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‘You’re not welcome here.’
Geralt didn’t know what he’d been expecting of the tall, dark figure standing sentinel in the middle of the cliff-top path. A tired, slightly delirious part of his mind had hoped it but an illusion. A mirage. Something of its own concoction, for him to look upon and see his hesitation and unease, rather than to acknowledge them roiling beneath his breast bone.
They were so close. He could see the lights of buildings even as they began to flicker out. Could see the smoke being ripped from chimney stacks by the wind that had endeavoured to turn them back their whole journey up the coast. He didn’t even know what he’d find in this town as it defiantly clung to the edge of the world, but he needed to seek shelter. They all did.
Geralt looked over his shoulder, a hand raised to shield his eyes from the wind and stinging rain. Roach had her neck low, ears back and was doing her best to turn her hindquarters to the wind. Her movements were gentle and slight as if she knew the child clinging limply to her mane wouldn't stay on with much jostling.
Ciri’s eyes were a little glassy in her too-thin face. The road had not been kind to her and walking it with Geralt had not made it kinder. She was thin and shaking atop Roach’s broad back, but she was looking beyond him, vigilant of their stranger in the road.
If this is a phantom, Geralt didn’t know whether her seeing it too is an omen or a blessing.
In the middle of the rocky chalk path stood their sentry. For all the voice was rough and low, it was enough to tell Geralt that it was a woman before them. Tall and broad as he, she blocked their path forward, not moving except for the folds of a cloak and hood, snapping back and forth in the relentless wind. Geralt could not see a weapon on her; no blade at hip or staff at her back. Geralt looked back towards Ciri, and the pack strapped behind her with his two swords that marked him a Witcher disguised beneath it. Nevertheless, when he stepped forward towards the stranger, while his hands were empty, he let them hover within reach of his smaller, more utilitarian hilts.
‘We mean you no harm,’ he tried and if it were not for his hearing, he would have missed the derisive huff as the wind spirited it away. ‘We’re just looking for shelter for the night. We’ve come from the south. Nilfgaard is pushing ever further, we’ve lost everything. My daughter, she is sick. Please.’
They were words that still felt unnatural in his throat, but he’d become practised at choking them out. It had worked on several occasions; a barn to sleep in here, the use of a well there. The people away from the cities have had little to offer, but offer they did when Ciri shivered and looked up with watery eyes.
She wasn’t acting now though, and Geralt’s performance needed to be all the better for it.
‘You’re not welcome here, Witcher.’
Geralt would have liked to fool himself, to say that he hadn’t flinch. Or if he had, he’s earned the right. Some decades come along with those words after all.
Decades of snide words and thrown stones and cheated fees. But the swords were hidden, his leathers under layers of sodden and moth-eaten wool, the medallion lying cold and still against his skin, his hood up and over his downcast eyes. On the road, the front he’d sustained for years of not caring for the hostility of those he helped, of not heeding their distrust and disdain, that would not keep Ciri fed, warm and safe.
‘Look,’ he said, voice tight with his thinning calm and patience. Ciri bit back a whimper as the wind cut through them both and Geralt pressed on. ‘Please. I mean you no danger and we’ve been on the road for days. She needs shelter. I can pay,’ he said, staunchly ignoring that his purse has been empty for far too long. ‘Do you have work that needs doing here? I would speak to the alderman of this town–’
‘You’re speaking to her, and you’re not welcome here.’
The leather of the reins creaked in Geralt’s grip and Roach shook her head in protest. He didn’t know what to do. The little communities they’d hurried through had had some rough mimic of the governance seen in towns and cities, but even still their elders did not meet strangers on the road. Not alone. Not with the sun long set and a storm on the horizon. Their welcoming committee made no move to turn them away, only stood in the path, their cloak and shawl dark flags snapping back and forth. There was a crack of thunder, Roach shied, and what was left of Geralt’s patience fled.
He tugged Roach forward, a little alarmed when she resisted, but that concern would have to wait as he bore down the sentry and they in turn did not move. He closed the gap with as much momentum as he dared. Larger folk than she had stepped back from him. If she was indeed the alderman, there was little to stop him once he was past her.
‘Geralt of Rivia, Witcher of the Wolf School, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, he who smells of death and destiny, heroism and heartbreak.’
She hadn’t raised her voice. But somehow she didn’t need to. The howling of the wind did nothing to drown out her words as she laid a hand lightly on his chest, yet stopped him as abruptly as if he’d walked into a wall. Fingertips landed over the spot where beneath layers of wool and leather, his medallion stirred sluggishly. But that was not what sent the sensation of meltwater through his veins.
How long had it been since he’d heard those words? It had been on another road, another would be lonely road save for his horse and the all too bright and fragile human life that found themselves towed into his slipstream. He tasted onion. And bile.
‘You are not welcome here.’
He was here. Or he had been. Those words had never made it into any songs. He never…
He wasn’t fast enough to stop her as she slipped past him, nor did he offer resistance as she took Roach’s reins from his slack fingers, too lost in the storm breaking within his mind to pay much mind to the one raging around them. Only Ciri’s panicked little hitch of breath dragged his eyes away from their frenetic searching of the town far below them, even as it sank ever further into darkness.
‘Hey there,’ their guard crooned to Roach, reins slack in one hand and the knuckles of the other proffered just below Roach’s muzzle. The mare took a moment to shy before shuffling at the hand, whickering when she found it acceptable and again at the scratch of nails on her broad cheek. ‘Hey, old girl.’ The stranger’s hood barely shifted as she raised her head to address Ciri, the girl’s face tight with resignation and exhaustion. ‘Hello, shall we get you all out of this storm now? We’ve shelter and warm food and dry clothes down in the town. It’s not far now, I promise. Are you alright to hold on a little longer?’
Ciri’s ‘Yes’ was far too thin and faint for Geralt’s liking, and apparently, their new host felt the same. She made a soft sound and started shucking the long, still fairly dry cloak from around her shoulders. The hood fell away as she whipped it up and into the wind, tucking it around Ciri’s shaking, sodden form.
‘Come on, let’s get you inside,’ she said, her tone soft and motherly as she tugged gently on Roach’s reins, making soft, encouraging clicking noises all the while. They passed by Geralt, still frozen in the spot where he’d planned to make his stand. The stranger’s face was turned away from him slightly as she passed, looking over her shoulder to continue to murmur encouragement to Roach and keep an eye on Ciri. A mass of dark hair laced with grey danced into life, escaping from under the shawl still around the broad shoulders, but Geralt still managed to catch a glimpse of the face in the poor light. Tawny, weatherbeaten skin. A wide mouth. A nose that looked like it had been broken at least twice. Large, impossibly dark eyes.
She didn’t spare him a look as they passed, and they were a fair few strides off down the path before she called to him. ‘Keep up Witcher, or would you prefer to stay out on the bluffs for the night?’
They didn’t slow and the realisation that he was allowing Ciri to be carried off into the unknown spurred him into long-overdue action. Ciri’s look of hope tempered harshly by fear had him stumbling to Roach’s side and slipping his hand into hers. ‘You said I wasn’t welcome,’ he said, aiming for intimidating and only coming off as slightly lost.
‘Neither is that storm,’ their host replied, her free hand indicating out to sea where the heart of the tempest roiled. Even in the encroaching rain and retreating light, Geralt could see the clouds warring out over the water, lightning illuminating from within and smudging the horizon with the fury only a storm could hold. And while they’d been battered in the very edges of its reach, it was approaching on an inland bound wind. ‘But you’re rolling in regardless and there are souls here in need of care.’ Ciri’s shaking became more violent as they dropped off the exposed top of the cliffs and started the descent into the small town, Roach going slowly to pick a careful path on tired hooves. ‘Welcome, all of you’ she said, as they came upon the first few low buildings, hunkered low like cattle in poor weather, ‘to Port Wyląg.’
Gilly waved goodnight to the two women as they hurried away up the beach towards the bulk of town, tugging their layers about them as they went and leaning into one another for stability on the small, uneven dunes. Only when they were well on their way did she allow herself a worried huff and a moment to chew her lip.
There was no one else out there then.
She cast a look back over her shoulder, at the man lying on the pallet before the fire. He was not asleep but he could not be described to fully be in the land of the living either. Word was no one had managed to get much out of him bar indistinct noises since he’d been found and he’d been none the more talkative since he’d been all but carried through her doorway.
She’d taken her chances to look at him while he’d been tended to, with Rafal’s gentle ministration and Tola’s abrupt mercies. He was gaunt; thin in a way that spoke of losing fat and muscle mass rapidly. He looked shipwrecked. Gilly had seen it before; sailors cast adrift by disaster and their bodies pushed to the limits of what can be endured.
But his clothes. Though undoubtedly in ruins, the once fine red silks did not speak of seafaring. When they’d peeled his boots from his feet, the soles were calloused and toughened. Could be from years on a ship’s deck or from years on the road, there was no telling as of yet and their new guest wasn’t forthcoming with any answers. They’d asked him questions, in as many languages as they had among the town, but excusing a few terrible accents, no one was able to get him to talk. Gilly suspected a language barrier was not the current problem; they would just need to wait until their guest felt up to talking. He’d had little with him when young Marika and Stefek had found him, their hopes of a romantic twilight stroll somewhat dashed. All this man had besides a near-empty pack was a lute that, even in his weak state, he held like it was his firstborn.
They’d searched as best they could in the poor light; folks from the town scouring the beach and cliffs but not found anyone else. Nor could anyone see any sign of wreckage and there was no news of ships in their waters or plans of known vessels en route, the manifest not noting anything of import until the autumn winds pick up at the next moon or so. Though, knowing their current state, the records counted for very little to assuage any worries. Sharp-eyed runners had been sent up to the lighthouse to see if they could spot anything in the dying light, but all reports had yielded nothing.
Wherever this fellow had come from, it looked like he’d come alone.
And however tragic that may be for him, it was solace for Gilly and her little colony.
Once she was sure Rasine and Alina were well on their way home, Gilly cast one more searching look out into the bay. It had started a fine day, summer’s heat still lingering in the earth even as the air was slow to shake off the chill of the night. But the sky had been threatening since mid-afternoon, clouds heavy with rain that the land had so missed these last few dry months. The wind had picked up hours ago but, the gods be kind, the rain had stayed its hand until after the search had been stood down. Now the rain was peppering the surface of the idling waves. Dark shapes were slipping between the crest of the waves, small figures taking the opportunity the calm water granted. Gilly smiled fondly to herself before offering out a silent word of affection, before closing the door on the rain.
She turned to her guest once more, surveying him in his wretched state. There’d been an unspoken agreement of her taking him in for the night; he might be weak, but he was still an unknown and while Rafal could have handled him, there was no chance they were risking Zofia and the baby. He’d stay here, where she could keep an eye on him and keep her people safe if he intended any harm. If he didn’t, then he’d just have to suffer her attempts at a bedside manner.
He didn’t react as she moved towards the fire, nor when she picked up the bowl of broth and settled down by his shoulder to offer it to him again. It was a meagre meal, but he looked like rich food would do him more harm than good. Still, he did not take her up on the offer, not for the first time that evening.
He’d not eaten, not spoken, only consented to ministrations with weak noises and miserable looks. She was treated to another as she made herself comfortable on the floor at the head of his palette, the light of the fire dancing in his slightly glassy eyes. Gilly tried their luck once more, raising the bowl again in silent question but he only shrank further into the furs around his shoulders.
The wind whistled outside, rattling the door a little against its latch, the tinkle a laugh above the murmur of the rain. It rustled through the grasses overhead and curled around the chimney stack, following the warmth down. It danced with the smoke, taking the hands of the flames and dragging them into reels and gigs. As the flames jumped, a log snapped and crumbled and flared.
He flinched.
There was a soft, wounded sort of noise and he hunkerd down further into the furs, cringing back from her and trying to make his slight frame slighter. Gilly found herself startled for a moment, but soon grimaced and closed her eyes, her sigh lost in that of the wind.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said, keeping her voice as low and soothing as she could. He was trembling again, and this time she didn’t think it was from the cold or exhaustion. ‘There’s nothing to fear, I promise. You comfortable?’
She didn’t expect a response, but it still made her heart sink when all he did was turn to stare listlessly into the fire. At least he felt safe enough to take his eyes off of her. Or had resigned himself to whatever fate he feared.
Gilly swallowed and rolled to her feet as quite and smoothly as she could, careful to keep her movements slight and slow as she tucked the bowl into a shelf in the hearth. ‘I promise you, you won’t come to any harm here, so long as you offer harm to none. Look,’ she picked her way carefully around the foot of his pallet and stood by the door. She shrugged out of the cloak she still had wrapped around her and after a moment of hesitation, the fur shawl joined it on the hooks beside the door. She turned, an arm sweeping out indicating the door and the very clear path he had to it. ‘You are no prisoner here, you’re our guest. But I think we need to see to our rest this evening.’ Her foot settled on the bottom stair and she shifted her weight, the wood creaking reassuringly. ‘I’ll be upstairs. If you require anything, you only need to sing out.’ She saw the flinch, even if she did not understand it. ‘We’ll see each other in the morning. Things may look better in the light of day.’
She’d never been good at small talk or platitudes, but as she settled for the night, listening to the occasional sniffle or rustle from downstairs, she could offer a roof over his head and a listening ear. If he was ever to need it.
Gilly was not surprised to find the palette abandoned the next morning.
She’d slept, a little uneasily with a strange presence in her small home, but between one moment and the next, she was waking with the calls of the skuas. Cockerels put in a good show at dawn, but they didn’t have the grating persistence of seabirds. The house had been quiet, so she redressed with her outer layers and came down the stairs slowly and loudly. The furs were a little rucked, but nothing that suggested her mysterious guest had left in a hurry. Last night’s food was still tucked away in the hearth, the last few traces of warmth in the terracotta as she picked it up, stirring the spoon through the congealing broth.
She couldn’t blame him for turning down her cooking to be fair. Wherever he’d flown off to, she hoped he was where he needed to be. She set her shoulders and set about cleaning up her home, walking to the basin and butcher’s block.
The bowl shattered as it hit the leg of the table, the scattered pieces of pot rocking back and forth.
She’d tripped. Her foot had caught on something and snagged in the furs to send her pitching to the floor. Kicking and muttering darkly did little to free her, so she rolled over and flicked the furs off of her boots.
Around her ankle was a wide strap of dark leather, supple and well treated. The lute. He’d left the lute.
Unease started to curdle in Gilly’s stomach. He’d clung to that thing like it was the only anchor he had and he’d left it behind? Had he left it in payment? She highly doubted it, Gilly had no expertise in the matter but as she picked it up gently she could tell it was an exquisite thing. Far too dear to a price for a night with a turf roof over one’s head and uneaten mutton broth.
The rattle of the door bolt striking against its housing snapped Gilly’s attention away from the crumpled heap of a battered red silk doublet on the floor. The door was listing gently in the breeze, like a ship not moored right and bumping into the dock with every swell of the tide. Gilly placed the lute down, leaning it against the bench and cautiously headed towards the door as it swung wide once more.
There was a figure, far down the sands. Thin and tall, not a silhouette she could recognise as one of her people. Calmly walking into the water, paying it no heed as the waves lapped around his hips.
‘Oh shit.’
She didn’t stop to think, just fisted her hand in the blankets hanging by the door and exploded out of the doorway of her home. Her boots sank into the soft sands of the dunes but she kept running, vaguely hearing the shouts of alarm further along the beach as the harbour began to wake for the day and a few voices called to her from already cast fishing boats. She dug deeper as she hit the compact sand and shingle, sprinting up to and along the outcrop of rock that pointed out into the waves, like an accusation. She couldn’t see him any longer. Dark bodies were slipping into the water off the rock shelves along the bay and she followed their bearing, headed for a point somewhere between them.
She snarled, dropped the woollen throw, and leapt.
*******************
Jaskier can distantly feel the bite of the cold water nipping at his toes as he continues to walk forward. It’s alright though, he doesn’t mind. It’s soothing on his feet, gently numbing the little slices and cuts the uncountable shells fragments had left as he’d walked. And the breeze was fresh and already warming.
He’s not complaining. Never complaining. He’s fine. He’s had worse.
His heart is strangely dulled in his chest. It’s still there, beating rabbit quick, but he can’t feel it like he ought. He rubs a hand over his breast bone, but, it doesn’t do anything. Not that he had expected it to. Nothing had really done much of late. It was still in there, but it just felt a little off, like a seed rattling around in its pod. It’s alright, it just needs a little longer and everything will work out.
He drags his fingertips through the surf as he keeps walking and the foam dances between his crooked fingers, clinging to his knuckles in little rings of bubbles that dissolve as soon as he looks. So he doesn’t look, doesn't inspect. Just, takes it at face value. The nudging on the waves against his thighs isn’t affection or greeting, it’s just pushing.
It doesn’t care.
Why should it?
But it’s fine. He’s fine.
He’s just tired. Nothing he can’t handle.
His breath hitches slightly as the cold reaches up over his hips all of a sudden. But it’s alright. It’s nice really. The sea’s calm, tugging him gently along with each retreating wave. There’s no rush, no overwhelming sense of he has to be somewhere now, doing something now. And there’s no one in front of him, there’s no one to follow. He thinks it may have been like that for a while now, but, he’d not thought to appreciate that before. There’s no shadow on his horizon, no star that burned so white and so fierce that in trying to hitch his wagon, he’d burn. Just the cool clutch of water around his waist and the warmth of the early sun as it climbed higher. The water glitters beautifully in this light, stretching out before him and dancing back and forth, back and forth. He liked dancing. He misses dancing.
He’s dancing.
So light and slow. Held up and borne through each step by the gentlest, coldest of hands. He probably shouldn’t be dancing. Dancing meant music and, no. No music. Not just now, not just yet. It had been too much for him. He’d been too much. He’d always been too much. Everywhere he’d gone. Too bright. Too big. Too loud. Too grasping. Too vulnerable.
Too trusting.
He’d trusted him, hadn’t he.
He’d trusted himself too. He’d believed himself when he told himself he could handle it; the roughing it, the cold, the hunger, the moods as unpredictable as they were all-encompassing and immovable. He’d promised himself he could take it. He’d had worse, he’d told himself, he’d endured worse. He had.
But it had been so long. He’d dreamed he never would, not by his hand.
He just needs the noise to stop for a little while. He needs quiet. He wishes the gulls would stop crying for a moment. And the voices too, he thinks he can hear them. A goodly way away and behind him. Maybe he should look around and find them. Ask them where he is. He’s lost, he knows he is. Has been for a while.
Maybe later. If he’s sure he wouldn’t be imposing, wouldn’t be a burden.
His chest is feeling a little tight as he thinks it and the water swaddles around his ribs. It ebbs back and forth, a consoling stroke or a pat on over his shoulder as it gets too eager.
Don’t think it, don’t think about it. He didn’t mean it. He was hurting. He didn’t…
He needs some quiet.
He thinks there must have been tears on his cheeks, but once the surf has wiped them away, it made little difference as to if they fell or not. Maybe that was why his chest hurts, if he’s been crying. He’s been doing that a lot lately, seeing the rugged beauty of the Caingorn valley through a glassy veil. Or had it been Yamurlak…
It doesn’t matter, the logistics of how he was lost. Only that he was.
He blinks as his eyes began to sting a little more and the world around him goes muffled and quiet. A little darker too, as the sunlight reaches him through jade green water. The weight of it presses in on him from all directions, holding him still. Holding him tight and safe. The change is intoxicating, in a way that the little drink he’d been able to scrounge could never be.
He isn’t flying in all directions, his mind isn’t scattering like light through cut gems. He doesn’t need to be anything here. He doesn’t have to hear anything.
Doesn’t need to think.
He wants to gasp, wants to scream in relief, wants to sob and cry and wail, but his body doesn’t seem to want to, and he doesn’t have the strength to argue. He’s so tired. Everything hurts. Had he been holding it together after all? Had his chest always ached this badly and he’d never know? Maybe if he closes his eyes it will pass…
Something moves in the green gloom.
There’s something over there, on the edge of his awareness, though that seems to be striking in on him even as he considered it. Several somethings, dark and quick and darting. He’s got no strength to fight or flee, but it doesn’t matter. They’re on him before it occurs to him to make a choice.
It’s their eyes that his wavering mind first notices. Huge, soulful and dark. They loom out of the murk, circling closer. He tries to follow them, but his neck hurts. His head’s heavy. His eyes tired.
He blinks and there was a face in front of his.
The same huge eyes look back at him over a long dark snout. He feels like they’re searching him, as the head cocks slightly, like a hound hearing a new sound. The light catches on the pale grey of the fur of its head and turns the whiskers edging closer to silver. The body follows the tilt of the head, and suddenly the inquisitive beast is rolling over in a fluid roil of dappled pelt and flippers.
There are more of them, a few smaller ones, not daring to come quite as close. Are they smaller? It’s hard to tell in this light. And his sight’s starting to dim a little at the edges. But the one before him, larger and scarred across the snout, hold’s its steady scrutiny, drifting closer. It’s so close he could reach out and touch it if only his arms would cooperate.
He so wants to touch its silver-grey fur. He wants to feel something soft. He’s cold and it hurts.
There’s a nudge against his chest and bubbles erupt in his vision.
Jaskier gasped at the contact and the seawater flooded into his mouth.
It rushed his windpipe with the ferocity of a sieging army breaching a city wall, the flagging adrenalin in his veins responding with one last wild attempt. He hadn't meant to ignore it, he hadn’t meant for this. He’d just wanted some quiet. He didn’t want it anymore.
His throat contracted as the water hit his lungs, trying to cough it back up even as his bewildered body dragged more in. The cold was in him now, chilling him from within, slowing his sluggish movements further, dragging the light above him further away in tortuous pull. There was something under his fingers, something slick and moving and he flinched. His hands went to his throat, scabbling at the skin of his neck though he knew it will do him no good, but he was too far gone. He couldn’t tell which sobs were going in and which out. The panic flooded him as thoroughly as the water, and the grief soon after. He was being buffeted from all sides, heavy bodies pressing in and dragging him along. He thought he felt teeth at the back of his neck.
Jaskier had heard, that in the last few desperate moments of a person’s life, their many endeavours and sins can spill out before them like some great embellished tapestry. But his traitorous heart steered him away from any of the euphoria and joy some 20 years as a songbird and storyteller may have brought him. Because he’d near downed once before, hadn’t he, on his own blood and brash nature. It had hurt then too, a burning every time his body desperately sought air. He’d been so scared. He wasn’t sure if he’s as scared now. Now, he’s just resigned and heartbroken. There was no soft breeze or dappled sunlight through the trees, no cracked amphora foretelling disaster, no blood mixing with the bile surging up his throat.
No arm around his back, no hand under his, no voice in his ear.
He prayed anyway.
‘Geralt.’
He didn’t care if no god would touch his wretched soul for this. He’d choose how he spent his last seconds on this mortal coil, even if it meant breaking his own heart as it finally failed.
The crushing pressure on his chest surged, his shrinking world was turmoil and motion, and then, light.
*******************
Gilly exploded through the surf with a sound that was a rattling gasp and a vicious shout locked in a battle of wills. She dragged in a breath, sputtering as her heavy armful struggled weakly. The young man was still conscious, by some absurd miracle, but he was spasming in her arms, desperately trying to suck air into waterlogged lungs.
She ought to tell him to relax, to let himself lie on his back and float, for the water to the work for him, but she could see he was too scared to listen. She just hooked her arms under his, sculling them back towards the rocky outcrop as fast as she could as he desperately tried to use her arm as any sort of leverage to keep his head above the foam. She could hear the wet rattle in his gasps and panicked choking and grit her teeth, kicking harder even as her muscles started to demand their debts be paid. Every few feet, every couple of lumbering strokes, dark heads breached the surface to observe and snort at the pair of them. She rolled her eyes and muttered at them all for fussing still, but they all knew it was only be to save her dignity. And she didn’t dare split her attention more than she had to.
He was still clutching at her arm with a white-knuckled grip as Gilly reached out to find a handhold on the rock, gripping hard and allowing the current to tow them both into the lee of the outcrop. Grunting with the effort, she dragged him up her own body and hefted him towards the rock, biting out ‘Climb,’ as encouragingly as she could. He couldn’t pull himself up, but she ducked under the waves once more and got a shoulder under his thighs, pushing up until he pitched forward and onto the smooth surface. She was up a moment after him, surging up and onto the ledge and scrambling toward him. He was on all fours and retching between great wracking breaths, head down and his whole body shaking violently. A steady stream of water and bile splattered onto the rock in front of him and Gilly snatched the woollen throw, only slightly damp with spray and about to get damper, and spread it into the breeze to bring it down and wrapped it around his shaking form. Her hands went to his back in short order, rhythmically pushing along his spine to work the water out of his lungs. She wasn’t sure he could hear the comforting nonsense she was murmuring as, with a monumental effort, he raised his head to look at her. She smiled weakly at him, but she knows that her expression more than likely is closer to his own than anything that may convey comfort. Her smile flickered out as his hands fluttered against her arms, each finger tinged a little blue below the nail. His grip slipped on the thin leather of her vambrace but knotted tight in the sodden linen sleeves as he pulled strength from the gods knew where. For all you could moor a boat to that grip, Gilly had to catch him as he started to pitch to the side, slinging an arm around his shoulders to keep his head from cracking on the rocks.
‘Hey, steady. Steady, I’ve got you.’
He couldn’t hear her, she was certain of it, or at least couldn’t understand just yet. There was a wild, shocky look in his eyes, even as he stared at her, his face a few inches from hers. Gilly winced as his gaze slid over her as if she wasn’t there, but it didn't last long. She sees the moment when he’s back with her, when the mist behind the cornflower blue burns away and he’s staring at her. Staring at her with a focus that is more than a little unnerving for even her, his gaze dizzying even as tears started to well, unnoticed for now.
‘It’s alright, breathe, I’ve got you.’
He was trying to say something, his jaw working and lips moving in unsure shapes as his chest still heaved. His breathing was still laboured, but the cadence had shifted. He was struggling for breath for a whole new reason.
The first sob caught her by surprise, much to her own chagrin. It wasn’t an uncommon reaction, she’d found. A soul snatched back from the brink of death may cry in terror, or gratitude, or relief.
But she was still unnerved when the next one came, and the next.
This, she thought numbly as her charge bowed his head, his hands slipping from her arms to curl into fists on the rock below them, this was something else. He clenched his teeth on the sobs, his face screwed against them but a thin, wounded noise still escaped him. Gilly rocked back on her heels as his fist flew up, missing her narrowly, only to come slamming down onto the rocks. He did it again, and again, the high, keening sound changing into deeper, wracking sobs as all his strength left him at once, leaving him to slump forward onto his elbows. His hands were bloody with slices and nicks but he didn’t seem to care as he covered his face, howling his misery into his palms.
This, Gilly thought, as she shuffled uneasily forward to wrap her arms around his shaking for, this is heartbreak.
She didn’t know how long she sat with him as he cried. The lads on the boat called to her as they passed, asking if she needed help. She most definitely did, with an armful of distraught young man, but she waved them on, lest they miss the early tide. She’d figure it out.
More persistent were the grey heads bobbing in the water, with the disquieted eyes and the odd snort. But they would leave when they had want to, and not a moment before.
She gave him as long as she can bear, the sun valiantly doing its best to warm them both, but they were both soaked through still and the wind wasn’t as gentle as it could be. And she was hale and healthy.
He’d near cried himself out by the time she was able to get his feet under him, down to wheezing little breaths that only pushed her harder to have him inside, warm and dry. The pair of them buckled as she encouraged him to stand under his own strength. She dropped to a knee in front of him and draped him over her back, hefting him up like a child tuckered out after a day of adventure.
She needed to get him dry and warm. Fresh clothes and hot food. His breath rattled in her ear and she bit her lip, scanning the homesteads as she staggered through the deeper shingle. She’d seen this happen sometimes, when the sea claims souls even if they make it to land one last time. They needed to tend him, the next few days being just as perilous for him as this morning had been.
The girl collapsed as soon as they’d crossed the threshold of the cottage.
Gilly had walked a fine line as she’d lead the two travellers into town. She needed them out of harm’s way as fast as possible, for both their safety and that of her people, but she also needed to catch someone’s eye. And not to move at such a rate that it sparked suspicion or any other of the Witcher’s finely tuned instincts. Instincts that, at this very moment, Gilly would bet were chasing their tails in dismay. He was trying to appear composed and in control, but she could see the desire to bolt barely leashed. He could run, but the gods knew he’d run out of coastline soon. And the lass didn’t look like she’d weather much more of this.
She didn’t bother to make conversation, too much of an effort over the wind, just kept towing the patient mare behind her, the horse picking a careful route through the last stretches of the cliff path. She took them just a little wide of the most direct route. It was a gamble, but she needed to catch someone’s attention, someone who’d be discreet. Music was still burbling from the longhouse, snatches being carried off by the possessive winds and the lights were still burning inside. Smoke coiled lazily from the bonfires scattered before the long hall, the cloy of wood ash thick in the air, tickling Gilly’s nose until the winds cresting the rooftops spirited it inland. The scents of this evening’s festivities mixed in the air, tumbled by the wind. Smoke, flowers, people, drink, meat, all mixing together Behind her, she heard the Witcher try to silence a sneeze.
The doors of the longhouse swung open and Gilly had just enough time to shut one eye against the spill of the light and warmth, the shadows of figures in the doorway towering over their little party. Behind her, the Witcher grunted at the light and she turned to catch him raising a hand to shade his eyes.
‘Our apologies, Ser Witcher,’ Gilly said, calling over her shoulder to him, voice loud to be heard over the hubbub. ‘You’ve caught us on the night of our harvest revelry. We have lodgings where you can rest, a cottage near the edge of town, away from the festivities.’ He made a non-committal, distracted noise in reply and his step staggered for a moment, caught in the shaft of gold as music and laughter filled the air. He didn’t move, not when Gilly called, seemingly caught in the light as if he was set in amber. She could just see at this distance, and with her one good night eye, the Witcher’s eyes. He made no move, but his gaze flickered back and forth. He must be following the scene inside, as bodies wheeled and soared through dances like swallows on the wind. She couldn’t have blamed him, if he was indeed transfixed by the sight.
Being faced with a wild-eyed witcher, tense and trembling like a hound on point, was all the encouragement Zofia and little Adrianna needed to head back inside again. His neck craned as the door closed inch by inch, the light painted a livid slash across his face, a fault line of gold running from his hairline to his chin.
‘It’s not far,’ Gilly called, breaking him from the odd seconds of vigil he’d held over a pair of oak doors. ‘Come. There’ll be opportunity enough later.’
The cottage was something of a necessary oddity. A safety precaution. Somewhere whatever poor waif and stray might stay and get their feet back under themselves. Near enough to be observed and assisted but not so close that harm could come to any of her folk were their guest of a mind. None had yet had the chance, though, her folk typically going on the offensive and adopting the lost soul into the fold whether they say or no. A fine place for these two, for now. But first, someone else needed settling in.
Eryk beat them to the stable yard, running to overtake them in a wide arc so by the time the smell of hay and horse had replaced smoke, there was already a stall door standing open. Gilly led the mare into the barn of stalls to find the lad industriously laying down a bed of straw by the flickering light of a safety lantern, still in what passed for his best garb and flushed from dancing. There weren’t many horses in the stables at this time; no mares in foal and the weather wasn’t quite bad enough yet for their herd. At the sound of a new arrival though, a few mealy-nosed faces appeared over stall doors, wickering and huffing in greeting and curiosity.
Gilly was saved the delicate task of getting the girl down off of the mare’s back when she slumped over the horse’s neck, her whole frame still and limp but for the fingers twisted bloodless in the mare’s mane.
‘Ok, sweetheart,’ Gilly said, pushing the girl’s pale hair away from her paler face, ‘we’re going to get you down.’ She flowed like water out of the saddle and into the Witcher’s arms, barely making a sound as she weakly burrowed into sodden wool. The Witcher looked torn, terribly aware of his precious and suffering burden but he was also looking at Eryk with an intensity that could have scorched a man were he to mind it. Eryk had no care to mind though, there was a new horse in his charge. One who needed rest and care. Gilly couldn’t help but smile fondly as he set about untacking the tired horse, keeping up a steady murmur of welcomes and introductions as he set about brushing her down. If the Witcher’s concern was for his horse’s behaviour, there was a moment of flattened ears and bared teeth but by the time he had the young lass in a steady carry, his mare was cautiously touching noses with the spirited little gelding next door.
Gilly turned her back on the delighted squeals to clasp a hand on Eryk’s shoulder. ‘Thank you lad,’ she said softly and got a flustered smile in response. ‘She shouldn’t need too much tonight; feed, water, a blanket. She can enjoy your hospitality fully in the morning, alright.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ Eryk said, brush still passing over and over the horse’s saddle stains, the skin there twitching as the itches were worked out. ‘Does she have a name?’ At Gilly’s shrug, he looked to the Witcher with a patient expectancy that never fails to impress and amuse her.
‘Roach’, the Witcher mumbled, clutching the girl closer to himself like her slight form was something he could hide behind.
Eryk just made an interested noise and returned to his new charge, scratching her gently on the cheek when she butted him out of the way of the hay. Gilly hid her wince as she stooped to pick up the discarded saddlebags. But for the two swords, clumsily camouflaged within bedrolls, the packs were light and Gilly threw them over her shoulder, taking up the swords in her free hand with a grunt.
‘Don’t stay out here too long Eryk, don’t get cold.’ Eryk made a grudgingly agreeable sort of noise, waving a blithe hand at the Witcher’s bitten-out demand that he ‘take care of her’. Gilly shifted the saddlebags on her shoulder and leant into the wind as they left the shelter of the barn.
‘Give me those,'' the Witcher said, doing his best to shift the girl into one arm and maintain a secure and comfortable grip. He didn’t quite manage it, but he held out his hand for their packs, his eyes trained on the swords hefted in Gilly’s free hand. ‘Just point us in the direction of your inn.’
Gilly just raised an unimpressed eyebrow and huffed, not really slowing as she led them once more into the darkness. Dark but for two small points of light that grew bigger as they approached. Smoke was starting to curl out of the chimney, hesitant, like a small forest creature sticking its nose out into the first thaw of spring. The glow was just enough to cast a shadow that moved around inside, no doubt stacking firewood and arranging cots.
Alba is indeed making house when Gilly shouldered the door open, the young woman still bundled in her wraps as she dropped furs and blankets onto the cot bed beside the slowly blossoming hearth. For all the notice she’d had, she’d done a good job; fire going, water on to boil, more in basins at the kitchen bench, bedding sourced, cold meats, cheese and bread out. So there were a few cobwebs still, no concern there.
There was a small commotion in the doorway when Gilly turned to set the packs and blades on the table. She saw Alba make an aborted sort of movement, unsure if her assistance was required or would be welcomed. The Witcher had tried to set the lass on her feet but she now hung limp in his grasp, her legs bowing under her as he panicked.
‘Bring her in, Ser Witcher,’ Gilly said crisply, nodding to the cot by the hearth when he looked up at her with wide eyes. ‘Let’s get your little miss in and warmed, shall we? Alba,’ she caught the young woman’s arm as she moved forward, concern writ clear across her face. ‘Good job here. Get Rafal, tell him we’ve someone in need of aid. And Tola too. If she’s not too deep in her cups.’
Alba gave a curt nod and slipped out of the door, pulling her scarf up around her face as she headed back into the night. She’d be happier with a mission in mind, Gilly knew, then trying to play host and nursemaid. The Witcher shuffled over to the fire with his faintly protesting armful, settling her gently onto the stool and selecting a fur to wrap around her.
‘Wait, dry clothing first,’ Gilly told him, flipping the saddle packs open and finding them, as she suspected, perilously empty. A few trinkets scattered across the table top as she up-ended first one pack then the other: empty glass vials, a dulled pocket knife, a few waxed sheets that may have held rations. The Witcher turned away from her when she looked around at him once more, mouth twisting a little it what could have been shame. There’s not much in the way of clothing; a man’s pale shift shirt being about the only thing suitable and dry. She gave it a quick sniff before she tossed it to the Witcher and he caught it out of the air with a slightly stricken look in his eyes.
Gilly would never claim to be an expert on human emotion, or whatever nonsense the Witcher would no doubt growl about humanity and the lack he has, but she liked to think that she’s been around long enough to get by. And there are some folk who are excellent at reading the animal tells of others, the little twitches and flickers that, once upon a time, were all there was for communication. But she doesn't need to be those folk.
The Witcher had a moment of indecisive anguish, before he draped the garment over his shoulder and started to peel the girl out of her sopping clothing with the utmost care and gentleness. She made tired little noises as he worked, slipping off her stool and curling against his chest as he started a steady rumble of soothing nonsense. Gilly thought he might actually snarl at her when she brought over a swath of toweling, but he nodded in acquiescence and Gilly gently started patting the child’s hair dry, drawing back when the linen shift was pulled over her head. It dropped to her mid thigh and slipped a little at her shoulders, not quite swamping her but she had to shake the cuffs back in order to twist her fingers in the furs and drag them closer about herself.
Gilly was lighting candles and lamps by the time Rafal arrived, Tola on his arm and swaying only slightly. The Witcher stood from where he’d been kneeling in front of his lass, had hardly moved from his spot, anxiously watching her miserable face, and put himself between the door and her before pausing. Gilly enjoyed the flicker of hesitancy in the Witcher’s eyes. She imagined it was a novelty for him, having to look up to look someone in the eye. Rafal ducked through the cottage’s door frame, twisting slightly to allow for the breadth of his shoulders. His ruddy beard twitched as he smiled kindly at the Witcher and wiggled his fingers in a small wave to the glassy eyed lass that she may not have registered. The Witcher, whether it be the presence of Port Wyląg’s gentle giant or exhaustion or confusion, paused. And that was all the opening Tola needed to strike.
‘Where is she then?’, came the shrill voice, punctuated with the crack of a walking stick against shins. The Witcher gasped, more in affront than pain, as a wizened, hunched little lady skittered around his bulk. Rafal sighed as he shut the door.
‘Well, hello there dearie,’ Tola said merrily, hooking another, taller stool with her walking stick and dragging it over to hop onto. ‘And who might you be?’
The girl blinked owlishly up at her and the pair of them looked like fragile birds for a moment, sitting on their perches. It took a little while for the words to make sense to the girl, and she looked to the Witcher before answering, ‘Fiona,’ in a thin voice.
‘She’s my daughter,’ the Witcher said, seeming to remember himself and coming to hunker down beside her, a great bedraggled buzzard mantling over a little blue bird.
Tola gave them both an unimpressed look. ‘Fiona? You daughter?’, she asked dryly. ‘This the story we’re going with for now?’ Rafal made a pained sort of noise from where he was stoking the fire.
‘Mother…’
‘Well, we’ll know soon enough, regardless. How long have you been out in that hell?’ she asked, looking archly from under her brows as she reached out towards the lass with both hands, fingers probing gently at her neck and ignoring the glowering Witcher.
‘Few days,’ he muttered, when she fixed him with a pointed look.
Tola hissed and even Gilly had to hide a wince, moving to the kitchen bench and starting to prepare something easy and hot to go over the fire to simmer.
‘Why on earth were you out there for days, you mad fool?’ Tola squawked, her fingers still at the girl’s neck, taking a pulse and murmuring apologetically when the girl moaned.
‘Running,’ was all he said after a miserable moment.
That took some of the fire out of Tola and she pursed her lips as she raised a hand to the girl’s forehead. She made a disagreeable sort of noise and hopped off her stool once more, tottering around to the girl’s back and tugging at the fur wrapped around her until they slipped away.
‘I know dearie, I’m sorry,’ she soothed as the girl whined and shivered, ‘I know you’re cold, this will only take a moment. Can you lean forward for me?’ Tola pressed an ear to the girl’s back as she slumped forward, the Witcher catching her gently by the shoulders. ‘Very good, now big deep breath in my girl.’ The lass did her best to fill her little chest, but she seized and her mouth crumpled like she was trying to bite back a cough. ‘If you need to cough, cough dearie.’ With permission granted, the girl proceeded to cough and hack like a cat with a fur ball. The Witcher made a panicked sort of noise, trying his best to hold her up. ‘There we go,’ Tola said when the girl had calmed from gasping and she’d moved to press her ear against the other side of the girl’s back, ‘can you manage another deep breath for me? Yes? Excellent, good girl.’ There was less coughing this time, but now that Gilly was listening to it, she could hear the wheeze and rattling in the girl’s breathing.
Tola’s disapproving frown was only made sterner by the laughter lines that creased her face. ‘Hmm, I’m sorry to say my girl, but you appear to have a nasty case of wet lung there. We’re in the early stages but it’s more than likely going to get worse before it gets better. Rafal?’, she barked and Rafal turned from where he was much more expertly putting together the fixings for a broth than Gilly was. ‘Be a dear, we’ll need feverfew. Yarrow and chamomile. Poppy milk if we have it, nightshade if we don’t. Oh! See if Alina has any lemon left over; rind, flesh, pith, doesn’t matter. And some mead.’
Rafal stopped in the doorway, ducking his head back in once more. ‘That’s for you, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s for me,’ she said waspishly. ‘Forgive me for celebrating my own granddaughter's birthday. I will never begrudge my sacred duty or those in need,’ she stroked the lass’s hair as her voice turned haughty and her son laughed at her antics, ‘but you did drag me away from the festivities and Alfred had just started that good one about the incompentant captain!’
‘You just like that one because not knowing the right words is the whole point,’ and with that cheerful jab and his mother’s indignant squawk, Rafal disappeared into the dark.
‘Right, my girl, let’s get you comfortable. Oi, Papa,’ and the Witcher blanched, ‘come over here and make yourself useful.’ Between them, the Witcher and Gilly set up a nest for the lass near the fire, propping her up on fur covered bundles to help her lungs.
‘Can you not just… fix her?’ Tola looked up at the Witcher with an expression of one finding that one sour grape on the vine.
‘No, man, I can not just ‘fix her’, you never cared for anyone ill before?’, she said, fussing with the blankets as the girl shifted.
The Witcher muttered something that may have been ‘mage’.
Tola cackled. ‘Do I look like a sorceress to you, son!? The gods help you if you ever say something like that where one can actually hear you.’ She eventually calmed enough to read the discomfort on his face. ‘No lad, no mages around here. I don’t think the wild north suits their more delicate sensibilities. And if it did,’ she added darkly, ‘I don’t think they’d suit us.’
‘I thought she was coping,’ he said and he sounded so miserable and looked so defeated, even Gilly felt a trickle of pity.
‘The body may do that sometimes,’ Tola said matter of factly. ‘Hold out for as long as it can, then it can finally rest and the bailiffs come calling’.
‘She didn’t say anything.’
Gilly closed her eyes on that little confession, a sinking feeling in her chest. ‘No, I imagine she didn’t,’ she said, and the way the Witcher jerked to look at her, you’d think he’d forgotten she was there. ‘I think,’ she paused for a moment, lifting the cooking pot of broth and dumplings and navigating the tangle of fabric and legs to set the pot to heat from a hook in the hearth, ‘I think she had the utmost trust in you.’ The lass is on the edge of sleep now, her eyes closed and breathing shallow, but there’s a pale hand reaching blindly out of the mass of layers, wavering in the air.
The Witcher tentatively reached out with a scarred and calloused hand, gently wrapping his thick fingers around her trembling hand, stilling it as it was engulfed.
‘Keep that trust.’ Gilly didn’t see Tola look up at her sharply and thank all the gods, the door opened to have Rafal coming through bearing a basket. ‘Look after them, I’m stepping out for a while.’ She strode out the door, heedless of the cold and the wind, her woolen shawl somewhere in the discarded, soaked mess of fabric. ‘Need to talk to some folks.’
Four days.
Four days of a shivering, wretched existence that just wouldn’t end.
Unknown voices speaking softly, unrecognised faces wrinkled in concern, hands that were gentle but unfamiliar.
If the gods had been kind… No, he wasn’t going to think like that again.
But the sea had relented her grip on his lungs. Wrung him out in the process, but the clot and curdle had slowly ebbed, each time drawing back for long enough for him to choke out pleas and prayers or choke down some tea or tincture.
Oh gods preserve him, he must be feeling better if he’s thinking in alliteration...
On the fifth day, Jaskier rose with the sun, and breathed easier than he had done since perhaps Barefield. And that was the truth of it. He breathed easy, and his chest felt hollow.
The cottage had been empty when he awoke this morning. He remembered, at least in his more lucid moments, there’d always been a voice or two or a hand at his forehead. This morning, the coals had been banked and the house quiet, but for the wheezing snuffles of the two dogs who had joined him on his fireside pallet. He’d shoved their faintly grumbling weights off of himself only for them to come to bounding, noisy life as he’d made his way shakily to the door. He’d held onto the door for support as he’d cracked it open and been blinded by light. It was early enough still in the day that the sun was low and set the sea dazzling, light scattering in every direction and careless if it caught a man full in the face after days of relative darkness. Jaskier flinched and raised an arm to shield his eyes and that appeared all the opportunity the dogs required. By the time Jaskier could do anything more than squint, there were two sandy coloured forms running industriously up into rolling hills, heading for a figure standing on the ridge and scattering a few sheep as they went.
Well, mercifully, they knew where they were going.
The sea looked different this morning.
The light was glancing off the surf, the waves gentle and lapping at the shingle. There was the rustle of the pebbles and grit tumbling in the sea foam green, same as he’d heard last time, the sigh of the waves the same gentle greeting. The bite of salt was still strong on his tongue and the breeze still soft on his face.
Maybe it’s him that was different.
So when the waves offered welcome and drew him in, he responded a little differently.
He was gazing out at the horizon when she joined him. It startled him something fierce when he realised that she’d settled down beside him on the end of the rocky spit of land she’d hauled him up on days before, not a breath of noise to let him know she was there.
‘It’s another beautiful morning, isn’t it,’ she said softly, appearing not to care as Jaskier bit back a curse and sagged slightly, a hand over his bird-quick heart. She did him the curiosity of ignoring his fidgeting as he tried to settle again. ‘Breeze is fresh, should help the lads get back in easily later.’
Jaskier didn’t know what more to do than hum a little agreeable noise, tugging the blanket he’d taken from the cottage tighter around him. He risked a quick sideways look at her only to find her looking directly at him, a small, solicitous small tugging at her lips. ‘I’m sorry no one was there with you this morning, I was called away on some urgent business. I appreciate that it may not have registered the last time, but,’ she extended a hand out to him. Jaskier hesitantly slipped his hand into hers and was rewarded with a gentle squeeze, the skin of her palm rough and warm against his. ‘My name is Gilly.’ Jaskier could only quirk a faltering smile and mutter his thanks, his voice rough with misuse and disuse. ‘Oh good,’ she said, with genuine relief, ‘we were worried you didn’t understand the common tongue.’
‘No, I— I understand, thank you, I—’ Jaskier coughed, only the ghost of a rattle in his lungs, and tried again. ‘Thank you. For everything.’ He did not feel he had the strength to go into the particulars just yet, but he took her hand in both of his, trying to press his gratitude into her weathered fingers. ‘I’m sorry if I scared you this morning, taking off again.’
‘Not this morning, no,’ she said. ‘You’ve brought your boots with you this time.’
Jaskier jerked his head down to stare in bewilderment at his feet. There the boots were, salt water drying on the leather and leaving white shadows in its wake. He huffed a disbelieving breath only for it to become a shaky giggle.
‘There’s something about shedding layers to go sit by the sea,’ Gilly said as she worked her own boots off and rolled the legs of her breeches up, swinging her feet over the edge of the outcrop to let them dangle above the spray. She cast him a slightly expectant look, cocking an imperious eyebrow at him until he found he could only giggle more and follow her lead.
The spray tickled the soles of his feet and they sat in silence for a time, Jaskier studying her out of the corner of his eye, as he no doubt was being similarly watched.
Jaskier had long accepted himself an admirer of the human form, in all its varieties, but he felt he’d be hard pushed to remember anyone who looked quite like Gilly did. He found himself struggling to guess her age; her wild cloud of dark hair was liberally shot through with grey and her brown skin was lined and liver spotted, but her large eyes were bright and clear, her strong back showing none of the stoop that comes with age. She’d swum through the tide to him, had carried him, had sat with him night after night, but there were deep shadows under her eyes to speak of.
He could tell she knew he was watching her, but she didn’t seem to care, shrugging out of a pelt wrap and a leather jerkin to toss them over her boots. She was tall too, he thought, the phantom sensation of his arm across shoulders and his toes dragging in the shingle.
He watched as she took a deep lungful of air, sighing out heavily through her nose, eyes closed and leaning back on her hands, just basking in the morning sun. She looked terribly peaceful like that, Jaskier found himself thinking wistfully. There was a solidness about her that he couldn’t help but covet. He settled for matching her breaths, the soft rumble in his chest harmonising with hers, and turning his face to the sun.
They sat like that, in what might have been companionable silence, given time and a little practise. Nothing but the waves, the wind and the far off cry of seabirds as they wheeled and soared over the cliff. It might have been peaceful. Serene.
It wasn’t her fault, this wretched fizzing in the back of his throat, this shrill siren in this mind wailing and screeching. He’d walked with it for as long as he could remember, as constant as his own shadow in many respects. It has had a lot of voices over the years. His father was perhaps the most familiar caustic tone it took. His mother, a little less so, but just as biting. Tutors and teachers. Friends. The odd lover or two. Priss when he was being particularly ridiculous. Yennefer of godsdamned Vengerberg of late, and wasn’t that a revelation he intended to take to his grave.
But, for the last few weeks, they’d yielded centre stage for just the one voice.
And that voice, these last few exhausted, anguised, hellish weeks, had said more to him than he’d heard in 20 years of company. They’d been a pale mockery of the real thing, phrases cooked up for his own torment, but your own thumb still hurts when you hit it with a hammer.
He just needed to drown them out, he needed… oh gods.
‘I’m… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…. I know I… I owe you—’
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ Gilly said soothingly, raising a hand to stem the inelegant flow of words that had managed to shove their way past the strangled sensation in his throat. There were a few more uncomfortable, rasping sounds, an instrument not quite tuned. ‘You don’t need to apologise. Or explain. Or whatever else you may be thinking of.’
But he did though. He did. He needed to. His whole life had been demands for justification or explanation or reasoning. Anything. Because on so many occasions his words or actions or choices, they couldn’t possibly be judged on their own merit? Couldn’t be read for what they were. No, no of course not. Because even when you wear your heart on your sleeve, it gets lost in the embroidery.
‘It’s just,’ Gilly said and hesitated, choosing her words. ‘You scared me, a few days back,’ she said and while her voice was gentle, Jaskier fought the flinch.
‘And, I think you scared yourself.’
She was right. He had scared himself. He’d terrified himself. He’d walked calmly into the sea, walked straight into the cold embrace of what would have been his death, should have been. And he didn’t know why. The only explanation he had, at that moment, was that he’d just wanted the noise to stop. He just needed to not hear things, just for a little while. He just needed to not hear the words.
He could feel himself curling in on himself, trying it to hide behind the thin armour of soft wool. She didn’t push as he’d expected though, and he was grateful for her silence. He could attribute the sting behind his eyes to his teeth in his chapped lip. She’d probably listen. She may even care, maybe offer wisdom or comfort. But he didn’t want to hear it. He couldn’t explain himself, not beyond just apologising again and again. Because he didn’t know why he did it. And he was caught somewhere between fury and misery.
‘You scared them too, you know.’
She wasn’t looking at him when he looked around in shock, instead she was looking out over the water. She inclined her head towards the waves in front of him and Jaskier could see it now.
There was a grey head bobbing amongst the wave crests, slick and shining in the sunlight. There were a few of them, dipping in and out of sight, but the largest among them was holding steady. The large, dark eyes seemed intent on studying him as the seal slowly swam closer and Jaskier was reminded of the looks Roach used to give him, looks that had far too much intelligence for your common beast.
‘The females have just about finished pupping,’ Gilly said. She, like him, watched as the large seal drifted closer and closer to their perch. It didn’t pay much mind to the pups dotted around it, frolicking and floundering between other watchful adults. ‘They’re very protective. You were straying into the nursery waters. She’ll certainly come and investigate if she feels anything’s getting too close to the colony.’
The she in question had certainly come within earshot now and surveyed the pair of them with the aloof air of a prioress overseeing chattering novices. There were a few snorts and a honking bark and that was all the warning they got. She slipped out of sight only to surge up and out of the water with the next swell, hauling herself onto the sun warmed rock beside them.
Jaskier held very still, swallowing the startled squeak before it could embarrass him. The creature was slow and moving labouriously, but he could see it was heavy and longer than he had ever expected it to be. The mouth too, when she gave another bark and a yawn, was lined with wicked looking teeth. That quelled any foolish thought Jaskier may have had about reaching out to touch.
‘Hmm, yes, best keep your hands to yourself for now,’ Gilly said thoughtfully, as Jaskier curled into the tighter ball under the seal’s scrutiny, clutching the blanket to himself like a maiden with her modesty.
‘Has she, umm, has she a name?’
‘Bladderwrack.’
Jaskier’s mouth dropped open in outrage.
‘What?’ Gilly said with a shrug. ‘She chose it.’
There’s a snort that sounds far too much like agreement from the seal.
‘I’m sure we can do better than that,’ Jaskier huffed, unable to stop mind from rifling through all the sea imagery his decades of poetry could provide him.
‘Speaking of names,’ Gilly said gently, head tilted to one side, both relaxed and conspiratorial, ‘we never caught yours. We’ve mostly been referring to you as our visitor. Well, Tola’s been calling you other things.’ She winced a little but her warm smile returned in short order. ‘Again, you owe us nothing. But if you’d like us to know your name, we’d be glad to hear it.’
‘Alfred.’
Jaskier knew she didn’t buy it. There was too much of a pause as each of his names and aliases piled up on the back of his tongue. They dithered and fretted there, each with its own baggage and problems, each with a trail that could be followed.
So it’s the name borrowed from his favourite grandfather that came tumbling out of his mouth.
He knew she didn’t buy it, but he held her gaze and tried to ignore the cocked eyebrow.
‘Well met, Alfred. Welcome to Port Wyląg.’ she said, in a tone that wasn’t mocking him but was possibly judging him. Jaskier tried to smile winningly, but it possibly came off as weakly.
Bladderwrack just snorted and rolled over slightly with a huff.
He’d never heard of the place.
Jaskier, though a master of the seven liberal arts, wasn’t going to pretend that his geographical awareness factored in, by any stretch of the imagination. He knew he’d covered a lot of ground since the mountain. There’d been the arid scrub of the mountain range, then a small forest with a stream he’d followed down. The stream had become a river, meandering its way through a floodplain with small villages scattered here and there that he’d tried to avoid. Then there’d been a city on the coast and another further up the shore. He’d just kept walking, the pendulum swing of his legs a constant rhythm as it had been for the last few decades.
He’d just kept walking. Until evidently, he couldn’t.
‘And, umm, can I ask… where exactly Port Wyląg is? I don’t believe I’ve heard of it.’ Admittedly the memories of hours spent in his youth enduring his father’s lessons in commerce and trade agreements had dulled to a low roar, but he liked to think he had a memory for names.
Gilly huffed and gave him another soft smile. ‘No, I assume you wouldn't have. We’re at the western end of the Praxeda Bay,’ she said, happy to ignore the look of mild horror creeping onto Jaskier’s face. ‘Around the headland from Inis Porhoet.’ She jerked her head down the coastline to the south, when the hills curled back from the sea.
‘I thought there weren’t any trading posts beyond Lan Exeter?’, Jaskier asked weakly. Somehow, he’d walked near half the breath of the continent in a dwam. He’d wandered into a region of the map that was ill-defined and was often adorned with stretches of sea monsters capable of sinking a fleet.
‘We try and keep the general understanding that way,’ Gilly said with a noncommittal shrug, rolling her weight forward again to rest her arms on her knees. ‘We’re a small community here. We survive by fishing, farming, harvesting and the like. We trade a little,’ she said, indicating back towards the town. The docks were alive with activity now that the morning was moving on a pace. There was movement back and forth as the few ships were seen to, figures scurrying over them like ants over a fallen log. A few small boats were dotted between them and a few more bobbing out in the bay, trailing lines and nets into the water. The town is stirring, like a cat after a long nap. Smoke curled from a few chimney stacks, carts moved gingerly along the streets, there were distant sounds of joyful voices greeting one another.
‘But we try and keep to ourselves a little though. We’ve folks in need of shelter and it helps that the southern powers don’t care to rough it if they can help it’.
‘You have a lighthouse,’ Jaskier said, his voice a little dazed to his own ears. The little tower sat on the ridge of the cliffs, to the south of the town, like a pepper pot perched too close to the edge of the table. He watched the sunlight glint off its stone, only looking away when Gilly didn’t say anything. He thought perhaps she hadn’t heard him, but she was also looking up at the lighthouse and Jaskier was startled by the wistful look in her eyes. She flicked him a quick look, her face serious and the sadness gone from her gaze.
‘These are dangerous waters,’ she said gravely. ‘Sea and stone make for tempestuous couplings. Occasionally we do get travellers that make it this far up our coast, often not by their own efforts. We try and keep them safe, send them on their way again when they’re ready. I know it seems fickle, but it’s just to be a little light in the darkness.’
Whatever conversation Jaskier had turned to salt on his tongue and he looked back out to sea before she could comment. He concentrated on the pull of the waves for a while, schooling his aching chest to match the swell of the waves. He let the sounds wash over him again; the whisper of the water, the barks of the seal, the cries of gulls.
‘That’s what I tried to be.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Nothing, sorry.’
Jaskier knew she didn’t buy that, either. He bit down on his lip a moment later, to stem the words or stop the trembling, he didn’t know. The roaring in his ears was no longer just the waves. Heat prickled up his neck and was a stinging in his nose.
He’d been doing so well.
‘Hey, you're alright.’ Gilly’s hand alighted on his shoulder gently, squeezing as he curled in on himself. ‘You’re alright. You’re safe here. Just breathe for a minute.’ Jaskier pushed his forehead against his knees, his teeth creaking as he clenched his jaw, swallowing down the roiling in his stomach.
It passed and he was able to pull himself back together, lips stinging and breath shaking a little. Gilly’s hand was still a warm weight on his shoulder, her thumb rubbing small circles into his back.
‘They’re good listeners you know,’ she said, after a while of them both just looking out to the horizon.
Jaskier made an inelegant sort of questioning hum, lost in his own thoughts about nothing in particular.
‘Especially this old girl,’ she said, affection clear in her voice. She reached behind Jaskier carefully, leaning across to gently scratch at Bladderwrack’s flank. At some point, the seal had lolloped closer, and Jaskier didn’t know how he missed over 500lbs of apex predator all but cuddling up to him. ‘You’ve seen it all, haven’t you? The comings and goings of this little place. She’s had more pups than I think you’ve had warm meals.’
Jaskier hiccuped a startled laugh as Bladderwrack snorted, rolling over into Gilly’s administration. That put her head up against Jaskier’s thigh, her snout nudging against his knee.
‘It didn’t use to be that way.’
‘No,’ Gilly said with an assessing air. ‘You do look like you’ve lost weight rather quickly.’
Jaskier’s laugh turned hollow. ‘It’s been a rough few months, I fear.’
Bladderwrack rumbled besides him, edging closer and flopped her head directly into his lap. Under the haze of panic of having a wild animal making herself comfortable on him, Jaskier accepted that, maybe, he wasn’t going to be going anywhere soon.
Thank heavens the weather was fine.
‘It’s not a new story,’ he admitted quietly to the beast in his lap, her large, dark eyes blinking benignly back up at him.
‘Hmm?
‘It’s a tale so old it’s been feeding troubadours for generations now,’ and by Gilly’s soft noise of pained recognition, she might have been familiar with it.
He was going to tell the story.
He’d decided that much. Or at least, a version of the story. He had to. She’d said he owed her nothing, and she may think that, but it was just not true. She’d opened her home to him and in these last months of sleeping where he fell and eating what he could find, that was a kindness that could not go ignored.
Maybe it was a tale as old as the stars, a heart broken and struggling to piece itself together again. But the classics were classics for a reason.
And his tragedy, because it was a tragedy he’d come to realise, thinking back to the youth in Posada with a song in his heart, dust in his hair and bread in his trousers, and where he is now, his tragedy may be unheard of to a seal. Maybe she’d never needed to rinse her ears of human matters.
He owed it to himself too. What sort of cautionary tale was he, if no one ever heard it?
It had all the making of a great tragedy, he explained to her, the bitter weariness warring with the part of his soul that will forever be a storyteller. A fresh faced hero, shining and naive to the world. The hamartia of a heart too quick to love and too stubborn to rescind hanging heavy around his neck. The stoic, unyielding soul that the heart comes to yearn for; a juvenile hot flash of desire refining down into an ember of adoration and devotion that consumed as it burned. The long years of wanting; silently and not so. The overtures ignored, brushed off and mocked. The attempts to find fulfillment in the arms of others. The arrival of a rival in love, saving his life and damning it at the same time. In a day and a tryst, gaining more ground than he’d done in 15 years.
He’d seen Geralt tumble in and out of the arms of women before, but it was so different with Yennefer. He’d watched their coupling like it was a tempest out to sea and the first hair line cracks had skittered across his stubborn, foolish heart.
Their connection.
Their intertwined fates.
Like two approaching storm fronts, they’d clashed together and it was a thing beautiful as it was devastating. She’d been a shadow in their camp ever since; a presence that rode beside Geralt as Jaskier had tried to keep up.
What could he hope to offer in the face of that? His years of companionship, sacrifice, and steady support, just… Dust. In the wake of the hurricane that was
Yennefer of Vengerberg.
He’d tried to hate her. Gods be good, he’d tried. The whole way down the mountainside, he’d tried, chewed over every slight, real and imagined, tried to lay his wrent and hemorrhaging heart at her feet. But he couldn’t. She was just as tangled in this mess as him.
In another life, he could have found a great friend in her, even come to love her, for all their first true exchange passed with her blade pressed against his nethers. She was wickedly smart, refined, and did not take any man’s shit. He could respect that.
But he’d walked with her ghost between himself and Geralt going on 5 years now. He couldn’t hate her, but he couldn’t shut his eyes to damage she’d set in motion, without even trying.
And wasn’t that just a twist of the knife. To be the collateral damage in his own damn tragic arc.
So, he’d done what every doomed hero he’d ever read about had done, and took his final stand.
‘I could have handled rejection,’ he said, his voice thick with unshed tears as he ran his fingers over Blackerwrack’s slick head. He promised himself he wasn’t going to cry again, he’d wept more than he cared. He sniffed hard, doing his best to keep his vision from swimming and hold Bladderwrack’s steady gaze. ‘I could have cauterised my heart, could have seared the dreams from it, and I would have recovered.’ He gesticulated lamely for a moment, letting the flash of irritation at his own rambling burn through him. The indignant huff in his lap swiftly returned his hand to it’s previous duty. ‘I’d have journeyed with him if he’d had me, as I’d done through the best years my life has to offer. I could have done it, Gods, it’s not like I hadn’t been before. I would have kept quiet…’ and he could hear the plaintiveness in his own voice. ‘But he was hurting so... I thought… So there I was, heart in my damn hands, holding it out to him and he… he didn’t…’ He swallowed hard, eyes closed tight as he tried to wrangle himself, like his own psyche was a willful horse refusing to yield. The maelstrom beneath his skin was back, trying to tug him in every direction at once.
Jaskier took a shuddering breath, and tried to focus on the anchors on his thigh and shoulder. Gilly’s hand was a warm weight against his neck, keeping him tethered without smothering him. An ill advised blink, and there was a tear rolling down his cheek. His face burned but before he could shy away, Gilly made a sad little noise and gently brushed it away with a knuckle. Bladderwrack gave a concerned sort of rumble.
‘He didn’t even acknowledge it,’ he whispered, dropping his chin as more tears started to fall. ‘Acknowledge me. Even if he didn’t want me, he could have said something.’ He choked out a broken giggle. ‘Not even say!,’ he cried, tossing his head back to implore to the clear sky. ’He so rarely spoke his truth, I could read it in his eyes but nothing! He didn’t even have the kindness to put me out of my misery! He just left me to sit there, to hope and haemorrhage out… Letting his quarry weaken over days before he strikes.’ His breathing had gotten away from him again and his chest felt tight. Jaskier uncurled his hand from the blanket, dropping his thin armour to rub at the sharp pain beneath his breast bone.
‘No, sorry,’ he muttered, shame burning low in his stomach. ‘That was cruel of me. He was hurting. But… strike he did. Finally after some 20 years of my company. They fought. She took his heart and I took the blame.’
He scratched at the top of Bladderwrack’s head to distract himself from the hot white and red emotions churning in his gut, the acid of it charring his heart. He wasn’t sure just how long the three of them had been here, these two important ladies listening to the woes of a beaten down bard. The waves lapped a little higher over his toes now, the rhythmic encroach of cold soothing on his still tender skin and at odds with the warm tightness over the bridge of his nose, his face pinking in sunshine.
‘Did he know his own heart?’ Gilly asked gravely, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.
‘I’m not sure he knows his own mind.’ Jaskier shook his head ruefully, sighing as he turned his face up into the sun. ‘He… ah… I don’t think he’s had much of an education in understanding his emotions, no more than a weathervane understands the winds. But it still turns at their guidance. I tried to teach him,’ he said, smiling wanly. ‘But, he made it clear, it wasn’t something he… he needed.’
‘Does she love him?’
Jaskier’s face twisted into a grimace before he could stop himself. ‘She doesn’t care for him,’ he all but spat, only to crumple again, burying his head in his hands. ‘I don’t know,’ he moaned, rubbing a hand over his mouth. ‘When they’re together, it’s a battle. She resents him for a choice he made for her, he can’t understand her fury. They’re beautiful together and it’s devastating for them both.’
But possible mostly for him, he mused. The tears had about stopped now, their only remnants were their damp little craters in Blackwrack’s fur, staining her drying pelt as rain does on slate.
‘Have you ever felt that? Flayed open and raw? Holding out yourself and there are no hands coming forward for you, to accept or to refuse either way? You’re just left?’
‘Yes.’
Gilly’s voice was so leaden, her response as sure as stone, that Jaskier felt like the word had dropped through him, driving through him from skull to stomach. It was so at odds with her expression when he turned to look at her, a hardiness in her gentle smile. She took pity on his stunned silence, the smile growing surer as she wrapped the blanket back around his shoulders and shuffled close, slipping an arm around his waist and tucking him against her side.
‘What did you do?’ he asked, suddenly sounding and feeling so small, resting his head against her shoulder before he could think better of it.
‘I stayed.’
‘Did it help?’, he asked, the wounded hope in his chest raising its head like a tired hound hearing its master’s voice.
‘Me? No. It still hurt. Still does. But it helped them.’ She looked back towards the town, to the streets where figures were now going about their day, to the fields beyond the outskirts awash with tended flocks, and to the docks where the small fleet bobbed idly. ‘And they helped me. I couldn’t blame him,’ she said with a sigh, ‘for all my heart riled that it wanted to.’
‘What happened?’
Jaskier felt her short huff of laughter as it ruffled his hair and she dropped her head onto his for a moment, her arm tightening around him for a moment. ‘I was young,’ she said, her voice far away. ‘I was careless. I was trapped. He saved me.’ She sighed, Jaskier’s head rising and falling with her as he listened intently. ‘That sort of thing has a powerful effect on a girl. I fell in love with him, but he refused to keep me. He… he said he refused to see me regret my choice the same way his mother did.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all a time past now,’ she said in a sigh, business-like and magnanimous, ‘he’s long gone to the halls of his fathers and I’m still here, to watch over his people. He was the lighthouse keeper. Born and raised in this bay and kept these waters a little safer.’ Jaskier could hear the faint smile in her voice as the pair of them watched the seals that were still romping among the waves. ‘I thought, if I couldn’t have him like I longed to, I could help those that he loved. I could help him from afar if need be.’
Jaskier settled a little closer to her warmth when she fell quiet, twining his arm around her waist and tucking his head against her hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this; nestled in, a baby bird seeking shelter under the wings of a parent. A rueful smile tweaked at his mouth as he tried to remember if his own mother had ever been so free with her affections as to hug him once he was out of the nursery. It said about all that needed saying about the parenting style of the ruling classes. Had his father ever touched him in a way that wasn’t a restraint, a strike or a steer? Her fingers were gentle in his hair, the faint tickle of her nails scratching rhythmically as the breeze tugged on the ragged ends. He needed to tidy himself up a little, he thought idly. He must have been a state when he’d been found; a thing half staved and dumb. Her hair was soft, smelling near as strong of salt as the sea air. She was warm too and he felt his sore eyes growing heavy.
He could see the appeal, as Bladderwrack snored gently in his lap.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Gilly murmured as she swept her hand up and down his arm. ‘I appreciate you’ve got some thinking to do. And some recovering to do too. Need to get a few more meals in you yet,’ she said, almost to herself as she slipped her arm back around his waist. ‘And I know we’re a new place and a new people, but… you can stay here for a while. For the winter or longer as you please. If you’d like too.’
‘Do you do this often?’ Jaskier asked in a drowsy huff, weary and raw in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever been. ‘Open your doors to any stranger who wanders by?’
‘When they’re in need of aid, and care, and safety? Always.’
Jaskier felt his throat grow thick again and he had not thought he had tears left.
‘We know what we’re about here, my lad. You’ll be safe, Alfred, I promise you.’ His hurriedly picked name was starting to sound better in her voice, like she was tailoring it to him even as she said it. ‘Like I said, think about it. You’d be welcome.’
‘I can’t pay you…’ Jaskier whispered, voice tiny and miserable as he curled further into her side.
Her soothing hush was nearly lost to the wind and waves as her hand returned to his hair. ‘No need to fret about that now. We always find ways to keep the wolves from the door.’
Four days.
Four days of watching Ciri shiver and sweat, and being able to do little more than fetch and carry and offer what little comfort he could.
Four days of sitting on his own hands and vibrating. With worry. With fury. With wretchedness.
She’d gotten so sick, and he hadn’t even noticed it was happening. He’d missed her scent becoming sickly, her heart beat becoming fainter. He’d missed her strength waning. He’d thought it had just been the cold.
But then the cold can be so dangerous to humans.
He should have remembered that. There was so much he should have done.
Her fever had broken early on the third day, much to the old woman’s delight. She’d crowed in a spiteful sort of glee and petted Ciri’s hair, telling her how strong and well she was fighting. How brave she was.
Geralt’s throat had felt thick at the weak but true smile Ciri had given at those words. Such a little thing, but it is something his dumb tongue still struggling with.
But despite his failings with Ciri, he was running back to her now, retreating from a conversation that had left him burning.
And he was retreating, he thought miserably. He’s all but running with his tail between his legs.
Four days.
Four days of ignoring his bewildered heart.
It’s always been a strange, unknown beast to him, speaking in a tongue he’d been slow to learn. There were the voices of his brothers and his master, and while he may not understand it in all things, their tones were ones he knew well. But in these last few years, its voice was changing faster than he could keep pace.
It had whined and howled at him, directionless and hurt. It had eased with Ciri’s presence, circling her and running herd on the pair of them as they kept ahead of Nilfgaard. When they’d found Yennefer, it had paced and slunk, unsure but meeting her outstretched hand halfway.
Then they’d heard that bard sing a little north of Novigrad and the beast had reared its head to scent the air and bay in a piteous voice.
They’d chased that song up the coast, it had dragged him up hundreds of miles of sea beaten roads to that thin chalk path. And he’d dragged Ciri with him. Ciri, who was now recovering, thank all the Gods that pity fools and Witchers, but he’d put her in such peril.
That’s what had his steps racing so, he told himself, and he half-stalked, half-waded through the shingle mounds. He was running towards Ciri, not away from the shore and the conversation. And now he was the one dragging the beast behind him and it was fighting him every step of the way.
Four days.
Four days of straining against his own control.
Four days of searching for signs of a ghost.
He was here. He had to be. They’d gone north, followed the coast like the blonde songstress had let slip. They’d passed through towns that sang his songs, they had to be his, but he was never there. No sign or word but for his music.
It had to be his music.
He’d hear it when they’d first arrived in this place. He’d been in a turmoil as they’d moved through the town, unsure and worried for Ciri, and then he’d heard the music. A joyful medley of pipes and fife, a fiddle weaving through it all like a line of dancers, all underscored by the thrum of drums and the beat of feet on flagstones. And there, like a seam of gold through stone, he could hear strings that he had not heard in far too long a time.
He couldn’t bring himself to ask, and he couldn’t abandon Ciri to the hands of strangers, well-meaning strangers indeed, but still. He couldn’t stand to be proven wrong. His mind diligently came up with every possibility; it may be another of elven make, maybe he’d had to sell his instrument, maybe it had been found or stolen. Each new thought was crueler than the last.
On the third morning, Ciri’s fever broke.
On the fifth morning, so did Geralt’s resolve.
A few hours later, something else broke entirely.
He’s not running from the conversation. He’s not.
He’s not, because if he was then he’s playing into whatever sick mirror image the muses or destiny or whatever fucking higher power were casting for this little scene of his ruination.
A coastline for a mountain. A whispered confession for a shouted accusation. A retreat for a defiant stand.
Gods be good, he was even wearing red, did the man know what he was doing?
He’d changed. Of course he’d changed, it had been 2 winters since he’d cast him aside on that damned mountain. But he’s changed.
He’d always been beautiful. Geralt had watched, despite himself, as the gorgeous boy had grown into a handsome man with a heart as gentle as his hands. His loveliness had never been in question and he’d had the opinion of others to concur, regardless of if he wanted to see others pawing at him or not.
But now.
Geralt’s too slow heart had been stuttering in his chest as he’d walked down the beach and along the rocky outcrop, following a hope and a faint, familiar scent. He’d been wearing a faded shirt, the red a blush more than a bleed, and trousers rolled to below the knee, shoes set carefully aside. He’s not aged, not really, Geralt couldn’t help but think when he saw his face again and his heart had stopped.
He was here.
He wasn’t dead in a ditch on some unknown backwater country road. He wasn’t being tortured at the hands of Nilfgaard for information. He wasn’t wasting away in some seedy tavern corner, singing like a caged bird for coppers.
He was here.
And he was beautiful.
He’d filled out a little more, the shoulders and chest of his fine doublets wouldn’t fare too well against the strength that lay coiled in the muscles there now. His hands looked rougher, littered with small nicks and scars that had not been there. The beard was new too. It made him look distinguished and rugged in a way that he never had for all their hard travel. There were just the faintest touches of silver to it and in his hair too, fine cobwebs that only showed with the light catching just so.
His eyes were the same though, still a startling blue. Geralt wasn’t a poet, and he’d never studied colour beyond recognising if a quarry was in mating plumage or not, but he thought he’d seen every shade of blue there was to see, reflected in Jaskier’s eyes over the years. Cornflower in the light of a summer’s day, cobalt when inspiration has him in a firm grip, sapphire when entertaining the masses, midnight in the light of their camp fire, just the two of them and the night’s sky.
They were steel now, the grey of the sea and sky giving them an edge. It was an edge Geralt had tested, and had cut himself to the quick in doing so.
He’d tried. By all that was in him, he’d tried, and he thinks Jaskier knows that.
He’d tried to meet him on his terms. He’d had time enough to think about that moment, had had time to plan, to rally his resolve, to obtain guidance whether he sought it or not. But all the fine words Yennefer and Ciri had coached him on, vanished out of his fool head and into the wind as soon as Jaskier had turned his gaze on him with a tremulous smile.
There was still a roaring in his ears, even this far from the waves, as he strode through the town. Folks were drawing out of his way as he moved, but Geralt neither knew nor cared, just following the scent of hay and horse.
They were getting out of this place. Now. He couldn’t stay here. He was getting Roach, getting Ciri and they were going. They were running.
Ciri was dozing when he entered the cottage, bundled in furs and with two dogs sprawled over her, only her pale hair showing. The dogs watched, panting, as Geralt shoved their meager belongings into the packs, raiding the little kitchen for anything that would keep on the road. They whined a little as he shouldered the door open and headed towards the stable yard.
His burning blood turned to ice though, when Roach was nowhere to be found in the stalls. Geralt searched each stall wildly, as if the mare could be hiding behind the few mules and ponies still stabled there. He snarled furiously, slamming his fist into a wood pillar with a crack.
Fine, they’d taken his horse, he’d carry Ciri to Kaer Morhen if he had to.
‘You aren’t leaving.’
Geralt whirled at the sound of the voice, teeth bared and a growl already bubbling in his chest. The speaker paid no mind though, idly inspecting her fingernails as she lent in a doorway across the yard.
It was her, the one who’d claimed the title of alderman and who’d led them into this place. The one the healers turned to before making a decision, the one the runners reported to.
‘I have no business here,’ Geralt snarled, stalking past her and out into the town again, heading back to the cottage. She didn’t seem inclined to even dignify that with an acknowledgement, only slipping into step just behind him, easily keeping up with his strides. She repeated herself in a level sort of voice, like she was a school mistress and Geralt a willfully disobedient child.
‘You’re not leaving.’
‘And you intend to stop me?’ Geralt bit back, not bothering to look at her as folk cleared a path before him. ‘You have no power to keep me here. You’ve taken my horse in payment for your hospitality and we have nothing else for you.’ He missed the slightly incredulous frown that crossed her face, focused only on getting back to Ciri. ‘I need to see my daughter safe. We’re leaving.’
‘Keep running and you’ll be doing Nilfgaard’s work for them.’
Geralt’s heart stuttered in his chest, and hadn’t it taken enough this day?, and his steps staggered to a stop. He turned back to see her standing nonchalantly in the middle of the road, arms crossed over her chest and an unimpressed expression on her face.
‘Although,’ she continued airily, ‘if she were to die on the road, I don’t know if they’d exult or execute you.’
‘Stop,’ Geralt hissed, crowding into her space in a few quick strides. She didn’t move, only stared steadily back into his panicked eyes with a placid expression.
Something quavered in his chest. ‘How… how did…?’
‘We’re not so removed from the world, Witcher,’ she scoffed softly. ‘We know of the fall of Cintra. We’ve heard of Nilfgaard losing the princess and the Witcher who sought to protect her.’
Geralt gave up the pretense. ‘I can protect her. I can get her to Kaedwen, there’s a Witcher stronghold in the mountains there.’
She snorted softly. ‘Can you keep her warm? Can you keep her fed?’ She cast a hand at the bustle of activity all around that was carefully ignoring them. ‘Autumn is starting to leave us, and you want to go halfway across the world? Even if you make it there, will you make it up the mountain by the time the winter snows have rolled in?’ Her eyes were as earnest as her voice and it set Gerlt’s teeth on edge. ‘That journey? Now? With her frail as she is? It will be her death.’
‘She is strong.’
‘She shouldn’t need to be.’
Geralt knew it was his pride and anger and fury at his own impotence that had him turning on his heel once more and driving on towards the cottage, but he couldn’t face the argument just now. He knew it’s too late. He knew it’s not safe. And he knew it’s his fault. That they’re here instead of safe in Kaer Morhen.
He’d just needed to know. He’d needed to try.
‘Stay here for the winter. Rest. Recover. You can travel on in the spring.’
He’d failed.
‘I can’t.’
‘You spoke with him this morning didn’t you?’, and Geralt would welcome the return of the derision in her tone, he’d take it over her soft compassion. He grunted and tried to lengthen his stride again, and again she kept pace. ‘Did he tell you to go?’
‘No,’ Geralt admitted after a long silence, picking painfully over the conversation, as closely as his memory would allow. ‘He only said… said that he couldn’t come with me. Couldn’t come now.’
‘And he won’t, so you'll stay here,’ she said, in a tone that said the manner was settled. ‘We can arrange somewhere for you both to live until the snowmelt. We’ll get you settled.’
She brushed past him when his steps slowed again and he could only stare helplessly at her back.
‘How can you say that?’ Geralt roared and the last precious threads of his patience unravelled in the face of her certainty. There was a rancid sort of energy thrumming through him now; the nerves, the fury, the despair, all a toxic mix curdling in his blood unlike any decoction he’d experienced before. Every tendon and muscle in his body was straining, his own body desperate to shake itself apart. ‘I’m not welcome and then tell me I can’t leave? What right do you have?’
She didn’t say anything, just stopped and turned, lifting her chin to look down her nose ever so slightly from higher up the gentle slope, appraising him and he just knew she’d find him wanting in every way. The creature beneath his ribs wants to curl up and hide, the trembling in his chest back and clawing at the back of his mind.
Not in his chest.
On.
The medallion stirred sluggishly.
‘It’s you.’ It comes out so low and so furious that the ponies in the traces of a nearby hay cart squeal and shake their heads. ‘You’ve done this,’ his words rose to a roar once more as the dam within him crumbled. ‘You’ve trapped him here! You’ve ensorcelled him!’
He did not know what he expected in her response, but it was not that she would throw her head back and laugh. ‘I have done no such thing,’ she said, the words coming out between dry chuckles.
‘You’ve taken him! Robbed him of his will.’ He’d found his strength to move again, surging up to her with a new fire within him. An outside threat to Jaskier; something he could deal with, something he could do. So blinded was he, grasping for purpose and mission, that he didn’t see the way all mirth slipped from her face.
‘I have done no such thing.’
‘You’ve done something!’ he snarled. ‘You! What are you?’ His hands lunged out, viper quick, and fisted in the neck of her oiled pelt cape, up against her throat. He hefted her into the air with a grunt, the manic, wretched energy pushing him on. ‘You, who wear your unnaturalness as a taunt.’
She did not struggle, she did not kick, she did not cry out. She only wrapped a hand around his wrist and went still.
He could hear the waves crashing.
He shouldn’t be able to.
They’re well away from the shore line, standing in what supposedly passed for a market square in this small town, but the swell and crash of the waves was so loud in his ears that he ought to feel the water around his feet. He looked down for a foolish second, expecting to see the surf, but there were only mossy cobble stones under his boots.
He looked back up at her and his furious scowl slipped.
Geralt has seen all manner of inhuman eyes in human seeming faces. He’s not surprised to see the eyes have grown dark, the pupils wide and glistening and near all of the white swallowed up. There’s a brief flash of vindication, but he is still none the wiser. They’re not the eyes of a sorceress or a siren or a succubus, not anything he’s seen before. There’s something wilder there.
She wass perfectly still in his grasp, only drawing even breaths and looking down at him with large, liquid eyes and a disdainful curl to her lip. Under the roar of the sea, he could hear nothing. Everything had gone very quiet around him, even the ponies had gone still.
In the middle of the marketplace.
Geralt chanced a look off to the side. Emerging slowly from a workshop doorway came a familiar face. The giant of a man who’d gently tended to Ciri looked a lot less gentle with a wounded expression and a dog's head hammer held deftly in his sooty grip. Besides him, a young woman pushed a little lad behind her with one arm and picked up a pair of iron tongs from a workbench with the other, her woven basket forgotten at her feet. A man leaning languidly against the cart, whippet thin and wiry, shifted his weight and set his feet, the leather of the driving whip creaking in his hand. There were soft thuds off to the other side and Geralt twisted his head to see a pair of youths gently setting down netting and lobster pots, neither of them taking their eyes off Geralt.
As Geralt held the town’s alderman aloft by her neck.
It wasn’t the same, he tried to tell himself, as his arms started to tremble under the strain. These were not seasoned killers. This was not Blaviken. They were just folk. He could take them, a wounded part of his mind screamed. So easily, he could be free of this. But he’s unarmed and so tired, and there’s Ciri to consider now too. She couldn’t run as she was but he couldn’t leave her. He locked his elbows as best he could, trying to ignore the burning in his muscles. She was heavy. Heavy enough that Geralt noticed, and in this moment, that she was heavier than she had any right to be.
The thoughts chased each other through his mind, too fast for him to catch more than a glimpse, each more confused and frantic than the last. All the more maddening in the face of this impossible woman’s calm. The hand she’d not wrapped around his wrist rose slowly and Geralt watched it go, fighting the instinct to flinch as it got higher. But she only held up an open palm and Geralt saw how the creeping movement of the people around them slowed to a stop, although the grips on various coshes held true. She tapped two fingers against his knuckles, drawing his gaze back to herself.
‘Now, here’s what I propose,’ she said, her voice so soft it was only for his ears, the tempered menace glinting in every word. ‘You are going to lower me back down, slowly. I am going to laugh and shake you by the hand. We’ll stand for a moment and allow these fine folk to know there’s no reason to worry. And then we’re going to head back to the cottage and collect your girl if she’s the strength for it. I think we ought to pay a visit to the lower pastures.’ She cocked her head to the side slightly, smiling placidly but still somehow showing more ivory teeth than there ought to be.
Geralt only hesitated for a moment, before lowering her back down onto the cobbles as smoothly as his shaking arms would allow. He felt the creak in his fingers as he let go of her and took a careful step back, doing everything to make it look like a move of respect and not like he was fighting the urge to flee. True to her word, she tossed her head back and laughed, the dark cloud of her hair dancing in the breeze. The laugh was a musical one and while he would have been deserving of her scorn, it was not directed at him. She shook her head, tossing a conspiratorial smile over her shoulder to the blacksmith. The man’s concerned expression softened somewhat and he smiled back but the young woman held Geralt’s gaze with scowling dark eyes.
He was caught by surprise then, when a hand claps around his elbow and she’s gripping his arm, giving it a soft squeeze before towing him into step besides her and threading an arm through his. ‘Jedrek?’ she called lightly and the man by the cart rolled forward onto the balls of his feet.
‘Aye?’
‘You taking those two down to the stable yard?’
‘On my way there now,’ he said with a sly grin.
‘Excellent,’ she said, ‘please could you ask Eryk to saddle Patience and bring her up to the refuge? I think we may need her.’
‘Of course, ma’am,’ he nodded and scratched at one of the ponies’ noses before taking up the reins. Geralt watched as they moved off with a creak of wheels and wood.
‘Come on,’ she said quietly, steering him back up the slope. ‘Alfred said you were always most settled with your horse.’
Ciri was still a little weak with sleep when they arrived back at the cottage, but desperately wanted to come with them when the alderman explained the plan to her. She struggled out from beneath the weight of the dogs, both hounds wholly uncooperative, before their host whistled them to attention and jerked a thumb at the open door. Only then did they decide they have very important matters to attend to elsewhere.
She stepped outside to give them a little privacy as Geralt set about helping Ciri into a thick woolen dress and hose from the pile of offerings that had arrived on the second day. ‘How are you doing?’ Geralt asked her softly as he laced up her boots, quietly furious at the tremble still clinging to his hands.
‘I’m alright,’ she said with a weary smile, wiggling her toes at him until he huffed a laugh and slipped the second boot on for her. ‘I’m… I’m good to travel. If we need to. I promise.’ Her voice was even but Geralt still caught the uncertainty in her corners of her smile. She’s scared and he doesn’t know what she’s more afraid of; running once more or staying still. But she trusts him, and that in turn terrifies him.
Brave girl. Brave, foolish girl.
‘We’ll come back to that thought, but we may be here for a little while.’
Some of the tension bled from her shoulders at his words and she nodded wordlessly. He can’t tell if it’s relief or resignation that has her eyes shining. ‘Did you find him?’
Geralt stared up at her from his crouch at her feet, his tongue suddenly thick and dumb in his mouth. He swallowed and nodded, looking down again to fidget with her boot laces.
‘Did you talk to him?’
He huffed, lips pressed tight against whatever was trying to spill out past his teeth. Another nod, though it felt more like a motion to shake something off than an affirmation. He schooled his nerves and met her eyes once more, trying to smile for her and holding her gaze until he couldn’t bear her compassion any longer. He stood and fished through the clothes once more, finding a well darned but serviceable cloak.
‘So,’ he croaked, clearing his throat as he shook out the cloak and willed his voice to cooperate. ‘What do you think of our host?’
Ciri’s expression said she knew he was trying to change the subject, and that it was only succeeding because she was allowing it to. ‘She seems nice. Everyone here seems to respect her. Have you seen that? Everytime she was here, the healers would look to her.’ She was quiet as Geralt fastened the cloak around her shoulders for her, and he could see her worrying at a thought like it was a seed in her teeth. ‘But sad.’
‘Sad?’ he asked, confusion stilling his hands.
‘Yes,’ Ciri said, drawing out the wod like she wasn’t entirely sure of herself. ‘Like she’s older than she is? Maybe? I can’t quite put my finger on it.’
Geralt hummed as reassuringly as he could manage, tugging up the lined hood of the cloak and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.
Sad. Like she was older than she appeared.
There was a gentle knock at the door before their host nudged it open. ‘Ready to head out?’, she asked and smiled at the pair of nods she got in response.
Geralt settled Ciri onto the back of the spotted mule waiting outside with little fuss, Ciri’s only protest a little sigh as she sank into the woven basket seat. The beast only whickered and butted him good naturedly as he took up a post as Ciri’s knee. He grudgingly returned the gesture by scratching it lightly between its eyes, but it made Ciri smile.
Their host only watched them quietly until Ciri tightened her grip on the pommel and gave a shy nod. With a smirk and a click of the tongue, she led them towards the town.
Geralt did his best to keep his head down as they moved, steadfastly watching as the toes of his boots passed over scrubby grasses, shingle pathways and mossy cobble stones. With a sinking stomach, he recognised that they were retracing steps he and the alderman had taken not 10 minutes before; back down the small slope, through the streets and across the square. Not a word was spoken as they walked and Geralt suspected he was the only one whose skin was crawling in the quiet. He just listened as the far off bird cries gave way to the burble of voices and the rustle of a town living and breathing, waiting for the moment when silence would fall and the animosity to ring through it all like a bell.
It was Ciri’s gasp that cut through the cold fog of his mind and he tensed. He flicked a quick look up to her, fighting the urge to snatch the reins and run. Her eyes were shining, a hand coming up to cover her mouth. He turned, following her eye to see what had shocked her, expecting a threatening scowl or an arm drawn back, ready to throw something. But she was looking out to sea, over towards the southern arm of the harbour. There were clouds rolling around the cliff face, off white and low to the surf. Too low.
Her sails were being drawn up even as she rounded the harbour wall, her deckhands flitting from top yard to rigging as easily as birds on a brier. Some were still, resting in their stations of bundled canvas and one by one, the tiny figures drew still as the vessel glided slowly towards her dock. The wind behind her, nudging her home and her banner of a black and white bird wheeling on blue dancing high above them.
The first voice came upon them in a rush of wind, a lone high melodic call that Geralt couldn’t make the words of. Then the chorus joined. Dozens of voices, high, low and everything between, surging over the breakers and up the bay, spiralling through the air. Each one its own little victorious cry, skating along the wave tops alongside the seabirds.
We’re back. We’ve come home. We lived.
Call and response. Call and response.
‘Ah,’ the alderman said, slowing their amble to a stop. ‘The Wanderer’s in good voice.’ She smiled up at Ciri, the lass still captivated by the tall ship coming into harbour. ‘They tend to sing on the last stretch of the homebound. For luck and for loved ones.’ Movement below them caught Geralt’s eye and as he looked down, in every little street in town, homestead doors were opening and figures stepped out, only to rush back inside excitedly before reappearing and heading for the harbourside. ‘She’s been south this last month and she’s back late,’ she said, gently urging the mule onwards again. ‘She’ll be a sight for many a sore heart in this town.’
They go all but unnoticed in the narrow streets, borne forward on a small tide of folk headed for the shore. Ciri watched it all wide-eyed as they passed homesteads, workshops and shopfronts. Every now and then, she leaned over the mule’s neck to ask a question of their guide, who answered with a soft sort of pride, telling stories and histories of the buildings or the people they passed.
Geralt just watched the faces.
None seemed aghast to see him there, there’s no flinch or outcry even as his back cautiously straightened and his head lifted as they walked. There were waves and calls of greeting for their host, all of which she returned with an easy grace. Even as they passed through the square, the blacksmith smiled and offered Geralt and Ciri a kindly nod from the shelter of his workshop, wiping his sooty hands clean on a rag.
Geralt had to look down at his boots once more. They weren’t for him, these greetings and friendly words. They were for Ciri certainly, the girl deserved every kindness this world could give. But more so, they were for their guide, this mysterious woman that the town seems to orbit around. He was just caught on the edge of her sphere for now, benefitting from the good will directed her way, walking in a favourable shadow.
But of course, he remembered how that felt.
Morose in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice the little girl until far too late. A burbled cry of ‘Papa!’ was all the warning Geralt got before he staggered to a halt, arms spinning wildly to avoid over balancing as something small and clingy collided with his shins. He faintly heard Ciri’s little noise of distress as he looked down onto the top of a head of dark curls, holding his breath as the child hugged his leg and turned her face up. He didn’t know which of them was more shocked by the mistake, both of them staring at each other in dismay. After a few heartbeats, her little face started to crumple and Geralt could only watch in horror as she made a high little whine, tears welling quickly as she hid her face against his knee.
‘Oh, bumblebee!’ the alderman half crooned, half laughed, turning the mule and making her way back up the narrow street towards them. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s not your Papa sweetheart. Have you gotten away from your Nana?’ Geralt could only stare pleadingly at the alderman as he felt the little head nod against his knee. ‘Were you on your way to see Papa?’ Another nod and a sniffle and still she wasn’t letting go of his trousers. Their guide didn’t seem too bothered by Geralt’s discomfort, hunkering down besides them and her attention only for the toddler, so Geralt looked to Ciri. She had her hand over her mouth once more, but he suspected it was covering equal parts shock and amusement. He looked at her, pleading as much as his expression would allow. Ciri only blinked and raised a hand, slowly miming patting her own head. The little girl’s crying covered his strangled croak, but with a sharp head jerk from Ciri, he slowly lowered his hand to the child’s head, gently petting her hair and painfully away that his hand dwarfed her whole head.
‘Adrianna?’ The child looked up and gave a delighted little noise as a familiar wizened little figure tottered up the slope towards them. But she still did not let go of Geralt. ‘Adrianna, darling girl, please don’t run off,’ Tola admonished as she reached them, leaning on her cane a little more than Geralt suspected she needed to. ‘Your Nana’s old bones can’t keep up.’
‘Oh I doubt that,’ their host laughed, straightening up. ‘I think I saw Rafal closing for the midday break now, I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you both.’
‘Adrianna, certainly,’ Tola said waspishly, even as her eyes twinkled with mischief, ‘His own mother? Now see, I have to bring offerings to be considered welcome!’ She hefted the woven basket nearly half her size a little more securely into the crook of her elbow as the alderman laughed again. The old woman’s bright eyes passed over the group, noting Geralt’s hand gentle on the child’s head and giving an approving little nod before he could jerk it back. She seemed amused by his panic, but from what Geralt had seen in the days she’d tended to Ciri, she seemed amused by him in general. She smiled when she looked up at Ciri, giving the girl an appraising once over. ‘It’s good to see you up and about dearie. How are you feeling in yourself?’
‘I am faring well, thanks to your care. I can not thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me,’ Ciri’s voice was soft but strong and she bowed her head as the old woman flapped her hand in dismissal.
‘None of that, none of that,’ she said, her cheeks pinking. ‘Just take care of those lungs. And keep warm. You should be alright this afternoon,’ she said, casting a quick look skywards, ‘but don’t stay out too long.’
‘We’re just taking a quick visit to the lower pastures,’ the alderman said, finally taking pity on Geralt and untangling the little girl from his leg. She’d calmed considerably with the appearance of her grandmother, and obligingly toddled back to her, waving a chubby hand at Geralt as she went. ‘We’ll head back before it gets cool.’
‘Alright, you take care, Fiona,’ Tola said, holding Ciri’s gaze as she took her granddaughter’s hand. ‘Come on Adrianna. We’re off to find your Papa.’
‘Papa!’
‘Yes sweetling.’
Geralt flexed his fingers absently as he watched them go, the phantom sensations of baby soft curls under his fingertips and a weight against his leg unnerving him still.
‘Well, I think you’ve won her over,’ the alderman said absently, leading the mule on once more. Ciri cast Geralt an encouraging smile as they turned, but her attention was soon caught by the clatter of a weaver’s workshop.
‘The grandmother or the child?’
‘Eh, both, I think.’
‘She cried when she saw me.’
‘She cried because she was expecting to look up and see her father,’ their host drawled, tossing a derisive look over her shoulder. ‘You can desist with whatever damning thoughts are tumbling around in that head. She’s met stranger folk than you in her short life, don’t flatter yourself.’
Geralt tried to hide his shock by inspecting their surroundings, even if his ears burned with it. The town was lovely, if he gave himself but half a second to acknowledge it. Life and activity spilled from between the low buildings. The flow of people was heading down to the waterside, but there were little eddies of work to be done, conversations to be had, business to be tended to. It was a settlement of low, sturdy buildings, hunkered down against the wind off the sea. Some were prettily painted, the wooden fronts weathered and faded but the colour clinging stubbornly. Others looked older, a mix of dry stone and wood, their turf roofs making them look like they’d sprouted out of the ground and taken root.
Dwarfing them all, as their little party moved through town, was the longhouse. It stood a little quieter now that the last time Geralt had passed it, but there were still scorch marks in the grass where the torches had lit the path. If the surrounding buildings were huddling lambs, the longhouse was the sheepdog keeping sentry, the gable end standing proud above the low roofs and sitting between the town and the sea. The high windows did not glow as they had the night they had arrived, but there was a faint light from inside as candle light bolstered the weak autumn sunshine. Geralt could hear movement through the wooden walls, only muffled a little by the thatch that itself rustles and shifts with sparrows. They rounded the long side and Ciri’s little shriek drew chuckles from the three old men sitting on benches around the door.
Above their heads, looming over the eve was a face that would not be out of place on the prow of a ship, or the maps it would sail by. A long serpentine body snaked along the roof ridge and talons curled around the lintel. Above them all, a snarling dragon’s maw bared its teeth for all to see.
Sheepdog or guard dog.
He’d not seen it that night, the dark wood swallowed by the night as they’d passed by, but it wasn’t the first thing Geralt had seen today that was so much starker in the light of day. He followed the line of the sightless carved eyes, looking out across the wide open grassing space that was all that separated them from the docks. The waves were so much louder now, rustling up against the stone and wood of the pier and jetties, but they were mere underscoring to the soar of voices aboard the vessel settling into dock. She was of a different breed to her sisters already floating at anchor, most of whom were modest vessels with a mast or two, shallow bodied and sturdy. This ship would not have looked out of place in Cintra’s port. Judging by the barrels and bundles that all able hands were working to unload, that may very well have been by design.
There were reunions happening all around them as their little party walked; husbands, wives, lovers, children, parents, friends. Souls coming home from time away, dangerous time. Geralt’s eyes flitted from group to group, and each time his gaze alighted on a new smiling face or tight embrace, he could feel another piece of himself crumble into the pit in his chest that was looking to swallow him whole. He didn’t know what the emotion was, the one clawing its way up the back of his throat. It tastes like resentment and casts a shadow like despair and he has no right, none at all.
He had to look away as his skin prickled and his eyes stung. Only, he looked away up the coastline, to a outcrop of stone that juts out into the spray. Jaskier was no longer sitting there.
If anyone had a mind to ask him, Geralt would have sworn his shaky gasp was in response to the scream. Despite the delight ringing clear through the sound, Geralt still readied himself as he turned, for all his hands curl on nothing. A warm weight collided with him and his hands were not empty for long as he caught and righted the young woman who’d just barrelled into him. His face was full of a cloud of strawberry blonde hair and his nose full of the scent of good flour, copper and rose water.
‘Sorry! Thank you!’ she cried, smiling so hard it looked like it ought to hurt and she was off again, hitching her skirts up to run full pelt towards the pier. She left grins and laughter in her wake as people cleared a path for her and there was a warning cry of ‘Incoming!’ as her feet hit the boards. Deck hands twice her size made way for her as she ran with a single-minded purpose towards the last few stragglers disembarking from The Wanderer. With a squeal, she launched herself into the air and into the arms of a dark-haired woman. There was a shout of surprise, bright laughter and then the pair of them were over balancing off the pier and into the water, with an almighty splash and cheers for the assembled crowd.
Ciri tried to hide shocked little giggles in the sleeve of her cloak as the two women resurfaced and the assailant proceeded to attack her victim with kisses, peppering them all across her face before the other fought back and soundly kissed her smiling mouth.
The alderman was laughing as they dragged themselves ashore, the one who’s all dark hair and lean muscle helping the other with her sodden skirts. They left a dripping trail behind them as they scurried past them, back into town as quickly as wet layers allow. The dark haired one, her sweetheart’s arm around her waist and her face pressed attentively in the crook of her neck, tried to stop in front of their guide. There may have been the start of a hurried report on her tongue, but the alderman waved them off when all she could produce was a croak and a faintly cross eyed expression.
‘I’ll be hearing from you tomorrow, Rasine. When you’re ready, of course.’
Rasine only had time for a not really apologetic smile before she was being towed off by her giggling companion. They made it all of 12 yards before the waterlogged skirts became an issue again. Rasine remedied that; there was a rustle of fabric and shriek, and she was striding squelchily up the slope, the other lass trying to theatrically swoon while being thrown over a shoulder.
The alderman still wore an indulgent smile as they walked along the harbour, away from the sound and scent of people and into the scent of seaweed and salt. Geralt caught up with them slightly now that there were no people to watch and the path could accommodate them all comfortably. It was quiet as they walked on, past smaller jetties piled with lobster pots and store houses that stank of fish guts and salt, just the wind and the waves and the odd cry of a wheeling bird.
Well, not quite quiet.
Ciri was talking.
They were hesitant little questions at first. What are those store houses? How far is it to the paddocks? Whereabouts are they on the coast? The questions any bright and brilliant child may have about her new and strange surroundings. The alderman smiled a little more with each question and did her best to answer as Ciri’s queries picked up speed, like a stream swelling with the spring melt.
About the town. About the people. The different trades and crafts she’d seen. What they farm and forage. How they trade. How they look after their children. Their elder folk.
Questions any schooled and studied princess may have.
Geralt quirked a smile before he could stop himself. Thankfully, it went unnoticed by the two ladies as Ciri made a thoughtful little noise. ‘What were the circumstances of the town’s founding and growth?’ she asked and Calanthe would be so proud to see her now, Geralt thought; back as straight as she could manage in the basket saddle and her tired eyes sharp.
‘Founding, now, that was a little before even my time,’ the alderman said with a grin and Ciri’s cheeks pinken as she tried to backtrack. ‘No, no lass, you’re fine. From what I know, men walked west until they met the sea. From there, some sailed out to see what was beyond the horizon. Some came back. Kovir and Poviss forgot about what was hidden behind the mountain beyond the river and we’ve been here ever since. Creating a life for ourselves and each other at the edge of the world.’
Their path had taken them inland a little and over some small hills into lusher grassland. As the wind nudged them up the few steps of their climb, their host swept her hair out of her face and looked over her shoulder to the horizon where blue met steely blue.
‘And others have joined us. From the sea or the land. We’ve had folk come and go over the generations as the winds bid them.’
Geralt had heard it too. In the bubbling heart of that town, there wasn’t a chorus of like for like voices. He’d heard so many different accents. So that sound like the salt is ingrained in every sound they made, but in others… in others he could hear mountain streams, deep ancient forest, well trodden streets, open moorland. And they’d brought all that with them, each of them lending their own notes to the melody.
Geralt’s throat suddenly felt very tight.
The lower paddocks turn out to be a modest set up, if sweeping verdant slopes could be called modest. There was a mounting block, a hitching post and treated wooden chest and that was about it. There were horses dotted everywhere; grazing, grooming one another. An old cart horse was flopped over on his slide, snoozing in the noonday sun as a stocky blue roan stood attentively nearby. Yearlings squealed and bolted about in groups, chasing one another over the gentle rolling landscape and leaping over the stream that snaked down out of the higher hills. As they watched, a group dashed past a few horses drinking from the pebbled bank, eliciting an indignant squeal and head toss from a little dun gelding as he stood sentry next to a large, tired-looking, chestnut mare.
The alderman helped Ciri slide down off the back of the mule, Geralt of no help for a moment as he only had eyes for the horse picking her way towards him when she noticed them, whickering gently in greeting. Geralt couldn’t stop the tremulous smile as she got closer, his chest seizing a little as he watched her hobble with her stable neighbour following, his little legs working industriously to keep up with even her slow pace.
‘We had Mikołaj take her shoes off,’ the alderman said, her tone as gentle as her movements as she looped an arm through Ciri’s and towed her over to Geralt. ‘Eryk was worried she was footsore, so he got our farrier to take them off and tidy her feet up a little bit. Says she’ll be fine with a little rest.’
Roach gave a pleased rumble as Geralt scratched between her eyes in silent apology. They’d had neither the time nor the coin to see her shod properly in a while, and then she’d slipped a shoe just this side of Lan Exeter. But they had needed to press on.
He’d run both his girls ragged.
‘We can get her fed up nicely. Bream’s not really left her side I’ve been told. Yes, yes, you, you utter pet,’ the alderman huffed as the dun gelding shoved relentlessly at her side until she relented and scrubbed at his mane. He turned his whole neck into the attention, his head twisting near upside down, making Ciri giggle.
‘Distract him for a moment will you, my dear?’ their guide said, moving aside for Ciri to take her place. ‘Just going to step away for a moment. I reckon your girl here needs some attention.’ She slipped away, going only as far as the weathered chest, opening it and fishing out a waxed bag. She walked back over to Geralt’s side, opening the bag and proffering it towards him. He eyed the selection of brushes in there, picking out a soft bristled brush that’s a little small in his hand but would work the sweat marks out of her coat well enough.
It was calming. The rhythmic sweep of his arm, the whisper of the bristles on Roach’s coat, the odd tickled twitch when he works on an itchy spot.
‘He did say you were happier around your horse.’
Geralt flinched as her voice interrupted his strange little meditation and she raised a placating hand as he bared his teeth without thinking. ‘Easy. We’re all fine here. Your little miss is just over there with Bream,’ she said, jerking her chin over his shoulder and Geralt turned to see Ciri leaning on the little dun’s broad back as the pair of them walked into the soft clover. ‘She’ll be settled soon enough. I think she’s got designs on Cricket.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Our old carter over there,’ she said and Geralt watched as Ciri sank onto the floor close to the cart horse lounging on his side and rather pointedly not looking at him. ‘He’s soft as grease and will need a day’s notice to get up after the harvest we’ve had.’ She looked at him over Roach’s withers and too late Geralt noticed the look in her eyes, half cajoling, half expectant. ‘What?’ she said as his jaw tightened and he looked away to tend to Roach’s mane, ‘Did you think we were done with our conversation and your little display in the square?’ Geralt did his best to maintain his mulish silence, even as his skin prickled with the weight of her gaze. He didn’t dare look up and see whatever was swirling in those too dark, too large eyes.
Coward.
‘I’ll start us off,’ she said lightly, taking his muteness in stride. ‘Come Ser Witcher, what did you say back there? Come on now, what is my crime?’
Geralt’s hand stuttered in its sweep across Roach’s flank.
‘You’re… you’re keeping him here… keeping him captive.’
‘And do you believe that?’ she said, catching his reluctant eye for a moment before slipping easily from his line of sight, putting Roach’s neck between the pair of them.
‘...No,’ Geralt whispered and the admission was the final twist of the blade that’s been nestled between his ribs since he’d fled from the water’s edge.
‘But you want to believe that, because then it would take the sting out of his wish to remain here if it wasn’t his choice?’ It may not have been his own courage that had his gaze snapping up to look at her, but his blood burned with it all the same. She wasn’t looking at him though, seemingly oblivious to his wounded fury, just scratching her nails along Roach’s mane. When she did look up to meet his gaze, she had the nerve to look completely guileless, as if her summation hadn’t just caught a blow alongside the head. ‘Well?’
Geralt almost grunted in dismissal, but there was a tilt to her head that made him think that may not end well for him.
‘...Yes.’
‘He’s not here by some sorcery,’ she said, taking pity on him and returning her attention to scratching Roach. ‘Or some debt or curse. Folk are free to come and go as they please, with our best wishes, and he’s no different. He’s been with us, oh let me see, this will be his third winter with us, and while he’s certainly found his feet here, I’ve always thought we’re more a respite for him, rather than he’d take root here.’
‘Then why won’t he come with me?’
She was kind enough to not note the misery in his voice, the lost, desperate little cry of not understanding, of hurting.
‘Keep brushing your girl, Ser Witcher.’
‘It’s Geralt,’ he said after a while, when it no longer felt like he had a live bird trapped in his throat. ‘Or Witcher. None of this Ser.’
‘I know,’ she said, a playful lilt creeping in, ‘but I thank you for your name, Geralt.’
His stomach twisted a little as she fell contententedly quiet. ‘It’s… custom, often… usually when you tell someone your name, they tell you yours?’
‘Oh is that how it works now?’ Her faint smile only became a grin as Geralt quashed the growl bubbling in his chest and went back to brushing Roach. ‘It’s Gilly,’ she said when she’d enjoyed his discomfort for long enough. ‘The name that was given to me. It’s Gilly.’
Geralt nods and the two of them stand quietly for a few breaths, the only sound the wind, the horses and the quiet murmur of Ciri trying to ingratiate herself with a tired beast of burden.
‘I wasn’t the one to tell him you were here, the night you arrived,’ she said. ‘That fell to Alba, the lass who was making house for you? In the refuge?’ Geralt vaguely remembered a tall, lithe, dark-haired woman who hadn’t said much but had moved with the footfall of a poacher. ‘She told him, thankfully when he wasn’t playing and he’d stepped out for some air. He didn't faint, but she’d still had had to catch him. I think he’s still working through the shock of you being here. Here and wanting to talk to him. Wanting him at all.’
‘He said…’ Geralt didn’t know what he was doing. If this was an attempt to explain or defend himself or beg for help. The words just clawed their way out of him. ‘He said he’d... lost hope.’
‘He’d lost a lot of things by the time he came to us,’ she said, and Geralt would not call her tone cruel only because he knew he warranted it. He only tried to concentrate on the pull of air into his lungs and the sweep of his arm as she did not slow. ‘And a goodly amount of them were on that mountain.’ She sighed, sounding as tired as he felt for a moment. ‘He told me what happened that day, not the fine details,’ she said at his flinch, ‘but he painted quite the picture of that day. You know, he’d forgiven you by the time he’d reached your camp?’ Geralt blinked hard, trying to banish the phantom image of that last time he’d found dandelions in Roach’s mane. ‘He’d forgiven you and he was furious and so hurt. So terribly hurt. That you’d throw his friendship away like that. Now, he’s belaboured his point to me, that you are a good man with a good heart and that you were going through a terrible time, but I’m of the opinion that Alfred is a better soul than I.’
‘Jaskier.’ At the silence, Geralt risked a look up and met that dark gaze that tested him and seemed to find him lacking at every turn, her face as still and unyielding as the cliff. Geralt held his nerve on this at least. ‘His name’s Jaskier.’
That seemed to buy him some breathing space, as she looked absently off to the side and raised an eyebrow. ‘Huh, makes sense,’ she muttered as if working out an inside joke. ‘He introduced himself as Alfred, but it didn’t seem to fit him right.’
‘Think Alfred’s a middle name.’
‘Well, it’s the name he gave, and we didn’t question,’ she said looking pointedly over his shoulder towards Ciri. ‘We’re not going to sweep away what happened on that mountain, my lad,’ and those words held the steel to match any sword master of Kaer Morhen, ‘nor what led up to it all. There’s some 20 years to work through, and that’s just on our Jaskier’s side. He’s been healing, but…’ she made a little irritated noise, frowning as she sought the right words. ’Your arrival and asking him to go with you? It’s like he was told he’d never walk again, and he’s built his life anew to adjust to that. And then you come through the door and he stands without even thinking. You’re asking a lot for him to forgive and go with you-’’
‘I shouldn’t have come here.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she said wearily, cutting off whatever head of scalding steam that was starting to build behind Geralt’s eyes. ‘You’re not wrong for wanting to have him with you. You’re not wrong for wanting that. But you can’t just hope that he’ll smile and slip back into your shadow when you call. I know it’s hard, Geralt, look at me, this will be hard. For you both. And if you do both heal this, it won’t be the same as it was before. But, I don’t think either of you would want that, would you? For it to be the same?’ Geralt thought there may be sympathy in her eyes when he finally, dumbly, shook his head. He couldn’t keep up, he barely knew what she was saying, how she could know this, how she could sound so sure. She shouldn’t be right, she couldn’t be. And here Geralt was, grasping each and every one of her words as if it could make it all better.
‘He said… this morning…’ It hurt so much, to think back to that conversation at the water’s edge, a parley that had turned to ash in his mouth at the sight of Jaskier there, whole and hail and so completely broken. Had he been a better man, Geralt would have fallen to his knees among the surf and spray. He’d have thrown himself on Jaskier’s mercies and repented. Would have sung like a mistle thrush if he had but the words. ‘He said... he loved me… loves me…’, he curled his hand a little tighter around the brush to hide the trembling in his fingers. ‘He wasn’t lying… I would have known if he was… but… Why? Why would he?’ Geralt hated how lost he sounded to his own ears, how pathetic. ‘After everything? He could have any life he wanted, he could be welcomed into any court on the continent… Income. Comfort. His pick of anyone he wanted. But he wants…’
It had always been there. When Geralt stopped and examined it like the badly healing scar it was, Jaskier had always wanted him. In the beginning, the spicy punch of curiosity and lust of a lad who thought himself invincible had Geralt wrinkling his nose. But it had changed over the years, slowly deepening into a musty tang, like grapes into wine. Geralt had always thought it a bit rich for his palette; too heady, too lush. And anyhow, it hadn’t been for him, as Jaskier had fallen into the arms of any who offered. But it had always been there, deepening and maturing, until Yennefer’s tower, when the sour notes had crept in at the edges. He’d thought it a petty jealousy and thought it rich that Jaskier had the nerve to resent Yennefer so. Until the mountain top, when the sharp sting like crushed mint had blindsided him in a landscape of dry dust and wind.
‘He shouldn’t,’ he choked out finally. Gods, his head hurt. And his chest. It made no sense. He wasn’t built for this. He was built for the path, for killing, for getting paid if he was lucky and surviving if he was not. He wasn’t meant to be loved, to be wanted. He’d told Jaskier as much, looked him in the eye and said he needed no one and the bastard had the gall to smile sadly with a tilt to his head and dressed him for an evening of revelry with hands too gentle for him to ignore.
And he’d wanted it. His treacherous heart had wanted Jaskier’s attention like it was sunlight. It still did. But he had no right. Not after some 20 years of brushing him aside and ignoring every offer. Because that’s what they’d been, hadn’t they. The attention, the affection, the sweet words he’d been sure were not for him. He hadn’t understood Jaskier’s gentle phrases and soft words, he’s not versed in poetic language, and every time, Vesemir’s tired words echoed in the back of his mind.
‘No one will love a Witcher. You may be useful my boys, may be exciting, but no one will want you. Best to learn that now.’
Geralt had learnt, eventually. With the blood of a rotten-toothed thug and the vomit of the bastard’s would-be prize staining his boots. With stones glancing off his head and shouts ringing in his ears. With a brooch affixed to his steel sword. But there was still a small part of him, green-eyed and curly-haired, that desperately wanted it to be different.
A scrawny, gap-toothed boy was the best thing he’s been so far.
His chest hurt.
‘He mustn’t-’
‘Hey there now, breathe. You’re alright, you’re all alright. Just breathe, come on now.’
There was a cool hand on the back of his neck, lightly resting against his skin and Geralt had to fight the instinct to flinch away. He rested his forehead against Roach’s neck and closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing in the smell of her coat and its ticklish softness under his fingertips and leaned ever so slightly into the shade the body next to him cast.
‘He does,’ Gilly said quietly in his ear. ‘I can’t tell you the whys or the hows. But he does. Whether he should, well I’m not sure whose decision that is to make. I’m sorry my lad,’ her hand swept back and forth across his hunched shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. The world has not been kind to you, has it? I didn’t quite believe him when he told me. But it has been, and I’m sorry to have added to those cruelties.’
Geralt didn’t fight it when his head slipped onto her shoulder, only continued to concentrate on easing the tightness in his chest, breathing in the smell of sea salt and wood smoke that clung to her hair.
‘I think…’ Gilly said, as her hand stroked over Geralt’s head. ‘I think there will need to be some conversations. You and I. You and him, certainly. Discussions of choices. Of choosing. Because that’s what’s at work here. And it will be work, but maybe not today.’ She gave him a small squeeze around the waist before stepping back and holding him at arms’ length, a hand on his elbow. ‘You need a little rest before all that,’ she said with an encouraging smile. Geralt couldn’t look on it for long, dropping his gaze, the confusion no less thick in his thoughts, although, maybe not as smothering. She made a soft, sympathetic noise and her hand cupped his jaw gently. ‘I know you’re no stranger to hard work, you’ll weather it fine, I’m sure. This isn’t something I can fix for you with a flick of the wrist. Speaking of which,’ she said, tone no less gentle but certainly more business-like as she slipped away from him and around Roach’s front, putting his horse between himself and her again, ‘have you spoken to your lady sorceress? How does she fare?’
‘...Yes.’
‘And?’
‘How much has he told you?’ For all the outward signs of care and companionship extended to them, Geralt wouldn’t have survived on the path for this long if he trusted too readily.
‘That she saved his life, that you’d apparently chosen her, saved her, and angered her in doing so. He’s been… so careful when speaking of you all. It’s almost like a game to him, like he’s talking about characters in an epic tale, rather than living folk. The only name he gave me was yours, and… that was only after I asked who he had been calling for from his fever bed. A story for another time,’ she said sharply as Geralt turned to her wild-eyed. ‘Now, what has your sorceress to say?’
‘Her name is Yennefer,’ Geralt said hesitantly, trying to let go of the caginess, there couldn’t be anything to hurt her here. He remembered Tola’s waspish comment about mages this far north. But she’d been so vulnerable when they’d found her at the edge of the charred and ruined grasslands, weak and wounded and refusing to die. ‘She’s safe. Recovering with a friend of hers. She was… she was hurt. There was a battle. She fought.’
‘And did she have anything to say? About your trip north?’
‘No,’ Geralt said truthfully. ‘At least, she didn’t to me.’ He hadn’t thought he’d ever see Jaskier again at that point, the years and the distance too much to consider for a human life that he’d so thoroughly wrecked. But, Ciri. She’d spent a lot of time with Yennefer; helping Triss, learning from the pair of them, and capturing Yennefer’s heart so absolutely.
Yennefer loved her, as fiercely as Geralt did, and hadn’t that been a revelation, but it hadn’t been safe. They needed to leave. Yennefer would hide with Triss and recover, Geralt would take Ciri north to the safety of Kaer Morhen for the winter. Begin her training. That had been the plan.
And one evening and a few songs, at the mouth of the River Pontar, had brought it all crashing down.
Yennefer had tried to help Ciri harness her magic, the last few tumultuous years bringing her chaos to vibrate threateningly under her skin and dreams that left her with no rest when waking. He wondered when she hadn’t questioned the change in the plan if, at some point in their time together, she’d asked Yennefer ‘Who is Jaskier?’
‘When we met, it… there were complications… Jaskier was dying, it was my fault. She saved him and then… she endangered herself. Terribly. I tried to save her. I did save her, I owed her that. And… I thought… we had… I thought we were in love. That she loved me. But… there was djinn magic.’
Geralt couldn’t help the dry little chuckle when he heard Gilly suck a breath between her teeth.
‘Yeah... It... it wasn’t good for a while when it all came to a head. And that’s when… when I made… When I sent Jaskier away.’
He was quiet for a time, brushing over Roach’s hindquarters as he thought, moving around to her other side and Gilly mirroring his movements in a slow dance that kept Roach between him and the world. He thought of Yennefer, wounded and spent, lying in a cot in Triss’ workroom with blazing eyes and a smile so frenzied it looked like it hurt. She’d screamed and railed and laughed even as her body refused to comply, a squall that would not be tamed but would wear itself out eventually. And eventually, she’d calmed, she’d slept.
Eventually, they’d talked.
‘She’s decided, and I agreed, that things need to change. We are bound together somehow, a choice that… that I took from her, to save her life. I didn’t mean to-’
‘You did what you thought was right at the moment, with what you had, I understand,’ Gilly said gently, throwing him a line down into the familiar pit he hadn’t realised he was casting himself down into.
‘But a choice I took, regardless. The bond… she said, it can be whatever we want it to be, that we can be whatever we want to be. In this new world, she said. It can change and we can change. And we can choose. She said she needed friends and family, more than she needed a lover in these times. It… this may sound strange… Well, strange to normal folk,’ he said, with a slight nod of acknowledgement to Gilly, which she graciously returned. ‘But, we’ve got time, the gods be good. Time that ordinary folk don’t have. We can,’ and he grimaced slightly at the remembered choice of words, ‘explore the relationship.’ He wasn’t going to repeat Yennefer’s quip of ‘both inside the bed chamber and out of it’ but it still made his face heat.
‘I think that’s very wise,’ Gilly said, looking away over his shoulder slightly, kind enough to ignore his burning cheeks. ‘Seeing her as a touchstone relationship for the future, I think that will be good. For both of you. You’ll have each other, even after our songbird and little lioness have gone.’
‘Please,’ he whispered through his teeth, the blood that had been heating his cheeks leaving in a rush. ‘Please tell me he didn’t tell you who she-’
‘That’s she’s the Last Rose of Cintra? He said no such thing.’ She sounded mildly affronted on Jaskier’s behalf, even if there was a quirk of a smile dancing at the edge of her frown. ‘He’s not told me anything about her. As I’ve said, he’s been the very soul of discretion.’
‘Then how did-’ Geralt cut himself off as the sly smile won out. ‘You guessed?!’
‘Seeing you fly into a panic when I mentioned Nilfgaard was all the confirmation I needed, my lad. And she may have been roughing it, but your little miss has her courtly manners,’ she told him, tone smug and Geralt gave in to the impulse to drop this head onto Roach’s back, earning him an irritated tail-flick and a head swinging round to nip at his shoulder. ‘Jaskier has not said anything, but he mentioned that there was a Child of Surprised involved, another thing that you somewhat blamed him for if I recall,’ and Geralt grunted. ‘But, despite being out at the edge of the world, we are not completely removed from it. Enough to keep us safe, yes, but we are still a harbour town. We hear things. We can make the connections.’ She snorted quietly, almost to herself. ‘And it’s amazing what a sailor will say in front of you when you give him the impression that you don’t understand what he’s saying. Honestly,’ she said with a rueful shake of her head. ‘Deckhands, worse gossips than any chambermaids.’ She chuckled, but her mirth slipped when Geralt didn’t move or say anything, too consumed by each and every scenario of what these people knowing who she was could mean.
‘We’ll keep her safe here, you know,’ she said, ducking her head to catch Geralt’s gaze with wide honest eyes. ‘We can keep the pair of you safe.’
‘No you can’t,’ he said, shaking his head. It was too dangerous, they needed to keep moving. They could head inland maybe. Get to the foot of the mountains if they were careful.
‘We can. The folk here know the value of hiding those who need protecting.’
‘More than the value of Niflgaard’s coin?’
‘You may have come into town with the story of looking for refuge on your tongue, but for some folk, it’s a very real thing. We’ve got souls here that have fled, been hunted, still have those looking for them. And we protect them. We can protect you both,’ she said, looking over his shoulder and her face cracking suddenly from it’s earnest expression. ‘Whatever she calls herself, the folk of Port Wyląg will love her. Look, turn slowly, don’t let her see.’ Geralt slowly looked over his shoulder, following Gilly’s gaze. There sat Ciri, the clover almost up to her hips, apart from the somewhat squashed path she’d carved as she’d shuffled closer and closer to her target. Now, she sat, biting her bottom lip on a gleeful smile, with the dark head of the old cart horse laid across her lap as she scratched his cheek and threaded white clover blossoms into his mane. He seems completely content with the arrangement, ears flicking lazily and his great rubbery lower lip giving the occasional wobble. ‘She’ll win hearts and minds that one,’ Gilly whispered. ‘No fear there.’
Something about Ciri’s barely contained giddiness, the youthful excitement, has Geralt blinking.
Good flour, copper and rose water.
‘The lass earlier, the one who ran into me before tackling the other woman?’
‘Alina? Oh yes, bonny girl,’ Gilly said airily.
‘She’s the Duchess de Murivel, as was the Baroness de Piana, her name is Valeska. 4 years ago, her mother contracted me to find her. Been abducted, they’d said. Gave me a linen hankie of hers like I was some bloodhound. Still smells like that, though, less sharp.’
‘Quite the memory you’ve got there. But you must be mistaken.’ It wasn’t a threat, but Gilly’s words and gaze both had a weight to them that pressed into Geralt’s sternum.
‘Her stepson paid me off, begged me not to go seeking her out.’ The newly elevated lordling had sweated fiercely as he’d pushed the purse into Geralt’s hand, thanking him for coming and swiftly showing him to the door. Geralt hadn’t protested, not eager to engage in dynastic power struggles and even less so when the blood of the late Duke cloyed the castle’s east wing and there was no sign of his new, young bride. Younger, he’d heard, than her new stepson.
‘On your travels north,’ Gilly asked after a long moment, eyes trained somewhere between his right ear and elbow, ‘did you by any chance hear a song called ‘The Keys of Murivel’? It’s a new one,’ she added when he shook his head. ‘It’s one of his, wrote it after she shared her story a little. But that doesn’t matter, does it?’ she said, raising her arms in an eloquent shrug. ’That’s our Alina. She’s been with us a few years now. She’s become quite an accomplished baker since she came to us, really knows her grains and flours. Has the sweetest romance going with Rasine, well, I mean you saw the pair of them down at the docks. Quite the fairytale. Do not try her vodka though. Well actually,’ she amended with a frown, forgetting her own graveness for a moment, ‘you might be able to endure it, now I think about it.’
Geralt said nothing, his hand idly stroking Roach’s flank as he let his mind and gaze wander. Over Ciri and her new lap dog, the attentive roan and rambunctious dun not too far away, across the rolling green grassland, rippling in the light breeze, along the ridgeline that gently disappeared down towards the town once more, and the rolling expanse of the north sea beyond. Geralt stared out at the horizon, his eyes trained on that point where the blue of the sky and the grey of the sea met in an infinitesimal sliver of silver.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked, taking a step away from Roach, just wanting to get a little closer to that pure, thin, shining thread. He didn’t look around, but he felt as Gilly came to stand silently beside him, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the water.
‘Because you deserve the chance to fix this.’
Something that was too strangled and struggling to be a laugh burbled out of his mouth, with all the grace of a drain unblocking. She couldn’t be serious. By what right? By what power? Alderman, barons, kings, emperors, gods, it didn’t matter. They took. They took from him and those like him. He didn’t get second chances. He didn’t get respite. He didn’t get kindness. What power did she have to do this to him?
‘Why are you doing this for me?’
‘How many folk have looked upon you, Geralt? How many have truly looked, and I don’t mean while looking for a good place to stick a knife?’ He could see her turn to look at him, just out of the corner of his eye, and those too big, too dark eyes were on him again, knowing too much and seeing more still. ‘Some may see you as a threat or an asset. A roadblock or a weapon.’ She took a heavy breath in and let it out through her nose as if steeling herself for a fight. ‘I look at you and see a man who’s walked a very long lonely existence. For decades, I’ll guess, the only folk to truly see you were your brother Witchers, maybe your School Masters, I don’t pretend to know how one becomes a Witcher.’ In all honesty, Geralt wasn’t sure of the typical path either, plucked from the litter early as he was, singled out for more, harder, stronger, more caustic. ‘I think you are a man who has long walked under the shadow of his duty and the pall others would cast over you for doing that duty. Then, one day, in the Valley of Flowers of all places, you looked up and saw sunshine for the first time in a long time. And I don’t think you knew what to do in that moment, besides shield your eyes… He’s our sunshine too, you know. He’s become very dear to us, and many here would bring him the stars if it would make him happy… He’s still singing of you, still playing. He never mentions your name, but he doesn’t need to. You’re the song in that heart of his, no matter how he tries. You’re still the breath in his lungs.’
‘We’ve heard them,’ Geralt manages to choke out. ‘Some of them. In Novigrad. They’re what sent me up the coast.’
‘But he still needs time,’ Gilly said, her voice firm as her gaze returned to the horizon. Geralt snuck another quick look out of the corner of his eye, her lifted jaw and set mouth brokering no argument. ‘He still needs help. He’s come a long way but he still needs to be sure that he’s strong enough to walk alone before he can be strong enough to walk beside you again.’
‘I can protect-’
‘That’s not what I meant, and you know that lad,’ she said, her tone turning icy for a moment, chilling his wounded pride in an instant. She signed, looking very tired all of a sudden. ‘If you are set on leaving, then there is nothing I can do to stop you. Not I, nor anyone else in this town. But I’ll ask you to stay. Because you need help too, Geralt. All the training and armaments and potions in the northern kingdoms and trust me, you need help too. And rest. And we’re happy to offer it. You may be our first Witcher to stay, we’ve had the odd one or two skirt close, but you’re certainly not the first silent, strong, brooding type who thinks this is all too beneath him that I’ve come across. And you certainly won’t be the last.’
‘I don’t think this is-’
‘I know,’ she said kindly, closing her eyes and allowing a sad little smile to flicker into life across her face and then out again. ‘I just get the impression, you don’t know what to think right now. And you aren’t alone there. Granted, I don’t think any of us can say we’ve seen any quite the same as you, but, rigging is still rigging. Be it on a gableboat or a galleon. And you need your ropes laid a little better. But by helping you, it will also be helping him,’ she added as he bristled slightly, ‘before you think I’m getting too altruistic. If it makes you feel any better, I’m doing it for him. He’s become quite precious to us. And,’ she hesitated, ivory teeth catching in her lip in a moment of indecision. ‘If it doesn’t help, if you won’t do it for yourself or for him, do it for her.’
Geralt’s throat felts thick again as he tears his eyes away from the sea and looks around at the sound of soft giggles. Ciri’s not moved, still with her lap full of Cricket’s head, about the size of her own torso and probably twice as heavy. Patience has hunkered down beside them all, a little way off, and rolling back and forth, wiggling on her back to rub out the saddle spot. The other two were standing sentry still, Bream chewing absently at her Ciri’s pale hair, but a small group of yearlings had now come over to investigate and were shoving one another out of the way to be the sole recipient of the head scratches. She was beaming now. Tired around the eyes and still too thin and pale, but she was the most alive Geralt had ever seen her without the heady cocktail of fear and adrenaline coursing through her little heart.
‘I can only imagine what the last few years have been like for her,’ Gilly said quietly, turning to face her joyful little tableau. ‘She’s a young lady now, a young woman. She’ll be not far off her majority soon. How much of a childhood has she had in these last few years do you think? I ask it honestly, with the war on her doorstep and a dynasty on her shoulders. How much of an opportunity do you think she’s had to just... figure out who she is? Because... what awaits her, if you were to leave now? Whisk her back East and by some miracle make it up to that stronghold of yours, what would await her there?
Cold stone. Snow. Ice. Wind. A castle turned necropolis, filled with the ghosts of boys and old men alike. Day after day of excursion. Of fighting and learning and bleeding until you pass out only to do it all again upon waking. No respite, no reprieve. No joy.
‘Training.’
‘In preparation for a hard life ahead of her? The life of a Witcher, or as close to it as an unchanged woman can get? One that, I have no doubts on, she will seize with both hands and make her own, but it will be hard. For her to endure and for you to witness.’
Geralt closed his eyes on the soft giggling and tried to quell the burning in his nose and the roaring in his ears.
‘Stay here for a little while, until the spring comes at least. Let her still be a girl, let her still be a child, while she can be. Let him heal Geralt, let him have a little more time. And give yourself some time too. Some breathing space. Winter’s the season for gathering your strength after all.’
‘Time for what?’ What was he to do? If he wasn’t running, wasn’t fighting, wasn’t maintaining that mausoleum of a mountain keep, what was he to do?
‘Oh, we can keep those hands busy if you need to, and that mind active,’ Gilly assured him. ‘While winter’s here are for rest, they’re not for idleness. But… I think you’ll need time. And we can help you, but, and I do have to ask Geralt.’ He braced himself as best he could as she stepped in front of him and looked him squarely in the face. ‘What do you want? From all this? His forgiveness? His attention? His affection? His heart? I know you’ve missed him,’ she gently took his face between her palms as he tried to shy away and this near-stranger should not be able to do these things. ‘I know you’ve missed him, and I’m sure it’s not just the fact that he was able to make the road a little more comfortable during your travels. He’s missed you terribly too. But take some time to think about what you want, before you ask for it.’ Her face was earnest and searching again and he couldn’t help but listen as her voice took on layers it should not have. 'Not what you’ve been told to expect. Not what you think you deserve. What do you want Geralt?’