Chapter Text
The seagulls fly above their heads, lazily it seemed. The salty breeze brings with it the many scents so characteristic to most harbors, occasionally masking the smell that seems to permeate over Novigrad – of burning flesh and rotting corpses. No matter the relief they might all feel when the breeze would give them a respite from the current reality in the so called Free City of Novigrad, the tension would not leave them.
They should hurry, that is the one thing they all agree on; they should hurry and finish preparations to set sail to Skellige as soon as possible. It wouldn't do to have the Wild Hunt fall upon them while in Novigrad, so many innocents at risk, streets too narrow to properly fight without unnecessary loss. It wouldn’t do to have the Witch Hunters start suspecting of them. Yes, it would serve them all well to make haste.
Only Yennefer looks across the deck, watches Ciri lean on the rail and gaze aimlessly at the water lapping at the ship's hull— and she can't. Can't find it in herself to push ruthlessly and relentlessly for an end just yet, to meet Eredin once more, not yet. She remembers Ciri regaling her with all the adventures she had with Geralt after they separated at Kaer Morhen, a bright smile on her face and eyes shining merrily, hands finding hers, seeking the approval Yennefer was happy to give. She remembers and thinks not yet, only a few more days, we can afford just a few more days.
It comforts her to know it's not just her wanting to delay their departure. With a faint smile, she recalls Geralt coming to her the first night after arriving with Ciri at the Chameleon, mumbling about a few jobs and contracts he ought to take care of before sailing for Skellige. Most likely, he had expected a reprimand, a reminder of the urgency of their mission, as she'd constantly done the last time they were in the eastern isles— whenever she wasn't allowing her desire for him rule her actions, that is. Or her greater desire to know for true if… if their love was real or— A reprimand that never came, she'd stroked his cheek and told him not to take too long, to come back at nightfall if he could.
She let him go, knowing that is one of the ways he copes with the pressure weighing him down; just as she often tended to bark orders to anyone who is within reach to have them do her bidding. Said little when he would stumble through the Chameleon’s door exhausted and reeking of blood and sweat and gore and whatever else clung to him during the day; said nothing as she helped him into a bath after he'd stumble into her room well past midnight much the same, knowing taunting remarks were best left for a time when light-heartedness wasn’t a distant yearning.
Once, the last night he'd returned, he did so with a magical brand on his face, powerful force she'd not known how to remove, had buried her worry under light teasing. Yennefer had traced the scarred tissue, felt it burn under her fingers, and come morning after Geralt's left again, poured over the books available to her, going as far as taking the ones in the other sorceresses possession with a vague explanation that truly said nothing at all. Yet much to her consternation, it was a fruitless endeavor; no matter how many books she read, she found nothing that would be of use, nothing to give a name to what or who had branded her witcher.
Her fingers tap tap tapping against the opposite elbow is the only thing betraying her worry now, as she leans on a crate by the mast of the ship, her gaze moving from Ciri to the other sorceresses and finally to Avallac'h, the elven sage insisting they all remained in the ship for now, waiting for Geralt to stop dallying so they would leave right away, an absurd demand as the cabins weren't the most comfortable and Dandelion’s offered hospitality still stood. Yennefer dislikes his insistence and his demands as much as she dislikes him, yet she stays, though, because Ciri does as well; she stays because this is where Geralt will come after his latest contract is done, she knows. She'd told him as much after they'd returned from Oxenfurt.
That had been days ago.
A few hours, Geralt, her fingers tap tap tap an uneven rhythm on her elbow, you said it oughtn’t take more than a few hours, no farther than a few hours ride from here. Her eyes move from Ciri's furrowed brow to the streets paralleling the ship. Where are you, witcher?
Even after witnessing— living through the djinn breaking Geralt's last wish, Yennefer feels as if the magic entwining their lives clings to them still. She certainly thinks so now, because as if conjured up by her thoughts, Geralt appears by the ship's side, stumbling up the plank, a frown marring his usually emotionless face. Her body is moving even before she makes the decision, in time to catch him as his legs give under his weight; he reeks of sweat and blood and all the nasty places he's been in, yet the way his body seems to melt against her with a soft sigh makes up for all the trouble she'll have to go through to clean her clothes and herself from the stench.
The moment is broken when his heavy form makes her grunt in the effort to keep him upright, when he groans under his breath in pain, his apology a soft exhale against her neck after taking a deep breath, he widens his stance to take his weight off her. Yennefer is reluctant to let go, until Ciri reaches their side to help him straighten up— then they stop, blink, Ciri gasps while she simply lifts a hand to trace the red-purple veins coiling around his face, the dark shadows surrounding his eyes, his scars painted black.
The red brand is gone.
“How many?”
He looks at her but doesn't get the chance to reply, shifting his gaze as Avallac'h comes near, and he goes back to frowning.
“At least a few,” she concludes, almost a question and a grunt of agreement is all she gets, brusque and angry, and soon he's growling low in his throat.
It is so unlike him, to react strongly now, that even their daughter is shocked. “Geralt, what happened to you?”
He sort of smiles at Ciri, comes out as more of a grimace, before turning his golden eyes on her. Staring intently, insistent, until she blinks and catches on. ‘Yen,’ then comes his voice, rumbling within her mind, ‘we must talk, but not here.’’
Yennefer nods, wraps an arm firmly around his waist, pressing their bodies close, both because she longs to feel him and because she needs to bear his weight on steady legs to cross her portal, caring little for whom might be watching.
“Perhaps we should take him to his cabin—”
“It can wait,” says Avallac'h, having reached their side. He looks at Geralt, taking note of his state, before nodding. “First we must talk, it shan't be long, then you may rest while we sail—”
“No,” Yennefer cuts across his sentence mercilessly, “you may wait, Avallac'h. He'll rest now.” She chants under her breath an incantation and a portal appears by her side; Geralt curses softly while she turns to address the rest, though her gaze focuses on Ciri. “I'll take him to the Chameleon, see you there.”
The moment is brief, like stepping through the threshold into a room, only the eternal second of nothingness in between is unnerving, even if she's grown used to it. The room remains as she'd left it, the tub ready to be filled, yet Yennefer only has a second to appreciate it before she's caught off guard by Geralt leaning most of his weight on her again.
“I hate portals…” His ever present complaint comes along a little smile. “Avallac'h is grating on my nerves.”
“And mine,” she confesses, snaps her fingers to conjure up some water, heating it up to his preference. “I'm grateful for all the help he's given Ciri, but…”
“Mm,” he hums and blinks owlishly at her, his visage still marred by the effects of the potions he's ingested. His clothes are gone with a simple wave of her hand, landing scattered around the room. “Could've done that sooner.”
“Undress you?” Her smirk it's impossible to contain. “Geralt, we were standing right next to Ciri, that would've been hardly appropriate.”
“As if you care for property.”
“I do when Ciri is around.”
His lips pull into a smirk of his own, tilted higher to the left, and she no longer resists the urge to kiss him, feeling satisfaction when he shudders and sighs in content.
“I meant… use magic on me,” he says after a moment. “To hold my weight easier.”
“Would rather not exert myself too much yet, in case I've to heal you.” Not quite a lie, but Yennefer doesn’t exactly say she just wants to have him close, thinks it unnecessary. “Will you manage getting into the tub? I need to get the neutralizer to flush out the toxins in your bloodstream.”
“Yes.” With a deep breath, he pulls back, and slowly climbs into the tub, groaning in relief, and it's truly a testament to how much he's probably endured this past few weeks for him to be so uninhibited now. “I think there's one in my satchel, perhaps…”
There is, indeed, a vial of White Honey, and she has him drinking it right away, paying close attention to his reactions. “So, we've privacy now,” she says, watching the garish black-purple veins disappear slowly from his face and body as all potions effects are repelled.
“I met Shani in Oxenfurt, few days after I left,” he slumps in the tub, looking as relaxed as he's been in a while, yet not fully.
Yennefer removes her clothes, lays them on the bed and chants a spell to clean them, lifting an eyebrow at him and then a mildly annoyed glare when his response is a shrug. “I hardly think that is the reason for your need for privacy.”
“Not exactly, but close. I'll explain everything about this contract in detail, just as soon as Ciri gets here. But this…” Sentence trails off, his eyes follow her every move as she nears the tub, hips swaying, to dip her hand in the water. “Um…”
Truly, it's always satisfactory to see him so affected by her. “But this…?”
Geralt shakes his head, though the heat of his gaze won't be dismissed. “I had to tell you now.”
“I sense it's not a happy tale.”
An understatement, truly, if the anger that overtakes his features is indication enough. “I despise being tricked, I certainly despise having my will stripped off me.”
“Geralt?”
“To put it simply,” he's looking better, feeling better, enough to grab hold of her hand and bring it to his face; she strokes the skin upon which the magical brand was, feeling it smooth and pleasant to the touch, sitting on the edge of the tub. “To put it simply: I was used to murder a prince, captured by the men sent to rescue him and shipped off to face certain death, made a pact with a man—” A convoluted mess of images flash through his mind, through hers, and a growl rips through his throat before his wrestles his anger under control. “What I thought was a man, a mirror salesman he said, the first time we—” ‘met’ comes the word, loud in its silence, as Geralt wryly recalls his help in finding her. “My help in exchange for my freedom, and I agreed without really knowing who he was or what he wanted until it was much too late, played pimp for a ghost, helped in a robbery, got trapped into a nightmarish world to retrieve a purple rose and solved a riddle where failure meant losing my soul and someone else's.”
Yennefer blinks, getting glimpses of what he's left unsaid about this latest contract of his, flashes of what he went through; a part of her wishes to ask, a wry smile on her face, if that's putting it simply, but instead focuses on what's on his mind at the moment. “And… at which point during all of this did you kiss Shani?”
Geralt gives her a look, to which she shrugs unrepentant. “Once while Vlodimir von Everec was in control of my body and once more after his spirit left me. Neither by choice.”
It's a slight movement, the tilt of his head, gaze inviting her to do her thing, so Yennefer looks into his mind while he tells her how he came to be possessed by this ghost.
“I agreed because I couldn't think of any other way to fulfill Olgierd’s wish, and Vlodimir didn't want to wait for a taste of the living world again,” he begins, a laugh escaping him suddenly. “Perhaps Dandelion would've thought of something, he's never lacked creativity… Shani’s invitation provided the best opportunity to let him have the ‘time of his life’, and it served to help a friend too. Not that what followed was anything but a complete fucking disaster.”
They images flash before her eyes rapidly, her lips quiver in amusement as she relives with Geralt the genuine attraction Vlodimir von Everec felt for Shani. “That was unexpected.”
“Very,” he agrees. “Not as unexpected as him acting on those feelings while in my body.” He scowls as he recalls the kiss, his feelings of helplessness at knowing himself unable to stop what happened and what would happen next. “That first… wasn't as problematic as the second.”
Yennefer frowns, he's at a loss for words to further explain but she understands clearly how it felt for him. Images flashing by, a distorted voice talking, insisting on feelings Geralt rebelled against even as his body went on to act on those subtle commands, then his talk with Shani and the next kiss. She sees it all, in his mind, hears his words as they come out loud, even feels his anger at the one forcing his hand on everything.
Yet, she can't shake this sense of greater danger lingering in his recollections. Her witcher isn't the kind to easily buckle under a spell, even a powerful one, not without a fierce fight, but it's clear he was defenseless against this foreign force. Her fingers draw the shape of the brand she'd memorized that night, weeks ago, absent-minded.
“Are you reading my mind still?”
She blinks. “Do you wish me to stop?“
Geralt pauses, habits nearly kicking in, before he shakes his head. “No, it makes this easier, since…” he makes a vague gesture with his hand.
“Ran out of words?”
“Hn.”
She sighs, hands him a soap, then moves back towards the bed. “Best finish your bath, Ciri will be here soon,” she says, putting her clothes back on at leisure. She phrases her next sentence carefully. “Geralt, this man… did you ever actually see him? Because I cannot seem to get a glimpse of face within your thoughts. Do you not recall how he looks like?”
There's a splashing sound and then a grunt, and she turns to find him stepping out of the tub and reaching for a towel. “Don't think I'll soon forget his damn face.”
She frowns, eyes focusing on a point over his shoulder, not knowing what to think, though strongly suspecting it might be for the best… “Are you certain you've beaten him? You're no longer bound to this man?”
Geralt tilts her chin up, taps his left temple, devoid of the mark she now regrets making light of even if in an attempt to hide her worry. “The mark was a… let's call it contract, and it's gone.” His following smile is not as wide as the ones he gives Ciri, but definitely as genuine. “Yen, I'm fine.”
Her hand might as well move on its own, by how little she notices it moving to cup the back of his head, not much, and certainly not important enough for her to stop to consider it. Not when their lips meet in desperation. “I'll hold you to that, witcher,” she says, breaking the kiss only briefly, before pulling him back down for more, even when he tries to stop her half-heartedly.
That’s how Ciri finds them, and Yennefer understands why Geralt would even try to stop their kissing instead of—
“If this is what you planned to do from the start…” Ciri grins, though there's still a grimace on her face. “Next time carve ‘do not disturb’ on the door and—”
“It's not like that,” Yennefer replies, turning away to conjure up some clean clothes for Geralt, taking a deep breath to gather herself. “And if it were… That was a spontaneous kiss, otherwise I'd not have told you to come until much… later.“ Handing Geralt his clothes, she points him behind the screen situated by the corner before turning to focus on Ciri. “Come in, darling, and close the door please.”
Once the door is closed firmly behind her, Ciri comes to her side, surprising her with a warm embrace. “I know I've said it already,” her voice is soft, but not enough to escape Geralt's keen hearing, “but I'm truly happy you two are… together now. Finally. Hopefully for good this time.”
Over her shoulder, she meets Geralt's eyes, sharing a little smile that speaks volumes, conveying all they still struggle to say sometimes. Ciri pulls back, a flurry of nervous energy as she turns to grin at Geralt.
“I brought Roach back here, emptied the saddle bags in the trunk downstairs,” their daughter says, as they move to settle on the bed, all three of them. “If you needed anything…”
Geralt smiles at her. “I'll get them tomorrow. Now sit, and let me tell you where I've been these past few weeks.”
“Been dying to know.”
Ciri sits cross-legged on the floor in front of Geralt, as he sits with her on the edge of the bed, and begins to recount with as much detail as possible all that's happened to him while he was away fulfilling a contract, with none of the anger that plagued him before, thankfully. He's no storyteller, no Dandelion, she likens his attempt to the Emperor's spies every time they would come give her a report of their findings. Still, Yennefer finds comfort in his voice, his bluntness, content to simply watch them in silence, feeling as if her chest might burst from it all, she keeps herself out of his mind, allowing him the privacy she fails to grant him on occasions.
For now, she'll not allow her unease about this mysterious man cloud her enjoyment, there'll be time for it later, after this is all over.