Consciousness greeted Geralt with a pounding headache. The witcher put a hand to his throbbing head and tried to sit up, finding the task difficult with the ground heaving. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he was finally upright.
Leaning back against the damp wood, he listened to the sound of distant footsteps, waves breaking against the ship's hull, and the ever-constant creaking of wood. Despite Geralt's diminished sense of smell, a salty brine was thick in the air and seemed to cling to everything.
He opened his eyes. Moonlight filtered through criss-crossed wooden slats, leaving little squares of silver light against the brig's paneled floor. Heavy iron bars ran from floor to ceiling, separating the witcher from the rest of the hull. To his right sat another cell. Empty.
"Not what you were expecting?"
"What part? The prison cell?" The witcher shrugged even if Cregennan couldn't see the action. "I suspected as much when I drew my sword on Regis."
"No…"
"Then what?" Geralt said with mild irritation. But they both knew what Cregennan meant, what Geralt had been thinking about for the past while; how he felt betrayed by those he trusted - those he tried to distance so they wouldn't get involved, those that he wouldn't be able to keep… alive.
"Your regret is eating away at you." The concern in Cregennan's voice was painted with hints of sadness.
Geralt couldn't think of a way to respond. Of a way to guard his fears from the unintended guest in his head. So, he remained silent, his thoughts equally so.
"Vesemir's death weighs heavily on your mind, even though there was nothing you could have done. Do you regret your choices that led to that outcome?"
"Every day."
Cregennan paused, as if weighing a monumental decision, before speaking again. "Do you wish you could alter Vesemir's fate?"
Now it was Geralt's turn to pause. What was Cregennan after? What admission could Geralt give that the spirit didn't already know?
Cregennan remained uncharacteristically quiet to these questions, perhaps waiting until Geralt gave him a proper response.
Barely above a whisper, Geralt gave his answer. "Of course."
"What if there was a way to go back, knowing what you know now? As you are now?"
Geralt quirked a brow, his curiosity somewhat stirred. "What are you getting at?"
"My beloved, Lara… you have heard of the elder blood, yes?"
Oh, Geralt had heard of it all right. It was the very same blood that flowed through Ciri – Lara Dorren's blood. The cursed blood that had drawn the Wild Hunt to Ciri in the first place.
"I had studied her power, her ability to leap through space and time. I thought of how to confine that gift of hers to just one point in space, but infinite places in time. I was young, curious and so very foolish. I had tampered with something I should never have, thinking of only its academic applications. It had not occurred to me what other uses it might have."
"You were successful?"
"Extraordinarily so. Not only could I send a living person into the past, but the small changes I had made were permanent."
"Permanent, meaning…?"
"An altered design on the tapestry of fate. By using my soul as an anchor, if you will, I created a protective space which would isolate a traveler from the altered time… a precaution as it were to prevent the manipulated past from unraveling destiny completely."
"And that is what Skj'aera is after?"
"Precisely. Our enemy hopes to undo the mistakes of their ancestors. To prevent the blight – what they consider the human race – from ever getting a foothold."
It took awhile, but amid the gentle sway of the ship, Geralt found his voice again. "This thing you created. Would it work as they hope?"
"Exactly as they hope."
"And you're the key?"
"Unfortunately."
At least Geralt now knew why he was being pursued. He sighed. Part of him had already known. The dream he had seen so many nights ago now; it hadn't been a dream, but rather Cregennan's memory.
"The gate. Where…" The sound of footsteps approaching from above deck interrupted Geralt's question.
A figure emerged into the warm circle of a single candle. "Hey Geralt." As always, the poet was dressed in vibrant colors.
"Dandelion."
"You doing alright?" The troubadour asked tentatively, the white feather in his equally garish cap bobbing with the motion of his head.
Not bothering to stand for his visitor, the witcher responded. "What do you think?"
"Right, dumb question…" Dandelion glanced at the iron bars as if seeing them for the first time. "Red's a new look for you."
"Why are you here Dandelion?" Geralt intended to sound more irritated than he did, but he was tired – exhausted from just about everything.
Always keen to hear his own voice, Dandelion happily replied, "Oh you know, just checking on how my best pal is doing. You wouldn't believe the wonders the ship's cook can come up with. Just the other…"
"Dandelion." Interrupted Geralt. "Why. Are. You. Here?"
The witcher's tone had no effect on the troubadour, Dandelion knew Geralt too well to be fazed by his attitude. "I was worried Geralt. We all are. Heck, Ciri would be here with me if she weren't so concerned about you being mad with her for abandoning her duties…"
"I'm not mad at her…" Just disappointed.
"I know that. But I don't think she does…"
"What about the others?"
"Well, Yennefer along with Ciri, Lambert, and Keira are giving us a day's head start before teleporting to Skellige. Your new friend Olgierd sworn off magic for good so he's on the ship with you, and Regis said any further teleportation would do horrible things to his constitution, so I'm guessing he's here as well." Dandelion looked down at the fingers he'd been counting off on trying to determine if there was anyone he forgot to mention. After a moment, he shrugged then swung his arms idly by his side.
"So now what? You going to let me out of here?"
"You know I'd love to Geralt, but I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because you're still asleep."
Before Geralt could ask what the poet meant, another voice filled the space. "I'm afraid so. It took a bit to figure it out myself." The voice was unmistakable, as it shared headspace with the witcher for so long.
"Cregennan?" The appearance of the cloaked mage surprised Geralt, more so in that he finally had a face to put to the voice in his head.
The man nodded, his hood slipping from his head to reveal a tight crop of brown curls and bright hazel eyes. "It would appear so." A mischievous smirk, so reminiscent of Ciri's own, was set on his angular features. The man knelt in front of Geralt's cell and wrapped a hand around one of its bars.
The witcher eyed the mage with mild curiosity. "So you're not really here either?"
"Oh, I am. I must hand it to that vampire fellow. The stuff he knocked you out with knocked me clear unconscious as well. All for the better really."
"Meaning?"
"My magical signature should be harder to trace now – that and the change in boats halfway to our destination should buy us ample time to prepare."
"Wait," Geralt pulled himself away from the ship's wooden wall. "If you're unconscious too, then how do you know what's going on?"
"The same way you do, I suppose. You may be sleeping but your ears are still working, though I guess from your standpoint it's much more subconscious."
"Dandelion's not 'here' as well is he?"
"No. Mentioned something Priscilla being with child. He did however help arrange for the transportation."
The fake Dandelion nodded his head and looked faintly solemn as if acknowledging that the world had lost a great lover.
The news caught the witcher off guard. "Congrats I guess," he said to Dandelion, quickly turning his attention back to Cregennan. "But then why's he here?" Geralt jabbed a thumb in the poet's direction.
"Perhaps you needed someone to talk to."
The witcher grunted then leaned back against the wall.
The mage stood, and pulled up his hood. "I'll leave you two alone. You have some time before you'll be waking up anyway. Who knows, it might even be… therapeutic."
XxxxX
This time, when Geralt awoke, he found he was not in fact in the ship's brig, but on hammock in the ship's sleeping quarters. He did, however, still have a pounding headache.
"Careful – you're not completely clear of the dwale. I may have misjudged to dosage slightly." Regis' voice sounded apologetic, despite every word grinding against the witcher's eardrums.
"Not s'loud." Geralt slurred in his partially drugged state, instantly regretting opening his mouth as his own voice wasn't much quieter.
"Ah. I should have something to help with that issue." This time Regis' voice came was softer. After a brief period of bottles clinking and rustling dried herbs and paper packets, Regis offered the witcher a scrap of tree bark. "White willow. For the headache," he explained briefly, as Geralt took the small piece and popped it into his mouth, chewing on the rough bark.
Within minutes the pain lessened, and Geralt spat out the soggy remnants. "Thanks."
Regis nodded, then rose from the barrel he sat on. "We will be arriving soon."
"Right." With a grunt, Geralt rose from the hammock - well, tried to rise – and instead spilled out of it to the floor below.
"Would you like some assistance?" inquired Regis, his head looming into Geralt's view of the decking above.
Reluctantly, Geralt accepted Regis' extended hand. Not a word was exchanged between them as Geralt brushed the dirt from his pants when he was finally upright.
On wobbly legs, Geralt made it up to the top deck, taking in the view of Kaer Trolde's bustling harbor from the ship's rail.
"Trade's been doing well as of late," added Regis' voice to the general clamor of the nearby sailors preparing the ship for docking.
"Mhm," agreed Geralt, noting that the pier was significantly less active during his prior visit. "Cerys knows what she's doing. Always has."
"Perhaps, but if the tales are to be believed; you had a hand in getting her on the throne."
"Mmm." It was either her or her hot-headed brother.
"You might not realize it Geralt, but many are indebted to you. You have allies – friends even."
The witcher turned to look at the vampire. "And where do you fall? If I remember, things didn't exactly work out for both you and Dettlaff." Breaking eye contact, Geralt looked back over the water and sighed.
Regis shifted, adjusting his satchel. His gaze moved to the people busying themselves along the pier. "You at least gave him a chance to confront Syanna. That's more than I could have asked for. It was his rage that blinded him and caused his…," the vampire paused, then glanced back at Geralt, "…untimely demise. I don't see how you could have done any different given the circumstances."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"Geralt, that night I had to make a choice: honor my blood-brother's judgment, or save an old friend. You know the result of that decision. You know where I stand."
Geralt remained silent, his fingers curling around the wooden railing.
Regis leaned back. "Well, enough talk. I think they're setting out the gangplank. I see our escort waiting on the pier."
"Great," muttered the witcher, as he caught sight of the Hjalmar an Craite, the man's left arm wrapped with the red and black colors of his clan. Geralt envied the man's heavy fur-lined gambeson, as Skellige's infamously cold mountain wind hit the ocean spray still clinging to his body.
XxxxX
Olgierd met up with Regis and Geralt on the gangplank, the once-immortal just stepping away from a rather rowdy game of gwent. A trail of insults and thrown bottles followed after him.
"You're certainly popular," Geralt couldn't help commenting, as a brown glass bottle nearly collided with his head.
Olgierd made a dismissive noise. "Just a bunch of sore losers. They'll get over it," he said, pocketing his engorged coin-pouch.
XxxxX
"Geralt. Good t' see ye again. Yer sorceress weren' kidding 'bout the red hair. Doubt they'd be able to call you white wolf after this," teased Hjalmar, each of the large man's meaty hands returning to rest on his sides. "Friends o' yours?" he asked, gesturing to the men following behind the witcher.
"Ah, yes… Regis…," Geralt replied, nodding towards the vampire, "and Olgierd," he added, nodding similarly towards the once-immortal.
"Well friends of the Geralt's are friends of mine." Hjalmar clasped his hands together. "As much as I enjoy shootin' the breeze wit' ye, we'd better be headin' up to the keep. I think the ladies are gettin' a wee bit antsy."
