer. He watched it soar into the man, watched it ripple across his arms and face as the man flailed in agony and fell.
Turning from the blaze, Geralt looked ahead. His body was ready for the coming fight, every muscle and sense alert, every movement balanced. He drew his sword and charged into the town, seeking out his next victim.
There was no one in that town who posed a threat to Geralt, his sword slicing through them like a scythe through wheat. The residents that raised arms against him were cut down before they could even strike. The Guardsmen fared better, but still were nothing compared to Geralt's proficiency.
His blade was bloodied with the lives of the innocent. And there was nothing Geralt wished more than to look away from the horror he unleashed.
The attack was short-lived, skillful as Geralt was at stopping any resistance. Most of the cultists had cleared out, Lund had ridden past just a second ago carrying a squirming prisoner on the back of his horse. Geralt, set to defend their retreat, waited a moment longer, then turned to leave as well.
An all too familiar voice called out to him and his feet planted in the reddening snow.
"Geralt?" a lilting voice asked softly, incredulous.
He swiveled slowly to source the inquisitor, but Geralt already knew what he would find. His eyes met Ciri's and dread clutched his heart.
No! How could this be happening? How could she be here?
Tears rolled down Ciri's cheeks as she ran up to him, relief and joy distinct on her face.
"How are you here? How did you esc—?"
Geralt cut her off with a well-aimed slice of his sword. Ciri dodged at the last second, taking only a minor wound to her arm and bringing her own sword up reflexively.
Thank the gods Ciri had good reflexes. And that he had taught her well.
Something akin to betrayal flickered in Ciri's eyes as Geralt advanced, looming menacingly over her. "Geralt! What are you doing? What's wrong with you?"
Without answering, he closed with her and commenced his attack. She parried Geralt's blows, but Geralt knew it was only a matter of time before he would win out. He had taught Ciri well, yes, but she would never have the abilities that a witcher did. She would never be as strong and fast and enduring, she just couldn't.
He had never been so terrified of his own ability.
Frantically, Geralt fought his every stroke, his every step. His heart was pounding, his struggle dire. He threw everything he had into trying to control himself before he did something he could never come back from.
"Geralt, stop! It's me!" Ciri bade as their blades struck over and over again.
There was fear in Ciri's eyes, true fear. And it was directed at Geralt. The sight brought bile to his throat, but urged him on even more. He pounded against the walls of his cage, arms flayed to the bone with the vehemence of his protests.
Then, after a particularly vicious attack from Geralt, Ciri lost her footing and stumbled. She recovered quickly, but Geralt's next thrust was fast as lightning, pointing directly at her heart.
In that moment, nothing mattered but stopping himself. Geralt poured every last ounce of energy into halting his strike, gaining control over his own body to save his daughter. With one last assault, the walls of his cage shattered around him and he fell forward into his own body, the killing stroke frozen a foot from its target.
Every muscle in Geralt's body shook with the effort of keeping himself in control. He couldn't even raise his eyes to look Ciri in the eye for fear that he would divert too much focus on that task and lose control elsewhere.
Ciri was breathless and confused. She didn't seem to know what to make of the current situation. She steadied herself, sword still at the ready, but dropped it a fraction when she realized Geralt wasn't advancing anymore. She took a cautious step toward Geralt, reaching forth, probing, "Geralt?"
"No!" Geralt hissed between his teeth. His words were halting, each one taking a monumental amount of focus and effort. "Stay back. He's…controlling…me."
Concern saturated Ciri's voice as she withdrew the hand she had extended. "Who? Who is?"
"Endir. He leads…the cult. They're trying to stop…the White Frost. They think…sacrificing people will…keep it at bay." He had to convince her that her life was in danger with these men. She knew as well as he did her relation to Ithlinne's Prophecy and the White Frost. If they found out who she was, nowhere would be safe for her. "You have to…stay away."
Geralt's hand was shaking violently now, the sword inching slowly forward. Emitting a guttural cry, Geralt pried his fingers from the hilt and the blade fell to the ground.
Horror flashed across Ciri's face as she watched Geralt struggle with himself. "No. I'm not going to leave you with them. I'm going to get you out of here." She reached forward again to grab Geralt's arm.
Before Geralt could stop himself, he reached down to his hip and grasped the hilt of his new knife, drawing it and slicing outward in one motion. Geralt managed to pull the blow at the last second, keeping Ciri from harm as she leapt back.
Spit was flying from between Geralt's teeth. He didn't know how much longer he could hold out. And then, from behind him he heard distant hooves running toward him. It had to be Lund. Coming to see what had become of Endir's prize.
"Run," Geralt bade Ciri fearfully.
Determination set Ciri's brow. "No. No, Geralt, I'm not leaving you again."
"You can't…let them…find you. Go," Geralt pleaded, desperate for her to obey.
Ciri was refusing to move and Geralt was losing control. Lund would show up any minute and probably take Geralt away, but Geralt couldn't risk fighting Ciri again before he did. He had to make sure he wouldn't be able to hurt her.
With a concentrated effort, Geralt raised his knife, Ciri backing away slightly in alarm. He set his gaze beaming toward Ciri's. "Run!" he bellowed at her. Then plunged the knife deep into his own thigh.
Ciri didn't know what was happening. At first, she had been elated to see Geralt, alive and well. It was like some miracle. After all that time, there he was right in front of her, unharmed and free. She was so blinded by the relief and joy that she didn't notice the emptiness in his eyes, the menace in his stance. She didn't care to question how he had come to be there or why. All that mattered was that he was alive.
Then he swung at her, and she was so taken aback that all she could do was defend against his onslaught. It wasn't Geralt. Geralt would never hurt her. Never.
But it was all happening so fast, she didn't know what to think, she didn't know what to do. She felt herself losing ground and fear gripped her. Deep inside she knew it wasn't him, but her body couldn't help but feel betrayed by the one she called father. He was going to kill her and there was little she could do to stop it.
Her distraction almost cost Ciri her life. Her boot met a patch of ice and she lost her footing for a split second. Skilled as Geralt was, that was more than enough time. His sword plunged straight for her heart.
She watched the blade race toward her, knowing it would be her undoing.
Yet, somehow, the sword stopped mid-strike. Tremors racked Geralt's body and he spoke as if he was in great pain. Ciri couldn't believe what he was saying. A cult? If they were vying to end the White Frost, then they must not yet know who she was. Geralt had hidden her identity from them, was striving to keep it that way.
But she couldn't just abandon him. Not again. Not when he was so close.
She tried to reach out to him, but he rebuked her, slashing at her again before mastering himself. She honestly didn't know what to do. There was no one around to help her, they had all gone to attend to the wounded and the fire. Geralt told her to run, but she found herself rooted to the spot.
Then a great cry erupted from his lips and he reared his knife. Despite herself, Ciri flinched backward, fearing, fearing, Geralt's next blow. But his roar of determination turned into one of great anguish when he skewered his own leg and Ciri realized what he was doing. He was crippling himself so that she could get away.
The world froze for a moment as she watched his act of self-mutilation and her heart sprung out at the pain he clearly felt. He collapsed to one knee, blood pouring down his leg and melting the snow beneath him. His head was bowed so Ciri could only imagine the suffering contorting his face. His cries of agony gave her enough of a clue. Suddenly, his tormented cries morphed into heaving grunts. He remained where he was, his breathing returning to a more normal pattern, giant plumes of fog spewing from his mouth with every laborious breath, like some kind of frost dragon.
Carefully, Ciri advanced a step toward Geralt. She wasn't just going to let him bleed to death. She had to help him. "Geralt?" she breathed. He didn't move, so she took another step, and another, her hand extending.
Just before her hand met his shoulder, his leapt up to grab her wrist, his head snapping up to greet her. By the blackness in his eyes, Ciri knew it wasn't Geralt anymore, and by the tightness of his grasp, she knew he wasn't afraid to hurt her. She struggled against him, but she couldn't bring herself to injure him and he was too strong for her to break free. Geralt made to rise, but stumbled when his leg didn't function as he had expected.
Seeing her chance, Ciri wrenched her arm free in his distraction and trotted backwards a few yards, sword up and ready. It was a good thing too. Geralt, as if suddenly noticing the knife protruding from his leg and its hindrance to his goal, yanked the blade free and, now armed, hurled it toward Ciri. Reflexes as swift as a cat saved Ciri as she deflected the knife with her sword.
Just as she was contemplating what to do next, Ciri heard them—hoofbeats—coming up fast. Shortly thereafter, she could just make out the outline of a rider through the gathering darkness. Whoever it was would be upon them within a minute.
How had everything gone so wrong? Geralt was there, in Ciri's grasp, yet he had never been so far away. She couldn't defeat him. And if that rider were coming to help Geralt, then there was no hope of defeating the both of them. Nor could she follow them back to their camp as she had before. It hadn't worked out the first time and she saw no reason why she should fare any better a second time around. If only there were someone from the Guard nearby, she would call for help. As it was, by the time anyone would arrive, Geralt would be long gone or Ciri herself would be taken prisoner.
She was loath to admit it, but there was nothing she could do. Her body seemed to accept it before her mind did and started retreating further into the town. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she chanted, tears crowding her eyes as she backed away.
Geralt took a fumbling step toward her, refusing to let his quarry get away even as blood spurted from his wound with each footfall. Ciri told herself it was the fact that Geralt may very well kill himself if she didn't remove herself from his sight that had her turning to leave. In truth, it was the lifeless malice in Geralt's eyes that jolted her into running.
Ciri ran and didn't look back. Only when she had gone a hundred yards and was about to turn a corner did Ciri steal a glance behind her.
Geralt and the rider had vanished, and along with them, a fractured piece of Ciri's heart.
Geralt spun in and out of consciousness after Lund had hoisted him onto his horse and ridden away. Blood seeped from Geralt's wound, streaming down his leg and onto the horse's flank where it dripped steadily to the ground. Lund had done his best to bind it, but it would take more than a thin piece of cloth to close up the gash. They met no one else on the way to the campsite. Lund must have doubled back to find Geralt, sending the others on ahead of him.
Because he wasn't fully conscious, the trip seemed abnormally short to Geralt. After what seemed only an hour or two, they were riding into the forward camp. The others were busy trussing prisoners or securing stolen supplies. A few of them detached from their current preoccupations, however, when Lund reined in his steed. They shuffled over to him and Geralt, one taking charge of Lund's horse and two others pulling Geralt down from the saddle as Lund dismounted himself.
By this time, Geralt was barely aware of anything going on around him. He could feel himself fading. Despite Lund's haste, Geralt had lost a lot of blood. Geralt only caught a few lines of what Lund was saying before he succumbed to his injury, but he was coherent enough to note the fire in Lund's tone.
"Patch him up. I'm taking him back to Endir at dawn."
It wasn't until late the next day that Geralt tenuously regained consciousness. Still woozy and weak from the blood loss, it took a moment for him to realize where he was. He was mounted on Lund's horse, legs bound to either side of the saddle and hands tied to the horn. Geralt wasn't entirely sure the bindings were there simply to keep him in place. Not that it mattered either way. Geralt had no more control over his movements than he did when he had attacked all those innocent people.
His body looked up nonetheless and Geralt saw that Lund was on foot, leading the horse, doggedly ploughing through tight drifts of snow. And there, just through the trees, was the main camp, not five minutes away.
No one else was with them. It seemed that Lund had gone on ahead of them. That certainly didn't bode well. Geralt wasn't sure if Lund had seen Ciri or not, but he wasn't a stupid man. If he had seen her, then he would know there was something between Geralt and Ciri. Lund may not have realized that Geralt had come to save Ciri before, but he was sure not to miss the connection a second time. Not if he saw what Geralt had done to keep himself from hurting Ciri. The fact that they were now hastening toward Endir ahead of everyone else all but confirmed that Lund suspected something. Geralt just wasn't sure what would become of it. Or if Ciri's anonymity were about to become compromised.
Lund led them through the camp with barely a greeting to anyone except the few men stationed by Endir's tent when they finally stopped atop the rock outcropping. Lund exchanged a few words with the men, dispatching one to fetch Endir, and sending the others to join Lund back at his horse, Geralt still bound astride it.
It only took a few seconds for Endir to emerge, confusion at Lund's sudden arrival strewn across his face.
"What's happened? Is everything alright?" Endir approached their group casting a questioning glance over them.
Lund met Endir before he got too close. His words were tense and rushed, like he had barely been containing himself the whole trip back and simply couldn't hold back any longer. "I don't know how he's done it, but he's broken your control."
So he had seen. This was not good. Geralt knew something bad was going to happen, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Struggle as he may, Geralt sat stoically atop the horse, obediently awaiting his fate. Not that he put up much of a fight. His mind was still hazy and his body barely recovered from his self-inflicted wound.
Endir was skeptical at the news. "That's impossible," he said without conviction, eyes roaming over Geralt as if considering the possibility.
A warning crept into Lund's voice, tinted with a hint of fear. "I know it is, but he's done it."
"How?"
"It was that girl."
Geralt's heart stopped at Lund's words. He had seen her. He knew about Ciri.
"Girl? What girl?" Endir seemed lost. He had never known about any girl, only that Geralt had set several prisoners free.
"We had taken a girl that night, that raid before he found us," Lund explained, tipping his head at Geralt. "She was one of the prisoners that escaped. I never realized he had come for her specifically, but now I'm sure of it. I saw her again last night. Geralt let her go. He should have killed her, but he didn't. Instead he stabbed himself and let her get away. I find these circumstances too compelling to be merely chance that it was the same girl."
There was a look of intense contemplation on Endir's face as he listened to Lund's account, like he were trying to piece together some mystery that just wouldn't coalesce. "I agree," he answered, still focused on Geralt. Then his tone shifted from contemplation to curiosity. "Let's find out just who this girl is to inspire such defiance."
Endir resumed his approach, Lund moving up with him. At a beckoning gesture, the guards around Geralt cut him loose and dragged him from the saddle, though Geralt mounted no struggle against them. As soon as his feet met the ground, his injured leg collapsed beneath him, leaving him on one knee before Endir. The guards seemed content to leave him there, each keeping a hand on either shoulder.
A familiar presence entered Geralt's mind and he put everything he had into shutting it out. He tried to keep Endir at bay, but his resistance was futile. Like they had before, more memories relived themselves in Geralt's mind. Geralt desperately fought to think of anything but Ciri, to try to conceal her identity. If Endir found out about her, he would let nothing stand in his way of finding her. But Geralt could hardly organize his own thoughts let alone turn aside those of another, especially of one who had already wrested control from Geralt. Traitorously, every memory of Ciri sprung to the forefront of Geralt's mind; everything from when he had first taken her in to the moment he realized who she was, what Ithlinne's Prophecy foretold her to be. At that, the presence violently vacated Geralt's mind, heaving itself backward, leaving Geralt breathless on his knees and a look of disbelieving shock on Endir's face.
"It cannot be," Endir whispered.
"What? What is it?" Lund was clearly concerned for Endir, he couldn't have known what had transpired.
"That girl, she is the one. The one that can end all of this." There was hope now and triumph in Endir's bearing.
Inside, Geralt was screaming, at himself, at Endir. How could he have let this happen? He raged against himself. He had to kill Endir. He had to kill him before he could hurt Ciri. He tried to muster that feeling of control he had exhibited before, tried to find that place within him that had granted him the will to resist Endir's influence. But he couldn't summon it, he was thoroughly spent in both mind and body. The only thing he managed was a twitch of his finger, which went unnoticed.
"That girl is the one foretold to end the White Frost?" Lund asked in amazement. Suddenly he looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Endir. I didn't know. I—"
Endir held up a stumped arm to cut Lund off, his voice understanding. "Do not trouble yourself, Nelan. No one could have known." He looked back to Geralt, his fervor growing. "But it seems that fate has sent us a gift. Here we have within our ranks a man who not only knows the identity of the prophesied one, but is the perfect man to bring her to us. Our struggle is nearly at an end."
All trace of apology faded from Lund's face and he stepped in front of Endir, challenging. "We can't trust him! If he's broken your control once, he can do it again. No doubt you already know where this girl is from his memories. We have no more need of Geralt. We have to get rid of him, he's too much of a liability."
Endir was not affronted by the challenge, rather he seemed to respect Lund's opinion, though he didn't heed it. "He's our best shot at capturing the girl," he countered. "We can't afford to lose him."
"Send our forces. Let them take the girl," Lund argued, throwing his arms out in emphasis.
"No. She lives in Novigrad. It's too risky to launch a frontal assault. We are not equipped for a siege, we would never make it through the gates. Our only choice is to send him in alone. He's more than capable of getting her out of there and he wouldn't draw attention entering the city alone."
"Endir, this is too much of a gamble. What if he breaks free again? What if he takes her somewhere out of our reach?"
Endir set his gaze on Geralt once more, a fierce determination lighting his eyes. "He won't." At a cue from Endir, Lund stepped back, recognizing that the discussion was over. Endir took Lund's place in front of Geralt. "I'm sorry, Geralt. I didn't want to have to do this, not to such a gifted warrior. You deserve better. But twice now, you have thwarted our mission to end the White Frost in freeing this Ciri, and while I can't hold that against you, I cannot abide a third." There seemed a great sorrow in Endir's eyes, but it was tempered by a determined fire that burned past all other desires. "I will do what must be done."
Before Geralt could prepare himself, Endir launched an assault on Geralt's mind, though this time it was much wilder, much more eager. His lucidity still questionable, Geralt found it hard to put up any kind of opposition. He barely had a foothold within his mind as it was and now Endir was working to clear away any remaining trace of Geralt's being. Endir's incursion blasted through Geralt's mind, wiping out everything in its wake. Geralt could do nothing but retreat before it, deeper and deeper within, holding on to whatever piece of himself there was left.
But Endir was a tidal wave over an insignificant ship; capsizing it, sinking it, flooding every compartment until there was nothing left but murky water. There was nowhere for Geralt to hide. When the wave finally broke over him, Geralt drowned in its relentless resolve.
Memories faded and the world dimmed, all sense of being receding further and further away.
He felt nothing. He was nothing. Nothing but emptiness drifting in the dark.
