#Elle is so nice to him and gentle and UGH

[sungwanns]

what we could’ve had with spencer and jj blah blah blah ELLE what we could’ve had with spencer and ELLE !! THATS what we should be mourning

[seventfics]

Lionhearted

Written for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Prompt: Talking in your Sleep Relationships: Cirilla/Morvran Voorhis (+ background Emhyr/Geralt) Rating: T  Content Warnings: None Summary: Before her future reign can begin, Cirilla has to commit to the trust exercise that is an arranged marriage. If only her sleep would be peaceful.

Read on AO3

* * *

“...Cirilla?”

Ciri stirs fully awake at a gentle touch over her shoulder. It is a miracle she does not lash out instinctively and break something. Her limbs feel tight, aching by how tense they’d become in sleep. The faint shadows of a nightmare still dance behind her eyes. She hears the clopping of hooves, the horses of the Wild Hunt approaching—the cold blast of winter hits her as if naked in the snow.

Pure imagination. The bedroom is warm-lit by a hearth. It is summer, and she is safe. She is more than safe.

The touch that rose her pulls her back from the lingering vision of doom. She turns to light eyes, pinched in worry.

“Sorry..." She draws the sheets closer, her wild hair a fan over her face. The room is warm, but a chill runs under her skin all the same. "Did I disturb you?”

Morvran studies her. He sits a comfortable distance away from her. The monstrously-large bed makes that easy. “Not really.”

Slowly, her muscles unwind from their tense curl. A minute passes, and she’s tired again. “Don’t let me keep you awake,” she says rolling on her side, and then, almost a whisper, “you know, you can call me Ciri.”

* * *

The final battle is over. It has been for a peaceful few years. And yet, her mind stays restless, ready for the next enemy to come tearing through her life. So far it’s only been arrogant old men with predictable ambitions, which is pitiful compared to the ageless Aen Elle that had chased her through time and space, and the world-ending White Frost waiting at the end of it all. Really, they should step up their game if they want to make her sweat.

Her dreams made of frost and blood do most of the work for them. It's inescapable. Exhausting.

Every time she wakes from snow clogging her lungs, she sees Morvran had stirred awake in the night, and she apologizes with genuine-felt guilt.

Her husband is always polite about it, which is hard for her to accept at first. Experience tells her to expect a confrontation, or a fight about affecting him with her sleeplessness. But Morvran—she discovers quickly into their spousal arrangement—is quiet company, even if sometimes he seems a little on edge himself. A soldier's nervousness lies behind his gaze. The General without a war to fight. At least she’s not the only one struggling with peacetime.

They say that marriage forges a bond between two souls. That is what her father—of all people—tells her on one of their joint-breakfast mornings.

“There is a responsibility there," Emhyr says with enviable composure. "He is the only one’s opinion you must consult and rely on with matters of state.”

Ciri nearly scoffs. “Not even yours then?”

“Not even mine. Do you not trust him?”

She thinks long after that, a little angry with his nonchalance. Of course she doesn't. Of course it's not that easy. Ask any other lady or princess what their marriage gave them and see if any one of them bring up the word trust. Her father is biased. His own marriage had been sown by destiny's hand.

And yet, after the whispers of dark dreams rouse her at night, she does trust Morvran to be near, to remind her with his presence that she is no longer a child running from great and powerful enemies anymore. She is the daughter of the Black Sun. Nothing can touch her now.

Would be nice to sleep well again on her own soon, though.

Emhyr accepts her silence and sips his tea while it is still warm. He doesn't say anything about the dark circles under her eyes, and she doesn't talk about why they're there.

Geralt visits not a day after, the first time after her marriage, and he sure won't let it go unaddressed.

“I'm fine, Geralt. Haven’t slept well is all.”

That is all she's willing to say, not wanting to bother him too much when he'd arrived so happy to greet her. But it’s Geralt. He knows her better than anyone. Better than she knows herself.

"Haven't slept? You know what that does to your clarity of mind. And are you doing anything about it? Is it the mattress? I tell you, they make them too soft in the south. You need a little firmness to stop you when you're tossing..."

His fussing calms her heart. The opposite would be just as true. If he panics, all her own worries neutralize as she remembers how to think straight for him. They are each other's pillars.

So he frets, and she waves him off, feeling a little better by the second.

Tea together in the garden is a relaxing surprise activity with him, although now that he's brought up the topic of modern furniture and poor craftsmanship, Geralt is grouching about how uncomfortable the chairs are.

“They’re meant to keep your spine straight," she says, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, and it’s crap. Doesn’t fit all of me.”

“That’s because you’re carrying fifty pounds of armor and steel. You might not want to rest all your weight on it actually.”

Geralt purposely leans back on his chair, the wood giving an alarming creak. “Are you calling me fat?”

She laughs at him so hard the Impera keeping guard from the garden's entrance twitch their heads to them. They act like a sign of joy from her is a terrifying dragon come to burn the palace down.

“I miss that,” Geralt mutters with a fake pout.

“What? My laughter?”

“Your…ease with it. I know being empress is nothing to scoff at." At the mention of her future court, Ciri touches her imperial diadem—both a symbol of her patrimony and a wedding band. Geralt tracks the gesture. The sigh he gives is heavy and long. "I mean, shit, this whole marriage thing attached to it isn’t what either of us planned for."

The metal warms under her rubbing thumb. "None of what's happened in our journey ever has been."

A witcher's path is unpredictable. One lives by the day and learns to adapt to what comes. And she's doing that still. Adapting like a witcheress. Soon, she'll have to start thinking more like an empress.

"The General," Geralt starts, and she refocuses on him and the serious set of his brow. "He’s a good man at least. A little…eccentric I think, but he is one of the better ones in Emhyr’s court.”

Now it's her turn to grumble, “I know. It’s annoying. I wish I could have a reason to hate him but he’s so…ugh, mannerly!”

This time Geralt laughs, and for a moment, Ciri is a witcher’s child in the wilds again, punting her father’s shoulder for a dumb joke he's pulled at her expense.

She stops suddenly when a familiar figure, all shoulders and dark colors to contrast his light hair, comes through the garden gates. 'Speak of the devil' might be a rude thought to have, yet it perfectly encapsulates how luck draws its cards on her this morning.

“Geralt of Rivia!” comes Morvran’s happy voice. “I thought I heard the rumble of bickering servants on the way here. Now I understand what displeased them so.”

“I’m not wearing their black-and-white cotton traps and you can’t make me.”

Ciri blinks between them. It surprises her how well Geralt gets along with him, and how openly joyous Morvran is being about his company—and yes, she would call him joyous even as his face is subtle in expressing it. Breaking courtly address would normally upset her recently-made husband no matter the suspect. And yet Geralt, who does not mean to do it intentionally, receives no such berating speeches on etiquette and formality. Actually, Morvran shakes his hand the northern way of greeting. Maybe he's good at adapting too.

“Of course not, sir witcher," Morvran says with his other hand raised in acquiescence. "There is no dire interrogation to fulfill at this hour.”

"Don't threaten me with a free clean shave again." To her, he offers a parting, “Alright. I've taken up enough of your time, I’m gonna head out.”

Her heart sinks at the cursory goodbye. This is her father in all but blood leaving her secure little bubble once more, to be a witcher without her. She is not a child anymore—he doesn't ruffle her ashen hair, though she dearly wants him to for old time's sake. It would mess up her diadem and the intricate plaiting of the braids behind her head.

She is not a child anymore, and yet she is already melancholy at the quick turn of his back.

"See you later, Geralt." Her words are a promise. We will see each other again.

As he steps into the flower path that winds back to the guards, Morvran calls out, “His imperial majesty is currently in a meeting.”

Geralt stops. He looks, for some reason, abashed. “What? Why are you telling me that?”

“I thought you would be privy to that information." Morvran shrugs in dismissal. "Va faill."  

It's almost funny how fast Geralt stomps out of the garden. As Ciri observes the exchange, all her previous heartache is swept under the rug. There is something she's not picking up. Fortunately it's not all she has to talk about to her present, lingering company.

“It’s weird that you two actually get along.” At her words, Morvran turns to her with open surprise.

“Geralt of Rivia is a genial man," he says, his hands meeting behind his back as is Nilfgaardian custom in public. "I believe anyone would be glad to refresh their acquaintance with him.”

Ciri, who was not raised with said customs and is instead being tutored in them with little success, snorts. Loudly.

“You just like that you can rope him into joining a riding competition on a promise of free food.”

Under all his Nilfgaardian powder, Morvran blushes. She can see it in his ears.

She laughs at him too.

* * *

It’s another night of bad dreams. Her memories have toyed with her enough that now she is witness to futures she cannot control. Geralt alone on the Path, the Empire at war with itself from her negligence, all of her old friends, her family, broken apart and dying as she lives on.

She wakes slowly, not in a startle or a choked breath. Her body aches worse than if she had.

Morvran is already awake beside her, a frown set upon his lips.

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

Between waking and the dissipating fear of her nightmare, Ciri is caught completely off guard. “I...didn’t, no.”

He doesn't explain any more, choosing to give her space as he's done for previous interrupted nights. Part of her wants to ask more. She wants to hear what she had said—what nightmare had she been speaking into existence. Did he recognize anything? Did he want to ask, but simply refrain out of properness?

Whatever it is she uttered in fever sleep, she lets it go. Talking about it now would be worse, somehow. Like making her nightmares a real, concrete thing.

Sleep still fights her long into the night. It does not come a second time. Which is good, as she opens her eyes to a timely assassination.

The weapon under her pillow slides into her hand not a breath later. She always keeps something sharp and deadly there. Good habit, both her fathers would say, for different reasons.

Before the assassin can strike, Ciri blinks in between time. They are dead where they stand, frozen mid-step, collapsing the very next instant time moves for her.

In the commotion that follows, everyone wakes. The emperor looks as regal and rested as always and Ciri envies that as her hair resembles a rat’s nest, mussed from the fear-sweat of her haunted sleep. At least Morvran is just as unkempt as her. They make quite the competition for most messy bedhead, side by side. And though the hours stretch on, from private meetings to argued suspicions, Morvran looks in his element. Her element.

Put an enemy in front of them and they will beat it down until it’s rid of.

Her mind is driven to this new task. Securing entry points, questioning any guards that had slack. Her edges feels frayed—sticking to Morvran like a shadow as they move from room to room, servant to official, order to action, way past sunrise. Her angry expression turns any worried servant away from asking for her imperial majesty to eat.

The assassin had tried to kill him. And no one seems to be that concerned since her own head is still attached to her shoulders. Not even Morvran.

Things calm down well past noon. They both return tired and dry-eyed to their arranged room.

She touches his sleeve and holds his weary gaze. “If you die I won’t forgive you.”

Morvran nods, like she makes sense. “I would never plan on it. It would upset your father.”

For a second, Ciri doesn’t know which one he means, and that makes her smile stupidly, at its pure truth.

She wipes her grin off before Morvran has a chance to politely appreciate it.

* * *

“You’re antsy.”

Ciri hums, taking a bite of her deviled eggs. “I'm not antsy.”

“You are bending the good fork.”

She stares down at her hand and finds that Emhyr is right and the fork is just a little twisted at the neck.

"I'm sure someone's job is to fix it. Just, call them."

Nothing in her posture or her expression could possibly tell Emhyr what sits heavy in her head, short of him being a mindreader. And yet, somehow, he pieces everything together correctly to ask, “Would it be so terrible for you to like him?”

Ciri sighs, looking up at the ornate chandelier, begging it to crash down on her and get her out of this conversation. Because she already does like Morvran, quite a lot, and it is terrible. She would hate to admit to her father that he is right. He’ll never live it down.

Of course, she doesn't need to say anything at all. Her godsdamned mind-reading father already knows. When did he learn to read her so effortlessly?

...Has he been consulting Geralt?

However it may be, Emhyr clears his throat and straightens his fork on his side of the breakfast table. “Some people," he says as she sulks internally, "are fortunate and marry the one they love. Others find a way to make it work.”

At his following pause, Ciri straightens in her seat to meet his gaze. His silences are always weighty and grave.

“I hope that he is worth the work,” he ends.

Then the moment passes, and he's eating again. Leaving her to contemplate alone what it means that her father, the emperor, might actually want her to be happy with the man who would share her rule once she is officially crowned. It's...it's trusting. It's too much to think about so early in the morning.

Being who she is, however, Ciri returns to the source of her sulk and the many questions it created.

“So, have you spoken with Geralt?”

Emhyr drinks his tea very slowly. “Of course not. Had he anything important to relay to me?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “I'm sure you know he came to visit recently, but you don’t ask me what we talked about?”

“Whatever it is you two get up to does not concern me.”

She hums, sipping her own tea. “It’s funny I guess, I thought you asked of him through Morvran.”

Emhyr sets his cup down, narrowing his eyes in thought. As he studies her, she keeps on sipping her tea until it’s finished. “Just curious,” she adds before parting for the day. Give him something to puzzle over that isn't her.

* * *

'Did you know you talk in your sleep?'

Only two nights of the next seven does she stir awake. Not from bad dreams, exactly. Not from dark memories or anxious fears either. Ciri rubs her face now, frustrated, pulled from sleep again for no apparent reason.

Morvran is awake beside her, as he always is. His face is not pressed with a frown, though. She can't stop thinking on his words so casually spoken the night an assassin tried to take him from her, and settles back onto her enormous pillows.

“...What did I say this time?”

“Oh,” he blinks at her, and it’s sleepy and lazy, not at all very general-like. “Something about a swallow. That you miss it. Did you used to own a bird?”

She closes her eyes briefly, oddly at peace with her sleep talking. He had listened to her secret fears for all these nights, her haunted screams, and made them his own secrets.

If she could trust him to know that, then, it is not so difficult to trust him with the more simple things.

“No. Swallow was the name of my sword. I carried her with me everywhere.”

“Ah. Where is she now?”

“I gave her to Geralt before I came to be here. A witcher’s sword is not something I can wield from a throne.”

He touches his hand to her cheek, the first time he’s breached courtly etiquette with her. It is warm and callused.

“I am confident that sir Geralt keeps Swallow sharp and oiled so that the blade stays strong. I am...sorry,” he says with more awkwardness.

She covers his hand with her own, a little laugh escaping her when he blinks rapidly at her returned touch, like he had not expected it at all. “It's alright. I entrusted her to him.”

Marriage forges a bond between two people.

[sry-chrlie]

☁ mama who bore me, mama who gave me no way to handle things. ☁

a scene between charlie and his mother tw: child abuse references bc you know how it be

It had been months since Charlie had spoken to either of his parents. His mother had fallen from several texts a day to one or two a week, usually something benign like:

Oct 31: Happy Halloween, sweetie. Send me pictures of your costume! 🎃

Nov 5: Any requests for Thanksgiving supper? I got the last turkey at the store. Had to fight Elle’s mom for it lol! Have you talked to Elle lately? Miss seeing her around.

Nov 7: Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?

Nov 10: Have a good Wednesday, my love. Make sure you buy a Winter coat. It’s getting so cold out there, brrrr!! Mama is an icicle lol ☃️

Charlie wasn’t sure what was worse. The gentle kindness behind these texts or the ones blatantly telling him he needed to call Dad. Luckily, Talia had gotten Charlie’s message and had stopped sending anything like the latter. Apparently she understood that the more she mentioned his father, the less likely Charlie was to give in and answer her. 

But the ones she did send, these small notes of affection, overwhelmed him with guilt.  He had no reason to punish his mother. What was the point in hurting her when his father was away in DC doing enough of that on his own? He was shutting her out in reaction to imaginary conversations he had with her in his mind, ones where she took his dad’s side and blamed Charlie for their fight.

She hadn’t said these things, though. Charlie hadn’t given her the chance. He wondered, as he sat lonely on his bed, scrolling through all her unanswered texts, how cruel of him it was to refuse his mom the benefit of the doubt. She’d done so much for him. Given him the world. Suffered endlessly for her son to get into a decent school, to provide him a good future... 

Ugh. He’d been thinking so much lately about Oliver and Alec, about Jamie Dyer, about Elle engaged to Elijah, and it was starting to put his life into perspective. Maybe he didn’t have anything to complain about. Maybe he was being so callous to his mother because he was selfish and spoiled. It would certainly fit in with recent behaviors. 

With a heavy sigh, Charlie texted her back.

hey ma, thinking about you. how’s it going? 

It was lame, but it was something. He tossed his phone to the side, half hoping his mother would have the balls to give him the silent treatment right back. But of course not. His phone vibrated with a notification not even five minutes later.

There you are, sweetpea. 😇 I am doing GREAT! Happy as a clam. It’s funny that you should message because I’m about to make your favorite!! Why don’t you come over for pani popo and tea?

His mom was more clever than most people gave her credit for. She would probably be the one ruling the House of Representatives if she hadn’t been relegated to the role of housewife so many years ago. Her text was a perfect example: it sounded simple and earnest to a stranger, but it was coded. She was making Samoan food. That meant Dad wouldn’t be home, without Mom explicitly having to say it. 

Charlie, ever allergic to affection, sent his mom a pair of eyeball emojis and the single word “bet” before rolling out of bed to make an anxious trip home.

It was funny that Charlie’s new apartment was a mere 10 minute drive away from the childhood home he’d been running from. It made his months-long tantrum feel all the more pathetic - like a nightmare that only allowed you to run in slow motion. He hadn’t gotten anywhere. He was just jogging in place, waiting for someone else to make a choice for him.

“Oh my goodness, you are so handsome! I almost forgot how much,” his mother said when she opened the door. She stood on her toes to grab his face and Charlie had to lean down to let her kiss both of his cheeks. “I missed you, I missed you, I missed you!”

“Okay, okay, mama,” Charlie said, a laugh easing some of his anxiety, “I missed you too.” 

Lunch was nice. Talia had cooked some Samoan favorites, which was a little indulgence she allowed herself when she was home alone. She paired coconut rolls and pork sliders with glasses of sweet iced tea, an amalgamation of her birthplace and the American South where she’d lived for so long now. 

Talia was getting older, but she wore her age a lot better than Charlie’s father did. Her curly black hair was braided into a bun and she wore no makeup on her face; she didn’t need it. She wore a flowy green dress - a dark, West Virginia green that suited the golden brown tone of her skin. The whole kitchen smelled like fresh bread and coconut, which is what Charlie always remembered when he thought of his mom. 

In that moment, he realized he had missed her in a visceral, agonizing way. She was right there, across the marble island, but Charlie’s heart still ached for the months he’d acted like an idiot. One day, she would be gone, and Charlie was terrified of a day, hopefully far in the future, when he sat lonely in a big house, trying to remember the smell of fresh bread and coconut, but coming up empty.

She talked to him about nothing and everything as they ate. Charlie was a chatterbox perhaps because his mother was. She went on and on about the jewelry she had started crafting, about the ladies at church, about new neighbors that had moved in. She had months of gossip for her son and Charlie listened dutifully, nodding his head and laughing at all the right moments, falling into an ease with his mother. 

“So, Charlie, there’s something I want to run by you.” 

When she said it, he immediately tensed up. It was like the trauma had given Charlie a sixth sense. He knew, from the subtle change in her tone and the way her posture had shifted, that he was going to hate what she said next.

“Oh yeah? What’s that, mama?” he asked, picking at bread crumbs on his plate. She hadn’t really said anything yet, but his heart was beating wildly in his chest. How easily it was for him to come undone. Being home was like driving top speeds down a highway made of black ice; Charlie was constantly prepared for the crash.

“Your father is on his way back from the city. He's got a couple weeks off for Thanksgiving. He should be here soon and I thought it would be nice if we all finally had a talk.”

 Like a compact car right into the tail end of an 18 wheeler.

“God, Mom!” Charlie shoved his seat away from the kitchen island, jumping off the stool to make escape that much easier.

“Do not swear at me, Charlie. I’m trying to make things better.”

“No you’re not, you’re trying to pretend like it already is better. Newsflash, Mom: Dad’s an asshole. Unless he’s been invaded by a body snatcher, none of this is going to change.” 

She wasn’t looking at him now. She hated confrontation as much as he did. She busied herself with the dishes, passive aggressively clinking them harder than she needed to.

“Do you really have to be so melodramatic?”

Charlie’s chest was on fire. Red hives of anxiety started to crawl up his neck, powered by the erratic nonstop pounding of his heart. He took deep, steadying breaths. His father wasn’t even in the room. He didn’t have to panic. He remembered what Jamie had said at The Gallows: tell your mom the truth, give her a chance to respond the right way.

“He’s sleeping with someone else, Mom. He left you here like the Kennedy sister they don’t talk about while he whips his dick out for every 20-something bimbo in DC.” 

Charlie’s mom slammed a plate so hard into the sink that it cracked, sending shards of ceramic to the floor. She hissed, pulling her hand close to herself. Charlie rushed over.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said curtly, brushing off his attempts to help. She rinsed her finger under the faucet, droplets of blood washing down the drain. “I know that your father has certain... indiscretions,” she confessed, still refusing to look Charlie’s way. “Although I prefer not to think of them in such lewd terms, but Charlie, marriage is complicated and your father has a very stressful job. At the end of the day, he’s a good man and if you would sit down and have a talk with us, you would understand. Things are going to be different now.”

The concern for his mother warped into more righteous fury and Charlie raked his hands through his hair to try and calm himself.

“Do you realize that you’ve been saying the same thing since I was like five years old? It’s always, ‘things are going to be different’ but, Mama, things are exactly the same.” 

“They’re not the same!” Talia argued. “You’re grown now, none of that old business matters anymore.” 

The wind had been knocked out of him with that one. Charlie didn’t have words for it. Years of hidden bruises that didn’t matter anymore. Broken bones with secret origins that didn’t matter anymore. Little Charlie, on his knees, sobbing, begging Mom, Let’s just leave. Let’s go back to your home and live on the beach, far away from Dad. Please, please, please. And Mom’s eternal answer: It’s okay. Things will get better. Charlie had long since given up crying to a broken record, but he felt the ghost of a knot in his throat that afternoon.

“Dad isn’t a different person,” he tried explaining again, his voice aching, begging for this time to be the time his mom finally understood what he was trying to say. “If I was magically 14 again, he would still hit me for doing nothing. When did I ever do anything wrong, Mom?”

“Oh, please, Charlie, spare me the victim act. You are hardly innocent.” Talia had started sweeping up the broken plate, ignoring the cut on her finger, like she needed something to do to avoid looking into her son’s eyes. “I heard about that Halloween party of yours. There was a fight. It wasn’t even a day later that I saw Alec at the bodega with his face all messed up. I’m sure you had nothing to do with that.” 

The mere mention of Alec and Oliver sent a flood of emotion through him. The pressure in his head was painful, his eyes watering despite himself. “I didn’t hit Alec,” he said, hating the way his voice had wavered. “Mom... do you really think I would do that? I would never hit...” 

He trailed off, no longer able to juggle the task of talking and not crying. It was just as well. If his mom had known how royally he’d fucked up with Oliver, she might have felt vindicated, and thinking about that was too much for Charlie. His silence gave her the opportunity for a final, devastating blow.

“Right, Charlie. In all those fights you’ve had with your father, how many of them started because you hit him first?”

It was ridiculous and unfair but also it was true. Maybe Charlie was making it all up. Maybe, the whole time, Charlie had been the problem. 

“Mom...” He sounded small. Weak. Pathetic. He didn’t want to be standing there, wet faced, begging, again, for his mother to choose him. For once. Please. Choose Charlie. 

“Maybe you should go. Your father will be here soon and I don’t see us having any productive conversations today with this attitude of yours.” 

Charlie didn’t need to be told twice. Running away was something he’d always been good at. He fled the scene of his own undoing, feeling ashamed that he’d ever expected it would be different this time. 

Gravewood never changed. Not really. Charlie was just the only one stupid enough to take this long to figure that out.