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kumeko · 5 months ago

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A/N: For the @witcher-fanzine! I feel like I write a lot of ensemble fics. Probably cause I don’t write enough for different fandoms, so there’s a lot I want to dig into, and then every fic becomes “dig into everyone and everything” XD I need to work on that. I really wanted this to focus on Ciri and the other Witchers (her bastard uncles (affectionate)) but it ended up being an everyone fic again XD

…

Ciri’s world was one of structure and order. How could it not be, with stern Queen Calanthe in charge? Daily lessons, meal plans, even free time was all strictly kept on a schedule only her grandmother knew. Discipline was how she kept her kingdom strong and discipline was how she raised the sole heir to the crown.

Which was why Ciri preferred her grandfather. Eist was a carefree vagabond, always drifting in and destroying Calanthe’s plans. With a roguish smile, he teased Calanthe as he broke her rules, giving Ciri freedom whenever she felt too restricted. He was her favourite playmate and she couldn’t remember ever seeing a frown on his face.

Her life was one of order but today broke the mold. Generals crowded around the large table in Calanthe’s study, carefully moving tiny figurines over sprawling maps. Calanthe scowled as she knocked down a ship, speaking in a hushed whisper that Ciri just couldn’t make out. Whatever she said wasn’t good; the mood in the room grew even grimmer, and Ciri inched her way forward, fascinated.

There had never been a problem her grandmother couldn’t solve. Something big was happening.

“Don’t worry,” Eist whispered, his head bowed to her ear as his warm hand squeezed Ciri’s shoulder. As usual, he appeared out of nowhere. There were times when she had thought he was a magician, his footsteps were so soft. “We’ll take care of it.”

“I’m not,” Ciri replied truthfully, unable to tear her eyes from the sight in front of her. Calanthe was a lioness, nothing could escape her claws. If Eist the lazy house cat wasn’t taking part, then the situation wasn’t all that bad.

“Confident little rascal.” Eist chuckled as he ruffled her hair. “What did Calanthe teach you?”

Ciri rolled her eyes before dutifully repeating, “It’s impossible to be prepared for war.” She snorted. “Calanthe’s always prepared for everything.”

“Not everything, not always.” Eist replied lightly, the mirth gone from his voice. “And she’s right.” He knelt down beside Ciri and she shivered as she realized his smile was gone. He looked older, worn, and she resisted the urge to step back and run. “Now, it’s my turn to tell you something.”

“What?” she asked, her mouth dry.

“Don’t tell your grandmother I told you this.” Eist smiled now but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Should something go wrong—”

She didn’t want to hear this. “Nothing will go wrong.”

“It shouldn’t. But, even though we can’t prepare for everything, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.” Eist gripped her forearms tightly. “Should something happen, there is one who will protect you.”

She couldn’t pull away from his grasp. Fear rose within her, then anger. Ciri snapped, “Who can protect me if you two can’t?”

Eist shook his head. “We all have different skills and in this, he can. He’s helped us before, he’ll help you now.”

None of this made sense. Who was this mysterious person, why was Eist so vague, why couldn’t Calanthe know? “Why?”

“That…” Eist’s expression grew pained, and his jaw tightened. “Hopefully you’ll never meet him.”

“Is he bad?”

“Nothing like that. Just…I hope you never meet him.”

“What was his name again?” Dara asked, rubbing his cold hands nervously as he scanned their surroundings. They were crouching in ditch in an open field, able to spot any enemy first, and yet he still jumped at every little sound. There was something mouse-like about his behaviour.

Not that Ciri could blame him. She was the same herself. Every shadow hid an enemy and this time she couldn’t mask her fear with anger. Licking her chapped lips, she buried her head in her knees. “Geralt. Of Rivia.”

“A witcher…” Dara muttered, his head snapping to the right as an owl flew by. He quietly released his breath. “I guess he’ll be helpful. And trustworthy.”

“Yes,” she agreed miserably.

“And your grandparents didn’t tell you anything else?” Dara asked before blowing on his hands.

Ciri flinched. The wound was still too raw, too fresh. Her grandparents were dead. Her kingdom destroyed. She was alone with no one but Dara to help. And this random stranger that she only had a name for. “Yes,” she mumbled, burying her face deeper.

“I’m not sure about witchers…” Dara trailed off. He chewed on his lip. “How do we even find him?”

We.

It was a simple word. A slip of the tongue, most likely. And yet, it was all Ciri could focus on.

We.

She reached down and gripped the edge of Dara’s coat. “I don’t know, but I think he’s looking for me too.”

Jaskier was a slight man. Despite all of his adventures with Geralt, despite all of the husbands he’d run away from, he was slim and lanky, more like a teenage boy than a warrior. He was handsome too, and he knew it. Even now, as he strummed his lute and sang, he kept flicking his hair and winking. The campfire’s flickering light only made his smile look brighter.

And Ciri couldn’t tear her eyes away as she sat across from him. Maybe it was the charm, maybe it was his silly nature, but everything about him reminded her of Eist. Well, maybe not everything—the way he argued with Geralt was borderline whining and her grandfather would never resort to that.

Still, the feel was the same, and if she closed her eyes, if she let the smoke cloud her senses, she could pretend she was home.

“You look just like him,” Jaskier said with a chuckle. His fingers plucked a high note slowly, making it tremble. He leaned back on the tree stump, as though to direct his music at the night sky above. “Are you sure you’re not his secret love child? Though he’s kinda a shit liar, so I guess ‘not-so-secret’?”

It was like he had voiced her thoughts. Forced out of her daydreams, Ciri stared at him blankly and gave an undignified, “Huh?”

“Your brow.” Jaskier pointed at his own before giving an exaggerated scowl. “You and Geralt are always so grumpy. Do you have your personal raincloud too? I think he just likes being angry all the time.”

“I’m not grumpy,” she snapped, sitting straighter and grinding her heel on the dirt. If Geralt weren’t patrolling their camp, if he could hear what Jaskier said…

“Right.” Jaskier rolled his eyes. He strummed another note. “That’s what all grumpy people say. Like Geralt.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he cut her off. “So, Princess Not-Grumpy, why were you staring so hard? I know I’m tragically charming.”

And it was times like these that she understood why Calanthe would glare at Eist with a look that could shrivel a plant. Scathingly, she bit out, “You’re tragic, alright. And I’m not a princess.”

Jaskier pouted. “You’re just as cruel as he is.”

And that had been something she had wanted to ask for ages. Not missing her opportunity, she struck. “Is he?”

“Huh?” Now it was his turn to be slack-jawed, caught off-guard at the unexpected response.

Ciri had travelled a long way before she had stumbled into Geralt. A long way, chased by rumours and enemies alike. She gripped her thighs tightly, screwing up her courage. One way or another, she had to find out just what sort of man her grandparents had sent her to. And if it was worth it to save herself at the expense of his misdeeds.

“IS he cruel?” Ciri asked bluntly, squaring her shoulders and tightening her jaw. Calanthe had always looked her opponents in the eye and she did so now, not giving an inch as she asked. “Is he a butcher? Is he hurtful? Mean? Grumpy?”

“Uh…” Jaskier scratched his chin and set the lute on his lap. “Well, I’m not sure about the butcher part—he won’t say anything about it, but he’s always been tight-lipped like that. I think it’s a misunderstanding. But everything else? A hundred percent true.” He leaned forward. It was like a dam had been opened and he was unleashing everything. “The man left me heartbroken on a mountain. Though I did get a killer song out of it…”

Unable to help himself, Jaskier started to strum the tune of Burn on his lyre, the music slightly muffled by how he was still leaning forward over the instrument.

“The jerk’s impulsive,” Jaskier continued. Ciri started to fear she might have fallen into a trap. “And he’s rude. And he acts like a toddler with a tantrum! I don’t know how Yennefer put up with it for so long; she’s a bitch but a classy one, I don’t know how they got together. We both have terrible taste.”

“Oh.” None of this was inspiring. With each word, Ciri felt her heart drop further and further. Geralt was a fighter, of that she had no doubt. And it’s not like she needed a knight. But there was no way someone like that would help with her revenge. It had been hard enough to get him to teach her self-defence.

And the worst part was that this wasn’t over. Jaskier continued to rattle off eagerly. “He doesn’t listen, not even a little. And he’s so rude about it! Did I tell you about the time he almost killed me?”

“Oh,” Ciri repeated, her shoulders drooping.

“But…” Jaskier trailed off and surreptitiously scanned their surroundings. Satisfied they weren’t spied on, he leaned forward and cupped his mouth. Whispering, he added, “He’s not that bad.”

Ciri frowned. “You just said—”

Jaskier waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, he’s all of that, but…well, he makes up for it. You’ve seen it too, right?” He tapped his chin before his eyes brightened. “He’s like a porcupine! It’s hard to get past his quills but he’s rather soft inside.” At that, he scowled. “It’s extremely hard to get past his armour and he pokes you even then, but he’s soft.”

“Is he?” Ciri asked doubtfully.

“Burn wasn’t the only song I wrote,” Jaskier answered, grinning as he leaned back. “Here, listen to this one.”

There was something sweet about wiping the smirks off the witchers’ faces as she ran the gauntlet, dodging wooden bars and spikes, running up steps and jumping from platform to platform. At some point, their jeers had turned to cheers and their groans matched her own when she got a particularly bad hit.

The training was a different beast from Geralt’s—he always felt too cautious, as though he were afraid that he’d hurt her. These jerks didn’t care in the first place and that was why she now sat in the stronghold’s mess, bruised and bloody from the countless runs she had to make to actually beat the trial.

Everything hurt.

Ciri couldn’t stop grinning.

“Oh, she’s smirking is she?” Lambert goaded, plopping down next to her. With a dirty hand, he turned her chin towards him and studied her face. “We might make a witcher out of you yet.”

“Hey!” Ciri growled, swatting his hand and jerking her head away. Geralt seemed almost princely compared to his brothers-in-arms.

“Still a wildcat.” Lambert chuckled, leaning against the wooden table as he watched her. “You sure you were a princess?”

“That’s enough for today.” Coen sat down on her other side, penning her between the pair. He had a roll of cloth bandages and a wooden jar in his hands. “You didn’t wrap it properly.”

She glanced down at her left arm. He wasn’t wrong; Ciri hadn’t had to patch up more than a scratch before. The bandages were loose, just staying on by the grace of a few pins. “I tried.”

“Badly.” Roughly, he grabbed her arm, though his grip was gentle. “You need to learn this properly if you’re going to train with us.”

“You’re babying her,” Lambert scoffed. “We had to figure this out ourselves.”

“We also had each other to practice on,” Coen pointed out, keeping one hand under Ciri’s as he unwrapped her crude attempt at first aid.

“We also had real danger.” Lambert tapped his cheek. “Got some cuts on your face. I didn’t know princesses could get scarred.”

His words stung like ice. Ciri couldn’t understand him; one moment he was helping her, the next he was heckling her. Coen wasn’t as bad, though he didn’t try to step in to help either. She looked away. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t have a kingdom anymore.”

Coen’s hands slowed, though he didn’t show any other outward sign of sympathy. It hard been hard enough to understand Geralt; Ciri wasn’t sure she wanted to try with the rest of the witchers. Maybe Vesemir; he reminded her of an older Geralt, but definitely not these two.

“Spoken like a true witcher. We might fix you yet.” Lambert rapped the table, thoughtfully. “Make sure to use some ointment. It’ll get infected and you’ll never finish that run.”

Ciri heard footsteps and she looked up as Vesemir and Geralt passed. Vesemir raised a brow as he lightly kicked Lambert’s leg. “Don’t get too rough with her.”

“We’re not all softies like you,” Lambert retorted, rolling his eyes.

She was still looking up as Geralt reached down and lightly ruffled her hair. Bewildered, she blinked twice. “What was that for?”

As usual, he didn’t explain himself. Instead, he nodded approvingly. “Good run.”

There was something about Yennefer that Ciri just didn’t like. Maybe it was her haughty tone, her nose upturned whenever Jaskier so much as breathed in her direction. Or maybe her cocky smirk, her red lips sharp as a knife whenever she one-upped Geralt. Maybe it was something innate, something deep within Ciri’s bones that just made it impossible for her to like the older woman.

Or maybe it was just the fact that Yennefer had tried to kill her once. Ciri had enough blades pointed at her throat that she wasn’t too keen on ‘forgiveness’. Even if Triss had told her to consider trying it, back when Triss hadn’t looked at her like she was a monster in sheep’s skin.

Now that she thought about it, maybe she just hated witches in general.

Unfortunately, there was no one else who could teach her to tame the magic humming in her veins.

Just this cutthroat woman standing in front of her, her keen eyes missing nothing. Ciri wetted her lips as they stood in an abandoned room in Kaer Morhen, as far from the rowdy dining hall as possible. Not that it was that hard to find a moment of privacy; after her murder spree, most of the witchers’ avoided her.

It hurt more than she’d like to admit.

“You’re distracted,” Yennefer said, rapping Ciri’s wrists with a slender tree branch. “I thought you wanted to learn.”

Ciri gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to grab the branch and break it in half. Now wasn’t the time; she had to keep her hands and powers concentrated on the small seed in front of her. If she broke now, she’d have to start all over again, and it took hours to pour her energy into the tiny container.

Later, though, she’d shred that branch until it couldn’t even be used for wood chips.

“I’m. Trying,” Ciri forced out between clenched teeth.

“If you say so,” Yennefer replied doubtfully, her brow raised as she rapped Ciri’s wrists once more. “Higher.”

The witch could be making this all up, for all Ciri knew. Just outside, she heard quiet footsteps. Without looking, she knew Geralt had glanced inside before continuing on whatever patrol he had made up. When they’d first returned, he had been adamant to stay with her at all times, not trusting Yennefer for long learning sessions.

After a few weeks, he had relaxed just enough to leave occasionally. And now he popped by every now and then, discretely, as though just double checking. The doubt was all but gone.

How in the world he liked—trusted—Yennefer, Ciri couldn’t understand. Then again, Jaskier was also there and yet another Roach the horse so maybe Geralt just made poor life choices in general.

“I don’t know either,” Yennefer said thoughtfully, her eyes on the door, her lip pursed. “I would have killed him if it were the reverse. Actually, I have tried killing him.”

Ciri started, her hands dropping in surprise. She hadn’t meant to ask that aloud. In response, the seed exploded. “Shit.”

“Shit indeed.” Yennefer sat down on a discarded chair, lounging on it like it was a throne and she the queen. She ran a tired hand through her hair. “We’ll try again tomorrow, it’s too late to make another go at it.”

Ciri glared at the empty spot, the fragments too small for her to see. A glance at the window confirmed what Yennefer said; the sun was setting. Another attempt would have to wait till tomorrow. Wrinkling her nose in disappointment, she sat down on another chair. “He’s not like you. He’s better.”

Yennefer snorted. “You have more teeth than that.”

“I’m holding back,” Ciri mumbled. Another reason she didn’t like Yennefer: she felt like an open book in front of her. Was she that obvious? Curling her fingers on her lap, she squeezed her fists and looked up, staring Yennefer in the eyes. “Why did you save me?”

Yennefer stared at her. Recovering, she glibly replied, “That’s a heavy question.”

“I need to know the answers.”

“That—”

Ciri interrupted sharply, “And don’t give me some bullshit about the goodness in your heart. We both know you don’t have any.”

Yennefer stared at her, eyes wide in surprise. For a moment, Ciri felt proud for surprising the normally unflappable woman. Then Yennefer chuckled, low and dark. “That’s true.” She tapped her chin, considering Ciri. “It might have been better if I had killed you back then. Would have saved me a load of trouble. And…though I doubt he’ll ever realize it, saved him too.”

Ciri’s brow knitted. She wasn’t a burden. Between her training with Geralt, the other witchers, and the little magic she could use instinctively, she knew she wasn’t a burden. Yet, Yennefer’s words picked at a still healing scab.

Before she could bare her teeth and attack, Yennefer shrugged. “I suppose you reminded me of myself.”

Now it was her turn to be surprised. And then disgusted. Ciri wrinkled her nose. “Absolutely not.”

Once again, Yennefer chuckled. “Trust me, I don’t like it either.” She leaned forward, a long finger tapping on Ciri’s chest. “Alone. Struggling with our magic. Having to carve a name for ourselves…you have power in you. It just needs taming.” Yennefer pulled back. “I want to see how far you go.”

“You—”

They both fell silent as Geralt passed by, his footsteps a familiar sound.

Yennefer smirked as she whispered, “And someone would have been very heartbroken if I hadn’t stopped.”

It had been a long time since they’d needed a campfire. Ciri shivered as she rubbed her hands near the flames, hoping the fire would drive away the bone-deep chill. Winter in the mountains was colder than at home or even in the fields, and Ciri wondered if she’d ever reach a season where she stopped learning something new.

“When do we go back?” Ciri asked, peeking at Geralt as he skinned a rabbit. Tonight’s dinner was better than the vegetable stew they had for lunch. And all of it was worse than Kaer Morhen’s meals.

“Soon,” Geralt answered cryptically, as he always did. His knife didn’t miss a beat as he carefully pulled the undamaged pelt off the meat with a practiced ease.

“Oh.” Ciri sighed, the conversation dying again. They had come a long way since they’d first met, and yet he still needed a push to move.

“You miss it?” he asked, a rare question from him. His eyes met hers. “You look like you fit right in.”

“I do?” Though, she couldn’t deny she felt a pang of homesickness at the thought of Kae Morhen, a feeling she thought she’d never have again.

“Yeah. I don’t think I’ve seen Vesemir smile in ages.”

Ciri couldn’t help but smile.

And though she’d never admit it, she felt like she fit right in here, next to him, too.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #cirilla fiona elen riannon #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #eist tuirseach #dara the witcher #coen the witcher #lambert the witcher #fanfic #as messy as the series is to watch #some of the scenes just hit so good #if only it was consistent

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