HEN ICHAER

"do not apologize," he hurries to reassure. "you have done nothing deserving of an apology. i was frightened—but only for you, not of you. i... know something of visions that come uninvited, unannounced, with no regard for time or manner. there is... i must believe there is some reason, some purpose, even if it eludes us. your vision... it warns you, yes? of danger—not of visiting an old friend and keeping him company."

dradeel smiles. his fraying nerves fortified by a surge of protectiveness towards the young woman, whom he has discovered sharing more with him than he thought he knew.

"don't think they saw me. but they're coming, and soon. if they find out you were with me..." she breaks off, thinking it better to spare him the details of whatever fate might await him. guilt is acidic, eating at her insides. "it's best if i leave alone. they can only sense my magic when i use it. better for you if you're not nearby then." somehow she'd hoped to not have to leave her home world again so soon, not to mention the kind elf's side. she would miss his gentle wit and delicious food.

ciri rubs at her forehead. whatever soft glow the wine had brought her mind has been erased. fatigue weighs on her eyes, but sleep is a lost cause now. she'd rather not dream these words again.

❝    you must have the wrong person.    no one in the hunt consorts with anyone outside of it.    and i would know if i knew you before.    ❞        he wouldn't.    he does not know this.    a great blot of nothingness greets him when he tries to consider how the wild hunt had found him.    or,    rather,    there is nothing he can do to fully comprehend the question in the first place.    he knows to a certain extent.    his time with the red riders is a fact,    a very certain present.    he has always been this.    he has always been this.

SHE IS DOWN,    VULNERABLE.    GERALT'S GRIP TIGHTENS,    LEATHER GLOVES MANAGING A SMALL SOUND IN PROTEST.    NOW IS THE BEST CHANCE TO SLASH HER TENDONS AND MAKE SURE SHE CANNOT RUN AWAY.

his own blade lowers,    feet stopping in a dead halt two arms' lengths away from the woman.    the tip of his sword rests on the ground as he turns to face her.    in a practised motion from a time he doesn't currently know,    he crouches,    sword arm resting at his side while his other forearm rests on his thigh.        ❝    ciri.    ❞        she is unfamiliar to him.    memory strives in frenzied attempts to break through the white front in his mind.        ❝    why does your name sound so familiar   …   ?    ❞

"because you do know me," ciri croaks. in a white-knuckle grip she clings to her sword's handle to keep herself from keeling over with exhaustion. there is desperation in the brilliant green of her eyes. anger, too, simmering in her gut. but they have stopped their deadly dance for a moment, and he stays his blade when she is weak. perhaps her geralt remains within him, after all.

the young woman looks up at him. she doesn't remember a time he did not know her. it feels as though he always has. he must still, he must. "because you've saved my life more often than i can count, you taught me how to be a witcher, how to fight. because you are my father... not by blood, but every measure that counts."

she has to leave. any moment she stays risks him changing his mind, risks her injuries growing worse, losing time lest the other riders wonder what's taking so long. there is a terrible certainty within her that she will not pry him from their hands just yet. but just a little longer and he might tell her something, anything, might open his eyes and understand.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤIN ORDER TO BECOME A WITCHER,    YOU HAVE TO BE BORN IN THE SHADOW OF DESTINY,    AND VERY FEW ARE BORN LIKE THAT.    THAT’S WHY THERE ARE SO FEW OF US.    WE’RE GROWING OLD,    DYING,    WITHOUT ANYONE TO PASS OUR KNOWLEDGE,    OUR GIFTS,    ON TO.    WE LACK SUCCESSORS.    AND THIS WORLD IS FULL OF EVIL WHICH WAITS FOR THE DAY NONE OF US ARE LEFT.

INDEPENDENT, PRIVATE GERALT OF RIVIA [ ... ] THE WHITE WOLF OF THE WITCHER SAGA. BOOKS-BASED, GAMES-COMPLIANT. PREVIOUSLY WILCZMIN. since 2020. by kat, she/her, 29.

read carrd byf. UNAFFILIATED WITH ANDRZEJ SAPKOWSKI OR CD PROJEKT RED. CHARACTERISATION HEAVILY RELIANT UPON OWN HEADCANON. influenced by mixed wiedźmin media & slavic folklore.

he springs to his feet, panicked and terrified not for himself but for her. whatever grips her has done so without her control. for all of his prophetic visions, dradeel has not foreseen this rupture, and he has no idea how to repair it.

"ciri!" he calls out, grabbing her arm and putting a hand behind her head lest she topples over or hurts her neck with the way she cranes toward the sky. the way her eyes flash makes his lungs seize.

"ciri- ciri, WHAT DO YOU SEE?!" dradeel does not claim to know much of magic, in its theory or the intricacy of its mechanics, having not received any formal education on the matter. but dradeel knows something about sight, how it could enlighten or distort, guide or invade...

what sound pouring out of ciri's mouth makes his blood run cold. it is her voice but not her words something, someone, some unseen power has taken her, puppeteering her tongue with violence force. dradeel could want nothing more but to shield her, to tear off those invisible strings and rescue her from what terrible machination has gripped her. but he could do nothing of the sort, utterly helpless and useless in the face of her suffering.

ciri's tears cut him like daggers. dradeel takes her face into his callous hands when she finally comes to; his concern overtaking any sense of propriety for a moment as he searches her face desperately for... he isn't sure what he is looking for for a sign of damage, of recovery, or, simply, her.

she turns away and hopes he doesn't see the way her lips press into a line at the name zireael.

"the dearg ruadhri," ciri completes the phrase, looking suddenly older than she had. "you've likely heard of the wild hunt. that is what they call themselves. the red riders." glad to have her space again, ciri pulls her knees up against her chest, and stares into the fire. her fingers pick at her boot, while she feels her heart rate slowly return to normal. the tightness in her throat remains. "sorry," she adds after some silence. "must've freaked you out." a small, apologetic smile on her lips, she looks over at the elf again. the elf who had rushed to her side, bleeding concern for a young woman he'd only just met a day ago.

there is kindness in many corners of many worlds. she must remember it.

"i didn't ... this hasn't happened in a while. it's----sometimes as if someone talks to me. or through me. or ..." she knows who it was, this time. the voice may have been her own, but she can hear his tone in them. avallac'h, the aen saevherne, the aen elle sage who trapped her once. "why is he warning me now?" ciri asks herself quietly, her arms now wrapping around her legs. then, louder: "the riders have been hunting me for a long time. i think he was----what i saw, was a warning. they must be close. i shouldn't have come back here."

she chews at her lip, the images flashing by her mind's eye again and again. were they real prophecy, or merely part of the warning?