Chapter Eight
Ciri had wanted to run to Yen and the others at Geralt's words. Words that had pulled the rug out from under Ciri's feet and sent her tumbling. Though initially flustered, Ciri composed herself. As much as she wanted to fetch help, she also didn't want to leave Geralt right after he had woken up. Especially since she was now the only person he knew in the world.
It soon became clear that Geralt didn't have any memories. Not one. Not before waking up to Ciri's face.
Patiently, Ciri had explained in broad terms who Geralt was and what had happened—that he was a witcher, that he had been injured in a battle with a dangerous cult, and that his friends had brought him back to Novigrad to recover. She had left out the specifics, she didn't think there was any need to go into the more gruesome details just yet.
Geralt had accepted her explanation, though he clearly remained lost. And then it seemed that what little energy his weakened body had contained had been expended and he had passed out again. Ciri's heart tugged at her when Geralt had closed his eyes. She had feared he would sleep for another three weeks. But he woke up the next morning when the sun's rays blazed through the window.
Over the next few days, he was awake more and more. Ciri had gotten the chance to alert the others to his awakening and they all exuberantly followed her back to the hospital to greet him. She had warned them of his amnesia, but only Yen had seemed disquieted by the news. Yen hadn't said anything, but Ciri could tell that Geralt's loss of memory disturbed her more than she wanted to show.
As Ciri had expected from his bearing the night before, Geralt was somewhat overwhelmed by everyone that came to greet him and he often forgot their names or mixed them up. The doctor seemed to sense this and started only allowing one or two visitors at a time to keep Geralt from being overtaxed. His body was still recovering. And not just from his injuries.
Geralt had wasted away in the hospital. The only sustenance he had been able to receive was a beef or chicken broth massaged down his throat. His lack of nutrition and movement had atrophied his muscles and eaten away what little meat there was on his bones. He had always been trim, but still muscular. Now, his face had hollowed out and his ribs shone painfully through his skin, his arms and legs incapable of supporting him fully.
Whenever any of them visited him, they brought as much food as they could—succulent meats and ripe fruits and steaming breads. Geralt devoured them all voraciously. In less than a week of such treatment, he had regained some of his vigor and strength. Enough to where he could go home.
Geralt was allowed to leave the hospital the next day. With arms slung over Ciri and Dandelion, Geralt wobbily took his first steps and they made their way to the Chameleon at a meandering pace.
It was around noon when they arrived so no patrons were in the tavern. Most nights, people didn't start showing up until sundown. They plopped Geralt down on a bench, all three a bit breathless from the arduous journey. Ciri placed herself next to Geralt, with Yen and Dandelion across from them. Zoltan pulled up a chair to join them.
None of them had spoken of Geralt's amnesia while he had been in the hospital. Partly because the doctor had been very strict about not upsetting him, but also because they hadn't wanted to go into anything in such a public setting.
Now seemed the perfect time to address what needed to be said.
At Yen's bidding, Ciri told the full story, or as much of it as she knew. Obviously, there was no way of knowing what Geralt went through at Endir's camp. The only thing Ciri glazed over was Geralt wounding and almost killing her, she didn't think there was any point in heaping any unnecessary guilt upon him. The others added their little tidbits as they saw fit until, finally, the room fell silent.
Yen broke through the tension, addressing Geralt. "Geralt?" she probed. "Do you remember any of this? Anything at all?"
All of their eyes swiveled to him, but Geralt had grown accustomed to their company and didn't balk at their attention. He shrugged and shook his head. "No. Nothing."
Ciri had watched him during their retelling and it was as if he were an avid listener to one of Dandelion's epic ballads. He was clearly distraught by the horror of the events and amazed at the insanity of what had happened, but his reactions were purely from a distanced perspective of someone experiencing them second-hand. He offered no emotional or personal response.
Yen frowned, contemplative. "Hmmm. I was afraid of something like this."
"What do you mean?" Ciri asked.
"I've been in contact with the Lodge and we've been discussing this whole scenario. Unfortunately, none of us could come up with an answer for what has happened. This is what I was afraid of from the start. Mind control is dangerous and fickle. There was no knowing what would happen if the link between Geralt and Endir were snapped. Geralt escaped the worst of it, considering what happened to the others, but this amnesia must be some byproduct of the whole affair."
Ciri leaned forward, anxious. "But his memory will come back, right?"
Yen just shook her head sadly. "There's no way to know for sure." She turned her eyes to Geralt. "I'm sorry. There are a few things that I could try, but I don't have much hope that they will work and they could very well make things worse. This magic and how it has manifested itself is something that I nor any of my Sisters understand. It would be unwise, I think, to try meddling with it. The only course of action we have is to wait and see if your memories return on their own."
Geralt didn't seem to know what to make of all this. His eyes roamed over everyone in turn, his mood a little dejected.
Zoltan pulled on a grin. "Don't you worry about it, Geralt. I'm sure you'll be back to normal in no time."
Dandelion, catching on to Zoltan's tactics, piled on. "Yeah, enough with all this gloominess." He stood suddenly and strode across the room, selecting a few choice bottles of wine and bringing them back to the table. "You all made it through this horrid affair. And Geralt has returned to us, alive and well. We should be celebrating!" He uncorked the bottle and filled several goblets, handing one to each of them in turn. He held his own up out in front of him. "To Endir's demise, and Geralt's triumphant return!"
It took a few seconds for the others to join in, but Dandelion's cheer was catching and even Ciri found a smile spreading her lips.
He was right. Geralt was alive. And he was awake and healthy. They shouldn't be dwelling on the bad. Brooding would do Geralt no good. He just needed time. His memories would return eventually. Until then, there was plenty of fun to be had in Novigrad and Ciri was determined to make sure Geralt was as happy as he could be. He deserved it.
"Hear, hear!" Ciri exclaimed, standing and raising her own goblet.
Zoltan stood next, quickly followed by a grateful Geralt, whose smile at their regard lit up his eyes. Yen forced a reluctant smile to her own lips and added her cup to the raised collection. They smashed together their goblets, some of the wine sloshing out as they did so, and drank deeply, soon feasting on the delectable fare that Dandelion provided.
It now seemed to Ciri unimportant that Geralt had lost his memories. He would be back to normal in no time. For now, he was here. He was alive. That was all that mattered.
Besides, she thought, he was still Geralt.
Right?
Geralt was happy with his life at the Chameleon. Spring was in full swing now. The trees were bursting with fresh foliage, little buds blooming into vibrant colors. He loved the sighing of the gentle breeze dancing with the leaves and, above it, the sounds of the city as they grew in volume each morning. He would lay in bed and listen to them drift in through his open window, excited to experience a new day.
Everywhere, the city was a bustling hive of activity. Fleets of ships swept through the harbor, bringing goods and people from distant lands, their garb and accents just as interesting as their wares. The markets rang with merchants calling out to passersby, many of those summonings ending in ardent discussions and heated negotiations.
Once Geralt was able to walk on his own, he would wander the city, often accompanied by Ciri, who would point out locations of interest and steer him away from the seedier parts of town. It turned out that Geralt had amassed quite a sum of money in his forgotten travels and he had no qualms about spending it on various fascinating baubles and delicious fare for their wanderings.
A few times, Ciri had taken Geralt out horseback riding. She would easily swing astride her horse, Kelpie, while Geralt fumbled with all of the tack for a steed that he apparently owned. Roach, they had called the stallion. Geralt thought it an odd name, but they had told him he had chosen it. Geralt still hadn't regained full use of his right hand, so he rode with his left. He honestly didn't think it would have mattered which hand he used, he was a terrible rider.
Ciri took them out into the open countryside and flew across the rolling hills, completely at one with her mount, laughing with the exhilaration. Geralt struggled just to keep his seat as Roach surged after Kelpie, not wanting to be left behind. Half of the time, Roach would stop to graze on the verdant spring grasses, clearly sensing Geralt's ineptitude. Ciri would coach Geralt on what to do, mainly yelling at him to kick harder and pull on the reins, the mirth at Geralt's lack of skill apparent on her face. No matter what Geralt did, it didn't seem to accomplish anything, and he usually just let Roach follow Kelpie.
After the fourth session, Geralt gave up riding as a lost cause and started making up excuses whenever Ciri asked if he wanted to join her.
When it was clear that Geralt was no longer going to go riding with her, Ciri bade him to join her in the practice yard. There were a few straw-stuffed dummies propped up in the stable yard where he had seen Ciri practicing her swordplay.
That was one thing that Geralt didn't even bother trying, despite all of their encouragement for him to pick up his swords. They kept telling him what a skilled swordsman he was, but he assured them that he had no skill to speak of. He wouldn't even know where to begin. Not that he could have wielded a sword very effectively anyway, his grip was still pretty poor.
Instead, he took joy in watching Ciri adeptly stab and slash, her feet dancing across the ground as she pirouetted and pivoted to obtain new angles. She must have had a good teacher, he mused.
He did try his hand at the witcher signs they told him about, if for no other reason than it sounded exciting to be able to do some form of sorcery. Yen coached him as best she could on the correct hand positions and how to summon his power from within, but no matter what Geralt tried, he couldn't produce anything. He could sense no power biding within him as Yen had described. Eventually, he gave up on the idea and they didn't press him any further.
At night, everyone would gather in the tavern, drinking and feasting and singing and dancing. Priscilla and Dandelion were wonderful performers and knew how to entertain a crowd. Geralt even tried his hand at Gwent, Zoltan generously offering to teach him the basics. Though he wasn't much good at it, Geralt enjoyed the game nonetheless.
His life was a good one. And he was eternally grateful to Dandelion for letting him stay at the Chameleon.
It wasn't until almost three months after Geralt had awoken that he began to feel a little differently about his situation. He knew the city and much of the surrounding landscape like the back of his hand by now and while he still enjoyed roaming the city, the charm of adventure was starting to lose its luster.
And he began to see something in his friends' eyes when they looked at him—an unexplained longing. He wasn't sure if it was new or if he simply hadn't noticed it before. They still treated him the same, still smiled and laughed and joked, but he felt like his position within their group was shifting.
He was a stranger to them. And they were strangers to him, close as they had become over the past few months.
It wasn't news, they all knew it from the moment he woke up. They had graciously overlooked the fact and invited him into their lives, but he couldn't help feeling like he was imposing upon them, like he didn't quite belong. At least, not in the way they wanted him to.
It was strange, too, people telling him of deeds that he had supposedly done. Most of them seemed so outlandish that he couldn't tell if they were joking or not. It was like they all believed him to be the hero of some epic tale, when he alone knew he wasn't.
He wished he could give them what they wanted, wished he could turn into this "Geralt." They deserved to have their friend back after the kindness they had bestowed upon him. But he just wasn't that person. Maybe he had been before, maybe he hadn't, but he certainly wasn't now.
And he wasn't sure if he ever would be.
As spring gave way to summer, Ciri grew more and more worried about Geralt, about whether his memories would return.
As per Yen's advice, they hadn't tried anything magically to bring back Geralt's memories. Ciri agreed with what she had said. She too doubted that anything would have helped. And Ciri was a bit worried to try based on how badly their experiments had gone before.
They did try more subtle ways to stimulate Geralt's memory. Dandelion told endless stories of their adventures together and Priscilla sang of Geralt and Yennefer's love. Nothing worked. Geralt was enraptured by the tales and songs, but only as a part of the audience. Ciri didn't even think he understood half of the time that he was the one in the story, if it wasn't expressly mentioned. He listened with wide-eyed awe and then went back to his game of Gwent or his ale when the story concluded, none the wiser as to its significance.
Still, Ciri kept up hope. Geralt would come back to them in time, Ciri was sure of it. Until then, they just had to enjoy the new Geralt. In fact, it had been fun showing him around the city, taking him on little adventures, and seeing his wonder at the world. Seeing everything she loved through new eyes.
To be honest, this new Geralt was, in a way, more fun-loving and more vibrant than the old. He would even join in on the nightly dancing on occasion, a smile always readily available on his lips. He was so…joyous. In a way that Geralt never had been. And that brought Ciri joy as well. At least for a time. She thought she had never seen Geralt so happy.
In particular, Dandelion seemed thoroughly enamored with this version of Geralt. He would spin his wild yarns with Geralt keenly listening. Always expanding upon the truth, it seemed that Dandelion enjoyed, for once, having the ability to thrill Geralt, to be the one with some control over the situation. It would have been a rare occurrence, if not the first time for Dandelion. Or maybe it was just his boundless enthusiasm and amiability that placed no necessity on any particular personality. He could truly appreciate Geralt as he was, rather than expecting or waiting for him to be someone else.
It was a quality that Ciri loved about Dandelion, and one that she wished she possessed.
She tried her best to emulate it, she really did.
In her heart, Ciri loved Geralt, no matter who he was. But she still couldn't help but miss Geralt as he had been, couldn't help but try to bring him back. Any time they talked, she always steered the conversation back toward some shared memory they had, hoping it would spark something within him. Since the affair with Endir was the freshest memory, not to mention the one that had caused Geralt's amnesia in the first place, Ciri talked of it the most. Geralt would always listen, though more and more silently of late. On one particular occasion, she spoke in more detail than she ever had before, describing the aftermath of the battle, the lifeless bodies, the blood, and the carnage. Soon she had lost herself in the memory, thinking back to that horrible day. She didn't know why she was going into such morbid detail. She supposed it was almost cathartic for her. After all, she was still processing what had happened that day just as much as anyone else.
Before she got into the more grisly details, Geralt stopped her midsentence, his sudden reaction yanking her from her musings.
"Wait, Ciri, stop!" He blenched, waving his hands at her.
She looked up at his outburst.
He seemed disconcerted by what she had said. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to hear all this. It's too much."
Ciri honestly hadn't thought about what she was saying. Geralt had never been a stranger to violence or gore and she supposed she had acquired his strong stomach in their time together. "I didn't mean to upset you," she stated plainly.
"Ciri, why do you keep bringing this up?" he asked pointedly.
She didn't answer.
He gave her a knowing look. "I know what you're trying to do."
"What do you mean?"
"You're trying to bring back my memories."
Ciri tried to adopt an innocent look, even though a twinge of guilt was zinging through her. She had sort of forgotten why she had brought up the memory in the first place, so lost was she in its retelling. Now Ciri wondered how long Geralt had known. How quickly had he figured out her strategy?
Obviously taking her silence as affirmation, Geralt continued. His voice wasn't angry. Mildly annoyed, if nothing else, but not angry. "Every time we talk, you always bring up something from the past. It's clear you're trying to get me to remember something, but after all this time, not one thing has come back. And, honestly, I don't think anything is going to. At this point, I'm tired of feeling like I need to be someone else. I'm tired of you talking to me as if I am someone else. Can't we just talk like normal?"
Feeling a bit chastised, Ciri found it difficult to hold Geralt's gaze. He was right. She was inadvertently belittling Geralt, treating him as if he didn't matter unless he regained his memories. "Of… of course," she stammered. "No, you're right. I… I'm sorry."
Geralt stared at her for a moment and she eventually met his eyes. She saw a great sadness there framed by loneliness.
"You want him back. The Geralt you knew before," he stated candidly.
Startled by Geralt's frankness, Ciri struggled for words. "No! No. I… I mean… I mean yes, but." At the growing dejectedness on Geralt's face, Ciri stopped herself. She took a deep breath to organize her thoughts before she continued. "Geralt," she started earnestly, "just because you're different now doesn't mean I don't love you just as much as I did before. You will always be important to me. No matter what."
Geralt seemed somewhat mollified, though his face remained forlorn. He shrugged, heaving a huge sigh. "Then I don't know what you want from me."
It took a moment for Ciri to answer and she hated herself for it, the span of time only confirming everything Geralt was feeling. But she just didn't have any ready answer for him. What did she want from him? This whole time, she knew she wanted the old Geralt back, but she never really considered how he felt about it. And now it seemed that her efforts had only left Geralt feeling unwanted, like he wasn't good enough as he was.
She did want Geralt back. With all her heart, she did. But that didn't mean that this Geralt wasn't important to her. That distinction was clear to Ciri, but she didn't know how to express it. Any way she put it seemed to come out badly. She settled with something simple.
"I just want you to be happy." It was at least partially true.
Geralt shrugged again. "I am happy. Are you?"
Ciri took in a breath immediately to answer, "Of course," but the words never left her mouth. She was forced to close her mouth awkwardly, never able to find her voice after that. They stared at each other, Ciri searching his eyes even as she searched inside herself for a response, her gaze falling from his after a minute of introspection. Smiling sadly, Geralt eventually left her to her silence, their conversation having already fallen apart.
Later that night, Ciri lay wide awake in her bed, Geralt's question haunting her.
Was she happy? She had thought that she was, but everything had been turned on its head. She had always operated under the assumption that Geralt had wanted to become who he used to be. She had fought so desperately to bring him back in their supposed shared desire for it. Now she found out that he didn't care about his memories, and that bringing them up did nothing but hurt him.
Ciri didn't know where to go from there. Did they give up on him? Or risk offending him? Which was worse?
It seemed extremely selfish to keep trying to stimulate Geralt's memory at this point. Ciri couldn't do that to him. She couldn't purposefully upset him just because she wanted something more.
It was decided then. Ciri would steer clear of bringing up Geralt's past.
She went to sleep feeling better about what had happened and about moving forward.
But Ciri's resolve was tested to the fullest over the coming weeks, and it proved much harder than she had thought it would be not to talk of the past. She didn't know if it was because she had formed such a habit of discussing his memories or if some natural path of their conversations always veered that way, but Ciri couldn't help but coming around to some old story. Every time, she would catch herself midsentence and glance up guiltily at Geralt. Sometimes he would notice and sometimes he wouldn't. Her abrupt silence, however, always seemed to kill the conversation, at least for her.
After a while, Ciri found herself staying away from Geralt, not wanting to upset him, but knowing she couldn't help herself when she was in his presence. She only allowed herself to talk to him in a group setting. That way, if she found herself stalking familiar ground, she could just remain silent and let someone else steer the conversation in a safer direction until Ciri could join in again.
If she did find herself in Geralt's sole company, Ciri turned the eager listener, letting Geralt do the talking and only offering little tidbits of commentary when appropriate.
Ciri hoped she wasn't overcorrecting from her previous mistake, but she really did want Geralt to be happy and this was the only way she knew how to respect his wishes. He deserved to be happy after everything he had been through, everything he had done to save her. Even if he had forgotten all of it.
Even if she still didn't have an answer to his question.
Summer was coming to an end, autumn stretching forth its withering hand and bathing the land in a new kind of beauty. The leaves crumpled and turned, the golds and crimsons and oranges casting a perpetual sunset. Pleasantly cool days wrapped up with chilly nights. The sun set earlier every night, the sky forever endeavoring to reflect the auburn magnificence below.
It should have been a peaceful time.
But Geralt was plagued by guilt and self-doubt. He wasn't sure whether he should stay at the Chameleon for much longer.
Ciri was avoiding him. She had grown quieter and quieter around him ever since he had confronted her. Yen was distant if affable. Zoltan was so busy with his card trade that he frankly wasn't around much, though he was always willing to lend Geralt an ear. Dandelion…well, Dandelion was as he always was. At least that never seemed to change.
Still, Geralt was starting to feel like he was overstaying his welcome. A feeling that was confirmed one night when Geralt overheard a conversation between Ciri and Yen.
He was lying in bed, sleep eluding him, when he could hear voices coming from upstairs. Many people might have considered his witcher hearing a blessing, but he begged to differ. Zoltan's snoring every night was proof enough that it was a curse. Now, he could hear Yen and Ciri talking quietly from the room above him.
There were indistinct sniffles followed by soothing noises. Then Ciri spoke, clearly weepy.
"I took things too far, Yen. You warned me not to push him, but I did it anyway. And now I can't even be around him. I tried, but I don't know how to talk to him like he's not who he used to be."
"I think we all find it hard to reconcile the man that lives with us now to the man he used to be," Yen replied comfortingly.
"It's been so long." There was a pause before Ciri continued, her voice despairing. "I don't think he's ever coming back."
Yen sighed deeply. "Ciri," she started, her tone a bit more stern. "Remember when Geralt's mind was enslaved and he came here for you? You never gave up on him. Why?"
Ciri seemed flustered by the question, stuttering out her response. "I…because. Because, back then, there was something we could do to save him. Back then, he wanted to come back. And he was still himself, still Geralt, even if he was buried beneath Endir's sorcery. But not now. You can't tell me you think there's a chance he'll return."
"Just because we can't see a solution, doesn't mean there isn't one. You didn't give up on him then and you can't give up on him now. And whether he regains his memory or not, we owe him our love."
"I know! And I do love him, I really do!" Ciri declared, somewhat louder. "But I just don't know how I can look at him and not see everything I miss about him." Her voice started cracking in her distress. "And I know that's not fair to him. He deserves to be happy, no matter who he is. I feel like such a terrible person. He needs me now more than ever and yet I can't even talk to him without messing everything up!"
Ciri broke down into shuddering sobs that were muffled, Geralt supposed, by Yen's shoulder. At the same time, Geralt's eyes fell in silent rumination, his feelings of guilt compounding.
Once Ciri had composed herself, she went on, "I just don't know what to do, Yen."
Yen's reply was soft and warm. "We wait. It's all we can do."
"How?" Ciri asked miserably.
Some silent exchange must have passed between them because Geralt heard no more after that. He thought they might say more, but he didn't hear anything again until a while later when Yen's footsteps receded down the stairs.
He was tearing them apart.
And while he liked his home here, there was a part of him that fidgeted at his fixedness. A nagging itch longed for him to be on the move, an itch that he couldn't quite explain. Regardless, the timing seemed perfect for him to leave. They could go on with their lives and he could travel the world, experiencing all that he could. Even if it was for the second time around.
Maybe it was time for him to move on. Maybe it was time for them all to move on.
Sleep didn't come easily that night and when it did, it was afflicted with horrific nightmares, the details of which, Geralt could never remember. He awoke many times throughout the night and when he did, all that was left was a lingering afterthought of pain or anger or sorrow and even that faded as Geralt drifted back to sleep over and over again.
The next day, Geralt was distant. Dandelion was the only one still at the Chameleon, the others having gone off to their various activities. He approached Geralt around noon, catching him staring off into the distance.
"Are you alright, Geralt? You're acting strangely today."
Geralt hadn't even known Dandelion was there until he had spoken, absorbed in his own thoughts as he was. He startled and swung to face Dandelion, plastering what he hoped was a sincere smile on his face. "Yeah. I'm fine." Geralt didn't want to make a scene.
Dandelion looked suspicious, but let the matter pass. "If it was the fish last night, then I need to have a word with my supplier. In fact, I might just do that anyway. I've been meaning…"
In a couple of seconds, Geralt had already tuned Dandelion out, though the bard continued to prattle as he strode around the room attending to his tavern's various needs. Geralt took his leave when Dandelion left through the front door, mumbling to himself about skyrocketing fish prices. Geralt headed to his room, slumping onto the edge of his bed and whiling away the rest of the day deep in thought.
He should just leave. There was no reason for him to stay, not really. And there were many reasons for him to go. They didn't need him there. He was nothing more than a burden.
Despite his arguments, it still took Geralt until almost sundown to muster the courage to walk out the door. No one was around, Dandelion was still out somewhere in Novigrad.
It was now or never.
With a provisioned pack slung over his shoulder, Geralt stepped out into a twilit Novigrad, glancing back at the only place he had ever called home.
One day he would come back, he told himself, though he knew deep down that it was unlikely.
As the sun fell, Geralt stepped across the bridge to the East. He had left Roach behind. As easy as it would have been to travel with a horse, Geralt wasn't very confident that he could control the beast anyway, so he figured he was better off without him.
He had gone a couple miles when total darkness blanketed the countryside, only the occasional lantern from a homestead visible in the distance. In this particular case, Geralt was happy about his witcher mutations. The night was dark, but he could see through the gloom easily and so he kept walking.
He didn't quite know where he was going to go, but he knew there was a town about a day's ride from Novigrad; he had seen it marked on some of the maps Ciri had shown him once. He supposed that was as good a place as any to start with. Once he had built up some distance between him and Novigrad, he could decide what his end destination would be.
A few miles more and Geralt came into some trees, the road cutting through a small patch of woods. The silence deepened around him as the thick trunks smothered the night air and the sounds wafting along it.
Then, out of nowhere, a vicious snarl rent the night. Howls and yips trailed closely behind, a pack of wolves streaming out of the trees to Geralt's right.
Panic had Geralt backpedaling away from them, tripping over the wagon ruts in the ground as he ran for the cover of the woods. He hadn't brought a sword, hadn't even thought about it. Even if he had, it was doubtful he could have done anything with it. Now he was regretting that decision. It sure would have been nice to have some form of protection, no matter how well he could utilize it.
The leader of the pack was a full length ahead of his brethren and leapt onto Geralt, biting deep into his arm. Geralt cried out and punched the wolf in the nose out of reflex. Stunned, the wolf pulled back.
With the time he had bought himself, Geralt scrabbled up a nearby tree, badly sheering his arms on the tough bark on his way. Pulling himself up onto a low branch, Geralt threw himself over the limb, tucking his legs up just in time to avoid the pack's snapping jaws. They circled the tree, the leader infuriated at Geralt's attack and subsequent escape. Heart pounding, Geralt could do nothing but clutch his bleeding left arm and stare down at the biting teeth flashing in the darkness.
The wolves tried unfalteringly to reach him, running up the trunk of the tree with snarls and growls, sharp canines falling just short of Geralt's position. They didn't cease their assault for nearly fifteen minutes, a stretch that felt much longer to Geralt. Finally, their ardor failing, their tongues waggling with panted breaths, the wolves trotted off into the gloom. Geralt thought he could just see the glow of their eyes as they turned back at the edge of his vision.
Too afraid to disembark from the tree, Geralt remained there for some time, at some point falling asleep leaned up against the trunk. Dawn came and the growing light roused him. He hadn't realized he had been there all night. Presuming it safe enough, Geralt climbed down. Of course, his arm stung painfully and had seized up during the night so his dismount was more of a sliding fall down the trunk which further skinned his arms and hands.
He was back safely on the ground, but he had been thoroughly spooked by the whole affair. Perhaps he wasn't ready to leave. He hadn't considered the dangers of the world when making his decision. Hadn't considered much beyond simply leaving. His decision might have been a bit rash, though he still felt it was necessary.
For now, at least, he would have to return. His arm needed tending and he needed to figure out some way to defend himself. Maybe he would try his hand at swordplay. It certainly wouldn't hurt to see if he possessed some innate skill. If, by some chance, he had some ability, he could be on his way, at least somewhat capable of defending himself against minor troubles.
Until then, he would head back to Novigrad, a journey he wasn't particularly looking forward to.
His arm had stopped bleeding during the night, but it still throbbed unremittingly as Geralt made his way to the Chameleon. He could hear commotion inside when he came up to the back door. He opened it to find all four of his friends standing there, frantic and worried. Ciri was the first to spot him and she jogged over to him, pulling him into a hug.
She stepped back and peered up at him, both reproach and concern in her voice. "Where have you been!? We've been searching for you all night."
Geralt skirted over the eyes of everyone there, finally returning his gaze to Ciri. "I… I got lost," he lied. He had left his pack out back, not wanting them to question him about it. "I went for a walk and I guess I got turned around. Some wolves attacked and forced me to spend the night in a tree," he added sheepishly.
Suspicion rose on Ciri's face, but before she could say anything, Yen came over and turned Geralt's arms over, examining his bite wound and torn skin. "This needs to be cleaned and bandaged, but I don't think it will pose much of a problem."
She led him away, offering him a knowing smile, and Ciri just stared after them.
Thankfully, no one questioned him further about the incident, though Dandelion seemed to draw endless amusement from the situation.
"Geralt, treed by some wolves!" he laughed at dinner that night. "I never thought I'd see the day." Zoltan had given a little chuckle at Dandelion's comments, and Ciri and Yen had half-grinned as well. Even Geralt had joined in to show he was a good sport about it.
All the while, his lie stretched further and further between them.
He didn't know why he didn't tell them that he wanted to leave. They may very well be relieved for all he knew.
But he just couldn't bring himself to do it.
He couldn't leave right now anyway. Tomorrow, he would test out his swords and go from there. He needed to be able to defend himself. Until he could, there was no point in stirring the pot with talk of leaving. When the time came—he didn't know.
Somehow, telling them that he was leaving felt like spitting in their faces, after the hospitality they had shown him. But then again, they deserved to know.
His indecision ate at him through the night, his indistinct nightmares resurfacing.
Was he not telling them for their sake? Or for his?
He honestly couldn't say.
Ciri left early in the morning, the events of the day before unsettling her profoundly. Up until this point, she had been upset with who Geralt was now, but she never wanted him gone. Never. No matter what their relationship ended up being. That was one thought that had never even crossed her mind. When they couldn't find him, it was like losing him to the cult all over again, not knowing whether he was even alive. She may have missed the old Geralt, but she would never wish any harm upon him, no matter who he was. Then he had returned, bloodied and beaten from an encounter with some wolves. Wolves. This new Geralt had always been different, but now it struck Ciri as to just how fragile he was. He could have died and that would have been it. Geralt gone. Permanently.
It was strange, how everything changed so quickly.
She couldn't be near him, but at the same time, she had wanted him close by; his presence both troubling and comforting to her. The emotions had teetered back and forth, barely keeping themselves in balance. Geralt's sudden absence had forced such a finality to the situation that everything had been torn asunder. Now she was spiraling out of control.
Plus there was the fact that Geralt had lied to them. She knew it from the instant the words had left his mouth. What she didn't know was why he had done it. What was he hiding? And why was Yen covering for him? She had certainly glazed over Geralt's lie quickly enough last night and Yen was not one to let something like that go.
Ciri would talk to her later about it, but right now she needed some fresh air and some time away from everyone. She needed to sort out exactly how she felt and how Geralt's and her relationship needed to proceed. They couldn't keep going like this. He deserved better and it was killing Ciri.
Not settling on any destination beforehand, Ciri's feet unconsciously wandered to an old haunt well outside the city, a place that she and Geralt would often visit back before everything had happened. It was an old, rundown dock on the edge of a small pond, surrounded by trees. The wood comprising the dock was rotten and the pond devoid of fish, but they relished it anyway for its solitude. It was a place they could come and sit together, whiling the hours away talking, or just basking in the sun, enjoying the companionable silence they had so easily shared.
Ciri walked to the end of the dock, settling herself on the edge of it, feet dangling a few inches above the clear water. She stayed like that for hours, not even noticing when hunger gnawed at her belly, instead following the steady rise and then fall of the sun, the only thing she could count on to never change. The only thing that seemed to make sense right now.
The morning after Geralt had returned to the Chameleon, he woke and located his swords by the chest of his belongings in the corner of his room. Dressing quietly, he made a quick check through the tavern to make sure that everyone was gone and then strapped them on, heading out to the stable yard. Dandelion was still there, but he always slept late and could sleep through an earthquake, so Geralt wasn't too worried about him.
It was a cool, but pleasant day, the azure sky stretching forth endlessly without a single cloud to disrupt its clarity. A bank of warm, autumn colors hung down over the fence encircling the yard, the trees still holding enough of their leaves to screen the area from the neighbors.
Awkwardly, Geralt pulled the steel sword from its sheath, having to check over his shoulder to verify he selected the correct one. They had explained the significance of the two swords to him when they had tried to get him to practice. Luckily, he had retained at least some of that information. Although Geralt doubted silver or steel would make much difference to a straw and burlap dummy.
The sword was weighty, much heavier than Geralt expected it to be. He marveled at how anyone could wield one for any length of time.
Experimentally, Geralt slowly sliced back and forth in front of him. He certainly didn't have any expertise in the area, but Geralt surmised the blade to be extremely well-crafted. It stayed rooted in his hand throughout any movement, not pulling away on either the forward stroke or the recovery. Just for fun, Geralt gave the sword a twirl in his hand, something he had seen Ciri do quite often. But the hilt got away from him and the sword went clattering to the ground. Embarrassed, and furtively checking that Dandelion hadn't come at the sound, Geralt picked up his sword and resumed swinging the sword out in front of him, sticking to simpler moves.
Pretty soon, he was getting bolder and bolder with his strokes, extending his arms and throwing his weight into each one. Out of nowhere, Geralt described an intricate circle of flourishes, ending with his hand somehow managing to twirl the sword perfectly. A second later, without thinking, Geralt thrust the blade into the heart of the dummy.
A face frozen in agony flashed before Geralt, a dreadful screech echoing in his ears.
He pulled the sword back immediately, dropping it as he recoiled in shock. The face was gone. Everything was normal, but Geralt's heart still pounded in his chest. Panting, Geralt searched his surroundings, confirming that all was as it should be. He warily collected his sword from the ground, pausing a moment before gingerly sliding the tip into the dummy.
Nothing happened.
He withdrew the sword and approached the dummy now, running his hand over the stab wound, investigating the rough fabric for anything strange. Finding nothing, Geralt calmed his breathing, eventually going back to swinging the sword around the yard, avoiding the dummy for the time being.
After regaining some of his confidence, Geralt convinced himself that he had imagined the whole thing and proceeded toward the dummy from across the yard, pretending as if he were in a battle. He couldn't seem to reproduce the dazzling flourishes he had done before, so his strokes were more power than skill, but he made his way closer and closer to his pretend foe, fighting off imagined opponents along the way. Sweating a bit now, Geralt finished a graceless thrust to his left. Recovering, he spun directly in front of the dummy and coiled himself for a powerful blow. He released a moment later, his sword slicing toward the dummy.
Just before the blade made contact with the dummy, Geralt was plunged into darkness, his sword falling through empty air and sending him stumbling.
He pulled himself erect, his sword hanging slackly down by his side. He didn't know where he was or what was happening, but he was on edge from the abrupt change in scenery.
It was bitterly cold, his breath pluming out in front of him as he swiveled on the spot, searching for answers. Geralt found nothing but a frozen wasteland, some sourceless light giving just enough illumination for his witcher eyes to see several yards in any direction.
After a few rotations, Geralt spotted something at the edge of his vision, only visible because it was of a blackness deeper than its surroundings. Cautiously, Geralt strode toward it.
Once nearer to it, Geralt could see that it was a figure of a man, but seen only as a silhouette; a man of shadow made flesh. The edges of the figure were fluctuating and writhing in the wind, like a dark flame billowing and tearing.
Geralt halted abruptly, staring down the specter.
A true horror welled up inside Geralt at the sight of the man. His mouth dried and his throat constricted, all of the blood seeming to drain from his face. There was some primal instinct that was yelling at Geralt to run, to get away. But he couldn't. He was frozen in terror.
Though the phantom hadn't done anything, Geralt knew he was not a friend. He also knew that he would be as useless against this foe as he was against the wolves. Sure, he had a sword now, but he barely knew how to hold it, let alone wield it. There was nothing he could do and he couldn't have felt more helpless.
Why was this specter here? What did it want?
The only answering voice was the pining wind slithering over the frozen ground.
