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“Ugh.” Ciri hides her face under the blankets once more.
Geralt glances up at the clouds covering the sunrise. They’ve already lost maybe a half hour of daylight. He’s unsure what to do with a child. She’s cooperative enough out of pure fear of the world around her that they’re managing so far. Parenting has never been his dream. Apparently it was Yen’s, but she’s gone now. That ache is still sitting fresh and painful in his chest.
He pokes at the fire and doesn’t try to rouse Ciri again. She doesn’t sleep well.
Sitting gives Geralt plenty of time to think, which is damn near all he’s been doing. Ciri’s questions don’t help either. How could he possibly have described the attack on Kaer Morhen to her? Should he have? But she’s seen enough death, surely, there’s no need for her to hear about something that happened decades past. At least not right now.
Should he have told her about Yennefer?
Again, the thought of her brings a physical pain alongside the stab of grief. Geralt throws a stick into his campfire and pushes himself laboriously to a standing position. The cold isn’t doing his injured leg any favors. Geralt watches the clouds as he begins his stretches. Slowly. Very slowly.
He hopes they will be spared fresh snowfall today.
Ciri pushes the blankets down off her face. “I’m cold.”
“I know,” Geralt says. He stays in his lunge position.
“Can we find an inn soon?”
“We’re going to try,” he agrees. “There’s a town on the way. Maybe you can pretend to be a boy again, keep your low profile.”
“What about you?” Ciri asks. She sits up now, wrapped in the fur, her cloak, and the one blanket Geralt has found. “How do you keep a low profile?”
It’s a damn good question. He doesn’t have an answer so he just hums. Ciri scoffs, quietly. Her disapproval, warranted though it may be, doesn’t change anything. Geralt keeps his mouth shut.
Halfway through the morning the perpetual exhaustion and pain in Geralt’s leg force him to stop for a period of time. He needs to eat, but that would mean hunting, and he has nothing but a dagger and a child to protect. Besides, it’s winter. His chances of finding something to eat in the snow is low to begin with. Ciri huddles close to Roach.
“Geralt,” she asks.
“Hm.”
“Will you tell me something?”
“Like what?”
“Anything,” Ciri says. “Or maybe, a story from when you were a boy? I want to know what Kaer Morhen is like.”
“It’s not like that anymore. It’s just a keep in the mountains.”
“Tell me a story about something else then. I’m cold. And I’m bored.”
Geralt barely manages to stop himself from hiding his head in his hands. He breathes in ice cold air. A story. “I don’t know any stories.”
“That’s a lie,” Ciri says immediately. “You’ve traveled and you’re old, you have to know stories. Why are you laughing?”
He isn’t laughing, it’s just the absurdity of hearing the girl call him old and traveled, as though there is anything else for a witcher to be, especially these days. “Alright, I know a story.”
Ciri cuddles closer to him, seeking and sharing her warmth.
“Once there was . . . a cat,” he begins. “An ordinary cat, with stripes, who was hunting mice. One day, the cat went alone on a long walk through a dark, terrible forest. He walked and walked and walked . . .”
“It’s midday,” Ciri interrupts him, “I won’t fall asleep no matter how long the cat walks.”
“Don’t interrupt my story. He walks and walks and meets a fox. A red fox. The fox looks at the cat. He asks: ‘Who are you?’ The cat replies: ‘I am a cat.’ The fox retorts: ‘Ah! And you are not afraid, you cat, to walk alone in the forest? What if the king decides to go hunting? What will you do with the dogs and hunters on their horses? I tell you, cat, the hunt is a terrible thing for the likes of you and I. You have a fur coat, I have one too. The hunters are without pity for us, because they have fiancées and mistresses whose hands and necks shiver: they turn us into stoles and muffs for those whores.’” He glances at her, guiltily, realizing perhaps he should have omitted that word. But Ciri seems unphased. Well she did grow up with Calanthe after all.
“And then?” Ciri asks.
“The fox then continues: ‘I, dear cat, know how to escape them. I have a thousand and two hundred eighty-six methods: I am cunning. And you, dear cat, how many tricks do you possess against the hunters?’” Geralt says. He wraps an arm around Ciri’s shoulders as she shivers. He looks out at the snow and begins to second guess himself. He hasn’t picked a happy story, but then, he doesn’t know any of those. “The cat replies: ‘I, dear fox, do not have multiple ways, but only one: Hop! I climb up a tree. This should be sufficient, I believe?’ The fox smiles: ‘Well then! Dear cat, you're nothing but a fool. Turn tail and run from here, because you will perish if the hunters track you.’ Suddenly, without warning, with neither transition nor delay, the hunters emerge from the bushes: on top of the cat and the fox!”
“Oh!”
“They throw themselves upon them then, shouting: ‘Forward! Skin their hides! For the muffs, the muffs!’ They unleash the dogs upon the cat and the fox. And the cat, hop! climbs up the tree as cats do. Right to the top. And the dogs, snap! seize the fox. Even before the red-furred one could make use of one of his cunning routes, he was transformed into a lady's stole. The cat meows from the top of the tree, defying the hunters. They cannot reach him, because the tree is too high. They wait at the bottom, swearing against the gods of the earth, but leave empty-handed. The cat then descends the tree and goes quietly home.”
“What happens next?”
“Nothing,” Geralt says. “The story is over.”
Ciri is quiet.
If Jaskier—Geralt cuts off that line of thinking as fast as he can.
“I think I understand,” Ciri whispers.
A gust of wind flickers through the meagre fire. Ciri shivers under the furs. There’s nothing Geralt can do.
He focuses his gaze on the fire and lets his awareness slip inwards, to his breath, his heartbeat, slowing the rhythm of his body into meditation. Geralt remains unmoving as the minutes slip by unnoticed, turning to an hour, also without his marking the time. It is only a particularly strong gust of wind, bringing with it animal scents from far off and rustling in the bushes. Geralt breathes in, scenting, but it is just the wind. He relaxes minutely, glancing compulsively over at Ciri again. He’s just tired. He’s just cold. He could lay down next to her on the pitiful pile of branches that’s making her bed, keep them both warmer, if only he could sleep without dreaming. If only someone could keep the fire burning. If only he could be sure they were safe.
Traveling didn’t used to leave him so drained. Meditation used to help more than this.
On a few occasions, Geralt has traveled up to Kaer Morhen so late in the season like this. Alone, he huddles down next to Roach, insulated from the ground by the underbrush, warm in his furs and bedroll, safe with his swords in arm’s reach. Meditating is restful enough to keep him well and allow him to tend his fire. With Jaskier, he’d slept early, woke as Jaskier came to bed, and watched over their camp and their fire while he meditated until morning.
Geralt’s eyes blink closed.
Jaskier smiles at him. The fire sparks a bit as he adds another log. Geralt’s limbs feel heavy as he curls around Ciri’s back to shelter her from the wind. It’s nice this way. The cold doesn’t bite so much. It’s a shame its too cold for Jaskier to play. Ciri would like that. It might help her sleep.
Geralt should sleep too. This is his chance to rest before Jaskier is tired enough to come to bed. Yet, he needs to watch Jaskier as he moves to check on Roach. Ciri shifts in his arms. Geralt thinks to tuck the blanket up around her again or she’ll catch a chill. But his arms are too heavy to move.
Instead, Jaskier appears before them. He pulls the blankets up gently over Ciri’s shoulders. For all he’s avoided child rearing, Jaskier has good rapport with children. Especially ones Ciri’s age. The first years at Oxenfurt that Jaskier instructs can’t be much older than her? Geralt is floundering, he ran into this half cocked, unthinking, unprepared. He couldn’t do this without Jaskier. Ciri needs someone to talk to her, to be kind and warm to her, to keep the fire going when Geralt is too tired to keep his eyes open.
But even with the log Jaskier added to the fire and Ciri in his arms, it’s cold. Jaskier must be cold too. He should come to bed and then they will all be warm. Geralt opens his mouth. “Ja—
The rest of the word dies soundless in his mouth as the movement jerks him out of his doze. The fire is nearly burnt out. He’s been dreaming.
The warmth, the peace, and the pleasant heaviness of his limbs all evaporate as if they were never there. Exhaustion and bone deep chill never truly left him, but Geralt feels them as a fresh pain for the imaginary respite. Geralt turns to make sure Ciri is safely asleep, then closes his eyes, tucks his head to his chest, and allows himself one horrible agonizing moment to miss Jaskier with the debilitating intensity that he cannot afford. A part of him is afraid, tired as he is, if he stops to rest for even one second he will lay down and never get up again.
He had thought this grief would fade.
Geralt must get up again. Ciri is relying on him and the fire is soon to go out. His body resists him, the cold numbs him, the grief pulls at him, the guilt gnaws at him, but Geralt stands up. Cold fingers reach for another log. He sets it on the fire and watches to make sure it doesn’t go out.