A/N: I apologize in advance for all the angst in this chapter. Promise this won't become the new norm.
That night she tossed and turned, not being able to find peace. She thought of Geralt and Ciri, praying for the success of their endeavour - whatever it was - hoping they would come back soon and in one piece. But that wasn't what occupied her mind the most. It was Avallac'h that resided deep in her thoughts, perched on a seat, drumming his fingers on the armrest with a friendly smile that seemed so out of place, given their history. She knew ever since she stepped through the portal with Geralt that there was no way to avoid him, given that he had attached himself to Ciri. Meeting him again was an inevitability she thought she was prepared for, but as she returned from her trip to the hospital, there he was, at the bottom of the stairs of the tavern, speaking in that same pompous tone she knew so well.
"I wish to know when Zireael returns. Tell her we need to speak. It is of the utmost importance," he said to Zoltan, then paused as his eyes fluttered to her form, standing frozen in the door frame.
Fuck! She thought she knew how this would go, but just the sight of him sent her back twenty years and she felt as if her mind and body regressed instantly. Again she was a frightened, helpless 17-year-old and buried feelings floated back to the surface like oil in a vat of water. Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. Fragments of memories of her time in Tir ná Lia. Once she let them take hold of her, her feet felt like lead and she couldn't move them for all the gold in the world. She remained glued to the spot, unable to flee or move forward of her own accord.
Dandelion and Priscilla brushed past her, both blissfully unaware of the history between her and the elf. They were too busy cooing to each other to notice the tension building in the room.
The elf stared at her in utter amazement. For once, the Aen Saevherne looked like he had been taken by surprise. Then his expression morphed into something even more unexpected. A look of contrition. Could he have really changed so much? He took a step in her direction, and she mindlessly took a step back. His arms raised slightly to signal peaceful intentions. Taking a deep breath, she resisted the urge to run and let him approach her instead. He stopped at arm's length from her and extended his hand.
"I won't harm you," his voice had a soothing tone, the kind you'd use to pacify a scared animal. Fitting, considering that's exactly how he had made her feel twenty years prior. A frightened caged animal bound to be slaughtered. She let herself be talked down off the mental cliff she had climbed on, partly because she was disgusted with her own unexpected weakness and partly because he looked genuinely concerned. Slender fingers clutched her hand, and she watched with wide eyes as the master torturer bowed his head.
"I..." he took her hand and raised it to his lips, grazing her knuckles with reverence. "I must apologize to you as I did to Ciri. It was not my choice what was done to you..."
Not his choice. The words echoed painfully in her mind. He wasn't taking any responsibility. For a moment, anger overtook every other emotion, then something inside her clicked back into place and she returned to the present. She wasn't a dumb and naïve 17-year-old anymore and now they were playing on the same side. For Ciri's sake, she had to work with him, not against him.
"Let sleeping dogs lie," she stopped him. She had no need for his apologies. The harm had already been done, and she had moved on as much as she could. Not for his sake, but for her own. His pale blue eyes fixated on her as she pulled her hand from his; they were searching her face for emotions, so she showed him what he wanted to see: her forgiveness.
"When Zireael said she'd left Gwynbleidd with a healer, I never imagined it would be you, especially since she made mention, in no uncertain terms, that you were dead. Little Zireael can be secretive when she wishes to. However, I am pleased to see that the rumours of your demise were untrue."
"Perhaps she trusts you less than you think. Either way, I'll need to thank her for her discretion. Without it, I doubt you would have allowed me to live so many years in peace."
"We would not have followed you. She is our stolen legacy, not you."
"Yet you knew that before and it didn't stop you from... studying me."
"Our curiosity was great." His eyes lost their contrite look. "It still is." Shivers went down her spine as if someone was pouring ice water in small drips onto her skin.
"It will remain unsatisfied. Ciri might have embraced you – God knows why! – and I'm here to help her, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to do the same. This just means we'll have to work together - at least for a while - so we'll both have to make nice."
"I expected no more," he flashed his small, even teeth in a polite smile. "But, if by chance you need my assistance, my door will be open to you, same as it is for Ciri."
The nerve of him! To apologize only to deny responsibility and then to have the gall to admit that it was all to satisfy a curiosity they still held. She huffed in annoyance as she got out of bed to start the day. Forgiveness was one thing, but forgetting was impossible.
After securing the proper coin, she needed to put that coin to use and find a tailor. Dandelion had wasted no time in recommending one of his friends, an elf by the name of Elihal. Unfortunately, the elf lived outside the city walls and travelling to his shop meant that upon her return, she would most likely need to present a letter of safe conduct... again. Even more unfortunate was that the one she had used to get into Novigrad with Geralt was still somewhere inside one of the witcher's bags. This left her trapped within the city walls and that just wouldn't do.
Using his numerous connections, Zoltan had promised to secure a new letter of conduct. He mentioned that it would probably be a fake, but that the guards seldom checked them in detail. Unfortunately, this endeavour could not be undertaken overnight. It would be another day before his liaison would come back with the valuable piece of parchment. Meanwhile, she paced the inn like a wild cat locked in a cage.
She needed to put her mind to better use. Perhaps a little conversation would have helped, but there was no one available. All were too busy with the upkeep of the inn. A convention of silk merchants had taken over all the lodgings in the city. Thus, all the rooms were booked at the Chameleon just like everywhere else in Novigrad, and the tavern downstairs was overflowing with customers.
She thought that perhaps she could use this time to familiarize herself with the science and magic of this world. Not only would that help her fit into place as seamlessly as possible, but it might help her find a way to help Von Gratz.
To her deep disappointment, she could think of no one else who could help her except Avallac'h. But since he had offered his assistance so readily, perhaps it wasn't so out of place to make use of it. If anything, it would be like taking an extended olive branch.
Taking a deep breath, she stopped her pacing and looked towards the door of her room. With steady feet and a heavy heart, she strode out into the corridor, then up the stairs to where the elf had taken lodgings, to the bard's great discontent.
A short rap at the door was answered by the elf's musical voice, inviting her to enter.
Indeed, the room fitted the name the Ruby Suite. It was lavishly decorated with red velvet curtains, silk cushions and it was five times larger than the one she currently occupied. Dusty tomes and parchments laid scattered everywhere, including on the floor. The elf shoved some papers under the bed, but not before she saw the drawings on them.
"Hmm, your tastes have changed since I last saw you," she commented, amused by the elf's embarrassment.
"Those are not mine," he defended himself.
She snorted, very un-ladylike, but she wasn't aiming to impress him with her manners.
"It's not like I care, you can wank to whatever you like, of fuck anything you like... as long as there's consent." She moved her eyes back to him.
"You are being very combative, Criss. It is not conducive to a proper conversation."
"Fine," she huffed. "I admit I'm being slightly petty, but you can hardly blame me. I don't have the fondest memories of you." She exhaled and relaxed, forcing her mind to treat him as if he were a blank slate. Now she could finally talk to him without puffing in annoyance at his every word.
"You've changed," he noticed, looking her over with careful eyes, inspecting her hands in particular.
It sent a shiver of unease through her, so she steadied herself, prepared to cast a defensive spell, fearing that whatever change he noticed might spur his curiosity as it did two decades prior.
"You're much more mature."
Both his words and his tone were peaceful. Thoughtful. Not detecting an ounce of aggression from him, she relaxed and answered in jest.
"You mean I look old?" she quipped back with her hands on her hips and an amused smile.
"No, just more mature. Perhaps less prideful. The Criss I knew would have never sought me out on her own, let alone admit that she was being petty or take a possible insult in stride."
"It's not like I'm overjoyed to be here, but I don't have many options at my disposal. Perhaps if Yennefer were here, I'd be standing in her room instead of yours. But, as things stand, I need your help."
Despite his composure, his eyebrows raised slightly, betraying his surprise. His answer came without hesitancy.
"Of course, I promised my assistance if you needed it and if I can help, then I certainly will."
"Are you familiar with this world's medical science? Conventional and non-conventional?"
His brow creased. "Somewhat, but it's so primitive that it poses little interest. What use could you possibly have of their backwards cures when you possess gifts that would put to shame their most skilled healers?"
"I wish to lend my help to a certain doctor but, seeing as the current climate in this realm makes using my gifts dangerous, I need to find a way that is less conspicuous. I was thinking of something more in line with ointments, teas, tinctures, and other similar common means of fighting ailments. Of course, I would improve these using my skills, but the basis needs to be something believable, something that could actually work to their knowledge. And for that, I need your help."
"You'd have me make creams and tinctures like a... a..." He was struggling to find a word that conveyed his deep despise and outrage and she couldn't help a laugh.
"Oh, I would never dare insult you in such a way. It would certainly be beneath you, especially when it's obvious you have more important things on your mind." Her eyes drifted for the shortest moment over the bed under which he had kicked the lewd drawings. "No, I just need you to instruct me on how to do it and I'll find a way to make them myself."
He pursed his lips, still visibly unhappy with the request. Perhaps he thought it was all a bad joke meant to humiliate him by reducing a mighty Aen Saevherne to a common pellar. She took on her most serious expression, and, having decided she was indeed as serious as she looked, the elf turned to some empty parchments rolls.
Avallac'h's knowledge had proven to be even more vast than she imagined and she didn't regret her choice of mentor in the art of potion-making.
Many hours later, she finally left the Ruby Suite with an armful of parchments filled with instructions for the production of the most potent cures, each and every single one made only from the ingredients available in the area. Of course, some of the methods needed to be employed surpassed the means she had at her disposal. She needed to find a local herbalist, both to provide the raw matter and the equipment. Perhaps, if the herbalist was amenable enough, they could even take on the task of creating some of the potions. It would certainly be preferable, as she should dedicate her time to helping Ciri, not playing witch-doctor. But again, she was getting ahead of herself. She hadn't even found the proper person to hire, and she was already delegating assignments.
After taking the newly obtained instructions back to her room, she descended into the tavern below for a hot meal. Her stomach had been making complaining noises for quite a long while and it was getting increasingly difficult to find something to distract her from the hunger. If she was honest, the last two recipes Avallac'h had taught her had gone in one ear and out the other for that simple reason.
Climbing down the stairs, she could already feel the mouth-watering scents coming from below. Some sort of stew, sausages, grilled meats were a few of the smells she could recognize. If she had Geralt's nose, she would have probably been able to list the entire menu, but her senses were only as sharp as the next human's. She shook her head; she needed to get Geralt out of her mind. It was unlikely that he was going to suddenly pop in the door, and thinking of him only made her chest ache. It was unhealthy and, even worse, useless.
"Criss!" the bard's melodious voice rang out. "I've been looking for you!"
"Is everything alright? Nothing happened to Priscilla, I hope."
"No, no! She's upstairs in our room, keeping a low profile," he whispered conspiratorially. "I just thought you might want to see what you missed a few nights ago."
She frowned, still not understanding. The only thing she missed was not a thing at all, but a person. There was nothing else she regretted not seeing. Another pang shot through her chest, and she let out a pained sigh.
"I'll be performing once again tonight," he finally explained.
She could only muster a small smile. Between her hunger and her longing, there wasn't much joy in her left.
"Come," the bard wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to a nearby table that was usually reserved for guests of the house and the owners.
"Dandelion, I will gladly cheer and clap at your performance, but first, could you ask Selise or whoever is serving tonight to bring me a plate of whatever food they have? Anything at all will do. I'm starting to understand what Geralt meant by being hungry enough to eat a wolf or raw meat."
"That sounds awful! And you'll be happy to know we have nothing of the sort in our kitchen. Only the very best for our patrons! Even more so for our friends."
He pushed her down into a seat and beamed at her surprised face.
"What else am I supposed to call you after yesterday but a friend?" And with that, he turned on his heels and went to seek out Selise, leaving her to wonder if kind acts were so rare here that they bought friendship so quickly or if the bard was just unusually trusting.
Soon enough, a hot bowl of stew, a fresh loaf of bread, a platter of smoked and cured meats, and a tankard of frothy ale were placed in front of her. She dug in without a second thought, her hunger making the food taste even more delicious.
Dandelion waved and smiled at her on his way to take the stage with all the gusto of a genuine artist. He began his performance with a self-complimentary speech that made her snort and chuckle. There was no lack of self-confidence in the bard, she thought.
As he began strumming the chords of the lute, she understood why he was so beloved in the artist community. There was a certain grace to the melody, even if the verses were anything but delicate and sometimes bordered on lewd. Most of his songs that evening were bawdy and got the patrons on their feet to dance a jig to the tunes he played. As the night went on, the ladies also began making their demands for ballads.
It shouldn't have come as a surprise to her that all wanted to hear about the White Wolf's heroic deeds and romantic exploits, and yet she had hoped that wouldn't be the case that night. Maybe it was the ale, maybe it was the fatigue, but she was uncharacteristically melancholic that evening. And she was stuck there, listening to heart-wrenching tales of bravery and soulful retellings of Geralt's love for the beautiful Yennefer of Vengerberg. The song was so beautiful, but also so goddamned sad, and it resonated with every fibre of her being. She wasn't even jealous, but the simple mention of the witcher's name twisted a knife in her once again lonely heart. He was like a fleeting dream she fought to catch come morning and the sweetness of the memories made his absence all the more painful. That's how she felt. Utterly alone, and it wasn't the first time she'd been in this spot. She emptied the tankard of beer and demanded another and, by the time Dandelion's performance had concluded, she was tipsy as can be.
In retrospect, she should have removed the effects from the alcohol but, for one, she dared not use any kind of magic in public, and, secondly, she wanted to dull her thoughts. It was unfortunate that in her case alcohol tended to accentuate her moods instead of appeasing them, so she found herself drowning in a sea of sadness, with her chin resting in her palm while her eyes looked for shapes in the white froth floating inside the tankard. A light hand on her shoulder made her raise her eyes.
"Oh, dear! You look like you're about as miserable as can be," the bard said, approaching wearily.
She just looked at him with what must have been sad eyes, for she saw his worry worsen as he sat down next to her, his hand still on her shoulder, squeezing gently as if that could bring her any comfort.
"I don't mean to be. Your performance was wonderful," she said, trying not to slur her words. "It just reminded me of Geralt." She sighed.
"He'll be back, I'm sure of it," he attempted to console her. "I don't presume to know his mind. Sometimes a strange fancy takes him and makes him do odd, unexplainable things that surprise us all."
"You think I'm one of those strange things?" She was in a dark mood and couldn't help but read the worst into his words. Her deepest fears had taken hold under the influence of the alcohol and a nagging voice repeated the worst possibility in her mind.
"No, I meant him leaving all of a sudden. He's done that before, you know. Just as abruptly and without explanation. It's his unruly nature, I suppose, and Ciri takes after him."
"If you're trying to make me feel better, you're doing a poor job," she bemoaned and took another swig from the tankard.
"Out of the dumb things he's done, leaving you must be one of the daftest, and I'll tell him as much when he returns."
She gave him a small smile and put her hand over his.
"Thank you, but now you're swinging too far in the other direction. I appreciate you trying to be kind, but you don't know me. For all you know, I could be a shrew and running from me might have been the best thing he's done so far." She looked at the remaining ale and pushed the pitcher away. "I think I've had enough for one night. It would be wiser for me to get some sleep before I do or say something dumb."
She attempted to stand up - because that was all it proved to be, an attempt. Seeing herself unable to walk or even stand on her own only brought her down even more. Fortunately, the bard was kind enough to help her on her second attempt and, with his help, she made it all the way up to her room and into bed.
She laid back on the straw mattress and looked up at the plastered ceiling. It proved to be a bad idea as the room started spinning. Turning to her side with some difficulty, she kicked off her boots. She hadn't the strength to fully undress, so she just laid there, pulling part of the covers over herself and listening to the two voices in her head bickering.
"He got what he needed from you and now he left."
"He said he loved you and you know he meant it."
"He could have changed his mind. Ciri hates you. He'll never stay with you if she hates you."
"He just went to help Ciri. He'll be back."
"He hates sorceresses. He hopes you'll leave on your own so he doesn't have to tell you himself."
"He'd never hurt you like that."
"You're just another toy he got bored with and discarded."
The voices kept going back and forth in her mind and she clung to the happy memories she had of Geralt, when the darkest part of her mind seemed to win over. They had been genuinely happy, hadn't they? Or was it all in her mind? Did she just embellish the memories and saw what she wanted to see? Maybe nothing between them ran that deep.
That night she cried herself to sleep, too drunk to even fully grasp what she was crying about. A storm gathered around the city and rain poured over the streets, flashes of light and thunder compensating for the silence of the sobs she muffled into her pillow.
They finally arrived near Mulbrydale come evening. His headache had relented after many hours, but his appetite was in the gutter. The mere thought of food made his stomach churn and rebel. Ciri, on the other hand, was as chipper as can be and couldn't stop dreaming of the food they'd scarf down once they reached the village tavern. Geralt just wanted a cold ale and a warm fire to sit next to.
As they descended the mellow slope of the hill leading down from Hanged Man's Tree, they could already see that perhaps they had been too hopeful in dreaming of the comforts offered by a tavern or an inn. They had once again forgotten that war was upon them at every corner or, if not war, then at least the savage consequences of its passing. Black smoke rose from what used to be the village tavern and equally black cloaks roamed the village's narrow paths.
They dismounted and drew their hoods around their faces, taking care to hide their hair. Who knew what orders Emhyr had given. There couldn't be many young, ashen-haired lasses accompanied by a witcher. If they were spotted, their journey might take a sudden detour, and they had no time for that. Not now. Not with Imlerith waiting for them and the Sabbath fast approaching. They had only six days to make their journey to Bald Mountain, and any deviation from their course could cause an unrecoverable delay. Had the circumstances been different, Ciri could have simply portalled them to where they needed to go, but, in this case, that would just lose them the element of surprise. Her portals were like glowing beacons for the Hunt's navigators. Instead of catching Imlerith off guard, they would have risked being caught themselves, and that just wouldn't do.
"We need to find the smith and get out of sight as soon as possible," Geralt whispered as they advanced through the wreckage of the village.
"Let's just hope there's still a smith to find. He may very well have fallen victim to this skirmish."
"Doubt it. It's unwise to kill a swordsmith when you can make him forge weapons for your army. They might be mean, but they're not stupid. Chances are he's in his shop."
They walked a little further, passing the smoking ruins of the tavern, until they spotted a blacksmith's bench and grinding stone in one of the yards. The door of the thatched hut next to them opened and a dark-haired, bearded man wearing a leather apron walked out carrying a sword.
Trying to draw as little attention as possible, they walked up to the smith and Geralt adjusted his hood back, only enough for the man to recognize him.
"Ah! There he is, my champion and saviour!" the man called out.
Geralt grabbed his arm to silence him before he made too much of a ruckus and some over-zealous soldier wondered who they were. It was enough to tip him off that they were trying to keep their heads down and pass unnoticed.
"Come inside," the man invited them in a hushed voice. "We can talk without being disturbed."
The space inside the hut was cramped, a hearth laid on one side with a small table next to it, while on the other side there were three sleeping cots. A woman was chopping vegetables and boiling water over the glowing hearth. A little girl sat next to her, playing with a raggedy doll. She looked up with worried eyes, the kind of eyes people who have seen war always have.
"Angus..." the woman said in a weary voice.
"They're friends," he immediately soothed his wife's concerns. "He's the one that freed me from those thugs."
Her face lit up at those words and she immediately invited them to sit and have dinner with them. They didn't seem to have much, and it pained Geralt to take anything more from them when the soldiers had clearly done so much damage already, but it felt wrong to refuse their hospitality. He accepted her offering, knowing he would make sure to leave sufficient coin as compensation before they set out again.
"We don't mean to intrude. We were hoping you knew of a place that offers lodgings and victuals. In our rush, we failed to make proper preparations and hoped to replenish our supplies along the way."
"Aye, that would have been easy had you come through here a week ago, before the black ones came. As it is, there's not much our merchants can offer you. All that was worth taking got carried off by the soldiers. But I'm sure you'll find what you need in Lindenvale. Their town yielded without a fight and they let them off easy."
"I understand and don't worry, we'll leave right after dinner. We wouldn't want to bring more trouble upon you or your village."
He would have left right away if it were up to him, but he wanted to give Ciri a chance to rest if they were going to ride straight through to Lindenvale.
"No, no! I'll hear none of it," Angus insisted. "You'll stay the night with us. We can make room to house both of you. The little one will sleep with Anne over there and I'll be by the hearth..."
Geralt's eyes swept across the room again and it didn't appear to have gotten any bigger since he last checked. He looked at Ciri and sighed.
"If it's not too much trouble, maybe my daughter... Fiona can stay with you. I'll sleep outside with the horses."
He had agreed with Ciri to use one of her other middle names while they travel. Cirilla was a peculiar name and a sure-fire way to draw unwanted attention.
The smith insisted he stay in as well, but, when he was met with Geralt's stern refusal, nodded his acceptance without further debate.
After a warm dinner, Geralt bid them good night and left the small house to check on the horses. Angus had untacked and fed them already, but he wanted to brush Roach himself before taking the bedroll from the saddlebag to lay it out behind the hut, away from prying eyes.
The horse gave a soft whinny and nudged his shoulder.
"I know, I know, girl. I missed you too."
He took the brush and smoothed out her coat with care, earning himself another grateful nudge. The corner of his mouth curled up.
"After the way I rode you yesterday, I deserve a bite. But not to worry, I'll repay your patience with this awful rider you're stuck with. In Lindenvale I'll get a bushel of apples just for you."
When he was done caring for his horse, he made to take out his bedroll, but as he opened the bag, a piece of parchment fell out. It was the pass he took from the bandits outside of Novigrad. The one he was supposed to give to Criss. For a short while that day, he had managed not to think of how shamefully he had left her, but now the sight of that piece of paper brought it all back. He folded it and placed it back in the bag with a deep sigh before taking his sword from his saddlebag; the one she had made especially for him. Its craftsmanship stood out anywhere, so he thought it better to use his usual sword while they were travelling. No point in giving people another reason to remember them; not when they wanted to remain ghosts.
His fingers caressed the beautiful scabbard before grasping the hilt and unsheathing the blade. It was the one thing he had from her. Taking a clean rag and some oil, he began polishing the metal with care. There was no need for it, but the touch of it reminded him of her. He could feel her magic imbued in the metal, even through the cloth; it pulsated with energy itching to be unleashed. At least in this way, he could feel her near him, lending him her strength when he would give Imlerith a taste of the sharpness of a witcher's blade.
This is how Ciri found him, sat down next to Roach's stall, deep in thought with the sword resting over his knees and him fixating on the glowing runes.
"That's new," she said, startling him.
"Huh?"
He hadn't even heard her. Even as a child, she had such talent for stealth that she could move even through Brokilon forest unnoticed.
Her head nudged towards the blade he grasped and his eyes mechanically fell back to the inscribed metal.
"Yes," was all he could muster to say, melancholy wrenching at his heart.
She approached and sat down next to him, eyeing the sword from pommel to tip.
"Beautiful craftsmanship. May I?"
He turned the hilt towards her, and she eagerly picked it up with one hand.
"Whoa! It's so light!"
She got up and swung the sword a few times, executing two connected pirouettes, then brought the blade closer to her face. The tip of her finger brushed the edge, and it drew blood instantly. She sucked on her finger with a frown.
"Damn sharp too! What's it made of?"
"Some special alloy from a world called Idris. It was a present from Criss."
Her face twisted in an ugly grimace as she handed the sword back to him.
"You'll need to eventually get over your hate for her," he said, taking back the blade.
"Must I?"
"I'd like you to. The least you could do is give her a chance. I doubt you scowl the same way when Yen talks of Istredd."
"Stop using mother to pacify me! It's low, even for you!"
Her words hit him like a ton of bricks. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked with a quirked eyebrow.
"Nothing... I'm sorry," her voice faltered.
He could have left it at that, but he sensed the bubbling anger beneath the surface and knew it would blow sooner or later. "No, no, let's hear it. It's clear you have something to say. There must be a reason why you think I deserve to be judged for wanting to find someone to love, and Yen doesn't."
"Fine," the bite was back in her tone. "You want to know why?"
He sat up, and his arms shot to the side, welcoming her incoming explanation. She took a step towards him, her index poking into his chest accusingly.
"Cause this is all your fault! You're the cheating one! The one with the long list of women seduced and abandoned. They're the reason mother wants Istredd and not you. And you keep adding to that list and you're making no effort to win her back. She still loves you, you know! She's just sick of finding you in bed with her friends..."
His jaw fell as she spoke. He never thought that's how she saw him and it hurt more than he was willing to admit. What was he to say? That Yen did the same as him, just that she was more discreet? That he was searching for comfort in whatever arms would have him when Yen cast him out or hurt him over and over again? No, that would mean bashing her mother's character and it would be unbecoming. Even for him. He gritted his teeth and swallowed his pride.
"She's just the latest addition to your list. And I hate her because I can't hate you!" Ciri ended her tirade.
There was nothing he could say. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into his chest, hugging her tightly. For once, he wished Yen had been there. There was no way he'd ever reason with Ciri alone, not over this, not when she was so convinced that Yen still nursed some feelings for him. He'd have to put a pin in this and deal with it when they got back. Neither of them could afford the distraction of bad feelings between them when they were supposed to be fighting side by side against Imlerith. All he could do now was let her know that he'd be there for her, no matter what. A soft whimper came from her and he heard the faint patting of tears falling onto the leather of his armor. He caressed her hair and hushed her.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled through hiccups and gasps. "That was shit of me to say. You don't deserve it. Please don't be mad at me."
"You know I could never be angry with you, little one."
She took a deep breath and settled herself. Her cheek pressed harder against his chest and her hands squeezed his waist as if she feared he'd run away the moment she let go.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said in reply to her fierce hug.
"Can I stay here tonight? I want to sleep under the stars with you. It's too stuffy inside."
"Sure, kid. Roach will be happy for your company."
He unwrapped the bedroll and laid on it. She did the same and sat next to him, her head resting on his shoulder. The stars above shone brightly, and they both laid there, counting them in comfortable silence until they drifted to sleep.
A/N: It's her turn in this chapter to have a bad run-in with too much alcohol. Don't know about anyone else, but the Wolven Storm hits me right in the feels, so I just had to include it somehow.
As for Geralt and Ciri, their conversation isn't concluded, just paused to be continued... soon.
Next, a certain villainous merchant will be making an appearance. Meanwhile, wish you all a good week!
