#ciri witcheress ending only

[lesbianholyspirit]

I’m gonna just pretend that Geralt from the witcher 3 is my dad from now on.

[valandhirwriter]

For the character game: Ciri (because I'm me 😆) and Boromir 😊

thank you @andordean for the tag. I'd love your version for Ciri, Regis and Geralt. (If you have opinions on boromir, I'd be curious about them too)

Ciri

How I feel about this character: Ciri is complicated character for me. I didn't really care for her in the books and the books came first for me, prior to games or TV. I never really came to like book Ciri. Game Ciri was a definite improvement, and oddly TV Series Ciri grew on me. I also appreciate her story - the direct escape from Cintra - much more than the book version of the events. I think I will always end up writing a slightly AU version of Ciri, but I have come to appreciate her character and have fun with certain stories about her.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Morvran, several Witchers, Eskel and Letho among them. Coën

Morvran - the main pairing in my mind. Empress or Witcheress ending both. In the Witcheress ending Ciri would be free to chose, and when she falls for General Voorhis, she'd not even know he is the man, her father wanted her to marry. And Morvran is simply fascinated with this kick-ass Lady, no matter who she might be. In the Empress ending their start would be a bit more rocky, until Ciri realises that Morvran is willing to accept her the way she is, and to wait for her until she is ready.

Letho/Eskel/other Witchers: Witcheress Ending only. Ciri living the life of a Witcher and ultimately falling in love with one of her brothers in arms. Or maybe with two.

Coën - is my AU ship at the end of Song of the Dragon. Only hinted at, but it is there. He followed Ciri on that long journey to discover her true heritage, and he chooses to stick with her, giving up on returning home in the end. They'll grow closer and ultimately fall in love. Ciri deserves a knight in shining armour and our Griffin is just that.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: Regis

The way they encountered in Stygga should have left some impression and I see Ciri and Regis becoming close friends after B&W. I also see Regis as someone who might see Ciri's scars, and slowly help her to deal with the nightmares of her past. Regis will understand the things that Geralt, as a Witcher, cannot.

My unpopular opinion about this character: She never even considered returning to Cintra, or negotiating as the Princess for some type of vassal state for her homeland. She never thinks of what her people go through under Nilfgaard, she just runs away. Even as she gets older and realises that Nilfgaard wants some kind of legitimacy for their claim, she never even tries to make use of that. In that way she is a spoiled Princess brat, not seeing her responsibilities towards her people.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon. That instead of becoming a murderer among the rats, she'd have considered the slower and unglorious way of finding honest work. As a farmhand, in the stables, as scullery maid, whatever - she goes down the way of the thief, plunderer and murderer too easily, and I wish she had a crossroads there, where she went a different path.

And ABOVE ALL: I wish canon, especially the books, would not objectify Ciri the way they do.

Boromir

How I feel about this character: This was the character that fascinated me from my first reading of Lord of the Rings on. I was 13 at the time, and to me Boromir had clear Hagen of Tronege vibes. And I was a fan of Hagen. What fascinated me was that Boromir came from the direct border of the dark lands, so he must have experience with the enemy they are faced with, but somehow no one thought to ask him. I also wondered what drove him to turn on his companions and my earliest conclusion was, that he did not see how they could succeed. Gimli and Legolas were bickering about whether Axe or Bow were the better weapon, Aragon was focused on becoming King, so he could marry Arwen and the hobbits had no clue about anything - so i thought he felt his companions did not really take the whole danger serious. Later, as I grew up, that view evolved on a more psychological question, and also considered the burdens Boromir already carries, as a commander and the son of a deeply unhappy family.

To this day Boromir is my hero, he always will be. Even as the picture of him that I had in my mind, got deeply changed thanks to Sean Bean's wonderful portraying him.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: None actually. I got told my story had vibes for Boromir/Kili and also for Boromir/Shakurán. (Shakurán being an OC Easterling soldier, invented by me so Boromir would have a named opponent to scheme and fight against). Both pairings are absolutely imaginable, only I was maybe never able to write them.

I always wondered why Boromir in the books wasn't married. He was 42 when he died, and coming from a noble house with only two children, I'd have expected him to be married at a young age. But he wasn't. One can wonder about the reasons, which would allow even more speculation on potential pairings.

My non-romantic OTP for this character:

My AU: Kili

This only makes sense if you read my story, but their story is one of a friendship that transcends destiny and death itself.

In canon: Faramir I'd say. The two brothers against the rest of the world.

My unpopular opinion about this character: he was a better leader than Aragorn ever was.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon. There are two. One is of course that he survived Amon Hen and made his way home, to fight in the war of the ring.

And the second: that he had a family. As i said before: according to Tolkien Boromir is 42 when he dies, and there is no logical reason why he wasn't long married, and be it to secure the Stweard's line. It would have been fascinating, and hopefully deeply shaking and uncomfortable, if Aragorn reached Gondor, became King, only to be faced with Boromir's widow and sons. It would have been such great drama and emotional hurt potential. (I had even started writing a story in that vein, but never got far)

[arianaofimladris]

In the last three days I saw hundreds of wonderful cosplays from fandoms I did and did not recognise. Some were basic, some looked crazy and must have taken ages to prepare. But as I watched what people did, I noticed that in my own cosplay making, I tend to focus on other things than many people I saw. Many of the outfits I saw were direct, sometimes very elaborate and exact copies of movie/game/comic characters. They tended to be more colorful, shiny, eye-catching. On the other hand, they were often obviously made of paper/plastic/cheap polyester fabrics. Don't get me wrong, they were elaborate and very accurate and must have taken ages to make.

I, on the other hand, enjoy more creating my own interpretation of a character. I used some pictures or description as inspiration, but I find more joy in creating something original instead of copying a movie/game outfit.

With my Yennefer cosplay, it was a certain description from a certain tale (I abandoned the jacket because it was too hot). With Ciri, obviously the game was some inspiration, but the shirt was inspired by Geralt's game shirt. I had more fun making something I could imagine the character really wearing, so Ciri's witcheress shirt was made of thick, rough linen. For Yen I picked very thin and elegant viscose for blouse and patterned (woven, not printed!) fabric. I had fun discovering leathercrafting to make details for both costumes. Obviously the things I made are not 200% "authentic", like I used shoes I normally wear and trousers I bought, but I tried to stay as close "in universe" as I could.

Another factor was that I wanted to be able to use the things I made for other purposes too. I went out in Yen's blouse and skirt and without the wig that is obviously fake I looked normal enough (and still not H&M like). I used for cosplay purposes my heeled shoes I love wearing.

For Ciri, I bought leather shoes that are flat (I'm sorry, no one will convince me to a Witcheress on heels as shoes of choice for potential fighting) - and I already wore these shoes this winter and spring. The trousers are super comfortable and even though the colour is not my first choice, they fit well enough with the rest of my wardrobe.

Which brings the third factor. I need to be comfortable in my outfit. I see little point in making something polyester only to later die of heat. My dress or skirt or trousers have to be well fitting, not too tight. And I can't imagine wearing uncomfortable shoes. If I have to choose between close accuracy to a movie/game costume and what feel would be "authentic" for the character, I go for the latter. The overall result is probably less eye-catching and shiny, more simple, but I'm way more satisfied and happy and comfortable. And in case of Ciri, I felt better with my slightly toned warm blonde to get as close as possible (without having to bleach my hair more than with the gentle bleach I did to highlight my natural color more) than with the idea of buying an obvious wig. I got one for Yennefer since there was no way I could pull out black out of my blonde without ruining it.

Neither approach is better or worse. It's just an observation how differently people approach the idea of cosplay and what brings me more fun. At the end of tej day this is what it is all about - having fun.

[starwrittenfates]

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐂𝐢𝐫𝐢 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐞 (following the events of The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt & the DLCs)

The sword Geralt gives Ciri at the end of the game as a way to start her witcher career is also named Zireael. Zireael has a 38½ inch blade, a silver-plated siderite steel core, and glyphs and runes throughout the length of the blade, and on the hilt. The sword may have one of two possible inscriptions in Elder Runes, depending on the dialogue option that is chosen. Zireael, meaning "Swallow" in Common Speech, is one possibility. The other is Dubhenn haern am glâdeal, morc'h am fhean aiesin which translates to "the flash that cuts through darkness, the light that breaks the night".

Sometime after this, Geralt goes on a contract to Toussaint, following the events of the DLC Blood & Wine. Just like in the DLC, it results with him deciding to retire to a vineyard in Toussaint, spending the rest of his days sipping crisp whites, sweet rosés, and all that. Ciri comes to visit him from time to time in between contracts, along with Yen if Geralt settles down with her.

She does visit Kaer Morhen during the winters, not only to rejuvinate, but mostly to check in on the others that remained. After all, gotta train, restock, swap stories and celebrate the fact they are all still here. There's also no forgetting the place was like home to her too.

Ciri likes to hear the tales of the "ashen-haired witcheress" spreading. It keeps others on their toes, and despite having Geralt tell her biological father that she had died, she hopes it makes Emhyr quake with fear and anger over the stories of the "ashen-haired witcheress."

Ciri still has Kelpie as her horse and the bracelet to summon her.

[buttercup-bard]

⚔️

[cherryjuicegf]

the swallow's nest

It’s an old story.

She can’t help it, in a way, being there at the end of all things and gazing as they collapse in front of her eyes. And this, oh, it was beautiful. Doomed from the start, as she’s now looking back, but she would lie if she said she would change it, the little that was given to her. The warmth and the safety and the smiles, and the family. It was beautiful.

It didn’t change anything. It was beautiful, and it was only there.

thanks @leahseclipse for cheer reading you're a star ♡ || 3.7k, T, found family, mcd, books spoilers [ao3]

i. who will love you

“Come here, duckling.”

She turned around swiftly, the force of a habit one would say, the swift pirouettes of a witcher. Still, under the violet gaze that had been holding her steady for the past weeks, she doubted she looked like a witcheress, let alone a mighty one. If only she could show what she could do with the sword, and then the sorceress would leave the magic behind, maybe just for a moment… No, she thought now, as she looked at her. This wouldn’t happen soon. Or ever.

Yet there was a lightness now in Yennefer’s gaze and it could be the sun and the beautiful day warming the garden, but it could also be something else. Ciri stared as the sorceress took a few steps back and, how extraordinary, she sat on the grass under a tree.

Sometimes she would do the barest flick of the wrist and Ciri would find that extraordinary too.

Just like now, with the faintest of smiles curving her lips as she nodded at the girl. “Come, I say. Sit before me.”

It had been easier to approach Yennefer those days. Easier than the start most definitely. And not just when Ciri walked, and sat beside her just like she asked, but also when she looked at her and under the unearthly beauty of her face she discerned the gentleness of her lines and her walls slowly crumbling to the ground behind the sharpness of her gaze. There was something in her eyes, something Ciri needed so badly to acquire or to receive, she couldn’t tell. 

Only, she could sit as Yennefer asked, and let careful hands guide her head in the right place, before she felt fingers tangled in her messy hair. A tingle of magic. “You won’t be able to perform magic with your hair in front of your eyes, child.” A swipe of her palm and every comb and stain of dirt in her ashen hair was gone. Yennefer hummed content. “And Gods forbid a sorceress ever looks so unkempt.”

Then, her hands started working.

It felt nice, Ciri thought and she didn’t remember when had been the last time that someone had braided, no, tended to her hair, other than herself. They were not long as they used to be, uneven in the edges, and she wouldn’t care that much anyway. But this wasn’t about her hair, she could guess. This was something else.

Something intimate, something about the way Yennefer was careful not to hurt her and so eager to get it right, about the way Ciri could feel the warmth of her hands on her neck and the safety of their tug, holding her in place in a way reassuring words could never do. 

She could get used to it.

What exactly it was, she still couldn’t tell. 

“Lady Yennefer,” she said as though on a whim, as though she didn’t order herself to speak in the first place. But the sun was shining and Yennefer was humming ever so silently a melody she craved to render familiar and the words flowed so easily from her lips that she might as well let them. “Do you know what love is?”

As though coming from a dream, Yennefer chuckled. Low and short, but Ciri found herself smiling at the sound of it. “I’m afraid I only know what love is not, ugly one. And that’s a lot of things we don’t have the time to go through.”

“Haven’t you ever felt it though?”

“Life doesn’t grant everyone the chance to love and be loved. But one has to be patient.” Her voice was only a little strained now, as though she herself was trying to believe her words. As though she was running out of patience, out of hope.

Maybe she already had. But Ciri was only a child, and a child’s hope is clever and endless, and no matter the dust she’d left behind, it had yet to dry up. “If you ever get the chance, will you tell me?”

Again, a hum, this time distant yet amused. The hands in her hair stilled, stroked over the braid once, twice to smooth it, and then rested warm on her shoulders. “Yes, Ciri. I will.”

—

She looks different. Not older, she would never, and she would never lose her stunning beauty, the magnificence that brings one to their knees in front of her without hesitation. No, she only looks… tired.

Ciri falls out of the dance, head dizzy with the music and the first breeze of summer and a bit of good wine, and stills. Yennefer isn’t looking and if she is, if she notices her staring, she does nothing, doesn’t turn her way. As she gazes on, she concludes on her realization. Yennefer is tired.

Not uncalled for, surely. She has been through hell and back, more than she ever did, and it’s been so long since Ciri saw her for the last time and now they’re older, all of them. Trying to fall back into a habit that never had the time to form in the first place. Geralt is not beside her, for once, and Ciri finds that she’s grateful.

Her feet are moving on their own accord as she approaches and it’s just like then, it’s nothing like then. The feast is roaring behind her but her heart clenches at the thought of leaving her alone. At the thought of being alone. Not again, not now. 

Finally, Yennefer turns at her as she stands beside her. Smiles, and her skin seems to strain with the presence of old lines. “Having fun?”

“Definitely. It’s just…” Ciri falters and there’s something disarming about the sorceress's raised eyebrow that had never managed to hold her back. But only now she realizes how she had missed it. She clears her throat. “I got dishevelled with all the dancing.” A smirk. “Not proper for a sorceress.”

Yennefer laughs, her eyes shining with the stars. “There’s that! I knew I could trust good advice to root in that witcher head of yours.” She shakes her head and looks around carefully, then leans in. “I dreaded that you’d sport that horrid headband Geralt used to wear,” she whispers and Ciri bursts into laughter.

“Never in a thousand years!”

As they sit under the tree on the grass Ciri thinks, now she could get used to this. To what she didn’t have the time to before. Yennefer pulls the tie and lets her hair flow, and runs her fingers through it. Gentle and careful and familiar. Safe. There were no walls to hinder her now, only to protect.

As though finally rid of their weight after ages, her shoulders slump.

“You asked me once what love is,” she hears Yennefer behind her and smiles at the memory, at how young she was. Still, her heart is aching to know the answer. Yennefer swallows and now her voice is low, like a hesitant lullaby. “I know now.” A deep breath and the barest tremble of her fingers. “It’s what I feel when I braid your hair.”

For a moment, the hands linger, and her breath hitches. And then she goes on braiding.

Ciri smiles, and if her eyes water with the tugs on her head, she pays no mind. It was never about her hair anyway. “I love you, mommy.”

Yennefer chuckles, light and wet. “I love you too, little ugly one.”

Indeed. They could get used to this.

ii. who will fight

Geralt sat beside her on the top of the tower, and stared ahead. “I thought rest time was over?”

What a bother he was sometimes. Ciri held back a laugh. I thought rest time was over , as though they were not sitting over the most beautiful of snowed mountains, gazing at the peaks that resembled these fancy decorated cakes the nobles ordered for their feasts. As though holding the break a bit longer would do any harm. As though he didn’t need it himself.

She turned at him searching for his eyes but they were fixed ahead. “Rest is not something to be chary of, Geralt.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t stare back and Ciri didn’t expect him to. It was often that he avoided her gaze, or anyone’s. She didn’t question it. Only, he took a deep breath and to her surprise, let his shoulders slump and leaned back, as though to take in the view. “I suppose you’re right.”

She smiled proudly and held her head high like she had achieved the greatest challenge, having Geralt relax for once. She didn’t see him like that often. Only sometimes when he would drink a glass or two with the other witchers, or he would sit in silence with Yennefer or in the exact opposite of silence with that bard of his. Only then she would see his shoulders slumped like now and the way his lips curved into something that was not entirely a smile, but certainly implied peacefulness, maybe even contentment. 

He looked less tired like that. Like he wasn’t always ready for an attack.

She swallowed, looked at him again. “I’m right,” she repeated as though to make her point clear. “Yet you never seek rest. You keep fighting and fighting and it’s only for the others, never for you.”

To this day she isn’t certain she heard right, or even if she is, she still can’t hold her surprise back. Because Geralt laughed then. A bitter thing that sat heavy on his throat, as though with the weight on a thousand buried wishes. And finally, he turned to her. eyes big and honest. “I do seek rest. I long for it, every day. But,” he shook his head, “there are always battles to be fought.” What peculiar thing it was, this welcomed defeat of his. This hopeful void. A deep sigh, and he smiled at her. “Besides I’m not only fighting for the others.”

She frowned. “But for whom?”

“For you.”

It sounded so natural. So evident, as though he existed to do nothing else, only willing to fight and keep her safe. And she couldn’t help but bask in the warmth of it. And she couldn’t help but wonder if this would end in the way it always did.

Geralt averted his eyes and stood up, hand outstretched. “Come, time’s up. One should keep fighting.”

She pouted begrudgingly and took his hand, but she was never one to make it easy for people and took great pleasure in exasperated sighs, so a wide smirk spread on her face, eyebrows raised. “Piggyback ride to the yard.”

As expected, an exasperated sigh. Geralt pulled her up and, hiding a smile that was very much visible in his eyes, he nodded in defeat. “Piggyback ride to the yard,” he complied in feigned tiredness and lowered himself on the floor. Ciri laughed loudly and jumped on his back triumphant.

Geralt shot her a sideway glance and silently, he laughed along, shaking his head.

One should keep fighting, but she supposed being carried to battle was not that terrible for now.

—

All things end, and it’s in her nature that they end in destruction and pain.

Only, this time, and despite everything, despite the ache that rips her heart in two in her chest, despite the tears that have dried up no matter how hard she craves to shed them, despite all, she knows better. It’s an old story.

The boat floats on the water and it’s a beautiful day, and the breeze is blowing her braid away with the leaves. The sun sparkles off the ripples of the boat. And her eyes as though in denial to return to reality just for a little bit, just to reminisce, are fixed on him.

At the blood that’s slowly drying up, having already left its mark on that cursed pavement and she clenches her fists. She wants to go back, rip all its stones off and burn them, throw them in the water. They were white and so was his shirt and it’s been so long since she saw him in white, lighting his face. Still, she didn’t get to see him for long. Only just in time. Only as he fell fighting.

Always fighting, never to rest. And it always was the last time. 

Yet he looks peaceful now, and if she closes her eyes, she can remember him on the top of the tower in Kaer Morhen, staring ahead, the lines carved on his face fading for some moments. Now, his eyes closed and the eternal frown between his eyebrows released, he looks like he’s sleeping. Like he’s resting.

It’s an old story. She can’t help it, in a way, being there at the end of all things and gazing as they collapse in front of her eyes. And her, reaching out to grasp what is slipping through her fingers, what can’t be saved only for what she had the time to live. And this, oh, it was beautiful. Doomed from the start, as she’s now looking back, but she would lie if she said she would change it, the little that was given to her. The warmth and the safety and the smiles, and the family. It was beautiful.

It didn’t change anything. It was beautiful, and it was only there. For her. To remind her that she was not only made for destruction and shatters and tears, but also, maybe, just this once, to be loved. To be protected. To remind her that she didn’t always have to fight alone.

Yes, she ends up alone. But maybe it’s time. Maybe now he has fought hard enough to make her strong to carry herself. Fight for herself on her own. 

And maybe that was his purpose all along.

She stares at him, and he doesn’t stare back. He never will, not anymore. A smile curves her lips, faint, and the tears falling down her face pool in its curve. “You can stop fighting now,” she whispers and as though he hears her, somewhere, the breeze whistles in her ear and it resembles his chuckle.

For just this once, a small comfort, a way for her to go on in peace. He doesn’t stare back.

Only, he rests.

iii. who will fall far behind

What a peculiar man he was, the bard. He seemed a fool at the start, and a fool he was, but for reasons that Ciri realized later on, and still never entirely. But it didn’t matter after a while.

An open book, and yet. She would watch as he sang and laughed and drank and talked about everything and nothing at all and after a while she could say that Geralt was right, that one comes to get used to it, crave it even. Sometimes the keep was too quiet.

It must be a heavy part, she thought. Having to always bear a smile no matter its weight. Sometimes she noticed a shadow in his eyes, a memory perhaps or a knowledge of a secret none had come yet to realize, and he would look exhausted. But only for a moment. Then he would sigh again and recite a verse or two that no one ever really examined and be what he was supposed to be. The bard.

As she approached now, again he was staring somewhere at the distance and strumming his lute, lips moving soundlessly and gaze travelling in what looked like another reality.

She followed his stare behind the trees around the clearing, down the river. Smiled. There they were, Geralt inside the cold water splashing at Yennefer who wasn’t moving past ankle depth and cursing at him. As she looked at the bard again, she saw the same smile drawn on his lips. Only that the corners trembled after a moment and the hand faltered on the strings like a wish that was never fulfilled. 

She looked closer. And it made sense, suddenly.

“Won’t you join them?” she asked, sitting on the log beside him and he flinched as if he hadn’t heard her coming. 

For the barest of seconds, he tried to pull on the facade, his lips widening in a grin and his back straightening and his head rising stupidly until she raised an eyebrow at him, and he swallowed. She was young. She wasn’t stupid. And he was caught.

He let his shoulders slump and sighed, gazing ahead. Smiling still. “Join them,” he repeated as though to ponder on the suggestion, or laugh at it or say a stupid excuse like that the water was cold. “No. I’m not… That’s not my place.” Suddenly, the sun seemed to shine brighter in his eyes as they glistened. It made sense, yes. A poet in love. “Not with them.”

Peculiar man. Giving up so easily. Ciri thought, he could take a lesson or two about fighting from Geralt. It didn’t sit quite right, this quiet acceptance, this cheerful resignation. As though he knew something no one else did. “Have you even tried though?” she asked because he must have, even if it was vain.

Yet, again, he chuckled and this time he turned to her, and he looked younger somehow in the way his voice sounded, gentle like a fairytale. “It doesn’t matter what I’ve done, my dear. It only matters that when they look at each other their eyes glint as though they’re faced with the moon itself and their smiles, no matter how secret, make their cheeks crinkle and their hearts beat so fast as though competing in their love for each other.” It was not a facade this time, she noticed. It was just him. Just… Jaskier. His smile was honest. “That’s all that matters now for me.” 

Ciri swallowed. Maybe he was a fool after all. And still, somehow, it made sense now as she looked at him and couldn’t imagine him in any other place other than there, on the log, gazing ahead from afar. She hummed. “You are one for detail.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows with a witty grin and strummed his lute, and as though the curtain was raised again, his voice became light. “The greatest ballads, my dear, are those of love and loss. And someone has to fall behind and write them. Now,” he shuffled closer with a cunning glint in his eye, “how about I teach you a song?”

Ciri shook her head with a snort and complied.

 —

Silence, for once, and she stands waiting.

A sad joy, as he stares at her with wide eyes. Acceptance, certainly, as he lets out a sob, wretched, and pulls her into his arms.

You can’t leave someone behind when they have never been on the same path. When they’ve always been staring from above.

Her arms crawl up his back desperately and clutch on his shirt as though it’s an anchor, and she hides her face in his neck and it’s been so long . Above her she can hear his sobs choking his throat as he holds her head, and places kisses on her hair. “My girl,” he whimpers, “my girl, my dearest girl,” sobs and with him she lets the tears fall, a warmth so old and rusty and yet just like she remembers, only with this eternal grief that weighs on their shoulders and makes her hold on tighter. 

She has cried many times. Yet there’s a lightness in her chest now that she shares the same tears.

He laughs then, wet, and pulls back ever so slightly as though afraid and looks at her. “Melitele help me, I’m talking nonsense! You’re all grown up, you’ve changed so much, gods,” he laughs and cries and takes her hand, “for shame, come in, do you want something to eat or–”

She laughs with him and it’s absurd, it’s painful, it’s like the heaviest stone has been taken off her shoulders even for a bit, it’s Jaskier. He closes the door behind her and then she looks around the little house, so foreign and quiet and so welcoming. And him, he’s still rambling like he’s gone back forty years in his life. “Jaskier,” she tries to catch up, “Jaskier!” He stops, waits, and she smiles. “I don’t need anything.” And it’s not a lie.

What she may have needed in another time is now long lost. Yet the tears no longer taste of regret. Only nostalgia. 

She peers at him, then. He’s old, certainly. It’s been almost twenty years. He’s old and there’s a slight, tired dragging in his steps, lines beside his eyes and thick grey streaks in his hair and his beard and he’s nothing like then and still, as she stares on, he’s exactly like then. Smiling, eyes bright and if that shadow falls over heavier now, he’s still too stubborn to let it take over. A peculiar man. Even after everything.

He moves behind her then, gestures at the other side of the room, an armchair beside an empty fireplace. “Come,” he says, “sit. You will stay for a bit, won’t you?”

She swallows. “I–”

“For dinner, at least.” There’s a plea in his voice but also what sounds like a demand, something along the lines of have you been eating well, let me take a little care of you, you need rest.

Something twists in her chest, fear, that she will miss this all over, that he will, and none of them can afford to do so again. She meets his eyes. “I… can’t. I’m sorry. I’m…” She shouldn’t have come. Not when she has to leave again. His eyebrows furrow and she shakes her head, voice strained. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. For everything. For leaving you behind.”

Jaskier doesn’t move, doesn’t even let his expression fall. As though he expected it. Only, he keeps his gaze steady and there’s this fond look in his eyes that makes her certainty tremble. Then, he takes her hand, and leads her slowly to the armchair. “My dear Ciri.” That smile again, knowing, just like then. “The greatest ballads are those of love and loss. And someone,” he swallows, nods, “has to fall behind, and write them.”

Her eyes burn but she doesn’t speak. She just sits on the armchair.

Jaskier raises his eyebrows. “For dinner, then?”

Maybe, now, it makes sense. Maybe his way of fighting is standing back. Slowly, warmth now in her chest, she looks up at him and nods. “For dinner. But first,” a smile curves her lips, “I’d love it if you could teach me a song.”

[tigerlyla-of-metinna]

Those who are so obsessed with fiction turned games that they start dictating how others should steer a fictional characters’ life into the conclusion they play themselves needs to stick their pointy noses in a blender if not their own business.

I’m talking about The Witcher 3 Wild Hunt and that fictional character is Ciri. Seriously, Tumblr Karens, we love putting Ciri on the throne of Nilfgaard- repeatedly I might add-  and this is a conscious, thought out decision: not by accident. 

Calling us names and insulting our sanity/ intelligence just because we choose to end our game with Ciri on the throne will not convince us to choose the ending you want. In fact, it will cement our resolve further to make her Empress in the game, write fiction about her struggles with politics and her drama with her father. 

 It is a work of fiction turned game where we have individual control over what happens to the fictional world and it’s fictional characters. And we are happy with how we end the game.

So, to those who still insists that Ciri should ONLY end up as a witcher, Ciri should be “free” and keep her away from Nilfgaard, and Emhyr in particular, and even went as far as dictating how our HEAD CANON should go: do us a favor and book a therapy session, if not the asylum. 

If Tumblr Karens are mad that Ciri is an Empress in OUR game, OUR head canon and OUR fanfiction, then make Ciri a Witcheress in YOUR game, “free” her or whatever in YOUR Head Canon, and YOUR fanfiction.

Now, I’m checking back into reality and work to pay my bills. Then later relax with some Elden Ring, de-stress with taking Ciri to meet the emperor, and editing a screenshot of my favorite ship of Ciri and Morvran in a sweet SWEET embrace.

[malesurpremacy]

Ive been replaying The Witcher 3 due to having a cold and I can't help, but feel excited every time Avallac'h is seen or mentioned. Which saddens me because he's my favorite character and is not in the game much, nor do I feel that his storyline/character is really complete. Because let's face it, it isn't.

I've heard several people say that his character is not the same as the one that's in the book, and I have to agree, but not entirely in the same way. 

Because there is obvious character development that CDPR decided to say "fuck it" to in order to finish up the game. The Witcher 3 is my favorite game of all time, but I feel that the ending of it is a bit rushed to me (not even gonna talk about how easy Eredin is).  I'm extremely annoyed that they didn't put more thought into explaining Avallac'h's character, his intentions, Ciri's reason for trusting him so much and his relationship with her. 

The whole deal with his laboratory opens a door to this, but we don't actually get to see what's inside. We don't get any closure, no dialogue between the witcheress and the elf about it. Geralt confronts him about it, true, but Avallac'h being Avallac'h decides to tip toe around the subject, not revealing his true feelings. And in a way, that actually stays true to his character. He's secretive and doesn't like to discuss with others the way he feels. However, that's all we get. It leads us nowhere. We can only assume in the end

The only thing the she elf says when asked what Avallac'h actually thought about Ciri is that she looks like Lara. Out of all the things she could say, why would she settle for that? You'd think him "hating" her would make him spew more distasteful and derogatory things about her, but no. Maybe it's because Avallac'h didn't actually hate Ciri nor see her as a burden. It was just the she elf being jealous and the game literally hints to this.  

If it's one thing the Witcher universe teaches us, it's that nothing is ever black and white, especially when it comes to its characters. Avallac'h is one such individual that is neither, but merely grey. He has his own motives, sure, he made terrible mistakes in the past, but he's not entirely a bad person. He helps out our protagonists and does what he thinks is right, no matter the cost. So Ciri must have seen something in him during those 6 months despite his wrong doings against her. She said he never let her down after all. The way she praises him, talks about him and the way she is happy when Geralt reveals to her that the curse he was under was lifted only alludes to this. 

I mean, they could have become friends over the course of their travels. That would make the most sense. But to me, I just can't see it that way because there's too much history there. The fact Avallac'h loved her ancestor, sees Lara in her, just sets up something more complicated, but deep, dark and forbidden between the two.  

Compared to other characters in The Witcher universe, Avallac'h isn't really popular and is actually hated by a lot due to his past transgressions and his arrogant attitude towards humans. But I wouldn't have minded getting more insight on his and Ciri's story. 

I doubt we'll ever get anything else on the characters, or ever see Avallac'h again that isn't in the Netflix show, which I wouldnt be surprised if they fuck up (if he even appears there) so this is basically me rambling hopelessly. 

[iris-sistibly]

Jaskier

He strummed the strings of his lute, and it created a lovely melody, he was sitting on the floor, Ciri in front of him, her chubby arms wrapped around her stuffed wolf that Vesemir spent a couple of days making. Teary, emerald eyes looked at him intently as she chewed on the ear of her stuffed toy.

Jaskier smiled at her and Ciri mumbled gibberish but cried no more, the bard continued playing. As he hit every note, a memory from not so long ago resurfaced, that fateful night when he first held her in his arms, when he sang to soothe her weariness in the midst of chaos. That tune he wrote as a boy, it was about his endless wondering about how magical the world must be.

His innocent thoughts before growing up and seeing the reality of it all. Now he was singing her song, inspired by her and the moments they shared, it was special because the bond they formed was one of a kind.

He remembered every detail, he was so terrified, he was scared of holding someone so small and fragile, yet so beautiful and perfect.

The bard started singing,

The world is cold and dark

Sullen and full of uncertainties,

There was no good until you came

With all your light, beauty and warmth

You are here, you are real...

And you are everything this world is not.

The journey to Kaer Morhen was a long and tough one, Jaskier remembered those days when Geralt had to fight off basically anyone who tried to lay a hand on them, the bard would always find a place to hide, to run. He held her close, and she clung to him as if her whole life depended on it. She needed him, he wasn't sure why, he is a bard and he plays music. He doesn't fight like Geralt, couldn't protect her the way her father does, so what does Ciri need him for?

I never had someone in my life who's so sweet and pure,

Perhaps I've done something good

Because I was blessed, and it was you

You are my life, the air I breathe, the fire in my heart and the strength I never had

There is still goodness in this world after all

Because you are here...

Those stormy winters Jaskier recalled vividly, during their first few days at Kaer Morhen. When they all sat by the fireplace for warmth, he made shadow animals using his hands and imitated their sounds. Ciri's giggles echoed through the Keep, the witchers' hearts melted for sure, but her laughter was music to Jaskier's ears, and he wouldn't trade it for anything else. He made a silent vow to himself that no matter what happens, her happiness is paramount.

My sweet, I promise you

To always make you smile,

To shield you from pain for as long as I could

To give you everything I could give

Because you are worthy

Because you are worth it...

He loves her so much, that was the only thing he was certain. She made him feel what it's like to be important to someone, he learned to value every moment even the simplest ones, to make a home out of a gloomy Keep with a bunch of unusual people, and most of all, to love and be loved.

Love of my life, my most cherished treasure

I am grateful for you, and everything you do

You are the song I sing and will always sing for as long as I am breathing

And when I pass I will sing to you from the heavens, so you'll always remember...

This is my song for you, and only you

My darling, my love, my radiant sun.

When the song ended, Ciri let go of her toy and crawled towards him, her eyes stared in awe of his lute, tiny hands attempted to strum the strings.

"You want to learn how to play too?"

"Da-da-da..." she kept on repeating while she "played" the lute.

Jaskier chuckled, he couldn't think of anything or anyone who's more adorable than Ciri.

"That sounds wonderful my sunshine," he nodded approvingly.

Jaskier made a mental note to save up and buy her own lute when she's older. Oh, he's so looking forward to write songs with her! A magical princess-witcheress-bard? Why not?

They were like that for awhile when Jaskier looked up and saw Geralt standing outside his room, leaning against the wooden doorframe. The bard intended to tell Ciri that her father has already returned from a three-day mission (he took a contract three towns away from the Keep thus his absence) but Geralt gestured to continue whatever they were doing. A small smile painted on the witcher's face, Jaskier grinned and turned his attention back to the princess.

Perhaps one day he could take Ciri out, with matching clothes and singing a cheerful melody to the nearby towns. Geralt probably won't approve especially of Jaskier's clothing choices, but he'll find ways.

Ciri's lullaby (by: Iris)

Synopsis: Ciri has been teething thus her crankiness. Geralt was on-the-job, the witchers were becoming stressed out of the baby's wailing. It was up to Jaskier to save the day.

*

After so many drafts, revisions and scrapping here and there, I finally finished Jaskier's POV. I came up with so many ideas but I couldn't finish it because it wasn't the kind of story that I wanted. Then last night, after deleting my last draft for the nth time, an idea popped into my mind and...voila!

By the way in case you're wondering, I got the whole vibe of the song's lyrics from these:

Track 1 || Track 2

Previous The Witcher fics:

Mine (Geralt's POV)

The baby, the idiots and one angry papa

[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.

[intricate-oeuvre]

On how to be deadly || Geralt of Rivia || part IX

Word count: 2.9k+

Summary: Axelia is Witcher experiment herself and has gone through same harsh Trials as Geralt, but she wasn’t so lucky with the outcome. Her vision didn’t become better. Therefore, she was rendered blind in the end. And because of that, she solely uses her Witcher senses to make her ways. Only potions can give her false sense of sight for limited time.Somewhere along the way she meets the Rivian. Who’s interested to know how she’s been killing monsters and hasn’t been killed herself yet.

Warnings: BLOOD, that’s it, maybe angst

A/N: I have fucking awesome fighting scenes in my head, cant put them on paper tho, Imma visualiser not a writer xD

part I || part II || part III || part IV || part V || part VI || part VII || part VIII || part IX || part X || part XI || part XII || part XIII | Epilogue

“I—what?” Ciri looked at Axelia as witcheress stood up.

“You’re destiny.” Axelia mumbled again.

“Destiny? As in I can do... what?” Ciri got up as well, her uneasy glance sliding to Jaskier for a second.

“You could change whatever is happening between me and Geralt.” Axelia explained.

“You don’t know that yet.” Jaskier reminded her.

“Maybe she’s not the destiny that mage was talking about.” Jaskier continued.

“Mage? What?” Ciri was getting more and more confused. So, Jaskier took responsibility and explained to her what, all that Axelia had said, had meant. Meanwhile, Axelia was pacing back and forth. Jaskier’s eyes skipping to her occasionally, just to make sure that she-witcher doesn’t hyperventilate.

“You choose the love of your life, but you have no saying in choosing your soulmate.” Axelia murmured to herself, pointing to invisible things to rearrange thoughts in her head.

And it took some time to explain everything and answer all the questions that Ciri had asked.

“You need to go.” Axelia mumbled when it was starting to get dark.

“You’re staying here?” Ciri quirked eyebrow at her. Axelia only hummed. In a similar way that Geralt did, thus making Ciri look at Jaskier, who only sent her ‘see I told you’ look in return.

“You can come with us; I am sure that we can find you a place to stay.” Ciri continued.

“Thank you, but I’ll pass on that. I need some time alone. And besides I have job to do here.” Axelia said standing up and putting back on her forearm braces.

“Are you sure?” Jaskier asked as he picked up her cloak and putted it around her shoulders.

“You know that I can take on that monster.” Axelia said, sending appreciative look towards the bard for putting on her cloak.

“No, not the monster part. You know…” Jaskier trailed off.

“Oh. I’m… fine.” Axelia sighed.

“What kind of monster?” Ciri asked, waiting for Jaskier now, so they both could leave Axelia to her own devices.

“Ghouls. They say they are at the old crypts. Where all the war-heroes lay.” Axelia shrugged towards Ciri.

“You got everything you need to fight them?” Ciri asked, just to make sure.

“Got my silver sword.” Axelia nodded and tapped the hilt of it on her back. “Thank you for bring it back.”

“Of course. Silver is expensive these days.” Ciri shrugged and her eyes impatiently landed on the bard next to Axelia.

“Go. I don’t have all night to fight. I need to move.” Axelia turned back to Jaskier.

“Stay safe.” He mumbled quietly to her.

“You know I am witcher. Being safe is not my forte.” Axelia sent him a small smile.

“You just live for the danger.” He sighed and pulled her in for the last hug.

“I find thrill in it.” She corrected him, basking in his hug as she murmured into his chest.

“Will I see you again?” Jaskier whispered.

“Most likely, no.” Axelia hummed in his shirt, letting calm wash over her. She was done with this. Not sure if Ciri was the destiny that was needed to fix the slanted fates.

“Then I wish you wholly good luck.” Jaskier pulled away a little to look down at her.

“Thank you. For every little thing you have done to me and for me.” Axelia smiled softly at him.

“With pleasure.” Jaskier nodded at her, and pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

“Can you give this to Geralt?” Axelia turned to Ciri before she had time to leave.

“Yeah.” Ciri took hold of the black tulle blindfold that Axelia was extending towards her and tied the fabric around the hilt of her sword that was sitting snuggly on her back.

“He hates it.” Axelia smirked at her and then bid them farewell as she made har way deeper in the woods.

***

“So, she has been your soulmate all this time and you didn’t think of telling me?” Yennefer was standing with her hands crossed on her chest. Geralt was sitting and only slightly rolled his eyes at her comment but didn’t answer, feeling, rather, knowing, that she was about to continue.

“And you two have been having these run-ins occasionally?” She raised her eyebrow at him.

“You know I didn’t choose for that to happen.” Geralt defended.

“You have a tendency to not choose for things to happen to actually happen.” Yennefer grunted. Witcher was pretty sure she was making reference about Ciri.

“You have problem with Axelia?” Geralt asked with tilt of his head.

“Yes. After all that dragon hunt, we really don’t see eye to eye. And now she’s here. Saying that she has some claim over you. That does not really help me with handling things between us, Geralt.” Yennefer tried to reason.

“Claim? She hasn’t claimed anything. No one has.” Geralt explained, growing more irritated with Yen by the second.

“Don’t you love me?” Yennefer huffed turning away. Geralt wasn’t really looking for all this drama. His mind was still occupied with thoughts of the girl that was still somewhere in the woods.

“Yen…” Geralt hummed. “You know that—"

In that moment Ciri walked in with Jaskier.

“Did we interrupt something?” Jaskier asked, looking between Geralt and Yennefer.

“No.” Geralt answered.

“Yes.” Yennefer said at the same time. Geralt’s eyes slid to Yen, low-key challenging for her to shut up.

“Me or her. You choose.” Yennefer gave him ultimatum, with dissatisfied pout.

The silence took over the room.

Geralt was looking at Yennefer with disbelief written all over his features as his mouth fell open.

Jaskier gulped at her sentence, his eyes sliding to Ciri briefly, almost asking her if they shouldn’t leave the room to these two who were at each other’s throats. And Ciri had the same thought as Jaskier and with uncomfortable clear of her throat she rolled her shoulders, making the tulle around the hilt of her sword swing as if caught in a breeze. Movement catching Geralt’s attention. With furrowed eyebrows he looked at Ciri, waiting for the explanation.

“She told me to give this to you.” Ciri whispered quietly as she reached to untie it. Girl’s eyes momentarily flicking to Yennefer, gauging her reaction. Geralt took hold of it and turned it over in his hands. Axelia’s scent hit his nose. Her real scent and not the one he could smell coming from Jaskier. He didn’t want to dwell on the fact as to why the bard was drenched in her smell. Not the first time. Geralt knew that she trusted Jaskier, and so did Ciri. Except for Yennefer, she always had some enmity with Jaskier and vice versa.

“Well? I’m waiting.” Yennefer tapped her foot on the ground. Geralt stood up from where he was sitting and walked up to Ciri, tying the tulle back around the hilt of her sword.

“Where is she?” Geralt asked Jaskier.

“The old crypt.” Bard explained.

“And the monster?” Witcher’s eyes flickered back to Ciri.

“Ghouls.” Ciri explained looking at Geralt.

“No. Not any ghouls.” Geralt grunted and picked up his own sword from the table and secured it on his back.

“What do you mean?” Jaskier narrowed his eyes at him.

“Alghouls.” Geralt said grimly.

“And she only had silver sword with her.” Ciri stated, getting along the train of thought of the witcher.

“Fuck.” Geralt said displeased and sent a look at Yennefer over his shoulder before he went outside.

“Geralt, you didn’t answer!” sorceress called after him, making Geralt stop in his tracks.

“I think he made his choice.” Jaskier dared to answer for his friend.

“Hmm.” Witcher hummed deeply and went to get Roach and head for the crypts.

Yennefer was left there stunned.

“Jaskier.” She hissed at the bard.

“What? I think that was pretty obvious.” Bard answered.

Ciri looked at Yennefer, then her eyes slid at the back of her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the tulle around the hilt of the sword. Her mind drifted back to Axelia, or whatever she had met at the forest. Ciri had never met a female witcher, nor she ever thought that there was one. Geralt never really mentioned her. Yes, he had said that there was this fierce and loyal to the bone warrior that he had pleasure to meet and fight alongside, but he never told Ciri her name nor who she was. But Ciri had deciphered enough from his speeches to understand that this girl was important to him. He never really had talked about Yennefer in the same way. Of course, Yen was like mother to Ciri, but there was something oddly similar to Axelia and her.

Ciri had found herself a new loving family. She only hoped that Axelia could find love again.

“Ciri?” questioned Yennefer, wanting to hear whatever Ciri had to say about this ordeal.

 “Geralt didn’t choose Axelia as his soulmate, they were made to be like that. As for you and him, I—” Ciri was trying to find the words so that she wouldn’t offend Yennefer.

“You chose each other.” Jaskier stated. “Their meetings are unavoidable. And Geralt will go after her even if you say no, they will never stop finding each other as much as you would hate it, Yennefer. You may love him, and he may love you, but they are undividable. Geralt is hers, and Axelia will always be his.” Bard dared to tell the sorceress the truth.

Yennefer let out a deep, irritated sigh through her nose.

“We better go.” Ciri looked at Jaskier instead. She had no saying in this, whatever she would say would not change a thing. She already had done whatever that mage had told Axelia.

And Ciri hoped that she was that destiny that was needed to make the fates less slated.

Meanwhile Geralt was hoping that alghouls haven’t eaten Axelia alive.

***

Dread had settled deep in her gut, when Axelia had realized that they were not ghouls but to be more precise- alghouls. She had thought that she’ll need to fight off only couple of ghouls, but here she was slicing and dicing ghoul after ghoul as the bigger alghouls were slowly coming closer to her. The latter being more aggressive and more challenging than regular ghoul. With untrained eye one could not tell the difference between two, but Axelia knew enough.

She knew that alghouls had more wit than regular ghoul and then she decided to go after alghouls first. Maybe if she’s lucky, she’ll kill the leader of the pack and thus weaken it all. For whatever Axelia held holy she prayed that there were no cemetaurs.

And when all the smaller ghouls suddenly scattered wherever, Axelia knew that her prayers have been pointless.

“Shit!” she hissed, slicing another alghoul with her silver sword. How could she have been so dumb and not pack any white vinegar with her. Her hand run along her belt, in a search for a potion that could actually help her.

“Shit! Really?!” she hissed when she couldn’t find Black Blood potions nowhere on her belt. Had it fallen out while she was fighting Geralt? For fucks sake, now she was really doomed. With angry scream Axelia, planted her feet one in front of another and quickly made her way towards the cemetaur. Now all she had was her trusty silver sword, and a hope that this wasn’t her last fight.

With swooping motions, she raised the silver blade above her head and slashed down the side of cemetaur’s hand. Her movement seamlessly flowing in wide pirouette as she cut down three ghouls behind herself. With sure and certain steps, she rounded the cemetaur, while with slashing cuts killed ghouls and alghouls left and right. And whenever she had a clear chance at stabbing, wounding and gnashing at the monster, she took it. Couple of times stumbling because ghouls were grabbing her feet and trying to knock her down. Just to get on top of her and rip at her flesh.

Her figure seemed to get bloodier and bloodier by every cut she made. Be it her own blood that was running down from her busted lip and nose. Or be it from the monsters that she tried to cut down so desperately. But it seemed that they were taking over, and even might feast on the flesh of an unlucky witcher for a change. Axelia wasn’t afraid of death or dying. But she had wanted to live a little longer. Maybe clean up her own messes.

As she raised the sword to her side to strike the monster form below and up it’s middle, monster seemed to realize her movement and moved quicker. With it’s huge hand it struck Axelia in her jaw, making her stumble back and tip on a dead alghoul. Her silver sword flying somewhere to the side.

“Shit!” she screamed as necrophages leaped at her, to get the fresh meat first.

“Fuck no!” She yelled and elbowed one in it’s face, gaining a split second to roll on her stomach and crawl for her sword. But she was stopped by the sudden pain in her shin. Looking at her leg, he saw that alghoul had itself attached to her leg, trying to bite it off. With a grunt, she kicked it in its head with her other foot. Noticing all the creatures leaping closer like hungry wretched dogs, she pulled out her dagger and sliced three of the smaller ghouls, but since it was no silver, she got nothing from it, only gnash at her abdomen. Either they all pranced at her and eat her while she’s still alive or she’ll bleed out, faster than she’d like to admit.

This was it.

She was trying to rid herself of all the monsters, but as one fell, another came in it’s place. Not to mention the cemetaur that was still rounding her and waiting for the right moment to jump on her. Axelia saw it finally move towards her, she tried to reach for her silver sword again. As she felt it’s repulsive breath on the back of her neck, she suddenly was pulled back by her limbs from underneath the monster. She screamed again, not sure at first who was pulling at her legs. As she quickly sat up, dagger in her hand ready to strike, someone placed a glass potion bottle in her bloody hands.

“Drink.” Came Geralt’s deep voice as he raised his own silver sword and expertly sliced at the cemetaur. Axelia pulled out the cork with her teeth and emptied the content of the bottle. The taste hitting her tongue and back of her throat. She hissed at the bitterness. Black Blood potion. Next few hours her blood will be poisons to whoever dared to feast on it. Then her eyes and veins and blood vessels around them turned black. Her skin almost seemingly translucent because of it. Her body was fighting the high toxicity. At least this was a plan B, for a moment.

Her eyes scanned surroundings briefly and with painful grunt she pushed herself up. Stumbling and cutting at alghoul she made her way for her silver sword. For a second she couldn’t sense it. Had it fell in some old grave? Even in this spilt second of confusion, a monster had made it’s way behind her.

“Left!” Geralt called at her and she looked at him. Next second her own silver sword was hurling through air, and swiftly she ducked to her right, as the sword lodged itself in the head of the monster, right above her shoulder. Turning and pulling her sword out of the dead monster, Axelia continued to twirl and gnash at the monsters. And the only sounds in the otherwise peaceful night, was sounds of swords cutting flesh, monster screeches and roars, and the heavy grunts and breathes that Axelia and Geralt let out.

At some point with all the monsters trying to get meat of the living, Axelia and Geralt ended up almost fighting back to back. And as finally the count of ghouls and alghouls seemed to drop, the cemetaur turned more aggressive. Axelia seemed to have locked ger gaze on one alghoul, the last she was about to kill that night, adrenaline being the only thing keeping her upright. But as she was distracted by it, she didn’t notice that Geralt had killed last two ghouls somewhere in front of her or the fact that cemetaur had chosen her as it’s first meal.

“Axelia!” Geralt’s eyes grew big, as he run to her, slicing the head off of the alghoul she was trying to kill from it’s behind. Next second Geralt was impossibly close to her. His right hand with his silver sword going above her left shoulder and wedging it in cemetaur’s throat. His left hand pulling Axelia’s sword from her hand, and with quick, skilled hand movement, her sword ended up in his now empty right hand, as he lodged it in the stumbling monster’s scull. Cemetaur falling dead right behind Axelia.

Silence.

Nothing but the cold night and their heavy breathing.

Axelia stood there, her chest pressed against his, frozen. Not moving. Her mind racing to try and catch up with everything that just happened. Geralt took a step back from her, his own jet-black gaze trained on nothing in particular somewhere behind Axelia.

“You could be dead.” Geralt hissed at her. Insulting retort went over her head, she blinked but didn’t answer. Bruises and wounds finally making themselves know on her tired body.

“I think I’m gonna pass out…” Axelia mumbled, her stance wavering as her eyes seemed empty and her shoulders slumped down.

“Now?” Geralt asked, his eyes finally turning to her. Axelia didn’t answer, her eyes fluttered shut and she fell towards him. With displeased grunt he caught her effortlessly in his hands.

part I || part II || part III || part IV || part V || part VI || part VII || part VIII || part IX || part X || part XI || part XII || part XIII | Epilogue

~~~

tags:  @boiled-onionrings​​​​ @fandomwithnolifesblog​​​​ @901seconds​​​​ @kingniazx​​​​ @shesakillerkween @your-dreams-are-strong​​​​ @stitchattacks​​​​ @ayamenimthiriel​​​​ @stormfire6​​​​ @mr-illegal-king​​​​ @stretchkingblog97​​​​ @mikariell95​​​​ @geralt-of-motherfucking-rivia​​​​ @martian-m​​​ @republicansithlord​​​​ @notso-fetch​​​​ @lizliz3107​​​​ @godlydolans​​​​ @arsaky-lou​​​​ @eternallyvenus​​​​ @le-reina-asesina @alwayshave-faith​​​​ @writingmi​​​​ @staringmoony​​​​ @kenai731 @holychic​​​​ @dramaticturnaway​​​​ @ihopeyousteponarosepetal​​​​ @seouldesire​​​​ @runs-with-sciss0rs @yes-captainstark​​​​​ @fandomhell97​​​​​ @newtdisneywho​​​ @ekaymnslvs​​​ @deansbbysblog​​​ @hoppelessdreamer @dejewskoo​​​ @sleepy-bunnie​​​ @strangerliaa​​​ @puffedchoco

[brookesmartt]

Thoughts I have after completing Witcher 3:

Spoilers aplenty.

1: I have been shown how gulliable I am because I cried over BOTH Ciri fakeouts

2: are we just never going to reference that Crach died? No reaction for him? He just died to protect Ciri and we’re gonna say “yeah thanks”?

3: where the FUCK is Priscilla? Is she okay? Why is Dandelion just being his dumbass self at the chameleon?

4: maybe I shouldn’t have let the crones eat those children

5: hey the one crone that took Vesemir’s medallion? Where is she? We’re just gonna ignore that?

6: So Ciri is a witcher. Yay. Problem: I told Emhyr she died. And dandelion said that word spread about the white haired witcheress. I feel this going poorly.

7: Hey where the hell was Triss in that jarringly easy final battle?

8: Geralt and Yen living a boring life together away from politics. That’s it. That’s the point.

9: Empty Kaer Morhen makes me viscerally uncomfortable. It dropped me there after the epilogue and I wandered around for a good 5 minutes before realizing that no one was going to be there. Vesemir’s gone. Lambert fucked off with Keira. Eskel is on the path(?). Yeah no.

10: I don’t regret killing Radovid or Djikstra and I REALLY thought I would.

11: That bit of dialogue after Ciri visits Bea in Novigrad and Geralt goes “your friend,,,, she seems nice” like the dad he is. One of my favorite parts of the game. And it’s throwaway lines.

12: if Novigrad was killing Non-humans after the Mage Exodus, how the hell was Haori just. Fine. Just chillin in front of his shop making things. Out there in the open. I’m not complaining, but. How.

13: And the Sorceresses were never mentioned again. I didn’t see that coming. Neither did Philippa.

14: I think I should have killed the baron. Hope Anna’s doing well.

15: No seriously where is Triss

16: I cannot believe a snowball fight predicated my good ending. Thank god for snowball fights.

17: The wild hunt is bad at fighting. Between all 3 of the ‘bosses’, none of them landed a hit on me, and I find this distressing. The Witcher he slew DID teach me well.

18: So after the gate between worlds was closed by Ciri, did all of the monsters get sucked into the void? Did Geralt have to kill them all? Did we pay Skellige at all for the shit we saddled them with? We definitely destroyed part of their coastline.

19: Cerys has been queen for a week at most and all this shit is happening to her land. I’m sorry ma’am. Also her dad died. Hjalmar was also injured when I passed so. Who knows?

20: Glad Dudu is living his best life pretending to be the asshole I murdered.

21: so now that Nilfgaard took Novigrad and Oxenfurt from Redania, does that mean mages and non humans are cool again? We good?

22: I was scared I made a bad choice with Radovid but then I saw them book burning at Oxenfurt Academy and said NEVERMIND

23: the way I met Ciri in the Inn in White Orchard where I started with Vesemir. Full circle parental relationships folks. I got a little emotional 🤙🏻

24: there’s more but this is so long. I only broke the game by falling through the world once. Calling that a win.

[starwrittenfates]

Ciri beams with a smile at his praise of her getting it right. It just shows that while it may have seemed that she wasn't listening in her trainings from Geralt or Vesemir, she had in fact, been paying attention the whole time. The witcheress happily continues on, leading the way by following an assortment of feathers left behind in a trail.

She can't help but feel slightly bad for the griffin. It's nest had been attacked, so of course it tried to defend itself, but it only ended with more tragedy. When would others learn that things like this relied on the help of a witcher?

Hearing the sounds of loud screeching, Ciri pulls the sword off her back, getting ready for a fight as they come across the destroyed nest, spotting the griffin. She had to remember to treat this like a contract. "Found the griffin."

Every witcher that there ever was and ever will be, needed to be able to walk on their own, and while the training wheels, are not quite removed, he was going to ensure that she was more than able to walk the path, soon going forward on her own. They are a dying breed, soon within the turning years, their kind will be nothing more than a myth, nothing more than a legend, a story to be told to children who will never even believe it had all been the truth, but until then - they had work to do.

For this, he lingered close to her, arms folded over his chest, a relaxed look and stance, but that was far from the case, his eyes were watching her, and everything around her, listening as well, taking in scents, and knowing that they are alone and safe, from anyone and anything that might believe them to be an easy target or meal.

“Very good –” A small nod from him as he walked forward to join her at her side, she got it right, process of elimination. “They are not known for these types of things.” Random and pointless killings, a slaughter had happened here. “A mother …” As he lifted the feather and turned it between his fingers and stood back up. “Nest might not be in the best condition, seems angry, hurt, upset as well, this was personal.” These people here, had been slaughtered, no doubt, trying to deal with the griffin themselves, in their own ways - not a good idea.

“Lead on, witcher.” 

[witcher-not-quitter]

All You Need Is Fluff: Part 2

Heya folks!! I thought to post that my fic, All You Need is Fluff, is getting a part 2!!! It is in the works and with hope, it will be up by the end of the week!

Here I like to share just small part of the beginning to give you guys a taste. Enjoy!!

Days have passed since the late evening in that cemetery with those ‘too darn cute bats,’ and life went back to lazy quiet times for the White Wolf. The large amount of idle times gave the witcher quite a bit of moments to reflect on life. It is not like Geralt is complaining about how things are, but he cannot help but feel a bit empty. Or is there another word?

Ciri had long returned to the Path, marking her way in the world as the ashen haired witcheress. After all, the world still has a need for witchers and she, herself, is young, eager, and very much talented in the trade. His daughter’s story is only just beginning and his own, well, is being spent on plucking grapes and corralling his workers' kids as they tend the fields. It always gives a tender squeeze in the Wolf’s chest that the children do not fear his cat eyes but instead insist on hanging off of his arms, riding his back, and placing flowers in his hair. Some even call him ‘uncle’. The thought of that gave Geralt a quiet snort........

[exactlyenoughglitter]

On the River Styx

‘There is no destiny,’ his own voice. ‘There is none. None. It does not exist. The only thing that everyone is destined for is death.’

 ...

 ‘How… How will it happen?’ he finally asked, cold and emotionless.

 ‘I’ll take you by the hand,’ she said, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘I’ll take you by the hand and lead you through the meadow. Into the cold, wet fog.’

 ‘And then? What is there, beyond the fog?’

 ‘Nothing,’ she smiled. ‘There is nothing more.’

- A. Sapkowski Sword of Destiny

She wakes to the chill of night, feverish with fear.

Mist cradles her soul, hobbling her limbs on the doorstep between this life and the other one. Frozen in the woods of her dreams, she hears a word – a dear and painful word, a word that used to mean something – hammering against the inside of her skull. However much she wishes though, she cannot utter it; a sudden and irresistible forgetfulness washes over her, scattering the beguiling images in a swipe of a careful hand across her mind. The mist swirls beautifully. It shapes itself into wild horses, unicorns, and apple blossoms blowing in the wind that is coming in from the sea. And the forest in which she had stood but a moment ago crumbles and morphs, delicately, like when salt is sprinkled onto freshly painted canvas. The touch coaxes her with a promise of a peaceful, dreamless sleep, and a part of her listens obediently. She must heal, eventually.

Yet, the pain used to mean something. It had had her entire world wrapped up in it, and worlds did not end at the sound of her footsteps – they embraced her. She can feel the unease in her blood: there are things she can never forget, wounds she reopens just to feel cradled by their significance again. Thus, Ciri clings to the remnants of this feeling through fear, which runs potent and hot under her skin, for she does not want to forget. The painterly touch against her mind halts at these thoughts, second-guessing its course for the briefest of moments, and Ciri hears a woman crying out with a voice that is her own, though not.

She jerks upright.

The air is damp and smells of pine resin. She breathes it in, shifting uncomfortably against the shirt that sticks to skin now that she has stopped undressing for sleep entirely; too inconvenient. The smouldering tension in her limbs does not disappear at these ‘comforting’ signs of the mundane, however, since the sight of pale, blue eyes above her is anything but ordinary and comforting. Wary, frowning. Ciri realises with some alarm that her skin still tingles with his magic – as if she had just stepped in from the cold.

She does not wait for him to speak or explain but flings herself off her cot and clears out of the low chamber of the barn dwelling. Somewhere on her way out, she hits herself against a broken damper, forgets her boots, and forgets her sword and cloak even – forgets everything but the vestiges of swirling mist inside of which she has lost her dream. Stranded like this, she clings to the other sensations in her body – the gnawing anxiety, the fast evaporating adrenaline, the unexplainable dread – and hardly notices the cold rain hitting her sleep-warm shoulders, or the shadow that follows her outdoors.

Someone waits for me in the woods, she thinks as she stares into the dark treeline where the wind growls in the treetops, breaking branches, and plays a second fiddle to the pounding of her heart. She had sought someone; or somebody had wanted to find her, perhaps? Remembering hurts. It brings back terrible, disorientating memories of her first flight across time and space. But the people she had wanted to get to then are both gone now; Ciri herself had given them away.

She is alone, and no one is waiting for her.

  ‘Do you know what it was that I saw?’ she asks over the patter of rain. ‘Can you see what I see in my dreams?’

He does not answer, nor does he have to. Nightmares had always been a staple of her existence. Yet these ones – ones that had started frequenting her after she had believed she could start her life anew – had stopped as suddenly as they had started. When he appeared.

The fine fabric of his clothes remains dry and undamaged even in pouring rain, even after she has hit him square across the chest. She does not look at him, does not care to see the reproach and odium in that inhumanely calm face. She focuses solely on what he deserves, what they all deserve. Ciri knows this emotion intimately; it cleanses and purifies. It grounds her in the face of the unknown. She knows even more than that. For instance, she is aware that her explosive anger comprises so much of what the elf cannot stand in her. And yet, as he stands before her, tall and unflinching like a statue of granite, with eyes that express pity – she should not have looked, why can she not stop looking –, he too is being the epitome of what she detests about him. So she hits him again. Let him get angry! And again, and focuses on the certainty of her rage, which nevertheless does not manage to overshadow the anxiety that blazes on in her heart.

  Deflecting her gracefully and finally catching her hands in his, the sorcerer looks at the witcheress for a long time in the grey hour before dawn. And she knows by his telling silence and extraordinary composure that she is right about him. He knows about what I see and has known all along.

‘They terrify you,’ he starts calmly, holding her fists together between them. ‘You do not know your way through them, and that is how we found our way to you.’

She jerks away from him at the reminder of her weakness, and though his grip feels like iron at first, he yields quickly to her.

‘But it will not happen again; not as long as I am with you,’ he continues softly. ‘Still, I would rather you did not frighten yourself while we remain on the Spiral and vulnerable.’

‘You frighten me!’ she hisses through clenched teeth, satisfied when he flinches. ‘I do not remember asking you to do this! Hell, I would not have even known if… I do not want you inside my head!’

He makes no effort to argue with her, observing her silently, expectantly. Looking at the withered shrubs near the wall of the dwelling, she wonders if there should not be snow instead. Snow white and wild crimson. Somehow she simply cannot shake the feeling that she may have lost something important tonight. She shakes her head.

‘If it is as you say and these are visions, then I – I need to know.’ He closes his eyes briefly, mercifully. ‘I have every right! I do not care if it is Eredin, I just – dreams do not have to be true. But they can be…’

‘Zireael…’

‘I know that this one was different!’ she does not let him interrupt her. There’s a pressure building in her temples.

‘Whatever you did, it did not work. I can still feel it,’ the forest, tall and dark, pulls at her. ‘Don’t tell me I do not know what I’m saying, because I do. And you do. You have to understand me, I only want him to hear me before –’

And just like that, the bone-deep chill of her rain-soaked clothes, the tiredness of her injured body, and the overwhelming guilt and regret rush in and douse the fire of fear that has so far kept her burning. Her shoulders sag a little, muscles relaxing as the shadow passes and the torrent of recognition slips through the dissolving mist with merciless knowledge. The air pricks with petrichor.

Suddenly empty and freezing, she leans against him, and he lets her as the lakes of her eyes glaze over with tears like spring ice.

There is a path in the frozen alder woods, branching and bare, and it leads out into an open meadow – into white, wet fog.  It’s the path she had taken to get somewhere. And at the end of this road, branching and bare, stands a lonely figure of a man. Alone. Afraid? Or is that only me? Earth crunches under her boots. She wants to run to him to reassure him, to reassure herself. But her linen dress tears under the jealous grasp of rose hips and the white and frozen ground underneath the bushes turns crimson with squashed fruit.

When she glances up again, she sees a fair haired woman, barefoot and in a pale linen dress, reaching out her hand to the man and waiting. Waiting at the edge of a black forest which has no end to lead the man through the meadow, through the fog that is wet and white. It smells of the sea around them; she does not smell it, she just knows. And as he is earnestly considering the pale hand offered to him, dread grips Ciri’s heart and she calls out, ignoring the frost that nips at her bare heels. She has become wholly what she sees. So, in that very instant, Ciri has become the fear before the eternity, before the nothing that lies beyond the fog. And the man that is so dear to her heart does not hear her. But the woman turns her head; her eyes are pale and blue.

You can save him, Child of the Elder Blood. Before he plunges into the nothingness which he has come to love. Into the black forest which has no end.

Father! Do not go, father! Don’t leave me…

But he does not hear her. He does not come for her. He is leaving her in the mist where the crooked soul of the alder forest will eat into her spirit – forever. And all of a sudden Ciri becomes unsure as to who it is that she sees in the enchanted mist, at the end of the road that she chose. So she turns around, a garland of daisies falling from her brow, and runs.

‘I took them both,’ she mutters absentmindedly. ‘I took them both so they would never be apart, never alone again. I wanted them to remain together even if I could not go with them, because no one – no one should be alone when –’

Her voice breaks in an ugly, painful manner that she has no will left to subdue. While the rain is letting up over the small, abandoned dwelling at the end of an overgrown path that winds through the woods, bitter tears continue to water her face.

And how they can choke her. ‘I bring death.’

She senses him denying it over the light buzzing in her ears, but for a long while all else around Ciri falls away. The pain is too acute and makes her limbs freeze as her heart trembles in the whirling pool of guilt and regret. Father – I never called him thus, and yet… it could not have been anyone else. It is worse than any of her nightmares about future peril because the things she has dreamt about tonight have already happened. In Rivia, in a story she once lived. And she knows that nothing and nobody can change what happened in that story. So, an unappeasable longing devours her – longing for something she had always yearned for and imagined to have had possessed in various places and times, though she had never really gotten to experience it with those who had been bound to her by destiny. And what good was a destiny like that?

‘We awake from the dreams we have been dreaming for too long, screaming, because we mistake the hope in them for our just and fair due.’

She hears the elf’s deep voice against her ear and his closeness startles her. It makes her absurdly self-conscious in the middle of grief, yet it comes as a welcome distraction too. How unallowably pathetic she must look, she thinks as she hesitantly tries to put some distance between them again. Her skin tingles with the same warmth as before – as if she had just stepped in from the cold.

He does not appear bothered, but his eyes, pale and blue and ordinarily so indecipherable, seem sad to her now that he looks at her. ‘Destiny rarely concerns itself with fairness, O Swallow.’

Ciri does not know how to respond to that. So she doesn’t.

-

He is sitting on the shore of a lake.

Under weeping willows and wispy alders he weaves his spell and waits. In the middle of the lake, clear and mirror-like, lies a small, green island. For a keen-eyed observer, serene light would always reflect off the apple trees in full bloom there regardless of the weather and the translucent mist that hung forever over the lake’s crystalline waters. Once you crossed the lake water, the fruit would already be ripe for picking. It was truly a singular place in many times, which did not mean it was not many different places in a single time. And as it turns out, this one was exactly the one he needed today.

The trick was not in getting across, for that was only natural. Rather, it was in finding a reason to depart because that was thoroughly against nature to everyone who had found their way onto the island of apple trees. He knew it only too well. He did not even mind that the island was being associated with him anymore. Stories were always a little bit more fantastic than reality, and that was very good indeed, because reality was stranger than fiction and not easy or satisfying to recall and talk about. After all, one’s actual person mattered very little in the grand fabric of myth and meaning.

Immutable and untouchable, it was a plane of healing and waiting, and many stayed in the gardens for a long time, while others passed on despite the sweet smells of the orchard. However, once they had decided to venture forth, they would never again meet with those they had once known in life. So on the steps of the gate that had stood open since time immemorial, many continued to exist in dream-like days that were regularly dreamt by all life. Yet, prosaically enough, this too was but another time and another place; and he had come to know it for what it was, though it had taken a part of him in exchange for the knowledge. At the end of the day Crevan knew the way, for he knew truly many astonishing things, even for an elf, but at the twilight of his own days, no one would wait for him on the island of apple trees, on the Malus Island, Ynys Afallach.

I left you.

I did not do what I should have done back then, and now everything hangs by a thread. I should have taken you with me. By force, I should have taken you back home, dragged you behind me, kicking and screaming, if necessary. I should have killed that dh’oine, and I will never forgive myself for not having managed to. And had you hated me for the rest of eternity it would have mattered very little, for you would have lived. In time, you would have forgotten your hatred of me, just as you would have forgotten him. Life, after all, contains many a maddening multitude, and nothing and no one could ever hold your affection and attention for long. But I did not do everything in my power to bring you back home again.

I left you to your fate.

For a moment his voice quivers, as he chants under his breath and rolls a little green stone in various configurations in-between his long fingers. He knows that when his eyes catch the likeness of his beloved in the enchanted mist, that when he senses the presence of death, that it is truly naught but his own tired imagination and not the daughter of Shiadhal. For Lara had left these shores for Avalon long ago; happily or unhappily, he does not know. She had, ultimately, always done as she had wished… and what had he done?

He finishes the spell, letting the stone fall on the palm of his hand and looks at it. Its jade-coloured surface curls around itself in the shape of a tree-leaf trefoil knot. A bond of destiny was a simple and elegant thing; a dream that had to be dreamed – and he dreamt of destiny often, and accurately. Why, they say he never makes mistakes. Well, stories are always a little bit more fantastic than reality. And his reality, for the longest time, has been strange enough to make him scream.

The thought that ‘something more’ could have called for Lara, that something could have been more important than her people, than all of them, … than him; and that this unfathomable something could have been correct in taking her away from him – the notion does not fit inside his head. It never will; by which he means that he can comprehend it, naturally, but he cannot submit to it - not unconditionally, and not in his heart. And to have that arrogant, foolish, beautiful, green-eyed monster repeat the insult then, as if in her uncompromising desperation to get back to the witcher and the sorceress, to her friends – fated to die – was hidden the deep wisdom of the ages –

It is growing cold under the weeping willows and alders by the lake which is now filling with fog, thick and white as milk. Crevan had, once, mistaken destiny for a dream – something to be followed, rather than lived. Although he thinks it an unfair interpretation, all things remaining equal, he is willing to accept it now that everything is hanging by a thread. It certainly had never stopped haunting him since, and he pays attention to his haunts more than most.

‘Did you bring the creature?’ he asks with interest, his voice betraying nothing once more.

‘No,’ the Hawk replies. ‘It slipped away from us in the Alnitak system.’

‘That’s a pity.’ He would have been very interested in what the young unicorn could have shown them about the Swallow.

‘I agree. Correct me if I am wrong, but that should not change anything for you, should it now?’

‘Not at all.’

They look at each other, the General and the Knowing One. For the moment, everything between them remains as it has been for centuries: balanced and by the book, with each enabling the other to the best of their ability in an alliance and friendship that sets the interests of their people above everything else. Both can claim to know the other’s modus operandi appropriately well, yet neither can deny that the scale underneath them has conclusively shattered with Muircetach’s passing. It is as if both have awoken from quiescence in their own right, though neither thinks the other quite realises the depth of it. And so, for the moment, everything remains as it has been for centuries.

‘I must admit, the thought of this expedition makes me uneasy if only because I do not condone disturbing the dead.’

Avallac’h snorted.

‘Yet there is nothing,’ the king of the Hunt continues, unperturbed, ‘that I would not do for this unfortunate girl, Dana forgive me. For it is clear to one and all that time for decisive action is well overdue.’ Even now, he wears an understated onyx circlet set with rubies on his brow and his eyes, sharp and attentive, are lacking all hesitancy; a huntsman who, for a long time now, has fancied himself a ruler. And will get his wish.

‘She will come,’ he says with indifference, stepping down to the lake. ‘Everything has been foreseen.’

An unpleasant smile twists Eredin’s striking features. ‘Of course it has.’

‘You’ll see,’ he brushes off his disbelief easily for he is feeling delightfully expectant all of a sudden, lighter and nimbler than he has felt in a while. ‘You will have no trouble recognising or finding the vatt’ghern; this is the correct time and place. One that belongs to the ones on the island. Follow the light, as I told you. Oh, and do not eat from the apple trees.’

‘Why would I… eat from the apple trees?’

‘Because the forbidden fruit is sweet and you deny yourself very little?’ he shrugs and takes the jade trefoil knot in hand, letting the primal force that permeates the waters that separate the planes of the living and the dead tie itself together with the spell he has wrought. ‘Now watch, if you please.’

And without further ado, he throws the stone flatly across the crystal clear waters, right into the milk white fog. In an instant, the faint sunlight that for keen eyes always reflects off the blooming apple trees scatters into tiny threads in a flash of dark light and then reformulates into an intricate webbing that encompasses everything, the elves included, tying them together. No sound ever comes from the fog, only a faint light begins to shine in the distance where the little stone has disappeared to.

He had, once, mistaken destiny for a dream – something to be followed, rather than lived.

Now and always he thinks of timeless, emerald eyes in which one can trace the threads that hold together galaxies, and thinks: very well, my dear; we will do it your way and see. Under the weeping willows and wispy alders, the Knowing One steps onto the surface of the lake in the middle of which lies a small green island and walks on the waters of Avalon. In a few moments, the Hunt overtakes the Fox in their billowing crimson capes on the bridge that he has wrought through the mists of time.

In another time and place, an ashen-haired woman stirs with a nauseating sense of premonition, fending off a night terror. And eerie lights flicker faintly over the azure lake she can see from the window of her chambers in Camelot.

[designatedloveinterest]

"Dandelion! Play The Flight of the She-Trolls!"

Ciri lay her sword on the floor of the Chameleon and grabbed a broom from the bar to cross it. Setting one arm on her waist and the other above her head, she awaited the first delicate notes to begin dancing, feet flying in the traditional elven style, the bard’s fingers first plodding, then trotting, then galloping across the doubled strings as Ciri’s feet perilously negotiated the space between sword and broom. The song came to a pounding crescendo with theatre patrons clapping in time, yelling even ruder versions of the lyrics and throwing flowers and coins at the blonde witcheress.

Finally the obscene tune came to an end with a drawn-out flutter and Ciri stepped out of the crossed "swords", taking a well-earned Rivian kriek and shouting "You next, Viscount de Lettenhove!" - for she was never, ever going to let that unexpected ancestry go unremarked.

Amazingly, the Viscount did something she had never seen in her life - he blushed, and expressed reluctance to take the stage. "I am a man of many talents," (that was more like it), "of song and poem and treatise, but even such a man as I would blanch at following such a performance."

"We’re here to have fun, Dandelion! Take a jar and dance! The Lady of Time and Space demands it!" The crowd roared its approval and the barmaid handed Dandelion a tall drink of something powerful. Ciri held out her hands and after hesitating only a half-second, the bard handed her his pride and joy.

(His lute, damn your eyes - sometimes an instrument is just an instrument!)

Ciri’s own musical talent was firmly limited, so she yelled for a trobairitz to strike up a sea shanty and encouraged the crowd to clap in time. The result was quite unexpected.

"What the fuck d'ye call that, Dandelion?" shouted Zoltan, thoroughly surrounded by supportive groans. "Ye look like nowt so much as a donkey trapped in a tiny wee hammock."

"In the words of the elven sages, Zoltan, go plough yourself," sniffed Dandelion, grabbing the trobairitz in his free hand and swirling her around in a careless approximation of a tarantella.

(written for giantsquidastern)