Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ciri had woken up in an unfamiliar place, it wasn’t the first time, and yet something about the location left her far more disoriented than usual. Maybe it was the unreasonably soft mattress, or perhaps it was the lingering scent of some sort of flower in the air and unfathomably expensive-looking curtains on the four poster bed. Her sword wasn’t in sight, and her skin burned with every movement, even under the silky smooth blanket.

She stirred, squinting in even the dim light from the crack in the curtains, but managed to sit up after a few long minutes of wiggling. Birds are chirping outside amidst the footsteps of others, otherwise the silence is so deafening she can hear her own heartbeat. Her blistered hands draw the blankets back, showcasing a similar story on her bare legs, which tremble and fail to catch her weight when she swings them over the side. She’s hardly going to let that stop her, and a brief scan for where her clothes might be pull her attention to the bedside table.

She snorts at the intricate carvings and awkward shaping of it, and similarly balks at the fine parchment and perfectly inked inscription. Salves, potions, and libations lay beside it, with clear instructions that she should get up under no circumstances. Right, sure, she’ll just lay here until she expires from boredom; her legs were still attached, weren’t they?

It certainly wasn’t pleasant, but the half-dose of painkiller and cold cream on what she assumed were burns had soothed the worst of it. She took stock of herself while poking through chests of drawers topped with floral decor, inside cabinets polished to a shine, and through the egregiously large wardrobe packed full of ugly gowns.

“It’s like they’ve never heard of trousers,” she murmured, “And that smell.”

She’d smelt some pretty awful stuff before, all manners of excrement, her own unwashed body after a couple weeks, even the festering remains of that damned pit. Somehow it all paled in comparison to the wafting scent of whatever concoction had seemingly been dumped by the bucket-full onto every cloth surface. Her family’s many comments about the overpowering smell of nobles’ perfume suddenly made perfect sense.

Curiously, she tested the only door, and it clicked open easily into what appeared to be a long hallway. Not exactly compelled by modesty, she strode out in only the shift, again wishing for her weapon more than anything. The architecture was thoroughly over the top, with more white and black than Yennefer’s closet. It was cut only by accents of shimmering gold, glittering in the light, and forming…a consistent…pattern…on the floor…

Oh fuck. Nilfgaard.

-

The sun was waning in the sky, darkness threatening to fall and shroud his path at any moment. He didn’t worry about it, walking at a languid pace with a laden basket held carefully in two hands. The rains had started to come lately, and the path was more mud than anything, but he followed it regardless, relying on his worn boots to keep the moisture out. The spring air had long since lost its edge of cold, and he could practically hear the gathering herd of deer in the clearing he’d come from. Too shy to bother with even a smaller human underfoot, they grazed on the dandelions and wildflowers he’d left behind.

He didn’t actually, his mother would’ve said, it was just his mind making inferences based on what he knew about their behaviour. She was often correcting him like that, and he only gained her compliments for the most mundane points of pride. Collecting herbs, for example, or braiding her a crown of flowers like he’d watch some village children do from the trees. For all that she was pragmatic, his mother adored any and all gifts from him, whether its the catch of snares or an interesting rock he’d found.

“Ah, there you are, love,” she said when he came in, tutting as he laid the basket on the table and began removing his shoes, “Oh my sweet, there was no need to stay out for me.”

As usual, he flushed and hugged her skirts, “Love you, Mama.”

The sunny smile she gave was worth the burning blush on his cheeks, and he could already hear her plucking rosemary from the spoils to dry out. He left her to it, grabbing the bucket by the back door and swinging it loudly on the unoiled hinge so she’d hear him leave. She didn’t tell him to watch himself by the well; she must be particularly pleased with what he’d brought.

They had their own well, just a few short paces through his mother’s garden and already overgrown with moss and flowering vines. Someone from the town had come to build it when they’d first moved in, and it was likely the most pragmatic payment his mother had ever taken. She often accepted just about anything as payment for her services, and considering they always have enough for winter, there’s hardly any reason to complain.

He was pulling up the bucket when a twig snapped behind him, his little hands fumbled with the rope, hearing it sadly drop back to the bottom. Relatively unbothered, he turned to look.

“Mama?” He asked, frowning at the empty stoop. He stepped away, scanning the nearby brush for anything that might pose enough of a threat to fetch her. Not even an old track, much less a trail of fresh ones, and he was moments from shrugging it off as nothing.

Until an entire branch fell, a resounding ‘ouch’ accompanying the loud shifting and shuffling of leaves that might normally accompany a storm.

Task thoroughly forgotten, he approached slowly, as though tracking a rabbit. A woman was rubbing the back of her head, mumbling something about her landing, and he froze when her gaze shifted to him. Gwyn cocked his head as she stared at him with what looked like confusion, standing to brush the stray wood off her clothes before walking to meet him.

“Um, hello…” She stated awkwardly, “Sorry, ah, about your tree.”

He stared up at her, gaze slowly trailing up to the oak’s mess of broken branches.

She turned to follow the stare and grew sheepish, “Yeah, not my greatest moment.”

He decided he was out of his depth here, but felt weirdly reluctant to leave her to fetch his mother. There was something about her that drew his eye, from the swords wrapped up and strapped to her back, to the near-white of her twig-laden hair. A scar just below her eye drew his own, the kohl lined just above covering a fine layer of freckles and protecting bright blue eyes from the setting sun.

“Oh, you noticed, huh?” She pointed out, swinging her arms as though unsure where to put them.

Without realising, his hand had risen to his face, poking at a similar spot where only unmarred skin lay. He dropped it at her comment, tearing his gaze away and intending to speak more than a few times before he managed it.

“..a witcher…?” He murmured, most unheard as crows bayed overhead.

She seemed shocked for a moment, likely unsure if he could speak, but then crouched down to meet him. He stared resolutely at the ground instead of meeting her gaze.

“That’s right,” she told him, and chuckled at his awe, “I’m looking for someone around here, do you think you could help me…?”

There was an open portion, an unspoken ask for an introduction, but instead he took her gloved hand. She let him, standing to follow but keeping hunched over so he could keep her hand; he heard something hum as they reached his home. He stood beside the door so she could ask after his mother, watching with interest as her necklace subtly vibrated.

“Oh, you’ve brought a friend,” she joked, letting him walk past and hide behind her legs.

“Little late for a lass like yourself to be out in our woods, eh?” She nudged him, as she said it, drawing out a smile, “So, what can we do for you, then?”

She went to respond, but Gwyn nudged his mother, drawing her down to receive his whisper.

“A witcher?” She gasped with a stage whisper, “Well, we best ask her then!”

He nodded resolutely, still watching her with wonder.

“Young miss, you wouldn’t happen to be here for the contract, would you?” She asked hopefully, a lingering hint of something mischievous in her eyes.

The ashen-haired woman didn’t even hesitate, plucking a notice from her bag, “Indeed. I heard from nearby that there was trouble, they were quite worried about you both being on your own.”

“Oh yes, they’re quite fond of my services at least,” she imparts with a wink, “Gwyn, fetch that book of yours, won’t you love?”

He reluctantly leaves them to discuss coin, pulling a kitchen chair up to the bookcase and carefully removing a worn tomb with two hands. It weighed nearly five stones, more than half of himself, but he held it firmly to his chest with little issue as he ran back. Without prompting, he let it rest on the floor, flipping through dozens of entries until he found the right one, well annotated and strewn with rough drawings.

“A leshen?” The woman read skeptically, “Are you quite certain?”

His mother nodded, “Aye, my boy-”

“I saw it,” he interrupted, holding up the entry for her to see.

“Truly?”

“Truly, Miss Witcher,” his mother said with a nod, “He knows these woods better than myself.”

“Ciri is fine,” she assured.

“Then you call me, Visenna, my dear,” she replied, taking the book from Gwyn and eyeing the sky, “Dinner’s just about ready, in the morning my Gwyn can show you where he saw it.”

“Are you sure? There’s no need-”

“Aye, don’t mention it. He’ll wanna pester you all night, anyways.”

“Mama…” Gwyn whined.

The two chuckled, and he pouted until dinner hit the table.

-

“And you’re certain it’s alright?” The witcher asked, one hand on his shoulder.

“Course,” Visenna placated, “I’ll worry, a mother always will, but our notice was no urgency for a reason. Beast never comes ‘round when I supervise.”

“I’ll keep him safe, I promise it.”

“Aye, and you keep your distance, love,” she told her son, laying a kiss on his hair.

“‘Course, Mama!”

She smiled, setting him off with a hand between his shoulder, then set the young witcher with a knowing look, “Your payment shall be ready the minute the beast burns, my dear.”

They waved for a while, and Ciri continued to look back as though his mother would race outside and demand him back at any moment.

“I’m by myself all the time, Miss Ciri,” he told her, “Mama says I’m real clever!”

“I suppose,” she says, clearly not assured, but he ignores her lest it ruin his excitement.

For hours she’d answered his most burning question with ease, smiling vaguely with something like mirth and interest. He’d shown her his notes in the beastiary, charcoal lining empty pages from other books he’d taken and attached to the back like addendums. There were designs for traps, recipes that came to mind, and rather advanced breakdowns of possible strengths and weaknesses. Ciri listened dutifully, never brushing aside his thoughts, and easily earning his respect and admiration. He’d blinked blearily after falling asleep at the table, and a hand that wasn’t his mother’s trailing through his long hair; he woke up in bed as though it were a dream.

“See that branch? Always crowd there no matter how many times I chase ‘em off,” he guides her easily, pointing out the lines of crows in the sky and the abundant new dens in the undergrowth.

He stops short where a line of brightly coloured string is laid out across the path forward, tied between the trunks of the trees. Nearby roots hacked apart and stained with something dark; a handwritten sign simply states ‘Danger.’ The smell of blood is especially noticeable as well, the dark stains lining several small handprints.

“Is wolf,” he tells her casually, “Heard it might help.”

“Did you catch them somehow?”

“Big hole full of sharp sticks,” he says proudly, brushing away a covering to show off the freshly cleaned-out trap, “Real wolves are smart enough not to fall in.”

“Just how long has it been bothering you?” She wonders vaguely, gazing at the fortifications he’d crafted.

“Couple months.”

“Months?” She asks, alarmed.

“Mhm. Think it doesn’t care much since no one else hunts here. Pretty easy to watch for birds and mix up some stuff with Mama’s help.”

He frees a bottle from his belt, corked but unsealed, “We make tons and coat the trees where the sap and vines are heavy.”

Dog tallow and mistletoe made into an oil, numerous lines of it lining the territory marked out in string in a large, misshapen circle.

“Did you learn this somewhere?” She asks, squinting at him with visible concern.

He shrugs as she pulls out one of her swords, carefully untying the leather cords keeping it wrapped in cloth. It’s brighter than a soldier’s, enough that it gives him a headache just looking at it; he just barely bites back a question about how she repaired it.

“Gwyn?” He hears her asks through the ringing in his ears, utterly drowned out by the buzzing of insects and the smell of blood and the sound of his own heartbeat and the feeling of his clothes as they rub against his skin.

He shakes his head firmly, but it only causes vertigo that makes him tip over and onto his knees.

“Gwyn?! Can you-?!” Cawing starts up, louder than before and rising to a peak, and a wolf is howling despite the time of day. The witcher is already on guard, but she doesn’t see what he sees, doesn’t hear it creeping through the topsoil-

“Miss Ciri!” He shouts over the blood rushing in his ears, and hears her land on her feet after diving to the side. His hands blindly find the vial he dropped, following the sound of metal carving into wood and the growl of a creature he’s heard many times before. His mind mentally scans the book, every note in the margin racing through his mind and he squints through the sheer white light of the sunlight seeping through the canopy.

Ciri makes a pained noise, and something snaps, his arms stronger than before when he chucks the homemade relict oil in her direction and hears it shatter. The beast doesn’t slow down, and he can barely comprehend the rush of blue light as the witcher appears behind it again and again, in reach for mere moments before her body fizzles into thin air. She drops a thread somewhere, and it catches her with a swipe, hitting a tree with a deafening sound before her body crumbles back to the forest floor.

She doesn’t move when it creeps closer, intent clear in its posture as Ger- Gwyn hears its deep, wet breaths. He can still smell the relict oil coating its back, sees the glass glint where its caught in the bark of its body, and hears the sizzle where it seeps into wounds opened by silver. He looks around, digging through the brush until his hands enter a hollowed opening and find the dagger nestled inside. It’s still heavy to his small body, but he’s used to holding it and hacking at the unwelcome monster as it tries to spread its influence.

The blade gleams in the light where he crouches low, slowly coming up behind it with shallow footfalls. Smoke begins seeping from its body, and he has mere moments to sink the blade into the small of its back. It groans in agony, turning on its heel and lumbering towards him without delay as growls join it. Gwyn is already running, barely making it past his markings, straining his ears to hear the pained sound of most of the pack.

A few jump out using their lessers, climbing atop their corpses and easily catching up, claws digging into the trunk of the tree he clings to. They bark with foaming anger, their master appearing beside them, just barely missing his neck as wood pierces the meat of his shoulder. It nearly goes through, but he disappears, dropping beside a panting Ciri as blood dribbles down his side.

Her face is pale, and her hands shake as they grip the silver sword she’s reclaimed; the leshen is faltering, but not enough to provide an opening. The witcher shoves him behind her, spinning on her heel and slamming the flat of the blade into the head of a wolf. It falls over with a whine, shakily regaining its footing as blood trails out of its ear; Gwyn digs his nails into its fur and shoves its neck into the tree, a snapping sound following as it drops to the forest floor, dead.

Crows are swarming around Ciri, falling to sword swings before more join the flock and scratch at her with their talons. She loses them after a few brief flashes of blue light, and they vanish into the smoke as the leshen transforms. The roots form at her feet, holding her in place for just a moment too long so it can pin her against a tree. She holds the sword between its claw and her neck, fiercely pushing back against it until the silver digs into its claw and it draws back with a hiss.

He hears her swear when more dogs appear, cutting them down with easy strokes of silver and several shouts of frustration. It trips her, and she audibly growls, keeping just seconds behind as the two dance around each other. It’s clear who will tire first, and Gwyn is once again mentally recalling the entry, searching desperately for a weakness to exploit. It scratches through Ciri’s light armour, blood welling to the surface and gleaming in the sunlight like the leshen’s still-soaked body-

Fire!

He fumbles, searching carefully for something that could make a spark. Nothing easily, but the silver is still half-buried into its back, and with the right strike of a sharp flint… He can’t know if the silver will spark, but there’s little other option. His tired legs scream as he dives past a thicket, burrs digging into his pants as he readies the flint with two shaking hands. He waits, watching the witcher drive it backwards with a dizzying hit, and sees his chance.

Rushing in, he aims for the blade, but is swept to the side with a harsh swipe, and he crumbles to the ground nearby. It approaches readily, and he’s set to run before Ciri draws its ire once again, and it turns back. His hands run across the ground, searching desperately for the flint and coming up empty. Ciri swears loudly, and the leshen again is approaching him as she falters, her transports barely taking her inches much less to his side.

Gwyn’s life flashes before his eyes, except its not his life at all. Instead he sees his mother’s face for the last time, transforming into another man’s. He sees his life change, soft and dull becoming worn and sharp as his body becomes a weapon. A memory insistently pops to the surface, and a boy around his age forms a symbol in the air, calling out before a flame leaps from his hand and into the empty air. He himself copies the action in the dream, feels the warmth leap from his fingers as it catches on nothing.

Unconsciously, from where he lays, he traces the shape with his hands in a slow, steady movement. Feels the power thrum in his veins where human blood should lay, and the perverted magic of someone not quite human not quite witch rise to the surface. An orange light drives away the shadows, the canopy lighting up like a bonfire for a brief moment as it catches.

“Igni,” He calls, and the leshen is pushed back by the burst of fire, rearing back as the oil coats it in flames and it screeches loud enough that the crows fly away.

It turns to ash in moments, utterly consumed, and Geralt is left staring at his hand without knowing exactly why.

Footfalls sound in his peripheral, softened by the moss and soft dirt of the forest floor, and a pair of boots come into view. He looks up, and Ciri is there, seemingly on the verge of tears as she stares at him.

“Geralt?” She asks breathily.

He pants, sweat dripping down his brow, and white hair comes into view as he leans over, just breathing for a long moment. He wipes it away with the sleeve of his ruined armour, and sits up on his knees, almost falling back at the unexpected lack of weight on his back. He looks up, staring back as his hands clench and unclench, and smells the blood dripping from his shoulder and staining his ragged armour.

His breath catches again, something suddenly snapping into place, and shock colours his expression.

“Ciri?!”

Chapter Text

He hates that he still loves her. Much like his past relationship with Yennefer, wishes just made everything more complicated. He wasn’t sure if he cared for her still, yearned to see her and be held by her and- And all that, was just her influence or his own messed up thoughts. The aching in his chest was usually cured by Ciri’s appearance, his medallion around her neck that still slightly thrummed around him.

She was alive, that was all he really needed.

Alive and furious as he would go on to learn, trekking back with her to the keep and watching as she threw open the inner doors with a flourish. There was tension in the air, even as he walked in behind her and drew smiles from his brothers. Yennefer wouldn’t even look at him, and Triss was even worse; Keira was the first to actually approach him, breaking some of the awkwardness between them all as she shoved Lambert forward before her exit.

He’d told Ciri later on that he didn’t blame any of them, but she’d thrown up her hands and called him ‘a damned martyr,’ and stormed out. She just didn’t understand how hard it was after she had seemingly died, each of them trudging forward without much purpose. Dandelion and Zoltan had tried, sure, but nothing could’ve stopped him from going on that suicide mission. Yen had broken things off almost immediately, screaming out her frustrations and utter sorrow before disappearing completely from his life.

He doesn’t remember much of that time, just wandering The Path and looking like death warmed over, or so the locals said. Ballads were sung after he disappeared, citing the end of the White Wolf for good; they didn’t age well, but they weren’t technically wrong either. He felt off-kilter after regaining himself, his senses at odds with each other, and memories tangled together in a mess that made his head feel like it was swelling. As if he hadn’t had enough problems with memory…

They’d all stayed at the keep for a while after that, seemingly to keep him from doing something equally stupid as what had caused his disappearance. He could see the concern, the absolute relief atop it whenever they caught sight of him training in the courtyard, or playing Gwent, or drinking beside the hearth with Ciri. He never would’ve thought it would be so devastating for them to lose him, not when it could happen at any time. He’d wondered if it was more because Ciri’s near-death had been just beforehand, but knew better than to ask.

Finally, they all moved on with mutual agreement that neither he nor his daughter would disappear if they didn’t see each other for a few months. He stayed in Nilfgaard for a while, hunting with Ciri whenever she got too frustrated with politics, but ultimately staying uninvolved. She hadn’t decided what she wanted yet, said that the White Frost and the mourning had put some things into perspective. Gwy- Er, Geralt was inclined to agree with that sentiment, laying down his swords for a while, picking them up only when she visited him in Toussaint and wanted some action.

At first he was frustrated about his lack of wanting to fight, and it felt like some part of that thing had won. A certain vulnerability made itself known when he was alone at night or if he passed a well or a meadow. Ciri had teased him for months about how precocious he had been as a child, but as an adult he just felt out of place when those emotions rose to the surface. He hadn’t needed praise or care since he was two years-old, and he wasn’t about to start getting it now.

…Maybe that’s why he didn’t let them kill her. Not that they likely could have considering what exactly she was, or at least what they thought she was. They’d walked back home to the house after the hunt, and she’d fussed over his cuts and bruises even then. Ciri had stalked up to her, told her they knew exactly what she’d done, but all she did was heal the wound on his shoulder and  in a sad, low voice said:

“I am so, so happy for you, my love.”

He hadn’t known how to answer her then, and he still didn’t now. Despite that, he put his hand up when Ciri grasped at her sword, then let her leave when his daughter made it clear what she wanted from the woman. Still as Visenna, she dropped the medallion in his hand, covering it with his other before she left for good. She became the familiar black horse and rode off, cementing exactly who she was at last, and he prepared himself for the inevitable chastisement when his friends learned he’d freed a suspicious tree god in his search for Ciri.

He’d been warned it was a bad idea, many a testimony giving him flack about how she could be out there stalking him, waiting to ambush and kill him for betraying her. Strangely, he didn’t think she would, nor did he mind the idea of her following him, and the frustration regarding that had long since worn off.

He couldn’t help being lonely after so many months of her constant presence, and even with others around he craved that specific comfort. Not a lover’s touch (not that he had that either) but a more paternal one that he once might’ve associated with Vesemir, at least to some minor degree. Something inside him had changed since the illusion, and although he didn’t wish to be human any longer, there may have been a small part that still wished to be a child.

Her child.

Upon that realisation, he started spotting a familiar shadow in his garden, occasionally hearing an extra footstep behind his own. He would be between sleep and wakefulness, feeling a hand trail through his hair with idle movements until he left the waking world again. She would just appear sometimes, not even visible, but keeping an eye out when he walked alone in the woods. He didn’t startle when he felt her, usually didn’t even turn around to look, and he was typically the only one who even noticed her there.

It became a habit to speak to her, at first mumbling to her while doing something, and then having actual conversations as she spoke back by whispering in his ear. It didn’t burn when she did it anymore, missing the air of enchantment that enunciated her language with magic.

She’d still call him ‘love,’ or ‘darling,’ or even ‘son,’ if she dared. She didn’t call him Gwyn, not ever again, and purred out his name with satisfaction instead.

In the morning she would brush her hands through the tangles in his hair, tying it up a little differently each time. At night she would slowly undo the knot, working at it with invisible fingers until it came undone. She’d hum the same song as always, idly swaying back and forth atop the mattress to the tune, and although he now knew the lyrics by heart, he preferred hearing it from her.

The staff of the estate asked him about the lullaby, and he assured them that he’d be the first to know if they had a ghost problem. It didn’t quite quell the issue, and with paranoia came awareness. Soon they were noticing the shadow in the home, coming to him about mysterious humming and spotting a dark hand hovering behind him. He’d sighed that night, chatting idly about the situation without response, and startled at a knock on the front door without even footsteps to signal it.

Visenna stood there with a warm smile, small but utterly genuine as she stood on the porch like a silent question. He didn’t say anything, hardly even gave her a second glance, just left the door open behind him and listened to her follow.

It was strange to see her physical presence after all that time, turning around half-expecting a barely visible hand caressing his neck and seeing her standing behind him. She didn’t bother to try and behave like a human, usually just falling in step behind him and still preferring to whisper her responses. Still, seeing was believing, and although a bit eccentric, her presence was quickly accepted and the haunting dissipated rapidly.

He heard them whisper about her, speculating if she was a lover or a relative, if she was mute or soft-spoken, if she was young or a sorceress. She was almost always their guest, disappearing when old friends came by as though she’d never been there in the first place. The master of the estate behaved differently when she was around, softly smiling and letting her dote over him and intrude at all times of day. There was a betting pool over if they were having sex or not, and it was a rather fierce one at that. It persisted until the day Geralt slipped and called her ‘Mom,’ leaving half the staff mortified and the other half much wealthier.

It was wrong, so utterly wrong, but he laid his head and her lap and felt so calm, as though the world had faded away. It didn’t feel wrong in those moments, not even when Yennefer assumed he’d taken another lover or Lambert mocked him because ‘Another sorceress? Really, Geralt?’

Not when she put subtle white streaks in her hair to match his own, (not ashen, white) , reminding him of mistletoe berries and blood on a snowbank. Or when she’d tell stories from centuries before his birth, talking about what her daughters used to be, what he meant to her now.

Ciri once found them before she could disappear, instantly recognising her and screeching at the top of her lungs. He didn’t even know how to begin explaining any of it, and Visenna wasn’t exactly defending herself. He promised her again and again that there was no magic, had her clutch her medallion for as long as she needed, as close as she dared. She stayed in the house for days afterwards, popping in randomly for weeks after that just to check and then glare at Visenna.

“She’s your wish,” Visenna had finally said, “I would not have you driven apart. Not when I knew she breathed.”

“Is that why you let me find you?!” Ciri had demanded back, eyes ablaze in the audacity of the false witch, “Because I’m his wish?”

“…I would have him know you,” she’d replied after a beat, “I would have you in his life.”

“But why? Why let me ruin your ‘perfect’ new life together?”

Visenna’s inhuman smile grew soft and sad at the edges.

“Because it would make him happy, happier than anything, to know his Cirilla lives,” she’d said, utterly earnest and warm, “Because my love outweighs my need to be loved, and I would live happy knowing he no longer needs me.”

Ciri ached to find the malice in it, but had watched her leave without even looking back, staring at her until she vanished back into the shadows. Geralt’s face had already hardened, but they spent a good night together, and she knew he’d always choose her when it mattered most, just as he always had.

…But he was sad after that. She couldn’t always be there, after all, but Visenna… she could.

The goddess had hesitated, even after hearing it from them both, and Ciri clutched her medallion and felt no magic in the air. She had all the reason to disagree, to say that it wasn’t healthy, or that she refused to forgive something like her for what she’d done. And yet, there was grief deep in them both, and it had evolved from enchantment and debt repayment to some sort of mutual yearning and…dare she even say love?

It still made her shudder to even think about, but she didn’t tell anyone else about who Visenna really was. The woman politely kept her distance when Ciri visited, and Geralt was happy when she was there and when she was not.

Maybe it was still wrong, but they were happy, and that’s something that hasn’t ever been easy for Witchers. So, she let them be, vowing to cut Visenna (or whatever she really was) down if she ever went mad again, just as the Crones had tried and failed before she’d killed them too. Ciri was a much better daughter than them, after all, and didn’t anticipate her failure.

But for now?

She pulled the once posted notice from her satchel, smoothing out the wrinkles marring the old goddess’ careful handwriting:

“Please take heed!

Should a young woman with ashen hair and a scarred cheek pass through, may she know that we request her services. A witcher’s hand is needed for this task, so please do arrive armed. Payment rendered shall be eighty crowns and information on The Wolf.

Signed, Mother Caedwess, village witch.”

For now she could wait.