Work Text:
“Cirilla Rhiannon as I live and breathe!”
Ciri looks around for the fiery hair of the woman calling her name, grinning and waving as she disembarks from the ship she took passage on. The air is brisk and heavy with salt, filled with the shouts and clamor of sea vessels arriving and departing. Men and women alike, many with hair in varying shades of orange and red, haul cargo and heave rigging along the docks. A shanty is being sung by an ocean of voices that echo across the roaring tides.
Cerys an Craite, queen of Skellige and friend to witchers, waves back, hailing Ciri onto shore and pulling her into a tight embrace once she’s close enough. “Ah, Ciri, it’s good to see you again!”
“And you as well, Cerys!” Ciri laughs, returning the embrace with vigor, “It’s an honor to be here on Skellige once more and to aid you in the exploration of your home.”
“Bah, it’s your home as well, princess,” Cerys winks and pulls back. Her hair is loose and wild around her face, her freckles numerous and dotting her pale skin like stars, “Come now, I’d wager you’re hungry after such a voyage. I do wonder, though,” Cerys leads Ciri over to a pair of horses, mounting the bay mare as Ciri mounts her dapple grey companion, “why is it you didn’t portal to us? If my understanding is correct, your magic allows you to travel through space and time, does it not?”
“Indeed,” Ciri nods, nudging her horse into a walk to match the speed of Cerys’, “However, I don’t plan on spending much time here, so I’ll need my strength to portal home. It’s Belleteyn, after all, and I spend the holiday with my family.”
“How are your fathers, anyhow?” Cerys turns her pale brown eyes to Ciri with curiosity burning in them, “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Geralt in some time.”
“He’s well,” Ciri smiles warmly, “He was gifted a vineyard in Toussaint from the duchess Anna Henrietta; and, he’s getting on in his years, so he and Jaskier are attempting to ‘settle down’. Or so they say.”
“Oh?”
“Well, every time I’ve attempted to pay them a visit, they’re never home! Always off embarking on their next adventure they are,” Ciri laughs, “Geralt and Jaskier were made for the road, I tell you. I don’t think they’ll ever stop traveling, not even in death.”
“You expect their spirits to walk the same roads as the living, then?” Cerys teases, “Shall you waltz with a wraith? Play gwent with a ghost? Sing with a soul?”
“Oh, I don’t expect them to ever pass on from this life. Between Yennefer’s fondness for them and their own biologies, I anticipate them being around for quite some time yet.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear that.”
They fall into a comfortable silence for a while, Ciri watching the scenery pass them by. The sky is a brilliant blue, clearer than any crystal and so vivid her eyes nearly hurt with it. The trees upon Skellige are short but proud, full of life and bursting with color. Animals rustle through the brush and the fresh winds of the sea blow strands of Ciri’s hair free of the bun she often ties it back in. She could live here, Ciri thinks, as light as a bird on the breeze she could live here. See out the rest of her days with bright sunshine through both the green summers and white winters.
“Over there,” Cerys breaks the silence with an outstretched hand towards the mountains that rise beyond the castle, “in the foothills. That's where the strange magic is. My court mage has been unable to identify it, and it won’t allow her close enough to investigate it properly.”
“What do we know about it, then?” Ciri raises her eyebrows, “Aside from it being magic. Your letter didn’t impart upon me many details.”
“We know it’s chaos, the kind is currently up for debate. Over there are some old ruins, we believe they’re either evellian or druidic in nature but we can’t know for sure, not since Mousesack’s passing and he never found the time to search them himself.”
Ciri feels a pang of lingering guilt and grief at the mention of her friend and mentor. She’s older now and knows it isn’t her fault but the doings of Nilfgaard that killed him, but it still hurts just the same to think of his friendly face greeting her each morning for her daily lessons.
“I was hopeful that, what with your tutelage under the great Yennefer of Vengerberg, you would be able to identify the magic and perhaps advise me on how to proceed in regards to it?” Cerys continues, glancing over at Ciri.
“The great Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Ciri snorts, “You know her as well as I, Cerys, there’s no need for any pomp or circumstance in regards to her name.”
“It never hurts to be polite in the company of a sorceress’s daughter,” Cerys winks and Ciri laughs.
She looks to the mountains, their peaks still capped with brilliant white snow in the late spring. Soon, with the tide of summer around the corner, they will melt and give way to the bright green of new growth, replacing the deep emerald of the winter pine. “How far did you say these ruins are?”
“Perhaps a quarter day’s ride from here, why do you ask?”
“It’s still early yet,” Ciri observes, the sun glowing with the plush light of late morning, “Suppose we venture over there? I can take a look around and we can make camp, just for a night. Then we’ll be able to see if the magic fluctuates with the time of day.”
Cerys thinks for a few moments, her eyes squinted as she gazes in the direction of the ruins as well. Finally, she nods, “That sounds like a fine plan, Ciri. I’m not needed at the castle until over morrow; I cleared my schedule to assist you in this endeavor, so there’s no time like the present!”
“Then what are we waiting for, hm?” Ciri straightens her back as she leans forward, “I’ll race you to the ruins.”
“And what do I get when I win?” Cerys laughs, teeth bared in a snarling smile with challenge, “I’m a queen, so choose wisely.”
Ciri smirks. “A kiss. From the fairest in the Skellige Isles.”
“You have yourself a deal, Ciri of Cintra,” Cerys leans over to shake hands. Ciri clasps the Skelligen queen’s gloved hand in her own.
And takes off.
Cerys shouts in surprise and indignation as Ciri lifts herself out of the saddle. She and her horse move as one, flowing across the land. The drum of hooves upon the earth is a familiar balm and Ciri grins as she glances back. Cerys is closing in, less than a horse length behind her, and wears an equally gleeful expression as she whoops and hollers. The wind blows their hair back from their faces, noses turning pink in the brisk spring air.
Cerys passes her as they race through a field of flowers, petals erupting around her in a fragrant bloom that settles in her wake. She’s as wild as a storm, destructive and untameable but beautiful in her power. Ciri’s heart skips a beat and her breath stutters as Cerys looks back at her, that fiery hair whipping around. She wonders what it would be like to run her fingers through it.
“Ciri!” Cerys calls out. Ciri blinks back into her focus just in time to lead her horse to leap over a downed tree; for just a moment, just a blink, she soars.
“Freya’s whiskers, you need to be more careful, girl!” Cerys laughs. She’s dropped her horse back to a walk, the beast’s sides heaving and foam gathered at the bit. “You could have broken my horse’s leg!”
“Ah, you care more for the wellbeing of your horse than you do for me?” Ciri arches an eyebrow.
“Aye. You can do magic to save your skinny arse, my horse cannae.”
Ciri grins sheepishly, “I suppose you’ve a point there.” She looks around then, scanning the tree line for signs of the ruins. All she sees are dolls made of straw hung from the branches. Dozens and dozens of them. “What are those?”
“Memorials,” Cerys’ smile drops as she adopts a sober expression.
“The ruins are a cemetery?”
Cerys nods, “Of sorts. I think they were a temple, before they crumbled, and the fallen were remembered here. It’s a warning now. If you pass beyond the dolls you’ll be harmed by the magic.”
“Harmed?” Ciri dismounts from her horse as Cerys does the same. “You didn’t mention anyone getting hurt.”
“I didn’t? Apologies, my mind has been elsewhere what with the Belleteyn preparations and trade negotiations with Cidaris. They’re being quite ornery in their demands for Skelligen warships with little offered in exchange,” Cerys huffs an annoyed sigh and tosses her hair back from her face. “Rather boring things, but responsibilities I am in charge of nonetheless.”
Ciri rests her hand atop Cerys’ shoulder, giving it a little squeeze, “It sounds difficult. But you’re strong Cerys, and you’re not alone. I know you’ll be triumphant.”
Cerys lays her hand over Ciri’s and smiles, “Thank you, Ciri. Your kind words are a great relief.” She takes a breath before stepping away and clapping her hands together, “Now! Let’s see if the magic will let you in, lady of space and time.”
Ciri rolls her eyes and ties her horse to the felled tree before she approaches the treeline. The air here feels heavier, dense with the chaos that’s hidden within the copse. She inhales, letting her eyes slide shut. It’s bitter and stings her nose, the magic, soured in a way she’s not familiar with. Druidic magic is pure and thick with life, sorcery is sharp and metallic in its creation. This is something else.
“You said these ruins are believed to be druidic?” Ciri opens her eyes again, taking a step towards the trees. Nothing pushes back against her approach. Cerys follows close behind.
“Aye. A temple of Freya most like.”
Ciri hums and reaches back to take Cerys’ hand in her own, “Just in case.” And if the weight of Cerys’ palm on her own is a comfort... well, that’s Ciri’s business.
As they pass beneath the dolls Ciri gets a strange sensation rolling through her bones. Like they’re being shaken individually after being filled with beans to rattle around inside for a babe, but also like her joints have instantly aged and ache with each step she takes forward. Cerys inhales sharply, probably feeling the same odd feeling.
Ciri turns and opens her mouth to say something when there’s a sharp tug, just behind her navel. She gasps and is thrown forward. Cerys nearly loses her grip, grabbing Ciri’s hand with both of her own.
The wind howls through the trees and the crumbling stone of the temple before them. The roof is caved in and the remnants of an ornate door hang from rusted hinges. Aged headstones litter the grounds, mushrooms growing from the cracks in the granite. The gale whistles through open windows and gapped stone. The dolls rustle and whip against the branches they hang from.
A portal opens in the temple door.
“Ciri!” Cerys cries out. “What is that?”
“I don’t know!” Ciri shouts back. The tugging behind her navel intensifies and she grunts with the pain even as she digs her heels into the earth. Her boots carve ruts into the soil as she’s dragged towards the portal. Cerys’ hands pull her back, but it’s not enough.
Their boots leave the ground.
The portal snaps shut behind them.
They land with twin grunts as they tumble across the earth. Cerys ends up half on top of Ciri, but neither of them move as they catch their breaths. “What was that?” Cerys asks, pushing her mop of hair out of her face.
“A portal.”
“Well, clearly, but what kind? Where did it take us?” Cerys sits up and looks around the clearing they landed in. The sun is low in the indigo sky, blazes of red and gold decorating the fluffy clouds that lazily drift across the sunset. Ciri sits up as well, slowly climbing to her feet and brushing the dirt from her clothing. The temple still sits before them in ruins, but not quite so desolate as before. The door is nearly whole and the roof, while sagging, is yet to cave in.
Ciri frowns. She turns around to observe the rest of the clearing. The number of dolls in the trees have dwindled, the weathering on the headstones lessened.
“Ciri, come look at this,” Cerys says in a hushed voice. Ciri finds her at the treeline, looking out into the field of flowers that they had passed through only a half hour before. Ciri steps up behind her, peering over her shoulder.
The flowers are in full bloom, men and women plucking them from their tall stalks to weave them into intricate crowns made up of the boughs of the Skelligen pine tree. A bonfire roars in the low evening light and musicians play a jaunty tune as festival goers stamp and clap along. Skirts whirl and feet stomp and the chatter and cheer of the celebration fills the air with crackling chaos.
“Is this…?” Ciri whispers and Cerys nods.
“Belleteyn. And look there,” Cerys points. Ciri follows her finger to a head of white hair pulled up in a leather band. Geralt.
“I don’t remember Geralt telling me of a Belleteyn celebration on Skellige,” Ciri murmurs, “Then again, he’s never told me much.”
“So we definitely–?”
“Traveled through time,” Ciri nods.
Cerys grabs her attention again, redirecting her to a man in a brilliant blue doublet and brown trousers. “Look, Ciri, isn’t that–”
“Jaskier,” Ciri breathes. “It’s Jaskier. Of course! Geralt may not have told me of a Belleteyn on Skellige, but Jaskier recounts the story each year.”
“What story?”
“Of how they fell in love.”
Cerys looks back at Ciri and then at Jaskier and Geralt. “How did it happen?” The witcher is leaned against a tree, off to the side and nursing a tankard of ale as Jaskier flits about, ever the social butterfly.
Ciri sighs fondly, “Allegedly– and this is what Jaskier told me so take it with a grain of salt– Jaskier sought out Geralt to ask him to dance, like he’s done a dozen times before at a dozen prior Belleteyns. He expected to be turned down yet again, but this time Geralt agreed and presented Jaskier with a flower crown.” Geralt is fiddling with something at his hip and Ciri cranes her neck to see, taking a step forward.
A twig breaks beneath her foot.
Geralt’s luminous eyes snap to the treeline.
“Uh, does your story include Geralt leaving the party to investigate the trees?” Cerys asks nervously as they watch Geralt push away from the tree he’s leaned against to stalk towards them. Ciri swallows nervously.
“No… no I can’t say it does.” She glances around for someplace to hide, “the temple, come on.”
Together they rush back to the temple, pushing through the unbroken door and ducking against the stone on either side of it. Ciri’s heart beats quickly in her chest and Cerys’ breathing is just loud enough to be heard in the deafening silence of the temple.
“Do you think he followed us?” Cerys breathes. Ciri glances over at her.
“I did.”
Geralt’s voice is directly behind Ciri in the open window and she shrieks. Ciri whirls around, swords drawn and brandished immediately with the instinct Geralt himself drilled into her. This Geralt, with a few less lines and scars, raises an eyebrow at her.
“You’re not a cat.”
“I’m not,” Ciri agrees warily.
He nods his head at her chest, “You wear their medallion.”
“I was trained by a witcher.”
He hums and his eyes flick past her to Cerys. “You’re quite a bit older than you are at the castle right now, princess.”
Cerys flushes red and splutters for a brief moment, “I– how did you–?”
“Scents don’t lie,” he taps the side of his nose, “And you still have the habit of not tying that signature an Craite hair back, I see.”
“I don’t know what you’re–”
“There’s no need for deception,” Geralt sighs and pulls back from the window, opening the door to the temple instead. “So, what are two girls from the future doing in a wraith infested graveyard?”
“Wraith infested?” Cerys sounds alarmed, “Ciri, you didn’t tell me Geralt was here for a hunt!”
“Jaskier never said!” Ciri sheathes her swords and crosses her arms defensively. This whole situation has thrown her off balance. “He only told me about the celebrations.”
“Hang on, you’ve spoken with Jaskier?” Geralt looks curious, “When? I’ve been watching him all night.”
Ciri hesitates before delicately explaining, “Ah, erm... well, in the future.”
Geralt pauses before chuckling, “I suppose I should have seen that coming.” He steps back from the doorway and plants his hands on his hips, “Alright, time to get on back to the future and away from the wraith that’s going to appear once the sun has set fully.”
“I– ah, see now there’s the problem,” Ciri hems and haws as she follows him out of the temple, “We… can’t.”
“We can’t?” Cerys asks in alarm, “But you have–”
“I can’t feel them right now,” Ciri shakes her head. In all the excitement she hadn’t noticed, but her abilities feel as though there’s a wall between her and her chaos. Something is stopping her from creating a portal for them.
“So we, what, just wait until you can hold hands with them again?” Cerys asks, starting to sound slightly strained.
“Cerys, calm yourself,” Ciri places her hand on Cerys’s forearm, ignoring the way Geralt’s keen eyes follow the movement, “I can create time portals, remember? I’ll bring us right back to where we started with only a minute having gone. We’ve all the time in the world, yeah?”
Cerys takes a deep breath and nods, a look of steely determination settling over her face, “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
“Is a good time to leave,” Geralt adds dryly, “I’ve a wraith I need to kill.”
“We can’t exactly go join the celebrations,” Ciri argues, “If you recognize Cerys, they will too.”
The witcher stares at them with an inscrutable expression for a few long moments before letting out a heavy sigh. “Fine. If you can’t leave then the least you can do is hide and let me do my job. Go into the trees.”
“Thank you,” Ciri’s shoulders relax and she pulls Cerys over to a large brush amongst the trees, the two of them ducking behind it just as the last light of day disappears beyond the horizon. A sudden and dense fog rolls in along the ground, the air dropping in temperature and the noise of the festivities dropping away as the magic of a wraith settles over the graveyard. Geralt draws his silver sword and uncorks a gray vial, pouring the oil over his blade.
“Ciri, are you sure you don’t remember Jaskier mentioning a hunt in his stories of tonight?” Cerys whispers as they watch with bated breath. A horrific screech cleaves a chasm in the earth of an old grave, the wraith surging up out of it.
“I… I’m certain,” Ciri frowns, trying to recall the story properly. Geralt rolls out of the way of a wild swipe from the wraith and it vanishes to reappear behind him.
“But don’t you think Jaskier would have mentioned Geralt coming back from a hunt if that’s the order to the events?” Cerys points out, “I may not know him as well as you, but I’m certain he would have waxed poetic about Geralt’s bravery and subsequent return to Jaskier.”
Ciri’s frown deepens. Cerys is right, Jaskier would have been cocky about Geralt returning from the hunt to offer him a flower crown, a declaration of love. He would think it’s romantic.
Geralt swings his sword and it passes through the wraith’s arm, the spectre shrieking and vanishing to reappear as a number of imposters that surround Geralt. Cerys bites her lip and Ciri suspects Cerys has the same urge that she herself is harboring: to run in and help.
Ciri closes her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms into them as she tries to recall the story exactly as Jaskier tells it. She’s heard it so many times now that the details escape her. As it goes, Jaskier and Geralt were at the Belleteyn celebrations and Jaskier was flirting with anything that moved, as per usual. Then Jaskier approached Geralt to ask for a dance… No, that’s not right. It wouldn’t make sense if Jaskier was on the opposite side of the festivities and engaged in conversation.
Ciri gasps and her eyes fly open, “Geralt was supposed to approach Jaskier and give him the flower crown before the hunt!”
“But instead he came to investigate us,” Cerys looks nervously at Ciri, “So what does that mean Jaskier’s getting up to?”
Geralt shouts and both women snap to attention at the sound of shattering wood. He’s on the ground in the temple, door shattered. Blood sluggishly oozes from a wound in his chest with his sword a few feet away. The wraith looms over him, its claws ready to strike.
Before she’s even finished thinking about it Ciri’s blades are drawn. She leaps over the brush with a holler to grab the attention of the wraith. The spirit wails and draws back from Geralt to swipe at Ciri as she dances close to it. Cerys leaps from cover as well and grabs Geralt’s sword from the ground on her way to his side.
Ciri twirls as she slices her silver sword through the wraith. It screeches as the silver burns it; but doesn’t discorporate it. She doesn’t have any spectre oil on her blade, there’s little chance of her eradicating the nuisance without a direct hit to whatever is binding it here–
Geralt’s sword cleaves the wraith in twain, splitting it from head to foot as it bursts into flames from the oil coating his blade. The wraith shrieks, loud enough to shake the ground, and there’s the cacophony of collapse as the roof of the temple caves in. Geralt is breathing hard as he crouches to wipe his blade on the grass before sheathing it. He pulls an empty vial from his pouch and collects some of the spectre dust.
“Well, that’s taken care of,” Geralt grumbles and sticks the vial of dust back in his pouch. “Can you feel your… whatever it is, now?”
Ciri jumps slightly as she realizes he’s talking to her, “I, oh um…” She can feel it jumping to her fingertips if she were to just call upon it. The wraith must have been blocking her connection. But if they leave now, how can she know for certain that tonight will still be the night Geralt and Jaskier find their happy ending?
“No,” she shakes her head, “Not yet. We might as well return to the celebrations in the meantime.”
“I thought you said this one would be recognized?” Geralt jerks his head at Cerys, who scowls.
“Which is why she’s going to wear a disguise,” Ciri walks over to Cerys, “Remove your chemise, Cerys.”
Cerys snickers but does as she’s told, unlacing her vest first, “If you wanted to get me in the nude all you had to do was ask, Ciri.”
Ciri turns an interesting shade of red and rolls her eyes, “Just– just give me the chemise! I’m going to fashion you a headscarf out of it.”
“And what of my torso, dear?”
“Geralt is going to give you his cloak.”
“I am?” Geralt asks in surprise.
Ciri nods definitively as she loosely Cerys’s chemise around the queen’s hair. It leaves her looking like a bride on her wedding night, draped in her veil and little more. Geralt rolls his eyes and removes his cloak, handing it to Ciri. She ties it around Cerys’s shoulders and steps back.
“There, barely recognizable as the little girl celebrating at the castle.”
“If you say so,” Cerys smiles, her cheeks faintly pink. It’s most likely just from the rapidly cooling night air. “Let’s get back to the festivities.”
They move quickly but just aren’t quick enough; Jaskier isn’t at the celebration anymore. His bright doublet is nowhere to be seen. Geralt’s shoulders slump minutely and his face settles into the familiar lines of a scowl.
“Son of a–” Ciri grumbles, “Cerys, you stay here with Geralt. I’m gonna go find Jaskier.”
“Why is this so important, anyway?” Geralt crosses his arms, “Jaskier goes off on dalliances most nights, this is no different.”
“It is. It’s different, Geralt, I promise. You just have to trust me,” Ciri gently pleads. He holds her gaze for a few long moments before sighing and giving her a curt nod.
“Fine.”
“Thank you.” Ciri’s shoulders relax before she’s turning and pushing through the crowd, searching for Jaskier amongst the edges of the party; where the shadows are longest and those partaking in the more carnal aspects of Belleteyn will have departed to.
“Jaskier, you absolute moron,” Ciri murmurs as she glances over the writhing bodies in the night, ignoring the lewd sounds coming from the bushes, “where the fuck are you?”
There. A flash of blue behind a large tree. Ciri makes a beeline for it, bracing herself to see more of Jaskier than she’d ever want to and darting around the tree quickly.
Jaskier is undressed, but not in the way one might think someone would be undressed on Belleteyn. He’s shed his doublet and shirt, but has exchanged them for a long blue dress that fits his broad shoulders and narrow waist. It’s a beautiful gown– silver lace and gold embroidery on the sleeves and bodice– and it cuts a flattering figure on Jaskier. He’s laughing with a woman, but neither of them are acting like this ‘dalliance’ of his is anything more than good fun.
“Jaskier, there you are,” Ciri sighs in relief and Jaskier looks over curiously. His face is so much younger than she knows it to be, even if there aren’t many less lines in his sun tanned skin. The absence of graying hair at his temples is remarkable for reducing his age.
“I’m sorry, you seem to have me at a disadvantage,” Jaskier smiles and steps forward, scooping her hand up into his own and pressing a kiss to the back of it, “An enchanting lady like you, knowing my name but not allowing me the pleasure of your own? How scandalous.”
Ciri balks and nearly rips her hand away. To be flirted with by Jaskier is a fate worse than death, she’s decided; not because he’s particularly bad at it– though she knows how horrendous his flirtation attempts can be– but because he’s just as much a father figure to Ciri as Geralt. Only by sheer force of will does she leave her hand in his light grasp. He has no reason to think of her as someone who isn’t an adult whom he’s never met before.
“Perhaps you’d give me the opportunity to dance with you, Jaskier,” she squeezes his fingers with her own, “After all, someone as talented as you must be equally skilled in all manner of the arts.” His eyes light up as he bows with a flourish.
“It would be my honor and delight to escort you to the dance floor, my dear lady, and show you just how many talents I have.”
“Jaskier, what about me?” The woman he was talking to pouts. She’s dressed in his doublet and trousers, both of which are far too big on her, and his shirt is draped over her arm.
“Keep the clothes, darling. I look rather dashing in this gown, wouldn’t you agree, mystery woman?” Jaskier winks at Ciri and she resists the urge to faux gag.
“Absolutely,” her voice is flat and her lips are thin but apparently that doesn’t matter to Jaskier as he links his arm with hers and drags her back to the fire. A new dance is going on, one that Ciri isn’t at all familiar with, but she casts her eyes around for Cerys and Geralt as she lets Jaskier lead her.
They’re standing together where Geralt had been lounging alone earlier. Cerys is looking at Ciri and smiles when their eyes meet before nodding her head at Geralt. The witcher’s jaw is slack and his eyes are wide, pupils flooded as he watches Jaskier dance and twirl beside Ciri. The skirt flares and reveals that he’s as barefoot as the other ladies dancing, delicate ankles bared to the world.
Ciri watches from the corner of her eye as Cerys says something to Geralt, shoving his shoulder briefly, and he shakes his head. He then sets his shoulders and stalks across the festivities to where Ciri and Jaskier are dancing. Geralt clears his throat as delicately as he can before placing a hand on Ciri’s shoulder.
“May I… cut in?”
“Of course,” Ciri bows to Geralt before excusing herself and darting over to Cerys. She spies plain pine bough crowns upon a table and swipes two of them as she passes, tucking them behind her back while she approaches Cerys.
“Do you think we did it?” Cerys asks, watching Jaskier dance with Geralt, besotted smiles on both of their faces.
“Well, I think considering the fact that we can still remember that they get together, I believe so,” Ciri nods. A self satisfied grin rises to her lips as Geralt pulls Jaskier aside and presents him with the pine bough crown decorated with dandelion blooms and buttercups. Jaskier nods enthusiastically and bows his head so that Geralt may settle the crown upon his head.
It’s sweet and it’s romantic and it’s everything Geralt claims he isnt but then shows the signs of every day. If it’s not the tender care he shows Ciri and his horse, it’s the way he’s willing to do anything to protect Jaskier, the way he remembers the things people like, the way his eyes sparkle with mirth after a particularly bad joke.
“What have you got there?” Cerys pulls Ciri from her thoughts as she nods her head towards Ciri’s hidden hands.
“Oh, I uh,” Ciri clears her throat, her face feeling hot as she withdraws the crowns from behind her. “I got us, uh, these.”
Cerys gasps softly and reverently takes one of the crowns. “Ciri, are you sure? You know what it means to give someone one of these, yes?”
“Aye,” Ciri nods, reaching up to rest the crown upon the fabric covering Cerys’s hair, “I know.”
“As do I,” Cerys takes a breath and mirrors the action, placing the crown atop Ciri’s pale locks. “Besides,” she breathes, taking a step forward, “I do believe you owe me a kiss.”
“Is that so?” Ciri doesn’t protest Cerys’s closeness, taking the queen into her arms.
“Mhmm. I was told that when I win the race to the ruins, then I would get a kiss from the fairest in the land.” Cerys drums her fingers lightly against Ciri’s cheekbone, “And I’m quite certain I’ve found her.”
Ciri’s lips brush featherlight against Cerys’. It’s intoxicating, a special kind of torture filled with the thrill of anticipation. “Then I suppose you ought to collect.”
Cerys hums in agreement.
Beneath a darkened sky, up to which the embers of the fire dance and twirl in time with the stomping of feet and clapping of hands, Ciri and Cerys share a kiss that even the fireworks of Belleteyn couldn’t rival. It’s everything Ciri has wanted, everything she didn’t know she needed: the warmth of Cerys’s thin fingers against her cheek, the calluses of sword handling catching on soft skin, the heat of the kisses they share.
Ciri is content.
She could see herself living here, spending the rest of her days with the burning fire that is Cerys an Craite. And she thinks she might just do that.