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She was having nightmares again.
The kind that would wake the both of them--send them running to her room. They would find her sitting upright, screaming that awful, ear-piercing shriek that would shatter their hearts and anything else vulnerable.
She would calm down once Yen placed her hands on her temples and recite a calming incantation, and Geralt would hold her tightly to his chest. Her cries would gradually hush and turn into small whimpers, muffled by his cotton shirt.
He’d rock her back and forth until she would quiet down. The burning palaces of Cintra would leave her mind, and the bodies of those she loved would cease from haunting her whenever she shut her eyes.
Yen would gently lay her down, her head on her lap and stroke her hair, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. Geralt would sit beside them and ignite a candle, convincing her that the light would ward off the nightmares. She would slowly fall back into oblivion, holding on tightly to her mother and father.
They were her anchors, her saviors. The way they encouraged her when she trained, the way they pestered her to finish her food, the way they held her while she slept--all her wounds were healed because of their constant, unconditional love for her.
She would wake nestled between both of them. Sometimes Yennefer’s hair would tickle her face, or sometimes it would be Geralt’s beard. She would listen to his slow heartbeat and breathe in her scent of lilac and gooseberries, slowly falling asleep again.
It wasn’t too rare of an occasion that Vessemir would find the three of them like this. He would glance at the shattered glass strewn across the floor and then look to the little girl sheltered between a witcher and a sorceress.
He would smile and gently close the door behind him, waiting until all three of them were up to begin Ciri’s training.
Until then, they slept soundly until noon.