Geralt thought he was going to be sick. He didn't usually get hangovers unless his previous night of drinking had been particularly vicious, and last night wasn't that (he could think of only two such occasions in his life, both involving Dandelion's machinations). But he was sure that all the wine he had drunk did not help.
In fact, as Ciri, bright and fresh as the morning fucking dew, peppered him with question upon question from atop her Kelpie, he thought he definitely tasted last night's wine in the back of his throat.
"Tell me, old man! How are you going to do it?" Ciri was relentless.
"I don't know," Geralt groaned. "I really can't, oh god, think about that right now."
"Geralt, you're not hung over-"
"How would you know?"
"-so you may as well think about it now. It's not going to get any easier."
He cursed. She was right. He had been feeling ill since well before the wine, since breakfast last morning – or since he purchased the ring in Beauclair, really – thinking about asking Yen to… do that. He scoffed inwardly at his cowardice; couldn't even think the word inside his own head without feeling queasy.
"But why are you so nervous? And why are we out here? Are we actually taking on a contract, or did you just make that up altogether? Did you want to get me alone out here because you thought you needed my approval? Did you really not know you would have my blessings already? Or were you just trying to get my advice on your plans? Geralt? Geralt?"
"Ciri, would ya let me think for a moment!" Geralt snapped.
Ciri did not appear to be offended by his outburst; on the contrary, his response seemed to have amused her endlessly. She continued, emboldened.
"Can I see the ring again? I didn't get a clear look at it last night. Oh, but what does it matter? She is going to love it no matter what. Or, actually, perhaps not. Lady Yennefer is a woman of highly refined tastes. You'd best let me see it now – I need to make sure that ring is up to her standards, or you run the risk of her saying no, Geralt."
"You're doing that on purpose. Fucking stop."
Mirth entrenched itself on Ciri's face, but she let up. She only allowed herself to say one more thing, this time warmly and sincerely, and finally helpful. "You know that Yennefer loves you just as much as you love her, Geralt. However you ask her, whatever you ask her with, so long as it ends with the two of you together, there isn't a single chance she would refuse. Not the slightest."
That made Geralt feel a bit better. He knew that what she said was true, that Yennefer and he really did share a love that was as strong and lasting as it was mutual. And he knew that even though Yennefer did not need a ring or a title to know that he was hers and hers alone now, it would mean just as much to her as it would to him if they could start a clean chapter in their new life together – one that was untainted by their past mistakes.
But this marriage business… It was scary stuff. Well, it was new stuff, and new stuff, unless it could be hunted or killed, but especially if it pertained to matters of the heart, tended to scare Geralt. Scare the knickers straight off my backside, as Yennefer would say. The memory of their banter brought a smile to his face and reminded him of just how much he loved her, which reminded him of just how much he wanted to spend his life with her, which reminded him of the ring in his pocket and the big question he needed to ask, and suddenly, he tasted a bit of last night's wine again.
"I'll answer one of your questions," Geralt said after a few calming breaths; he would've cast Axii on himself if he didn't think Ciri would notice. "We're taking that contract – that much is true. But what's also true is that the infestation is near a town where a… friend of mine recommended a jeweler. I had the band forged by a grandmaster craftsman in Beauclair yesterday, and I want this jeweler to fit it with a stone."
"You have friends now?" Ciri seemed to have decided to indulge him the change in topic; she probably felt that Geralt had had enough torture – at least for now.
"He's a painter. I once accompanied him on a sightseeing tour of beasts, and he ended up painting a portrait of me in action. He gave me the first copy, but he's painted many more since – says he's made a small fortune off of them."
"I think I know the portrait you're speaking of. It's hanging in your bedroom, isn't it?"
Geralt was immediately aware of which portrait she was referring to, and he was mortified that she had seen that portrait. "No, not that one! Damn it, don't go in there without permission!"
"Mother invited me in," Ciri said innocently. "Specifically to admire the portrait. She and I are in agreement that it just so perfectly captures your… essence." Maybe she wasn't finished tormenting him after all.
He growled in reluctant defeat. "We'll change the topic back, okay? You win." Geralt brooded for a moment, then asked seriously, "How should I ask her?"
"During the height of passion."
"You're not helping."
"Sorry, couldn't resist. But Geralt, the two of you live on a vineyard – one with likely the most picturesque sunset I've seen in this world." He noticed her deliberate choice of words at the end. "Why not just take her into the fields after dinner and drop to one knee?"
Geralt was calming down, but he still had to suppress a small surge of vertigo at the thought of getting down on one knee. He really had no clue how to even go about this. "Do people really do that? Drop to one knee?"
"Well, yes, but if that's not your style or her style, then it's certainly not a requirement."
"Hmm, thanks. Duly noted," he lied. He had no idea if it was his style, much less if it was her style. Knee or no knee – that alone would drive him mad. He decided to focus on something else instead. "And the sunset – is that really special enough? I want this to be memorable for her – not just some night that will blend in with the rest of them."
"Trust me, Geralt. It will be one of the most memorable nights in both of your lives. No matter where you ask her."
"What if I took her to Vengerberg? It's her hometown. Or Rivia, which is supposed to be my hometown."
"You dolt. Do not take her to Rivia."
"Right. You're right. But Vengerberg?"
"You could, but does it really hold such nice memories?" He was thankful she did not mention their history there, even though she undoubtedly knew about it one way or another.
"Skellige, then?" He really was trying.
"But… Why?"
Geralt wasn't sure either, but Ciri cut off his thoughts suddenly. "The Djinn! Isn't that where the Djinn broke your wish? She said you spent a very nice time up there afterwards."
"Yeah, we did," Geralt briefly basked in the warmth of that memory. "Think that's special enough?"
"I can't think of a better place, myself. You?"
"Skellige it is, then. And I'll even let her teleport me."
"Geralt," Ciri started carefully, as if afraid to burst a very fragile bubble, "how did you plan on asking her to teleport you there without arousing her suspicion?"
"Ah, fuck!"
"Whoa, there, latrine mouth. Did you forget about me?"
"Huh? Since when do you care if I curse around you?"
"Not that. Did you forget about my ability to teleport? An ability which happens to be even more powerful than hers, so I can transport you both there at the same time?"
"Ha! Ciri, you're a damn genius," Geralt started to feel good – confident even. "We have a plan. Come here, you Witcheress." He ruffled her hair, and Kelpie made an indignant sound on Ciri's behalf.
"Now, let's just think through exactly what you're going to say."