The Witcher: A Deep Mark
Chapter 6.
Ciri was hovering above the world, high above the surface which wallowed in its own gangrenous muck. Ever so briefly, she was free as a bird, afar from crimes borne of despair and wickedness alike, away from any and all wailing, weeping, roaring and screams. It was strangely refreshing, enthralling even - ignorance is bliss, or so have sages said. She felt at ease, and looking upwards, ever higher, she felt the very stars themselves were within her reach, their glitter gracing the sky solely to entertain her. She could glimpse into infinity, across spheres; the fabric of the cosmos itself was opening ripe before her eyes, offering adventures and thrills she never even dreamt of.
It was a charming opportunity. Just another step through the unseen barrier seperating her from the outer space and she'll leave the mire of her home behind - a wretched little speck of dust suspended in broken beams of light. One last step, and she will ascend into some great vastness. Yet as she reached her hands out, she became hesitant; as her fingertips touched the emptyness between worlds, it was not freedom that she felt, but frozen indifference that chilled her to the bone. She pondered if this was a malignant trickery, some enigmatic magic to keep her senses deceived, discourage her from crossing this threshold - or whether she was in the right to have doubts; that her place was never meant to be there, amidst the sterile, uncaring aeons, opening her mind to secrets that would cut her being asunder like flaying knives.
Powerful as she was, she was facing up to a sad truth. She looked downwards, accepting what she saw - the pestilential plains, the bellowing oceans, the slowly eroding hills, the earth-shredding mountains, the withering forests, the hellish duneseas and ice-covered necrotic lands. This is where she came from, and like it or not, this is where beings close to her heart dwell, despite all the madness and disdain. Who is she then, truly, to reject and dismiss their struggles?
This was on her mind when, through the misty clouds, she beheld something. One grain of sand in human shape, one out of millions, yet it had a distinct pair of eyes like glaciers in a blizzard. It was not the ghastly swordsman, Leo Bonhart; not the lunatic megalomaniac Vitzgefort; not the putrid hearted king of the Wild Hunt, Eredin. She had put them all behind her; this was someone else. As soon as she recognized him, she felt less like a bird, and more like a falling meteor; the world reclaimed its hold on her. She closed her eyes, bracing herself. Yet the landscape accepted her arrival gently, without impact. The weights of fear dripped from her eyelashes, and at last, she dared to see.
It wasn't at all what she expected; she was deep down dark, below the earth's skin, in a dank womb of darkness and decay. She heard muffled crying, beholding a child in a corner; a boy, not much older than six, maybe seven winters at best. He was alone, around him nothing but skeletal remnants of those like him. He no longer wanted to live; he was a last survivor, envying the dead. Ciri wanted to comfort him, but she could not speak; she was never there. She never met that child. She never stood in that wound in the ground, as the child pleaded the wind to creep down and sweep him away.
Someone approached, all of sudden; his cat eyes and medallion spoke clearly of his occupation, as did the head of a wight upon his trophy hood, ruptured by silver as it was. The child saw him, and there was uncertainty in his eyes whether he just exchanged one tormentor for another. The answer came without words; the man picked him up with one arm, letting him cry on his shoulder as he carried him home.
Ciri followed after them; there was something about the whole scene that was eerily inviting, like chapters from a story book, urging for the pages to be turned. Next thing she knew, the child was back home, but he felt no joy at the sight of his own parents. Perhaps he did once, long before he grew up; but that memory was as distant as it was corrupted by contempt. Soon, she learned why. The witcher demanded payment; there was none. He invoked a law that Ciri was familiar with. For a moment, the couple were hesitant; the witcher dislodged the wight's head from his hook, his voice as dead in Ciri's dream as it was in life: - "Deals should be honored." - that was all he said; the man and woman handed their child over.
She turned the pages of the boy's life in her mind. Three years passed, until the witcher lay on the ground, in the same way he was born: in a pool of blood. He found his end not by the claws of some rancid beast, but at the hands of hateful mortals. The child was claimed by a monk who roused a rabble to violence; he bore the mark of an eternally blazing fire, and wished to invoke it within the boy as well. He never succeeded; not truly. The child would hold onto a memento from the witcher: his medallion. Looking at his reflection within it, he remembered the one and only lesson he learned: his fate would never be of his own decision. Perhaps it was because of this deeply rooted belief, or a cruel twist of fortune, but fate has proven him right.
Ciri couldn't resist the temptation. She was skimming the days, weeks, months, years. She saw faces and names; Jacque de Aldersberg. Stregobor. Azar Javed. Radovid. Caleb Menge. With each name and face came scars, disfigurement, graying hair, gritted teeth, and bloodsoaked hands. Then came silence and nothingness - this empty shell of man, used like a tool passed between one handler to the next, had no goals to live for. No aspirations. He was a corpse within already, even though he never, ever lived, not as he would have wanted to in his most buried, treasured moments of daydreaming fantasies. He was in a tavern, like so many others whom history seldom remembers; he cursed his fate plentifully, each lashing of tongue spitting vocal poison around him. But it was his last, venomless wish that brought him ruination.
Someone has heard it, and everything was frozen in stillness - save for the time-strained child and his new, kindly benefactor. He was a baldly shaven, middle-aged man who listened to his woes. He smiled a sincere smile as the elderly boy emptied his soul before him; his eyes were a couple of dead suns, and the motionless shadow that sat beside him was not of a man at all. Ciri tilted her head quizzically. She felt at once repulsed, yet overwhelmingly compelled to take a closer look at him, when all too unexpectedly, the man glanced at her.
She could not bear it longer than a fraction of a second, forcefully pushing the phantom image aside, moving towards the culmination of the boy's life, rapidly moving the pages of time, hoping she will never meet that strange man's gaze again. She blinked in surprise; at the end of it all, she was back in the village, where she took the contract for the Nekkers. The aged boy strolled in with grim determination, knowing full well what must be done. He asked about Ciri from the locals, but his attire and demenaor did not earn him cooperation, only scorn. Some mocked his looks; others said he would bring ill seasons with the stare of his evil eyes. A few threatened to hurt him for just being there, saying he was scaring the kids and their wives. He took it all in stride, until he found a bunch of good-for-nothing dregs, amongst them someone with an orange, feathered hat, who were banding together with a singular intention: they would subdue the witcheress, so the villagers would not have to pay. They needed each and every coin for winter, and the self-interested young noble who coerced them promised good payment for having the exotic girl and her unique weapons granted to him.
A red mist descended on the newcomer's mind. When it lifted, he was alone, like once, in a cave. He pulled off a glove, looking at his palm; Ciri leaned closer, seeing a brand that was unfamiliar. The boy, now a man, pulled back the heavy leather, picking up the chain and cuff which the villagers prepared for her. Ciri's eyes met those of a bounty hunter.
"Deals should be honored." - Mangler said to her, and strapped the cuff on her neck.
Ciri woke up reeling and gasping.
She needed a minute to regain her composure. She was in the place where they took shelter after the boat ride last night: in a dirty, forsaken hovel near the riverbank, a couple beams missing from the roof overhead, letting a few meager sunrays to shine through. She was resting on the floor with some rags they took from the bandits serving as her pillow and blanket. Mangler was sleeping on the other side of the single room the were forced to share, snoring like a pig on a wooden bedframe which was barely covered by some textiles anymore. Iorveth was nowhere to be seen; perhaps he stood guard, or just preferred to sleep in open space. Ciri sighed, massaging her forehead. Her mind was hazy from that weird dream - too many images and voices, most of them fleeting, but there were a number of impressions which lingered within her still.
She crept closer to Mangler, who was busy dreamlessly wasting away, one of his arms having fallen off the bed, resting against the floorbeams. Ciri tilted her head, trying to recall some detail from her vivid dream. Was it his left hand, or his right? In all honesty, in any other situation, she would have dismissed the entire nightmare as a heap of rubbish nonsense. But her previous dream carried hints of truth as well - such as figuring out they were headed for Hanged Man's Tree, at any rate. After a brief moment of hesitation, she reached out and gently started to pull the glove off...
...only to find a knife at her throat the very next moment, her looted gambeson grabbed onto by the hand she sought to undress, and Mangler's blood-shot eyes staring at her face. The dagger was much like a small-scale version of Mangler's sword, serrated on the lower half and all. Ciri let out a meek squeal, but before she could muster the will and force to counterattack, Mangler let go of her already. He was breathing heavily. - "Gods damn you, you sword-addict harlot, startling me like that!" - he complained. - "I could have killed you by accident!" - he glimpsed down on his hand, noticing his glove slid off, and Ciri was holding it. - "What were you trying to do?" - he questioned her.
"I, uh..." - Ciri was uncertain whether she should explain, and instead came up with something else instead: - "I was planning to cut your throat in your sleep and run off. I just wanted a trophy first."
"Cut my throat." - Mangler tilted his head. - "With no knife?"
Ciri held up her hands, fingers outstretched. - "I have nails."
"Under gloves, like mine." - Mangler pointed it out.
"Because they are sharp." - Ciri bent her fingers, imitating claws, putting up a grimace for full effect. - "Like a striga's. Rawr."
Mangler sat up, barely able to hide his amusement. - "Then you are the most adorable maneater I have ever met." - he took notice of the Sun's meager rays shining through the holes above; it was fairly early morning. Mangler sighed, sliding the dagger back to its place, in a hidden sheath in his left boot, and massaged his back; he slightly strained the back muscles with this sudden outlash.
Ciri stood up, walking to her side of the hovel, untying her hair and fixing it up. - "I want to talk a while." - she stated.
The bounty hunter shrugged his shoulders. - "What am I, your next substitute father?" - he grunted.
"Well, provided you can kill Geralt, I'm going to need a new one anyhow." - Ciri responded nonchalantly, thoroughly certain that was not going to happen. - "Since I woke you up and all, we might as well pass the time. Where is the elf, for instance?"
"Sent him out scouting." - Mangler said - "I have another acquaintance in these parts. Trustworthy, but bit of a moron, if you get my drift. Iorveth is out to meet up with him. He's easy to track, so to say. Even if he lost directions, our scoia'tael friend will find him."
Ciri looked at him curiously. Another addition to her escort? The repulsive bounty hunter was full of surprises, but she decided not to ask for details. She'll see the man for himself when the time comes. - "I see. How are your wounds?" - Ciri inquired, noticing his leg bandage needed a change.
"It is completely hopeless. I'm going to live. Sorry to disappoint you." - Mangler smirked, albeit with a slight pain distorting his smile. - "We might as well make breakfast." - with that said, he knelt down, plucking his finger into a gaping hole on the floor wood, and pulled a plank up entirely, pulling up a small but elongated metal chest from a hole carved under the floorbeams, revealing a cache of vodka, dark brown bread, pickled vegetables and dried meat. Seeing Ciri's dumbfounded expression, Mangler explained himself: - "I planned ahead." - he opened up a vodka bottle and downed a few gulps, before speaking to Ciri again: - "Well, don't just stand there. I won't get much more talkative on an empty stomach. Get the fireplace burning and some sticks to put the bread and meat on. Hop to it!"
Ciri folded her arms defiantly. - "How dare you order me around, knave! I am a princess, remember? Do the chores yourself. You abducted me without consent, the least you could do is treat me with hospitality. I deserve to be spoiled." - she retorted.
"One more word out of her majesty's mouth, and I won't feed her naught but scraps." - Mangler answered, his tone indicative of his increasingly foul mood. Ciri left, muttering some besmirching remarks. Mangler looked after her as she exited and slammed the door of the hovel behind her, causing a piece of the wood-beetle eaten doorframe to yield and fall down cracking. Mangler furrowed his eyebrows; just what in the blazes is on that woman-child's mind, to play around him like they are close compatriots or indulged in some similarly shitty kind of relationship? As much as he liked the fact he could get her to follow him of her own volition, this was suspiciously too much progress after a single day, especially in light of the first impression he left on her.
At any rate, Ciri complied. The hovel's fireplace was set alight, and after Mangler grabbed a few bites and another swing of vodka, Ciri could see he was loosening up a bit, the cold morning's breeze left behind. She took the chance at striking up a conversation that she wanted to have since she woke up: - "Listen... I think I realized something. You lied to me, bounty hunter. About more than one thing."
"Oh, my." - Mangler grimaced. - "Is that so? Truly, I am irredeemable. And you are hopelessly guillable to believe men like me always say the truth. But I guess that's what makes you endearing!" - he laughed with a mouthful of bacon at his crude remark.
Ciri gazed at her with an unphased, stoic expression. She would not be let astray by his antics. - "Pardon me. I phased it in the wrong way. You didn't so much as lie, but purposefully presented thruths in a perplexing manner. Take for instance, those villagers you killed. They didn't object to your intention because they disagreed with it. Did they?"
Mangler was chewing on the bread when Ciri's question hit his ears; awkwardly, he stopped, as if contemplating what she was on about. He swallowed the piece, then spoke to her: - "There was some rich brat of a bard in there. You fascinated him. Tickled his fancy. He wanted to have you. He had money, and the village had greedy field-hands. When I showed up, I inquired after you. The bard made me an offer, too. Those swiwel-coated whoresons he previously bartered with got temperamental, saying I was going to ruin the deal they were making. I told them all I wasn't interested and that they can plough themselves. I had my own reasons to catch you, remember? I don't like competition. It got out of hand quickly, a few braziers and torches got knocked over during it all, and everyone was running for life. Before I knew it, I scared the whole village away. Had no choice but to wait for your return, since I had no pointers as to where you were moving. What does it matter? In the end, I'm still a killer, and you are still my hostage."
"And the chains and cuff were not yours." - Ciri added, unflinching. - "You took them from those men's dead hands. You claimed them for yourself because you didn't bring any, and you feared I won't be swayed by your persuasion alone. And after you shed all that blood, you knew I would not listen to reason."
Mangler chuckled for a bit, but Ciri could easily tell he was faking it. He turned to her, with an uncertain look in his eyes. - "A convoluted theory, little swallow. Have you grown so reliant on my good graces in such a short timespan, that you fantasise on me having some frail little golden heart kept deep under my rough exteriour? Come now, you don't believe that garbage yourself. Any other groundbreaking revelations at your offer, or you actually need alcohol to sober up?"
Ciri looked him straight in the eyes. - "You never even met Geralt. You know him not, except his deeds. He caused harm to men you served, but you feel nothing for them. What you do feel, however, is envy."
All too sudden, the bounty hunter dropped his roasting stick, and grabbed Ciri's cheek forcefully, his other hand latching on his hidden dagger. - "Keep your mouth shut, witch. Did you forget who I am?!" - he was grumbling angrily, before giving Ciri's face a push, causing her to drop to the floor on her behind. Mangler got up on his feet, but let go of his blade, shaking only a clenched fist towards Ciri: - "I beat you to submission! I dragged you after me in chains! And before this week is out, I'm going to tear off your witcher nanny's head and shit down his neck!"
Ciri's fleeting sympathy turned to fury, and she rolled to the corner where her swords were put, drawing her silver one... only to see Mangler was headed outside, ignoring her. - "Don't you dare turn your back on me!" - Ciri yelled. - "Face me so I can maim you properly!"
"Later!" - Mangler yelled back, as he picked up his sword which he put next to the door. - "Got to clear my head first of your bewitchment!"
"Oh, I'm so deeply sorry..." - Ciri stated in a resentful, provoking tone - "...that I dared to even think there was anything good left in you, child! But I can see you died alone a long, long time ago."
Mangler stopped in his steps, looking back. Ciri fell silent, her jaw dropping in surprise of what she said, without knowing whence the words even came from. For a prolonged moment, they just stared at one another. Mangler shook his head, and stepped outside, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Ciri looked blankly before her. Guided by a morbid sensation, she raised up Zireael, looking at her reflection in the silvery blade. Her eyes were green, as they had always been. She sighed in relief, then sat down by the fireplace again, to finish her meal alone.
It tasted more sour than before.