Chapter Text
The man entered the inn with heavy steps, his face hidden in a black cloak drawn over his head. Holding his hand was a young boy—or was it a young girl? The child was dressed like a simple farmer boy, hair hidden under a hat, eyes fever-bright in a pale face. The two approached the innkeeper cautiously.
“A room for the night,” the man said in a gravelly voice.
“Coin?” the innkeeper asked.
The man’s silence was heavy. The innkeeper sighed, shaking her head. There’d been more and more folk like this since the wars had started—poor, tired and hungry. As far as the innkeeper was concerned, there was plenty of room for the tired and hungry, but only if they paid.
“I’ll work for it,” the man insisted.
The innkeeper scoffed. “I handle this establishment myself just fine, good sir.” But then she happened to glance down at the child, and noticed the sheen of sweat on their forehead, how the poor thing was swaying on their feet. She sighed again. “And what were you offering to do?”
The man tipped his head slightly forward so the golden light struck his eyes—and oh, he was no man, he was no man at all.
“I kill monsters,” growled the witcher. His lips twitched in what could have been mistaken for humor, if only things like him knew what humor was. “I can also wash pans and mend clothes.”
The innkeeper barely blinked. She had owned this inn for decades now, and had developed a spine of steel. “Well, you should have said so,” she simply replied. “I find myself in need of your services, and I won’t stiff you for honest work. Toss a coin to your witcher, as the saying goes.”
The witcher’s lips twitched again.
The innkeeper described a pretty lake in the forest near the inn, which used to be a popular attraction for the townsfolk. But about a month back, people suddenly couldn’t approach the lake anymore. If they came too close, they would somehow find themselves on the other end of town, with no idea how they got there. And then that infernal singing began. Every night, from dusk to dawn, a clear high voice drifted into the inn from the lake, ruining everyone’s sleep. The tunes lingered in one’s ear for days afterward—jovial, somber, epic, it made no difference. For a monster it was relatively harmless, yes, but after a month of that singing the innkeeper was ready to wring the wretched creature’s neck herself, if only she could get to the lake. Needless to say, it was terrible for business.
“Can you help me, witcher?”
The witcher’s expression was blank. “I’ll look into it,” he said gruffly.
It did not fill the innkeeper with confidence, but she supposed she had nothing to lose.
“Then it’s a deal. Go to the lake and put an end to this nonsense, and you’ll have your room, and a good meal too.” She looked at the child again. Odd, for a child to cling so to a witcher. “If you like, the child can stay here while you—”
The child’s eyes flashed with piercing anger, and their hands clenched around the witcher’s arm. The witcher looked down at their face, and they stared at each other for a long moment. The witcher broke first, looking away with a grunt.
“There’s no need,” he said. “The child stays with me.”
Odd, very odd. But it was not the innkeeper’s place to question it. “As you like, sir. Good luck.”
They walked out of the inn, the witcher and the child hand in hand.
“I don’t need an inn,” Ciri said.
“We are not discussing this again,” Geralt growled.
“We have not discussed it,” Ciri huffed. “You just decided this, without ever asking—”
Her foot caught on a tangle of tree roots and she almost fell flat on her face, but Geralt steadied her. He crouched in front of her, staring hard at her face, and brushed his palm over her forehead.
His hands reminded Ciri of her grandmother’s. Firm, scarred, and thick with sword calluses, but gentle too. They comforted her even as the memory stung.
“You need proper human rest, and proper human food,” Geralt said quietly. “Things I cannot provide in the wilds. It’s a while yet to Kaer Morhen. So we’re going to rest here and find medicine for you until you are well. I’m not leaving your health up to the tender mercies of destiny.”
Ciri groaned, as Geralt took her hand and kept walking them through the forest. He led Roach, their horse, with his other hand. “It’s just a cold, Geralt! Shouldn’t you be more worried about, I don’t know, the man trying to kidnap me? Or the monster living in the lake?”
“Men and monsters, I can kill,” Geralt muttered without looking at her.
Ciri rolled her eyes. She immediately regretted it, as it made her head hurt.
She wasn’t quite sure what to think of Geralt yet. She trusted him, of course. She knew the shape of his soul, how closely their fates were tied, and she even knew—somewhere deep down and frightening—that if she wanted, she could make visible his dreams and fears and tear through them with her mind as easily as tearing a bit of parchment. She had no doubt that Geralt would protect her with his life.
But in all other respects, he was a stranger. Ciri didn’t know why he cared for her. She couldn’t read the fleeting expressions that would sometimes cross his face. She wasn’t even sure what a witcher was, exactly. Was he a sort of sorcerer, like Mousesack? If they were going to Kaer Morhen, did he want her to become a witcher, too?
Geralt stopped to inspect the trees. At Ciri’s insistence, he explained what he was looking at: a snake-bone charm tied to the branches, carefully hidden in the leaves.
“These are all over the forest,” he said. “See these runes? It’s a simple misdirection spell to keep people from reaching the lake.”
“Why would a monster put up these runes?” she asked.
Geralt hummed. “I doubt that it was a monster.”
“You mean it’s a person doing this?”
He shot her an unreadable look. “Or something in between.”
Ciri’s fever was making it hard to think. She wanted to ask, What do you mean? Why would anyone, whatever they were, want to keep people from reaching the lake? But the thoughts whirled about in her brain and evaporated before she could say them aloud. She shook her head, frowning at the trees.
Geralt sighed. He tied Roach to one of the trees and picked up his black leather bag, the one containing his two swords and other witcher-related things Ciri couldn’t name.
“Come on, Princess. Follow my lead. Two steps forward, and one step back.”
Carefully, Ciri counted two steps forward, and then one step back. She repeated this until her head spun. It was unbearably slow for what felt like hours—and then suddenly, with no warning, they were at the lake.
“Oh!” Ciri said, delighted. The sun was just setting, and the sky and the waters were tinged a lovely pink. Sweet yellow flowers bloomed by the shore, their petals sprinkling the surface of the water. It really was such a pretty lake.
“Stay on your guard,” Geralt rumbled. He tucked them both behind a bush, so they could watch the lake without being easily spotted, and set down his bag on the ground. He curled one hand protectively around her shoulder while the other strapped on his silver sword. “Whatever it is, it starts singing at dusk. We should see it soon.”
But the only things moving over the lake were the wind, and a small flock of white swans. The swans floated peacefully on the water, tracing aimless and beautiful patterns over the surface. Ciri felt her heart being soothed at the sight. She watched in silence, as the twilight faded and the last rays of sunshine drained out of the sky.
Then the swans on the lake drifted to the shore, and one more swan lifted its head from where it had been sleeping on a bed of grass. This swan was different than the others—it had a green ribbon tied around its neck. As the other swans settled on the ground for the night, the swan with the green ribbon shook itself awake and started waddling toward the water. It dipped one webbed foot into the lake.
Bright light shone. It was as if concentrated starlight rippled from where the swan touched the water. Ciri gasped. The swan pushed off from the shore, and silver light flowed from its body, pouring through the lake until it was hard for Ciri to see the swan, everything was so bright. When the swan reached the middle of the lake, it lifted its wings and dove underwater, and it was like the moon itself burst open in front of Ciri and splashed its radiance over the center of the lake. Out of that radiance, the swan rose—only it wasn’t a swan anymore. It was the figure of a person. A man.
Geralt let go of Ciri and leaped inhumanly high over the bush, startling her. He stopped at the edge of the water and stared at the man, so still he wasn’t even breathing. Ciri stayed behind the shrub, feeling fear run cold in her blood.
The light was fading from the lake. The man floated with his feet some inches above the water, eyes closed. The green ribbon was still there, stark around his pale neck. He sighed, and opened his eyes, and saw the witcher standing right in front of him.
The man’s jaw dropped.
“Geralt!!??” he squawked.
The light cut out. The man dropped into the water with an almighty splash. Ciri blinked into the sudden darkness. Moments later, she heard the man flailing about in the water, sputtering, “Geralt! Geralt, help!”
“Fuck,” Geralt bit out, and waded straight into the lake, sword and armor and all.
As Ciri’s eyes adjusted, she emerged from the shrub and came to the edge of the lake. Geralt had grabbed the man by both armpits and was dragging him backward toward Ciri. The man was keeping up a stream of constant babble even as he coughed up the water in his lungs: “You wouldn’t believe how glad I am to see you, Geralt, I thought I was done for, I mean really, ending my life as a swan, and by the way swans are much more of a nuisance than the poems would have you believe, of course you might say that there are many ways to spin this whole thing as romantic, but I would much rather—”
“What the fuck!” Geralt snarled, stomping out of the lake with water streaming out of his armor, and tossed the man to land on a patch of soft grass next to Ciri. “What did you do!?”
“What did I do!? There you go again, blaming it all on me—”
As the man fussed about, he finally saw Ciri. He froze. And then his entire being suddenly shifted to pure delight, and he smiled at her. Ciri thought his warm eyes and crow’s feet looked very kind. They made her want to smile back, so she did.
“Hello, my dear! You wouldn’t happen to be—” He blinked, glanced down at his very naked self, and scrambled back a few feet. “Oh gods, this is positively mortifying. Geralt! Do something!”
“What do you want me to do!?” Geralt barked, busy wringing water out of his great mane of hair.
Ciri turned and went back to the shrub.
“Oh no, oh gods, I’ve chased her away. This is not how I wanted our first meeting to go at all. Geralt!”
“Shut up! We have more important things to worry about than your bare ass!”
“Geralt! Is that any way to speak around a child!?”
Ciri came back, having fished Geralt’s big black cloak out of his bag. The man beamed at her and accepted the cloak gratefully.
“Thank you ever so much, sweetheart. It’s clear you have more sense than that brute.”
Geralt scowled. Ciri looked between the two of them.
“Do you know each other?” she asked.
“Ohoohhh, do we know each other,” the man said. There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. But as he wrapped the cloak tight around himself, he smiled at Ciri again and made a funny face. He was trying to make her laugh. “Call me Jaskier. I’m a bard—or, I was until recently a bard.” He winced.
Ciri watched him carefully. “You’re not supposed to be a swan,” she stated.
“No, I’m not,” Jaskier agreed.
Geralt stomped closer, glaring down at Jaskier. “You were cursed,” he growled.
“That is correct,” Jaskier said, deflating.
Geralt closed his eyes and let out a deep, frustrated sigh. Jaskier stared up at him with wide blue eyes.
Geralt opened his eyes again and glared at Jaskier. Ciri was taken aback by the sheer emotion in his face. He was furious, clear as day. She’d never seen him express himself so visibly before.
“Of course you got yourself into trouble again,” Geralt growled. “Do you turn into a swan each day when the sun rises?”
Jaskier was shrinking into himself like a puppy expecting to be struck, but his eyes never left Geralt. “Marvelous deduction. Yes.”
“Was it you, singing every night here for a month?”
“Yes, that would be me.”
“I’ve been hired to rid the lake of the pest singing in it.”
Jaskier’s breath caught. Ciri could see fear spark in the pit of his blue eyes.
Geralt’s nostrils flared, like an angry bull, and he turned away. “Who cursed you?”
Jaskier cleared his throat. “Well, that, that is a rather long story that would make a magnificent ballad,” he said, voice wobbling slightly. “But I’m afraid we haven’t the time. She’ll be here soon, asking for another song.”
“Bard. Don’t be coy,” Geralt bit out. “Explain.”
“I—I may have, misjudged the lady’s character, somewhat? Arielle seemed quite nice when I met her. But now I think she may be a witch? After I—provoked her, she cast a spell to turn me into a swan, and another spell to keep me bound to the lake, and every night she comes to visit me. When she asks me for a song, I—I can hardly refuse her.” He fidgeted with the green ribbon around his throat.
Geralt drew his sword. Jaskier flinched, but Geralt was not looking at him. “Did this ‘Arielle’ tell you how to break the curse?”
“Yes, actually,” Jaskier said, and then bit his lip. His face was lined with worry.
But Geralt’s attention was elsewhere. He had noticed something in the woods.
“Stay where you are,” he told both Ciri and Jaskier, and then he stalked like liquid shadow from the lake to the edge of the forest. His golden eyes flashed among the trees, silver sword at the ready.
A voice bubbled out of the forest, mischievous and lyrical as a murmuring brook. “Stay your hand, Geralt of Rivia,” it said. “I mean no harm.”
Jaskier jumped to his feet and hovered in front of Ciri, almost protectively.
“I kill only if I have reason to,” Geralt growled. “Reveal yourself.”
A woman stepped out of the trees in front of Geralt. She mostly looked like an ordinary peasant, with a light and cheerful air. But her hair gave her away—it flowed out behind her, impossibly long translucent locks that undulated as if they were underwater, defying gravity. Ciri didn’t know what she was, but she wasn’t all human.
“Yes,” the woman said. “The White Wolf is noble and just, so I’ve heard. I have nothing to fear from you.”
Geralt bared his teeth in a horrible grimace. “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Are you going to let the bard go?”
The woman was holding a lute. She strummed a few chords, an impish smile on her lips.
“Now why would you ask that? Are you going to take him back, after trying so hard to get rid of him?”
Geralt made a sound that was more beast than man.
“Arielle,” Jaskier objected, trying to move closer, which was obviously an idiotic thing to do. Ciri grabbed onto his hand, forcing him to stop. He looked at her in confusion, and Ciri shook her head sternly. This woman was dangerous. Jaskier needed to stay right here, with Ciri, where it was safe.
The woman snickered and inched a step forward, idly plucking at the lute. “If this is about your witcher contract, I can think of much happier solutions,” she said. “I can move us deeper into the forest, where no innkeepers will complain of a little song.” She cocked her head. “Or, even better. I can offer the girl a bed to rest in, and any food and medicine she needs. That’s what you’re really after, isn’t it? Why you took on this contract?”
Quick as a striking viper, Geralt grabbed onto her wrist. “How do you know that?” he snarled. “Are you reading my mind?”
“Just keeping an ear to the ground,” the woman continued, seemingly unbothered. “Don’t you agree it’s more than a fair trade? The girl will be safe. In exchange, all you have to do is stop meddling with this poor, sweet human’s life. Everyone will be happier, and we can all move on.”
“What do you want with Jaskier?” Geralt asked.
She laughed. “Jaskier is mine,” she said. “I want him. I thought I had him, too, but then I caught him with the blacksmith’s son.”
She shot a venomous look at Jaskier, who shuddered. Ciri could put together the pieces, more or less, but she had already decided she liked Jaskier and this wouldn’t change her opinion. She squeezed his hand reassuringly.
“But I love him still,” said the woman. “And I’m sure he loves me back. I’m just waiting for him to realize it.”
“You trapped him in this prison, stole his form. You think that makes a convincing argument?”
The woman scoffed. “He’s just being stubborn. I’m not hurting him in any way. Come now, White Wolf, you are familiar with this kind of curse. All you need to break it is true love.”
Geralt violently shoved the woman away. The lute tumbled from her grasp with a jarring twang.
“No love that’s born of magic can be true,” he growled. “Your curse has twisted and ruined whatever might have existed between the two of you. Release him, Arielle, before it’s too late.”
“Or what? He’ll leave me?” She threw her head back and laughed. “He never will. By the end of the new moon, if he still doesn’t love me, he’ll become a swan for good.” She gestured at the other swans sleeping by the lake. “I’d miss his singing, but I wouldn’t mind adding to my collection.”
“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier said faintly.
Geralt raised his silver sword. “Release him. Now.”
The woman raked her eyes over Geralt, head to toe. The tresses of her hair splayed out behind her like a thousand snakes.
“No,” she said.
Geralt swung.
She dissolved into a fountain of colorless water, the sword slicing harmlessly through air. The water splashed down and rushed over the ground, toward the lake, toward Ciri and Jaskier. Geralt spun around and charged after it.
“RUN!” he bellowed.
Ciri didn’t wait to be told. She bolted to the side, and Jaskier followed her. But then he yelped, and his hand tore from hers. She whirled around to find him on his knees, a fierce torrent of water from the lake ripping at his ankles and cloak. It was dragging him into deeper waters, clinging to him as he flailed.
“Mine!” said the lake in a voice like crashing waves. “MINE!”
Ciri liked Jaskier. He knew Geralt, and although she wasn’t sure if they were friends, precisely, he was clearly important to Geralt. That meant he was important to Ciri. He had warm, kind eyes, and had tried to make her smile even when he was shivering and scared. Not a lot of people in this world were kind when they were scared. Ciri liked him.
So she planted her feet, raised her voice, and screamed: “Let him go!”
The air screeched in an echo of agony. The water shook like needles. The lake shrank back, as if wounded, and Jaskier stumbled out of its grip and onto dry land. He blinked at Ciri, dazed.
“Keep moving!” Geralt barked. He had managed to reach them now and grabbed onto them both, hauling them away from the water. “Her power is strongest close to the lake!”
Ciri moved as fast as she could. Over the lake, water clumped together to form the figure of the woman again, who looked out at them in tears. “How dare you steal my love from me,” she sobbed. “Butcher of Blaviken! You’re only going to break his heart all over again! Give him back!”
“Wait,” Jaskier choked. His fingers were fumbling with the green ribbon on his neck. “Wait, Geralt—”
To Ciri’s alarm, the green ribbon was constricting, biting hard into his flesh. His eyes bulged.
“Fuck,” said Geralt, stopping in his tracks. “It’s the second spell. To keep you bound and obedient to her.”
His eyes flared with sharp anger, two bright spots of fire in the night. And then they shuttered, dull and muted. He turned to Ciri.
“Princess, grab the lute, and keep running,” he said. “We’ll be right behind you.”
The lute? Why did he want the woman’s lute? No—Jaskier was a bard, so the lute was probably his. The woman only stole it from him.
Ciri nodded, and headed for the lute.
“You don’t have to,” Jaskier said in a small, hoarse voice. “You can—go. Leave me here. It’s—it’s all my fault, so I understand, really, if—"
“Jaskier,” Geralt said harshly.
Ciri picked up the lute. It was big and awkward, but she could run while holding it. She glanced over her shoulder.
Geralt had his silver sword up, the handle next to his face and the blade between their chests. But his other hand was cradling Jaskier’s face carefully, tenderly, like Queen Calanthe sometimes held Eist when she thought Ciri wasn’t looking. His golden eyes burned.
“Hold still,” he murmured.
He tilted Jaskier’s head back and gently slid his blade across his neck. The green ribbon snapped.
The woman screamed in fury. The lake swelled and reared back, preparing to unleash a huge torrent of water. Wisely, Ciri turned and ran without looking back. She could hear the water crashing onto the ground, snapping tree branches and tearing up stones.
Moments later, Geralt was running at her side, even more soaked in water than before. He’d had the presence of mind to grab his witcher bag before fleeing.
“Princess,” he greeted. He plucked the lute out of her hands and tossed it over her head, at Jaskier, bringing up the rear. Jaskier managed to catch the lute. Despite being drenched and still mostly naked, he looked thrilled, and was actually laughing a bit.
“This is amazing!” Jaskier panted. “This—is going to be—the best ballad—I’ve ever written!”
“Less talking, more running,” Geralt said shortly. Without warning, he swept Ciri off her feet and started carrying her bridal style.
“Hey!” she snapped. But she looked over Geralt’s shoulder and saw the roiling water pursuing them, and decided not to protest. “Faster!” she said instead. “Hurry, Geralt!”
Geralt grunted and kept running. They raced through the woods until they reached the ring of snake-bone charms. Roach snorted worriedly as Geralt approached. When she saw Jaskier, she almost knocked him over with a forceful shove of her snout.
“Roach!” Jaskier gasped, wheezing for breath like a dying man. He looked like he was going to throw up, but he managed to say, “Missed you too!”
Geralt practically threw Ciri onto Roach’s back. He untied Roach from the tree and led her, on foot, at a fast trot. This was probably for the benefit of Jaskier, who looked in danger of collapsing at any moment.
The sound of rushing water steadily faded. At long last, they emerged onto the main village road. The only sound in the deepening night was their own labored breathing and Roach’s hooves. The lake was but a distant memory. Geralt apparently deemed them safe enough, and slowed to a walk.
Jaskier still looked drunk on simply being alive. “Running!” he said. He paused to catch his breath, then continued. “On legs! Oh, how I have missed thee!”
Geralt’s jaw clenched. He turned on Jaskier. Ciri still didn’t know Geralt very well, but she had been paying attention, and she could pinpoint the precise moment when all the anger and worry that he had been bottling up until now exploded in their faces.
“Are you trying to ruin your life!?” he yelled.
Jaskier blinked owlishly. “I…what?”
“I don’t understand you!” Geralt shouted. “Why do you keep getting into these situations!? Do you like this!? Do you want to suffer!?”
Jaskier just smiled. “You’re not making any sense, Geralt,” he said. “But I forgive you, because I’m sure you’ve had a very long day.” He gestured at his body grandly. “And look! Human! Bipedal! No more wet bird smell!”
Geralt’s fists clenched spasmodically. “Jaskier, you seduced a fucking ondine!”
“What’s an ondine?” Ciri asked.
Her voice seemed to draw Geralt out of his spiral of rage. He looked up at her, and took a deep, shuddering breath.
“An ondine is a sort of water nymph,” he said, more calmly. “Known for being elusive creatures, strong spellcasters,” he shot a glare at Jaskier, “and extremely jealous lovers.”
“Oh, is that what Arielle is? Well I can hardly be blamed for not knowing that,” Jaskier huffed. “I thought she was a simple milkmaid.” Quieter, he muttered, “Although maybe I should have asked more questions about the floaty hair.”
Geralt growled a curse to himself. “I’ll kill her, if you want,” he told Jaskier matter-of-factly.
Jaskier startled. “Who, Arielle?”
“She is a monster,” he pronounced, clear as a death sentence. “She cursed you and bound you to her against your will. To kill her, I will have to drain her lake and set fire to her trees. The other swans will die. But I would gladly do it, free of coin.” He met Jaskier’s eyes. “Just say that she deserves it.”
Jaskier’s mouth flapped, speechless. Slowly, he shook his head.
“No, Geralt, I don’t believe she deserves it,” he finally said. “I…I thank you, truly, but she is only overzealous in her love. I feel for her. Please do not kill her simply for my sake.”
Geralt sighed deeply. He looked unsurprised, but exhausted. “You should not feel for monsters, Jaskier,” he said.
Jaskier smiled softly at him. “It makes for such wonderful stories, though.”
Geralt looked away.
“The curse,” he grunted. “The first time, was it a new moon?”
“Oh, let me think,” Jaskier said. “Yes, I believe it was.”
“Then Arielle was probably telling the truth. You have until the next new moon—in five days—to lift the curse, or you’ll be turned into a swan permanently.”
Jaskier stopped walking. He looked at Geralt with horror. “But I thought you broke the curse!”
“I broke the spell of binding,” Geralt corrected. “The curse runs deeper. Animal transformation is old, old magic, and on top of that she added the bit about love. I’m not sure that even Arielle is capable of reversing the curse. We’ll have to lift it the old-fashioned way.”
“The old-fashioned way?” Jaskier sputtered. “And what, pray tell, is that?”
Geralt still wasn’t looking at him. Ciri couldn’t see his face. His voice, when he spoke, was leached of all emotion, as dry and heartless as they always said witchers were.
“We find your true love.”
“A room for the night, as promised,” the witcher said.
The innkeeper was trying not to stare, but they made quite a sight. The witcher was drenched head to toe, and he carried the child—now asleep—on his back. For some reason he had also acquired another man, who was quite obviously naked under an equally drenched, ill-fitting black cloak. The man smiled at her sheepishly.
“You, ah, took care of the problem?” the innkeeper asked. She had noticed that the night thus far had been quiet and song-free.
“Yes,” the witcher growled.
“Who do you think this is? Of course he took care of the problem!” the man piped up. “Why, I could sing—"
“No,” the witcher cut in. He shot a glower at the man, who mimed sewing his lips shut. He turned back to the innkeeper. “Food and a room. Now.”
The innkeeper decided it was best not to think too hard on it, and hastily complied.
Ciri was in a bed. It felt soft and warm and wonderful, and it smelled good. She nuzzled deeper into the blankets.
Above her, she could hear the quiet murmur of voices. Geralt. A hand came to rest on her forehead, foreign in its softness. Not Geralt…Jaskier.
“Just a fever,” Jaskier was saying. “Rest, and lots of fluids. That’s the best we can do for her until the fever breaks.”
“Isn’t there any medicine for this?” Geralt rumbled.
“Oh, certainly. But not any that work better.” Jaskier smoothed back her hair. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t seem like the bad sort of fever. Rest, and fluids, and she’ll be right as rain in a few days.” A pause. “I know, I know. Us silly humans and our frail bodies. But sometimes you just have to wait and trust us.”
Ciri might have dipped out of consciousness. The next thing she knew, Geralt was gently shaking her awake. She blinked at him muzzily.
“You have to eat first, Princess,” he said. “Then you can sleep, okay?”
She felt weak and drained, and the room spun. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to use her magic while she had a cold. Geralt pressed a bowl of steaming soup into her hands, and she drank it greedily. She wasn’t hungry, but it soothed her throat.
On the other side of the room, Jaskier hovered a little awkwardly. He was wearing some of Geralt’s clothes, the sleeves and pants legs rolled up.
“How are you feeling, dear heart?” he asked.
Ciri hummed. She felt awful, as expected, but she knew it would pass. She looked between the two of them, and in her semi-conscious state it was incredibly easy to detect the tension in the room, the crowded thoughts in their minds, and the things neither of them wanted to talk about but would do them a world of good.
Grandmother had been right. Men were so terribly stupid.
“It’ll be okay,” she told them both.
“Whaaat will be okay?” Jaskier asked, as Geralt checked her forehead worriedly.
Ciri huffed. Stupid. She sank onto her pillow and closed her heavy eyelids.
“You’ll find it,” she said. “It’ll be okay.”
And she knew it was true, no mysterious prophesying powers required. She drifted back to sleep, cradled in the warm assurance of love.