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Geralt began having nightmares.
Of course, he’d always had nightmares— from the very beginning, ever since the Trial of the Grasses— but there had been instances in his life blessed by decidedly fewer nightmares. For example, there was the brief, happy period after he and Yennefer had, for the first time, agreed on a romantic arrangement. Unfortunately, this was not one of those times. Worse was that he was having them in front of his nearly fully-grown daughter Ciri.
But the horrible events at Stygga Castle had been so… abrupt, gut-wrenching even, that it took his breath away. No. It ripped his breath away, and a good chunk of himself along with it. Gone, in a flash, were nearly all his friends. His dear, dear friends, loyal comrades all. The witcher had suffered many hard blows, bitter losses in his life— watched his friends do so too, on his behalf no less— but this? This was enough to send even a seasoned, hardened witcher to his knees, weeping.
Geralt did not weep— there was no time for tears, for stewing in his miseries and regrets. For once he began doing so, he knew it would be rather like trying to stop a heavy, rounded boulder from rolling down a steep hill: inadvisable and impossible. He had far too many regrets and unshed tears built-up over his long years to start the process now.
But some things could not be overlooked.
Sometimes the witcher would hear the far-off sound of a horse, and find himself turning eagerly, as if expecting Milva or Cahir to come riding up at any moment, perhaps holding a hare, or bearing news from their scouting. During quiet evenings by the fire, he could practically see Regis’ outline as he recalled the many other, similar moments from earlier— if not necessarily better— times they had spent talking. He turned away from the beckoning flames, inordinately cold, with a sour, unpleasant taste in his mouth.
Other incidents happened when Ciri— now almost grown, and that itself was terrible, that he’d missed so many precious years with her— would utter a crass word and he would catch her ashen hair out of the corner of his eye and then find the name, “Angoulême” on the tip of his tongue, chastising. That was what had just happened.
He shut his mouth, and with a sharp jerk of the reins, pushed Roach to trot ahead of his two companions. Distantly, Geralt heard Ciri mutter worriedly, “What’s with him?”
The witcher did not wait to hear Yennefer’s reply.
They rode south like this for several days, passing more grim— and terribly, utterly mundane— scenes of destruction. Burnt fields, charred dwellings, and destroyed villages. Freshly overturned heaps of earth (if they were lucky), or unburied, rotting bodies if they were not. The air was filled with the tangy, iron-scent of blood, and stomach-churning stench of smoke and rot. It was nearly unbearable sometimes.
There were no words that could soothe the soul at such a sight. Such niceties would seem trite, disrespectful even, to the aftermath of great tragedies they passed by. Neither was Geralt very keen on offering reassurances. Mostly he was tired. Bone-deep, exhausted. If it weren’t for Yennefer and Ciri, he may have ridden Roach until he passed out and knew no more. Or perhaps done something less drastic, but similarly final. As it was, Geralt was not good company, and both his companions made note of this, if in different ways.
Ciri, far more used to— and tolerant of— his silences, would simply ride by his side and accompany the witcher; sometimes for minutes, others for hours. She did not ask him to talk, and neither did she offer sympathetic platitudes. He was, in his own way, grateful. But then Geralt felt that sharp bitterness again, because only personal experiences with great loss taught one how to be as unobtrusively supportive as Ciri was. His girl had suffered immensely in his absence.
Yet another failure he could add to the long list.
Roach huffed beneath him, and so did Yennefer, who had taken a turn riding wordlessly at his side. Geralt noted absently the awkward way several of her fingers were closed around the reins. That was a failure too, if only a small one. But its weight atop the teetering pile still felt momentous. Something wavered within him. The witcher recalled an old argument around a campfire and a pot of soup.
He’d been right, in the end. If only they’d listened, and let me go off when I asked them to. If only I hadn’t been such a simpleton, he thought, staring blankly into the rapidly-drying, brown, flat expanse before him. Geralt recalled, with a pang, the fond exasperation of several individuals, tasted that soup which they had, collectively, created. Better it have been poison, he thought darkly. They would have had better deaths and less agony along the way then. At this, Milva’s face, grim and determined, and Regis,’ bright, witty, self-assured, floated before his eyes.
Yennefer’s horse came to an abrupt halt. A moment later, so did Geralt’s, and Ciri’s. The sorceress’ lips were pursed and there was something dangerous in her violet stare. “Why did we stop?” Ciri asked for both of them. Geralt felt relieved. He did not have the energy for talking.
“We’ve gone far enough today, I think,” Yennefer declared simply. “I’m tired, and in need of a rest.” Neither Geralt nor Ciri mentioned that it was barely noon, and they had only been traveling for a few hours. “And I need to have a word with Geralt. In private,” Yen added threateningly.
“I’ll go make camp then,” Ciri offered diplomatically, glancing somewhat pityingly, somewhat curiously, at him. Geralt simply felt far too tired to offer any protest, or comment.
Once Ciri had ridden off to find a good campsite, Yen sighed, and turned back to look at the witcher. Her gaze was softer, and infinitely fonder, now. “Well now that that’s settled… ride with me a ways, Geralt.”
There seemed to be no reason not to, so he did.
They rode for several minutes, then abruptly stopped. Yennefer surveyed their surroundings carefully, then led them from the beaten, dusty path toward the shade of a fragrant Vitex tree. They tied up the horses and sat down. Despite his apprehension, Geralt felt himself relaxing in the cool sanctuary offered by the tree. Yen let this continue for several minutes, reclining against the trunk and closing her eyes.
Finally, the sorceress sat up and fixed Geralt with a familiar, piercing stare. “Why are you here, Geralt?”
“Ciri,” he said bluntly. Honestly. “She asked me— asked us— to help her set things right. How could I not heed that request?” She’s the only thing I have left, he did not say. Yen’s downturned lips, and briefly wrinkled brow, said that she’d heard this last part anyway.
She nodded, and looked away. “I see,” Yennefer said carefully. “And if you had not found Cirilla, and myself— or, alternatively, been unable to recover us?”
Geralt swallowed, and made no attempt to reply.
There was a long moment of silence then, or at least, silence between them. The breeze, warm, had picked up suddenly and now sent grains of sand and loose strands of Yennefer’s dark hair billowing about.
He stared down at the tiny individual grains of sand and thought about how pointless, utterly and truly insignificant, their efforts were in the desert. If one looked away for a mere instant, the grains were lost. The witcher swallowed, and caught the sorceress’ observant eye. Not for nothing, he reminded himself firmly, not entirely. Of course he was extremely pleased to have Ciri back, and Yennefer too. Of course he was. It was exactly what he had hoped for all those many months ago when he’d first set out on this desperate, mad quest.
Still, Geralt was tired. Very, very tired. Terribly so.
“You’re tired, my love,” Yennefer observed plainly.
“Yes,” he replied. There was no denying it. It was obvious from his expression, the stooped shoulders, the prolonged-even-for-him silences. But Yen had other ways to discern the witcher’s exhaustion. Ways beyond the physical.
“Your monumental— may I say heroic— efforts have not come without a cost. A great price, one which you are now just beginning to comprehend. And it is a steep price indeed,” the sorceress continued.
This time, Geralt remained silent. She was right again, so there was nothing more to be said. Yet he could not pretend to be totally unmoved by Yennefer’s words. His jaw twitched unconsciously, and his fingers dug into those infinitesimal, meaningless, worthless, grains of sand.
Yen’s frown deepened and her eyes flashed again. “I’m worried about you, Geralt.”
“Don’t be,” he reprimanded harshly. Several faces flashed before his eyes. “Yen, I don’t need you to—”
“I’ll concern myself with whomever I want to, thank you very much, Geralt!” the sorceress interjected sharply. Yennefer paused, inhaled deeply, and gently brushed the top of his clenched fist with her unnaturally stiff fingers. “I’m worried about you, Geralt,” she said again, much more gently this time. “It’s natural for me to be. You’re injured— no, don’t scoff, you are— and hurting greatly. I don’t like to see you this way. Neither does Ciri.”
Again, he said nothing. For there was nothing which could be said to dispute these facts, and therefore, displace Yennefer’s concern. The sorceress sighed. “Come here,” she ordered softly. Yen opened her arms. “Come here, witcher.”
As always, when she commanded, he obeyed.
Later, when Ciri cautiously approached that shaded tree, she saw an astonishing sight. Geralt, looking peaceful for once, had his head resting against Yennefer’s shoulder, just above her breasts, and his eyes were closed. He was breathing deeply and softly. Asleep. Yennefer, in addition to keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings, was holding the witcher gently and stroking his hair. Something extremely soft and fond was in her expression.
It vanished as Ciri came closer.
“Give us an hour more, Cirilla. Be patient with us for just a little while longer, my darling daughter, and then I believe Geralt may surprise us both by attempting to be more decent company. But it will take patience, understanding, and much mental fortitude on our parts. Do you understand?” Yennefer asked.
“I do,” Ciri replied. She remounted Kelpie and rode off in the same direction as she’d come from. An hour later, Geralt— feeling somewhat refreshed, with a fragile sense of peace— and Yennefer followed.
For many years after, that very spot beneath that Vitex tree where the witcher and his sorceress had rested was known for the unusual and admirable strength of its shade, delicate pleasant scent of the blossoms, and its safeness. It became known as The Weary Pilgrim’s Resting Place, or, more simply, The Witcher’s Repose.