Chapter Seven

Darkness was the only thing Geralt knew, an infinite, soundless nothing that encased him in its totality.

But, out of the seemingly impenetrable darkness, came something. Something that roused Geralt's being. It flitted in and out of Geralt's perception, as if it were a dim light blinking in the distance. Like a newborn calf searching for its mother's teat, he reached for it without really understanding why. All he could do was extend himself toward it, toward what he soon came to realize was a sound.

The further he went, the more he understood, about himself, about his surroundings, about the sound that was guiding him.

He was Geralt. He was a witcher. But where was he? Why couldn't he see or feel anything? Why was there only one sound in this world of shadow?

As he became more and more self-aware, his progress toward the sound became more difficult. He was wading, waist-deep, through thick mud, every step taking more effort than it rewarded him in headway. Part of him questioned why he was doing this, why he was fighting an uphill battle. Was he not perfectly content where he was now? It seemed peaceful enough. But there was still that nagging itch in his mind that kept him going, told him that he needed to reach that sound. So he forged ahead.

The more he advanced, the more dire Geralt's need to find that sound became. It seemed familiar to him, though he couldn't quite place it. Like a word that was on the tip of his tongue, it dangled just out of his comprehension.

Then, all of a sudden, Geralt recognized what he now understood was a voice, calling out to him.

It was Ciri.

Everything came flooding back. All of Geralt's memories issued forth, ending with Endir overcoming Geralt's mind and banishing him to the endless void.

Desperately Geralt fought now to return himself to the world, to Ciri. She had to be in trouble. Gods, he hoped it wasn't too late already.

Vaguely, he could feel his arms describing familiar motions, repeating them over and over. The sensation was too faint to recognize the action, but somehow he knew it meant danger for Ciri and he redoubled his efforts to reach her, his heart in his throat just thinking about what might be happening.

After what seemed an eternity, a light filtered into the emptiness surrounding Geralt, diffusing around him. Sounds grew along with it—swords clashing and wind gusting, shouts of pain and misery. Cutting through it all was Ciri, pleading with him, begging him to return. The desperation in her voice lent him some remaining strength he didn't know he possessed and he threw it all into a final burst toward her.

The light bloomed into a scene of death and destruction, the dead and wounded strewn everywhere about Endir's camp, a raging blizzard obscuring everything more than twenty feet away.

Geralt's gaze didn't linger on his surroundings though. He could feel a lump beneath his left foot, could feel himself reversing his grip on the sword in his hand. And then he was plummeting down toward Ciri, ready to stab her through the heart.

Nothing but emotion and instinct drove him, the rest of the world draining away.

He couldn't kill Ciri.

That one thought became the sole focus of his being until killing Ciri turned into such an impossible reality that his body refused to let it happen.

"NOOOOOOOO!" His internal roar turned outward as Geralt fought his way back to himself. He was screaming the word at Ciri when he turned the blade at the last possible second, shearing a hole through her coat and nicking the side of her chest. The sword sunk deep into the snow beside Ciri and Geralt came to a rest on one knee with head bowed, his left foot still on Ciri's wrist.

"Geralt." There was joy and relief and pain intertwining in Ciri's voice, so many more emotions than Geralt thought possible from uttering a single name. Most of all, though, he could hear her concern. Not for herself, but for him.

And then, when he had finally returned fully to his body, agony struck. Blood was streaming from his nose and ears. His whole body shook violently, so much so that he feared he would slice further into Ciri if he couldn't control himself. Beyond that, beyond the cuts and bruises showering his body, was a fire exploding in his head, pressing excruciatingly outward in every direction. He felt as if his brain were melting in the blistering fires of a forge, every breath a hammer to his skull. Both of his clammy hands clawed onto the pommel of his sword, clenching and unclenching with each tremble that tore through him. He gasped and moaned as he remained where he was, frozen with the effort of staying in control.

Geralt's panicked brain only grasped one thing besides the pain—he had almost killed her. He had almost killed Ciri. And if he lost control again, he would. There was only one thing left, only one way to ensure that didn't happen.

"Kill…me." He could barely stutter the words out past his grinding teeth.

"No." Ciri responded readily, her voice cracking. "No, I won't. I can't," she added with almost an apologetic tint to her voice.

Geralt panted through his clenched jaw, summoning the strength to speak again. "Please," he begged hurriedly before another wave of pain silenced him. He couldn't do it himself, otherwise he would in a heartbeat. But if he moved, he doubted he could point his sword anywhere but toward Ciri.

An enraged snarl clipped any response Ciri might have had, coming from somewhere above Geralt and to his right. It was Endir, livid that Geralt had once again trounced his control and upset his plans to destroy the White Frost.

"Nooo!" he snarled at them.

And then Geralt could feel Endir taking hold once more, his limbs shifting without his consent. "Ciri!" Geralt inhaled in warning just before he was shut out.

His notice gave Ciri just enough time to scuttle out from underneath him before he set upon her. She limped backward and Geralt could see now that she was injured, blood spurting from her leg every time she took a step, her hand mangled and oozing, the pain at her various injuries apparent on her face. Unbidden, Geralt skulked after her, Endir's presence now a parasite at the back of Geralt's mind. It seemed he had taken control directly.

Geralt swung his blade heavily at Ciri, a blow that would have disemboweled her had she not hopped backwards in time. She groaned as her maimed leg took her full weight.

Geralt fought the presence within him, striving to drive it back, to hinder his own murderous rain of blows. With each step toward Ciri, Geralt threw more and more of himself into his struggle and, as he did so, the pressure mounting inside his head expanded exponentially. He howled in unheard agony, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

Blood steadily spilled from Geralt's nose and ears. Adding to it were crimson tears leaking down Geralt's face, his eyes so bloodshot that he looked like some sort of pale-faced demon. His struggle with Endir was too much, his mind couldn't take the strain. But he continued on regardless, knowing that Ciri's life hung in the balance.

Even with all of Geralt's efforts, the most he accomplished was to slow himself, allowing Ciri just a fraction of a second more to react, pulling every swing of his sword so that it didn't reach quite as far. It wasn't much, but there was nothing more he could do. The full force of Endir's control was upon him.

Ciri wasn't going to last long like this. He could sense her slowing, fatigue and pain taking their toll on her. Yet, somehow, she kept going, surviving blow after blow of his onslaught through sheer power of will. Geralt might have felt proud if he could feel anything past the anguish that blurred his senses and the fear that drove him on.

"Why—won't—you—kill—her!" growled Endir manically, each word punctuated with a thrust of Geralt's sword.

Ciri deflected each blow, her sides heaving with the effort, her breaths ragged and sharp. Despite her injuries, she had a look of renewed determination in her eyes, a fire alight within her. Geralt drew from that fire, kindling it within himself.

But he was fading fast. His clouded vision turned red with the blood smearing his eyes and he thought surely his head would explode with the pressure building within, his skull to shatter out into a thousand fractured shards.

Just when he thought he couldn't hold himself off anymore, Geralt came to a halt and dropped his sword down by his side. Ciri was winded a few feet in front of him and badly favoring her left leg, but still holding her sword up at the ready. Her stubbornness was trying at times, but in a situation like this, it served her well.

Endir gave a frustrated cry.

Now that he wasn't going after Ciri, Geralt stopped fighting and the pressure lessened inside his head, though it still throbbed incessantly. At the dwindling of the pain, Geralt unwittingly let go a sigh in relief. He let himself relax marginally, but kept vigilant in case Endir stoked him into attacking again.

Instead, Endir's voice carried down to them, malicious in its fervor. "Fine!" Geralt could feel Endir's unmitigated attention on him now, his fury radiating through his consciousness. "If you won't use those hands to serve me, then you won't use them at all!"

Before he knew what was happening, before he could even attempt to impede himself, Geralt had flipped his sword into his left hand, dropped onto one knee, and started bashing the steel pommel of his sword onto his right hand, which was splayed out on the snow. Bones cracked and blood sprayed, tendons and muscles shearing and splitting. Geralt cried out, but the sound didn't make it past his stoic lips. He just kept hitting and hitting and hitting until his hand was a mangled mass of flesh and bone, stark red against its icy backdrop.

Geralt must have really pissed Endir off, he had never known Endir to be so cruel. Then again, Geralt already knew there was a madman lurking underneath Endir's composed façade. There had to be. No one in their right mind could do what he had done, could justify such wanton murder. Geralt was just the tipping point.

Endir had fully given in to his madness.

Once his assault on himself had paused, Geralt could hear Ciri wailing at Endir next to him, imploring him to stop. Thankfully, she didn't try to come over to Geralt. He didn't think Endir would have allowed her to get too close without making another attempt on her life.

But Geralt's tribulations weren't over. Now that he had dispensed with one hand, Geralt's eyes strayed to a fallen arrow nearby. Releasing his sword, he snatched the arrow up and drove the feathers deep into the snow until it was almost fully buried, only the arrowhead and a few inches of the shaft still showing. Geralt knew what was coming, however he didn't have the fortitude to fight against it. All he could do was grit his teeth as he raised his left hand high above the jagged point…

"Wait!" Ciri cried out, lunging toward Endir. "Stop! Please, I'll do what you want. I'll do it. I'll be your sacrifice. Just let him go. Please," she sobbed. "Just set him free and I'll do it."

Geralt's hand halted in midair.

What was she doing?! Geralt couldn't say he was shocked that Ciri would go so far to save him, but then, he had always known she was a compassionate soul. Regardless, he couldn't let her go through with it. He would gladly trade a life of pain and slavery for Ciri to go free. Gladly.

If only he could have killed himself when he had had the chance. Then none of this would have happened, Ciri never would have felt compelled to give herself up. Without Geralt to stand in their way, Ciri and the others could have fought Endir wholeheartedly. He had no doubt they could have defeated him in the end.

Yet here they were, at the worst of all possible outcomes.

At Ciri's words, Endir's presence withdrew a bit from Geralt's mind. Geralt's airborne hand fell to the snow and, though he couldn't move from where he was, he did manage to look up toward Endir.

The fury had drained from Endir's face and was replaced by a sympathetic triumph that danced in his eyes. He locked onto Ciri, nodding. "Very well. Once it is done, I give you my word that I will set him free."

Ciri bowed her head and heaved a great sigh.

Geralt tracked her with his eyes as she started trudging past him. "Ciri," he ground out, his body shaking. She couldn't do this. He couldn't let her. He tried to stop her, but Endir must have sensed what he was doing and the presence subjugated his mind, bearing its full force down on him, bringing his struggles to naught.

Ciri hesitated and half turned to Geralt, a sad smile morphing her face. Geralt stared back at her with utmost concern in his eyes, willing her not to take another step. But she only held his gaze for a moment. The sad smile fell from her lips as she took another step and another, soon lost from Geralt's peripheral vision.

The upper ledge of the camp had, by now, been cleared of Guardsmen, only the bodies of the few that had made it that far remaining, buried in the falling snow. The rest of the battle still raged below. Geralt could hear their war cries and death throes, the sounds of their weapons clashing warped by the unpredictable wind. Neither side seemed to be making any headway, the cultist's numbers balancing out the Guardsmen's superior abilities.

The battlefield would become nothing but a frozen morgue if the battle didn't end soon. But Geralt had thoughts only for Ciri, appreciative as he may have been for the Guard's struggles.

The cultists cleared a path for Ciri out to the edge of the outcropping, Lund taking her sword from her before she got too close to Endir. She rounded Endir and turned, back to the drop-off, her bearing conciliatory and downcast, just a hint of fear glazing her eyes. Even though her conduct was mature beyond her years, in his fatherly eye Geralt saw only his young daughter. She was too young. Too young to face the enormity of a burden she should never have had to bear.

With his enhanced hearing, Geralt could make out every word they said atop the exposed rock, though no normal human could have heard them above the howling wind.

A disarming smile lit Endir's face as he gazed at his prize, his mask of calm back in place. "You're doing the right thing. We must all make sacrifices to fend off great evil. Know that yours will not be in vain."

"I'm not doing this for you," Ciri rejoined sadly, but defiantly. "I'm doing this for Geralt." A single tear leaked down Ciri's cheek despite her obvious efforts to hold them back. "This is all my fault. And I should be the one to pay for it, not him."

Geralt inwardly recoiled at her words. Was that why she was doing this? Some erroneous belief that she was responsible for all that had happened? How could she possibly think this was her fault?

"It's alright," placated Endir soothingly. "It will all be over soon."

Geralt searched desperately for a way to stop Endir, but there was no way he could get up there in time and Endir's shield was still protecting him. But then something happened that made Geralt pause.

Ciri, who was standing just outside of Endir's shield, reached up to wipe an unsolicited tear from her face. For the briefest moment as she did so, the very tip of her elbow protruded through the magical sphere. No one gave any indication that they had noticed. Not Endir. Not Ciri. And Ciri would have known had she just broken through some kind of arcane barrier; Geralt knew there was power within her that would have reacted to it. More importantly, she shouldn't have been able to cross inside the shield anyway. If the shield were meant to keep out threats, then Ciri unquestionably qualified.

Somewhere in the back of Geralt's mind stirred a memory. Hadn't Endir said he could cast illusions on those around him? The more Geralt thought about it, the more it made sense. Endir had never shown any inkling of power other than his ability to control the minds of others. Why should he be able to cast a shield all of a sudden? It was possible that Endir simply hadn't had the need to before now, but Geralt had all but convinced himself otherwise. Endir's shield was a ruse, a tool to keep himself safe when he was wholly defenseless. The others couldn't know it wasn't genuine, not if Endir had cast it into their minds that it was reality. Why should they question it when he was clearly a powerful sorcerer? He had outplayed them all.

Unfortunately, Geralt couldn't share his epiphany with anyone around him, bound as he was by Endir's restraint. What was he going to do?

Horror struck Geralt like lightning as Endir stretched forth his arms and Ciri's eyes rolled back into her head.

Geralt didn't have any time. He had to act now.

Something primal ignited within Geralt in that moment, a father's need to protect his child. A need that outweighed all else—all pain, all obstacles, all impossibilities. He didn't question if he could do something, he only knew that he needed to. And so he moved.

Dipping into reserves of strength that sprung endlessly from will alone, Geralt bashed through Endir's hold on him, seizing his sword from the snow. He rose and reared back, holding the sword in his left hand and steadying it as well as he could with his right.

The pain in his mind and body didn't matter now. If Geralt didn't act in this moment, all would be lost.

Pitching himself forward, Geralt flung the sword at Endir. It went hurtling end over end toward its target, just barely missing the edge of the outcropping. As good as Geralt's throw was, he wasn't able to put as much force into it as would have been ideal and a sudden gust of wind caught it as it rose over the heightened plane where Endir stood. The downrush coming off the mountainside disrupted the blade's clean rotation, sending it tumbling and dropping it downward more quickly than Geralt had intended. Geralt felt a grim sense of satisfaction as the sword passed unimpeded through Endir's shield, striking Endir longways across his left arm and cutting deeply above the elbow before spinning off to the ground. What little satisfaction he had gleaned ebbed away as Geralt saw that Endir was still standing and, for the most part, still intact. Geralt had been aiming for Endir's head and, had the wind not veered the sword off course, he would have been finished.

Geralt's assault merely succeeded in distracting Endir, who snapped out of his trance and whipped around, growling at Geralt's audacity. The illusory shield remained in place and Geralt could only hope that someone had caught on to what had just occurred, though visibility was low and he doubted anyone was even looking at Endir, busy as they would all be in their individual engagements. Ciri, meanwhile, stood numbly in front of Endir, entranced and oblivious to all else around her.

Endir pounded a step closer to Geralt, his face emblazoned with rage. Lund moved as if to go after Geralt, but Endir stopped him with a wave of his arm. "No," he commanded. Obediently, Lund stood down, but he kept a watchful eye on Geralt and moved closer to Endir. Endir met Geralt's defiant gaze, his lip curling. "I have been more than patient with you, Geralt."

Geralt could feel Endir's influence working its way through him, straightening out Geralt's body so that he was displayed before Endir.

"I suppose you served your purpose," Endir conceded. "I cannot deny that without you, we never would have found the prophesied one." The tone of Endir's voice shifted and a wildfire caught behind his eyes, lending a deranged menace to his bearing. "But now, you are little more than a nuisance. A pesky gnat that doesn't know how to fly away before it is crushed." He paused, continuing in a quieter voice. "You could have served a greater purpose. You could have changed this world for the better. Now all you'll do is rot," Endir sneered.

As Endir finished, Geralt could feel himself grabbing for the knife at his hip. He grasped the handle, drawing the sharp blade from its sheath awkwardly with his left hand.

Geralt was going to kill himself. He was going to end up like the rest of the people Endir had "sacrificed." Fighting against it, Geralt managed to slow the ascent of the blade, but he couldn't stop it completely. He just couldn't tap into that extra force of will that had safeguarded Ciri.

Defending Ciri's life had given Geralt a purpose to rally behind. Without that objective, Geralt's resolve seemed to constantly fail him. He had always been a bit cavalier with his own life, his profession practically demanded it. So long as those he cared about were safe, Geralt never quite cared whether he lived or died. And now, it seemed, that conviction betrayed him, finally calling his bluff and sending him to his untimely end.

The knife rose, Geralt's hand quavering with the struggle to control it. But Geralt couldn't prevail, not this time.

It was all over.

He was so sure that he was going to slit his own throat that Geralt was genuinely surprised when he plunged the knife deep into his abdomen instead—Endir was being cruel indeed.

The cold steel lodged inside Geralt with a sickening thud.

All breath was driven from Geralt's lungs and warm blood oozed over his hand. He stood, stunned for a moment while the reality of what had just happened sunk in. Before he could yield himself to the truth, Geralt yanked the knife free and struck again. Geralt coughed this time and blood flew from his lips, the bitter taste of it coating his mouth.

The world around him went silent, although, somewhere behind him, Geralt could hear the horrified cries of Zoltan growing closer.

It seemed as though Geralt would pull back for a third strike, but the knife fell numbly from his hand as it slid from his body, the bloodied blade tumbling to a rest near his feet. Somehow he still stood, like Endir's sway was determined to hold him until his dying breath. His knees buckled once as his lifeblood drained from his body, but Geralt managed to right himself, agony flaring through him at the movement.

And then Zoltan was there, disheveled and covered in blood. "Geralt!" he shouted as he approached.

Zoltan's eyes roved over Geralt, settling on his wounds. He pressed his hands over the gushing slashes. Strangely, Geralt couldn't feel Zoltan's hands on his wounds though it should have caused him great pain. Thickly, Geralt realized he couldn't feel anything. It was almost a relief. Zoltan's mouth moved, but Geralt couldn't make out what he was saying. The world was dimming. Geralt wheezed in shallow breaths, blood dribbling from his mouth, his eyes starting to roll. He wanted to tell Zoltan to leave him, to save Ciri, but Geralt's body was done. He could only stand there until death finally claimed him.

Then, miraculously, Zoltan turned and looked up to Endir, a snarl forming on his lips. Zoltan leveled one last look at Geralt, an apology that he needn't have issued. Leaving Geralt, Zoltan turned and ran up the slope, following after a man dressed in the Captain of the Guard's uniform who had already stormed past. Together they ploughed into Endir's defensive circle of men, Lund directing the counter charge against them.

There were seven cultists in total. Zoltan and the Captain cut through the first two easily, Zoltan with his axe and the Captain with his broadsword. Lund stepped forward and engaged Zoltan, temporarily forcing him back while the Captain took out another cultist. Then the Captain was beset by the remaining three and his progress came to a resounding halt. Zoltan and the Captain were both at an impasse with their respective opponents, trading their foes between them as their battles intertwined. Lund, it seemed, had kept the most capable of his warriors to defend their liege.

Endir, meanwhile, was already returning to Ciri. And when he got there, it would only take a matter of seconds before she would be at his mercy. She would slit her own throat and it would all be for nothing.

A cultist fell by Zoltan's axe. That left three against two. They were making good progress, but it just wasn't fast enough. Endir was stepping in front of Ciri now, turning to face her.

Zoltan wasn't going to make it.

They had all failed.

And the worst part to Geralt was that Ciri would die thinking she deserved to when nothing could be further from the truth. Endir was responsible. He had torn their lives apart, torn the lives of so many apart in his senseless crusade.

Geralt wished he could do more, but will could only carry him so far.

He swayed dangerously on the spot, barely coherent. Many times through his danger-infested years, he had naively thought he was going to die, but now he truly knew what it was like to feel the life ebbing from his body. He was at his end.

There was nothing more he could do except loathe his uselessness. He would die on that bleak mountainside, thoroughly incapable of preventing his own death.

More importantly, incapable of preventing Ciri's.

How had it all come to this?

So many choices. So many divulging and reuniting paths. Somehow, they had all led here. Here where time ran out.

They were both going to die.

Maybe Fate would be kind enough to let them see each other beyond the darkness, on the next plane.

Maybe.


Yen had long since given up on breaking through Endir's shield. Her fruitless attempts had been doing nothing but depleting her reserves of magic anyway. She had to get closer, she had to employ her sorcery more productively. She may yet be able to make the difference in this conflict between failure and success.

Then Yen spotted Zoltan down below her, tangled in the fray. He clearly hadn't been able to break out of the masses and go after Ciri. Yen's heart hammered in her chest at the realization that Ciri may very well be dead already.

Yen needed to get to Ciri. Now.

But that was more easily said than done. Cultists were swarming up the scaffolding to her, her own glowing shield a beacon to them. Normally, they wouldn't pose much of a threat to her, but she had exhausted most of her power already and the cultists' sheer numbers were rapidly becoming a problem. Any lane she cleared was instantly filled in by more and more men, flocking to her as the threat of the Guardsmen diminished. Their weapons collided constantly with her shield, draining her strength in maintaining it.

Yen chanced a glance back at Zoltan. He had teamed up with the Captain and they seemed to be making headway along the edge of the throng. Yen wasn't going anywhere. Not quickly enough. But if she could clear a path for them, they might just make it.

She summoned what remained of her magic, the cultists taking advantage of Yen's momentary lapse and forming up around her, her shield the only thing keeping them back, though it frayed and sparked with each strike against it. She couldn't hold it much longer. With an incantation and a dazzling flourish, Yen fired a bolt of pure energy from her hands. It surged through the cultists just outside of her shield and arced over the fray below her, striking the ground in front of Zoltan, obliterating the men opposing him and crackling its way up the mountainside.

Shocked, Zoltan stumbled backward and swiveled to face Yen.

"Go," she mouthed to him as the cultists around her regrouped and sprang forth anew. Zoltan took a step toward her, worry on his face, her shield flickering, but Yen gave him a look that told him she could handle herself.

Hesitating for just a moment, Zoltan withdrew and gave a terse nod in response. He turned back and, motioning the Captain forward, they tore through the open path up the hill, dispatching the few cultists that were spilling into the gap.

Their dwindling figures were lost to the storm just as Yen was overrun.


Ciri was drifting lazily through an endless abyss. She couldn't remember why she was there or how she had gotten there, but she wasn't frightened of it, a distant acceptance overcoming any other emotion that might have bubbled up. She was content to stay in that place, but something deep down inside her was fighting against it, pushing her upward. Rising fast, the force smashed into her and shoved her out and out and out. The journey seemed to last forever despite the force's urgency, Ciri's senses flashing back into life the further she went.

As her memories returned, she realized that Endir had put her under his control, that she was to be sacrificed and Geralt would be free.

At that thought, Ciri tried to quell the force within her. She didn't want to fight. If she did, Geralt's life would be forfeit. But nothing she did foiled that power's desire and ability to deliver her back to the world.

Ciri was rushing back to her body in spite of her own wishes, that power betraying her. Soon enough, it had succeeded.

Her eyes popped open.

Endir was gone. Not gone, she realized, but returning from the edge of the outcropping. Looking past him, she spotted Geralt where she had left him, injured, but still capable of going on to live a full life.

Something was wrong.

Blood was pouring from him. There was so much of it that Ciri couldn't pinpoint its source. Geralt seemed on the verge of collapse, his face drawn and pale, his body drooping. How he was still standing, Ciri didn't know. But she knew he was dying, his bloodshot eyes glazed over. Devastation thundered through Ciri, her stomach dropping out from underneath her.

Then Ciri's eyes zipped back to Endir and she knew that there was only one possible explanation for Geralt's decay.

Anger flared white hot through Ciri. Endir thought he could kill Geralt and still come back for her? Well, she wasn't going to let him have his prize. And she would kill him for what he had done.

He strode back in front of her to find her fully conscious and fuming. But his shield was still in play. She couldn't touch him. Their eyes met and it took him less than a second to realize he no longer held any sway over her and, by the look on his face, he was taken aback that she, like Geralt, had broken his grip.

"How—?!" His confusion swiftly turned to action, his face contorting just before he lunged with his mind, throwing Ciri back into darkness.

She fought against his onslaught, his mania ringing through her. He leaned the full weight of his power into her and Ciri thought she would succumb to it. Then that force that had freed her before reared back. She now recognized it as her own magic, activating in response to Endir's, repelling him. Ciri embraced her magic and charged with it, compelling Endir out of her mind. She cried out as she gave a concerted shove, the world returning around her.

Endir was incredulous and riled at the same time. He couldn't have understood the deep-seated power residing within Ciri. He seemed like a man whose power had never failed him. And men like that never considered any avenue other than overcoming via brute force.

He butted into her mind again, but Ciri's sight didn't even flicker before she was pushing back. They were locked in battle, his mind grappling with hers, wrestling and poking and prodding to try to find a weakness, hers responding in kind, their minds melding together. In their shared mind, Ciri suddenly saw through Endir's illusion. His shield was nothing, a farce. Which meant he was defenseless before her.

And there was a knife dangling tantalizingly from his own hip.

Instinctually, Ciri drew Endir in, letting him believe he was winning while she collected her boundless magic behind her.

"You…will…obey!" Endir spat out both mentally and verbally, his body shuddering, his sweat-beaded brow furrowed with determination.

Just as the darkness closed in around her, Ciri unleashed her magic. It eradicated all traces of Endir's mind from her own, thorough and ruthless in its process.

He recoiled, a pained grimace creasing his face.

"You clearly don't know me very well," she derided with a lip-curling sneer as she shot out her hand. It passed effortlessly through Endir's shield and stole his knife out of its sheath.

In less than a second, Ciri struck with Endir's own weapon, her assault no more than a glint of steel slashing across Endir's throat.

When she was done, he clutched at his neck with his stumped arms, unable to stem the flow of blood spewing from between them. Disbelief shone in his eyes as he fell backward, a sparkling layer of icy powder billowing out around him when he met the ground.

Behind him, Ciri could now see Zoltan and the Captain engaged with a lone-standing Lund, multiple other bodies scattered about them.

Lund saw Endir fall past his own battle and called out to him, his eyes bulging with concern. In Lund's distraction, Zoltan lodged his axe into the man's stomach. When Lund doubled over, blood dripping from his mouth, the Captain heaved his sword and cut cleanly through Lund's neck, severing his head in a single stroke. Zoltan looked up as Lund fell to the ground and, just now noticing Ciri's attention, raced toward her.

A gurgling noise drew Ciri's focus back to Endir. He was still alive, choking on his own blood. His eyes were intent on her, his mouth moving as if to speak, but only blood bubbled forth, spattering his face. Ciri knew he had only moments left. Part of her wanted to scream at him, to ask him why he had done it, why he had caused so much pain. But no answer would ever assuage her need nor undo what he had done. So she simply watched as his struggles weakened, his jaw slowly ceasing to move. Fear and longing hid inside the final look he cast toward Ciri, but in a blink it was gone and his eyes clouded over, his arms falling limply to his chest.

Endir was finally dead.

Zoltan ran up to her then and pulled her into a massive hug. Ciri indulged him, but turned to check on Geralt at the same time, fear for his life still rife within her.

She had just caught sight of Geralt when it happened—one moment Geralt was standing and the next, he dropped, crumpling to the ground. The life drained from Ciri's face. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw so many others follow suit, the vast majority of Endir's forces all falling in an instant, like candles being snuffed out by a stiff breeze.

Breaking free of Zoltan's grasp, Ciri dashed down the slope to Geralt as quickly as her injured leg would allow, Zoltan following in her wake.

Sliding to her knees beside Geralt, Ciri grabbed him up in her arms, cradling his head. "Geralt!" she called out to him, stroking the side of his head, her hand running over hair matted with blood. He didn't respond, he was scarcely breathing. And there was so much blood. Ciri didn't know how much longer he was going to last. "Geralt!" she called again, desperately. Tears were falling thick and fast down onto Geralt's face as she rocked disconsolately.

There was nothing she could do for him but hope that he would hold on.

All around them the storm was abating, no longer blowing with a vengeance that strove to lend credence to Endir's claims. The wind died away to a steady sigh, broad snowflakes still wandering lazily along it.

Across the battlefield, through the clearing air, Ciri could see what was left of the Guard capturing those who surrendered, and killing those who foolishly thought they could still prevail. The skirmishes didn't last long. Soon the Guard was roving the camp, helping the wounded and inspecting the dead. Beyond the few still alive, a massacre fell away down the mountainside. The mutilated bodies were frozen in place, all half-buried by a blanket of pristine snow, many with only a limb or distorted face showing. It was as if the storm had tried its best to obscure the violence.

Zoltan had come up behind Ciri, his presence at the sight of her and Geralt melancholy, the Captain lining up with him as well. And then Yen was hurrying toward them, stumbling in her haste. She was haggard and wounded in numerous places, blood tinging the black of her garb red. Relief softened her blood-smeared face as she sighted Ciri and the others, though it turned to dismay as she closed in and beheld Geralt.

Ciri quested red and puffy eyes up to Yen, begging for there to be a remedy to their hopelessness.

Without response or delay, Yen conjured up a portal, the darkness under her eyes seeming to deepen as she did so, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly. She turned to the Captain, her words brisk. "Gather your wounded, I'll be back as soon as I can."

The Captain merely nodded, knowing now was not a time for superfluous conversation.

Yen turned back to Ciri and, with a determined gaze that quelled the utter terror roiling within Ciri, bade them forward.

Together, Ciri, Zoltan, and Yen carried Geralt into the swirling portal.

They stepped forward, gratefully leaving the keening breeze and the violent desolation behind them as they were whisked into the void. Their shared bond was the only thing keeping any one of them from falling apart, not one of them wanting anything more than safety and recovery for the others. Not one of them wanting to think anymore on what had transpired.

Not one of them looking back.


The next few days were tense. They delivered Geralt to a hospital in Novigrad, to the very same doctor that had patched together Priscilla when she had been attacked. It had taken the doctor's vast expertise, his extensive stores of medicine, and more than a little of Yen's sorcery just to heal Geralt to the point where he was stable. Even then, he was balanced on the very edge of death. At any second, he was likely to tumble over it and never return.

Though Geralt was by far the worst off, he wasn't the only one to have sustained dire injuries during the confrontation. Yen and Zoltan both had similar wounds. Many lacerations marred their bodies, some deep and needing stitches, others merely needing binding. Yen was sporting a black eye and Zoltan had a few broken toes, but overall, they were intact.

Ciri however, had been bleeding profusely for some time before they ever even reached the hospital. She supposed adrenaline had kept her going as long as she had. Perhaps something more. Whatever it was that had lent her strength, it languished just as soon as they had deposited Geralt on his hospital bed. She had turned from his bedside to address the others and before she knew it, she had crashed to the ground, fainting outright. She was told later that they had brought in another bed for her and placed it next to Geralt's, tending to her fingers and her leg first and foremost and then to the myriad other small cuts and bruises she hadn't even realized she had accumulated.

After she had regained consciousness, Ciri never left Geralt's bedside. She stared intently at him with eyes reddened from exhaustion and grief, gripping his hand like she could keep him in this world with her touch alone, his rasping breaths rattling through her.

Yen had left as soon as she was able. There were still other men on that mountainside that needed immediate attention. She systematically brought more and more, having warned the doctor beforehand that she would be bringing an indeterminate amount throughout the next few hours. Once she had transported every last soldier back, wounded or not, she had nearly collapsed at the door to the hospital, only saved a face-full of dirt because the Captain, who had been among the last group to return, had caught her as she fell. Zoltan and Dandelion, who had come as soon as he had gotten word, had escorted her back to the Chameleon to sleep and recover.

The others had tried to get Ciri to leave, telling her that she needed to rest, but she refused. She had vacated the bed they had provided at first, there were Guardsmen in much worse shape than her and she didn't feel right taking it up when it was needed elsewhere. When her exhaustion overwhelmed her, Ciri passed out with her head next to Geralt's side, her contact with him unbroken.

She knew there was nothing she could do for Geralt and she didn't begrudge the others their comings and goings. But she just couldn't let Geralt out of her sight. If anything happened to him while she wasn't there, she would never forgive herself.

Eventually, after four days of frazzled nerves and little sleep, Geralt's breathing evened, and his wounds began to heal. The doctor believed he was over the worst of it. At that point, Ciri could deny the others' pleas no longer, Zoltan having threatened to carry her out himself once she was asleep anyway. With a tender kiss on Geralt's forehead, promising her return, Ciri left, heading for the Chameleon and some much-needed rest.

Her leg was already on the mend. Luckily, Geralt's sword had only shorn through her muscle and hadn't hit any tendons or ligaments. Her wound would scar, but wouldn't leave any lasting effect on her mobility so she paid it no more attention, other than to keep it healthy. Her fingers were more problematic. They throbbed day and night even with the tonics the doctor had provided. More than that though, it was strange for Ciri to reach for something and not have those complete fingers there. It would take some readjusting, but Ciri still had full use of her hand for the most part, so she pushed the matter out of her mind as best she could.

It was Geralt, now, that garnered her worry. Not because he was dying; once he had pulled back from the brink of death, his witcher healing had taken over and set him on an expeditious course toward full recovery. Much more so than many of the soldiers, in fact, despite the extent of his injuries. What worried Ciri now was the fact that he seemed as though he would never wake up.

Every morning, Ciri would race down to the hospital, sullenly greeting Geralt's doctor as he made his rounds. When she would inquire as to Geralt's condition, he would always answer the same—that Geralt was doing well, but still hadn't awakened.

Of the soldiers that had made it back, twenty had ended up in the hospital. A few had only needed a wound stitched or a broken bone set. Three of them had died from their injuries within the first few days. The remaining ten or so had all made full recoveries and variously departed as they were able, the Captain checking up on them and even Geralt as his duties allowed.

It had been three weeks now since the battle. After that blizzard up in the mountains had blown over Novigrad as well, the weather had turned. The storm had been winter's last hurrah. Now the sun shone purposefully down on the snow-blanketed landscape, seeking to overthrow winter's reign. Melting snow flowed in runnels through the streets, eventually emptying out into the harbor. The air was still brisk, but with an undercurrent of warmth that had people waking from their hibernation.

The Chameleon filled once more with life and jubilation at the fast-approaching spring. Priscilla, her voice weak but no less beautiful from her near-fatal assault, sang as entertainment a few nights a week, Dandelion joining in occasionally to lend his tenor harmonies to a duet. The turn of the season was always a merry occasion.

But not for Ciri. Not this time.

She couldn't find any joy in the nightly proceedings when her thoughts were always with Geralt, lying in his lonely hospital bed, dead to the world. Many times Ciri even resented the patrons' joyfulness, so callously thrown about in the midst of such sorrow. She knew it was unreasonable, but she felt it all the same.

On one such night, Ciri didn't even try to hide her displeasure, instead stealing out of Dandelion's tavern with a scowl and heading for the hospital, hoping to spend the night there to escape the crowd.

Her presence there was unexpected to the doctors, but not forbidden, and she settled into the chair next to Geralt's bed, his steady breaths calming her nerves.

At least he was still alive.

So many had died that day, the costs catastrophic on both sides. Only about thirty men of the original hundred remained of the Guard, the Captain among them. The cult had sustained much higher casualties due to their greater numbers to begin with. Over a hundred had died in the midst of the battle and Endir's death alone had killed nearly sixty more of his enthralled, a stroke that had ultimately decided the battle.

A pang of guilt hit Ciri as she remembered them falling, lifeless, to the ground. Though she knew Endir had had to die, she still wished there had been some way she could have saved them. They were victims just as much as anyone else.

Ciri wondered grimly if the Guard had known any of the enslaved they were forced to battle. How many had come from the villages they were sent to protect? How many had ended up on the tips of their blades? She shuddered at the thought. They had all been captured just as Geralt had. The only difference was they had paid the ultimate price in the end when Geralt had somehow survived.

That was something Ciri still couldn't figure out.

As far as Geralt's injuries went, the only reason he was alive was because he was a witcher. Any other man probably would have succumb to the injuries Geralt sustained long before they would have even reached Novigrad.

As far as why Geralt had survived Endir's death when no one else had, Ciri couldn't rightfully say. It could have been because he was a witcher and Endir's magic affected him differently. It could have been because he had repeatedly managed to wrest back a modicum of control from Endir. Or it just could have been some inner strength that couldn't be quantified, couldn't be accounted for. It was Geralt—that would have to be explanation enough.

She stared at his slack face, willing him to awaken. She didn't speak, though she often had, pleading with him to find his way back. Ciri merely sighed a heavy sigh, closing her eyes as she held Geralt's hand aloft clasped between her own.

And then his breath fluttered. It lasted no more than a split second, but it was there.

Ciri's eyes shot open. She leaned closer to Geralt, heart racing.

He drew in a deep breath, eyes oscillating behind their lids. Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes pried open and lazily flitted around the room.

Ciri could hardly breathe. "Geralt," she whispered. She couldn't believe it. Surely she had to be dreaming.

Her voice seemed to catch his attention and his muddled eyes settled onto hers.

Her heart soared, her breath finally coming back to her in a dry sob. Before Ciri could say anything, Geralt drew in a deliberate breath and moved his lips, clearly trying to speak though no sound came out. Repeating the action, he managed to find his voice.

"Where am I?" he asked, the sound barely dragging from his mouth.

A genuine smile, the first that Ciri had experienced in a long time, stretched across her face at the sound of Geralt's voice, feeble though it may have been. "You're in a hospital," she answered plainly. Then, unable to keep her elation in check any longer, Ciri dove forward, wrapping her arms around Geralt as best she could. "I'm so glad you're back. I've missed you so much," she blubbered into his chest.

When Geralt didn't reciprocate her embrace, Ciri thought at first that he didn't want to move because he was still hurting. But then his stiffness started to cast doubt into her mind. She pulled back, her smile still tenuously gracing her face. Though he hadn't balked at her touch, he looked up at her with a distance in his eyes that she hadn't noticed in her relief. A question tweaked her brows.

Geralt spoke again, more clearly this time, his brow drawing together in confusion. "Who are you?"

Chest constricting, still trying to keep the smile on her face, Ciri stammered, "I…it's me." The corners of Ciri's mouth began to droop at Geralt's nonplussed look. "Geralt, it's…it's me, Ciri."

Geralt's eyes searched the air before him as if trying to recall something, but he was unable to drudge it up from the banks of his memories. After a moment, he returned his gaze to Ciri's.

"Who's Geralt?"

Ciri's heart plummeted.