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They thought they were safe…
Geralt had thoroughly scoured every inch of the forests surrounding them, searching tirelessly for any indication that might suggest that Scoia'tael commandos were preparing an ambush nearby. This stretch of countryside was notoriously dangerous, and the Witcher refused to take any chances when it came to Ciri.
Their path was one of great peril, and the steep inclines and rickety footbridges had been the cause of immense exhaustion for the trio. The Lion Cub of Cintra looked on the verge of collapse, yawning profusely as she weakly clutched Roach’s saddle bags, allowing the beautiful mare to guide her forwards into the misty sunset. Even Jaskier had fallen silent, both from singing and his petulant whining, much to Geralt’s surprise.
Though the mutant himself was tired, he was certain he could have pushed on to the nearest town with little difficulty. His companions, however, urgently needed to rest, so despite his reluctance to set up camp on potential enemy land, he unfortunately was left with little choice…
Silently, the Witcher had led them into a denser copse of trees that provided little sunlight, straying even further from the road. “Watch your footing,” he grunted worriedly, concerned that neither the bard nor the child seemed overly capable of guiding themselves safely. Enormous tree roots sprouted awkwardly from the mossy undergrowth, both covered in a slippery scunge and concealed hazardously beneath a sea of viridian leaf litter. With his steel sword unsheathed and at the ready, he hacked a path through some low hanging vines, weaved through a labyrinth of broad tree trunks, and swore loudly in frustration.
Not even a stone's throw away, almost entirely concealed, he was able to make out the dark silhouette of what either appeared to be some sort of barn or old house. An uncomfortable sense of unease washed over the White Wolf, the hairs at the back of his neck pricking and standing on end. His keen Witcher senses and medallion failed to detect any trace of imminent danger, yet still Geralt had the distinct feeling that something was very wrong. “Wait here,” he ordered softly, creeping stealthily forwards and disappearing into the shadows.
“Is it safe?” Jaskier enquired sleepily as the armoured mutant appeared once more, so exhausted now that he had snuggled right into the nape of Roach’s neck and was leaning heavily against her.
Geralt hummed his confirmation. “It is,” he returned in a hushed voice, grabbing the reins and leading his reliable mount onwards. The structure seemed to be long abandoned, but why though, the Witcher didn’t yet know…
As it turned out, it was the weathered and rotting remains of an old barn, and by the looks of it, it had been long forgotten for quite some time. Behind it lay what appeared to be the ruins of a stone cottage, nothing more now than an overgrown pile of stone brick and rubble. A niggling sensation in the back of his mind had demanded that he turn away, however the night was cold and full of danger, and it was a more than adequate means of shelter.
With the Nilfgaardian knight in the black armour and feathered helm hunting Ciri like a bloodhound, the small band of travellers had had little rest, much less a safe place to lay their heads for a few hours. Though the Princess of Cintra, his Ciri, had spoken little of the man who relentlessly chased her down, it was incredibly obvious that his constant pursuit of her had instilled an unwavering fear within.
Every so often, the Child of the Elder Blood would gaze anxiously over her shoulder, scanning the area with a start when a sudden noise rustled the trees. And Geralt could hear it; he could hear the increase of her heart rate with that little jolt of fear as she searched for the knight that was determined to steal her away. When he questioned her about it however, she would feign ignorance. The girl would outright deny her well-founded terror, just as she denied screaming at the man in her sleep as he continued to haunt her, even in her dreams.
Ciri was almost thirteen now, and seemed to think that despite her young age, that she needed to be as brave and fearless as Geralt. He couldn’t be certain, but the Witcher had the impression she thought that if she allowed herself to be vulnerable, that he would discard her, turn her away and abandon her. And though Geralt was terrible when it came to emotions and meaningful conversation, he had in no uncertain terms reassured her that no matter what, he would always be there for her. Oh yes, Ciri was determined to be as fearless, independent and self-sufficient as he, but the truth of the matter was that she was still a broken and terrified child. “Come, Ciri,” he urged her gently, using a delicate tone that he reserved for her alone. She was hurting, damn it, and the White Wolf was desperate for her to see that it was okay to let it show… “You’ve more than earned a decent rest.”
Jaskier, on the other hand, was feeling particularly agitated and impatient. He wasted no time brushing past the brooding Witcher and his child surprise, entering the dilapidated, rickety wooden barn and plonking himself into the very centre of an amusingly small pile of coarse hay. “Ahhh!” He moaned in content, stretching his arms and legs to their full length as his heavy lids slipped closed. “Extremely mediocre as far as sleeping arrangements are concerned, yet still surprisingly comfortable.”
Geralt rolled his eyes dramatically to accompany Jaskier’s theatrics. He had kindly unsaddled Roach for the night to give the hard-working mare a break, and carried it inside behind Cirilla of Cintra to provide easy access to their saddlebags. Observing her worriedly, his keen sense of hearing picked up the anguished sigh as she trudged, shoulders sagged, to the far side of the structure…farthest away from the door. Whether intentional or not, his destiny huddled down just past the bard, and now that she had laid her head a foot from his, was completely out of sight.
The Witcher, too, sighed, feeling utterly helpless.
“Ciri…?” He muttered lightly after a moment, creeping past the now unconscious bard. Geralt knelt down on one knee at her side, brows knitting together in sadness as he drank in the utter despair swirling around in her brilliant blue eyes. “Talk to me,” he requested politely, allowing his own anguish and concern to show. “It’s okay to be afraid; wise, even…” He offered her the beginnings of a tiny smile, though as expected, was not reciprocated.
“I’m not afraid,” she stuttered overly quickly, not admitting to concealing the truth though she could see that Geralt didn’t believe her. And much to the orphaned Princess’ surprise, the man she had come to love as a father didn’t call her out on her obvious lie either. Truthfully, that stung a little, but Cirilla quickly reminded herself that she would’ve continued to lie about it anyway.
“Even so, it’s still okay…” With a tiny wince, the mutant pushed himself back to his feet. His knee was aching now that they had ceased travelling, the cold air causing his muscles to stiffen and further exacerbate the pain. But it was only temporary; once the blood was flowing again it would be good as new. With the twinge subsiding, he snatched a brown wolf pelt from the corner of the barn, draping it over his child with a tenderness he didn’t even know he’d possessed. “Get some sleep, Ciri,” he whispered soothingly, allowing his scarred and calloused hand to run once over her forehead. “I’ll be right here if you need me…”
As Geralt retreated to Jaskier’s far side, Ciri wanted to scream for him to come back. She was terrified, petrified, and though she was trying to be brave, needing to depend on no one but herself, she just wanted someone to hug her and promise that everything would be alright. But she couldn’t, because she was afraid… Not of Geralt, but of losing him. He was a Witcher, and Witchers, she imagined, don’t have the time, patience or emotional capacity to deal with frightened little children. Geralt was her destiny, so if she cried or showed weakness and drove him away, what would she do then…? She would have nothing, no one…and Ciri dreaded the thought of being alone again…
So instead of seeking his reassurances, the young Princess curled herself into a tight ball and buried her dirt-smeared face into the musty pelt, and quietly cried herself to sleep. But, unbeknownst to her, not quietly enough.
“Oh Ciri…”
An hour ticked slowly by, peaceful and undisturbed. The howling winds had died down, allowing the soothing sounds of the forest to lull them into a restorative slumber. Ciri’s nightmares, though inevitable, had mercilessly held off as a result of her utter exhaustion, giving her a brief period of respite before they would eventually return with a vengeance. Jaskier snored and drooled like a helpless infant, and even Geralt himself had deemed it safe enough to get some shut-eye.
One hour slowly increased to two, then three, and as the terrors that gripped her mind began to take a hold, Ciri was awoken with a frightening start. Geralt too, began to sit up both quietly and cautiously, and had begun to unsheath his Witcher’s blade. Trembling and confused, the lion cub fought to slow her rapid breaths, unable to determine what exactly had woken her in the first place. And then, it happened again…
An uneasy tremoring sensation shook the ground beneath them, and the foundations of the building sheltering them eerily creaked and groaned. This time Jaskier joined them in wakefulness with a shocked cry, and reached out in a panic to clutch his precious lute. “What’s going on?” he directed at Geralt, who was currently re-sheathing his sword into its scabbard.
“Earth tremors,” he stated calmly in his deep, soothing voice, appearing to inspect the structural integrity of the barn. “Hmm…” Deep in thought, he carefully weighed up their options. “We should be safe here; we’re more likely to survive in cover than wandering through the forest unprotected. A tree falls on us out there, and we’ll be done for.”
Jaskier visibly shuddered, and hunkered back down into the safety and warmth of his hay nest. Moments later, a third, increasingly violent tremble rocked the building, only this time, it didn’t stop. For agonising minutes the world shook and vibrated with reckless abandon. A cascade of dust and dirt rained down upon the travellers from the rotted loft above their heads. Crows screeched in terror and took to the skies in flocks as their perches hurled them off and into the darkness.
Ciri clutched onto the nearby pillar in terror, her anxiety reaching its peak. This was her first encounter with a natural disaster of this kind, and the young girl was afraid that it was never going to end. Her breathing intensified, rapid and shallow. She clutched at the beam in a white-knuckled grip, and tucked her head down into the crook of her elbow.
“Cirilla,” Geralt called from his position in the doorway, having heard the change in her breaths. A particularly violent shock rippled through the Earth, almost causing the Witcher to topple. “Everything will be okay; it will pass soon,” he assured her, sounding so confident that she couldn’t help but believe him.
The heir of Cintra nodded in understanding and inhaled slowly and deeply, telling herself that there was no reason to be afraid if Geralt wasn’t. What she didn’t realise, however, was just because White Wolf didn’t openly show fear, it didn’t necessarily mean that he didn’t feel it. Because Geralt was afraid; he was afraid of the thought of one of them being injured or even killed tonight, and he was afraid that they were soon to be ambushed by the Nilfgaardian knight…
The Witcher wasn’t afraid of the black clad fiend with the raptor feathers pinned to his head. Oh no, he was nothing; a regular man dressed up in a fancy suit of armour that lived to frighten young girls. No, that didn’t scare Geralt in the slightest. In fact, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the treacherous bastard that threatened his child, to put an end to his madness. But just because he wanted to strangle the life out of him and make him shit his pants in fear, didn’t mean he wanted the scourge within a hundred miles of Ciri.The Cintran Princess was already agonisingly tormented by the Nilfgaardian whoreson, and Geralt was determined to free her of that burden; to ensure that she never had to suffer at the thought of that maniac ever again.
Yet another surge of tremors shook the ground, and this time, the Witcher’s thoughts were interrupted by an enormous thud not too far from them. A strangled bleating pierced the air. An incredibly large tree, so massive that it’s thick canopy choked the moon beams streaming down onto them, swayed perilously. It rocked towards them threateningly, and the fierce tearing of the roots being ripped from the ground was all the warning Geralt had before it collapsed on the rickety old barn they had sought shelter in. “Fuck! Take cover,” he hollered anxiously, racing inside as the trunk smashed effortlessly through the ceiling, completely burying them…
~
Jaskier groaned, spitting out hay, dust and wood chips as he coughed. Blinking debris out of his eyes, he instinctively tried to sit up, and realised with a start that he couldn’t. He was completely trapped by whatever had cluttered down on top of him, but was mercifully uninjured. The Earth continued to rumble, but fortunately, it seemed to be dying down. ‘About fucking time’. The bard, trapped in a hollow, though not crushed, began to fumble around in the darkness, searching for his companions. After a few panic-stricken moments he heard a soft moan a little to his left, followed by a sharp, pain-laced intake of breath.
“Ciri, are you injured?” He whispered cautiously, not understanding why he felt compelled to speak quietly.
This time, the lion cub stifled her injured cry, not wanting to complicate their unfortunate situation any more than it currently was. “I-I’m fine.” It was a lie; she wasn’t okay. Her limited vision swam and nausea rose as her injury throbbed persistently.
“Cirilla, I admire your strength and bravery, I really do, but right now I need for you to tell me the truth. Please…”
“I might have broken my arm,” she moaned helplessly, beginning to feel quite faint.
A grim determination was set on Jaskier’s usually compassionate and gentle face. “Hang on Princess; we’ll have you out of here in no time…” Satisfied that the girl was at least alive despite her unfortunate injury, Jaskier turned to where he assumed his beloved Geralt would be. “Geralt…? Hey, Geralt… Can you hear me?” Jaskier felt around blindly in the darkness, soon coming into contact with the Witcher’s ungloved hand. “Geralt…?” The bard swallowed heavily, and his chest clenched tightly as he realised that the hand within his remained unmoving. “Geralt?! Hey, come on, this isn’t the time to be sleeping. We’re trapped under the ruins of this godforsaken barn and Cirilla is injured…” No response, no movement of any kind.
“Geralt, please say something… A grunt, anything…” Jaskier whimpered and pleaded for Geralt to respond, and the longer the silence stretched out, the more panicked the bard became. He was trapped. Ciri was trapped and injured. What the hell was he going to do if the Witcher was dead?! “Geralt… You broody, dishevelled, bed-wetting vagabond. You unholy swine, you son of a filthy manti-whore. You foul, wretched-”
“Finished, Jask…?” A gravelly groan escaped from his parted lips, and a dull throbbing persisted in his temple. He must have been knocked out, he realised, if the intense pain in his forehead and Jaskier’s panicked ramblings were any indication. “You’re giving me a headache,” he mumbled with a sly smirk.
“Geralt!” The bard exclaimed loudly, so relieved that he felt like he might cry; “Thank the gods you’re alive! Never scare me like that again you bastard; I thought we were doomed to be trapped in this forsaken hellhole forever. Now help me get out of here so we can tend to the Princess’ injury…”
“Ciri’s injured? Where is she?” A prickling of dread ran down Geralt’s spine. Ignoring the wave of dizziness that washed over him, he hastily began to clamber his way through the rubble.
“Right here, beside me,” Jaskier assured him hurriedly, though when he called out to her for confirmation, he was met with nothing but dread and an eerie silence. “Cirilla? Geralt, I swear I was only talking to her moments ago, when she told me she may have a broken arm.”
He waited with bated breaths for a few more heartbeats, and the second Geralt fished him out of his wooden prison, the pair immediately raced to free Ciri. “Oh fuck,” the Witcher cursed as a coil of fear nestled into the pit of his stomach. Though the structure had slowed the tree significantly, it seemed that the brunt of its weight was resting on the planks of wood covering Ciri. “Stay with her, Jask,” he ordered abruptly, and determinedly fled the building.
“It’s going to be alright, Princess,” Jaskier soothed, brushing strands of silky soft hair away from the unconscious girl’s beautiful face. “Hang in there sweetheart.”
The trunk of the gigantic beast, where it touched the building, was resting precariously. One wrong move, and it would topple all the way down, completely crushing the Child of the Elder Blood. His only hope of successfully freeing Cirilla was to remove her from the opposite side, away from where it was leaning. Delicately testing the back wall for weaknesses, Geralt stumbled upon a patch of hollow planks, partially eaten away by termites. Now that the earth tremors had finally ceased, he could breach the rear of the building without any additional risk of collapse. With a nimble blow, he smashed his fist through the wall, and began peeling away the remains of the worn timber panels.
Less than thirty seconds later, the mutant, though not yet inside, had a clear view of Ciri, and when he peered closely, his face visibly paled. “What’s wrong?” Jaskier squeaked at his friend’s grim expression, inching forward to try and get a clearer view himself.
With renewed vigour, and ignoring the relentless throbbing in his temple, Geralt tore desperately at the wall of the barn, eager to reach his Ciri. “There’s a pool of blood,” he growled fretfully, charging through the narrow crack he had created. A menacing groan shook the building, however everything seemed to remain stable. “Jask, grab the saddle bags and get the hell out of there! The second I move her, everything could collapse down on top of you; I don’t want you injured as well.”
Not waiting to be told a second time, Jaskier did as instructed. With deft hands, he saddled the infallible mare and led her over to where Geralt was assessing Cirilla’s injuries. Usually he would leave the task to the Witcher, however the lion cub was injured and there was no time to waste. “Is she…?”
“She’s alive, but in a bad way. Her arm is fractured halfway to her wrist and the bone is protruding. Pass me a linen bandage, and some cord…” Holding his breath and praying that he didn’t injure her further, Geralt slammed the entirety of his body weight into the highest part of the tree trunk accessible, trying to force it off of her. The attempt was successful, and as it began to topple away, he hastily withdrew and dragged the unconscious child out onto the forest floor.
As expected, the remains of the barn shuddered and creaked under the weight of the enormous pine, and mere seconds later the last of the structure crumbled in front of them. Witnessing the state of the Cintran princess, Jaskier raced forwards, dropping to his knees beside Geralt, who was stabilising the girl’s injured arm. “Here,” he offered, pressing the requested items into the Witcher’s uncharacteristically jittery hands. “How can I help?”
“Hold her arm steady as I wrap it and secure it to her chest.”
Roused by the horrendous pain, the lion cub roared weakly in agony as Geralt’s gentle ministrations set it alight. Her eyelids fluttered open sluggishly, and the first thing that swam into her vision was the surprisingly concerned and very frightened face of her protector. That was different… Geralt was a Witcher; he didn’t feel fear…
Or did he…?
“Ciri…” His gruff voice came out harsh and choked, thick with raw emotion. He let out a relieved sigh, then rubbed his nose as he sniffled, attempting to hold back his worried tears. “I’ve got you now; you’re safe,” he soothed, fighting to remain calm. Once her arm was fully immobilised, Geralt assisted her to sit up. She moaned helplessly with a fierce grimace, and with the pain too much to bear, she finally allowed the Witcher to take her into his muscular arms.
“You had us worried, Princess,” Jaskier murmured as he eagerly helped Geralt lift the child onto Roach. “I’ve never seen the great Geralt of Rivia in such a state. Perhaps I shall compose a ballad of the only time the legendary White Wolf had rivers pooling delicately in his steely eyes…”
The Witcher grumbled in mild annoyance as he encouraged Ciri to nestle comfortably into the safety of his warm chest, wrapping his left arm tightly around her to keep the child steady. “Shut it, Jaskier, or I’ll beat you so badly you will be howling for your mother.” The threat was empty, but the troubadour wisely kept his mouth shut and led the chestnut horse in the direction of the nearest town.
“You really were scared…” Ciri whimpered in awe, angling herself back so she could meet Geralt’s eye. “But, you’re a Witcher; you’re strong and brave, and you-”
“Experience normal, human emotions, despite the rumours that all mutants are cold and unfeeling,” he finished softly, carding a filthy hand through her ashen hair. “Even though we may not show it, even Witcher’s feel fear, Ciri. And sadness, loneliness and helplessness…” Swiftly, the lion cub buried her face against Geralt’s leather jerkin, her uninjured arm clinging onto the mutant like a lifeline. Fine tremors radiated through her weary body, and concerned that shock may be setting in, he cradled the girl’s head worriedly. Suddenly, a fierce sob shook her narrow shoulders, and with a start the Witcher realised that it wasn’t shock at all; the child was crying. “Cirilla…?”
Allowing herself to finally be vulnerable, Ciri let go and released the torrent of emotions that she’d been concealing for weeks. Though at first she felt uncertain, the protective embrace and patient kisses planted on the crown of her head convinced her that she could be open and honest with Geralt, without having to fear that he would abandon her.