Chapter Nine
The dark figure was just standing there, head bowed, hands by his sides.
Geralt was frozen in place at the sight of the man, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Though the man just stood there, his menace emanated forth, unnerving Geralt to his core.
Then the shadow man moved, turning his hand outward to reveal a sword made of darkness that Geralt hadn't seen before, blended as it was against its black backdrop. At the same time, the man's head lifted, revealing empty sockets for eyes. Inside was a blizzard of light, stark white against the pitch black of the man's face.
Horrified, Geralt withdrew a step.
The phantom locked his eyes onto Geralt and stalked toward him at a measured pace.
It was all too much for Geralt. He turned and ran, clumsily tripping over his own feet in his haste. He stumbled and fell, scrambling backward on all fours before finally finding his feet again and taking off in earnest, only just managing to hold onto his sword. For whatever good it would do him.
Geralt checked back over his shoulder as he ran to measure his progress, but no matter how far or how fast he went, the phantom never lagged behind, even though he was moving at a mere walk.
Geralt faced forward again and stopped abruptly.
An endless tundra led into endless darkness. There was nowhere Geralt could go.
He would have to stand his ground. There was no other choice. He could run forever and never get away. He would have to face this foe eventually. It may as well be now. Before he wore himself out completely.
A little breathless, Geralt pivoted to face the encroaching specter, hands shaking at the prospect of what he must do.
Geralt was no warrior. Yet here he was, staring down an unknown enemy of unknown skill. Geralt had little illusion as to what would happen. He found it dubious that the phantom would be an amateur. And Geralt's own experience amounted to about an hour of swinging a sword wildly. But he supposed it was better to die fighting than be stabbed in the back as he ran away. So he kept himself in check, holding his sword up in front of him.
The man was only a few yards away now. He raised his sword, ready to attack.
Faster than Geralt was expecting, the phantom struck, covering the remaining distance between them in the blink of an eye. Geralt barely positioned his sword in time to gracelessly block the blow, taking the full impact of it down his arms and almost allowing his own blade to crash back into himself. Throwing himself backwards, Geralt dodged the next attack, raising his sword vertically to prepare for another incoming strike.
The phantom feinted, then struck half a second later, catching Geralt completely off guard. Geralt's blade was flicked to the side by its dark counterpart and, within the same breath, the man spun and bashed the pommel of his sword into the side of Geralt's head.
The move was unnecessary, contemptuous. He could have easily killed Geralt, but he hadn't. He was toying with Geralt. If the specter had had any perceivable facial features, Geralt thought he might be smirking.
As it was, Geralt was too preoccupied with the ringing in his ear and the throbbing reverberating through his skull to do anything but catch himself as he was flung to the ground. He drove his sword downward to break his fall, coming to a stop on one knee.
Something flashed before Geralt—an image of Ciri, frightened and worried, pinned beneath him.
Geralt flinched at the sight, shoving himself back to his feet. She had looked terrified of him, but he couldn't imagine why. Still, the idea of evoking such a reaction from Ciri sent guilt shivering through Geralt.
He didn't have any time to linger on the feeling though as the phantom closed in again. Geralt mustered his full concentration to fight the man off, but there just wasn't much he could do. Every time he would go to block or deflect or strike back, the shadow blade would inconceivably shift positions. Geralt couldn't tell if it was because of his lack of experience or if some sorcery was involved. Adding to the problem was the fluidity of the specter's form, which made it even harder to track his movements.
Increasingly, Geralt discerned he couldn't win this fight. He was just too inept, too slow. Utterly useless.
Finally, Geralt decided that he had to do something or he was undoubtedly going to die. So he went all out, wildly swinging his sword with as much speed and strength as he could muster. The tactic seemed to work initially. The phantom yielded a few steps, the first time he had even been driven back. But Geralt's strategy left him unwittingly vulnerable. What Geralt took as concession was merely the phantom biding his time, waiting for an opening.
He found it when Geralt raised his arms a little too far, hoping to cleave diagonally across his foe's body. With blinding speed, the phantom sliced across Geralt's midsection, blood spurting forth in the wake of his blade. Any deeper and Geralt would have been disemboweled.
Howling, Geralt dropped his sword, hunching over and clutching at his wound. The pain echoed through him, rustling up an image of a blood-coated knife clasped in his hand. As the image deepened, Geralt could feel steel dragging from his flesh, the knife tumbling onto sullied snow.
Geralt fought to remain upright, but he eventually collapsed to the ground, whimpering and writhing in pain. Blood gushed out over his hands as he tried to hold himself together.
Two shadowed boots stepped up to him. Looming over Geralt, the phantom finally spoke, derision apparent in his voice. "Give up, witcher. You are powerless against me."
For some reason, the voice was familiar to Geralt, stoking some intense loathing within him, though he couldn't place whose it was.
At first, Geralt thought it might be easier to concede. He was going to die anyway, he could feel the life draining from him with every passing second. Why fight the inevitable? Maybe this phantom would grant him a quick death and spare him the pain. He didn't know how much more he could take. Every breath, every miniscule movement was agony.
But, just as Geralt was prepared to give in, some untapped inner strength pulled him back from the brink of hopelessness, rebelled against the idea that he would allow himself to show such weakness. He wasn't going to die. Not like this. Not without a fight. He wasn't going to give this smug demon the satisfaction.
If he was going to stand a chance, he had to be better. He had to be more. The only way he would survive this encounter was to become this legend everyone kept telling him about. He needed to become this Geralt, this White Wolf.
It was the first time Geralt had ever genuinely wanted to be the man he supposedly was, the first time he had ever acknowledged that the myth was real. But it was also the first time he had needed it to be. It had to be true. And Geralt would have to make it so.
Or he would die.
Clenching his jaw against the pain and setting his mind to the task ahead, Geralt snatched up his sword and sprang to his feet, driving forward. Vicious snarls escaped Geralt's lips with every stroke, borne of both anguish and determination.
Stunned at Geralt's sudden resurgence, the phantom was forced backward. His eyes, empty as they were, contorted with anger and outrage.
Geralt kept up his barrage, somehow managing to keep the phantom on the defensive. After a while, it was as if his sword had a mind of its own, moving inexplicably into place. The strokes he employed resounded within him, a familiarity growing in his limbs. The fight moved into his understanding, but beyond it as well. He saw without seeing what the phantom was attempting to do and knew without knowing exactly what he needed to do to stop it. Geralt was by some means fluent in the language of swordplay and now the phantom was the one struggling.
Geralt laid out his onslaught, vying to win their spectral duel. Though the phantom never backed down, he was always a half step behind Geralt, always unprepared for what Geralt presented next, yet still capable enough to hold Geralt off.
The battle continued in dazzling displays of dexterity and agility, strength and speed, fortitude and will. Their blades clashed nonstop, the steel pealing across the frozen landscape.
Despite the pain building in his abdomen, Geralt pushed on, refusing to accept defeat. However, he could do nothing about the vast amount of blood he was losing. Geralt was slowing, opening up more and more opportunities for the phantom. The playing field leveled and the phantom was finally able to halt his retreat, actually striking back for the first time since Geralt had commenced his attack.
Geralt deflected the blow to the side, stepped around to the opposite side, and swung wide with a horizontal arc. Able to recover in time, the phantom caught Geralt's sword with his own slanted across his body. Geralt's blade slid down the opposing sword, stopping at the crossguard, the length of his blade just inches from the phantom's side. Geralt threw his weight onto his sword, but the phantom let his own blade fall, dropping out the crossguard from underneath Geralt's blade and sending it slashing to the ground. In the same movement, the phantom brought up his knee into Geralt's gaping wound as Geralt stumbled forward.
A thunderous roar ripped from Geralt at the explosion of pain. He doubled over instinctually, only just keeping from falling over.
Some sixth sense told Geralt to move and, with a monumental force of will, he pulled himself backward, tucking his sword in tight, pivoting to avoid the downward stroke that was aiming to cut off his head. It was so close that a lock of Geralt's ivory hair fell away onto the ice. As he completed his rotation, Geralt came out to the side of the phantom as his sword concluded its plunge through the air. Before the phantom could move, Geralt brought his sword down upon his arms, severing both above the wrist. Then, without any conscious thought, Geralt thrust out his hand and a torrent of flame streamed forth over the phantom's head and shoulders.
Piercing cries shattered the chill air.
The phantom frantically batted at the flames engulfing him, backing away. Geralt, meanwhile, slouched over his wounds, grunting at his own pain.
When the flames eventually died out, a mangled, disfigured face stared back at Geralt. The shadows had lifted, revealing a tortured face that displayed only bitterness and disdain. The nose was missing along with most of both ears. The phantom's two stumps had been cauterized as he had swatted at the flames and now stood as blackened, charred tips peeking out from ragged sleeves.
Instantly, Geralt recognized that face.
It was Endir.
At the sight of the sorcerer that had caused them all so much grief, Geralt's memories charged through his mind, indiscriminate in their order or scale. Decades of experiences and emotions hurtled back, churning within Geralt as he struggled to take them all in. But there were so many that Geralt couldn't keep up with them. Pain thundered through his head, magnifying with each new memory that shoved its way in. Geralt staggered, his sword slipping from his hand as he clutched at his head. His knees hit something cold and hard and Geralt realized he had fallen; he was so blinded by the pain that he hadn't noticed.
From among the deluge of memories competing for Geralt's attention, a few stood out above the rest, lingering just long enough for Geralt to identify them. He focused on them, grounding himself against the agony that threatened to split him open. He saw Ciri mostly, and Yen. Zoltan and Dandelion popped up as well. All of Geralt's friends, his family. Then came Kaer Morhen, and Vesemir and the others he had trained with, followed by endless battles, whether they were against human or monster. Next, Geralt saw countless cities and vistas, so many locations that he struggled to name them all. Last of all were the emotions, though they were infinitely more powerful than any sight or sound or smell that had come before. They stabbed into Geralt and he thought he truly would shatter as the scope of their full force overwhelmed him. They perforated his memories, tearing them apart, reordering them, but ultimately binding them all together.
Everything collided in a whirling vortex in Geralt's mind and once again he lost sight of everything but the pain, a burgeoning force that felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his skull.
After an eternity, the pain tapered off to the point where Geralt could begin to sift through what he had witnessed, what he had felt. Ever so slowly, Geralt pieced his life back together. As he did so, the pain in his head abated until he finally had a handle on who he was. By the time he opened his eyes, the pain was gone, and not just that in his head, but from the wound at his midsection as well. In fact, Geralt looked down to find that there was no wound at all.
It took a moment for Geralt to realize the magnitude of what had just occurred.
He was back. Geralt was finally back.
A tormented growl tore Geralt's attention back to the present, back to Endir who stood before Geralt, lip curling.
"You will never be free of me. You are mine," Endir ground out between his teeth, fuming at Geralt's perseverance.
Geralt glowered back at Endir, his lips quivering, hardly concealing the snarl that threatened to burst forth. Geralt's hand quested for his sword, his eyes never leaving Endir's. His fingers brushed cold steel and a sudden thrill surged through Geralt. He knew Endir was powerless, defenseless. If he could have done something, he would have done so already. There was nothing he could do to stop Geralt now.
They had defeated Endir once already. And Geralt was going to put an end to this charade once and for all.
When he picked up his sword and hauled himself to his feet, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken arose.
He gave Endir one last sneer. "Not anymore."
Endir bellowed as Geralt swung his blade savagely across Endir's shoulders, cleanly cutting off his head. Endir's snarling visage was frozen onto his face as his head rolled away.
The next moment, his body juddered and started collapsing into itself. Geralt stepped back in confusion, not sure what to make of the unexpected development. Endir's body jerkingly shrunk into its core, drawing to a single point. Once it had all but disappeared, the body imploded into a dazzling light. Geralt threw his arms over his face in an attempt to shield himself from its brilliance, but the light exploded outward, smothering all before it and throwing Geralt backward. It felt as though he were frozen in time, flying backward through the air and surrounded by nothing but blinding white light.
When he struck ground again, Geralt was on his back in the stable yard of the Chameleon.
Panting and momentarily stymied, Geralt shoved himself onto his elbows, searching around him, but finding no one but himself. He was drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his face. Across from him, the dummy was smoldering across the shoulders, its head decapitated. Geralt spotted the head at the dummy's feet, the burlap completely burned away, only a pile of charred straw left on the ground, still ablaze.
Then Dandelion's voice rang out from Geralt's left and he almost jumped at it.
"What in the world is going on out here!" Dandelion spotted the fire and quickly grabbed a bucket full of water near the door and chucked it on the straw to douse the flames. He turned back to Geralt and his face morphed from anger to concern, as if he had just noticed Geralt lying on the ground. "Are you alright? What happened?" he offered as he stepped toward Geralt. He took in the sword in Geralt's hand and gave Geralt a look that a parent would give to a small child when they were doing something too dangerous. "Look, I know the others wanted you to practice with your swords, but you could really hurt yourself. You need to be more careful."
Geralt didn't respond. He was still trying to process what had happened.
"Geralt?" Dandelion asked, now seemingly suspicious of the haunted look on Geralt's face. "You don't look so good. I think maybe you ought to come inside."
Suddenly, Geralt's mind caught up with reality and only one thought snapped into his head. He shot his eyes to Dandelion. "Dandelion, where's Ciri?" Geralt demanded urgently.
Dandelion was clearly caught off guard by Geralt's sudden request. "What? I…I don't know."
Geralt pulled himself to his feet and sheathed his sword. "I need to find her. Now." Geralt was trying to be patient, but his urgency made his words come out a bit rudely.
Dandelion held up his hands. "I'm sorry, Geralt. I don't know where she is. Maybe she went down to the docks?"
Geralt opened his mouth to reply, but Dandelion's mention of the docks revived a memory within Geralt and he ended up remaining silent. He dropped his gaze, plucking a memory from years ago from his newfound cache. The sight didn't go unnoticed by Dandelion who squinted at Geralt.
"Are you ok?" he asked again.
In response to the sound, Geralt looked up, but didn't bother answering. He simply took off running, the gate crashing open as he charged through it, Dandelion calling out after him.
"Wait! Where are you going?"
Feet pounding the cobblestone streets, Geralt raced out of the city, heading south. He had no way of knowing whether Ciri would be where he thought she was, but something told him she would, a connection that tied them together in some inexpressible way. A connection that, until a few minutes ago, had been severed. Now that it had snapped back into place, Geralt had to see her, for more reasons that even he knew.
He ran for hours, despite the burning in his legs and the massive stitch in his side. On his way, Geralt passed farmers and peasants and travelers, many confused by Geralt's haste, a few dashing to the side, thinking they were under attack. Geralt ignored them, focusing instead on the jubilant energy bubbling up within him.
He was free. He was finally free.
He rejoiced in using his body, in the feel of his legs steady beneath him. In the sights and sounds and smells he could review at his leisure. The world seemed more colorful, more alive than it had in a long time, like a dismal veil had been lifted from his eyes. A great peace settled over him.
Yet, for all his freedom, Geralt only had one thought on his mind, only one person he wanted to see. He let his feet carry him to her, the beauty of the world seemingly holding its breath in anticipation of their reunion.
All would be right once he found her.
When he spotted the faint trail through the trees that led directly to a small pond, Geralt finally slowed, allowing himself to catch his breath. The clearing was still half a mile or so down the trail. Geralt halted for a moment, finding himself suddenly nervous at what would happen. He remembered everything from the past few months, including what he had said to her, how she had felt about him after that. He didn't know how she was going to react.
Nevertheless, Geralt set forth along the trail at a walk, steeling himself against any possibility. He was just coming around a bend when he spotted raven curls bouncing around an ivory face, violet eyes sparkling underneath.
Those eyes wandered to Geralt's and Yen stopped in her tracks.
She knew, Geralt could tell. Without him saying a word, she knew. He drew up to her, but still he held his silence, the trees pressing in on their intimate moment.
Yen studied him for a moment, then asked, longingly, "Geralt?"
He slowly dipped his head.
An enormous sigh of relief emanated from Yen's lips and tears pooled in her eyes. Neither of them said anything. Rather, they shared the emotions between them as they played out across both of their faces.
Finally, Geralt broke the silence. "Where is she?" he asked calmly.
The elation and relief on Yen's face turned sorrowful and she looked to her left, along the trail where she had come from.
With one last glance at Yen, Geralt continued on, feeling Yen's eyes following him down the trail, though she stayed where she was. He walked another five minutes before he came around the final bend and the trail opened up to a clearing surrounded by trees, a quaint pond situated in the middle. Lily pads coated the surface of the water and tall reeds stuck out along the banks. The sounds of the frogs, crickets, and birds radiated toward Geralt, seeking to settle his racing heart. The late afternoon sun was falling from the sky, nearing the tree line. Its reflection struck across the still water, leading directly toward the decrepit dock. And there, seated at the very edge of it, was Ciri.
She sat with one leg dangling and the other pulled up next to her, her arm wrapped around it and head resting on her knee. She stared off into the distance, unaware that Geralt stood behind her.
He came to a halt at the other end of the dock, not wanting to intrude so fully. "Ciri," he said softly.
Ciri startled at his voice, sniffing loudly and half turning to face him. When she saw him from the corner of her eye, she turned back to face the water and hurriedly wiped her eyes as if embarrassed that Geralt had found her in such a state. She snuffled a few more times and cleared her throat before she spoke. "I'm sorry, Geralt. I just need to be alone right now. Let's talk tomorrow, alright?"
Geralt's heart plummeted at her words, but he didn't move. "Please, Ciri. Please just look at me," he begged, his voice catching in his throat.
A moment passed and Ciri took in a deep breath through her nose, letting it out in a sigh before she visibly composed herself. He shifted restlessly while she pulled herself together and stood.
When she finally turned and met his gaze, his fidgeting ceased. Both of them stood stock still, their gazes piercing each other.
In Ciri's eyes Geralt saw a hardness struggling to conceal something raw underneath, an old wound that was festering and eating her alive. He saw a great sadness and a distance that he had never seen from her before. Above it all, though, there sparkled a kindling of hope, however faint it may have been.
As they remained motionless, a question lingered in her gaze, but it was driven down by some unwillingness to let herself believe what was in front of her. Her eyes searched his face while the world held its breath around them.
Geralt knew she had been aching for this moment for a long time. They both had.
He wasn't going to leave her waiting any longer.
Before Ciri could say anything, Geralt spoke. "I remember. I remember everyth—"
Ciri crashed into him, cutting off his words, pressing her forehead into his chest as shuddering sobs racked her body. He returned her embrace, fiercely wrapping his arms around her and holding her, closing his eyes in a sudden gasp of relief.
"I missed you so much," her muffled wail came from his shoulder.
Geralt breathed her in, rejoicing in their embrace, but also lamenting her distress. "I missed you too. But it's all over now. Endir's gone. For good this time," he soothed into her hair. And for the first time, he believed it himself.
She pulled back and peered red and puffy eyes up at him, her cheeks slick with tears. Her brows creased in confusion. "What do you mean?"
Geralt huffed a laugh, breaking into a smile. "It doesn't matter. I'll explain later."
Ciri remained confused for a second before she seemed to dismiss the matter, echoing Geralt's smile. She buried herself in his chest once more, though her sobbing had ceased, and Geralt held her there, sharing in her need to be close.
As they embraced, Yen came around the corner and stopped, tears in her eyes, but a smile on her face.
They stood there for a long while, basking in each other's presence, breathing in the shared joy and sadness and peace. They were simply content to be near each other, content to be whole. For however long they could keep it.
Geralt had been such a fool. He had had all the opportunities in the world to possess what they shared now. He could have been with Ciri when this had all started, perhaps could have even prevented it from happening. But he had chosen to stay away. And for what? Despite recovering his memories, he couldn't even recall what he had been doing the weeks before Ciri had called out to him in his dreams.
He had been wasting his life away from his friends and family. Wasting his life with death and destruction, when there was peace and love so close at hand.
And by the time he had realized it, it had almost been too late. Endir had almost taken it from him.
It had been a long road back, but Geralt had finally made it. Miraculously, they all had.
He wasn't going to take another moment for granted, wasn't going to let the precious memories slip through his grasp when he needed merely to reach out and take them. He had to gather them while he still could.
Nothing could last forever. He knew he would have to leave Novigrad at some point, would have to continue on the Path. And Ciri would as well. She was blossoming into a capable young woman. Soon, she too would go off on her own adventures.
Geralt didn't know what the future held; he didn't know what forces might seek to tear them apart, be them sinister or benign. But right then, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but that moment. A moment of reconnection. A moment of rightness in the world after so much had gone wrong. Geralt knew well enough that those moments were few. That they had to be held onto and cherished.
So Geralt held onto Ciri, held onto her for as long as he could.
It didn't seem like much. Not after all that had happened. But, for Geralt, it was everything. He couldn't ask for more.
For the tiniest, fleeting moment, it was enough.
Epilogue
It had been a month or so now since Geralt had recovered his memory and Ciri still couldn't help but smile every time she saw him. Sometimes, she would fear that his return had been nothing but a hopeful dream, that she would wake up and he would have lost his memory again. But then he would bark at Dandelion for his usual nonsense, or sling a sarcastic quip at Yen, earning a withering look in return, and Ciri would laugh inwardly, sighing in relief at the same time.
She sought out his company eagerly and he was more than happy to oblige, his need seemingly matching hers.
They went riding into Velen quite a bit, swords strapped to their backs, packs laden with supplies enough for a few days' travel. Whenever they found a good place to stop, they would tether their horses and practice with their swords, only stopping when the light grew too faint for Ciri to see. Sometimes not even then. Ever the teacher, Geralt wanted Ciri to be able to fight in the dark. She didn't mind, of course. She relished any chance she got to train with Geralt and not just because he was a good teacher.
When they finished, they would lay back in the grass and watch the stars, not bothering to start a fire until it was so cold neither one of them could stand it. Most of the time, they wouldn't even sleep, instead talking until the sunrise painted the landscape. They would be so tired by then that they would hurry back to Novigrad and their warm beds, turning their return trip into a race. Which, of course, Ciri always won.
They continued their little adventures until the season turned and it was too cold to be enjoyable anymore. The leaves had all fallen, the sound of boots crunching through piles of browning foliage pervading the city. The air turned nippy—a warning of winter's swift approach.
Ciri couldn't believe it had been almost a year now since Geralt had been taken. Almost a year since she had thought she had lost him for good.
By some whim of fate, he had come back to them. And miraculously all in one piece.
It hadn't been an easy road. Looking back, Ciri knew she had made many mistakes along the way. There were so many things she wished she could do over. But none of that mattered now. All she could do was learn from them and move on.
It had all worked out in the end.
When the first snows came, Geralt announced he was going to stay through the winter, a decision which Ciri was thankful for. She wasn't ready to say goodbye to him. Not yet. Though she knew he couldn't stay forever.
Even Yen had stated her intentions to stay, citing her desire to keep an eye on Geralt, to make sure everything was alright with him mentally. Yen said that Geralt's case was one of a kind and the study of it could prove useful for future incidents reported within the Lodge.
That's what Yen said, but Ciri knew she was lying. She, like Ciri, just couldn't help but want to be near Geralt right now.
Truly, Ciri treasured every moment she spent with him.
Then, one particularly cold night, when no one wanted to venture from their houses and the Chameleon lay silent, all five companions gathered around the roaring fire. Dandelion, naturally, placed himself next to the mantel and dove into one of his stories. As it often was, it was some adventure he and Geralt had shared, though somehow the details always seemed to change.
"So there I was," Dandelion began dramatically, "sleeping peacefully in our campsite when I hear a bloodcurdling scream coming from behind me. I sprang out of bed, instantly awake, scanning the darkness for trouble. Another scream broke through the silence, and suddenly I realized that Geralt was gone, though his swords still lay by the dying fire."
Geralt was rolling his eyes by now, though Dandelion was undeterred. Ciri sniggered to herself.
"Snatching them up, I raced through the trees, breaking out onto the shores of a lake. By the grace of the gods, it was a full moon that night and I could see easily through the gloom. It was a good thing too because before me was Geralt beset by no less than ten drowners. He had gone to relieve himself, you see. He had had a little too much to drink that night," Dandelion added as a sidebar, speaking from behind the back of his hand. Getting back to the main storyline, he puffed out his chest. "Without pausing for a moment or even considering what danger I would be putting myself in, I charged forward, leveling a savage war cry as I—"
"Come on, Dandelion. Do you honestly expect anyone to believe that?" Geralt cut in, exasperated. "Why can't you just tell the story like it actually happened?"
"Sometimes we artists have to take certain liberties to entertain the crowd, to make things more exciting. Someone as dull as yourself wouldn't understand that," Dandelion countered haughtily, placing his hands on his hips.
Ciri could tell that Geralt was getting annoyed and she, Zoltan, and Yen all exchanged glances of suppressed mirth at Geralt and Dandelion's banter.
Geralt raised his eyebrows incredulously. "More exciting?" he drawled. "Because I suppose it's more exciting that you were doing the rescuing, rather than the screaming? As far as I remember, you were puking your guts out while the drowners snuck up on you."
Dandelion violently pointed his finger at Geralt. "You were just as drunk as I was that night," he snapped back, dropping the pretense out of indignation.
"Yeah, but some of us had the good sense not to wander off in the dark without bringing some kind of protection."
Dandelion regained some of his air of confidence. "So you were out in the woods! No doubt to relieve yourself as I said."
"I was out looking for you!" Geralt growled, throwing a hand toward Dandelion. "I heard your screaming and came running. And there were only three drowners, I might add."
Dandelion balked at Geralt's comment and looked at him like he were an amateur. "Why would you want to downplay how many drowners there were? You always embellish a story in its retelling. That's just a given." He ended with a look of derision slung in Geralt's direction.
Geralt crossed his arms. "Some of us don't feel the need to exaggerate the truth," he threw back offhandedly.
Ciri was barely containing herself at this point, hiding her smile behind her hand as her shoulders shook with bouts of laughter. She looked at Geralt as he continued to squabble with Dandelion and for some reason the conversation they had had when he had asked if she was happy came flitting back to her.
She hadn't really thought about that conversation much since then. So much had happened, so much had changed, that it had gotten pushed to the back of her mind. It hadn't really seemed important.
Now her eyes roved around the room—to Geralt, arguing with Dandelion. To some people the argument might seem heated, but Ciri knew it was all friendly, that Geralt did it just as much to egg Dandelion on as to mitigate his own annoyance; to Dandelion, giving just as much as he got with Geralt; to Zoltan, chuckling as he took stock of his Gwent cards in the corner; to Yen and her wry smile as she watched the display.
As Ciri thought back to that question Geralt had asked her so long ago, she took in the sight of her friends, her family, and smiled.
And felt as though she finally had an answer.
THE END
I've really been wanting to do a story with Ciri for a while now, especially after my last story which looked into the ramifications of Ciri's death. If Geralt was that affected by Ciri's death, then how would that manifest itself while she was still alive? (Although these timelines are not connected in any way). How far would he be willing to go to save her? I'm going to be honest and say that I was actually planning on having him die at the end of this (that was long before I ever started actually writing because I always run the whole story through my head until I'm satisfied with it before I ever put anything down). But I changed the ending because A.) I admittedly just couldn't bring myself to do it (though I was still willing to if I couldn't come up with anything better), and B.) I fell in love with this ending more than his death. And I hope you agree! I did consider doing a choose your own adventure kind of thing, but that's not really my style so I dismissed it. Anyway, thank you so much for sticking with me through it all and for all your amazing comments! I really hope you found it worth your while! Please leave a comment to let me know what you thought of it. Any feedback is always appreciated!
