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Chapter Text

The leshen had its hold on the forest, that much was clear from the eerie stillness, and the way the town at the border watched Geralt with terrified eyes when he pushed into the thicket. Fear was good, though. Fear means that they hired a professional, rather than trying to do something about it themselves.

He'd taken the job just as the weather shifted away from summer and began its slow descent into the cold, and Geralt knocked back a Cat as the sun dipped below the horizon. Even the insects were silent in the undergrowth.

The stillness made it easy to hear the sudden swarm of crows flying at his face, and Geralt threw an arm up to protect his eyes from beaks and talons, and the fearsome body of the leshen grew in the darkness.

“Come on, you ugly fucker,” Geralt muttered, wanting to see how it would attack.

Roots, ripping from the ground, flying towards his legs but he darted out of the way, bringing his sword down on them, trying to draw the leshen itself closer, get through the defences.

Then, somewhere behind him, something crying. High pitched and ear splitting, short sharp cries at the top of little lungs.

“Shit,” Geralt spat. He spun as he swung, hacking at the tendrils of the leshen, and caught sight of an old gnarled oak tree behind him, with a hollow in the trunk. Just the right size for a babe to be placed as a sacrifice to the forest spirits.

He leapt over the small mountain of roots and vines, running around to the other side of the leshen, firing off small igni signs as he went. Gotta draw it away from the oak and the baby.

“Come on, fuckface,” Geralt called out. “I'm over here!”

The leshen took the bait, and reared around to chase him deeper into the forest. Geralt got clawed along the armour on his thigh for his troubles. He'd have a nasty bruise, and would favour his right side during the rest of the fight with the leshen, but it would be worth it.

The fight ended in a closed in ravine, Geralt's back up against a rock as he threw all his might into blasting igni at the monster. It went up in flames with a screech, taking another lucky swipe at him that he managed to parry. The bright fire hurt his black eyes, changed as they were by the Cat potion, so he ducked his head under his arm. Fire licked up the trees, and he had half a mind to let it burn, let it spread to the village that hired him, for their crime against the baby left in the tree.

But, more important was the child itself. The creature dead, Geralt took one of its horns, a strand of flesh still attached, and ran back to the old oak tree, heart thudding in his chest when he didn't hear any crying. The hollow was empty.

He looked at the ground, for a crushed little body or a trail of blood. He caught a whiff of the scent, newborn babies have such a strong smell that even unmutated humans recognise it, but it was gone in an instant. No trail. Nothing to follow.

Geralt dropped the leshen horn at the foot of the alderman in the town square and collected his pay, wordless and seething. He grabbed the man by the shoulder in a punishing grip and brought all his height to bear on him.

“Putting out a sacrifice to any monster only drives it closer to you,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “The next time a child is taken it may not be unwanted.”

The alderman smelled soaked in fear, but not guilt.

“There was no child sacrifice,” he stuttered out. “We would never, we, you took the contract!”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, stepping away. The alderman turned aside to some of the women there.

“Are any of the children missing? Did any wander off?” he called.

“It was an infant,” Geralt added his voice over the rush of whispers. “Newborn. Less than a month old.”

An old woman shook her head. “Youngest what's been born here is going on 9 months, and she’s present and accounted for.”

A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd. “No child is missing,” Geralt overheard one of them say.

They were on-edge enough, Geralt saw, and further talk of a disappearing baby would surely bring trouble. Already he picked up on the faint whisper of witcher hissed by the older and more gnarled ones, the ones that remembered the stories of boys being taken from their homes to be transformed into something monstrous.

Geralt turned on his heel, grabbed Roach’s reins, and left.

Geralt bumped into Jaskier again in the town of Strept a day's ride later. Or, more accurately, when Geralt pumped some water into the square and let Roach have her head to drink, Jaskier sauntered out of the theatre like he hadn't been watching for Geralt out of the top window all day.

“See, what did I tell you,” Jaskier smiled, picking up the conversation from days earlier without pause. “No trouble at all, and a grateful little hamlet to boot, I'll wager.”

Geralt was still dwelling on that disappearing baby, so didn't even respond with a hmm. Roach sated, Geralt turned and began walking her up the street to the only half-decent inn in town, letting Jaskier prattle on as he followed.

“And I was right, the troop needed a little of my flair in act 2, the whole thing should hold together nicely now, and, what ho, what's this?”

Jaskier stopped, and was inspecting a poster on a nearby wall, some royal decree, from the seal and calligraphy. Geralt kept walking.

“Oh, would you look at this!” Jaskier called out, pulling the poster from the wall and waving it around as he read. “Let the Kingdom rejoice! Her majesty Queen Calanthe is pleased to announce the healthy delivery of the next in the royal house of Raven. Her royal highness, Princess Pavetta, and consort Duny, the Urcheon of Erlenwald, welcomed the birth of-”

“Shut it.”

“What, you don't want to know your child surprise is a bouncing baby-”

“No.” He definitely did not. He wanted to have nothing to do with that unfortunate child of surprise, Mousesack's warning be damned. Not its name, not nothing.

“Geralt, this is your child of surprise!” Jaskier whined. “She's bound to you!”

Well, now he knew. A girl child, then. Better than a boy, or there would be rumours of him turning a prince into a Witcher, but even if they could make more Witchers, it would never happen to a Princess.

“Well, she's healthy, at any rate,” Jaskier continued reading. “Hale, no hedgehog spines, that’s nice to hear, born at 6 pound and 7, that's a good weight.”

“What do you know about babies?” Geralt asked, keeping his pace even as they climbed the road up a hill and Jaskier fell behind.

“You don't know everything about me, Geralt,” Jaskier's voice came from behind him. “In fact, do you know anything about me? What colour am I wearing?”

“A purple number that is an affront to the eyes,” Geralt said, without breaking his stride. “And a hat that you think makes you look rakish, but actually makes you look more like a buffoon.”

An affronted gasp, spluttering.

“It’s plum, you, you buffoon,” Jaskier said, but by the time he caught up to Geralt at the top of the street, his hat was tucked under his arm. They walked side by side for a while, till they arrived at the Horse and Sparrow and Geralt slowed down, stroking Roach’s nose.

“What are you going to do?” Jaskier asked.

“Nothing.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Come on.”

“I'm going to the inn, I'm ordering the biggest slab of meat on the menu, and I'll take that nekker job I saw on the noticeboard.”

“You really won't go see her?”

“If they want me, they'll bring me to her. Or her to me.” Geralt cocked his head. “But I don't think the lionesses of Cintra would allow that, would you?”

“No, I suppose you're right,” Jaskier sighed. “But this changes everything.”

“It doesn't. I just said I-”

“Not for you, you self-centred narcissist,” Jaskier said, grinning. “For me! Royal celebrations, nobles always want an excuse for a party, and if it's in the new Princesses honour there's bound to be money flowing. Who better to perform than the bard who witnessed the epic love story?”

Geralt sighed. “Just keep me out of it.”

“That’s not up to me, my friend,” Jaskier flipped his hair out of his eyes. “You can't fight Destiny, Geralt. Every poet knows that.”

He gave Geralt a little punch to the shoulder.

“Well, I'll be off. See you in Vizima, yeah? Do write if you’re going to be later than the bardic competition. I would so hate to miss seeing you before winter sets in.”

Geralt looked over at Jaskier and nodded, giving him a smile because he was feeling generous. It was nice, in a way, to have someone flit in and out of his life like Jaskier. Occasional benefits, like a second person to set up camp, but came with none of the responsibilities that attachments often brought.

A month later, Geralt was holed up in a stable, safe from the roaring storm outside, and lounging on the pile of hay. His coat and bedroll laid out on it didn’t fully stop the prickles from the straw itching his skin, but Roach was snuffling at the feedbucket, and the stable was safe from the elements.

The townspeople had hired him to deal with the forktail that kept swooping down from the mountains, but only after it had set a half-dozen buildings on fire. With a lot of families displaced, he volunteered to sleep in the stables, after a warm bath and hot meal as part of his pay.

It was nice. Peaceful, despite the thundering rain. Or maybe because of it. It deadened all the sounds and smells from outside, so all he had to concentrate on was the smooth glide of his whetstone over his dagger. His foot bounced a little as he worked, to a tune that he would die before admitting it was one of Jaskier's favourites, and life was calm.

A zap and a glow of green light from the corner by the sacks of grain.

Geralt sat up silently, dagger still in hand. The light faded as quickly as it came, and something moved in amongst the sacks.

Geralt moved towards it, watchful and wary. He caught a whiff of something. Something familiar.

Standing over the sacks, he nudged the pile gently with one socked foot.

“Mnah!”

A baby. A child, wrapped up tightly in a white cloth, with big green eyes staring up at him.

“You weren't here before,” Geralt said dumbly.

The baby wiggled its arms and legs where they were pinned down by the swaddle, and stared right back at him. He crouched down on his haunches, the way he did when he was investigating tracks left by a monster. He tilted his head and inspected the delicate embroidery on the swaddling cloth.

Three rampant golden lions, tongues curled and claws extended. The royal crest of Cintra.

The baby showed her gums in an open-mouthed smile, and Geralt hung his head.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Geralt reached down a hand - fuck, his hand was wider than her whole body - and touched her. Warm, solid. Not an apparition. Jaskier was right, she was healthy, a good colour to her skin, but still had the wiry limbs of a newborn, not yet achieved plump cheeks and a good layer of fat.

The tiny princess kicked her legs again, struggling against the swaddling cloths and Geralt's hand.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her.

She didn't answer, of course, just blinked her huge eyes and continued to try and fight her way out of the tightly wrapped cloth. A corner got free from where it was tucked and she kicked again, legs finally jerking back and forth.

“Ah, freedom,” Geralt mused. “You'll be a fighter just like your grandmother.”

He moved his hand down and she pushed her feet against his palm. Good strength, he assumed. She didn't seem distressed, or hungry. Geralt touched his medallion, but there was no humming at all. There was no smell or sound of a portal, no one sent her to him, she just appeared.

Right where Geralt was spending the night. This couldn't be a destiny thing, could it? Surely it would be a meddlesome mage, playing with some unknown magic. Or, remembering Pavetta's strange powers at the betrothal feast, perhaps she had sent her to him for safekeeping in a time of distress. But either way, a mother was missing her child.

Slowly, carefully, he reached down and put both hands under her little body and picked her up, supporting her head when it fell back. She squirmed a little in his arms, throwing off more of the swaddle so her thin little arms came free as well. Her squished little hands with their tiny fingers all curled up lifted up by her head. She had a faint fuzz of wispy, fair coloured hair on her head and she got a double chin from the way Geralt held her.

Geralt scraped his memory for the last time he held a baby. That turned-over wagon on the high road, maybe. People didn't often let Witcher's carry their precious children.

This was the princess of Cintra, and Geralt's Child of Surprise.

What the fuck was she doing here? In the middle of backwater wherever. He was a two week hard ride from the border of Cintra, and that was assuming he could appear on Cintran land holding the new Princess and not be killed on sight.

He just wished he'd let Jaskier tell him her name.

“C'mon, cub,” he said, standing up. She was so small and light against his chest. “This is no place for royalty.”

Out to the central hall, then. But before he left, he unwound the long, identifiable, embroidered cloth, and was glad to see nothing befouled underneath, then stuffed it in his saddlebags. The princess resumed her kicking with vigour once she was unwrapped, likely against the cold, so he tucked her tight against his chest and fitted his cloak around them both. Geralt pulled his hood up over his head against the rain, grabbed the lantern and ventured out into the storm.

The central hall had about six families sleeping on the floor, and the fire still burning on the hearth. A few people were still awake, sitting on the long benches that were pushed up against the wall, and talking about the creature that terrorised their town. They all looked to him when he swung the door open then shut behind him, and shook the rain from his cloak.

“Is there a wet nurse here?” he asked, trusting they were attentive enough that he didn't need to raise his voice over the sleeping bodies.

One of the men who pinned the notice stood up, crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to seem larger.

“What's this about?” he asked.

Seeing no way out of it, Geralt withdrew the baby. Her face was scrunched up and unhappy from being inside his cloak then brought out into the light. The princess made little disgruntled noises.

The man's face became grave. “Whose is it?” he asked.

“She's my responsibility for now. Let's leave it at that.”

The man scoffed. “A Witcher's child?”

Geralt let the sting fall off of him. “Will you help her?”

An old woman came to them, lines on her face creased deep. “My grandson is not yet weaned, we can wake my daughter.” She examined the baby's face. “But this child doesn't need feeding yet, just bein' held.”

A little self-conscious, Geralt half offered her to the matron, but she scowled at him, and adjusted his grip on her so she was properly settled in his arms. “T'would be better if you were bare-chested.”

Geralt's brain came up short. “What?”

“A child this young needs skin,” she informed him. “Needs talking, too. I know you're as frugal with your words as your coin, but tha' ain't as important as helpin' her speak.”

“When will she need feeding?” Geralt asked.

“Trust me, Master Witcher. You'll know,” the matron answered.

She brought them to the fireplace, and had Geralt take a seat on the bench there.

“A child this young should not be taken from its mother,” the matron said, warily.

“I know, I'm trying to return her.”

She nodded at that. “You didn't have her on the hunt. How came she to be here?”

“Not sure," Geralt said, eyes flicking between the warm glow of the fire and the emerald eyes staring up at him. “Someone sent her to me, I think.”

“And left you woeful unprepared, I see,” she said. “We've not got much what hasn't gone up in smoke, but I'll see what I can do.”

She bustled around at that, stepping lightly over sleeping bodies and rifling through sacks and crates, leaving Geralt alone with the princess.

They were going to ask for a name, soon. He tried to remember anything from Jaskier's ramblings about nobility, and came up with nothing but their famed arrogance and pride that had them repeating the same names generation after generation. The princess likely had too many names, but any of those would be dangerous, if anyone figured out the connection. He dimly remembered Jaskier saying he'd plucked a new name for himself from the dandelions on the side of the road.

Geralt brushed his fingers over her wispy barely-there fine hair and remembered young Pavetta's golden locks.

“So, Buttercup,” Geralt said, keeping his voice low. She seemed to respond to the rumbles from his chest, “I'm Geralt. Of Rivia. It's what they call me, anyway..”

She stared off a little over his shoulder, opening and closing her mouth, making little sounds.

“Don't know what else to tell you, really,” he said. “Sorry about claiming you. Wish I didn't. I'll get you back to your mother soon. Then you won't have to worry about seeing this ugly mug again.”

She looked at him, then. Huge green eyes in her squashed little face, looking directly at him with all his scars. Her mouth worked, open and shut with little tongue smacking, then she turned her head towards his chest and mouthed at his shirt. Then Buttercup started crying. Short, sharp “mnah” cries, and the matron rushed to Geralt's side. She whisked Buttercup away, and put her at the breast of a woman of about 30 years who was still half-asleep and leaning against a wall. The younger woman rubbed her eyes and readjusted Buttercup without even looking, until she latched on and the crying stopped. The wet nurse closed her eyes and leant her head back against the wall.

“Should she be awake for that?” Geralt asked, feeling very awkward.

“My daughter is on her fifth babe, if she can't sleep while she feeds, she would be a very overworked mother indeed,” the matron answered. “But burping and wrapping will be up to you.” She fixed him a stare. “What do you know about infant care?”

Geralt shrugged.

What followed was a very rushed lecture on all the important parts of keeping a baby alive until he reunited her with her mother. Geralt was instructed on how to wrap Buttercup tightly, practicing on a loaf of bread until the matron was satisfied, then how to fashion a sling so she would be pressed tight against his chest or back, “in case you need your hands free for your work,” the matron said, then uttered a prayer to Melitele that it wouldn't come to that. She also gave clear instructions on how to pin the undercloth in place to protect the swaddle, and how often he should expect she'll need changing.

“I cannot give you this, for it is my grandson's favourite, but have a look,” the matron said, showing Geralt a small clay figurine. It was in the shape of a cow, but its long body tapered to the end. It was hollow like a cup, with the tail acting as a spout.

“Have the potter in the city make one for you. Any creature will do. See how its spout is formed? Easy for her to drink from it. She'll need a wet nurse till she's seen 6 months,” the matron said, which sent Geralt's head spinning. How was he supposed to take a wet nurse with him all the way to Cintra?

“When she can have it, give her cow's milk, or goat's, but you must boil it first. You know the herb verbena?”

Geralt nodded.

“Add it to the boil, but strain it free before you give it to her. Let it cool first.” She grabbed him by the hand and put a finger on the skin of his inner wrist. “Test it here, warm, not hot.”

Geralt took a deep breath. “I don't think I can do this.”

“Do you wish to leave her with us? She would have a steady life here.”

“No.”

The matron stared him down like he was a mere boy, and not a mutant matching her own age. “Then you better step up and learn, Master Witcher.”

So he practiced, all through Buttercup's hour long feed, then again while she slept in the sling against his chest. He changed her soiled underthings under the matron's watchful eye and recited all the information back to her. Geralt had been a good student, back at Kaer Morhen. He read the bestiary with vigour and quoted Vesemir's words to the other boys in his group. Even now, he still heard the old man's voice in his ear when he brewed his elixirs, warning him against over-stirring it.

He could apply that same diligence to keeping the princess alive.

The sun rose, and the people stirred, all of them as bemused as each other to see the hulking Witcher with a babe on his chest. He had earned enough good will here for a little help, but they were too desperate for hands to spare the breastfeeding mother. She offered to let him stay with them, but the mission to return Buttercup, along with the suspicious eye the men gave him, caused him to move along.

“The city is large,” the matron said. “You're sure to find a wet nurse there.”

Otherwise, well. It doesn't bear thinking about.

Geralt set out in the morning, after Buttercup had her fill again and was milk drunk, squishing her face into happy expressions. Geralt carried her in the sling against his chest, swaddled tightly. He walked alongside Roach, her reins in hand, and within only a few minutes of walking, he looked down to see Buttercup was fast asleep.

Now this was familiar. The Path, Roach, nothing but the next step, the next job. Geralt put all the other fears and worries out of his mind, and fell into the soothing repetition of putting one foot in front of the other.

It took two hours to see the city walls in the distance, and Geralt revised his estimated travel time to Cintra. Geralt could maintain a quick pace on foot through the day and night and get there in a week if he needed, but Buttercup preferred a slower, rocking stride and would only be settled when he was practically meandering.

He stopped to change her soiled underthings, wrapping her again in the borrowed swaddle. He dunked the soiled cloth in a nearby pond until it was slightly less offensive to the nose and hung it on the back of Roach's saddle, despite her huff at him.

“Don't talk to me like that,” Geralt grumbled at his horse, wrangling the baby one-handed. “There, secure. Not like the other trophies you display, but worthy of pride all the same.”

Now awake, Buttercup made all sorts of noises and faces - one of the faces had him chuckling until he realised she was, rather emphatically, pushing with all her might to soil her clean garments again. It ended with both of them naked in the river, Geralt holding her against his chest and carefully scrubbing both their bodies and clothes with his sliver of soap. Buttercup didn't particularly like the cold of the water, but when he held her up against his shoulder, she rested her head so completely against his neck. It would have been sweet, if not for how he was scrubbing at her royal bottom.

Another hour later, and he was finally at the gates of the city, but Buttercup was screaming. Her cries were constant and piercing, offending Geralt's sensitive ears and bringing glares from all the other travellers in and out of the city. He rocked her, hushed her, even growled, but there was no stopping her.

She was hungry. The stop for laundry, though necessary, delayed their journey far beyond what the matron instructed be the time period between feedings. Her tiny stomach, her growing body, she needed breastmilk, and quickly. Geralt gazed at the busy streets, not knowing where to go.

Who in this city would willingly hear a Witcher's plea for help? What nursing mother would accept a child from the arms of the Butcher of Blakiven?

Outcasts. One of the most valuable lessons he'd learnt from Jaskier was that cities like this were always full of people who saw themselves just as much as outsiders as Geralt did. And they tended to gather together. A city this size, it was bound to have a theatre.

At his fast pace, and thanks to a child who plugged his ears at Buttercup's screaming but still pointed the way, Geralt found the theatre quickly, and burst inside. Rehearsals, and construction was occurring, apparently. A carpenter was hard at work, several people talking and waving pages on stage, costumes being fitted. A few children ran around the theatre, stopping when Geralt came in. Everyone stared at him and Buttercup as she screamed in his arms.

“She's hungry, please,” he said. “Can anyone help?”

A seamstress stood up from her workstation, a hand on the head of a toddler that clung to her skirts. “What happened?”

“We were travelling to find a wet nurse,” Geralt said, stepping closer at the woman's invitation to show her the screaming child. “Not fast enough.”

“Oh, she has lungs on her,” she said. “I'm Dana, this is Willem.”

“Geralt,” he answered gruffly, finding it hard to think while the baby screamed. “I call her Buttercup.”

“You're the White Wolf from the songs,” Dana said, eyes widening.

“I-”

“For mercy's sake!” the director said, hands over his ears. “Please take it outside and be done with it.”

Dana showed him the way to the back alley, and Geralt followed meekly, and so did Willem, on unsteady feet. She smelled healthy enough, clean, no syphilis.

“She is a real child, yes?” Dana asked, getting herself seated on the low bench. “Not a botchling or one of your other monsters?”

Geralt, as frayed as he was, laughed at that. “Real. She fed this morning before we set off.”

She opened her blouse, and Geralt passed Buttercup over to the woman's open arms. Dana cooed at her, immune to the awful sad cries, bouncing her up and down.

“Why isn't she-?” Geralt started, then failed to find the right word.

“She's too hungry to feed,” Dana said. Her own toddler Willem climbed up to peer at the bundle his mother was rocking and babbled at her. After a few long, stressful minutes, Buttercup calmed to Dana's singing, and she took the offered breast in mouth.

“There we go, there you are,” Dana murmured. She put a hand on Willem's head and stroked his tight curls as she fed the princess. She looked up at Geralt, and he noticed for the first time since he found Buttercup in the stable that his shoulders were slumping down.

“Oh, you are tired, aren't you?” Dana said.

Geralt frowned. “Not my only sleepless night, nor even after a hunt.” But he certainly was more tired than normal. Responsibility. Draining.

“Neither will it be your last,” Dana smiled. “Wait until she's teething.”

“Do you mind if I meditate?” Geralt asked, and at her hand gesture, he knelt down on the ground by them. Just an hour, he'd keep his senses, but the regular breathing would restore his energy.

“Master Witcher,” a quiet voice called him. “Geralt.”

Geralt startled, sitting up from where he'd slumped against the alley wall, and wiping drool from his beard.

Dana was hiding her laugh behind her hand. “I'm sorry, it didn't look very comfortable.”

He groaned as he got to his feet. Buttercup was sleeping in her arms, and a few offcuts of material on the bench smelled of milk upchuck. Willem played with the straps on Geralt's boots.

Two men passed by the mouth of the alley, voices loud as they loitered and sneered at them.

“Look at that! Another bastard child born to the theatre sluts, and sired by a monster to boot!” one man called out.

“Do you suppose it would be a hunchback?” his partner laughed. They moved on quickly when Geralt turned to them.

He had half a mind to chase them down, when Dana's soft voice spoke from behind him.

“I'm a widow, if it matters,” she muttered.

“It doesn't.”

“Pox took him, and our oldest,” she mused, hand stroking a rhythm over Buttercup's face.

“The mummers gave me work no one else would.”

Buttercup looked so peaceful in Dana's arms, so unlike the hellion she was when she was hungry.

Geralt nodded, decision made. “Need to take her home to her mother. It's a three week journey. Will you help?”

Dana's eyes boggled. “What?”

“Paid job, there and back, or I'll take you anywhere on the Continent you want to go. Willem too, of course.” The offer made, Geralt could hardly stop the words coming to try and convince her. “I have a horse, I can get you a cart if you need to take-”

“Geralt!” Dana interrupted. “I… let me think about it. Alright?”

“Alright.” There was so much preparation to do, anyway. They wouldn't be able to set out until tomorrow morning, even if he could find everything he needed to, and quickly.

He found his heart ached to hold Buttercup again. He didn't want to wake her, but seeing her sleeping and content in someone else's arms made something feel off inside him. Like when someone petted Roach.

“There are some things I need to buy,” Geralt admitted.

Dana stood, and held out the tightly swaddled princess to him. “And I have work to do, I always do my best thinking with a needle in hand.”

Geralt looked down at Buttercup. How could a human have such tiny ears?

Geralt found his way through the city easy enough, and turned hard earned coin into swaddles and cloths for whatever comes out of the princess on either end. He had a farrier reshoe Roach and had the potter make the clay figurine similar to the one the matron showed him. Not in the form of a cow, something different, that would be ready before they set out tomorrow.

Buttercup woke and stared up at him with emerald eyes as they walked around the city, and fought to get her arms free. With those tiny little hands she grabbed at his armour and beard a little, but mostly just flapped her arms and squirmed.

He chuckled and talked to her, leaning up against the support beam of the alley behind the theatre, a crate of supplies and goods at his knee.

“But a bruxa, well, unlike the katakans I mentioned earlier, they do come out in sunlight,” he told her. “Ran into one a while ago. Remind me to tell you the story when you're older.”

Buttercup squirmed and made a face similar to how she looked before she soiled herself, and Geralt held her away from his body, wincing slightly in anticipation. But no, not waste, instead, a tiny hiccup escaped her, then another. Her eyes went wide with surprise at the joliting in her body, and Geralt chuckled.

“Little thing,” he said indulgently, bringing her back close. “Surprised by your own-”

A flash of green light, and she was gone.

Geralt's arms were empty, still warm where her body was resting moments before. But Buttercup was nowhere to be found.

“Buttercup?” Gerald said, arms still frozen. “Princess?”

His medallion had hummed, he realised, the moment she disappeared, and stopped immediately. Taken away, back to her home where it was safe, he surmised.

Geralt sagged, but whether it was from relief or sadness, he couldn't know.

Chapter Text

Geralt did not sulk. He admitted to a little moping, when he ordered an extra mug of beer that night, back pressed against the wall in a dark corner of the inn, but he certainly didn't sulk. He had been preparing for a mission, so having the satisfaction of a job well done be snatched away from him felt not unlike climbing to the top of a mountain and finding the archgriffin had died of old age.

Dana was relieved, secretly, to not have to make such a quick decision to upend her life. She accepted Geralt's story of the grandmother spotting him in the street and taking the child, grateful for Geralt's care. He hid a purse full of coin under her bolt of cloth for her to find later.

He decided to stay the night in the city until the next night, so as not to waste the potter's time, and picked up his order the next morning. He wrapped the clay figurine in the embroidered swaddle, along with most of his other supplies he'd collected for the baby, and tucked them deep into his saddle bag. Then he set off towards Cintra.

He arrived there in a week and a half, and it wasn't until he was already there that he realised Jaskier would be expecting him in Vizima soon. But Geralt had something to do, and they were unlikely to see each other before they settled into their respective places for the winter.

He wrote a letter to Jaskier, asking for the information he'd gained while attending all those fancy balls. Geralt had never cared for the subtle art of gossips and spies at court that Jaskier understood so innately, not until he suddenly had a vested interest in Cintran royalty. He stopped in Vyrva, a town on the Yaruga river where he lifted a curse on a peller some fifteen years past and still had a favour owed. He stored Roach there with the peller, as well as his swords and armour. He tucked his white hair up into a stained cap and put on commoner garb.

Cintra, as far as he could tell, was very pleased to have the new princess, though he heard more than a few mutterings about ‘yet another woman’ in the line of succession. Anyone who spouted that line to him with derision was greeted with a firm but not full strength punch to the nose.

Cirilla. Her name was Cirilla.

Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon. He was right about the names. Geralt wondered what Pavetta called her.

But the commoners didn't have much more to offer than what the royal notices said. As he drew closer to the capital of Cintra he heard more specific tidbits, passed along through washerwomen and scullery maids that worked the halls of the palace. With their help, he painted a picture of life inside the palace walls. As a mother, Pavetta was doting and sweet, everything Calanthe wasn't. The pregnancy was a difficult one, Pavetta was bedridden for months, but in the end the birth was safe for both of them. Though from what he could tell, Pavetta was quite possessive of her firstborn, and hadn't even employed a wet nurse yet. Duny, he found harder to get a read on. Jaskier's letter spoke of Duny as being a standard courtly father, boastful in his lineage and making grand assumptions about Cirilla's intellect by the way she stared at the stained glass windows. But something felt off about him, from the scraps Geralt could investigate.

Jaskier also wrote, in flowery verse, that he was pleased Geralt was finally taking an interest in both courtly politics and his child surprise, and that he hoped Geralt appreciated all the skills that he brought to his life.

Geralt saw the royal family once. They appeared on the balcony overlooking the square. It was packed full of people to celebrate Cirilla's fourth month of life - an important marker in their kingdom as it signified a child's life was safe, from the lowliest peasant to the princess. The Cintran banner flew all throughout the city, and Geralt was one face among thousands who came out to see the princess. He kept his hood drawn over his face and his medallion tucked away.

Princess Cirilla was dressed in a white gown that flowed over Calanthe's arms where she held her, presenting her to the city. The crowd cheered, and the festivities continued throughout the night. Geralt kept poking around, overhearing snatches of conversation.

He was looking for something in particular, some courtly plot that would necessitate Cirilla being away from the palace for a time. He's sure he could ask Mousesack, but the mage would surely entreat Geralt to stay again, and being restricted at court was no life for a Witcher.

A few days later, Geralt walked the perimeter outside of the castle walls. Strong and fortified. Well guarded too, except against a Witcher. After watching the movement of the guards, he used the sign of axii on one to let him pass onto the palace walls. He stalked in the shadows of the setting sun, circumnavigating until he overlooked the palace gardens. From far below, he heard singing, light and soft, only audible to his sharpened senses. Pavetta walked loops around the bubbling fountain in the garden, holding Cirilla up against her chest. The princess was holding her own head up, Geralt noted, and changed so quickly even in the few short weeks since he last saw her, she was now plump and round-faced, and straight-backed where Pavetta held her.

That's all he needed to know, that Cirilla was safe, that whatever trouble that made a magic worker send her to him for half a day was over, and that he could entrust her back to her parents.

Pavetta kept talking, a stream of sweet-sounding words that Geralt could never hope to match, and Cirilla laughed. From his place in the shadows, the corner of Geralt's lips raised. See, safe and happy.

The medallion against his chest vibrated, short and sharp, and it was his only warning. A flash of green and Cirilla was gone from her mother's arms. The light filled the space in his dark corner, the outline of a familiar shape. Lightning quick, Geralt threw a hand into the light before it faded and grabbed the bundle before it hit the ground.

Cirilla, still laughing, open mouthed and showing off her gums.

“Buttercup,” he gasped.

From down below, Pavetta cried out. “Cirilla! Ciri, no!”

“You can't be here!” Geralt hissed, bringing the princess close to him, holding her with a hand under each armpit. “Go! Go back to Mama.”

Her hands reached out towards his face, still happy and smiling.

“Ciri!” Pavetta cried out again. “Guards!”

Cirilla's still wobbly neck muscles failed her, and she fell head-first towards Geralt and headbutted his nose and it smarted. He winced, then repeated himself. “Go back!”

Just as Pavetta was bringing her powerful voice to bear, Cirilla blinked out of existence with another flash of light, and reappeared in her mother's arms.

The heartbreaking sound of relief echoed through the gardens, and Pavetta's quick thinking helped her lie to the guards that she had merely felt faint, and would they please bring her a little wine for her nerves?

Geralt saw Cirilla with Pavetta's long braid clutched in her fist, completely unconcerned with the fact that she had just travelled some 50 feet into the air in the blink of an eye. Still smiling, still laughing.

Geralt fled, collected Roach and rode hard for the three weeks it took to get all the way to Kaer Morhen.

“You're early,” Vesemir said, when Geralt found him halfway up a ladder and covered in mortar dust.

Geralt shrugged. “Didn't take many jobs on the way here.”

Vesemir sighed. “Another pair of hands to prepare for winter won't go astray.”

And so Geralt threw himself into the work. The armoury was never so accessible after all that rubble was moved, and he made several trips down the mountain to stuff their larder full to the brim. Vesemir grumbled about coin, as he always did, and proceeded to make what they had stretch far. Chopping down trees for firewood went a lot quicker with two. Vesemir still had a lot of strength, but hauling an oak tree into the courtyard is still a team effort.

That sort of busywork was fine enough for Geralt, but altogether too mundane and predictable to keep his mind straying to the Princess Cirilla. He would rather a full tilt adrenaline pumping fight with a royal wyvern, something that completely cleared his mind of anything but merely surviving the next blow, but short of that, sweeping out the hall would have to do.

He perused the library whenever he could get away, searching bestiaries and history tomes for any information about spelled princesses, but weeks passed by without any more strange flashes. It seemed his hypothesis was correct, it was being close to Cirilla that activated those untamed powers. Being here, all the way on the other side of the continent in Kaer Morhen, Geralt was safe here, and Cirilla stayed in Cintra.

Eskel arrived first for the winter, and Lambert trailed in just before the first big snowfall of the season, grumbling about how his toes were already frozen, and parking his arse in front of the fire. If they noticed Geralt wasn't his usual self, they were gracious enough not to mention it, just pull him along on the usual activities of trading insults, getting drunk and working on improving their armour.

Winter had truly set in, and they all moved a little slower in the cold and slept longer hours, like great bears in their caves. Vesemir insisted on keeping up their training, ‘a sharp blade rusts without use’ and all that, but he knew the three wolves enough to know the best way to keep them fired up and training was to make little insinuations here or there. A prod comparing Lambert's speed to Eskel's Signs, or recalling one of the competitions between Geralt and Eskel from when they were boys where the winner was still contested. With only a few comments, he had them firing Signs at each other in dodging practice, or climbing through caves totally blindfolded with only their enhanced Witcher senses to guide them.

He was certain they knew what he was doing with those comments, but they indulged him just the same. Winter was always long in Kaer Morhen, and for the three of Vesemir's Wolves it was better to have them getting their frustrations out productively rather than butting heads like some of Eskel's goats.

Eskel propped himself up by the fire, massaging his right knee where it always ached in the cold since that basilisk knocked his legs out from under him. He heaved a breath and let it out in a sigh. He'd never had the speed of Geralt or the stubborn fortitude of Lambert, and although he was still so young compared to Vesemir, he felt old, like a clock that had just begun winding down. The dancing flames of the giant fireplace in the main hall were soothing, and kept his mind steady, as he did every night out on the Path. 

“Eskel!” Geralt called, his voice reverberating down the tower's stairs and through the hall.

“Yeah?”

“You're still milking Bleater after her last kid, aren't you?”

Eskel raised a scarred eyebrow. “Yes, cheese from her milk was on the pies last night, Geralt, couldn't you taste it?”

“And how long has it been since Belleteyn?”

That bizzare line of questioning was enough for Eskel, he spun around in his chair to eyeball Geralt as he walked the length of the hall, a bundle in his arms.

“Just shy of 6 months,” Eskel answered. “Why?”

Geralt sighed. “That'll have to do,” he said.

“Gerelt, what's all this-”

It took him a moment to understand what he was looking at. The bundle in Geralt's arms was uptight, more sitting on his hip, really, with his hand curling around it protectively. “What the hell is that?” Eskel asked, standing and folding his arms over his chest, even though he knew exactly what Geralt was carrying.

The baby stared back at him, then smiled.

“Found her in the library, I just happened to be walking past when she arrived,” Geralt said.

“By stork? You know that's not how that works, Geralt.”

The child flapped a pudgy arm and somehow worked a finger into her mouth, drool sliding down her chin.

“By magic. Some form of portal that I've never seen before.”

“Who sent her?”

Geralt frowned, disquieted. “Think she sent herself.”

Eskel boggled.

The child's eyes were such a vivid green and fixed on him intently. An innocent in the halls of Kaer Morhen.

“Why?”

“It's, uh.” The child slipped a little in Geralt's arms, so he hefted her up onto his hip again, and the movement was so mundane and domestic that it sent Eskel's mind spinning.

“She's my child surprise.”

Eskel lifted a hand and tentatively touched the soft round cheeks. She grabbed at him, uncoordinated, and because Eskel was always too gentle, ended up trying to bite his knuckle with her gums.

“Geralt,” he said, and with that single word his tone carried a whole lecture.

“Get the goat's milk,” Geralt advised. “When she gets hungry she could bring the whole Keep down on us.”

Geralt was always pragmatic, even in the face of the bizarre, so Eskel turned and headed towards the cold room deep in the belly of the Kaer Morhen.

“And some verbena!” Geralt called after him.

Lambert bumped into him in the hallway, and sniffed the air just as Eskel was passing.

“What the hell is that smell?” he asked.

“Geralt's gone and gotten himself a child surprise,” Eskel answered.

“What, since breakfast?”

“Apparently so.”

Eskel fumbled around in the cold room, collecting the large jar of chilled goat's milk and by the time he arrived back in the main hall, Geralt was sitting astride one of the benches, with the child sitting up between his legs and leaning back against him. Vesemir was pacing back and forth, stroking his moustache, and Lambert was eyeballing the child with suspicion.

“So what the hell is she?” Lambert asked.

“A princess,” Geralt replied dryly. “So you better watch your tongue around her.”

“Fucking hell,” Lambert breathed. “Is this gonna start a war?”

Geralt shrugged.

“No, I don't think so,” Vesemir said. He tapped something spread out on the table. “This was around her when she arrived, yes?” Geralt nodded. Eskel moved to Vesemir's side to see a white linen cloth, richly decorated with colourful embroidery. Why nobles would spend time and effort on a cloth for a babe to shit in, Eskel never knew. “And you didn't check the border?” Vesemir chuckled. “My eyes are getting dim, boys, but they're still sharper than yours.”

Eskel bent over the cloth, and what at first appeared to be a long thin gold chain looping alongside the edges of the cloth rearranged itself in his mind. Letters, words as though written in a fine hand, cleverly disguised among the decorations. He spun the swaddle until he found what appeared to be the beginning, and decoded the tiny stitches, reading aloud.

“To you who find my child when she is gone from me,” Eskel started, “her name is Ciri, and she is very dear and precious. I know not for certain where she goes when she leaves my arms with that peculiar light, but I have my theories, for destiny is a force even stronger than my own untrained Power.”

“Fucking hell,” Lambert interrupted. “If I was going to sew a secret note into cloth I would at least be succinct.”

Eskel glared at him, but continued reading. “If it would suit you, please give Ciri a token of your identity, and if it takes the form of what hung round your neck when we last met, then I shall know my theory is correct. I know that you care for her, for she is always clean, fed and happy when she returns to me. Thus far I have been able to conceal her disappearances from my own mother, but my husband grows suspicious. Until Ciri learns to control her Power, we must ourselves learn to work together for her own good. I remain in your debt, though I suspect you do not wish to claim any more from me - P.”

“There's a post-script in the waves behind the fish,” Geralt noted. 

“Naps two hours twice per day, mashed carrot and peas suitable, gets rashes from celandine,” Lambert read out. “See, she can be succinct when need be.”

At that point, Ciri let herself be known, vocalising and wiggling, demanding the attention that suits a princess. Four sets of cat-slit eyes fell on her. She was busy watching her own legs that kicked out in front of her.

Lambert tilted his head as he did the maths. “Why the hell didn't you tell us you'd taken payment by Surprise last Winter?”

Geralt glared at him. “Honestly, Lambert, I didn't want you cussing me out about it. And I didn't think I'd be claiming her for another, oh, 50 years,” he said, sarcasm biting.

“But instead it seems she has claimed you,” Vesemir rumbled. “Quite extraordinary.”

“We have to take her home,” Eskel said, already thinking about the road there, and how it would be nearly impossible to get down the mountain with a baby in arms.

“Don't bother,” Geralt said, picking up the kid and walking about with her. He held her pressed against his chest, but she still looked over his shoulder at everything around her. “Last time I tried she took herself home before I could even set off,” he continued dryly.

“Well, how long she gonna be here?” Lambert asked.

Geralt shrugged, frowning. “It seems like the shorter the distance between myself and her mother, the easier she can travel between us. Or maybe she's getting stronger as she grows up.”

“Such innate magic,” Vesemir mused. “I shall have to study this further, but first…” he trailed off and walked off to an antechamber.

Ciri got upset, scrunching up her little face over Geralt's shoulder, and making a few sounds that were just shy of loud, so he turned her around so she was facing the rest of them.

Eskel watched as Geralt re-adjusted Ciri several times, but each time she lasted only a few moments before making those same unhappy sounds again.

“I'll have to heat the milk,” Geralt said. “Eskel?”

As much as he wanted to hold the child, he pulled back and grimaced. “Shouldn't you just put her down?”

“Where, on the table with the daggers?” Geralt asked with a raised eyebrow. “Or the floor with the grapeshot bombs?”

“We can't hide every lethal thing in the whole Keep,” Lambert said. “There'll be no Keep left!”

“Take her, Eskel,” Geralt said, voice softening. “It'll be alright.”

Eskel stood up and moved closer, then his heart sank as Geralt pulled the princess away.

“Wait, studs,” Geralt said, eyeing Eskel's armoured shoulders.

“Oh yeah.” Eskel unbuckled his spiked pauldrons and shrugged them off. Then, suddenly, his arms were weighed down with a warm, wriggling baby.

“Oh, she's a fearless little thing isn't she?” Lambert said.

“She doesn't know any better,” Eskel murmured.

“She doesn't know any worse, either,” Lambert pointed out.

Geralt grabbed the jar of goat's milk and headed for the stairs.

“Wait, where're you going?” Lambert called.

“The apothecary,” Geralt threw back over his shoulder. “Where else do we keep our vials and cauldrons?”

Cirilla squirmed again, thunking her head gently into his chest as she cried out, and Eskel never felt so uncomfortable in his own skin.

“Don't look at me!” Lambert took a step back, hands up. “He fobbed her off on you not on me.”

Cirilla kept making unhappy noises, no matter what Eskel did with her.

“Don't take it personal,” Vesemir said, returning with a basket of cloths and a few tomes under his arm. “They're always like that when they're hungry, or worse. Unpin that cloth she's wearing wouldya?”

Eskel obeyed, stripping the babe bare in the cold hall, and Vesemir stuck a bucket under her.

“Worse, what's-?” Lambert started, then broke off when he smelled exactly what Vesemir prepared for. “Oh, gross.”

Sharp noses winced at the offensive smell, but Vesemir moved quickly and efficiently at cleaning up the waste and re-wrapping her.

“You seem to know what you're doing, old man,” Lambert said, putting a safe distance between himself and the princess.

“You three were walking and talking when you were handed over to us,” Vesemir replied. “Not all trainees were so lucky.”

Lambert scoffed, and Eskel intervened so as not to have a repeat of last month's knock-down, drag-out argument.

“Geralt's been gone a while,” he pointed out, taking Cirilla back into his arms and swaying slightly on the spot.

Vesemir grunted. “I'll see to him.”

Vesemir descended the stairs into the apothecary slowly, ears prickling to hear the slow bubbling of the cauldron. He found Geralt leaning against the workbench, arms spread, white head hanging down, a line of anger in the way he held his shoulders. A cauldron at a rolling boil was on the table in front of him, a purifying stone bobbing up and down. The goat's milk was poured into a smaller cauldron above it, along with verbena root, being warmed by the hot water.

Vesemir folded his arms and leant back against the table, just near enough.

“Never thought I'd be a trainer,” Vesemir said. “I enjoyed the Path too much.”

Geralt didn't respond.

“It suited me, I was glad to walk it. I always had a good sword hand, so teaching fencing to the trainees come winter just made sense.” Vesemir sighed. “I was gonna take a few years off from training altogether, but then there was the pogrom, and you three, that all that changed.”

Geralt tilted his head to the side. “I didn't know that.”

“You were boys.” Vesemir shrugged.

Geralt frowned, glaring a hole into the table.

“You didn't ask for this life,” Vesemir continued. “None of us did. Least of all the princess.”

Geralt took the bundle of white fabric that Vesemir hadn't noticed and carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a clay figurine of a wolf prowling around, head held high in a howl. It's back was hollowed out, and its tail was short and formed into a sort of spout.

“Speaking of,” Vesemir said, even though they hadn't been. “I still have the cast for the medallion, but-”

“No enchantments, no silver,” Geralt agreed. “It wouldn't be right.”

“Beechwood, then. Lambert would be glad to have something productive to do with his hands.”

“Rather than hold the kid, you mean?” Geralt asked with a smile.

Vesemir chuckled and clapped Geralt on the shoulder.

“Do you think she can crawl?” Eskel asked, just as Geralt climbed the stairs, warmed milk in hand.

“Fuck if I know,” Lambert replied.

He came around the central pillar just in time to see Eskel putting her down on the worn bearskin rug by the fire.

Look at that. She was sitting up by herself.

“Whup, not quite,” he said, noticing she was just about to topple and sweeping a hand down to grab her before she hit the ground. Her stomach was so fat and round under his hand, and she kept making all sorts of sounds at him.

Half an hour later, Geralt was holding Ciri against his chest as she sucked on the wolf cup. She drank quickly and heartily, making all sorts of noises of satisfaction. Lambert dragged a whittling knife around a tiny lump of beechwood, half the size of the medallions they all wore.

“Find anything?” Geralt asked the two Witchers bending over the tomes on the table.

“Oh yeah, right here,” Eskel drawled. “Chapter three, regarding teleporting princesses.”

“You're an ass,” Geralt returned.

“Watch your tongue,” Vesemir warned, though without bite.

Lambert rolled his eyes. “Of course, there's a fucking lady present. But she doesn't understand a word, do you little bastard?” He leant forward and his tone took on the affected sweet tone of a baby-sick woman, though his words were foul. “Isn't that right? You shit production machine? You banshee-born little-”

“Enough,” Vesemir warned, just as Geralt was readying to throw the spit-up soaked rag at Lambert's head.

An hour or so more of playing with Geralt's hair and practicing swinging her own fists, her face went slack and she fell asleep, right on Geralt's chest where he was reclining on the floor against the bench. Her pudgy hands were up by her face, and her face was completely slack where it squished against his undershirt.

“Done,” Lambert said, silently moving along the floor to stand over Geralt where he was trying to hide the fact that his back was spasming at holding the strange angle. Lambert thrust out the wooden version of the medallion and Geralt took it with the hand that wasn't cradling Ciri's bottom. He'd done a good job. The wolf was snarling the same as he was on Geralt's own medallion, and somehow Lambert had managed to capture the points of fur and ears without the wood being sharp at all against his thumb. Geralt lifted Ciri's heavy head and draped the leather cord around her head, tying it at the back.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmured quietly, not willing to wake her.

Lambert lowered himself onto his haunches, inspecting the baby's splayed limbs and soft breaths.

“This is a bad idea,” Lambert warned. The lack of vulgar language just meant he was serious. “I've heard about Queen Calanthe, she'll kill you when she finds out you've been kidnapping her granddaughter.”

“It's not up to her or me.” Geralt smiled, a twisted unhappy thing. “It's Destiny.”

Chapter Text

Ciri, as Pavetta had indicated on her swaddle, slept for two hours very happily on Geralt's chest. Geralt, for his part, was not very happy with being pinned to the floor by several pounds of chubby baby for such a long time, especially because Lambert stood over him with a loose bit of thread and kept ticking his nose with it, and darted out of the way every time Geralt took a swipe at his legs. 

She woke up with a few happy sounds, shoving a hand into her mouth. Geralt tucked her swaddle around her again, and warmed his stiff muscles by walking her around Kaer Morhen, mentioning this or that historical detail as he did so.

“Of course,” Geralt told her, “this was before we'd discovered how to decoct elementa oil. Things were a lot easier after that.”

Ciri was, like Roach, the perfect conversation partner for Geralt. Patient, and willing to hear all manner of interesting details from the living bestiary. Though she was a lot less quiet. The conversation was punctuated by little vocalisations, which Geralt took to be thoughtful and incisive comments.

Ciri made a noise that sounded like a long drawn out ‘ah’.

“Yeah, fuck those mages for making golems in the first place,” Geralt agreed.

All in all, he found her to be a simple enough companion in the halls of Kaer Morhen. She went with him willingly, and seemed happy enough, not traumatised or crying at the sight of cat-slit eyes or any of their scarred mugs. After some experimentation the four of them found she didn't mind being passed from one Witcher to another, though she certainly preferred being held by Geralt. Lambert and Ciri stared at each other, unblinking, until he declared himself ‘creeped out’ and eagerly passed her back.

Vesemir prepared boiled carrots and peas, and mashed it together with a fork. Geralt arranged themselves so he was seated on the long table, Ciri on his lap, with a rag in his hand that he periodically wiped her drooling chin. Vesemir sat on the bench in front of him, spooning tiny mouthfuls of the orange-green paste into her mouth.

“What's wrong with your face?” Geralt asked.

Vesemir scraped the excess off the spoon against the bowl and lifted it again to Ciri's mouth. “There's nothing wrong with my face.”

“It's making faces.”

Vesemir snapped his jaw closed where it had been mouthing along with Ciri. She leant forward towards him, chasing the spoon even without the old man making faces at her.

Eskel, eyes tired from straining at the ancient calligraphy of the old mage's books, pulled out a cloud of goat's wool and his drop spindle. He twisted a strip of thread between his fingers and hooked it onto the wooden spindle, dropping it between his legs as it spun.

“You said her mother had some Power,” Eskel mused, eyes shut and spinning thread out of the wool just by feel.

“Yes,” Geralt answered. “Nearly took my eye out with a chair caught up in that spontaneous tornado.”

“Hmm. Are we sure her bloodline is pure human?”

Lambert scoffed. “Course it is, nobles are always guarding their bloodlines. No way some half-breed elf snuck in there.”

“Not in living memory,” Geralt agreed. “But I could have Jaskier look into it.”

Ciri made some more noises, these ones directed at Eskel, and reached for the wooden spindle as it danced just a few feet ahead of her. Chuckling, Eskel moved it closer, dangling the drop spindle where she could almost grasp it. Her big green eyes followed the slow sway of it, even if her hands could not quite flail fast enough to grab it. They played that way for a while, Ciri thoroughly engaged with the simple toy.

“Put her on her stomach, lad,” Vesemir said. “It'll do good for her neck.”

Geralt obeyed, putting her on the rug in the middle of their little circle, her wooden medallion over her shoulder. All eyes watched her as she heaved her massive head upwards and tried to keep her eyes on the spindle.

Without so much as a word, Eskel used a little flick of the wrist to bring the drop spindle to dangle in front of her face then lifted it up above her head where she couldn't see. He wound a few new lengths of threads around the head, then dropped it again, letting it spin its way down to her. She went a little cross-eyed trying to watch it come down.

Another flick and it vanished above her head again, and Geralt chuckled.

“Where'd it go, huh?” he said, giving voice to her surprised expression.

The wooden stick, puppeted by Eskel's deft hand, dipped back into her line of sight, and she made a short ‘ah’ sound, legs kicking in delight. Again it was pulled away from her.

“Where'd it go?” Geralt repeated.

Valiantly, she tried to lift her head all the way up to find it, but couldn't manage very far. Down again, it dropped.

When it lifted back up and out of her sight, Geralt said it again.

“Where'd it-?”

A flash of green light, and Ciri was gone. The rug at their feet was empty, just the wooden spindle lazily unwinding in the air.

“Oh,” Eskel said, failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Just like that, huh?”

Geralt folded his arms, leant backwards and furrowed his brow. “Yeah, just like that.”

Even though Cirilla was only with them in their winter home for part of a day, her loss was keenly felt. They didn't have much else to talk about, having found no leads to the mystery of the teleporting princess, and the usual distractions feeling lackluster. Again, Geralt didn't mope at the child's disappearance, he returned to his steady rhythm of a typical winter in Kaer Morhen, and a pox on anyone who said it resembled sulking. He brushed down Roach, updated the bestiaries with the three new fiends he'd fought in the past year, drank with Lambert and sparred with Eskel. Typical and respectable Witcherly actions. Not sulking.

“Feels strange, don't it?” Lambert said, four cups deep and long past midnight.

“Mm?” Geralt replied, far more interested in dealing out his Gwent deck than speaking. His Northern Realms deck was solid, but his Monsters needed more clear weather cards. It bothered him.

“Being responsible for something, then not.” Lambert made a little poof motion with his hands.

“Lambert, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I had a cat,” Lambert said nonsensically. “Big ol', was this big old fat thing. Name of, oh fuck, can't remember. Ugly bastard. Would sit on the fence by our house. He made sure I got home alright, I made sure he was fed.”

Geralt rarely heard about Lambert's life before he was claimed. It was this heavy weight he dragged everywhere with him.

“Wasn't there one evening,” Lambert said, voice even as he poured himself some more Gull. “Found him next day, broken spine and all. Kicked, I reckon. Could have been my father, could have been anyone. Didn't stop me from looking at the fence post for him each day.”

Geralt stilled his hands as they shuffled the worn cards, carefully looking a little down and to the left of Lambert.

“'m just saying,” Lambert continued, rim of his mug to his lips. “Having something, then not. Sucks.”

Lambert put down his mug and stood up, wandering off and announcing he needed to take a piss. Geralt picked up his own mug and tapped it against Lambert's abandoned one. Then he drank.

“Yeah. Sucks.”

Geralt was in the practice yard, throwing Signs at the dummy set up in the middle. He was alternating, trying to transition between them quickly without losing power. It took it out of him, shooting them off one after the other, but it was just the sort of exercise he'd needed. It had been a few weeks since he saw Ciri disappear before his eyes. The sun was beginning to shine again, and the snow had begun to get that icy sheen to show it was melting in the day and refreezing overnight. He'd run the obstacle course at full pelt the day before, and climbed the sheer cliff wall for good measure. The sun was shining on the snow, throwing up a glare that made his eyes water. It helped though, to have something so physically exhausting. Helped him keep on form.

He threw up an igni followed by a yrden and aard to blow out the dummy before the fire really took hold. Eskel was up on the parapet, carrying a ladder and a bucket down from the northern tower.

“Hey Eskel!” Geralt called, jumping slightly side to side. “Throw one at me!”

He laughed, and from all the way up the top, Geralt could only just see him shrug the ladder off and bring his hands up in a Sign that was too distant to discern. His awareness was heightened, just as it always was in training. Like time slowed.

Igni, he recognised, as the bright flash of orange and red sprang out of Eskel's hands from up on the parapet and barrelled towards him. But in between Geralt and the fire, a shimmer of emerald green.

He didn't think, just dived forward. His arms collided with a little body as it dropped from the air and into his chest, then he threw the biggest, strongest quen he'd ever cast. The igni burned against his shield, but none of the heat touched him or the bundle in his arms.

“Fuck, fuck!” Eskel screamed, forgoing the stairs and launching himself over the parapet wall and down onto the stable roof, then down again to run towards him. “I didn't, Geralt, it was just-”

Geralt was wordless, shivering. Ciri was pressed so hard against his chest he thought for a moment he had crushed her. He pulled her away and stared at her face.

No burns, not even a singed hair.

But she was screaming.

It wasn't pain, Geralt realised quickly. He'd quickly stripped Ciri bare to see she was okay, all her skin unharmed, nothing tender or broken. He'd collapsed against the ground in relief, and Eskel took her to check the same, staggering a circle around him as he carried her.

“She's okay, she's okay,” Eskel chanted. “Melitile, I could have killed her.”

Ciri was crying still, loud and unhappy, and it summoned the other two Witchers to the training grounds.

“That the kid?” Lambert asked.

Eskel shuddered, and pressed the screaming Ciri into Vesemir's arms, shaking his head and stepping backwards. Just as Geralt hauled himself off the ground, Eskel fled, out of the training grounds and away through the gates.

“Give him some time, then find him,” Vesemir instructed Lambert, who nodded in return.

Ciri was still crying. Geralt shook his head side to side, clearing out the cobwebs that came with casting a strong Sign, and noticed his hands were still shaking.

“Probably best if you keep holding her,” he murmured to Vesemir.

“Poor lass,” Vesemir said. “You'll be fine, sweet thing. C'mon, out of the wind.”

Ciri didn't stop crying in the hall, not even when they checked she was clean and then re-clothed her. Of the goat's milk she had a few mouthfuls, and tried the mashed peas once more, but immediately after swallowing, she started crying again.

“She can't be here,” Geralt said bitterly. “Look what we're doing to her.”

Vesemir raised a wiry eyebrow. “A baby is crying. No one's ever heard of such a thing.”

Geralt was in no mood for the old man's humour. “She almost died today, and for what?” He spat out between clenched teeth.

“Are we dealing with the crying babe or are we dealing with the bigger evils of the world?” Vesemir said, then, at Ciri kicking up in volume, turned his attention back to her. “Ah, you're right, child. Terribly remiss of me. Let me check you're warm enough.”

But Ciri wasn't cold, nor too hot. She wasn't hungry, wasn't wanting sleep. She would be distracted and happy for a moment or two, if they tried something new or found a little trinket for her to play with, but as soon as their hopes started lifting, she would start screaming anew.

Vesemir and Geralt tried a baker's dozen of positions and holds between them, and nothing settled the screaming baby.

An hour into it, and with Geralt's hair coming loose from his queue and getting stuck to his forehead, Eskel and Lambert finally appeared at the doorway. Eskel immediately winced, not just at the volume of the cries, but that they were still ongoing.

“She's hurt?” Eskel said, voice breaking a little.

“No,” Geralt growled. “She's not hungry, not tired, not bored. She doesn't want to be picked up, and she doesn't want to be put down, she doesn't want to sit - she can sit up by herself now, by the by. She's just-!”

“What's wrong with her?” Eskel asked.

“Not a thing, she won't calm,” Vesemir summarised. “Not for more than a minute.”

Lambert looked down at her.

“We're all thinking it,” he said.

“No axii.”

Her face was all red and puffy.

“We have to figure out what's wrong with her,” Geralt said, thumping the table lightly with his fist.

Eskel's eyes pinched shut at the endless screaming. “Until we do, we got earplugs?”

“Could probably make some from bee's wax,” Vesemir suggested.

“You're telling me these halls never had someone ask for earplugs?” Lambert sneered. He opened his mouth to continue, but cut himself off, straightened, then took off at a jog back the way he came.

The remaining three turned back to the screaming child, sharing a little more in her sadness. Eskel tried his hand a little, but even the drop spindle couldn't stop her from wailing.

Lambert threw open the doors of the Keep, clutching something flowing and white in one hand. “Am I the only smart fucker here?” he asked.

Nobody deigned to answer.

Lambert always had the same sly grin when he knew he had the upper hand. “Some idiot forgot to pick up her wrap. Figured Princess Pavetta might have some insight for us, see, here.” He dropped the swaddle on the table. “Colic, it says. And a tally mark that says it's been going on 5 days. I'd bet my new saddle that Pavetta was never so relieved to see her daughter teleport.” He threw his head back and laughed. “She's probably finally peaceful and sleeping in her tower right now.”

“Colic,” Eskel repeated.

“Nothing for it but to wait it out,” Lambert said. “I'm reckoning if there's any proof that humans can be monsters too, it's that they start life screaming for no good reason.”

Relief flooded Geralt. Colic. Nothing more or less than the bane of young mothers everywhere.

“Alright, so,” he cleared his throat. “We've just got to endure the screaming.”

Of course, even that was easier said than done. Kaer Morhen, was a keep, designed to be fortified and house several hundreds, and as such consisted of large stone rooms and long echoing hallways. The screams resounded. In years long past it would be full of Witchers and mages, talking and working, but with only the four of them plus Ciri, they rattled around, and she could be heard from every corner. 

Vesemir had her, somewhere in the northern hall, if the acoustics were to be believed.

“Three hours of this,” Geralt grumbled. “How do humans cope?”

“By not having ears like ours,” Eskel said. “But even then…”

The headaches were fast approaching for all of them. Then, sudden, blissful, incredible quiet.

The three of them looked to each other and slowly sat up, not believing their ringing ears.

“Did she teleport?” Lambert asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace.

Geralt shrugged. A few moments later Vesemir entered the room, Ciri horizontal in his arms.

“Wee bairn tuckered herself out,” he murmured. He laid her down on the bearskin rug, and her little arms lifted up beside her head. Sleeping.

Damn. With her eyes closed and mouth slightly open, she looked almost sweet. Geralt's heart did something strange.

Lambert, feet moving as stealthily as a cat, moved towards the stairs to his make-do distillery. “What?” he hissed at Geralt's raised eyebrow. “By my count we've only got two hours before that starts up again, I intend to make use of them.”

Fuck, he was right. Suddenly, what had felt like the unending stretch of winter with little to do felt urgent and busy. Where before her appearance, Geralt was kicking his heels looking for things to occupy himself, now all he could do was to think about the mending he had to do, dinner preparations, decoctions he was working on. But he was tired. Working on his Signs, then being ambushed by Ciri who wouldn't stop crying for hours on end. With the peace, finally, he felt his very bones were heavy.

Eskel wandered away too, to see to Bleater and get fresh milk for Ciri later. Left alone with the sleeping baby, Geralt didn't have the heart to move her from the rug. Sighing, he got down on the rug next to her, and tucked the embroidered swaddle over her round belly. He reclined, propping up on one elbow and took her in.

Despite being older, her hair was exactly the same as he remembered from the first time she blinked into his life, short and downy, fair coloured. She was no longer wearing the wooden wolf medallion, and that made him frown, but then he remembered the attempt to hide Ciri's powers from the rest of her family. His concern lessened when he noticed little paw prints on the edge of the swaddle. Anyone less than a tracker would have mistaken them for a dog's print, but from the spread of the pads and the angle of the claws, he could tell it was a wolf. Hmm, seemed Pavetta got their message.

In sleep, her face was round but looked more formed than before, more like a child and less like a babe. He reached out with a finger and touched the swell of her cheek, his rough callous catching on her soft skin. She snuffled at him, not unlike Roach, and Geralt chuckled. As his finger traced away, he touched her curled little hand by the side of her face, and she gripped him. Hmm. Geralt gave his finger a little tug away, but her fist closed tighter around it. Surprising strength. That bodes well.

Trapped, Geralt gave up and slumped down beside her, stretching out his limbs on the bear rug and tucking the arm attached to his gripped finger around her.

Geralt fell asleep within minutes.

Geralt roused to wakefulness with something wiggling his pointer finger. When he opened his eyes, he saw he was still on his back on the bearskin rug, head turned towards Ciri.

She was staring at him, emerald eyes huge. She was still holding his finger, and seeing he was awake, she burst into the biggest smile he'd ever seen.

She was happy to see him.

Despite himself, Geralt smiled back. Ciri threw her head around, mouth open and happy as she laughed. It was a lovely laugh, all long vowels, and flapped her arms, legs kicking. Then she looked back at him, like she was waiting for something.

In the beat of silence, Geralt cast about in his mind for something to do for her, but he didn't want to look away or break this moment between them. He dilated his pupils at her.

Another happy laugh from the child, then she wiggled her arm with such enthusiasm that she realised she still had his finger captive. In no short order, she worked that same finger into her mouth, courtesy of her newly improved arm control.

Huh. She had two tiny teeth, little sharp things poking up into Geralt's finger. And she knew how to use them.

“Ow, Buttercup,” Geralt said, but he didn't remove his finger. Because if her mouth was chewing, it wasn't screaming.

“Ah, good, you're awake,” Vesemir said. “I've the milk, and her change of clothes. My ears appreciated the reprieve. Sit her up.”

Cirilla could sit up by herself, after Geralt got her into position at least. She didn't need to lean back against him, and that made him sad for some reason. Geralt and Vesemir worked quickly to tend to all her needs while she had, apparently, forgotten that she was upset. The wolf figurine looked like it was howling when she drank from the tail, and she put those two new teeth to work on the mashed carrots. Ciri started to get upset when Geralt changed her smallclothes, then became even louder when Vesemir had to change her again when she soiled again ten minutes later. She was, like a swordsman pulling back his weapon, winding up.

And when she let loose…

Geralt's head was throbbing, the screaming non-stop. Wait it out, wait it out. All he had to do was wait for it to be over. He'd endured a basilisk screeching at him in echoing sewers, he should be able to endure the baby. Of course, he stabbed the basilisk in its eye and ripped out its tongue, and could do nothing for Ciri but tap a rhythmic beat on her bottom as he walked around.

“Aren't you a sad lot?” Lambert said, emerging finally from his distillery, a jar of something foul smelling in hand.

All the other Witchers were scowling at him, because it didn't feel right to scowl at the actual source of the horrid noise.

“Alright, c'mere,” Lambert said, putting the jar down and opening his arms, gesturing for the kid. “Guess it's my turn to pull my weight.”

Geralt squashed down the snarky comment he wanted to make, and instead wordlessly passed her over to him, where she screamed directly in Lambert's ear.

He winced, then tucked his over-large coat around the both of them and threw a lazy one handed salute at the other Witchers.

“Off we go, little banshee,” Lambert said, pushing open the doors and leaving the great hall.

Geralt's ears were still ringing, and he dug a pinky finger into one, with no success. Eskel had his palm over his face, hiding his scars and eyes, and Geralt slumped down beside him, knocking his boot against his brother's.

“Don't think I haven't noticed you haven't touched her since the Sign,” he said.

“I held her,” Eskel retorted. “When you were on the ground.”

“And nothing since,” Geralt said. “Eskel…”

“She's your Child Surprise, not mine,” Eskel said in a low growl. “She doesn't need me going round fucking things up for her and putting her in danger.”

Geralt shook his head. “I'm the one that called for you to hit me with a Sign. Speaking of, I've never done a quen that strong before. Usually just-” He waved a hand down his body to indicate skin-level.

Eskel sat up. “I'm sure you've done the bubble. That wyvern we worked together, down in Temeria.”

Geralt shrugged. “Never with someone else inside it. Will you teach me?”

Eskel nodded. That wyvern was nasty and foul tempered, and struck out with its tail frequently.

“What am I even thinking,” Geralt groaned. “Going out on the Path with a baby following me. This is all my fault, I shouldn't have claimed her.”

“Why did you?” Eskel asked, quizzical. “It's not like you at all.”

Geralt frowned at that, he'd replayed the moment over and over in his mind. “I'm not sure. You know when you're fighting, and you swipe at something over your shoulder you don't even see, and you don't know why, but when you turn, there's a foglet on your sword?”

Eskel, who had experienced that uncanny situation many times before, nodded.

“It was like that, it was like battle sense. He demanded I name the debt, and I said what I had to say, before I knew what or why.” Geralt closed his eyes, remembering how he'd felt the pull within him pull.

“Hmm,” Vesemir said.

It was his ‘I've had a thought’ grunt, not his ‘that's ridiculous’ grunt, nor his ‘you boys are in trouble’ grunt, so Eskel and Geralt turned towards him.

“It seems her powers are innate, yes?” Vesemir said, dropping soiled clothes into the washbucket and pouring water over them. “I'm just wondering where dear Ciri would end up, you know, if she didn't have a Destiny to be tied to.” He chuckled a little, shaking his head as he swirled the rags around. “Popping up all over the Continent.”

Geralt tilted his head and considered that, then shoved at Eskel's shoulder.

“Either way,” he said, “get over yourself, and give the kid a hug when Lambert brings her back.”

Eskel scratched the back of his neck. He could do that. “Where is Lambert anyway?”

The path up and over the mountain didn't seem nearly as difficult to navigate as it was when he was a trainee. Even with one hand wrapped around Ciri, Lambert could climb the path safely without much thought, whether it was the advantage of his height or his experience. She screamed the whole way, but with a destination in mind, Lambert didn't mind so much.

He took her up the path they used for the final trial, the one that ended at the circle of elements. It overlooked the valley behind Kaer Morhen, and could even be considered beautiful.

“Here we are,” he announced, huffing a little. “Let's just call it our special place.”

She paused her crying just to look around at the view and he readjusted her so her back was pressed against his chest and they were looking at the same view.

“Gorgeous, isn't it,” he said. “Almost makes you forget all the evils of the world.” Lambert bounced her a little. “Want you to remember this, yeah? Us Surprises got to stick together.”

It wasn't long before the spell was broken and she started wailing again. Lambert mimicked her, a loud shout over her head and into the echoing valley. She startled, looking up at him with huge eyes, then she turned back and yelled again.

Lambert chuckled and her cries echoed through the valley.

“Scream it out, kid. Gods know I did.”

Chapter Text

The weeks after the first thaw were always a busy time. Monsters didn't stop being created during winter, but most folk didn't have the coin to pay well. It was often a lot of small jobs done quick and cheap, and constantly making the choice between riding on further south in hopes of better pay or taking what was offered from desperate hands. Geralt hated the first few weeks of spring. It had been two weeks since he saw Ciri last. Her last jaunt to his side had been little more than an hour, during which she slept soundly in a sling round his chest to the slow rocking of Roach.

At the banks of the Pontar river, he packed away his warmer coat into the bottom of his saddlebags finally, with the wolf figurine and a few spit up cloths and smallcloth pins, and he took to the saddle again, tilting his head back to let the sun shine down on his face. He would be three days to the border of Redania, and from there he could pick up Jaskier in Oxenfurt or continue on to Novigrad. He'd decided, with the other Witchers, not to stray too far into the wilds this year. He could manage most of the highways and trade routes, provided he brought back more than his fair share of coin by next winter.

A nest of Nekkers had moved in on the border between Redania and Kaedwen, and representatives from both governments insisted that the contract, and so the required payment for their destruction, should be handled by the other. Bureaucratic nonsense tied up negotiations back and forth, with the helpless townspeople caught in between and unable to start sowing season. Geralt had to make a big show of only staying in town for the one day in order to bring the pressure up, and leant heavily on being an emotionless mutant to do it.

“If I may,” the over-decorated ambassador from Redania said to him in the square, with his scowling counterpart standing ten feet away, “please allow me to appeal to your better nature.”

“Don't have one,” Geralt growled, letting his teeth show. “Just the one nature here, and if you're not careful I'll show you my true nature right here and now.”

He'd glared between the two ambassadors, then shrugged his shoulders, making the sunlight glimmer on his swords' hilts.

“I'll be at the Cauldron and Cat for one night, then I'll be on my way,” he'd continued, face emotionless. “Hire me to get rid of your problem, or don't. Just don't pussyfoot around.”

That night Ciri came to him again in his room above the tavern. She wanted to play with him, even as sleepy as she was. She particularly enjoyed him throwing the clean washrag over her head, then she would fight to pull it off, and when she succeeded, she smiled at him so brilliantly that he had to cover her with the cloth again to hide that face from view.

She ate pottage and a little cow's milk, and slept in a drawer he padded with his winter cloak and his spare shirt over her round belly, while he sat on the bed and did a little sewing by candlelight.

Pavetta had, recently, taken to stitching a map of the continent into Ciri's clothes, but done in fine thread that matched the cloth so as to be almost invisible. Geralt, in his simple running stitch and undyed thread, marked out the path he's been taking since Ciri last visited, before swapping it out to take his shirt back. It wouldn't do to have her take that with her. He also fixed his socks while he was at it.

Ciri disappeared in the night when she stirred briefly, and Geralt kept his eyes shut against the emerald glow, and then studiously didn't look at the empty bed as he packed it up in the morning light. He kept to his word and saddled up Roach first thing in the morning, and was on his way out of town when the captain of the ambassador's guard chased him down.

“Master Witcher, sir, a moment, please,” the captain said, out of breath and over-armoured.

He made a show of sighing as he drew Roach to a stop, but didn't turn around, just waited for the man to arrive, red-faced, Geralt noted, and the crest he bore was of Kaedwen.

“My family came from the Blue Mountains several generations ago,” the captain said. “It's said that my great-great uncle was taken to become a Witcher, but he died as a lad.”

Geralt's fingers tightened on the reins. If he had to flee, at least Roach was well-rested.

“I know I cannot plead on your mercy, for you do not have any,” the captain continued, “but I was hoping to appeal to your business sense.”

Geralt's face remained impassive, but he gestured for him to continue.

“The ambassadors will continue to argue for weeks, unless something happens. You seem like a man who doesn't wait for work. Now I can't afford to pay you the full rate, but if you'll accept two thirds of what they were offering you, you can let me wait around for the reimbursement.”

Geralt weighed up the possibility that this whole setup was a scam, and that if he refused, the ambassador himself would jump out and offer the full amount. He hesitated long enough, but decided to take the job in the end, and delivered the Nekker claws by lunch.

“You would not believe the winter I have had, Geralt,” Jaskier said in lieu of a greeting, throwing his bedroll and bag over the back of Roach and deftly stepping out of the way of her warning kick. He tied his worldly belongings to the saddle, talking all the while.

“I swear, the undergraduates become stupider with every passing year. Three score new students there were, and hardly a single spark of intelligence between them. Well, perhaps two or three showed some promise, but all of them wanted to focus on things like astronomy, herbology and alchemy, and I ask you, why do they turn from rhetoric and music like that?”

Geralt wordlessly re-tied the bard's belongings to make the saddle more balanced.

“The Arts are being dismissed once more, my friend, and nothing good will come of it. In addition, one of my favourite professors failed to get tenure, so I published a pamphlet, anonymously of course, calling the Dean a cowardly weasel and a whelp at the King's knee, but a former student of mine recognised my prose and reported me, so I ended up - and you're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?”

Geralt had one of Roach's feet lifted and between his knees, her hoof resting on his thigh as he used a blunt dagger as a pick to dig out the compact muck that had been bothering her. “Arts being dismissed, means you're worried militarism and ignorance are on the rise,” Geralt predicted.

“Oh, well,” Jaskier said, flustered. “Yes, right. Hit the issue right on the head, as they say, though I'd rather instead you gave the Dean a good thumping, please and thank you.”

“That is what I do best,” Geralt replied.

“And what about your winter?” Jaskier asked as Geralt took to the saddle. “As uneventful as usual, I suppose, with your hibernation or whatever it is you do.”

Geralt smiled. “Something like that. Now, ready?”

Jaskier jumped to it with a click of his heels. “Off to it, road and adventure and all that!”

They were very quickly out of the city gate, crossing the bridge and heading towards the ferry that would take them across into Temeria.

“South, then?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head and looking up at Geralt. He grunted in return. The fact that Jaskier tied all his belongings to Geralt's horse and didn't even ask as to which direction they were going spoke to their years of friendship, or Jaskier's lack of sense, either one.

The ferry costs had gone up, which Geralt grumbled about to Roach, as he stroked her nose and kept her calm on the trip over the water. They made such good time that they were between towns as the sun threatened to dip below the horizon, and chose to set up camp on a low hill just off the main road, far enough away that they wouldn't be disturbed by other travellers.

“Ahh, I needed this, Witcher,” Jaskier stood on the ridge, his hands on his hips and breathing in deeply. “I know that in several weeks I shall be scraping my fingernails against a tavern door for the chance to glimpse a roof and a bed, but after months of stagnation there is nothing better for my soul than to be out in the wilds like this, and yours too, I'd wager.”

“This isn't the wilds,” Geralt returned. But he knew what the Jaskier was getting at, and knew it to be true. Both the bard and Geralt had no lack of education in sleeping rough and skipping meals, but neither did they scorn the finer things of life. 

“Rhythm! It's all about the rhythm of life, Geralt! You see, seasons, the tides, festivals, the spheres themselves, they all swing to the music.” He swung a wrist back and forth to a beat only he could hear as he pranced about, setting up the camp with well-worn familiarity.

“What ho, what's this?” Jaskier asked, hand deep in Geralt's saddlebag.

“Gimme that,” Geralt snarled, trying to snatch the bag, but Jaskier darted away.

“Oh-ho! Something new!” Jaskier grinned. “Something illicit.”

“It's not illicit, asshole, it's private,” Geralt growled.

“Geralt, my darling, we have no secrets from each other. Even your tryst with Essi, I- oof!”

Jaskier could not finish the sentence on account of being tackled to the ground and having the air knocked out of him. They scrambled in the dirt like boys, until the entire contents of Geralt's bag was strewn about, and Geralt was clutching the wolf figurine victoriously.

“Awful lot of padding for one little clay statue,” Jaskier said, looking around at the several squares of fabric that Geralt had prepared in case of Ciri's arrival. “Is it cursed? A relic? Can I just-”

He made a grab at the figurine, but Geralt pulled it away easily and shot him a disappointed look that read ‘you'll have to do better than that’.

“Cloths, pins, ointment, a real proper spoon,” Jaskier listed, looking around, “a blanket that wouldn't fit over your bicep… Geralt, in all the years I've known you, you've never carried any of these with you. Is it for some form of new monstrous fiend?”

“Something like that,” Geralt mumbled, picking up the mess.

Jaskier’s eyes brightened. “Or has it got more to do with your sudden interest in Cintran royalty, hmm? Don't think I've forgotten your desperate little letters before winter. If we're travelling south to give tribute, you should know that royalty far prefer things like ‘her weight in gold’ and blessings from kind witch godmothers, if such a thing exists.”

“We’re not going to Cintra,” Geralt said, trusting his usual habit of being short with his words would disguise the change of topic. “Want to ride by Brokilon, check in there.”

“Brokilon?” Jaskier made an exaggerated shudder. “Well, I've always been able to make the best of a bad. I'm friends with you, aren't I?”

Falling asleep that first night on the road was peaceful, accompanied only by Jaskier's quiet plucking and the drone of crickets.

Patrolling the edge of the wild Brokilon forest was just as frustrating as the last time they were there. When they travelled here a few years ago, Geralt refused jobs based on stringent moral codes that he didn't bother explaining to Jaskier, and Jaskier gave up on trying to understand it. He did notice, however, that this time the only times he bloodied his steel sword was with some direct connection to Witchering. He wouldn't take on bandits in the hills, nor stolen barrels of wine, but he would kill a gang of criminals whose crimes strayed awfully close to grave robbing, which, he claimed, would stir the spirits of the dead. And it seemed almost every desperate family harassed by awful people had some dubious connection to magics or monsters, some more tenuous than others.

Jaskier wasn't fooled. He was entirely sure that the poor family's only dairy cow could not possibly have disappeared due to a curse, and displayed just as much faux shock as Geralt did when they found the cow was only stolen by youths to try and turn a quick profit. They walked the poor girl home, Geralt clicking his tongue at her as they went. The young milkmaid of the family heard the familiar bell around the cow's neck as it rang up the pathway, and she ran and threw her arms around the beloved cow.

“Curse is managed,” Geralt said, and Jaskier stifled a giggle. It wasn't so much as a curse as four pimply lads who thought they were clever, luring the cow away with a song and fresh hay. And a curse like that was broken merely by a few claps about the ears and other more verbal warnings, hardly requiring the uncanny curse-breaking skills of a Witcher. Geralt was not nearly so much of a mysterious man as he purported.

Until, of course, he walked out of the forest with a baby.

Jaskier was playing his lute to the very captive audience of a single rescued bovine and a very uninterested Roach. The cow was a big fan of his music, having walked the length of the paddock after he started just to listen, and he altered a few lines of the romance ballad Pastourelle to include references to her ‘large eyes’ and ‘heaving udder’.

Jaskier caught a little movement at the edge of the treeline where Geralt had gone to take a piss and didn't pay much attention, just worked the tricky plucking section until he successfully put his own flair into it.

“All sorted then?” Jaskier called out without glancing up. “I was thinking-”

Then he suddenly wasn't, any more. He wasn't thinking at all, because Geralt was holding a baby.

No, not just holding. Bouncing. And talking to it too, will wonders never cease. 

“Why did you steal a baby?” Jaskier asked.

“I didn't steal her,” Geralt said, and refused to elaborate.

Jaskier twanged a string and swung his lute behind his back. “Please don't tell me that's a dryad child, Geralt!”

“Fine, it's not a dryad.”

“See, now I don't know if you're telling the truth or just saying that because I told you to.” Jaskier peered at the baby, who peered right back. “Then what kind of monster is it? A Changeling? A vampire? Do vampires even have babies?”

Jaskier was thoroughly confused. He looked up at Geralt and noticed a small smirk dancing around the corner of his lips. “You're enjoying this,” Jaskier realised. “It's a normal human child, isn't it?”

“Well, I wouldn't say she's normal ,” Geralt said. The baby made a noise and Geralt turned his attention to it, bouncing her and pressing a little kiss to her basically bald head. “You're extraordinary, aren't you? Oh look, so big now.”

Jaskier's mouth fell open. “Well, now I've seen everything.” The last time he said that was when he saw a succubi and a mermaid have a lover's spat that ended up with a few capsized rowboats and more than a few interested onlookers. That didn't even compare to the sight of Geralt with a baby. A happy baby. And an even happier Geralt.

“Meet Ciri,” Geralt said.

Jaskier spread his arms. “Who- and more importantly why? Put her back, Geralt!”

“Princess Cirilla,” Geralt continued, and Jaskier's eyes rolled in his head. “My Child Surprise.”

“Why did you kidnap the princess, Geralt?”

“She kidnapped herself.”

“Gah!” Jaskier threw his arms up.

Geralt chuckled, and finally had mercy.

“Ciri has some form of Power. It takes her between her mother and I. Every other week or so. But more frequently as she gets older.”

“What do you mean, ‘takes her between’?”

“Like a portal, but just for herself.” Geralt turned back to the baby and spoke to her. “We don't know how you do it, do we? You're just very clever.”

Ciri laughed. She had a very sweet laugh. Jaskier felt faint.

“And so you just, what, take her Drowner hunting with you?”

Geralt shrugged. The movement made Ciri wobble and she leant towards Jaskier. Geralt tried to steady her, but she kept leaning.

“It means she wants me to hold her,” Jaskier translated her body language for the Witcher. Geralt hesitated, then reluctantly shifted towards Jaskier, whose arms went up immediately.

Ciri was a warm and welcome weight in Jaskier's arms, and she smiled and babbled at him, eyes shining.

“Oh, a conversationalist!” Jaskier said brightly. “Geralt is absolutely right, my sweet, you are the most clever thing!”

Jaskier blew a raspberry, and to Geralt's surprise, Ciri did one in return, then another, giggling all the way. Geralt nudged Roach in such a way that he knew she would make a similar snuffling sound, and Ciri was delighted. The three of them kept at the raspberries and laughing.

“Yes, clearly intelligent conversation happening here,” Geralt said dryly. “I'll get the milk.”

The family was only too happy to gift Geralt milk from the rescued cow, but he insisted he pay for the bowl of pottage from their cauldron. When he found Jaskier again, they were sitting in the meadow, Roach happily grazing beside them. Jaskier had Ciri on the ground on her hands and knees, and was making all sorts of encouraging noises at her.

“That's it! Keep wobbling, girl, keep at it!” Jaskier said.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked.

“Encouraging her to crawl,” Jaskier said. “You can't carry her all day every day.”

Geralt shrugged. He could and he would. 

“What do you know about babies?” Geralt asked.

“I'm a man of many mysteries.” Jaskier wobbled his eyebrows.

“Mawya-uh-eee,” Ciri said. Then blew a raspberry and face-planted into the dirt. Jaskier lost it, choking on his laugh, picking her up and dusting off her face.

Geralt folded his arms and leant against the fencepost. It was… it was pleasing to see them interacting like that. Two very different parts of his life. Jaskier picked up a clump of weeds and distracted Ciri by sprinkling them float down by her face, much to her interest.

“C'mon,” Geralt said, brushing a hand over her linen clothes to clean them of the debris. “Tea time.”

He served her the pottage first, and Ciri tried bravely to stick her fingers into the bowl and feed herself, making all sorts of interesting sounds and making a sticky mess. Geralt wrangled the cloth and waterskin to wipe her down while instructing Jaskier how to warm the milk. Whatever cobbled together knowledge Jaskier had of children, it seemed to be more geared towards the play and fun angle, and less towards the nitty gritty. Ciri needed changing immediately after, and Jaskier blanched a little, and seemed all too happy to let Geralt get up close and personal with the dirty cloths while Jaskier rolled the fine linen dress she was wearing between his hands.

“She really is the princess, isn't she?” Jaskier said, voice low.

“That's what I said.”

“Yes, but-” Jaskier's fingers traced the crest of Cintra that decorated Ciri's clothes. “That means trouble, Geralt.”

“When has life been anything but?”

Ciri looked between them, big head swinging, and Jaskier brightened again, flipping that switch inside himself that let him change emotions so quickly.

“Well, it's illegal to be sombre with such cute cheeks that need squishing!” Jaksier declared.

Ciri's cheeks were indeed somewhat of a marvel, both in their size, shape and springiness. Geralt wouldn't be surprised if there ended up being a little ditty about them hummed around town by the end of the week. Geralt sat Ciri on his hip while he fed Roach some mixed oats. His two girls seemed to be equally interested in each other, though who had the larger eyes was up for debate. He didn't put Ciri on the horse's back yet, not until she could at least be more secure sitting up. Geralt instructed Jaskier on how to read the embroidery clues, and learnt from Pavetta that Ciri was now eating cubes of cheese and poached fish. Jaskier's face got thoughtful and troubled as he stared at Ciri's clothes, but uncharacteristically he didn't voice the issue.

After Jaskier and himself ate the mid-day meal, Geralt picked up and dusted off the saddle blanket they had been using as a picnic rug for Ciri to sit and try to crawl on. He folded it down its well-marked lines and draped it over Roach's back. Then he heaved her saddle off the ground, where Jaskier had been using it as a pillow, and buckled it onto the horse.

“Onwards?” Jaskier asked. He was holding Ciri with her back against his chest, two hands linked under her bottom like he was a half-dozen servants carrying a noble on a litter through the city.

“Onwards,” Geralt replied.

“Ba-wa-ba,” Ciri added.

They tried to strap Ciri into the sling so she could sleep against Geralt's chest again, but she wouldn't have it. She wriggled and protested at length and at volume, until the two of them figured out she wanted to be able to see more than just black armour. They ended up putting her on Geralt's back like pick-a-back so she could look over his shoulder, and winding the long cloth around them both to hold her there. Geralt ended up with a bit of a gummed neck for his troubles, but at least she was happy peering down at the world from atop Roach.

Jaskier strummed at his lute as he walked, the same simple chords he did when his mind wasn't actually on the music. Occasionally Ciri made a noise and Jaskier responded to it like a scathing review or insightful critique, but her noises lessened over time, and Geralt felt her head rest heavy on his shoulder, then heard the soft snuffles and heavy breath as she slept.

“She's asleep? Good.” Jaskier slowed down, swung his lute behind his back and stared up at Geralt. “We need to talk, and I didn't want her listening.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “She's a baby. She doesn't understand words yet.”

“She understands more than you know,” Jaskier said. He grabbed Roach's rains and pulled them till she stopped, keeping his fingers deftly out of the way of her teeth.

“What's your plan here?” Jaskier asked. “I know you're not an idiot, Geralt, much as you purport to be otherwise.”

“Get to Duén Canell before the festival of-” Geralt started, but Jaskier cut him off.

“Geralt. She's royalty. You have no idea what they'll do to you.”

“Pavetta is keeping her power secret.”

“Pavetta won't be able to hide it from Calanthe forever. And what do you think she'll do when she finds her only heir is spending half her time traipsing around with a Witcher?” Jaskier huffed. “You don't know her like I do, Geralt. She's brutal. Give me one good reason that she won't take your head off and display it on a pike.”

“For her own sake, and for Ciri's.” Geralt said.

He squeezed his thighs against Roach's sides and she stirred into a slow walk again.

Jaskier sighed and knew that would be as much as he would get out of him on that topic.

Jaskier purchased a room for them at the next town, leaving Geralt behind like he usually did to stable Roach and curry her down. Only this time Geralt got to explain to Ciri step by step how he was taking care of the mare. She was a very interested party, observing everything with a sincere expression, and she sneezed at the hay. But when Jaskier returned with his purse a little lighter, her expression changed completely.

As he talked to Geralt, he flipped the ties of her dress up and down by her face, and she giggled at the action, trying to grab either his hands or the ribbons in motion.

“Two beds, Geralt. Two! In separate rooms no less, who’s ever heard of such a thing?” He tickled Ciri’s nose with the end of the ties and she laughed again. “I shall sleep so peacefully tonight with neither you snoring in my ear, nor this one crying her lungs out.”

“How do you know how to do that?” Geralt asked.

“Do what? Book two rooms?”

“Make her laugh.”

Jaskier's face did that peculiar shift of expression when he changed from his default of glib and became serious. “It’s always come easily to me,” he admitted. “She has the whole world to learn, you have to show her to teach her.”

Geralt emptied a little more saddle oil onto a rag and wiped down the leather. “I talked to her as I untacked Roach. Didn’t laugh at that.”

“Well of course not, that’s important business. But she's a baby, literally everything you show her is new. Watch this.”

Jaskier swiped Geralt's curry brush and tossed it up into the air a few times, then pretended to grab for it and missed. “Oooh.” He snapped his fingers in exaggerated disappointment. “Drat.”

Ciri watched all of that little show, and as he began tossing it again, going through the same charade when he dropped it through his fingers. But on the third time he swung his arm wildly and- “Got it! Aha!”

Wild with success, he cheered and Ciri smiled, vocalising happily, throwing her head back into Geralt's collarbone.

“World's least impressive juggler,” Geralt noted.

“But the best she's ever seen,” Jaskier replied. “See, whatever you feel when you show her something new, even if that something is as normal as gravity or the concept of practice, that's what she'll learn about the world, and how she'll react.”

Emotional expression. Great. Geralt turned his back.

“Ooh no you don't.” Jaskier spun into the other stall so he could point a finger in Geralt's face. “I know those shoulders. You're not an emotionless monster, and you're not dooming her.”

“Hmm.”

“You're not emotionless,” Jaskier insisted. “You're stoic… steady. It's there an opposite for duplicitous?”

“Straightforward.”

“It lacks the nuance I'm after. Anyway, if I know anything about Court, and I do, that will be so good for her. You are good for her.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt dragged his nose back and forth along Ciri's soft skin on the back of her head.

Ciri disappeared mid-cry in Geralt's room as they were trying to settle her down for food. Geralt was bouncing her lightly, giving her squeezes and murmuring to her, but her cries continued.

“Pass her here,” Jaskier said. “I can't find your little wolfie.”

As soon as she left Geralt's arms, a flash of light and she was gone.

“Oh!” Jaskier's eyes widened. “That was her magic?”

“Indeed.”

“Where did she go?”

“Back home. There's no point moping about it, Jaskier. Let's go downstairs and sup.”

Set up in the quiet tavern, Jaskier strummed at his lute strings quietly.

“There's certainly a song here,” he said. “The Appearing Child. It will be a metaphor for how the hardships and responsibility of parenthood spring into mind at the most inopportune times.”

“It's not a metaphor, Jaskier. The baby teleports.”

“In my song, my dear Geralt, it will be a metaphor.”

Around the second cup of vodka, Jaskier finally figured out the rhyming scheme to pair  ‘father’ with ‘it was her’, and Geralt twisted his lip in a grimace. Jaskier stopped playing at once.

“What?”

“I'm not a father. She has a father, a perfectly good one.” He took a swig from his cups. “At best I am a nurse.”

“Not with the way she looks at you,” Jaskier said, then refused to elaborate.

They were in Cidaris a week later, having dealt with a particularly nasty nest of drowners that made their home in a grotto. Geralt and Jaskier made camp along the rugged coastlines when Ciri popped into existence again around their campfire.

“Hey, little one,” Geralt rumbled, picking her up. She was getting so big. Not a little baby anymore.

“Is that Ciri?” Jaskier asked, rousing from his bedroll. Geralt hummed in the affirmative.

“It's late, Buttercup,” Geralt murmured as she made a fussy noise and he fumbled in the saddlebag was using as a pillow for her warm blanket. “You wake up and miss me?”

“What did you just call her?” Jaskier asked.

“Nothing, go back to sleep.”

“Did you call her Buttercup?”

“You’re hearing things.”

“I’m hearing that you called her Buttercup.”

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

“You do know what Jaskier means, don’t you, Geralt?”

“It means a ringing in my ear and a pain in my neck.”

“You saw the world’s cutest baby and you thought of me.”

“Go to sleep, bard, or I’ll put you to sleep.”

“Touchy. Let me say goodnight to her first though. Will she be warm enough?”

“She’ll be fine. Blanket’s thick, warm night, and I’m by the fire.”

“Don’t want those little toesies to freeze. Ahh, goodnight gorgeous princess. Sleep well.”

“She’s half-asleep already, leave her alone.”

“The other cheek too, Geralt. She’ll know if she’s not balanced.”

“Alright, shove off. Goodnight Jaskier.”

“Goodnight Geralt. Goodnight Buttercup.”

The next morning, Ciri decided to stick around. Jaskier and Geralt packed down their camp, taking turns to hold her and attempt the one handed jobs at the same time, but soon after they changed and fed her, the three set off on the road again. Jaskier carried her for the first hour, Geralt for the second, her strapped to his chest and basically hidden, until they came upon a cohort of knights and soldiers. Ten, all up, three on horseback in full armour, the others walking. Their colours and livery were not local.

“Hail, Witcher!”

Geralt pulled Roach into a stop warily. “Hail.”

The knight at the front stood high in his saddle, and brandished his crest. These were Cintran soldiers.

“The mighty Queen Calanthe bids you to come with us. You are requested at the Cintran court.”

“I don't accept.”

Jaskier stepped closer to Roach and looked up at Geralt. “What are you doing?” he hissed. Geralt held up a gloved hand to quiet him.

“If you do not come willingly, then you will come under duress,” the knight said promptly.

“We're not in Cintra. You have no jurisdiction here.” Geralt looked around at the landscape. “When King Ethain of Cidaris finds you've been accosting travelers in his roads, he might consider it an act of war.”

The soldiers on the ground shifted awkwardly, clearly aware that if the nobility decided to go to war, it would be their boots on the ground first.

“For this matter, Queen Calanthe would go to war. Dismount, sir.” The knight's moustache trembled slightly as he spoke.

“Why?” Geralt asked. “I don't particularly care to come with you, and my mare can easily outpace your warhorses.”

“But can your bard?”

Jaskier, to his credit, and to the credit of his deep trust and loyalty towards Geralt, didn't flinch. Geralt let out a little huff, and he put a hand to his hip, drawing out the hunting knife he kept on his belt, and then tugging down the wrap that bound Ciri to his chest. The knight gasped.

“You know who this is?” Geralt said mildly.

“Yes,” the knight hissed, hand going to his weapon. Geralt placed the flat of his blade against Ciri's back.

“Ah, don't touch your sword. Hands where I can see them, thank you. All of you.” Geralt traced a lazy pattern on Ciri's back with the blade, ending with the tip lightly touching her arm. The knight trembled, but Geralt's hands were steady. “Jaskier, tie their hands and feet.”

The cohort had brought a long rope and several heavy chains, clearly planning to bring the Witcher in bloodied and bound. It took Jaskier almost an hour to tie all ten soldiers and throw their weapons into the nearby pond. The entire time Geralt's face was stony and unmoving, even as Ciri tried to headbutt him and babbled happily into his chest.

“Take the horse,” Geralt instructed Jaskier. “No, the grey gelding with the socks. Set the rest free.”

When Jaskier finally mounted the tall warhorse, he hissed at Geralt, “We are going to have words later.”

Geralt didn't respond, just turned Roach in a tight circle around the bound soldiers, her hoofs kicking up mud into their faces. Ciri, still a little sleepy and precious, waved a chubby hand at them. “Give my regards to King Ethain, as I will also give my regards to Queen Calanthe from you.”

And with that he held Ciri tightly and took off at a steady canter until they were far from sight.

“Sorry about that, Buttercup,” Geralt said nosing her hair and holding her as if she was made out of glass. “If I had to travel all the way to Cintra in their company, I would be even more cranky than my usual self.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier said emphatically, the single word containing an essay, a proclamation and a lecture. He pulled up alongside Geralt, looking decidedly less settled in the saddle than he did walking alongside Roach. “When they tell Calanthe what you did, she's going to hang your limbs from four separate ramparts.”

“Not if we get there first. I will not be dragged before the court in chains.”

“You're…” Jaskier tugged on the reins, wheeling around Geralt like he did when they were on foot. “You're going to actually go into the belly of the beast.”

“Not the first time,” he answered with a toothy grin. “Might even get less guts on me than normal.”

Jaskier paled. “I'll never be able to perform in the Cintran court again. The only way Calanthe will want to hear me singing is if she's got my balls in a vice. Sorry, Ciri.”

Ciri made an answering squeal, and Geralt looked down at her.

“We're going to go home, Ciri. Home to Mama.”

She opened and shut her mouth at him, trying her hand at figuring out the syllables. “Ma-ya-ya.”

“That's right, Mama.”

Ciri promptly disappeared in a flash of green light.

Jaskier sighed, and Geralt resolutely packed away the wrap into the saddlebags.

“Guess that will make it easier to ride hard to Cintra,” Jaskier said.

Geralt clicked his tongue at Roach, and she broke out into a gallop.

That night, already far from where they left the struggling soldiers, they made a quick camp in the forest. The jerky and biscuits they found in the saddlebags of Jaskier's borrowed warhorse made for suitable dinner.

From across the fire, Jaskier linked his hands together and rested his chin on them. 

“You're very good at playing a role, Geralt,” he said. “You let people see what they want to see. The people expect a Butcher, so you give them one. The nobles expect a man of learning, so you reason and discuss with them. Calanthe's knights expected a monster without feelings, but if they had just used their eyes they would have seen Ciri was in no danger from you.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier, but didn't say anything.

“But what do you want? Who do you want to be?” Jaskier asked.

“An actor,” Geralt said dryly. “In one of those tragedies.”

“Oh, har har.” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “The player with the world as his stage. That's quite good actually I should write that down.”

“Don't stay up all night,” Geralt warned. “We'll be riding before dawn.”

“Of course, how could I forget,” Jaskier said with a twisted lip. “The belly of the beast.”

Chapter Text

Unhorsed and unarmed, Geralt approached the gate of the Cintran Palace. He still wore his armour, his good boots, and the medallion that never parted from his neck, but most of his other possessions were safely squirrelled away with an old friend of Jaskier's. The bard himself was watching from afar, with detailed instructions, should Geralt find himself in very certain danger that was worse than expected.

“Sir knight,” Geralt said, approaching the most decorated guard at the palace gate. “Bring your superior to me. I have an urgent message for her Majesty.”

The soldier's beady eyes glared at Geralt from beneath his visor, but he barked orders at the other soldier and soon enough, a tall man with a shorn head came down through the gate.

“Colonel.” Geralt greeted him with a nod, his hands folded behind his back with every air of civility. “Tell Queen Calanthe that Geralt of Rivia is here to see her, as requested. The druid Mousesack will also be able to attest to my identity.”

The colonel seemed perturbed, but after a few questions, strode away. When he returned almost half an hour later, he had an odd curl to his lip. “Right this way, Sir Witcher. She is most eager to see you.”

The moment they were in the hallways of the castle, Geralt tensed up his shoulders in anticipation of the expected blow. It still rattled his skull and sent him into blackness.

Geralt awoke in a dungeon. Smell of muck and old straw. Dim, no windows, torches on the walls and a brazier down the hall. Two guards stood by it, talking quietly and shuffling their feet. The other cells were empty, likely because Calanthe's famous quick burning temper didn't leave them filled for long. Still, Geralt had a straw mattress, his own under-clothes, and even his boots, though his armour had been stripped from him while he was unconscious.

He tidied up the cell as best he could manage, sweeping dirt and loose straw with his hands into the waste bucket, fluffing up the mattress and spreading out the threadbare blanket, making sure it was smooth against the rough stones. Then he settled down against the stone wall and waited. He meditated for a few hours before-

Pop!

Ciri blinked into existence beside him, reaching up towards him immediately.

“Hey, little one,” he murmured, smiling down at her. She always made him smile. Even when she was colicky.

She made a happy noise and he hushed her quietly, but ensured to show her only his most content and confident emotions. Just like Jaskier said, everything in the world was new to her, especially a dungeon.

“This better be the only time you ever see the inside of a prison cell,” he grumbled. “I'm not busting you out when you're eighteen like Vesemir did for me and Eskel. You wouldn't be so stupid as to get caught vandalizing the side of a pub your first year on the Path, now, would you?” He tugged on her ear and she twitched her head as it tickled.

She hadn't been too noisy, so the guards didn't notice anything. They could have their moments together. He put her down on her belly and she pushed herself up onto hands and knees like she was ready to learn to crawl. Geralt placed a hand in front of her, scurrying it about on the ground and watching her head swing around to follow it, even when he looped it around her head a few times.

“You'll be a great tracker one day,” he muttered. “That is, if you wanna be.”

She rocked her weight again, and pushed back so she landed on her bottom, sitting up all by herself.

“Look at you!” he said. “Hi.”

She waved at him, and he waved back. Without any things to play with, each other became the play toy. Holding onto Geralt's fingers, Ciri pulled herself up and step-walked all the way up his legs where they were stretched out on the ground, then she tried every trick in the book to climb up onto his head, quite like a monkey. He tipped her off of him, rolling her body around and giving tight little squeezes. She got particularly interested in his hair, and Geralt noticed that she could reach out and grab so much easier than she could in the past.

After only a quarter of an hour, footsteps thundered into the dungeon, voices shouting. The captain of the Queen's Guard almost slammed into the bars of Geralt's cell with his urgency to unlock the door. Ciri clung tighter to Geralt, her face veiled behind his hair as the knight marched into the small cell. Without even a word, the knight grabbed at her, and she yelled, the short sharp shout like a wyvern's warning call.

“Release her,” the guard spat. “You animal.”

“She doesn't want to go with you,” Geralt said.

The knight's armoured fist drew back then punched Geralt's ear. His brain rattled, and Ciri was lifted away from him.

He tried to smile at her, even as his eye twitched at the smarting pain. He watched her getting carried away from him, but not for long. The captain was barely at the end of the hall before she scrunched up her face and there was another flash of emerald light. She returned to him, as she always did. He blew a little puff of air in her face, and she opened her mouth in a gummy smile.

“Stop your mutant magic!” the captain ordered, and Geralt pulled a silly face at Ciri, cueing her in on the joke.

“I told you, she doesn't want to go with you,” Geralt answered, tucking Ciri behind himself. “I let you have her once to prove a point, you will not take her from me again.”

Then he put his back to the cell door, and kept playing with the young child.

Half an hour later, there was another echo of footsteps that made themselves known down the hall. Two, this time, steady, soft leather shoes.

“You have no idea the trouble you've caused upstairs,” a bellegured voice said. Well-bred Skellige accent.

“I haven't done anything,” Geralt said.

“I wasn't talking to you.”

The queen's consort, Eist, opened the locked door, and, to Geralt's surprise, sat down on the mangy mattress, careless of his fine garments. He wiggled a teasing finger at Ciri. “You're a menace, young lady.”

Geralt bent his head around and nodded at the other figure at the open door.

“Mousesack,” he greeted.

“Geralt.” The druid sat on the floor with the other two men and the baby, and folded his legs underneath himself. Ciri was still mostly on top of Geralt, but she looked with a smile at the newcomers.

“What a mess,” Mousesack said. “You should hear Calanthe screaming about it. You're welcome, by the way.”

“What for?”

“Your neck still being attached to your head,” Mousesack answered. “I managed to reason with her that disturbing Destiny in such a way would be even more devastating than what's currently happening.”

“What's currently happening is my own step-granddaughter is locked up in my own dungeon,” Eist said.

“Not a good look,” Geralt said.

“Not a good fact,” he returned. “We're having a room in the North wing set up for you as we speak.”

“Oh, that would be much better, thank you.” Geralt rolled his eyes.

Ciri has become quite interested in trying to grab at the boots that wiggled just out of reach from her, but was happy and comfortable in the company of that select group. She was better at reaching and grasping now.

“Ciri needs me,” Geralt said simply. “And I need to be out there. I thought you'd have my back on this, Mousesack.”

“And I thought I'd have at least a decade before learning if Pavetta's powers skip a generation,” Mousesack answered. “Imagine my surprise when it came out this has been happening her entire life.”

“Pavetta is an incredibly effective secret keeper,” Eist agreed. “When I was a teenager, the secrets I was keeping had far more to go with gambled coin and an accidentally capsized boat, not hedgehog lovers and vanishing babies.”

“You didn't have the responsibility of a child,” Mousesack said, wiggling his boots for Ciri to grab. “Pavetta may be young, but she still has the blood of a lioness.”

“At any rate, Geralt, there is much to discuss,” Eist said. “And you've made your first point very clear. Ciri wants to come and go as she pleases.”

“I have several other points, should you care to hear them,” Geralt said mildly, tickling the back of Ciri's neck and making her giggle.

“Save it for Calanthe,” Eist said.

The room they marched Geralt to was well appointed. There was a large tapestry on the wall of an ancient battle, tall windows, and a bed so plush and covered in pillows as would have made Jaskier faint at the sight.

“Nice room,” Geralt told Ciri. He put her down on the thick rug and she sat up by herself, giving a little clap for her success. “Good job.”

“I do try,” Eist replied with a charming smile, fully knowing Geralt wasn't talking to him. “The woollen rug is pure Skellige craftsmanship.”

“Where is Pavetta?” Geralt asked. “I thought she would come to see us by now.”

“Still getting her ear chewed off, I imagine,” Eist said.

Geralt grimaced. “What do you see in that woman?”

“Oh, Calanthe is vicious, but when you're standing beside her, seeing the full fury unleashed, it's a thing of beauty,” Eist said. “You'll understand one day. One way or another, you've thrown your lot in with a lioness too.”

With that, he bowed, touched his fingertip to Ciri's button nose with a wink, then left the room. Two soldiers stood guard outside in the hall.

Geralt picked Ciri up and walked to the window, staring down at Cintra from a dizzying height, and, in the distance, the sea.

“Gilded cage, huh? This what all those princesses in towers were complaining about?” he asked her. “I get it now. C'mon, let's make the best of it.”

Ciri, it seemed, had a very inventive way of getting around that involved a mix of rolling on her side and sitting on her bottom to shuffle towards what she wanted. It looked exhausting, but, Geralt figured, she never did things the easy way. With Geralt's permission and assistance, they pulled apart the room, got into every cupboard and box, and everything that was neatly packed away was dragged onto the floor.

Everything a rich nobleman would need in his quarters, except… Ciri pulled a familiar face of concentration.

Geralt pounded on the door. “Where are her spare cloths?”

“What do you mean, sir?” came the nervous answer from the guard on the other side.

“A bear shits in the woods and a baby shits in a cloth, what did you think?” Gerald asked, then muttered. “Ignorant prick.”

“I'll get the nurse to deal with it, sir.”

“I don't need the nurse, I know damn well when she's hungry versus ready to blow, and trust me, boy, you don't want to be standing guard when she does.”

There was a long pause on the other side of the wooden door. “You're going to change the princess?” the guard asked.

“Course I fucking will.”

“Urcheon Duny never does.”

“Then Duny's an asshole and a moron.”

A few minutes later, the door opened and the nursemaid entered, her arms full of cloths.

“Don't need your help,” Geralt grumbled, snatching a cloth off the top of the pile. He held it over Ciri's belly with a flat palm as he unpinned the underthings and began wiping her down. He'd been caught in the chest a few too many times to make that mistake again.

“Evidently you don't,” the nurse noted, with begrudging approval, before she left. The door locked again behind her.

Geralt and Ciri made a little game together to pass the time. He held her up on his hip and she would, with all the pomp and circumstance as befit her station, point in a certain direction. Geralt would take three or so swift Witcher steps where she wanted her to go, letting her sway and laugh until she pointed a new way and off they went again.

“Enough, enough!” Geralt laughed, throwing Ciri onto the bed and collapsing down beside her. “There's only so long I can play at Roach, Buttercup.”

Ciri sat up on the bed, her pudgy hands on Geralt's chest, and batted him slightly, trying to crawl all over him still.

A soft knock at the door, and a key turned in the lock.

“Fire is down to a dull roar,” Mousesack said from the doorway.

Ciri looked pleased to see the druid, which let Geralt relax while Mousesack drew closer and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Let me try something,” he said, as he opened a vial of something. Quick as lightning, Geralt's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

“Don't,” Geralt warned.

“Relax, it's perfume, nothing more,” Mousesack said with a smile. He eased his wrist out of Geralt's tight grip and brought the bottle over near Ciri, wafting it around some. Ciri tilted up her little face, and furrowed her brow like Geralt knew he did when he scented something.

“Amamama,” she babbled, then disappeared in a flash of light. Geralt placed a hand on the bedding and felt the warmth from where she was sitting just seconds ago.

“Honeysuckle and rosewater,” Mousesack said, stoppering the vial and tossing it to Geralt. “Pavetta's personal blend. You can keep that, by the way, for when you get sick of her.”

“I won't ever get sick of her,” Geralt said darkly.

Mousesack sighed and threw up his hands. “Not everything has to be so dramatic, Witcher,” he said. “Come on. If that little trick of mine worked, I was to bring you to her majesty.”

With a rod of steel in his spine, Geralt stood and went with him.

Geralt remembered his time in the Cintran palace at Pavetta's birthday celebration and when he had claimed the unborn babe, only a year and a half ago, so he knew that where Mousesack led him was not the large throne room. Instead they walked up the centre tower and stopped before a heavy wooden door.

“In for a copper, I suppose,” Geralt muttered, as he pushed it open.

Inside was a study, or a war room, for all the grim faces around. Queen Calanthe was in the centre, gripping the edge of the desk tightly. Eist was standing by her side, Mousesack took his place by the table too, and off in the corner was the man that it took Geralt a moment to recognise was Duny, Ciri's father. Without the hedgehog spines, he was far less endearing, his dark hair had an oily quality to it, and he didn't say anything to Geralt in greeting. Coupled with the knowledge that he was wholly uninvolved in Ciri's care, Geralt decided to dislike him on sight. Except that saving his life was the debt that let him claim Ciri, Geralt would be entirely comfortable ignoring him completely.

In fact, none of them greeted him, so Geralt decided to cut the tension. Sooner it began, sooner it was over with.

“Queen Calanthe,” he said, and bowed deeply. He nodded perfunctorily at the three other men. “Where is Princess Pavetta?”

“Elsewhere,” came Calanthe's sharp voice.

“I thought this would somewhat involve her,” Geralt said dryly.

Calanthe raised a jewelled hand. “You walk a very fine line, Witcher. You promised me several years before you took her.”

“I did,” Geralt allowed. “Ciri had other plans.”

Calanthe sighed, and released her death grip on the table edge. She didn't relax, but some of the tightly wound tension released. Geralt matched her.

“What a headache this mess is.” She made a gesture and Eist poured her red wine and offered some to Geralt, who shook his head.

“So it isn't Witcher magic that kidnaps her?” Calanthe asked.

“There is no question of it,” Mousesack said. “Cirilla's power is innate. She appears and reappears under her own will.”

“Are there any limitations? Any way to stop her?”

Geralt and Mousesack shared a brief, unspoken look.

“I wintered in Kaedwen, on the other side of the continent.” Geralt said, “Her visits were longer, but less often.”

“So, I could send you far away and she could still follow you, only end up tired by the journey, and she'd stay there even longer,” Calanthe surmised. She fixed a lazy but malicious glare on him. “What if I bury you in a cave? Would that stop it?” She waved a hand at Mousesack who stepped forward and opened his mouth to speak. “Yes, yes, I know. As Mousesack has repeatedly told me, killing you would only disturb the Fates and likely leave her cursed.”

“Any more cursed than being claimed by a Witcher, that is,” Duny mumbled under his breath, that none but Geralt could discern.

What an asshole.

“I could claim her now,” Geralt growled. “She's mine by rights, by Law.”

“She doesn't want to stay with you,” Calanthe said, “or else she would never return to us.”

“If that's true, then so is the reverse,” Geralt countered. “She comes to me willingly.”

“And I should listen to the will of a child?” Calanthe sneered. “You would have me stuff her full of treats, never bathe, never nap?”

Geralt let the barb roll off his shoulders, and wisely didn't point out the contradiction in the queen's thinking.

Calanthe rose to her feet, sweeping her long dress to the side as she paced by the window.

“There must be some other way to break the connection,” she said. “Confine her to the castle in some way.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Royalty and their habit of locking up princesses. “What tower can hold her?” He asked. “What dragon would stand guard?”

“You're right,” Calanthe smiled nastily, “it would be easier to lock you up.”

Mousesack stepped forward. “That's no life for a Witcher.”

“You think I care about his life and mission?”

“My mission keeps your subjects alive,” Geralt snapped.

“If I may, Master Witcher.” Duny moved quietly to bring himself into the centre of the room, with movements that could generously be called graceful, but left Geralt feeling uneasy. There was nothing of Ciri in his face, on his features, Geralt noted. His eyes and hair were dark where hers were vibrant, and his smile had none of the honesty that hers did. “You are a curse breaker,” Duny continued. “I myself have intimate knowledge of your prowess, and am eternally thankful. You specialise in doing the impossible. Surely something can be done for my daughter.”

“A claim is not a curse,” Geralt reminded him. “And you were the one who offered her up as payment for your life.”

Duny paled. “I, I had no idea that my beloved was-”

“That's kind of the point of the Law of Surprise,” Geralt said.

“That's enough.” Calanthe took her seat behind the imposing desk. “There is also the matter of Cirilla's powers themselves. Mousesack has taught me about the Power, and has been training Pavetta in accessing hers safely.”

Eist, with his easy smile always bringing levity, said, “We haven't had to replace the windows all year.”

“While Pavetta's powers seem to be mainly channelled through screaming up a storm and being able to locate Cirilla,” Mousesack said, “Ciri is special.”

Geralt tilted his head. He trusted the druid's judgement, but this was the first he had his suspicions confirmed. He folded his arms and asked, “how is she?”

“She’s well,” Mousesack answered, a smile creasing his beard. “Wonderfully clever. She can brew a little, imbue certain talismans with small magics. She knows a few formulas for useful spells, minor healing and the likes.”

Geralt nodded, pleased, but Calanthe’s lip twisted.

“I'm only lucky that Pavetta’s powers manifested so late and I could keep her from the Sorceress' Chapter,” she said. “But you said Cirilla is different?”

Mousesack pressed his hands onto the desk and composed himself. “I believe Cirilla is a Source.”

Breath hissed between Geralt's teeth. “She can't be.”

“I'm afraid she is.”

Eist looked between them. “What am I missing here?”

Mousesack raised his hands and cast a simple spell. Dancing lights erupted from his fingertips. “Most magic users access Power through Chaos or well-worn channels. That's why certain days and places give magic strength. But a Source, well, they simply are the connection.”

“A medium, like a transmitter,” Geralt added. “Mousesack, if you're right-”

“Of course I'm right. A more perfect example of a Source I could not devise. She touches energy and converts it into a portal, without thought or intent, and she has done so all her life.”

That was troubling news. “Then my connection to her is more important than we thought. For everyone's safety.”

“Safety?” Calanthe asked. “Are you saying she's dangerous?”

“A threat?” Duny added.

Geralt twitched. “A Source has no control over their skills,” he said. “Without control, without an outlet, they can be drawn to madness or senseless destruction. Or worse, be opened to forces outside our knowing.”

Calanthe gasped. “A curse.” She hung her head.“A curse, a curse.”

“We are all very fortunate,” Mousesack said evenly.

“How?” Calanthe demanded.

Mousesack gestured towards Geralt, who answered for them both. “She is uncontrolled power. She's like lightning, and I'm the metal pole on the top of the spire.” Geralt leaned his folded arms on the top of a chair and slumped his head. “She could go anywhere, but she comes to me.”

The words hung heavy in the air around them.

Calanthe drained her wineglass and put it down with a thud. “That's one way to guarantee your life,” she muttered. “Then it's settled. The Witcher will continue to live.”

“Thank you, your Grace,” Geralt said dryly. “And my freedom?”

Before Calanthe could answer, the door to the study swung open and in strode Princess Pavetta. She held her chin high, her golden braid hanging down over her shoulder and almost touching one hip, and young Ciri balanced on the other. Geralt realised at the sight that he'd never seen a noblewoman in all her finery carry her child. When they were a baby, perhaps, but not as old as Ciri, on her way to becoming a toddler.

“Mother, Husband.” She greeted them with a formal nod. “Mousesack, Eist.” Then she turned to face Geralt and tears sprung into her eyes. “Geralt, it…, it so good to see you again.”

“Your Highness,” Geralt said, bowing his head.

“Ga!” Ciri said.

“Highnesses,” he corrected.

“I owe you, we all owe you so much,” Pavetta said, her voice quavering in an attempt to maintain formality. Then she threw both caution to the wind and her arms around his neck. Geralt stood stock still, his own arms stiff by his sides, then, slowly, let them come up to embrace her as well. She was so small and fragile, his hand nearly spanning her entire back. When they tried to part, Ciri clung to Geralt, and Pavetta laughed wetly.

“Oh, alright, go on, you,” she said, giving her baby over to be held by Geralt. Ciri's legs kicked in delight, and Geralt nosed her soft hair.

“I see you've decided not to kill him, Mother,” Pavetta said calmly, brushing a palm across her skirts to smooth them. “I'm glad you listened to reason.” She went to Duny's side, and the couple shared a brief moment of physical affection, before she took a seat at the table. Duny's hand came to rest on her shoulder.

“He's alive, yes,” Calanthe ground out, ever the general pained to give up ground in a warzone.

“Oh, then since the secret is out, amongst the six of us, at least, Ciri, my darling, you can have this back.” Pavetta withdrew something from within her skirts and held up the wooden pendant of the wolf that Lambert had carved. Pavetta had replaced the leather strap with a fine golden chain, and she looped it over Ciri's neck when Geralt held her forward. Pavetta's expression was impossibly fond as she adjusted the pendant to hang properly, but as soon as it was just so, Ciri grabbed the medallion and shoved it into her mouth.

“You have given me a gift, Master Witcher,” Pavetta said, folding her hands serenely on her lap. “For though it was your right to claim Cirilla from the moment of her birth, you have let me know her, raise her.”

Geralt didn't know what to say to that.

“I have nothing left to give you in return, but should you ever need our aid-”

“I only need my freedom,” Geralt said.

“Your freed-? Mother!” Pavetta turned her gaze towards the Queen. “You were trapped your whole life until Grandfather's death. Cirilla is so fortunate to not know that pain. She may never know it. If you imprison this man, she will know you hurt him, and she will never forgive you for it.”

“And what will you do? When he rides into Cintra with that baby in his arms-” Calanthe raised a finger and pointed it cruelly at Ciri who was watching everything with large eyes.“-but her body is cold and limp and dead?”

Tears rolled down Pavetta's cheeks. “She is his,” she said simply. “One day she will go to him and never return to me, I know this in my very core. I only… I believe that my own death will come to me first, and she will go to him safely.”

Duny made a heartbroken sound, and Pavetta patted his hand that rested on her shoulder.

“I don't know why, perhaps it is my gift, or just the anxious thoughts of a young mother.” She laughed a little, self-deprecatingly. “But I have no fear for Ciri when she is with you, Master Witcher.”

“I do,” Duny said. Standing behind Pavetta Geralt could see every year of the decades in age that separated them. “How will you keep her safe? You know the type of life you live, you would have my child placed between you and a bruxa?”

Geralt, who had been mostly silent since Pavetta walked into the room, spoke, and Ciri's face lit up at the sound of his voice, turning around in his arms to watch him.

“Fighting monsters is a smaller fraction of my days than you might realise,” he said, “but even if the worst timing should happen…”

He lifted this free hand and cast the Sign of quen. A shimmering golden bubble encircled both himself and Ciri.

“Hit me,” he instructed Mousesack.

Sharp end of the quill could not pierce it, nor could the strike of a closed fist. Before he summoned a spell, Geralt bid Mousesack to stand a little further back, and when the concussive force hit the shield, the golden bubble exploded in a flash of light and force enough to topple a chair and bookcase.

Ciri laughed.

Mousesack righted the room with a flick of his hand. “I'm satisfied,” he announced. “That, paired with our new little perfume trick, Cirilla should be as safe as can be expected.”

“May I have a little of your favourite scent, sir?” Pavetta asked. “For if you can send her to me, then I would like to be able to return her to you as well.”

Perfume. Right. Geralt could do courtly manners and customs. He'd had enough training on what nobility thought was polite, if only so he could toe the line and play with their expectations. But even as much as he freshened up before approaching the palace, no one looking at him could deny that he lived a hard life on the road and made do with what he had. 

“Horse sweat, leather,” Geralt listed, “and the cheapest soaps for the road. I could give you some ghoul's blood too, always get that splattered on me.”

Pavetta looked startled, but recovered well.

“A shirt, then,” she said. “And I would be much obliged if you would sit for a portrait. Just a small etching, I have a little talent in drawing. Come, it is time for Ciri's nap, and I may draw you as she rests.”

Surprisingly, Calanthe and the others let Geralt leave the study in Pavetta's company, though the whispers picked up again the instant the doors were closed behind them. Without even asking, Pavetta folded her hand into Geralt's free arm as they took the stairs down the tower.

Ciri made a few loud fussy sounds in Geralt's ear, then yawned so wide Geralt could count her teeth. Four now, two each in the top and bottom.

“Ooh, big yawn,” he said, then flushed to the tips of his ears when he realised he'd talked to her in front of Pavetta.

But the princess merely laughed, and brushed her fingers quickly over Ciri's face, nose and cheeks, making Ciri laugh too. “We're getting you right to bed, little one,” she said.

Princess Pavetta's room was presumably tastefully decorated, for all Geralt could guess, but was strewn with small toys. A wooden crib sat beside a chaise lounge. Pavetta fussed over Ciri as she took her from Geralt and placed her in the crib. A collection of colourful carved animals hung over it, pseveral deer and rabbits, and in pursuit, a golden lion and silver wolf. 

“Take a seat, please,” Pavetta said, indicating the chaise lounge. “Put your foot here, yes, like that, it will rock the crib, it always helps her sleep.”

Instinctively, Geralt took up the familiar beat of Roach at a lazy walk. Pavetta retrieved her pencils and fixed a fresh piece of parchment to a board.

“Just like that, yes, turn your head a little, if you please, the light is just so.”

At that particular angle, Geralt could look down and see Ciri tucked into her crib, making fussy noises and her eyes struggling to stay open. He chuckled quietly and kept up the rocking pace. The pencil made some scratching noises on the parchment but Geralt didn't dare turn to see. He used a finger to flick the mobile into motion and start the hunt.

“You care about her very much,” Pavetta murmured.

“In my own way.” He would never have rich rooms and a warm hearth scattered with toys for her, but yes. He loved her.

“Your features are very striking, you'll have to be patient with me to capture them correctly,” Pavetta said, and he risked a glance to see her frowning in concentration. Would Ciri look like that, one day? Or would she grow into Duny's proud nose and strong brow?

A little while later, Ciri was fast asleep, and Geralt couldn't help brushing his fingers along her head, slowing the rocking of the crib as he did so.

“Her hair is getting longer,” he noted.

“I do wonder if it will stay the same shade of gold, or change as she ages,” Pavetta mused. “We have so much in common, but that which divides us is so striking to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was a child surprise too, remember, though Duny was a young man when he saved my father.” She laughed. “I'm quite glad I didn't teleport to his doorstep wrapped in swaddling cloth.”

Silence stretched on. Pavetta used her thumb to smear some of the pencil work.

“And our powers, as well,” she added after some time. “My power explodes from me when I'm scared. Hers when she is happy. Isn't that the wish of every mother? To bear a little of the darkness of the world and make it a happier place for her children?”

The darkness of the world. Geralt knew it intimately, and he would do anything so that Ciri wouldn't come close to it.

“There, finished,” Pavetta said. She turned the board around so Geralt could see. It was a fairly faithful likeness. His hair and nose were as he knew them. In the sketch, his head was turned slightly down and to the side, looking, he knew, at the sleeping child, and his eyes were… well, it didn't look how he imagined himself.

Pavetta laid the sketch down. “Now, Master Witcher, it may seem untoward, but I would like if you gave me your shirt.”

Right. For Ciri to have his scent. 

He dragged the dark shirt over his head and handed it over. In return, she opened a chest and withdrew-

“My armour,” Geralt said, startled. “How did you-?”

“Mother is vicious, but she is also predictable,” Pavetta said. “She used the same hiding spot as when I was a girl.”

It felt rough without his shirt underneath, but at least covered his nakedness.

“Now,” Pavetta clapped her hands together. “It's time for your escape.”

“Escape?”

“Of course. Mother would never willingly let you loose, so this will have to do.” She led him to the balcony window and pointed out a route that would drop him down on the other side of the garden wall. “I didn't think that climbing out a window and over a parapet would trouble you.”

Geralt smiled. “Not at all. Just surprised you have a preferred route.”

She matched him, though her smile was far more mischievous. “It's not the first time a shirtless man has climbed down from my window. I did manage to meet with Duny for a year in secret, you know.”

Geralt barked a laugh. “That I do know. You're full of surprises, Princess Pavetta.”

“As are you, Master Witcher.”

With his nimble grace, Geralt vaulted over the balcony railing and caught himself by the fingertips. With one last glance through the window at the crib, he let himself fall and escape.

Chapter Text

Geralt was knee deep in murky water, silver sword slicing back and forth in the dusk gloom. The drowners had a firm hold of the marsh, and their red eyes glimmered from amongst the gnarled trees. They kept running at him, but he was getting closer to their nest. Geralt bared his teeth as he swung a particularly powerful strike. The drowner split in half and fell into the mud.

Claws swiped at his shoulder but couldn't get through his armour. He stuck that one right through the middle.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some movement, and glanced over.

A toddler in a bright white fancy nightgown was sitting in the mud, squishing it happily between her hands.

“Ciri!” Geralt called.

He took a hand off the hilt of his sword and made the sign of quen. With all his energy he threw the sign towards her.

The bubble of golden light spun towards her like air through water. It hit her where she sat and exploded, letting shimmering light dance in circles around her skin. She giggled, trying to bend her head around to follow its path.

“Ai!” Ciri vocalised, her hand in the air.

Geralt parried a blow from claws and burst into a smile. “Hi back.”

Then, a moment later - 

“Next time you join me on a hunt,” Geralt huffed, jerking his sword free of another drowner and whipping around to hurl it over Ciri's head. It lodged in a drowner skull with a sick crunch. “Please land yourself halfway up a tree!”

Ciri laughed, delighted as Geralt tucked into a roll through the mud to dodge the drowner's swiping claws. He scooped her up on the way and deposited her in the tangled roots of a tree, safe out of the way of the drowners. Then leapt back into the fray, grabbing his sword out of the carcass.

Geralt dispatched the rest of the drowners with brutal efficiency, sending more than a little blood and guts flying. He heaved deep breaths as he trudged back to the tree where Ciri was hidden. It took a moment to find her in the gloom and between the roots, because she was head to toe covered in mud. Only her eyes shone out from under the muck.

“Muddy girl,” Geralt said, picking her up. “Muddy girl you are. Want to see the big boom?”

He blew up the drowned nest with a bomb from a safe distance, the two of them dripping onto the marsh. Sparks flew into the dark sky.

“Big boom,” he said. Ciri mimicked his solemn nod.

Geralt used an equally filthy hand to wipe mud from her face. Her nightgown was a loss, stained up past the armpits. Geralt was just as bad, hair stringy, ichor itching as it dried on his neck.

“Well,” he said. “Since we're already dirty.”

Geralt walked a ways away with Ciri, then placed her into a large clean fresh patch of mud. He sunk his hands into the mud near her and warmed it with igni. Ciri rubbed the mud between her hands and toes, then, when Geralt flopped into the mud beside her, onto his face. He managed to stop most of it from going into each other's mouths, though.

In a minute he would have to get up and dunk them both into the river at the mouth of the delta. He'd probably find some berbercane for her to chew on during the long walk back to town or else she will start screaming in her ear. The walk will be in wet boots and chilled by the wind. After that he'll have to haul water up to his room at the tavern and bathe with Ciri, probably taking two loads of bathwater to do so. He'll convince Jaskier to feed her and put her to bed while he scrubbed his armour clean and oil it. Tomorrow he would dispose of the drowners carcasses property and harvest their brains for his Swallow potion and try to collect his reward. He just hoped she wouldn't disappear back to Pavetta before they had a chance to get clean.

But all that could start in a minute. First, he had to play in the mud with Ciri.

Geralt wasn't entirely sure he had ever been in a tavern that early in the morning. Given the chance to shut the window instead of being woken by the sun when he slept rough, he would always prefer to sleep in. But Ciri had landed on his chest in the pre-dawn light, awake and already screaming for attention. After an hour or two he managed to convince Jaskier to take Ciri downstairs to the tavern while Geralt saw to Roach's morning hay, but even after that it was barely seven in the morning. The tavern was basically empty save for the innkeeper washing down tables.

Jaskier had Ciri sat up on the bench in front of him, and was entertaining her with a song.

“Oh fishmonger's daughter-” Jaskier cut himself off, his hand frozen over the strings, waiting, waiting-

“Ah!” Ciri cried.

“Bah!” Jaskier smiled ear to ear and kept strumming. “Oh fishmonger's daughter, bah-”

“Ah!”

“Bah!” Jaskier finished the line for her and began dancing around, his strumming getting to a fever pitch. “Ta-da-da-da-ta, ta-da-da-da-da!” over and over again, while Ciri squealed in delight.

After he ended the song, strumming the strings so close to her face she went cross-eyed, Geralt sat down near her and pulled apart the loaf of bread set out for him.

“That's an inappropriate song for a baby,” Geralt said.

“It's call and response,” Jaskier said, his nose in the air. “A perfectly adequate entrance to the theory of music and indeed language itself, and the foundation upon which much is built! I wasn't going to start her on the concepts of leitmotifs, now was I?”

“I meant the first verse.”

“Oh right, yeah.”

Ciri turned around on the table top and crawled her way over to Geralt, demanding some of his bread. He playfully waved it around before she was able to snatch it from him.

“So who are you today?” Geralt asked her.

In the several times Ciri had popped into their lives Jaskier's penchant for spinning stories had a chance to shine. Ciri had been cast variously as a lost niece of the Baron, a ward of the elf king and a kidnapped dryad being escorted home. Jaskier insisted that creating the first version of the story that gets circulated was essential to stopping rumours.

“A godling,” Jaskier answered.

“Godlings never look that young.”

“Well no one else knows that, do they?”

Geralt got in a tug of war competition with Ciri over his crust. “Hmm.”

“Now,” Jaskier pronounced, strumming a high chord on his lute. “Onto your next lesson, girl. The most essential part of any performance. Applause.”

A few weeks later, and Jaskier's stories had gripped the imagination of the town they were working in Temeria. Some merchants from a town further south had heard a different account of the presence of a child accompanying the Witcher, and were arguing heartily with the locals in the town square.

Geralt was worried about the conflicting narratives about Ciri being passed around, but Jaskier assured him that it was all part of the plan.

“You see, dear Witcher,” Jaskier said. “If there was only one answer to why the child was with us, everybody would be debating if it was true. As it stands, they are all trying to figure out which story is true, and if anyone gets a little too close to comfort, there are a dozen other narratives to dissuade them.”

Most of the townspeople were agreeing with the most recent story, that Ciri was a cursed Duchess.

“Come and see!” Jaskier hawked. “See how the hands of time wound the Lady back in age. Come and see her magnificent intellect locked away behind a child's eyes!”

Geralt managed to stop him before he started charging fees, but a cluster of washerwomen were so enthralled with Ciri that they commandeered all the attention in the tavern.

After an hour of unsuccessfully trying to regain the attention of the tavern patrons, Jaskier slumped his way into Geralt's corner table. He had a good view of the whole room from here, including all the women chasing after Ciri as she crawled around on the floor and occasionally hauling herself up to hold onto benches and sidle her way along them. The women were all enthralled by her.

Jaskier hung his head. “I'm playing second fiddle. Me!”

Jaskier woke from a heavy sleep with a hand on his mouth. He tried to scream but he was muffled and felt the looming presence shush him.

Just Geralt, his finger to his lips.

They were camping in a forest, and Jaskier had fallen asleep without even properly setting up camp. He didn't know where his dagger was, but Geralt already had his sword in his hand. Jaskier got the message quickly.

Stay down and be quiet.

Geralt, looking every inch the wolf that the medallion around his neck claimed him to be, stalked around the small clearing they had made camp. Jaskier's heart thudded in his chest. It wasn't the first time they'd been ambushed in the night by bandits or a mob led by an alderman from the last contract looking to steal back the reward money.

A man shaped figure burst out of the darkness and tackled Geralt to the ground. Geralt's sword flew from his hand and landed in the dirt. Jaskier started edging his way towards it, but within moments Geralt was wrestled and pinned on the ground.

“You’re getting sloppy,” a rough voice said in the darkness. Jaskier saw Geralt sag in the wrestling hold.

“Gerroff, you asshole,” Geralt grumbled. The other man laughed and released him.

Jaskier strained his eyes trying to see through the gloom, and a burst of light sprang from the stranger and the dwindling campfire roared to life. The man was heavily armoured, a huge silhouette from where Jaskier was prone on the ground. For a moment Jaskier thought he was snarling, but then the light flickered again and he saw. Scars, curling up the man’s face, pulling back his lip, but his eyes were kind. Same twin swords, same medallion around his neck.

“Your reaction time is shit, you didn’t notice me until I was right on top of you,” the other Witcher said as he sat down in the firelight. He nodded at Jaskier, still prone on his bedroll. “Hello again, Jaskier.”

“Eskel,” Jaskier greeted. They were passingly familiar with each other.

Geralt dusted himself off and sat down on his bedroll again, poking at the now roaring fire.

“You were supposed to be north of the Pontar,” Geralt grumbled, evidently a little embarrassed to have been ambushed and bested by the other Witcher.

Eskel shrugged and eyeballed Geralt carefully.

“You look awful,” he said.

Jaskier had his own set of bags under his eyes, but even he had to admit Geralt looked particularly bad. He hadn’t washed his hair in weeks, it was wild and stringy hanging loose around his face, his skin had lost colour, and his eyes were tired. He’d been snapping at everyone lately. He looked weary to the bones.

Geralt grunted back at him, evidently not even able to summon the energy for a ‘hmm’.

“Where's the little one?” Eskel asked. Was that hope in his voice?

“She's not here,” Jaskier answered, finally sitting up and adjusting his cloak for some measure of dignity. “But she was quite the reason for our lax guard, I'm afraid.”

“Ciri had us up all night four nights straight,” Geralt explained. “And I did a katakan job the night before that.”

“I fell asleep before my head hit the bedroll,” Jaskier said brightly.

Eskel turned his cat-slit eyes on Geralt again. Oh, he was just as effective as Geralt at using silence to get what he wanted.

“Haven't been sleeping,” Geralt admitted. “Keep worrying about her. Feel like there's something I'm missing.”

“She's with her mother,” Jaskier reminded him. “Relax.”

“Hmm.”

“Get some sleep, Geralt,” Eskel said. “I'll keep watch.” At the stony silence, he held up a finger. “Don't make me make that an order.”

With great reluctance, Geralt finally laid down on the bedroll and Eskel pulled out a bundle of wool and a crochet hook.

At some point during the long night, Jaskier stirred and could have sworn he saw Eskel scritching Geralt's head while he slept.

Eskel, Jaskier quickly learned, was similar enough to Geralt that all the small differences were startling to notice. He whistled, for one thing. With his scarred face he couldn't purse his damaged lip, but he had an impressive high pitched whistle and a surprising range with just his tongue tucked behind his top teeth.

Jaskier, Eskel learned, was something of an anomaly, but after a few days travelling with Geralt and the bard, he started to understand how that whole thing worked with an unlikely companion.

“So,” Eskel said, taking his seat at the tavern bar the second night after he'd arrived and knocking his shoulder against Geralt's. “This what life like for the two of you?”

“Give or take a baby,” Geralt replied, downing the dregs of his last mug of ale and reaching for the one Eskel had brought.

“Where is that little tyke?” Eskel asked. “Thought I'd see her by now.”

“Here I thought you met up with me just for the pleasure of my company,” Geralt said with a smile, and received a playful punch in return. “She might not be back for a few more days. If she cares for my sleep at all.”

Jaskier swung past their part of the bar, bowing over his lute with a flourish before transitioning into the bridge of the song.

“A real bed every other night, live entertainment, not getting run out of town nearly as much,” Eskel noted. “I could get used to this.”

Geralt chuckled. Then nodded at the doorway where the Skellige merchant they were set to meet walked in. She'd had trouble with a flying beast, and from the contract it sounded like it could be an archgriffin. The idea of facing it on a week of broken sleep made Geralt begrudgingly accept Eskel's help, even if the pay would be halved when split between them. Eskel refused to let Geralt do it alone.

It was a good thing, too. It ended up being a fully mature archgriffin trying to set up a nest on territory too close to a basilisk, and they ended up fighting the monsters one after the other. With the rising sun blinding their eyes no less. Eskel took the basilisk's head to the town over the ridge to see if a contract had been put out, and Geralt harvested his own archgriffin trophy.

Frankly, seeing Eskel that evening back at the tavern was a bit of a surprise. In the past, when two familiar Witchers had met on the Path they would exchange information about stingy aldermen and mutually decide on separate directions. If they were particularly close as Geralt and Eskel were, maybe they would do a brief check in that all parts were still present, but rarely more than that.

“Three nights in a row,” Geralt noted. “And it's not even my birthday.” He folded his arms over his chest and eyeballed Eskel. “Why are you still here?”

“A little blunt, Geralt,” Jaskier chided, over the shoulder of the lady he had in his lap.

“You weren't taking care of yourself,” Eskel reminded him. “Made me think you might not be taking care of… other people.”

“Well, sometimes kids are nothing but draining.”

“I hear the rumours too, Geralt. Twice now I've been asked if I was the Witcher escorting the baby back to dryads or whatever such nonsense.” Eskel waved a hand before tucking it securely back where it was folded across his broad chest.

“Ah, now I see,” Geralt said with a sly grin. “You weren't checking up on me, you wanted to see the kid.” He clapped the other Witcher on the shoulder. “Stick around couple more days. Then you see how you like those sleepless nights.”

It didn't take more than four days for Geralt to remember why seeing Eskel was a special winter occasion. Witchers spending decades on the path alone had time to hone their individual craft, and they didn't often meld well.

“You're doing it wrong.”

“I'm not doing it wrong.”

“You're over-stirring it.”

“I'm doing it exactly as Vesemir taught us.”

“Yeah. Which is wrong. You never use any of Lambert's enhancements?”

“No, they take too long.”

“But they hold effectiveness longer.”

“I never run my supply dry, I make them fresh. They're always effective when I need them.”

“So you never have backups? What if you get thrown round hard enough you're out of action for weeks?”

“That sounds like a problem for weaker Witchers.”

“Wait, you feel that?”

“Medallion's-”

Then both, at the same time. “Ciri.”

Geralt swept the tiny girl up into his arms, growling as he squeezed her tight. It had barely been a week, but seeing her again eased the ache in his chest. She smelled a little different, and he pulled back to check why.

Ciri was dressed in his old black shirt, wrapped around her like a blanket, likely from her midday nap, because she was still kicking to try and detangle herself from it. The shirt had lost his scent, possibly because of the very faint undercurrent of up-chuck and more prominent smell of the laundry suds.

“Needed a refill, huh?” he murmured.

“That her?” Eskel said, stupidly. “She's grown. A lot.”

Geralt did the calculations. “She's coming up on a year. Not far off now.”

How had the time flown so quickly? The days with her felt so slow, but Geralt hadn't even blinked and here she was. Barely a baby any more. Gone were the days she was content to sit on his lap like a warm sack of potatoes, she was constantly exploring now, moving and interacting, even making conversation in that strange, unspoken way of theirs. Geralt had tried to take the old woman's advice and give Ciri words, but too often he fell back to familiar silence, but it seemed from her body language that she understood more from his silent expressions and moods than he knew.

Eskel huffed a laugh, scratching at the back of his neck. “Thought maybe she'd have to grow into it.”

“What?”

Out of his pack he pulled a lumpy and undyed goat wool coat. It was crocheted, with hand carved wooden buttons to hold it together.

“No one even lets their kids close to me, so I had to guess the measurements from a distance,” Eskel explained.

It was ugly and functional, and would get disapproving stares from noblewomen. It was just like the two of them, so it was perfect.

The Witchers wrestled the toddler out of the dark shirt and into Eskel's coat that went over a change of clothes Geralt kept in his bags. They were lucky it fit over her pudgy arms, and Eskel would likely have to let out the seams in the armpits before the end of the month, but it fit for now.

Ciri looked up at them, from her spot on the dirt ground, her face grubby, clothes plain and unadorned. Just another commoner's kid, making the best out of a little.

Based on the way she gleefully crawled through the dirt and tried to collect dull rocks, she seemed to like it that way.

“Yaya!”

Jaskier clapped his hands together and almost squealed. “Did you hear that?” he demanded. “Ciri, Ciri, say it again!”

He pushed the plate of hard cheese towards her again, and she reached down, grabbed a piece, then held it up to Jaskier.

“Yaya!” she offered.

Jaskier made some chomping noises and ate it directly from her hand, and she squealed as he pretended to eat her fist along with the cheese.

“What're you so happy about?” Eskel asked, dumping a load of firewood in the middle of the camp.

“My name, she's finally saying my name!”

“That is not a name,” Geralt said, stirring the cow's milk over the small flame. “It's a form of lower vampire. Ugly, too. Pustules everywhere.”

There was a beat where Jaskier processed that information, then he scowled.

“I don't believe you,” he said.

Eskel and Geralt both smirked.

“Hey Ciri-girl,” Eskel said, rubbing her back as he rolled a few acorns her way for her to play with. “Can you say Eskel? Eskel?”

Ciri didn't answer, but she tried to climb up on the mountain of a Witcher all the same.

Geralt dumped a bag of potatoes on Jaskier's lap. 

“It's your turn to make dinner, yaya,” he said with a sneer.

Jaskier huffed a little as he pulled out his dagger. “You're grumpy.”

Geralt didn't dignify that with an answer.

“You're right,” Eskel said, hefting up Ciri's bottom as she made her way onto his shoulder. “That's his grumpy jaw.”

Geralt refrained from rolling his eyes, but only just, as Ciri finally achieved the success of gripping Eskel's hair and climbing onto his head.

Eskel's lip twisted even further as the girl flopped down over his forehead, and accidentally bashed her face into his nose.

“Alright, Buttercup, enough of that,” Geralt said, grabbing Ciri off of Eskel's head. “Come to Geralt.”

He said it with just a little too much emphasis on his name, and Jaskier, with his hearing sharp as either of the Witchers, caught it. The musician heard the accent on the two simple syllables.

“You want her to say Geralt,” Jaskier said.

The bard's eyes couldn't see his pinched expression, but Eskel's could. “She's right. You're flushing.”

Geralt scowled in return, a fearsome look somewhat tempered by the way he was scooping mashed peas into Ciri's mouth.

“Geralt,” Jaskier laughed. “She does say your name. She's been saying your name for weeks!”

Geralt's head jerked to the side as he scraped the spoon against the side of the jar, but he evidently didn't believe it.

“Here, look,” Jaskier said, dumping the potatoes in Eskel's lap and taking over the mushy peas from Geralt. It only took a few overstuffed spoonfuls for Ciri to start glowering with an impressive control over her expression, and also started growling. She reached her hands up to Geralt, who complied quickly, picking her up onto his lap.

“See?” Jaskier said triumphantly, stabbing his spoon in Geralt's direction.

“What, the growl?” Geralt said. “She's just fussy and wants attention.”

“Yeah, your attention, see?” Eskel said, taking Ciri from Geralt, and it was only moments before Ciri was complaining and reaching again for Geralt.

“Grrr,” she said. “Grr!”

Geralt frowned at her in thought, and she tried to bring her own eyebrows down to match.

Jaskier laughed, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. “That will teach you for always speaking like you chew gravel.”

From his careful observations of other children - from a distance, as Eskel said, parents get anxious when they notice a Witcher is watching their little one - they mostly played with trimmings from their parent's work. Dana the seamstress gave Willem fabric scraps twisted and tied into little people. The carpenter's daughter played with blocks of wood, the scribe's children scribbled on spare parchment.

There were very few offcuts from Geralt's work that weren't deadly to full grown humans, let alone babies.

Ciri loved shiny things, which Jaskier insisted was a fact true of all babies and not just nobility. Geralt salvaged some metal studs that had fallen from his armour the last time he repaired them and put them in some empty potion bottles to make a rattle, but she had long outgrown that. She always grabbed at his medallion when he held her on his hip.

He put her to work peeling the leaves from the honeysuckle plant and squishing balisse fruit, but that would only hold her attention for so long.

She liked Roach, though. Liked playing with the fluff that fell to the ground when Geralt brushed her down. Liked when Geralt held her sitting up on Roach's back and walked her around the square by the bridle. Liked feeding her carrots and sugar cubes when Geralt had the coin to spoil them both.

When Eskel went off to the market and Jaskier engaged in some deep discussions with the local baroness about a commission, Geralt put Ciri on Roach's back and walked both of his ladies out to wander the woods. He foraged along the way, plucking leaves and flowers for later alchemical work. After an hour he let Roach have her head to drink from the river and then re-packed his saddlebags while Ciri scuffled around on her bottom about his feet. She gripped his pant leg and hauled herself up into a stand while he carefully checked his old shirt for any messages from Pavetta.

Just a single word, up near the collar of the shirt.

Walking

Geralt's heart dropped from his chest. He crouched down eye to eye with the tiny princess, giving her his fingers to hold onto so she didn't fall, and wiping her snotty nose on the cuff of his sleeve as he did so.

“Are you walking, Buttercup?”

She stared right back into his yellow eyes, and smiled, and tried to climb up on him, as was her custom. Geralt chuckled a little and detangled from her, holding her hands as he shuffled back on the forest floor, then he let go.

Ciri swayed a little as she stood unassisted, her finger jumping from her mouth to keep herself balanced.

Geralt kept shuffling back in his crouched position until there was a good few feet of flat dirt between them, and watched his little girl.

Ciri kicked up one wobbly foot, but put it back down where she stood. She got distracted for a moment, looking around at the forest, at the tall trees, at her feet in the dirt, then she looked back at Geralt.

Her gummy smile with a few tiny white teeth beamed at him, then she shuffled forward. Her chubby arms in Eskel's coat swung wildly as she stepped forward. Her legs were unsteady, and she rocked back and forth as she took her first, shuffling steps towards Geralt. She smiled the whole way as she closed the gap between them.

His eyes welled up, and she crashed into his chest in a desperate, precious hug.

Chapter Text

Princess Cirilla, even at only one year of age, was not built for travel by carriage. She didn't sit, didn't sleep, just tried to be active and slowly became more cranky and occasionally nauseous. Pavetta jingled a small bag of coins and tipped them on the floor of the moving carriage for Ciri to busy herself collecting. She was so careful to put each and every coin back into the pouch, even wriggling between her parents' shoes to collect ones that almost rolled away.

“She's diligent with money, I'll give her that,” Duny said, giving Ciri's head a pat as she crawled around. “Or maybe she's seen this behaviour before, hmm?”

“Behave,” Pavetta chided, but with a smile to soften it. 

Duny smirked, and picked Ciri up by the armpits, even as she squirmed to try and get the last coin that ended up by Pavetta's skirts. “You're going to have to be a good girl for King Ethain,” he reminded her. “Remember, no Geralt.”

Ciri scowled at that. “Grr,” she said.

“Geralt knows this diplomatic visit is important, he'll send her right back,” Pavetta said, patting her husband on the knee, then tickling Ciri's nose.

“She's becoming too stubborn,” Duny sighed, snuggling her into his chest. “What if she gets tired and ends up stuck with the Witcher?”

“Then I will complain of my headaches again and retire with the bundle of rags in my arms like I always did,” Pavetta said. “And Mousesack will gladly wipe any memories of seeing her disappear.”

Duny frowned, the lines on his face proving he was remembering the months of secrecy and subterfuge.

“Uhh, nuh!” Ciri grunted, pushing her way out of Duny's arms and clambering across her mother to try and climb out the window.

“Ah, Ciri, no!” Pavetta said firmly, pulling her back and depositing her on the floor. She didn't stay there long. “Stay in the carriage.”

“Stubborn,” Duny said again, as Pavetta grabbed Ciri yet again as she was trying again to haul herself up to the window.

Pavetta huffed, and put up her finger in Ciri's face. “No.”

Ciri blinked out of existence.

Geralt almost didn't see the flash of light in the noonday sun, but he heard the happy squeals from the old oak tree overhanging the road. He didn't even pull Roach to a stop as they passed under the low hanging branch. Geralt reached up in the air and plucked Ciri from the oak's branch, pulling her down to sit in his lap astride the saddle.

“You little rascal,” he said indulgently, as Ciri settled in with a happy sigh. “Well, you wouldn't be close to Cidaris for another two days, you just sit there and watch the road for a minute.”

“Grr,” Ciri said, tugging on Geralt's sleeve.

He looked down at her, and she held up a single gold coin to give to him.

“Would you look at that,” Geralt said, taking it from her. “Thank you, Buttercup. We can get Roach some nice honeyed oats for lunch.”

Ciri wriggled with happiness, then leant her head back against his belly and watched the light stream down through the trees.

Mayor Nowak was not a novice with negotiations. Just last winter the chapel roof had caved in under the snow, and Nowak had cut a hard deal with the best builders in Vengerberg to come out and rebuild it, and they did it under time and under budget. He could handle a Witcher.

Not that anyone in their town had ever had to employ the services of a Witcher before. Nowak had brought Marcin, the burliest man in town to act as muscle to intimidate the mutant, but as they sat around the small round table in Nowak's study, even Marcin's muscle was dwarfed by the sheer bulk of the Witcher. The mutant still moved with unnerving grace when he took his seat at the table, but his words were slow and stupid.

“Thirty-two hundred,” the Witcher repeated. “And expenses paid. Like I said, gentlemen.”

“And like I said, the beast is old and therefore must be decrepit. It could be taken in hand by Marcin here,” Nowak said, speaking like he did to his cousin the halfwit.

“But here sits Marcin,” the Witcher noted. “And the contract is not yet fulfilled.”

“Yes, well,” Nowak said, fluttering a hand. “Every profession has its guild, I thought it best fashion to contact a monster hunter for the job.”

There, that would show the Witcher good will and give an air of confidence in his skills, while allowing Nowak to later on claim the Witcher failed some obscure guild law and reclaim the payment from him.

The Witcher eyed him with those terrible inhuman eyes. “You say the beast is old,” he said, slow and dumb as ever.

“At least a generation, my father remembers the stories from when he was a boy,” Nowak said.

“Yet until now, no one has hired a Witcher to be rid of it,” the Witcher noted. “This tells me that something has changed recently.”

Nowak shifted in his seat, then breathed deep to make his chest seem large. “Correct.”

“I charge extra for having to do my own investigations,” the Witcher said mildly, plucking his fingers at the long tablecloth as he did so.

“It's not been a generation,” Marcin said, despite his strict instructions not to speak. “It's been exactly 100 years, and the tragedies have gotten worse since midsummer.”

“Well now, Marcin,” the Witcher said, leaning back in his chair. The bulk of his muscle made it squeak in protest. “We might make a Witcher of you yet.” Then he turned his gaze back to Nowak. Nowak hated that dead stare, those snake-like eyes.

“This isn't an ordinary monster,” the Witcher said, “not birthed and ageing and dying like any animal. You have a curse.”

Nowak's heart sank. He had rather hoped the Witcher wouldn't find that particular detail out.

The Witcher downed the rest of his flagon and put it down hard on the table between them. “Lucky for you, I'm not just a monster hunter, I'm a curse breaker. Who would have laid a curse on this town a hundred years ago?”

Nowak scoffed. “It was a hundred years ago, records don't-”

“The fee for investigation is a flat three hundred.”

“Fine, well, you see, the thing is, there was this woman, a hundred years ago, and-”

Nowak cut himself off, because at that very moment, he swore he saw a flash of emerald, and the Witcher's hand shot out and gripped Nowak's wrist. Nowak's heart was in his throat, and he heard some shuffling movement from down below the table.

“Don't look at it,” the Witcher warned, his voice low and deadly. “If you see it, it will stay, and a curse will fall on everyone in this room.”

Nowak obediently stayed put, though every nerve he had was screaming at him to peer under the table at whatever danger lurked near his feet. He felt something touch his ankle, like it was moving towards the Witcher. He heard a sound, a low snuffling and growl, and his mind conjured up images of flat faced dogs and lumbering beasts.

“What is it?” Nowak hissed.

Before the Witcher could answer, the… thing under the table gave a cry. Gods above, it sounded like a baby. The Witcher seemed calm, if stiff.

“I suspect that this woman, a hundred years ago,” the Witcher said steadily, “she had a child.”

“Yes,” Nowak said.

“Hmm, powerful emotions make powerful magic,” the Witcher said. “I can banish the creature.”

“Yes, yes!” Nowak muttered. “Do it right now!”

“The fee to break the curse is thirty-five hundred, and to banish the creature under the table is an extra five hundred.”

Nowak spluttered. “That's far more than you said before.”

The Witcher shrugged, and made to stand up.

“No!” Nowak said, gripping the Witcher's arm in return. “Don't leave me here with it!”

“The fee for the curse is thirty-five hundred,” the Witcher said again, stupidly. “An extra five hundred for the being between your legs. Be warned that it has been known to crush manhoods under its feet, shatter eardrums with its screams, and rob men of sleep.”

“I'll pay it!” Nowak said, desperately. “Please, Witcher, Melitile strike me down if I recant.”

The Witcher sat back down. “First, I'll calm it with a sign,” he said, reaching a hand under the table. His arm moved back and forth, not unlike a man petting a dog. Nowak imagined sharp teeth close to the Witcher's fingers and understood the need for heavy armoured gloves.

“Now a banishing spell, simple but powerful,” The Witcher said lowly. Then he spoke clearly and firmly.

“Back to Mama, little one.”

Another noise from under the table. It was still there.

“Go back to Mama, now,” the Witcher insisted.

“Nuh wa uh-huh,” came a voice from under the table. “Dawa mmmm yaya.”

Nowak gripped the edge on the table, the tablecloth wrinkling under his knuckles. “What does that mean?” he asked.

“It's speaking the Elder Speech. It's a strong creature, stubborn,” the Witcher said. “I will have to use a potion. If this doesn't work, you might have to jump out of that window.”

Nowak followed his eyes to the small round window that overlooked the town square. Nowak spluttered. “Certainly not. That would be unbecoming of a mayor.”

The Witcher shrugged. “Stay if you like. It's your coin and your life.”

“I will leave by the window,” Marcin volunteered. Nowak paled, but agreed.

The mutant's inhuman eyes didn't look below the table, he moved slowly and carefully like a cat as he pulled a small glass vial from a pouch on his belt. When he unstoppered it, the distinct smell of honey and rose filled the air.

The Witcher wafted it under the table and repeated the banishing spell.

“Go back to Mama. Little one, you must return to Mama.”

There was a strange soft sound in the quiet room, and another glimmer of emerald light. “Is it gone?” Nowak whispered.

The Witcher peered under the table, then nodded his white head. 

Nowak released a tense breath. “A foul thing, I could sense evil emanating from its very being. I am glad you were here, Witcher.” Nowak waved a hand and Marcin pulled out the treasury box.

“Your five hundred, for the creature,” Nowak said. “And half the promised fee, to ensure a speedy resolution to these abhorrent events.”

The Witcher smiled nastily. “It's been a pleasure doing business.”

The royal visit to Cidaris went very smoothly, all things considered. Pavetta didn't see much of Duny in the end, he spent most of his time in meetings with King Ethain and the court mages. It was rather exciting, however, to explore new parts of the world. Pavetta loved the architecture of the palace they were visiting, and the cultural food had such a delicious little twist on what she was familiar with.

Pavetta strolled along the wide road by the sea, putting a few yards of distance between the guards and where she carried Cirilla. Ciri had the end of her mother's braid in her mouth, and Pavetta felt just so wonderfully happy and light. She did a reckless thing and untied her hair, shaking her long braid out until her golden locks flew in the ocean's breeze, whipping about her face. Her cloak billowed too, revealing the plain brown inner lining, in contrast to her vibrant green dress.

Oh, if her mother could see her now, she would have conniptions.

The street was filled with market stalls and people. It made Duny nervous, when Pavetta said she would walk the coastline, but it felt like a thrill to Pavetta, to be out among the people. She so often felt the weight of duty and restriction, she forgot herself that she was not even yet 20 years old.

She loved being a mother, loved her little family tied together by blood and marriage and Destiny. But this state visit was one of the first times she'd been out of her own city, let alone country. She didn't want to lose her opportunity.

Ciri alternated between wanting to walk hanging onto her mother's fingers and wanting to be carried, but all the while she was loud and obnoxious. The guards with them could find them in a darkened hall by the noise of Ciri alone.

“Captain Reese,” Pavetta said, pointing at a performer from Nilfgaard. “What do you think of that?”

The performer was showing off a long straight sword, and the posters beside him indicated he was a sword swallower.

“He's a damn fool,” the Captain replied. “What, is he actually going to do it?”

Captain Reese stroked his moustache, and the other members of Pavetta's guard came alongside him to watch in horror as the performer made promises of death defying feats. Pavetta stepped backwards away from them, sliding into the crowd, shushing Ciri as she went. She found an empty bench and sat Ciri down on it while she stood up and unclipped her cloak.

“I think, Ciri darling, that today is a day for adventure,” she said, pinning a short note to the child's dress. She pulled a linen scarf out of her pockets and bundled her long hair up into it. The cloak she turned inside out, so its plain brown lining covered her richly made dress and made her look like any other young woman enjoying the vibrant life by the seaside. “Let's say bye-bye.”

“Buh-eye,” Ciri repeated.

“Alright,” Pavetta said, pressing a kiss to Ciri's soft hair. “Go on, now, go to your Geralt.”

With a little scrunched up nose, Ciri disappeared into the air. Pavetta drew the cloak around her, and stole a glance back at the distracted guards that were meant to make sure she returned promptly to the castle. With a sly grin, she stole away into the bustling crowd.

Free at last, with the whole day ahead of her, to explore and get into some mischief, Pavetta allowed herself a sly grin.

She was, after all, a Lioness herself.

“What's that Princess? Do you have a poop? We have a poop! We have a poop, poop, poop. Is that a poop? It is a poop, we have a poop, poop, poop. Yaya change your poop, I'm gonna change you, poop, poop, poop. Yucky and stinky, away it goes, poop, poop, poop.

"Honestly, that might have been my best composition to date. Winner of the annual bardic competition five years running, that's me. Yaya's almost done, almost there, there we go, we did a good job. Can Yaya put your dress back on? Come on, get back here, oh you little rascal!

"I'm gonna get ya! Here I come! Here I- oh no! Not the little monster coming to get me! Where's a Witcher when you need one?

"There. Let's go downstairs, shall we? Oof, you're lucky your Papa has superhuman strength, because you're getting heavier every time I see you, and I won't be able to carry you forever. He might, though. Imagine it, you'll be a full grown woman and he'd still throw you around. You lucky thing.

“Oh, no, Ciri, light of my life, don't make those sorts of faces at me, my poor human heart can't take it. Oh, alright. Two more honey cakes, please. And some apple juice, if you've got it.

“There, are you happy now? You're a little criminal, you know that, right? Right proper menace. They ought to lock you up, all the hearts you've been stealing.

“Sit your bottom down while you’re eating, there we go. Tell me what you think of this one, yeah? I call it ‘The Blind Knight’. Sitting while you're eating, darling. You're my perfect audience. Don't forget to clap.

Once there was a silly knight, as blind as blind can be

He always stumbles into town even though he cannot see

He goes to town each morning to seek out his wayward wife

But he's too proud to be corrected and it brings the town people strife

“No? Not a fan? You're right, I should change the key, something more like a jig. It could be an excellent dance, actually. Come on, up up, your services as a dancing partner are formally requested. Will you allow for one Jaskier the bard to fill your dance card, Princess?

“Hi di die di die di die

Hi di die di die

A hi di die di die di die

A hi di die di die

“Oh, you make me feel young again, Princess. Like a little teenage graduate picking bread off the floor and jumping head first into the world.

“At least you'll always know you have Geralt with you, I had to go out and find a Witcher for myself, we didn't all have it as good as you.

"Speaking of, you owe me so much, little lady. He was a proper mess of a mountain of a man. Armour falling to rags, reputation in the mud. Punched me in the gut, first day I met him. No word of lie. I probably deserved it though. I rather think we've sanded the rough edges off of each other. He had much more than me, though, darling. A veritable dodecahedron of rough edges.

"It's important to take care of him, you know. He doesn't know how to do it himself. He'll never admit he wants to be liked, wants to take care of people. No one would work as hard as he does at Witchering without at least some love for people, and monsters too, for that matter.

"You want to know a secret, Princess? Tricks of the trade? You've got to make yourself just a little bit pathetic. Not too much, your Papa has no patience for foolishness, just, just enough for him to grumble while he takes care of you.

"Yes, it's getting a little dark, isn't it? Almost bedtime, now.

"Oh don't you worry about him. What's a few pesky ghouls to the White Wolf himself? He'll be okay. He's always alright. He'd never put you in danger by going and getting himself killed.

"We'll see him soon, just a little longer. Come on, up to bed. I've made up a nice drawer with a blanket and it has your name on it.”

The gloom of the night felt oppressive, and streaks of the half-moon barely cut through the thick trees. The stench of blood and mud was everywhere. Most pressingly, it was seeping out of a particularly disgusting and deep leg wound.

Geralt lay, half-dead in the mud. The pain was so overwhelming he couldn't even move, couldn't crawl through the mud to where his bag of potions had snagged on the tree branch. He seized up in pain again as the Bruxa's venom coursed through his system.

“Uh-oh,” Ciri's high sweet voice said.

Geralt pinched his eyes shut against the pain and hauled himself up to lean against a tree root a little more. He masked the bleeding leg wound with the corner of his cloak.

“Hey, Buttercup,” Geralt said. Gods, his voice sounded so weak, so he cleared it and aimed for strength, for normal. “Hi sweetheart.”

She looked at him, eyes big, with a tiny wrinkle between her eyebrows as she checked him over.

“I'm okay, I'm fine, just fell down in the mud,” he said. “Silly Geralt, sleeping in the mud. Look at your pretty dress.”

She did so, and rocked back and forth trying to keep her balance. She'd been walking for a while now, but the muddy forest floor was a challenge.

“Uh-oh,” she said again, pointing at Geralt's leg. She walked over to him, put both hands on his chest and pressed a big wet ‘mwah’ kiss to his forehead. Then she made some sounds that roughly sounded like, “Kiss-a-better.”

Geralt laughed, a sad wet thing. “All better,” he agreed. He was still bleeding out, sluggish and warm on the other side of him.

“Be a big help, bring my bag for me?” Geralt pointed out of reach where it had snagged on a tree branch. She waddled over to it, falling over twice and sticking her hands in the mud as she did so. When she reached the satchel, she tugged but it wouldn't come free.

“That's it, big strong girl,” Geralt said.

With another pull, the strap slid from the notch in the tree and fell to the ground. With all her toddler strength and ungainly movements, Ciri dragged it towards Geralt, until he could fitfully close his fingers around the satchel. He fumbled, blindly, trying to get the buckle undone.

“You've got a booger,” he told Ciri, just to make her cranky and turn that worried look into her patented Princess glare. She shook her head.

“Nu-uh!” she said, then sniffed loudly and the green dribble disappeared.

There it was, Swallow. Just enough in there to dull the roaring pain. He took the potion quickly and shoved the empty bottle back in the bag. His fingers jerked as he felt along the mess of bottles until he found the one that could stem his blood flow.

He was glad for the dull gloom, he didn't want Ciri to see him like this. The way his skin turned ashen with toxicity, the spiderweb of lines from his eyes. Then he remembered Jaskier's advice, that Ciri would learn the world with whatever emotion he demonstrated when he showed it to her.

“Another kiss please,” he said, bending her forehead towards her. “Kiss it better.”

“Kiss-a-better,” she repeated, and her lips landed in white hair which she then blew raspberries to get the strands out of her mouth.

His hands shook as he unstoppered the vial and took the potion, and he remembered back to his days of training back at Kaer Morhen. There was old Vesemir, teaching the band of young boys how to simmer Kiss for exactly the right length of time, its ingredients and properties.

Maybe there was a time, back when Witchers were first mutated, when they were raised by humans and mages who didn't know their feelings were burned out of them. Maybe the first Witcher trainees weren't taught to fight through pain until they dropped dead, maybe those children remembered the healing power of kissing it better from their homes and bravely continued the tradition in those stone walls.

It was laughable, the image of old Vesemir leaning over broken wrists and scabbed knees and kissing the wounds better with his spiky whiskers.

But someone, somewhere in his lineage, had invented a potion that could restore blood loss and start the healing process. And they decided to name it Kiss.

Ciri decided, somewhere at the border of Kaedwen, that travelling by horse further north while the snow started to fall was distinctly not what she preferred to do, and so she frequently blinked into existence near Geralt, sniffed the air, made some protesting noises, then blinked away again.

It made Geralt chuckle every time, but helpful to know that she wasn't going to be sticking around. He spent the time collecting and preparing the more dangerous herbs and roots, and practising his Aard to clear dead trees from the road.

It was strange, being alone on the path again, collecting cheap contracts on the way back to Kaer Morhen without even Jaskier walking alongside him. Only half of them had to do with monsters and curses, the rest were the simple jobs he could get - hauling lumber for a day, tracking a horse that had broken free, and once, finding a seven year old boy who had wandered off the path into a canyon. Geralt had scolded the boy harshly for making his mother worry, and the boy had teared up, looking so pathetic that eventually Geralt bore him up on his shoulders out of the canyon.

Walking the long slow dangerous path up through the mountains alone as he did most every year was a blessing.

Steady, quick pace during the day and tiny alcoves of shelter at night. He turned his hood up against the biting wind and trudged one foot in front of the other until he approached those imposing walls.

At the doorway, he stomped his boots clear of the packed snow, and the door was opened for him.

No words were spoken as Vesemir gripped Geralt's shoulder and pressed their foreheads together. Geralt found his perspective of his old trainer had fluctuated wildly over the past year, and settled on respect and appreciation for the man who was tasked with more responsibility than he'd ever asked for, and done the best he knew how. Vesemir never had a father, as far as Geralt knew, and though his attempt at being one was flawed and sorely lacking in many ways, after the year of caring for Ciri, Geralt understood him deeper than he ever had before.

“Coën wrote, he'll be here soon,” Vesemir said. “Lambert's been here a week already.”

Geralt winced a little. The youngest Witcher was routinely late every year to winter at Kaer Morhen. Despite his hatred of the cold, he hated being trapped in those stone walls even more. Especially because Lambert and Vesemir tended to get on each other's nerves without Eskel or Geralt there to run interference.

“Why so early?” Geralt asked.

“Said he thought you'd be here already,” Vesemir said. “Figure that's his way of saying he missed the kid, without saying it.”

Lambert was about as unsubtle as a sledgehammer.

Vesemir lasted about two beats longer before asking, “Girl not with you?”

Vesemir was exactly as subtle as Lambert.

“She'll be round,” Geralt promised, pushing open the doors to the great hall. “Fucking hells, Vesemir, you, uh, redecorated.”

The once perpetually messy and dangerous hall had been cleaned up and sectioned off. Rather than long tables down the centre, cluttered workspaces and piles of mismatched supplies, everything had been tidied. In the year since Geralt was here last, Vesemir had disappeared the perpetual mess, and instead created several smaller areas with low benches, which appeared to be grouped by theme. Books, paints, string, blocks, all carefully placed along fresh deerskin rugs that covered the cold stone ground.

Vesemir chuckled and scratched at his neck, a rarely seen nervous tic. “Don't look in the armoury, or the old barracks, I'm afraid I've just hidden a lot of the mess to deal with later.”

Geralt sighed. He'd just cleared out the armoury last year. He wandered over to a set of equipment he couldn't figure out. An a-frame about hip height with unsanded wooden poles through it, a tunnel made from throwing a blanket over an old chair, and what looked like the old crash-mats he wrestled on when the trainers were feeling generous.

“What's all this?” Geralt asked.

“Obstacle course,” Vesemir answered. “I'm not going to have her run the pendulum, am I?”

There was the old trainer again. “She's a princess, not a Witcher,” Geralt said.

“It's good for all children to know their own strength,” Vesemir said. “I think she'll like it.”

Geralt sighed. He was probably right.

By the time Coën arrived, Ciri had appeared and disappeared half a dozen times in as many days. Given how rare and sparse her visits were last winter, it appeared that her powers had grown considerably in the year since.

The Witchers had cobbled together a few warmer outfits for her to run around the hall in. Some rabbit skin boots and a dress made of a sleeve from one of Eskel old fur-lined jackets. She had free rein of the hall with each visit, and got more bold and loud every time.

Except when Coën opened the doors, shrugging his bags onto the table and pulling a cap off his bald head.

“So here's the little menace I've been hearing so much about,” Coën said. He nodded in greeting to the other Witchers. “I had one little sapling of a girl ask if her friend was delivered to the mermaid kingdom safely.”

Geralt folded his arms and hid his grin. “What did you say?”

“That the sea witch gave all Witchers the ability to breathe underwater as a reward.”

Eskel clapped Coën on the shoulder. “If someone tries to drown me next year I'm blaming you.”

Ciri herself had stopped chasing Lambert the moment Coën had opened the doors, and stood hiding behind Geralt's legs, watching Coën with suspicious eyes.

“Hello, little darling,” Coën said, ever the gentleman as he squatted down to her level and opened up his arms. “Can I get a hug?”

Ciri remained behind Geralt's legs, frowning, then she waved at Eskel. “Ess-a!” she commanded.

Coën looked bemused while Eskel sighed, and Lambert cackled.

“That means ‘Eskel first’, I think,” Eskel said.

“Well, then, bring it in, brother.” Coën stood and hugged the other Witcher, then turned back to Ciri.

“Yam-ba,” came the next command, and Lambert was begrudgingly pulled into a hug with the Griffin.

“That was nice,” Coën teased, but Ciri was still unconvinced by the newcomer.

“Grr,” Ciri said, pushing on Geralt's legs until he received a hug as well.

Vesemir also had his turn, though only through gesture - Ciri hadn't named the old man yet - then Coën crouched down again.

“Coën's turn?” he asked, hopeful to finally get to hug her. But she turned tail and ran off towards the crash-mats, and got distracted by an abandoned snack of dried berries on the way.

Coën laughed, graciously, and decided he'd win her over eventually.

Any day that it stopped snowing and the sun shone, Lambert took the chance to stretch his legs outside of Kaer Morhen's walls. If Ciri was with them, he offered to take her with him, and she almost always wanted to go, even if just to go herb picking.

“All the leaves in the basket,” Lambert narrated, as he'd been told to do. “Watch your step there, kiddo, there's a stick.”

She slowed him down incredibly, and the herbs he gathered with her were always bruised and ripped and barely worth using in their concoctions, but it was good for her to learn.

“Get that han fibre,” Lambert said, swinging his basket around lazily, and even though Ciri didn't see him point, she wandered over to the correct plant.

She grabbed the leaves in fat fists and toddled back to Lambert.

“In fuck-it,” she said in her little sweet voice.

Lambert flushed. “In the basket,” he corrected.

Ciri didn't notice the correction, just happily continued on the path.

“Uh-oh, dick!” she exclaimed.

“Stick,” Lambert said.

Ciri held it aloft and brought it to Lambert, laying the stick carefully in the basket. “Dick in fuck-it.”

Lambert sighed and dragged a hand down his face. “They're never going to believe me.”

Ciri's character began to shine through more and more. She came and went frequently throughout that winter, with very little exertion of her powers. She got better at walking, at climbing, at talking. She had perfected the royal glare, and used it liberally to get what she wanted from every hardened Witcher who fell apart at one soft touch. Though always and only where the others wouldn't see and tease him for it.

She was also fiercely invested in making sure everything was equal and fair. When Lambert stole the last bread roll from Geralt's plate, Ciri had yelled at him for a minute straight in her babbling language. She was always weighing the tiny scales of justice. She would be a good Queen one day.

Geralt and Eskel were training in the courtyard when their medallions hummed in that familiar pattern again and they dropped their swords. The bright flash filled the space between them, green and -

“Pink?” Geralt said.

Standing in the middle of the snowy courtyard was Ciri, but unlike they had ever seen her before. She was dressed in the biggest, frilliest and pinkest dress either Witcher had ever seen. Even her sleeves were puffy, and she must have been wearing three or four petticoats underneath all those ribbons. A giant pink flower was pinned to the front of her dress, and a matching one was in her downy hair.

And she did not look pleased.

“What-” Geralt smothered a laugh, bending down to her level. “What's all this for, Ciri?”

Ciri stomped her little feet. She appeared to be wearing dainty silk slippers, and she immediately sat down on her puffy bottom and tried to wrestle out of them. It even looked like someone had put makeup on her.

“Smell that?” Geralt asked.

“Oil paints,” Eskel agreed. “Someone was supposed to be sitting for her royal portrait.”

“Not looking like that,” Geralt said, hoisting Ciri up onto his shoulder. “Not our Ciri.”

“Lambert! Coën!” Geralt bellowed. “Old man Grandpappy!”

They had all been competing bestow the worst name on Vesemir, with the hope that Ciri would pick it up and it would stick. Nothing had, yet.

“What?” came the answering yell.

Geralt grinned, all tooth and joy.

By the time they were through with her, she looked nothing like the portrait-perfect princess she was when she arrived. Her clothes were torn from crawling through the rubble by the eastern gate. Her hair was windswept from Eskel and Geralt tossing her between them in the back paddock. She smelled like Roach, and had sticks and leaves clinging to every frilly part of her dress. Her hands were dyed blue from mushroom picking, and she had dirt smudged all over her face. Lambert unpinned the flower from her hair and replaced it with a clip carved from an archgriffin’s foreclaw.

When she finally returned to Cintra, fat and happy, with the remnants of honeyed cakes stuck to her chin, she was looking like a proper little Witcher.

Coën, who had a little skill with a pencil, captured the essence of her that night in his notebook, as they all sat around the fire and discussed plans for the next year. Winter would be over soon. He tore the page out and silently passed it along to Geralt, who tucked the portrait in his jacket over his heart.

Geralt clung to that memory, because it would be a long time before he saw Ciri again.

Chapter Text

Ciri didn’t return again to the halls of Kaer Morhen. Winter ended swiftly that year, or maybe Geralt's agitation spurred the weather to rush through its final steps. Two weeks of sun melted the ice on the path down the mountain quickly, and Geralt was on the road, urging Roach through the piles of slush. The other Witchers were thin-lipped and disconcerted around him, carefully stepping around the issue of Ciri's disappearance from their lives, but still they sent him on his way first from the halls of Kaer Morhen, even with what little coin was left after a busy winter.

Ciri didn't appear while Geralt was on the road. His medallion stayed silent for weeks.

Geralt took the direct path to Oxenfurt. Out of the two of them, Jaskier was the only one who earned money during the winter, and Geralt didn't envision taking on contracts any time soon.

The direct journey to Oxenfurt was dangerous with no main roads. It was a straggly connection of forest paths, the ones that merchants and travellers avoided unless they could afford a Witcher to guard them. Geralt had never run from a fight in his life, but he moved on from his small camps at every ominous growl, and rode hard through territory he knew to be occupied by a basilisk.

When he arrived in Oxenfurt after a few weeks, he checked the noticeboard out of habit and saw a notice, some propaganda news about a neighbouring country. He ripped the offending paper from the board and held it in clenched fists until he found Jaskier at the university.

Jaskier's eyes flicked down to the crumpled piece of paper, but Geralt threw it to the ground and put a finger in Jaskier's face.

“Not a word,” Geralt grunted instead of a greeting. “You know better than I how the story can be twisted. Not a word until we reach Cintra. Until I know-”

Geralt's words failed him. Jaskier placed one hand on the armoured shoulder of the Witcher, gave a small, sad nod.

A lesser man would think that Jaskier's ensuing obedient silence would be uncharacteristic of the bard, but to Geralt he was a loyal friend first, and a wordsmith second.

Jaskier made up the camp while Geralt cast a finding spell. He used a piece of string, with a crystal tied to the end of it, some burning willow and a map of the continent that was stitched into a white swaddle. Jaskier kept watch out of the corner of his eye as he paced between the campsite and their two horses.

The crystal swayed over the cloth, but didn't tug in his hand. There was nothing.

That night, with the canopy of stars overhead, Jaskier opened his mouth to speak, but at the sharp intake of breath Geralt roughly rolled over on his bedding and put his back to Jaskier.

They were still days from Cintra, and it had been weeks since Geralt had seen Ciri. As he rode along, his hand compulsively clenched around the medallion at his neck, biting into his palm. They travelled at pace, fast enough to outrun the rumours and gossip. Jaskier was the one who went into town to buy their bread and wine for the journey. They didn't stop until long past nightfall, and they were moving again at daybreak.

When Geralt and Jaskier finally crossed the border into Cintra, they found the people of that once-proud kingdom downcast. The women were draped in black shawls, and no one whistled songs as they walked along the road.

Geralt felt cold all over.

He hadn't even realised he'd pulled Roach to a stop until Jaskier rode his gelding up beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the embroidered doublet stretch as the bard took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. Determined.

Jaskier clicked his tongue at Roach, and the damned disloyal beast obeyed him, moving at a slow walk down the main road.

“Come on,” Jaskier murmured quietly. “I'm right here.”

They approached the palace, but mourning black was draped everywhere. It spanned the roads and billowed from the high walls of the palace. They approached the guards at the gate, and the druid Mousesack was standing there as well, wearing an uncharacteristic dark doublet.

Roach approached the palace at a brisk trot, and Geralt didn't even wait for her to slow before sliding out of the saddle.

“Where is she?” he growled.

Mousesack turned and looked over his shoulder at the window.

“The Queen is waiting for you,” he said, and beckoned them inside.

Instead of leading them to the small, private study where Calanthe and her inner circle met Geralt last time he was in Cintra, Mousesack took them to the great hall. Eist met them at the doorway, frowned, and stepped aside.

All decorations had been stripped, only a few servants milled around the hall, sweeping and working. On the dais, Queen Calanthe paced back and forth, her fist pressed to her mouth, and lost in thought. At the sharp footsteps, she turned and gripped the ornate backing of her throne.

“Your Majesty, Geralt of Rivia-” Mousesack began with the formalities.

“She is with you?” Calanthe interrupted, equal parts question and desperate command. “You have the child.”

Geralt's lips remained a grave thin line, so Jaskier stepped forward with a solemn bow. “My good Queen,” Jaskier said, his voice carrying all the appropriate gravitas. “We have travelled here as fast as our steeds would carry us, and if we had news or comfort to bring, we would have sent ahead a message. Instead we are desperate for information, please, tell us.”

“Where is she?” Geralt said with a dark voice. “What happened to them?”

Whatever lingering strength was in Calanthe's bones failed her, and she collapsed into the throne like a marionette with its strings cut. Looking surprisingly small slumped in her throne, Queen Calanthe waved a hand at her husband, who spoke in a clear, low voice.

“Princess Pavetta and Lord Duny left the palace with their daughter on the morning of the final day of Imbaelk. They boarded a longboat en route to my brother, King Bran. They were to continue to build relationship with the Skellige Isles.”

Jaskier heard the creak of leather as Geralt's fist clenched, but no other muscle moved.

“The weather was fine, and clear,” Eist continued, “but at sundown the wind picked up, and in the dark there was a fearsome storm. It came from nowhere, my people know the weather, there was no sign-” Eist cut himself off, and composed his words. “Skellige's best ships and divers have found nothing but wreckage. Only a few bodies had floated to the surface, others have been seen pinned underwater.”

Geralt's head snapped up. “She could still be alive.”

“Then where is she?” Calanthe asked with a twisted sneer. “Wouldn't she take herself here, if she was breathing? Face facts, Witcher. Your child is dead and my lineage is over.”

Eist tried to lay a hand on Geralt's shoulder, but he railed around at him.

“Why weren't you there?” Geralt demanded. “It was your people, your ship. Why did you fail them, you should have been there!”

Calanthe stood. “And now here you are, the Witcher. The man who is always in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The great hall felt like it spun around him, dizzying. All the air was sucked out of it. Ciri was gone, dead. But then… well then what was the point? Why did Destiny intervene? She was with him, not even for two short years, and what for?

His mouth opened. “Why?” he asked, with his throat squeezed tight. “Why did it all happen? What's the point?”

“What's the point of you?” Calanthe screamed. “She was to be yours, you claimed her as your own. Why don't you dive into the depths and never return?”

Jaskier saved him. “My good Queen,” he said. “Truly such a day or grieving has never been known by one before, nor a whole kingdom.”

Calanthe brought a jeweled hand to her forehead. “My kingdom hangs by a thread,” she murmured.

Jaskier stepped forward and spoke in verse, about love and loss and grief tinged with hope. His tone was poetic and lilting. The verses took the form of an ancient legend that Geralt was passingly familiar with, but adapted on the fly to be reverent to the precarious situation. Geralt let the words crash over him like waves. It demonstrated Jaskier's skill at verse, and reminded Geralt he had rather more education than just in bawdy tavern songs.

At the end of his recitation, Jaskier's voice quietly drifted away, until he was repeating the final stanza at barely more than a whisper.

Calanthe, moved as close to tears as the Lioness would let herself in public, turned away and waved a hand. “Give them rooms,” she said shortly.

Jaskier's bow was steady, but Geralt remained stone faced, all the way until Eist showed them to the same doorway of the rooms where Geralt was briefly held captive with Ciri. While Jaskier explored the plush furniture, Geralt stood on the balcony and let the wind sting his eyes.

When Geralt returned inside, Jaskier stood awkwardly by the tapestry and fiddled with the palm of his hand. An old nervous tic that Geralt rarely saw any more, mostly because the bard was perpetually over-confident.

“Geralt, forgive me, there's something I must say-”

“Something's not right,” Geralt said.

Jaskier released a breath. “You feel it too.”

“The timing.”

“It did seem that you arrived at Oxenfurt rather too soon after news of the wreckage reached me. I thought perhaps Cintra had delayed the announcement, but-”

“No, I knew something was wrong weeks before the last day of Imbaelk.”

“What happened?”

Geralt brought a hand up and touched his medallion, then slipped inside his jacket and his fingers brushed the torn edges of a paper there. “She stopped coming to me. About two weeks before the first thaw.”

Jaskier's thumb kept massaging the meat of his palm. “And she never paused her visits before?”

“Not like that.”

“Do you…” Jaskier paused and glanced at the door. He picked up his lute and began playing an obnoxious set of chords. He spoke quietly, so as not to be overheard by anyone but the Witcher with his senses. “Do you suspect foul play? Eist wanting his own heir on the throne?”

Geralt couldn't imagine the kind-natured man plotting the murder of his wife's lineage. But he supposed that was the nature of nobility.

“I'm not sure yet,” Geralt admitted. “Do you think you could-”

The strumming turned into a more soothing plucking as Jaskier furrowed his brow in thought. “What if she got sick and couldn't do her magic?” he said. “I could ask the court physician.”

“You do that,” Geralt said. “Say you're writing a ballad.”

“I am writing a ballad.” The rhythmic plucking turned back to chords. “But not about this, it's not my story to tell. What will you do?”

“I need to, hmm,” he said, suddenly feeling all the weight of several hard weeks of riding and all the worst emotions a Witcher could feel.

“Get some rest, Geralt,” Jaskier said, getting up and patting him on the shoulder. “You might need it.”

“Well,” Jaskier said, swinging back into their rooms and nuding Geralt with his foot. Unable to sleep, Geralt had folded his legs under himself on the floor and meditated.

“I have news, though perhaps not what we thought,” Jaskier said. “The court physician had no news about the health of Ciri, all as normal there apparently, but Pavetta was unwell for two weeks before the journey. Not life-threateningly so, but enough that he declared her bedridden.”

“What date did she fall ill?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier told him. Hmm, it was only the day before Ciri's last appearance, dressed in pink frills and flowers.

“Apparently they almost called off the journey to Skellige, but the week of, she made a miraculous recovery. She insisted on going.” Jaskier stood at the window, his thumb massaging his palm again. “She wanted to see the world,” he said softly.

A surge of something ran through Geralt's gut, and he stomped over to the door and threw it open. “I want to speak to the nurse,” he called to the guard down the hall.

“Sir?” the guard asked cautiously.

“The nursemaid who cared for Ci- Princess Cirilla,” Geralt corrected quickly.

“She never had a nurse, sir.”

Geralt's eyes narrowed. “Princess Pavetta was sick. Bedridden.”

The guard shook his head. “The Princess was attended by family only.”

Geralt's cat slit eyes narrowed. “Which family members?”

“Well,” the guard said, bashful, “her father of course.”

Geralt slammed the door. It stank, the whole damn castle stank. Something was wrong here, and nothing made sense.

Jaskier looked at him, expectantly.

“Her father,” Geralt sneered, “the one that wouldn't even change her underthings the last time I was here, they expect me to believe he took care of her?”

“You couldn't change her underthings either,” Jaskier noted. “Not until you had to learn.”

“He should have done more,” Geralt growled.

“Geralt,” Jaskier started, “you may have to face the possibility that-”

“That what?”

“That you're grieving. That you're jealous that the other father in her life was with her in her last days.”

Geralt raised his hand, as though to strike the bard. Jaskier, to his credit, didn't flinch, and the fist lowered after a moment.

“Write your poems, bard,” Geralt muttered, “sing your songs, and I'll do my thrice-damned job.”

“Your job, Geralt-”

But the door only slammed behind him.

Geralt stalked around the castle, interrogating guards and serving boys. He went sniffing, quite literally, around the halls and gardens, but the weeks had washed away and covered up most of the smells. The only rooms he hadn't been granted access to were Pavetta's own quarters. Those doors remained locked to him, and, from what he could gather, from all.

He came across Jaskier in the gardens, singing a mournful song to Queen Calanthe, his lute across his lap. The mighty queen was weeping gently, allowed the dignity of emotions only in the context of music.

At the end of the song, Jaskier hung his head and waited, and Geralt lingered behind the fountain, watching carefully.

Calanthe composed herself, and then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture that seemed strikingly young. “Is there anything you desire, Master Bard?” she asked.

Jaskier smiled placidly. “Anything I wish would be entirely aligned with the desires of our dear Master Witcher,” he answered.

Calanthe's piercing gaze met Geralt's, but she waited.

“If it would please my lady,” Geralt said, remembering his manners, “it would ease my soul greatly to see the rooms of Pavetta and Duny.”

“They are untouched,” Calanthe said, “exactly as they were.”

Geralt smiled in a way he hoped was pleasant. “All the better.”

Geralt pushed the door open and stood in the doorway, observing everything from a distance, first. The bed had been made after the group had departed for the ship. A shame, Geralt would have liked to have smelled the sheets for evidence of Pavetta's illness. With the windows shuttered, the scent was instead musty on first impression. The cupboard was still cracked open from the flurry of packing before they left, but all the toys had been packed away.

He inhaled. Perfume, shaving oil, ointment for the rash Ciri got from her underthings. All the smells of a happy family.

Maybe she just got tired of the necrophage guts.

Geralt tossed his head to clear his thoughts, and set about a thorough examination of the rooms.

The crib held no clues, having been stripped and remade on the morning of the journey. He didn't touch the animal mobile, and turned away.

In the rug he found a few strands of Pavetta's hair, along with some fine crust that may have been Ciri's upchuck or spittle. They used to play together here. One of the handles on a drawer had come a little loose, right at Ciri's eye level, like she had used it to haul herself upright one too many times. Duny's presence was evident too, a well ordered writing desk with a view of the gardens, the thin slippers by the bed he'd decided not to take to the cold and icy land of Skellige. Pavetta had a hoop of embroidery laid on a table she was intending to return to, and Duny had placed a bookmark midway through a tome on curses, evidently his past still lingered in his mind.

No sign of a struggle. No sign of coercion. These were the rooms of a royal family that left for a trip and merely never returned.

He began opening drawers, and under Pavetta's under shifts, which he gingerly moved aside, he found a false bottom which popped up with pressure on one side. Hidden away, carefully coiled up, was the tiny wooden medallion of the wolf's head that Lambert had carved. Geralt stared down into the drawer for a long moment, before lifting the medallion into the palm of his hand, closing it and winding the golden chain around his fist.

Geralt sat in the chair at Duny's desk, keeping his boots on the ground, and began to sift through the files.

Duny was, according to his notes and Geralt's every interaction with him, a wholy boring man. He had no significant aquaintences with which he exchanged personal letters, and all his foreign correspondence that he had been building as Urcheon of Erlenwald were dry and lacked character. A lesser investigator would have been satisfied with the picture presented in his personal effects, but Geralt held onto his grain of suspicion.

An invoice, one among many, stood out to Geralt, not because it was a grand amount, but because it was addressed very simply. Instead of the many titles and flowery verse common among the papers of royalty, the invoice simply read: Sir, due to the difficult nature of the provided material, the products will not be ready by Yule as promised. Please allow three weeks before attending the shop for collection. All accounts must be settled prior to collection. Please pay the full amount to Tyrn at the Cintra branch of Vivaldi Bank.

Nobles, Geralt knew, did not pick up their own shopping. They never did anything for themselves except have affairs and plot trouble. And no one working with nobles presented them with bad news with such straightforward language. It was likely that the person who wrote this invoice had no idea of the titles Duny held, which meant he had approached this person for their business in disguise.

On a spare bit of parchment he made a note of the bank's address and the name at the bottom of the invoice. Unfortunately there was no indication of what the invoice was for, no guild symbol or description, only a name.

It wasn't much, but it was something out of place in this tidy and controlled room.

He unspooled the medallion's from around his fist and unthreaded it, leaving it a solitary small disk in his hands. Then, for the first time since he received it after his double Trials of the Grasses, Geralt undid his own medallion's chain. Ciri's small pendant was threaded onto the same chain, and when he returned it to his throat, his larger one eclipsed it and hid it from the world.

Geralt lingered by the side alley of the Vivaldi bank that was mentioned on the invoice that afternoon. He angled himself such that the setting sun was right by the door to the bank and directly into his eyes.

A man walked out of the building, locking it behind himself, and Geralt called out to him.

“Willis?” Geralt asked, exaggerating the squint at the sun. “Willis Brogg, is that you?” Then, stepping closer, he laughed at himself. “Pardon me, sir, my eyes aren't the best in this glare, I mistook you for someone else.”

“For the silversmith, of course. I know the man,” the banker replied.

“You do?” Geralt asked, putting on his best Jaskier impression in an attempt to be charming. “How coincidental! Where is he these days?”

“His shop is still on Narrow Lane, but he's thinking of moving his house to Channel Street.”

“Good for him!” Geralt said with a booming voice. “Thank you for this news of an old friend,” he said, then disappeared at a swift pace towards Narrow Lane.

Willis Brogg lingered by the window, making use of the last dim rays of light as he sorted his paperwork. The daytime hours were for smithing and crafting, the evenings were for the mundane. A tall stranger approached, nodding at Willis through the window before he pushed open the door.

“Master Witcher,” Willis greeted him.

The stony face twitched.  “You have a good eye.”

“I repaired a silver sword for one of your ilk many years ago,” Willis explained, “same medallion around his neck.”

The Witcher brought his hand to his throat and folded the pendant under his shirt collar.

“You must be proud of your work, then,” the Witcher said.

“Aye.”

“Any projects you could show me? To demonstrate your skill.”

“I'm imagining that a Witcher may not have need for a delicate broach or lady's hairpin, though with that white mane of yours…?”

“What about unusual materials?” The Witcher asked.

Willis grinned. “Aye, that I can do.” He rummaged around his shop. “Had a strange delivery from Povis, few months back. Didn't know what to do with it, not til the order came in.”

Willis placed the smelted remains of the strange ore on the workbench. It was a fickle material, both too strong without significant heat, and difficult to shape. The Witcher picked up a fragment and held it up to the light.

“Interesting,” he said, turning it slowly. “What did you create with such a material?”

Willis shrugged. “A man's signet ring, as well as series of rings, a set of clasps for luggage, I imagine. Can't think of anything else that would fit those sizes.”

The yellow eyes narrowed. “What size?”

Willis touched his thumb and pointer finger together in a small circle, about the size of the smallest of the circles the order had specified. “Pairs of them, from this small and upwards, the largest was about the size of a lady's bangle.”

The mutant's face was impenetrable. He hefted the remaining ore. “How much for this?”

“Geralt, I honestly don't know what you expect me to say,” Mousesack said. “It's a rock.”

“A rather pretty one,” Jaskier said unhelpfully from the side.

“It has magical properties,” Geralt said. “My Chaos reacts to it.”

Mousesack bent forward and inspected it carefully, but then sat back and sighed. “I'm a druid, not a mage. I have no training in orecraft. Bring me a yew sapling and I'll tell you which Skellige island it grew on, but this?”

“Who would be able to explain it?”

Mousesack scratched a hand through his beard. “Most of the graduates from Aretuza have some training that might be helpful.”

Geralt swore softly. “They all have ties to nobility,” he pointed out. “None of them can be trusted not to use what I say against Cintra.”

“Not all of them,” Mousesack said. “There was a mage I've heard who caused quite a stir by refusing a position at King Heribert's court, yet practises magic in his own kingdom.”

“Ah, and who might she be loyal to?” Jaskier asked.

“No one but herself, damned witch.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, wrapped the lump of ore in a cloth and tied it securely shut. He didn't like how it felt when he touched it, that strange prickling feeling. “That makes her even more dangerous. Where is this mage?”

Mousesack consulted a file in his shelves. “In the house of the Mayor of Rinde, if our court spies are to be believed.”

“We can make that journey in two weeks,” Jaskier said thoughtfully.

“I'll make it in one if I ride by myself,” Geralt said.

Jaskier put his hands on his hips. “And what am I, then? Inconvenient baggage to be tossed aside when it slows you down?”

Despite himself, and the desperate times, Geralt laughed at the image, and shook his head. “You are not. What you are is a half-decent spy, when you put your mind to it.”

Jaskier scoffed a little. “I'm not a spy. And I realise that is exactly what a spy would say if they were accused of being a spy, but I-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted. “I don't care. I need you here, there are more secrets to uncover. All that matters to me now, is getting Ciri back.”

“If she's even out there at all,” Jaskier muttered glumly. “I'm not thrilled about you being alone right now.”

“I won't be alone, this witch, what's her name?”

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Mousesack read aloud.

“There, see? I'll be with her.”

Jaskier folded his arms. “Yeah, I'm sure she's just what you need.”

Chapter Text

Geralt rode hard across Cintra, stopping only to keep Roach fed and watered. When he couldn't sleep, plagued by thoughts, he packed up his meagre camp and walked through the night, holding Roach's reins. After three days of it, the poor animal could barely put one hoof in front of the other, so he went into one of the towns along the Cintran border. With the help of a letter he carried from Mousesack, he stabled Roach with the border guards and took one of their black geldings as a replacement.

He caught maybe three hours of sleep on the two day journey through Temeria, and none from the moment he stepped foot in Redania.

Rinde was close, he couldn't delay.

Following signposts and an old drunk who pointed the way, Geralt approached the Mayor's house at about ten o'clock at night. The half-moon gave him ample light to see the manor, even if there was only weak candlelight coming from one or two of the rooms. A fire was burning in the upper levels, but otherwise the house was dark.

Geralt slid from the saddle and clicked his tongue at the gelding to bring it into the stables, where he placed it in an empty stall, before making his way through the servant's entrance of the manor.

Surprisingly, the larder and storeroom were empty of servants, and lit only by the dim glow of coals in the kitchen fireplace. He stalked carefully through, and a figure moved in the darkness.

Geralt almost drew his sword, before he realised the figure was a discheveled middle aged man with his pants undone, stinking of alcohol and with a stupid look on his face.

Geralt grunted, and released his grip on the hilt of his sword.

“I'm looking for-” Geralt started.

“Apple juice!” the man slurred. “Must find the apple juice.”

Frowning, Geralt sniffed the air and found a small cask in the larder. He set it on the table between them.

“There's your apple juice,” he said. “I'm looking for the mage who lives here.”

At that, the man's face brightened, and he nodded profusely as he sank into a stool by the fire, leaning his head against the wall. “Yes, yes, the lady. The lady, hmm, yes. She wants apple juice. And what the lady wants, the lady-”

The man started snoring.

Geralt huffed, feeling bewildered. He took a nearby carafe and filled it with apple juice, and, clutching the wrapped up ore in his other hand, made his way up the stairs.

He followed the light towards the top level of the house, and was struck by a smell, sweet and rich, and saw flickering firelight spilling out into the hallway through an open door.

“What are you doing, sneaking around the manor like that, Beau?” A woman's voice called out.

“Uh,” Geralt said, then cleared his throat, lingering in the hall. “My name is Geralt. I have your apple juice.”

The words hung in the air for a long moment.

“Well, come in then,” the lady replied, and Geralt obeyed.

The room was sumptuous, spacious with ornate furniture and a rug thick enough to sink into. The four poster bed had its curtains pulled back, and lounging in the middle of the sheets, with miles of bare skin on display, was a woman.

Clearly whatever time she had taken to process the stranger's voice wasn't spent in trying to make herself decent.

Geralt looked her carefully in the eyes. She tilted her head, examining him like a curiosity, then slowly and artfully began covering herself with the sheet.

“Who are you, Geralt, to be sneaking around my house late at night?” She asked. Her eyes were violet. She positioned the sheet so that it covered her from the tops of her thighs to her breasts, but she left one of her long legs exposed. “I've never had a thief deliver me apple juice before.”

“I'm not a thief,” Geralt answered. “I’m here because I need something.”

The lady smiled indulgently. “You have a mighty quest?”

“Knights have quests. And I'm no knight.”

She sat up slowly, holding the sheet to her chest. “You want to be, though.” she said. “You have aspirations far beyond your allotted station, I can smell it all over you.”

Geralt stayed silent. The lady put her back to him and dropped the sheet before drawing a silk dressing gown up her arms and flicking her black curls free of it. “Then what are you?” she asked, standing and turning towards him and tying the dressing gown at her waist.

“A Witcher.”

She looked at him, as though waiting for him to elaborate, but he stayed silent.

“And Witchers have… targets? Bounties?”

“Contracts.”

“What do you call it then,” the mage asked, “when a witch wants something, and she cannot obtain it?”

“I wasn’t aware that a witch like yourself lacked for anything,” Geralt answered. “Except perhaps apple juice.”

The mage smiled in a way that was inscrutable to him and took the carafe from his hand. “Shows what you know.”

He stood in the centre of the room, feeling awkward as she poured herself a cup and drank deeply, her hip cocked against the dresser as she looked at him.

“I’ve heard that Witchers can cast little spells with their hands,” she said, setting aside her cup, “that you can feel their Chaos right under the surface of their skin, should you ever get close enough to touch one.” She approached him, fingers dancing through the air just barely above the armour on his chest. “I’m so curious…”

“I’m asking for help,” Geralt said. “If you can help me, once my quest is completed, I’ll indulge your curiosity for as long as you please.”

“Until I'm satisfied?” the mage asked. Geralt nodded.

Stepping away, she tossed her raven hair. “I'm Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she said.

“Geralt of Rivia.”

“Well then, Geralt of Rivia,” she said. “What is it you need? Other than a bath.”

“I need to find someone, but the only lead I have is this.” Geralt held up the bundle of cloth covering the lump of strange ore.

Yennefer gave him a mildly annoyed expression, but took it from him and unwrapped it, weighing the rock in her hands and scratching one perfect fingernail on the surface.

“What other information can you give?” she asked.

Geralt hesitated. He knew it would be foolish to trust a mage, not without good reason, and she would probably lose respect for him if he was too honest anyway. “Material like that was made into a set of rings, or clasps.”

She walked past him, the floral scent of her hair, lilac, wafting after her like an invitation, as she walked into the hall.

He followed her, down the hall and into a dark study, lit only by the half-moon outside. She murmured to herself, too fast for him to catch, then handed him the ore back, before casting a spell to light the fire. It illuminated a study with many books, and a deer's head mounted above the fireplace.

“Light the candles on the desk, please, I've heard that is one of your magic tricks,” she said.

There were only three candles, Geralt didn't even concentrate his Chaos, but when he made the sign, his magic stopped short at his fingers.

Frowning, Geralt summoned more Power and muttered, “Igni,” but the word was almost cut off in his throat. Throbbing pain shot up from the hand holding the rock, he winced and almost dropped it.

“There's your answer,” Yennefer said. “It's called Dimeritium. This is its raw form, but when it is refined, crafted, it blocks access to magic, and punishes the user for trying.”

Tears immediately stung in Geralt's eyes. Yennefer paused, her mask of disinterest slipping. “What's wrong with you, Witcher?”

Geralt blinked once and tried to speak, but it was like a wight's cold hand was gripping his throat. “Is that why I can't find her? I tried seeking spells.”

“She would be hidden from you, yes.” Yennefer said slowly. “From all magic of this Sphere.”

The information was a crushing blow, however...“Then she could still be alive,” he said.

Yennefer narrowed her violet eyes. “Follow me,” she said, waving a hand to snuff out the candles and diminish the fire, then walking out of the study.

“Where are we going?” Geralt asked.

“The bathing room,” Yennefer answered. “It is clear that there is more going on than you're telling me, and I refuse to converse any longer with someone who stinks like they haven't bathed in a week.”

“Months, actually.”

“Monstrous.”

Geralt caught Yennefer's hand in his own and stopped short, pulling them both to a stop.

“You've answered my question, thank you,” he said. “I don't need any more from you. I'll leave you be.”

She didn't pull away. That was the first thing Geralt noticed. That, and the underlying scent of gooseberries.

“And if this woman you seek is a magic user, and she has been stifled,” she said, “then I want to know who is targeting people like me and why.”

She gave his hand a short squeeze that may have been intended to be comforting, or a warning not to argue with her.

The two of them entered a bath room, the tub as big as any in the public baths, set into the raised floor and made of a rich dark stone. With a spell, Yennefer filled the tub with hot water, as well as a basin on the counter.

“Scrub the worst of it before you get in,” Yennefer instructed. “I loathe bathing in sullied water.” Then she left Geralt alone.

Well. He was long overdue for a wash, and the witch might have more information. She seemed like she might even be willing to share it.

Geralt stripped down and washed methodically with the washcloth by the smaller basin, before sinking into the deep bath. The soap by the edge was perfumed, but less so than the lilac and gooseberries that Yennefer carried with her. The soap made the water cloudy and heady.

It wasn't until he had already washed his hair a second time that he remembered her words about bathing in the same water as him, even though she could replace it with her magic. Geralt sank into the water, muscles still tense and strained, put his head back against the rim and draped the cool washcloth over his eyes.

The door opened, and he touched the washcloth, straightening up, when she interrupted him.

“Keep that on your face,” Yennefer's voice instructed. Geralt obeyed, leaning back again.

There was the sound of a cloth dropping to the ground, and the water swirled around his body as she entered the tub. Eventually the water stilled, and Yennefer cleared her throat delicately, and Geralt pulled the washcloth from his face and looked at her. She sat across from him in the bath, her hair piled onto her head and the fogged surface of the water clinging to the swell of her breasts.

“So,” Yennefer said. “That's better. Tell me about this sorceress you're looking for.”

She would have to be satisfied with a half-truth.

“She's missing, and I've been tasked to bring her home.”

Already, Yennefer's eyes were narrowed and suspicious. “Home. I've never heard of a sorceress who had a home that would miss her. In fact, most of my sisters would gleefully disappear each other given the chance. Unless she is still young?”

Geralt hesitated, then inclined his head.

“Tissaia should have come straight to me,” Yennefer muttered.

“Who?”

“Tissania, the rectoress at Aretuza. I assumed she was the one who hired you. Simple deduction, most of the female mages have gone through Aretuza.”

She captivated him, a little. 

“She hasn't,” he said.

“Where then?”

“Why do you care?” Geralt asked. “You said yourself that most mages wouldn't care if a peer lived or died. Why do you care about my- my contract?”

“Because you do. And you intrigue me. Pass me that sponge.”

Geralt did so, rising out of the water a little as he reached for the sponge outside the tub. The water sluiced off his arms and shoulders as he did so, and the patchwork of scars across his body was revealed too. He caught her staring at one of the worst ones, a knotted twist near his shoulder, bestowed by an angry cockatrice.

“Ask about them,” Geralt said. “Everyone does.”

“Everyone else is boring,” Yennefer responded immediately, busying herself with soaking the sponge and pressing it against her neck. “They play their little roles and never stray from their given station.”

Geralt's fingers danced through the surface of the water. “You said I wanted something above my station. Something other than walking the Path alone. How did you know?”

“I was also told that I could not have it all. That I had to choose between being a sorceress or being a…”

“A what?”

“It doesn't matter now, because I made my choice.”

The water had cooled a little, so Geralt put his hand into the water and made the sign of igni with only a little power, then swirled the heat around with a gentle current with aard. Steam rose from the surface of the water and the small hairs around Yennefer's face that had escaped the clip curled in the heat.

“You said there were a set of clasps made,” Yennefer said. “That suggests more than one mage is in danger.”

“No, I don't think so. She's young, they were in-” a lump swelled in his throat, “graduating sizes.”

Yennefer swore under her breath. “What else will you tell me?”

Geralt opened his mouth, tried to put his thoughts in order, decide what fragments of the truth he could trust this sorceress with, but his mind was sluggish and confused.

“Hmm.” Yennefer tilted her head. “Even after a wash, you still look terrible.”

“Haven't slept,” Geralt replied.

“Let me guess, months again?”

“More or less.”

Yennefer moved through the water towards him, her knee touching the outside of his thigh as she came alongside him and touched his face, starting at his browline. She could have been trying to read his mind or manipulate his memories, or she might have just been comforting a man at the end of his rope. Geralt's eyes fluttered shut.

“Seems an extreme measure,” she commented archly, like her fingers weren't touching his cheekbone and smoothing over the bags under his eyes.

“Desperation can make anything seem reasonable,” Geralt murmured.

“Not any old contract, then,” Yennefer said back, just as quietly. “This girl. Why does she matter to you?”

Geralt's eyes opened,and he grabbed her hand where it rested on his jaw, stilling it from its motions, but also holding it against his skin.

“I promised I'd keep her safe,” Geralt said. “I'm supposed to protect her. If I don't do that, then what's the point of me?”

“Well,” Yennefer said, patting her free hand against the other side of his face, “you'll do no one any good half-starved and sleep deprived. Take my bed.”

“No, no,” Geralt shook his head, which caused the hands touching his face to withdraw. “I need to-”

Yennefer put her hand on his chest to stop him, fingers almost but not quite touching the double medallion around his neck.

“And while you sleep,” she continued, “I will conduct lithomancy to try and track where the dimeritium came from, maybe even where it went.”

Geralt sagged, but he nodded. He pulled himself out of the water, heedless of his nakedness, walked over to the drawers and put a towel around his waist. “You'd really help me like this?” Geralt asked, scrubbing a second cloth through his white hair.

Yennefer folded her hands on the rim of the bath and rested her chin on them. “Oh, I'm doing this for purely selfish reasons,” she said mildly, staring at him. “Your quest isn't finished yet, but once it is, you have a promise to fulfil to me.”

“Of course, your curiosity,” Geralt said with a crooked smile. “I hope I satisfy.”

“Oh, I'm rarely satisfied,” Yennefer said, returning the smile.

Geralt placed the sketch of Ciri under the pillow before he slept, and when he woke, hours later, the sun was streaming through the open window and warming his face.

He grunted, rolling himself upright and sliding a hand under the pillow to withdraw the only image he had left of Ciri.

Vesemir was over three hundred years old. Did he still remember the faces of all the boys he cared for? Geralt could have two hundred years of Path in front him, would he ever-

There were a set of men's clothes folded on the empty chair, dark breeches, a pale shirt and an embroidered tunic. The colours seemed to match Yennefer's aesthetic choices, and, when he tried them on, her stylistic preferences too. The portrait of Ciri went back into his shirt, resting over his heart.

He found Yennefer in the study, head bent over a heavy open book, still dressed in only her dressing gown with her hair piled on her head and fastened with a clip. Her fingers fiddled with a shard of the dimeritium.

“These clothes are a little tight,” Geralt said, in lieu of greeting.

“Not from where I’m sitting,” she said, raking her eyes up and down, but if it was in appreciation of his figure or her own prowess with magic, he couldn't tell. “Though if you’d prefer-”

“No, no. It suits,” Geralt said. His eyes trailed to the books open in front of her.

“I've been studying, researching the material,” Yennefer explained. “Nothing useful unfortunately, though I'm not finished with this book yet.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Yennefer tilted her head back, then left, then right, wincing a little as she did so. She dropped the shoulder of her dressing gown down. She hadn't gotten changed since their bath last night. “You can rub my neck, if you'd like.”

He would like. Very much.

Her skin was soft and perfect under his hands. Geralt rubbed the pads of his thumbs alongside her spine, up and down.

“No servants?” he asked.

“I sent the servants home,” she replied. “Last night, long before you arrived.”

“And the mayor?”

“Still sleeping off his whisky.”

She turned another page and squinted at the tiny writing and diagrams. 

“It's quiet up here,” he said, just to say something.

“Not as much as I like while I work, now hush.”

Time dragged on, and Geralt dragged the back of his fingertips up her neck and into her hair. Page after page was turned and studied, and occasionally Yennefer got up, took a shard of dimeritium and performed some magic on it, only to sit back down, disappointed, and continue reading.

The sun was high when she finally slammed the book shut.

“Well, I hope you have more leads, Witcher,” she said, turning in her chair, “because this one is a dead end.”

Geralt took a few steps backwards and folded his arms over his chest. “So there's no way to track the dimeritium?”

“It is literally elemental, the essence of this Sphere, magic can do nothing against its properties. You'll need something that is not of this Sphere.”

All the beasts that Geralt had spent a lifetime hunting.

“Ghouls aren't likely to help,” he said.

“A higher vampire perhaps? Have you ever met one of those?”

“I wouldn't be standing here alive if I had.”

Yennefer shrugged a little. Geralt backed away further and drew air into his lungs.

“What else can I do?” he asked, a little desperately.

“You're a Witcher, aren't you? A tracker?” Yennefer said. “Surely you can apply those skills.”

“She disappeared during a storm at sea,” Geralt said. “There are no traces to track.” He jabbed a finger at the rock. “But this proves it was premeditated, he didn't want her to-”

Geralt cut himself off.

Yennefer sighed.

“Geralt, trust me or don't, I really don't care, but if there's a young woman out there who is trapped, then I think I can be of some help.”

The thought of little Ciri, growing up to become a young woman, wearing beautiful bracelets that kept her a prisoner, twisted at Geralt's very soul. It must have shown on his face, because Yennefer stood, walking beside him and brushing a hand along his shoulder as she did so.

“You have a suspect, at least,” she surmised, staring out the window.

“Her father,” Geralt said.

Her eyes became flint.

“Wouldn't be the first time a father mistreated a daughter because she was different,” she said, an undercurrent in her voice betraying her. She straightened. “I will get dressed, and you will decide to trust me to help, or leave.”

The door hadn't even shut behind her before Geralt had made his choice.

Yennefer dressed in a black and white ensemble, a dark dress that fell to the ground with white accents on the sleeves and hem. She wore a necklace around her throat, on something like a tight black velvet ribbon with a pendant with a star hanging from the middle. Before she allowed Geralt to talk, she took him outside into the well-kept garden, and arranged herself so that she reclined on a bench under a large oak tree, before she spoke.

“How long has the girl been missing?” she asked.

“Since the last day of Imbaelk,” Geralt said.

Yennefer hissed through her teeth. “You suspect her father is involved, so I presume he's not the one who put you on this contract.”

“I hired myself,” Geralt answered. “She's mine.”

Yennefer stood abruptly, something sour turning down the corners of her lips. “I rather think I'll be rescinding my offer of help.”

“No, no,” Geralt said hastily, “that's not it at all. She's my child of surprise.”

Yennefer's faint expression of contempt hardened. “You wouldn't be the first who wanted to marry-”

Geralt recoiled in disgust. “No! She's, she's just a baby, not yet two.”

“She's not your daughter.”

“She's as good as,” Geralt returned fiercely.

Then he felt the edges of Yennefer's mind probing at his own, assessing his truthfulness and motives. He opened himself up, because he had nothing left to lose and everything to gain.

“I believe you,” she said, with a faint tinge of wonder. “I believe your intentions are honourable.”

“That surprises you,” Geralt said. “Because I’m a Witcher?”

“Because you’re a man,” Yennefer replied. “But if this child is only a baby, why the dimeritium cuffs?”

Geralt slumped, folding his arms and leaning against a nearby ash tree. “Her lineage has powerful, uncontrolled magic.”

“What lineage?”

“The baby is Princess Cirilla of Cintra.”

Yennefer's eyebrows rose a little. “Is she one of the important ones then, or merely one of a dozen?”

“The heir. You really don't know?”

“My colleagues are obsessed with the power in kingdoms and titles, I concern myself more with magic,” Yennefer said. “That's why they're stuck saying pretty words that don't go anywhere at Court, and I get to do what I want.”

Geralt looked towards the orchard and hummed thoughtfully. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“You said before that you have things you want but can't get. Guess you don't always get what you want.”

Yennefer tried to scowl at him, but he could tell she was one who admired a sharp mind, even if it was pointed at trying to unpack the mystery that was Yennefer of Vengerberg. Especially when it was pointed at her.

“You said she's the heir?” She asked, returning to the topic at hand. “Is she next in line?”

“Queen Calanthe rules, with her second husband, Eist Tuirseach, the former Jarl of Skellige. Her only daughter, Princess Pavetta, is wed to Duny, the Urcheon of Erlenwald. Ciri is their daughter. The three of them boarded a boat that was destroyed in a storm.”

“Cintra requires that a woman cannot rule alone, correct?”

Geralt nodded. “Yes, why?”

“You have a suspect, and most of the method, what you don't yet have is a motive,” Yennefer said.

“I'm not trying to have him imprisoned, I'm trying to get Ciri back.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “Be smart, Geralt. It seems like this Duny had a crown waiting for him, what could he have to gain from disappearing into the world with a child?”

The sunlight shifted just enough that it illuminated the sheen of her hair, and Geralt felt rotten inside.

“He hurt her because of me. He hated that we had a connection, that she came to me.”

“The far easier thing would be to have you killed,” Yennefer noted.

Geralt flashed a nasty smile. “That would disrupt Destiny.”

“Regardless, let's entertain the notion for a moment that you are not the most important person on the continent,” she said dryly. “This Duny must have had a plan for after he faked his death.”

Geralt wasn't used to talking so long with someone he didn't know, but somehow, he felt on some level that he did know Yennefer, like recognising a landscape he hadn't seen for decades. There were a particularly fine set of gloves that Geralt wore his first year out on the Path, but they were stolen when he was arrested with Eskel. Talking with Yennefer felt how he imagined finding those gloves again would feel like.

Regardless, standing still and useless while Yennefer put her impressive mind into motion unsettled him, so he pulled an apple from the orchard nearby and his knife from his boot. With one leg cocked up against the trunk of the tree across from hers, he began slicing it into sections. The first section he raised to his mouth, only for her graceful hand to extend his direction, palm up. Geralt sighed and tossed her the piece.

“This Duny,” she said, “If he were in trouble, where would he go? Who are his friends, allies, cousins?”

Geralt thought back to the orderly and bland papers on the man's desk. “He has none.”

“None? Did the man pop out of a hole in the ground?”

“Near enough,” Geralt shrugged, then told her a brief history of the man's curse that turned him into a humanoid hedgehog every day until evening.

“I saved his life and broke the curse,” he continued. “Got paid by the Law of Surprise, nine months later, there's Ciri.”

Yennefer watched him carefully with an amused expression. “You are the strangest Witcher I've ever met,” she said.

Geralt shrugged, a little embarrassed, and muttered, “I'm the only Witcher you've ever met.”

“So, assuming he is actually a noble and not a pretender, only an idiot would be in line to be King without recruiting allies,” Yennefer said, taking delicate bites of the apple piece. “The dimeritium proves he's not an idiot, so he must be hiding them. We must find his allies.”

We, Geralt repeated in his mind. It made something of the knot in his chest loosen.

“My spy may have uncovered them,” Geralt said.

Yennefer's eyes widened with smothered delight. “A Witcher with a daughter and a spy. Even the legends couldn't think up something so ludicrous.”

Geralt averted his eyes away from her and back to carving pieces from the apple and eating them from the blade.

“Still doesn't make sense,” Geralt said to the quarter apple speared on his blade. “All Duny had to do was put a male heir in Pavetta and everything would have been secure. Even if I completed my claim on Ciri, he would still rule.” He stabbed the knife into the apple again and ripped it free harshly. “What could he possibly have had to gain that would be greater than the crown of Cintra?”

Yennefer stood sharply, but when she approached him, she was gentle when she took both the apple and the knife out of his hands.

“Or something in addition to it,” she said softly. She turned the short knife over and tapped its hilt to her chin in thought. “Do you know what the children in the square say when the puppet show seems impossible?”

Geralt wordlessly shook his head, helpless to move or think when she was so close to him.

“They say that there is another puppeteer,” she continued.

She handed him the knife, and tossed the apple core into the bushes.

“Well now, Witcher. It seems we have our own realms to inhabit,” Yennefer said.

Geralt tilted his head down to stare at her. She barely came up to his chin, but her power was undeniable, and a little intimidating.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Unless you'd rather squeeze into one of my dresses and poke around all the royal courts of the Continent. I suppose I could look good in Witcher leathers, though wading through bogs is not for me.”

Geralt shook his head. “I don't understand.”

“We now have two leads,” Yennefer said. “Seeking a magical creature from beyond this Sphere that can help trace her despite the dimeritium, and investigating intricate political dealings. You are far better suited to monster hunting, I thought you would prefer to chase that lead.”

She was standing so close to him, smelling so sweet but looking so determined, and she was giving direction when he was lost, offering help to get Ciri back.

He wondered how Ciri would react to this imposing sorceress.

Geralt gripped Yennefer's hand and brought it to his chest.

“Yen, thank you,” he said earnestly, the nickname slipping out without a thought. “You don't know how much this means to me.”

She smirked a little, but it was covering up a genuine smile. “Don't forget, I'm doing this for purely selfish reasons,” she lied, and they both knew it.

Chapter Text

Yennefer offered to create a portal for Geralt, but he declined. Mousesack's letter of recommendation to the border guards of Cintra was only good so long as he returned the black gelding, and he would never subject Roach to those blasted portals. Besides, the ride back, this time at a reasonable pace, would give him time alone in the wilderness. Time enough to think.

Hunt a powerful creature from another Sphere. Convince it to refrain from killing a Witcher on sight, and then also to help him with an impossible task.

Fuck. Maybe he should have taken Yennefer up on her offer to swap roles.

Remembering Yennefer's stern instructions, he even slept a little each night, and bathed once in the ten days it takes to return to the palace of Cintra. Picking up Roach at the border was a balm to his soul, her familiar build between his legs and her rocking walk that was as innate to himself as the changing of the seasons. Moreso, since it was also the pace Ciri best fell asleep to.

Cintra was as he left it, both the land and the capital city, still in official mourning, but the people had already started to move on with their lives, arguing deals loudly from their shops, and children playing in the street until a traditionalist scolded them for laughing during the mourning period.

He rode straight to the gate of the palace, and was waved in by the guards, before he even slid down from the saddle. In the open courtyard, two figures hurried towards him, their silhouettes familiar to him as the setting sun.

“Eskel,” Geralt greeted, as the other Witcher slammed into him in a gripping hug. Geralt tightened his fingers in the back of his gambeson, and saw Jaskier out of the corner of his eye, massaging his own palm again.

“Heard the news,” Eskel said roughly, still half into Geralt's shoulder, “after we came down the mountain. Decided I should be the one who should come to you.”

“I'm glad you're here,” Geralt said simply.

Eskel pulled back, putting Geralt at arm's length, then eyed Roach over Geralt's shoulder. “You ready to go then?”

“Go, go where?” Geralt asked.

Eskel jerked his head. “Back to Kaer Morhen, Coën will take your patrol route this year. You shouldn't be alone right now, Geralt. Vesemir will-”

“I'm not going to hide in the mountains and mope, Eskel,” Geralt shot back. “I have work to do.”

“This isn't a negotiation,” Eskel said, steel in his yellow eyes. “You're coming with me.”

“Why?”

Eskel's lips pressed into a thin line as best as they could with the scars, and he looked a little past Geralt as he spoke. “We both know how easy it would be to go up against a wyvern and falter, to let it knock you down and kill you quickly. How many Witchers did we lose to monsters that should have been easy kills those years after the pogrom? I'm not letting that happen to you. It comes down to it, I'll knock you out and drag you back up the mountain myself.”

Geralt's eyes flicked down Eskel's body, saw that one hand was tight around the strap of his sword across his chest, ready to make it jump into his hand, the other clenched in the shape of Aard, always so powerful when Eskel cast it.

Eskel had to know that a full on fight between the two of them, while close, would always favour Geralt. He had the advantage of extra mutagens, which gave him unparalleled speed and strength. If Eskel really thought he could take him back to Kaer Morhen, it would be only because Geralt chose to let him win, chose life over dying in a ditch somewhere from blood loss and despair.

Eskel was breathing heavily still, but he didn't move, so Geralt took a closer look at the other Witcher. He was not a vain man, not even as much as Geralt could be, but he always took care of himself like he cared for his weapons. His body was a tool like any other, so he maintained it well, with regular sleep and training, barely ever spending money on frivolities that could be better spent on quality foods and balms for his scars.

But standing in front of him now, Eskel looked hollow. His skin was thin, his hair lank and greasy, and he glared at Geralt with red rimmed eyes.

It was rather like looking at a mirror of himself on Yennefer's doorstep, before she gave him hope.

Geralt turned to Jaskier. “You didn't tell him?”

Jaskier put his hands on his hips. “Over two weeks you've been gone, and we still don't have any proof.”

“Proof of what?” Eskel asked.

Geralt looked at him, and allowed a little smile. “Ciri's alive,” he said.

“We suspect,” Jaskier clarified, a pointed finger in Geralt's face. “But let's carry on this conversation elsewhere, shall we?” Boldly, he grabbed both Witchers by the elbow and escorted them away. “Honestly, you two don't know the first thing about spycraft, talking away in the palace courtyard like this.”

“Tell me again why we're in the, uh, palace dungeon?” Eskel asked, lifting his boot from some indeterminate muck that had pooled by an empty cell. Nothing about it had changed much since Geralt and Ciri were briefly imprisoned there, the cells were still empty in this section, thanks to Calanthe's vicious justice.

“I've been encouraging a certain rumour that the dungeons are haunted,” Jaskier said, peering around the corner and nodded, apparently satisfied they were alone. “Bringing Witchers here regularly shouldn't draw suspicion.”

A chill draught swept through them, and Eskel and Geralt eyed each other.

“Maybe it is haunted,” Eskel said.

“Yes, well, the rumour was already present when I arrived, I just took advantage of it,” Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. “Always use what is already available, that's the first rule of spycraft, never be the true originator of too many whispers. Now. What do we know?”

Geralt folded his arms and recited. “Months ago, Duny ordered and purchased bracelets made from dimeritium, sized for Ciri, and with enough larger spares that she could wear them for the rest of her life.”

“What’s dimeritium?” Jaskier asked.

“Yennefer, that’s the mage I was just meeting,” he added for Eskel’s benefit, “she says it’s an element of this Sphere which blocks magic, makes the wearer invisible to Power and unable to access it.”

“Fucking piece of slime.” Eskel spat in the dirt. “If he wasn't already dead, I'd-”

“Well, that's my theory. He isn't dead, not yet,” Geralt said, and Jaskier gestured for him to go on. “Pavetta was ill for two weeks before the planned trip to Skellige, but miraculously recovered. Ciri stopped teleporting to me around that time.”

“From my investigations,” Jaskier added, “no one else who knew of her powers thought her disappearances ceased at all. He was covering his tracks well, lying to Pavetta and making it seem like nothing had changed.”

Geralt nodded at Jaskier, grateful for that piece of information.

“So he put the bracelets on Ciri as a proof that it would work, and poisoned Pavetta so she wouldn't notice that Ciri was staying put,” Geralt said. “But his plan required disappearing with Ciri in the fray of the storm, under the guise of his own death, and the death of everyone onboard. Jaskier, you don't think, could Pavetta also have been taken away-”

But Jaskier was already shaking his head, somberly. “I'm sorry, Geralt. I'm so sorry, they found her, in the wreckage. Her body was brought up. The burial is in two days.”

Geralt's gut dropped. Pavetta. Beautiful, cunning, adventurous Pavetta. He had hoped, had clung to the thought-

He thought of Ciri, then, her face in tears, reaching out, screaming for her Mama who would never come. In his saddlebags, Geralt still had the bottle of honeysuckle and rosewater perfume, and he would keep it there, for Ciri.

But he couldn't let himself be weighed down with grief, he needed-

“Yennefer talked about what his plan might have been after the shipwreck, where he could have gone. She's offered to help me, she'll be in touch.”

Jaskier nodded thoughtfully. “Who are our allies?”

Geralt tilted his head and appraised his old friend with new eyes yet again, as he constantly re-wrote the identity he presented to the world. “Yennefer asked the same question about Duny.”

“I'm beginning to like this woman, finally getting you interested in diplomacy,” Jaskier said with a smile. “The way I see it, we have our true allies, people who think they are allies but actually aren't, people who aren't allies but will be useful to us, and, of course, people who will help us but wouldn't be caught dead proving to be helping us.” Eskel and Geralt shared a puzzled look, but Jaskier continued, “Yennefer fits into the final category, of course.”

“Why?”

“Everyone knows you and I are connected, Geralt,” Jaskier said, “meaning enemies of ours and Cintra would never disclose anything useful to her if she was seen being friendly with either of us. I have quite a lot of practice being aggressively annoying, I'm sure she'll understand the role easily.”

Eskel leaned over to Geralt as he watched Jaskier pace and began listing and categorising contacts in various courts, and he muttered, “It's like he's directing a damn troubadour troop.”

“You could play the flute,” Geralt returned.

Jaskier appeared to pause for breath, so Eskel spoke up.

“What about the painting?” he said.

“What painting?” Jaskier asked.

Of course, the painting, the portrait that Ciri was supposed to be sitting for the last time she visited him, dressed in pink and frills and not happy about it. After a day of play at Kaer Morhen, she returned to Cintra scuffed and dirty and happy, but the royals would have made her finish the portrait.

Jaskier's eyes sparkled at the explanation. “This task requires someone who has classical training in the fine arts.”

Geralt laughed and waved him off. “Go, go, I'll talk to Eskel about the other plan.”

Jaskier almost danced up the stairs, an extra spring in his step there as an exaggeration for the sake of comedy, to relieve a bit of the tension in the air. It worked.

Geralt turned to Eskel, feeling a little lighter inside now the wheels were in motion.

“I'm glad you came, Eskel,” he said. “I need your help.”

“Anything you need.”

“You might regret those words,” Geralt said with a crooked grin.

Eskel was saddled up and riding out before the day was out, tasked with carrying the message to the few Witchers they could trust with it. ‘True allies’ as Jaskier called them.

Geralt didn't expect much, it was a crapshoot anyway, even before considering Lambert's lack of diplomacy. Coën might have a chance of convincing a monster to talk before fighting, and while Vesemir was still tough as nails, he was no longer suited to life on the Path, and Eskel would have to follow up his leads.

At least they would all know Geralt wasn't about to lie down and let a damn drowner get the better of him.

Together, he and Eskel had divvied up the Continent, allotting a section to each of the trusted Witchers, overlapping regions where one Witcher's speciality might provide extra benefit. Geralt wasn't given an allocated section, giving him the freedom to roam and meet with any of their allies. Geralt slapped Eskel's back then Scorpion's ass when he departed.

Geralt was situated back in his appointed rooms, and the night stretched late by the time Jaskier found his way back, smelling of sweet wine and stumbling slightly.

“Took you long enough,” he said roughly.

“Delicate art, Geralt,” Jaskier hiccoughed, “I work a delicate art.” He hummed as he collapsed into the plush chair Geralt had used to bounce Ciri on his lap.

“What happened?”

“I made a suggestion to a courtesan that my ballad would be incomplete without a reference to Pavetta's eyes,” he explained, eyes unfocused but his expression vaguely satisfied, “and she proudly introduced me to the royal portraitist. After he showed me the completed works, I insinuated it was a grand shame none were made of the little Princess. He was delighted to contradict me. The conversation required an adept discussion of techniques, the stylistic differences between master painter Gawel-”

“What did you find?”

“Calanthe commissioned the portrait, but Duny had a hand in its presentation, particularly the outfit.” He held up a finger. “Outfitssss, pardon me. Apparently something dreadful happened to the first one.”

Geralt thought back to Kaer Morhen and the bundled rags of lace and frills that were stuffed into a crack in the wall to stem a draught.

“What about the outfits?” Geralt asked.

“Duny chose them both, seems, seems the neckline was important,” Jaskier said, lisping a little, before smacking his lips to taste the last of the wine clinging to them. “Needed to show the freckles.”

“Freckles?”

“On her collarbone.”

Geralt knew them. Three larger ones and a smaller one, close to her right collarbone. When he nodded, Jaskier nodded along.

“Gotta be evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

Jaskier did a little play with his fingers, probably trying to indicate people coming and going. “Few years pass, Duny returns with Ciri to claim the crown of Cintra. Gotta prove it's the same girl, and not a pretender.”

Jaskier sat upright and took a long deep breath in, then jolted his body to a stand, the same as he'd done in the past when he'd need to sober up in a hurry.

“Unfortunately,” Jaskier said, with all the focus and determination only a drunk man can provide, “We still have nothing substantial, nothing we can take to Calanthe to prove our theory.”

Geralt shrugged. That didn't bother him. “We'll take it to her when Ciri is back with me and safe.”

Geralt's first mission was to search for Filavandrel, the elven king was sure to know a little of the stranger sort of magics. But after a month of talking to merchant elves and elven magicians, it seemed that their magical study had been too long influenced by this Sphere, and could not even locate the dimeritium in Geralt's saddlebag, much less across the continent.

No, he needed to find a being whose magic was innate.

Geralt turned his attention to the more dangerous creatures, and the sun thawed the ground.

Belleteyn passed, flowers decorating the heads of every young maid as they celebrated the turning of the seasons, but Geralt did nothing to observe the day.

The first time Jaskier and Yennefer met, it was at a festival of Belleteyn in Brugge. The ballroom was full of spectacular outfits and glittering jewels, as the neighbouring royalty tried to out-do each other. Amongst everyone trying to be noticed, Jaskier caught eyes by being the loudest and most confident, and capturing the crowd with each short set of songs upon his lute. Yennefer held everyone's attention by being, well, Yennefer.

They both floated around the ballroom, dipping into conversations and gathering information.

After an evening of trading insults, contemptuous looks and studiously ignoring each other, a serving girl tapped Jaskier on the arm and drew him away from the festivities, hips swaying. She looked plain, obnoxiously plain, so much so that Jaskier's eyes kept sliding from her face. He let his lute hang from his hip as he followed, and when he pulled the girl into one of the many hidden alcoves in the garden - Jaskier knew them all - the glamour fell from her face and Yennefer's violet eyes flashed.

“You're good,” Yennefer said.

“You're amazing,” Jaskier gushed, “the way they're all bowing to your will out there.”

“The ballad of Bran the Conqueror was perfectly timed for my purposes,” Yennefer allowed.

“I know,” Jaskier said with a cocky grin. He heard a couple of guests walking through the gardens nearby and crowded his taller frame over hers. Yennefer obliged, throwing a leg around his hip and performing several moans that wouldn't have been amiss at the Passiflora.

Oh, it had been too long since Jaskier had an acting partner of such high quality.

“Any luck?” he asked in her ear.

“None yet.” Yennefer replied. “There are endless holes he could have hidden himself, so I'm looking for pockets of power shifting and readying. Unfortunately that's constantly happening in politics.”

“I chased a lead in Lyria for three weeks only to find it was just a bastard son causing trouble. Not even an exciting one.”

“I've been slightly more productive. Sodden will attack the Cintran border within a month.”

Jaskier pulled back from where he was simulating mouthing at her neck. “What are you doing? Do you want Cintra to go to war?”

“I'm preventing a war,” Yennefer said dryly. “Cintra is weak and has no heirs. It's what Duny wants, he wants the kingdom friendless and crumbling. Give it a few years, and despair will set in.”

“But if Sodden attacks now…” Jaskier said, beginning to see her plan.

“There is sympathy for Cintra at the moment,” Yennefer agreed. “The old alliances are stronger than ever, and Burgge and Verden would rush to their aid. Besides, I think Calanthe would feel better if she got her teeth into a good battle. No one but an idiot would attack now, even though they're all thinking it.”

“And who would think they're an idiot when Yennefer of Vengerberg is whispering in their ear,” he said, winningly, but then he frowned. “That's long term planning. You're acting like we won't get her back soon.”

“I hope we do. But I'm not, by nature, an optimist.”

“Well… I am.”

“Good. I think we'll need that.”

Eskel investigated and uncovered a succubus ring in Vizima. After a very tense standoff with the leader, in which their weapons were drawn and Eskel's were surrendered. The Witcher had never given up a fight before, let alone before it began, but he laid down both swords on the ground to prove he wasn't there to kill them.

“I only want to talk,” he said quietly, head hanging, then waited for the leader's club to come down and brain him.

But she didn't beat his brains from his head. They talked, and while the succubus was rightly suspicious of a Witcher poking around their highly profitable business, she was generally friendly and was willing to help. Provided, of course, that Eskel helped them first. Seemed they had a spot of bother in a local prostitution ring that thought they could claim forty percent of the succubus' earnings. Eskel didn't, as a rule, harass humans, but as she told their story and showed evidence, he couldn't help but believe them.

They had no magics that could trace to find Ciri, the succubus had informed him sadly, but they had their contacts in nearly every major city and town, and would alert him as soon as they had information.

It wasn't enough, but it was all Eskel could do.

The heat of summer, even in the fading light, made the stench of the bog overwhelming. Geralt was sweating buckets in his armour, but nothing short of the thick leather would be wise to go up against a grave hag as old as the one who lived in the Liga river.

She cackled when she saw him, prancing behind the trees and gravestones, hissing and clicking her long tongue. The hag was old, having proved more trouble than she was worth to most Witchers in decades past, particularly because the region was poor and could only afford a low rate for their services. A few desecrated corpses and the odd eaten cow was the price they decided to pay instead. Her spines were long and sharp protruding from her back.

“Does the Witcher come to bury the dead?” the hag whispered at him. “Or is it to bury himself?”

The thought had, occasionally, crossed his mind. Damn Eskel and his perceptiveness. However-

“Not today,” Geralt answered. “I’m seeking the living.”

The grave hag screeched a laugh. “Seeking the living? And he comes here to my gravesite. Maybe not so living after all.”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” he said. He produced one of his treasures from a pack on his belt, unwinding the cloth that encased it. “You know death. Know the stink of it.”

“Smells so delicious.” The hag grinned her fierce teeth. “All my sisters know it and share it.”

“Have any of your sisters smelled this?”

Geralt held out a small figurine in his gloved hand. Fast as a whip, the grave hag’s tongue shot out and snatched it from him, slicing across the leather on his fingers, but not breaking the skin.

“The cow which gave its milk to this wolf is dead,” the grave hag said. “Died of wasting, waste of dying.” She cackled again, dancing and holding the figurine aloft in her clawed hand.

“The child,” Geralt spat out, panting in the muggy heat, and sweat slid in a hot line down his back. “The child that drank from it. Is she living?”

With both hands the hag lifted the porcelain wolf to her face, sniffing deeply then dragging her long tongue around it. Geralt recoiled.

“Needs it not,” the grave hag said. “Young child is babe no longer.”

“Does she live?”

“Does the Witcher do work and take no coin?” the hag asked. “Does he fill his belly with please and thanks?”

Geralt hadn't been eating much these last few months. Less because of unfulfilled contacts, and more because of his insatiable drive to pace the length of the Continent, meeting up with fellow Witchers and digging into each hole in the ground where monsters lived.

“What payment do you need?” Geralt asked.

“Fresh dead,” the grave hag hissed. “Fat corpses, human, yes.”

“I won't kill for you.”

Again, the grave hag laughed, her pot belly swaying. “I think you will! Desperation carries a smell too. Precedes death often, desperation does, and you stink of it.”

Could he really say that he wouldn't lay waste to fields of men just for the chance to get Ciri back? He'd already imagined a thousand ways Duny's face would twist and turn to rigor under Geralt's punishment.

“I won't kill for you,” he said again, but the words sounded hollow and uncertain even to his own ears, and the grave hag cackled again.

Lambert was scrambling up the mountain range in Mahakam, following up on some unusual rock slides that hit a butcher's wagon, when the stink of trolls confirmed his suspicions.

A boulder flew at his head and he dived into a roll just in time to avoid it.

“Whoa, hey, hey!” Lambert called out, taking refuge behind a sturdy tree.

“Witcherses no up climb trolly mountain!” the booming voice of a rock troll echoed down to him. “Trolls get Witcherses, squish him downs. Paste make!”

A second troll threw another boulder that crashed just feet to the side of Lambert's tree.

“Fucking whoreson goat fuckers. Geralt's gonna owe me for this one,” Lambert muttered to himself, then yelled back. “I'm not here to kill you. I just want to talk.”

“Talk?” the troll barked. Lambert heard the great scraping of stone on stone that indicated the troll was turning to his fellow. “Witchyman says kill no.”

“Witcherses thing one say, thing two do,” the other troll replied sagely. “Thing three do. Sometime.”

“Look, look, I'm unarmed.” It was a lie, of course, Lambert had no fewer than half a dozen other weapons on his body, but the trolls were only interested in the twin swords he tossed to the ground away from the tree. He came out of hiding slowly, his hands up. “I want to talk about monster magic.”

“Trolls monsters... Yes, true is, no face make!"

The other troll pointed one craggy finger at Lambert. “Help no free. You backscratch trolls, trolls make backscratch for you.”

“Alright, you ugly bastard,” Lambert said, crossing his arms. “What d'ya want?”

The rock troll made a face that was about as haughty as a being made of stone could try to make. “Witchyman must teachyteach.”

“Teach you?” Lambert laughed. “The hell you want to learn?”

“Big rocks trolls got. Witcherses make big booms. Big booms get small rocks. You understanded?”

“Yeah, yeah, I understanded. I'll teach you. But you gotta answer my questions first.” He had the feeling that teaching them could take a while. He pulled the chunk of dimeritium that Eskel had handed him from his belt and held it up to them.

“Know what this is?” he asked. One of the trolls took it from him and tapped it against their exposed teeth.

“Dimer-ratty. Good rock.”

“How do we find it?”

“Is here. Find done.”

“Someone took a kid,” Lambert said through gritted teeth. “Locked dimeritium like that on her. Stole her.”

The rock troll with the dimeritium turned to the other and hung its massive head sadly. “Witchyman lost his pebble-ling.”

“Pebblelings always is getting lost,” the other troll reassured him. “Sometime troll move boulder, there him pebbleling, family happy again.”

Lambert rolled his shoulders, as though letting the sentiment roll off of him. “What can you tell me about the rock? Can you trace it?”

“Dimer-ratty no smell give,” the troll informed him, handing it back. “Strong but. Need fire hot hot to melt. Poor pebbleling.”

He hadn't even thought about what they would do with the dimeritium bracelets after they got Ciri back. “How do I break it?”

“Big boomyboom do trick.”

“I don't want a big boomy boom. It needs to break carefully.”

One of the trolls lifted a hand to its exposed maw and grabbed one of the large teeth there. It pulled and the tooth broke free with a sickening crunch, but the troll seemed unaffected.

“Trolly tooth good,” it said.

Lambert arched an eyebrow but tested it on the surface of the dimeritium. He scraped it down the side and a crack appeared.

“Thank you,” he said, oddly touched.

The troll placed a giant, weighty hand on Lambert's shoulder, and he almost buckled under the heft of it.

“Sad not be,” the rock troll said. “Witchyman find will his pebbleling. Is okay.”

Geralt didn't need to kill for the grave hag in the end. Death came to him, as it always had.

War broke out around him, right on the border of Cintra and Sodden. Soldiers and farmhands died in equal measure, but mostly there were long battle lines drawn out and turning the landscape to mud.

Geralt dragged a sled through the smouldering battlefield, fighting rotfiends, and picking up limbs that had been hacked off.

The grave hag hollered with joy when he brought the fragments of the remains to her, crowing as she fed upon them. She licked long stripes up and down the leftover bones, telling Geralt odd little bits about their lives as she read them.

“But what about the girl?” Geralt asked. “You have your payment.”

Still gnawing on a severed leg, the grave hag held up the wolf figurine, her claws encasing it and tempting Geralt to step closer. He took the risk, and plucked it from her hand.

“The child is alive,” the grave hag uttered. “Death has not yet feasted on her bones, but it loves her, will never depart from her. Death will follow the girl like a shadow all the days of her life.”

Geralt clutched the figurine close to his chest, his heart thudding hard under his fingertips.

“Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging. “She takes after me, that way.”

They met in the mountains, in an anonymous tavern frequented by the dregs of society. They both wore their hoods up to shield their faces, at Jaskier's insistence that they shouldn't be seen together.

“It feels like it shouldn't be this difficult,” Yennefer said. “We're both beings created by magic, powerful in our own fields. Why can't we find her?”

“Crippled by something as simple as a rock,” Geralt muttered.

“And a brilliant political mind.” Yennefer said. “I feel like we're chasing ghosts.”

Geralt heaved a sigh. “Ghosts, I can handle,” he said wryly, uncorking the second bottle of vodka and poured them another shot.

“Jaskier sends his love,” Yennefer said. “Or, well, he sang that infuriating ‘Coin’ song and blew a kiss my direction. I think that's the same thing.”

“Where is he now?”

“In Oxenfurt, assembling the most detailed noble family tree of the last fifty years. Looking for holes, I think.”

“Damn thing would be riddled with it.”

“There are infinite places Duny could hide out, it could take years to hunt him out,” Yennefer said.

It took a lot to get Geralt drunk, but it was fast approaching.

“Spend her whole childhood on the run,” he muttered.

Yennefer downed the shot smoothly, then said with a sneer, “Happy childhoods make for boring conversation.”

“Only unhappy people say that,” Geralt answered. “That's not what I want for her.”

“You want better than you've been given,” Yennefer said wisely. “We're all working so hard to get her back. You, me, Jaskier, the Witchers.” She laughed, but it was cruel. “My parents let me live in a pigsty and my father sold me for four marks. What about you, Geralt? How old were you when you were handed off to the Witchers?”

“I wasn't handed,” Geralt answered. “My mother left me on the side of the road. I chased her wagon far as my legs could carry, and when I collapsed, Vesemir found me.”

“And your father?”

“Never knew,” Geralt said simply. “Vesemir became my father. I was four years old.”

“Do you remember her?”

“Bits. Flashes. A hand, her voice.”

They didn't say anything more, but they both thought about it. Even if they found Ciri, would she even remember who he was?

The night dragged on. The barman took away another set of empty steins, then called out to his child to pump more water. Geralt flinched at his harsh voice.

“A father, I have one of those,” he said, his tongue loosened by the drink. “Know how to be one. The whole time Ciri was with me, she was surrounded by menfolk. But she always had Pavetta.”

Yennefer didn’t say anything, her eyes unfocused.

The words kept spilling out of his mouth in fits, as he tried to extricate the complex knot in his chest.

“But a mother- she… being the one that Ciri runs to, makes me wonder how anyone could just… abandon-”

“Your mother was cruel to you,” Yennefer interrupted, swaying a little.

But that wasn’t what Geralt meant, instead he had a different question he had wanted to ask her. It was burning a lump in his throat, but it couldn’t escape.

Geralt took the long, winding and dangerous route through the forests near the battlefield between Cintra and Sodden. The campaign had been going on for weeks, but Geralt tried to skirt the edges of it to try and get to the Yaruga without too much trouble. The route around the battle was full of dangers - monsters and creatures and men who were fleeing from the armies, but all of those things, Geralt could handle.

It was tainted water that almost felled him.

He'd thought that the headwater of the river curved away from the battlefield, but perhaps a second channel ran into it from there, or by some other means, the water had become infected.

He should have known, the moment Roach refused to drink from it, but he hadn't eaten a proper meal in too many days, and water was the only thing on hand to fill his stomach. He'd drunk deeply from the river, and only hours later he'd fallen from Roach into the soft mud, stomach cramping and barely having enough time to shuck off his clothes before he upended what meagre food there was left in his stomach, and shat out everything else.

Roach huffed at the display, standing a good distance away. It was nothing she hadn't seen before. Usually Witchers recovered quickly from sicknesses like that, but Geralt found himself unable to get up. Unable to move much of anything from weakness. And then he started shivering.

He was mostly naked on the ground, clothed in little but his undershirt with his braise around his knees, his armour piled up beside him. The air held a chill as it turned towards winter, and it wasn't long before the ground itself was sapping the heat from him. But it wasn't the weather that made his body convulse, it was the infection in his gut.

He moaned a little, shutting his eyes. His quest had given him determination to move through the Continent and not give in to the temptation to lie down under the attack of a monster. Dying in a ditch, surrounded by shit and vomit would be a poor showing. What would Ciri-

Geralt continued to convulse, his feverish brain losing track of time and the world around him.

He heard voices yelling over the top of each other.

He thought of Ciri.

He heard nothing but the birds, not even Roach's familiar breathing.

He thought of Ciri.

His teeth chattered.

He thought of Yennefer and Ciri, happy with the fantasy that at least the mage would continue on the quest.

Kiss-a-better.

Geralt groaned. Life saving water was being dripped carefully into his open mouth, wetting his cracked lips. In vain he tried to open his eyes, but they were practically fused shut. He jolted.

“Peace, my friend,” an unfamiliar voice said, male and smooth. A wet cloth wiped across his face. “You very nearly died.”

His eyes freed from the gunk that congealed them, Geralt opened them to see who saved him.

A man leaned over him, face pale and wrinkled with age, but warm and friendly as he smiled. He had grey hair on his cheeks and a high regal brow, and narrow face, but his shabby clothes made him look like someone who worked in a bookshop.

“Back with us?” the man said. “Good.”

“Us?” Geralt croaked.

The man nodded over his shoulder, and with great effort, Geralt raised his head to see Roach tossing her head.

“That's a loyal beast you have there,” the man said.

Geralt smiled and sank back down. The man continued to tend to him as he spoke, giving him small amounts of water from a water skin, wiping him free of mud and wrapping a blanket around him.

“Found her for sale in the Cintran refugee camp,” the man said as he worked, “your personal effects included, on account of the biting and kicking, no one could get close enough to take them from her. She led me straight to you.”

“You, you bought her?” Geralt croaked out.

“Certainly not, I stole her.” his rescuer said mildly. “Seems to me she was stolen in the first place.”

Geralt laughed, some of his strength returning.

“Name's Geralt,” he said.

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Regis to my friends, barber-surgeon and scholar, at your service.” Regis bowed his head.

“And I'm grateful for your service,” Geralt said. “Thank you.”

“Eat that,” Regis said, putting a bit of hard tack in Geralt's hand and the water skin in the other.

He continued to tend to Geralt for the next hour or two, then, realising that after dehydration, the next most pressing issue was hunger, Regis went about building a fire and collecting roots to make a soup.

Roach even let him approach her and collect Geralt's pot off her saddle, something that surprised the Witcher. It seemed this Regis had a way with animals.

Regis boiled water over the campfire and began adding roots and herbs from his own pack. It might have just been the hunger, but it smelled divine.

The result was a watery thin broth, but it restored Geralt's energy at a fast pace, and soon he was dressed and standing up so long as he could lean his weight on Regis' shoulder. The old man stood strong underneath him.

“I have a shelter not far from here,” Regis said, pushing Geralt up to sit on Roach's back.

“Why?”

“Pardon?”

“Why do you have a shelter in the middle of the woods?”

Regis smiled and took Roach's reins. The damn animal didn't even bite at his fingers. “It is beneficial to my work.”

Geralt frowned at that.

“And, may I ask,” Regis siad, his voice light and airy, “did you also have some work in these woods, Witcher? A contract perhaps?”

“Not really,” Geralt said. “Unless you've seen monsters here?”

“Oh,” Regis said with a sigh. “There are always monsters in woods like these.”

Geralt held onto the saddle as Regis led Roach through the woods, completely at the mercy of the barber-surgeon. The shelter Regis had referred to came into view, an overgrown cottage with the roof half-caved in.

“It's been a while since I came here,” Regis admitted, helping Geralt down and half-carrying him with very little effort. The door had fallen in, but a few of the rooms stood sturdy, if dusty and filled with plants growing through every crack. Some of the trees were thick with age.

“How long, exactly?” Geralt asked dryly. Regis smiled, but didn't answer.

Three ravens stood on the windowsill, black eyes watching but not startled by the two men who made their way inside. Regis went to them and spoke in some low language that Geralt didn’t recognise. One of the ravens departed, but the other two watched silently.

Geralt was deposited on the low bed that was, miraculously, still intact. He leaned up against the wall and watched the barber-surgeon carefully.

“The truth is that I am seeking someone,” Geralt said, “and I think a monster might be able to help.”

“Oh?”

“Regis, you're a scholar, and you know these woods,” Geralt said. “Does anything live here which could find someone in hiding? Someone who wears dimeritium.”

“It's my understanding that very little can find someone who doesn't want to be found, but a Witcher always surprises,” Regis said.

“He stole my daughter. Chained her up with pretty bracelets.”

Regis’s black eyes stared at him.

“Like I said. A Witcher always surprises,” the stranger said.

“So. Do you know of anything?”

Regis sighed. “Yes, yes I know a little. A vampire may be able to help.”

Geralt suddenly became very aware that he was lying prone on a bed, weak and still recovering, with a stranger lingering over him, sharing his deepest secrets with someone who could be very dangerous.

“In my experience,” Geralt said carefully, “katakans and bruxae are more likely to kill on sight than to help me.”

“Not all vampires. For example, some of the higher ones-”

“Please,” Geralt begged.

Regis’ hand moved from the bag strap that crossed his chest to his face, and he stroked his chin in thought. “Do you know, roughly, where they are hiding? The region.”

“They could be anywhere on the Continent.”

“That makes things difficult.” Regis answered. “Higher vampires are powerful but, for the most part, focused, local. They would only be able to find her if they knew where to look.”

“For the most part?”

“For the most part,” Regis agreed. “To increase a vampire’s power would require a lot of blood. Human blood.”

Geralt had already desecrated corpses in his search, and Yennefer had started a war.

Regis seemed to sense his thoughts, because he added, “And any vampires who already feed on humans are not worth bargaining with.”

Geralt sank back against the wall. “You won't help me.”

“I can't help you, Geralt,” Regis clarified. “Not until you've narrowed down the places they could be hidden.” Then, continuing the ruse that they were speaking hypothetically, he added, “Of course, if one did figure out a rough location, and require a higher vampire's help, one would merely need to tell a raven.”

“Which raven?”

“Any raven. The message would be carried through to where it needed to go.”

Geralt closed his eyes. It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough.

“Thank you, Regis,” he said anyway.

His quest wasn't finished, but the nights in Vengerberg were long and cold, and winter was fast approaching. After talking for hours, Geralt interrupted her with a kiss, finally, finally pushing Yennefer back into her bedding, giving her everything, every touch, caress, his whole being, his every thought, and their mouths were hot and fast together. Almost a year they had known each other, and it had built a deep bond of trust between them.

In the morning light, Geralt lay on his back, eyes shut, Yennefer pressed against his hip and propped up on her elbow as she watched him. Her fingers trailed possessively across his skin and scars.

“Are you satisfied?” he rumbled.

“Not remotely,” she replied, and pressed a kiss to his lips, then another, then another.

Winter set in and froze the land, but for the first time in decades, Geralt didn't return to the halls of Kaer Morhen. He met Eskel on the Path at Rinde, and Lambert at Vergen. Coën was on the Skellige islands, talking with druids about how the storm that destroyed the boat could have been summoned, but his research was slowed by the Witchering work that needed to be done. All the sirens and drowners of the land don't stop for one desperate father.

Boy,

There's not much I can do from here. Winter was quiet. I found this original manuscript in the library. Monck worked on the first Witcher mutagens.

Tell Eskel to brew his potions correctly, no matter what Lambert says.

-V

Extract from the personal ledger of Geoffrey Monck, mage and founding member of the Chapter of the Gift and the Art, and author of Natural Magic, among others:

One spectre did prove too sore to controleth, and I did cast the vessel into the waters which wouldst house it evermore.

Departing yond lodging, I journey'd onward two days, and arriv'd at La Valette.

The fragment of a diary that Vesemir had sent was from the famous sorcerer's travels up the Pontar, known then as the River of Alabaster Bridges. The journey ended at Loc Muinne, so he must have been travelling eastward.

Geralt unfolded a map of the Continent, an expensive and large copy, where he'd marked all the information and locations his allies had supplied. He placed his finger on La Valette and traced it west along the strip of blue, until it arrived at Rinde.

Something elemental, powerful and otherworldly was hidden in the river at Rinde.

Chapter Text

Winter lingered in the air for weeks after Belletyn, even the verbena flowers had frost clinging to their buds. It was as though time itself was slowing, refusing to believe that over a full year had passed since the Princess left the halls of Kaer Morhen.

Geralt stood in his rolled up trousers, loose shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows at the banks of the river Pontar, throwing a net across it, then dragging it back up to the surface.

Behind him there was the familiar sound and rush of air that denoted a portal opening.

Yennefer said nothing when she stepped through, looking up and around where Geralt found himself. He sniffed the air, her perfume of lilac and gooseberries, and something with tannins.

”How is Toussaint this time of year?” he asked, gathering the net together in his hands again, before tossing it so it spread over the water.

”In a word? Sumptuous,” Yennefer said. “A lady could retire there happily and never bore of wines to try.” Then she answered the real question he asked. “Stronger tariffs are being imposed on the duchy by Nilfgaard. There could be more to investigate further south.”

Geralt didn't pause in his efforts, didn't turn and embrace her, but after a year of knowing him, she knew it was not an insult, just the actions of a mind dedicated to the task in front of him.

She inspected his skin as it flexed and moved.

“That's a new scar,” she said mildly.

“Ghoul didn't believe my offer,” Geralt answered, hauling the net back in, “thought I was trying to trick her.”

Yennefer looked up at the trees by the riverbank, the sunlight warm but weak against the unseasonably cold spring wind.

“Rinde,” she said. “Back where we started, literally and figuratively.”

He knelt over the pile of netting, tossing the few unlucky fish back into the water and sorting out the debris.

“What are you doing?” Yennefer asked.

“Fishing for Djinn,” Geralt answered gruffly. “See that book there?”

Yennefer frowned at the ancient diary so haphazardly left open on a tree stump, fragile papers flicking in the wind. She took it and smoothed down the page, skimming over it.

“Legend says Geoffrey Monck used to capture Djinn, bottle them, and used their power as his own,” Geralt said, casting the net again.

Yennefer sat down on a rock by the riverbed. Magic kept her elaborate dress clean.

“You believe that?” she asked. “Geralt, that's just a legend.”

“I started with facts,” he said, “when I ran out, I turned to rumours, stories, now I'm up to legends. I'm thinking of trying myths next.”

She looked up at the landscape around her. “If these sketches are correct,” she started, and Geralt just grunted in answer.

She watched for a moment, at his slow, effortful work, and for the first time in a long time, felt something akin to hope.

“What's the point of that silver medallion around your neck if you won't even use it to find a magical artefact?” she asked.

Geralt gestured at the Pontar, fast flowing. “River's deep,” he said. “I would drown before I could do a thorough search of a few feet of it. I almost did. Twice.”

Yennefer smiled. “Well it's a shame there's no sorceress nearby who could use magic to let you breathe underwater.”

Geralt stood back at the riverbank, this time without his shirt, his twin medallions resting on his chest. His trousers were already wet from standing in the river, and in his hand he held a rope, the other end tied to a sturdy tree upstream.

“Ready?” Yennefer asked, her arm outstretched.

Geralt downed a potion of Cat, closing his eyes as the toxin took hold, then he nodded. The power of her spell slammed into him, and he dove into the water. She'd told him to inhale water as soon as the spell was cast, and it was his unerring trust in her that made him obey. His lungs filled with chilled water, not yet warmed by the spring sun, and he pushed past the panicking feeling of drowning until the magic took hold and his blood began taking oxygen from the water. He opened his eyes, the Cat potion helping him see through the muck and darkness. He swam downwards in the rushing water, winding the rope around his hand until it held him steady along the bottom of the river

“Now, you certainly do have an interesting mind,” Yennefer's voice spoke in his brain.

He startled, but Yennefer just laughed. “You didn't think I would just sit up here bored, did you? ”

He supposed not. “Wouldn't be like you,” he admitted, thinking the thought quite clearly. “Don't go digging,” he added as a warning.

“Relax, Geralt, this is barely mind reading. I'm just a second set of eyes here.”

He could feel her presence in his mind, and behind his blackened eyes, as he swam the full length of the Pontar underwater. He used the rope to keep his location steady, mentally marking out the places he'd already searched. Occasionally Yennefer would dryly comment, “Missed a spot,” and Geralt would haul himself through the water, swim closer to the riverbed and clench a hand over the medallions. While he swam, they talked a little, recounting the last few weeks since they saw each other last.

It was a futile effort, really. The river had likely changed course a dozen times in the centuries since Geoffrey Monck, anyone could have walked by and picked up the old relic, discarded it anywhere, what were the chances that-

His medallion started humming.

“There,” Yennefer said, right as he dived again, following the path that made the vibrations stronger. He plunged his hands into the soft mud of the riverbed while his medallion vibrated against his chest, until-

“Yes!” they both thought in unison, as his fingers closed around a pottery handle. With a vacuum suck of the mud, it released to him.

Geralt surfaced, the spell quickly dissipating and the water in his lungs vanishing. He hauled himself through the river back to where Yennefer stood, alert and watching.

When he arrived on the riverbank, Geralt carefully handled the artefact and looked it over.

It looked ordinary, unpainted brown clay, a bottle that could have held oil in a time long gone, but on the seal was an imprint of a broken cross and a nine-pointed star.

“Careful, careful,” Yennefer said, even as he laid it gently with two hands on a nearby tree stump.

Then he went to his saddle and his effects.

“What are you doing?” Yennefer asked.

“I don't make a habit of facing a monster half-naked,” he answered, pulling out his armour and swords.

With a rush of air, she cast a spell to dry him thoroughly, and he dressed quickly, the spring sun warming his skin. He'd waited over a year, he could wait for the final preparations. Ciri had just turned three years of age, her second birthday while unable to come to him.

He was going to get her back.

He prepared, as best he could, to face the power of the Djinn, Yennefer at his side.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded firmly, eyes trained on the amphora, already drawing Power to herself in case it tried to lash out.

Geralt broke the pot, clenching the fragment with the seal in his hand.

A whirlwind poured out from the clay bottle, black and red whisps, almost imperceptible. The Djinn spun around them, the element of the air throwing up dirt and water and everything else as it celebrated its release.

Geralt brandished the seal and uttered some words in the Elder tongue, trying to rein in the monster's power, and struggling even more to keep hold of his desperate emotions.

Ciri was right within his grasp, all he had to do was speak the words.

The whirlwind picked up speed and power, branches cracking overhead, and Yennefer tried to contain it. The Djinn's power over the air almost stole the breath from Geralt's lungs, but he summoned enough to make his wish.

“I wish Ciri would come back to me!” Geralt yelled at the Djinn. “You hear me? I wish she would be safe by my side!”

With a whoosh, and a screech, the black and red wisps of the powerful creature flew, upwards and away, taking with it the oppressive weight in the atmosphere.

“It's escaping!” Yennefer yelled, casting a bolt of light at the retreating monster.

A whip of air slammed into her, throwing her against a tree, then she fell, prone, to the ground.

“Yen!” he yelled, running to her. He dropped the seal to the ground by her, then grabbed her face in both hands. “Come on, Yen, come on,” he said through clenched teeth.

Her eyelashes fluttered, and she groaned. He slumped over her, pressing their foreheads together. Another dead end, another disappointment. At least Yen was alright, groaning as she got up.

She looked at the sky, still and quickly returning to normal. Like they had never opened the amphora.

“So,” she said, grabbing his hand. “Myths next?”

Geralt had kept a few carp from his earlier fishing endeavours, and it made a suitable lunch. They roasted them over the campfire coals, the sun warming them through the trees.

“Starting to at least feel like spring,” Geralt muttered.

“Mm, the flowers will finally bloom properly" Yennefer said.

That's what they'd been reduced to. Talking about the weather.

“Do-” Geralt's voice failed him, so he summoned his strength and tried again. “Do you think I fulfilled my destiny?”

“Geralt, don't be ridiculous.”

“She was my child of surprise,” he said roughly. “She surprised me, I had two years with her. Was that it?”

Yennefer watched the Witcher carefully. “You told me that at first you didn't even want to claim her until she was, what was the phrase? Oh yes, ‘old enough to saddle her own damn horse’. There’s plenty of destiny still to go round after she reaches the age of majority.”

He broke a twig in half and threw it into the fire. “Still doesn't seem right. If I've lost her until Duny trots her out for the crown, then what's a Princess gonna need a Witcher for?”

“Well, one thing I know about Princesses,” Yennefer said slyly. “They love to be rescued and taken on adventures.”

The day slogged into the afternoon, and Yennefer instructed Geralt to eat a second helping of the fish while she sat behind him on a log and combed his hair. She had never met him before he started his quest and started sacrificing everything for the chance to get his Ciri back, but from what Jaskier had told her, Geralt from before then had a tendency to enjoy the finer things of life. From the way he smelled her perfume and the times he carefully brushed her hair in return, she tended to agree.

His eyes were closed as the brush tugged through his hair, his head tilted to the side so she could get at a patch that knotted behind his ear in the Djinn's whirlwind.

With a jerking movement, Geralt stiffened between her legs, a hand grabbing her ankle as he froze, head still tilted.

“What's that noise?”

Yennefer strained to hear it. Rushing, like a great torrent of water, and in the distance, screaming.

Geralt's hand leapt to touch his medallion. “Ciri!”

He was on his feet in an instant, silver sword in his hand, standing with his feet planted firmly as he watched the storm roll in above their heads.

The air pressure weighed on them heavily, squeezing the two of them as the dark clouds covered the sun. And there, rushing towards them was a set of black and red whisps, and in the centre, a tiny figure.

Ciri was being carried in the winds that made up the Djinn, her small body thrown around by the tornado, all the way from the mountains to the banks of the Pontar where they stood.

“Ciri!” Geralt bellowed.

The Djinn and its whirlwind came to settle over the river's waters, Ciri held in the air, as unreachable as she had been when she was stolen. She was crying, Geralt could now see, screaming and red-faced.

Yennefer threw out a spell that took the form of a golden whip. It snaked through the whirlwind and wrapped around Ciri's leg. She moved to drag in the rope, but the Djinn was more powerful, it grasped the spell, and at the other end, Yennefer screamed out in pain, dropping her magic quickly.

“I made my wish!” Geralt yelled. “What do you want?”

“It's not releasing her,” Yennefer realised, aghast. “It's holding her ransom, Geralt, you need-”

She made a choked off noise, and at first Geralt didn't take his eyes off Ciri's tiny form floating above the river, but after a moment, Yennefer made another short groaning sound.

He risked a glance. Yennefer stood, her head tilted back. Her own breath was being stolen. Her hair swirled above her head as her lungs emptied.

“Yen!” Geralt yelled, but Ciri was screaming above his head, and Yennefer's lips were turning purple. He was caught between the two of them, and the monster reared up again, threatening with all its otherworldly power against everything the Witcher loved.

Ransom, ransom, ransom for what? Geralt had already cast his wish, and Ciri was just there, out of his grasp, hovering threateningly over the fast flowing river which had been the Djinn's watery tomb for centuries.

Hundreds of years imprisoned, wanting freedom, and Geralt had only cast one wish from three.

He felt the sharp vibration of his medallion, which gave him just enough warning to dive out of the way before the Djinn hit him with a spell. He scrambled through the dirt to grab the seal which had dropped there, gripping it fully in the palm of his hands, and spoke words which were drowned out by the rushing wind.

An unholy screech followed immediately after the speaking of his second wish, and the Djinn rushed at the riverbank.

“And for my last wish-” Geralt started, but he was hit square in the chest by the powerful Djinn, silver sword cutting through air. The breath was punched out of his lungs as he was launched backwards, and at the same time that Yennefer made a haggard sound, released from the Djinn's power and finally drawing in air.

“Ciri!” she screamed. The Djinn's whirlwind abandoned her, and she fell, hurtling towards the water. Yennefer threw out her arm, summoning a spell to catch the falling child. She caught her. The Djinn fled, escaping into the world, and they could finally breathe again.

With the last of her strength, Yennefer pulled the spell back, and Ciri's tiny form flew into Geralt's open arms.

“I've got you, I've got you,” Geralt chanted, clutching her close. The child was still screaming and crying, terrified and unhearing. “It's me, it's your Geralt, I've got you.”

Her hair was longer, she was heavier, taller, she'd lost a lot of the baby fat in her arms and legs, but she was still a child. One that had been picked up and flown through the air across the Continent. She must have been so scared, so terrified.

Geralt's voice didn't calm her, nor his hands stroking up and down her back, just like he used to.

Then she started shuddering in his arms, like she was shaking with a fever, moving jerkily.

“What's happening?” he demanded.

Yennefer was kneeling at his side, and outstretched a hand to sense the child. “She's trying to access her Power,” she said.

Tiny hands beat against Geralt's armoured chest. Around her wrists were two small, intricate silver bands.

“Get the tools,” Geralt ordered.

Yennefer ran to Roach's pack, to the blacksmithing tool that had a troll's tooth set in its head.

Geralt grabbed her hand and pressed it still against his chest, over his heart, pinning it still. The offending bracelet shone like precious silver in the mid-afternoon light, but Geralt had never seen something so ugly. Ciri continued to thrash, so he held her down with his other arm, apologising and shushing her all the while.

Yennefer placed the end with the troll's tooth against the metal, and with precision, she brought the hammer down on it.

The bracelet cracked, enough that Geralt could pry it off with his fingers.

“The other,” Yennefer said, and they repeated the process with her other arm.

With no ceremony, the bracelets were dropped into the dirt, and forgotten.

Instantly, emerald light shone, so brightly that Geralt shielded his eyes, and Ciri began… stuttering in his lap, flickering in and out of existence with quick flashes of light. With all her Power rushing back into her, it was like she was losing grip on space itself.

Geralt clung to her, as best he could, holding her steady through it all, murmuring to her like he did when she was a baby.

“I've got you, I've got you, that's it, shhh, Geralt's got you. I'm right here.”

One final flash, and she settled into his lap, a consistent and heavy weight. He tucked her head under his chin, squeezing his eyes shut as tears welled up. She hiccoughed some final sobs and wiped her snot on his shirt, rubbing her head against him.

Small hands touched the chain around his neck, the medallion that had hummed so violently with Ciri's magic. Geralt drew back a little, just enough to see her face again.

Fuck, she looked so different, so much older.

Ciri was slow and gentle as she touched the silver medallion, her fingers running over it thoughtfully. Then she lifted it up, and underneath, saw the smaller, wooden one that she had worn for so long. Her little face frowned, and Geralt's breath stopped short.

She looked up at his grizzled face, assessing him warily. He wore the ageing of the past year poorly, he knew it, knew that someone as precious as Ciri should never have taken in with a mutant like himself in the first place, knew he couldn't offer her anything like crowns and safety that Duny or Calanthe could.

But still, he hoped, he wanted- She had to know him.

“Hey, Buttercup,” he whispered, one broad hand touching the side of her face. “Ciri-girl, I'm your Geralt. Gonna get you back to Grandmama. Yaya, Essa, Yamba, Vesemir, we've all been searching for you.”

Ciri, usually so expressive and open, just looked away from his face, back to the wooden medallion at his throat.

“It's yours,” he said, voice cracking.

“’m very tired,” Ciri spoke softly.

Sentences, full sentences.

“Then sleep, Buttercup,” Geralt urged her, a hand on the back of her head tucking her against his chest protectively.

Ciri heaved little sobs that turned into soft, regular breathing as she fell quickly to sleep, her hand clutched around the wolf's head medallion.

As soon as she fell asleep, Yennefer sat back, sagging as the adrenaline faded.

“Your quest is over,” she said. Her eyes watched sharply as Geralt pressed a kiss to Ciri's head. “You got your wish.”

“Only two of them.”

“Geoffrey Monck may have used one before the Djinn was bottled.”

Yennefer reached out a hand towards the two of them, but stopped short, eyes blazing.

“Yen,” Geralt said, trying to placate her.

She snatched her hand away and stood, towering over them where Geralt was sprawled on the ground. “Witcher, what did you do?”

“I'm sorry,” Geralt said.

“You bound me,” Yennefer hissed, the two of them keeping their voices low rather than disturb the sleeping child.

“You were dying, Yen,” he said, “the Djinn was killing you. The wish had to be about you.”

“What was it that you bound? My magic?”

“No, no,” Geralt said desperately. His eyes were prickling.

So many things that had been taken from him, his mother, his childhood, his own eyes. He knew he looked pathetic on the ground, clutching Ciri to himself and begging, yearning for this one thing he had wanted for himself, but had been denied by his mutations and his profession. And for once he wanted to be greedy, to get everything he ever wanted, and fulfill Yennefer's desires as well.

He hoped he was right.

“My wish fulfilled your quest too,” he said with a boldness he didn't feel. “I know what you were searching for yourself.” He looked down at the child that was sleeping in his arms, her face squished against his armour.

Yennefer shook her head, and for one awful moment, his heart sank.

A short sob escaped her, and she put a hand to her mouth to hide it.

“I never told you,” Yennefer insisted. “I never said that the thing I wanted was a baby.”

“Yen.” Geralt smiled out of the side of his mouth. “It's been almost a year. I'd like to think I know you a little.”

“I didn't want you thinking I was a baby stealing witch,” she said. “That wasn't why I helped you.”

“You helped me, because, much as you loathe to admit it, you are a good person, Yen. And why you ever wanted a mutant like me-”

“I hate that word,” Yennefer said sharply. “Don't talk like that.”

Geralt's smile widened, proven right. Yennefer couldn't meet his eyes, so she looked at Ciri, angling her head so she could see the sleeping girl's face.

“She's a real beauty,” Yennefer said.

Geralt carefully stood, Ciri's arms slumping down over his shoulders, and looked down at her. Both of them watching over the girl let a warmth bloom in some sealed away section of his heart.

He could spend a lifetime standing at Yennefer's side and looking at the same thing together.

“You didn't tell me her Power was so strong,” Yennefer said.

“She's going to need you, Yen.” Geralt cupped a hand on Yennefer's jaw, his fingertips burying in her hair. She leant into his touch, and pressed her palm against his hand, holding him there.

“When you made your wish,” she said slowly, “you bound my destiny. Did you bind me to yourself? Or to her?”

Geralt never knew a heart could be so full that it could feel it would burst at the seams.

“I don't know,” he said honestly. “What's the difference?”

Chapter Text

Ciri slept until long after the sun had set. Yennefer conjured up her customary luxurious tent, but Geralt stayed with Ciri outside. The last thing he wanted was for her to wake up scared and somewhere unfamiliar. While they had never come to Rinde before, when Ciri was with Geralt they spent half their time living in campsites with few benefits of civilisation beyond Jaskier's music and the occasional honeycake.

He didn't know how much she would remember from her first two years of life, but he hoped that environment, at least, would be familiar.

Geralt fed the fire quietly and used his boot knife to carve shards off a softwood stick. He needed to do something with his hands that would slow them down and calm his mind. He wouldn't sleep while Ciri slept. He stood up again and squatted by the fire, pushing another log onto the coals. When he looked up again at Ciri, he saw twin emerald eyes staring up at him from where she'd been buried in his blankets and bedding.

She was awake, but hadn't made any noise or movement, only observed him carefully.

“You're awake,” Geralt said. “Would you like something to eat?”

Ciri shook her head. He didn't believe her, but he offered her the water skin instead. “Drink that.”

She sipped it obediently. “We on 'venture,” Ciri said quietly. Geralt supposed they were. “Where are we?”

“We're near the Pontar river, a few weeks away from Cintra.” He didn't expect her to know the river, but he had hoped she would at least recognise the name of her homeland, but she just stared back at him. She pushed back her hair from her face in a way that was equally like a baby and like a young girl. Golden hair, Pavetta's hair.

“We gonna do caves again,” Ciri said matter-of-factly, untangling herself from the bedding.

“We are?” Geralt asked.

“Mhmm,” Ciri said.

She stood up and dusted herself off. “Go see the mermaids.” She held out a hand towards him, and he almost took it, when Ciri snatched it back. He followed her eyeline to where it was locked. Yennefer stood at the entrance of her tent, her dress and hair immaculate as always, her hands clasped in front of her, and looking very out of place in the wilderness.

“Hello, Cirilla,” she said.

Ciri attempted a curtsy.

“Ciri, this is Yennefer,” Geralt said.

The little girl reached out a hand towards Geralt again, and he took it. She pulled him down until he was crouching, his arm wrapping around her instinctively so she could lean into his chest, cup a hand around his ear and whisper to him.

Geralt listened carefully, then translated for Yennefer.

“She, uh, she wants to know if you're the elf queen.”

Yennefer smiled. “Not quite, though I have met her.”

Ciri's eyes widened.

“I've met the elf king,” Geralt added, for no particular reason.

“You must be hungry, Ciri,” Yennefer said. She put a hand behind her back and magicked up an apple. Ciri was hesitant, and nudged Geralt to take it for her. Her eyes were big and half hidden under her golden hair, but she willingly ate the slices of apples Geralt carved off with his knife. Where did his fierce wolfcub go? The one who shouted down Lambert for the crime of snatching away Geralt's last bread roll. The one who glared at Mousesack, stomping her feet and refused to play with him because he tickled her for a few seconds too long. She'd been transformed into this shy little thing, too quiet to even talk out loud.

She put her mouth to his ear again and whispered.

“Do you want me to tell Yennefer?” Geralt asked. Ciri nodded, so he passed along the message. “She said that you can play the mermaid, Lady Yennefer.”

Yennefer's smile was true, but strained. “That sounds delightful, Ciri, but first we all need a little more to eat. Geralt, a word.”

They left Ciri sitting by the fire, while they collected the nuts and berries from Geralt's saddlebag and spoke quietly. 

“She's taking it well,” Geralt said, glancing over his shoulder, watching Ciri take small bites from the apple slices. 

“Too well,” Yennefer said. “I don't think she understands.”

Geralt folded his arms over his chest. “She knows me.”

“Yes, curious, isn't it? I don't think Duny would encourage the memory.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think she utilised the only magical power native to all children and which cannot be squashed by dimeritium.”

Geralt looked at her stupidly, and endeared himself to her yet again.

“Imagination,” she told him.

“So I'm, what, her imaginary friend?”

Yennefer placed a hand on his arm. “She lost her mother, her home, everything she remembered. Wouldn't you hold tightly to the memory of a mighty protector?”

The three of them sat around the glowing fire, Ciri cuddled up under Geralt's arm and whispering things to him to relay to Yennefer. It was a confusing conversation, where lots of their questions went unanswered or Ciri seemed to answer a completely different question. She couldn't tell them where she had been, what her Father was planning, or whether she even truly remembered Geralt. The most they could get from her was that she did lessons with Nanny, but Ciri would rather play out stories from her storybooks. At that point, Yennefer insisted that they must have tea to drink, and fetched a delicate tea set from her tent. Ciri sat up properly like a little lady, taking the teacup with all delicate manners, while Geralt's large hand wrapped around his own and he felt rather like a rock troll.

“Who else might we see in your storybook game?” Yennefer asked.

Ciri whispered again, and Geralt answered for her.

“A mouse, a bird, and some giants. And apparently her unicorn.”

Yennefer stifled a laugh. She glanced up at Geralt across the fire. “The bird, I would wager, we both know well.” She leant over to Ciri and mock-whispered over their teacups, like so many ladies of court sharing gossip. “I think your bird got turned back into a man!”

“Still dresses like a damned peacock, though,” Geralt added.

Ciri put her hands on Geralt's scratchy cheeks and turned his head towards her, making sure he was attentive. Seemingly forgetting that Yennefer could hear her, she asked, “And the gold fairy?”

Geralt felt the soft hum of his medallion that indicated Yennefer was using her mind reading magic.

“Oh, little thing,” she said sorrowfully.

Geralt didn't need to be a mind reader to know who a lonely little girl would cast as the most beautiful creature. Geralt brushed a hand across Ciri's golden hair and kissed her forehead.

“I think it's time you went to sleep, Buttercup,” he said, instead of answering. When Ciri nodded, he picked her up and tucked her into the middle of the large bed in Yennefer's tent. Her hands fisted in Geralt's shirt, so he lay down beside her.

“Don't go,” Ciri said, loud enough that Yennefer could hear where she lit the candles on the table.

Yennefer sat on the other side of her, unclasping her dress so she could lie down in her shift. Ciri buried herself deep in the blankets, still hanging onto Geralt, but she reached out with one foot to touch Yennefer too.

The two parents locked eyes over her sleeping form. Geralt was sure he could spend the whole night staring at Ciri's face, squished into a pillow, analysing her expressions and how she'd grown over the past year, but he soon found himself succumbing to sleep as well.

After a year of searching, he could finally rest.

Ciri was absolutely delighted to see Roach again in the morning, but the beast was indifferent to her.

“My unicorn!” Ciri squealed, right in Geralt's ear as he was giving her a piggyback. “Where's her horn?”

“She, uh, lost it,” Geralt said. “Roach put all her magic into bringing you back to me.”

Roach snuffled.

“Away from Father?”

Geralt couldn't read any specific emotion in the way she asked it. “Yes, Buttercup,” he said. “You're going to stay with me a while.” He couldn't tell if she thought that was good news or not.

Yennefer used magic to collapse her tent and all her belongings, until it was as small as a piece of paper, and she folded it into an envelope.

Geralt bounced Ciri around on his back for a little while, helped her pat Roach on the nose, then set her down on a rock so they could look each other in the eye.

“Ciri,” he started, then floundered a little, not sure how to continue. “Ciri, there are a lot of people who miss you, and want to see you. Some of them are my friends, some are your family.”

She frowned at him, but just silently fiddled with his medallion.

“There will be a lot of people, a lot of them will want to hug you, talk to you, but you don't have to do anything you don't want to. You can whisper to me, or Yennefer. I'll carry you, and no one is going to take you away.”

Behind them, Yennefer took Roach's reins in hand and cast a spell. Dirt and leaves lifted from the ground, spinning until a circular portal opened up. Through the portal, Geralt could see glimpses of the Cintran palace in the distance.

“We're ready,” Yennefer said.

“Let's go,” Geralt said, but Ciri shook her head. She gripped the humming medallion tightly and glared at the portal.

“No,” she said quietly.

“Just a few steps, Ciri,” Geralt encouraged her, lifting her up onto his hip. “It won't feel good, but it'll be quick.”

“No, no!” Ciri sobbed, as they walked towards the portal. “Don't do it! Don't make me!”

“Ciri-” Yennefer started, raising a hand.

“NO!”

Power burst from the tiny girl in her scream, a mountainous roar that shuddered the air. Yennefer was knocked backwards, Roach reared and whinnied, galloping to the safety of the river, the portal dissipated, and a fallen tree was split in two pieces.

Ciri sobbed, her face pressed to Geralt's neck.

“It's okay, it's okay,” Geralt hushed her. “We go the slow way. I'm sorry, Ciri, I'm so sorry.”

Ciri was much bigger, but she could still sit on Geralt's lap while he rode Roach. Yennefer bought a horse at Rinde, a black gelding that she bid Ciri to name. Ciri shyly refused, but later that day she whispered to Geralt that Moonlight looked bigger than Roach, but Roach was faster, wasn't she, Geralt?

A year ago, more, in some tavern while Jaskier played songs and Ciri stood on her own two feet and tried to dance along, old woman had caught Geralt staring at the toddler and smiled wisely.

“Break your heart, don't they?” she'd said.

Geralt thought he understood back then. But riding along with Ciri on his lap and shyly peering at the world as it passed her by, he couldn't help repeatedly but cup her head in his palm and kiss the crown of her hair.

They rode mostly in silence. Just when Yennefer suggested stopping for a midday break, Geralt realised Ciri had fallen asleep against his chest, so tired as she was by the chaos of the day before. Or maybe children her age still had naps. Despite all his searching and his mind dwelling on Ciri while she was gone, he hadn't realised how changed she would be in just a year.

They crossed through fields of wheat when Ciri rubbed her eyes and woke up.

“'m still here?” she asked.

“Yes, Buttercup. You're here with me and Yennefer.”

Ciri didn't answer, just thumbed the medallion around his neck. Geralt placed a hand over hers in the centre of his chest.

“The wooden medallion is yours,” he said. “Do you want it back?”

Ciri hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“I think I got a leather tie round here somewhere-”

“Don't bother,” Yennefer said, pulling Moonlight into a proud trot next to them. She lifted a hand and drew a shape in the air, her fingers dancing in a loop until a fine golden chain appeared. She tapped it with her finger and it solidified, glittering in the light as it lay across her black gloved hand.

But when the chain was passed between the two riders, Ciri shied away, burying her face again in Geralt's chest. Instead, he wound the chain into his pocket, and hummed as they walked through the farmland.

In the afternoon, Ciri played quietly with some sticks and leaves while Geralt peeled potatoes and Yennefer collected firewood in the nearby shrubbery. Ciri pressed the leaves so they threaded onto the sticks like little sails bowed in the wind, then pushed a nut onto the top of the stick.

“Look!” Ciri said, holding up her creations. “Just like my dolls at home.”

Geralt smiled. “Just so, Ciri.”

She played quietly for a while, and Yennefer returned, her arms filled with firewood. She twitched an eyebrow at Geralt, then glanced pointedly at Ciri. Geralt sighed. Why Yennefer ever needed to do telepathy was beyond him, she could give him a whole lecture with just a glance.

He got up from his side of the camp and sat down beside Ciri, picking up one of her stick dolls and making it move along the ground. Yennefer chuckled at the sights, then returned to the woods to give them their privacy. Geralt put the little doll down and cleared his throat.

“Ciri,” he started. “I want to talk about magic.”

“From the stories?”

“No, real magic,” Geralt said. For an instant he hated that all his magic was built for battle. He wanted to make something beautiful for her, like the butterflies that sometimes manifested when Yennefer had one glass of wine too many and was stuck in a fit of laughter. Geralt frowned. His magic could only manipulate or concuss or burn or-

“Like this,” he said. “Quen.”

Golden light tickled the end of his fingertips and ran up his arm, spiralling along his skin.

Ciri stared at it, and then shook her head.

Geralt banished the protection spell.

“You don't like it,” he said.

“It's bad,” Ciri whispered. “It's not right.”

“Ciri-”

“No. Don't do it,” Ciri insisted. “You can't do magic.”

Geralt put a hand on her shoulder. “Buttercup, why? Why is magic so bad?”

“Magic hurts people,” she said, finally. “And it makes Father sad, and-and- it took Mama away, and I don't want to go away!”

Geralt gathered her up in his arms.

“You won't go away,” he promised her, heart pounding. He wanted to dig his fingertips into Duny's throat and turn his face into mincemeat under his fists. He wanted Pavetta's guidance. He wanted his bright little girl back with her incredible gift.

Ciri's breathing levelled out, and Geralt fumbled for his words.

“Ciri, the magic in your stories, it's not real magic, is it?”

“No.”

“What's different?”

She fiddled with the sleeve cuff of his shirt. “In the stories, it's good.”

“Like the heroes,” Geralt guessed, and she nodded. “But, Ciri-girl, real life isn't so simple.” In real life, the heroes could be ugly, scarred mutants, for one.

She didn't seem to be following him, so he tried a different way.

“Magic is a sword, Ciri. Heroes have it, bad guys have it. It can hurt, yes, but it can protect too. Like quen. It protects me from monsters.”

She was listening obediently, but passively.

“Some folks get it, some folks don't. It's part of me, and Yen, and you too,” he continued. “I have a little of it, I mean, I'm not like you, but Yennefer, she's fantastic with magic. She does good things with it.”

She was still looking away, but head tilted towards him.

“Ciri, listen to me. It wasn't magic that took Mama away. It was a person. Your Mama used her magic to protect you.” He brushed some hair back from her face with his rough fingers. “She was so proud that your magic brought you joy.”

Ciri looked away again, but this time she shrugged and nodded. “Okay," she said.

It was small, but it was something.

“Okay,” Geralt answered. Ciri went back to her toys.

Geralt and Yennefer made a purposeful effort to talk as they rode along. It was good for Ciri to learn more about the land they rode through, and to feel more comfortable responding to Yennefer, even if it was just a quiet nod or by pointing to something in the distance.

Moonlight was a noisy horse, he would bray or huff, which would make Ciri smile, and Yennefer would playfully scold him for complaining.

After a few days of travel through Temeria, Moonlight heaved a laboured sigh and Ciri giggled.

“It's okay,” she told him, out loud.

“Ciri's right, Moonlight,” Yennefer said, leaving forward to stroke his neck. “It's okay, you silly thing.”

The girls looked at each other and smiled. It was the first conversation they had shared together.

Ciri had been cranky for the last two days of riding, even though she dozed atop Roach, yelling at bedtime and being restless all night. All day atop the horses wasn't right for her, so they had decided to make temporary camp in a clearing so she could properly nap in the mid afternoon light.

Yennefer went into the forest, stepping through a conjured portal and disappeared for a few hours, leaving Geralt with a warm kiss on his cheek and to sew together some larger spare clothes for Ciri out of her old ones.

“Alright, stand up, let me see the length,” he said, once Ciri had woken up and was willing to try his attempt at clothes. She obeyed, and he frowned at the dress. She looked unhappy too.

“It's dirty," she complained. “It stinks.”

“It'll wash up fine once we get to a safe village,” Geralt said.

“It's ugly,” she added.

Geralt grinned and packed up his things. “That, I can't help you with much,” he said. “You'll need to discuss that with an expert. Ah, here he comes now.”

Arm in arm, Yennefer and Jaskier walked out of the forest, still smelling of the ozone of portal magic. Ciri gripped Geralt's leg and stayed close.

Upon seeing the tiny princess, Jaskier's face went through several expressions of intense emotion in quick succession, before settling on his usual charming, affable smile.

“Geralt, my old friend,” he said, and sauntered over with his arms spread. Bewildered, Geralt let himself be drawn into a tight hug. Although not unheard of, two men hadn't made a habit of hugging for greetings and farewells, but with Ciri at his knee, Geralt was transported back to Kaer Morhen and acting out the circle of hugs for each Witcher that Ciri had demanded.

“And this is Princess Ciri,” Jaskier said, kneeling down but leaving a small space between them so she wouldn't be scared. “Yennefer told me how much you've grown, but I scarcely believed it. Last time I saw you, you were the size of a pixie, with mischievousness to match. But, no matter, since now you are old enough, you can have this gift.”

He swung his lute case from behind his back and placed it across his knees. With a bit of a delay to bring the hesitant princess out from behind Geralt's knee with curiosity, he unlatched the case.

“Not my lute, of course,” Jaskier said, wagging a finger at her playfully. He strummed across the strings mindlessly. “This lovely thing is my pride and joy. It once belonged to the King of the Elves himself! He gave it to me, that was the day we met, wasn't it, Geralt?”

Geralt grunted a reply.

Jaskier tutted at him, then leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially with Ciri. “He was much more talkative that day. The elves captured me and broke my old lute, tied me up and were ready to feed me to crocodiles, before Geralt rescued me. You should have heard Geralt here pleading for my life, full of, shall we say, colourful poetry.”

This was how Jaskier worked, weaving stories together, some fact and some fiction, until the story cohered, but also disguised his tracks.

“But what am I saying? That's a song for another time. Your gift, Princess, don't think I've forgotten.”

Jaskier, always willing and able to carry on a one sided conversation, had won over the shy little girl, and she inched closer as he lifted out his lute to reveal the hidden treasure underneath.

A soft cloth doll was lying in the lute case, with a magnificent blue dress, embroidered gold shoes and green button eyes.

“What do you think?” Jaskier asked.

Ciri tugged Geralt down to whisper in his ear, and he answered for her. “She's, uh, very pretty.”

“You're not so bad yourself, Geralt,” Jaskier laughed. “Go on, Ciri, take her. This lovely lady has been travelling with me all across the Continent. Do you think you could take care of her for me, Ciri?”

Ciri nodded, picking up the doll reverently.

“Don't forget this!” Jaskier said, grabbing a tiny wooden stick that had been carved and painted into the shape of a sword. He fitted it so it hung across the doll's back in a parody of the two that Geralt carried. “That's better.”

Ciri touched her fingers to the front of the doll's dress, tracing the little embellishments. Jaskier seemed to read her mind.

“Oh, but of course you need to match!” Jaskier exclaimed. “Geralt, honestly, that dress has to be your bland work. Yennefer, darling, I'm sure you have a ribbon that will pair well.”

Yennefer shrugged. “You know my colour palette,” she said with a straight face.

Jaskier made an affronted noise, before sitting down, shedding down to his chemise and taking a knife carefully to the delicate stitching of his doublet. “The sacrifices I make for my art,” he grumbled.

“Ciri, dear, would you please take Lady Doll over by that log?” Yennefer asked. “I'm sure there's some bugs there she would love to see.”

Ciri looked absolutely enamoured with the doll, and was very happily occupied while the grownups talked.

“We need a story," Geralt said. “A reason for Ciri's supposed death and reappearance.”

“A singular story,” Yennefer added. “We can't have any questions about her legitimacy. She has to definitively be the lost Princess.”

Jaskier nodded firmly. “I've been gently encouraging hope,” he said. “Seemed the best way to keep myself hopeful too.”

“You can include Geralt as the rescuer,” Yennefer said. The Witcher shot her a confused look. “Everyone knows Cirilla is a Child of Surprise. If you're the one who saved her from pirates or mermaids or some sort, then your role in Destiny has been fulfilled.”

Geralt's eyes narrowed. “Has it?”

Even Jaskier rolled his eyes at that. “And they say I'm the dramatic one.” He pulled the cornflower blue ribbon free from the waist of his doublet. “I'll circulate the story among the court and people. Mousesack will send for Calanthe, she's on the front lines at the moment. Ciri, dear, come here a moment.”

She obeyed, and held still as he draped the ribbon around the collar of her rough dress so the long ends hung down her front.

“There, that shouldn't be too difficult for you to sew on like that, should it, Geralt? Unfortunately I only have a sense of style, and not much skill with a needle. When you visit me in Oxenfurt, I'll take you to the very same tailor that turned a pauper into a prince.”

Ciri giggled a little, and Jaskier tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“What was she dressed in?” he asked. “When she came to you?”

“Ordinary white gown,” Yennefer said with a shrug. “Same as you'd see on half a dozen royal brats.”

“And did no one think about the textiles?" He asked. “The threading, the cut? A single item of dress, yes, even a child's dress, can speak a lot of secrets to certain individuals.”

And so the white gown was handed over to the bard, and Ciri was resigned to her rough sewn Witcher creation, though much improved by the addition of a cornflower blue ribbon around the collar.

They forded the Chotla river rather than pay the ferry fee and cross paths with too many common folk. The water came halfway up the horses bellies and filled their boots. Geralt was worried about the danger, but Ciri laughed and tried to bend down to touch the water, even as Geralt held a protective hand across her, pinning her to his chest.

“I'd like to try something with Ciri,” Yennefer said quietly, while Ciri played in the shallows and they stripped down to their braise, their riding pants and boots hanging over a branch to dry, and Yennefer wearing one of Geralt's overly long shirts.

“With those bracelets gone, she has to learn how to access her Power,” Yennefer continued, and Geralt shifted awkwardly. “It would be better if you played along as well. I know you carry your Chaos with you, but without mutations she’ll have to learn to draw Power from a Source. There is a Source near here, we could- what?”

Yennefer had cut herself off at the face Geralt was pulling, even though he tried to hide it. Her eyes narrowed.

“There may be something I neglected to tell you,” he admitted.

A few moments later, the Chotla river valley echoed as Yennefer yelled him down.

“Geralt, what the hell do you mean, she's a Source?!”

In a meadow at the riverbend, Yennefer, Ciri and Geralt lay down on their backs in a circle, their heads together as they looked up at the clouds in the blue sky.

“Breathing is essence,” Yennefer said. She didn't expect Ciri to follow every word, but this was the way that she wished she was taught magic, instead of cold stone rooms and cruelty. That wasn't how she experienced the act of reaching for her Power.

“Action is tension and release, you must learn how to relax your muscles. Put your hand on your belly,” she instructed, and both Ciri and Geralt copied her. “Close your eyes and breathe in. Feel how your stomach expands with the held energy. Now release, breathing out slowly. All around us, energy and Power are being held in stasis, waiting for someone to release it. If you reach out with your senses, you should feel the Power of the river, and the energy that is held underground. Grip the grass, if you need, see how life is stored in the stems, and - what is that noise?”

A low rumbling had interrupted her. Yennefer sat upright and Ciri rolled over onto her front in the grass.

Geralt was lying there, hand on his belly, eyes closed like he had been instructed, only his head was tilted back and he was snoring softly.

Ciri poked him in the side, and his hand batted at her like she was a fly bothering his nap, then he rolled over and smushed his face into the ground, completely asleep.

Ciri and Yennefer looked at each other, then burst into quiet laughter.

Chapter Text

“Come here, little thing. We need to do something about that mane of yours before we go into the city. Come, come, sit here in front of me, please. We can watch Geralt brush Roach down so she's nice and pretty for the court, and I can brush your hair too.

“See how Geralt starts with the curry comb? We don't need to do that, you washed your hair already. You did, didn't you? Very sure? Oh, alright then.

“We're going to use my comb, do you like it? It's obsidian, like my star necklace, here. All three of us have important necklaces, don't we?

“Now, if this hurts at all, you have full permission to pinch me. I've turned children into frogs for less, but for you, Ciri, you can pinch me right on my leg. Let’s practice. Oh, you can do better than that, strong girl. There we go.

“Look at that, your golden mane. Your Grandmama has the name the Lion of Cintra. I think you might be a lion cub. Show me your lion face. Hm, fearsome.”

“I know that Papa gets by fine with just a headband or tie, but he's not a lovely lady like us. Shall I braid it? I can do a simple riding one like mine, but I think a little braid just here might be fitting. A little crown for the little princess.

“Alright, look up, please, we'll start with the hair around your face, and look at that, Geralt brushing Roach's nose too. Boop.”

Calanthe slid down from the saddle of her warhorse with a heavy metallic clunk and pulled off her helmet. Her hair stuck to her head with sweat and blood and worse.

“Where is he?” she growled at the low bowing captain of her guard.

“Your Royal Highness,” he started, but Calanthe didn't have time for snivelling. She tossed her helmet at him, and he barely caught it.

She marched straight through the palace, leaving footprints of mud and horse sweat on the stone, and Eist ran to catch up with her, his long strides matching her pace, all the way to her rooms.

The bard, Jaskier, met her on the way, falling into line alongside her pace, flitting about her like a bird around the ears of a warhorse at a gallop.

“Your Highness, it brings me great joy to see you and your Consort returned from the battle, safe and victorious,” he said, effusive with his smile. He directed them wordlessly down the hall that led to her own war room, and she barely spared him a glance.

“Is it true?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Master Witcher Geralt is awaiting you, with a sorceress by the name of Yennefer of Vengerberg, an incredible woman who was instrumental to-”

Calanthe pushed open the doors to her war room with a loud bang, sick of everyone dancing around the point.

As the Bard had said, a sorceress with dark hair and black and white clothes was standing by the desk, and facing the window was the Witcher. His hair was washed and neatly arranged at the back of his head, his armour polished, while Calanthe's was splattered and tarnished from the campaign and her hair clung to her head and neck.

Geralt turned around, and there, sitting up on his hip, was the child.

She was older, taller. Her hair had grown out and was neatly braided, but the new curl in it was so familiar. She looked just how Pavetta did when she was- 

The bard was at her side again, “Your Majesty, if I may, you may find that the royal portrait of the Princess enlightening. Pay particular attention to the-”

“I don't need a painting to know my own blood,” Calanthe snapped. She took a step towards the girl, her arms open, but Cirilla shied away. For a single white hot moment, Calanthe wanted to rip her grandchild from the Witcher's arms, hold her close and banish the mutant from her kingdom so that no one would ever come between her and her family again. Then the fury of the lion of Cintra passed, and she found herself gripping the back of a chair so tightly that her knuckles whitened.

Cirilla cupped a hand around the Witcher's ear and whispered to him, and he listened intently, then answered her quietly.

“No, she's not a knight, she's your grandmother, the Queen,” he said.

“You called me Grandmama,” Calanthe said. Instead of wiping the prickling tears from her eyes, she scratched at a flake of dried blood on the side of her face. It wasn't hers, but it reminded her that she should probably have washed up before bursting through the doors.

Beside her, Eist grabbed her hand, the other pressed in a fist to his mouth.

Cirilla was wary of her, shy and watchful. She didn't resemble the fierce lion cub from a year ago, instead, she looked so much more like Pavetta when she was a child. Reserved, with hidden strength.

“How can this be?” Calanthe demanded.

“Duny stole her away,” the Witcher said, “faked their deaths and went into hiding.”

“But the storm-”

“The storm was conjured,” the sorceress said. “A cunning way to hide his tracks. And the murder of Princess Pavetta.”

Calanthe recoiled. All this time, she had been raging against the gods for the loss of her family. Now, it seemed, there was a true face to the evil. Something dark and vengeful rose up within her.

“That man-” she started, her voice quavering, “that piece of-”

Eist restrained her with a simple squeeze of her hand.

“Ciri, dear,” her husband said, “I think the adults will have a little talk. What do you say we go explore the garden together, you and I?”

Ciri clung tighter to the Witcher, but Eist didn't miss a beat.

“Quite right, too,” he said. “I wouldn't let him out of my sight either. Mousesack, what do you say we bring the garden to Ciri?”

With a muttered spell, a bed of grass sprung up around the Witcher's boots, and it filled with flowers and insects, even a butterfly.

“Remember what Yennefer said about magic?” The Witcher murmured. He waited until Cirilla nodded, then put her on the ground to play.

Then the Witcher took a seat at the war table, at the head of it, Calanthe noted.

“Why did he take her?” she demanded, sitting down as well. At least the others in the room were well-versed in propriety and took a seat only after she did.

The sorceress leant forward, delicate in her movements, but commanding the room. “We believe that Duny holds claim to a crown elsewhere, and intended, through Ciri, to rule over Cintra as well.”

Calanthe found her gaze continually drawn to the child on the floor, how she watched the butterfly feed on a yellow flower.

“If she's been alive this whole time, why didn't she-” Calanthe waved a hand at Geralt, who answered,

“He created bracelets, handcuffs really, it blocked access to her magic. Hurt her.”

The sorceress tossed her raven black hair. “What we should-” she stopped, her commanding voice softening instantly as Cirilla tugged on her sleeve. “Oh, hello, Ciri, what do you have there?”

Ciri held out a small bouquet of yellow flowers that she'd plucked from Mousesack's garden.

“You are very kind,” Yennefer of Vengerberg said, taking a flower from her. “Is there one there for Grandmama?”

Ciri nodded silently, and passed another to Yennefer. The sorceress leaned across the table to Calanthe, and soon every person in the war room had a little yellow flower tucked into their button-hole or behind their ear.

Yennefer brushed a soft hand down Ciri's head and ushered her back to her play.

“In bringing her back, we might have started a war,” the sorceress said. “He will come for her.”

“If war is what he wants-” Calanthe spat, but Yennefer raised a hand.

“War was always an eventuality,” she said. “This might have just sped up the timeline.”

“Then we move quickly, before he has the chance to rally an army,” Calanthe said. “Where is he?”

“We've been searching,” the Witcher said, despondent. “Whole year, haven't found him. I'll go on the run with her, do whatever I have to to protect her. But it's… it's no way for a child to live.”

Yennefer and Jaskier looked at each other. “I believe,” he said, tilting his head at a jaunty angle, “that we have some idea where Duny is hiding.”

Calanthe had little opinion of the bard, and knew next to nothing about the sorceress, but even Geralt looked surprised by this revelation.

“We believe that Duny's true name is Emhyr var Emreis,” Yennefer said. Jaskier pulled a document from his satchel and spread it on the table in front of Calanthe. She hissed a breath between her teeth as she examined it.

“Only son of Fergus var Emreis, the emperor of Nilfgaard,” the bard said.

“But Fergus was deposed,” Eist said. “The Usurper-”

“The Usurper has lost control of his court,” Calanthe interrupted. “I had been noticing a rise in traditionalism, but with no legitimate claim to the throne, I dismissed it.” Her heart turned to ice in her chest. “I told him. I told him Nilfgaard was destabilising. That whoreson. I'll burn the whole damn country to the ground!”

“Your highness,” Yennefer said delicately. “If Emhyr has a claim to the crown, Cirilla does too. That land is her birthright, should she want it.”

Calanthe had fought and bled over keeping her patch of land, toiling to see her little kingdom survive, and by some quirk of her lineage, her granddaughter might inherit the largest kingdom on the continent.

Jaskier drummed his fingers on the table. “Emhyr has been building support among the Nilfgaardian nobility, but he has been slow, working in shadows. All out war,” he said delicately, “may not be necessary.”

All eyes fell on Geralt, and he frowned.

“I'm not an assassin,” he said.

The repeated message, a core tenant of his profession. Don't get involved in politics, don't get ideas above your station. The message was drilled into his head in the halls of Kaer Morhen and in back alleys as he wiped mud out of his eyes that was thrown by an angry-scared child, or held his aching gut after being beaten and kicked for his mutations. Don't imagine anyone will thank you or praise you or love you. Remember your place, bottom feeder.

Ciri climbed into his lap and rested her head heavy on his chest.

“I thought you killed monsters,” Eist said. “Isn't that what we pay you for?”

“My first priority is Ciri,” Geralt said. “She needs to be here, to have a safe home.”

Calanthe cocked her head, assessing the Witcher carefully. “You're, you're not taking her?”

“I made a promise,” he answered. “To you and to Pavetta. She needs to grow up here, with a home. When Ciri had her powers, she never just travelled between Pavetta and me, it was home that called her. And as long as Ciri calls this place home, I will never take her away.”

The last threads of control Calanthe had been gripping slackened, and a sob escaped her. With tears pricking her eyes, she went to the Witcher and knelt by his side, her face pressed against his arm and her hand stroking Cirilla's back as she sobbed.

Ciri got all the pretty dresses that her little heart could desire, and slowly, with time and magical training from Yennefer, she stepped into the light again. Mousesack's druid magic summoning beetles and small birds to be her playthings made her so happy that she forgot that she was supposed to fear magic.

She was enamoured with Calanthe, tugging Geralt along to the palace courtyard to watch the warrior queen run through exercises on her warhorse. Occasionally the Witcher would join in, moving smoothly through different positions with his sword as he practised his footwork, and Ciri would watch, spellbound, Lady Doll hanging from her arm.

The mutterings around the palace about the newly returned princess were kept well in check by Jaskier, Eist and their network of spies. A few of the spies from neighbouring lands that they tolerated were bought off or sent away for the time, just until her safety could be ensured.

Geralt mopped sweat from his brow with a rag and teasingly tossed it Ciri's direction, making the young girl squeal and jump out of the way. He sheathed his sword across his back, the weight was a comfort there, a reminder of who he was, while he lived pampered in a palace like no Witcher ever should.

Yennefer stepped out through the archway, the smile on her face telling Geralt she had enjoyed watching him train. Feeling daring, he pressed a kiss to the corner of those curved lips.

“Yennefer!” Ciri exclaimed happily, though stumbling over the syllables and some of the sounds, and she buried her head in Yennefer's dress as she hugged her legs.

In Yennefer's hand, she held a single black feather. She saw Geralt eyeing it.

“A message, from your fanged friend,” she said, twirling the crow feather in the sunlight, then she looked him in the eye. “Regis found him. Dirty rat is hiding out on the estate of some minor Earl.”

Geralt expected that the news would fill him with bloodlust and fury. Instead, he put a hand on Ciri's head.

“Portal?” he asked.

Yennefer shook her head. “He has a mage with him, likely the one that-” Yennefer's violet eyes flicked to Ciri, “that summoned the storm.”

“Ciri, go help Grandmama with her horse,” Geralt said. When the child hesitated, he added, “Give me Lady Doll, I'll be right here. Go on.” That satisfied her, and she ran over to shyly stand nearby Calanthe.

Geralt folded his arms over his chest, the doll peering over his forearms. “I can't leave her,” he said, “it's too soon.”

“If we wait any longer, he could mount an all out attack,” Yennefer replied. “If he can't have Cintra by birthright, he will take it by force.”

“He has to die,” Geralt agreed. “But I can't-”

Yennefer put a hand on his arm where it was crossed over his heart. “I understand. She's as much mine as she is yours, and you can't leave her right now.”

Geralt sighed. “Telling Calanthe before the deed is done would be disastrous.”

A small voice called out towards them. “Geralt, Geralt, look!” Ciri said. In her hands she held up Calanthe's helmet, swaying under the weight of it, but so proud to be carrying it.

Yennefer's smile was painfully soft. “You know I'll do anything to protect her,” she said. “Let me do this for her. For you both.”

After a long moment, Geralt nodded. Yennefer cradled a hand against his cheek and kissed him. “I'll say my goodbyes,” she said, her dress swishing as she went towards the young girl.

“Yen, wait,” Geralt stopped her, a hand on the buckle around his chest. He unfastened it, and swung his sword around to lay across his outstretched hands.

“Silver for monsters,” he said.

Yennefer's hand gripped the hilt of the sword.

“Silver for monsters,” she murmured.

Yennefer had only been gone a day or two, saddled up on Moonlight, with Geralt's sword hanging from her saddle, when there was a commotion at the palace gate. Voices yelled out, and soldiers crowded around the entrance to the palace courtyard.

Geralt was walking along the tower balcony while Ciri had her nap inside with the castle nurse watching. He was thankful she still took a nap most days. He loved her, but she was a limpet, and some days he could barely use the privy without her following him.

Geralt rested his arms against the railing, watching below. The man causing the scene had managed to get into the centre of the square, hollering at the captain and waving his arms widely, another figure with grey hair standing between them.

“What an idiot,” Geralt muttered, “arguing with the guard like that.” Then he straightened. “I know that idiot.”

Down in the courtyard, he pushed through the crowd to see none other than-

“Lambert, Vesemir!”

The crowd parted easily for him, even the armed soldiers stepping aside so Geralt could embrace them both in turn.

“You daft old man,” Geralt chided him. “Don't think I've seen you outside your mountain for decades.”

“I couldn't well wait another year till winter to see her again,” his old teacher said. “Once Lambert ran all the way up to tell me the news, I had to come see you both.”

Geralt cuffed Lambert upside the head.

“Hey!” he said, rubbing his head, “if Eskel was the one who brought the old man, you'd've thanked him, not hit him!”

“Not if he'd dragged Vesemir halfway across the Continent in only a couple of weeks.”

“They didn't,” a new voice interrupted, and Geralt turned to see a woman, beautiful, with red hair pulled back into a big bun at the base of her neck. She held out a hand. “Triss Merigold,” she said. Geralt shook it. “I trained with Yennefer at Aretuza. I was working up North in Ard Carraig when these two gentlemen asked for a portal to Cintra. When I heard my old friend Yennefer was there, I couldn't help but be intrigued.”

The captain of the guard cleared his throat. “My good sirs, my lady, you must leave.”

“But they're my guests,” Geralt said.

“Be that as it may, access to the palace is restricted to only essential supplies and personnel,” the guard replied.

“On whose orders?” Geralt asked.

Immediately, the crowd of soldiers parted and bowed, as Queen Calanthe strode through them. Jaskier was trailing behind her, his hands already thrown up in frustration.

“Might I remind you, Geralt,” the bard said through clenched teeth, “that our little guest was supposed to be a secret for a time?”

“They deserved to know,” Geralt said.

“They could have waited,” Calanthe said, a look of disdain sitting perfectly on her features.

Lambert, as always, put himself in the middle of the fight and took his own swing.

“You're telling me I brought the old man all the way here just to be turned away?” he asked, voice raising.

“I must protect my family,” Calanthe said cooly. “Am I to play host to an entire company of Witchers?”

“Listen, lady,” Lambert said, pointing a finger in her face, “I didn't get beaten up by ice trolls and ghouls all year trying to find your family, just to be told I can't see her by some overprotective fuckwit, crown or no!”

Everyone stilled. The soldiers had hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to draw them to avenge the offence against their queen.

“Well, Lambert,” Jaskier muttered, while Calanthe's face darkened. “I was going to say nice knowing you, but I don't think I can, in all honesty.”

But then Calanthe laughed. It bubbled out of her unexpectedly, and from her expression she was just as surprised as anyone to be laughing as the cohort of nervous warriors shifted from side to side. It wasn't a cruel laugh, and didn't seem to foretell the removal of the youngest Witcher's head from his shoulders.

After a moment, Calanthe composed herself, and turned to Geralt.

“Hmm,” she said, containing her smile, “It seems that my intentions to teach Cirilla decorum will be quite hampered by the company of your fellow Witchers. But I can't say that I'm disappointed. It took me years to learn bold-faced idiotic bravery, I'm pleased that she has such a good model in this strange man.”

Geralt shifted on his feet, tension unwinding.

“Your people may enter, Geralt,” Calanthe said, then ordered the Captain, “have rooms prepared.”

Geralt touched his forehead against Vesemir's, then wrapped an arm around Lambert's neck in a chokehold.

Ciri liked to watch them, that mismatched crowd of adults who loved her so dearly. The Witchers, mage, druid and bard took their meals in the Queen's private garden, where they were far away from high society and where Ciri could watch them all silently while they clambered around and argued and joked.

Jaskier left his plate untouched, his lute in his lap and strumming loose chords.

“Valley of plenty,” he mumbled.

Lambert brandished his butter knife. “Play that godsforsaken Witcher song again and I'll skewer that lute to a tree.”

Jaskier grinned. “Lined your pocket though, didn't it?”

“Oh, I love that song!” Triss said with a wide smile, poking the bear. “Play it, Jaskier!”

Triss, as they had gotten to know her, wasn't dissimilar to Yennefer, but where Yen's sharpness was full on display, Triss hid hers behind smiles and sweetness.

Jaskier only got through the first chord when Lambert gripped the neck of the lute in a stranglehold.

“When Witcher's solve arguments,” he said with a nasty grin, “we do it by brawling. You wanna go, bard?”

Jaskier raised his nose. “Geralt will come to my defence.”

“Wanna bet?”

The two men looked across the dainty garden table to where the white wolf was pouring raspberry juice into a tiny pink cup.

“Drink that," he said, putting it in front of the young Princess. “Eat your greens.”

“I want more bread,” Ciri said. She was no longer afraid to speak where others might hear her, but only ever directed words at her Papa.

Geralt, who still had his roll on his plate, sighed. “You already finished your bread,” he reminded her. “Eat your greens, and who knows what might happen.”

Vesemir leant over and deposited his own roll on Ciri's plate. “There you go, child.”

“Vesemir!” Geralt said.

“Ah, come now, look at her,” Vesemir said indulgently. Ciri was ripping into the soft bread with her teeth, and looked up at Vesemir.

“Thank you,” she mumbled around her mouthful, but it was the first thing she'd spoken out loud to any of them.

Lambert and Jaskier immediately tried giving her food from their own plates, but they were cut short. Like hounds responding to a fox cry, all the Witchers straightened in response to their medallions humming.

Mousesack, who had been trying to bring a sense of order and dignity to the meal, stood sharply and upset his goblet, spilling wine across the table. “Someone is coming through my wards,” he said.

“Vesemir, take Ciri and run,” Geralt ordered, rising to his feet and drawing his one remaining steel sword.

“I still have strength in these bones-” Vesemir argued.

Geralt gripped him by the doublet and dragged him to stand. “Go, old man.”

Vesemir picked up the squirming child, who protested by leaning back far from him.

The air was already beginning to heat and warp with the magic, and Ciri started screeching.

Lambert raised his own sword, but Triss cried out, “Wait!”

The magic turned a familiar violet hue, clearly Triss had recognised her old classmate's sorcery, the air split open and Yennefer stepped through the portal.

In one hand she held Moonlight's reins, the horse walking obediently behind her, and in the other, with a weak grip, she held the Witcher's sword. She was dishevelled, flushed and panting, with a sheen of sweat on her skin, and a victorious smile on her face. The image altogether wasn't unlike how Geralt knew her to look after a rousing night of bedsport, but with the addition of grime smudged on her neck and brow, and smelling strongly of magic.

The sword fell from her hand, Geralt rushed to her, and she sagged in his arms.

“I- I see the appeal in dispatching monsters now,” she said with a wry grin.

The back of Geralt's fingers touched her cheek. “It's done?”

Yennefer nodded. “The bastard-” She said, then cut herself off, glancing around. “What the hell are you all doing here?”

Lambert gave a cocky grin and waggled his fingers in a wave. “Missin’ out on a fight, apparently. You turn Witcher on us, Yen?”

“Don't call me that,” Yennefer snapped.

Ciri made another noise of protest, pulling away from Vesemir with all her might.

“Oh, little thing, little thing,” Yennefer said, collecting her from the old trainer's arms and nuzzling their faces together.

Triss dismissed the spell that she'd prepared around her fists. “Hiya, Yennefer.”

“Triss,” Yennefer said, concealing her bemused smile. “Can't say I'm surprised you got tangled up with this lot.”

“Well I am surprised,” Triss answered. “I didn't think anything would distract you from your mission for power. But seeing you now, I think I get it.”

Yennefer's hand didn't stop its methodical stoking of Ciri's back.

“You said it is finished,” Mousesack said, his gaze flicking to the young child. “The war council should be called.”

Jaskier rose. “I'll fetch the Queen and Eist,” he said. “I want to find out if they're pleased the matter is dealt with, or furious they didn't get the chance to lop the sack of shit's head right from his-”

“Jaskier!” Triss scolded.

With careful deliberate motions, Vesemir tucked in his seat and took the reins of Yennefer's gelding.

“Come, Lambert,” he said. “The realm of politics is no place for Witchers.” He said this with a pointed glance at Geralt. “Let us leave the political machinations to these meddlers.”

With a little coaxing from Yennefer, Ciri was placed on the back of Moonlight. Vesemir cast Axii to ensure the beast would be careful with the precious load on his back, and clicked his tongue at him.

“On we go, let's go see Roach at the stables,” Vesemir said. “Lambert. We're leaving.”

Sighing loudly, Lambert followed along, secretly pleased that Ciri smiled at him. “Aw, I wanted to hear the gruesome details!”

Little by little, Ciri became accustomed to magic around her again. The conglomeration of adults around her boasted two mages, a druid and three Witchers (four, once Eskel returned from Skellige, bringing with him a cask of grain whisky, stories of sea creatures and a bashful smile that he tried to hide from the young child lest his scars frighten her). All of them could and did conjure small magics for her at every opportunity.

Even the bard claimed to have his own style of magic. There was a big dinner in the Great Hall, and it seemed like everyone with a pretty dress or tunic was invited, and Ciri got to come too and stand next to Grandmama and they both wore pretty crowns. Jaskier sang for the whole party and the people cried tears and cheered and bowed, and when he looked down at Ciri he just grinned and said,

“It's magic, your highness.”

Calanthe had told Ciri that she didn't have any magic at all, but even the biggest scariest guard did what she said, and she wasn't scared of anything, and that had to be some kind of magic too.

There was a party that was so big it took up the whole palace. Even people who didn't have pretty dresses poured through the gate to stand in the massive courtyard and look up at Grandmama. When Grandmama walked out to the balcony and looked down and held up a victorious hand, the whole crowd of people cheered and shouted, but when Calanthe signalled again, every single person was silent and listened to her talk. That had to be some magic too.

Ciri was asked to come stand next to Grandmama again on the balcony, wearing her prettiest dress and a very special crown that Yennefer helped her keep on her head. When Ciri got there, the people got really loud again, and she wondered if that was a kind of magic too.

(Even Eist had magic. Other than Ciri, he was the only one who could make Grandmama laugh)

“One, two, again,” Vesemir barked. “One, two, again.”

On each beat, Eskel and Lambert crossed swords with stiff parries and thrusts.

“This is bullshit,” Lambert grumbled as he practised an overhead block. “A bruxa ain't gonna come at me with a sword.”

“You forget that I am, at heart, a fencing master,” Vesemir said. “I'll not have my students grow lazy and weak by palace living.”

“Geralt is,” Eskel said.

The white-haired Witcher had his back against a tree in the private garden, watching the training, but more concerned with the flower crown he was making out of the flowers Ciri brought him one by one. Lady Doll was tucked into his lap. He grinned at them nastily.

“We're enjoying the view,” Triss called out.

Both sorceresses were lounging with chilled drinks under a shade cloth, their heads bent together with conspiring whispers and ease that Geralt rarely got to see on Yennefer.

“Go fuck yourself, the lot of you,” Lambert snapped while Eskel threw an Aard at his feet and almost toppled him.

“If you don't watch your language around the girl,” Yennefer said sharply, as Ciri came back to hand Geralt a large peony, “I'll turn your tongue into a toad, do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Are Witchers always this abrasive, or is all this palace living not good for their souls?” Triss asked.

Jaskier looked up from writing in his little notebook. “I have decades of experience with the manners of Witchers, and I can assure you, they are an acquired taste.”

Yennefer laughed, a beautiful image on a beautiful face.

Ciri had handed Geralt the flower, but stood there nervously.

“What's up, Buttercup?”

“Is Witchers coming here?” she asked.

Geralt frowned at that. “No, I don't think any more Witchers are coming, Buttercup. Why?”

“I don't want it here. I'm scared.”

“What are you scared of?”

“Scared about Witchers.”

A hush fell across the group,  the sword tips dropped as Eskel and Lambert turned their keen ears towards the quiet conversation. Geralt leaned forward to place one large hand on Ciri's arm, rubbing up and down as he frowned.

“Ciri, tell me about Witchers,” he said lowly.

“Um, they got sharp teeth and yellow eyes, and steal children and eat them.”

“Who told you that?”

“Father.”

A breath hissed between Jaskier's teeth, and he muttered, “If that man wasn't already dead-”

Geralt's face was doing something complicated and he pulled Ciri close, squeezing his eyes shut and kissing her hair. The words of every pamphlet and publication warning about the dangers of Witchers and ensuring their place at the bottom of society echoing in his ears:

Verily, there is nothing so hideous as the monsters, so contrary to nature, known as witchers for they are the offspring of foul sorcery and devilry. They are rogues without virtue, conscience or scruple, true diabolic creations, fit only for killing. There is no place amidst honest men for such as they.

His little girl was in his arms, and he never felt so close to losing her.

“Buttercup, you know I love you.”

She nodded. He pulled away and held her shoulders firmly between his hands.

“Look at me. What colour are my eyes?”

She peered at him, then started. “Yellow.”

“And my teeth, are they sharp?”

“No.”

“This medallion, here. You see it? Just like your one. It's a wolf because, because I am a Witcher of the wolf school.

Ciri frowned. “You're not a Witcher. You're my Geralt.”

“I can be both.” He nudged her gently. “Go ask Eskel and Lambert about their eyes and swords.”

She toddled up to them and asked, “What colours is your eyes?”

Lambert knelt down before the little princess.

“Ours are yellow too.”

Eskel crouched down, placing his sword lengthways, flat against his open palms.

“This is a Witcher sword, see the metal here? It's silver, like the crown Grandmama gave you. Us Witchers use silver because we kill monsters with it. But monsters are scary, so people are scared of us.”

“I'm not scared,” Ciri protested immediately.

“I'm glad you're not,” Eskel replied with a chuckle.

“So why do you eat children?”

“We don't, child.” Vesemir picked her up and set her on his hip. “Does Lambert eat anything other than more than his fair share of custard tarts?”

Ciri dutifully shook her head.

“There we have it,” Vesemir said, as though that solved everything.

Geralt stood up from his spot against the tree. “Ciri, come with me.”

Vesemir placed her back down on the ground and she grabbed Geralt's outstretched hand. They walked together through the palace's private garden.

“Listen to me, Cirilla,” Geralt said. “In this world, people will say terrible things about monsters, creatures, and other people too. They do this because they're scared, and anything different is frightening.

“You should listen to them, understand what they mean, but then it is up to you to decide if those terrible things are true. Just because someone is scared of it, doesn't mean that thing is evil. Say you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Good girl. See, that yellow dandelion plant looks like it's struggling under that dead log, we should help it. Some people say the dandelion is a weed, and should be pulled out by the roots, but I know its use in herbal remedies.”

“And it’s pretty.”

They set about clearing the space around the dandelion, and Geralt didn't look up even when Calanthe made herself known, sitting on a nearby bench as she had heard their conversation.

“That's a terrible lesson to teach a child," the queen said. “She'll be dismissing your warnings and only trust her own mind. Who wants an unruly child?”

“Hmm.” Geralt lifted up the log, revealing the collection of bugs and worms that had hidden there and Ciri giggled, delighted. “She won't be a child forever.”

Geralt had been gone all day and Ciri was being very good about it.

“Geralt here yet?” she asked.

“Not yet, my dear,” Calanthe answered. “Pick up your feet, don't shuffle along.”

There were so many stairs, dark and twisting round and round.

“Round and round,” Ciri said.

“Round we go,” Calanthe agreed. “Up and up.”

Geralt had left during breakfast that morning. He'd warned her the night before, said he had to go do work, Witchering work, and she'd screamed and cried and begged Yennefer to make him stay, but Geralt stayed calm and resolute. Geralt had to go, and Ciri had to stay. She would be with Grandmama and Yennefer.

Grandmama was showing her the big tower, lots and lots of stairs. Ciri put her hand on the rough stonework, dirt and ash sticking to her hand. It was dark in the tower, there were only torches every few turns of the spiral stairs, and small windows to the daytime light were high up and hard to see through.

“I want a dirty dress,” she said.

“Dirty dress,” said Calanthe, amused. “Why do you want a dirty dress?”

“For bein' dirty.”

“Speak your words clearly, girl. You can speak as you like when you are with those Witchers, but when you're with me, you are royalty. Come on, don't dawdle. We're almost at the top.”

Finally the dark spiral stairs ended in a wooden trapdoor over their heads, and Calanthe pushed it open, bringing through the bright light and helping Ciri up through the hole to the top of the tower. A stone railing encircled the top, and they could see the entire layout of the city of Cintra below. The buildings were piled on top of each other, huddled like people and perched on the cliffs overlooking the sparkling blue ocean. They could even see most of the palace from here, the moat encircling it and the open courtyard below.

Calanthe kept a strong grip on Ciri as she tried to clamber up the railing to see it all.

“This is your Kingdom, Ciri,” Calanthe said. “Your people, your responsibility. You will care for them, and they will care for you.”

“Grandmama! Look!” Ciri said, squirming and pointing down excitedly.

Down in the palace courtyard, Calanthe could just make out a figure on a brown horse, dressed in dark armour and with white hair.

Calanthe sighed, the impetus of the lesson lost in the face of the child's overwhelming love and joy for her Geralt.

“Oh, alright,” Calanthe sighed, dropping Ciri back to the ground and opening the trap door. “Go to Geralt.”

Go to Geralt.

Ciri was almost blinded going from the bright tower to the dark staircase, so she put her hand on the wall as she ran down the steps.

“Go to Geralt, go to Geralt,” Ciri thought as she ran down the tight spiral staircase as fast as she could. “Go to -”

Her foot fell through the air but it didn't strike the next step. Instead, she was outside, the sun bright in her eyes, and she was falling-

Geralt swept her out of the air, his arms wrapping around her tightly.

“You did it, you did it,” he murmured to her.

“Geralt?” she asked. How did he get here so fast? She was up at the top of the tower, but suddenly she was here, and he was here and he was smiling.

“You did it, Buttercup.” She thought she could see tears in his eyes. “You came to me.”

Chapter Text

It wasn't all pleasant. Raising a child rarely was. As Ciri became more comfortable with Geralt and Yennefer, gradually her fear and silence melted away, but instead of being replaced with the charming, friendly child that Geralt remembered, she was snappish and rude. She screamed a lot, which, with her mother's magical gift opened again, caused many broken windows and splitting headaches.

She became stubborn about all manner of things, refusing everything that was offered to her and going hungry more meals than one out of pure anger. Her toileting regressed, but she refused to believe it, running away whenever Geralt's nose caught scent of the accident, resulting in more screaming when he caught her and dumped her in the bath.

She oscillated wildly between strong preferences for either Yennefer or Geralt, and would spit foul and cutting words at the other, renouncing them completely. It hurt more than a cockatrice's venom, but both of them had experience in hiding weaknesses.

During that time, those that didn't live at the palace slowly took their leave. The Continent couldn't bear having so many of its best Witchers kept from walking the Path, and Vesemir had Kaer Morhen to manage. Triss cast a portal and escorted the old trainer through, and all that remained was Grandmama, Eist, Mousesack and Jaskier. None of them had energy for the little princess. She would run wild through the palace with one or more of them chasing her, trying to impress upon her the importance of a rounded royal education. She wouldn't sleep when told to, and would become overtired more often than not, sullen and sulking for snuggles in the big bed, until she ended up sprawled in bed between them, her feet in Yennefer's face and her head on Geralt's stomach.

The thing about Geralt and Yennefer was that they both, deep down after decades of pain, believed that they were broken and didn't deserve any good thing. But each of them treasured Ciri and each other, and so privately, when no one else could hear, would talk to Ciri and use titles for the other that neither of them would ever claim on their own.

“Mama said you went to the river with her today,” Geralt said, holding up a handkerchief to her nose. “Blow. Did you see any sirens?”

Ciri shook her head, smearing more snot for Geralt to collect. “Mama saw ’em.”

Geralt, who knew that Sirens never ventured further south than Kerack, or east of Hindersfjall, huffed a laugh. “She's a tricky one, that Mama of yours. Sorceresses always are.”

“My tricky.”

“You're the trickiest.”

“Wait, little one,” Yennefer said, a hand on Ciri's shoulder reigning her in from barging into the suit of rooms set aside for them all. “Shhh, see your Papa?”

Ciri peered out from behind Yennefer's dress and around the room. She gasped excitedly, her hands pressed to her mouth. “Papa sleeping!”

Sure enough, Geralt was laid on his back, crossways on the large bed, still in his work clothes, one boot dangling from his foot. He had one arm thrown over his face and he snored softly. Clearly the Witcher had been exhausted from being up through the night with a restless needy Ciri, and the stablehand interrupted their morning meal with a panicked announcement about Roach having some sort of infection. That sent Geralt straight to the stables to care for the beast. Yennefer heard it was a ringworm scare, requiring the entire stable to be mucked out and all her equipment washed thoroughly.

Yennefer had seen the mage's notes, and knew that Witchers were created to have increased stamina and require less sleep than the average man, but it seemed that parenthood had left him with none of those extraordinary reserves.

“And it's not even rest time,” Yennefer noted quietly. “Silly Papa.”

“Silly Papa.”

Together, they snuck into the room, Yennefer helping Ciri up onto the bed so they could observe the sleeping man.

“Papa so pretty,” Ciri said.

“He's a handsome man,” Yennefer agreed quietly. 

“When I big girl, I'm marry Papa,” Ciri said confidently, kneeling up on the bed and wobbling so she crashed into his chest.

“Oof,” Geralt said.

Yennefer scratched her fingernails through the hair at his scalp as he roused slightly with a huff.

“You might attract some rivalries, little one,” she muttered.

Those golden eyes cracked open.

“What are you two conspiring about?” he muttered.

Yennefer bent and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Nothing you need to worry about for years at least.”

“Hmm,” he huffed. “Sounds dangerous.” But he smiled and rolled over, pinning the squealing Ciri under him and giving an exaggerated snore.

They practised time apart, both for Geralt's sanity of mind, and also to stretch Ciri's Power. It was always awful separating the two of them, but Ciri had yet to teleport towards Calanthe, or even Yennefer, and rebuilding her use of magic was paramount.

They played hide-and-seek in the castle, Geralt squeezing himself into dark corners of the larder and up in the rafters of the stables and feeling utterly ridiculous until Yennefer coached Ciri into accessing her Power, and the girl teleported into his arms.

The real challenge came with convincing Calanthe to do the same. She had never felt more undignified than when she condescended to play the game, not even when she shit the birthing bed pushing out a screaming baby Pavetta. She crawled on her hands and knees under a hanging tapestry that was older than her dynasty and huddled in a ball against the wall there. The things she did for her family.

There was a strange crackling rush sound, then the muffled sounds of happy squeals of Cirilla. The sound of her teleporting happened again, and the hallway went silent. Calanthe swallowed bitterly, that the girl would go to the Witcher so willingly, but Destiny kept her from returning to her own family.

She was just about to crawl out of her hiding place, when Cirilla teleported again into the hallway.

“Grandmama? Where are you?” With her speech it sounded more like ‘danmama’. The heavy hem of the tapestry bunched slightly as little hands tried to lift it, so Calanthe helped her. The hallway candles were bright against Calanthe's eyes, but Cirilla's smile was brighter.

“Here ya-are!” Cirilla launched into Calanthe's arms. “Got-chu!”

The world went dark again as the tapestry fell shut, but Calanthe had her granddaughter again, and everything was right for once.

Again, because it bears repeating, it wasn't always pleasant. Ciri escaped from her Chaos lessons with Yennefer by teleporting to Geralt, further than she ever had before. Geralt was spending his day on the High Road outside the city, getting word from the passing folk about the possibility of monsters in the area. After a while, Ciri, bored with the grown up conversation, and unable to be convinced to return herself to the castle, had taken off at a run. First, she had run with joy, but then kept running hard when Geralt yelled at her to come back.

The best Witcher tracker on the Continent spent two hours chasing an upset Cirilla through mud and muck, only to drag her back to the castle and dump her, screaming and splashing, into the bath. She was angry at him for chasing her, and he was angry at her for running away so close to the heavy hoof-falls of the road, where horses could have trampled her if she fell to the ground.

Geralt dumped another bucket of warmed water into the tub, and Ciri tried to use the distraction to escape. His reflexes were too fast and he pushed her back down onto her bottom in the water.

“You will sit, and you will get clean,” he ordered.

“I will not!” She shouted back, with all the imperiousness as befit her station.

Yennefer cocked her hip against the doorway, watching the naked girl become more red in the face, and the dirty Witcher stripped down to his braise.

“Aren't baths fun, Geralt?” she said wryly.

Ciri scrunched up her nose in fury. “Baths are NOT FUN MAMA!”

The back of Geralt's neck flushed at the secret name for Yennefer, used so brazenly and furiously. He tried to deflect.

“I don't know,” Geralt answered. “I've been known to enjoy a bath or two in my time.”

“Behave,” Yennefer said mildly, kneeling down beside him and sinking her hands into the water of the bath until it foamed up with a sweet smell. Then she cast a different sort of magic, the kind of gentle hands combing through fine blonde hair, and the girl settled somewhat until it was time for her to leave the bath.

Again, she protested. With fists and the surprisingly effective strategy of squirming like a worm on a hook. Geralt had wrestled a werewolf into unconsciousness, but pinning Ciri's arm so it went into the night dress was far more difficult.

“Hold still, would ya?” he grumbled.

“I'm not a woodja!” she screamed in his ear.

Eventually, finally, Ciri was carried into the bed and put down under the covers. Geralt pinned her legs down under his heavy weight and she seemed to settle some.

“Papa I love you,” Ciri said, matter-of-fact like it wasn't the first time she had said anything close to those words before, “but I'm not very happy right now.”

Every bit of frustration melted away and was replaced with a bone deep warmth that Geralt couldn't remember ever feeling before.

“I know, Buttercup,” he said, smoothing her hair over her head and the pillow. “I love you too. Take your time, I'll be here till you get happy again. G'night.”

Outside the princesses room, he found Yennefer pinning him under her gaze. 

“So,” she said, then her voice took on a tone that was just on the edge of mocking, “Papa? Mama?”

“Heard that, did ya?” he said, like there was any chance that she hadn't.

“I guess we have each other to blame,” Yennefer said.

“D'ya-” Geralt cleared his throat, “D'you, wanna talk about it?”

She knew him well enough to know that he'd rather they didn't.

“Hmm, or we can both pretend that we have no deep emotions and go right to taking each other to bed.”

“Melitile's tits, yes,” he groaned, though out of tiredness or being roused, she didn't know.

It must have been at least a little of the latter, because he pressed all those miles of his bare skin to her, gathering up her hair in his hand and kissing her thoroughly. She responded in kind, but when she touched the matted, mucked through white mane, she cringed away.

“You need a bath.”

“You could join me.”

He nipped at the side of her throat, and she let out a distinctly un-Yennefer-like giggle. The smell hit her nose.

“You really need a bath,” she insisted.

It took a little while for the water to be refilled, so Yennefer took her time stripping out of her gown and pinning up her hair. But when she opened the door to the steaming room, she saw Geralt with his arms hooked over the edge of the tub, his head tilted back in decadence.

No, not in decadence, she noted with a smile at the rumbling of a snore, in deep sleep.

Not every meal in the palace was a formal occasion, but it still occurred more than Geralt would prefer. And each event would have Ciri spinning with joy in a specially fashioned dress while Geralt would feel half-choked by the high-necked doublet that Jaskier picked out for him.

Inevitably, Ciri's joy at the idea of a big party would fade into apprehension and shyness, and she would tuck herself behind the legs of whatever trusted adult she could find.

There was some visiting Skellige nobility, distant relatives of Eist, which meant Ciri couldn't rely on him to stay in one place long enough to be her hiding spot. He was too busy ensuring his cousins behaviour remained appropriate for the court on the Continent, and didn't devolve into Skellige good natured brawling.

Jaskier, too, had taken the leading role in the traditional Skellige céilí dancing, walking up and down the rows of quick-stepped dancers and calling out instructions for the next movement as he played and sang.

Jaskier stopped for a moment, leaning against the royal's table during a brief respite between songs. Geralt wordlessly passed him a large tankard to wet his parched vocal chords.

Ciri ducked under the table and crawled towards his boots, popping out and hugging Jaskier's legs.

“I got a secret,” she said quietly.

Jaskier brightened. “Oh you do, little princess?”

Ciri nodded, and reached out and touched the lute hanging at his side gently. “When, when you do this, makes me dance. Like this.” She swayed side to side in a slow imitation of the more intricate dances taking place behind her.

Jaskier put a hand to his chest as though playfully scandalised. “That is quite a secret!” he whispered. “But who are you going to dance with?”

“Umm… Papa.”

Jaskier's eyes shone with a manic glint. “Geralt,” he said to the man across the table.

“No,” Geralt answered, a little more panicked than he would be facing off against an Endrega. “No, no way.”

Jaskier spread his arms. “Geralt,” he said again, this time plaintively.

“I can't !” the Witcher hissed.

Ciri's little voice piped up. “You can do it, Papa!” she said, in perfect imitation of Yennefer during their lessons. “You just have to try!”

“C'mon, Geralt,” Jaskier said in the exact same tone, swinging his lute into his hands with renewed energy. “I'll play an easy one.”

Ciri was making grabby hands at Geralt, and he picked her up easily and settled her on her hip, one arm around her bottom and the other holding her hand out to the side just like the other dancers.

“I'll kill you, you know I will!” he hissed at Jaskier.

“You've been saying that for decades, darling,” Jaskier replied.

The song he played was not easy or slow in the slightest, and he delighted in making Ciri's mane of golden hair bob with the jaunty music.

Summer had barely ended before Geralt took to the road. He intended to make the journey northwards slowly, stopping frequently and for longer times than normal, not leaving a town to move further on his travels until Ciri teleported to his side.

His first night under the open stars with Ciri by the campfire was less than ideal.

“Where're you going?” she asked, as he stood up and dug through the saddlebags.

“Wash up in the river,” he said, slinging his excuse for a towel over his shoulder. “Come here, scamp. I'll carry you pick-a-back.”

It wasn't a long walk, but Ciri kept sliding down and needing to be hefted back up.

“Papa?”

“Hmm?”

“You smell.”

“Mhmm. Don't sniff right by my ear.”

He stripped down and stood thigh deep in the flowing river, bending over and scrubbing at his hair.

“It's cold!” she howled by the riverbank.

Geralt threw her a rag. “Wash your face, feet and hands. If you can't do that, you'll have to go back to the castle.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, and complained the whole time she did so.

Back at the camp, Geralt decided not to trouble himself with cooking for the little princess, and dug through his saddlebags instead. Ciri complained about everything, from the rocks under her to the trees being too tall, whatever that meant.

“Stop whining,” Geralt said. “Have that.”

“What's that yellow stuff?”

“Fatback.”

“I won't eat that.”

“Eat it, be hungry, or go to Grandmama.”

“But I wanna stay with you!”

Geralt allowed himself a pleased little grin, but all the high pitched whining in the world couldn't change the rations in Geralt's pack. She nibbled on one or two things, but let Geralt finish off her meagre meal.

“I'm boooored,” she whined. “Where's music?”

“Do you see a bard anywhere here?”

“What's a bard?”

Geralt chuckled. “A damn fool that dresses like a peacock and has more songs than sense.”

She stared at him blankly.

“Jaskier is a bard,” he said.

“I miss Jaskier.”

“You can go back to him at any time,” he reminded her.

“Nah,” she said. “Mama said he got a ladylove, and now he's soo busy . Can I have a ladylove?”

“Maybe when you're older.” He frowned. “Much older. Alright, Buttercup. Time for bed.”

“We're outside. There's no bed outside.”

“When I sleep outside, the bedroll is good enough. If it's too rough, you can go back to Grandmama.”

He draped his winter cloak over her feet, just in case, but didn't even get a chance to settle in with his mending before she whined again.

“Papa! I'm cold, you have to cuddle me till I sleep.”

“Oh, I do, do I?” he said, already lying down and tucking in around her. The fire was warm for the turn of seasons towards autumn, but Ciri still buried her cold nose into Geralt's collarbone.

Suddenly, she jumped up, her bony knee knocking into Geralt's chest.

“Oh no! Lady Doll!” she cried. “I can't sleep without Lady Doll!”

With a flash of light, her warmth was gone.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, a sinking weight in his gut. “Goodnight Ciri,” he said to open air, rolling over in the bedroll petulantly.

But only a few minutes later, there was another flash of light.

Ciri clambered over him, waving Lady Doll triumphantly. She tucked herself into his arms again.

“Goodnight Papa.”

“Night Buttercup.”

There was nothing but the sound of wind through the trees, and the fire crackling.

“Papa?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we do sleep outside again? I really like it.”

Hours of complaining at every turn, and she still liked it.

“Sure, kid.”

Ciri's powers and control grew steadily over the year, and it wasn't just two locations any more, now she could teleport between Geralt, Grandmama and Yennefer too. To test her skill, Yennefer took up her own little house in the city, far enough away that Ciri had to make a choice to visit her.

By Yennefer's count, Ciri split her time fairly evenly between the three people in her life, comfortable in all quarters except when she was escaping a particularly boring tutoring lesson at the palace. She could always count on Ciri to appear at her house and beg Mama to take her to look at the boats instead. Yennefer, of course, continued Ciri's education in mathematics by counting barrels and crewmen, and her language and culture studies by the words that poured from the crewmen's lips.

Geralt even started working again, sending Ciri elsewhere with a note pinned to the back of her dress and Ciri repeating strict instructions, no Geralt till breakfast. Ciri passed messages back and forth between the three of them, requiring her guardians to become savvy to her manipulations, as she popped into existence with claims like, “Mama said I can!”

Thankfully, a Witcher, a queen and a sorceress had much experience with seeing through bullshit.

They continued that way all through the cooling months, until Saovine, until Geralt wound his way through the Killer path to Kaer Morhen, and Yennefer portaled herself to the frozen keep and Ciri, her face smeared in dirt and dressed in Witcher offcuts ran to her and threw her arms around Yennefer's neck and then dragged her by the skirts to see all the swords my uncles got me!

They were mostly wooden sticks. Mostly.

Lambert was on Ciri duty, meaning he had stripped her down, plonked her in the mud behind the obstacle course and said, “Go wild, kid.”

She was carefully ‘making potions’, which he kept a wary eye on, as she had actually correctly identified and collected berbercane fruit and myrtle petals from the nearby bushes, so was well on her way to making Swallow. She also put on a distinctly Yennefer-type expression as she looked over her potion and muttered an attempt at an incantation.

Lambert sat with his back against the training dummy, rested one boot over the other and shelled macadamia nuts into a sack for the dessert Vesemir was planning.

For no particular reason, Ciri looked up at him and said, “Lambert?”

“Mm?”

“Did you know you can't say ploughing shitstain at the palace?”

Lambert choked, and thumped his chest until a sliver of macadamia hit the ground. “That so?” he croaked.

“Uh-huh!” Ciri nodded firmly. “Those are Witcher only words.”

Authoritative information given, she went back to her potion.

Eskel was the best listener. He would sit for hours while Ciri told him all about the world and everything she knew. And he didn't just nod and grunt, like some Witchers they knew, he asked questions and made connections and all sorts of appreciative noises.

“This is my beautiful room,” she would announce, leading him by the hand to the bedroom in Kaer Morhen tower that he had helped arrange. He endured her explanations of every keepsake in there, then sat down at the tiny table, clutching cups made from sticks and leaves and rocks.

Having a tea party with a legitimate heir to the throne, princess in training, was interesting too. Ciri would complain about court proceedings and incompetent sheriffs and lost taxes, and Eskel would nod thoughtfully and ask about how she would make sure the farmers got enough water for their fields, and how she would know if the Sheriff was doing a good job.

She said everything with such intensity, her green eyes blazing, that Eskel felt pity for the entire Cintran court, and most of all, his brother.

Growing up under the brutal training at Kaer Morhen, Geralt always thought Vesemir very severe and boring. The only fun they got as trainees from him was that their old fencing master seemed completely oblivious to the mischief that he and Eskel got up to as young lads. Sneaking past Vesemir in the early hours of the morning after one of their camping expeditions and not being caught always made the young boys feel invincible.

But seeing Vesemir stomp around the long table in the great hall, mumbling to himself about being forgetful and misplacing his ancient broad brimmed hat, while a little pale hand reached up and moved it whenever he wasn't looking, disappearing it under the table and hearing muffled giggles and shuffling on hands and knees, Geralt wasn't so sure if his memories of the old man were entirely accurate.

“Eskel, there's something wrong with this bed.”

“You reckon?”

“Yeah, look, it's all lumpy!”

“And giggly too.”

“Oh, giggly is no problem at all. I've had many giggly beds in my day.”

“Behave, Lambert. Well, you know what you have to do with lumps, don't you? You've got to sit on them!”

“Eee!”

“There's still a lump after your big arse! What if we squeeeeze?”

“It needs a thumping. Like this. Oof. Oof.”

“What, exactly, are you boys doing?”

“Yen, this bed-”

“Don't you call me that. Besides, you two have no idea about proper home maintenance.”

“And you do?”

“Yes. A bed like this needs to be tucked in tight, all the way in, you see? Grab that corner and pin it down. There, tidy and flat. Perfect for a nap.”

“I don't know, Yennefer. There might still be a tiny lump in there.”

“How dare you. Everyone knows that Mages are twice as sensitive as Princesses. If there was anything half the size of a pea in this bed, I would be black and blue.”

Vesemir decided that a hike up the mountain was in order, that it would be good for Ciri to build up her stamina and access the power at the circle of elements up there. Lambert had perked up at the announcement, and with a strange possessiveness, insisted on coming along too. Eskel decided that if Lambert was going, he should get to go too.

With a quick glance at each other, Geralt and Yennefer both instantly and vocally declared that they were simply too busy to do the hike, that there were other jobs to do, that they had already investigated the circle of elements for Yennefer's work.

Triss Merigold, who was visiting for the week, wisely chose not to be left in the keep with Yennefer and Geralt when they had a rare chance for alone time together. Besides, she was dying to see how Witchers connect to a circle of power when their skin thrummed with chaos itself.

Only Witchers would have considered the climb up the mountain appropriate for a young child. With their enhanced stamina and balance they probably would have made it there and back in an hour if they weren't shepherding Ciri along the way, but as it was, they were gone the full day.

The path grew treacherous at points, and Ciri was insistent, stomping about and saying, “I do it mineself”, but still had to be carried over boulders and lifted up sheer rock faces.

Triss Merigold made a habit of studying people, since long before her time at court and Aretuza. That was probably why she was the first to clap her hand over her mouth to stifle her delighted squeal when she noticed.

“What?” Eskel asked. His cat eyes followed her gaze to where Ciri was walking on a rare part of the path where the ground was level and wide. The little girl held herself oddly, at first, Eskel thought she was overbalancing, but then he watched more carefully.

Her arms were held a little away from her body, swinging with broad movements as she took big steps with her short legs.

Eskel huffed. “Strutting around like she owns the place. Proper Queen.”

But Triss shook her head, barely containing her grin. “That is not how the queen walks, it's how Geralt walks!”

The Royal Cook of Cintra didn't get his position because he tolerated mistakes. No one lived long in the castle after a fuck up, but even fewer survived if they denied Princess Cirilla her every whim. With those sharp eyes and haughty expression she could get anything she wanted. That child wasn't normal.

Cook set the tray of cream tarts to cool and dutifully turned his back on them so that the Princess could sneak out of her hiding place in the larder and steal them. It wasn't always obvious theft. Sometimes she gave commands with the exact tone as her fearsome grandmother, and sometimes Cook genuinely didn't know his stock had been raided until the end of the day.

While Cook busied himself with the peeling of onions, a small pale hand curved over the table and grabbed a cream tart, then another, then another.

Cook acted completely oblivious of the theft to save his own head, but sighed deeply when the Princess filled her cloth sack and darted out the window.

“Don't know where she's putting them away, scrawny thing she is,” Cook grumbled. “She better not be throwing them to the dogs.”

Half a world away, Coën was trying to lick cream off his nose.

Out on the Path again. Vesemir made it clear that the responsibilities of being a father did not fully eclipse those of being one of the few remaining of their Guild. Monsters had to be slain, he'd said.

It felt like a decade since Geralt had any real routine on the Path, his normal route, but of course it has only been a few short years. Where did the time go?

He met Jaskier in Oxenfurt, as was their usual habit. Ciri was delighted to see him when she teleported to Geralt's side that afternoon, climbing all over him and calling him Jas, Jas-ya and all manner of other names.

She demanded song after song, but mostly it was the same one over and over until Jaskier begged for a break. He still found himself humming it again while he refilled the water skins at the city pump.

She tolerated their bickering well, seeming to understand that it wasn't meant to be harsh ill-natured. They argued over money, mostly, and each other's innate character as well. Jaskier would prod at Geralt's grumpiness, and Geralt would stab back at Jaskier's frivolity.

“Enough of this, Geralt.” Jaskier threw his hands up and swiped at the hair plastered to his face. “Stop arguing with me and pay the damn innkeeper. We need to get out of this rain, and I am sure the child is hungry.”

“Yes!” Ciri said emphatically, “the child is hungry.”

Geralt's cat eyes glowered, but he hoisted her up higher on his hip where she was sheltered under his coat.

“Then we shall feed the child,” he said. It wouldn't be the first time he skipped a meal, he just rathered doing it away from the smells of the town. He'd hoped staying in the rain would send Ciri back to the castle, where she would be warm and cared for and fed a good meal. Yet by some miracle she even ate the thin soup with floating grey lumps of meat of indeterminate origin.

“Get off the table, Ciri-girl,” Jaskier said. “It's not courtly-like.”

“Not at court,” she said primly. She shuffled across the table to Jaskier and placed her grubby hands on his face.

“Poor Jaskier,” she said. “He doesn't have, doesn't have any lines on his face.” His eyebrow rose and she touched it. “You could have a big one right here!

He sagged in relief. “Oh, scars? Like Papa?”

“Yeah!” She peered closer. “Oh! There they are! You got tiny little lines all over!” she patted his cheek. “It's okay, Yaya. One day your lines will be big and strong!”

Just like Geralt's monster hunting, Yennefer's work didn't cease with the change of seasons. Her research and studies and practical application of magic continued with or without the tiny bright eyed child at her side. Of course, having that small child certainly hindered her work at times. Or made her find alternate work.

Ciri swayed in front of the mirror.

“Keep still, little thing,” Yennefer groused, the end of a hair comb stuck in her mouth.

“I'm not a thing, I'm a girl!” Ciri protested. She watched Yennefer work over her hair more, pulling and tugging it so that the bonnet would stay on her head.

“It's got to be a ball, Mama,” she instructed, tapping the back of her head. “All the girls make it a ball.”

Yennefer, who had long abandoned the world of slums and swine, and lived with relish in the world which valued long curled tresses artfully arranged down her back, had forgotten everything about how peasants style their hair under their bonnets.

“Down, more down” Ciri said, encouraging as her reflection looked more and more like the girls that played outside. She wanted to look just like the other children, not like a princess. She smiled in the mirror, liking what she saw. “That's it, Mama. Good girl, good girl.”

Yennefer snorted at the praise Ciri had clearly heard before, and when the bonnet was firmly in place, she sent Ciri out to play with the other girls.

It wasn't long before Ciri was back in her arms, muddied bonnet in her tight fist and sobbing into Yennefer's hair.

The harsh remarks and ostracisation of the young was something she remembered clearly.

Geralt saw the banner flying in the distance long before Jaskier did, though the bard heard the hoofbeats. Three golden lions on a blue field. His leather gloves tightened on the reins of Roach.

Jaskier read his expression. “As we feared?” he asked.

“As we feared.”

The Cintran messenger met them on the road at speed. The small mare heaved great breaths in synchronisation with her rider.

“Master Witcher,” the messenger panted. “Queen Calanthe demands your presence.”

Geralt hadn't seen Ciri for four days. After the second day without her familiar green glow he had become more tetchy and easily angered at Jaskier in a way that only the bard could feel was different from their usual banter. On the third day he pointed Roach's nose towards Cintra.

Geralt hardly had time for the command from Calanthe to register, and the weight to settle in his gut, before the crackling of a golden portal opened before him and Yennefer called out.

“Geralt! Come quickly, Ciri-”

It seemed the sorceress had the same worry at the same time, but had the benefit of her magic to go straight to her.

He slid from the saddle, tossing the reins towards Jaskier and grabbing his potions bag and swords from the saddle. He wouldn't subject Roach to portals if he could avoid it.

“Meet me in Cintra,” he ordered Jaskier, before disappearing through the closing portal.

“Right,” Jaskier said, eyeing the temperamental beast carefully. “I'll just take the long way round, shall I?”

Geralt had prepared for many things in his long lifetime and years of training. Something he had never prepared for was the sight of a sickly little girl, weak with fever and moaning against her pillow.

“How long has she been like this?” he asked, pressing the back of his hand against her forehead.

“Three days,” Mousesack reported.

“What do we-?”

“We wait. Could be days before her fever breaks. I've administered all the potions that are safe for her age,” the druid said.

A glance at Yennefer confirmed she agreed with his prognosis.

Calanthe didn't move from her vigil at the window. “Pavetta was a sickly child, we have been lucky to avoid this reality for so long.”

Her skin felt so clammy under his fingers, and Yennefer pressed a cool cloth into his hand. Ciri stirred with his touch.

“Geralt’s here, Cirilla,” Calanthe said.

“Grr'lt?”

“I'm here, little one.”

“So so tired,” she moaned, then coughed roughly and wetly.

After she had taken a little water, Geralt pushed her back into the pillows.

“Then sleep, I'll be right here.”

Within the hour, Ciri was awake again, sitting up and demanding more than weak soup and chilled water.

“Incredible,” Eist marvelled. “She's completely recovered!”

Both Geralt and Yennefer wisely kept their mouths shut.

It was powerful magic, untraceable magic, that healed Ciri of her sickness. Magic that could only have come from a creature from another Sphere.

From then, every time Yennefer heard Ciri so much as cough or one of her many rough-and-tumble wounds looked in danger of becoming infected, she would order the girl to go and visit Geralt. Ciri would spend an afternoon tucked under Geralt's cloak, and by morning would be strong and healthy again.

She never came to harm when she teleported to Geralt in the middle of a monster fight, either.

Kaer Morhen was too far north and too high up to get much more than weak sunlight during the winter, but the weather had been particularly pleasant the last couple of days, and Yennefer was determined to make the most of it. She set herself up a spot in the sun with a good book in hand, and dutifully ignored the various crashes and bangs that came from inside the keep.

They were 5 full grown men. They could handle Cirilla while Yennefer took a much needed break.

Another crash, and something that could have been an excited holler or a roar of frustration. Yennefer turned the page.

Her moments of peace didn't last long.

“Mama,” Ciri whined, climbing all over Yennefer's lounge. She didn't even teleport, Yennefer had no idea how the girl found her on the top of the West tower.

“Mama, Lambert's being mean,” Ciri complained, her little face screwed up in anger. “He called me a bad word. He said farty head.”

Yennefer kept the book close to her face to hide her smile and keep her tone even and uninterested, lest she get drawn into their petty disputes. “Well, you call him a rude word right back. Off you go.”

Cirilla, with all the strength of her four year old self climbed onto the tower ledge. With a voice that can shatter glass and send things flying she yelled at the top of her lungs and the entire keep shuddered.

“Lambert you're a big fuck!”

The first two winters Ciri flitted in and out of Kaer Morhen she brought nothing but chaos. Colic screams and playful games forever changed those halls.

The less said about the empty winter, the better.

But as she grew older, instead of chaos, her presence brought strict order. The little princess had ideas about her station, and the way the world should work, and what was Proper.

She always said it like that. ‘Not Proper’ became the most damning indictment of those rough wolves.

“What's that?” she asked, pointing to the jug in Lambert's hand as he approached the large table.

“Ale,” he replied.

“Lambert's bein’ greedy. Not Proper to have all for yourself.” Ciri shook her head.

He grimaced, and Coën held out his mug with a grin.

“I thought we were supposed to be an uncivilsing force on her,” Lambert grumbled as he poured a round.

“Believe me, you are,” Jaskier said. “You should have seen her at the feast for Calanthe's birthday. She ripped into the suckling pig with her bare hands. Right off the spit.”

“Atta girl,” Geralt rumbled, his hand on her back.

Ciri took her role as Princess very seriously. She lifted her little clay cup up high, in a manner she had seen her Grandmama do many times, and pronounced, “Everybody drink now.”

That was a command that all the Witchers could obey gladly, and their raucous laughter ensured Ciri repeated it, over and over again.

Vesemir ordered Geralt out to clear the Killer path after a particularly bad snowstorm. 

“You do any hunting at all this year gone?” Vesemir asked him, as they pushed a fallen tree down the ravine. It fell with a crack and splintered into a thousand pieces.

“Some.”

“Eskel told me what happened in the town outside Vergen.” Vesemir sighed. “You used to have restraint, boy.”

“They were botchlings,” Geralt gritted out, his face turned towards the stump he was digging out. “Unwanted children, dozens of them. Big pile in the ravine.”

The stump had old roots, deeply dug into frozen ground. Any other time of year would have been better to dig it out, but now would have to do. Vesemir got to work alongside Geralt.

“Break the curse?” the old teacher asked.

Geralt didn't look up. He got down on his knees and started breaking the roots with his hatchet, powerful force behind every blow.

“Not one person in that village would name any of them, not one.” Geralt stabbed the axe so deep that it stuck. Vesemir's hand stilled his and took over to leverage it free.

“That never used to get to you before.”

“Well, maybe it should have,” Geralt grunted.

They continued on in silence, for hours until the Killer was cleared again for another year. On their way back up to Kaer Morhen, Vesemir cast a glance at the burial fields outside the training grounds.

“Never thought about those that failed the training,” he said. “Never much wanted to. Not till it was you three.”

And that was all that was said about that.

The Witcher was a foul but welcome sight to the small mountainous village of Est Haemlet. The little pale haired girl in his lap as he rode was less so.

Ciri tugged on his sleeve. “Everyone here is so mad.”

“The people are angry,” Geralt agreed. “A cockatrice is eating their sheep.”

“Why's it eating them?”

“Because it's hungry.”

Ciri frowned as she thought.

“They should share the sheep.”

“The people are hungry too, Ciri.”

He should be honoured, really, that the first person outside of Ciri's little family that she teleported to was himself. Jaskier was proud of his amiability, his way to get anyone on his side, from furious kings to shy little girls. At any other time, he honestly would have been delighted that the flash of green light meant that Ciri considered him safe and familiar enough to seek him out even when he wasn't around any of her other preferred people.

Only, he was nursing both a broken heart and a splitting headache from a hangover following a night of drinking that was supposed to erase the pain of the broken heart, so he really wasn't in the mood to play nanny.

Also, Ciri was glowering at him like she was just as unhappy about the situation.

“Papa said I can't stay with him today.”

Jaskier threw his blanket back over his head. “Then go to Grandmama.”

“Grandmama is off warring," Ciri answered.

Of course, Calanthe still made appearances at the front lines of whatever skirmish it took to re-settle the borders again.

Ciri tugged the blanket off him, and he groaned out loud.

“What about Mama?” Jaskier asked hopefully.

“She's with Papa too.”

Jaskier squinted at her suspiciously, and also because the light was assaulting him.

“Oh, who has been unhooking the stars without my permission, and hanging them from the gutters outside my window?” he sang.

Ciri had no patience for his poetry. “You smell like tavern,” she said.

“I feel like the ditch outside of one, too,” Jaskier said. “Would you please tell Mama and Papa that I'm out of commission for the day? Uncle Jaskier is no good.”

The little girl huffed, and with a flash of light, she was gone.

Blissful quiet, peace and tranqui-

A crackle of energy and light, and Ciri was back again, tugging at the pile of blankets on his head. “Come on, Yaya!” she complained. “Papa said you have to play with me.”

“I do, do I?”

“Gotta play. Coz Papa said you owe him.”

“What on earth do I owe him for?”

“Papa said you gotta Nanny coz of dar Atta Sisters.”

“Huh? What could that possibly-” Jaskier cut himself off as he figured it out. Rose and Edna var Attre, the young women Jaskier had tutored in rhetoric and he'd convinced Geralt to give them lessons in swordplay so that Jaskier could have a little, hm, lesson in bedplay with the other.

Which meant that, in all likelihood, Geralt and Yennefer's insistence that Ciri leave them alone for the day meant they were overdue for a little bedsport of their own.

“Oh the things a poet does for love,” he groaned, throwing his shirt over his head and ruffled Ciri's hair.

“Come on, scamp. You might be useful after all. Maybe a certain lady's heart would melt to see my soft and sensitive side. And if that doesn't work, we can make a tidy profit busking, I'm sure.”

She was growing up too fast. Too fast especially for her long-lived parents. Last time he was in Tretogor Geralt had been anxious for her to say his name, now they had whole conversations and he could even reason with her.

Well, reason as much as she was reasonable. She was too tenacious and stubborn, she thought she could do everything that the adults around her could do, and would become sulky and upset easily when she failed or was held back.

“Why can't I do magic like Mama?” she huffed, folding her arms and dropping her chin onto them. She and Geralt had been watching Yennefer cast spells on a gnarled thicket of thorns that had overgrown in their path. She murmured Elder Speech and the lethal branches bent backwards without breaking, curling and writhing away to clear the mountain path to some ancient wizard's keep she wanted Geralt to clear of monsters so she could investigate the old research.

“You will, in time, with practice.” Geralt answered.

“When?”

“When you're older.”

Ciri scowled. “That's forever! I can't wait till I'm a grownup.”

Geralt reached out a tender hand, stroking Ciri's cheek and taking in as much of her young face as he could.

“It'll come,” he said sadly. “Sooner than you think.”

Chapter Text

Her boots landed on the frost-covered pole, but didn't slip.

Keep your balance, Ciri said to herself, her internal voice so much like Geralt's. Balance is everything. If you don't have your feet, you don't have anything.

The pendulum was coming at her, and she pushed off of it, using its momentum to swing around and lightly land on the next post, then she launched herself at the next section of the obstacle course. Wooden ledges bolted into the cliff face. She ran and lept, her legs longer than they'd ever been before, and she used all her strength. Ciri hit the Gauntlet in confident strides, working her way with leaps and sprints up the stone cliff, the sheer drop off to her side not bothering her.

A rotted plank of wood cracked when she landed on it, and the ledge dropped out from under her. Her feet spun wildly, and she threw a hand towards the ground.

“Aard!” she yelled. A powerful force of air pushed her upwards, and with her spare hand she grabbed the splintered edge.

She was hanging by her fingertips from rotted wood, and far below the fallen plank crashed against rocks. Her shoulder nearly wrenched from its socket. Ciri's heart pounded in her chest, but her face was flushed in victory.

She was just wondering how she should haul herself up to safety - her recent growth spurt had given her height, but she was still boney and felt weak in her arms and shoulders - when the tail of a rope landed beside her.

She followed the rope upwards, to the grim face of her father up the cliff, the other end of the rope in his hands.

Oops.

Sheepishly, she wound the rope around her free wrist, held on tight and planted both feet against the rock so he could haul her upwards.

“You should have seen it, Papa! I was going so fast. I did the spin off the pendulum like you taught me, and it didn't even slow me down.” Ciri could speak as fast as she could run now. One hand gestured wildly, and the other was held in a pin against the table while Geralt pulled splinters of wood from her palm.

“And then, when the ledge broke, I felt my magic respond, I didn't even think, just whoosh. When I looked down, I almost died of fright.”

“You almost died,” he confirmed. You almost died in an extremely painful way. “If I hadn't been there-”

Ciri gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “You're always there, Papa. Besides, I would have blinked away before I hit the ground.”

Eskel joined them at the table and tugged on a lock of Geralt's hair as he swung a leg over the bench.

“Ciri, you're gonna send me grey before my time,” Eskel said. “See this white wolf? He was red as anything before you came along.”

“Really?” Ciri looked at Geralt for confirmation.

“Will you stop throwing yourself off cliff faces if I say yes?”

“No.”

“Then no.” He tipped a vial of an oil on a clean cloth and pressed it to her wounds and she hissed. “It was the mutations that sent me grey. You were responsible for making me look my age despite.”

“Aren't you like, a hundred?”

“Exactly.”

Her hand and shoulder healed up nicely, because she stayed at Geralt's side. She grumbled about being ‘locked in’, but Lambert always cheered her up with his many explosions and letting her sneak a taste of his newest alcoholic concoction when she thought he wasn't looking. He slapped her back when she coughed at the taste.

“I won't tell Geralt if you won't,” Lambert said, and he received a thumbs up and a watery-eyed smile in return.

“That was so gross,” Ciri said. “I'm never ever drinking vodka.”

“Then my duty as a rascal Uncle is complete.”

Coën arrived that evening, an unexpected and pleasant surprise. Ciri squealed when she saw him, jumping up and wrapping her legs around him like she was a kid again.

“Oof,” Coën said, staggering under her weight. “There's gonna be a day you can't do that to me.”

Geralt's white head snapped up from his mending, and he frowned deeply.

That night, Ciri ignored Geralt's many warnings to get to bed, and the fire burned low. She was sitting on the hearth, engaged in a slapping game with Coën and Eskel, rocking backwards in laughter every time their fast reflexes couldn't avoid her strikes.

“Day's done,” Geralt called out for the last time. “You've got more training tomorrow.”

“They're still up!”

“They'll be training too, and they're Witchers. And adults.”

“I'll be an adult soon.”

“Don't remind me.”

Without warning, Geralt grabbed her round the middle and threw her over his shoulder.

“Aii!” she screamed, thumping her fists on his back. “Put me down, you big oaf!”

As much as she protested, she never teleported away when he grabbed her. Geralt carried her all the way to her room, and then threw her on the bed.

“What was that for?” she asked, sullen.

“Just to prove I could,” Geralt said with a grin. “Goodnight, Ciri.”

A pillow hit the back of the door when he closed it.

Potion making was by far the worst part of Ciri's magical education. It had none of the flash-bang, required little to no accessing of Power, and involved hours of tedious preparation. Yennefer insisted on it, though. A well rounded education being essential and all that. Ciri would rather be outside, running through her fencing lessons. Or, falling that, be using her Power to at least blow some things up. She liked when she and Yennefer did stuff like that.

What she didn't like was stirring a sleep aid in a cauldron and trying to guess when the texture of the potion changed from gluggy to lumpy. Do rich noble ladies really pay through the nose to choke this down just for a night of sleep? If so, how bad were their waking lives? Ciri shuddered to think.

“Ciri, can you fetch me the fresh salamander legs, please?” Yennefer asked, her hands frozen in a conductive shape over the cauldron. “Ciri, the legs.”

Ciri rolled her eyes, pushing away from the table with a screech of her chair on stone and stomping over to the alchemist cupboard. She handed a jar to Yennefer.

“Ciri, these are pickled, not fresh. Use your eyes, dear.”

Ciri scowled, and huffed so a lock of her hair flicked out of her face. Yennefer felt the little ripple in Chaos that preceded Ciri using her Power, and then the youth was gone in a flash of green light. 

Yennefer gazed at the empty space where Ciri had stood. She hated when she did that. She used to at least say goodbye. They had a system for things like this, so that each parent knew when they could expect Ciri to be with them, but recently Ciri had taken to coming and going on her own schedule.

Yennefer went back to her work, muttering in the Elder tongue, trying not to be bothered by her child's attitude.

She was so absorbed in her magics that she didn't hear the faint pop in the rafters above her head. But she certainly heard a wet slap on the table by her tomes, and she startled.

A little black creature was on her table, looking as dazed and confused as she was. It was long and slimy, with orange dots down its back and tail. Another slap and another puzzled salamander dropped onto her table, before scurrying away and disappearing into her bookshelves.

Yennefer couldn't conceal the grin that tugged at her lips.

“Oh, you little minx!” Yennefer called into the dark rafters.

A laugh, and Ciri swung to another beam and dropped a salamander right on Yennefer's head. Yennefer shot a harmless light spell at the girl, who dodged it easily, hooked her knees around a rafter and hung upside down.

She opened up the bag she was holding, and dumped a dozen freshly caught salamanders onto her mother below.

Geralt had spent a month in Yennefer's house by the sea, ostensibly working a contract involving a mermaid colony, but he could also be often found lounging in the sun and fixing netting with the old sailors. He somehow attained a measure of relaxation that he never thought possible. Even with, especially with, his daughter popping in and out of the house.

Usually Ciri loved it when Mama and Papa were together, and she knew well enough by now not to teleport anywhere they thought they would have privacy. She much preferred appearing in her own bedroom or out in the field and walking to the house, rather than catch another glimpse of Geralt and Yennefer alone.

Ciri's hair changed as she grew, departing from the waterfall of bright blonde to settle into something darker, something between white and black. Ashen, she'd called it bitterly, tugging on a strand by her face, kicking at the dirt in the fireplace. A cinder-princess she was not, but neither Geralt nor Yennefer seemed to be able to convince her of that. Everything about her appearance made her angry recently.

Strangely enough, her training scars and bruises never seemed to bother her. It was only her changing body that she poked and prodded mournfully.

It worried Geralt, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had never gone through a typical puberty, the bodily changes he'd gone through were distinctly unnatural, and the less said about Yennefer's relationship with her body when she was younger, the better. He wished he could save her from it, but even his accidental spoken wish couldn’t keep her from growing up.

One peaceful evening, when Geralt smelled like fish from his investigations, and Yennefer teased him for it, and Ciri cooked dinner, and there were some flakes of burnt potato skins in the stew, but Geralt smiled around it as he ate, and they played a few games of Gwent between them, and Geralt went round outside to carry in more firewood. When he came back inside, he heard a crash, and Ciri's raised voice.

Ciri was standing by Yennefer's apothecary cabinet, glass shards scattered at her feet and spilled a week's worth of Yennefer's work onto the stone floor.

“What were you doing?” Yennefer asked.

Instead of showing remorse, Ciri folded her arms stubbornly, looking every bit like Geralt dealing with idiots who put up contracts without knowing what they were talking about. “I was just going to use the anti-blemish potion, it's not my fault you packed it away so stupidly.”

“Ciri!” Geralt said sharply.

“It was an accident!”

“Accident or not, you owe your mother an apology.”

Ciri rolled her eyes and walked over to the door, grabbing her cloak and bag from the hook there.

“Where do you think you're going?” Yennefer asked.

“I'm going to Grandmama's!”

“No you're not,” Geralt said. “You come back here and apologise to Yennefer.”

“Make me!”

And she was gone, in a glow of emerald light that seemed to suck all the joy from the room.

Geralt slumped onto the couch and pressed a palm against his eyes.

“Where did I go wrong with her?” he asked.

“You let her become a teenager.” Yennefer slid into the space under his arm. “You should have let me cast a time freezing spell when she was 5 like I wanted.”

“But then we wouldn't have to see her at eight.”

“Mmm, eight was nice.”

“Not like nine. Hm. And I thought the night was going so well.”

Yennefer thoughtfully drummed her fingertips on Geralt's chest. “She is the living embodiment of Chaos itself,” she said. “I think we're doing quite well, all things considered.”

Geralt shrugged, and Yennefer didn't need to read his mind to know his conflicted thoughts.

“She's growing up, yes,” Yennefer said. “But she's still your little girl.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Geralt.” Yennefer planted her hands on his shoulders so he couldn't avoid her gaze. “She will always be your little girl.”

Later that evening, Ciri appeared back outside the little cottage, knocking on the door as she opened it. Geralt and Yennefer hadn't moved from the couch, except to feed the fire.

Ciri mumbled something that might have been an apology, and even though just the other day she claimed she was too old for such things, she snuggled in between them.

Calanthe didn't see much of her granddaughter in the winter. She knew it was a sort of sacred time for Witchers, and while Ciri's power had some sort of homing pigeon quality to certain special people in her life, she still found it difficult to locate some of the Witchers during their year-long journeys on the Path.

Her Power was getting stronger and more controlled each year, Mousesack assured her. Soon no corner of the Continent would be blocked from her. What a Queen could do with that kind of advantage Calanthe could only dream. And she had.

But winter was sacrosanct, and so Calanthe contented herself with missing her dear child for a few months out of the year. Hence, she was quite surprised when Ciri popped into existence outside her study.

Ciri was perfectly capable of teleporting exactly to Calanthe's location. Once, famously, she landed on Calanthe's back when the queen was galloping on a hunt. Which meant her appearing in the hall was just so she could march into Calanthe's study and slam the door, purely for the satisfaction of hearing the bang.

Ciri threw herself onto Calanthe's couch, put a pillow over her face and screamed into it.

Calanthe put down her quill.

“Everything alright, dear?” she asked.

Ciri kicked her legs petulantly, before throwing the pillow to the floor. “Men! They're all such men!”

“Men often are.” Calanthe waited patiently in silence. Sometimes Ciri didn't elaborate on her moods, and they passed fast like a thunderclap. Other times she needed to vent the pressure in her changing body.

At length, Ciri mumbled at the ceiling. “None of them know their birthdays at all, and I thought, well, I'll be sixteen soon, and you're going to have to throw me a ball because I'm basically an adult, and we'll do that whole in-line-for-the-throne-thing.”

Calanthe didn't consider herself a staunch traditionalist, but hearing the ancient royal practices of legitimising the succession being referred to as such made her arch an eyebrow.

“And this is connected to the men of Kaer Morhen?” Calanthe asked.

“I can't have a birthday if they've never had one!” Ciri said, with full certainty. “So I teleported here and got that nice dress, you know, the one with the squirrel fur trim? And I made some tea cakes and stole- I mean, I just borrowed Eist's tea set, and I got it all ready in the courtyard, and then-”

Her eyes welled up with tears, and she grabbed the pillow again, hugging it into her midsection. The silence stretched on.

“They didn't appreciate it?” Calanthe offered as a possible next step in the story.

“I didn't even get to explain,” Ciri said mournfully, sitting up. “They were all mucked up from dealing with Drowners, and when they saw me- and Lambert laughed and Papa didn't say anything! They all acted like I was a pig that learnt to stand on her hind legs!”

“Did they say that?”

“No, but they were thinking it.”

“Were you actually mind reading or just assuming, because sometimes I can't tell with you,” Calanthe asked.

Ciri slouched down. “Just assumed,” she admitted.

Calanthe could see it in her mind's eye, her earnest granddaughter trying to do something courtly for rough Witchers, but with no explanation and poor timing, they must have been more baffled than appreciative. And with Ciri's ability to disappear in a moment, the Witchers never had a chance.

“And,” Ciri said, switching from downtrodden to anger in a heartbeat, as young women often do, “Papa never lets me out on my own! It's always oh, go with Yennefer, Ciri. Did you bring Jaskier, Ciri? Why don't we go together, Ciri?”

Calanthe had to admit, Ciri had an impressive Geralt impression. Then Ciri switched again, balling her fists up, but mostly in anger at herself.

“I love them so much,” she said through gritted teeth, “so why do I hate them right now?”

Calanthe stood, finally, and sat down next to Ciri on the couch, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“I remember being fifteen,” Calanthe said simply. “I very much doubt any of the Witchers or Mages do.”

Ciri picked at the ends of her sleeves, an awful habit Calanthe still couldn't break her from. “They won't let me be normal,” Ciri said. “I just- I thought they'd want to be normal too.”

“Like you want to be normal?”

“No,” she answered quickly. “I love being me.”

“But…”

“But. I dunno.” Ciri shrugged. “You wear dresses and fight in battles.”

Thrown by the change of topic for a moment, Calanthe settled on agreeing. “Yes, but not at the same time.”

“I don't want to be different depending on where I am, I just want to be me.”

Ah, the root of the matter. A girl who could go any place she wanted in a moment, who spent her childhood flicking between royal palaces and dirty villages, who was trained in decorum and magic and swordplay alike. A girl who was just trying to figure out who she was.

Calanthe said nothing, just hugged Ciri into her side, and Ciri bent into her easily.

“At least you're normal,” Ciri muttered into her grandmother's shoulder.

“Child,” Calanthe said, with feigned offence. “I may not be a mutant or a mage, but I'm certainly not normal. I don't think you know a single person who is normal.”

Ciri sniffed. “Maybe Eist?”

“Maybe Eist.”

Ciri and Jaskier understood each other in a way Geralt didn't quite grasp. Even so young, Ciri understood the game that Jaskier played, the switching quickly between civility and biting wit, playing at deference while also gaining the upper hand.

They ran rings around him, and Yennefer was their constant target. Or playmate. Geralt sometimes couldn't tell.

Geralt was a simple man. Not nearly as simple as he let people think he was, but still, simple. Grounded, perhaps. Earthy, straightforward. Nothing like Jaskier's effusiveness and Ciri's radiance. He found no use for the layers of complexity that they wrapped themselves in.

Jaskier was special to Ciri. A confidant, a tutor in living between worlds without losing the self. A first rate teacher in manipulating expectations.

Also a tutor in the required seven liberal arts, which Ciri tolerated. Barely.

He gave her assigned readings, like she was one of his students at Oxenfurt, mostly literature from different parts of the Continent, but also essays on philosophy and metaphysics and all those things that Geralt didn't concern himself with. Ciri, to her credit, did genuinely try.

“Can you read this for me, Papa?” she asked, pushing the heavy book across the table to him and almost spilling his ale onto it. “I'm going cross-eyed.”

Looking at the spidery print, he could see why. Thankfully, his mutations helped, and he read out loud.

Ciri paced as he read, then did some stretches, hmming every now and then at a point. She ended up doing acrobatics, twisting her body into different shapes and walking around on her hands.

“Keep going,” she said, upside down and huffing her ashen hair out of her face. “I'm listening.”

He could see why the palace tutors didn't appreciate her, but for his part, Geralt never loved her more.

The candles burned lower, and eventually Ciri's relaxed from her gymnastics routine, and without a word, she slid herself under Geralt's arm, folding gangly limbs into herself and tucking against his chest. The words caught briefly in his throat as he tightened an arm around her. She had grown so much, but she was still that small bundle that he remembered carrying all day.

The snow in Skellige was completely different to Kaer Morhen. Snow in Kaer Morhen was rarely beautiful, more often than not it was bitterly cold and fell in icy sheets. But in Skellige the snow was fluffy and blanketed the land.

It was the first year in many that Geralt and Ciri didn't winter in the mountains. Mousesack had convinced Yennefer that an education in druidic arts was essential to round out Ciri's education, so they hoarded a boat to the islands.

Ciri lasted two days on the rocky seas, at first thrilled with the sea water spray and mixing with the sailors, but when a storm whipped up, she hugged Yennefer and Geralt goodbye and disappeared back to Cintra for a few days until the ship made port.

Geralt didn't consider himself bound to any locale or nation. He fashioned himself as a Rivian, but knew and cared little about the place. Skellige though, he could grow to like the culture and the people there. The people were straightforward and direct, they didn't play games with words. They were just as wary of him, but that seemed to be more due to him being an outlander than a Witcher. They respected the work he did on the Isles, clearing up rock trolls and harpies, and always poured him a drink when they paid him. They were good folk.

But mostly, Geralt liked Skellige because Ciri liked it. Her face brightened when they hiked the frigid mountains together. She was taught how to swear in Skellige jargon by Crach an Crait, and she cackled gleefully as she clung to Yennefer when they went ice-skating.

There was a feast at Kaer Trolde, some midwinter festival that wasn't Yule, and the musicians played lively tunes that even had Mousesack bouncing up and down the hall with a partner.

“Come on, Papa!” Ciri called, face flushed with alcohol and exertion. She laughed as she held her hand, tugging him towards the centre of the hall. “You've danced me at a céilí before.”

“You used to sit on my hip or stand on my toes,” Geralt grumbled, but Ciri just laughed, using a Witcher momentum trick to spin him into the starting position.

Her studies and exploration of the Isles continued throughout the winter and into spring, when the waters thawed and news could reach them again. The first messengers from Calanthe carried updates about Nilfgaard. Nothing dangerous to the nation's outside its borders, just the rumblings of vassal states seeking more independence, weakening the Usurper's hold on the throne. Calanthe suggested, in her usual forceful way, that with Ciri's birthday come and gone, they should consider taking steps to secure the crown.

Ciri threw the letter to the floor with a groan and pulled out her boot knife, sharpening it as a nervous habit. Yennefer picked up the crumpled note and read over it.

“It's worth considering, Ciri,” she advised, always the faithful Aretuza graduate.

Ciri looked at her over the polished blade. “You want me to lead an army into war so I can be an empress?”

“I want you to know your options,” Yennefer said smoothly. “Make any choice you desire, just know what you're choosing, dear.”

Ciri flicked the dagger around in her hand easily, and with a flick of her wrist threw it so it speared the doorjamb.

“It's a bit stupid, isn't it?” she said. “I haven't even been to Nilfgaard since I was a baby, but because some dead asshole hid his identity, I could get to rule it?”

“Better you than someone else.”

“I'm sure everyone says that.”

Yennefer smiled approvingly.

“What got into her?” Geralt asked, jerking his head at the window where he could see Ciri leaning against the battlements of Kaer Trolde.

“Politics,” Yennefer answered.

Geralt shuddered. 

“Yes, we're all very aware of your perspective, Geralt.”

“Should I… is there anything I should do?”

Yennefer pressed a kiss to his cheekbone. “She's your daughter, Geralt.”

Strengthened beyond what a vial of Swallow would give him, Geralt went into the brisk spring wind. Skellige was far from thawed, snow was still dusting the ground and the parapet, but the sun was glaring off the icy snow and caught the glint of some flakes in Ciri's hair. She leant against the low wall around the battlements, looking down at the town and the river canyon below.

Geralt took his place beside her, folding his arms on the rough stonework. No words were spoken between them, they didn't need to be.

“I suddenly understand your strict rule of neutrality,” Ciri said at length. “It must be easier to have your code all laid out for you.”

Geralt hung his head. “It's an illusion,” he said, picking at the stones of the parapet. “Every choice is hard, Ciri. Every choice has consequences.”

Suddenly she saw him, not as a towering figure of strength and resolve, not invincible, but as a fellow creature of the earth. A man, not a giant.

She looked at him sideways. “How do you do it? How do you carry that weight when there are lives in the balance?”

“Hm.” Geralt straightened and paced along the battlements slowly. “There's a certain ancient method. Vesemir taught it to me, and Barmin taught it to him.”

“Are you going to take me into the mountains and make me drink hemlock?”

He ignored her, hiding a small smile as he scooped some snow from the parapet into his hands.

“The Skellige druids have used it for centuries,” he said. “It always works.”

He threw the snow at her face and she spluttered.

“Hey!” she yelled, indignant at first, then grinning. “You'll regret that.”

She gathered her own snow from the ground and threw the ball with good aim. Geralt blocked it with his forearm, a shower of snow scattering into his hair.

He gathered up another ball from the ground, but when he stood, she was gone. He looked around, and as soon as he turned was hit in the face with another snowball.

He saw her laugh, then disappear with a shimmer of emerald, before he was hit again from another angle.

“That's cheating!” he said.

“I've been practicing my short range teleporting, just like you said!” Ciri called out, suddenly halfway down the bridge and collecting snow from a build-up there. But when she made her teleporting approach, she was struck by Geralt's superior speed and instinct. She spluttered at the snow in her face, and squealed as he grabbed her, lifting her up and shoving snow down the back of her shirt.

With her Power, she made her escape, and Geralt couldn't see her for a long moment. His medallion didn't vibrate, and he couldn't smell her on the wind. The moments stretched out, until he happened to look up at the roof of the tower and saw her leap from above, and a snowball the size of a horse's head crashed down on him.

Alongside her education in politics and magic craft, Ciri still learnt the ancient art of Witchering.

“Tell all the people on Straight Street to stay in their homes,” Geralt instructed her. “They should lay a line of salt across their doorways and windows and keep them locked.”

Ciri frowned at that. “I thought you said salt doesn't work on monsters.”

“It doesn't. It works by keeping folk indoors and out of the way of my blade.”

Off to the side, Jaskier raised an eyebrow as he wrote in his little poem book.

“The people said they wanted to help,” Ciri said.

“And sometimes the best thing you can do is give them something inane to do," Geralt answered. “Keeps them out from under foot. I call it busywork.”

“Busywork,” Ciri repeated.

“You know, collect the first dew with the clothes of the dead, bring me a willow branch carved with the name of the cursed, that sort of thing.” Geralt grinned at her toothily. “I trust you to know the difference between busywork and real magic.”

Ciri returned the smile, and set off towards the part of town that the beast was known to hunt.

Jaskier tapped his pencil against his notebook, frowning. “But morning dew was effective against the noonwraith. I even wrote it into a song!”

Geralt didn't answer, just strode away to where he could observe Ciri work.

“Geralt, have you ever busyworked me?” Jaskier demanded, trailing after him. “Geralt, I said, have you ever done that to me?”

Geralt crossed his arms, leaning against the wall of a nearby shop. He watched from a distance as Ciri talked to the residents, reading their body language.

“She's good,” Jaskier noted.

“She's too young. They don't trust a child.”

Jaskier snorted, and Geralt glanced at him askance.

“What?” Geralt asked.

“I hate to say it, Geralt. But your little girl isn't so little anymore. Gaze upon her, my friend, and you may be surprised to find you're looking at a woman.”

He was right, damn him.

“It shouldn't be that difficult,” Jaskier said. “She's as old as I was when we met.”

“What? No, you were grown.”

“She's eighteen. I was barely that when I was picking up bread off the floor in Sodden and you glowered into my life.”

“How old are you now?”

“Geralt, honestly, I'm offended you would even ask,” Jaskier said, but pointedly didn't answer the question.

Geralt's work didn't stop. Monsters kept killing people, and a royal wyvern was a particularly dangerous foe. The setting sun shone brightly in his eyes as he tried to get the monster to land in the east. The wyvern spit venom at him and he rolled, shooting Aard as he got up from the ground.

It was a particularly nasty beast, old and with the scars and strength that proved it had earned its long life. More aggressive than normal, and, Geralt thought as he dived below sweeping claws, faster too.

His blood burned with potions, edging towards overwhelming toxicity, but he needed them to face a formidable foe. He brought his sword down on the wyvern's wing, shattering the bone and crippling it on the ground.

The wyvern screamed, ear-piercing, and thrashed, knocking Geralt with its tail and sending him tumbling backwards. As he lay on the ground, he felt his medallion vibrate against his chest.

No, no.

“Ciri, get out of here!” he yelled.

There she was, startled but never shocked to appear in a fight. She dodged the thrashing tail and drew her sword.

“Why?” she asked with a grin. “Looks like you might need a hand, old man.”

With Ciri as a distraction, Geralt could get back to his feet.

“Ciri, it's too dangerous.” His face was grey and black-veined, he looked hardly anything like the man she knew and loved.

“Don't worry about me.”

“I always worry about you.”

The wyvern screeched and Geralt grit his teeth, tightening his grip on his sword. Of course the foolhardy girl wouldn't do as she was told and just leave. Stubborn. She got that from Yennefer.

The fighting skills, though, that was all him. Well, him and Calanthe. Ciri is grace with a blade. Even against the brute strength of the royal wyvern, she used its own momentum against it, dodging out of the way of its sweeping tail and giving Geralt clearance to slice at its claw.

Brackish blood spilled on the grass, and the wyvern wailed again. It wasn't getting back up from that, but it was still deadly and spitting venom.

Too late Geralt noticed that Ciri had positioned herself poorly, the wyvern between herself and the setting sun. She was caught between the glare in her eyes and the thrashing beast, the shadows quickly moving across her and blinding her in turns. She raised a hand to her face to protect her eyes, her grip loosening on her sword.

She didn't see the wayward claw jerking in the dirt, the way the wyvern was arching its back in pain.

Geralt ran towards Ciri, thrusting his sword deep into the exposed part of the wyvern's neck. The blade caught on the cartilage there, being pulled from his hand and leaving him defenceless.

The wyvern, while dying, was still deadly. Its foreclaw hurtled towards Ciri, and her eyes went wide.

Geralt threw his body on the creature's limb. It grasped at his torso, sharp claws piercing his armour and plunging straight into his side.

“Pa!” Ciri screamed.

She sliced the tendon with a diagonal step across maneuver he recognised from their years of drills, and the wyvern dropped him bodily to the ground.

The royal wyvern continued to shudder through its death throes, and Ciri gripped him under the armpits to drag him out of range.

“You stupid, stupid man!" She fumed. “I would have been fine. You shouldn't have done that!”

Ciri raised a hand towards the wyvern and finished it off with a blasts of a powerful shockwave spell that Geralt didn't recognise as Aard but as something uniquely mage. The wyverns neck snapped around Geralt's blade and it lay still.

“Where are your damned potions?” She asked, patting around his armour.

“Can't,” he grunted. “Taken too many.”

Ciri slumped over him. “We've got to get help.” With one hand, she gripped his shoulder and with the other his unwounded side, hauling him off the ground towards herself like he was the child, and bending her head over him. Summoning more of her Power than she ever had before, tapping into the Source and even Geralt's Chaos, Ciri took Geralt with her as she teleported.

Ciri’s muscles burned like she had run the Killer with Roach’s saddlebags on her back. She heaved air into her lungs, barely tasting the staleness of the air that indicated they were inside. Somewhere dark, and cold. Underground, maybe.

“Oh, my dear,” a familiar voice said, soft feet shuffling closer, “oh dear, oh dear.”

“I’m sorry,” Ciri said, scrubbing at the tears in her eyes as she tried to get her bearings. “I know it’s a lot of blood.”

“It’s fine, dear,” a weathered hand touched her shoulder, pulling her back firmly from where she was hunched over Geralt. “He has lost a lot, but thankfully I know a thing or two about blood, eh?”

Regis’ weathered face came into focus, and Ciri nodded, releasing her death grip on Geralt's armour. Her Papa gasped roughly as he was picked up by Regis as easy as one would a sack of flour, and was deposited on a low stone table.

A crypt, Ciri realised, looking about herself. Lit with candles and a low burning fire under a large pot. Herbs were pinned to a long string hung across the low ceiling, and the other grave slabs were cluttered with more of Regis' work.

“There now, my friend,” Regis muttered, unbuckling the cuirass. Geralt grunted.

Ciri got to her feet. “I should get Mama.”

Regis grasped her elbow and steered her to a low stool by the fire. “Sit here a moment, first. Eat that.”

“What is it?”

“Your blood doesn't have enough sugar in it. I'm afraid you'll crash if you try to leave now," Regis said. “Yennefer can wait a moment.”

Ciri gnawed on the honeycomb, as well as the platter of herbed bread that she pilfered from a wrapped cloth while Regis worked on Geralt.

Regis reported he couldn't smell any venom in Geralt's blood, though it was difficult to tell with the concoctions of potions he'd imbued. The two old men bantered a little as the vampire worked, crushing herbs and pouring oils into the deep wounds and winding bandages around Geralt's chest.

Ciri's hands shook as she stared into the fire, clenching and unclenching and she refused to look up to watch Regis work.

“That should numb the pain and begin the healing. Nothing to do but rest. Sleep, my friend,” Regis said, and got a grunt in return.

Ciri stood sharply, and began rummaging through the myriad of bottles on the many shelves.

“Don't you have anything decent to drink around here?” she demanded.

“Not as such, no,” Regis said mildly. “Come now, sit down, let an old man rest his feet by the fire. Tell me what happened.”

Scowling, Ciri sat back down, hunching over her knees. “Damn fool got himself sliced by a wyvern. I guess he was on a contract.”

“Where was this?”

“Not sure. I had only just arrived. We fought the beast together, but he dived on it when it swiped at me." She scrubbed at her face. “It's his own damn fault. He shouldn't have gotten in the way.”

“Why is that?” Regis asked, quietly and matching her tone.

“I don't get hurt when I'm with Papa,” Ciri said. “There's a magic that keeps me safe. Even if he'd let the wyvern hit me, I would have been fine.”

Regis raised a hand and stroked his whiskers.

“The way I see it,” he said, slowly and carefully, “you're sitting here safe precisely because he did not let it strike you.”

Ciri turned her head back downwards and stared at the fire.

Geralt woke in a slow haze, only the quiet murmurings of familiar voices kept him settled. His side ached, and taking a deep breath turned the pain sharp and biting. He made a small noise, and Ciri appeared at his bedside, gripping his hand firmly.

“Papa," she said quietly.

“y' okay?” he asked.

She gave a small laugh. “I'm fine.” She released his hand and touched his bandages. “You, however…”

Geralt gave a dismissive grunt. Then a cough, which sent pain splitting up his side, and Ciri's expression to become strained. She grabbed a cup and fed him a little water to wet his throat.

“I thought," she started. “I thought there was something magical that protects us.”

“Protects you,” Geralt corrected gruffly. Talking hurt. “When you're. When you're with me. ’S why I worry when you go off alone, but.” He waved a hand. “Grown up now.”

Ciri chewed her bottom lip, a habit he hadn't seen from her in a while since she became this confident young woman.

“Y’ finish the contract?” he asked.

She laughed quietly, rolling her eyes at him. “I had to go back for your sword, didn't I? I took its head to the mayor.”

“Good,” he said, lying back down on the stone. “’s good. You're a fine Witcher.”

He patted her on the cheek, and she held his large hand there.

Ciri didn't always travel by teleportation. She'd seen a beautiful black mare in Ryn and spent her grandmother's money to buy her, so she was taking the long way round to Cintra, with Geralt and Jaskier accompanying her.

It was long days of riding, with easy conversation and comfortable silences stretching between them. More days than not, Ciri would divert their path towards local festivals and swimming holes and small contracts, the kinds of which Ciri had long finished cutting her teeth on.

Jaskier and Geralt both noted the delay tactics. They exchanged a glance after Ciri confidently chose a fork in the road that would add two days to their journey and rode off ahead of them. Both men's eyebrows rose, and emphatically insisted that the other one go after her and deal with it. The silent war was waged, and Jaskier rolled his eyes, squeezing his legs so Pegasus quickened his walk up to come alongside Ciri.

“Something waiting for you in Cintra, my dear?” he asked tentatively.

She breathed in deep and huffed. “Just life.”

“Well, yes. Comes for us all, doesn't it?”

“Do you ever-” Ciri reached up and plucked a handful of leaves from an overhanging branch and began ripping them with her fingers. “Do you ever wish you could go back to before you became famous?”

“Me? Oh no, no certainly not,” Jaskier said with a laugh. “Kind of defeats the purpose, really. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you're the most famous bard in most slums, but, but when you go to Court you have all these other people to compete with, and wouldn't, wouldn't it just be better to be the best known musician in a small town?”

“Ah, I see.” They rode in silence for a little while longer.

“You know, Ciri. Just because I was born with innate musicality, stunning vocals, a sharp wit and gorgeous hair-” Ciri snorted, but Jaskier continued on, “- doesn't mean I had to put any of them to use. I could also have been perfectly content in obscurity as a humble Count with a mere four thousand serfs working my folwark while I gorged myself on fat duck and gooseberry wine.”

Ciri laughed again, and reached out with her boot to jab him in the ankle.

“What, did fame go to my head or something?” Jaskier laughed. “Oh, but stepping onto that road for the first time, Witcherless at that time, mind you. I took a bigger place in the world, and it made me feel quite small.”

They built a campfire in a hidden gully, far from the road and lit by the glowing full moon. Jaskier had his back propped up against a tree, notebook open on one knee and his fingers tapping out quiet rhythms on the other.

Ciri was staring at the fire, lounging and relaxed, but deep in thought. In only a couple of days they would be within the Cintran border, and a few days after that she would have to start dressing and acting like the crown princess again. No more washing in streams and dressing in riding pants.

She didn't resent her title or the responsibility that came with it. Far from it, she had been working more with Calanthe on leading Cintra well. She just, she just wished that it melded more with her Destiny and her Power.

Geralt returned from the woods, thudding down to the riverbank with his arms full of firewood and he dropped to the ground beside her. He fed the fire some, moving the logs around, and when it was steadily burning he sat back and Ciri put her head on his shoulder.

For a moment, Geralt froze, then his arm curled around her.

“Something on your mind, kid?” he asked.

She rubbed her face against his linen shirt like a great cat.  “Mama's friends want me to pursue my magic. Eist thinks I should be Queen. Grandmama wants me to invade Nilfgaard,” she said. “What do I do?”

“You gotta make your own decision,” Geralt said quickly.

She sat upright. “Well, I want your opinion.”

“I won't tell you what to do.”

Ciri rolled her eyes. “Have you ever thought that maybe I just value your thoughts?” she asked. “You know, because you're you and I care about you?”

He stared at her, his face expressionless and difficult to read, even to her. Those yellow cat eyes were unblinking, and as familiar and loving as she knew them, she cringed under his gaze.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “Still boggles me, that's all.” He stood sharply, and mumbled something about getting more wood for the well stocked fire, and strode off up the gully.

Ciri stared at him, then shook her head in disbelief. “What was all that about?”

Jaskier explained, closing his notebook and gesturing with his pencil. “He admires you, girl. In awe might be the right term. You know what he said to me once?” Ciri shook her head, and Jaskier continued, “He looked at me and said with that gravelly voice of his, ‘How could anyone that wonderful come from someone like me?’. I think he rather forgot that he wasn't the one who sired you.”

Ciri looked down at her hands, and Jaskier made his way over to ruffle her hair.

“Look," he said, “I know Geralt has not been the most outwardly affectionate person in the world-”

“What?”

“You know,” Jaskier waved a hand, “his whole ‘Witchers don't have feelings’ thing. Emotional repression, the scholars call it.”

“Papa doesn't have that,” Ciri said, shaking her head and scoffing. “Did he tell you that? What a liar.”

Jaskier frowned at that. “What?”

“He's never had trouble saying he loves me.” Ciri stood, stretching her arms over her head. “Anyway, I better go call him on his bullshit excuse and actually get his advice. Thanks, Jask.”

As the child of surprise sauntered off, Jaskier realised she was right. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, the hour that his friend of decades changed, but he bet it was sometime around when golden hair became the shining light that guided his feet on the Path.

That was quite good, actually, Jaskier thought. He should write that down.

It was unseasonably warm for the time of year in Toussaint. It had been the talk of the town, how it would impact the grapes of the year, how the soil would fare, if it compared to the heatwave in the youth of some of the older residents whose memory stretched back decades.

As far as Geralt was concerned, every day in his estate in Corvo Bianco was unseasonably warm. It wasn't just the yellow sun that was never blocked by the clouds that clung to the mountains or the fog that covered swamps where he spent most of his time on the Path. It was the finely crafted blankets on every bed and couch that kept him warm. The promise of a well-stocked fireplace that he didn't have to pay for nightly. The raven-haired sorceress in his bed that he no longer had to chase around the Continent to have.

His own bed, his own house, his own estate. It was so far beyond imagining that he still didn't believe it. That the Path that he walked didn't end in an open unmarked grave, but a home and a vineyard, and a majordomo that ran the estate and insisted on using Geralt's keen senses to assess the quality of wine produced each season. Together they'd won quite a few awards over the years.

Geralt was getting older. He no longer received comments about his white hair not matching his age, though that may have been because he was a frequent visitor into town, and a familiar face at the markets. The people there were far more likely to discuss him as ‘the Witcher who brews that foul cider’ than ‘the Butcher of Blaviken’.

He'd taken up hunting - not for monsters, but for meat, selecting a strong deer from the herd and tracking it, tracing it through the Duchy's woods. He also spent a good time foraging, a pastime that Yennefer took no small joy in teasing.

“A mighty harvest, was it?” she called out as he emerged from the woods. She was reclining on a couch in dappled sunlight, a book open and resting on her breast and a goblet of wine dangling from her fingertips.

He tossed the basket of assorted herbs, moss and even a few small truffles that were missed at the last hunt at her, and it landed in her lap. Nothing special, as she predicted. Certainly nothing that the local herbalist wouldn't have for sale. Geralt's foraging was more an excuse for him to trace the more wild perimeter of the lands and to spot any signs of endregas or giant centipedes.

Geralt approached Yennefer on the couch, crawling up between her legs and nudging the basket till it fell to the ground and his head replaced its spot in her lap. He grunted at her, which she took as an instruction to start scritching the back of his skull. He didn't know how much time passed, but the sun shifted its angle across his back, and Yennefer steadily turned pages with her free hand.

The medallion, pressed as it was between his chest and her thigh, hummed in a familiar pattern that had them both sitting up and Geralt fixing his hair. Instead of a flash of emerald light, they heard a thump and the telltale sounds of a thief rummaging through their kitchen.

A bright and cheerful, “Afternoon, BB!” was called out to the majordomo, who disdainfully replied,

“If the mistress could please mind where she steps…”

“Oops, sorry, BB.”

Geralt opened the door just in time to see Ciri muttering an incantation to lift the mud from her boot prints off of the rug. She flung the floating mud through the open door and Geralt only just dodged by twisting his torso out of the way.

“Hi, Papa,” Ciri said easily, pressing a kiss to his whiskery cheek that smelled like the apricots he had bought at market just yesterday. “Where are your sword oils?” she asked, moving through the house with an easy familiarity. Geralt could hear Yennefer's chuckle from where he left her on the patio.

Geralt leant up against the doorframe while Ciri rummaged through his kit by the armour stand. With her spare hand she snagged a headband Geralt had left on the table and tied it so it kept her ashen hair from her eyes.

“You know how to brew your own,” he said.

“I know, but yours are already here and going to waste,” she teased. “Aha!”

He identified the bottle as she tossed it into the air and caught it again, before following her as she went out to the patio. Relict oil.

“Going to kill a leshen tonight,” Ciri announced.

“That so?” Geralt said mildly.

“It's a nasty piece of work,” Ciri continued, “been abducting children near Lower Alba. I'm gonna set a trap for it when it comes out at dusk. You want to come, Mama?”

From her position on the couch, Yennefer waved a hand. “I couldn't possibly, I'm far too comfortable.”

Ciri swooped down and kissed Yennefer on the cheek. “Bye Ma.”

“Have fun. Off you go.”

Ciri grinned brilliantly and gestured with a hand towards Geralt. “Come on, Papa. Unless-” her hand dropped a fraction, “unless you'd rather-?”

“No,” he said, grasping her hand firmly. “I'd love to come.”

He squeezed her fingers in his tenderly, and she smiled at him, swinging their hands playfully before laughing and pushing him towards his armour stand.

“Not dressed like that, you're not, old man!” She pointed a finger at him. “I want you in full armour, you hear? I'm not going to be answering to Mama for another one of your scars.”

Geralt chuckled, shaking his head and acquiescing. He tugged on his pieces, still well oiled and maintained, though seeing less use since he finally eradicated the achespore infestation not far from here. His fingers knew the familiar routine, but still it felt different to do this not at the behest of a contract or to save his own skin, but simply because his daughter wanted him there.

No longer was she disrupting his life, throwing everything in his life into chaos by being a young child that he was completely unprepared for. Those days seemed like they would never end, and yet, here she was.

She had her own life, now. Full and complete, and separate. But there she was, standing at the doorway, her hand outstretched, and he was being invited into her life.

“You ready?” Ciri asked.

Geralt grinned, took her hand and the world disappeared in a flash of emerald light.