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They came on a sunny morning. Later, when Ciri remembered the events of that day, she would always be upset at that fact: a shining sun, a rare sight so deep in the mountains where fog obscured most days, shouldn’t have heralded such danger.
But real life hardly cared for such poetic things as dark and stormy nights—her life wasn’t one of Jaskier’s songs. So though the morning had started out sunny, promising that she and Lambert would work up a good sweat while training, it had quickly taken a turn for the worse.
Lambert heard it first—she swallowed down the familiar jealousy that arose when she remembered how she would never have the same senses the rest of the witchers did, would never go through the Trials, would never truly be a real witcher.
He perked up like the wolf his school was named for, though she hadn’t noticed anything amiss. “Lambert?” she asked warily. Perhaps it was nothing—perhaps it was the other witchers, returned from their hunting.
“Stay,” he barked, and she did, if only because surprise still held her limbs frozen. Whatever it was he saw from atop the wall, it was bad—he ran back down, face set in a grimace. “Listen, witcher-girl. You go find Geralt, and tell him to get you out the back way. Tell him to do what I fucking say for once. You need to get as far away as you can.”
Like fuck, was Ciri’s first thought. A witcher never ran from a fight—even one still in training. “But, Lambert, I can fight,” Ciri said, tightening her grip on her wooden sword. “If—”
Quick as a hare, Lambert darted forward and yanked the sword from her grip, throwing it down into the dirt. “Go,” he bit out. “If you come back, I’ll whip you.” Ciri swallowed, wide-eyed. He’d made such threats before, but always in jest. Never this, never with an almost fearful passion. “You know how to run; I know you do. NOW.”
Her feet stuck stubbornly to the ground. She wanted to fight, yes, but Lambert was scaring her. He finally made the decision for her—he reached out and pushed her, sending her stumbling backwards a step. With her momentum started, she found herself able to move once again. She left Lambert behind, running into the keep, throwing back one last glance to see him twirling his sword and falling into a ready position.
The heavy doors of the entry hall boomed shut behind her, announcing her arrival. She ran into Geralt not ten seconds later, summoned by the commotion. “What’s going on?” he asked, steadying her by the shoulders.
She caught her breath. “The back way,” she gasped. “Something’s coming. Lambert—”
He pushed her suddenly aside, grabbing a sword off one of the racks lining the walls. “Stay here,” he instructed, and started towards the training grounds, only to be stopped by her lunging for his elbow.
“No! He said we have to go out the back way. He said—” she faltered. “He said to do what he fucking said for once.” As much as her heart clenched to leave him behind—maybe it was selfish of her, but Lambert had been so scared, and she didn’t want Geralt to leave too.
She didn’t want to be alone.
He hesitated for one half second, cat eyes flicking to the door, before he made up his mind. “Come on,” he said, turning away from the fight and leading her down the northern corridor.
Their hurried footsteps echoed against the stone walls—well, hers did. Geralt, as always, moved near-silently, a predator in the night, gleaming eyes watching for any danger. Somewhere in the dark, a rat squeaked and fled at their approach, naked tail whipping against her ankles. She shuddered.
How much further, the spoiled princess inside of her wanted to ask, but she was no princess, not anymore—she was a witcher, and witchers didn’t complain, and they didn’t fear anything.
Witchers also don’t run from fights, her mind whispered, but she shoved the thought down ruthlessly. It was the smart thing to do, she knew, because it seemed like half the Continent wanted her for some reason or another. And Geralt would do anything to keep her safe, so would all of the witchers, even if it meant that they died—
Tears spilled over. She pretended that it was the draft blowing through the corridor, cold air stinging her eyes. They reached a staircase, steps leading down into a black tunnel. Geralt turned around to warn her of the drop, and didn’t say anything of the saltwater he could probably smell.
She thought of how Lambert must be doing—was he injured? Probably. Was he winning? He was a good fighter, one of the best—she’d learned all her best tricks from him, learned how to fight dirty, because in a fight nothing was ever fair. “Pay attention, witcher-girl,” he often said. “This could save your life.”
She wanted to return the favor. “Geralt?” she whispered tremulously, as the slope heightened and they approached the end of the tunnel. She could hear the Gwenllech rushing in the distance, louder with each passing step. “Will we go back?”
He didn’t answer. She knew he’d heard her—that wasn’t the issue.
“No,” he finally said, after a long time. “Keeping you safe is my highest priority.” His shoulders were set, his voice strained.
The tunnel widened, craggy stone walls growing lighter, with patches of moss and lichen appearing in spots. It had spit them out into a cave, far north of the keep—she figured they were past the old bastion, almost to the lake by now.
Geralt didn’t stop, setting an almost punishing pace as they exited the cave and kept heading north. Ciri squinted in the bright sunlight and wished, not for the first time, that she had witcher eyesight as well.
As they darted among the pines, a thought occurred to her. “What about the others? Uncle Vesemir, and Eskel, and Coën?”
Geralt grimaced. “If they have any lick of sense, they’ll stay the hell away until it calms down.” He sounded dubious. Ciri didn’t ask any more questions.
After another ten minutes of running, Ciri’s heart was racing—well, it had been racing ever since Lambert had told her to run back in the courtyard, but now it was equal parts fear and exhaustion. Clumsy with it, she stumbled, catching herself on palms that shredded. Geralt didn’t hesitate for a second, just scooped her up as if she were a little kid again and kept running.
“Put me down, I can—I can run,” she panted, muscles clenching with adrenaline.
“Almost there,” he grunted, and kept running. A half-fallen stone structure was rising out of the woods before them, some long-lost sentry tower that used to look over the valley. Geralt jogged around to the back, where an archway made of wood was built onto the wall.
He set her down roughly, hurried. Her legs shook for a moment, threatening not to hold her weight, before she locked her knees and reached deep for strength that had almost deserted her. “What--?” she started to ask, but the rest of her sentence was drowned out by the thunderclap of Aard. A portal ringed by blue sprang to life, its murky depths not betraying anything about where it led.
Ciri swallowed. Geralt turned to her, and something about the way she looked made his face soften, the lines etched into his forehead loosening. “Safehouse deeper in the mountains. Only way to get there. Come on,” he said softly, holding out a hand. It made her feel small, but it was a much-needed comfort right now. She took it, and stepped through the portal with him.
The world swam for a moment, and her stomach, already upset with nerves, threatened to rebel. Her knees buckled, hitting hard wood, before strong arms caught her and lifted her up. “Put me down,” she said, voice wet. It was hitting her—they’d just left, they’d just left Lambert there alone, left him to die—
Geralt’s hold on her tightened as she began to struggle. “Put me down!” she cried, watching the portal close behind them. “We have to go back, we have to—we can’t just leave him!” Her mind was whirling, the horror of how quickly the morning had gone wrong finally catching up to her.
“Cirilla,” Geralt said sharply, when one of her flailing limbs caught him in the side. “We can’t go back.”
“But he—but—we can’t just—” she sobbed.
Geralt sank to his knees, still clutching her tight. “I know, cub,” he soothed, but the pain in his voice echoed hers. “I know, but we can’t.”
She cried out wordlessly, hands clenching into fists against his chest.
“I know,” he repeated, letting her beat her fists against his chest, taking every blow without complaint, until, spent, she sagged against him, tears still running down her face. Their breaths, mingling, shuddered out of their chests.