-5-

It was close to midnight when Geralt finally found a tavern that was still lively despite the advanced hour. The warm glow of candles and oil lamps spilled through the windows into the night. The laughter and talking of the people inside were so enticing – especially because nobody there would pester him because nobody knew who he was.

After a moment's consideration, he tied Roach up in a sheltered stall and entered the tavern, the squeaking of the door's old hinges was drowned out by the noise of the other patrons. He searched the crowd for the owner to request a room. But to his dismay, someone else spotted him first.

"Geralt!" He felt his heart sink– not yet again someone else who knew him better than he himself did. Had he not run away to escape exactly this kind of situation? But then he realized the voice was not that of an adult but of a little girl.

She squealed as she ran towards him, her blonde curls bouncing. She was wearing a tattered nightgown and dragging a doll behind her.

"Did you bring the dress?" she asked, hugging the Witcher's leg excitedly. With big eyes she stared up to him.

He wondered whose child had so very obviously escaped from her bed. The other patrons took no notice of her.

Geralt carefully peeled her off his leg and went down on one knee.

"Afraid I don't have a dress this time," he replied, having no idea why the girl thought he might be carrying little girls' dresses on him. He tried to judge her age. Four or maybe five?

"But Kit promised that she'd bring a new dress for Emily next time you came by!" The little girl pouted.

"Who's Emily?"

The girl held up her arm, her doll dangling in the air.

"This is Emily! How could you forget? You're getting old, just like my grandpa. He forgets things too. Kit says you are so smart. But I think she's wrong." Her arm dropped down and the doll hit the floor. It was wearing a dress, a rather nice, yellow dress with lots of ruffles that had seen considerably less abuse than the doll wearing it. "Or maybe she lied. Just like she lied about getting Emily a new dress."

The girl clutched her doll to her chest and looked at him with disappointment.

Geralt tried to think of something that would not give away just how very clueless he was, while at the same time felt an inexplicable urge to defend Kit.

"Kit never lies. She… must have forgotten to give it to me." And strangely enough, he felt that his words were true. This realization was immediately followed by a pang of guilt.

"But she already forgot the last time. She promised to put the dress in your saddlebags as soon as you got home, and you said you'd carry it around with you until your next visit." The girl's pout grew.

"Sorry, little one. Next time, I promise."

"I don't like you anymore!" Sulking, she stomped her tiny foot on the floor.

"Cosette!" a woman called out. "Why are you not in bed?

"Thirsty," the girl mumbled.

When the woman recognized Geralt, a smile spread across her face.

"Geralt, what a wonderful surprise! I didn't expect to see you until September."

Geralt finally put two and two together. The woman must have been the owner, and the girl was her daughter. He could even see the resemblance in their faces, though hers was tired and she had dark circles under her eyes.

Geralt's plan to escape into the unknown had failed spectacularly.

"Change of plans. Do you have a room for the night?" he asked before the woman could ask any more questions that might reveal him to be as clueless as he was.

"Of course. Just give me a few minutes and I'll prepare the bed. But first," and she turned back to her daughter, "off you go. I'll bring you some milk in a moment."

Cosette did not move but kept glaring at the witcher.

"Cossette?" her mother urged her.

Giving her mother and Geralt one last defiant look, the little girl began to shuffle away reluctantly.

"With honey!" she demanded without turning around.

Geralt raised his eyebrows in astonishment when her mother just sighed and shook her head.

"I suppose Kit wants her usual… what did she call it again? Midnight snack?" the woman asked a moment later.

Geralt shook his head. "She's not with me tonight. But I'd like that… snack. And some paper if you have it."

Half an hour later, Geralt found himself in a small, cozy room, with a plate of fruit, bread, butter and sliced sausage at his side as he penned a short note to Kit, which he would hand over to a messenger the next morning. The more he thought about it, the worse he felt for leaving her just like that. Letting her know that he was alright and would return soon was the least he could do.

The words did not come easily. He felt terrible when he remembered that not riding off and leaving her with merely a note was the one thing Kit had asked of him – and he had done just that, minus leaving any note at all, which was probably even worse. But it was too late now. Even if he turned on his heel right now, he would not reach Corvo Bianco before noon. And he also knew that he would not find peace of mind unless he began to explore his past and confirm things for himself.

The candle was almost out by the time he had managed to scribble a short message. He tucked the paper away and went to bed.

As he lay in the dark, unable to sleep, he began to feel even worse about his departure. What she had said had been no reason for him to respond so aggressively.

But there was still that nagging thought that she too could have done what Triss had done back then, abuse his amnesia to twist things her way. She did not seem to be like that – but having gone through it once before, Geralt had no choice but to be cautious.

It was unlikely though. The longer Geralt pondered, now for the first time in silence, physically separated from his problems and left alone to think in peace, the more he was convinced that he had made a mistake. Witchers were trained to leave emotions out of their decisions. Witchers did not experience panic and fear to the extent that normal people did. But witchers could still make terrible decisions.

As the guilt crept up on him from all sides, his stomach began to twist and his thoughts spiraled. The urge to leave and to confirm what had become of his life mixed with the experiences of those last few days. Wine. A home. A wife. Her hands in his hair, her words of encouragement in his ear, her breath on his lips.

Guilt had invited doubt to the party.

Geralt lay in bed, restless, stretching his arm over the side of the bed that he assumed Kit would have occupied. He wondered what she would say if she had been here. Something nice and comforting probably.

He was granted only little sleep. Nightmares left him confused and exhausted. Dreams about wine mixed with episodes of deep loneliness and despair. He would find himself under a tree, reading a book that had The Crimson History of Ofir embossed in gold letters on its red leather cover, while Kit sat beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, sewing a miniature version of the beautiful, glittering dress she had shown him in her atelier. When he turned his eyes back to his book, the letters began to wiggle and move, making it impossible to read. Someone approached him to ask if they should send the shaelmaar to bring in the harvest or wait for the storm to pass. Suddenly, rain lashed against his face and the ground shook with thunder and lightning. Kit was gone. More people came to ask him questions that he could not answer, and he panicked. He had to find Kit, but hands began to reach out and grab him, preventing him from leaving. He was drowning in a sea of people.

Suddenly he found himself alone again. He was surrounded by the ruins that had once been Corvo Bianco. Everything was grey and dead. Buildings had been burned and torn down, all plants had withered and he was standing amidst the remnants of human skeletons.

"Too late. Too late!" a crow perched on a skull told him.

He woke up drenched in sweat. It was still dark, but he could not bear to lie down again, could not bear to suffer through any more nightmares. So he gave up on the idea of sleep and instead wondered if the knots in his stomach would ever go away again or if he would suffer the consequences of his decisions for the rest of his life.

When the sun finally came up, he quickly dressed and trotted downstairs for breakfast. As he listlessly chewed on his porridge, Cosette appeared and sat down opposite him. As always, she had her doll by her side.

At first she said nothing, just stared at him menacingly.

"I promise, I'll get you the dress next time," Geralt said, hoping to get rid of her. But she did not move and simply continued to pout.

"Why is your face naked?" she asked suddenly.

At first Geralt did not understand what she meant. Then it occurred to him that she had probably only ever seen him with a beard.

"I shaved."

"Why?"

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because it looks stupid. Why did Kit let you to do it?"

"I don't need her permission," Geralt grumbled and shoved another spoon full of porridge into his mouth. Great, now already two people had felt the need to comment on Kit's wishes for the way he chose to wear or not wear his hair. Did his own will carry no weight?

"If I were her, I'd marry someone else! Someone who doesn't have a stupid naked face!"

And with that, Cosette hopped off her chair and went back to her mother. When she turned around to give him one last mean look, she stuck out her tongue at him and huffed. Geralt promptly did the same.

Once he had finished his meal, he went to Roach to dig through her saddlebags for a few coins to pay a messenger. He opened a well-hidden compartment on Roache's saddle and then halted. He felt an itch in the back of his mind. At first, he had no idea why, but then he remembered what the little girl had said.

When he had left Corvo Bianco, it had been with the intention of returning. Consequently, he had never taken a look at the contents of his saddlebags, nor had he prepared for a longer journey. Therefore, he had no clue what he had been carrying around with him.

When he inspected the various compartments, he immediately stumbled upon a small package wrapped in linen. It was lightweight and Geralt had a good idea what he would find inside. He unwrapped the linen to find what was obviously a dress intended for a doll. But not only that, it also contained a headband made of the same fabric. Geralt immediately recognized it. It was dark blue and covered with tiny glass beads: It was the very same fabric that Kit had used for the dress she had wanted to wear for Ciri's festivities.

Geralt remembered last night's dream where he and Kit had sat under a tree, and realized that it was this exact dress she had been working on then.

He felt his face go even paler and his heart sink as certain realizations dawned on him: He now knew for certain that he had made an unforgivable mistake.

"Shit." A feeling of dread at what he had done washed over him.

Feeling like an idiot, he crumpled up the message he had written and burned it. He had to return immediately.

He wanted to jump on Roach's back but then found himself still holding the dress.

So instead he returned to the tavern where Cosette was playing behind the bar while her mother prepared a stew.

"Hey, little lady." He waved her over and held up the package wrapped in linen. "Guess what I found?"

Cosette went from pouting to squealing and jumped onto the bar in a way that, in Geralt's eyes, qualified her for witcher training.

"Please, please, please!" she begged, trying to grab the package out of his hands, but her little arms were too short to reach it.

He smiled and relented. Watching the girl's eyes grow with astonishment as she unwrapped the sparking dress, unexpectedly left Geralt feeling happy. For a moment he felt light and carefree.

It seemed wasteful to make a doll's dress from such an expensive fabric, but Kit had known better, for the girl's joy was clearly priceless.

He suddenly remembered the barber. Of course, he thought as certain realizations came to him. I didn't make any donations, I didn't feed the poor.

When Cosette's mother noticed, she put her hand to her mouth, her eyes shining with joy.

"Geralt, please thank her for me. I can't tell you how much it means to me to see her so happy."

Geralt never saw how Cosette put the dress on her doll. As soon as she discovered the matching headband and tried to put it on, he slipped through the door, leaving a few coins on the counter for his stay.

He had to return immediately and apologize. He could not afford to alienate Kit and cursed himself for not listening to his gut. Feeling like a stranger in his own home was a small price to pay for having someone in his life who was truly good and not constantly scheming for something. No, maybe he would never regain his memories, but he had to give this a chance. A proper chance this time.

Roach snorted as they headed home, as if to say: Have you finally come to your senses?

The weather seemed to reflect his mood – he felt uncertain, not knowing how much damage he had done, fearing that it had been too much. As he rode on, the air around him bristled with energy. The sky darkened, turning from white to a pale gray. Insects flew low and kept hitting him in the face constantly. A storm was brewing within him and around him.

He rode Roach as fast as he dared, but it was evening by the time he arrived back home. He thrust Roach's reins into the hand of some dung-shoveling stable boy – nothing he would ever do under normal circumstances, but he had to find Kit. His guilty conscience had been eating at him the all the way and he found himself as impatient as he had ever been.

Kit was neither in the stables nor in her atelier. He stormed into the main house and found it empty too.

His armor, which used to make him feel safe and secure, a constant in this world that was so alien to him, now only seemed to slow him down. He went into the bedroom where he hurried to get rid of it. Carelessly, he dropped piece after piece of reinforced leather onto a chair. One of his gloves fell to the floor. When he bent down to pick it up, he noticed a small leather-bound book that had slipped halfway under a dresser. He pulled it out, suddenly overcome by a sense of familiarity, when he saw the red cover, embossed with golden letters: The Crimson History of Ofir.

He remembered his nightmare. On a hunch, he went to the tree behind the house under which he had tried to read the book in his dream.

Dear reader,

it took me quite a while to realize that Geralt was gone. Of course I was worried about him. Maybe something had happened. But whatever monster he set out to find, it couldn't have been anything to worry about. He had single-handedly brought the monster population in Toussaint to the brink of extinction and whatever creepy crawlies were left, were no threat to him. No, he wasn't here because he didn't want to be.

I had noticed that he did not quite feel at home. I don't blame him. Eskel kept telling me time and time again that he was a different person now than he used to be. Being thrust into this environment must have been a shock – even for a witcher. Or maybe especially for a witcher. I think, given my situation, I have some authority in the area of being thrust into things…

I tried to help him as best as I could, but I suppose it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough.

I always thought our love was special, so special that it would outlast everything. I would have bet my life that nothing would ever tear us apart. And now I realize he was my life.

Strong, independent woman my ass. He's only been gone for a day and I'm worried sick. I feel like the entire foundation of my life has been ripped from under me.

The fact that my love isn't enough to hold him is killing me.

Nearly midnight, no Geralt in sight. I felt as if an icy hand had gripped me. I struggled to breathe, I cried. Someone called for BB while I fell apart in a panic attack and waited at the gates for Geralt. I knew he wouldn't come but I couldn't stop hoping. Because if I stopped hoping, I might as well have stopped breathing.

Nothing is forever, but I was convinced that we were. And now… I don't know. I wish there had been one last hug, one last kiss. I wish I could have seen him one last time. He may not love me anymore, but I'll never stop loving him.

I don't care where he goes or who he's looking for. All I can think is that I'm not enough.

The family I can no longer remember was traded for Geralt. And now he's gone too. What am I supposed to go on for?

I regret what I said about him, that he wasn't himself anymore. He was so angry. He has never raised his voice at me before. So maybe I deserve exactly what I've been getting.

I wish Anais were here – I need my best friend. But she and Eskel haven't come back yet. I can't go on wailing in BBs arms. The poor man, who could get an anthill to line up in an orderly fashion, can't get a grip on me.

It's been 11 days since Geralt lost his memory, and since that first night when he unraveled my braid, he hasn't shown any signs of regaining it. I wish I knew what to do. I took him to all of our places, told him about all the important events. But nothing changed.

I tried to give him space because I was afraid he'd just run away if he felt trapped and suffocated. That obviously didn't work. Now I'm wondering if it was a mistake. Maybe I should have forced him to spend more time with me, to get to know me better?

Or maybe getting to know me was what made him leave in the first place.

Geralt found Kit sitting under a gnarly old tree behind the house on top of a hill, just like the tree in his dream. Then it occurred to him that it might not have been a dream at all, but rather a memory.

Kit did not notice him. She was sitting there, for some reason wearing a nightgown and a robe, hugging her knees to her chest. Her empty gaze was lost in the distance, where the sky had turned black. Flashes of lightning danced across the dark tapestry as thunder rolled over the land. The storm had not yet reached them, but the branches and leaves above Kit swayed and waved in mesmerizing patterns, synchronized like a school of fish, their sound not yet drowned out by the wind whose force was constantly increasing.

So much for watering the young vines. Old Guss had been right with his prediction, Geralt thought as he noticed the downpour in the distance, which would surely arrive here within a few moments.

Kit was alone, only an untouched plate with sandwiches indicated that anyone knew where she was and had looked after her. Geralt felt his stomach sink. He was certain that he had ruined everything.

"A tree is not a safe place to rest during a storm," he said as he cautiously approached.

Slowly, Kit turned her head and looked him up and down. There was no obvious emotion on her face. No joy, no anger. When she had concluded that he was still in one piece, she remarked:

"You've shaved." And then she turned back to watch the storm.

Geralt hesitated for a moment.

"Don't like it?"

"No."

"I can grow it back," he offered, confused by her calmness and detachment. Yennefer would have unleashed a storm of her own by now.

"I'm sorry. Shouldn't have left like that. Didn't mean to."

Kit huffed.

"But you accidentally fell on a horse and it just ran off with you?"

Geralt flinched at the sharpness in her voice. I deserve that, he thought.

"Can we have this conversation somewhere else? Sitting under a tree is not a good idea in this weather", he insisted again.

The clouds had drawn nearer quickly and the lightning was now so close that he could feel the ground vibrate beneath his feet every time it struck.

Kit stood up, fists clenched, tears streaming down her face, her entire body shaking with rage. The sight shocked Geralt. He had thought her to be so gentle, incapable of such a display of fury.

"I asked you for one thing," she snarled. "Just one thing. I tried to make you as comfortable as I possibly could and the best you could do in return was to make me wonder if you were dead or if you simply despised me so much that you just had to run away."

More and more Geralt understood exactly how deeply he had hurt her. No, maybe as someone who did not remember her, he had no obligation to be her husband, to feel for her the way he should have after 10 years. But surely, her treatment of him had absolutely justified that he be a better man. This realization pained him greatly, and her tears of righteous anger did nothing to help that.

"Kit, I'll get down on my knees and beg for your forgiveness, I promise, but we have to leave now."

"Then leave. You got plenty of practice at that."

"Mock me all you want, I deserve it. But not here, not under a bloody tree!" He grabbed her arm, ready to drag her back to the house, but she quickly pulled away.

The first raindrops began to fall. The sound of them hitting the leaves above joined the chorus of the wind.

Losing patience and no longer bothering to maintain a semblance of civility, he grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder. Kit protested and tried her best to wriggle out of his grip. But of course, she was no match for him.

"Let me go!" she shouted. Her words were barely audible as the wind carried them away.

"Did that once and it turned out to be a mistake," he said under his breath as he tightened his grip on her.

After Geralt had closed the door behind them, he marched straight into the bedroom – the bedroom that he had had to himself for the past week. He locked the door behind him and gently sat Kit down on the bed.

He could see her pouting through her tears before she quickly averted her face and curled up into a ball, pulling her knees up to her chin.

Geralt sighed and, now that Kit seemed to have given up on her attempts to resist, sat down on the other side of the bed. He kicked off his boots before, after a moment's hesitation, he lay down as well, facing her back. The distance between them was barely an arm's length, but it felt insurmountable.

Raindrops drummed against the roof, the growl of the thunder outside was only slightly muffled by the walls. For the past week this room had not been a place of comfort for him. Rather, it had been a reminder that he did not belong. But now it offered warmth and shelter from the storm, and with Kit in it, it suddenly felt so different.

Hesitantly, he reached out his hand and touched Kit's shoulder. She twitched but did not shy away.

"I'm sorry," Geralt tried again, remorse choking his words. All he had wanted was the truth. He had never meant to hurt anyone in pursuit of it.

"Why did you come back?" Kit asked suddenly with barely suppressed anger.

Geralt opened his mouth to answer but realized that this was not the question he had expected. Why did you leave – that was what he had been sure she would ask, what he had mentally prepared to answer for.

But now an entirely different explanation was required of him. He could feel the words tangling and tumbling on his tongue. He tried anyway, tried to put his recent epiphany into words.

"I wasn't sure if I could trust you," he began hesitantly. "But now I know that I can."

"Oh. Great." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "And how exactly did you come to that conclusion? Because me trying everything I could to help you obviously wasn't enough."

Geralt chose to ignore the last part.

"The dress you made that you didn't even wear." He recalled the moment she had shown it to him, the dress that looked as if it had come straight out of Toussaint's night sky. "You worked on it until the very last night before you needed it. You said the fabric was only to be used for the most important things." She had used those exact words when she had shown him the sparkling blue dress – made from the fabric he had gifted her. "You made a dress for a doll out of it. You made a dress for a doll before you even finished your own." Even now Geralt shook his head. As men were, he could acknowledge that he was absolutely clueless when it came to certain things, and dressmaking and fashion were certainly high up on that list. But even he understood that it was time consuming and that appearing in a new dress every time she went to some social event was her way of garnering interest for her work. Not only had she risked that opportunity by finishing her dress late, she had thrown it in the wind by wearing another one in order to try and trigger his memories. Twice she had put the wellbeing of others before her own.

"You made a dress for a ragged old doll, for a girl who lives in a place where that doll's dress is probably the most expensive item for miles around. For a little girl. For nothing in exchange. At the cost of delaying the work you needed to do for yourself." He sighed, mad at himself. "I know very few people who'd have done that." In the grand scheme of things, not finishing a dress on time was certainly not something that was life-threatening, but considering the circumstances it was an indicator of character and an irrefutable proof that she was exactly the person she appeared to be.

His hand still on her shoulder, he felt the tension in her muscles slowly melt away.

"I am truly sorry that I doubted you. All this time you have tried to make me feel welcome, but I mistrusted you. Because it's what keeps me alive and because it's what I should have done the last time when I suddenly found myself without a past. People were dishonest with me, took advantage of me and I expected you to be the same, even though I should have known better after that first evening already."

"How do you even know about all of this?" Kit wondered quietly, now much calmer.

"Happened to be at the right place at the right time to see a little girl have a very cute meltdown because I forgot to bring her a dress – only to find it by accident."

"I put it in there because I forgot to bring it the last time we visited. I would have put it in my saddlebags, but they were with the leatherworker for a long overdue repair. Funny how that turned out." The anger was gone from her voice. Instead, she sounded exhausted.

"What's so special about this girl anyway?" he asked. He had been wondering that for a while now. Surely he would have figured it out on his own if had he not run off in a hurry.

"Same old story," Kit whispered. "Her father died and the doll was the last thing he ever gave her. We've been to this inn too many times to ignore it. They are doing okay, but Cosette misses her dad. I bring her a new dress every time we go through there. To cheer her up, at least for a moment."

It felt satisfying to finally fill in one blank. He remembered the party and how she knew personal details of almost every guest. Someone so aware of the struggles of others could not, of course, ignore them.

"So you came back because I made a dress for a doll then?" she wondered.

Geralt smirked.

"Partly," he said, because the truth was somewhere in between. It was difficult to put into words what had made him run back to her. But he tried anyway.

"I've been feeling this odd…" He thought of the weird pull in his chest. "This connection to you. Been lying in this bed for so many nights, couldn't sleep because… you weren't here." He realized it as he said it. He had not felt at home because without her it here simply was no home. "I didn't trust that feeling before but now I know better." He paused. "If you let me, I'll stay for as long as it takes. And if I never remember, I'll stay anyway."

As he said it, he was certain that there was no better place in the entire world for him. He might not have been able to consciously remember, but parts of him had retained his memories, expressing themselves in urges and desires he could not quite explain.

Kit began to weep at his words.

"I miss him. So much," she cried.

Geralt felt the pull in his chest again and gave in to it. He closed the distance between them, pulled her against him, her back to his chest, and held her trembling body in his arms as she sobbed, mourning a version of him that was no longer there.

He wondered what kind of person he had become to deserve such heartbreaking grief. It seemed improbable, if not utterly impossible, that he could ever mean so much to anyone, except perhaps Ciri.

As he hugged Kit tightly, her warmth seeping through his clothes and into his skin, he vowed to find that missing part of himself. All of this, holding her like this, suddenly felt like something he had yearned for all of his life: a proper home of his own. And he would do everything in his power to earn it back.