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“Stop doing that.”
Yennefer rolls her eyes before letting her magic slip away from Geralt’s thoughts. “Stop worrying.” The silence is long between them, fires calmed from when they were younger.
“She’s growing up, she’s going to be a witcher soon.”
“Geralt, she’s five.” Yennefer wraps an arm around Geralt’s waist and pulls him to her chest. “She’s not going anywhere soon.”
“Melitele,” there’s horror in Geralt’s voice, “She’s five. She’s five.” That, Yennefer understands. Cirilla had been a child in their arms just last week; Yennefer isn’t sure when Ciri began walking, much less when she became five. She’s grown up.
Yennefer quells her own panic. She’s the only logical thinker between them, and Geralt is already on a downhill stumble. “She’s only five. We have time. She has time to make herself, and we have time to support her.”
“Yenna…” Geralt says. Saying her name comforts him, she can tell; she holds her friend even closer and neither of them mention it. “What about after?” he finally asks.
Yennefer thinks about this for a long time. “She’s not lost to us, Geralt. She never will be, we’ll raise her well.” Yennefer’ll give her everything she never knew to have, every bit of home and love she’d never gotten. “And us, we’ll have one another,” she murmurs. To protect and to save goes unsaid but they both hear it. “We’re not going to lose Ciri, Geralt, but we’ll always have someone.”
Geralt is quiet for a long time. “Someone to love?” he asks, voice so soft.
Yennefer nods against his shoulder and presses a kiss to soft skin.