Archive of Our Own ^beta

The road dragged on. Ciri was not used to riding for many hours a day and Roach carried double weight most of the time, since Geralt didn’t want to risk pushing his leg too much. Visenna might have stitched the torn tissues, the fever might have been gone, but the muscles still needed time to regenerate properly. The witcher hoped he would walk it off, but though he tried to do so gradually, he still limped by the end of the day and cursed his muscles, stiff after his illness.

Yurga had offered them to stay for a bit, but Geralt had declined. He had seen the way Goldencheeks looked at him with fear, though she had tried to hide it for Ciri’s sake. She had been grateful for rescuing her husband, but couldn’t come to terms with the prospect of parting with the girl she had taken in.

The witcher didn’t want to impose. He agreed to stay for the night so that Ciri could sleep indoors for one more night. He even let her sleep late, but by the noon they were already on their way, with their bags full of provisions. Goldencheeks provided them well with food, and the girl with the items she could need on the way. They had taken everything they could.

***

The first night he was woken by a scream. Ciri was trashing, her hand clenched on the blanket from Goldencheeks.

“Ciri.” Geralt knelt by the girl. ”Wake up.”

She sprang up with cry and jerked away.

“It’s just a dream.” The witcher grabbed her by the arms, wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“I’m scared,” she choked out.

“You’re safe with me.”

He tried asking what kind of nightmares plagued her, but spasmodic cry was the only response he got. Ciri clung to him, hiding in his cloak that smelled of smoke.

He didn’t push.

Geralt startled when a tiny, cold hand found his, but he didn’t take his hand away. Slowly the girl calmed in this awkward embrace, her breathing evened. The witcher laid flat on the ground and put Ciri close, tugging the blanket around her. She fell back to sleep at last, but her grip in his hand did not loosen.

He stared at the stars above him for a long time, listening to the girl’s fluttering heart. Even in sleep it beat faster than his. She no longer smelled like a wet sparrow. She smelled of horse and smoke. And of fear. That last bit made Geralt clench his teeth. Whoever caused this child to be still this afraid, whoever it was, they would pay dearly, should their paths ever cross.

***

The next days looked similar. They travelled during the day, trying to stay off the main roads. Ciri became more talkative. She was no longer the mouthy brat Geralt remembered from their meeting in Brokilon, but at least she no longer looked like this shy child he had seen coming after Yurga’s sons. If Geralt could pick anything from Goldencheeks’s remarks, Ciri had been pretty closed off despite the whole time she had spent on the farm.

She was becoming more open around him. She asked about the road ahead of them, about his travels. She didn’t demand fairytales like back then, in the forest. The past few months had striped her from her arrogant tone. To pass the time, Geralt told her about some of his hunts, if only to let her get to know her new guardian and his profession. He tried to avoid some things at first as not to scare her, but Ciri seemed fascinated and asked for more details. And she wasn’t afraid of him.

In turn, she told him about the summer she had spent at the farm. She mentioned her time with the druids and her eyes welled at the memory of Mousesack.

She said no word about Cintra. Geralt didn’t push.

***

In the evenings the girl grew silent. She fumbled around their camp, bringing more sticks than they needed for the night and put off the moment of retiring in any possible way. Geralt watched her secretly, not really knowing how to approach her. On the third night he lost his patience.

“Come here near me,” he offered, moving away from the fire. “Just don’t wriggle.”

Ciri didn’t have to be told twice. She grabbed her blanket and took the place he made for her. The witcher let her lie how she pleased. At first the girl kept some distance, but soon she started moving closer, inch by inch. Geralt didn’t move when she wrapped her fingers around two of his.

The sleep took over the girl and Geralt was left alone with his thoughts. He wasn’t used to this kind of closeness. He had been travelling alone for months, aside from brief meeting with Dandelion before they parted ways. He didn’t expect to recall Mousesack’s words from their meeting at Brokilon’s borders.

The women sleeping by his side were older, he thought and smiled crookedly. Random companions for one night did not fall asleep holding his hand and Yennefer never wasted time for such trivia… Geralt cut off that thought, buried it deep. There was no way back to those days.

Now all that counted was Ciri and the way to keep her safe.

***

Though the approaching autumn made the nights colder and colder, the sun shone warmly during the days. So when they spotted a pond near the road, Ciri didn’t have to convince Geralt to stop there. He too would gladly wash off the dust from a week’s journey that got into his eyes with sweat. The place seemed ideal for a break. The road arched towards the forest, and the low grass, still bright green, turned into sand by the glimmering surface of the water.

Still, the witcher didn’t like it. He caught the girl by the arm before she could run to the pond.

“Wait.”

The first few steps assured him that it wasn’t paranoia but instinct and experience that suggested caution. The water barely reached his knees and went over his boots when he found first bones between stones and seaweed. Some were smooth, cleaned from every last bit of meat, but some looked fresh. The witcher spotted parts of a sole among the stones.

“Sorry, no bathing,” he said. He didn’t have to turn to see the disappointment on Ciri’s face. “Stay away from the water.”

The witcher’s medallion jerked.

The first slimy tentacle shot from under the clear water surface before Geralt decided to head back. He ducked quick as a thought, his feet making a squashy sound as he jumped away.

He cursed. Of course he had to stumble upon a zeugl.

The creature hit the witcher’s knees and he lost his footing, his weak leg buckling. He fell on one knee, dragged his sword up in a quick attack and sprang up. The muddy bottom absorbed some of his energy and the tip of the blade just scratched the monster’s side instead of delivering a killing blow. It wailed, the high-pitched noise resonating in the temples, and backed away. It was enough for Geralt to regain his balance and attack again. He was quick, but the water that slowed him down was the zeugl’s advantage. He managed to cut the bulbous torso again, but another blow sent him whole into the muddled water.

“Geraaaaaaaaalt!”

The water only partly muffled the scream. The witcher jerked and used the monster’s leg, letting it drag him up. He glanced at Ciri. She was safe, clinging to Roach. No tentacle could reach her.

The zeugl definitely didn’t want to wait for the witcher to check his inventory. Another tentacle, ended with a spike, shot again. Geralt jumped, but the bottom reminded him again that it wasn’t his lucky day. The spike, as sharp as the witcher blade, tore his arm down to the elbow before the witcher managed to parry it.

The momentum dragged the monster forwards. Geralt turned, grabbed his sword with both hands and cut off the nearest limb. The zeugl lost its balance and fell right on the waiting blade. The body slipped under the water and only the muddled surface suggested something had happened at all.

“Damn it.” Geralt pushed the wet hair from his face and spat out the remains of water.

The habits took over. The witcher took the sword with his wounded arm and reached with the other to grab the cut off limb. He threw it on the shore and stumbled out in a few long steps.

A muffled scream reminded him he wasn’t travelling just with Roach, who had seen a lot and had suffered a monster corpse more than once. Ciri was glancing from him to the limb and her eyes were alarmingly teary.

“Ciri? It’s over, don’t be afraid,” he promised stiffly.

“You’re bleeding,” uttered the girl, still paralysed. “Geralt…”

“It’s nothing. Don’t be scared,” repeated the witcher.

He put his sword down and turned to see the wound at the back of his arm. Parts of his shirt stuck to the edges and obscured the view, but the whole sleeve was turning alarmingly red. Blood started dripping from his fingers.

“There is a box in my bag. Pass it to me. Ciri, do you hear me?” Geralt raised his voice a bit and the harsh tone seemed to wake the girl. “Good, now open it carefully. Don’t touch the bottles, their content is poisonous to you.”

Before Ciri gave him the box, Geralt took off his shirt, hiding a wince. The zeugl cut clean and deep, almost to the bone. The wound required stitching if it was to heal quickly, but the place was hard to reach, especially with one hand. There was no way he could stitch it himself blindly. Not now, when the tension was gone, the adrenaline dropped and his hand with a potion suddenly shook treacherously.

Without looking into those scared, staring eyes, Geralt poured the contents of the bottle on the wound. He bit his lip and closed his eyes for a moment. Zeugls could carry all nasty things even in such a clean water. Knowing his luck, the witcher didn’t really count on this particular zeugl being hygienic.

“Geralt? Geralt!”

“It’s nothing.” The witcher swallowed the rising nausea. “See? It’s better already. Pass me the bandage.”

He patched up his arm as best he could, asking the girl to help him with tying the ends of the dressing. Ciri said nothing when he packed the box back in the bag. She reacted only when he attached the zeugl’s tentacle to the saddle.

“Ewwww, what’s that for?” winced Ciri. Roach glanced at Geralt suggesting she agreed with the girl.

“I’m a witcher, remember? Perhaps I will get some money for that beast, we could use some.”

“I’m not riding with that.”

Geralt shrugged with his good arm. “Then we will walk.”

***

The village appeared before them when the forest ended and turned into fields. It was quite large and perhaps in time could turn into a town, though it lacked a town hall or even a taller building towering on others.

Geralt wouldn’t mind any village, as long as it offered an inn and a roof over their heads for the next night. The last hour took its toll on him and his arm interchangeably went numb or hurt as if being cauterised.

“Ciri, give me my cloak.”

The girl looked at him in disbelief, but passed him the heavy woollen cloak.

“It’s warm,” she reminded him. “And this tentacle stinks,” she wrinkled her nose and moved away from Roach.

The tentacle had stunk even when it had been attached to the zeugl, but Geralt didn’t mention it. He tossed his cloak over his shoulders, making sure the fabric covered his bloodied clothes.

“The less attention we draw, the better.”

“You’re limping. Again.” Ciri looked at him critically and Geralt could see the raising panic under her seemingly calm gaze. He sighed, slowed down and evened his pace.

“Better now?” He hoped his smile was convincing. “Come. If we’re lucky, we are going to sleep in an inn tonight. And we need to free Roach from this corpse.”

“The sooner the better.”

When they went between the houses, Ciri moved closer. She made a gesture as if she wanted to grab Geralt by his hand before realising it was impossible. Geralt let her slip between the mare and himself and gave her the reins. Roach was well trained, he could trust her not to get easily spooked.

A few questions later they were pointed to the alderman’s house. The witcher tied Roach to the green fence surrounding it.

”Wait here for me, Ciri. Don’t go anywhere.”

***

“And you are?”

“A witcher. I killed a zeugl by the road, an hour’s walk from here. I came to ask if you have any reward for it.”

“Zeugl? The monster from the pond?”

“By the road, yes.”

“We’re been having problems with that for a year,” said the alderman. “People stopped to rest or water their horses, that place is perfect for camping. And so this monstrosity grew. A horse here, a merchant there… A zeugl, you say? Are you sure there was only one?”

“No place for more in such a small puddle. Zeugls are territorial, once one finds a good place, it’s going to defend it,” replied Geralt shortly, trying to mask his impatience. “Do you have any reward for it?”

“Sure I do, the merchants raised a hundred orens to add to the reward, as the word got out that it’s not safe to travel here. I’m surprised you haven’t seen a notice.”

Geralt wasn’t looking for any, but he could hardly say so. A hundred orens was a decent price, even with a torn arm.

“Unless that whoreson cheated on me and idled with the miller’s daughter instead of placing the poster at the crossroads,” cursed the alderman, but then calmed down and reached into a drawer. “Like I said, the merchants raised the reward, there is a hundred and forty orens for the monsters. I hope you have some proof?”

“By the horse. Didn’t wasn’t to make a mess here.”

“Good, good.” The alderman glanced through the doors and shivered in disgust. “Sign in here.”

Geralt leaned and put a clumsy signature in the pointed place. Both his hands were trained to wield a sword. A pen, not so much.

The alderman didn’t seem to mind the quality of the signature. He counted the coins scrupulously, then tossed them back to the pouch, which he handed to the witcher. Geralt hid it and glanced over his arm through the doors. Ciri was waiting for him like he asked. The tentacle swayed slightly by Roach’s side.

“I’m travelling with a child, need a place for the night. Can you recommend anything?”

“With a child?” The alderman followed his gaze and his eyes widened in surprise. “What, you go after monsters with a child?”

“She’s an orphan. I promised to take her to her family as it’s on my way,” lied Geralt smoothly.

“And someone let you… Ah, never mind,” added the alderman after a moment. “Perhaps it’s safer with a lot like you.”

Geralt didn’t comment. His arm went numb again and he could see dark spots clouding his vision. He leaned forwards and used the desk as support. Ciri probably couldn’t see him from the outside.

“Do you have a healer here?”

“What? Oh, master witcher! You should have said you’re wounded!”

“Don’t fuss, you’ll just scare the child more,” Geralt chastised him. The weakness was passing. “I’m fine, I just need a few stitches.”

“Ask in the inn, left to the square,” the alderman calmed down. “We have a herbalist, but she’s not here at the moment. But the innkeeper’s wife is skilled with stitching. It’s a decent inn, if you mention the, the thing from the lake, there should be no problems.”

“Come with me, then. You’ll take your proof.”

***

The inn was quite empty due to an early hour. The innkeeper wasn’t present, but his wife looked at the witcher favourably once he explained what happened and told her what he needed. She pointed them to the room at the end of the corridor.

“Wash up, I’ll come in a moment.”

Seeing a basin with warm water, Ciri squeaked in delight and undressed. Using the fact that she was preoccupied, Geralt took off the coat and sat on the only chair. Taking off the shirt proved more challenging as the dressings had soaked through and stuck to the sleeve. Moving the arm up was out of option, so Geralt leaned forwards and somehow got rid of the shirt. He wetted the dressings with some water, unwrapped them and cursed. The edges of the wound were puffy and swollen, and blood was oozing from under the clots he had torn. The potion had cleaned the wound from toxins, but didn’t close it completely. That would explain dizziness.

Geralt washed the arm as much as he could and wiped the sweat from his face. Ciri was done bathing and was using a wooden comb – another gift from Goldencheeks – to detangle her hair. The witcher hoped she would keep herself busy for a while longer and let him gather his thoughts.

The innkeeper’s wife came back a moment later, as if called. She had a clean towel over her arm and a pitcher with steaming water.

“Mira!” she called over her shoulder and immediately Geralt heard a rushed patter on the stairs. A girl rushed into the room. She was maybe two or three years older than Ciri, her cheeks flushed and her dark braids rocking over her light blouse.

“Yes, mother?”

“Take that bowl,” the woman pointed at the table. “And take the girl downstairs.”

Ciri reacted momentarily. She jerked away and moved closer to the witcher. “Geralt, I don’t want to!”

“Go.” Geralt fished out a few coins. “You must be hungry, order something. I’ll come in a moment.”

“But…”

“Go, child, these are no sights for you,” the landlady supported the witcher. “Alright, let me see.” Bustling around the table, she wet the clean towel in the fresh water. She gasped when she saw the wound. “Sit on the bed, master witcher, it will be easier for me.” She must have caught the glance Geralt spared the sheets, because she just waved him off dismissively.

The witcher wasn’t about to argue. He sat more comfortably and leaned his elbows on his knees, his fingers intertwined. He let the woman clean his wound again.

“That girl sticks to you like she would to her mother’s skirt,” she commented with the first pull of the thread.

“She has no one else right now,” Geralt hissed in reply once he caught his breath. “I’m taking her to family,” he added after a moment, thinking of the witchers wintering in Kaer Morhen.

“An orphan?” guessed the woman. “Lots of them around, wherever you look. Not so many anymore, but we had waves of refugees.”

Geralt nodded and hissed in pain. The innkeeper’s wife realised he didn’t want to talk and inquired no further. She placed the stitches with ease that suggested the patrons in the inn were not the calmest folk and they resolved to weapons sharper than stools when an argument arose.

When she left, the witcher moaned in relief. His arm was pulsating and the fresh stitches pulled at the aggravated skin with each muscle spasm. Geralt leaned back and exhaled deeply a few times, hoping to loosen his tensed shoulder. He knew he should go down and eat something, but the mere thought of all the smells made him nauseous. It was better to wait out the weakness than scare Ciri more, he decided and stretched his legs comfortably.

It seemed weariness got the better of him, for the next thing he registered was the croaking of the doors being opened. He jerked awake and intuitively reached for his sword. He saw stars.

“Geralt, you said you’d come.” Ciri burst into the room and froze. “What’s going on?!”

“Nothing.” The witcher straightened, supporting his arm discreetly. “I’m coming.”

Ciri glanced suspiciously at the thick layers of bandages, but passed him his jacket. Geralt put it on without bothering with the shirt; it wasn’t suitable for sitting among people without arising questions anyway.

“I’m hungry. You must be too? There’ll be a chicken for us, and Mira said she will show me how to stitch your shirt.” Only now did Geralt realise the girls must have taken his bloodied clothes. “Goldencheeks tried to teach me how to spin, but it was so awful! But your sleeve should be easier, right? I’ll do it, you’ll see!”

“I don’t doubt it.”

The main room downstairs hosted more patrons now, but Ciri just dragged the witcher to a table close to the backdoors, where Mira brought them food. It smelled delicious, so Geralt forced himself to eat a bit.

Only after a while did he realise that Ciri was staring at him wide-eyed instead of eating. When their eyes met, she blushed. She looked at the witcher’s plate, at her own, then slowly put down the chicken leg she was holding and reached for the knife.

Geralt chuckled inwardly. Once Dandelion had mocked mercilessly all the weird habits Yennefer had forced on him, but the habit was so strong the witcher ignored the mocking. The bard had ceased to do so quickly, and Geralt had learned that surprising his clients with upbringing they didn’t expect him to have was lucrative. Ciri too must not have expected the witcher to remind her of the manners she had surely been taught at the court.

The girl finished her meal quickly, soon abandoning the knife in favour of fingers. She glanced questioningly at Geralt when she did do, but he didn’t comment. He watched her eat, picking at his own food. His arm was still throbbing and the growing noise resonated in his temples. His leather jacket scratched against his bare skin.

“Did you have enough? Or do you want something more?”

“I’m full. I think I will burst if I have one more bite,” the girl shook her head. She had an unfinished loaf of bread in her hand. “And you? Aren’t you hungry?” She noticed the witcher’s full plate.

“I’ll eat later. Put your bread here, we’ll finish that in the evening.” Geralt stood up. “Come.”

“We’re going already?” Ciri asked with disappointment. “It’s still early. And Mira promised me…”

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Geralt reminded her. He wasn’t exactly hoping for a good sleep, but he wished for peace and quiet at least.

“Let her go, Mira will be just at yard behind the inn.” The innkeeper’s wife joined in their conversation as she brushed off the crumbs from the table near them. “She won’t be bored and you look like you could use some willow bark.”

“Geralt, may I?”

“Go,” he agreed and massaged his temples. “But don’t leave the yard. And if anyone bothers you, come back to me at once.”

“No one will. You’re the only strangers here today and locals know not to bother my Mira. I’ll keep an eye on them too. Ah, off you go, the laundry won’t make itself!”

“Thank you,” said Geralt quietly once the doors slammed after the girls.

“For what?” The woman seemed genuinely surprised.

“Not everyone would show this much kindness to a witcher and Ciri hasn’t learned about it yet. The longer she doesn’t, the better.”

“Don’t mention it. That monster you slew, it killed my sister’s son and husband. It’s just her and her daughter, small like that girl of yours. And I can see you care about this child.”

***

Ciri returned before dusk, flushed and smelling of soap. She had braids, tied with pieces of cord at the ends.

“I got some apple pie for help,” she boasted. “Do you want some? And look, I fixed your sleeve! Mira was right, the stains are gone!”

“Thank you.” Geralt took a piece of cake from her. “It’s very nice of you. You didn’t have to do that. I would have done that tomorrow.”

“But it wasn’t hard at all!” Ciri straightened the sleeve of the shirt to demonstrate the stitches. “And your arm must be hurting.”

 “A bit,” he admitted. “But it’s nothing. Come, it’s time to sleep. I can’t say when we will next sleep indoors, so try to rest while you can.”

Ciri’s mood changed at once. She tossed her shoes and slipped under the blanket obediently, but didn’t lie down. She watched as Geralt clumsily put his bedroll on the floor beside her.

“Geralt?” she asked after a while.

“What is it?”

“I don’t want to sleep alone,” she admitted and bit her lip. “There’s enough space for both of us, see?” she moved to the edge of the bed. “I won’t wriggle, I promise!”

Indeed, she didn’t take a lot of space, curled as she was by the wall. Geralt sighed and nodded, wondering if he had made mistake when he let her sleep so close on their way. Never mind, he thought. One more night would not make any difference, and they both needed rest.

***

Ciri slept through the night surprisingly well, but Geralt was still feeling poorly in the morning, so they didn’t rush to leave. Instead they used the opportunity to resupply.

The news of getting rid of the monster by the road and a word whispered by the helpful innkeeper’s wife worked wonders. They found for Ciri a pair of trousers and a shirt, and a pair of leather boots, high and with stripes, brand new and only a little too big. The girl liked them best and she stopped paying attention to Geralt’s shopping. The witcher spent most of the reward for the zeugl to buy for her winter clothes and items she might need. What did catch Ciri’s interest was the thickness of the fur he picked for her.

“Geralt, where are we going?” she asked, combing her fingers through the soft fur.

The witcher smiled, bundling all the items along with the girl’s dress, as she had already changed into her new trousers, rolled the shirt sleeves and was trying to attach the knife he had given her to her belt.

“Home, Ciri. We’re going home.”