#( conversations && cirilla. )

[littlestsnicket]

title: in which ciri acquires an emotional support bard (3/5)

word count: 4.2k

ciri learns something about what it means to be a mage and something else about what it means to be a bard, and then she tries her hand at storytelling

excerpt:

“Ciri, I know you’re there. Stop lurking,” Yennefer said. She sounded odd—not unkind or angry. Maybe strict was the best word for it. She turned around as Ciri stepped past the treeline onto the bank of the river. Yennefer was unabashedly naked and Ciri studiously kept her eyes on Yennefer’s face, hoping she wasn’t blushing. 

Ciri wasn’t attracted to Yennefer—the very idea was laughable—but she wasn’t blind. Yennefer’s figure was mind-bendingly perfect. And it wasn’t like with Geralt, where Ciri was objectively aware that many people found Geralt’s physique attractive; here, she could see it for herself.

“You’re filthy. There’s spare soap and a washcloth. Come join me,” Yennefer said with a flick of her wrist indicating the bathing supplies next to where her dress lay spread out on the grass.

Ciri stripped out of her clothes. She wasn’t ashamed of her body but she had a heightened awareness of her wiry build and the way her pale skin was mottled with livid bruises. It felt lacking in contrast to Yennefer’s, well, everything. But this was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To be a Witcher, to be able to fight. What the training had done to her body was a small consequence, and nothing compared to what she had been willing to sacrifice to undergo the mutagens. Ciri pushed her feelings aside, laid out her vest and trousers next to Yennefer’s dress, and took her shirt along with her to wash.

[on ao3]

[jay-arts-t]

Little Ciri: I'm a mistake from god

Vesemir: *CHOKES* W h a t

Ciri: and I'm from the h world

Vesemir: W H A T. Where is your dad

[imagineredwood]

4. First conversations alone

I'm gonna do quick little soft drabbles with which ever character speaks to me from this prompt list. I'm not doing requests for them, just little blurbs to get back into writing more often. Especially that I could just throw together in a few minutes when/if I find downtime at work lol.

Edit: Not this turning into an almost regular length fic 🧍🏻‍♀️

“Mind if I join you?”

EZ stood up straight, droping the random beer can back onto the floor so he could turn around and look at you. He smiled when he recognized you, his head tilting.

"Join me in picking up trash?"

He chuckled but you only shrugged, the shy smile still present on your lips.

"Sure. Why not?"

Your words threw him a bit, not really ever having spoken to you apart from quick small talk, practically yelled over the music in the clubhouse. When he found the time to talk that was, the life of being a prospect not an easy one. He always thought maybe you were just trying to be nice. Perhaps felt bad for him always getting the shit jobs. Maybe that was true, but still, here you were offering to help him long after the rest of the people who hung around had gone home. EZ nodded a few times, a bashful smile on his face that mirrored yours.

"Yeah, ok. But you hold the bag. Don't want you getting your hands dirty."

You obliged and took the garbage bag from his hands, walking around with him, holding it open for him to toss the trash into.

"How much longer do you have to do this? Angel said you're getting close to a year."

EZ threw in a paper plate and nodded.

"Yeah, three months or something like that."

You smiled and shook the bag, letting everything settle.

"That's good. You work hard."

EZ stayed bent over but looked to the side over at you, brows raised. Your shoulders shrugged as you laughed, embarrassed.

"I've just seen how much you run around at the parties. Never really get a break much. But you always have a smile anyway."

He stood upright, both gloved hands holding a cracked solo cup. He walked it over to you and tossed it into your bag, eyes stuck on yours. Your gaze was warm.

"It suits you."

EZ could feel the heat rising to his cheeks and he laughed, casting his eyes down.

"Well thank you."

You smiled softly, tying the bag up with your eyes down too, that warm feeling starting to spread in your chest.

"You're welcome."

General taglist (tagged in all work)

@piccasoe @ateliefloresdaprimavera @woahitslucyylu @everyhowlmarksthedead @glimmerglittergirl @fanaticfangurl21 @encounterthepast @svintsandghosts @starrynite7114 @destynelseclipsa @queenbeered @iamthegraham @emoengelfurleben @all-the-boys-to-the-yard @otomefromtheheart @rosieposie0624 @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @beeroses @weirdosandhopelessromantics @kola95

@cruzwalters @myakai13 l @lyly00 @Zsakaystacks17 @cole-winchester @alexxavicry @savagemickey03 @fanfic-n-tabulous @xbloodyxangelx @carma-fanficaddict @gillysoldlady @choochoo284 @whitetxilwxlf @ravennaortiz @flowercrowns-goodvibes

Mayans MC taglist 

@dazzledamazon  @briana-mishell24 @wrcn9fvlcver @thesandbeneathmytoes @krysiewithak @appropriate-writers-name @blessedboo @megapeacelovemusic-blog @emoengelfurleben @blowmymbackout @abby-splace @kola95 @redpoodlern @myakai13 @cruzwalters @po3ticb3auty @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @angel-121 @fanfic-n-tabulous @carma-fanficaddict

[oonoturna]

HEAVY HARD hurt GERASKIER prompt -Geralt believes Rience when he says that Jaskier betrayed him and gave Kaer Morhen and Ciri's location. (FREE TO USE)

Prompt: after Rience and Jaskier's torture take Ciri to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier is still injured, but Rience puts a spell on him, which prevents others from seeing his real state, with injuries. Geralt hears from Yennefer about the bard's meeting with Rience, but she doesn't go into detail about everything. But then, Rience finds the fortress and searches for Ciri, attacking everyone. He finds Jaskier and Geralt, and says something (he's cunning and manipulative) that he assumes that the bard who told him about the location… and that he just offered some coins for it, and that Jaskier wanted to get revenge on Geralt for the mountain . (Rience gets the information from someone or reads it from Jaskier's mind, the writer can decide, including the information about the location of the fortress, I haven't decided on that yet). Yennefer manages to attack Rience who runs away, but says she will return now that she knows where Cirilla is. With that, Geralt confronts Jaskier about what Rience said… Jaskier begins to defend himself, but his mental and physical state begin to hinder him in his explanation. Geralt ends up pressing the bard against a pillar (remember here that he is already injured from both torture and Violet Meir and has had no time to heal or any chance to get treatment), and Geralt starts yelling at Jaskier about betrayal, about him not thinking about a child (Ciri), about him having betrayed him for a petty and vile reason, etc. Use your imagination here. I think of something that reaches the point where Jaskier starts to believe in all of this due to his state of mental weakness. Geralt decides they need to leave the fortress, leaving Jaskier behind. Being left behind again makes Jaskier even worse… and he goes into an even worse state of denial and self-hatred. Jaskier feels that he himself actually told about Ciri's location and the fortress and that he betrayed Geralt… alone in Kaer Morhen, Rience appears again and confronts the bard again about where they are… But among the conversation, Rience begins mocking Jaskier and removes the spell to show the marks he left on his body… he begins to torture the bard again, even psychologically. Yennefer, already in doubt, as she didn't believe that the bard had told Rience anything before saving him, opens a portal from where she is with Geralt to the fortress… where she finds Rience hurting Jaskier… She rescues the bard who is already dying and without Rience's spell that hid his injuries. Yen takes the bard to where she was with Geralt… that's when the witcher sees Jaskier's real state… and when Yennefer tells him what she heard from Rience while he was torturing Jaskier… that it was easy to manipulate Geralt about the bard, because after all, he never trusted Jaskier and never considered him a friend or someone he should protect. Jaskier is in an even more critical state due to his injuries and Geralt begs Yennefer to heal him. Yennefer: I'm trying, trying! But look at him! My magic needs his body to respond to heal! But he has old wounds, his body has not healed from them, he is very weak! It's not reacting. Jaskier then goes into cardiac arrest, right before Geralt's eyes. Detail: Jaskier in front lying on the ground, motionless… Yennefer trying to revive him… he's not breathing… but Geralt can still see the marks of his own fingers on Jaskier's neck, the moment he pushed him in the pilaster and said he didn't consider him anything. That he was wrong to trust a bard, accustomed to frivolities… especially a bard like him, who would trade anyone for a new lute. That he should have gotten rid of him sooner, before he came to destroy the only important thing in his life… Ciri. Yes, I want drama! Sadness, I want excitement! aahahahahaha

[geraskierfanficprompts]

HEAVY HARD hurt GERASKIER prompt -Geralt believes Rience when he says that Jaskier betrayed him and gave Kaer Morhen and Ciri's location.

Prompt: after Rience and Jaskier's torture take Ciri to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier is still injured, but Rience puts a spell on him, which prevents others from seeing his real state, with injuries. Geralt hears from Yennefer about the bard's meeting with Rience, but she doesn't go into detail about everything. But then, Rience finds the fortress and searches for Ciri, attacking everyone. He finds Jaskier and Geralt, and says something (he's cunning and manipulative) that he assumes that the bard who told him about the location… and that he just offered some coins for it, and that Jaskier wanted to get revenge on Geralt for the mountain . (Rience gets the information from someone or reads it from Jaskier's mind, the writer can decide, including the information about the location of the fortress, I haven't decided on that yet). Yennefer manages to attack Rience who runs away, but says she will return now that she knows where Cirilla is. With that, Geralt confronts Jaskier about what Rience said… Jaskier begins to defend himself, but his mental and physical state begin to hinder him in his explanation. Geralt ends up pressing the bard against a pillar (remember here that he is already injured from both torture and Violet Meir and has had no time to heal or any chance to get treatment), and Geralt starts yelling at Jaskier about betrayal, about him not thinking about a child (Ciri), about him having betrayed him for a petty and vile reason, etc. Use your imagination here. I think of something that reaches the point where Jaskier starts to believe in all of this due to his state of mental weakness. Geralt decides they need to leave the fortress, leaving Jaskier behind. Being left behind again makes Jaskier even worse… and he goes into an even worse state of denial and self-hatred. Jaskier feels that he himself actually told about Ciri's location and the fortress and that he betrayed Geralt… alone in Kaer Morhen, Rience appears again and confronts the bard again about where they are… But among the conversation, Rience begins mocking Jaskier and removes the spell to show the marks he left on his body… he begins to torture the bard again, even psychologically. Yennefer, already in doubt, as she didn't believe that the bard had told Rience anything before saving him, opens a portal from where she is with Geralt to the fortress… where she finds Rience hurting Jaskier… She rescues the bard who is already dying and without Rience's spell that hid his injuries. Yen takes the bard to where she was with Geralt… that's when the witcher sees Jaskier's real state… and when Yennefer tells him what she heard from Rience while he was torturing Jaskier… that it was easy to manipulate Geralt about the bard, because after all, he never trusted Jaskier and never considered him a friend or someone he should protect. Jaskier is in an even more critical state due to his injuries and Geralt begs Yennefer to heal him. Yennefer: I'm trying, trying! But look at him! My magic needs his body to respond to heal! But he has old wounds, his body has not healed from them, he is very weak! It's not reacting. Jaskier then goes into cardiac arrest, right before Geralt's eyes. Detail: Jaskier in front lying on the ground, motionless… Yennefer trying to revive him… he's not breathing… but Geralt can still see the marks of his own fingers on Jaskier's neck, the moment he pushed him in the pilaster and said he didn't consider him anything. That he was wrong to trust a bard, accustomed to frivolities… especially a bard like him, who would trade anyone for a new lute. That he should have gotten rid of him sooner, before he came to destroy the only important thing in his life… Ciri. Yes, I want drama! Sadness, I want excitement! aahahahahaha

Oh em geeeee, that's so tragic!!! And fucked up! I love it~ Would love to read it at some point, if anyone is in the mood to write aaaangst!!! We got another lovely idea from @oonoturna, always spoiling us!

[winters-mistress]

Of gentle wolves and healing princesses

It's a slow process, all things considered. It had been impressive enough that Ciri had even woken up from her injury at all, let alone begun to heal from it. Vesemir tells the twice grassed pup that even fully grown witchers have fallen from injuries like that one. But still, the girl awakens.

Because of the fall, her head had been banged up pretty tightly, Eskel and Vesemir taking turns changing the bandages and boil washing them in their best bet to ward off infection. But as the days go by, Geralt watches Cirilla remain awake for stretches longer and longer, even starting to respond to stimuli and respond to questions at the end of the first week of bed boundness.

Coën takes to slowly maneuvering her limbs as she's in bed. Bending her knees and extending her arms and rotating her torso. It's to keep her blood flowing, he tells the wolves, before admonishing them for their lack of knowledge on the clotting of human blood. Not enough movement could still the blood and kill her just as easily as the fall or infection could. Geralt is just greatful the Griffin has the instinct to take such good care of the white wolf's pup, for his instinct is to still protect the girl fiercely.

Lambert is the least helpful when it comes to Cirilla's recovery. He drank himself into a stupor the first night she had fallen, and had his face pummelled in by Geralt on the second. It had taken all four of the other witchers to separate them both, the two growling witchers thrashing as they fought with fists flying instead of the wooden swords of their youth.

By the start of week two, Ciri can swallow broth and thin soups, can move her body after vials of pure poppyseed milk to stop the pain, and Geralt is relieved when the bandages come off that reveal a clean wound, sewn up and sealing over with scabs and iodine. They keep a bandage on there just in case, but nowhere as dramatic as the others she had been wearing all that week.

After the wound is closed, Eskel and Coën and Geralt wash Cirilla's hair clean of the multitude of fluids that maar the girl's pretty blonde hair. Vesemir took the time to brew up a soup with small cooked root vegetables, while Lambert was scheduled to make more healing potions thag wouldn't melt the poor girls insides.

By week three, Cirilla can wash herself with a flannel and eat thick soups of barley and potato. She can sit up by herself now and hold a slow conversation. Her words are slow, slurred and take a while longer to understand their responses. Lambert drinks himself into a bucket again, and Vesemir tans his hide for it.

Geralt is impressed as the girl begins to get restless in her bedrest and sees the spark returning as she tries to get up and explore. He feels like Vesemir when he tells her that she needs to walk before she can run, but will stay by her side as she steadies herself and holds her hands as she climbs to her feet.

The witchers are honestly mighty impressed that it takes them only a day to start walking the length and around Ciri's room, and only another fir her yo walk from one wall to the next without Geralt's hands to support her, even if she falls into them when she's scaled this hurdle.

Day by day, they walk a little further in the keep and Geralt carries her less and lesson their way back. Her words get quicker in speed and understanding and the promises of a visit yo the horses or the hunting dogs or the livestock keep Cirilla motivated when she cannot put one foot in front if the other anymore.

But they get there, one step at a time, a harem of large, mutated witchers and a pretty princess who has just as much strength as them.

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Lass es Liebe sein (Let it be love)

"Witcher," the Emperor says, and after this - nothing, for a while. He looks almost hesitant. But Emhyr var Emreis is not a hesitant man. So, him obviously pondering his next words is as strange as the fact that Geralt was summoned by the man to begin with. Geralt stands patiently beneath one of the black flags that adorn the palace walls, because patience is one of the essential qualities of a witcher. From this point of view, it doesn't matter to him whether he waits for the beast to come and take his bait after hours of hunting, or whether it’s Emhyr var Emreis. The only question is, what’s the bait. Perhaps it’s himself, which is not a very pleasant thought. The emperor sits behind his desk, legs apart, he looks way too tall to be comfortable in such a narrow space. Maybe that’s the reason he now tosses the quill on the tabletop, or it’s just Emhyr being Emhyr. The man has always been impatient, erratic even. "I want my daughter to get married," he now says.

Geralt, who’s started counting the rays of all the suns on all the flags, jerks his head around so hard, there’s a cracking sound from his neck. He’s getting old. Really, he’s getting too old for this shit. Emhyr, as if sensing impending trouble, continues speaking quickly. "The fact that you brought her back to me was a commendable achievement, despite certain… difficulties. You've always proven to be very skilled in dealing with Cirilla." This is astonishing praise, especially since it means, in a way, that Emhyr admits the difficult relationship with his own daughter. Not that Geralt didn't already know that from Ciri herself.

"You… don't want me to pick out a suitable marriage candidate, do you?" asks Geralt.

"What? Why?"

"Well," Geralt sheepishly remarks, "considering your own ideas about marriage, you might be looking for advice…"

"From you?" Emhyr's eyes seem to bulge out of their sockets.

Geralt shrugs, "Maybe that's none of my business, because it's her decision, right? Who is she to marry?"

"That's not just her decision," Emhyr reprimands him. "And it's about Morvran Voorhis."

"Why?" Geralt tilts his head.

"Why? Well, his family..."

Emhyr launches into a long-winded explanation about Voorhis' military successes and the strategic importance of this marriage, but Geralt interrupts him, "No, why do you think she would agree to marry the guy?" Emhyr leans back in his chair to regard Geralt with a look the witcher can’t interpret. Geralt ponders whether he should get angry. It would probably not be particularly advisable to get angry in the imperial palace right in front of the emperor, and not just because of the inevitable guards standing in front of and behind the only exit. But they're talking about Ciri, her future. Perhaps Geralt doesn't have too much say in the matter, and that's his own fault: after all, he persuaded her to talk to her father. If he hadn't, what would have happened? It's pointless to think about it. A witcher is committed to neutrality. Isn’t he?

"You see," Emhyr continues, "that's the entire point of this conversation. I do not, in fact, believe that she will agree to marry him, and only because out of spite."

"Of spite." Well, this certainly sounds like the mischievous girl he helped raising, Geralt thinks. But he also thinks that she knew, she fucking knew what she was getting into when she agreed to take on her heir. It’s not just saving the world, oh no. It’s being the empress-to-be with all that comes with it. Strangely enough, Geralt can see her marrying whoever for the sake of everybody else. She was ready to sacrifice way more, and any man daring enough to wed her would have a hard time, she’s just too much like her grandmother in that respect. The real question, he thinks, is why she would oppose against Morvran of all people. He’s only met the man briefly, but he likes horses and seems decently friendly enough, even to people that don’t fit society's crazy rules.

"Hold on. You want me to convince her to marry the guy, is that it? Very funny, Emhyr, really."

"Is it?“ Emhyr's voice is calm, his gaze serene, but his fingers pluck at the threads of his immaculate robe.

"Yes," Geralt replies heatedly, and then he says something rash, "yes, because... because she loves someone else."

Emhyr cocks his head, as he always does when information seems particularly interesting, "Who?" he demands to know.

"Well, if she didn't tell you about it, there’ll be a reason for that."

"That means she hasn't told you either, has she, Geralt?"

Geralt is probably in trouble now, because Emhyr has never called him by his name before. So far, he's always called him witcher. His teasing tone almost sounds amused, and he adds, "But I'll find out. You're coming to the ball tomorrow night. No arguments."

Geralt gasps for air like a fish that has just been pulled out of the water, and he feels like he’s just been found to be too small and thrown back in.

But there is no alternative, no escape, and in the end a ball is the lesser evil compared to open rebellion or becoming a kingslayer. If he just keeps telling himself that long enough, Geralt thinks, pulling at his doublet in disgust, it might become truth. He wanders around, carefully avoiding the tables of ladies looking for dance partners, clutching his empty plate, as a voice rings out next to him, "You seem to have a penchant for the shrimp." Geralt turns around and can't suppress a grin, "Think no one recognizes you when you're wearing a wolf mask? Subtle."

Many people are wearing masks tonight, because apparently every ball is a fancy masquerade. The truth is, of course, that every ball is a dating ball, and not everyone is blessed with a beautiful face. Emhyr's disguise with the wolf mask is probably just a mockery. In any case, the doublet cut to fit his muscular body is embroidered with real gold thread, and his sheer size makes him tower over the ordinary nobles. The unmistakable Impera are standing at the door, staring over with little subtlety, and out of the corner of his eye Geralt sees the familiar face of Vattier de Rideaux. Well, Emhyr may think he's diving into the crowd, but none of this is left to chance.

"People see what they want to see, and I hope the same applies to me. You will help me find out which of these vain peacocks my daughter prefers over Morvran Voorhis." His faint nod encompasses both the dancers and the men standing indecisively at the edge of the dance floor. "Cirilla has danced with almost every one of them except for Morvran."

Emhyr sounds disapproving, but strangely proud at the same time. Geralt thinks he can be: the black dress Ciri is wearing makes her green eyes shine, and a clever hairstyle ensures that her scar looks interesting, at best. Not that this detail would repel any suitors, on the contrary. Emhyr knows this, of course, and perhaps his strange behavior is actually motivated by paternal concern.

"What makes you think it's a man she's looking for?" asks Geralt, suddenly uncomfortable with the fact that he can't see Emhyr's reaction.

"Is she... interested in something else?"

It’s a strange wording, Geralt thinks, and even stranger is the fact that Emhyr sounds curious, above all. He replies, "And if so, Your Highness?"

"It’s Majesty, but I suppose you know that very well, Geralt. Well, that would be... unpleasant, I shall think."

Geralt thinks he must have misheard, but you never know. He walks on, his plate still firmly in his hand, because yes, he has a fondness for shrimp, and if Emhyr really cared about this conversation, he would follow him.

He follows him.

"Don't you think?" he asks as if he’s actually interested, watching Geralt fill his plate, and Geralt snorts, "Why exactly would that be unpleasant?"

"Apart from reasons of state," Emhyr begins, but then lowers his voice, because of course they’re not alone. The buffet has ears, so to speak. Lots of them. "Apart from that, you realize that this marriage must serve various purposes. It must satisfy the people, mean a visible gain for Nilfgaard..."

"But doesn't it matter what satisfies Ciri?" Geralt asks quietly, pointing to the dance floor, where she’s just pushing a young man across. She leads, she knows no other way. And Geralt thinks that it should be this way. That every woman should have the right to decide for herself. He knows Ciri will eventually learn and adapt the court’s subtle ways, as has her grandmother. She can’t change the world, and that’s sad. But maybe it should start at some point. It should start with her deciding whom she wants to marry, right? "Look, now she's dancing with Cerys. A connection with Skellige would certainly have some advantages, Emhyr."

In fact, the man should reprimand him now for addressing Geralt by his first name. But his usual sternness is hidden behind the wolf mask. Maybe even more than that.

"Skellige," the emperor replies quietly, "would laugh theirselves silly. Or go to war. I don't think Cirilla would risk it."

"That's your only concern?" asks Geralt in surprise, albeit a bit muffled, this buffet has good shrimp. "Proposed with the idea that your daughter could marry a woman, all you can think about is the political implications?"

"Everything has political implications, whether you like it or not."

"Really? That's your answer? Not oh no, my daughter can never marry a woman?"

"Are you shocked, Geralt? Then I guess there's more Nordling in you than I thought."

With these words, Emhyr leaves him, and the evening passes without a single scandal.

However, Geralt is preoccupied with the question for much longer than he would like to admit to himself. It's one of those moments when he deeply regrets how things turned out after Yennefer summoned the djinn. Because although it had made him painfully aware that he had been clinging to a lie for years, he had also lost his friend in the process. And although there have been many years in which he and Yen were not on speaking terms, it’s unfavorable now. But maybe it's just as well, because there may be another reason why Emhyr's words are bothering him, and it's buried so deep that it's better not to shake it. Telling Emhyr about Cerys was kind of a dry run for something Geralt hasn’t even admitted to himself. And maybe there actually is only one person to talk about this topic, and it’s not Dandelion, mind you. It’s Ciri herself.

She thinks it's hilarious.

"You told Emhyr what?" she repeats for the third time.

Geralt sighs and says, "Thought I was doing you a favor. You don't seem to like this Morvran guy very much."

"Oh yeah?" Ciri's eyes flash cockily. "And you couldn't think of anything better than Cerys an Craite, my childhood playmate. Whereupon he wrinkled his nose and told you that it would be better for the realm if it were at least another Nilfgaardian noblewoman."

"He was wearing a mask, no idea what he wrinkled," Geralt returns sourly, "and... wait, you'd be interested in, uh, noblewomen?"

"Good heavens, Geralt. Don’t you think it’s a little late for that kind of conversation?" Ciri laughs so loudly that the few walkers in the meagre palace garden turn to look at her. "But if you must know, I'm quite open-minded. Be it men or women."

"But…" Geralt feels at loss of words, and if he could blush he might just now. Strangely enough, this feels… liberating, for whatever reason.

"No buts," she says now, much more seriously. "When I decided to take this path, I was aware of the consequences. A strategic marriage is the best thing for Nilfgaard. Still, Geralt, one thing I've learned from you is that love should come first. And I’m convinced that both is possible, even if Emhyr may see it differently."

"Love hasn't really taken me very far," Geralt replies quietly.

"You've got that wrong. It’s actually taken you and me a long way." Ciri pats his back, ready to leave Geralt in quite the confused state although he couldn’t say why, exactly, but she turns one more time to add, "Oh, and it’s not Cerys, by the way."

"Hm?"

"About your talk with Emhyr. You basically wanted to get him to admit that he’s fine with me marrying whoever I love, right? I will, don’t you worry. It’s just not Cerys."

If that's even possible, Geralt is only more bewildered after this conversation. It's as if Ciri has triggered something inside him that he had last thought about decades ago, something he’d dismissed as one of those things that stood in the way of a need to appear more human. Humanity, however, has proven that it never believed he could have anything in common with it. So, why should he even bother if he harbored feelings that weren’t exactly in line with society?

Geralt hasn’t much time to think about it. A man has to earn money, so he’s dealing with everyday's monsters, some of which happen to be human, and then there’s also Emhyr. Ever since the ball, Geralt has had the feeling that shadows are following him in the form of Nilfgaardian soldiers, and every few weeks the man finds another opportunity to summon him to the palace. He keeps him busy with trifles that Geralt cannot refuse for Ciri's sake – and because he is the Emperor, damnit. Again and again, he engages him in conversation, alone in his study room. Well, he is never alone, of course. The Impera at the door, however, are chosen on the basis of loyalty and discretion, which may not apply to every member of the court, as Geralt soon learns.

"If it's not Cerys, who is it?"

It is clear that this is not just musing, but a clear question, almost an order to Geralt to finally reveal the answer.

"Do you have eavesdroppers in the palace garden?"

"Does that surprise you?"

"What surprises me," Geralt says thin-lipped, "is that it doesn't seem to bother you."

Emhyr regards him almost startled. "Geralt, you've been here how many times since Ciri moved in?" he returns, "You still haven't learned anything about Nilfgaard in all this time? All those conversations with Henry var Attre and his daughter… don't give me that look, of course I know about your supposed fencing lessons."

Well, the fencing lessons. Geralt could have guessed that there were holes in the cloak of this secrecy. Because he had, in fact, spent some time with Rosa and her father to find out more about Nilfgaard. Some kind of further training to be able to support Ciri later on. That’s what he claimed to them, at least. And perhaps that was partly true. But there was also another part, a hidden part, which had been a strange motivation to be babbled at by two not particularly fascinating people.

"I don't get it," Geralt admits grudgingly, "though I’m well aware of the political dimensions of a marriage with Skellige, but..."

"I have my doubts about that," Emhyr replies with a ... a wink? Perhaps he has a speck of dust in his eye. "But that's not the point. Geralt, some things Nilfgaardians simply see differently from the people of the North. Especially, well, the common folk."

"Sure, the peasants probably wouldn't understand," Geralt muses, unamused. "Wait. Do you mean ... same-sex marriage? In Nilfgaard?"

"Not very often, but not unusual either. Quite common among knights, in fact, in order not to lose the claim to a fief. Occasionally also occurs among kings, for similar reasons. And... well. It’s said my great-great-grandfather..."

Emhyr breaks off and looks away, as if this is really not a topic to discuss with a witcher. Geralt swallows. His palms feel strangely damp. "If that were the case," he replies boldly, "you wouldn't be here today."

"Hm. The concept that Ciri tried to explain to you seems to have passed you by. Would that really be so bad, Geralt? Is love actually one of the feelings that has been completely driven out of witchers?"

"I don't know."

"But you spent many years with the sorceress from Vengerberg."

"Decades," Geralt sighs. "Doesn’t mean I understand love. Or even… know it."

"And because you claim to not know it," Emhyr replies pointedly, „you can’t imagine there’s more to love than what our parents told us?"

"Haven’t really had parents."

"You’re evading my question, Geralt."

Geralt shrugs. Suddenly, he feels so small beneath Emhyr’s gaze. And the question is quite simple. Is it bad to love men and women? Is it bad to love differently, be differently, like the blacksmith he met in Novigrad or the hunter he met in Velen or…

"I simply want Ciri to be happy," he finally says.

Emhyr shrugs. "Happiness is even more complex to a ruler, I’m afraid. Don’t you think I would want that, too? Nobody can undo their past. We only have the future to look forward to. I want Nilfgaard to have a future, and it has my daughter to ensure this. If it is with a woman, so be it. She can still have an heir. So no, I’m not bothered. I would be, though, if it was not somebody that’s valuable for both her and the realm."

He laughs. It’s a quiet, almost restrained laugh, and a sound rarely heard in this palace. It’s also a pleasant sound, Geralt realizes with surprise, because he likes it.

"Does that apply to you, too?" he asks without thinking. Emhyr tilts his head. "To me?"

"Do you have to ... be with someone who gives you an advantage? Someone sufficient for Nilfgaard? That can’t be too hard, there’ve been many noble women eying you at the ball. Yet you haven’t announced your wedding. You also were never seen with any women in the palace besides your own court sorceress, and given your suspicion around magic, she’s probably not it, and…"

"Geralt, you’re babbling," says Emhyr in a strangely soft voice.

Geralt looks at him, and he notices quite a few things. Emhyr has very brown eyes with tiny speckles in them. He can speak softly with those sensual lips. He’s fascinating in his own way. It’s… odd. Confusing. It’s also nice. And it ges even nicer, because now this face and these eyes come closer. Maybe there’s a hint of insecurity in them, for the fraction of a second. But this is the Emperor. He’s not an insecure man, and his lips touch Geralt’s, and for a while, his mind goes blank.

"What do you think," he says after a while, even if Geralt is still processing the kiss, "is one of the advantages for me that Cirilla was willing to accept her inheritance? I can do what I want. Love whoever I want."

"How did you know?" asks Geralt, running a finger over his lips in bewilderment. Did that really happen? "That I wanted that too, I mean."

"Intuition," Emhyr says, tapping his temples in a strangely ridiculous gesture, "and a lot of spies who are a burden on the state treasury, I'm afraid."

Their hands find each other almost automatically, intertwining fingers. Geralt has almost forgotten that the Impera are still at the door, but they're basically like living statues, and he doesn't even care if he becomes the number one topic of conversation in the palace’s rumor mill today. There's a knock at the door, the moment when the Impera become a little livelier again, but it's actually Ciri. A strange coincidence, and yet Emhyr does not pull his hands away, not even when they see Morvran is with her. Ciri just looks briefly at their interlaced fingers and smiles.

"Father," she says, "or shall I say fathers since you’re both here, I have an announcement to make."

Morvran Voorhis' cheeks turn red. Geralt looks at him with fascination, suddenly struck by a premonition.

Ciri takes Morvran's hand, beams at Emhyr and says, "Morvran and I are getting married."

"W... What?" For a moment, Emhyr's facial features slip, but he quickly catches himself and clears his throat. "Well, it's good that you've come to your senses, child."

"Wait, hang on," Geralt interjects, confused, "why Morvran now?"

Ciri laughs out loud. Too loud for the palace, really, but Geralt can see that Voorhis is almost glued to watching her. And now he gets it. This is Ciri, the girl who tricked Vesemir when she didn't want to train, who got Eskel to do Lambert's chores in the kitchen and taught Geralt what a soft heart is. She winks at him.

"Morvran just needed some impetus," she says, and Morvran is really blushing now. "He seemed to think I was a trophy that belonged to him, so I had to take away his illusions. We've been dating for a while, you know? I like him, I really do. But he shouldn't think he can have me so easily. Love, you two. Love is the key. I think he's realized it now."

She grins, and Morvran smiles at her like a lovesick fool. Apparently, he has, thinks Geralt. His heart is light as he looks at Emhyr.

A year later, a double wedding takes place, and it's the most beautiful celebration Nilfgaard has ever seen.

(Why the title, you ask? Because I'm in an absolute brainrot for this song)

[dont-touch-the-phlebotinum]

Your Gaze Lights the Fire

Jaskier/Radovid | 3K words | Explicit

As performances go, it's hardly a challenging crowd; a smattering of nobles and royal hangers-on, as eager with their applause as they are to snatch up another cup of wine being passed around. Yet there's a flutter of nerves beating against Jaskier's ribs as he plays, one he's not felt for perhaps too many years. It's almost a relief when his last song draws to a close and the room drifts into a subdued, contemplative hush.

"You can all applaud me now if you like," he says, if only to cut through the frisson of electricity in the air.

Across the room, Radovid remains as a statue, his hands curled on the arms of his chair and his eyes fixed with burning intensity on Jaskier – and Jaskier could have believed that was simply the way Radovid studies everyone; sizing them up, taking them apart with his gaze to lay bare every secret they try to hide, except he hasn't seen Radovid devote nearly as much attention to anyone else tonight. When he gets up to follow Jaskier there's a lightness in the way he saunters away from the crowd that's too controlled to be fully convincing.

"Stay," he says when Jaskier moves to leave, somewhere between request and command. "Hardly seems fair, to take our fill of your talents and then cast you aside." He lifts a cup from another passing tray and offers it out to Jaskier. "Consider it recompense, for your performance."

"I thought you agreeing to sniff out Rience was recompense."

"This business with the girl Cirilla, the mage on her trail – that's simply politics. Tonight?" There's a whisper of a wry smile on his face, there and gone so quickly Jaskier could convince himself he'd imagined it. Radovid leans forward conspiratorially, and part of Jaskier wants to step back, to put some distance between them again. He doesn't. "Tonight is just for me."

There has to be an angle. An attempt to ply Jaskier with wine until he's drunk enough to spill Geralt's secrets, or – or to make him more amenable to the idea of bringing Ciri to Redania before they've dealt with Rience. He's a little insulted that Radovid would think him such a fool.

Unless, perhaps, Radovid doesn't. Unless he genuinely wants Jaskier to stay.

Jaskier meets his eyes, searching for the truth in Radovid's gaze. There's so much hiding within it Jaskier suspects he could spend a lifetime at study and still fail to decipher it all.

He takes the cup, and follows Radovid back into the room.

Too many to count follow as the candles burn down low and the night stretches on, yet Jaskier's still nursing his first, the ghost of Radovid's touch lingering on his fingers. He's not stupid enough to let his guard down around this lot, even if the crowd has dwindled to a select few by now. Nor, it seems, is Radovid. He sips his wine – his first as well – and murmurs something to the man sat close at his side. Too low for Jaskier to hear, as much as he strains to listen over the others' conversation, but the man laughs in response. There's a familiar look on his face as he gazes back at Radovid.

It's understandable, of course. Status opens legs just as easily as a handsome face does, and Radovid has both in abundance. Plus wit, and guile, and an intoxicating air of intrigue about him should all other endowments somehow fail to draw a warm, willing body into his lap.

But there's little chance of that tonight. The man beside Radovid certainly seems willing.

Jaskier drains the rest of his drink.

"Another?" A voice says at Jaskier's ear, and he looks back at the woman lounging beside him on the bed. She leans closer. "Or is there something else that might quench your thirst?"

She is beautiful, soft features that turn towards him in obvious interest and dark curls tumbling over her shoulder where her dress has already begun to slip. There are no secrets in her eyes, no caveats to her attention. She's exactly the kind of person with whom Jaskier could pass a very enjoyable night or several. He should have had no hesitation in curling around her with a smile and taking all she would offer him.

"I am flattered, my lady, but–"

"Oh it's quite all right, Jaskier," Radovid cuts in – and, fuck, how long has he been watching? He has an arm slung around the man at his own side now and another woman on his left, her lips on his neck and a hand sliding inside his doublet. Jaskier tries not to follow the movement. "Have anyone who takes your fancy."

Jaskier laughs a little, but Radovid simply stares back at him. As if this is a test, and Jaskier's choice in these next moments will determine whether he passes or fails. "Forgive me," he says in the end. "I didn't realise you were running a brothel out of the royal palace. I'd have brought more coin."

Radovid does laugh at that, and there's an edge of delighted surprise to it that Jaskier thrills at the sound of. It's the second time this evening that his aura of haughty detachment has begun to slip. Perhaps it wouldn't be so impossible to strip it away completely.

"Tales of your prowess spread as far and wide as your songs. Trust me, there's not a person in this room who wouldn't jump at the chance to find out if there's any truth to the legends."

"Mm-hmm," the woman beside Jaskier chimes in emphatically, and presses her lips to his throat.

"Oh I assure you," Jaskier grins, "they're all true."

Radovid regards him for a moment, plucking a grape from the bowl in front of him and bringing it slowly to his lips to take a bite. They glisten in the candlelight when he pulls his hand away again. Jaskier licks his own.

Radovid's voice purrs across the room. "Then prove it."

We're playing a dangerous game, you and I, Jaskier wants to say. Instead, he drags his gaze from Radovid's, turning towards the body pressed against his as he brings his mouth to hers. He can still feel eyes on him. Jaskier curls his hand into the woman's hair, yet even as he deepens the kiss, even as he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to block out everything that's not the woman in his arms, the image of strawberry blonde waves sliding between his fingers remains.

"I never did catch your name," he says between kisses.

"It's Cassandra."

"Cassandra," Jaskier echoes. He runs his hand over her arm as if he needs to check she's real, not just some trick of Philippa's. "A name as stunning as the woman herself."

She laughs, high and lilting, so unlike Radovid's deep, smooth chuckle. "No wonder Radovid likes you," she says, and as she slides into his lap, Jaskier risks a peek over her shoulder to the low couch opposite.

Radovid's own companions have both set to work trailing kisses over what slivers of exposed skin they have available to them, but whatever Radovid sees in Jaskier and Cassandra's display is apparently far more captivating. Even as he slides a hand up the man's thigh, slow and possessive and full of intent, his eyes remain fixed.

Jaskier's cock throbs in response.

Above him, Cassandra slips her hands beneath Jaskier's waistcoat and teases it off. He should be focusing on her. Whatever Radovid is getting up to across the room is no concern of Jaskier's. He kisses her again, fingers tugging at the ties of her dress as she strips Jaskier out of his shirt. He can hear the sounds of rustling fabric and wet lips on bare skin across the room, but when his traitorous eyes flick towards the sound Radovid is, for the moment, still fully clothed.

Maybe this is the game. Radovid knows the way to make Jaskier drop his guard is not to ply him with drink but with sex. Why else would a man who keeps his true self hidden beneath so many layers of guise and performance allow Jaskier to see him desperate and panting and vulnerable as he takes his fill of another? Maybe that's why he's still watching Jaskier like a hawk.

Radovid quirks an eyebrow as Jaskier lifts his hips to let Cassandra peel off his trousers – in appreciation? Amusement? Gods, hopefully not in amusement. But when his eyes rove across Jaskier's body there's something greedy in his expression. "Well," Radovid murmurs thoughtfully, "you are full of surprises, aren't you, bard?"

"All part of my considerable charm."

"Yes it is."

The words, or possibly just the low, appreciative way Radovid utters them, tug at something inside Jaskier. "You're a little overdressed," he says.

Radovid returns his sly smile as he allows his paramours to undress him in turn. He's lithe, not muscular but clearly athletic, his skin pale and unmarred and doubtless soft beneath any hands lucky enough to explore it. Jaskier bites back a bitter pulse of jealousy when they do exactly that. He watches Radovid turn to kiss the man at his side, and free of his burning gaze Jaskier can finally breathe again. At least, until the man's hand curls around Radovid's cock.

His fingers squeeze tight at Cassandra's hips.

He needs to stop watching. If only because Radovid's attention soon returns to Jaskier and whatever expression he finds on Jaskier's face probably reveals far too much. Radovid's lips twitch in response. Despite being naked and hard, only now does Jaskier feel exposed.

Well, if it's a show Radovid's after, Jaskier's not about to disappoint. He spreads his thighs, putting his body on display as he pulls Cassandra in to straddle his hips and kisses eagerly at her skin. Through it all, Radovid's expression remains unreadable.

When Jaskier sinks inside Cassandra, he shifts forward in his seat.

It's hardly the first time Jaskier's fucked with an audience. It might be the first time his audience has been so... rapt. Radovid barely even seems to notice the lips on his own skin or the hand traversing the length of his cock. There's no change in his breathing or his expression; only the subtle hint of pink spreading across his skin to suggest he feels anything at all.

Jaskier wonders if Radovid would be so unmoved were it Jaskier's hands upon him. He's good at this – he knows he's good at this, even without Cassandra's moans as confirmation. If anyone could make Radovid's steely composure crack, it's him.

Nails scratch at Jaskier's skin as he fucks into Cassandra, and he looks up at her with a grin, sliding a hand between them to draw out more sweet sounds and show Radovid just what he's missing. He makes no attempt to hold back his own moans. Across the room, Radovid's man has slipped between his thighs and bobs his head obscenely, the wet sounds of his mouth loud even amongst the laboured breathing filling the room. Jaskier presses his lips to Cassandra's shoulder, but it's not long before his eyes are drifting back to Radovid once again.

Finally, his hips have begun to move. The man between his legs has hair longer than Jaskier's, and Jaskier watches, waiting to see if Radovid's the type to slide his hand through it and steer the man's movements. Instead, Radovid's hands remain at his sides, clenching and relaxing against the fabric beneath him like he wants to reach out and touch but daren't let himself. But there's nothing stopping him from splaying his hands over the man beneath him, from gripping his hair and fucking his mouth in a way Jaskier just knows would make his own water, so why does he hesitate?

Jaskier grins.

Come on, he dares, silently. Come on over here and touch me.

He's fucked enough nobility to know Radovid's hands would be soft as silk against his skin. The thought makes him gasp, his thrusts losing rhythm as he nears his climax, fingers grasping tight at Cassandra's thighs bracketing him, until–

"Not yet," Radovid says, the words low enough to thrum through Jaskier's body and still his hips, and Jaskier groans at the sound of his voice. It's steady, but there's an edge to it that suggests it's an effort to keep it so. "We can't have the night end so soon, can we?"

Cassandra presses a parting kiss to Jaskier's lips and climbs out of his lap to lounge beside him again while Jaskier tries to regain his composure. He pushes his hair out of his face and slumps onto his palms. If Radovid's about to cross the room and take Cassandra's place in Jaskier's lap, well, he's more than welcome to.

He doesn't, of course. Despite the challenge he must surely be able to read on Jaskier's face, Radovid stays seated, moving only to guide his own partner off his cock. With a gentle nudge and a whispered word the man steps towards Jaskier in Radovid's stead.

Jaskier kisses him deeply, trying to taste Radovid on his tongue.

He sinks to his knees between Jaskier's feet and, at Jaskier's wordless nod, curls his fingers around him.

"Beautiful," Radovid says softly, as if he's simply admiring a piece of art. The woman still nestled at his side drags her hand down his stomach, the fair hair dusting his skin no doubt tickling against her palm until it turns thick and coarse and her hand travels the length of Radovid's cock to close around the head. He pushes up into the touch, just as Jaskier does. His breathing is heavier now, his eyes dark and lips parted, and the sound alone is enough to make desire pool, hot and insistent, in Jaskier's belly. There are hands and lips on Jaskier's skin – Cassandra's, probably, but to be honest it's hard to keep track. The rest of the room drifted away from him some time ago.

It's not long before Jaskier begins to crest again, and this time Radovid doesn't stop him. He fists his hands in the blankets beneath him and cries out with the pleasure coursing through him, and through it all, Radovid's gaze doesn't leave him.

Jaskier wants to close his eyes. He can't close his eyes.

"Fuck," he gasps as he sinks back on shaking arms, and Radovid hums, in satisfaction or simply his own pleasure, it's impossible to tell. His lips tug into an enigmatic smile.

He seems almost surprised at the sound he makes when he comes a mere moment later: a low, gentle moan that he quickly bites back into silence, body tensing beautifully as he spills, like he's torn between clinging onto what shreds of his facade remain and simply letting go and feeling. Jaskier wonders how many people have borne witness to such a genuine, unguarded moment from him. He leans forward to drink it in.

Now, now Radovid's eyes are glassy.

If Jaskier moved to join him now, he knows Radovid wouldn't stop him. His body itches to do so.

In the sated stillness engulfing the room, Radovid looks from the pair still entwined with Jaskier to the woman beside him and blinks, eyebrows briefly knitting into a frown. It's as if, for some small fraction of a moment, he was surprised they were there.

"Leave us," he says. "I'm sure my brother has more than enough beds to spare."

He and Jaskier watch in silence as the others gather their discarded clothes and filter from the room. Only once they're alone does Radovid move, unfolding himself gracefully and sauntering over towards the bed. Whether he's about to sink down onto it and finally take Jaskier himself, or threaten him with elaborate torment should he utter a word of this to anyone, Jaskier can't tell. Both seem likely.

His breath hitches as Radovid comes to a stop between his spread knees. He's close enough to touch – for Jaskier to reach forward and press his lips to Radovid's flat stomach, or grasp his hips and pull him down into his lap, letting his hands wander across that expanse of flawless skin until Radovid is incapable of suppressing the noises Jaskier draws out of him. But Jaskier doesn't close the distance between them, and nor does Radovid.

He touches his fingers to Jaskier's cheek. His gaze flicks downwards but, despite Jaskier's body attempting quite valiantly to rouse its interest again, Radovid's hand doesn't follow it. "I should have known your pleasure would sound just as beautiful as your songs," he says, the words barely louder than the thundering of Jaskier's heart.

There's no sign of a lie in his voice, nor in the gaze that still burns as intensely as when Jaskier first walked into the room. Of course, that doesn't mean it isn't there. It just means Radovid's even better at this game than Jaskier gave him credit for. Still, part of Jaskier craves to believe him, even as his common sense begs him not to.

"I should, uh..." he starts, with an apologetic glance towards the door. Radovid just stares back at him in feigned ignorance. "I should go."

"Should you?"

"I have people," Jaskier says, "who need me."

Radovid's lips twitch into that not-quite-smile of his, though the sharpness in his eyes has softened a little in the hazy wake of his orgasm. "And how could they not?"

He lowers his hand, and Jaskier breathes again.

The shift in Radovid's demeanour is immediate. "Very well," he says airily as he drops himself down onto the bed beside Jaskier, and were it not for the very obvious fact of his nakedness you'd never believe they'd done anything more than talk business. He helps himself to a leftover glass of mead, his eyes roving across Jaskier's body without a hint of subtlety until Jaskier has – with great reluctance – pulled his clothes back on. "Perhaps when you return, you'll grace me with another... performance?"

Jaskier grins back at him. His heart is still pounding when he sees himself out into the night. Somehow, he still feels no closer to figuring Radovid out.

It only makes him more determined to do so.

[merlot-and-chardonnay]

A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 33

Chapter 32.5

Masterlist

Mentions of torture in the dream sequence portion followed by a cannon character death in this chapter.

-------Dream Sequence-------

"Ciri...Cirilla," Aemma stirs at the sound of a deep voice. She keeps her eyes closed, determine to stay asleep.

"Zireael!"

Aemma's eyes shot open. Looking ahead, she realized she was not in her bed anymore, but standing somewhere in a field yet again. A meadow actually. Once more, Aemma was wearing the simple dress she was in during her first dream when she saw her mother running with the Wild Hunt.

"Zireael," the deep voice says again, "Must I have this conversation with you again?" A figure stands before Aemma. He was tall in appearance, stoic, with short grey-ish hair with two short braids in front of his ears  and grey eyes that seemed to be older then the man before her. No, not a man, an elf, hence the pointed ears. He was dressed in a long slate grey tunic with a sash wrapped around the middle. He also sported prominent high cheek bones, which Aemma thought were more striking then his ears.

The elf stared at Aemma, giving her a paternalistic, scolding look.

"I need to save them," Another voice speaks up, passing Aemma like she was made of mist. Aemma's eyes widen as she recognized the woman who stepped through her; it was Cirilla, the woman from the Gwent card. The elf however, Aemma remembered, called her a different name.

"I need to save them, Avallac'h," Ciri insists, "they are in danger, I need to get them away from the Wild Hunt." "There fate is out of your hands," the elf, Avallac'h says, placing a hand on Ciri's shoulder. "You don't know that!" Ciri pushes the elf away, "you may be an all knowing sage, but you don't know everything. I can save Geralt and (y/n), I just need to get close enough and open a portal to bring them back to my world." Avallac'h merely gives Ciri a disappointed look, "and if you fail? Or say perhaps you succeed, but at the cost of your own life. Do you believe Eredin will spare you simply for the sake of your gift? If you interfere, if you act against him, he will act rashly in anger, he won't think twice to plunge his sword through you." "I have to try," Ciri insists once more, "Eredin and his lackeys are hurting them both as we speak, I fear most for (y/n), she's already been through enough in her life as it is." "What the Lady of Larks has been through was tragic," Avallac'h agrees, "but I will not have you put yourself at risk. Not when there is already too much at stake. Remember what I have told you about the White Frost."

"...and if I were to die," Ciri says in a whisper, "you said....that there was another."

Aemma's eyes widen at this piece of information. Who was this other? "If something happened to me, you could find her and mentor her as you have me." "I never said there was another," Avallac'h corrects, "I said she may possess a similar power as you do as a result of what occurred at Kaer Morhen. I do not know for certain, I possess no concrete evidence to go on other then what I know." "Pfft you've acted on more for a lot less then what you know, all Knowing One!" Ciri exclaims in frustration, "Need I remind you of the things I've endured at Tir Na Lia?!"

Avallac'h looked away, like he was ashamed, "I deeply regret how I acted on Tir Na Lia, Zireael," he admits, "I put you in situations you did not feel safe in, believing it was for the greater good." "And now (y/n) and Geralt are enduring worse, and will continue to do so for the 'greater good'," Ciri says in a low tone.

Aemma then heard a loud scream somewhere in the distance, one of agony. She felt herself being pulled towards the screams. The princess was suddenly in a different place. A room inside where candles were the only source of light. Only a chair and table filled the room as part of the decor.

"I grow impatient with you, dh'oine," a deep voice sneers, bringing Aemma's attention to the figure. The figure in question was dressed in the dark armor similar to what she'd seen the Wild Hunt sport. The helmet was uncovered, revealing his face; long dark raven hair, and point ears with a handsome yet terrifying face. Another elf; Aemma remembered what the elf Cedric had told her, that the Wild Hunt were elves from another world, the Aen Elle, and were referred to as the Red Riders.

The person this Red Rider was interrogating was a woman with dark hair and tan skin with a stout-ish physique. Aemma realized right away who it was despite the black eye and bruises she sported on her face and exposed skin. "I told you," (y/n) manages to breathe out, "I don't know anything about the silver blonde dragon girl's gift. I didn't know she possessed such a gift, how would I know such things?" The elf grabs (y/n) by the throat and slowly lifts her to face him. "Are you not the girl's mother? Should you not know the things?" "She was taken from me when she was still a tot," (y/n) spits, "I never had time to know. Maybe you should go and ask the girl's father, give him the same treatment you've been giving me and the others you've been bringing into your fold."

The tall elf tilted his head, bringing a finger to trace (y/n)'s cheek, "you may be telling the truth," he admits, "but then again, you may be lying." He tosses (y/n) to the floor as one would a rag doll. (Y/n) lays there before she sits up some and spits out some blood, "fuck you, Eredin," she sneers, "Even if I knew what my daughter was capable of I'll never tell you anything. Go ahead and do what you will to me. I've known worse torture by lesser hands."

The elf, Eredin, only made a smile yet wicked smile, "you say that now. But perhaps we can...loosen your tongue by other means."

Right on cue, two elves in dark armor walked into the room, helmets uncovered revealing their faces; one had a long braid that went past his waist with a tattoo on his face, and the second elf had short blonde hair that was parted in a way that covered half his face...or at least attempted to cover, but wasn't able to conceal the scars that marred his rather handsome face. Almost like scratched porcelain.

Between the two elves was a man, one Aemma realized right away; the man with white hair, gold eyes, and the silver wolf medallion. (Y/n)'s eyes widen when she recognized the man as well, who looked like he had just gone through a painful interrogation. "Tell me what you know of the girl, tell me of her gift," Eredin demands again, "or better yet, tell me where to find the Swallow instead. Or..." He gestures an order for one of his riders to sock the witcher across the jawline. "Stop! Stop it!" (y/n) shouts, "I swear, I don't know anything! She was taken from me when she was still a child, when she was barely talking, I don't know anything!"

"Mama?" Aemma calls out, "Mama, I'm right here. I'm here for you!"  "Just leave Geralt alone! Leave Ciri alone!" "Mama, where are you? I'll come for you! I'll get you away from this place!" LEAVE AEMMA ALONE!!" "MAMA!!!!"

----------------end dream sequence--------------

Aemma woke screaming as she nearly rolled out of bed. Cold sweat broke out, dripping from her brow as she panted. She quickly looks around, realizing she was back in her bed chambers...in Nilfgaard. That's right, she remembers, she and her family are still being hosted by the Nilfgaardian prince, who had made an offer of betrothal between her and the prince's son. Her father had yet to make a definitive answer, but seeing as they've been staying in this place for the last several months, to the point where her stepmother was due to give birth to her next child, and seeing how Morvran has been keeping to courting the young princess, it seems Aemma may be married off after all.

Aemma looked over to the mantle and saw the smoldering embers that still burned in the fire place. She gets out of bed and wonders over to the mantle, kneeling over and placing her hands over to feel the fading warmth. She needed to feel something...anything, if only to make her forget that awful nightmare...no not a nightmare, it couldn't have been.

But maybe it was...it all felt so real. Was her mother out there in some world outside this one? Being tortured by the Wild Hunt? The leader of the Wild Hunt, the King...Eredin, that was his name, he mentioned something about a girl with a gift. It was her, Aemma knew this, and she possessed a gift. She remembered what Cedric told her, that she had a gift that was given to her by accident, and that she needed to go to the place of her birth in order to better understand this gift.

She needed to go back to Dragonstone.

"Aemma?" a soft voice brings Aemma back to reality. She looks to see her stepmother walk in, and she saw the state Aemma was in, "oh sweetling, what happened?" "Muna? What...did I wake you?" "I've been up for a while," Laena assures. "You should be resting," Aemma insists, "you are due to give birth again, you shouldn't-" "I think I know what I should be doing," Laena assures, "I'm more worried for your well-being, Aemma. You've had another nightmare, haven't you?" Aemma looks to the ground, nodding in confirmation.

Laena came closer and pulled Aemma in for a side hug; the Velaryon woman remembered full well the nightmares Aemma endured as a child, ones that plague her at night of her mother the Lady of Larks being taken away by the White Wolf, and later Laena being the one taken away. Now it looked like history was repeating itself.

"Are you worried for your family?" Laena asks, "for me? For the new life I am to bring into this world soon?" "I'm not worried," Aemma tries to assure, but Laena knew that was a lie. "No of course not," she says to her stepdaughter, "why else would make a request for your potential betrothed to bring the finest Nilfgaard physicians and midwives to employment in this place?" Aemma took one of Laena's hand and held it in hers, "I...I don't wish for my sisters to know pain I know." There was truth to this statement, but also Aemma didn't want to lose Laena either; she already lost one mother, she was not prepared to lose the only other mother figure in her life. Alicent and Rhaenyra may have made attempts to be such for Aemma, but as the girl had grown older, she felt the way both women showed their affection for her did not feel...well she wasn't sure how to describe it, apart from them way they would try to one up each other in doting on the motherless princess. But Lady Laena...her affection and love for Aemma always felt genuine as she treated the princess as she had the daughters she birthed. Aemma always found a safe place with her stepmother, and it wasn't something she wanted to lose.

Laena knew what Aemma was speaking of when she made that statement, "the birthing bed can be a brutal place," she admits, "and there is no guarantee that those involved will all make it out in one piece." "...that's not going to happen you, mother," Aemma says softly, "you'll make it through this as you have before. We'll sail back home to Dragonstone and then to Driftmark to see grandmother and grandsire. You'll see your children grow and wed, and you'll see your grandchildren as well. We'll be a family as we've always have been."

Aemma leaned further into Laena who gave her a kiss on the temple. She guides Aemma back to the bed and tucks her in, giving her a kiss on the brow. "I love you, Muna," Aemma says as she closes her eyes. "I love you too, sweetling," she hears Laena says as she drift off back to sleep.

--------------------

The remainder of the night was uneventful, but when Aemma woke in the morning, she needed to speak to her father.

Daemon was had not been present with the rest of the family when they had gone to break their fast, so Aemma wondered hoping to look for the man. Eventually she found him in library looking over a text that she assumed was written in the Common Tongue as Daemon himself could not speak a word of Nilfgaardian despite having been here for months (worth noting Aemma as been learning to how to speak the language slowly but surely as she may need to use it in the near future should she remain in this place).

"Father," Aemma greets to which Daemon nods in acknowledgement though he seemed more preoccupied with the book. Aemma took a seat across from Daemon, hoping she could have a moment of his time. The two hadn't really spoken much after their conversation their first night in this palace, even though Daemon had promised he would talk to Aemma some more about her mother, and every time Aemma tried to bring it up, the man would merely dance around the subject or just avoid it entirely. "Father," Aemma speaks again, "I...I was wondering if you speak to me of my mother, like you promised you would." Daemon said nothing, but he stop looking at the book and faced his daughter instead. "What do you wish to know?" he asks. "I...what was she like?" Aemma asks, "how did she come to King's Landing? How...how did the two of you meet?" "Aemma, I've told you that story before," Daemon tells her, "We met in a tavern where she sang to the patrons, I invited her to court to sing for your cousin Rhaenyra's nameday and Rhaenyra welcomed your mother to sing for her indefinitely." "Yes, I've heard that story?" Aemma asks, "the same one you've told me when I was a child. I'm not a child anymore, father, what...what really happened to my mother." "It's the same story I've told you before as a child," Daemon insists, "she was abducted by the White Wolf, stolen from the Red Keep in the dead of night by that...mutant freak." "Yes but...how did the White Wolf steal into the Red Keep in the first place?" Aemma asks, "how did he sneak past the Kingsguard? How...how could he have known about the secret passageways in the Keep when very few in our family even know about it?"

Daemon looks up to Aemma, an undecipherable look in his face, "I've been thinking about the story lately," she admits, "and some of those things don't add up." "...he must've used his mutated magic to find a way in," he provides for an explanation. "Is there any proof that...his kind are capable of those kind of feats?" Aemma asks. "Does it matter?" "It matters to me!" Aemma snaps, taking her father by surprise. "I'm sorry, it's just...when I first came to the Continent, I...I met some people, who told me a different story," she decides to admit, "they say my mother left King's Landing on her own..with him...some even said she escaped. Was...was my mother a prisoner?" "Those people you've met we're clearly lying," Daemon slams the book shut. "Well, I mean it is...a possibility," Aemma admits, looking the other way from Daemon's intense and angered gaze, "but they all seemed convinced that that was the case. I...I don't-" "You would believe strangers over your own father?" Daemon lightly challenges, "Aemma, that is not like you." "I'm not saying I am," Aemma quickly shakes her head, noticing the agitated look on Daemon's face again which was accompanied by an angry look he's never given her before.

She quickly averts her gaze.

Daemon sighs, not wanting to scare his daughter away, "I...I loved your mother Aemma," Daemon says in a soft voice, coming closer to lightly hug Aemma to the side, "I would never have wished her harm. It tore me apart that I could not save her." Aemma wanted to ask if he was speaking of that night in the Red Keep, or if he was speaking of what happened to her in Rivia, but she didn't want to risk angering him again. He's never given Aemma any reason to believe he would ever strike her or hurt her, but he could still be scary as a dragon when he was angry.

"I know you loved her father," Aemma nods, "forgive me for doubting." "Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise," Daemon whispers as places a kiss on Aemma's hair.

"Prince Daemon," a servant interrupts the conversation, "your wife is looking for you, she said it was most urgent." Daemon nods and follows the servant to wherever Laena was.

Aemma sighed a bit, wondering if there really was more to this story then her father would admit, if there was more then anyone else she's met actually knew. If only she could find someone else who could set the record straight.

Right on cue, another servant came, stating that Aemma's presence was required in one of the studies by Morvran Voorhis. Aemma nods and follows.

"You called for me?" Aemma knocks on the door lightly to get Morvran's attention as he was busy writing down some letters. "Ah, yes, one moment," he finishes a letter, places the seal and has the messenger take it to wherever.

"I have some information for you, princess," Morvran tells her, "as you have requested concerning the Lady of Larks." Aemma does her best to conceal the emotions she was feeling right now, as it had been months since she made this request. "Well, you certainly took your time," Aemma says. "A necessity as our Lady in question was spotted in multiple places; one must fact check with various sources in order to discover the truth," Morvran admits.

"And what is the truth?" Aemma asks.

"The Lady of Larks was seen in many places on the Continent in the last ten years or so," Morvran explains, "Oxenfurt, Novigrad, some places in Redania and Aedirn. The last place she was officially seen before her untimely demise in Rivia was the Duchy of Toussaint." "Toussaint? I've heard of that. They say it is a magical place." "Indeed," Morvran nods, "there is...something else of interest." "Go on." "Thirteen years ago, the Lady of Larks, as you have mentioned, was seen in King's Landing, only to disappear without a trace. Months later she returned, with what witnesses describe as a babe in her arms." "She...she had a child?" Aemma feigns surprise, though there was something of a shock. The child had to been her, but Aemma had been told she was born on Dragonstone that her father had brought her mother there when she was with child; no one had ever deigned to tell Aemma the Lady of Larks had disappeared before that fateful night when the princess was still a tot.

"Is...what do these sources say of the babe?" Morvran only shakes his head, "not much. There is...no definitive answer as to where the child was born. Some even doubt the Lady Lark ever had a child at all as she was never seen with the babe again when she returned to the Continent." "What about family?" Aemma asks, "perhaps she left the child with someone she trusted be it kin or otherwise."

"The Lady of Larks is said to be of relations with a nobleman," Morvran confirms, "his true name is...not well known, despite his fame throughout the Continent, but he is the Lady of Lark's older brother." "What is his name? Or what name does he go by?" "He goes by the moniker of...Jaskier."

Aemma does her best to conceal the swirling emotions. The name of the man was the same name shown on the card of the Bard that shared a deck with her mother. Aemma suddenly flashback to the vision she had of her mother who was pregnant and walking through the snow with another man who dressed similar to the man on the Gwent card. (y/n), in her dream, called the man Julian. They really were related; the Lady (y/n) had a brother...and that meant this man was Aemma's uncle. Her uncle was somewhere on the Continent. 

"I don't suppose you could tell me where this Jaskier was last seen," she says once she shakes herself of the shock. "Again, the sources vary," Morvran tells her, "but the last definitive place was Toussaint; he was said to have an...infamous affair with the Duchess Anna Henrietta."

"Sounds like all roads lead to Toussaint then," Aemma nods as she stands, "thank you, Morvran. This was helpful." "Wait," Morvran stops her, "I gave what you had requested, Aemma, now I ask you grant me one request in return." Aemma nods, not sure what to expect. "Your family has been here for several months now," Morvran explains, "and it has occurred to me that I have not once ever had the honor of meeting your dragons, at least yours. In person specifically; it is one thing to see them in the sky, I would wish to see one up close." "I...suppose I could make time on the morrow to introduce you to Cirillia," Aemma nods, "if we are indeed to be bonded in marriage as your father wishes, then perhaps it is only fitting my...intended share some kind of bond with my dragon."

Aemma walks out of the study, processing what she had learned. If anyone could actually set the record straight, apart from her mother, then it would be the next best thing which in this case is her next of kin. Question now is where could she find this long lost uncle. Perhaps she would need to start in Toussaint.

--------------------

Later that night, Aemma tried to sleep, but her mind was still swirling with so many thoughts over what she learned today. In addition, she was afraid to sleep for fear she would experience the same nightmares she had the night before.

She heard screams from outside, forcing her to sit up in bed. Aemma, placed a hand over her mouth, realizing it was Laena; her stepmother was going into labor again. Aemma knelt by the bed in prayer at this moment; to whatever gods where up there be they the gods of Old Valyria or to the Mother from the Seven with hopes that her Muna and the child she was to bring into this world would survive the brutal battlefield that is the birthing bed.

-------------------------

Laena screamed with each push and each contraction, but still nothing had come as her labors continued. She was exhausted, close to losing consciousness both from her labors and the loss of blood, and fear starting to settle in that she may not make it out of this alive.

Daemon meanwhile stood by the door, hoping beyond hope that the physicians and midwives would be able to save his wife and deliver the babe that was fighting to come into this world. Alas, the doctor approached Daemon with a somber look in his eye, "I'm exhausted every technique I can muster," he informs the prince, "the babe...will not come." "...Oh my brave girl," Daemon mutters, knowing what this meant, "is...is there nothing that can be done?"  

"There is...one technique I can try," the physician admits, "we can bring the babe out by means of the knife. Cut open the womb to save the babe." "Will the mother survive it?" Daemon asks. The physician shakes his head. Daemon shakes his own head back as answer when the physician looked to him asking permission to carry out the procedure. The prince would not put his wife through that. There was nothing that could be done.

Before anything else could be said or done, Laena got up from the bed, knowing there was nothing that could be done to save her or the child. She was not about to leave this world the same way the late Queen of Westeros had. If she was to die, it was to be on her terms. If Laena Velaryon was to leave this world and her children, then she would do so as who she was always was meant to be...a dragon rider.

--------------------------

Silence was heard in the halls, and Aemma wondered if that meant her new sibling was born, and if her mother had survived. Aemma looked out the room to see what was going on. It was quiet.

Then Aemma heard a sound from outside the castle. A low groan from one of the dragons. It sounded like Vhagar...and it sounded like she was sad.

Aemma looked outside to see the great dragon was out there lying where she always did when she wasn't flying. And below she saw a figure approaching the beast. Aemma could see the figure staggering, like they were struggling to walk. Eyes wide, Aemma knew right away who it was. She quickly rush out the room and down the halls, not sure what she was going to do, or what she could do, but she was desperate.

Alas, by the time Aemma reached the outside, it was too late.

Laena cried out the command in High Valyrian in utter agony, and Vhagar...reluctant as she was, opened her mouth and the flames that came forth surround and consume her rider, who welcomed the firey death as a great embrace.

Aemma couldn't even scream, after what she had just witnessed. She could only falter to her knees, tears spilling forth as she started to mourn for the second time in her life over the loss of a mother.

Daemon stood behind Aemma, saying nothing and silently grieving as he knelt and held Aemma in his arms while Aemma called for her Muna in tears.  

Chapter 34

[casada-com-clown]

Roche/Ciri could have been loved but fandom was too weak.

Suddenly Vernon beamed at her. “Look outside,” he said softly, cradling her hand between his.

Peering through the window of the carriage, Cirilla gasped. They were just drawing across the ridge, and beyond she could see white road winding across the hills. Sharp black basalt cliffs formed the background, overgrown and dotted with flowering bushes and trees. Where the capital had been grey and stormy when they departed, spring had already come to these hills. The burst of red and violet bushes in front of the black cliffs were marvelous, and the fragrance of them even made it past the windows of the carriage. “It’s beautiful…”

Strong, warm hands squeezed hers. “The garden districts usually have an early spring, because the mountains shield them from the rough sea winds,” Vernon said.

Wait... What? Why did I receive this? Btw. I've never seen anything about Ciri x Roche. For me it's really interesting how some people see a relationship between some characters. In my case, I would love to see Dijkstra and Triss together, and only because a conversation between them on the Masked party.

[fangirleaconmigo]

I LOVE Uncle Lambert & Ciri gen fics, and think far, far, too much about the trials, so when this prompt went up on twitter almost three months ago on @ / witcherprompts:

Summary: Book or game canon: Ciri asks Lambert why the laboratory doors are locked and if that’s why she can’t be a full witcher

I've been thinking about it ever since. And so I have finally written my 'Uncle Lambert and Ciri talk about the trials' fic.

It's on ao3 and I've put it below.

------

Ciri was hurt. Geralt rarely spoke to her that way. Angry. Gruff. 

“I know you aren’t telling me the truth. Why can’t you just tell me?!” She shoved her choppy fringe out of her face. It wasn’t quite long enough to tuck neatly behind her ear, so it flopped back into her eyes. “Being a witcher isn’t just the pendulum. I know that, I’m not stupid.”

Geralt drew in a breath and let it out with a slow hiss. When he spoke again, he gritted each word out through his teeth. “I’ve told you the basement laboratories are off limits. I’ve told you a hundred times. And yet?” He stood slowly from the table, where his lunch sat uneaten. He held up a butter knife. The evidence of her bad behavior glinted at her obnoxiously. “I find you trying to jimmy a lock?”

“But--”

“Go to your room, Cirilla,” he barked. “I won’t ask again. And if I find you down in the basement one more time, you’ll be locked in your room til spring.”

Ciri was not ready to concede. Eskel, Coën and Lambert sat at a nearby table. She accosted Cöen with wide, pleading green eyes. He was the soft touch.

“Coën.”

But he only smiled gently. “I’ll come up and play with you later, Ciri. Do as you're told.”

She tried Eskel next. He always followed Geralt’s lead but it was worth a try. “Eskel.” He just rubbed his scars and kept his eyes carefully trained on Geralt. That was a dead end. 

Things were getting exceedingly dire. She turned to Lambert.

“You heard him, princess,” Lambert growled, his tone brooking no argument.

She set her lips in a hard line. “If you were me, Lambert, you wouldn’t like it either. You would want to be told the truth. You wouldn’t want to be lied to and treated like an idiot.”

She expected Lambert to shout at her too. But he looked stunned. She knew she had gone too far. She stormed out fast, before Geralt could reproach her.  

Ciri lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling all afternoon. She alternated between feeling guilty and feeling righteous. She planned her apology to Geralt. Then she marshaled her best arguments hoping to demand an apology from him. But the longer Geralt took to visit her, the more her resolve began to crumble. 

Coën came up for a bit, but he refused to talk about Geralt. He played jacks with her and brought her bread and cheese before he went back to his evening chores. 

The night wore on and she knew they would have eaten dinner, and they would be breaking out the white gull now. Ciri loved sneaking down to the hall during the late evening, when they sat around the fire, deep in their cups. Their eyes shone and they smiled easily. They patted each other on the shoulders and told stories. They held adult conversations that she would not normally be allowed to hear. 

She wanted to sneak down there now. But she didn’t want Geralt to shout at her again. She always felt so brave in his presence. But as soon as she was alone, the fear caved in on her. But now he was angry with her. Perhaps more than she understood.

Just as the tears began to well up in her eyes, footfalls sounded in the hall. She drew in a soft sharp breath. Then, feeling overwhelmed with happiness, relief, anxiety, and guilt all at once, she squeezed her eyes closed. She would pretend to be asleep.

The door creaked open, and the footfalls neared her bed. Then there was the sound of someone plopping into the chair next to her bed and sighing. It was not Geralt.

“You aren’t fooling anyone, princess. If you’re asleep, then I’m a unicorn.”

Her eyes jerked open. “Lambert.”

It was dim in the room, but she saw him staring back at her without saying a word. She slowly pulled herself up to a sitting position. 

“Um. I’m sorry I said that to you. I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah you did.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Yes. I did. And I still do.”

He settled deeper into the chair with a tired sigh. She waited long moments for him to speak again.

“You were right. I wouldn’t like it either. When I was your age...well...I woulda done a whole lot worse than stamp out of a room when I was hot under the collar. But if you expect him to change his mind, you’re wrong. He isn’t going to talk to you about it.”

“Why not? 

He leaned forward and rubbed his face. The candle by her bed had burned down, and the little light there was, played across his eyes. They looked like they glowed in the half light.

“That’s how he is.”

“But I’m not stupid.” Her fire was back. “I know something else happened to make you all witchers. The way Triss got angry about the herbs you gave me? And then the laboratory being off limits? And he won’t explain it to me. All he does is shout!”

Lambert looked at her carefully. He was quiet for a long moment and his glazed eyes were seeing things Ciri could only guess at. Finally he spoke, in a careful voice, softer than she had ever heard him speak. “Cut him some slack, Ciri. He never had anyone to show him how to be a father. We’re all...we’re all proud of how well he’s doing. But he isn’t perfect. No one is. But that’s why we’re here to help him. Right? Can you do that?”

Ciri huffed, feeling rather petulant. Why did they all think of Geralt, and not her? “But what about me? Why won’t he let me in? Is it because I’m a girl? Because that doesn’t matter. I’m doing so well in training, even you say so. Aren’t I good enough?”

“Oh, princess.” He sounded tired. She was not dissuaded.

“I want eyes like yours, Lambert. I want to be like you. And Geralt. And Eskel, and Vesemir, and Coën. I want to do whatever you all did. Then Geralt will think I am a real witcher.”

“Look at me, Ciri.”

She looked at him, the expression of accusation unmoving on her features. She crossed her arms.

“This,” he pointed at his eyes, “isn’t an award. It’s torture. We would never. And I mean never do such a thing to you, Cirilla. Do you understand? Do you understand that? We would never let anyone harm you, ever.”

They thought she was a baby. “I don’t care. I could do it. I want to do it.”

“Do you want to know a secret, Ciri? One that no one wants to speak inside these walls?”

Ciri fell silent. A secret was a true honor. “What?”

Lambert leaned forward, meeting her eyes intensely, almost defiantly. “The trials aren’t necessary to make a witcher.”

Ciri scoffed. “Yes they are!”

Lambert did not waver. His voice was firm, and laced with anger, though she knew the anger was not directed at her. “No, princess. They aren’t. They are just needless torture. A waste. They are more painful than you can imagine, and they kill most of the boys they perform them on. Just babies Ciri. Dead. And it’s for nothing.”

“No.” She could not believe it. “No one would do that. Not if it was for nothing.”

“Yes. They would.”

“But why?”

“Because mages don’t give a fuck about foundlings with no one to look after them. And so instead of going through the time and expense of finding a better test to identify those with abilities, they killed most of us. Just to find out fast and cheap.”

Ciri’s breath blew out, stunned by the casual cruelty. The murder of so many children. Suddenly, she could see Geralt as a boy. Lambert. Cöen. Eskel. Terrified like her. But instead of being protected, being harmed and mistreated.

She hadn’t really thought of them as people who were kids once, just as grown ups who took care of her. She pulled the covers up around her neck, stunned by her realization. Her world felt turned upside down for the millionth time in her short life.

“Then what makes a witcher?” Her voice was tiny. Lambert’s face changed. It was like a curtain opening. He looked at her as though she were precious. 

“We do, Ciri. We do. When we go out there and do our jobs. When we do our jobs and aren’t paid. When we do our jobs and are paid. When people thank us. When they don’t thank us. When they hate us. When they love us. When we have nowhere else to go but here. When no one else will take us in but us. We are Witchers, Ciri, because we say so. And you are one of us. You are Kaer Morhen’s very first witcher girl.”

Ciri’s hand darted out and she wrapped her smaller fingers around Lambert’s larger, rougher one. She didn’t know what to say. Her chest ached. But it was a good ache. It was the first time she felt like she had a home since she watched her grandma’s body sail down from the parapet.

Lambert cleared his throat. “I’m hard on you, girl. I know it. And I’ll keep being hard on you. That’s because I want you to be safe, and because I know you can do it. If I really thought you were too soft and spoiled to learn our trade, I wouldn’t bother with you. Or I’d give you a stick and let you swing it around like a lunatic and just say, oh good job, Princess, bang up job.”

Ciri giggled.

Lambert squeezed her hand, and pressed a quick kiss to it. Then he stood up with a groan. “Fuck. Gettin old. Alright.” He leaned down and mussed her hair. “Cut your old man some slack, girl. Aren’t queens supposed to show their peasants mercy?”

Ciri giggled again. “I will try.”

“Good.” He started towards the door, then he turned as though he had forgotten something. Ciri’s eyes had adjusted now, so she could see his shadowy form and make out his features. “Ciri. I’ll tell you another secret.”

“What? What is it?”

Lambert looked around the room, then at her, as though he was deciding whether to tell her. His face looked flushed from white gull, but it formed into resolve. “I wanna open them,” he said, “the way you. I wanna open the doors to the lab.”

“You do?”

“I do. Only unlike you, I want to burn them, and everything in them to cinders.”

Ciri pushed herself up on her elbows and stared. Lambert always did exactly what he wanted. The thought that he was denying himself something confused her. “Then why don’t you?”

Lambert rubbed his whiskers, in a gesture that looked a lot like Eskel. “Because,” he sighed, “he needs them to be closed, and so I leave them closed because that is what love is. So no matter what I think, if you get those doors open against his will, I’ll tan your hide myself. I won’t wait for his permission to discipline you. I hope you know I’m not blowing hot air. I’ll do it.”

Ciri nodded silently, chastened by his honesty.

He shut the door behind him and Ciri listened to his footsteps fade.

She was almost asleep when she heard footsteps again. The door creaked open, and Geralt stood over her with a small plate and a mug.

He didn’t say a word when she sat up and gobbled down the treats. He just waited patiently then smiled and wiped the jam off her nose.

He didn’t say anything about what had happened, and neither did she. He just climbed into bed with her and opened his arms. She leaned her head on his broad shoulders.

“Tell me a story, Geralt. Tell me the one you told me the day we met in Brokilon.”

Geralt smiled at some far off memory. “The one you listened to so well? I was so proud of you when you scurried up that tree like a little creature.”

She smiled so big, her cheeks were sore. “Yes. That one. The cat and the fox.”

He gathered her into his arms and squeezed. “Alright. At your command, little witcher girl.”

[mantra4ia]

I mean no offense to the people who enjoyed "The Witcher" Season 3: Vol 1 on Netflix. No judgement. And also no offense to the cast and crew who I am sure worked hard to bring this to the screen.

I love the Witcher, mostly from the books and some gameplay, so from my own personal perspective...

What in the actual hell did Netflix do?!

There's so much eloquent dialogue in the source material to draw upon and this steaming pile of ****e is what they came up with? It telegraphs so much without a whiff of subtlety or craft— not unlike Sabrina in 3x5— that I want to puke, the only exception being that Yarpen Zigrin is still no nonsense and true to form.

Emhyr, as is evidenced by his cringe, overlong speeches and dull drawl, is not written as cunning or menacing by any stretch of the imagination as he ought to be, and the lack of a strong villain does nothing to drive the pace of the season.

Why are we waxing on about Vissena to try and strum up audience feels? We don't need to revisit that unless it serves a purpose for the characters. It doesn't. If the audience has been watching any of the previous two seasons, we don't need Geralt's childhood memories of his mother to impress upon us that he takes newfound parenthood seriously and would spill blood and make sacrifices for his family.

If that weren't painful enough, Yennefer — who we know is cunning when she schemes— lacks all of her razor edged wit when "groveling" before the Brotherhood to form a conclave. The recycled dialogue with Tissaia about chaos and control has lost its potency, as lukewarm as the mages' council of armchair tapping, and even her speeches to Ciri like "my ugly one" have so much wasted potential because there's a speed run montage about how much Yen and Cirilla care for eachother in episode 1 rather than letting us growing into the emotions ourselves, so that by the time we get to Yennefer disclosing her past, the emotion is lost. Also, Cirilla is supposed to be in a little awe of Yen and her power of influence, which is what makes "ugly one" so endearing, because it's the ends way of saying that Cirilla is powerful but magic isn't all she is / she doesn't need to rely on it like the mages rest on prolonged youth. It's her way of saying I love you, and for all the exposition that season three uses to elaborate feelings, this most essential part is completely lost. It's like we're playing house with emotions that haven't been earned their screen moment. "Lilac and gooseberries, now that I can tolerate," but I cannot abide these trash conversations.

These were the action sequences, the fight choreography, and the monster concept visualization they came up with? Like, for example, a failing mass of conjoined limbs and disembodied heads! The idea of Ciri's doppelganger from the books has been so corrupted.

On top of that, the cuts from scene to scene are so rough it's like whiplash. Chase scene - recycled Geralt /Ciri hug - dark portal nonsense - crash through ceiling. No finesse.

The Belletyn festival, which is so meaningful and beautifully described in the books, was butchered in execution of costume (Yen's is a season 1 throwback but never underwhelming way), with ridiculous "masks" (it irks me so much that Yennefer tells Cirilla had to cover her eyes and hair for a low profile and then we speed cut to the next scene where neither occurs and the costume department decides that they aren't even going to attach Cirilla's mask to her face, she just carries it around in her hand because that makes sense), unnecessary mazes to separate our characters and engineer a sense of peril, the whole lot. They used Belletyn as a setup to engineer a subsequent bait scene, which was an appallingly insult to intelligence and fight choreography. PS: Yen can I do more than throw a knife, can we please utilize her a little better?

Speaking of choreography, Ciri descending from mid air to stab the CGI aeschna in 3x4 with the overlong shot pull of monster blood on her face was so poorly edited I wanted to fast forward the entire episode thereafter.

Lastly, this farce for humor is what they came up with?! They made layered source characters like Dijkstra into single line fodder, and they wasted so much time on sitcom rubbish like Queen Hedwig's Redanian funeral, and Phillipa's bedroom shenanigans, and Fringilla as a drunken poison tester. I want to slap someone. It's as if the whole of season 3 thus far is a live-action adaptation of Ciri and Jaskier's satire of Yen and Geralt. Except that no one left the audience in the joke.

Also, for a series called The Witcher there is surprisingly little in the way of meaningful dialogue and action for Geralt to do, and that's a shame

I'm angry.

Season 1 was fantastic, season 2 was good but with notable divergence to character integrity, and Season 3 so far is the refuse pile of Aedd Gynvael. The only highlight was Ciri telling Valdo Marx to shut up, like I wish I could do for the rest of the dialogue in the series. After "Sherrawedd" I kept thinking to myself, it will get better. Ironically Sherwood was probably the best episode so far because at least it kept the essence of idea in "dear friend" from the literature as a foundation. After which it kept sinking down into chaos.

But more than angry, I'm disappointed. I'm sad that the Yennefer/Jaskier frenemy dynamic ("Hello again witch) —a highlight of season 2— has been shirked; the only decent byproduct of which is the Ciri/Jaskier relationship. And I'm depressed that this is Henry Cavill's sendoff as Geralt.

[eddysocs]

Meeting Ciri (Geralt Of Rivia x OC)

Summary: Laraya finally meets the legendary Ciri, who has taken up so much of Geralt's time and energy.

Word Count: 627

Warnings: Some angst/jealousy

Laraya's entrance into the dimly lit tavern was accompanied by the soft creaking of the heavy wooden door. Her eyes, sharp and perceptive even in the dim light of the indoors, quickly scanned the room until they locked onto the figure sitting at the corner table. Geralt. And with him, the infamous Princess Cirilla.

As Geralt rose from their table, presumably to fetch himself another ale, Laraya approached with her usual self assured stride. Yet she couldn't deny the sense of expectation that hung between both her and Ciri. Geralt had spoken of Ciri often and always with a mix of protectiveness and pride in his voice. Now that she was finally face to face with the young girl, Laraya couldn't help but feel a twinge of uncertainty.

Ciri nursed a mug between her hands, staring into the dark liquid within and only looked up when Laraya pressed her hands to the table and leaned in, trying to get a proper look at her. Though they’d never met before, a flicker of realization crossed Ciri's face before she composed herself. She must have discerned who she was based off of Geralt's description, or at least decided that she didn’t pose a threat. Foolish mistake. She could very much be a threat if she had the mind to. Laraya offered a polite nod, her lips curving into a what she hoped was a cordial smile. "Ciri, right? Geralt has told me a lot about you."

Ciri's response was measured, her expression guarded. "Likewise, I'm sure."

Geralt made his way back to the table in time to catch Ciri's rather curt response. "Ciri," Geralt chastised, like he would any young child in his charge, Laraya supposed. Their exchange had held a polite veneer, but Geralt detected a tension beneath it. Laraya took a seat opposite Ciri, as Geralt took his former place beside her. Meanwhile, Laraya's eyes never left the young girl's face.

As they engaged in small talk, Laraya maintained a façade of friendliness. Geralt hadn’t said as much, but she knew that he’d hoped they’d get on. She inquired about Ciri's experiences, her training with Geralt, and the adventures they'd shared that brought them here. Yet, with each answer, Laraya found herself mentally gauging the depth of her connection to Geralt.

Ciri, in turn, responded with a what could pass for openness, but —no stranger to secrets herself— Laraya could tell Ciri had walled off the most crucial parts of her story. She spoke vaguely of her past, the trials she had faced, and the times she'd shared with Geralt. Laraya listened attentively, masking her true feelings beneath partially feigned interest.

As the conversation progressed, Laraya couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that Ciri was more than just a passing figure in Geralt's life. The girl's presence seemed to carry an undeniable weight. Despite her efforts to be civil, Laraya couldn't fully suppress her subtle feeling of discomfort. Ciri's bond with Geralt was evident, and it sparked a flicker of jealousy within Laraya, a sentiment she hadn't anticipated.

The evening wore on, and the tension in the tavern lingered like an unspoken challenge. Laraya wondered if Geralt could feel it too. When she finally excused herself, she bid Ciri a polite farewell, hoping it would convince Geralt that they’d bonded. As she stepped out into the cool night air, she couldn't shake the unease that settled in her chest.

Walking away from the tavern, Laraya knew that Ciri's presence had introduced a new layer of complexity into her relationship with Geralt. The path ahead seemed uncertain, and their first encounter hadn’t gone over entirely well, but first impressions aren’t always lasting ones. She was sure their paths would cross again, either way. Until then, Laraya thought. Until then.

Forever Tag: @arrthurpendragon, @baubeautyandthegeek, @foxesandmagic, @carmens-garden, @bossyladies, @getawaycardotmp3, @misshiraethsworld, @kmc1989, @curious-kittens-ocs, @fanficanatic-tw

Laraya Of Lyria: @dancingwith-sunflowers, @adrianas-ocs-and-such, @dollvi3e

[thelegacylegacy]

A conversation with her best friends made her realize she needed a change of scenery and a break from all the influencer stuff, so Cirilla decided to pack her bags and embark in a new adventure in Mount Komorebi.

Welcome to your new home, Ciri!

(Simtube edit by @whimsyalien)

[nordrscaar]

The Sun also rises

The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies troops from the heart of the dying Temeria to Oxenfurt. Black sails with suns burning in gold stood near the harbor and only rare ships of Nilfgaardian diplomats moored in Oxenfurt ports. While another failed assassination attempt locked King Radovid behind the many walls of Tretogor, the Emperor started to began to prepare the only true successor to take the throne – his daughter Cirilla.

Ships abandoned in Skellige fjords turned into a silent menace to the islanders. At the same time, Nilfgaardian troops are trying to cross the river and gain a foothold: water down the stream were turning red and the flames of Temple Island rose higher, 

Hjalmar who just recently became the King, with an advise from his sister stroke an agreement with Radovid. Islands are now to support the troop containment of nilfgaardians trying to cross the river. Conversations led by Oxenfurt professors left the Academy and echoed inside the capital’s walls: capturing the river meant the possible defeat of Redania’s long resistance. 

Whispers was running inside Tretogor’s castle like blood through the veins, and then finally reached Radovid’s ears. Emperor’s missing daughter’s back and Emhyr is set to retire. He overlooks the chessboard, moves one piece after another and strikes an agreement with new King of Skellige, Hjalmar.

The action takes place just after the end of the Wild Hunt, with a small iteration: Ciri chooses to became the Empress of Nilfgaard, regardless of whether the assassination attempt on Radovid was successful or not. The remaining details, if necessary, can be discussed before the game, just as the details I have already specified can be changed.

Looking for Emhyr var Emreis.

The possible relationship between them are either following the path the books set: slowburn romance and White Frost being only delayed but not destroyed, with a strong lean towards political subplot. Or the implied daughter relationships of the game.

If you’re interested, we can discuss the rest on Discord, Telegram (both: nordrscaar) or here.

[winters-mistress]

Nightmare

Geralt's eyes snap open, his chest aching in a way no kikimora or aechna wound could come close to. He shoots up, ignoring the way his joints pop, old wounds screeching in protest, not yet healed stitches pulling his skin painfully tight.

The witcher looks around wildly, side to side, only seeing trees and snow and twigs and twinkling stars, the moon mocking him in all her majesty.

His fingers shake, breath rattling in his old lungs, lungs expanding and shrinking in rapid succession, so fast that he briefly sees black spots dancing in front of him.

Eyes wide, taking in the cold air, he shakes, fingers twitching towards his swords that were always a few inches away from his fingers whenever he would allow himself to sleep. A reason why he did not, had just occurred.

"Ciri," he gasps out, mouth dry, throat burning. He looks wildly for her, eyes big and golden, taking in every sight, every sound, every smell, until he takes in the limp form a few strides lengths away from him.

If he was rational in this moment, he wouldn't do what he would do next. He would realise that his girl getting decent sleep that was not plagued by ghosts and monsters and hunters, he would remember that she needed all the rest she could get, if they were going to make the trip back up to kaer mohren in the morning.

But coherent and rational, Geralt of Rivia is not. And it is for that reason that he scrambles out of his blankets, crawling wildly over towards his girl, turning her around so she falls on her back.

Startled, the girl is awake within a moment. She gasps out, eyes snapping open. She looks down her body first, before looking up at him as he leans over her.

Her eyes are big and beautiful, a deep jade in the darkness of the night. Not yellow, not anything unnatural. She's here, she's alive.

"Geralt?" she whispers.

It's almost an echo of when he had awoken her when he had realised Vereena's true form in Nivellen's manor house. He is as usual as he ever is, dark clothing and bright hair and eyes, while her white dress is swapped for a white tunic and some brown leather trousers. She is stronger, braver, while he is softened to her in a way he never could have imagined that night.

"What's wrong?" she asks, leaning up upon her elbows. She blinks as she's suddenly forced from her back all together, gathered up in his arms as he embraces her tightly to his chest. She can hear how it echoes and rattles, even to her puny human ears.

Her arms wrap around him, fingers messily getting caught in his hair. She inhales deeply, breathing in his scent as he clings to her.

Over the last few months, Cirilla has realised that she doesn't need to speak to gage Geralt's emotion. She can read him easily now, understands his keenness for silence and will not push for conversation when he is lost to the horror of his past. She understands that, doesn't push him to speak, only let's him hold her in the way it's obvious that he needs.

"It's alright, we're together." she states quietly, he squeezes her quickly, before pulling back far enough to press their forehead together.

She knows what it means. Family, safety, pack.

It's one of the quickest lessons she had learned when he had brought her to his home months ago, watching how he embraced his brothers, for all of their burliness and aggression. A silent way to show their love and bond in ways no words could.

She closes her eyes tighter, clutches him. Their roles have seemingly been reversed as he takes in deep breaths. She can be strong in the moments where he is weak, a stark contrast to their usual situation where he holds her and fends off her ghosts and hunters.

"You're okay, we're okay. I love you, Papa." she whispers.

He holds her tighter, and she knows what he says.

I love you, my little pup.