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A final thrust of his sword had the creature screaming in pain, signalling the end of the fight.
Geralt looked deep into those blood red eyes as the unnatural glow dimmed, just a little. Suddenly the creature was a beast no more, and became again a witcher not unlike Geralt was. Tortured and twisted, but a witcher still nonetheless.
Kiyan. His name was Kiyan, and he was a Cat. The least Geralt could do was carry his name out of this cursed place and back into the sun. He could remember, and mourn.
The Cat slumped, and Geralt dropped his sword to catch him, bearing him down gently and cradling him as Kiyan rasped out his final words.
"This is not the end," the Cat said, eyes locked on Geralt’s face.
He raised a trembling hand, and with bloody, skinless fingers he traced a path down Geralt’s cheek. Following a tear, Geralt realised. Kiyan had tracked the proof that someone had shed tears for him.
The fingers moved then, and a single fingertip ran along his bottom lip. He could taste the bitterness of the Cat’s mutated blood. Could feel the tacky warmth sticking to his skin.
"Seems you are bleeding," Kiyan said, his voice faint and trembling.
His hand fell from Geralt’s face, smears of blood left in its wake the only proof that any of this had happened.
"Shh," Geralt whispered, rocking Kiyan like he had Ciri when she was young and came to him after nightmares. "It's alright. You can rest now, Kiyan."
Kiyan shuddered in his arms, breath growing laboured.
"This is not the end," he rasped.
"This is not the end," Geralt assured him. He would not leave Kiyan down here to rot. He would not let his final resting place be the scene of his torture. The Cat deserved a real grave.
Too many witchers had died without graves.
The sun was setting when Geralt finished his work. He stood silently in the dying light, dirt on his hands, and two bloody trails still drawn on his face.
"Come on, Roach," he said, turning to his solid companion. "He's at peace now."