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She doesn’t know where she is.
The realization hits her anew every now and then, in scarce moments of lucidity, always managing to chill the blood in her veins even as she runs, her heart in her throat and waves of heat going through her body.
She doesn’t know where she is, but she needs to move, to run until she finds somewhere safe to rest—if she stops, she’s certain the last of her energy, the stubbornness and desperation that she’s somehow clinging to to keep herself going, will evaporate in a matter of seconds, and then she will be lost, left at the mercy of whomever cares to hurt her, perhaps even of her captors, having somehow followed her.
(She doesn’t think they did. She thinks she managed an efficient enough escape and no one could track her portal in any way, but everything is blurry and she can’t be sure—the uncertainty feels as dangerous as a death sentence.)
She isn’t sure what she’s looking for, if perhaps a village that she’s passed through before and that she can reasonably expect kindness from, or perhaps just somewhere she can hide as she tries to sleep this off—she’s injured, everything hurts and she might not wake up if she were to pass out, but she’s low on options and she’s carefully not thinking of much beyond her current need to run.
At first, when she realizes she isn’t alone anymore, she doesn’t react favourably, her vision blurred and her mind slow on the up-take. She needs to look around to put the man in focus, doesn’t even register his voice until he’s come much closer and she’s realized that she isn’t sure she can protect herself.
By the time the panic starts rising, it gets quickly stifled by the familiar face in front of her, one that she recognizes with no small amount of relief.
“Yen?” Geralt utters, or maybe yells, the sound bouncing painfully around her skull and yet making her deliriously happy. She feels his hands on her, his fingers locking around her arm, one hand sliding behind her back as he pulls her closer in an attempt at keeping her up—she thinks she needs it, because though she clasps her fingers tight around a fistful of his cloak her head is light, dark spots dancing in front of her as his frantic questions wash over her without registering, and she thinks she might be about to pass out.
She finds that she doesn’t really have it in her to resist, not with Geralt’s arms around her and her body slowing down, waves of cool sweat washing over her as her vision swims more and more and the sounds around her grow more distant. The black dots dancing in front of her grow in number and in speed, and she doesn’t try to resist as everything quickly goes black, welcoming the nauseating sinking feeling in her stomach because she knows, at last, that she has somewhere safe to fall.
When she wakes up, he is the first thing she sees.
Geralt is restlessly pacing around a room she doesn’t recognize, though the stiff mattress and the interior make her guess it’s the first inn he could find, and her first instinct is, shamefully enough, to smile in relief, the tension that automatically filled her upon waking beginning to melt.
Her memories of finding him – whether it was by accident or because, in her terrified delirium, she consciously tried to go somewhere he might happen to pass by is a question that she doesn’t care to examine – are a bit confused, a mess of pain and fear and finally release, but she remembers the comforting feeling of his arms around her, the way relief overwhelmed her as she realized that she could, finally, afford to simply let go—
She should be mad at him. She should hold a grudge and not trust him in the least, and she can feel some of that anger still burning under her skin, just waiting for her signal to be unleashed once again, bitter disappointment still lurking in the back of her mouth, but—but she’s so tired and sore, and he looks so worried.
“That is very annoying,” is the first thing she says, her voice coming out unintentionally fond and weak. She suppresses the urge to grimace, instead focusing on her amusement as Geralt’s head whips around faster than light, the startle evident all over his face.
“Yen!” he breathes out, voice a little higher than normal, which makes him sound hysterical. He immediately begins to move towards her, his hands frantically reaching out even when he’s far from touching distance. He ends up kneeling next to the bed, his hand finding hers on the mattress and squeezing tight.
It makes her breath catch in her throat, but she can’t bring herself to say anything, and, as he looks at her with wide, earnestly concerned eyes, she hardly even remembers how mad she was the last time they spoke.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, sounding out of breath. “The healer said to send for her should you need assistance when you woke up, are you in pain, should I go get her? She isn’t far, I will just run there—”
“Geralt,” she cuts him off, though not unkindly. He looks so uncharacteristically frantic. “I’m fine.” Well, awfully sore, injured enough that she probably shouldn’t strain herself with any magic for the time being and with a pounding head that begs for more sleep but, overall, she’s fine.
He doesn’t seem particularly convinced, lips pressed together and eyes planted on her face. “If you are sure,” he says, slowly.
“I am.” She pauses, struggling to swallow as she realizes how dry her throat is. “I will take some water, though.”
He’s quick to get up and fetch her some, leaving her a visual what she previously thought was a bundle of clothes, caught in the corner of her eye and seemingly not too interesting. With a clearer vision and Geralt no longer the centre of her attention, she realizes that there’s a slim figure asleep on a chair and curled under a dark cloak. She frowns, curious even as an ugly feeling curls up in her stomach, like she just caught someone intruding on something that’s hers.
After accepting the water that Geralt brought her, the way his attention is completely on her and the care with which he hands it to her warming up her chest, she can’t resist asking. “Who is that?” she whispers, gesturing briefly behind him.
He turns to glance over his shoulder, and when he turns back his expression is a little sheepish. “That’s Ciri,” he says, at a lower volume than before. “She’s my Child Surprise.”
Ah.
Right.
That is wonderful news that she didn’t need now.
She wishes she could be happy for him, but the only thing that his words do is bring her back to that mountain, to her bitter disappointment and his harsh words and the way she found out that even their connection was tainted, that—what hurt the most, once she stopped screeching about being forced into a fake connection and not actually loving him as much as she does, is that she does think she cares for him. She tried not to, the whole time, and yet she still ended up loving him, and she thinks that if it had only been a trick, a fake affection brought on by a djinn, it would have dulled and faded now that she knows and she’s disgusted enough never to want to see him again.
Yet, under the bitter disappointment, she still loves him. And on that mountain, when he called her important—she really thought he might love her, authentically, for no reason other than earnest affection.
Instead, she thinks he might have tricked himself. She thinks he bound himself to her without knowing what he was doing, and he confused magic for love, had her believe it was real when his feelings are skin-deep.
“Right,” she says, bitterly enough to be noticeable.
His regret is written all over his face, as he probably thinks of that day too, and he opens his mouth to say something. She doesn’t think she wants to hear it.
“Where are we?” she asks, before he can speak.
He closes his mouth, seemingly taken aback for a few moments, but eventually he follows her lead without protest. “A small village, at a few days walk from Kaer Morhen.”
Great. So she was searching for him when she picked a place to run to. More information that she doesn’t want to deal with.
She nods, sinking back into the pillow and closing her eyes for a moment, letting out a slow sigh. She only really wishes to be home right now, where she could safely recover and lick her wounds.
She isn’t sure how much time passes until Geralt’s fingers are brushing against hers again, and though her skin itches for her to take his hand first, to hold onto him and pretend like they never parted the way they did, she keeps herself on a tight enough leash that she only keeps lying there, motionless.
“I thought you were dead,” Geralt suddenly says, with barely any voice to it. She isn’t even sure she was meant to hear, but she opens her eyes all the same, needing to see his face, to see if it matches the way his voice broke a little as he spoke.
(It does.)
“Did I look that bad?” she asks, gentler than she probably should. She certainly felt bad enough for it to look frightening.
He raises his eyes on her, shaking his head and looking lost in a way that tugs uncomfortably at her stomach. “No, not—well, yes, you did, but I meant before. After Sodden.”
Oh. Right.
She had—almost forgotten about that, actually. In a way, it feels like a lifetime ago.
Without meaning to, she glances at the Child Surprise, still curled up under the cloak and yet—she’s pretty sure she saw the fluttering of eyelashes, and she’s willing to bet that she’s been pretending to sleep the whole time. It would be amusing, if looking at her didn’t still make her so horribly uncomfortable.
“I survived,” she says, lightly. “I’m good at that.”
The smile on his face is small but horribly affectionate. “Yeah, I know. I’m grateful for that.”
He’s grateful. Bastard.
She doesn’t fill the silence that falls, but he seems ready to speak enough for two today.
“Listen, we—me and Ciri, we are heading to Kaer Morhen,” he says, tentatively. “You are hurt. I—I know you said you are fine, but you were hurt badly, I don’t know what happened, but—if you want to come with us—”
It’s irritating how her first reaction is relief mixed to expectation, like she had just been waiting to be thrown a bone and now that she’s been offered she’s ready to accept just about anything.
She snorts. “Really? I would think you wouldn’t want me around your child, after what you said the last time.”
She might as well have hit him. She feels more regretful than she should, frankly.
“I’m sorry, about what I said,” he says, slowly. “Of course I’d trust you around her, I—”
A few words in, and she already wants to cry or run or do just about anything to make it stop. Irritation builds up in her chest and she just—she can’t. Not now. She’s tired and her head hurts, everything hurts, and she shouldn’t have made that quip.
She raises one hand, shaking her head and quickly shutting him up. “No, I really can’t talk about that now,” she says, bluntly. “I’m tired, alright? I just want to sleep. Let’s—let’s not talk about it now. You can ask me again tomorrow, when I will have the patience to discuss how we parted ways.”
Geralt stares at her for a few moments, his mouth slightly open, but he’s quick to nod, apparently not wanting to fight her on it.
“Of course,” he breathes out, after a few moments. “I apologize.”
If he says he’s sorry one more time, for anything, she’s going to throw something at him.
She nods, taking a breath and closing her eyes shut, only realizing just how tired she is when she wills her body into beginning to relax and some tension starts to melt from her. She curls a little on herself, pushing away the feeling of being observed and how it doesn’t feel bad, quite the contrary, it feels—safe, like no matter how much she sneers at him she’s still expecting him to be trustworthy.
“Thank you,” she gets out, before she can overthink it. It slips off her tongue easily, and she doesn’t open her eyes after saying it, anxiety clogging her throat as she waits for the answer.
“You’re welcome,” he says, softly. “I’m glad I happened to be here.”
She almost says that it wasn’t a coincidence, that it was a dangerous mix of destiny and her own instinct to turn to him for protection, but instead she blindly slides her hand over his, running the tips of her fingers over his knuckles and then just leaving her hand on top of his, squeezing lightly.
She falls asleep thinking of leaving for Kaer Morhen with him, and in the privacy of her own head it’s an embarrassingly comforting fantasy.