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It all starts so quick, that's perhaps why Geralt is so frustrated with himself that he didn't notice it earlier. He's a witcher, for fuck's sake, he can hear a butterfly's wing from miles away, so why didn't he notice this?
He, Jaskier, Yennefer and Ciri had left the safety of Kaer Morhen after the girl was recovered from her fever and fainting, post Voleth Meir attack. Perhaps he thought she was okay, that she was healed? He hadn't even considered the fragility of a human child when graced with the almighty power that his daughter possessed. In truth, his denial makes the hole in his chest only deeper as he looks at her. He should have noticed sooner, they'd been riding on not-Roach together for days, he should have noticed the warmth of her skin and the haze of her eyes long before she'd fainted into the same arms that used to keep her so tightly bared in when they would ride, eager to keep his daughter safe from that who would harm her.
How hadn't he realised that there were so many dangers that didn't include Mages, Kings, Nilfguaard and the Wild Hunt?
Because his daughter, who was so strong and brave, was laying limply at his side, covered by cloaks and blankets and whatever Yennefer could conjure, her skin deathly pale apart from the two large blotches of red upon her cheeks. She looks so small, a folded blanket underneath her head to make a pillow, buried underneath a mountain of rags in an effort to break the fever that was simultaneously impressive and deeply concerning.
He didn't know what to do. Nilfgaardian soldiers that wishes to take his child? Simple, kill them. Mages? Yennefer can handle them. Kings? Jaskier can charm them as well as any courtesan, but this? Geralt had never felt more helpless than he did now, watching her lay there, large drips of sweat trickling down the sides of her neck. He listens to the wheeze of her breath, comforted by the confirmation that she's still here, still okay. That she's still with him, after all they went through.
The air is cold, because of course it is. It's January, they're in the North, inches of snow burry the four of them in, circled in a camp that Yennefer had cleared when they'd realised that the girl was unwell. Geralt can see the breath in front of his face, leaning back against the tree that mirrors his spine, glancing at his girl once again, before passing a glance at Yennefer and Jask.
The bard is sleeping loudly, snores echoing in the small orb of protection that Yennefer casts every morning. Are they invisible? Do any passers by see themselves, or just an echo of the woods?
Geralt had Axii'd the bard into sleep. He was exhausted, but worried enough to fight it with his worry of the girl he had grown fond of in their brief time in the witcher keep. The white haired witcher is a warrior, born and bread, and has the capability of staying awake for days at a time. The bard, as human as he was, was not, and all it took was a quick cast until the bard snored happily.
Yennefer is a different equation all together. The first few days, post betrayal, Geralt hadn't let ciri out of his sight, too worried that she would be taken away again. It's been almost three weeks, and Geralt still cannot find peace in sleep with Yennefer so close to his child. And now, with Cirilla being as vulnerable as she is, the last thing on Geralt's mind is to take rest. He had never felt a purpose like this, to protect his child with everything within him. The only time he had let her slip to being second in his heart, Yennefer had taken her away and was only stopped causing the girl's death by the girl herself. He would never make that mistake again. Asleep, Yennefer may be. Yes, she may have had a hand in defeating the demon and freeing his girl. But never again will he let his guard down when the sorcerers is so close.
He has too many thoughts of the girl being dragged from his arms, the scent of lilac and gooseberries high in his nose.
No. Geralt decides, clenching his fist, the other hand laying protectively on Cirilla's stomach, feeling it rise and fall. He will never let her be take from him again.
The girl's breathing changes suddenly, shuddering and stuttering like it does when she's trapped within the depths of her own mind, of the horrors she'd endured since the slaughter of her homeland. Her head moves to the side, sounds falling from her throat even in unconsciousness.
Geralt's full attention snaps to her, he shifts foreward to be on his knees next to her, the backs of his fingers sliding down her cheeks, accompanying the tears that fall.
Too hot. Still far too hot.
Her heat can rival his own, and it feels like a fist in his gut.
"Cirilla." his voice is gruff from lack of use, deep and raspy, while her own is choked and throaty, speaking of thirst and congestion. "Cirilla, I am here. Do not be afraid, little one."
Slowly, the girls jerking limbs cease movement, and she settles in her makeshift bed of rags and moss and bark. So much less than what she deserves.
Her breathing changes again, and she looks towards him, eyes still closed.
"Cub?" He asks, licking his lips. "Pup?"
Her breathing is shaky, her heartbeat slightly quicker. And much to his relief, she opens her eyes."Ciri," Geralt breathes. Thank Melitele. She's here, she's safe, she's with him still.
A hand slides to her cheek, the other laying on her ribs.Ciri says nothing for a moment, looking around at the dark woodlands, before she looks at him again.
"Gr'alt" she whispers. He smiles, relief flooding through him.
He knows, he should get Yennefer, wake her so she can whisper spells to heal the child, wake Jask so he can sleep without worry or magical influence, but he cannot bring himself to remove himself from her just yet.
"Ciri," he smiles. "Sweet girl, we've been worried."
Ciri says nothing, only shifts to sit up. He helps, a hand supporting her back, the other supporting the weight of her front. She slumps against him, exhausted from sickness. Her head falls to her neck, and he presses a kiss to her sweaty hair.
"Gr'alt" she whispers again, tilting her face to meet her own.
"I'm here, sweet girl. I'm here." Geralt says, pressing his waterskin to her lips so she may drink the cold water.
She slumps against him again when she's done, a hand finding his.
She slumps against him again when she's done, a hand finding his.
"It's okay, Ciri. Just sleep, you must rest." He says, laying her back down in her nest.
It's a strange impulse he has, to kiss her fingers, but he does it anyway, because it must bring her some sort of comfort, right? People like that sort of thing.
"It's alright, pup. We'll get you feeling better soon" he says, pressing his hand to her brow once again. Too hot and clammy, but he can fix that with willowbark and lavender.
Before he can turn to get her another wet rag for her brow, the witcher feels her hand at his wrist. Small, with the start of callouses from the blade training.
Ciri opens her mouth to speak, but her eyes flutter shut before she can.
He looks at her, earnest.
"Papa." she whispers. "'nk you" she mumbled, before falling into sleep once again, her grip on his wrist going slack.
Now, Geralt's chest feels like it's going to explode for a different reason.