Chapter Text
Constance had only intended to get a couple things from the market, which did not necessitate a wagon, nor a cadet guard with her. Perhaps she should have taken at least one of the boys with, but it felt good to stretch her legs and wander by herself, not being beholden to anyone in particular, chatting away with old acquaintances.
Instead she was returning to the garrison with a 13 year-old child in tow. The girl had been scrounging around the stalls, trying to purchase some fruit with odd looking coins, and folks were not happy about it. Add to the fact that the ashe-blonde child did not know French, well she seemed lost and ripe for plucking by any scoundrel to walk the street. Girls like that would not be safe. Somehow Constance seemed sincere enough to the girl that she followed her back - after she bought a couple of apples for her. Someone around the garrison should know what language she spoke, and then they could figure things out.
As they entered the main gate, Constance could not help but notice the girl’s green eyes go wide. Mid-bite on one of the apples, her lips smile in recognition of the soldiers around her. Most likely she was just another tragedy of the war they have been a part of for years. One of the cadets came around them quickly and startled the girl, prompting her to draw the short sword she carried, turning on the poor boy, and putting herself between Constance and the cadet.
The cadet pulled his dagger, as to not be unprepared. Well-trained, but Constance was not going to have any of this. She did not want to patch up either of them. “No,” she said rather sternly and moved between the two of them, putting a hand on both of their arms. “No. Put them away.” Constance looked between the two, as both seemed wary on what to do.
“You heard what she said Brujon,” Aramis said, stepping up towards the scene, hands open in front of him, but Constance knew he was never truly unarmed.
The cadet took a couple of breaths and a step back before moving his dagger away before tucking it out of sight. “She pulled her sword on me first, Sir.”
“I know,” Aramis said. “But perhaps you frightened her. She does not look as if she is from around here.”
“She is not,” Constance piped in, folding her hands together in front of her stomach. “Found her in the market. She does not know French, and was almost upsetting some of the older merchants.”
“Some of the rather grumpy ones you mean,” Aramis said as he stepped in front of the girl, eyes not leaving her until she put her short sword away. “She is well armed though. Definitely knew how to hold it,” he opined to Constance, making her nearly roll her eyes at him. Any smart woman, or girl, would not carry weapons so openly without at least learning the basics, or she would be in a world of sorrow.
Aramis crouched down in front of the child, only making her raise an eyebrow and stare down at him with the hint of a smirk on her lips. He began to speak to her in French, then Spanish. When she did not respond, he tried English, and was rewarded with a smile to her face.
“My name is Cirilla,” Cirilla said, letting out a sigh. She looked as if she wanted to say something else, but stopped herself.
“What did she say?” Constance asked.
“Her name is Cirilla. And apparently she knows English. How she ended up on the streets of Paris, I have no idea.” Aramis turned his head back to Cirilla, asking her how she got here.
“I have no idea where here is,” Cirilla replied, and looked around her at the men who were busy with duties and training. “I assume they are soldiers?”
“We are. We are the King’s Musketeers. How did you learn to hold a blade so well?”
“My Papa taught me. As well as some of his—” Cirilla looked between Aramis and Constance, taking a rather deep breath. “As did some of his soldiers.”
“Well, it is a good skill to learn, man or woman. Especially if you learned how to use it properly.” Aramis stood up with a smile on his face.
“What did she say? And how do you know English?” Constance demanded of him.
“There was a friar from England who stayed at the monastery for about a year. I taught him some things and he taught me some things,” Aramis said with a shrug. “She said she does not know where she is, but assumed we are soldiers, and that she learned to use her blade from her Papa and his soldiers.”
As Aramis said ‘Papa’ Constance could not help but notice the small look of fear that crossed young Cirilla’s face. “Well, until we find him, or find out what happened to him, we will have to make do.”
“We?” Aramis asked.
“We,” Constance stated, lifting her head up. “There is no way I am letting a child from another country walk alone along the streets of Paris in the middle of a war and uprisings. Even if she could possibly defend herself. You have seen what has happened to girls like her.”
“Right. Cannot do that,” Aramis said. “But we?”
“I hardly speak English! I need you to help me until she suddenly speaks French or I suddenly learn English. Now, tell her we are going to see if there are any clean clothes for the boys or cadets she can use, and then we will see about getting her a cot in my quarters.”
“Are they not D’Artagnan’s quarters?”
“Did you forget my last name while you were gone?” Constance gave him a cuff to the shoulder and urged Aramis on. “Honestly, you men sometimes.” As she headed towards the laundry, Constance could hear Aramis talking to Cirilla, hearing their footsteps behind her.
~ 
~
Ciri sat up in the cot she had been given in the quarters of Constance and her husband. Something about the woman reminded her a bit about Milena, but she could not pinpoint exactly what it was yet. But as Papa, Uncle Eskel, Grandpa Vesemir, Uncle Lambert, her Jas, Milena, and most of the trainers at Kaer Morhen have often said - it was better to study and learn everything you could about a situation, so when you needed to act, you could do it to the best of your abilities. And sometimes that prevented going to war with other countries, or having to do extra laps of the training yard.
Wrapping her fingers tightly around the wolf’s head medallion she wore, Ciri could feel her heartbeat against the metal, and for a moment she did not feel so alone in this strange place. She had been trying to find a place for some alone time, with the Nilfgaardian envoys headed towards them, and knowing that once they reached Kaer Morhen she could not leave the safety of her bodyguards. Ciri also knew she could not just go ‘up mountain’ like her Papa and others had done when they needed a moment to think to themselves.
Getting frustrated at not being able to be alone, always finding someone, or a worried servant, or a witcher that could smell how she was feeling, Ciri finally found some refuge in one of the old mage laboratories in the farthest reaches of the keep. She was unsure why Jan and the servants had not cleaned it up and used it for something more practical, but the young heir to the Wolflands was extremely grateful to have a place of her own.
Burrowing down into a cold corner of the room, next to a tall set of shelves, she let herself be distracted by the remaining vials of liquids and dust. Perhaps she should tell Triss once she headed back to everyone else, since it looked like some things she might be able to use, or would know how dangerous they were. Sighing out, she wrapped her coat tightly around her.
She knew what was expected of her in the coming weeks - Ciri was not a fool, and was coming along in learning statecraft as another weapon in her arsenal - but she wished she did not have to do it. She also knew in her heart that her family tried to make the transition as easy as they could, and Kaer Morhen was far from normal courts and politics. She was beginning to understand how other courts worked, listening to Jaskier and Milena, but at their core, she despised the lies, treachery, and falsehoods. As she was getting older, and being an apprentice to her Uncle Eskel, she unfortunately got to hear more of how the world outside Kaer Morhen behaved and treated others, especially women.
Ciri had been running through a long list of things in her mind, analyzing each issue she would be facing when there was an extremely loud bang into the window above her head. Jumping up, she whirled around, pulling her long dagger from the sheath at her side, moving into a defensive position. Suddenly something large blocked the light from the window, plunging the room into darkness, and as she took a step back to not be locked into a corner, her boot heel broke a vial of something that had fallen from the shelves in her movement.
The powder rose in the air and seemed to react with something about Ciri. Her heart began to race and she opened her mouth to call for help, when her voice seemed to catch, amplifying itself on to her. Feeling suddenly weak, Ciri fell to the ground, struggling to keep her eyes open. Next thing she knew, it was daylight, warm, there was some dried blood on her temple, and she was nowhere she had ever seen before, even on the trip to the Elven Summer Festival.
She had wandered for a day, heading towards the city she could see in the near distance. At night she burrowed in the woods and held her long dagger for protection, sleeping in short naps, wary of what was possibly around her. The next morning she made it to the city and found herself hungry, but when she tried to buy even an apple, they did not accept her coin, and she could not understand them.
Then Constance appeared, helped her, and has not stopped helping her since. Aramis was kind, and Ciri had almost cried in happiness, for she thought Aiden had found her. He looked just like the Cat witcher. But he acted as if he did not know her. So Ciri played along. Maybe something had happened and he was trying to protect her. Yet the longer they spoke through the day, in her heart she started to wonder if this was truly her Aiden.
Constance found her some new clothes so hers could be laundered, and thank the gods she did not demand Ciri wear a dress and found some trousers that they quickly hemmed for her. She was introduced to Athos, the Captain of these Musketeers, as they called themselves. In her mind she figured he would probably be akin to Uncle Lambert or Coen for her Papa. Porthos was a big and quiet man. Made her think of Esra and Letho. Then there was Constance’s husband D’Artagnan. He seemed wary of her, but did not object to her staying in their quarters or anything else Constance asked of him. It made her think of Papa and Uncle Eskel and how they treated Jas.
Thinking about them only made her heart ache, wondering how she would get back to them. Hopefully this was Aiden and he was able to help her, but if not, she had to think this through and come up with a plan. A couple of tears fell down her cheeks as she allowed herself the chance to cry. But she quickly wiped them away with the back of her hand, knowing she should be strong. Ciri had sat at her father’s side when she did not know if he was going to die, and stayed brave for him. She could stay brave for her family even here, apart from them.
Rubbing her index finger under her nose, Ciri stared at the medallion. Maybe she could help them find her, while she worked on getting back to them. She did not have the tracking necklaces Aunt Yen had made, but she recalled her going over a spell to find someone dear. Closing her eyes, she held the medallion in her palm.
“Darganfod me, squaess'me. Darganfod me, squaess'me.” Ciri’s voice whispered to not awaken either of the adults nearby, but she put the authority in her voice Aunt Yennefer and Aunt Triss often told her to. “Find me, please, forgive me.” Her voice caught a moment, and there was a glow around the medallion that then sunk into the silver and it was dark once more.
Letting the medallion fall to her chest, Ciri glanced over at Constance and her husband, making sure they were still asleep. She then held her palms together and conjured a small ball of energy in her hands, softly chanting, “Deien me treise aep dice aen het dh'oine.” Concentrating on imparting the spell to understand and communicate with them and use their language, she then pushed her hands up to her mouth and swallowed the energy, feeling a warmth settle in her throat. She really hoped it worked, and she would have to remember to start speaking more and more over time. Like learning to play an instrument, as Jas would say.
Feeling a bit more settled with a plan in mind and having taken some action, Ciri settled down in the cot, her hand wrapping around the hilt of the dagger she kept at her side, even in the bed. At least they had not stopped her from being as protected as she could be. She closed her eyes, and hoped to dream of home.